note ʚɞ: a bitch took a long hiatus but she’s back. cheating isn’t ok but for riki…. i j might have to. in all seriousness never cheat but at the same time men don’t deserve shit so do or don’t idk. i love u riki i would cheat on any man for u.
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
—𝑶𝑹 𝑾𝑯𝑬𝑵 you walk into a tattoo shop drunk just to prove a point, and walk out with the best thing to ever happen to you. Except he’s hiding something. And between the secrets and your stalker classmate closing in, you get it twisted before you get it right.
playlist… hanging out to dry — florence road // vampire — dominic fike // addicted — lovelace // fallen star — the neighbourhood // real people — hozier // nothing’s gonna hurt you baby — cigarettes after sex
pepa speaks!! hii so this is my first time writing a fic and I’ve been working on this for like a longgg time and decided to post bc I’m a bit nervous LOL uhm so yeah there will be a part 2 btw and also my taglist is open! pls enjoy and I’d really appreciate likes and reblogs 🤭💐
The thing about a girls’ night with Ria was that it always ended somewhere it wasn’t supposed to. The club had been Hana’s idea. The fourth round of shots had been Soo’s.
The part where all four of you ended up on the pavement at eleven-forty-five, heels in hand, looking at a tattoo shop with a red light glowing in the window like it was personally inviting you in — that had been Ria. “We’re going in,” she said.
“We are not going in,” Soo said.
“It says open.” Ria pointed at the sign. Studio 13. Like that settled it.
“It’s almost midnight.”
“They put the sign out.”
“Ria—” But you were already looking at the door and thinking why not, which was the alcohol talking, and also you were cold and your feet hurt and the red light looked warm from out here on the pavement. “I want a piercing,” you said.
Ria grabbed your hand. “She wants a piercing.” Soo looked at the sky. Hana was already moving toward the door.
The club outfit had been Ria’s fault entirely. The top was small — that was the only word for it, small and black and doing everything a top could reasonably be asked to do. The skirt wasn’t much better. You’d spent the whole night at the club feeling like the main character, which was the intended effect, and the cold air outside had done nothing to make you feel less exposed.
You pushed the door open and the warmth hit you first. Then the smell — ink, clean soap, something faintly chemical underneath it. Black walls covered in flash art. Low red lighting that made the whole place feel like a deliberate secret. Something slow playing from speakers you couldn’t locate.
Two guys inside. One in the back with his head down over a drawing tablet. One at the front counter. The one at the front counter looked up.
He was tall even on the stool, long legs stretched out in front of him, forearms resting on the desk like he owned the surface and everything past it. Full sleeve on his left arm. Silver rings on most of his fingers. Dark hair pushed back slightly. One earring. The kind of face that got you in trouble if you looked at it for too long — sharp jaw, dark eyes, a mouth that was currently sitting in the very early stages of a smirk.
He took in all four of you in about two seconds. Then his eyes found you and the smirk finished forming. “We’re open,” he said. “Barely.”
Ria and Hana peeled off toward the flash wall immediately. Soo planted herself near the door with her arms folded. Which left you walking up to the front counter alone, bare legs, tiny skirt, heels clicking on the concrete floor.
You watched him watch you walk over. He didn’t pretend he wasn’t watching. Didn’t do the polite thing where you glance away and back. He just watched, easy and unhurried, the way someone looks at something they find genuinely worth looking at, and when you got to the counter and leaned on it his eyes moved — slowly, and with complete lack of apology — from your face down to your chest and back up again. Held eye contact like nothing had happened. You’d been looked at before. This was different. This was a man who had decided he wasn’t going to pretend. “Hi,” you said.
“Hi.” His voice was low. Even. The smirk hadn’t moved. “Can I help you?”
“I want a piercing.”
“Yeah?” He leaned back on the stool, arms folding across his chest, the sleeve shifting with the movement. His rings caught the red light. “What are you thinking?”
“Tragus.” You reached up and tapped the outer ridge of your ear, which meant your arm lifted and your top shifted and you watched his eyes drop again, briefly, before they came back to yours like he wasn’t the least bit embarrassed about it. “I’ve been putting it off. I’m in a decisive mood.”
“Decisive,” he said.
“Very.”
“I can see that.” He said it like it meant something else. Then: “How much have you had tonight?”
“Enough to be excellent company.”
He looked at you. Really looked — quiet and thorough, taking in your face, the flush across your chest, the way you were leaning on his counter in that top — and then his tongue pressed briefly against his cheek like he was trying not to smile properly. “Can’t pierce you with alcohol in your system, baby.”
Baby. Like he’d been calling you that for years. Like it was already established. “That’s a rule?” you said.
“That’s the rule.”
You leaned further onto the counter, closing some of the distance between you. His eyes went exactly where you expected them to go and stayed there for a beat longer than was professional before dragging back up. His expression didn’t change. He was completely comfortable with being caught, which was — honestly — impressive. “What if I promised to be very good?” you said.
“I’m sure you would be.” His voice was smooth, unhurried. “Still no.”
“What if—”
“You can come back tomorrow,” he said. “Sober. I’ll pierce your tragus.” A pause, his eyes dropping once more, quick and deliberate, before landing back on yours. “Or whatever else you want.”
The air between you did something. “That sounds like more than a professional offer,” you said.
“I’m a professional.” The smirk was fully settled now. “The offer’s professional. What you do with it is up to you.”
You held his gaze. He held yours back without any effort at all, completely at ease, like this was just how Tuesday night went for him. It was annoying. It was also working. “I don’t know where this place is sober,” you said.
He was already reaching under the counter. He slid a card across the desk with two fingers — didn’t look down to do it, kept his eyes on you the whole time. STUDIO 13. NISHIMURA RIKI. PIERCING.
You picked it up. “Your personal card,” you said.
“Goes straight to me.”
“Bold.”
“Efficient,” he said.
You looked at the card. Then at him. “I’m Y/N.” His eyes went down again — unhurried, completely unapologetic, a slow look that started at your face and made its way south before coming back up — and then he said, “Y/N,” like he was just trying the name out. Like he’d be using it again. “You gonna remember that?” you said.
“Yeah,” he said simply. “I’m going to remember that.”
The way he said it made it about more than your name. Behind you, Ria made a noise she covered poorly with a fake cough. You didn’t turn around. “Come back sober,” Riki said. “I’ll take care of you.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I’m going to do it.” He picked his phone back up, easy as anything, like the conversation was filed away now and he was done performing — except the smirk stayed. “Get home safe, Y/N.” Dismissed. Warmly, cockily, with complete confidence that you’d be back.
You picked up the card, slid it into your bag, and let Soo steer you to the door because your own legs had made a decision to co-operate with his energy and you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction.
Outside Ria grabbed your arm with both hands. “Y/N. The way he looked at you—”
“Ria.”
“He looked at your tits like—”
“Ria.” Hana was fanning herself. Even Soo was quiet, which was its own verdict. The Uber was three minutes away and you looked at your phone and felt your face doing something warm that you were crediting entirely to the alcohol.
Inside, Heeseung finally looked up from his drawing tablet. He’d watched the whole thing. Ten feet away. Nobody had noticed. He looked at Riki.
Riki had his phone in his hand but he was looking at the door — at the space where you’d just been standing in that top, leaning on his counter, letting him look — with an expression Heeseung couldn’t quite name. Something had landed and settled behind his eyes.
“Who was that?” Heeseung said.
Riki looked down at his phone. “Some hot girl.”
“Some hot girl,” Heeseung repeated.
“Wanted a tragus piercing.”
“Uh huh.” Heeseung looked at the counter. At the space where Riki’s personal card had been sitting ten minutes ago, now somewhere in your bag on the way home. “You give clients your personal card often?”
Riki said nothing. Heeseung looked back at his tablet. “Right,” he said quietly, and said nothing else.
Three weeks later you were standing outside Studio 13 again and this time you were completely, annoyingly sober. “I don’t know why I’m here,” you said.
“Because Riki said come back sober and you kept his card for three weeks,” Ria said, pushing the door open.
“I kept it by accident.”
“In your purse.”
“That’s where cards go.”
“You don’t keep any other cards in your purse, Y/N. I’ve seen your purse. It’s a graveyard of receipts and one lip liner.” You followed her inside because the alternative was standing on the pavement arguing with her and you’d already lost this argument six times on the way over.
Ria had a tattoo appointment. That was the reason you were here. You were just here for moral support. You were going to sit in a chair and look at your phone and not think about the guy who had looked at you like that and said I’ll take care of you with complete sincerity and a smirk that should have been annoying.
The door swung shut behind you. Same as before — black walls, flash art, red light, the slow dark playlist. A different energy in the daytime though, busier, more lived-in. Jay was at the side counter doing something with ink caps, talking loudly to no one in particular. Jake was sweeping near the back. Heeseung was visible through the half-open door of the back room, head down, working.
No one at the front desk. You relaxed slightly. Ria was already at the counter, checking in for her appointment, and you drifted toward the flash wall and started looking at the art because it was genuinely good and also because you needed something to do with your eyes.
You heard the door from the back open. Heard footsteps. Heard someone say, “Riki, someone’s here—” You turned around because you were a person with normal human reflexes and not because your body had already clocked the name.
Riki came through the back door with a pair of gloves half-on, looking down at the appointment book, and then he looked up.
He saw Ria first. Then his eyes moved — one smooth, unhurried slide — and found you standing by the flash wall in your jeans and your jacket looking like someone who was absolutely only here for moral support. “Hey,” he said.
“Hi,” you said. There was a pause that lasted slightly too long for two people who didn’t know each other.
“You came back,” he said.
“Ria has an appointment.”
“Right.” He looked at you. “And you’re just here for Ria.”
“Correct.”
“Nothing to do with the card.”
“I forgot I even had it.”
“Uh huh.” He pulled the second glove on, still looking at you, and the smirk had settled into something warmer now — less performance, more genuinely pleased. “How’s the tragus feeling? Still decisive?”
Ria made a sound from the counter that she turned into a cough. You didn’t look at her. “I’m considering my options,” you said.
“Good answer.” He turned to Ria, professional now, easy switch. “Ria, yeah? Heeseung’s got you, he’s just finishing up. Five minutes.”
“Perfect,” Ria said, and then immediately looked at you with an expression that meant she was storing everything and you would be debriefed extensively later.
Riki came around the counter. Didn’t go back to the desk — came and stood near the flash wall, close enough to talk, far enough to be plausibly looking at the art. “You look different,” he said.
“I’m sober.”
“That’s probably it.” His eyes did the thing — a brief, easy drop and return, taking in the jacket, the jeans, the way you were standing — and then he was looking at your face again like that was just how he operated. Open about it. Unbothered. “Still good though.”
“You’re very confident,” you said.
“I’m accurate,” he said. You looked at Riki. He looked back. This close you could see the bar through his tongue properly — silver, subtle when his mouth was closed, noticeable when he talked — and the ring in his ear and the way his rings shifted when he crossed his arms.
“So,” he said. “You actually want the piercing or did you come all the way here just to tell me you forgot my card existed?”
“I could still want the piercing.”
“You could.” He tilted his head slightly. “Do you?”
You held out for three more seconds. Then: “Yeah.”
His smile did the thing again — the slow, settled version, the one that looked like satisfaction and something warmer underneath it. “On the house,” he said.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” He was already moving back toward the piercing station, unhurried, like it was decided. “Come on.”
The piercing chair was in a partitioned section near the back — semi-private, its own mirror, a tray of tools laid out with the kind of precision that told you he took this seriously. He snapped a fresh pair of gloves on and gestured to the chair and you sat down and tried to look like you were not thinking about the last time you’d been in this general vicinity, considerably less sober, telling him he had criminally pretty eyes. You were thinking about it.
He adjusted the chair height without asking, tilted the light, and then stepped in close to look at your ear. His fingers were gentle when they touched the outer ridge — thumb pressing lightly to test the cartilage, professional and careful — and he was close enough that you could smell whatever he was wearing, something dark and clean. “Tragus is a good choice,” he said, still examining your ear. “Suits you.”
“You can tell that from my ear?”
“I can tell from your face.” He stepped back, reached for the marking pen. “You’ve got good bone structure. Something small here draws attention without being loud.” He met your eyes in the mirror. “You’re already loud enough.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
“It was one.” He marked the spot with the pen — quick, precise — and then held up a small mirror so you could check the placement. His hand was steady. Everything about him was steady, which was both reassuring and slightly irritating. “Good?” he said.
“Good.”
He put the mirror down. Reached for the needle. And then paused, looking at you in the main mirror with an expression that was more direct than the smirk — more level. “You nervous?” he said.
“No.”
“Your jaw is doing something.”
“My jaw is fine.”
“Y/N.”
“I’m a little nervous,” you said. “About the needle. Not about—” You stopped.
“Not about?” he said.
You looked at him in the mirror. He looked back. The smirk was quiet right now, just his face, just the question sitting there. “The needle,” you said. “I said what I said.”
He let it go. Looked back at your ear, positioned his hands. “Breathe in,” he said. You breathed in. “Out.”
You breathed out and he moved — quick and precise and over before you’d finished processing it. A sharp bite of pressure, brief, clean, and then his hands were already switching out the needle for the jewellery, smooth and practiced. “Done,” he said.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” He stepped back to let you see in the mirror. Small flat-back stud, exactly where the mark had been, sitting perfectly. “What do you think?”
You looked at it. Turned your head slightly. It was — actually exactly right, the placement, the size, the way it sat. “I think you’re good at your job,” you said.
“I know.” But he said it lightly, without the edge, and when you looked at him in the mirror he was looking at the piercing with something that read like quiet pride. Like he actually cared that it was right.
He peeled his gloves off. Started going through aftercare — saline spray, what to avoid, how long to leave it — and you listened and watched his hands and thought about how he’d looked at you when you walked in. That slow, settled smile. You came back. Like he’d known you would. “Any questions?” he said.
“No.”
“Good.” He handed you the small aftercare card. His fingers brushed yours when he passed it over and he didn’t move his hand immediately, just let the contact sit there for a second before stepping back. “You should come back in four weeks so I can check it.”
“Is that standard?”
“For you it is.”
You looked up at him. He was close still, leaning against the counter beside the chair, arms crossed, completely at ease with the proximity and what he was saying and the way he was looking at you. “That’s a very smooth way to make a follow-up appointment,” you said.
“I’m a smooth guy.”
“You’re a cocky guy.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.” He smiled properly. “Four weeks, Y/N. I’ll be here.” From the main floor, very clearly, you heard Jay say to Jake in a voice that carried: “Twenty says she’s back in two.”
Heeseung appeared in the doorway of his room as you were walking back out to wait for Ria. He looked at you. Then at Riki, who was cleaning up the station behind you. He said nothing.
When you were out of earshot, he leaned in the doorway and looked at Riki with a level expression. Riki didn’t look up. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
Heeseung was quiet for a moment. “She coming back?”
Riki stacked the packaged jewellery back in the tray. “Four weeks.”
Heeseung looked at the ceiling. Looked back down. “Right,” he said, and went back into his room.
Riki looked up once — just once — at where you’d gone back to sit with Ria, talking and laughing, your hand coming up to touch the new piercing gently like you were checking it was real. He looked back down at the tray. Picked up his phone. Set it down again. Four weeks was a long time.
You were back in two weeks. You told yourself you had a legitimate reason. The piercing felt slightly tender on one side and the aftercare card said to come back if anything felt off and this was a medical concern, essentially, and had nothing to do with anything else. Ria, when you told her this, said “uh huh” in the exact same tone Riki had used and you’d hung up on her.
You pushed the door to Studio 13 open at four on a Thursday afternoon.
Jay was at the front counter this time. He looked up, recognized you, and his whole face did something delighted. “Y/N,” he said, like you were a returning champion.
“Hey.” You unwound your scarf. “Is Riki—”
“In the back.” Jay was already leaning back in his chair, tilting toward the hallway. “Riki.”
“I could have just—”
“RIKI. Your girl’s here.”
From the back, a pause. Then footsteps. Riki appeared in the doorway with a black coffee in one hand and his phone in the other and when he saw you something moved across his face — quick, controlled — before it settled into the usual. “Two weeks,” he said.
“I know.”
“I said four.”
“The piercing felt off.”
He looked at you. You looked back. He took a slow sip of his coffee. “Come here,” he said. Back in the piercing section again. The chair, the mirror, the tray. He set his coffee down on the counter and snapped gloves on and tilted your chin to the side with two fingers, turning your head so the light hit the piercing properly.
He was quiet while he looked. Close, the way he’d been last time, close enough that you were aware of exactly how tall he was and exactly how little space existed between you. “Looks fine,” he said.
“It felt tender.”
“New cartilage piercing. It’s going to feel tender.” He turned your head a fraction more, examining the entry and exit points. “You sleeping on it?”
“Sometimes.”
“Don’t.” His thumb pressed gently just below the piercing, checking the tissue. “You’re not rotating it, are you?”
“The card said not to.”
“People do it anyway.”
“I follow instructions.” He made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. His fingers were still at your jaw, light but there, and in the mirror you could see him looking at the piercing with that focused, careful expression he got when he was working — like the rest of him went quiet and it was just this, just the task, just making sure it was right.
“It’s fine,” he said again, quieter this time. “A little irritated but nothing bad. You’re cleaning it?”
“Twice a day.”
“Good girl.” He said it the same way he said everything — even, unbothered — and went right back to examining the piercing like he hadn’t just said it, like it was nothing, like your entire nervous system hadn’t just done something embarrassing.
He stepped back. Pulled one glove off. In the mirror you watched him look at you — your face this time, not the piercing — and the focused work expression shifted back into something more personal. His eyes moved down briefly, back up. Unhurried. Unapologetic. “You didn’t just come for the piercing check,” he said.
It wasn’t a question. “I was in the area,” you said.
“Y/N.”
“I was.”
“Okay.” He pulled the second glove off, dropped them both in the bin. Leaned against the counter beside the chair with his arms crossed, looking at you with that steady, patient expression. Like he had all the time in the world and was fully prepared to wait you out.
The rings on his fingers caught the light. The bar through his tongue was visible when he spoke and sometimes when he didn’t, a small flash of silver that your eyes kept going back to without your permission. “Can I ask you something?” you said.
“Go ahead.”
You nodded toward his mouth. “Does it affect anything? The tongue piercing.”
The corner of his mouth pulled up. He knew exactly what you were asking and you both knew you both knew it. “Depends what you mean by anything,” he said.
“Talking,” you said. “Eating.”
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t affect talking or eating.”
The way he said it made the implication sit in the room like a third person. “And what about—” you started.
“Yes,” he said simply. You looked at him. He looked back at you, completely relaxed, the smirk at about thirty percent, like he was letting you sit in the answer rather than pushing it.
“That was going to be a different question…” you said.
“Was it?” It wasn’t.
You looked away first, which you were counting as a tactical retreat rather than losing, and he made that almost-laugh sound again and pushed off the counter. “Come out front,” he said. “I’ll get you the saline to take home.”
Jay was now pretending to organize a drawer he had clearly already organized when you came back out. Jake had appeared from somewhere and was leaning on the wall near the door with his phone out. The effort to look casual was extraordinary.
Riki went behind the counter, got the saline, slid it across to you.“Stop sleeping on it,” he said.
“I’ll try.”
“Don’t try. Just don’t do it.”
“You’re bossy,” you said.
“I’m thorough.” He leaned on the counter. His forearms were right there, the sleeve on full display this close — you’d been trying not to look at it properly but it was a lot of work. Intricate blackwork, something that looked botanical near his wrist, darker geometry climbing toward his elbow. “Like the sleeve?” he said.
You looked up. He’d caught you. “It’s good work,” you said.
“Heeseung did most of it.”
“Heeseung tattooed you?”
“First one when I started here.” Something shifted slightly in his face — not closed off, just more considered. “Kind of a thing between us.”
You wanted to ask what kind of thing. Something in how he’d said it made you not push. “You do your own piercings?” you said instead.
He tilted his head so you could see the earring. “This one.”
“Doesn’t that hurt more when it’s yourself?”
“Yeah.”
“And you did it anyway.”
“I do most things anyway,” he said. He said it lightly but there was something under it, something matter-of-fact about pain being a variable he’d simply accounted for. You looked at him for a second longer than you meant to. “Four weeks,” he said, quieter now, just to you. “Come back in four weeks and I’ll check it properly. And if you’re in the area before that—” he held your gaze — “you know where we are.”
“Very smooth,” you said.
“You keep saying that.”
“You keep proving it.” He smiled. The real one — not the smirk, not the performance, the actual smile that did something to his whole face. You’d only seen it once before, the night you came in drunk when he laughed at something Ria said, and it was worse up close and sober.
You picked up the saline. Shouldered your bag. “Thanks for checking it,” you said.
“Anytime.”
You were halfway to the door when Jay said, loudly, to no one: “Two weeks. Called it.”
“Jay,” Riki said, flat.
“I’m just saying—”
“Jay.” You pushed the door open and let it close on whatever Jay said next. On the pavement you breathed in cold air and stood there for a second. I do most things anyway. You thought about that the whole way home.
You texted Ria that night.
you: the piercing was fine btw. just irritated.
Ria: sure
you: it was a legitimate medical concern
Ria: how did he look
you: that’s not relevant
Ria: how did he LOOK
You stared at your phone. Put it face down. Picked it up again.
you: good. he looked good. go to sleep.
Ria: 😭😭😭 Y/N YOU ARE SO DOWN BAD
You put your phone on the charger and lay on your back in the dark and stared at the ceiling. The bar through his tongue caught the light when he talked. Yes, he’d said. Like it was nothing. Like he said it every day. You put a pillow over your face.
Across the city, Studio 13 was closing up. Heeseung was cashing out. Jake was wiping down surfaces. Jay was retelling the afternoon to Sunghoon, who had come in for his evening shift and was listening with the specific expression of someone enjoying information they could use later.
Riki was at the piercing station. Cleaning the tray. Doing the same task he’d done a hundred times. “She came back in two weeks,” Jay said.
“I heard,” Sunghoon said.
“I called it.”
“You did call it.”
“Riki,” Jay said. “You owe me twenty.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” Riki said. “We didn’t make a bet.”
“Spiritually we did.” Riki said nothing. Put the tray away.
“She’s coming back in four weeks,” Jay told Sunghoon.
“Or two,” Sunghoon said.
“Or two,” Jay agreed.
“Both of you,” Riki said, without heat, “can shut up.”
They did not shut up. He let them talk and went back to the tray and thought about the way you’d looked at his mouth when you asked about the piercing. The way your eyes had gone somewhere specific and come back and you’d tried to cover it with a different question.
He’d watched the answer land. Had watched you process it and look away and call it a tactical retreat when it wasn’t. He was good at reading people. He’d had to be, for a long time, for reasons that had nothing to do with tattoo shops or piercing chairs.
You were going to come back before four weeks. He put the tray away and picked up his coffee and didn’t say any of that out loud.
You were back in ten days. You didn’t have a reason this time. You’d run out of reasons. You showed up at three on a Wednesday with two coffees and the vague awareness that something had shifted from I’m in the area to something you didn’t have a word for yet. Jay opened the door before you reached it. “She’s got coffee,” he announced into the shop.
“Jay—”
“Is one of those for me?” He was already holding the door open, looking at the cups in your hand with genuine hope.
“No.”
“Y/N.”
“I brought two.”
“There are multiple people here who drink coffee.”
“There are two coffees,” you said. “Do the math.”
Jay looked wounded. You walked past him into the shop and he let the door close and called after you: “I’m telling Riki you were mean to me.”
“Please do.” Riki was at the front counter. Actually at the counter this time, not coming through from the back, sitting on the stool with his forearms on the desk and his phone in his hand. He looked up when you came in and his eyes went straight to the cups. Then to your face. Then he smiled — not the smirk, not the performance, just a real and immediate thing that he didn’t seem to think about first. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” You put one of the coffees on the counter in front of him. “I didn’t know how you take it.”
He looked at the cup. Looked at you. “Black is fine,” he said.
“Lucky guess.”
“Is it?” He picked it up. His fingers overlapped yours on the cup for a second before you let go — brief, probably accidental, neither of you addressed it. He took a sip. Put it down. “Ten days.”
“I know.”
“Getting closer to two weeks, not further.”
“I’ve been busy,” you said. “This was the first chance I had to—”
“Y/N.”
“What?”
“You don’t need a reason,” he said simply. You looked at him. He looked back, completely even, like he’d just said something neutral about the weather. “Sit down.”
That was how it started. Not with anything dramatic. Just you sitting on the other side of the counter on a Wednesday afternoon with a coffee while Riki worked through his admin, and the conversation that happened around it — easy and unhurried, drifting from one thing to another, the kind of talk that didn’t feel like it was going anywhere because it didn’t need to.
You learned things without asking for them. That he’d been at Studio 13 for two years. That he and Jay had met here. That he had opinions about piercing placement that were borderline philosophical and he’d share them unprompted if you let him.
He learned things back. That you were in your final year. That Ria had been your best friend since you were sixteen. That you had three other piercings already and had done two of them yourself, which made him look up from his phone with an expression that was equal parts impressed and horrified. “You did your own helix,” he said.
“With a kit.”
“A kit.”
“People do it.”
“People also do a lot of things I have to fix,” he said, and leaned across the counter to look at your ear without asking. His fingers found the helix piercing, examining it with the same careful focus he brought to everything, and you sat very still. “It’s crooked,” he said.
“I know.”
“I can fix it.”
“I know.”
He was still looking at your ear, close, his thumb light against the cartilage. “Why haven’t you?”
“I kept meaning to.” You paused. “And then I found Studio 13 and I figured I’d—”
You stopped. He pulled back just enough to look at your face. His expression said he’d heard the end of the sentence even though you hadn’t said it. “Figured you’d what?” he said.
“Come here eventually,” you said. “For things.”
The smirk appeared. “For things.”
“Piercings.”
“Right.” He stepped back, let you breathe, picked his coffee back up. “I’ll fix it whenever you want.”
“Add it to my tab.”
“You don’t have a tab. Everything I do to you is on the house.” He said it completely straight and then looked at his phone, leaving you to sit in the everything I do to you by yourself.
Jay appeared from the back at that exact moment, looked at you both, looked at the counter between you, and went directly back the way he came without saying anything, which was somehow more powerful than if he had.
Hana came with you the following Wednesday. She had been angling to see the shop since Ria had described it in approximately four hundred texts and the second she walked in she stopped in the middle of the floor and looked around with wide eyes. “Oh,” she said. “Oh this place is cool.”
Jake, who was at the side counter, looked up. Hana looked at Jake. Jake looked at Hana. You filed that away.
Riki was with a client in the piercing section — you could see him through the partition, gloved up, talking the client through something in that low steady voice. You hadn’t told him you were coming. You weren’t sure why, except that you’d wanted to know what it felt like to walk in and see him before he saw you. It felt like something, as it turned out.
He was focused on his client, head tilted, hands precise. He’d pushed his sleeves up and the full length of the tattoo was visible now — blackwork that climbed from his wrist to somewhere past his elbow, detailed and dark. He was saying something that made the client laugh. Patient and calm and completely in his element.
You stood there and looked at him for maybe four seconds too long.
“Y/N,” Hana said quietly beside you.
“What.”
“You’ve got a face on.”
“I don’t have a face.”
“You’ve got a very specific face.” She looked at Riki. Looked at you. “Oh you are done.”
“I’m looking at the flash art,” you said, and turned to look at the flash art.
Jay materialized at your shoulder. “She does this every time,” he told Hana, like you weren’t standing right there. “Comes in, looks at him, then looks at the wall.”
“I can hear you,” you said.
“I know.” Jay smiled. “Coffee?”
Riki’s client left at half past three. He came through from the partition still pulling his gloves off and stopped when he saw you and Hana at the counter with Jay. The gloves came off slower. “You didn’t text,” he said to you.
“Spontaneous visit.”
“Hm.” He dropped the gloves, came around to the main counter. His eyes moved to Hana briefly, assessing, friendly. “Friend?”
“Hana,” you said. “She wanted to see the shop.”
“Welcome.” He said it to Hana and then his attention came back to you in that way it always did — like you were the fixed point and everything else was peripheral. “How’s the piercing?”
“Fine. Good.”
“You sleeping on it?”
“Mostly not.”
“Y/N.”
“Mostly not. I’m a side sleeper, it’s a process.”
He leaned on the counter. His coffee was cold by now but he picked it up anyway. “I’ll fix the helix today if you want. While you’re here.”
“Yeah?”
“Chair’s free.” Hana’s elbow found your ribs with surgical precision. You ignored it.
“Okay,” you said.
The helix took ten minutes. Precise, careful, the same focused quiet he brought every time. Afterwards he checked the tragus — habit, he said, like that was a normal thing, like of course he was checking it — and you sat in the chair and let him and looked at his face in the mirror while he was looking at your ear.
Up close like this you could see things you couldn’t from the other side of a counter. The small scar through his left eyebrow, barely visible. The way his jaw set when he was concentrating. The rings on his fingers — he took them off for client work and put them back on after, and watching him slide them back on was a thing you were apparently noticing now.
He caught you in the mirror. Didn’t call you out. Just held your gaze for a second and then looked back at the piercing, and the corner of his mouth moved slightly. “Good,” he said. “Helix looks better. You’ll need to re-do the aftercare cycle.”
“I know.”
“You actually know or you’re saying you know?”
“Riki.”
“I’ll write it down.”
“I literally work a piercing counter in my memory called things Riki has told me,” you said.
He went still for a half second. Then: “Yeah?”
“You’re very thorough,” you said. “It sticks.”
He looked at you in the mirror. Steady, quiet, something behind his eyes that was more than the usual easy confidence — something that had weight to it. “Good,” he said, quieter.
He stepped back. Started cleaning up. Normal, routine, the way he always moved through the shop like everything was exactly where it was supposed to be. “Same time next week?” he said. It wasn’t really a question.
“Sure,” you said.
In the main shop, Hana was sitting on the counter watching Jake explain the difference between traditional and neo-traditional tattooing with the energy of someone who had found religion. Jay was watching this with profound satisfaction. When you came back out Hana looked at you and then at Riki behind you and then at you again. “We should go,” you said.
“Should we,” Hana said.
“Yes.”
“Jake was just explaining—”
“Hana.” She got up, reluctantly, and said goodbye to Jake in a way that suggested she was also going to be back before four weeks. Jake watched her go with an expression that Riki clocked and then looked away from like he hadn’t seen it.
At the door you turned back. Riki was at the counter, already on his phone, or pretending to be. “Thanks for the helix,” you said.
“Anytime.” He didn’t look up. “Wednesday?”
“Wednesday,” you said. Jay made a noise. Riki didn’t look at him. You pushed the door open and the cold air hit you and behind you you heard Jay say, quiet and satisfied to no one in particular: “Regular.”
The Wednesday visits became a thing. Not every week, sometimes every ten days, but consistent enough that Jay started having your coffee order ready. Consistent enough that Jake stopped looking surprised when you walked in. Consistent enough that Heeseung, who said little and noticed everything, started nodding at you when you arrived like you’d passed some quiet assessment he’d been running.
Riki never texted first. You did sometimes — nothing significant, a meme about piercings, a question about aftercare that you probably knew the answer to. He always replied. Never with much. But always.
The counter between you was becoming a problem. Not the physical one — the metaphorical one. The distance that was exactly the right size for this isn’t anything yet and felt increasingly inadequate for what was actually happening in the space between you every Wednesday afternoon. He looked at you like you were a decision he’d already made. You were starting to think you had too.
Daniel texted on a Thursday.
Daniel: hey, haven’t seen you around much. you ok?
You stared at it. You and Daniel had two seminars together and a loose group chat and approximately nothing else, and this was the third text this week.
you: yeah all good, just busy
Daniel: we should get coffee sometime
you: I’m pretty slammed rn, sorry
You thought nothing of it. You mentioned it to Riki the following Wednesday — offhand, in the middle of a conversation about something else, not thinking. “This guy in my seminar keeps texting,” you said. “It’s starting to get annoying.”
Riki was writing something on the appointment book. His pen slowed.“What guy?” he said.
“Daniel. We’re in the same module. He keeps asking for coffee.” Riki’s pen stopped. You looked up. His face was the same — neutral, easy — but something had shifted underneath it. Something had gone very still in the specific way of a thing that was actively being held still.
“You said no?” he said.
“Obviously. I’m not interested.”
A pause. He looked back at the appointment book. Wrote something. “Good,” he said.
Just that. Good. You looked at him for a second. “Riki.”
“Hm.”
“Are you—”
“Helix check,” he said, and stood up from the stool. You let him redirect you. Sat in the chair. Let him check the helix he’d fixed two weeks ago and didn’t need to check again. His hands were as steady as they always were. His voice was as even.
But when you looked at him in the mirror his jaw was set in a way it wasn’t usually and his eyes, when they met yours in the reflection, had something in them that was more than the usual warm certainty. Something that looked a lot like mine with nowhere to go yet. You looked away first. Neither of you said anything about it.
Daniel was waiting outside your seminar on Tuesday. Not accidentally. He was leaning on the wall opposite the door with his phone out, and when you came through he pushed off and fell into step beside you like it was coordinated, like he’d timed it. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” You kept walking.
“Good seminar?”
“It was fine.”
“I thought Professor Kim made a good point about the—”
“Daniel.” You stopped. Turned to face him. He was decent looking, objectively — tall, friendly face, the kind of guy who probably did well in situations where persistence read as flattering. “What’s going on?”
He smiled. Easy, practiced. “I was thinking we could grab that coffee.”
“I said I was slammed.”
“You’re not slammed right now.”
“I have somewhere to be.”
“Where?”
You looked at him. “That’s not really—”
“I’ll walk you,” he said. Like that was a reasonable response. Like the answer to I have somewhere to be was I’ll come.
“Daniel.” You kept your voice even. “I appreciate it but I’m not interested. Okay? Not trying to be harsh, just being clear.”
Something moved across his face — not anger, more like recalibration, like he was filing this away as a temporary obstacle. “Maybe just as friends,” he said.
“I’m good. Thanks though.” You walked away. Heard him say something behind you — see you Thursday — and didn’t respond. You texted Ria about it on the bus.
you: the Daniel thing is getting annoying
Ria: what happened?
you: he waited outside my seminar
Ria: ew
you: I told him straight I’m not interested
Ria: good. are you telling riki?
You stared at that.
you: why would I tell riki??
Ria: because you tell riki everything now??
you: I do not tell riki everything
Ria: you told him about your mum’s cat
you: that came up naturally and I’m not telling him, it’s not a big deal
You put your phone in your bag. You didn’t tell him.
Wednesday came and you sat at the counter with your coffee and talked about other things — Hana and Jake’s ongoing situation, which was developing at a glacial pace that was driving Ria insane. A new flash piece Heeseung had drawn that you’d been looking at for twenty minutes when you came in. Whether you should get a second tragus on the other ear. “Yes,” Riki said, without hesitation.
“That’s a very immediate answer.”
“It’s an obvious answer.” He looked at your ears, both sides, that assessing look. “Symmetrical double tragus. Come in next week.”
“Maybe I want to think about it.”
“You don’t need to think about it.”
“Riki.”
“You came in drunk wanting a tragus piercing,” he said. “You knew then. You know now.”
You looked at him. He looked back with the patience of someone who was completely certain and was willing to wait for you to catch up. “Fine,” you said.
He smiled. “Next week,” he said.
The following Tuesday Daniel was outside your seminar again. This time you saw him before he saw you and you changed direction, took the long way to the exit, added seven minutes to your walk. Small, manageable.
On Thursday he was in the coffee queue behind you. “Coincidence,” he said, and smiled at you, and you smiled back tightly and paid for your coffee and left.
On Friday he messaged. Again.
Daniel: hey saw you in the queue yesterday, why’d you leave so fast?
You didn’t reply. And he messaged again on Saturday.
Daniel: did I do something wrong?
You showed it to Ria over the phone that night. She was quiet for a second. “He’s not taking the hint,” she said.
“I didn’t hint. I said directly I wasn’t interested.”
“Then he’s not taking the direct statement.”
“Yeah.”
Another pause. “Tell Riki.”
“Ria—”
“Y/N I’m serious, tell—”
“It’s fine. I can handle it.”
“I know you can handle it, that’s not the—” She stopped. “Just tell him. You know you want to.” You didn’t answer that.
Wednesday came around, you’d been at the counter for forty minutes. Jay had come and gone twice. Jake had shown Hana something on his phone that made her laugh and Riki had looked at that for approximately one second before very deliberately looking elsewhere.
You were mid-sentence about something — your dissertation, probably, you’d been complaining about your dissertation — when the door opened.
Sunghoon came in from his afternoon off, still in his jacket, unwinding his scarf. He was unfairly attractive and moved through the shop like he knew it, dropping his bag behind the counter and immediately coming over to where you were sitting. “Y/N.” He leaned on the counter beside Riki’s stool, friendly, easy. “How’s the tragus?”
“Good.” You touched it briefly. “Riki’s doing the other side next week.”
“Nice. You should let me draw something for you. Little custom piece, just here—” he touched his own collarbone— “would suit you.”
“Yeah?”
“Hundred percent.” He looked at Riki. “Right?” Riki was looking at his phone. “Riki,” Sunghoon said.
“Hm.” He didn’t look up. Sunghoon looked at you with a small what’s his problem expression. You looked back with a I genuinely don’t know expression.
You talked to Sunghoon for twenty more minutes. He was easy to talk to — funny, straightforward, the kind of person who filled a room without trying. He showed you his portfolio on his phone, talked you through a couple of pieces, asked about your university course with actual interest.
Riki stayed on his stool. He wasn’t on his phone. You could tell because you kept looking over and the screen was dark. He was just sitting there in the specific stillness of something being actively held in place, forearms on the desk, jaw set. When Sunghoon went to the back to change into his work clothes you turned to Riki. “What’s wrong with you?” you said.
“Nothing.”
“You’ve said four words in the last twenty minutes.”
“I’ve been busy.”
You looked at the dark phone screen. Looked at him. “Riki.”
“I’m fine.” He finally looked at you. His face was even, controlled, the expression he wore when he was putting effort into the expression. “You want more coffee?”
“No.” You kept your voice low. Jay and Jake were across the room but still. “Talk to me.”
Something moved behind his eyes. For a second you thought he was going to — actually going to, drop whatever this was and say it. His jaw shifted. His eyes moved over your face and then away. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Forget it.”
You looked at him for a long moment. He looked at the counter. You picked up your bag. “I’m going to head,” you said.
He looked up then. Quick, like he hadn’t expected it. “You don’t have to—”
“I have stuff to do.” You stood up. Your voice was even, you’d made sure of it. “I’ll see you next week for the tragus.”
“Y/N—”
“Bye, Riki.” You said goodbye to Jay on the way out. Waved at Jake. Pushed the door open into the cold.
Behind you, through the glass, you heard Jay say something. Heard Riki’s voice, short and clipped. Didn’t hear the words. You walked to the bus stop and stared at the road and felt something hot and frustrated sitting in your chest that you didn’t have a clean name for.
He texted at nine that night.
Riki: I’m sorry about today
You stared at it.
Riki: I get like that sometimes. I don’t like it.
Another one, a minute later.
Riki: It wasn’t about Sunghoon. It wasn’t about you.
Riki: ok it was about Sunghoon.
You sat on your bed with your phone in your hand and read that three times.
you: do you want to tell me what “getting like that” means??
A pause. Longer than his usual response time.
Riki: Not over text. Wednesday?
you: yeah
you: Riki, Sunghoon was just being friendly
Riki: I know. I know that. It doesn’t always
The message cut off. Like he’d deleted the end of it and sent what was left.
Riki: Wednesday. I’ll explain.
Riki: night Y/N
You got there at three. Jay handed you your coffee without being asked and then found somewhere else to be, which meant Riki had said something to him beforehand, which meant he’d been thinking about this. Riki was at the counter. He looked up when you came in and the usual ease wasn’t fully there — not gone, just quieter, like he’d dialed something back. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” You sat down. Wrapped both hands around the coffee. “So.”
“So.” He exhaled. Looked at the counter for a second, then at you. “I get possessive.” He said it straight. No build up, no softening — just put it on the counter between you like something he’d decided you should see.
“Okay,” you said.
“I don’t like it,” he said. “It’s not — I’m not trying to make it your problem. I know Sunghoon wasn’t doing anything. I know you weren’t doing anything. It just—” He stopped. His jaw shifted. “It sits wrong. Someone else in your space. Being the thing making you laugh.”
You looked at him. His eyes were on the counter, which was unusual — Riki who held eye contact through everything. “Has it always been like that?” you said.
“Yeah.” Simple. “Better than it used to be.”
“What was it like before?”
He looked up. “Worse.” A pause. “I dealt with it badly. I’m not—” He stopped again. “I’m not like that anymore. I don’t act on it. But I feel it and sometimes it makes me go quiet and disappear into my own head and that’s not fair to you.”
You sat with that. “Why are you telling me this?” you said.
He held your gaze. “Because you asked.”
“People don’t always answer when you ask.”
“I know.” Something in his face. “You should know what you’re—” He stopped himself again, and you heard the end of that sentence clearly even without the words. What you’re getting into. What I am.
“Riki,” you said. “If Sunghoon had been doing something—” You held his eyes. “Or anyone. I’d handle it. That’s not— I’m not someone who needs protecting from other people’s attention.”
“I know that.”
“But I’m also not—” You paused. Chose the words. “I’m not interested in other people’s attention. Okay? That’s just—” You shrugged. “That’s just where I’m at.”
The silence that followed had weight to it. Riki looked at you. Really looked — the way he did sometimes, like he was reading something underneath the surface of what you’d said, like he was checking if you meant it.You meant it. “Okay,” he said quietly.
“Okay,” you said.
He exhaled. Something in his shoulders dropped slightly — barely visible, but there. “Tragus,” he said.
“Tragus,” you agreed. He stood up from the stool. And as he passed behind the counter his hand came down briefly on yours where it rested on the surface — just for a second, just his fingers over your knuckles, warm and solid — and then he was moving through to the piercing section and the moment was gone.
You sat there for a second. Then you followed him. Across the room Jay looked at Heeseung in the doorway of his office. Heeseung looked back. Neither of them said anything.
It happened on a Friday. Not a Wednesday. Not planned. You’d come in with Hana at five because she’d finally committed to a small piece on her ankle and wanted moral support, and by the time Jake was finishing up the linework the shop had emptied out — Sunghoon’s last client gone, Jay heading out with his jacket half on, Heeseung locking his office with his keys already in his hand. “You good to close?” Heeseung said to Riki.
“Yeah.” Riki was wiping down the front counter. “Go.” Heeseung looked at you. Brief, unreadable. Looked back at Riki. Said nothing and left. Jay pointed finger guns at you on his way out. You ignored him.
Jake finished Hana’s piece at half past six. She sat up and looked at it in the mirror with the expression of someone who had just made a very good decision, and then she looked at you and at Riki and made a different kind of decision entirely. “I’ll get a cab,” she said.
“I’ll come,” you said.
“You don’t have to.” Serene. Innocent. Absolutely deliberate. “I’m fine on my own.”
“Hana—”
“I’ll text you when I’m home.” She hugged you, said goodbye to Jake, said goodbye to Riki with a smile that communicated volumes, and then she was gone and Jake was heading out behind her and the door swung shut and the shop was quiet.
Just you and Riki. He was at the front counter. You were near the piercing section. The red light was low and the playlist had shifted to something slower, something with bass underneath it, and the flash art on the walls looked different when there was no one else here — more intimate, like the shop had exhaled. “You can head,” Riki said. He wasn’t looking at you. Wiping the counter, routine.
“I know,” you said.
You didn’t move. He stopped wiping. The silence lasted four seconds. You counted. Then he looked up. The expression on his face wasn’t the smirk. Wasn’t the work focus. It was something stripped back — something that had been running underneath everything for weeks and was apparently done waiting. “Y/N,” he said. Low.
“Yeah,” you said. Like you were answering a question he hadn’t asked yet.
He put the cloth down. He came around the counter and crossed the floor and he didn’t stop until he was right in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up slightly, and his hand came up to your jaw — not grabbing, just his fingers along the side of your face, tilting you toward him — and he looked at you for one more second like he was making absolutely sure.
Whatever he saw made his mind up. He kissed you and it was nothing like the slow build you’d been expecting — it was immediate, certain, his mouth on yours like he’d been thinking about it for weeks because he had been, and you got your hands into his shirt and kissed him back and the sound he made low in his throat did something catastrophic to your ability to think.
His hands moved — jaw, then your waist, pulling you in until there was no space left between you — and you felt the rings on his fingers through the fabric of your top and his body was solid and warm and there, fully there, nothing held back.
You bit his lower lip without planning to. He pulled back half an inch. His eyes were dark, his breathing had changed, and he looked at you with an expression that rearranged something in your chest. “Do that again,” he said quietly, “and we’re not stopping.”
“Good,” you said. And you did it again. He walked you back until your shoulders hit the wall beside the piercing partition — not rough, controlled, one hand flat against the wall beside your head and the other at your waist, and he kissed you deeper this time, slower, like he had you exactly where he wanted and wasn’t in any rush now that he did.
His tongue — god, his tongue, the bar was there and present and you felt it and made a sound into his mouth that you would have been embarrassed about if his hand hadn’t tightened on your waist the second you did it. “There it is,” he said against your mouth.
“Shut up,” you breathed.
“You’ve been thinking about it.” Not a question. His lips moved to your jaw, your neck, unhurried. “Since I told you.”
“Riki—”
“Yes,” he said, quoting you back to yourself, and you felt him smile against your throat.
“You’re so—”
“I know.” He pulled back to look at you. His hair was slightly wrecked, his eyes were very dark, and he looked at you with the kind of focus he usually reserved for his work — total, precise, like you were something he intended to get exactly right. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you to stop talking,” you said.
“No you don’t.” He was right. You didn’t.
“I want—” You stopped. His thumb had found the hem of your top, tracing the skin at your waist, barely moving, just there. Your brain was doing something unhelpful. “I want you to keep going.”
“Keep going,” he repeated. Like he was logging it. “That’s not very specific.”
“Riki.”
“I want to hear you say it.” His voice had dropped, lower than usual, and there was something in it — not a demand exactly, more like an invitation with weight behind it, like he already knew and wanted you to catch up. “Tell me.”
You looked at him. He looked back, steady, patient, his thumb still tracing that small arc at your waist.
“I’ve wanted you for weeks,” you said. “You know that.”
