꒰﹕﹒ hevvan and back ❀ lee heeseung
⌗ in which . . . you and lee heeseung let a drunken night out take over everything you thought you were still holding back
流星 ໑ . . bf!heeseung x fem!reader
⌗ includes . . . smut (18+), established relationship, alcohol, intoxication, strong language, rough sex, drunk sex, bathroom sex, semi-public sex, penetrative sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), consensual recording, switch, possessive behavior, jealousy, praise kink, daddy kink 😭, slight degradation, markings, implied face fucking, fingering, spanking, nipple play, shit ton of overstimulation, multiple orgasms, creampie, hee talks you through it 🥰 ➜ mdni ! or do.. it's up to you ♡ purely a work of fiction, none of this is real | wc: 5.0k
♪ el’s bubble: hoonguin nation, this might have been one of the most filthiest shit i’ve ever written . . genuinely had to sit down & reflect on myself directly afterwards 😞 lowkey in honor of me being the sober friend whenever my friends and i head out 😜 anyways i miss him #DADAWEMISSYOU #DADACOMEBACK | thank you, anon ! please enjoy — likes, reblogs, and feedbacks are deeply appreciated on here ♡ requests are always open if you want to see me write something specific ۫ ׅ
tags: @wonscapes @maishee @simsimluver @grdientlips @kristynaaah @psychicdazestrawberry | just ask if you want to be a part of my tag list ˙𐃷˙
now playing . . . the party & the after party by the weeknd
The bar is a blur of low lights and bass-heavy music that you can feel vibrating through the soles of your shoes, rattling up your ankles, settling somewhere in your chest like a second heartbeat.
It's past one in the morning.
The crowd has thinned to the die-hards and the people who don't want to go home yet, the ones chasing that feeling of being young and invincible for just a few more hours.
The ones who have nowhere else to be, or nowhere else they'd rather be, drinking in the amber glow of a place that doesn't care about tomorrow.
The cocktail in front of you is mostly melted ice now, a ghost of what it used to be, little rivers of condensation running down the glass and pooling on the cocktail napkin beneath.
You've switched to water because someone has to be responsible tonight.
That someone is apparently you, even though your head is swimming just enough to make everything feel soft-edged and dreamy, colors bleeding into each other like watercolors left in the rain.
Across from you, Heeseung is definitely not being responsible.
He's on his fourth, or is it fifth? drink of the hour, and the flush on his cheeks has spread down to his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his white button-down.
The top three buttons are undone now, giving you glimpses of collarbone and the smooth plane of his chest every time he shifts.
The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, forearms exposed, veins prominent where they trace down to his wrists, and he keeps running his hand through his hair in a way that makes it stick up in increasingly chaotic directions.
Annoyingly, devastatingly beautiful, even when he's this far gone. Maybe especially when he's this far gone, when his usual careful composure has melted into something softer, more honest, more him.
"I'm not even tipsy," he announces, and then immediately giggles at his own words, the sound bubbling up from his chest like he can't contain it.
You raise an eyebrow. "You're very tipsy right now, Hee."
"I'm not." He shakes his head solemnly, then sways slightly in his seat, catching himself on the edge of the table with a palm slap that's definitely louder than he intended. "Okay, maybe a little. A tiny bit. Miniscule."
"That's not even what miniscule fucking means."
"It means whatever I want it to mean." He grins at you, that boyish grin that makes your stomach flip even when you're annoyed with him.
His eyes are crinkling at the corners, nose scrunching slightly, and he looks so unfairly adorable that you want to throw something at him. "Because I'm an adult. Adults can redefine words. It's what we call a creative license."
"Ridiculously handsome?" He leans forward, nearly toppling off his stool, and catches himself at the last second with a grace that shouldn't be possible for someone who's had as much whiskey as he has. "Ridiculously charming? Ridiculously—"
He gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight across his shoulders. "I am offended. Wounded. Absolutely devastated by these accusations. My honor has been besmirched."
"Your honor is fine. Your liver, on the other hand..."
"Don’t know whatever the hell you’re on, my liver absolutely loves me." He reaches across the table and grabs your hand, holding it in both of his hands like it's something precious, something he's afraid might disappear if he doesn't hold it.
