⟶ ꉂ in which you find out even the sweetest boys have their limits ⸝⸝⸝
⤷ jeongin x reader 2.4k soft!bf big dick!innie blowjob
─ [ ✉︎ ] don't mind me while i figure out a format that i like for posting fics now lol. this has been something that i put to the side because i was going to make a full length fic about it, but decided to just leave it as is. hope y'all like hehe ⸝⸝⸝
You’re not supposed to be this comfortable yet.
That’s the thought that surfaces as you settle deeper into the corner of Jeongin’s couch, legs tucked beneath you, the fabric soft and worn against your bare calves. The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of a playlist he put on earlier. His place smells like clean laundry and lemongrass, or the tea he offered you when you first arrived and that you both forgot to drink.
Three months. That’s how long you’ve been doing this—dating, though he still seems surprised you say yes every time he asks to see you. Three months of dinner dates where he insists on paying, of walks through the park where his hand finds yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world, of kissing goodnight at your door with the kind of restraint that makes your teeth ache.
Restraint. That’s the word for Jeongin. Like he’s holding something back, and you’ve spent every single day trying to figure out what.
He’s sitting beside you now, close enough that his thigh presses against your knee, and he’s laughing at something—a story you were telling about your coworker and the copier, you think, though you’ve lost the thread entirely because his dimples are doing that thing. The deep, devastating creases in his cheeks that appear, especially when he’s genuinely amused. They make him look like he should be on a billboard for something wholesome. Milk, maybe. Or adoption.
He finally realizes you’ve been staring at him and his cheeks flush. Actually flush, a bloom of pink across the bridge of his nose that spreads to his ears. “Babe,” he whines, covering his face.
This isn’t the first time he’s caught you doing it. “What? Why can’t I just look at you?”
“Because.” He ducks his head, and when he looks up at you through his lashes, there’s something flickering beneath the shyness. Something hungry. “It makes me want to do things.”
The air in the room shifts. Your pulse ticks up a notch, a small, insistent thrum at the base of your throat. “What kind of things?”
He doesn’t answer with words. Jeongin leans in deliberately then. His lips brush yours, soft at first, questioning. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, fingers cool against the heated skin of your neck, and he tilts your head just slightly, just enough to change the angle, and—
Oh.
The second kiss isn’t soft.
His mouth opens against yours, tongue sweeping across the seam of your lips, and when you gasp, he swallows the sound. His other hand finds your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, pulling you closer or anchoring himself—you can’t tell which. The playlist fades into static. The room narrows to the press of his body, the heat of his mouth, the quiet, desperate sound he makes when your fingers slide into his hair and tug.
His hands move. One still cradles your jaw like you’re, the other slides from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you against the solid wall of his chest. He’s warm through his t-shirt, and beneath the fabric, you can feel the tension in his muscles, the way he’s holding himself in check.
Still holding back.
You break the kiss. His lips chase yours for a half-second before he catches himself, and the dazed look in his eyes—glassy, unfocused—sends a bolt of heat straight to your core. “Jeongin.”
“Yeah?” His voice is wrecked.
“I want to—” You pause. Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your temples. “Can I—”
He waits. Patient. Those soft eyes searching your face, and God, the trust in them. The absolute certainty that you’re not going to hurt him, and you want to live up to that. You want to deserve it.
You slide off the couch. Your knees hit the rug and you settle between his legs. Jeongin stares down at you, lips parted, breath coming faster now.
“Oh,” he says, almost a whisper.
“Is this okay?”
“Yeah. Yes. Very—yes.” He swallows hard. “Just…are you sure?”
“I’ve been thinking about this.”
The confession lands. His eyes darken, pupils swallowing the brown of his irises, and his hands curl into loose fists on his thighs like he’s physically restraining himself from grabbing you. “You should’ve said something.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
You reach for the button of his jeans. It’s a simple motion. Thumb, forefinger, the slight resistance of denim, the soft click of metal slipping through fabric. But Jeongin’s whole body goes taut above you. His stomach tenses beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. His hips shift, an involuntary little movement that makes you smile.
You drag the zipper down.
“Lift up,” you murmur, and he obeys immediately, raising his hips just enough for you to work the jeans down his thighs. Boxers beneath—plain black cotton, nothing fancy, and you’re absurdly charmed by that. Of course he’s practical and modest even down to his choice in undergarments.
You’re still smiling when you hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pull.
The smile dies on your face.
For a long, stretched-out moment, you forget how to breathe.
Jeongin’s cock springs free, already half-hard, already impressive, and your brain—the part that’s supposed to form coherent thoughts—just stops. It’s not just big. Big is a word for things that are slightly above average, for the difference between medium and large at a coffee shop. This is the kind of size that makes your jaw ache in sympathetic anticipation, that makes you recalculate angles and depths and the structural limits of the human throat.
It’s also pretty. Ridiculously, almost offensively pretty.
The shaft is a pale, blushing pink—smooth and unblemished, rising from a neatly trimmed thatch of dark hair. The head is flushed a deeper rose, glistening slightly at the tip. His balls are drawn up tight beneath, smooth and symmetrical, and the whole picture is so aesthetically pleasing that you have the absurd urge to take a photograph.
“Y/N,” he says, and his voice is small. Almost shy. “Is it…?”
“Jeongin.”
“Yeah?”
“You know you’re huge, right?”
His cheeks go crimson. The color spreads down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt, and he rubs the back of his neck with one hand in that nervous gesture you’ve come to recognize. “I mean. Yeah. I’ve, uh. I’ve been told.”
“By who?”
“Other partners.” He says it like an apology. “A few of them. They, you know…mentioned it.”
“Mentioned it.” You’re still staring. You can’t stop staring. “They just mentioned that you’re carrying around lethal weaponry in your pants?”
A surprised laugh escapes him, and his cock bobs with the movement. “It’s not lethal.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
You finally touch him. Your fingers close around the shaft—or try to. They don’t meet. Your thumb and middle finger circle him, and there’s still a gap, a visible space where your fingertips should touch but don’t. The skin is velvet-soft and furnace-hot, and his pulse beats against your palm, rapid and unsteady.
Jeongin makes a sound. It’s barely audible, a punched-out exhale that he tries to swallow, but it escapes anyway. His hips twitch. His hands, still fisted on his thighs, tighten until his knuckles go white.
“You can—” He clears his throat. “You can tell me if it’s too much. We don’t have to—”
“Innie.”
“Yeah?”
“I want this.” You look up at him, and you let him see it—the hunger, the want, the sheer overwhelming desire that’s been building and is now threatening to consume you whole. “I want you. All of you. Okay?”
He gulps. The shyness is still there, the modesty, but beneath it is something raw and desperate and achingly sincere. “Okay.”
You lower your mouth to him. The first touch is just lips—a soft kiss pressed to the flushed head, tasting salt and skin and musk. Jeongin’s whole body shudders, a full-body tremor that makes the couch creak beneath him.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
“Good?”
“Yeah. Yes. Yes.”
You lick a slow stripe up the underside from base to tip. His skin is impossibly smooth, heated silk against your tongue, and when you reach the crown, you circle the ridge with the tip of your tongue. The bead of moisture gathered there spreads across your taste buds—bitter, salty, him.
His hand comes up. His fingers thread into your hair. Gentle. So gentle it makes your chest ache. He doesn’t push or pull or guide—just rests his hand there, thumb stroking the shell of your ear.
You open your mouth wider. The head of his cock slides past your lips, and your jaw immediately protests. The stretch is significant, more significant than you anticipated. Despite your visual assessment, you have to consciously relax your throat, breathe through your nose, and take him slowly. Inch by inch.
“God.” The word comes out strangled. “Your mouth is so—”
You take more. Your tongue flattens against the underside, tracing the thick vein that runs along the shaft. He’s heavy on your tongue, solid and hot, and the weight of him is grounding in a way you didn’t expect. Your hand wraps around the base where your mouth can’t reach, and you start a slow rhythm—mouth and hand moving together, learning the shape of him.
Jeongin makes another sound. Higher this time. Almost a whimper. “You feel incredible,” he breathes. “So good. So—ah—”
You hollow your cheeks and pull back, letting him slip almost free before sinking down again, deeper this time. Your eyes water, your throat constricts, and you fight the gag reflex, breathing through it, relaxing into it.
You hum around him. The vibration makes his hips jerk. A real, uncontrolled thrust that drives him fractionally deeper, and he gasps out an apology immediately. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
You pull off him with a wet pop. “Baby.”
“Yeah?”
“Stop apologizing.”
His mouth opens. Closes. His dimples are gone—swallowed by the tension in his jaw—and his eyes are so dark now, nearly black, fixed on your lips with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.
“I want you to enjoy this,” you say, stroking him slowly with your hand. The glide is slick now, your saliva coating him, and the friction makes him groan. “I want you to tell me what feels good. Can you do that?”
He nods. “I can do that.”
“Good.” You lower your mouth again. “Then let me hear you.”
This time when you take him in, he doesn’t hold back.
A broken moan spills from his lips as you sink down, taking more than before, challenging your own limits. His hand in your hair tightens. You set a pace—slow, deep, deliberate—and his sounds pour out unfiltered.
“Yes, like that, oh—your tongue, the way you’re—”
His hips rise to meet you, a shallow thrust that he can’t seem to suppress. His other hand grabs the couch cushion, knuckles straining.
“Pretty,” you gasp, pulling back to catch your breath. “You’re so—God, Jeongin, your cock is gorgeous.”
His face flushes impossibly darker.
You press a kiss to the tip. Then another. Then you trace the ridge with your tongue, feather-light, just to hear the noise he makes. “Prettiest dick I’ve ever seen. Did you know that? Did your other partners tell you that?”
“I—some of them, maybe, I don’t—”
“They should have.”
You take him deep again. Your throat protests, but you push through, relaxing the muscles, letting your jaw go slack. Tears spill from the corners of your eyes, streaking down your cheeks, and you don’t bother wiping them away.
Jeongin’s head falls back against the couch. His throat is a long, elegant line, his pulse visibly hammering in the hollow, and the sounds coming out of him now are constant—a stream of broken syllables and half-formed words that dissolve into moans.
“So deep—fuck, you’re taking me so—how are you—that’s—”
His hips buck. You gag, a genuine, throat-deep gag that makes him try to pull back, but you grip his thigh with your free hand and hold steady. You want this. You want the ache, the fullness, the way your body has to work to accommodate him.
“Baby,” he gasps out, ragged and desperate. “Sweetheart, I’m—if you keep doing that, I’m going to—”
You double down. Your hand works the base of his shaft in time with your mouth, twisting slightly on the upstroke the way you’ve learned men like. Your tongue flattens against the underside and your cheeks hollow. Every technique you possess is suddenly focused on this one goal: making Yang Jeongin lose his goddamn mind.
It’s working.
“Close,” he gasps. “I’m—I’m so close, you need to—if you don’t want—”
You don’t stop. You look up at him through wet lashes and let him see, let him read the answer in your eyes.
He groans. “Yeah? You want my cum?”
You hum affirmative. The vibration makes him curse—a sharp, breathless expletive that you’ve never heard from his sweet mouth before.
“Okay. Okay. I’m—I’m going to—fuck, I’m—”
His thighs tense beneath your palm. His stomach muscles go rigid, visible through his shirt. His cock pulses against your tongue, and then he’s coming with a hoarse cry that sounds like your name, broken in half, shattered on the way out.
“Y/N—fuck! Oh my God, baby. Holy fuck—”
Hot. Bitter. A flood of salt across your taste buds. You swallow reflexively, over and over, as his hips jerk and his fingers clench in your hair and he says your name again—quieter this time.
When the pulses finally stop, you release him gently, soft cock resting on his heaving abdomen. His breathing is heavy and his eyes are closed. So pretty.
You rest your cheek against his thigh and wait.
“Come here.” His voice is wrecked. “Please. Come up here.”
You climb back onto the couch. Your knees ache—you’ll feel that tomorrow—but right now all you can focus on is the way Jeongin reaches for you, pulls you into his lap and kisses you.
It’s a different kiss than before. Messier. He can probably taste himself on your tongue, and the thought makes heat pool low in your belly.
“That was—” He breaks the kiss, presses his forehead to yours. His eyes are still glassy, but now there’s wonder. Or awe. “You’re incredible. Do you know that? Absolutely incredible.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
His dimples reappear. Faint, but there. “Give me a minute. A few minutes. And then—”
“And then?”
He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is so tender it makes your breath catch. “And then I want to return the favor.” His hand slides down. It settles on your thigh and squeezes. “I’ve been thinking about this too,” he says quietly. “All the things I wanted to do to you.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
♤Master List ~ Day Eight: Mingi & Jongho {Threesome} ~ Day Ten: Wooyoung {Predator/Prey}
You stood in your tent and stared at the cot that served as your place of rest. Your bed was your enemy now. If you dared to place your head, you would get captured in a dream that would slowly attempt to kill you. The worst thing about it was… it wasn’t even the creation of a black-magic user. It was a trap of your own making.
“I thought I saw your light still on,” Hongjoong strolled into your tent like he belonged here. He did. You swear at this point in the war, he had spent more time in your tent than in his own, and he had captain things to do.
You sent a tiny bitter smile of greeting his way. “Hey.”
Hongjoong’s hands found your shoulders, and his thumbs began to dig into the knots of stress there. “Is it going to be one of those nights again?”
Hongjoong was aware of your current situation. You had fed him a lie that while being in the war, the closer the threat to your life, the darker your dreams were. Hongjoong thought it was your proximity to him that made you a target for The Reaper. You knew better; the more time you spent with your captain, the more your love for him--and the fear of losing him--attempted to kill you. Because you knew that if Hongjoong died, your heart would go with him.
You nodded, turning your head and rubbing your cheek against the back of Hongjoong’s fingers. “I’m afraid so.”
“Good thing I’m here then, huh?” Hongjoong put on a broad smile. There was nothing that could get this man down. He was always trying to spread positivity amongst his troops.
Your lover pushed a tender kiss to your temple and turned you around to face him. “Shall we, Captain?”
And like that, as if Hongjoong had hypnotized you and snapped his fingers, you were the one in charge. “Shouldn't you be on your knees, Lieutenant?” You crooned.
Hongjoong dropped without any preamble. His eyes stared up at you like you hung the stars in the sky just for him. “What do you need from me, Captain?"
“Compliant and wet,” You purred.
Hongjoong whined. “But we haven’t even started yet?”
You cocked your head, appearing curious, but your face was deadly. “You mean the minute you went to your knees, you didn’t get a small wet spot on your underwear?” You clucked your tongue in disappointment. “I expect better of you, Hongjoong.”
Hongjoong shuffled forward eagerly. “I can be better,” he whispered in excitement.
“Can you?” You cupped Hongjoong’s face, if only to rub the pad of your thumb over his generous lower lip.
The captain’s expression became a bit vacant. Hongjoong’s oral fixation was horrible. He began to open his lips to take in your thumb when you removed your hold on him altogether. Hongjoong stumbled, having to right himself after leaning into your touch.
You take a seat on your cot, crossing your legs and leaning back on your palms. You raised an eyebrow at him. “Well? I’m waiting, Lieutenant, and my patience is wearing thin. Should I--”
Before you could even finish your sentence, Hongjoong was unbuckling his pants and playing with the head of his cock through his underwear. It truly wasn’t long before a wet spot spread across them. Hongjoong looked up at you hopefully. “Is that better?”
You placed the ball of your booted foot against Hongjoong’s chest and pushed. “Do you really think you can play without yourself and make this all better?” You shook your head. “I really do have to do all the work around here, don’t I? Just a pretty head and nothing between those ears, huh?”
Hongjoong’s face heated up with embarrassment. “I can--”
Your hand snapped out and captured Hongjoong’s face in a fierce grip. “No, you can’t, Hongjoong. That’s the point. You can’t even use your cock properly, can you?” You push Hongjoong back, releasing his jaw and he fell to the ground. You placed your foot barely over his cock, only clothed in his underwear. “You need me to fuck you to make you even form sentences. It’s quite sad, actually.”
Hongjoong moaned loudly, and his eyes widened in fear. He had to be quiet. In fact, there was a rule of punishment if Hongjoong was too loud in your tent.
You sighed heavily and lifted your foot off of him. “See? Oh, Lieutenant."
Hongjoong pouted but moved towards the locked chest at the foot of your cot. He whispered the greek word for secret, and it opened a bottom drawer that hadn't been there before. He reached for a cock ring and then moved towards the cot.
It was there he assumed his position: face down, ass up. He pulled his pants down, along with his underwear, and placed the cock ring around himself with a hiss. He was about to get a whole lot of fucking with zero orgasm. Well, he had only enacted one punishment, so he’d have only one withheld orgasm.
You removed your shift completely, reaching down into the same drawer and pulling out the double-sided strap-on that had been specially crafted for your specific purpose; it would pull your own wetness from your cunt and push out of the hole at the tip. One side slipped up into your cunt, pressing against your clit, while it snuggly fit on your body so that the cock part aimed perfectly as if you had a cock yourself. You whispered Agua and all the wetness you had acquired from degrading Hongjoong began to bead out of the cockhead.
You used the wetness to coat your finger and began to open Hongjoong’s puckered hole up. You swore, the captain enjoyed the work up part more than the act itself because Hongjoong was always the noisiest as you scissored him.
One hand on Hongjoong’s hip, and other two fingers deep in him, you sighed. “Am I going to have to gag you, Hongjoong?”
“No no no,” Hongjoong mindlessly disagreed with you. “I can be quiet.”
“Prove it then,” You snapped.
You removed your fingers from Hongjoong, and he whined like you had just taken his favorite toy away from him. You clucked your tongue in disappointment once again. “That’s a second orgasm lost, Lieutenant. Your punishments are stacking up.”
“Please!” Hongjoong could only plead for the one thing that would make him feel better and that was the dark blue cock that was nestled between your legs right now.
“At least you remembered the magic word,” you muttered.
You maneuvered the cock to Hongjoong’s puckered hole and slowly pushed into him. Hongjoong whimpered quietly as you gave him exactly what he wanted. You rocked your hips slightly, fighting for every inch. One look down at HOngjoong showed him drooling and vacant-eyed once again. It was obvious he did enjoy the work towards the goal the most.
Once you were fully sheathed inside of him, you rubbed Hongjoong’s ass tenderly. “Are you ready, Joongie?”
“Mmm,” Hongjoong was nonverbal now.
Taking some pity on him, you started to move in and out of his now-stretched hole. Hongjoong moaned at the movement. You leaned over Hongjoong’s back and slowly stroked him. Hongjoong let out a squeak at the added stimulation. You weren’t eager to pick up speed either way. It’s not like Hongjoong was coming anytime soon.
“Isn’t this exactly where you belong? In my bed, under me, escaping sleep?” You murmured against his clothed back.
“ ‘s good,” Hongjoong managed to slur, clearly not hearing anything but wanting to be good.
“So good, huh, Joongie?” You cooed at your lover. “Feels good to have my cock deep inside of you, doesn’t it?”
Hongjoong swallowed loudly. “More,” he whined.
“No, Joongie. We have all night. You’ll get what I give you,” You replied.
“More,” Hongjoong pleaded. He raised his ass to meet one of your slow thrusts inside of him. His ass jolted a bit with the harsher slap of your pelvis against his ass, and he groaned happily.
You deliberately raised your body and then pulled nearly out of him entirely. Only the cockhead of the double sided strap-on remained inside of him. Hongjoong made noises of worry. He knew when something was about to be taken away from him.
“Who's in charge?” You growled.
“You! Youuuuuu!” Hongjoong strained backward regardless. The shape of his ass was so very nice.
“Am I? then why are you attempting to change the pace to what you want, Hongjoong?” You sneered.
“ ‘m not, I'm not, it’s you, you’re the captain. I’m dumb, I’m just a dumb useless cock,” Hongjoong wailed.
“That’s right,” You agreed.
So the pattern continued, as you slowly fucked Hongjoong with your double sided strap-on. You were edging yourself as well, but you were attempting to tire yourself out until the point where you had no dreams and beat Hongjoong’s insomnia while you were at it. Hongjoong begged for more, or took it where he could, and you denied denied denied.
It wasn’t until a teary-eyed Hongjoong, with a trembling lower lip, finally had his cock ring removed, that you fucked him on his back, legs up in the air. He was able to spurt over his stomach as your own orgasm ripped through you. You both made desperate noises as you came.
Hongjoong looked perfect under you, covered in all manner of bodily fluids, eyes closed, his little kitty-cat smile curling up the corners of his lips. He was content like this, and this is how you preferred him.
“Did you come, Joongie?” You asked your rhetorical question.
“You made me come so fucking hard,” Hongjoong groaned, slowly but surely coming back to his true self.
You chuckled, pulling out of him and pulling the toy out of you. You cleaned it up thoroughly with a Dutch word and then tossed your tired body beside your captain.
“Happy slumber,” you murmured to your lover.
“Happy dreamless sleep,” he murmured back.
Master List ~ Day Eight: Mingi & Jongho {Threesome} ~ Day Ten: Wooyoung {Predator/Prey}
[ ▸ ] — honeycrumb bakery has everything you need for a perfect summer: fresh pastries, strong coffee, and one ridiculously blonde, flirty baker. but at this point, your biggest workplace hazard isn't the ovens. it's your best friend, felix.
[ ☰ ] — event masterlist - schedule
[ ✐ ] — 6k
[ ⌗ ] — baker!felix x baker!reader best friends to lovers idiots in love felix is a little a sweetie pie ofc miscommunications classic binniebb banter graphic & detailed smut spanking hehe oral ( f receiving )
[ ✉︎ ] — g'day mate! we're traveling to australia for this one <3 airplane is the song that comes to mind for this fic, so pls give it a listen teehee. this event has been so amazing so far, and i would just like to thank all of you for supporting me and joy! as always, enjoy hunnies! and if you do, please like, comment, and reblog. makes me so happy to see your guys' thoughts and feedback! <3
By three-fifteen in the morning, Felix has already eaten half of a passionfruit cruffin that is supposed to go into the display case.
You catch him standing near the cooling rack with the pastry cupped in one hand and a guilty amount of sugar on the front of his black work shirt. He pauses when he sees you looking, then glances down at what remains as if he has only just noticed it there.
“That’s for the morning rush.”
Felix chews slowly before wiping his thumb against the side of his apron. “It cracked when I moved it.”
“You broke it.”
He takes another bite before you can rescue it, which is enough of an answer. You shake your head and go back to weighing flour while he leans against the bench, finishing the evidence and drinking from the coffee he brought in with him.
Honeycrumb Bakery sits on a busy corner in Newtown, between a florist and a vintage shop that changes its window display every other week. The front is narrow and bright, with pale yellow walls, small tables by the windows, and a glass display case that fills quickly each morning with croissants, cinnamon knots, fruit danishes, sausage rolls, and thick slices of sourdough.
The kitchen is practical and cramped. Two ovens take up most of one wall, the walk-in fridge sticks if it is pulled too gently, and the cooling rack nearest the sink has one bad wheel that makes it lean. Flour settles into the grout no matter how thoroughly the floor gets swept. By the end of every shift, the steel benches that were streaked with butter, sugar, and fingerprints all morning shine pristinely.
You prefer the kitchen before anyone else arrives.
At three in the morning, it’s only you and Felix, the low volume of whatever playlist he has chosen, and the work that needs to be finished before the front doors open.
You’ve been on the opening bake together for almost two years. In the beginning, Felix was the new baker who asked too many questions and apologized every time he stood in your way. Now he knows the entire prep list by memory and can tell from the way you move whether you’re tired, irritated, or simply not in the mood to talk.
This morning, he arrived wearing a black cap over his shoulder-length blond hair and carrying two takeaway cups. He placed yours beside the scale before taking off his jacket and tying his apron.
“I added an extra shot,” he said while working the knot behind his back. “You looked exhausted yesterday.”
“I was exhausted yesterday.”
“You look exhausted today too.”
You took the lid off the coffee and let the heat warm your face for a second. “That’s because it’s three in the morning, hun.”
Felix smiled as he pulled the croissant dough from the walk-in. “I thought you were going to say it’s because you have to work with me.”
You take a sip and nod. “That too.”
He carried the dough to the bench and set it down beside you. “Hush. You’d miss me.”
Unfortunately, he’s right.
You started liking Felix sometime between the early shifts, post-work brunch, and evenings when one of you would texts the other for no reason beyond having something small to say.
It didn’t happen in one dramatic moment. There was no sudden realization while he stood in perfect light or did something impossibly romantic.
It was quieter than that.
He remembers how you take your coffee and brings it without asking. He puts aside the crispest corners of the focaccia because he knows you like them. When you come in silent after a bad night, he lowers the music and works beside you without trying to force a conversation. He asks if you’re okay later, usually when you’re sitting across from him at brunch and have enough caffeine in your system to form a proper answer.
He’s attractive too, which doesn’t help.
Even half-awake, he looks great. His face is softer in the early hours, freckles visible beneath the kitchen lights, hair always escaping whatever hat or headband he has used to hold it back. By four, he usually has his sleeves pushed to his elbows and flour dusted across his hands.
You notice more than you should.
You notice the muscles in his forearms when he lifts full trays from the oven. You notice the concentration on his face when he scores loaves, and the way his mouth presses into a thin line whenever he measures something carefully. You notice how low his voice gets when he is tired.
Most of all, you notice how often he touches you.
Felix is naturally affectionate. Everyone knows that.
He hugs the front-end girls when they are upset and rests his head on their shoulders if he’s tired. He touches arms when he talks and leans into people he trusts.
With you, it happens constantly.
His hand settles at your waist when he passes behind you in the narrow kitchen. His fingers close around your wrist to pull you out of the way of an open oven. He stands beside you while you decorate pastries and rests his chin on your shoulder, even though he can see perfectly well from a few inches away.
You tell yourself it means nothing. Then he brushes flour from your cheek with his thumb and looks at you long enough to make that explanation feel weak.
By four-thirty, the sourdough is in the ovens and the first trays of danishes are ready to be baked. Felix works across from you, folding the edges of pastry around sliced pears while you pipe custard into the centres.
“You’re putting too much in those,” he says.
You don’t look up. “I’m putting in the correct amount.”
“The correct amount doesn’t spill onto the tray, love.”
“That happened once.”
“It happened last Thursday.”
“That’s why—once.”
Felix glances over at the row in front of you before moving around the bench. He stops at your side and rests one hand near yours, bending closer to inspect the danishes.
“This one’s already leaning.”
“It’ll settle in the oven, Lix.”
“It’s going to collapse.”
“You said that about the passionfruit cruffin and then ate it.”
“That was different,” he says. “I was hungry.”
You look at him then. He is close enough that the brim of his cap almost brushes your forehead.
Felix’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth. The look lasts a second before he reaches past you for the tray.
“I’ll put them in,” he says, his voice quieter than it was.
You step aside and try not to think about it.
That is how things have been between you for months—almosts. Almost holding hands. Almost kissing. Almost saying something that would force both of you to stop pretending. Then one of you makes a joke, or the oven timer sounds, or somebody else walks into the room. The moment passes, and you both return to something safer.
At six-thirty, the front-end staff starts arriving.
Sarah comes in first most mornings, tying her apron while checking the orders that were placed overnight. Mia follows with an iced coffee and a headache. Priya always wears her hair neatly pinned and somehow looks fully awake before sunrise. Zoe arrives last, often carrying a story about a delayed bus or a neighbour who kept her awake.
They move between the counter and the coffee machine while you and Felix load the display case. By seven, the front doors open. Within minutes, the bell above the entrance rings repeatedly and the espresso machine runs without a break.
The morning rush comes in waves. Office workers stop on their way to the station. Parents arrive with children who press their hands against the glass. Regulars come in knowing exactly what they want and still take five minutes to order.
You and Felix keep moving.
When Sarah calls back for more almond croissants, Felix carries out the tray while you start another batch. When the oven timer sounds while your hands are covered in dough, he reaches around you to switch it off. At eight, he hands you half a ham-and-cheese croissant because you haven’t eaten.
“I’m working,” you tell him, though you take it.
“You can do both.”
“I’m holding a piping bag.”
He takes the bag from your hand and holds it upright while you eat. “Now you’re not.”
You stare at him while chewing.
Felix smiles. “You’re welcome.”
It would be easier if he behaved like that only in the bakery, but he really doesn’t.
Somewhere along the way, spending time together after shifts becomes routine. You go for brunch at the same cafe every Friday, usually still wearing the clothes you worked in and smelling of sugar and butter. Felix always orders something sweet and then asks for a bite of whatever you choose. If you tell him no, he waits until you look away and steals it anyway.
Brunch often turns into walking around Newtown because neither of you wants to go home yet.
You visit bookstores and markets, and other bakeries under the excuse of research. Felix buys two pastries and insists that you split both so you can compare them properly. He takes pictures of the layers in croissants and makes notes in his phone, but most of the notes are useless by the time you read them.
Good texture. Nice butter. Maybe orange? Woman at table behind us coughing loudly.
“You’re terrible at research,” you tell him.
“I remember what I mean.”
“You wrote ‘meh custard’ and nothing else.”
“It was meh!”
On weekends, he finds reasons to invite you places that have nothing to do with work: The Royal Botanic Garden because the weather is nice. A night market because he saw a video about a dumpling stall. A late film because the session is cheaper and neither of you has to work the next morning.
You take the ferry across the harbour one afternoon and spend the ride standing by the rail. The wind pulls Felix’s hair loose from the tie at his neck, and after watching him fail to fix it for several minutes, you take the elastic from his fingers.
“Turn around.”
“I can do it.”
“You’ve made it worse.”
Felix sighs, but bends slightly so you can gather his hair. You tie it neatly and let your fingers linger at the back of his neck for longer than necessary.
“There,” you say.
Felix turns toward you and looks at you for a moment, eyes narrowed slightly against the wind. “Thanks, love.”
You nod.
Neither of you steps away until another passenger moves past.
At the gardens, he reaches for your hand while guiding you through a crowded path. His fingers lace with yours and stay there long after there is room to walk separately.
You don’t ask why and he doesn’t let go.
There are other moments that feel equally difficult to explain.
Felix brought you flowers one afternoon, claiming the florist next door gave them to him because she had too many. The florist looked completely confused when you thanked her the next morning.
He kissed your forehead outside your apartment after walking you home from dinner. You had called him mate because panic removed every other word from your vocabulary. He stared at you for a second, laughed softly, and waited until you were inside before leaving.
During movie nights, you sit with your legs over his lap. If you fall asleep, you wake with his arm around your waist and a blanket pulled over you. He never wakes you just to go home.
Your mother starts calling him “your Felix.” You corrected her once, but she continued anyway.
The girls at Honeycrumb stop asking whether you have plans after work because the answer almost always involves him. If your shift ends later than his, Felix waits near the back door with his phone in his hand until you finish.
You begin to wonder whether you’re both waiting for the other person to say it first.
Then, on an ordinary Thursday morning, you hear him tell Sarah he is seeing someone.
You’d gone into the storeroom for pistachios. The door stays partly open behind you because the hinge has swollen during the recent heat and no longer shuts properly.
Sarah and Felix are standing near the prep bench, their voices carrying easily through the kitchen.
“You should come out Saturday,” Sarah says. “Mia’s friend is coming too.”
Felix makes a quiet sound that is not quite an answer.
“The brunette from her birthday,” Sarah continues. “She asked about you.”
You stop reaching for the container on the top shelf.
Felix laughs, but there’s discomfort in it. “She was nice, but I’m not interested.”
“You barely spoke to her.”
“I know.”
“That’s usually how meeting people works, Lix.”
There is a pause before Felix answers. “I’m seeing someone.”
Your hand tightens around the edge of the shelf.
Sarah sounds surprised. “Since when?”
“A little while.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Who is she?”
Felix laughs again, softer this time. “I’m not telling you in the middle of work.”
You take the pistachios down and hold the container against your chest. The conversation continues, but you don’t hear much after that.
He’s seeing someone. And it’s been a little while, whatever that means.
You think about the dinners, the flowers, the walks, and the way he held your hand through the gardens. You think about the kiss on your forehead and his arm around you during movies.
Your face gets hot with embarrassment. None of it meant what you thought. Worse, Felix has been acting that way while he is with somebody else.
You stay in the storeroom until Sarah leaves the kitchen, then return to the bench with the pistachios tucked under one arm.
Felix looks up immediately. “You all right?”
“Fine.”
He watches you set the container down. “You were in there for ages.”
“Couldn’t find them.”
“They’re always on the top shelf.”
You open the lid and start measuring without looking at him. “Found them eventually.”
Felix stays beside you for a moment, but the front calls for more cinnamon knots before he can ask anything else.
For the rest of the shift, you keep your distance.
You don’t mean to make it obvious. You only stop doing the things that felt natural before. When Felix reaches for your waist while moving behind you, you step forward before he touches you. When he asks about breakfast, you say you have something to do at home. When he texts that afternoon asking if you want to watch a film, you tell him you’re tired.
He sends back a simple, Okay. Sleep well, love.
You stare at it for ten minutes.
The next morning, he still brings your coffee. He places it beside you without saying anything, then looks down at your hands while you tie your apron. “Did I do something?”
You keep your focus on the knot. “No.”
“You’ve barely spoken to me.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re always tired.”
That almost makes you smile, but you stop yourself. “Then I’m more tired than usual.”
Felix nods slowly, though he doesn’t look convinced.
The change between you lasts for four days. Four mornings of careful distance. Four mornings of him watching you every time you move away.
You hate it. The kitchen feels smaller when you’re trying not to stand near him, and every task takes more concentration because you are aware of exactly where he is.
Felix doesn’t push at first. He asks once each morning if you want to hang out after and accepts your refusal. He texts less, probably because your replies have become short enough to discourage him. He stops touching you without thinking, and the absence of it hurts more than it should.
By Monday, neither of you can continue pretending.
The shift has ended. The front has quieted after the morning rush, and the girls are cleaning tables while you fold your apron near the lockers.
Felix waits by the back door.
He has changed out of his work shirt, but there is still flour caught near one elbow. His hair is loose around his shoulders, slightly tangled from being tied back all morning.
“We need to talk.”
You keep folding the apron even though it is already folded. “About what?”
“Whatever’s been happening all week.”
“Nothing’s been happening.”
Felix takes a slow breath and looks toward the kitchen before turning back to you. “You’ve barely looked at me. You won’t have brunch with me, you’ve stopped answering my messages, and every time I come near you at work, you move.”
You put the apron into your bag and pull the zip closed. “Maybe you shouldn’t be coming near me.”
His eyebrows draw together. “What does that mean?”
“It means you shouldn’t be flirting with me.”
“I’m flirting with you?”
The confusion in his voice irritates you more than it should. “You know you are.”
“No, I don’t.” Felix steps closer, though he stops well before touching you. “I don’t know anything right now because you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”
You look toward the doorway to make sure no one is near enough to hear. “I heard you talking to Sarah.”
He stares blankly at you. You wait for guilt or embarrassment to appear. Instead, the confusion deepens. “I am.”
The answer makes your stomach tighten. “Right,” you say. “So maybe stop acting like this with me.”
“Like what?”
“Taking me out. Holding my hand. Bringing me flowers. Kissing me.”
Felix’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first.
