Lissy’s Archive

It was always obvious that your boyfriend was really good with kids. And kids were equally attracted to him as well.

Jeongin loved interacting with the tiny humans, letting them poke his deep dimple, play peek-a-boo with little babies or babysit toddlers. The man was a born father, his paternal instincts were strong and sharp.

You on the other hand were quite the opposite. You didn't hate kids of course, it's just they made you nervous. And their cries kind of annoyed you too as much you tried to hide it.

So what happens when he sees his girlfriend interact with a kid like you were always meant to be a mother?

"Oh god—Innie, I—" your moans tore out right as another slam knocked the air out of your lungs.

Jeongin had you folded in half, in the meanest of a mating press, your knees kissing your chest and him towering over you, rutting his thick cock into you in brutal thrusts.

"Yeah, that's right mama, ye feel me? Huh? Feel me right—there?"

Your nails clawed his shoulders, the stretch of him burning and blissful, every thrust punching sounds out of your throat that weren’t even words anymore. He kept you folded tight, pressing you deeper into the mattress, his hips snapping forward with merciless precision.

“Answer me, baby,” Jeongin growled, his pace not slowing down making you squeal and clench him tighter. “You feel me splitting you open, yeah? Taking it like you were made for me?”

Your head fell back, tears slipping from your lashes as you whined, “Yes—fuck, Innie, yes, I feel you—”

His smirk was dangerous, feral. He shifted just slightly, angling his cock so that every thrust ground against the tender spot deep inside you that made your legs shake violently. The wet slap of skin-on-skin echoed, obscene and loud, mixing with the filthy squelch of your arousal.

You sobbed out his name, clenching around him like your body itself was begging.

His hand slipped down, pressing over your lower belly, right where his cock was pistoning in and out.

“Ah fuck” he whispered, almost reverent, then groaned when you whimpered.

“That’s me, so deep inside you. I’m gonna fill you up until you can’t take it anymore. Gonna make sure it sticks.”

And he continued, drilling and abusing your slutty hole, tearing moan after moan, erratic scream after scream until you flooded around him and his cock throbbed fiercely, a volcanic eruption like release climbing up his spine.

"Fucckkk, oh shiittt," he growled harshly, thick ribbons of his hot cum gathering up inside you, he released so much that the white substance slid out the corners of your swollen cunt.

Your voice cracked in an attempt to word something when he pulled out with a filthy string of cum sticking from your pussy onto his swollen tip.

Both of you were breathless, hot and drenched in sweat.

Jeongin stood on his knees, strands of hair sticking on his damp forehead as he watched you biting his bottom lip, still spread wide, cum dripping out of you and down to the sheets.

A low tsk escaped lips as his calloused hands squeezed your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh, making you whine.

Two slender fingers scooped the sticky mixture, spreading it nastily over your puffy folds then circled your sensitive clit. You squirmed, still recovering from the aftermath but Jeongin had no plans on stopping.

"One more round okay, mama? Just one more f'me?"

He cooed, stroking your cheeks while his cock stood hard and proud against his abs. You tried to close your legs, only for him to yank it open with a smack to your thigh.

"Innie please—m'so full," you squirmed, eyes glassy, face flushed and hair in a tangled mess.

"I know baby, but your pussy is begging for me, see," he said, sliding two fingers into your soaked cunt. You gasped, eyes fluttering shut when he curled them just right making you moan erotically and clench without thinking.

He leaned down, brushing his lips over your heated cheeks, scissoring his digits faster, drenching his fingers with your mixed juices.

His mouth landed on yours as he withdrew his coated fingers, shifting your body as he positioned himself back between your legs. Your moans were muffled and swallowed with his bruising kisses as he pushed back into you again, this time sliding in without much resistance.

His hips moved, balls slapping against your skin, your fingers raking his hair to pull him back to find him fucking feral.

Pupils blown, jaw stiff, beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he drilled his way back into you.

"Gonna make you a mom, kay? Fuck, can't wait"—thrust—slam—"to see you full, swollen and leaking mmfh."

The words pouring out of his mouth was outright dirty, making you think how he looked like a softie in front of others but had an uncontrollable kink behind the closed doors.

“Yeah—mama, taking me so good,” Jeongin grunted, rutting into you with every ounce of desperation in his body. Your walls fluttered around him, wet and swollen from his pace, clinging to him like neither of you both wanted to let go.

His thrusts grew sloppy, hips snapping forward as the filth poured out of his mouth. “Gonna pump you full again—fuck—"

You gasped, body shaking, tears streaking your temples into your hair as the coil in your stomach finally snapped. You screamed his name, clenching so tight around his cock it made him choke out a guttural moan, his body collapsing over yours.

“Take it, take all of it,” he growled through clenched teeth, his hips jerking violently as he spilled into you, hot and thick, flooding you to the brim.

He didn’t stop, not right away, kept grinding his cock into your raw, overstimulated cunt as if he could mold you around his release, make sure it stayed.

By the time he finally stilled, his chest was heaving against yours, his lips brushing your temple. His hand smoothed down to your stomach, pressing over it reverently, still panting.

“We did it, mama. Fuck, I just know I did it. You’re mine. You’re gonna carry my baby.”

And he meant it.

~

A few months later...

The front door swung open, Jeongin finding you sitting on the couch. His face bloomed into the widest smile seeing you, eyes immediately falling to your belly.

He came over and knelt in front of you, his huge hand splaying over the swell, thumb stroking the curve of it with care.

"Hi baby," he whispered, voice soft but trembling with joy. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your bump, then another, before resting his cheek against you. “It’s dada. Can you hear me in there?”

Your heart melted at the sight, his dimples showing as he grinned at your belly like it held the whole universe.

When you threaded your fingers through his hair, he looked up at you, eyes glassy but sparkling. “I told you I’d fill you up, didn’t I?” he teased, dimples deepening as his hand rubbed gently over your bump.

You laughed, swatting at his shoulder. “God, you’re unbelievable.”

He chuckled along with you, pressing another kiss to your bump before coming up to sit next you, his hand never leaving it.

You rested your head against his shoulder, placing your hand on top of his on your belly and you knew, Jeongin was never more himself than he was right now.

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WARNINGS: smut, nsfw, protected sex (wow guys look at me go amirite), riding, (implied?) slut shaming, idol x fan, felix x stay, mentions of alcohol, fingering

“You’ve been requested to go backstage.”

Your face contorts, pale, wearing the shock that came with the security guard’s words. He pulled you aside, waited for there to be fewer people near, and just bluntly said it, like it meant nothing. You stand off to the side as the fans trickle out of the pit, staring blankly at the man before you.

When you showed up at the venue this morning, you didn’t think you’d even get a spot at the barricade. The chances were slim—they always are. But you managed, and soon you were leaning against the metal, looking directly up at them. Needless to say, it paid off. The members saw you, spoke with you, and gave you small interactions that made your heart flutter in every way. Something you’ll never forget.

But he was different. He wanted more.

Stolen glances, winks, walks to the edge of the stage in front of you, watching you watch him. The tips of his blonde strands of hair soaked with water from the spray of other members. He’d turn to you, smirk, make sure you knew it was you he was looking at. Lift his shirt, show off the abs beneath it. And when he came down to the floor, walked by hundreds of screaming fans, clawing at him and holding his hands, he stopped. Short and only for a moment, but in front of you, smiling.

When you practically whispered I’ll sign one, you didn’t think he heard it. Hell, even if he did, there wasn’t a chance he’d actually do it.

But here you are, letting a random security guard lead you down the tunnel behind the stage after waiting twenty minutes for the crowd to clear almost entirely. After watching him approach that same guard just before he climbed back up on the stage half an hour ago, saying something that you only figured out once you were pulled aside while exiting the pit.

Now you’re simply following, because you’d be a fool to pass up the opportunity.

What a nice room. Not a dressing room, not even a small room—a green room. A lounge. The lights are dim and cool, leather sofas set up in the corner, and a wet bar sits off to the side. A large flat-screen television hangs above the black countertop.

And a tall blonde man stands beside it, waiting.

“Hi,” his smooth, deep voice breaks the silence, and you look behind you. The guard is gone, and the door is shut.

“Hey,” the greeting leaves your lips sounding sheepish. You’re not shy, you’ve never been. You take tentative steps closer, briefly introduce yourself, let the corners of your lips relax into a faint smile.

“Felix,” he says back, like you don’t already know, and motions for you to sit with his head. You do. He turns his body to yours, still wearing the last outfit from the show. He didn’t bother to change—didn’t see it fit. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“What do you have?” you counter. He opens the wine cooler’s door for you. You carefully inspect its contents, crossing your legs. His eyes travel down, drawn to the movement, and linger there. You don’t regret opting for the fishnets. “My eyes are up here, and Merlot.”

“Good choice,” he smiles, voice silky, and grabs two glasses.

You watch him with his small, toned figure, hair dry and reaching just above his shoulders. He opens the bottle with ease, pouring it into the two glasses in equal parts. His method is so natural, like he’s used to it. You know he’s rich—he always has been. And it doesn’t always show.

But with his smooth voice and relaxed demeanor, paired with his practiced mannerisms, you quickly realize how that very fact is true.

He’s expensive. His aura is.

When he gingerly hands you the glass, you mutter a soft thank you. He sits just beside you, leaving almost no space between, and proves that belief, his scent so intoxicating, despite having been on stage so soon prior. Leans back against the leather cushion with the freshly-poured glass in one hand as the other arm stretches out atop the back of the couch behind you. He’s classy and composed, contrasting his personality on the stage. One leg drapes over the other, and his eyes scan you—your outfit, chosen just right after months of trial and error. You’re certain now that the careful consideration paid off.

“So,” you take a sip, marveling at the rich taste, “why did you bring me back here?”

“A few reasons,” he replies, eyes trained on you as he, too, sips his wine. “I’m attracted to you,” he starts. “Saw you once and couldn’t keep my eyes off.” His lips press into a grin when he notices the shift in your expression—subtle, but enough to tell him that whatever he’s doing is working. “And you implied that you’d do this.”

Your eyebrow twitches. “So, you did hear that.”

“Of course,” he confirms, voice inviting, flirtier, his accent thicker.

You scan the room, notice how dark it is. The mood is set almost perfectly, the faintest noise of some wordless jazz playing from somewhere in the room. The door is locked, and you wonder how he managed to lock it. You figure you were too mesmerized by him to notice earlier. The way he walked around so confidently, each stride smooth, almost calculated.

It’s all so intricate, like it was set up this way intentionally, as if this wasn’t the first time any of the eight members had brought someone inside somewhere like this before. And oddly enough, none of them have passed by, or knocked, or shown signs of concern. Like it’s an unspoken rule. All in all, it’s only you and Felix in this room for the foreseeable future. It’s perfect for—well, what you’re about to do.

Or hope to.

He’s calm, too calm. So relaxed in his demeanor, like he’s either done this before or is just that confident. Though you’re also quite comfortable, at least to some extent, you know it’s the opposite deep down. You’re not exchanging flirtatious words with some guy. It’s Felix Lee—someone you’ve pined for and worshipped for years, yearning for the opportunity to be this close to him, to be so close to making your little fantasies come true. As your leg bounces up and down, he knows. He knows you’re putting up a front, and it’s almost obvious.

“You nervous?” he asks, the tips of his fingers tapping on the cushion. The soft noise as they hit the leather rings in your head.

You chuckle. Take a sip of your wine. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He laughs. “Alright, then,” he grins, tongue poking into his cheek.

“Yeah, Sherlock. I’m nervous,” you finally add. You turn your head, study his face, let your eyes linger on his before you look away and tap the rim of the glass with your nail. “You’re unattainable to anyone in that crowd. To me. Have been for years,” you take another sip. “But once, for a split second, you’re not. You look at someone, and they think they have a chance.”

He doesn’t speak. You turn again.

“And then, you look at me,” your finger keeps drumming on the glass. The sound prevails. “I might be a fan, but I’m not delusional. There’s no way in hell,” you tilt your head, “right?”

Still, he’s quiet. Working on his drink. Staring.

“Wrong,” you narrow your eyes. Tilting your head back, you finish off the wine. Place the empty glass carefully on the table. Your eyes drift back to his. “That security guard pulls me aside, and suddenly—oh,” you gasp and raise your eyebrows for emphasis, opening your mouth to feign surprise, “there is a chance. And it’s not a delusion.” You watch him swallow. “So yeah—one could probably say I’m a little on edge.”

Something shifts in his eyes.

He sets the drink down. He doesn’t break eye contact. He’s studying. Making sense of everything you said, everything you admitted. Your body language—how, at some point, you gained enough confidence to point out how obvious it is.

Now, silence. You know what he wants, what he’s thinking. You want it, too. He already knows. He’s known since he first spotted you. Since he spotted the small, yellow BbokAri dangling at your waist.

Since you told him you’d do whatever he wanted and sign the right to talk about it away, no questions asked.

He leans in, slowly, giving you an out. But you don’t take it. You let him kiss you, soft at first. Feel the warmth as you adjust to it—his lips on yours.

Without warning, it deepens. His head tilts further, tongue brushes against your lips. Pushes past them. Your hand reaches for and grips his shoulder, tight, as his arm slides down the cushion and pulls you in by the lower back. You’re in his lap, hands on his shoulders, and you can feel the tips of his hair brushing against your fingers. He’s kissing you like it means something, desperate, but not messy—just hard, like you’ll disappear if he lets up. Like he has something to prove. He’s not rushing, not itching to get you out of your clothes.

Well, he is, but he can restrain himself.

The wine was liquid confidence. Just enough to keep you on top, in control of yourself, wanting more without fixating on how unfathomable it all is. Who you’re grinding your hips on, humming against his lips while his hands keep you firm in your place by the waist.

It’s hot. You can still hear the crowd filing out of the stadium. You wonder if anyone saw. If anyone noticed the guard taking you back here. If they’d keep quiet or take to social media and spill every last detail they know and put you both in jeopardy. You don’t care.

His hands smooth over the black tube top adorning your torso. The fabric stretches. Your hands find a path of their own, running down his chest, fingertips grazing and loosening the buttons holding his vest together. They stop at his belt. Leather. Metal gems cold to the touch.

“You know,” you hum against his mouth, “this vest is practically useless with nothing under it.”

He laughs, breathy, hand toying with the plush attached to your waist. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“Of course not.”

“Exactly.”

His eyes scan your body again. His lap is warm. Firm. You feel it beneath you, straining, growing. You know. He knows. Maybe you don’t need to ditch the clothes. They look good—really good. God knows they served their purpose, because they got you backstage and wrapped around his finger (or thighs, for that matter).

He bunches up the black pleated skirt, lifting it just enough to reveal what’s under it, or the lack thereof. Stockings. Garters. They fuck with his head—perhaps even more. He grins, sticks his tongue in his cheek, huffs out a laugh.

You reach for your shoulder shrug first.

“Leave it on,” he says. “All of it.”

You figured he was done with the clothes. Now, you grin—he likes them. Maybe too much. Oh, well.

Then, his hand is between your legs, and his eyes are back on yours. His fingers slip beneath you, feel the warmth and arousal bleeding through the thin black fabric. His lips press into a smirk, downturned—proud. All the while, his eyes fixate on your face, tense and flushed. For him.

God, he’s hot.

You notice he’s not particularly vocal. You’re okay with that. You’re wet, needy, grinding against his hand for friction, and he doesn’t need to say it out loud to make it true—you both already know it. There’s nothing else you can do to relieve the ache with your legs so spread apart. And then, his fingers are pulling the panties aside. They’re dragging along you, bare. Coaxing more from you.

Your hands fumble with his belt. You kiss him again, alleviate some of the tension, pull the belt from its loops, and toss it aside. Unbutton his checkered jeans and unzip them, just enough to get at his cock. Stroke it once, twice, still rolling your hips into his hand until his fingers push inside. Your free hand runs along his front and up to his shoulder, palm grazing the abs beneath it. Then, a moan. Deep. And you’re kissing him harder.

His fingers are pushing in and pulling out, slowly, deliberately. His other hand shoves into his pocket, searching until it comes out with something between his index and middle fingers. You don’t see it, but you hear the crinkle of a wrapper, and you know what it is. It doesn’t take rocket science to figure it out.

He removes his hand entirely, and you whine. You break away and sit up, watch him secure the condom, swallow thickly. You’ve already gone too far for second thoughts.

He grips your waist, and you look down at him. A few strands of hair stick to his forehead. You tug at the red knit shrug on your shoulders, smooth your hands over the skirt.

“Won’t this be bad for your back?” you note, pointing out the way he’s sitting, how you’re on top of him.

“Someone did their research.”

You roll your eyes. “Everyone knows about it, Felix.”

He laughs. “I’ll be fine.”

Then, he lifts you, lines himself up, and lets you sink into his lap—he’d rather show than tell. Your mouth hangs open, eyes shut, breaths leaving heavy. You hear him, too, senses heightened.

“Shit,” you whisper and lean forward, opening your eyes, staring at him. Through him. Pleading silently, not knowing what for—something, anything, just to distract from everything overwhelming your mind and body. He shrugs the vest completely off.

He moves you. Slow at first, a guide. Helping to give you the strength you need to continue, to do it yourself. You’re quick to adjust. Experienced enough to take the wheel from there. Reality washes over you, forcing you to realize what you’re doing, what you’ve become in such a short time, no more than one hour. You push it down; it’s not going to spoil the moment.

You’re gripping his shoulder again, bare, warm. Fingers threaded in his hair, needing to be closer. Soft, small hands staple to your sides, digging into the black fabric stretching around your midsection, causing it to lift, exposing more skin. His palms slide down, feel it: its warmth—he groans.

His mouth envelopes yours, tongue shoves past your lips, gives you no room to breathe. Still, it’s not hurried—it’s just deep, hungry, yet slow. Matching the pace you’re moving at. Tentative rolls of your hips, offering just enough of a tease to count it as such, but not enough to make the need for more painful. Enough for him to pull back, catch his breath.

You’re riding him, thoroughly, for real. Not in a fantasy, a daydream, a daze—it’s real, him grinning proudly up at you, knowing the shortcomings of breath and small whimpers are yours, because of him. Half-lidded eyes staring up at you, every last sensation and emotion showing behind his gaze. Freckles bleeding through the faded makeup in the soft glow of the light. He’s beautifully quiet, taking you in, no need to speak.

You know he loves it—he doesn’t have to say it.

He shifts beneath you, and you moan. “Fuck, right there,” you whisper, and he smiles. He already knew before that it would evoke that reaction, almost like some sort of fucked up muscle memory.

“You knew I’d come back here and do this, didn’t you?” you accuse, droplets of sweat dripping down your face, mascara threatening to run, lipstick nearly gone but slightly smudged. “You knew from the start.”

“You looked the part,” he simply replies like it’s normal, like he isn’t admitting to categorizing you as someone he could score with from the moment he first saw you in the crowd.

“Are you calling me some kind of slut, or something?” you furrow your brows, smiling slightly, almost amused.

“When did I say that?”

“You basically implied it.”

“Enough talking,” he sighs and kisses you again, harder, rougher. A hand moves to your knee, wrapped in the fishnet pattern, and tugs it closer. Pulls you in, sinks you further, forces your body to practically fall on top of his. It strains his back—you hear his soft intake of breath and feel him try to adjust, but he doesn’t let you protest.

Instead, he moves. Starts pushing his hips up to meet yours. It’s something he doesn’t typically do when he’s got a girl backstage—put in work. He doesn’t have to, not when they’re so disgustingly obsessed with the idea of him that they’ll do anything just to get themselves off. And especially not with the back pain that comes with it. But you’re pushing it. Since you walked through the door, you’ve acknowledged the irrationality of your being there, how reckless it is, pointed out the power dynamic, and clocked him for pushing a stereotype on you that, frankly, isn’t entirely wrong. You’ve proven you’re more than just a pretty face—you have a brain up there. Thoughts of your own.

Ones that challenge him and force him to take matters into his own hands, because if he doesn’t, he and you will run out of time.

So he grabs you tighter, fucks you harder, and lets his fingers threaten to tear the stockings on your legs from the pressure he puts on them. You breathe heavier, grip his hair tighter, press your nails—dark red, chosen specifically for the tour—into his shoulder, grounding yourself, grounding him.

Finally, you hit your ceiling. The feeling overwhelms your body, a mixture of pleasure and pain from him still moving, despite the orgasm shooting through you. A soft, choked-out Lix comes from your mouth, amongst various strings of profanities and noises akin to whines. He doesn’t let people call him such, especially not some girl he brought backstage for a quick fuck, but the desperation and satisfaction in your voice let you become an exception. And truthfully, it was only a result of you choking on your words. All in all, it brings him with you—the nickname, and the pressure from you tightening around him. You wish you could’ve felt more—all of him, but unless you want to be in deeper shit, the pulse alone will have to do.

