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hoshi-island · 6 months

Note

this has me all:

and i’m not sorry because who among us isn’t whipped for lee chan? like! gah 😩

this was so cute + he’s so cute + you’re so cute

15/10, would repurchase

Hallo Leslie!! I finally had a free brain moment to look through your prompt ideas, and if you’re still open to requests, how about # 61 + 90 from the second list?

Hope your week is off to a good start!

A/N: I'm so sorry these prompts took 800 years to get written, but here we are. This one may or may not be inspired by Wait (it 100% is inspired by Wait). Enjoy!!

Please Don't Tell Me Wait

Pairing: Dino x Reader Genre: idiots to lovers, friends to lovers Rating: PG (because of the kissing ig?) Word Count: 2.3k Request Prompt: "you can tell me anything." Warnings: kissing, Lee Chan as a general warning

YN: I’ll kill you, Boo Seungkwan. I will

Boo: why? 😇

YN: What could possibly be so important that you ‘suddenly’ need to go to the mall all the way across town immediately, bring Vernon, Soonyoung and Mingyu with you, and cancel on movie night?? When Chan is already almost here?

Boo: giving you and Channie some alone time 🙂

You gape down at your phone.

YN: you’re shameless. Evil and vile. Canceled.

Boo: I think you misspelled thank you?

Your next raging text is lost mid-type as your doorbell rings, and you straighten up in your seat. You have a quick internal debate with yourself about whether or not you should answer, but then you think about how sad Lee Chan would be if you didn’t open the door, and you find yourself moving without any more thought. Whipped, comes the unhelpful thought.

As soon as you open the door, you feel like you’ve been punched in the gut. Your breath catches just at the sight of him, wearing his favourite grey hoodie and a smile, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone more breathtaking in your life. “Hi,” he says, and you want so badly to ignore the way everything around you feels a little bit brighter just at the sound of his voice. You are in so deep.

You let him in and he quickly makes himself at home. It isn’t the first time your friends have plotted to get the two of you alone, but it is the first time it’s been in such an intimate setting. Chan’s been over to your place so many times before, but always with one of the boys in tow. You hate how nervous you feel.

You’re nervous because you like him. When Seungkwan found out last month, pretty soon everyone within earshot knew, too. Somehow – and you thanked the stars for this – Chan didn’t seem to have a clue.

One thing about your friend Chan: he was pretty oblivious, for the most part. You knew so many people who would kill for a chance with him, but he didn’t seem to notice or even care. He flirted with you – that much was clear. You weren’t naive. But he’d never once seemed to mean anything more than friendly banter, because that’s just who he is, so here you were. Pining unrequitedly after one of your friends, with your other friends desperately trying to push the two of you together. It was frustrating at best.

You can make it through this night. You always have fun with Chan, and talking to him is easy enough when you aren't thinking too much. You have similar taste in movies and snacks, he’s funny, he's a good listener… the list is endless. You like being around him. You can do this.

You manage to act relatively normal as the two of you get settled for the movie, even as Chan makes a joke about the guys ditching, even as you almost physically jump back when he hands you the popcorn bowl to carry into the living room, and your fingers brush. You’re fine, up until the moment you’re sitting on your couch with snacks at the ready, a semi-breathable distance between the two of you, and he decides to speak up.

“Can I tell you something?”

“You can tell me anything.” You answer without hesitation, because it’s true.

“Well…” He pauses, and you meet his gaze with a raised eyebrow when he doesn’t continue. As soon as your eyes are on him and away from the TV, his lips turn upward and he says, “I think you look really pretty tonight.”

Your eyes widen, and you nearly drop the remote. You watch as the corner of his mouth lifts up even further into a smile, and you can tell he’s pleased with himself. He raises his eyebrows, waiting for a response, but you don’t have one. Your mind wants to ask it, wants desperately to just blurt out the question — is this a date? Are we on a fucking date right now? — but you refrain.

“Chan,” is what you say instead, with a roll of your eyes as you hold out the remote for him to take. You know the effect his words have had on you is obvious with the way you’re reacting, but you can only pray that he doesn’t comment on it. “Just pick a movie.”

You would almost think he meant his words if he’d ever actually tried to take his flirtatious remarks any deeper, but he never does. It’s been months of this. It’s not that he’s mean, you know he’s not — you just think he doesn’t have a clue that you might actually like him.

“I mean what I said.”

You’re startled from your thoughts when Chan speaks again, and you realize that he definitely hasn’t moved to take the remote from your outstretched hand. He hasn’t taken his eyes off of you, either.

You slowly lower the remote back down to your lap. “Have you been taking lessons from Mingyu again on how to flirt?”

You watch as he leans forward slightly, that stupid, soft, teasing smile on his mouth yet again, and he asks, “Why, are they finally starting to work on you?”

You blink, staring back at him as all thoughts swiftly leave you. Your breath catches as his eyes wander across your face, and your own gaze can’t help but find his mouth.

“Maybe,” is what comes out before you can stop it.

Chan seems surprised for a second too, before he rights himself again. “Well,” he says slowly, “like I said... I meant every single word.”

His fingers gently pry the remote from your hand, eyes never leaving yours. He moves closer and closer, judging your every reaction, watching for any hesitation. He finds none. You let him draw you in, your back falling against the armrest and then he’s above you, his hands braced on the couch on either side. He’s gazing down at you so intently that you think you forget how to breathe.

“How do I know that you mean it?” Your voice is quiet, uncertain. You know that you want this, that you want him, but you’re terrified that he doesn’t mean it in the same way as you.

“I can show you,” he returns, as serious as you’ve ever seen him, and you can’t stop your gaze from falling to his mouth. He takes that as a sign. And when he leans down, nose gently brushing against yours as he waits for permission, it’s you that closes the gap first.

You kiss him, soft and hesitant. He responds almost immediately, pushing back against your mouth, a hum coming from somewhere deep in his chest. Like he’s been waiting. The thought makes your toes curl. Your hands find his waist, pulling him down to you as far as he can go, and you can feel him laugh against your mouth before he’s kissing you again, over and over, until you can’t think or feel anything but him.

You’ve never been kissed like this.

He breaks the kiss first, his forehead falling to yours as he catches his breath. You’re both silent for a moment as you process, and you can feel your heart pounding against your ribcage.

“Chan,” you finally say, voice quiet, your grip on the back of his shirt tightening.

“Yeah?” He mirrors your hushed tone, pulling away so he can look at you. He sounds breathless, and it makes you feel even dizzier.

“I…” You trail off. You squeeze your eyes shut in a feeble attempt to lessen the effect of his gaze on you like this, but it’s futile. The look on his face, the one that you’d sworn to yourself all these months meant nothing, is permanently etched into the back of your eyelids now.

He doesn’t move at all as he waits, giving you time. The heat of him so close, his entire body pressed to yours, is so intimate, so overwhelming. You can feel him everywhere, can feel every breath he takes, and you wonder if he can feel your heart ready to burst out of your chest.

“Chan,” you finally speak again, voice barely a whisper. “If you don’t…”

His eyebrows furrow; you can tell he wants to speak, but he doesn’t.

“If you don’t mean this,” you try again, your eyes still squeezed shut. “If this isn’t serious for you, then I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”

It’s silent, and your heart slowly sinks into the couch beneath you.

Then he’s gently pushing himself off of and away from you. The feeling of disappointment quickly claws its way up into your throat, robbing the air from your lungs along the way. You sit up too, keeping as much distance between you as possible. Your eyes stay trained on your hands in your lap — you can’t look at him for even a second.

“Y/N.”

You feel your eyes begin to water in spite of yourself. Stop, stop, stop.

“Y/N,” he repeats, voice soft, “I need you to look at me.”

You take a deep breath, feeling your lower lip quiver. You steady yourself before meeting his eyes, straightening your shoulders.

“Do you really not know how much I like you?”

You weren’t expecting that. The question hangs in the air as you blink back at him. “You—“

“I’ve liked you for so long… since that night when you were the only one who laughed at my joke at Soonyoung’s party.”

Your mouth falls open as you think back to that night — you know the very one. The same night that you finally learned his name — the name of the cute new guy your friends had been bringing around. That was ages ago.

“Oh.”

A few more beats of silence pass by until he speaks again.

“How could you possibly think I’m not into you? I don’t think I’ve ever been more obvious about something in my life.” He laughs nervously, running a hand through his hair.

Your heart is beating triple time as you search for your words. “We’ve known each other for six months, and you never said anything.”

“Neither did you.” He raises his eyebrows in a challenge, daring you to disagree with him, but the smile on his lips gives him away.

“You have so many friends,” you say quietly after a moment, and you watch as Chan’s face softens. “I just assumed you treated them the same way you treat me.”

“I don’t,” he says softly, “but I can see why you might have thought that.”

“So many people flirt with you. All the time.” You don’t know why you’re continuing to state these things — you blame it on the fact that you absolutely cannot process that he just told you he likes you — but Chan just takes your words as they come.

“I barely notice… especially when you’re there.” He bites his lip, tilting his head as he looks at you. “And people flirt with you too, you know.”

You let out a laugh at that, looking down at your hands. “I know.”

“But you didn’t know that I was flirting with you?” Chan asks incredulously, throwing his head back with a groan. You can tell he’s joking, and you can’t help the smile that passes over your lips now, too.

“I did know,” you offer, and Chan sits up straight to look at you again. You continue before he can protest. “But I didn’t know if it was serious for you. And for me…” You stop yourself before you admit what you were about to, feeling your cheeks flush.

For me, it’s serious.

“For you?” He prompts you to go on, and you can tell he’s trying desperately to hold back a grin, because he knows exactly what you were going to say. You let out a whine.

“Stop.”

He laughs. Then your heart leaps into your throat once more, because he’s reaching across the distance between you, finding your hand and pulling it back into his lap. “I’ll say it loud and clear so there are no misunderstandings,” he begins, thumb tracing lazy lines on the back of your hand, “I like you… seriously.”

You know he’s teasing you again, but you can’t find it in you to care when you know he’s being honest. Your eyes fall to your entwined hands, mesmerized by his gentle movements against your skin, your heart near ready to jump out of your chest at the softness of it all.

“So…”

You look back up to find him bashful as he speaks, and it’s his turn to avoid your eyes as he chews on his lower lip. You suddenly realize what you think he’s waiting for, and you smile.

“I like you a lot too,” you say, and when his gaze snaps to yours, you know you’ve said what he needed to hear. He smiles then, cheeks flushed and happy, and you’re enthralled by how shy he’s being when he had just been kissing you into oblivion moments prior.

“Good.”

You beam at him, and he beams back, before he’s pulling you closer by your joined hands and into a hug. You curl up into his side, your head finding a place in the crook of his neck.

“Y/N?” You glance up, heart stuttering a bit at the sight of him so close as you wait for him to continue. “For the record, in case you were still worried – I absolutely do not spend time with anyone else trying to ignore the way their lips move when they talk. That’s Y/N privilege.”

“Not even Soonyoung?”

He’s kissing you almost before you get the teasing words out.

A/N: please please please reblog if you liked! it's what us writers rely on :)

TAGLIST: @dejavernon @minisugakoobies @starsstuddedsky @hopeinthebox @tae-bebe @eoieopda @savventeen @wqnwoos

Message me if you want to be added to the permanent taglist!

#author: deokyomin #member: chan #au: friends to lovers #au: idiots to lovers #lee chan #chan fluff #chan x reader #svt #svt fic rec #reviewsday

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hoshi-island · 6 months

Text

it’s 11:58pm when seokmin knocks on your front door.

you don’t have to check to know it’s him. he has a certain pattern to his knocks; and besides, he’s the only person who’d show up to your place at this time of night. he’s done it every year, once a year, for the four years you’ve been best friends — for your birthday.

there’s a fondness that pulls up your lips, when you crawl out of bed to unlock the door — but his voice, muffled from the hallway, stops you from opening it. “wait! there’s still a minute left. don’t open.”

the problem with seokmin is that he doesn’t realise just how captivating — how enchanting — he is. and the problem with you is that you have realised. for about a year and a half, something you refuse to confront head-on has been dwelling inside you, tightening your ribs with every smile seokmin sends you, sending your stomach churning every time he grabs your hand.

in other words, you’re in love with your best friend.

“you don’t have to do this every year,” you say, through the crack in the door, but the smile on your face has seeped into your tone. “you know that, right?”

“i know,” he says simply. “i like doing things for you.” a pause. “you know that, right?”

you don’t have time to respond; seokmin’s pushing the door handle down himself, now that you’ve unlocked it, and he swings it open to reveal himself. armed with a candle-studded cake and one of those gorgeous smiles, and for the millionth time, you feel yourself falling that little bit deeper.

“happy birthday,” he says softly, and there’s a moment, where he hovers uncertainly in the doorway and you lose yourself in your feelings, something intangible suspended in the space between you, and then —

“officially ancient,” he adds, and the moment is shattered with joint laughter, as he lets himself in. seokmin moves around your apartment with an easy familiarity; he knows the place as well as you, fishing spoons and plates out the drawers, telling you about the struggle of lighting the candles as he does.

you’re just about to blow the candles out when he joins you — but he claps a hand over your mouth before you can, voice tinged with distress. “make a wish first!” he demands, eyebrows furrowed. “don’t you have things to ask for?”

you feign a smile. if only he knew. and so you make a wish, the same wish you made last year — even as you think it, you figure it’s useless. but still, there’s always a tiny, warm spark of hope that lingers.

once the candles have been extinguished, and the cake is divided, seokmin speaks again. “so…” he waggles his eyebrows. “what did you wish for?”

your cheeks grow hot almost instantly, and you avoid his gaze, shovelling more of the cake in your mouth. it’s your favourite. you shouldn’t be surprised: he knows all your favourites. he has a note on his notes app dedicated to your go-to orders and favourite snacks.

“can’t tell you,” you mumble, around a mouthful of icing. “or it won’t come true.”

seokmin sighs, disappointedly. “you’ll tell me when it comes true, though, won’t you?”

you glance at him, noticing how his eyes are round, inviting pools of honey brown — you feel like you’re sinking into them. “yeah,” you breathe, voice quietening without your permission. “i’ll, uh, i’ll let you know.”

neither of you look away. it’s another of those moments, fraught with some sort of lingering tension: both of you are frozen. too far to go back, too nervous to go forward.

his gaze flicks to your lips.

you barely catch it — one tiny split-second of weakness, maybe. blink and you would have missed it. but you don’t.

maybe you’re emboldened by the sugar, or the high of being treated as well as he treats you, or maybe it’s the late hour dulling your rationality, but whatever it is, it means you’re darting forward, placing the most delicate, fleeting kiss on his icing-covered lips.

you pull away. the regret seeps in, dousing you in cold water, and you open your mouth to apologise, to explain, to tell him to forget it, but suddenly seokmin’s hands are cupping your jaw, he’s moving impossibly closer, and he’s kissing you. with a gentle intensity that warms you from the inside out, long and sweet, and better than you could ever have imagined.

seconds or minutes or hours later, you break apart. his cheeks are tinged with rose, your leg is bouncing, but both of you are smiling — positively beaming, even. and you cast a glance at him, tentative, shy, breathless, and tell him, as promised.

“my wish,” you break the silence softly. “it came true.”

an / requested by @glowunderthemoon !! hope u like it bb ��🫶🫶

perm taglist: @n4mj00nvq @eoieopda @som1ig @glowunderthemoon @wondering-out-loud @graybaeismytae @hannyoontify @sahazzy @dokyeomin @icyminghao @smilehui @nicholasluvbot @lvlystars @immabecreepin @hanniehaee @kokoiinuts @astrozuya @doublasting @yepimthatonequirkyteenager @qaramu @weird-bookworm @phenomenalgirl9 @lightnjng @strnsvt

#i once again forgot to put this on my fic rec blog #tales from main #author: wqnwoos #member: seokmin #au: friends to lovers #lee seokmin #seokmin fluff #seokmin x reader #svt #svt fic rec #reviewsday

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hoshi-island · 6 months

Note

LESLIE HIII i hope you’re doing okay!! + sorry it’s taken me so long to stop by </3

as a request i wanted to ask abt the prompt “stay there. i’m coming to get you.” from the second prompt list with either minghao or wonwoo if that’s okay!! 🫶🫶

A/N: OKAY SO @wqnwoos I know this was requested forever ago from a prompt game and I'm so sorry it took so long, but I was super inspired yesterday after I saw ur post saying "my heel broke" and I messaged u asking if you were okay because OMG your HEEL broke are you OKAY??? but turns out you meant your shoe broke not your actual heel and, well... here we are. Whatever the heck this is.

Pairing: Wonwoo x Reader Genre: slight crack?, established relationship Rating: PG (only because I think there's a swear?) Word Count: 1.4k Request Prompt: "stay there. i'm coming to get you." Warnings: like one kiss?, I think there's swearing maybe, expensive things being broken if that triggers u, also reader wears heels

You can't believe it.

So many times, you’d gazed longingly at the expensive new shoes you’d splurged on, sitting pretty in their box, wondering when you’d finally pluck up the courage to wear them. You weren’t one for spending big unless it was technology or something you’d use often, but you’d been eyeing these heels for what felt like forever. When your birthday rolled around, you’d finally done it, but then they’d sat in their box for months – until tonight.

You’d only just arrived at the restaurant to meet your friends when you’d taken one wrong step, and the heel on your right shoe had broken completely off. You’d tripped and thankfully been steadied by your friend’s arm, so you’d been left physically unscathed… but you felt the pain elsewhere. In your wallet. How the hell had that happened so quickly?

Your friend managed to fish a pair of flats out from their trunk, so you were grateful for that at least. You tried to laugh and play it off as a joke, as a funny story to remember with your friends in a few years, but truthfully? You were pretty bummed. You’d saved for those shoes for ages. So here you sat, nursing a glass of water as you listened to your friends chat animatedly around you. You were having a good time, you were, but you couldn’t help but wallow in your feelings just a little bit. You really couldn’t believe your luck.

You felt the buzz of your phone from inside your purse, eyeing it as you took another sip of water, before glancing around the table. Your friend group had a rule not to be on your phones very much when you were together, but you figured you were safe to have a quick peek while your friend recapped her many failed dates over the last month.

Wonwoo ❤️: how’s your evening going?

You felt your heart jump a little at the sight of your boyfriend’s name on your screen. You wondered if that would ever change, but you didn’t think so. You adored him. You’d been told the honeymoon phase would pass, but it had been well over a year and the two of you were still going strong. Wonwoo would object if you ever said it to anyone else, but the two of you were just as lovey-dovey as when you’d first started dating.

Exhibit A: him texting you to ask a very obvious question. You’re pretty well-versed in Wonwoo, and you know what his text actually means: it means that he misses you.

YN: not the best, tbh… I broke my heel 😭

The reply comes not even a minute later.

Wonwoo ❤️: are you okay??

YN: I’m so sad 😭

You jump a little when your friend nudges you with their foot, raising their eyebrows pointedly at your phone. You teasingly roll your eyes and oblige, sliding your phone back into your purse and tuning back into your friends’ story. You can’t help but feel a bit better after a couple of texts from Wonwoo, and you aren’t embarrassed about it in the slightest.

Not even a half hour and some entrees later, another friend is in the process of regaling tales about her horrific boss when the door to the restaurant opens, and you spot him. You do a double take as your eyes meet, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion, and he seems to freeze in place for a second.

You take in the sight of your boyfriend: his glasses are askew, his hair disheveled, and you think he must have thrown on whatever hoodie and sweats combo he could find laying around in a hurry. He hovers by the door as he stares at you, blinking, and your mind begins to race. Why is he here? Is everything okay? Wonwoo is never one to draw attention to himself if he can help it – which just makes this whole thing even more confusing.

“Hey,” you interrupt quietly, causing all heads to turn towards you. “Wonwoo’s here. Give me a second?”

Your friends all nod in unison, and you can feel them watching as you stand up and make your way over to the door. As soon as you reach him, your hand is automatically searching for his, gently tugging him through the door and back out into the cold.

“Babe,” you say hastily as soon as you’re around the corner and out of sight. “What’s wrong?” Your hand leaves his so that both of yours can run over his arms, his biceps, his shoulders, giving him a frantic once-over to make sure he’s physically alright. When your hands cup his jaw, he finally moves his hands to cover yours, lowering them down to hold them in between you.

“You’re not hurt?”

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion as you stare back at him. “Huh?”

His eyes wander over your face, brows still furrowed in what you affectionately like to call his Thinking Face, before he moves back to look down at your feet. “You can walk fine?”

You are so confused. “Yes, Wonwoo, what? Babe, did you run here?”

You watch as he tilts his head, still thinking for what feels like forever – and then his lips twitch up at the sides. He suddenly looks embarrassed as his gaze falls from yours, but he’s smiling, a hand leaving one of yours to lift and cover his face.

You are so confused.

“I didn’t run here,” he finally answers, his hand falling away from his face, “but I definitely may have gone over the speed limit to get to you faster.”

“Why?” You ask, incredulous. You still have no idea what’s going on.

“YN," he says, voice laced with amusement. "I texted that I was on my way. You said your heel broke."

You blink once, twice, before it suddenly dawns on you. “Oh my god, Wonwoo –”

“Yeah.” He's smiling so wide that his eyes are crescent moons, and you're smiling, too – and then he begins to laugh.

You can’t help but join in.

He pulls you into his chest, and you can feel him laughing against you. It’s a quiet laughter, but you’re grateful no one can see the two of you where you stand outside the restaurant, because you’re sure you both look insane. You don’t care, though, because all you can think about is how fast he’d tried to get to you because he thought you were hurt.

Your heart swells from its place in your chest, so full of affection for the man in front of you that you can feel it all over. You pull back, your hands finding either side of his jaw to pull him in for a quick kiss, and you can tell he’s pleasantly surprised by the way his cheeks tinge pink. Neither of you really have a thing for PDA, but you couldn't help it, not when you felt like you were so full of affection you could burst.

“You are such a loser,” is what you say, but you know he can translate it. I love you is what you mean, and he knows.

“I panicked,” Wonwoo laughs, running a hand through his hair as he laces his fingers with yours. “Sorry about your shoe, though.”

You wave your free hand in the air as he slowly walks you towards the restaurant door again. “I’ll deal with it later.”

He glances in through the glass when you reach it, giving your hand a squeeze. “How much longer?”

You beam at that, lifting your hand up to gently brush some hair off of his forehead. “Not much, if I can help it. I miss you too much.”

“It’s been like two hours," he says, as though he isn't clinging onto your fingers in his with everything he's got.

“Okay, Mr. I’m-going-to-rush-to-my-girlfriend’s-aid-even-though-she-only-has-a-broken-shoe–”

“Bye,” Wonwoo says abruptly, and you giggle. “Love you,” he murmurs, catching you by surprise, but you don't miss a beat. You simply squeeze his hand, and say the words back.

Later that night when you check your phone, you giggle to yourself as you see the two messages you'd missed from Wonwoo, sent directly after the others at dinner:

Wonwoo ❤️: stay there

Wonwoo ❤️: I’m coming to get you

And another, timestamped an hour later, when he was back home and on your couch:

Wonwoo ❤️: I’d do it again :)

A/N: lmao this is like. super not proofread but it was rlly fun to write so if you enjoy please reblog! remember that reblogs help way more than just likes for writers :') TAGLIST: @dejavernon @minisugakoobies @starsstuddedsky @hopeinthebox @tae-bebe @eoieopda @savventeen

Message me if you want to be added to the permanent taglist!

#originally rb’d on main for visibility but we are SO back #author: dokyeomin #member: wonwoo #au: established relationship #jeon wonwoo #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo x reader #svt #svt fic rec #reviewsday

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hoshi-island · 7 months

Text

DRIVE. - l.c

DRIVE -- or, the night you realise it's actually very hard to stay mad at the guy who shows up at your house, throwing stones at your window on a Thursday night, to try and fix something that was your mistake in the first place.

pairing : chan x fem reader. content : fwb > lovers. angst, smut (MINORS DO NOT HAVE MY CONSENT TO INTERACT), fluff. more or less in that order. they’re both dumb as hell. not explicitly put in any detail but this was written with a more 70s vibe in mind so feel free to bear that in mind when thinking of the car/tech/styles etc if u like. w/c : 7.8k warnings : lots of swearing. it’s all a big fuckin misunderstanding because i am a whore for that. weed & alcohol mentioned (neither party is drunk or high at the time of this taking place). mentions of past cheating (neither mc or chan are the cheater). some pov switching because i said so. let me know if i've forgotten anything. proofread exactly once so if there's a typo, no there isn't. SMUT TAGS UTC. notes : dino. get the fuck off my ass. i’m so serious i am not strong enough to handle the very real feelings i have for you. go away. notes 2.0 : i listened to halsey’s drive for some inspo for this & took that as the title, so feel free to give it a listen if you want!