“I know.” He leaned in, his mouth at your ear. “I wanted to hear you say it.” His hands moved — both of them, finding the hem of your top, sliding underneath to your bare waist, warm palms spreading across your skin — and you exhaled shakily and his mouth came back to yours and the patience dissolved.
Somewhere on the walk from the counter to the wall you got his shirt off and you put your hands on his chest and then his stomach and then lower and found the waistband of his jeans and his breath caught — actually caught, an involuntary thing, the first crack in the steady control — and you looked up at him.
His jaw was tight. His eyes were dark and fixed on your face. “Keep going,” he said. His own words back. Low and rough. You undid his jeans. Your hand found him and he was — there was a Jacob’s ladder — you stopped. He watched your face process it.
“Riki,” you said.
“Yeah.” His voice was rough now, the evenness wearing thin at the edges.
“When were you going to—”
“When it came up.”
“It’s come up.”
“It has,” he agreed, and something in his expression was almost amused except he was too far gone for amused, too focused, his hands gripping your waist with more pressure than before. “Still want to keep going?”
You looked at him. “Are you serious right now.”
He laughed — real, brief, surprised out of him — and then his forehead dropped to yours and you felt him exhale and then his mouth was on yours again and the laughing was done. Your jacket off your shoulders and it hit the floor and his mouth was on your throat before it landed — open, hot, his tongue against your pulse point and the piercing bar cool against your skin and you made a sound that echoed off the black walls. “Riki—”
“I know.” His hands were at the hem of your top, shoving it up, impatient in a way that cracked the usual control wide open. “Off.”
You got it off and his hands were on your tits and his mouth came back to yours.
He walked you back into the wall beside the piercing partition — not slow, not careful, just direct — and pinned you there with his body and his hands were everywhere and yours were too and it was nothing like the slow careful thing you’d half imagined. It was desperate. Both of you. Weeks of it.
“You have no idea,” he said against your jaw, your throat, lower, his mouth on your collarbone, “how long I’ve—” He stopped. His teeth grazed your skin. “Fuck.”
“Tell me,” you breathed.
“Since you walked in here in that dress,” he said into your skin. “Since you leaned on my counter and looked at me like that. I’ve been—” His hands found your jeans, the button, the zip. “Since then.” He shoved your jeans down your hips and you kicked them off and his hand pushed between your thighs and found your pussy through the thin fabric still there and pressed and your hips rolled forward hard.
“There,” he said. Low, rough, satisfied. “There you are.” His fingers moved — slow, deliberate, feeling the heat of you through the fabric — and he looked at your face while he did it. Watching. Taking everything. “Soaked already,” he said. “Were you like this the whole time?”
“Don’t—” you started.
“You were.” He pushed the fabric aside and his fingers touched your folds directly and you choked on a breath. The rings were cold, the contrast of it shocking and good and — “Riki—”
“Good girl,” he said quietly. Like it meant something. Like you’d done something right just by responding to him. His fingers moved through your folds and found your clit and you grabbed his shoulders and held on. “So wet. So fucking — look at you.”
“Please—”
“Please what.” His fingers kept moving, unhurried despite everything, despite the fact that you could feel how much he wanted this — felt it against your hip, hard, his own breathing gone ragged at the edges. “Say it.”
“I need—”
“Say it, Y/N.”
“I need you to fuck me,” you said. “Now, Riki, please—” He made a sound low in his throat and his fingers disappeared and he was shoving his own jeans down, just enough, barely, one hand braced on the wall beside your head — and then he looked at you, dark eyes and wrecked hair and jaw set hard.
“Here?” he said. Rough. “Right here?”
“Yes—”
His hand found your pussy again, two fingers pushing inside, testing, and you made an embarrassing sound and he groaned at the feel of you — “fuck you’re—” — and then his fingers were gone and he was there, the head of his cock at your entrance, and you hooked your leg over his hip. He pushed in. Both of you went still. His forehead dropped to yours. Your nails were in his shoulders. The Jacob’s ladder — you felt every single one and your mouth fell open and you heard him exhale shakily above you. “Riki—”
“I know.” His voice was barely there. “I know, just — fuck — just give me a second—”
“Don’t stop,” you said. “Don’t stop, keep—”
He moved. There was nothing controlled about it. That was the thing — Riki who was steady and certain and always in possession of himself — gone. Completely. He fucked you against the wall with his jeans half down and yours on the floor and his rings cold against your thigh where he’d hooked your leg higher and the bar of his tongue in his teeth when he looked at you and it was overwhelming, the closeness of it, the sound of it in the empty shop.
“Good,” he said, rough and low, his hips rolling into you, setting a pace that had your head dropping back against the wall. “Good girl, just like — yeah, just like that—”
“More—”
“Yeah?” He shifted his angle and you cried out and he did it again, deliberate, watching your face. “There?”
“Yes — yes, don’t stop—”
“I’ve got you.” His mouth found your throat. “I’ve got you, you’re doing so — fuck, Y/N, you feel—” He broke off. His rhythm stuttered and recovered. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”
The praise landed somewhere it had no business landing, warm and devastating, and your hips were moving to meet him and your clit was grinding against him with every thrust and you were already… “Riki I’m going to—”
“Do it,” he said immediately. “Cum for me. Come on.” His hand moved between you and his thumb found your clit and pressed and you shattered — your whole body going taut, his name in your mouth, your nails breaking skin on his shoulders — and he fucked you through it, relentless, not letting up—
“That’s it,” he said against your ear, rough and wrecked. “That’s it, good girl, god you’re—” He followed you over the edge not long after — his rhythm breaking, his breath gone, his forehead hard against the wall beside your head — and the sound he made when he came was low and helpless and you felt it everywhere.
There was silence that followed apart from the playlist over the shop speakers. The red light under the door still illuminated. Both of you still against the wall like butter of you planned to move soon, his weight partly on you and partly on his arm and neither of you in any hurry to fix that.
Your leg slid down from his hip. He pulled back enough to look at your face. His hair was completely wrecked. His mouth was slightly swollen. He looked at you with an expression that had nothing performed in it — just open, just him, something that hadn’t had a name all this time and still didn’t quite yet. “Hi,” he said.
You laughed. Surprised out of you, real. He smiled — the real one, the one that changed his whole face — and pressed it briefly into your hair.
You found the back room couch eventually. His shirt on your shoulders. The rings back on his fingers because he’d put them on out of habit and then looked at his own hands like he hadn’t noticed himself doing it. You lay on your back. He sat with his back against the couch, forearm on his knee, looking at the floor. “So,” you said.
“So,” he said.
“What happens now?” you said.
He was quiet for a moment. “What do you want?”
You thought about the card in your bag. The Wednesdays. The way he’d looked at you across the counter every single time like you were a decision he’d already made. “I don’t know yet,” you said. Honest.
“Okay,” he said. Easy. No pressure in it. His hand found yours in the dark. Didn’t make anything of it. Just held on. You stayed on the couch until the playlist rolled over twice. At some point the I don’t know yet became irrelevant because his mouth found your throat again and his hands were back under his shirt on your skin and the question got buried under something more immediate.
You left at nine. He walked you to the door. Held it open, leaned in the frame. The cold air hit you and you turned back. He looked wrecked and unbothered about it. Shirt on, jeans done up, rings on every finger. Hair a disaster. Looking at you with that expression — the settled one, the certain one. “Wednesday,” he said. You nodded.
Neither of you said anything about what it was. That was the agreement, unspoken, the way most things between you and Riki were unspoken. You came in on Wednesdays. Sometimes other days. Sometimes he texted at ten at night — nothing explicit, just you up or studio’s empty — and you went, and nobody named what that meant. It worked. Mostly.
The sex was — there wasn’t a word for it that didn’t sound inadequate. Compulsive was close. Inevitable was closer. Like once the wall had come down neither of you had any interest in rebuilding it, like your bodies had been having a conversation for months and were now just speaking plainly.
He learned you fast. Faster than anyone had. What made you gasp versus what made you come apart completely. The difference between what you asked for and what you actually wanted. He paid attention the way he paid attention to everything — totally, precisely — and used it with a focus that should have been illegal.
You learned him too. That the control was real but thin in the right circumstances. That his jaw set right before it cracked. That he made sounds he didn’t seem to know he was making. That he said your name differently when he was close — shorter, sharper, like he didn’t have room for the full shape of it. That he always, always pulled you back when you tried to move away after. Not possessive. Just — unwilling to let the warmth go yet. You were trying very hard not to think about what that meant.
Three weeks after the first time, on a Tuesday night, you were in the back room of Studio 13 with Riki’s shirt on the floor and your jeans somewhere near the door and his mouth on your throat and his hand between your thighs and the playlist coming through the walls and everything was fine, everything was exactly what it was, unnamed and manageable —
And then he said I’ve got you in that low rough voice right against your ear and something in your chest did a thing it wasn’t supposed to do. You filed it away. Dealt with it later. Later didn’t come because he did something with his tongue that made later completely irrelevant.
Wednesday afternoon. Counter. Coffee. Normal. Easy. The same as it had always been except for the part where it wasn’t because now you knew exactly what his hands felt like and what sounds he made and what his face looked like when the composure cracked and sitting on the other side of a counter from him in the middle of the afternoon was — a different experience than it used to be.
He was telling you something about a client — complicated custom piece, back and forth for weeks on the design — and you were listening and also watching his hands move when he talked, the rings catching the light, and thinking about those hands on your waist last night and… “Y/N.”
You looked up. He was looking at you with the quiet knowing expression. “I was listening,” you said.
“You weren’t.”
“I was. Custom piece. Back and forth on the design. Client keeps changing their mind.”
He tilted his head slightly. The corner of his mouth. “What were you thinking about?”
“The flash art.”
“Hm.” He leaned on the counter. His forearms right there, the sleeve on full display, and he looked at you with that unhurried certainty. “You were looking at my hands.”
“I was looking at your rings.”
“Y/N.”
“They’re interesting rings.”
He held your gaze for a long moment. Then he looked down at his hands, turned them over slowly, looked back up at you with an expression that was doing something to your ability to function. “Come back tonight,” he said.
“I was here last night.”
“I know.”
“And the night before.”
“I know.” He didn’t look remotely apologetic. “Come back tonight.”
You looked at him. “We should probably — this probably shouldn’t be—”
“Probably,” he agreed, like the word meant nothing.
“Riki.”
“Tonight, Y/N.”
You looked at your coffee. At him. At the rings on his hands that you had been thinking about and were now not admitting to thinking about. “Fine,” you said.
He picked up his own coffee. Satisfied. Like there had never been any other outcome. From across the shop Jay said nothing. He had learned, over the past three weeks, that saying things got him absolutely nowhere and had adapted accordingly. He simply made eye contact with Sunghoon across the room and they had an entire conversation without words.
That night after Studio 13 closed, which had become its own specific thing — the red light, the quiet, the shop breathing differently when it was empty. Riki had barely locked the front door before you were crossing the floor toward him and his expression when he turned around and saw you moving like that— “Hi,” he said.
“Hi.” You reached him. Your hands went to his chest, his jaw, pulling him down, and he came without resistance, his hands finding your waist immediately, already knowing where to go.
He kissed you slow this time. Deliberately slow, like he was making a point, like the urgency of the last few weeks had shifted into something that wanted to take its time. That was somehow worse. “Riki,” you said against his mouth.
“Hm.”
“Stop going slow.”
“No.” He kissed your jaw. Your throat. Slow and deliberate, his hands sliding under your top to your bare waist. “I spent all afternoon thinking about this.”
“So did I, that’s why—”
“That’s why we’re taking our time.” His mouth at your collarbone. “I want to—” A pause. His lips against your skin. “I want to take you apart properly. Not fast.”
Your hands tightened in his hair. “That’s not fair,” you said.
“No,” he agreed, and kept going. He got your top off and looked at you in the low light the way he always did — that slow, unapologetic assessment that moved over you like you were worth looking at carefully — and then his mouth found your tits and your head fell back.
His tongue. The bar of it, cool and present, circling your nipple, and you made a sound and his hands tightened on your waist. “Good girl,” he said against your skin. “Just like that.”
“Riki—”
“I’ve got you.” He moved to the other side, same slow attention, his hands holding your waist like you might float away. “I’ve got you, just — yeah, just feel it.” You were going to lose your mind. Your hands found his shirt and he let you get it off and then he was walking you back to the couch in the back room and laying you down and looking at you from above with dark eyes and that expression — the open one, the one that had no performance in it.
He got your jeans off slow. His hands running down your thighs as he pulled them, his mouth following, pressing to your hip, the inside of your knee, and by the time he got back up to your folds you were already soaked. “Riki, please—”
“Please what.” His breath against your inner thigh. Close, not close enough.
“Please—”
“Tell me what you want.” His lips brushed your folds, barely, just the suggestion of pressure. “Tell me.”
“Your mouth,” you said. “Please, your mouth—” He gave it to you. The bar of his tongue against your clit and you grabbed the back of the couch and held on. He ate your pussy like he had nowhere else to be — thorough, focused, the same attention he gave everything — and the sounds he made against you, low and hungry, like he was getting something from it—
“God—” your hips rolled and his hands held them down, firm, keep still, and the loss of control of that made it worse in the best way. “Riki I’m — don’t stop, don’t—”
“Not stopping,” he said against your clit. “Cum for me. Come on.”
You did. He worked you through it until you were pulling at his hair telling him too much, too much and he pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh and came back up your body and looked at your face with an expression that was — satisfied wasn’t the right word. Reverent was closer, which was a thing you were absolutely not processing right now. “Good girl,” he said quietly.
“Stop calling me that,” you said, breathless.
“No,” he said simply, and kissed you.
When he finally pushed inside you both exhaled like something had been solved. Slow, this time. Deep. His forehead against yours, his arms bracketing you, his rings cool against the side of your face where his hand was. “Okay?” he said.
“Yeah.” Your voice wasn’t working right. “Yeah, keep — please keep going.”
He moved. Slow, deep rolls of his hips that had you feeling every ridge of the ladder on every stroke and your mouth kept falling open and he watched it happen. “You feel it,” he said. Low, not a question.
“Yes—”
“Good.” His hips rolled deeper and you gasped. “That’s good, you’re so — fuck, Y/N—” His composure was fraying at the edges, the rhythm getting less controlled. “You take me so well. Every time. Like you were—” He stopped himself.
You looked up at him. His jaw was set, his eyes dark, something moving behind them that he’d just pulled back from saying. “Like I was what,” you said.
He looked at you. For a second — just a second — something was right there on his face, unguarded, something that went past the physical and landed somewhere neither of you had named yet. He kissed you instead of answering.
You let him. Filed it away. Pulled him closer and let the question dissolve into the drag and heat of him moving inside you and his mouth on yours and his hand sliding between you to find your clit— “Riki—”
“I know,” he said. “I know, come on, cum for me again, you can—”
“I can’t—”
“You can.” His thumb on your clit, his cock deep, his voice at your ear. “You can, good girl, come on, let me feel you—” You came with his name in your mouth and your whole body shaking and he followed you with his face pressed into your throat and the sound he made was low and broken and yours.
After his thumb moving slow at your hip. The ceiling. The playlist. You were thinking about like you were— and what came after it. You were thinking about I’ve got you and how he said it every time, always, like a reflex, like something that came from somewhere deeper than the moment.
You were thinking about the fact that you knew what his laugh sounded like — the real one, the surprised one — and that you’d been collecting these things without meaning to and the collection was getting heavy. “Riki,” you said.
“Hm.”
“What are we doing.”
Silence. His thumb stopped moving. Then, carefully: “What do you want to be doing.”
You stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
He was quiet for a long moment. You could feel him thinking — that specific quality of his silences, weighted, considering. “I’m not good at this part,” he said.
“What part.”
“The—” A pause. “Saying things.”
“You say things to me all the time.”
“Not these things.”
You turned your head to look at him. He was looking at the ceiling, jaw slightly tight, the expression of someone navigating something carefully. “What things,” you said quietly.
He turned his head. Your faces close in the dim light. His eyes moved over yours. “I don’t want you going anywhere,” he said. Finally. Quietly. “That’s — that’s what I’ve got right now.”
It wasn’t everything. You both knew it wasn’t everything. But it was Riki, who didn’t say things, saying a thing, and it landed with the weight of something much larger behind it.“Okay,” you said.
“Okay,” he said. His thumb started moving again. You looked back at the ceiling. The unnamed thing stayed unnamed. But it was there, in the room with you, and you both knew it.
The thing about not naming something was that it didn’t stop it from being a thing. It just meant you had no language for it when it started to matter. Four weeks into whatever this was, Ria staged an intervention.
Not a dramatic one — she didn’t have people over or make a presentation, she just showed up at your flat on a Saturday morning with coffee and pastries and sat across from you at your kitchen table with the expression of someone who had been patient for a very long time and was cashing that in now. “Talk,” she said.
“About what.”
“Y/N.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Ria.”
“I want you to say what’s happening with Riki.”
You picked up your coffee. “We’re—”
“If you say friends I’m leaving and taking the pastries.”
You put your coffee down. “It’s complicated.”
“Is it? Or is it simple and you’re making it complicated because you’re scared?”
You looked at her. She looked back with the patience of someone who had known you for six years and had seen every version of your avoidance. “We haven’t put a name on it,” you said.
“Why not.”
“Because—” You stopped. Because he’d said I don’t want you going anywhere and you’d said okay and neither of you had pushed past that. Because every Wednesday and every late night felt like building something and neither of you would say what you were building. “It’s working the way it is.”
“Is it.”
“Yes.”
“You like him.”
“Obviously.”
“Like like him.”
“Ria—”
“Y/N.” She leaned forward. “You went back to that shop every week for two months before anything happened. You know his coffee order, his schedule, what makes him laugh. You’ve met his friends. He checks your piercings as an excuse to be close to you.” She paused. “That’s not complicated. That’s you being terrified.”
You stared at the table. “He’s not easy to read,” you said. Finally.
“He gave you his personal card the night he met you,” Ria said. “Heeseung told me he’d never done that before.”
“When did you talk to Heeseung?”
“Jake texts me sometimes.”
“Jake texts you.”
“That’s not the point.” She pushed a pastry toward you. “The point is that boy is absolutely gone for you and you both keep dancing around it and it’s making everyone at Studio 13 insane, apparently.”
“Everyone?”
“Jay’s exact words were if they don’t sort it out soon I’m locking them in the back room.”
You put your face in your hands. “I don’t know how to do this with him,” you said, muffled. “He doesn’t say things. I don’t push. We just—”
“So say something first,” Ria said simply. “You’re not someone who waits, Y/N. That’s not you. You’re doing it because you’re scared he won’t say it back.” You lifted your face. Said nothing. She was right and you both knew it.
You didn’t say anything that Wednesday. You came close — sitting at the counter, coffee in hand, Riki talking about something, his rings on the desk, his eyes finding yours every few sentences the way they always did — and the words were right there, and you looked at his face, and you thought about Ria’s voice saying terrified, and you said nothing. He looked at you at one point like he knew something was moving behind your eyes. “What,” he said.
“Nothing.” You smiled. “Keep going.” He held your gaze for a second. Let it go.
The following Saturday Sunghoon texted you. Not unusual — you’d exchanged numbers for shop-related things, flash piece ideas, scheduling. He was easy to talk to, straightforward, the kind of person whose texts read exactly like his voice.
Sunghoon: hey, you said you were thinking about a collarbone piece right
you: yeah still thinking
Sunghoon: I drew something. wanna see
He sent a photo. Small, delicate, blackwork — something botanical, two thin stems crossing, minimal and precise. It was exactly your taste and you had no idea how he’d known that.
you: sunghoon this is gorgeous
Sunghoon: right? come in monday, I’ll show you the full size version. riki’s off monday so it’ll be quiet
you: sounds good, see you then
You didn’t think anything of it. Sunghoon was your friend. He’d drawn something for you. You were going to look at it. You didn’t mention it to Riki because there was nothing to mention.
Monday the shop was quieter without Riki in it, which was a thing you noticed and filed away as information you didn’t love having. Sunghoon had the drawing laid out on the counter when you arrived — full size, done properly on transfer paper, and it was even better than the photo. You stood over it with him pointing out the details, his hand close to yours on the paper, talking through placement and sizing and whether to add a third stem.
Jay was pretending to do something at the other counter.bHeeseung was in his office with the door open. “Here,” Sunghoon said, and pressed the transfer paper lightly to your collarbone to show you the placement. His hand steadied it against your skin, professional, and you looked in the mirror and thought yes, that was exactly right. Your phone lit up on the counter.
Riki: you at the shop?
You looked at it. Jay looked at it. Sunghoon didn’t see it.
you: yeah, sunghoon drew something for me. just looking at placement
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Riki: k
One letter.
Riki: looks good?
you: really good actually. he’s talented
The dots again. Then nothing. No reply. You put your phone down. Sunghoon was still talking about the third stem. You looked at the transfer in the mirror and tried to pay attention and felt something uneasy settle in your chest.
Riki was at the counter when you arrived Wednesday. You knew within ten seconds that something was wrong. Not visibly wrong — he looked the same, said hey the same, had your coffee ready the same. But his eyes when they met yours were flatter than usual. The warmth was there but dimmed, like something had been turned down. You sat. Picked up your coffee. “How was your day off?” you said.
“Fine.” He was looking at his phone.
“Did you do anything?”
“Not much.” Jay appeared from the back, clocked the atmosphere in approximately two seconds, and disappeared again.
You watched Riki scroll his phone. His jaw was set. Not dramatically — just tight, controlled, the way it got when he was holding something still. “Riki,” you said.
“Hm.”
“Look at me.” He looked up. The flat quality was more visible face to face. Something was moving behind his eyes that he was keeping on a very short leash. “What’s wrong?” you said.
“Nothing.”
“You’ve said twelve words since I got here.”
“I’ve been busy.”
You looked at him. He looked back, and you could see the effort of it — the effort of sitting in whatever this was and keeping it even. “Is this about Monday?” you said.
Something shifted in his jaw. “No.”
“Riki.”
“It’s not about Monday.”
“So it is about Monday.”
He put his phone down. Flat on the counter. He looked at you with an expression that was very controlled and also not controlled at all if you knew what to look for, and you knew what to look for now. “You went in on my day off,” he said.
“Sunghoon drew something for me. I told you.”
“I know what you told me.”
“Then what—”
“His hands were on you.” Quiet. Final. Like he’d been sitting on it for two days and it had compacted into something very small and very dense.
You stared at him. “He was showing me placement. For a tattoo. That’s his job.”
“I know that.”
“Then—”
“I know that, Y/N.” His voice was still even but something was pushing at the edges of it. “I know it doesn’t mean anything. I know Sunghoon wasn’t — I know.” He looked at the counter. “It doesn’t stop it feeling—” He stopped.
“Feeling what,” you said. He was quiet for a long moment.
“Wrong,” he said. “It feels wrong. Someone else’s hands on you feels wrong and I don’t know how to make that—” He stopped again. His thumb pressed against the counter. “I’m trying to be rational about it.”
“You went quiet for two days,” you said.
“I know.”
“That’s not — Riki, you can’t just go quiet every time something—”
“I know.” He looked up. His eyes were direct now, no flatness, just the real thing underneath — something frustrated and raw and tired of itself. “I know it’s not fair. I’m telling you I know that. I just—” A breath. “I don’t know how to feel it and not do that. I’m working on it.”
You looked at him for a long moment. “You went quiet instead of talking to me,” you said.
“Yes.”
“And you’re telling me now because I pushed.”
“Yes.” He held your gaze. “I would have told you. I just needed to — I needed it to be smaller before I could say it without it being—” He gestured vaguely. “A lot.”
“Is it smaller now?”
“Somewhat.”
You picked up your coffee. Looked at it. Put it down. “You know that there’s nothing—” you started.
“I know.” Immediately. “Y/N, I know. This isn’t about you. This isn’t about Sunghoon. It’s mine, it’s a me thing, and I’m not trying to make it your problem.”
“It becomes my problem when you disappear.”
“I know.” His jaw shifted. “I’m sorry.”
You looked at him. He looked back, steady, the thing behind his eyes open now in the way it only got when he’d pushed past the control on purpose — when he was giving you something deliberately. “Don’t disappear,” you said. “Whatever it is — just say it. To me. Not in your head for two days.”
“Okay,” he said. His hand moved across the counter and covered yours briefly — the rings cool, the weight of his palm familiar. “Okay, Y/N.”
The touch lasted a few seconds. He didn’t make anything of it. Just let it be there and then pulled back. From the back room, completely audibly, Jay said to someone: “finally.”
“Jay,” Riki said flatly.
“I’m just saying—”
“Jay.”
That night, late. He was in your flat, his idea — he’d texted at nine, not you up or studio’s empty but just your name, which was new. He was on your couch with his legs stretched out and his head back and his eyes on your ceiling and you were beside him close enough to feel the warmth of him and neither of you had moved toward the other yet. Just sitting. Existing in the same space. “Can I ask you something?” you said.
“Yeah.”
“The possessiveness.” You kept your voice even. “Where does it come from.”
A pause. He was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer. “Control,” he said finally. “Or — fear of losing it. Things I care about.” His thumb moved against his own knee. “I spent a long time in situations where things got taken. People I — things I couldn’t protect.” He stopped. “I don’t talk about it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” A pause. “I want to. I just — not yet.”
Not yet. Not never. Not it’s not your business. Not yet meant there was a timeline. Meant he was thinking about it. Meant you were someone he was moving toward telling.
You leaned your head against his shoulder. He went still for a second — surprised, you thought, by the smallness of it, the casualness — and then his head dropped against yours and you felt him exhale. “The collarbone piece,” he said eventually. “Let me do it.”
You lifted your head. Looked at him. “You do tattoos?”
“Heeseung taught me. I’m not on the books for it but—” He met your eyes. “I want to do it. If you want.”
Sunghoon’s drawing. Riki’s hands. “Yeah,” you said. “Okay.”
Something settled in his face. Quiet and satisfied in a way that had nothing to do with the smirk. “Okay,” he said.
You put your head back on his shoulder. His arm moved — slow, like he was checking it was allowed — and settled around you. The unnamed thing pressed closer. Neither of you named it. But his arm tightened slightly and you let it, and that was something too.
The collarbone piece took two sessions. Riki had been clear about that upfront — small piece, delicate linework, he wanted to do it right and doing it right meant not rushing. You’d sat in the chair in the back room of Studio 13 on a quiet Tuesday morning with his hands on your collarbone and his face close and his full attention on the work and tried very hard to be normal about it. You were not normal about it. “Stop tensing,” he said, without looking up.
“I’m not tensing.”
“Your shoulder is up by your ear.” You lowered your shoulder. He glanced up briefly — dark eyes, the focus in them softening for just a second when they met yours — and then back down. “First line’s the worst,” he said. “Then you’ll settle.”
“I’ve been tattooed before.”
“Not by me.” He said it simply. Like it was just a fact. Which it was. But the way he said it landed like something more — like not by me was its own category, its own distinct experience, and he was right, as it turned out, because when the needle touched your collarbone the small shock of it dissolved almost immediately into the warmth of his hands steadying you and his voice saying good, just like that, breathe — and you settled.
You watched his face while he worked. This version of him — the work version, focused and quiet and completely present — was one of your favorites. All the usual energy went inward. The smirk was gone, the easy confidence was still there but different, channeled into precision. He moved the machine in small careful arcs and his free hand was always on you, always steadying, always aware of exactly how much pressure to use. “You’re staring,” he said.
“You said that to me once before.”
“You were staring then too.”
“Maybe I just have a specific staring problem.”
The corner of his mouth moved. He didn’t look up. “Maybe you do.”
He kissed you after the session. Not immediately — he’d finished, stepped back, examined the work with that quiet critical eye, declared it good. You’d looked in the mirror and felt something warm move through your chest at the sight of it — the two stems, thin and precise, sitting exactly right on your collarbone. “It’s perfect,” you said.
“I know.” He was already at the sink, washing his hands, and you could hear the smile in it even without seeing his face. You got up from the chair. Crossed the small space between you. And when he turned around you were right there and his expression shifted — from satisfied work-focus to something more personal, more immediate — and you put your hand on his jaw and kissed him.
He kissed you back with his damp hands at your waist, careful not to touch the fresh tattoo, and it was slow and unhurried and tasted like coffee and something that was just him and when you pulled back his eyes stayed closed for a second. Opened. Looked at you. “Hi,” he said quietly.
“Hi,” you said. His thumb moved at your waist. The rings. The warmth of his palms through your shirt.
“Come back Thursday for the second session,” he said.
“I know, you told me.”
“Just making sure.” He kissed you again before you could respond — quick, soft, his mouth on yours for just a moment — and then stepped back and handed you the aftercare sheet and was professional again, mostly, except for the way his eyes followed you to the door.
Thursday’s second session was longer. More detail, more shading on the stems, a small shadow that made the whole thing lift off the skin. You sat in the chair and he worked and you talked — properly talked, the way you did at the counter but quieter, more contained, just the two of you in the partitioned space.
He told you about growing up. Small things — not the things he kept locked, but around the edges of them. A younger brother. Moving schools twice. Being good at things with his hands from early on, carving things, taking things apart to see how they worked. “Is that why the piercing?” you said.
“Partly.” He shifted the machine slightly. “Partly because it’s — immediate. You do it right and you see it right away. No waiting to find out.”
“You like knowing things work.”
He glanced up. “Yeah.”
“Control thing.”
A pause. “Yeah,” he said again, quieter. You let that sit. Didn’t push.
“Tell me something else,” he said, after a moment. Deflecting but not — more like redirecting, like he wanted the conversation to keep going just in a different direction.
So you told him things. About your course, your family, the flat you’d moved into two years ago that still didn’t feel completely yours. The way Ria had been your anchor through everything since you were sixteen. How you’d wanted to study abroad and hadn’t and sometimes still thought about it. “Why didn’t you?” he said.
“Felt like running away from something.”
“Were you?”
You thought about it. “Probably.”
He looked up. His eyes on yours, level. “What were you running from.”
“Someone,” you said. “It doesn’t matter now.”
He held your gaze for a moment. You watched something move through his expression — something careful, something that might have been jealousy at its very distant edges but was mostly just — paying attention. Storing it. Like everything you gave him went somewhere it would be kept.
“Their loss,” he said. Simply. Looked back down. You looked at the top of his head and felt the unnamed thing press against your ribs from the inside.
He finished the piece in two hours. You both looked at it in the mirror — his chin near your shoulder, your reflection side by side — and neither of you said anything for a moment. “Well,” you said.
“Yeah,” he said. It was exactly right. Better than right. The kind of thing that looked like it had always been there, like your skin had been waiting for it.
You turned. He was right there, closer than you’d clocked, and you put both hands on his chest and looked up at him and he looked down at you and the moment expanded slightly. “Thank you,” you said.
“Don’t thank me.”
“Riki—”
“It was for me as much as you,” he said. Quiet. Direct. No smirk in it. “I wanted to put something on you. That’s—” He stopped. His jaw shifted. “That’s a me thing. Don’t thank me for it.”
You looked at him. He looked back, steady, and the naked quality of what he’d just said sat between you — I wanted to put something on you — and neither of you moved for a second.
Then you kissed him. Slow, deliberate, your hands spreading on his chest. He made a low sound and his arms came around you — gentle because of the fresh tattoo, careful, his hands at your back instead of your waist — and he kissed you back like he had time, like he wanted to use it.
When you broke apart he kept his forehead against yours. “Stay,” he said. Low. “Tonight. Just—” A pause. “Just stay.”
“Okay,” you said. You ate takeout on the floor of the back room because the couch was small and the floor had more space and Riki sat with his back against the couch and you sat between his legs with your back against his chest and it was so domestically comfortable that it was almost alarming.
He ate with one arm around you. His chin occasionally dropping to your shoulder to look at whatever you were showing him on your phone. His thumb making that small absent arc at your hip that he did when he wasn’t thinking about it.
“Ria thinks we need to define this,” you said, at some point. His arm didn’t tighten. Didn’t loosen. He was quiet for a moment.
“What do you think?” he said.
“I think Ria is right about most things.”
“Hm.” His thumb kept moving. “What would you define it as.”
You turned your head slightly. His face was close — close enough to see the detail of the scar through his eyebrow, the silver of his earring, the way he was looking at you with that careful open expression he only had when there was no one else around. “I don’t know,” you said. “What would you.”
“Mine,” he said. Quiet. Simple. Like it was the most obvious answer.
Your heart did something inconvenient. “That’s very you,” you said.
“Is it wrong?”
You turned back to face forward. His arm around you. The takeout. The red light. “No,” you said. “It’s not wrong.”
You felt him exhale against the back of your head. Slow, like something had released. His lips pressed briefly to your hair. Not a kiss exactly — too soft, too absent, more like a thing he did without deciding to.
You stayed on the floor until midnight. Talked about nothing important. Everything slightly important. He told you Jake was obviously falling for Hana and was handling it terribly, which you already knew, and you told him Ria had started texting Jake directly to speed the process along, which he did not know and which made him laugh — the real one, sudden, surprised. You stored it.
“I should go,” you said eventually. You had a nine AM seminar and the responsible thing—
“Yeah,” he said. Made no move to untangle himself from around you.
“Riki.”
“Five minutes.”
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“Five more minutes.” You leaned back into him and gave him the five minutes. He pressed his mouth to the side of your head again — that soft, absent thing, lips in your hair — and you closed your eyes and thought about mine and the way he’d said it like it was just the truth.
When you finally stood up he walked you to the door the way he always did. Unlocked it. Held it open. You turned back. He kissed you in the doorway — unhurried, thorough, one hand cupping your jaw and the other flat against the doorframe — and you kissed him back and it went on longer than a goodbye kiss needed to, longer than was practical, until he pulled back and looked at you with dark eyes and slightly wrecked composure.
“Wednesday,” he said. His thumb traced your jaw once before dropping.
“Wednesday,” you said. You made it to the end of the street. You looked back. He was still in the doorway, leaning on the frame, watching you go. When he saw you look he didn’t pretend he hadn’t been watching. Just held your gaze across the dark street. You turned back around and smiled at the pavement the whole way to the bus stop.
Heeseung had told everyone to come to his flat for dinner on Saturday — no occasion, just food, just all of them in the same place — and you’d arrived with Ria who had told you she’d been waiting for this invitation for weeks, which meant Jake had told her about it before Riki had told you, which meant something.
Heeseung’s flat was calm and dark-walled like the shop, art everywhere, music at a volume that allowed conversation. Jay was already there and immediately pulled Ria into an argument about something. Jake appeared from the kitchen and the way his face changed when he saw Ria was something you were going to tell Riki about later.
Riki was on the couch. He looked up when you came in and the smile that happened was immediate and unguarded — no performance, no build up, just his face doing the thing it did when you appeared, the thing you didn’t think he knew it did. He moved over without being asked. You sat beside him. Close. His arm went across the back of the couch behind you — not around you, but there, present, the rings near your shoulder.
Sunghoon arrived twenty minutes later and dropped onto the armchair across from you and looked at you both with an expression of great satisfaction. “You two sorted?” he said.
“Sunghoon,” Riki said.
“What? Last month you were—“ He stopped. “I’m just asking—”
“We’re sorted,” you said. Sunghoon grinned. Riki’s arm moved from the back of the couch to actually around your shoulders, like Sunghoon asking had given him permission to stop pretending he wasn’t doing it.
Dinner was loud and easy and everyone talked over everyone and Jay told a story about a client that got more elaborate every time he told it and Ria fit in like she’d always been there and Heeseung sat at the head of the table and said little and watched everything with quiet satisfaction.
After dinner you ended up back on the couch. Riki beside you, your legs across his, his hand resting on your ankle. The conversation had split across the room — Jay and Sunghoon, Ria and Jake in what looked like an increasingly interesting exchange, Heeseung in the kitchen. “You good?” Riki said quietly, just to you.
“Yeah.” You looked at the room. “This is nice.”
“They like you.”
“Jay likes everyone.”
“Heeseung doesn’t,” he said. Simple. “He likes you.”
You looked at him. “How can you tell?”
“He invited you.” He said it like it was obvious. “He doesn’t do this for everyone. He did it because—” A pause. His hand moved slightly on your ankle. “Because you’re—” He stopped.
“Because I’m what,” you said softly.
He looked at you. The room was noisy around you but it felt like it had contracted to just this, just his face and yours and the thing he was about to say. “Important,” he said. Quiet. “Because you’re important.”
Your heart did the inconvenient thing again, harder this time. “Riki,” you said.
“Yeah.”
“That word—”
“I know what word I used.” You looked at him. He looked back, steady, not taking it back, not softening it. Just — sitting in it, the way he sat in most things, patient and certain.
Across the room Jay said something loud and everyone laughed and the moment breathed. Riki’s hand moved from your ankle to your calf. Warm. Present. “Stay tonight,” he said. Low enough that it was only for you. “Not at the shop. Mine.”
His. His flat, which you hadn’t been to, which was a different thing than the back room couch. A different kind of staying. “Yeah,” you said.
He nodded. Looked back at the room. But his hand stayed on your leg and his shoulder was warm against yours and you sat in the important and let it settle into something that felt permanent.
Later, when most people had gone and Ria was helping Heeseung with something in the kitchen and it was just you and Riki by the door putting your jacket on he turned you by the shoulders. Kissed you slowly, his hands on your face, thumbs at your jaw. The kind of kiss that had no agenda, no direction, just wanted to exist. When he pulled back he looked at you for a long moment.
The word boyfriend was right there in the room. Neither of you said it. But his hand found yours and held it, and he didn’t let go the whole way to his flat, and somewhere in the space between mine and important and his fingers between yours on a dark street — the unnamed thing finally had a shape. You just hadn’t said it out loud yet.
His flat was on the third floor of a building that had seen better decades, the kind of place that was held together by good bones and someone who actually cared about the space inside it. You didn’t know what you’d expected.
More of the shop, maybe — dark walls, flash art, the deliberate aesthetic. And there was some of that. Dark furniture, a few framed pieces on the walls, one large canvas above the couch that was either very expensive or done by someone he knew and you suspected the latter. But it was also — lived in, in a specific way. Books stacked in an order that made sense only to him. A record player in the corner with a small collection beside it. The kitchen clean in the way of someone who cooked properly and cleaned as they went.
It was a home. Actually a home. That surprised you and you didn’t know why it surprised you and then you thought about what he’d said — I spent a long time in situations where things got taken — and understood it. He’d built this. Deliberately. Piece by piece. “Stop analyzing it,” he said from the kitchen.
“I’m not analyzing it.”
“You have your analyzing face on.”
“I don’t have an analyzing face.”
He appeared in the kitchen doorway with two glasses of water and looked at you standing in his living room in your jacket still on and raised an eyebrow. “Take your jacket off,” he said. “You’re staying.” You took your jacket off.
You fell asleep on his couch. Not intentionally — you’d been talking, the record player on low, and somewhere between one subject and the next the warmth of him beside you and the late hour pulled you under. You were aware of it happening distantly, the conversation getting slower, your eyes getting heavy, and you didn’t fight it.
You woke up in his bed. He’d moved you. At some point while you slept he’d carried you — or walked you, half-conscious — to the bed and put you in it and the duvet was pulled up and his pillow smelled like him and you lay there in the early grey morning and stared at the ceiling and felt something enormous and inconvenient sitting on your chest.
You heard him in the kitchen. The quiet sounds of someone who knew how to exist in the morning without disturbing anyone. You lay there and thought about mine and important and the collarbone tattoo and his hand in yours on the dark street and the back room couch and two months of Wednesdays and the card he’d slid across the counter the first night like he’d already decided.
You thought about Ria’s voice. You’re terrified. You were terrified.
He was at the kitchen counter with his back to you when you came in. Making coffee, unhurried, still in the clothes from last night minus the jacket. Rings on his hands already. You didn’t know if he’d slept. He turned when he heard you. Took in your expression with one look. “Hey,” he said carefully.
“Hey.” You stood in the kitchen doorway. Your heart was doing something loud. “You moved me.”
“You were asleep on my couch.”
“You could have woken me up.”
“You looked tired.” Simple. Like it was nothing. Like carrying you to his bed was just a practical thing he’d done without thinking. “Coffee?”
“Riki.” He looked at you. Really looked — reading whatever was on your face with that careful focus, taking it in.
“What’s going on,” he said.
“Nothing. I just—” You stopped. Started again. “I woke up in your bed and it—” You pressed your fingers to your mouth briefly. “It felt like something.” He was quiet. Waiting.
“I think this is something,” you said. “I think it’s been something for a while and we keep not saying it and I’m—” You exhaled. “I’m tired of not saying it.”
The kitchen was very quiet. Riki leaned back against the counter. Crossed his arms. His expression was the open one — no performance, no control layered over it, just his face and whatever was behind it. “Say it then,” he said quietly.
You looked at him. “I want this to be a thing. A real thing. I want—” You. “I want the name.”
He uncrossed his arms. Crossed the kitchen in three steps and he was right in front of you and his hands came up to your face — both of them, palms at your jaw, tilting your face up — and he looked at you for one long second. “It’s already a thing,” he said. “It’s been a thing.” His thumb moved at your cheekbone. “I’ve been waiting for you to catch up.”
“That’s very smug,” you said. Your voice wasn’t fully steady.
“I know.” He wasn’t smiling. His eyes were serious, dark, right there. “Y/N.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not good at the words,” he said. “You know that. But this—” his thumbs traced your face, gentle and deliberate “—this is not nothing. This hasn’t been nothing since you walked into my shop.”
Your hands found his wrists. Held on. “Okay,” you said.
“Okay,” he said. He kissed you. Soft, slow, his hands still on your face like he wanted to hold the moment still. You kissed him back and felt the unnamed thing finally, finally settle into something with a shape and a weight and a name you’d figure out the exact word for later.
When he pulled back he pressed his forehead to yours. “Boyfriend is a weird word,” he said.
You laughed. Surprised out of you, real. “It really is.”
“But yeah.” His mouth curved. “That.”
“That,” you agreed. He kissed you again, brief and warm, and then stepped back and handed you a coffee and the domesticity of it — his flat, his coffee, his hands, the morning — hit you somewhere soft.
“Sit down,” he said. “I’ll make breakfast.”
“You cook?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“Riki I’ve known you for months and I’ve never seen you eat anything that wasn’t takeout or coffee.”
“That’s at the shop.” He was already at the fridge. “At home I cook.”
You sat at his kitchen counter on a stool and watched him move around his kitchen with the same ease he brought to everything — competent, unhurried, knowing where things were — and drank your coffee and felt the warmth of the morning settle around you. “What are you making?” you said.
“Eggs.”
“Just eggs?”
“Good eggs.” He glanced back. “Don’t underestimate eggs.”
They were good eggs. You ate at his kitchen counter side by side, your shoulder against his, and the conversation came easy the way it always did — drifting, unhurried, one thing opening into another. He told you about the record player, how he’d found it at a market two years ago and had to carry it up three flights on his own. You told him about the flat you’d wanted that you hadn’t got and ended up in your current one instead and how it had turned out better. “Things usually do,” he said.
“Philosopher.”
“Just paying attention.” His hand found yours on the counter between you. Covered it. Not making anything of it — just there, warm and present. You turned your hand over and his fingers slid between yours. You sat like that until the coffee was cold.
He walked you out two hours later. Down the three flights and out onto the morning street, quiet at this hour, pale winter sun doing its best. He had his jacket on, hands in his pockets, walking beside you in the direction of the bus stop. “You don’t have to walk me,” you said.
“I know.” He walked you anyway. His shoulder bumping yours occasionally. Not holding your hand now — just beside you, present, taking up the right amount of space. At the bus stop he turned to face you. “Wednesday,” he said.
“Wednesday,” you said. Then: “Actually I might come Tuesday. I need to talk to Heeseung about extending the collarbone piece.”
Something moved across his face. Quick, then gone. “You want to extend it?” he said.
“Just the stems, maybe. One more.” You looked at his expression. “What?”
“I’ll do it,” he said. Immediate.
“I know you’ll do it—”
“I mean — the extension. Let me do it.” His jaw was doing the thing. “Not Heeseung.”
You looked at him. Understood. “Okay,” you said.
“Okay.” The jaw relaxed. A short exhale.
You reached up and kissed him — he leaned down to meet you before you’d fully extended, like he’d been waiting for it — and it was brief and warm and tasted like coffee. “Tuesday,” you said against his mouth.
“Tuesday,” he said. The bus appeared at the end of the road. He stepped back. Hands back in his pockets. Watching you with that settled, certain expression. “Text me when you’re home,” he said. New. That was new.
“Yeah,” you said, smiling. “Okay.”
You texted Ria from the bus.
you: we sorted it
The reply was immediate. She’d been awake, waiting.
Ria: WHAT
you: it’s a thing. officially.
Ria: I KNEW IT I HAVE BEEN SAYING does he even know the word boyfriend???
you: he said it’s a weird word
Ria: oh my god he’s so him
you: he made me eggs
Ria: Y/N!!!
you: they were really good eggs
Ria: I am going to cry. IM SO HAPPY!
You put your phone in your pocket and looked out the bus window at the city going past and felt something settled and warm sitting in your chest where the unnamed thing used to be.
Daniel saw you get off the bus. You didn’t notice him. You were texting Riki — something small, a photo of a dog outside the coffee shop you were passing, the kind of thing you sent now because you could — and you walked past him without looking up.
He watched you go. Watched the way you were smiling at your phone. He knew about the tattoo shop. He’d heard you mention it. He’d put things together — the visits, the name that came up, the way you’d brushed him off every time since October.
He pulled out his own phone. Started looking. It didn’t take long. Public record. The charge, the conviction, the sentence. He read it twice. Read the name again. Looked up Studio 13. He sat with it for a long time. Then he texted Soo.
Daniel: hey, you’re friends with Y/N right. I need to tell you something about someone she’s seeing.
The thing about finally naming something was that it changed the texture of everything. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just — small shifts, accumulating. The way he texted now, more often, nothing significant but there. The way he said my girlfriend to a client who asked about the collarbone piece, casual, not looking at you when he said it, and you’d had to look very hard at the flash wall for a moment. The way his hand found yours in public without him thinking about it first. Small things. Heavy things.
You were catastrophically gone for him and had been for a while and now there was nothing to hide it behind.
The first Tuesday after you came into Studio 13 at noon and Riki was with a client so Jay made you coffee and sat across from you at the counter with the expression of someone who had been waiting to say something. “So,” he said.
“Don’t,” you said.
“I just want to say—”
“Jay.”