His palms are warm, slightly sweaty, and his thumbs trace slow circles on your wrist, dipping into the soft skin where your pulse beats steady and sure. "You love me too, right?"
Your heart does something complicated in your chest, flipping and twisting in a way that should be illegal.
"I'm just asking." His voice drops, a little softer, a little more sincere beneath the playfulness.
His eyes meet yours, and for a moment the haze of alcohol seems to clear, just a fraction, just enough for you to see the real question underneath. "Because I am, you know. Yours. Have been for a while. Maybe forever, no, definitely forever. I’m simply just... waiting for you to notice."
The noise of the bar fades into the background, the bass becoming a distant thrum, the chatter of other patrons turning into white noise.
It's just him, just you, just the weight of his words hanging between you like something fragile and precious.
You're saved from having to respond by the way his expression suddenly shifts.
His brow furrows, his lips pressing together, and he blinks a few times like he's trying to clear his vision through a fog that keeps thickening.
He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, and there's a sheen of sweat on his forehead that wasn't there before.
"I think—" He pauses, swallows again, one hand coming up to press against his stomach. "I think I'm going to be sick, or faint… or both. Possibly simultaneously."
"Okay, okay, let's go." You're on your feet immediately, your chair scraping back against the floor, and you reach for him, pulling him up with you.
He stumbles against you, all long limbs and warm weight, his body swaying like a tree in the wind, and you wrap an arm around his waist to steady him. "Bathroom. Let's get you to the bathroom."
"I'm fine," he protests, even as he leans heavily into your side, his head dropping to rest against yours. "Just... dizzy. The room's spinning so much. Baby, I think I should've eaten more. Stupid. So dumb. Should've eaten the bread. Why didn't I eat the bread?"
"Your idiot." The words are slurred slightly, mumbled into your hair, but they still make your chest clench.
He laughs, the sound bright and genuine even through the obvious discomfort, and it vibrates through his chest and into yours, the two of you pressed so close together.
You can't help the way your mouth twitches toward a smile, even as you're half-dragging him toward the back hallway.
The walk to the bathroom is an adventure, to say the least.
Heeseung keeps drifting into you, his shoulder bumping against walls, his feet catching on nothing at all.
At one point, he stops entirely, fascinated by a framed poster on the wall, and you have to physically pull him away while he protests that he "just wants to appreciate the art."
"There is no art, Heeseung. It's a fire safety poster."
"Fire safety is art. Prevention is beautiful."
You snort, fighting back the warmth spreading through your chest, and guide him through the sparse crowd, past the bar, down the narrow hallway where the music fades to a dull throb and the lighting gets progressively dimmer.
The walls are exposed brick, industrial-chic, the kind of aesthetic that probably costs extra, and the floor is sticky in that way that all bar floors eventually become.
"Almost there," you murmur, adjusting your grip on him. "Just a few more steps."
"You're so good to me." His voice is soft against your hair, his breath warm and smelling of whiskey and something sweeter underneath. "So good. Taking care of me even when I'm being stupid. Even when I drink too much and say embarrassing things."
"You're always being stupid."
"Stupidly in love with you." The words are barely a whisper, but they hit you like a physical force, making your breath catch. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever done. Falling for someone who doesn't—"
"Heeseung." You cut him off, because you can't hear the rest of that sentence, can't let him finish it when he's like this, when you're both too honest and too scared. "The bathroom. Focus."
He makes a sound that might be agreement or might be defeat, and you choose not to analyze it.
The bathroom door is heavy, industrial, painted a matte black that's chipping at the edges.
You push it open with your shoulder, the cool air of the space inside hitting your flushed skin like a relief.
Then, suddenly, Heeseung's hand wraps around your wrist.
His grip is firm, certain, nothing like the loose and wandering touches from earlier. He tugs hard, and suddenly you're being pulled inside, stumbling over your own feet as the door swings shut behind you with a heavy thud.
You hear the lock click into place, a sharp sound that seems to echo in the sudden quiet, and your heart rate kicks up.
And then his mouth is on yours.
The kiss is messy, desperate, nothing like the careful control he usually has.