SMUT TAGS : dom!chan. car fuckin', making out, hair pulling, grinding/dry humping, fingering, finger sucking, dick riding, marking/scratching, unprotected sex (make good choices), overstimulation, multiple orgasms. praise. chan calls reader ‘baby’ & ‘sweetheart’. he’s a BIG talker during sex (sorry).

You’re not stupid. You heard his car pull up outside your house almost an hour ago.

Since then, at random intervals ranging anywhere between thirty seconds and five minutes, there have been clinks of a thrown stone at your bedroom window, a piece of the gravel that lines your driveway. Each time, it makes your jaw tense, makes your fingers tighten in the bedsheets you pulled all the way up to your chin in a foul mood at 8pm. It’s been the same now for almost two weeks — you’ve been getting home from work, showering the day away, eating your dinner and retiring to your room as early as you possibly can. Your roommate tried to find out what was wrong around day three but you very promptly shut her down — she’s since learned that the best she’s getting out of you currently is a dismissive wave of your hand or some kind of a grunt. She joked one evening that it was like she’d adopted a teenager; you scowled so violently that she went to her room.

Hardly any of your other friends have seen anything of you, either, despite the fact that several have come knocking to check if you’re all right.

You’re very much not all right, as it happens. This is perhaps the most upset you’ve ever felt, and that’s going quite some way. The angriest, too. It’s worse than when that middle aged woman threw her entire bucket of popcorn at your head when you gave her salty instead of sweet, and you were picking kernels out of your hair for the rest of your six hour shift. It’s worse than when your nasty supervisor ‘forgot’ you were in the bathroom and ended up locking you inside the cinema overnight, because you didn’t have your own set of keys to get out and the people whose numbers you remembered weren’t answering their phones.

It’s somehow even worse than when a summer crush from a few years ago broke things off by telling you that he already had a girlfriend back home and that you were basically just a means to pass the time and get his dick wet. God, and you thought that was the lowest you could possibly be.

Here you are, though, so far beyond all those things it would be comical, if it didn’t hurt. Chan has really done a number on you, and you’re not sure how you ended up getting so emotionally involved in your situationship with him that this is what you’ve been reduced to. For days now, you’ve been swallowing back tears of frustration (both with yourself and with Chan), rolling around in your bed night on night, unable to get to sleep because all you can think about is him.

Him, and the way he sounded genuinely horrified when his friends asked about the ‘movie girl’, and he laughed, ‘God, no – we’re just friends. That’s never gonna happen’. It was impressive, how quickly your face fell, in no way aided by the squealing giggles that rang through the house as a very, very drunk girl came running out of the living room and shut herself in the toilet, drowning out a chunk of the conversation you were listening in on. Somehow, it hurt even more when he went on to say ‘besides, there’s… someone else’.

And when you have managed to drift off after hours of staring at the walls and the ceiling, hearing those words on a loop on your fed up brain? Of course he’s been in your fucking dreams, too.

In your defence, all you were trying to do was use the mirror in the hallway outside the kitchen he and his friends were standing in, readjusting your top to cover the hickey that he had so kindly left on your collarbone just the night before. It wasn’t as though you sought him out to listen in; it was a coincidence. And okay, fine, maybe you should have walked away when the conversation turned to the topic of Chan’s love life. Maybe you should have not crept closer and held your breath to be able to hear them all better. Maybe, even, you should have stayed around long enough to ask what he meant by it then and there instead of hopping in a taxi and going home without saying goodbye to anyone.

Hindsight really is a beautiful thing.

Never gonna happen. Well, Chan seemed quite happy to ignore the fact that it already had happened. Several times. At least four of those being in the very car currently on the street outside your home. The car he’s used on countless occasions to drive you up to lovers’ lookouts in the dead of night, letting one of his many mixtapes play through the tinny speakers, where he’d kiss you breathless and cradle your face between his palms, as his fingers would delicately explore beneath your clothes, as his broad shoulders would slot between your thighs, as his hips rol–

And maybe you aren’t stupid, but Chan seems determined to prove that he sure as hell is. He came to pick you up from work the day after the party like nothing had happened, and couldn’t figure out why you said you would rather walk home in the rain than get in with him and stormed away without any further explanation. Then, he showed up on your doorstep on the morning of your day off with your favourite coffee and a breakfast bagel, asking if you could talk. He still didn’t realise what he’d done to upset you, so you slammed the door in his face. Finally, just earlier today, he ran after you in the mall, persistent as you’ve ever known him to be, and laid a hand on your shoulder when you didn’t turn around to just the sound of his voice calling your name.

You pushed him off so hard he almost fell over.

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?!” You had barked, shrugging your shoulders to try and realign your jacket. “I don’t want to talk to you. What’s not clicking?”

His face resembled that of a scolded pet when he took a step back and frowned at you. “I just wanted to–”

“I don’t care what you want, Chan,” you spat. “Give it up. I’m done.”

You could see the desperation swimming in his eyes as he scrambled for what to say and your heart felt like it was being weighed down all the way into your stomach. You supposed that was the part of you that was causing all this ache in the first place, and further that it was to blame for your current state of misery. But you steeled yourself and stood your ground nonetheless. He wasn’t going to win you over with puppy eyes and a pout. Not this time.

In his silence, you only then noticed how hard your breaths were coming, each slow and long but still dangerously unsteady. You lowered your voice, top lip curling at him as you muttered, “You’re embarrassed of me enough to lie to your friends? Fine. I don’t give a–… but shit, next time, tell a girl that to her face instead of behind her fucking back.”

It’s been seven hours, and you keep replaying the last thing he said to you as you stormed away (how his voice got quieter when he realised you weren’t turning back; how he sounded so hoarse, so sorry).

‘I’m sorry if I hurt you - I— I never meant to.’

If. If. If. Were you not making it completely fucking obvious that he had, most definitely, hurt you? Part of your brain is even now starting to go down the route that he’s doing this on purpose, that it’s some twisted sort of damage control, that he hopes maybe if he plays dumb for long enough, you’ll forget what you were mad about or maybe start to second guess what you heard. But if that’s what he thinks, he obviously doesn’t know you very well at all. That’s never going to happen.

Hell, for someone you were being so careful to keep in the appropriate lane in your head, Chan really has you thinking yourself in circles. You’re sick to your back teeth of him, and his stupid voice and his stupid smile and his stupid –

Clink.

Stupid. Fucking. Stones.

A groan loud enough to definitely catch the attention of your roommate sounds from deep within your chest at this interruption to your spiral and you finally, finally concede. Whatever argument he’s so clearly longing to have at 11 o’clock on a Thursday night? Fine. He can have it. If it means he backs off for good, you’ll give him his one last ruck.

You pull the window open none too gently and lean enough through it that Chan comes into view. He isn’t even looking up, you realise, too busy sifting through the driveway trying to find his next little projectile, and you hiss his name to get his attention. It startles him so much that he drops the indiscernible bundle in his right hand. He blindly scrambles to pick it up, those big, earnest eyes gazing at you as if you’re floating in midair before him.

“What the hell are you doing?!” You ask him, trying not to raise your voice too loud but at the same time, needing to generate enough volume for him to hear. He holds the bundle in both hands, now, and they catch the light of the lamp by your front door. Flowers, you register, squinting to try and make them out, your brows furrowing so much that your forehead hurts.

Black dahlias.

You choke back a laugh. Ah, the joys of fooling around with the son of a florist. Are they all so damn dramatic? (Or does he just know that they’re your favourites?)

Whichever it is, you tell yourself that’s not going to work. You won’t let it. Through gritted teeth, you say, “go away. I’m serious. I’ll call the cops on you.”

He shakes his head, begging as he steps just a little closer so his face is more visible in the amber light too. “Please–” he hurries, biting his bottom lip. “Please, don’t– just… tell me what I did. I want to make it right. Please.”

He never begs like this. In all the time you’ve known him, you swear Chan has said ‘please’ to you fewer times than you could count on your fingers. Which is by no means a bad thing — that’s just always been the very comfortable nature of your friendship, and later, the -with-benefits tag that you ended up sticking on the end.

“Why are you doing this?” You ask, pinching the bridge of your nose and fighting not to shiver in the cold nighttime air. Note to self: don’t do a Romeo and Juliet in the middle of the fucking winter without layering up, first. “What does it even matter?”

“What do you mean, what does it matter?” He asks, looking down at the bunch of flowers in his hands, then back at you. “I-... you know I’d never hurt you. Not on purpose. Please, just… if I did something–”

“There’s someone else,” you echo, fed up with his pretending. He’s a fair actor, you’ll give him that – he might even have been able to convince you, if you hadn’t already heard the other half of this tale he’s doing his best to spin in his favour.

His face screws up, thinking he’s misheard. It’s his turn not to understand now. If you’re telling him you’ve met someone else, he’s got questions, because you’d promised to be open and honest with each other if that ever happened, so that you could call things off and go back to being just friends without it becoming a big deal. That was always supposed to be a calm conversation, not… whatever this is. You talked about it, right at the start. But… those are the words you’re saying, aren’t they? And why would you be mad at him if you were the one whose circumstances had changed?

“What?” he asks, finally. “What do you mean?”

“God, no – we’re just friends. That’s never gonna happen. Besides, there’s… someone else!” You raise your voice without really meaning to, before swallowing hard and glancing back inside your room. “You said that, Chan. Don’t piss me off by coming here and pretending like you didn’t.”

Chan starts to look like he’s trying to figure out an algebraic equation in his head while only having half the required information; his eyes fall down to the gravel, his lips move without any sound coming out of them, his features tighten until there are definite lines between his eyebrows. Then, it clicks. The lightbulb moment. He slaps one hand to his face and shakes his head furiously, and you just know he’s going to wake up with an ache in his neck tomorrow because of it.

“Oh fuck,” he curses. “No, no, no, no, no – that’s not–”

“What did I just say?” You spit down at him. “Don’t piss me off–”

“Listen!” He shouts, and you gesture with your hand for him to lower his voice, interrupting his flow of thought and rendering him silent for a moment. “Fuck, please. Come down here and talk to me. That’s not what you think it is.”

You’re in every mind to slam your window shut and leave him out there in the cold. It would work if you got out your headphones to drown out the sounds of him trying to get your attention, which you have absolutely no doubt in your mind that he would do. And maybe then he’d get the hint; maybe then he would understand that you’re not just some pushover who he can just pick up and play with when it suits him.

But he’s still holding those fucking flowers like they’re a lifeline, still looking up at you without a single lick of anger on his face. Not stress at having been discovered, which you would have expected him to be swimming in right about now. He looks… kind of beside himself, as if nothing could possibly be worse than what you’re threatening to do.

All this, for you? It just doesn’t make sense.

“Please,” he says again, quieter, weaker. For the first time, you pick up on the hint of a shiver in his voice, and you swallow. Whether you’re gulping back your pride, or your resolve, or the last remnants of your sensibility, you don’t know.

Does he deserve for you to hear him out? You’re not sure.

But does he deserve to be stuck out in the cold in just his stupid leather jacket and a pair of jeans?

With regret, you think, no. He doesn’t.

All you give him is a scowl before you disappear from view entirely, pulling the window closed and drawing your curtains again. Faster than you think you ever have before, you throw on a sweatshirt over your pyjamas, grab your keys, and hurry down the stairs as silently as you possibly can.

He’s stood in exactly the same place when you edge outside and pull the door closed behind you. Up-close, you can see the tiredness on his face: this is a man who has exhausted himself in worry, you think, and yet he still smiles a little when he sees you in full. He still holds the flowers out for you to take. He still purses his lips and blows out a stuttered cloud of air. Nervous, and not in the way you think he ought to be. So when you walk straight past him and don’t take the dahlias out of his hands, instead standing by his car and waiting for him to unlock it for you, you start to feel overwhelmingly guilty.

Chan is many, many… many things. But he really isn’t this good of a performer, no matter what you’ve been telling yourself all week. For God’s sake, why is it so much easier to be angry at him when he’s not standing right in front you?

You slip into his passenger side as he fumbles to set the flowers down on his backseat again, and he joins you up front just a few moments later. His hands are shaking when he sets the keys into the ignition. His whole body is. When you cast a real look over at him, the tips of his fingers are pale and his lips are lacking their usual rosy, pink hue. Your own teeth are chattering despite only having been truly exposed to the cold air for a matter of seconds; you dread to think how frozen he must be.

“Are we driving?” You ask to break the silence. Since he got into the car and fiddled with the heating settings to try and warm things up a little, he hasn’t said a word. It’s awkward. It’s horrible. You already miss the comfortable way you’ve been able to sit for hours together, barely talking, just watching the lights of the city and the cars travelling through it.

You already miss him. Which is a strange thought, seeing as he’s only about ten inches away.

“If– if you want,” he says, stuttering through the frost in his lungs. “We can go—...”

“Drive, Chan,” you say. It’s not just because you want him to stop falling over his words – which, to be fair, you do. Chan has always been very confident, carrying himself with the air of someone who knows exactly their worth. It’s one of the things you treasure about him. So this? Is fucking weird. But a big part of it is that you know his car will heat up faster if it’s in motion, and right now, you think maybe he’s at risk of losing a finger or two if he doesn’t get some circulation back.

He steps on the gas and the car pulls away from your childhood home. It’s the first time you’ve ever been in his car without there being some sort of music playing, whether that’s historically just been the radio or a tape he put together with the help of one of his older friends. (The tapes that always had your first initial on them. The tapes that he never failed to ask your opinions on when he dropped you home – as if he’d compiled them with only you in mind.) The silence feels jarring and you can hear every rumble of the engine, every squeal of the brakes he definitely needs to get serviced.

But the car does warm through, and you sigh out relief as the bones in your hands move a little easier, as your fingers curl and uncurl to less resistance from your taut muscles. Chan feels it, too; his body relaxes, his breaths stop coming out in fractions, his face gets some colour back. The timing feels a little less awful when you finally say, “go on, then.”

Chan glances over at you as he drives down an unlit street. Only for a second, like he’s checking you’re still there, before his eyes train back on the road. He’s going to one of your favourite spots. It isn’t a lookout – it’s somewhere completely shut off from the rest of town, hidden by the trees near the railway tracks, somewhere you’ve never had to worry about being seen or heard. Maybe he’s anticipating a screaming match. Maybe he’s expecting something else. Maybe, even, he just cares about how much you love it there.

“I didn’t know you heard that conversation,” he starts, sheepishly. You want to roll your eyes, reach over and thump him, ask if that makes what he said okay, but you don’t. You stay looking out the front windscreen too. Waiting. “I… all right. I was out of my ass drunk.”

You click your tongue, pressing it afterwards against the inside of your cheek, but again, you stay quiet.

“I don’t think you heard what you thought you heard, though,” he goes on to say. “‘Cause– ‘cause it wasn’t…”

But you can only be quiet for so long in the face of this mess. Especially when he’s apparently working towards a doctorate in beating around the fucking bush. “I heard you tell your friends that it was never gonna happen with ‘movie girl’.”

Chan’s face brightens, and you can’t help but wonder what on Earth is wrong with this man. Why does he find that funny? Why is his chest moving like he’s trying not to laugh?

“And you… thought you were movie girl,” he says, nodding. “Okay. Okay – shit. I’m sorry.”

You look at him properly, now, as he indicates to the right and takes the turn that leads him down the lane to your spot. “What are you talking about?”

“I get it,” he says. “You work at the–... but you’re not movie girl. Not that movie girl.”

“Stop talking in riddles before I get out of this car, Chan. It’s too late for this shit.”

He holds a hand up as if to apologise and settles back against the head cushion, suddenly looking far more comfortable than he did thirty seconds ago. He clears his throat, running his tongue over his lips, before sucking in a breath and letting himself go on.

“You’re not movie girl,” he says again, successfully clarifying nothing. “There’s this chick I used to dance with — years back, before… God, when we were in school, like, forever ago. She moved away when we were sixteen.” As he talks, he reaches your destination and sets the car into park, before he unfastens his seatbelt and turns to face you. You do the same, shifting your weight to tuck one leg up beneath you, and with your undivided attention, he goes on. “I ran into her recently. She’s back in town now, I guess. It was like, two weeks—?”

“I’m gonna be all-over grey by the time you finish telling this story,” you interrupt, raising an eyebrow. “Can you please give me the short version?”

“Not if you want it to make sense,” Chan shrugs. Begrudgingly, you let him keep talking. “She said it would be cool to hang out, maybe catch a movie or do lunch or something — and look, I didn’t know she was asking me on a date, I thought she was just being nice, y’know? Trying to be friends, but… you weren’t working that day, it was when you had that… that stomach thing going on? And I brought you the soup my mom made, remember?”

You nod; of course you remember. At the time, you wondered why on Earth this grown man’s mother was making you food — you asked yourself whether he’d told her about you, or if she thought it was for someone else. In the end you decided he must have just been bringing you leftovers. But you’d been too worn out to start asking questions; instead, after you’d eaten, you let yourself fall asleep with your head in his lap as he patted your hair and hummed his favourite songs. You hadn’t let yourself think too deeply about it since.

“Anyway. We were sat watching the movie and she, uh,” he glances down at his lap, tips of his ears burning pink. “She put her hand, sorta, on my thigh? And then I was like, shit, I didn’t read this right, like… at all. So I moved it off and she took the hint — and after it ended I said to her, you know, I was flattered, right? But I wasn’t interested. And then I went home and got that soup and—… yeah.”

He came straight to see you. To look after you. Hell, you didn’t even fool around that night; in retrospect, it was all uncharacteristically domestic. And slowly, the pieces you’ve spent days struggling to fit together start to fall into place. It makes sense. The only question that remains is do you believe him?

Well, tell a lie.

There is one more.

“You said there was someone else,” you add quietly.

You’ll die before you admit it, but this is secretly the part that was hurting you the most.

You can’t even look him in the eye, right now; your cheeks are burning with the embarrassment of even caring. As much as you want to tell yourself that the only reason you’re pissed is just because of the dishonesty, you can only stare at yourself in the mirror and point-blank lie so many times. Someone else. You hate it.

Just the thought of him seeing somebody else, taking them out on dates, smiling at them, laughing with them, kissing them the way he kisses you, touching —

A shiver runs the length of you and you cross your arms, thrusting your sleeve-covered hands under your armpits.

Chan takes a deep breath in and exhales it slowly, like he’s blowing smoke out of his lungs. “There is,” he admits, nodding slowly, avoiding your eyes, too. “There is someone else.”

“When were you going to tell me?” You ask.

Chan doesn’t respond straight away. You don’t notice, but eventually his eyes do land back at you; it’s only when he clears his throat to get your attention that you look at him long enough to realise he’s quite deliberately staring. His lips are lifted on the right in a lopsided smile, his eyes soft as he reaches across the seats towards you. You stare blankly down at his hand until he wiggles his fingers, and you think briefly that this is the most fucked up ending to a situationship you’ve ever been through.

You drop one of your hands down and let him hold it, though, staring at his face as his thumb brushes over your knuckles and you wait for him to finally say it out loud. For him to announce that he’s fallen for somebody and that he can’t see you anymore. To put the nail in the coffin. Don’t tell me their name, you think. I don’t want to know anything about them. Please, just don’t.

“For someone so frustratingly smart, you’re really fucking dumb,” Chan says, finally, swallowing around his words and squeezing your fingers. Whatever stoic expression you had forced onto your face at the start of this conversation dissolves into irritation and you snatch your hand away from him again, letting his own fall and collide with a thunk against the handbrake.

“Oh, sorry that I didn’t realise you were sneaking around behind my back when that’s the one thing we promised we wouldn’t do,” you snap. “God. The only stupid thing I’ve done here is get involved with you in the f—”

“You’re the someone else.”

Oh.

“I’m—?”

“You.”

The admission hangs heavily between you, as does your nonsense, unfinished insult. Neither of you really know what to do with yourselves except sit perfectly still and try to somehow deal with your increasingly dry throats. When Chan moves, it’s only to turn down the heating dial when his cheeks burn a bit too hot; you appreciate it, in part due to the bead of sweat currently running down your back, but you don’t say so.

“You could have started with that,” you say weakly, wrestling with all your strength to keep even some of your cards close to your chest. It’s not working though. Your attempt to conceal your elation is a bit like throwing a single leaf on top of a bison and calling it camouflage.

Chan commits to laughing, finally, your sentiment breaking him too. Now, you do crack that smile, albeit mostly just at the sound that comes from him. It’s bright and airy, lighting his whole face up as he drops all the way back and leans against his car door, pushing his fingers through his hair. “I was trying to build to a moment! It’s not my fault you hit every branch of the anti-romantic tree on your way down.”

“I am not anti-romantic,” you scoff in protest.

“Yes — you are.”

“Am not!”

“Are too.”

“No, you’re just an idiot.”

“Says she who didn’t realise her fuck-buddy had feelings for about six months, Jesus.”

“Chan—” You start, your voice laced with a playful warning.

“Here I was thinking I was making it completely obvious,” he rambles on.

“— oh my God, just shut up and kiss me.”

“Dropping hints left and r—” … “Huh?”

He stops short a fraction of a second after you finish, stumped and silent, frozen with everything but a little buffering symbol above his forehead. Kiss me, you said. Chan, […] just shut up and kiss me. All right, you’ve asked him to do that before, but not like this. Not as if you’ll wither away should you not get a taste of his lips this instant. It takes him some time to process it, but he does move in first, eventually. The way he always does, closing the distance between you like he’s been shot out of a cannon, one hand either side of your face, crashing feverishly against your mouth.

Every now and again, he’ll be happy to let you take charge and set the pace: mostly just if he’s feeling lazy or especially generous. Tonight isn’t one of those times, however. He holds you and kisses you possessively, like you’re his, like this is how he finally gets to lay claim on you, licking between your gasp-parted lips after he moans straight into your mouth. He’s spearmint sweet, edged with that one cherry flavoured chapstick he stockpiles as he grins up against you, rolling his body fluidly with every separation for air, every changing angle.

He pulls your sweatshirt up over your head and throws it down into the footwell on the passenger side, straight away hurrying to kiss you hungrily again, hands cupping your neck. His tongue is in your mouth once more, there’s no way you could possibly differentiate your breaths from his: you’re one, in every way you can be with your clothes still on, but it’s not enough.

“Want you,” you whimper as he nips at your bottom lip and pleasure rushes through you from head to toe.

“You’ve got me,” he groans with his eyes still closed. “I’m all yours.”

“No,” you insist, whimpering when his cute little nose drags across your cheek until he’s pressing hot kisses to your jawline. “I— fuck—” He suckles on the sweet spot below your ear and your spine tingles, head tilting to give him better access. “Chan, I want you.”

Chan settles back from you, his usually bright, sparkling eyes now darkened with desire. All he gives you is a singular glance sideways, but you know exactly what he’s suggesting. You nod, breathing deep, biting the inside of your cheek; he turns off the headlights and it’s all systems go.

There’s a rush to scramble into the back of the car. Chan takes the keys out the ignition and climbs through the gap in the seats; you opt for the less hazardous approach of getting out of the vehicle entirely and re-entering it instead. Not that it bothers him — no sooner is the door closed behind you, Chan’s hands are on your hips and he pulls you on top of him, your leg knocking the dahlias off the leather and onto the floor in the process. You gasp and glance down but he averts your attention with two fingers under your chin, guiding you to look back at him.

“What? You think this is the last time I’ll bring you flowers?” He asks, capturing your lips as he leans up to you; at the same time, his hands drop low and he starts to slide open the buttons down the front of your pyjama shirt. “Baby, m’gonna get you so many more.”

You sigh at the affectionate name, at the change in its use; until now, Chan has only called you baby while he’s buried inside you, bruising you inside and out with sharp thrusts and rough-gripping fingers. But as much as you can feel him growing hard against the inside of your thigh while you try to get comfortable, one knee planted either side of his hips, you can’t help but feel as if this time, it means something different.

(He’s had feelings for six months: it always meant what it does, now. You know that, deep down.)

Somewhere in amongst the never-ending sloppy kisses and constantly travelling hands, you manage to strip both his jacket and T-shirt off him and you’re pressed bare-chest-to-bare-chest with Chan, feeling every little hitch of his breath in his lungs, every thump of his heartbeat, every tiny increase in the temperature of his skin. Your desperate search for friction between your legs has you rolling your hips down against his hard-on, drawing grunts and making him squeeze at your tits when you rock against him the right way. His head eventually drops to your chest and he replaces one hand with his mouth, freeing his fingers to slide down the front of your pyjama bottoms.

It’s honestly rarer for Chan to get straight to the point than it is for him to tease you a little first, so when he flattens his palm against you and brushes his fingertips over your already aching clit, you let out a squeak of surprise. He shivers, releasing your nipple from between his teeth for a moment; once he’s collected a little more arousal to ease the friction, he continues to rub at the bud, slowly building the pressure inside you.

