clod 🧃

It’s late but you’re not sleepy. Chris is laid up between your legs, head resting on your chest as he scrolls through Bubble. Your fingers thread through his hair, nails scratching gently against his scalp in that way that usually makes him practically purr like a cat.

“Amor,”

“Hmm?” He hums, shifting his head to look up at you, phone screen illuminating his face in the dim bedroom.

“If we broke up tomorrow, what would you do?”

He really shouldn’t be surprised given how many times you’ve asked him questions with a similar pattern. It’s become almost a love language at this point, your weird hypothetical questions that range from adorable to absolutely unhinged.

‘Would you still love me if I was a worm?’

‘Would you peel tangerines for me?’

‘If Hyune separated a perilla leaf or peeled shrimp for me, what would you do?’

But this question has thrown him a little bit because what do you mean by if you break up tomorrow? You two are solid. Rock solid, at least he thinks so.

“Baby? Did you hear me?”

“Mhmm, why are we talking about hypothetical breakups though?” There’s a careful edge to his voice that you almost miss.

“Just answer the question. What would you do?”

He pauses for a bit, and you watch something flicker across his face—calculation, maybe mischief—before he replies with, “I’d go back to my ex.”

You stare at him like he’s grown another head. The gentle motion of your fingers in his hair stops abruptly.

“Qué?”

“If we broke up tomorrow I’d get back with my ex.”

The playful atmosphere shifts instantly. Your fingers still completely in his hair and you can feel your heart doing something uncomfortable in your chest—a twist, a squeeze—something that makes your breath catch.

“Your…ex?” The words come out flat, careful. You’re trying to keep your voice neutral, but there’s an edge creeping in that you can’t quite control. “You’d just…go back to her? Just like that?”

Chris is still looking up at you with those big brown eyes, and you can’t read his expression. Is he serious? Is this another one of his jokes that’s going to make you want to smack him? Because if it is, it’s not funny. Not even a little bit.

“Chris, I’m being serious right now.” You pull your hand away from his hair entirely, and the loss of contact feels significant somehow. “Which ex are we talking about? And why would that be your first move?”

Part of you wants to push him off entirely, but another part is frozen, waiting for him to explain himself. Because surely there’s an explanation. There has to be. This is the same Chris who gets pouty when you don’t text him back within five minutes, who plans dates weeks in advance, who looks at you like you hung the moon and personally arranged all the stars just for him.

Right?

“You have like thirty seconds to explain yourself before I actually consider making this hypothetical very real,” you add, and you’re only half-joking.

“What?” He has the audacity to look confused, like he hasn’t just said the most unhinged thing possible in response to your admittedly unhinged hypothetical question. Like this is a completely normal conversation to be having at—you glance at the clock—11:40 PM on a Tuesday.

Your hand moves from his hair to his forehead, pressing against it like you’re checking for a fever. “Are you feeling okay? Did you hit your head? Because that’s literally the worst fucking answer you could have given.”

“Is it though?” He’s still scrolling through Bubble with one hand, the other resting on your thigh, acting way too casual for someone who just threatened to get back with an ex. The audacity. The absolute audacity of this man.

“Yes! Obviously! The correct answer is ‘I would never let us break up’ or ‘I’d fight for you’ or ‘I’d be miserable forever’ or literally anything except ‘I’d go back to my ex’!” You’re starting to actually get mad now—even though he’s looking at you with those stupid pretty eyes—you need him to understand the severity of his answer. “Like, that’s literally the one answer that’s completely off limits!”

He shifts, turning onto his stomach so he can look at you properly, chin resting on your chest. His phone is finally set aside, which should be a good sign, but the look on his face says he’s far too pleased with himself. “Why wouldn’t I get back with my ex? Do you know how much she’s done for me? Brains, beauty, the entire package. She’s literally perfect. I’d be stupid not to go back.”

Your jaw drops. “Christopher Chahn Bahng. I’d shut my mouth if I were you.”

“Why? You asked a question and I gave an answer.” He responds, moving to sit up and look at you properly now. His hands rest on either side of your head, holding his weight up as he watches the way your facial expression changes from shocked to hurt to angry.

“Get off me.” You mumble, pushing at his chest and moving to get off the bed. You need distance. You need to not be touching him right now because your emotions are doing something complicated and messy.

“Woah, woah, woah. Hold up, where are you going? You can’t seriously be mad at me for answering a question you asked.” His hand wraps around your wrist, gentle but firm.

You yank your arm back. “If we break up tomorrow, Christopher, what would you do?” You ask one more time, giving him a chance to fix it. To take it back. To say literally anything else.

“Go back to my ex, I told you.” He says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, and that’s what breaks something in you.

You scoff, a sound that’s half-laugh, half-disbelief, and successfully snatch your wrist out of his hand. “Unbelievable.”

Chris watches you slide off the bed, and there’s this little smirk playing at his lips that makes you want to throw a pillow at his face. Hard. Maybe two pillows. Maybe your fucking chancleta would be better.

“Baby, wait—”

“Don’t ‘baby’ me right now,mamaguevo.” You’re across the room now, arms crossed defensively over your chest, and you hate that your eyes are stinging a little. It’s stupid, it’s just a hypothetical question. You asked it but the way he kept doubling down, the way he looked so casual about it, like the idea of leaving you and going back to someone else was just…easy.

“You’re really not going to let me finish?” He’s sitting up now, legs hanging off the edge of the bed and he has the nerve to look amused. Like this is funny. Like your heart isn’t currently doing gymnastics in your chest.

“Finish what? Finish telling me about how amazing your ex is? About how perfect she is? About how you’d run right back to her the second we were done?” Your voice cracks a little on the last word and you hate it. You hate that he’s getting to you like this over a stupid hypothetical. “I asked you a stupid hypothetical question, Chris. The kind couples ask each other when they’re being cute and gross. And you—”

“And I told you the truth,” he interrupts, standing up now. He takes a step toward you and you automatically take one back, your back hitting the wall. His expression softens, something tender creeping into those eyes. “If we broke up tomorrow, I’d go back to my ex. I’d chase after her, beg her to take me back, do whatever it took. I’d show up at her place with flowers, I’d write her songs, I’d probably embarrass myself completely.”

“Dios mío, stop talking pu—”

“Because you’re my ex in this scenario, pretty.” He says it so simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like you should have seen this coming from a mile away. “If we break up tomorrow, that makes you my ex-girlfriend. And yeah, I’d absolutely go back to my ex. I’d fight like hell to get her back because I’m not stupid enough to let the love of my life go without a fight.”

You freeze.

The words hang in the air between you, and suddenly your brain is doing the math, rewinding the entire conversation, replaying every answer with this new context.

Oh.

Oh.

“You—” You start, but your throat feels tight and your eyes are definitely stinging now but for a completely different reason. “You absolute asshole.”

The smile that breaks across his face is so fond, so completely and utterly Chris, that you don’t know whether to kiss him or actually throw that pillow. Maybe both. Probably both.

“Had you going though, didn’t I?” He closes the distance between you, hands gentle as they find your waist, thumbs rubbing small circles against your hip bones. “Did you really think I’d just casually tell you I’d move on? Me? Mr. ‘I-get-separation-anxiety-when-you-go-to-the-bathroom’? Mr. ‘I-texted-you-seventeen-times-during-my-lunch-break’?”

“I hate you,” you mumble but you’re already melting into him, hands coming up to rest against his chest where you can feel his heart beating steady and strong.

