#re: fanfic

[sp0o0kylights]

Steve Harrington was wearing a Hellfire t-shirt.

It was far too tight on him, the name of the club stretched wide over his chest. The sleeves dug into his biceps, making them pop even more than they usually did, and that was before he crossed his arms. 

Worse?

It was short.

Which meant the damn shirt was constantly riding up to give everyone a nice show of the smattering of hair that trailed down past the band of Harrington's jeans. 

The same hair that Eddie was determinedly not looking at. 

“Henderson, a moment?” He crooked a finger, a smile on his face that was more feral than welcoming. 

Rather than cower or even acknowledge that Eddie was two seconds away from murder, Dustin just gave him a gummy grin, all too pleased with himself and his scheme. 

“Sure Eddie. Steve, don't just stand there, go help set the booth up!” Dustin gestured to Hellfire’s sad little table, crammed all the way in the back of the gym. 

Jeff and Gareth both reacted to the suggestion like a rabid squirrel had been set upon them, nervously inching towards the other side of the booth as Harrington sighed and--shockingly--did as he was told.

‘What,’ Eddie thought angrily, ‘in the everloving fuck.’

“Do you guys mind if I set this down on the table?” Eddie heard Harrington ask as he stormed away, Dustin on his heel. 

They wandered just around the corner, out of sight and hopefully, out of the fallen king’s hearing range.

Eddie wasn't sure if Harrington would try and white knight the very much deserved dressing down he was about to give. 

Didn’t want to chance it, considering the downright weird relationship he had with Hellfire's freshmen.

(While he’d heard many a tale at his table regarding King Steve since the newest recruits had joined Hellfire, most of them dissolved into arguments without ever really going anywhere.

 Best anyone could figure out was that Dustin and Lucas had a bad case of hero worship, while Mike owned a begrudging amount of respect that hailed from a series of misadventures. 

The very same misadventures that, despite all protests to the contrary, was clearly some sort of babysitting gig for Harrington.) 

Either way, plenty of the King’s court would have loved to take this opportunity to fuck with Hellfire.

Given that Henderson was absolutely too old to require a babysitter at fourteen, Eddie would bet his lunch money that was what Steve was here to do.

Something the club couldn’t afford since they were forever and always two seconds away from being stripped of club status and banned from school grounds. 

“I would love to know what went through that all A’s brain of yours when I said,” Eddie whirled on Dustin when they were firmly in the clear, voice low and furious.  “no Henderson, do not invite King Steve to help, he is an invading force and would ruin our peaceful kingdom!?”

He clasped his hands behind his back before leaning into Dustin’s face. “Because clearly whatever you heard wasn’t that.” 

To Eddie’s continued frustration and confusion, Dustin did not treat this like the threat it was. 

None of the freshmen had ever truly treated Eddie like a threat--had somehow skipped that part of the usual onboarding ritual entirely.

Eddie, town freak and drug dealer, who had cultivated his looks and craziness to such a degree that most everyone steered clear, wasn’t used to it. 

Everyone had been afraid of him at some point in this shitty school. Jeff, Gareth, hell even half the staff--and that the dorky trio of fourteen year old's clearly thought this all was play-acting made his eye twitch.

Even if it was--maybe, sometimes--welcome. 

“I know what you said, but I’m telling you I’m right.” Dustin argued immediately, and oh God, he was using that tone again. 

A hand went up into the space between them and Eddie groaned aloud, knowing what was coming.

“First,” Dustin ticked a finger up, “Hellfire really needs the money. Even thirty dollars would get us new figures, but more than that, if we don’t fundraise, we can’t go to Gen Con!” 

Dustin's eyes bored into Eddie’s, full of fire and conviction

“Yes,” Eddie said through gritted teeth, “but--”

“Second!” Dustin cut him off, and God the little shit even threw him a look while he did it, like Eddie was the one being ridiculous here!

“We had to fight just to get our table! Principal Higgins was in algebra today practically begging the mathletes to show up, but then tried to tell us we couldn't be here? That’s messed up!” 

As if denying them a spot to fundraise was the worst thing that asshole had ever done.

Eddie sighed, breath blasting out of his mouth like a dragon’s. 

“Because people think we’re freaks and satanists, Henderson. You don’t typically invite freaks and satanists to the school’s annual Holiday Bazaar. Especially not when all the local moms are paying to hawk their bullshit crafts and tupperware!” 

It was more than that of course. The Hawkins High Holiday Bazaar was a tradition spanning several years now. Starting in the gym and spilling clear into the parking lot, everyone from local artists to even some local shops came to host a small table for the day, thus growing the event from a small school fundraiser to a Hawkins' “must-do.” 

Half the fucking town was here to sell, and the other half was here to shop, which meant Principle Higgins had wanted Hellfire banned from the fucking premise. 

Eddie had been forced to pull out one of his trump cards he’d been saving--blackmail on Higgins that related to the man’s not--so--legal addiction to Percocet that he relied on Reefer Rick for. 

(And bless Rick, that hadn’t been the only tidbit he’d shared with Eddie about Higgins. That information, however, Eddie needed just so the asshat wouldn’t give him the boot from school entirely.) 

The only reason Eddie had pulled it out to secure their rightful spot, was because of Gen Con. 

It was Hellfire's White Whale, their grand adventure, and this was going to be his year to take his friends on one last epic quest to make memories of a lifetime surrounded by people who understood them.

Come hell or high water, Eddie was going to Gen Con--but being able to fundraise by selling wares and baked goods at the stupid Holiday Bazaar would go a long way to help.

Even if he had to listen to the band repeatedly play ear-bleeding renditions of Christmas songs.

“All the clubs get to have a table, and we’re a club!” Dustin continued, like it was that simple. “But you know, I get it. We look scary.” 

He gestured down to his own Hellfire shirt, before gesturing towards Eddie’s entire outfit.

Like Eddie didn't know what he looked like, let alone that he'd made this outfit specifically to scare people away from him.

(And maybe add some rockstar flair to this dinky little hick town.)

“You know who doesn’t look scary?”

Dustin held out his hands and swiveled his body like he was presenting a prize instead of gesturing in the vague direction of; 

“Steve!”

Eddie’s left eye twitched.

‘You can't kill him, you need his character for the campaign.’ He told himself firmly, even if he envisioned strangling Dustin like a chicken.

Cartoon squawking and all. 

“The King isn’t going to help us fundraise, Dustin.” Eddie said, in an effort to break down why Harrington couldn't be here. “He's just going to cause us problems that we can’t afford to have.” 

So many problems, half of which Eddie couldn't think of because if he did, he'd start spiraling.

“Really? Because as you keep saying, Steve used to be the King. People love him, Eddie! Mom’s love him.”

Eddie had pulled himself back up to his proper height a while ago, and now rocked back on his heels while he ran a hand down his face.

There was no getting through to Henderson when he was like this. 

Not unless Eddie really lost it, and it was practically club lore that he only lost it when someone missed an important game. 

One cannot keep a herd of sheep if their flock is terrified of them, after all. 

(“Perhaps you’re just a giant fucking softie.” Tiff, one of Hellfire’s graduating members, told him once. “Honestly dude, I bet you throw up stuffing.”

“Shut up Tiffany, your choker is on backwards again.” He'd spat back, completely offended and not at all trying to distract from how true that was.) 

“We can’t be satanic if Steve’s the one selling cookies!” Dustin finished doggedly. 

“We’re not even selling cookies--that’s not the point!”” Eddie shook his head, hair flying. He was not going to be sidetracked, he wasn’t!

 “Harrington is going to end up siding with all the moms about how we’re all wasting time with D&D, if he even spends the whole time at the table. Is that what you want?” 

He stuck out a ringed finger, poking at Dustin’s chest.

“Every single person who comes by our table has to be convinced D&D is a writing and math based game. Good for the mind and souls of growing, impressionable children. A game that got a bad rep because of  a few silly images.” 

A pitch he and Tiff had come up with during the third or fourth time they had to convince an adult that no, just because their shirts had a dragon on it, didn’t mean they were summoning demons in the drama room. 

“Harrington can’t do that because Harrington doesn’t even know how to play!” 

This Eddie punctuated by throwing his hands in the air. 

Given the startled look of the mother-daughter duo passing him by, clearly was louder than he’d intended--but screw it!

He was right!

Hellfire was in a precarious position to both fundraise and do a little damage control among the slightly smarter members of this shithole small town, and Harrington rolling his eyes and gossiping about how stupid it was would hinder that.

“Okay, first of all, Steve’s played D&D with me and he didn’t even kill his character.” Dustin said it like he was unveiling a smoking gun and not lying through his ass--which Eddie would absolutely be calling him on the second he was done talking. 

Because King Steve? Play D&D?

'Ha!'

“And he’s not gonna say shit because we--me, and Lucas and even Mike!--asked him to help, and he helps when its serious. I know you have some weird grudge with him, but I’m telling you Eddie he’s our golden ticket to Gen Con!” 

“You’re killing me. You are standing here, acting as a friend, when you are bringing a-- a dark force into the midst our of mission--” Eddie hissed, because he was losing the fucking fight and he knew it.

Dustin Henderson was not a man easily swayed. 

Had never been, even when the odds were stacked against him (and Grant and Gareth were howling in his ear.) 

The set of his shoulders and the glint of the little shithead’s eye meant Eddie wouldn’t be able to use him to oust Harrington--if he even could get him out without the dick causing a massive scene anyway. 

As always when outgunned, Eddie flipped to dramatics.

“Betrayed! By my own chosen heir no less!” He moaned, pressing the back of his hand over his eyes as Dustin scoffed.

"Don’t be so dramatic! Steve will help, I promise! Just don’t be a dick to him.” 

 Conversation apparently over, Dustin turned around to head back to the table

Snidely, he added over his shoulder: “Plus we’ve all caught on to the heir thing Eddie. You tell everyone that so they do what you want.” 

The dick.

“You’re too fucking smart for your own good. I’m gonna start feeding you paint chips to bring that IQ down.” Eddie muttered angrily as Dustin went back to their little table.

He gave himself a moment to get his shit together and stomp a foot like a child when Dustin was around the corner and thus couldn’t witness it, before following his wayward sheep back.

Could only pray to any deity listening that Henderson’s meddling didn’t blow up in Hellfire’s face.

[jiminscockr1ng]

✩｡°𝄞📹 COVERGIRL 𝄞°✨｡✩

╝ one-shot ╔

╰₊ 𓂂➢ pairing: jungkook x fem!reader

╰₊ 𓂂➢ genre: idol x model au, smut

╰₊ 𓂂➢ warn!ngs: unprotected sex, cumming inside, back shots, orgasm denial (kind of), oral !female receiving, slight pain (in beginning), big dick!jungkook, (let me know if there’s more please!)

╰₊ 𓂂➢ summary: you are the cover girl for jungkook’s upcoming clothing line, JJK. said man, just can’t keep his eyes off of you as you model his designs.

╰₊ 𓂂➢ word count: 3.7k

You almost break your fucking neck trying to pose in the six inch pumps you have on—

in front of all of these cameras, in front of all of these people, in front of him. But of course, like the boss ass, talented, flawless model you are, you stay on your ten toes. Falling into another pristine pose matter of fact.

The photographers take their photos of you and the staff on the sides of the room doesn’t shy away from shouting praises at you. You slickly slide your hands into the back pockets of the denim miniskirt that barely covered the curve of your round ass. Back facing the camera, as you turned your upper body to eye it.

A large quantity of “ooh’s” and “aah’s” echoes through the brightly lit room once everyone gets a glimpse of your immaculate figure.

Your eyes couldn’t help but fall on the built individual standing low-key in the corner. He’s been eying you for the past half hour since you stepped out of the dressing room with this outfit. Truth be told, this man has been staring you down since you took his place in front of the cameras. He’s only now mentally undressing you. (not that your current outfit left much to the imagination).

You’re sporting a black tie that hangs over the skimpy white laced bra that’s clutched your chest, hanging on for dear life. On your feet are a pair of plain black pumps and of course— the main piece.

That denim miniskirt you’re wearing. ‘JJK’ initials embroidered on the back pockets, the sides are laced together with black ribbon, and it’s just long enough to walk in— short enough to the point you’d be flashing someone if you bent over the slightest bit.

If he could suck his own dick for making such a masterpiece, he would. But Jungkook would much rather you do it instead, because damn… did you look absolutely heaven sent. ‘Second to none,’ he thought as he watched you from the corner of the room.

Jungkook knew that choosing you as the covergirl for his new line was the perfect idea. He fought for it, fought for you. Having a black woman as the cover model of the Jeon Jungkook’s brand new fashion line wasn’t something the board wanted to approve.

Other than the fact you are black, you’re a fairly new up and coming model, leaving you very little experience. Jungkook discovered your instagram account just a few months before he completed his line. At first glance he knew you were something special. Different from all of the slim, long legged, fair skinned Korean women his team had continuously suggested. There was absolutely nothing wrong with those women— at all.

But Jungkook was looking for something else, something new, fresh, something natural. As an idol, he naturally falls into a clean, pure and innocent category. Despite being a grown ass man. Jungkook desperately is clawing to get out of that box. He wanted to prove it and expose the mature side of him through this fashion line. So no, Jungkook didn’t want a put together woman, or a pretty princess, or even a grunge queen. He wanted a natural sex symbol.

The perfectionist that Jungkook is, he never fails to second guess all of his actions and choices. But you, no— he knew that he needed you.

Needed you to wear his designs, needed you to be his covergirl, needed you all up in his face… amongst other things.

To which you were more than excited to do. Like, be serious! It’s Jeon Jungkook. The man with the mouth watering sleeve of tattoos, toe curling wavy mullet, the gut turning physique.

When his team reached out to you, you were more than ecstatic. You wondered how god had seemingly blessed you with the opportunity to model for the a-list idol.

You’re a huge fan of Jungkook’s music, listening to his panty dropping vocals daily. So the fact that you’re actually modeling for him and the fact that he’s currently staring you down like he wants you to be his last meal has you shaking in your six inch pumps. The unwavering tension between the two of you goes unnoticed by the others in the room.

But the way your smooth brown thighs clenches together definitely doesn’t go unnoticed by Jungkook… neither does the way Jungkook is holding that clip board over his crotch go unnoticed for you.

Shit. You desperately needed for someone to just—

“That’s a wrap!” You hear someone yell and you let out a sigh of relief. Quickly bowing and spreading “thank you’s” to the staff that approached to compliment you.

You make your way back into your dressing room in the back of the studio. First thing you do is take off the tight tie around your neck, then the pumps off of your feet, exhaling in relief when your feet meet the ground.

There’s still an uncomfortable feeling in between the thick of your thighs. Damn, he really got you all worked up… more than you had realized it seems. You slip the soaked laced thong that matches your white laced bra down your legs and it gets flung into the waste bin. Leaving you naked under the famous miniskirt you still have on.

You distract yourself with the gorgeous sight you see in the mirror, then a light knocking hits your door. Before you could even say “come in,” in walks the finest man you have ever laid eyes on… and the reason why your favorite laced thong is in the trash.

“Hey,” he whispers to which you slightly raise a brow. Because yes, he’s fine as hell but at the same time, who told him he could enter? “Sorry for barging in. I didn’t want anyone to see me near your dressing room.” You nod your head understandingly. That would be a nightmare if anyone saw the two of you interacting and decided to go yapping about it.

Which is why this just so happens to be you and Jungkook’s first interaction. How low of you to get turned on before a proper conversation.

“Then again, I couldn’t leave without speaking to you first.” He smiled softly at you, part of his cute bunny toothed smile beamed in your eyes and the butterflies in your stomach start doing flips.

You return the smile. “Yeah, I guess that would be a bit odd. Ya know, since I’m your covergirl or whatever.” He’s intrigued by your wording. Of course, you are his cover girl, Jungkook knows that. But the way you said it just now sounded so fucking sexy to Jungkook.

“My covergirl?” He sing as he leans his shoulder on the wall. Nodding your head, butt pressed against the vanity behind you— confidently. Because the sexual tension between the two of you couldn’t even be cut by a knife. “Yeah, that’s usually what people call it. I think it’s funny how this is my first time speaking to my employer. Scared of me?” You test. Jungkook’s eyebrows flick up at your ‘sass’.

“Your employer?” You actually let out a little chuckle this time. “Are you gonna keep repeating everything I say?” You sarcastically ask before slickly eying him up and down. The white, short sleeved crew neck he has clinging onto all of his muscles and the exposure of his tatted right arm has tears rolling down your thighs. And the black cargo pants that are swallowing his tiny waste makes you bite your bottom lip. But we must stay focused!

“No, just a little intrigued.” He says, pushing himself off of the wall. “And no. I’m not scared of you. Just figured I’d keep my distance.” He trails off his sentence as you boost yourself up to sit on the white vanity behind you. The miniskirt rides up your thighs even more (if that’s even possible), your thighs press against the vanity top makes them look even more attractive and edible to the man standing in front of you— he almost forgets why he came in here in the first place.

“Why’d you figure that?” You tilt your head to the side innocently. But absolutely nothing is innocent about it. You are purposely teasing him— in attempts to seduce him. See if the good boy, ‘youngest’ is as good as people say he is.

Ask and you shall receive, because Jungkook is once again picturing you without that skimpy laced bra and with your legs wide open. The thought has him hard as a rock underneath his baggy cargo pants.

“Wanted to keep things professional.” He forces out. The underlying message doesn’t go over your head but you choose to ignore it. “So what are you doing here now?” With that, Jungkook lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Stepping away from the wall, he makes his way closer to the large white vanity you’re sitting on.