“No panties?” He asks, struggle clear in the roughness of his voice.

“I was in bed,” you gasp, eyes rolling back. It’s for the best that it happens out of pleasure, really, because you’re not sure you’d be able to stop yourself rolling them in exasperation at his remark otherwise. You shuffle a little, lifting yourself up on your knees more, breath hitching when he uses the newly granted space to dip his hand lower and press a finger against your hole. “Please, Chan — this can’t be comfy— just…”

“S’fine” he argues, shaking his head, despite the fact that the angle of his wrist is actually kind of painful, right now. The truth is that he can’t bring himself to care: not when he can smell your fabric softener on the shirt still hanging off your shoulders, the shampoo in your freshly washed hair, all so pretty mixed with the damp scent of your desire. Not when you clench around him as he slides his finger in and out of your cunt. Not when he could get you to soak all the way through these pretty satin pants.

Your arms snake around his neck as he dips a second finger inside you to join the first. The way your thighs tighten around his hips could — should — be embarrassing, the fact his sturdy lap holds you open enough for your pussy to be toyed with even more so. You almost always do this too music, too — for what might be the first time ever, you can hear every single wet sound your body makes, every hitch of your own breath, every grunt he gives even though he’s not the one being pleasured.

You don’t even realise how you’re rocking up and down against his hand until Chan licks from the base of your neck to your jaw, smirking over your pulse point and says, “gonna ride my cock this good too, baby?”

And if it was anyone else talking to you like this, you would be embarrassed. Mortified, at being so needy you’re here doing all the work for him. At the cry you give as he splits and scissors his fingers to stretch you out. But instead? You feel another rush of arousal drool out of you as you press your nails into his shoulders and nod, bouncing harder and watching how his bicep tenses up solid with the effort of keeping his arm steady for you to use.

“Wanna,” you gasp. “Want it so bad, Chan—”

Despite your pleas for this to move further, when his hand pulls back out of the elastic of your waistband, you feel like you could throttle him. The urge ebbs away when his soaked fingers press to your lips and he quirks an eyebrow at you, though — you end up suckling them clean, licking up every trace of your own slick. You lock eyes with him as you do, slumping on your thighs so your drenched core sits right over his tweaking length, the seam of your pants giving just enough friction to your clit for it to feel good as you grind down on him again.

“Get those off,” he instructs, trying to sound hard and dominant. Which would work, perhaps, if his voice didn’t crack in the middle of the sentence. “Now.”

Even though you’re overcome with a need to tease him, the desire you have to be split open on his length outweighs it, so you do as you’re told and hold it in for later. It’s not easy, but you manage to manipulate yourself in his lap to work the satin down your thighs and past your knees. He helps you tug them the rest of the way past your ankles and feet, shoves them onto the floor — Chan’s hands settle back on your hips and yours skim down his stomach at the same time, fingers grazing over the little hairs that trail from his bellybutton down into his jeans.

“Can I?” You ask, playing already with his belt buckle.

He hums assent and you slip it all the way open, tugging as he moves his hips underneath you so you can pull it free from the loops. Between you, you manage to get his jeans unfastened, to pull both them and his boxer shorts down over his ass and to his knees; finally, fucking finally, his cock sits pretty and leaking and free between your stomach and his. It’s getting cold in the car now the heating isn’t on, but you’re already burning up in anticipation for him to ruin you; the way his abs ripple as he takes his shaft into his hand and strokes himself a couple of times to prepare tells you he’s in the same boat.

It’s like clockwork, from here. You shift into position as easily as you settle into bed after a long day. Chan rubs his tip through your folds, feels the warmth of you and hisses through his teeth with fluttering eyes. Just like always. This never changes. He can’t ever get enough of that first feeling of his cock against your pussy: it’s like the first hit of a blunt, like the first sip of a cold beer, the first full-body stretch early in the morning. He’s sure it’s what arriving at the gates of heaven must feel like.

You sink down onto him slowly, fluttering around his tip and stilling to give you both a moment to get used to the feeling. He’s thick inside you. Thicker than his pretty, dainty fingers have ever been able to stretch you enough for. Even as wet as you are, you still need to suck a deep breath into your lungs before you can relax your hips further and let your heat swallow him all the way to his base.

Chan’s head is tipped back in pleasure, he’s biting his lip at the sting of your nails pressing hard into the back of his neck. He loves it, though — loves how the pain shoots in waves down his spine, how it tingles in his brain, how he knows you need to anchor yourself this way or you’ll lose control. He kneads at your ass as you sit against his thighs, listening to you whimpering at how deep he is inside you.

“So fucking tight around me still,” Chan groans, focusing all his willpower into keeping his hips down on the leather beneath him. “Shit, baby — you feel so good…” His neck softens and his head drops forward again as you start to move, rising and falling over and over. He kisses your throat and down to your collarbones while you work up to a rhythm, sliding his palms up your back, hugging you close to him.

He isn’t even the one putting in the hard work, but within minutes of this, his soft, fluffy hair clings to his forehead. A light sheen of sweat makes him radiant under the moonlight breaking through the trees. He’s breathing heavily, the top of his toned chest painted a soft pink — you don’t think he could possibly look prettier. Not until he cups your jaw with his hands and you look upwards: you land on his smiling face, those plush, swollen lips, his devilish but sweetly glittering eyes. The sight of him, looking at you like you’re some kind of Goddess, makes your pussy tighten and your tiring hips stutter. You slip your pyjama top all the way off your arms and curl your fingers into his hair, meeting him in an open-mouthed kiss, through which you’re both just beaming.

You’ve never kissed him this much. When it all started out, you sort of had a rule against it, but now? Neither of you can stop. As he starts to fuck up into you, taking the reins and letting your burning thighs rest, he keeps your face steady with his hands and freely allows his lips to slide against yours. It’s not refined. It can’t be. Not with how hard and fast his movements quickly become, not with the onslaught of curses and moans and babbled praise coming from the both of you. One particularly sharp thrust makes you yelp out a squeak of his name and he just swallows it down, making a point to keep aiming for— and hitting— that same spot inside you. You’re a mess.

He could do this all night. When your orgasm bubbles inside you and he starts pinching at one of your nipples, sending you over the edge, he’s nowhere near finished. Even though your cunt massages at his length, throbbing and pulsing through your climax; even though your voice is so high by now that only dogs can hear you; even though you nearly collapse on top of him with almost all your weight in his lap, and he has to work twice as hard to keep this going, he barely slows. He definitely doesn’t stop.

“You can gimme one more, right sweetheart?” He asks, grunting into your neck. “Always feels so fucking good when you come.” You choke up an ‘mhm’, to which he responds by slipping a hand between your bodies and down to where you’re connected. His thumb presses against your clit again — not moving, just applying enough pressure to make you stutter when you say his name.

Your thighs are still twitching when you try to lift yourself a little, try to meet his movements as he chases his orgasm too. The “problem” with Chan is that his stamina is otherworldly. You couldn’t keep up if you wanted to.

“Relax,” he says, tensing his jaw, doing the opposite himself. “Fuck — lie down.”

It’s pretty cramped and hard to move, but you lift yourself off him and only slightly lament at the sudden emptiness between your legs. There isn’t time to get too upset, however: moments after you get comfortable on your back, Chan shoves his jeans the rest of the way down and stands with one knee planted on the seats, lifting one of your ankles up to rest it on his shoulder. He slips back inside you easily then, gripping around your calf to keep you both steady. From the word go, his pace is relentless. You scrabble around for something to hold onto but the entire car seems to melt away; you ball your hands into fists at your sides instead, your eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“Mm-mm. Look at me,” Chan hums, tightening his grip on your leg. “Wanna see those pretty eyes.”

You obey, opening your lids to look up at him while he pounds into you hard enough to make the car shake. Over, and over, and over, and over. Rougher. Faster. For how long? Who even knows. All you’re truly aware of is how good it feels. How the windows grow foggy with the steam of your laboured breaths. How his sweat mingles with your own.

When his fingers on the other hand get reacquainted with your clit, when he bites down on his bottom lip, when his thrusts start to get messier and more erratic and the veins in his arms start to bulge out, you know he’s getting close. He doesn’t need to tell you out loud. The smirk he wears speaks for itself.

“Where d’you want it, baby?” He asks you, pressing a kiss to the inside of your ankle.

“In— mmh, in-…side me—” you stammer, hips jolting as you near your second orgasm to match his first. “Please, Chan — want it all…”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah—”

Well, he must’ve been holding himself back something spectacular, because a few thrusts later you watch all of his muscles contract as he tips over the edge, and you go hurtling with him. It’s all so much. All your nerve endings feel like they’re on fire and your vision starts to blur at the edges; it’s not long before you have to close your eyes to shut one of your overworked senses out, completely. Your muscles are sore. Your throat hurts. Even your lungs ache.

God, he hasn’t gone that hard in so long, you don’t know what to do with yourself. You can barely speak — it’s going to take you a week to recover from this, minimum.

He stills deep inside you, feeling his cock throb with the last pumps of his release. Your leg slips off his shoulder and your foot lands down with a thud onto the car’s (thankfully clean) floor; he bends forward to kiss you, still breathing heavily against your lips. You’ve come over completely boneless and reaching up to thread your fingers into his hair again feels like running a marathon at sprint pace. You’d fall asleep right here, right now, if you could, but with sweat cooling rapidly against your skin, you know that’s probably not up there as one of your finest ideas.

“You really think getting involved with me was stupid?” Chan asks, nudging your nose with the tip of his own. He’s never been less serious than this in his entire life, which stops you feeling too bad when you lightly slap at his rock solid chest and try to push him off you.

“Yes,” you lie, attempting to reach to the ground for your pyjama shirt while he grips your chin and attacks you with tiny little pecks all over your face. “Stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

(Chan chuckles to himself and thinks that he’s quite happy to be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, really. He can stay that way, as long as you promise never to stop.)

thank you so much for reading. i hope you enjoyed it - likes, feedback, comments, reblogs are all so appreciated.<3

#scooting this over from main because i got so excited that i didn’t remember i have this blog lmao #minors do not interact #author: miraclewoozi #member: chan #au: fuck buddies #au: idiots in love #lee chan #chan smut #chan x reader #svt #svt fic rec #reviewsday

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hoshi-island · 7 months

Note

it’s 9:00 am; i am reading this at my desk at work as a form of time theft; and i am flustered 🥵 it definitely takes skill to have an impact like this with a short word count, so thank you — but also ??? what have you done to me ?? hahaha.

jun is packing. imagine him helping you adjust to his size he would be so sweet but also so sexy

my eye started twitching i can’t…

“does it hurt?”

you open your mouth to answer but a squeak comes out instead. jun tries to hide his grin by turning away from you but you catch him, immediately pouting in a way that makes him feel even more guilty for laughing.

but you seem to forget all about it when he drops a hand between your legs and starts to rub your clit, sighing pleasurably as your body relaxes a little more underneath him.

“asshole.”

well. almost forget about it.

thankfully, though, you’re in a forgiving mood because you arch your back and pull jun in an inch or so more. he’s only about halfway inside and already your cunt is fluttering around him like you’re about to cum.

“you didn’t answer my question,” he reminds you gently, letting up on your clit so that your mind is clear enough for you to think straight.

“oh, right,” you breathe. “no it doesn’t hurt… feels good.”

“it does?”

“mhm… it’s just… you’re so fucking big so i-i need a minute.”

“take all the time you need, baby. you’re doing so well.”

“actually, jun?”

his smile drops. “what? what is it? what’s wrong?”

“nothing’s wrong,” you assure him, but you’re gripping his biceps so tight that he’s not sure if he believes you. “i just- i think i’m about to cum, i’m sorry…”

so the pulsing was a sign—

“don’t apologize, baby, just let it happen.”

“can you rub my clit?” you whine.

“of course,” your boyfriend murmurs as he leans down to kiss you.

his fingers pick up where they’d left off, circling your clit gently until he feels a gush of wetness coat them and his cock.

“fuck me, fuck me, fuck me— jun, please!”

it’s almost impossible to move with how tight you’re squeezing his dick but he manages to weakly fuck you through the orgasm, finally bottoming out when the tension leaves your body and you’re left boneless on the mattress.

he kisses you all over as you regain the ability to think, only to see you pouting up at him.

“sorry,” you apologize sheepishly.

“i told you not to be,” jun insists. “baby, that was probably the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“really?”

“yeah, are you kidding? and a huge ego boost. making you cum when my cock is only halfway inside of you? i’m going to be riding this high for years.”

you roll your eyes at him but you’re smiling too.

“i love you.”

“of course you do. i just made you cum super hard.”

“that’s not the only reason, idiot,” you scoff.

“but it’s one of them, right?” you purse your lips. “you can’t even deny it!”

“don’t make me take it back,” you threaten.

“it’s too late for that. you already said it. no take backs. but for the record, i love you too. and i’ll prove it to you by making you cum super hard again.”

#minors do not interact #author: sluttywonwoo #au: established relationship #member: junhui #wen junhui #junhui smut #junhui x reader #svt #svt fic rec #reviewsday

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hoshi-island · 7 months

Text

admittedly, i almost scrolled past this because i made an assumption that it was going to be…. tentacle-y, but it wasn’t — and i didn’t — and omfg.

this was so unbelievably endearing, on top of being well-written, like ??

writing smut can be difficult for me because it’s trying to find new ways to say roughly the same thing. idk if you’ve ever struggled with that, but it certainly doesn’t seem that way because ❗️ the descriptions you used and the feelings you encapsulated in the process were so ‼️ that i’m flustered, lmao.

and the characterization ??? of this charming, naive, fucking lovely seokmin ?? must protect him at all costs. also, the fact that he’s all of those things and a (i don’t know what phrase to use so i’m pulling this out of my ass, pls excuse me) pussy wizard????? i need to flail. i have too much inarticulable giddiness, lmao.

trust and believe that i will gobble (consume, fully) a part two if you ultimately decide to do one!

sorry for all the errant punctuation throughout this review. my brain is truly making internet dial-up noises over this 😌

Kinktober Day 31: Alien Kink + DK

For ⚔️

Rating: M (18+) | WC: ~2k

Pairing: Seokmin x Reader | Genre: smut, sci fi, romance

Warnings: dk is a clueless virgin alien, sex ed, oral f. rec., vaginal fingering, alien anatomy, breeding mention

Seokmin has only been dating you for two earth months, but already, he knows he’s in love.

His species doesn’t put much stock in romance or dating - the most they seek is a suitable mate to help produce offspring every mating cycle - but Seokmin has always been different. Different enough that he’s never participated in the mating cycles at all, not wanting to share that side of himself with someone who won’t stay.

Different enough that he’s one of the few of his species that has ever left their planet, different enough that he can almost pass as human, if it weren’t for his pointed ears and chameleon-like qualities. You don’t seem to mind them, thankfully, nor do you mind the odd looks you get whenever you go out in public together.

Your kind has known about aliens for less than five years, barely long enough to grow accustomed to the idea and definitely not long enough for interspecies relationships to be normal. Seokmin isn’t worried though, knowing that as earth grows into a galactic trade hub, more and more relationships like yours will pop up.

Until then, he’s content to ignore the looks, hold your hand on the street, and proudly let his cheeks flare purple, the color a sign of his deep, true love for you.

Or at least, that’s what he tells himself.

The truth is, he’s dying to know what you look like naked.

He’s tried to do research, but what he now knows is called ‘porn’ doesn’t seem to be for him, and he can’t even begin to understand the words or the diagrams in that anatomy textbook he borrowed from the library. Besides, he only wants to see you, touch you, learn you, no one else.

So, he does what’s most logical to him, and simply asks.

It’s on a calm Sunday afternoon that he first broaches the topic, one that sees Seokmin reading with his head in your lap as you rewatch your favorite show for the nth time. His book is getting to a particularly spicy bit, one that has heat growing in both of his stomachs, but as usual, when it gets to the more specific parts, Seokmin is clueless as to what they’re talking about.

What is a pussy? Why is the main character putting his mouth on the love interest’s? And why is everything so wet??

These are all questions Seokmin needs an answer to, and he reaches over for the remote to pause your show so he can have your full attention. You blink down at him, arching an eyebrow in curiosity as he opens and closes his mouth like a fish, unsure of how to voice his questions.

In the end, he just asks you flat out.

By the time you get over your shock, finish laughing, and pull yourself back together, he’s pouting on the other end of the couch, his arms crossed and his cheeks bright orange in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, Minnie, you just caught me off guard. Ummm,” you stall as you try to figure out how to answer, deciding to just be as clinical and explanatory as possible. “Humans generally have one of two types of genitalia, a vagina or a penis, and pussy is a less formal word for vagina, which is what I have. There’s something called oral sex, and it’s when you use your mouth to make someone feel good. That’s what’s happening in your book.”

Ohhh. That makes sense, Seokmin thinks.

“And everything is wet because, well, the mouth is wet and the pussy can make its own wetness, so everything just gets a little… messy.”

Seokmin squirms in his place at the end of the couch, suddenly not at all interested in his book and only too intrigued by the idea of putting his mouth on you.

“Can we try that?” Seokmin asks urgently, shuffling over to you on his knees and imploring you with his eyes.

“Right now?” You question, trepidation in your voice and nervousness on your face. “I haven’t shaved or anything.”

“What’s shaving?” He’s never heard that word before, doesn’t have a clue what it means, though you seem to think it’s bad that you haven’t done it.

“Never mind,” you sigh happily, throwing your arms around his neck and pulling him into a deep kiss.

Kissing, Seokmin is used to. Kissing, Seokmin is good at.

And he loves loves loves kissing you, loves your sounds and the taste of your tongue and the feeling of your lips against his. Loves how close he feels to you and how close you get to him, loves how his head spins and how your hands wander, your fingers tracing over the pointed tips of his ears and down the ridges of his abdomen.

He shivers when you break away to suck kisses into his neck, his head falling back to give you more room as you bite and lick your way down his throat. You pull down his t-shirt collar to get at his collarbones and he covers your hand with his, pulling back and reminding you of the goal.

“I’m going to perform oral sex on you, remember?”

You bite back a smile and tell him, “Seokmin, try saying ‘go down on you’ or ‘eat your pussy’ instead. They sound a bit sexier.”

“Baby, I promise I would never eat you. Sure, humans can be a delicacy on some planets, but that’s not how I do things,” he says, hand on his biggest heart and with all the seriousness in the world, unsure why threatening to consume you would sound any sexier than what he said.

“It’s just a figure of speech, Minnie. You won’t actually be eating me,” you promise gently, reminding Seokmin just how much he has left to learn about you and your people and your silly combinations of words.

“Oh. What will I be doing?”

“It’s like kissing, but you kind of have to multitask? It’s hard to explain, I’ll guide you once you get down there.”

He rolls off the couch and shuffles close to you on his knees, placing his hands on yours to push your legs apart. Gazing expectantly at you, he waits for you to remove your clothes so he can see what he’s working with, all three of his hearts beginning to race as you lift your hips and shyly push at your pajama shorts.

He can’t believe he’s about to see you bare, his first lover, his first girlfriend, his first human, and if he has anything to say about it, his last. The shorts get to your knees and he has to move his hands, settling them on your upper thighs and taking in a deep breath, tasting something sweetsour and heady on the air.

When you open your legs for him, he knows instantly that the flavor was you, and that it’s something he wants on his tongue now. He should take a look around, explore you a bit, but he’s letting his instincts guide him and they’re saying to get his mouth on you as soon as possible, lest he lose this chance.

And oh, oh, Seokmin gets it now, why it’s called ‘eating out,’ because he does want to eat you, he wants to consume you, he wants to drink you down. He wants to lick his fingers and taste you. Bite his lip and taste you. Swipe his tongue over his teeth and taste you. He wants you all over him, so he practically shoves his face into your pussy, shaking it from side to side to spread you out as his tongue laps at the folds and creases of you.

The taste is more concentrated further down, so further down he goes, making a questioning noise when he encounters something unexpected. There’s a… hole, or maybe an entrance? Are you hollow here?

His tongue delves inside, and all at once, he’s in heaven. It’s like everything else falls away, his shoulders untensing and his fingers spasming on your knees as his cheeks flare a bright red, the color of deep, gnawing arousal.

You’re searing hot and soaking wet, like a scalding shower on a freezing day, and your walls feel like molten velvet, the texture and flexibility of them mind blowing as they ripple and squeeze around his tongue.

He’s never felt, tasted, encountered anything like you in his life, and he hopes you’re alright with him sticking around for the rest of it, because he can’t give this up.

Seokmin can’t know about the glory of your pussy and then suddenly forget about it, no, this will stay with him forever.

He feels something nudge against his forehead and looks up, his eyes nearly crossing in an effort to identify what’s touching him. It’s your fingers, you’re swirling them over something and with every pass, he feels you tightening up on his tongue, feels more of your slick coming out to coat his face.

“What are you doing?” He pulls away to ask, his tongue slightly sore and his lips swollen.

“Um, this is my clit, there’s a lot of nerves here and touching it makes me feel the best,” you pant, stilling your hand and moving it to rest on your hip so he can inspect you closer. There’s a small bump peeking out of a little hood, and when Seokmin pokes his tongue out to give it a kitten lick, your hips buck into him.

“Like that?”

“Yeah, Minnie, like that. And you can fuck me with your-- your fingers, they can go inside.”

Oh, he likes whatever’s happening to your voice right now. You sound all breathy and needy and relaxed, and when he slides two fingers inside like you said, you moan raggedly and clench around them, the feeling of your walls grasping his fingers making his head spin.

He can only imagine what you would feel like around his aching cock, can only hope that one day, he’ll get to experience it. Maybe if he does really good with this, you’ll let him inside of you, let him fill you up and stretch you out, let him mate you and breed you and keep you.

Just the idea has him doubling his efforts, has him wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard, increasing the speed of his fingers until he feels like he really is fucking you with them, until your walls are undulating around his fingers and your arousal is dripping down his wrist.

“Just like that, Seokmin. Don’t stop, please,” you cry brokenly, your hips moving with his hand as he pushes you higher and higher.

He moans his affirmation into you and the vibrations must send you over the edge, because your pussy is fluttering and clenching and squeezing like crazy, and he can feel your clit throbbing between his lips as wetness seeps out of you, your whines so high and sweet he wants to bottle them up, save them for later.

He wants to keep going but begrudgingly stops when you push him away by the forehead, his fingers stagnant inside of you and his lips detaching from your clit with a slick pop.

“Was that good?” Seokmin slurs, his mouth exhausted and his brain drunk on you.

“It was perfect, Seokmin. You did such a good job,” you murmur as you pet his hair, not stopping him when he lays down again, his cheek pillowed by your thigh. He’s still aching but you seem tired, and he’s not sure how long he’ll be able to last after that, anyway.

He’ll need to practice a lot if he wants to make it through to the actual mating part.

Oh no, how terrible that will be, Seokmin thinks with a giddy smile.

Kinktober Masterlist

AN: okayyy this was getting a little long so i cut it off before we got to the fucking but i might do a part two!! if that's something you're interested in, pls comment or reblog to let me know!!

thank you so much for sticking with me and encouraging me through all of kinktober, it's been harder than i ever thought it would be but also more fun than i expected, and i feel like i've really grown as a smut writer!

ily and happy halloween 💖💖💖

#minors do not interact #author: sluttywoozi #member: seokmin #au: alien #au: established relationship #au: first time #lee seokmin #seokmin fluff #seokmin smut #seokmin x reader #svt #svt fic rec #reviewsday

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hoshi-island · 7 months

Text

YES YES YES.

a combo of my favorite things: yearning, hoshi, and drunk dials. i love this so much, especially because the hoshi fics i come across (including ones i’ve written), don’t turn towards angst — and it’s so effective because he’s normally so…. hoshi, you know? the emotion hits twice as hard because he’s so eager, excitable, joyful, etc.

but tbh i can’t help but see yearning hoshi and think of:

asdfghjkl.

are you like me too? / kwon soonyoung

⇢ Soonyoung x fem!Reader

⇢ word count: 1.1k

⇢ angst // breakup(??)!au // comfort?

⇢ A/N: i wrote this in like, 30 minutes bc i was watching the epik high and hosh's performance in akmu's show and got a random burst of writing juice so. enjoy? i'm obsessed w the song and this particular part btw so it's definitely inspired by that. as always not proofread but do enjoy somehow lol

요즘 뭘 먹고 마시고 어떤 행복을 찾는지 what are you eating and drinking these days? what kid of happiness are you looking for? epik high ft. hoshi - screen time

[ - - - ]

Soonyoung has never felt so stupid.

But, then again, being drunk and regretful at the same time is an obvious recipe for disaster.

