#defsoul

I love this song. It’s like Beommie is asking you directly “baby please calm down”

(NSFW below this, minors please do not interact, this is 18+ content)

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Sex can be all different things.

It can be bad, it can be good. It can be goofy or it can be serious. Sometimes sex is a way to express certain emotions. Comfort, love, anger, hate and sometimes, it’s just a carnal expression of lust that is so undeniable that it hits you in the not greatest moments.

Like now.

He’s supposed to be at dance practice, in fact, he was supposed to be at dance practice twenty minutes ago. You drove him here for practice, not for a quickie on your car.

As he was peeling your sweatpants down and smothering your hips with kisses, you reminded him of his schedule. He brushed you off, muttering a quiet “shh baby, lemme’ get these offa’ you” and if he wasn’t concerned, you weren’t going to be either.

“Fuck,” he hisses, grappling his sweat slicked palms over your thighs to squeeze him tighter, “you’re so wet baby, god, your gonna’ make me come.”

You grin at him, shifting your own palms behind you for more purchase against the trunk of the car, making sure to stick your chest out that little bit further. He’s got this furrow to his brow as he grunts with every push into your sopping cunt, his mind lost to how good you look letting him fuck you like this.

He’s got his eyes glued to your tits, your shirts collar tucked under the swell of them and the harsh, led lights of the garage parking is making his saliva on your nipples seem glossy and makes your stiffened flesh shine like diamonds.

You would later smack his shoulder and glare at him when he would inevitably bring up how you let him fuck you in the parking lot of the studio the band was using for rehearsals where anyone could walk in, tits out and moans echoing in the cement building like some sort of cheap whore but just like your concern for his punctuality, it’s the last thing on your mind.

The only thing your thinking about right now, other than how sexy it is when he whimpers out your name, is how it never ceases to amaze you how he can go from one mood to another, switching from a sleepy passenger in your car as you drove him to his early practice, moaning and bitching about agreeing to such a early start time to sucking on your nipples and fingering you against your car in such a short span of time.

You don’t know what changed, what you did to suddenly make him think “hey, let’s get my dick wet before two hours of gruelling physical exercise” or what emotion you’d pin this on but you’re just happy to let him make you come, even if you were getting a little cold.

“Rub my clit,” you pant, shooting a hand up to grip at his shoulder when he angles himself to lean over you more, tossing your head back as you feel the heat of an orgasm spreading in the base of your spine, “make me come Beommie.”

He follows your instructions like the obedient partner he is, letting one of your thighs go to press a thumb above where he’s currently cleaving your open, using some of the slick on your thighs that could be arousal or saliva to give you what you want.

You shudder and plant your heels on the lip of the bumper, pulling him down closer and arching yourself up, “Just like that-fuck, fuck- don’t stop angel, good god-“

You come first, your whole body bending and jerking when he gets as deep as he can, his thumb cemented to your clit as your hips shake and flex under his. Your skin feels like it’s actually vibrating and you can feel how hard you’re clenching down on him, desperate to get him deeper and deeper even though you know he can’t.

“That’s it pretty girl, love it when you come on me,” he groans, slamming into you harder and harder, shivering when he hears the noises your cunts making around his dick, “you want me to come in you, huh? You want it?”

You nod your head, mouth slack and getting pushed into near ecstasy as he overstimulates beyond belief, not wanting it to end but knowing if he keeps going, you’re not making the drive home.

“I want it,” you whimper, making sure to wobble your bottom lip when he looks to your face, his tongue peeking out to lick his own lips at the sight of your blown out eyes and swollen lips, “I want you to come in me, please? I need your come Beom, I need it.”

“You’ve been such a good girl,” he nods, hips losing rhythm and almost talking to himself more than you, “my good girl, my pretty girl. Wanna’ fill you up, keep you happy and dripping with me.”

