Bb-blu-love - 💎

he just has very sensitive tear ducts cr. namuspromised, 0613data, jung-koook

koo sprout 🌱 cr. 0613data, namuspromised

– You had tough days? – I did whenever you weren't around.

for @aprylynn 💕 cr. namuspromised, appletape, onsam for BTS

· . ˚ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞

— the little mannerisms you pick up from the members of stray kids over the course of your relationship.

words・3.7k / pairings・ot8 x gn!reader / genres・fluff, humor, borderline crack, intentional lowercase, established relationship(s) / warnings・minsung’s are suggestive, touch of anxiety in felix's, jeongin's is lowkey gross LMFAO

a/n・massive shoutout to @/http.dwaekkii on tiktok for their edits about the boys' habits, which i consulted for chan, changbin, seungmin, and jeongin (and to @astraystayyh for beta reading hehe. what would i do without u). these were sooooo fun to write, hope u guys enjoy (｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )

chan + getting shy easily. poor thing gets embarrassed so quickly as it is. throw you into the mix and it’s just critical hit after critical hit. defense lowered. no health potions left. he folds like a lawn chair with a massive smile and a whiny “stooooop” every time you say something even remotely affectionate. the habit is adorable, and you love it to pieces.

but you like poking fun at it even more. “god forbid i find my literal underwear model of a boyfriend attractive,” you’d say, or something along those lines, which of course only triples his embarrassment and on more than one occasion results in him starfishing on your kitchen floor, his hood pulled over his face.

fast forward however many months. he’s still the worst compliment-receiver you know, but you discover one arbitrary afternoon that it’s rubbed off on you.

the two of you are cuddled together on the living room couch in your usual fashion, your legs thrown over his thighs and his hands tracing absently over your shins as you relay to him something you overheard on the subway. the conversation is painfully normal. you’re almost bored. you pause to take a breath, and he murmurs, out of nowhere, in the dreamiest tone: “so damn beautiful.”

“wha—huh? what is?”

“you. your voice, your face, everything. i‘m lucky.”

your expression of bewilderment persists for around ten seconds, and then slowly, so slowly, you begin to sandwich your head between your knees, balling yourself up like a spooked armadillo. chan wonders if he should call an ambulance.

“love?” no response. “what, uh, what’s happening right now, exactly?”

no response. no response. then, hoarsely, “you can’t...say shit like that…randomly.”

he notices two things after that. one, your skin is burning hot enough to fry something upon, and two, you’ve formed a fist in the fabric of his hoodie, which you only do when you’re pretending to be annoyed at him. the puzzle pieces fall into place, and he starts grinning like a madman.

“you’re…embarrassed?”

the guttural groan you emit is more than enough of an answer, and the cute aggression that overcomes chan is fucking debilitating. he wraps his arms around you and hauls you entirely off the couch and onto his lap, littering kisses over your face until it finally resigns into a matching smile. all intent to continue feigning grumpiness erased with the drop of a hat. you drape an arm over his neck.

“you’re so good to me, channie,” you sigh helplessly. “i love you.”

“love you more, baby.” he imprints these words directly upon your lips, then pulls away, giggles. “that was very me of you, by the way.”

“i know, right? i was just about to say.”

minho + butt touching. it’s quite simple, really. if lee minho is within proximity of someone’s buttocks, he will, as he lives and breathes, make it known. will it be a coy little swat or a yelp-eliciting, full-bodied grab? nobody ever knows, not even him. the unpredictability is what makes it exciting.

but it takes a while before this starts applying to you, because the way minho touches you is…different. doting. there’s no other way to describe how he always holds the nape of your neck while kissing you, how he rests a hand against the small of your back whenever he leads you somewhere, how during the nights you can’t sleep he guides you to the place on his chest where he knows his heartbeat is loudest. he even drags you into his trademark headlocks the same way one would hold an invaluable treasure. he’s so obsessed with all of you that he never thinks to pay just your butt special attention (though it is, indeed, a special butt).

you take it into your own hands. literally.

you don’t know what prompts it—maybe you’ve simply seen minho slap his members’ asses one too many times, or maybe you’re still thinking of the specific time minho slapped changbin’s ass in passing and it fucking echoed, or maybe minho just looks especially fine in this practice outfit, a skintight tee and washed sweatpants that hug him in all the right places—but you feel a new urge today as your boyfriend swings his duffel over his shoulder, circles around the kitchen counter.

he puckers up as he nears you, silently requesting his goodbye; you give it to him, relishing for a moment in the familiar, soft plush of his lips beneath yours. then he pulls away and turns to leave, and your hand acquires its target.