You keep going because now that you have started, everything you have held in all week pushes forward. “I don’t know who your girlfriend is, and I don’t care, but I’m not going to be the person you flirt with on the side because you like the attention. I thought you were better than that, Felix.”
Felix blinks several times before looking around the room as though someone else might explain what you just said. “What girlfriend?”
“The person you’re seeing.”
He stares at you for another second. “I’m seeing you.”
You stop. Felix’s face is completely serious.
“What?”
“I was talking about you.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Yes, I was.”
“We’re not seeing each other.”
Felix looks genuinely shocked and slightly hurt. “We’re not?”
The question is so sincere that you almost laugh, but the situation is too strange for the sound to come out properly. “No, Felix. We’re not.”
He rubs one hand over his mouth, then looks down at the floor. “I thought we were.”
“How?”
“We go out all the time.”
“We’re friends.”
“I hold your hand.”
“Friends can hold hands.”
“I brought you flowers.”
“You said they were free.”
Felix closes his eyes briefly. “They weren’t free.”
“I know that now.”
“You knew?”
“I thanked the florist.”
He winces. “Right.”
You cross your arms and wait.
Felix looks up again, his cheeks beginning to colour. “We have brunch and dinner together all the time. You come to my place. I go to yours. You fall asleep on me during movies. I kissed you outside your apartment.”
“You kissed my forehead.”
“I was trying to be respectful.”
“You called it friendly.”
“I didn’t call it anything. You called me mate and walked inside.”
Your mouth opens, then closes.
Felix runs a hand through his hair and gives a quiet, embarrassed laugh. “I just thought you were nervous.”
“I was nervous.”
“Then why are we arguing?”
“Because you never asked me out.”
“I asked you out constantly.”
“You asked if I wanted to hang out.”
“I asked you to dinner.”
“As a friend, Lix.”
“I pay.”
“You always offer to pay, though.”
“I bought flowers.”
“You lied about where they came from though.”
“I panicked.”
The frustration leaves you slowly, replaced by disbelief.
Felix watches your face carefully. “I genuinely thought we were dating,” he says. “Not officially, maybe, but I thought we both knew where it was going. I was going to ask you properly. I just didn’t think you believed I was seeing someone else.”
You stare at him for a long moment before you start laughing. You try to stop, but the entire week has been miserable, and the explanation is so stupid that there is nowhere else for the feeling to go.
Felix looks offended for half a second before laughing too, though his face stays red. “You thought I had a secret girlfriend?”
“You told Sarah you were seeing someone.”
“I was talking about you, love.”
“You could have said my name.”
“I didn’t know if you wanted me to say anything. Plus, you were hiding in the storeroom.”
“I wasn’t hiding.”
“You stayed in there for like ten minutes.”
“I was processing.”
Felix’s smile softens. “You do that a lot.”
The laughter fades, leaving the two of you standing close together near the back door.
You look at him properly for the first time in days. “You really thought I was your girlfriend?”
Felix nods. “I hoped you would be eventually. I suppose I skipped a step.”
“A fairly important one.”
“Yeah.”
He reaches for your hand slowly, giving you enough time to move away. You stay still, and his fingers close around yours.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have asked.”
“I’m sorry I kinda called you a cheater.”
“That part hurt a little.”
“You were acting suspicious.”
“But I bought you flowers.”
“Secretly.”
“I’m not good at this.”
“You really aren’t.”
His thumb moves across your knuckles. “Do you want me to ask now?”
You look down at your joined hands, then back at him. “I think you should.”
Felix smiles, smaller and more nervous than usual. “Will you go out with me?”
“We already go out.”
He laughs softly. “Please don’t make this harder.”
“Sorry.”
“As my girlfriend,” he clarifies. “Properly this time. With both of us aware.”
You let him wait for a few seconds because he deserves it. “Yes.”
Relief shows across his face before he leans in and kisses you. It’s not the forehead kiss from outside your apartment. And it’s definitely not cautious or easy to dismiss afterward.
You catch the front of his shirt and kiss him back, months of uncertainty making you less careful than you expect.
Felix makes a quiet sound against your mouth.
That sound changes the kiss. His other hand comes up to the back of your neck while he guides you against the wall beside the lockers. The concrete is cool through your shirt, but Felix is warm against you, and when his mouth moves from yours to your jaw, your fingers tighten in his hair.
“We’re still at work,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“Someone could come back here.”
“I know.”
His lips find the side of your neck.
You close your eyes. “Felix.”
He lifts his head, breathing harder now, and looks toward the open doorway.
Neither of you needs to discuss it. You grab your bag. Felix takes your hand, and the two of you leave through the back door before anyone can ask why you are both in such a hurry.
The walk to your apartment should take fifteen minutes. It takes longer because Felix keeps pulling you into quiet doorways to kiss you, then laughing against your mouth when you remind him that going home would be faster.
You barely make it through the front door before he kisses you again. His hands move over your waist and hips as you walk backwards through the apartment, neither of you willing to separate long enough to turn on more than one light. You catch the edge of the hallway table with your hip and laugh into his mouth.
Felix steadies you, smiling as he kisses the corner of your lips.
“Still think I’m friendly?”
“You’re being very friendly right now.”
“I can stop.”
“You’d better not.”
You pull him toward the bedroom by the front of his shirt. Felix follows without hesitation.
Your back hits the mattress with a soft whump, and Felix is already climbing over you, those calloused baker’s hands sliding up your thighs before helping you out of your work shirt.
“Can’t believe you,” you gasp against his mouth, hands working to take his own shirt off before you give up and just yank it off.
His laugh is breathless, sunshine-bright even now, even with his pupils blown wide and his lips kiss-swollen. “I thought you knew! I bring you coffee every morning. I walk you home every shift.” He ducks down, teeth grazing your jaw.
Your retort dies in your throat because his hands have shucked your pants off and found the edge of your panties, fingertips slipping beneath the elastic. The retort dies, and what comes out instead is a sound you’ve never made before—a throaty, desperate little whimper that makes Felix pause, pull back just enough to look at your face.
His expression shifts. The playfulness doesn’t disappear, but something else layers over it. Something hungrier.
His hands find your hips. “I’ve been wanting this for so long, babe. Do you know how hard it is to watch you bend over the display case every morning and not—”
“Oh my God.” Heat floods your cheeks.
“Yeah. Pure torture. Sarah asked me once why I was staring and I had to pretend I was counting inventory.”
You laugh, and it comes out breathier than you intended, because his fingers are still tracing that line just beneath your waistband, back and forth, back and forth, like he’s content to tease you until the sun comes up.
“Felix.”
“Mm?”
“If you don’t take these off right now, I’m going to—”
“Going to what?” That grin. That infuriating, gorgeous, sunshine-on-a-summer-morning grin.
You pull him down hard enough that your teeth click together before you find his mouth. He groans into the kiss, all pretense of teasing gone, and then his hand is moving, pulling your soaked panties down your thighs with a single, efficient motion.
“Lift,” he says against your mouth.
You lift your hips. They disappear somewhere. You don’t care where.
He leans back and it’s like a choir of angels starts singing. He’s lean, leaner than you expected under the loose bakery tees, with a narrow waist, tight abs, and a trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans. The bleached blonde of his shoulder-length hair catches the lamplight, and for a second he looks like something out of a dream. Your very patient, very stupid, very shirtless dream.
“What?” he asks with a small grin.
“Shut up and take your pants off.”
His laugh is the same one he uses at the bakery when you burn the first batch of sourdough or when Mrs. Henderson comes in and complains about the price of lamingtons.
His jeans hit the floor, boxers following. You unclasp your bra, and then there’s nothing between you but the few inches of air that suddenly feel like miles.
The lamplight catches him differently now. The lean muscle of his thighs. The jut of his hipbones. The girth and length of him.
Your mouth goes dry. “Felix.”
“Yeah baby?”
“You are really, really pretty.”
Something flickers across his face—pleasure, maybe, or relief, or some combination of both—and then he’s moving again, lowering himself down the length of your body. His shoulders part your thighs like it’s nothing, like he’s done this a hundred times before.
His breath is warm against the inside of your thigh. “I could’ve been doing this, and you’ve been thinking I was taken.”
“You were taken. By me, apparently.”
“I am taken by you.” His mouth brushes your skin. “Let me make it up to you.”
“You’re the one who thought we were dating. Shouldn’t I be making it up to—”
His tongue drags a slow line up the inside of your thigh and your sentence dissolves into static.
“Mm?” he says, and the vibration of it hums against your skin. “What was that?”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.” Another drag of his tongue, higher this time. Closer. “You definitely don’t.”
The words you were forming scatter like flour off a countertop.
His mouth finds you. There’s no preamble after that. He licks into you like he’s been thinking about it—and he has, he definitely has—and the sound you make is not a sound you’ve ever made before. A gasp that catches in the back of your throat and doesn’t quite make it out.
Your hand flies to his hair. The bleached strands slip between your fingers, softer than they have any right to be considering how often he’s bleaching them.
“God, Felix—”
He hums against you in response. Your hips buck. His arm comes up to press across your stomach, pinning you to the mattress.
“Stay,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak. His lips are slick. “Let me do this. I get to take my time.”
“This is torture.”
“Not for me.”
Then his mouth is back on you and his tongue is doing something that makes your vision blur at the edges and there’s no more conversation after that.
His finger slides inside you without warning—one, then two—and the stretch of it makes your back arch off the mattress. He curls them, finds that spot that makes your whole body jerk, and then he laughs against you. While his fingers are inside you.
“Right there?”
“Yes, right there, don’t you dare stop—”
He doesn’t stop. His mouth stays on you, tongue working a steady rhythm against your clit, and his fingers move with the kind of precision that makes you wonder if he’s done this often. Extensively. The thought should bother you but instead it just makes you wetter.
The pressure builds. Your thighs shake and threaten to close around his head. Your fingers twist harder in his hair and you hear him make a sound—half groan, half whimper—and that’s what does it. The knowledge that he’s getting off on this too. That your pleasure is doing something to him.
Your orgasm hits you like a wave at Bondi—sudden and overwhelming and you don’t have time to brace for it. Your back bows. Your mouth opens. A sound tears out of you that might be his name or might be a word or might just be noise.
He works you through it. His tongue slows, and his fingers stay inside you, working them gently, letting you pulse around them.
You’re still catching your breath when you grab his wrist. “Lix.”
He looks up at you over the plane of your stomach. Mouth wet. Chin wet. Hair a disaster where you’ve been pulling it. “Yeah?”
“I need you.”
“But I wasn’t done—”
“I don’t care.” You pull at his wrist until his fingers slide out of you, and the emptiness makes you clench around nothing. “I need you inside me. Right now.”
Something shifts in his expression. The sunshine dims, just slightly, replaced by something more intense. “You have a condom?”
“Top drawer.”
He reaches over you to pull open the drawer of your bedside table. The stretch of his body across yours is distracting—his chest hovering inches from your face, the smell of him (sourdough starter and cedarwood soap), the way his stomach tenses with the movement.
He finds the box and tears it open with his teeth. Hot.
“Let me,” you say, and take the foil packet from his hand before he can protest.
He settles back on his heels, watching you. His cock is—God. You’d caught a glimpse of it earlier and felt it against your thigh when he was climbing over you, but now seeing it up close is different. Makes your mouth water.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he says, but his voice is rougher now.
“Maybe next time.” You tear the packet open.
“Already want it again, huh?”
You laugh, but your hands are shaky, and geez, rolling a condom onto a big cock is significantly harder when said cock’s owner has also started rolling your nipples between his fingers. But you manage. His breath hitches when your fingers brush the underside of his shaft, and the sound of it—that little intake of air—makes you feel powerful in a way you’ve never felt before.
Then he’s moving, positioning himself between your thighs, and the head of him presses against you. “Okay?” he asks.
“More than okay.”
“Because we can wait if you’re not—”
“Felix, if you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to walk back to Honeycrumb and lock myself in the freezer.”
“Yes, ma’am.” And then he pushes inside.
The sound you both make is obscene.
He’s not small. You knew that. You saw that. But knowing and feeling are two different things, and the stretch of him inside you makes your eyes roll back in your head. He sinks in slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust, and his forehead drops to yours when he bottoms out.
“Holy shit,” he breathes.
“Yeah.”
“You feel—”
“I know.”
“I’m going to move now.”
“Please. Please move now.”
He pulls back and thrusts in again and the rhythm of it, the weight of him, the way his body slots against yours—it’s so much better than you imagined. And you imagined it a lot and mentally cursed whatever lucky person had him. But you were the lucky person. The realization makes you laugh, and the laugh turns into a moan mid-way because he chooses that moment to angle his hips differently.
“What’s funny?” he asks, not slowing down.
“Just—ah—just thinking about how I used to—God, right there—how I used to feel guilty for wanting you.”
“Guilty?”
“Thought you were someone else’s.”
His rhythm stutters. He pulls back to look at your face, hair falling around both of you like a curtain. “And now?”
“Now I know you’re fucking mine.”
Something flashes in his eyes. His hand comes down on your hip and he flips you onto your stomach before you can process what’s happening.
“On your knees,” he says, and the playfulness is gone from his voice, replaced by something lower. It makes your cunt clench around nothing, suddenly empty and aching.
You push up onto your knees, the sheets tangled beneath you. His hand smooths over your ass. Once. Twice. Gentle. Then it comes down in a sharp smack that makes you gasp.
“That’s for thinking I was a cheater,” he says, and his voice is rough but there’s laughter curling at the edges of it, sunshine bleeding back through.
“I didn’t know—”
Another smack, harder this time. The sting of it radiates through you, settles somewhere deep and warm.
“That’s for calling me ‘mate’ after I kissed you.”
“It was a—”
The third smack makes you moan, your fingers curling into the sheets.
“That one’s just because I wanted to,” he says, and then his cock is pressing against you again and you push back against him without thinking.
He slides in with one thrust this time, deeper from this angle.
“Fuck,” you gasp.
He sets a pace that’s faster than before. His fingers dig into your hips and the sound of his skin against yours fills the room—wet and rhythmic and utterly filthy. Your arms give out. Your face presses into the mattress, muffling the sounds you’re making, and he reaches forward to gather your hair in one hand, pulling just enough to turn your head to the side.
“Want to hear you,” he says. “Don’t hide from me.”
“The neighbors—”
“Don’t care about the fucking neighbors.” His hips snap forward, sharp, and the sound that tears out of you is loud enough to prove his point. “That’s better. That’s my good girl.”
The words short-circuit something in your brain. His. Because you are his. Because he was saying ‘I want you’ in so many ways and you were too thick to notice.
His rhythm changes—slower now, deeper, each thrust measured and deliberate. “Stop thinking.”
“Then fuck me stupid.”
His laugh is breathless. “Okay, baby.”
His hand releases your hair. Slides down your spine. Presses between your shoulder blades until your chest is flat against the mattress, ass in the air, and the new angle makes him even deeper somehow. Impossible. Too much. Not enough.
“Touch yourself,” he says.
“What?”
“Touch yourself. Want you to come again. Want to feel it.”
Your hand slides beneath your body, finds your clit, and the dual sensation—him inside you, your fingers on yourself—makes your vision white out for a second.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s my fucking girl. Come on, come for me again, I’ve got you—”
The pressure builds faster this time. Your orgasm hits you like a truck and you clench around him so hard he makes a sound—a broken, desperate sound—and his rhythm stutters.
His thrusts turn erratic. Three more, four more, and then he’s burying himself to the hilt, leaning down and groaning against the back of your neck. “F-fuck, baby. Oh my—mmph!”
You feel him pulse inside you, feel the warmth of him through the condom, feel his whole body shudder against yours.
For a long moment, neither of you move. Then he pulls out slowly, carefully. He ties off the condom, chucks it into the bin, and collapses onto the mattress beside you. He looks wrecked.
“So,” he says, turning his head to look at you. “That happened.”
“That happened,” you agree.
“And now you believe me? About the dating thing?”
“I believed you before. I just needed to—” you gesture vaguely at your naked, sweaty bodies, “—process.”
His laugh fills the room, golden and bright and so utterly Felix that you can’t help but laugh too.
You roll onto your side until you’re facing him, your fingers finding his somewhere between the sheets. This time, when he laces them together, there isn’t a misunderstanding hiding behind it. There isn’t a question waiting to be asked.
He smiles at you, soft around the edges now. “Hi, girlfriend.”
You smile back. “Hi, boyfriend.”
It’s the easiest conversation you’ve had all month.
◇Warnings: temperature play, nipple play, sex with no protection, dom! Jongho, sub! Reader, sir/brat role play
◇Master List ~ Day Two: Yunho and Seonghwa {Verbal Instruction} ~ Day Four: Mingi and Wooyoung {Voyeurism}
“Fuck, it’s hot,” Jongho complains, leaning out of the balcony of your shared apartment. Not that the fresh air was doing anything to relieve the humidity of the day.
Biting your lip down in anticipation, you creep up on your boyfriend. You’ve got a cup of ice cubes that you planned on sucking on to keep cool, but now you have another idea. You fish an ice cube out of the cup, and just as you approach Jongho’s broad back, you run an ice cup along the back of his neck.
“What the hell!” Jongho shouts, scrunching up his shoulders in defense immediately. When he turns around and sees the ice cube in your fingers and scowls at you. “Really?”
“You said it was hot,” You tease him.
The gears in Jongho’s head turn for a moment, but you know you’re in trouble as soon as he comes to a conclusion. With a squeal, you turn to run back into your apartment. Not that it does you any good. Jongho’s arms wrap around your waist and lift you off your feet. You giggle with adrenaline, which causes him to laugh in harmony with you.
“You little devil,” Jongho curses half-heartedly under his breath, but still smacking a loud kiss on the crown of your head.
“You know,” You say as you turn around in his embrace. “We could use these ice cubes for some more fun.”
“You’re not putting another ice cube on me,” Jongho deadpans.
“Oh, come on, Jongho!” You pursue your new, bright idea. “Your skin is so sensitive, it’ll be fun!”
Jongho closes his eyes and shivers. “No,” he says firmly.
“Fine,” you say clippedly. You flounce towards the couch with determination. “If you won’t have fun with me, then I guess I’ll just have to have some fun with myself.”
“With yourself?!” Jongho demands.
You feel his heavy gaze on you as you fish another ice cube from your cup and run it along your neck and collarbone. You moan at the feeling of the cool touch. Honestly, with the way your apartment is heated up, it was a good relief. But that wasn’t the fun you were talking about.
Next, you run the ice cube down your cleavage and along your teeny tiny tank top. You don’t have a bra on, so your nipple puckers immediately to the cold, dripping ice cube. It makes a wet spot on one nipple and so you bring it to the next one.
It’s not long before Jongho’s stealing the cup of ice cubes from you. His eyes are blown as he kneels in front of you. “For the record,” he grumbles as he grabs two ice cubes. “If you had offered to let me play with ice cubes on your tits, I would have said yes.”
You push your chest out so that Jongho can run the ice cubes along the swell of your breasts and upper chest. Your skin is pebbled with goosebumps by now, but your lower half couldn't be hotter. Especially when Jongho pulls your tits over the neckline of your tank top, holds an ice cube between his lips, and moves to run the ice cube over your perked nipples. It’s not long before your fingers dig into the silkiness of his hair, encouraging him to ditch the ice cube and suck on your nipples. The shock of his hot mouth after the iciness of the cubes causes you to gasp and then moan.
“Fine!” Jongho says suddenly. He flops onto the couch beside you but refuses to make eye contact with you. “You can use it on me. Just a little bit, though.” He bites down on his lip. “Be gentle with me.”
With a completely satisfied smile, you pop an ice cube into your mouth and then press your lips against your boyfriends. The two of you exchange the ice cube until it melts completely between your mouths. Next, you push up his baggy t-shirt and trace his pecs and sternum and stomach with the ice cube until it’s gone, and now you’re in between his legs.
A devilish grin pulls at your lips, and Jongho shakes his head. “No. Absolutely not. You are not allowed to put anything cold there.”
You pout. “Jongho!”
“Nope.” Jongho’s hands go beneath your arms, and he lifts you up onto his lap. Your legs spread to straddle his lap, and your hands brace yourself against his shoulder.
“I would have let you try it on me first,” You say.
“Even so,” Jongho shudders at his thoughts. “Not happening.”
You sigh in disappointment. Still, you grab an ice cube and run it along Jongho’s sensitive neck. He cranes it, at least, to allow you to play with him. “Can we fuck with them?” You try again.
Jongho’s lips twist into a frown. “You are in a mood tonight.”
“Please!” You cry out. “I really want you to fuck me while you play an ice cube around my nipples.”
“Oh.” Jongho gets a dopey smile on his face. The kind where his eyes scrunch up and his teeth show. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”
You slap Jongho’s chest, and he giggles. “You’re in a mood too, Mister Choi.”
“I prefer, Sir,” Jongho says in a slightly lower octave, eyes becoming hooded.
“Can you please fuck me, Sir,” You correct yourself.
“Only because you asked so nicely,” Jongho says.
You get exactly what you want. You’re sitting against the couch now, panties lazily pushed to the side, as Jongho fucks you good. His forearm and bicep bulge nicely as he braces himself against the back of the couch. His eyes are glued to where his cock continues to disappear inside your wet cunt.
“Jongho!” You whine at the lack of ice cubes.
“Oh, they’re almost melted anyways, you big baby,” Jongho teases.
Nonetheless, your boyfriend reaches for the cup and finds the leftovers. His fingers push the little nub of ice cup along your breast, circling your nipple only a few times before it’s simply wetness he’s smearing.
You push your chest out invitingly. “More!”
“How did I end up doing all the work,” Jongho grumbles, looking for more ice cubes at the bottom of the cup.
“You’re the one who wouldn’t let me touch an ice cube to your dick!” You remind him.
“Sir,” Jongho enunciates. “You’re getting a little too bratty for my liking.”
“You wouldn’t let me torture your cockhead with an ice cube. Sir.”
Jongho grips the cup and dumps whatever is left in it over your torso. You squeal at the splash of water. “The couch!” You can’t help but laugh a little at the absurdity of the situation.
Jongho chucks the cup to the floor and firmly grips your hips. “Fuck the couch, I want to hear you scream my name, you brat."
You wrap your legs around Jongho’s waist, digging your heels into his ass, and cheekily say, “Yes, Sir.”
It doesn’t take much for Jongho’s fat cock to bring you to climax when he puts his mind to it. The man knows how to move his hips and have you coming undone around his cock. You moan his name loudly and he rewards you with a kiss. He moans into your mouth as your walls push him towards his climax and he unloads into you.
“Guess we still ended up sweaty,” You giggle.
Jongho groans at the inevitability of the moment. You yelp in surprise as he lifts you up with determination. “We’re taking a cold shower.”
“So you did like the temperature play,” You say.
Jongho squeezes you so that you squeal, the air rushing out of your lungs with his strength. “I’ll show you temperature play,” he growls playfully.
“Really?” You say in excitement. “I’ve always wanted to try hot wax!”
Jongho’s shoulders shake with amusement but he rolls his eyes. “You’ll be the end of me, I swear.”
Master List ~ Day Two: Yunho and Seonghwa {Verbal Instruction} ~ Day Four: Mingi and Wooyoung {Voyeurism}
synopsis: A beach summer with your man, Seungcheol.
tagging: @cherryberrycheol from that one blurb I sent you in Discord after you showed me the Dua Lipa pics
warnings: mdni, 18+, pwp, bf! Seungcheol, f! reader, fools in love, smut, oral (m. & f. rec), praise, cock drunk! reader, drool mentioned, Cheol big, mating press, creampie, squirting, praise, dirty talk, unprotected smut, mentions of cum eating, etc
WC: 2.4K +
[BE VERY AWARE, SMUT BELOW THE 'KEEP READING' TAG]
It's the middle of summer, and you're sitting on a little floaty, giggling as the sun rays warm you up and the water cools you off. You're not too far from the beach; the white sands are picturesque with the little beach umbrellas stationed every fifteen feet, and you can barely hear the jingles of the trolley cart being pushed as a man yells "ice cream!" for everyone relaxing on the beach towels. It's perfect- everything you could want- including Cheol.
Seunghceol's hair is wet, dripping with water droplets that slide down his neck and over his chest before rejoining the ocean, and his smile has never been bigger.
All day, he’s been your water boy, keeping one muscular arm looped inside your fruit-patterned floaty, anchoring you to him as he swims you around. The waves lap up his chest, licking up to his collarbones, and his arm is warm against your thigh as he paddles through the beautiful ocean. The sun kisses his skin that's not underwater, giving him a glow that makes it hard for you to look away from, and you want to kiss him, but if you bend over while he pushes up to meet you halfway? You’ll surely fall into the water, and the floaty will toss over both of your heads.
So you are reduced to strictly admiring. Admiring your lover as he carries you around, letting you tan as he keeps dunking his head down to look for the schools of fish that swim by. He'll pop up now and then, a beaming smile on his lips, claiming "it's so beautiful underwater!" or "I saw a fish!" before his arms flex as he pulls your floaty closer, like somehow you'll drift away from him.
You know in about two hours you both will wash up ashore, and you’ll get to see how his swim trunks hug his thick thighs and the way he shakes water out of his hair like some dog. Then you’ll finally get your kiss. It’ll be warm like the sun and a little salty like the ocean, but it’ll fill you up until he leads you to the restaurant you’ll be eating lunch at. You hope there will be fries and more kisses, and you squeeze his hand that holds yours, already requesting another kiss before you two even leave the beach.
Later, when the sun has finally set, and you're back inside your hotel room with Seungcheol, your kisses will linger - lasting longer until they finally deepen, and Seungcheol's hand cups the back of your head. It'll leave you breathless and a little dizzy, shared smiles dancing on your lips in between the kisses before he's got your body flushed against his.
You can still taste a little sea salt on his lips, his neck, and down his chest. And he still anchors you to him as you sink onto your knees.
But it's a different kind of salt you taste when your lips wrap around the tip of his cock, your tongue licking the precum that coats the globular head before you take more of him into your wet mouth. You can feel the way his thick thighs flex under your palms, his hand heavy on the back of your head as you suck and slurp until his cock is nudging the back of your throat.
It makes your eyes water and your jaw ache, but heat pools between your thighs each time your nose brushes his pelvis, and his moans grow louder, choking off between low praise. "Fuck- just like that," he inhales between clenched teeth, his eyes hooded as they meet your watery ones. "You're takin' me so well, Baby."
Your knees dig into the carpet beneath you, and your eyes flutter closed when his fingers twist in your hair, guiding you to take him deeper as his hips start to move. He eventually holds you in place, letting the room fill with the wet sounds of your mouth being filled with his cock over and over again. He fucks your throat slowly and deeply, enjoying the way your tongue massages the veins that pulse down the length of his cock as his precum coats your throat with each thrust.
You let him use you, your brain turning into mush as his chest heaves, and his words fall out faster in between his groans. "You look so pretty with your mouth full of my cock, Baby." His cock twitches and his hips stutter, picking up the pace as you blink up at him with tears on the tips of your eyelashes. "Oh fuck, are you already dumb off my cock, Baby?"
Your tongue swirls around the head of his cock, suckling the sensitive tip in response, and his knees almost give out.
"Yeah? There are no thoughts in that - hah - pretty head anymore, is there? You're only thinking about my cock - ngh, and my cum, huh?" Your nails dug into the sides of his thighs, drool forming at the corner of your mouth, making his cock slip in-and-out of your mouth faster, and his balls finally tense up. "Okay, Baby, I'll -ngh - give you what you want. Be good and take it all f'me."
It's the only warning Seungcheol gives you before his hips push forward, pushing his cock down your throat again until your nose is pressed against his pelvis, and then his cock swells.
He cums with a small "ah fuck!" and a deep satisfied sigh, painting your mouth white with his warm cum. He made sure you took it all, keeping your head down as he rolled his hips forward until his cock twitched with sensitivity, and you've milked him for every last drop. Then he pulled you off with a wet "pop!"
Your lips were coated with his cum and your saliva, and your tongue licked it all up before you showed Seungcheol your empty mouth.
You had done what he’d asked, swallowing his cum with a grin that made him pull you up so he could kiss you again. He didn't care that he could taste himself on your tongue; it only made his hands more feverish against your warm skin as you both stumbled towards the bed.
He pushed you back onto the soft mattress before he took his turn to kneel before you, his eyes meeting yours between your parted thighs. The smirk he gave you had tingles going straight to your core, making you clench around nothing pathetically as his fingers slid up your thighs, filling you with anticipation. "My turn, let me see that pretty pussy, Baby."
He drags your pretty panties down your legs with a slow confidence, tossing them over his shoulder carelessly as he gets an intimate view of your glistening cunt. You're dripping wet, just for him, and his big hands push your legs further apart as his breath fans over your puffy folds with a heavy hunger.
"Is this all for me, Baby?" He asks with a cocky grin, flicking his dark eyes up to yours as you suck in a quick breath. Your dress is pushed up to your waist, your breasts practically spilling from the top as he licks his lips, and a new wave of your slick pools.
"Always for you," you whimpered, and Seungcheol's grin was more than feral. His satisfied smirk is the last thing you see before he's burying his face between your plush thighs, licking a broad stroke up to your clit with his wet tongue. He groans from your sweet arousal dripping down his throat, and his fingers grip your legs tighter as he swirls his tongue around your nub, relishing in the way your hips buck up in response.
His tongue parts your folds, sucking, licking, and swirling until your eyes are blurry and your hands are pressing him closer as your heels dig into his shoulders.
Your moans grow louder when his tongue fills you, stretching your gummy walls around the wet muscle as his nose rubs your clit, overstimulating you and making your legs shake as he devours you like a man starved. He's hard again, and your moans only spur him on as he moves one hand from your leg to wrap around his cock.
He strokes his cock in tandem to his tongue fucking your pretty cunt, squeezing just under the head when you cry out his name like you're looking for salvation.
And when you cum on his tongue, you have both of your hands in his hair, keeping his lips wrapped around your puffy clit as he stops himself from cumming all over his hand like some teenager.
He thinks it's one of the hottest things to see you cum, your eyes get glossy like your cunt, and he's able to mandhandle your body into a nasty mating press as you blink up at him dazedly.
He's got your arousal dripping down his jaw, and he gives you a smirk as you realize he's guiding his heavy cock between your twitching thighs. "You can give me one more, right?"
You don't get the chance to answer before he's rocking the mushroom-shaped tip of his cock against your clitoris, sending pleasurable shocks throughout your body as he lets your arousal coat his shaft. He teases you like this for a moment, dragging his cock through your wet folds, building the same heat as before, low in your abdomen until you lift your hips to meet each one of his slow grinds.
"Please," your plea comes out wrecked and breathless, and Seungcheol's eyes almost roll back from hearing it. You're exactly how he likes you, needy and wanting, and his hand pushes your leg back further as he finally directs his cock to your entrance, letting you feel the stretch that is yet to come.
"Don't worry, I'll take care of ya'," Seungcheol promises, and then he's pushing his hips forward.
The head of his cock bullies its way inside, forcing your gummy walls apart, and your jaw drops. You've had sex with Seungcheol before, but you never could get used to the size of him, and the way he filled you. His cock grazes over every sensitive spot without even trying, and your velvety walls suck him in deeper until all you can feel is him.
His cock splits you open, his hands are warm under the back of your knees, keeping you spread wide for him as his thick thighs press against yours. His heavy balls are flushed against your ass as you take him to the hilt, and your breath comes up short, your mind spinning because you can feel him in your lungs; he's so big.
You end up blinking rapidly to clear the blur in your vision as you look up at Seungcheol. Hearts are already forming in your eyes as his cock reaches the back of your cunt, greeting your cervix with a filthy kiss as he bottoms out.
"Fuck, Baby." He sucks in another breath through clenched teeth, his head tilting up towards the ceiling as your pussy grips his cock in a tight squeeze. "You feel so good around me, fuckk -" Seungcheol's muscles strain, and the fact that if you keep squeezing him like that - he will cum - is swirling in his head like a warning system. He's not ready to tap out just yet, so he moves one hand between the two of you, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing sloppy hearts into the little pearl to get you to open up for him some more. "That's it, open up for me, Baby. Show me just how wet your pretty pussy can get for me."
He has your head falling back into the pillows, your fingers clutching the bedsheets, and just like he wants, your pussy drools heavily with each completed heart he draws on your clit. Your arousal seeps, dripping down his cock and your ass, and when you think he's just going to make you cum on his cock by only playing with your clit, he moves.
His cock drags through your sensitive walls, and the hotel room echoes with the obscene squelches of your sloppy cunt as he pushes forward again. He starts a slow and deep thrust, making you feel each time the head of his cock hits the back of your cunt, and you're forced to take it as he keeps you pinned underneath him.
Seungcheol's so big you can't see over his shoulder, all you can see is him. Him, him, him. His forehead is lined with sweat that drips down his chest. His tongue pokes out a little between his lips, and his eyebrows furrow in concentration when his hips roll in a certain way that makes you clench around him deliciously. It's too much, and you're telling him as such between your cute little "ah!" and "ohs!"
"Cheol! Right there - oh! - yes, yes, yes!" Your tongue sticks out lewdly, and your eyes water as he follows your orders, smacking the fat tip of his cock into your sweet spot - bringing you even closer to the edge.
Your nails dig into his biceps, leaving half-moon crescents into his skin, and your pussy slurps his cock deeper, gushing as your orgasm barrels through you suddenly. You're left speechless, your mouth dropping open in shock, and your eyes glaze over as you cum. You can only hold onto Seungcheol as your arousal comes out in waves, squirting onto his pelvis as he fucks you through it.
"There we go," he praises, and he's quick to rub four of his fingers over your clit messily, smacking the bundle of nerves until you're squirting with a little whimper from the back of your throat.
You make a mess on him, on yourself, and on the bed, and the sight alone has him orgasming right after you. He curses, and his cock twitches, swelling as he grinds into you with possessiveness.
His cum splashes the back of your cunt with white gooey globs of his seed, and it keeps going, filling you to the brim as he cums heavily with a deep groan.
Eventually, there's nowhere else to go but out, and when he sees his cum ooze out, mixing with your slick, he can't help but drag his finger through the mess before bringing it to his mouth to have a taste.
He hums; it tastes like sea salt, and he wants more.
대박 - you made it to the end!
Tell me about it. Reblogs, likes, and comments are always appreciated ♡ . Tumblr is based on reblogs, not likes, and they help writers like me get a better reach. Thank you for your support!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
you’re just trying to volunteer for a summer charity event at the pier, but you meet an infuriatingly handsome guy who makes it his mission to get under your skin
pairing: han jisung x fem!reader
genre: fluff, humor, smut
content: jisung is annoying (affectionate), ft. yeji from itzy and jihyo from twice, semi-public sex (car), fingering, riding, creampie, dry humping, unprotected sex (p in v)
word count: 7.0k
a/n: thank you so much for all the love you've shown us so far!!! i thought of this as soon as belen asked me to do this event with her and i wrote it immediately lol. this one was my personal favorite to write, it's just a fun time!! ♡
♡ m.list
a wet hot skz summer event masterlist ☼ schedule
When your company sent out an email saying that they needed volunteers for a charity event at the pier this weekend, you rolled your eyes at the idea. A whole day of small talk with coworkers you barely tolerate, surrounded by corporate greed, but pretending that you just love working for them? Hard pass.