“I called it.” He held up both hands. “First week you came in. I said to Sunghoon, I said that girl is going to wreck him, and I was right—”
“I didn’t wreck anyone—”
“In a good way.” He was grinning. “He’s different. He’s — I’ve known Riki for two years and he texted me last Sunday morning just to talk. Riki. Texting. On a Sunday. Because he was in a good mood and wanted to—”
“Jay.” Riki’s voice from the piercing section, flat. He’d finished with his client without you noticing.
“I’m just saying—”
“I heard what you were saying.” Riki came around the partition and looked at you and the expression on his face when it landed on you was the thing Jay had been describing without being able to name it — something unlocked, something that had been held tight for a long time and wasn’t anymore.
He came to the counter. Leaned down and kissed you hello like it was something he’d been doing for years. Brief, warm, his hand on your jaw for just a second. Jay made a noise. Riki sat on his stool without acknowledging him. Picked up his coffee. “How’s the collarbone?” he said.
“Good. I want to talk about an extension.”
“I know what I’ll doing with it.”
“I haven’t told you what I want yet.”
“I know what you want.” He met your eyes. Completely certain. “Trust me.”
You looked at him. Thought about the first piece — how right it had been, how it had looked like it had always been there. “Fine,” you said.
Jay, very quietly, said: “He’s so different.”
The extension happened the following Thursday. One more stem. Slightly longer than the others, curving toward your shoulder, a small bud at the end that he’d added without asking and that was so exactly right you hadn’t been able to speak for a moment when you saw it. “Riki,” you said.
“Hm.” He was examining the placement, focused.
“The bud.”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t ask for that.”
“No.” He glanced up. Brief, the focus breaking for just a second. “Do you like it?”
You looked in the mirror. The three stems, the new one curving outward, the small closed bud at its tip. Something that looked like potential. Like something about to open. “Yeah,” you said. “I like it.”
He looked back down. Said nothing. But his free hand, steadying your shoulder, pressed slightly. Small. Deliberate.
Three weeks in and the shape of things had settled. Wednesdays at the shop. Tuesday evenings at his flat, which had become a specific thing — you’d bring food, he’d already have the record player going, and you’d eat on his couch or his kitchen floor and talk until one of you fell asleep. Some Fridays at yours, which he’d come to twice now and moved through with the particular attentiveness of someone learning a space they planned to know well.
His things had started appearing at your flat. A hoodie, first — left behind, not retrieved. Then a phone charger. Then a record he’d brought over to show you something and hadn’t taken back. You didn’t point any of this out. Neither did he.
You had a key to Studio 13. That had happened without discussion — Riki had taken it off his keyring one night when you’d arrived before him and handed it to you and gone back to what he was doing. You’d stared at it for a full ten seconds.
This was how he said things. Not in words. In the key. In the bud on the stem. In text me when you’re home and Sunday morning texts and the way he always, always knew when something was wrong before you’d said anything. You were learning his language. It was quieter than most people’s but it was fluent.
Four weeks in, on a Wednesday night after Studio 13 closed as usual. But tonight the energy was different from the second you’d locked the front door behind you — something in the way he’d looked at you across the shop all evening, something that had been building since you’d arrived and had nowhere to go while there were other people present.
He kissed you against the front counter the second the lock clicked. Not soft. Not the hello-kiss or the goodbye-kiss or the slow deliberate thing from his kitchen. This was four weeks of officially named wanting, his hands in your hair and your hands in his jacket and both of you breathing differently inside ten seconds. He pulled back. Looked at your face. “Hi,” you said.
“Hi.” His voice was rough already. His hands moved from your hair to your waist, sliding under your top to bare skin, and you felt his rings and exhaled. “Been thinking about you all day.”
“I was here all evening.”
“I know.” His mouth found your jaw, your throat. “Worse.”
“Riki—”
“I know.” He pulled your top up and off and looked at you in the low red light the way he always did — that slow, deliberate sweep that moved over you like you were something he was committing to memory. The collarbone piece. His hands on you. “God,” he said quietly. Not performing it. Just — reacting.
“Come here,” you said. He came. He got you onto the front counter. Which was new. Which was — you looked around the shop, the dark windows, the closed door, and then his hands were on your thighs spreading them and he was standing between them and the location became very irrelevant. “Here?” you said.
“Here.” He kissed you again, deep, his tongue against yours and the bar of it doing what it always did to your ability to think. His hands pushed your skirt up your thighs, found your underwear, pushed it aside — and his fingers were there, at your folds, and you grabbed the edge of the counter.
“Riki—”
“Already.” His fingers moved through your folds, slow, feeling you. “Fuck, Y/N, already—”
“Don’t be smug—”
“I’m not.” He pressed a kiss to your jaw, your throat. “I’m really not.” His fingers found your clit and circled and your hips rolled forward. “That’s it. That’s—” A breath. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Tell me,” you breathed.
He pushed two fingers inside you and your head fell back. “This,” he said, low, watching your face. “Every time. Every fucking time you walk in here I want—” His fingers curled and you gasped. “Yeah. That. I want that sound.”
“More—”
“More?” He kept the pace slow. Deliberate. His thumb finding your clit while his fingers moved and the combination was devastating. “You sure? We’re not in a rush.”
“Riki I swear to god—”
He laughed — low, warm, real — and his fingers moved deeper and his thumb pressed harder and you grabbed his shoulder and held on. “Good girl,” he said against your throat. “So good. So wet for me, every time, like you spend all day—”
“I do,” you said, breathless. “I do, okay, is that what you want to hear—”
“Yes,” he said simply, and meant it, and his fingers moved faster. You came with your face pressed into his neck and his name in your mouth, his fingers working you through it, not stopping until you pulled at his hair and told him too much, too much—
He pulled his hand back. Pressed his mouth to your temple. Your cheekbone. The corner of your mouth. “Good girl,” he said again, softer. “You’re so—”
“Don’t you dare say something nice right now,” you said. “I can’t handle it.” He pressed his smile into your hair.
You got his jeans open. Got your hand on his cock and felt him exhale sharply against your neck —that involuntary thing, the crack in the control — and stroked slowly and felt every bar of the ladder and heard him make a sound that was almost pained. “Y/N—”
“Yeah?”
“I need—” His hips pushed forward slightly. “Fuck, I need you to—”
“Need me to what.” You kept the pace slow. His own medicine.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder. “Please.” The please from Riki — rare, wrecked, genuine — landed somewhere it always landed and you let go of him and pulled him forward by his waistband and he understood, got his jeans down, stepped between your thighs.
He pushed inside in one slow stroke and you both went still. His hands braced on the counter either side of you. Your hands on his chest. The shop around you, the red light, the flash art on the walls watching everything. “Okay?” he said. Rough. Always asked.
“Move,” you said. “Please, Riki, move—” He moved.
The front counter was cold under your hands and he was warm everywhere else — his chest against yours, his mouth at your throat, his hips rolling into you in a rhythm that started slow and deliberate and got less controlled as it went. “You feel—” He broke off. His jaw set. “Every time. Like the first time, every—”
“Don’t stop talking,” you said. “I like it when you talk.”
He made a rough sound. “You like it.”
“Yes—”
“Good girl for telling me.” His pace shifted deeper and you choked on a breath. “Good girl for always — fuck — for always telling me what you want—”
“Riki—”
“I’ve got you.” His hand slid between you, found your clit, and you arched. “I’ve got you, come on, cum for me, you can—”
“I just—”
“I know.” His thumb circled. “Do it again. Come on. Let me feel you cum on my cock, Y/N—”
The degradation and the praise all tangled together and his thumb and the ladder on every stroke and his voice at your ear and you shattered again — harder this time, your whole body locking up, his name loud enough that it bounced off the dark walls—
He followed you. His rhythm breaking, his breath gone, his hands gripping the counter so hard you heard his rings knock against it — and the sound he made when he came was the broken one, the helpless one, the one you collected and kept.
After the both of you on the front counter, you sitting, him leaning against it beside you. Still not fully dressed. The playlist had long since ended and the shop was quiet except for both of you getting your breathing back. You looked at the flash art on the walls. “We just did that on the front counter,” you said.
“We did.”
“Where clients sit.”
“I’ll clean it.”
You looked at him. He looked back with the wrecked-and-unbothered expression, his hair completely destroyed, his rings catching the low light. “You’re not even slightly embarrassed,” you said.
“No.” Simple. His hand found your knee. “Are you?”
You thought about it. “No.” He smiled. The real one.
You leaned your head on his shoulder and he turned his face into your hair and you sat on the front counter of Studio 13 at midnight and the warmth of it — the us of it — felt like something you could live inside. “Stay,” he said. Into your hair.
“At yours?”
“Here. Couch in the back.” His hand moved at your knee. “Don’t want you to go yet.”
You lifted your head. Looked at his face. “Riki. I’m not going anywhere,” you said.
His eyes moved over yours. The thing behind them — the possessive, careful, quietly terrified thing that drove the jealousy and the silence and the hand always finding yours — settled. “I know,” he said. Like he was practicing believing it.
“I know you know.” You put your hand on his jaw. “I’m telling you anyway.” He turned his face into your palm. Brief. Eyes closing for just a second.
Then he stood up, pulled you off the counter, kept your hand in his. “Couch,” he said.
“Couch,” you agreed.
You were asleep within minutes with Riki’s jacket over you and his voice low in the background talking to someone on the phone — his brother, you thought, distantly, the conversation too quiet to hear properly — and the red light under the door and the smell of ink and his hoodie under your cheek.
You were asleep and warm and his and the storm was three weeks away. It felt like nothing could touch this.
Daniel texted your friend Soo on a Wednesday night. She didn’t tell you immediately. That was the first thing — she sat on it for four days, turning it over, looking at the record he’d sent her, reading it and rereading it. The charge. The conviction. The length of the sentence. Assault. Grievous bodily harm. Victim: female.
She read those words and thought about you and made a decision she believed was the right one. She texted you on a Sunday.
You were at Riki’s flat. Sunday morning, late, the good kind of late — his record player going, both of you in the kitchen, you on the counter watching him make coffee with the focused competence he brought to everything. His hair was wrecked. He had a bruise on his collarbone that was your fault and he’d looked at it in the mirror that morning with an expression of complete satisfaction that had made you throw a pillow at him. Your phone lit up on the counter beside you.
Soo: hey can we talk today. it’s important.
Soo: it’s about Riki.
You looked at the screen. “What,” Riki said. He’d clocked your face without turning around. He did that.
“Soo wants to talk.” You kept your voice neutral. “About you.”
He turned. Read your expression. His jaw did the thing — the subtle set — but his voice stayed even. “What about me?”
“She didn’t say.”
A pause. He looked at the coffee. Back at you. “When?”
“Today apparently.” He nodded. Said nothing. Turned back to the coffee and you watched his shoulders and thought about the tension in them and didn’t ask.
You met Soo at the coffee place near yours at two. She was already there when you arrived. She had her hands around her cup and her expression was the one she got when she was about to say something she’d rehearsed — careful, prepared, slightly guilty around the edges. You sat down. “Just tell me,” you said.
She put her phone on the table. Turned it to face you. A screenshot. A public record database. The name — Nishimura Riki — and below it the details, dry and legal and devastating in their simplicity. Charge: Assault occasioning grievous bodily harm. Victim: Female, 28. Sentence: 14 months. Probation: 12 months.
—𝑶𝑹 𝑾𝑯𝑬𝑵 you walk into a tattoo shop drunk just to prove a point, and walk out with the best thing to ever happen to you. Except he’s hiding something. And between the secrets and your stalker classmate closing in, you get it twisted before you get it right.
playlist… hanging out to dry — florence road // vampire — dominic fike // addicted — lovelace // fallen star — the neighbourhood // real people — hozier // nothing’s gonna hurt you baby — cigarettes after sex
pepa speaks!! hii so this is my first time writing a fic and I’ve been working on this for like a longgg time and decided to post bc I’m a bit nervous LOL uhm so yeah there will be a part 2 btw and also my taglist is open! pls enjoy and I’d really appreciate likes and reblogs 🤭💐
The thing about a girls’ night with Ria was that it always ended somewhere it wasn’t supposed to. The club had been Hana’s idea. The fourth round of shots had been Soo’s.
The part where all four of you ended up on the pavement at eleven-forty-five, heels in hand, looking at a tattoo shop with a red light glowing in the window like it was personally inviting you in — that had been Ria. “We’re going in,” she said.
“We are not going in,” Soo said.
“It says open.” Ria pointed at the sign. Studio 13. Like that settled it.
“It’s almost midnight.”
“They put the sign out.”
“Ria—” But you were already looking at the door and thinking why not, which was the alcohol talking, and also you were cold and your feet hurt and the red light looked warm from out here on the pavement. “I want a piercing,” you said.
Ria grabbed your hand. “She wants a piercing.” Soo looked at the sky. Hana was already moving toward the door.
The club outfit had been Ria’s fault entirely. The top was small — that was the only word for it, small and black and doing everything a top could reasonably be asked to do. The skirt wasn’t much better. You’d spent the whole night at the club feeling like the main character, which was the intended effect, and the cold air outside had done nothing to make you feel less exposed.
You pushed the door open and the warmth hit you first. Then the smell — ink, clean soap, something faintly chemical underneath it. Black walls covered in flash art. Low red lighting that made the whole place feel like a deliberate secret. Something slow playing from speakers you couldn’t locate.
Two guys inside. One in the back with his head down over a drawing tablet. One at the front counter. The one at the front counter looked up.
He was tall even on the stool, long legs stretched out in front of him, forearms resting on the desk like he owned the surface and everything past it. Full sleeve on his left arm. Silver rings on most of his fingers. Dark hair pushed back slightly. One earring. The kind of face that got you in trouble if you looked at it for too long — sharp jaw, dark eyes, a mouth that was currently sitting in the very early stages of a smirk.
He took in all four of you in about two seconds. Then his eyes found you and the smirk finished forming. “We’re open,” he said. “Barely.”
Ria and Hana peeled off toward the flash wall immediately. Soo planted herself near the door with her arms folded. Which left you walking up to the front counter alone, bare legs, tiny skirt, heels clicking on the concrete floor.
You watched him watch you walk over. He didn’t pretend he wasn’t watching. Didn’t do the polite thing where you glance away and back. He just watched, easy and unhurried, the way someone looks at something they find genuinely worth looking at, and when you got to the counter and leaned on it his eyes moved — slowly, and with complete lack of apology — from your face down to your chest and back up again. Held eye contact like nothing had happened. You’d been looked at before. This was different. This was a man who had decided he wasn’t going to pretend. “Hi,” you said.
“Hi.” His voice was low. Even. The smirk hadn’t moved. “Can I help you?”
“I want a piercing.”
“Yeah?” He leaned back on the stool, arms folding across his chest, the sleeve shifting with the movement. His rings caught the red light. “What are you thinking?”
“Tragus.” You reached up and tapped the outer ridge of your ear, which meant your arm lifted and your top shifted and you watched his eyes drop again, briefly, before they came back to yours like he wasn’t the least bit embarrassed about it. “I’ve been putting it off. I’m in a decisive mood.”
“Decisive,” he said.
“Very.”
“I can see that.” He said it like it meant something else. Then: “How much have you had tonight?”
“Enough to be excellent company.”
He looked at you. Really looked — quiet and thorough, taking in your face, the flush across your chest, the way you were leaning on his counter in that top — and then his tongue pressed briefly against his cheek like he was trying not to smile properly. “Can’t pierce you with alcohol in your system, baby.”
Baby. Like he’d been calling you that for years. Like it was already established. “That’s a rule?” you said.
“That’s the rule.”
You leaned further onto the counter, closing some of the distance between you. His eyes went exactly where you expected them to go and stayed there for a beat longer than was professional before dragging back up. His expression didn’t change. He was completely comfortable with being caught, which was — honestly — impressive. “What if I promised to be very good?” you said.
“I’m sure you would be.” His voice was smooth, unhurried. “Still no.”
“What if—”
“You can come back tomorrow,” he said. “Sober. I’ll pierce your tragus.” A pause, his eyes dropping once more, quick and deliberate, before landing back on yours. “Or whatever else you want.”
The air between you did something. “That sounds like more than a professional offer,” you said.
“I’m a professional.” The smirk was fully settled now. “The offer’s professional. What you do with it is up to you.”
You held his gaze. He held yours back without any effort at all, completely at ease, like this was just how Tuesday night went for him. It was annoying. It was also working. “I don’t know where this place is sober,” you said.
He was already reaching under the counter. He slid a card across the desk with two fingers — didn’t look down to do it, kept his eyes on you the whole time. STUDIO 13. NISHIMURA RIKI. PIERCING.
You picked it up. “Your personal card,” you said.
“Goes straight to me.”
“Bold.”
“Efficient,” he said.
You looked at the card. Then at him. “I’m Y/N.” His eyes went down again — unhurried, completely unapologetic, a slow look that started at your face and made its way south before coming back up — and then he said, “Y/N,” like he was just trying the name out. Like he’d be using it again. “You gonna remember that?” you said.
“Yeah,” he said simply. “I’m going to remember that.”
The way he said it made it about more than your name. Behind you, Ria made a noise she covered poorly with a fake cough. You didn’t turn around. “Come back sober,” Riki said. “I’ll take care of you.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I’m going to do it.” He picked his phone back up, easy as anything, like the conversation was filed away now and he was done performing — except the smirk stayed. “Get home safe, Y/N.” Dismissed. Warmly, cockily, with complete confidence that you’d be back.
You picked up the card, slid it into your bag, and let Soo steer you to the door because your own legs had made a decision to co-operate with his energy and you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction.
Outside Ria grabbed your arm with both hands. “Y/N. The way he looked at you—”
“Ria.”
“He looked at your tits like—”
“Ria.” Hana was fanning herself. Even Soo was quiet, which was its own verdict. The Uber was three minutes away and you looked at your phone and felt your face doing something warm that you were crediting entirely to the alcohol.
Inside, Heeseung finally looked up from his drawing tablet. He’d watched the whole thing. Ten feet away. Nobody had noticed. He looked at Riki.
Riki had his phone in his hand but he was looking at the door — at the space where you’d just been standing in that top, leaning on his counter, letting him look — with an expression Heeseung couldn’t quite name. Something had landed and settled behind his eyes.
“Who was that?” Heeseung said.
Riki looked down at his phone. “Some hot girl.”
“Some hot girl,” Heeseung repeated.
“Wanted a tragus piercing.”
“Uh huh.” Heeseung looked at the counter. At the space where Riki’s personal card had been sitting ten minutes ago, now somewhere in your bag on the way home. “You give clients your personal card often?”
Riki said nothing. Heeseung looked back at his tablet. “Right,” he said quietly, and said nothing else.
Three weeks later you were standing outside Studio 13 again and this time you were completely, annoyingly sober. “I don’t know why I’m here,” you said.
“Because Riki said come back sober and you kept his card for three weeks,” Ria said, pushing the door open.
“I kept it by accident.”
“In your purse.”
“That’s where cards go.”
“You don’t keep any other cards in your purse, Y/N. I’ve seen your purse. It’s a graveyard of receipts and one lip liner.” You followed her inside because the alternative was standing on the pavement arguing with her and you’d already lost this argument six times on the way over.
Ria had a tattoo appointment. That was the reason you were here. You were just here for moral support. You were going to sit in a chair and look at your phone and not think about the guy who had looked at you like that and said I’ll take care of you with complete sincerity and a smirk that should have been annoying.
The door swung shut behind you. Same as before — black walls, flash art, red light, the slow dark playlist. A different energy in the daytime though, busier, more lived-in. Jay was at the side counter doing something with ink caps, talking loudly to no one in particular. Jake was sweeping near the back. Heeseung was visible through the half-open door of the back room, head down, working.
No one at the front desk. You relaxed slightly. Ria was already at the counter, checking in for her appointment, and you drifted toward the flash wall and started looking at the art because it was genuinely good and also because you needed something to do with your eyes.
You heard the door from the back open. Heard footsteps. Heard someone say, “Riki, someone’s here—” You turned around because you were a person with normal human reflexes and not because your body had already clocked the name.
Riki came through the back door with a pair of gloves half-on, looking down at the appointment book, and then he looked up.
He saw Ria first. Then his eyes moved — one smooth, unhurried slide — and found you standing by the flash wall in your jeans and your jacket looking like someone who was absolutely only here for moral support. “Hey,” he said.
“Hi,” you said. There was a pause that lasted slightly too long for two people who didn’t know each other.
“You came back,” he said.
“Ria has an appointment.”
“Right.” He looked at you. “And you’re just here for Ria.”
“Correct.”
“Nothing to do with the card.”
“I forgot I even had it.”
“Uh huh.” He pulled the second glove on, still looking at you, and the smirk had settled into something warmer now — less performance, more genuinely pleased. “How’s the tragus feeling? Still decisive?”
Ria made a sound from the counter that she turned into a cough. You didn’t look at her. “I’m considering my options,” you said.
“Good answer.” He turned to Ria, professional now, easy switch. “Ria, yeah? Heeseung’s got you, he’s just finishing up. Five minutes.”
“Perfect,” Ria said, and then immediately looked at you with an expression that meant she was storing everything and you would be debriefed extensively later.
Riki came around the counter. Didn’t go back to the desk — came and stood near the flash wall, close enough to talk, far enough to be plausibly looking at the art. “You look different,” he said.
“I’m sober.”
“That’s probably it.” His eyes did the thing — a brief, easy drop and return, taking in the jacket, the jeans, the way you were standing — and then he was looking at your face again like that was just how he operated. Open about it. Unbothered. “Still good though.”
“You’re very confident,” you said.
“I’m accurate,” he said. You looked at Riki. He looked back. This close you could see the bar through his tongue properly — silver, subtle when his mouth was closed, noticeable when he talked — and the ring in his ear and the way his rings shifted when he crossed his arms.
“So,” he said. “You actually want the piercing or did you come all the way here just to tell me you forgot my card existed?”
“I could still want the piercing.”
“You could.” He tilted his head slightly. “Do you?”
You held out for three more seconds. Then: “Yeah.”
His smile did the thing again — the slow, settled version, the one that looked like satisfaction and something warmer underneath it. “On the house,” he said.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” He was already moving back toward the piercing station, unhurried, like it was decided. “Come on.”
The piercing chair was in a partitioned section near the back — semi-private, its own mirror, a tray of tools laid out with the kind of precision that told you he took this seriously. He snapped a fresh pair of gloves on and gestured to the chair and you sat down and tried to look like you were not thinking about the last time you’d been in this general vicinity, considerably less sober, telling him he had criminally pretty eyes. You were thinking about it.
He adjusted the chair height without asking, tilted the light, and then stepped in close to look at your ear. His fingers were gentle when they touched the outer ridge — thumb pressing lightly to test the cartilage, professional and careful — and he was close enough that you could smell whatever he was wearing, something dark and clean. “Tragus is a good choice,” he said, still examining your ear. “Suits you.”
“You can tell that from my ear?”
“I can tell from your face.” He stepped back, reached for the marking pen. “You’ve got good bone structure. Something small here draws attention without being loud.” He met your eyes in the mirror. “You’re already loud enough.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
“It was one.” He marked the spot with the pen — quick, precise — and then held up a small mirror so you could check the placement. His hand was steady. Everything about him was steady, which was both reassuring and slightly irritating. “Good?” he said.
“Good.”
He put the mirror down. Reached for the needle. And then paused, looking at you in the main mirror with an expression that was more direct than the smirk — more level. “You nervous?” he said.
“No.”
“Your jaw is doing something.”
“My jaw is fine.”
“Y/N.”
“I’m a little nervous,” you said. “About the needle. Not about—” You stopped.
“Not about?” he said.
You looked at him in the mirror. He looked back. The smirk was quiet right now, just his face, just the question sitting there. “The needle,” you said. “I said what I said.”
He let it go. Looked back at your ear, positioned his hands. “Breathe in,” he said. You breathed in. “Out.”
You breathed out and he moved — quick and precise and over before you’d finished processing it. A sharp bite of pressure, brief, clean, and then his hands were already switching out the needle for the jewellery, smooth and practiced. “Done,” he said.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” He stepped back to let you see in the mirror. Small flat-back stud, exactly where the mark had been, sitting perfectly. “What do you think?”
You looked at it. Turned your head slightly. It was — actually exactly right, the placement, the size, the way it sat. “I think you’re good at your job,” you said.
“I know.” But he said it lightly, without the edge, and when you looked at him in the mirror he was looking at the piercing with something that read like quiet pride. Like he actually cared that it was right.
He peeled his gloves off. Started going through aftercare — saline spray, what to avoid, how long to leave it — and you listened and watched his hands and thought about how he’d looked at you when you walked in. That slow, settled smile. You came back. Like he’d known you would. “Any questions?” he said.
“No.”
“Good.” He handed you the small aftercare card. His fingers brushed yours when he passed it over and he didn’t move his hand immediately, just let the contact sit there for a second before stepping back. “You should come back in four weeks so I can check it.”
“Is that standard?”
“For you it is.”
You looked up at him. He was close still, leaning against the counter beside the chair, arms crossed, completely at ease with the proximity and what he was saying and the way he was looking at you. “That’s a very smooth way to make a follow-up appointment,” you said.
“I’m a smooth guy.”
“You’re a cocky guy.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.” He smiled properly. “Four weeks, Y/N. I’ll be here.” From the main floor, very clearly, you heard Jay say to Jake in a voice that carried: “Twenty says she’s back in two.”
Heeseung appeared in the doorway of his room as you were walking back out to wait for Ria. He looked at you. Then at Riki, who was cleaning up the station behind you. He said nothing.
When you were out of earshot, he leaned in the doorway and looked at Riki with a level expression. Riki didn’t look up. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
Heeseung was quiet for a moment. “She coming back?”
Riki stacked the packaged jewellery back in the tray. “Four weeks.”
Heeseung looked at the ceiling. Looked back down. “Right,” he said, and went back into his room.
Riki looked up once — just once — at where you’d gone back to sit with Ria, talking and laughing, your hand coming up to touch the new piercing gently like you were checking it was real. He looked back down at the tray. Picked up his phone. Set it down again. Four weeks was a long time.
You were back in two weeks. You told yourself you had a legitimate reason. The piercing felt slightly tender on one side and the aftercare card said to come back if anything felt off and this was a medical concern, essentially, and had nothing to do with anything else. Ria, when you told her this, said “uh huh” in the exact same tone Riki had used and you’d hung up on her.
You pushed the door to Studio 13 open at four on a Thursday afternoon.
Jay was at the front counter this time. He looked up, recognized you, and his whole face did something delighted. “Y/N,” he said, like you were a returning champion.
“Hey.” You unwound your scarf. “Is Riki—”
“In the back.” Jay was already leaning back in his chair, tilting toward the hallway. “Riki.”
“I could have just—”
“RIKI. Your girl’s here.”
From the back, a pause. Then footsteps. Riki appeared in the doorway with a black coffee in one hand and his phone in the other and when he saw you something moved across his face — quick, controlled — before it settled into the usual. “Two weeks,” he said.
“I know.”
“I said four.”
“The piercing felt off.”
He looked at you. You looked back. He took a slow sip of his coffee. “Come here,” he said. Back in the piercing section again. The chair, the mirror, the tray. He set his coffee down on the counter and snapped gloves on and tilted your chin to the side with two fingers, turning your head so the light hit the piercing properly.
He was quiet while he looked. Close, the way he’d been last time, close enough that you were aware of exactly how tall he was and exactly how little space existed between you. “Looks fine,” he said.
“It felt tender.”
“New cartilage piercing. It’s going to feel tender.” He turned your head a fraction more, examining the entry and exit points. “You sleeping on it?”
“Sometimes.”
“Don’t.” His thumb pressed gently just below the piercing, checking the tissue. “You’re not rotating it, are you?”
“The card said not to.”
“People do it anyway.”
“I follow instructions.” He made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. His fingers were still at your jaw, light but there, and in the mirror you could see him looking at the piercing with that focused, careful expression he got when he was working — like the rest of him went quiet and it was just this, just the task, just making sure it was right.
“It’s fine,” he said again, quieter this time. “A little irritated but nothing bad. You’re cleaning it?”
“Twice a day.”
“Good girl.” He said it the same way he said everything — even, unbothered — and went right back to examining the piercing like he hadn’t just said it, like it was nothing, like your entire nervous system hadn’t just done something embarrassing.
He stepped back. Pulled one glove off. In the mirror you watched him look at you — your face this time, not the piercing — and the focused work expression shifted back into something more personal. His eyes moved down briefly, back up. Unhurried. Unapologetic. “You didn’t just come for the piercing check,” he said.
It wasn’t a question. “I was in the area,” you said.
“Y/N.”
“I was.”
“Okay.” He pulled the second glove off, dropped them both in the bin. Leaned against the counter beside the chair with his arms crossed, looking at you with that steady, patient expression. Like he had all the time in the world and was fully prepared to wait you out.
The rings on his fingers caught the light. The bar through his tongue was visible when he spoke and sometimes when he didn’t, a small flash of silver that your eyes kept going back to without your permission. “Can I ask you something?” you said.
“Go ahead.”
You nodded toward his mouth. “Does it affect anything? The tongue piercing.”
The corner of his mouth pulled up. He knew exactly what you were asking and you both knew you both knew it. “Depends what you mean by anything,” he said.
“Talking,” you said. “Eating.”
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t affect talking or eating.”
The way he said it made the implication sit in the room like a third person. “And what about—” you started.
“Yes,” he said simply. You looked at him. He looked back at you, completely relaxed, the smirk at about thirty percent, like he was letting you sit in the answer rather than pushing it.
“That was going to be a different question…” you said.
“Was it?” It wasn’t.
You looked away first, which you were counting as a tactical retreat rather than losing, and he made that almost-laugh sound again and pushed off the counter. “Come out front,” he said. “I’ll get you the saline to take home.”
Jay was now pretending to organize a drawer he had clearly already organized when you came back out. Jake had appeared from somewhere and was leaning on the wall near the door with his phone out. The effort to look casual was extraordinary.
Riki went behind the counter, got the saline, slid it across to you.“Stop sleeping on it,” he said.
“I’ll try.”
“Don’t try. Just don’t do it.”
“You’re bossy,” you said.
“I’m thorough.” He leaned on the counter. His forearms were right there, the sleeve on full display this close — you’d been trying not to look at it properly but it was a lot of work. Intricate blackwork, something that looked botanical near his wrist, darker geometry climbing toward his elbow. “Like the sleeve?” he said.
You looked up. He’d caught you. “It’s good work,” you said.
“Heeseung did most of it.”
“Heeseung tattooed you?”
“First one when I started here.” Something shifted slightly in his face — not closed off, just more considered. “Kind of a thing between us.”
You wanted to ask what kind of thing. Something in how he’d said it made you not push. “You do your own piercings?” you said instead.
He tilted his head so you could see the earring. “This one.”
“Doesn’t that hurt more when it’s yourself?”
“Yeah.”
“And you did it anyway.”
“I do most things anyway,” he said. He said it lightly but there was something under it, something matter-of-fact about pain being a variable he’d simply accounted for. You looked at him for a second longer than you meant to. “Four weeks,” he said, quieter now, just to you. “Come back in four weeks and I’ll check it properly. And if you’re in the area before that—” he held your gaze — “you know where we are.”
“Very smooth,” you said.
“You keep saying that.”
“You keep proving it.” He smiled. The real one — not the smirk, not the performance, the actual smile that did something to his whole face. You’d only seen it once before, the night you came in drunk when he laughed at something Ria said, and it was worse up close and sober.
You picked up the saline. Shouldered your bag. “Thanks for checking it,” you said.
“Anytime.”
You were halfway to the door when Jay said, loudly, to no one: “Two weeks. Called it.”
“Jay,” Riki said, flat.
“I’m just saying—”
“Jay.” You pushed the door open and let it close on whatever Jay said next. On the pavement you breathed in cold air and stood there for a second. I do most things anyway. You thought about that the whole way home.
You texted Ria that night.
you: the piercing was fine btw. just irritated.
Ria: sure
you: it was a legitimate medical concern
Ria: how did he look
you: that’s not relevant
Ria: how did he LOOK
You stared at your phone. Put it face down. Picked it up again.
you: good. he looked good. go to sleep.
Ria: 😭😭😭 Y/N YOU ARE SO DOWN BAD
You put your phone on the charger and lay on your back in the dark and stared at the ceiling. The bar through his tongue caught the light when he talked. Yes, he’d said. Like it was nothing. Like he said it every day. You put a pillow over your face.
Across the city, Studio 13 was closing up. Heeseung was cashing out. Jake was wiping down surfaces. Jay was retelling the afternoon to Sunghoon, who had come in for his evening shift and was listening with the specific expression of someone enjoying information they could use later.
Riki was at the piercing station. Cleaning the tray. Doing the same task he’d done a hundred times. “She came back in two weeks,” Jay said.
“I heard,” Sunghoon said.
“I called it.”
“You did call it.”
“Riki,” Jay said. “You owe me twenty.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” Riki said. “We didn’t make a bet.”
“Spiritually we did.” Riki said nothing. Put the tray away.
“She’s coming back in four weeks,” Jay told Sunghoon.
“Or two,” Sunghoon said.
“Or two,” Jay agreed.
“Both of you,” Riki said, without heat, “can shut up.”
They did not shut up. He let them talk and went back to the tray and thought about the way you’d looked at his mouth when you asked about the piercing. The way your eyes had gone somewhere specific and come back and you’d tried to cover it with a different question.
He’d watched the answer land. Had watched you process it and look away and call it a tactical retreat when it wasn’t. He was good at reading people. He’d had to be, for a long time, for reasons that had nothing to do with tattoo shops or piercing chairs.
You were going to come back before four weeks. He put the tray away and picked up his coffee and didn’t say any of that out loud.
You were back in ten days. You didn’t have a reason this time. You’d run out of reasons. You showed up at three on a Wednesday with two coffees and the vague awareness that something had shifted from I’m in the area to something you didn’t have a word for yet. Jay opened the door before you reached it. “She’s got coffee,” he announced into the shop.
“Jay—”
“Is one of those for me?” He was already holding the door open, looking at the cups in your hand with genuine hope.
“No.”
“Y/N.”
“I brought two.”
“There are multiple people here who drink coffee.”
“There are two coffees,” you said. “Do the math.”
Jay looked wounded. You walked past him into the shop and he let the door close and called after you: “I’m telling Riki you were mean to me.”
“Please do.” Riki was at the front counter. Actually at the counter this time, not coming through from the back, sitting on the stool with his forearms on the desk and his phone in his hand. He looked up when you came in and his eyes went straight to the cups. Then to your face. Then he smiled — not the smirk, not the performance, just a real and immediate thing that he didn’t seem to think about first. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” You put one of the coffees on the counter in front of him. “I didn’t know how you take it.”
He looked at the cup. Looked at you. “Black is fine,” he said.
“Lucky guess.”
“Is it?” He picked it up. His fingers overlapped yours on the cup for a second before you let go — brief, probably accidental, neither of you addressed it. He took a sip. Put it down. “Ten days.”
“I know.”
“Getting closer to two weeks, not further.”
“I’ve been busy,” you said. “This was the first chance I had to—”
“Y/N.”
“What?”
“You don’t need a reason,” he said simply. You looked at him. He looked back, completely even, like he’d just said something neutral about the weather. “Sit down.”
That was how it started. Not with anything dramatic. Just you sitting on the other side of the counter on a Wednesday afternoon with a coffee while Riki worked through his admin, and the conversation that happened around it — easy and unhurried, drifting from one thing to another, the kind of talk that didn’t feel like it was going anywhere because it didn’t need to.
You learned things without asking for them. That he’d been at Studio 13 for two years. That he and Jay had met here. That he had opinions about piercing placement that were borderline philosophical and he’d share them unprompted if you let him.
He learned things back. That you were in your final year. That Ria had been your best friend since you were sixteen. That you had three other piercings already and had done two of them yourself, which made him look up from his phone with an expression that was equal parts impressed and horrified. “You did your own helix,” he said.
“With a kit.”
“A kit.”
“People do it.”
“People also do a lot of things I have to fix,” he said, and leaned across the counter to look at your ear without asking. His fingers found the helix piercing, examining it with the same careful focus he brought to everything, and you sat very still. “It’s crooked,” he said.
“I know.”
“I can fix it.”
“I know.”
He was still looking at your ear, close, his thumb light against the cartilage. “Why haven’t you?”
“I kept meaning to.” You paused. “And then I found Studio 13 and I figured I’d—”
You stopped. He pulled back just enough to look at your face. His expression said he’d heard the end of the sentence even though you hadn’t said it. “Figured you’d what?” he said.
“Come here eventually,” you said. “For things.”
The smirk appeared. “For things.”
“Piercings.”
“Right.” He stepped back, let you breathe, picked his coffee back up. “I’ll fix it whenever you want.”
“Add it to my tab.”
“You don’t have a tab. Everything I do to you is on the house.” He said it completely straight and then looked at his phone, leaving you to sit in the everything I do to you by yourself.
Jay appeared from the back at that exact moment, looked at you both, looked at the counter between you, and went directly back the way he came without saying anything, which was somehow more powerful than if he had.
Hana came with you the following Wednesday. She had been angling to see the shop since Ria had described it in approximately four hundred texts and the second she walked in she stopped in the middle of the floor and looked around with wide eyes. “Oh,” she said. “Oh this place is cool.”
Jake, who was at the side counter, looked up. Hana looked at Jake. Jake looked at Hana. You filed that away.
Riki was with a client in the piercing section — you could see him through the partition, gloved up, talking the client through something in that low steady voice. You hadn’t told him you were coming. You weren’t sure why, except that you’d wanted to know what it felt like to walk in and see him before he saw you. It felt like something, as it turned out.
He was focused on his client, head tilted, hands precise. He’d pushed his sleeves up and the full length of the tattoo was visible now — blackwork that climbed from his wrist to somewhere past his elbow, detailed and dark. He was saying something that made the client laugh. Patient and calm and completely in his element.
You stood there and looked at him for maybe four seconds too long.
“Y/N,” Hana said quietly beside you.
“What.”
“You’ve got a face on.”
“I don’t have a face.”
“You’ve got a very specific face.” She looked at Riki. Looked at you. “Oh you are done.”
“I’m looking at the flash art,” you said, and turned to look at the flash art.
Jay materialized at your shoulder. “She does this every time,” he told Hana, like you weren’t standing right there. “Comes in, looks at him, then looks at the wall.”
“I can hear you,” you said.
“I know.” Jay smiled. “Coffee?”
Riki’s client left at half past three. He came through from the partition still pulling his gloves off and stopped when he saw you and Hana at the counter with Jay. The gloves came off slower. “You didn’t text,” he said to you.
“Spontaneous visit.”
“Hm.” He dropped the gloves, came around to the main counter. His eyes moved to Hana briefly, assessing, friendly. “Friend?”
“Hana,” you said. “She wanted to see the shop.”
“Welcome.” He said it to Hana and then his attention came back to you in that way it always did — like you were the fixed point and everything else was peripheral. “How’s the piercing?”
“Fine. Good.”
“You sleeping on it?”
“Mostly not.”
“Y/N.”
“Mostly not. I’m a side sleeper, it’s a process.”
He leaned on the counter. His coffee was cold by now but he picked it up anyway. “I’ll fix the helix today if you want. While you’re here.”
“Yeah?”
“Chair’s free.” Hana’s elbow found your ribs with surgical precision. You ignored it.
“Okay,” you said.
The helix took ten minutes. Precise, careful, the same focused quiet he brought every time. Afterwards he checked the tragus — habit, he said, like that was a normal thing, like of course he was checking it — and you sat in the chair and let him and looked at his face in the mirror while he was looking at your ear.
Up close like this you could see things you couldn’t from the other side of a counter. The small scar through his left eyebrow, barely visible. The way his jaw set when he was concentrating. The rings on his fingers — he took them off for client work and put them back on after, and watching him slide them back on was a thing you were apparently noticing now.
He caught you in the mirror. Didn’t call you out. Just held your gaze for a second and then looked back at the piercing, and the corner of his mouth moved slightly. “Good,” he said. “Helix looks better. You’ll need to re-do the aftercare cycle.”
“I know.”
“You actually know or you’re saying you know?”
“Riki.”
“I’ll write it down.”
“I literally work a piercing counter in my memory called things Riki has told me,” you said.
He went still for a half second. Then: “Yeah?”
“You’re very thorough,” you said. “It sticks.”
He looked at you in the mirror. Steady, quiet, something behind his eyes that was more than the usual easy confidence — something that had weight to it. “Good,” he said, quieter.
He stepped back. Started cleaning up. Normal, routine, the way he always moved through the shop like everything was exactly where it was supposed to be. “Same time next week?” he said. It wasn’t really a question.
“Sure,” you said.
In the main shop, Hana was sitting on the counter watching Jake explain the difference between traditional and neo-traditional tattooing with the energy of someone who had found religion. Jay was watching this with profound satisfaction. When you came back out Hana looked at you and then at Riki behind you and then at you again. “We should go,” you said.
“Should we,” Hana said.
“Yes.”
“Jake was just explaining—”
“Hana.” She got up, reluctantly, and said goodbye to Jake in a way that suggested she was also going to be back before four weeks. Jake watched her go with an expression that Riki clocked and then looked away from like he hadn’t seen it.
At the door you turned back. Riki was at the counter, already on his phone, or pretending to be. “Thanks for the helix,” you said.
“Anytime.” He didn’t look up. “Wednesday?”
“Wednesday,” you said. Jay made a noise. Riki didn’t look at him. You pushed the door open and the cold air hit you and behind you you heard Jay say, quiet and satisfied to no one in particular: “Regular.”
The Wednesday visits became a thing. Not every week, sometimes every ten days, but consistent enough that Jay started having your coffee order ready. Consistent enough that Jake stopped looking surprised when you walked in. Consistent enough that Heeseung, who said little and noticed everything, started nodding at you when you arrived like you’d passed some quiet assessment he’d been running.
Riki never texted first. You did sometimes — nothing significant, a meme about piercings, a question about aftercare that you probably knew the answer to. He always replied. Never with much. But always.
The counter between you was becoming a problem. Not the physical one — the metaphorical one. The distance that was exactly the right size for this isn’t anything yet and felt increasingly inadequate for what was actually happening in the space between you every Wednesday afternoon. He looked at you like you were a decision he’d already made. You were starting to think you had too.
Daniel texted on a Thursday.
Daniel: hey, haven’t seen you around much. you ok?
You stared at it. You and Daniel had two seminars together and a loose group chat and approximately nothing else, and this was the third text this week.
you: yeah all good, just busy
Daniel: we should get coffee sometime
you: I’m pretty slammed rn, sorry
You thought nothing of it. You mentioned it to Riki the following Wednesday — offhand, in the middle of a conversation about something else, not thinking. “This guy in my seminar keeps texting,” you said. “It’s starting to get annoying.”
Riki was writing something on the appointment book. His pen slowed.“What guy?” he said.
“Daniel. We’re in the same module. He keeps asking for coffee.” Riki’s pen stopped. You looked up. His face was the same — neutral, easy — but something had shifted underneath it. Something had gone very still in the specific way of a thing that was actively being held still.
“You said no?” he said.
“Obviously. I’m not interested.”
A pause. He looked back at the appointment book. Wrote something. “Good,” he said.
Just that. Good. You looked at him for a second. “Riki.”
“Hm.”
“Are you—”
“Helix check,” he said, and stood up from the stool. You let him redirect you. Sat in the chair. Let him check the helix he’d fixed two weeks ago and didn’t need to check again. His hands were as steady as they always were. His voice was as even.
But when you looked at him in the mirror his jaw was set in a way it wasn’t usually and his eyes, when they met yours in the reflection, had something in them that was more than the usual warm certainty. Something that looked a lot like mine with nowhere to go yet. You looked away first. Neither of you said anything about it.
Daniel was waiting outside your seminar on Tuesday. Not accidentally. He was leaning on the wall opposite the door with his phone out, and when you came through he pushed off and fell into step beside you like it was coordinated, like he’d timed it. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” You kept walking.
“Good seminar?”
“It was fine.”
“I thought Professor Kim made a good point about the—”
“Daniel.” You stopped. Turned to face him. He was decent looking, objectively — tall, friendly face, the kind of guy who probably did well in situations where persistence read as flattering. “What’s going on?”
He smiled. Easy, practiced. “I was thinking we could grab that coffee.”
“I said I was slammed.”
“You’re not slammed right now.”
“I have somewhere to be.”
“Where?”
You looked at him. “That’s not really—”
“I’ll walk you,” he said. Like that was a reasonable response. Like the answer to I have somewhere to be was I’ll come.
“Daniel.” You kept your voice even. “I appreciate it but I’m not interested. Okay? Not trying to be harsh, just being clear.”
Something moved across his face — not anger, more like recalibration, like he was filing this away as a temporary obstacle. “Maybe just as friends,” he said.
“I’m good. Thanks though.” You walked away. Heard him say something behind you — see you Thursday — and didn’t respond. You texted Ria about it on the bus.
you: the Daniel thing is getting annoying
Ria: what happened?
you: he waited outside my seminar
Ria: ew
you: I told him straight I’m not interested
Ria: good. are you telling riki?
You stared at that.
you: why would I tell riki??
Ria: because you tell riki everything now??
you: I do not tell riki everything
Ria: you told him about your mum’s cat
you: that came up naturally and I’m not telling him, it’s not a big deal
You put your phone in your bag. You didn’t tell him.
Wednesday came and you sat at the counter with your coffee and talked about other things — Hana and Jake’s ongoing situation, which was developing at a glacial pace that was driving Ria insane. A new flash piece Heeseung had drawn that you’d been looking at for twenty minutes when you came in. Whether you should get a second tragus on the other ear. “Yes,” Riki said, without hesitation.
“That’s a very immediate answer.”
“It’s an obvious answer.” He looked at your ears, both sides, that assessing look. “Symmetrical double tragus. Come in next week.”
“Maybe I want to think about it.”
“You don’t need to think about it.”
“Riki.”
“You came in drunk wanting a tragus piercing,” he said. “You knew then. You know now.”
You looked at him. He looked back with the patience of someone who was completely certain and was willing to wait for you to catch up. “Fine,” you said.
He smiled. “Next week,” he said.
The following Tuesday Daniel was outside your seminar again. This time you saw him before he saw you and you changed direction, took the long way to the exit, added seven minutes to your walk. Small, manageable.
On Thursday he was in the coffee queue behind you. “Coincidence,” he said, and smiled at you, and you smiled back tightly and paid for your coffee and left.