“go get ‘em, tiger.” thwack!

minho jumps a foot into the air. clutches his pearls and his left butt cheek. becomes the splitting image of that perplexed blonde lady surrounded by geometry.

but when he turns around to stare at you, the smirk melting across his face betrays how he really feels about what you’ve just done. good. really good.

you, meanwhile, look genuinely confused. “it’s like it moved on its own.”

minho beams. steps towards you daintily, intentionally, like a cat catching sight of a laser beam. brings a hand to your hip, murmurs, “that’s what we’re doing now?” kisses you again, for longer this time.

you fully foresee his fingers wandering to your ass to give it a gentle squeeze, but you reach up to cuff his shoulder when it happens anyways, and his laugh vibrates against your mouth. it seems you’ll be reaping what you’ve sown from now on.

(good luck.)

changbin + the Cackle™. yes, you said something exceptionally funny. yes, you expected changbin to find it funny too. but you couldn’t expect the godforsaken noise that left his mouth as he threw himself straight into the tree planter behind you.

your mind spun with frantic questions as you helped him out of the dirt. had the spirit of spongebob just usurped his vocal cords? were you on a date with the wicked witch of the west? most importantly—

“are you well?” you sputtered, which only made him laugh harder and his laugh so much crazier, so you started laughing, too. and you were goners, falling over each other until you’d been reduced to watery eyes and sore cheeks, your giggling interrupted only by the sound of you slapping his thigh every so often, heartily enough to reverberate around the little park in which you concluded your second date.

that’s how you fall for seo changbin: laughing. with a reckless, breathless abandon you didn’t think possible. stumbling across empty sidewalks, spitting noodles across dining tables, begging for mercy on studio couches. wrestling under tear-stained comforters, starting (and re-starting) silly stories, huffing into beaming kisses. the list goes on.

you never quite get used to that chortle of his, too busy enjoying its insanity to notice how your own chuckles grow shorter and shriller, how they gradually develop an edge like the chittering of a forest dweller.

you complete your transformation on your ninety-eighth date. 

no, changbin doesn’t say anything exceptionally funny. no, he doesn’t expect you to find it funny, either. he expects least of all for you to fold over the kitchen island and start cackling like cruella de vil on helium.

han turns around from his seat on the couch. chan’s footsteps come to a halt as he emerges from the bathroom. both of them have fear in their eyes as they witness your undoing.

the only thing on changbin’s face, though, is unfettered delight.

“b-baby,” he sputters with a growing smile. “are you—”

you lift your face off the marble surface and turn to face him. the entirety of your forehead and the point of your nose is covered in flour. you blow a cloud of the stuff out of your mouth like a dragon awoken from slumber.

he loses it.

the two of you make your way onto the floor in slow motion, ending in a tangled heap against the side of the counter. changbin tries to clean off the flour and smears it all over your cheeks instead. you are zero help whatsoever, smacking his bicep like that’ll help you catch your breath. your synchronized, diabolical laughter reaches every corner of the apartment. your happiness reaches every nerve ending.

chan and han look at each other, sigh. han takes a video.

hyunjin + side-eyeing. this man is so god awful at controlling his face, bless him…and DAMN HIM.

on one hand, you love how in tune with his emotions he is, how confidently he puts them on display. and you love your synergy. you come closer to believing in soulmates every time you glance his way and discover your exact feelings written all over his features; it’s a special type of happiness, sharing a brain with your favorite person in the world.

on the other hand, you think there’s a time and place for candor, and he tends, well, not to think at all. during many a precarious situation, you’ll catch him wearing an expression so transparent that he might as well arrange the words THIS IS STUPID AND I HATE ALL OF YOU over his head in neon lights. cue a dig of your heel into his toe, a hiss of pain cut short by your piercing glare. if you’d known ahead of time that dating hwang hyunjin would have you doing so much damage control…you’d still date him, let’s be real. but you do get stressed at times.

the night the tables turn, you’re at a celebratory dinner for your coworker’s birthday. small caveat: you can’t stand her. she’s the type to spontaneously combust if she goes two minutes without talking about herself. certainly doesn’t help that she’s downing champagne like water, and her lips are looser than ever.

hyunjin comes with you, fortunately. or not. he spends the whole evening trying so hard not to laugh: snorting into his bread, excusing himself to “cough.” you think he actually starts doing breathing exercises at some point. you’re so, so grateful that he’s here, but you’re also deathly afraid that he’s gonna bring out those neon lights in front of your entire office.

then, she flirts with him.

from the opposite end of the table. perfectly wasted but still knowing perfectly well that he’s yours. the whole patio goes silent. hyunjin’s jaw hits the table.

your fork clatters to your plate.

