kryz ⭐️

Behind you both, through the car windows, the city lights smear into long, streaking lines of gold and white, and faint but unmistakable, the opening chords of Heaven by Bryan Adams are playing from the car's speakers, filling the vehicle with that impossibly earnest, soaring melody that Jake had quietly added to the playlist three weeks ago and pretended he didn't know how it got there.

On screen, you shake the camera a little, bouncing in the passenger seat. "Say hi to the camera, husband."

Husband. The word lands on the recording like a sparkler going off, bright and crackling and slightly unbelievable, and Jake leans into the frame and presses a kiss to your cheek so hard your whole body tilts, and you shriek with laughter, and the camera wobbles, and the moment is chaos and joy and so perfectly, messily alive that watching it now, hours later, sitting cross-legged on this hotel bed with your wedding dress finally off and your makeup finally washed away and your hair finally free of the forty-seven pins that had been holding it up since this morning, you feel your eyes well up all over again.

Goodness gracious.

You were married.

You were actually, legally, irreversibly married to the man on that screen, the one who was currently in the bathroom brushing his teeth with his shirt half-buttoned and his suit jacket abandoned on the back of a chair, the one who had slipped a ring on your finger not eight hours ago and meant every word he said while doing it, the one who had been yours for years and was now yours in a way that was different, deeper, more permanent, more terrifying and wonderful than anything you'd ever known.

You pause the video. The frame freezes on both of you mid-laugh, your head thrown back, his arm around your shoulders, the city lights frozen behind you like a constellation that existed just for this moment. You stare at it for a long time, at the curve of his smile and the crinkle at the corners of his eyes and the way your hand is resting on his chest like it's the most natural thing in the world, and something enormous and warm and almost unbearable swells in your chest until you have to press your palm flat against your sternum like you can hold it in.

The MacBook sits on the hotel desk, cables connecting it to the camera your father had given you just a month before the wedding. He'd handed it to you over dinner at your parents' house, a small, neat box wrapped in silver paper, and when you'd opened it and seen the camera inside, a beautiful, top-of-the-line digital camera with a lens that cost more than your first car, you'd looked at him with confusion, because you already had a camera, a perfectly good one that you'd been using for years, and he'd cleared his throat and said, "It's for your last month as my little girl. I want you to document everything."

And you'd called him dramatic, because you'd always be his little girl even when you were married, even when you were eighty years old and gray and using a walker, and he'd gotten that look on his face, the one that meant he was trying very hard not to cry, and he'd said, "I know. But it's different now. Let me have this."

So you'd documented everything. The final dress fitting, the bridesmaids scrambling to get ready, the rehearsal dinner where Jake's best man had given a speech so funny and so touching that there wasn't a dry eye in the room. The morning of the wedding, your mother helping you into your dress with hands that shook slightly, your father standing in the doorway watching with an expression you'd never forget. Every moment, captured, preserved, locked into a memory card so that you could revisit it whenever you wanted, so that the day would never fade or blur or lose its shape.

You click through the import progress bar. Eighty-three videos. Five hundred and twelve photos. Each one a fragment of the most important day of your life, stacked neatly in a folder on your desktop like evidence that any of this had actually happened.

You click on the next video.

This one is from earlier in the evening, still at the reception, and the camera is propped up somewhere, maybe on a table, capturing the room from a slight distance. The dance floor is full, the members of Jake's group are doing something elaborate and slightly ridiculous that involves a lot of spinning and one near-collision with the cake table, and in the foreground, you and Jake are sitting at your table with your chairs angled toward each other, his hand on your knee, your hand on top of his, and you're not even watching the dancing. You're watching each other. He's saying something, leaning close, his lips near your ear, and whatever he's saying makes you press your face into his shoulder and laugh, and then he kisses your temple and pulls you closer and you stay like that, tucked against each other, the noise and the music and the celebration swirling around you while you exist in your own small, private orbit.

You remember what he'd said. He'd leaned in and whispered, "I can't believe I get to keep you forever," and it had hit you so suddenly and so completely that you'd laughed, not because it was funny but because your body didn't know what else to do with that much happiness, and you'd buried your face in his shoulder and felt his chest shake with silent laughter too, and for a moment, just a moment, the entire world had shrunk down to the warmth of him and the steadiness of his heartbeat and the unbelievable, unshakeable certainty that this was exactly where you were supposed to be.

The next video. The drive.

This one you'd already glimpsed, the one that had played when you first opened the folder, but now you watch it properly, letting it unspool from the beginning. Jake had handed you the keys after the reception, a playful little gesture, and you'd looked at him like he was insane because you'd been wearing heels for six hours and could barely walk let alone drive, and he'd laughed and taken the keys back and guided you to the passenger side with a hand on the small of your back, opening the door for you like he'd been doing all night, like he'd been doing for years, like he'd presumably keep doing for the rest of your life because that was just who he was.

The camera had been sitting on the dashboard, propped against the windshield, capturing the two of you in profile as the city moved past outside. You'd pressed play on the playlist before you even pulled out of the venue parking lot, and the first song that came on was Heaven, because of course it was, because Jake had queued it there on purpose and then feigned ignorance, and you'd both burst out laughing at the sheer audacity of it, the cheese of it, the perfection of it.

"Guess who's Mr. and Mrs. now?!" you'd shouted at the camera, and Jake had whooped from the driver's seat, one hand on the wheel and the other reaching for yours, and the joy was so big and so loud and so present that it felt like it might burst out of the car and fill the entire street.

"We're married," Jake had said, and his voice was full of wonder, like he was saying it to convince himself, like the reality was still settling in and every repetition made it more real. "We're actually married. You're my wife."

"I'm your wife," you'd repeated, and the word was new and strange and thrilling in your mouth, a shape your tongue wasn't used to forming but wanted to say over and over. "You're my husband."

"Your husband," he'd said, and he'd lifted your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles, right above the wedding band that was cool and new and still slightly foreign on your finger, and the gesture was so tender, so Jake, that your eyes had burned and you'd had to look out the window for a second and blink rapidly at the passing streetlights because you were not going to cry on your wedding night, you'd already cried approximately four hundred times today and that was enough.

At a red light, he'd turned to you fully, and his eyes were so soft, so warm, so full of something that looked like disbelief and gratitude and love all tangled together, and he'd said, "Hi, Mrs. Sim," and you'd said, "Hi, Mr. Sim," and then you'd both cracked up because it sounded absurd and wonderful and like the name of a couple in a sitcom, and he'd cupped your face in both hands and kissed you, slow and deep and tasting like champagne and cake and forever, and the car behind you had honked because the light had turned green, and you'd broken apart laughing and he'd stepped on the gas and his hand had found your thigh and stayed there for the rest of the drive.

You pause the video again.

His hand on your thigh. That was a constant, a fixture, as reliable as gravity. Jake had this thing where he always needed to be touching you when you were next to him, not in a possessive way, not in a controlling way, but in a grounding way, like he needed the contact to remind himself you were real, like the warmth of your skin under his palm was proof that this, all of this, wasn't a dream he was about to wake up from. A hand on your thigh while driving. An arm around your waist while walking. Fingers interlaced with yours across the center console. A palm pressed flat against the small of your back in crowded rooms. Always touching. Always near. Always there.