“I just wanted to compliment you on the amazing performance you did today. Everything went smoothly and it’s been a great week.” He says genuinely and you gladly take the compliment, letting out a small “thank you”— to which he battles.

“No, thank you. You really made this whole thing come to life so really, thank you.” You smile from ear to ear at his sincerity, feeling overwhelmingly gratified and proud… and still wet.

“Well your designs are amazing so you should have majority of the credit— by the way, can I keep this!” Asking, pointing to the miniskirt that hugs your hips. Jungkook’s tongue slides out of his mouth, wetting his lips, slightly playing with his lip ring.

“Of course, it’s all yours. Can’t think of anyone who’d wear it better than you do anyways.” He shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. He didn’t even mean to flirt he just said what he was thinking and it remains true. You are the sexiest woman Jungkook has laid eyes on. And if he doesn’t get out of this dressing room right now, his balls might explode.

But in the midst of the internal war Jungkook’s facing, you hum. “Is that why you kept staring at me all day? At first I thought you regretted your decision.” You say and before you could continue your overly sarcastic remarks he interrupts with the rapid shaking of his head.

“I could never regret choosing you.” Your heart dropped to your ass at his words and you’re scared if you move the wrong way the arousal between your thighs (that has been lathered onto the vanity) may drip onto the floor. Without saying much else, he doesn’t let his nerves stop him from stepping closer to you— nearly in between your legs.

He places his hand beside yours that rests on top of the vanity. Slowly his hand intertwines with yours. His touch so soft; the hair on your neck stands tall. His eyes glazing over your plumped lips, layered in lip gloss that shined under the light

“You’re perfect,” is the last thing he says before his lips slowly meet yours.

You could hear angles singing from close range as you finally snag the taste of his lips. His lip ring tickles your lip, sending a shiver down your spine. A soft moan escapes your mouth and Jungkook feels like he just won the lottery.

His tatted hand glides up your thigh, basking in the feeling of your soft brown skin under his touch. He gently caress your naked thighs, spreading them apart to properly stand in between them.

You let out a little huff as you feel him licking and leaving open mouth kisses against your jawline. “From the first moment I laid eyes on you,” he says in between kisses and you feel his breath on your neck, making your clit pulse. “I knew you were perfect.”

You pull your lips away to look at him. The heavy breathing fills the dressing room as the two of you look into each other’s eyes, the similar look of need in both of your eyes.

You slide your hands up Jungkook’s torso, to his broad shoulders, resting them on his neck. Pulling him down closer to you, you say, “Touch me.”

Which was all Jungkook needed to hear before attacking your lips again, your hand wrapped around his shoulders as you slightly grind into his clothed member. You could feel the bulge through his pants, exciting you even more.

“Oh my god— Jungkook.” You whine when he bites at your neck. His hands move to your chest, caressing your boobs through the fabric of the bra you still had on. Until he unfastens it, sliding the bra down your arms with your help.

His hands worry themselves with the feel of your tits again fitting perfectly under his hold. You bite your bottom lip to hold back the moans from the sensitivity of his fingers pinching your nipples. Within seconds his hands are replaced with his mouth and he sucks and nibbles on your nipples.

Your hips grind faster against his hard-on. “Jungkook, I need you.” You whimper impatiently. He removes his mouth from your chest, giving you a quick peck on the lips before smirking down at you which takes you for a whirl. Taking a step back he looks down in between the close proximity of you two.

He spreads your thighs father apart to reach down under your miniskirt to find your bare pussy wetter than the Caribbean Sea.

“No panties— are you nuts?” He exclaims with the raise of his eyebrows. “If I would’ve known I was talking to you like this I would’ve bent you over this fucking vanity once I walked in.” He sexily groans against your swollen lips. The heat between your bodies are making you even more needy than usual.

The two of you share breaths as your lips hover over the other’s. You gasp heavily into his mouth as his finger drags down your slippery slit.

He lets out a low groan at the feeling of your slickness and the feeling of his dick growing harder inside of his Calvin Klein boxer briefs. Making matters worse, you remove your hand from his shoulder to grip the thick bulge between his legs, almost flinching at the size of it. You look up at him with that needy look you have in your eyes that’s driving him up a wall.

“Then do it,” pulling him down to lick up his sharp jawline. “Bend me over and fuck me good.” You whisper into his ear.

Jungkook snaps, he pulls you off of the vanity, pulling you closer to him to taste the sweet taste of your lip gloss again. The kiss is cut short when he spins you around to bend you over the white vanity top, true to his word.

You let out a high pitched gasp as your bare chest hits the vanity top. He stands over your form, hands caressing your thighs, slowly moving up to your plump ass. His hand smacking against your ass echoes throughout the room and Jungkook’s dick twitches at the sight of your ass jiggling.

“So fucking pretty.” He says before crouching down, face all in your cookie. He bites his lips as you spread your legs further apart, desperate for his mouth.

Again, he drags his thumb down your slit and you let out load moan of pleasure from the sensation of his touch. Your hand quickly covers your mouth. “You have to be quiet princess.” The words smoothly passed through his mouth like butter making your knees weak. However, they actually buckle once you feel his tongue swipe through your slick. Your head lowers into your chest to try to keep your composure.

“Mmm,” he moans while licking through your folds, eating your cunt like it’s his favorite meal. “You taste so damn good.” He aggressively spreads your legs wider to attack your pussy with his mouth.

Your legs shake as you fee his tongue going in and out of your hole, his thumb rubbing over your swollen clit. The grip of his hand on your ass doesn’t let up as you squeeze your legs together around his head.

“R—right there! I’m gonna—” Your hole clenches around his tongue as you felt your stomach tightening. Just when you feel yourself releasing, he stops. He pulls away.

“What the fuck.” You curse in frustration. He leans his body over yours, gripping your hair to turn your head to the side. You let out a moan at his roughness.

“You’re too pretty to be cursing, princess.” He says against your lips before attacking them with a wet, sloppy kiss. You push your ass against his dick, needy from the absence of his tongue. You whimper against his mouth.

“You want me to fuck you bad, huh?” He teases, roughly brushing his bulge over your wet folds. He lets out a groan at the feeling. “Yes— mm! Fuck, yes Jungkook. I need your dick inside of me.” Jungkook places one last sloppy kiss on your lips, lets go of the grip on your hair and began unbuttoning his pants.

They instantly falls down to his ankles and he lowers his boxer briefs, letting them fall the his ankles as well, his dick smacking his stomach. You can’t see his length that he pumps in his hand behind you— but god, when he starts thrusting it in between your ass cheeks you can feel it.

It makes you nervous because you didn’t expect him to be so big. But you grow more aroused at the thought of him fucking you silly, wrecking your tight little pussy. He slowly rubs the tip of his dick over your folds, coating his dick with your arousal, layering over his pre-cum. “I hope you’re fine with me going in raw, didn’t really have me fucking you in mind before I came here today.” You nod your head faster than you ever did in your life.

“Yeah, that’s fine. Just p— put it in.” He chuckles at your impatience and without a second thought, he slowly thrusts himself inside of you. Both of your moans fill the room as his dick penetrates your tight hole. You let out a shaky breath as he pulls back, just for him to thrust inside of you again.

The pain of his length ripping through you has your head spinning. As he thrusts again, he bends down over your shaky body to leave a light kiss on your shoulder. “You okay?” He softly asks and you hesitantly nod your head with your eyes shut close. “Y— yeah, just getting used to it. I’m… fine.” With that, he softly leave a kiss on your cheek before lifting back up and thrusting into you again.

He whisper out curses as your tight pussy swallows his dick and he relishes the sight of it.

After a few more thrusts the pain subsides and it is quickly replaced with the feeling of pleasure. Jungkook, wraps his hand under you to caress your tit as he continues to plunge himself deeper into your sex.

“Faster p— please,” you whisper out and you couldn’t even brace yourself for the next thrust. His hard dick hits your spot and your knees give out on you. He holds your waist out with his hands as he continuously abuses your hole. Your bodies jerk forward with each thrust.

“Your pussy feels so good around my dick, _______.” He says and you let out another high moan— hitting notes you’ve never hit before. He roughly grabs your hair again, lifting you up to make your back arch. You can see the both of you through the mirror, you can see him fucking you dirty, the way his eyebrows furrow looking down at the way your cunt swallows his length, the sight gets you even more aroused— if that’s even possible.

He finally looks up at you through the mirror. He sends you a smirk before going absolutely feral. “Hold on for me, princess.” His grip on your hair tightens as he fiercely thrusts into you. Faster, deeper, harder, he is literally blowing your back out. Your eyes squeeze shut and loud screams escape your mouth. The hand gripping your hair quickly covers your mouth to block out the lewd sounds you let out.

You can feel the knot in your stomach tightening at the fast pace and the constant pounding on your cervix. The feeling grows with Jungkook wrap his free hand over your thigh to rub your clit as he sloppily thrusts into you.

“Cum for me baby.” He says lowly and out of breath as his pace quickens. Your moans are muffled into his hand while he penetrates your cunt and stimulates your clit. “Fuck,” he says as you cum around his length, your legs shaking as Jungkook reaches his high. The sounds of your juices lapping together fills the room and you feel Jungkook’s warm release flow inside of you.

The two of you breathe heavily as Jungkook’s dick rests inside of you. After Jungkook has gotten his composure back, he pulls out, watching as your cunt discharges his cum down your thighs. Quickly pulling his pants up and jogging over to the corner to grab a paper towel, he comes back to clean you with it.

Your body is still limp over the vanity as he does so. “I hope I wasn’t too rough.” He says. You lift up, standing on your own, pulling the miniskirt down over your ass. Shaking your head. “No,” you let out a little chuckle. “That was amazing.”

Your eyes sparkle as they look up at his. He’s almost hypnotized by them, he drops his head to yours, kissing your lips again, his hands on the small of your back. “You have no idea how long I’ve been holding back.” You giggle at him.

“How long?” You ask, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hand reaches your face, thumb brushing over your bottom lip as he basks in your beauty and the feeling of your arms around him.

“Since the day I chose you as my COVERGIRL.”

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[eoieopda]

whiskey neat | jwy

there’s no common ground between yours and wooyoung’s vastly different circles. that is, until tuesday nights at the black cat form the center of the venn diagram.

pairing: jung wooyoung x reader au: strangers to something type: one-shot | smut wc: 8.3k rating: 18+ | minors do not have my consent to interact. cw: inspired by hozier’s “too sweet”, primarily wooyoung’s pov with one switch at the end; bartender!wooyoung, musician!reader, alcohol use, setting is a bar, uhhh wooyoung is a (to the tune of that arctic monkeys song) cigarette smoker, oral sex (v), protected sex (p in v), corruption kink kind of?, use of “sweetheart” (fatal). reader notes: afab (gender identity not designated); kind of naive; into fitness/“wellness” (no body type/weight is described, except wooyoung thinking they’re “strong” + reader thinking that they are in the best shape of their life); wears a sundress at the beginning. the following terms are used in the scenes involving smut: pussy, cunt, clit, tits (no description given). a/n: i quite literally started this in march 2024 and then experienced the most severe hobby death of all time. this is coming after five (5) months of scooping it out of my brain with a melon-baller, so… not my best, but here she is! thanks @sailoryooons for beta-ing because i’m self-conscious lately 🍤

Tuesday nights at the Black Cat never used to be busy. 

For three years, Wooyoung spent the majority of his shifts behind the bar doing fuck all: Folding receipt paper into increasingly complicated and wasteful shapes; replacing citrus wedges that went unused and then brown; paying visits to the stray cat camping out in the alley near the dumpster. He’d go hours without talking to another human being, and he never took issue with it, even if his wallet did.

Two months ago, however, things changed. 

Two months ago, management started panicking about the lack of revenue. To keep the lights on and draw in a crowd of (hopefully) soon-to-be regulars, they implemented a schedule of recurring events — some monthly, others weekly, most stupid.

Wooyoung’s precious solitude disappeared, and in its place, he got trivia nights and turntable DJs, showing off their collections of vinyls. Games of bingo targeting hipsters, who show up en masse to fight it out for prizes — potted plants, of all things — they could easily buy on their own for far less than their tabs’ totals. Themed brunches. 

A million other events and just as many used glasses to wash.

Despite his ever-present scowl — his face just looks like that —  it hasn’t been all bad. Without the newly-added acoustic sessions, the bar wouldn’t need a local performer to both play and host on a biweekly basis. Management wouldn’t have reached out to you; and you’d have no fucking reason to come to a dive like this. Suffice it to say, your pilates-practicing, daylight-disciplined circle of doers would never otherwise overlap with Wooyoung’s, in all its nocturnal, nicotine-dependent grit.

Tuesday nights at the Black Cat now occupy the center of the Venn diagram.

As usual, you come traipsing in half an hour before your set starts with a gig bag slung over your shoulder and a megawatt smile on your face. This is your natural state, he’s come to learn. Solar-powered. It shouldn’t be possible, but you manage to brighten further when your searching eyes find him sitting on the counter behind the register.

Through no fault of his own, Wooyoung’s gaze trails down from your face to the little sundress you’re wearing. It’s new, he notes immediately. The skirt of it flutters with each step you take, showing off more and more of your thighs as you move.

You don’t react to the migrating fabric. Just the same, you don’t notice his appraisal or the way patrons’ heads turn as you cross the bar. 

No surprise there, he thinks. 

From the four (4) entire conversations the two of you have had so far, you’ve made one thing abundantly clear: You’re inclined to assume the best of people and their intentions. 

Nine times out of ten, Wooyoung dodges naivety like that the second it starts skipping his way, well-versed in the consequences of trusting so implicitly. You and your cotton-candy smile have proven to be the outlier, though. Working in tandem, you and that grin have him pinned where he sits with no urge to run.

You don’t notice that, either.

When you slide onto the stool across the bar from him, Wooyoung finally clocks what you’re holding. Your right hand grips some green concoction that he suspects was made with kale. Or moss? In your left hand, an iced Americano — beautifully black — weeps condensation onto manicured fingers, making hard-earned calluses glisten.

Wooyoung’s racing thoughts about those hands are still inflicting psychic damage when you lean further over the counter.

“Extra shot of espresso,” you hum as you hold the coffee out to him. You do your best to tease him, though you’re shy as hell about it, so the words still manage to come gently: “For those of us who were still awake when the sun came up.”

Wooyoung mentioned his coffee order several weeks ago in passing. It’s sweet in a way he’s not used to that you’ve not only remembered how he takes his coffee, but that you’ve brought it to him ever since, apropos of nothing, when all he’s ever done is his best to get a rise out of you. What he’s up to isn’t sweet — not by a long-shot — but it’s easily done and well worth the misplaced effort when he sees how flustered he can make you.

Wooyoung tilts his head, draws his lips in a straight line, and gestures to your cup with his. “Worry about those waking up shortly after sunrise, sweetheart. They’re drinking algae.”

As intended, you’re visibly affected by the pet name, so much so that you stumble over your defense. “It — it’s healthy!”

“It’s swampy.”

Your nose scrunches indignantly, prompting the edge of Wooyoung’s mouth to tick upwards. He doesn’t emote more than that. Five (5) conversations in now, and he’s already picked up on how much it gets to you when he only concedes a hint of a smirk.

As much as he’d relish the opportunity to sit here and keep toying with you, the crowd surrounding you has doubled in a matter of minutes. Just over your shoulder, Wooyoung sees a patron glance down at the screen of her phone to check the time; then, he hears the complaint she thinks is muttered quietly under her breath. It’s not. In fact, you hear it, too, and you divert your wide, heart-shaped eyes away from him. That smile of yours curves in the wrong direction once you do.

When you look back at him, you say, “I should go,” but he hears it for what it is: an apology. 

He’s never been good at ending conversations — especially in the rare case that he’d prefer to keep one going — so he nods, leaves it at that. You pause for a nanosecond, as if you’ve got something else to add, but you don’t. You smooth down the back of your dress once you’ve hopped from the stool to your feet. Then, you mimic his gesture. 

You make it two steps towards the stage before Wooyoung calls out to you, prompting you to spin back around and your dress to flutter:

“Thanks for the coffee, sweetheart.”

Your frown disappears instantly. The smile that replaces it is still there when you disappear into the crowd, only to resurface several seconds later on the tiny stage across the room.

Guitar now in hand, you duck your head through the woven strap, shuffling carefully closer to the microphone stand. You introduce yourself, strum a quiet, major chord, and chirp, “Welcome to both the Black Cat and my favorite day of the week.”

Normally, you leave shortly after your last set, as if you’ll turn into a pumpkin when the clock strikes ten. With the schedule you keep, it’s no wonder. From what Wooyoung has gathered so far, you wake up before dawn most days to get a workout in before heading to the office. The very idea makes him nauseous whenever he thinks too long about it, so he does his best not to. 

Mornings are for sleeping, he told you once.

Life is for living, you’d replied.

Apparently, the two of you have drastically different ideas about what living looks like.

For Wooyoung, life on Tuesday nights looks like catering to a steadily dwindling crowd once you finish up and disappear with a friendly wave goodbye. It’s cleaning up sticky spills, resetting migrated stools, and doing a half-ass restock that will make the opener — him — complain about the closer — again, him — when his next shift starts at 5:00 PM on Wednesday. 

In the gap between his shifts, life looks like meeting up with his similarly shadow-dwelling friends on someone’s balcony to chain-smoke, sip whiskey, and watch the sunrise until he gets bored. From there, it’s either walking back to his apartment or kicking said friends out of his, so he can rot in front of his PC. Eventually, life looks like blackout shades and crashing into bed while the world around him heads out for brunch.

Tonight, however, life is starting to look a little different.

When you wander over, it’s not to say goodnight or close out the tab you think you’ve accrued, which Wooyoung never opened in the first place.

