#jooheon

The sound of running water echoed in the bathroom as you and Kyun stood shoulder to shoulder, brushing your teeth like a well-rehearsed ritual. Your elbows bumped now and then, toothpaste foamed at the corners of your lips, and you caught each other’s gaze in the mirror with a muffled snort.

“Don’t even start,” you warned, mouth full of foam.

He grinned, toothbrush dangling from his lips like a lollipop stick. “I’m just saying… you look real sexy with that mint mustache.”

You spat into the sink dramatically. “And you look like you’re about to sell me vitamins in an MLM scheme.”

He laughed so hard he choked slightly, pounding his chest with exaggerated flair. He sighed once he caught his breath. “You suck.” The unamused look on his face earning a laugh from you. 

Once the toothpaste was rinsed away and you began your skincare routine, he lingered in the doorway watching you, leaning on the threshold, arms crossed over his chest and bottom lip pinched between his teeth as he watched you intently before speaking up.

“Remind me,” he said, eyes twinkling, “Is this the serum that costs more than our electricity bill or the one that smells like fermented pear juice?”

You rolled your eyes but handed him the dropper. “It’s the one that keeps your skin soft enough for me to kiss. Sit.” You instructed him, pointing towards the toilet seat.

And he did—quietly, reverently. With his eyes closed, he surrendered to your touch, his posture relaxing beneath your hands like an animal finally safe enough to sleep. You pressed your fingertips into the gentle angles of his cheeks, smoothing moisturizer over skin already soft but always a little too dry around the temples. He leaned into it, the way one might lean into sunlight on a cold morning.

You worked carefully, massaging the cream upward along his jawline and over the bridge of his nose, your movements slow and deliberate. He didn’t speak, just let out the occasional sigh, lashes fluttering slightly but never opening. When you dabbed eye cream just beneath his lower lids, he muttered—halfheartedly, almost affectionately—something about being too pretty to need it, the corners of his lips twitching into the ghost of a smile.

“Skincare isn’t just for emergencies,” you murmured, thumb smoothing away the excess in soft arcs. “It’s maintenance. Like tending to a garden.”

He scoffed lightly but didn’t argue. When you finished, he reached for your hand and, without fanfare, brought it to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to each knuckle—one after another like they were sacred. His breath was warm, his pace unhurried. The gesture wasn’t showy or romantic in the cinematic sense; it was quieter than that, more meaningful. Like he was trying to say something he didn’t yet have words for.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was soft—comfortable. The kind that came only when two people had nothing left to prove.

He rested his forehead against your sternum, arms looping loosely around your waist as you combed your fingers through his hair. 

-

By the time you both made it to bed, the lights were dimmed, while some random YouTuber ranted about conspiracy theories on your tv. Your body fit perfectly against his under the blanket, your legs tangled, your head on his chest.

“Today wasn’t terrible,” he murmured, voice low and a little scratchy from the hour, fingers drawing idle shapes on your upper arm—lazy spirals, the occasional circle that trailed off into nothing.

You exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that only comes at the end of a long, demanding day. “It was just... a lot. Like my brain’s still buffering.” you tilted your head to look at him.

That earned you a pause—brief but telling. His throat worked as he swallowed, eyes flickering over your face like he wasn’t sure where to land. Then, he dipped forward and pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. The kind that wasn’t rushed or performative, just honest.

And then, right on cue: “You know what else is long?”

You groaned, forehead dropping to his chest. “Are you serious right now?”

“I’m always serious,” he said, trying and failing to suppress a grin. “I was building romantic tension. You ruined it.”

“You ruined it the second you turned a heartfelt moment into a dick joke.”

He wiggled his brows, smug. “Artfully.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Oh but you love it.” He rolled his eyes as he chuckled.

You giggled against his collarbone. “Touché.”

A quiet moment passed. His hand was still tracing patterns—now slower, more deliberate.