“No you don’t.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then hovers just above your lips, close enough that you can feel his breath. “You love me. Almost as much as I love you and if we ever broke up—which we won’t, by the way, I’m never letting you go—I’d be the most pathetic ex-boyfriend in history. I’d write albums about you and everything. The guys would have to stage an intervention while simultaneously roasting me for fumbling you.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“But I’m your annoying,” he grins, finally kissing you properly, soft and sweet and tasting like the hot chocolate he made earlier. “Now come back to bed so I can continue scrolling through Bubble while you play with my hair and pretend you’re not soft for me.”

“I’m not playing with your hair anymore. You lost that privilege.”

“You will in like five minutes.”

“Will not.”

“Will too.”

He’s right. You hate that he’s right.

But as you let him pull you back to bed, tucked safe against his chest with his arms wrapped around you and his fingers drawing patterns on your skin, you can’t help but smile. He starts scrolling through Bubble again, showing you fan messages, and your hand automatically finds its way back to his hair.

“See?” he says smugly.

“Shut up.”

“For the record,” he murmurs into your hair a few minutes later, voice gone soft and serious, “If you ever think about breaking up with me just know I’d be back on your doorstep before you could even think about changing your relationship status. Probably before you even finished the breakup conversation, honestly. I’d just stand there like ‘okay but what do you wanna eat?.’”

“That’s actually kind of creepy, Chris.”

“Yeah, but you love it.”

And damn it, you do. You really, really do.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you mutter, nails scratching against his scalp the way he likes.

“I’m lucky I have you,” he corrects, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Even when you ask me unhinged hypothetical questions at midnight.”

“It’s not midnight yet.”

“Give it five minutes.”

You both fall quiet, the comfortable kind of silence that comes from being with someone who feels like home. His breathing evens out, and you think he might be falling asleep until he speaks again.

“Hey, amor?”

“Hmm?”

“If I was a worm, would you still love me?”

You pinch his side, making him yelp. “Go to sleep, Christopher.”

When you look, he’s a silhouette first: all black, the clean geometry of a high-collar jacket and fitted tee, dark jeans that drink the light from his silver hair. Wet where they shouldn’t be. There are splashes on the cuffs and a dull sheen on his knuckles, rubbed halfway clean and then abandoned. He smells like outside at midnight—cold metal, wet bark, the bite of something mineral.

He doesn’t turn the lamp on. He walks by feel in this place like it’s mapped under his skin. The bed dips—a slow, careful press by your shins. His hand finds your ankle through the comforter and closes, thumb smoothing along the bone as if taking your pulse.

“Hi,” you say, small. It comes out a little breathy, guilty by nature.

He hums. “You’re warm.”

“I—yeah.” Your tongue tastes like wine and citrus. “Changed my clothes.”

His thumb stops moving. “Before or after you stopped answering me.”

The hour before this—your coworkers, the loud bar, the way your phone kept lighting up like a heartbeat—rearranges itself in your head. You swallow. The ring of your glass on polished wood. Laughter. Someone’s sleeve grazing your bare shoulder. “My battery—”

He reaches over you. A quiet, unhurried theft. Your phone is in his hand before you can catch the thought of saying no. He doesn’t check it yet. He just rests it on his thigh and looks at you, the whites of his eyes milk-pale in the low light.

“Battery,” he repeats, but it isn’t a question. It’s a place he’s setting you down to see if you stay.

The apartment is too quiet. You can hear the tiny tick of the hallway thermostat. Somewhere in the pipes a neighbor’s shower shuts off. Chris sets your phone on the nightstand without looking away from you. Then he bends, and the scent of him gets sharper.

Your fingers move before your nerve can talk you out of it. You catch his wrist. His skin is cold and a little damp; there’s grit drying in the lines of his palm. “What… is that?”

His mouth tips. He turns his hand in yours and spreads his fingers. In the dark, the stains read as a palette of shadows—edges the color of violets and rust, a smear you could almost pretend is paint if your stomach wasn’t pulling tight.

“Nothing you need to put your hands on,” he says softly. “Not with your pretty hands.”

“Chris.” Your name for him folds itself around a small plea. “Where did you go?”

“Out.” He lifts one shoulder, the movement minimal, controlled. “You were out. I gave you space.”

“You were mad.” Your voice wants to make it an accusation. It only makes it to observation. “You were mad at me for going and then you left and…and now you’re back.” 

“I always come back.” He says. His knuckles skim your knee over the blanket; he’s not petting you. He’s measuring. “Did you have fun?”

The question is silk over wire. You hate how it snags. “It was just drinks.”

“Just.” He tastes the word as if it offends him. “With who.”

You tell him. Names that feel harmless in your mouth feel less so in the room with him: Anya with the chipped pink manicure, Lucas from accounting who laughs with his whole chest. Chris tips his head once, small, taking the list like a report.

“Your coworker touched your back,” he says. Not a question. “By the door.”

You feel your face heat. You hadn’t told him that. You hadn’t even fully registered it until now— a palm that landed too comfortably between your shoulder blades as the group spilled outside to call rides, a thoughtless guiding pressure. Harmless, you told yourself, even as goosebumps rose sharp across your skin.

“He’s handsy with everyone,” you say.

“Handsy.” The corner of his lips quirk at that and he flexes his wrist slightly. The sheen of wetness there flashes suddenly. “Well.”

He drags his thumb along his wrist where something has dried into the seam of skin, then wipes it on his jeans without looking. He tips his head, studying you, and the quiet stretches until you feel your heartbeat as a separate animal in the room.

“Some men,” he says at last, conversational, “don’t know where to put their hands.” His gaze lowers to where the blanket tents over your knees. “It gets them into trouble.”

You try to laugh like it’s a joke, but it comes out thin and papery. “He… he didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Intent is a bedtime story.” His eyes find your face again. They are very gentle when he’s being unkind. “Contact is a fact.”

He reaches—slow—and takes your right wrist the way a tailor takes a measurement. His fingers encircle, warm now, pressing just enough to feel the pulse under the skin. “Palms up,” he murmurs.

You turn your hands. Your palms look almost luminous in the low light, every line a map you don’t know how to read. He brushes over them like he’s checking for splinters, then flattens your fingers one by one, counting under his breath so soft you almost don’t hear it.

“One… two… three… four… five.” He lifts your left and does the same. “Six… seven… eight… nine…” He pauses on your smallest finger, thumb resting at its base like a promise. “Ten.” His mouth softens. “Good. Keep them.”

The relief is quick and mean; it makes you feel stupid. “Chris—”

He places your hands back on the blanket with exaggerated care, aligning your fingers together, smoothing the duvet where you’ve wrinkled it. “Don’t put them on strangers,” he adds mildly. “Not even on your ‘handsy-with-everyone’ coworker. Especially not him.”

Your tongue sticks to your teeth. “I didn’t— I wouldn’t—”

He nods, as if you’ve given the answer he wanted. “Tomorrow you’ll call off,” he says. “Headache. Or stomach. Something simple. I’ll write it for you.”

“I have a deadline.”

“Then you’ll meet it from here.” He glances toward your desk. “I moved the charger.” He has. The cord that used to live by the couch trails neatly to your nightstand, looped into a figure-eight. “You’ll stay home. That way your hands don’t… wander.”

The thermostat ticks over. Somewhere on the street a far siren winds down and disappears. He looks toward the window briefly, as if listening for his name in it, then unbuttons his cuff with precise, clean movements. The fabric peels back to show crescent-shaped indents deep into his skin, blooming red against his wrist. He smooths it with the other thumb, absent, soothing.

Your mouth moves before your sense does. “Did you… get hurt?”

He considers the question a moment, then shakes his head. “No.”