You collapse. Head buried in his shoulder, arms resting where they lie, unmoving. The room is silent, save for breathing, raw and loud, and the jazz that still plays from the non-located speaker. You’re brought out of the jaded state when you feel tugging at your waist, not directly, but you feel your skirt shifting.

Felix is tugging at the plush again. He looks down, chuckles to himself as a thought pops into his head. He moves back up, fixes his gaze on your face, flushed.

“You think he liked the show?”

You scoff. “What an odd thing to ask. And wrong,” you roll your eyes, “everyone knows BbokAri is a girl.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you echo, and he silences you by kissing you again. It’s soft and lasts for a few moments. Almost intimate. And then he pulls away. Slowly. Like he’s savoring it.

You lock eyes with him. The smile you once donned fades. You notice something in his eye, a flicker. Something unknown, but nothing you’re willing to explore. Nothing you want to get yourself wrapped up in. You clear your throat, and the trance breaks.

“...You should go,” he finally says.

“Yeah,” you nod.

You carefully climb out of his lap, hiss at the emptiness, and slide your feet down to the floor. And you stand. Fix the practically discarded underwear, covering the mess beneath it. Enough to feel when you stand or walk, but not enough to be visible when the skirt is pulled down. You smooth it down. It does the job.

In the same fraction of time, he fixes himself up, stands, and disposes of the waste. You’re brushing through your hair with your fingers absentmindedly, lost in thought, when you feel his presence beside you again. He doesn’t come back empty-handed. Papers. A thin stack. You know what they are. What it is. You swallow.

He wordlessly hands you a pen. You take it and the papers. Place them together on the coffee table. Kneel beside it, read through the words. It’s a jumbled-up string of complex terms and phrases—a fancy way of saying you’ll never speak a word of what happened to another person. That this, for all intents and purposes, didn’t happen.

Your eyes flash up at him. His expression remains intact. There’s no sign of regret, no remorse. No emotion. His eyes are blank. No life like they had for the split second before you stood. He’s waiting, plain and simple.

You look back down and sign your name in smooth, black ink. It looks back at you almost tauntingly. Proof you’ve done something that could take down a reputation, a career, a company. Written on paper, set in stone.

You slide the contract forward, and he takes the pen. Signs his own name alongside yours without hesitation. You study it, eventually making out the Y and B amongst the swirls. You breathe, making brief eye contact once more, and reluctantly stand up.

“I just go now, right?”

“Mm,” he hums.

“Okay.”

You can’t find your footing to walk off just yet.

The adrenaline has worn off. The wine has run its course. All that remains is the vulnerability you’re trying not to show. But you know it does, and you don’t want it to. Just for a few minutes more, you need to keep the facade up. Be okay with giving him all of you and walking away, never to mention it again.

Yet no matter how much you’ll try to forget, with every photo you see, every video you watch, and every moment you lay eyes on him, you’ll remember.

He takes a breath and turns around, walking toward the sink. Your eyes don’t follow him. You keep staring forward. Let yourself fall back into a daze. Lost in your head, yet no thoughts come to mind. Plain emptiness, like a prison.

He suddenly comes back into view, and you don’t know what he did, why he went over in the first place. You snap back into reality. He’s silent, looking into your eyes with a somber expression, one you haven’t seen, nor do you expect to. You feel him place something in your hand, warm, slightly damp. You look down. A towel—rag, more like. Brows creased, you look up.

“There’s a bathroom around the corner.” His voice is soft. Comforting. “If you’re not comfortable with that, you can use it to clean up at home, or wherever you need.”

Your lips twitch, almost into a smile.

“Thank you.”

He steps closer, and his hand makes its way up the right side of your face, fingers settling beneath your ear and thumb on your cheek. His gaze shifts between your eyes. He leans down. Slots his lips with yours gently, and again, intimately. Like it means something. And he breaks it as slowly as it began. Keeps his eyes trained on yours.

You see it again. The flicker.

Again, you ignore it.

“I don’t do that for anyone.”

His voice is soft, sincere. You let the words hit you, process entirely, resonate in your mind. Let them linger in the air between you as his hand slides down your face and hangs back at his side. He won’t say anything more. You won’t respond. You’ll take the kiss for what it is—an anomaly. Acknowledge it and walk away, because you refuse to let yourself believe you can truly stand out from the rest.

You give him a confirming nod and make way for the door. Unlock it and turn the knob. Step into the doorway. For a moment, you contemplate just going. But you turn back. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t changed his expression. Hasn’t spoken. You give him a final look. One he solemnly returns. A goodbye.

You don’t remember the exact moment it shifted—when curiosity became ritual.

It might’ve been the second time you sat in his chair, hands tucked under your thighs, letting him talk you through the angles of your ear like it was a constellation map only he could see. You'd walked into NO SAINT INK on a whim, a dare, a half-formed promise to yourself that you’d stop saying “maybe next time.” You hadn’t planned on choosing him.

But Felix had looked up from the back of the shop—half-crouched on a rolling stool, sketchbook open on one thigh, sunflower-blond hair tucked behind a pierced ear—and smiled at you like he’d been expecting you.

And that was it.

He patted the vinyl seat beside him like he already knew where this was going and you made yourself comfortable on it.

That was six months ago.

Now? You’re the kind of regular who doesn’t need to check in at the front. Chan gives you a lazy wave and goes back to the books. Seungmin nods from his little corner, earbuds in. Jisung usually grins and whispers something stupid under his breath as you walk by—but Felix? Felix always knows you’re coming.

Your file probably says four things:

– multiple cartilage – curated constellation piercings, designed together – naval (freehand, perfect placement) – Felix only.

And it’s not that the others aren’t good. They are—exceptional, even. It’s just that Felix makes it feel like more.

Felix has sunlight in his veins and something far darker in his smile. To most people, Felix is gentle. Patient. Calming. He hums when he works. Offers you a blanket if the studio’s cold. Lets you squeeze his wrist if you’re nervous—never flinches, just murmurs, “that’s it, angel. keep breathing.”

But under that softness is something sharper. You see it in the way his hands move.

He’s a piercer first, tattooer second. Specializes in placements that most artists shy away from: dermals, navals, nipples, genitals, and other delicate zones. He says he likes the precision of it. The trust involved.

“People forget how intimate piercing is,” he told you once. “You have to earn someone’s body. Be calm enough they let you near it. Gentle enough they want you to stay.”

When he tattoos, he prefers sacred geometry, micro-script, and emotional etchings. Crescent moons behind ears. Names in Morse code along ribs. Protection symbols. Memorial pieces. He doesn’t chase shock value—he tattoos meaning.

“Needles hurt. Might as well make it count.”

He rarely books more than one client a day. He gives too much of himself each time.

But with you? He always says yes.

You and Felix had started professional. It always was. Until it wasn't. Because by then, it became something else.

The way he’d guide your breathing—not just for the pain, but to calm the tremble in your voice when you asked about your next piercing. The way he remembered you drink peach tea, not green. That you like to see the jewelry options laid out first, like you're choosing a path. The way he held your hand a beat too long. Pressed gauze to your skin with a feather-light touch that lingered.

You knew it wasn’t just you. You’ve seen him work on others. You’ve seen the difference.

Felix is kind to everyone. But he’s tender with you.

You don’t flirt outright—there’s too much electricity in the silence. But you watch each other. You hover in his orbit like a star caught in slow collapse.

He calls you “darling,” “brave girl,” “pretty thing.” Sometimes he texts you the night before your appointments:

“room’s prepped. miss you a little.” “got new titanium pieces. want you to be the first.” “can’t wait to see what you wear for me this time.”

You think he notices your body more than he lets on. You’ve caught him watching—low eyes, parted lips, tongue brushing his lower lip.

But he’s never crossed the line. Not once. Which is why you’re nervous now. Because your next appointment? You asked for nipple piercings.

And maybe—maybe a tattoo. You haven’t told him where yet. Nor what the design is, yet.

The bell over the door chimes as you step into NO SAINT INK, and before you can even take two steps inside, you hear it.

“SHE’S BACK!” “Hide the lube!” “She’s got that ‘about to do something reckless’ walk again!”

You sigh. Loudly. Dramatically. “I hope all your piercings reject and your cartilage gets infected.”

Han Jisung appears from behind the front counter like a raccoon crawling out of a snack bag, a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and glitter under his eyes. “Babe, please,” he grins, wide and shameless. “You’ve been threatening me with infection kink since your second appointment.”

From the corner, Seungmin doesn’t even look up from his iPad. “Because you act like you want one.”

“Don’t kink-shame me in my own place of worship,” Han mutters, then drops his voice a few octaves and mock-moans, “oh no, doc, I have sepsis—”

“Stop,” Chan groans, emerging from the back office, rubbing his temples like he’s been hearing this conversation in surround sound all day. “Don’t scare off the paying clients.”

You flash him a sweet smile. “If you wanted professionalism, you wouldn’t have hired them.”

“Touché,” he concedes, then offers you a hug. You melt into it. Chan smells like sage, mint, and the weight of adult responsibility. “You’re here for Lix?”

You nod, and Han makes a soft oohhhh in the background like he’s watching a sex scene through a cracked door.

“Big day,” he whispers like a narrator. “Big... titties.”

Seungmin finally looks up. “Are we done pretending she doesn’t have favorite-client status? Felix literally skipped lunch to get the room ready for her.”

You raise an eyebrow. “He skipped a meal?”

“Voluntarily,” Chan confirms, crossing his arms. “Said something about making sure the setup was ‘extra calming’ and ‘not rushing the process.’ He even polished the mirror. You got him nervous.”

Han gasps. “He cleaned something? For someone other than himself? Girl, are you getting pierced or proposed to?”

You flip him off on your way past the counter, but you’re smiling. Because yeah. You’re nervous too. But also… something about this feels right. Like walking toward a decision you’ve already made in your bones.

You stop at the hallway, just before the private room where Felix usually works.

The door’s closed. And your heart is racing.

Chan notices. He leans in a little, softer now. “You okay?”

You nod. Then bite your lip. Then shake your head and whisper, “He’s gonna see my boobs, Chan.”

Han yells from the counter, “BOOBS CONFIRMED! I REPEAT, BOOBS CONFIRMED.”

Seungmin sighs. “This is why we can’t bring you anywhere.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “I hate it here.”

“Do you want me to escort you to the back like a lady of honor?” Seungmin deadpans from the corner without glancing up.

“Do you want to get stabbed with a sterilized piercing needle, Seungmin?” you shoot back.

“I’d let Felix do it,” he says casually, flipping the page on his iPad. “He has nice hands.”

Chan sighs. “This is becoming a lawsuit.”

Han’s already up on the counter like a meerkat, one hand to his ear like a news anchor.

“BREAKING NEWS: LOCAL BAD BITCH ABOUT TO SHOW TITTIES TO CERTIFIED SWEETHEART WITH KNIFE SKILLS—WILL SHE SURVIVE THE HORNY?”

“Find out next time on Nippled and Afraid,” Seungmin adds.

That’s when the door creaks open behind you and you freeze like a sim with a full bladder.

Felix steps out of the room.

He’s wearing black joggers and a fitted tank, gloves already on, a silver chain glinting at his throat. His hair’s tied back loosely, showing off the piercings in his ears and the constellation tattoo on the side of his neck that you’ve definitely stared at way too long. There’s a clipboard in one hand, and a titanium barbell balanced on the tip of one glove.

He looks between you and the absolute shitshow happening behind you.

“…Did I miss something?” he asks, blinking slow, voice smooth as fuckin’ butter.

“No,” you say too fast.

“Yes,” Han counters immediately. “It’s a boob day.”

Felix’s mouth twitches like he’s trying so hard not to laugh. His eyes find yours—warm, soft, but also glinting with the tiniest bit of mischief. “Is that right?”

“No,” you say again. But this time it’s more like a squeak. A guilty, betrayed-by-your-own-mouth squeak.

“Honestly,” Seungmin adds helpfully, “I’d be nervous too. She has a lot of boob.”

“SEUNGMIN.”

“Just being body-positive.”

Felix hums under his breath, completely unbothered, tilting his head like he’s studying you. “Want me to clear the hallway for your modesty?”

You narrow your eyes. “I hate you.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He turns to the boys and deadpans: “If you three don’t shut up and go away, I’ll pierce each of your tongues with no anesthesia and a broken clamp.”

Han gasps. “You wouldn’t.”

Felix raises an eyebrow, still calm, still polite. “Test me.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Han grabs Seungmin by the arm. “Okay, we’re leaving! Everyone respect the boob event! LET HER LIVE!”

Chan gives you a wink and a mock-salute as he herds the feral duo out. “Tell him if he makes you cry in a bad way, I’m docking his pay.”

Then, finally, blessedly, they’re gone.

And Felix is looking at you like you’ve already undressed for him. “You ready?” he asks, that same gentle voice he always uses when he’s about to touch you.

You exhale. And nod.

Finally, you step inside, and the door clicks softly shut behind you.

It’s quiet now—just the low hum of the sterilizer in the corner and the faint lo-fi beats playing from a speaker tucked onto a shelf. The room smells like warm alcohol wipes, vanilla lotion, and Felix. That signature, indescribable scent you’ve come to associate with safety and danger at the same time.

The chair’s already reclined. Fresh black sheet. Towel folded neatly at the headrest. Paper tray lined up with tools—everything gleaming, precise, ready for you.

Felix follows you in, calm and unhurried, and says, “You can sit or lie down, whatever feels best. We’ll talk through everything first.” And then, in that same soft voice—

“No rush. You’re in my space now.”

You move to the chair, slowly. Your thighs graze the vinyl. The seat is cold at first, but it grounds you—forces you to breathe as you lower yourself in and let your arms rest by your sides. You try not to think about how exposed you’re about to be. About the way your heart is pounding out of your chest. About how many times you’ve imagined this exact moment but never thought it would feel like this.

Felix walks over, still gloved, and holds out the barbell he’d been carrying—pinched delicately between latex fingers. It’s titanium, rose gold anodized, and so small it looks almost delicate.

He holds it up to the light.

“This is one option,” he says gently, then places it on a sterile pad and gestures to a small velvet tray. “But I have a few others. Different finishes, gemstone ends, opal, flat discs, silver, matte black. Depends how flashy—or soft—you want the look to be.”

You glance at the tray. It’s absurd, really, how careful he is—still in gloves, still surgical in motion, even though this isn’t the procedure yet. You’ve seen him do this before, for your ear jewelry, for your navel. He always uses gloves when presenting the options. Won’t touch the pieces bare-handed, even if you’re just browsing.

Because Felix doesn’t just pierce people. He ritualizes it.

He kneels a little to your eye level now—still at a distance, still giving you space. “You okay so far?”

You nod, maybe a little too quickly. “Yeah. Just…” You inhale. Exhale. “…I can’t believe I actually booked this.”

A slow smile curls onto his lips. His eyes flick down, briefly—so brief it could be missed. “Been thinking about it for a while though, haven’t you?”

You nod again, quieter this time. “Since my second piercing.”

He tilts his head, amused. “The conch?”

“Yeah. You were so… professional about it. I kept waiting for you to… I don’t know.”

“To flirt?”

You pause. Then smile. “Kinda.”

He shrugs, eyes soft but glinting. “Didn’t wanna mess with your comfort. But if it helps—” He leans in slightly, voice lowering, velvet-sweet. “—I’ve been waiting for you to ask me for this one.”

Your breath catches.

He straightens again, walks over to a side drawer, pulls out a few more options, all titanium, all glittering under the soft room light. Then he turns back to you, lifts his hands—

“May I?”

You nod, and he comes closer, tray in one gloved hand, the other bracing lightly on the back of your chair. He holds the options near your chest—hovering just above the fabric of your top, not touching you yet, but close enough that your breath hitches again.

“These two would suit your skin tone best. See the undertones?”

You glance at the pieces. You barely register them. All you can think about is how close he is now. How his voice has dropped. How he hasn’t touched you. Not yet. But your body feels like he already has.

Then—gently—he steps back.

“Take your time. When you’ve chosen, I’ll walk you through prep and position. You can undress once you're ready.”

He turns toward the counter, reaching for a new pair of gloves—because he’s about to discard the current ones, the ones he used for the display.

“Can’t touch your skin with these,” he says over his shoulder. “You deserve clean hands.”

You inhale, exhaled as your eyes settle on the tray. Staring at it like it’s offering answers to questions you’re not brave enough to say out loud. You choose the daintiest one—a curved titanium bar with petite opal ends, almost iridescent in the light. Sweet. Soft. Girlish in a way.

He looks at your choice when you hold it up. And smiles. “Pretty,” he says, voice low. “Just like you.”

You pretend not to choke on your own breath.

He discards the gloves—carefully, methodically, snapping them off and dropping them into the bin—then slips on a new pair from the box near the sterilizer. You watch him like you’re under a spell. Every movement he makes is calm. Measured. Intimate, but professional. Not clinical. Never cold. Just… deeply intentional.

He begins laying out the setup.

A sterile tray. An unopened piercing needle—still sealed in its package. Forceps. A marker. Gauze. Saline. A mirror.

Then he turns to you, head tilting softly, voice warm. “Go ahead and take off your top and bra. You can lie back once you’re comfortable.”

You nod, pulse quickening, and stand slowly.

Your hands fumble at the hem of your shirt. You’re not shaking—not exactly—but you feel it. That thrum just under your skin. Not fear. Something else.

Excitement. Anticipation. The quiet ache of being seen.

You peel off your top, then unclasp your bra, letting both drop neatly onto the nearby chair. For a second, you hesitate—arms half-crossed like you might cover yourself.

But then Felix turns around. And the look on his face? Pure reverence. His eyes flick over you, but not in the way you expect. Not hungry or gawking. Just… soft. Quiet. Attentive. Like he’s seeing something sacred.

“There you are,” he murmurs. “Look at you.”

You bite your lip. “You’re not even trying to hide it, huh?”

He walks over slowly, already holding the marker, and gives you the tiniest smile. “Not today.”

You lie back onto the reclined chair, head resting against the folded towel, arms settling at your sides. The air is cool against your bare chest, but his gaze? His gaze is warm enough to burn.

He crouches beside you, just at the edge of the chair, keeping his hands respectful—but close. You can see the marker poised in his fingers.

“Okay, I’m going to mark the placement now. Just a little dot on each side. I’ll give you the mirror after, and you can tell me if you want any adjustments.”

You nod, and he leans in. You feel the gentle drag of his gloved hand against your ribcage. The marker dot is so light you barely feel it.

But his breath? You feel that. Warm. Barely there. Ghosting across your sternum like a secret.

“You’re doing perfect,” he murmurs, like it’s just for you.

He marks the other side. Mirrors the placement with quiet focus. Then pulls back slowly, just enough to grab the small mirror from the tray.

“Here,” he says. “Take a look. Let me know if it feels right.”

You hold the mirror with slightly shaky hands, angling it as best you can. The dots are perfectly placed—subtle, flattering, aligned with the natural curve of your chest. The bar you picked will sit like a tiny, glimmering crown. Delicate. Pretty.

Princess shit, honestly.

“It’s good,” you say quietly. Then again, stronger: “It’s perfect.”

He smiles at that. “Then we’re all set.” He pauses. “One last time—are you sure you want to do both today? We can always start with one and come back—”

“No,” you cut in, pulse thrumming. “I trust you.”

Felix stares at you, a smile making way to his face, all warm and sunshine. “Alright, angel,” he finally says. “Let me take care of you.”

Your chest rises and falls faster now, breath shallow. You try to stay calm, but then you hear it—

the snap of his gloves. New pair. Clean. Tight against his wrists. Your thighs clench.

He moves around you like a storm gathering quietly—no rush, just inevitability. He sets the tray beside the chair. Everything is in place. Except your mind. That left the second he called you angel.

“I’m going to clean the area first,” he murmurs, voice low, as he reaches for the antiseptic wipe. “It’ll feel cold.”

It does.

The moment the wipe touches your skin, your breath stutters. His fingers are firm and steady, gloved hand guiding the motion. He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t tease.

But the way he holds you? It’s reverent. Like you’re something breakable and beloved.

His eyes flick up—just once—to check your face. “Still okay?”

You nod, voice caught in your throat. “Yeah. Mhm. Yes.”

He lets out the faintest hum—satisfied. Then leans in just a little closer, one hand bracing at your ribcage as the other prepares the clamp.

“I’m going to place the tool now, just for alignment. It’ll pinch a bit.”

You know what’s coming. You’ve watched videos. You’ve had piercings before. But nothing prepares you for the feeling of Felix’s hands—one steady at your side, the other applying pressure with the clamp, his face so close to your chest, concentration written across his features like he’s painting you.

“Breathe in…” he says softly.