He doesn’t even usually get drunk, as he’s often already passed out before he gets to that point. But there’s something about tonight that compels him to keep on throwing back drinks over drinks even though Jihoon is already looking at him in worry and Chaeyoung is trying to stop him from getting more.

But of course, drunk Kwon Soonyoung is even more hard headed than normal Kwon Soonyoung and Jihoon eventually tells the younger girl to just stop trying because perhaps the guy needs it.

After all, Jihoon knows Soonyoung has been regretting his decision to end… whatever it is he had with a certain someone and he hasn’t had the chance to properly throw himself a pity party that it’s probably been eating him inside out for the past week.

“Why the fuck did I…” He mutters to himself, not even caring that two of his friends are there worried out of their minds. He eventually kicks them out an hour later because he can only handle so much pity being thrown his way in his own fucking house.

He’s pitiful–pathetic, he knows, but it doesn’t make things any better and he does need this to (hopefully) make peace with whatever stupid decision he made last week to end things with you.

You’re not even his girlfriend–and whose fault is that?–he swallows another shot bitterly. And yet suddenly not having you any longer feels more painful than the last time he broke up with his ex-girlfriend.

Is it simply the alcohol, bubbling thoughts into his mind? Amplifying the pains even though it’s not really all that?

He glares at his phone, silent with nonexistent notifications from you. And then he looks at the mirror and glare at himself for pushing himself into such a situation.

Why did he think it was a good call to cut you off his life when it was him who talked to you first, asked for your number, begged you for a chance to go on dates, and now grovelling in his own room because he told you that he thinks it’s better to stop seeing each other when you’re not even yet in a relationship.

What was there to end, really?

A possibility, perhaps.

Love that was possibly growing in your heart that he cruelly plucked when it hadn’t even bloomed.

Is that a good thing, then?

Would it hurt more for you if your feelings had grown deeper than what you currently harbour towards him?

He takes his phone and scrolls through your old texts once again. He can probably recite them in his sleep at this point, but he doesn’t care because he misses you and he wishes he still has you–your texts, your laughter, your touch, your voice–you.

🧡: look at this dumb dog lmaoooo

how can u call him dumb :(

hes cute u meanie :(

🧡: //youre/// dumb🙄🙄

🧡: you know i dont mean it like that 😠😠😠😠

🧡: how dare you make me a villain against dogs!!!!

He takes a deep breath as he plays the video you sent for the nth time, still having it in him to smile at your small dog trying to jump into the sofa even though you had laid out a perfectly new dog stairs right next to it.

He presses his lips together at the sound of your laughter in the background, probably the only way he’s still able to hear it now.

It’s only been a week. He knows it’s only been a fucking week. But he’s already wondering how you’re doing and who’s making you laugh, if you get to eat that dumpling that you’ve been wanting to try since last month, if you’re sending your dog videos to someone else now, if you’re still watching the drama that you were watching with him.

…If someone’s holding you because, maybe… and just maybe… you’re also as sad as he is.

He hopes you’re not though. He doesn’t wish this wrenching feeling in his chest upon you.

He hopes you don’t like him enough to be as sad as he is.

He hopes you don’t like him enough to drink yourself to sleep–to numb the pain and silence the voices inside your head.

Closing his eyes, he contemplates on calling you. But he remembers that it was him who rids himself of that choice.

“Hello?”

Fuck. He’s even imagining your voice now.

“Hello?” Your voice calls once again, and Soonyoung grips his phone tighter because it’s getting too real and perhaps it is time to stop drinking. “Soonyoung? Are you there? Are you okay?”

He jumps when he realises it’s actually you, panics when he realises he accidentally presses call when he’s too deep in his thoughts. For someone who contemplated on calling you just not too long ago, he’s suddenly hyper aware of the situation and no longer sure what to say.

He opens his mouth to say something, but a violent cough makes it out of his lips–enough for him to hit his chest because it feels like he’s about to vomit though there’s nothing in his throat.

He hears you panic from the other side, and as much as he wants to tell you not to worry and apologize, he couldn’t do it because his head is spinning and a part of him wants you to know that he’s hurting and he’s regretting.

You already hang up once he’s calmed down.

And it’s thirty minutes later someone knocks on his door, his eyes widening in shock when he finds you on the other side, seemingly running out of your place in a hurry because you simply have a jacket over your pajamas.

“Are you okay?” You look up in worry, your hand already busy trying to see his temperature. It’s when you realize that Soonyoung has been looking at you in silence that it finally hits you that you’re not supposed to do this.

That he… he breaks up with you before you even begin dating and you’re probably out of your fucking mind for thinking that you should rush to him the moment you think he might need help.

Mistaking his silence as resentment, you quickly retract your hand and apologize. But before you can even turn away, Soonyoung pulls you into his place and closes the door and then wraps his arms around you.

You can’t even begin to comprehend what’s happening, but when you feel his body shaking and hear him trying to hide his tears on your shoulder, you decide it doesn’t matter.

For whatever reason, Soonyoung is hurting.

Whether he’s hurting because of you or some other reason, he’s hurting and he’s looking for comfort in you if the way he holds you so tight that it hurts a little and the smell of alcohol on him says anything.

You hug him back and Soonyoung cries harder.

[ - - - ]

©wonwoonlight – all rights reserved. I don’t allow any reposting, translation, and any other kind of redistribution of this fic. Please tell me if you’re aware of anyone doing this without my permission.

A/N: wow been so long since i wrote for him???

#author: wonwoonlight #member: soonyoung #au: exes #kwon soonyoung #soonyoung angst #soonyoung x reader #svt #svt fic rec #reviewsday

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hoshi-island · 7 months

Text

sweatshirt season | ksy

your fuck buddy is good at a lot of things. taking hints isn’t one of them.

pairing: kwon soonyoung x reader type: one-shot / fluff + smut rating: 18+ (minors do not have my consent to interact) au: one-night-stand to fuck buddies to ? wc: 4.5k cw: gn! and afab!reader (no pronouns used); time skips; protected penetrative sex (p in v); hoshi is kinda a himbo, lmao; ft. cameo by minghao and roomate!gn!sibling OC; reference to the movie they're watching, which is hereditary (brief mention of decapitation + demonic possession); barely proofread, sorry! a/n: this is based on a headcanon i did a while ago! i've been in such a horrible rut re: writing for the past month and a half, so it was a major struggle to write this because i feel like i don't know how to do that anymore 😵‍💫 i'm hoping that himbo hoshi can save me from this hell. also, this is told in vignettes!

[APRIL]

“Babe?”

The voice from nowhere is barely loud enough to drag you from sleep, but the effect it has on you is far from soft. Those consonants dig in where your dehydrated brain shrinks away from your skull, pressing in so hard that they throb.

Bleary-eyed, you blink as rapidly as you can to adjust to the bright, white light beaming in through your open shades. The sound that escapes you is something akin to a hiss; it gets the point across, nonetheless. You sit up just enough to see the figure standing in front of your window, looming overhead with crossed arms, laughing.

Clearly, your roommate doesn’t give a shit or a fuck about your hangover.

“What’s the deal with the stray you brought home last night?” Mei asks, the corners of their mouth tilting wickedly.

You don’t have the brain power for this conversation, so you respond with a groan and bury your face back in the pillow from whence it came. Never one to give up, Mei drops down on top of you so that the full weight of their body rests against yours.

“C’mon,” they urge. “Spill your guts, chingu.”

Funnily enough, if they don’t get off your guts, you might do exactly that.

Your reply comes in the form of a croak, some pathetic little sound that reads as lifeless as you feel. “Why do you care?”

There isn’t a single reason you can think of for their sudden interest in your bad decisions. You’ve been making them left and right for the past few months without much more than a concerned glance, and until now, you didn’t realize that you’d taken the lack of follow-up questions for granted.

What a fucking travesty it is to be perceived.

“Your business is your business.” Mei shrugs. You quirk an eyebrow, ready to jump in and point out their lapse in logic, but then that smirk comes back. “But your business is currently burning eggs in our kitchen, which makes it my business, too.”

Sitting up quickly, the force of your sudden moves nearly knock Mei to the ground. Beyond horrified, you squeak, “He’s still here?”

Faster than you’ve ever moved before, you clamber out from underneath your roommate and crawl to the edge of your bed, kicking wildly at your blankets until your legs are free.

You’re already up and swaying on your feet, panting from the effort, when you finally think to look down and assess the state of yourself. Thankfully, you’d remembered to dress yourself before falling asleep. You glance upward and salute whatever deity was looking out for you, ignore the look on Mei’s face entirely, and dash out of your bedroom.

As soon as you reach the kitchen, you skid to a stop, socks sliding across the hardwood until your hip bone collides with the corner of the kitchen island. You hiss again, far louder than the last time. The shape standing at your stove turns around wide-eyed; his mouth is frozen in the shape of an “o”.

Just as quick, recognition flashes, and the shock wears off.

“Good morning,” he chirps, and he’s all fucking sunshine.

You blink back at him without a single idea of where to start — with the fact that he’s still here after you could’ve sworn he left, that he’s wearing your apron but has no clear grasp on the simple act of frying eggs, or that you cannot for the life of you remember his name.

Fuck.

You should really start keeping a guest book.

Whatever his name is, he’s witnessing you at your worst — certifiably crusty with your standard bad attitude — and that alone makes you want to wither and die, right on the spot. Unbothered by your ghoulish appearance, he gestures to the kitchen island you just collided with, pointing to a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin.

Items he would’ve had to open two (2) separate cabinets to find.

In the kitchen he shouldn’t even be in.

You open your mouth, primed to explode all over him, but the way he’s looking at you disarms you immediately. His expression is so chipper — so friendly and childlike in its innocence — that you swallow down the shit you’d readily hurl at anyone else. You gulp, and without saying a word in acknowledgement, you grab what he’s laid out for you.

He smiles when you choke down the aspirin, then turns back around to pull the scrambled, half-burnt mess off the burner.

“You must have a pretty low alcohol tolerance if you’re this hungover after three drinks,” he muses.

It’s an accurate observation — a harmless one, too — but you did not ask. Once again, he shoots you a smile that prevents you from snapping at him. Instead, you set the now-empty glass back down on the island and stare vacantly over at him.

Seonghwa?

“You’re still here,” you say flatly. You may be stating the obvious, but that fact speaks for itself. “You’re still here, and you’re also in my kitchen.”

Seokjin, maybe?

He smiles at this, either unaware that he’s violated the unwritten one-night-stand code of conduct or unfazed by his own rule breaking. Rubbing the back of his neck, he laughs awkwardly, “It was the least I could do, you know? After all you —”

What the fuck is your name?

“Sungwoo!” You cut him off with a gasp and a palm raised, all but begging him not to recount what he’s grateful for within earshot of your roommate. “Really, you don’t need to do this. Any of this.”

He corrects you gently, “It’s Soonyoung.”

Then, without even a hint of offense taken, he nods his head towards one of the stools tucked under the counter of the island. Your eyes flit between his hopeful face and the seat, frozen solid with indecision.

You see two options, and both feel like a trap:

Holding the line risks squashing this clueless boy’s marshmallow heart; and you don’t want to be the gash that ruins his day at the very outset. If you feed the stray — rather, if you let the stray feed you — then you’re an enabler, contracting a residency when the show was supposed to be one-night-only.

More perceptive than you’ve given him credit for so far, he senses the conflict inside your skull and attempts to tip the scale with a bread-cheeked smile and a shoulder wiggle. “Your breakfast is getting cold,” he nudges in a soft, sing-song tone.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Begrudgingly, you dump yourself onto a stool without a word. With your elbows now propped up on the countertop, you drop your chin down to rest on the heels of your hands. More than anything, you try like hell to ignore the way it all makes his face light up.

“I don’t understand how you went from demonically hot to…” Your voice trails off as you try to find a word for whatever this is. A beat passes before you give up, waving dismissively. “Domesticated, or whatever.”

And his cheeks go pink.

“You think I’m hot?” He all but gasps, like this is brand new information to him.

Like you would’ve brought him home from the club if he wasn’t — and goddamn, was he ever. Carrying himself with the kind of confidence that made your knees wobble; saying all the right things in a low, smoky tone with his lips at your ear; moving his body in ways that still fluster you to think about.

And yet, here he is.

Adorable, if not completely obtuse.

After grabbing plates from a nearby cabinet, he snags two pairs of chopsticks out of the drawer to the left of the sink. It takes all you’ve got not to roll your eyes. He shouldn’t know where either of those things are, but he does.

A satisfied sigh slips out of his mouth when he takes the seat next to yours and scoots a plate full of eggs and kimchi in front of you.

“Here you go,” he sings as he holds out a pair of your own chopsticks to you.

He’s beaming when you accept them into your hand, and it leaves you with no choice but to take a bite of the food in front of you. Intently and chronically hopeful, he watches you pluck a piece of scrambled egg from the plate, like the trajectory of his life hinges on your approval. There’s no turning back now. Reluctantly, you pop it into your mouth.

While you chew, he leans in a bit closer. From this distance, you can see your own reflection in his irises; there are tiny flecks of honey brown amidst the dark, you realize. Little details you didn’t notice last night when he was much, much closer — like the heart-shaped curve his upper lip takes when he smiles as big as he is now.

“How is it?” He asks, walking the borderline between eager and unbearably shy.

You swallow hard as you snap back to attention. If letting him stay for breakfast was a bad call, getting caught gawking at him is a flagrant foul. Somehow, you need to get the point across without being too cruel; to remind him that you signed up for the night and not the morning.

“Um. Well,” you start with a grimace, shifting uncomfortably in your seat. “Are eggs supposed to… crunch?”

[JUNE]

“Oh, fuck, just like that —”

Your back arches off the bed as you grip uselessly at sweat-drenched sheets. Between your spread thighs, Soonyoung and the punishing pace he’s set make quick work of pulling you apart, again. His right arm loops under your left leg to anchor you to him while his left palm presses down on your lower abdomen, making damn sure that every thrust drags over your g-spot.

This — this right here — is why you keep calling him back. He may overstay his welcome, but that’s an occupational hazard. His perpetual presence is a risk you’re willing to take, so long as he fucks you like this.

“Shit. You’re gonna cum again, aren’t you?”

He’s panting as he says it, which surprises the hell out of you. His stamina is unearthly, and when you manage to keep your eyes open long enough to look up at him, you don’t see any hint of effort. It's just the ragged sound of his breathing, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“I think this might be a new personal record.”

Unfortunately, his little announcement is genuine. He’s merely stating a fact, not trying to tease you, because his only concern outside of making you cum is outdoing himself.

To Soonyoung, sex is a performance he’s trying to perfect. He approaches it like an Olympian — an athlete or a god? — and the bar he sets for himself raises every time you see him.

You find it the tiniest bit endearing how focused he is on self-improvement.

Kind of.

That doesn’t stop you from rolling your eyes, though.

“Not if you keep —” A moan that you didn’t mean to let out cuts your sentence in half. “— talking.”

Your head crashes back against the pillows, which only spurs him on. Deeper, more deliberate strokes leave you writhing underneath him, babbling like a fool. He grins so wide that his eyes almost disappear.

“I’m just saying…” Another thrust, a thousand more stars dotting the periphery of your vision. “If you hit five, you owe me dinner.”

There it is, right on cue: another piece of evidence to prove that Soonyoung still doesn’t know what he signed up for.

It’s a conversation you’ve had more than once — never because you want to have it; and never because he seems to be consciously seeking something more than what you have.

At some point over the past few months of scattered nights with you, a seed seems to have taken root in the back of his brain. A zombie parasite, more likely; one that’s overridden the controls and completely undermined his understanding of the situation.

Whether he means it or not, these throw-away comments make you wonder if, deep down, he’s not wired to fuck without feelings.

Not like you, anyway.

Your self-preservation instincts don’t let you get that far. Risk-averse to your core, you don’t see the point of gambling when the stakes are that high. And even if you weren’t wary of getting yourself hurt, it wouldn’t change the fundamental truth that you enjoy your own company enough not to need anyone else’s.

The way you see it, Soonyoung can have a cameo in your weekends, but the plot of your life right now doesn’t need anything more than that. Changing the lineup now could fuck your whole season. So, why try?

To his credit, he seems to get that there are currently more pressing matters at hand than the same old conversation. He pats your hip and says, “Let’s switch it up.”

You’re as grateful for the subject change as you are for the hand he extends to help your boneless body sit up again. Thankfully, the one lesson he has learned is that no one can compete with his perpetually full battery. If he’s going to change positions as often as he wants to, he has to be the one to position you.

This time, you wind up with your back flush against his chest, skin slick against yours. To keep him close, you reach back until your hand finds the nape of his neck. After weaving your fingers through the damp hair at the base of his head, you tug slightly, pulling a low groan out of him.

“Fuck, yeah,” he grunts breathlessly. “Pull my hair.”

You do as he says, albeit a bit harder than you meant to; you can’t help it. That’s the exact moment he chooses to grab your hips and slam your ass back against his pelvis, perfectly in time with his forward snap. He’s in your guts now, there’s no doubt about it, and you’re falling to pieces.

Wailing, you have to squeeze your eyes shut to survive the surge of pleasure coursing through you. “Oh, my god,” you choke out.

The only way you manage to stay upright through your orgasm is with Soonyoung’s arms caging you in. Without him, you’d be a trembling fucking mess, collapsing face-down onto your bed in a useless heap. He keeps holding you even when he lets himself go soon after, spilling into the condom with a moan you feel as it leaves his chest.

“Goddamn,” he sighs, voice rough. The heat of his breath on your neck almost makes you want to cling to him, curl up and let your eyes flutter shut. “Every time I fuck you, I feel like I should thank you.”

That flicker of affection goes out in a flash as the memory of consequences comes back around. You snort. “Please don’t cook for me again.”

You leave it at that, and so does he. When he finally pulls out of you, you give into the safer urge; the one that can’t possible give him the wrong impression. Slumping forward, you hit the mattress so hard that you practically bounce, like the dead weight you are.

Soonyoung misses that spectacle, thankfully. He’s already on his feet, tying off the condom before dropping it into the wastebasket on the other side of the room. You hear it drop against the plastic bag, then the soft pad of his footsteps as he makes his way back to you. You unbury your face from the pillows and crane your neck to look over at him.

In a rare display, he looks exhausted. Moments like this might be the only time he ever finds himself depleted, and you figure he’s earned that right. Part of you wants to let him lay here with you — maybe even let him sleep it off — but you can’t let him get tangled in the strings you refuse to attach.

He’s halfway to you when he finally looks up at you and catches you watching him. You’re not sure what he sees in your expression; you’d bet it’s as confusing on the outside as it feels on the inside. Whatever he finds there, it makes him pause. There's a quick nod, like he’s reacting to something neither one of you has said out loud, then he changes course.

“You have to be up early,” he says, like he’s finally learned the script. “I’m gonna head out.”

You nod but say nothing else. You just watch as Soonyoung grabs the clothes you’d tugged off of him earlier, piece by piece, and puts everything back to the way it was before.

The way you want it.

Once he’s fully clothed, he shoots you a smile that only uses half of his mouth. Neither of you offers a word as he walks over to the door, although you can tell he’s moving more slowly than usual. Hoping you’ll stop him, maybe.

You don’t.

It’s not until he pulls it open that he looks back over his shoulder at you; and this time, when he smiles, it looks like he means it.

“Sleep well, yeah?”

[OCTOBER]

“I’m just saying that if her shithead brother bothered to include her in his night, maybe she wouldn’t have been decapitated."

You tear your eyes off the television screen in time to see Minghao’s eyes roll all the way back into his head. Across the coffee table from where you sit, he and Mei occupy the couch; his head crashes against the back of it with a muffled thump while his younger sibling continues their rant.

“I’m being for real,” Mei urges, jabbing their finger emphatically through the air in his direction. “If you ever bail on me like that, and my head ends up falling off, you deserve whatever consequences come next.”

You snort. “Up to and including… what, demonic possession?”

“Absolutely,” Mei sniffs.

Minghao sits upright again slowly. He chews thoughtfully on his lower lip, leaving you and your roommate in suspense. Knowing him, he’ll lecture you both on karmic energy and how Mei shouldn’t fuck around with it. To both of your surprise, he frowns. “Is it bad that I kind of want cake now?”

You and Mei respond at the same time, although your responses are nothing alike:

“I think we have some left over.”

“Yes, you’re a monster.”

Despite what they just called him, Mei is nothing if not a good host. With a beleaguered huff, they push themselves off the couch, step carefully over the legs Minghao doesn’t move out of their path, and stalks off towards the kitchen to forage for food.

Left alone in the living room, you and Minghao fall into an easy silence, eyes glued once again to the screen. It’s always been easier to get through a movie without Mei’s commentary; this one would’ve been finished an hour ago if they hadn’t kept pausing it to ramble. You’re so immersed in it that you hardly hear the way they’re tearing through the kitchen like a cyclone. You almost miss the soft knock at the door, too.

Immediately, your optimistic eyes flick over to Minghao. He’s closer to the door, and if you stare at him long enough, he might let you stay in the armchair you’ve all but fused to.

“Nope,” he says coolly, without even looking.

Whining, you peel off the blanket you’ve wrapped yourself in and unfurl your knotted legs. You shiver when your bare feet touch the cold wood below, but bravely, you don’t retreat. You push forward on tiptoe and skip across the living room until you reach the front door.

Your eyebrows shoot up your forehead when you open it to find Soonyoung standing there for the first time in several weeks. While overstaying his welcome is his signature, showing up uninvited never has been. That’s apparently one line in the sand he won’t stumble over.

“Hey,” you peep.

For reasons unknown, you have to pause to let your gaze sweep over him, like something might’ve drastically changed about him since you saw him last. There’s a tiny flutter in the center of your chest that begs you to greet him more emphatically than that, but you ignore it.

Soonyoung looks more apologetic than you’ve ever seen him, which makes your pulse quicken even more.

“I’m really sorry to bother you,” he swears. “I think I left my headphones here last time. I’ve looked everywhere, I promise, but they’re just — gone.”

Your first instinct is to ask why he brought headphones to a dick appointment in the first place, but you talk yourself out of it. The next is to find out why he came all the way over here on a hunch, rather than simply texting you; he hasn’t in a while, not that you’ve taken it to heart. But you don’t do that, either, which strikes you as odd.

Instead, you step back and push the door open wider, once again letting the stray inside. “No worries,” you breeze.

Since when?

As it turns out, letting him in doesn’t bring the sky crashing down around you. Taking a single brick out of the wall you’ve fastidiously built doesn’t bring about the end of days. It just brings a shy bow and a quiet “thank you” while he toes off his shoes.

He turns to head toward your bedroom with you following behind him, but he stops short after a few steps. Crashing into his back — god, he’s broader than he looks — you grab his biceps to keep from bowling him over entirely.

“Shit — I’m so sorry.” He wheels around, failing to realize that you’re as close as you are. You can see panic light up his eyes, now mere centimeters from yours. “I didn’t realize you had somebody over.”

What is that scribbled all over his face?

It’s not anger, you know that much. Nothing about the way he’s looking at you reads like jealousy, either. If anything, he seems genuinely torn-up over what he assumes is date-crashing. Guilty, maybe.

So, why do you feel bad?

“Mei’s brother,” you explain quickly, as if he’s owed one. “Our annual horror movie marathon. We — all of us — do it every October.”

Why did you add that qualifier in there?

Soonyoung’s face brightens immediately, and you feel the tiniest bit warmer now that the corners of his mouth aren’t curved downward anymore. You wish that surprised you, but it doesn’t.

Why should it? You’ve given into him more often than not, haven’t you?

All he says is, “Oh,” in the tiniest voice you’ve ever heard, like he’s embarrassed himself for the first time in his life.

It grows quiet while the two of you continue to stand there in the half-light. If you discount the screaming, the flickering colors coming from the television screen make it feel almost — cozy?

But you’ve been gazing up at him for far too long, so you clear your throat. “Your — umm — your headphones. Do you remember where you left them?”

You nudge him slightly to get him moving, which he does without complaint.

“I think they jumped out of my pocket when you…” Soonyoung’s voice trails off. As you pass by, he glances over at Minghao, who either can’t hear your conversation or doesn’t give a shit about it.

With that indifference confirmed, Soonyoung looks back at you with a smirk. “You broke my zipper, you know. I had to take those jeans to a tailor to fix it.”

Immediately, your cheeks start burning.

Resident fuck monster, reporting for duty! Here to rip clothes to shreds and —

He touches your wrist, just for a second. “It’s cute,” he assures you, even though you haven’t said a word.

And it doesn’t do a damn thing to keep that heat from rising up your face.

You step into your bedroom before you can think of what to say in response, so you let the moment pass and flick on the light. Just as soon as he joins you inside, Soonyoung lays eyes on what he came for — which is a miracle. That thin, white cord is practically invisible under your dresser.

“Ah!” He chirps, bending down to grab it.