And you loved it. God, you loved it so much it made your chest hurt sometimes, the way he reached for you without thinking, the way his body oriented toward yours like a compass finding north, the way he made you feel like you were the most solid, most real, most important thing in whatever room you were standing in.

You close the video folder for a moment and lean back against the headboard, pulling your knees up to your chest, and let yourself think about the day. The whole day, from beginning to end, every overwhelming, overstimulating, joy-saturated second of it.

The wedding had been held at a garden venue just outside the city, a place with old stone walls and climbing roses and a lawn that stretched down to the edge of a lake that caught the late afternoon light and turned it into something out of a painting. Your families were there, all of them, your parents and your siblings and your aunts and uncles and cousins and the family friends you'd known since childhood. Jake's family had flown in from Australia, his parents and his older brother, and the way his mother had hugged you when she arrived, tight and long and with tears already streaming down her face, had made you realize that you weren't just gaining a husband today, you were gaining an entire family, and the thought was so enormous and so overwhelming that you'd had to sit down for a moment and breathe.

The members were there too, all of them, dressed in matching suits that they'd picked out together and immediately started complaining about the moment they put them on. They'd been your friends for years now, long before you and Jake started dating, and they'd watched the two of you circle each other with a kind of fond exasperation that only people who loved you both could manage, and when you'd finally gotten together, they'd reacted with a mixture of relief and vindication that was almost insulting in its unanimity. "Finally," one of them had said, and the others had nodded so vigorously you'd thought their heads might fall off.

The ceremony itself was a blur of emotion and light. You'd walked down the aisle on your father's arm, and he'd been fighting tears the entire way, and when he'd placed your hand in Jake's and stepped back, he'd given Jake a look that was part warning and part blessing and entirely love, and Jake had nodded once, a small, serious, certain nod that said I understand and I will and I promise, and your father had stepped back and sat down and you'd watched him press his palm over his eyes and knew he was crying.

The vows were where you'd lost it completely. Jake had written his himself, because of course he had, because Jake did everything with his whole heart or not at all, and he'd stood there in his suit with his voice shaking and his eyes bright and told you that you were the bravest person he'd ever known, that loving you had taught him what it meant to be brave in return, that he would spend every day for the rest of his life trying to be the man you saw when you looked at him. And you'd stood there with tears streaming down your face and your carefully prepared vows completely abandoned in favor of just talking, just saying whatever came out, because the words you'd written didn't feel big enough anymore, nothing felt big enough to contain what you felt for this man, and you'd told him he was your home, that wherever he was was where you belonged, that you'd choose him in every lifetime if you got the chance.

And then the officiant had said it. The words you'd been waiting to hear since the moment you met him, since the first time he smiled at you across a crowded room and the entire world rearranged itself around the axis of his face.

"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife."

Jake had pulled you in before the officiant had even finished the sentence, before the last syllable had fully left his mouth, and you'd both been laughing, laughing through tears, laughing through the kiss, laughing like the joy was too big to contain and had to come out somewhere, and the sound of everyone cheering and clapping and crying was washing over you in waves but all you could hear was his breath against your lips and his voice, rough and wet and incredulous, saying "we did it, we actually did it," against your mouth.

The reception was a fever dream of dancing and toasting and crying and laughing and cake and champagne and moments that you'd never remember clearly but would never forget the feeling of. Jake's best man speech. Your maid of honor's speech. The members performing a surprise song that they'd written for you both, a sweet, silly, earnest ballad that had the entire room in tears by the second verse. Your first dance, Jake's hand warm and steady on your lower back, your cheek pressed against his shoulder, the two of you swaying in the center of the floor while everyone watched and you didn't care because the only person who existed in that moment was him.

And now here you were. Married. Sitting in a hotel room at half past midnight, watching yourself live the best day of your life on a laptop screen, feeling like your heart might actually burst from the sheer, impossible weight of being this happy.

The bathroom door opens, and Jake emerges in a cloud of steam, his hair damp from where he'd splashed water on his face, his suit shirt now fully unbuttoned and hanging open, revealing the lean lines of his chest and the soft skin of his stomach. He looks tired, genuinely tired, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from being on your feet for twelve hours straight while experiencing the most emotionally intense day of your life, but underneath the tiredness there's something else, something warm, glowing, and constant, and when he sees you sitting on the bed with the laptop, his face softens into an expression so fond that it makes your throat tighten.

"Watching the videos already?" he asks, crossing the room to sit beside you on the bed. The mattress dips under his weight and he leans into you automatically, his shoulder pressing against yours, his hand finding the curve of your waist like it's magnetic.

"I couldn't not," you admit. "Look at us."

He looks at the screen, at the frozen frame of the two of you in the car, mid-laugh, and his smile is so immediate and so genuine that it takes your breath away. "God. We look so happy."

"We are so happy."

"We are," he agrees, and he turns his head and kisses your shoulder through the thin fabric of the robe you'd thrown on after taking off your dress. "We really, really are."

You lean into him, resting your head against his, and for a moment you both just sit there, watching the frozen frame, breathing each other in.

"Jake?"

"Yeah?"

"I can't believe we're married."

He laughs, soft and quiet, and his arm tightens around you. "I know. I keep looking at your hand and seeing the ring and being like, that's real. That actually happened."

"It happened."

"It happened." He lifts your left hand and presses a kiss to your wedding band, and the gesture is so tender, so unconscious, that your eyes burn for the hundredth time today. "My wife."

"My husband."

"Mmm." He nuzzles into your neck, pressing a soft, warm kiss just below your ear. "I like the sound of that."

"Which one? Husband or wife?"

"Both. Either. All of it. You being mine and me being yours and this being forever." His voice is muffled against your skin, drowsy and content and so completely open that it makes something crack in your chest. "I've wanted this for so long. I kept thinking, during the ceremony, I kept thinking about how long I've wanted this and how I'd almost convinced myself it might not happen and then there you were, walking down the aisle, and I couldn't breathe."

"Jake..."

"I'm serious. I saw you and my whole chest just... kind of stopped. Everything stopped. I was like, that's her. That's the person I'm going to spend my entire life with. And I started crying before I even had a chance to stop myself and then the guys were making fun of me after but I didn't even care because you were walking toward me and you were the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and I knew, I just knew, that I was the luckiest person alive."

You turn your face into his hair and breathe him in, and your eyes are definitely burning now, definitely wet, and you don't even try to stop the tears because it's your wedding night and you're allowed to cry as much as you want.

"Do you remember the proposal?" you ask, your voice thick.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's a knowing, slightly sheepish grin on his face. "The hiking one?"

"The hiking one."

"You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Jake, you brought me hiking to a really tall mountain peak. A beach proposal would've been fine. A nice restaurant would've been fine. My living room would've been fine. Instead I had to climb a mountain in sneakers."