FUCK time and place.

the side-eye you give her is devastating. truly masterful. your brow furrows. your eyes turn to slits. your gaze does the up-down-up of unadulterated incredulity. hyunjin recognizes the motions straightaway and starts smiling so hard his whole face hurts.

you take your boyfriend’s wrist and stand up. he follows suit. you don’t say a thing as you leave the restaurant, and you don’t have to. the intensity of your disdain was more than enough; anything more and she might’ve started crying.

once you’re on the curb outside, hyunjin pulls on your interlocked hands, brings you close. his lips brush against the shell of your ear. you hear laughter and his smirk in his voice.

“you’re so fucking sexy, holy shit.”

jisung + how he applies lip balm. that han jisung is the pioneer of modern day babygirlism is the worst kept secret in the world. that han jisung applies lip balm the riveting way he does, however, is unknown even to you. until one morning.

you pop into the bathroom and make your usual beeline for your toothbrush, only to end up motionless in front of the sink, staring. jisung is a bit off to the side, hair pinned back by a cinnamoroll headband, eyes glued to his phone, hand holding a tube of chapstick that you can actually see getting shorter in real time. he looks so pensive, so concentrated. how long has it been since he last blinked? you’ve half a mind to pull out a stopwatch.

finally, he rubs his lips together, recaps the chapstick, and makes eye contact with you in the mirror. a smile crosses his face, equal parts confused and amused.

“baby, your mouth is open.”

you close it. then you open it again, and your words come out in a barely-contained laugh: “what on earth did you just do?”

“what do you mean?”

“the—” you point at his mouth, then do your best impression of an elementary schooler trying to color inside the lines. “—that.”

jisung looks aghast. “that was LIP BALM.”

“no, i know what it—you’re so—i meant, why do you apply it like that?”

jisung continues to look aghast. “like what?”

“like you’re one of socrates’ prized pupils and the answer to the universe’s formation lies at the bottom of—” you step in close, reach into the pocket of his sweatpants. “—this tube!”

it might be the craziest thing you’ve ever said to him. he bursts into laughter, the kind that leaves him no recollection of what he does with his limbs, and when he can see straight again he discovers he’s pressed you gently against the counter. his fingers latched around the hem of your top, his grin inches away from yours. can’t stay away from you to save his life, this one.

“do i actually?”

“yes! holy shit, it’s so cute.” your arms circle around his neck, also without an ounce of thought, also through a fit of giggles. “no way you’ve always done that, right?”

“i don’t know. i’ve never thought about it.” a pause. a tilt of his head, with purpose. “am i…doing it wrong?”

the question is a trap and you realize it too late. your gaze drops from his eyes to his lips—a ray of sunlight glistens off the pink plush like a paid actor—then back to his eyes. let’s find out.

you lean in. so does he. and his mouth tastes and feels like melted fucking sugar. it’s such a pleasant surprise that you actually moan, and he chuckles against you. lifts you onto the edge of the sink. your mind really goes empty after that, save for one thought. i have to start doing that.

felix + checking his own pulse. you saw it from afar, the first time.

he stood by the stage’s entrance just before from curtain up, pointer and middle finger pressed against the side of his neck. eyelids sealed closed, chest heaving. you tilted your head, puzzled. worried. then the concert began, and you pushed the image to the back of your mind.

it returned to the forefront right before bed.

“you do it when you’re nervous?”

“yeah. forces me to ground myself. turns off the world for a bit.” the hand rubbing circles into your back paused. “wanna give it a go?”

“what, checking my pulse?”

“mine.”

you lifted your head off the pillow. felix took your hand from where it sat upon his ribs, isolating two fingers and nestling them over his jugular. his quickened heartbeat pressed into your skin like the world’s gentlest tattoo.

the sixty seconds began and concluded in total silence.

“well?” he whispered.