Maybe, he thinks, you’ve finally caught on that all these “technical issues with the point-of-sale system” — occurring for the last four (4) shows in relation to one (1) patron in particular — can’t possibly be a coincidence. That a free drink given will always beget a free drink received. That Wooyoung doesn’t deal in unpaid debts, even if he hasn’t and won’t own up to his petty workplace theft.

You sidle up to his bar and slip back into the stool you’d previously occupied, no more aware of the way your sundress shifts now than you were earlier. Likewise, he’s no less blatant with the way he looks you up and down, eyes lingering unabashedly and hungrily. The pair of you float in each other’s orbit for a few moments just like this: waiting for the other to speak first.

“Don’t you go to yoga class at ass o’clock on Wednesdays?” He eventually inquires, leaning back against the counter behind him with his arms crossed and head tilted.

Your eyes flick down to the screen of your phone, which rests face-up on the bar between your elbows. You clock the time but not the way your current posture causes the neckline of your mostly modest dress to plunge. Conflict creases between your eyebrows, then you tilt your chin to look at him.

Wooyoung knows that look, although he’s never seen it on you before. That look begs to be talked into something, rather than out of it. It’s a look he gets often. For better or for worse, it’s one he never turns down.

“I do,” you admit through a sigh. 

Offering nothing more than a hum to indicate his intrigue, Wooyoung watches you and waits patiently for you to elaborate. Another few seconds slip by without a word. His attention makes you shy, he notes; he loves it. 

But he loves the idea of toying with you even more, so when you don’t say anything else, he takes that attention and diverts it to the few remaining patrons, all of whom have vested interest in closing out and getting out.

Good riddance, he thinks as the last of them stumbles out and away, leaving the two of you in charged silence. 

Even more seconds pass. 

Still nothing.

Wooyoung glances around and finds a bottle of Jameson on its very last leg. It’s the perfect amount for a litmus test — two shots left, nothing more to give and everything to prove. Snatching two overturned shot glasses from where they dry on a holed rubber mat, he empties the whiskey evenly and turns back to you with an eyebrow raised.

Your eyes widen slightly when he sets the spare on the bar in front of you, more so with interest than surprise. For a moment, you stare at it with the same ambivalent expression, nibbling thoughtfully on your lower lip. 

Finally, you all but whisper, “I should’ve been in bed an hour ago.”

With his left palm flat against the bar, Wooyoung rests his weight and leans in, eyelids and voice dropping. “Why aren’t you?” He murmurs, gaze flicking down to your lips then back up again — just long enough for you to notice that he was, in fact, looking. “Hmm?”

Your breath hitches — just loudly enough for him to notice that you are, in fact, finding it hard to function this closely to him.

“On a school night, no less.” His eyes narrow teasingly.

“I’m asking myself the same question,” you confess, though you’re the picture of innocence. Your fingertip traces idly down the side of your shot glass, then back up again. 

He’s as distracted by the mindless movement as you are, albeit for different reasons. Before he lets himself get carried away in wondering whether or not your touch is always that delicate, Wooyoung lifts his glass and gestures for you to do the same. “Sounds like you could use a bad influence.”

A soft clink permeates when your glasses touch, followed by a muted thump when the bottom of each one is tapped against the bar. Your heads are thrown back in unison, just like your drinks, and when your faces finally level out towards one another’s, you counter him breezily, “Maybe you could use a good one.”

Wooyoung thinks he could use more than that.

Breaking eye contact, you glance down at your phone again. It’s obvious that you’re second-guessing your decision to linger. He wants to chuck that brick in the bin with the other useless shit, to get rid of any excuse you might give for having to leave, but he doesn’t. 

And you don’t give him an excuse.

Your hand wraps around that fucking phone, then you stand up slowly. 

“Try not to stay up too late,” you advise with a smile that still manages to read like disappointment.

Don’t.

Reaching into the pocket of your jacket, you pull out the tips you made tonight and collect a few bills before dropping them on the counter to cover the shot you didn’t even order. Wooyoung wants to tell you not to — that your money isn’t good here, even if you are — but he knows it won’t make a difference. 

You sling your gig bag over your shoulder, thank him, and tell him that you’ll see him in two weeks.

He scrubs his hands over his face the second you walk out the door and mutters through gritted teeth, “Fuck.”

You don’t see Wooyoung in two weeks. 

As a matter of fact, you cancel your acoustic session for the first time ever. Management either doesn’t know why you bailed or doesn’t think it’s any of Wooyoung’s business, so no one bothers to tell him. If he’d ever thought to ask for your number, he could check in on you himself, but he didn’t and therefore can’t.

Ignorant and annoyed, he resigns himself to occupying an empty tavern on a goddamn Tuesday night, yet again. 

Nobody brings him coffee. 

Nobody worth talking to crosses the threshold. 

No one makes little comments — genuine concerns poorly disguised as digs — when he uses the paring knife to carve little stars into the lip of the bar top, instead of slicing limes. 

And when he gives up and closes down early, he’s so tired of his own shit that he simply goes home and goes to bed.

Bed being the operative word. 

He doesn’t go to sleep, even though he has nothing better to do. Alternatively, Wooyoung replays your last interaction on a loop in his head, daydreaming about what could’ve happened if you’d stayed. While his thoughts spiral, his hand drifts, finds the pulse beneath the zipper of his jeans, and feels the throbbing ache building through the denim.

It’s pathetic. 

He knows it. 

Too bad that doesn’t stop him from fucking his fist every night for the next several, imagining how much softer yours must feel.

The patron pulls a face the absolute second Wooyoung slides her glass across the bar. 

Wholly uninterested in the response one way or another, he slathers on his customer-service smile and asks her, “Alright?”, in a tone that doesn’t match his expression in the slightest.

“There’s no ice in it,” she mumbles, cringing in mild horror as she does. As if the liquor features his spit instead. “I wanted ice.”

There’s a split second where he almost lets his mask crack, says something shitty just because his mood was already sour before she walked over. Wooyoung doesn’t get the opportunity, however. Over the girl’s shoulder, someone gently intervenes: “Neat means no ice. You’d have needed to order it on the rocks.” 

A beat passes, then comes, “Or — you know, with ice, please.”

Wooyoung neither hears nor cares what the girl says in response. She shuffles off, and that’s all that matters. Without her body blocking the way, he sees you clearly. You’re more done-up than usual, like you’ve just come from somewhere far nicer than here.

“It’s Saturday.”

Probably should’ve started with hello.

After eyeing the glowing, neon clock on the wall, Wooyoung notices that both hands are pointed skyward. He corrects himself, “Nah, it’s Sunday.”

You slip into the now-unoccupied stool ahead of him and nod, chuckling like you can’t believe it, either. When you settle in, you prop your elbow on the bar top, then your chin upon the heel of your hand. Just above, your eyes twinkle with a kind of mischief he’s never seen you wear before.

That might be the thin veil of tipsiness, actually. 

Not that he’s complaining.

Wooyoung hides his amusement by bending over and rummaging through the under-counter refrigerator that hums beneath the register. The rush of cool air has nothing to do with how awake he suddenly feels. He wonders if you feel the same but can’t ask outright; eagerness isn’t his style.

“You’re here on purpose?” He asks instead, resurfacing with a bottle of soju — some new, fruity flavor he assumes you’ll like — and a raised eyebrow.

You hum appreciatively when you see what he’s holding. That soft sound that punches him right in the center of his chest with force. “I was out with friends, but…”

Your voice trails off, too distracted by his hand enveloping the seal-covered bottle cap. With a firm grip and quick twist, it’s gone. You’re still eyeing his hands, he notes, even though all they’re doing is holding the bottle. 

Normally, he’d love to give you the benefit of the doubt and attribute your sudden fixation on the rings he wears. It wouldn’t be the first time a man in jewelry snags attention, complimentary or otherwise. Unfortunately — or maybe fortunately? — for you, Wooyoung forgot to put his usual accessories back on after this afternoon’s shower.

Nope, he thinks, biting back a wolfish grin. He’s not alone. You daydream about his touch, too.

Catching yourself staring, you shift atop your stool with a quiet, self-conscious laugh that sounds more like a sigh. He opts to let it go without further teasing, but he doesn’t let it go entirely. That breathy little noise echoes in his ears, drowning out the faint slosh of liquor as he fills your glass. 

In a weak attempt to distract himself, he remembers your half-finished sentence and prompts with a low voice, “But?”

“They wanted to end the night.” You accept the glass into your hand from his and raise it slightly in thanks. “I didn’t,” you whisper, then bring the rim to your lips to cloak their upward curve.

Wooyoung would be lying if he said your tiny act of defiance didn’t send all the blood in his body rushing straight to his dick. Maybe it’s arrogant of him to assume that he’s the source of this newfound rebelliousness. The spark that lit the fuse, or whatever. Maybe that should bother him. Of course, it doesn’t.

In an effort to hide how strong of a chord your confession has struck, he gestures with one extended finger to the clock. Your eyes follow, and he leans in closer; the smirk you can’t see is still evident in his voice, he’s sure.  “How much of a coincidence is it that you showed up right before the trains stop running?”

When your gaze flicks momentarily back to him, he spots a hint of surprise. This impeccable timing wasn’t a scheme at all, he realizes. Not a plot. If he had to bet, Wooyoung would guess that you’re never out late enough to know that the train schedule ends at all.

God, you’re going to give him a cavity.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Coincidentally, I know someone who gets off just in time to walk you home.”

“This gonna bother you?”

Having stepped out of the bar before Wooyoung, his question prompts you to look back over your shoulder at him, one eyebrow raised slightly out of curiosity. He lifts his right hand from his jacket pocket to reveal the half-spent pack of cigarettes he’d been storing there.

He expects it to, and to his surprise, he cares enough about that possibility that he doesn’t light up without asking in the way he normally would.

“In theory, yes,” you laugh, “because I’d prefer your lungs to be tar-free.”

“And in practice?”

You must not have expected him to note the distinction; you fluster. Grinning slightly, Wooyoung answers his own question on your behalf, “In practice, you find it kind of hot.”

He keeps his eyes on you as he pulls a cigarette from the pack — slowly, to test his hypothesis that you’ve got a thing for his hands — and then, Wooyoung slides the cardboard back into his pocket. 

Your gaze follows while he gently places the filtered end between his lips. It stays put when he furnishes a lighter, holds the flame to the opposite side, and inhales. Turning his head to the side, Wooyoung exhales the smoke where it won’t reach you. 

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he assures you, eyes devilish. Deer in headlights that you are, you freeze but for the bob of your throat as you swallow. “I won’t make you admit it out loud.”

Yet.

Once he’s decided that he’s played with you enough for the time being, two of you head south, ambling under streetlights without any sense of urgency. Making up for lost time, maybe; picking up where the last Tuesday left off. 

He can’t tell if it’s the alcohol making you more talkative than usual, or if you’re feeling the rush of your off-brand decisions, but Wooyoung’s fine with it, either way. You tell him about your week — in full and without hesitation — like you’re chatting to a friend and not someone you’ve only just started to encounter on a brief, twice-monthly basis.

You had a date this Tuesday night, he learns. It didn’t go well. Too similar, you explain with a wave of your hand. According to you, it’s boring to sit with you at a dinner table. Wooyoung looks pointedly at you as soon as he hears it, noting his disagreement. For a second, you assume something he doesn’t mean: that he enjoys his own company more than you enjoy yours.

“No,” he corrects you. “I just can’t picture dinner with you as something boring.”

You duck your head, embarrassed. “Oh,” is all you manage in reply.

Wooyoung follows your lead across several more city blocks, hanging on every word you say in the meantime. When the pair of you reach the front of your apartment building, his cigarette is spent, but neither one of you is. He takes an extra step towards the garbage can near the door and drops the butt amidst the others in the lid, which doubles as an ashtray. A faint vein of smoke bleeds out until the dark sky laps it up entirely.

You look conflicted when he turns back in your direction. Clearly, you don’t want him to leave just yet, but asking him upstairs is likely way out of your pattern of behavior. Wooyoung sees two options: He could say goodnight and go; take a few steps towards his side of the city, and hope you to act even further out of character, or — 

“If you’re asking, I’m saying yes.”

— he could go off-script entirely.

Your apartment looks exactly the way Wooyoung expected it to. Everything is cozy; a far cry from the modern and monochrome edge of his place. It all makes sense, based on what he’s learned about you so far. Feels like you, although he’ll concede that you haven’t been felt by him just yet.

Each shelf features a tchotchke or framed photograph — or several — but not a single speck of dust. Likewise, the various potted plants you’ve displayed artfully around the space are well-kept. Flourishing, he assumes, despite the fact that he doesn’t know shit about fuck when it comes to plants.

His shoes, ratty in comparison to yours, are toed off at the door before he follows you further into the kitchen. You stop at the island, bottom lip between your teeth once again. Unsure, you nibble on it, like it’ll help you set your dizzy mind straight.

When Wooyoung inches closer to you, he does it slowly, even though every part of his body demands that he ramp up the pace. As badly as he wants his hands — and his teeth, and his tongue…— all over you now, he can’t be the jump scare that sets your little bunny heart to sprinting. The adrenaline is practically vibrating off your frame already with every step he takes in your direction.

Though you could, you don’t move further away, the nearer he gets. You stay put with the small of your back against the lip of the granite counter, hypnotized. Right where he wants you.

Once he’s close enough, Wooyoung tests the waters. You let him; your gaze clings to him so strongly that he feels the weight of it without reciprocating. With his thumb and forefinger, he traces the belt loop closest to your left hip, then tugs slightly, making your breath quicken for a moment. 

Eyes still focused on his own ministrations, he murmurs, “Am I the first stray you’ve ever brought home?”

You don’t answer with words. His gaze flicks upwards, and from under heavy-lidded eyes, he sees the tiny nod.

“Full of surprises.” He looks down again, purposely depriving you of eye contact, and moves his fingers from your belt loop so that the pad of his thumb brushes over the top of your jeans. There, the skin of your hip peeks out from under the denim, hot to the touch. “Not just sweet, are you?”

“Someone told me I needed a bad influence.”

The sudden re-introduction of your voice pulls his focus. You stare back at him boldly, and it feels like a dare. Both of his hands move to your hips now, simultaneously guiding you closer to his chest and keeping you pinned between his body and the island.

“You’ll miss your Sunday morning pilates, I fear,” he tuts with a slight shake of his head.

“You’ll make attending redundant, I hope.”

And then your mouth is on his, all tongue and teeth, while you card desperate fingers through his hair. It occurs to him, as he licks into your mouth, that the split-dyed strands you're clinging to are a microcosm. 

Black and white. 

Conflicting tastes, like sugar and salt, that only make sense together in certain contexts. Like this one — right here, right now — with the two of you tangled up in your half-lit kitchen, so caught up in exploration that inhibition takes the backseat. Steeping in the aftertaste of soju and cigarette smoke, scent heady like arousal.

You break the kiss to catch your breath but can’t make it very far. His teeth claim your bottom lip, pulling forth the softest little growl he’s ever heard.

“Fuck,” he echoes with a growl of his own. 

That’s it. Breathing is overrated. Wooyoung’s ready to suffocate, so long as you let him.

“Lay back on the counter.”

You’re stunned into silence for a second, and while you blink back at him, he wonders if you’ll actually let him eat you out where you eat. It’s objectively filthy, he knows, but he might drop dead where he stands if he has to wait another second — or take another step elsewhere — before he tastes you.

Your answer is a leap, figuratively and literally. The hands you’ve been using to cling to him each flatten palm-down on the island behind you. With his grip on your hips to boost you, you scramble to your new stage; and you shatter the conservative expectations he had for you in the process. 

A newfound confidence flashes in your eyes, making his stomach flip and his dick twitch. A patronizing frown graces your kiss-bitten lips. “You didn’t walk three kilometers here just to look at me, did you?”

He sure as shit didn’t. Still, he can’t help but bask in the odd sense of pride he feels in staring up at you on the pedestal he put you on. The more time you spend with him, the rougher you seem to get around the edges; and he’d be lying through his teeth if he said he didn’t love the grit.

In lieu of a verbal response, Wooyoung locks eyes with you and gestures downward with the index finger of his right hand. You follow his silent command eagerly and without question; he keeps the praise you’ve earned on the tip of his tongue, saving it for later.

It takes less time than he expects to strip you of your jeans, most of which is attributed to slipping them off your ankles and dropping them blindly over his shoulder. They hit what he believes to be the range with a soft twack, then a barely audible crumple when they finally find the floor. 

Your lace underwear disappears in a similar fashion, albeit more eagerly. Couldn’t be helped, he thinks. That scrap of fabric was the last barrier between him and the thing he’s been craving most since he met you; and fuck, if you don’t exceed his expectations once again.

“Christ,” is all he can say.

It’s rare to find a pussy so perfect that it wipes out his vocabulary, let alone makes him want to weep. That’s exactly what’s waiting for him when you spread your thighs wide enough to accommodate his body between them. Really, the only thing driving him more insane than the sight of you is the thought of how many self-imposed rules you’ve broken to get to this point — the self-discipline you’ve thrown out the window on your way down to him.

He accepts the invitation, descends upon your wet heat like a man starved, and loops his arms underneath your thighs. Immediately, your thighs tighten around the sides of his head, muffling the groan that slips out of him the second your taste hits his tongue. Just the same, you’ve got him drunk in an instant while he laves his way through folds sweeter than cherry wine.

From under his own lashes, he looks up and sees yours flutter at the sensation of his lips encircling your clit and suckling slowly, deeply.