"I had to bring you closer to heaven to ask," he says, and the line is so earnest, so completely sincere, so utterly Jake that you can't even be annoyed about the three days of sore calves that followed. He says it like it's the most obvious logic in the world, like of course he'd haul you up a mountain at dawn because where else would you ask someone to spend eternity with you but as close to the sky as you could physically get.

"Damn you," you say, and your voice cracks. "Damn you for still knowing how to make me feel like a dumb teenager in love."

He pulls you into a hug. A real one, full-bodied, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you against his chest, and you bury your face in the curve of his neck and let yourself be held. His hand cradles the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, and his chest is warm and solid and rising and falling with breaths that are slightly shakier than they were a moment ago, and you realize he's getting emotional too, that this is hitting him just as hard as it's hitting you, and the knowledge makes you hold on tighter.

"I love you," he says into your hair. "I love you so much. I'm going to love you for the rest of my life and that's still not enough time."

"It's enough," you whisper. "It's more than enough."

He pulls back and looks at you, and his eyes are red-rimmed and bright and so full of love that it's almost hard to look at directly, like staring at the sun, and he cups your face in his hands and wipes the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs, gentle, so gentle, like you're something precious and irreplaceable.

"Hey," he says softly.

"Hey."

"Let me help you get ready for bed, okay? You've been in this dress all day and your hair must be killing you."

It is. Your scalp is throbbing dully from the weight of the pins and the spray and the elaborate updo that had taken two hours to construct and had looked stunning but had felt like wearing a helmet made of bobby pins. Your dress is off, finally, you'd managed to wiggle out of it an hour ago with a lot of wriggling and a few choice words about the structural integrity of boning, but your hair is still up, still pinned, still holding on like it's afraid of what it might find when it comes down.

"Okay," you say.

He stands up and offers you his hand, and you take it, and he leads you to the vanity in the corner of the hotel room, settling you on the little stool and standing behind you. You watch him in the mirror as he starts to carefully, so carefully, remove the pins from your hair, one by one, setting each one on the counter with a soft little click. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, and the tenderness of the image, your husband carefully undoing your hair on your wedding night, makes something in your chest swell until you feel like you might float.

"You're so good at this," you murmur.

"I've had practice," he says, pulling another pin free. "You fall asleep on my shoulder during movie nights and I have to undo your hair clips so they don't stab me."

"That's different. That's self-preservation."

"Maybe. But my methods are gentle either way." He pulls the last of the pins and your hair tumbles down in a dark, heavy wave, and he combs his fingers through it slowly, working out the tangles, and you close your eyes and let yourself feel it, the scratch of his fingernails against your scalp, the pull of the strands between his fingers, the way he's touching you like you're made of something fragile and valuable.

He moves to your jewelry next. The earrings first, tiny diamonds that had sparkled like stars against your neck all evening, and he sets them on the counter next to the pins. Then the necklace, a thin gold chain with a small pendant that he'd given you for your second anniversary, and his fingers are warm against the nape of your neck as he unclasps it, and you shiver.

"Cold?" he asks.

"No," you say honestly.

You feel his smile against your hair as he presses a kiss to the back of your head.

When the jewelry is all off and your hair is down and your face is bare and you're sitting in front of him in nothing but the robe, he steps back and you stand and turn to face him, and the look in his eyes shifts. Softens into something deeper, darker, more intent.

"Take off the robe," he says, and his voice is quiet, not a command but a request, gentle but with an undercurrent of something that makes your pulse quicken.

You undo the tie at your waist and let the robe slide off your shoulders, and it pools at your feet in a whisper of silk, and you're standing in front of him in the ivory lingerie set he'd bought for you. The one he'd surprised you with a week before the wedding, a small, elegant box left on your pillow with a note that said "for after," and when you'd opened it and seen the lace, the silk, and the delicate, ivory color that was so soft and so pretty and so deliberately chosen, you'd pressed your face into the note and laughed until you cried because even his gifts were thoughtful, even his surprises were considerate, even his lingerie was selected with the kind of care and attention that made you feel seen and wanted and loved.

The bra is delicate, sheer ivory lace that cups your breasts and barely conceals them, the nipples visible through the pattern of flowers and scrollwork. The underwear is matching, high-waisted and elegant, the same ivory lace, a small silk bow at the front that he'd definitely picked specifically because he knew it would make you smile. The set is beautiful, objectively, but it's the fact that he chose it, that he imagined you in it, that he went to a store or a website and picked this exact shade and this exact cut because he thought you'd look perfect in it, that makes you feel more beautiful than any piece of clothing ever has.

Jake looks at you.

For a long, charged moment, he just looks.

His eyes move over your body slowly, taking in the lace and the silk and the skin underneath, and his throat bobs as he swallows, and his hands, which had been steady and careful while removing your pins, are now gripping the back of the vanity chair hard enough that his knuckles are white.

"You're wearing it," he says, and his voice is rough.

"You bought it for me to wear," you say.

"I know, I just—" He stops. Starts again. "God. You look... I can't even... you're so beautiful. You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen in my entire life and I'm going to say that every day for the rest of our lives and it's never going to be enough."

Heat pools between your thighs, slow and warm and insistent, and you watch his eyes darken as he looks at you, watch the way his chest rises and falls a little faster, watch the way his hands flex at his sides like he's fighting the urge to reach for you.

"Jake," you say softly.

"Yeah?"

"You already know what I’m about to say."

“And that would be…? What?”

“Touch me.”

A sheepish grin tugs at his lips, and he moves.

Two steps and his hands are on your waist and his mouth is on yours and the kiss is slow and deep and full of everything neither of you has words for. His lips are warm and familiar and they move against yours with a tenderness that makes your eyes sting, and his hands slide up your sides, his thumbs tracing the edge of the lace where it meets your skin, and you shiver and press closer and open your mouth against his.

He walks you backward, step by careful step, until the back of your knees hits the edge of the bed, and he lowers you down onto it with a gentleness that makes your heart ache, settling over you, his weight balanced on his forearms, his body a warm, solid line above yours. He kisses you again, softer now, his lips brushing your jaw, your cheekbone, the bridge of your nose, and then he pulls back and looks at you, and his eyes are so dark and so warm and so full of love and want that you feel seen in a way that goes beyond the physical, like he's looking at every version of you that has ever existed and loving all of them equally.

"Hi, wife," he whispers.

"Hi, husband," you whisper back, and the words are still new, still startling, still sending a little thrill through your chest every time you say them.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against yours, and his hands find the clasp of your bra and undo it with a practiced ease, peeling the lace away from your skin and tossing it somewhere in the direction of the floor. His palms find your breasts, warm and careful, and he cups them gently, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you gasp into his mouth and arch into his touch.

"Perfect," he murmurs against your lips. "You're so perfect. I've been thinking about this all day. Every time I looked at you during the ceremony, every time we danced, every time someone made a toast about us, I was thinking about getting you back here and getting my hands on you."

"Jake—"

"Is that bad?" He rolls your nipples between his fingers, gentle but firm, and the sparks of sensation shoot down your spine and pool hot and urgent between your legs. "Thinking about my wife like that during our wedding? Can't help it. You walked down that aisle and I was gone. I was a goner. I've been half-hard since you said I do."