You signed up anyway.
Yeji, your coworker and best friend, would be there too. She’s kind of the one who convinced you to sign up for it, even though you were reluctant at first. She dangled the idea of getting a promotion in front of your face, and you were hooked immediately.
What she failed to mention was that you’d have to sign up for specific booths upon arrival, and that setup started bright and early at 8 am on a Saturday.
“I thought we were just going to unload some boxes and maybe set up some tents,” you groan, moving the trolley of boxes up the angled ramp of the pier. “I don’t want to talk to strangers and beg for money!”
“First of all, you’re not begging for money,” your friend quips. “You’re asking for donations! To save the turtles!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, for the turtles.” You shove the trolley the rest of the way up the creaky planks and stop at the volunteer booth.
“Good morning, ladies!” Jihyo greets the two of you through her megaphone, far too cheerily for this early in the morning. You aren’t surprised she’s running the show, you just wish she weren’t so damn loud. You love her anyway, she was the only one who really tried to show you the ropes when you first joined the company.
“Hi, Jihyo,” you groan, trying to put on your best enthusiastic smile and wave.
“Have you two signed up for your booths yet? Almost all the good ones are gone!” Jihyo gestures to the clipboard on the table behind her. You exchange a look with Yeji and let out a huff of air before heading over to the table.
“By the way, the booth that makes the most money gets a special surprise in the office on Monday!” Jihyo adds, like it’ll somehow make you more excited for hours of sitting around doing nothing. “The kissing booth wins almost every year!”
A kissing booth? In a post-pandemic world?
“That sounds unsanitary and disgusting,” you scoff.
“Oh, c’mon, you don’t have to kiss them on the lips!” she states, like it makes the idea sound any more appealing. “Unless you see a cute guy.” She winks, pushing the clipboard closer.
“That sounds kinda fun, plus we’d be together!” Yeji chimes in. “It won’t be that bad, plus whatever this surprise is, it’s probably worth it!”
You both know the “special office surprise” is more than likely just a stupid pizza party or a gift card. Neither of which is worth having to kiss a bunch of strangers for.
The two of them put on their best puppy eyes as they turn to look at you. “For the turtles?” they say in unison, very creepily.
“Okay, fine!” You give up. These stupid turtles are going to be the death of you.
Maybe a kissing booth won’t actually be that bad. The best case scenario, some handsome guy comes along and gives you his number, sweeps you off your feet, and hopefully, ends your dry spell you’ve been having when it comes to dating.
But then you think about how many people you totally, super, don’t want to kiss, and you shudder at the thought. Cheek kisses for everyone it is.
The sun is starting to rise higher, your fingers are covered in glue, and you’re breaking a sweat trying to help Yeji add the last of the decorations to your booth.
“I’ll go first, if that helps ease your mind,” Yeji chirps up, handing you a stack of glittery pink letters. “You can walk around and play some games!” It does, even just a little.
“Thank you,” you say. “I’m sorry if I’m being a grouch. I’ll try to make the best of today.”
That sentiment is quickly proven false by a flying volleyball that hits your booth, knocking down most of your hard work.
“What the fuck?” you exclaim, almost too stunned to move. You turn to where the ball came from and see a guy with messy brown hair and a blue volunteer shirt jogging over to you.
“I’m so sorry!” he says, running over. You glare at him, and he just smiles back at you.
You can’t find any kind words to say, so you don’t say anything at all as you hand him back his ball. Now you’re going to have to spend extra time redoing the decorations. Fucking dick.
“What booth are you working?” he asks as he takes the ball from you. You look back at him, still pissed off, but surprised now. Your face doesn’t exactly scream friendly and open to conversation right now, and he’s ballsy for trying.
“Hi, I’m Jisung.” He extends his hand out, a grin still planted on his face. “And again, I’m really, really sorry.” He seems apologetic, even if he’s wildly careless. It doesn’t hurt that he’s cute, too.
It’s good enough for now. You wanted to have a good day, and you weren’t going to let a flying ball ruin that. You introduce yourself, begrudgingly shaking his hand. “We’re working the kissing booth.” God, it’s even more embarrassing to say it out loud.
“Wow, really? I didn’t think they still did that.”
“It’s for charity!” you scoff at him.
“Right, the turtles,” he laughs, glancing around your shoulder at your booth, now in shambles thanks to him. “I’ll uh…stop by later.” He sends you a wink and turns, taking the stray ball with him.
Your face must be all scrunched up because Yeji just laughs at you.
“Who even is that?” You turn to start fixing up your booth, the look of disgust still on your face.
“Han Jisung,” she says, like he’s someone important. “The I.T. guy? The one you’re supposed to call when you click on those stupid phishing emails by accident?”
“Oh,” you say. He works at your company, too? “I’ve never met him.” Which is kind of amazing, because you click on those stupid things all the time.
“I think he likes you,” she says with a wink. You roll your eyes at her.
After an extra twenty minutes of re-decorating the booth, the letters are plastered right on the front and shimmer in the sunlight. Slightly crooked, but readable. Patrons are starting to come by, and you get a sinking feeling in your gut.
“Walk around, have a good time!” Yeji shoos you away from the booth as you’re taking a sip of your water. You oblige, since you don’t have too long before it will be your turn at the kissing booth.
“If this goes horribly, I’m blaming you,” you tell her.
“If you find a nice, handsome guy, you’ll be thanking me.” You huff out a laugh and turn to explore the rest of the event.
The pier is lined with tents of games and sponsors of the event. On a normal day, there would be a few rides present and families with children lined up to get on the ferris wheel. Today, there are mostly adults wearing their company's clothing, making small talk with each other. Networking, you suppose.
You walk to the edge of the pier where the crowd is thinner and take a deep breath, staring out into the ocean. The warmth from the sun hits your face, providing comfort in the already chaotic day. You don't love a crowd, but you were trying to keep yourself steady. Today will be a good day, you tell yourself.
The smell of hot dogs and popcorn wafts around you, and it reminds you of a simpler time. Boardwalks in the summertime with your family, the taste of cotton candy, and passing out after a long swim in the ocean. Kids pass by on bikes, and you let out a sigh. You missed being young when life was full of fun, and you didn’t have to worry about rent or a corporate job.
You turn to walk back down the pier towards your booth, taking note of the different games you could play on your break later. They had all the standard carnival games: a ring toss, throwing balls at bottles, squirt gun races, and….a dunk tank?
The sounds of bells and chatter cut through your thoughts as you approach the game. You can’t see who’s running it through the crowd of people gathered around it, but you can certainly hear them. You hear a familiar voice, teasing the patrons who have shown up at the booth.
“Oh, c’mon! My grandma throws better than that!” You weave through the crowd to the front, and you finally see him.
Han Jisung, still in his volunteer shirt, caged in a dunk tank. Dry from head to toe, and talking shit like his life depends on it. “Put some elbow into it, old man!”
Now he’s just being mean. The people seem to love it, though, cackling and pointing as they dig out their wallets to try and get him to shut up. You watch two, then three people line up to grab their balls. The first guy misses the target all three times. The second hits the cage, making Jisung jump and almost fall off his seat. You try to stifle your laugh with your fist, but seeing him like this is hilarious. The third guy misses, and half the crowd seems to give up. It doesn’t look that hard.
“Hey, kissing booth!” Shit. He saw you.
“Me?” you point to yourself, as if he could be talking to anyone else. People start looking over, and you feel like you could crawl into a hole.
“Yeah, you!” he points. “Why don’t you come show them how it’s done?”
You were still slightly irritated at him for fucking up your booth earlier, so you agreed. He looks like he could use a little cooling off anyway. You paid at the booth and took the balls to the starting line.
You take a deep breath and cock your arm back, aiming straight for the target. You throw a bit too wide and hit the spot right next to it.
“Okay, now once more with feeling!” Jisung teases, and your tongue pokes out of your cheek in response. He’s infuriating.
You throw the second one harder, faster. It dings the edge of the bullseye but doesn’t hit it hard enough to send him into the water.
“You gotta hit the target, sweetheart!” he calls with a wink. You clench your jaw. You have to make this. For your own pride and revenge for your booth.
“Do you ever stop talking?” you hiss at him.
“Depends, do you ever stop missing?”
He’s done it now. You let the last ball fly, and hold your breath as you watch it spin towards the target.
Ding!
“Oh sh—”
Splash!
You hear a series of hoots and hollers from the audience behind you. Jisung flails into the water and hits the bottom. You watch through the glass as he pushes himself back up to the surface and paddles to the ladder. A satisfied smile creeps across your face, and you fold your arms in front of you as you wait for him to come back up.
He runs his hand through his wet hair, still blinking away what you’re sure is very, very cold water. His clothes stick to his body, and you notice his muscled arms and lean frame. He’s kind of hot. You snap yourself out of it when he opens his mouth.
“That was personal,” he says, still spitting out water.
“No, that was funny,” you laugh. You start walking forward towards the cage until you’re only a couple of feet from it. “This is personal.” And without batting an eye, you reach over and push the target with your hand.
Ding!
“Wait!”
Splash!
You don’t wait for him to come up before you walk away with a wide smile on your face.
Were you flirting with him? Maybe. But you got a kick out of flustering him, because he’s way too cocky for his own good. He needed to be humbled, and if you had to be the one to do it, then so be it.
“I’ll see you later, kissing booth!” he calls out after you as you weave through the crowd. You roll your eyes so far back into your head it’s basically a full 360.
You catch yourself smiling as you’re walking back to your booth, and promptly shake any thoughts of Jisung away. You will not think of him. Not him jogging over to you this morning. Not him, wet and flustered after you dunked him. Not the fact that he might, maybe, possibly, stop by later.
“You’re back!” Yeji calls out as you walk up to the booth. “Did you have fun?”
“Yeah, I did actually,” you reply. You recount the story of Jisung and the dunk tank, both of you laughing to yourselves.
“Do you think he’ll stop by later?” she asks, a sly smirk on her face.
“Oh, god, I hope not.” You’re a liar. A big, fat, pants-on-fire liar.
“Riiighhhttt.” She nods her head with a knowing look, and you know she can see right through you. “Well, it’s your turn!”
Right. And now you get to regret every single life choice you’ve made that has brought you to this single moment. You’re hoping it’s not that bad, and you don’t know if the thought of Jisung showing up repulses you or excites you.
“Don’t forget your chapstick!”
The heat is starting to get to you, even in the protection of the tent that drapes over the booth. You started your shift not even an hour ago, and you’ve already kissed several grandmas, a dude that looked like he lost a bet, and a couple of girls. You’re counting the cash when you hear a mechanical shriek and a familiar voice echoing across the pier.
“STEP RIGHT UP, FOLKS!” Oh god. Please, god, no. You turn towards the noise, and sure enough, Jisung is standing not 10 feet from your booth, screaming into a megaphone.
“Donate to a good cause and kiss a beautiful volunteer! Don’t miss out, she won’t be here all day!”
You’re about to die of embarrassment if he doesn’t stop this nonsense.
“ONLY FIVE DOLLARS! Cheaper than therapy and probably just as healing!” God dammit, where’s Jihyo when you need her?
“Who gave him a megaphone?” you ask, turning towards Yeji. She just shrugs, her lips pressed together, trying to suppress a laugh. This is mortifying.
He finally turns to face you, and you lock eyes. He has a smug ass grin on his face, and you’re trying to gesture to him to tell him to cut it out. But of course, he doesn’t listen, because it’s fucking Han Jisung and he’s the most annoying person to ever breathe the same air as you. He just raises the megaphone back to his mouth.
“LADIES, GENTLEMEN, AND OUR NON-BINARY FRIENDS! The same person who VIOLENTLY dunked me in a tank this morning is currently accepting kisses for charity!”
“I’m gonna strangle him,” you mutter under your breath. Yeji snorts behind you.
“I think you like him,” she says.
You whip your head around at the speed of light with a look on your face that could definitely kill someone. “I. Do. Not.”
She’s unconvinced.
“Jisung! What the fuck are you doing!?” you try to shout quietly, but your anger cuts through the chatter of the crowds quite easily.
“Yes?” he says, through the fucking megaphone, because he’s insane and everything is a joke to him.
“Why aren’t you working the dunk tank?”
“I’m on a break!”
“Stop screaming! We can all hear you!”
He maintains eye contact with you, and for a second, you think that he might just let it go. And then, he slowly lifts the megaphone back to his mouth, and you’re covering your ears in preparation.
“ALSO! Just so everyone knows, she has a VERY STRONG throwing arm!” He gets a few laughs from that one, and that’s when you realize that he has a crowd of people standing around him, laughing at his dumb jokes. You’re five seconds away from throwing yourself over the edge of the pier and letting the sea take you.
“I hate you!” you shout back.
“AND SHE HATES ME! But that makes it more exciting!” He sends a wink your way. You cover your face with your hands, praying it's a dream.
He seems content enough with his little show to abandon it and walk over to your booth. He looks annoyingly pleased with himself as he finally sets the megaphone down.
“Where did you even get that?” you ask, still fuming.
“Nicked it from Jihyo,” he chuckles. “She’s probably looking for me now.” You close your eyes and sigh. If the turtles don’t kill you, Jisung certainly will.
“You’re evil, you know that?”
“Evil? But I just got you three more customers!” You glance around his shoulder, and sure enough, there are several people walking towards you. That little shit.
“You are insufferable.”
“I’m a genius,” he quips back. “Everyone loves a guy that can make them laugh.”
You roll your eyes at him, probably for the fifth time this entire conversation. “Whatever, move, there are people waiting.”
Just when you think he’s about to walk away, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. He pulls out a crisp bill and slides it across the table. Your heart does a somersault. He leans against the counter on both elbows, waiting expectantly.
“Oh, hell no.”
“Oh, yes.” He bats his eyelashes like he’s trying to be cute.
You cross your arms in defiance, and you’re suddenly at a stand-off.
“You know, if you don’t hurry, I might just have to review the kissing booth over the loudspeaker.” He drops the megaphone on the counter, smirking again like he’s won.
Your jaw drops. “You wouldn’t.”
But he just slowly raises it to his mouth. He doesn’t seem like the type to back down from a dare, and you can’t handle any more public humiliation.
“Jesus, fine, pucker up!” You grab the front of his shirt and yank him forward before he can respond. Your lips slam together, and you feel the warmth and softness of his lips. You have half a mind to stay there for longer than a second, but you know there are people watching around you. You pull away before you really want to, and you’re not quite sure where that feeling came from.
Jisung is looking at you like his brain short-circuited.
“Go,” you say, urging him to leave. He seems to snap out of whatever trance you just put him in.
“I’ll come back later,” he says with a wink as he gets up to leave.
You watch him walk away before you let your breath. You turn to look at Yeji, and she’s giving you the smuggest look you’ve ever seen.
“Don’t,” you warn her.
“I didn’t say anything!” she says, putting her hands up in surrender. You glare at her, but you can’t hide the smile that sneaks across your face.
You take care of the rest of the line, cheek kisses only, before you see Jihyo walking up.
“Hey, girls!” she greets you cheerily. “Have you seen Jisung? I think he stole my megaphone.” Yeji snorts, and your face starts to grow hot at the mention of his name.
“Uh, he was just here, not sure where he went though,” you reply. You didn’t want to lie, but there was a part of you that didn’t want to get him in trouble. Even if he probably deserved it.
“Ah, okay. Well, you should switch off, you’ve been here a while.”
Music to your ears. You would love nothing more than to get away from this godforsaken booth.
You’re thankfully not due back at the booth until cleanup, but you can’t help but feel a bit disappointed about it. Time ticks by as you stop by to say hello to some of your fellow coworkers. Even if seeing them outside of the office makes your skin crawl, they’re good people, and you’re making the best of it.
At least the conversations distract you from your thoughts of a particularly annoying man who doesn’t seem to want to leave your brain.
You wander around the pier again, stopping for a pretzel, watching other people play stupid carnival games as the sun starts to set. You’re watching a fairly unskilled man attempt to win a plushie for his girlfriend at balloon darts when you feel someone come up behind you.
“Hey.” And you know exactly who it is. You turn to see Jisung standing there, hands in his pocket, mouth shut for the first time all day. He’s also, unfortunately, dry now.
“Hi,” you say back, your brain unable to conjure a single clever thing to say to him.
“Um, having a good time so far?” He’s being awkward. You feel awkward. You kissed this man just a couple of hours ago, and now you’re trying to think of a way you can get him to kiss you again.
But you just nod your head, hoping he can’t hear your thoughts. “Yeah, it’s been really fun, how about you?”
“Got dunked a couple of times and got to kiss a beautiful girl, pretty good for a work event, I think.”
Your face gets hot at his comment, and you’re not sure how to respond. He seems to get it, though.
“Walk with me?” he asks, gesturing ahead.
“Sure,” you say casually, even though your heart feels like it’s about to beat out of your chest.
You walk next to each other, casually commenting on the different pier games and how you “could totally beat them.” His shoulder brushes yours accidentally as you’re walking, and you don’t pull away. It’s easy to be around him when he’s not showing off for an audience. He’s pretty calm.
“Oh my god, they even have turtle plushies,” you laugh, pointing up at the hanging turtles above you. You look at him as he looks up at the ceiling.
“I bet I could win one,” he says way too confidently.
“Hey, I’m the one who hit the target,” you smirk. “If anyone’s winning it, it’s me.”
“Okay, let’s see it.” A challenge. One you’ll gladly accept.
He crosses his arms as you step up to the counter. It’s the milk jug game, and you have to knock all the bottles down to get the prize. Piece of cake.
You step back with the balls in hand, and he reaches out to offer to hold the other two. You give him a small smile, thank him softly, and move behind the line.
Your arm cranks back, and you hit the bottles square on. Only one of them topples over, though. You frown at it, wondering how that happened. You know you have to knock all three down at once to win, but you’re determined to get it.
“Try to hit the bottom row,” Jisung whispers in your ear. His voice sends shivers down your spine, and you know if you turned, he would be just inches away from your face.
You shake it off, pull your arm back for a second try, and throw harder. The ball goes flying, and even you're surprised at the speed. The ball hits the cans with a loud thud, knocking two of the bottles down. You’re starting to understand why people always walked away from these games looking annoyed.
As Jisung hands you the third ball, he steps behind you, placing the ball in your hand. “Don’t throw it like you’re mad at it, try it like this,” he says softly. One hand comes up to your elbow to adjust it, and his other hand slides gently on your waist to straighten your posture. Every spot on your skin he touches feels like it’s on fire. You can hardly focus on the bottles in front of you, and all your mind can think of is him.
He steps back, and the cool air brings you back to Earth. You throw it exactly like he showed you, aiming directly for the bottom row. The ball smacks into the bottles, knocking all of them down with a loud crash.
“Woo! Nice job!” Jisung shouts, turning towards you for a high-five. You’re shocked that it worked, and even more shocked that he seems to turn completely back to normal even after that display.
The vendor hands you your stuffed turtle, and you walk away beaming, smiling wider than you have in months.
“Thank you,” you say to Jisung gently. “For helping me.”
“I didn’t do that, you won it,” he says back. “But, uh, yeah, anytime.” He gets shy like he’s replaying the interaction back in his head. You hope he is, because all you can think about is his hand on the small of your back, and where else on your body they might fit.
“Jisung!” You hear a voice call out behind you. It’s definitely Jihyo, coming to probably scold him for stealing her megaphone. You both spin around to see her, hands on her hips. “Give it back.”
“I’m so sorry,” he starts to apologize. “But you should’ve seen the look on her face when—”
“Jisung,” you warn him.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I put it back on your table.” She groans at him and storms off.
You both watch her walk off, and just when she’s out of earshot, you burst out laughing. You were never much of a rule breaker, but something about Jisung and his mostly harmless shenanigans sends you into a fit of laughter. The two of you lean into each other, trying to calm your laughs. You’re standing close enough that anyone passing by might have thought you’d had one too many.
The laughter subsides, and you continue walking to the edge of the pier. The sun is setting now, and streaks of pink, purple, orange, and blue light up the sky. The ocean is dark and mysterious beneath the surface, and the whole scene is beautiful.
“Thank you,” you say gently, leaning against the railing. “Again.”
“For what?” He turns to you, brows pointed up.
“I was grumpy this morning. Thought I’d have a shitty day. But it was fun, and now that I’m thinking about it, it was mostly because of you.”
You exhale, breath unsteady from the sudden confession. Just hours ago, you tried so hard to dislike this man, but something about him convinced you. He’s stupidly handsome,
He smiles widely at you. “I had to do something after fucking up your booth,” he laughs. “Which, I really am sorry for.”
“Apology accepted.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. You watch him as he takes a step forward, eyes scanning your face, darting down to your lips. You can feel your heartbeat through your eardrums, and try to keep your breath steady. You’re still squeezing your turtle plushie, using it to keep you tethered to this moment.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks.
“You already kissed me,” you tease.
“Yeah, but that was for the turtles,” he jokes back, and he moves closer, his face hovering only inches away from you. “I want one just for me.”
“Okay.”
He leans forward, and you close the gap, your lips meeting in a more gentle manner this time. You didn’t have time to savor it earlier, but now you get to enjoy it. You feel his plush lips against yours, his hand firmly planted on your waist, the warmth of his body against your chest. You move slowly against his mouth, trying not to seem too eager. He holds tighter like he can feel you hesitate, and brings his other hand up to your jaw. The two of you find a delicious rhythm, holding and kissing each other like you’re the only two left on the damn pier.
It’s fucking heaven.
A mechanical shriek rips through the air, and you both jump at the sound. It’s Jiyho, reunited with her precious megaphone once again.
“Oh, it’s clean-up time,” you say, disappointed. You turn back to him, watching as the breeze blows at the loose strands of hair on his forehead, but the moment has passed.
“Find me before you leave, okay?” he says, squeezing you once more before you part.
You nod your head at him and head back to your booth, your plushie still in your arms.
“You’re quiet,” Yeji points out, folding the tablecloths from your booth into boxes.
“Hmm? Oh, yeah, sorry, long day.” You don’t tell her that you’re dying to go meet back up with the cute guy you just made out with on the pier at fucking sunset.
“Mhm,” she hums. “Waiting for Jisung?”
You snap your head at her. “What?”
“Oh, c’mon, you’ve been staring at him whenever he’s in your field of vision like all day.”
You scoff at her. You’re not admitting anything to her, at least not now. Not really because you’re embarrassed, but because you can’t give her the satisfaction of being right. She sees right through you and holds her head high, pleased with herself.
You think about it as you finish packing up your booth. In the span of a few hours, Han Jisung has managed to go from a complete stranger to the only person at the forefront of your mind.
“And to think, you almost didn’t come today,” Yeji says to you as you say your goodbyes. You give up on giving her any sassy comebacks, mostly because it’s been a long day, but also because you can’t keep up the act anymore. She’s right, you can’t wait to see Jisung again.
As soon as the last box is packed up and loaded back into the van, you wait for her with puppy dog eyes for her to let you go. She takes her time closing up the van and giving you a long hug before she makes jokes in your ear.
“Be safe, let me know if you’re going home tonight, yeah?” You nod your head. “And for the love of God, use a condom.”
You give her a playful slap as you pull away from the hug, and watch her hop into the van and drive off. You look around the end of the pier and notice that most of the volunteers have left, but there’s one in particular you’re looking for.
Your feet move in the direction of the dunk tank without you having to think twice about it. Several people pass, hauling boxes and bags of things, nodding at you and telling you to have a good night.
You see him talking to another volunteer under the tent, waving his hands around in that animated way he speaks. He catches your eyes as you walk closer and he lights up. He quickly says his goodbyes to whoever he needs to and jogs over to you.
“Hey, you,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. You can't help but let out a giggle, the sound embarrassingly loud and high-pitched. You bury your face into his shoulder to hide. God, you feel like a schoolgirl with a stupid little crush.
You walk side by side down the empty pier, fingers intertwined. You hear the soft sound of the water lapping at the wooden posts below you. The air is warm, comfortable, you almost forget you and Jisung just met only a few hours ago.
“I had fun today,” you say, looking up at him with a shy smile.
Jisung looks down at you, his round eyes warm under the glow of the dim pier lights. “Me too,” he replies softly, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. He slows to a stop, turning to face you fully.
For a moment you both stand there, smiling at each other like idiots. Then he lets go of your hand, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles brush against your cheek as he moves his hand to cup your jaw. He leans in slowly, and you close your eyes in response.
The kiss starts soft, much like the one from earlier, before you were interrupted. You press your body close to his, feeling the warmth radiating off of him. Finally, a moment alone where you won’t be interrupted by the chaos of the day.
It doesn’t take long for the kiss to grow hungry. His movements quicken, his tongue enters your mouth desperately and possessively. He reaches for your waist and presses his body against yours. You feel the heat in your body rise, and you’re not sure how much longer this will stay public-friendly.
“I need you,” you whisper to him. “Now.”
He looks at you with wide eyes. “Uh..you mean…like…”
You just nod your head and pull him closer by the loops on his shorts, biting your lip. Yes, Jisung, I need your cock inside of me.
“We could go to the bathroom?” he suggests.
You make a disgusted face. “The one filled with rats? No thanks. I am a lady.”
“Okay, car it is.” He pulls his keys from his pocket and puts his hand on the small of your back, guiding you towards the parking lot.
The lot is near empty, being that you’re two of the last people to leave. Thankfully, he’s parked far away from any remaining cars and streetlights. His car is a small black sedan with tinted windows, you notice.
Jisung opens the door to the backseat, and you climb in. He looks around the lot warily, making sure that anyone who would walk by wouldn’t notice the suspiciously parked car in the corner.
Your heart is pounding out of your chest as he climbs in and shuts the door behind him. He only has a second to look at you before you’re back on him, lips crashing together. He melts into you easily, and you feel the heat reignite inside of you.
He settles in the middle and pulls you on top of him, his hands scrambling to feel every inch of you. You tug on his shirt, and he rips it off himself, and you catch a glimpse of his tattoos in the low light. Fuck, that’s hot.
Your hands move up his torso, and you thank god for a moment when your fingertips trace his abs. “God, why are you so fucking hot?”
Jisung chuckles and kisses you harder, deeper.
Everything is moving at double speed. You’re certainly not taking your time, and you’re glad he’s keeping up. He kisses your neck as he tugs your shirt off, followed by your bra, and you can’t help but grind into him when he grabs at your breasts.
“Off…take these off,” you gasp, reaching for the belt on his shorts.
He tugs his shorts off, and they fall to his ankles, groaning as you grind against his bulge through his boxers.
“Your turn,” he leans back to whisper, fingers reaching for the zipper on your shorts.
You hop off of his lap to pull your bottoms off, scrambling back onto him as soon as it hits the floor. His eyes scan over your body, and you hear the air escaping his lungs.
“Fuck, look at you,” he says, taking two handfuls of your ass and squeezing tight. “Am I dreaming?”
A snort comes out of you as you settle back in his lap, bumping your nose against his as you kiss him again. You drag your core over his lap again, and he lets out a groan into your mouth.
The windows fog up fast. The car fills with the sounds of desperate kisses and heavy breathing. You’re soaked through your panties, and the fabric between the two of you isn’t providing the friction you need. Before you can move another muscle, you feel his warm fingers reaching below the waistband of your underwear.
His fingers find your folds, soft and warm and wet. Your hands squeeze his shoulders to steady yourself, and you let out a soft moan into his mouth.
“You’re dripping for me,” he whispers as his fingers drag through your wetness. He finds your clit and you feel a buzz throughout your body.
“Jisung,” you whimper. “Please.”
“Shh,” he coos. “I got you.”
Two thick fingers push inside you, curling against the spot that makes your head spin. You cry out, rocking your hips against his hand, slick dripping down his wrist. His mouth laches onto your breast and your vision blurs, the knot in your belly grows tighter.
Your legs are shaking, and you’re grinding hard against his hand when he suddenly pulls his fingers out. You whine at the loss, but when you open your eyes you watch him reach into his boxers and pull his cock out. It’s long, thick, and hard as a rock.
He pumps himself a couple of times, biting his lip as his eyes scan over you.
“Ready?” he asks, giving you a chance to back out if you’d like. You don’t.
“Yes, please,” you whine, and he moves your panties to the side and lines himself up.
He grabs your hip with one hand and helps you sink down onto him. Your eyes lock and you watch each other's face contort in pleasure as he fills you up. He thrusts the rest of the way until you’re fully seated on him.
“Shit—you feel so fucking good,” he groans, his voice strained. “You’re so tight, just for me.”
The car rocks as you start to bounce, feeling every vein of his cock drag against your walls. Your nails dig into his shoulders as his hips snap up to meet you with every thrust.
“So big,” you moan. “Feels so good, Jisung.” You watch him as you move, sweat glistening against his body, his eyes rolling in the back of his head as you drop down hard against him.
You’re riding him within an inch of his life. He moans louder with every desperate roll of your hips. You feel his cock twitch inside you, and your only wish is for him to fill you up.
He angles you back slightly and takes over your movements. His fingers bruise your waist as he fucks into you at a relentless pace. This angle has his cock pounding into your g-spot, and the heat in your body grows.
The windows are completely fogged, the air around you hot and filled with the smell of sex. Jisung’s movements grow sloppier, and his moans get louder.
“Ji—I’m gonna, I’m close,” you warn him.
“Come on me,” he growls, thrusting up harder. His hand slips between you and he rubs small, tight circles over your clit. “Let me feel you come all over my cock.”
The knot in your belly snaps and your orgasm crashes over you. You cry out his name, your body spasms as you clutch onto him, trying to stay upright. Your cunt clenches around him, dripping on his cock and soaking his lap. He fucks you through it, moaning at the way you squeeze him.
“Baby—fuck,” he cries as he buries himself deep inside you, filling you with hot, thick spurts of his cum.
You collapse against his chest, both of you panting and trembling. Your bodies are hot, skin sticky with sweat. His arms wrap around you tight, his fingers trace small patterns on your back as you both come down.
“You okay?” he whispers.
You nod your head. “Never better,” you laugh.
He presses soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, and temple. You both lie there for a moment in the steamy car, still attached and euphoric.
“Let me drive you home,” he says softly, and you agree.
He finds an old shirt on the floor of his car to clean you up with, and helps you get dressed. It’s a bit of a struggle in the back of the car, but you manage to put yourself back to mostly normal.
The car ride home is quiet, a comfortable silence settling over the two of you. His hand finds your thigh and you rest your head against the glass. It feels like you’ve done this a thousand times before. Like you’ve known each other for years.
He pulls in front of your building and you feel a little uneasy. What happens now? You want to ask, but you don’t want to reek of desperation. Maybe this was just a fun day for the two of you, and you’ll say hi when you bump each other at work, but nothing more.
He walks you to the door like a gentleman, and wraps his arms around your neck as he holds you tight. You swear you could fall asleep to the way he smells, warm and inviting.
You’ve fallen head over heels and straight onto your face for this man. This really stupid, really annoying, really fucking hot man.
“You should go on a date with me,” he whispers into your hair, catching you off guard. “For the turtles, of course.”
“What is up with everyone and these stupid turtles?” you laugh into his chest.
He pulls back to look you in the eyes. “The turtles are the reason we’re here right now.” He is dead serious about these turtles. “The turtles are the reason I got laid for the first time in almost a year.” You try to hide your laugh. “The stupid fucking turtles are the reason that I haven’t been able to get you out of my damn head all day.”
Your heart skips a beat. You can’t hide the smile that grows on your face, or the way you wiggle from excitement hearing him say that.
“Please, let me take you out on a date.” He’s practically begging.
“Okay,” you say, nodding your head. “But only because it’s for the turtles.”
He laughs and grabs your hips to pull you back in, meeting your lips to kiss you. It’s perfect, filling you with that warm fuzzy feeling you get when you’re falling in love.
a/n: HAN JISUNG IN A DUNK TANK!!!! RIDING HAN JISUNG IN THE BACK OF A CAR!!!!! i was going to make this quick n dirty since this takes place over the span of like a day but it wanted to be a love story…what can i say im a sucker i cant help myself 😭 but i hope you all enjoyed ♡
♤Master List ~ Next Day: Seonghwa & Yunho {Verbal Instruction}
You know you’re in trouble the minute you spot Kang Yeosang across the backyard BBQ. There’s a perma-slight-smile on his face and his jawline is cutting into your psyche.
It hits you, first in the face, your mind reeling at how gorgeous he is. Then, your heart skips a beat when his eyes slowly turn towards you and he quirks an eyebrow at you in question. Lastly, your thighs squeeze together and you swear wetness splurts out of your cunt in an eagerness that you should not be oozing at a backyard BBQ.
Using his pinky to push a strand of hair out of his face, Yeosang raises the can of beer he’s been nursing and takes a long sip. His Adam’s apple bobs with each swallow and you’re pretty sure you’ve just become a puddle on the freshly-cut lawn.
Anticipation seizes your throat as you take a step towards Yeosang. You know him, or rather, you know of him. You’ve probably exchanged polite words here or there, you are a part of the same pack after all, but you’ve never actually possessed the courage to speak to him directly. He always seemed like he was cut from a different cloth than you.
It’s that intriguing, mysterious, never-leaves-his-face tiny smile that has one foot in front of the other, moving you closer to the other wolf. Your wolf might as well be sniffing the ground, curious as to what this wolf had to offer.
He will make beautiful cubs, your inner wolf decides to interject. Like you hadn't considered that.
It takes a pack to raise cubs, and the fathers don’t stick around usually, so you had to pick a partner that would provide you with the good genes and not necessarily focus on if he’d be a good mate or not. Were you looking to get pregnant? Absolutely not. Did your instincts scream at you for Yeosang to plug you up this very moment? Fuck yes.
“Enjoying yourself?” Yeosang wonders when you at last come within conversation distance.
You shrug your shoulders. “It’s a mandatory pack gathering.”
Yeosang nods. “One of the solitary wolves then, hmm?”
You cock your head in consideration. “I prefer my inner pack small, more like it.”
“Touche,” Yeosang raises his beer and drains it. “Should I grab you something?” he offers.
What’s the play? Was Yeosang trying to politely remove himself and this was your chance to let him go? Or was he looking to play the potential wolf partner and provide?
Yeosang frowns slightly when you don’t answer. “Or are you the ‘play hard to get’ type? I can provide, you know. I may not work the hard jobs like some of the other pack members do but my income is on the higher scale.”
You can’t help but laugh quietly at Yeosang’s mental leap. Maybe he wasn’t that much different from you. “I’d like a drink, please.”
A moment of excitement passes over his face before he schools his features and nods sagely. “I’ll be right back.”
The two of you spend the next few hours laughing and talking over drinks and burgers once the pack’s alpha dishes them up. Your natural attraction to Yeosang blooms into something akin to affection as you understand how warm Yeosang is compared to his somewhat aloof appearance.
There is one instinct you’ve been fighting, however, and it gets the better of you. Your hand reaches up and plays with the ponytail Yeosang is sporting. His eyes widen in surprise. “Do you like it?”
Your mind hyperfocuses on the silk running between your fingers. “I love it.”
Yeosang scans the backyard. “Do you want to--?”
“We’ll crash a car if we try to make it anywhere else,” You interrupt him. “We need to find a room here.”
Yeosang chuckles, somewhat in anxiety. “In the alpha’s house?”
Your eyes meet his. “Yes.”