Looking triumphant as hell, he tucks it into the pocket of his joggers and shoots you a grin. Suddenly, you find it hard to mimic his smile, although you don’t know why.

He got what he came for, didn’t he? He’ll be out of your hair in a matter of moments, which is exactly what you’ve been demanding of him for months. You had to train him to get in and get out, and when he eventually learned, the relief was immediate.

So, why don’t you feel relieved now?

Soonyoung must hear your trains of thought derailing because he comes in hot with a distraction. As usual, it’s out of left field, just like the soft brush of his fingers on your bare arm.

“You’re cold.”

It’s not a question.

There aren’t even goosebumps on your arm; and there’s no reason why he should know by looking at you that you are, in fact, freezing. But he does, and before you can ask how the fuck that’s possible, he spins around to the dresser nearby and grabs the handle jutting out of the bottom-left drawer.

How does he —?

You open your mouth to speak. The words disappear when he stands upright again, now holding out a sweatshirt from the drawer you keep them in. He’s only seen you open it once before, and the fact that he remembers is making you dizzy.

Soonyoung’s expectant eyes lock on your face, looking at you the same way he did when he handed you those burnt fucking eggs. This time, though, you don’t hesitate to accept what he’s giving you. You tug that sweatshirt over your head without missing a beat, instantly learning that it’s much bigger on you than you remember.

Stunned, you blink back at him from underneath the hood, which obscures most of your forehead. “Is this —?”

You grab the fabric from the front of it in your hands as you look down. At first glance, it looks like the million other white sweatshirts tucked into your drawer, but —

“This isn’t mine.”

Your eyes flick back up to Soonyoung, who’s fighting for his life to bite back a smile.

Six months ago, you might’ve knocked him on his ass for this, but now, you can’t keep it together, either. You crack wide open, laughing so hard that your eyes almost disappear.

“When the hell did you sneak that in there?” You wheeze, wiping tears as they spill over your lash line. The smack you land against his arm is cloaked in a sweater paw, dealing no damage except to crack him open, too. “God, I was never going to get rid of you, was I?”

Beaming, he slips his hands into the kangaroo pocket on the front and tugs you closer; you let him. “It was just in case I get cold, I swear.”

“Is that it?” You narrow your eyes playfully. “Are you sure?”

“Mhmm,” he hums, although you don’t believe him for a second. “It does look good on you, though. Maybe you should hang on to it.”

“To the sweatshirt?”

Watching him blush like that may never get old. Still, he maintains his bluff and nods.

“Yeah. I mean, why not? Right? It’s comfortable.” He shrugs, not even the slightest bit casually. “A cotton blend, I think. Pre-shrunk, so… It’ll — uh, never be your size, I guess. That’s — um — that’s kind of a bummer, but…”

“Soonyoung!” You cut him off with a breathless laugh, prompting him to shut his rambling mouth.

The rare use of his name seems to startle him. His eyes go wide with that typical, hopeful anticipation that he never seems to leave home without. That look hasn’t disappeared after six months of getting shot down on a weekly basis, and neither has the way he hangs onto every word you say.

This time, it might actually be what he’s been waiting to hear.

“Do you….?”

It might be a new personal record, you caving like this after holding someone at arm’s length for so long. The relief is automatic, spreading through muscle that you didn’t even realize had been aching.

“If you’re not busy, do you want to stay?”

#srb #minors do not interact #author: eoieopda #member: soonyoung #au: fuck buddies #kwon soonyoung #soonyoung fluff #soonyoung smut #soonyoung x reader #svt

541 notes · View notes

hoshi-island · 8 months

Text

oh, god, i am soft!!! i’m having a rough day, health-wise, and this apparently has healing properties because i feel at least 10-15% better now 😭

jihoon has always thought you become a little like a cat when you’re sleepy.

like now, curled against his side with eyes that droop, but still stubbornly refusing to go to bed. just to the end of the episode, you claim, but he’s not even sure you’re watching. you seem more preoccupied with resting your head against him.

which is when he realises the slightly awkward position you’re trying to force yourself into, and his brows furrow, watching you crane your neck in a way that cannot be comfortable. “babe,” he says, finally, “what are you doing?”

you wince visibly. sending him a slightly sheepish glance and halting your motions, you mumble out a load of nothing, and he quirks an eyebrow.

“don’t laugh,” you say, preemptively, and he nods, automatically locking his pinky in yours when you brandish yours in front of his face. still, the embarrassment lingers on your features, and you look away from him as you answer.

“was just trying to listen to your heartbeat,” you admit, voice small.

jihoon truly can’t help it; the smile that breaks out on his face is both instantaneous and unstoppable.

“you said you wouldn’t laugh!” you cry out indignantly, burying your face in your hands, and it takes everything in him to suppress the bubbling chuckle.

“didn’t laugh!” he says, but he’s still grinning broadly. “i’m smiling! not laughing!”

“you’re mean.”

“and you’re adorable,” he counters, as you finally emerge from the skin of your palms. he pats your head once, then, and shifts around a little — guiding your head back to its previous position, but now it’s easier to access. “there,” he murmurs, satisfied, and watching as your eyes grow heavy again with another of those endeared smiles. “listen all you want.”

an / i cannot WRITE why do i have a writing blog omfg.

taglist: @n4mj00nvq @eoieopda @som1ig @glowunderthemoon @wondering-out-loud @graybaeismytae @hannyoontify @sahazzy @dokyeomin @icyminghao @smilehui @nicholasluvbot @lvlystars @immabecreepin @hanniehaee @kokoiinuts @astrozuya @doublasting @yepimthatonequirkyteenager @qaramu @weird-bookworm

#author: wqnwoos #member: jihoon #au: established relationship #lee jihoon #jihoon x reader #jihoon fluff #svt #svt fic rec #reviewsday

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hoshi-island · 8 months

Text

let me start this by saying it is 9:30 am on a wednesday, and i’m sitting in a courthouse waiting for my next hearing to start, hiding my phone under a table like i’m somebody’s dad, texting in temple.

now that i’ve explained the setting, let me tell you how HARD IT IS to not be FERAL over this.

this was 👌🏻 smut, but on top of that, the switch at the end back to goofy junnie 🫠 i’m so unwell rn, especially coming in the wake of half-naked cowboy junhui. this comeback may break me, i fear.

Kinktober Day 10: Bondage + Jun

For 🦕

Rating: M (18+) | WC: ~1.3k

Warnings: use of handcuffs, reader gets held down, fingering, oral f. rec., overstimulation, squirting

“Comfy, babe?” Jun asks kindly, pulling at the bright pink, fluffy cuffs surrounding your wrists to make sure they’re secure. They’re attached to the headboard, stretching your arms out above your head and ensuring you keep your hands to yourself.

“Yeah, Junie, I’m comfy.”

You settle deeper into the cushy bed, spreading your legs as Jun shifts and settles on his stomach in between them. His face is just inches from your dripping pussy, and you try not to squirm as he stares intently at you, his mouth open and his hot breath flowing over your wet folds.

You can’t see him unless you crane your neck and that gets old fast, so you let your head drop down to the bed and decide to just take what he gives you, even if you don’t know what exactly that is. It almost feels like the first time as he starts to explore you, each touch new and unexpected thanks to your lack of view.

You jump when he drags a finger from cunt to clit, gasp when he dips a finger inside, whine when you realize he’s just gathering arousal to ease his movements. Already, you want him inside of you, in whatever sense he’s willing to fulfill.

“Jun, can you please-”

“Shhh, baby, this is about me, remember?”

Oh, right. Jun did ask for a night to just do whatever he wants to you, and you did say yes and plan for it to be this night, which is why you’re handcuffed to the bed.

You suppose that means you don’t get to ask for things, so you resign yourself to hours of beautiful torture. Because as much as Jun can be silly and goofy and sweet, he can also be serious, diabolical, almost maniacal sometimes. And when he’s fascinated with something, he wants to learn everything about it, wants to take it apart and put it back together just to see how it works.

Tonight, you’re that something, and he will take you apart.

But first, it seems, he’ll traverse every square millimeter of your pussy, trace your lips with his fingers and glide over your clit with his thumb, continuing to return to your entrance for more wetness to smear all over you.

It’s obvious when he’s finished exploring, his touch gaining an edge, turning into something more purposeful, more deliberate. Your thighs tremble as he rolls a finger over your clit, the muscles strained by your attempts to keep them spread while he breathes you in and spins you out.

You can feel his eyes on you, even though you can’t see him. You’re used to the sensation, used to Jun looking at you, observing you, perceiving you. In the early days, it made you self conscious, shy. Now, you just feel safe and wanted and loved.

And so fucking needy.

Jun is still taking his sweet time, even if he does seem to have a goal in mind, and it’s getting harder and harder to lay still with him loving you so slowly. The cuffs help, keep you from sinking your hands into his hair and pulling until he gives you what you want, but they also have you so hot, you think you might combust.

Knowing you can’t touch him only makes you want to do it more, your fingers tingling with the desire to feel his soft, smooth skin as he draws leisurely circles around your throbbing clit. His pace nearly has you vibrating out of your skin, and you have to swallow down the urge to shout at him to just do something already.

You didn’t say it but he must have sensed it, because the next thing you know, he’s got his lips wrapped around your aching bundle of nerves and two of those long fingers buried deep inside you.

A shiver wracks your body, your back arching with the sudden intense pleasure as a sharp moan fills the room. Forgetting you’re tethered to the bed, you try to bring your hands down to his head to hold him in place before the handcuffs stop you, the metal clanking against the wooden spindles of the headboard as you whine and pout.

Jun ignores you, starts curling his fingers and searching, searching, searching until he finds your g-spot and then, it’s over for you. He prods the rough patch on the front of your walls and spreads his fingers, fucking them in and out of you just fast enough to send your heart racing. His mouth stays busy on your clit, licking and sucking and, once, nibbling, the little grunts and groans that escape him vibrating against you as he builds you up.

You can hear how wet you’re getting, every beckon of his fingers pulling a slick sound from between your legs. You can feel it too, in the wet spot forming underneath you on the bed and in the way his fingers seem to glide within you. He starts rocking his hand and you rock with it, but apparently that’s not allowed either, his free hand clamping down on your hip to hold you down.

You know he’d be talking to you if his mouth wasn’t preoccupied but you can’t say you mind it this way. The silence makes it hotter, makes every noise amplified, including the ones coming from you. Your eyes flutter closed, and the difference between looking at the ceiling and seeing nothing but vague light sources is stark.

Like this, you can feel everything. Every inch of his long fingers filling you up, every drag of his tongue against you, every pulse of his plump lips around your swollen clit. It all pushes you closer to the edge, and when he works a third finger inside of you, you’re done for.

You cum hard, your mouth open in a silent, gasping wail as he fucks you through it, his fingertips grinding into your g-spot relentlessly. He doesn’t let up; if anything, he pushes you more, groaning insistently into you like he wants you to do something. You don’t understand until you feel another wave rising up in you, one that feels like you just might flood him.

You’ve never squirted before, but you think he’s going to make it happen and there’s nothing you can do about it. You wish you’d had the forethought to lay down a towel but you suppose-

Oh.

Oh fuck.

“Jun,” you call out in a wobbly voice as you cum. He just whines and sucks harder in response, his fingers long and perfect inside of you, tapping your g-spot with devastating accuracy. You can feel the arousal flowing out of you, feel the splash of it against your thighs, feel the way Jun jerks and shivers between your thighs as you coat him in you.

When he still doesn’t stop, you curl your legs up and try to turn on your side, and he finally pulls away, gasping for air.

“That was so hot,” he pants, smoothing his hands down your legs before bracing himself and sitting up on his knees. There’s a wet patch on the front of his sweats, and he glances down at it before sheepishly biting his lip and giggling, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs.

“Too hot, maybe,” he jokes as he climbs off the bed and strips, tossing his boxers and pants in the hamper and going to the bathroom. You hear water start to hit the shower floor and start to wonder if he’s gotten in without you when he comes back, jogging into the room with concern on his face.

“Sorry, babe, just gotta find the key.”

“What do you mean 'find the key’? Did you know where it was when you locked these?”

“Yeah, I for sure did,” he nods his head, backing away from the bed with his hands behind his back just as your eye starts twitching.

If he doesn’t find the key soon, he better hope it stays lost.

Kinktober Masterlist

Taglist: @aaniag @shuabby1994 @gyuwoncheol @aestheticsluut @bahng-chrizz @princessjazzyjazz @8queenc8 @soonhoonietrash @carat-deobi-writes @chans-wife @scuzmunkie @hipsdofangirl @onlyoneofdeeznutz @charmante-mp3 @honestlydopetree @hyneyedfiz @ngengngeng @plskillme22 @5xiang @onedumbho3 @tigerhoshi25 @ener-energy @heavenly-mobo @kingleysworld @iammisstora @jadeblackwoll @gyuhanniescarat @horanghater @shuadotcom @crookedwolfruins @pegdenki @burningupp-replies @flickhurstyles @yearnoclock @yoonguurt @itza-meee @riiley @xxtingz @wonuqrtz @dkswife @onlyyjeonghan @northerngalxy @ikooca @replay-by-shinee @weebotakuboy @ellesmoon @tomodachiii @kyeominara @lissiesykes @thepoopdokyeomtouched @mixling-blog @jadeblackwoll @luvkpopp @tunaasan @sliceofwoozi @valentxi @bangantokchy @jacixbliss @98-0603 @jeanjacketjesus @leechanswhore @s00buwu @porridgesblog @taesungx @yunjinified @booshui @brattybunfornct @exo-saranghajaaa @euphoriaeli @bratty-tingz @mcarebearsstuff @freshdetectivenight @lexix001 @hoe4wooyoung @certifiedmoa @universefactory96 @i4kt @iwishiwasthemoontonight @kokoiinuts @christopherbahngswife @flwrshwa @dontlookatotheroppas @anthropologymajorkpopmultistan @feat-sun @ogpbj @0325tiny

#minors do not interact #author: sluttywoozi #member: junhui #au: established relationship #wen junhui #junhui smut #junhui x reader #svt #svt fic rec #reviewsday

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hoshi-island · 8 months

Text

i wrote an extremely long review of this, but tumblr simply yeeted it into the abyss without saving it as a draft or anything, so….. i re-typed the whole thing… and the exact same thing happened… twice.

ANYWAYS, HERE IS MY FOURTH ATTEMPT TO POST A REVIEW FOR THIS FIC!

behold, my stream of consciousness aka descent into madness:

i’m .5 seconds in and i’m already obsessed with their dynamic. 🆘

this is it, lads: canon. you always do such an incredible job with your characterizations of the members — like, here’s jeonghan, right here!

i love this bit! 😭

this is quite possibly the most i’ve ever been endeared to a mc/reader. i may be in love with them? 🫠

THE ECHO THOUGH?! one of my favorite literary devices, omg. i’m such a slut for a callback. i want 2 kiss ur brain.

SCREAMING CRYING PASSING OUT OH MAN THIS LITTLE TEASE IS GOING TO BREAK ME

louder, with feeling: I WANT 2 KISS YOUR BRAIN. fuck, what a perfect way to tie all of this together. please come scoop me off the floor; just throw me in the trash because this is it for me.

j, in the four-ish months i’ve been a carat, you’ve quickly become my favorite svt writer on this stupid site. you have such a unique and charming voice to your writing that has me wanting to sprint laps around my office building rn to get out some of this feral energy (??)

anyways, 10000000/10, would demand at gunpoint that a friend read this 🔫😌

ELECTRIC. - y.jh

your best friend is many things. smart, funny, empathetic, a complete and utter pain in your ass to name but a few. and on the evening of his twenty-eighth birthday, you discover something a little unexpected: jeonghan is very afraid of thunderstorms.

pairing : jeonghan x fem reader. content : f2?. smut. fluff. a bit of angst. comfort. (MINORS DNI) w/c : 6.3k warnings : swearing. jeonghan has astraphobia / a fear of storms (for a brief period, he's a little fragile). intentional lowercase. smut tags utc. PLEASE let me know if i've forgotten anything. notes : happy birthday to this sweetest of sweethearts. i would chew my right arm off if he asked me to. (barely proofread. if you see a typo, no you didn't.<3)

smut tags : pussy drunk jeonghan (my beloved), no real power dynamics but jh is a cocky mf and a bit of a dick, panty sniffing hehe, fingering, oral sex (f rec), reader is turned on by the storm. they're very unserious about it.

the lead actors meet in a kiss. the screen fades to black. so ends yet another round of your annual birthday movie nights.

jeonghan reaches for the remote and silences the end credit theme to the film you’ve just finished watching at the same time as you lift your head up off his shoulder, stretching high above your head and letting out perhaps the loudest yawn (-stroke-moan) of your life. your joints ache from too long spent in one, rather cramped, position, your eyes feel heavy in the late hour. the room falls almost silent around you both, save for the harsh splashing of rain against the windows.

(this really doesn’t help the fact that you’re seconds away from falling asleep.)

“what did you think?” jeonghan asks, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

“not my best pick,” you say, scrunching your nose a little. “not my worst, either.”

your best friend gives a short ‘ha’ of agreement, finally standing up off the couch. “couldn’t have said it better myself.”

he gathers up the takeout boxes currently decorating his coffee table and grabs the now empty drinks glasses with his free hand, grunting softly as he stands fully upright again. you see him trying to roll out a kink in his neck and laugh from where you’re still settled comfortably in the couch cushions.

“you’re going stiff in your old age,” you tease him, grinning brightly. he fires a look at you that simultaneously dares you to keep going down this path, and yet also, tiredly agrees. “remind me to book you a good massage for your birthday next year.”

he grunts something that sounds suspiciously like an instruction to go fuck yourself as he takes his leave from the room, carrying everything that needs to be thrown away or washed up into the kitchen. you busy yourself on your phone while he’s gone, deciding to check in on your weather app. you quite like the rain and you’re really not that worried about driving home in it; you’re just curious how long it’s going to last for.

in the delay of the app opening, a series of bright flashes bounce off every single wall in the living room. when you glance outside, the rain is falling harder than before; barely ten seconds later, a thunderclap roars through the ajar windows and you feel it all the way down into your tummy.

you don’t have a chance to excitedly run across the room to get a look at the storm, though. a loud swear and the sound of crashing glass stings your eardrums before the rumble is even over. instead, you’re bolting through in the same direction jeonghan disappeared off in just moments ago, your heart having taken dangerous residence your stomach.

“what’s wrong?!” you ask as you skid around the corner in your socks, just managing to catch yourself from sliding straight into the wall at the end of the hallway. “i heard a—”

you freeze, then, falling silent. jeonghan is gripping onto the kitchen counter like his life depends on it with both shattered glasses laying at his feet; he looks like he’s seen a ghost, all white-knuckled and clammy and pale-lipped. it’s terrifying.

“hey,” you say, slowly making your way into the room, mindful not to startle him and even more careful not to stand on one of the many shards on the laminate. “what happened? are you okay?”

he nods, weakly. swallows hard. blinks a few times, curls and uncurls his fingers, steps back from the counter.

“yeah,” he breathes eventually, uncertain and still visibly shaken. he wipes his palms on his sweatpants and looks over at you, forcing a smile, but you’ve known him for entirely too long to be sold on this terrible performance. “i, uh-...”

but jeonghan stops short, shaking his head, running out of words to say. for a moment, you think maybe he’s about to apologise; that’s the shape his lips make, anyway. you cut in before he gets the chance.

“it’s okay,” you say, leaning one hip up against the counter. “go sit down, i’ll clear all this up. watch where you stand, though.”

“you don’t have to–” he starts, but you interject before he can even entertain the idea of cleaning the mess himself.

“i know i don’t, but i want to. go. i’ll only be a minute.”

begrudgingly, he agrees; you grab the broom from his kitchen cupboard and start slowly sweeping the broken glass into a dustpan while he carefully steps on the safe parts of the floor and makes his way back through to the living room. you make reasonably quick work of everything, emptying the fragments into the bin on top of the takeout boxes – all that’s left by the time you’re finished a couple of minutes later, is to try and figure out what caused all this in the first place.

jeonghan isn’t an easily shaken individual; you know this from years of experience. he seems to be able to catch you every time, without fail: whether he’s just popping out at you from behind a door and making you yelp, or he’s near-on giving you heart failure by texting you that something terrible has happened and that you need to come over, immediately, only for said ‘terrible’ thing to be that he got really comfy on the couch without making any popcorn. but regardless of all the numerous ways he manages to terrorise you, you’ve never, ever managed to do the same back to him.

he’s always shrugged off your attempts, bragging that he just isn’t afraid of anything. so… you’re not really any closer to finding an answer at the time of going back through to the living room with your backpack slung over one shoulder.

“you wanna tell me what happened in there?” you ask, sitting down next to him on the couch. you’re sure his posture is supposed to be an attempt to convince you that he’s absolutely fine, now, but jeonghan looks stiff and is outright refusing to meet your eyes, despite your best attempts. again, unfortunately, you aren’t so easily fooled.

“i just came over dizzy,” he lies, doing his best to play it down. “maybe i stood up too fast and had a delayed reaction, i don’t know.”

“i’ve known corpses get up faster than you did, hannie,” you deadpan, laying one hand by his knee. “come on. that’s crap.”

he doesn’t quite jerk away from you, but you do feel his thigh muscles tense under your touch. you slide your palm down onto the couch between you instead in an effort to make him a tiny bit more comfortable.

“it’s nothing,” he tries. “really. it’s–”

“jeonghan–”

“y/n.”

the room around you falls silent, both of your stubborn personalities at a stalemate. he won’t talk, and you won’t let him stay quiet. it’s been this way for years. since you were teenagers, even. you’d think he would have learned by now. (he hopes that you might have, too.)

but, there is a fact at play that makes you stop staring him down, and you relax your shoulders slightly as you sit forwards.

“i’m only letting this go because it’s your birthday,” you sigh, clasping your hands together. “if it was any other day of the week–”

“yeah, yeah. trust me. i know.”

there’s an edge to his voice that almost sounds like your jeonghan. like the teasing menace you know and adore. almost. it’s missing something. missing his usual spark.

“i swear to god, though, if i find out you’re sick and you’re not telling me,” you mutter under your breath. not quite under your breath enough, mind – he hears you perfectly, and you can see, out of the corner of his eye as you start to rummage through your backpack for your car keys, the way his ears prick up.

“don’t be stupid, i’m not sick,” he says. the truth in these words, specifically, is evident in the weight of his voice, in the way his fingers brush against the small of your back. “i swear.”

“pinky swear?” you ask, turning to look at him over one shoulder.

he holds out his little finger on his right hand for you, both eyebrows raised in a silent challenge. you pinch your lips tight before hooking your own pinky through his, leaning in and pressing a short kiss to the pad of your thumb. the way you used to when you were kids. ‘you really can’t break those.’ he used to say. ‘they’re like, triple the strength’. saved for really important promises. when he does the same, you know you can believe him.

“okay,” you concede, going back to your search. “in that case – i think i’m gonna head on home before the roads get flooded.” you had to learn the hard way that the drains in this part of town aren’t known for their ability to handle much more than a middling rainfall.

somehow – always, somehow – buried at the very bottom of your backpack, you manage to find your keys and your hand curls around them as soon as you feel one of the rough edges against your fingertips. it’s barely been three seconds since your announcement, but jeonghan has managed to shuffle right into your personal bubble anyway and is now sitting with one arm pressed fully against your own.

“i don’t know if it’s safe to drive when it’s like this,” he says quietly. “it seems dangerous.”

“i think i’ll be okay if i leave, like, soon,” you try to reassure him.

“you think,” he repeats, narrowing his eyes at you.

“i’ve driven in so much worse, believe me,” you say. “don’t worry, i’ll be careful.”

“why don’t you just stay the night?” he offers. “you’re not working tomorrow, are you?”

“i’m not,” you confirm, and you do genuinely consider the offer for a moment before deciding to decline. “but i need a shower, and–”

jeonghan interrupts you, a little too quickly. “you can use my shower, i’ve got spare towels. i’ll sleep on the couch. don’t drive in this.”

“hannie, stop worrying,” you laugh, starting towards the door. “i promise, i’ll go slow and i’ll text you the second i’m home.”