You whimper, and the sound is small and needy and you'd be embarrassed if you had any capacity for embarrassment left, which you don't, not with him, not with Jake, who has seen every version of you and loved every single one.

"Look at you," he breathes, and he dips his head and drags his tongue across one nipple, slow and flat and wet, and your spine arches off the mattress like he's pulled a string attached to your back. "I've been dying to do this all night. You have no idea how hard it was to keep my hands off you during the reception. Every time you leaned over the table, every time you laughed and your dress shifted, I could see the outline of this set through the fabric and I almost lost my mind."

He takes your nipple into his mouth fully now, sucking with a slow, deliberate pressure that has your fingers tangling in his hair and pulling, and he groans against your breast, the vibration of it humming through your chest and settling deep in your belly. His other hand isn't idle — it's palming your other breast, kneading the soft flesh, rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pulling and tweaking and working you into a state of such acute sensitivity that every touch feels like it's being transmitted directly to the throbbing heat between your legs.

"Jake, please—" You don't even know what you're asking for. More. Everything. Him.

"Shh," he says against your skin, and he switches sides, his mouth finding your other breast, his tongue circling the areola before latching onto the nipple and sucking hard enough to make you cry out. "I'm getting there. Let me have this first. Let me worship you the way you deserve."

His hand slides down your stomach, fingertips tracing the silk bow at the front of your underwear, and he hooks his fingers under the waistband and tugs, just slightly, just enough for you to feel the pressure against your hip bones. "I picked this set because I knew the ivory would look insane against your skin. I was right. God, I was so right. You look like you were made for this. Made for me to take apart."

He kisses down your neck, your collarbone, the valley between your breasts, and his mouth is hot and wet and deliberate, each kiss placed with the same care he used when he was removing your hairpins, like he's cataloguing every inch of you, like he's mapping the territory of your body and memorizing it for future reference. His hands slide down your sides, hooking into the waistband of your underwear, and he looks up at you from between your breasts with a question in his eyes.

"Can I?"

"Yes. Fuck, yes."

He pulls them down slowly, dragging the lace down your thighs, over your knees, off your ankles, and then he settles back between your legs and looks at you, really looks at you, and the expression on his face is one you'll never forget. Reverent. Hungry. Overwhelmed. Like he can't quite believe that this is real, that you're real, that you're his.

"My wife," he says, and his voice is thick and rough and reverent. "All mine."

"All yours," you confirm, and your voice comes out breathier than intended.

He hooks your legs over his shoulders, one and then the other, and the position opens you up to him completely, vulnerably, and you feel the cool air against your slick, heated skin for barely a second before his mouth is on you.

The first touch of his tongue against your cunt tears a sound from your throat that you don't even recognize, something raw and broken and desperate. He licks a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, and the heat of his mouth and the wetness of his tongue and the scratch of his slight stubble against your inner thighs is so much, almost too much, and your hands fly to his hair and grip hard.

"Jake—oh my god—"

He groans against you, and the vibration of it pulses through your core and makes your hips buck, and he presses his palms flat against your hips to hold you still and does it again, another long, slow lick, and then another, and another, each one deeper and more thorough than the last. His tongue circles your clit, then dips lower, pressing inside you, then drags back up, and the rhythm he sets is devastating, relentless, a slow and steady unraveling that has you trembling and gasping and saying his name like it's the only word you remember.

"Feel so good," he murmurs against you, and his voice is muffled and rough and the words vibrate against your sensitive flesh and make you jerk. "Taste so good, baby. My wife. My perfect wife. I could do this for hours."

"Please—"

"Please what? Use that pretty mouth."

"More. Please. Don't stop."

He doesn't stop. His tongue finds your clit again and circles it in tight, firm strokes, and two of his fingers slide inside you, curling upward, pressing against that spot that makes your vision blur, and the dual sensation of his mouth and his fingers working in tandem is so overwhelming that you feel the orgasm building already, a hot, coiling tension that's gathering speed and intensity with every passing second.

"You know what I kept thinking during the ceremony?" he says against your clit, and his lips brush the swollen bud as he speaks, and the graze of them is enough to make your thighs shake against his shoulders. "I kept thinking about how I was going to have you like this later. Spread out underneath me. Making these sounds. Being this wet for me. I wrote my vows with your taste still in my mouth from last night and I couldn't even concentrate because all I could think about was doing this to you on our wedding night."

"Jake, I'm close, I'm—"

"Come for me," he says against your clit, and the words are filthy and reverent and the permission is all you need. The orgasm crashes through you in waves, your back arching off the bed, your thighs shaking against his shoulders, your walls clenching around his fingers, and he works you through it, his tongue and his fingers never stopping, drawing it out until you're oversensitive and trembling and pulling at his hair and gasping his name.

He doesn't pull away immediately. He stays between your legs, pressing soft, wet kisses to your inner thighs, to the crease where your thigh meets your hip, to the swollen, sensitive flesh that's still pulsing with the aftershocks. His fingers slide out of you slowly, and he drags them through your slick, feeling the mess he's made, and he looks up at you with his chin wet and his eyes black and his lips swollen, and he says, "I want to do that again. I want to live between your thighs. I want to fall asleep with my mouth on you and wake up the same way."

"You're too goddamn greedy."

"For you? Always." He presses one more kiss to your clit, feather-light, and you jolt from the overstimulation, and he grins, this crooked, devastating grin that makes your stomach flip even though you just came hard enough to see stars.

He crawls back up your body and kisses you, and you can taste yourself on his tongue, salty and sweet and obscene, and the intimacy of it, the rawness of it, makes you whimper against his lips. His bare chest is pressed against yours, skin to skin, and you can feel his heart hammering against your ribs, feel the heat radiating off him, feel the hard, insistent length of him pressing against your stomach through his unbuttoned shirt.

"I love you," he says, and his voice is rough and wrecked and so full of feeling. "I love you so much. I'm going to make you feel so good tonight. I'm going to make you feel so good for the rest of our lives."

"Jake, I need you inside me. Please."

"Not yet." He shakes his head, and there's a dangerous glint in his eyes, something playful and dark. "I'm not done with you. That was just the appetizer, baby. I've been waiting all day for this. I'm taking my time."

He sits back on his heels and looks down at you, sprawled out and flushed and trembling on the hotel sheets, and his gaze travels from your face to your breasts to the wet, glistening mess between your thighs, and he licks his lips, and the gesture is so unconscious and so filthy that you feel yourself clench around nothing.

"Look at you," he says, and his voice has dropped into that register that makes your stomach tighten and your breath catch. "My wife. All spread out for me. You're shaking. You came so hard and you're still shaking. I love that. I love knowing I can do that to you. That nobody else gets to see you like this. That you're mine."

"I'm yours," you whisper. "All yours. Only yours."

"Only mine." He reaches out and traces a fingertip down the center of your chest, between your breasts, down your stomach, and dips into your navel, and then lower, through the slick, wet mess of you, and he doesn't push inside, just trails his finger through it, feeling how wet you are, how ready, how desperate. "God, you're drenched. I made you this wet. I did this. I turned you into this trembling, soaking mess just with my mouth and my fingers."