“ninety-three,” you answered, lightheaded from the sheer intimacy of it all. “you’re nervous right now?”

“something like that,” he hummed. pulled you down, kissed you deeply. there were no more words exchanged that night.

the habit surfaced more than you knew. while driving to visit your parents. after a stupid argument with a bouquet of flowers tucked beneath his free arm. you started doing it for him in the times he couldn’t, and he’d cover your hand with his own and kiss the top of your head silently, gratefully.

two years have passed since, and you’ve vanished from the dinner table.

felix asks the nearest waiter for directions to the restrooms. you don’t notice when the door swings open, unmoving in your spot over the sink, your pointer and middle finger pressed against the side of your neck. 

his hand finds your hip. you let him turn you around and bring you to his chest; he glances at the crystalline droplets studding your lashes and falling from your cheeks. his eyes convey what his mouth doesn’t need to, not anymore.

let me.

you do.

his fingers replace yours the moment you drop them from under your jaw, the movement like clockwork. he counts your every heartbeat with unblinking concentration, his heart growing heavier the higher the number climbs.

the sixty seconds begin and conclude in total silence. 

“well?” you whisper.

“hundred and six,” he answers. to his confusion, a smile pulls at your lips. 

he wonders if it’s a trick of the bathroom lights when he sees the tiny box you pluck from your pocket, but there’s no mistaking the reality of the diamond ring that sits behind its open lid.

the earth slants under his feet.

“crazy.” you giggle through your tears, run your thumb over his cheekbone. “that’s how many years i want with you.”

seungmin + poking eyes(?) he’s hardly touched puppym when your voice is slicing through the living room air like a fucking beyblade. 

“KIM SEUNGMIN, UNHAND HIM THIS INSTANT.”

do you have a sixth sense just for this? he throws his hands up in exasperation. “he’s literally me. i’m allowed to do whatever i want with me.”

“he’s not you, he’s our son.” you pop out of nowhere to swipe the plushie from over your boyfriend’s shoulder. “my son, if you keep this up.”

“just say you hate me and my preferred avenues of self expression.”

upside-down, he watches you dust off puppym’s face and smooch his forehead with a tenderness that makes seungmin unhappier than he lets on. you then tuck him into your jacket pocket. the little shit’s expression looks strangely smug poking out of its cotton capsule.

“i’m asking you to not gauge his eyes out, not to deliver me the holy grail,” you say. “you’ll survive.”

but then he feels your hands on either side of his face, and you lean over him like the mj to his peter, leave a kiss on the space between his eyes, too. he has zero say in the bashful smile this brings to his face.

“but why do you do that, seriously?” you mutter.

“i have no idea,” he replies. “but it’s fun. try it.”

“i’ll think about it.” you lean in again, and he nearly forgets what you were talking about in the first place when you kiss him on the lips this time. “okay, i’ve thought about it. no.”

“hate you,” he says despite the literal hearts in his eyes, and then you’re off to work.

puppym takes strikingly after his father. they have the same bangs. the same compulsively squeezable quality. the same little :3 that can only allude to sinister plottings. you’d be loath to admit that you sort of comprehend seungmin’s poking predisposition.

one night, seungmin falls asleep before you even finish your nighttime routine, and you spot in his peaceful, upturned face an opportunity.

you lie belly-down on your side of the bed. your fingers splay into a peace-sign in the air. your smile stretches further into a cheshire grin the closer you bring your hand. you’re just about to reach the ends of his eyelashes when—

“I KNEW IT!”

you almost catapult into the ceiling. then you try to make a mad dash for the bathroom. but seungmin shoots a hand around your wrist like he’s actually peter parker and pins you down before you so much as take a step. your only remaining option is to sulk about your foiled plans. (and blush, because, well, you’re under him.)

“amateur,” he tsks. “you gotta test my breathing to make sure i’m asleep first. shit’s foolproof.”

you blink at him for a few seconds. his words finally click.

now you almost catapult him into the ceiling.

“HOW MANY TIMES?”

jeongin + eating food in one bite. so you might be an instigator.

“hwuck,” he grumbles around the whole ice cream cone in his mouth, face scrunched up in a brain-freeze-induced wince. “ayee ith waz a bah iyeah.” (translation: fuck, maybe this was a bad idea.)