“y/n,” he sighs, stepping towards you, jaw tense. “please. just this once.”

you swallow, looking all over his face, trying to figure out what train of thought the cogs behind his eyes are turning in tune with, why he’s so stressed about this. you’ve never known him behave like this sober. (you’ve only ever known him to be like this once, at all, and he tried to kiss you, then, so–)

“i really…” you start, only to be interrupted by another brilliant white flash. your eyes dart to the window just in time to see the lightning bolt through the clouds, and you feel your face noticeably soften in wonder. barely four seconds later – it’s getting closer – the loudest thunder clap you think you’ve heard in your life drowns out every thought you’ve ever had.

every thought, except the sudden pressure of jeonghan’s fist around your forearm. every thought, except the stuttered gasp he lets slip. every thought, except the sudden fear in his too-wide-eyes.

oh, you think, realisation dawning on you as the blunt press of his nails grows just a fraction softer in time with the end of the rumble. that’s…

“it’s okay,” you say softly, taking a step closer to jeonghan and opening your arms for him to step into. “it’s okay. i’m here.”

he falls against you like an unsteady house of cards, his arms tight around your back and his head buried into the place in your shoulder where it fits the best. you’ve never seen him like this, and you’re not really sure what to do with yourself; he’s always been the sturdy one, between the two of you. he’s always been your rock. there’s a little bit of an irony in how he’s always been the one to help you weather the storm, but with the shoe on the other foot…

“how can i help you?” you ask, trailing your fingers up and down his back, not really sure that he can feel you through the thick material of his sweatshirt but you’re trying your best, anyway.

he squeezes you tighter, buries his head further down into your shoulder, takes a few shaky breaths in through his mouth and screws his eyes shut a little more before he makes his request.

“please stay with me.”

if your heart wasn’t aching for him before, it most certainly is now. you nod to the room at large, hoping jeonghan can feel the movement even a little. you don’t loosen your hold around him, though: you let your best friend cling to you for as long as his muscles will allow before they start to ache and he has to step away.

“come with me,” you say once he’s finished running his fingers through his hair, trying to set it back to rights. “it’s okay.” you hold one of your hands out to him and he takes it, albeit apprehensively; giving his palm a squeeze with your own, you guide him through the apartment towards his bedroom.

“what are you–?” he asks, and despite his earlier hesitance to hold onto your hand, he doesn’t want to let go of you now you’ve reached your destination. he just stands next to you, fingers threaded through yours, looking at your face with tired eyes and a lifted brow.

“grab your bedsheets,” you tell him, shaking your hand free. “and your pillows. we’re gonna make a fort.”

“a what?”

“a blanket fort,” you say. “to hide from the storm.”

he doesn’t say anything for a moment, and for a brief second, you think maybe the idea has offended him. his face hasn’t lifted into the smile you sort of expected it to; instead, he’s just staring down at his bed as if he’s trying to will himself out of existence.

“we don’t have to do all that,” he says. “it’s… that’s way too much?”

“it’s your birthday,” you counter. “and i want to make you a birthday fort. like we used to, when we were kids. it’ll be fun!”

he gives a little sigh, but it’s not one of sadness or exasperation with you. it’s defeat. except, you think if you could taste it, you’d be able to pick up a tiny lacing of sweetness in his exhale.

“fine. you’re building it, though.”

you think it’s safe to say that perhaps, you’re a bit out of practice. you distinctly remember this being much easier when you were young: throwing bedsheets and blankets over the couch and propping them up with chairs or broomsticks. the forts that you would make as a child were, truly, a sight to behold: you used fairy-lights to decorate one, once, and it still remains one of your most prideful projects to date. the slight catastrophe that sits in jeonghan’s living room by the time you’ve finished laying out the last few pillows is… more a cave, in your opinion, and not a very pretty one, but you emerge from it smiling anyway and jeonghan looks at you so fondly that no matter how rubbish it is, it’s worth the half an hour you spent putting it together.

“what do you think?” you ask, sitting back on your heels.

“it’s not your best,” jeonghan teases as he walks towards your monstrosity masterpiece, critically eyeing the ‘roof’ that would definitely fail any kind of health and safety audit. “but it’s not your worst, either.”

a bright smile lights up your face as he drops down to his knees and crawls inside the space alongside you, letting the ‘door’ (a particularly thick blanket) fall down behind him. one of the (many, many, many, many, many) problems you encountered was trying to make one of these to fit two grown adults, but with him tucked away inside with you and a few flashlights to prevent you from being plunged into darkness… ignoring the potential for it all to come collapsing in on you at any given time, it’s surprisingly comfortable.

you lay back against the pillows first and jeonghan follows soon after, a weirdly gleeful smile playing at his lips as he does. he curls into your side and you talk, and talk, and talk. about everything. about nothing. it doesn’t really matter.

you’re not quite sure why, but the deep roars of the storm outside don’t seem to bother jeonghan quite as much in here. maybe it’s because he’s not alone, and there’s no imminent threat for him to be: maybe your company really is making a difference. he still reaches for you every time there’s a particularly loud clap, still closes his eyes and takes a series of deep breaths until his stress passes, but for whatever reason, he feels significantly less tense.

and when, after the third boom, he decides just… not to let go of your hand? who are you to try and force him?

there’s… just one problem, though. you’re ecstatic that the storm isn’t bothering jeonghan as much, now. that he can talk absolute nonsense to you in your private little hideaway, that he can lean his head against your shoulder and chuckle at your bad jokes and even crack a few of his own. genuinely, you could not be happier. for him.

but there was more reason than wanting to sleep in your own bed that had you desperately trying to get home before you realised the gravity of your best friend’s situation.

with every new growl of thunder outside, something low in your stomach twists, accompanied by an ache, a warmth, a throbbing between your thighs. at first, it was easy enough to battle through. you kept telling yourself that the thunder never lasts too long, that you could get through this without jeonghan being any the wiser, that everything was going to be fine. but now, almost an hour later, the buzz of electricity in the atmosphere and the entirely-too-addicting scent of your best friend’s fabric softener has you feeling hot enough you could faint.

you twist and shuffle over and over, hoping to find a position that eases the throbbing. it’s fine, you think, taking a deep breath and praying to every deity you can recall by name that jeonghan doesn’t notice your discomfort. i can do this. it’s fine. just a little while longer.

a spectacular boom sounds through the apartment and jeonghan’s fingers tighten around yours so much that, against all your better judgement, you let out a loud gasp. not out of pain, though – no, you wish. if only it was that easy. ha. no – as he squeezes your hand, images flash through your mind of him being the one to relieve you of the tension building up beneath your skin. of him gripping and grasping and tugging, thrusting, tasting, adoring. your throat runs dry and you squeeze your thighs together desperately, pinching your lips tight, willing your pounding heart to calm the fuck down. willing your cunt to stop drooling into your panties.

“fuck,” you breathe when he finally lets go. you feel him shuffle at your side and prop himself up on one elbow, looking down at your face with mild terror written into the lines of his own.

“i’m so sorry – did that hurt?” he asks, searching your eyes for any kind of clue. you wish he wouldn’t. surely, you think, pressing your tongue harshly against the roof of your mouth, surely my pupils are blown to oblivion, right now.

you shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak.

“are you sure?” he asks, slowly running his fingers down your arm, moving to take hold of your hand again if you’ll let him. you flinch, the drag of his nails akin to an electric shock – like being struck by lightning, you tell yourself – and he snaps his hand back straight away. “what’s wrong?”

“nothing,” you hurry, pushing yourself up to sit (almost head-butting him in the process) and groaning at the way the seam on your jeans rubs against your clit. who wears fucking jeans to a movie night? what absolute moron–

“do you feel okay?” jeonghan questions, sitting fully upright now too. “do you think it was the foo–”

“oh my god, please,” you whimper, bowing your head, letting your hair fall around your face, shielding you from him. just a little. not quite enough. “please. i’m fine. stop asking. i’m fine.”

“said everyone, ever, who was in fact – not fine,” jeonghan quips. “do you need water? i can help, just talk to me–”

“jeonghan,” you snap, whipping your head back up. your face feels hot and you don’t know if you’ve ever felt this tense before in all your years on this earth. all your muscles are tweaking in anticipation for something that most certainly is not going to happen, and you really need him to stop talking in that deep, smooth, caring voice. with immediate effect. for the love of god –

…and heaven above, the penny drops.

jeonghan’s concerned expression turns to one of complete shock and you cover your face with both hands, trying so desperately hard not to be perceived by him in this most humiliating of moments. he doesn’t say anything for a second, and you tell yourself that he’s probably trying to find either a terrible joke to ease the tension or a way to tell you to go home. you don’t know which would be worse, but it’s only a matter of time until you find out.

therefore, you definitely don’t expect him to pry your hands away from your cheeks, and for his shit-eating, impishly charming, handsome-as-fuck grin to be the first thing your eyes land on when you open them.

“really? thunderstorms?” he asks, close enough that you feel the breaths that his words don’t quite steal. “that’s your kink?”

“it’s not a kink,” you whine, throwing your hands down either side of you. he doesn’t release his hold on your wrist, though. “come on, don’t be–”

“of all the things you could be into,” he says. oh, he’s back. he’s back with a vengeance. you suppose, really, you should be glad that he’s feeling more like his usual self, but the fact that it’s at your expense? that there’s no-one else around for him to turn on instead? that this is your topic of conversation at ten past midnight on his living room floor?

“hannie, please,” you huff, lips drawing downwards into a frowning pout. the ache isn’t going away. why isn’t it going away? why is this cocky, smirking version of your best friend making you feel even hotter under the collar? what’s going on? “don’t you think i’ve suffered enough?”

“not even nearly,” he says, sitting up on his knees, resting his palms on his thighs. “since when? how did you even fig–”

boom.

and his jaw falls slack, watching you squirm.

you’re quite literally fighting for your life. or, at minimum, for your friendship. because, really, you could jump jeonghan’s bones right now and you don’t actually think he’d turn you down (something to be filed under: thoughts that are not making this any easier). but that’s not what you’re trying to do; you’re trying to help him feel better, and take his mind off his fear, and when he pulls his bottom lip between his bottom teeth before speaking –

“okay, wait. hear me out.”

to both of your surprises, you do. you don’t try and protest, which he was sort of expecting you to do. you don’t tell him to shut up, you don’t try and get away from him. you sit there, eyes wide, hands curling into the blankets beneath your slowly numbing ass, and you wait for him to continue.

“i can help you.”

your heart shoots up into your throat and you struggle to swallow around it. your breaths are heavy, laboured, your lips parted and a little swollen from how you’ve been biting at them for the past hour and a bit.

“you don’t have to–”

“shut up, y/n,” he says dismissively, crawling in front of you and lifting your hands away from the bedding you’re kneading (pathetically, in his professional opinion) like a cat. “listen. you’ve helped me so much tonight, you don’t even know. let me return the favour.”

“hannie…”

“hannie,” he whines, in a poor imitation of your voice. “hannie, i only helped you because you needed me– is that it? look at you, y/n. you’re a mess.”

if this were anyone else, you’d be livid. not only at the way he so effortlessly makes fun of you, but at the fact that he accurately finished your sentence without having anything more than an affectionate nickname to work from as a hint. you don’t know what to say, suddenly stunned into silence, but it’s all right. you don’t need to say anything; he keeps going.

“you need me. let me help you – look. it’s my birthday.”

he wants this, you think to yourself, growing slightly concerned by the way your heart continues to hammer in your throat. he wants… me.

you give one slow, but definite, nod of your head and jeonghan’s grin grows from cocky to genuine. he crawls until he’s right up in your space, lifting a hand to your cheek, and you forget how to breathe for a moment as he looks you in the eyes with more heat than the mid-august sun.

“lie down,” he says, pushing that last little bit closer and capturing your lips in a kiss. it’s short, but mind-boggling. your brain goes totally blank when he pulls away. “it’s okay. i’ve got you.”

but you do as he says and shuffle around the little fort so you’re on your back, head resting against one of the many pillows you’re grateful you brought in here with you. he crawls on top of you, then, caging you in with one hand either side of your head, settling with one of his knees slotted between your just-parted thighs.

“okay?” he asks, searching your face for any signs of discomfort or worry. he doesn’t find any, though – he’s met only with a perhaps too enthusiastic nod and your hands playing at the hem of his sweatshirt. he chuckles, bending down to kiss you again, a little deeper this time, a little longer. open-mouthed and hot, swiping his tongue over your bottom lip, dropping onto one elbow so his torso lies almost flush against yours.

“easy, tiger. taking care of you, right now.”

you sigh as his lips start to descend down the column of your throat, and you press your shoulders back into the blankets to try and push that little bit closer to him. one of his hands slips beneath your own shirt and his palm comes to rest flush against your hip, dragging his thumb in small circles over your skin.

“this,” he mumbles into your collarbone, tugging the neckline of the garment between his teeth for a moment so you know what he’s referring to. “off.”

“bossy,” you mumble, your body cold all of a sudden as he sits back away from you and you tug your t-shirt off over your head. as you do, he reaches behind his neck and tugs off his sweatshirt as well before he tosses it up near your head, out of the way.

now, this is certainly not the first time you’ve ever been around jeonghan without anything covering his top half, but it is something that you rarely get the chance to see. if it’s not the fact that he’s chronically freezing cold, it’s because he’s grown emotionally attached to some of the baggiest tops known to mankind, or he’s worried about getting a sunburn so is still covered up at the beach. for one reason or another, this just isn’t something you’re blessed to see very often, and he looks so good you almost forget that it’s him.

of course, that only lasts until he says something really fucking dumb. in other words, all of about three seconds.

“how… practical,” he says, eyes trained down on the bra covering your tits. in a way, it’s probably a good thing you’ve snapped back to your senses, because you once again find yourself thinking that if this were anyone else, you’d have told them to get off you and never call you again.

but why is jeonghan, of all people, criticising your choice of comfy underwear… weirdly endearing?

“sorry,” you grunt, making no effort to hide the (flesh-toned, full-coverage, entirely too old) bra that he’s looking at like it’s personally offending him. “didn’t expect to need to impress, tonight.”

“don’t be sorry,” jeonghan says, shaking his head as he unpops the button on your jeans and tugs them down over your hips. “just… do better next time, yeah?”

you laugh so suddenly, so abruptly, so loudly that you choke on your own spit and end up coughing a little, propping up on one elbow to try and relieve the burn in your lungs as he continues to work your pants off your legs. by the time he scrunches them into a ball and puts them to the side, too, you’ve managed to catch your breath, and gasp out, “next time?”

“next time,” he nods, making himself comfortable between your thighs. he lays one palm on the inside of each knee, pushing them as far apart as your hips will allow, before he brings one hand over your covered cunt and drags his thumb up and down your slit.

you don’t even get a chance to ask why he’s so sure there’ll be a next time. he skillfully works you through the material and in seconds, has you tipping your head back into the pillows, moaning at the overwhelming feeling of finally being touched.

“so fucking wet,” he sighs, feeling your arousal through the cotton of your underwear, pressing the material between your folds. his thumb circles your clit over and over, the pressure just right – not so light that he’s teasing, not so hard that you’re squirming away from him. hell, if you knew he was this good, you’d have dragged him into bed years ago.

“come on, hannie,” you gulp as he starts to work his thumb faster, starts to massage at your inner thigh with his other hand. “need more…”

well, he doesn’t need to be told twice. you lift your hips and he tugs your panties down your thighs, unhooking them from around your ankles. you expect him to, you know, return to business, but he does something just a little bit unhinged first and brings your soaked underwear up to his face. you hear how deeply, how loudly he inhales, the subsequent groan he gives even louder, and you swear the reason you end up bumping his hip with your knee is to bring him back to earth, because it actually feels like he’s forgotten you’re lying right there.

“i’ll do it myself, in a minute,” you threaten, and jeonghan grins wickedly down at you as he lowers your panties down to join the rest of your discarded clothes.

“no you won’t,” he tells you – he tells you? – , finally now lying down between your legs, just inches away from your glistening cunt. “god – as if i’d ever let that happen.”

“i swear– ” you start, half a second before one of his fingers presses against your hole. you stop talking with a gasp, a hand flying to your chest and squeezing against your tit. just like that. in a heartbeat, you’re done for.

he seems intent on gathering as much of your arousal on his fingertip as he possibly can, running it through your folds, pressing it inside you, smearing your slick all over and then some like a fucked-up painting. only once he’s satisfied does he finally start to work his finger in and out, pressing his lips just above where your clit is begging for his attention.

“don’t play stupid,” you chide him when he looks up at you through his lashes, eyes wide and feigning innocence. “if you can find it through my underwear, you can find it now.”

“bossy,” jeonghan tuts. “what’s with the rush, huh?”

and he adds another finger to the first, both long and elegant and reaching spots inside you that your own physically can’t. you keen against your will, hips reacting of their own accord, trying to fuck your pussy down against his hand. he makes no effort to stop you.

“m’not gonna beg,” you tell him. “just – fuck, get your mouth on me. now.”

to his credit, he does.

and more to his credit, being eaten out has never, ever felt this good.

the hand not grasping at your chest shoots down to tangle in his long, silky hair, and jeonghan moans loudly against your pussy as he laves his tongue everywhere he can. over your clit, between your folds, slipping it inside your hole in place of his fingers – he’s relentless, slurping and groaning and finding some sort of insane stamina from somewhere deep in his soul. you swear to god, this is not the man who sometimes falls asleep with his light on because he doesn’t have the energy to get up and turn them off.

within a matter of minutes, you can feel the coil in the pit of your stomach growing tighter and tighter, your walls fluttering around his fingers, your moans and whines only getting louder by the minute. your legs are shaking. your thoughts are little more than static, and him. at some point – you don’t know when –, jeonghan reached around your hips to pull your thighs together and clamped them around his ears, mumbling against your clit something to the effect of to help with the thunder. (you don’t mention that there hasn’t actually been another thunder crack since he started making out with your pussy. it doesn’t feel relevant, somehow.)

every time you tighten your thighs, every time you squirm, he hugs you tighter against his cheeks and you just end up humping against his tongue. something tells you maybe that was the plan all along?

sparks of energy start to prickle all over your skin as you teeter on the edge of your high. your fist tightens in jeonghan’s hair, your breaths become fewer and further between. it’s frankly a bit of a miracle you’ve even managed to last this long – you held back as long as you could, determined to milk as much of the pleasure his hands and his mouth so skillfully bring as you can. just in case there’s no next time, but… hell, do you hope there is.

“hannie, i’m–” you gasp, his fingers curling upwards again and resuming their earlier assault on your g-spot. “fuck, hannie, i’m so close–”

“mm, have been for a while, huh?” he asks, drawing his mouth away from you, licking his tongue over his arousal-slickened lips. “you’ve been holding out on me.”

“yeah, but-... i wanna come so bad,” you swallow. jeonghan flicks his tongue out over your clit again and you jolt up into the touch. “please, don’t stop.”

“won’t,” he promises. and it’s the last thing he says before his lips meet your pussy again and he brings you over the edge into the most electrifying of climaxes.

by the time you’ve stopped twitching with the aftershocks of your orgasm, jeonghan is sat up on his knees again, softly massaging at your hips with his thumbs. your vision is still kind of fuzzy at the edges when you glance up at him, and for a moment, with a hazy outline and an amber glow behind him owed to the flashlight you set at the entrance to the fort, you think he looks a little too much like an angel.

“where the hell did that come from?” you ask him, fighting against the squirming in your belly. fighting against the sensation that feels a little too much like butterflies.

“really?” he asks in a breathy laugh. “that’s-... i mean, do you actually want to know, or…?”

you mull this over for a moment before crossing your arms over your eyes and concealing yourself from his view, shaking your head. one part of you is morbidly curious as to how he got so good at giving head. the other part of you is too busy trying to gather the brain cells he just sent flying across about eight different dimensions.

“i think you’ve broken me, jeonghan,” you breathe, feeling more than seeing him lie down next to you again. his lips press sweetly against the curve of your shoulder. warmth radiates from that one spot, all over your body. you smile, like a complete loser.

what’s worse is that you really don’t mind.

“is that a yes, then?” he asks, slinging an arm over your waist. you turn your head to look at him, eyes crossing a little with how unexpectedly close he is.

“yes to what?”

“to next time,” he says. his grin matches yours and you nod your head at him, yes. in your peripheral vision, you notice how he lifts one hand, extends his little finger. straight in front of you, you see both of his eyebrows raise.

you pinch your lips tight before hooking your own pinky through his, leaning in and pressing a short kiss to the pad of your thumb. the way you used to when you were kids. ‘you really can’t break those.’ he used to say. ‘they’re like, triple the strength’.

saved for really important promises.

“to next time.”

thank u so much for reading, i hope you enjoyed this. as always, your likes/reblogs/comments and feedback are always deeply appreciated.<3

#minors do not interact #author: miraclewoozi #member: jeonghan #au: friends to lovers #yoon jeonghan #jeonghan x reader #jeonghan smut #jeonghan fluff #svt #svt fic rec #reviewsday

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hoshi-island · 9 months

Note

i am once again reading smut at 6:30 am instead of getting ready for work, and you know what? i’m not even remotely sorry.

good LORD, this was perfect. i’m actually so delusional right now? like, what do i swoon over first — the voice you write with? the sense of humor? pitiful chan on his terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day? reader holding the boundary and him coming up with a solution i didn’t know would fuck me up the way it did? THE ENDING?

ohhhhhhhh man. oh, this was 10/10, chingu. i’ll be diving into the rest of your masterlist posthaste to find more gems like this one 😵‍💫

it’s a beautifully crisp friday morning and i am thinkin about lying on your back, knees to ur chest and having dino pathetically fuck ur thighs because he forgot to bring a condom to the pussy appointment. that’s it. that’s the thought. he’s close enough to feel the heat radiate from your cunt, close enough to accidentally bump the tip against your clit when he gets too excited, but not close enough to feel your walls hug him with each thrust :( pathetic chan :( PATHETIC. CHAN. :( - 🍿 x

WORDCOUNT ― 2.6k

WARNINGS ― this could be uncomfortable for some because i do have him whining/begging to hit it raw, so some could say there’s a form of manipulation at play.

CONTENT ― chan had a real fucking bad day and needs your hole to heal it, begging to hit it raw, obsessing over thighs, reader has thighs that are enough for him to knead, grinding but it’s only raw on chan’s end.

not proof read.

Chan knows the rules. No condom, no sex.

That’s never been an issue to him, seeing as how you’re both fucking other people pretty consistently. There’s been talk of getting regularly tested, even more talk about how a relationship is most definitely not on the table so, really, you requiring a condom does not bother him in the slightest.

If anything to Chan, you’re a comfort fuck. When he’s had a bad day or too deep in his head, he comes to you, or on you, whatever.

There’s all sorts of personalities he shares with people in bed, but you’re the one who gets this side of him. You’re the one he trusts in terms of rules, and he knows that you’d never over step set boundaries with feelings outside of simply caring for another person and loving the way they fuck you.

Today, though? Oh, today.

It appears the universe is against him and his happiness. First, his tire blows on the freeway and he had to maneuver to the side without being pulverized by the other cars. Second, he gets to work late due to that fucking tire and is immediately laid off due to “internal restructuring”. Lastly, he decides to take the bus home and upon sitting for far too long, he realizes he took the wrong fucking line.

Naturally, he finds himself calling you and hopping on the next bus that leads to your place. He doesn’t explain his day, as usual, he simply states without even a “hello”, that he needs to see you now.

Upon arriving, he’s exhausted, worn down, and very nearly about to ram his head into the closest wall. Thankfully, you’re the saving grace for him, like always. The one good thing that can happen on a day like this is getting between your legs and releasing all of his emotions through that.

Until the universe deals another blow.

“Fuck.” He huffs, already kneeling between your legs and prepared to start that sweet, sweet, release of emotions.

“That sounded detrimental.” You comment, looking up at him from your angle against the pillows, arms reaching out for him and stopping mid way. “What’s up?”

“I didn’t bring condoms.” He sighs, already feeling his length soften at the very idea of not being able to get what he needs this evening.

“Relax, I have some in the drawer.” You rolls your eyes.

He perks up, keeping himself between your legs but bending his long body over you and opening up the drawer.

Nothing.

“Where?” He asks, rummaging through your drawer.

“Are they not there?” You lean up, turning to look for yourself.

Damn, you must really be busy to already be out of condoms by now.

“Oh, I guess I’m out.” You chuckle, shrugging at him and the way he leans back and keeps himself between your legs.

“Please,” He immediately starts. “Just this once.”

You shake your head immediately, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Once always turns into again, and again, and again.” You argue, shoving him back by your foot and feeling his body tense up in an attempt to stay in place between your legs.

“You’re on birth control right? Please, I don’t think you understand how badly I need this today.”

You pretend like you’re thinking, but the answer will always be no.

“Chan, you’re not fucking me raw. Come prepared next time.”

He sighs in defeat, not wanting to push too hard, accepting your “no” at face value but still wallowing in his own pity over it.

Then, his eyes trail to your panties, sitting nicely with a little spot at the seat of them, showing him that you were ready to take it had he come with everything he needed for this. He could cry, maybe. The universe is truly against him.

His eyes continue to stare, trailing up and down your legs. His brain is really trying to comprehend that he’s about to have to stand up and off of this bed, and get another bus home. He’s jobless, carless for the moment, and now, perhaps the worst of it all, he’s pussy-less.