He kisses like he's drowning and you're air, like he's been waiting for this all night, all month, all year.
His teeth catch your bottom lip, tugging, and when you gasp, he takes the opportunity to deepen it, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your knees weak and your thoughts scatter.
"Heeseung, baby, what…" you manage against his mouth, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders for balance. "What are you—"
"Shut the hell up." His voice is lower than you've ever heard it, rougher, stripped of all its usual playfulness and soft edges.
There's something almost dangerous in it now, something that makes your stomach clench and the heat pool low in your belly. "Just—shut up for a second. Please. I need—"
He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't have to.
His hands are literally everywhere. Sliding down your sides, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, pushing the fabric of your dress up, up, up.
One hand cups your breast through the thin satin, his thumb dragging across your nipple, and you arch into him with a sound you don't recognize as your own, a keen, desperate and wanting.
"This fucking dress." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are dark, burning, nothing like the soft warmth from earlier.
They're almost black in the dim lighting of the bathroom, pupils blown wide, and there's a tension in his jaw that speaks of restraint stretched to its breaking point. "Do you have any idea what you did to me tonight? Walking around in this? Letting everyone look at you like that?"
"You knew." His hand tightens on your breast, palming the soft flesh, and you whimper, your head falling back against the wall. "You knew exactly what you were doing. Wearing this. The way it hugs every curve. The way it catches the light. Making me crazy all night. Watching other people watch you. Watching them want what's mine."
There's a possessiveness in his voice that shouldn't make you as wet as it does.
"I've been holding back for hours." His other hand comes up to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back, exposing the long line of your throat.
His lips brush against your pulse point, feeling it race beneath his touch. "Holding back while you laughed with your friends. Holding back while you smiled at the bartender. Holding back while every single person in that bar looked at you like they wanted to take you home."
His teeth drag across your pulse point, scraping against the sensitive skin.
"But they can't have you." He bites down, not hard enough to break skin but hard enough to hurt, hard enough to leave a mark, and you cry out, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt. "Because you're mine. Say it."
"Say it." Another bite, lower, right where your neck meets your shoulder. "Tell me you're mine."
"I'm yours." The words tumble out, breathless and broken. "Baby, I'm yours—god, have been always—"
"Good." He pulls back, and his smile is sharp, almost predatory, nothing like the soft grins from the bar.
It makes something in your stomach flip, a cocktail of fear and arousal that has you pressing your thighs together.
"Now let me remind you of that."
He moves fast, his hands deft despite the alcohol in his system, and before you can process what's happening, your dress is bunched around your waist and his fingers are hooking into your underwear, dragging it down your legs.
He doesn't even bother taking it all the way off, just pulls it aside, gives himself access, and then he's spinning you around.
You face the mirror above the sink counter, your hands bracing against the cool marble, and watch as Heeseung appears behind you.
The bathroom is unusually large for a single stall, designed with extra space for accessibility, as if meant for anyone who might need more room to move comfortably, but that made sense because anything could happen in a bar.
The door opens into a wide, private interior with sturdy fixtures, a spacious layout, and a sink set along one side, all framed by clean tiles and a mirror that stretches across the wall.
It's clean, surprisingly, the lighting is soft and flattering, and you can see everything.
You can see yourself, flushed, disheveled, lips swollen from kissing.
Heeseung's reflection is wild, hair mussed from your hands, shirt half-untucked, buttons straining against his chest.
His eyes are burning, fixed on you in the mirror like you're the only thing in the world worth looking at.
When his hands slide down to his belt, you watch his fingers move, deft and quick, undoing the buckle with a metallic clink that seems impossibly loud.
"Look at yourself," he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. He steps closer, his chest pressing against your back, and you can feel the heat radiating off him through his thin shirt. "Look at how pretty you are. How ruined you're about to be."
You hear the zip of his pants, the rustle of fabric, and then he's pushing into you with one smooth thrust that steals the air from your lungs.
The scream that tears from your throat is swallowed by the music still thumping through the walls, but you can hear yourself, can hear how desperate you sound, how broken, and it only makes you wetter, makes you clench around him.
