Untitled

jo had long known what it meant to be afraid.

he'd spent centuries dodging physical connections and even longer dodging emotional ones, petrified by the possibility of his hard-earned immortality being ripped from him because of a pesky urge. jo had taken lovers, sure, but he let them get no closer than a doctor might have. he guessed, at least, having no need for mortal medicine on his undead body. he kept his kisses lip-only and eyes wide, his love-making removed and insincere. for hundreds of years, jo had satiated his urges- nothing more, nothing less.

until he met you.

you had been perusing the classics section in the library, well past the hour the building closed to the public. jo had known this because he, too, was there after hours; one perk of transforming into a small, winged mammal and being impossible to capture on camera was being free to do whatever the hell he wanted. you were leaned, timidly, against the worn, wooden shelf, thumbing through a loved copy of none other than bram stoker's dracula. jo had rolled his eyes, and he mirrored your position, smoothly, against the shelf across from you.

"the count's warning came into my mind," jo had quoted, his deep voice carrying beyond the aisle, startling you with a jump, "but i took pleasure in disobeying it." he bit back a smirk at the way you clutched at your heart and nodded at the aged novel in your hands, "chapter three."

you took three deep breaths, assessing him like a threat with your body pressed as far from him as possible. your eyes scanned his tall, looming figure, unsure, and then your brows furrowed, sure, "...okay?"

"you're kind of like harker right now is all," jo proceeded, "you know, breaking the rules."

"i dont break rules," you had bit back, defensive, "i work here- you're breaking the rules."

and he had been breaking way more than you had known, letting his heart chip open the longer he stared into your eyes under the soft glow of the moonlight. it filtered through the library's tall, dirty cathedral windows and cast shadows seemingly everywhere but on you and entirely on him. he was breaking and entering, yes, but he was also ready to betray 200 years of discipline over a single coincidence. over the way the cogs in the universe's cruel machine had to move to keep you occupied after your shift with a copy of jo's least favorite book ever written. it had to have been a sign.

"chapter 2," jo had pushed his luck with you, "enter freely and of your own free will."

he had waited for you to grab him by his arm and escort him from the premises. he had waited for you to laugh in his face, tell him to fuck off.

you had merely chewed at the inside of your supple, flushed cheek, turning dracula in your hands, "is it any good?"

jo was quick to answer and even quicker to fall, shaking his head earnestly, even in the shadows, "its terrible."

the following months were eclipsed by you, you, you. jo had refused himself obsession for so long, he hadn't known how to pace himself. he had to know every inch of you, every facet of your personality and thread of your clothing. he counted the ridges in your teeth, counted your hair as you drifted off in his lap. and his obsession only grew when you'd approached him with a question- not the one he had known deep down was inevitable but something that made his shriveled, cold heart throb with a phantom pulse. you'd asked, "can you, like, go in the sunlight?"

"sorry?"

"well, i finished dracula," you swung your hand in his between you as you walked, pondside, through your local park, "and you don't eat when we go out, your hands are freezing, and we only ever go on dates after sunset."

jo's mind flipped through the ten lives' worth of memories, of fears. he saw pitchforks, doused in fuel and blazing in the streets. he saw crosses haphazardly built in front yards, painted on doorways. but then he saw you; jo looked into your eyes, innocent and young like the first dew before second winter, and knew.

you were his for as long as you'd let him have you.

but he had a test to run first, just to make sure. he asked, "what did you think?"

"of dracula?" you looked up at him with a knowing smile on your lips. casually, you turned your attention back to your walk, and then you squeezed his hand. "it was terrible."

and because jo had spent several lifetimes denying himself love, he had subsequently denied himself the damning vice of pleasure. pleasure made kings into fools, made even the devil weak to temptation. jo knew this to be true because of you. because every time you walked past him, his head tilted in your direction to hold your scent in his nose just a little longer. the undead experienced pleasure in slightly different ways than the living, in a heightened, primal ritual. as he began to allow you to pry into his life and dismantle the laws he had set for himself in his mind, jo grew more and more concerned about how you would react to his... needs. to how he would need to satiate them.

he was a bloodsucker above all; he knew you knew that. you would eat the first half of your shared meals alone while jo lurked in alleyways like a villain. jo had forbade you from his personal library, getting ahead of the papercut dilemma that all modern vampire romance media abused. plus, he had hated the idea of having to throw out a treasured novel because the smell of your blood on it would associate the title with his desire to feed. or fuck. at first, you were visibly uncomfortable with the knowledge of what he had to do, but jo would have been highly concerned if you had abandoned all of your morals at once the moment you learned what he was. it would take time.

at least, he thought it would.

he let himself kiss you one night. really kiss you, deeply and gently. it was experimental, and you were safe, your lips soft on his like a quiet flicker of a distant candle. the heat was different, though, rising in his chest after centuries of pinching the wick in his stomach with two cold fingers. your body was pliant under him in a way he refused to acknowledge for fear of losing himself. his hands were so big against your face, settling on your thighs. his broad shoulders caged you beneath him as you worked, slowly, at his mouth, coaxing him open despite his warnings. you suckled at his lips, pulling at his hair until he groaned into your mouth. his first mistake was letting you slip your tongue between his teeth. his second mistake was letting himself get so lost in the feeling of you slotting your knee between his thighs that his teeth unsheathed, as if they had minds of their own. and once he noticed what had happened, he made his third mistake: he didnt pull away.

instead, jo let you skirt your tongue under the sharp edge of his fang. and when you gasped under him, he still didnt pull away. he rolled his hips harder over your knee, eyes fluttering blissfully as he sucked your tongue deeper into his mouth and drank every gorgeous drop of blood beading on the tip of it. he sucked the muscle, even as you squirmed beneath him, pushing his heavy shoulders to no avail.

he had drank from you like he was a fledgling, like he knew no restraint. like he hadnt rehearsed control every single day for this exact reason. jo released your mouth as soon as he knew what was happening, but it was too late. you scrambled out from under him as he buried his face in his hands, apologizing as sincerely as he could while drunk on the taste of you. but it was no use; you had already left.

you'd left him to stir, to reflect on his actions. jo did a lot of reflecting over the three days you ignored him, mainly about how insanely he craved you. strangers on the street were stale bread and starch. it really was quality over quantity with him, as the blood of fifteen nobodies failed to quench the onslaught of thirst a few droplets of yours induced. he reflected on the heat of your body against his cold skin. he reflected on how he might convince you to let him do it again, one final time. how long could you refuse him?

when he saw you again, you were sitting stoic beside him on the couch where it all happened. jo could smell the wound on your tongue as you spoke, and he felt that part of him that didnt want to stop tingle like a numb limb.

"you scared me, jo," you muttered, anxiously fidgeting with your fingers, "i told you i didnt want to do any of that. the... blood stuff."

jo knew then that there was a definite line down the center of his relationship with you: before and after. there had been before, when he was perfectly content stroking your hair and cooking you human food and listening through the walls as you pleasured yourself because he couldnt trust that he wouldnt sink his teeth into you. and, now, there was after. after tasting you, after knowing how your arousal made your blood thicken, how the few drops from your tongue had made him harder than he'd been even as a mortal, dazed by the passing touch of a lady, seduced by women on street corners.

jo had his taste of you, and he wanted more.

"it didnt feel good?" he asked. if only you could have felt it from his end, how his whole body came alive at the first taste.

"no," you deadpanned, quickly, and shook your head once, a definitive swivel on your neck, "it hurt. it stung."

jo had two options: he could apologize and live the rest of his life insatiable, or he could let the part of his conscience that, after all this time, still clung to humanity take a backseat. way, way in the back. jo shifted in his place, turning his body to face you, to overshadow you. he let his fingers trace your cheek, your jaw, and fall to the ends of your hair. he twisted the strand until the wispy tips were tickling your ear and side of your throat. you shuddered, and jo knew he needed the next thing to touch your throat to be his teeth.

"it can feel good, though," he whispered, hearing your heart beat a little faster in your chest, "there are ways to make it feel really good."

jo leaned forward, his breath ghosting your ear as his fingers trailed down the length of your neck, hovering over your pulse point. he continued, "right here."

"you're lying," you shifted, barely an inch away from him, and gulped, shaking your head again, shaking away the bad ideas, "a cut on my tongue hurt like hell. i cant imagine one on my neck."

"pleasure, darling," jo tipped your chin toward him, forcing your eyes on his, forcing the ideas to stay in your head. he wanted them to steep like potent tea. "pleasure is just pain in the right places. combinations of sensations, balanced rough and gentle touches. they are one oscillating, tantalizing concept."

your eyelids fell, lashes sweeping over the tops of your cheeks. the weight of your head in his hand was nothing compared to how heavy his cock felt in his pants, straining at the sheer mention of your neck. and his descriptions of pleasure did nothing to dull his heightened senses; it was as though he could feel everything he described to you all over again, remembering the swinging pendulum of mortal pleasure. he wasn't lying to you about it feeling good. jo remembered how it felt for him, veins throbbing as his whole body seemed to ache for the same invasion. he remembered the euphoric trembling under the weight of his own fanged lover. even as a distant memory, his body buzzed.

"kind of like choking?" you asked. jo knew you weren't naive, but the innocence you were wearing made his mouth water. "hurts on its own, but..."

"yeah," jo's hand slipped around the back of your neck, his thumb sliding softly over the prominent vein. his breath trembled, "yeah, exactly like choking."

"okay," you whispered. and then you looked at him, the expression on your face unreadable. jo had seen millions of faces, hundreds of thousands of emotions, but he had never seen someone portray one like yours. it wasn't depleted or disappointed; it was more expectant, patient. you looked as though you were waiting for him to do something.

"...okay?"

"i want to try it," you admitted, leaning closer to him, closing the gap you'd created moments before. you slid your palm up his thigh, holding his hungry gaze as you inched closer to where you thought he would want you most. "i was scared, yes, but i also couldnt stop thinking about it."

but where he really wanted you, and now fought back a groan at the prospect of finally having you, was his on his tongue. he wanted the salt of your sex soaked skin to burn his lips. jo wanted to stain his teeth with the fibers of your being, drink your sacred wine. but for the time being, he settled for crawling over you, resting your head on the plush cushion of the couch. the last time you'd been this way, he'd went too fast too quickly. accidents happen, but he was going to make sure everything was intentional this time. he would drink as much as you'd let him and no more, and he'd give you everything you could ask for. an even trade.

"being scared means you're human," jo reassured you, sensing your emotions despite your efforts to conceal them. he kissed your jaw, right below your ear where your blood rushed when you were nervous, and he let his breath fan over the shell of it as he continued, "and being human is what makes you taste so good."

he felt the chill run up your spine from the way your body twitched under him, your hands finding their way to his hair as he trailed his kisses from your jaw, up your cheek, and finally to your lips. he hovered there, seemingly to bridge your trust but truthfully because he could still smell the tang of blood on your tongue, the way clementines lingered on your fingers after peeling the rind away. you were sweeter and much less tedious to break open, your mouth already finding his in a reckless kiss.

there it was- the vague remnants of your sweet, piquant essence. it was barely noticeable, so much that you probably thought the wound had closed. it was enough to pull a deep, starved groan from jo's chest, his own tongue sliding over yours in a feverish haze, searching for the source.

"been dreaming about this perfect neck, baby," jo mumbled against your lips, letting his hand encase the front of your throat with the slightest pressure. you swallowed under his palm, and he groaned against you, "finally gonna let me taste you. its always better like this, i swear, closer to the heart."

you whimpered, a bright, sharp sound under the weight of him, of his hand on your throat, of his hips pressing yours into the cushions below you, of his mouth capturing yours between mumbled thoughts. "please, jo. i want it."

"shh, i know you do," jo kissed you once, a chaste brush, and sat up, positioning himself between your legs, "but first, i gotta make you feel good. fear is so, very bitter, and you're quivering, sweetheart. is it okay if i touch you, first?"

you nodded, a welcome change, maybe even a sign that jo's bad ideas had stuck. you nodded, frantically, lifting your hips to help him strip you from the waist down. the scent of your arousal was almost as intoxicating as your blood-tinged kiss, the slick coating your folds glistening in the dim light of the room.

"all this from the thought of my teeth in your neck, doll?" jo teased, sliding a long, lithe finger up the length of your pussy, starting at your dripping entrance and ending with a sharp flick at your clit, obviously sensitive from the way you writhed beneath him. he sucked his teeth, "i've never seen a cunt this needy, dripping all over my furniture from a few kisses. ive barely touched her, clenching around nothing."

your hips chased his finger, desperate for the friction jo had denied you thus far. you were pathetic beneath him, eyes screwed shut as he plunged one cold finger into your heat. you sucked him in, lewd squelches punctuating every thrust of his digit. jo felt his teeth begin to emerge, anticipating the way your eagerness was spinning your flavor. if fear was bitter, the flavor of excitement was sharp, like fresh petals of mint. he added another finger and leaned into the arch of your body as he curled them, long and sleek, against the plush walls of your pussy.

jo warily pressed his lips to the side of your neck, careful not to make any sudden movements that might sour the essence he had coaxed you toward. jo was overwhelmed by the warmth of your skin against his, both from your neck and the fire blazing deep in your core. and the shock of his cold, wet lips on your throat made you shiver, your fingers threading tightly into his hair. he smoothed his tongue over the base of your throat, a languid pass of the muscle. and, then, jo began to suck. no teeth- just his lips suctioning a bloom of color against the pure, delicate flesh of your neckline. your moans were music to him, a lurid aria performed for him alone, and the tang of sweat contrasted like a shrill note in a symphony with the bright essence that permeated your skin. as he sucked and sucked, he knew he had gone too far, that the bruise would last for weeks, from the sheer amount of blood that coated his tongue. his fingers faltered inside of you, his senses overwhelmed.

"jo..." you whined, desperately rocking your hips to make up for his sudden distraction, "feels so good. i-i want more."

"greedy, greedy slut," jo growled, soothing his tongue over the angry splotch on your throat, licking away any beads of blood left on the surface. he curled his fingers inside of you, the heel of his palm grinding deliciously over your clit, "my fingers not enough? need my cock, too?"

"n-no," you mewled, and then you tugged at his hair, pulling his lips up to meet yours. you slid your tongue into his mouth, dancing dangerously around the sharp points that kept you awake for days. jo tried to keep them short, keep them contained, but he craved the release of letting his fangs slither out at length to catch the tip of your tongue on the edge. and he almost did when he heard you say, "your teeth, jo. i need your teeth."

no one had ever needed jo's teeth, not even himself. for the first 70 years following his transformation, he had prayed to wake up. he had sought out devils and made deals with them, not realizing that he was the the embodiment of the evil they siphoned. he had starved himself weak and found that there was no return. he would never bandage a scrape on his knee, never feel an infection course through his body. and though he would never feel things in the way mortals did, cry from sadness or jump for joy, jo remembered the raw, burning spark of emotion. for a long time, it seemed like the only emotion he could still feel, authentically, was fear, like the floor would open up and swallow him like an expired pill. he remembered despair, and sometimes he imitated it, cried for hours just to feel like he used to as a boy, when the world was too big for him, when he'd read dracula for the first time. when he'd first learned of monsters in a world of good men, when he'd read of the children of the night. jo had read in chapter 2 that there is a reason that all things are as they are.

he might have been imagining it; his immortality did not flatten his brain. jo thought that he felt a flicker in his chest, something blurry between desire and... delight. something twisting around the brittle cage of his heart, vaguely shaped like you and vaguely shaped like him. the very struggle to discern the two shook something deep within him, something untouched for many, many years. he had felt it before, too, in the library. when you'd first told him he was breaking the rules. when you'd had no idea how many rules he was breaking, how many more he had been willing to break to get you right here, begging him to drink from the supple flesh of your neck.

jo slipped a third finger into your drenched cunt, and, despite the fluttering squeeze of resistance around his digits, you accepted him, sucked his fingers in. jo was all but reaching into you, sweeping his fingertips along the ridges of your walls, hitting that spot that made you cry out and clutch his shoulders.

whatever pleasure the stretch was giving you was going to feel dull compared to what jo was about to give you. he kissed lightly down your cheek, like he had done many times before, but the craving overtook him the closer he came to that throbbing seam, bulging out toward him. it was as if your body knew what was bound to happen, as if fate had designed you for him. your bodies were perfectly entwined, connected, soon to be melded into one.

jo's head buzzed, like all of his thoughts melted into magnets that were sticking to and repelling eachother in every corner of his skull. a steady simmer of pleasure wafted over every sense like a fogged lens. it was you and jo, alone, until he opened his mouth over the pulsing, hot vein in the side of your neck. ans then it was just him. his teeth were sleek and sharp, like every part of him. your skin broke so easily, the snap of your taut flesh vibrating against his bones, once, with one fang, and twice, with the second. just like your pussy, so eager to be filled, so eager to leak around him, your throat captured him, blood brimming over the white seal of his teeth.

a human's typical reaction to being fed on, perhaps as an evolutionary tactic, was to lay still. in the same way many helpless creatures played dead to bore the approaching threat, humans took to pretending they weren't aware, or weren't willing to entertain the vampire's urges. only you, of course, hand-placed in jo's life by some remorseful deity, arched up into him, spearing his teeth ever deeper into you. the sounds you were making drove jo toward madness, gutteral groans that he could feel through his lips, ripping through your throat.

"all that talk about pain," jo snarled, his voice rough with lust, "you fucking love it. you love when i hurt you, baby? my teeth ripping you open," he licked over the holes in your skin, groaning as the blood trickled out in two elegant streams, "answer me."

his hand still plowed into your aching core, flexing his fingers inside of you as you ground your hips in a harmonious rhythm, chasing your orgasm as jo drank the sweet, thick syrup from your throat that told him just how close you were. you panted, your moans teetering on yelps, "i fucking love it, jo. hurts so good."

"you have no idea how sweet you taste," jo mumbled, drinking mouthfuls of your flowing honey, like he'd tapped straight into the hive, into the comb. he could feel your heartbeat under his tongue, and he could feel your core spasming around his fingers. jo slurped greedily; everything was so wet, so obscene. he mumbled against your neck, "open your mouth, baby," before gathering a puddle of your blood on his tongue.

he hovered his stained, plush lips over yours, jaw slack, just like he asked. jo let his tongue slide out, the blood running over the glistening tip like a spigot and into the dark, wet shadows of your mouth. he groaned as the dark, pleasure-tinted liquid spread over your teeth, so dull and human. he wanted you to know how crazy you made him, how he would never be able to drink from another for as long as you lived. your ecstasy tasted like ripe plums, like muddled berries, like a hot, forbidden dream. jo said, "swallow it."

he watched you slide your tongue around in your mouth, collecting traces of yourself as it dripped over your teeth, settled on your gums. and he watched the column of your throat flex as you gulped it down, the motion sending a fresh gush of blood out of the holes in your neck. jo moaned, watching your eyes squeeze closed at the bitter, metallic flavor. he knew it would never taste good to you, but he felt his heart, and his cock, jump watching you taste it anyway. "very good," he kissed the side of your mouth, working his way back to your ear. he slithered his tongue over the shell of it, "now come for me, angel. i wanna see if you can get any sweeter."

jo kept his lips latched to your neck, suckling at a dizzying pace as your blood pooled, warm, in his stomach. he angled his hand slightly, hitting a new spot inside of you that made you grip at the cushion below you, a choked sound erupting from your mouth. his other hand drew drunken circles around your clit, thumb circling and circling until your entire body was pulsing, barreling toward the edge. your chest heaved under him, your heartbeat thrumming under his tongue, and your pussy squeezed his fingers in intensifying waves. and then it hit you, taking over your weak body with a shudder. your orgasm pressed you flat, opening your neck for one final swallow as your cunt gushed all over jo's fingers, coating him in you.

jo groaned, too, his own orgasm sneaking up on him. he felt his cock twitch in his pants from the way your orgasm glazed his tongue, his throat. his hips stuttered under him, his mouth soothing the sensitive, raw patch of skin below your jaw. he licked one concluding swipe over the holes, his cum leaking through the front of his clothing.

beneath him, you were sighing softly, your eyes barely open but your mouth spread wide in a blissed-out smile. you dragged two tired hands haphazardly down either side of his face, settling your palms on his jaw. jo tilted his head, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist. "did it feel good?" he whispered, biting back his own smile, fangs still lingering.

"everything's spinning," you breathed, swiping your thumb over his cheek. your palms were damp against him, and they were trembling. "that was nothing like choking."

he laughed, dropping his head to your chest. your heart throbbed slowly under his ear; you were everything jo wasn't- alive, warm, perfect. you were soft, yellowed pages; jo was preserved, pressed leather, but without you, he was empty. he realized that the two of you, like pleasure and pain, were one oscillating, tantalizing concept, too. night and day; life and death.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

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@kjjupilled @xionvlog @ikigaijo @0wisewisdoom @minhosimthings

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you woke up tied to a chair, your head throbbing painfully. you recall walking home back from work, before a black van suddenly pulled up next to you along the quiet street. you were knocked out with a blunt object across the back of your head and dragged into the van. you don't know where you are right now. it's cold, dingy, suffocating. the lightbulb above your head blinks omniously.

the man standing opposite you clears his throat. he's intimidating, towering over you. his hair bleached blonde and a large scar on his forearm. your wrists and legs sting from where you are bound to the chair with rope. you try to tug at the binds, but it’s tight. the chair creaks from your movement, but it doesn’t move even a little bit.

"awake? finally." 

"where am i..? what-...?" your voice was hoarse. 

"oh, where are my manners?" he steps closer towards you. 

"my name is nicholas. your father owes my old man money. alot of money," he tilts your head, examining your face. "didn't know he had such a pretty daughter"

"my parents are divorced! i- i haven't seen him in years!" you try to defend yourself. nicholas shrugs. he doesn't care. the feeling of dread grows deeper in your stomach. 

"how about this.." he takes out a revolver,  and spins the barrel. "russian roulette. there's one bullet. if you win, the debt is gone.. if you lose..." your eyes widen in panic and you shake your head at the implication. no. no. no. 

the revolver glints under the lightbulb. your throat goes dry. you have never seen a gun in real life before. 

"i don't take no for an answer, by the way."

he frees your wrists from the binds. his calloused, rough fingers softly running against the raw, red marks, chafed by the rope. a tenderness that is so contradicting, so out of place.

"don't try anything funny," he warns. the blood rushes back into your hands, feeling numb. you couldn’t try anything even if you wanted to, your legs are still tightly bound to the chair. 

"i'll go first." 

he brings the muzzle of the revolver to his temple with a practiced ease and quickness, like as if he's done this a million times before. he probably has. you try to look away, afraid and shivering. cold sweat pours down your back.

click. 

it's empty. he smiles calmly at you. 

"see? easy. your turn" he instructs, positioning the gun in your hands, his hands forcefully placing your fingers curled around the trigger. he guides the revolver to your temple, helping you to hold it up. the cold metal is almost painful as it digs against your heated skin. you squeeze your eyes shut, quivering like a leaf. your legs tremble against the chair that you're tied to, the tight ropes digging even more into your flesh. he's pressed up close against you. you could smell the faint scent of cologne and cigarettes. you could almost feel his heartbeat against your body. he's too close...

he pushes down on your finger. 

click. 

empty.

you let out a wrecked sob, gasping for air. your abdomen clenches from fear. 

"beginner's luck," he smirks.

your hand drops from the revolver, a slight, temporary relief washing over you. he brings the gun back to his temple. slower this time, dragging things out like as if he's savouring it.

"third time's the charm," he says, almost charismatically. you can't stop trembling. he smirks, enjoying seeing you cower and panic.

click. 

empty. 

"oh? guess i'm lucky too," he cheerfully exclaims. the resonating sound of his laughter echoes in the room and in your head, and you just want to cover your ears to block out the sound and cry. but you can't move your hands at all. in a second, he shoves the gun back in your hands and roughly lifts it to your temple. you can feel your stomach twisting in agony and your legs shaking so hard that the chair is rattling against the floor beneath you.

as you close your eyes, you recall the last time you saw your father. the slam of the door in the apartment where you once lived with your parents. the bills on the dining table, the debts, the arguments your parents had over money and his gambling addiction. your mother's tears and the way she hugged you, her hands in your hair, comforting you. the years where your father had gone no contact, almost as though he disappeared off the face of the earth. no phone calls, no wishing you happy birthday, nothing. and now, leaving you with the burden of this debt. 

you don’t even have the strength to lift your hands to hold to gun, practically being propped up by his hands. he pushes your finger against the trigger. 

click. 

empty. 

you're sobbing hysterically at this point, hot tears streaming down your face. but he doesn't stop. he won't let you off.

nicholas watches you, an unreadable emotion on his face. he takes the gun back from you, putting it to his forehead. 

"if this one goes off, you'll win.. although my blood'll probably stain your clothes," he teases without even a hint of seriousness, like this is all just a game to him. a sick game. 

click. 

it's empty. 

he lets out a shrill, maniacal laugh. his three shots are over, he has technically won. he's safe. he points the muzzle of the revolver back to you. he does it slowly, almost mockingly, like how an animal would toy with it’s prey first before devouring them.

this is the sixth shot, the final shot. this is it... you're going to die.

"no... no... please-," you beg him for your life, your final chance at redemption. your body is full on shaking at this point, the adrenaline rushing in your veins making your heart race painfully.

he lets out a sigh, like this is still just a game for him. he steps even closer now, aiming the muzzle right in the middle of your forehead, like a target on your head. he does it for you this time, your hands immobilized from fear. his finger rests dangerously on the trigger. the metal of the gun is warm now, from the body heat of the both of you.

"bang" his voice is soft, almost tender and kind. 

click. 

the sound of the final shot is loud, ringing in your ear. but, it's.... empty. you're still alive. your chest heaves in rapid, hyperventilated breathes. the building, painful pressure in your bladder bursts, your body convulsing. a warmth floods down your thighs, soaking your skirt. it trickles down your legs, wetting your socks, and dripping onto the cold concrete floor beneath you. you notice it, but your head is spinning, you don’t even have the strength to be ashamed. you slump against the chair, your sweat, tears, and your piss mixes and run down your twitching body. your vision blurs.

nicholas lowers the gun and opens the chamber. he tilts it forward to show to you.

there was no bullet. this whole time, the revolver was empty. you stare at the hollow circles.

"no bullets," he says, smiling. "i just wanted to mess with you."

he crouches to look at you, his face levelling with yours. his hand rests on your thigh, rough and burning hot. the wet fabric of your skirt has cooled by now, sticking onto your skin. you flinch at the difference in temperature. but he doesn't move away.

"you know... there's another way you could pay off the debt. less dangerous," he suggests.

"but you said- ... if i won, the debt would be gone...?" you manage to gather your words, shock re-entering your system. he tilts his head in fake confusion for a second.

"oh, right. i did say that," he shrugs. "yeah, the debt is paid. but there's still the interest, silly!"

your stomach drops. of course, you should have seen this coming. there's always a catch.

"your father's been in debt for a few years, so... and the interest compounds like, monthly?" he's smiling widely at you, like as if he's explaining a joke to you.

you think of your father again. the way he never answered your calls or messages, begging him to be responsible and clean up his mess. the way you and your mother had to work hard and scrape together money to clear the remaining legal debts he left tied to your mother's name. you had thought that the worst of it was over... you thought wrong.

"there's two ways you can pay it off..." nicholas leans closer, his lips soft against your ear. you shudder. you can feel his sharp eyes on you, like a predator eyeing his prey.

"you're a smart girl, aren't you? you know what i mean... you have a pretty face, you'd be popular, wouldn't you-?" his thumb caresses your cheek. of course you know what he's implying. you know what kind of illegal crime that the gangsters run.

"or..." his voice becomes lower, softer. "you could sleep with me, just me." he offers. he makes it sound like he's being generous. the lesser of two evils. you weigh both options, both rotten. he says it like as if you had the freedom of choice, but you know that you don't have that luxury. his earlier words rang in your ears. i don't take no for an answer.

"so, what's it going to be?" you look at the floor, unable to look at him. you feel disgusting as you sit in the puddle of your own piss, already cold by now. the sickening way the fabric clings onto you, just like the sins of your father that you had to carry. you feel disgusted with yourself as you open your mouth to answer.

"okay," you didn't specify which option you've chosen, but he breaks into a wide grin. you don't need to say it, he already knows.

"good choice," he pats your head, gently, almost affectionately. rewarding you like you're a new little pet who has quickly learnt a new trick. his hands lift your face again, wiping away at the fresh tears that have started to fall down your cheeks again. he crashes his lips onto yours, harshly kissing you.

"don't cry, i'll be gentle."

“oh,” you said, trying not to sound caught off guard. “hi.”

a smile slowly appeared on his face, like he was genuinely relieved you remembered him.

“so it’s really you.”

you closed your laptop halfway. “it’s been a while.”

“too long, honestly.”

the answer came naturally, and for some reason, that affected you more than it should have.

jo glanced at the empty chair across from you. “mind if i sit here?”

you nodded quickly.

as soon as he sat down, old memories came rushing back without permission—jo showing up at your house after basketball practice, stealing food from your kitchen while your brother complained beside him, the sound of his laugh carrying through the hallway while you stayed hidden in your room pretending not to care.

back then, talking to him felt impossible.

not because he was mean or distant, but because your teenage self could barely survive eye contact without panicking.

“you go here now?” he asked.

“transferred last semester.”

“no wonder i haven’t seen you around.” he leaned back slightly. “nicho never mentioned it.”

“you still talk to him?”

“almost every day.” jo sighed dramatically. “i’m suffering.”

you laughed before you could stop yourself.

his eyes immediately flickered toward you, and something about the way he looked at you made your chest tighten.

“you changed a lot,” he said.

you raised an eyebrow. “that sounds weird.”

“no, i mean…” he paused, choosing his words carefully. “you just seem different. more confident, i guess.”

heat crept into your face at the unexpected compliment.

“you changed too.”

“hopefully in a good way?”

you pretended to think about it. “still deciding.”

jo laughed quietly, shaking his head.

there was something strangely easy about talking to him now. the nervousness was still there, buried somewhere underneath, but it didn’t feel unbearable like before.

“what class are you skipping?” you asked.

his eyes widened slightly. “how did you know i was skipping?”

“you’re carrying an untouched textbook around like a prop.”

“that’s actually embarrassing.”

“so i was right.”

“i had a three-hour lecture.” he groaned softly. “i chose freedom.”

“you used to lecture my brother for skipping classes.”

“I still judge him. but now with an understanding.”

you laughed again, and jo smiled immediately after hearing it, almost unconsciously.

“you still laugh the same,” he said.

your fingers tightened slightly around your drink. “you remember my laugh?”

“i remember a lot about you.”

the words settled between you more heavily this time.

because back in high school, you were sure jo barely noticed your existence outside of being nicholas's younger sibling. meanwhile, you remembered everything about him without trying.

the fact that he remembered things too felt unfair.

“you used to follow your brother everywhere,” he added teasingly.

you groaned instantly. “can we leave sixteen-year-old me in the past?”

“she was funny.”

“she was embarrassing.”

“she was cute.”

you blinked.

jo seemed to realize what he said a second late because he looked down at his coffee, hiding a smile behind the cup.

your heartbeat became noticeably harder to ignore.

“you cried when your brother forgot to pick you up once,” he continued.

“i did not cry.”

“you called him seventeen times.”

“that doesn’t prove anything.”

“it proves you were dramatic.”

you pointed at him accusingly. “you’re enjoying this way too much.”

“a little.”

the two of you fell into another conversation after that—classes, mutual friends, the weird adjustment to university life. nothing particularly important, yet somehow you didn’t notice time passing at all.

talking to jo now felt different from what you imagined back then. like the distance you created in high school had disappeared without either of you noticing.

his phone buzzed against the table, breaking the moment. jo checked the screen and sighed. “my friends are looking for me.”

“you should probably answer before they assume you dropped out.”

“tempting.”

you smiled into your drink.

then jo looked at you again, quieter this time.

“can i ask you something?”

“depends what it is.”

his fingers tapped lightly against his phone before he finally spoke. “can i get your number?”

your breath caught slightly, though his expression stayed careful, almost uncertain.

“we barely talked before,” he said. “and i think that was a waste.”

there was no practiced charm in the way he said it. just honesty, and somehow that made your heart react even more.

you held your hand out for his phone before you could overthink it.

the moment your fingers brushed, jo glanced up immediately. it lasted less than a second. still, neither of you pulled away quickly.

after saving your contact, you handed the phone back.

jo looked down at the screen and smiled to himself. “you still use this emoji?”

“oh my god,” you muttered. “delete it.”

“no. it suits you.”

“you’re annoying.”

“and you still get flustered easily.”

you hated that he was right.

jo stood a moment later, slipping his backpack over one shoulder.