You do.

“Hold.”

You do.

“Now exhale—”

The needle goes through in one clean motion.

And you gasp. Not just from the pain—it’s sharp, yes, a sting that blooms bright and fast. But also from the sound that escapes you. A sound you didn’t mean to make. Breathy. Soft. Almost… needy.

Felix freezes for a second.

“You okay?” His voice is low. Thicker now. Like he felt it too.

You nod, blinking up at him. Your pulse is racing. Your skin is buzzing. There's heat pooling low in your stomach and you don't know if it's the adrenaline or him.

He gently slides the jewelry through, screws the dainty opal ball into place. It should honestly feel like relief. But instead, it feels like foreplay.

“That’s one,” he says, eyes meeting yours. “Want me to keep going?”

Your lips part. “Yes. Please.”

And god, the way his jaw tenses at that. He nods once, sharp and focused, then leans in again. This time, when he positions the clamp, you're already trembling sightly. His free hand rest heavier on your ribcage, his thumb just barely brushing your skin and you swear you feel it through the glove. Swear you feel him everywhere.

“Same thing,” he murmurs, voice rougher now. “Deep breath in…”

You inhale sharply.

“Hold.”

The second needle slides through and this time—you moan. Soft. Small. But unmistakable. Your body arches just slightly, involuntarily. And his hand? It flexes. Grips a little harder. Just for a moment.

“Fuck—” Felix whispers under his breath.

It’s the first time he’s broken. The first time he’s let it slip.

“Still good?” he asks, but it’s not just professionalism anymore. There’s something else there. Something tight. Raw.

You nod again, cheeks flushed, throat dry. “Y-Yeah.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since you walked in. Then moves quickly—threads the second barbell through, secures it, wipes away the tiny dot of blood with gentle precision. Then sits back.

Just looks at you.

You’re breathing hard. Skin flushed. Lying there, bare, pierced, glowing.

And him? His gloves are still on. But his eyes? They’re filthy. “You did perfect,” he says, voice low and quiet like a secret. “So fuckin’ perfect for me.”

Your thighs clench again. He notices. He always notices. “Let me get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, reaching for the aftercare.

Felix grabs the clean compress and gently warms it in his hands. You watch him as he works—his fingers moving smoothly despite the gloves, the barbell glinting faintly as he adjusts the overhead light.

When he turns back to you, there’s something different in his expression. Still gentle. Still focused. But underneath it, there’s a tension. Like he’s gripping a secret between his teeth.

“Okay,” he says, kneeling beside the chair so he’s level with you again, “this’ll help soothe any swelling. Just a little pressure.”

He presses the warm compress to your skin with slow care, one hand steady against your ribs, the other adjusting the angle. And it should be nothing. Should be routine.

But you swear his thumb is tracing circles now. Tiny, slow ones.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. It shudders at the edges.

“Still doing okay?” he asks without looking up.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “More than okay.”

His eyes flick up. And you know he sees it. The flush in your chest, the rise and fall of your breath, the way your body is buzzing from more than just adrenaline.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“Because you touched me like that,” you say before you can stop yourself.

That makes him pause. Like he’s deciding something. Like he’s reining something in. Then he smirks—small, dangerous, and too pretty to be fair. “Touched you like what?” he says softly.

“Like it that.”

Felix pulls back just slightly, enough to let the warmth of your words settle between you. “Well, it's because it matters how I touch you.” he says. “You’re not just anyone.”

You blink. “I’m not?”

He lets out a quiet laugh, something low and breathy that curls hot in your stomach. “You think I’d do all this for someone I don’t think about every night after closing?”

That sentence detonates somewhere in your lower stomach. You short-circuit for a full second. Your brain is like a hamster in a blender.

“I—”

He’s still crouched by the chair, head tilted, watching you watch him like you’ve never seen a man before. And honestly? Maybe you haven’t. Not one like this.

“Felix.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re... dangerously good at this.”

He blinks, brows lifting slightly. “At piercing?”

“No,” you say, breathless. “At flirting with surgical instruments in your hand.”

That earns you a real smile. Bright and shameless. “Guess it’s a niche skill.”

“Niche? You’re weaponized.”

“Only against you, angel.”

And that—that—makes you cover your face with both hands and groan into your palms.

He laughs, standing up slowly, stretching his arms a bit, letting his tank ride up just a little. Tease. He knows it. You know it.

You peek between your fingers. “You’re so annoying.”

“You’re so into it.”

“I’m dangerously into it,” you mutter. “You could tattoo the word ‘butt’ on my shoulder and I’d thank you.”

“Oh?” he smirks. “Is that your formal request?”

“No. I—” You sit up slightly, clutching the towel across your chest. “I do want a tattoo from you, though.”

His smirk softens into something intrigued. “You do?”

You nod. “Not today. God. Not today. I just got stabbed twice in the tits.”

He makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a suppressed moan.

You ignore it.

“But I want to book it,” you continue, trying to act casual even though your skin is still buzzing from the aftercare and your thighs are still clenching every time he calls you “angel.” “Like… I want something small. Pretty. Maybe something only I know the meaning of. Like my little secret.”

He raises a brow, hands in his pockets now. “And you want me to do it?”

You stare. “Are you high? Of course I want you. I don’t let just anyone mark me. We’re like three body mods away from you having squatter’s rights on my flesh.”

He blinks, then laughs, full and bright, head tilting back.

“Oh my god,” he says, wiping under his eye like you actually made him cry. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I’m serious,” you pout. “Pencil me in.”

He bites his lip, still grinning. “How about I pencil you in… and then take you out after?”

Your eyes narrow. “Felix.”

“Yes?”

“Are you asking me out as a reward for surviving your nipple torture?”

He shrugs, shameless. “You were really brave. I feel like you deserve dinner. Or… dessert.”

Your jaw drops. “You absolute menace.”

“I’m marking it in my calendar,” he says, grabbing his phone. “Tattoo consult, followed by post-inking activities.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means you’re gonna sit in my chair again. But next time, I’m gonna keep my gloves on longer.”

You freeze. He winks. And your heart falls straight out of your chest. “Okay,” you say, breathless. “Book it. Tattoo. Dinner. Dessert. All of it.”

Felix grins, bright as a sunbeam. “Can’t wait to ruin you gently.”

It’s been two weeks since Felix pierced your nipples.

Fourteen days. Three sleepless nights. One erotic dream that ended with you waking up with his name on your lips and your hand halfway down your pajama shorts.

You haven’t stopped thinking about it.

Neither has he.

Not that he’s said it outright—he’s still Felix. Still sweet and composed, still texting you photos of dainty jewelry he “could see on you,” still pretending not to be the same man who had his hands on your chest while whispering you’re not just anyone.

But something shifted that day.

Now, when you walk into NO SAINT INK, he doesn’t just smile at you. He drinks you in. Slow. Careful. A look that starts at your lips and ends somewhere around your thighs.

He texts you more. Dumb shit sometimes.

saw this meme, made me think of you (you in this case = a raccoon who stole a slice of cake and got caught) do you think a tattoo of a tiny sword on the hip is slutty or powerful? asking for science btw—piercings are healing perfectly. you’re a dream client. but you already knew that

You pretend to roll your eyes. But you also reread the messages before bed. And maybe… maybe you started taking more mirror pics.

He hasn’t seen them. Not yet. But you’re starting to want him to. The upcoming tattoo appointment is officially booked. He even texted you a calendar invite.

You haven’t picked a placement yet.

Mostly because every time you imagine his fingers trailing along your skin, pushing fabric out of the way, murmuring “here?”, you lose your train of thought.

And maybe part of you is holding back on purpose.

Letting it simmer.

Because if what happened last time is any indication, then the moment you’re in his chair again—bare skin under his hands, gloved or not—you’re not leaving without his name in your mouth. And maybe something else, too.

You arrive early.

The studio’s quiet when you walk in—Chan gives you a nod from the office, barely glancing up from the booking tablet, while Seungmin mutters something about “romantic tension causing a fire hazard.”

You ignore both of them. You’re too busy trying to keep your heart inside your chest.

You’re wearing a low-back slip dress. Thin straps. Just enough coverage to stay on the right side of “I’m here for body modification,” and the wrong side of “touch me and find out.”

Your phone buzzes.

[Felix]: back room’s ready, princess.

Your stomach flips. Your thighs tighten. You walk to the private room like it’s a confessional booth.

Felix is already inside.

And god, he looks even better. How does he do that, looking better every single time. All black: sleeveless tank, loose joggers that cling in the right places, chain resting on his collarbone, hair pulled back in a way that makes you want to pull it forward.

The moment he sees you, his mouth curves into something slow and hungry.

“Damn,” he says softly. “Didn’t even start yet and you’ve already got me sweating.”

You try to play it cool. Fail instantly. “You said dress up.”

“And you listened like a good girl,” he murmurs, stepping closer, voice dipping dangerously low.

You swallow. “You ready to mark me, or what?”

He exhales through a grin. “Yeah, let’s talk placement.”

You hand him a folded sketch you’ve been keeping tucked in your bag for days. He opens it carefully.

It’s a delicate little sword, no longer than your pinky finger. Wrapped in blooming wisteria vines. The blade’s curved, fine-line. A star sits just beneath the hilt.

Felix studies it for a long moment.

“What’s it mean?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You shrug, trying not to look too vulnerable. “Strength. Softness. Holding both. And... the star’s kinda a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?”

You meet his gaze, suddenly bold. “That someone sees me.”

He doesn’t say anything for a beat. Just nods, then turns away—like if he looks at you a second longer he might kiss you before any ink gets involved.

“Okay,” he says. “Where?”

You hesitate. Then: “Ribcage. Just under the left breast.”

He stills. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You smile sweetly. “Professional setting, Lee.”

“Right. Totally,” he mutters, already snapping on gloves. “Let me just get set up before I combust.”

He lays out the stencil, wipes down the table, pulls out the fresh needle packet. Everything crisp, sterilized, exact. But you can feel it—the same electric hum from before. Worse, now. Because you both know what it’s like to be this close. To almost touch.

“Go ahead and lie down,” he says, voice carefully steady. “Top off. I’ll drape you for modesty.”

You do.

And as your dress slips down, baring the same skin he pierced just weeks ago, you hear him suck in a breath.

Then softly: “Holy shit.”

Felix exhales like he’s trying to center himself, but his eyes are locked on the exposed skin below your collarbone — the left slope of your ribs, soft and curved and waiting for him.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

You smile, folding your hands over your stomach, trying to stay casual even though your pulse is in your throat.

“You did.”

He looks up at you, grinning now. “Can you blame me?”

You don’t answer. You just bite your lip. His eyes flick down. Linger. Then he clears his throat and reaches for the stencil.

“Okay. This’ll feel a little cold,” he warns.

You hum. “I remember. But you always warm me up after, don’t you?”

Felix freezes mid-step, eyes snapping to yours with that look. The one that makes your entire spine throb.

“I swear to god,” he mutters, gently pressing the damp stencil paper to your skin, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

The stencil application is slow. Careful. His gloved hands cup your side, fingers anchoring just under the swell of your breast, dangerously close to where he pierced you weeks ago.

You try not to squirm. You fail.

He notices.

“You okay?” he asks, innocent on the surface, smug underneath.

“Your hands are cold.”

“Hmm,” he hums, pulling the stencil paper away. “Let me fix that.”

He presses one palm against your ribs skin to glove. His thumb brushes the curve of your side. Not high enough to cross a line. But enough to make you bite back a sound.

“You’re evil,” you breathe.

“I’m very, very good,” he corrects. “Now stay still. Gotta check the alignment.”

He picks up the mirror, holds it out for you to see. You crane your neck, exhaling hard.

It’s perfect. The sword lies just beneath the breastbone, angled ever so slightly with the shape of your ribcage. The wisteria wraps it like it’s meant to grow there.

“Yeah?” he asks.

You nod, dazed. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah.”

Felix smiles like he just won something. Then moves to grab the machine.

You hear the buzz before you see it.

“Okay,” he says, glancing up. “This part’s gonna sting.”

“I’ve been pierced by you,” you smirk. “I can handle it.”

He laughs under his breath and leans over you again, lining up the machine with your skin.

You brace.

And then—

The first touch of the needle.

Sharp. Fast. Immediate. But then it shifts into something else. A burn that blooms. Pain edged in adrenaline, in control, in something almost addictive.

You exhale through it, jaw tight, legs flexing slightly.

Felix’s free hand presses flat to your side. Holding you steady.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Breathe for me, baby.”

Your stomach flutters. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to focus on anything else. But your mouth has a mind of its own. “So... where are you taking me for dinner?”

Felix doesn’t pause. “Bold of you to assume I’m feeding you before I wreck you again.”

You snort. Then wince. “Don’t make me laugh. You’re stabbing me.”

He grins. “I’m being gentle.”

You side-eye him. “Are you?”

“No.” He shifts the angle. “But you like it when I’m not.”

You whimper. Quiet. Almost embarrassed by it.

He hums in satisfaction. “But to answer your question,” he continues, voice calmer now, “there’s this place a couple blocks down. Little izakaya joint. Private booths. Good lighting. Excellent tempura.”

“Are you describing the menu or your date plan?”

He leans a little closer, eyes on the sword he’s carving into your skin. “Both. You’re gonna look good across from me. All marked up. Flushed.”

You exhale shakily. “You can’t say that while actively tattooing me.”

He glances at you—eyes dark and devastating. “Pretty sure I can. You’re letting me hurt you, princess. You really think I’m not gonna whisper things while I do it?”

And then he goes quiet. Focused. Working the needle with expert care, pausing every now and then to wipe your skin clean with soft pressure, checking the lines.

Eventually, the buzz of the machine softens as Felix lifts the needle for a moment, wiping across your skin with gentle pressure. You hiss through your teeth at the sting.

But you can feel him watching you again. Not just checking his lines. Watching you.

“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches. “You really like saying that, huh?”

His voice lowers. “Only when it’s true.”

Another pass. Another burn. You clench your fists against the tremble in your thighs. He’s too close. You’re too exposed. And the linework is almost done.

Which means... the night’s only beginning.

The machine buzzes again before a knock is heard at the door which then creaks open just enough for Chan's voice to call in: “Closing up now. You’re the last ones in. Don’t set anything on fire.”

Felix barely glances up. “Got it.”

You stare at the ceiling, heart suddenly pounding harder than before. Last ones in. No one else here.

The door clicks shut again.

Silence.

Felix shuts off the machine.

You look at him.

He sets it down slowly, like he’s placing a weapon back in its sheath. His gloves are still on, but the air in the room is different now. Thick. Humming with intent.

He wipes your skin again. Slower this time. Too gentle.

Then leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts across your ribs.

“You realize,” he says, barely above a whisper, “this is the second time I’ve made you moan while you were half-naked in my chair.”

Your throat goes dry. “Technically the third. I think I whimpered during the aftercare last time.”

Felix chuckles, low and dark. His hand rests over the tattoo now—protective, possessive, and still gloved.

“I didn’t forget,” he murmurs.

You shift slightly, tugging the dress back up, but he stops you with a hand on your wrist.

“Don’t.”

You blink. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t cover it yet,” he says. “Let me look.”

His gaze roams slowly over your side, over the glistening ink, the subtle swelling, the flush of your skin. Then his hand follows, gloved fingers brushing the skin just beneath the tattoo.

“Looks fucking perfect on you,” he says, voice gone low again. “Like it was always supposed to be there.”

You bite your lip. “You sound proud.”

“I am proud. I marked you.” He meets your eyes, something darker flickering there. “And you let me.”

You’re not sure who moves first.

But suddenly his hand is on your jaw. Your legs shift on the vinyl. His glove squeaks slightly against your skin. Your breathing is ragged. And his thumb brushes your bottom lip like he’s debating kissing you or dragging you under.

“You still want dinner?” he asks, voice wrecked.

“I want dessert first,” you whisper.

He pulls the gloves off in one swift motion, tossing them carelessly aside. His bare hands find your waist, your jaw, your thigh—wherever he can touch now that he’s allowed to.

“Fuck the reservation,” he growls. “I need to taste you first.”

But even as the words leave his mouth—his hands already roaming your bare waist, your hip, the edge of your thigh—he pauses. Breathless. Controlled chaos.

Then he closes his eyes, jaw clenched.

“Wait.”

You blink, wide-eyed. “Wait?”

His chest rises and falls with uneven breath. He’s so close. You can feel the heat of him between your legs, the tension in his fingertips like he’s holding back something feral.

But he steps back.

“I need to wrap the tattoo,” he says hoarsely. “You just got it. I’m not risking anything.”

It shouldn’t be hot. But it is. Because he wants you bad, and he’s still putting your safety first. You bite your lip as he turns, snatching a fresh piece of second skin from the pack and peeling the backing with shaking hands.

“I’m losing my mind,” he mutters.

“Same,” you whisper.

He crouches beside you again, this time gentle in a way that feels intimate. Like the moment after a storm, where everything’s still dripping wet and raw.

“Deep breath,” he says, laying the second skin gently over the tattooed ribs, smoothing it out with featherlight fingers. His hand lingers just a moment too long—thumb grazing the curve under your breast, jaw tight as he fights himself.

“There,” he murmurs. “Safe.”

Then he looks at you again.

“And now I’m going to ruin you.”

You don’t have time to respond.

He surges forward, lips crashing against yours with weeks of pent-up tension behind it—your moan swallowed into his mouth as he kisses you like he’s starved. His hands are everywhere: one in your hair, one gripping your thigh, tugging you to the edge of the vinyl chair like he’s claiming you.

Your dress is bunched around your waist. His tank top is halfway off. His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to trail kisses down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—pausing just above where the second skin lies, like it’s a sacred barrier.

He doesn’t touch the tattoo. But everything around it? Fair game.

“You still sore?” he breathes against your chest, nipping the top curve just above the bandage.

“A little.”

He grins against your skin. “Good.”

His mouth moves lower—down your stomach, your inner thigh. Hands parting your legs with the kind of reverence you’ve only seen from him in front of his needles.

“You sure about this?” he murmurs, already undoing his joggers with one hand. “I need to hear it.”

“Yes,” you pant. “Felix—yes, fuck, I want you.”

“Say it again.”

“I want you.”

That’s all it takes, in a flash he sinks to his knees like a man at an altar. Hands sliding beneath your thighs, hoisting you further up the vinyl and hooks two fingers under the waistband of your panties, but briefly stops, looking up at you, eyes dark and blown wide.

“Last chance, princess,” he rasps. “You say the word and I stop.”

You barely breathe. “Don’t stop.”

The words barely leave your mouth before he drags the fabric down slow—like he’s unwrapping something precious. Your soaked panties slide over your thighs, your knees, then disappear, flung to the floor like an afterthought.

His eyes never leave you.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Fucking dripping.”

He spreads you open with warm, steady hands, thumbs pressing into your inner thighs, holding you there like he owns the view. His voice drops, rich and wrecked.

“You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you? Coming in here, dressing like that. Letting me mark you. Begging me with those pretty little sounds—”

You whimper.

And then his mouth is on you.

Tongue first—flat and slow, dragging up your folds with unbearable control. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t dive in like a man desperate. No—Felix licks like he’s tasting you for the first time. Like he wants to memorize the exact shape of your cunt with his tongue.

You gasp. Jerk slightly.

He hums against you, the vibration buzzing straight through your core.

“That’s it,” he murmurs between licks. “Give me all those sounds, baby. Be my good girl.”

You whine, hips twitching as he suckles gently at your clit—just once—before pulling back with a sinful, wet kiss.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You taste so fucking sweet. Gonna keep you here all night.”

And he doesn’t stop.

His tongue circles your clit slowly, rhythmically, until your legs start to tremble. Then he slides lower, dipping between your folds, gathering slick to drag back up—wet and messy and obscene. One hand shifts to grip your hip while the other trails up your thigh, presses down gently to keep you open.

He moans into you like he’s addicted.

And then? He sinks a finger inside.

You cry out—sharp, high, desperate. “Felix—”

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” he whispers, tongue still lapping at your clit. “You take me so fucking well. Look at you—already squeezing around one finger. You’re gonna fall apart for me, huh?”

You nod helplessly, hips canting against his face.

He adds a second finger—slow, deep, curling just right—and that’s when you nearly sob. His mouth never leaves your clit, tongue stroking in tandem with the push of his fingers, and you realize that he’s building you up on purpose.

“Such a good girl,” he pants between licks. “Letting me taste you like this. Letting me wreck you right where I tattooed you. You gonna cum for me, princess?”

You’re nodding—shaking—words gone completely feral. “I want it,” you whimper. “Want you—Felix, please, I’m—”

He curls his fingers just right. Sucks your clit just once—hard.

And you shatter.