There’s a small, complicated silence. You think of the bar’s door, the way Lucas had skated his palm between your shoulders like he was steering a shopping cart; you think of the word harmless and how cheap it suddenly feels in your mouth. You think of how Chris’s cuff had been wet when he walked in, and the way the building itself seemed to hold a breath for him.

“He won’t touch you again,” Chris says, almost tender. “Or anyone.”

You look at the shape his words make. They don’t land like a guess.

“Is he—” You stop yourself on the brink. The question opens under you like a staircase to something you don’t want to see the bottom of. You try a different angle, smaller, more ordinary. “Is he okay?”

Chris’s expression does something minuscule—an eyelash shift of amusement, gone as soon as you name it. “He’s not going to be handsy for a while.” He says it like the weather. Like a calendar note. “Extended leave.”

Your stomach lurches. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he says patiently, “we won’t have this conversation again.”

He picks up your phone, flips it over, and presses the side button with his thumb.

“Location,” he says. You unlock it. He doesn’t have to ask twice.

He toggles the setting on with the same reverence he uses to smooth your hair when you’re shaking. He adds himself to a little white list of people who can always find you. He does not look triumphant. He looks relieved, like someone closing a latch.

He watches the little toggle slide green, then lets your phone dim on its own. The room seems to settle with it, like a lid finding its jar.                    

“Good,” he says. It isn’t praise so much as calibration. “That’s how we stop accidents.”                    

He reaches for your hands again, less like a lover and more like someone fitting a lid—checking the lips, the seal, the way things meet. His thumbs trace the pads of your fingers as if memorizing their texture for later, then pause at your ring finger like he’s counting future problems.                    

“Dry,” he notes. “You pick at the cuticles when you’re anxious.”                    

“I—sometimes.”                    

“I love you,” he says into your knuckles—each kiss a seal—and then, almost lightly: “I’m going to shower.”            

“Okay.”            

“Don’t move.” It’s gentle, which means it isn’t optional.            

The bathroom door clicks. A heartbeat; the pipes wake. Water hits tile in that hard first burst and then takes on a steady hiss. You hear the metal thrum of the knob easing hotter, the wet drag of a curtain pulled closed. Steam slips under the door and ghosts along the floor.            

You stay put for twenty seconds. Maybe thirty. Your pulse makes the counting slippery.   

Then you climb out of bed.         

The jacket waits where he left it, draped over the chair like a sleeping thing. Up close it smells like cold and soap and a thin, mineral thread the shower can’t quite erase. You tell yourself you’re just moving it, just… tidying. Your fingers find the collar. The fabric is heavier than it looks; the hem gives a little when you lift it.            

There’s a darker crescent on the inside placket, dried thin and matte. You swallow, carefully. Your hand finds the inner pocket and grazes something wrapped—paper or tissue gone dense with damp. It gives when you press it. Your stomach steps off a curb.            

You shouldn’t.            

You do.            

The paper sighs open. It isn’t a big thing. Not heavy. Just… definite. Pale where it shouldn’t be, a blunt little curve, the clean circle of a band biting soft tissue. The ring is the wrong kind of familiar—the cheap onyx square your coworker never took off, the one he rapped against doorframes when he was telling a story too loudly. L.M. engraved inside in bad block letters. You recognize it with the same certainty you recognize your own phone by weight in the dark.  Recognize the finger that is still attached to it, blood crusted at the end.           

Air forgets how to go in. You hear yourself set it down back into its cocoon—too careful, too late—your hands suddenly useless birds.

The shower keeps hissing—a steady white noise that makes the apartment feel far away from itself. Steam curls under the bathroom door, licks the floor, climbs the chair legs. You try to put the bundle back exactly the way you found it—edges kissing, soft layers aligned—but your fingers won’t listen. The tissue makes that papery sigh again. Your stomach pitches.

The bathroom door opens.

He’s there in the doorway, towel low on his hips, hair dripping in silent commas down his throat. The room smells like heat and soap and something faintly medicinal. He doesn’t look at the chair first. He looks at you. The angle of your shoulders. The way your hands hover, useless, just off your ribs.

“I forgot the razor,” he says, utterly ordinary, then sees the jacket lifted and your hands mid-guilt. The sentence folds itself away. His eyes take in the angle of your elbows, the loosened pocket, the counterfeit stillness you’re trying to wear.

“I told you not to move.”

“Chris—” Your voice splinters. Your heart is a spotlight that can’t pick a target. “I didn’t— I was just—”

“Bring it here.” Not unkind. Inevitable.

You shake your head before you can stop it. The world wobbles. Something helpless and high climbs your throat.

“Inside voice,” he reminds you softly, stepping closer, towel riding his hipbone, heat breathing off him in waves. “Neighbors.”

“It’s—” The word fails three times. You force it through. “His. That’s— it’s his—” You can’t say finger and not make it real.

“I know what it is.” He holds out the hem of the towel, palm hidden, offering fabric instead of skin. “Give it.”

You almost drop it. Instead, your hands betray you in the safest way they can: they obey. He receives the small weight without looking, wraps once, twice, until the shape is nothing again. He turns and sets it on the closed toilet lid, exactly where a folded towel might live and no one would notice.

Your breath is small and fast. “We have to call— we have to tell someone—”

“No,” he says, utterly calm. “We don’t.”

“He needs a hospital.”

Chris tilts his head, considering. “They won’t be able to help him much.”

He watches your mouth try to shape the argument and fail. The parcel sits obediently on porcelain. The shower keeps talking behind the curtain, a long even line of sound, as if the apartment could write over this with steam.

“They can’t help him,” he repeats, gentle as a correction.

Your breath scrapes. “You don’t know that.”

“I can.” He says. “And if you call anyone now, you’ll only move your fear from the chair to the door.” His gaze flicks there, to the latch, then back. “I prefer it where I can see it. Where I can fix it.”

You shake your head hard enough that black dots crowd the edges of the room. Your hands hover, then clutch the hem of your sleep shirt because you have to hold something or you’ll come apart.

“We have to—” Your voice thins. “Chris, we can’t have— that—here.”

Something flickers in his eyes then, and he softens considerably. He tilts your head back with a finger at your chin. “Are you trying to protect me?”

You flinch like he’s caught you holding a knife by the blade. “I—no— I’m trying to—”

“To make it smaller,” he says, kindly. “For both of us.” His thumb at your chin isn’t force; it’s gravity. “Sweetheart, you always do that. You hold the bad thing close and hope it stops being sharp, even as it’s digging into your chest.”

Your throat works. “This isn’t a bad thing, Chris. It’s—” You can’t say it. The word would sit in your mouth like a rock.

“It’s consequence,” he supplies gently. “It’s the shape safety takes when someone mistakes you for public property.” He leans closer, steam shining his eyelashes. “Listen to me. He put his hands on you like you were an aisle display. He’ll never do that again. Not to you. Not to anyone.”

“You don’t know—”

“I do.” He says it with that low, unarguable certainty that makes you feel both furious and steadied. “Because I removed the choice.”

Your eyes burn. “You can’t ask me to be okay with that.”

“I’m not.” The smallest smile ghosts across his mouth. “I’m telling you that you don’t have to hold it. Give me the part that shakes.” He taps your sternum with two fingers, precise and light. “Let me be heavy so you can be soft.”

It’s wrong that his voice makes your pulse calm. It’s wrong that his palm at your jaw—warm, damp, steady—makes your knees remember they’re attached. He watches the fight in your face without gloating, like a doctor waiting for a fever to break.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Shivering. Your skin’s trying to crawl away from itself.” He tips his head at the shower, still hissing behind the curtain. “Come wash it off.”