“i’ll text you later,” he said, more certain this time. it sounded less like a question and more like a promise.

you nodded, trying to ignore how warm your face felt.

as he walked toward the café door, he glanced back one last time before leaving. and unfortunately for your peace of mind—

your old crush on jo suddenly didn’t feel old at all.

Great.

You freeze, heat flaring behind your ears. Your hands go useless for a second, hovering above the mess as if you can will it back into order.

A hand appears in your periphery—long fingers, clean nails, a silver ring catching the light. He crouches without hesitation, gathering your books with a quick, practiced rhythm, as if helping is something he does the way other people breathe.

“Here,” he says, voice soft enough that it doesn’t disturb the quiet. “This one’s yours too, right?”

He holds up a notebook—yours, yes, with the corner bent and your name scrawled on the first page. When you look up, your mouth opens on a thank you that gets snagged on your own surprise.

Because Euijoo is—beautiful, yes, but not in a distant way. More like… deliberate. Like someone who’s learned how to exist in his own skin and decided to be gentle with the world anyway. He wears a plain hoodie and a scarf that’s too thin for the weather, and his hair is damp at the ends as if he ran here through drizzle. His eyes are dark and awake and kind.

“You dropped your whole semester,” he whispers with a faint smile.

You swallow a laugh, relief loosening the tightness in your chest. “I’m trying to make an impression.”

“Mission accomplished.”

Your fingers brush when you take the notebook. Electricity is such a cliché, but you feel something—small and quick and bright—skitter through your bones like a match struck in the dark.

He stacks the last book in your arms with careful precision. “Do you want help carrying these?”

You should say no. You’re an adult! You can manage a few books. But his hands are already reaching, his posture already angled toward your burden like he’s decided you’re something worth making lighter.

“Sure,” you whisper, and then, because the quiet makes honesty feel dangerous, you add, “If you don’t mind.”

He takes half the stack and nods toward the study tables. “I don’t.”

That’s it. That’s the beginning. Not fireworks. Not a dramatic confession under moonlight. Just a Tuesday that thinks it’s a Monday, and Euijoo deciding—wordlessly, instinctively—that you matter.

…

You become a pattern in each other’s lives the way the seasons become a pattern: slowly, then all at once.

At first it’s small. Study sessions that start as coincidence and turn into agreement. Coffee runs where he remembers—somehow—that you like two sugars and no lid because you hate the taste of plastic. Messages about deadlines, jokes about professors, photos of lecture slides taken at an angle because you’re late and he’s already in the room.

You learn him in pieces.

Euijoo taps his pen against his teeth when he’s thinking. He looks up when he’s nervous, like he’s checking the ceiling for permission. He laughs with his whole body—shoulders, eyes, hands—like laughter is a thing that has to be let out or it will split him open.

And he’s good. Not performative-good, not the kind of kindness that expects applause. Just—good in the way some people are good the way some nights are clear. He holds doors, yes, but he also notices when you’re quiet for too long. He walks you home when the campus gets emptier and the streetlights flicker, and he never makes it feel like a favor. He just… does it. Like it would be stranger not to.

One evening in late October, you’re sitting on the grass outside the student union, sharing fries that taste like salt and oil and comfort. The air smells like fallen leaves and distant smoke from someone’s cigarette. Euijoo has his knees pulled up, arms folded over them, scarf looped too loose.

You’re telling him about your family—some half-complaint, half-confession—and your voice does that thing it does when you’re trying not to be vulnerable.

He listens without interrupting. When you finish, you stare at the fries so you don’t have to stare at him.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You glance up.

His eyes are steady, almost solemn. “You don’t have to earn love.”

The words hit you like a hand on your chest—not pushing, but anchoring.

You blink. “I—”

“You don’t,” he repeats. And then, softer, like he’s telling himself as much as you, “You’re already… you.”

You swallow. Something inside you shifts, like the world has tilted a degree in a direction you didn’t know existed.

For a second, you think you might cry. Instead, you steal a fry and point it at him like a weapon. “Are you always this serious?”

He breaks, smiling, tension falling away. “Only when it matters.”

“Does this matter?” you ask, waving the fry.

He watches you, eyes warm and bright. “Yes,” he says, and then he leans forward and bites the end of the fry you’re holding.

Your fingers freeze.

His lips brush your knuckles.

It lasts half a second. It feels like a lifetime.

You stare at him, caught somewhere between laughter and panic, and Euijoo’s gaze flickers—down, then up—like he knows exactly what he just did.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t look sorry. He looks… struck. Like he’s just realized something about himself and he doesn’t know where to put it.

You manage, very calmly, “It’s just a fry.”

He nods, eyes dropping again, voice rougher. “Yeah. Just a fry.”

But you both know it wasn’t.

…

The first time he kisses you is not planned, and that’s what makes it feel inevitable.

It happens in December, when the cold becomes a personality trait and the sky goes dark at four in the afternoon. Finals week has turned everyone into ghosts with caffeine breath. You’re exhausted in a way that feels like your bones are full of sand.

Euijoo finds you in an empty hallway outside a lecture room you’re not even supposed to be in, sitting on the floor with your back against the wall, your notes spread around you like you exploded.

He crouches beside you. “Hey.”

You lift your head. Your eyes burn. “I’m failing.”

“You’re not,” he says immediately, like he’s correcting an insult.

“I don’t understand anything,” you whisper, and the worst part is how true it feels in the moment. Like your brain is a locked door and you’ve lost the key.

Euijoo’s hand hovers near your shoulder, then settles there gently. His thumb moves once, a small stroke through your sweater. “Look at me,” he says.

You do.

He holds your gaze, steady as a heartbeat. “You’re tired,” he says. “Not stupid.”

Something in your throat tightens. “I can’t—”

“Breathe,” he tells you. “Just breathe with me.”

You inhale. He inhales. You exhale. He exhales. His eyes never leave yours, as if he’s physically keeping you from falling apart.

The hallway is silent, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above you, the distant sound of someone laughing far away like another world.

You don’t know who moves first. You only know that Euijoo’s face is suddenly closer, his hand sliding from your shoulder to your cheek, his palm warm against your cold skin. His eyes flick down to your mouth and back up, a question he doesn’t ask out loud.

You nod, barely.

He kisses you like he’s been carrying it for months. Like he’s been holding his breath and finally decided he’s allowed to exhale.

It’s not desperate. It’s not messy. It’s—precise, careful, reverent. He pulls back after a second, forehead almost touching yours, and you see it: the stunned softness in his eyes, the way his pupils look blown wide, as if he can’t believe this is real.

“Okay?” he whispers.

You laugh, shaky. “Yeah.”

He swallows. “I… I wanted to do that for a long time.”

Your heart kicks hard. “Why didn’t you?”

His gaze drops, and for the first time you see him looking unsure—Euijoo, who always seems so quietly certain.

“Because,” he says, voice low, “I didn’t want to be the kind of person who takes something you weren’t ready to give.”

You stare at him.

His eyes flick up again, earnest enough to hurt. “I don’t want to ruin you. Or—well, us.”

You lift a hand and press your fingers to his scarf, anchoring him the way he anchored you. “You didn’t.”

Something shifts in his expression—relief, tenderness, a bloom of something older than a crush.

He kisses you again, slower, and you swear you feel it all the way down to your ribs.

…

After that, you become each other’s home in the middle of everything that keeps changing.

You learn the shape of Euijoo’s affection: the way he tucks you into his side when you’re waiting for the bus, palm splayed on your shoulder like a claim that isn’t possessive, just protective. The way he watches you when you talk, like he’s memorizing the movement of your mouth, the curve of your smiles, the moments your eyes light up. The way he says your name like it’s a secret and a prayer.

Sometimes you catch him staring.

Not in a creepy way. In a wrecked way.

Like he’s looking at you and remembering that you exist, and it hurts him because it’s so beautiful it’s almost unbearable.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask once, half teasing, half self-conscious. You’re sitting in his tiny dorm room, legs tangled on his bed, a cheap movie playing on his laptop. The air smells like laundry detergent and instant noodles.

He blinks, as if returning from somewhere far away. “Like what?”

“Like I’m—” You wave a hand, searching. “Like I’m the answer to a question you didn’t know you asked.”

His mouth twitches, but his eyes don’t soften into humor. They stay serious, almost raw.

“You are,” he says simply.

You laugh, because you don’t know what else to do when someone says something that honest. “Euijoo.”

He reaches out and takes your hand, threading your fingers together. His grip is firm—not painful, but solid, like a promise.

“I mean it,” he says, voice quiet over the movie’s dialogue. “Sometimes I look at you and I think… how is this real?”

Your chest tightens. “It’s real.”

He nods, but his gaze flickers, betraying something inside him that doesn’t fully believe he gets to keep good things.

You squeeze his hand. “Hey.”

He looks at you.

“Don’t make yourself suffer over something you haven’t lost,” you whisper.

For a moment, his eyes shine like he might cry. Then he lifts your hand and presses his mouth to your knuckles—gentle, devotional.

“Okay,” he breathes. “I’ll try.”

But you learn, over the months, that Euijoo’s love is not a simple thing.

It’s not light. It’s not casual.

It’s deep and old, like it was waiting in him long before he knew what to call it.

…

By spring, everyone knows you’re together.

Not because you make a show of it, but because Euijoo looks different when you’re near. Softer. Brighter. Like his body relaxes into a shape it prefers.

He walks you to class and carries your bag when you’re tired. He buys you ridiculous little things—a keychain shaped like your favorite animal, a cheap bouquet from the corner store because it “looked like you.” He leaves notes in your textbooks when you’re not looking: Eat. Sleep. Don’t die. I love you.

The first time he says it out loud is in April, on a night the wind is warm enough to feel like a hand.

You’re sitting on the roof of a campus building you’re probably not supposed to be on, legs dangling over the edge, the city sprawled below like a sea of lights. Euijoo has brought two cans of soda and a blanket that smells like him.

You’re talking about nothing—summer plans, internships, how adulthood feels like standing at the edge of a cliff and pretending you’re not scared.

Euijoo goes quiet. When you look at him, he’s staring at his hands, fingers worrying the tab of the soda can.

“What?” you ask gently.

He exhales, and the sound trembles. “I’m thinking,” he says.

“About what?”

He turns his head and looks at you.

And the expression on his face makes your breath catch—like he’s standing in front of something sacred. Like he’s terrified of saying the wrong thing and breaking it.

“I love you,” he says.

The words aren’t dramatic. They’re not shouted into the wind. They’re said like a fact. Like a confession. Like something he has carried for so long it has become part of his spine.

You stare at him, stunned for a second. And then warmth floods your chest so fast you almost choke on it.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

Euijoo’s eyes squeeze shut for a heartbeat, as if he’s absorbing it physically. When he opens them, they’re wet.

“Hey,” you say, voice soft. “Why are you crying?”

He laughs, but it’s broken. “Because—” He swallows hard. “Because I didn’t think I would get this.”

You reach for him, pulling him into your arms. He clings like he’s been starving. His hold is careful but fierce, hands spread over your back, his forehead pressed to your shoulder.

And you feel it: the way his body shakes, the way his breathing stutters, like his heart is trying to learn a new rhythm.

It hits you then, quietly, like a truth settling into place.

Euijoo loves like he’s afraid.

Not of you. Not of love.

Of losing it.

…

Time moves the way it always does—relentless and tender. You survive finals. You survive summers that stretch like taffy and winters that make your cheeks sting. You move from dorm rooms to tiny apartments, from instant ramen to grocery lists and shared chores, from “I miss you” texts between classes to “What do you want for dinner?” shouted from the kitchen.

You grow up together in all the unglamorous ways that matter.

And somewhere along the line, Euijoo changes.

Not in the sense that he becomes a different person—he doesn’t lose his gentleness, his quiet humor, his habit of tapping his pen against his teeth. But something in him settles. Deepens. Hardens into certainty.

You see it in the way he stands behind you when you’re cooking, arms wrapped around your waist, chin on your shoulder. In the way he looks at you at parties, across crowded rooms, eyes finding yours like a compass needle snapping north. In the way he reaches for your hand in public without thinking, like your fingers belong there.

At first, his love feels like a bright, frantic thing—like he’s afraid that if he doesn’t hold you, you’ll disappear.

Then, gradually, it becomes something else.

Something older.

Something that doesn’t just want you.

Something that wants a life.

…

It happens on an ordinary day, which is how you know it’s real.

You’re in a grocery store aisle arguing about cereal, because you’ve reached that stage of intimacy where your biggest conflicts are about sugar content and brand loyalty. Euijoo has a box of something aggressively healthy in his hand, and you’re holding a bright, childish, chocolate-covered option like it’s the only joy left in the world.

“You can’t eat that every day,” he says, trying to sound stern.

“You eat instant noodles like it’s a personality,” you shoot back.

He huffs, amused. “That’s different.”

“It’s literally not.”

He looks at you, eyes narrowing, and you prepare for him to make some ridiculous comeback.

Instead, his gaze shifts—past you, down the aisle.

You follow it and see, near the endcap, a young couple with a toddler. The child is in a puffy jacket too big for her, hair sticking up in staticy wisps, cheeks flushed. She’s holding her parent’s finger with both hands, babbling happily while the adults laugh and try to wrangle her toward the cart.

It’s nothing special. Just life.

But Euijoo goes still.

Not stiff. Not tense. Just… quiet, as if something inside him has stopped moving long enough to listen.

You glance at him. “Euijoo?”

He doesn’t answer at first. His eyes are fixed on the child’s tiny hands, the way she leans into the safety of her parents like she has never doubted she’ll be caught.

When he finally looks at you, it’s like he’s seeing you in a new light.

His pupils are wide. His mouth is slightly open, like he’s been punched with the thought.

“What?” you ask, suddenly nervous.

He swallows. His throat moves hard. “I—” He stops, as if he doesn’t know how to say what’s in him without breaking it.

You step closer, lowering your voice. “What is it?”

His gaze drops to your mouth, then to your hands, then back to your eyes, like he’s trying to anchor himself.

“I don’t think,” he says slowly, “I love you like a boy loves someone anymore.”

Your breath catches.

He keeps going, voice raw, as if once he starts he can’t stop. “I think… I love you like—” He presses a hand to his chest, fingers splaying over his heart. “Like something in me is old.”

You blink, stunned. The grocery store hums around you: carts squeaking, a kid whining somewhere, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

Euijoo’s eyes shine. “Sometimes I look at you and it feels like my bones crack if I don’t hold you,” he whispers, and there’s a faint, trembling laugh in the words, like he knows it sounds insane but it’s true anyway. “And it scares me, because it’s not just… wanting you. It’s not just missing you.”

He leans closer, voice dropping to a confession meant only for you. “It’s like my soul knows you. Like it’s been waiting.”

Your hands tighten around the cereal box.

Euijoo reaches out and covers your fingers with his, warm and steady. “I keep thinking about… years,” he says. “Not just weekends. Not just next semester. Years. Like—”

He swallows again, and this time his voice breaks slightly. “Like I want to marry you.”

The words land in you like a bell struck deep.

Euijoo’s eyes fill. He looks almost anguished, like saying it hurts, like wanting you this much is something he both craves and fears.

“I want to call you my wife,” he whispers, and his expression twists, love and terror braided together. “I want… kids. I want to watch you hold our baby like it’s the only thing in the universe. I want to watch us get old and complain about our backs and still reach for each other in our sleep. I want to sit at a table with you and our grandchildren and think—we did it.”

Your throat tightens until you can barely breathe.

Euijoo’s voice drops even softer, almost a plea. “And it makes me feel like I’m breaking, because if I want it that much—if I let myself want it—then losing it would kill me.”

He looks at you like you’re the sun and he’s been orbiting you without admitting it. Like he’s terrified you’ll say no and confirm his worst fear: that good things aren’t meant to stay.

You set the cereal down carefully on the shelf, hands shaking just a little.

Then you step into him.

Euijoo inhales sharply when your arms wrap around his waist. For a second he’s frozen, as if he can’t believe you’re doing it, and then he folds around you—tight, fierce, protective. His hold is the kind of hold that says mine without ownership, home without walls.

You bury your face in his shoulder. “Euijoo,” you whisper, voice thick.

He presses his cheek to your hair. His breathing is uneven. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t apologize,” you cut in, pulling back just enough to look at him.

His eyes are wet. He looks wrecked.

You cup his face with both hands. “Look at me.”

He does, trembling.

“I want that,” you say.

He stares. “What?”

“You,” you whisper. “All of it. The years. The old love. The terrifying love. The stupid grocery store fights. The kids, if we decide. The getting old. The being yours.”

Euijoo’s breath leaves him like he’s been shot.

“You mean it?” he asks, voice cracked.

You smile through the ache in your chest. “I’ve meant it.”

His face crumples with something so intensely relieved it hurts to witness. He closes his eyes, forehead dropping to yours, and a sound escapes him—half laugh, half sob.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he whispers, words desperate with sincerity. “I’m going to love you so well. I’m going to—”

“You already do,” you murmur.

He shakes his head, as if he can’t accept that it’s enough. “No,” he says. “More. I will—more.”

And then, right there between the cereal and the pasta sauce, Euijoo kisses you like a man who has found the thing he intends to keep for the rest of his life.

Not reckless. Not showy.

Burning.

Deep.

Old.

Like he’s making a vow with his mouth.

When he pulls back, his eyes are shining so brightly it feels like staring into a flame.

He looks at you the way people look at miracles.

And you realize something too, in the quiet after his confession:

Euijoo doesn’t love you like a story.

He loves you like a future.

…

Later, when you’re home and the groceries are half-put away and you’re both still dazed from what happened in aisle seven, he comes up behind you in the kitchen.

You’re rinsing apples at the sink. The window above it is dark, reflecting your own faces back at you: you in a soft sweatshirt, hair messy, Euijoo behind you like a shadow made of devotion.

He wraps his arms around your waist.

His chin settles on your shoulder.

You feel him breathe in, slow and deep, like he’s inhaling you into his lungs.

“You’re real,” he murmurs.

You turn your head slightly. “I’m real.”

His grip tightens, just a little. The kind of tightness that says he’s trying to fuse you into him.

You cover his hands with yours. “Hey,” you whisper. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

He exhales, shaky. “I’m not afraid of you,” he says.

“I know.”

He nuzzles your shoulder, voice low. “I’m afraid of how much I want this. Because it’s… huge.”

You turn around in his arms and face him fully. His eyes are soft but haunted, like the depth of his love sometimes scares even him.

You reach up and smooth your thumb under his eye, catching the smallest hint of moisture. “Then we’ll hold it together,” you say. “We don’t have to carry it alone.”

Euijoo stares at you like you’ve just handed him the missing piece of himself.

Then he smiles—small, trembling, utterly ruined.

“Wife,” he whispers experimentally, like he’s tasting it.

Your heart stutters.

You laugh, breathless. “Not yet.”

He nods, serious as a vow. “Someday.”

You lean into him, forehead against his, and for a moment the whole world narrows to the space between your breaths.

Euijoo’s arms tighten around you, and you understand what he meant about bones and cracking and needing.

His love is not gentle because it is weak.

It’s gentle because it is powerful enough to be careful.

“Someday,” you agree softly.

Euijoo closes his eyes, and his soul—no longer crying, no longer breaking—sounds like it’s finally found a place to rest.

And when he kisses you again, it’s not like a boy.

It’s like a man who has already chosen you for every version of the future.

Every season.

Every lifetime.

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Love is the ballerina gliding across a stage no matter how worn out her feet are. It is the slash of yellow paint across a dark landscape that somehow turns into a beautiful mountain, when manipulated by the painter’s brush. It is the creator of the universe, weaving their fabric of time and space, proud of their complex, confusing creations that they call ‘humans’.

Love as a form of art can also be seen in the mundane. The sweet kiss of a mother on her child’s cheek on the first day of school, the admiration of the steam of a coffee by a burnt out teenager, the way a lover looks up at the night sky so full of stars and constellations and thinks their beloved is still more beautiful. 

To Jo, love had always been you. 

You with those pretty eyes, that starry soul and that beatific heart that he wanted to open the cage to and settle himself in, all comfortable with a blanket and hot chocolate. You with that laugh that made him want to live a bit more, to appreciate the way the wind moved the leaves of a tangerine laden tree and to admire the beauty of life.

The beauty of you, the essence of his life, his soul, the very blood that ran through his veins. 

Love is an art, and you were his muse. 

“The canvas is down there, mister.” You laughed, flicking at his forehead. 

It wasn't unusual to find your lover staring at your face, like a scientist staring at her new discovery—eyes full of awe and love. You weren’t complaining though. You were highly grateful to call Jo yours. 

“But my muse is up here.” He answered simply, his ears already turning red at the line. Jo sent you a sheepish smile and quickly looked down at his canvas.  

The golden light of the setting sun bathed the field in a warm, amber glow, each sunflower stretching tall, their faces turned towards the horizon as if bidding farewell to the day. You and Jo sat cross-legged amidst the towering blooms, paintbrush in hand, art supplies scattered around you. 

“Can I see what you’re painting, please?” You nudged him, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever he had been concentrating on for the past half hour. He looked so pretty engrossed in his canvas, brows furrowed as he brought his art to life with bold strokes of his brush. 

The breeze carried the scent of wildflowers and fresh grass, ruffling your hair and the hem of your sundress and you caught his gaze properly, always so soft but now sweetly so, shaped by the tranquility of the moment, gazing at you with an intensity that made your heart flutter.

Jo hesitated; it was subtle—the way his fingers tightened around the edge of the canvas, the way his shoulders lifted just slightly. You tilted your head, smiling, your hair catching the golden light of the setting sun and for a moment Jo thought he must have gone to his heaven.

“Alright, but just—” He exhaled a quiet laugh, more nervous than amused, before finally turning the canvas towards you, “don’t laugh, hm?”

In one of the most recent art exhibitions you had attended, the hostess talked about Claude Monet—the painter known for making the movement of light across water look like a choreographed dance with just paint and colour. She went on to talk about his wife and muse Camille Doncieux, even after whose death Monet would never let the world forget about, always incorporating her into his paintings.

Artists and their muses. What a lovely poem. 

“Jo…” You breathed out, after a solid minute of staring at his canvas. It was messy, imperfect, unfinished—but undeniably you. The curve of your cheek, the suggestion of your smile, the way your eyes seemed to hold light even in paint. He hadn’t even tried to hide it—his adoration of you. Your breath caught, something warm blooming in your chest as you traced your eyes over it.

“I tried to paint the field,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck, ears turning that familiar shade of red. “But you kept—” he gestured vaguely toward you, toward everything, “—being there.”

You laughed then, soft and breathless, setting your own canvas aside. “So you just gave up?”

“Mmmh. “ He hummed, glancing at you with that earnest look that always made your heart ache in the best way. “I just painted what mattered more.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The wind drifted through the sunflowers, their golden heads swaying gently around you like a quiet audience. Somewhere in the distance, a bird sang its song in praise of the sunset. The world felt slower and softer like it had paused just for the two of you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, though your smile gave you away.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling back. “But I’m your ridiculous.” His ears turned red again and he looked away, far too embarrassed by his line.

You reached over, brushing a bit of paint off his cheek with your thumb. He stilled under your touch, eyes flickering to yours, something unspoken passing between you.

“Hmm, I think I ought to pay you back for that.” You said, a playful glint in your eyes.

“Pay me back?” Your boyfriend blinked away. You pushed yourself up, scanning the field while Jo looked on. 

“Where are you—?”

But you were already a few steps away, weaving through the sunflowers with surprising urgency. He watched, amused, as you carefully plucked a small cluster of tiny yellow blooms from a lower stem, cradling them in your hands. When you came back, you dropped down in front of him, a little out of breath.

“Give me your hand,” You said, which he obliged, watching you like you were performing some kind of magic. 

His fingers were gentle as you worked, looping the thin stems together, twisting them carefully. Your tongue peeked out slightly in concentration, brows furrowed like this was the most important task in the world.

“What are you doing?” He asked, though he already had a feeling.

“Shh,” you murmured. “This is serious craftsmanship.” 

Jo bit back a laugh. Your fingers moved quickly, looping and weaving, tying a small knot with practiced ease. It wasn’t perfect—one end stuck out slightly—but it held. When you were done, you looked up at him with a triumphant grin. 

“There.” You said softly, “you showed me your love and now I’ve shown you mine." Jo stared at the flower ring and then at you, “It’s kind of bad, I know but I haven’t done this in a while so–” 

“No it’s–” Jo interrupted, smiling shyly, “it’s perfect.” 

He didn’t speak again for a moment, just stared at his hand, at the fragile little ring, like it was the most expensive thing in the world. For him, it was. His lips parted like he wanted to say something more, something bigger—but instead, he just laughed under his breath, shaking his head slightly.

“What is it?” You asked him, with curious eyes. 

“I think I just fell in love with you again.”

You rolled your eyes, though your cheeks warmed. “Again?”

“Mhm,” he nodded seriously. “Happens a lot, actually.”

You gestured toward his hand. “Want to learn?”

He sat up straighter, suddenly very focused, like this was the most important lesson of his life. You picked up a few blades of grass and handed them to him.

Jo took the blades of grass from you, his fingers brushing against yours, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine. He studied them intently, as if trying to decipher some great mystery.

With a small smile, you began to weave, your fingers moving with a fluid grace, years of practice guiding each motion. You showed him how to loop the stems, how to tie them together, how to create a simple ring that held all the love in the world.

Jo watched you intently, his eyes following the movements of your hands, learning from your every motion. Occasionally, he tried to mimic your actions, his own fingers fumbling slightly as he navigated the delicate task. But he persisted, determined to learn, to create something as beautiful as you.

“Okay,” you said, leaning closer, your shoulder brushing his, “you have to twist them like this—no, not that tight—Jo, you’re strangling it—”

Jo huffed—a rare adorable sight—trying again, tongue peeking out in concentration. His fingers fumbled, the blades slipping loose, the knot unraveling almost immediately. You bit your lip, trying to hold in your laughter.

He tried again. And again. And somehow, it got worse. By the third attempt, what he held in his hands looked less like a ring and more like a defeated clump of green. You stared at it, then at him, then back at it and a small laugh slipped out before you could stop it.

“Hey,” he protested, though he was already smiling. “This is hard!”

“That,” you said between laughs, pointing, “is not a ring, Jo.” You snorted, “It looks like it gave up halfway through life.”

“Wow.” He gasped, clutching the sad little bundle to his chest. “No faith in me at all.”

You laughed fully now, bright and unrestrained, the sound spilling into the open air. Jo watched you, completely distracted again—your laughter was better than anything he could’ve made.

“Stop laughing,” he said, though he was grinning.

“Why, you don’t like my smile?” You tried to suppress your laughter, failing immediately as another giggle escaped.

Something in his expression shifted then—like relief, like happiness, like he didn’t quite know what to do with how much he felt.

So instead, he stood up abruptly and held out his hand. Still laughing, you took his hand, letting him pull you up to your feet. The world tilted slightly as you stood, the sun dipping lower, painting everything in deeper golds and soft oranges.

“Alright,” he said, eyes gleaming with a rare mischief. “If I can’t make a ring, I can at least do this right.”

And then he ran.

You let out a surprised laugh as he pulled you forward, your feet stumbling for a second before finding rhythm. The sunflowers brushed against your arms as you followed, your laughter blending with his, the sound light and endless.

“Jo!” you laughed, nearly stumbling as you followed, your sundress catching the breeze, your free hand brushing against the tops of the flowers.

He didn’t stop and neither did you, the two of you running through the sea of sunflowers, laughter spilling into the open air, hands clasped tight like letting go wasn’t an option. The world blurred around you—gold and green and sky—until all that existed was this moment. This feeling.

This love.

“Jo!” you called, breathless. “Where are we even going?”

“Nowhere!” he shouted back. “That’s the point!”

You ran anyway, through gold and green and the last warmth of the evening sun, your dress catching the wind, your fingers still tangled with his. The world blurred again, but this time it felt even lighter, like nothing could touch you here.

Eventually, breathless, you slowed, your steps faltering until you both came to a stop. You were still holding his hand, smiling, looking at each other like nothing else in the world made sense except this—you and him in your little world. 

For a moment, all you could hear was your breathing, the soft rustle of the field and the fading song of evening. Jo glanced down at your hands at the grass ring on your finger, then at the one on his, squeezing your hand gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“Well,” he said, still catching his breath, “mine might be terrible…” You looked up at him. “But yours,” he added softly, “I think I’m going to keep forever.”

Your heart did that quiet, aching thing again. Jo, your sweet Jo. Whatever had you done to deserve him? 

“Forever?” You tilted your head, “I thought you didn’t believe in forever.”

The wind moved gently around you, brushing through his hair,  the sunflowers and the fragile little moment that seemed to stretch between your words and his answer.

“Did I?” He asked finally. You watched as his gaze dropped briefly to your joined hands, to the uneven grass rings sitting there like tiny promises.

It must have been your second or third date when he’d mentioned it. Forever wasn’t in his dictionary apparently and you hadn't questioned it, instead choosing to cheekily ask him about the mathematical aspect of infinity. Forever, for him, was something people said when they didn't know how long things would actually last.

“I think…” Jo said, his breath catching slightly when he made eye contact, “I think I want to believe in it now.” His fingers tightened gently around yours, “Because you’re here.” He chuckled softly, “And forever with you sounds really nice.” 

Something in your chest softened and melted like his words had found a place they were always meant to sit. 

“Have I changed you then, Jo?”

Jo didn’t answer right away, his thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles, like he was thinking through the feeling instead of the words. Then he smiled.

“I think your love changed me.” He said, eyes so warm in a way that made your chest tighten. You watched as he immediately scrunched his nose, heat rushing to his cheeks at the cringey line he’d just uttered. You laughed again and this time he let out a small laugh too, glancing up at the sky for a second like he might find the correct words written there.

“Aww Jo…” You said in between giggles. 

He groaned quietly, dragging a hand down his face. “I know, I know. That was—”

“Adorable,” You interrupted.

“Embarrassing.” He corrected. You shook your head, stepping closer.

“No,” you murmured, “adorable.” He looked at you then and whatever argument he had seemed to disappear somewhere between your eyes and the way you were standing so close now.

You rose onto your tiptoes before you could overthink it. Your lips brushed just beneath his eye, soft and fleeting, like some sort of childish

Jo stilled completely. You felt it, the way his breath caught, the way his hand tightened slightly around yours. You smiled against his skin, pulling back just enough to look at him before leaning in again—this time pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of his nose. He let out the smallest, most helpless laugh.

“Wha—what are you doing?” he whispered, though he didn’t move away.

You didn’t answer; you just kept going. A kiss to his cheek, another just beside his lips, one more near his jaw, light and lingering like you were mapping him, memorizing him in the quietest way you knew how.

“Hey…” he murmured, breath uneven, his hands finding your waist like they needed somewhere to be.

But you were already leaning in again and that was when he pulled you in. His arms wrapped around you, drawing you flush against him, like he’d finally decided he’d had enough of being still, of just taking all the softness you were giving him. He had to give something back, didn’t he?

Your breath hitched, your hands instinctively coming up to rest against his chest. He hesitated for half a second just long enough to search your face, to make sure. 

And then he kissed you.

Soft at first, careful—like he was still a little afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t gentle enough. But when you leaned into him, his hold on you tightened, his thumb brushing against your side as the kiss deepened.

The world around you faded again, neither wind nor sunflowers nor evening song remaining. Just him and the fairies of love dancing between you two. When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. His forehead rested lightly against yours, both of you a little breathless and a little dazed.

“I love you.” He whispered after a second, voice barely steady. You smiled softly, hands still curled into his shirt. 

“I love you too.” You said, leaning in to brush your nose against his.

The sun dipped lower, painting everything in deeper hues, the last light of the evening wrapped around the two of you. Jo held you a little closer, like he already knew he wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

And somewhere between laughter, paint-stained hands, and a crooked little flower ring—

Love became as golden as a sunflower.

__________________

Your boyfriend was a tall, lean man. Your boyfriend also had very attractive hands. 

Very. Attractive. Hands. 

They were a study in elegant lines, long fingers, lean tendons tracing paths beneath his skin, knuckles that were just pronounced enough. There was a sort of strength in them, a capability that was utterly at odds with the gentle, hesitant way he always moved around you. He had pianist’s hands, sculptor’s hands, hands that looked like they should be doing something profoundly beautiful. 

And the veins were just visible enough to make your brain short-circuit a little every time he reached for something. It was distracting, unfairly so.

You know what else your boyfriend and you were? The shyest human beings to ever exist on earth. Masters of the lingering glance hastily averted, the accidental brush of fingers that sent you both retreating into your shells for a full ten minutes. 

Which is why you were currently sitting on the couch beside him, a movie playing in front of you that you had not followed for the past twenty minutes—because Jo’s hand was resting casually on his lap.

And you could not stop staring at it. It wasn’t even doing anything—just existing. Occasionally flexing when he shifted, or brushing against the fabric of the couch, or reaching for the popcorn bowl and oh.