On Friday he messaged. Again.
Daniel: hey saw you in the queue yesterday, why’d you leave so fast?
You didn’t reply. And he messaged again on Saturday.
Daniel: did I do something wrong?
You showed it to Ria over the phone that night. She was quiet for a second. “He’s not taking the hint,” she said.
“I didn’t hint. I said directly I wasn’t interested.”
“Then he’s not taking the direct statement.”
“Yeah.”
Another pause. “Tell Riki.”
“Ria—”
“Y/N I’m serious, tell—”
“It’s fine. I can handle it.”
“I know you can handle it, that’s not the—” She stopped. “Just tell him. You know you want to.” You didn’t answer that.
Wednesday came around, you’d been at the counter for forty minutes. Jay had come and gone twice. Jake had shown Hana something on his phone that made her laugh and Riki had looked at that for approximately one second before very deliberately looking elsewhere.
You were mid-sentence about something — your dissertation, probably, you’d been complaining about your dissertation — when the door opened.
Sunghoon came in from his afternoon off, still in his jacket, unwinding his scarf. He was unfairly attractive and moved through the shop like he knew it, dropping his bag behind the counter and immediately coming over to where you were sitting. “Y/N.” He leaned on the counter beside Riki’s stool, friendly, easy. “How’s the tragus?”
“Good.” You touched it briefly. “Riki’s doing the other side next week.”
“Nice. You should let me draw something for you. Little custom piece, just here—” he touched his own collarbone— “would suit you.”
“Yeah?”
“Hundred percent.” He looked at Riki. “Right?” Riki was looking at his phone. “Riki,” Sunghoon said.
“Hm.” He didn’t look up. Sunghoon looked at you with a small what’s his problem expression. You looked back with a I genuinely don’t know expression.
You talked to Sunghoon for twenty more minutes. He was easy to talk to — funny, straightforward, the kind of person who filled a room without trying. He showed you his portfolio on his phone, talked you through a couple of pieces, asked about your university course with actual interest.
Riki stayed on his stool. He wasn’t on his phone. You could tell because you kept looking over and the screen was dark. He was just sitting there in the specific stillness of something being actively held in place, forearms on the desk, jaw set. When Sunghoon went to the back to change into his work clothes you turned to Riki. “What’s wrong with you?” you said.
“Nothing.”
“You’ve said four words in the last twenty minutes.”
“I’ve been busy.”
You looked at the dark phone screen. Looked at him. “Riki.”
“I’m fine.” He finally looked at you. His face was even, controlled, the expression he wore when he was putting effort into the expression. “You want more coffee?”
“No.” You kept your voice low. Jay and Jake were across the room but still. “Talk to me.”
Something moved behind his eyes. For a second you thought he was going to — actually going to, drop whatever this was and say it. His jaw shifted. His eyes moved over your face and then away. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Forget it.”
You looked at him for a long moment. He looked at the counter. You picked up your bag. “I’m going to head,” you said.
He looked up then. Quick, like he hadn’t expected it. “You don’t have to—”
“I have stuff to do.” You stood up. Your voice was even, you’d made sure of it. “I’ll see you next week for the tragus.”
“Y/N—”
“Bye, Riki.” You said goodbye to Jay on the way out. Waved at Jake. Pushed the door open into the cold.
Behind you, through the glass, you heard Jay say something. Heard Riki’s voice, short and clipped. Didn’t hear the words. You walked to the bus stop and stared at the road and felt something hot and frustrated sitting in your chest that you didn’t have a clean name for.
He texted at nine that night.
Riki: I’m sorry about today
You stared at it.
Riki: I get like that sometimes. I don’t like it.
Another one, a minute later.
Riki: It wasn’t about Sunghoon. It wasn’t about you.
Riki: ok it was about Sunghoon.
You sat on your bed with your phone in your hand and read that three times.
you: do you want to tell me what “getting like that” means??
A pause. Longer than his usual response time.
Riki: Not over text. Wednesday?
you: yeah
you: Riki, Sunghoon was just being friendly
Riki: I know. I know that. It doesn’t always
The message cut off. Like he’d deleted the end of it and sent what was left.
Riki: Wednesday. I’ll explain.
Riki: night Y/N
You got there at three. Jay handed you your coffee without being asked and then found somewhere else to be, which meant Riki had said something to him beforehand, which meant he’d been thinking about this. Riki was at the counter. He looked up when you came in and the usual ease wasn’t fully there — not gone, just quieter, like he’d dialed something back. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” You sat down. Wrapped both hands around the coffee. “So.”
“So.” He exhaled. Looked at the counter for a second, then at you. “I get possessive.” He said it straight. No build up, no softening — just put it on the counter between you like something he’d decided you should see.
“Okay,” you said.
“I don’t like it,” he said. “It’s not — I’m not trying to make it your problem. I know Sunghoon wasn’t doing anything. I know you weren’t doing anything. It just—” He stopped. His jaw shifted. “It sits wrong. Someone else in your space. Being the thing making you laugh.”
You looked at him. His eyes were on the counter, which was unusual — Riki who held eye contact through everything. “Has it always been like that?” you said.
“Yeah.” Simple. “Better than it used to be.”
“What was it like before?”
He looked up. “Worse.” A pause. “I dealt with it badly. I’m not—” He stopped again. “I’m not like that anymore. I don’t act on it. But I feel it and sometimes it makes me go quiet and disappear into my own head and that’s not fair to you.”
You sat with that. “Why are you telling me this?” you said.
He held your gaze. “Because you asked.”
“People don’t always answer when you ask.”
“I know.” Something in his face. “You should know what you’re—” He stopped himself again, and you heard the end of that sentence clearly even without the words. What you’re getting into. What I am.
“Riki,” you said. “If Sunghoon had been doing something—” You held his eyes. “Or anyone. I’d handle it. That’s not— I’m not someone who needs protecting from other people’s attention.”
“I know that.”
“But I’m also not—” You paused. Chose the words. “I’m not interested in other people’s attention. Okay? That’s just—” You shrugged. “That’s just where I’m at.”
The silence that followed had weight to it. Riki looked at you. Really looked — the way he did sometimes, like he was reading something underneath the surface of what you’d said, like he was checking if you meant it.You meant it. “Okay,” he said quietly.
“Okay,” you said.
He exhaled. Something in his shoulders dropped slightly — barely visible, but there. “Tragus,” he said.
“Tragus,” you agreed. He stood up from the stool. And as he passed behind the counter his hand came down briefly on yours where it rested on the surface — just for a second, just his fingers over your knuckles, warm and solid — and then he was moving through to the piercing section and the moment was gone.
You sat there for a second. Then you followed him. Across the room Jay looked at Heeseung in the doorway of his office. Heeseung looked back. Neither of them said anything.
It happened on a Friday. Not a Wednesday. Not planned. You’d come in with Hana at five because she’d finally committed to a small piece on her ankle and wanted moral support, and by the time Jake was finishing up the linework the shop had emptied out — Sunghoon’s last client gone, Jay heading out with his jacket half on, Heeseung locking his office with his keys already in his hand. “You good to close?” Heeseung said to Riki.
“Yeah.” Riki was wiping down the front counter. “Go.” Heeseung looked at you. Brief, unreadable. Looked back at Riki. Said nothing and left. Jay pointed finger guns at you on his way out. You ignored him.
Jake finished Hana’s piece at half past six. She sat up and looked at it in the mirror with the expression of someone who had just made a very good decision, and then she looked at you and at Riki and made a different kind of decision entirely. “I’ll get a cab,” she said.
“I’ll come,” you said.
“You don’t have to.” Serene. Innocent. Absolutely deliberate. “I’m fine on my own.”
“Hana—”
“I’ll text you when I’m home.” She hugged you, said goodbye to Jake, said goodbye to Riki with a smile that communicated volumes, and then she was gone and Jake was heading out behind her and the door swung shut and the shop was quiet.
Just you and Riki. He was at the front counter. You were near the piercing section. The red light was low and the playlist had shifted to something slower, something with bass underneath it, and the flash art on the walls looked different when there was no one else here — more intimate, like the shop had exhaled. “You can head,” Riki said. He wasn’t looking at you. Wiping the counter, routine.
“I know,” you said.
You didn’t move. He stopped wiping. The silence lasted four seconds. You counted. Then he looked up. The expression on his face wasn’t the smirk. Wasn’t the work focus. It was something stripped back — something that had been running underneath everything for weeks and was apparently done waiting. “Y/N,” he said. Low.
“Yeah,” you said. Like you were answering a question he hadn’t asked yet.
He put the cloth down. He came around the counter and crossed the floor and he didn’t stop until he was right in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up slightly, and his hand came up to your jaw — not grabbing, just his fingers along the side of your face, tilting you toward him — and he looked at you for one more second like he was making absolutely sure.
Whatever he saw made his mind up. He kissed you and it was nothing like the slow build you’d been expecting — it was immediate, certain, his mouth on yours like he’d been thinking about it for weeks because he had been, and you got your hands into his shirt and kissed him back and the sound he made low in his throat did something catastrophic to your ability to think.
His hands moved — jaw, then your waist, pulling you in until there was no space left between you — and you felt the rings on his fingers through the fabric of your top and his body was solid and warm and there, fully there, nothing held back.
You bit his lower lip without planning to. He pulled back half an inch. His eyes were dark, his breathing had changed, and he looked at you with an expression that rearranged something in your chest. “Do that again,” he said quietly, “and we’re not stopping.”
“Good,” you said. And you did it again. He walked you back until your shoulders hit the wall beside the piercing partition — not rough, controlled, one hand flat against the wall beside your head and the other at your waist, and he kissed you deeper this time, slower, like he had you exactly where he wanted and wasn’t in any rush now that he did.
His tongue — god, his tongue, the bar was there and present and you felt it and made a sound into his mouth that you would have been embarrassed about if his hand hadn’t tightened on your waist the second you did it. “There it is,” he said against your mouth.
“Shut up,” you breathed.
“You’ve been thinking about it.” Not a question. His lips moved to your jaw, your neck, unhurried. “Since I told you.”
“Riki—”
“Yes,” he said, quoting you back to yourself, and you felt him smile against your throat.
“You’re so—”
“I know.” He pulled back to look at you. His hair was slightly wrecked, his eyes were very dark, and he looked at you with the kind of focus he usually reserved for his work — total, precise, like you were something he intended to get exactly right. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you to stop talking,” you said.
“No you don’t.” He was right. You didn’t.
“I want—” You stopped. His thumb had found the hem of your top, tracing the skin at your waist, barely moving, just there. Your brain was doing something unhelpful. “I want you to keep going.”
“Keep going,” he repeated. Like he was logging it. “That’s not very specific.”
“Riki.”
“I want to hear you say it.” His voice had dropped, lower than usual, and there was something in it — not a demand exactly, more like an invitation with weight behind it, like he already knew and wanted you to catch up. “Tell me.”
You looked at him. He looked back, steady, patient, his thumb still tracing that small arc at your waist.
“I’ve wanted you for weeks,” you said. “You know that.”
“I know.” He leaned in, his mouth at your ear. “I wanted to hear you say it.” His hands moved — both of them, finding the hem of your top, sliding underneath to your bare waist, warm palms spreading across your skin — and you exhaled shakily and his mouth came back to yours and the patience dissolved.
Somewhere on the walk from the counter to the wall you got his shirt off and you put your hands on his chest and then his stomach and then lower and found the waistband of his jeans and his breath caught — actually caught, an involuntary thing, the first crack in the steady control — and you looked up at him.
His jaw was tight. His eyes were dark and fixed on your face. “Keep going,” he said. His own words back. Low and rough. You undid his jeans. Your hand found him and he was — there was a Jacob’s ladder — you stopped. He watched your face process it.
“Riki,” you said.
“Yeah.” His voice was rough now, the evenness wearing thin at the edges.
“When were you going to—”
“When it came up.”
“It’s come up.”
“It has,” he agreed, and something in his expression was almost amused except he was too far gone for amused, too focused, his hands gripping your waist with more pressure than before. “Still want to keep going?”
You looked at him. “Are you serious right now.”
He laughed — real, brief, surprised out of him — and then his forehead dropped to yours and you felt him exhale and then his mouth was on yours again and the laughing was done. Your jacket off your shoulders and it hit the floor and his mouth was on your throat before it landed — open, hot, his tongue against your pulse point and the piercing bar cool against your skin and you made a sound that echoed off the black walls. “Riki—”
“I know.” His hands were at the hem of your top, shoving it up, impatient in a way that cracked the usual control wide open. “Off.”
You got it off and his hands were on your tits and his mouth came back to yours.
He walked you back into the wall beside the piercing partition — not slow, not careful, just direct — and pinned you there with his body and his hands were everywhere and yours were too and it was nothing like the slow careful thing you’d half imagined. It was desperate. Both of you. Weeks of it.
“You have no idea,” he said against your jaw, your throat, lower, his mouth on your collarbone, “how long I’ve—” He stopped. His teeth grazed your skin. “Fuck.”
“Tell me,” you breathed.
“Since you walked in here in that dress,” he said into your skin. “Since you leaned on my counter and looked at me like that. I’ve been—” His hands found your jeans, the button, the zip. “Since then.” He shoved your jeans down your hips and you kicked them off and his hand pushed between your thighs and found your pussy through the thin fabric still there and pressed and your hips rolled forward hard.
“There,” he said. Low, rough, satisfied. “There you are.” His fingers moved — slow, deliberate, feeling the heat of you through the fabric — and he looked at your face while he did it. Watching. Taking everything. “Soaked already,” he said. “Were you like this the whole time?”
“Don’t—” you started.
“You were.” He pushed the fabric aside and his fingers touched your folds directly and you choked on a breath. The rings were cold, the contrast of it shocking and good and — “Riki—”
“Good girl,” he said quietly. Like it meant something. Like you’d done something right just by responding to him. His fingers moved through your folds and found your clit and you grabbed his shoulders and held on. “So wet. So fucking — look at you.”
“Please—”
“Please what.” His fingers kept moving, unhurried despite everything, despite the fact that you could feel how much he wanted this — felt it against your hip, hard, his own breathing gone ragged at the edges. “Say it.”
“I need—”
“Say it, Y/N.”
“I need you to fuck me,” you said. “Now, Riki, please—” He made a sound low in his throat and his fingers disappeared and he was shoving his own jeans down, just enough, barely, one hand braced on the wall beside your head — and then he looked at you, dark eyes and wrecked hair and jaw set hard.
“Here?” he said. Rough. “Right here?”
“Yes—”
His hand found your pussy again, two fingers pushing inside, testing, and you made an embarrassing sound and he groaned at the feel of you — “fuck you’re—” — and then his fingers were gone and he was there, the head of his cock at your entrance, and you hooked your leg over his hip. He pushed in. Both of you went still. His forehead dropped to yours. Your nails were in his shoulders. The Jacob’s ladder — you felt every single one and your mouth fell open and you heard him exhale shakily above you. “Riki—”
“I know.” His voice was barely there. “I know, just — fuck — just give me a second—”
“Don’t stop,” you said. “Don’t stop, keep—”
He moved. There was nothing controlled about it. That was the thing — Riki who was steady and certain and always in possession of himself — gone. Completely. He fucked you against the wall with his jeans half down and yours on the floor and his rings cold against your thigh where he’d hooked your leg higher and the bar of his tongue in his teeth when he looked at you and it was overwhelming, the closeness of it, the sound of it in the empty shop.
“Good,” he said, rough and low, his hips rolling into you, setting a pace that had your head dropping back against the wall. “Good girl, just like — yeah, just like that—”
“More—”
“Yeah?” He shifted his angle and you cried out and he did it again, deliberate, watching your face. “There?”
“Yes — yes, don’t stop—”
“I’ve got you.” His mouth found your throat. “I’ve got you, you’re doing so — fuck, Y/N, you feel—” He broke off. His rhythm stuttered and recovered. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”
The praise landed somewhere it had no business landing, warm and devastating, and your hips were moving to meet him and your clit was grinding against him with every thrust and you were already… “Riki I’m going to—”
“Do it,” he said immediately. “Cum for me. Come on.” His hand moved between you and his thumb found your clit and pressed and you shattered — your whole body going taut, his name in your mouth, your nails breaking skin on his shoulders — and he fucked you through it, relentless, not letting up—
“That’s it,” he said against your ear, rough and wrecked. “That’s it, good girl, god you’re—” He followed you over the edge not long after — his rhythm breaking, his breath gone, his forehead hard against the wall beside your head — and the sound he made when he came was low and helpless and you felt it everywhere.
There was silence that followed apart from the playlist over the shop speakers. The red light under the door still illuminated. Both of you still against the wall like butter of you planned to move soon, his weight partly on you and partly on his arm and neither of you in any hurry to fix that.
Your leg slid down from his hip. He pulled back enough to look at your face. His hair was completely wrecked. His mouth was slightly swollen. He looked at you with an expression that had nothing performed in it — just open, just him, something that hadn’t had a name all this time and still didn’t quite yet. “Hi,” he said.
You laughed. Surprised out of you, real. He smiled — the real one, the one that changed his whole face — and pressed it briefly into your hair.
You found the back room couch eventually. His shirt on your shoulders. The rings back on his fingers because he’d put them on out of habit and then looked at his own hands like he hadn’t noticed himself doing it. You lay on your back. He sat with his back against the couch, forearm on his knee, looking at the floor. “So,” you said.
“So,” he said.
“What happens now?” you said.
He was quiet for a moment. “What do you want?”
You thought about the card in your bag. The Wednesdays. The way he’d looked at you across the counter every single time like you were a decision he’d already made. “I don’t know yet,” you said. Honest.
“Okay,” he said. Easy. No pressure in it. His hand found yours in the dark. Didn’t make anything of it. Just held on. You stayed on the couch until the playlist rolled over twice. At some point the I don’t know yet became irrelevant because his mouth found your throat again and his hands were back under his shirt on your skin and the question got buried under something more immediate.
You left at nine. He walked you to the door. Held it open, leaned in the frame. The cold air hit you and you turned back. He looked wrecked and unbothered about it. Shirt on, jeans done up, rings on every finger. Hair a disaster. Looking at you with that expression — the settled one, the certain one. “Wednesday,” he said. You nodded.
Neither of you said anything about what it was. That was the agreement, unspoken, the way most things between you and Riki were unspoken. You came in on Wednesdays. Sometimes other days. Sometimes he texted at ten at night — nothing explicit, just you up or studio’s empty — and you went, and nobody named what that meant. It worked. Mostly.
The sex was — there wasn’t a word for it that didn’t sound inadequate. Compulsive was close. Inevitable was closer. Like once the wall had come down neither of you had any interest in rebuilding it, like your bodies had been having a conversation for months and were now just speaking plainly.
He learned you fast. Faster than anyone had. What made you gasp versus what made you come apart completely. The difference between what you asked for and what you actually wanted. He paid attention the way he paid attention to everything — totally, precisely — and used it with a focus that should have been illegal.
You learned him too. That the control was real but thin in the right circumstances. That his jaw set right before it cracked. That he made sounds he didn’t seem to know he was making. That he said your name differently when he was close — shorter, sharper, like he didn’t have room for the full shape of it. That he always, always pulled you back when you tried to move away after. Not possessive. Just — unwilling to let the warmth go yet. You were trying very hard not to think about what that meant.
Three weeks after the first time, on a Tuesday night, you were in the back room of Studio 13 with Riki’s shirt on the floor and your jeans somewhere near the door and his mouth on your throat and his hand between your thighs and the playlist coming through the walls and everything was fine, everything was exactly what it was, unnamed and manageable —
And then he said I’ve got you in that low rough voice right against your ear and something in your chest did a thing it wasn’t supposed to do. You filed it away. Dealt with it later. Later didn’t come because he did something with his tongue that made later completely irrelevant.
Wednesday afternoon. Counter. Coffee. Normal. Easy. The same as it had always been except for the part where it wasn’t because now you knew exactly what his hands felt like and what sounds he made and what his face looked like when the composure cracked and sitting on the other side of a counter from him in the middle of the afternoon was — a different experience than it used to be.
He was telling you something about a client — complicated custom piece, back and forth for weeks on the design — and you were listening and also watching his hands move when he talked, the rings catching the light, and thinking about those hands on your waist last night and… “Y/N.”
You looked up. He was looking at you with the quiet knowing expression. “I was listening,” you said.
“You weren’t.”
“I was. Custom piece. Back and forth on the design. Client keeps changing their mind.”
He tilted his head slightly. The corner of his mouth. “What were you thinking about?”
“The flash art.”
“Hm.” He leaned on the counter. His forearms right there, the sleeve on full display, and he looked at you with that unhurried certainty. “You were looking at my hands.”
“I was looking at your rings.”
“Y/N.”
“They’re interesting rings.”
He held your gaze for a long moment. Then he looked down at his hands, turned them over slowly, looked back up at you with an expression that was doing something to your ability to function. “Come back tonight,” he said.
“I was here last night.”
“I know.”
“And the night before.”
“I know.” He didn’t look remotely apologetic. “Come back tonight.”
You looked at him. “We should probably — this probably shouldn’t be—”
“Probably,” he agreed, like the word meant nothing.
“Riki.”
“Tonight, Y/N.”
You looked at your coffee. At him. At the rings on his hands that you had been thinking about and were now not admitting to thinking about. “Fine,” you said.
He picked up his own coffee. Satisfied. Like there had never been any other outcome. From across the shop Jay said nothing. He had learned, over the past three weeks, that saying things got him absolutely nowhere and had adapted accordingly. He simply made eye contact with Sunghoon across the room and they had an entire conversation without words.
That night after Studio 13 closed, which had become its own specific thing — the red light, the quiet, the shop breathing differently when it was empty. Riki had barely locked the front door before you were crossing the floor toward him and his expression when he turned around and saw you moving like that— “Hi,” he said.
“Hi.” You reached him. Your hands went to his chest, his jaw, pulling him down, and he came without resistance, his hands finding your waist immediately, already knowing where to go.
He kissed you slow this time. Deliberately slow, like he was making a point, like the urgency of the last few weeks had shifted into something that wanted to take its time. That was somehow worse. “Riki,” you said against his mouth.
“Hm.”
“Stop going slow.”
“No.” He kissed your jaw. Your throat. Slow and deliberate, his hands sliding under your top to your bare waist. “I spent all afternoon thinking about this.”
“So did I, that’s why—”
“That’s why we’re taking our time.” His mouth at your collarbone. “I want to—” A pause. His lips against your skin. “I want to take you apart properly. Not fast.”
Your hands tightened in his hair. “That’s not fair,” you said.
“No,” he agreed, and kept going. He got your top off and looked at you in the low light the way he always did — that slow, unapologetic assessment that moved over you like you were worth looking at carefully — and then his mouth found your tits and your head fell back.
His tongue. The bar of it, cool and present, circling your nipple, and you made a sound and his hands tightened on your waist. “Good girl,” he said against your skin. “Just like that.”
“Riki—”
“I’ve got you.” He moved to the other side, same slow attention, his hands holding your waist like you might float away. “I’ve got you, just — yeah, just feel it.” You were going to lose your mind. Your hands found his shirt and he let you get it off and then he was walking you back to the couch in the back room and laying you down and looking at you from above with dark eyes and that expression — the open one, the one that had no performance in it.
He got your jeans off slow. His hands running down your thighs as he pulled them, his mouth following, pressing to your hip, the inside of your knee, and by the time he got back up to your folds you were already soaked. “Riki, please—”
“Please what.” His breath against your inner thigh. Close, not close enough.
“Please—”
“Tell me what you want.” His lips brushed your folds, barely, just the suggestion of pressure. “Tell me.”
“Your mouth,” you said. “Please, your mouth—” He gave it to you. The bar of his tongue against your clit and you grabbed the back of the couch and held on. He ate your pussy like he had nowhere else to be — thorough, focused, the same attention he gave everything — and the sounds he made against you, low and hungry, like he was getting something from it—
“God—” your hips rolled and his hands held them down, firm, keep still, and the loss of control of that made it worse in the best way. “Riki I’m — don’t stop, don’t—”
“Not stopping,” he said against your clit. “Cum for me. Come on.”
You did. He worked you through it until you were pulling at his hair telling him too much, too much and he pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh and came back up your body and looked at your face with an expression that was — satisfied wasn’t the right word. Reverent was closer, which was a thing you were absolutely not processing right now. “Good girl,” he said quietly.
“Stop calling me that,” you said, breathless.
“No,” he said simply, and kissed you.
When he finally pushed inside you both exhaled like something had been solved. Slow, this time. Deep. His forehead against yours, his arms bracketing you, his rings cool against the side of your face where his hand was. “Okay?” he said.
“Yeah.” Your voice wasn’t working right. “Yeah, keep — please keep going.”
He moved. Slow, deep rolls of his hips that had you feeling every ridge of the ladder on every stroke and your mouth kept falling open and he watched it happen. “You feel it,” he said. Low, not a question.
“Yes—”
“Good.” His hips rolled deeper and you gasped. “That’s good, you’re so — fuck, Y/N—” His composure was fraying at the edges, the rhythm getting less controlled. “You take me so well. Every time. Like you were—” He stopped himself.
You looked up at him. His jaw was set, his eyes dark, something moving behind them that he’d just pulled back from saying. “Like I was what,” you said.
He looked at you. For a second — just a second — something was right there on his face, unguarded, something that went past the physical and landed somewhere neither of you had named yet. He kissed you instead of answering.
You let him. Filed it away. Pulled him closer and let the question dissolve into the drag and heat of him moving inside you and his mouth on yours and his hand sliding between you to find your clit— “Riki—”
“I know,” he said. “I know, come on, cum for me again, you can—”
“I can’t—”
“You can.” His thumb on your clit, his cock deep, his voice at your ear. “You can, good girl, come on, let me feel you—” You came with his name in your mouth and your whole body shaking and he followed you with his face pressed into your throat and the sound he made was low and broken and yours.
After his thumb moving slow at your hip. The ceiling. The playlist. You were thinking about like you were— and what came after it. You were thinking about I’ve got you and how he said it every time, always, like a reflex, like something that came from somewhere deeper than the moment.
You were thinking about the fact that you knew what his laugh sounded like — the real one, the surprised one — and that you’d been collecting these things without meaning to and the collection was getting heavy. “Riki,” you said.
“Hm.”
“What are we doing.”
Silence. His thumb stopped moving. Then, carefully: “What do you want to be doing.”
You stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
He was quiet for a long moment. You could feel him thinking — that specific quality of his silences, weighted, considering. “I’m not good at this part,” he said.
“What part.”
“The—” A pause. “Saying things.”
“You say things to me all the time.”
“Not these things.”
You turned your head to look at him. He was looking at the ceiling, jaw slightly tight, the expression of someone navigating something carefully. “What things,” you said quietly.
He turned his head. Your faces close in the dim light. His eyes moved over yours. “I don’t want you going anywhere,” he said. Finally. Quietly. “That’s — that’s what I’ve got right now.”
It wasn’t everything. You both knew it wasn’t everything. But it was Riki, who didn’t say things, saying a thing, and it landed with the weight of something much larger behind it.“Okay,” you said.
“Okay,” he said. His thumb started moving again. You looked back at the ceiling. The unnamed thing stayed unnamed. But it was there, in the room with you, and you both knew it.
The thing about not naming something was that it didn’t stop it from being a thing. It just meant you had no language for it when it started to matter. Four weeks into whatever this was, Ria staged an intervention.
Not a dramatic one — she didn’t have people over or make a presentation, she just showed up at your flat on a Saturday morning with coffee and pastries and sat across from you at your kitchen table with the expression of someone who had been patient for a very long time and was cashing that in now. “Talk,” she said.
“About what.”
“Y/N.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Ria.”
“I want you to say what’s happening with Riki.”
You picked up your coffee. “We’re—”
“If you say friends I’m leaving and taking the pastries.”
You put your coffee down. “It’s complicated.”
“Is it? Or is it simple and you’re making it complicated because you’re scared?”
You looked at her. She looked back with the patience of someone who had known you for six years and had seen every version of your avoidance. “We haven’t put a name on it,” you said.
“Why not.”
“Because—” You stopped. Because he’d said I don’t want you going anywhere and you’d said okay and neither of you had pushed past that. Because every Wednesday and every late night felt like building something and neither of you would say what you were building. “It’s working the way it is.”
“Is it.”
“Yes.”
“You like him.”
“Obviously.”
“Like like him.”
“Ria—”
“Y/N.” She leaned forward. “You went back to that shop every week for two months before anything happened. You know his coffee order, his schedule, what makes him laugh. You’ve met his friends. He checks your piercings as an excuse to be close to you.” She paused. “That’s not complicated. That’s you being terrified.”
You stared at the table. “He’s not easy to read,” you said. Finally.
“He gave you his personal card the night he met you,” Ria said. “Heeseung told me he’d never done that before.”
“When did you talk to Heeseung?”
“Jake texts me sometimes.”
“Jake texts you.”
“That’s not the point.” She pushed a pastry toward you. “The point is that boy is absolutely gone for you and you both keep dancing around it and it’s making everyone at Studio 13 insane, apparently.”
“Everyone?”
“Jay’s exact words were if they don’t sort it out soon I’m locking them in the back room.”
You put your face in your hands. “I don’t know how to do this with him,” you said, muffled. “He doesn’t say things. I don’t push. We just—”
“So say something first,” Ria said simply. “You’re not someone who waits, Y/N. That’s not you. You’re doing it because you’re scared he won’t say it back.” You lifted your face. Said nothing. She was right and you both knew it.
You didn’t say anything that Wednesday. You came close — sitting at the counter, coffee in hand, Riki talking about something, his rings on the desk, his eyes finding yours every few sentences the way they always did — and the words were right there, and you looked at his face, and you thought about Ria’s voice saying terrified, and you said nothing. He looked at you at one point like he knew something was moving behind your eyes. “What,” he said.
“Nothing.” You smiled. “Keep going.” He held your gaze for a second. Let it go.
The following Saturday Sunghoon texted you. Not unusual — you’d exchanged numbers for shop-related things, flash piece ideas, scheduling. He was easy to talk to, straightforward, the kind of person whose texts read exactly like his voice.
Sunghoon: hey, you said you were thinking about a collarbone piece right
you: yeah still thinking
Sunghoon: I drew something. wanna see
He sent a photo. Small, delicate, blackwork — something botanical, two thin stems crossing, minimal and precise. It was exactly your taste and you had no idea how he’d known that.
you: sunghoon this is gorgeous
Sunghoon: right? come in monday, I’ll show you the full size version. riki’s off monday so it’ll be quiet
you: sounds good, see you then
You didn’t think anything of it. Sunghoon was your friend. He’d drawn something for you. You were going to look at it. You didn’t mention it to Riki because there was nothing to mention.
Monday the shop was quieter without Riki in it, which was a thing you noticed and filed away as information you didn’t love having. Sunghoon had the drawing laid out on the counter when you arrived — full size, done properly on transfer paper, and it was even better than the photo. You stood over it with him pointing out the details, his hand close to yours on the paper, talking through placement and sizing and whether to add a third stem.
Jay was pretending to do something at the other counter.bHeeseung was in his office with the door open. “Here,” Sunghoon said, and pressed the transfer paper lightly to your collarbone to show you the placement. His hand steadied it against your skin, professional, and you looked in the mirror and thought yes, that was exactly right. Your phone lit up on the counter.
Riki: you at the shop?
You looked at it. Jay looked at it. Sunghoon didn’t see it.
you: yeah, sunghoon drew something for me. just looking at placement
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Riki: k
One letter.
Riki: looks good?
you: really good actually. he’s talented
The dots again. Then nothing. No reply. You put your phone down. Sunghoon was still talking about the third stem. You looked at the transfer in the mirror and tried to pay attention and felt something uneasy settle in your chest.
Riki was at the counter when you arrived Wednesday. You knew within ten seconds that something was wrong. Not visibly wrong — he looked the same, said hey the same, had your coffee ready the same. But his eyes when they met yours were flatter than usual. The warmth was there but dimmed, like something had been turned down. You sat. Picked up your coffee. “How was your day off?” you said.
“Fine.” He was looking at his phone.
“Did you do anything?”
“Not much.” Jay appeared from the back, clocked the atmosphere in approximately two seconds, and disappeared again.
You watched Riki scroll his phone. His jaw was set. Not dramatically — just tight, controlled, the way it got when he was holding something still. “Riki,” you said.
“Hm.”
“Look at me.” He looked up. The flat quality was more visible face to face. Something was moving behind his eyes that he was keeping on a very short leash. “What’s wrong?” you said.
“Nothing.”
“You’ve said twelve words since I got here.”
“I’ve been busy.”
You looked at him. He looked back, and you could see the effort of it — the effort of sitting in whatever this was and keeping it even. “Is this about Monday?” you said.
Something shifted in his jaw. “No.”
“Riki.”
“It’s not about Monday.”
“So it is about Monday.”
He put his phone down. Flat on the counter. He looked at you with an expression that was very controlled and also not controlled at all if you knew what to look for, and you knew what to look for now. “You went in on my day off,” he said.
“Sunghoon drew something for me. I told you.”
“I know what you told me.”
“Then what—”
“His hands were on you.” Quiet. Final. Like he’d been sitting on it for two days and it had compacted into something very small and very dense.
You stared at him. “He was showing me placement. For a tattoo. That’s his job.”
“I know that.”
“Then—”
“I know that, Y/N.” His voice was still even but something was pushing at the edges of it. “I know it doesn’t mean anything. I know Sunghoon wasn’t — I know.” He looked at the counter. “It doesn’t stop it feeling—” He stopped.
“Feeling what,” you said. He was quiet for a long moment.
“Wrong,” he said. “It feels wrong. Someone else’s hands on you feels wrong and I don’t know how to make that—” He stopped again. His thumb pressed against the counter. “I’m trying to be rational about it.”
“You went quiet for two days,” you said.
“I know.”
“That’s not — Riki, you can’t just go quiet every time something—”
“I know.” He looked up. His eyes were direct now, no flatness, just the real thing underneath — something frustrated and raw and tired of itself. “I know it’s not fair. I’m telling you I know that. I just—” A breath. “I don’t know how to feel it and not do that. I’m working on it.”
You looked at him for a long moment. “You went quiet instead of talking to me,” you said.
“Yes.”
“And you’re telling me now because I pushed.”
“Yes.” He held your gaze. “I would have told you. I just needed to — I needed it to be smaller before I could say it without it being—” He gestured vaguely. “A lot.”
“Is it smaller now?”
“Somewhat.”
You picked up your coffee. Looked at it. Put it down. “You know that there’s nothing—” you started.
“I know.” Immediately. “Y/N, I know. This isn’t about you. This isn’t about Sunghoon. It’s mine, it’s a me thing, and I’m not trying to make it your problem.”
“It becomes my problem when you disappear.”
“I know.” His jaw shifted. “I’m sorry.”
You looked at him. He looked back, steady, the thing behind his eyes open now in the way it only got when he’d pushed past the control on purpose — when he was giving you something deliberately. “Don’t disappear,” you said. “Whatever it is — just say it. To me. Not in your head for two days.”
“Okay,” he said. His hand moved across the counter and covered yours briefly — the rings cool, the weight of his palm familiar. “Okay, Y/N.”
The touch lasted a few seconds. He didn’t make anything of it. Just let it be there and then pulled back. From the back room, completely audibly, Jay said to someone: “finally.”
“Jay,” Riki said flatly.
“I’m just saying—”
“Jay.”
That night, late. He was in your flat, his idea — he’d texted at nine, not you up or studio’s empty but just your name, which was new. He was on your couch with his legs stretched out and his head back and his eyes on your ceiling and you were beside him close enough to feel the warmth of him and neither of you had moved toward the other yet. Just sitting. Existing in the same space. “Can I ask you something?” you said.
“Yeah.”
“The possessiveness.” You kept your voice even. “Where does it come from.”
A pause. He was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer. “Control,” he said finally. “Or — fear of losing it. Things I care about.” His thumb moved against his own knee. “I spent a long time in situations where things got taken. People I — things I couldn’t protect.” He stopped. “I don’t talk about it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” A pause. “I want to. I just — not yet.”
Not yet. Not never. Not it’s not your business. Not yet meant there was a timeline. Meant he was thinking about it. Meant you were someone he was moving toward telling.
You leaned your head against his shoulder. He went still for a second — surprised, you thought, by the smallness of it, the casualness — and then his head dropped against yours and you felt him exhale. “The collarbone piece,” he said eventually. “Let me do it.”
You lifted your head. Looked at him. “You do tattoos?”
“Heeseung taught me. I’m not on the books for it but—” He met your eyes. “I want to do it. If you want.”
Sunghoon’s drawing. Riki’s hands. “Yeah,” you said. “Okay.”
Something settled in his face. Quiet and satisfied in a way that had nothing to do with the smirk. “Okay,” he said.
You put your head back on his shoulder. His arm moved — slow, like he was checking it was allowed — and settled around you. The unnamed thing pressed closer. Neither of you named it. But his arm tightened slightly and you let it, and that was something too.
The collarbone piece took two sessions. Riki had been clear about that upfront — small piece, delicate linework, he wanted to do it right and doing it right meant not rushing. You’d sat in the chair in the back room of Studio 13 on a quiet Tuesday morning with his hands on your collarbone and his face close and his full attention on the work and tried very hard to be normal about it. You were not normal about it. “Stop tensing,” he said, without looking up.
“I’m not tensing.”
“Your shoulder is up by your ear.” You lowered your shoulder. He glanced up briefly — dark eyes, the focus in them softening for just a second when they met yours — and then back down. “First line’s the worst,” he said. “Then you’ll settle.”
“I’ve been tattooed before.”
“Not by me.” He said it simply. Like it was just a fact. Which it was. But the way he said it landed like something more — like not by me was its own category, its own distinct experience, and he was right, as it turned out, because when the needle touched your collarbone the small shock of it dissolved almost immediately into the warmth of his hands steadying you and his voice saying good, just like that, breathe — and you settled.
You watched his face while he worked. This version of him — the work version, focused and quiet and completely present — was one of your favorites. All the usual energy went inward. The smirk was gone, the easy confidence was still there but different, channeled into precision. He moved the machine in small careful arcs and his free hand was always on you, always steadying, always aware of exactly how much pressure to use. “You’re staring,” he said.
“You said that to me once before.”
“You were staring then too.”
“Maybe I just have a specific staring problem.”
The corner of his mouth moved. He didn’t look up. “Maybe you do.”
He kissed you after the session. Not immediately — he’d finished, stepped back, examined the work with that quiet critical eye, declared it good. You’d looked in the mirror and felt something warm move through your chest at the sight of it — the two stems, thin and precise, sitting exactly right on your collarbone. “It’s perfect,” you said.
“I know.” He was already at the sink, washing his hands, and you could hear the smile in it even without seeing his face. You got up from the chair. Crossed the small space between you. And when he turned around you were right there and his expression shifted — from satisfied work-focus to something more personal, more immediate — and you put your hand on his jaw and kissed him.
He kissed you back with his damp hands at your waist, careful not to touch the fresh tattoo, and it was slow and unhurried and tasted like coffee and something that was just him and when you pulled back his eyes stayed closed for a second. Opened. Looked at you. “Hi,” he said quietly.
“Hi,” you said. His thumb moved at your waist. The rings. The warmth of his palms through your shirt.
“Come back Thursday for the second session,” he said.
“I know, you told me.”
“Just making sure.” He kissed you again before you could respond — quick, soft, his mouth on yours for just a moment — and then stepped back and handed you the aftercare sheet and was professional again, mostly, except for the way his eyes followed you to the door.
Thursday’s second session was longer. More detail, more shading on the stems, a small shadow that made the whole thing lift off the skin. You sat in the chair and he worked and you talked — properly talked, the way you did at the counter but quieter, more contained, just the two of you in the partitioned space.
He told you about growing up. Small things — not the things he kept locked, but around the edges of them. A younger brother. Moving schools twice. Being good at things with his hands from early on, carving things, taking things apart to see how they worked. “Is that why the piercing?” you said.
“Partly.” He shifted the machine slightly. “Partly because it’s — immediate. You do it right and you see it right away. No waiting to find out.”
“You like knowing things work.”
He glanced up. “Yeah.”
“Control thing.”
A pause. “Yeah,” he said again, quieter. You let that sit. Didn’t push.
“Tell me something else,” he said, after a moment. Deflecting but not — more like redirecting, like he wanted the conversation to keep going just in a different direction.
So you told him things. About your course, your family, the flat you’d moved into two years ago that still didn’t feel completely yours. The way Ria had been your anchor through everything since you were sixteen. How you’d wanted to study abroad and hadn’t and sometimes still thought about it. “Why didn’t you?” he said.
“Felt like running away from something.”
“Were you?”
You thought about it. “Probably.”
He looked up. His eyes on yours, level. “What were you running from.”
“Someone,” you said. “It doesn’t matter now.”
He held your gaze for a moment. You watched something move through his expression — something careful, something that might have been jealousy at its very distant edges but was mostly just — paying attention. Storing it. Like everything you gave him went somewhere it would be kept.
“Their loss,” he said. Simply. Looked back down. You looked at the top of his head and felt the unnamed thing press against your ribs from the inside.
He finished the piece in two hours. You both looked at it in the mirror — his chin near your shoulder, your reflection side by side — and neither of you said anything for a moment. “Well,” you said.
“Yeah,” he said. It was exactly right. Better than right. The kind of thing that looked like it had always been there, like your skin had been waiting for it.
You turned. He was right there, closer than you’d clocked, and you put both hands on his chest and looked up at him and he looked down at you and the moment expanded slightly. “Thank you,” you said.
“Don’t thank me.”
“Riki—”
“It was for me as much as you,” he said. Quiet. Direct. No smirk in it. “I wanted to put something on you. That’s—” He stopped. His jaw shifted. “That’s a me thing. Don’t thank me for it.”
You looked at him. He looked back, steady, and the naked quality of what he’d just said sat between you — I wanted to put something on you — and neither of you moved for a second.
Then you kissed him. Slow, deliberate, your hands spreading on his chest. He made a low sound and his arms came around you — gentle because of the fresh tattoo, careful, his hands at your back instead of your waist — and he kissed you back like he had time, like he wanted to use it.
When you broke apart he kept his forehead against yours. “Stay,” he said. Low. “Tonight. Just—” A pause. “Just stay.”
“Okay,” you said. You ate takeout on the floor of the back room because the couch was small and the floor had more space and Riki sat with his back against the couch and you sat between his legs with your back against his chest and it was so domestically comfortable that it was almost alarming.
He ate with one arm around you. His chin occasionally dropping to your shoulder to look at whatever you were showing him on your phone. His thumb making that small absent arc at your hip that he did when he wasn’t thinking about it.
“Ria thinks we need to define this,” you said, at some point. His arm didn’t tighten. Didn’t loosen. He was quiet for a moment.
“What do you think?” he said.
“I think Ria is right about most things.”
“Hm.” His thumb kept moving. “What would you define it as.”
You turned your head slightly. His face was close — close enough to see the detail of the scar through his eyebrow, the silver of his earring, the way he was looking at you with that careful open expression he only had when there was no one else around. “I don’t know,” you said. “What would you.”
“Mine,” he said. Quiet. Simple. Like it was the most obvious answer.
Your heart did something inconvenient. “That’s very you,” you said.
“Is it wrong?”
You turned back to face forward. His arm around you. The takeout. The red light. “No,” you said. “It’s not wrong.”
You felt him exhale against the back of your head. Slow, like something had released. His lips pressed briefly to your hair. Not a kiss exactly — too soft, too absent, more like a thing he did without deciding to.
You stayed on the floor until midnight. Talked about nothing important. Everything slightly important. He told you Jake was obviously falling for Hana and was handling it terribly, which you already knew, and you told him Ria had started texting Jake directly to speed the process along, which he did not know and which made him laugh — the real one, sudden, surprised. You stored it.
“I should go,” you said eventually. You had a nine AM seminar and the responsible thing—
“Yeah,” he said. Made no move to untangle himself from around you.
“Riki.”
“Five minutes.”
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“Five more minutes.” You leaned back into him and gave him the five minutes. He pressed his mouth to the side of your head again — that soft, absent thing, lips in your hair — and you closed your eyes and thought about mine and the way he’d said it like it was just the truth.
When you finally stood up he walked you to the door the way he always did. Unlocked it. Held it open. You turned back. He kissed you in the doorway — unhurried, thorough, one hand cupping your jaw and the other flat against the doorframe — and you kissed him back and it went on longer than a goodbye kiss needed to, longer than was practical, until he pulled back and looked at you with dark eyes and slightly wrecked composure.
“Wednesday,” he said. His thumb traced your jaw once before dropping.
“Wednesday,” you said. You made it to the end of the street. You looked back. He was still in the doorway, leaning on the frame, watching you go. When he saw you look he didn’t pretend he hadn’t been watching. Just held your gaze across the dark street. You turned back around and smiled at the pavement the whole way to the bus stop.
Heeseung had told everyone to come to his flat for dinner on Saturday — no occasion, just food, just all of them in the same place — and you’d arrived with Ria who had told you she’d been waiting for this invitation for weeks, which meant Jake had told her about it before Riki had told you, which meant something.
Heeseung’s flat was calm and dark-walled like the shop, art everywhere, music at a volume that allowed conversation. Jay was already there and immediately pulled Ria into an argument about something. Jake appeared from the kitchen and the way his face changed when he saw Ria was something you were going to tell Riki about later.
Riki was on the couch. He looked up when you came in and the smile that happened was immediate and unguarded — no performance, no build up, just his face doing the thing it did when you appeared, the thing you didn’t think he knew it did. He moved over without being asked. You sat beside him. Close. His arm went across the back of the couch behind you — not around you, but there, present, the rings near your shoulder.
Sunghoon arrived twenty minutes later and dropped onto the armchair across from you and looked at you both with an expression of great satisfaction. “You two sorted?” he said.
“Sunghoon,” Riki said.
“What? Last month you were—“ He stopped. “I’m just asking—”
“We’re sorted,” you said. Sunghoon grinned. Riki’s arm moved from the back of the couch to actually around your shoulders, like Sunghoon asking had given him permission to stop pretending he wasn’t doing it.
Dinner was loud and easy and everyone talked over everyone and Jay told a story about a client that got more elaborate every time he told it and Ria fit in like she’d always been there and Heeseung sat at the head of the table and said little and watched everything with quiet satisfaction.