You watch him as he stares, unsure if he’s aware of the pout on his face. You’ve never seen him so desperate for it. Still, no is no and he’s going to have to figure something out. You’re not asking why he needs to fuck you so badly today, despite the curiosity, you’re also not going to say no if he finds a work around to this.

“I should just leave, then, I guess.” He says in a solemn voice, still not budging from between your legs.

“You’re really just going to act like foreplay doesn’t exist?” You try to encourage him to realize there are other fun things to do outside of just, like, the actual penetration.

He doesn’t look you in the eye as his brain spills with thoughts. He needs to fuck. He could ask for a handjob, or even a blowjob, but none of that compares to the way your pussy squeezes around him. Nothing compares to the slick, warm heat that spills around him when he’s pushing in, or sliding out. Even with a condom, the sensation is something he chases on days like this and– wait.

Legs. Thighs.

His eyes shoot back to your thighs, and his hands follow. Gripping the back of them, kneading the flesh there. Then, there’s a smile from you, and a twitch in his pants.

“Can I–” He starts, feeling a bit pathetic to even ask such a thing when your pussy is right there, and there’s a gas station that definitely sells condoms a few blocks away if he wanted to walk there and expose himself to you that he’s currently at rock bottom. “God, please,” He continues, not quite asking the question but imagining it nonetheless.

“Hm?” You hum out to him sweetly, feeling his hands knead at your thighs and sensing his urgency for this.

More urgency than usual.

He doesn’t respond with his words, and instead dips his head a bit while both hands push your legs together, mostly to examine how tight he can get your thighs to squeeze. He’s pleased by the image, pulling his head back up and looking at you again, with a pout he doesn’t realize he has.

“You want to fuck my thighs, don’t you?”

The sound that comes from his mouth in response is, arguably, the most pathetic and arousal-laced sound you think you’ve ever heard. All of it because of non-penetrative sex? That little nod he gives is much bigger in your head, it’s not a little nod, it’s a pleading, a begging nod.

And so, you give him what he so clearly needs, with a pleased smile on your face.

First, you squeeze your thighs together tighter for him, bracing your hands under your bent knees and allowing him to press them up and against your chest. Then, you hear the muffled sounds of him shoving his pants down to his own thighs.

It’s strange, really, feeling his cock raw against you for the first time. Given, you’ve gone down on him, you’ve given him handjobs before too, but this is the first time he’s been entirely bare below your waist.

The head of his cock is warm when it prods against your thighs, but the sound that he makes somehow makes you feel warmer. The grip of his hands holding your thighs in place, the look in his eye when he manages to love this just as much as when he’s actually sliding into you.

All of it is warm, like you can feel the way he uses you as a release that’s more than just sexual desire.

For him, he doesn’t quite care that he’s going a bit insane right now. He’s never slid his cock between or into anything without the aid of someone’s arousal, spit, or lubricant. The pre-cum spilling out of him right now is more than enough to lube your thighs to perfection. Shining in the light of your bedroom with each slide of his cock.

You can feel the way he struggles to push past how tightly you’re squeezing your legs together, and fuck, does he feel it too.

His hands grip you harder as he fucks through the small space you offer him. He can tell you’re enjoying yourself, with that smug little grin on your lips as you watch him struggle not to lose his composure.

He stays focused on that release, fucking forward, then back, hard and long thrusts that would typically reach deep inside of you had he brought a condom with him on this dreadful day. To be fair though, it’s not like he wakes up, packs a condom, and expects to fuck someone by the end of it.

He continues this, feeling your legs loosen and tense, offering so many sensations that aren’t quite what he needs, but somehow just enough to please him and have him falling more and more in love with the act of fucking a beautiful pair of thighs.

Maybe it’s because it’s raw, and there’s no barrier to lighten the sensations, or maybe he’s finally gone inside, but fuck. The pre-cum is practically pouring from him as he continues, causing his length to slide in all sorts of ways. No longer just through your thighs, but up and down them too.

Down and down, his cock slips, still fucking forward at a rate that makes him sweat only slightly. Then, he feels it.

The heat radiating from your core beneath those panties. God, it’s so close. He could pull your panties to the side and slip it in right now if you’d give him the confirmation. He could make you feel so good, and he would feel just as good if–

“I can feel how wet you are,” He comments in a slightly choked voice. “is this enough for you?”

You think hard about that. On your own terms, seeing him enjoy himself so blatantly is enough to want him to fuck you, with or without a condom. But, you can’t just let this end right now. He looks too pretty when he’s pathetic. You can see that he’s practically on the verge of tears right now, fucking your thighs in a way he wishes he could fuck you.

“Maybe,” You smile, loosening your thighs only slightly to let his cock fall from between them and land against your clothed core. “It seems to be enough for you.”

He glances at you before staring down at the way you squeeze your thighs together again, essentially locking his cock directly against your wet panties. Without intention, he fucks forward and hears your little gasp.

This, this is definitely enough for you. And him? It’s enough, too.

“Yeah?” He asks, fucking forward and back again, sliding his cock against your throbbing clit through your panties. “Is this what you need from me?”

You’d argue that you need more, but you enjoy the way he seems to be cocky about it right now. So, you nod, relishing in the slide against you.

If he wasn’t going insane before, he definitely is now. With the warmth of you radiating against him, the slick soaking through your panties and coating his cock all the way from the underside of the head to the base– his pre-cum is nothing but a mess against you right now because of it.

Each sound you make when he lends you a rough thrust forward, each little reach of your hands for his strong arms still holding you in place with a bruising grip, it’s driving him to forget he’s not fucking you at all.

The fabric between the two of you acts enough as a barrier, despite his cum seeping through them when he finally gives himself the release he’s been so desperate for.

“Like that,” He groans, tightly fucking himself into the little space you provide between your thighs and clit, urging you to squeeze around him much like your pussy would be doing. “Yeah, just like that.” He continues, pouting once again as he chases the orgasm that’s already vibrating through him.

You smile through it, the sensation of him riding out his orgasm and spilling all over you is enough to get you off in a split second if he were able to focus on hitting your clit every single time, but he doesn’t. His body stutters and shakes through it, and the image alone is enough for you to feel satisfied this time.

And then, there’s nothing but silence and deep breaths from him as he pulls his aching length from your thighs and he rolls onto your side. The relief of feeling your legs fall back to the bed is definitely just as arousing to your body. Not exactly sexually arousing, but honestly, it felt so good to stretch them back out after holding them in place for so long that, well, your body may as well decide to orgasm right then and there after all that.

But it doesn’t, and you turn to look at Chan with curiosity instead.

“You know, you don’t give me a lot of time to prepare for our little meetups. If I’d known more than twenty minutes before you’d be here, I would’ve checked for condoms.”

He groans, still feelings waves of release in his body, ears still ringing.

“It was more last minute for me this time too,” He admits, finally able to take in a full and satisfying breath. “It’s been a rough day.”

You tilt your head and tick your tongue.

“One of these days I’m gonna start asking why you always come to me during a bad day, you know that, right?”

He nods, it’s kind of your right to know why he’s so desperate when he’s with you.

“Yeah,” He nods along with you. “You never really ask though, which is why I keep coming to you when it happens.”

You take that at face value. He probably doesn’t want to talk about a bad day, and you, for some reason, feel prideful in not asking because you assume everyone else would probably force him to talk about it, rather than fuck the frustration away.

“Would it be rude to say that, well,” You pause, realizing it would be very rude, but you’re gonna say it anyway. “I like when you have bad days.”

He deadpan stares at you, seemingly offended, but definitely understanding of why you’d say such a thing.

“You say that like I just fucked you.” He laughs, shaming himself.

“Well, for a while there, it genuinely felt like you were.” You admit this time, eyeing him up and down.

“Yeah, it kind of did, didn’t it?” He smiles, readying himself to stand on his legs despite them still being jelly right now.

“What, you’re already leaving?” You ask.

“Yeah, I kind of need to check the bus schedules and make sure I get on the right line home.”

Something clicks in your head. Chan, who usually drives to your place, is now taking the fucking bus. Oh, but you don’t even know half of what he’s gone through today.

“I could drive you home, you know.”

He was going to refuse, because how much more pathetic would he look being driven home by his very own fuck buddy? Yet, he finds himself nodding.

And you, well, you find yourself driving to the gas station with him instead. Grabbing that box of condoms, wiggling your eyebrows at him, and dragging him straight back to your place.

After all, you didn’t quite get your release yet.

#minors do not interact #author: ncteez #member: chan #au: fuck buddies #lee chan #chan x reader #chan smut #svt #svt fic rec #reviewsday

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hoshi-island · 9 months

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lily………………… i am so, so, so unwell right now?

live footage of me trying to survive all of these ROUNDS (yes, plural! are you trying to kill me? be honest).

i don’t even know where to start, honestly. i think what i love most is how, in addition to this being grade-a smut, you totally, absolutely, completely captured the ESSENCE OF KWON SOONYOUNG. like, his eagerness, his pouty-bbgirl-ness, his non-stop energy — omfg.

he would cum in his pants :/ it’s canon :/ you’re right and you should say it :/

anyways, i adore you and this and i’m now completely unzipped over hoshi ONCE AGAIN.

sick day [m]

pairing: hoshi x f!reader

summary: it is so, so hard to be a career woman when your irresistible fiancé exists—and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy making it harder for you.

tags: switch!hosh, dry humping, oral (m!receiving), unprotected piv sex, fingering, a little manhandling, dirty talk, a touch of evil evil domesticity

wc: 4.4k yes i’m humiliated

you rush to grab your keys off the counter, one hand pawing through the bowl of keychains and the other pulling down the back of the admittedly too-tight dress you decided to wear for your work meeting today.

just as you grab hold of that damn gaudy keychain that your fiancé had gifted you ages ago—his consolation prize from the carny after spending an embarrassing amount at the boardwalk trying to win you a prize on one of your first dates—you hear a low whistle. soonyoung’s been relaxing on the couch, only having perked up upon hearing the jingle of your keys.

Keep reading

#minors do not interact #author: husbandhoshi #member: soonyoung #au: established relationship #kwon soonyoung #soonyoung smut #soonyoung x reader #svt #svt fic rec #reviewsday

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hoshi-island · 9 months

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oh, my GOD.

i don’t know what it is about jihoon, but he just fits so well in fics about pining. i almost feel guilty for how much i love reading about him yearning half to death, but like ??? this was a perfect example of what i mean. the longing here was so palpable and well-written that i (as a reader, lol) kind of feel like i let MC get away? 😵‍💫

and THEN!!! the desperation in the smut, knowing it may be the last time ever and that it’s a terrible terrible idea, but being completely unable to let the moment go to waste!!! oh, i need someone to mop me up off the floor 🫠

this line in particular hit me like a truck:

He’s been addicted to you for years and this relapse is even better than the first time.

absolute 10/10 analogy — indulging in something so intoxicating and harmful (in the long-term) because the craving can’t be ignored, and the short-term pleasure can’t be denied??? OOF.

this was so good 👏🏻 tysm for the gift of angsty jihoon smut 🙇🏻‍♀️

Like I Want You

Summary: Jihoon has one job on your wedding day, but he’s in denial and at the end of it all, he is simply a man.

▸ Pairing: Woozi x AFAB!reader ▸ Rating / Genre / AU: 18+ (MINORS DNI) / angst, smut, pwp / ex2l If you are a minor AND/OR if your account has no age, you will be blocked upon interacting with this post. ▸ Warnings: infidelity, unprotected sex, creampie

▸ Word Count: 2.2k

▸ A/N: I’ve had this little idea from the moment I heard Giveon’s song by the same name ages ago, so it feels great to finally get it out. Big FAT thank yous and kisses to @wooahaeproductions for beta-ing and @shuadotcom for banner-ing!!!

The gentle clack of Jihoon’s dress shoes echoes down the hallway of the grand hotel as he makes his way to your suite. Even though the sound is all around him, it feels tinny and distant compared to the whirlwind of thoughts occupying his mind. All he has to do is deliver your phone, be the courier to prolong his friend’s - your groom’s - viewing of you in your dress a while longer while he prepares separately with his groomsmen. This is supposed to be different. The roles should be reversed. He should be waiting to see you walk down the aisle to him. It’s been years now, but Jihoon would wait a million more if it meant that you’d be back in his arms where you’re meant to be. Maybe if he waits another few minutes the impossible will happen and you’ll call the whole thing off, citing that you need to follow your heart. Maybe your heart would lead you to Jihoon so his could stop trailing behind each of your steps, always just out of reach.

Jihoon shakes his head, attempting to banish the thoughts as he stops in front of your door. Your time as a couple has long gone and all he has to do is deliver your stupid phone.

His entire body leadens as he knocks on your door lightly, knuckles rapping knock-kno-knock in the tune that the two of you have shared forever, even after the two of you agreed to be better as friends.

You answer the door, smiling warmly seeing Jihoon on the other side. He stops breathing. No amount of daydreaming could have prepared him for this. Seeing you with your hair down, perfectly framing your face with a gorgeous veil flipped up is almost enough for him to die happy. Almost. Your dress suits you in every way, a perfect representation of your taste and elegance that Jihoon has always admired.

You look every bit like the one who got away and Jihoon swallows loudly. He thinks his eyes are going to mist before your voice pulls him back to the present. “Earth to Hoonie?” you laugh gently, leaning further out of the doorway and into his personal space. “Is that my phone?”

“O-oh. Yeah, you left this in the other suite last night. Delivery.” He ignores the way your screen lights up to show you and your beau as he hands the device to you. You hum appreciatively as you take it, stepping back to show off the rest of your conspicuously empty room. “Thank you. Why don’t come sit for a bit? I’m sure you could use a break from groomsman duty, right?” Jihoon’s rooted to the spot as he inspects the view behind you. With the way the sun is coming in through the windows, it looks like you’re literally glowing. He tries not to linger too long on how you’re growing more ethereal by the second. “Where’s your party?”

You grab his arm and pull him in; it’s almost like he’s on skates the way he glides into the room under your touch. “I told the girls I’d be down in a bit. Just need some alone time before I go play hostess for the next 5 hours. Champagne? It was complimentary.” You’ve already crossed the room to start pouring yourself a glass when Jihoon finally regains motor control in the foyer. He should be pouring a glass for you in your shared honeymoon suite tonight after your wedding.

“Jihoon.” This time your tone is much more serious.

He swears he wants to be with you here, now - not in his head. “Sorry, Y/N. I was somewhere else.”

You scoff and take a long sip from your flute. “Yeah, I can tell. What’s up?” Even as you sit at the table for two in the center of the room and pat the other chair for him to join you, Jihoon can’t shake the nagging thought that this should be your room with him. Jihoon takes a seat beside you and sighs. “Hmm, just nerves, I guess.”

“You’re nervous? About what? Want to trade?”

Considerate as always, you’d poured a glass of champagne for Jihoon even when he hadn’t answered. He’s grateful for it now, taking a long swig himself. “Just don’t want to mess up your big day. It’s all about you, y’know?”

“Aw,” you coo, ribbing your friend in the side. Your smile at him is so beautiful that it hurts to look at. “You’re sweet, Hoonie. It’s about me and him, though. Besides, how could you possibly mess anything up? You just gotta stand up there and look nice.” There’s a pause as you gaze at Jihoon…approvingly. Maybe he imagined that? “You always look nice anyways.”

Determined in his quest to keep his feelings to himself, Jihoon opts to just repeat himself. “It’s all about you.”

Even though he can’t bring himself to keep looking at you, he’s resolute in his words. As far as his brain and heart were concerned, everything has always been about you. No amount of redirection, one-night-stands, or blind dates seemed to change that. For Jihoon, there’s only you.

There is only your long-gone warmth in the morning, your voice reverberating in his skull throughout the day, and the ghost of your touch at night.

Or the ghost of your touch right now. Jihoon thinks he’s imagining it at first, the gentle press of your foot on his thigh. But when you graze a little too close to a bulge you used to be so familiar with, he knows it’s real. You’re studying him silently as you move, face neutral but eyes dark.

You don’t say anything else until your eyes lock with his. “Can it really be all about me for just a few minutes? I just need– Just a little before I–”

It shows just how desperate Jihoon is that a half second of want from you is all it takes for him to chug the rest of his champagne and bolt to close the distance between your lips. He doesn’t taste the alcohol, only the flavor of you that he wishes he could bottle forever.

Your hands are absolutely everywhere: carding through his locks, raking over his biceps through his suit jacket, jamming themselves between his ass cheeks and the chair in an attempt to squeeze handfuls of him into your palms. When you nearly choke him out trying to yank his tie loose, Jihoon finally grabs your wrists.

His heart is pounding miles a minute and he’s never been so sure of what he wanted, but– “Are you sure about this?” Your voice is as sincere as the day you told Jihoon you loved him years ago. “I’m sure.”

It’s that (or maybe the suspiciously strong champagne) phrase that dissolves the last ounce of self control that Jihoon has. He lets go of your wrists in favor of standing you up and bending you over your chair. His pants and boxers are pooled at his thighs in record time, but it feels like it takes ages to finally bunch the train of your dress up above your ass, leaving your legs and thonged core exposed.

Jihoon wants to make this last an eternity. He could last an eternity to make you happy. But he knows that, sadly, your time is limited. There won’t be another chance after this and if the two of you are caught you’ll have problems much worse than a little timing.

Pressing his cock against your ass teasingly, Jihoon leans over your back to press his two fingers into your mouth. Even years after your last encounter, you’re rehearsed enough to know to soak them well, tongue gliding feverishly along the digits.

He’ll admit that he lets you salivate on him a little longer than is necessary, but he’s already sacrificing your relationship - shouldn’t he be allowed a tiny concession? When he does pull away and look down at your folds, he’s ready to pass away again. Your pussy is as puffy as he remembers, your lips nearly devouring your thong as your essence glistens even through the fabric. What he would give to bend down and taste from the source, but you both know that Jihoon is incapable of pulling away from your cunt once he starts, so instead he purses his lips to add his own spit to the mix instead. As his fingers move your drenched thong to the side and slide into you, you’re even tighter than he remembers. Your pussy is a vice both figuratively and literally, threatening to trap his fingers there forever. Just the thought of that pressure on his dick is dizzying, but your impatient whine reminds him that he doesn’t have to keep thinking about it - he can just take.

Jihoon presses in and up, curling experimentally until your whine reverses into a gasp and you push back against him eagerly. “T-there,” you breathe and he commits that sound, the feeling of you tightening around him to memory. Who is he to deny you on your wedding day? He sets a steady, deep pace, working his fingers into your favorite spot again and again as you wraith beneath him. Your wetness is starting to drip past his fingers and down to his wrist, seemingly endless.

Your voice pitches higher, shaky as you try to warn him of your impending orgasm. Not that he needs it - your pussy greedily clamps down, almost pushing his fingers out with the pressure. A once distant memory of you falling apart is rewriting itself in the present and Jihoon quickly pulls out, just barely dragging you back from the edge of orgasm. Before you can complain at the loss, however, Jihoon uses your own juices to lube himself up and slowly ease his cock into your waiting slit. Fireworks burst in his peripheral as he feels your grip again for the first time in an eternity and he has to stop moving completely when you envelope him fully to push back his own end. Jihoon sears the image of you, wedding dress hiked up and fat cunt swallowing him whole into every crease in his brain. Even if you’re not marrying him, this view, miraculously, isn’t a dream. Any semblance of guilt is completely masked by the sight, melody, and scent of you you you.

Then he thrusts in earnest. It’s incredible how you welcome his cock in hungrily just like in days past, yet it almost feels like he doesn’t fit. The drawn out moan you let out beneath him assures otherwise, of course. So Jihoon bullies his way in again. And again. And again. He’s been addicted to you for years and this relapse is even better than the first time.

Something in the back of Jihoon’s mind says that you both need to be careful of sweating too much to avoid questions, but before he knows it, he’s pinballing you hard and fast between his dick and the back of the chair. He can feel the perspiration rolling down his temple, but it’s too late now. You’re so close, which means he’s so close. Honestly, the total time Jihoon has spent battering your pussy today is embarrassing, but in this context it’s perfect. He’s spilling into you before he can even signal that he’s on the edge and apologizes by fucking you through it, oversensitivity be damned. His reward is an absolutely pornographic screech as you climax around him. The delicious, almost painful pressure of your gummy walls constrict around him, milking every ounce of love and cum from his balls. If you saw heaven when you came, then he saw the very beginnings of the universe.

Jihoon returns to his body when your manicured nails reach back to push him away from you gingerly so you can stand up straight. He stumbles back apologetically, immediately turning to look for tissues to clean you up. Your hand encircles his wrist before there’s any success there. “Jihoon.” You’re almost too quiet to hear at all, but maybe that’s because Jihoon’s many many thoughts about this situation are roaring in full force again. “Thank you. I won’t forget this. I hope you don’t either.”

There’s no scenario where Jihoon could ever forget what it’s like to be with you – he’s tried. “Of course not, Y/N.” Given the way your orbs search his own with a glint of hopefulness, he doesn’t know what else to say that isn’t a confession of undying love, so he settles for a phrase that he’d surely kick himself for later. “Thank you for everything.”

As he pulls from your grasp to tuck himself back into his pants, his phone buzzes in his pocket. Your groom - his friend - is wondering where he is, no doubt. Your bridesmaids can’t be far behind. Jihoon turns his attention back to you as you wad up a now-used napkin, grimacing as you pull your thong back up. If your mind is swirling the same way his is, you don’t show it. Your signature soft smile is back upon your lips as if the two of you haven’t committed something beautiful heinous. “Guess you should go, huh?”

No, Jihoon will never regret being with you. Not in the past and not today. If anything, he just needs to do something about the remorse that nags at him for spilling his seed into you, but not his heart.

#minors do not interact #author: horanghater #member: jihoon #au: exes #au: infidelity #au: pining #lee jihoon #jihoon angst #jihoon smut #jihoon x reader #svt #svt fic rec #reviewsday

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hoshi-island · 9 months

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OH MY GOD. this hoshi….. is the Most™️ hoshi. like, this is canon. i snorted (out loud) at my desk at the overdue book, his insistence that he WILL find it, and the fact that he actually does 😭 omg. i need him :/

kwon soonyoung is hopeless at subtlety.

when a guy who’s never touched a book that wasn’t absolutely necessary for an exam suddenly starts lingering around the campus library, it becomes noticeable. it becomes more noticeable when it’s soonyoung, as the popular dance captain and renowned party thrower that he is.

hell, even you’ve noticed, and you’re usually miles and miles away, in a world of your own. when you’re not helping students find books or scanning out their required readings, you’re sitting behind the student librarian desk reading your own books, or studying, or, in some of your lesser moments, scrolling through tiktok. you don’t pay too much attention to who comes in and out, but the thing about soonyoung is that he demands attention.

not him himself, that would be obnoxious. but it’s the bleached hair, and handsome features, and just the fact that he seems to know everyone around here. so yeah, his face becomes recognisable with each day he skulks into the library, dithering between shelves that you never would have assumed held his interest.

today, however, is the first day he actually borrows a book. he waltzes up to the counter carrying, surprisingly, a jane austen — persuasion. which is only one of the greatest novels ever written, but you restrain yourself from blurting that out, instead asking for his name and typing it in.

he’s quieter than you’ve seen him be, around campus with his friends. gentle, almost — shy, too, with the way his cheeks pink when you repeat his name, and the way he drums his fingers nervously on the book.

a moment later, your brows are furrowing at the words that pop up. “um. soonyoung? it says here you last borrowed a book… three years ago. and you didn’t return it.”

the boy in front of you practically goes scarlet. “shit,” he curses, quiet but emphatic. “which book?”

you cast another glance to the computer screen. “um, diary of a wimpy kid. cabin fever.”

he passes one hand over his embarrassed face; it seems that a meagre amount of words is enough to reduce him to a fumbling mess. he drops persuasion, picks it up, slides it back over to you, and, with a strained voice, says, “i’ll find it! i’ll bring it tomorrow. cross my heart.”

and, much to your surprise, ten minutes before you shift ends the next day, kwon soonyoung is running breathlessly through the library double doors; he meets your eyes and brandishes a battered looking copy of cabin fever with a triumphant grin and needless declaration;

“i found it!” he drops it with a satisfying thunk, and you can’t help the amused smile that breaks out onto your face. “you won’t believe where it was,” he continues, shaking his head. “it’s probably best if i don’t even tell you — anyway!” he cuts himself off before you can think too deeply about what that means. “do i have to pay a fine?”

“no,” you say, and bring forward the copy of persuasion he’d been eyeing yesterday. “do you still want this, by the way? i kept it to the side in case you came back for it.”

he beams, and it’s like the sun’s in front of you: bright, warm, lovely. “you did? thank you, ___. actually… you finish up in a few minutes, right?”