Oh, that was worse.

You quickly looked back at the screen like you hadn’t just been caught staring at his fingers like they held the secrets of the universe. You were normal.

You were so normal.

You lasted about ten seconds before your eyes drifted back. This time, his hand was closer, resting between you both now, fingers relaxed, just within reach. Your heart started beating faster for absolutely no good reason.

You could just hold his hand.

You could also just jump into the Pacific ocean. Free will is such a funny thing. People did that all the time, it was normal and you had held his hand before. So why did this feel different? 

You were so lost in your spiral and the map of veins on the back of his hand, that you didn’t notice the movie’s scene shift to a bright panorama. The light from the screen flared, washing over the couch, and in that sudden illumination, Jo turned his head.

“Are you alright?”

And then you were a criminal caught red handed or rather, utterly transfixed-by-his-hands-handed. Your eyes snapped up to meet his. A hot, profound embarrassment flooded you, and you opened your mouth to stammer an apology for staring, for being weird, for everything. When they told you about first love, you’d forgotten everything had its shameful moments.

“Yeah, I’m good!” You responded a bit too enthusiastically, not looking at him.

“You’ve been staring at my hand for a while now.”

You froze completely. Slowly, you turned your head toward him. Jo was already looking at you, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips, that soft, curious one that always sent butterflies running around in your stomach. Your face burned instantly.

“I—what—no, I wasn’t—”

“Mhm,” he hummed, not convinced in the slightest. His eyes, usually so shy and darting, held yours with a gentle intensity, a faint pink touching his cheeks. 

“I was watching the movie,” you insisted weakly.

“You’re facing the wrong direction.”

You glanced at the TV. You were, in fact, not even looking at it. “…oh.”

Jo let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head a little before his expression softened again. He didn’t say anything else for a moment, just looked at you like he always did when you got flustered. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the TV and the frantic drum of your own pulse in your ears. He looked from your eyes down to his own hands, then back to you. 

Slowly, so slowly it felt like time had thickened, he uncurled his fingers and turned his right hand palm-up on the cushion between you, an invitation, a question. Shall we intertwine our hands and souls?

Your breath hitched, the lead blanket of shyness melting in a warm, dissolving trickle. You slid your hand from your lap, your fingers trembling slightly, and placed it in his.

The contact was electric. His skin was warm, slightly dry, his fingers closing around yours with infinite care, as if you were something precious and rare. He let out a breath you hadn’t realized he was holding—a soft, shaky sound that mirrored your own inner turbulence.

You blinked at him, your embarrassment warring with something softer and braver. Because lying felt pointless when he was looking at you like that.

“…they’re just…” you muttered, barely audible, “nice.”

His brows lifted slightly. “Nice?”

“Your hands.” You nodded, still not fully meeting his eyes.  There was a pause, then a soft, breathy laugh.

“Is that so?”

You risked a glance up at him and immediately wished you hadn’t, because now he looked even softer, a little pink at the ears.

“Yeah.” You mumbled.

He didn’t say a word, he didn’t need to. His thumb began to move, stroking the side of your index finger, mirroring that same absent rhythm he’d used on his own hand moments before. It was an echo that became a conversation. Your shyness wasn’t gone, but it had metamorphosed, meeting his in the middle and creating a new, charged space that belonged only to you two.

His other hand came up, his fingers—those beautiful, impossibly beautiful fingers—brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek with a touch so light it might have been imagined. His gaze dropped to your lips, then flicked back to your eyes, a silent plea for permission.

They’d told you first love would be like winter snow. So very beautiful when it first fell, but it became suffocating in the first few days. Well now that was a hypothesis without any solid evidence. Your snow felt like a hug you’d like to be absorbed into. 

The first brush of his lips against yours was a whisper, a cautious experiment. It was sweet and soft, flavored with the herbal tea he’d been drinking and the underlying warmth that was just Jo. 

You kissed him back, and the shyness melted entirely, replaced by a dawning, wondrous confidence. One of his hands came up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone with a reverence that made you want to cry. Your own hands found their courage, one tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, the other resting on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath your palm.

The movie played on, forgotten galaxies blooming and dying in silent bursts of color behind you. There was no world beyond the couch, beyond the gentle pressure of his mouth on yours, the exploring sweetness of the kiss deepening by mutual increments. 

It was clumsy at times—your noses bumped, laughter breathed into each other’s mouths when you both turned the same way, but it was the most perfect thing you could ever ask for, a dialogue without words, a confession held in every shift closer.

When you finally parted, breathless and foreheads resting together, his hand was still cupping your face. You opened your eyes to find him already looking at you, his expression so full of awed affection it stole your breath all over again. A slow, wobbly smile spread across his face and you felt your own smile answer it, wide and unreserved.

“Hi,” he whispered, his voice husky.

“Hi,” you whispered back. His thumb stroked your cheek once more. 

“Can we—” He began, taking a pause to breathe. God, he was so in love with you, “May we do that again?” 

Your saccharine sweet boyfriend, always so very polite. It had been almost three months of dating now and he was still so cautious about kissing you. It was honestly one of the things you admired about him. 

“Hmm.” You hummed, feeling a tad bit braver now, “Can I just….”

Without finishing your sentence, you swung a leg over to straddle his lap, feeling his breath hitch as you settled against him. His hands found your hips, his thumbs tracing small, soothing circles over your hipbones. You felt a thrill run through you at the touch, at the expression on his face, so tender it made your heart ache.

Slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wanted to, you leaned in until your mouths were a hair's breadth apart. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, and you watched, entranced, as his lips parted in anticipation. You took that as an invitation, pressing your mouth to his in a kiss as soft as a whisper.

It was a gentle thing, this kiss, almost chaste in its sweetness. Your lips moved against his, learning the feel of them, the taste of him. His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer, but the kiss remained achingly tender, a conversation held in the barest brush of skin on skin.

You angled your head, deepening the kiss just a little, and a soft sound escaped him, part moan, part sigh. It vibrated against your lips, sending a shiver down your spine.

You kept kissing him, slow and unhurried, like neither of you quite knew where to go next but didn’t mind figuring it out together. His grip on your hips tightened just a little when you leaned in again, like he needed to remind himself he was on earth.

When you finally pulled away, it was only to breathe. Your foreheads rested together again, your noses brushing lightly. He opened his eyes then, and the look he gave you was so full of unabashed affection it felt like sunshine blooming in your chest. And then you were a bit shy all over again. 

“You’re so beautiful." Jo let out a quiet laugh, the sound soft, “I think I forgot how to function for a second.”

You smiled, your hands still lightly gripping his shirt. “Only a second?”

“Might’ve been longer,” he admitted. You laughed quietly, the sound warm and close between you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then his thumbs brushed over your hips again and he glanced up at you with that same careful softness.

“Was that…..okay?” he asked. The question was so very him that your chest tightened a little.

You nodded immediately. “More than okay.” He smiled at that—small, relieved and a little proud.

“Good.” He said, almost to himself. You shifted slightly, suddenly aware of how you were still sitting in his lap, how close you were and how his hands hadn’t moved.

“Your movie’s probably halfway over,” you murmured.

He glanced past you at the screen, then back at you. “I have no idea what’s happening.”

“Same.” A beat.

“…Do you want to keep watching?” he asked. You pretended to think about it, tilting your head.

“Hmm,” you hummed, then slid off his lap but instead of moving away, you tucked yourself right into his side. One of his arms wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close, while his other hand drifted up to stroke your hair. You felt him relax beneath you, his breath evening out, his body accepting your weight as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Oh,” he said softly.

“This better?” You smiled, cheek pressing against the cotton of his shirt.

“Yeah,” he nodded, pulling you a little closer. “This is…..really nice.”

You reached for his hand again, lacing your fingers together, absentmindedly tracing over them like before. The movie played on—dialogue you half-heard, scenes you barely followed but this time, it didn’t matter. You were warm, tucked into him, his fingers occasionally tightening around yours, his thumb brushing over your skin like he couldn’t quite stop himself.

“Jo?” you whispered after a long, comfortable silence.

“Yes?”

“Your hands are still very attractive.”

He let out a soft chuckle, the sound warm and intimate in the quiet room. His fingers paused their tracing to gently squeeze your arm. “Thank you,” he said, his tone sincerely pleased. “I’ll…..try to keep them that way.”

You chuckled, closing your eyes. The credits ended, and the screen went black, plunging the room into near-darkness. The only light was the soft amber from the window, painting the walls in long shadows.

In the cozy dark, wrapped in the warmth of him and the gentle circles his thumb was now drawing on your shoulder, you felt a quiet contentment. The shyness was still there, somewhere in the foundation of who you both were, but it had been built upon. Now there was this—a safe harbor of closeness, of whispered questions and answered kisses.

“We should probably get up,” he murmured after a while, but his arms made no move to loosen their hold.

“Probably,” you agreed, making no move to stir.

And so you stayed, two souls who had found a brave new language in each other’s silence, cuddled on a couch in the dark, with nothing but the sound of your shared breathing and the promise of many more movies—and many more kisses—to come.

_____________

“Jo! Over here!”

Asakura Jo was rumoured amongst his circle of friends to have come out of the womb holding a paintbrush. Ever since he could remember, he had always painted, the canvas a medium for him to express every single confusing mortal emotion swimming around in his mind. It was easier than talking.

For a second, Jo forgot where he was as your voice cut through the hum of the carnival.

The carnival was a riot of color and sound, a temporary kingdom of light and sugar that had sprung up on the edge of town. Strings of warm lights crisscrossed above like glowing constellations, flickering softly against the deepening evening sky. 

A towering Ferris wheel turned slowly in the distance, each carriage glowing as it lifted people up into the horizon. To your left, a carousel spun lazily, painted horses rising and falling to the sound of cheerful music, laughter spilling from children clutching onto golden poles.

Closer by, the air was thick with the scent of sugar and butter. A stall spun clouds of cotton candy in shades of pink and blue, while another crackled with oil as vendors dipped batter into fryers, pulling out golden cakes dusted generously with powdered sugar. Somewhere behind him, popcorn machines popped relentlessly, the smell of buttered popcorn drifting through the crowd.

And there you were, right in the middle of it all, waving at him, eyes shining, a ridiculously large teddy bear clutched in your arms like a trophy.

Jo didn’t move—couldn’t move. In that moment, words failed him utterly. He stopped dead, a few feet away, the crowd flowing around him like a river around a stone. The neon lights painted his face in hues of pink and blue, but his expression was something entirely his own.

He was awe-struck.

It wasn't just that you were beautiful—though you were, with the carnival lights catching in your hair and your eyes bright with triumph. It was the entire composition of you. The way you stood, victorious and slightly silly with that enormous bear, the genuine, unguarded delight on your face, directed entirely at him. You were the still, joyful center of the swirling, noisy universe.

Jo and his artist’s mind, always observing, always translating the world into line and color and light, went quiet—no analysis, no thought of how he would capture the curve of your smile or the way the gold of a nearby prize ring stall reflected in your eyes. 

There was only this peculiar feeling—a wave of it, so profound and overwhelming it stole the breath from his lungs.

Oh.

I love you. 

The thought wasn't new, but the force of it, here and now, was. It was so simple and absolute, terrifying and wonderful at the same time. Like first snow and all of the beautiful perils it brought with it.

Jo must have stood there for only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity—a perfect, suspended eternity where the roar of the carnival faded to a distant hum, and the only real things were you, the bear, and the universe-expanding love swelling in his chest.

You waved again, more dramatically this time. “Jo!” 

That snapped him out of it and he closed the distance between you, his long legs eating up the space. His eyes didn’t leave you once, staring at you with something that made your knees go weak.

“Look!” you said the second he got close enough, holding up the teddy bear proudly. “I won it!”

He glanced at the bear. Then back at you. Then back at the bear.

“…You did that?” He asked, playfully incredulous.

“Yes,” you said, grinning. “All by myself, thank you very much.”

“That game’s rigged.” Your boyfriend huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head slightly. 

“Not for me,” you said, smug.

“I leave for five minutes and you defeat my nemesis.” Jo huffed, folding his arms like he was personally offended by your success, “I don’t know how to feel about that.”

“Impressed.” You replied immediately. These were the rare moments you cherished, when Jo would give up his usual shy demeanour and loosen up in your presence. 

“Yeah,” he admitted softly with a sweet smile, “definitely impressed.”

You lifted the teddy bear between you again. “You still haven’t helped me name him.”

Jo studied it with exaggerated focus, tilting his head slightly. “He looks like he has a very serious profession.”

“He’s a teddy bear, Jo.”

“Exactly, my love. Which is why we should subvert expectations.” He paused thoughtfully. “Professor.”

You stared at him for a beat. His playful manner, that soft huff of a laugh, was a perfect counterpoint to the awe-struck silence of a moment before. It grounded you both back into the sweet, familiar rhythm of your six months together.

“Hmmm…” You pretended to think, “No.”

“Doctor?”

“No.”

“Sir Fluffington the Third?”

“Jo!” You burst out laughing. “Absolutely not.”

Jo's smile was all fondness. "Clearly not.” He said, clearly pleased with himself for making you laugh. “I think ‘Professor’ is growing on you.”

“It’s really not.”

“Give it time.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile didn’t fade. “You’re ridiculous.” Your heart did that jump again as you looked shyly down, “My ridiculous.” You murmured. 

His ears turned pink at that, gaze flickering away for half a second before returning to you—softer and deeper, like he was still caught in whatever moment you’d pulled him out of earlier. You shifted the teddy bear to one arm and reached for his hand with the other, your fingers slipping into his like it was second nature now.

“Come on,” you said, tugging gently. “There’s something I want to do.” He followed without question.

“Where are we going?” he asked, glancing around as you pulled him through the crowd—past flashing game stalls, the smell of fried sugar and popcorn, past couples and families and laughter that seemed to echo everywhere at once.

You pointed upward. The Ferris wheel loomed ahead, glowing against the night sky, its slow, steady rotation almost hypnotic. Jo’s steps slowed just slightly as he looked at it, then back at you.

“You want to go on that?” he asked.

“Yep.” You said, like it was obvious. “It’s tradition.”

“For what?”

“For being on a date at a carnival.” You replied. “Keep up, baby.”

“Right, of course.” He let out a small laugh, shaking his head as you pulled him along again.

The closer you got, the brighter it seemed—the lights reflecting in your eyes, in the polished metal and in the glass of the cabins waiting to carry people up into the sky. When you reached the line, you turned to him, bouncing slightly on your heels, still holding the teddy bear between you.

“Are you scared?” you teased.

He raised a brow. “Of heights?”

“Of being alone with me in a tiny moving box.” You replied cheekily

“Hmm….” He pretended to think about it, then nodded solemnly. “Terrifying.”

“You’ll survive.” You laughed, nudging him with your shoulder. 

“I hope so.”

The line for the wheel was mercifully short, a queue of couples and families bathed in the cool, white light of the structure's struts.You contented yourself with leaning your head against his shoulder, watching the world from your temporary perch.

When it was your turn, the attendant swung the cabin door open with a metallic creak. Jo held the door open for you, one hand steady on the frame as you climbed in, then followed, sitting across from you as the door clicked shut.

For a moment, it was still. Then, with a soft jolt, the wheel began to move and the world fell away with a gentle lurch. The cacophony of the carnival softened, becoming a cheerful tapestry of sound far below. Up you went, into the beautiful velvet sky.

Your cabin reached the apex and paused, letting new passengers on below. Here, at the top of the world, it was almost silent. The entire carnival sprawled beneath you like a spilled jewel box, a chaotic mosaic of swirling lights, moving shadows and tiny, ant-like people. The neon was a blur of color from this height, and the distant mountains were just a darker cutout against the star-dusted sky.

You leaned forward, peering out the window, eyes wide. “Look at that…….It's gorgeous up here," you whispered, your eyes on the panorama.

The shifting lights reflected across your face, your excitement quieting into something softer as you watched the world from above. The teddy bear rested in your lap now, forgotten for the moment.

“You really like this, don’t you?” he said.

You nodded, still gazing out. “It’s pretty.”

"It is.” Jo agreed, “It’s beautiful."

But when you turned to look at him, he wasn't looking at the view. He was looking at you, his profile outlined by the distant glow of a thousand lights. The reflection of the carnival danced in his dark eyes. Your smile softened. “What?” You asked.

He hesitated, trying to paint with words, struggling where a brush would have flowed effortlessly. It was the most ethereal thing you'd ever seen. Then he shook his head, a small, almost helpless smile forming.

“Nothing,” he said. But his hand found yours, fingers lacing together like they belonged there. The world felt smaller and quieter like it had made just enough space for the two of you.

Jo’s thumb brushed absentmindedly over your knuckles, his gaze still fixed on you like he hadn’t quite come back down from whatever thought had taken hold of him earlier. A breeze slipped through the small gaps in the cabin, gentle but enough to lift a strand of your hair across your face.

Slowly—like he was handling something fragile, he lifted his free hand and reached toward you. His fingers hovered for just a second, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to.

You didn’t, so he tucked the strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips brushing lightly against your skin. The touch lingered and so did his hand. Your breath caught, just slightly, your eyes meeting his. There was something so soft in his expression it almost hurt to look at, like he was seeing you all over again, like he hadn’t quite gotten used to the fact that you were real, that you were here and that you were his.

“Jo…” You murmured, not even sure what you were going to say. How could you tell someone you loved them more than air itself? More than the essence of your very life? Asakura Jo was only human, but in your eyes, he was what you’d imagined an angel of love to look like.

“Jo I—”

A sharp crack split through the sky. You both flinched, turning instinctively toward the window. A burst of light bloomed above the carnival—gold at first, then red and then a cascade of shimmering sparks that rained down like falling stars.

Fireworks.

Another one followed, then another and the sky soon lit up in colors that reflected across the glass, across your face, across his eyes. You leaned closer to the window, your hand tightening around his without thinking. 

“Oh my god…” Your voice was full of wonder.

Jo didn’t look at the fireworks. Not really. He saw them, sure—the colors, the light, the way they painted everything in brief flashes of brilliance. But it all blurred together compared to you.

The way your eyes widened with every burst, the way your lips parted in quiet amazement, the way the colors danced across your skin like they were meant to be there. And just like that it hit him again.

Oh.

I love you.

He tightened his hold on your hand, almost unconsciously. You turned back to him, still glowing from the fireworks, your excitement softening when you noticed the way he was looking at you again.

“What?” you asked, smiling faintly.

He opened his mouth and paused. For once, it didn’t feel like he could translate this into anything less than what it was. No metaphors, no half-jokes, no deflection. Just the pure truth.

The truth that you were love and love was all he needed at the moment to keep him alive and breathing. That no matter how many pictures he painted, he could never find a colour that could match the hues of your beauty. That oh, did the world always seem to be just you and him?

“I—” he started, then stopped, his breath catching. Another firework burst, gold light spilling into the cabin. He swallowed. “…I really like being here with you,” he said .

“Me too,” you said gently.

He nodded, like that was enough, like maybe, for now, it was. But his gaze didn’t waver.

And as the fireworks continued to bloom across the sky he felt it again, growing stronger with every passing second.

He loved you.

What else could an artist need?

________________

A year. 

Sometimes it didn’t feel real. 

Not in a dramatic way but just how had all these small moments—shared looks, soft laughs, paint-stained afternoons, late-night calls—added up to something this steady, this real.

You sat beside him now, your shoulder pressed lightly against his as he absentmindedly sketched in that little notebook he always carried. His hand moved easily, lines forming without hesitation, like they always did.

You watched him. A year in, and he still had that effect on you like your attention just settled on him without asking. Your heart picked up a little, though, your mind racing with one thought and one thought only. And the thought had been sitting with you for a while now, growing slowly like a tree. 

Your boyfriend was an attractive man. A very attractive man, pulling in men and women like—something that you felt secretly proud of. He was yours and yours only, to wake up in the morning to kiss him on the nose and to die down at the end of the day and let night’s cloak wrap around both of you.

And everytime he rolled up his sleeves, everytime he hugged you from behind while you were cooking, effectively caging you in with his large frame and every time his hands rested on your skin, it sent heat rushing somewhere you couldn't talk about too easily.

A year in and you two still hadn’t had sex. It felt weird, most couples usually went at it by their fifth month  according to your friends. But you two were different—that was what you told yourself.

Of course, it wasn't like you didn't want to. Who wouldn't want to do it with your majestic hunk of a boyfriend? All pretty lips and eyes and those gorgeous veiny forearms. You would have been a damned liar if you said you had never let your fingers stray between your thighs and let them slip into your heat, friction building just at the way he’d said ‘thank you’ in that deep morning voice when you’d handed him his coffee. And there arose the problem. 

Pretty little virgin.

Men were said to be simple creatures. To have sex, to fuck a girl with experience would obviously be more satisfying than someone who’s farthest sexual encounter was touching herself to the image of her boyfriend. But Jo would be different, you told yourself.

And it never hurt to ask, did it?

You shifted slightly, drawing your knees up a bit, fingers fidgeting in your lap. Jo glanced up from his sketch.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded a little too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I just…” Your voice trailed off. He closed the notebook without waiting another moment, giving you his full attention.

“Hey,” he said gently, “what is it?” You took a small breath.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” you started, eyes flickering between him and your hands. “And um…” you let out a nervous huff of a laugh. “I don’t know how to say it without sounding weird.”

“You can sound however you want,” he said, a tiny smile forming. “I’m not going anywhere.”

That helped a little. You looked at him properly then, gathering just enough courage to stay there.

“We’ve been together for a year.” You said.

“Best year of my life.” He added quietly, like it was just a fact. Your heart did that soft, aching thing again.

“And I…” you hesitated, then pushed through, “I feel really safe with you.” His expression shifted—more serious now,  “And I trust you,” you continued. “A lot.” Jo didn’t interrupt, listening with that same calm expression. You swallowed, your voice softer now. “So I was wondering if……maybe…..you know….” 

There was a brief pause. His brows softened slightly. 

“Are you asking…?” he started gently.

You nodded, cheeks warm. “Yeah.”

The heavens could have struck you down right there and then and you wouldn't have minded one bit. The way he was looking at you right now, did he think you were weird? Was it too soon for this? What if he wanted to break u—

“Hey,” he said, voice soft but steady, “look at me for a second.”  Jo reached for your hand slowly. When your fingers slipped into his, he squeezed them lightly. “I’m really glad you told me,” he said. “And I mean that.” You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “But,” he continued gently, “this isn’t something we have to rush just because it’s been a year.”

You nodded quickly. “I know—I don’t feel rushed, I just—”

“I know,” he said, squeezing your hand again. “I trust you. I just want to make sure we both feel completely ready. Like…..not nervous-ready. Actually ready.”

“I think I am,” you said honestly. “But I also don’t want it to feel pressured or like a big scary thing.”

He smiled a little at that. “Yeah. Me neither.” A small silence. Then he added, softer, “If we do, I want it to be because we both feel good about it.”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“And we can talk about it more,” he said. “Figure out what we both want, what we’re okay with. Not just… jump into it.”

That made something in you relax. There your sweet boyfriend was, always so careful and kind. You felt pretty dumb for even thinking whatever you had been thinking five minutes ago.

“Okay,” you said softly. Jo leaned a little closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“We’ll figure it out together,” he murmured.

Silence followed again, in which two lay tangled on the couch, his finger tracing lazy patterns against the back of your hand, both of you staring into the distance. 

“Jo?”

“Hmm?”

“Can we do it now?” You whispered, the words tumbling out like a secret finally freed, heat flooding your cheeks immediately. 

Jo's expression didn't falter; instead, a gentle smile curved his lips. He squeezed your hand lightly. “Of course.” He said simply, his voice low and reassuring. “I'd love that, sweetheart.”

Though his voice was stable as always, Jo saw the flicker of nerves behind your eyes, the way your breath had gone just a little uneven, the way your fingers curled slightly into his.

“Hey…” he murmured, shifting just enough to face you fully. “Come here.”

You moved closer instinctively, and his arm wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest. Your cheek rested against him, your heartbeat a little too loud in your ears.

“I’m a little scared,” you admitted quietly. He nodded immediately, like that made perfect sense.

“Yeah,” he said gently. “That’s okay.” His hand came up to your hair, smoothing it back in slow, calming strokes. “You don’t have to not be scared,” he added. “It’s new. Of course it’s going to feel like a big deal.” 

You let out a small breath, your fingers gripping lightly onto his shirt.

“I just don’t want to mess it up,” you whispered. That made him pull back just enough to look at you, brows softening.

“You can’t mess this up,” he said, almost a whisper. “There’s no perfect way to do it.” He brushed his thumb lightly over your cheek,  “We go slow,” he continued. “And we check in, the whole time. If anything feels weird or uncomfortable or you just want to stop—we stop. No questions, okay?”

“Okay.” You nodded, giving him a small smile.

Your beloved leaned in then, cupping your cheek with one hand, his thumb brushing softly over your skin. His touch was feather-light and reverent. He pressed a soft kiss to your lips, lingering just long enough to let you feel the warmth of him. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. 

“Do you trust me, my love?” 

Oh, you’d have followed him into hell if he asked.

His words wrapped around you like a blanket, easing the knot in your chest. You nodded, a small smile breaking through. Jo stood, offering his hand, and you took it, letting him pull you up. 

His grip was firm but gentle, guiding you toward the bedroom with unhurried steps. The air between you hummed with anticipation, but it was laced with the comfort of knowing you loved him and he loved you and the rest would be confetti.

Once inside, he closed the door softly and turned to you, his eyes tracing your face with that softness that made you go weak. 

“You're so beautiful,” he murmured, stepping closer. 

His hands found your waist, sliding up slowly under your shirt, palms warm against your bare skin. You shivered at the contact, loving how his fingers splayed out, exploring with such care, like he was memorizing every inch.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, his lips moving against yours in a slow rhythm that made your knees weak. As the kiss broke, he trailed his mouth down your jaw, to your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses that sent sparks through you. 

“I love you,” he whispered against your collarbone, his breath hot, “May I?” He asked, tugging at your shirt.

Once you nodded your consent, his hands worked your shirt up and over your head, discarding it gently before his lips found the swell of your breasts, kissing the soft skin there with worshipful presses.

You arched into him, your hands threading through his hair as he knelt slightly, his mouth mapping a path down your stomach. Those hands—god, you loved his hands—hooked into the waistband of your pants, easing them down along with your underwear, leaving you bare before him. He looked up at you, eyes dark with affection and desire. “So perfect, my love.”

Jo guided you to the bed, laying you back against the pillows with infinite care. He stripped off his own clothes, his body lean and strong, movements as graceful as a ballerina.

Your breath caught in your throat as you finally saw him, really saw him, naked and exposed before you. Your eyes widened, drinking in every inch of his body, inevitably drawn to the prominent swell at his groin. His cock was long and girthy, with a prominent vein running along the underside, and you could see it throbbing.

But it was his hands that held your focus as he settled over you, one bracing beside your head while the other traced lazy circles on your thigh, inching higher. 

He kissed you everywhere—your shoulders, the inside of your wrists, the curve of your hip—each touch a soft adoration that built the heat between you. 

“Tell me if I need to stop,” he said, his voice husky but steady, as his fingers finally brushed against your folds. You were already slick with want, and he groaned softly at the feel of you. 

“Sweetheart…” he breathed, his hand cupping you gently, one finger circling your entrance with feather-light pressure. 

Jo watched your face, attuned to every gasp and every shift. Slowly, so slowly, like he was afraid you’d shatter at his touch, he pressed a finger inside, the stretch unfamiliar but eased by his care and your arousal. 

“Oh…” You moaned, clutching at his arm, marveling at the way his hand flexed, those veined forearms tensing as he worked you open, “Jo…” 

God it felt so fucking beatiful, feeling his long fingers reach spots you could never even imagine meeting. Hell you weren't even sure they existed until now, as his digits kissed them so tenderly.  

“Hmm?” Your boyfriend hummed, eyes full of worry already. He wanted to make this experience as relaxing as it could be for you, “Are you okay, my love? Want me to stop?”

"N-No," you managed to stammer out, "don't stop. Please don't stop, Jo." His face softened with relief and something else, something heady and possessive that made your stomach flip-flop.

"Okay," he breathed, his voice low and husky, "I'll go as slow as you need me to. Just tell me if anything feels wrong, alright?"

You nodded, watching as he carefully worked a second finger in alongside the first, stretching you open bit by bit. It burned, but the burn was amazing, like the sweet sting of a deep stretch. And it was joined by so much more—the slick slide of his fingers inside you, the sensation of being filled for the first time, the ache that settled low and deep.

Jo took his time, scissoring his fingers and curling them just so, finding that spot inside you that made your toes curl and your back arch off the bed. He worked you open with an almost obsessive care, checking in with you after every new milestone.

“Jo—nghhh oh!” The sounds falling from your lips were foreign to you, and absolute music to Jo’s ears, “Hmmm—feel so—ohhhh—feel so good.”

“That's it, my love,” he encouraged, kissing your temple. “Just feel me.” He was stretching you with patience, his free hand stroking your hair, your cheek, grounding you in his touch.

He sealed his words with a kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth to tangle with yours as his fingers started to move faster, pumping in and out of you in a steady rhythm. You could feel your orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter in your belly until you were writhing against him, desperate for more.

"Jo... oh god, Jo... I'm... I'm gonna..." you panted against his mouth, too far gone to finish the sentence.

"I know," he breathes back, "I've got you. Let go for me, sweetheart, that’s it.”

And with a last deep thrust, he curled his fingers just right, rubbing against that sensitive spot inside you. That's all it took to send you hurtling over the edge, your body seizing up as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. 

You cried out his name, a broken 'Jo!' that sounded more like a prayer than anything else. He kissed you through it, murmuring endearments, his eyes never leaving yours. Only when you started to come down did his fingers slip out of you completely, leaving you feeling empty and aching.

As the tremors faded, you lay there panting, your body humming with unfamiliar aftershocks. So this was what it felt to have a proper orgasm. You now understand why the French called it ‘la petit mort’. The little death—you were sure part of your soul died and transformed into something new just at the touch of his skin against yours.

Jo withdrew his fingers slowly, his hand glistening as he brought it to his lips, tasting you with a low hum of appreciation. He had that look in his eyes that was so unlike your perpetually calm, shy boyfriend, and god did it get you even wetter. 

Those hands—strong and sooo veined—made your heart flutter even more now. He shifted above you, his cock hard and heavy against your thigh, but he didn't rush. Instead, he cupped your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip.

“My love,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion, “do you want to continue? We can stop if you need to.”

You met his gaze, feeling the depth of his care wrap around you like his arms. Your nerves lingered, yes, but so did your desire for him and your trust in him. Your beloved.

“Yes,” you breathed, reaching up to touch his cheek. “I want you, Jo. Please.”

“Alright, sweetheart.” His smile was soft, full of absolute adoration. “I'll go slow, ok? Just tell me what you need.” 

He positioned himself between your legs, one hand bracing on the mattress while the other guided his cock to your entrance. The tip nudged against you, slick from your release, and he paused there, letting you feel the warmth of him. You loved the way his fingers flexed around his length, steady and sure.

In the philosophy of Epicurus, hedone was described as the utmost state of pleasure that may or may not derive from actions that are virtuous, whereas another form of euphoric pleasure, terpsis, would always be virtuous. And then came the question of whether or not sex was a virtuous act. 

Well, you had no idea what pleasure you were feeling as Jo pushed in, but god did you feel pleasure.

He pushed in gradually, just the head at first, the stretch pulling a gasp from your lips. It burned a little, unfamiliar, but his free hand stroked your hip soothingly.

“Breathe with me,” he murmured, his eyes locked on yours. Inch by inch, he sank deeper, his body tensing with restraint. He didn’t want to accidentally hurt you.

But god, you were tight—Jo's mind reeled at the way your pussy gripped him, velvet walls fluttering around his cock like they were made for him alone. He wanted to savor it, to make sure every moment etched pleasure into your memory, not pain. Halfway in, he stopped, his breath ragged. 

“How's that feel, my love? Too much?” He leaned down to kiss your forehead, your nose, your lips—soft presses that distracted from the fullness building inside you.

You shook your head, adjusting to the sensation, your hands clutching his shoulders. “It's good. Keep going.” The ache was easing into something warmer, needier, especially with his hand now sliding between you to circle your clit gently, easing the way.

Jo nodded, pressing forward again, slower this time, until he was fully seated, his hips flush against yours. He stilled completely, forehead resting on yours, both of you breathing in sync. The thought of your tightness consumed him—how you squeezed him so perfectly, pulling him deeper without effort. It took everything not to thrust, to let you acclimate. 

“You're doing so well, sweetheart,” he praised, his voice a low rumble. “Feels incredible. You feel—hah—incredible.”

“Hmmm…Jo…” You moaned feeling him fill up all your senses to the absolute brim.