“you got this. just take it slow,” you urge, except he’s stopped moving and speaking and closed his eyes as if he’s descending into a deep sleep. you’re actually concerned for about two seconds, and then his jaw begins to oscillate leisurely like an elderly cow in his favorite pasture. false alarm.

after some time, he swallows, beams. “so am i the fucking best or what.”

“yeah you are,” you echo, and he swings an arm over your shoulder, plants a chocolatey kiss on your temple. the two of you celebrate his daesangs with less enthusiasm.

“when are you doing that with me, by the way?”

“the one-bite thing?” he nods. “mmm, coaches don’t play.”

“mmm, this one will.”

“doubtful.”

fast forward a few weeks and you, jeongin, and his younger brother are sitting cross-legged on the porch in his backyard. three full-sized oranges rest in the center of your makeshift circle. damn is yoon hard to say no to. (runs in the family.)

“the rules!” he declares. “eat the orange whole! first to swallow it wins! you can’t spit it out!”

you wait. “is that it?”

“yes!”

why was the delivery so grand?

jeongin places a fond hand atop his brother’s head. “i’ve brought you a new loser, yoonie. get excited.”

you feign an indifferent scoff, but jeongin spots the fire that ignites behind your eyes like that of an anime protagonist, the resolute grip with which you palm your orange. he smirks. he’s never known you to take trash talk sitting down. or sitting cross-legged on his porch.

yoon counts you off. “ready…”

“good luck, coach,” jeongin sings.

“shut up, pipsqueak.”

“set…GO!”

in amusing unison, you and yoon try and fail to fasten your teeth around even half of the fruit. jeongin, meanwhile, fits the whole thing into his black hole of an oral cavity and launches into that dumb cow impression again.

desperate times call for desperate measures.

you rip the orange from your lips. “yoon! your brother’s ticklish, right?”

both yang siblings’ eyes widen—the younger’s in growing delight, the older’s in impending horror.

the latter reacts first. “ay, ay, ay, ah ahes eh ooles!” (translation: wait, wait, wait, that’s against the rules!)

but the former moves first, and you’re right behind him.

jeongin weakens when the younger boy assaults his sides, crumples when you target the back of his neck, the sounds leaving his mouth getting progressively louder and somehow even less intelligible.

he eventually has to spit out the orange to avoid death by pulp going down the wrong pipe and spins around in indignation, wiping at his chin with the back of his hand. but his annoyance—

you’re back on the floor, gnawing hopelessly at the the orange again. “ih ih eawahin, ooh.” (translation: this is embarrassing, yoon.)

yoon replies, “huh?” (translation: huh?)

—dissipates, immediately.

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© forlix (est. 090323) · liked this work? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support!

i'll be okay—yeonjun x fem!afab!reader. reader gets overstimulated and they have comfort sex lol. NSFW/MDNI!

cw. established relationship, afab!reader, chubby!reader implied, reader experiences sensory overload (but there is no specific disability mentioned), yeonjun has stubble ehehe, nipple play, cunnilingus, use of sex toys, unprotected sex (pls wear protection ppl), creampie , pet names (love, baby, jjuni), "i love you," reader wears a dress, lowkey lovemaking, kinda cheesy, i think that's it?  notes. so this is kinda supposed to be, like, as a result of sensory overload. i wrote this as a neurodivergent person who experiences sensory overload, but anyone can get overstimulated, so even if you aren't neurodivergent, you may relate to this! and remember- disability, overstimulation, and sensory overload are different experiences for everyone! no one experiences them the same, SO just keep in mind this is kinda as a result of my personal experience. thank u :3 smut under cut. wc. 1.8K

“I’m sorry we had to come home early,” you say, closing and locking your apartment’s front door. “It’s this fabric…” Tugging at the dress you’d picked out for tonight’s date, you shiver. You knew the fabric wasn’t your favorite, but the dress fit you so perfectly. It couldn’t be bad for one night, right? 

The combination of a stressful day at work, the cacophony of the bustling restaurant, the glaring city lights, and the dress' god awful fabric proved overwhelming. Sensory overload loomed over you from the moment you stepped into the restaurant, but you tried to push it aside, which is never a good idea.

You didn’t have to say anything. Yeonjun knew. He always knows. 

But you wanted to stay, to salvage the perfect date in the perfect dress. And oh how sexy did he look with his slightly grown-out beard, knowing how much you loved the look. Tonight was supposed to be special, and excitement radiated from both of you.

But some days are simply bad and this is one of them. 