“You know,” you added, “I had that meeting this morning with the manager who still thinks ‘synergy’ is a personality trait. I was this close to faking a connectivity issue on Zoom.”

He snorted. “You should’ve. That’s self-preservation.”

“And then the train was late. Again. Sat next to a guy who kept coughing like it was his full-time job.”

“Maybe he was trying to court you. In 18th century plague language.”

You nudged him with your foot. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m multifaceted.”

“Mm. And how was your day, Casanova?” You asked, leaning up on his chest and cupping his face, rubbing your thumb over his cheek.

He sighed dramatically, gaze shifting to the ceiling as if to look back at the memory. “Well, I spilled coffee on myself at 9 a.m., nearly emailed a client a meme instead of a contract at 1, and accidentally joined the wrong video call where people were mid-argument about expense reports.” His brow twitched like he was fighting off a full-body cringe.

You tilted your head up. “So, wildly successful.”

He smiled. “All downhill until I got home to you.”

You stared at him for a second, skeptical. “You’re not about to set me up for another innuendo, are you?”

He gave a half-shrug. “I was debating it, but you looked too cute. I’ll save it for bedtime.”

“God help me.”

His hand began to roam—slowly, deliberately—across the dip of your waist. You shifted onto your side, the sheets rustling softly as your leg brushed against his. His eyes met yours just as your nose gently grazed his, your breaths mingling in the quiet.

“You’re impossible,” you murmured, voice low, intimate. “It’s like you get more beautiful every time I look at you. It’s honestly exhausting.”

He inhaled sharply, his gaze faltering for the briefest moment before returning to you, darker now. “Don’t.”

You tilted your head, searching his face, the corners of your mouth pulling upward. “No, really. Your hands—God, your hands are stupidly perfect. And your eyes just ruin me. And that mouth?” You paused, letting the silence speak. “It’s the worst. I think about it constantly.”

A strangled groan escaped him before he dropped his face into the curve of your neck, his lips grazing your skin as he exhaled hard. “You can’t say things like that while I’m doing everything I can not to lose my head.”

You smiled, fingers threading gently into his hair, your nails grazing his scalp. “Who said I wanted you to keep it?”

You straddled him before he could reply, your thighs bracketing his hips. His hands flew to your waist instinctively, eyes wide, mouth parted.

“You’re driving me insane,” he murmured, voice low and frayed as he pressed his hips against yours with a slow, deliberate roll. “You don’t even realize what you’re doing to me.”

The tension between you was electric—each subtle grind a heady collision of restraint and want. His arousal, firm and insistent through the thin fabric between you, drew a soft, involuntary moan from your lips. The sound hung between you like a confession.

Your foreheads touched, breaths mingling, uneven and shallow. He was so close, too close, and still not nearly close enough.

“More,” he begged. “Please. I need to taste you.”

You nodded, heart pounding, and in one fluid motion, he flipped you onto your back. Kyun eagerly pulled down your pyjama pants and slipped down between your thighs like it was second nature. He kissed your inner thighs with reverence, hands spreading you open, and when he finally tasted you, it was slow and deep, like worship.

You gasped, back arching off the mattress. “Oh, my God, Kyun—”

But he didn’t stop. In fact, he moaned into you, like you were his favourite meal, his reason for breathing. He lapped at you with long strokes, teasing and circling, sucking just hard enough to make your legs shake. His grip on your thighs never faltered. You were unravelling under him, tears in the corners of your eyes from the intensity, and he only pulled away to catch his breath and whisper, “You’re so good for me. Let me make you feel good. I love this—I love you like this.” Your legs were trembling, your fingers buried in his hair. He moaned again as he felt you come undone, like it was his orgasm, not yours, and he didn’t stop. Not right away. He licked you gently through the aftershocks, like he couldn’t bear to part from you.

He crawled back up your body, kissed your lips like he hadn’t just ruined you, then looked into your eyes with a flush across his cheeks and a desperate ache in his voice.