"Jake, please—"

"Please what?" He circles your clit with the lightest possible pressure, and you buck up into his touch, chasing more, chasing him. "Use your words, lovely. Tell me what you need."

"You. Inside me. I need you inside me. Please."

"Since you asked so nicely." He reaches over to the nightstand, and you hear the rustle of a wrapper, and then he's settling between your legs again and you feel the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and he pauses, looks down at you, and the look on his face is so open and so full of love that it steals your breath.

"Ready?" he asks softly.

"Ready."

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch of him fills you so completely that you both groan, his low and guttural, yours high and breathless. He stills when he's fully inside you, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts against your lips, and you can feel him trembling, feel the effort it's taking him to hold still, to be gentle, to not just take.

"You feel so good," he whispers, and his voice cracks on the last word. "You feel so good, princess. I can't—I'm not going to last long, I've been thinking about this all day, you have no idea—"

"It's okay," you say, and you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer. "I don't need you to last. I just need you."

He starts to move. Slow at first, deep and rolling, each thrust measured and deliberate, his body pressing into yours with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. His hands find yours, interlacing your fingers above your head, and he holds them there, pinned against the pillow, and the intimacy of it, the closeness of it, the way he's surrounding you and filling you and loving you all at once, is so much that you feel tears prickle at the corners of your eyes again.

"I can't believe you're mine," he says against your neck, his hips snapping forward a little harder, a little faster, and the shift makes you gasp. "I can't believe I get to have you forever. I can't believe you chose me."

"I'll always choose you," you whisper, and your voice breaks on it.

"Fuck—" His rhythm stutters, his hips jerking, and you can tell he's close, you can feel it in the way his cock pulses inside you, in the way his breath comes faster and more ragged, in the way his hands grip yours so tight it almost hurts. "You feel too good, I can't—I need—"

"Go faster," you tell him. "Don't hold back. I want all of you."

And he does. He lets go. His hips snap forward with a force that drives the breath from your lungs, his pace turning from measured to desperate in the space of a single thrust, and the sound of it fills the room, skin against skin, wet and sharp and urgent, and his moans are broken and raw and so fucking hot that you feel another orgasm building already, the pressure coiling tight and hot in your stomach. He shifts your legs higher on his waist, changing the angle so that every thrust drags against that spot inside you, the one that makes your vision blur and your nails rake down his back and your mouth fall open in a sound that isn't even a word anymore, just pure, unfiltered sensation given voice. The headboard is knocking against the wall now and neither of you cares, let the entire hotel know, let the entire world know that Sim Jaeyun is making love to his wife on their wedding night and neither of them can think about anything else.

"God, you take me so well," he groans, and his voice is wrecked, barely above a whisper, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. "You're so tight around me. I can feel you squeezing me. You're close again, aren't you? I can feel it."

"Yes—baby—"

"I want you to come on my cock," he says, and the words are a command and a plea and a prayer all wrapped into one breathless gasp. "I want to feel you fall apart around me. I want to feel you milk every drop out of me. Come on, baby. Give it to me."

"Close," he gasps, and his voice is wrecked, barely a voice at all, just breath and sound and need. "I'm close, I'm—are you—mmgh—"

"Close too. Keep going. Don't stop."

He doesn't stop. He drives into you harder, faster, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged against your lips, and you feel the orgasm cresting, feel the tension winding tighter and tighter until it snaps, and you come with his name on your lips, your walls clenching around him in pulsing waves, and he follows a second later with a sound that's almost a sob, his hips jerking erratically as he spills inside you, hot and deep and overwhelming.

Even after, he doesn't pull out immediately. He stays buried inside you, his cock twitching with the aftershocks, his hips making tiny, involuntary thrusts that make you both shudder and gasp each time, oversensitive and overwhelmed and incapable of stopping, and he kisses your face — your forehead, your eyelids, the bridge of your nose, the wet tracks on your cheeks that you hadn't even realized were there. His hands release yours and come up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears, and he's looking at you with an expression of such absolute, overwhelming wonder that you feel your chest crack open all over again.

"Hey," he says, and his voice is wrecked and raw and so full of love it's almost hard to hear. "Hey. I've got you. I'm right here."

"I know," you whisper. "I know you are."

He pulls out of you slowly, carefully, and you both wince at the sensitivity, and you feel the wetness of him leaking out of you, dripping onto the sheets, and the obscene intimacy of it makes you flush hot all over. He disappears into the bathroom for a moment and returns with a warm, damp towel. He sits on the edge of the bed and cleans you up with the same gentleness he used when he was removing your hairpins, the same care he used when he was unclasping your necklace, the same attention he gives to everything that involves you, and the tenderness of it makes your eyes sting because this is what your life is going to be now, this is what it means to be married to him, this quiet, steady, unwavering care that doesn't diminish with repetition or time or familiarity.

"Come on," he says, tossing the towel aside and offering you his hand. "Bath."

He leads you to the bathroom, and you'd drawn the bath earlier, the massive hotel tub filled with warm water and the complimentary bath salts that smelled like lavender, and he steps in first and then helps you in after him, and you settle between his legs with your back against his chest and the warm water lapping at your shoulders. His arms wrap around your middle, his chin hooks over your shoulder, and the two of you sit there in the steam and the quiet and the aftermath of everything, and it's so peaceful that you could fall asleep right here.

"Jake?"

"Hmm?"

"Can we do a virtual photobooth? On my laptop? I saw a filter earlier and I really want to take pictures with you."

He's quiet for a moment, and then he laughs, that full, warm, surprised laugh that you love more than any other sound in the world. "You want to take photobooth pictures right now? We're naked in a bathtub."

"So? The filter works on our faces. We'll angle it up. Please?"

"We look exhausted."

"We are exhausted. It'll be authentic."

He laughs again, and the way his chest shakes against your back makes the water ripple around you, and he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "Okay. Let's do it."

Twenty minutes later, you're both sitting on the bed in your bathrobes, your laptop propped on the desk, the photobooth app open, and you're scrolling through the results of your impromptu photoshoot and laughing so hard your stomach hurts. There's one where Jake is making an exaggeratedly serious face while you're mid-blink, one where you're both doing finger hearts with bedhead and smudged under-eyes, one where he's kissing your cheek and you're grinning so wide your eyes are barely visible, and one, your favorite, where you're both just looking at each other, foreheads almost touching, the exhaustion clear on your faces but underneath it, unmistakable, that warm, steady glow of two people who have never been more certain of anything in their lives.

"I look dead," Jake says, peering at the screen.

"You look beautiful," you correct him.

"I look like I haven't slept in three days."

"You look like a man who just married the love of his life. Same thing."

He grins, and it's lopsided and sleepy and so endearing that you reach out and cup his face and kiss him, just because you can, just because he's yours, just because the ring on your finger says so.