“Oh, my g-god,” you hiccup before your fingers are in his hair again, nails scratching perfectly along his scalp. “You’re so —” 

Wooyoung’s wickedly curved lips are slick in more ways than one, though he doubts you can see them through all those stars in your eyes. You don’t see the switch-up coming, either. Unwilling to let you race too far ahead of him, he scales it back, trading his deep pulls for targeted kitten licks.

“— evil.”

Your frustration rings out with a tortured whine. Wooyoung can’t blame you; he knows he’s cruel for guiding you so close to the edge, right out of the gate, then refusing to send you off of it. But he has to draw this out as long as he can, savor what he can for however long you give him.

And to your credit, you take it well. 

You give, too, offering up the moans, whimpers, and sighs he couldn’t have dreamed up correctly if he tried.

Well…

Wooyoung did try. Gave it his best shot, even, but his imagination fell short. He knows that now. The pitch was wrong, the timing was off, and he failed to anticipate just how badly it’d fuck him up to feel you grinding against his tongue. To have your fingers tied off in his hair, refusing to accept anything less than closeness.

That particular chorus swells for the first time when he unwinds his right arm from where it secures your left thigh; and his middle finger slides into your cunt, curls upwards to greet that spongy patch of nerves along your front wall. 

Eyes swimming with previously untapped desire, you look so pitifully perfect. Only breaking eye contact to throw your head back, you start to wail, “Wooyoung, I —” 

But the rest of that thought must turn to static before you can finish it. Charged silence settles in its place, save for your ragged breathing. All the while, his tongue never lets up on your poor, abused clit, though your arousal already has him coated, leaking down over the knuckle.

A particularly needy tug of his hair seeks what you can’t verbalize. 

More.

Closer.

When he adds his ring finger to fuck you further open for him, you can’t keep his name from spilling out of your mouth. Wooyoung starts to sound like a summoning spell; an invocation repeated so desperately that he just might give you what you want.

“W-Wooyoung, please,” you choke out, hips bucking up to chase his mouth. “I’m so close!”

The fact that you’re downright begging — on the brink of tears, no less — goes straight to his head. He lets up for a moment to purr, “Since you asked so nicely…”

The hand he doesn’t have half-buried in your heat grips your right hip, hard, securing you against the granite. It’s for the best, really. You jolt so much when he finally lets you cum that you could’ve knocked him out otherwise.

Not that he’d complain.

When the aftershocks peter out, and you gain back some control of your trembling limbs, you collapse back onto the countertop, chest heaving as your breath struggles to even out. One leg stays put, hinged over his shoulder, the best kind of dead weight; the other pools off the edge of the island, hanging limply.

Before pulling away entirely, Wooyoung presses an open-mouthed kiss to the soft skin of your inner thigh, suckling slightly — just enough to leave a calling card, though he doesn’t want anyone but you to know it’s there.

“You fucking menace.”

Your eyes flutter open and catch the way he’s grinning, the lower half of his face otherwise shining with a mix of spit and slick. With you watching intently, he licks his lips, simpering, “Think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you swear.”

“Deserved.” You sigh contentedly and close your eyes again for a second, but the blissed-out look on your face doesn’t dissipate. 

Wooyoung wonders if you’re holding onto the image of him between your thighs, replaying it behind your lids. The sight of you is going to haunt him — then and now, before and after. Even if your stamina is depleted now, his appetite’s been sated. He can survive off of this moment alone for weeks if necessary.

But you summon the strength to stretch your arms over your head, to moan breathily while you arch your back off the counter and ease the tension in your muscles. Then, in a burst of vitality, you sit upright. Eyes alight, you give him a smile to match.

“Help me down?”

As if he’d say no to a question asked that sweetly.

You wobble when your feet touch the ground again and thank him when he snakes an arm around your waist to steady you. With a nod in the direction of what Wooyoung assumes is your bedroom, you beckon him, “Come with me.”

“That’s been the plan, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes at him — another first — and take his hand in yours. Fingers intertwined, you lead and he follows through the adjoining living room towards a door on the far side of the apartment. The pair of you barely cross the threshold into your bedroom before you turn and tug his hand, pulling him into a kiss.

“Do me a favor,” you murmur against his lips.

Wooyoung has no questions about that — the answer is yes, no matter what the favor is — but there is something he’s wondering about: when you open your mouth against his, can you taste yourself on his tongue?

Distracted by that thought, and the way your free hand makes its way to the button of his jeans, he nods. It gives him the opportunity to swallow down the groan that builds in his chest when you squeeze his still-clothed cock.

Your mouth leaves his then, drops to the side of his neck. Something about the light nip of your teeth below his ear makes his resolve start to crumble. It only gets harder when the warmth of your tongue flicks over his skin to soothe the sting. He sounds fucked out already when he sighs, “Anything.”

“Let me repay you for all those drinks you never charged me for.” Between kisses down the length of his neck, you purr, “Not exactly subtle, you know.”

He clenches his jaw to keep it from dropping. “Have I been hustled?” 

“Is it hustling if I offer to reimburse you?” 

Knowing damn well what it’ll do to him, you flutter your lashes against his skin, forcing him to fight off a shiver. There’s no hiding the rush of heat that follows; he doesn’t need to ask to know that you feel it creeping up his neck. “I’ll make up for it,” you promise. “Atone, and all that.”

Wooyoung reaches up and cups your jaw with his hand; you follow his direction and look up at him with excitement twinkling in your eyes, juxtaposing the deep black in his. “I’m charging interest,” he bites back. “The rates are astronomical.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, indeed. Get on the bed, sweetheart.”

With a light smack on your ass, he sends you on your way. In the few seconds it takes you to skip over to your mattress and jump onto it, he tugs his shirt up and over his head, then tosses it aside. Before unbuckling his jeans and tearing those off, too, he snatches his wallet from the back pocket. More specifically, the condom he’s been keeping within just in case you ever decided to stoop to his level.

You’re a second away from drooling when he makes his way over and stops at the edge of the bed. That kind of hunger is yet another thing he failed to see coming. There’s something insatiable in your eyes now, darkening by the second. 

You reach out for the condom, but he pulls his hand back, holds it up where you can’t reach. Frustration makes your eyebrows pinch together. Out of context — if you weren’t naked, wet, and wanting him — he’d likely go out of his way to tell you how fucking cute you look when you’re annoyed. 

“Don’t pout at me, sweetheart.” Wooyoung’s warning tone is gravel-lined, sharp to the touch when it hits you. Whether you intend it or not, your breath hitches in tandem with your pupils dilating.  “I’ll let you do it, but I have one condition. Consider it a repayment term.”

You tilt your head to the side, eyes narrowing with intrigue. “And what’s that?”

“No hands.”

The surprised look he was counting on never comes. He gets sheer determination instead. You pull the packet from between his fingers, rip the foil open with your teeth, and flick the empty wrapper onto your nightstand. Not a second is wasted in you tugging his black briefs down his thighs.

You don’t deal in unpaid debts, either, it seems.

What happens next nearly puts him in an early grave. Wooyoung fucking wishes for a fly on the wall to witness you — someone else to memorialize the finesse you exhibit in working that latex down his length with your mouth alone — because he can’t believe his own eyes. In fact, he has to screw them shut to keep from cumming at the sight of you with his dick down your throat, lips flush to his pelvis.

“My god,” he groans, head dipping backwards. “If that’s how good your fucking mouth feels…”

You give him a second to pull himself together. Then, you wrap your hand around his wrist and pull him. He drops into the space you were occupying just a second ago, and as soon as his back hits the mattress, you steady yourself with your palms on his chest and position yourself over him.

Now, he can’t keep his hands to himself. His fingertips scratch up your thighs, leaving goosebumps along the fastidiously trained muscles underneath his touch. Palms gliding up the curve of your ass, then your waist, then those fucking tits.

“Shit,” you mewl. He lightly pinches your left nipple between his thumb and forefinger, spurring you on to rake your nails over the flesh of his chest. The way he tenses under your touch must embolden you. “Play with me all you want, but I need you inside of me now.”

Wooyoung has no idea where this assertiveness came from, but he’ll be goddamned if he doesn’t give you everything you want and then some. To prove that you’ve earned the lot, you line yourself up and take everything he has. 

Somehow, you manage to take his vision, too. The world gets blurry as your heat envelopes him; everything in the periphery blackens until all that’s left is you throwing your head back in pleasure. No other light, no noise beyond the obscene sound of your pussy soaking his length and the collision of your perfect ass against the tops of his thighs.

As strong as you are, Wooyoung knows your orgasm will wipe you out long before your body tires. He sees your eyes start to roll back in your head, even when you put your palms down behind you and lean away from him to perfect the angle. 

Not good enough, he decides. He wants to watch your pupils blow when you fall apart.

“C’mere,” he rasps. 

Fuck, he’s about to break, too. 

“Eyes on me, sweetheart.”

You push off your hands and move to lean in, but you wind up crumpling against his chest, immediately overwhelmed by the depths of his strokes when you re-enter his gravity. With the proximity perfected, every movement that follows is desperate — animalistic, even. Clinging fingers, sweat slicked bodies swapping searing heat. He lifts his hips to drive himself further into you with every downbeat, sets a pace so punishing that he has you speaking in tongues.

When you cum the second time, the moan that rips through you almost sounds like a sob. It really might be. The droplets on your cheeks are either tears or sweat; one or both would be justified, considering the show you just put on for him.

Shit, how you managed to blow his world to pieces just by walking into his bar, he’ll never understand. All he knows is that when he cums — not long after you — and his entire fucking body goes numb, you’re there on the other side of the cataclysm to kiss him back to life.

Sweet.

When you wake up, you don’t even have a guess as to what time it is. That’s your fault, you know. You didn’t think to connect your phone to its charger prior to falling asleep in a mess of sheets. The numerous alarms you always keep set didn’t go off, obviously, but right now, that’s the least of your worries. 

Until your phone has enough juice to power back on, you won’t know if Wooyoung texted you before sneaking out of your apartment.

You’d taken it as a good sign when he asked for your number in a fucked-out haze. Now, you realize, that naivety of yours was operating in full swing, even when the rest of you was down for the count. That’s what one-night-stands are for, you tell yourself. That’s the decision you made.

Uncharacteristically, you’re tempted to spend the rest of your day — however much of it is left — rotting in bed. It’s an urge you’ll give in to, you can already tell; just like the one that got you here in the first place. The only thing stronger than the call of your bed is the grumbling of your stomach, begging for sustenance.

Sighing loudly, you throw your comforter off your lower half and wiggle towards the edge of your bed. Bare feet meet the braided rug below, then unsteady legs do their best to get their bearings. As you ache, you realize that you need to give credit where it’s due:

You’re currently in the best shape of your life, and Wooyoung still managed to fuck the constitution out of you.

You bend slowly to scoop a shirt from your untouched laundry basket, groaning all the while. On its own, it’s long enough to cover your ass, so you don’t bother to dress yourself further — except for the fuzzy slippers waiting next to your bedroom door.

It’s closed, you note when you finally bother to look at it. It wasn’t when you fell into bed with Wooyoung. He probably didn’t want to disturb you on the way out, you figure. This would strike you as thoughtful if it didn’t feel like a chapter ending too soon. Reaching out to reopen it, you tell yourself to be less sentimental.

In the living room, laying eyes on an empty kitchen, you also tell yourself, I told you so. This isn’t a drama, after all. There’s no love interest in your kitchen to cook you an unexpected breakfast. 

Pre-made frozen breakfast sandwich it is, then.

You tear open the package with more effort than you should’ve needed to expend, then dump the single-serving lump onto a paper plate. As if on autopilot, you shove the plate into the microwave and smash a few buttons without registering much of it. The quiet hum of the machine nearly lulls you straight back to sleep.

Well, it likely could have.

The metallic rattling up the hall catches your attention, prompting you to step backwards so you can peer over at your front door and confirm that it’s locked. It is. You turn back to your breakfast in progress, and it takes five (5) entire seconds before you realize the issue here.

Keys jingle with more determination, right on cue. You spin around fully this time, eyes wide, to find Wooyoung in your doorway. He holds the door open with his elbow because both his hands are full; and as if that all wasn’t enough, he tries to toe off his shoes without being able to see them over the cardboard to-go tray in his hands.

“Fucking —” he grunts, wobbling. 

It must’ve been louder than he intended because he winces immediately. In his moment of panic, his eyes flick over to your bedroom door. Then, when he realizes it’s open, they search for you, blinking in surprise when they find you. He peeps, “Oh.”

As it turns out, his ability to make you lose your words isn’t limited to late hours. The sun is beating through the sliding glass door to your balcony, and you confirm that you’re just as dumbstruck by him in daylight. So, you simply point to the drinks and paper bag he’s holding with your eyebrows pinched in confusion.

“Found that café you go to on Tuesdays,” Wooyoung explains gruffly. His morning voice is every bit as ruinous as you imagined it would be. “The logo on their cups is just a cloud, so it took a lot of wandering to solve that fucking mystery.”

This time, it’s you who peeps. “Oh?”

It’s then that he finally succeeds in getting his shoes off. With his hip, he nudges the door shut; your key ring chimes in the process, having been attached to his belt loop. In a few steps, he sets his burdens down on the kitchen island and looks up at you with a wicked glint in his eye. Apparently, his immediate thought is the same as yours. Simpering, he picks everything back up and makes for your living room’s coffee table instead.

“I’m glad to report that the green shit you drink doesn’t include algae or moss.” He lifts a smoothie from the carrier and holds it out to you, flashing you a smile that makes your knees wobble. “However, I regret to inform you that it does contain vegetables.”

If you try any harder to bite back your idiotic grin, you might lose your lips. “Did you — did you really think there was moss in it?”

He waves his hand dismissively. Notably, he doesn’t say no. That hand then lowers, finger crooked to beckon you closer. You move in, and you try to focus on the moment in front of you, rather than the obscene flashbacks the gesture gives you. The knowing look you expect doesn’t follow, though. Wooyoung simply places your drink in your left hand and your keys in your right.

“Sorry for borrowing those without asking or — well, notifying you in any way, whatsoever.” He grimaces. “I figured I’d be gone for a minute, and I didn’t want someone to waltz through your unlocked door and wake you up.”

“Was burglary on that list of concerns, or is sleep truly your main priority?”

At this, he grins like an idiot. “You’re getting better at that, you know.”

The look on your face must convey your confusion. 

“I like the version of you that doesn’t pull punches,” he continues, sounding almost embarrassed to admit something about himself.

You take a move from his playbook and slide your finger through his belt loop, tugging him forward until he’s squarely within kissing distance. “This Wooyoung?” You murmur, “The one who got up early to hunt down a smoothie he’s disgusted by? Objectively likable.”

He rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t distract from the pink tint overtaking his cheeks. “I don’t know about that.”

You kiss him before he can offer to agree to disagree. And when you finally pull back, you nod firmly. “He might be sweet enough for me.”

while likes are appreciated, comments/tags/reblogs with your thoughts are really what make my brain go brrrtt.

ateez masterlist. multi masterlist. navigation.

tagging: @jihopesjoint @bahng-chrizz @sourkimchi @variety-is-the-joy-of-life @notevenheretbh1 @borabitsch @bubbly-moon (also paging @moni-logues because i feel like woo is our sister wife, lmfao.)

[ninibeingdelulu]

You really like them a lot, don't you ?

synopsis-> You just love your boyfriend’s arms

a/n-> new design, y'all like it ? CLICK ME

The soft patter of rain against the windows filled the cozy apartment as you snuggled closer into Leon's warm embrace on the couch.

His toned arm was draped over your shoulders, the sleeve of his snug t-shirt pushed up just enough to reveal those thick, protruding veins that never failed to set your heart aflutter.

You traced your fingertips lightly over the raised paths, admiring how they rippled underneath his pale skin with each flex of his powerful muscles.

Leon let out a contented hum, clearly amused by your fascination as he pulled you nearer.

"You're at it again, love." he chuckled deeply, the rumble vibrating against your cheek where it rested on his chest.

"When are you gonna get enough of these old things?" he added.

"Never." You murmured without a shred of shame, continuing to reverently follow the roadmap of veins along the underside of his forearm down to his large, capable hand.

Just mapping every ridgeline and groove with your exploratory caresses and committing them to memory all over again.

Leon was all sinewy strength contained in an appealingly rugged package - the epitome of everything you found irresistibly attractive in a man.

He shivered visibly when you traced the thick cords leading into the sturdy bones of his knuckles, seeming to shudder from the featherlight sensations dancing over such calloused skin.

With a sly grin, you began kneading into the tough musculature with your thumbs, relishing every twitch and flutter you could coax out of your buff boyfriend.

"Damn, you really do have a thing for my arms, huh?"

Leon's voice had dropped into a lower, huskier register tinted with growing arousal the more you lavished them with worship.

"Should've known keeping those guns on display was a dangerous game to play around you..."

You raised your gaze to find his stormy azure eyes already drinking you in with a molten, smoldering intensity that made heat bloom low in your belly.

His plump lips were quirked into that trademark lopsided smirk - the one that never failed to liquify your bones into pliant putty under the weight of his mere stare alone.

"Can you blame me?" you purred, purposefully flexing his wrist upwards and mouthing at the thick, flexed veins standing in stark relief against tawny skin and crisp blonde hair.

"With arms like these to enjoy whenever I want...who needs a tv show as entertaining as you are to look at, baby?"

The low gravelly groan that rumbled free was your only warning before Leon captured your lips in a searing, demanding kiss.

His free hand anchored itself in your hair to angle you deeper into his passionate onslaught while your nimble fingers continued their devoted ministrations along every rope-thick tendon and bulging swell they could find.

All thoughts of the show you'd been watching instantly fled your mind when the insistent press of Leon's arousal strained against your hip.