After dinner you ended up back on the couch. Riki beside you, your legs across his, his hand resting on your ankle. The conversation had split across the room — Jay and Sunghoon, Ria and Jake in what looked like an increasingly interesting exchange, Heeseung in the kitchen. “You good?” Riki said quietly, just to you.
“Yeah.” You looked at the room. “This is nice.”
“They like you.”
“Jay likes everyone.”
“Heeseung doesn’t,” he said. Simple. “He likes you.”
You looked at him. “How can you tell?”
“He invited you.” He said it like it was obvious. “He doesn’t do this for everyone. He did it because—” A pause. His hand moved slightly on your ankle. “Because you’re—” He stopped.
“Because I’m what,” you said softly.
He looked at you. The room was noisy around you but it felt like it had contracted to just this, just his face and yours and the thing he was about to say. “Important,” he said. Quiet. “Because you’re important.”
Your heart did the inconvenient thing again, harder this time. “Riki,” you said.
“Yeah.”
“That word—”
“I know what word I used.” You looked at him. He looked back, steady, not taking it back, not softening it. Just — sitting in it, the way he sat in most things, patient and certain.
Across the room Jay said something loud and everyone laughed and the moment breathed. Riki’s hand moved from your ankle to your calf. Warm. Present. “Stay tonight,” he said. Low enough that it was only for you. “Not at the shop. Mine.”
His. His flat, which you hadn’t been to, which was a different thing than the back room couch. A different kind of staying. “Yeah,” you said.
He nodded. Looked back at the room. But his hand stayed on your leg and his shoulder was warm against yours and you sat in the important and let it settle into something that felt permanent.
Later, when most people had gone and Ria was helping Heeseung with something in the kitchen and it was just you and Riki by the door putting your jacket on he turned you by the shoulders. Kissed you slowly, his hands on your face, thumbs at your jaw. The kind of kiss that had no agenda, no direction, just wanted to exist. When he pulled back he looked at you for a long moment.
The word boyfriend was right there in the room. Neither of you said it. But his hand found yours and held it, and he didn’t let go the whole way to his flat, and somewhere in the space between mine and important and his fingers between yours on a dark street — the unnamed thing finally had a shape. You just hadn’t said it out loud yet.
His flat was on the third floor of a building that had seen better decades, the kind of place that was held together by good bones and someone who actually cared about the space inside it. You didn’t know what you’d expected.
More of the shop, maybe — dark walls, flash art, the deliberate aesthetic. And there was some of that. Dark furniture, a few framed pieces on the walls, one large canvas above the couch that was either very expensive or done by someone he knew and you suspected the latter. But it was also — lived in, in a specific way. Books stacked in an order that made sense only to him. A record player in the corner with a small collection beside it. The kitchen clean in the way of someone who cooked properly and cleaned as they went.
It was a home. Actually a home. That surprised you and you didn’t know why it surprised you and then you thought about what he’d said — I spent a long time in situations where things got taken — and understood it. He’d built this. Deliberately. Piece by piece. “Stop analyzing it,” he said from the kitchen.
“I’m not analyzing it.”
“You have your analyzing face on.”
“I don’t have an analyzing face.”
He appeared in the kitchen doorway with two glasses of water and looked at you standing in his living room in your jacket still on and raised an eyebrow. “Take your jacket off,” he said. “You’re staying.” You took your jacket off.
You fell asleep on his couch. Not intentionally — you’d been talking, the record player on low, and somewhere between one subject and the next the warmth of him beside you and the late hour pulled you under. You were aware of it happening distantly, the conversation getting slower, your eyes getting heavy, and you didn’t fight it.
You woke up in his bed. He’d moved you. At some point while you slept he’d carried you — or walked you, half-conscious — to the bed and put you in it and the duvet was pulled up and his pillow smelled like him and you lay there in the early grey morning and stared at the ceiling and felt something enormous and inconvenient sitting on your chest.
You heard him in the kitchen. The quiet sounds of someone who knew how to exist in the morning without disturbing anyone. You lay there and thought about mine and important and the collarbone tattoo and his hand in yours on the dark street and the back room couch and two months of Wednesdays and the card he’d slid across the counter the first night like he’d already decided.
You thought about Ria’s voice. You’re terrified. You were terrified.
He was at the kitchen counter with his back to you when you came in. Making coffee, unhurried, still in the clothes from last night minus the jacket. Rings on his hands already. You didn’t know if he’d slept. He turned when he heard you. Took in your expression with one look. “Hey,” he said carefully.
“Hey.” You stood in the kitchen doorway. Your heart was doing something loud. “You moved me.”
“You were asleep on my couch.”
“You could have woken me up.”
“You looked tired.” Simple. Like it was nothing. Like carrying you to his bed was just a practical thing he’d done without thinking. “Coffee?”
“Riki.” He looked at you. Really looked — reading whatever was on your face with that careful focus, taking it in.
“What’s going on,” he said.
“Nothing. I just—” You stopped. Started again. “I woke up in your bed and it—” You pressed your fingers to your mouth briefly. “It felt like something.” He was quiet. Waiting.
“I think this is something,” you said. “I think it’s been something for a while and we keep not saying it and I’m—” You exhaled. “I’m tired of not saying it.”
The kitchen was very quiet. Riki leaned back against the counter. Crossed his arms. His expression was the open one — no performance, no control layered over it, just his face and whatever was behind it. “Say it then,” he said quietly.
You looked at him. “I want this to be a thing. A real thing. I want—” You. “I want the name.”
He uncrossed his arms. Crossed the kitchen in three steps and he was right in front of you and his hands came up to your face — both of them, palms at your jaw, tilting your face up — and he looked at you for one long second. “It’s already a thing,” he said. “It’s been a thing.” His thumb moved at your cheekbone. “I’ve been waiting for you to catch up.”
“That’s very smug,” you said. Your voice wasn’t fully steady.
“I know.” He wasn’t smiling. His eyes were serious, dark, right there. “Y/N.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not good at the words,” he said. “You know that. But this—” his thumbs traced your face, gentle and deliberate “—this is not nothing. This hasn’t been nothing since you walked into my shop.”
Your hands found his wrists. Held on. “Okay,” you said.
“Okay,” he said. He kissed you. Soft, slow, his hands still on your face like he wanted to hold the moment still. You kissed him back and felt the unnamed thing finally, finally settle into something with a shape and a weight and a name you’d figure out the exact word for later.
When he pulled back he pressed his forehead to yours. “Boyfriend is a weird word,” he said.
You laughed. Surprised out of you, real. “It really is.”
“But yeah.” His mouth curved. “That.”
“That,” you agreed. He kissed you again, brief and warm, and then stepped back and handed you a coffee and the domesticity of it — his flat, his coffee, his hands, the morning — hit you somewhere soft.
“Sit down,” he said. “I’ll make breakfast.”
“You cook?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“Riki I’ve known you for months and I’ve never seen you eat anything that wasn’t takeout or coffee.”
“That’s at the shop.” He was already at the fridge. “At home I cook.”
You sat at his kitchen counter on a stool and watched him move around his kitchen with the same ease he brought to everything — competent, unhurried, knowing where things were — and drank your coffee and felt the warmth of the morning settle around you. “What are you making?” you said.
“Eggs.”
“Just eggs?”
“Good eggs.” He glanced back. “Don’t underestimate eggs.”
They were good eggs. You ate at his kitchen counter side by side, your shoulder against his, and the conversation came easy the way it always did — drifting, unhurried, one thing opening into another. He told you about the record player, how he’d found it at a market two years ago and had to carry it up three flights on his own. You told him about the flat you’d wanted that you hadn’t got and ended up in your current one instead and how it had turned out better. “Things usually do,” he said.
“Philosopher.”
“Just paying attention.” His hand found yours on the counter between you. Covered it. Not making anything of it — just there, warm and present. You turned your hand over and his fingers slid between yours. You sat like that until the coffee was cold.
He walked you out two hours later. Down the three flights and out onto the morning street, quiet at this hour, pale winter sun doing its best. He had his jacket on, hands in his pockets, walking beside you in the direction of the bus stop. “You don’t have to walk me,” you said.
“I know.” He walked you anyway. His shoulder bumping yours occasionally. Not holding your hand now — just beside you, present, taking up the right amount of space. At the bus stop he turned to face you. “Wednesday,” he said.
“Wednesday,” you said. Then: “Actually I might come Tuesday. I need to talk to Heeseung about extending the collarbone piece.”
Something moved across his face. Quick, then gone. “You want to extend it?” he said.
“Just the stems, maybe. One more.” You looked at his expression. “What?”
“I’ll do it,” he said. Immediate.
“I know you’ll do it—”
“I mean — the extension. Let me do it.” His jaw was doing the thing. “Not Heeseung.”
You looked at him. Understood. “Okay,” you said.
“Okay.” The jaw relaxed. A short exhale.
You reached up and kissed him — he leaned down to meet you before you’d fully extended, like he’d been waiting for it — and it was brief and warm and tasted like coffee. “Tuesday,” you said against his mouth.
“Tuesday,” he said. The bus appeared at the end of the road. He stepped back. Hands back in his pockets. Watching you with that settled, certain expression. “Text me when you’re home,” he said. New. That was new.
“Yeah,” you said, smiling. “Okay.”
You texted Ria from the bus.
you: we sorted it
The reply was immediate. She’d been awake, waiting.
Ria: WHAT
you: it’s a thing. officially.
Ria: I KNEW IT I HAVE BEEN SAYING does he even know the word boyfriend???
you: he said it’s a weird word
Ria: oh my god he’s so him
you: he made me eggs
Ria: Y/N!!!
you: they were really good eggs
Ria: I am going to cry. IM SO HAPPY!
You put your phone in your pocket and looked out the bus window at the city going past and felt something settled and warm sitting in your chest where the unnamed thing used to be.
Daniel saw you get off the bus. You didn’t notice him. You were texting Riki — something small, a photo of a dog outside the coffee shop you were passing, the kind of thing you sent now because you could — and you walked past him without looking up.
He watched you go. Watched the way you were smiling at your phone. He knew about the tattoo shop. He’d heard you mention it. He’d put things together — the visits, the name that came up, the way you’d brushed him off every time since October.
He pulled out his own phone. Started looking. It didn’t take long. Public record. The charge, the conviction, the sentence. He read it twice. Read the name again. Looked up Studio 13. He sat with it for a long time. Then he texted Soo.
Daniel: hey, you’re friends with Y/N right. I need to tell you something about someone she’s seeing.
The thing about finally naming something was that it changed the texture of everything. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just — small shifts, accumulating. The way he texted now, more often, nothing significant but there. The way he said my girlfriend to a client who asked about the collarbone piece, casual, not looking at you when he said it, and you’d had to look very hard at the flash wall for a moment. The way his hand found yours in public without him thinking about it first. Small things. Heavy things.
You were catastrophically gone for him and had been for a while and now there was nothing to hide it behind.
The first Tuesday after you came into Studio 13 at noon and Riki was with a client so Jay made you coffee and sat across from you at the counter with the expression of someone who had been waiting to say something. “So,” he said.
“Don’t,” you said.
“I just want to say—”
“Jay.”
“I called it.” He held up both hands. “First week you came in. I said to Sunghoon, I said that girl is going to wreck him, and I was right—”
“I didn’t wreck anyone—”
“In a good way.” He was grinning. “He’s different. He’s — I’ve known Riki for two years and he texted me last Sunday morning just to talk. Riki. Texting. On a Sunday. Because he was in a good mood and wanted to—”
“Jay.” Riki’s voice from the piercing section, flat. He’d finished with his client without you noticing.
“I’m just saying—”
“I heard what you were saying.” Riki came around the partition and looked at you and the expression on his face when it landed on you was the thing Jay had been describing without being able to name it — something unlocked, something that had been held tight for a long time and wasn’t anymore.
He came to the counter. Leaned down and kissed you hello like it was something he’d been doing for years. Brief, warm, his hand on your jaw for just a second. Jay made a noise. Riki sat on his stool without acknowledging him. Picked up his coffee. “How’s the collarbone?” he said.
“Good. I want to talk about an extension.”
“I know what I’ll doing with it.”
“I haven’t told you what I want yet.”
“I know what you want.” He met your eyes. Completely certain. “Trust me.”
You looked at him. Thought about the first piece — how right it had been, how it had looked like it had always been there. “Fine,” you said.
Jay, very quietly, said: “He’s so different.”
The extension happened the following Thursday. One more stem. Slightly longer than the others, curving toward your shoulder, a small bud at the end that he’d added without asking and that was so exactly right you hadn’t been able to speak for a moment when you saw it. “Riki,” you said.
“Hm.” He was examining the placement, focused.
“The bud.”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t ask for that.”
“No.” He glanced up. Brief, the focus breaking for just a second. “Do you like it?”
You looked in the mirror. The three stems, the new one curving outward, the small closed bud at its tip. Something that looked like potential. Like something about to open. “Yeah,” you said. “I like it.”
He looked back down. Said nothing. But his free hand, steadying your shoulder, pressed slightly. Small. Deliberate.
Three weeks in and the shape of things had settled. Wednesdays at the shop. Tuesday evenings at his flat, which had become a specific thing — you’d bring food, he’d already have the record player going, and you’d eat on his couch or his kitchen floor and talk until one of you fell asleep. Some Fridays at yours, which he’d come to twice now and moved through with the particular attentiveness of someone learning a space they planned to know well.
His things had started appearing at your flat. A hoodie, first — left behind, not retrieved. Then a phone charger. Then a record he’d brought over to show you something and hadn’t taken back. You didn’t point any of this out. Neither did he.
You had a key to Studio 13. That had happened without discussion — Riki had taken it off his keyring one night when you’d arrived before him and handed it to you and gone back to what he was doing. You’d stared at it for a full ten seconds.
This was how he said things. Not in words. In the key. In the bud on the stem. In text me when you’re home and Sunday morning texts and the way he always, always knew when something was wrong before you’d said anything. You were learning his language. It was quieter than most people’s but it was fluent.
Four weeks in, on a Wednesday night after Studio 13 closed as usual. But tonight the energy was different from the second you’d locked the front door behind you — something in the way he’d looked at you across the shop all evening, something that had been building since you’d arrived and had nowhere to go while there were other people present.
He kissed you against the front counter the second the lock clicked. Not soft. Not the hello-kiss or the goodbye-kiss or the slow deliberate thing from his kitchen. This was four weeks of officially named wanting, his hands in your hair and your hands in his jacket and both of you breathing differently inside ten seconds. He pulled back. Looked at your face. “Hi,” you said.
“Hi.” His voice was rough already. His hands moved from your hair to your waist, sliding under your top to bare skin, and you felt his rings and exhaled. “Been thinking about you all day.”
“I was here all evening.”
“I know.” His mouth found your jaw, your throat. “Worse.”
“Riki—”
“I know.” He pulled your top up and off and looked at you in the low red light the way he always did — that slow, deliberate sweep that moved over you like you were something he was committing to memory. The collarbone piece. His hands on you. “God,” he said quietly. Not performing it. Just — reacting.
“Come here,” you said. He came. He got you onto the front counter. Which was new. Which was — you looked around the shop, the dark windows, the closed door, and then his hands were on your thighs spreading them and he was standing between them and the location became very irrelevant. “Here?” you said.
“Here.” He kissed you again, deep, his tongue against yours and the bar of it doing what it always did to your ability to think. His hands pushed your skirt up your thighs, found your underwear, pushed it aside — and his fingers were there, at your folds, and you grabbed the edge of the counter.
“Riki—”
“Already.” His fingers moved through your folds, slow, feeling you. “Fuck, Y/N, already—”
“Don’t be smug—”
“I’m not.” He pressed a kiss to your jaw, your throat. “I’m really not.” His fingers found your clit and circled and your hips rolled forward. “That’s it. That’s—” A breath. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Tell me,” you breathed.
He pushed two fingers inside you and your head fell back. “This,” he said, low, watching your face. “Every time. Every fucking time you walk in here I want—” His fingers curled and you gasped. “Yeah. That. I want that sound.”
“More—”
“More?” He kept the pace slow. Deliberate. His thumb finding your clit while his fingers moved and the combination was devastating. “You sure? We’re not in a rush.”
“Riki I swear to god—”
He laughed — low, warm, real — and his fingers moved deeper and his thumb pressed harder and you grabbed his shoulder and held on. “Good girl,” he said against your throat. “So good. So wet for me, every time, like you spend all day—”
“I do,” you said, breathless. “I do, okay, is that what you want to hear—”
“Yes,” he said simply, and meant it, and his fingers moved faster. You came with your face pressed into his neck and his name in your mouth, his fingers working you through it, not stopping until you pulled at his hair and told him too much, too much—
He pulled his hand back. Pressed his mouth to your temple. Your cheekbone. The corner of your mouth. “Good girl,” he said again, softer. “You’re so—”
“Don’t you dare say something nice right now,” you said. “I can’t handle it.” He pressed his smile into your hair.
You got his jeans open. Got your hand on his cock and felt him exhale sharply against your neck —that involuntary thing, the crack in the control — and stroked slowly and felt every bar of the ladder and heard him make a sound that was almost pained. “Y/N—”
“Yeah?”
“I need—” His hips pushed forward slightly. “Fuck, I need you to—”
“Need me to what.” You kept the pace slow. His own medicine.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder. “Please.” The please from Riki — rare, wrecked, genuine — landed somewhere it always landed and you let go of him and pulled him forward by his waistband and he understood, got his jeans down, stepped between your thighs.
He pushed inside in one slow stroke and you both went still. His hands braced on the counter either side of you. Your hands on his chest. The shop around you, the red light, the flash art on the walls watching everything. “Okay?” he said. Rough. Always asked.
“Move,” you said. “Please, Riki, move—” He moved.
The front counter was cold under your hands and he was warm everywhere else — his chest against yours, his mouth at your throat, his hips rolling into you in a rhythm that started slow and deliberate and got less controlled as it went. “You feel—” He broke off. His jaw set. “Every time. Like the first time, every—”
“Don’t stop talking,” you said. “I like it when you talk.”
He made a rough sound. “You like it.”
“Yes—”
“Good girl for telling me.” His pace shifted deeper and you choked on a breath. “Good girl for always — fuck — for always telling me what you want—”
“Riki—”
“I’ve got you.” His hand slid between you, found your clit, and you arched. “I’ve got you, come on, cum for me, you can—”
“I just—”
“I know.” His thumb circled. “Do it again. Come on. Let me feel you cum on my cock, Y/N—”
The degradation and the praise all tangled together and his thumb and the ladder on every stroke and his voice at your ear and you shattered again — harder this time, your whole body locking up, his name loud enough that it bounced off the dark walls—
He followed you. His rhythm breaking, his breath gone, his hands gripping the counter so hard you heard his rings knock against it — and the sound he made when he came was the broken one, the helpless one, the one you collected and kept.
After the both of you on the front counter, you sitting, him leaning against it beside you. Still not fully dressed. The playlist had long since ended and the shop was quiet except for both of you getting your breathing back. You looked at the flash art on the walls. “We just did that on the front counter,” you said.
“We did.”
“Where clients sit.”
“I’ll clean it.”
You looked at him. He looked back with the wrecked-and-unbothered expression, his hair completely destroyed, his rings catching the low light. “You’re not even slightly embarrassed,” you said.
“No.” Simple. His hand found your knee. “Are you?”
You thought about it. “No.” He smiled. The real one.
You leaned your head on his shoulder and he turned his face into your hair and you sat on the front counter of Studio 13 at midnight and the warmth of it — the us of it — felt like something you could live inside. “Stay,” he said. Into your hair.
“At yours?”
“Here. Couch in the back.” His hand moved at your knee. “Don’t want you to go yet.”
You lifted your head. Looked at his face. “Riki. I’m not going anywhere,” you said.
His eyes moved over yours. The thing behind them — the possessive, careful, quietly terrified thing that drove the jealousy and the silence and the hand always finding yours — settled. “I know,” he said. Like he was practicing believing it.
“I know you know.” You put your hand on his jaw. “I’m telling you anyway.” He turned his face into your palm. Brief. Eyes closing for just a second.
Then he stood up, pulled you off the counter, kept your hand in his. “Couch,” he said.
“Couch,” you agreed.
You were asleep within minutes with Riki’s jacket over you and his voice low in the background talking to someone on the phone — his brother, you thought, distantly, the conversation too quiet to hear properly — and the red light under the door and the smell of ink and his hoodie under your cheek.
You were asleep and warm and his and the storm was three weeks away. It felt like nothing could touch this.
Daniel texted your friend Soo on a Wednesday night. She didn’t tell you immediately. That was the first thing — she sat on it for four days, turning it over, looking at the record he’d sent her, reading it and rereading it. The charge. The conviction. The length of the sentence. Assault. Grievous bodily harm. Victim: female.
She read those words and thought about you and made a decision she believed was the right one. She texted you on a Sunday.
You were at Riki’s flat. Sunday morning, late, the good kind of late — his record player going, both of you in the kitchen, you on the counter watching him make coffee with the focused competence he brought to everything. His hair was wrecked. He had a bruise on his collarbone that was your fault and he’d looked at it in the mirror that morning with an expression of complete satisfaction that had made you throw a pillow at him. Your phone lit up on the counter beside you.
Soo: hey can we talk today. it’s important.
Soo: it’s about Riki.
You looked at the screen. “What,” Riki said. He’d clocked your face without turning around. He did that.
“Soo wants to talk.” You kept your voice neutral. “About you.”
He turned. Read your expression. His jaw did the thing — the subtle set — but his voice stayed even. “What about me?”
“She didn’t say.”
A pause. He looked at the coffee. Back at you. “When?”
“Today apparently.” He nodded. Said nothing. Turned back to the coffee and you watched his shoulders and thought about the tension in them and didn’t ask.
You met Soo at the coffee place near yours at two. She was already there when you arrived. She had her hands around her cup and her expression was the one she got when she was about to say something she’d rehearsed — careful, prepared, slightly guilty around the edges. You sat down. “Just tell me,” you said.
She put her phone on the table. Turned it to face you. A screenshot. A public record database. The name — Nishimura Riki — and below it the details, dry and legal and devastating in their simplicity. Charge: Assault occasioning grievous bodily harm. Victim: Female, 28. Sentence: 14 months. Probation: 12 months.
⤷ mdni, explicit content, dom!riki × sub!reader, rough sex, wrist pinning, doggy, unprotected p in v (wrap your willy), clit stimulation, dirty talk
𝒘𝒄:: 687 ﹒💬 wiv's note. . . craving this rn. send me recs guyss
You moan loudly into the sheets, pushing your body back against his because, fuck, it feels way too good and you need more. "Riki, fuck… deeper."
He lets out a mocking laugh and stretches one arm forward, grabbing both your wrists and pulling them behind your back, pinning them there so you can’t move while he keeps fucking you hard.
"Fuck, this pussy’s squeezing me so tight," he growls, his free hand sliding down to smack your ass — hard enough to sting in the best way and make you clench even harder around his cock.
His balls slap against your clit with every thrust, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body.
It’s hard to think straight with him buried so deep, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. He tightens his grip on your wrists, pulling them back to arch you even more, completely at his mercy as he picks up the pace, fucking you faster and harder.
"You like being my little sex toy, huh? You like when I use this pretty fucking pussy." He smacks your ass again, then rubs the spot before grabbing and spreading you wider, so he can watch his cock disappear into your soaked pussy.
Every inch of him drags along your inner walls, the friction so good it makes you moan and whimper nonstop. Your arms strain against his hold, but you don’t really want to get free; being completely at his mercy only makes the heat burn hotter, and your pussy pulses around him.
"You’re dripping down my balls, baby… so wet for me." His fingers find your clit, rubbing it fast and hard while he keeps fucking you deep.
"Riki… ah, fuck, I’m gonna cum if you keep doing that," you moan, your voice cracking as the pressure builds fast in your belly.
He lets out a satisfied laugh and rubs even harder; his cock slams all the way in at the same time, filling you completely.
Your whole body tenses, thighs shaking, and then the pleasure hits you hard. Your pussy clenches and pulses around him as you cum, letting out a loud, shaky moan.
He doesn’t slow down at all, keeping up those brutal, deep thrusts as he chases his own pleasure. "Fuck, your pussy’s milking me so good."
You feel hypersensitive, but in the best way — that kind of overwhelming sensation that makes you want even more, even right after cumming.
You turn your head further, looking back over your shoulder at him as best you can. "Keep fucking me like this, don’t pull out… I want you to use me until you cum."
"You sound so good when you beg like that." He keeps pounding you hard, his hand slapping your ass as he speeds up, the wet sounds of skin slapping filling the room.
A second wave of pleasure starts building fast — he’s hitting every perfect spot and his fingers never stop working your sensitive clit.
"Riki, fuck… I’m already so close again." You push your body back, bouncing against him while he grips your wrists even tighter.
"You're such a good girl for me," he says, voice strained as he gets closer to the edge, his cock pulsing inside you. You clench around him on purpose, trying to drag him over the limit with you.
"Cum inside me, Riki… fill me up." Your voice, thick with desire, is all he needs. He groans loudly, thrusting deep a few more times before burying himself to the hilt and cumming hard, hot spurts of cum filling you.
The sensation pushes you over the edge too. Another orgasm crashes through you, making your pussy pulse and squeeze him tight as you moan his name, voice shaky.
Once you both catch your breath and the spasms start to fade, he slowly pulls his cock out so you feel every inch. His cum leaks out of you onto the sheets, and the sight makes his cock twitch — already starting to get hard again. "I’m not done with you yet… this time I want to see your face while I fuck you.”
order notes: was supposed to be working on a request but i got distracted with this idea and couldn’t sleep without writing it
꒰ྀི toxic fwb!niki ꒱ྀ who you met night one night at a party after you had an argument with your boyfriend. you both hit it off immediately—so well that the night ended with you straddling him in his car outside your boyfriend’s dorm, grinding down against niki until he came.
꒰ྀི toxic fwb!niki ꒱ྀ who never cared about getting caught. you could tell him your boyfriend was almost home from work or class and it’d only make him fuck you harder.
“yeah? let him see his pretty girlfriend spread out for me,” he grunts, voice steady. and you can hear the smirk on his face when you clench around him at the words.
꒰ྀི toxic fwb!niki ꒱ྀ who always records whenever you’re on your knees, pretty lips wrapped around his cock, tears staining your cheeks. he’d never send the videos to your boyfriend but it doesn’t stop him from teasing you with the idea of doing it.
“so fucking pretty like this…” he breathes, lifting his hips in shallow thrusts, zooming in on the way you were swallowing every inch. “are you this needy of a slut for your boyfriend?”
꒰ྀི toxic fwb!niki ꒱ྀ who loves bullying your cervix. he'd have your back pressed against the mattress, gripping the sheets like they were your only anchor as his hips slammed into you relentlessly.
꒰ྀི toxic fwb!niki ꒱ྀ who hates whenever you stop answering his messages. you’d go ghost when you and your boyfriend made up. he knew you’d be back and when you do, he makes sure to remind you to never do that shit again.
꒰ྀི toxic fwb!niki ꒱ྀ who swears what’s between you and him is purely transactional but fucks you like he loves you.
“fuck— god, I love you—love this pussy…” he pants, his body pressed against your chest, one hand gripping your waist while the other holds your hand as he pounds into you.
꒰ྀི toxic fwb!niki ꒱ྀ who is definitely territorial. he’d leave hickeys and marks all over your body, not caring the struggle you’d have trying to cover all of them.
꒰ྀི toxic fwb!niki ꒱ྀ who would make you pick up the phone whenever he was rearranging your guts. he’d see your boyfriend calling and answer it, forcing you to speak while trying to hide what you were really doing.
꒰ྀི toxic fwb!niki ꒱ྀ who came to your dorm in the middle of the night, drunk and soaked from the rain. he couldn’t stop thinking about you, about the way he felt with you—or the fact you weren’t fully his.
“I love you—i really do,” he hiccups, voice slurred to the point every word is bunched together, but you understand everything. “just please… l-leave him… I’ll be better—i am better.”
taglist: @cuteyjjwonnnn @nota10butadefinite8 @sstrawbxrry @kristynaaah (ignore how I haven’t done my taglist in a while heh.. I forgot until now)
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
synopsis: Riki is a chill guy, and you just happened to be the baddest girl he’s ever spoken to. What was supposed to remain as a client and plug relationship eventually leads to something more dangerous. He’s addictive, you’re addictive. He’s your star boy and you’re his star girl.
content warning$ minors do not interact! Smut, mentions of weed, substance abuse, dom! Riki x sub! reader, oral fixation, oral sex (m and f rec), fingering, unprotected sex (don’t be silly and wrap that dickly-willy), fluff, Riki is cute af, bulge kink, breeding kink, mating press, freakazoids, humping/grinding, overstimulation, pet names: princess, baby, etc.. missionary, creampie, multiple orgasms
wc: 10k. playli$t
ℛ𝖾𝗆𝗂ℛaps: here it is my lovelies!!!! made some changes so it wouldnt be exactly the same as the smau, it'd be boring. so i hope you luuhhh it. If there’s errors, I apologies in advance!!
the glow from your laptop was the only thing lighting up the room of your apartment. You rubbed your temples as the cursor blinked mockingly on yet another unfinished audit report, the redness in your eyes worsened just by looking at it, a blunt ache forming behind them.You stared at sunoo's text for a minute as you contemplated reaching out to the guy that he "knew."
How the fuck would you text him, a complete stranger? Like, hey i'm y/n, and im in dire need of weed? you'd sound so stupid and inexperienced—which you obviously are—but its nothing compared to the immense stress from work. endless. daunting.
Amidst the slight panic that began to surge within you, you searched his username. The moment the profile popped up you'd noticed how swag his profile picture was. You cackled at his bio, "munch munch munch" with a duck emoji. You thought immediately, this guy seems like a vibe…And then you began to analyze his profile, the lesser version of stalking through which you were just getting a preview of this said "chill guy."
So far, his posts leaned more toward the dark aesthetic you know, the guys that claimed half their closet was thrifted (we know damn well they bought that shit straight from the factory). Before you could make the mistake of liking any of his posts, you finally mustered up the courage to dm him.
you: hii you're riki right? a friend of mine recommended me to you for yk…stuff to relax
your stomach flipped when the bubbles appeared in an instant. Damn the guy's fast, you thought. it was actually happening. You were actually one step closer to breaking the fourth wall with a complete stranger just to take a chill pill from a fucked up thing called "life."
nishiwunn_.: yes i am. hi…which friend?
you: kim sunoo
nishiwunn_.: ahh you're y/n. heard gang about you. yeah sunoo's a regular….
you didn't know whether you should've been happy or scared at the fact that a complete stranger let alone a plug knew about you. Because sunoo had tea for days, and you were just about milliseconds away from screaming at the thought of him spilling your most embarrassing moments.
nishiwunn_.: dont sweat, its nothing bad. just that you're inexperienced
by then you were laid flat on your stomach, your tasks completely forgotten as you sighed in relief.
Conversation flowed effortlessly then. you know how it goes, enquiringly for prices—he was actually quite affordable to your surprise. You'd decided then when he mentioned a first time customer discount of 20% (specifically because you were a friend of sunoo's) you'd be using his services for a long time.
Then you came to the decision of settling with gummies, the lowest grade, a starter pack so you'd pave the way for future. Baby steps, he teased you.
you: could it be possible if i got the stuff now or is it too late for you?
Once again, the bubbles appeared and disappeared and you scolded yourself for being stupid enough to want to get your order in the wee am's of the morning. so stupid, so stupid so—
nishiwunn_.: nah im up rn, we can meet up at this location.
your breathe almost left you before you could read his response. You thanked the gods really, he didn't think you were insane enough to want to step out early in the morning for edibles. Instead, between texts, he scanned your profile just as you did his. But one thing about nishiwunn_. he had a habit of appreciating great content and lucky for you, you were just as good as he was. maybe even better.
you immediately shot up from your bed, putting on your uggs and a hoodie because you were too lazy to put a bra on.
Riki engrossed himself in your profile, paying close attention to hoe your bio matched one of his favorite songs by rapper Mos Def.
"Ms.fat booty," he mouthed, fingers swiping at your posts. The more he looked, the more he understood why you had that as your bio. You were indeed one gifted woman…
you: omw
your dm came in as a sign for him to lock in. So he did, took his keys and a pack of assorted flavored edibles before stepping out to the location he'd pinned for the meetup.
the closer you got, the quicker you noticed that riki didn't live too far from you. You practiced breath work the closer you got, all of sudden the nerves took over you. At that point the few people in the streets could be him, oversized attired, probably with a clean pair of timbs on. But none of the figurs you passed were riki…until you spotted on guy leaning against a streetlight pole, his back turned to you.
There was absolutely no way he was that tall. You walked up to him then, suddenly composed.
"uhm, order for the inexperienced individual?" you joked.
Riki turned to face you, with an amused look on his face. "easy there, passerby's might think im dealing drugs with that introduction."
"no shit," you huffed, before anything you instinctively extended a hand to formally introduce yourself. why? you don't know, maybe habit from meeting clients during your internship as a CA. "the name's y/n."
He didn't mean to give you a once-over look, but something about you rubbed off him in a weird way. A cool way. Cute way. his hand was warm when it wrapped over yours—a contrast to the cold of the silver that adorned his fingers like christmas ornaments (side note: he has pretty hands)—and with a lazy shrug he returned, "the name's riki."
For a moment you both fought to hold back smiles from how corny it got. you were the first to break, smile puffing your cheeks until your eyes disappeared into moon crescents. "gosh, i swear im not usually this awakward, i just arrived."
"Nah, you good." his voice was surprisingly deep, considering he was a little younger than sunoo. After stalking your page, he'd come to the realization that the camera had nothing on you, he was well aware of your features by now. And he'd come to the conclusion that not only were you the prettiest customer he's ever had, but your voice was just as pretty.
the morning air seemed to cloak over the two of you. It was a whole lot of smiling, looking elsewhere for a second then back at each other until you reached into your pocket for the cash you scrambled from old jackets. "okay, so i don't want to take up much of your time, im sure you're a busy guy. so…here."
The laugh riki made startled you. It came out without any thought just the reaction at how adorable you were, a total beginner. "shit, you're funny. you could've just sent it to me via app, y/n."
"for real?" your eyes almost popped at the news. "i lowkey thought you preferred cash in case you had to disappear or some shit."
"come on now, this isn't scarface."
Your cheeks almost burned from embarrassment. like duhh y/n, its 2026. No one uses cash for edibles unless its laced with some real dangerous stuff. stay safe kids.
The nerves had eased up long ago, but riki just started enjoying your company. to get to know his customer, of course. "wanna take a walk?"
"where to?" you asked, earning a hum as he scanned the scenery then pointing to yet another street pole a few meters away. "until there."
You agreed to it. The walk was easy to the feet, subtle and un-rushed. Riki handed you a rainbow toned packet, about the size of your palm. "you package m'lady."
"ahh, thank you good sir, you're awful kind."
The vibe was unmissable. From a single meeting alone, as the both of you drew closer to the pole ahead riki noted in his head that you were something else. Funnier than sunoo. You on the other hand had the za on your mind. You barely noticed the way you both fell into step naturally.
Then, the pole was right there, and you had this ridiculous look on your face that bordered on ecstasy and fear.
"you look a little too happy, im starting to think you're about to do some real crazy shit, y/n."
You giggled, half-wheezing. "i'm shaking, what if i die?"
"then i'd remember you as the weakest client i'd ever encountered." he shot you a look, but his mouth capped a judging smile. "i'll even go out of my way to make a poster with stairs to heaven and doves too."
The way you laughed you'd think you were already high but riki was just funny like that. effortlessly so it didn't feel forced like how some guys would just to get into your pants. You sighed then after checking the time on your phone which struck 01:48 am, time sure flies by when you're having a time.
After exchanging banking details, you paid riki what you owed and made sure to save his contacts as well.
"well, i guess ill be heading back now." you said, pursing your lips. riki nodded with a hum that sounded like a purr. "Yeah sure, let me know how it goes then."
"pray for me."
The moment you stepped back into your apartment, you wasted no time unwrapping your newly purchased goody-goods. You took a moment, contemplating whether you should down everything at once or be responsible and take one. You chose the latter and plopped on your couch to let the effects take its course.
You felt a little sleepy, sure, but not what you'd intended to feel—the kind of effect that made you dizzy or rotating round a room like rue in the first episode of euphoria. You huffed and puffed, tossed and turned. you even went above and beyond to take another one but this time, with music to set the mood.
Even after a few minutes of waiting you still felt no change, just slight soothing.
You laughed despite yourself, "did i just get ripped of?"
Your phone buzzed then, screen popping up with a notif from instagram.
nishiwunn_. started following you.
He almost punched a wall at how fast he followed you. He could've waited a few days and asked if you were going to use his services in future. But he couldn't explain it, that pull he had toward you for some reason. Was it attraction? Was it infatuation? Nah it couldn't be, he just met you. But why does he still think back to the smile on your face before you left? Why was it so easy to remember that entire interaction like the back of his hand?
_ynnnie.xe followed you back.
y/n: this shit wack af, need something stronger.
Guess i'll be seeing you more often, then. He smirked, changing position so he laid on his back on the couch with his head resting heavily on the armrest. His very own blunt burning at the butt. He took another long drag at the blunt, letting it sit in his lungs before he rushed to exhale. The good stuff, it seeped through his veins like cotton candy melting on the tongue. The buzz wasn't nauseating like how cigarettes had you on an empty stomach. This was premium stuff, easy in the system with adequate results.
Would you be down to try it? Would you be down to break the fourth wall with him?
Snap out of it riki, she's just a client…
The weekend effect settled onto you the moment Friday approached. You were off from work and had the only thing on your mind was sleeping and being funky in peace. But you did the opposite of what you had in mind. You completely forgot about the edibles while you were mid-shave in the shower. One leg after the other and your routine was close to completion.
Thereafter, you spent the rest of the day in relax mode. No work, no audits. None of that bullshit that had you aging a minute faster than normal besides you, your bed and mika cuddled up at your side while you watched love island USA on your laptop.
That's how it went the rest of the day. For lunch you ordered take out, beef pho and chilled OJ. Mika had tuna again, which she never got sick of. The last episode of love island just started getting way too good to miss, when sincere was acting insincere toward Melanie. A total mess.
Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. You hadn't even realized you were off your phone the entire day, considering it was almost 8pm. Sunoo was probably pressed you ignored him all day long.
The rhythm of your heartbeat slightly increased when you saw his name.
riki plug: Yo, hope you good. saw your dm from last night about the gummies…
riki plug: i've got some new samples if you wanna try
riki plug: fyi they're not gummies, so hmu if you down?
you typed back instantly, fingers moving before you gave it a second thought.
you: is it safe?
riki plug: not everything's safe. jk it wont kill as much.
you: ayo, that's not convincing. you trying to collect bodies or what riki?
He giggled to himself at that.
riki plug: my bad im not that great at giving warnings. But if it makes you feel better i tried it yesterday and of the strains i've tried, this one takes the cup. It's smooth sailing.
You contemplated it, trying a blunt for the first time. Hell even the way he'd described his experience—smooth sailing—you couldn't help but imagine how it'd make you feel. What if this was a chance to find your fit and finally take a chill pill and escape reality? Well y/n, you'll just never know if you don't take the leap. Just remember, you're damned if you and you're damned if you dont.
You gave Mika one look, cooing whether you should do it or just stay home and never enquire for a fix. Her double meow was enough to make that decision.
you: im down…
riki plug: meet me at the 7/11 in 15, ye?
you: Bet
Once again, your nerves doubled down and messed with you as you got ready. You wore your shoes on the wrong sides of your feet and then took them off to fix them. Suddenly your favorite pair of jeans couldn't move past the widest part of your hips. So much for stacking on protein the past few months.
Meanwhile, sunoo couldn't understand why riki wasn't replying to his texts. He texted and called texted and called, but riki was too focused on looking for his favorite leather jacket. Then his phone rang again and he picked up.
"mh, what?" he answered, hands occupied with scavenging through his closet for a good fit to look effortlessly presentable.
"so much for a plug it's like you're one of my hoes ghosting me. what gives bob marley?" sunoo said. "i need my refill."
"yeah, yeah you'll get it as soon as you pay what you owe, which is 30$."
sunoo whined on the other end of the receiver. In the background riki could here a guy talking about random nothings, probably sunghoon. "you know i'll pay you back ri, just this once i promise."
"it better be," riki almost stumbled on a pile of clothes as he sat on the bed to put his shoes on. "your friend might just be my new fav client with the way you acting."
And then silence. Sunoo processed his words, took them in regurgitated them and analyzed them again. Riki never said such things back then, and there was one time sunoo owed close to 100$ but riki never threatened to replace him with another customer.
"you mean y/n? has she tweaked out yet?" sunoo glanced at sunghoon who was to occupied with burning one side of a steak.
riki was almost done dressing up, putting his phone on speaker while he searched for a subtle cologne. "not at all, she's cool as fuck. She's even down to try a blunt next."
The shuffling and cologne spirts was unmistakable to sunoo's ears. Goosebumps painted his skin and his mouth hung agape. No…this can't be. "you're off to see her, aren't you?" sunoo mumbled.
"of course, someone's gotta teach her to puff and pass." riki chuckled.
"and that someone is you, im guessing?"
"who else would teach her? Someone has to do it, so i willingly nominated myself."
Sunoo was in disbelief. In his 5 years of knowing riki, every girl he sent his way never got such "customer service." if anything, riki wasn't the type to go out his way and spare time to teach someone to smoke a blunt. He never did that with me.
"i swear to god riki, my instincts are kicking in like crazy. this better not be what i think it is…"
Riki paused, eyes trailing about before furrowing his eyebrows. "that is..?"
"YOU'RE ACTING LIKE A SIDE. next thing i know you're actually finding her attractive."
"she is bad, thoug—
"RIKI!"
"okay, okay. im just going to give her the stuff and come back home, okay? cool, as long as we understand each other."
Riki dropped the phone before he could hear any more of sunoo's lecture about treading carefully, or something along the lines of don't you dare, that's my friend and you're weird.
But Riki's grown, you're grown—humble adults that just simply have a promising relationship as client and plug.
But that was debunked the moment he saw you pull up at the 7/11. You spotted riki sitting at the outside table with two cans of soda unopened, but what you didn't catch was the way he stared you down as you walked closer. Your soft curves, it was almost criminal to imagine how you got into those jeans.
"hey." you waved at him and took the seat just opposite him. he smelt good. you smelt like heaven.
"you made it." he managed to keep his voice leveled, though it took everything in him not to compliment you.
"you ready?" he asked, one eyebrow lifting as he took a sip on his soda.
"right now, right here?" you whispered, scoping the scenery so no one would dare label the two of you as sus. As always, you always manged to put a smile on riki's face, better yet, a soft laugh. He was defeated. "You're acting as if we're doing something illegal, relax girl."
"aren't we though?" you questioned, voice pitching a little higher, earning another laugh from him. Riki took it as a sign that you were probably uncomfortable with doing it in front of people, you know smoking of course. "wanna head to my car?"
"sure."
His car wasn't too far from the 7/11. His sleek ride parked perfectly hidden from any spectators.
Riki unlocked the car, making sure to open your door which you thanked him for.
"This is nice," you dragged, taking in the interior and how well kept it was. Bonus points for keeping it clean, unlike sunghoon who kept packets of snacks and candy everywhere like an old geezer.
Riki wasted no time in sparking up his little friend. The car reeked of dry plum and oak in an instant, mixing with his intoxicating cologne—cedar and a hint of melon that somehow made the situation feel less dangerous. You sat in the passenger seat, legs tucked under you while the radio played in the background. You held the rolled blunt between your fingers feeling foreign and useless.
Riki leaned back in the driver's seat, one hand loose on the wheel with all eyes on you. The moonlight cut through the windshield, catching on the silver of his chain.
"first time?" he teased, voice low and calm.
you almost choked before smoking. "be gentle with me, now. sheesh."
he smiled, soft, almost fond. "i got you, princess. Just take it slow. No rushing."
you brought it to your lips, heart hammering. The first pulled burned, but not as bad as you'd expected it. Kudos to having smoked cigarettes before. You barely coughed, your eyes slightly watered and riki couldn't help but chuckle at the sight, passing you a bottle of water from the center console.
"easy now. you're doing good."
By the second hit you were a pro. Warmth spread through your chest, in and around you. Your limbs grew heavy in the best way, the streetlights glowed like shooting stars. It went on like that. Riki finished the rest of the blunt and you both just sat there talking about anything and everything under the dark sky.
"My cat, Mika, has this judgemental look on her face everything i mention gummies of smoking."
"she sounds like she runs the house," riki laughed under his breath.
"she's like my tiny dictator with fangs. She hated my ex though." you smiled, eyes-half lidded. then you turned to him, his head resting on the car seat staring at the radio. "what about you? any pets?"
"nah, too much responsibility when im moving around." he paused, watching you now. "you said your cat hated your ex, right?"
"yeah. total mistake. he was…a whole lot. controlling. Made me feel so small for wanting things he barely gave." you sighed at the recollection. "i stayed longer than i should've and it costed me."
Riki listened to you attentively, eyes on the way your cheeks flushed from the high, the slow rise and fall of your chest, the way you lashes fluttered the deeper you got into topic. His grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel, but his voice remained gentle.
"asshole." he muttered, earning a hum from you. "if i were him," he corrected, almost to himself. "i wouldn't dare to traet you like that, ever."
His words landed heavy in the hazy air. You blinked slowly, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. It was sweet—too sweet—bu the high made everything feel floaty and unreal. It didn't settle too deep the way it should have. "you're smooth when you're high huh, this how you get girls?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling. "bold of you to assume my antics."
Silence stretched, comfortable. You watched the way the moonlight played across his jawline when he closed his eyes for a minute. The quiet intensity when he clenched his jaw in thought. Or the way his eyes absorbed you when he looked at you. A buzz fluttered in your stomach, spreading a warmth that had nothing to do with the blunt.
"you seeing anyone though?" his question came suddenly.
"wouldn't you like to know," you breathed, avoiding his eyes. Shaking your head softly as you turned to face your side of the window.
His gaze darkened a fraction, but he didn't dare to push. Just to know, just to understand. Instead, he leaned his head back against the headrest, mirroring your relaxed posture.
"we should do this more often you know," he said after a beat, releasing a heavy sigh. "just chill and stuff. no pressure, though its if you're comfortable."
"i am in your car." you said, meeting his eyes. The high suddenly making everything easier to say. You felt the pull, that quiet interest blooming just beneath the surface of your skin, the way his presence filled the car without demanding anything.