Yeosang concedes to your clear direction. “After you, then.”
After a quick sniff, you discover one room lacking any scents embedded within and decide that’ll do. Your arms wrap behind Yeosang’s neck, fingers finding his hair once again.
“Have you felt anything like this before?” You ask in a moment of vulnerability.
“Like my wolf is howling at me for not taking you in the backyard?” Yeosang laughs at himself. “No, not really.”
Your fingertips tease the nape of Yeosang’s neck. “Imagine that,” you can’t help but think. “Would you have bent me over the picnic table? Growled at any others that take a step towards us? Would you have ripped my shirt to watch my tits swing? Do you want the others to want to be you or do you want to shield me from their vision?”
Yeosang’s eyes unfocus. “I want them to watch. I want them to want but can’t touch.”
Your body presses further into Yeosang’s. He’s hard, everywhere. His chest is sculpted, his stomach is taunt, and his cock is like a searing instrument against you. “Would you fuck me harder?”
A low, warning snarl leaves Yeosang’s lips. “I’m going to do it right now. I want them to hear us.”
Lips come crashing together in a rush that was almost akin to a fight. Neither is searching for dominance, you simply want to crawl into Yeosang and feel him everywhere. His tongue skims the roof of your mouth, before licking the corner of your lips and then he’s pulling your lower lip gently.
You whine and Yeosang breaks the kiss. He’s already panting for air. It’s a pleasure to watch his shoulders shake. “My knot… it’s slow.”
Your eyes almost disappear into the back of your head forever at his words. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Hurt flashes briefly through Yeosang’s eyes before it’s gone as quickly as it appears. “It’s been a problem before.”
You shake your head. “Those bitches. They wouldn’t know a good partner if it bit them in the ass.” To prove your commitment to this moment, you cup Yeosang through his jeans. “That just means I get to enjoy you a lot longer.”
Relief paints Yeosang’s features, along with a little pain at the fact that you’re touching him but there’s still clothing between you two. That’s easily remedied. You pop the button to his jeans and the zipper moves down as you shove your hand under his boxer briefs. Your hand immediately circles the base of his cock. True to Yeosang’s word, his knot has yet to even swell. You squeeze him in reassurance and then begin to slowly pump him under his pants and underwear. Yeosang’s long lashes flutter against his cheekbones, revelling in your touch. “That’s nice,” he murmurs.
It leaves you to wonder if anyone has enjoyed his cock truly. Yes, as wolves, it’s all about the copulation, but by the way that Yeosang curves against your palm, you’re aware that there’s so many more ways to appreciate Kang Yeosang and his cock.
You drop to your knees, pulling his pants and boxer briefs down to his thick thighs. You don’t give Yeosang another moment to think as you lick a long strip up his length and then encompass the head of his cock into your willing mouth. You lick his slit, gathering his precum along your tongue and smear it further. You suck and play with the head of his cock, enjoying his noises of pleasure as you give him a little piece of yourself.
Both of Yeosang’s extremely large hands encompass your head. He thrusts shallowly into your mouth, a simple gesture showing that the wetness of your mouth is doing it for him. “I--” Yeosang swallows loudly. “I…”
You pop off Yeosang and begin to place slow, wet, open mouth-ed kisses along his trembling length. “What do you need?”
“Maybe it wasn’t my knot that was the problem,” Yeosang says. You glance down and indeed, Yeosang’s knot is beginning to swell. “Maybe I just needed the right partner.”
You can’t help but preen at the praise. “I like the sound of that.”
“That means, however…” Yeosang’s hands fall on your shoulders and attempt to tug you upwards. “I need to be inside of you sooner rather than later.”
You shake your head. “I want to feel your knot pop in my mouth.”
Yeosang’s eyes are blown. He’s clearly beyond surprised. “You do?”
Without another word, you go back to admiring the slowly swelling knot. The slight bulge at the base of his cock makes your instincts go into overdrive. All you want to do is pay homage to his knot. You lick and suck, causing Yeosang to moan lowly. You have to hold onto his hips, his Adonis belt under your palms, as his cock searches for more stimulation.
The beauty of using your mouth as his vice is that his knot pushes out enough for you to want to take it to the next level. Your mouth descends down his length, causing Yeosang to choke. You struggle at first, his cockhead hitting the back of your throat. But soon you relax your neck muscles and are able to slowly fuck him down your throat, all the while moving closer to your goal.
When your lips are able to seal against Yeosang’s pelvis, his knot securely settled behind your lips, you hum contently. Yeosang cries out suddenly, and you feel liquid rush down your throat. Still, you swallow it all. What an honor to have a wolf’s knot in your mouth and make him feel such pleasure that he can’t help but come.
Yeosang whines above you, his teeth capturing his bottom lip. “I don’t know…what…came over…me,” he pants.
You lean backwards, letting Yeosang’s cock naturally fall from your lips. You use your thumb to remove some of his cum from the corners of your lips and you suck on the moisture gathered there. “Me,” you reply simply.
A barking, sudden laughter escapes Yeosang’s mouth and you can’t help but quirk a smile back up at him. “You seem to be the factor that’s been escaping me.”
You eye his cock. His knot seems smaller but he’s still as hard as when you first felt him through his pants. “I think I could wiggle you into me like that,” You suggest.
Yeosang groans. “Take mercy on me, I just came!”
You shake your head, humming with a teasing smile. “I don’t think so.”
@anyamaris - im dedicating this to you Babe. Cant do oral and yeosang without mentioning you
♤Master List ~ Next Day: Seonghwa & Yunho {Verbal Instruction}
being a travel blogger has its perks; you get to travel the world, eat delicious food, and…dance with a mysterious, handsome stranger on a cruise?
pairing: hyunjin x fem!reader
genre: fluff, smut
content: oral sex (f + m receiving), fingering, coming untouched, unprotected sex (p in v), choking, a mirror is involved
word count: 5.2k
a/n: i'm so sorry for being late! thank you for your patience with me pls enjoy this reader simping for hyunjin and him being the beautiful man that he is ♡
♡ m.list
a wet hot skz summer event masterlist ☼ schedule
The words you choose to live by are as follows: do something worth writing, then write something worth reading. And that’s exactly what you’ve been doing for the past four years. You have, arguably, one of the best jobs in the entire world. As a travel blogger for a major publication, your sole purpose in life is to see the world and write about it, and hopefully inspire others to see it too.
The breeze on the top deck feels warm as it hits your face, and the smell of the fresh salty air makes you feel hopeful for the rest of your trip. You’ve scored a trip on the Starlost for this assignment, the cruise line’s latest and most luxurious ship. Your company has given you a full suite with an ocean view, and they prefer that the readers have the inside scoop on the ultimate experience.
You pull out your phone and take a few shots of the view. The ship is huge—you’re honestly not sure if you’ll have enough time to explore everything in the next five days, but you’re determined to try.
After spending some time wandering the ship and mentally cataloguing all of the places you’d like to visit, you decide to check out one of the ship’s main attractions. It’s the perfect time, right as the sun is going down, and all of the families with young children head to bed.
Club Miroh is the hot spot of the cruise line for young adults, according to the information pamphlet you read when you got your assignment. The lights are dim and brightly colored, and the bass booms through the speakers.
You sit at the bar, scanning the young crowd. You take a couple of photos of the atmosphere, hoping to convey the youthful and fun vibe to your audience. Maybe in the beginning you’d dance with a few strangers or chat it up with the bartender, but people watching was a hobby you slowly picked up and enjoyed far more.
A couple makes their way to the dance floor, and you imagine what their life must be like. Maybe they left the kids at home, determined to spend quality time together and go on adventures while they’re still young. Or maybe they just met tonight, two singles just looking for a night of fun.
“A tequila sunrise for the lady?” The bartender’s voice cuts through the music as he sets down the orange and yellow drink in front of you.
“Oh, I didn’t order that…,” your voice trails off as you shake your head.
“Ah, the gentleman over there sent it over.” He gestures to the other side of the bar to a man seated alone. You look over at the man and see him hunched over the bar, drinking a dark liquor out of his glass. Eyes trained directly at you.
He’s very handsome. No, scratch that, he’s gorgeous. His long black hair is slicked back, and he’s wearing a dark button-up and jeans that are probably worth your entire paycheck.
You tip your glass to him before taking a sip as a thank you. He lifts his own glass in return, a sly smirk appearing on his face. Before you know it, he’s sliding into the stool next to you.
“Hyunjin,” he says as he introduces himself, his voice low and sultry. It’s not often that a stranger leaves you speechless by looks alone, but he definitely does.
Other than your obvious nervousness, the conversation flows quite well. He’s an artist from Korea, and also flying solo on this cruise. You don’t ask why, whether he had someone he was supposed to come with, or if this was his plan all along.
It’s a quarter to midnight when he leans in close, the spice of his cologne filling your nostrils, and whispers in your ear, “Come dance with me.”
The floors vibrate as you step onto the dance floor, guided by Hyunjin. The flashing lights reflect on every nearby surface and illuminate the crowd. You sidestep a couple of drunken passengers, leaning into Hyunjin for support. He smiles at you as he lets you hold onto him.
He takes your hand and starts to move to the beat. You’re not the greatest dancer, but you try your best to loosen up. You accidentally step on his foot, and you look up at his face in horror as you profusely apologize. But he just laughs it off. His laughter is contagious, and for the first time this trip, nothing exists beyond this moment.
He leans in close and says the words you’ve been waiting to hear all night.
“You wanna get out of here?”
You’re no stranger to a hookup in international waters. It’s not exactly a common occurrence, but it does happen. You just skip over that part of the night when you go back to write about it the next day, your boss never the wiser.
Your back hits the door as it locks, Hyunjin’s lips attacking yours once you’re both alone. His hands held your hips firmly as he rolled his into yours. You can feel his cock straining through his pants, eager to be free.
He peels you off the door and guides you to the bed. Your knees hit the edge, and the two of you topple over onto it.
His hands move from your waist to your thighs, hiking your dress up. He moves his mouth to your neck, kissing and nipping up the side. Your hands are busy tugging at his clothes and his belt all at the same time.
He steps back to unbutton and snatch his shirt off, then undoes his belt and jeans with one hand while leaning over you. He is so fucking sexy, you almost wish you had gotten to know him a bit better before doing this.
You pull him closer with your legs, craving his touch. He hikes your dress even higher, and dips his head even lower, leaving a trail of soft kisses along your belly just above your waistline.
“Fuck, Hyunjin—please,” you plead, raking your hands through his gelled-up hair.
He doesn’t reply, he just kneels on the floor in front of the bed. He slides your lacy black panties down before spreading your thighs wide. His fingers part your folds, giving him a perfect view of your cunt. And then, he lets a string of spit fall directly on your clit.
He’s playing with his food. That’s how you feel anyway, not that you’re complaining. You let out a whine, partially from impatience but mostly because you can’t believe he’s so hot and a little freaky. Then, finally, you let out a noise that sounds like somewhat of a cross between a sigh and a moan once his tongue finally touches you.
The man eats like he’s in a desert, and your juices are the only thing that can quench his thirst. His tongue is long, reaching in spots you didn’t even know existed. He leaves long licks from your entrance to your clit, savoring every drop you give him.
“You taste even better than I imagined,” he hums, sucking your juices up.
He uses his thumb to trace your folds, taking note of what makes you squirm so that he can do it again. It’s not long before he’s pressing two fingers inside of you, curling them just the right way to make you see stars.
“Fuck—keep going, I’m gonna come,” you cry.
“That’s the goal, sweetheart.” He’s smug, which makes him hotter. You want to roll your eyes from annoyance, but they end up rolling for entirely different reasons.
He picks up his pace, fucking you with his fingers while his tongue circles your clit. Your cunt is making the juiciest sounds, and he’s eating all of it up. He’s rutting against the side of the bed, chasing friction for himself, making the bed squeak under the two of you.
He’s intense, but not in an overstimulating way. Everything he does is just perfect. You thank the stars in your head because not once have you had to give him instructions, a rarity these days. You’re straining to keep your orgasm back, wanting to feel this for as long as possible.
“Come on, give it to me,” he says, and you can’t hold it back any longer.
Your orgasm crashes over you, hard, and you cry out in pleasure. Your cunt pulses around his fingers, and your thighs latch on the sides of his head as he coaxes you through it, slowing his movements down gradually. Your legs are still shaking by the time he leans down to plant a kiss over your clit.
“Holy shit,” you say, because they’re the only words you can think of after having the most mind-blowing orgasm of your life.
He stands up to lean over you, wiping your juices on the back of his hand before leaning down for a kiss. You reach for his waist and start to pull his boxers down when he stops you, grabbing your wrist.
You look at his eyes, waiting for an explanation.
“You don’t need to—,”
“I want to.” God, what you wouldn’t give to have this man’s dick inside of you.
“No, it’s not that. It’s—I, um…I already came.”
You blink at him. He stands up straighter to show you, and sure enough, you look down and see a wide wet patch on the front of his boxers. Your brain doesn’t compute because it’s the hottest fucking thing you’ve ever seen.
“I, uh, tend to get off on other people’s pleasure more…” His voice trails off as he explains himself.
You think about getting down on one knee, right then and there.
“I hear there’s a chapel on the ship,” you joke.
He laughs, trying to hide the blush that’s forming on his face. “You trying to make an honest man out of me already?”
“After that—absolutely,” you chuckle, still coming down from your high. “But I’ll buy you dinner first.”
“How about a shower first?”
The water runs off your back as you watch him lather himself up. You were expecting this to be more awkward, or maybe he’d want to bolt right after. But his lingering presence felt more comforting than you’d expected.
You almost invite him to spend the night, before stopping yourself. He’s a stranger that you just met, maybe he has other plans, other people he wants to see. You don’t insist when he goes to leave.
“I’ll see you around, I hope,” he says as he’s getting dressed. And you really, really hope you do, too.
He excuses himself from your room, and the silence fills the cabin with the click of the lock. You feel a smile creep across your face before you can stop it. This trip is going to be one for the books, you can already tell.
The pool deck is crowded when you arrive shortly after lunch. The sun is especially hot today, given the lack of trees and buildings to provide shade while at sea. Still, you strap your bikini on and find a quieter corner to sunbathe in while dipping your toes in the pool. You throw your head back, soaking up the sunlight, and relax.
“Is this seat taken?” A voice breaks through your thoughts and startles you.
You open your eyes to a man you don’t recognize. He’s on the shorter side, and he could definitely use some sunscreen, judging by the bright red that coats his skin. He’s really, really not your type.
He sits down next to you before you have the chance to protest. At first, he sits way too close, so you scoot out of his way, putting as much distance between the two of you as possible. You’re polite, nodding your head to whatever he’s saying, which is a long-winded speech about how fascinating cruise ships are.
It’s boring. Mind-numbingly boring, and this man is not attractive enough for you to pretend to be interested. You should really leave. You’re not interested, and you don’t want to waste the man’s time, or yours, any longer than necessary.
“I should go—,”
“Wait wait, one more thing—,”
“Darling?” you hear as a familiar figure approaches from your peripheral vision.
Hyunjin. He looks down at the two of you, loose tank top, dark swim trunks, and sunglasses perched on the tip of his nose. You can’t help but beam as he sits down.
“Hi, honey,” you say sweetly, leaning into his shoulder. “This gentleman was just telling me about…sorry, what was it about boats?”
“It was cruise ships, and never mind, you’re clearly not interested.”
He gets up before you can give him a polite goodbye, which is probably for the best. Maybe you should have said something sooner, but the look on that man’s face when Hyunjin sat down was priceless.
What are you even thinking? He probably just saw you from across the way, noticed the uninterested look on your face, and decided to step in to save you from embarrassment. He’s not yours, he’s just a nice guy.
“Thank you,” you stifle a laugh as the man walks out of view. “I had no idea what he was talking about.”
“You looked like you were in trouble,” he says with a smile. “And like you needed a refill.”
He places a cold glass into your hand, the same pinkish orange drink you’d sipped on the previous night.
“Another one?” you ask, playfully. “Careful, or I might start thinking you like me.”
“I do,” he says plainly. “You like me, too.” He laughs as he finishes his drink. You feel a flutter in your stomach, like he knows exactly what you want to hear.
“Says who?” you ask, eyebrow raised. You definitely like him, but you’re not about to give him the satisfaction just yet.
“Says God. I went to the chapel and asked him myself.”
“There is not a chapel on board,” you laugh, snorting a bit. “I made that up.”
“There is. I just went.” His straight, convincing face makes you laugh harder.
“You’re very humble, you know that?” you tease, pushing his shoulder a bit.
“You love it,” he winks, and your heart does a stupid little flip. To your surprise, he excuses himself, stands up, and leaves you to finish your drink and sunbathe alone. He disappears into the crowd of people, and you’re still smiling to yourself.
You want to ask him out, maybe to dinner at your next port, but you decide against it. You like him a bit too much, you think, and it’s easier not to let yourself have something if it’s just going to be ripped away from you in the end. Korea’s far, after all.
You go to bed that night wondering what it might feel like to fall asleep next to him.
Who are you to deny yourself the finer things in life? That’s the question you ask yourself as you’re pacing back and forth in your suite, getting ready for the evening.
Maybe Korea is too far. Maybe it’s too far for anything serious, but this is a vacation. It’s five days of living your life to the fullest so you can go back and tell everyone how cool the world is. And living your life to the fullest means asking out the man who made you see stars and not caring where it ends up.
You check yourself in the mirror. It’s a beach port, and you’re hoping to spend most of the day relaxing in the sand and swimming in the ocean. Your swimsuit shows off your body, and your coverup leaves little to the imagination—exactly how you want it.
Making stops in different countries is one of your favorite parts of a cruise. It’s fun to see the beaches, the different towns, and maybe do a fun activity or two while you’re there. The locals are always helpful, pointing out the best restaurants and the places you must see.
But today you have a different mission.
You spot him hunched over the beach bar, laughing with the bartender. He notices you almost immediately, his smile wide as he waves you over. His hair is wavier today, curling at the ends. It’s fluffy, and you have to resist the urge to find out if it’s as soft as it looks.
He orders you the same drink he’s ordered for you the past few days, before leaning in close. “I want to show you something.”
You follow him down the beach, drink in one hand and your sandals in the other, before you reach an area where the beach curves inland. It’s more secluded, away from the big crowds, and the water looks calmer.
“I swear it looks bluer from this side,” he says, sitting down in the sand. You’re close enough to the water to see the bubbles from the waves, but far enough so you won’t get wet. The sight is beautiful, with the sun starting to go down, and the colors in the sky complement the ocean well.
“Why tequila sunrises?” you ask him as you look down at your drink, taking a sip.
He glances at the glass, then shrugs his shoulders. “You didn’t complain the first time.”
You huff out a laugh. “So you’ve just decided that’s my drink forever?”
“Until proven otherwise.”
“What if I wanted something else?”
His lips curve into a smile. “You’d tell me.”
It’s not a romantic answer, but something about the simplicity of it makes your heart warm. The suggestion that if you wanted something different, all you had to do was ask and he would oblige has the butterflies in your stomach going wild.
The conversation begins to dwindle as the sun sets. You look beside you, and Hyunjin isn’t looking at the sunset anymore. He has a book in his lap and is delicately flipping through the pages.
“What’s that?” you ask, gesturing to the pad of paper in his lap.
“A sketchbook.”
“Oh yeah, you’re an artist. What do you draw?”
He flips through the notebook and shows you tons of tiny sketches of different figures. A man holding a child’s hand on the beach. A couple leaned against the railing, staring fondly at each other. A woman quietly reading a book in a corner.
They’re all people. Different kinds of people, from all over the world.
“They’re my muses.”
It’s beautiful. Not just the drawings, but the craft itself. The skill it takes to see something and then draw it out on paper, the patience it takes to make sure the lines are all right, the passion and the will to want it to get it right—it’s all so inspiring.
He has such a beautiful view of life. And not only life, but the people who make up the world you live in.
“Can I do one?” you ask. You may not be an artist or really the best at drawing in general, but you recognize the art and the beauty behind it and want to give it a go.
He flips the book to a fresh page and hands it to you along with a pen. You look around the beach at all the people, and decide there is only one person worthy of drawing.
You turn your body to face him confidently, staring at the features on his face. He gets the hint and poses with a hand on his chin and a big smile on his face. His cheeks are all bunched up, and his eyes are squeezed shut. The sight of him makes you laugh. He looks a bit ridiculous, but it fills you with a warmth you find hard to describe.
“Sit still,” you say after a couple of minutes of silence. Your lines are jagged because you can’t stop laughing, and the light is getting lower as the sun goes down. You hope that he doesn’t judge your awful drawing, but there’s nothing you’d change about this moment.
“You look cute when you’re concentrated.”
“Shhhh! I’m working.” He barks out a laugh.
It’s hard to concentrate when every time you look up, he’s staring at you. There’s a certain glint in his eyes that makes your heart skip.
“Done,” you finally announce.
He scoots back towards you to get a closer look. You hand him the sketchbook to show him, and he bursts out into laughter.
“It’s not that bad!” you argue, crossing your arms in defense.
“No, no, no. It’s beautiful.”
It’s objectively terrible. His eyes are uneven as hell, his nose is crooked, and his hair….you’re not even sure you gave him enough hair. And you forgot about his ears.
“It doesn’t even look like you,” you say, pouting a bit. You did try really hard, but it’s just not your thing.
“Well, I love it anyway.”
He’s so much softer than you first thought. You admire so much about him, from the way he carries himself to his outlook on life and how he views the people around him, even strangers.
You don’t even realize that your eyes are locked on his until he starts to lean in closer. Your lips meet, much softer than the first. He brings a hand to your cheek, caressing you gently. You tilt your head to deepen the kiss, and he follows. You swear the only thing missing is fireworks behind your head.
“We have to get back on the ship,” he pulls back to whisper. “Come to my suite.”
You nod, and he helps you to your feet, brushing sand off both of you before walking back onto the dock.
His suite is massive—on the top level of this side of the ship, with a beautiful ocean view. The king-size bed sits perfectly in the middle of the space, and there’s even a fireplace. Your company would have never put you up in a place like this.
“Wow,” you say, gaping at the room. “How successful of an artist are you?”
Maybe the question is in poor taste, but when he said artist, you assumed it was a “starving artist” kind of vibe. Not this.
But he laughs it off. “A couple of my paintings sold at a charity auction not long ago.”
Successful enough to have paintings sell at an auction, apparently. Wealth isn’t something you’d normally care about, but being successful at doing something you love is so hot.
There’s no point in dancing around it anymore. You want him badly. A grin spreads across your face as you pull him towards the bed. The nerves flutter in your stomach as you lie down, guiding him on top of you.
He kisses you with a burning passion, like you might never see each other again after tonight. He moves down from your mouth, kissing along your jawline. You thread your fingers through his hair and let out a small gasp when you look up.
There’s a mirror on the ceiling. A gigantic mirror, right above the bed. You can tell whoever designed the space tried to be fancy, adding some kind of etching details on it. Quite a choice for a cruise line, but maybe a bit exciting nonetheless.
He looks up at you when he hears you, and follows where you’re looking before bursting out in laughter.
“I’ll be honest, I had no idea that would be there when I booked this.”
“It’s kind of hot though,” you reply. He looks at you with wide eyes for a moment before going back to kissing you.
You’re barely wearing anything for him to take off, but something about him carefully untying your bikini strings sends your head spinning.
He works his way down from your neck to your chest, before kneading at your breasts and taking one in his mouth. He moves his tongue around your nipple before sucking gently, and you let out a moan when he lets go with a pop.
“I love it when you make that sound,” he sighs, taking your other breast into his mouth.
You tug on his tank top, signaling him to take it off. He peels it off his back and tosses it on the floor somewhere. He reaches down between the two of you and tugs your bottoms lower, sliding them off to join the growing pile of clothes on the floor.
Your legs part for him instantly, and you can already tell you’re soaked. He sucks at your neck at the same time he dips his hand between your legs, and collects some of your juices before bringing it up to his lips for a taste.
“You taste so good,” he whispers in your ear.
“Let me taste you, too,” you say softly. You reach down to palm him through his shorts, and he lets out a moan into your ear.
You push him back gently, feeling up his toned torso and pressing your lips to his neck. He still smells good after a day at the beach. You suck at the spot just above his collarbone before you work your way down to his chest, leaving a trail of kisses as you go.
“Leave as many marks as you want,” he says gently, combing his fingers through your hair. Something possessive inside you triggers, and you leave several bruises down his torso.
You reach his sharp V line and pause for a moment, untying the strings on his swim trunks and sliding them down slowly, licking your lips. His hardened dick hits his torso with a heavy thump. He’s gifted in more ways than one, to say the least.
You start by licking a slow stripe up his shaft before you chicken out, earning you a moan from him.
“Don’t get shy on me now,” he says, voice low as he slides his hand through your hair to pull it out of the way. “You look so pretty on your knees for me.”
His words embolden you as you drag your tongue up his length again, slower, before swirling it around the head of his cock. The taste of his precum hits your mouth, making you hum around it.
“Fuck, just like that,” he says, grip tightening in your hair. He tries to keep from bucking into your mouth too soon, letting you set the pace.
You take him in slowly, relaxing your throat and letting him sink all the way in. Your head bobs up and down, your hand stroking at the base of what you can’t fit.
“Shit, your mouth feels incredible,” he groans. “Look at me, I want to see those pretty eyes.”
You glance up at him through your lashes, hollowing your cheeks as you take him deeper. His moans are getting louder, and he can’t stop his hips from bucking up into you.
“Fuck, come here,” he says, guiding you off of him slowly. “I’ll come right now if you keep looking at me like that.”
You crawl your way back up his body, licking the salty taste of his precum from your lips. He pulls you in for a kiss, and you grind down against him, the skin-on-skin contact driving you wild.
“I need you inside me,” you gasp between kisses. “Please.”
He flips the two of you around, and you giggle as your back hits the mattress. You pull him in for another kiss before inhaling sharply as he dips his hand between your legs.
“Tasting me really got you goin’, huh?” he teases, slowly running his fingers through your folds.
“Fuck—Hyunjin, please, I need you.” You’re not ashamed to beg for him, hoping your desperation turns him on.
“I got you, baby, just wanna make sure you can take all of me.”
The stretch burns as he nudges the head of his cock inside. Your legs wrap around his legs instinctively, pulling him closer. The two of you let out a chorus of moans as he sinks in deeper, much too slow for your liking.
“Holy—fuck, you’re so tight,” he hisses in your ear, hand gripping your hip hard.
He slams in the rest of the way until he’s buried to the hilt. The fullness is overwhelming in the best way. You look up at the ceiling, the visual of him fucking you makes your head spin.
“You gonna watch while I ruin you?” he grunts in your ear as he starts to move.
You can’t even bring yourself to respond, the feeling of him sliding against your walls makes your brain fuzzy.
“Harder,” you manage to get out.
“Yeah? You want it rough?” He brings a hand to your throat, squeezing the sides gently. The circulation being cut off sends your eyes rolling into the back of your skull.
He sets a punishing pace as you watch the reflection of him fucking you. The sounds of skin on skin clapping together fill the room, mixed with his grunts and your moans.
“You feel so fucking good,” he groans, slowing to kiss your temple. “Fucking made for me.”
Your cunt clenches around him at his words. “I’m yours,” you mutter out as he picks up his pace again.
“Come for me, baby. I’ve got you.” He moves his hand from your hip and slides it between you, rubbing quick circles on your clit. At the same time, he gives your throat a light squeeze. His thrusts get sloppier as he gets closer to his own release.
The combination sends you over the edge. You see stars, and you cry out his name as your orgasm hits you hard. Hyunjin follows right after you with a deep moan, burying himself deep as his cock pulses inside you.
He stays inside for a long moment, letting you both catch your breath. He leans down to wipe loose strands of hair from your face and press a soft kiss to your lips.
Your mind starts to race when he pulls out to get a clean towel for the two of you. You really, really like him, and the idea of flying home and never seeing him again feels like a punch to the gut.
Hyunjin opens the balcony door to let fresh air in before lying down next to you. Neither of you speaks for a long while, just cuddled up in each other’s arms, tracing lazy patterns over each other’s skin.
“Korea’s too far,” you mumble, the sadness evident in your voice.
His hand stills for a moment before he lets out a long sigh. “Yeah, it is.” He smiles down at you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
It’s too good to be true, too perfect to keep. You want to bottle up these small moments you’ve had together and hold them close forever.
“I have an idea,” he says. “What if we book this same cruise next year? Same dates, same place, same ship. I’ll even book the same room so we can have the mirror again.”
You laugh, giving him a playful slap on the arm. But you look up at him and nod your head. “I think I like that.”
“We don’t have to figure everything out tonight. But maybe we can have this again. Maybe a little more next time.”
You bring his jaw closer to yours, kissing him slowly.
“Deal.”
a/n: ahhh thank you for your patience my life has been crazy! sorry if this one feels rushed! please let me know if you liked i've been going back and forth about it all week ahaha ♡
[ ▸ ] — you arrive at camp skz ready for cabins, campfires, and the particular kind of crisis only a child with wet socks can create. you are not ready for changbin, who turns out to be built, funny, stubbornly helpful, and much too good at making kids feel brave. by the end of summer, cabin fever has less to do with the woods and everything to do with the boy you keep finding beside you.
[ ☰ ] — event masterlist - schedule
[ ✐ ] — 9k
[ ⌗ ] — camp counselor!changbin x camp counselor!reader coworkers to lovers slow burn? camp shenanigans graphic & detailed smut oral ( f receiving ) squirting
[ ✉︎ ] — aaaaaand we're back! first of all—please listen to because and endless sun. these capture the vibe of this fic best <3 i'm so excited for you to get to know my big, beefy, softy camp counselor husband. this boy is quietly c o n f i d e n t over lifeguard!chris's loud cockiness, which is a little refreshing...but just wait until you get to the smut scene 😈 so happy to see everyone's response to the event so far <3 so without further ado, enjoy hunnies, and please like, reblog, and comment to show your support—it really does mean a lot to us writers. and i LOVE seeing what you guys think! feedback is always appreciated. love you all so much! mwah!
The first thing you saw when Chaewon turned off the main road was a wooden sign nailed between two posts at the edge of the trees.
CAMP SKZ
Strength. Kindness. Zeal.
You stared at it through the windshield, your iced coffee sweating between your knees.
“Screaming. Kid. Zoo,” you said.
Chaewon laughed hard enough that the car swerved slightly on the gravel. “We haven’t even parked yet, bitch.”
“I’m preparing myself.”
“You’re going to love it.”
The road curved beneath a canopy of pine trees before opening into a clearing. Cabins sat in neat rows along dirt paths, dark green with cream trim and little wooden signs hanging near the steps. The main lodge stood at the center of camp with a wraparound porch and a bell mounted beside the door. Farther down, the lake flashed blue through the trees, bright under the afternoon sun.
Counselors were already everywhere. Some carried bags. Some dragged coolers. Someone near the sports field was fighting with a volleyball net that had wrapped itself around his leg. Music played faintly from somewhere near the mess hall, interrupted by laughter, shouts, and the slam of car doors.
Chaewon parked beside Cabin Three and turned off the engine.
You sat there for a second.
She nudged your arm. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you said. “Just accepting that I voluntarily gave up six weeks of air conditioning.”
“You also gained practical experience for your social work degree.”
“I could’ve done that indoors.”
“You would’ve hated indoors.”
You opened your door and stepped into warm air that smelled like pine, dust, sunscreen, and lake water. You grabbed your backpack and reached for your duffel just as someone jogged past the parking area carrying two stacked coolers against his chest. He moved quickly over the gravel, shoulders broad beneath a fitted gray shirt, arms locked around the cooler handles like they weighed nothing. His black shorts clung to thick thighs, and his hair was damp at the edges from the heat.
A voice called from the lodge porch. “Changbin! Chan said those go by the mess hall!”
The guy turned his head. “I know. I’m saving them from Jisung.”
“I didn’t do anything!” another voice yelled from inside.
“Yet.”
“No one respects me here!”
The guy, Changbin, laughed and kept walking.
You realized you were still holding your duffel strap without lifting it.
Chaewon followed your gaze. “Oh,” she said.
You pulled the bag from the trunk. “What?”
“You’re studying social work, not anatomy, girlfriend.”
You shoved your backpack higher on your shoulder and started toward the lodge. “Keep talking and I’ll request a different roommate cabin.”
“You can’t. I already claimed you.”
“Unfortunately.”
Inside the lodge, the main room was full of folding chairs, clipboards, name tags, and counselors trying to look normal while silently judging where to sit. You followed Chaewon to two chairs near the middle. A woman with a neat ponytail and a staff binder stood at the front, speaking to a guy who nodded with his whole attention.
“That’s Director Hong,” Chaewon whispered. “She runs the camp.”
A few minutes later, Director Hong clapped her hands once, and the room quieted.
“Welcome to Camp SKZ,” she said. “For those of you returning, welcome back. For those of you joining us for the first time, we’re glad you’re here. The next three days are staff training. Campers arrive on day four, which means you have three days to learn the grounds, your roles, the emergency procedures, and each other.”
Introductions came next.
Chan went first. He was the head counselor, assigned to leadership games, campfire circles, evening reflections, and night rounds. He had a calm, friendly way of speaking that made the room settle around him.
Minho handled nature trails and animal care, introducing himself plainly before telling everyone not to touch anything with teeth, venom, suspicious coloring, or an attitude.
Jisung ran games, skits, and cabin competitions, which explained why he had already made three people laugh before orientation started.
Hyunjin handled arts, mural painting, and talent show costumes, speaking with enough passion about glitter supervision that even Director Hong looked amused.
Felix ran the baking club and kindness crew, warm and bright as he explained that campers would make simple treats and write notes for each other throughout the week.
Seungmin handled music, morning announcements, and talent show rehearsals with a polite smile that made it clear he would absolutely make children rehearse until they got the words right.
Jeongin led beginner archery and team games, relaxed and confident with a whistle already hanging around his neck.
Then Changbin stood.
You made a point of looking at his face, but it didn’t help much.
“I’m Changbin,” he said, one hand lifting in a small wave. “I’m studying kinesiology. I’ll be running athletics, strength challenges, canoe safety drills, and helping with any activity where someone might decide they’re stronger than common sense.”
Jisung leaned back in his chair with a frown. “You can just say my name.”
“I was being polite.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“I was trying.”
The female counselors followed.
Bestie Chaewon handled drama games and cabin bonding, which fit her perfectly because she could make forced group activities feel almost normal.
Yunjin led waterfront activities and swim safety, sunglasses perched on her head, whistle ready, voice strong enough to cut across a lake.
Minji ran crafts and friendship bracelets, sweet until she began discussing bead organization with startling seriousness.
Hanni handled dance and movement games, smiling as she promised to make even reluctant campers move by the end of the summer.
Nari took quiet hour, the reading corner, and puzzles, her voice soft but steady.
Jisoo led gardening and outdoor science, already excited about the herb beds and the little greenhouse behind the mess hall.
Kazuha handled yoga, stretching, and morning warm-ups by the lake.
When it was your turn, you stood with your clipboard against your chest. “I’m studying social work,” you said. “I’ll be helping with camper care, cabin check-ins, conflict resolution, and general emotional damage control.”
Chan nodded solemnly. “We’ll need that.”