Your orgasm hits fast and brutal, ripping through you with a cry that echoes off the studio walls. Your legs lock around his head, your hands claw for anything, and he rides it out—groaning against you like he could come from the taste alone.

But he doesn’t stop. Not even when you twitch. Not when you gasp. Not when your hand weakly pushes at his shoulder.

He pulls back just long enough to murmur: “You said dessert first.”

Then his tongue dives in again.

Your body’s still twitching, legs shaking from the first high when Felix licks up your center again—slow, deep, possessive. You gasp, nearly jolting off the chair.

“F–Felix—!”

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. Instead, he presses a palm flat against your stomach to hold you down, keeps your thighs spread with one knee, and groans low into your pussy like he’s devouring you.

“Uh-uh,” he growls, lips slick, voice wrecked. “Not done yet. I haven't had my fill.”

You try to speak, to beg—but all that leaves you is a broken sound, wrecked and high-pitched as he suckles your clit again with cruel, precise rhythm.

It’s too much. You’re still raw from the last orgasm—nerves hypersensitive, thighs twitching, your pussy fluttering helplessly around nothing—

Until he slides two fingers back in.

“FUCK—Felix—!”

“Ohhh, that’s it,” he moans against your clit, fingers pushing in deep, curling—relentless. “That sweet little cunt knows exactly who she belongs to.”

You’re squirming, eyes rolling back, legs fighting between trying to clamp shut and fly open. But Felix is stronger—his grip on your hip iron-tight now, his tongue punishing you with pleasure.

“You gonna cum again for me?” he pants, lips brushing your soaked folds. “You gonna fall apart on my tongue like a good girl?”

You nod frantically—can’t even breathe right, tears blurring your vision as the coil builds again, faster, worse than before.

“Please,” you whimper. “Please, I—Felix—please I can’t—”

He fucks you with his fingers harder—wet, obscene sounds echoing through the room—and growls, voice dark and filthy:

“Yes, you can. You’re my canvas, baby. You take everything I give you. You always do.”

That’s it. That’s the push.

You shatter again—louder, messier, nearly screaming as your body spasms through the second orgasm. Your hips lift off the vinyl, legs thrashing, eyes rolling back as everything goes white.

Felix groans deep, pressing you down as you ride it out. Your hands claw at the armrests. Your voice breaks into sobs.

But he’s not done. He kisses your thigh. Licks a stripe back up your centre before he moans, “One more.”

You sob. “I can’t—!”

“Yes,” he whispers, brushing your overstimulated clit with his tongue again, softer now but no less deliberate. “You can. Gimme one more. Be my good girl. Let me break you open just once more.”

You’re crying now.

Not from pain. Not from fear. But from the intensity—the unbearable pleasure ripping through your system like a tidal wave you can’t crawl out from under.

“Please, please—” You don’t even know what you’re begging for. Release? Relief? For him to stop? For him to never stop?

Your voice cracks on the last word and that’s when it hits you again. The third orgasm crashes down. No warning. No buildup. Just your entire body convulsing. Your back arching off the chair. And a choked, wrecked sob ripping out of you, nothing coherent left.

Your cunt clamps hard around nothing—fluttering, pulsing, milking air like it’s looking for him—looking to be filled. Claimed. Ruined.

Felix groans, loud, grinding his hips into the edge of the vinyl chair.

He’s hard. Painfully hard. You can see it now—his cock straining against the fabric of his joggers, twitching as you fall apart for him a third time.

“Holy fuck,” he growls, finally pulling back, wiping his soaked mouth with the back of his hand. “You—fuck, baby—do you even know what you look like right now?”

You’re limp.

Spent.

Tears streaking your cheeks, lips parted, chest rising and falling as you try—fail—to catch your breath.

“You’re perfect,” he pants, running both hands up your thighs. “So fucking perfect for me.”

He presses a kiss to your trembling knee. Then your thigh. Then higher, higher—until he’s kissing the inside of your hip, nuzzling close but respectful of your fresh tattoo.

“Do you want more?” he whispers.

He doesn’t reach for his waistband. Doesn’t undo his joggers. He waits.

You. Choose. Even now. Even when he’s throbbing hard against the chair. Even when his hands shake with restraint.

You blink down at him, fucked-out and flushed, voice hoarse when you finally manage: “Take me. Please.”

He exhales sharply—like he’s been holding that breath since your first orgasm and finally shoves down his joggers, just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, leaking—and fuck, he’s even prettier here too, hips flexing, tip already brushing against your thigh as he climbs up over the chair.

“No gloves now,” he says, voice dark. “You’re not my client anymore, princess. You’re mine.”

You whimper—wrecked and soaked, your thighs still trembling, your pussy still aching. But when he reaches down and strokes the head of his cock through your folds—slow, teasing, bare—your hips lift instinctively.

“Fuck,” he mutters, watching the way you glisten for him. “Still dripping. This all for me?”

You nod, brain fogged with lust, chest flushed. “I need you,” you whisper.

He lines up at your entrance, but doesn’t push in yet. Just lets the head of his cock press there—hot and thick and perfect. Your body clenches automatically, needy, desperate.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need to hear it.”

“I need you, Felix. I need to feel you—raw, please, I want all of you.”

That’s it.

He kisses you—deep, possessive, tongue licking into your mouth as his cock finally pushes in—inch by slow, devastating inch.

You both groan into the kiss.

“Fucking hell—you’re tight,” he gasps, hips stuttering as he bottoms out. “God, you’re clenching like you were made for me.”

You cry out, arms wrapping around his neck, legs shaking from the stretch and the sensitivity and the overwhelming fullness. You’ve never felt this much before. Never this deep.

He stays still for a beat, forehead pressed to yours, letting your body adjust—whispering soft things against your cheek:

“So good for me.” “You’re taking me so well.” “Fuck, I could live inside you.”

Then he pulls back and thrusts. Slow. Heavy. The sound of skin on skin fills the studio, slick and obscene.

You moan with every stroke—every delicious drag of him inside you, cock pressing against spots you didn’t know you had. He’s everywhere—his scent, his voice, the weight of his body above yours.

“Tattoo looks even better now,” he pants, eyes flicking to your chest. “You all marked up, legs spread, letting me ruin you.”

Your nails scrape down his back. “Felix—faster—please—”

And he gives it to you, especially with the way you begged so prettily for him. His thrusts picking up—more urgent, more erratic—and your whole body jerking with the force of it.

Your cunt is so wet, so swollen, he slides in easily now—no resistance, just need. The table creaks. The studio hums. And Felix is panting into your neck, fucking you like he’s waited his whole life to.

“Gonna fill you up,” he growls. “Wanna come inside this perfect little pussy. You want that?”

You’re barely coherent now. Just sobbing, nodding, whimpering, “Yes—yes, please—I want it, want you—”

He presses a hand over your belly—right where the bulge of him shows through. “You feel that?” he pants. “That’s how deep I am. That’s what you do to me.”

You break.

Your fourth orgasm crashes into you like a goddamn tidal wave. Your body shakes violently, voice tearing out of your throat in a sound you don’t recognize, walls spasming around his cock like you’re trying to milk him dry.

And Felix? Felix is fucking gutted.

“Jesus fucking—baby,” he groans, dropping his forehead to yours, hips still grinding. “You’re so good—so fucking good—taking me like this, holding me this deep—”

Your mouth is slack. You can’t form a single word. Just loud, wet gasps as he fucks you through your fourth orgasm, dragging it out, drawing it longer, leaving you trembling and cockdrunk and gone.

“You don’t even know how pretty you look.” he murmurs, voice thick with reverence, filth, love.

Your fingers twitch against his arms. You manage a breathy, fucked-out, “Yours…”

That wrecks him.

He groans, low and animal, and his pace gets messier, sloppier—your pussy sucking him in with every thrust like it’s begging for his cum.

“Please,” you whimper. “Please, Felix—want your cum so bad—wanna feel it dripping out of me after—”

“Fuck.”

That does it. With one final, deep thrust—buried to the hilt, cock pressed right against your cervix—Felix shatters. His whole body tenses. His mouth drops open in a gasp. And then he’s spilling inside you—hot, thick, endless—his cum painting your walls as he groans your name like a prayer.

“Fucking hell—take it, baby—take all of it—”

You feel everything.

His hips twitch with every pulse, his cock throbbing as he empties himself deep inside your already ruined cunt. The warmth, the weight, the way he groans as you clench through the aftershocks—it’s overwhelming.

It doesn’t stop.

Even after he’s cum, he’s still rocking into you slowly, fucking it deeper, slow grind to push every drop in. Your body’s twitching, overstimulated and sensitive, tears sliding down your cheeks as you choke on another gasp.

Felix notices. He kisses them away. “Shh, I know,” he breathes. “You were so perfect for me. So fuckin’ good, baby.”

He finally stops. Still inside you. Still hard. Your walls are fluttering around him like they miss it already. Felix holds your face in both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, gaze soft and filthy all at once.

“You okay?”

You nod, blinking slowly. “Yeah,” you croak.

“You need anything?”

You smile, wrecked. “Water. And maybe a new spine.”

He laughs—sweet and hoarse—and kisses your forehead. “Don’t move. I’ve got you.” You don't even realize you’re trembling until Felix tucks a hand behind your knee and lifts your leg carefully—still inside you, still breathing hard, but already shifting into his softer mode.

His real mode.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers, kissing the sweat off your temple. “You’re okay. We’re done now, sweetheart. You did so good.”

You blink up at him, dazed, lips parted. And he’s looking at you like you’re made of stardust.

A few more deep breaths. Then, finally, he slides out of you. And you whimper. Instinctual. Empty. Felix immediately hushes you, hands gentle as they ease your dress back down over your hips. “I know. I know, baby. You were so full. Felt so good, huh?”

He reaches for the warm compress he prepped before the session—because of course he did—and begins gently dabbing your thighs. He’s not trying to tease now. Not trying to rile you up.

Just taking care of you.

Even wipes between your legs with a soft, sterile cloth, murmuring praise while he works. “You were amazing. So brave. Took everything. Let me see all of you. I’ve never—”

He cuts himself off. Focuses on unwrapping a clean second skin.

You murmur, sleepy but curious, “Never what?”

Felix glances up, eyes fond. “Never wanted to ruin anyone like that. And still hold them like this after.”

You bite your lip. Your heart is mush.

Once your tattoo’s dressed again—bandaged just right—he lifts you into his arms with a little grunt and a kiss to your forehead. “C’mon. You’re not walking.”

“I can—”

“Nope.” He’s already carrying you to the break room, cradling you against his chest like a princess. “You just had four orgasms and a full session. I’m your chair now.”

He sets you down gently on the couch, grabbing his own oversized NO SAINT INK hoodie and sliding it over your head like muscle memory.

It swallows you whole.

You beam at him. “It smells like you.”

He snorts. “Yeah. It’s mine.”

Then he disappears for all of two minutes.

Returns with a glass of cold water, a wrapped protein bar (definitely Jisung's, but he won't notice) and a microwaved rice bowl from the staff fridge.

“Five-star dining,” he says, setting it on the coffee table. “Don’t say I never spoil you.”

You laugh, curled up in his hoodie, eyes gleaming. “This is better than any reservation.”

He slides in next to you and pulls you into his lap, tucking your legs over his, spoon-feeding you the rice because, in his words, “Your hands are for cuddling now, not labour.”

He lifts another spoonful of warm rice to your mouth with exaggerated focus, like this is a gourmet tasting menu and not a semi-stolen leftover from the NO SAINT INK fridge. You open obediently—chewing with a thoughtful hum, cheeks puffed out, still pink from earlier and now somehow glowing even brighter from being doted on.

Felix grins. “You like it?”

“It’s definitely not mine,” you say around a mouthful. “But it’s warm and salty and I feel like I’m being bottle-fed, so yes. Five stars.”

“Perfect,” he replies, proud, like he made it himself.

You point at him with the half-peeled protein bar. “We’re still going to dinner later, right?”

He cocks a brow. “Babe. You came four times. You can’t walk.”

You glare. “I’ll crawl to the restaurant.”

Felix breaks—choking out a laugh, hand braced on your thigh. “You’ll crawl??”

“I earned tempura.”

“You just devoured this rice and Jisung's protein bar like a menace.”

You look down, horrified. “Wait… that was his bar?”

He snickers. “Yup.”

“Oh my god, he’s going to notice.”

“No he won’t,” Felix shrugs. “He has like five stashed behind the paper towels. I’ll replace it and gaslight him.”

You smile at him, gooey and gross. “You’d gaslight for me?”

He leans in, brushes his nose against yours. “Baby, I’d commit minor fraud for you.”

You sit in his lap like that for a while longer, warm and fed and wrapped up in his stupid hoodie that now smells like ink and sex and rice, your legs draped over his thighs and your heart absolutely wrecked with affection.

“Okay, but like…” you mumble, eyelids drooping. “Reservation?”

Felix kisses the top of your head. “Still have two hours.”

“Oh good.”

“You’ll need at least one of them to recover.”

“You’re so smug.”

He grins against your temple. “Only because I earned it.”

And you sigh into his neck, smiling. Yeah. You’re still getting your tempura. But first? You’re gonna melt into him for just a little longer.

It turns out things with Felix don’t just stay hot and messy—they get deeper. Softer. Somehow stupider too.

Because this man? He’s sunshine in human form. A disaster wrapped in dimples. A filthy, talented menace who will rail you in the studio at 3AM and buy you Hello Kitty band-aids for your healed nipple piercings because you’re “his cute little canvas.”

You never officially moved in—but your toothbrush lives at his place, and so do half your clothes, and so does your stupid pink mug that says I SURVIVED MY NIPPLE PIERCINGS in Comic Sans. (He custom-ordered it. With glitter print.)

Felix still tattoos you. He still calls you baby girl when you’re squirming under the needle, all flushed and squirmy and trying not to let it show how much you like it. And yeah. He still fucks you in the back of the studio sometimes.

(Okay, often.)

(Okay, every time someone forgets to lock up.)

You’re curled up on his couch now, post-round-three and wearing nothing but one of his band tees, scrolling through old selfies from the night he first took you out to that izakaya. Felix is half-asleep beside you, an arm slung across your belly, mouthing lazy kisses to your ribs like he needs to be touching you to breathe right.

And then—your phone buzzes.

MINHO [9:26PM]: glad you two are still together or whatever but also next time you rawdog in the studio maybe don’t SCREAM MY FUCKING NAME BY ACCIDENT

You blink.

Then snort—so loud it wakes Felix. “What?” he mumbles, blinking up at you with tousled hair and one sleepy dimple.

You show him the message. He stares. Then absolutely cackles. Rolls onto his back, wheezing, “I DID NOT—WHY WOULD I—”

You’re dying. “You did, Felix. When I came the second time. You said ‘Minho’s gonna kill me’ and then moaned his actual name.”

He groans, covering his face. “Noooooo. My life is over. I can never look him in the eye again.”

You curl into him, still laughing. “You’ll survive. Barely.”

“Should I buy him earplugs? A fruit basket? Flowers?”

“Just stop fucking me so loud next time.”

He peeks at you through his fingers. “That implies there’s a next time in the studio.”

You grin. “There’s always a next time.”

And Felix? He kisses your smile like a man grateful every single day that you walked into his booth and said: “So, um… I want you to pierce my ears.”

Because now? You’ve marked each other forever.

And you’re still not done.

you press down harder, angling your hips to catch that perfect spot of friction. his skin smooth and hot beneath you, the slope of his stomach giving you something to ride, his abs twitch with every pass.

a reaction he can’t fake.

you're not even fully grinding yet, just experimentally shifting, and it's already making you dizzy.

the tease of your panties dragging over him, the way the line between his abs fits right between your folds, it's too good. 

“you like that?” he asks, voice rougher now.

your hands land on his chest, nails digging in just enough to make him grunt. “shut up.”

he grins wider, but he stays silent. like he’s challenging you now. like he’s saying, alright. show me.

so you do.

you roll your hips slow at first, letting the drag build pressure. it’s crazy how wet you already are, the fabric of your underwear darkened and clinging, you’re practically soaked through. 

you can feel the mess you’re making on his stomach, feel it smear with every shift of your body.

chan’s jaw tightens, his abs flexing involuntarily under you.

“fuck… look at you,” he mutters.

your thighs burn, but you don’t stop. you grind harder, faster, chasing the friction. the tension builds fast, too fast and you hate that he knows it. hates that he watches you like your desperation is exactly what he wanted in the first place.

you catch his eyes. “don’t just lie there.”

he doesn’t move for a second. 

then his hands are on your hips, gripping tight, guiding you rougher. “then ride me right.”

the way he shifts his body. just slightly, makes his abs clench. it hits you perfectly now. your head falls back, a broken moan slipping from your mouth as you grind down, using him just like he wants.

your clit rubs against the grooves of his abs again and again, and it’s messy now. sloppy, desperate. he holds you there, lets you rut yourself against him like you're completely owned by the pleasure of it.

“look at you fucking soaked,” he growls. “you’re gonna come just from this?”

you nod, moaning as you move faster. there’s no elegance in it anymore. just heat. desperation. your thighs trembling from how close you are.

chan’s breathing sharpens. “you’re close, aren’t you?”

“y-yeah–”

“do it,” he bites out. “rub that pussy all over me. soak me with it. show me how needy you are.”

that’s all it takes.

your whole body locks up, a strangled whine rips from your throat as the orgasm crashes over you. you grind through it, riding the wave as your hips jerk against him, your slick making a mess of his stomach, your thighs still quivering from the aftershocks.

chan just watches, his abs deliberately flexing under you, feeding into your release. he grins.

“good girl.”

you collapse forward, panting against his chest but he grabs your hips again, tilts them down and you feel him, how hard he is beneath his sweats, still untouched.

“hope you’re not done,” he murmurs against your ear. “you made the mess. now you’re gonna ride the rest of me too.”

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated ᯓ★

🩸 background

CAST

Vampire!Bang Chan Ancient, but looks late 20s. Charismatic. Seductive. Deeply calculating. Keeps up the façade of elegance, control, and civility—but beneath it lies an animalistic hunger. Treats his blood dolls like precious, exclusive possessions. You? His last. The only one he’s ever signed a lifetime contract with. He feeds slow. He fucks slower. But when he snaps? There’s no going back.

Reader (Blood Doll!You) You signed the contract voluntarily—but not just for the money. Maybe you were running from something. Maybe you were drawn to the dark. You’re inexperienced with vampires. This is your first arrangement. You said it was a business deal. He knew better. Your body begged the first time he bit you.

🩸what is a blood doll?

A blood doll is a human who willingly offers their blood—and sometimes their body—to a vampire, bound by a formal contract. In return, they’re protected, housed, and cared for financially, emotionally, physically.

It’s supposed to be a mutual exchange. But when the vampire is Bang Chan… it becomes obsession. Control. A covenant.

The elevator doors opened with a hush, spilling dim light across polished black marble. You stepped out, heels clicking softly like the tick of a countdown.

The penthouse was silent. Not empty—waiting.

Everything gleamed: obsidian floors, dark glass walls streaked with rain, gold accents warm against shadows. The air was scented faintly with something ancient—wine, cedar, and blood just barely gone dry. It didn’t smell unpleasant. It smelled like a memory you weren’t sure was yours.

He stood at the far end of the room, one hand resting on the back of a high-backed chair, the other cradling a glass of something red and viscous. He wasn’t dressed like a monster. He wore tailored black trousers, a silk shirt undone just enough to tease the curve of his collarbone, and no shoes. Just him—barefoot in his own cathedral.

Bang Chan looked up at you, and the world seemed to still for a breath.

"You’re punctual." His voice came low, warm, and polished with civility. But the cadence was too slow, too careful—like someone used to commanding rooms with silence, not volume. "Good."

You nodded, throat tight. “You said midnight.”

"I did." His mouth curled, sharp and soft at once. “And here you are. Come. Sit.”

The table was long and dark, minimalist, with a single folder placed at the center like a relic. When you lowered yourself into the chair opposite him, your legs barely brushed the underside before you crossed them tightly, trying not to look tense. But you were. Your skin buzzed with it. Not fear. Not exactly. Something older, hungrier.

“I assume you read the terms,” he said, setting his glass down with a soft clink.

You nodded again. “Twice.”

“Mmm. Still”—he reached forward, flipping open the folder with elegant fingers—“I like to go over the finer details… in person.”

The contract looked deceptively simple: black ink, pristine paper, heavy with embossed lettering and a dark red wax seal. Legal, binding. Intimate. You scanned it again, though you could recite most of it by now.

Clause 3: The Vampire shall provide financial, medical, and physical support to the Doll at all times during the bond. Clause 7: Feeding shall occur with full verbal consent. In absence of consent, no feeding is permitted. Clause 9: Sexual contact is optional. However, if initiated by either party, it must be fulfilled within safe and agreed-upon parameters. Withdrawal is permitted, but rare. Clause 11: A Doll who offers themselves for long-term service is to be protected as a permanent asset.