You save the best photo and send it to yourself, already thinking about making it your phone wallpaper, already thinking about printing it and framing it and keeping it on your nightstand for the rest of your life. Because that's what this is now. The rest of your life. And every boring, ordinary, exhausted moment of it is going to be extraordinary simply because he's in it.

Sleep comes fast and heavy after that. You crawl under the covers, and he pulls you against him, your back to his chest, his arm draped over your waist, his breath warm and slow against the back of your neck. The last thing you register before consciousness slips away is the weight of his arm and the steadiness of his heartbeat and the impossible, improbable, overwhelming fact that you are married, you are his wife, he is your husband, and tomorrow you're going to wake up and it's still going to be true.

You sleep for five and a half hours.

It's the alarm that does it, a chirping, insistent thing that you'd set the night before and immediately regretted, and Jake groans and buries his face in the pillow and mumbles something that sounds vaguely like "five more minutes" but might also be "I quit," and you laugh and shake his shoulder and tell him that your flight to Greece leaves in four hours and if he misses it you're going without him.

He sits up so fast he nearly headbutts you.

"Greece," he says, his eyes wide and sleep-rumpled. "Our honeymoon. Today. Right. Right?"

"Right."

"I'm up. I'm awake. I'm—" He yawns so wide his jaw cracks. "I'm mostly awake."

You manage to get ready in record time, a whirlwind of packing and checking suitcases and arguing about whose toiletry bag is whose and whether you really need three pairs of sunglasses for a week-long trip and yes you do, Jake, because they go with different outfits, and he shakes his head but he's smiling, he's always smiling, and the giddy, electric energy of being newly married carries you through the exhaustion like caffeine.

At the airport, you check in at the business class counter, and the agent looks at your tickets and then at your faces and then at your hands, and her eyes land on the wedding bands and she smiles and says, "Congratulations," and Jake grins and says, "Thank you, we just got married yesterday," and the agent's face softens and she upgrades you to first class, and you nearly cry right there at the check-in counter because apparently this is what the rest of your life is going to be, people being kind to you because you're so obviously, radiantly happy that it's contagious.

In the first class lounge, Jake insists on taking a photo of you with your boarding pass, and then another one of you with your coffee, and then another one of you looking out the window at the planes, and you roll your eyes but you let him because you know by now that Jake documents things the way other people breathe, naturally and constantly and without thinking about it, and you also know that in approximately three days he's going to pull up these photos and show you one and say "look how pretty you look" and you're going to pretend to be annoyed but actually you're going to melt.

On the plane, you settle into your seats, wide and plush and more like armchairs than airplane seats, and Jake immediately reaches for your hand and interlaces your fingers and holds on, and the simple, constant gesture makes your chest warm. The cabin is quiet, the lights dimmed for the overnight flight, and the flight attendant brings you champagne because you're honeymooners and that apparently means free champagne everywhere you go, and you clink your mini glasses together and Jake says, "To us," and you say, "To forever," and you both drink and then make faces because neither of you actually likes champagne but it's the principle of the thing.

You lean your head on his shoulder and he leans his head on top of yours, and you're both so tired that the exhaustion is a physical weight on your limbs, and you close your eyes and feel the rumble of the engines through the seat and the warmth of his body against yours, and you're drifting off when you feel his lips against your ear.

"You know what I keep thinking about?" he murmurs, and his voice is low and quiet, meant only for you.

"What?"

"You in that ivory lingerie set."

Your eyes open.

"Jake."

"I'm just saying. I've been thinking about it since you took the robe off. The way the lace looked against your skin. The way your nipples showed through." His fingers trace idle patterns on the back of your hand, and his breath is warm and ticklish against your ear. "I'm going to buy you so many pretty things. I'm going to dress you up in lace and silk and take my time taking it all off."

"Jake, we're on a plane."

"I know. I'm not doing anything. I'm just telling you what I'm thinking about." His lips brush the shell of your ear, feather-light. "Is that a crime?"

"You're impossible."

"Impossible to resist?" He grins against your ear, and you can hear the mischief in it, the playful, teasing edge that he deploys like a weapon.

"Impossible to deal with," you correct, but you're pressing your thighs together under the blanket, and he notices because of course he notices, and you feel his hand slide under the blanket and rest on your thigh, warm and heavy and not moving, just resting there, a promise and a tease all at once.

"Go to sleep," he whispers. "I'll behave."

"You'd better."

"I will. For now."

The emphasis on the last two words follows you into your dreams.

You wake up somewhere over the Mediterranean, the plane beginning its descent, and you look out the window and see the sea below you, a blue so deep and so vivid and so impossible that it doesn't look real, and you elbow Jake awake and point and he rubs his eyes and stares and says, "That's where we're going to be for the next week," and you say, "I know," and he says, "I can't believe I get to spend a week in Greece with my wife," and there's that word again, wife, still new and thrilling and still sending a jolt through your chest every time he says it.

Santorini is everything you'd dreamed of and more.

You've wanted to come here for as long as you can remember, ever since you saw a photo of the white-washed buildings and the blue domes and the caldera stretching out toward the horizon like the edge of the world, and you'd mentioned it once, offhandedly, years ago, back when you and Jake had first started dating, and he'd filed it away somewhere in that meticulous, loving brain of his and pulled it out the moment you'd started talking about honeymoon destinations, because Jake is a sucker for you in every possible way, and if your dream destination is a Greek island with sunsets and hot tubs and wine, then that's where he's going to take you even if it means coordinating logistics across eight time zones and two international flights.

The hotel is perched on the edge of the caldera, a cluster of white buildings cascading down the cliffside, and your room is the one at the very bottom, the one with the private terrace and the outdoor jacuzzi and the view that makes you stop in the doorway and forget how to breathe because the sea stretches out below you like a painting, blue and gold and shimmering in the late afternoon light, and the sky is so vast and so clear that it feels like you could reach up and touch it.

Jake comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist and rests his chin on your shoulder, and you both stand there in the doorway of your honeymoon suite, looking out at the most beautiful view you've ever seen, and he says, "Worth the five-hour flight?" and you say, "Worth anything," and he kisses your neck and holds you tighter and the sun is warm on your faces and the sea is glittering and you're here, you're really here, you're in Santorini with your husband on your honeymoon, and the happiness is so big and so present that you feel like you might vibrate out of your skin.

The first afternoon dissolves into a lazy, sun-soaked haze. You unpack in fits and starts, distracted by the view and by each other and by the bottle of wine that was waiting on the nightstand with a handwritten note from the hotel staff congratulating the happy couple. You drink it on the terrace, your feet dangling over the edge, the caldera spread out beneath you like a love letter written in water and stone, and Jake takes approximately four hundred photos of you with the view, of you with your wine glass, of you with the sunset turning your skin golden, and he shows you each one and says, "Look how pretty," and you say, "You're biased," and he says, "I'm objective. You're the prettiest person on this island and I have the photos to prove it."