Leaving your mind deliriously empty of anything except worshipping his body like the muscular wonderland it was...

[ghostycatz]

A bit late, but here's a lil set of fanarts for @post-it-notes7 in honor of the third anniversary of their fanfic series, Heart and Soul!

Post, I've said it several times before and I'll say it again: you are truly a phenomenal writer and artist, and following along with this series has been nothing but a pleasure. I had some personal issues going on at the time I started reading, and doing so definitely brought some light to those times. You are a huge inspiration to me, and thank you for creating this wonderfully-written series, it's obvious that you put your heart and soul into it! (pun intended)

❗️Warning for eye-strain/bright colors underneath❗️

[lucyllawless]

Lena prefers sleeping at her girlfriend's apartment.

[emotionalsupport-ljh]

<It'll Last Longer>

Take a picture. A few pictures. And some videos, too.

Smut - woozi x fem!reader

This is probably going to be the tamest smut I write about him.

AO3 link

Word Count: 3.4k

CW: pwp, teasing, filming, cunnilingus, blowjob/facefucking, p in v, creampie

*************************

Jihoon’s soft lips slowly kiss every one of your knuckles. You cuddle close to his side lying comfortably in his bed, watching anime on the laptop that sits on his legs. He isn’t paying any attention to the bright lights and colors flashing on the screen nor the overpowered protagonist announcing the name of his next attack. No, Jihoon can only focus on your slow breathing and the way you’re absolutely engrossed in the shonen that plays in front of you. You feel a hand move from your shoulder to rest on your hip. The hand that once held yours was reaching for your face, pulling your attention from the show and toward lips that hungered for more than knuckles.

It takes you by surprise how deep and needy the kiss becomes. The heat of Jihoon’s lips against yours threatens to melt you where you sit. His mouth opens slightly against yours for his tongue to beg for entry past your lips. You use all of your strength, both physically and mentally, to pull away from the sudden fervent desire of your boyfriend. You scan his face and find that his eyes have darkened, staring into yours as if his vision tunneled hyper focusing on you, you, and only you. 

“What has gotten into you?” you ask breathlessly.

“I want you,” he answers simply. He quickly closes the laptop and places it on the floor on the side of the bed.

“I was watching that! It was getting good!” You protest his unprovoked urge, but only meet strong arms and hands around your waist manhandling you until you are underneath him.

He kisses your lips then trails down to your neck while speaking in between each gentle peck, “I realized… my schedule… in a few weeks… is packed…” One of his hands makes its way up from where it held your waist until it’s gripping one of your covered breasts. He settles into a kiss on the side of your neck that turns into a hickey as he latches his teeth and sucks hard at the skin. 

The sensation causes you to moan softly. You weave your fingers through his hair as he moves to make another mark on your collarbone while your other hand rests on his that has taken hold of your breast. You press your hand onto his, guiding it in squeezing you. The act sends a shiver through your spine.

Jihoon lifts his head and chuckles with pride as red marks bloom and hooded eyes stare back at him. “I’ll miss you…” he continues his earlier thought, “...so I decided that I need to be inside of you as much as possible until then. Starting tonight.”

Your judgment is taken over by the electric feeling between your legs. It’s not like you didn’t want to have spontaneous sex with Jihoon. You feel the smallest tinge of sadness at his realization that you wouldn’t be able to hold him like this in just a couple of weeks. You agree that you need to spend as much time with him as possible. “Well, when you put it that way…” you let the sentence fall off in favor of wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into another kiss, immediately allowing his tongue to explore your mouth.

Jihoon takes the opportunity to pull your shirt up. You almost can’t bring yourself to disconnect from him to allow it to come off. You whine when he pulls back and tosses the shirt haphazardly to the floor. He takes a moment to let his vision linger on you, drinking up the beautiful sight of his now half-naked girlfriend writhing underneath him. He reaches down toward your chest, still covered with a simple bra and plays with the cute little bow on the front. Perfect. He moves to cup both of your breasts, admiring the way the simple but cute bra accentuates them. He leans down to kiss both of them one at a time then begins to suck on the soft skin aiming to leave a mark.

“Ji…” you squeal out as he works at creating another hickey. You hold his head down to your chest. He turns you slightly so he can reach the clasp on your back. He unhooks it and, in one swift motion, removes the whole thing without taking his mouth off your chest. He licks the red spot he made then sits up to look at his work, again.

Jihoon bites his lip and grunts. “God, you look so good.” His gaze alone brings the heat up in your body. He has only teased you thus far, and you’re aching for him to venture further south.

“I have an idea.” He breaks away from your hands and leans to grab his phone from the charger on the side table. A flash goes off as you are just staring at him. Jihoon grunts again, shows you his masterpiece, and says, “See? So good, baby.” On his phone, you are staring at yourself, but it’s a version of yourself you don’t see often. Your lips are red and parted, eyelids hooded, and there are red spots on your skin marking you as Jihoon’s property. You look like a proper slut.

Jihoon puts the phone on the bed next to you and takes off his shirt. Your breath hitches like it always does when you see his naked chest. You don't have time to admire it as he reaches for your knees and pushes them up effectively folding you in half. Your legs fall on his shoulders and he leans in for a kiss. While your lips connect, he reaches into your pants and rubs the growing warmth between your legs over your panties. A thumb pushes the underwear between your labia, using the fabric to massage your clit.

A moan rips from your throat, breaking the kiss. A deep chuckle erupts from Jihoon’s chest, and you feel his thumbs move down from your clit to the patch of growing wetness on your panties.

“I've barely touched you,” he whispers against your lips. He kisses the insides of your thighs, bending closer and closer to the heat emanating from you until he pulls his hands away from you again, reaching for his phone. You can’t stand the teasing, but there is a devilish smirk stuck on his face as he clocks your writhing as he pulls your pants to rest on your legs then positions the camera in front of your pussy. The phone flashes again with a shutter noise right in front of your wet underwear. Jihoon shows you the picture: wet panties pushed between glistening lips. 

“Stop teasing me, Ji, please!” you beg. Your legs are still on his shoulders and they begin to shake. He holds you in place and looks down his nose at you.

“I like it when you beg. Tell me what you want, baby.” The phone is still in his hands pointing at you. He’s filming. Your arms fly to cover your face, and your ears ignite. It’s already hot with your boyfriend’s furnace-like body over you and the arousal boiling your body, but the embarrassment brings it to a fever pitch.

“Please,” you breathe out from under your small cover. Though you feel semi-protected from the camera with your arms over your face, Jihoon sees the rest of your mostly exposed body beneath him. His smile only grows, watching you writhe and act all shy when he knows exactly how dirty you can be.

He rips the cover from your face with one of his hands while saying, “None of that, baby. I need you to be a good girl and tell me what you want loud enough for the camera.”  He looks at you through the screen, and you don’t know whether to focus on him or the device in his hands. He’s holding both of your wrists in one hand. They rest on your stomach and are close to the bulge in his sweatpants. They move faster than you can think, straining against Jihoon’s grip to get to the prize you desperately seek. 

“Use. Your. Words.” The grip tightens around your wrists. The longer you hold out, the rougher Jihoon will get with you. Just as much as you want all the pleasures his hands, mouth, and cock can bring, he wants to capture all of you on his phone for future use.

“I want you,” you say, almost pleading.

“You want me to what?” 

“I want you to eat my pussy, then fuck me. Please. I want you in me so bad!” The whine that comes out of you is loud. It merges with a moan that erupts when Jihoon’s hands let go of you and find their way into your panties as fingers pinch your clit. In a moment, Jihoon moves to more easily rid you of the rest of the fabric that once created the barrier between him and what he craves.

“Well, when you put it that way…” he says, using your line against you. With his phone in hand, he gets close to your naked pussy and kisses your clit hard, darting his tongue out to dig into it. He's trying to get the camera angle just perfect to catch all the action, but it proves too difficult since he can't look at the screen and focus on you with his mouth at the same time. He catches your wrist and puts the phone in your hand. Without a word, he uses both of his now free hands to position your legs open.

“Go ahead and film from your perspective, baby. I want you to use the video, too.” Jihoon's gaze finds the camera pointed toward him. You see him on the screen and nod vigorously, very excited about the prospect of watching him work on you. You prop yourself on your elbows and try to get a good angle that includes the red lips, flushed cheeks, and fluttering eyelashes. 

The hitched breath gets closer and closer, then suddenly a flat tongue licks its way between your lips all the way from your taint to flicking your clit. Catching your bottom lip between your teeth, you unconsciously stifle any sounds that want desperately to escape your chest. You don't know whether to look through the screen or directly at him, almost in the same way you wouldn't stare directly at the sun. The sight might send you over the edge too soon.

Jihoon isn't aware of any of your struggles not to instantly climax. He's too focused on his ministrations with his fingers rubbing your nub as he sinks his tongue inside you resolving to lick away all of the liquid that just keeps flowing. The sounds his tongue makes as it moves every which way inside you are deliciously vile. He does start to notice that it is entirely too quiet for his liking. He retreats and raises his head to meet your eyes. You see that his mouth and chin are slick with spit and the wetness from inside your pussy.

“Don't be shy, baby. You know how much I love to hear you.” His fingers haven't stopped flicking your clit for a single moment. You can’t let go of your lip to tell him how close you are, how this restraint might be the only thing keeping you grounded and focused enough to not come undone so quickly.

Jihoon never cares  much for restraint when it comes to pleasure, especially if he’s pleasuring you. Two fingers find their way inside you, digging deep to find the spot then prodding it without restraint. It’s as if the chains that are keeping you on Earth break all at once, finally letting you float freely to cloud nine. It’s relentless and continuous pleasure that makes your hands go limp. You barely notice the phone drop down on your belly only to be picked up by a swift hand to capture the incredible and fap-worthy scene that Jihoon knows he’ll replay over and over and over. He closes in on fingers that disappear and reappear from the depths of you then pans up to your heaving chest and head lolled back as wanton moans cascade from your lips like a waterfall. Jihoon can’t help but chuckle softly admiring the mess he’s making of you and the fact that he has the privilege of catching it all on his phone.

Your eyelids close hard and you cry your boyfriend’s name to the sky as your first orgasm hits in pleasurable waves. The fingers inside you slow down, letting you ride it out comfortably. As you crack your eyes open you first lock your gaze on the camera and lick your lips. You notice how dry your mouth is from inhaling the air needed to keep up with the sounds your lungs had been itching to make from the start. You need to quench this thirst somehow. 

“Jihoonie…” you mewl out in a small voice somewhere between a plea and a question. You meet his eyes briefly then stare down at his hips where his sweats still sit, and a tent has long been standing unattended. Jihoon notices your eyes drop to his pants and begins to palm his aching cock through them. 

“You know what I’m going to say.” Jihoon’s voice is deep and seductive and commanding. You love the way he gets when he’s horny. He gets so particular and controlling. He wants you to beg, to say every dirty thought that comes to your mind. He likes your devolution from his good little girlfriend to an insatiable slut.

Whatever restraint or pride you were once holding onto is long gone after cumming on your boyfriend's fingers while he records you. That dirty persona takes over as you say, “Come here, baby, let me help you with that hard cock. Put it in here,” then you open your mouth wide. Jihoon smiles and scoots up so his legs straddle your face. He finally pulls down his sweats just far enough that his long, hard cock can stand proudly outside of its confines. He has the camera pointing at his hard dick in front of your open mouth, and he’s almost salivating at how good it looks on the screen. He takes his time guiding his cock to your mouth, trying to savor the moment and make the video run a good amount of time. You become a bit impatient and take the tip between your lips and suck hard while giving his slit a good lick. Precum coats your tongue; you swallow it to quench the lustful thirst. 

“Shit,” Jihoon gasps. His mouth hangs open as you slowly take each inch, making sure your tongue slides against the vein on the underside. What you can’t take in your mouth, you jerk with your hand and bob your head at a comfortable pace. Jihoon’s eyes are glued to the screen. He watches as you open your hooded eyes and wink toward the camera, giving it a very good show. He can’t help but thrust lightly in your mouth to chase the heat so languidly caressing him. You let him set a pace; he never goes too hard and actually has his eyes trained on you to make sure you're okay the whole time. 

As the tight feeling in his stomach gets more and more intense, Jihoon pulls away, even though he doesn’t really want to. A line of precum and spit connects your mouth to him, and you lean toward him to kiss his tip and lick it up. He groans hard and maneuvers to get his pants all the way off, finally rendering you both naked. Jihoon settles himself between your legs, and you finally let your head rest on the pillows. With his dick in one hand, and his phone in the other, he guides it to your awaiting sex while filming the whole thing. He takes a moment to capture rubbing it between your wet lips, enjoying the way you squirm under him.

“What’s wrong, hm? Tell me,” he teases in a fake concerned voice.

“I already told you, Ji!” you get more and more impatient with his teasing. His cock rubs your clit and up and down between your labia which get impossibly wetter, threatening to drip onto the sheets. It does feel good, but you spite the way Jihoon likes to slowly see you come undone as he teases the hell out of you.

“I forgot,” he lies with a big smile on his face. He doesn’t even look you in the eye; he’s too focused on watching his cock slide on your beautiful, wet pussy. “Can you remind me?”

You want to groan and try to torture him as much as he has tortured you thus far, but his resolve is too strong. He gets more pleasure from the service of it all more than anything. He does like to receive, but giving - well, in cases like this one, almost giving - is his true passion. He does it smiling over you, under you, and all around you. And he’ll be doing it every day for the next couple of weeks. 

You give in, “Please, fuck me! Please, plea-” You are cut off when Jihoon slides his full cock into your awaiting hole. It bottoms out, and he waits a beat before thrusting rhythmically. Your moans accompany the sound of skin slapping skin. Jihoon got the whole thing on video, up close and personal. The camera lingers on your entrance as his long cock slides in and out, in and out. He makes sure to pull all the way to the tip before re-entering, getting every inch on the screen before letting it disappear again into the heat of your pussy. 

You look at Jihoon who has his eyes glued to the screen. Hooking your legs around his waist, you pull him closer and gently grab his chin with your thumb and forefinger, guiding him to face you rather than the device in his hands. Your eyes meet his and your wet lips beg for a kiss without having to say anything. He obliges and abandons the phone on the bed to meet you in a searing kiss. His tongue expertly explores your mouth, and he maintains his pace thrusting into you. You moan through the whole kiss. 

While placing sweet kisses to the side of your mouth, Jihoon angles to hit your g-spot head on. His thrusts are shallow and hard as he stimulates it waiting for the moment you lose your breath. “Cum for me, again, baby girl.” The simple words have you convulsing in an instant, wrapping your arms around your boyfriend pulling him until he can’t get any closer. Watching your face and body writhe in ultimate pleasure helps him as he chases his own orgasm. He can’t take his gaze off your face that had a blissful expression stuck on it.

“Go ahead,” you breathe out, “Cum inside, baby.” You smile lazily at his surprise that turns into a jaw-dropping orgasm as he ruts his hips against you, emptying his load inside of your hole and filling you to the brim. Jihoon once again grabs his phone. He begins to document himself pulling out slowly, revealing your cum-covered hole. He takes his thumb to spread the opening more which allows more of the white liquid to drip out. Satisfied, he finally stops the video and ventures to gather some towels to clean you up.

When you are both clean and comfortable snuggling under the covers together, you hear noises coming from your boyfriend who is focused on his phone. He isn’t scrolling through social media or texting. A familiar voice speaks through his phone, “Go ahead.Cum inside, baby.” You cringe hearing your freshly fucked self through the speaker. You never thought you would be confronted by that version of yourself until now.

“Are you really watching that right now?” you ask incredulously.

Jihoon turns the screen toward you and displays your own pussy dripping with his cum. “Doesn’t that look so delicious? You did so well for me. So pretty.” He smiles and laughs as you lightly push him, turning red from embarrassment. 

You turn to face away from him and he finally puts his phone down for the night. He wraps his arms around you from behind and buries his face in your shoulder. “Send me that video when you get a chance.” You feel a smile creeping onto Jihoon’s face.

[nicomoru]

Saw a tag on a fanfic that went “there’s only one bed (Herbert makes Dan sleep on the floor)” and that concept has been on my mind for days

[luverine]

𓇢𓆸 Ache

Mdni

Every waking moment is torture around you, away from you even.

He looks at you across the dining room, your smile, body, mind, energy. He can’t help himself.

Admiration is one thing but he is devoted to you, though you have no idea, his heart aches In silence.

The air from his lungs feels foreign, his mind is consumed by thoughts of you, his body craves your touch.

At night the yearning is unbearable, the room feeling too cold and too warm without you, he’d do anything, anything for you to give him a sliver of a chance at your love.

You look back at him in the dining room, your hands tremble,he’s so intimidating, so distant, yet you’d do unspeakable things, just to call him yours.

If only.

Levi, Erwin, Jean, Reiner, Leon, König, Aizawa

Likes, comments, reblogs appreciated ‹𝟹

Inbox open!

[wackus-bonkus-maximus]

meet the cast of "lies of attrition"

everything's going so well in my and @ladyofthenoodle 's post-s5 fic! look how fine it's going! absolutely nothing can or will go wrong!

[spicy-apple-pie]

Thank you @cdelphiki for giving us a Damian that is a normal(ish) eight year old boy.

(GO READ THE IN FOR A POUND SERIES RIGHT NOW ITS SO GOOD)

[shycloudkitty]

You're too sweet for a monster like me

Summary : Leon's drowning his pain and suffering with whiskey. But you might be his true salvation.

Pairing : Vendetta Leon! × Fem Reader (A little bit of pre vendetta)

Tags : Established relationship, self deprecating talk (Leon does with himself), mostly angst with little comfort. (But it's there) and alcoholism

A/N: Update on why I disappeared for a while. It's because things got rocky with my academics and I recently broke up :( But not to worry I'm not gonna let a little heartbreak set me back.