You paused at Clause 9.

“...Sexual contact is optional,” you said aloud, almost skeptical.

Chan’s eyes didn’t move from yours. “Technically.”

You raised a brow.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “That clause was added after a rather… messy disagreement in Vienna. Some dolls think they can offer blood without intimacy. Some vampires agree. I don’t.”

You swallowed. “You mean you won’t feed unless—”

“No.” A beat. “I mean I’ve never wanted to separate them. Blood is pleasure. Pain is trust. Sex is… currency.” He tilted his head. “What are you willing to give to be kept?”

The silence draped over your shoulders like velvet. His words should’ve chilled you. But they didn’t. Instead, your skin prickled. Your thighs pressed a little tighter. You hated that he noticed.

“Let me see your wrist.”

You hesitated.

His eyes didn’t waver. There was no impatience in them—just certainty. Hunger, tucked behind a glassy calm.

You extended your arm, pulse fluttering like a ribbon in the wind.

Chan took your wrist with a gentleness that was worse than roughness. Reverent. He held it between both hands, thumb brushing the vein just beneath the skin. You swore you could feel his fingers in places he hadn’t touched yet.

“Hmm,” he said quietly. His voice dropped, low and rasped. “You’re trembling already.”

You hated that he was right. Hated that your heart had started pounding the moment you stepped into his domain. And he could hear it—you knew he could hear it.

“It’s not fear,” you said, too quickly.

“Oh, I know,” he whispered. “It’s anticipation.”

He released you, slow as syrup.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Chan reached for a fountain pen—black with a silver serpent wrapped around the barrel—and set it beside the parchment. “Go ahead,” he said, voice rich like candle smoke. “If you’re ready to surrender. If you’re ready to be mine.”

Your fingers wrapped around the pen. You wrote your name in long, fluid strokes—first name, middle, last, like signing your soul away required formality. The ink glided, but just as you lifted the tip from the page, it snagged—slightly. A prickle. Then warmth.

You hissed softly, looking down.

A drop of your blood rolled down your finger and splattered right at the base of your signature. Small. Bright. Stark red against the cream paper.

Chan’s chair creaked as he stood.

He leaned over the table, one hand braced beside the contract, the other reaching out—but not to you. Just the paper. His fingertip grazed the blood, collecting the crimson bead, then lifted it slowly to his lips.

He tasted it.

And closed his eyes.

“…You bleed beautifully,” he said, almost reverent.

When his gaze returned to yours, it was darker. Deeper. “No turning back now,” he murmured.

The signature was barely dry when Chan’s voice sliced through the quiet. “Come,” he said, stepping away from the table and beckoning you with a single finger. “We’ll begin tonight.”

You blinked. “Tonight?”

He turned his head slightly, a half-smile curving his lips. “Why wait? Your blood’s already calling to me. I can hear it… humming under your skin.”

You stood, slowly. Legs steady, voice not so much. “I thought the first feeding was scheduled—”

“I changed the schedule.” His eyes dropped to your neck. “You’ll find I do that often.”

He didn’t lead you to a sterile feeding room or a clinical space with straps and silver tools. No, he brought you to what looked like a bedroom. If vampires even slept. The space was soft with shadows—curtains drawn, the faint glow of amber sconces casting flickers across the walls. A plush velvet chaise rested near the window, flanked by shelves full of antique books and empty crystal decanters.

He gestured to the chaise. “Sit.”

You obeyed.

Chan knelt in front of you—not rushed, not showy. Just deliberate. Like a priest at a private altar. His hands, still cool from the glass he’d held earlier, gently took your knees and parted them enough for him to slot between. It was chaste. For now.

“I’ll be gentle,” he said, brushing hair back from your neck with the backs of his fingers. “Unless you want it rough.”

Your breath hitched. He smiled.

“I thought so.”

He studied your throat like it was scripture. The pad of his thumb pressed lightly under your jaw—tilting your head, exposing the fragile, thumping line beneath your skin. His gaze sharpened.

“Heartbeat’s racing again,” he whispered. “Such a pretty tempo.”

You tried to speak, but your voice had vanished somewhere behind your teeth.

“Relax,” he murmured, “I won’t take too much. Just enough to make us… connected.”

You felt his lips first. They brushed against your pulse in a whisper-soft kiss, reverent and maddening. Then—the scrape of fangs.

Not sharp. Not yet. Just a threat.

“I need you to say it,” he said, voice vibrating against your skin. “Consent. Give it to me.”

You swallowed hard. “I consent.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I… I want you to feed from me, Chan.”

His eyes fluttered closed. The sound of his name on your tongue did something to him. When they opened again, they weren’t just dark. They were hungry.

And then—he bit you.

It wasn’t a stab. It was an invasion dressed as intimacy. The pressure sank in slowly, coaxing your skin apart, followed by a bloom of sharp heat. Your body arched without permission. A sound slipped from your throat—too soft to be a cry, too desperate to be a sigh.

Chan groaned against your neck.

You felt his mouth moving—drinking—his tongue sweeping across the punctures with devastating control. His hands gripped your thighs now, not rough but anchoring, grounding you while your body dissolved. Your pulse thundered in your ears, but your head felt light, floaty, distant.

Heat pooled low in your belly.

Your hips shifted without thinking.

That’s when he pulled back.

Blood glossed his lips—your blood. He licked them slowly, as if savouring the last drop of a rare vintage. His tongue dragged across his bottom lip, chasing the taste.

“…Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re sweeter than I expected.”

You were still panting. His thumb wiped a smear of blood from your neck with gentle precision. He pressed a kiss to the spot, sealing it closed with a trace of heat.

“You’ll start to feel… different,” he said, rising to his feet and towering over you now. “Feeding changes you. Makes you… sensitive. Addicted, some say.”

You looked up at him, dazed. “To you?”

He smiled. But it wasn’t comforting.

“No,” he murmured. “To this. To being wanted like this.”

He leaned down, eyes burning into yours. His voice dropped to a hush.

“And soon, you’ll want me too.”

You didn’t notice it at first.

The ache.

It started as a dull flutter under your ribs—barely there, easy to ignore. But as the days passed without Chan’s fangs in your skin, it grew sharper, more insistent. Like hunger, but not for food. Like arousal, but with no release. You woke up one morning with your sheets twisted between your legs, skin damp with sweat, heart hammering.

You hadn’t seen him in four days.

He said he had business. Said he wouldn’t be far. But the bond was forged now. His absence echoed through your body like a missing rhythm. A phantom touch that never landed. Your body knew he hadn’t fed.

And it wanted him to.

You tried to act normal. You showered. You ate. You answered emails. But nothing settled. You were restless. Your skin felt too tight. Your limbs, too heavy.

And then… the gifts started.

The first was a book. Left on your pillow. An old hardcover—The Picture of Dorian Gray. You flipped it open and froze. The margins were full of notes. Your notes. From university. From a copy you hadn’t seen in years.

You didn’t tell him about those annotations. He must’ve tracked it down somehow. Bought it back. The idea that he’d searched for something that touched your mind, not just your body—

You clutched it to your chest and pretended it didn’t mean anything.

The next day, it was a necklace. Silver, fine, weightless. A small black garnet hanging from the center. You found it on your nightstand with no note, but you knew. You put it on without thinking. The gem sat perfectly over your collarbone—right where his mouth usually went.

After that came the clothes. Silk robes. Cashmere sweaters. A pair of shoes that fit like they were molded for you.

He didn’t speak of them. Just watched you wear them with a look that was too satisfied, too sure.

You started sleeping in his bed without realizing when it began.

At first it was just because you couldn’t sleep. The scent of him on his pillows helped. The air in his room felt thicker, safer, like the shadows themselves bent around you to listen to your breathing.

You told yourself it was convenience. Proximity.

Then, one night, you woke with the feeling of being watched.

Your eyes fluttered open.

He was there.

Sitting in the armchair in the corner of the room, legs crossed, one hand resting under his jaw. His shirt was unbuttoned. Bare feet on the rug. No sound. Just him, and you, and the silence between.

"How long have you been there?" you whispered.

He smiled faintly, fangs just barely visible. “Long enough.”

Your breath caught.

“You moaned my name,” he said softly. “In your sleep.”

Your cheeks burned. “That doesn’t mean—”

“It means you’re mine,” he said.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a declaration.

It was a fact.

The next feeding was different.

You didn’t wait for him to ask. You came to him.

You didn’t knock. Just opened his door, eyes wide, pupils blown, breath already trembling.

He didn’t say a word—just reached for you, pulled you into his lap, and buried his face in your throat.

This time, you felt everything.

His bite burned and bloomed, molten and euphoric. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your hips rolled instinctively in his lap. He didn’t stop you. He guided you. Hands on your waist, mouth on your neck, whispering filth between gulps.

"You're shaking." "Need it," you gasped. "I know. You were made for this. For me."

By the time he finished, you were panting and soaked between the legs, thighs twitching, vision fuzzy. He held you through the aftershocks, licking the wound closed with obscene tenderness.

"You’ll crave it more now," he murmured. “Soon, you won’t be able to come unless I’m inside you… or feeding.”

You should have told him to stop. That it wasn’t true. That you had control.

But the worst part was—you wanted it to be true.

The gala was held in a forgotten cathedral—repurposed and gilded in fresh vice. Glass chandeliers hung like dripping fangs. Shadows wore tuxedos and corseted gowns, wine swirled in crystal like blood, and the air vibrated with the undercurrent of hunger.

This was not your world.

Not really.

And yet—you were here. A blood doll, yes, but one under his protection. Marked, fed from, cared for. No one could touch you without risking war.

But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t look.

And you… you let them.

The vampire in question wasn’t particularly handsome, not like Chan. But he was bold. He offered you his hand during a waltz, and you took it. He leaned close when you laughed. You let his eyes linger on your neck—on the healed bite that still ached from last week. You didn’t move away.

You didn’t stop him.

And Chan saw everything.

From the gallery above, he stood like a statue—expression unreadable, drink untouched, fangs pressing into his tongue to keep the growl down. He watched you flirt with another predator, watched the flick of your lashes, the curve of your mouth, the bare skin of your throat on display.

He said nothing.

But his eyes never left you.

You expected him to confront you after. Maybe a whispered threat in the car, a sharp warning through clenched teeth.

Instead… silence.

Not a single word on the drive home.

Not one glance as you entered the penthouse.

You were halfway down the hall when you heard it.

The click of the door locking.

You turned.

Chan stood behind you, still and deliberate. He took off his jacket slowly, folded it, and laid it across the nearest chair. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms—veins taut, muscles coiled like he’d been holding himself back for too long.

You opened your mouth, but he spoke first.

Low. Lethal.

“Tell me,” he said, voice like black velvet soaked in wine. “Was he worth it?”

You blinked. “What—”

“You think you can offer this blood to someone else?”

The room dropped ten degrees.

You backed up a step, heart tripping. “It was nothing. Just—just dancing.”

He moved closer. Slow, stalking. “You let him look at you.”

“I didn’t—”

“You let him imagine tasting you. Touching you. Filling you.” His eyes gleamed now—obsidian, deadly. “And you didn’t stop him.”

Your back hit the wall.

Chan leaned in, bracing his palm beside your head. His breath ghosted over your cheek.

“You wanted to see what I’d do.” His other hand slid to your throat—not squeezing, just resting. Claiming. “You wanted to test me.”

Your breath hitched. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

“You’re mine,” he growled, voice rumbling from deep in his chest. “I feed from you. I fuck you. I care for you. No one else touches what’s mine.”

He leaned in closer—lips brushing your ear.

“Now… get on your knees.”

Your knees hit the floor with a soft thud, silk pooling around you like an offering.

Chan stood above you—barely restrained, chest rising with quiet fury, his jaw tight. He looked down at you like a king surveying his most treasured possession, soiled by another’s gaze.

“Open your mouth,” he said, voice low and lethal.

You obeyed—lips parting, tongue already peeking out slightly like a plea. He hummed, pleased, and reached down to cup your jaw. His thumb traced your lower lip once. Then again—pressing harder until you had no choice but to let it past your lips.

“Suck,” he ordered.

You did.

He watched you, unmoving, as your mouth worked over his thumb, soft and obedient. Your tongue swirled, your lips hollowed, and when he pulled it out, it left your chin glistening.

“Good,” he muttered. “You know how to behave when you’re on your knees.”

He undid his belt with one hand, the metallic sound of the buckle snapping through the air like the start of a ritual. You swallowed hard. Your thighs squeezed together instinctively—already soaked, already wanting.

His cock was hard. Thick. Veins prominent. You barely had a second to breathe before he grabbed the back of your head and fed it to you.

Slow at first—his tip dragging over your tongue, a groan rumbling from deep in his chest as your lips closed around him.

“You take me well,” he breathed. “But you’re not gonna get it easy tonight.”

His hand tightened in your hair.

Then—he started thrusting.

Not shallow. Not gentle. He fucked your mouth like it was his right—like it was the punishment and the reward. Your throat burned, your eyes watered, but you took it. You moaned around him, the vibration making him curse above you.

“Look at you,” he growled, glancing down. “Choking so pretty on my cock.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks. Drool pooled at the corners of your mouth. He didn't stop. Didn’t slow. His hips moved with brutal rhythm, driving deeper every time until your throat gave in, welcoming the violation.

“You think anyone else could do this to you?” he snarled. “Think he could use you like this? Own you like I do?”

You whimpered around him, lashes fluttering. You tried to answer—but you couldn’t speak. You could only take.

And he loved that.

Finally—he pulled out. You gasped, coughing, spit trailing down your chin.

He grabbed you by the jaw and forced you to look up. His eyes glowed now—hungry. Ferocious.

“Say it.”

You blinked, dazed. “Wh-what?”

His thumb smeared your spit across your cheek.

“Who do you belong to?”

You swallowed.

“You. I’m yours, Chan.”

He exhaled like that was the first thing that soothed him all night.

“Good girl,” he rasped, eyes trailing over your flushed, ruined face. “Now get on the bed.”

You stumbled to the bed, still breathless, throat wrecked and wet. Your legs trembled—not from fear, but from the sheer force of want pooling between them, slick and desperate.

Chan stood back, watching.

Commanding.

You crawled onto the mattress, knees sinking into the soft black sheets. You didn’t even make it all the way before his voice stopped you.

“Don’t lie down,” he said darkly. “I want to see it.”

You froze on all fours.

He prowled toward you—slow, deliberate. A predator savoring every second of the hunt.

His fingers caught the strap of your dress. “This,” he murmured, dragging the silk down your back, “wasn’t for him, was it?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

The dress slid from your body like water.

And when it pooled at your knees, revealing what you wore beneath—it wasn’t silence that followed.

It was a growl.

Black lace. Barely there. Garters. Sheer cups that lifted your breasts just enough to tease. A tiny diamond charm hanging between your ribs. Skin flushed. Bite marks healing.

Chan let out a sharp breath, almost like it hurt to look at you.

“You look…” he stepped closer, eyes dragging down every inch of your spine, “fuckin’ divine.”

You felt him kneel behind you. Fingers hooked into the lace at your hips and ripped. The sound tore through the room, and your body jolted, arousal dripping from your core onto the sheets.

Then—fabric tightened around your wrists.

Your head snapped back. “Wh—”

“My tie,” he whispered, knotting it expertly behind your back. “You wanted to be played with. Now you don’t get to touch. Or beg. Or finish… unless I say so.”

He spread your thighs apart with both hands. Sat back on his heels to admire the way you glistened.

“You’re already dripping,” he muttered. “Pathetic. You want to be used.”

You whimpered. “Yes—please—”

He pressed his thumb against your entrance. Collected the wetness. Smirked.

“Then you’ll wait.”

He brought his thumb to his mouth and licked it clean, slow and deliberate, groaning softly like he’d just tasted something indecent.

Then he looked up at you from behind—eyes black with hunger, lips parted just slightly.

“So sweet.”

Without warning, his hands clamped around your thighs, dragging you down so your knees slipped wide, your back arched deeper, your ass and cunt perfectly exposed. He didn’t give you a second to breathe.

He dove in.

His mouth landed on your soaked pussy like it was salvation—tongue flattening against your slit, licking from your entrance to your clit in one long, filthy stroke. You choked on your own breath, body lurching forward, but your tied wrists left you helpless to do anything but take it.

“Fuck,” he groaned against you, voice muffled by the obscene wet sounds between your legs. “You taste even better when you’re desperate.”

He buried his face in deeper, tongue pushing inside you now, slow and thick, swirling with maddening precision. His nose pressed to your ass, his hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise. He moaned into you—guttural, low, possessive.

Every time he pulled back to suck on your clit, he made sure it was loud—sloppy and wet and absolutely wrecking. You could feel his fangs graze close to your skin but never break it, teasing you with the threat of another bite you weren’t allowed to beg for.

Your thighs trembled.

Your breath hitched.

Your entire body was on the verge.

“Chan—” you whimpered, voice high, ruined. “Please, I—please—”

He pulled back just enough to speak, lips glistening, chin slick with your arousal.

“Please?” he repeated mockingly. “Didn’t I say you don’t get to beg?”

You whimpered again, hips twitching back toward him instinctively.

He spat on your pussy—warm and obscene—then licked it up without hesitation, sucking your clit between his lips with a deep groan that vibrated through your spine.

“Look at you,” he muttered, tongue flicking wickedly. “Already about to come and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

You moaned, eyes rolling back.

“Feel it?” he growled against your cunt, licking long and slow. “That edge? Right there?”

You nodded frantically, tears starting to sting the corners of your eyes.

“Good. Now stay right there.”

Then he stopped.

You screamed—a strangled, broken sob of frustration.

Chan chuckled darkly and rose to his feet behind you. You could feel the heat of his cock against the back of your thigh, hard and heavy.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmured, running the head along your dripping folds. “You’ll get to come.”

A pause.

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear.

“But not until I feed.”

He leaned over you slowly—caging your body with his, forearm braced beside your head, the other gripping his cock as he dragged it through your soaked folds again and again. Not entering. Just teasing.

The head nudged your entrance. Slipped up to your clit. Down again. Wet noises filled the space between your ragged breaths.

"Feel that?" he rasped, grinding against your slit, hips rocking just enough to make you ache. "How badly you want me? How wet you got just from my tongue?"

You gasped, squirming under him, wrists still bound behind your back with his silk tie.

"Please," you whimpered.

“Not yet.”

His mouth dipped lower—pressed to the curve of your shoulder, tongue tracing the skin like a map he already knew by heart. He kissed it once. Then again, slower.

And then—fangs.

You tensed, body electric, just as he whispered:

"Mine."

He sank his teeth in.

Deep.

You cried out—part pain, part unbearable pleasure—as heat burst through your entire body. His cock thrust into you at the same time—slow, thick, stretching you open inch by inch as he drank from your shoulder. The rhythm matched—the draw of your blood, the press of his hips—every thrust perfectly timed with every pull from your vein.

It was too much. Too intimate. Too raw.

You keened, back arching, legs trembling.

"You feel that?" he groaned against your skin, licking the blood that trickled from the bite. "This is what you need. My cock. My bite. Nothing else will ever satisfy you again."

He began moving in earnest—fucking you deep and steady, the slap of his hips echoing through the room as your slick coated his cock with every thrust.

He licked your bite clean.

Sealed it with a kiss.

Then his hand curled around your throat and pulled you back against his chest, fucking you from behind with filthy precision. His cock hit so deep, dragging against every sensitive spot that had already been teased raw.

"Look at you,” he growled in your ear. “Taking me so well. Making such a mess.”

You sobbed, drool slipping down your chin, tears lining your lashes.

"Chan—can't—gonna come—"

“No,” he said darkly, slowing just to the edge of cruel. “Not yet.”

He angled his hips.

Hit that spot again.

And again.

His fingers pinched your clit. Once.

You screamed.

"Now," he breathed. "Now you can come."

And your body obeyed. You shattered around him—tight, pulsing, crying out his name as your orgasm crashed through you, white-hot and endless. But Chan’s grip tightened around your waist—and he kept going.

Thrusting. Hard. Unrelenting.

Your cunt, still pulsing, still wet and raw, clung to him as he fucked into you like he was chasing something deeper than pleasure—possession. You cried out, your tied wrists flexing behind you.

“Chan—ah—please—!”

He growled behind you, low and dangerous. “That wasn’t enough.”

His pace slammed into you now—each thrust brutal and perfect, his cock dragging against every spot that made your spine melt. The sound of skin slapping skin, your wetness, your sobs—it filled the room like music.

You were incoherent. Wrecked. But your body still begged for more.