“I need you to touch me. I don’t even need to cum, I just need to feel you.”

You reached down to stroke him through his boxers, loving the way he trembled under your touch. “You’re perfect, baby,” you whispered, pecking his lips softly, “so perfect.”

He buried his face in your neck again, whispering filth and praise in equal measure, but it was the emotion behind his voice that really made your heart twist.

When his fingers slipped between your folds again, this time from above, he moved with such care—watching your face, praising your body, pressing kisses to your breasts while you clenched around him. You rode his hand slowly, every breath ragged, every sigh soaked in devotion. He talked you through it, murmuring how proud he was, how beautiful you were, how good you felt.

And you knew—more than anything—that he loved making you feel like this. Not just physically, but completely. Worshipped. Cherished. His.

His eyes, normally filled with mischief, now looked dazed—consumed by something heavier, needier. You’d never seen him like this: drunk on the taste of you, the high of your pleasure still thick in the air around him. His pupils were blown out, jaw slack as he panted. “You feel like something I shouldn’t be allowed to have.”

“You say that like I’m not already yours,” you whispered, voice trembling from the aftershock still rippling through you.

His breath hitched. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours, Kyun.”

His eyes fluttered shut, his forehead resting against yours as if the weight of that truth grounded him, sobered him from whatever haze your body had pulled him into.

“I want to give you everything,” he said quietly. You kissed him softly, coaxing him onto his back. As you straddled him again, the weight of your body made him exhale like he’d been holding his breath since the moment he laid eyes on you.

You leaned down to kiss his neck, his jaw, the hollow of his throat—soft, slow. Your fingers ghosted over the waistband of his boxers, feeling how painfully hard he’d gotten, how he twitched under your lightest touch. You could feel his pulse beneath your lips, hammering as you licked a path down his chest.

He let out a strangled moan when your palm finally cupped him through the thin cotton, and his hips bucked instinctively. “Oh my God,” he whispered, eyes rolling back as you pressed your lips over the outline of his cock. “Don’t tease me. Not tonight. I’ll beg if I have to.”

“You don’t have to beg,” you said, biting gently at his hip. “You’ve been so good to me. Let me make you feel half as good.”

But he caught your wrist before you could pull his boxers down. “No,” he said, voice shaky but sure. “Not yet. I just want to feel you like this first.”

Your brows knit, but you let him tug you back up, guiding your hips to grind against him again. This time, it wasn’t playful. This was desperation—wet cotton dragging against his aching length, your own arousal soaking through the fabric. You moved together slowly, breath catching in each other’s mouths, every press of your bodies building a heat so sharp it was unbearable.

He gripped your hips tightly, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel so good. Even like this—I can’t take it. I need more.”

“Tell me what you want.”

He groaned, his voice hoarse and reverent. “I want to be inside you. I want to hear you cry my name again. I need to taste you again. Please. I need it. Let me.”

You’d never seen someone plead with so much adoration. And how could you say no?

You slipped his boxers down with a gentle tug, your fingertips trailing along his skin. He shivered under your touch, breath hitching as your hand closed around him. You stroked him slowly—curiously—watching his face for every flicker of pleasure. His head fell back against the pillows, lips parting around a low, unfiltered moan. He was beautiful like this, undone and trusting, all sharp lines softened beneath your hands.

“God,” you whispered, smiling through a quiet laugh, “you’re so cute.”

His eyes fluttered open, dazed but warm, and he reached for you. You leaned down and pressed your forehead to his, both of you breathing in sync, pulses drumming just beneath the surface.

Carefully, you positioned yourself above him, the moment stretching in the quiet hum between your bodies. When you began to sink down, both of you gasped—a mutual unravelling. The stretch was slow, willful, and overwhelmingly intimate. Your hands braced on his chest as you took him inch by inch, your bodies adjusting to each other with wordless understanding.