"you just let me know when, and i'll see what i can do."
You stared each other down, blaming it on the heat, the music, the weed. Riki nodded once, then turned away with a smirk looking away at the windshield like he was reminding himself to breathe. You caught the way he bit his lip, careful enough to mask the way you fought a knowing smile. He didn't need an excuse to be close to you, but judging from the amount of time he'd known, that was a start. Getting high together in the humble space of his car. He was woke enough to know juts how much he wanted to lean over, grab the back of your neck and clash his lips onto yours. He wanted nothing more badly than tasting the sweet smile off your lips.
But he stayed on his side of the car, fingers drumming lightly on the wheel.
Not yet, he told himself. Don't be a creep, be a gentleman.
For that moment, you just sharing a blunt with him for the night was enough.
Days blurred passed and sunoo was furious at the fact that you were getting between him and his plug.
"—and then i have to see on your story that you were having a wonderful time, alone with him…"
The grill house buzzed with life, every table occupied with five or more people besides you and sunno. you turned the meat over to cook on the other side, nodding, "you're being dramatic, sun."
"oh am i? me, dramatic. you're like—
your mind had a mind of its own, drifting to the night you'd spent with riki. You'd spoken casually thereafter, kind of building a friend-like ship behind the scenes. Sunoo's voice just became background noise when your phone lit up with his name:
riki plug: i'm guessing he's still sulking about that night huh?
You smiled, dropping the utensils to asnwer his text.
you: it's like im friends with a toddler, he can't stop whining.
riki plug: someone's a little jelly i see. tell him i'll make it up to him.
you: oh and then sit through another lecture of how its sneaky to text someone else under the table while he rambles on? no thanks.
riki plug: oh, you hiding me away now. what do i embarass you, y/n?
you rolled your eyes as you typed.
you: as if, i just can't stand being told what to do.
"you're not even listening to me aren't you?" sunoo deadpanned, but you were so indeedp in the convo with riki that you barely clocked that the meat was burning.
"oh—shit," you acted fast, placing your phone on the side without locking it. "that's what you get for not paying attention. let's see what it is you were busy with." his hand moves before your brain could process it.
Shit, you didn't lock your phone. riki was still typing last you checked.
you just froze the moment sunoo read the texts:
"that's a dangerous thing to say to someone who's good at giving instructions…" he cocked an eyebrow up. You lifted to get your phone back but ever so slippery, sunoo dodged you and scrolled some more. "s-sunoo—
"—oh and you're meeting for dinner in a week."
you grabbed your phone then, after all the struggle.
This wasn't how it was supposed to pan out. "we need to talk." sunoo shook his head. great another lecture.
you started posting more than usual—soft selfies on your close friends, late-night study setups, one particularly dangerous mirror shot in tight leggings with your hair cut short.
Riki was losing his mind.
He sat in his car after a drop, thumb hovering over the screen. The picture, the arch in your back. The way those pants only did you justice , hugging you just right he wished his last name was polyester…He groaned, struggling not to palm his aching hard on. Luckily his windows were tinted enough to half-indulge, finally plaming himself through his sweats, grinding up into his hand as he stared. "fuck, y/n…"
and then his phone chimed, snapping him back to sanity.
You: you ready for tomorrow?
he exhaled sharply, forcing his hand away with a needy groan.
riki plug: i'll pick you up at 8pm
he did just that. riki picked you up on time, making sure to open the door for you after you hugged each other "hi"
The place was a hidden gem, part restaurant, part listening party with lowlights, great food and a playlist that shifted from chill R&b to something heavier. The two of you pre-gamed with a shared blunt before entering, the high settling warm and hazy in your veins.
conversation started off easily. Music—you both shared a liking for michael jackson. your cat mika's latest chaos. His late night deliveries. Somewhere between sharing a plate of pizza and sipping on his drink to taste, not shying away from using the same straw, the tension thickened like molasses with every shared look, every accidental brush of the knees under the table.
you looked so pretty under warm lights, he thought. Why does he keep looking at me like that? you thought.
You took it as an opportunity to play with him a little, maybe test the edge to an extent. so you leaned forward with that teasing smile, leg brushing his under the table. oopsies. "so…do all your clients get this kind of treatment, or am i special?"
His eyes darkened when he leaned closer. his arms crossed on the table, lips curving. "only the ones who drive me crazy from a single post."
"oh, so you were stalking me huh?" you mock-asked, smiling sheepishly as you side-eyed him. he laughed in a breath, rubbing at his chin in the process. The atmosphere was just right, perfect timing to fix whatever it was you were doing to him under the table. Better yet, he could show you if you'd let him…
"dance with me."
"you asking or are you telling me, mr. nishimura?" you tilted your head. "which would you prefer, y/n?" his toned back, the very same way to have an effect on you as it did on him.
On the floor, bodies pressed close. Cologne to sweet-haven scented lust, the beat thumped low in contrast to your heartbeats. You turned, back against his chest, rolling your hips against him. Clearly it was what he wanted the way his hands instinctively gripped at your sides. He pulled you in tighter from the waist, his breath hot against your ear.
"this you? or the weed has you acting different around me, princess?"
you smirked, grinding back harder, feeling the length of him harden against your ass. From the feeling alone you could tell he was massive, hung with delight. "Mmh, it could be. Why, you don't like it?"
He nuzzled into your neck, nibbling into the flesh where you pulse raged for contact. "what a dangerous thing to ask, y/n. there's people around."
Your eyelids fell heavier when you felt his free hand caress the exposed skin of your thigh. To anyone who was sober enough to take notice of how close the two of you "danced" they'd know that you both needed it. you both wanted it. expeditiously.
you turned to face him, hands flat on his chest as he looked down at you through half-lidded eyes. "maybe i like dangerous."
He could've devoured you live if he could, instead his mouth traced inches away from yours, hot breath-to-hot breath. "Bathroom, now."
The single stall door barely clocked shut before his mouth galloped over your neck. You trembled with heavy legs, his hands were greedy squeaking and kneading the plump flesh of your ass.
Your moans we're light, music to his ears that an impatient knock dare disturb his favorite song.
"Yo, man I gotta use the bathroom." The guy knocked.
"Fuck off!" Riki growled into your mouth. His hands bunching your skirt up. "Damn boy, that bad huh?"
His lips trailed lower til he was on his knees, eyes focused on the wet patch that stained the lace of your panties. A throaty cry left your mouth with a single swipe of his finger, before pulling the material to the side. Probing you wet and swollen.
"Save the teasing for later." He said it like a man starved of affection. "can you spread for me?"
And like the good girl you were, you complied, stretching until he could just enough to rip your underwear to shreds. "Ri—
"—fuck, look at you," he groaned, spreading your thighs, placing each leg over his shoulders. His tongue dragged over your slit, collecting the stretchy slime until it became one with his saliva. A tingle shot up through your clit, like electricity to water, riki's tongue worked over you rapidly until he had you shaking through the heaviness.
You moaned, threading your fingers through his hair. "Riki—oh my god—"
He devoured you, he munched on you, two fingers curling deep while his mouth worked you relentlessly as though it were your wedding night. "You taste so good, baby. My pretty client soaking my face. Yes, ride my face baby—nigh like that."
You heard him purr and it egged you on to quicken the pace. Using his face to soothe the stubborn ache he created. Your mouth hung open with needy breathes, your limbs heavy from the weed from earlier you were seconds away from tapping out.
"Ah, riki, it's too much.."
"Easy baby, I've got you." He cooed, sliding three fingers into you. Plunging himself in and out with pleasurable force. The squelching between your thighs bubbled in the space, life sounds he'd record to listen to in his car every time he drove it. You clenched over his fingers then, trembling as you felt your high nearing.
"You wanna cum, princess? Hmm?"
You nodded.
And with a slow drag, his tongue met you once more. No one had ever prepared you for how good brain in the bathroom would be, especially with someone who was supposed to stay a plug—according to sunoo's standards.
Riki never let up. "Cum for me, baby. Let me drink it."
You shattered hard, thighs clamping around his head, his grinding against his tongue as you came with a broken cry. His fingers remained inside you. Stroking slow and steady, it gave a slight headache.
He rose slightly enough to give you a sloppy and deep kiss, letting you taste how you tasted on him. His cocks was rock hard in his pants and even though he knew what you wanted form the look in your eyes he assured that he was saving it for later.
"Can I take you out on a proper date next time?" He panted against your mouth. "Make this official?" You kissed him back, tongue grazing his lazily and lingering, nipping his bottom lip. "I thought this was the date."
You chuckled, eyes looking down at his swollen duck lips. "Or was this one of your silly games of trying to get into my pants, mr. Nishimura?"
He laughed darkly, grinding onto air. "You're so bad."
The date came as a surprise more than it did a coincidence. You just didn't know that sunoo eventually gave up after riki promised him a lifetime worth of supply in exchange for points to get into your heart.
As always, he never failed to succeed in doing so. The cinema was dimly lit and chilly, but the warmth of riki's hoodie kept you warm and cozy. The plush seats were just as cozy and comfortable, and in between you sat large bucket of buttered popcorn and a rainbow slushy. Riki had chosen Michael, a movie he caught you gleaming over in small convos. The gesture was beyond anything you'd ever imagined. you mostly spent your birthday alone or with sunoo and hoon, but today just felt right. It felt like you deserved it.
You sat in the back row, popcorn halfway through before the lights went down. The edible situation became routine for the two of you, a riki x y/n thing. He called it the adventures of "stargirl and starboy." goofy but cute.
Halfway through the movie, specifically the pepsi, your heart shattered at the sight. Riki's hand found your in the dark, to comfort you, to let you know that he was there to share your experiences with him. His fingers were warm as they laced with yours, thumb brushing slow, soothing circles on your skin. The quiet connection was enough for you. and when you glanced at him, you glanced the softest smile on his lips eyes fixed on the screen but clearly distracted by you.
For the first time, he's holding back—you realized. The same guy who had been so effortlessly filthy in texts was choosing gentleness tonight. The same guy who thought the kitchen counter was the perfect place to try reverse cowgirl was suddenly the biggest babygirl between the two of you. It made you chest feel strangely full with something you never knew you missed.
when the movie ended and the credits rolled, you saw him bust a move for the first time. moon walking and kicking and shit, it was a sight to see. He even got a standing ovation from the crowd that stayed to watch. He was glowing with an electric current, a foreign thing—pure energy that drew you in from day one. He turned to you, voice low. 'you okay?"
you nodded, smiling—the high wasn't great enough to blame your gleaming smile on it. You admired riki. "better than okay. i haven't felt this…light in months."
His arms wrapped around you instantly, your head to his chest, and his hand caressing your hair. you almost cried at how good it felt to be loved, how good it felt to be childish around him without being judged, but most of all how good it felt to not have to ask for affection. with riki it was first nature to touch you. he couldn't live a day without having graced your skin. " let's get some lunch, baby, okay?"
"yeah. kiss me first."
did he not listen like a good boy.
Lunch afterward was simple and humble— a sunny cafe with sandwiches, iced drinks and a shared slice of cake. It was so funny when he sang you happy birthday in that baritone voice of his. You were finished, and he was a nervous wreck trying to light up the DIY cannabis shaped candle he made. "make a wish, princess." you took a moment to think about it and you did. when you blew the candle you don't know what wahsed over him. Adult zoomies? or maybe just excitement when he smeared chocolate cream on your face and licked it off. "r-riki! we're in public."
"you didn't care when we were at McDonald's last week."
You laughed over little things, how he admitted he secretly loved old movies like because they reminded him to slow down. At one point, he fed you a bite of dessert, eyes soft when you laughed at the sweetness on your tongue. "you've got a little—" he reached over, thumb gently wiping the corner of your mouth. His touch lingered on your skin a second longer than necessary. That spark was evident, but he pulled back before he'd ruin it by being too horny.
"you're so pretty, y/n."
his words caught you off guard. you didn't know how to react besides stutter and blush. you softly nudged him with your fist. "stop it."
"why?" he laughed catching your hand and placed it over his heart. the smile on his face was cheesy as cheese could ever be. all 32 of his pearly whites on display. "this is what you do to me every time i look or even think of you."
"you're such a dork, gosh." you stood up running toward the amusement park. he followed suit, laughing with every bit of glee he had in him. " a dork for you!"
The amusement park was the perfect finale. The colors blended vividly together well—kudos to the lasting effects of the edibles—laughter bubbling up easily. Riki stood close as you stood in line for a ride, hand brushing yours and then lacing his fingers with yours.
the sun was setting then, and you should've know by the way the rhythm of his breath changed that he was up to something. So he leaned lower until his mouth was near your ear. "you could honestly ride something else and save money."
"ew, not now."
the line shortened then, excitement bubbled in you. the climb to the top was slow, heart-pounding anticipations building. At the peak, as the car paused for the heart-stopping second, he squeezed your hand.
"for future reference, hold on tight, stargirl."
the drop was pure chaos, wind whipping your hair, screams turning into breathless laughter. Riki played too cool for the ride, barely making a face so he'd look presentable for the secret cameras they hid to catch you lacking. When the ride ended, you were dizzy and giddy. The picture showed riki's face filled with air with his mouth wide open. you just straight up logged with your hair covering your face.
"you look like that ghost from the ring." he giggled pointing at the screen. you shot him a look, face painted with mock disgust. "and you look like scrooge mc'duck giving the air a blowjob."
riki pulled you tight into a hug right there on the platform, rubbing your head like you were some gold statue. Then he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. "best date ever," he murmured, voice warm agaisnt your hair. "even if you screamed louder than the ride."
you swatted his chest, cheeks flushed. "shut up, you know you loved it." He grinned, stealing one more sweet, lingering kiss under the evening light—just lips and quiet affection. "yeah i did. remake at my place?"
The door to his place clicked shut behind you, sealing the cool night air outside, The space was surprisingly warm and lived in—soft lighting from a few down lamps, a large sectional couch piled with throws and plump cushions. He even had the space spritzed with sandalwood and something faintly sweet. It felt like him…chill, a little mysterious, but undeniably comfortable.
"make yourself at home, princess," riki said, voice low and easy as he kicked of his shoes and took yours off after. He then shrugged his hoodie off, revealing the simple white tank underneath, silver chains glinting against his collarbones. The definition in his arm muscles did things to you. "want me to get you soemthing to drink? snacks? i've got that premium stuff you like too."
you smiled, toes sinking into the soft rug as you followed him into the open lounge area. "whatever you're having, i'll have."
he grinned over his shoulder, grabbing two packets of chips from the kitchen counter. You took space into the sectional, the cushions enveloping you. riki joined you a moment later, placing the bowl of snacks in the center of the table before reaching for a small chrome box on the coffee table. He pulled out a pre-rolled blunt, lighting it with a lighter that clicked softly in the quiet room—the first inhale filled the air with that familiar earthy scent.
he took a slow drag, then passed it to you, eyes soft and watchful in the low light. "still feel good?"
you exhaled and leaned closer to him. "as ever." The smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling as you passed it back and forth. Conversation stayed light at first, a recap of how you spent your day together—the movie, the roller coaster, how both mika and sunoo would be on your case when you got home. But the high deepened, making touches linger, smiles easier.
Mid-way through the blunt, riki paused, eyes lighting up like he'd just remembered something important. "wait—almost forgot something."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pink velvet box. "Happy birthday, princess. for real this time."
you sat up straighter, the haze and the dream-like scenery overloaded your senses. He opened th box to reveal a delicate silver necklace—a gorgeous cross pendant adorned with pink and white diamonds, initials R+Y engraved subtly on the back.
your breath caught, fingers grazing the box too scared that you might damage it, or maybe it was too much to accept. "riki this is…its beautiful."
he moved closer on the couch, the blanket slipping off one shoulder. turn around."
You did, lifting your hair exposing your neck. his fingers were warm against your skin as he fastened the clasp, the chain cool as it settled against your collarbone. the soft sensation sent shockwaves through you. he pressed a soft kiss then to the nape of your neck, lingering there with a low hum.
"looks perfect on you," he murmured.
You turned to face him half way, eyes gleaming, fingers tracing the pendant. "thank you, baby. i love it."
The air between you thickened. still high, everything felt slow and magnetic, especially the way you looked at him with those thankful eyes. he cupped your face, thumb brushing your cheek. "i love you, y/n." His eyes were half lidded when he said those words. Dark with want as he stared you down on the couch, the silver necklace you'd just received gleaming against your collarbone.
He kissed you slowly at first, sweet and lazy making sure your lip recoiled after he bit it. But the high and the long building tension turned it deeper. his tongue slid into your mouth, warm and silky with his hands roaming at your plush skin.
"come here, princess," he hummed, in a throaty groan, kinda rough around the edges. you crawled into his lap, the necklace cool between your bodies as the kiss grew hungrier. But you felt some other kind of growth the more you settled in the way you straddled him. Your hands found balance at his shoulders whilst his hands traced from being settled on your hips to gripping your fat ass. "damn, baby. all this for me?" he groaned into your mouth with the corners of his lip lifting in a smirk.
he didn't rush. instead, he peeled you off gently like an orange. The fine mist of the citrus was nothing compared to the fountain that dripped from between your legs the more he stripped you bare. First your top, leaning in to press soft kisses along your jaw, down the side of your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin mixed with the weed.
Then came you bra, the clip popping open before he slipped the straps down your shoulders. Eyes never leaving you in the process. he bit his lip when you hissed at the sensation his fingertips gave on your hardened buds. He groaned softly, cupping them gently, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened even more under his touch."been thinking about peeling this off you all day," he whispered, lowering himself against your pulse point. Licking his way down to a nipple while he fondled with your other boob.
you mewled the faster he licked and the harder he sucked. then rotation to give attention to your other breast.
It was too much. he was rock hard under you. the way he sucked onto your skin fueled the fountain between your legs. it felt uncomfortable how your underwear stuck to your folds, and sandwiching between them as you humped on him.
"fuck…look at you," he breathed. hands guiding you at your sides, palms warm on the low of your back. you shivered, your head felt heavier than the rest of you—amplified by the brush of his fingers, the stiffness that raged at your core. "riki, baby…"
"shh. let me enjoy this." he leaned forward, kissing the valley between your breasts without missing the rhythm. But then he grew impatient, he lifted you up slightly. He tugged your pants completely off and threw it somewhere. all you had left was your necklace, your panties sandwiched between your folds and the very last of your dignity. Riki's hands roamed over your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh, thumbs dipping under the waistband of your panties but not pulling them down yet.
He leaned flat, back against the couch, pulling you with him so straddled his face. You were hesitant, afraid that you might suffocate. "y/n, please let me have this."
his hands pulled you down completely. you squealed when his nose took up space between your cunt. His hands traced the low of your spine, cupping your ass and pulling you closer until he had you riding his face with full force. "yes, fuck baby ride my face." he mumbled, fingers pulling your panties to the side and sliding in two fingers to get you going. "so fucking pretty. tastes so good," he slurped, voice thick from the lack of air under you. "my stargirl, all mine. hear me?"
"huh?" you whined, struggling to hear whatever it was he was saying. "yea sure whatever just—right there…"
your pussy was beyond soaked, you were sopping over him like melted ice cream. His tongue worked along with his fingers, his nose heightening the sensation as it brushed and pressed onto your clit. The gasped, your thighs trembling the closer your climax neared. "oh, riki…i-im g-gon—fuck!"
you gushed onto his face, and he sucked every last drop. making sure not to waste none, not even for the spirits that lingered. You almost collapsed at the weight of your dizziness. but you needed more, more of him. you wanted to have more.
He rose, kissing you sloppy and deep so he could spit in your mouth and feel you swallow it. His cock pressed hot and heavy against your thigh. "need you," he rasped.
you pushed his back, crawling down his body with a wicked look in your eyes. Not a single smile or smirk in sight because you meant business. "my turn."
He was breathing hard already, chest rising and falling as he watched you crawl lower. His cock strained visibly against the front of his sweats, a thick and massive outline begging for your attention. \
"ah—fuck, princess please," he rasped, voice wrecked, hips twitching upward instinctively as your fingers hooked the waistband of both his pants and briefs. You took your time peeling them down his thighs, inch by torturous inch, letting the fabric drag over his skin while his cock sprang free—hot, heavy, and already leaking at the tip. He groaned low in his throat, a needy sound that made your core clench.
You kept composure, brushing your lips along the length of his shaft without taking him in yet. Just another featherlight kiss and the heat of your breath ghosting over his heavy-sensitive skin. He bucked again, one hand guiding the back of your head while the other guided his tip into your mouth with impatience. "m'sorry baby, nghh—you steady playing." he breathed a cry.
but you didnt complain, you let him guide you, use you as he wanted. The sweet-savory taste of his precum painted your tongue the more his shaft pushed in and out. He let out a broken moan, hips jerking up to chase more of that wet heat. “Yes—shit, just like that. Your mouth feels so fucking good… don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
you hollowed your cheeks and sank lower,, taking him deeper inch by inch tip to esophagus. The popping sounds of cum mixed saliva was music to his ears, your light whimpers and choking? even better. "You're so good…so, so good. God—ahh, your mouth is so warm and soft. Want to feel your throat. need it baby, please."
You tapped his thigh, yes. His abs clenched visibly with every controlled glide of your lips, precum bubbling at the corners of your mouth. He thrust deep into your throat once, then retracted and did so again, keeping a steady rhythm as loud groans filled the air. He fucked your mouth muttering sweet nothings in the process, skin slapping against your muffled chocking. "g-good girl, you're such a good girl for me, princess. oh—fuck."
Riki chased his high, his ass cheeks clenched when warm string of his cum sprayed the insides of your mouth. he broke with a sharp, surprised squeak — high-pitched moan. You swallowed gleefully with tears in your eyes. He tasted just how you imagined, like riki—nothing more…nothing less.
you finally pulled off with a soft pop, licking your lips as you looked him dead in the eye. "good?' you asked. Riki was flushed, chest heaving, hair sticking to his forehead and eyes glossy from the high and the intensity. "fuck…you're dangerous," he rasped, pulling you up for a messy kiss.
but the night was far from over, he needed to be inside you and fast. "r-riki!" you yelped when he flipped you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up making sure to give your ass a spank or two. Before he even pushed in you felt his aura from inhces away, "baby, count to three remember?"
"of course baby. together now…"
"one—ah fuck!"
he mercilessly stretched you open, barely giving you time to adjust to his massive cock. He groaned, hand coming down in alight smack that made you clench around him. "so fucking tight, you know that? trying to milk me try and have my babies, princess?"
his thrusts were relentless, skin slapping as he fucked you hard into the couch. your mouth hung open with drool slipping out. You were in a daze with strangled moans. "s-so good riki, more. you're so big."
"you want more baby? You're so wet, taking you plug like the perfect little slut you are for me."
he fucked you hard and deep, the high making every thrust feel endless. you came again with a loud cry, walls fluttering around him.
without leaving you he flipped you onto you back, soothing the ache from arching for too long. you spread wide for him as he settled between you comfortably. The heat surrounding you burned like a furnace, sweat coating your skin and the lingering scent of weed taking effect. "you ready baby?" he tapped his heavy tip wetly against your soaked pussy. You nodded. He didn't tease, swiftly lining himself with your throbbing cunt and thrust in deep with one brutal stroke, bottoming out and making your cry out.
"fuck yes," he growled, eyes wild as he started pounding into you, the wet slap of skin filing the room, your tits bouncing with every savage thrust. "pussy is mine, right, princess? gonna fill it up like it deserves."
"yes, please fill me up. so big, i feel so full. n-need more…" he hooked your legs over his shoulders, folding you deeper so he could drive even deeper. The cushions of your insides welcomed, balls slapping against your ass as he railed you to the depths of the couch. sweat dripped from his chest onto your skin, making sure to catch the glint of your diamond-cross pendant.
"so pretty." he mumbled to himself. "you feel that/" he panted, voice filthy and low while you were a moaning mess. "my cock's so deep i'm knocking on your womb. gonna breed this tight little cunt. pump you so full of my cum you'll be dripping for days."
You cried, nails raking down his back as he fucked you to oblivion, grinding his pelvis against your clit with every stroke. "that's it, baby. take it. take every inch while i fuck you full with out babies," he snarled, eyes locked on yours. He rocked you so good his purring turned you inside out. His pace turned feral, the couch slamming against the wall as he chased his release. "i'm close—fuck, i'm so close. gonna fill you up baby. ugh, you want it?"
"y-yes, fill me up riki. i want it so bad, baby!" you gasped it out between moans and he lost it completely. with a guttural groan he buried himself to the hilt, cock pulsing hard as thick ropes of hot cum flooded your clenching cunt. Your orgasm shook seconds after, your body convulsed as though you'd bee exorcised but he just kept thrusting through it, moaning as he pushed the rest of his seed deeper, making sure none dared to escape.
"you did so good baby." he kissed your forehead. he stayed buried deep, breath settled after he covered your bodies with a blanket. He pulled you flush against his chest, kissing your forehead softly again at the sound of your soft breaths. "rest baby, i've got you. i love you, okay?"
the second you saw that jake lost his race, you thought you knew what you were in for.
you were prepared for the sulking, the random overthinking sessions, all that. what you weren’t prepared for was your boyfriend fucking you like he hates you.
jake’s always been the softdom type—sweet praise, the one in "control". he still gives you the praise, but his thrusts don’t match the words at allllll.
“f-fuck, jake!” you push at his arm as the fast, hard pace gets overwhelming.
he gently pulls your hand off and laces his fingers with yours instead. “i know, i know,” he murmurs, voice shaky. “just one more round, kay?”
you both know it’s a lie. he said the exact same thing like three rounds ago.
“i was right at the finish line,” he mutters under his breath, hips snapping even faster somehow. “right, baby?” he lifts your chin so you meet his eyes.
“yes!” you moan. he rewards you with a soft kiss.
you keep clenching around him so tight he tilts his head back with a shaky “s-shit, baby.”
he’s a muttering mess now, getting closer. “i—fuck—i shoulda won, huh? you agree, princess? it’s so fuckin’ stupid.”
his pace turns brutal, something in him fully flipped. he releases your hand, grips your hips hard, “turn around, baby.”
you’re too fucked out to move, so he flips you onto your stomach himself.
“jake!” the new angle hits even better somehow. “i said turn around.”
his hand presses your lower back, forcing a deeper arch. “if only i was a little—thrust—fucking—faster,” he groans, each word punctuated by a hard snap that jolts you forward.
tears well up from the overwhelming pleasure. normally jake would kiss them away, but tonight he just smiles. “you crying? i make you feel that fucking good?”
you try to answer but only moan, squirming under him. “jakejakejake—ah fuck!”
“you gonna cum?” he asks, you nod frantically. “c’mon then,” he says between erratic thrusts.
you both cum hard—him shaking on top of you, you squirting all over his stomach and the sheets.
“mmm fuck,” he breathes, low and rough, staring at the mess while still buried inside you. he finally pulls out, slides down, and licks you clean, making eye contact the whole time like always. he finishes with a gentle kiss to your inner thigh.
when he crawls up for a kiss on your lips, you dodge it.
“jake, what the fuck.”
“what?” jake says almost pouting that you dodged his kiss.
“you were kind of rough,” you say, already feeling the soreness settle in.
guilt flashes across his face instantly. “shit, i’m sorry baby.” he pulls you into his arms. “i was just so frustrated about the race.”
you laugh softly. he looks at you, confused. “what?”
“i never said i complained about you being rough.”
“oh…” he rubs slow circles on your shoulder, relaxing a little. “i’m still sorry, baby.” after a beat he adds, “let’s take a bath, okay?”
“okay.” you smile and nod, earning a real smile back from him.
after the bath, you’re both in bed sharing ice cream he door-dashed because he felt terrible (and because it cheered him up too). you notice the disappointment still lingering.
“you know, jake, you did really well at the race.”
“yeah, right.”
“i’m serious!” you swat his arm. “you made it this far. so what if you didn’t win this one? you’ve won so many.”
he stays quiet, scooping more ice cream, so you keep going.
“jake, please don’t let it bother you, or i’ll start pouting and sulking all day just like you do.”
he laughs, lets out a deep sigh, and finally gives you another genuine smile. “alright.”
you lean in for a hug but wince when a sharp ache hits your hip. lifting your shirt reveals dark bruises blooming on your skin.
“did i do that?” jake looks genuinely shocked.
“take a guess.”
“holy shit, i’m so sorry baby.” he’s immediately on you, gently inspecting them. “i’ll get ice.”
“jake, it’s fine!” you call as he scrambles up anyway.
you let him go, smiling to yourself. you’ll let him fuss and baby you all night if it means the race stops weighing on him.
어느 ─── You get so caught up in a smut chapter you were reading, that you didn't even hear your boyfriend calling you're name until he snatched the book away from you.
You lay across Riki’s bed, the afternoon light slanting through half-drawn blinds.
Your legs tucked under the blanket he’d tossed over you earlier.
The game controller clicked steadily from his desk chair, the low rumble of his voice barking out to friends filling the room.
Seven months of this easy rhythm, dates that ended with forehead kisses, face masks shared on the couch, laughter that never once tipped into anything more. You loved that he never pushed. Until today when curiosity decided to strike your core.
The book in your hands had started innocently enough, a recommendation from a friend, but the as the chapters go by you’d stumbled upon a page that almost knocks the air out your lungs. The girl in the story straddled her partner’s face, hips rolling, his hands gripping her thighs as she took what she wanted.
Heat pooled low in your belly. Your thighs pressed together without thinking, the fabric of your shorts suddenly too thin. You read the next line, then the next, lost in the wet sounds the author described, the way the heroine used his mouth like it belonged to her.
Riki’s voice cut through once, then again. You didn’t hear. The third time he said your name, his chair rolled back. The book vanished from your grip.
“Hey,” he said, half laughing, half curious. “What’s got you so—”
His eyes moved across the page. The laughter faded. He kept reading. You reached for the book, fingers brushing his wrist, but he held it higher, scanning the lines you’d just devoured. When he looked at you again, his expression had shifted—surprise mixed with something darker, something that made your pulse jump.
“Naughty little girl,” he smirked, voice low. “This what you’ve been reading about while I’m here?”
You opened your mouth, closed it. Heat flooded your face. He set the book aside, stood, and came to the edge of the bed. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “That’s what you’ve want?” he asked. “to ride my face?”
The words hung there, explicit and direct. You open your mouth to protest, to deny, but the heat pooling between your thighs betrays you.
“Speak up mamas, tell me want you want?”He says as one eyebrows raised demanding you to you your voice.You can only let out a desperate yes, which causes him to smirk with ego written all over his face.
He pulled the blanket away, grabbing your ankles and dragging you toward the edge until your ass is barely resting on the mattress. His hands slide up your legs, fingers brushing the hem of your shorts, and he looks up at you with that wicked glint.
“Look at you, all needy” He taunts. He’s pulls your shorts and panties down in one smooth motion, tossing them somewhere behind him. The cool air hits your bare skin, and you gasp, instinctively trying to close your legs. But He holds them open, thumbs stroking the soft inner flesh of your thighs.
“Lie back,” he commands, but it’s gentle, a request wrapped in certainty. You obey, letting your head fall back onto the pillow, watching him through half-lidded eyes. He crawls up, positioning himself between your legs, then lies flat on his back, head nestled against your thighs. His face is right there, inches from your cunt, his breath warm against your slick folds.
Your knees settled on either side of his head. The position felt exposed, vulnerable, exactly what the book had promised. Riki’s hands slid up the backs of your thighs, gripping firmly. He looked up at you, eyes dark.
“Come on, baby,” he says, voice muffled but clear. “Straddle my face. Show me how you imagined it.”
Your heart hammers. You’ve never done this before. But his hands are steady on your hips, guiding you, and the need inside you is too strong to resist. You shift, knees sliding on either side of his head, lowering yourself slowly, your pussy hovering over his mouth. He looks up at you, eyes dark and hungry, and gives an encouraging nod.
You lower yourself the last few inches, and the first contact is electric—his tongue, flat and warm, pressing against your clit. You jolt, a moan escaping your lips, and he grips your thighs tighter, anchoring you as he begins to explore. He licks slowly at first, tasting you, teasing, then his lips close around your clit, sucking gently.
“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, your hands flying to the headboard for support. You rock your hips instinctively, grinding against his face, and he groans in approval, the vibration sending sparks through your core. His tongue moves with purpose now, dipping between your folds, lapping at your entrance before flicking back to your clit. He’s relentless, alternating between soft kisses and firm, broad strokes that make your knees tremble.
You look down, and the sight of him—your boyfriend, his face buried between your legs, eyes closed in concentration, lips slick with your arousal—drives you wild. You start to move with more confidence, riding his face in earnest, your hips rolling in a rhythm that feels natural, primal. He matches your pace, his tongue never faltering, his hands kneading the soft flesh of your ass.
“That’s it,” he manages to gasp out between licks, his voice thick with lust. “Take what you need, baby. You’re so fucking wet for me.”
The praise sends a wave of heat through you, and you moan louder, your grip on the headboard tightening. You can feel the pressure building, that familiar coil tightening low in your belly. You speed up, grinding harder, and he takes it all, his tongue plunging inside you, curling, then dragging back up to your clit, where he sucks and nibbles gently.
“Riki… I’m gonna…” you whimper, but you can’t finish. The orgasm crashes over you, sudden and intense, making your whole body shudder. You cry out, your hips bucking uncontrollably as you ride out the waves against his mouth. He doesn’t stop, licking you through every pulse, every tremor, until you’re gasping for breath, collapsing forward onto your hands.
He gently lifts your hips, letting you slide off to the side, and you lie there, panting, your skin flushed and tingling. He rolls onto his side, facing you, his chin and lips glistening with your wetness. He grins, licking his lips.
You and your boyfriend Riki, agree on having a TVD marathon sleepover, but starts to get jealous over your obvious crush on Damon Salvatore, so he reminds you who you belong to.
(spoiler alert: it’s not Damon.)
pairing: boyfriend niki x rage-baiter gf reader!!
contains: dom!niki, sub!reader, niki is referred to as Riki, smut, fluff, profanity, aftercare, unprotected sex! (yk damn well), lowk both of them are bratty idk
WC: 1,972
currently playing: “Earned It (Fifty Shades of Gray)” - The Weeknd
AN: enjoy this dirty little oneshot while i work on this long ass heeseung fic 😂✌️(ts lowkey NOT proofread so if you see some bs look.the.other.way.) and I used a semicolon for the first time ever in this so if ts ass please chill
You and your boyfriend Riki have been together for a little over eight months, and when the two of you first met in your physics lecture, you bonded over romcoms and tv shows, so having random sleepovers just because he’ll send a text saying, “Hey pretty, at the gas station rn. Coming over in 10, have a movie picked for us pls?.”, or for him to just be at your dorm, eating and enjoying each-others company was pretty normal for you, but tonight felt different.
The warm bedroom falls into a peaceful silence as the two of you settle on watching “The Vampire Diaries”, laptop facing you as Riki has your back glued to his chest, giving your head warm pecks from time to time, pulling you closer as if you’ll disappear right then and there.
As the episode continues, you and Riki laugh and start to bicker over random stuff that’s happening in the show.
“Literally why can’t one of them just have Elena and the other can just have Katherine? Done. Simple. Easy.”
“It’s not that easy! Damon is obviously in love with Elena and she’s in love with Stefan.”
“So why can’t Damon just make Katherine fall back in love with him…?”
“Well number 1, she was NEVER in love with him in the first place, genius. She used and manipulated him, and he was just too hopelessly in love to notice. He’s better off yearning for Elena anyways.”
“Absolutely not.”
You turn your head to glare at him, as if he’d murdered a village of golden retrievers.
“NO. YOUR TEAM STELENA??!!” You almost yell.
“WELL ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY! THE WERE SO PURE AND TRULY IN LOVE, HOW COULD YOU EVER PICK DAMON??!” He almost-yells back.
“BUT JUST LOOK AT HIM. HES BEAUTIFUL” You say, pointing at the laptop screen as a scene of Damon, shirtless, wet and fresh out the shower and basically drooling from the mouth, testing his patience, basically feeling the jealousy radiating from his body.
Immediately, his gaze deepens and he catches the exact moment in your eyes when you catch the look on his face.
As of you were almost afraid of what you’ve gotten yourself into, you turn your head back towards the laptop to at least pretend to ignore the way the tip of your ears go red.
Riki bites back a smirk, your shy reaction amusing him, as you try and hide your face from him like he wouldn’t notice the way your body instantly reacts to him.
“Yeah? Is that so? You think he’s beautiful Y/N?”
You close your eyes shut, trying to ignore the heat spreading in between your legs, squeezing them together as he places a hand on your hip.
“Answer me Y/N. Look at me.”
Turning your head to look back him, his grip tightening on your hip as you stare at him eyes, full of possessiveness and lust.
“And if I said yes?”
Before you can even finish your sentence, he reaches over you and shuts the laptop close, placing it on top on your nightstand, and cuts the dim, warm colored lamp on, flipping you on your back. As he climbs on top you, lips hovering over your ear.
“Oh yeah? Does he make you make these noises?”
He says smoothly leaving kisses on the sensitive skin beneath your ear, trailing down your neck and onto your collarbone, making you gasp and let out shaky breaths.
The wetness growing between your legs being almost impossible to ignore now, you instinctively attempt to squeeze your thighs together but fail, as Riki’s lean and muscle defined body is between them, causing him to grin as he captures your lips in a slow possessive kiss, slipping a hand from your waist and into your hair. You kiss him back with the same passion, gripping the hair at his nape, causing him to let out a groan against your lips.
As the kiss starts turning into something more faster, intimate, and needy, you start grinding your hips against his in a slow rhythm, desperate for any type of friction.
“R-Riki” You whine against his lips, not even knowing what you were begging for at this rate.
“What do you need pretty? Use your words.” He says rough, breaking apart the kiss to catch a breath staring into your face. Your flushed cheeks, hair messy, pupils dilated, eyes low, and lips swollen. You were so pretty like this to him, knowing it was only him who could have this effect on you.
“Please touch me….. Please, I need you Riki.” You whine loud, rubbing your clothed core against the obvious bulge pressing aggressively against his grey sweatpants.
“Mhm, there you go baby.” He says with a shit-eating grin, knowing he has you exactly where he wants you. His fingers meet the bottom of your thin white tank-top, and pulls it over your head, removing your bra and immediately attaching his mouth to your nipple, sucking and biting. A wave of pain/pleasure floods over you, arching your back, letting out a breathy moan, gripping his blonde hair, earning a moan from him.
As he switches from bud to bud, his hand travel down to the waistband of your pajama shorts, looking up at you for a nod of approval.
“Fuck yes, please” You moan out, and immediately pulls them down and lets out a strangled gasp at the sight of you, soaked through your pretty pink lace panties, clenching around nothing and needy. He pulls them down eagerly, and lowers his head to flick your clit with his tongue, making your back arch off the bed. He starts making out with your pussy at a hungry, vicious pace, groaning against you, and you cry out in response.
you start to feel the familiar coil approach in your stomach, placing your hands in his hair; gripping it and grinding against his face as he takes that as a sign to go faster, until the pressure finally builds up and the coil almost snaps, he pulls away.
“‘Are you serious?” You whine, pushing your soaked core back towards him as he stares down at you, smirking at your neediness. “Ummm, I don’t know Y/N. I don’t really think you deserve it, after what you just pulled.”
He runs his hands up and down your legs, shaking his head as you try to protest.
“Fuck. Hurry ‘ki, pleaseeeee.” Is all takes from you for him to continue at his vicious pace from earlier almost desperate to push you over the edge. “Fuck you’re so beautiful. God, I could stay down here forever.” He moans into you as he eats you out like a starving man, his two fingers reach your hole, teasing, then finally plunges them in and out to match the rhythm of his tongue, letting out a guttural cry
“Who do you belong to? I wanna hear it. Say it.”
“you-omgosh” You almost scream out, one hand digging in his hair, the other one gripping the sheets beside you. All of sudden everything is too much. Yours and his whimpers echoing in the quiet room, tears brimming in your eyes, ready to spill, and his grip on your thighs becomes unbearable as the your vision goes white and you cum with a loud cry.
“you-oh fuck- you, I belong to you Riki!!” You moan, which receives a string of moans from Riki with fresh hot tears falling down your face as you come down from your high. As you try to calm your breath, Riki licks up the leftover juices from the inside of your thighs as you calm down.
“Fuck pretty, you’re so perfect.” He says as he kisses his way back up your body, leaving faint red and purple marks on your body. When he reaches your face, he grabs your chin and wipes your tears then brings lips to his, crashing together in a desperate, messy kiss.
As you continue to eat his fucking face it seems like, you reach for his waistband and he breaks apart the kiss with a low “fuck”. When he leans backwards, you can see a big, damp circle in the front of his pants, and when your eyes lock on his, he genuinely almost turns to stone.
Your mouth falls open slowly in disbelief, unaware that this was even possible. “You’re kidding me. Nishimura Riki….Did you…. just..?” You say, staring at him still in disbelief, chuckling when you see his face go red and he crumbles on top of you, whining in the crook of your neck, embarrassed.
“Can you stop please, I’m gonna die if you don’t stop now.”
“Make me.” You say with a giggle, feeling a little bold, but Riki doesn’t find it very funny.
Before you can even comprehend it, he leans back, takes off his sweatpants along with his boxers, revealing his thick, long, aching cock and stuffs you full in one vicious thrust. “fuck” You moan at the immediate stretch, arching your back while he brings his hand up to you throat gently squeezing.
He stays still inside you and leans forward with his mouth hovering over your ear and whispers “oops.” with a grin before fucking in and out of you as fast as possible.
“Oh fuck- still think it’s f-funny now?”
“F-fuck you” You say with a string of loud moans leaving your mouth.
“Beat you to it” He says, through a loud moan, bringing his fingers to your clit, rubbing it at the same relentless pace as his hips.
As your moans get louder and more tears fall and you get closer to the edge, Riki reaches down and kisses you with everything he’s got: tongues tangling, messy, and full of passion.
As if on cue, “Cum now. Cum now pretty.” he says as your back arches, and you cum with a loud cry, squirting around his cock, as he spills inside your pussy at the same time with a loud moan right in your ear.
Riki pulls out of you slowly, the both of you moaning, and collapses on top of you, not crushing but just bear hugging you, the both of you still catching your breath.
“Fuck you’re so beautiful, don’t leave me ever” He says breathless like you were gonna disappear into thin air.
“Oh my goodness it was a joke, I wouldn’t leave you for Damon. Not in this lifetime, at least.” You say with a playful smirk as his jaw drops at your sentence. The usual confidence he would have all evening is suddenly nowhere to be found. You smiled, covering your face to hide the satisfaction.
He lets out a chuckle, shaking his head before hugging you tighter, “God, you’re trouble.” he says, rolling his eyes, despite the wide grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“And I’m your favorite kind.” You say, smiling as he shrugs his shoulders in defeat.
After he finally lets go of you, he goes into the bathroom, shuts the door, and starts the tub faucet to run the two of you a bath. You swore you could hear some whispering and faint foot steps as if someone was dancing coming from the other side of the door, but the boy had embarrassed himself enough tonight, so you let it slide this time.
The bathroom is warm and steamy as Riki carries you, placing you into the bath carefully before climbing behind you and starts washing your body with gently.
You really liked this side of Riki. You love all side of your boyfriend, but to see him act calm and take care of others, especially when he’s usually loud, cocky, and laughing. It felt like a side that was only reserved just for you. And the side that was sweet, gentle, and caring, was all you got for the rest of the night.
WAIT CHAT MY FIRST FIC DID I COOK?? LMK 🥹✌️AND ALSO MY ASKS ARE ON SO FEEL FREE TO ASK ME ANYTHING 🥹🙏 and idk what a tag list is so wtv that is well cross that bridge when we get there okay
Also follow my tt @heeseungstiptaker 🥹✌️im awesome I promise chat
৻ꪆ SUMMARY : Riki spends all day driving you insane just to see how long you can hold out, and he’s more than ready to collect his reward the second you break.
Riki had been testing your patience since the second your alarm went off, treating your busy, high stress day like his own personal playground.
It wasn't even big things, it was the quiet, deliberate way he completely ignored basic requests just to see your jaw clench. When you asked him to move his stuff so you could actually work, he just gave you a low, lazy “make me” without looking up.
When you were on a deadline, running around trying to get shit done, he was right there in the way, stealing the exact spot you needed to sit, casually changing the speaker volume when you were trying to concentrate, or giving you a blank, amused stare when you specifically asked him to do one simple thing.
To him, it was all a game. To you, with your stress already hitting the ceiling, it was suffocating.
And whenever he was close enough to reach out, it was purely to throw off your focus—a sudden, heavy hand resting on the nape of your neck while you were pacing, or grabbing your wrist just long enough to pull you back against his chest before letting you go with that infuriating, knowing smirk. He knew you were at your limit, and instead of giving you space, he leaned right into the chaos.
You had spent the entire day biting your tongue, swallowing every sharp retort, and fighting a losing battle against the heat and frustration rising under your skin. You were determined not to give him the satisfaction of losing your cool. Because the second you snapped, you knew you’d be playing right into his hands.
He was starving you out, patiently waiting for the exact second your resolve crumbled.
By the time the sun’s gone down and the apartment is quiet, you’re in the bedroom, arms crossed, scrolling on your phone like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Riki’s stretched out on the bed behind you, shirtless, grey sweats slung low. You can feel his stare burning into your back.
“Baby,” he drawls, voice low and lazy. “You still mad?”
You don’t answer. Your thumb keeps scrolling even though the words on the screen stopped registering minutes ago. He chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through the quiet room.
“Cute. Keep pouting then. See how long that lasts.”
You bite the inside of your cheek hard. You want to give in so bad. God, it’s embarrassing how close you are to snapping. Hours of his little touches—fingers brushing your waist, breath against your neck, that stupid smirk—have left you throbbing. But you refuse to break. Not after the shit he pulled today.
Minutes tick by. The bed creaks. Then his long fingers wrap around your ankle and tug.
“Come here.”
You yank your leg back. “No.”
He moves faster than you expect. One second you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, the next he’s got you flipped onto your back, wrists pinned above your head in one hand. Riki looms over you, his eyes gleaming with that predatory patience he’s been holding all day.
“You’ve been wet for hours, haven’t you?” he murmurs, knee sliding between your thighs to press right against your core. “Fighting so hard not to crawl to me. So fucking stubborn.”
You glare up at him, cheeks burning. “You were being an ass.”