“i — yes,” you say slowly, squinting at him. “how do you know that?”

“i’ve been coming here every day for two and a half weeks trying to get the courage to talk to you, and i accidentally memorised your schedule doing that,” he admits with a shameless grin. before you can even process that, he’s suddenly looking a lot shyer; but he taps the cover of the book between you, and continues: “so, um, could i… persuade you to get a coffee with me?”

you can’t help it — you laugh, much louder than library regulations allow, but you can’t bring yourself to care when soonyoung is looking at you, half-hopeful, half-sheepish. “did you pick this book just to — ”

“yes,” he interjects, cheeks flushing. “i was desperate!”

you pretend to consider. “so… you’re not an austen fan?”

“i am if you are,” he says instantly.

again, you laugh, but this time you add an answer. “in that case,” you say, lips curving upward. “i’d love to get a coffee with you.”

an / requested by the lovely lovely @etherealyoungk !! hope u like it skye <3

#author: wqnwoos #member: soonyoung #au: university #au: strangers to lovers #kwon soonyoung #soonyoung fluff #soonyoung x reader #svt #svt fic rec #reviewsday

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hoshi-island · 10 months

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this is, i think, the third time that i’ve read one of your fics at 6:00 am when i should be getting ready for work???? i don’t know how that keeps happening, but i have to say it is the 🤌🏻 perfect 🤌🏻 way to start the day.

oh my GOD.

she’s done it again, lads! SHE’S DONE IT AGAIN.

i’m simply never going to shut up about how comfy the relationships in your fics are. i can’t — nay, shan’t — get over the dynamics or the moments like this:

that make me legitimately squeal and kick my feet. this is SO ‼️

i want to kirby swallow everything you’ve ever written. just straight up hoover it.

ugh. ily.

(p.s. i would dieeeeeeeee over a pt. two if you do ever decide to write one 👉🏻👈🏻)

your unlucky-in-love best friend goes on a date with someone who, by all accounts, should be his perfect person. so... how exactly do you end up being the one who tucks his sorry, drunk ass into bed?

pairing; lee seokmin x gn!reader. (he calls reader pretty once but that is all<3) content; fluff / some mild angst towards the middle / pining / friends to… still friends but with some ~tension~ and a snuggle? w/c; 4.6k and a smidge. warnings; swearing, alcohol consumption (offscreen), drunkenness, some suggestiveness (MINORS DNI), reader has some hard thoughts, a bit of affectionate touching but nothing deliberately sexual? seok is needy and cuddly (and a terrible flirt). let me know if i've forgotten anything! note; this was originally gonna be part of a mini-series/multi-chap situation but!! i ended up hating the full thing and only being attached to like. two parts of it lol so here we are! there could potentially be a second part to this? if people want it? i don’t know yet! but this kinda just works as it’s own standalone thing anyway i think~ happy sunday <3

The first text comes through just after you finally set your phone down on the bedside table. Your eyes are dry and have started to sting from a long evening staring at screens, your bones feel impossibly heavy, and you think maybe you’re settling down for a semi-decent night’s sleep when you hear the buzz of a notification. A buzz you initially plan to ignore. It can’t be anything that important: who would be trying to reach you at this time of night, anyway?

You roll away from the device and snuggle down into your pillows, pulling the sleeves of your — his — jumper down over your palms and resting them just in front of your face. This particular garment stopped smelling like Seokmin after the second time it went through your washing machine, but there’s a familiarity in the slightly rough inner lining that makes you want to wear it to sleep in every night, forever. He never liked it when his hoodies were too new, too soft, leaving balls of fluff all over his t-shirts and vests; you don’t know when you started to feel the same way, but you’ve realised recently that you do.

Your eyes flutter closed and your body relaxes, head starting to feel fuzzy in that calm, white-noise, lovely way. You haven’t felt this tired and genuinely sleepy for… months. It’s bliss.

And then your phone buzzes again. You squeeze your eyes tighter, determined not to lose this warm, comfortable feeling, but your phone vibrates and vibrates and vibrates and with an audible groan, you sit back up, reaching over to see what, exactly, is so damn important at 02:23 in the fucking morning.

Seokmin’s contact name flashes up on the lock screen and you see that there are seven unread messages from him in the space of the last 3 minutes. Instantly, your brows draw together: he’s seldom shied away from a double text, but you’ve never known him to pull a septuple, and you can’t feel but feel a little bit of dread in your stomach as you read through them.

> seokmin: yn

> seokmin: ynnnnnn

> seokmin: i lied

> seokmin: i didmt go homr yet

> seokmin: can you come get mr

> seokmin: mr

> seokmin: m e

You shoot back a message instantly asking where he is, turning on your bedside lamp and already swinging your legs out from under the covers. You keep hold of your phone in one hand, waiting for it to buzz again to tell you he’s given you his location. With the other, you search for and pull on some sweatpants, sliding into a pair of sneakers. His replies come simultaneously too quickly, and entirely not fast enough.

> seokmin: u knkw the bar in town with the bear statiiue oitside

> seokmin: lol

> seokmin: do you think i ciuld beat thsi bear in s fight???

> y/n: christ. okay, wait inside for me. i’ll be there in 15.

> y/n: also, no. you couldn’t. x

Your veins feel alive with adrenaline and worry as you grab your keys and head down the stairs to your car. The drive is quiet — you don’t even waste the few seconds it would take to plug into the AUX and pick a playlist, leaving it up to the radio to keep you company on the way. It doesn’t take too long: soon enough, you’re pulling up alongside the infamous bear statue to find your best friend sitting on the curb, propped up against the marble base.

“I thought I told you to wait inside?” you chide, rolling down the passenger side window so you can announce your arrival. It’s like he’s moving in slow-motion, or maybe your words just take an extra few seconds to reach him? Either way, he doesn’t lift his head until a silence has settled between you, and he doesn’t smile until his slightly glazed-over eyes land on your face.

“Y/n!” He cheers, lifting himself off the floor and staggering upright, pushing a hand through his hair. “Hi! Yeah, I know — but look, it was too hot in there. It was so hot. And I didn’t want you to wait-…” Hiccup. “To have to wait for me.”

He slides into the passenger seat with a contented sigh, a mess of long limbs he can’t quite control, adjusting the vent in front of him so that the cold from your air-con breezes against his flushed cheeks. As he settles, you reach over him, pulling his seatbelt across his chest.

“I was getting to that,” he whines, pouting his pretty lips at you, and you click the belt in place with a laugh. History tells you that when he’s drunk, Seokmin doesn’t always believe in the power of the seatbelt, among other things, so you think maybe you could be forgiven for not believing him this time.

“Okay, dumbass. Sure you were.”

He reaches down into the passenger footwell for your AUX cord, bumping his head on the dashboard and letting out an exaggerated hiss as he sits back upright. Nonetheless, he plugs his phone in and presses play on his own night-driving playlist, holding the device between both of his hands as you start off towards his place.

“So…” you prompt, because he’s staring blankly out the windscreen with a tiny smile on his lips and you’re concerned that maybe, this time, he has actually managed to drink himself stupid. He rolls his head over to look at you, and fond bliss is written into every line of his face. “What happened?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, still just… staring at you as you drive. Staring, even though every detail of you is committed to his memory already. Staring, even though he knows how your eyelashes flutter when you blink. Even though he knows how the muscles in your throat bob as you swallow the saliva on your tongue. Even though he’s sat in your passenger seat enough times to remember exactly how the late-night glow of the street-lamps overhead catch and illuminate the curve of your nose, how they highlight the point of your chin. He knows all this, but he can’t help himself. Staring is… indulgent. So, so indulgent. But he is pretty drunk and he can get away with it when you’re focused on the road — at least, that’s what he tells himself.

When he does attempt to speak, just as you slow to a stop at a set of traffic lights, the sparkle in his gaze falters. He faces forward again, shoulders rising and slumping in a meek ‘I don’t know’.

“She was… perfect, I think,” he tries to explain, and you glance across to look at him; his lips are both non-existent, pulled between his teeth and he has worry lines creasing up his forehead. With the hand not holding the wheel, you reach over, pressing your fingertips to where his eyebrows have scrunched to try and get him to relax the muscles there. It sort of works, if only because he releases an involuntary breath of a laugh.

“Not perfect,” you gasp, dramatic and teasing even though it stings a little to hear him say that out loud. “I mean, that definitely explains why you were out drinking, alone, three hours after you told me you were heading home.” He turns his head fully away from you, now, letting your hand drop dangerously towards his lap. You pull it back to yourself before it collides with his jeans, clearing your throat. The traffic signal changes to green, and you drive ahead. “I’m kidding. Come on. Talk to me.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, despondent, crossing his arms over his chest. You’re not sure you’ve seen him acting like this since you were teenagers. It’s a strange twist away from your usual, very easy-going banter.

“Seok...” You try again. “I won’t stop for nuggets if you don’t tell me.”

“Don’t stop, then.”

“Seokmin…”

“Don’t-…” It comes out quickly, the vein in the side of his neck popping until he takes a deep breath in and releases it slowly. “Y/n. I’m tired, I just-… I don’t wanna talk about it. Can you please just… take me home?”

He’s still struggling with his words, but he isn’t abrasive in the way he speaks; that’s something you learned about Seokmin very early on in your friendship. He doesn’t raise his voice at you. He doesn’t get deep and gravelly when he’s pissed off. He just… seems to let himself feel things super intensely for a few seconds at a time and then he short-circuits, goes flat. It might be convenient for him, but it gets frustrating for you. Especially when he encourages you to open up to him as much as he does.

His head is bowed and cradled in his hands when you pull up outside his apartment block, and you unfasten his seatbelt for him which jolts him upright. You stay facing front, though, guilt coursing through your veins at the thought of maybe having pushed him too far. You just want to understand. Why was his date being good such a bad thing?

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

You shake your head. “Don’t be,” you tell him, and he scoffs, but quietly.

“Y/n,” he sighs, his crown falling against the headrest; he reaches over to you, places a hand just above your knee, and you try to ignore how it feels like someone has crashed their car into you from behind. How your heart lurches forwards in your chest. How your adrenaline spikes.

“I mean it. I shouldn’t have kept pushing. I’m sorry.”

He chews this over for a moment, but he doesn’t remove his hand, and you find that maybe you don’t want him to. Not yet, at least.

“Will you help me get up the stairs?”

“Of course I will.”

With one of his arms over your shoulders, your own supporting his waist, the pair of you begin the obnoxiously long ascent up through his building to his apartment. He’s lived here for a year and a half, and you think maybe the elevator has been working… for a total of about a week, since then? God forbid he ever got injured and couldn’t climb six flights just to get himself home. The climb is bad enough as is.

Somewhere around landing number four, Seokmin pulls away from you, mumbling something about having the spins and needing to sit down. You ease him to perch on one of the windowsills, sitting down next to him with your arm still around his hips to keep him balanced on the narrow ledge.

“You should’ve taken me back to your place,” he grumbles, doubling over with his elbows against his knees and his fingers linked behind his neck, taking deep breaths.

“Get your feet flat on the floor. Look at your shoelaces. Breathe slow. It’ll help,” you coo, and he shuffles a little so that he can do exactly that (not without wobbling and almost landing on his face, and he thanks you and your “super strong arms” for keeping him from such a fate). After a few more seconds of deep breathing and grounding, he lifts his head. Crisis averted.

“Are you-… like, a witch, or something?” he asks out of nowhere, and you snort so loudly that your throat hurts. He keeps staring at you, waiting for you to answer. Apparently your laugh wasn’t response enough.

“What are you talking about, Seok?”

He rolls his eyes at you, as if you should just know. “How did you know how to fix me? It’s like magic.”

“Because I know you, stupid. Come on. Two more flights and I’ll get you into bed.”

“S’that a promise?” he asks, grinning to himself as you haul him back to standing, and he stumbles slightly against you, hands braced on your ribs. Sweating a little, you manoeuvre yourself away from him, landing a gentle, playful hit to his side.

It doesn’t make your heart flutter, hearing what can only be a drunk rendition of his bedroom voice. It doesn’t. It doesn’t. It doesn’t.

“Save it for your next date with Ms. Perfect, would you?”

“Agh. You’re the worst.”

“I know. Now come on.”

After a few minutes of fumbling through Seokmin’s pockets yourself for his keys (it’s as if he’s forgotten how both hands and pockets work in his now very giggly stupor), apparently brushing every single one of his ticklish spots on the way, you’re inside his apartment and on your knees, untying his shoes for him, easing them off his feet. You don’t think he can be trusted to lean down to do it on his own without breaking something.

Or himself.

“If you go get ready for bed, I’ll bring you some water?” you suggest, sitting back on your heels, smiling up at him. There’s a weight in the gaze he’s looking down at you with, in the way his tongue darts out over his lips, and how his mouth doesn’t fully close after. You tell yourself he’s definitely only looking at you like this because he’s drunk, because you’re helping him — the boy doesn’t know ass from elbow, right now — but there’s no escaping the fact that your stomach drops a little at his intensity.

“Okay,” he strains after a moment, and you stand up and away from him, kicking off your own shoes. He heads in one direction towards his bedroom, and you move in the other towards his kitchen.

Stop it, you tell yourself, leaning over the sink and splashing cold water from the faucet onto your face. Stop thinking about him like that. He’s your best friend. Stop it.

But… shit, you can’t get those big brown eyes out of your head. The way he looked down at you, the softness of his brows, the heat radiating off him. There’s nothing you can do to stop the way your thighs press together standing in his kitchen, in clothes that— you realise now— are entirely his. The hoodie. The sweatpants you pulled on. They’re an old pair that he let you steal just after your most recent breakup, when you’d stayed on his couch for a week straight just so you didn’t have to look at how ugly and empty your own apartment was. Everything. Even down to the socks.

You thought it was hard enough hearing that he was going out for dinner to your favourite restaurant with someone who wasn’t you; nothing could have prepared you for standing in his kitchen at three in the morning, hot under the collar over five seconds of tipsy eye contact, knowing he’s getting undressed behind the door you’ve been staring at for… minutes, now. Actual minutes.

Oh, you think, feeling your blood run cold.

Oh.

I want him.

More minutes pass as you stew in this information — in the knowledge that you’re fucking desperate for the man who has been there for you through everything important enough to remember, and probably everything you’ve forgotten, too. The boy who took you to all of your school dances and was the perfect date, the perfect gentleman, the perfect partner. The man who has sat next to you in the doctor’s waiting room more times than you can count, waiting for results and sitting outside appointments that he told you that you were brave enough to book. Seokmin, who has been under your nose this entire fucking time — you want him, the man who went for dinner with his dream woman, today, and he said she was perfect. Acid burns the back of your throat as you fight not to run all the way back down to your car.

Fuck. It gets astronomically worse. I love him.

“Y/n?” you hear, and his whiny, gentle voice glides across the apartment like it’s been mounted on a cloud, blown straight into your ears. It floats around in your brain in the most beautiful way, and you think there could be love-hearts in the reflections on your eyes even despite the stress you’re now under. It occurs to you that his faucet is still running, and you still have two empty glasses sitting on the counter. How long has it been? Get it together.

“Just a second,” you call back. Your voice breaks as you say it and you can hear him fucking giggle from behind the ajar door to his bedroom. The fluttering in your stomach worsens, and by the time you’ve shut off the tap and you’re walking through to him, you’re wondering if it’s possible for people to grow butterfly gardens inside themselves without noticing. No-one has ever made you feel this nervous, before.

Breathe, you tell yourself as he comes into view, already snuggled down against his pillows with the top of his bare chest and shoulders visible in the low light.

Fuck.

This is the last thing you needed.

“Hi,” he greets you, pushing to sit up with eyes softer than the glow of the setting sun. “I missed you.”

You stand corrected. That is.

“You’re such a loser.”

You set his glass down on his bedside and crouch next to him. “Did you brush your teeth?” you ask, and his face transforms from a stupid childish pout at being teased to a devastatingly bright grin.

This running joke you’ve shared between yourselves since your first night on the town together illuminates him, and he nods, proudly, his hair falling down over his face. You reach up to push a few strands away from his eyes, despite yourself.

“Sure did,” he tells you, and you believe him but you raise a brow anyway. He’s so pretty. With his playful smile, tongue held between his teeth, his nose a little scrunched. Fuck, how can anyone be so pretty?

“So if I go check your toothbrush, right now…” His smile turns into a laugh, his head lifts into your lingering touch until his cheek is fully rested in the palm of your hand. Stupidly, you tell yourself that this could mean something. Maybe he wants to feel you more.

“You could find out another way,” he says, his voice dropping half an octave as his already heavy eyelids blink slowly at you. It’s a good thing you’re already on your knees because that tone could have you sinking to the ground in a split. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth fleetingly and you think you’re one more line away from melting into the floorboards.

“You’re so out of it,” you murmur, shaking your head at him. “Did she make you get the oysters? Are you high on aphrodisiacs right now?”

He groans again and rolls onto his back, a hand dramatically coming up to cover his eyes.

“Stop talking about her,” he whines. “I’m with you. I don’t wanna talk— I don’t wanna think about her right now.”

“Seokmin-…”

“Y/n,” he interrupts, lolling his head to the side, looking at you through impossibly long, dark lashes from between his fingers. “Please.”

You’re not sure what the pull in his voice is in aid of but you force yourself to let it go, pushing yourself up to your feet before you can fall forwards into him.

“I’m gonna head home,” you say, the quiet between you laying thick and heavy against your skin. “Text me when you’re awake tomorrow, okay?”

He contemplates this for a second, frowning; he doesn’t say anything as you start backing towards his bedroom door. Then…

“Please don’t.”

He says it so quietly. So hushed, you think you might have misheard. So delicate, you hold your breath just in case you somehow manage to shatter the moment.

“Don’t what?” You ask, stopping in your tracks. He breathes deep and props up on one elbow, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Don’t go.”

Glued to the spot, you stare at him. You feel your head tilt to the side without really controlling it, and an eyebrow creeps up your forehead, slowly.

“I left some lights on in my apartment,” you say feebly, and even though it’s true, a selfish part of you hopes that he’ll still keep trying to talk you around. It won’t take a lot to convince you. It never does.

“So?” he asks, the duvet slipping just a little further down his upper half, baring more of his chest to you. “Please. I don’t want to be-…”

You swallow, waiting. The cogs in his inebriated brain are surely rotating at a few hundred miles a minute, his eyes almost desperate. Certainly glossy. Absolutely breath-taking.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

Your already fragile resolve snaps under the pressure of his words and you’re moving towards his bed before you can stop yourself.

“I don’t have anything to sleep in,” you say, offering him one last out if he wants it, but Seokmin just shrugs and peels the duvet back for you to slip in beside him.

“Don’t care,” he mumbles, and you gesture for him to look away so, at the very least, you can shimmy out of his sweatpants. He does, and you do — a few seconds later, with the garment in question folded neatly on the floor by his bed, you’re pulling the sheets over your legs and burying down against his cushions.

His breathing matches yours inhale for exhale and the more you let yourself think about this, the worse you feel even though maybe you shouldn’t. How many times have you drunkenly shared Seokmin’s bed, or how many times has he shared yours? This isn’t new. Even sober, you’ve been curling up together on the couch to watch movies and sleeping with your heads in each other's laps for years. There’s no reason for the guilt that’s burrowing its way deep into your brain, but you can’t seem to get rid of it, no matter how hard you try.

“Y/n?” he asks after a few minutes of you lying stiff as a pair of boards, a few inches of cold mattress between your wide awake selves, both of you staring up at the ceiling. You hum an acknowledgement, and he clears his throat. “Can I hug you?”

Your heart does something you’re a little bit afraid of, but you nod in the dark anyway, before you realise he can’t really see you now all the lights are off.

“Drink some water first,” you tell him lightly. “Then you can.”

There’s something undeniably nerve-wracking about the sound of him obediently swallowing a few mouthfuls from the glass you brought him earlier, even more-so in the way he sets it back down on his dresser. The bed rustles a little as he moves towards you, the sheets shifting over your bare legs, and then he’s got an arm slung over your waist, his head is on the very edge of his pillow, right next to your own… he slides a leg over one of yours, slotting it between your calves, and before you know it, you’re completely wrapped up in him.

He’s warm, and soft, and his fingertips gently soothe circles into your waist where they’ve slipped just underneath the hem of the sweatshirt you’re still wearing. You hum gently, moving your arm so that it snakes beneath his neck, curling up to wrap around his shoulders. This close, you can smell the cologne he will have put on before meeting his date. It makes you dizzy, slows down the neurons firing away in your brain. You wonder what’s going through his own head — what he’s thinking about, being curled up against your side like this. Does he recognise the slight stuttering in your breathing? How cold you are in contrast to him? Will he even remember this, in the morning? Or will you just wake up on opposite sides of the bed tomorrow, all this just a weird, foggy memory in the dark?

His head burrows slightly closer to you and all of a sudden, you can feel him breathing. Every exhale fans against your neck, right where it feels sweetest; Seokmin breathes through his nose when he’s sober, but through his lips when he’s drunk. You’ve never noticed before. It’s maddening.

“Comfy?” you ask, your voice dry and unsure, and he wriggles a little with a nod to affirm that yes, he is. Something about that makes your cheeks go hot.

“Always sleep better with you,” he murmurs, and your face grows even warmer. You tell yourself he doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s just drunk. It doesn’t help.

“Then sleep,” you say as his hand moves just slightly further up beneath the hoodie, the tips of his fingers gently tickling your lowest rib. You have to fight back a whine. “I’m here. You can sleep.”

“Thank you, y/n,” he breathes, and you turn your head: now your eyes have adjusted to the low light, you can sort of make out his features, so very close to you. This proves to be a mistake almost instantly, but you can’t look away. His eyes are closed now; you’re glad. He looks too sweet. Too peaceful.

“What for?”

“Everything.”

“Seokmin…”

“No, I mean — everything.”

You move your hand up slightly, fingers playing with the strands of his hair at the top of his neck, and he whimpers softly at the touch. You freeze, and he nuzzles back against your hand to beg you to keep going, so you do.

“You can’t thank me for everything,” you tease him, and he chuckles breathlessly, his palm now laying flat across your rib cage, curling around your side. Holding you. Claiming you, just for now.

“Can,” he protests, and you shake your head.

“Nuh-uh. Against the rules.”

“What rules?”

“My rules.”

“I didn’t know you had rules.”

“I’ve got hundreds,” you tease, threading your fingers through his strands and gently massaging his scalp. Another whine from him, but you don’t stop. Especially not when he hugs you closer, arm and leg both tightening around you.

“Hundreds?”

“Mhm. Maybe even thousands.”

“Well. Fuck.”

You breathe a laugh at him, and he laughs back; within a few seconds, you’ve both dissolved into giggles, and Seokmin has squirmed even closer until he’s half-covering you, actively chortling into your covered collarbone.

“You’re s’posed to be getting to sleep,” you sigh as his own laughter picks back up following a few seconds of deep breathing and quiet.

“I can’t!” He says. You can feel the pout in his own voice, even with his face hidden. When did he end up practically on top of you? When did your arm slip down to around his waist?

“You have to. You’re gonna feel so shitty tomorrow if you don’t.”

“I know. M’probably gonna feel shitty anyway, though.”

“Come on. Close your eyes. Count back from a hundred. You can do it.”

It falls silent again, and you delusionally tell yourself that maybe it’s working. Until…

“Can you lie on your side?” He asks, and you sigh dramatically but nod anyway: as he peels himself off you, you roll over, facing the wall in the foetal position. He’s right back against you in a blink though, legs tucked up behind yours, trying to find your hand under the quilt.

“S’this okay?” He asks as he accidentally brushes your thigh in his search, fingers lacing through your own when he finally succeeds. Your now joined hands work their way into the hoodie’s front pocket, and everything starts buzzing when he rests his chin on your shoulder.

“Y-yeah,” you swallow. “S’good.”

“Good,” he mumbles. A few deep breaths later, his voice rumbles against your earlobe again. “You looked so pretty for me tonight, y/n. Dressed up in my clothes — you’re so pretty.”

“Go to sleep,” you whimper, grateful at least that at this angle that he doesn’t see how your face scrunches up, how wide your smile is, how ridiculously good he makes you feel.

Euphoria. This is euphoria; you never want it to end.

“Count for me,” he asks, dropping his head down so his brows rest against your back, now. So you do.

“A hundred… ninety nine… ninety eight… ninety seven…”

His breathing is slow and his grip on your hand is slack by the time you reach eighty three. You doze off too, not very far behind.

thank u for reading all the way to the end!! likes, reblogs, comments + feedback are all always appreciated<3

#minors do not interact #author: miraclewoozi #member: seokmin #au: best friends #au: drunk fic #lee seokmin #seokmin fluff #seokmin x reader #svt #svt fic rec #reviewsday

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