"Oh my god—" Your fingers scrabble against the marble, trying to find purchase. "Heeseung—"
"Feel that?" He doesn't give you time to adjust, just starts moving, hard and fast and relentless. Each thrust sends you forward, your hands sliding against the smooth counter, and his hips snap forward with a brutality that has you seeing stars.
"Feel how deep I am? This is what you do to me. This is what you've been doing to me all night. Every time you move. Every time you breathe."
His hand comes down on your ass, sharp and stinging, and you jerk forward with a cry that echoes off the tiles.
"Every time you smiled tonight." Another thrust, another slap, the sound ringing through the bathroom like a gunshot.
"Every time you laughed. Every time you crossed your legs and I imagined them wrapped around me." His hips snap forward, brutal, and you scream again, your voice cracking.
"I thought about this. About bending you over. About making you scream my name. About reminding everyone in that fucking stupid ass bar who you belong to."
His hand wraps around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, a gentle pressure that makes your pulse pound against his palm.
He pulls you back against his chest, changing the angle, and suddenly he's hitting something inside you that makes your vision white out.
"That's it." His lips brush against your ear, his voice rough and wrecked. "Let me hear you. Scream for me, princess. Let everyone know who's making you feel this good."
You scream until your throat is raw, until your voice is hoarse, until the only sounds you can make are broken whimpers and fragmented syllables of his name.
The marble is cold against your palms, your dress is bunched uselessly around your waist, and Heeseung is everywhere, inside you, around you, his scent filling your lungs until you can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything but feel.
He's moaning too, louder than usual, the alcohol stripping away his usual restraint.
Each thrust is punctuated by a groan, a curse, a murmured "so good, you feel so good, so fucking tight" that makes your head spin.
His fingers flex against your throat, not enough to hurt but enough to remind you they're there, and you clench around him in response.
"You're taking me so well." His hand tightens slightly, his hips never faltering. "Such a good girl. My good girl. Taking everything I give you."
"Heeseung, baby, please—"
"Please what?" He speeds up, his rhythm becoming erratic, desperate. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the bathroom, obscene and loud. "What do you need, princess? You know you can tell me anything, just use your words."
"I need, I'm close—please let me—"
"I know." His other hand slides down your stomach, his fingers finding your clit, and he rubs in tight, merciless circles that make your whole body shake.
"I can feel you. Feel how close you are. Clenching around me like you're trying to keep me inside forever. Come for me, princess. Come on my cock like a good girl."
The orgasm rips through you, violent and overwhelming, and you clench around him so hard he groans, his rhythm stuttering for the first time.
Your legs give out, but he catches you, holds you up with an arm around your waist, keeps thrusting through it until you're whimpering from overstimulation, tears pricking at your eyes.
Then he pulls out, spins you around, and lifts you onto the counter.
The marble is cold against your bare skin, a shock that makes you gasp, but he's already stepping between your legs, already sliding back into you, and the gasp turns into a moan.
This angle is different, deeper, and you can see his face now, see the sweat beading on his forehead, the way his jaw is clenched, the dark hunger in his eyes.
"Look at me." His hand tangles in your hair, pulling your head back, and you meet his gaze. "Eyes on me, baby. I want to see your pretty face when you come again."
"Heeseung, I can't—it's too much—way too much—"
"You can." He starts moving again, slower now, more deliberate, each thrust a punch of sensation that has you gasping. "You'll take what I give you. Because you're mine. Because this pretty pussy belongs to me."
His free hand comes up to cup your breast, his thumb dragging across your nipple, and you arch into him with a broken sound.
His head drops, his mouth finding the other breast, his tongue swirling around the peak before his teeth scrape across it.
"You taste so good," he murmurs against your skin. "Could spend hours here. Days. Forever."
His mouth moves lower, sucking a mark into the soft skin of your chest, and you know it'll be visible tomorrow, know you'll have to find a way to hide it, but right now you can't bring yourself to care.
"Hee, baby, please—my god, just—"
"I want to record this." His voice is rough, strained, and he pulls back to look at you with eyes that are nearly black with want. "You look so pretty like this. Fucked out and desperate and mine. I want to remember it. I want you to see how pretty you look when you fall apart."
You nod, beyond words, and watch as he reaches into his pocket with his free hand, pulling out his phone.