And for this fic I'm thinking it to be a little pre vendetta Leon, like the incidents that led to him having depression in Vendetta.

It's gonna a be short fic, may or may not write a part 2 about this. Let me know!

WC: 1.6K

Sound of whiskey getting poured in a glass fills the emptiness of the living room he was in. After all this was all he could do, the only thing he had control in his poor pathetic life.

One mission after another after another. Leon was getting tired after endless fights with the B.O.Ws, corrupt governments in countless countries that were ‘speculated’ to have a new damned virus or a bioweapon war waiting to happen.

And every damn time he was supposed to deal with it, he was supposed to do the government’s dirty work for them, he was supposed to fight every goddamned ugly creature created by the worst of mankind, he had to carry out every gut wrenching decision that government instructed him to do, everytime he was the last man standing and he was never gonna get out of this cycle.

Yes, that's right. He was just a little puppet for the government that was supposed to fight B.O.Ws for them. Someone who was blackmailed into this life and do their bidding, by of course the government.

At first, he tried to take it positively and thought of how many people he could save like he always wanted to and at such a large scale. Something he was extremely passionate about since he was a kid… saving people's lives, protecting them. That's why he wanted to be a cop and now that he was a government ‘special’ agent he would be able to do more.

But he definitely didn't expect the destruction those missions would cause on his own self too, taking every piece of his humanity, every last hope he seemed to have, gone & extinguished in the flames of every bioweapon war he was called in. He definitely didn't expect and could never have anticipated what he was getting thrown into.

When will this cycle end?

A question he thought every second of his life but never had the answer. Forced to play hero each time and with no real win, fighting was like choosing between the lesser than the two evils.

He was just a weapon, just a pawn that the government moved each time when they wanted to achieve something. And why would a pawn's life matter in the grand scheme of things? A pawn was created just to be shot down. And that's what he was.

While he was lost in thoughts and his whiskey all alone. He almost missed the soft voice whispering his name, such a gentle voice calling out to him. Feeling a soft hand on his back, trying to get his attention. He turned back to see who it was… and there was the reason. You.

Soft eyes looking at him with a sympathetic smile asking him how he was or that he had eaten anything today?

Leon slowly shook his head to get out of the fog clouding his brain and blinked a few times to focus on you.

Leon's words slurred as he spoke “What?”

“I asked how are you doing today?” Your soft words of concern clearing his brain fog better, making him aware of his surroundings and himself.

Leon blinks once more and looks down at his whiskey and then back at you. “... Better than yesterday.” A lie, he was the same as yesterday.

He could see her lips twitch in a small smile as she sat down besides him on the couch and said. “You're a terrible liar when drunk…”

Leon managed a soft huff at her reply. It almost weirded him out that you could see through him, but he guessed that's what happens when you have someone who cares for you. Leon looked away, sighing deeply and replied. “I'm just tired…”

Leon heard a soft sigh, feeling the soft couch dip a bit as she shifted closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder and gently held his hand. “Leon… I'm always here for you, you know that right? I may not be able to give solid advice to you, but I'm a good listener.”

You could feel him relax under your touch a bit and saw him look your way from the corner of his way, still not facing you. “...I know.”

“So, you know I'm also worried about you?”

Leon winces at that, the last thing he wanted was you to worry about his pathetic self. You already have done so much for him just staying by his side through all this. Hell, you were an angel just for putting up with him and actually loving him. You weren't supposed to be worried about him and you definitely weren't supposed to fall in love with him.

Leon clears his throat and shifts a little bit away from you although he didn't let go of your hand and says. “I…It's nothing.”

You couldn't help but frown at how closed off he was being for the last few days, you understand that his last mission was rough although he never went into details about his missions with you. And you knew he needed space to process all of it but you hated the way he was ‘processing’ his loss. Drinking, lost in thoughts and closing off when you tried to get close. It was hard for both of you.

You slowly shifted towards him again, getting close to him once again. Gently taking the whiskey glass from his hands and moving it away from him. “Leon…”

He looks back at you and he looks…lost. A raging storm of emotions present in those pretty blue eyes of his that you loved so much. “I know it's hard Leon and I'm happy to give you space to think but the way you're doing it… is making me worried.”

You took a deep breath and continued. “Is there anything I can do to help? I can't… see you like this.”

He closes his eyes and deeply sighs once more, years of weariness and defeat visible on his face. He shakes his head and whispers. “You're not supposed to worry about me…”

Leon feels soft hands cup his face gently as she replies. “Can't help it. It sorta happens when you care.”

Leon opens his eyes to see you staring at him with a soft warm smile, your faces close. He presses his forehead against yours for a while trying to calm his anxious thoughts. He then pulls you closer by your waist, pulling you in a hug and burying his face in your neck and taking a deep breath. Your scent filling his senses and offering some peace that he needed to ground himself.

He often wondered what he did to deserve you? Did God or whatever the power universe has, take pity on him and decide to gift him an angel? You were always so sweet, so gentle with him, loving, caring, understanding. You were his sunshine and he couldn't look away. All he could do was soak up in the warmth that you always seemed to radiate everywhere you stepped.

You were perfect and it scared the hell out of him.

He was scared that one day you will see the monster he actually was. That one day you will wake up and see him for who he was, the things he had to do to make a living and think what a disgusting monster he was, what he truly was… not some ‘Hero’ or the ‘Golden boy’, just some monster and a weapon crafted to perfection to destroy the undead. And he hopes that day never comes.

He continues to hug you tightly to himself, his face buried in your neck as he takes deep breaths to calm himself. He then softly whispered. “You smell…like daffodils.”

The sudden comment made you chuckle a bit and kissed his cheek, hugging him tightly. “Yeah, I bought a new perfume today, didn't think you would notice. Does it smell bad?”

“... No, it smells good. It suits you.” And sighed deeply. He then whispered. “You're too sweet for me. Don't know what you see in me.”

You turned to face him and kissed his cheek. “don't say that… I see that you're a hard working, resilient person who keeps going even when the odds are stacked up against him. Whatever it is that you're going through… you can pass through it.”

He turned his head to face you, his expression softening into something more vulnerable as you say that. Clearly touched by your words. Feeling a lump rise in his throat as he closes his eyes once more and exhales shakily.

You were so…innocent. You had no idea what was going on in his head or what actually he turned into. You also had no idea about the vicious but repetitive cycle he was in.

Opening up about this life of his…would ruin such a sweet and innocent thing like you, he was sure of that. He knew you weren't a kid or anything or that you never faced hardships in your life. But this…he can't tell you about what he faces out there, what kind of ugliness his line of work shows him everyday, the dark side of humanity.

He can't taint the only ray of sunshine he ever found in his life.

You look up at him with that sweet dazzling smile, thinking he was someone ‘great’. But reality couldn't be farther from the truth.

Hello everyone! Long time no see, I'm sorry for my disappearance. I promise I will try to be regular now, I know this was short I will probably try to make a part 2? Idk but this was mostly written for my creativity to start flowing again. If you liked it please like it and reblog. I would be very grateful 😊

Fun fact: Daffodils are a sign of hope!

Thank you for reading this, hope you have a good day!

-Bella

[jiminscockr1ng]

hi! i love your works. can i put in a request? joon or jk x reader. arranged marriage. breeding kink and pregnancy scare. thank you for your service🫡🙏🏾

✩｡°𝄞🍼 TRY AGAIN✨𝄞°｡✩

╝ requested / one-shot ╔

╰ ₊ 𓂂➢ pairing: namjoon x fem!reader

╰ ₊ 𓂂➢ genre: arranged marriage au, smut, angst, a little fluff.

╰ ₊ 𓂂➢ warn!ngs: breeding kink, pregnancy scare, mentions (suggestive) of infidelity, degradation (usage of slut), reader is a brat, reader has a high libido, oral (namjoon and reader), squirting, unprotected sex, mentions of birth control, spanking, hair pulling, rough sex, negative pregnancy test, mention of (trying for) children. (let me know if there’s more!)

╰ ₊ 𓂂➢ summary: your arranged husband punishes you after causing a scene and acting like a brat.

╰ ₊ 𓂂➢ word count: 3,765 words

The sounds of slapping bounces off of the walls like gun shots. Your face is buried into the large fluffy pillows on your king sized bed with your ass raised in the air. Giving Namjoon, your husband, the perfect access to spank your behind.

When the sharp, burning, sting— a millisecond of pain and pleasure is inflicted upon your ass again you let out a whimper into the black silk pillow. As the indecent sounds exit your mouth, Namjoon couldn’t stop the depraved thoughts that battle their way through his mind. You just looked so fucking sexy. So vulnerable and submissive before him, he could just eat you whole right now.

But that wouldn’t be right, now would it? After all, you were a bad girl. You brought this on yourself.

You didn’t think Namjoon would just forget about the way you rubbed your ass against that man on the dance floor? No. He’s not that graceful. You’re his wife, for god sakes. Even if you didn’t take this arranged marriage serious, he must show you that he is. He is taking this very seriously.

“Do you know how embarrassing it is to have people asking if the woman causing a scene on the floor is my wife? Huh?” He begrudgingly asks, caressing your ass that is two slaps away from bruising.

You deserved it, the way you seductively eyed him while dancing on another man replays in his mind. He best not be fooled by your little innocent and submissive act right now, you whimpering and whining. He knows you’re a brat.

When his parents first introduced you to him, he knew he’d eventually fall for you. Despite the distasteful you held on your face that entire meeting. You didn’t approve of the arrangement, Namjoon knew that. So he gave you space. But of course, one thing leads to another. Especially when you’re flew out to Italy for a honeymoon, a villa all to yourselves. If you recall correctly, you believe the two of you fucked in all 8 rooms. Plus the kitchen… and the bathroom… the couch, the garden, the pool, the arcade room— damn there everywhere.

Needless to say, Namjoon has been pussy whipped ever since. Becoming helpful, loving and caring— all the amazing qualities one could find in a husband. Along with those qualities, he grew possessive over you, rightfully so, you’re his wife. But it seems like regardless of anything he did, you still seemed to show little to no care for the man. Except for what was between his legs. Because babes, the dick is bomb!

Recently Namjoon has been depriving you from the ‘bomb dick’. So you did what any brat would do. You acted out. Unfortunately for Namjoon, that led to complete and utter embarrassment, displayed in front of all of his friends at a work event. But who cares about that, right?!

Because fortunately for you, Namjoon is spewing all kinds of sexy little insults at you, dirty talking your panties right off.

“Do you enjoy being a fucking slut?” Another slap is planted on your ass. You let out a gasp before biting down on your bottom lip. Useless, as to when he grabs a handful of your hair, roughly yanking it back, your mouth falls agape.

“You like that shit, huh?” You eagerly nod your head, so high off of the thought of getting fucked up. This is exactly what you wanted. Namjoon always gives you exactly what you want.

You strain yourself forward to close in on his lips. His lips wraps around yours as you share a sloppy kiss. Your teeth graze his bottom lip as you pull back. What you do next makes Namjoon lose his shit.

You giggle.

Like actually fucking giggle in his face. Without thinking, he grabs your face, pulling you back in for a hot yet desperate kiss. Namjoon’s eyes furrow into it, trying to get some sort of understanding. He needs to understand how you do it. How you act so heinous one second and then so admirable the next. Even now, you’re submitting to him. But Namjoon knows more than anyone that you have him wrapped around your cute little finger.

The hold on your face doesn’t leave as Namjoon roughly pulls away to marvel in your beauty. Your gorgeously melanated skin, your two toned lips, and those big brown almond eyes he willingly falls victim to. There’s a smirk that plasters on your face that Namjoon doesn’t miss.

“Am I being a good little slut for you?” Namjoon couldn’t hide his widened eyes. He’s angry— completely enraged, you mustn’t forget. But as usual, he gives in. Because you’re in control. “Fuck yes.” He whispers out before flipping you over, absolutely manhandling you. Your figure bounces on the bed as Namjoon hovers over you.

“You don’t even know just how crazy you make me.” He mutters in your ear. Your hands wrap around his neck, fingers traveling through his short blonde locks. “Show me.” You lick at his jawline, slowly nibbling on the chiseled edge. “Show me how crazy I make you, baby.”

Without a second to waste, Namjoon lifts up, attacking the buttons of his black dress pants. He slips them down to his ankles along with his briefs, kicking them off to the floor. The thick, long, pink tipped length you desire is revealed. You lick your lips just to make sure you aren’t drooling. He gives his length a few pumps before his hands are replaced with yours. This is what you’ve been begging for, what you desired and needed inside of you for weeks.

Hell, you even danced on some random middle aged man just to get it. You love it! Namjoon would battle that you love it more than its owner. Especially the way you kiss the tip. Like you’re finally meeting the love of your life after years of being apart. Namjoon breath is shaky when he exhales. Your lips wrap around his tip, you close your eyes and let out a moan, sending vibrations through his dick. “Don’t tease.” He says sternly. And you look up at him, his tip still resting in your mouth.

You look absolutely angelic. The way your big doe eyes innocently look up at him with his dick in your mouth. He could just cum at this image alone. “I’m sorry, baby.” You say with a feigned apologetic tone and expression.

Even if you aren’t sorry, Namjoon is immediately relieved once you take his whole length in your mouth. Your nose touching his lower stomach as you slightly choke. The little gag reflex doesn’t stop you from showing your love to the pretty dick. Namjoon lets out low pitched moans as you continue to attack his length, your performance growing messy. Something you quite liked. What can you say? You’re a proud slut.

But still a brat. You back away from Namjoon’s dick, resting yourself on your elbows that are propped up behind you. Namjoon lets out a groan at the abandonment of your mouth. Instead, you spread your legs, quickly slipping off the soaked black thong you were sporting.

“Look,” you say as your hands reach for your wet cunt— fully exposed, you slip your fingers through before showing them to the man before you. “Look how wet you make me.” You say and you can see Namjoon’s dick twitch at that. You slip your coated digits in your mouth, sucking off your own arousal.

Namjoon is actually fucking shook by your pornographic performance. He knew you had a high libido but damn… he think you might even have him beat.

“You want to taste— or you gonna just keep kneeling in front of me.” You raised a brow, growing impatient. Namjoon is in utter disbelief that you’re his wife. He doesn’t know what he did in his past life to get so lucky. Yet, due to the circumstances, he can’t quite figure out whether he is or not. He shakes away his thoughts, though. He can’t ignore the highly appetizing meal that glistens in front of him right now. The meal he dives into.

His tongue ventures through your folds, mouth sucking on your swollen clit. You throw your head back as Namjoon’s mouth brings you the familiar pleasure that you have wholeheartedly missed. He enters two digits inside of you as his tongue flicked at your clit. You grasp onto his blonde hair as he eats your pussy out like no man ever has. “Fuck yes! Just like that.” Namjoon holds your thigh with his free hand, spreading them wider. His fingers move faster inside of you and you can feel yourself growing closer. You scream out an excessive amount of “yes”s and eventually squirt in his mouth.

Namjoon freezes as you release— not once but twice into his mouth. He looks at the way your chest heaves up and down. That wasn’t enough for him. He needed to be inside of you now. Without any warning, Namjoon slips his dick into your sex, slowly stretching your pussy out. Your legs shake as he makes his way through. “You feel so fucking good.” He mumbles as he thrusts into your pussy again.

The pace almost instantly quickens, the hunger and need from both of you takes over. “I missed your dick so much.” You say as you trail your hands up his chest, caressing over his thickly defined pecks. “Mhn— you’re such a fucking slut. Causing a scene just to get my dick inside of you.” He grabs your hands and places them above your head, restraining you from touching him.

“You feel so good inside of me— ah!” You moan out as Namjoon thrusts deeper inside of your wet pussy. “Fuh— faster, please!” You beg and Namjoon continues to thrust deeper inside of you.

“You’re begging now?” He mocks. It’s quite entertaining to see, actually. He bends down to grab your face, slowing the pace down to tease you even more. “Oh, you don’t like that, do you?” You desperately shake your head. “Beg me to go faster.” Stubbornly, you stay quiet as your pussy aches around his length that slowly strokes inside of you. His lips rest just above yours. “Come on,” he murmurs softly against your lips.” “I wanna hear my little slut beg for dick.” You moan at his words, growing even more aroused.

“Please Joon.” You bite your lip as the grip on your jaw grows tighter. “Please fuck me faster! I— I need your dick.” You beg.

And just like that— you should’ve braced yourself. Namjoon slams his dick inside of your tight hole. Your body jerks at each thrusts. You scream out as Namjoon abuses your tiny cunt. Your screams could be heard throughout the whole two story house.

You look up at Namjoon who is hovering over you while slamming his dick into you. He looks so sexy the way his blonde hair clings onto his dampened face. The sweat trickling down the sides of his face. The sounds of your skin clapping together and the arousal from your pussy lapping up around his dick is sending you over the edge. You feel yourself growing close again.

Namjoon pulls your legs over his shoulders as he fucks into you. You’re completely fucked out— your eyes roll to the back of your head as you feel Namjoon hit your spot. You don’t even notice when he attaches his lips onto yours again. You feel yourself unraveling underneath him.

“I’m gonna— mm” You say against his lips. Namjoon nods, breathing heavily. “Cum for me.” He slurs and on command you release yourself around his dick. Namjoon lifts up, still thrusting himself into you. You can feel his dick twitch inside of your pussy, signaling his high.

“Cum inside of me.” You say, eagerly. He looks down at you with an uncertain expression but you nod your head. “Please, cum inside of my pussy.” You whine and Namjoon groans at the sound of your begging. “Fuck.”