He leaned over you again, chest pressed to your back, and this time—this time—his lips went to your neck. The untouched side. The one he hadn’t bitten yet.

“Gonna take more,” he whispered, voice fraying. “Need to feel you.”

And then he bit.

Sharp. Deep. Devouring.

You screamed, the pleasure so sharp it cut straight through your nerves. His cock slammed into you as he fed, synced perfectly with every draw of your blood—each thrust harder than the last, deeper, until you were delirious from it all.

You felt yourself unravel again—another orgasm building too fast.

Your thighs shook, overstimulated. Your moans cracked into sobs.

“Such a good girl,” he growled against your throat, voice thick with your taste. “Bleeding so fucking sweet for me. Coming so tight around my cock.”

You sobbed his name, broken and blissed-out, body on fire.

And he snapped his hips again—deep, grinding into your soaked cunt until you felt the thick stretch of him press so high inside, you swore he touched your soul.

You shattered.

Again.

This time, harder. Your orgasm tore through you, so violent your vision went white. Your body spasmed around him, pussy clenching so hard he groaned, fangs still buried in your skin.

And still… he didn’t stop.

He growled low, deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against your skin as his hips slammed into yours, cock thrusting through every pulse of your orgasm, every tight squeeze of your overstimulated cunt. You were shaking—wrecked—but he chased his high like a man possessed.

“Fuck—just like that,” he snarled, mouth full of your blood, voice shredded and animal. “Fucking perfect—so tight, so fucking good—”

Your walls were spasming around him, dripping down your thighs, your pussy fluttering like it was begging for him to fill you.

And Chan—he gave in.

With a final, brutal thrust, he pushed deep—as deep as he could go—his cock pressed against your cervix as his body shuddered against yours. His fangs slid free from your neck, blood smeared down your skin, and he roared your name as he came.

Thick.

Hot.

Endless.

Spilling into you in long, staggering pulses, flooding you with his cum. It filled every clench of your pussy, every slick, swollen fold, leaking around the base of his cock even as he stayed buried inside, grinding in slow, final strokes to make sure it stayed in you.

You gasped, boneless, melting into the sheets beneath him.

He didn’t move. Not for a long moment.

Just held you—cock still buried, cum dripping, his breath ragged against your neck.

“…Mine,” he whispered again, quieter this time. Like a prayer.

Then he kissed the bite mark gently.

Twice.

One for the pain. One for the promise.

You weren’t sure when the tremors stopped. Or if they ever really did.

All you knew was this: you were limp, boneless, your body melted into the sheets with Chan still buried deep inside you—his cock softening slowly, his cum thick and warm where it leaked from your spent cunt.

Your skin was covered in blood, sweat, his mouth, his hands. The bite on your shoulder throbbed. The one on your neck pulsed. And your wrists—still tied behind your back with his silk tie—twitched weakly as you tried to move.

You whimpered.

Immediately—immediately—he responded.

Chan’s breath caught. He pulled out of you carefully, slowly, like withdrawing from something fragile. His hands—no longer demanding—were tender now. Reverent.

“Shh…” he whispered, voice low and raw. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

You felt the weight of his body shift, then his fingers—trembling slightly—began to undo the knot binding your wrists.

“You did so good for me,” he murmured, loosening the fabric. “So fucking perfect.”

The silk slipped free. Your arms fell forward limply, and he caught them in his hands, pressing kisses to your wrists where the skin had reddened.

“I didn’t mean to hold you that tight,” he whispered.

You could barely answer, barely move. But your breath hitched at his voice, at the gentleness of it, and that was enough.

Chan leaned forward, turning you slowly onto your side, then carefully—like lifting something too delicate to breathe on—gathered you into his arms. He sat against the headboard with you in his lap, pressed chest to chest, one arm wrapped securely around your waist while the other cradled your head to his shoulder.

His scent surrounded you again—cedar, wine, and the faintest trace of blood.

“You’re okay,” he whispered again. “I’ve got you.”

His hand slid through your hair, combing it back, and he pressed a long, warm kiss to your forehead.

Sometime later, you felt yourself being lifted again. Carried.

Chan’s arms under your back and knees.

The lights dimmed automatically as he crossed the room into the bathroom. He tapped the marble edge of the tub with his foot, and the bath began to fill—perfect temperature, gentle steam curling into the air like a cocoon.

He set you down carefully on the edge.

You didn’t resist when he peeled off what was left of your lingerie, brushing your skin softly where it stuck with dried sweat or blood. He climbed in behind you, drawing you into the water between his legs, your back to his chest. Warmth surrounded you. So did he.

He reached for a soft cloth and dipped it in the water.

“Let me take care of you.”

He began with your neck.

He cleaned the bite marks with feather-light precision, dabbing away the blood without pressing too hard. Then your shoulders. Your thighs. The inside of your knees. His fingers brushed your folds just once, so gently it made you shiver—but not from arousal. From how safe it felt.

He kissed the back of your shoulder.

“Next time,” he murmured, “you don’t flirt with anyone else.”

You let out a breathless laugh, eyes fluttering closed.

“Noted.”

He chuckled against your skin, arms tightening around you. “I meant every word. You belong to me.”

You turned your head, eyes meeting his. “And you belong to me?”

His gaze softened—but the hunger never left.

“Always.”

He kissed you then—slow, deep, claiming in a new way. Not as the monster who fed from you. But as the one who would never let you go.

The next evening, you found the contract, the same contract you had signed. Folded neatly on the black marble desk in his study, next to a glass of untouched wine and a blood-red fountain pen.

You hadn’t seen it since the night you signed it. Since you bled on the page and gave him everything.

Curious, you reached for it.

You flipped through each clause slowly—Clause 3, Clause 7, Clause 9... and then your eyes landed on one you hadn’t noticed before.

Clause 13: This bond is eternal. Should both parties fulfill the covenant, termination is not permitted.

Your breath caught.

“Covenant?”

You turned—heart thudding—just as Chan appeared behind you, silent and barefoot.

He didn’t look surprised. Not even guilty.

Just satisfied.

“I was wondering when you’d find that,” he murmured, stepping close. “You skipped the fine print.”

Your lips parted. “You said it was a contract—”

He cut you off with a smirk, eyes gleaming dark.

“I lied.”

He reached for your waist, pulled you flush against him. His mouth brushed the shell of your ear as he whispered:

“You didn’t sign a contract, sweetheart.”

His hands slid down your back.

“You signed a covenant.”

Your heart stuttered. “What does that mean?”

His lips found your neck. The spot he hadn’t bitten yet tonight. The one that ached for it now.

“It means you were never going to leave me,” he whispered. “Not after the first feeding. Not after I marked you. Not after I filled you.”

He kissed your pulse once, slow.

“It means you’re not just my blood doll.”

He kissed lower.

“You’re my chosen.”

Lower.

“My mate.”

Then—fangs.

He sank them in slow. Gentle. Not like before. This time… it was intimate. Sacred. Your breath caught as your body melted against his, cunt already throbbing, slick already dripping and making a mess of your panties from the sheer gravity of his presence.

And then—you felt it.

His hand slipped between your legs, beneath the panties, two fingers sliding through your soaked folds like he already knew exactly what you needed. And of course he did.

He fed.

You arched.

And just as he groaned from the taste of you—you came. Shaking, gasping, crying out his name as he held you, bit you, fed from you like you were his first and final meal.

Your body clamped around nothing, but it didn’t matter.

You weren’t cumming for friction.

You were cumming for him.

Because now, it wasn’t just about being claimed.

It was about being kept.

When he pulled back, blood on his lips, eyes wild and reverent, he whispered against your skin:

“You’re mine.”

Then kissed the wound one last time.

“Forever.”

You met Felix under the fluorescents of a backline studio.

He had walked in humming—hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands, freckled face flushed from rehearsal, damp hair curling around his temples—and dropped his bag with a thud that made your audio meters spike. It was your second week working with Stray Kids’ internal production team, still proving yourself in a room full of idols and engineers who already moved like family.

But Felix? He’d smiled at you.

And not the polite, press-trained one. The real one—the kind that cracked wide open, all dimples and gold, the kind that made you forget your own name for a full five seconds.

“Hey, new sound girl,” he’d said. “You got magic fingers or something? This mix sounds insane.”

You didn’t blush. (You absolutely blushed.)

From there, it built in quiet pulses. Shared coffee runs. Long nights layering harmonies in empty booths. The two of you tucked into a corner of the console, your hands moving across sliders while his voice—that voice—poured like honey into the headphones. It didn’t take long before he was leaning into you, brushing your wrist with his pinky, whispering, “You always smell so good…” in a way that made your pulse hiccup behind your ears.

Six months later, he was in your bed. Not just once. Often. Softly. Cuddled behind you in oversized sleep shirts, brushing your hair out of your face in the morning. Whispering things like “I’m so lucky I get to love you” and giggling when you squirmed under the weight of it. He’d bring takeout to your place after double shifts. Leave notes tucked in your laptop bag. Keep his toothbrush beside yours in the cup.

You knew him as Felix the angel. Felix the sweet. Felix the clingy little golden retriever who kissed your temples and held your hand under the dinner table. Even the sex had been like that—sweet, devotional, slow. He called you beautiful. He was perfect. Made you feel like you were living in heaven.

But something had been changing lately.

Little things. A sharper look in his eyes when you teased him too far. A rougher grip on your waist when he pulled you onto his lap in the studio. That one time his voice dipped too low in a live take and you jolted so hard you hit the mute switch. You’d laughed it off.

But Felix had seen. And Felix never forgot.

Tonight, it starts like all the others.

Long day in the studio. Changbin and Chan gone before midnight. Felix stayed with you—always did—half-sprawled on the couch, hair tied back, legs propped up, scrolling through beat drafts while you fixed the last few compression issues on Jeongin’s verse.

He kept glancing over at you.

Not in a sweet boyfriend way. In a watching-you way. Like he knew something you didn’t.

You feel it again when you both get home—your place, still messy from the ramen rush earlier, one overhead light on low. You stretch your arms, ready to slip into something more comfortable, and murmur:

“God, you sounded so good today. That second take in the booth? Nearly melted me.”

Silence.

You glance over your shoulder. Felix has dropped his bag by the door, but hasn’t moved since. He’s standing there. Still. Head tilted. Eyes… dark.

“Yeah?” he says. Quiet. “You liked the way I sounded?”

Something in your stomach tightens.

“You always sound good,” you reply with a nervous smile, turning to walk toward the bathroom. “I mean, I mix you for hours every week, Lix. I—”

But he catches your wrist.

Not hard. Not harsh.

But firm.

“Say that again.” His voice is still soft. But it slips now. Deeper. Tighter. “Say I sounded good. While I was making you melt.”

Your heart stutters. He takes a step forward.

“Felix…?”

He watches your throat bob as you swallow.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about?” he murmurs, crowding into your space. His palm slides down to your waist, warm and grounding, deceptively sweet. “I’ve been thinking about the way you react when my voice drops. The way you get quiet. Still. Like you’re waiting for something.”

You can’t speak. He presses forward again, herding you toward the couch.

“I’ve been good,” he says, lower now. Freckles glowing like they’re under a full moon. “I’ve been so good. But you keep pushing. You keep giving me that look like you want me to break.”

He stops when the back of your knees hit the couch cushion.

“So tonight, baby,” he whispers, brushing his lips against your ear, “You’re gonna let me.”

Felix’s hand finds your throat—not squeezing, just pressing you still, guiding you down further onto the couch with a gentleness that makes the control feel even stronger. Your back hits the cushion. You blink up at him, breath caught between a question and a moan.

He climbs over you, knees on the cushions, straddling your thighs. His hoodie’s still on, sleeves pushed up. His rings are warm from the walk home. He drags two fingers down your collarbone, slow, watching goosebumps bloom in his wake.

“You know I’ve been holding back, right?” “You know I watch how you squirm every time I call you good.”

Your breath stutters.

“So we’re gonna try something new tonight, angel.” “You don’t touch me unless I tell you to.” “You don’t cum unless I say so.” “You speak only when spoken to, and you take every fucking second of what I give you. Got it?”

You nod, frantic, heart pounding.

His hand moves to your hair and his grip tightens in it.

“Use your words.”

“Y-Yes. Got it.”

“Atta girl.”

He tugs your shorts down first. Not your top. Not your panties. He likes to tease. Leaves you half-dressed, on your back, thighs slightly open as he pushes your knees apart with one hand.

“Fuck, baby. Look at this mess.”

He hums. Brings his thumb between your legs and drags it slowly over the damp cotton. You whimper. His eyes flick up.

“You gonna cry already, sweetheart?”

And then he rips the panties to the side. No gentleness now. Just that soft tone and filthy mouth working in perfect contradiction.

He spits on your cunt.

Hot. Messy. His.

“You know what I wanna do to you?” he murmurs, dragging two fingers through the slick. “Wanna make you ride my thigh till you can’t see straight. Then bend you over and fuck you slow ‘til you cry for me. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You nod. Helpless.

“Too fuckin’ pretty like this. Can’t say no to you when you beg.”

He tugs his hoodie off one-handed. You get a glimpse of his lean stomach, the way his chain hangs against his chest, the ridges of toned arms from hours of dancing.

And then he sinks back onto the couch, spreads his legs and points.

“Come sit, good girl.”

You hesitate for half a second—and he slaps the side of his thigh with a sharp smack.

“I said. Sit.”

You climb into his lap. He holds you in place, arms locked around your waist, his thigh pressing right there, and begins to rock you.

And the feeling? Oh, it's heaven. You're simply melting.

You’re already gasping before you’ve even started.

The heat of his thigh against your bare cunt—muscle flexed just enough to grind into that aching spot—makes your legs weak before they’ve even moved. Felix doesn’t rush you. He just watches. One arm around your waist, the other relaxed across the top of the couch like he has all the time in the world. And those eyes?

They ruin you. All heat and hunger, waiting for the show.

“Go on,” he whispers, lips brushing your temple. “Make a mess for me.”

You brace your palms on his shoulders, shaky, breath trembling. The first grind of your hips feels dangerous. Too much friction, too much slick, not enough rhythm—but fuck, it hits.

“That’s it, baby,” he breathes, voice dropping further. “Rub that needy little pussy on my leg. Just like that. C’mon.”

You gasp. Then whine.

Your hips start moving on instinct—small at first, trying to chase pressure without falling apart too fast. But Felix’s leg is solid. Flexed. Perfect. Every roll of your body sends your clit dragging against muscle, and you can feel the wetness soaking through both layers already.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

You whimper, nails clutching at his hoodie sleeve. “Felix—”

“No.”

He grabs your chin and forces your eyes to meet his. “Not ‘Felix.’ Not when you’re like this.”

His lips hover right over your cheek, voice velvet and vicious in your ear.

“Try again, baby. What do you call the man ruining you?”

Your whole body stutters—hips still rocking, cunt dragging shamelessly over his thigh.

“D-Daddy—”

He moans, low and filthy, like the word alone strokes his cock.

“Fuck, that’s it. Knew you’d sound perfect saying it. Say it again while you ride me.”

You do. Over and over. Falling into it like a prayer. His name. His title. Your surrender. Your cunt is throbbing, twitching—your thighs slipping from the slick and heat of your own arousal. The more you chase it, the more you shake.

“You close?” he whispers, pressing his lips to the corner of your jaw. “You gonna cum just from my thigh like the good girl you are?”

You nod. Desperate. “Please, please—need it—need to—”

“Then fuckin’ cum for me.”

The moment you let go, it breaks you. You cry out—body seizing, vision spotting, hips still moving even as your muscles twitch through the overload. It’s too much. Not enough. You want to scream, moan, sob—and all that comes out is his name, slurred and needy.

“That’s it, angel. There she is.”

You collapse forward into his chest. Your legs refuse to work. Your pussy’s still pulsing and he’s holding you there, firm hands stroking over your spine like he cares—but his cock is hard beneath his sweats, and you feel it press against your stomach.

“One down,” he whispers against your temple, smiling like he hasn’t just destroyed you. “How many more can my good girl take?”

You try to answer—but you can’t. You’re dazed. Fucked out. Sweating and panting, still twitching from aftershocks.

And that’s when you feel him lift you.

Arms under your thighs. Carrying you across the room like you weigh nothing. You cling to him, head buried in his neck, still whimpering.

“Shh,” he soothes. “I got you, baby. Gonna lay you out. Gonna fuck you slow and deep ‘til all you remember is my name.”

When he enters the bedroom, Felix lays you down like you’re made of something expensive. Your back hits the sheets—warm, soft, rumpled—and he hovers over you with his palms planted on either side of your head. His hair has come loose from its tie. It falls into his face, golden and damp, framing the sharp line of his cheekbones and the flicker of obsession glowing in his eyes.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice a threadbare hush. “Fucked out already. But I haven’t even been inside yet.”

You try to respond—some tiny sound of need or please or Lix—but the words stick in your throat, caught somewhere between overstimulation and begging.

He smirks. And then he moves.

“Arms up, baby.”

He strips your tank top off first, dragging it over your head like he’s unwrapping silk. Your skin pebbles at the cold air, nipples tight, chest rising and falling with shallow little gasps—and fuck, does Felix stare. His eyes rake over you like he’s cataloguing the exact shape of your ruin.

“So beautiful,” he whispers, almost like he’s not saying it to you—just… to himself. “So fuckin’ perfect. All mine.”

His sweats are next, undoing them—slow, teasing—and then finally pulls them down along with his briefs, letting his cock spring free.

It’s hard. Already flushed, leaking. Beautiful. So him.

“Been thinkin’ about this all day,” he says, crawling over you again, voice deeper now. “Thinkin’ about how tight you’re gonna feel wrapped around me. Thinkin’ about how good you’re gonna take it.”

And then?

Then he turns you over.

“Face down, ass up baby.”

You shiver. But you listen. You shift onto your stomach, arms stretched up across the pillow, chest pressed into the sheets. Your ass is bare, slick, glistening under the light. You feel the mattress dip as Felix settles behind you, feel the heat of his body as he palms your thighs and spreads you wide.

“Look at this fuckin’ mess,” he growls, dragging two fingers through your folds, slow and heavy. “You’re dripping, angel. You need me that bad?”

You sob. Nod. “Please—need you—”

“I know.” He presses a kiss to the curve of your spine. “Gonna give it to you. Gonna fill you up real slow. Fuck you so deep you feel it tomorrow.”

He fists himself—just once—and then lines himself up.

“Breathe, baby,” he whispers, thumb pressing into the small of your back. “And stay still. Let me in.”

The first push is agony. Sweet, stretching agony. His cock slides in slow—so slow you think you’ll break—inch by inch, until the fullness makes your eyes roll back and your fingers clutch the sheets.

“There she is,” he groans, voice cracking. “So fuckin’ tight. So wet. You’re squeezing me already.”

He stills when he bottoms out. Just holds you there—stuffed full, twitching around him, your thighs trembling from the pressure.

“You feel that, baby?” he whispers, leaning over you, voice melting into your ear. “That’s mine now.”

He doesn’t start slow.

There’s no easing you into it. No gentleness now that he’s buried to the hilt inside you. Just the stretch of him—thick, perfect, intentional—and the way his hands lock around your waist like he’s anchoring himself to the only thing keeping him sane.

He finally starts moving. Deep. Slow.

His hips drive forward in measured, devastating strokes—like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your insides. Each thrust rocks you forward into the sheets, your arms trembling from the force. You can feel every ridge of him, every twitch, every grind against that spot that makes you see stars.

You’re a mess. Whimpering. Gasping. Drooling on the pillow.

And Felix?

He won’t shut up.

“That’s it, pretty thing. Cry into the sheets. Let ‘em hear how good I fuck you.” “You feel full? You feel mine?” “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob. “Fuck—Felix—I’m yours, I’m yours—”

“Fuckin’ right you are.”

He leans over you—pressing your spine down, mouth right at your ear—and his voice goes low. That lethal octave. That ruinous, deep rasp that shakes your bones from the inside.

“You’re my good girl, aren’t you?” “Taking my cock so deep. Letting me fuck you stupid.” “Gonna fill you up, baby. Gonna cum so deep it drips out of you.”

Your eyes roll back. Your stomach coils. Your voice breaks on a scream, “I’m gonna—gonna cum—Felix—Daddy—!”

“Do it. Cum for me, baby. Let go. Show me who fuckin’ owns this pussy.”

And you do—you cum hard, body locking, thighs trembling uncontrollably as you clamp down around him, crying into the sheets, wrecked and shaking and so full you swear you can’t take another second.

But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t slow down.

“Nah, sweetheart. We’re not done.”

His grip on your waist tightens. One hand slides up your spine and pushes—forcing your chest deeper into the mattress, arching your back until the angle makes your vision white out.

“One more,” he growls. “You can take it. Be good. Be so good for me and take every drop.”