“Especially from the counselors,” Seungmin said, glancing at Jisiung.
Jisung pointed at him. “You all are obsessed with me.”
“I didn’t name you.”
“You looked right at me.”
You sat back down, and Chaewon leaned toward you.
“Good intro,” she whispered.
“Thanks. I blacked out.”
After orientation, Director Hong walked everyone through the rules. No campers alone near the lake. No hiking without two counselors. No food in cabins unless you wanted bugs, raccoons, or a lecture from Minho. No swimming without Yunjin present. No campfires without Chan or Director Hong. No using the emergency golf cart unless it was a real emergency.
Jisung raised his hand. “What counts as a real emergency?”
Director Hong looked at him.
He lowered his hand. “I know.”
Staff week moved quickly after that.
You unpacked in Cabin Three with Chaewon, fought over the bed by the window, lost because Chaewon had already put her pillow there. You toured the mess hall, infirmary, craft cabin, waterfront, sports field, hiking trails, storage sheds, and the little patch of garden beds behind the kitchen. By the end of the first day, your shoes were dusty, your shirt clung to your back, and you had already learned that camp maps looked cute until you were the person trying to follow them.
You also learned that Changbin was very helpful.
He carried coolers. He moved tables. He fixed a wobbly bench outside the mess hall because he had noticed it during the tour. He helped Minji lift craft bins onto a high shelf. He took a stack of folded camp shirts from Felix before Felix could insist he had them. He moved through camp like his body was always ready to be useful.
On the second day, you rotated through everyone’s activity areas so you could understand where campers might need support. Baking club with Felix smelled like cinnamon and sugar even before anything went in the oven. Arts with Hyunjin involved brush washing rules, canvas labeling, and a warning that creative freedom did not include painting on cabin walls again. Quiet hour with Nari was peaceful enough that you considered hiding there until August.
Then you reached athletics.
Changbin stood under the shade of a large oak with his clipboard tucked under one arm. He had changed into black shorts and a sleeveless staff shirt, which felt deeply unnecessary and also unavoidable. Sweat had dampened the hair at the nape of his neck. His shoulders looked broad enough to be unfair.
You walked up beside him and forced yourself to look at the equipment.
“Social work has brought me to sandbags,” you said.
He laughed. “You sound thrilled.”
“I’m open-minded.”
“You look suspicious.”
“I can be both.”
He walked you through each station. Relay races for teamwork. Obstacle courses for confidence. Strength challenges adjusted by age. Balance games for campers who hated running but still wanted to feel included. He spoke clearly, not rushing, and every explanation came back to safety and encouragement.
“You really thought this out,” you said.
He shrugged. “Kids remember when adults make them feel weak.”
You looked at him. He kept his eyes on the field. “I don’t want to be that guy.”
The answer stayed with you longer than you expected.
Later that afternoon, during canoe safety training, Changbin demonstrated emergency carries with Jisung, who seemed far too excited to be rescued.
“Lift me like I matter,” Jisung said, standing with his arms out.
Changbin sighed. “You matter less every time you speak.”
“Cruel.”
Changbin still lifted him easily, shifting Jisung over his shoulder while the group clapped and laughed.
You watched the movement of Changbin’s arms, the stability in his stance, the way he carried Jisung like it cost him almost nothing. Changbin set him down and looked across the group.
“Anyone else want to try being carried?”
His eyes landed on you. You felt heat creep up your neck.
“No,” you said immediately.
He grinned. “I didn’t say your name.”
“You looked at me.”
“You can hear smiles and read looks now?”
“With enough suspicion, yes.”
He crossed his arms, which did not help the arm situation. “Scared?”
That was unfair.
You pushed your clipboard into Chaewon’s chest and stepped forward. “Fine.”
Changbin crouched in front of you. “Piggyback is easiest.”
“Don’t drop me.”
He looked back over his shoulder. “You think I’m going to drop you?”
“I just met you yesterday.”
He laughed, and you climbed onto his back before you could overthink it. His hands hooked securely under your thighs, warm through your shorts. Your arms settled around his shoulders. He stood slowly, and your stomach dropped for reasons that had nothing to do with height.
He was solid beneath you. Steady. “You good?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“You sound tense.”
“You’re holding my thighs in front of coworkers.”
His laugh came out low. “That would do it.”
He carried you across the grass with no visible effort, taking even steps while everyone watched. You tried to keep your face neutral. It was difficult when his shoulders moved beneath your arms and his hands stayed firm under your legs.
“Still good?” he asked.
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“I’m responsible.”
“You’re showing off.”
“Also that.”
You laughed, and his grip tightened for half a second before he lowered you carefully back to the grass. When your feet touched down, he didn’t immediately move away. Neither did you.
Chaewon coughed behind you. “So educational.”
You turned and snatched your clipboard from her hands.
By the time campers arrived the next morning, the staff had fallen into a loose rhythm.
You also learned that Changbin could not say no when someone asked for help. That became obvious before lunch on the first camper day.
He carried luggage. Then more luggage. Then a stack of bunk mattresses someone wanted moved. Then water jugs. Then a box of sports jerseys. Then he tried to help Jisoo carry soil to the garden beds and almost walked straight into Director Hong.
“Changbin,” she said.
He froze with a bag of soil against his chest. “Yes?”
“Have you eaten?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. She raised her eyebrows.
You walked over and took the clipboard tucked under his arm. “I’ll finish check-ins for athletics. Go eat.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re sweating through your shirt and you just tried to put gardening soil in the sports shed.”
He looked down at the bag.
Jisoo gently took it from him. “This one’s mine.”
Changbin rubbed the back of his neck. “Right.”
You pointed toward the mess hall. “Food.”
He smiled, sheepish. “You’re kind of scary.”
“I’m practicing for my future career.”
He leaned closer as he passed. “It’s working.”
Your heart kicked hard against your ribs.
The campers turned Camp SKZ into exactly what you had expected and nothing like you had imagined.
They arrived shy, loud, tearful, excited, sticky, sunburned, already missing home, already making friends, already losing water bottles. By the end of the first day, you had learned that a seven-year-old could cry over the wrong bunk with full-body devastation, a nine-year-old could ask forty-three questions about snakes without breathing, and a twelve-year-old could clock adult tension with terrifying accuracy.
Her name was Aria. She was in Cabin Five, wore friendship bracelets up both arms, and had the steady gaze of someone who missed nothing.
She found you on the second day while you were helping pass out orange slices after relay races.
“Do you like Counselor Changbin?”
You dropped an orange slice. “What?”
Aria looked over at Changbin, who was crouched by the water cooler helping a younger camper tie his shoe. “Because he likes you.”
You crouched to pick up the orange. “You should eat more fruit.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You’re very direct.”
“My mom says that.”
“She’s right.”
Aria took an orange slice from the bowl and narrowed her eyes. “He gets smiley when you walk over.”
“I think he’s just friendly, Aria.”
“No, Counselor Felix is friendly. Counselor Changbin is smiley.”
She walked away before you could recover. Across the field, Changbin looked up and caught your eye and smiled while waving.
Damn it.
The first two weeks moved in heat, noise, and routine.
You spent most days moving wherever you were needed. You helped Milo, a quiet camper who hated being away from home, find a book in Nari’s reading corner. You sat with Theo after he scraped his knee and insisted he could see bone. You mediated a fight between two girls who both wanted to be “the moon” in Hyunjin’s talent show backdrop. And you helped Felix talk a younger camper through the devastation of spilling flour everywhere.
Changbin’s athletics area quickly became one of the busiest parts of camp. Kids liked him because he made everything feel possible. He gave them choices. He let them try again. He celebrated effort without making it sound fake.
He was also extremely competitive.
You learned this during the first staff game night, when Jisung suggested charades and Changbin treated it like an Olympic event.
“No, no, no,” he said, leaning over the table as Chan pulled a slip from the bowl. “We need categories. We need a system.”
“It’s charades,” you said.
“It's a competition.”
“It’s people pretending to be lawn mowers.”
“And we should win by being the best lawn mowers.”
“You almost made Felix cry because he guessed pancake instead of waffle.”
Changbin turned to Felix. “I apologized.”
Felix smiled gently. “You did.”
You and Changbin kept ending up together after that. Sometimes it was staff scheduling. Sometimes it was Chaewon’s interference. Sometimes it was the campers, who started treating you like a matched set after Color War planning began. Sometimes it was just you finding him across the mess hall without meaning to, or him appearing beside you with an extra water bottle because you had forgotten yours again.
He was kind in ways that didn’t ask for attention.
His body was easy to notice. Everyone noticed it. The arms, the shoulders, the thighs, the way his staff shirt pulled across his chest when he lifted something heavy without thinking.
But the rest of him was harder to ignore.
By week three, Color War began.
Director Hong announced it at breakfast, and the mess hall exploded. Campers cheered, counselors groaned, Jisung stood on a bench until Chan told him to get down, and Seungmin immediately demanded rules in writing so he could find loopholes.
The teams were divided after lunch. Chan and Minji led Green. Yunjin and Felix led Blue. Minho and Nari led Purple. Hyunjin and Hanni led Yellow. Seungmin and Jisoo led Red.
You and Changbin got Orange.
Jisung and Jeongin were in charge of scorekeeping, which everyone was okay with.
“Why don’t I get a team?” Jisung demanded.
“Because last year you taught your team psychological warfare,” Chan said.
“It worked.”
“A camper cried because you told him Blue had eyes everywhere.”
“That was unrelated.”
“It was very related,” Jeongin said, pressing his lips together.
Orange team met under the shade of a pine tree after breakfast. You had twelve campers, including Milo, Theo, Aria, and two sisters who immediately asked if they could be co-captains.
Changbin clapped his hands once. “Okay. Team name ideas.”
“Orange Crushers,” Theo said.
“Fire Tigers,” one of the sisters offered.
“Cheese,” Milo said.
Everyone looked at him.
He shrugged. “Orange cheese.”
Changbin nodded seriously. “Strong option.”
You covered your mouth to keep from laughing.
Changbin crouched in front of the group. “What about Fire Foxes?”
Milo raised his hand slowly. “Can foxes be scared?”
“Sure,” you said. “Brave doesn’t mean you’re not scared.”
Milo nodded. “Then yes.”
So orange became the Fire Foxes.
Color War lasted three days and nearly ended several friendships.
There were relay races, canoe races, trivia, tug-of-war, obstacle courses, banner painting, skit battles, water balloon tosses, and one very serious marshmallow tower competition. Changbin treated every event like the championship match of his life, but he was never harsh with the kids. He got loud, encouraging, and ridiculous. He let Theo paint orange stripes across his cheeks, and carried Milo on his shoulders during the chant competition when Milo got too nervous to stand in front.
You tried to pretend it didn’t affect you.
The tug-of-war was the worst though.
Orange faced Blue in the final round. Yunjin stood on the opposite side with Felix and their team, looking far too confident. Changbin positioned the Fire Foxes along the rope, checking their hands and feet.
“Lean back,” he told them. “Use your legs. Listen to each other. Don’t yank early.”
Theo bounced in place. “Can we yell?”
“Absolutely.”
You stood beside Changbin at the back of the line. “You’re more excited than they are.”
“I love tug-of-war.”
“I can tell.”
“We’re going to win.”
“You know they’re children, right?”
“Our children.”
You looked at him sharply.
He didn’t seem to realize what he had said until a second later. His ears turned red.
You smiled slowly. “Our children?”
“Team children.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“You made it weird.”
Jeongin blew the whistle, and the rope snapped tight.
The Fire Foxes screamed immediately, some pulling in sync, some just making noise. Changbin planted his feet behind the last camper and shouted encouragement over their heads.
“Lean back! Good! Good, Milo, keep going! Theo, feet down! There you go!”
You shouted with him, laughing when Felix’s team began chanting “Blue! Blue! Blue!” across the line.
“Orange!” Changbin yelled.
“Orange!” the kids answered.
The flag in the center wavered. For a moment, Blue pulled ahead. Then Milo, face red with effort, yelled, “Fire Foxes unite!” The entire Orange team screamed and pulled.
The flag crossed the line. Orange won.
The kids lost their minds. Theo threw himself at Changbin’s waist. Aria grabbed your hand and jumped up and down. Milo smiled so widely it made your chest hurt.
Changbin looked at you over the chaos, face bright with sweat and orange face paint. “We won,” he said.
You laughed. “We did.”
He held up his hand. You high-fived him, but he caught your fingers for half a second before letting go. It was quick—probably nothing. But your heart treated it like something.
Week four was when everyone started to wear down.
The first burst of summer excitement had softened into exhaustion. Campers were homesick again in smaller, quieter ways. Counselors snapped at each other more easily. The heat pressed over the camp every afternoon until even Jisung ran out of energy.
Changbin began overdoing it again.
You saw it before anyone else did. He stayed late to fix the shed door. He covered Jeongin’s team games when Jeongin got a headache. He carried supplies to the waterfront. He helped Chan with night rounds. He ran athletics all morning, then joined canoe drills because Yunjin needed another adult.
Then the accident happened.
Minho led a nature hike with Cabin Four and Cabin Five, and you joined because Milo had been anxious that morning and asked if you were coming. Changbin came because the trail dipped near the creek and Director Hong wanted another counselor there. Jisung came because he claimed hikes needed a morale boost, which Minho argued against until Chan said it might help keep the campers entertained.
It was warm but not miserable under the trees. The campers moved in uneven clusters, stopping to look at mushrooms, interesting rocks, and one beetle that caused all the girls to scream. Jisoo identified plants along the way while Minho reminded everyone not to touch anything without asking.
Milo walked beside you near the back. “You think there are bears?” he asked.
“No.”
“You said that fast.”
“Because I feel confident.”
“What if there’s one bear?”
“Then Changbin will ask it to join tug-of-war.”
Milo looked ahead at Changbin, who was helping Theo cross a muddy patch. “He would win.”
“Probably.”
You heard Changbin laugh ahead of you, like he had caught part of it.
The trail narrowed after the creek. Minho led the group down a slope where roots crossed the dirt in thick lines. He warned everyone to go slowly. And for once, everyone listened.
Almost everyone.
Theo slipped first. His sneaker slid on loose dirt, and he grabbed at the closest thing to him, which happened to be your arm. You caught him before he fell fully, but the sudden pull knocked your weight sideways. Your foot landed wrong against a root, and pain shot through your ankle hard enough to make your vision flash.
You sat down fast, gripping Theo’s shoulder to keep him upright.
Changbin was there in seconds. “I’ve got him,” he said, steadying Theo.
Theo’s face crumpled. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! I didn’t mean to!”
You forced yourself to breathe through the pain. “Hey, look at me. You’re okay. I’m okay.”
“You’re hurt!”
“Yeah, but I’m not mad. Accidents happen.”
Minho crouched by your foot, careful as he checked the ankle. His face stayed calm, but his jaw tightened slightly. “Can you stand?” he asked.
You tried.Pain flared immediately.
“Nope,” you said, sitting back down. “Absolutely not.”
Jisung hovered behind him with wide eyes. “Do we need the emergency golf cart?”
Minho looked at the narrow trail. Jisung looked too. “Right,” he said. “No golf cart.”
Changbin crouched in front of you. “I’ll carry you.”
You looked at him. “It’s downhill.”
“I know.”
“That makes it harder.”
“I know.”
“You’re tired.”
His expression changed, just a little. “I can do it,” he said.
“Bin.”
The campers had gone quiet, all watching.
Changbin lowered his voice. “Let me help you.”
Your throat tightened at the softness of it.
You sighed and then reluctantly nodded.
He turned and crouched. You climbed onto his back carefully, trying not to jostle your ankle. His hands slid under your thighs, secure and warm. He stood slowly, testing your weight before taking the first step.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m conscious.”
“That’s one thing.”
“My pride is dead.”
“We’ll hold a service.”
You laughed despite the pain, forehead nearly brushing the back of his shoulder.
Minho led the group slowly. Jisung walked with the campers, distracting them with a story about the time he claimed to have been saved by a herd of deer.
Changbin moved carefully down the trail. Every step was controlled. You could feel the effort in his body, the way his back shifted beneath your chest, the way his breath deepened as the path dipped and turned. He warned you before uneven patches and tightened his grip when the ground got loose.
“You still okay?” he asked after a few minutes.
“You’re asking a lot of questions again.”
“You’re injured on my back. I’m allowed extra questions.”
“You love extra questions.”
He laughed, breathless this time. “Maybe.”
You rested your cheek near his shoulder and stopped teasing.
By the time you reached the infirmary, your ankle was swollen, Theo was crying again, Milo had handed you a crushed granola bar from his pocket, and Changbin’s shirt was damp with sweat.
Nurse Park checked your ankle and declared it a mild sprain. Ice, rest, elevation, no hiking, and limited activity for a few days.
Theo stood by the doorway, face miserable. You waved him over and he came slowly.
“I really am sorry,” he said.
“I know,” you said. “And I really am okay.”
“You’re not going to leave camp?”
“No.”
His shoulders relaxed.
Changbin stood near the foot of the cot, arms crossed, eyes still on your ankle.
You looked at him. “You okay?”
His gaze flicked up. He blinked. “Me?”
“You carried me down half a trail.”
“I’m fine.”
You tilted your head.
He sighed. “I’m sweaty and I want water.”
“See? Honesty. Growth.”
He smiled.
After that, the camp became unbearable because everyone had heard how Changbin carried you out of the woods.
Everyone.
By dinner, Jisung had already told three dramatic versions of the story. In one, Changbin had sprinted through the trees with you in his arms. In another, he had fought off a raccoon. In the third, he had lifted a fallen tree.
“There was no raccoon,” you said, sitting at the staff table with your ankle propped on an extra chair.
Jisung ignored you. “The raccoon had a knife.”
Minho set his tray down. “There was no racoon.”
“You weren’t looking.”
“I was leading the hike.”
“Exactly. Your back was turned. Raccoon opportunity.”
Changbin sat across from you, still looking tired, still looking pleased every time someone mentioned the carry even though he tried to hide it.
But underneath the jokes, something had changed.
Changbin stayed close. He walked you to meals. He carried your activity binder even when you told him not to. He sat with you during quieter parts of the day when your ankle had to stay elevated. He was careful not to hover in a way that made you feel helpless, but he noticed every wince, every shift, every time you tried to stand too quickly.
The final week came too fast.
Your ankle healed. The talent show took over the lodge. Hyunjin became intense about costumes, Hanni ran dance rehearsals until the campers begged for water breaks, Seungmin somehow got an entire group of ten-year-olds to sing on pitch, and Jisung hosted with enough chaotic confidence that everyone worried until it actually worked. Theo forgot his line during rehearsal, and Changbin crouched near the edge of the stage, gently telling him to say what he meant instead of worrying about perfect words.
On the final performance night, Theo did exactly that.
“Camp is scary at first,” he said, voice shaking into the microphone. “But then it gets less scary because people help you.”
Half the staff cried, Jisung and Felix being the loudest.
The next day, families began arriving after breakfast. Campers who had spent six weeks claiming they were ready to go home suddenly clung to counselors like they were being sent across the ocean. Parents collected luggage, crafts, damp towels, missing socks, and stories their children told too loudly.
Milo found you near the cabins with his backpack on and his eyes wet.
“You’re leaving too?” he asked.
“Tomorrow,” you said.
He nodded, looking down. You crouched carefully in front of him. “You did really well this summer.”
“I cried a lot.”
“But you also tried a lot.”
He thought about that. Then he pulled something from his backpack and handed it to you. It was a folded piece of paper, soft at the edges from being carried around.
You opened it after he hugged you before running off to find his parents. It was a drawing of you, Changbin, Milo, and a fox standing under a tree. Above it, in uneven letters, he had written:
CAMP WAS THE BEST!
You folded the paper again and pressed it against your chest.
After the families left, the camp felt strange.
The staff gathered in the mess hall for one last dinner, though no one was as loud as usual. People looked tired and emotional, picking at pasta, trading stories, pretending the end of camp wasn’t sitting right there beside them.
Later, as the sun started lowering behind the trees, Changbin found you outside Cabin Three.
He sat beside you, knees touching yours. You watched the empty field. The tire stacks were put away. The banners had been taken down. The volleyball net sagged slightly in the middle.
After a while, Changbin said, “Do you want to get out of here for a bit?”
You turned to him.
“There’s a place,” he said. “Past the ridge. Smaller lake. Quiet. Minho showed me during staff week.”
“You’re inviting me back into the woods.”
“I promise not to let you fall.”
“You said that like someone with a hero complex.”
“I have a mild hero complex.”
“It’s not mild and you know it.”
He smiled. “Come with me anyway.”
You should have said no. There was packing to do. Cabins to sweep. Forms to finish. A duffel bag on your bunk, still half-empty because you kept pretending tomorrow was not happening.
But the camp was too quiet, and Changbin was looking at you like the summer was not finished with either of you yet.
“Fine,” you said. “But if I sprain anything else, I’m billing you.”
“I accept the terms and conditions.”
The trail to the hidden lake was narrower than the others, tucked behind the older cabins and past a low ridge where the trees grew closer together. Changbin walked beside you, slowing when the ground got uneven even though your ankle had healed.
You noticed. He noticed you noticing.
“I’m not hovering,” he said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
You smiled. “Maybe.”
The farther you walked, the quieter the camp became behind you. Then the trail dipped, and opened suddenly. The lake sat between the trees, smaller than the main one and completely still near the shore. The water caught the late sunlight in warm strips. A narrow wooden dock stretched out from the bank, weathered and uneven, the planks glowing from the heat of the day.
You walked to the end and looked out. “Damn,” you said quietly.
Changbin stood beside you. “Yeah.”
“You hid this all summer?”
“I didn’t hide it.”
“You didn’t mention it.”
“I was waiting.”
“For what?”
He looked at you. “For the right time.”
You turned back toward the water because it was safer than looking at him. “That was smooth.”
“I can be smooth.”
A breeze crossed the lake, moving over your skin. The sun was lower now, gold touching his face and shoulders. He looked tired from the summer, hair a little messy, shirt wrinkled, small scratches on his forearms from camp work. He also looked calm in a way you had not seen often. No campers to watch. No equipment to carry. No schedule to chase.
Just him. Just you.
Changbin stepped closer. “I wanted to kiss you after Color War,” he said suddenly.
Your pulse jumped. You looked at him, stunned. “After tug-of-war?”
“Yeah.”
“When you said our children?”
He closed his eyes briefly. “I was hoping you forgot that.”
“Not a chance.”
“I wanted to kiss you then,” he said, opening his eyes again. “And after the campfire. And pretty much every minute since I met you.”
Your throat tightened. “That’s a lot of almost kissing.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He reached for your hand, his fingers brushing yours first, asking without words. You let him take it. “I didn’t want to mess up camp,” he said. “Or make things awkward. Or make you feel like you had to let me down gently and then still eat breakfast across from me all summer.”
You smiled despite yourself. “That would’ve been horrible.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re very considerate.”
His thumb moved over your knuckles. You looked down at your joined hands, then back at him. “For the record, I wanted you to kiss me too.”
His expression changed slowly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
You pretended to think. “ Since staff week.”
He stared at you. “Staff week?”
“You carried coolers.”
“That’s all it took?”
You shrugged. “You had arms.”
He laughed, surprised and bright.
And then you tugged him closer by the hand. His smile faded as he leaned in.
The first kiss was softer than you expected.
Careful. Warm. Slow enough that you felt the restraint in it. His hand came up to your cheek, thumb settling near your jaw, and your fingers curled into the front of his shirt.
You pulled him closer, and the kiss changed. His other hand found your waist. Yours slid up to his shoulder, then the back of his neck, damp curls brushing your fingers. He made a low sound against your mouth, and every almost from the past six weeks pressed into the space between you.
When you broke apart, his forehead rested against yours. “Fuck,” he whispered.
You laughed softly, breathless. “That’s one way to put it.”
“I’m trying to be normal.”
“How’s that going?”
“Bad.”
His hand tightened at your waist, and your stomach dipped.
The lake moved quietly beside the dock. You looked toward it and Changbin followed your gaze.
“No,” you said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought something.”
“I was thinking the water looks nice.”
“You were thinking skinny dipping.”
His mouth twitched. “I can think two things.”
You stared at him for a second. Then you stepped back and pulled your shirt over your head.
Changbin froze.
You dropped the shirt onto the dock. “Are you coming or not?”
He blinked once. “I’m coming alright.”
“Don’t sound so shocked. You brought me to a secret lake at sunset after six weeks of almost kissing.”
“I didn’t want to assume.”
“That is, unfortunately, attractive.”
He laughed and pulled his own shirt over his head. You tried not to stare, but let’s be real—that was impossible.
The summer had shown you enough of him to be dangerous. Sleeveless shirts. Swim days. Athletics demonstrations. His arms around coolers, ropes, paddles, sandbags. But this was different. Bare chest, strong shoulders, hard abdomen, water-bright light touching his skin. He noticed your eyes move over him, and the pleased look on his face made you want to shove him into the lake.
“Yeah?”
“You have been visually aggressive all summer, sir.”
“Visually aggressive?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not a real phrase.”
“It is now.”
You unbuttoned your shorts before you lost your nerve, pushing them down your legs and stepping out of them. Changbin’s eyes dropped, then lifted quickly back to your face like he was trying to be respectful and failing in real time.
You smiled. “Yeah?”
“I’m responding.”
“Cute.”
He groaned. “Don’t call me cute right now.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying very hard not to embarrass myself.”
You stepped to the edge of the dock in your bra and underwear. “Try harder.”
Then you jumped.
The water was colder than you expected, closing over your head in a rush that shocked the heat right out of your skin. You came up gasping, pushing hair out of your face as Changbin laughed from the dock.
“That was brave,” he called.
“That was stupid. Get in.”
He jumped in beside you, sending up a splash that hit your face.
“Asshole,” you said, wiping water from your eyes.
He surfaced close, grinning. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
The water settles around you, cool against your skin. You both swim for a while reliving the summer and moving through the lake as the sun lowered toward the trees. It felt unreal after weeks of noise and heat and responsibility.
By the time you climbed back onto the dock, both of you were soaked and breathless, your skin prickling in the evening air. The wooden planks were still warm from the sun. You sat near the edge, water dripping from your hair, and watched Changbin pull himself up after you.
He looked at you like he had run out of reasons to wait, pushing you down gently.
Your back met the dock a moment later, his body over yours, one hand braced beside your head. He kissed you deep, slow, his weight careful but present. Your legs parted for him without thinking, and he settled between them with a quiet groan.
The world narrowed to warm wood beneath you, cool lake water on your skin, and Changbin’s mouth moving over yours like he had been waiting all summer.
His fingers brushed your wet hair away from your face. “Tell me to stop,” he said, voice rough.
You looked up at him, at the damp curls falling over his forehead, at the restraint in his jaw, at the way his chest moved with every breath.
You pulled him down again. “Don’t stop.”
Changbin’s fingers hooked into the waistband of your soaked panties, and he didn’t ask—not with words. His eyes flicked up to yours, dark and searching in the fading golden light, and you lifted your hips in answer.
“There you go,” he murmured, dragging the wet cotton down your thighs. The fabric fought him a little, clinging to your skin, and he laughed under his breath. “These are really on there. You trying to keep them, or…?”
You propped yourself up on your elbows. “Shut up and take them off, Bin.”
“Bossy.” He grinned, that crooked, infuriating grin you’ve been watching all summer across campfires and mess hall tables. “I like it.”
Your panties came free with a wet, heavy sound when he tossed them aside. You were bare now, your cunt exposed to the evening air, and the vulnerability of it made your stomach flip. But Changbin didn’t dive in. He sat back on his heels, his own boxer briefs dark with lake water and pulled down just enough to free the thick, flushed length of his cock. His hand moved on it absentmindedly—a slow, lazy stroke from base to tip—while he just looked at you.
“What?” you asked, and your voice came out a little thin.
“Nothing.” His thumb circled the head, smearing the slickness gathering there. “Just thinking about how long I’ve wanted to see you like this. Spread out on this dock. All summer I’ve been fucking losing my mind.”
Your laugh was breathy and a little nervous. “You hid it well.”
“Did I?” His grip tightened on himself, a quick, rough pump that made his abs tense. “Because I was jacking off in the staff showers every night thinking about your mouth. So maybe I didn’t hide it that well.”
The confession landed in your gut like a hot stone. You felt your cunt clench around nothing, and Changbin noticed. His eyes dropped to the wet gleam between your thighs, and his tongue swept across his bottom lip.
“I need to taste you,” he said. “I’ve been needing to taste you since the first week of camp.” He had already lowered himself onto his stomach, the dock creaking under his weight. His shoulders pushed your thighs apart, and the heat of his breath ghosted over your cunt. “I’m done being patient.”
His tongue found you in one long, flat stroke from your entrance to your clit.
Your back arched off the wood. A sound punched out of you—half moan, half gasp—and your hand flew down to grip his hair, still damp from the lake, soft and thick between your fingers.
“Fuck,” you breathed. “Oh, fuck.”
Changbin hummed against your cunt, and the vibration ricocheted through your whole body. His tongue circled your clit in a slow, deliberate figure-eight, and then he sucked—hard enough to make your thighs snap toward his ears.
He just laughed. “So sensitive,” he said, pulling back just enough to speak. His lips were glossy with you. “I’ve barely started.”
“Then fucking start.”
His eyebrow lifted. “What did I just say about being bossy?”
But he did start. He buried his face between your legs, his tongue pushing inside you, curling and stroking, and his nose pressing against your clit with every forward movement. He wasn’t neat about it. He wasn’t delicate. He ate your pussy like he was trying to climb inside you, and the wet, obscene sounds of it—the lapping, the sucking, the groan he made when you tugged his hair—echoed across the empty lake.
“You taste so fucking good,” he said, the words muffled against your flesh. “Better than I imagined. And I imagined a lot.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn't. All you could do was feel: the slick heat of his mouth, the persistent pressure on your clit, the way his cheeks brushed your inner thighs with every shift of his jaw. Your hips started to move, rocking against his face, and he let you. He groaned and opened his mouth wider, tongue flattening so you could grind against it.
“Yeah,” he panted, pulling back for air. “Use my face. Fuck, that’s hot. That’s so fucking hot.”
His hand moved on his cock again, faster now. You could hear it—the wet slap of skin on skin—and when you lifted your head to look, the sight nearly undid you. Changbin was kneeling between your legs, one hand wrapped around his thick, leaking cock, the other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. His eyes were fixed on your cunt.
“Do you know what you look like right now?” he asked, and his voice wrecked. “All spread open and dripping. Your clit all fucking swollen. I can see it begging for me.”
“Then stop talking and—”
He didn’t let you finish. His mouth closed over your clit and his fingers pushed inside you—two of them, curving up, finding the spot that made your vision go white.
The sound that came out of you was inhuman.
“That’s it,” Changbin said, fucking you with his fingers now, slow and deep. “That’s the spot, isn’t it? Right there? Your pussy is clenching so hard around my fingers. You’re so fucking tight.”
“Bin—”
“I can feel it. I can feel how close you are. Don’t hold back. Don’t you fucking dare hold back.”
You weren't holding back. You were falling apart. The pressure built low in your belly, different from anything you’d felt before—heavier, more insistent. It wasn’t the familiar climb toward orgasm. It was something new, something that almost scared you.
Changbin’s mouth was relentless on your clit. His fingers pumped faster, crooking on every thrust, and his other hand had abandoned his cock now—both hands on you, spreading you open, holding you in place.
“I want you to come,” he said against your cunt. “I want you to come so hard you forget your own name. I want to feel it. I want to taste it. Give it to me.”
The pressure crested. Your whole body locked up. Your thighs clamped around his head. A scream tore out of your throat—loud enough to scatter birds from the trees on the far shore—and then you were gushing. Liquid sprayed from your cunt, soaking Changbin’s face, his chest, the dock beneath you. He didn’t pull away. He groaned, low and satisfied, and kept his mouth on you through the whole thing, drinking you down as you squirt all over him.
“Holy fuck,” you gasped, when you could finally breathe again. Your legs were shaking. Your whole body was shaking. “What the—what was—?”
Changbin sat back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His face was dripping. His hair plastered to his forehead. He looked absolutely wrecked, and absolutely delighted.
“You just squirted,” he said, like he was telling you the weather. “All over my face. All over this dock.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. You clapped a hand over your face. “Oh my God.”
“Don’t do that.” He pulled your hand away, and pinned it to the dock beside your head. “Don’t hide from me. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever fucking seen.”
“I didn’t—I’ve never—”
“I know.” His grin was sharp and filthy. “I could tell. You got so tight around my fingers right before, and then you made this sound—this little whimper, like you didn’t know what was happening to your body—and then you fucking soaked me. Look at me. I’m covered in you.”
You looked. His chest shined with your wetness. His face was still slick with it. And his cock—God, his cock—was so hard it looked painful, bobbing against his stomach, the tip an angry, desperate red.
“I’m embarrassed,” you admitted, and your voice cracked on the word.
Changbin’s expression softened for half a second. Then it sharpened again, that predatory edge returning. “Being embarrassed makes it even hotter. You know that? Knowing I’m the first person to make you do that. Knowing I made your body do something you didn’t know it could do.”
He’s stroked himself again, faster now, his grip tight. The slick sound of it filled the space between you.
“I could come just from watching you,” he said. “Just looking at your pussy right now. It’s so wet. So pink and puffy and wet. I want to fuck you so bad I can’t think straight.”
“Then fuck me.”
His jaw clenched. “Say it again.”
“Fuck me, Changbin. I need your cock. I’ve been needing it all summer.”
Something snapped in him. He moved fast—faster than you expected—gripping the backs of your thighs and pushing them up toward your chest. You folded in half beneath him, and the tip of his cock pressed against your entrance, hot and blunt and perfect.
“Slow,” he said, but he said it to himself, not to you. “I’m gonna go slow. I’m gonna be gentle. I’m gonna—”
The head started pushing in.
You both gasped.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Fuck, you’re—you’re so—I can’t—”
“Bin.”
“Just—just give me a second.” He was trembling. His arms were shaking where they bracketed your shoulders, and his forehead dropped to yours. “You’re so fucking tight around me. If I move, I’m gonna come.”
You clenched around him deliberately.
His eyes flew open. “Did you just—?”
“Maybe.” You clenched again. “What are you going to do about it?”
The sound he made was somewhere between a laugh and a growl. “Oh, you’re in trouble now.”
He pushed deeper—slowly, so slowly—and you felt every inch of him. The stretch was intense, almost too much, and you grabbed at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. He hissed, but didn't stop.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice strained.
“Yeah. Yeah, just—keep going.”
“I’ve got you.” He pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you.”
He bottomed out, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You were so full, so impossibly full, and you could feel him throbbing inside you, could feel the heat of him, the pulse of his heartbeat in his cock.
“You feel that?” he asked. “You feel how deep I am?”
“Yes.”
“I’m all the way inside you. Every inch. You’re taking every fucking inch of me.”
He pulled back, just a little, and thrust in again. A slow, rolling grind that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. Your eyes fluttered shut. Your mouth fell open.
“Look at me,” he said. “I want you to look at me while I fuck you.”
You forced your eyes open. His face was inches from yours, sweat-damp and intense, his eyes burning. He was beautiful like this—all that compact muscle coiled with the effort of holding back, his jaw tight, his lips parted.