He doesn’t pull. He simply offers his hand, palm up, the way he does when he’s certain you’ll remember who you are with it. You stare at it, at the nicks and lines and the new marks, and hate that the relief is already cresting.

“You’ll keep looking at that chair if you stay,” he murmurs. “You’ll imagine stories that are uglier than the truth. Or kinder than it. Either way you’ll bruise yourself with it.” His fingers flex, inviting rather than demanding. “Or you’ll come with me, and I’ll soap your wrists and count you back into your body.”

“That’s manipulative,” you whisper.

He smiles. “It’s love,” he whispers back. “And I’m very good at it.” Softer. “You love me.”

You do. You love him so much, it’s ripping your heart into shreds. Your hand finds his. You tell yourself it’s to stop shaking, to anchor, to prove you can still make a choice. He laces your fingers, warm and certain, and leads you the three steps into steam. The air kisses your face wet; the mirror ghosts your outline.

He lets go of your hand to slip off his towel, stark naked and straight-backed in the way only a person completely confident in their skin can be. He glances up at you, still fully dressed, and smiles slightly.

“Clothes on the hook,” he says. “I’ll turn around.”

“Will you,” you murmur, but it’s almost an old joke between you, and you hate that too.

He does turn, though, despite the fact that he’s seen you naked a million times before. He faces the mirror, head bowed, palms resting lightly on the counter as if he’s bracing with politeness. You can see him in the glass, ears slightly pink, fingers fidgeting and you can see the parcel on the shut lid and you hate that you can hold both images at once.

You feel ridiculous for noticing how the lines of his back looks in the mirror. You hate that your skin already misses his hands.

You peel your shirt over your head. The steam eats the last of the bar-smell; shame sticks closer. Shorts, panties—gone, balled onto the hook by reflex. The curtain whispers when you pull it. He doesn’t look until you are inside with him and the water clasps your shoulders like a warm hand.

When he turns, it’s slow, like he’s letting you get used to the shape of him. His cock is heavy and dark where it hangs, unashamed of what it wants. Your stomach flips traitorously. You hate that your mouth waters more for him than for oxygen.

His fingers find your jaw. “Open,” he says, and you do, because that’s the muscle memory he’s installed in you. He kisses you lazy at first, uncoiling heat, then bites when you chase it. It’s filthy how quickly you melt. It’s filthy how your hips rock without your permission.

“Look at you.” His voice roughens against your mouth. “You were shaking for the wrong reason. I’ll fix it.”

“Chris—” It comes out a whine. You want to curse him. You want to be on your knees. You want both.

“Turn around,” he murmurs, and walks you into the tile until your nipples brush cool ceramic. His hand spreads at your nape, not pinning so much as arranging. “Hands on the wall.”

You plant your palms. Steam glosses them. Water drums your spine. The disgust curls low and glowing—how can you want this now, knowing what he——and then his other hand drags down your belly and sinks between your thighs and the thought scratches out.

He finds you wet like you’d been waiting for him all night. His breath breaks at your ear. “There she is,” he says, and the pride in it makes your knees tremble. Shame pricks; your body opens anyway.

His thumb circles your clit in slow, obscene laps, the kind that make heat pool and then surge. Two fingers press at your entrance and the groan you make when he pushes in is so relieved it’s almost a sob. He doesn’t thrust right away—he holds you full, spread, thumb grinding shallow circles until your hips start to chase, until you’re whining please without meaning to.

“Greedy,” he says, delighted. “After the little stunt you pulled.” He sets a rhythm designed to undo you—deep, dragging strokes that rub the rough pad of his finger against your front wall, the heel of his palm catching your clit on the exit. Your jaw goes slack; your cheeks go hot. Water slicks everything but his grip never slips.

You tremble. He hears it. “Say you need me.”

“I—need—” The syllables fracture around his hand. “I need it.”

“You need me,” he corrects, and crooks his fingers just so. The sound you make would embarrass you if embarrassment could live here. He does it again, patient, cruel, praising you with his breath. “That’s it. Make a mess on my hand.”

Your forehead thumps the tile when he speeds up—tiny, ruthless punches of pleasure that light your nerves like a fuse. You bite your wrist. He tsks and drags your arm down. “No hiding,” he says, and taps your cheek with his knuckles. “Let me hear you.”

You hate him; you love him; you’re coming up hard and bright around the fingers of a man you should be afraid of and you arch back into him like a sinner courting the flame. He feels your body seize and laughs, soft and pleased, and claps his palm hard against your clit on the downswing. You break. It rips out of you, filthy and helpless, thighs shaking, cunt milking his fingers like you were made to perform exactly this trick for him.

He doesn’t stop. He rides you through it, wringing the aftershocks until you’re keening, until your hands slip on the tile. “Too much?” he asks, not stopping, not interested in fairness. You shake your head because honesty would make you beg and you refuse to give him that—until his thumb flicks and you beg anyway.

He gentles. He always knows exactly when to. He drags his soaked fingers to your mouth and taps. You take them like a penitent. You lick your taste off him, eyes closing, shame burning hot as want. His voice goes ragged. “Good girl. Clean me up.”

He kneels.

The filthy punch of it—Chris on his knees in your tub like prayer—makes you dizzy. He hooks your thigh over his shoulder and eats you like he’s been starving for days. No teasing, no polite tongue; he gets messy immediately, mouth open, sucking your clit into the wet heat of him while his injured wrist braces your hip. You slap the tile, a smacking echo that makes you flush, and grind down because your body is done pretending it has standards.

He moans into you when you ride his face. The sound vibrates through your clit and you jerk; he does it again, greedy for the way you seize. His tongue fucks you shallow, sloppily, then drags up and flattens over you until your knees threaten to go. “Chris,” you gasp, and he answers by driving two fingers into you from below and curling them like a hook. The world whites out around the edges.

“You taste like you missed me,” he says against you, voice ruined, and devours you harder. His hand is a metronome between your legs; his mouth is chaos. You let him make you into a noise. You let him use your hips like handles. You hate yourself for how quickly the second orgasm winds you back up—and when it slams through, messier than the first, you cry out loud enough the pipes hum it back.

He stands in one smooth flex and kisses you, filthy, sharing the mess he made of you with a satisfied noise when you chase his tongue. You can taste yourself and him and something metallic you don’t want to name, and the wrongness of that reels you; your cunt clenches uselessly around nothing and he groans into your mouth like he felt it.

“Bed,” he says, hoarse, fumbling for the shower knob. “On your back. Legs open.”

You stumble out of the tub, dripping and boneless, and he follows, slinging water across the tile with his steps. You don’t look at the porcelain lid when you pass; his fingers at your wrist give you something truer to stare at. He throws you onto the sheets like you’re soft and expensive and his favorite problem.

He drags you down the bed so your hips kiss the edge and folds you open. “My pretty mess,” he says, and spits on you, quick and obscene. His thumb smears it in and your body thanks him before your brain can get a vote.

“Condom,” you start to say, and he’s already reaching the drawer, already tearing it with his teeth, already rolling it down with practiced, impatient hands. Consideration weaponized. You hate that relief loosens your spine.

He lines up and pushes—slow the first inch, watching your face, then down to the root in one long glide that makes both of you swear. Your mouth falls open. He holds there, deep, letting you feel how utterly inside you he is, how there is no getting him out now that he’s home.

“Fuck,” you whisper, and he smiles like he’s been paid.