“Yeah?” He grinds his knee slowly, deliberately. “And now you’re soaked through your shorts because I was an ass. Cute.”
You try to twist free. He’s too strong. His body covers yours completely, broad shoulders and long limbs trapping you beneath him. He leans down, lips brushing your ear.
“You held out longer than I thought you would,” he murmurs. “But you’re done now.”
He kisses you hard, tongue pushing in like he owns you. You whimper into his mouth, hips jerking against his thigh despite yourself. When he pulls back, you’re panting.
“On your knees.”
You hesitate, clinging to the last scrap of defiance. His eyes darken. In a flash he flips you onto your stomach, yanks your shorts and panties down your legs, and brings his palm down sharply on your ass. The smack echoes. Heat blooms across your skin.
You yelp.
“I said on your knees.”
This time you obey, sliding off the bed to kneel between his spread legs. He pushes his sweats down just enough, freeing his cock. It’s thick and heavy, flushed dark at the tip and already leaking. Your mouth waters.
He tucks two fingers under your chin, tilting your face up. “You’re gonna suck me nice and slow. Show me how much you missed me while you were ignoring me all day.”
You lean forward and lick a long stripe up the underside before wrapping your lips around the head. Riki groans.
You take him deeper, working your tongue along his length while your hand strokes what you can’t fit. He’s big enough that your jaw aches in the best way after only a few moments, but you keep going—hollowing your cheeks, sucking harder, letting saliva drip down your chin.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he hisses, head tipping back. “Look at you. So mad but still choking on my cock like a good little slut.”
You moan around him, the vibration making his hips twitch. He guides you a little faster, hitting the back of your throat until your eyes water. Just when his thighs start to tense, he pulls you off with a wet pop and wipes the corner of your mouth with his thumb.
“Not yet. Get on the bed.”
He lies back fully and tugs you up the bed until you’re hovering over his face. Your thighs tremble.
“Riki—”
He smacks your ass again, harder. “Sit.”
Your face heats, but the look in his eyes tells you there’s no arguing with him. You lower yourself slowly. The first swipe of his tongue drags a broken moan from your throat. He grips your hips with both hands and pulls you down harder, licking broad and hungry over your folds before focusing on your clit. His tongue circles, flicks, then pushes inside you, relentless. You brace your hands on the headboard, hips rocking as pleasure coils tighter and tighter.
He doesn’t let you ease up. Every time you try to hover he yanks you back down, devouring you until your legs shake violently. You cum hard, crying out as waves crash over you. He keeps licking, drawing out a second, shakier orgasm that leaves you whimpering and oversensitive.
Only then does he lift you off, flipping you onto your back again. His face is shiny with your slick, lips swollen. He looks feral.
“Still mad?” he asks, lining himself up at your entrance.
You shake your head frantically. “No—Riki, please—”
He pushes in with one long, steady thrust. The stretch is intense. You feel every inch as he fills you completely, pressing against places that make your toes curl.
“Fuck, so tight,” he groans, bottoming out.
He starts moving—deep, punishing strokes that make the bed creak. Every thrust punches the air out of your lungs. You claw at his back, legs wrapped around his waist.
When your moans get too loud he flips you onto all fours, one hand fisting in your hair while the other delivers a series of sharp, stinging spanks to your ass. The burn mixes perfectly with the pleasure, making you push back onto him desperately.
“Look at you,” he rasps, slamming in harder. “So fucking needy after pretending to hate me all day.”
He reaches around to rub tight circles on your clit and you shatter again, clenching around his cock. He doesn’t slow down. He fucks you through it, dragging out the high until tears slip down your cheeks and every thrust borders on too much.
“Riki—too much—”
“You can take it.” He grabs your hips, slamming in harder. “You’re gonna take every fucking inch until I fill you up.”
You do—shaking and sobbing as another orgasm rips through you. His pace turns erratic, hips snapping against your reddened ass.
“Tell me you want it,” he demands, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
You nod desperately, clutching at the sheets. “Please—yes, please—”
With a low moan, he buries himself deep and cums. You feel every pulse, every hot spurt as he fills you. When he finally stills, he doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays there, grinding lazily, pushing himself deeper.
You collapse onto the bed, trembling. Riki follows, careful not to crush you, and gently pulls out. The loss makes you whimper.
“Shh, I got you,” he murmurs, his tone instantly softening. He gathers you against his chest, hands stroking down your back, kissing your damp forehead.
“You okay, baby?”
You nod, too exhausted to form actual words. “Mhm.”
He chuckles softly, carefully easing himself away from you and slipping out of bed. You hear the soft hum of the bathroom sink before he returns a moment later with a warm, damp cloth. His touch is gentle now, wiping between your legs, kissing every mark he left on your ass and hips.
“I’m sorry for being an ass today,” he whispers against your hair, his voice quiet and genuine. “I missed you.”
You huff, though you can’t hide the small smile creeping up against his chest as you wrap an arm over his waist. “You’re still an asshole. But I missed you too.”
“And you’re still my brat,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head. “Get some sleep. I’ll make you breakfast tomorrow to make it up to you. Deal?”
You smile despite yourself, already drifting off in his arms, sore, full, and completely satisfied.
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
I kicked off my heels the second the apartment door clicked shut behind me. My feet throbbed, soles burning from the long walk home.
The straps had dug in so deep I could already see angry red lines across my skin. Normally Riki would have been there to scoop me up, carry me the rest of the way when my feet gave out, but we were broken up again, so I had to hobble the whole way by myself. I wobbled straight to the bathroom, already tugging at my clothes.
Underneath I wore a full lingerie. Black with lace with garter belt and stockings. Not for the guy i went on the date with; no. Just for me. I wanted to feel pretty again after the fiftieth stupid breakup with Riki. The date had just been an excuse for free wine and a reason to leave the house.
I was halfway through peeling off my clothes when three loud knocks rattled the front door.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Open this door!”
I froze; standing in nothing but the lingerie. My stomach dropped. I knew that voice too well.
Another hard knock. “Aria. Open the damn door.”
I rolled my eyes, yanked an oversized shirt from the hook, and pulled it on fast. It barely covered the panties. I walked to the front door without unlocking it. “Go away, Riki!” I shouted through the door.
“I know you just got back!” My stomach flipped. I hadn’t posted anything. “Who told you?” “It doesn’t matter. Open this—”
“It does matter, Nishimura!”
“I said open this damn door, Choi.” He was already jiggling the handle.
“Go away!”
“So you really went on a date?” Another heavy knock. “One date!” I yelled back. “So that’s it, huh? We break up for a week and you’re already letting guys take you out?!”
“We’re broken up, Riki!”
“WE ALWAYS BREAK UP ARIA!”
“It’s late. Go.”
Silence again. Then his voice dropped, softer. “Just… open the door, Ariana. Please. I’ll get on my knees.”
I sighed, unlocked the door, and there he was, on his knees in the hallway. I crossed my arms. “Get up, Nishimura.”
He stood, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him. I leaned against the kitchen island, watching him scan the apartment like he was looking for someone else. Then his eyes finally landed on me, traveling from my bare feet up to my face.
I reached up and pulled my loose hair into a messy ponytail. The motion lifted the shirt just enough to flash the black lace panties.
“You have to be kidding me?!” Riki said, staring at them. “What?” I asked not fully understanding.
“You fucked that date in the lingerie I got you for my birthday?” He stepped closer, grabbed the hem of the shirt, and yanked it up. “And the bra?! This is the set I bought you.”
“First of all, I didn’t fuck him—”
“Then why were you wobbling when you walked in? Huh?” He let the shirt drop and stepped back.
“God, Riki! I wore heels. We only ate something. I just got home and had to walk the whole way. Shut up.” I was getting irritated again. “I don’t even know why I let you in. Go!” I grabbed his wrist and tried to drag him toward the door.
“Stop yelling.” he hissed.
“I hate you, Riki! We’re broken up, remember? Go!” I kept pulling but he didn’t budge. “I’m not going.” “Yes you are!”
“You know what I think? You did this on purpose to piss me off. Went on a date, wore the lingerie I bought you, opened the door in my shirt, put your hair in that messy ponytail you know I love to pull while I fuck you—”
“Shut up.” I hissed.
“No. You know what I think.” He walked toward me, cornering me against the front door until my back hit the wood. “I think you want me to fuck you right now. Fuck this whole attitude out of you.”
His face hovered inches from mine. “Go.” I said, voice shaking with anger.
His hand slid slowly down my side and settled on my waist. He leaned in and pressed his mouth to my neck, finding the exact spot that always made my knees weak. I let out a small, annoyed moan before I could stop it.
“Fuck,” I whispered.
“Oh we will definitely fuck, princess.”
He kissed me hard, tongue pushing past my lips. My hands fisted in his shirt even while I tried to shove him away. He pressed his body flush against mine, grinding his already hard cock against my stomach through his jeans. I could feel the thick outline of him and hated how fast my body reacted.
Riki’s hand slipped under the oversized shirt, fingers tracing the lace edge of the panties he had bought me. He hooked a finger under the waistband and snapped it against my skin. “You wore this for yourself, huh? Bullshit. You knew I’d find out.”
“I didn’t.” I gasped as his teeth grazed my collarbone.
He spun me around so my front was against the door. One hand stayed on my hip while the other yanked the shirt up and over my head in one rough motion. Cool air hit my bare back. He pressed his chest to me, lips at my ear.
“Hands on the door.” he ordered.
I hesitated. He slapped my ass, the sound sharp in the quiet apartment. I slapped my palms against the wood.
“Good girl.”
He dropped to his knees behind me. His fingers hooked into the lace panties and dragged them down my thighs slowly, letting the fabric catch on my skin. Once they were around my ankles I stepped out of them. Riki spread my legs wider with his knees and leaned in, tongue dragging a long, slow stripe from my clit all the way back to my ass. I jerked forward, forehead hitting the door.
“Riki—Fuck—”
He didn’t answer. He just buried his face between my cheeks, licking and sucking at my pussy like he was starving. His tongue pushed inside me, fucking me shallowly. One hand reached around to rub tight circles on my clit. My thighs started shaking almost immediately.
I came hard against his mouth, legs buckling. He held me up by my hips, licking me through it until I was whimpering and trying to pull away. When he finally stood, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and spun me to face him again.
He unbuckled his belt, shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It was already leaking at the tip, thick and flushed dark. He grabbed my thigh, hooked it over his hip, and lined himself up.
“Look at me.” he said.
I met his eyes right as he thrust in deep. One smooth, hard stroke that buried him to the hilt. I cried out, nails digging into his shoulders. He didn’t give me time to adjust. He started fucking me right there against the door, hips snapping forward, the wet sound of my pussy taking him filling the apartment.
Every thrust knocked the breath out of me. His hand stayed on my thigh, keeping me spread open. He pulled my head back and kissed me messy, teeth clacking, tongues sliding together.
“You feel that?” he growled against my mouth. “This pussy is mine. Always has been.”
I couldn’t answer. All I could do was moan and take it. My second orgasm built fast, heat coiling low in my belly. Riki angled his hips and started hitting that spot inside me that made my vision blur. I came again, clenching around him so tight he groaned and buried his face in my neck.
Before I could catch my breath he scooped me up, carried me to the bedroom, and threw me onto the mattress. I landed on my back, legs spread. Riki climbed over me, grabbed my thighs, and pushed them wide apart. He lined his cock up again and thrust in hard, burying himself to the hilt in one stroke.
“Shit—Riki—” I moaned, nails digging into his back.
He started fucking me in missionary, hips snapping forward, the wet slap of our bodies filling the room. “This pussy is mine.” he growled, pounding deep. “Say it.”
“It’s yours-” I gasped, legs wrapping around his waist. “You know I still fucking hate you.” I said while he slammed himself in me.
“Sure you do. That’s why you’re letting your ex fuck you after you had a date.” Riki leaned down, biting at my neck as he fucked me harder. “You wore my lingerie for that loser? Pathetic. You knew I’d come find you.”
I clawed at his shoulders, meeting every thrust.
“Fuck you—”
“Already doing that, princess.”
He reached between us and rubbed my clit fast. I came again, walls clenching around his cock, vision going white.
Riki pulled out, flipped me onto my stomach, and yanked my hips up. He shoved back inside from behind, doggystyle, one hand gripping my ponytail tight exactly the way he said he would. He pulled my head back and started pounding into me, the force making the bed creak. His other hand came down hard on my ass, the slap loud and sharp.
“Fuck—Riki—harder—” I moaned, pushing back against him.
“Take it.” he growled, slapping my ass again. “This ass is mine too. Say it.”
“It’s yours—Fuck.” I cried out as he yanked my ponytail harder, forcing my back to arch. “My pussy, my ass—everything.”
He fucked me relentlessly, the head of his cock hitting deep with every thrust. Another orgasm built fast. I came screaming into the sheets, body shaking. Riki followed right after, burying himself deep and filling me again with hot cum.
He stayed inside me for a long moment, breathing hard, hand still tangled in my hair. When he finally pulled out, he turned me onto my back and kissed me slow, tongue sliding against mine. Cum leaked down my thighs. I pulled him closer, legs wrapping around him again.
As I dozed off, Riki pressed a soft kiss to my forehead.
synopsis: riki’s dangerously low sweatpants and deliberate teasing push you to the edge. when he dares to expose more, you take control, dropping to your knees to silence his games…
now playing: “loose” by enhypen
sol’s note: there's a photo of ni-ki from the concert circulating around here on tumblr and i decided to make one for it. bruhh my boi almost show his dihh 😓
Riki was pacing back and forth in the living room. He wore a black tank top that clung to his defined shoulders and chest, the fabric stretched tight over his muscles, but it was the lower half of him that was causing the real distraction for you. A pair of loose gray sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips, secured only by the sharp jut of his hip bones. Every time he took a step, the waistband dipped, revealing the elastic trim of his black Calvin Klein boxers.
He stopped in front of the full-body mirror, admiring his physique. You watched over the rim of your book, breath catching in your throat as he lifted the hem of his tank top. His hand slipped underneath, palm flattening against his stomach as he rubbed his abs, his fingers tracing the ridges of muscle with slow, deliberate pressure. The movement caused the shirt to rise further, exposing the intricate ink of the tattoos running along his side waist, leading the eye down to the deep, sharp cut of his v-line.
It was criminal to look at but he is your boyfriend anyways. Those damn sweatpants were insanely bad to your sanity, swaying loosely with every shift of his weight, threatening to slide right off his frame.
You weren't even pretending to read anymore. The book lay forgotten, your gaze fixed on the reflection in the mirror, tracking the path of his hand as it drifted lower, fingers toying with the waistband of his pants.
"Done checking me out?" Riki’s teasing voice cut through the silence.
He met your eyes in the mirror, a smirk playing on his lips. You blinked, caught red-handed, and quickly snapped your gaze back down to the page you hadn't turned in ten minutes. Oh.
"In your dreams," you shot back, rolling your eyes, though the heat rising in your cheeks betrayed you.
Riki just chuckled, turning his back from you as he walked toward the kitchen. "Whatever you say, babe."
You tried to focus on the text, forcing your brain to process the sentences, but it was useless. The image of his hand on his skin engraved in your mind. A moment later, the fridge door opened and closed, and he walked back into the living room.
If you thought the pants were low before, it was nothing compared to now. The gray fabric had slipped another inch, the waistband sitting precariously low, exposing the sharp definition of his hip bones. He stopped in front of you, holding a glass of water in his right hand.
"Babe, do you have other pants? Do you want me to buy one for you?" you asked, pointing out his loose sweatpants. You were genuinely concerned he didn't own clothes that actually fit him anymore.
He lowered the glass, wiping a droplet of water from his lower lip with his thumb. "Nah, I'm good babe. Besides, this is a trend nowadays." He smiled, that infuriatingly handsome, knowing smile, before tilting his head back to finish the water.
Your eyes traced the column of his throat as he swallowed, watching the bob of his Adam's apple. The sharp line of his jaw tensed and relaxed, the side profile illuminated by the afternoon light streaming through the window. He looked so manly, so effortlessly gorgeous by just standing there.
Riki stepped closer, coming to a stop just on the other side of the coffee table. You stared at the waistband of his sweatpants, the way they clung to nothing but air, the elastic band of his boxers clearly visible.
"Riki, pull it up. I swear. You're about to show your ass you know?" you said, your voice tinged with irritation, though it was mostly frustration at how badly you wanted to touch him.
"No. I'm not. Why are you bothered?" He teased, wiggling his eyebrows up and down flirting at you.
"Stop. There's nothing funny. I just don't want you to expose what's mine," you blurted out. The words hung in the air, heavy and possessive. You felt your face flush hot by your sudden confession.
"Possessive are we?" he chuckled, stepping closer to the edge of the table, enjoying your flustered state.
Instead of fixing his pants, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband and tugged them lower, deliberately slow. The gray fabric slid down his thighs, and the outline of his bulge became unmistakably visible, pressing against the front of his boxers.
"What about this?" He laughed, wiggling his eyebrows again, tugging the pants up and down in a rhythmic, mocking motion.
That was it.
You slammed your book shut, the loud thud echoing through the living room. Riki jumped slightly, his eyes widening in surprise at the sudden noise. You didn't say a word. You stood up, the book abandoned on the cushion, and walked around the coffee table until you were standing right in front of him.
Without breaking eye contact, you dropped to your knees. The carpet cushioned your descent as you settled between his legs. He spun around to face you, the movement bringing his crotch level with your face, the heavy outline of his cock inches from your nose.
"W-what is this?" he stammered, as he looked down at you.
"I don't play games, Riki. I'll pull it down for you," you smirked, craning your neck back to look up at him.
He inhaled sharply, his chest heaving as you reached out. You palmed his clothed member, feeling the heat radiating through the cotton, the weight of him filling your hand. You ran your hands up to the waistband of his sweatpants, fingers curling around the elastic, and slowly tugged them down.
He helped you, kicking the gray fabric away impatiently. You immediately reached for the black Calvin Klein boxers, dragging them down his thighs. His cock sprang free, slapping lightly against your cheek as it escaped the fabric. It stood up hard and thick, the tip already glistening with pre-cum, ready for your touch.
You wrapped your hand around the base, feeling the pulse of blood beneath the velvety skin. You stroked him gently, squeezing slightly as you moved your hand up and down. A breathy groan tore from Riki’s throat, his head falling back.
"Fuck," he hissed.
You leaned in, spitting directly onto the head of his cock, letting your saliva mix with the pre-cum. You showed him your tongue, swirling it teasingly before you took him inside your warm, wet mouth. You kept your eyes locked on his face, watching his expression contort with pleasure as you bobbed your head, taking him deeper with every pass.
"F-fuck baby. Your mouth feels good around my dick," he moaned, his hands tangling in your hair, fingers gripping the strands to guide you.
You tightened your palm around the base of his shaft, stroking him in time with the movements of your mouth. You sucked hard, your cheeks hollowing out, focusing on the sensitive ridge just below the head. You could feel every vein on your tongue, the texture of him dragging against the soft wetness of your mouth as he slid deeper.
"Keep going please—" Riki pleaded, his hips buckling forward, pushing your head down, wanting more.
He looked down at you, unable to look away. The sight of his big cock stuffed in your mouth, your pink lips stretched tight around him, was intoxicating. Your mouth glistened with the mixture of your saliva and his dripping pre-cum, strands of it connecting your lips to his shaft as you pulled back. The warmth of your mouth and the wetness of your tongue were sending him to cloud nine, and he knew he was the luckiest man alive to have you on your knees like this.
"You're so pretty around me. Ahh—" he moaned, as he began to fuck your mouth faster.
You gagged around him, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat, but you didn't pull away. You gripped his hips harder, your nails digging into his skin to steady yourself as he thrust into your mouth, losing control.
"Please! Please! Please! D-don't stop…" he begged, his voice wrecked.
Riki’s eyes drifted to the side, catching the reflection in the full-body mirror. The visual was filthy and perfect—he could see the way his cock disappeared fast in and out of your pretty mouth, the way your head bobbed furiously as he held your hair in a makeshift ponytail. He groaned again, the reflection in front of him pushing him closer to the edge.
"I'm gonna cum—ngh," he breathed out, his rhythm turning erratic as he continued to fuck your mouth, chasing his release.
You felt him swell in your mouth, getting heavier and fuller. You knew he was close. You released one hand from his hip and reached down to cup his balls, massaging them gently, rolling them in your palm to help him get there faster.
"Shit—F-fuck baby…" he cried out.
He came hard, his hips jerking forward as he buried himself deep in your throat. You felt the warm, salty flood of his seeds dripping inside your throat, coating your tongue. You swallowed around him, desperate to take it all, but there was too much. Some of it escaped the seal of your lips, dripping out of the corner of your mouth and running down your chin, landing straight onto your cleavage, staining the white lace camisole you wore.
Riki stood there for a moment, chest heaving, before he slowly pulled his softening cock from your mouth. He looked down at you, his face flushed with post-orgasmic bliss. He reached out, bringing his thumb to your chin to wipe the semen dripping from your lip. Without hesitation, he brought his thumb to your mouth, pushing it past your lips. You sucked it obediently, swirling your tongue around the digit, making wet, lewd noises as you cleaned him off.
He pulled his thumb free, the wet sound echoing in the quiet room. Then, he dropped to his knees in front of you, ignoring the hardness of the floor. He grabbed the nape of your neck and kissed you harshly, his tongue plunging into your mouth to taste himself on your tongue. It was a messy and possessive kiss.
Riki pulled back, a soft, genuine smile gracing his lips. He reached down, taking your hands from your thighs and placing them back on his semi-hard cock, which twitched at the friction of your touch.
"I will definitely wear more loose pants from now on," he said, his voice husky and sincere.
He wasn't fooling around.
You smiled back at him, your fingers tracing the length of him. Good thing you loved it.
-> you go out with your friends to clear your head after an intense argument with your ex boyfriend and end up getting distracted by a stranger who seems entirely too comfortable looking at you for that long.
warnings-> nsfw, MDNI, smut, non-idol au, one night stand, strong language, oral sex, unprotected sex (DON'T especially in this context! DO NOT! please stay safe), overstimulation, creampie, dom!heeseung, sub!reader, revenge sex, porn with plot, multiple positions, dirty talk, pet names (use of the words "good girl", kissing, grinding, heavy praise, riding, voyeurism, answering the phone during sex, no strings attached (could be more) -> (w/c:6.5k)
The bass hits you before you even get through the door. It reverberates up through the floor, through the soles of your shoes, through your chest, loud and relentless and exactly what you need tonight.
Your friend Yuna squeezes your hand as you push through the crowd, the heat of too many bodies and too many drinks wrapping around you immediately, and you let yourself exhale for the first time in hours. Your ex boyfriend's face flickers into your head completely uninvited but you shove it back out.
Not tonight, you think, not today. He's not going to ruin your fun too. Yuna grabs your hand and drags you along, following your friends down onto the dance floor. Where you stay for a long time. And God, it feels good.
The kind of good that starts in your chest and moves outward, through your shoulders, down your arms, into the way your hips find the beat like they've been waiting for this all week. Your friends are beside you, laughing, and the music is loud enough to drown out everything that isn't this exact moment.
You feel beautiful tonight. Your hair is right. Your outfit is right. You don't even regret the bold choice of red lipstick you have on. The way you move feels effortless in the way it only does when you've stopped thinking about moving and just let your body flow to the beat.
Someone across the floor is watching you but you barely notice. You throw your head back and laugh at something your friend shouts in your ear and let the bass do the rest. This is what you came for. This exact feeling…alive and unbothered and completely, entirely yours.
You feel it again somewhere in the middle of a song. A gaze. Steady and unhurried, coming from the direction of the bar, not the usual kind that skims past and moves on. This one stays. Specific enough that it prickles at the back of your neck, makes you want to glance over your shoulder even though you resist it.
You don't look. Not yet. You let the song finish, let your friend spin you around, let another beat drop. Then casually, like it's nothing, you look.
He's at the bar. Leaning against it with the particular ease of someone who has never once been uncomfortable in a room in his life, one hand wrapped loosely around a glass, dark jacket, red hair catching the light above the bar in a way that looks almost deliberate. His eyes are already on you when you find them. He doesn't look away.
Not embarrassed, not caught. Just watching. Like he'd decided to and saw no reason to pretend otherwise. You hold his gaze for exactly two seconds. Then you turn back to the dance floor and say nothing to anyone, but something about the atmosphere feels different now. The awareness of it sitting warm at the back of your neck for the rest of the song.
You come off the dance floor flushed and breathless, your friends already splintering off in different directions, toward the bathrooms, toward a group they'd spotted across the room, toward the small outdoor terrace at the back. Yuna promises to find you in ten minutes and you wave her off and push toward the bar because you're thirsty, the night is young and you feel fucking great.
The bar is crowded but you find a gap and lean into it, scanning for the bartender. "Decided to come say hi after all," the voice says from your left. Low, cutting through the noise with an ease that suggests it's done this before.
You turn, already knowing exactly who you’ll find. He’s still there, leaning against the bar with that same effortless ease, glass in hand. Up close, the red hair is even more striking, and his dark eyes are sharper, intense and direct. He looks at you like he has all the time in the world and has decided, for now, to spend some of it right here.
You already knew who he was. Lee Heeseung. Your girlfriends had warned you about him more times than you could count.
Burning red hair, charming, dangerously good-looking, and a notorious heartbreaker. But nothing they said had prepared you for the real thing. He’s far better looking than you’d expected, the kind of attractive that makes your brain short-circuit. You find yourself staring longer than you should before you snap out of it, quickly clearing your throat as heat rushes up your neck.
"I was thirsty," you say, turning away quickly to flag down the bartender. "Mm." He takes a sip of his drink. "You dance like you know everyone's watching" You glance at him. "Do I?" he gives a curt nod, "Not a criticism," his eyes are steady on yours, dark and entirely unbothered. "Just an observation."
"You were watching me?"
"Hard not to" he says it plainly, like a simple fact. You watch him, ignoring the heat burning up your face, completely caught off guard by his admission.
When the bartender appears, you quickly clear your throat and place your order. He doesn't look away, keeping his steady gaze on you. "I'm Heeseung," he nods. You glance back at him again, placing your purse down beside you.
"Y/N" you say, “and I know who you are, I think” Something shifts in his expression immediately, the faintest flicker of interest, like you've said something unexpected. "Do you?"
"You have a reputation"
"Most people do." He tilts his head slightly. "What's mine?"
You consider him for a second, the easy sprawl of him against the bar, the way he holds eye contact like it costs him nothing, the red hair, the dark eyes, the jacket, the irritatingly calm expression and the fact that standing this close apparently means becoming aware that he smells really good. Basically the overall unfair construction of him as a person. "The kind people warn you about"
His eyebrows lift slightly. "That bad?"
You shrug, "Depends on who you ask.” He smiles at that, slow, unhurried, like everything else about him. Your drink arrives shortly after and you wrap your hand around it, taking a sip as you try to decide whether you're annoyed or entertained, which is a harder question than it should be. "You come here a lot?" you ask. "Not really, sometimes" He shrugs slightly. "You?"
"Not usually." You look out at the dance floor, at the mass of moving bodies and colored lights. "I needed a night out."
"Bad day?" he raises brow.
"Bad week," you scoff. Then, because something about him invites honesty in a way you hadn't anticipated, you continue, "bad enough."
He doesn't push. Doesn't do the thing people do where they tilt their head and say do you want to talk about it? In a voice that suggests they're already composing their response. He just nods, once, and lets it sit there. You appreciate that.
"For what it's worth," he says, after a moment, "You look beautiful."
You glance at him. The compliment lands strangely, too factual, and you really can't help the rush of heat creeping up your neck. "Thank you" His eyes flick to you for half a second longer than necessary and you look away first, noticing the slight lift at the corner of his mouth. "You're welcome.”
His smile doesn't disappear, making you narrow your eyes a little. "Don't look so pleased with yourself."
His eyebrows lift. "I'm not.”
You shake your head and glance away again, suddenly very interested in absolutely anything else in the room. When he speaks again, his voice comes out softer this time, a teasing edge to it, "You get shy when people compliment you?" Your eyes snap back to him "No."
He nods once. "Right"
"I don't."
His mouth twitches, “then why won't you look at me?" Your lips part but nothing comes out. His expression changes, not smug exactly, more entertained than anything. A beat passes and he doesn’t move away, you don’t either. “You’re staring,” you manage, a very familiar sensation creeping up your body. “Yeah,” he simply agrees. “I am.”
He's crazy, you think. You look at him for a second, the way he occupies space like it's never occurred to him to make himself smaller, the faint smile that suggests he finds most things mildly interesting and very little genuinely surprising. "You always like this?" you ask.
"Like what?" he laughs, "Like-" you gesture at him vaguely, "this."
"You're going to have to be more specific, sweetheart."
"Well...unbothered," you say, trying to ignore the nickname. "About everything. Like nothing ever lands."
He considers this, which you think is pretty cool, he doesn't just deflect or turn it into something smooth. He actually thinks about it. "Things land," he says finally. "I just don't make it everyone's problem."
There's something underneath that which you don't quite have the context to unpack, but it sits in the air between you and feels true in a way that catches you slightly off guard.
Your phone suddenly buzzes in your purse. But you ignore it. He notices, you can tell by the way his eyes drop for a fraction of a second but he doesn't say anything. "So," he glances at you, "what else does a person do after a bad night?"
"They go clubbing," you say, "and let a strange man talk to them apparently."
"I'm not that strange," he's watching you now with an amused smile on his face, "the night is young," you shrug. He laughs at that, a low, genuine sound, nothing performed about it and it does something slightly unreasonable to the atmosphere between you.
Your phone buzzes again. And again. You reach into your purse, glancing at the screen out of reflex.
BF♡: where are you?
BF♡: send me your location
BF♡: y/n
You stare at it for a second, annoyed that you forgot to change his contact name, then you sigh, disliking the heavy feeling settling in your chest. Not quite anger, not even hurt, just the familiar exhausting weight of him wanting your attention on his terms and his timeline, the same way he always did.
And so you turn your screen face down on the bar. Heeseung is watching you when you look up. His expression hasn't changed, still easy, still steady but there's something attentive in his eyes that suggests he's caught onto more than you intended. "You were saying?" You say, like nothing happened. He holds your gaze for a moment. Then he lets it go, smooth as anything. "I was asking what you do after a bad night," he says, "strange men at bars, bold strategy." Heeseung nods his approval.
"It's working so far,” you nod. "Is it?" He answers, not a question exactly, more like he's tasting the answer. “You're not all that bad I guess” you shrug "High praise." He looks at you over the rim of his glass which makes you roll your eyes, "Don't push it."
Heeseung smiles warmly and leans in just slightly, not enough to crowd you, but just enough to close some of the distance between you, deliberate in the way everything he does seems deliberate. "Despite having an awful night," he says, low enough that it doesn't carry past the two of you, "you're doing pretty well."
"I had a good teacher," you say. "First five minutes." Something genuinely pleased moves through his expression. He leans back, like he's satisfied with that. And then your phone goes off again but you don't look at it this time. Heeseung watches you ignore it. "Persistent," he observes. "Very," you agree.
"Must be important."
"Must be." You pick up your drink, "Doesn't feel like it right now."
His eyes stay on yours for a beat longer than necessary, reading something there, whatever you're letting show, and then the corner of his mouth curves up slowly. The air between you is doing something you don't really have a name for. Close and charged but subtle all at once, like neither of you is in a particular rush to get anywhere and you've both quietly agreed on this without saying so.
He shifts slightly, angling toward you, his arm brushing yours against the bar. But he doesn't move it away. "So," his eyes drop to your lips for just a fraction of a second before coming back up. "Tell me something."
"Like what?"
"Anything." He tilts his head. "Something true."
You look at him, the red hair and the dark eyes and the complete infuriating composure of him and feel something loosen in your chest that had been pulled tight all evening. "I almost didn't come out tonight," you say. "But you did."
"I did."
He holds your gaze. "I'm glad you did."
You open your mouth to say something, but Yuna's voice cuts through the music. "Y/N!" Your friend materializes at your elbow from somewhere in the crowd, slightly breathless, eyes bright. "There you are, come on!, they're playing our song, we have to go!" She grabs your arm before you have time to process, already pulling you towards the dance floor.
You go, because you're being moved by a force of nature and there's very little to be done about it, but you turn your head as you're dragged away. Heeseung watches you go with that same calm expression and he raises his glass slightly in your direction, holding your gaze for one second, two, then you're completely enveloped by the crowd and the music swells back around you.
Yuna is saying something you're not fully processing because you're still thinking about the way he'd looked at you right before your name was called. ‘I'm glad you did’
Your phone buzzes again in your hand but your mind is already elsewhere. Yuna hands you a drink and you down it in one go. And just like that you let the music do what it does and your body go with the flow. The song changes twice more before Yuna finally lets you go, laughing, already being pulled toward the group by the terrace doors. "Ten minutes, I mean it this time!" she calls over her shoulder, blowing you a kiss. Even though you know you're probably not going to see her again for the rest of the night. And then she's gone, swallowed by the crowd same as everything else tonight.
You mean to go find the terrace. You mean to. But instead you find yourself drifting back toward the bar, telling yourself it's because you never finished your drink, which is a lie you don't even bother committing to.
He's not where you left him and the disappointment lands before you can stop it, sharp and unreasonable, and you're still cataloguing it when a hand finds the small of your back. "Looking for someone?" His voice, close to your ear this time, close enough that you feel it more than hear it over the music.
Your breath catches and you turn around slowly, the moment your eyes meet his again, up close like this, something in your brain short-circuits. God, he’s unfairly beautiful.
His red hair looks even richer under the now pink club lights, a deep, vivid shade almost burgundy, that catches every flash of color. His dark eyes hold yours without hesitation, framed by lashes that should be illegal, and there’s the faintest trace of a smirk playing at the corner of his heart-shaped lips.
Your eyes fall to the sharp line of his jaw, the easy slope of his shoulders under that jacket. And you’re suddenly very aware of how warm the room feels, how close he is and how your pulse is now louder than the music. Heeseung’s hand lingers for a second longer before he lets it fall, but he doesn’t step back. He just watches you, that calm confidence radiating off him in waves.
“Yeah,” you manage, voice a little breathless. “Guess I found him.” His smirk deepens, slow and pleased, he leans one elbow back against the bar, angling his body toward you so the two of you create a little pocket of space amid the chaos. “Couldn’t stay away, huh?” You finally realize what you said and laugh softly, the sound surprising even you. “Don’t flatter yourself too much. I was just um…thirsty again.”
“Right” His gaze drops to your mouth for a beat, then lifts back up. “And here I thought you missed my charming conversation.” The way he says it, so relaxed, so teasing, makes heat bloom low in your stomach and you take a small step closer without meaning to, drawn in by the way he looks at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the room.
He doesn’t push, doesn’t crowd you but every little movement feels so intimate. The brush of his arm against yours. The way his fingers tap lightly against his glass. The quiet intensity behind that laid back smile. You talk for a few more minutes, easy, light banter that somehow feels heavier than it should.
He asks what kind of bad week you had, not prying, just offering the space for you to answer if you want. But you deflect with something vague and sarcastic that makes him chuckle, low and amused. His voice is like warm velvet over gravel, and every time he calls you “sweetheart” in that casual drawl, your stomach flips.
You shift uncomfortably in your seat, thighs pressing together as a very specific, dangerously heated thought slips into your mind. The room suddenly feels unbearably hot, the air thick and suffocating, wrapping around you until you can no longer think clearly.
Oh God… you’re in so much trouble.
The music throbs through the space between you, colored lights dancing across his sharp features. Your heart hammers wildly against your ribs, impossible to calm. While he’s still talking about his week, the words tumble from your lips before you can catch them.
“Can I kiss you?”
The question lingers in the charged air, honest and daring. His gaze has been devouring you all night, dark, unrelenting and you can no longer ignore the heat blooming between your thighs. Heeseung blinks once, caught off guard, those perfectly arched brows lifting in quiet surprise. For the first time tonight, his flawless composure fractures beautifully.
A slow, dangerous smile curves his lips. His eyes darken with intrigue and something far hungrier. “Yeah,” he murmurs, voice dropping into that low, velvet tone that sends shivers racing down your spine. “You can.”
You don’t wait for the moment to pass. You reach up, fingers brushing the front of his jacket, and press your mouth to his. One of his hands slides to your waist to pull you closer while the other cups the side of your face with surprising gentleness. His lips are warm, soft at first and then firmer, deepening the kiss like he’s been thinking about it since the moment he saw you on the dance floor.
The taste of his drink lingers faintly, mixed with something distinctly him. He kisses like he does everything else, completely in control, but generous with it, coaxing your lips apart and making your knees feel weak. It’s easily the best kiss you’ve ever had. Slow and consuming and perfect, the kind that makes the rest of the club disappear.
Heat floods through you, head to toe, as his thumb brushes your cheek and he tilts his head just enough to take it deeper. Tongue stroking yours in lazy, hungry strokes that send liquid heat pooling between your thighs. A soft, needy whimper escapes you and you feel him smile against your mouth. When you finally pull back, gasping for air, your forehead rests against his. Your bold red lipstick, smeared at the corner of his mouth, staining the edge of his lips in a messy, erotic streak.
His eyes are dazed, pupils blown wide with lust, that usual collected composure cracked just enough to show how badly he wants you. His breathing is ragged, chest rising and falling against yours. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice rough as his thumb drags gently over your swollen bottom lip, smearing your red lipstick even more. You stare at him, eyes glazed with lust. Heeseung lets out a low breath, almost reluctant. “Y/N… look, I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t really do relationships.”
The words hang between you for half a second. You think about it for a second and then decide that you don’t care, you just need a release. You grab his arm and pull him toward a shadowed corner of the club. He follows without hesitation, that lazy grin returning to his lips as the blue lights wash over you both and the pounding music fades into a distant throb.
Heeseung presses you against the wall, his body flush against yours. His heavy breathing fans hot across your neck as he slots one thigh between your legs. “Go on,” he whispers, voice low and commanding, lips brushing your ear. “Use me.”
You can’t help the desperate moan that spills from your lips as you grind against his thigh, the friction delicious against your soaked core. He watches you the entire time, dark eyes fixed on your face, drinking in every roll of your hips, every gasp. His hands grip your waist, steadying you as the pleasure builds fast and sharp. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he praises softly, lips brushing your ear. “Look at you…you look so pretty riding my thigh like this.”
The orgasm hits you like a wave, shattering through your body so intensely your legs give out. Heeseung catches you easily, holding you up with strong arms as he kisses you through it, swallowing every loud moan and whimper until you’re trembling and spent against his chest. He lets you catch your breath for a moment, forehead pressed to his, before intertwining your fingers with his.
“Come with me,” he says, low enough that it vibrates through your chest. You don’t hesitate. He guides you through the crowd, grip warm and sure. Your legs are still shaky from the intense release, and halfway up the narrow staircase he notices. With a soft chuckle, Heeseung turns the corner and the bouncer gives him a knowing nod as you pass and you don't care to think about anything else because you need his lips on you again.
The second floor is quieter, dim lights, velvet booths, and several closed doors lining a hallway. Heeseung opens one without pause, pulling you inside. The room is private, luxurious in a hazy club way. Low lighting, a large bed against one wall, a mirror across from it, and a leather couch by the window through which the moonlight shines in.
The faint thump of music still vibrates through the floor and there's a sweet scent in the air. Heeseung turns to you, gently backing you against the door. His hands settle on your hips as he leans in, kissing you again, deeper this time. Slower, like he’s savoring every second. You melt into it, fingers threading through his hair and tugging lightly. He lets out a low sound of approval against your mouth. “You sure about this?” he asks, lips brushing yours.
Even now, he’s giving you the choice, calm and gentle. But his body is pressed close enough that you can feel exactly how much he wants you. “Yes,” you breathe. “I want you to fuck me. Please.”
That’s all he needs.
His hands slide under your dress, peeling it off with practiced ease. Clothes come off in a heated rush, his jacket hitting the floor, the skirt of your dress pushes up around your waist, the straps undone to reveal your aching breasts. His shirt unbuttoned just enough for you to run your hands over the hard lines of his chest. His hands roam possessively, sliding under your clothes until you’re both shedding them in a heated trail toward the bed.
He lays you down and drops to his knees between your spreaded thighs, that same soft dominance radiating off him as he hooks your legs over his shoulders. “Still so wet,” he murmurs, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh. “Let’s see how many more times I can make you fall apart tonight.”
His mouth is on you in the next breath, tongue sliding through your folds, sucking gently on your clit while two fingers push inside you. He eats you out like he has all the time in the world, every teasing lick and curl of his fingers pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
“You taste so fucking good,” he groans against you. “I knew I had to taste you the second I saw you on that dance floor.” His admission pulls a tortured moan from you.
You’re loud, crying shamelessly as another orgasm builds fast. He groans at the sound of your pleasure, his nose brushes your clit, the vibration sending sparks through your core. Your hips buck against his mouth, a loud cry tearing from your throat when his tongue slips inside you. Heeseung quickly presses his hand firmly over your mouth, muffling your sounds while he works you through it with long, lazy strokes of his wet tongue.
“Easy, baby,” he kisses against your slick skin, eyes flicking up to yours with dark amusement. “Can’t have everyone hearing how you cum on my tongue. Be quiet for me… or I’ll make you.” He spits on your pussy, dragging his tongue across your mess.
His words, combined with the relentless curl of his fingers and the skilled movements of his tongue, push you over the edge fast. You come hard, thighs shaking around his head, your cries muffled against his palm as pleasure whites out your vision. He doesn’t give you much time to recover.
Heeseung stands, shedding the rest of his clothes, his dick hard and flushed. You slide off the bed onto your knees almost instinctively, wrapping your hand around him. He threads his fingers gently through your hair, guiding but not forcing. “That’s it… fuck, you look so pretty on your knees for me,” he breathes, voice rough with pleasure. “Open up for me, baby. Let me feel that pretty mouth.”
You take him eagerly, licking a wet stripe around the head before sinking down as far as you can. Tongue swirling and hand stroking what you can't fit. His praises make you wetter, make you moan around him as you grind your clit against his leg like an animal in heat. He tightens his grip in your hair, his head falling back with a low groan.
"You're such a good girl… just like that. Taking me so fucking well.” You moan around him, the vibration drawing another curse from his lips. He fucks your mouth with slow, controlled thrusts, never too rough, eyes locked on the way your smeared red lipstick leaves marks along his shaft. Before he can finish down your throat, he pulls you off and lays you back onto the bed.
Your chest rises and falls in anticipation as you hear the hurried rip of foil. He lines up, rubbing the head of his cock over your clit until you’re panting helplessly.
You look him in the eye, tugging at the condom until he understands what you’re suggesting. “I have an IUD…” you whisper, gazing up at him through your lashes. “Besides, I want to feel you...all of you.”
Heeseung stares down at you, that unhinged look in his eyes as his chest rises heavily. “You’re fucking crazy,” he rasps, already tearing it off before crashing his lips against yours, suddenly unable to hold back the raw hunger he has for you.
He takes his time, but there’s nothing lazy about the way he explores your body. Confident hands roaming, lips trailing hot kisses down your neck and collarbone, lower and lower until you’re arching desperately into him, gasping his name like a prayer.
When he finally sinks into you, slow, deep and perfect, the stretch is exquisite. “F-fuck, you’re so deep,” you moan, overwhelmed by the feeling of him filling you completely. He watches your face the entire time, eyes locked on yours, drinking in every flicker of pleasure like it’s better than the love song still pulsing downstairs.
“Fuck, you feel incredible baby,” he groans, voice rough around the edges. His hips roll against yours in a steady, devastating rhythm, hitting that perfect spot with every thrust until your toes are curling and you're drooling onto the pillows.
It’s overwhelming in the best way. He moves like he already knows your body inside out, like he’s determined to make you feel everything. Confident, unrelenting, and attuned to every moan and shiver. He angles his hips just right, grinding against your clit with each deep thrust until pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your core.
You come hard again, crying out against his shoulder, nails digging into his back as you bite down to muffle your scream. He doesn’t stop. He rides you through it, murmuring filthy praises against your ear. “So tight… fuck, that’s it. Let go for me again, you're so sexy like this”
"H-heeseung!" You’re moans grow louder, whimpering and crying out his name with every thrust that hits that sweet spot deep inside you. Heeseung smirks, pressing his hand over your mouth once more as he leans down to bite at your neck. He fucks you harder, voice dark and teasing. “Quiet down, baby. Do you want the whole club to know how hard I’m making you come?”
Your phone suddenly lights up on the bedside table, the familiar ringtone cutting sharply through the heavy breathing and obscene wet sounds of skin slapping against skin.
Incoming call… BF♡
Heeseung glances at the screen, then back down at you with a wicked, filthy glint in his eyes. He doesn’t stop. Instead, he slows into deep, grinding rolls that make your toes curl and your walls clench greedily around his dick.
“Answer it,” he commands softly, voice dripping with lust as he picks up the pace again, fucking you harder. “Answer the phone, baby. Let him hear how well you’re getting fucked.”
His voice is full of dark challenge and amusement. He moves his hand from your mouth just enough for you to speak. You shake your head desperately, but he leans down, lips brushing your ear as he thrusts particularly deep, his tongue traces your earlobe and his thumb rubs tight circles on your clit.
A sudden, violent orgasm crashes into you without warning. Your legs shake uncontrollably, vision blurring as intense pleasure rips through your body. A broken moan tears from your throat before you can stop it, your release gushes around his thick, pulsing cock, clenching down on him hard.
“Fuck…fucking hell, you cum so good,” he groans, sweat dripping down his chest. His eyes drop to where his thick dick is pumping in and out of you, slick and glistening with your release. “Look at that. Soaking me like a good girl.” he watches you, almost mesmerized.
You gasp sharply, eyes rolling back as he keeps thrusting through your orgasm, brushing against your sensitive spot with every stroke.
The phone keeps ringing, insistent and shrill. Heeseung’s hand returns to cover your mouth, muffling your cries as he fucks you through the waves of pleasure. With his other hand, he grabs the phone and presses it into your palm, his hair falls over his eyes, his sharp gaze locked on yours in a silent, filthy command.
Fingers trembling, you swipe to answer just as another deep thrust makes your voice crack. “H-hello…?” It comes out wrecked, breathy, and soaked in lust.
Your ex’s voice explodes through the speaker. Angry and demanding to know where you are and why you sound like that. But Heeseung doesn’t let up. He leans down, kissing and biting along your neck as he drives into you with sharp, punishing strokes. His hand wraps around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make your head spin while you try to hold back your moans between broken replies.