After a moment, when your hips twitched experimentally, he began to move—pulling out just a fraction before sliding back in, the motion deliberate and unhurried. Each thrust was measured, his cock dragging along your inner walls, building friction without overwhelming. 

“You good, sweetheart?” He stopped again midway through one stroke, checking your face, his hand weaving into yours to squeeze.

“Yes,” you whispered, the pleasure sharpening now, coiling anew. “Don't stop.”

Your boyfriend resumed the slow rhythm, his body covering yours protectively. Jo's mind swirled with how your pussy clenched around him on every retreat, tight and hot, milking him in a way that made his control fray at the edges. 

But he focused on you—on the soft moans escaping your lips, the way your nails dug into his back. His hand roamed, cupping your breast, thumbing your nipple, while the other held your thigh open, fingers pressing into your skin with gentle possession.

“That's it, my love,” he encouraged between kisses to your neck. “Let me make you feel good, hmm?” 

The pace stayed steady, deep glides that hit just right, his cock filling you completely each time. The intimacy of it all—the eye contact, the whispers—pushed you higher, your body responding to his every touch.

Jo's breath started to quicken as he thrust into you, the pace picking up but still maintaining a steady rhythm. His eyes were locked onto yours, pupils blown wide with lust and adoration, drinking in every expression that crossed your face. One hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over your lower lip, while the other gripped your hip, pulling you into his thrusts and you almost screamed at the sensation.

"You're so perfect, sweetheart," he breathed, voice rough with need.

His words sent a shiver down your spine, your walls fluttering around his cock in response. He groaned at the sensation, hips stuttering for a moment before he regained control. He started to thrust harder,chasing his pleasure while still making sure you were right there with him.

"Jo..." you gasped, back arching off the bed as he hit a particularly sweet spot inside you. "Oh god, Jo..."

"That's it, baby," he encouraged, leaning down to capture your mouth in a searing kiss. "Let me hear you. I want to feel you cum on my cock."

The tension wound tighter, your breaths mingling as he adjusted once more, pausing to grind against you, letting the base of his cock press your clit. And then it was like sunflowers had burst into bloom all around you. 

"I'm gonna... I'm gonna..." you panted, fingers digging into his shoulders as you chased your release.

"Come on, baby," Jo growled, his thrusts becoming erratic as he approached his own peak. "I've got you. Let go, sweetheart."

You shattered around him, your pussy spasming, squeezing his cock in rhythmic pulses that drew a groan from deep in his chest.  Your body seized up, back bowing off the bed as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. The sensation of your tightness gripping him through your climax nearly undid him, but he held on, thrusting shallowly to prolong it, his hand stroking your hair as you cried out his name. Jo followed, buried deep inside you as he found his own release with a hoarse cry of your name.

The world slowly swam back into focus, the roaring in your ears subsiding into the quiet, heavy sound of your shared breathing. Your body felt like liquid warmth, every muscle lax and humming with satisfaction. 

Jo was a solid, comforting weight on top of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his own breaths coming in deep, shuddering gusts against your damp skin.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, suspended in the perfect, sticky aftermath. You could feel him, still deep inside you, his heartbeat a frantic echo against your own slowing pulse. Then, with infinite care, he shifted, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder, his lips tender against the flushed skin.

“Okay?” he murmured, his voice a raw, husky whisper. It was the first thing he’d said since your world had dissolved into pure sensation, and the gentle concern in it made your heart clench.

You managed a weak, breathless nod, your fingers loosening their death-grip on his shoulders to stroke lazily down his sweat-slicked back. “Mmmhmm. More than okay.”

He let out a long, relieved sigh, the tension finally leaving his own frame. He nuzzled your neck once more, then began to move—so slowly, so carefully it was almost imperceptible. He was pulling out, but it was nothing like the frantic coupling of moments before. 

This was such a tender retreat, mindful of every sigh, every tiny shift of your body. He moved as if handling something infinitely precious and fragile, easing himself from your warmth with a gentleness that brought a fresh, different kind of tears to your eyes.

Once he was free, he didn't roll away, instead shifting to his side, gathering you immediately against him. One arm curled under your neck, the other draped over your waist, his hand splayed possessively on your stomach as he pressed another kiss to your temple.

“You’re trembling,” he whispered, his thumb stroking soothing circles on your belly.

“I’m alright.” You assured him, your voice muffled against his chest. “It’s a good kind of trembling, don’t worry.”

Jo hummed, holding you close until the fine tremors subsided into a deep, boneless relaxation. He let the silence stretch, comfortable and warm, just listening to your breathing even out. 

After a few minutes, he propped himself up on one elbow to look down at you. In the dim light, his eyes were dark pools of soft affection, tracing over your face with an artist’s attention to detail—the flutter of your lashes, the parted swell of your lips. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead. 

“Would you like a bath?” He said, his voice still low and intimate, “I could…..wash your hair for you. If you want.” His gaze dipped, a faint blush coloring his own cheeks. 

The offer was so tender, so domestic and sweet after the raw passion you’d just shared, that it stole your breath all over again. You looked up at him, at this beautiful man who could moan your name in passion one moment and offer to wash your hair with reverent care the next. A slow, blissful smile spread across your face.

“That sounds perfect,” you whispered.

A matching smile touched his lips, shy but deeply pleased. He leaned down and kissed you, soft and chaste, a sealing promise. Jo slipped from the bed, pausing to pull the rumpled sheets up over you, tucking them around your shoulders. 

“Jo?”

“Hmm?” 

“I love you.”

Love was many things. 

An art, first snow, grass rings, fireworks, poetry, complex, simple, and so much more. At least that was what they said—whoever invented the word. And whoever invented the feeling too, God must have been terribly lonely to have invented such a thing as love. But not everything feels like something else.

And as Jo watched you, gazing over your details, those eyes, those lips, that face that could have had him defying the very heavens themselves, he realised that maybe love was just this.

Just you and him and the air around you.

Love was just that.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

fin. 

A/N: had a lot of fun writing this, i think this is the most romance i've ever written Mona poetic verse comeback again yay. There are some references sprinkled throughout this fic so if you notice them PLEASE TELL ME I SNEAKED THEM IN VERY NONCHALANTLY YAY

divider by @cursed-carmine

that was the problem. he never rejected you harshly, never pushed you away, and never looked uncomfortable. but he also never treated your confessions seriously either.

to him, you were just yudai’s younger sibling and his classmate. someone funny and someone he cared about.

that evening, you walked home beside yudai and euijoo after classes ended, absentmindedly kicking small rocks across the sidewalk while the two boys talked about basketball practice.

occasionally, euijoo glanced toward you whenever you got unusually quiet. which was happening a lot lately.

because honestly?

you were tired of being confused.

euijoo acted too nice for someone who supposedly didn’t like you back. he remembered your favorite snacks without trying, always saved you a seat during lunch, and waited for you after class whenever yudai got held back at practice.

sometimes it felt real enough to make your heart ache.

you finally reached your house, but before euijoo could say goodbye and leave, you stepped in front of him.

“euijoo, can i ask you something?”

he blinked down at you softly. “hm?”

your chest tightened immediately. “i was wondering if maybe you—”

before you could finish, your older brother suddenly hooked an arm around your neck and dragged you backward dramatically.

“okay, that’s enough embarrassing behavior for today.”

“oi!”

yudai ignored your complaints completely.

“stop bothering euijoo all the time,” he sighed. “the guy probably wants to go home in peace.”

you froze slightly at the words despite knowing yudai was teasing. for a second, you avoided euijoo’s eyes.

“…fine.” your voice came out quieter than before.

euijoo noticed immediately. his expression shifted slightly, almost like he wanted to say something, but yudai was already pulling you toward the front door.

you glanced back one last time with a small pout while euijoo stood there awkwardly, watching the two of you.

honestly, he never understood why you liked him this much.

the front door swung open.

yudai walked inside first, still rambling about something while you lingered behind for one more second. then suddenly—

“[name]!” yudai’s voice echoed from inside the house after realizing you weren’t following him anymore.

euijoo looked up instinctively. and before he could react properly, you quickly stepped forward, grabbed the front of his hoodie lightly, and pressed a soft kiss against his cheek.

everything stopped.

you giggled immediately after seeing his completely frozen expression before running into the house without another word.

the door slammed shut behind you.

outside, euijoo remained standing there in stunned silence, one hand slowly lifting toward the warmth still lingering on his cheek. his heartbeat became painfully loud all at once.

and for the first time since meeting you—

euijoo started thinking maybe your feelings weren’t as harmless as he originally thought.

he stood there for another second like he was deciding something.

then he walked straight over to the couch and quietly climbed into your space without a word, curling up against your side.

you laughed under your breath as his arms slipped around your waist.

“tired?”

“mhm.”

“did you drink a lot?”

he shook his head against your shoulder. “just enough to miss you extra.”

your heart gave the tiniest ache.

yuma sighed softly once you wrapped your arms around him, like he’d been waiting for it all night without realizing.

for a while, neither of you talked.

he just stayed close, cheek pressed against your shoulder while your fingers played with the ends of his hair.

then quietly:

“i kept thinking about coming home.”

you looked down at him. “yeah?”

he nodded once.

“i think my favorite part of going out is getting to come back to you after.”

the way he said it was so simple.

so honest.

like it wasn’t even meant to sound romantic.

you felt him shift slightly closer after saying it, like he instinctively wanted to hide from how affectionate that sounded.

“you’re being really cute right now,” you teased gently.

“no, i’m not.”

“you literally just said your favorite thing is coming home to me.”

yuma went quiet.

then he tightened his arms around you a little and mumbled into your shoulder:

“…because it is.”

you completely melted.

a quiet silence settled after that, warm and heavy in the nicest way.

then suddenly, yuma tilted his head up and stared at you for a second like he’d just noticed something important.

“what?” you laughed softly.

he didn’t answer.

he just looked at you with that sleepy, unbearably fond expression for another second before one of his hands slid up gently against your cheek.

then he leaned in and kissed you.

slow.

warm.

the kind of kiss that lingered before it even really started.

you could still feel his small smile against your lips, soft and sleepy and completely full of you.

when he finally pulled back, he stayed close enough that your noses still brushed.

“…there,” he murmured quietly, like he’d been meaning to do that since he walked through the door.

The ride home is quiet in the best way.

Soobin’s hand never leaves you once you’re in the backseat. Even half-asleep, he keeps you tucked into his side like instinct, fingers warm over your thigh while the city lights smear across the windows. His head tips against yours every few minutes whenever the car slows down, sleepy little apologies falling from his lips each time.

“Sorry,” he murmurs after bumping your shoulder again.

“You’re literally fine.”

“M’heavy.”

“You are enormous, actually.”

His tired laugh rumbles low in his chest, warm through the quiet interior of the car. For a second he just looks at you with those heavy-lidded drunk eyes, dimples appearing slowly like his face is too sleepy to fully smile.

Then his eyebrows lift. “That’s what sh—”

“Babe,” you cut him off immediately, already laughing in disbelief as you shove lightly at his chest. “Stop. You’ve been watching way too many episodes of The Office.”

Soobin’s grin spreads wider instantly, all pleased with himself for getting a reaction out of you. It looks especially ridiculous on him right now—slumped bonelessly against the seat, cheeks pink from alcohol, hair falling over his forehead while he fights to keep his eyes open.

“I’m practicing my English, jagiya,” he says with exaggerated seriousness, words slightly slurred around the edges.

His laugh comes softer this time, quieter, until it dissolves into a sleepy sigh when he drops his head onto your shoulder again. One of his large hands slides lazily over your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth absentmindedly beneath the fabric of your jeans while the city lights flicker across his flushed face.

By the time you finally make it home, he’s visibly running on fumes.

The second the apartment door shuts behind you, the silence wraps around both of you instantly—warm, familiar, private. Shoes abandoned by the entrance, your bag dropped onto the console table, the faint scent of laundry detergent and vanilla from the candle you forgot to blow out earlier lingering in the air.

Soobin exhales deeply like he’s been holding himself together all night. Then the man just… melts. His forehead drops onto your shoulder dramatically, arms sliding around your waist from behind.

“Home,” he mumbles into your neck, voice rough with exhaustion.

You laugh softly, prying his hands loose enough to turn around. His cheeks are still pink from the alcohol, fluffy hair falling into his eyes, lips slightly swollen from unconsciously biting at them all night. He looks unfairly good standing there all sleepy and oversized in his wrinkled button-up.

“You need water.”

“M’kay.” He says it immediately, obedient and soft, eyes already drifting shut again like agreeing to the task was enough to complete it.

He does not move an inch.

You stare at him for a second from where you’re standing while he remains exactly where he is—tall body slumped against the wall, shoes half-kicked off, blinking slowly at absolutely nothing.

“Soobin baby.”

“Hm?” His head lifts just enough to acknowledge you, sleepy gaze finally finding yours.

“The water?”

“Right.”

Still doesn’t move.

You snort, stepping around him toward the kitchen, immediately hearing his socked feet dragging after you. The kitchen light spills soft gold across the countertops while you fill two glasses. Behind you, Soobin leans heavily against the island watching you with hooded eyes, completely silent.

You slide his water toward him. He takes two obedient sips before abandoning the glass entirely the second you step between his legs to put yours down beside the sink.

Immediately, his hands settle on your hips. Warm, heavy, like they belong there.

“You know,” he says slowly after a moment, voice warm with sleep and alcohol, “I think Beomgyu was trying to hit on that staff tonight.”

You glance up at him. “What?”

“Mhm.” His thumbs drag lazily against your sides. “That funny one. Soram-ssi.” He squints slightly like he’s replaying the memory in real time. “He kept filling her drink everytime she was finishing.”

You laugh instantly. “Poor Gyu.”

Soobin hums in agreement, cheek pressing briefly against your head before he looks at your eyes again. “He's the worst at flirting.”

“He’s still trying to recover from his trainee-days heartbreak,” you tease softly, reaching up to smooth his messy fringe away from his forehead. “That boy sees one cute girl and immediately starts planning the wedding.”

A sleepy grin spreads across Soobin’s face. “He really does.”

“He’s probably writing sad lyrics about her already.”

His laughter comes out quieter this time, dissolved into a tired sigh as his arms tighten around your waist instinctively, pulling you a little closer between his knees. The kitchen falls comfortably silent again for a few seconds except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic outside your apartment windows.

Then, completely unprompted, Soobin murmurs against your shirt:

“I’m glad I don’t have to flirt anymore.”

Your expression softens immediately. “Oh?”

“Mmm.” His eyes drift shut for a second. “Too much work.” A pause. “You already like me.”

The smugness in his sleepy voice makes you laugh again, but the sound catches somewhere in your chest when he continues. “Still can’t believe it sometimes,” he admits quietly. His smile turns soft at that. Really soft. The kind that always catches you off guard after all these years together.

He pulls you a little closer until your knees press between his, face getting closer for a second before he looks at you again. His expression shifts slightly then—slower, warmer. Charged.

“You wore that perfume on purpose tonight,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches a little. “What perfume?”

“That one.” His nose brushes your jaw when he leans closer. “The one that I told you I really really really really liked last time.”

“So dramatic.”

“M’serious.” His voice drops lower on the last word, making the room suddenly feels smaller.

You try to look away first, but his hand slides up your side, fingertips disappearing beneath the hem of your shirt just enough to touch warm skin. Lazy, absentminded, possessive.

“Soob,” you whisper, mostly because he keeps staring at your mouth.

“Hm?” His answer comes automatically, eyes half-lidded and fixed on your lips while his thumbs continue their slow lazy circles against your waist beneath your shirt.

“You were literally falling asleep five minutes ago.” You try to sound unimpressed, but it’s difficult when he’s looking at you like that. “Are you trying to get in my pants because this is the first time you’ve been able to sleep in since promotions started?”

The corner of his mouth twitches immediately. You narrow your eyes slightly when he leans forward again like he’s about to kiss you instead of answer properly.

“Don’t you have a schedule tomorrow morning?” you ask, pressing a hand lightly against his chest before he can fully close the distance. “Something about getting drunk on live broadcast all over again?”

That finally makes him laugh, a soft, sleepy sound that vibrates warm against your palm.

“That’s next week,” he mumbles, words brushing against your skin because he’s still trying to sneak closer between every sentence. “Tomorrow we’re off.”

“Convenient, right?” You side eye him.

“It’s true.” His nose nudges your jaw affectionately. “Stop pretending I didn’t send you my whole schedule last night, jagi.”

You blink and then narrow your eyes harder. “You sent me seventeen screenshots and a voice note where you forgot what day it was halfway through.”

“I was tired.”

“You said—and I quote—‘Thursday is either dance practice or dentist.’”

Soobin immediately starts laughing again, shoulders shaking this time.

“That could’ve been accurate.” His dimples deepen when you try—and fail—not to smile back at him. The expression on his face softens instantly at the sight of it, drunk affection settling over his features so openly it nearly melts you on the spot.

Then, quieter this time, his hands sliding a little lower against your waist:

“So can I focus on you now?”

The way he says it—low, sleepy, sincere—sends heat straight down your spine. You laugh under your breath, but it dies quickly when he pulls you flush against him between his knees, burying his face briefly against your chest with a tired groan.

“Missed you all night,” he mumbles.

You run your fingers through his hair slowly, feeling Soobin practically melt beneath your touch. His nose brushes lazily against the warm skin just above your collarbone, lips following a second later in slow absentminded kisses that feel more affectionate than intentional at first. Like he’s kissing you because he missed the feeling of it.

You feel his breathing change before he speaks again. “Hate sleeping alone,” he murmurs softly against your skin, confessing. “Couldn’t sleep properly last week,” he admits after a moment, words slower now, almost drowsy. “Kept waking up.”

You tilt his face up gently until his eyes meet yours again. They look glassy with exhaustion, pink-cheeked and soft under the kitchen lights, all the bravado from dinner gone now that it’s just the two of you.

“You should’ve called me,” you whisper.

“Mmm.” His thumb strokes beneath your shirt absentmindedly. “Didn’t wanna wake you.”

You feel the exact moment his attention shifts from sleepy affection into something slower and deeper. His hand slides further beneath your shirt, broad palm flattening against your side while he leans in again, mouth brushing your neck with more intention this time. Not teasing anymore. Not distracted.

His lips press slowly beneath your jaw, warm and slightly parted, and the quiet sound he makes against your skin nearly melts your knees on the spot.

“Soob…” you breathe.

He hums softly in response, still kissing your neck like he’s half-asleep and addicted to the feeling of you under his mouth. His other hand tightens on your hip when you shift closer between his legs instinctively.

He murmurs quietly against your skin, voice rougher now. “Missed this.”

His mouth drifts lower while he speaks, kisses getting slower and wetter now, lingering long enough to leave warmth blooming across your skin. One of his hands slips around your back, fingertips spreading against the base of your spine before pulling you fully flush against him.

You can feel how deeply he exhales at that.

The second you kiss him back properly, something in him changes, his grip tightens sharply at your waist. A low sound catches in his throat before he kisses you again, deeper this time. The kiss turns deep instantly — slow, wet, filthy in that way only years of knowing each other can make it.

“Missed your mouth,” he breathes against your lips, voice gravelly and thick with soju and need. He kisses you again before you can answer, tilting his head to get the perfect angle. He’s so tall that even when bending his torso he still towers over you, shoulders curved forward like he wants to wrap his entire frame around you.

The sound that leaves him when your fingers tug lightly at his hair nearly makes your knees give out.

“Bin…” you breathe against his mouth, already a little dizzy from the way he keeps pulling you closer every few seconds like he’s unconsciously trying to climb inside your space.

“Hm?”

You laugh softly despite yourself, chest rising unevenly while he keeps kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, anywhere he can reach without letting you go for more than a second.

“I didn’t shave today,” you murmur between breaths, trying and failing to sound serious. “Tone it down a little, Choi.”

Soobin pauses.

“Be fucking serious.”

You burst into laughter immediately, but it gets swallowed halfway when he crowds back into your space again, huge hands gripping your waist tighter.

“Do you genuinely think I give a fuck right now?” he mutters against your lips before kissing you again, slower this time but somehow even filthier. “I’m trying to get into my girlfriend’s pants because it’s been, like, a whole week since I saw her.”

“Whole week,” you repeat weakly.

“A tragic week.”

His voice drops lower at the last part, words vibrating against your skin while his mouth drifts back down your neck again. You can feel him smiling faintly against you when your fingers tighten instinctively in his hair.

“Do you know how hard it was sleeping alone after FaceTiming you every night?” he murmurs. “You’d answer looking all comfy in bed on purpose.”

“I literally wear pajamas.”

“Tiny pajamas.”

“They’re shorts.”

“They’re evil.”

You laugh breathlessly again, but it dissolves into a shaky exhale when his hands slide beneath your shirt more fully this time, palms warm against your bare skin while he kisses slowly beneath your jaw. Then his grip tightens suddenly.

“Jump,” he murmurs.

You blink, breathless. “What?”

“C’mon.” His hands slide down beneath your thighs already, sleepy impatience slipping into his voice. “Jump, baby.”

You laugh softly, but wrap your arms around his shoulders anyway. The second you hop up, Soobin catches you effortlessly with a quiet grunt, hands locking beneath your thighs while your legs instinctively wrap around his waist.

And immediately—

“Oh my God,” you choke out, laughing against his shoulder. Because now you can fully feel him. Hard. Very hard.

Pressed directly against you beneath his jeans.

Soobin freezes for half a second as your laughter gets worse.

“Binnie,” you gasp, trying to breathe through your cackling. “You're so hard, baby.”

“Shut up,” he mutters instantly, voice deep and embarrassed against your neck while he starts walking anyway. That only makes you laugh harder.

“You were acting all sleepy five minutes ago and now this!”

“Baby,” he groans warningly, squeezing the back of your thigh hard enough to make you jolt a little. “Please.”

You’re still giggling when he carries you out of the kitchen, one large hand supporting you easily while the other keeps sliding up and down your thigh absentmindedly. His face stays buried against your neck the entire walk down the hallway like he’s trying to hide both his expression and his dignity.

“You think this is funny?” he mutters.

“Yes. You literally told me to jump.”

“Because I missed my girlfriend.”

“You missed having sex.”

“That too.”

You laugh again under your breath, arms still looped loosely around his shoulders while he carries you down the hallway. The apartment is quiet except for your giggling and the soft sound of his socked feet against the floor, his hands warm beneath your thighs as he holds you effortlessly against him.

Soobin nodges your bedroom door open with his shoulder.

The room is dim except for the soft amber glow from the lamp near the bed, your half-folded laundry still abandoned on the chair from two days ago and one of Soobin’s hoodies draped over the edge exactly where he left it two weeks ago.

The second he reaches the bed, he lets himself fall forward with you still attached to him.

You squeal, laughing as the mattress dips beneath both your weights, but before you can fully collapse backward, Soobin catches himself with one arm and carefully lowers you onto the middle of the bed instead.

Then he finally straightens up between your legs, hands still resting on your thighs for a second like he doesn’t quite want to let go yet.

Then his eyes drift downward. “Fuck,” he mutters quietly to himself. You follow his gaze instantly and burst into laughter again because his jeans look genuinely painful now.

“Oh, you are suffering.”

“Jagi,” he groans, dragging both hands down his face. “Please have mercy on me.”

Still muttering under his breath, Soobin reaches for the button of his jeans, fingers slightly clumsy from the alcohol while he starts undoing them with a tired sigh. You push yourself upright against the pillows to watch him, entirely too entertained by the situation.

And shameless.

Your eyes drag slowly over him while he struggles with the button for a second, broad shoulders still stretching that button up distractingly well, hair messy from your hands, cheeks flushed pink all the way to the tips of his ears.

God.

The second his eyes flick back up toward you, you pull your shirt over your head in one smooth motion.

Soobin freezes.

Actually freezes.

His half-open jeans suddenly seem completely forgotten while his gaze drops instantly to your chest, the expression on his face shifting from sleepy amusement into something visibly heavier.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes.

The words come out rough, almost reverent. Soobin’s hands drop away from his half-undone jeans like he’s completely forgotten they exist.

He’s on you in a second.

Big hands slide under your thighs, gripping hard as he pulls you down the bed so you’re flat on your back. You yelp at the sudden shift, a surprised little sound that melts into a laugh — which he immediately swallows with his mouth.

The kiss is messy and desperate from the start.

Soobin groans low in his throat the moment your lips meet, tilting his head to slot your mouths together deeper. His tongue pushes past your lips without hesitation, hot and slick, sliding against yours in slow, filthy strokes. He kisses like he’s starving — wet, open-mouthed, a little clumsy from the alcohol but so familiar he still knows exactly how to wreck you. His tongue curls around yours, sucking lightly before he licks deeper, exploring like he’s trying to map every inch of your mouth.

You moan into him and he answers with a wrecked sound of his own, one large hand cupping the back of your neck to keep you right where he wants you while the other palms the buttons of your jeans.

He manhandles you again — suddenly flipping you so you’re straddling his lap, your knees sinking into the bed on either side of his hips. You yelp against his mouth at the easy strength, the way his big hands grip your behind and yank you flush against him. The sound only makes him kiss you harder.

Soobin’s breath is hot and ragged between kisses. While his mouth devours you, his hands are busy — shrugging off his button-up in one impatient motion, shoulders rolling as the fabric slides down his arms and drops somewhere behind him.

You feel the heat of his bare chest instantly, flushed pink and burning against your skin. His broad shoulders flex under your hands as he reaches between your bodies, fingers working open the button of your pants with surprising focus for how drunk he is. The zipper comes down next. He doesn’t even break the kiss while he does it — just keeps licking into your mouth, tongue slow and teasing now, like he’s savoring every little whimper he pulls from you.

“Lift,” he rasps against your lips, voice so deep and hoarse it vibrates through you.

You obey without thinking. The second you lift your hips, Soobin’s hands slide beneath the waistband of your pants, dragging them down your legs with impatient roughness. He groans quietly into your mouth the moment your skin brushes his bare chest again.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping briefly against yours like he needs a second to collect himself. “Missed this so bad.”

Your hands slide instinctively over his shoulders while he finishes pulling your pants off completely, tossing them somewhere onto the floor without looking. The movement shifts him closer between your legs, enough that you can feel the heat of him again through the thin fabric still separating you both.

You reach down between both your bodies this time, fingers hooking into the waistband of his jeans where they’re still hanging half-open around his hips. You end up brushing your fingers on him.

His entire body reacts instantly.

A sharp inhale. Shoulders tightening beneath your palms. His head dropping briefly onto your shoulder with a low groan that sounds almost pained.

You push his jeans down properly this time, slow enough to make him visibly suffer through it. His forehead stays buried against your neck while he shifts just enough to kick them off the rest of the way along with his socks, one of his large hands gripping your thigh hard the entire time like grounding himself.

The second they’re finally gone, he exhales deeply against your skin.

“Better?” you whisper, unable to stop smiling.

“No,” he says immediately, lifting his head just enough to look at you with drunk ruined eyes. “Worse, actually.”

You laugh softly against his mouth, but the sound dissolves quickly when he flips your bodies and kisses you again.

Your fingers slip through his hair while he goes back to kissing you, mouths parting and meeting again in soft wet presses that grow deeper every few seconds. Somewhere between one kiss and the next, he shifts higher onto the mattress, nudging you backward against the pillows while his broad body settles naturally between your legs like muscle memory.

Years together. Years of this. You can feel it in every touch.

His hand drifts down your side slowly, fingertips grazing your thigh before disappearing briefly off the edge of the mattress. At first you barely notice what he’s doing because he never stops kissing you, but then you hear the soft sound of your left nightstand drawer sliding open.

You break into a breathless laugh against his lips immediately. “Seriously?”

“Mhm,” he hums without shame, still kissing you between words while blindly reaching into the drawer beside the bed. “Know this room better than my own.”

You snort softly, but the laugh catches when his hand finally finds what he’s looking for and he pulls back just enough to glance at the condom in his fingers with sleepy satisfaction.

“There we go,” he murmurs.

Soobin tosses the condom onto the pillow beside your head, then finally lets the drawer click shut. His eyes drag down your body like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again — black lace bra, tiny matching panties, skin already flushed from his hands and mouth. A low, appreciative groan rumbles out of his chest.

“Look at you…” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”

Before you can tease him for his corniness, he moves.

Big hands slide under your thighs and he yanks you down the bed in one smooth, powerful motion. You yelp as your back slides against the sheets, but the sound cuts off into a gasp when Soobin settles fully on top of you. He’s so tall and broad he blocks out the low lamplight, caging you in completely. His flushed chest presses against your lace-covered breasts, hot skin against delicate fabric.

He doesn’t give you time to adjust.

With a low grunt, he hooks one of your legs over his hip, then the other, spreading you open beneath him. The manhandling is effortless — years of experience and that quiet strength letting him move you exactly how he wants. He rolls his hips forward and presses right against your core.

The thick, heavy outline of his member in his black boxers slides perfectly against your lace-covered heat, pulsing hot and hard. You moan loudly at the contact, back arching off the bed.

“Goddamn—”

He laughs a little at that and you realize he didn't do it on purpose, which makes everything worse.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue sliding hot and wet against yours while his hips keep rolling in these devastating, lazy circles. Every thrust makes his clothed dick drag right over your most sensitive part, the thin layers between you doing almost nothing to dull the sensation. He’s so big between your legs, the weight of him, the heat, the way he pulses and twitches against your warmth — it makes your already tipsy brain spin.

Soobin groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating through both of you. One of his hands grips your behind, squeezing the soft flesh as he grinds harder, fitting himself even more perfectly against you. The other hand slides up your back instead, fingers finding the clasp of your bra with practiced ease. Even half-drunk and hazy, he undoes it one-handed in a single smooth motion — years of knowing your curves making it effortless.

He pulls the lace away slowly, letting it fall somewhere off the side of the bed, and immediately palms your bare breast, warm and heavy, thumb brushing over your hardened nipple as he keeps grinding against you.

“My pretty girlfriend,” he murmurs hotly against your neck between kisses, voice raspy and full of affection. “So fucking perfect.”

"Bin—"

“So lucky to have you,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours, breath warm and uneven. “Love you so bad, baby… you have no idea.”

His words are slurred at the edges from the alcohol, but they’re so sincere they make your chest ache.

His shoulders shake slightly while he drops his face into your neck again, one large hand spreading across your waist like he needs something to hold onto.

Then, muffled against your skin:

“I’m so fucking hard, Jesus Christ,” he groans. “Feelin' like in our first time again.”

You burst into laughter instantly.

“I’m serious,” he mutters, lifting his head just enough for you to see the genuinely offended look on his flushed face.

Still laughing softly under your breath, your hand slides between both your bodies before he can stop you, palming him through his boxers deliberately this time.

The reaction is immediate, Soobin’s entire body jerks.

“Fuck—”

The curse tears out of him rough and low while his forehead drops heavily onto your shoulder again, fingers digging into your waist hard enough to leave crescents. You can physically feel the way his breathing stutters when your palm strokes over him once more.

“Oh, you weren’t exaggerating,” you tease breathlessly.

“Baby,” he groans warningly, voice wrecked already.

But you keep touching him anyway. Slow. Curious. Mean.

The second you shift your hips experimentally against him too, Soobin completely loses whatever remained of his drunken patience. A broken sound leaves him instantly.

His hands fly to your hips, holding you still for half a second like he physically can’t process the sensation before another shaky exhale punches out of him against your neck.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters again, sounding genuinely tortured now. “Do not start that unless you wanna kill me.” You laugh softly into his hair, but the sound catches when he suddenly looks up at you again. Completely gone.

All of him focused entirely on you now.

Soobin’s eyes are dark, glassy, and completely locked on your face. His breathing is heavy, chest rising and falling against yours as one of his big hands slides slowly down your body. He cups your breast for a second, then keeps going, fingertips tracing over your stomach until they hook gently under the waistband of your lace panties.

His voice comes out low and raspy, almost shy despite how hard he is against your thigh.

“Can I?” he whispers, eyes flicking up to yours.

You nod, biting your lip.

Soobin doesn’t waste time. He sits back on his knees just enough to peel your panties down your legs, lifting your hips with one hand like it’s nothing. The cool air hits your soaked core and you shiver. He groans softly at the sight of you, completely bare now, then quickly shoves his own boxers down and kicks them off.

The second his cock springs free — thick, flushed dark pink, and painfully hard — it slaps against his stomach. He’s so big it still makes your stomach tighten even after years together. The moment his bare skin presses against yours again, both of you shiver hard.

“Fuck…” Soobin breathes, lowering himself back on top of you. The heat of his cock slides right against you, hot and heavy, pulsing against your wetness. He groans at the same time you do, forehead dropping to yours.

“It’s been a while, baby,” he murmurs, almost apologetic, voice rough. “Can it be my fingers?”

Even drunk and desperate, he’s careful.

"Fuck, yes." You nod.