He unlocks it with shaky fingers, opens the camera, and angles it so it captures your face, your body, the way he disappears into you over and over.
"Say hi to the camera, princess."
You can't do anything but moan, your head falling back, your back arching, and he curses under his breath, his rhythm faltering for just a second.
"Fuck, that's hot. You're so hot. So fucking perfect." He keeps recording, keeps thrusting, keeps whispering filth that makes your face burn. "Look at you, baby. Taking me so well. Such a good little thing for me."
When he feels you getting close again, he tosses the phone aside and focuses entirely on you.
His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing in tight circles, and his mouth finds yours, swallowing your sounds as you fall apart for the second time.
You come with a scream that he kisses from your lips, your whole body shaking, and he groans into your mouth as he feels you clench around him.
"I'm close," he gasps against your lips. "Where do you want—"
"Inside. Come inside me. Please, I want to feel you so bad—"
He groans, long and low, and his thrusts become frantic, chasing his release.
Each snap of his hips is punctuated by a sound that's almost a sob, his composure completely shattered, and then, at the last second, he pulls out.
"Down." His voice is hoarse, wrecked. "On your knees. I want to see your gorgeous face when I come."
You slide off the counter, sinking to the floor, the cold tile biting into your knees. You look up at him through your lashes, your lips parted, and watch as he strokes himself, fast and rough, his head thrown back, his neck strained.
"You're such a good girl." His eyes meet yours, burning. "Such a perfect—fuck—such a perfect princess. Open your mouth for me, baby. Let me see."
You open your mouth, tongue out, and he groans at the sight.
Then he's coming, hot and thick, coating your tongue and splashing across your chin. You swallow what you can, some of it spilling down, and when he finally stops, he looks down at you with something like worship in his eyes.
"God." He cups your face, thumbs brushing across your cheeks, smearing the evidence of what just happened. "You're perfect. You're so fucking perfect. Look at you."
The alcohol in your system is making you bold, desperate, and before he can help you up, you're reaching for him, pulling him down with you to the cold tile floor.
"Baby," He stumbles, catching himself on his hands, hovering over you. "What are you—"
"I want more." You're climbing into his lap, straddling him, and you feel him twitch against your thigh, already half-hard again. "You're not done yet. I'm not done with you."
"Princess, I need a minute—"
"You'll have a minute when I say you have a minute." You sink down onto him, and you both groan at the oversensitivity, the sensation almost too much. "Right now, I want to ride you. And you're going to let me."
His eyes darken, and something shifts in his expression, something that says he likes this side of you, this demanding, desperate side.
“Ugh, shut the actual fuck up." You roll your hips, grinding against him, and his words dissolve into a groan. "Just—let me use you. You said I could. Said I could have whatever I want."
His hands find your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, and he thrusts up into you, meeting your movements.
"Then take it." His voice is rough. "Take what you need, baby. Show me how much you want it."
You ride him hard, fast, your thighs burning with the effort, your hands braced against his shoulders.
He meets each of your movements with a thrust of his own, his hips snapping up, driving deeper, and the sound of skin meeting skin fills the bathroom like applause.
"Yes, yes—god, right there—"
"You're so fucking sexy like this." His hands slide down to grip your ass, spreading you wider, changing the angle. "Riding me like you were made for it. Like this is all you're good for."
"Only for you." The words spill out, breathless. "Only ever—ah—only ever for you."
He reaches between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, and he rubs in tight circles that make your rhythm stutter.
"You sound so pretty when you fall apart," he murmurs. "I missed these sounds. Missed making you sound like this. I wish I could bottle it up and keep it forever."
"Ride me harder, baby." His hand comes down on your ass, sharp, and you yelp, the sound dissolving into a moan. "Show me how much you want it. How desperate you are."
You bounce faster, harder, your whole body focused on chasing the building tension in your core.
He's watching you with hooded eyes, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, and every now and then a sound escapes him, a groan, a curse, a whispered "yes, just like that, so good."
"You're such a good boy, baby." The words slip out without thought, and his whole body goes tense beneath you. "You’re taking me so damn well. Letting me use you. Being so, so good for me."