He’s coming before he even gets out “dripping”, whether he knows it or not. You know him too well, know how his face screws up just before he comes every time and how much of a sucker he is for raw dogging you in private, yet open spaces to stake a metaphorical claim on you for all the world to see even though no one ever does.

He pulls you into him, hand on your waist yanking you forward involuntarily until your wrap your arms around his shoulders and to let him shake and shiver against you. He’s humping and rutting into you now that your closer, cursing and moaning and whimpering into your neck as he pumps his come into you.

He gets so desperate to get as deep and as close as he can to and into you that it’s near godesque worship in your eyes. He’s so eager to please you, to have you be his “good girl” and keep you satisfied that even though his fresh from an orgasm, head muddled and hot, his thumb hasn’t left your clit and he’s still trying to reach as deep as he can, knowing you like the closeness and liking it himself, just as much.

“Fuck, you’re irresistible,” he mutters, nosing below your ear and laughing gently, moving his hand away from your pussy when you squirm at the overstimulation, “like you were put on this earth just to tempt me.”

“Please,” you laugh, squeezing him close and laying your head on his shoulder, “all I did was drive you here, you’re the one giving in to these non-existent temptations. I’m just living my life.”

“It’s cause I love you,” he mutters near petulantly, pulling away to show you his pout and messy hair, “and you look pretty when you’re doin’ stuff for me. Was too tired to drive.”

“So this was a thank you?” you laugh again, pressing a quick kiss to the crest of his lips when he pouts harder, “You fucked me on the trunk of my car, in the middle of a parking lot where anyone could see us, cause you’re thankful you didn’t have to drive?”

“Yeah,” he pouts, “but also cause I love you.”

You smile at him, eyes taking in the flush to his cheeks and the warm glow of his honey tinted eyes under the bright lights and rolling your eyes at him playfully. He’s an idiot, but he’s your idiot.

You didn’t need a thank you, driving him to work is just something you do once in a while when he has to leave early. You’re a morning person, awake even on your days off at six in the morning and doing something. He’s a night owl, waking up and being all around groggy any earlier than ten is expected and natural, driving him made you feel safer than letting him operate heavy machinery after almost walking into the bathroom door cause he couldn’t open his eyes this morning.

You don’t like to use sex as a thank you, makes something in your gut churn a little sour but you know he likes too. He likes to press kiss after kiss to your face when you pick him up from the studio, he never fails to cling to you all night after you feed the cats for him when he’s busy. He buys you flowers and does your laundry for you when you schedule doctors appointments or do the groceries for him, even when it’s his week to do so, and you guess having him fuck you until you see stars for giving him a lift is just too on brand for him for you to be a little twisted about it.

“Next time, just buy me a coffee and a kiss.”

“Coffee doesn’t mean I get to come in you though.”

(there might be a part two, not quite sure yet)

You’re drunk.

The kind of drunk that has you so self aware you’re embarrassed of every move your body makes. Even the slight rise and fall of your chest with each breath makes you flush red.

You didn’t plan on getting drunk.

It was cocktails with some girlfriends.

A catch up girls night so you could all get re-acquainted and gossip about coworkers and recent hookups. There’s a few questions about him, but you brush them off and wash them down with each mouthful of flavoured vodka.

You don’t want to talk about Jaebeom, not now.

But he invades your mind after the fifth drink.

You can’t stop thinking about the way he smiles. How his eyes slip into crescent moons and his teeth are fully exposed, that little half-chuckle echoing in your memory.

You can’t stop thinking about his hands. How warm and soft they were when wrapped in yours or clasped around the back of your neck, guiding your lips to his or just ushering you under the protective layer of his arm.

You think about how his voice drops into a low, comforting baritone when he croaks out his “good morning baby” or the little niggle to his voice when he talks to his cats like babies.

You can’t stop thinking about how you’re never going to hear, or see, him like that ever again:

You call him after the seventh drink, mumbling into the phone about how much you miss him, about how much you wish he was still here with you. His voicemail is a familiar greeting but it never stops you.