He moves. Not fast, not yet; slow, dragging thrusts that grind him right where you’re still trembling from his mouth. His hands climb your body, mapping possession in a language your skin understands better than your head. One circles your throat—not squeezing, just fitting there—and the other lifts your thigh higher, folding you until you open the way he likes, until his hips can pin you to every inch of the bed.

“Eyes,” he says, and you drag them up to him. He looks down like he’s blessing you. “Say what you are.”

“Yours,” you breathe, because lying would be pointless, and his rhythm stutters sweetly, his composure cracked with a sound that curls your toes.

“You are,” he grits out, picking up pace. “Your mine.” He fucks you harder, deeper, the kind of stroke that turns words to weather. The slap of skin fills the room; the wet between you is obscene; your slick coats him and he groans, filthy and pleased. “Listen to yourself,” he pants. “God, you’re loud for me.”

Your nails carve his back. He hisses and drives you higher, the bed complaining. The shame surges, searing and numb all at once—how can you moan for him when you know what he did, how can you come on a man who——and then he pins your wrists over your head in one hand and grinds down exactly right and you choose the smaller sin: you let him.

It builds ugly and perfect. He keeps you there, right on the edge, with little mean circles of his hips that make your eyes wet. “Not yet,” he says when you reach for it. “Hold it. Be good.”

“I can’t,” you plead, and he smiles like that’s his favorite part, and slides deeper, angling to own that spot you can’t protect. Your back arches, your feet slip, your mouth falls open on a sound that feels like confession.

“Fine then,” he says, and the word is a key. You come like you’re being wrung out, like he’s turned you inside out over his hands, like every ugly thought burns away under the heat he’s made of you. You bite his shoulder; he grunts and fucks you through it, chasing his own end now, brutal and beautiful, the lines of his face cut with pleasure.

He’s right there—hips hammering, breath tearing out of him—when his rhythm breaks. A harsh curse rips from his throat; he wrenches out of you with a wet, obscene drag, condom snapping as he claws it off and flings it aside. His hand wraps himself like he means to bruise, wrist jerking, fist a blur.

“Fuck—fuck—look at me,” he snarls, voice gone raw. The sound he makes isn’t pretty; it’s guttural, animal, his head thrown back, throat working as he pumps, fast and mean, like every second not inside you hurts. His abs jump; his hips chase the air. He’s loud, louder than he ever lets himself be—deep, broken groans punched out of him, a helpless litany of your name and filthy, grateful curses.

You’re splayed open at the edge of the bed, slick everywhere, thighs shaking, and the sight of you ruins him. His jaw locks; he doubles over you, bracing one palm on the mattress beside your ribs, the other tearing at himself, desperate, frantic. “God, look at you—mine, mine—” It pitches higher on the last word, ragged and close.

“Channie,” you gasp, and that’s what does it. His whole body tightens; his hand stutters and he shouts—loud, uncontained—spilling hot and thick over your stomach in hard, messy stripes. The first hits your lower belly; the next lands higher, a wet heat across your ribs, your breasts, a warm splatter catching your throat. He keeps jerking through it, whimpering now, ruined and beautiful, painting you with it like he’s signing a contract he wrote in his own blood.

He yanks another breath, fist still working, chasing the last aftershocks out of himself until he’s empty. A final, helpless groan punches into your neck as the last spill drips over the swell of your chest and slicks down your side. He shivers, hand loosening, cock twitching in his grip as he milks the last drops onto your belly, smearing them with the flat of his thumb like he wants it everywhere on you.

“Fuck,” he laughs, breathless and wrecked, forehead falling to your shoulder. His chest heaves against your knees; his hips twitch like he can’t stop wanting. For a second there’s nothing but the sound of both of you trying to remember how to breathe and the obscene slide of his palm as he finally lets go.

He lifts his head, eyes blown and greedy, and stares at the mess he’s made—at your skin shining with him, at your nipples slick and peaked, at the milky line collecting at the notch of your collarbone. The look on his face is worship and victory tangled into something that scares you and softens you at once.

“Pretty,” he rasps, voice torn to threads. He drags two fingers through the warm spill on your sternum and rubs it slow over your skin, spreading it down, circling your nipple until you gasp again. His mouth follows, open and hot, licking it from you, sucking lazily like he can’t stand to waste a drop. He mouths a filthy path up your chest and licks the spot at your throat where it landed, groaning low when you shiver.

He noses the hollow of your throat and licks a slow, possessive stripe through the warm mess there like he’s tasting proof. A pleased sound rattles in his chest. “Mine,” he says into your skin, and then he’s chasing every slick line downward with his mouth open and greedy, tongue broad and hot.

He drags the flat of it over your collarbone and sucks the spill from the notch like he’s siphoning heat. It’s obscene, wet, noisy—he wants you to hear how he’s cleaning you. His hand pins your hip when you twitch. “Stay,” he mutters, and laps lower, patient and ravenous at once.

Your chest lifts helplessly to meet him. He takes his time there—circles one nipple with the tip of his tongue, smearing the milky shine until it coats you, then seals his mouth over it and sucks hard. Your back bows; a broken sound leaves you; shame bites; want eats it alive. He hums like he’s been given cream and moves to the other, mouthing it sloppier, licking until it’s slick again, sucking until your thighs tremble.

“Look at you,” he breathes, pulling back half an inch just to admire the spit-slick flush he’s made. He drags two fingers through the mess on your sternum and paints a crooked line down your ribs; his mouth follows, tongue working, teeth scraping lightly when you gasp. He cleans like a sinner making amends—thorough, reverent, filthy.

He gets to your belly and slows further, licking in lazy swirls that make your muscles flutter. He collects everything he finds with the soft edge of his tongue and swallows, then goes hunting with the tip, chasing it into your navel until you squeak. He laughs against your skin, low and wrecked. “All of it,” he promises, voice hoarse. “Every drop.”

He turns his head and bites the tender place beside your hipbone then soothes it with his tongue, lapping at a rivulet sliding toward the sheet. He won’t let it leave you; he catches it on the underside of his tongue and rolls it back up your skin into his mouth with a groan that ricochets through your gut. Your fingers fist in the sheets. You hate how your body melts under the worship, how your hips tip to give him more.

“Open,” he murmurs, nudging your knees wider with his forearms, but he doesn’t go there yet. He drags his cheek over your inner thigh, smearing shine into your skin, then licks it away in long, patient swathes like he’s polishing you. Every time you flinch, he follows the twitch with his mouth and cleans it, tongue insistent, lips soft, breath hot.

When he reaches the juncture of your thigh and pelvis he slows to nothing, holding your gaze as he flattens his tongue and slides it through the thin line he left on your lower belly, collecting the last of what he spilled and groaning like he’s starving for it. Your head tips back on a whimper; you can feel heat pooling low and mean again, traitorous.

“Almost done,” he lies, and you know he’s lying because his thumbs are already stroking into the crease where you’re slick for a different reason, and he’s looking at you like dessert is finally plated.

He bends and licks the inner curve beside your mound, not touching your clit, not yet, just cleaning your skin with obscene diligence. He chases a stray smear up and over, mouth open, licking slow enough to make you curse. He hums at the taste and your body answers, a little jerk that gives everything away. He follows it with the tip of his tongue, drinks from you again like he’s earned the right.

Then he finally drags the flat of his tongue up your slit in one long, deliberate stroke that leaves you shaking. He tastes you and the noise he makes is grateful and indecent. “So sweet,” he says, slurred, and seals his mouth around your clit just long enough to make your vision grit out. He pulls off with a wet pop, breath tearing. “I said I was cleaning.” A beat. “This is part of it.”