His hands gripped your thighs tightly, almost tenderly, as though grounding himself. “You feel…” he couldn’t finish the thought—just groaned, deep and helpless.

You rested there for a moment, breathing heavily, your foreheads touching again. There was nothing rushed, nothing frantic. Just the two of you—bare, open, and impossibly close.

“I’ve missed you,” he said hoarsely, eyes locked to yours.

You kissed him slowly, tenderly. “Then don’t let go.”

“Has it been that long since we’ve fucked like this?” You asked, grinding your hips down softly, fighting your desperate need for friction. 

“A- a week.” he cleared his throat, clearly struggling to keep his composure when he felt you flutter around him. You smiled and began riding him. A symphony of moans flowing from the both of you, filling the room. The youtube video long forgotten but illuminating the both of you on your bed.

Your gaze glued down to him and he tried to keep eye contact but it was like he was under your spell. His head was thrown back on the pillow, face contorting and hands trailing to your waist like he still wanted to feel you if he couldn't look at you.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he said. “You don’t know what it means to make you feel like that.”

“I do,” you whispered, rolling your hips and picking up your pace. “I feel it too.”

“You’re so good,” he whispered, words shaky— breathy. “So responsive. You open up for me so beautifully. That’s it—just like that.”

You could feel yourself tightening around him again, your stomach clenching with another release building too quickly. He stroked your hair with his free hand, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re doing so well. Let go for me, baby. I’ve got you.”

And when you shattered, when he kissed your name into the curve of your shoulder, you didn’t feel like a body anymore—you felt like his home. A place he’d come back to again and again.

Because in that moment, the sex wasn’t the highlight. It was the way he saw you. The way he loved you—body and soul.

When you both came you sunk into his chest, melted into him and peppered soft— lazy kisses wherever your lips allowed and he dragged his hands up and down your back. 

The room was quiet now, save for the hum of the air conditioner and the slow rhythm of your breaths syncing back into harmony. The adrenaline had passed, the last tremors of pleasure still ghosting along your skin like a memory.

Kyun hadn’t let go of you once.

Your cheek was pressed to his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat anchoring you. His fingers, slow and unhurried, traced soft shapes along the bare skin of your back. He wasn’t saying much—but he didn’t have to. You could feel the love in every touch, every gentle squeeze of your waist, every press of his lips to your damp temple.

"You okay, baby?" he murmured finally, voice husky from exertion, but laced with a kind of sacred concern.

“Mhm,” you replied, too sated to form full words yet. “I’m good. You?”

“I’m perfect,” he whispered, like it was the only truth he knew. “You’re always so good to me.”

He reached over to the nightstand, pulling the drawer open with a quiet slide, and you watched through heavy-lidded eyes as his hand found the soft towel he always kept there, folded neatly atop a bottle of water and a spare hair tie—because of course it was. He always had everything ready, like loving you was something sacred he took seriously, like intimacy was a ritual he never rushed.

Now that warmth bloomed across your skin as he brought it to your inner thighs, his touch devoted but unhurried. He moved with quiet purpose, his fingers brushing over your most tender places with care—wiping away the mess with all the delicacy of someone handling something precious, something he didn’t just desire, but deeply respected.

As he worked, he murmured to you in a voice so low it was almost just breath: “You did so well for me, baby… so beautiful.” Each word fell like a kiss against your tired body, grounding you. Then came his actual kisses—first to the inside of your thigh, then to your knee, and finally to your ankle, soft and slow, like he was thanking every inch of you for letting him love you like this.

You couldn’t help it—you stared at him like you’d never seen anything so tender in your life. There he was, crouched at the edge of the bed with nothing but devotion in his posture and gentleness in his hands, and your heart ached with the weight of how much you loved him. Not just in the heady, breathless way from moments ago—but in the quieter, deeper way that lived in bone and breath and time.

“I think you were actually created in a lab,” you said, teasing but breathless. “No one is this thoughtful by accident.”