Immediately, you feel the warm, sticky, drags of cum release inside of you. You moan at the feeling. He doesn’t pull out. Instead, his chest meet yours and the two of you share another erotic kiss.

It’s been two weeks since that night Namjoon had fucked your brains out. Ever since that night, he hasn’t touched you. Most likely still angry about the events that occurred before he fucked your brains out. Rightfully so— even you can admit that you crossed the line that night. Did you mention he fucked your brains out?

Nevertheless, you have bigger fish to fry. You’re late on your period. You should’ve gotten it a few days ago but the red flood never showed.

Yes, you’re on birth control. Still, inevitably you miss a few days because of your inconsistent schedule so it may not be that effective. Especially not when you beg your husband to cum inside of you.

You wince at the thought as you rest your head on the bathroom door. A few hours ago you went to go pick up a few pregnancy tests from the store. You can’t help but overthink while you wait for the stick you just peed on to tell you whether or not you’re pregnant. You try to imagine the possibility of becoming a mother, how you would act and how you’d speak. How Namjoon would react when you tell him you’re pregnant. Him as a father.

You’re immediately snapped out of your thoughts when you hear the front door slam.

Namjoon’s home.

Your heart rate immediately increases and you pray that he’ll continue ignoring your existence just like he has the past two weeks.

It seems that god is not on your side because you can clearly hear his footsteps approaching the bathroom. Of course he has to go to the bathroom. You just want to cry but that wouldn’t be much help either.

The door handle to the bathroom turns but doesn’t open. The lock on the door stopping him from entering. After a few seconds, he knocks. You flinch at the sound, looking around the bathroom for a way out. Obviously, at a loss when u realize that you’re trapped inside the four walls.

“_______, open the door I have to use the bathroom.” You hear him say behind the door. You look at the pregnancy test on the sink to see that nothing has changed. You silently curse to yourself. Why the fuck is this piss stick taking so long.

“_______.” You hear your name again, along with a few knocks. “I— I’m using the bathroom.” There’s a sigh on the other side of the door. “Well, can you hurry? I’m about to piss myself.” He adds, impatiently to which you roll your eyes.

“Use the guest bathroom!” You shout defensively. Due to you being on the other side of the door, you can’t see the way Namjoon’s brows furrow together. You two never use the guest bathroom even if someone is taking a shit. It’s like an unspoken rule.

“I swear to god _______, open the door. I’ve seen you shitting like a thousand times already.” It’s true, you really couldn’t care less what Namjoon had to say about your smelly poop. Unlike Namjoon who would beg you to leave. But you’re running out of excuses.

“Namjoon, fucking— ugh! Just go to the other bathroom!” You spaz and Namjoon is left with only one thought.

“Is there someone in there with you?” He asks and when you grow silent he makes up his mind. You honestly didn’t know what to say, you were taken aback. How could he think so lowly of you?

“You brought a man into our house _______?” The sound of his voice is a mixture of hurt and anger. And maybe you would feel bad for the man if you weren’t too busy trying to pick your jaw up off the floor. Because… how dare he?

“What the fuck are you talking about? Why would I bring someone into our house?!” You’re pissed that he would even think you would do some shady shit like that. I mean yes, shaking ass on another man in front of his coworkers is bad but bringing another man into your house while he’s gone… that’s fucking low. Even for you.

“Why?” He mockingly repeats before letting out an unhumorous laugh. “Because you don’t want to be in this marriage, that’s why! I wouldn’t be surprised if you brought someone here just to rub that shit in my face.” You angrily swing the door open, absolutely not giving a shit about the stupid pregnancy test on the bathroom sink. You are livid and now Namjoon is going to hear your mouth. Face to face.

“As much as I don’t want to be in the marriage I still have respect for you and I would never bring anyone into this house.” You shout at him. The man is way taller than you but somehow you’re still all up in his face.

“I don’t even know where you would get that idea from. Unless you had another woman in our house.” You fold your arms over your chest. Okay… you knew Namjoon would never bring another woman into this house. You just had to give him a taste of his own medicine. And the expression on his face is so worth it.

“I would never do that to you.” He says, more reassuring than defensive. “I’m the one who is always desperately trying to make this marriage work. I want this to work.” His voice turns soft and he steps closer to you to grab your hands. You couldn’t even be angry at him. Not when he’s right.

You see how hard he’s trying everyday to get through to you. However, you can’t help but be angry. You didn’t want this marriage and you know it’s not his fault but hell… someone had to be at fault. So you take your anger out on him. Looking up at the man you can’t help but feel bad.

“Look,” he says. “I’m sorry for accusing you of bringing someone here— that was fucked up and I shouldn’t have taken it there. I’m just… a little insecure right now and that’s something that I need to work on.” His explanation makes you want to shower him with kisses and hugs. There’s no way you’ve made this man think lowly of himself. The man is absolutely breathtaking and could have anyone he wanted.

If the circumstances were different you would’ve approached him anyway. He’s exactly the type of man you always wanted in your life.

“Don’t apologize.” You focus your eyes on the ground. “It’s my fault, I’ve been acting really bitchy and giving you a hard time.” Your eyes finally meet his again and there’s nothing but disbelief behind them. He doesn’t even think he’s hearing you correctly. There’s no way you’re apologizing.

“You don’t have to work on anything— you’re perfect, Namjoon. I… have to work on being a better wife.” Namjoon swears he hears fireworks going off somewhere. He doesn’t even think before pulling you into a tight hug. Completely forgetting about the urine that was previously begging to be released. And you forget all about the stupid pregnancy test that rests on the sink.

Until Namjoon see’s it. He hesitantly pulls back from the hug, looking as if he seen a ghost. “Joon, what’s wrong?” You ask, worried that there actually might be ghosts in your house. That’d be a real bummer— this house costed a fortune.

“You’re pregnant?” He mindlessly say, still eyeing the pregnancy test on the sink. Your heart drops at the words, eye widening. “I am?!” In an instant you turn around to check the stick. Picking you up you notice the red line going through it.

Only one red line.

You stare at that line for a moment, feeling disappointed for some reason. You waited for what felt like ages for the test to process. Thinking of the future and what type of mother you’d be, how Namjoon would be an amazing father. And it’s negative.

“It’s negative.” You say and Namjoon can’t make out your emotion. You throw the stick out in the waste bin before spinning around the face Namjoon. “I guess we don’t have to worry about the giving the whole abortion talk.” You lamely say before letting out a strained laugh. Namjoon eyebrows furrow at that.

“You wanted to have an abortion?” He sounds disappointed. He would never stop you from having an abortion— it’s not his place. But the thought of you not wanting to have a child with him did kind of hurt.

You shake your head at Namjoon’s question. “No it’s not that. I just assumed… you know.” You awkwardly fidget with your hands as you try to find your words. “I didn’t think you’d want to have a child so soon.” Shrugging your shoulders, you let out another strained laugh, much to Namjoon’s dismay.

“That’s not funny, _______” His expression is serious. “This is why we need to communicate. I’ve always wanted children— I’d want nothing more than to have a child with you _______” He speaks sincerely and you swear you could burst into tears right now.

You place your hands on his cheeks to pull him down for a kiss. It’s not rough, titillating, or sloppy. It’s a kiss filled with passion and for once there’s a speckle of joy in there. You felt safe and secure in Namjoon’s arms. Your husband. A man you don’t quite love yet but you definitely like him. And you’re willing to love him— to fall in love with him.

Namjoon pulls away to catch his breath. You couldn’t help but smile up at your gorgeous husband. “Thank you… for saying that Namjoon. For everything, honestly.” The blonde haired man is smiling from ear to ear. He couldn’t control the wholehearted happiness he felt— it’s floating along with his aura.

“Mmm, thank you for saying you’ll have my kids.” He says, his smile widens as you let out a little laugh. The dimples in his cheeks so prominent you wanna bite them. “The test is negative, Joon.” You remind him. Just in case he forgot from all of the cheesing and giggling he’s doing.

As if he couldn’t express his euphoric excitement any more than he already has, he picks your body up into his strong arms. His hands resting underneath your thighs as he walks you to the bedroom, his lips on yours.

You pull away, not without letting a goofy little giggle leave your mouth. “What are you doing?” You ask, in complete oblivion. Namjoon smiles at you before quickly pecking your lips.

“We’re gonna TRY AGAIN.”

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[eoieopda]

insomniac | ljh (m)

there are certainly worse ways to tire yourself out.

summary: it’s 2:00 am, and you can’t turn your brain off. thankfully, your boyfriend knows just how to scramble it. pairing: lee jihoon x reader au: established relationship type: one-shot (smut) word count: 5.2k rating: 18+ cw: reader is afab but no pronouns are used; reader has insomnia (unspecified re: prof. diagnosed or self-diagnosed); there’s a sentence about reader taking “an inadvisable amount of melatonin gummies” — don’t do this! — but they’re not impaired in any way; reader’s internal monologue is kind of angsty/self-deprecating at times; blonde!woozi has his hair in a bun, which is a warning in and of itself; completely unedited because my perfectionism has killed every wip i’ve attempted for months. ✰ minors do not have my consent to interact with me and/or my work. smut warnings: big dick lee jihoon™️, nipple stim, v fingering, unprotected p in v penetration, wee bit of aftercare. there are a total of six (6) orgasms in here because i believe in going big from home, incl. nipple stim & a-spot orgasms. a/n: i haven’t written anything in forever, due in large part to the fact that i’m exhausted but can never fucking sleep. i truly hope this isn’t incoherent garbage. 😵‍💫 dedicated to my fellow woozi-simping insomniac, @sailorrhansol. may we eventually rest in peace. multi permanent taglist. seventeen permanent taglist.

You should be asleep.

With the day you’ve had, you should’ve drifted off the second your body hit the sheets; and you should’ve stayed that way — unmoving, unconscious — for several hours, at minimum.

If the week’s worth of sleep debt wasn’t exhausting enough in and of itself, every single circumstance surrounding you begs you to give into the weight of your eyelids. To let yourself be lulled, just this once. Soothed.

From the vent in the corner, the gentle hum of the aircon goads you. It does its very best to convince you to curl up under the softness of your comforter, and to some extent, you’ve listened. You’re burrowed beneath your blankets with only the upper half of your face exposed, which should be more than enough to sway you. 

It’s not, though.

With no ability to keep your eyes closed, you stare dejectedly at the wall in front of you. Laying on your side, gazing straight ahead, you watch the faint echoes of the city lights as they wash over white paint. Not much bleeds through the blinds, leaving only hints of cobalt and red to blend into some sleepy shade of lilac. Whether or not you want to be awake to perceive it in the first place, you have to admit it: it’s beautiful.

But it’s not enough.

You squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing down the groan building in your chest. With how closely he’s got you nestled against his body, Jihoon would feel it if you let that frustration manifest. You already ache from the sheer amount of time you’ve been policing your own posture; making any amount of noise now would interrupt the slow, delicate breaths he’s aiming into the back of your neck. Frankly, you’d rather die.

Taking his silence as a sign that you’ve remained off his radar, you let out a measured sigh, too worried that the full rise and fall of your chest will disturb him. 

Nothing.

But then, the arm draped over your waist shifts. 

“Fuck,” you mouth to no one.

It wouldn’t be out-of-character for Jihoon to feel the restless energy pouring out of you in waves, even in the depths of a sleep cycle. He senses every tiny change in your ecosystem long before you do. As unlikely as he is to ever admit it, it has to be exhausting to be attuned to someone so neurotic. He deserves every second of sleep he can manage to get.

You grit your teeth and demand yourself to calm down, all while refusing to acknowledge how completely your actions and commands conflict.  

Maybe, you attempt to bamboozle yourself, you can sleep vicariously through him. 

He’ll wake up rested, and when you look in the mirror later, the first thing you see won’t be the cartoonish bags under your eyes.

It’ll be fine. 

It’ll be fine.

If you go to sleep right now, you’ll get five hours and thirty —

“You haven’t unclenched a single muscle since you climbed into bed,” notes the world’s groggiest voice from over your shoulder.

Jihoon’s lips brush against the sensitive skin of your neck when he speaks. Without that tickling sensation, you might’ve deluded yourself into thinking that you were simply hearing things just now. That it was merely a hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation and the inadvisable number of melatonin gummies you ate before brushing your teeth.

He shifts again. This time, there’s no mistaking his movements. The arm slung over your side pulls you closer. So close, in fact, that you can feel the contented sigh leave his body, like his isn’t separate from yours at all.

With the distance erased, his face — the cold tip of his nose and the sheet-creased warmth of his cheeks — can nuzzle properly into the crook of your neck. You swear you feel the hint of a smile there somewhere, too. If you had to guess, it matches the upward curve on your lips.

“What are we spinning our wheels over tonight?” He asks without a hint of judgment, as if your burdens are automatically his, too.

The fact that he can’t see your face doesn’t stop you from frowning. Yet again, you’ve managed to drag him into your insomnia. Jihoon may never fault you for it, but you don’t need him to. You’ll hold it against yourself — grudge by proxy. 

“I don’t even know,” you admit with a frustrated huff. “There’s nothing coherent going on up there.” You lift your hand and gesture vaguely in the dark. “Nothing articulable, just… blender brain.”

“Mmm.”

Jihoon sounds so fucking sleepy, so at peace next to you, that it makes your stomach hurt. You wish you could be like him. For as calm as his presence makes you, you’ve learned that you’re incapable of feeling fully relaxed. At least, not in the way he is when he’s got his arms around you. He deserves to have that effect on you.

A beat passes in silence, save for his soft breathing. For a minute, you’re convinced that he’s fallen back asleep; and you pray to whoever that he has. He deserves that, too.

“How do we unplug the blender?”

You have to bite back a smile for two reasons: the way his words sound slurred when delivered directly to your skin, and the distinctly Jihoon drive he has to fix a problem that isn’t his.

When the love sickness leaves you down bad, and you forget to respond with words, Jihoon prompts you softly. “Hmm?” 

He punctuates this reminder with a kiss to your shoulder, then lets his lips linger against your skin, musing, “I can think of two things that usually do the trick: getting you hotteok from that cart down the block, which is currently closed, and —”

The rest of that thought fades out. Leaving you on the edge of your seat, Jihoon continues to kiss a languid line along the perimeter of your shoulder, as if he’s conducting some meticulous, geographical survey. Like missing a single spot will have grave consequences. A perfectionist through and through, even half-asleep.

You feel yourself melting, bit by bit, into his torso; the warmth of his bare chest against your back only expedites the process. Nevertheless, you peep, “What’s the second thing?”

His answer comes with a slip of his hand, down down down along the slope of your waist to your hip, long before he verbalizes it. It’s simple, delivered in that rough, early-morning voice you love so much. It’s more than enough to make you shiver:

“Making you cum.”

But as crazy as that statement makes you, you can’t make yourself act on it.

At any other time, you’d jump on that opportunity — jump on him — in a heartbeat. All you’re able to do now is jump to the worst conclusion in a single bound. 

Somewhere, deep down, you know he wouldn’t have brought it up if he didn’t truly want it, want you; but that goddamned, sleep-deprived goblin taking up space in the far reaches of your mind is far louder than the voice of reason.

He’s only offering so you’ll stop keeping him awake.

He’s as exhausted as you are, if not more so for having to deal with your disorder again.

Burden.

Placing your hand on top of his, you slip your fingers into the spaces you find and squeeze once for emphasis. “I love you,” you start. He stills. “But, Jihoon, you’re so tired. I can hear it in your voice. Please, go back to sleep. It’s okay — I’m okay.”

Jihoon doesn’t push back. He stays within bounds, honors your shitty decision because, after all, it’s yours to make. With another kiss to your shoulder and a squeeze to your hand, he murmurs, “Love you,” before relaxing back against the pillows.

Minutes pass.

Maybe hours, for all you know. 

As the window of opportunity creaks shut, regret seeps through the gap. You know you’re wrong; you know he meant it; and you know that someone would have to be out of their fucking gourd to politely decline what he’s offering.

The unbearable heat licking up your neck is either embarrassment or the ghost of orgasms lost coming to haunt you.

Maybe you’d be better equipped to tell the difference if you could just — fucking — sleep.

Driven half mad, you try to keep from squirming.

You fail.

Maybe, since you can’t sleep, you and your wilted little brain should’ve let your perfect, empathetic boyfriend fu —

“That’s enough,” Jihoon grunts.

The hand underneath yours is suddenly above it, overtaking it and tugging carefully until your whole body moves. In the time it takes for you to roll from your side, Jihoon sits up and clears space for your frame to settle. You barely have time to blink dumbly up at him from your back before he cages you in with one hand on either side of your head, knees now on either side of your thighs.

Your breath seems to have gotten lost in the fray, but it’s not the sudden moves that shook it loose; it’s the sight of him looming over you, damn near scowling despite his lead-lidded eyes. It’s the disheveled bun of platinum hair at the crown of his head, which must’ve shifted in his sleep and spilled out the tendrils that now frame his set jaw.

The very best you can come up with is, “You’re awake.”

“So are you,” he retorts without missing a beat.

That face — god, that face — doesn’t budge. On the contrary, your stomach flips. This the most stern you’ve ever seen him. Confusingly, his tone isn’t even remotely harsh when he continues, “If those gears in your head grind any louder, the whole neighborhood will be, too.”

Grimacing, you open your mouth to apologize, but Jihoon’s eyes are searching your face with a distinct flicker of concern. You know that look. You also know that nothing you can think to say will make it disappear.

He speaks when you don’t, hard edges softening slightly. “I can fix it,” he insists, though you know him well enough to hear the plea hidden in there. 

Let me take care of you.