He never picks up your calls anymore.

It makes your heart ache and stomach freeze.

“I miss you Beommie,” you near sob, smearing some snot across your upper lip and cheek as you wipe your face, your knees creaking as you park yourself on the curb outside the cocktail bar, shivering at the wind blowing you frozen, “I don’t know what I did wrong Beom but I want you to come home, I want you to be here.”

You plead the same thing into his message bank once a month and you never hear back and you suppose that’s what he wants, that leaving you was a finality and not a “see you later angel.”

You cry most of the way home.

Stumbling slightly on each shift or crack in the pavement, eyes shuddering under the neon lights of the night life. He always liked walking through the main streets at night, obsessed with trying new foods and taking portraits or landscapes of the people and places around him.

Some of them were of you, illuminated by bright purples and bleeding reds like a techno beauty from the future.

“Blade Runner,” he exclaimed clicking his fingers and curling over you a little more, bare chest pressed to your side and lips brushing your temple, “that’s the name of it!”

You miss him.

You don’t think he misses you.

You’re sliding your key into your front doors lock, forehead balanced on flat wood of your door to push it open, your disoriented limbs your worst enemy.

Your phone buzzes but you don’t check it immediately, too busy toeing off your shoes and trying to will yourself not to cry any more. It’s probably just your friends making sure you get home okay.

You just want to sleep.

You finally make it to bed, makeup and outfit stripped off and one of his old shirts tight over your shoulders and hips. It still smells like him, soap and something musky like cloves, ever the most calming scent you’d ever smelt.

You pick up your phone, ready to take a snap of you blurry eyed and in bed to your girlfriends, but it’s a text message that gains your attention.

“Stop calling,” it reads, your heart sinking and twisting, “you need to leave me alone, okay?

You want to cry, so you do.

You sniffle and shake under your covers and will your mind to just pass out from the vodka instead of thinking of every moment you two shared.

“Okay,” you message back through fogged vision, fingers hesitant with every word spelt, “im still sorry, I love you.”

You don’t get a response.

You don’t get closure.

He’s just gone. Touring the world and singing for thousands and performing and making his dreams come true, excelling and dazzling in every shape of form possible. You watch him through screens and interviews, face pinched and sadness swelling your throat up. He doesn’t want to know you anymore, he’s figured out your flaws, figured them out way to fast and booked it before you brought him down.

You don’t blame him.

You’re fucked up. You know you are.

“I was getting better,” you think quietly to yourself, not lying even in your not sober moments, “what did I do wrong?”

You never find out what “you did wrong”.

His mum still sends you cards and flowers on your birthday, despite knowing he wants nothing to do with you anymore and it makes your throat feel like cement. She still writes a little card, “happy birthday beautiful girl, we love you!”

You don’t know what it means, but you put them in a vase and make them survive as long as you can just so you have something to wake up to and make you smile for a while.

You still don’t know what you did wrong, even when your girlfriends tell you that it wasn’t you, “how could it be you, huh? you’re funny, smart, beautiful, considerate and kind. for whatever reason, it was him babe, it was never you.”

You stop mulling it over everyday and focus on work, on seeing your friends and yourself. You find a happy slice of life for yourself outside the realm of him and slowly, that constant questions about your faults and what he saw that you didn’t slowly dwindle into anger and aggravation.

You never would’ve done this to him. You wouldn’t of up and left with no explanation and hurt him like this. You love him, respect him and cherish your relationships.

This his him, his faults, his stupid, unknown reasoning and not yours.

You find your rhythm after that realisation.

He wants to leave, sacrifice you and your relationship and the future of it?

Fine, you were going to succeed and be happy without him, to spite him.

The last Wednesday of DJ Bbeomdee 💚

27.04.2022

ปมนยอง 💚

20.04.2022

“Do you think, maybe, just maybe, you could come to bed now?”