"Fuck." His grip on your hips tightens to the point of pain. "Say that again."
"You're my good boy." You clench around him deliberately, and he shudders. "My perfect, obedient, desperate boy. You love this, don't you? Love when I take what I want from you."
His hand comes down on your ass again, harder this time, and the sharp sting mixes with the pleasure until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
"Harder." His voice is wrecked, desperate. "Ride me harder. Make yourself come on my dick like the needy little slut you are for me."
You bounce on him like your life depends on it, the cold tile forgotten, the ache in your thighs irrelevant.
There's nothing but him, inside you and around you, his hands on your body, his voice in your ear.
The word spills out of you without thought, without permission, and he goes completely still beneath you for one heartbeat, two.
Your back hits the cold tile, a shock that makes you gasp, and he's above you, his face inches from yours, his eyes burning with something wild.
His hips slam forward, brutal, and you scream.
"That's right, princess." He sets a punishing pace, each thrust punctuated by a groan that sounds almost pained. "I'm your daddy. Say it. Scream it. Let everyone in this bar know who's making you feel this good."
"Daddy—daddy, yes, fuck, right there—my god, daddy—"
He leans down, his mouth finding your ear, and his words are hot against your skin.
"Such a good little thing. Coming apart on daddy's cock like you were made for it. This pussy is mine, isn't it? Say it."
"It's yours, all yours—daddy, I'm—"
You can feel it building, that tension in your core, the way he's twitching inside you, his rhythm becoming erratic.
"I'm going to come inside you this time." His voice is rough in your ear, more promise than statement. "Going to fill you up. Mark you from the inside. Is that what you want, baby? Want daddy to fill this pretty pussy?"
"Yes, fuck yes, please—fill me up—"
"Then come for me." His thumb finds your clit, rubbing merciless circles. "Come on daddy's dick like a good girl."
The orgasm crashes through you like a wave, drowning you, pulling you under.
You clench around him so hard he groans, his rhythm stuttering, and then he's following you over the edge, spilling into you with a sound that's almost a sob.
His hips keep moving, slow and deep, riding out the aftershocks until you're both trembling, oversensitive and wrecked.
He collapses on top of you, his face buried in your neck, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
For a long moment, neither of you moves.
You just lie there on the cold tile floor of a bar bathroom, tangled together, your heartbeats slowly returning to normal.
Then he lets out a breathless laugh.
"Yeah." You're panting, your voice hoarse from screaming. "Fuck."
"That was—" He lifts his head, looking down at you with eyes that are softer now, the wildness fading into something warm and adoring. "You're incredible. You know that? Like, actually incredible. I don't know how I got so lucky."
"You're not so bad yourself." You reach up, brushing the sweaty hair from his forehead, tucking a strand behind his ear. "Hee."
He smiles, that boyish smile that made you fall for him in the first place, the one that crinkles his eyes and scrunches his nose, and presses a gentle kiss to your lips.
It's soft, tender, nothing like the desperate claiming from before, and it makes something warm bloom in your chest.
"I love you," he murmurs against your lips. "Just so you know. Drunk or sober. At a bar or in a bathroom or anywhere else. Always. You're it for me."
Your chest tightens, and you realize with sudden clarity that you've been dancing around this for months, years, maybe, and all it took was a bathroom in a bar at two in the morning for him to finally say it.
"I love you more, Heeseung." The words come easily, naturally, like they've been waiting to be spoken. "Have for a while. Probably forever."
He grins, wider, brighter, and rests his forehead against yours.
"Good." He pauses, then adds, "Now help me up, because I think my legs are actually dead. I'm not even being dramatic. They're just... gone, they moved on to a better place without even telling me."
You laugh, the sound echoing off the tiles, bright and genuine, and push at his chest.
"Your worst." He lets you push him off, groaning dramatically as he sits up. "Forever and ever. You're stuck with me now. No take-backs."
But you're smiling when you say it.
He pulls you in for another kiss, slower this time, softer, tasting of whiskey and want and something that feels like the beginning of everything, you think maybe "forever" wouldn't be so bad.
Maybe it would be perfect.
pixelskylines
vaporwave
discoholicmusic
titsay