He spreads you with his thumbs and eats you again, deeper. He’s still loud—low groans and ruined little curses as he licks everything you give him, as if the only way to finish what he started is to pull you back apart with his mouth. Your hips climb his face; he lets them, one arm banding your waist, the other anchoring your thigh over his shoulder so he can get messy. He licks your entrance and fucks his tongue into you, sloppy and insistent, then drags up and sucks your clit in deep, obscene pulls that make your toes curl.

“Chris—” It’s a plea and a warning both.

“I know,” he pants, laughing breathlessly against you, and goes right back to it, tonguing you until your thoughts blur, until shame has nothing to hold onto. He cleans you and dirties you at once, lap after lap, swallow after swallow, until you’re soaked with his spit and your own slick again, until your thighs are shaking and your hand is in his hair trying to push him away and keep him forever.

He takes your wrist and plants your palm over your own breast. “Hold it for me,” he says, and when you do, he moans and licks harder, like the sight is gasoline.

You climb fast. He feels it and chases it, sucking your clit into the heat of his mouth and flicking his tongue exactly the way that breaks you. It hits sharp and hot—your hips stutter, your breath rips out in a cry, and he hums through your release like he’s proud of himself, like he’s finishing his plate.

He doesn’t stop until you shove at him, half-sobbing. He lets you, finally, lips shiny, chin wet, eyes black with want. He crawls up your body, dragging his mouth along your belly to catch anything he might have missed, then kisses your sternum, each breast, your throat, licking away the last ghost-stripes he painted there.

“All clean,” he says against your mouth, and kisses you slow so you can taste the truth of it—him, and you, and the ruin of the night turned into heat.

You hate that the taste makes you open for him. You hate that your hips lift again when his hand slides down, palm heavy on your belly, thumb stroking low like a promise that he isn’t done. He smiles into the kiss, feral and fond, and licks the corner of your mouth as if there were anything left to claim.

“Roll over,” he murmurs, voice gone velvet-dark. 

You roll, cheek to the cool side of the pillow, hips lifting because his hands have already found your waist. He palms you open, thumbs pressing into the dip above the swell of your ass like he’s fitting you to himself.

“Like this,” he says, low and rough, dragging his mouth down your spine in hot, open kisses. “Want you like this.”

You know what he means before he says it; your body knows it first. He nudges your knees wider, presses his chest to your back, breath hot at your ear. “No rubber,” he murmurs, filthy-soft. “Bare. Let me stay.”

A flare of sense—thin, sputtering—fights up your throat. It dies on the whine you make when he slides two fingers through your slick and pushes them into you to the knuckle. Your hips answer for you, pushing back, shame prickling uselessly under the want.

“Say it,” he grinds, teeth grazing your shoulder. “Tell me to fuck you raw.”

“Yes,” you breathe, burnt and honest. “God—yes, Chris. Bare.”

He groans like you untied something inside him. The sound vibrates in your bones. He drags his fingers out, slow, and you feel the blunt head of him notch against you—hot, heavy, hungry. There’s no latex drag, no barrier. Just him, thick and alive, pressing into your heat. Your breath shreds.

“Open up for me,” he rasps, and you do, the angle of your hips changing under his hands. He pushes. The first inch makes both of you swear, the stretch almost too much, the slick obscene. He holds there, panting against your neck. “Fuck, that’s it… you feel like you were made to keep me.”

He sinks the rest of the way in with a slow, ruthless grind that leaves you clawing the sheet. Full. Too full. Perfect. Your mouth falls open on a sound you don’t recognize yourself in. He groans into your hair, broken and grateful. “Bare,” he says again, almost a prayer. “So warm. So tight. Christ.”

He moves.

Not careful now—hungry. Deep, dragging thrusts that smack skin, that grind his pelvis into the soft ache of your clit each time he bottoms out. The bed knocks the wall in a steady, shameless rhythm. He’s talking without knowing it, filthy praise spilling like heat—good girl, take me, that’s it, all of me, fu–ck, I can feel you clutching——and every word makes you softer around him.

Your head is a riot. Some small, horrified part of you whispers you shouldn’t want this, not after tonight, not after what you saw, not after what you know—but the rest of you is a body on fire that only understands yes. He fills every argument with his cock, erases every edge with his hips. You break yourself against him and he thanks you for it, voice shredded, hands sure.

“Hands up,” he pants, and you give them, sliding your wrists to the headboard. He laces his fingers through yours from behind and bears down, changing the angle until you can’t do anything but feel. The new depth knocks a helpless moan out of you; he snarls at the sound and pistons faster, sloppy now, desperate, like he’s racing something only he can see.

“Look at what you do to me,” he grits, pulling out almost all the way just to slam back in, obscene and wet. “Listen to me.” He’s loud, uncontained—deep curses breaking on your name, harsh, wrecked little laughs when your body clenches and drags him in deeper. “Fuck, you’re milking me,” he gasps, losing composure on a groan. “You’re gonna make me—”

“Inside,” you choke, shocking yourself with how fast you say it. “Please, inside—fill me, Chris—”

He makes a sound that isn’t language. His grip on your hands tightens; his thrusts turn brutal, gorgeous, hips snapping, balls slapping wet against you. “Yeah? You want it?” he growls, ragged, almost gone. “You want me to breed this pretty pussy?”

“Yes,” you sob, honest and ruined. “Yes, yes—Channie, please—give it to me—”

That breaks him. He buries himself to the root and holds, shaking, and you feel the first hot pulse spill deep where he wanted it. He shouts—loud, dirty, unashamed—crushing your fingers in his as he empties himself into you, each convulsion dragged out by the tight way you clutch around him. He grinds through it like he can push himself further inside, like he can stay, like he can mark you from the inside out.

“Take it,” he snarls against your neck, voice wrecked to threads. “Take all of it—fffuck—” Another heavy pulse, another, heat spreading in low, molten waves that make you see static. Your body answers with a vicious, rolling aftershock, milking him, greedy, a drawn-out whimper tearing from your chest when you feel the spill and the stretch and the pressure fuse into something that obliterates thought.

He doesn’t pull out. Not yet. He stays fully sheathed, panting, mouth open against your shoulder. His hips give small, helpless pushes, like his body can’t believe it gets to keep going. You’re delirious enough to press back, to meet those afterthrusts with your own tiny rolls, the wet, messy slip of him inside you making both of you groan.

“God, look at you,” he gets out, laughing breathlessly, delirious and proud. “Keeping me. Holding me.” He lets one of your hands go and slides his palm down, splaying it low over your belly. The weight of it there, heavy and possessive, makes your eyes sting. “Right here,” he husks. “Right where you wanted me.”

When it finally wrings him empty, he stays, buried to the hilt, panting into your skin. His hands stroke over you like he’s patting down a fire—thighs, waist, belly—possessive and shaky. You feel him soften and twitch and he hums, sated and obscene, hips giving one last lazy push to seat it deeper.

He slides out slow and you gasp at the loss. Warmth follows, thick and undeniable; he hisses softly, enthralled, watching it. “Don’t move,” he says, and his voice is wrecked and gentle at once. He thumbs your folds open and groans at the glossy spill, at the way your cunt flexes reflexively against the emptiness. “Look at that.”

You can’t. You can only feel: the wet weight of him inside you still, the heat slicking your thighs, the filthy satisfaction in his tone.

He presses two fingers to your entrance like a stopper and leans down to kiss the top of your spine. “Hold it,” he murmurs. “Hold me.” Then he withdraws his fingers and uses his thumb to smear his cum up over your swollen clit, slow and obscene. You jerk; he laughs into your shoulder and does it again, lazier. “Greedy even when I give you everything.”