You sob again—loud, broken—but your hips still push back. You want it. You need him to fuck you through it, to stretch your limits, to claim every inch of you like you asked for this.

And he does.

He fucks you until the sound of skin-on-skin is filthy and frantic, until the pressure builds again so fast you can’t catch your breath. You’re babbling now, incoherent—his name, god, daddy, please—over and over like a litany.

“You gonna give me one more?” he whispers, ragged. “Let me fuck you dumb, pretty girl. Just one more. C’mon. Make a mess on my cock.”

You break again.

Screaming. Crying. Shaking so hard your knees give out under you.

Your knees collapse.

You can’t hold yourself up. You’re shaking too hard—legs trembling, muscles locking from the force of your second orgasm. Tears have soaked into the sheets beneath your face. Your hands have long since given up. Your body is boneless, fucked out, ruined.

But he holds you.

Felix grunts low, adjusting his grip as you slump forward. One hand locks around your waist, the other slides beneath your chest, hauling you up against him.

Your back hits his chest—slick with sweat. His cock stays buried deep inside you. You whimper at the stretch, the burn, the rawness—but he coos softly in your ear, kisses your neck like it’s his salvation.

“That’s it, baby. I got you.”

He doesn’t stop moving.

His hips roll up into you—slow now, but just as deep—while his hand splay across your stomach, holding you flush against him like he never wants to let go. Your thighs are soaked, your pussy is twitching, and fuck, you can feel the mess between your legs.

“So full,” he whispers, lips dragging across your jaw. “So fuckin’ wet for me. All mine, yeah? Say it, baby. Say who owns this perfect fuckin’ body.”

You sob. “Y-You do, Felix—yours, I’m yours—”

“That’s my girl.”

His thrusts stutter—hips jerking erratically now, cock twitching inside you as he moans into your shoulder. His voice breaks—half-growl, half-worship.

“Gonna cum,” he rasps. “Gonna fill you up so deep, baby. Wanna fuck it into you. Wanna watch it leak down these thighs while you’re still twitching for me.”

Your walls flutter around him—tight, hot, soaked—and that’s all it takes.

He snaps.

“Fuckfuckfuck—oh, fuck—”

His moan rips through your ears as he buries himself one final time and cums hard—hot, thick pulses spilling deep inside you while he holds you pinned against his chest. You can feel it. The way he throbs, the way he doesn’t pull out, the way his body shakes around yours like he’s giving you everything he has left.

And through it all—he kisses you.

Everywhere.

Your temple. Your cheek. Your shoulder. The curve of your neck. Gentle little presses, over and over, like he’s grounding himself on your skin.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes. “So fuckin’ perfect. My pretty baby. My good girl. Took it all so well.”

You’re crying again, but they’re not sobs now. They’re soft. Shaky. Your body can’t process anything but him. His weight. His voice. His praise laced with that worn-out sunshine that’s never left.

He holds you there. Doesn’t pull out. Just lets you sit in his lap, full and dripping, his cock still twitching gently inside as your breath slows and your limbs go lax.

He doesn’t move for a long time.

It’s quiet. Only your breathing, mingling. And the occasional kiss— his lips brushing the curve of your shoulder, his nose nudging into your temple, his voice whispering like a lullaby.

“So good for me, baby…” “Took me so well…” “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head. Weakly. “Never.” you whisper.

And God, does that wreck him.

His arms tighten. He holds you closer like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His mouth presses to the top of your head, then your damp cheek, then your lips—soft, slow, tender.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your mouth. “I love you so much.”

And then—finally, finally—he shifts. One hand strokes your back. The other gently cups behind your thigh.

“Okay, angel,” he says gently. “I’m gonna pull out now, alright?”

You nod against him, breath catching.

And he does.

Slowly. Carefully. The stretch stings a little—your pussy is puffy, throbbing, still fluttering around nothing—and when he slips free, you can feel the mess spill out of you. His cum leaks down your thighs, warm and slick, and Felix groans low in his throat.

“Shit, baby… look at that. I really did fill you up, huh?”

But it’s not dirty now. Not filthy. Not teasing.

It’s awe.

“Time to take care of my girl.”

His arms wrap around you as he lays down on the bed, holding you close, cuddling you. You’re still quiet. Not from discomfort—just overloaded. Floating. Felix is holding you like he always does after a long day—chest to chest, arms around your waist, nose tucked into your hair.

If it weren’t for the light ache between your legs and the twitch in your thighs, you could almost pretend none of it happened.

But oh, it happened.

You feel it in every nerve ending.

“You okay, my love?” he murmurs, lips ghosting across your forehead. “Everything feel alright?”

You nod, still dazed. “I think I left my soul in the couch cushions.”

He laughs—a real laugh. Bright. Golden. Felix. The soft boy you thought you knew.

Until tonight.

“You’re not mad at me, right?” he asks after a moment, quieter now.

You blink up at him.

Stare.

Then squint.

And whisper: “Sir.”

He blinks. “Huh?”

“Felix. Sunshine. Angel boy. Literal human serotonin. You just—” You gesture vaguely to the air. “You ruined my guts.”

His mouth drops open. He chokes out a laugh, half-scandalized, half-proud.

“I did not!”

“You did too!” You shove his shoulder, weakly. “You throat-fucked me with praise and then made me ride your fucking thigh. I’m pretty sure my ancestors felt that orgasm.”

He’s red. Like ears-pink, nose-scrunched, dimples-deep red.

“I mean… I did say I was gonna fill you up,” he mumbles. “But I also kissed your forehead. So. Balance?”

You gape at him.

“Balance?! You said I was your good girl while you were filling me up.”

“Because you are!”

You collapse into the pillow, half-laughing, half-moaning. “Jesus fucking Christ, Felix.”

He wraps his arms around you even tighter. Nuzzles into your hair. His voice goes soft again, syrupy with affection.

“Hey. You really loved it?”

You pause. Look up at him again. There’s nothing teasing in his face now. Just that pure, open warmth—the boy who’s been falling in love with you since the day you EQ’d his vocals for the first time.

And you nod. Soft. Sincere.

“I didn’t just love it,” you whisper. “I think I need it again. Like… soon. Maybe with handcuffs next time?”

Felix short circuits. “I—you—what—okay—”

You smile into his chest. "I like this duality. How dare you not show it sooner."

He groans. Buries his face in your shoulder.

“God help me. I think I am creating a monster.”

But you just grin, ear to ear.

"Damn right you are."

The energy in the arena is electric, thousands of lightsticks glowing like stars—but his eyes? His eyes are only ever on you.

You’re seated just close enough to the stage that he can pick you out instantly, your little VIP badge glinting under the lights. And god, you dressed up for him.

The layered white skirt swishes every time you bounce along to the beat, boots catching the stage lights when you jump. That cropped top clings just right, and the little bow at your chest is enough to make his throat go dry. But it’s the SKZOO details that kill him—the quokka plush clipped to your bag, the badges pinned to your skirt. His quokka. His girl.

Jisung’s supposed to be rapping, supposed to be hyping up the crowd, but when his verse in TOPLINE hits, he can’t help it—he points straight in your direction, smirking so wide the cameras catch it. The fans scream, but he’s looking at you.

During Super Bowl, he catches your eye again, that stupidly cocky grin spreading across his face when you mouth the lyrics back at him. He bites his lip, because of course you know every word, and you’re looking at him like he hung the moon.

By the time the ending ment rolls around, he’s barely hiding how wrecked you’ve made him. He waves to the crowd, grinning ear to ear, but when his eyes land on you again, his smile softens. He even gives you a tiny, secret wink—quick enough no one else notices.

The concert ends in a blur of fireworks and cheers, but backstage? It’s chaos.

The boys stumble in, still glowing with leftover stage adrenaline, shirts sticking to their skin, breaths coming in sharp pants. Staff members are everywhere—handing out towels, bottles of water, yelling directions—but the boys are too hyped to care.

Jisung is among the last to come in, his hair plastered to his forehead, grin stretched wide, veins standing out on his arms from gripping the mic all night. He’s bouncing on his heels like he’s still on stage, laughing as Felix throws an arm around his shoulders.

“Bro, you were insane tonight,” Felix pants, handing him a towel. “The crowd was crazy for you.”

“One person was crazy for him,” Changbin cuts in with a smirk, slapping Jisung’s back hard enough to make him stumble. “Couldn’t take your eyes off her, huh?”

Jisung freezes mid-sip of his water bottle, coughing as he chokes. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” Hyunjin teases, leaning against the wall with that infuriatingly knowing smirk. “You were locked in. Didn’t even bother looking anywhere else. Fans are gonna make edit compilations of how many times you stared in the same direction.”

“Front row VIP, white skirt, SKZOO quokka on the bag,” Seungmin lists casually while toweling off his neck, not even looking up from his phone. “You’re so obvious.”

“SEUNGMIN, SHUT UP,” Jisung groans, tossing his towel at him, but his ears are bright red.

Meanwhile, Jeongin is laughing so hard he’s doubled over. “Hyung, you literally pointed at her during TOPLINE. Like, not the crowd. HER. The fans behind her thought you were pointing at them, but—nah, you wanted her to know.”

“...I was just performing,” Jisung mutters weakly, but his grin gives him away.

Minho, who’s been silently sipping his water this whole time, finally speaks, deadpan: “Performing? Is that what you call biting your lip and winking at her three times?”

“THREE TIMES?!” Felix bursts out laughing. “Bro, you’re done for.”

Jisung groans into his hands, face flaming, but then his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen—and suddenly, the cocky grin is back.

“...She texted me.”

“ALREADY?!” Hyunjin yells, half laughing, half scandalized.

Changbin throws a towel at him again. “Fine, go ahead. But don’t keep us up all night—our rooms share walls, and you’re loud.”

“Shut up,” Jisung fires back, but the way he’s already tucking his phone away and jogging toward the dressing room screams one thing: he’s about to make good on all those stage promises.

The arena is still echoing with cheers as you’re led through the maze of hallways by a staff member, your lightstick still in your hand, SKZOO quokka plush swaying from your bag. You can still hear the muffled voices of fans outside, but in here? It’s quieter—just distant chatter, footsteps, and the low hum of post-concert exhaustion.

One of the staff smiles at you, whispering conspiratorially, “He’s in the changing room. Be prepared—he’s excited.”

You laugh nervously, smoothing down your skirt as you follow, heart racing. You don’t even have to ask which room it is; you can hear the boys inside. Hyunjin’s laughter, Changbin teasing someone—probably Jisung again.

The door opens, and all at once, eight pairs of eyes land on you.

“Ohhhh, look who it is!” Felix grins, waving you in dramatically. “The VIP quokka herself.”

“The distraction,” Changbin corrects, smirking as he leans back against the couch. “Finally decided to join us, huh?”

You feel your cheeks burn, but you laugh, bowing politely to the boys. “Hi, everyone. Amazing show tonight.”

“Don’t act shy now,” Hyunjin teases, chin resting on his hand as he smirks. “You knew exactly what you were doing out there.”

“HYUNJIN,” Jisung’s voice cuts in, muffled from the adjoining room. A second later, he emerges—freshly changed into gray sweats and an oversized hoodie.

His face lights up the second he sees you.

And then he’s moving.

“Baby,” he breathes, crossing the room in a few long strides. You barely have time to set your bag down before his arms wrap around you, pulling you into his chest.

“You’re all sweaty,” you tease, laughing softly against him.

“Don’t care,” he mutters into your hair, holding you tighter. “Missed you all night.”

“Awwww,” Jeongin fake swoons from the couch, earning a playful shove from Minho.

Jisung ignores them completely, pulling back just enough to look at you. His grin softens into something warmer, eyes crinkling. “You looked so good out there. Killed me every time you cheered.”

“Yeah, we noticed,” Seungmin mutters under his breath, smirking.

Jisung flips him off without looking, still focused entirely on you. His fingers toy with the bow on your top, tugging it gently before whispering, “You’re coming back with me, right? Not letting you out of my sight tonight.”

The way he says it—low, possessive, soft enough only you can hear—sends a shiver down your spine.

“Of course,” you whisper back, biting your lip.

And he just grins, satisfied, before intertwining his fingers with yours. “Good. Then let’s go.”

The van smells faintly of sweat, stage makeup, and the lingering sweetness of fan-thrown flowers someone shoved into the back seat. Everyone’s still riding the adrenaline high, talking over one another as the city lights blur past the windows.

You’re seated next to Jisung, his thigh pressed against yours, his hand resting casually (or at least pretending to be casual) on top of your knee. Across from you, Felix and Seungmin are scrolling through fancams, and Chan’s half-dozing in the corner with his hood pulled up.

“HYUNG, LOOK AT THIS,” Felix suddenly bursts out, shoving his phone at Seungmin, who grins immediately.

“Oh, this is gold,” Seungmin smirks, tilting the phone toward Chan, who cracks one eye open.

You lean forward curiously—only to see a fancam of Jisung, mid-performance, biting his lip and looking directly into the VIP section. Directly. At. You.

“Bro,” Seungmin starts, trying not to laugh, “you’re not even slick. Fans are already commenting ‘WHO IS HE STARING AT???’ under this.”

Jisung groans loudly, burying his face in his hands. “Can we not right now?”

But Felix is already scrolling to another clip, cackling. “Oh my god, HERE—look at this part. He points straight at her during TOPLINE. Dead giveaway.”

Your cheeks burn, but you can’t stop giggling. “You really did point at me, though,” you whisper to him.

“Don’t encourage them,” he mutters, voice muffled against his sleeve.

Chan chuckles from his corner, voice low and teasing. “Jisung, you know we’ve been in this game long enough—if you don’t want rumours, you might wanna stop making heart eyes at your girlfriend in front of so many people.”

“Hyung,” Jisung groans, but Chan just grins knowingly and goes back to his phone.

Meanwhile, Seungmin leans back, smirking like the little menace he is. “You better hope no one caught her on camera, or you’re both trending by morning.”

“I don’t care if we trend,” Jisung fires back, finally lifting his head, cheeks pink but his grin cocky now. “She’s mine.”

The way he says it—so bluntly, so sure—has everyone going silent for half a second before Felix bursts into giggles again.

“Bro, relax,” Felix laughs, “save that energy for the hotel room.”

You choke on your own breath, wide-eyed, and Seungmin nearly drops his phone laughing.

Jisung just smirks now, leaning closer to your ear, his hand squeezing your thigh under the shared blanket you didn’t even notice he’d pulled over you both. His voice is low enough only you can hear:

“Don’t worry, baby,” he whispers, warm breath tickling your skin, “I am saving it for the hotel.”

You clench your legs instinctively, and he notices, his grin turning downright wicked as he rubs lazy circles against your knee with his thumb.

Felix glances up, eyebrows raising. “...Why are you both so quiet now?”

“Because,” Jisung says smoothly, leaning back against the seat with that smug grin, “some things are for later.”

The van ride is a blur after that, your pulse thrumming with every lazy circle Jisung’s thumb drew against your thigh. By the time you both step into the hotel lobby, the teasing has turned into loaded silence—just a quick exchange of glances, his hoodie falling loose around his frame as he keeps tugging you close, hand firm at the small of your back.

The boys are still joking around as you wait for the elevator, but you can feel Jisung’s patience wearing thinner by the second. Felix’s grin is too knowing, Seungmin’s smirk hasn’t left his face since the van, and Chan keeps shooting you both amused looks.

When the elevator doors finally open, you all pile in, but Jisung’s hand finds yours again immediately, squeezing tight. His knee is bouncing, his jaw set. By the time you reach your floor, he’s practically dragging you out the door, ignoring the chorus of “Have fun, quokka couple~” behind you.

The second the door to his hotel room shuts, the shift is instant.

Click.

Silence.

And the next thing you know, you’re pinned against the door, his hands gripping your waist hard enough to make you gasp. His mouth crashes against yours, rough and desperate, teeth nipping at your bottom lip like he’s been holding himself back for hours.

“Fuck,” he groans against your mouth, pressing his body flush against yours. “Do you have any idea how insane you made me tonight?”

You barely catch your breath, fingers curling in his hoodie. “You were the one staring at me all night.”

“Damn right I was.” His hands slide lower, gripping your hips as he pulls you against him. You can feel just how worked up he is, and his grin turns feral at the way your breath hitches.

“Every time you jumped, and every time you cheered… looking so cute I could barely rap straight.” His mouth trails down to your jaw, kissing, biting just enough to leave faint marks. “I couldn’t stop thinking about this. About you.”

“Jisung—” you gasp as he nips at your neck, sucking a dark mark into your skin.

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” he murmurs against your throat, his voice hoarse, all warm breath and rough need. “Wearing that skirt, sitting right where I could see you… teasing me in front of everyone.”

You manage a shaky laugh, biting your lip. “Maybe I did.”

He groans low in his throat, grip tightening as he lifts you slightly, pressing you harder against the door. “Oh, baby, you’re in so much trouble for that.”

He kisses you again, this time slower, deeper, his hands already tugging at the hem of your skirt. His thumbs brush against the top of your thighs, lingering just under the fabric.

“You’ve been dripping for me since the concert, haven’t you?” he whispers, hot against your ear. “Gonna make you show me just how bad you wanted it.”

And when you whimper his name, he grins, already sliding your skirt up—

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Your back hits the door again as Jisung devours your mouth, teeth catching your bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth. It’s messy, desperate—his lips are wet against yours, tongues sliding as you both gasp for air between kisses.

One of his hands fists in your hair, tilting your head just right so he can kiss you deeper, and the other is already toying with the hem of your skirt. His thumb grazes the soft skin of your thigh, slow at first—like he’s savoring it—but his patience snaps fast.

“Take this off,” he mutters, tugging at the waistband.

You barely manage to whisper, “Then do it.”

And he does.

He pulls back just long enough to tug your skirt down in one sharp motion, letting it drop to your ankles. Your bag nearly slips off your shoulder, but his hand shoots out, gripping the strap before it falls. He smirks, eyes flicking up to yours as he tosses both the skirt and bag aside with a soft thud.

“Won’t need those,” he says, voice low and wrecked, before his mouth crashes against yours again.

His hands slide under your thighs next, gripping hard as he lifts you effortlessly. You gasp, arms flying around his neck, legs wrapping around his waist as he presses you back against the door.

“Fuck, you feel perfect like this,” he breathes, kissing along your jaw, nipping at your neck, sucking a mark just below your ear. His hips roll against you, and you feel him, hard and straining against his sweats, grinding just enough to make you whimper.

He chuckles against your throat, the sound low and cocky. “Already so needy for me, huh? You wanted this all night, didn’t you?”

“Jisung—” you whine, tugging at his hoodie, desperate for more.

“Say it,” he murmurs, his nose brushing your cheek as he kisses you again, slower this time, his tongue teasing yours. “Tell me you wanted it.”

“I wanted it,” you whisper, voice breaking as he ruts his hips against you again.

“Good girl,” he praises, sucking at your collarbone now. One of his hands slides between you, fingers brushing over your soaked panties. The sharp intake of breath he lets out when he feels how wet you are makes your cheeks burn.

“Shit, baby, you’re dripping for me already,” he groans, rubbing lazy circles against your clit through the thin fabric. “All that cheering, all those looks—you’ve been this wet since the concert, haven’t you?”

You whimper, nodding, and that’s all the confirmation he needs.

He hooks his fingers under the waistband, yanking your panties to the side, his fingers teasing at your entrance. “So ready for me,” he murmurs, kissing you again, his fingers just barely sliding in. “Gonna make you cum for me right here, still dressed, still against this fucking door.”

“Jisung—” you gasp, but he cuts you off with his mouth, kissing you so hard your teeth clash.

His fingers slide into you fast, two at once, stretching you as he pumps them hard right from the start. The wet sound of his fingers moving in and out of you fills the room, obscene and loud in the quiet hotel.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groans against your lips, biting at your bottom one before sucking it back into his mouth. “So wet for me, baby. You like this, huh?”

You try to answer, but all that comes out is a broken moan.

“That’s it,” he breathes, voice low and wrecked as he picks up speed, fingers curling to hit that perfect spot inside you. “Don’t talk. Just take it.”

Your back arches against the door as his pace gets rougher, your legs tightening around his waist. His hoodie brushes against you with every movement, and you can feel him—rock hard and straining against his sweats—pressing right where you’re grinding against him.

He notices the way your hips roll instinctively against his, and his grin turns downright filthy. “You feel that, baby? That’s how hard you get me. Been like this since you smiled at me in the middle of TOPLINE. Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

His thumb finds your clit, rubbing fast circles as his fingers keep pumping into you, sloppy and relentless. You’re panting against his mouth, your moans muffled as he kisses you through every sound.

“God, you sound so pretty for me.” he groans, panting himself now, hips grinding into you with every thrust of his fingers.