That little spark of desperation burns you up in a flash. You wonder if he can feel the fire spread when he lifts his right hand off the mattress just to swipe his thumb slowly over the edge of your cheekbone. Without thinking, you let go of the tension in your neck. Your head tilts automatically, seeking comfort you’ve only ever found in him, and rests against his palm.

“I have to admit it, though,” Jihoon confesses. “Yours isn’t the only mind that’s restless.”

He moves his hand away from your face but keeps his eyes trained on you. The incessant need you feel to apologize bubbles up yet again, uninvited. You swallow it. As you do, his fingertips trail down the length of your neck at a snail’s pace, effectively turning your thoughts to static.

“I’ve been holding you for hours now, and all that time —” 

He pauses just long enough to glance down at his hand, which hasn’t.

“— I’ve been wondering if I should have you channel that energy and tire yourself out on top of me —”

His touch whispers over your collarbone. It’s the only proof that you have any bones at all. Until now, you were sure that the rest of you had melted entirely, puddling uselessly on the sheets below. This time, when you bite your lips and swallow weakly, it’s not an apology that you’re keeping to yourself but a whimper.

“— or lay you back against the pillows —”

You don’t mean to directly contradict his statement the moment he makes it, but you can’t help it. The thin, cotton fabric of your top does nothing to dull the sensation of his hand on your left breast; leaves you with the unmitigated brush of his thumb tracing delicate swirls over your nipple. The breath you’ve been holding comes out shuddered, back arching off the mattress to chase his touch.

Emboldened by your reaction, Jihoon pulls his gaze off his own ministrations and directs it through his lashes back up at you. One eyebrow momentarily flexes in challenge. “— Take my time, and —”

Whatever desperate look you give him earns you some amount of mercy. He picks up where he left off in that dizzyingly deep voice of his, words molten, and drags the hem of your shirt up your torso. “Fuck you deep, until the only thing you can do is relax.”

Gobsmacked is too weak a word for the impact that suggestion has on you. The idea alone sparks a kind of relief so foreign and so sorely needed that it almost makes you cry. 

You don’t, thankfully. 

Instead, you stagger along the borderline of babbling. 

“I want that,” you announce on a shaky exhale. Then, with a shake of your head, you correct yourself, “No, it’s not even want. It’s —” Frustration over your inability to form a coherent thought drives you to scrub your hands over your face. “— need. I need you.”

You accompany that declaration by slapping your hands down at your sides, finishing off with a muted thump when your palms hit the mattress with enough force to bounce them upwards again. 

Even with your eyes screwed shut, you know Jihoon is sitting back on his knees, watching you with equal parts surprise and amusement. There’s no need to open them to confirm it, but you do anyway. His pupils have dilated widely enough to rival the moon floating over the skyline.

Though he’d be well within bounds to tell you to chill the fuck out, he doesn’t. He never has, as far as you can recall. In fact, Jihoon doesn’t say a thing. His hands speak for him, reaching for the shirt he so nearly got off your body before you lost whatever was left of your mind.

Keeping his word, as always, Jihoon takes his time. He takes care in sliding that tank top up and over your head without snagging your earrings, then he wordlessly drops it off the side of the bed to be forgotten about.

With your chest bare, it’s obvious how rapid your breathing is. Noting the quick rise and fall, he traces the curve of your waist with the side of his right index finger and softly says the quiet part out loud: “Let me take care of you.”

And you do.

You let him maneuver your body so he can settle with one knee between your thighs, rather than straddle them. You let go of your death grip on the sheets and thread your fingers through his hair when he leans back down to kiss you; and when he licks into your mouth, you let him swallow the moan that builds under the delicious weight of his body on yours.

Already, you feel every shitty, stupid thought begin to dissolve. You should’ve known this would be the case. 

He said he’d fix it, didn't he? 

And here he is, proving to you that his touch is magic. All it takes to coax the tension out of your muscles is the tender pass of his hand.

Whatever effect Jihoon has on you seems to be mutual. When he pulls back, he’s equally as breathless, likely just as starry-eyed. Awash in that lilac glow peeking in from the outside, he’s downright celestial — almost too divine to look at directly without watering eyes.

Undeterred, you stare right back at him and sigh, “You’re beautiful.”

His nose scrunches for a split second, just like it always does when you make him suffer through a compliment. Your exposure therapy is working, though. For once, Jihoon doesn’t groan or tell you to keep your praise to yourself. The corner of his mouth curves upward — just barely — and he shakes his head.

“I mean it,” you quietly insist.

Smirking slightly, he extends the index finger on his right hand and holds it to his lips. “You’re relaxing, remember?”

Though you could double-down, any fight you might’ve had in you fizzles out the second he bows his head and connects his lips to the underside of your jaw. Your head tilts further back with every centimeter he trails down the length of your neck, granting him increased access to wreck you even further. You have to keep your hands on whatever you can grip of his biceps — which ultimately isn’t much at all — to keep from floating away.

“Bold of you to call me beautiful,” he murmurs against your body, “When you just exist like this.”

You don’t argue. You can’t argue with a man who sounds so fucking reverent. Not in good faith, anyway. He says it with the kind of sincerity that underlines an undisputed fact; and you know better than to debate an expert.

With nothing to say, all you have left is to keen and melt even further into the mattress.

Like everything else he does, the way Jihoon kisses you is rhythmic. Steady and thoughtful, each feather-light graze of his lips on your skin causes your eyelids to flutter until you eventually decide to keep them shut. To cut out the visual and hone in on the physical sensation; to be truly present in the body he can’t get enough of.

As it turns out, being present earns the gift of his tongue circling one of your nipples. Soon after, you get the plush heat of his mouth enveloping the sensitive bud; the slow, deep pull of the suction he creates.

Eloquent as always, you moan, “Fuuuuck.”

The hand not holding up his weight massages your other breast, too considerate to leave half of you lonely. Whatever gentle pressure he maintains there builds inside you, further down.

It’s incredible.

No, it’s fucking perfect.

Jihoon switches sides, grazes your other nipple carefully with his teeth, and it’s over for you. You shudder beneath his body, back arching and a breathy sigh floating out of your chest.

Apparently, he’s just as surprised by this turn of events as you are. Your eyes blink open and find him hovering over you with his jaw partially dropped, still smiling somehow.

Your questions overlap.

“Did you just —”

“— make me cum from this?”

His bemusement switches in an instant to something you can only describe as bewitched. Voice gravel-lined, Jihoon groans, “Oh, shit.” Adding immediately and twice as earnestly, “Goddamn.”

A flash of conflict makes him freeze. You know he’s facing the same internal debate that you are: he needs to be inside of you in the worst way, right now, but that’s not a conclusion the pair of you can just — leap to. 

There’s simply too much of him to take if he doesn’t fuck you open with his fingers first.

Jihoon shakes his head, as if he’s telling himself no. Like he’s reminding himself of what he promised — or threatened, more like — earlier, that he’s taking his time.

As much as you want to beg otherwise, you know you shouldn’t. So, you don’t. You reach out, encircle his wrist in your hand, and bring him back within reach. 

With undivided attention and darkening eyes, Jihoon watches you take his index and middle finger into your mouth, cheeks hollowing and tongue circling. He fights to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head, all the while professing, “You’re perfect.”

Not generally, no.

However, Jihoon has a habit of ending up correct, even if you disagree. This isn’t a battle worth picking. In this moment, you’re willing to entertain the possibility that you’re perfect for him.

A soft pop underscores your choice to release him. His mouth must’ve gotten jealous; it swiftly replaces his fingers, tongue reclaiming any territory he wrongfully assumes he’s lost.

You’d be content to stay this way forever — and likely could, if it came down to it — but Jihoon has an agenda. He sticks to it, to the letter, and in dropping his hand down your body, he lets his knuckles drag softly over the trail he blazes. The little sleep shorts you wear are moved aside, and your thighs part for him, too, offering unrestricted access.

Two fingers slip inside of you easily, no doubt aided by the orgasm that snuck up on you — the one you’re still thinking about; the one he’ll secretly hang his hat on forever, having brought it on without touching you here at all.

“Listen to you,” he smirks against your lips with a curl of his fingers. 

As if you weren’t already acutely aware of the way you’ve drenched him to the base knuckles, he rolls his wrist, stroking your g-spot while the heel of his hand nudges your clit. Even the dulcet hum of the aircon isn’t enough to mute the obscenity; you hear the slick rush with every slow thrust of his fingers.

You respond with some sort of whimper. The sound barely registers without any breath behind it. If Jihoon hears it, he doesn’t let it affect his pace — just the stretch. He scissors his middle and index on the way out, then returns with his ring finger, unearthing a proper moan from the very bottom of your lungs.

His head tilts to the side. Warm breath hits the shell of your ear, prompting a contradictory shiver. “I think you’ve got another one for me, don’t you?”

Buried in you, he taps his fingers against that same, spongy spot. Every neuron you have begins to buzz.

“In fact, I think you want to cum all over my fingers,” he whispers, goading you with his rough voice dropped low. “Think you wanna soak my fucking hand, so I can fill you properly.”

You think you’ll have to apologize later for the crescent-shaped indents your nails leave on his shoulders.

When your second orgasm overtakes you, you feel it tingling all the way up at the crown of your head. Just like the first, it’s not a clap of thunder but a roll — patient. The intensity only builds, the longer it lasts. Jihoon makes sure it does — makes no adjustment to the slow, steady tempo, as it pulls you fully apart.

Every muscle you tensed as you came goes limp. It’s anyone’s guess whether you have any bones left. You’re sure that the only thing keeping you from seeping like honey through the mattress, or pooling on the floor below, is Jihoon’s body caging you in.

“Don’t ask me what my name is.” Your head droops to the side, and you mumble, “I do not remember, and I do not care.”

He kisses the temple that isn’t smushed against his left forearm, which, coupled with his elbow, now holds both of your weight. “If you’re spent, I can sto—”

“Don’t you dare.”

The emphatic look you muster lacks energy, you’re sure, but the point still stands, even if your stamina doesn’t. Half-lidded, you stare at him with all the force you can find.

“I’ll stay awake for the rest of my life if you stop now. I swear to you, Lee Jihoon, I will die on this hill.”

“Easy, tiger,” he purrs. Out of the corner of your narrowed eyes, you clock the fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The whole point of this was for you to relax.”

To prove that you haven’t lost the plot entirely, you close your eyes, rather than roll them. Then, you cave completely. 

You whisper, leaving no question as to how badly you need him, “Jihoon… Please.”

“I’ve got you.” He nudges your temple with the tip of his nose. “But I can’t fuck you unless you give my arm back.”

Begrudgingly, you scoot your head several centimeters across the pillow, heaving a put-upon sigh as if he’s asked you to move a mountain instead. You give yourself a moment to mourn the loss of your headrest, then you open your eyes. As you do, any thought of pouting flies out the window.

Having crawled back to the end of your bed, Jihoon gets to his feet. Once there, he drops his hands and eyes to the loose knot cinching the waistband of his sweatpants. It’s a sight you’ve seen a thousand times — his naked chest so pale in contrast with his usual, all-black attire — yet it’s one you’ll never truly get over. Even harder to cope with is the fact that he’s never been in a hurry; not once in his goddamn life.

If you’re being honest, that’s one of the things you’ve always loved most about him. Envied, even. You fret endlessly about the process, whatever that may be; he trusts it. You scale the walls in anticipation; he’s never been caught sweating.

The best example of this comes the second he finishes addressing that knot. His sweatpants pool at his ankles; he kicks them aside; and you immediately set to wondering how in the motherfuck he managed to be so patient with you when he’s this incomprehensibly hard.

Really, you don’t deserve him.

Nevertheless, you get him anyway. 

Him pushing his flyways out of his face; him reaching out slowly to hook his fingers under the elastic band of your shorts; him cursing under his breath when he tosses those shorts over his shoulder and finds you wet and wanting.

In return, Jihoon gets you right where he wants you — trembling underneath him, with pliant legs opening wider at the request of his hands on your thighs. When his body fills the space between them, those same legs wrap around his back to keep him close, just like the arms you slink around his neck.

“Deep breath,” he reminds you as he lines himself up, only half-jokingly.

It’s good advice — something Jihoon probably should’ve heeded. 

He doesn’t. 

You keep your eyes on his when he slides inside of you, and you swear you see his mind blow in real time. Not that you have room to judge, however. In fact, that’s precisely what’s causing you to short-circuit: the perfect pressure of his length within your heat, sinking in slowly so as to not shock the system.

When he eventually bottoms out, low moan splintering from the depths of his chest, you have to blink quickly to keep tears within your waterline.

To check in, Jihoon runs his hand along the side of your thigh then back again. “Alright?”

Whatever you say in response comes out through a dreamy sigh, framed in quotation marks by fluttering lashes. Nonsense, most likely, or never better. In either case, he’ll understand; he always does.

Placing your hand on his, you slip your fingers over the top and pull him forward. He lets you, comes down carefully until the comfort of his weight against your frame makes you feel anchored. With every inch that’s erased between you, he fills you further, pushing out whatever air remains in your lungs through some needy little whine.

Among the million sensations you have to grapple with, the most hard-hitting, ironically, is comfort. Pure and unadulterated. You enveloping him, enveloping you.

To prove it to yourself that you’re not dreaming, you slip your fingers into his hair, nails scratching delicately over his scalp. In return, he rolls his hips forward, just like he promised — slow, steady, deep. You clench around him involuntarily, a reflex your body must’ve learned to keep him close.

“Love the way you grip me, but...” Jihoon exhales a sigh against your neck, head tilted to keep your face in his periphery. Pulling out further just to thrust in deeper, he warns, “You keep that up, and I’ll cum too soon.”

He’s one to talk.

Every time he grinds his hips languidly towards yours, you have to talk yourself off the ledge. 

If you let him wear you down again, you fear that there won’t be enough left of you to savor this; and you never want this moment to end. You want to live in it — to feel the delicious drag of his cock along your walls — to hear that obscene tide ebb and flow whenever he fucks himself further in you — to feel so fucking full —  for as long as he gives you. 

It was a valiant effort on your part, if you do say so yourself. Futile, though, because Jihoon pulls out all the stops. The next time he pulls himself from you just to roll back in, he swivels his hips as he thrusts, ensuring that you feel him everywhere.

“Oh.”

One syllable on a gasping breath, then you forget every single word in your vocabulary. Like warm molasses, bliss washes over you at half-speed, seeping in and sticking until the blender motor in your brain is fucked beyond repair.

At least you’re not the only one.

“Fuck, fuck —” 

Holding him as closely as you are, you feel each muscle in Jihoon’s body tense one-by-one, rippling as your third orgasm steals his first, going lax when his release floods. “— Fuck,” he groans, all the while twitching inside you.

Though he slows, he doesn’t stop. It’s not until he pants, “Kiss me,” that you realize it: Jihoon doesn’t intend to stop.

Neither, it seems, do you.

Maybe you’re greedy. Maybe you’re too obsessed with the brush of his tip against your cervix with every gentle, shallow thrust. Maybe, above all, it’s the way his cock doesn’t soften inside of you but his face does when he catches you looking at him from under a heavy curtain of lashes.

You catch him by the mouth, just like he asked. It’s indulgent — messy, echoing the other point where the two of you connect. Licking into him while he fucks himself into you, ragged breaths barely loud enough to overpower the explicit, sodden sound below.

“Can you still speak in sentences?” He pants in a rare moment when his lips break from yours.

Can feel you in my stomach, you want to say. 

“I’m — you’re gonna make me —”

You can’t choke out the words, though you suspect Jihoon gets the point. This far in, his touch reaches a detonator you didn’t even know existed; there’s no way he misses the explosion of pleasure throughout your entire goddamn body.

He’s caught in your blast radius, your walls pulsing and spasming to such an insane degree that he can barely move. Mind blown to fucking smithereens, your ears ring too loudly to hear whatever he says to you when he cums again — hard — and the arms bearing his weight buckle.

Jihoon’s flushed cheek winds up pressed to your shoulder. He stays there while your joint trembling subsides, then any muscle that could make him move is too spent to do so.

“What just happened?” He sounds as delirious as you feel. “That was… shit. What did your body just do?”

You have no idea. 

You have no capacity to form any.

All you have is the weight of his frame on yours and that of your eyelids, which flutter as you try and fail to keep them open. The best you can give is a non-responsive, utterly fucked-out sound — not enough shape to be a word, not enough breath to be a sigh.

Eventually, although you can’t imagine how, Jihoon finds enough strength to shift himself off of you. You don’t see anything that happens next, but you feel it all — the kiss to your temple; the hollowness when he pulls out and the sticky rush that chases him when he leaves.

“I’m coming back to clean you up,” he promises in a hushed tone from a million miles away. Chuckling despite his own sleepiness, he adds, “Don’t move.”

I won’t, you think but don’t say.

And you don’t move.

At least, not until the smell of hotteok reaches you eight hours later.

svt taglist: @ashonheavenscloud @variety-is-the-joy-of-life @rasparagus @bouclesdefeu @ourkivee @sourkimchi @gyuguys

multi taglist: @bahng-chrizz @jihopesjoint @notevenheretbh1 @borabitsch @bubbly-moon

also paging the cap gang: @daechwitatamic @yoongukie-ff

[lisa-jnss]

the bond between a girl and the book she read in middle school is sacred

[kindlingkeen]

Resurrected post-lazarus pit Jason Todd is like the world’s angriest teenager and he makes it everyone’s problem. He says fuck you to anyone telling him to take his trauma laying down and starts blowing shit up instead. I just think it’s neat. It’s the catnip to my metaphorical cat and I’m going to keep rolling around in it until I’m so high I can’t see straight. Thanks for coming to my TED talk.