“There you are,” he murmured. “There’s my girl.”
The words hit somewhere deep in your chest. You reached up and pulled his mouth to yours.
The kiss was messy and uncoordinated, more teeth and tongue than anything else. He fucked into you slowly while he kissed you, and the rhythm of it built something hot and tight in your belly again. His tongue slid against yours. His cock slid against your walls. Everything was wet and hot and perfect.
“You’re so deep,” you gasped against his mouth. “You’re so fucking deep, Bin.”
“Yeah? You like that?”
“I love it. I love your cock. I love how it fills me up.”
He groaned, his hips jerking harder. “Keep talking. Don’t stop talking.”
“I’ve wanted this so bad. All summer. Watching you lead, watching you swim, watching you laugh with the kids. I wanted you to bend me over the arts and crafts table and fuck me stupid.”
“The arts and crafts table?” He laughed, breathless. “That’s where you wanted it?”
“I wanted it everywhere. The mess hall. The bunk beds. The fucking canoe shed.”
“The canoe shed? That place smells like mildew.”
“I don’t care.”
He kissed you again, harder this time, and his pace picked up. The slow, rolling thrusts became something more urgent. His hips snapped against you, and the dock creaked beneath you both, and the sound of your bodies meeting—wet and rhythmic—filled the evening air.
“I’m not gonna last,” he said, the words ragged. “Not like this. Not with you talking like that.”
“Then don’t last. I don’t care. Just don’t stop.”
But he did stop. He pulled out—completely—and you made a sound of protest that he silenced with a hand on your stomach.
“Turn over,” he said.
“What?”
“Turn over. I want to see you from behind. I want to watch your ass while I fuck you.”
You scrambled to obey, rolling onto your stomach. The dock was hard against your knees, but you didn’t care. Changbin’s hands found your hips, gripped them tight, and he pulled you up onto all fours.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at you. Look at this perfect ass. I’m gonna die. I’m literally going to die.”
“Please don’t die before you finish fucking me.”
“Fair point.”
He pushed back in, and the angle was different like this—deeper, somehow, hitting a spot that made your arms give out. Your chest dropped to the dock, your ass still in the air, and Changbin groaned.
“Yeah. Yeah. That’s it. Face down, ass up. Take my fucking cock.”
He wasn’t holding back anymore. His hips slammed against you, hard and fast, and the sound of it—the wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the dock, his low grunts and your high whimpers—was obscene. It was the filthiest thing you’d ever heard.
“You hear that?” he asked, his voice was wrecked. “You hear how wet your pussy is? How good you’re taking me?”
You couldn’t answer. You could only moan.
“That’s what I thought. You can’t even talk, can you? Too full of my cock to say a word.”
He reached around you, his fingers finding your clit, and rubbed tight circles against it. You bucked back against him. Your thighs shaking. Your whole body shaking.
“You gonna come again? You gonna come on my cock this time?”
“Yes,” you managed. “Yes, yes, fuck, yes —”
“Do it. Come on my cock. I want to feel it. I want to feel your pussy squeeze every drop out of me.”
It hit you like a wave. A real one, not the overwrought kind—violent, sudden, stealing your breath. Your cunt clamped down on his cock, and you screamed, and Changbin shouted something—your name, maybe, or just a string of curses—and his rhythm broke.
He pulled out fast, hand flying over his cock, and you felt the first hot splash of his cum against your spine. He groaned, stroking himself through it, painting your back and ass. It went on and on, pulse after pulse, until you were dripping with him.
The dock creaked as he collapsed beside you, both of you panting, both of you covered in sweat and lake water and each other.
“Holy shit,” he said finally.
You turned your head to look at him. “Yeah.”
“You squirted.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that.”
“I’m going to mention it again. Multiple times. Probably for the rest of my life.” He rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand. “This is the best last day of camp ever.”
You laughed, and the sound was hoarse and broken and happy.
Changbin grinned before it began to fade, just a little, replaced by something more serious. “Hey.”
“What?”
“I meant what I said. About wanting you all summer.” He reached out and tucked a strand of wet hair behind your ear. “This wasn’t just...I mean, it was hot. It was really fucking hot. But it wasn’t just that. For me.”
Your heart squeezed in your chest. “It wasn’t just that for me, either.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He leaned in then and kissed you softer than before.
Afterward, the sky darkened to a deep blue over the trees.
You lay on the dock wrapped in Changbin’s open shirt, your own clothes scattered nearby and your hair still damp against your neck. The wood beneath you had lost some of its warmth, but Changbin was close enough that you didn’t feel cold. His arm rested under your head, and his fingers moved slowly over your side in quiet, absent patterns.
The walk back to camp was darker and slower. Changbin held your hand the whole way, partly because the trail was uneven, partly because neither of you wanted to stop touching. Crickets hummed in the grass, and the camp lights came into view through the trees one by one.
Tomorrow would be full of packing, sweeping cabins, loading cars, promising to text, and trying not to cry in the parking lot. Tomorrow would pull everyone back toward normal life. University. Jobs. Apartments. Schedules that did not include campfire songs and sunscreen checks.
But tonight, Camp SKZ was still yours.
Changbin stopped outside your cabin, turning to face you.
The porch light washed over his face, softening the tired lines around his eyes. His hair was still damp, and his shirt was wrinkled. He looked like summer had left its fingerprints all over him.
He leaned down, and you met him halfway. The kiss was gentle. Slow. Not careful because he was unsure, but careful because it mattered. His hand settled at your waist, warm through your shirt, and you held onto him for a few seconds longer than necessary.
When he pulled back, his smile was small and private. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.
“You better. We have cabins to clean.”
“Romantic.”
“Welcome to real life.”
He kissed you once more, quick and sweet. “I still want it.”
Your chest warmed. “Me too.”
You went inside after that, closing the cabin door quietly behind you. And outside, the camp settled deeper into the night.
[ ▸ ] — at marigold hills, summer mvp is supposed to reward professionalism, teamwork, and excellent guest service. unfortunately, your biggest competition is christopher bang, a cocky lifeguard with a lollipop habit, a shirtless ego, and half the country club wrapped around his whistle. you want the parking spot for next summer, the bragging rights, and the satisfaction of humbling him, but after one locker room argument, winning starts to look a lot less important.
[ ☰ ] — event masterlist
[ ✐ ] — 8k
[ ⌗ ] — lifeguard!chris x lifeguard!reader enemies to lovers kind of crack fic? cocky!chris graphic & detailed smut anal play oral ( m receiving )
[ ✉︎ ] — ayyyyy! and so it begins. welcome to a wet hot skz summer, babes! so excited to kick this off finally. like joy mentioned, this has been in the making for three months, so we were bursting at the seams to finally drop this for you guys! heavily inspired by billy in stranger things ( dacre you have my heart <3 ) but i also just wanted to picture chris shirtless more than he already is teehee. please listen to connected from skz-replay before, during, and after. this is his theme song here lol as always, hunnies, if you do enjoy please drop a like, comment, or reblog. always appreciate feedback and just genuinely love to see your guys' thoughts <3
By the end of June, the Marigold Hills Country Club Aquatics Center had stopped feeling like a summer job and started feeling like a sun-baked gladiator arena where the weapons were whistles, sunscreen bottles, customer-service smiles, and the rare but devastating guest compliment delivered directly in front of your manager’s clipboard.
The clipboard mattered.
You weren’t the kind of person who needed external validation from a man named Craig who wore khaki shorts with a braided belt and treated the aquatics staff like you were all one bad Yelp review away from public execution, but somewhere between Memorial Day weekend and the fourth consecutive shift of Christopher Bang smirking at you over the rim of his stupid mirrored sunglasses, Summer MVP had become less of a workplace incentive and more of a blood oath.
The prize wasn’t even that good.
A reserved parking spot near the front entrance for next summer, a fifty-dollar gift card to the club restaurant, and a laminated certificate Craig would probably hand over with a toothy grin.
It should not have mattered.
It absolutely mattered.
Because Chris had made it matter.
At the beginning of the summer, during the first staff meeting of the season, when Craig stood in front of the lifeguard office explaining “member experience standards” while everyone sweat through their uniforms, Chris had leaned against the lockers beside you with a blue raspberry lollipop tucked into one cheek, his sunglasses pushed up into his black hair, and the kind of easy, irritating smile that made you want to throw a rescue tube at his head.
You had not looked at him. “Congratulations. You discovered incentives.”
“I’m just saying,” he continued, voice low and amused, “don’t worry when I win. I’ll wave at you from the good spot.”
You had turned then, slowly, because some moments demanded eye contact before violence.
Chris looked back at you with his lashes lowered, his mouth glossy from the candy, his shoulders already broad and sun-warm under the red guard tank he had somehow made look indecent by existing inside it.
You smiled. It was not a nice smile.
“And here’s my wave,” you said, giving him the finger.
His grin spread.
And just like that, because men were a plague and pride was a disease you had apparently caught through chlorine exposure, your entire summer turned into a competition.
It was ridiculous and humiliating, but it was also the only thing keeping you from losing your mind while working eight-hour shifts among screaming children, over-served parents, and rich people who believed the phrase “country club standard” could summon fresh towels out of thin air.
Marigold Hills itself was beautiful in the overfunded, morally suspicious way country clubs tended to be beautiful—all white cabanas, blue umbrellas, polished stone, glassy pools, and flowers kept alive by people whose hourly wage could not afford the salad menu. The aquatics area sprawled across the back of the property like a luxury resort had gotten drunk and reproduced. It had a main pool, lap lanes, a lazy river, a splash pad, two hot tubs, a diving board, a shallow family area, and enough lounge chairs to support every affair, divorce, and passive-aggressive brunch conversation in the county.
Which meant there were a lot of lifeguards.
There had to be.
On busy weekends, your red-uniformed little army spread across the pool deck in rotations, scanning water, blowing whistles, bandaging scraped knees, dragging umbrellas across the concrete, fishing abandoned goggles from filters, and pretending not to hear club members say things that should have gotten them banned from polite society and possibly pepper-sprayed in the parking lot.
You had worked there with Chris since high school, back when both of you were sixteen and new enough to the job that a screaming toddler could send your adrenaline into orbit. Through senior year, through college summers, through certification renewals and first-aid refreshers, through the annual chaos of Memorial Day opening weekend, you and Chris had returned to Marigold Hills like cursed migratory birds in matching red.
Somewhere along the way, Chris had gone from cute in an annoying, dimply, boy-next-door kind of way to offensively hot.
He was cocky about it too, which made the whole thing worse.
He walked the pool deck shirtless whenever he could get away with it, sunscreen gleaming on his shoulders, rescue tube tucked under one arm, whistle resting against his chest, black hair damp and curling over his forehead in thick, messy pieces whenever he got out of the water. He wore his sunglasses like a man auditioning for a calendar called May Cause Divorces, and he always had a lollipop in his mouth, because apparently being broad, tan, Australian, and annoyingly good with children wasn’t already enough of a public nuisance.
The mothers loved him. That was not an exaggeration.
The mothers stared at him in a way that made their husbands stare angrily into their gin and tonics, because no amount of money, golf memberships, or boat shoes could compete with Christopher Bang crouching beside the kiddie pool to help a toddler fix her floaties while saying, “There you go, sweetheart, now you’re ready,” in a voice warm enough to fog sunglasses.
You watched it happen every shift.
You watched Mrs. Delaney touch his forearm while thanking him for finding her son’s goggles.
You watched Mrs. Cavanaugh ask whether he worked “every weekend” with faux casual interest. You watched a woman named Bianca, who wore a diamond ring large enough to count as a flotation device, drop her towel three separate times in front of him.
Chris picked it up every time.
He also winked every time.
And Craig wrote something down every fucking time.
“He’s such a whore,” muttered Alex from the adjacent lifeguard chair one afternoon, peering through his sunglasses as Chris handed a pool noodle to a little boy and somehow got thanked by the child’s mother with a smoothie.
“He’s not even subtle,” you said, watching Chris accept the smoothie with a smile so bright you hoped his teeth overheated.
Alex tilted his head. “Do you think Craig gives points for slut energy?”
“Craig gives points for whatever makes the members happy.”
“Then Chris is Summer MVP of the century. Half these women look like they’d renew their membership for another glimpse of his abs.”
“Don’t say abs.”
“Why?”
“Because then I think about them.”
Alex turned to look at you slowly.
You kept scanning the pool.
“Interesting,” he said.
“Shut the fuck up, Alex.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to say you’re handling this competition with a lot of maturity.”
“You were not.”
“No, I was about to call you a whore.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Unfortunately, your own tactics were not exactly noble.
Chris had mothers. You had men with wedding rings and the audacity of medieval kings.
It had started accidentally, sort of, when Mr. Ralston asked whether you could help him find the locker rooms despite the sign being directly above his head, and Craig, standing nearby with his clipboard, had written something down after you smiled, guided him politely, and did not tell him that literacy was free. The next day, Mr. Halverson asked for sunscreen recommendations and complimented your “attention to detail” when you explained SPF like he was not staring at your boobs through the entire conversation.
Craig had written that down too.
From there, the moral slope got slippery.
You carried lemonade pitchers for older men who called you “darling” in ways that made your spine try to leave your body. You helped Mr. Leighton find his missing sunglasses, which were on his own head, while his wife sat five feet away pretending not to hear him ask if you gave private swim lessons. You told a father of three that his butterfly stroke looked powerful even though it looked like he was having an actual stroke, because Craig was watching from the towel station and you were not above lying for the parking spot.
“Powerful?” Chris repeated later, appearing beside the first-aid cabinet while you restocked bandages. “That man swam like he was five seconds away from dying.”
You didn’t look up. “He appreciated the encouragement.”
“He appreciated your tits.”
You snapped your head toward him.
Chris’s jaw tightened like the words had come out sharper than he meant them to, but he did not take them back.
“Excuse me?”
“He’s a creep,” Chris said.
“He’s also a member.”
“He’s still a fucking creep.”
“And Mrs. Cavanaugh asking if you do personal swim coaching isn’t creepy?”
Chris opened his mouth.
You lifted a brow.
“That’s different,” he said finally.
“Oh, I cannot wait to hear this.”
“I didn’t flirt with her.”
“You winked.”
“She winked first.”
“You smiled like you were picturing her naked already.”
Chris laughed despite himself, and the sound annoyed you because it was too warm for the amount of irritation you were trying to preserve.
“You jealous?”
“Of middle-aged women who smell like Chanel and marital dissatisfaction? No.”
“Then why are you watching?”
“Because you’re loud.”
“I was standing completely still.”
“You’re loud standing completely still.”
His grin returned, slow and poisonous. “You spend a lot of time noticing me.”
You slammed the first-aid cabinet shut. Chris stepped back just enough to avoid losing a finger, still smirking.
“You spend a lot of time being noticeable,” you snapped.
“Good.”
“Bad.”
“Liar.”
You hated him. Or, more accurately, you hated the way he made hating him feel like a contact sport.
Because the worst part was not that Chris was hot, although that was irritating enough to require some sort of training. The worst part was that he was actually good at the job. When he was scanning the pool, nothing slipped past him. When a kid panicked in the deep end, Chris was in the water before anyone else had finished inhaling. When a toddler busted her chin on the splash pad, he had her laughing through tears within thirty seconds. When elderly members needed help adjusting umbrellas or carrying bags, he treated them with a patience that looked irritatingly real, not just performative for Craig.
It would have been easier if he sucked. Instead, he was competent. Competence, tragically, was hot.
By the third week of July, the other lifeguards had started treating your competition with Chris like a staff-wide entertainment program.
Mia kept score on a napkin taped inside the guard office.
Felix, who worked mostly swim lessons, had created categories with little hearts and skulls beside them.
“Guest compliments,” he said one morning, clicking a pen as you and Chris stood on opposite sides of the break table glaring at each other over a container of grapes. “You have twelve. Chris has thirteen.”
“Bullshit,” you said.
“Mrs. Redding complimented me twice yesterday,” Chris said.
“Mrs. Redding wants to climb you like pool furniture. That doesn’t count.”
“It does if she says I’m attentive.”
“She said your shorts looked snug.”
Alex, lounging on the bench, choked on his iced coffee.
Chris laughs annoyingly. “My shorts work hard keeping my huge—,”
“Stop right there, slut.”
Felix pointed his pen at you. “Sassy points for you.”
Mia leaned in from the doorway. “Does that count as harassment?”
“Only if a complaint is filed. But I kinda liked it,” Chris said, grinning around his lollipop. It was cherry that day, red and glossy and deeply obnoxious.
You wanted to snatch it out of his mouth and throw it into the pool filter. You also wanted, very briefly and very shamefully, to taste it. That thought was so unacceptable you threw a grape at him.
He caught it in his mouth and the room erupted.
“Fucking show-off,” you muttered, crossing your arms.
Chris chewed, swallowed, and winked.
Craig chose that moment to enter with his clipboard, which meant everyone immediately scattered into suspicious productivity.
“Good energy today,” Craig said, squinting at the room.
“Team morale,” Felix said brightly.
“More like ‘more hell’,” Mia muttered.
Craig ignored her. “Big Saturday crowd tomorrow. I expect focus, professionalism, and strong member engagement. Summer MVP is still anyone’s game.”
Chris looked at you. You looked at Chris.
Saturday arrived with the kind of brutal, glittering heat that turned the entire pool deck into a griddle and made every guest behave as though sunscreen, patience, and basic manners had evaporated by noon.
Children ran, screamed, cried, cannonballed, stole each other’s diving rings, and treated “walk, please” like a foreign concept. Parents drank frozen margaritas under umbrellas and pretended they did not see their offspring attempting minor crimes near the shallow end. The lazy river jammed twice because one child refused to exit his tube and another had somehow smuggled in a pool noodle suspiciously shaped like a dick. Someone dropped nachos near the splash pad. Someone else lost a retainer in the lap lanes.
It was chaos with cabana service.
You were stationed near the family pool, scanning through the glare, when you spotted Mr. Halverson near the bar with his phone in one hand and confusion wrinkling his sunburned face.
Perfect.
Mr. Halverson was gross, yes, in the damp, overly familiar way of men who treated wedding vows like background noise, but he was also influential, wealthy, and exactly the kind of member who would corner Craig near the office to compliment “excellent staff responsiveness” if you solved a minor inconvenience while smiling through your suffering.
You climbed down from the chair.
Across the pool, Chris noticed immediately.
He was crouched beside a little boy with a scraped knee, one hand pressing an ice pack gently to the child’s shin while the kid’s mother hovered nearby, gazing at Chris and his stupidly sculpted back. Chris’s eyes slid past her shoulder and locked onto you as you headed toward Halverson.
His jaw shifted.
You smiled—not at Halverson—at Chris. Then you turned all your polished, poisonous sweetness toward the man by the bar.
“Mr. Halverson,” you said, bright enough to make yourself nauseous. “Everything okay?”
He looked up, relief blooming across his face, eyes scanning your swimsuit-clad body from head to toe. “There you are,” he said, which immediately made you want to walk into the deep end with rocks in your pockets. “This damn app keeps asking for my cabana number.”
You glanced at the brass number mounted directly beside his head. “You’re in cabana twelve.”
He followed your gaze, laughed, and touched your side.
You didn’t flinch. You became marble.
“Guess I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached,” he said.
“Good thing we’re trained for emergencies,” you replied, smiling hard enough that you could hear your teeth grind in disgust.
Behind you, a whistle chirped.
You turned. Chris was already walking over, wet from some recent dip into the pool, black hair pushed back from his forehead before falling forward again in damp pieces, sunglasses hooked into the waistband of his trunks, lollipop tucked into one cheek, and expression pleasant in a way that made you instantly suspicious.
“Everything alright over here?” he asked.
His voice was polite, but his eyes were not.
Mr. Halverson’s hand dropped from your side.
“We’re fine,” you said.
Chris looked at you, then at Halverson, then at the phone. “App trouble?”
“I have it handled.”
“Of course you do,” Chris said, smiling. “You’re very helpful.”
You narrowed your eyes.
Halverson chuckled, delighted by tension he had no business enjoying. “You two always like this?”
“Unfortunately,” you said.
“Only when she misses me,” Chris said.
You snapped your head towards him. He smiled around the lollipop. Somewhere behind him, Craig materialized near the towel station, clipboard lifted like a weapon from hell.
Chris noticed. You knew he noticed because his posture changed by half an inch, straightening into that effortless lifeguard golden-boy stance he used when guests were watching, the one that made him look responsible and fuckable in the same breath, which was frankly very inconsiderate.
“Actually,” Chris said, reaching gently for Halverson’s phone, “I can take care of this. Y/N’s been running around all afternoon, and we don’t want her overheating.”
Oh, that smug, shirtless, candy-sucking bastard.
Your smile froze. “How thoughtful,” you said.
Chris leaned closer as he took the phone, enough that the scent of chlorine, sunscreen, and green apple sugar slipped under your skin with humiliating precision.
“You do look a little flushed,” he murmured.
You kept smiling because Craig was watching, but your voice dropped. “You do look a little killable.”
Chris’s mouth curved. “Cute.”
“I’m not being cute.”
“You are when you threaten me.”
“I hope a pool noodle lodges in your ass.”
Halverson made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh.
Craig’s pen moved.
Chris solved the app issue in less than ten seconds, handed the phone back, and earned a hearty clap on the shoulder from Halverson, who announced, “Thanks, Chris. You’re a lifesaver.”
Chris looked directly at you.
“That’s what the certification says.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you said.
“I’m efficient.”
“You’re a parasite.”
“With great member feedback.”
Your manager wrote something down again, and something inside you snapped cleanly in half.
The rest of the shift became war. Not metaphorical war. No, no, no, no. An actual war…if war involved customer service, fake smiles, and two college-age lifeguards competing to see who could be more publicly helpful without getting fired for making it erotic.
Chris helped a crying child locate a missing stuffed turtle named Gregory, then returned it with such gentle sincerity that even you, against your will, felt a tiny flicker of warmth before remembering you hated him.
You carried three lunch trays to a cabana full of women who called you “honey” and asked whether Chris was single.
You told them he had a personality disorder.
One of them laughed and said, “That’s okay. Sometimes you need a little crazy,” with a wink.
Chris heard about it within five minutes because Alex had the loyalty of a politician.
“You told Mrs. Bellamy I have a personality disorder?” Chris asked when your rotations crossed near the diving board.
“You told Mr. Halverson I was overheating.”
“You were.”
“I was plotting.”
“Sure you were.”
“Fuck you.”
“Ask nicer.”
You nearly swallowed your whistle. Chris smiled like he knew exactly what he had done and jogged backward toward the shallow end before you could commit a felony in front of children.
At four, you found Mrs. Redding struggling near the towel shelves, her cane balanced against her hip while she reached for a stack placed just slightly too high.
A gift from God.
You moved instantly. Chris also moved instantly. The two of you converged on the towel station from opposite directions like heat-seeking missiles with lifeguard certifications.
“I’ve got it,” you said, arriving first by half a second.
Chris’s hand reached over yours and grabbed the stack anyway.
“We’ve got it,” he said, handing Mrs. Redding two towels with a smile so bright it could blind.
Mrs. Redding looked between you, eyes bright behind her oversized sunglasses.
“Well,” she said, delighted, “aren’t you both attentive?”
“Yes,” you and Chris both said.
Mrs. Redding laughed, touched both your arms, and wandered away.
Craig watched from near the snack bar, pen not moving.
You and Chris stood in silence. Then Chris said, “Joint credit.”
You looked at him. “That’s worse than losing,” you said.
“I know.”
For one dangerous second, you both laughed.
It startled you more than it should have, the shared burst of it, easy and sharp and familiar in a way that reached backward through years of summers, years of chlorine-soaked shifts and closing duties and training drills. Years of Chris being the person who irritated you most consistently and somehow knew exactly when to hand you water without saying anything about it.
Then he ruined it by biting down on his lollipop and crunching it between his teeth.
You grimaced. “You’re disgusting.”
“You were smiling.”
“I had heatstroke.”
“You’ve been flushed all day.”
“You’ve been staring all day.”
His eyes dipped to your body, then lifted. “Yeah,” he said.
Then a child screamed near the lazy river, and the moment shattered back into chlorine, noise, and professional responsibility.
By closing, you were exhausted enough to feel personally victimized by Christopher Chan Bang.
The last members packed up, the cabanas emptied, the pool lights clicked on beneath the blue surface, and the aquatics center shifted into that strange post-chaos hush where everything smelled stronger: wet concrete, sunscreen, fried food from the snack bar, damp towels, and the faint metallic bite of pool water cooling under evening air.
Craig gathered the staff near the guard office for end-of-day notes.
Everyone looked like shit. Beautiful shit, maybe, because summer staff sometimes looked golden and half-feral after too much sun. But shit nonetheless.
Chris stood beside you, hair still damp, shoulders warm, lollipop gone but mouth no less irritating. Every time his arm brushed yours, your body reacted like he had done it on purpose. Which he probably had.
“Good work today,” Craig said, clipboard tucked against his chest. “Strong member engagement overall. A few preventable issues with towel inventory, but good responsiveness, especially during the lazy river backup.”
Mia muttered, “The dick noodle fucked us.”
Felix coughed.
Craig paused. “Please don’t refer to pool equipment that way.”
Mia shrugged. “It knew what it did.”
Craig wisely moved on. “I also want to recognize both of you,” he said, nodding toward you and Chris, which immediately made every other guard perk up like gossip-starved meerkats. “You’ve shown initiative throughout the month, and today especially, I noticed several examples of guest support, teamwork, and conflict management.”
You whispered, “Conflict management my ass.”
Chris whispered back, “You offering?”
You elbowed Chris hard.
He grunted, then laughed under his breath, and the sound grazed every nerve you had been trying to keep disciplined.
Craig’s eyes narrowed. “Something funny?”
“No,” Chris said.
“Yes,” Mia deadpanned.
Craig sighed. “Summer MVP will be announced next Friday. Until then, keep up the professionalism.”
“Absolutely,” you said.
“Always,” Chris added.
Felix, too softly for Craig but loudly enough for you, murmured, “Lying in the house of chlorine.”
The meeting ended. People scattered toward closing duties and locker rooms, laughing under their breath, dragging rescue tubes, stacking chairs, collecting lost toys. You headed toward the guard office for your bag, fully prepared to rinse off, go home, and spend the night not thinking about Chris’s blunt little “yeah” when you accused him of staring.
Naturally, Chris followed. Because he was a rash in human form. “You okay?” he asked behind you.
You grabbed your bag from the hook. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Do that.”
“Ask a normal question?”
“You don’t ask normal questions.”
“You look pissed.”
“I am pissed.”
“At me?”
You turned sharply. Chris stopped close enough that your bag bumped his thigh. “You cut me off with Halverson,” you said. “You stole towel credit with Mrs. Redding. You spent all day making Craig think you’re Summer MVP Jesus in tight swim trunks, and then you have the nerve to ask if I’m okay like you’re not the problem.”
Chris’s expression shifted, amusement dimming. “Halverson had his hand on you.”
You stared at him. “What?”
“He touched you.”
“So?”
“So he’s a creep.”
“You said that already.”
“Because it’s still true.”
“And that gives you the right to sabotage me?”
“No.” Chris dragged a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back before it fell forward again in those dark, messy pieces that made your irritation feel less structurally sound. “It gives me the right to be pissed.”
You laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “You were pissed?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked at you like the answer should have been obvious, which only made you angrier, because if the answer was obvious then your body had known it before you did, and you did not appreciate being betrayed by your own organs.
“Use your words, Christopher.”
His jaw flexed. Around you, the remaining staff noise faded down the hallway, leaving the two of you in the heavy quiet of the nearly empty guard office.
Chris took a step closer. “Because I don’t like watching him touch you.”
Your pulse jumped. “That’s not your business.”
“I know.”
“You don’t get to act jealous.”
“I know.”
“You flirt with half the pool deck.”
“So do you.”
“For points.”
“Bullshit,” he said, and there it was, his own temper finally sparking through the charm. “You do it because you know I’m watching.”
You could have denied it. You should have denied it. Instead, you tilted your chin up and said, “Maybe you shouldn’t make it so easy.”
Chris’s laugh was low, humorless, and a little wrecked.
“Fuck,” he said, looking away for half a second. “You drive me insane.”
“Good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
He looked back at you. Something hot and stupid moved between you, dragging every unfinished argument, every ugly little spark, every glance across the pool deck into one narrow stretch of air.
“You’ve got a hell of a way of saying you like me,” he said.
“I don’t like you.”
“No?”
“No.”
Chris’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “Then tell me to fuck off.”
“Fuck off.”
“Mean it.”
You said nothing.
His smile returned, but it was different now, not bright or performative, not meant for mothers or managers or the cheering section of nosey lifeguards listening from around corners. This smile was smaller, slower, aimed directly at the space where your confidence had begun to smoke. “That’s what I thought,” he said.
You pushed past him before you could do something catastrophic in the guard office.
“Don’t walk away from me while I’m talking to you,” Chris called.
You threw him a look over your shoulder. “You do it all the time.”
“Yeah, and it pisses you off.”
“That’s because everything you do pisses me off.”
“Then don’t follow me.”
You stopped. He had turned toward the men’s locker room.
The bait hung there, obvious and glittering. You knew it was bait. Chris knew you knew it was bait.
Felix, from somewhere near the supply closet, whispered, “Don’t do it.”
You turned your head slowly toward the sound. A cabinet shut very quietly.
You stood in the hallway for two seconds, maybe three, which was enough time to consider your choices and reject wisdom as a concept. Then you followed him.
The men’s locker room was empty, humid, and coolly lit, smelling of cedar benches, chlorine, clean tile, aerosol deodorant, and the lingering chemical ghost of teenage boys who had once believed spraying themselves in a choking cloud of body spray counted as hygiene. Rows of gray lockers lined the walls. Water dripped somewhere in the shower area with a patient, echoing rhythm.
Chris stood at his locker, spinning the combination. He glanced back when the door swung shut behind you, eyebrows lifting. “Pretty sure this is the men’s locker room.”
“Pretty sure you invited me.”
“I said don’t follow me.”
“You said it like an asshole.”
“Because I knew you would.”
You crossed your arms. “You are so fucking smug.”
“And you’re in the men’s locker room giving me shit after hours, so maybe don’t climb too high up that moral ladder.”
“I came in here because you’ve been acting like a territorial dick all day.”
Chris opened his locker with a metallic clank. “I was acting like a dick before today too. Don’t erase my history.”
“You think this is funny?”
“I think if I don’t laugh, I’m going to do something very stupid.”
The honesty of that landed harder than the joke.
You watched him pull a towel from the locker shelf, watched the muscles in his shoulder shift with the movement, watched the damp ends of his hair cling to the back of his neck. He looked too casual for how charged the room had become, too comfortable in the tension, like he had been living inside it all summer and was only now letting you see it fully.
“What stupid thing?” you asked.
Chris turned. His eyes were darker in the locker room light.
“You know what stupid thing.”
Your mouth went dry. “You’re delusional.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re arrogant.”
“Definitely.”
“You’re still avoiding the point.”
“I’m trying not to make one.”
“You never try not to make points. You’re made of points. Horrible little ones.”
He laughed, real and warm, his head dipping for a second before he looked back at you with something dangerously fond in his expression. “God, you’re mean.”
“You deserve it.”
“Probably.”
“You absolutely do.”
“Then why are you still here?”
The question settled between you.
You could feel the answer in your body, which was unfortunate because your body had terrible politics and no respect for narrative pacing. It had been answering him all day, in every glance, every flare of irritation, every stupid rush of heat when he got too close and smelled like sugar and sun-warmed skin and man.
Chris watched you realize it. Then, with the kind of casual cruelty only a truly confident man could manage, he reached for the waistband of his red swim trunks.
Your eyes widened. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Changing.”
“In front of me?”
“You’re in the men’s locker room.”
“That does not mean you get to just whip it out like a hostile work environment.”
Chris barked a laugh, bright and startled. “Whip it out?”
“Do not repeat my words when I’m angry.”
“You followed me into my locker room.”
“To yell at you.”
“Then keep yelling at me.”
“I am yelling.”
“You got quiet.”
“Because you’re undressing, you lunatic.”
He shrugged, thumbs still hooked in the waistband, mouth tilted like he was enjoying himself far too much. “You can leave.”
The challenge was obvious. Obscene, really.
You should have left. Instead, you turned your head toward a row of lockers with the stiff dignity of someone who had just lost a staring contest with the waistband of a man’s swim trunks.
Chris laughed under his breath. “Oh, now you’re shy?”
“I’m being respectful.”
“That’s new.”
“I hate you.”
“You keep saying.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
“Sure.”
Fabric shifted. Your soul briefly left your body, checked the hallway for witnesses, and returned with a clipboard full of complaints.
“Tell me when you’re decent,” you snapped.
“That depends on your definition.”
“Christopher.”
“I’ve got a towel on.”
You made the mistake of looking.
The towel was, technically, on.
It was just low enough on his hips to suggest it had signed a contract with Satan. His chest was still bare and his hair fell over his forehead in damp black pieces that made him look like he had stepped out of a swimwear ad designed specifically to ruin your ability to win arguments.
You forgot what you were saying.
Chris noticed. His grin went slow. “Careful,” he said. “Craig might give me points for member engagement.”
“You’re not engaging members.”
He looks down at himself, bulge pressing against the fabric.
“You’re disgusting.”
“You’re the one staring at me.”
“You dropped trou in front of me.”
“Then report me.”
“Gladly.”
“To Craig?”
“To God.”
Chris laughed again and turned toward the showers.
You watched him go, watched the towel sit low on his hips, watched his wet hair curl against the back of his neck, watched the muscles in his shoulders shift with every easy, arrogant step, and for one blistering second you hated him so much you could feel it in your teeth.
Then you realized it was not hatred. Or not only hatred. It was the same thing that had been burning beneath every argument all summer, every look across the pool deck, every stupid little competition, every insult that landed too close to flirting, every time his eyes dragged over you when he thought you were too busy pretending not to notice.
You were tired. Tired of smiling at disgusting married men for Craig’s clipboard. Tired of watching mothers touch Chris’s biceps like the country club had installed him for recreational use. Tired of pretending his lollipop, his hair, his body, his mouth, his entire cocky, chlorine-soaked existence did not make you want to spread your legs for him.
So when he reached the shower entrance, you said, “Fuck it.”
Chris paused and turned slowly, one hand braced against the tiled wall, and the amusement on his face shifted when he saw your hands go up.
“What?”
You reached for the straps of your swimsuit and pulled it down, peeling the damp fabric away from your skin with far less grace than you would have preferred, but apparently seduction looked different when you were half-feral from sun exposure and rage. The suit landed somewhere, your whistle followed, bouncing once against the bench before going still.
For once, Chris did not have a joke ready.
His gaze moved over your naked form, quick at first, almost instinctive, before he dragged it back to your face with visible effort—like a man forcing himself to remember that staring too long without an invitation would ruin the very good thing clearly unfolding in front of him.
His mouth curved slowly. “Goddamn, baby,” he said.
The words slid down your spine.
He took one step toward you, towel hanging low on his hips, erection straining against the front of it, damp hair falling over his forehead in messy black pieces, and the look on his face was pure trouble, all heat and arrogance and restraint held in place by the thinnest fucking leash.