He rolls you onto your back. The mess slides and you gasp; his eyes go heavy-lidded at the sight. He pushes your knees up and apart, opens you to the night and to him, and watches another warm stripe slip out. He catches it with his fingers and pushes it back in, groaning like it hurts him. “Keep it.”

“Chris,” you whisper, dazed.

“I know.” He noses your jaw, voice gone velvet and rough. “You’re perfect. You took me so good. You’re going to keep me.” A slow, greedy kiss. 

His palm stays spread low over your belly, heat heavy and possessive. He stares at where he’s opened you, at the slow, warm slide he just pushed back in with his fingers, and swallows hard like the sight feeds him.

“Gonna sit right here,” he murmurs, pressing more firmly until you feel the weight of him inside shift deeper, “and let it take.” He kisses you—slow, drugging—and talks into your mouth like a secret. “Want you walking around full of me. Want you leaking when you get up for water. Want you thinking about it every time you move.”

Your breath stutters. “Chris—”

“Thinking about us,” he corrects himself softly, thumb dragging an idle circle just above your mound. “About me putting a future in you.” He nips your bottom lip and soothes it with his tongue, eyes hot and glassy. “Tell me you’d carry me.”

You should say something sane. Instead you whisper, “I’d carry you,” and his pupils go blown and dangerous.

“That’s my girl.” He noses under your ear, voice gone low and ruined. “Gonna have you all soft for me. Gonna watch you swell up pretty. I’ll hold your hair when you’re sick in the morning, rub your back when you can’t sleep. I’ll run my mouth to the pharmacy at 2 a.m. I’ll do the lists and the laundry and the dinners—” His hand cups your breast, thumb grazing your nipple as if he can picture it already. “—and I’ll kiss you right here when it kicks.”

A soft, shocked noise spills out of you. Your hips tilt into his thumb without permission; your body is a traitor and a shrine.

“Look at me.” You do. He looks wrecked and certain and yours. “You’ll tell me when you’re late.” His mouth ghosts your cheek, your jaw. “I’ll buy the test and wait outside the door, hands on my knees like a boy.” A breathless laugh catches. “Then I’ll drop to the floor when you show me and you’ll sit on my lap and I’ll promise you I won’t let the world put a finger on you again.”

His words sink under your skin like ink. You don’t know if you’re shaking because you’re scared or because you want it so badly your bones ache with it.

“Turn,” he whispers. You do, pliant and messy, thighs still slick. He slides down between them again, opens you with his thumbs, and stares at the wet shine he’s made. “So much of me,” he says, awed and filthy. “Stay open.”

You whimper when his tongue licks low, not to tease, not to play—just to gather what tries to slip free and push it back with slow, greedy strokes. He groans into you every time he manages it, as if he can solve biology with his mouth. “Keep… every… drop,” he mutters, punctuating each word with a push of his tongue that makes your toes curl.

When he looks up, his chin is slick, his mouth swollen, his eyes devout. “You’ll tell me when your breasts hurt,” he says, voice shot to velvet, kissing the softness at the inside of your knee. “You’ll wear my shirts when nothing fits. You’ll sleep with my hand on your belly so it knows me.”

“Chris.” Your throat is raw; your body is molten. “You’re—”

“Obsessed with you,” he finishes simply, crawling up until his weight blankets you. He nudges his cock back to your entrance, still heavy, still slick, the head bumping where he just left himself. “I should wait,” he says, and then he pushes in again, bare, with a wrecked little groan because he can’t. “But I can’t. Gotta pack it in.”

The stretch is even easier and somehow filthier; you feel your body swallow him like it’s been taught. He slides to the hilt and stays, hips pressed deep, as if depth alone could write the future he wants.

“Again,” you breathe, and he laughs against your mouth, dizzy with you.

“Hungry girl.” He draws back and gives you a slow, claiming thrust, then another, each push deliberate, grinding, designed to seat him high. His hand finds your knee and folds you open, angle obscene, his pelvis kissing your clit at the end of every stroke. “That’s it. Let me put it where it sticks.”

“You’re insane,” you say, but it breaks on a moan when he circles your clit with two fingertips and fucks deeper.

“For you.” His mouth opens against your throat, teeth scraping just enough to make your eyes roll. “You’ll text me pictures,” he pants, pace tightening, “of test strips on the counter, of sweaters you outgrow, of the crib I build wrong the first time and right the second.” He laughs, choked and bright. “You’ll sit on my lap while I read names out loud until you kick me and we pick the one you kick for.”

It shouldn’t soothe you. It does. It shouldn’t turn you on. It lights you up like tinder. You clamp around him and he groans, high and helpless, losing the last of his rhythm for a handful of messy, glorious thrusts.

“Say we’re trying,” he begs, near-delirious, thumb insistent on your clit. “Say it. Say it now.”

“We’re trying,” you gasp, arching. “We’re—oh God—we’re trying.”

He breaks. The sound that leaves him is deep and wrecked, and he drives in hard and holds there, grinding like he can bury the word inside you with his body. You feel the twitch, the hot spill again, raw and shameless, and your back bows off the mattress at the flood. 

“Take it,” he groans, shaking, “take it, take me—” And you do, legs locked around his waist, hands in his hair, lips on his open mouth, swallowing the sounds he can’t hold, letting him pour himself into you like he can fill the future in one long breath.

When he finally sags, it’s not collapse; it’s a settling. He turns his head and kisses your palm where it shakes against his cheek, then drags that same palm down to your belly and pins it there under his.

“Mine,” he whispers, reverent and fierce, pressing you like he can feel it happen under your skin. “Our secret for now.”

You could remind him about statistics and timing and the pill and sensibility. You don’t. You lie there with him inside you, messy and full, and watch his face soften into something you’ve never seen before—hope unclenching its fist.

“Sleep,” he says at last, lips on your temple. “I’ll keep you full.” He shifts deeper with a satisfied sigh, lazy afterthrusts that make both of you gasp. “In the morning, we try again.”

He rolls over in defeat once again. Facing to the left of him was the most precious, angelic little being he’s ever seen, casting his view over to his sleeping beauty of a girlfriend who’s peacefully dozing off into dreamland. Oh, how he’s always been so envious of your ability to fall asleep in an instant.. you were just the sleepiest girl that could easily try and catch a nap just about anywhere. But oddly enough— he always found that quality of yours to be quite endearing.

Jisung could simply stare at you all day with no complaints. He couldn’t help but admire the way you looked in any state you were in, even whilst in your deep slumber. In his eyes, you were the true embodiment of perfection. Looking adorable as ever with your hair splayed all over the pillow, clutching onto your favorite stuffed animal that you always went to bed with.

Though he was unable to physically fall asleep, he surely was mentally exhausted. His brain still a bit foggy, dreading when it’s time to get up in the morning for work when he’s so badly craving a part 2 of the 3-hour fuck sesh you both had the night before.

A trail of faint markings were embedded into his chest— some that were barely noticeable on his neck and several scratches left on his back from the aftermath; recollections of your pretty moans echoing throughout the room made his cock stir, getting uncontrollably horny all over again.

Too bad you had to be asleep..

It’s like the universe is punishing him, taunting him for some unknown reason. Not only can’t he fall asleep, but now he’s plagued with all kinds of other sinful thoughts and it’s only fueling his insatiable desire for you. The more he thinks about it, the more sexually frustrated he’ll become.