You explore the town in the evening, winding through narrow cobblestone streets lined with shops and cafes and jewelry stores, and you stop in a little boutique and try on a linen dress that flows like water and makes you feel like a Greek goddess, and Jake watches you spin in front of the mirror and his eyes go soft and dark and he says, "Buy it," and you say, "I don't need it," and he says, "I didn't say you needed it. I said buy it. I want to see you in it again." So you buy it, and he buys a matching linen shirt, and you take a selfie together in the shop mirror like the couple you are, the couple who wears matching clothes in Greece on their honeymoon, and you look at the photo afterward and think, we're those people now, and the thought fills you with a warm, sheepish delight.

You buy gifts for everyone you love. A hand-painted ceramic plate for your mother, a leather journal for your father, a set of olive oil soaps for your sister. A tiny blue evil eye charm for each of Jake's members, because you'd discussed it and agreed that matching keychains would be perfect, and you find a shop that sells them in a row of different colors and you pick one for each of the guys and the shop owner wraps them individually in tissue paper and you tuck them carefully into your bag. Jake buys a set of worry beads for his grandfather, a silk scarf for his mother, a bottle of local wine for his father, and you watch him deliberate over each choice with the same seriousness he brings to everything and you think, not for the first time and not for the last, that you married the most thoughtful person on the planet.

Dinner is at a restaurant perched on the edge of the cliff, a candle on the table, the stars coming out over the sea, and Jake reaches across the table and takes your hand and says, "I want to remember this forever," and you say, "That's what the camera is for," and he says, "The camera can't capture how I feel right now. Nothing can." And you lift your phone and take a photo of him anyway, candlelit and starry-eyed and so handsome it hurts, and he rolls his eyes but he's smiling, and later that night you look at the photo and think he's right, the camera can't capture it, but it can remind you, and that's almost as good.

That first night in Santorini, after dinner and wine and a long, meandering walk through the lit-up streets of the town, you find yourselves on the terrace of your room, the jacuzzi bubbling and steaming in the cool night air, the sea a vast, dark expanse below you, and Jake looks at you with that look, the one that says he's thinking about something specific and it involves significantly fewer clothes than you're currently wearing.

"Jacuzzi?" he asks.

"Jacuzzi," you agree.

You change into your swimsuit, a simple black two-piece that you'd bought specifically for this trip, and when you step onto the terrace, Jake is already in the water, leaning against the edge with his arms spread along the rim, and he looks up at you and his eyes darken and his jaw tightens and you watch him bite his lower lip, a quick, unconscious gesture that sends a sharp pulse of heat straight to your core.

Jake is obsessed with your body. This is not new information. He has been obsessed with your body since the day you met, in various ways and to varying degrees, but the obsession has always been there, simmering beneath the surface of every glance and every touch and every lingering look he thinks you don't notice. He loves your breasts, loves them, can't keep his hands off them, can't keep his eyes off them, is constantly finding excuses to touch them or look at them or rest his head against them like they're pillows designed specifically for him. And he loves your ass, too, loves it with a devotion that borders on religious, is always touching it when you walk, grabbing it when you bend over, pressing himself against it when you're standing in line somewhere, and in Greece, in the heat, in the swimsuits and the shorts and the thin linen dresses that cling to every curve, the obsession has dialed up to a level that is honestly flattering and slightly inconvenient.

Like right now, for instance. You're standing on the edge of the jacuzzi in a black bikini, and Jake is looking at you like you're the sunset and the sea and the stars all compressed into a single person, and his teeth are digging into his lower lip, and you can see the hunger in his eyes, the raw, unfiltered want, and the sight of it, the knowledge that you do this to him, that you make him look like that, makes you feel powerful and desired and so, so hot.

"Get in here," he says, and his voice is lower than it was a moment ago.

You step into the water, the warmth enveloping you, and you settle across from him, letting the jets pulse against your back, and the two of you sit there for a moment in the steam and the starlight, the only sounds the bubbling of the jacuzzi and the distant crash of the sea below. Then his foot finds yours under the water, a casual, deliberate touch, and his toes trace up your ankle, your calf, and you look at him and he's looking at you with that crooked, knowing smile, and you feel the heat building between your legs that has nothing to do with the temperature of the water.

"Come here," he says.

You cross the jacuzzi and settle in his lap, your knees on either side of his hips, your arms around his neck, and he pulls you close and kisses you, and the kiss starts soft but doesn't stay that way. His hands find your waist, your hips, the curve of your ass under the water, and he squeezes and pulls you closer and groans into your mouth, and you feel him hardening beneath you, his cock pressing up against you through his swim trunks, thick and insistent.

"Feel what you do to me," he murmurs against your lips. "One look at you in that bikini and I'm gone. I'm a mess. I've been a mess all day."

"You've been staring at my tits all day."

"Your tits have been out all day. That dress you wore to lunch? The white one? I could see everything. I was hard through the entire meal. I had to put my napkin in my lap."

A laugh escapes you, and you bury your face in his neck and feel his chest shake with silent laughter too, and then his hands slide up your sides and cup your breasts through the bikini top, and the laughter dissolves into a sharp intake of breath as his thumbs find your nipples through the fabric.

"Jake—"

"Let me touch you. Please. I need to touch you."

His hands make quick work of your bikini top, untying it and tossing it somewhere behind him, and his palms find your bare breasts and he cups them, weighs them, squeezes them gently and then not so gently, and his thumbs circle your nipples until they're tight and aching, and you're grinding down onto him without meaning to, chasing the friction, the pressure, the feeling of him hard and ready beneath you.

"You have the most perfect tits," he says, and his voice is reverent and hungry and almost angry about it, like it's a personal offense how much he likes them. "I think about them constantly. During interviews. During rehearsals. During literally any moment when I should be focusing on something else, my brain just goes—" he squeezes again, harder, and you gasp "—right back to these. I'm not even exaggerating. It's a problem. I have a problem and I don't want to fix it."

"Baby—"

"Let me—" He doesn't finish the sentence. He leans in and takes one nipple into his mouth, hot and wet and relentless, and you gasp and grip his hair and arch into him. His tongue works the bud in tight, dizzying circles, then he sucks hard enough to make your spine curve, and you feel the sensation shoot straight down to your core, hot and electric and so intense that your thighs squeeze around his waist. His other hand isn't idle — it's on your other breast, rolling and pinching the nipple between his fingers, pulling and tweaking and working you into a state of such acute sensitivity that every touch feels amplified by a thousand.

"My wife," he breathes against your skin, switching to the other breast, his mouth hot and greedy. "My beautiful wife. I can't get enough of you. I'm never going to get enough of you."

His hand slides between your bodies, under the water, and his fingers find the waistband of your bikini bottoms and slip underneath, and his fingertips drag through your slick, swollen flesh, and the sound you make is somewhere between a gasp and a whimper and a plea. He circles your clit with a slow, deliberate pressure, and you rock against his hand, your body moving on instinct, chasing the pleasure, and his other hand is still on your breast, kneading, rolling your nipple, and the dual sensation is making you dizzy.

"You're so wet," he groans against your chest. "So wet for me. I've barely touched you and you're already this wet."

"It's been like this all day," you admit, and your voice is ragged. "Every time you looked at me. Every time you touched me. Every time you bit your lip."