You try to speak, but every thrust pulls another muffled whimper from you. Heeseung’s breath is hot against your ear as he whispers, low and teasing, “Tell him you’re busy, baby… go on, tell him how full you are right now. How deep I’m buried inside this pretty pussy.” he licks a wet stripe down your neck.
The risk, the overwhelming pleasure, and his relentless filthy praise push you dangerously close to the edge again. You manage a few shaky, incoherent words “L-Look, stop calling me… d-don’t call me anymore. We’re done” before you drop the phone onto the sheets and another orgasm rips through you without mercy. “O-oh God! Fuck!” you scream.
Heeseung swallows your loud cry with a deep, possessive kiss, his hips stuttering as you clench down hard around him. Then he flips you over, yanking your hips up and taking you from behind with the same devastating control.
The new angle is even deeper. He fucks you hard and fast, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks. The headboard slams rhythmically against the wall with every powerful thrust. His balls slap loudly against your ass, slick with your juices, as your moans grow shamelessly louder, echoing through the room.
“Listen to you,” he growls, voice rough with lust. “So fucking loud for me. You love getting ruined like this, don’t you?” He leans over your back, teeth grazing your shoulder as he drives into you even harder. “One more, pretty. Let me feel you.”
The filthy sounds of skin slapping skin send you spiraling. Your most intense orgasm of the night crashes over you, legs shaking violently as your walls pulse and flutter around him. You cry out into the sheets, clenching down so hard it pulls Heeseung over the edge with you.
He buries himself to the hilt with a deep, guttural groan, hips jerking against your ass as he fills you completely.
For a few long moments, the only sounds are your ragged breathing and the distant thump of the club music. Heeseung stays draped over you, pressing soft kisses along your spine before slowly pulling out. He collapses beside you and pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around your trembling body.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice warm and slightly amused. His fingers trace lazy circles on your back, gentle now after the intensity. “Did I break you, pretty girl?”
You let out a weak, breathless laugh, burying your face in his neck. The red lipstick you left all over him is still faintly visible in the low light. “In the best way possible."
Heeseung chuckles softly, tilting your chin up to kiss you, his touch soft and tender. “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.” His hand slides down to squeeze your ass possessively. “Give me ten minutes. I want to watch you lose it while you’re on top of me, still dripping with my cum.” He looks down at you with a smirk. “Unless you need me to call your boyfriend back and really rub it in.”
You playfully smack his chest, a breathless laugh escaping. “You’re terrible.”
He catches your wrist easily, bringing it to his lips to kiss your pulse point. “You like it,” he teases. And true to his word, it doesn’t take him long to recover. Heeseung leans back against the bed, pulling you on top of him with effortless strength. His hands settle on your hips as you straddle him, guiding you down onto his cock again. The stretch is delicious, especially with the added slickness of his release still leaking out of you.
Fuck, that’s it,” he groans, head falling back as you sink all the way down. “You take me so well.”
You start moving, rolling your hips experimentally at first, then faster as confidence and need take over. Heeseung watches you with hooded eyes, hands roaming your body, squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples, then gripping your waist to help guide your movements.
“That’s my pretty girl,” he praises, voice rough. “Ride me just like that. You’re so fucking beautiful when you’re cumming all over my dick.”
The angle lets you grind your clit against him with every roll of your hips. Your moans grow louder, shameless. “H-heeseung! ahh, feels s-so good,” you whimper, riding him harder. He sits up slightly, pulling you closer so he can kiss you messily. One hand stays on your hip while the other slides between your bodies, rubbing on your clit.
“Come on, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “Let me feel you cum again. Be a good girl and spill for me” The combination of his filthy praise, his lips on your neck, and the deep drag of his cock inside you sends you spiraling fast. “Oh my fucking God...Heeseung! I’m fuck-!” the last of your words evolve into a scream and you cry out, body trembling as another powerful orgasm crashes through you.
Heeseung groans loudly, thrusting up into you to chase his own release, filling you once more as he holds you tight against him.
You collapse onto his chest, both of you slick with sweat and breathing hard. He runs his fingers through your hair, pressing lazy kisses to your shoulder as the aftershocks fade. “Still having an awful week?” he asks, voice low and satisfied. You smile against his skin, too blissed out to do anything else. “Best week ever.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Stay with me a little longer, yeah? The night’s still young… and I’m nowhere near done with you.”
You decide to stay. You stay for hours.
He takes you again and again. Slow and deep on the bed, then against the wall, on the floor with you on your hands and knees as he ruts into you until you fall apart. He has you on your back at the edge of the bed, standing tall as he holds your legs over his shoulders, buried so fucking deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach. You ride his face, breathless and teary-eyed, his nose brushing your clit with every movement as you leak into his mouth before he pulls you over him so you can ride his dick until your thighs burn and your voice turns hoarse.
Every praise, every filthy whisper, and every gentle command sinks deeper into your memory.
Eventually, the sun begins to rise, painting the sky in soft hues of pink and gold as the club finally empties out. Heeseung pulls you close at the back exit, one last time. His hand cups the side of your face with surprising tenderness, thumb slowly brushing across your smudged red lipstick like he’s memorizing the evidence of the night you shared.
He kisses you deeply, slow and lingering. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours for a moment, breaths mingling in the cool morning air.
“Last night was fun,” he murmurs, that mesmerising smile curving his lips once more, but there’s something softer in his eyes now.
"Take care of yourself, beautiful” He starts to pull away, but not before pressing one final, gentle kiss to your forehead.
A sudden spike of panic hits you. Your fingers tighten in his jacket before you can stop yourself. “Wait…” Your voice comes out smaller than you want. “Will I… see you again?”
Heeseung pauses. For a moment, his eyes soften, just slightly, as he studies your face. Then that calm expression returns. He leans in, pressing one last lingering kiss to your wrist.
“Maybe,” he says softly, voice low and honest. “But even if not…you’ll remember me.” He brushes his thumb across your bottom lip, one final time, that beautiful smile making your heart ache a little. “And I'll definitely remember you.”
With that, he steps back, gives you one last look that sends heat rushing through your body, and disappears into the early morning streets.
In the weeks that follow, you think about Heeseung far too often. You try to move on, you go on dates, you let other men kiss you, touch you, take you home. But it’s never the same.
No one else makes your body respond like that. No one else fills you with that overwhelming, toe-curling pleasure. No one else looks at you with those sharp, steady eyes while calling you their good girl in that low, velvet voice. Sex with anyone else feels… mediocre, mechanical and disappointing.
Your mind always returns to the red-haired guy.
Late at night, when the ache becomes unbearable, your hand slips between your thighs. You close your eyes and picture him. His vivid red hair between your legs, his strong hands gripping your hips, the filthy praise he groaned against your neck as he fucked you senseless. You remember how he stretched you open, how he kissed you through your orgasms, how he made you cum harder than you ever had before.
You touch yourself desperately to those memories, moaning his name into your pillow as you shatter again and again. The orgasms are good… but they’re never quite enough. Just echoes of what he gave you that night.
He ruined you for anyone else.
And the worst part? You don’t even regret it.
Sometimes, when you’re out at clubs or parties, you catch yourself scanning the crowd for a flash of red hair and that effortless wolfish grin… but he never appears again.
He was a one-night storm…beautiful, devastating and unforgettable. And all you have left is the memory and the quiet, delicious ache every time you think of him.
-> made by @taexvan
●RULES ●MASTERLIST ●TAGLISTS ●IMPORTANT
☆taglist! @baekgufx @melodisic @evelynevie1009 @hooniepatootie @xonlyifyousayess @gyubdaengi @marylovedaspiders
The heavy, throbbing ache in your muscles is the only thing anchoring you to reality as you unlock the door to the shared apartment. The air inside is cool, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off your skin after such a brutal workout session. Every step feels like a chore, your gym clothes sticking to you like a second, suffocating skin.
You drop your bag by the entryway with a dull thud. All you can think about is the shower, the thought of hot water washing away the sweat and exhaustion is the only motivation you have left.
You head straight for the bathroom, already peeling off your damp clothes. The quiet of the apartment surrounds you, making you think you’re completely alone. You turn the handle, letting the water run until the room begins to cloud with thick, heavy steam, blurring the edges of the mirror.
Stepping into the glass enclosure, you close your eyes and let the spray hit your face, sighing as the tension begins to melt from your shoulders.
But the click of the bathroom door cutting through the sound of rushing water tells you that you aren't alone anymore. Through the fogged glass, a tall, familiar silhouette moves closer.
The heavy glass door slides open, letting a draft of cool air slice through the thick steam. Riki stands in there, still in his damp gym gear, his dark eyes locked onto you through the fog. The contrast between the cool air and the heat of the bathroom makes you shiver.
"Why didn't you wait for me?" he asks, his voice low, cutting easily through the roar of the rushing water.
"Sorry... I just felt so disgusting," you murmur, wiping the water from your eyes as you look back at him.
"Yeah, yeah..." he mutters, a slow, knowing smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.
He doesn't step into the water right away. Instead, he reaches down to grab the hem of his soaked workout shirt. You watch his muscles tense as he pulls the damp fabric up and over his head, tossing it onto the bathroom floor outside.
Next comes the waistband of his shorts. He slides them down his legs, peeling away the last barrier of his clothes until he's completely bare, the cool bathroom air raising goosebumps on his skin.
He finally steps over the ledge and into the tight enclosure with you. The heavy glass door slides shut behind him with a definitive click.
The shower feels instantly smaller. The air grows thick and suffocatingly hot as he steps directly into your space, crowding you beneath the spray. The water immediately drenches his hair, sending slick tracks running down his chest as he corners you against the wet tile.
The heat radiating off his bare skin is intense, you can feel the adrenaline from his workout rolling off him in waves.
"Riki," you breathe out. You place your hands against his chest, feeling the steady, rapid thud of his heart beneath your palms. "Let's just... let's wait until after we shower. We just got back. I want to actually get clean."
A low, rumbling chuckle vibrates in his chest. He doesn't step back. Instead, his hands come up to rest on the tiled wall on either side of your head, effectively trapping you between the cold stone and his burning body.
He leans in closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his breath hot and damp. "What's the point of waiting? We're just going to get all sweaty again anyway."
The confidence in his voice sends a sudden prickle of heat straight down your spine. Before you can even formulate a protest, his right hand leaves the wall, his fingers tracking a slow, deliberate path down the side of your neck, over your collarbone, and down to your waist. His grip is firm, and his fingers are digging into your hip with a possessive pressure that leaves no room for argument.
"Besides," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to watch the water track lines down your skin, "you look too good right now to make me wait."
He crowds you further, his thigh sliding between yours, forcing your legs slightly apart. The friction of his wet skin against yours is dizzying. You try to draw a deep breath, but the air is thick with steam and his familiar, intoxicating scent. Your hands shift from his chest to grip his shoulders for balance as your knees already feel a fraction weaker.
"Riki, seriously, my legs are already like jelly from the workout," you try to reason, though the breathiness of your own voice betrays you.
"Good," he whispers against your lips, his thumb stroking a slow circle into your hip bone. "Then you won't mind letting me hold you up."
He doesn't give you another chance to speak. His mouth comes down on yours, hot and demanding, effectively silencing any remaining logic. It’s not a gentle kiss, it’s a direct continuation of the intensity he brought home from the gym. He tastes like the clean rain of the shower water mixed with a fierce, burning hunger that immediately sets your pulse racing.
As the kiss deepens, his hand slips lower, his fingers slick with water and heat as they find the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You gasp into his mouth, a sudden jolt of electricity shooting through you as his touch grows bolder, migrating firmly toward your core.
"Riki—" you whimper against his lips, your fingers tightening into the muscles of his shoulders as he begins to tease you with a slow, agonizingly deliberate rhythm.
"Shh," he breaks the kiss just enough to mutter against your skin, his jaw tight as his fingers work with a devastating precision. "Just take it."
He uses his other hand to grip your chin, tilting your face up so you have no choice but to look into his eyes. They are dark, blown out, and entirely focused on your reactions.
Every slide of his fingers makes your breath hitch, the water pouring over both of you only heightening the slick sensation of his touch. He knows exactly where to press, his thumb finding your clit and applying just enough pressure to make your hips twitch involuntarily.
"You're already so wet," he rasps softly, a dark smirk playing on his lips as he watches your expression fracture. "See? I told you there was no point in waiting."
You try to hold yourself steady, but the combination of your exhausted muscles and the relentless, expert movement of his fingers is too much. He accelerates the pace, his fingers deeply inside you while his thumb relentlessly drives you toward a peak.
"Please," you gasp out, your head dropping back against the wet tile as your hips helplessly chase his hand.
"Please what?" he says, his voice a low and commanding. He doesn't slow down. If anything, his movements become more aggressive, his fingers fucking you ruthlessly until your thighs begin to tremble uncontrollably.
Your knees buckle completely, your weight giving out, but Riki’s grip on your hip instantly tightens. He hoists you up, pinning you flat against the shower wall, refusing to let you drop, refusing to let you escape the building storm. You are completely at his mercy, caught in a dizzying spiral of overstimulation as he continues to drive into you until you are entirely broken open under his touch, crying out his name into the foggy, echoing room.
He watches your orgasm wreck you, his own breathing ragged now, his chest heaving against yours. But he doesn't let you rest. Before you can even recover from the aftershocks, he reaches down, gripping your thigh and lifting it over his hip.
The heat of his cock presses firmly against your drenched, aching cunt.
"I told you this before," he pants, his eyes locking onto yours with an absolute, unyielding dominance. "We're not done until I say so."
With one powerful motion, he drives himself completely inside you, stretching you so deeply that the breath is knocked entirely from your lungs. The shower walls literally vibrate with the force of his movement as he begins to fuck you, the rhythm fast, heavy, and completely relentless.
The steam continues to fog the glass, completely trapping you in a wild, breathless haze where the only thing that exists is the roaring water and the undeniable, overwhelming power of Riki breaking you down, piece by piece.
The force of his first few thrusts pins you helplessly against the wet tile, the slick stone offering no traction as Riki takes complete control of your body. Every time he slams into you, your breath hitches.
The water pelts down from above, blinding you, but Riki’s gaze remains locked onto your face, tracking every twitch of your features, every desperate gasp that leaves your parted lips.
"Riki, wait—" you try to cry out, your hands clawing weakly at his wet shoulders. The sensory overload is staggering, the roaring water, the thick, heavy steam choking the air, and the sheer size of him tearing you completely open. It’s too much, too fast after your muscles were already pushed to their limit at the gym.
"I'm not waiting," he murmured against your neck, his lips pressing a hot, bruising kiss to your collarbone as he thrusts deep, shifting his angle to hit that exact spot inside you that makes your entire body go rigid.
You let out a broken sound, your fingers digging into his back. Your legs feel entirely useless now, trembling violently as he sets a punishing, relentless rhythm. He handles your weight effortlessly, one massive hand hooked under your thigh, holding you aloft while his other hand presses flat against the wall right beside your head, the shower structure subtly vibrating under the force of his movements.
"Look at me," he rasps, his voice a low rumble that vibrates straight through your chest.
You force your eyes open, your vision blurred by tears and spray. Riki’s jaw is clenched tight, a vein pulsing at his temple as he fucks you with a fierce, possessive hunger.
He looks entirely lethal in the dim, foggy light of the bathroom, a dominant force that refuses to let you slip away into the numbness of exhaustion.
"You're so tight," he pants, a low, guttural sound tearing from his throat as he accelerates, his cock driving relentlessly against your aching pussy. "Am I too much for you? Tell me."
"Yes—please, Riki, I'm going to—"
You can't even finish the sentence before another wave of intense pleasure threatens to fracture your mind. Your body is already so raw, so completely undone from the way he fingered you moments ago, that every single friction of his skin against yours feels like an electric shock.
"Nah, don't drop yet," he warns, catching your lips in a harsh, bruising kiss that drowns out your whimpers.
He intentionally slows his pace for a split second, drawing almost completely out of you until you moan at the sudden emptiness, only for him to slam back inside you all the way to the hilt, burying his length so deeply that your hips twitch automatically against him.
The steam has turned the bathroom into a complete blur, sealing the two of you into a private, hot cocoon. The scent of soap is entirely overwhelmed by the musk of your shared sweat and the unmistakable heat of raw, unfiltered desire.
He shifts his grip, suddenly turning you around so your front is pressed flat against the cold tile wall. The sudden contrast of the chilly stone against your flushed chest makes you gasp, but before you can adjust, Riki crowds his entire body against your back. He pulls your hips back, aligning you perfectly before he slams back into you from behind.
This angle is even deeper, hitting you with a brutal, direct force that causes the shower walls to shake. Your hands slide against the wet tile, unable to find a grip, leaving you entirely dependent on the way his heavy hands clamp onto your hip bones, anchoring you to his rhythmic, devastating pounding.
"Riki, please—I can't—" you sob out, your head dropping against the tile wall as the fogged surface smears with your movement.
"You can," he mutters, his breath scorching the back of your neck as his teeth lightly graze your shoulder blade. He refuses to finish, refuses to let himself give in, holding back his own release with a terrifying amount of control just to keep you right on the edge of breaking.
The relentless pace shifts, the air in the small enclosure settling as Riki seems to feel the slight tension in your posture. The punishing, frantic energy of the moment softens, grounding itself back into something thick, heavy, and intensely connected.
He doesn't pull away, but the aggressive drive of his movements slows down to a deep, deliberate drag that lets both of you catch your breath.
He buries his face into the crook of your neck, his breathing a heavy, ragged heat against your skin as he lets the hot water pour over both of your shoulders, letting the silence settle between you.
When he pushes forward again, the movement is a slow, rolling thrust that fills you completely. The friction turns from a sharp, overwhelming spike into a deep, agonizingly sweet ache that pulls a soft, long breath from your lips.
"Hey," he murmurs, his voice a low, and vibrating against your ear, the earlier edge entirely melting away. "Look at me."
He gently guides you to turn back around to face him, his hands supporting your weight with an easy familiarity so your exhausted legs don't have to bear the burden. When your eyes meet his through the cascade of water and steam, the intense focus in his dark gaze hasn't changed, but it's smoothed over by a heavy, protective warmth. He reaches up, his thumb gently wiping the moisture from your cheek.
"Too much?" he asks softly, his chest heaving against yours as his length shifts deeply inside you.
You shake your head slightly, your hands sliding up to wrap securely around his neck, finally finding your rhythm with him.
"Just... tired. Everything is so sensitive."
Riki lets out a soft, breathy laugh, his forehead leaning against yours as the water blankets you both. "I've got you," he promises, his voice dropping to a gentle, reassuring purr. "I'll hold you. Just relax against me."
He begins to move again, but the cadence is completely altered, with measured, and incredibly deep strokes that stretch the pleasure out rather than rushing toward the edge.
It’s an intense, heavy sensation that makes your core ache with a quiet warmth, each tilt of his hips designed to make you melt rather than fracture. His hands stay anchored on your hips, no longer locking you down, but smoothly guiding you against his body to ensure every single point of contact is pure, unhurried heat.
The bathroom feels entirely peaceful now, the steady, soothing roar of the shower swallowing up everything else as the steam wraps around you like a heavy blanket. Riki sways with you under the water, drawing out the moment until you're completely soft and pliable in his arms.
The steady, rhythmic drumming of the water continues to echo off the tiles, creating a private cocoon around the two of you as the steam grows thicker.
The slow, deep thrusts of his hips stretch out the sensation, allowing your body to fully adjust to the thick, heavy warmth filling you.
Every single slide of his length is deliberate now, no longer punishing, but incredibly intense in its consistency. Your hands tighten around his neck, your fingers knotting into his wet hair as your hips begin to subtly shift on their own, finding a quiet, natural harmony with his pace.
"Riki..." you breathe out, the sound vibrating right against his chest.
"Yeah," he says softly, his voice thick, a low rumble of pure satisfaction. He pulls you just a fraction closer, his large hands anchoring firmly on the underside of your thighs to take every ounce of your weight. "I got you. Just stay right here."
The gentle, rolling rhythm begins to naturally tighten, the pleasure shifting from a soft, radiating ache into a concentrated, burning heat low in your belly.
The friction of his wet skin against yours under the cascading water becomes hypnotic. Even without the frantic speed from before, the sheer depth of him fucking you is pulling you right back up to the edge, your internal walls contracting tightly around him with every movement.
Riki’s breathing hitches, his jaw clenching tightly as he feels your body begin to tremble again. The gentle warmth in his eyes darkens with a sudden, heavy spike of desire as your tightness threatens to break his immense control.
"Fuck y/n," he pants against your ear, his pace naturally quickening just a bit, the deep strokes turning firmer, harder, as the heat becomes too much for either of you to contain. "You’re squeezing me too tight... you're ready, aren't you?"
You can only nod against his shoulder, a broken whimper escaping your lips as your hips helplessly chase his steady, powerful thrusts. The build up is thick and intoxicating, completely consuming the last of your strength.
"Go ahead," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a raw, command as he drives deep, hitting that exact spot inside you with a sudden, unyielding precision. "Come for me."
With a final, deep thrust, the tension snaps. A loud gasp is knocked from your lungs as a shattering climax ripples through your entire body, your muscles clenching around him in violent, desperate waves. Your head falls back against the wet tile wall, your vision blurring into complete white.
As you unravel completely in his arms, the tight, relentless pressure of your body pushes Riki entirely over the edge. His control snaps completely. He lets out a sharp, ragged gasp that echoes off the shaking walls, his hips slamming forward one last time to bury his cock to the absolute hilt. He freezes right there, his entire body going completely rigid as he cums deeply inside you.
The heavy, breathless sounds of his release mix with the roar of the water as he spills his burning heat completely, filling you to the brink while holding you tightly against his chest.
The frantic motion completely stops, leaving only the loud, heavy sound of your synchronized, ragged breathing cutting through the steam. He stays buried deep inside you, his heart hammering wildly against your ribs, simply holding you up as the aftershocks slowly fade and the water continues to pour over your shared skin.
For a long, quiet minute, neither of you moves. Riki keeps his arms securely wrapped around you, his hands resting gently on your lower back to keep you anchored against him as the last of the tremors fade from your legs.
Slowly, carefully, he draws back just an inch, his cock slipping out of you with a soft, slick sound. Instead of stepping away, he turns his body to shield you from the direct spray, letting the hot water hit his back while he reaches down to adjust the handle, turning the flow into a gentle, warm mist.
He reaches for the bottle of body wash on the small corner shelf, pouring a generous amount into his palms until a thick, fragrant lather builds.
"Turn around," he murmurs softly, his voice deep and rough from exhaustion as his fingers gently coax your shoulders.
You comply, pressing your hands lightly against the tile wall for support as your muscles continue to feel like jelly. Riki steps up close behind you, his warm, soapy hands coming down onto your shoulders.
He begins to wash you, his movements slow and deliberate, a complete contrast to the power trip from earlier. His palms glide over the aching muscles of your back, working out the tension from both the workout and the shower, before tracing down the line of your spine.
His touch is incredibly tender as he cleans the sweat and the remnants of your intimacy from your thighs, his fingers moving with a quiet care that makes you melt completely against him. Once you’re completely clean, he pulls you back under the warm mist, using his hands to gently rinse the soap from your skin.
He takes a quick moment to soap himself down and rinse off, the water washing away the last of the exhaustion. When the soap is completely gone, he turns off the valve, the sudden silence in the enclosure heavy and peaceful.
He slides the glass door open, immediately reaching out to grab two large, plush towels from the rack before the cool bathroom air can hit your skin. He wraps one carefully around you, tucking the edges in to trap the remaining warmth of the shower, before wrapping the second one around his own waist.
Even with the towel shielding you, a small shiver runs through your body, your exhausted muscles still trembling slightly from the sheer intensity of the last hour. Riki notices instantly.
Without a word, he steps close, hooking one arm securely under your knees and the other behind your back, effortlessly lifting you into his arms.
"Riki, I can walk," you murmur weakly, your voice small and raspy against his neck, though your arms automatically loop around his shoulders for balance.
"Yeah right," he mutters, a soft, breathy chuckle vibrating in his chest as he carries you out of the damp, steam fogged bathroom. "Your legs were shaking just standing there. Just let me hold you."
He carries you into the quiet comfort of the bedroom. He deposits you gently onto the center of the mattress, taking a moment to use the edges of the towel to gently pat away any lingering droplets of water from your skin.
Once you’re dry, he pulls the heavy, thick duvet all the way up to your shoulders, tucking you in tightly like a cocoon to make sure you're warm. He slides his own towel off and tosses it toward a chair before slipping into the bed right beside you.
The mattress dips under his weight as he slides beneath the covers, immediately pulling you close until your back is pressed flat against his bare chest. He loops one heavy arm around your waist, pulling you tightly into his frame, his body heat radiating through you like a furnace.
For a long time, the room is completely silent, save for the hum of the apartment's air conditioning and the steady rhythm of your breathing. He rests his chin lightly against the crown of your head, his fingers tracking slow, lazy circles over the bare skin of your shoulder.
"Hey," he murmurs softly into the quiet room, his voice dropping to a low, vulnerable register that you only ever hear when it's just the two of you like this.
"Yeah?" you breathe out, your eyes already growing heavy as the warmth of the bed and the comforting weight of his arm soothe your exhausted mind.
His hand stops its movement for a second, his fingers gently gripping your waist a bit tighter, pulling you just a fraction closer against him.
"Sorry if I went too hard on you," he whispers, the rough edge completely gone from his tone, replaced by a genuine, quiet tenderness. "I know you were already tired from the gym. I just... lost my head a bit when I saw you in there."
Hearing the slight hint of worry in his voice makes you smile weakly in the dark. You shift slightly, turning your head just enough to press a soft kiss against the smooth skin of his forearm wrapped around you.
"It's okay," you murmur softly, your hand coming up to rest over his, intertwining your fingers together. "It felt good. I just really don't think I can move my legs until tomorrow."
A soft, genuinely happy laugh huffs out of his nose, his lips pressing a lingering, warm kiss into your hair. "Good. You don't have to move at all. I got you."
He resumes the slow, rhythmic tracing of his fingers against your skin. The fierce, unyielding force from the shower feels like a distant memory now, replaced entirely by the safe, protective bubble he’s built around you in the dark.
Your eyelids grow heavier and heavier with every breath he takes against your neck, your body completely melting into his solid frame. Riki adjusts the blanket one last time, pulling it securely over your shoulders and holding you tight against his chest, content to watch you slowly drift off to sleep in the quiet safety of his arms.
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
pairings: non-idol bf!jake x non-idol gf!fem reader
genre: smut, nsfw, established relationship
word count: 1.1k
warnings & content: mdni! 18+ explicit language, suggestive themes, unprotected sex (safe sex gois) public sex, jealous sex, p in v, clit play, jake wants the reader only for himself
synopsis: on this dark hotel balcony, jake is showing off exactly where you belong...
now playing: “agora hills” by doja cat
note: @oneandonlyitgirl i came across your hard thoughts about balcony sex with jake and i freaking love the idea!! idk if you'll like it. i just wrote whatever's on my mind lol. 😭✋
It's still 9:30 PM in the evening but here you are, clutching the cold edge of the glass railing, boobs bouncing against the frames, holding on to your dear life as Jake slammed his hips harder behind you. He's fucking you here in your hotel room balcony, showing off to the world how he's giving you the best dick of your life.
Jake hadn’t bothered to undress you fully. The black bikini you had worn all day still clung to your body, though the bottom had been yanked roughly to the side, the strings digging into your hips. The top was barely containing your breasts, which bounced rhythmically with every thrust of Jake’s hips. He was fucking you with a desperate, punishing intensity, right there on the balcony. You’re thankful that no one is outside wandering at this hour, you swear to Jake that you’ll bury him alive if someone sees you in this filthy situation.
“Who’s fucking you good?” Jake whispered into your ears, pressing his bare chest against your back as he nibbled the side of your neck.
“Y-you Jake–Hnggh!” You moaned softly, trying hard not to wake up your neighbors.
Jake thrust slowly, savoring the tightness of your pussy, he stares how both of your body connects, his huge dick stretching your hole deliciously, creaming his length with your arousal.
“This is only for me. Poor them.” He chuckled still watching his dick swallowed by your puffy cunt. Spanking your ass cheek, as possessiveness takes him over.
Just hours ago, while you and Jake were on the beach earlier to watch the breathtaking sunset together, Jake left you for a moment to buy a coconut juice for both of you. While waiting for him, you're standing near the seashore with your mouthwatering bikini when two random guys approach you. Complimenting you about how good looking you are, asking multiple questions, and when you're about to leave, the two guys are still creeping you out. Jake walks into your direction, fuming with anger, with a red face, his eyes looking as if they're about to murder the two guys talking to you. He didn't make a scene. Jake simply walked up, placed a hand on your lower back, and stared them down with a silence that was far more terrifying than yelling. The guys had mumbled apologies and scattered immediately. Jake was quiet the whole evening, not until he fucks you dumb right now.
Remembering how those two guys looked at you made him move even faster. It felt like he was claiming you all over again, wiping away their memory with his intense focus on you. He picked up the pace, his hips slammed on your ass harshly.
"Look at you, taking this big dick of mine," he grunted, sweat dripping from his hair onto your shoulder. "You love being fuck by this huge thing.” he added.
You loved the feeling of him completely filling you. The excitement of getting caught, combined with his deep, powerful movements, made the tension in your stomach tighten. You were getting so close to the edge. The pressure kept building, and you could feel every single stroke of his length, dragging out your juices.
Opening your eyes, you looked down at the dark beach, your head spinning from the intense rhythm. Then, you froze. Two figures stood outside with beers, looking straight up. It was them—the two guys from earlier. Panic flared in your chest, mixed with a strange rush of arousal. They were staring right at the balcony, watching Jake behind you and your bodies pressing wildly against the glass. You tried to pull away to hide, but Jake held you firm.
"J-jake, stop…" you whimpered, your voice breaking. "The guys—"
Jake saw them. He looked over your shoulder, his eyes locking onto the two figures below. He didn't stop. He didn't cover you up. A dark, victorious smirk spread across his face. He shifted his angle, grinding his pelvis against your ass, ensuring they saw exactly who was inside you.
"Let them watch," he growled.
“I wanna show you off.”
He reached around your hip, his fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs. He yanked the fabric of your bikini bottom aside completely, exposing your swollen clit to the cool air and his rough fingers. He began to rub tight, fast circles on the bud, matching the relentless pounding of his cock inside you.
"Jake, p-please!" you cried out, the stimulation too much to bear.
"Cum for me," he commanded, his voice loud, carrying clearly into the night air. "Look at them when you cum on my cock, and show them you’re mine.”
His deep movements and sharp touch pushed you right over the edge. The climax crashed your whole system. Your wet pussy clamped down tight around him, sending waves of heat that made your vision go completely white. You screamed, letting your head fall back against his shoulder, your whole body trembling as the pleasure overwhelmed you
Above you, Jake groaned, his hips stuttering as he chased his own high, watching the two guys below scramble in embarrassment. They turned and ran, disappearing into the darkness, having seen more than they bargained for.
"I just got jealous," he whispered against your skin, his voice tender now, the anger completely drained away. You felt him pouted. “I hate when other guys look at you like that. I just wanted to remind them where you belong."
Jake held you up as your knees gave out, wrapping his arms around your waist to keep you from falling. He pressed soft kisses against your neck, which felt completely different from his rough movements just moments ago. He stayed close and held you tight, but the aggressive urgency was replaced by a protective warmth.
You leaned back against him, your heart racing. The cool glass against your palms was the only thing keeping you grounded.
Your breathing finally slowed down, and a sly smile crept back onto your face. You looked out at the empty beach, then spun around to see Jake's intense gaze.
"Jealousy looks good on you, babe." you teased softly, tracing a finger down his toned chest.
"But if you think that's enough to satisfy your freaky girlfriend, you're mistaken." you said, seducing him with your playful stares.
Jake let out a low laugh, his grip tightening around your waist as he pulled you back inside your room.
Synopsis: You're in need to help in your anatomy class. With nothing to lose you desperately search for a tutor. You meet Sim Jaeyun with a good deal too help you study, a deal too good to refuse
Genre: Smut, porn with slight plot
Content Warning: Nerd Jake, petnames during intercourse (baby, babygirl), p in v, fingering (f receiving), creampie, unprotect sex and spanking (f receiving)
You sighed deeply, standing, lost between the hallways and the sun piercing trough the window panels. You search for the library with a paper in hand and your new expensive purse dangling from your arm.
"Library...Ah right there" You exclaimed
You pull the door back, your heels clanked in the bare floors.
Your late grandfather has left you an inheritance of three million dollars in the condition of you passing college. Not with some easy degree. Something with math, science or health.
Bullshit. I know.
That's why you're stuck in a library that smelled like mustard, old books and purple pine-sol.
That's why you're stuck in a musty smelling library
Let's be honest. You aren't the brightest bulb out there or the sharpest one in the shed. You aren't that bright but you make up for it in different ways.
Hopefully.
You're looking for your tutor. A man by the name of Sim Jaeyun. You didn't know what he looked like. You just know he's a student. Could be an ugly guy for all you know.
You walk deeper into the library. Each step of your heel is basically an announcement of your arrival. Heads turned to look over you.
You just know they're all thinking
'Who's this pompous bitch?'
Finally, at the very end corner there lies an empty conference room. You push the doors.
A man has their backs turned, he was wearing a flannel shirt, plain pants. The works.
You finally had the courage to call out to him
"Hi are you Sim Jaeyun?" You ask
"Hi. Yeah" The man answered with a smooth foreign accent.
He had his glasses perfectly perched on his sharp, big nose. His hair was dyed brown which complimented his complexion and his bangs framing his face was the cherry on top. It perfectly sat on his beautiful face.
Even though his clothes were somehow casual and shabby it looked good on him.
"For tutoring?" You ask, almost a snort.
"Yes I'm Jaeyun...Call me Jake" He introduced.
You didn't this gorgeous man is volunteering to tutor other students.
You're in utter disbelief.
"Sit down and close the door." He commands
"It's just us?" You ask, eyes roaming around the conference room
"Is there a problem?" He shots back
The conference room was dimly lit, smelled worse than the room outside. There was a lingering funky smell that you couldn't quite put your finger to.
"Kinda? The room smells kinda funky" You complained
"Can't do anything about it, sorry. We can move if you want" He suggests
"Nevermind" You sat down beside him
"What do you need help with?" He asks
"Anatomy, mostly, I have a hard time memorizing them..." You bent down to pick up your books, hoping to get some kind of reaction from him
Jake was an attractive man, too attractive for someone who volunteers tutoring willingly with their free time. You discreetly unbotton the top buttons of your blouse while you were bent down.
"Where should we start first? The reproductive system? Or the human skeletal system? " He clears his throat
"Whatever you want teacher..." You said
"Skeletal system it is then..." He opens up your text book, sparing a single glace before looking back at you
"What always helps me memorize them is using a real live model..." He states like he just solved everything for you
"May I?" He asks, hands hovering before you
You nod. Anticipation and curiosity washes over you, wondering where this might take the both of you.
"Let's start from ankles and then up" He declared
He scoots even closer to you, he grabs your left feet. Resting it on his thighs. You were suddenly conscious of your weight, and how much you're putting on him.
"This is the transverse axis" He put his hands gently on your ankles
Then his hands hikes up to your legs.
"Tibia, Fibula...Then your knees are made out of many bones... Head of fibula, medial femoral condyle..."
You didn't really pay attention to the bones he was naming, all you could focus on was his touch. How it's slowly hiking up your body.
"Stand up please." Jake commands
You followed his instructions, standing up. The both of you are side to side, when you first came to the room he was sitting down, you didn't notice how tall he was. Now it's dawning in you that this man is tall, very tall. He's towering over you and you need to look up just to fully make eye contact with him.
He kept you close, still naming bones in your body, trailing along it.
You stopped paying attention when he was rambling about the bones in your knees and their purposes.
"Humans have twenty four ribs..." Jake declares as he touched your body. Trailing along your ribcage
When Jake comes closer, you feel his breath against your own.Your breath hitched as he worked his way up, closer and closer to your chest
When he's finished trailing along your body he discuses another part of the body.
"Humans also have something they call a spine. It's basically the backbone.
Bones in our spine aren't called bones. Well... they're bones but classified a 'vertebrae' and we have twenty four moveable vertebraes. Divided into five main categories."
"Cervical" Jake cups your face then hold the back of your head and neck
"Thoracic" Jake holds your lower back, feeling alone your thin and slim back
"Lumbar.." He holds the lowest part of your body
"Sacrum and Coccyx are...uh... In the lower part..." He stops his hands, He clears his throat.
A heat immediately rushes to your cheeks, and you feel yourself getting red.
By the time he's reached your collarbones you were already a blushing mess.
"And the scientific term for the collarbone is the clavicle... Remember it. I'll be quizzing you on this later"
He once again cups your face, still standing up.
"Last but not the least...The head. Frontal, Parietal, Temporal, Maximilla, Nasal and Zygomatic.."
Each of Jake's touch sent a fire in your core. A storm was brewing inside you.
You hesitantly go for a kiss when Jake's face was close. Jake's eyes widened with your actions.
You lean into him, his lips were soft and tender. He doesn't flinch away. Instead, he kisses you back. His eyes softened and now full naught. His lips curled up with hunger and lust. He trails his hands all over your back, then down to your butt. He cradles them as he fights your tongue for dominance. He cups your face as he sloppy kisses you, playfully biting your lips from time to time.
He takes of his glasses and pushes it somewhere, never breaking the kiss between the both of you.
Once you're out of breath, you pull away, panting. Chest rising up and down
"Sorry... I—" before you could mutter your full apology he shuts you up with another deep kiss
"Take off your skirt." He commands, he heads to the door, locking it "You and I will play a game"
"I'll be quizzing you on everything we just learned." He takes off his button up flannel.
His body was amazing. From the looks of it. He has a body of an athlete. Tan, lean and packed with muscles. He has the type of body that you can only maintain with years of experience and discipline.
"Lay down on the table. On your stomach. Ass out" He commands like the words he strung together were normal
You followed anyways. You laid yourself on the table, ass on the edge. Your heels were a tad bit too high, but the discomfort kind of added it's own charm.
He hurriedly pulls down your short skirt, it pooled down below your heels. He takes a moment to admire the view before him.
"Who the fuck wears thongs too classes?" He scoffs taunting you
He snaps your thong and it snapped back on your ass, sending a burning ripple to you.
"Holy shit you're dripping wet..." He exclaimed, like this information was some big news to him.
He moved on to his initial shock and became a tutor again.
"How many bones does the human body have?" He asked
"200?" You hesitantly ask. You weren't sure. You were too busy oogling at Jake earlier
"Wrong babygirl" He spanked your left butt cheek.
Right after his slap it throbbed, sending waves of pleasure to you. The slapping sound rippled across the room
"Try again baby girl..." He commands
"204!" You declare
You thought you were right but another spank rippled through your skin
"Wrong. Try again" his voice was filled with cockyness
"206? 206! There's two hundred and six bones in the human body" You shouted
"Good girl..." Without any warning, he inserts a finger inside
You bite your lip to stop a moan from coming out
"You're so tight baby" He exclaimed, pumping the single finger in and out
"Hmm how many ribs does an average human have?" He questioned.
His voice was accompanied by the wet noises of him pumping on your insides
"I don't know Jaeyun..." You frustratingly say
"you do remember... We just went over this" He told you. Pumping into your insides faster and faster
"Twenty...hmmmm!...No... Twenty two?...That sounds wrong. Twelve pairs is Twenty four. A-a human has twenty four ribs..." You fumble your answers around
"Good job babygirl..." With his words he inserts another finger inside
"Hmmm Jake!" You moan out his name
"I'm ready to answer another question"
"Okay what's the scientific term for the body part, Collarbone?" He asks
While he's waiting for your answers he leans over you, two fingers still pumping inside and he bites your neck. All the while you're on the table, laying on your stomach with your arms laid flat on the table. He leaves marks all over you, his mouth suctions on your nape like some leech, not wanting to let go
"I'm waiting..." His voice was full of demands
"I don't know..." You moan out
A slap echoes in the room. He pulls out his fingers that were inside and smacks your buttcheeks.
"Don't stop please?" You plead.
You were so close to climax but he took his fingers off, interrupting your flow.
"Then remember." He rolls his eyes
Another thunderous slap fills the room
"CLAVICLE! IT'S THE CLAVICLE!" You yell out the answer, full of confidence
Jake then inserts both of his fingers, them he slowly adds another
"How about the spine baby...? How many sections are there in the spine?" He asked, fingers still jabbing into you
"If you name them I might even give you a little reward"
"Hmmm" You managed to moan out as he continues to pump his fingers inside of you
"Uhmmm. Cervical, Thoracic, Lumbar, Sacrum..." You trailed off, the last part of the spine hung on your head. The pleasure throbbed inside but you wanted more.
You wanted to feel him, All of him inside
"You're forgetting one baby..." He used his other hand to slap your butt while he's still jabbing three of fingers over your wet tight walls
You could feel yourself again, being close to climax. On top of your mind you tried your very best to recall the last part you were forgetting
"Let me motivate you... If you get the last one maybe I'll dick you down right on this table." He stated.
You were more motivated to remember now. You want him so bad inside of you, after being edged to no end.
"Clarynx?" You hesitantly asked
"You're just spewing bullshit. Stop guessing and remember" He slaps it once again all the while he's pumping inside you
"hmmm...I know it starts with a C... I know..."
"We'll move on. Yeah?" He asks
"But...I want you..." You mumble under your breath
"But you don't remember. So I'll ask you name me at least two parts of your legs. Just two. I'll let you have my last finger inside that tight little pussy of yours..." He declared
"Why would I need four?" You let out an exhausted breath.
You were tired from the pleasure he's sending you
"That's almost how thick my cock is...." He seductively whispered in your ear
That sent a chill trough your spine. You're already a moaning and whimpering mess from his fingers. You almost came twice and yet he's not even inside.
The thought of him turned you on and excited you, but the thought of him inside you also scared you.
"I'm waiting babygirl...." His voice demanding
"Tibia and Fibula! Th-Those are bones in the leg!" You exclaimed
"Good job baby..."
Without warning he jabs the fourth finger inside of you
You immediately moan out from the pain and pleasure over you
"Hopefully that jogged your memory..." He says "So what's the last part of the Spine?"
"Coccyx" You managed to say, despite the throbbing pain and pleasure that's making you see stars
"Good job babygirl..." He breathes out
"Now, I am a man of my word"
He finally rips of the thong that is still on your butt cheek and throws in on the table where you're laying at. You catch it through your peripheral discarded a few inches away from where you're at.
He doesn't even ask if you're on a birth control. Which you are.
But he doesn't spare another second and inserts himself inside of you. You could hear his belt being unbuckling, and then the next thing you hear is clothes dropping down to the floor.
The last thing you feel before being impailed by him was his own cock twitching on you.
"Fuck Jaeyun!" You yelled out, your strained voice echoes through the room loudly, enough to hear yourself back through the pleasure he's giving you. Your knees are slowly buckling back as he slowly sinks into you.
You're being stretched out. You couldn't fully take him. He's too big, and he's cocky about it
"Fuck baby you're so tight? You're telling me you only fuck guys with small dicks?" He tauntingly asked
You couldn't answer. You couldn't string full words
"Answer me when I'm asking you." He growls, pulling at your hair to face him
You follow the direction he's pulling at.
He finally inserts himself fully with one long thrust, at that point you're already a full mess, mumbling incoherent words and never stringing them together. Jake's cock was long, thick and girthy.
Jake starts thrusting. Slowly. He grips into your hips for support as he goes back and forth. His thrusting slowly picked up its pace.
"Listen to that.. Music to my ears"
Jake was referring to the obscene sounds of your flesh slapping together
You bit your lip to muffle the sounds of your moaning to the point you're tasting an overwhelming amount of metal and rust on your mouth.
With Jake's thrust he's fastening his pace, you slowly move a tiny fraction of an inch in the table. Your legs violently shake now as you try to keep in balance.
Jake's hips dips in and out while he massages your nipples, playing with them in a circular motion.
All of his actions throw you even more closer to the edge. You didn't want to climax without him
"Fuck Baby you're clenching on me so fucking hard are you trying to cut my dick in half?" He chuckles like this was a game to him
"I-i don't want to cum yet..." You managed to say
"Baby you can cum as many times as you fucking want. The more the merrier"
He continues to his fast pace, massaging your nipples from behind and leaving hickeys to parts of your body he can reach—like a sign of ownership, that he's marking what's his.
He was relentless with his sucking.
He enjoys the view of you being a mumbling mess, almost too stupid to form words because he's fucked you stupid and until you saw the stars.
He also enjoys how you're arching so perfectly. He watched as your head rolls back, your hair falling on your perfect back, with not a single hint of blemishes or hair.
He was most fond of the noise you're making, the praises and compliments you were singing to him like he's the best dick you've ever had. He finds it funny that you're biting your lips to muffle the moans you're making that he's caused. But they're all in vain, the both of you are still a messy noise.
He smiles at himself, he's so proud of the pleasure he's sending you. He's confident that you're pretty much satisfied with what he's doing. Considering the amount of explicit sounds you're producing. He's whipped and drunk for you and your pussy the same way you are with his.
Jake deliberately even hurried with each thrust. But he himself was close but he wants you to finish first before he releases. Even though you're wrapped so nice and tight against his dick, he tries his best to hold onto his release.
He's dedicated to keeping his promises. He's giving you the award he vowed.
Jake has had his eye on you for awhile now. Since the start of first semester. He knew to himself that you didn't notice him in Chemistry class first sem. And he's accepted to himself that you never will notice him. You're way too out of his league. You're beautiful, you're rich, you're surprisingly kind and humble despite your easy upbringing. He observes you closely, he notices the little things. You aren't just some pompous bitch. You're more complex and layered than that. Which made you even more unattainable. That's why he's accepted the fact you're never going to notice him.
Up until today. You showed up on his system, waiting for a tutor. And like the universe has aligned all its stars on the right axis to put you together.
You finally climax after a long, deep and hard thrust. You finally collapsed on the table while he released his cum inside you. He dumped his full load inside of you, he watched as his own seed dripped out of your pussy.
You managed to sit up and turn from your uncomfortable position in the table, facing Jake and his red flushed face. He steps closer to you, planting a kiss on your forehead
"You were amazing baby..." He smiles, his pearly whites and boyish features scrunching into a beautiful smile