He stopped close enough for you to feel the warmth of him, close enough that the air between your skin and his felt charged, but he still didn’t touch you. He stood there looking like sin in a staff locker room, smug as hell, and still left the last inch to you like he knew he didn’t need to chase.
His tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek, like he was trying not to grin too wide and lose the last scrap of composure he had.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re trying to get me fired.”
“You’ve been asking for it all summer.”
“I’ve been asking for a lot of things all summer.”
The way he said it made your pulse kick hard.
Chris’s gaze dropped again. This time, he let himself look. His dark eyes followed the curves of you, from your breasts to your legs, pausing at the junction of your thighs. Then his eyes came back to yours.
“You good?” he asked.
It was casual, almost lazy. But there was a line beneath it, clean and unmistakable, and you knew that if you gave him anything other than yes, if your expression shifted wrong, if your body backed up even half an inch, he would stop.
Cocky bastard. Respectful bastard. Fuck, you wanted him.
“Yes,” you said.
Chris’s smile returned, slower this time. “Yeah?”
“Don’t make me say it twice.”
He leaned in slightly, still not touching. “Say it twice.”
Your breath caught, and he noticed. Chris noticed everything when he wanted to, every swallow, every glance, every crack in your voice and tremor in your attitude.
You stepped closer. “I’m good,” you said, quieter, meaner, because if he wanted the words then he could choke on them. “I want this. I want you. Happy?”
For a second, the smugness slipped. Just a second. Then he exhaled a low, pleased curse and reached for you. “Fucking thrilled.”
His hand caught your waist, hot and firm, dragging you against him with the kind of confidence that made it very clear he had been waiting for permission and now considered permission a loaded weapon. His other hand slid to the back of your neck, not gentle exactly, but controlled, his fingers curling there as he brought his mouth down to yours.
The kiss was filthy immediately. Chris kissed you like he had been imagining your mouth for weeks and was pissed he’d had to wait this long, all heat and pressure and slick, cherry-sugar memory, his teeth catching your lower lip just enough to make your hand fly to his shoulder.
You dug your nails in, making him groan against your mouth.
“Shit,” he breathed, smiling into the kiss. “You like that shit, baby?” Chris smirked, dark and delighted, and backed you toward the lockers.
Your back met metal with a dull thud, and before you could snap at him about bruising, his hand was already there behind your head, cushioning the impact like it was muscle memory, mouth still on yours, body still pressing close, arrogance still humming through every inch of him.
“You’re still annoying,” you said, breathless, when he dragged his mouth down your jaw.
“You’re still naked letting me kiss you,” he said, voice rough against your throat.
His hand slid lower, fingers pressing into your hip with enough grip to make your thoughts scatter. He tilted his head, caught your gaze, and gave you one last out with nothing but his eyes and a low, wicked murmur. “Tell me no and I stop.”
You stared at him. He stared back, water-dark hair falling into his eyes, mouth swollen from yours, towel barely hanging on, every inch of him looking like a bad decision that knew exactly how bad it was.
You reached for the edge of his towel.
Chris’s grin went sharp. “That’s not no.”
“No shit.”
The towel dropped, his control with it.
He kissed you again, harder this time, and whatever had been left of the argument collapsed under the heat of his hands, the slick press of damp skin, the obscene satisfaction of finally letting the whole stupid summer sharpen into one impossible point.
“You have no idea,” he said, breath hot against your mouth, “how many times I’ve thought about this.”
You laughed, but it came out shaky.
“In the employee locker room? That’s disturbing.”
“On the pool deck,” he said, kissing down your throat. “In the office. Behind the towel station. Every time you bend over to pick up some rich asshole’s sunglasses and then look at me like you know I’m watching.”
“You are so gross.”
“You love it.”
“I hate you.”
“No,” he said, lifting his head, eyes dark and certain. “You don’t.”
You growled, pulling him closer by the back of his neck. “No,” you said, mouth brushing his. “I don’t.”
Chris’s smile flickered, less smug for half a second and more real, which you absolutely could not tolerate under current conditions. So you kissed him before he could do anything stupid with it.
He made a rough sound into your mouth, gripped your waist, and dragged you tighter against him, all cocky hunger and barely leashed restraint, the kind of man who knew how badly he was wanted and still waited for you to choose it anyway.
Chris hauls you into the shower stall, his grip iron-tight on your wrist, and the fluorescent lights catch the hard lines of his chest, the defined muscles of his abdomen, the way his cock juts out from his hips, thick and angry and already leaking at the tip.
"You're insane," he hisses, shoving you under the spray before the water's even warm.
The initial blast is ice-cold and you gasp, back arching away from the wall, your nipples pebbling instantly, your skin erupting in goosebumps. Chris steps in after you, his body crowding yours, his hands planting on either side of your head against the tile.
"Insane," he repeats, "following me in here like that. Getting me fucking hard."
The water warms and steam billows around you both. You're drenched now, your hair plastering to your shoulders, water streaming down the valley of your breasts, rushing over the curve of your hips. Chris is just as wet, his dark hair slicked back from his forehead, his dark eyes sharp and hungry as they roam over your body.
Then his lips are on yours, his tongue pushing past your lips, his hand fisting in your wet hair, his hard cock pressing against your belly and smearing precum across your stomach. You kiss him back like you're trying to consume him, your hands sliding over his slick shoulders, digging into the muscles of his back.
He leans back, biting your lower lip, tugging it, and letting it snap back. "On your knees, beautiful."
The tile is hard and cold under your knees but you don't care, don't hesitate, don't give him the satisfaction of seeing you waver. You're eye-level with his cock now, watching it bob with his pulse, thick and flushed, a vein running along the underside that you trace with your fingertip just to watch him twitch.
"Stop teasing."
"Stop being desperate." You look up at him through your lashes, water streaming down your face, and you see the exact moment his patience snaps.
His hand is in your hair again, guiding you forward, and you open your mouth without resistance because you want this just as badly as he does. Maybe more. Maybe you've wanted this all summer, every argument just foreplay, every insult a way to get his attention without having to admit you craved it.
The head of his cock passes your lips and you seal them around his shaft, tongue pressing flat against the underside, tasting salt and skin and something uniquely Chris. He groans above you, his hips jerking forward, pushing deeper into your mouth.
"Fuck," he hisses, his head falling back. "Fuck, that's—your mouth is—"
You take him deeper, relaxing your throat, breathing through your nose as you swallow around him. Your hand wraps around what you can't fit, stroking in time with your mouth, twisting on the upstroke, your other hand cupping his balls and rolling them gently in your palm.
"God, you're fucking good at this." His voice is strained, wrecked.
You hum around him and his whole body shudders. Your eyes water but you don't pull back, don't stop, setting a rhythm that has him cursing under his breath, his thighs tensing under your free hand. You can feel him getting close—the way his balls draw up tight, the way his cock swells on your tongue, the way his grip in your hair tightens to the point of pain.
"I'm gonna—" He yanks you off suddenly, and you gasp, drool and precum stringing from your lips to his cock. "Not like that. Not yet."
He pulls you to your feet and spins you around, pressing your front against the wet tile wall. The water beats down on both of you, running in rivulets down your spine, pooling in the hollow of your lower back. His body cages yours, his chest against your back, his cock sliding between your thighs, notching against your entrance but not pushing in.
"Tell me you want it."
"I want it."
"Tell me you need it."
"I need it, Chris. I need your cock inside me. Please."
"Please?" He laughs, dark and low. "Where's all that fight now? Where's the girl who was going to steal my MVP title?"
"Inside me. Where your cock should be."
"Filthy." He notches himself at your entrance and pushes in, one long, relentless thrust that has you crying out, your palms slapping against the wet tile. He fills you completely, stretching you, the slight burn mixing with the pleasure until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
He doesn't give you time to adjust. He fucks you hard, his hips snapping against your ass, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the tile, mixing with the spray of the water and both of your moans. His hand finds your throat, tilting your head back, and he bites along the column of your neck, sucks a bruise into the junction of your shoulder.
"This pussy is mine," he growls against your skin. "Say it."
"Yours. This pussy is yours."
"Every fucking inch of you." His free hand slides down your stomach, over your hip, dipping between your thighs to find your clit. He circles it with rough, relentless pressure, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. "I'm going to ruin you for anyone else. Going to make sure you never think about another cock without remembering how I feel inside you."
"Yes, god, yes—"
"Going to fill you up." His voice drops lower, rougher, and you feel his cock twitch inside you. "Going to pump you full of my cum, watch it drip down your thighs when I'm done with you."
The words hit something deep in your core, something primal and desperate. You push back against him, meeting each thrust, your nails scraping uselessly against the tile. The pressure is building, coiling tight in your belly, your orgasm creeping closer with every stroke of his fingers, every snap of his hips.
"Chris, I'm going to—"
"Not yet." He slows his pace, torturously slow, and you whimper. "Not until I say."
"Please, please, I need—"
His thumb shifts, sliding back, pressing against your asshole. You tense for a moment, then force yourself to relax, and he groans at the way your body yields to him.
"Look at you," he breathes, jaw dropping at the visual of his thumb rubbing your tight hole. "So fucking desperate for it. Huh, baby? You'd let me do anything, wouldn't you?"
"Anything. Anything you want."
He pushes just the tip of his thumb past the ring of muscle, and the fullness has you seeing stars. He resumes his pace, fucking you hard again, his thumb working in and out in counterpoint to his cock. The dual sensation is overwhelming, pushing you higher and higher, and you're sobbing with it, begging with sounds that barely qualify as words.
"Come for me," he says in your ear. "Come on my cock and make me come inside you."
You shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you, every muscle clenching and releasing at once, your cunt gripping him so tight he groans loud enough to echo. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, just fucks you through it, drawing out every last wave until you're shaking, until your legs barely hold you.
"Good girl." His rhythm stutters, becoming erratic. "Good fucking girl. I'm gonna fill you up now, baby. Gonna breed this pretty pussy."
"Yes, god, yes, give me everything—"
He slams home one final time and holds, his cock pulsing inside you, rope after rope of hot cum flooding your core. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Oh fuuuuuck,” he groans loudly. You can feel it, feel him marking you from the inside, and the sensation triggers another smaller orgasm that has you writhing against the wall.
For a moment, neither of you moves. Just the sound of water and breathing. Then he pulls out, and you feel his cum immediately start to slip down your thighs, mingling with the water, washing away the evidence of what you've done. His hands are gentle now, turning you around, brushing wet hair from your face.
"You're still not winning MVP," he says, but his voice is soft.
"We'll see about that." You're breathless, wrecked, but you manage a smile. "I think I just proved I can make you lose your mind. That's got to count for something."
He laughs, this real sound, and kisses you again—slower this time, less frantic.
"We're not done," he murmurs against your lips. "Not even close. You started a war when you followed me in here, and I intend to win it."
"Bring it on, Chris."
He grins, and there's something wicked in it, something that makes your spent cunt clench in anticipation.
"Round two in the locker room," he says, already reaching for you again. "I want to bend you over one of those benches and hear you scream."
The water runs cold around you both, but neither of you cares. And something tells you that by the end of it, neither of you will remember why you were fighting in the first place.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
you take up a new summer job—being a fire lookout for the forest service at a national park. you’re added to a group chat and get to know the man in the neighboring tower.
pairing: lee know x fem!reader
genre: smau, fluff, humor
content: coworkers to lovers, grumpy x sunshine, minho is a grump, highly unrealistic depiction of the national forest service, and forest fires in general, a fire happens but no one gets hurt, chanlix mention lol
ss: 21
a/n: thank you for all the love on part one and this event so far, i've been loving seeing everyones comments it warms my heart!!! it's mr. grumpy cat time! ♡
♡ m.list
a wet hot skz summer event masterlist ☼ schedule
part one
a/n: annddd my first fic of a wet hot skz summer is done!! i hope you liked it! lmao reading it back the pacing is questionable ahahah i just didn't want to make it a bunch of parts!!! but i love our grumpy cat hehe ♡
please remember to go check out @binniebb 's fic as well and stay tuned for the rest of the members (it’s about to get a LOT hotter) ♡
you take up a new summer job—being a fire lookout for the forest service at a national park. you’re added to a group chat and get to know the man in the neighboring tower.
pairing: lee know x fem!reader
genre: smau, fluff, humor
content: coworkers to lovers, grumpy x sunshine, minho is a grump, highly unrealistic depiction of the national forest service, and forest fires in general
ss: 24
a/n: i'm so happy to finally share this! the idea was inspired by the video game firewatch, but nothing about the plot is the same. and yes, i know real fire lookouts use the radio. but this format is more fun! this story is sfw, a bit different than the vibe of the event, but i just wanted to tell a cute summer story <3
♡ m.list
Summary: It is one of those days when you and Seungcheol are both working from home. Notoriously, no work gets done on days like this one.
Word count: 6.6k
Genres/warnings: smut, pwp (plot? what plot?); non-idol au, loser!nerd!perv!seungcheol, established relationship, honestly i can stop at pwp, cheol is a simp and we're not surprised; lmk if i skipped anything important
Smut warnings: Minors DNI, thicc dicc!cheol, implied size difference, dirty talk (of course), slow piv sex, unprotected (this is how we roll here; but please be safe irl), creampie, they continue being horndogs, reader takes charge, light hints of pet play; oral (f rec), face sitting, some brief hand job (m. rec), orgasm denial/control, edging, kinda ruined orgasm, cheol is down bad as always, he's sweetly pathetic, reader is on the phone with her manager when cheol fucks her (oops, don't do it irl kids); see anything i missed? please lmk
A/N: everyone say thank you, seungcheol for that live he held. it gave me the idea of writing a full scene of what i only mentioned briefly in the main fic, though the action here takes place after the main story. as always, enjoy your read and i’ll be happy to see your feedback in any form you’re comfortable with: comments, asks or reblogs. and i will see you in my next fic ᙏ̤̫
You can read it separately but I would recommend reading all of it for the full experience of this couple :)
If you see any mistakes: I try to proofread but English isn’t my first language, proceed at your own discretion.
Masterlist. | PART 1
Seungcheol is forty-seven minutes deep into this video call and he has absorbed precisely none of it. His manager's voice comes through the headset like a monotone hum. He can swear this woman's voice is designed to sandpaper the edges of his sanity. On screen, a grid of eight faces, all feigning attention, and his own small rectangle in the corner shows a man who hasn't blinked in thirty seconds because he's too busy tracking a silhouette moving past the doorway.
That's you. Just a flicker of movement—bare legs, the hem of an oversized t-shirt he knows is his, the soft grey one you stole three months ago and never gave back—and his concentration detonates. His cock twitches against his thigh, a slow, traitorous swell that has nothing to do with whatever the hell his manager is droning on about.
Seungcheol leans back in his chair, the springs groaning under his weight, and tilts his head just enough to catch a sliver of the kitchen through the gap in the doorframe. You're at the counter now, back to him, reaching to open the microwave. The t-shirt stretches, outlining the curve of your butt. Suddenly, the fabric rides up as you tiptoe to grab something from the cupboard above and the very bottom of your ass peeks out, bare and soft-looking, and he has to swallow a sound that would get him fired.
"—and moving forward, I think we need to restructure our code reviews which are taking two days on average," his manager drones, and Seungcheol wants to scream. Fuck them code reviews. He's going to lose his mind. He's going to combust in this ergonomic chair and they'll find him as nothing but a pile of ash and a half-hard dick.
His fingers drum against the armrest. He risks another glance. You're bent over now, rummaging in the fridge, and the t-shirt has ridden up so high he can see the crease where your thigh meets your ass. Seungcheol knows exactly how that crease tastes. He knows the sound you make when he presses his tongue flat against it and drags upward. He knows the way you shudder, the way your hand fists in his hair, the way you always whisper his name in a mix of a curse and a prayer.
Fuck. His cock is fully hard now, a rigid line trapped in his sweatpants and boxer briefs in a way that's becoming painful. He shifts in his seat, trying to find relief, and accidentally knocks his knee against the underside of his desk with a dull thud that makes his microphone—that he forgot to mute—spike.
"You okay there, Seungcheol?" His manager's voice cuts through, and for one horrifying second his heart stops. But he quickly realises that it's just the noise that drew her attention. Just the thud.
"Yeah, fine," he says, and his voice comes out strained, a little too tight. "Just—hit my knee on the table."
He mutes himself. Lets out a breath that shakes. Rubs his palm over his face and tries to think about spreadsheets. Deadlines. Anything except you currently being in the kitchen or the way you looked this morning when you rolled out of bed, hair a disaster, his t-shirt swallowing you, and kissed him on the forehead before padding to the bathroom. Domestic shit. Soft, sweet, married-couple shit that still makes his chest ache even now, months in, even after everything.
It's worse now. That's the thing. He thought it would level out—the insatiable, clawing need that's been devouring him since that first drunk night on the couch. He thought once the novelty wore off, once you'd had each other in every conceivable position on every conceivable surface, the fever would break and you'd settle into something manageable. Normal.
It didn't.
It got so much worse.
Last Friday, for instance. You both worked from home. By his generous estimate, you managed three hours of actual productivity between you. The rest of the day dissolved into a blur of skin and sweat and the obscene, wet sound of his cock sliding into you over and over. He bent you over your desk during what was supposed to be a fifteen-minute coffee break and didn't pull out for forty-five. You sucked him off under his desk during a monthly team call on Google Meet, his teeth sinking into his fist and leaving marks just to keep from moaning into an unmuted mic, his eyes watering with restraint of not rolling back into his skull. Seungcheol fucked you against the hallway wall on the way to the bathroom, one hand clamped over your mouth, your legs wrapped around his waist, your nails carving trenches into his shoulders through his shirt. By the end of the day you couldn't walk straight. Neither could he. You ordered pizza and ate it cross-legged on the floor of your living room, half-naked, feeding each other slices and communicating with humms and grunts because forming full thoughts and voicing them felt like mission impossible. And then he got hard again just from watching you lick grease off your thumb, and you let him lay you back on the soft carpet and fill you up again, until you were both too wrecked to move.
So yeah. It didn't level out. It metastasised.
And now it's Tuesday, and he's been on this call for almost an hour, and you are a room away, in the kitchen, heating up leftovers, and his entire body is humming with want. He can smell you from here. He swears he can—that faint, familiar scent of your body wash and underneath it, the warm scent of your skin that makes his mouth water and his brain go syrupy and stupid.
"—so if everyone could have their reports in by Thursday," his manager is saying, finally, mercifully, "that would be great. Any questions? No? Great. Thanks, everyone."
The call ends. Seungcheol doesn't even say goodbye. He yanks the headset off, tosses it onto his desk, and is out of the bedroom before his chair stops spinning.
You hear him coming. He's not particularly secretive about his arrival—the heavy, purposeful tread of a man who spends too much time at the gym and hasn't learned to move quietly in a shared apartment. But you don't turn around. You're standing at the counter, reaching for the microwave handle, when his arms wrap around you from behind and his body folds over yours like a collapsing star.
He's so big. That's the first thing you register, the same thing you register every time—the sheer, enveloping mass of him. His chest presses against your back, solid and warm through the thin fabric of your—his—t-shirt. His arms circle your waist, thick and possessive, and his face buries into the crook of your neck with a sound that can only be described as a whimper.
"You're done?" you ask, not bothering to hide the amusement in your voice.
"Finally," he mumbles against your skin. His lips move as he speaks, brushing the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you have to suppress a shiver. "Thought she was never going to shut up. I was losing my mind."
"Yeah, I could hear her from here. That voice is something else. Like a sadistic lullaby."
Seungcheol huffs a laugh, his breath warm and damp against your throat. "It's not funny. I was suffering."
"Poor baby." You tilt your head, giving him more access without thinking, your body responding to his proximity the way it always does—on instinct, on autopilot, like your nerve endings have been rewired to recognise him as a primary need. Purely Pavlovian response. "My heart bleeds for you and your very important corporate meeting."
"Don't be mean." He pouts. You can't see his face but you know he's pouting—you can hear it in the way his voice goes soft and petulant, the way his lower lip juts out. "I missed you."
"I was literally a wall away."
"That's a wall too far."
The microwave beeps. You reach for it again, but Seungcheol's hand catches yours first. His fingers slide between yours, locking them together, and he pulls your hand back down, pressing it flat against the counter top. His other hand slips under the hem of your shirt and settles on your lower belly, palm warm and broad and possessive.
"Food can wait," he murmurs.
You open your mouth to argue, to tease him about being a needy, insufferable menace, but then his palm presses down. Just a little. Just enough to apply pressure, to make you aware of the heat pooling low in your abdomen, of the way your body responds to him on a level that has nothing to do with conscious thought. An involuntary sound escapes your throat—small, breathy, embarrassing—and you feel your pussy clench around nothing.
"That's what I thought," he says, and there's a smile in his voice now, satisfied and soft and infuriating.
His lips find the junction of your neck and shoulder. He kisses you there, slow and open-mouthed, and then his teeth graze your skin and you stop breathing for a second.
"Cheol."
"Mm?"
"You're doing that thing."
"What thing?" He does it again—a gentle scrape of teeth, followed by the wet, soothing press of his tongue—and your knees go weak.
"That thing where you—where you turn me into—" You can't finish the sentence. His lips have found a new spot, just above your collarbone, and he's sucking a bruise into existence with the kind of focused intensity he usually reserves for boss fights in Elden Ring. Your brain fills with static. Your hands grip the edge of the counter. "—into a—fuck."
"Into a what?" He pulls back just long enough to speak, his voice low and rough and dripping with false innocence. "Use your words, baby."
"I hate you."
"No you don't." Kiss. Bite. Suck. "You love it. You love when I make you all dumb and shaky. When I take my time and turn you into a little mess before I've even touched you properly." Another kiss, this one pressed to the shell of your ear. "I know you're clenching even without touching you, baby. You think I'm not aware? Oh, I am. I know your body better than I know my own at this point."
You think of saying something sharp, to cut through the haze and reassert some semblance of control. But Seungcheol is right. He does know your body. He's spent months mapping every inch of it with his hands and his mouth and his cock, learning every spot that makes you gasp, every rhythm that makes you fall apart. And right now, with his palm still pressing on your lower belly and his lips trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, the only thing your brain can produce is a stream of increasingly pathetic sounds.
You think, distantly, about the irony of it. Months ago you called him a loser to your friend. You rolled your eyes at his compression shirts and his anime figures and his inability to talk to women. And now here you are, melting into a puddle of need because he's kissing your neck and breathing on you. Your friends have noticed, of course. Because you can't exactly hide it. You walk into every brunch, every cafe meetup, wearing the unmistakable glow of a woman who's getting thoroughly, regularly, devastatingly fucked. Loud and proud as they say.
Seungcheol's fingers have trailed lower while you were lost in thought. They're resting on the waistband of your underwear now, tracing the elastic edge with a maddening lightness that makes your hips twitch.
"Mmm, bet you're so wet already," he murmurs, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice, the smug, reverent delight. "I haven't even done anything and you're soaking through your panties, aren't you? What am I going to do with you?"
"I don't know," you manage, your voice coming out embarrassingly breathy. "Maybe actually fuck me instead of just talking about it?"
"Impatient." He nips at your earlobe. "I like it."
His fingers dip lower, pressing against you through the damp cotton of your underwear and finding his theory to be true. The pressure is light, teasing, nowhere near enough, and you can feel your pussy clenching and throbbing again, desperate for more, desperate for anything. Behind you, pressed against the curve of your ass, his cock is a hard, insistent weight. He's been half-hard since the call started—you could guess from the way he was squirming in his chair, the way his eyes kept cutting toward the kitchen—but now he's fully erect, thick and hot even through the layers of his sweatpants and your t-shirt that barely covers your ass anymore. He rocks against you, a slow, deliberate grind, and the friction makes you both groan.
"Thought about this the whole call," he says, his voice dropping into that lower register that makes your stomach flip. "Thought about bending you over this counter. Thought about pulling these little panties to the side and sliding into you while you're still trying to heat up your stupid breakfast leftovers. Thought about filling you up so full you'd be leaking me all afternoon while you sit in your meetings pretending to be a professional."
"That's—" You swallow, hard. "That's what you were thinking about? During a work call?"
"Every second." Seungcheol grinds against you again, and this time you can feel the full length of him, the girth that still makes your mouth water even after all these months. "Couldn't focus. Couldn't think about anything except your tight little cunt and how bad I need to be inside it. How bad I need to use it."
He says that and lets out a shameful pathetic mewl.
The word "use" and the desperate sound that escapes him land in your chest and detonate. You know what he's doing—he's working you up, talking filth the way he knows you like, the way that makes you weak and pliant and ready to let him do anything. And normally you would let him. Normally you would let him spin you around, bend you over, and fuck you stupid right here against the kitchen counter, and you would come apart on his cock and thank him for it afterwards.
But thanks to his little pathetic display you're feeling something else. Something sharper. Seungcheol spent an hour squirming in his chair thinking about using you? Fine. But you spent that same hour catching glimpses of him in his stupid soft flannel shirt, his hair messy, his brows furrowed, his plush lips wrapped around his water bottle, and you've been simmering with your own kind of want. And maybe it's the oncoming ovulation hormones, or maybe it's the way he whimpered when he first wrapped his arms around you and mewled just now, but something in you decides that today, you're not going to be the one who gets reduced to a mindless, begging mess.
Today, that's going to be him.
His fingers have slipped under the waistband of your panties now, tracing through your slick folds with a slow, exploratory pressure that makes your breath hitch. He's about to push inside—you can feel the tension in his wrist, the way his breathing has gone ragged against your neck—when you reach around with your free hand and squeeze his cock through his sweatpants.
Hard.
Seungcheol makes a sound you've never heard before. A choked, strangled yelp that's half surprise and half something else entirely. His whole body jerks against you, his hips bucking into your grip, and his fingers freeze where they are.
"What—" he starts, but you squeeze again, and the word dissolves into a whimper.
"Here's what's going to happen, baby," you say, and your voice comes out breathless but somewhat steady. "You're going to take your hand out of my panties. You're going to get on your knees. And you're going to do exactly what I tell you. Got it, hmm?"
Seungcheol doesn't answer immediately. His chest is heaving against your back, his cock throbbing in your grip, and you can feel the war happening inside him—the instinct to take over, to reclaim control, wrestling with the part of him that loves this, the part that goes soft and eager and desperate when you turn the tables.
"Got it?" you repeat, and you twist your wrist just enough to make him gasp.
"Yeah," he breathes, voice going a little higher than usual. "Yeah, okay. Got it."
"Good boy."
The words hit him like a physical blow. You feel the full-body shudder that runs through him, the way his cock kicks against your palm, the way his breathing goes even more ragged and uneven. He pulls his hand out of your panties slowly, reluctantly, and you release your grip on him just long enough for him to step back.
"Strip," you say as soon as you turn around to see him.
He does. He pulls his t-shirt over his head first, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the thick shoulders and defined pecs, the trail of dark hair that runs down his stomach and disappears into the waistband of his sweats. Then his pants go, pushed down over his hips, and his boxers with them, until he's standing naked in the middle of the kitchen with his cock jutting up toward his belly, flushed dark at the tip and already leaking.
You take a moment to look at Seungcheol. It never gets old—the sheer size of him, the thickness, the way his cock curves just slightly, so pretty. The way it twitches under your gaze like it's begging for attention—and you bet it is. The way his balls hang heavy and full, a reminder that he hasn't come since yesterday morning, which in his case means he's already backed up and desperate and so, so easy to break.
"You're so pretty," you murmur, and you mean it. "Look at you. Standing there dripping for me. Such a desperate pathetic mess already and I haven't even touched you."
His cock gives you an eager reaction, twitching and bobbing up and down at your words, and you smile at how it throbs, almost like it's whining and jumping for you to touch it. Seungcheol's ears go red. That very deep, mortified flush that you've been watching since the very first night, except now it makes your chest ache with something tender and possessive instead of irritated. "Baby—"
"On your knees," you order softly, lips stretched in the sweetest of smiles.
He drops so fast you hear his knees hit the tile. You wince, breaking character just for a moment, worried, but Seungcheol doesn't seem to care at all, he is looking up at you with those big brown eyes, pupils blown wide, lips parted, and he is so fucking wreckable in this very moment that it makes your pussy clench and you don't even notice as you slip back into the little play the two of you are orchestrating.
"Please," he whispers, and he doesn't even know what he's asking for. He just knows he needs something, anything, as long as it is from you.
"Please what?" you hum, watching his eyes turn even shinier than before. He's so pretty like this it is unfair. Not for the first time he's giving you aggression urges.
"Please let me taste you. Need to put my mouth on you. I've been thinking about it all morning—thinking about how you taste, how soft and warm you feel on my tongue—please, baby? I need it—"
"Shh." You step forward, close enough that he can smell you again—his nostrils visibly flare when he silently inhales you—and you can feel his exhale ghost against your thighs. "I know. I know you've been a desperate little puppy all morning, couldn't even pay attention to your stupid meeting because you were too busy thinking about my pussy. Isn't that right?"
He nods, frantic, his hands twitching at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from grabbing you. You wouldn't mind if he did, to be fair. "Yes. Yes, that's right. Couldn't—couldn't think about anything else. Just you. Just your sweet pussy. Just how bad I wanted to be inside it." He whimpers and squirms on his knees, and his cock twitches again at the image growing vivid in his head.
"And instead you're on your knees." You reach down, thread your fingers through his hair, and tug—not hard enough to hurt, only to tilt his head back and make him look at you. "Because you're not in charge right now. I am. And I decide when you get to touch me. I decide when you get to cum. Understood?"
"Understood." His voice is wrecked already, and you haven't even started.
"Good." You release his hair and hop up onto the edge of the counter, spreading your legs. "Now be a good boy and get to work."
You pat your thigh and Seungcheol doesn't need to be told twice. His hands find your thighs, tugging your underwear off with urgent impatience before spreading you wider to make room, and then his mouth is on you and the world dissolves into sensation for both of you.
Seungcheol eats pussy like he's been starving for years and you're the first meal he's been served. His tongue is broad and wet and relentless, licking a stripe from your entrance to your clit with a pressure that makes your hips immediately buck against his face. He genuinely moans when he tastes you, like the flavour of your arousal is the best thing he's ever experienced—and the vibration against your clit sends a shockwave up your spine, makes your soles tingle and toes curl.
"Fuck," you breathe, one hand bracing against the counter, the other fisting in his hair. "That's it. That's—right there—"
He stays there. His tongue circles your clit in slow, deliberate strokes, and then his lips close around it and he sucks, and your vision whites out for a second, an involuntary squeal leaving your mouth.
"Oh my god—" you pant, voice getting strained and high-pitched with pleasure.
He hums against you, pleased, and the vibration makes you jolt again. His hands are gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks, holding you open for him, and his tongue keeps working you in a rhythm that's devastatingly precise. He knows exactly what you like. Of course he does. He's spent months learning your body like a language, and now he's fluent.
But you're not going to let him make you come just yet. You tug on his hair, pulling him back, and he looks up at you with his face slick and shining, his lips swollen and wet, his eyes hazy and half-lidded with want.
"Why'd you stop me?" he whines. "I wasn't done. You taste so good, baby, please let me finish—"
"Because I want to sit on your face."
His eyes go wide. Then darken. His cock, which has been bobbing neglected against his stomach, twitches and throbs visibly, a fresh bead of precum welling at the tip.
"Fuck," he whispers. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. I want that. Please."
"Get on the floor then."
He lies down on the kitchen tiles without a shred of dignity, his cock standing up like a flagpole, his chest heaving. You slide off the counter and stand over him for a moment, looking down at the picture he makes—this big, muscular man, sprawled on the cold floor, looking up at you like you're the sun and the moon and every star in the sky, his cock leaking all over his own stomach.
"You're so pathetic," you tell him, and you mean it as the highest compliment.
"I know," he breathes. "I'm your pathetic little puppy. Now please—please sit on my face. I need your cunt on my tongue. Need you to smother me with your sweet pussy, baby."
Gosh, you both are so fucking nasty for each other, you chuckle and lower yourself down, kneeling carefully over his head. The first contact of his tongue against your pussy makes you both groan—him from the taste, you from the sensation of his mouth working you open while you settle your full weight onto him. Your thighs bracket his head, and his hands come up to grip your ass, guiding you, pulling you down harder, to sit your entire weight on him.
You let Seungcheol work for a while. Let his tongue fuck into you, let his lips close around your clit, let him moan and whimper against your flesh while you rock your hips in slow, lazy circles. But you have other plans for him, so you twist just enough to reach back, your hand finding his cock where it's standing rigid and neglected.
The sound he makes when you wrap your fingers around him is muffled by your pussy, and you feel the desperate, broken groan that vibrates through your entire body. You stroke him slowly, from base to tip, your thumb swiping over the slick, swollen head to collect the precum that's been pooling there just to massage his frenulum and make the man twitch and jerk his hips uncontrollably, losing all pace of his oral ministrations.
"Look at you," you murmur, looking down at him. "So hard for me. So wet. You're dripping all over yourself. Such a pretty mess, hmm."
He can't answer. His mouth is full of your cunt, his tongue buried inside you, and all he can do is whine and buck his hips into your grip, either encouraging or just sensitive.
"Is this what you wanted? When you were sitting in your meeting with your cock all hard and aching? You wanted to be on your back on the kitchen floor, being used like a toy?"
Seungcheol nods frantically, his nose bumping against your clit, and the sensation makes you gasp.
"That's what I thought. You're nothing but a dumb mutt when I get my hands on you. What a sight, huh? A big, strong man reduced to a whimpering mess on the floor. Your friends have no idea, do they? Do they think you're this alpha male now? That you're the cool guy of the group after you bagged me, hmm?” You apply more weight onto his face and Seungcheol groans against you, soft tongue licking deeper into your heat, coaxing a moan out of you. "Should we let them know that you actually love getting on your knees for me? Love being a good puppy for me?"
You twist your wrist on the upstroke, and his hips stutter, his cock pulsing in your grip. He's close. You can feel it in the way his thighs are tensing, the way his breathing has gone ragged and uneven, and the way his tongue has lost its rhythm against your pussy because he can't concentrate on anything except the pleasure you're wringing out of him.
"Are you going to come?" You ask sweetly. "Are you going to spill all over yourself and make a mess like a good little slut?"
He tries to nod again, but you're already pulling your hand away.
"Too bad," you say, and his desperate, wounded keen is the most beautiful sound you've ever heard. "You don't get to cum until I say so. And I haven't said so."
"Please," he gasps, his mouth finally free of your pussy because you've lifted your hips just enough to look down at him. His face is a mess—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, chin slick with your arousal. "Please, baby, I need to cum. I've been thinking about it all day. I can't—"
"Oh, but you can." You climb off him, and he whines at the loss of contact, his hands reaching for you instinctively. "Get up. Bend me over the counter."
Seungcheol scrambles to his feet so fast he nearly slips and you snicker, telling him to be careful. His cock is an angry red, throbbing visibly, a steady stream of precum dripping from the tip on every twitch. He looks ruined already, and you haven't even let him inside you yet.
You turn around and brace yourself against the counter, arching your back, presenting yourself to him. You're soaked—your thighs are glistening, your pussy is swollen and dripping with a mix of your juices and his spit, and you know exactly what he's seeing right now.
"Now you can fuck me," you tell him. "Slow. Exactly the way I want it. And you're not going to come. Do you understand?"