“Don’t apologize, love,” Yeonjun says, draping his jacket across the dining table chair. “I couldn’t wait to get you out of that dress anyway.” You wanted to hug him, kiss him, do other things to him, but you couldn’t wait to get this fucking dress off. 

Exhaling a sigh of relief, the familiar comfort of your favorite t-shirt and shorts envelops you as you step out of the closet, finding him patiently waiting on the edge of the bed.

“How are you feeling?” 

“Better—still a bit, you know,” you respond, shaking your hands. “But I’ll be okay.” 

“Need some water?” You nod, watching him walk calmly to the kitchen. How does he always stay so calm? Always your rock. “Here you go, love.” Quietly observing as you settle, he says, “You did look really pretty in that dress.” 

Sitting up, you cross your legs, give him a gentle smile, and say, “Thank you, baby.”

“Touch?” 

Humming, you nod. Warmth spreads through you as his hand gracefully glides from your arm down to squeeze your thigh. Leaning closer, his thumb traces the apple of your cheek before his lips meet yours. 

“You’re always pretty though.” 

The kiss deepens and he leans over, guiding you to lie down as your arms naturally wrap around his shoulders. In his embrace, you find solace and a sense of security, appreciating the constant reassurance he brings into your life.

Every subtle move he makes sends a ripple of response through your body—his hand slipping beneath your shirt to rest on your waist, the delicate texture of his fingertips, even the slightest pinches. It all made you jump. He gently squeezes your tit, making a smile tug at the corners of your lips before swiping a thumb across your nipple experimentally. 

“Sorry—“

You hum, like nuh-uh, you’re not done yet before pulling him back to you. Breaths heavy and deep, he whispers your name as if to ask if you’re okay. He’d never want to overwhelm you, but you want him. 

Trailing his lips down your neck, you say, “I’m still really sensitive, so I’ll have to…you know, take lots of breaks.”

“That’s okay, baby…” Lips brushing your own, the hotness of his breath against your lips grounds you in the moment, hyper aware of his body on yours. “You know I’ll always stop when you need me to.” Tugging at the hem of your shirt—he always lets you take off your own shirt when you’re extra sensitive—his hands rub your waist, giving you time to adjust to sudden exposure. This definitely isn’t the first time you’ve had sex, but each time feels exciting and new. 

Peppering your skin with the sweetest, most sensual kisses until—

Fuck.

Your breath catches in your throat at his tongue against your nipple. A stiffness takes over and as usual, he notices. 

“Feelin’ okay?” He feels good…really good. But you’re still anxious and you still need to look out for yourself to make sure you don’t get too overwhelmed. 

“Yes—” you gasp as your eyes squeeze shut, letting his lips explore your body. He can feel it. That you’re okay. That you want him. But he wants you to say it. 

“More?” 

“Please.” 

“I need you to say it, love.”

Ah, he’s always had such a thing for consent. And you have too. Knowing—saying out loud—how much one wants the other is delicious. 

You chuckle and say, “Ask me first.”

Feeling his smile against your chest, your jitters turn into butterflies. “Love,” he says, peppering your skin with kisses. “I want to…” he starts, skating his lips across your tummy. “God, there’s so much I wanna do to you.” 

Making his way down toward your hips, you can’t help but run your fingers through his hair. “Tell me.”

“I wanna make you feel so good,” he whispers. “Wanna give you one of the best orgasms you’ve ever had. I wanna taste your pussy. I wanna fuck you so slowly it makes you crazy.” Watching how he places the softest kisses everywhere, you’ll forever know how much he loves your body. “Is that okay?”

You hum, giving him the okay to move closer and closer to your pussy, he watches your every reaction. 

Flicking his tongue over your clit, you gasp. You feel it all—everything. His slippery tongue, the cotton bed sheets sticking to your damp back, the uncomfortable position your pillow is forcing you into, his fingernails digging into your thighs, the roughness of his five o’clock shadow against your thighs. Its—

“Stop,” you say, pushing yourself away from him, taking deep breaths. “Too much—sorry…”

“Never apologize, love.” While you’re calming yourself down, he asks, “What was it?”

“Your…um, your little stubble,” you say, chuckling. “Sorry, you look so cute, but…”

“It’s okay.” He smiles reassuringly. “I just won’t eat you out. You wanna use a toy?” Before you can even answer with your simple nod, he’s opening one of the bedside tables. “Which one?”