“Jisung—” you whimper, your hands clutching at his hoodie, desperate.

“Yeah, I know, baby. You’re close, huh? So close for me.” He buries his face in your neck, sucking another mark as his pace turns downright punishing, thumb circling your clit faster. “Cum for me. Right here. Be my good girl and cum for me.”

And that’s all it takes—your body tightens around his fingers, pleasure snapping white-hot as you fall apart against him.

You cry out his name, head tipping back against the door, and he keeps going, fucking you through it, his fingers still curling inside you until you’re squirming, overstimulated, breathless.

When he finally slows, pulling his fingers out, he groans low in his throat, bringing them to his lips without hesitation. He sucks them clean, eyes locked on yours, tongue swirling lazily.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants, still holding you pinned against the door, his hips grinding into you again, letting you feel just how hard he still is. “You have no idea what you do to me. And I’m nowhere near done with you.”

He kisses you again, slow but deep, one hand sliding to your ass as he adjusts his grip, carrying you across the room like you weigh nothing.

The kiss doesn’t break until he drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, setting you down with a soft bounce. He’s already tugging at his hoodie, pulling it over his head in one swift motion. His hair sticks up in damp tufts, his chest rising and falling fast as he tosses the hoodie aside.

The way he looks at you—eyes dark, jaw tight—makes your stomach flip. He crawls onto the bed immediately, caging you in with his arms, kissing you again, wetter this time, his tongue sliding against yours like he can’t get enough.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants against your mouth between kisses, one hand roaming up your side, squeezing your waist, then your breast, groaning every time you gasp. “You’re so fucking perfect. Can’t believe you’re mine.”

His impatience shows in every movement—his hands fumble at first, tugging at your top until he gets it off you, tossing it carelessly to the floor. His lips move down your neck, kissing, sucking, biting faint marks into your skin as his hands find your panties.

“You don’t need these,” he mutters, voice hoarse as his fingers hook into the waistband.

“Jisung—”

“No, baby, I need you,” he cuts you off, pulling them down in one smooth motion, eyes glued to you as he does. His breath catches, a soft, choked groan slipping out when he sees how wet you still are.

“God, look at you,” he murmurs, almost to himself, running a thumb slowly over your slick folds, watching the way you twitch under his touch. “You’re dripping for me. Still so sensitive… gonna taste so good.”

And then he’s moving, kissing down your stomach, his hands spreading your thighs apart. His voice is a low promise as he glances up at you, pupils blown wide:

“Gonna eat you until you can’t even say my name.”

He doesn’t wait for permission—he dives in, tongue flat against your clit on the first swipe, licking slow and deliberate before sucking it into his mouth. The sound he lets out when he tastes you—a needy, muffled groan against your skin—makes you arch off the bed.

“J-Jisung!” you gasp, your hands flying to his hair, tugging gently, but he just growls low in his throat, the vibration sending shivers through you.

His hands grip your thighs, holding you open as he starts eating you like a man starved, switching between long, slow licks and quick flicks against your clit. Every time you moan louder, he hums in satisfaction, grinding his hips subtly against the mattress like he’s losing control too.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants between licks, pulling back just long enough to smirk up at you, his chin glistening. “Taste so sweet—don’t hold back for me. I wanna hear you.”

Then he’s back at it, rougher now, tongue fucking you while his thumb circles your clit, relentless, sloppy, loud enough that the obscene sounds of him eating you out fill the room.

“Jisung—please, I—” you whimper, legs shaking.

He pulls back just enough to grin, breath hot against your core. “Please what, baby? Please don’t stop? Yeah? Thought so.”

Every drag of his tongue is messy and loud, his sloppy mouth making wet, obscene sounds as he devours you. And he’s moaning. Full, muffled, desperate sounds against your skin—soft whimpers and choked groans that vibrate straight through you.

“Mmf—fuck,” he pants into you, pulling back for half a second to lick his lips before diving back in. “You taste so fucking good, baby… can’t stop. Not even if I wanted to.”

“Jisung—” you gasp, hips jerking against his mouth, but his grip on your thighs tightens, pinning you in place.

“Stay still,” he growls, voice low and wrecked as he licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit. “Let me enjoy this.”

He sucks your clit into his mouth suddenly, hard enough to make you cry out, and his hips grind against the mattress again, needy and shameless. The wet spot on his sweats is growing, but he doesn’t care—he’s too focused on you.

You feel yourself getting closer again, your legs trembling as you try to warn him. “I’m—Jisung, I’m gonna—”

“Good,” he cuts you off, lifting his head just enough to meet your eyes, his mouth glistening, chin soaked. His grin is cocky, feral. “Cum for me again. Right now. Give it to me, baby.”

And with that, he’s back on you, even rougher—tongue swirling, thumb pressing harder, his moans louder now as if your pleasure is turning him on more than anything else.

You break with a choked cry, thighs shaking as you cum against his mouth, but he doesn’t stop.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he groans, still licking you through it, sloppy and relentless. “So fucking sweet—fuck, I could live down here.”

“Jisung, wait, I—ah, too much—”

“Uh-uh,” he hums against your clit, his voice sending shivers through you. “Not done. One more, baby. You can give me one more.”

And he doesn’t let up, eating you through your high, overstimulating you until your back arches off the bed, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how intense it is. The way he’s moaning against you—actual whines, desperate little broken sounds as he devours you like he’s starved—only makes it worse.

Your thighs shake violently, your back arching off the bed, but his grip is iron, holding you spread open for him, refusing to let you move away.

“Jisung, I—can’t—!” you sob, hands fisting his hair, tugging hard, but instead of pulling back, he groans low in his throat, the vibration shooting straight through you.

“Oh, fuck,” he chokes, his hips rutting helplessly against the bed now, his sweats definitely soaked. “You’re close, I can feel it—come on, baby, cum for me again. Give it to me. I need it.”

The way he says it—needy, begging, almost desperate—pushes you over the edge. You cry out his name, your body locking tight as you cum hard against his mouth, your thighs trembling violently.

And Jisung—loses it.

He moans into you, a broken, muffled whine spilling out of him, like the taste of you is too much for him to handle. His tongue doesn’t slow, lapping up every drop as you cum, his noises guttural and filthy.

“Fuck, yes, yes,” he pants against you, his words messy, almost incoherent. “God, you’re perfect—fuck—taste so sweet—I love this—”

You’re trembling so hard your vision blurs, but he doesn’t stop licking until you’re pushing weakly at his head, sobbing, overstimulated beyond control.

Finally, finally, he pulls back, breathing heavy, chin and lips glistening. His pupils are blown, his face flushed, and he looks ruined—and he hasn’t even been inside you yet. He groans, licking his lips slowly, moaning low in his throat as he swallows. “Fuck, baby. I’m gonna get addicted to this.”

He crawls up your body, kissing you sloppy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, his hips grinding into your thigh—rock hard, throbbing, desperate. “I'm so fucking hard for you,” he pants against your mouth, his forehead pressed to yours. “Gonna fuck you now. Gonna fuck you so good you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

Jisung sits back on his knees for a second, tugging his sweats and his boxers low enough to free himself, and the sight makes your breath hitch. His cock thick, the perfect thickness for the perfect stretch. The tip flushed dark and leaking precum already, and the little shaky breath he lets out when he wraps his hand around himself makes your stomach flip.

“Fuck, baby, look at me,” he pants, giving himself a few slow strokes, precum smearing over his fingers as he groans low in his throat. “You see what you do to me? Haven’t even been inside you yet and I’m already this hard.”

You can barely respond, but that only makes him smirk, cocky as ever despite the pink flush spreading across his cheeks.

“Yeah… speechless already, huh?” he teases, leaning down to kiss you again, messy and wet, his cock now pressing against your soaked folds. He ruts his hips against you once, slowly dragging himself through your slick, and moans.

Loud.

Broken.

“Oh, fuck—” he whines, biting down on your shoulder as his hips roll again, slower this time, like he’s savoring every second. “You’re so wet for me, baby. Feel that? That’s all for me.”

“Jisung—please,” you gasp, rocking your hips up against him.

“Please what?” he murmurs against your neck, kissing and sucking there, his cock sliding teasingly against your clit with each slow grind. “You want me to fuck you? Want me to ruin you?”

“Yes—please, Jisung, I need you—”

The needy tremor in your voice breaks him.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression somewhere between feral and worshipful. “Fuck, baby, you have no idea how bad I need this too.” And finally, he gives in and pushes in. The stretch makes you gasp, and Jisung’s head drops to your shoulder with a guttural moan, his hips stuttering as he bottoms out.

“Shit—shit, you’re so tight,” he groans, his voice cracking as he starts moving, shallow thrusts at first, his breath hot against your neck. “Fucking perfect around me—fuck, baby, you’re squeezing me so good—”

He pulls almost all the way out before snapping his hips forward, harder this time, making you cry out. His rhythm builds fast, rough and relentless, his pace already messy from how worked up he is.

Every thrust pushes a broken noise out of him—soft whimpers, breathless groans, the occasional desperate, muffled fuck against your skin. His forehead presses to yours again, his moans mixing with yours as his pace grows frantic.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he pants, kissing you sloppily, almost missing your mouth as he keeps fucking into you, harder now, his thighs slapping against yours with every thrust. “Been thinking about this since I saw you tonight—knew I was gonna fuck you stupid the second we got here.”

“Jisung—ah—so good—”

“Yeah? You like it, baby?” he grins, cocky even through his moans, his hips snapping faster now. “Love the way I fuck you? Love knowing I can’t even think straight when I’m inside you?”

You nod, breathless, and that does it for him—he loses it. His thrusts turn erratic, almost desperate, his moans louder, broken little whines slipping out as he presses his forehead back to your neck. Hands sliding down to grip your thighs, spreading you wide and holding you in place. His fingers dig into your skin hard enough to bruise as he slams into you, fast and messy, hips snapping against yours.

The bed creaks with every thrust, the sound of skin meeting skin loud and filthy, mixed with his frantic moans.

“Jisung—ah—”

“Yeah, that’s it, baby,” he pants, his voice hoarse as he fucks into you harder, faster. “So good for me—taking me so well—fuck, you’re perfect. You were made for me, you know that? This pussy was fucking made for me.”

Your mind is mush, only whimpers and moans falling from your lips, which just makes him groan louder. “You can’t even talk, huh? Yeah, baby, I fucked you dumb already.” His breath catches on a high-pitched whine as your walls tighten around him, his hips stuttering for a split second before pounding into you again. “Shit, you’re clenching so hard—are you close again? Gonna cum for me?”

You nod frantically, tears pricking your eyes from how intense it is, and Jisung loses it all over again.

“Fuck, yes,” he moans, his words tumbling out rapid-fire now, unfiltered. “Come on, baby, cum with me—be my good girl, yeah? Gonna cum all over my cock, make me feel how much you love it—fuck, I need it, baby, need you so bad—”

His pace is frantic, sloppy now, every thrust hitting deep, his thighs slapping against yours, his moans getting higher, almost desperate. His forehead presses to your neck, his words muffled against your skin as he keeps talking through every thrust:

“Love you like this—fuck, love you so much, baby—so good for me, so perfect—god, you’re gonna ruin me, I’m so fucking close—”

Your orgasm hits first, white-hot, making you arch under him, your body tightening around him as you cry out his name.

Jisung breaks.

“Oh my god, fuck, baby—yes, yes, just like that—” His voice cracks, his hips jerking erratically as he moans loud, whining into your neck as his thrusts slow just enough to grind deep, desperate to feel every pulse of your walls around him. “Shit, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna cum—can I, baby? Can I cum inside you?”

Your head tips back against the pillow, tears still clinging to your lashes, and you nod frantically, voice breaking as you beg.

“Jisung—please—yes, cum inside me—please, I need it—need you so bad, baby, please—”

And Jisung, he's only but a man. A weak man for you because he loves you, and he loves your pussy.

“Fuck—fuck, baby, you’re gonna kill me,” he chokes out, his voice cracking into a whine as his hips slam into you harder, faster, chasing his high with frantic, almost animalistic thrusts. His grip on your thighs tightens until his knuckles turn white, holding you open for him like he wants to see every second of this.

“Gonna cum inside—fuck, I’m gonna fill you up, baby,” he groans, his forehead pressing to yours again, his words pouring out unchecked, breath hot against your mouth. “Gonna fuck my cum so deep in you you’ll still be dripping tomorrow—god, you want that, huh? Want me to fuck you so full you can’t even walk?”

“Yes—yes, Jisung, please—” you gasp, your walls fluttering around him, milking him for everything he has.

“Oh my god—fuck, fuck, fuuuck, baby,” he cries out, his voice cracking into high-pitched whimpers as he slams into you one last time, burying himself deep as he cums hard, cock twitching inside you.

The heat floods you in waves, his hips stuttering, but he doesn’t stop—he keeps grinding, desperate little thrusts pushing every drop deeper as he moans helplessly against your neck.

“Shit—so much—fuck, you’re squeezing me so good, baby—” he babbles, panting hard, his forehead pressed to your skin as he whines through every pulse of his orgasm. “Oh my god, I love you like this—love you so much, fuck—”

Even when he’s finished, he stays buried inside, hips rocking slow, lazy, as if he can’t let go just yet. His breath is ragged, his voice low and shaky when he finally speaks again, kissing your jaw softly now, still moving inside you in slow, deep rolls.

“God, baby,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek, his cock still half-hard inside you, “I swear I’m not done. Not even close. Gonna make you cum on my cock again—gonna keep going until you’re too fucked out to even say my name.”

Jisung doesn’t pull out.

He’s still buried deep, hips rolling in slow grinds that push his cum deeper inside you with every lazy thrust. His cock twitches occasionally, still sensitive, and every time it does he whines against your neck, his breath hot and shaky.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants, his voice soft but wrecked, “you’re still so tight around me. Holding me like you don’t wanna let go.”

You can barely respond, body limp and trembling, but he just smirks, kissing your jaw softly before pulling back enough to look at you. His hair is damp and messy, his lips red and swollen, his cheeks flushed pink.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost fond but still cocky, his hips grinding slow and deep, making you gasp. “You’re so cock-drunk already… and I’m still not done.”

His hand trails down your stomach, fingers slipping between your legs where his cock stretches you open. The wet, messy sound of his cum mixed with your slick makes him groan low in his throat.

“God, baby, you’re so full of me,” he mutters, almost reverent, rubbing his fingers lightly over where you’re stretched around him. “Can feel how messy you are—fuck.”

“Jisung—ah—”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he soothes, kissing you softly this time, even as his pace stays slow and deep, his cock dragging along your walls with every grind. “Gonna give me one more, yeah? One more for me, baby.”

You whimper, already trembling again, and he grins, leaning down to kiss you as his thumb slides to your clit, circling slow, teasing patterns at first.

“Shh, don’t think, just feel.” he murmurs against your mouth, his voice soft but wrecked, almost addicted. “Wanna feel you cum again, wanna feel you squeeze me. Can you do that for me? Be my good girl one more time?”

“Y-yes,” you gasp, your hands clutching his shoulders weakly.

“Good girl.” he whispers, kissing your cheek, his thumb pressing harder, faster now as his hips keep rocking, deep and steady.

The combination of his thumb on your clit and the slow, relentless grind of his cock is too much, especially with his cum squelching with every roll of his hips. The overstimulation hits hard, your walls tightening again, and you moan his name, breathless and broken.

“Oh my god, fuck, baby,” he whines, his voice cracking as your walls flutter around him. “You’re doing it—you’re cumming for me again—oh fuck, you’re so tight, I can feel everything—”

Your orgasm crashes over you, your body locking around him, and Jisung lets out a loud, guttural moan, his hips pressing as deep as possible as if trying to mold you to him.

“Yeah, that’s it—fuck, you’re so good for me,” he pants, his forehead pressing to yours again, kissing you lazily, softly now. “Taking me so well, baby. You’re perfect. God, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.”

He doesn’t move for a moment, just staying buried inside you, grinding small, lazy circles like he’s too addicted to stop, kissing you soft and slow while you come down from your high. When he finally slows completely, he kisses your nose, still breathless, his cock still inside you.

Both of you are breathing heavily, chests rising and falling in sync, the room quiet except for your ragged breaths and the faint hum of the hotel air conditioning.

His forehead drops to your shoulder, his hair damp against your skin, and for the first time since you got here, he’s calm. His eyes close, and he just melts against you, his body heavy and warm.

For a long moment, there’s nothing—just his soft breaths against your neck.

Then, muffled against your skin, he murmurs, “Shit, baby… you really just ruined me.”

You laugh weakly, still trying to catch your breath. “I ruined you? Look at what you did to me.”

He hums, almost a whine, nuzzling into your neck like a tired cat. “Mm, yeah, but you started it. Sitting there all cute, cheering for me like I was the only person in the arena.” His words are slurred now, lazy, his voice soft with that post-orgasm haze.

You feel his smile against your skin before he continues, rambling now.

“God, you’re so pretty… like, stupidly pretty. Can’t believe you’re mine. Like—why are you mine? What did I do to deserve this? Did I save a quokka in my past life or something?”

You laugh, breathless, running your fingers through his messy hair. “Maybe you did.”

“Mm. Makes sense,” he mumbles, nodding slightly like he’s very sure of this logic. “Yeah, past-life quokka rescue. That’s the only reason someone like you would put up with me talking about ramen at three in the morning.”

You laugh harder, and he grins against your neck, pressing a soft kiss there.

“And, like… you know I’m obsessed with you, right?” His tone shifts softer, more serious, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your side as he stays draped over you. “Like, actually obsessed. You’re perfect. Like… fuck, you’re actually perfect.”

You feel your heart squeeze, but before you can reply, he adds, dead serious, “You’re so perfect I’m kinda scared you’re gonna wake up one day and be like, ‘wow, Jisung’s just a weird little dude who makes weird noises and eats too much kimchi fried rice,’ and leave me.”

“Jisung,” you giggle, smacking his back lightly.

“I’m serious!” he groans dramatically, lifting his head to look at you, his hair sticking up in all directions, cheeks flushed. “Don’t leave me, okay? I’m good at, like… making you laugh. And—” his grin turns cocky again, “—making you cum so hard you cry, apparently.”

“Jisung!” you squeal, hiding your face in your hands, and he laughs, kissing your cheek before dropping his head back to your shoulder.

“Love you, baby,” he murmurs softly, his voice drowsy now, his weight warm and comforting as he relaxes fully against you. “Like, so much.” Jisung shifts just enough to fully sink into you, letting out the most exaggerated, dramatic sigh you’ve ever heard. His entire body relaxes over yours, heavy and warm, his face buried against your neck like he never plans to move again.

“God, baby,” he groans, his voice muffled against your skin. “You have to be there for every concert. Every single one. From now on. Non-negotiable.”

You laugh breathlessly, still stroking his messy hair. “Jisung, I can’t. I have work.”

He pulls his head back just enough to look at you, pouting, his lower lip jutting out in the most ridiculous way. “Nooo, baby, don’t say that.”

“Jisung—”

“No!” he cuts you off, nuzzling back into your neck with a loud whine. “You can’t just go back to work like nothing happened. Do you know what you do to me when you show up like that? I can’t perform right anymore if you’re not there. You’ve ruined me.”

You snort, trying to push at his chest, but he just clings tighter, his arms wrapping around your waist like a koala.

“Jisung, seriously, I can’t just take off and follow you everywhere.”

He pulls back again, this time with a glint in his eyes, his pout turning into a mischievous grin. “Then let me be your sugar daddy.”

You blink, half laughing. “Excuse me?”

“I’m serious!” he insists, sitting up a little, still inside you but too blissed out to move yet. “I’ll pay for everything. Quit your job, baby. Just follow me to every stop, sit front row in my hoodie, cheer for me, make me lose my mind every night—that’s your new full-time job.”

You laugh so hard you nearly choke, but he looks dead serious, leaning down again, peppering soft kisses along your jaw. “Think about it,” he murmurs between kisses, his tone soft and teasing. “You, me, hotel beds in every city… I’ll spoil you rotten. You don’t even have to do anything—just sit there looking pretty and ruin me like you always do.”

“Jisung,” you giggle, trying to hide your face in your hands, but he catches your wrists gently, pinning them above your head with a grin.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers dramatically, his forehead pressed to yours now, his voice softening. “Just let me take care of you. Be my sugar baby. Please?”

You can’t stop laughing, cheeks warm, and he sighs again, even more dramatic this time, collapsing fully against you once more.

“Fine,” he mumbles into your neck, pretending to sulk. “But one day, you’re gonna cave. And when you do, I’m buying you a quokka-themed private jet.”

You burst out laughing again, and he grins against your skin, kissing your neck softly, mumbling one last thing before finally relaxing into sleep:

“Love you, baby. Even if you’re a terrible sugar baby.”