He could easily take care of this ‘problem’ of his by doing it himself, right? Sure.. but it won’t be nearly the same. He needs to touch you, feel every inch of you, have you under him with your face all smushed in the pillows as he fucks his cock deeper into you.. or he could simply eat you out until you begged for him stop like he did last time.

Either way, all he wants is you.

He gets closer, reaching over to brush some strands of hair out of your face, smiling to himself when you snuggled up into his hand— still sound asleep. Your lips smack together a little, body shifting underneath the covers, completely oblivious of what’s going on.

Jisung slowly lifts up the comforter, revealing your pretty figure, the thin, slip dress you wore leaving little to the imagination. It’s silky fabric riding up as you tossed and turned during the night, completely exposing your lower body. He bit his lip at the sight behold him, wanting nothing more in this moment is to grab your thighs and have them spread open for him.

He’d do many ungodly things to you if you were awake right now..

He tried to be good, letting a few minutes pass by. He tried to ignore it— this ache in his chest, in his cock, and in his hands that won’t stop twitching with the need to touch you. Jisung feels like the worst kind of man for staring at you like this, hard as hell, desperate, breath shaky from the way your body torments him without even trying.

But then, he remembers the late night confession you gave him a few weeks ago. When you were half asleep, talking in hushed whispers while tangling your fingers in his hair.

“I’ve always had this fantasy… where you fuck me in my sleep. Like.. I’m just lying there and you can’t help yourself. You’re so needy you wake me up with your cock inside me.”

Jisung nearly choked on his own saliva when you said it. Eyes wide, brain malfunctioning.

You even giggled afterwards like it was nothing, teasing, “you’d never actually do that though, would you?”

But he knew by the way you were looking at him. You wanted it.

And tonight— he’s weak.

+

As his hand shifts underneath the hem of your nightgown to caress your thighs, he tries convincing himself that this was as far as he’ll take it.

“Fuck..” he whispers to himself, brows furrowed. “What’re you doing, Jisung…”

He leans down, kissing your bare skin. “You’re gonna kill me,” he murmurs against you.

But your soft sigh as you turn slightly— it’s encouragement enough, and as more delicate kisses are planted to your shoulder, slowly working his way up to your neck, how you’re lying there so pliantly for him. It only makes him want to do more, see how far he can take this before you actually do wake up.

He’s gotten a bit overtly comfortable now as he traveled to your upper body, leaving no surface of you untouched. He’s fondling one of your breasts with his free hand, the pad of his thumb softly grazing over your nipple. You don’t make any sudden movements— still blissfully unaware of what’s happening.

He nuzzles his face into the crook of your shoulder, stifling a groan when he grinds his clothed dick against your ass. He’s back to holding your waist, but that didn’t last very long before he gets distracted by something else.

Eventually, he found his fingers inching closer to your core, circling your clit over the thin lining of your panties. He hissed at the feeling of how wet you are, even while you’re asleep your body subconsciously adheres to him, as if it knows who it belongs to.

“Just a little…” he mutters, voice laced with guilt and temptation.

He slid the extra layer of fabric to the side, collecting more of your arousal before plunging one of his fingers inside, watching with hungry eyes as it disappears in and out of your dripping cunt. The sounds of your wetness only making him more painfully hard, rutting up against you like a dog in heat and he’s absolutely shameless about it at this point. All he wants is to bury his cock between those soft, pretty thighs of yours..

It’s only a matter of time until he finally caves in. And it wasn’t long before he found himself rubbing his cock along your folds and caught his tip in your entrance, sliding in with ease from how soaking wet you are. You make a soft, unconscious noise, hips shifting closer. Your cunt clenches tight around his cock, warm and slick, and he nearly moans out loud from the feel of it.

“God- how are you always this tight?” He grunts out, pressing soft kisses into your neck as he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, his eyes scrunched shut as he sinks into your heat. “You’re not even awake and you’re already making me lose my mind…”

He grips you tightly but not enough to leave any major bruising, he’s still gentle with you, keeping your hips flush against his as fully bottoms out, too deep in concentration to focus on anything else. He barely even notices when your eyes cautiously flutter open, a gasp slipping from your breath when feeling the unexpected intrusion, your warm walls pulse around him, adjusting to the stretch.

You let out another small noise. It might’ve been a moan, a word, or his name, whatever it was— it was the least bit coherent. You were still drowsy and disoriented, but once the initial shock wore off you found yourself relaxing into him again; bathing in his warmth, letting his desires roam free.

Jisung kept groping your tits as he fucks you from behind, lightly twisting your nipple to make you even more delirious for him. You simply could do nothing but lye there and take it, fighting the urge to fall back asleep mixed with the overwhelming pleasure that he’s giving you.

“Baby..”

You stir against him, lazily grinding against him to match his movement. Your sleepy voice sounding much cuter, and a lot more innocent than the actions he’s performing.

“Yeah?” He rasps, voice thick with desire, never letting up on his ministrations, his hips snap back and forth, this time with a little more force— but remains gentle with his words. “Is this.. okay?”

He might’ve been a little late with that question.. but nonetheless, you still appreciate the sentiment of it. You simply respond to him with a hum of compliance, feeling in a state of euphoria as you arch into his touch, feeding off of all the soft praises he’d whisper in your ear. You’d do anything for Jisung, not because he was just your boyfriend, but because it’s him— you trust him more than anything in this world. There were no limits when it comes to your love.

“Cum inside, please,” you desperately whine, your cunt cinching around his thickness when he repeatedly thrusts in your sweet spot.

You felt so needy for him. You always did. Even as you’re getting dicked down by him right now you still call out to him— begging for more. A mutual neediness amongst each other.

“You really wanted this, huh?” He breathes out, voice breaking. “Me waking you up with my cock already inside you? No warning. Just full, stretched, dripping…”

You moan helplessly, nodding.

He laughs— breathless, disbelieving. “You’re so fucking dirty.”

“You were already so wet before I even touched you. Like your pussy was waiting for me.”

His pace quickens. The sound of skin slapping echoes faintly in the room, muffled by the sheets. Every thrust pushes you further up the bed. You gasp and try to stifle your moans in the pillow, but it’s no use.

“Look so pretty when you’re all fucked out like this,” he growls, one hand grabbing your hip, the other fisting your hair and pulling your head back. “Maybe I’ll make this a habit.”

You whimper something incoherent to that, and he chuckles darkly.

He shifts his angle, hitting deeper, harder. Your body jolts with each thrust, legs trembling now.

Jisung could feel himself nearing the edge, and your pleas for him to cum inside was only making his high approach faster.. he sighs, “Wan’ me to give you a baby? Make you a mommy?” It might’ve been a question but he already knew the answer, he didn’t need to hear a response.

“Yes, please..” you manage to say as tiny whimpers and moans fall from your lips, attempting to catch your ragged breaths.

You don’t care about the consequences that come with your decision, you’ll bear those repercussions later. For now though, all you want is for him to milk every last drop of his cum inside you.

“It’s okay baby, just let go..” he talks to you with the sweetest, honey laced voice, coaxing you through your orgasm, “I got you… I got you.”

Your mouth flew permanently agape, in a cloud-like haze as your own orgasm washes over you, all while at the same time having your insides plastered with thick, white ropes of Jisung’s cum.

Your whole body is shaking but you’re brought a source of comfort when several fleeting kisses saturate your back, leading them up to your neck once more to litter faint love bites. You’re left feeling more exhausted than you were before, cuddling with your boyfriend who seems to also be just as worn out as you.

Before drifting back to sleep, you hear a soft-spoken exchange, almost undetectable when he mumbles the words against your skin; but you could still make out exactly what was said.

a few hours later, after the facetime.