“Surprise me.” Smirking, he pulls out your favorite bullet vibrator— “Ah, that’s the one I was hoping you’d pick.” It’s a comforting one. You know exactly what to expect from it and there aren’t any surprises, which is just what you need right now.

“How did I know that? You wanna use it or do you want me to?”

“You.”

“Tell me if it's too much, okay?” He starts it off on its lowest setting, slowly easing it onto your clit. Waves of relaxation wash over you, giving you the chance to calm down. He can tell by your moans that you want— “More?” You nod, answering with a quick mhmm and he turns it up to your favorite speed, hitting just the right spot. 

“Oh, fuck, that’s good,” you say breathlessly. Placing gentle kisses on your ribs, he’s getting you used to the feeling of him again. “Can you—” It’s like he read your mind. His tongue finds your nipple, going around it so deliciously. 

You start squirming, ready for more. 

“Jjuni…” you whine, back arching while you claw at his chest. “Need you. Please?” He doesn’t have to ask what position. You have a favorite for these nights. Simple, but effective—a nice kneeling missionary. You’re in a comfy position, he can see his cock going in and out of your perfect pussy, and he can touch your whole body with easy access to your clit. 

“Breathe for me, okay?” How did he know you were holding your breath? You force yourself to relax, his warm hands soothing you even more. He places a butterfly-soft kiss to your lips. “You’re so beautiful, babe.” 

“So are you,” you smile, watching him rub gentle circles on one hip while he slowly pushes himself inside you. “Yeonjun—”

“Fuck, you feel so good, love,” he says. “I’m gonna start moving, okay?”

Nodding, you grab a fistful of sheets at how simply incredible he feels. But—

“Wait, wait.”

“Too much?” Changing his pace, it feels— “How’s this?”

“Oh,” your chest heaves. “That feels good, yeah. Sorry,” you say nervously.

Truthfully, he didn’t mind this at all. He likes taking his time with you. The only thing he doesn’t like is that you feel like you’re burdening him with all the breaks and pauses. But he’s told you so many times, “You’re absolutely perfect, love.” 

You sigh and say, “I love you.” That wasn’t the first time you’d said that, not even that evening, but saying it during sex always turned him to putty. 

“I love you too, baby. So much.” Reaching for your vibrator again, he presses it to your clit, sending shocks through your body. And it feels…so good. But just for a moment. 

“Ah,” you sit up, pushing him out. “I need to take a break.” He nods, giving you space to take a few sips of the water he’d gotten you earlier. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he smiles. “You wanna try being on top?”

“Nah, I like this position. If that’s okay?”

“Perfectly fine by me.” Spreading your legs again, he runs his hands over your waist, feeling you ground yourself again. “Ready?” 

Every step of the way, he’s so attentive to you and ensures you don’t get overwhelmed or more overstimulated than you already are. And he’s always been like this. Always. Even since the first time you slept together. Sleeping with someone you cared about for the first time was always overwhelming—so many things to think about—am I being too loud? Do I taste okay? Am I making them feel good? It was stressful. But he picked up on it immediately. 

He treated you perfectly. How you always wanted to be treated. He read you so well. 

Those questions inside your head turned into whispers from him—let me hear you, baby. God, you’re so fucking delicious. Fuck, you make me feel so good, love. 

“Jjuni, can you use my toy again?”

“Of course,” he smiles. “Feel good?” You nod again, edging close to your orgasm. As it builds, his whispers become more fervent. “You’re doing so good for me, love.” His voice is soothing, a constant reassurance that you’re in a safe and pleasurable space. Adding just the right amount of pressure to your clit with the perfect pace of his thrusts, your body finds itself in a whirlwind of pleasure and ecstasy as you reach your orgasm. 

The room fills with the subtle hum of the toy, the soft sounds of your moans, and his gentle breaths as he maintains his attentiveness. 

Coming down from your high, you catch your breath and say, “Please cum inside me. I wanna feel you. Please.” He nods, discarding the toy to the mattress, squeezing your tit, not only for himself, but he knows it comforts you. “Please.” 

His grunts get deeper, his thrusts get sloppier, and with a few final thrusts, he reaches his own climax, filling you with warmth and a deep feeling of connection between you. 

Placing a gentle kiss on your shoulder, he whispers, “You’re so perfect, you know that?”

“You are too.” 

“I’m always here for you, okay?”

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