One large hand slips between your bodies, warm and sure. Soobin doesn’t rush. His fingers glide slowly through your folds, parting them gently, spreading the slickness that’s already accumulated there. The first touch is feather-light — just the pad of his thumb brushing over your clit in a slow, lazy circle.

You inhale sharply.

He gathers a little more of your wetness with two fingers, then brings it back up, using it to properly moisturize your clit, making the glide smoother, slicker. It’s so familiar, so practiced — the way he knows exactly how you like it after years together. His thumb stays there, rubbing slow, steady circles while the rest of his hand just rests warmly against your pussy, not pushing yet.

Soobin watches your face the entire time, that lazy, dimpled grin tugging at his lips even though his eyes are dark and heavy with lust.

“Fuck…” you breathe, biting down hard on your lower lip as a shiver runs through you.

His grin widens, dimples deepening. “You like this, right baby?” he murmurs, voice low and raspy, sweet in that devastating way only he can manage when he’s drunk and turned on. “Feel good?”

You nod quickly, unable to speak at first. Your hand flies up to grip his shoulder, nails digging into the flushed skin as your hips twitch. He keeps the rhythm slow and consistent — perfect little circles that make heat pool low in your stomach. Every time his thumb passes over the sensitive bundle of nerves, your thighs tremble around his waist.

Soobin leans down and kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, still grinning against your skin.

Another soft circle, then he gathers more of your wetness again, making everything even slicker, warmer. Only then does he finally slide two knuckles down to your entrance. He teases the tip of the finger just inside, barely breaching you, before pulling back and rubbing your clit again — keeping you on edge, making everything wetter, hotter.

You whimper, gripping his shoulder harder. “Soob—”

“I know, baby,” he coos sweetly, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “Just prepping a bit, 'most done.”

He finally pushes one finger in slowly, all the way to the last knuckle, curling it gently while his thumb never stops its lazy circles on your clit. The intrusion is perfect, familiar, and so fucking good. A broken “fuck” slips out of you again as your back arches slightly off the bed.

Soobin chuckles softly, the sound warm and fond. His flushed chest presses closer to yours as he watches every little expression on your face — the way your brows furrow, the way your teeth sink into your lip, the way your eyes flutter.

Your boyfriend praises you quietly, adding a second finger on the next stroke, stretching you open so easily.

His fingers move in and out in long, slow pumps, curling just right against that spot inside you while his thumb keeps working your clit in those steady, mind-melting circles. He’s completely focused on you — grinning, flushed, whispering sweet little things between soft kisses to your neck and mouth, completely lost in the way you fall apart under his hand.

Soobin curls his fingers inside you one last time, pressing firmly against that spot that makes your toes curl, before he slowly slides them out. The sudden emptiness makes you whine in protest.

He watches your face with a soft, apologetic smile, his own breathing ragged. His cock is throbbing visibly against your thigh, flushed dark and leaking steadily.

“Sorry, jagi, I'm just…” he murmurs, voice thick and raspy. “Really in a rush right now—” He glances down between your bodies, brows slightly furrowed even through the haze of alcohol.

He leans down and kisses your forehead, then your lips, sweet and slow.

“In the morning I’ll take my time with you properly, eat you out for as long as you want, make you come on my tongue first… but right now—” His hips twitch involuntarily, cock sliding against your slick folds. “I feel like I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind.”

You let out a breathless laugh that turns into a curse when his cock lightly drags through your warmth. While he’s still chuckling softly, he reaches down and wraps his long fingers around him, using your wetness to stroke himself slowly. The wet sound is filthy in the quiet room. He groans deep in his chest, eyes fluttering for a second as he pumps himself a few times, spreading your slick all over his length.

The sight makes heat flare through you. The ache between your legs is suddenly unbearable, making you needy for something inside you right now.

Your hand fumbles blindly on the pillow beside your head where you remember him tossing the condom. Fingers brush the foil packet and you snatch it up immediately.

Soobin’s eyes widen slightly when he sees it in your hand, but he doesn’t stop stroking himself, thumb brushing over the leaking tip.

You tear the wrapper open with your teeth — a practiced, familiar motion after years together — and pull out the condom. He shifts back just enough to give you room, still hovering over you, flushed chest rising and falling fast.

You sit up a little, reaching for him. He helps guide your hands, one of his big palms covering yours as you roll the condom down his thick length together. It’s smooth, natural, the same little dance you’ve done countless times. He lets out a shaky breath when you reach the base, giving him one firm stroke for good measure.

“Fuck,” he breathes, half-laughing, half-groaning as he presses you back down into the mattress.

Soobin hovers over you, breathing heavy, the tip of his cock nudging against your entrance. Even in his drunk, urgent state, the careful boyfriend in him wins.

He reaches over to the side of the bed and grabs one of the extra pillows. As he leans, his heavy cock bobs forward and drags right over your swollen clit.

Both of you freeze for half a second, then burst into soft, breathless giggles.

“Shit—” he laughs quietly, shoulders shaking. “Sorry.”

He tucks the pillow under your hips with practiced ease, lifting you gently like he’s done a hundred times before. The new angle immediately makes you feel more open for him.

Soobin settles back between your thighs, one hand on your waist, the other wrapping around his cock again. You reach down at the same time, your fingers overlapping his as you both line him up together. The head of his cock presses against your slick entrance, hot and thick.

He leans down and kisses your bare shoulder softly, lips lingering there.

“You sure you don’t want prone tonight?” he asks gently against your skin, voice raspy but sweet. “I know it’s your favorite, I can fuck you deep like that if you want.”

You shake your head, a breathy whine slipping out as you spread your legs wider for him. “No… want you like this,” you murmur, guiding the tip of him just inside you. “Want to see you, Binnie— fuck...”

You try to pull him in with one impatient roll of your hips. A sharp, needy whine escapes you instantly. He’s so big, and it’s been two whole weeks — the stretch is intense, almost too much even though you’re basically soaked right now.

Soobin freezes right away, concern flashing across his flushed face.

“Breathe, baby,” he says softly, voice steady and comforting. One big hand strokes your side. “I already told you to not do that. It can hurt you, jagi.”

He gently takes your left leg and hooks your ankle over his broad shoulder as he's talking, opening you up even more. The new position makes you both moan quietly. He leans forward, folding you nicely under him, and lines himself up again with your help.

“That’s it,” he whispers, pressing a slow kiss to your knee. His eyes stay locked on yours the whole time — drunk, adoring, and a little worried even as his cock throbs against your entrance. He waits, patient, until you relax and nod.

Only then does he start pushing in — slow, careful, and so fucking thick. Soobin’s breath catches as the head of his cock slowly sinks into you, stretching you open inch by inch. He’s so thick that even after the improvised prep, your mouth falls open in a silent moan. The pillow under your hips and your leg hooked over his shoulder make the angle devastatingly deep.

“Shit,” he groans, voice raspy and strained. His eyes flutter shut for a second before he forces them open again, watching your face carefully. “Squeezing me too tight... Just breathe, honey.”

You nod shakily, fingers digging into his broad shoulders as he keeps pressing forward, slow and steady. Halfway in, you let out a broken whimper. The stretch burns in the best way, that perfect mix of too much and not enough.

He gives you another moment, then rocks forward again, sinking the rest of the way in until his hips are flush against yours. A deep, relieved groan rumbles out of his chest when he bottoms out. You can feel him throbbing inside you, so full and heavy it makes your head spin.

“Oh my god, baby…” you moan, back arching off the bed.

He stays there for a few seconds, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours while both of you just breathe through it. His flushed chest is pressed against your breasts, skin burning hot. One of his big hands strokes your hips soothingly, the other holding your thigh against his shoulder.

Soobin’s breath hitches. His grip on your thigh tightens almost possessively as he slowly folds you further underneath him — pushing your leg higher, pressing your knee closer to your chest. The new angle forces him even deeper, and a broken moan slips out of you.

Before you can catch your breath, his other hand slides up your back, fingers threading firmly into your hair. He grips the strands near your nape with surprising strength, tugging just hard enough to tilt your head back against the pillow. His long fingers curl tight at the base of your skull, holding you right where he wants you.

Your eyes roll back instantly.

“S— fuck—” The word comes out shaky, almost slurred. The alcohol in your system basically all gone now.

He lets out a low, satisfied groan at your reaction, lips brushing your jaw.

“You like that?” he rasps, voice deep and rough.

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

He starts moving.

A deep, deliberate roll of his hips that makes you feel every thick inch dragging inside you. With your leg folded high and his strong grip on your nape and hair, you’re completely pinned under him, helpless in the best way. Soobin pulls out almost all the way, then sinks back in with a wet slap, setting a steady, filthy rhythm.

Your hands fly around desperately, not knowing where to hold on. You fist the sheets first, twisting them hard as he bottoms out again, a broken moan tearing from your throat. On the next thrust you reach for the pillow above your head, gripping it tight, but nothing feels steady enough.

Soobin notices. His grip in your hair tightens just a fraction as he leans closer, chest pressed flush to yours, lips against your ear.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice wrecked.

On the next deep thrust you finally settle — one hand flying up to wrap around the thick bicep of the arm that’s gripping your nape. Your fingers dig into the firm muscle there, nails biting into his flushed skin as he drives into you again and again. Your other hand slides across his broad back, scratching down the length of it hard enough to leave marks.

Soobin hisses through his teeth, a shaky groan following right after.

He keeps that steady, punishing rhythm — pulling out slow, then slamming back in deep, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet room. Every thrust forces a helpless sound out of you. Your nails rake down his back again as he grinds against your walls, and his grip on your hair tightens in response, keeping you right there with him.

Soobin keeps that deep, steady rhythm for a few more thrusts, then suddenly slows. He reaches up, grabs your hand that’s clawing at his bicep, and guides it to the back of his head.

You know exactly what that means.

Your fingers thread through the fluffy strands at the back of his neck and grip tight. The second you tug, you feel your boyfriend's hips stuttering.

He starts giving you shallow, experimental thrusts — little rolls of his hips that let him search for that perfect angle. Not pulling out much, just grinding and adjusting, like he was trying to find momentum or something else your drunken fucked out brain couldn't wrap around it yet. His brows were furrowed in concentration, flushed cheeks glowing under the low light, drunk eyes locked on your face like he’s studying every reaction.

You tug his hair again and his breath catches.

“Fuck—” he murmurs, voice raspy.

He then angles his hips a little higher and gives another shallow thrust.

Your whole body jolts.

A sharp, broken moan rips out of you as he finally hits it — that sweet spot deep inside that makes your toes curl and your vision blur. Soobin’s face lights up instantly, a bright, satisfied grin breaking across his flushed face, dimples deep.

“Fucking finally” he whispers triumphantly, almost giddy even while buried inside you. “Found it.” You want to laugh at his ridiculousness but you're too busy moaning his name out loud.

Soobin doesn’t waste a second. He shifts his weight, one big hand reaching down to fix the pillow under your hips, pushing it a little higher so the angle is even better. Then he hooks your leg more securely over his shoulder, folding you open wider for him.

Now that he’s locked onto your sweet spot, the man turns into a beast so he can focus completely.

His thrusts stay deep but become more targeted — slow, powerful drags that grind right against that patch of warmth on every stroke. The hand that was before gripping your hair, now grips the bed behind your head. The wet, filthy sound of him moving inside you fills the room as he keeps that perfect rhythm, never losing it once he’s found it.

You can only nod and moan, fingers tightening desperately in his skin and back. Every precise thrust makes your eyes roll back again. Soobin groans at the feeling of you pulling his hair, hips snapping a little harder as he chases your pleasure.

He adjusts the angle of your leg one more time, pressing your thigh closer to your chest, and the new depth makes you cry out. Soobin smiles against your neck — proud, drunk, and completely lost in you — while he keeps fucking you with those devastating, focused strokes.

Soobin keeps that perfect rhythm for a few more deep strokes, then suddenly slows again. You're about to curse him out when he gently lowers your leg from his shoulder, letting it wrap around his waist instead. You whine at the loss of the stretch, but the sound turns into a gasp when he slides his long arm underneath your lower back.

“Come here, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough.

With one smooth, powerful motion he pulls your hips up and glues your bodies completely together. Your chests press flush, sweat-slick skin sliding against skin. His arm stays locked around your waist like a steel band, holding you so tightly there’s almost no space left between you. Every breath you take, he feels.

The new angle makes him sink even deeper.

You both moan loudly at the first thrust.

“Fuck— Soobin,” you whimper, legs instinctively circling his narrow hips, heels digging into the back of his thighs to pull him closer. Your arms wrap around his neck, fingers threading back into his hair at the nape like you knew he loved. "This is new, baby—"

“Better, right?” he rasps against your ear, voice wrecked. “Dreamt of this last night and wanted to try with you so bad.”

Soobin groans, deep and broken, burying his face in the crook of your neck for a second. One of his arms is still banded tightly around your waist, holding your entire body glued to his. The other arm is braced beside your head, forearm flexing hard as his hand grips the sheets in a white-knuckled fist.

"Woke up so hard and leaking all over my bed, jagi, just thinking about you like this."

Soobin looks devastating like this.

Broad shoulders curled over you, flushed chest pressed to yours, the muscles in his arm standing out as he holds himself up just enough not to crush you. His messy hair falls over his forehead, cheeks and neck still that pretty, deep pink from the alcohol and exertion. Every time he rolls his hips, the flex of his back and shoulders is mesmerizing.

He starts moving again — slower, but heavier, grinding strokes that press him right against your sweet spot with almost no space to pull out. Because he’s holding you so tightly, every thrust makes your bodies slide together, your clit rubbing against his pelvis on every roll. The wet, intimate sound of him moving inside you is filthy and constant.

You cling to him harder, legs locked around his hips, arms tight around his neck like you’re afraid he’ll disappear. Your nails scratch lightly at his scalp and the back of his shoulders.

Soobin lets out a shaky breath right against your neck.

Your moans mix together, breathy and desperate. He keeps that tight, glued-together rhythm — hips rolling in deep, filthy circles, barely pulling out before pressing back in, keeping you full and pressed against him the whole time.

His flexed arm beside your head tightens, knuckles white on the sheets as he fights to keep control.

He turns his head just enough to kiss you — messy, open-mouthed, and needy — while still holding your entire body flush against his, fucking you deep and slow in that perfect, intimate grind.

You’re getting closer.

Every deep, grinding roll of his hips pushes you higher, that tight coil in your stomach winding impossibly tighter. You can’t stop the needy sounds spilling from your lips. Your legs tighten around his waist, heels digging into his back as you pull him even deeper.

Soobin feels it — the way you start clenching around him, the way your breathing turns into short, desperate whimpers.

He grins.

That devastating, dimpled smile spreads across his flushed face, eyes half-lidded and sparkling with drunk affection even as he keeps fucking you slow and deep.

Your lips press messily against his mouth first, then trail across his jaw, sucking lightly at the sharp line there. Soobin’s grin widens, dimples carving deep into his cheeks as he tilts his head to give you more access. You kiss down the flushed column of his neck, open-mouthed and wet, tasting the salt on his skin and the faint scent of his cologne still clinging to him.

Every time your lips or tongue touch him, he lets out a soft, pleased hum, hips never losing their rhythm.

“Fuck… keep doing that,” he breathes, dimples still on full display. His arm around your waist squeezes you tighter, pressing your bodies impossibly closer as he grinds into you. “Love when you kiss me like you can’t get enough.”

You whimper against his neck and bite down gently right below his ear. Soobin’s breath stutters, the arm braced beside your head flexing hard, knuckles white on the sheets.

His arm around your waist holds you even closer, almost lifting your hips off the bed as he drives into you with those perfect, deep grinds. Your arms stay locked around his neck, fingers tugging at his hair while the heat inside you starts to blow up.

“Soobin—” you whimper against his flushed neck, voice shaking.

“I know, baby. I can feel it,” he murmurs, that dimpled grin still tugging at his lips even as his own breathing turns ragged. “You’re getting tighter.”

You bury your face in his neck, kissing and panting against his skin, desperate little moans spilling out with every roll of his hips. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling hard, and Soobin groans deeply, the sound vibrating against your lips.

“That’s it… let go for me,” he whispers hotly, voice raspy and sweet. “I’ve got it.”

The coil snaps without warning.

Your orgasm crashes over you hard. A broken cry tears from your throat as your whole body seizes up, thighs clamping tight around your boyfriend's waist. You clench around him in pulsing waves, so intensely that your vision whites out for a second. Your back arches hard against him, pressing your chest even tighter to his as pleasure floods every nerve.

Soobin’s dimples disappear as his mouth falls open in a wrecked moan, but he doesn’t stop moving. He keeps grinding deep and steady through your orgasm, drawing it out, letting you ride every wave.

Your nails dig into his back and scalp as you shake in his arms, whimpering and moaning his name like a prayer. The arm around your waist holds you impossibly closer, almost lifting you completely off the bed while he keeps fucking you through it, slow and deep, making sure you feel every single second.

You’re still trembling, thighs shaking around his waist, when Soobin’s thrusts start getting a little more desperate, his breathing turning ragged against your neck.

“Baby… I’m so close,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Fuck, I’m gonna come—”

Still overstimulated and sensitive, you push at his shoulder and then gently but firmly shove his face away from your neck. Soobin blinks, confused for half a second, dimples still faintly visible as he tries to understand.

Before he can ask, you push him harder, rolling him onto his back.

He gets it instantly.

A surprised, breathy laugh escapes him as he wraps both big arms around you and pulls you with him, never once letting you disconnect. In one smooth motion he flips you so you’re straddling his lap, him still buried deep inside you.

“Shit— okay, like this?” he rasps, eyes wide and dark with lust.

You don’t answer with words. You brace your hands on his flushed chest and start riding him.

Soobin’s head falls back against the pillow with a broken moan, eyes rolling for a second as you sink down on him again and again. The new position lets you take him even deeper, and the way your walls flutter around his oversensitive cock makes him look like he’s about to lose his mind.

“Good fuck, jagi—” His voice cracks. His hands fly to your hips, gripping hard, fingers digging into your skin as you roll your hips in deep, filthy circles.

Soobin looks completely gone underneath you.

Cheeks burning red, neck and chest flushed dark pink, messy hair sticking to his forehead, mouth open in a constant stream of shaky moans. His abs flex every time you sink down on him, and those pretty dimples keep flashing whenever he tries (and fails) to smile through the overwhelming pleasure.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whines, voice raspy and high. “So fucking tight— slow down a little, Y/N, I’m— shit—”

But you don’t slow down. You ride him harder, bouncing on his cock with wet, obscene sounds filling the room. Soobin’s grip on your hips tightens almost painfully as his thighs start trembling underneath you.

His head presses back into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut for a moment before they fly open again, locked on where you two are connected.

“Look at you… riding me so good,” he pants, half-lost in it. “My pretty girl using me after she came all over my cock… fuck, I love you. I love you so much—”

You slap your hand over his mouth, fingers pressing firmly against his lips.

Soobin’s eyes widen instantly, a muffled, surprised sound vibrating against your palm. You don’t let him recover — you grind down harder, faster, rolling your hips in tight, filthy circles that make his cock drag perfectly against your walls.

His breath hitches sharply through his nose. You can feel the hot, desperate puffs of air against your skin as he’s forced to breathe only through his nose, eyes rolling back slightly.

“Mmm—!” The sound is choked behind your hand, needy and broken. His eyebrows furrow, that pretty flushed face looking completely wrecked as you ride him without mercy.

You lean forward, putting more weight on your hand, keeping his mouth covered while you bounce and grind faster. The wet sounds between your bodies get louder, messier. Soobin’s hands fly to your hips, gripping so hard you know you’ll have bruises tomorrow, but he doesn’t stop you. He can’t.

He starts thrusting up desperately to meet you, hips snapping off the bed in short, frantic strokes. His thighs tremble underneath you. Every time you slam down, he drives up, burying himself as deep as possible.

You feel him throbbing violently inside you.

His eyes squeeze shut, then fly open again — glassy, drunk, and completely gone. Harsh breaths keep punching through his nose against your palm as he fucks up into you with everything he has left, muffled whimpers and groans vibrating against your fingers.

A few more hard, sloppy movements and he breaks.

Soobin’s whole body seizes up beneath you. His back arches sharply off the bed, a loud, broken moan tearing through your hand as he comes hard. You feel every thick pulse of his cock as he spills into the condom, hips jerking uncontrollably while he keeps thrusting up into you through his orgasm, chasing every last second of pleasure.

His eyes stay locked on where you're both connected the entire time — wide, desperate, and so full of lust and love it makes your stomach flip.

When the last powerful spasm finally fades, his body collapses back onto the mattress, chest heaving. You slowly lift your hand from his mouth. He immediately sucks in a deep, shaky breath, lips parted and shiny.

“Jesus” he rasps, voice completely shot. His hands slide up your back, pulling you down onto his chest as he pants against your neck. "You're so fucking hot."

His hands slide up your back immediately, pulling you down onto his chest while both of you try to catch your breath. His heartbeat is still hammering wildly beneath your cheek, skin damp and burning hot against yours. You can barely move without feeling the aftershocks still rolling through both your bodies.

For a long moment neither of you says anything.

The room is filled only with uneven breathing and the occasional twitch of Soobin’s thighs underneath you whenever you shift slightly.

Then:

A weak little laugh escapes him.

You lift your head just enough to look at him. His hair is sticking everywhere now, cheeks completely flushed, lips swollen, eyes glassy and half-closed from exhaustion and alcohol.

You whisper. "Are you still drunk?"

“Debatable.”

You snort softly.

Soobin groans when you move to sit up properly, arms immediately tightening around your waist to keep you exactly where you are.

“No,” he mumbles.

“I can feel you in my lungs, baby. Is getting uncomfy for me.”

“Stay there.”

“Soobin, we need to breathe.”

“We are breathing.”

Barely.

You laugh quietly again, fingers brushing damp hair away from his forehead while his eyes drift shut under your touch almost instantly.

Drunk Soobin after sex is always devastatingly soft. Especially tonight.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs sleepily against your shoulder. “Feels nice.” A lazy smile tugs at his lips before he suddenly starts laughing under his breath again.

“What?” You look up at him.

“I can’t believe you did that again.”

Your face heats immediately because you know exactly what he means. “You liked it last time.”

“Liked it?” He looks genuinely offended, eyes finally opening properly to stare up at you. “Baby, I begged you to do it again for like three months straight.”

You burst into laughter.

“I’m serious!” he insists, dimples appearing despite how exhausted he looks. “You can’t just do stuff like that and expect me to be normal afterward.”

The memory alone visibly affects him again because his hands squeeze your hips instinctively while he groans dramatically into the pillow.

“Oh my God,” you laugh. “You’re still hard?”

“A little,” he mutters with zero shame. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m drunk and in love with you.”

The honesty in his voice makes your chest ache a little. He notices immediately, because of course he does after all these years. His expression softens. Then quieter now, thumb rubbing slowly along your waist beneath the sheets.

“I hate your idol stamina sometimes,” you mumble, voice muffled against his chest while your fingers lazily trace over the warm skin of his stomach. “I’m really sleepy, Soob. Can't go another round.”

His entire expression melts instantly.

“Aww,” he coos quietly, drunk affection taking over his face so fast it makes you laugh weakly. “My baby’s tired.”

“You literally ruined me.”

“Mhm.” His hand slides slowly up and down your back beneath the sheets, soothing and absentminded. “You did kinda start fighting for your life there at the end.”

You groan immediately and shove weakly at his chest.

“Shut up.”

His laugh rumbles warmly underneath your cheek. The room feels smaller and warmer, filled only with your shared breathing and quiet giggles. Soobin’s arms stay wrapped around you like he has no intention of ever letting go, his big hand still rubbing slow circles on your back.

After a minute, he sighs deeply, the sound content and sleepy.

“Okay… I should probably deal with this,” he mumbles, glancing down between your bodies where he’s still buried inside you, the condom now full.

You hum in agreement but don’t move. Neither does he for a few seconds. He just holds you tighter, pressing one last lazy kiss to your forehead.

With a soft groan, Soobin gently starts to pull out. You both hiss at the sensitivity — you from being overstimulated, him from how raw he feels. The moment he slips free, you immediately miss the fullness, letting out a tiny whine.

Soobin chuckles softly at the sound.

“'Can't go another round',” he mocks you, voice hoarse.

He carefully rolls you onto your side beside him, then sits up with visible effort. His tall frame sways a little as he swings his long legs off the bed. The lamplight catches on his flushed skin, the red still blooming beautifully across his neck and chest, sweat making his broad shoulders glisten.

You watch him lazily from the pillows as he peels the condom off with a tired grimace, ties it, and pads across the room on slightly unsteady legs. Even drunk and fucked-out, he’s graceful in that quiet, giant-boy way — tall, broad back flexing as he tosses the condom into the small trash bin near your desk.

He comes back immediately, crawling onto the bed like a big, clingy cat and collapsing half on top of you again. His head lands on your chest with a dramatic sigh, one arm slung heavily over your waist, leg tangled between yours.

“Done,” he mumbles against your skin, already sounding half-asleep. “Can we stay like this forever now?”

You thread your fingers through his messy hair, smiling.

“Yeah, Soob. Forever sounds good.”

He nuzzles closer, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss right over your heart. His voice is barely a whisper now, warm and sleepy.

“Love you… so much. Thank you for letting me have you.”

You kiss the top of his head, heart full.

“Always, baby. Now sleep.”

Soobin hums happily, already drifting off with his flushed cheek squished against you, dimples still faintly visible even in sleep.

author's note — had so much fun writing this mwahahahah

Until last week, when he sat you down with tears in his eyes and whispered, “I think I’m gay. I’ve been trying so hard not to be, but… I can’t keep lying to you or myself.”

The world had tilted. All those nights you lay awake wondering what was wrong with you — your body, your touch, your desirability — suddenly made brutal sense. You weren’t enough because you were never going to be what he needed. And the worst part? He still loved you. Just not like that.

So here you are. Fresh start. New apartment. Virgin at twenty-three with a broken heart and a mountain of self-doubt.

You wipe your face with the back of your sleeve and start unpacking the bare minimum: a few clothes, your laptop, and the cheap instant coffee you bought on the way. The storm outside is already picking up, thunder rumbling low in the distance. Perfect weather for your mood.

The hallway lights flicker as you step out to throw away the empty boxes. That’s when you see him for the first time.

Across the hall, door slightly ajar, stands a guy in all black — black hoodie, black jeans, black boots. Sharp jawline, dark hair falling over his eyes, a silver chain glinting at his neck. He’s leaning against the doorframe like he owns the building, scrolling on his phone with one hand while the other holds a motorcycle helmet.

You’ve heard the rumors from the landlord already: Park Jongseong. Only son of some big-shot businessman. Spoiled. Keeps to himself. Rides a matte-black motorcycle that roars like thunder at odd hours. Never smiles. Girls in the building call him “ice prince” behind his back — half scared, half intrigued.

He glances up when your box scrapes against the floor. His eyes — dark, intense — flick over you once. No greeting. No nod. Just a flat, unreadable stare before he turns back to his phone and shuts his door with a soft click.

Rude. Whatever. You don’t need neighbors right now anyway.

Back inside, you collapse onto the bare mattress (bed frame still in pieces on the floor) and let the tears finally come. Ugly, heaving sobs that shake your shoulders as rain starts hammering the windows. You replay every moment you felt undesirable, every time he pulled away when things got heated, every “I love you” that now feels like a lie wrapped in kindness.

Your power flickers again. Once. Twice.

Then everything goes dark.

Great. Just great.

You sit there in the sudden silence, phone flashlight on, listening to the storm rage outside. No candles. No snacks. Just you, your heartbreak, and the sound of rain.

A knock on your door makes you jump.

You hesitate, heart racing. It’s late. You don’t know anyone here.

Another knock — firmer this time.

You creep to the door and peek through the peephole.

It’s him. The motorcycle guy. Jay.

He’s holding a small paper bag in one hand and two white candles in the other. His hair is slightly damp from the rain, and he looks… annoyed? Or maybe just bored.

You open the door a crack, keeping the chain on.

“…Yes?”

He doesn’t smile. His voice is low, a little rough, like he doesn’t use it often. “Power’s out on this floor. Landlord’s useless in storms.” He lifts the bag slightly. “Instant ramen. And candles. Figured the new girl might not have anything yet.”

You blink, stunned. This is the same guy who ignored you ten minutes ago?

“I— uh… thank you. You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs, one shoulder rising lazily. “Didn’t want to listen to someone crying through the walls all night.” His eyes flick to your obviously red, puffy face for half a second before looking away. “Take it or don’t. I’m not standing here forever.”

The bluntness stings a little, but there’s something almost… soft under it. Like he’s pretending to be colder than he is.

You slide the chain off and take the bag and candles with shaky hands. Your fingers brush his for a split second — warm skin, calloused from who knows what.

“…I’m Y/N,” you mumble.

“Jay.” He pauses, then adds, almost reluctantly, “Welcome to the building. Try not to flood the hallway with your tears. Pipes are old.”

Before you can respond, he turns and walks back to his door, disappearing inside without another word.

You stand there holding the ramen and candles, the storm still howling outside.

For the first time all day, the smallest, tiniest huff of laughter escapes you.

What a weird, rude, strangely kind neighbor.

You close your door, light one candle, and boil water on your portable stove (thank god you bought it). As you slurp the cheap ramen by candlelight, you can’t stop thinking about those dark eyes and the way his voice dipped when he told you not to cry all night.

Maybe this new start won’t be completely lonely after all.

But you’re not ready to think about boys. Not yet. Not when your heart still feels like it’s been shredded.

Still… across the hall, the “scary” motorcycle guy just showed up with food and light when no one else did.

You blow out the candle later that night and fall asleep to the sound of rain, the faint rumble of thunder, and the distant memory of a black helmet and quiet kindness.

The storm has left everything damp and gray. Sunlight filters weakly through your thin curtains, and your body feels heavy from crying yourself to sleep. You wake up with swollen eyes and a dull ache in your chest that reminds you exactly why you’re here.

Two years. Wasted on someone who could never want you the way you wanted him. The virginity you guarded so carefully now feels like a joke — a punchline you didn’t see coming. Every time you close your eyes, you hear his gentle “I’m sorry” and feel the sting of not being enough for a man who turned out to want someone else entirely.

You drag yourself out of bed, splash cold water on your face, and decide the best distraction is coffee and fresh air. The power is back on, thank god, but the apartment still feels too empty. You throw on an oversized hoodie and leggings, grab your keys, and step into the hallway.

The moment you lock your door, you hear the low rumble of an engine from the parking lot below. You glance over the railing just in time to see him — Jay — swinging a leg over his matte-black motorcycle. He’s dressed in all black again: fitted black shirt that shows the faint outline of tattoos peeking from his sleeves, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, dark hair still messy from sleep. He looks expensive. Spoiled. Untouchable.

He doesn’t notice you at first. You watch as he revs the engine once, the sound cutting through the quiet morning like a warning. Then he pauses, helmet in hand, and his gaze lifts — straight to where you’re standing.

Your eyes meet for a second too long. You feel exposed, like he can see the leftover redness around your eyes or the way your shoulders are still slumped from yesterday’s breakdown. Heat rushes to your face. You turn quickly and head down the stairs, pretending you were never staring.

By the time you reach the ground floor, he’s already pulling out of the lot, the motorcycle’s roar fading into the distance. Good. You don’t need another awkward encounter with the rich boy who probably thinks you’re a mess.

You walk to the small café two blocks away, order an iced americano, and sit by the window with your laptop, trying to distract yourself with job listings. But your mind keeps drifting. To the candles. To the instant ramen. To the way Jay’s voice had softened just a fraction when he told you not to cry through the walls.

He’s probably laughing about it with his rich friends right now. “Some pathetic new girl moved in and I had to play hero with ramen.”

You shake the thought away and focus on your screen. You need a job. You need normalcy. You do not need to think about the quiet, sharp-jawed guy across the hall who rides a motorcycle like he’s in a drama and hands out candles like it’s nothing.

Hours later, when you return to the building with grocery bags, the sky is starting to darken again with leftover clouds. Your arms are aching from the weight of rice, ramen, and cleaning supplies. As you struggle to balance everything while fishing for your keycard, you hear footsteps behind you.

“Need help?”

The voice is low and familiar. You nearly drop the bags.

Jay stands there, helmet tucked under one arm, keys in hand. Up close in daylight he looks even more intimidating — sharp eyes, perfect bone structure, a faint scar near his eyebrow that makes him look like trouble. But his expression isn’t cold today. It’s… neutral. Maybe even a little concerned.

You hesitate. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

He doesn’t move. “You look like you’re about to lose the battle with those bags.”

Before you can protest, he takes two of the heavier ones from your arms with effortless ease. His fingers brush yours again — same warm, calloused touch as last night. You swallow hard and mumble a quiet “thank you” as he follows you up the stairs.