You didn’t think it was a horrible request, nor a demanding one. He had been in his home studio for hours, hunched over or sprawled out on the floor surrounded by a menagerie of photos, mumbling and singing to himself with a pen in hand and paper beside him. Seeing him like this, sullen and driven at the the same time, made you wish he could find what he was looking for. He blamed himself for too much and if he didn’t meet the deadline he had set himself he would be in an even worse mood.

As a man who liked organisation and a set routine when it came to his profession, and sometimes bragged about how he could find muses wherever he could lay his eyes, it was what he feared most, creators block. It had been plaguing him for near days, and completely derailing him for however long he had locked himself up in his studio for. You checked in with him every few hours, bring some water and snacks or one of the cats for him to cuddle, despite the rule of ‘no cats allowed, not ever’ in his studio just to tempt him to join you on the couch with your fur babies.

You were tempted to just haul him out by the scruff of his neck to bed, but you knew how he could get when he was like this. He’d snap too easy or grumble his way through the house, shutting the fridge too firmly and ignore your calls for him to take a break. Pulling him away in the heat of his stubbornness to create would only spell an argument for you two, and that’s the last thing either of you wanted to ever do.

He huffed, leaning back in his swivel chair and slowly turning to face you, his disgruntled expression fading into a smile at the sight of you sleepily rubbing at your eyes in the doorway, hair a mess and some suspicious stains on your hoodie. You had eaten dinner without him again, despite his hatred of leaving you alone for mealtimes and your nightly routine, and he could feel himself start to miss you pressed to his side or standing over his shoulder.

You smiled back, eyes squinting under the lights, “You’ve been in here forever Beommie, it’s almost one in the morning, me n’the cats are all in bed waiting for you.”

He turned briefly to give a long, drawn out stare to his half-filled page of possible lyrics or themes, wanting to will away the wall in his mind so he could just pump out one more song. He had practically everything else, he just needed some lyrics. He hadn’t slept in what felt like forever and the cold leftovers he had eaten a few hours ago sat heavy in his belly, his desire to sleep only being strengthened with a full stomach and the warmth of his lounge clothes.

And a glance at his computers clock telling him that you were right, and that it was closer to two am than one, and the sight of you rugged up in your jumper and asking him to join you was the icing on the cake.

“Shit,” he sighed, spinning from his desk to face you again, eyes flicking down to the slip of soft, thigh your hoodie left to the open as you shifted.

Bed sounded good, bed with the cats sounded better and bed with his girl and the cats sounded like heaven, “Ok baby, m’comin’.”

You smiled brightly at him, shifting on the spot as he flicked his computer off and shuffled some photos into neat piles, extending your hand to him as he stood from his chair and slumped towards you. You could see the dark circles under his eyes and how he blinked slowly with a sweet smile at you now he was up and moving. His longish hair was messy, falling over his face and brushing the curve of his jaw, the spread of stubble over his top lip and over his chin only making him look more disheveled and look more tired.

Your heart burned with sympathy and worry. He worked himself so hard, let himself fall into toxic routines just to do what he loved. If you hadn’t seen him onstage already, big, heart stopping smile on his face and full of love, life and light for his fans, for his members, crooning the most passionate, heartfelt songs with his angelic voice, you’d probably have begged him to stop pursuing music for his health and well-being. But you had.

You had seen him glow like a diamond, microphone in hand and heart in his mouth as he belted out sincere, honest emotion in the form of song and seen how proud of himself and the other boys were when their music was loved by their fans, and you could never ask him to choose between his dreams and you. So you made sure to be his compass of sorts, guiding him to rest and recovery when he got so lost in his art that he forgot to eat or shower, pressing kisses to his closed eyes and the freckles above them when he fell asleep in your arms, hoping that he knew that he never worked in vain.

“Love you,” he murmured, leaning into you when your hands slid around his waist, tilting your head up so you could stare into his warm, oak coloured eyes, your heart skipping a beat at the sight of him above you, “you’re an angel, my angel.”

You have never broken a contract with your fans.💚