He grinned, and then climbed back into bed, gathering you against him like you were the only thing tethering him to Earth.

“I’m just trying to earn my place next to the best person I’ve ever known.”

You snorted softly into his shoulder, even as your arms snuck around his waist. “God, you’re such a sap.”

“As if you’re not absolutely over the moon about it?”

“Unfortunately.”

He chuckled, then tilted your chin up with two fingers, studying your face in the low light like he was seeing it for the first time again. “You look so pretty right now,” he murmured. “Like my wife. My entire life.”

You kissed him—slow and deep and grateful.

Kyun held you close, tightly— possessively.

Married life, you thought, didn’t mean routine. Not with Kyun.

It meant comfort. Ease. A love that still surprised you, still made you nervous sometimes, still made you want to kiss him for hours just because you could.

“You know,” he said, rubbing your arm absentmindedly, “I’d marry you again tomorrow. Even if we’d just met today.”

“Yeah?” you asked, tilting your head to look at him. He turned the tv off before looking back at you. He nodded. “No hesitation.”

Your heart twisted sweetly in your chest. You settled deeper into him, murmuring, “Then it’s a good thing we already got it right the first time.”

É uma obsessão visceral mesmo. Jooheon pira até no barulho molhado do pau dele batendo no seu interior, no gemido que você solta quando tá tão bem preenchida. Como se, pra ele, a foda fosse só um pretexto para chegar nessa parte: te deixar toda sujinha, empanturrada com o leitinho dele.

Ah, e ele não deixa passar uma única chance. Seja numa rapidinha contra a parede mesmo, subindo sua sainha e te socando rápido e com força só pra conseguir o mais depressa possível jorrar tudo no seu úterozinho antes de você sair. Ou também naquela transa da madrugada, com ambos meio dormindo, tão preguiçosos, mas precisando tanto sentir seu quentinho interior o envolvendo enquanto ele goza tão manhoso. Despreocupados, vocês até voltam a dormir assim mesmo, inclusive com ele dentro. E nas noites planejadas é ainda pior, porque é aí que ele te fode por horas, te deixa moída, burrinha, e ainda assim tá bem longe de parar. te abre bem, te deixa toda arreganhadinha só pra gozar uma, duas, três vezes seguidas, sem nem sequer tirar o pau.

É eufemismo dizer que vocês gostam de uma foda bruta, animalesca. Jooheon espreme suas perninhas em direção aos seus peitos, as mãos grandes e calejadas seguram sua panturrilha com tanta força enquanto ele te soca num ritmo grotesco, tornando inevitáveis os solavancos que seu corpinho dá. Céus, ele ama como sua bucetinha fica tão escorregadia, a ponto de entrar e sair deslizando tão fácil assim a cada nova estocada. Ele sempre vislumbra o mesmo paraíso a cada vez que deposita mais da porra dele lá no fundo, cada gotinha, sem pressa nenhuma, com o único objetivo de te deixar toda entupida.

E depois que ele descarrega, Jooheon ainda tem o prazer de se afastar devagarinho só pra assistir a porra escorrendo de sua bucetinha. Caralho, ele fica hipnotizado ali, olhando o rastro viscoso vazar de sua entradinha inchada, escorrer superficialmente pelo cuzinho e sujar o lençol. Ainda te chama de putinha com o sorriso mais satisfeito do mundo nos lábios, coleta o que pingou com a língua mesmo e engole tão satisfeito, observando como sua bucetinha começa a piscar de novo. Você nem se atreve a ir se limpar ainda, primeiro porque você tem que ficar ali marinada na porra, sentindo toda essa lambança. segundo porque, de qualquer forma, ele vai te pegar de novo e te deixar lotadinha outra vez. E sinceramente, quanto mais, melhor.

Gostou? Dá uma forcinha aí! Uma curtida, um reblog ou um comentário são mais do que suficientes para eu saber que você se agradou com meu conteúdo :)