The silence between you is thick. Your heart is beating too fast for no reason. This is the guy everyone warns about — spoiled son of a powerful father, probably never worked a day in his life, always in black like he’s auditioning for a villain role. Yet here he is, carrying your groceries like it’s normal.

At your door, you set the bags down and fumble with the key. He waits patiently, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. The black shirt stretches across his chest in a way that makes it hard not to notice how well-built he is under all that brooding exterior.

“You okay?” he asks suddenly, voice quieter than you expect.

You freeze, key halfway in the lock. “What?”

“Yesterday. You looked like you’d been crying for hours.” His eyes flick to your face, then away. “Didn’t mean to make it sound rude last night. Just… didn’t know what else to say.”

Your throat tightens. The breakup flashes through your mind again — the confession, the pity in your ex’s eyes, the way he never touched you like he wanted you. Virgin. Undesirable. Not enough for a straight man, apparently.

“I’m… dealing with some stuff,” you manage, voice small. “Bad breakup. New place. New everything.”

Jay nods once, slowly. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t offer fake sympathy or tell you it’ll be okay. He just stands there, presence steady.

“Storm knocked out more than power last night,” he says after a beat. “If it happens again, knock on my door. I have a generator in the basement unit my dad insisted on installing. Spoiled brat perks, I guess.”

There’s a hint of self-deprecating humor in his tone — the first crack in the ice-prince armor.

You let out a soft, surprised laugh despite yourself. “Thanks. Really. For the ramen too. It was… kind of you.”

He shrugs, pushing off the wall. “Don’t mention it. I hate eating alone when the building feels empty.” He pauses at his own door, hand on the knob, and glances back at you. “Name’s Jay, by the way. In case you forgot.”

“I remember,” you say softly.

For the tiniest moment, the corner of his mouth twitches — not quite a smile, but close. Then he disappears into his apartment with a quiet click of the door.

You stand there holding your groceries, heart doing something stupid and fluttery that you immediately shut down. No. You are not ready. Your body still feels like a betrayal, your confidence in pieces. The last thing you need is to develop a crush on the mysterious rich neighbor who rides a motorcycle and pretends he doesn’t care.

But as you unpack the ramen (the same brand he brought you), you can’t help replaying the way his voice softened when he asked if you were okay.

Maybe the “scary” guy isn’t as untouchable as he looks.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re not as invisible as you feel.

A few days pass in a blur of unpacking, late-night crying sessions you try to keep quiet, and forcing yourself to apply for jobs even when your confidence feels shattered. Every time you catch your reflection, the same thoughts loop: He never wanted me because I’m not what he needed. What if no one ever does? Being a virgin at your age suddenly feels like a neon sign screaming “broken” or “undesirable.” You push it down, but it lingers like a bruise.

The building is quiet most days, but you’ve started noticing patterns. Jay’s motorcycle usually leaves early and returns late. He keeps odd hours. You tell yourself you’re not watching for him — you’re just… adjusting to new sounds.

Tonight, you’re coming back from a late convenience store run, arms full of ramyeon and snacks to survive another lonely evening. The hallway lights are dim as you step off the elevator. That’s when you hear it: soft laughter. Female laughter. High, flirty, and way too close.

Your steps slow.

Jay’s door is cracked open. Inside, you catch glimpses of movement — two girls, both stunning in that effortless way. One with long wavy hair and a tight dress, the other in designer jeans and a crop top, holding a bottle of soju. They’re leaning against his kitchen counter like they belong there, giggling at something he said.

Jay stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his black t-shirt, hair slightly tousled like he just got off the bike. He’s not smiling, but there’s a relaxed tilt to his shoulders you haven’t seen before. One of the girls reaches out and playfully tugs at the silver chain around his neck, saying something you can’t quite hear. The other laughs louder and presses closer, her hand brushing his arm.

Something ugly twists in your stomach. Not jealousy — you barely know him. Just… a sharp reminder that while you’re still raw and untouched and questioning everything about yourself, some people live easy lives full of attention. Rich, spoiled, motorcycle-riding Jay probably has girls like that showing up whenever he wants. Of course he does. He’s gorgeous, mysterious, and clearly loaded.

You try to slip past quietly, but one of your plastic bags rustles loudly.

All three heads turn.

Jay’s dark eyes lock on you immediately. The easy vibe from a second ago vanishes — his jaw tightens, expression shifting back to that unreadable mask. The two girls glance at you, one raising a perfectly shaped brow like she’s sizing up competition.

You feel your face burn. “Sorry,” you mumble, hurrying toward your door. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re the new neighbor, right?” the girl with the wavy hair calls out, voice sugary sweet but with an edge. “Jay-oppa mentioned someone moved in. You settling in okay?”

Oppa. The word stings more than it should.

“Yeah. Fine,” you say without turning around, fumbling with your key. Your hands are shaking a little. All you can think about is how desirable those girls look — confident, experienced, the kind of women men actually want to touch.

Behind you, Jay’s voice cuts through, low and firm. “Yuna. Stop.”

The girl pouts dramatically. “What? I’m being nice!”

You finally get your door open and practically dive inside, but not before catching Jay’s gaze one more time. There’s something in it — annoyance at the girls? Or maybe just… concern? You can’t tell. The door clicks shut behind you and you lean against it, heart pounding stupidly.

A few minutes later, there’s a soft knock.

You already know who it is.

When you open the door a crack, Jay is standing there alone. The girls are gone — you hear their heels clicking down the stairs and the faint sound of the elevator. He’s holding a small takeout container of what smells like warm tteokbokki.

“Those weren’t… anything,” he says bluntly, rubbing the back of his neck. He looks almost uncomfortable, like explaining himself is new territory. “Just some old friends from my dad’s business circle. They showed up uninvited. Happens sometimes when they know I’m back in Seoul.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying to play it cool even though your insides feel twisted. “You don’t have to explain. It’s your place. Your… friends.”

He studies you for a long moment, eyes flicking over your tired face, the oversized hoodie you’re hiding in, the way you’re clutching the door like a shield. “You looked upset.”

“I wasn’t,” you lie quickly. Too quickly.

Jay doesn’t buy it. He sighs, the sound heavy, and holds out the tteokbokki. “Here. They brought too much. I don’t like wasting food.”

You hesitate, then take it. Your fingers brush his again — that same warm spark. This time you notice how his hand lingers just a second longer than necessary.

“Thanks,” you whisper.

He nods once, then glances back at his now-empty apartment. “They’re loud. Annoying. Not really my type.” The words come out flat, like he’s stating a fact rather than reassuring you. But there’s a softness underneath, the same one that showed up with the candles and ramen.

You swallow hard, the insecurity from your breakup rising again. Not his type? What even is his type? Definitely not the crying virgin next door who can’t even unpack without falling apart.

Before you can spiral further, Jay adds quietly, “If noise bothers you later… knock. I’ll tell them to leave next time.”

Your chest tightens. He’s being kind again. The “scary” spoiled brat who never smiles is standing in the hallway offering you food and quiet like it’s nothing.

“I will,” you say softly. “Goodnight, Jay.”

“Night, Y/N.”

He waits until you close your door before going back to his own.

Inside, you sit on the floor with the warm tteokbokki, the spicy scent filling your small apartment. Across the hall, you hear faint music start — something low and calm, not the kind of playlist you’d expect from a guy with girls like that hanging off him.

You eat slowly, replaying the way his eyes had softened when he looked at you. The way he shut down the girl’s teasing. The way he didn’t want you to think those girls meant something.

It’s stupid. Dangerous, even. You’re still healing from a breakup that left your self-worth in pieces. You’re not ready to feel butterflies over a rich boy with a motorcycle and a secret soft side.

But as you finish the food he gave you, you can’t deny the small, warm spark in your chest.

Maybe the ice prince isn’t as cold as everyone thinks.

And maybe you’re starting to wonder what it would feel like if he looked at you the way those girls wanted him to.

The days after the hallway incident with those girls stretch into a strange kind of routine. You keep to yourself — job applications during the day, quiet evenings spent replaying your breakup like a bad movie you can't turn off. The insecurity sits heavy in your chest: two years of waiting, of feeling like something was wrong with your body, your touch, your everything. Your ex never once looked at you with real hunger. And now? You're still untouched, still wondering if anyone ever will.

You tell yourself Jay is just a neighbor. Nothing more. The tteokbokki he gave you was a one-off kindness. The way his eyes lingered that night meant nothing.

But the building feels smaller every time you hear his motorcycle.

Tonight, it's past midnight when the low, familiar rumble cuts through the quiet. You’re lying on your mattress (still no proper bed frame), scrolling mindlessly on your phone, when the engine growls into the parking lot below. You shouldn’t look. You really shouldn’t.

Yet you find yourself at the window, peeking through the blinds.

Jay kills the engine and swings off the bike with that effortless grace that makes your stomach flip despite yourself. He’s in all black again — leather jacket open over a fitted shirt, hair wind-swept and slightly damp from the night air. He looks tired. The usual sharp mask is cracked just enough that you catch him running a hand through his hair and letting out a long breath, like the weight of whatever “spoiled brat” life he leads is pressing down tonight.

He glances up toward the building — toward your floor — and you duck back quickly, heart hammering. Stupid. He can’t see you.

A few minutes later, footsteps echo in the hallway. Then… a soft knock on your door.

You freeze. It’s way too late for this.

Another knock, patient but firm.

You pad over in your oversized sleep shirt and shorts, cracking the door just enough to see him. Jay stands there, helmet tucked under one arm, a small plastic bag from the 24-hour convenience store in his other hand. Up close, he smells faintly of night air, leather, and something warm like coffee.

“Did I wake you?” His voice is lower than usual, a little rough from the ride.

You shake your head. “Couldn’t sleep anyway.”

He studies you for a beat — eyes flicking over your tired face, the way you’re hugging the door like armor. “Same.” He lifts the bag slightly. “Bought too much coffee and those honey butter chips. Figured if you were up… maybe you’d want some. Or not. No pressure.”

It’s such a small offer, but it feels bigger in the quiet hallway. No girls this time. No cocky attitude. Just Jay, looking almost unsure for once, like handing out late-night snacks isn’t something the “ice prince” does often.

You hesitate, then step aside and let him in. The apartment is still half-unpacked — boxes in corners, your mattress on the floor with a single blanket. Embarrassment heats your cheeks, but Jay doesn’t comment. He just sets the bag on your tiny kitchen counter and pulls out two cans of warm canned coffee and the chips.

You both end up sitting on the floor, backs against the wall, sharing the snacks in comfortable silence at first. The coffee is sweet and comforting. The chips crunch loudly between you.

After a while, he speaks. “Those girls the other night… they’re connected to my dad’s company stuff. Events, networking. They think showing up with soju makes them memorable.” He pauses, cracking open his can. “I don’t bring people here usually. Too loud. Too much.”

You nod, picking at a chip. The memory of their flirty laughter still stings a little, reminding you how confident and experienced they seemed. Everything you’re not. “As I said, Jay. You don’t have to explain. It’s your life.”

“Yeah, but…” He glances sideways at you. “You looked like it bothered you then. Didn’t want you thinking I’m some asshole who has random girls over every night.”

The admission hangs there. Your heart does that stupid flutter again. You swallow hard, the breakup feelings rising uninvited. “It’s not that. I’m just… dealing with my own mess. Bad breakup. Really bad. Makes everything feel… complicated.”

Jay doesn’t push for details. He just listens, dark eyes steady on the floor. “People suck at communicating what they really want sometimes,” he says quietly. There’s a weight to his words, like he’s speaking from experience too. “Doesn’t mean it’s on you.”

You let out a shaky laugh, the kind that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Feels like it is. When someone you trusted for years finally admits they were never… attracted. Not really. Not in the way that matters.” The virginity part stays locked inside — too raw, too embarrassing to say out loud to the hot neighbor who probably has experience in spades.

Jay’s jaw tightens slightly. He sets his coffee down and turns toward you more fully. “Then he was an idiot. Simple as that.”

The bluntness surprises a real, soft laugh out of you. For a moment, the tension eases. Jay’s mouth twitches again — that almost-smile you’re starting to crave seeing.

The conversation drifts lighter after that. He tells you a little about the motorcycle — how his dad bought it as some over-the-top gift when he turned twenty, thinking it would make him “act like a proper heir.” Jay rides it because it clears his head, not because he’s trying to look cool. You share surface-level stuff: the job hunt, how the apartment still feels too empty.

When the snacks are gone, he stands to leave, stretching slightly. His shirt rides up just enough to show a sliver of toned skin and the edge of what looks like a small tattoo on his hip. You look away fast, cheeks warming.

At the door, he pauses. “If the power goes out again or you can’t sleep… you can knock. I’m usually up late anyway. No noise. Just… me and maybe some ramen.”

You nod, throat tight. “Thanks, Jay. Really.”

He lingers a second longer than necessary, eyes meeting yours in the dim hallway light. Something unspoken passes between you — curiosity, warmth, the slow crackle of tension that neither of you is ready to name.

Then he’s gone, door clicking shut across the hall.

You lie back on your mattress, the faint scent of his leather jacket still lingering in the air. The motorcycle guy isn’t just scary or spoiled. He’s thoughtful in the quiet ways that matter. And for the first time since the breakup, the ache in your chest feels a tiny bit lighter.

But you’re not ready. Not for the butterflies. Not for wondering what it would feel like if those calloused hands touched you the way no one ever has.

Still… the sound of his engine at midnight doesn’t feel so lonely anymore.

It’s been almost two weeks since you moved in, and the ache from the breakup has settled into a dull, constant hum rather than sharp stabbing pain. You still catch yourself spiraling some nights.

You try to focus on small wins: a couple of job interviews lined up, the apartment slowly looking less like a disaster zone. Jay has become a quiet fixture in your days. Small nods in the hallway. The occasional late-night knock with snacks or coffee when he hears your light still on. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to make the building feel less empty.

Tonight, the sky opens up without warning. Rain slams against the windows in sheets, thunder cracking loud enough to rattle the old pipes. You’re halfway through folding laundry when the power flickers once, twice, then dies completely. The building plunges into darkness except for the faint emergency lights in the hallway.

You sigh, grabbing your phone flashlight. The last time this happened, Jay showed up with candles and ramen. This time, you’re determined not to be the pathetic new girl again. But as minutes tick by and the storm only gets worse, the silence starts pressing in. Your mind wanders back to your ex’s gentle rejection, the way he never once looked at you with heat in his eyes.

A soft knock echoes through your dark apartment.

You already know who it is before you open the door.

Jay stands in the hallway, lit only by the dim emergency bulb. He’s holding a couple of candles and a small portable lantern, hair slightly damp like he just came in from checking something outside. Black hoodie, black sweatpants — the usual uniform that somehow looks expensive and effortless on him.

“Power’s out again,” he says, voice low. “Whole floor this time. Landlord texted — might be a few hours.”

You nod, trying not to stare at the way the lantern light casts shadows across his sharp jaw. “Yeah… figured.”

He shifts his weight, almost hesitant. “My place has the generator. It’s not fancy, but it’s warm and there’s light. You can wait it out there if you want. Or I can just leave the lantern.”

The offer hangs between you. Part of you wants to say no — to keep the careful distance you’ve been maintaining so you don’t catch feelings for the rich boy with the motorcycle. But the thought of sitting alone in the dark with your breakup thoughts feels worse.

“…Okay,” you say quietly. “Thank you.”

He leads you across the hall. His apartment is surprisingly neat for someone labeled a spoiled brat: minimalist furniture, a large window overlooking the city, a sleek kitchen that looks barely used. The generator hums softly in the background, keeping a couple of lamps and the fridge running. It smells faintly like his cologne — woodsy and clean.

You sit on the edge of his couch while he sets the lantern down and lights the candles for extra warmth. He disappears into the kitchen for a minute and returns with two mugs of instant hot chocolate (the fancy kind with real chocolate chunks, of course).

“Perks of having a dad who overcompensates with deliveries,” he mutters, handing you one. There’s that self-deprecating tone again, like he’s embarrassed by the wealth.

You take the mug, fingers brushing his. The contact sends a small spark up your arm that you immediately ignore. “It’s good. Thanks.”

Silence settles, comfortable but charged. Rain lashes the windows. Thunder rolls. You sip the hot chocolate and glance around — no photos of family, no flashy decorations. Just a couple of books on motorcycles and business, and a guitar leaning in the corner you hadn’t noticed before.

Jay sits on the armchair across from you, elbows on his knees, watching the storm. “You’ve been quiet lately,” he says suddenly. Not accusing. Just observant. “Still thinking about that breakup?”

You swallow, the warm mug grounding you. “Yeah. It’s stupid. It’s been weeks, but… it messes with your head. When someone you loved tells you they were never really attracted to you. Makes you question everything about yourself.”

Jay’s eyes flick to yours, dark and steady. He doesn’t offer empty platitudes. Instead, he says, “Sounds like he had his own shit to figure out and dragged you through it. Doesn’t make you any less… you.”

The words land softly, but they hit deep. Your cheeks warm. You look down at your mug. “Easy to say when you have girls showing up at your door looking like models.”

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Those girls don’t see me. They see the last name and the bike and the money. Half the time I feel like a walking trust fund.” He pauses, then adds quieter, “You’re the first person in this building who looked at me like I was just… a guy. Even when I was being an ass with the ramen that first night.”

Your heart stutters. The air feels thicker suddenly. You set the mug down, nerves buzzing. “I should probably head back soon. The power might come back.”

Jay stands at the same time you do. “Wait.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking unusually unsure for the cool, untouchable neighbor. “The rain’s not letting up, and it’s dark as hell out there. I can give you a ride tomorrow morning if you have anywhere to be. On the bike. It’s faster than waiting for the bus in this weather.”

Your eyes widen. A motorcycle ride? With him? The idea sends a mix of fear and unexpected thrill through you. “I… I’ve never been on one before.”

He gives the smallest, softest almost-smile you’ve seen yet — the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to make your stomach flip. “I’ll go slow. Promise. Helmet’s extra. You’ll be safe.”

You hesitate, insecurity whispering that you’re not the kind of girl who rides motorcycles with hot neighbors. But the way he’s looking at you — patient, gentle under the sharp exterior — makes the yes slip out before you can overthink.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Tomorrow morning.”

He walks you back to your door, lantern in hand, waiting until you’re safely inside. As you close the door, you lean against it, pulse racing.

A motorcycle ride with Jay. The spoiled rich boy who’s slowly showing you his soft center. The one who makes late-night snacks feel like dates and listens without judgment.

You’re not ready for anything more. Not when your body still feels like a question mark and your heart is still healing.

But for the first time, the idea of getting closer doesn’t feel terrifying.

It feels like the start of something warm in the middle of the storm.

The next morning arrives gray and damp, but the rain has eased into a light drizzle. You stand in front of your mirror longer than usual, staring at your reflection in simple jeans, a cozy sweater, and your hair tied back loosely. Your heart is doing ridiculous things — fluttering, then sinking, then fluttering again.

It’s just a ride to the bus stop. Nothing more.

Still, the memory of Jay’s quiet “I’ll go slow. Promise.” keeps replaying. No one has ever offered you something so simple yet so intimate. Your ex never did anything like this. He was safe, gentle, careful… and ultimately not attracted to you at all. That truth still stings every time you think about being touched, about someone wanting you in that raw, physical way. You’re still a virgin carrying that quiet shame, and the idea of pressing close to Jay on a motorcycle feels both terrifying and electric.

A knock on your door pulls you out of the spiral.

Jay is waiting in the hallway, two helmets in hand — one sleek black for him, a smaller one with a clear visor for you. He’s in his usual black: fitted shirt under a leather jacket that looks soft from wear, dark jeans, boots. His hair is slightly messy, and there’s a faint scent of rain and clean cologne clinging to him.

“Ready?” he asks, voice low and steady. His eyes scan your face like he can sense your nerves. “If you changed your mind, it’s fine. I can just walk you down.”

You shake your head, swallowing hard. “No… let’s do it.”

He leads you downstairs to the parking lot where the matte-black motorcycle waits like a sleeping beast. Jay swings a leg over first, settling in with natural ease, then holds out a hand to help you on. His palm is warm and calloused — the same touch that’s lingered in your mind since the candle night.

“Hold onto my waist or shoulders,” he says quietly, handing you the helmet. “Lean with me on turns, but not too much. I’ve got you.”

Your cheeks burn as you climb on behind him. The seat is narrower than you expected. There’s no space that doesn’t put you close. You hesitate for a second, then slide your arms around his waist, hands resting lightly over the leather jacket. Even through the layers, you feel the firmness of his body, the steady warmth radiating from him. Your heart slams against your ribs.

Jay starts the engine. The low rumble vibrates through both of you. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you manage, voice muffled by the helmet.

He takes off slowly, just like he promised. The motorcycle glides out of the lot and onto the wet street. Wind rushes past, cool and fresh, carrying the scent of rain on pavement. At first you’re stiff, gripping his jacket like a lifeline. But as the ride smooths out and Jay keeps his speed gentle, something shifts.

You start to relax. Your chest presses lightly against his back with every small movement. The world blurs by — blurred buildings, wet trees, the occasional car. For the first time in weeks, your mind quiets. There’s only the roar of the engine, the steady beat of Jay’s breathing you can somehow feel, and the solid presence of him in front of you.

He doesn’t speed up or show off. He drives like he’s protecting something fragile. When he leans into a gentle turn, you instinctively follow, arms tightening around his waist without thinking. The contact sends a warm spark through your whole body — not just fear, but something softer. Something that feels dangerously like the start of liking.

At a red light, he tilts his head slightly toward you. “Still okay back there?”

Your voice comes out softer than intended. “Yeah… it’s nice.”

The corner of his mouth lifts under his helmet — you can’t see it, but you swear you feel the shift in his posture, like he’s pleased.

The ride ends too soon. He pulls up smoothly in front of the café where you have your morning interview prep planned. You slide off the bike on shaky legs, handing him the helmet. Your hands brush again, lingering a beat longer than necessary.

Jay kills the engine and looks at you, dark eyes searching your face. The drizzle has left tiny droplets on his hair and lashes. “How was it?”

“Better than the bus,” you admit, a small smile breaking through. “Thank you. Really. I… I liked it.”

Something flickers in his gaze — warm, almost surprised. He rubs the back of his neck, the same shy gesture you’ve seen when he brings snacks. “Anytime. Just knock if you need a ride. Or if the power goes out again. Or… just if you want company.”

The words hang there, simple but heavy with unspoken meaning. Your stomach flips. This is the spoiled rich boy everyone warns about? The one who never smiles? Yet here he is, offering rides and quiet company like it’s the most natural thing.

You nod, biting your lip. “I will.”

He doesn’t drive off right away. He waits until you’re safely inside the café, watching through the window as you find a seat. Only then does the motorcycle rumble back to life and fade into the distance.

All through your interview prep, you can’t stop thinking about it: the warmth of his back against your chest, the way his body felt solid and safe under your hands, the gentle way he drove just for you. The quiet way he listened to your breakup pain without judgment. The way he makes the “scary” label feel like a lie.

By the time you head home that evening, the liking has started. It’s small, fragile, and terrifying — butterflies mixed with the old fear that you’re not enough, that your inexperience will scare him away if he ever gets close.

But when you step into the hallway later and hear his door open at the same time as yours, when your eyes meet and he gives that tiny almost-smile again, you know it’s already too late to stop it.

You’re starting to like Park Jongseong. The motorcycle neighbor. The quiet rich boy with the soft center. The one who makes storms feel warmer.

And for the first time since the breakup, that thought doesn’t make you want to run. It makes you want to stay.

The liking has turned into something you can no longer ignore.

It’s been a few days since the motorcycle ride, and every small interaction with Jay now carries extra weight. A nod in the hallway feels loaded. The way he sometimes leaves a coffee outside your door when he knows you have an early interview feels like care. You catch yourself replaying the feeling of your arms around his waist, the solid heat of his back, the low rumble of his voice asking if you were okay. The butterflies are getting louder, but so is the old fear: What if he finds out I’m still a virgin because my ex never wanted me that way? What if I’m not enough again?

You’re trying to take it slow. One ride at a time. One late-night snack at a time.

Then the text comes from the building’s group chat (the one the landlord forced everyone into).

Mrs. Kim (3rd floor, end unit): “Small housewarming + birthday party at my place tonight! 8 PM. Bring drinks or snacks if you want~ Everyone on this floor is invited! No excuses 😊”

Mrs. Kim is the friendly middle-aged lady who always chats with everyone — the mutual neighbor who knows everyone’s business. She’s harmless, loud, and loves bringing people together. You’ve only spoken to her twice, but she already calls you “sweetie.”

You stare at the message, chewing your lip. A party means people. Noise. Alcohol. And most likely… Jay.

Part of you wants to hide in your apartment with ramen and a drama. The other part — the one that’s been quietly liking the boy across the hall — wonders what Jay looks like in a party setting. Whether he’ll be the cold ice prince or show that secret soft side again.

At 8:15 PM you finally decide to go. You wear something simple but cute: a soft black sweater that slips off one shoulder, jeans, and light makeup to hide the lingering tiredness in your eyes. You bring a cheap bottle of soju and some chips as your contribution.

Mrs. Kim’s apartment is already buzzing when you arrive. Music plays at a decent volume — old K-pop mixed with trot. There are about fifteen people crammed into her living room: a few other neighbors, some of her friends from the neighborhood, and a couple of younger faces you don’t recognize. The lights are warm, fairy lights strung across the ceiling, and the coffee table is covered in food and drinks.

Mrs. Kim spots you immediately and pulls you into a hug. “Y/N sweetie! You came! Come, come — meet everyone!”

She introduces you around. You smile politely, making small talk, but your eyes keep drifting to the door.

Then Jay walks in.

He’s in all black, of course — black button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing the faint lines of tattoos on his forearms, black pants that fit too well. His hair is styled back slightly, silver chain glinting at his neck. He looks expensive and effortlessly handsome, the kind of guy who makes the room feel smaller just by entering.

But he doesn’t look comfortable. His shoulders are tense, jaw set in that familiar unreadable mask. He greets Mrs. Kim with a respectful bow and a quiet “Happy birthday, auntie,” then scans the room. When his eyes land on you, something shifts — the tension eases just a fraction. He gives you the smallest nod, that almost-smile tugging at his lips.

Your heart stutters.

The party moves on. People chat, drink, play silly games. You stick mostly to the corner with a cup of watered-down soju, watching from afar. Jay stays on the opposite side, politely turning down shots from some of the older men who seem to know his father. A couple of girls from the building (not the same ones from before) try to talk to him — laughing a little too loud, touching his arm. He remains civil but distant, excusing himself after a few minutes each time.

You’re on your second cup when Mrs. Kim claps her hands. “Okay okay! Truth or dare time for the young people! Come on, don’t be boring!”

A small circle forms on the floor. Somehow you get pulled in. Somehow Jay ends up sitting directly across from you.

The game starts light — silly questions, funny dares. When it’s your turn, someone asks, “Y/N, what’s one thing you’re scared of right now?”

You hesitate, the soju making your tongue looser than usual. Your eyes flick to Jay for a split second before you answer softly, “Getting close to someone again… and realizing I’m not what they want.”

The circle goes “aww” sympathetically. Jay’s gaze stays locked on you, dark and unreadable, but his fingers tighten slightly around his cup.

Later, it’s Jay’s turn. One of the girls dares him: “Kiss the person you think is the prettiest in this room.”

The group whoops. Jay doesn’t even glance at the giggling girls. He just looks straight at you, calm and serious.

“I pass,” he says flatly.

Groans and teasing erupt. The girl pouts. “Why? Too shy?”

“Because some things shouldn’t be a dare,” he replies quietly, eyes still on you. “They should mean something.”

Your breath catches. Heat floods your face. The liking surges — warm, undeniable, terrifying. He’s not playing the game. He’s not showing off. He’s just… Jay. The one who brings candles in storms and drives slow on his motorcycle so you feel safe.

The game continues, but the air between you two has changed. Every time your eyes meet across the circle, the tension crackles. When the party starts winding down around 11 PM, Mrs. Kim is tipsy and hugging everyone goodbye.

You slip out into the hallway first, the cool air a relief after the warm, noisy room. You’re almost at your door when you hear footsteps behind you.

Jay.

He stops a respectful distance away, hands in his pockets. The hallway light casts soft shadows on his face. “You okay?” he asks, voice low. “You got quiet after that question.”

You turn to face him, leaning against your door. The soju has given you just enough courage. “Yeah. Just… thinking. About what I said.”

He steps a little closer. “For what it’s worth… whoever made you feel like you’re not enough was wrong.” His eyes are intense but gentle. “You are.”

The words land straight in your chest. Your heart races. This is the start of liking turning into something deeper — the moment where you realize you don’t just like the idea of him. You like him. The quiet sweetness hidden under the motorcycle and black clothes. The way he sees you when no one else does.

“I… thank you,” you whisper. “You’re not what people say you are, you know. The spoiled brat who never smiles.”

A real, small smile breaks across his face this time — crooked, boyish, devastating. “Maybe I just didn’t have a reason to smile before.”

The hallway feels too small. The space between you charged with everything unsaid. You want to step closer. You want to tell him about the virginity, the insecurity, the way your body still feels uncertain. But it’s too soon. Too raw.

Instead, you say softly, “Goodnight, Jay.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

He waits until you’re safely inside before going to his own door.

You lean against the wood, pressing a hand to your racing heart.

The liking has officially started. And it’s growing faster than you’re ready for.

Across the hall, the boy with the motorcycle is probably doing the same thing — wondering how the quiet new neighbor managed to crack through his walls so easily.

After Mrs. Kim’s party, the air between you and Jay feels different — heavier with possibility, softer with stolen glances and lingering goodnights in the hallway. You still haven’t told him the full truth about your breakup, about still being a virgin because your ex could never desire you the way a man should. That fear sits like a stone in your chest every time the butterflies get too loud. But Jay makes the fear quieter. His small smiles, the way he waits for you to feel safe, the motorcycle rides that have become more frequent… they’re slowly stitching pieces of you back together.

Then the new invitation comes.

This time it’s not from sweet Mrs. Kim.

It’s from Sunghoon — one of Jay’s close friends who lives two floors up. You’ve seen him around the building a couple of times: tall, sharp-featured, always with a quiet smirk. Apparently he and Jay went to the same elite high school and their families run in the same circles. Sunghoon is throwing a small “just because” gathering at his place tonight — mostly guys, a few girls, good music, and drinks. Jay mentioned it casually when he dropped you off from a morning ride yesterday.

“You should come,” he’d said, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’ll be chill. Sunghoon’s not as loud as he looks. And… I’d like you there.”

How could you say no?

You arrive at 9 PM, nerves buzzing. Sunghoon’s apartment is bigger and more modern than yours or Jay’s — sleek furniture, huge TV playing music videos, bottles of soju and beer neatly arranged on the kitchen island. There are about twelve people total: mostly guys Jay’s age, laughing and playing games on the couch, and a couple of girls who seem to be friends with the group.

Jay is already there when you walk in.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter in black (always black), sleeves rolled up, silver chain catching the low lights. The moment he sees you, his entire posture relaxes. That tiny, crooked smile appears — the one that’s becoming your favorite thing in the world.

“You came,” he says quietly, pushing off the counter to meet you halfway. His hand brushes your arm lightly, guiding you toward the group. “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

Sunghoon spots you first and grins, raising a soju bottle in greeting. “Ah, the famous new neighbor! Jay’s been talking about you. Welcome — make yourself at home.”

The guys are friendly in a loud, chaotic way. They pull you into their circle easily, asking light questions about where you moved from and what you do. Jay stays close the whole time, never crowding but always within reach. When someone offers you a strong drink, he quietly swaps it for a milder one without saying anything.

But the real shift happens an hour in.

The group starts playing a drinking game — “Never Have I Ever.” The questions start innocent, then get bolder.

Sunghoon, tipsy and smirking, leans forward. “Never have I ever… been in love with someone who didn’t want me back the same way.”

A couple of the guys drink. You hesitate, then slowly lift your cup and take a sip. The memory of your ex hits again — the gentle rejection, the years of wondering why he never touched you, why you still feel untouched and uncertain about your own body.

Jay’s eyes find yours immediately. He doesn’t drink. Instead, he watches you with that steady, protective gaze that makes your heart ache in the best way.

Later, when the game moves to truth, Sunghoon points at Jay. “Your turn, man. Truth: what’s something you’ve been wanting to do lately but haven’t had the guts for?”

The room goes quiet, everyone waiting. Jay rubs the back of his neck, the same shy habit you’ve grown to love. His dark eyes flick to you, then back to the group.

“I’ve been wanting to tell the girl who lives across the hall that I like her,” he says, voice low but clear. “That she makes this stupid building feel less empty. That I like how she looks at me like I’m just Jay… not the rich kid with the bike and the dad’s money.”