"Yes," he breathes, steps closer behind you. "Yes, I understand. I'll be good. I'll be so good for you."
He lines himself up. You feel the blunt, thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and even though you're wet and open and ready, the stretch is still overwhelming. Seungcheol pushes in slowly, inch by inch, spreading your walls, filing the empty space that begged to be filled, and you both groan in unison as he fills you.
"Fuck," he whispers. "Fuck, baby, you're so tight. You're always so tight. How are you still so tight?"
"Shut up and move."
He pulls out almost all the way, making you feel the way his veined shaft drags against your sensitive walls, and then pushes back in. Seungcheol fucks you exactly the way you told him to—slow, deep, each thrust deliberate and measured. His hands are gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and you can hear the effort it's taking him to hold back, the way his breathing is coming in ragged gasps, the way he's trembling against you.
"You feel so good," he babbles again. "You feel so fucking good, baby, I can't—I don't know how much longer I can—"
"You can last as long as I tell you to last." But your voice is shaking now too. The angle is perfect, his cock hitting that spot inside you with every slow, grinding thrust, and you're getting close yourself. "Don't you dare cum without permission. Don't you fucking dare."
"I won't. I won't, I promise, just—please, can I go faster? Please?"
"No. Keep it slow. I want to feel every inch of you."
He whimpers, but he does what he's told. His thrusts stay slow and deep, his cock dragging against your walls, and you can feel the orgasm building in your core, coiling tighter and tighter—
Your phone rings.
Your intuition immediately screams at you that it must be someone from work.
"Fuck," you hiss in half frustration, half panic. "Fuck, Cheol, stop, I have—have to take this—"
You try to pull away, but his grip on your hips tightens. "No," he whines. "No, baby, please, I'm so close, don't stop me—"
Somewhere in the back of your mind you feel bad for the man, he sounds so ruined.
"I'm not asking." You pull yourself off his cock with a wet, obscene sound, and Seungcheol makes a noise like you've stabbed him. His cock bobs in the air, angry and neglected, throbbing and jumping with denied orgasm. A thick strand of your combined fluids connects him to your pussy for a brief moment before it snaps. He whines out a sob.
"You ruined it," Seungcheol breathes, and he sounds genuinely devastated. "You ruined my orgasm. Baby, why? I was right there—"
"Stay here," you order, already grabbing your phone from the kitchen table where it was resting forgotten all this time. "Don't move."
You answer the call as you walk toward your room, your voice switching to a semblance of something professional and pleasant even though your thighs are still wet and your pussy is still aching and empty. "Hey, yeah, sorry, just give me one second—"
You don't get your one second. Because Seungcheol, your sweet, pathetic, desperate boyfriend, has followed you despite what you told him to do.
You feel him before you see him—his body pressing up behind you, his hands gripping your hips, his cock sliding between your thighs, still slick with your arousal. You're standing in front of your desk, phone pressed to your ear, and he's already bending you forward, already lining himself up.
"No," you mouth silently, turning your head to glare at him. "Don't you dare."
Seungcheol meets your eyes. His are dark and wild and desperate, and there's something almost feral in his expression. He doesn't stop. He pushes inside you in one smooth, harsh thrust that jolts your entire body, and the sensation of intrusion is so sudden and overwhelming that you have to bite down on your own hand to keep from crying out. This leaves you with no support, which means you pretty much topple over, suddenly pressed into your desk with Seungcheol's hand that was applying pressure between your shoulder blades.
"—and so I was wondering if you could take a look at this document before the meeting this afternoon," your team lead is saying in your ear, her voice cheerful and oblivious. "I know it's last minute, but I think there might be an error on page five."
"Of course," you manage, and your voice comes out surprisingly steady considering the fact that your boyfriend is currently buried balls-deep inside you, his hips already starting to move. "I can—I can do that. No problem."
Seungcheol fucks into you with slow, deliberate strokes, and you can feel him throbbing inside you, can feel how close he still is from before, how desperate. One of his hands slides up and down your back, pressing you down onto the desk before you can even think of lifting your upper body into an upright position, and the other grips your hip hard enough to anchor you in place.
"Great, thanks," your team lead says. "Also, I wanted to ask about the client presentation next week. Have you had a chance to—"
He chooses that moment to thrust particularly deep, his cock hitting your cervix, and a tiny, strangled sound escapes your throat before you can stop it.
"You okay?" your team lead asks.
"Yes," you say, and your voice is definitely too high. "Yes, sorry, I just—stubbed my toe. On the desk. It's fine."
Seungcheol leans down, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing your free ear. "Little liar," he whispers, so quiet only you can hear. "What will your boss do if she finds out you're getting fucked during your working hours?” He can't help a chuckle that escapes him when he comes up with his next question. "Hmm, does it make you a slut for fucking me and getting paid while doing so? Technically…" he trails off and your pussy clenches traitorously as soon as your brain registers what he just said.
You want to kill him. You want to kill him and then marry him and then kill him again.
"—and if you could send me the updated slides by end of day, that would be perfect," your team lead is saying.
"End of day," you repeat, barely processing the words. Seungcheol has picked up his pace, just slightly, and the sound of his cock sliding into your wet, messy pussy is so loud in the quiet room that you're sure your team lead can hear it if the line stays silent for a moment too long. "Yes. Slides. I'll—I'll send them."
"Are you sure you're okay? You sound a little off."
"I'm fine. I'm great. Just—writing it down."
Seungcheol muffles a laugh against your shoulder. His hand leaves your hip and snakes around to your front, finding your clit with devastating accuracy. Your whole body jolts.
"That's the spot, isn't it?" he breathes in your ear. "That's the spot that makes you stupid. You're going to come on my cock while you're on the phone, aren't you? You're going to soak me and she's going to hear it."
You shake your head frantically, but you can't speak. Your team lead is still talking, something about deadlines and team meetings, and you're nodding along and making vague sounds of agreement while your boyfriend rubs circles on your clit and fucks into you with deep, punishing strokes. You're trying so hard not to start panting or moaning, and your brainpower continues to slip from your grasp.
"I'm going to fill you up," he whispers. "I'm going to pump you so full of cum it'll be dripping out of you for the rest of the day. And you're going to sit in your meetings and feel it leaking into your panties, and you're going to think about me. About this. About how I ruined you while you were trying to be professional."
"Okay," you say into the phone, and you have no idea what you're agreeing to. "Okay, sounds good. I have to—I have to go now, I'll send those slides."
"No rush," your team lead says. "Talk later!"
You hang up with confused fingers, missing the red button on the screen a couple of taps before you finally manage to end the call. The phone clatters onto the desk.
And then you let yourself fall apart.
"Cheol—" It comes out as a loud sob, half fury and half desperate, overwhelming need. "You—you fucking—I can't believe you—"
"You loved it." He's not even trying to hide the smugness in his voice, but it's undercut by the way his hips are stuttering, the way his rhythm is falling apart. "You loved every second of it. I could feel you getting wetter and clenching around me when she asked if you were okay."
"I'm going to kill you—after—after I come—"
"Yeah?" He presses harder on your clit, circles it with the perfect pressure that he knows you enjoy, and the orgasm that's been building since the kitchen finally, finally explodes. "Then come for me. Now, baby. Let me feel it."
You shatter with a mewl. It rips through you like a thunderclap, your whole body seizing up, your pussy clamping down on his cock in rhythmic, pulsing waves. You scream—you can't help it, the sound tears out of you raw and unguarded after long minutes of trying to suppress it all—and Seungcheol groans and buries himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in hot, copious pulses.
He keeps thrusting through it, fucking his cum deeper into you, and you can feel it flooding you, filling you, leaking out around his cock in a white obscene ring and dripping down your thighs. He doesn't stop until he's completely spent, and then he collapses over you, his weight pressing you into the desk, his breath hot and ragged against the back of your neck.
For a long moment the room is silent. The only sounds are your mingled breathing and the faint, distant hum of the fridge in the kitchen.
Then: "You're a menace," you whisper, swallowing thickly and heaving a sigh.
He laughs, breathless and giddy and a little bit wrecked. "Yeah. But you're the same. And you love me."
You don't argue. You can't. Not when his cock is still inside you, still half-hard, still plugging you full of his cum. Not when you can already feel it starting to drip out despite his best efforts. Not when your legs are shaking so badly you're not sure you can stand if you try.
"Next time," you manage, "I'm locking you to a piece of furniture before I take a work call."
"Hmm, I think next time," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade, "you'll let me do it again. Because you're just as depraved as I am."
You hate that he's right. You hate it even more that you don't hate it at all.
*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* Please like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this! This means a lot and motivates me to continue posting.
Pairing: G-Dragon x f!Reader (established relationship), but this focuses more on him as a father rather than the relationship.
Word Count: 3,771
Warnings: Baby is here!
Note: This series will just be about him as a dad, so if that’s not your thing you can always blacklist the tag -> #s: yellow is a happy color. Because this series is different from everything else I've written and plan to write, it has its own masterlist and tag list. If you want to be tagged for this series, please go here.
<<prev
In hindsight, you probably should have realized you were in labor last night.
There had been some cramping, but you had chalked it up to Jiyong being in charge of dinner, a decision that had seemed reasonable at the time and less so by the time he had put a plate in front of you full of questionable contents. You’d also been told that cramping late in the third trimester was normal, so you’d simply put it out of your mind and gone to sleep. You’d woken up a few times during the night because of the cramps and back pain, but that had been happening for weeks, so you didn’t think too much about it. Besides, your due date was still a couple of weeks away.
Despite the restless night, you’re up early and in the kitchen when Jiyong finds you half an hour later. His face is damp, probably from splashing cold water to wake himself up, but his hair is sticking up to the side. He shuffles towards you, grunts as a greeting, and wraps his arms around you from behind, his face tucked against your neck.
“Why are you up if you’re still half asleep?” you ask.
He grunts again, face still pressed against your neck.
“Go back to sleep and come back when you feel human and have developed speech, please,” you tell him.
You feel him smile against your neck. Then he presses a kiss there and pulls back just enough to look over your shoulder.
“Looks good. But how about… we go back to bed and we cuddle—”
“No.” you snort. “I know exactly what you mean by cuddle now. I want to have breakfast in the next half hour if possible.”
He laughs. “Okay, okay.” He puts a hand on your belly. “All good?”
“Your child has been moving all night. Having a party in there it seems.”
He smiles at that, and you watch him for a moment, the way his eyes go down to his hand, waiting. The baby obliges and Jiyong’s expression changes into that dopey smile he gets whenever he feels the baby move.
“That smile on your face right now…” you say, one hand coming up to trace it with the pad of your thumb. “It’s really cute.”
He looks up, moves closer again. “Oh? Cute enough to cuddle?”
You roll your eyes, hiding a smile. You mean to tell him no, absolutely not, when a full contraction hits at seven fourteen in the morning.
You know the time because the clock on the stove is right in front of you and your eyes go straight to it. The noise you make has Jiyong stepping back immediately, both hands raised.
“What did I do? Did I do something—”
You breathe through it, one hand on the counter, the other held out towards him in some gesture that’s meant to say don’t touch me but also don’t go anywhere.
He stares at you. “Is that—”
“Yes.”
“Right now? Right now?” His eyes have gone very wide. “But your due date—” he stops. Looks at your belly, then up again at you. “Are you sure? Because—”
“Jiyong,” you interrupt. “I think I’ve been in labor since last night.”
“You think?” The words come out at a slightly higher register than his normal speaking voice. “What do you mean you think—” He looks down at your belly. “Okay,” he breathes in and out. “Okay, we’re doing this. This is happening. Okay.”
And then he crouches down and holds his hands out in front of him.
You stare at him. “What are you doing?”
“The baby—” he says.
You laugh because there’s absolutely no way you cannot laugh at him right now. “Jiyong… the bag. Go grab the bag so we can go to the hospital.”
“The bag. Yes,” He straightens up and is already moving. “The bag. I know where the bag is.”
You turn off the stove. You make your way toward the main door to grab your jacket and your purse. You put your shoes on. You do all these things slowly, talking yourself through it, because you told yourself you would remain calm. And you manage to remain calm until another contraction comes and you have to lean against the wall and close your eyes and breathe. Forty seconds. When it passes, you think to yourself that you really should have paid more attention last night.
“The bag, Jiyong!”
“Coming!”
The hospital bag has been packed for three weeks.
You packed it together going through a checklist you’d found online, adding things, removing things, going back and forth on others. Jiyong had contributed suggestions that weren’t on the list, including a framed photo of Iye and Zoa. You had tried not to laugh as you watched him tuck it carefully under the little set of clothes his mother had knitted for the baby. The bag has been in the same spot for three weeks: the bedroom closet, right side, on the floor, in front of everything else so that it cannot be missed.
You hear him in the kitchen. In the living room. Somewhere further in the penthouse.
Another contraction. You grit your teeth before you remind yourself to breathe, in and out, in and out, then you check the time, note the gap between the last one and this one, and you breathe again. You know this baby is coming soon. When it passes you straighten up from where you were leaning against the wall and call out: “Did you find it?”
“Got it!”
He comes running and stops in front of you. He’s holding a reusable grocery bag.
You look at it. You look at him. “Jiyong.”
“I’m ready. Let’s go. Jaeho is downstairs with the others. The cars—”
“Why do you have a grocery bag?”
He looks down at it. “There’s—it has snacks,” he says. “I put snacks in it. Rice crackers. Chocolates. Popsicles. You’ve been eating a lot of those lately, so—I also brought—”
“Where is the hospital bag?”
He looks at you. “Oh.” A pause. “I’ll be right back.”
“Leave the popsicles!”
He returns thirty seconds later with the hospital bag in one hand and the grocery bag still in the other. “Left the popsicles like you said.”
You do not ask what else is in the grocery bag. What you want is to get to the hospital.
Jiyong walks beside you, holding both bags, and with one arm stretched out towards you like in the kitchen. Like he’s ready to catch the baby in case it drops right then and there. In the private garage below, Jaeho is already waiting. He opens the rear door as you approach, taking one look at the two of you: you, breathing like they told you in those classes you took, and walking slowly, and Jiyong, holding both bags and one arm extended, with the obvious energy of a man losing his mind, and is professional enough to keep a neutral expression.The other bodyguard bites his lip and looks away.
“I’m driving,” Jiyong says.
You don’t argue. You get inside the car with his help and grab the bags from him before watching him walk around to get in the driver’s seat. The car pulls out of the private garage at seven twenty-five and joins the morning streets of Seoul. You watch the buildings pass. Slowly. As if you were sightseeing.
Another contraction arrives and you grip the front seat and breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. When it passes you check your phone and make a mental note of it.
“How was that one?” he asks. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
“Bad.”
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll slow down.”
“Oh my god, Jiyong. You cannot—” You stop. Breathe. “Drive faster.”
“Okay, okay, I’m driving faster,” he says, his hands gripping the steering wheel as he leans forward.
He does not drive any faster.
Or at least, not as fast as you’d like him to, and when the next contraction happens, it’s significantly worse. You make a sound that, judging by Jiyong’s reaction, is alarming enough to cause him to slow down the car even more so.
“What happened—are you—should I stop—”
“Jiyong.” You say through your teeth, before taking a breath. The contraction crests and you ride it out until the pain ebbs away so you can speak again. “I need you to listen to me carefully. If you don’t let Jaeho drive this car, I’m going to have the baby right here. You’re going to have to help me deliver the baby in the backseat of your car. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”
He drives for a few more seconds. Then he pulls over on the side of the road..
The handover takes forty-five seconds and it happens with an efficiency that suggests Jaeho has been waiting for this moment since you left the garage. He says nothing, he simply gets out, gets in, adjusts the seat, and starts to drive. The second car follows.
Jiyong sits beside you and he takes your hand and kisses it. His hands are cold and clammy. “I’m sorry I’m freaking out.”
“It’s okay,” you say, shifting to find a more comfortable position. There isn’t one. “It’s kind of funny.” You laugh a little at the face he makes. “Come on, it’s a little funny. How many pamphlets did you read? How many hours spent online reading how to prepare for this moment? And look at you.”
He sulks for approximately three seconds, then goes back to worrying when you grimace. He doesn’t speak as your hand closes around his with a grip that is probably painful as another contraction starts.
“Breathe,” he says,”In and out. I’ve got you.” And then to Jaeho: “A little faster, please.”
You think Jaeho is extremely gracious for not pointing out Jiyong had been driving like a grandfather just moments ago.
“How are you not freaking out?” Jiyong asks when the contraction passes.
“Who says I’m not?” you ask. “But I’m keeping track of the contractions.”
“Oh.” He realizes he hasn’t. “I should have been doing that, I’m sorry—”
“It’s fine,” you say and then redirect him before guilt can take root and have him spiral. “Tell me what you brought in the grocery bag.”
Jiyong grabs the bag, opens it to peer inside. “Rice crackers. Chocolates.” He pauses. “The TV remote control.” You stare at him. “I grabbed it off the coffee table. I don’t know why. I was moving fast.”
You let out a laugh. “Is that all?”
“...And a scented candle.”
********
You arrive at the hospital at seven forty-one.
Jiyong is out of the car the moment it stops and he comes around to your side with both bags, the hospital bag, and yes, the grocery bag, which is apparently going to make the entire journey to the inside of the hospital. He helps you get out of the car, and Jaeho comes around the back of the car carrying a duffel bag. Jiyong looks at it, then at Jaeho,
“A change of clothes for you,” Jaeho answers the unspoken question.
It’s only then that you get a proper look at Jiyong. His hair is a mess, from sleep and from running his hands through it approximately nine times on the way here. He’s wearing a Saint Laurent jacket, and underneath… mismatched pajamas. He looks down at himself like he’s just realizing what he’s wearing too.
“Thank you,” he says to Jaeho, sounding genuinely grateful.
“Yes, thank you,” you add. Then to Jiyong: “My baby’s first impression of you cannot be that you’re a fashion disaster.”
“Aish, now it’s not the time for jokes,” Jiyong says and with a hand at your back, he steers you toward the entrance.
You start walking because if you stand on this pavement for one more second you’re going to laugh and you cannot laugh right now because everything hurts. Jaeho takes both bags from Jiyong so he can focus on helping you.
What follows is, despite the pain and the fear, remarkably fast.
Not easy, you will never use that word for pregnancy labor and all that entails, but fast in a way that you are deeply grateful for because you know it could have been worse.
One moment you’re being ushered into a private room, Jiyong helping you change, and doing what he can to make you comfortable, which for Jiyong means putting up the framed photo of Iye and Zoa on the bedside table next to the scented candle. And the next moment the doctor comes, checks, looks at you and says: “It’s time.”
Jiyong holds your hand through it all, still in his Saint Laurent jacket and mismatched pajamas, and he tells you that he loves you over and over again, his lips on your temple and then on your hand. His voice is low and steady, and he’s calm right now, when it truly matters and that helps you focus as you follow the doctor’s instructions.
There is a moment, a single suspended moment as you move from one world to another, where everything goes still and quiet.
And then there is sound.
Small and enormous at once. A baby crying, and you’re laughing and crying at the same time, and beside you Jiyong making a sound that might also be a laugh or it might be a sob, but it’s definitely something that’s been lodged in his chest since a Friday morning several months ago when a pregnancy test changed everything.
********
She’s swaddled in a hospital blanket with a small hat on when they place her on your chest for the first time.
You don’t have words for what you feel, so you just hold her, this impossibly small person, and you feel the warmth of her and the weight of her, and the way she seems to be exactly the perfect size for the space in your arms. Like she was always meant to fill it.
Jiyong is close. His hand moves to your hair, then your shoulder, then hovers somewhere near the head of the baby without quite touching, like he’s still working up the courage to do so. Like he’s trying to comprehend what he’s seeing.
“Hi,” you hear yourself say.
The baby blinks. Her eyes are dark and unfocused, and you know it’s too early to tell, everyone has said it’s hard to tell right away, but you look at her and you think: you look like your appa.
You laugh softly. Jiyong’s fingers come up to wipe the tears from your face.
“Hi,” you say again. “My tiny love.”
After, when the baby has had her first feeding, which is its own adventure, the nurse asks Jiyong if he’d like to hold her for skin to skin contact so you can rest. He nods before she finishes the sentence.
He sits in the chair they’ve pulled beside the bed, and you watch the nurse settle the baby against his chest, adjusting his arms, explaining how to hold her, and Jiyong is still and careful in a way that doesn’t come naturally to him. He is, in most situations, someone who moves, who fills a room with his presence, who finds it impossible to share his thoughts without moving his hands. But right now he is very still and his hands are steady as he supports her small body and her small head with so much gentleness that it makes you want to cry.
The nurse steps back and checking that you are both good, she leaves the room to give you two a moment. The room is quiet as you watch Jiyong look at his daughter.
He takes his time looking at her. But as you watch him, you realize it’s not the look of someone cataloguing features or searching for resemblance or doing any of the things people say they do in these first moments. He is simply looking at her after imagining her for a very long time and realizing that the real thing has made every version he imagined pale in comparison.
His daughter looks back at him, or more like in the direction of him, with the tiniest of frowns on her face.
Jiyong exhales, like he’s finally allowing himself to breathe since this morning when the first contraction hit at seven fourteen.
“Hi,” he says softly.
She shifts, a tiny movement, her fingers spreading against his chest.
“Hello, Ji-na.”
Her name in his voice, for the first time.
His jaw moves. He presses his lips together as he blinks rapidly, holding back his tears. Ji-na, for her part, makes a small sound and turns her face slightly toward the warmth of his chest. Something in Jiyong’s expression breaks apart completely. He smiles, lets out a soft laugh, and his expression fills with a tenderness so pure you don’t think you have ever seen it on him before.
“My Ji-na,” he says. “Do you like your name?”
********
When you were four months pregnant, Jiyong came to you one evening and said, “I have a short list of names we can go through.”
The short list was three pages, front and back, with additional names written in the margins in a different color, suggesting he’d checked these pages multiple times before deciding to show you.
You went through them together, marking each one as a maybe or no.
“How about this one?” he asked, pointing with the pen. “Onyx.”
You looked at him.
“What?” he asked, immediately defensive. “It’s distinctive. You’re not going to have four Onyxes in the same classroom, which—”
“No.”
“Why?” he asked. “You can’t just say no without a reason.”
“We are not naming our baby after a gemstone.”
“It’s also, technically, if you change the spelling, the English name of a Pokemon,” he said.
You stared at him for a long moment.
“...Okay, okay. We will not be naming our baby after a Pokemon.” He made a note, which you caught a glimpse of: vetoed unfairly. “What about—”
“What’s that one?” you asked, pointing with your own pen.
There was a name, near the bottom of the third page, written in red ink and circled.
Ji-na.
“Ah.” He looked down at it too. “It came to me one night and I kept thinking about it.” He traced the circle with his finger. “Kwon Ji-na. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” He smiled, a little self-conscious. “I mean, we don’t even know the gender yet, but…”
You looked at him, at the smile on his face, the way his finger traced the name on the paper.
“I love it,” you told him. “If it’s a girl, I want this one.”
********
You keep watching him from the bed even as exhaustion creeps in.
You are so tired you feel it in your bones, and the lights are too bright, and there are things that will need to happen soon. Calls that need to be made to people who have been waiting for Ji-na too, your family, his family. Friends. But right now, in this room, there is only you and Jiyong and Ji-na resting on his chest. He barely blinks, as if just a fraction of a second of not looking at her is too much for him to handle.
He is talking to her in a low voice and you close your eyes and it reminds you of those conversations in the dark that he used to have when she was still in your belly. You only catch fragments.
“—waited so long for you. A lifetime—
—ballet? Piano? What do you want—
—Zoa and Iye are waiting, you’re going to love them and—
—your grandmother is going to lose her mind—
—aunt, your mom’s sister, she is flying across the world for you—”
You don’t interrupt. You just watch him, this person you know better than anyone, the one who highlighted pregnancy pamphlets and brought the TV remote control to the hospital in a panic, and you witness him melt completely because of someone who weighs barely four kilograms and has been in the world for under an hour.
His hand cups the back of her head. And when she makes another sound, neither happy nor unhappy, Jiyong answers it like it was a complete sentence, like he’s been learning her language for months and it’s only now that he gets to use it.
“I know,” he says softly. “I know. I’m here.”
********
Later, when calls have been made and Ji-na has been fed again and is settled in the bassinet beside you, Jiyong sits on the edge of bed. He takes your hand and brings it to his mouth and holds it there for a moment with his eyes closed. Then he opens them.
“Thank you,” he whispers. He presses another kiss to your knuckles. “Thank you.”
You smile, then you pull him close, and he goes easily, fitting himself next to you on the bed. He looks at you, then leans forward to press a soft kiss to your lips.
“You look like a mess,” you say when he rests his head on the pillow. “But I probably don’t look so great either.”
He shakes his head. “You look beautiful.” His smile turns mischievous. “I’d call you a MILF but–”
“Ugh. You had to ruin the moment!” you say, fighting back a smile. “How long have you been saving that line?”
“Nine months,” he says without an ounce of remorse.
“Tsk… bring me the grocery bag. I want snacks. I didn’t even get to have breakfast.”
He gets up and when he brings over the grocery bag, he sits down and pulls out the rice crackers. Then he pulls out the TV remote control, and he holds it up, and you both look at it, then at each other. You both start laughing and shushing each other at the same time, with the slightly hysterical edge of two people just coming down from an adrenaline-packed morning.
And then, still laughing, Jiyong leans down and rests his head against your chest, and a moment later you realize his shoulders are shaking not from laughter but because he’s crying.
“I’m a dad,” he says. “I’m a dad for real.”
You laugh a little, your own eyes filling with tears. You look over at the bassinet, at Ji-na who is sleeping, who doesn’t know yet how lucky she is to have a father who has waited, a lifetime he said, for her.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
warnings: mdni, 18+, PWP, husband! Seungcheol, dirty talk, newlyweds, pet names (baby, my love, etc.), public beach, private beach, unprotected smut, multiple orgasms (f), praise mentioned, mentions of mating press, mentions of breeding, down bad Cheol, pussy drunk Cheol, cock drunk reader, y'all should have stayed inside, mentions of dumbification, teasing, spit, etc.
req: Can we get something in reverse with needy cheol. could you also include some dry humping?
wc: 2k
[BE VERY AWARE, SMUT BELOW THE 'KEEP READING' TAG]
“My wife, my pretty little wife.” Seungcheol had only been two days into your honeymoon, and he was sure you were trying to send him to an early grave.
He couldn’t get enough of you, and he barely took his hands off of you the entire trip so far. You were lucky to see the sunlight, let alone leave the hotel room, but luckily it was also easy for your new husband to trail after you when you put on a cute little bathing suit and tossed over your shoulder a little, “Help me with the sunscreen?”
How could he not? You were lying on your stomach on some beach towel with the shade of a beach umbrella over you, and he was straddling your pretty ass as he massaged the sunscreen into your back nice and slow.
You were melting under his touch, little noises slipping from your glossy lips and sending his brain racing through ways he could make your noises louder. They were the same breathy moans you gave him when he made you forget your own name as he fucked you nice and slow.
Seungcheol doesn’t even realize he’s stopped rubbing on your back until you’re gasping his name as his hips rut against your ass mindlessly. His cock is thick and heavy in his swim trunks and nestled right between your ass cheeks, which makes your swim bottoms bunch and rub against your clit.
Every little roll of his hips has his eyes drooping, your little noises turning from something soft to a neediness he liked to hear before he made you beg for his cock.
His hands move to either side of your head, the wedding ring flashing under the sun as he drapes his big body over yours more. He knows that if anyone comes near, they’d see him humping you like a dog in rut, and fuck, it makes his cock twitch knowing you’re trapped underneath him. He forces you to feel every drag of his cock as he grinds up into you, and relishes the way your cheeks flush, your eyes swirling with the haziness he feels in his head.
“Fuck baby, I think I could cum just like this.” You whimper when he confesses this. His chest is warm against your back, and your pussy is drooling, weeping for more. Only two little pieces of fabric separate you, but the idea of your husband making a mess just like this? You can’t stop the whine that falls from your lips in response.
“Cheol-“ you don’t even finish your sentence because Seungcheol is leaning back onto his knees while his hand encircles the back of your neck, keeping you down. His tongue kisses his teeth in a soft reprimand, his fingers squeezing your neck a little as he humps you like his own personal toy.
“No, not Cheol.” His voice is deeper, his breath coming out in soft pants and grunts as his fat cock rubs against your cunt rougher, the two pieces of fabric separating you adding to the friction. “Want to try that again?”
You can feel the warmth in your stomach twisting, and you are somewhat embarrassed by how fast you are to cumming by him doing this, but your mind still tries to process his words. Your moans are becoming more broken, your mouth watering as his hand around the back of your neck keeps you from moving.
You’re helpless and at his mercy, and it feels so good. “H-husband. My husband.”
You don’t have to look to know Seungcheol’s grin is big and cocky. He hums in approval, and another wave of tingles courses through your body, only to stop at your pretty pussy.
“That’s right. My wife, my pretty little wife.” His teeth flash in the smile he wears, and he can feel a few wads of his precum spill into his swim trunks, creating a wet patch that he grinds into your ass. “I’m your husband, and I only want you saying my name when you’re creaming on my cock, okay?”
You don’t even have a chance to reply before Seungcheol moves your swim bottoms to the side. The view of your pussy has him rolling his eyes back like it’s the first time. Your pretty pussy is a mess, dripping with arousal and asking for him to ruin it.
And he plans to do just that.
His hand moves from the back of your neck to join his other hand between your thighs. His thumbs spread your puffy folds apart, giving him an intimate view of your pretty cunt and making you widen your eyes to see if anyone was looking.
“We’re in public!” You yelp, but Seungcheol is already swirling his thick thumb over your clit just to see your pretty hole wink back at him.
“You’re the one who wanted to leave our room.” He says it like somehow it’s your problem, and his eyes watch the way your cunt seeps with a new wave of your honeyed slick. “If anyone sees, let them. They can see how you were made just for me.” His smirk grows into something more feral, “arch your back for me, yeah- just like that.”
Your eyes squeeze shut, your cheeks flushing as your lips parted for the little gasps you let out. You can’t believe him, and you can’t believe you’re letting this happen, but your body is betraying you with each sloppy heart he rubs onto your clit. You no longer just want him, you need him, and when he leans down, one hand on your lower back to keep you arched for him, your eyes roll as he spits.
A wad of his saliva smacks onto your dripping cunt, and your gasp makes him chuckle. He smears his spit in with your slick, rubbing it onto your clit with his laugh ringing in your ears. “My wife, you’re all mine, aren't ya? Mine to play with, mine to have.”
Your heart skips, jumps, and leaps before your letting everything go, your hips pushing back to present yourself to your husband as you whine. “All yours, I’m all yours.”
And that’s all he needs to pull his cock out from his swim trunks. He uses your slick to coat his cock, and then he’s back to covering your body with his. “That’s right, now let me take care of my needy little wife.”
You would snort because this is all his fault for making you this way, but you can’t think when he notches the thick tip of his cock to your entrance and pushes in. You’ve had sex with your husband before you two had gotten married, and you literally fucked the other day - waking him up to you sinking onto his cock the day after your wedding happened - but it still felt like the first time.
Seungcheol was big, thick in bullying his way into your sweet cunt, and long. His mushroom tip dragged over your velvety walls until it kissed your cervix in greeting, and you couldn’t take it. The fact that anyone could walk close to you two and see, the fact that you both were still wearing clothes, your bottoms pushed to the side while his cock stretched you open, it was enough to push you over the edge with a silent cry.
And Seungcheol enjoyed every moment of it. He used his large hands to spread your cheeks apart and watched the way your needy cunt fluttered around his shaft, desperately milking his cock as your thighs trembled under his strong ones. He doesn’t move; instead, he lets you buck your hips back, fucking yourself onto his cock as you gush wet and slick onto his shaft with little whimpers.
When your first orgasm subsides into a low hum, that’s when he moves. He drags his cock halfway out of your addictive cunt, and sees the mess your pussy made before he surges forward. His thrust punches out another moan from you, something beautifully mixed between a gasp and a whine, and then he does it again, and again, and again.
He moves his hips forward and backward in firm rolls, nice and slow, so you can feel every drag along your plush walls as he smacks the back of your cunt with mean kisses. He makes you see stars after each push forward. His warm chest is glued to your back, keeping a heavy weight on top of you, reminding you who made you feel like this.
Seungcheol's wedding ring stays in your eyesight, glimmering under the sun's rays, and adding to your hazy thoughts as Seungcheol carves his way deeper. He forced your legs closed by using his knees, making your pussy wrap around his shaft tighter, and building the pressure in your lower stomach. The cold metal of his chain nudged into the back of your neck with each thrust, causing a cool contrast between your heated skin, and you were quickly feeling the familiar knot in your stomach build.
"Your pussy's always so wet, Baby. She likes talking back, huh?" Cheol's grunts are right by your ear, his lips brushing along your neck and making your eyes roll as the wet squelches of your pussy grow louder. The first orgasm had made you sticky and wet, perfect for Seungcheol to fuck you deeper, and his hand slid around you, tilting your hips up so he could push down on the spot in your lower stomach with a cocky smirk.
His cock surged forward, and his palm could feel the bulge he created. He pushed his hand down and did it again, and your mouth gaped as he repeated the action, over and over again. "Can you feel me right there?" He huffed, and your pussy squeezed around him in response, trying to keep him there as he nipped at the spot under your ear. "Yeah, that's it, keep sucking on my cock like that, and I'll put you in a mating press in front of everyone, Baby."
You knew he meant it, and it only had you gushing another wave of your slick on his cock, a tremble in your whimpers making it known how hot you found his words. The idea of him taking you in front of everyone had your mind turning into mush, a bubble of drool forming at the corner of your mouth, and Seungcheol's hips stuttered.
"You like that, huh? Like the idea of me breeding this pussy in front of everyone? Want to show everyone how well you take me? How wet you get sucking my cock in deeper?" His hand slid down your stomach and between your thighs, gathering your slick that ringed around his shaft and smearing it into your pulsing clit. "How about you show me how pretty you look cumming on my cock again, hmm?"
His fingers swirled and stroked your clit while his cock swirled inside, giving you no time to think, and you came again, with a sob that was muffled by his other hand.
He fucked you through your second orgasm, praising you throughout it all, and stroking your clit until your legs twitched with each stroke. You had just realized he was spelling out M-I-N-E when he pushed his hips forward again, reminding you he hadn't cum yet. "You tired, Baby? Want me to take you back to the room?"
His fat tip gave another filthy kiss to your soft cervix, spilling another wad of his precum, and your whimper continued to be muffled by his hand over your mouth.
"What's that? Want me to stuff you with my cum first so I can eat it out when we get back?" His smile was sleazy, and your pussy fluttered as he laughed tauntingly. He really couldn't get enough of you, his wife, his pretty wife. And he planned to use your honeymoon to the fullest. He kept your mouth covered, his hips angling back to focus on the spot that would surely make you dumb on his cock. "Okay, Baby, let me use this pussy as it deserves."
a part of this universe
대박 - you made it to the end!
Tell me about it. Reblogs, likes, and comments are always appreciated ♡ . Tumblr is based on reblogs, not likes, and they help writers like me to get a better reach. Thank you for your support!