The room erupts in cheers and teasing whistles. Sunghoon claps Jay on the back, laughing. But Jay only looks at you — calm, serious, a little vulnerable under the sharp jaw and tattoos.

Your face burns. The liking explodes into something warmer, scarier, sweeter. You feel exposed and seen at the same time.

When the party starts thinning out around midnight, Jay walks you down to your floor. The hallway is quiet again, just the two of you under the soft lights. He stops in front of your door, hands in his pockets, looking at you like he’s been holding back for weeks.

“I meant what I said up there,” he says softly.

You look up at him confused.

He clears his throat, holding you hand before he speaks up,“I like you, Y/N. A lot. I know you’re still healing from that breakup. I know you’re scared. I’m not rushing anything. But… I want to be the guy who makes you feel wanted. The right way.”

Tears prick your eyes. The weight of your virginity, the insecurity that your ex never desired you — it all feels a little lighter with Jay standing here, offering patience instead of pressure.

You step closer, heart pounding. “I like you too, Jay. I’ve been starting to for a while now. The motorcycle rides… the late-night snacks… the way you’re sweet when no one’s watching. It scares me a little, but I like it.”

He lets out a relieved breath, the corner of his mouth lifting into that beautiful almost-smile that’s now fully a smile when it’s just for you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. Then Jay gently reaches out, his calloused fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. The touch is feather-light, full of care. He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.

You don’t.

The kiss is soft — tentative at first, then warmer as you both relax into it. His lips are gentle, tasting faintly of soju and the honey butter chips he always shares with you. One hand cups your cheek, the other stays respectfully at your waist. There’s no rush, no demand. Just Jay kissing you like you’re something precious he’s been waiting to hold.

When you pull back, breathless and smiling, he rests his forehead against yours.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers. “Whenever you’re ready… for anything… we’ll go slow. Like the motorcycle. Okay?”

You nod, tears of relief mixing with happiness. “Okay.”

He kisses your forehead, then steps back with that soft, boyish grin. “Goodnight, neighbor.”

“Goodnight, Jay.”

As you close your door, you lean against it, heart full and light at the same time. The boy with the motorcycle — the one everyone called a spoiled brat who never smiles — has become the sweetest part of your new beginning.

Across the hall, you hear his door click shut, and for the first time since moving in, the building doesn’t feel lonely.

It feels like home.

It’s been five days since the kiss in the hallway.

Five days of shy smiles when you pass each other in the morning, five days of Jay leaving coffee at your door before he rides off, five days of late-night texts that make your stomach flip. The liking has bloomed into something warmer, but you still haven’t told him everything. The lunch conversation at work keeps replaying in your head like a bad loop.

Today was especially rough.

During the team lunch, the same group of coworkers started the conversation again — louder this time. “Seriously, staying a virgin past twenty is just sad at this point,” one girl laughed. “It’s like you’re holding onto some fairy-tale idea. Just rip the band-aid off.” Everyone nodded and joked about it. You forced a laugh and changed the subject, but the words stuck like thorns. By the time you got home, the frustration and shame had built into a heavy knot in your chest.

You’re barely out of your work clothes (now in an oversized hoodie and shorts) when there’s a familiar knock on your door — three soft taps.

Jay.

You open it and he’s standing there in his usual black hoodie and jeans, motorcycle helmet still in one hand, hair slightly messy from the ride. The moment he sees your face, his expression shifts from soft to concerned.

“Hey… you okay? You look like something’s wrong.”

You step aside to let him in. He sets the helmet down and follows you to the small couch area. The rain is starting again outside — light but steady, the same sound that always seems to pull you two closer.

You sit down, knees pulled to your chest. Jay sits beside you, close but not crowding, waiting patiently like he always does.

“I need to tell you something,” you say quietly, voice already shaky. “About my breakup… and about me.”

He nods, dark eyes steady on yours. “I’m listening.”

You take a deep breath and let it all spill out.

“My ex and I were together for two years. He was sweet — held my hand, cuddled me, said he loved me. But he never wanted to have sex with me. Not once. I spent so long thinking there was something wrong with my body, that I wasn’t attractive enough, that I was doing everything wrong. Turns out he’s gay. He was trying to force himself to be straight for me, for his family… for everything. So I’m still a virgin. And today at lunch, everyone was talking about how stupid and pathetic it is to still be a virgin at my age. They were laughing about it like it’s something to be embarrassed about. It made me feel… broken. Frustrated. Like I’m the only one who’s still waiting and it’s my fault.”

Tears slip down your cheeks by the time you finish. You wipe them away angrily. “I like you, Jay. A lot. The kiss the other night… it felt right. But this frustration has been building and I don’t know how to deal with it anymore. I want to feel wanted. I want to feel normal. I want… you. But I’m scared I’ll disappoint you or that it’ll hurt or that I won’t know what to do.”

The silence after your confession is gentle. Jay doesn’t interrupt. He just reaches out and takes your hand, thumb stroking slowly over your knuckles.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low and steady, full of quiet anger at your ex and softness for you.

“There is nothing — nothing — wrong with you. Your ex hurt you because he couldn’t be honest with himself. That’s on him, not on your body or your worth.” He squeezes your hand. “Being a virgin doesn’t make you pathetic or stupid. It just means you haven’t found someone who deserves you yet. And if that someone is me… I’m honored. Not disappointed.”

He shifts closer, cupping your face with both hands so you have to look at him. “I want you too. So much. But only when you’re ready. We can stop anytime. I’ll go slow. I’ll talk you through it. You tell me what feels good and what doesn’t. Okay?”

You nod, the knot in your chest loosening. “I’m ready now. I trust you.”

Jay kisses you then — slow and deep, pouring reassurance into every brush of his lips. His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you gently into his lap so you’re straddling him. The kiss grows hotter, tongues meeting, breaths quickening. You can already feel him hardening beneath you through his jeans.

He breaks the kiss just enough to murmur against your mouth, “Bed?”

You nod.

He lifts you easily and carries you to the mattress on the floor, laying you down like you’re something fragile and precious. Clothes come off slowly, piece by piece. He kisses every new inch of skin he reveals — your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. When he takes a nipple into his mouth and sucks gently, you arch with a soft moan.

“Jay…” you breathe.

He hums in response, hand sliding between your legs. His fingers find you already wet and he groans quietly. “So wet for me already. Good girl.”

He circles your clit with slow, perfect pressure, then slips one finger inside you, then two, scissoring gently to stretch you. You’re gasping, hips rocking against his hand as pleasure builds fast and hot. He watches your face the entire time, whispering praises — “So tight… so beautiful… taking my fingers so well.”

Your first orgasm hits you hard, thighs trembling around his wrist as you cry out his name.

Jay kisses you through it, then pulls back to roll on a condom. He settles between your thighs, cock heavy and flushed against your entrance.

“Eyes on me,” he says softly. “Breathe. If it hurts too much, tell me and I stop.”

You nod, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He pushes in slowly — inch by careful inch. There’s a sharp burn at first, a stretching fullness that makes you wince and grip his shoulders. Jay freezes immediately, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your lips. “I’ve got you. You’re doing so good, baby. Just relax for me.”

When the pain eases into a dull ache, you nod again. Jay starts moving — slow, deep rolls of his hips that turn discomfort into sparks of pleasure. The friction is intense, overwhelming in the best way. He angles his thrusts to hit that spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyes.

“Fuck… you feel incredible,” he groans, voice rough. One hand slips between you to rub your clit in tight circles. “Come for me again. I want to feel you.”

The second orgasm crashes over you harder than the first. Your walls clench around him, pulling a deep moan from Jay’s throat. He follows right after, hips stuttering as he comes with your name on his lips.

He stays inside you for a moment, breathing hard, then carefully pulls out and disposes of the condom. Immediately he pulls you into his arms, wrapping you up against his chest. His hand strokes your back in soothing circles while he presses soft kisses to your hair, your temple, your shoulder.

“You okay?” he whispers. “Any pain?”

“A little sore… but good. Really good.” You smile against his skin, the frustration from lunch completely gone. In its place is warmth, safety, and the feeling of finally being wanted — exactly as you are.

Jay chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go anytime soon.”

Outside, the rain continues. Inside, Jay holds you close, the boy with the motorcycle no longer across the hall but right here, skin against skin, heart against heart.

The start of something real.

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

the painful grip that your boyfriend had on your hair mixed with your throat being full of his cock, your eyes started to tear up. you glanced up at nicholas and his hips stuttered, his breath catching in his throat.

“oh my god—dont—dont look at me like that,” nicholas moaned, pulling your head back slightly so he could watch how deep his tip hits the back of your throat.

“fuck, im close,” he moaned, his pace quickening. your hands gripped his legs as you watched him chase his high. his hips jerking forward before he stilled, his cock still deep inside your mouth while it filled with his cum.

you choked around him which made him pull out, but before you could even do anything else, he was kissing you. forcing you to keep his cum inside your lips, having him taste himself as he pushed his tongue into your mouth.

“swallow it,” he demanded once he pulled away, his eyes staring back at yours, cold and stern. he loved watching you become his nasty girl.

and you did as you were told, you swallowed his release and took a breath, finally able to breathe again from all that. you watched his eyes light up with admiration, he loved watching how pretty you looked whenever he messed you up like this.

he moved you over to your shared bed and climbed on top of you, his hands instantly cupping your breasts from under your shirt. you never wore a bra when around him, knowing how obsessed he was with your tits. it always gave him free access to them whenever he wanted.

“baby, can i take this off?” he asked, referring to your shirt, which you quickly nodded. your nipples immediately hard as the cold air hit them, but it didnt last long before your boyfriend’s mouth was on them.

“fuck, nicho,” you whined. his tongue swirling around each bud, giving both breasts fair attention from his mouth. you could feel yourself getting wet just from this, nicho’s hand giving your tits a squeeze which caused you to whimper.

“you’re so perfect, so so pretty.” he praised as he kissed along the soft skin of your breast, his tongue flattened and sliding across them, leaving saliva all over.

whenever you and nicholas had sex, there was always a break section between the rough and dirty fucking, and that was nicho worshipping your tits. it wasnt until the 2nd year of you dating when you found out his obsession with your chest.

you always knew he liked your tits, what man wouldnt like a nice set of breasts? especially on the woman he loves? but nicholas.. oh he was a freak, he fantasized about yours. all his friends knew it too, he never shut up about it to them.

but he never wanted to rush you to his freaky desires, especially if you didnt like it. but during sex one time, you gave him the word. you pushed his head towards your boob and his face lit up.

“suck.” was all you had to say to change your sex life with him forever. now he never misses his chance to admire you, your body, praise you like you’re the finest piece of art in the world—and to him—you are, of course.

your thoughts were interrupted by his teeth, softly biting down on your skin. oh nicholas, always needing to leave his marks on your skin.

“please,” you moaned, looking down at him. he looked like he was in heaven, your chest covered in his spit and love bites, his cock fully hard again while you soaked up your inner thighs with need.

nicholas’ head snapped up at your plea, his face red with blush but his eyes filled with hunger. hunger for you. he nodded and smirked, settling into his spot right in front of your face, and you knew immediately.

your hands pushed both your breasts together so they were on either side of his hard, leaking cock. it twitched once it felt your soft skin, his lips releasing a loud whine before he looked into your eyes, begging if he could start.

you nodded and his cock started fucking between your tits, his thrusts sloppy due to the weird angle but he didnt care, you didnt care, no one cared.

he sped up, desperately trying to find that intense pleasure he always got from just this, how your head was leaned forward, mouth open, tongue out, so every time he fucked forward the tip of his cock would slide into your warm mouth.

no matter how many times this occurs within your sex life, it will never not be fucking sexy to you. watching how needy and pathetic nicholas gets just from your boobs always amazes you, and you love every second of it.

“oh fuck, fuck, princess—“ nicholas moaned, his cock twitching and begging to release, but he didnt want to end it so fast. he held in his climax, looking down to watch how dirty you looked in this position.

you leaned onto your elbows, causing a shift in the direction of his thrusts but made it even better, but now his cock slipped deeper into your mouth with every thrust. your tongue hitting his slit, nicholas felt like he was on fire.

“oh, oh, shit—“ he cursed, his hips jerking forward as he came. white strips of cum splattering across your face and onto your tongue, nicholas was breathing heavily when he moved himself off of your body to hover you, leaning down to kiss you deeply.

you moaned into the kiss, your hands moving to the back of his neck to pull him closer, deeper. he could taste himself again, never really enjoying it but nothing mattered to him when his lips were on yours, kissing the soul out of him.

his hand moved down to your panties, he gasped against your mouth as he felt how soaked you were. slowly feeling bad about how he didnt notice your needs sooner, but now its here. he pushes your undies to the side and inserted two of his fingers into your wetness.

your back arched at the sudden touch, your eyes rolling back behind your eyelids as you pushed your hips down onto his fingers. nicholas’ tongue still deep inside your mouth, inhaling your every sound.

your legs spread wider for him, giving him more room to finger fuck you. angling his fingers in all the good places, your thighs shaking slightly. “nicho, please, i need you.” you whined, finally pulling away from the passionate kiss.

nicholas didnt waste anytime after those words slipped through your lips. he removed his fingers from your cunt and ripped your panties off. he positioned himself between your legs, his cock already hard again before he pushed himself inside your heat, earning a loud cry from you.

“oh! my god,” you whimpered, finally embracing his cock with your soaked walls. nicholas groaned as even with how wet you are, you were still a bit tight but that didnt slow him down. he knew you needed to be fucked good and fucked good you will be.

“c’mon, princess, you can take it, hm?” he smirked before his pace quickened. the sounds of your needy cries and squelching of his cock sliding in and out of you, oh he was going mad.

you nodded, a small ‘yeah’ was whimpered out of you as you took him, as he used your cunt for his and your pleasure, needing to fill you up with his seed.

his hands gripped onto your hips tightly to keep you still as he pounded into your pussy, the tip of his cock nearly hitting your cervix, your stomach tightened with all the pleasure.

your skin was on fire, you were breathless but couldnt stop moaning, couldnt stop needing more. you felt like you needed him to live inside your pussy, never leaving. that’s how good nicholas always makes you feel, you never want him to stop.

“mmph—please! fuck!” you cry out, your hands gripping the bedsheets, back off the bed in a long arch. he wasnt slowing down, he wasnt going easier, he was fucking you with all he had. he was desperate, almost as desperate as you were.

“fuck, you feel so fucking good, taking my cock so well,” he praised. he was sweating, the sounds of skin slapping against each other was loud, but neither of you cared. you were always prepared to deal with noise complaints, but your pleasure was way more important right now. to the both of you.

“nicho, i’m close, im close!” you squeaked out as your thighs trembled on either side of his body, his nails digging into your skin. he was close too, his cock overstimulated with how much he had already came before.

“cum for me,” he groaned, snapping his hips roughly into you, slower but harder. you let out a loud broken cry as you came, your body shaking from the overwhelming feeling. nicholas was close behind you, his hips snapping hard and still as he filled up your cunt with his cum.

“good girl, good girl..” he whispered, leaning down to kiss your neck, breathless along with you. he stayed inside your cunt, giving you time to come down from the high, his fingers now soothing your hips. his lips kissing softly all around your skin, whispering soft nothings to you.

“‘m good now, fuck..” you breathed out, a small giggle leaving your lips as nicholas gave you his dumb cheeky smile. and just like that, he was your silly annoying boyfriend again.

“let’s stay like this for a while.” he said in a soft loving tone, all seriousness in his voice but all you could do was scoff. he was—mind you—still deep inside your cunt, and he wanted to stay like that? while his cum was dripping out from the sides?

“baby, thats nasty.” you whined, already feeling the stickiness from it all, but nicholas grumbled and pulled you closer to cuddle, a gasp leaving your mouth as his cock moved in you with it.

“you’re nasty, though.” he fought back, a grin across his lips as he held your hand and he said something you couldnt even deny. in the most sincere tone, he said—“you’re my nasty girl.”

The three of you were enjoying a well-deserved vacation and had come back to your rental for the night. The bedroom had two queen beds and one sleeper sofa. It was a given you got one of the beds, leaving Euijoo and Nico to arm wrestle over who would be sleeping on the sofa.

Euijoo lost.

Nico opened the window between the two beds, letting a perfect breeze blow in carrying the salty scent of the ocean. You opened your bag and started rifling through your things, exhausted in the best of ways.

It had been a busy day of sight-seeing and eating, photographs and thrills. Memories you would carry for the rest of your life. You couldn't have asked for better friends than the two boys you seemed to take with you everywhere as you explored all the world had to offer.

The only downside was the single bathroom in the rental that would have to be shared by the three of you. After winning rock, paper, scissors, you got to go first, leaving Nicholas and Euijoo to scheme in your absence.

You were tired after a long evening at the beach with the boys. Resting on your stomach, you bunched a pillow between your arms and opened the lastest novel you'd been reading, letting it help you wind down.

Rare silence filled the room. Eventually, you clocked Nicholas and Euijoo watching you, their hair still damp from their showers.

"It's too quiet," you said after a moment, eyes still on the book. "Did you guys fight?"

"No, we're good," Euijoo replied hurriedly, looking to Nico for confirmation. You glanced over just long enough to watch the two of them nod awkwardly.

With a giggle, you teased, "Did you guys fuck?"

"What?" Euijoo exclaimed, while Nico said, "No," without missing a beat.

"Then, why are you being weird?"

"She knows us too well," Nico mumbled under his breath to Euijoo, but you heard and smiled. Nico turned to you and said, "I dared Euijoo to do something, but he's too scared of you to do it."

Euijoo made a face, insulted and flustered.

You scoffed, flipped the page of your book nonchalantly, and asked, "Why would Euijoo be scared of me?"

"I'm not."

"Just do the dare then. I'm not gonna bite you."

Euijoo's cheeks were getting redder by the second.

To be fair, you'd been best friends with Euijoo and Nicholas for many years. Yes, you flirted. Yes, you guys talked openly about everything. Yes, sometimes sexual tension started to arise.

So when Euijoo came over and crawled onto your bed, you didn't bat an eye. You read through another paragraph like it was nothing. But when he straddled your ass, framing your hips with his knees, you stopped and lifted your head.

"Nico, what the fuck are you up to?" you snapped, turning to look at your trouble-making friend lounging comfortably on the other bed.

Nicholas, to the surprise of no one, was leaning back with his arms crossed behind his head as if he were back at the pool. "I knew it," he said with a big devilish grin. "His dick is chilling between your ass cheeks right now and you're letting him get away with it."

"What did you want me to do - kick him?"

"Tell him to get off."

Something flickered across your face and you narrowed your eyes at Nicholas in a scowl before finally glancing over your shoulder at Euijoo, who was hovering above you. And you quickly realized he looked a little too good at that angle.

"Get off?" you asked, smirking. "Good choice of words, Nico."

The slightest panic raced across Nico's face and he knew then and there you were about to beat him at his own game, like you always did.

Propping up on your elbows, you turned your attention back to Euijoo, who had been gravely silent as if waiting for his fate to be decided, and asked, "You alright up there?"

Euijoo swallowed the lump in his throat. "Don't kill me. It was his idea." But frankly, Euijoo was so turned on he couldn't see straight.

You laughed and turned back to your book, saying, "Read this."

Euijoo leaned a little closer, his lips by your ear and you could hear every tense, labored breath he took. His cock was still nestled against your ass, half-hard now just from feeling the warmth of you.

You pointed to where you'd been reading and Euijoo's eyes widened in shock.

"Dude, she's reading porn!"

"No fucking way," Nico exclaimed in disbelief, getting up from the bed to investigate.

You flashed another glare at him and warned, "Nicholas, you come over here and you'll both regret it."

Nico very submissively walked backwards to his bed and flopped back onto the mattress in defeat.

Euijoo's heart was racing so hard you could feel it thumping through you. Giving him a little smile that promised either pleasure or retribution, he zeroed in on you like a heat-seeking missile.

"Keep reading," you said lowly.

Euijoo's gaze fell back to the page and not a second passed before you were moving underneath him. And his heart stopped altogether.

You rolled your ass against his clothed cock, arching so his length would feel your folds through your tiny shorts. You could feel him getting harder and that made you smug, but your focus soon became just how big he was and how far you were going to let him go.

"Fuck," Euijoo stuttered, his hips connecting with your ass in a sharp thrust.

It caught you by surprise. "Easy, Juju," you chided playfully when he snapped his hips against your ass again, a little harder this time, jarring you on the bed.

Euijoo stopped, dropping his head to the crook of your neck. "Sorry."

"Oh, come on," Nico said impatiently.

You checked on him out of the corner of your eye and taunted, "Enjoying the show?"

"Nothing's happened yet for me to enjoy."

You were never one to back away from a challenge, or for a chance to make Nico shut the fuck up. You could tell by his eyes that he wanted to be the one rubbing his dick against your pussy, and part of you was a little stunned when you realized you would let Euijoo fuck the shit out of you just to piss Nico off.

Tossing your book to the side, you reached back with both hands and shimmied your pants and underwear down slowly until your bare ass was on display.

"Your turn," you told Euijoo, shooting one more look at Nico. And you were thrilled to see he was burning alive with envy.

Never in a million years did Nico actually think you would let Euijoo fuck you just to spite him. And he was already thinking about all the angles he was going to hit it to punish you.

Completely oblivious to the silent exchange between his friends, Euijoo tugged down his sweatpants and freed his stiff cock, pumping it in his fist.

"Give me your hand," you said, turning slightly on your side.

Euijoo did as told and you brought two of his fingers into your mouth. Holding onto his heated gaze with your own, you sucked and licked his fingers until they were slick and then popped them out of your mouth.

"Put them in me," you whispered, glancing down at Euijoo's stiff cock that was so hard it curved toward his abs.

Euijoo glanced down at your plump ass and your perfect folds, and brought his wet fingers to your sex, slipping them inside your folds carefully. He found your entrance and pushed inside, making a little noise fall from your lips.

"Fuck," Nico growled as Euijoo stroked his fingers in and out of your cunt, a soft wet sound growing louder and louder with each stroke.

You whimpered as Euijoo worked you with his long fingers, gripping the pillow under your head with both hands. You were getting so fucking turned on by Nico watching from the other bed, staring at your pussy sucking in Euijoo's digits like he was about to start drooling at the sight.

That made your walls clench and Euijoo groaned, "Fuck, you're so tight."

"Take your fingers out, Juju," you said quietly, running out of patience.

"Why? Does it hurt?"

"I want your dick."

Euijoo pulled his fingers from you and coated his cock with your slick. He gave it a few more pumps of his fist as he resituated his knees on opposite sides of your hips, pressing close to you and fitting the head of his length between your folds.

When he started pushing inside, you felt your walls stretching to accept him, and you fisted the blanket beneath you. Oh, shit, you thought, wondering how the hell he was going to fit fully inside you. Not wanting to fill the room with your moans, you buried your face in the pillow to stifle your cries.

Euijoo listened to your little sounds and he kept stroking his cock into you, opening you up for him, sinking in deeper with each slow thrust into your wet, hot cunt. Once he was balls deep, he braced his hands on the mattress and moaned, "Fuck."

You lifted your head from the pillow and sucked in a gulp of air, whining, "Oh my god, Euijoo. You're so..."

Euijoo was long fucking gone over the way you'd just said his name. He immediately drew his hips back and slammed his cock back into you, making you jerk forward onto the pillow, wanting you to chant his name like that until your voice broke.

Nico watched Euijoo fuck you and his blood boiled. Euijoo was too soft; he pumped his cock in your pussy, but he didn't pull your hair or slap your ass, and Nico knew that was what you wanted. You needed hard and rough, and Euijoo was too in love with you to get it done.

"Juju, grab her by the throat," Nico snarled, his dick hard and already leaking in his pants. He made no moves to touch it; he wouldn't give himself any relief until you were taken care of.

Euijoo didn't hesitate to wind his hand around you, clamping it on your neck, beneath your chin. He tipped your head up and made your back arch, slapping his hips into your ass faster.

You didn't expect him to turn your face toward his so he could seal his lips on yours, stealing a kiss and tasting you for the first time. It made you mumble against his mouth and you wanted to tell him how good he made you feel, but the words wouldn't come.

All you could manage was a curse or two. "F-fuck," you whimpered, winching your eyes closed. You had to give credit to Euijoo, he knew how to use that big dick. His pace was savage, stuffing you with every inch of his cock until the wet slap of your pussy sucking him in filled the room.

Euijoo kept his grip on your neck, panting, "Is it too rough?"

Before you could say anything, Nico snapped, "Don't fucking ask that. She wants you to use her."

Lips parted, you finally willed yourself to look over at Nico and the way he was smoldering almost made you come. You liked him watching how well you could take it, wanting him to praise you, but instead, it seemed he already had you figured out.

So, you tried to rile him up. "Jealous?"

"Why should I be?" Nico shot back. "It's my turn next."

You scoffed. "You think you get a turn."

Euijoo groaned, "Can both of you shut up? I'm gonna come."

You'd never heard Euijoo so mad in your entire life, and both you and Nico smiled at having gotten that rare reaction out of him.

"Come, Juju," you whispered, gripping the edge of the mattress tight. The bed was creaking loudly. Euijoo was using you like his own personal toy, and you were eating it up. Your pussy ached in the best way, kneading his length.

Euijoo abandoned your neck to grab your hips, moaning and panting as he released inside you, milking every drop of cum deep in your cunt.

When Euijoo slowly pulled his softening cock from your hole, you slumped into the bed, catching your breath. He was barely off the bed and the mattress dipped under Nico's weight, his pants on the floor.

Nico grabbed your waist and flipped you harshly onto your back, and hissed, "You're gonna watch me take this shit."

You reeled your hand back and swatted him across the face, making a loud slap echo through the room. Nico grabbed your wrists and pinned them on opposite sides of your head, his pupils dilated to black.

"Fuck," Nico growled, smashing his lips on yours in a heated, hungry kiss. "Do that again when I'm inside you."

With Nico's hands around your wrists like cuffs, you hooked your legs on his hips and drew him close. He shifted his eyes down your body to your glistening pussy and notched his cock at your entrance, watching Euijoo's cum slip out.

"What are you waiting for?" you asked hurriedly. You were on the edge, sore and aching, close to orgasm.

"Permission."

You swallowed to wet your throat and when Nico lifted his head to meet your eyes, you sank a little deeper into the mattress under the weight of his gaze. "Fuck me, Nico," you whispered.

Nico pressed in, inch by agonizing inch, and watched your body arch as pleasure coursed through you.

"Nico," you gasped, eyes lolling back when the head of his cock hit your sweet spot.

"Yeah, my pretty little slut," he taunted, releasing one of your wrists to wrap his fingers around your neck. "Take all that dick."

The moment he canted his hips back and shoved his cock into you hard, you swiped your hand at his face again, but with half the force.

Nico tightened his grip on your throat while his other hand swiftly hooked in the bend of your knee and pressed you deeper into the mattress, throttling his cock into you at a steady rhythm like he was out to prove your pussy was his.

"How long have you been thinking about this, Nico?" Euijoo asked, sprawled on the other bed like he had zero strength left in his body.

"You have no fucking idea," Nico said gruffly as he kept his eyes where your bodies met, watching his cock vanish inside your tight velvet walls.

"Then fuck me like you mean it," you told him, holding onto his waist for purchase.

Nico looked at your pretty face, marveling just how beautiful you could be while getting fucked, and joked, "You just want another load of cum in you."

You nodded.

"You were made to be used like this, pretty girl."

You bit your lip and purred, "Use me, Nico."

So he did, sheathing his cock in your pussy over and over until finally all the tension that had been building inside you snapped, taking you over the edge into euphoria. You cried out and moaned, digging your nails into Nico's skin as your body shook, clamping down on his dick.

Nico came without warning, your cunt tightening on him so hard that he couldn't help but release inside you with a ragged groan. You were coming down from the high and went limp underneath him as the last of his seed filled you, making you feel warm and full.

Unlike Euijoo, Nico collapsed on top of you, his body heavy on yours. The two of you breathed in perfect sync, trying to come back to your senses. Once he'd stopped shaking, Nico clambered off of you and sat up, falling back against the wall so you could move.

You turned your head and saw Euijoo, who was on his stomach in the other bed, his eyes batting sleepily. When your eyes met, he smiled softly, as if to reassure you the frienship wasn't totally fucked now.

Nico, on the other hand, after seeing you and Euijoo exchange looks, reached over and palmed your naked thigh, stealing your attention. You turned to him expectantly and Nico said, "We both want you."

"And I want both of you," you replied honestly.

"You'll have to choose one day," Euijoo whispered, frowning despite how hard he fought it.

You sighed. "Not tonight though. Tonight, it's just the three of us. And nothing else matters."

That coaxed a smile out of Nico. He sat up and began gathering you in his arms, rising from the bed to lower you to the mattress beside Euijoo. You let yourself melt between them, happy when Euijoo pulled the blanket over the three of you and Nico laid beside you on the other side.

When they started pressing kisses to your cheeks and your neck, and their hands began wandering over your naked body like it belonged to them now, you closed your eyes and smiled, knowing you were fucked.

It’s like going from regular Spotify to premium.

The two of you hang out but you also go on dates. Sometimes casual, other times you’re getting a cryptic intentionally nonchalant message to dress up and the time he’s coming by to get you and the next thing you know your being driven out over an hour to some extremely elaborate soirée with all kinds of people dressed just at intricately as you. The stars in Riki’s eyes are different now when he looks at you.

“Beautiful…”, whispered against your forehead right before he kisses it and biting your lip while you hold your breath is all you can do so you don’t scream.

There’s so many new sides to each other you see now that you obviously wouldn’t have when you were just friends.

For example, Riki who on the outside is cool and quiet is actually the complete opposite in a relationship. Whiny when you don’t give him enough attention, whiny when people give you too much attention (like the instagram fiasco). He’s even clingier now— going as far to have an attitude when having to go for long periods of time without you. Completely shameless, he is a man that is not above begging and guilt tripping to make you give in or stay.

“But the last trip was girls only! Why do you have to go to this one? It’s like you never miss me at all🥺😔…”

“I’ll be so lonely…what if I need a hug?” You pinch your lips in to help suppress the smile fighting to show as you look down at the top of his head. Riki lets out a pained groan, shuffling closer on his knees to nuzzle his face harder into your stomach as you wrap your arms around his head.

“Baby, it’s barely two days and you do have friends—“, another pained sigh and you can’t fight the smile anymore. “Ask Kai for a hug if you need one.” He shakes his head so hard, you’re worried he’ll give himself friction burn, long arms tightening around you.

“Noooo! I don’t wanna hug Kai”, he spits his name out like a curse. “I wanna stay with you…” Fuck. He’s too cute. You might lose this one. Taking a deep breath, you don’t say anything else because if you do, you’ll give and he knows it.

“Please, baby?” Resting his chin on your stomach after kissing it, big distraught eyes look up at your swiftly crumbling expression. “Stay— don’t make me miss you, love you too much…” You slam your eyes shut.

K.O. Flawless victory.

He knows he’s won when you cup his face, bangles cool against his cheek when you lean down to place a tender kiss on his lips, softly cooing.

“My poor baby— it’s fine, I can stay. For you.”

Soaking up your attention, he can hardly hide his victorious grin as your phone vibrates on the counter while you scatter lip stain all over his face; your friends waiting for a reply that won’t come until much later. The later being after you’re both in bed with him shirtless because it’s on you. You’re about to go to sleep and he’s wrapped comfortably around you when you gasp, finally remembering,

“I never texted the girls back!” Before you can think about texting them back now, Riki moves you tighter against him, voice low and melodic. “Wait until morning? It’s really late, what if we wake them?” He has a point so you agree to get back to them then.

But don’t you know the flight is in the morning? The same flight he’ll conveniently make sure you forget all about. It doesn’t matter if you already said you’d stay, there’s nothing wrong with some…insurance.

Whenever either of you cancel on your friends, you have to have a suitable excuse because while going from friends to lovers wasn’t difficult…

Keeping your relationship a secret was.

Now, it’s not like you’re ashamed or embarrassed about each other— just neither of you were in the mood to hear the “I told you so”’s from everyone who knew you. In the end, you just liked keeping each other to yourselves. Plus you got enough flak just for being friends with Riki from girls around campus who liked him and you really didn’t want a repeat of the incident from 2 months ago.

It wasn’t a party, per se but a loud social gathering with lots of people, loud music, dancing and drinks. You told him it’d be easier to call it a party even though the mass text said get together but Jackson said he was trying to work on his reputation. How calling the very obvious party a not party helped him? You didn’t have a single clue.

It wasn’t long after arriving that you and Riki split up. He didn’t particularly want to be there in the first place but telling you no was never his favorite thing to do so he tagged along under zero pressure when you mentioned it. He ended up upstairs, sipping the second drink he’s had all night talking to a couple of guys he was friends with on the team when he pulled out his phone and saw the time. 12:47. You got there at 11.

He hadn’t seen you since 11.

Immediately he’s up, drink abandoned on the table. Different people try to talk to him, unfamiliar faces, random girls with too wide smiles and way too much perfume but he brushes them all off— moving with single minded intent. As tall as he is, looking over a crowd is easy but his heart is starting to race because he still doesn’t see you.

Storming into the kitchen, he looks around. There’s a few girls who all turn to look at him when he enters. One even says hi. They’re not you so he can’t be bothered, walking right back out ready to start yelling your name over the music if that’s what it takes when someone bumps into his chest with all the force of a sinner trying to run out of hell.

Looking down, his heart begins to slow because it’s finally you. But now that he knows you’re safe—

“Where the hell have you b—“, when you look up, you’re crying. Thick tears stream down your face, streaking your makeup that he knows took forever while your chest visibly jumps from all the effort it’s taking you not to sob.

His heart stops.

“I-I’m sorry but”, you try to take a deep breath but it only ends in more tears. “We can go h-home now.” Big hands cradle your face, ignoring everyone around you as he tries to calm you down. You’d barely been here two hours and you wanted to leave? Not only was that unlike you but you were crying. Crying and you wouldn’t look him in the eye.

“What happened?”

You keep quiet.

Shaking your head while the answer stays trapped behind your bitten lips. He’d let it go and take you home straight away but something caused this. He can’t let that slide.

“Who did it?” He tries again, voice growing more desperate with each minute that passes where you won’t talk or even look at him.

“Baby, please.” Dark eyes search your face until your red ones look at him.

“Talk to me, look at your pretty face— you’re all upset.” Still nothing. He still tries.

“Who did it? Let me fix it.” Your voice is the smallest he’s ever heard it when you ask,

“Then we can go home?” He nods, thumbs brushing your tear-stained cheeks.

“Then we can go home.” After that, you tell him. There was this group of girls you met in the kitchen and you thought they liked you until one of them had suddenly switched up, telling you that you’re lucky to even know him; let alone be friends.

“A-and that you only hang out with me b-because”, the sob that you were holding back breaks as a fresh wave of tears fall down your face. “Because I’m a hooker..” as in anyone could pay to have you because you were only worth that much. The look on his face is crestfallen, waiting for you to finish. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard you sound so… embarrassed.

“I never said anything because you never made me feel bad but do you? T-think I’m a—“,

He stops you with a gentle kiss to your cheek before you can even think about repeating it.

“I think the world of you.” His voice is so soft, it’s hard to hear over everything but you do. “Dressing sexy, being a flirt, wearing makeup— doesn’t make you easy and none of it makes you a hooker. I never say anything about your style because I love it. Fun and cheeky and a little irresponsible”, that last part makes you laugh.

“But it’s all you, baby. You’re fine as you are.”

You kiss his thumb brushing your lip in silent thanks. It’s way too intimate and affectionate for people who are just friends but looking back it was probably repressed denial.

“Who told you that anyway?” Riki sounds calm—casual. Absolutely concerned too but little do you know his heart is pounding in his chest ready to go find to whoever the fuck made you cry. You shrug, it’s hard to remember her name but you tell him what she was wearing and it clicks when he gets her face in his mind.

The girl in the kitchen. The one who said hi to him.

He hands the keys to his car over so you can wait for him while he goes to grab something he “left”. You don’t find out until weeks later that not only did he tell that same girl that she couldn’t be further from his type; and that drunk and high off of every pill on the planet, he’d still never go for her—but he also told her if she ever so much as looked at you wrong that he’d stop at nothing to ruin any social life she’ll ever have.

To this day— whenever you would manage to see her in the hall, she’d already be turning back around.

That whole scene was a completely new side of Riki you’d never even glimpsed. Such intense protectiveness while staying calming and sweet to you. Then again, he was always sweet to you…except the week he finally had time and remembered to get condoms after promising to fuck you stupid as soon as he did.

That week you were convinced he seriously was trying to kill you.

You were walking back from mess hall when Niki texts you. Short, simple but vague enough to make you pause in your stride.

Come to mines. There’s something I wanna show you.

Heart beating faster, you look around to make sure nobody sees the wide-eyed look you’re staring your screen down with before you make a mad dash out the main entrance. Panting, your fingers fly across the screen as you text back.

Is it for me?

There’s a ping less than a minute later. The first is a photo attachment that makes your breath catch and the next is the message.

Only for you, baby. All of it.

By the time you get to your car, you already feel a mess. The tight burn of arousal simmers in your lower abdomen as you start to drip. It’s embarrassing how you’re hardly able to text him that you’re on your way, fixing your makeup at every red light until it’s even more perfect. After last time, you decided to do lash extensions instead of falsies that wouldn’t make it past round 2 with Riki.

Squeezing your thighs together the whole ride there, by the time you actually arrive you’re soaked through. Puffy, wet and so so warm— clit throbbing with need against the seam of your tight jeans.

Hand to his door, you only get to knock once before it swings open in your startled face and you’re being yanked inside. After toeing off your shoes, he quickly crowds you against the wall. Neither of you say anything right away while Riki takes a slow, good look at you and how gorgeous you look all dolled up the way you always are. He wants to appreciate it a little before he reduces you to the simplest form.

Nerves turn the blood under your skin into an electrical current, pupils steadily dilating as you look at each other, tension thick. Riki breaks first, stepping close to wrap his big hand tight around your throat. Heat slots through your core fast. Slamming into your gut like a cannonball— heavy and unforgiving. You even start to feel dizzy with how suddenly you catch yourself slipping.

His name leaves you in a breathy plea.

You almost trip over your feet when he drags you even closer— directly to his mouth to whisper against your lips.

“Didn’t I promise to fuck you up as soon as it was safe?”

Riki doesn’t wait for you to answer— laving his tongue hotly across your jaw before suckling open, wet kisses up to your mouth. Cushioning your bottom lip between his lips, his mouth deliciously flush to yours– suckling softly before doing the same to your top lip.

It’s slow. Deliberate.

Tilting his head, he deepens the kiss. Tracing his tongue sloppily across the inseam of your parted lips, dipping inside to lick at the corner of your mouth before moulding his tongue against yours when you moan— Riki’s mouth swallowing the sound whole. His other hand caresses down up and down your waist; teasing the underside of your tits with his thumb. Your body is thrumming, livewire as he kisses you like this is the last time you’ll ever want him.

If only he knew how much you always did.

When he pulls away, there’s a thin string of spit connected to your mouths and his lips are tingling because of your plumping gloss. He’s also hard. Well, he was hard 45 minutes before he even texted you to come over simply because he knew you were coming over. Earlier that week he got hard on a random Wednesday because he knew you were coming over Friday.

Loosening his hold a bit around your throat, the quick rush of oxygen makes you throb. Riki lets out a low purr of approval, relishing the way your eyes glaze over.

“Oh you’re gonna be real good f’me…” Your pulse spikes. Hard.

“Just like you were the first time. Remember, baby?” You nod because you would never be able to physically forget. It took your body days to completely calm down after; your pupils would get huge whenever you’d so much as smell a room he’d recently been in. You’d feel him when he wasn’t even around— dripping wet each time.

Riki smiles when you nod, kissing you one more time before swinging you over his shoulder, ignoring your squeal in favor of taking the familiar route to his room. Feeling giddy, you kick your legs just to annoy him. He huffs out an amused laugh, cracking his hand down hard on your ass to still your squirming, making you gasp.

There’s no time to catch your breath though when you’re promptly dropped on the bed, Riki yanks his shirt off—on you right after. Fingers wrap around your ankles as he yanks you down the to the edge where he’s kneeling. Heart pounding, hot puffs of air dance teasingly across your skin with every barely there brush of his pink lips. You shiver at the feeling.

“Y’know”, A harsh suck to the sensitive skin just above the waistband of your pants has you cutting him off with a needy whine. Riki slots his mouth over each bit of skin he exposes as he peels your jeans off.

“I’ve been wantin’ to kiss her forever, baby…”, he rasps.

Nosing down to the center of your wet panties, Riki groans when he sees how wet you are. Arousal darkens the color of your pretty underwear as the fabric clings so much he can see the swell of your clit. Appetizing. You’re all slick and puffy and you smell so fucking good. Pressing his nose to your cunt, he takes a deep lungful of your scent— eyes fluttering closed while his cock throbs in response. Yanking his pants down to relieve some of the pressure, he takes another deep drag of your arousal.

“N-Niki! What’re you-!” Your voice gets higher in your embarrassment but he can’t stop. Even when your fingers twist in his hair, trying to pull him away he stays. Mouth watering, his tongue falls out to lap a hard stripe up your pussy. Pleasure burns hot in your gut, the weight of his tongue dragging your panties against your clit. In a daze, you grind your hips up mindlessly into his face. Hiccuping moans break into a sharp gasp when your panties are torn clean off you so Riki can eat properly.

The effortless show of strength makes you that much wetter, spreading your legs wider as his tongue slips between your slick folds— lapping against your drooling hole.

“Ooh! F-fuck!”

Your fingers in his hair reflexively tighten, Riki hooking your legs over his his shoulders. He’s trying not to get too carried away but you’re so addictive. The most delicious wet dream under his hungry mouth as he teases your clit between his teeth before sucking it into his mouth until you’re arching off the bed. Sucking until your pussy is enflamed and sopping.

Gasping cries blend in with the carnal sounds of him actively trying to lick you into a coma. Your head is spinning. You don’t know if you want to get away or stay right where you are, body writhing in pleasure. It’s not like it doesn’t feel good— the problem is that it’s too good and a possible threat to your sanity.

“Niki!” His name is ripped from your throat in a visceral cry. Body shaking, you beg as coherently as you can to get a break or at least get him to—

“N-not“, your voice cracks, “Don’t suck so har—ah!”

Separating from your bud, Riki kisses the string of spit connecting him away…riiiight before his fat tongue forces its way inside you, writhing and probing against all the right places. Fuck. Your brain turns to mush. A choked moan gets trapped in your chest, thighs quivering. It feels like you’re going crazy. Tensing then relaxing, involuntary bleats escaping when you try to grit your teeth and withstand it.

You can’t tell which is louder; Riki or your pussy. Riki’s sure it’s more than likely him. He’s always been a messy eater on his best day but when he gets his mouth on something he’s been craving? Good luck, babe. Big hands tighten around your waist as he burrows his face deeper between your thighs. You wail, pleasure racing through you when he slips his tongue out your hole only to run devastating long strokes up your slit before lapping at your perky clit in hungry licks before plump lips wrap tight around it.

His earlier vow not to get carried away is nothing but a distant memory now. Hardly a notion.

The taste and smell of you is addicting. You as a whole was another type of hypnotic entirely and that was before he even knew how you looked falling from the highs of vicious ecstasy. But now, ever since having taken you into himself, it’s through you that this new season has unlocked inside of him. You darken the black of his very pupils.

It’s why he’s so starving— so hungry even though you’re pooling into his mouth, sensitive everywhere throbbing beneath his tongue. It’s primal, Riki eats you like he’s trying to tear you apart but he can’t help it. He just wants you so bad and now he’s drowning in you.

Wrecked moans taper into pleading sobs. Hot tears stream down your face as your cunt tightens— pulsing wildly against his ravenous tongue until all the pressure just gives, soaking his mouth when you cum.

Obscene moans and the wet smacking of his lips fill the room but you barely hear it over the ringing in your cotton filled ears— cumming so hard you think you pull something. Each struggling breath prolongs the storm of melting bliss, coating you inside out in a thick haze of heat until you go boneless.

Pinpricks of over sensitivity kick in when he slows down instead of stopping entirely. You’re a gasping sweating, limp mess on his bed as you try to catch your breath and get your limbs to remember their functions. Whining, your fingers in his hair pushy weakly.

“O-okay…”, another lazy lick up your folds, “Enouggghhh—“, Riki looks up and you and falls all over again. Panting through bitten kiss-swollen lips, your hair is mussed, hard nipples poke through your top while your chest heaves and your makeup has started to run a bit. In a rush of heady musk and sugar, your beauty spirals into disarray. He’s purring at this point, kissing your lips one more time before actually separating. Nuzzling your inner thigh contently, he rasps,

“S’ just licking her clean…”. You hold back a scoff. For him to sound so docile like he didn’t just almost lick her off your body is crazy.

Warm pillowy lips make their way up your body in succulent kisses— pausing just long enough to strip your shirt off then his mouth is back to it. Brushing across your collarbone, you pull him into a kiss, tasting yourself with a needy hum. Reaching down, you’re not surprised to find him rock hard but…

“Why’s your dick so wet? Wait, d-did you—!”

Riki doesn’t let you finish because yes—he did but he’d rather be stretching you out then explaining how he came from sucking you off. He doesn’t answer, making sure your earlier question is forgotten; lost to your moan when he slips two fingers in. Thick digits curve up on every sloppy thrust inside you— bullying spots you had trouble even grazing. The wetness is audible, echoing in the room with your whoreish moans.

He wasn’t sure before but as his fingers brush between your cheeks to your other hole— wet from your cum and his spit—he is now. Grinding his fingers in dizzyingly hot pulses, Riki’s voice is wicked. Low and smooth when he purrs out,

“No plug today, pretty girl?”

Your mind goes blank.

“That’s fine, I know exaaactly how my sloppy holes like bein’ stretched out…”.

A third finger squeezes inside, spreading you wonderfully. Shivers wrack your body, wet babbles stumble over your tongue— trying to say something, anything. What that something is, you can’t remember with the way Riki is abusing that aching spot inside you. Greedy eyes take you in, hissing when the hand around his cock tightens, jerking him in uncoordinated strokes.

You’re forced to let go when Riki takes his fingers out to maneuver your legs over his shoulders, pants taken completely off sometime earlier. Tapping the fat, dripping head of his dick on your clit, he almost forgets to reach above you to grab a condom from the small table closest to the bed. Your mouth goes a little dry because he’s big. You saw earlier but it’s still a bit intimidating.

“Pick a hole, baby.” Riki husks down at you, ripping the foil open with his teeth, he rolls it over his length— moaning in unison with you when he slaps it against the heat of your drooling cunt again as you scramble to decide. Unfortunately and unproductively, your lunatic tendencies kick in. The same ones that had you talking back before emerges to pant out—

“Why don’t you pick?”

Teeth flash in a ravenous grin— downright wolfish as he leans down to suck a kiss to the inside of your left knee. Somewhere between the gleam in his eye and the grin should have been your first warning.

“Because if I do”, he kisses your right knee, “I’m picking both and lickin’ em clean when I’m done.” The shocked look on your face is adorable but he’s being serious. You will be absent for the rest of the day and a few of the ones after if you let him pick. That’s the general warning. To you? It’s a challenge.

“Pick then.” Looking at him daringly through your lashes and smeared eyeliner that had been a taste of the ruin to come. Riki has to close his eyes, take a deep breath.

He’s in the middle of counting when you rake your nails down his chest, cooing breathlessly at the red streaks left behind. His eyes snap open when he hears a whiny moan, looking down to find you playing with your nipples. Flicking and squeezing until it almost hurts, staring into his blown pupils with your own. Closing his hand around your throat, Riki feels the racing of your pulse while you squirm.

“Nuh-uh, none of that. Keep talking”, positioning himself at your twitching hole, he squeezes harder. “Get it all out right now, baby— before your messy cunt does all the talking for you.”

Again, you can’t seem to help yourself. Don’t give a second thought to the last straw you trample over with the next sentence.

“Y’want me to beg? Beg for you to fuck me so hard that I’m squirtin’ all ov- nngh!”

Maybe it was your voice, or the way your softness felt underneath him, smooth hands running over him or how he felt sliding between your swollen pussy lips getting wetter with each rock of his hips while you messed with him like the spoiled little thing you are. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. Not when he’s slamming into your crybaby pussy in one merciless thrust.

He might as well have pressed a reset button on you. Jaw dropped open in a piercing wail, your spine arches at how full you are so fast.

“O-oh god—!” That’s all you can get out through your choked sob when Riki grinds his pelvis that’s flush to yours against your clit while simultaneously kissing that spot inside you that makes you tighten more. Slick dripping onto his covers. You’re so cute— struggling to take him and talk your shit even while your cunt cries around him. He’s almost inclined to take it easy on you. Key word is almost.

“That’s right, baby…”

Pulling out a little more so there’s more of that spine tingling pleasure when he slams back in, setting a heavy pace.

“Go ahead and cry for him…”, The grip on your throat tightens as he uses it to slam you down with each thrust before folding you in half so he can kiss you. Needs to kiss you. His mouth is as devouring as it always is, nipping your lips before licking into the wet space to suck your tongue feverishly— pulling away with a filthy grin as he reaches down to strum your clit.

You really start making noise then. Hot, twitching walls squeeze him like slick fist making him growl against your drooling gloss smeared lips, wearing half of the glittery stuff on his own face but most delightfully—

“There you go— there’s my good girl”, The praise is breathed in your gasping mouth; heady sweetness dripping of his words as you lose your mind.

He’s so fucking deep.

You’re completely incoherent when he decides to latch on to one of your puffy nipples and sucks— broad tongue swirling greedily around the bud. Chest caving, a sharp moan bolts from your lips at the stinging bliss and the sound makes Riki suck harder.

Rolling the puffy nub between his teeth, he closes down to bite— searing pain sweetens the lightening racing up your spine as you cry out. You’re so soft, so wet and lovely beneath him; sensitive body jerking spastically while he fucks you until you can’t tell if you’re one person or his entirely. Sobbing out almost tortured groans and whimpers as he gives your other nipple the same treatment. Sucking it like a pacifier before teasing it between his teeth and biting— soothing the leftover sting with generous laps of tongue and another disgustingly deep grind in your pussy.

“I-I…!” You try. You try like hell to tell him that you’re gonna fucking cum but fail because of how tight he’s choking you. The lack of oxygen heightens your sensitivity as your voice breaks and it’s music to his ears. He shifts inside a little and can tell where you end immediately. Weak hands grab his wrist before he watches your eyes roll back, blissed out. The sight drives him crazy.

“Bein’ so fuckin’ good”, lean hips move faster as your nerves scatter. “My good, pretty little slut letting me fuck her just how we need—! S’fuckin tight…” Each pulpy slam of his hips becomes stickier and stickier so he looks down and curses, almost blows his load at the sight. You’re creaming. Hard. Milky slick bubbling around the base of his cock, making a mess on him as you gasp and cry for him.

Words can’t touch how good you feel— floating as Riki’s fat cock carves you out, absolutely battering that gooey spot inside you. At this rate, you’ll cum until you faint from the way he makes you take it.

Riki groans, rutting into you harder as he looks at your fucked out expression.

“Goddamn if you could see you right now- fuck-“ he curses as he feels another wave of slick pour out of your cunt. This time he’s generous enough to let go of your windpipe so you can rasp out his name through wet keens.

“N-Niki!”

“Yeah, baby? Talk t’me”, He’s being an ass with how he talks down to you this time. You both know the chances of you responding coherently are slim with your eyes fighting not to roll back into your skull in bliss but he keeps it up anyways.

“I’m listening….”, and you know that but he’s fucking into that little nook and— “Gonna cum?” A gurgled moan and dead weight is his answer.

“Yeah, you are.”

Grabbing your hips, he moves your legs higher on his shoulders as he slams you down to meet his thrusts, reveling in the way you warble his name— using you like a cock sleeve and you’re pulling him to your mouth because you really are at your limit. Meeting you in the middle, Riki gives you a sloppy kiss, heat burning through his gut while getting closer to the edge with you.

“Sooo deep—”, you slur out, hearts in your eyes as he rolls his hips in a nasty grind that ends up being the final nail in your coffin. Eyes finally fluttering back and before you can warn him— hot squirt is suddenly splashing against Riki as he fucks you boneless. “Oh, good girl..” Fingers move faster against your poor clit. “Theerrre you go, sweetness—“, Baby names pending…

Despite hitting the eject button on your soul, Riki doesn’t stop.

“Shhh, m’not too deep”, the rough drawl has a warm jolt of electricity light up your spine. Pressing a heavy hand down on your stomach until he feels that familiar hardness and you jerk hard, biting your lip to keep from screaming but what kills is the cooing lilt his voice takes on.

“See?” Riki teases against your lips, drilling your sweet spot raw with syrupy cockhead kisses.

“I’m juuust right for her…” Pressing another juicy kiss to your lips, Riki cooes at the hearts in your eyes as you fight to stay with him.

“Bet it feels real good, hmm baby?” He purrs, hips continuing to pump against yours while he puts you through the mattress and you cry out. High and wrecked, the cockdrunk need in the sound makes his cock throb viciously inside you. “Bit of a— ah! t-tight fit but it’s exactly what she needs, pretty”.

Your body is almost vibrating under all the stimulation— pressure building up like a valve wound too tight and Niki rails you like he’s trying to release it. He growls as another gush of wetness bubbles around his length where you’re connected.

“Mmm, is it good?” Groaning with a sloppy kiss in your ear, Riki eases up on your throat so you can answer and when you do, you sound as wrecked as you feel. Words sappy and weighted,

“Feels-“, you smuggle in more air, raspy whine sweet as cotton in his ears. “Feels good”, You sound foreign even to yourself and the pure want— “So big— hurts so good!” It’s uncensored and unrefined and it’s so fucking hot he pummels you even harder— makin’ sure to get niiiiiiice n’ deep, rubbing himself against your spot until he feels your pussy kiss around him.

“Just don’t know when to keep that pretty mouth shut”, Riki grunts. You watch pleasure pull him apart at the seams through tearily glazed eyes, creamy cunt gripping him deliciously. Each twitching pull of your impending orgasm brings him closer to his own end. Heart pounding, it’s like you can’t get close enough— just craving him. You’ve gone limp now in your blissed out delirium— eyes rolled to the back of your empty skull letting your best friend and boyfriend knock every screw you have totally loose before he’s laying himself flat on top of you, body weight luscious and crushing as he’s molding the hard contours of his sweaty body against your soft ones.

There’s a bit of maneuvering but Riki manages to hook your legs even deeper over his shoulders— rocking his hips forward to hit somewhere deeper, tender, hotter and—

How you wail will leave his ears ringing for days.

Wet muscle of your sodden walls push and pull as liquid jets out of you with a force so strong you nearly blackout.

Ears ringing, the lack of oxygen doesn’t make the overwhelming euphoria any easier to deal with. Your moans are nothing short of feral. Visceral and gripping— hungry pussy leaving rings of sloppy cream around Riki’s cock and that’s the last he can take.

His consuming mouth is back on yours with a vengeance as his heart races, hips slamming into yours in a filthy rhythm. Even with his tongue down your throat, mouth suctioned to yours— carnally feral moans still bleed through, engorged cock throbbing violently inside the syrupy hole he’s shoved into when he lets go. Ballooning the condom inside you with how much he cums.

By the end of it, you’re floaty, sweaty and breathless and you’ve never felt better while he’s thinking about whether Blue Nile or Jared Jewelers has the better engagement rings. He also wonders if he should tell you before or after you catch your breath to tell you he’s not done with you yet.

He still remembers all that showing off you did the last time. Spreading yourself before winking your sloppy holes at him, begging him to fuck you dumb. It got him so bad he was taking consecutive cold showers for almost four days until he finally got a break between the team and classes to go shopping. Thoughts drifting to you while he was out on one of his rare days off when he remembered right there in the ramen isle: condoms + hot girlfriend who likes anal = endless opportunities.

He’s pretty sure he scared the cashier from how happy he looked buying 6 boxes of XL condoms with a starry grin on his face but honestly he was just happy he didn’t pop one in target. It was all worth it though because it got you to now— thoroughly enjoyed on his bedsheets.

The next couple minutes are heavenly as Riki loves all over you— soft lips and sumptuous kisses until you’re melty and pliant. Easing your legs down from his broad shoulders, Riki eases himself out of you to slip the rubber off and toss in the bin next to his nightstand. Laying fully on top of you and you purr— arms coiling around him in a soft embrace. Yet as pleasant as the moment is— Riki has to (affectionately) ruin it. Kissing your pulse point, he nips your ear, whispering lowly.

“Turn around…”

Huh? You look at him like he’s crazy. Brows furrowed in disbelief.

“I-“, you don’t even have the capacity to articulate properly. “I didn’t hear that.” Riki laughs, breathy and dangerous, sucking more hot kisses all over your jugular. You sigh to hide your moan, trying to at least look inconvenienced but your traitorous pussy clenches.

“You heard me the first time cause I’m not telling you again, baby— turn around.” Holy shit.

It’s no surprise that you find yourself on your knees, ass raised and back arched with your chest to the bedding. Behind you, Riki lets out a starved groan, looking at the wetness dripping off your everything deliciously. Like a reflex, he brings his hand down on the soft fat of your ass, biting his lip at the jiggle.

“So beautiful”, he whispers against the stinging skin. “Gonna fuck this hole so good…”

Your stomach drops to the chasming heat in your core. Riki eats up every little reaction you give him as your back arches when his fingers press against your asshole. Fingering at the wet, pink little pucker just above your stretched cunt, already dripping with the juices from your pussy— hole yielding perfectly beneath his fingers. Tiny and tight and eager.

Riki eyes it hungrily, cock pulsing when you ask nervously,

“Think it’ll fit?”

Oh, he knows it’ll fit. He’ll make it fit. You’re his mouthy little anal slut and he knows you’ll be begging for it like a bitch in heat so he pushes in a cum slick finger; right up to the knuckle, then another one, pulling them both apart so he can see your twitching wet insides. “So sexy,” he rumbles, a distinct heat rising in his neck. His entire body is on fire with the need to fully claim each one of your holes. He takes his time fingering you open, marvelling at how soft and gooey you are to the point where he has to know.

“Did you play with her today?”

You shake your head.

“Only prep— Just lube a-and my fingers— didn’t have time for toys”, your voice is wrecked from everything he put you through earlier but the hoarseness suits you, especially now.

“Mmm”, he murmurs, twisting his finger inside as he brings his thumb back to your clit, “Can’t go a day without something up here, huh?”

You gurgle incomprehensibly against pillows, eyes rolling and tongue going slack as Riki adds yet another finger. The arch in your back deepens; pushing out your ass begging to be filled with more than just fingers, even though you’d been screaming barely a few minutes before. “F-fuck me…”

“What’s that, sweetheart?” He says it like that on purpose, cocking his head to the side and shoving his fingers in as deep as they’ll go, watching in delight as your asshole stretches around the intrusions, cunt quivering. “What do you want?” Oh that little jackass— he was going to make you say it. You knew he’d get you back for smart mouthing him earlier. However, your want to cum from your ass outweighs your pride.

“Fuck me, pleaseee Niki…”

Unable to hide his satisfaction, Niki smirks. “Tell me where you want it.” Hissing, he hooks both thumbs into your hole and stretches it open, spitting into it as if marking his territory. It’s dirty. Depraved. So why are you handing him another condom and spreading yourself for more?

Riki doesn’t make you wait any longer once the condoms on. With a feral groan, he directs his cock to your asshole and pushes in— the tight ring of muscle yielding under his force. The mouth watering blissful pain of something so big splitting you open shorts your brain as Riki sinks in with one long, deep thrust.

Distantly, you both remember that he’s the first person to get to do this to you. Possessiveness settles deep and crushing into his chest as he grips tighter. Deliriously, you feel so full with Riki’s cock in your ass that you melt. Moaning shakily with a mouthful of pillow.

“Ready f’me to fuck you stupid?”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer because he knows what the answer is. Gripping your fat ass in both hands he draws out his cock, greasy and dripping in a mix of your juices, until only the head is spreading your deliciously raw hole open. Then he slams in, hard, sending the most gorgeous shriek rolling from your tongue. Body shaking with dry, heaving sobs— your insides flutter and clench impossibly tight.

“I’m gonna die,” your slurred keen drawls listlessly. Your mind fades. As soon as Riki’s cock had slid into you your brain had switched off; leaving you vulnerable to the most carnal sensations. Your body is trembling, burning—each organ churning and each bone rattling like trees in the wind. Fingers twitching weakly at the covers.

Gone.

You’ve been utterly and completely wiped blank.

With enough effort you might be able to go on with life after this, but you know it will never be the same. You’ll spend your days daydreaming about eternity in this moment. Reliving flashbacks until your body reacts and your knees go so weak with pleasure you almost collapse.

Niki rears over you, hips starting up an unforgiving pace. With each brute thrust you grow limper, melting like warm honey beneath his hands and it’s beautiful.

“Told you it’d fit,” Niki groans, feeling you choke his dick like a vice. “Told you it’d fit and now look at you”, he pants, “Loving it…”

He has you in the palm of his hand, perfect and sweet and hes pumping and thrusting— pounding until you’re dripping and destroyed and as succulent as ripe fruit ready to burst.

Gripping your hips, Riki bends himself over the your pliant form, once again using his weight to drive the full force of his thrusts deep into you; licking a rough, wet stripe from mid-spine to the nape of your neck. At the shift of angle you let out a weak scream, shoulders shuddering.

“Probably gonna cum too, yeah?”

You choke on something that doesn’t even sound whole, dripping messy rivulets of slick all over his balls.

“That’s what I thought…”

Muscles draw tight as he feels you cum beneath him. You cum on a scope so intense he half expects you to begin foaming at the mouth but all that spills from between your lips is thick, viscous drool. Your sweet face is contorted in pleasure, hair glowing and dishevelled, body shining and slick with sweat and cum as it thrashes. Soft hips hump back wildly on his cock, spraying that same liquid as before— drenching you both to the point where the bedding is soaked through.

A sound leaves you – some sort of sound – but it’s foreign to his ears; almost animal in nature, something inexplicably deep and primal. It’s a noise that sets his entire body alight, a deep rumble echoing in his bones.

“F-fuck, baby”, He’s so close. “Take it…”

Riki’s grip is iron as he fucks himself in the tight, sucking grip of your ass until release breaks through. Throwing his head back with a ruined groan, molten heat washes over him as holds himself deep inside you and cums. Heavy ball draw up tight as he releases load after load, flooding the condom to the point it’s leaking out the sides and dripping in thick white globs onto the unsalvageable sheets. It’s so good. You’re so good. Each tendon in his neck is taut, each vein pulsing against the skin. You cum again at the sensation, jerking weakly beneath Riki, half sobbing into the wet pillows pressed against your face.

The room is sweltering by the time you’re officially done. Consciousness dips in and out while you try to stay awake but it’s a swiftly losing battle. You can’t feel your legs or your back. Riki’s still nuzzling into the back of your shoulder blades until he notices how still you are.

Turning you gently onto your back, he takes one look at your face and decides he’ll tell you later you’re spending the night. Peppering soft kisses to your cheeks, he calls your name until your eyelids flutter back open and his heart soars in relief.

“Oh god there you are”, he’s like a big dog as he smooches wet kisses all over your face. “I thought I killed you.” A punched out wheeze slips free. You don’t even have the energy to muster sarcasm.

“I thought you were trying to.”

He at least has the decency to look sorry, hands massaging down your body to check— “Does anything hurt?” You shake your head slowly, another wave of dizziness hitting you before your eyes slip shut on his panicked expression.

•

•

•

When you finally wake up, you’re clean and dry on a soft surface that’s also dry in a huge shirt with a sizeable weight on top of you. Moving, a sharp twinge races up from your lower regions making you hiss. The sound alerts the one on top of you as your face is suddenly being held and you find very big, very guilty eyes staring back at you.

“Baby!” You feel bad for thinking how cute he is all worried like this. “I’m so sorry”, squirming on top of you, Niki is practically in your lap apologizing as he scoots back a breath to hand you a cold bottle of—

“Orange Gatorade?” He nods, kissing your forehead before nuzzling back into your neck.

“Yeah. It’s supposed to help with electrolytes and stuff.” The confused look doesn’t ease off your face so he continues,

“Y’know…since you lost a lot of flui—“, slapping a palm over his mouth you nod sharply.

“Yep. I get it.” He watches you expectantly and that’s when it clicks. He’s waiting for you to drink it now. Handing the bottle back so he can open it, you take a few sips, humming at the light taste before leaning up to kiss him, voice soft and soothing.

“It’s good. Thank you for taking care of me, Niki”.

Riki’s heart does that strange thing it does when he’s around you. Like it flips before bursting into a cloud of butterflies and he’s so glad you like him back like this. You scared him so bad when you just passed out— unresponsive no matter how many times he called your name and the only thing he had to soothe him were the deep, rhythmic rises of your breathing.

Your hands rake through his now clean hair as he tightens his hold around you, suddenly sleepy in the warmth of your company. His voice is uncharacteristically vulnerable when he asks, pressing a similar tender kiss to the back of your other hand in his.

“Can we stay like this for a little bit?”

You nod but you can’t help but wonder…

How long should you date before you tell him that he’s welcome to stay forever?