"I know," he says, and there's a dark, satisfied edge to his voice. "I could tell. I can always tell. Your pupils get dilated and your breathing changes and you press your thighs together and I know exactly what it means because I'm the one who caused it."

His fingers slide inside you, two of them, and you clench around them and moan his name, and he groans in response, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours. His fingers curl inside you, pressing against that spot, and his thumb finds your clit again, and he starts a rhythm that's steady and deep and absolutely devastating.

"Jake, I need you. I need your dick—fuck, please."

"Not yet." He shakes his head, and there's that dark, playful glint in his eyes again, the one that tells you he's going to drag this out as long as he can because he loves watching you squirm. "Let me make you come like this first. I want to feel you fall apart on my fingers before I fuck you. I want you so desperate that you can't even think straight."

"I'm already—" Your voice breaks as his fingers crook inside you, pressing hard against that spot, and your hips jerk involuntarily, water sloshing around you. "Jake, I'm already—"

"Not desperate enough. Not yet." He adds a third finger, and the stretch is delicious, the fullness just shy of too much, and he starts fucking you with them in earnest now, long, deep strokes that make you grip his shoulders and dig your nails into his skin. "I want you shaking. I want you begging. I want you so far gone that the only word left in your head is my name."

"You're—ah—you're such a—"

"Such a what?" He twists his fingers, and the new angle makes you see white. "Finish your sentence, baby."

"You're such a tease," you manage, and it comes out breathless and fractured and completely unconvincing.

"Am I?" He grins, and it's wicked, it's devastating, it's the smile of a man who knows exactly what he's doing to you and is enjoying every second of it. "Then tell me to stop. Tell me you don't want this and I'll stop right now."

"Don't you dare stop."

"Then I'm not a tease, am I?" His thumb presses hard against your clit and circles it in a slow, tight motion, and the combination of that with his fingers curling inside you, pressing that spot over and over, is enough to make your thighs clamp around his hand and your breath come in short, desperate pants. "I'm giving you exactly what you need. I'm making my wife feel good. There's nothing teasing about that."

The words, the raw, filthy honesty of them, push you closer to the edge, and you grind down onto his hand and feel the tension winding tighter and tighter, and his fingers are inside you and his thumb is on your clit and his mouth is on your breast and it's all too much, too much, too much, and the orgasm crashes through you in waves that make you tremble and gasp and say his name over and over like a prayer.

When you come down, he's looking at you with those dark, burning eyes, and his fingers are still inside you but still now, just resting, letting you feel the fullness as your walls pulse around him. He slides them out slowly, and you whimper at the loss, and he brings his hand up out of the water and licks his fingers clean with a slow, deliberate sweep of his tongue, and the sight of it makes your cunt clench around nothing.

"You taste like the sea," he says, and his voice is low and rough and fond. "Appropriate, given where we are."

"You're ridiculous."

"You're the one who just came in a jacuzzi in Santorini on your honeymoon. I think that makes you the ridiculous one."

"I hate your insufferable ass so much."

"No you don't." He grins, and it's so self-satisfied that you want to kiss it off his face, so you do, grabbing his jaw with both hands and kissing him hard, tasting yourself on his tongue, and he groans into your mouth and his hands grip your waist and pull you flush against him, and you can feel how hard he is through his swim trunks, the thick, hot length of him pressing against your core, and the kiss shifts from playful to desperate in the space of a single breath.

"Your turn," you murmur against his lips, and you reach between your bodies and wrap your hand around him through the fabric of his trunks, and his hips jerk up into your touch and he groans, low and guttural and desperate. "You've been so patient. Let me take care of you."

You tug at the waistband of his swim trunks, and he lifts his hips and you pull them down just far enough to free him, and his cock springs up, flushed and hard and leaking at the tip, and you wrap your hand around the base and squeeze, and the sound he makes — this broken, breathless, helpless thing — goes straight to your core and makes you throb even though you just came.

"God, your hand," he chokes out, and his head falls back against the edge of the jacuzzi, his throat exposed, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. "I've been so hard for so long. You have no idea. You kept bending over in that dress today and I thought I was going to die."

"Poor baby," you say, and you start to stroke him, slow and tight, your grip firm as you slide your hand from base to tip and back again, spreading the wetness at the head down his length. "All that suffering. Let me make it better."

"Fuck—" His hands grip the edge of the jacuzzi so hard his knuckles go white, and his hips are moving, tiny involuntary thrusts up into your fist, and you watch the pleasure move across his face like weather, the furrow between his brows, the way his lips part, the flush spreading down his neck and across his chest, and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, your husband falling apart in your hand.

"You know what I love?" you say, and you twist your hand on the upstroke, your thumb dragging across the sensitive ridge beneath the head, and his whole body shudders. "I love that I'm the only person who gets to see you like this. All those people who want you, who scream your name, who think they know what you look like—ugh, they have no idea. They've never seen you desperate. They've never heard these sounds. They've never felt you shake under their hands like this. This is just for me. Only me." You tighten your grip just slightly, twisting on the upstroke, and watch his abdominal muscles clench and his toes curl against the floor of the jacuzzi. "And I'm never sharing."

"Only you," he gasps, and his voice is wrecked, barely coherent. "Only ever you. I'm yours. Every part of me. All of it—ah—all of it yours."

"Good." You tighten your grip and speed up, stroking him faster, harder, and his moans are getting louder, more fractured, his hips snapping up to meet your hand. "I want you to come for me, Jake. I want to feel you spill in my hand. Can you do that? Can you be good for me?"

"Yes—fuck—yes, I'm—" He's trembling now, actually trembling, his thighs tensing under the water, his hands reaching for you and gripping your hip, your waist, anything he can hold onto. "I'm close, I'm so close, please—"

"Then come," you say, and you lean in and bite his earlobe, gentle but sharp, and that's all it takes. He comes with a broken moan of your name, his cock pulsing in your hand as he spills hot and thick over your fingers, his hips jerking erratically, his entire body taut and shaking, and you stroke him through it, slowing your hand as the aftershocks fade, milking every last drop out of him until he's gasping and oversensitive and pulling weakly at your wrist.

"Stop, stop, I can't—" He's laughing, breathless and overwhelmed, and you release him and bring your hand up and examine it with a theatricality that makes him laugh harder. "Don't you even think about stoppi—"

You lick a stripe up your palm, tasting him, salt, skin, and something so unmistakably Jake — and his laughter cuts off abruptly, replaced by a groan so deep it sounds like it's being pulled from the soles of his feet. You hold his gaze as you do it, deliberate and slow, letting your tongue drag across your skin, and you watch his jaw go slack and his chest heave and his cock twitch against his stomach, already filling again, already hard, because apparently the sight of you tasting him is enough to override every recovery period his body has ever known. His eyes are black, pupils blown so wide there's barely any brown left, and he's looking at you with an expression that's equal parts disbelief and desperate, rekindled want.

"If I die, I’m going to blame you," he says.

"Honestly, that sounds like a nice way to go." You grin, and you're about to say something else, something cheeky and self-satisfied, but then his hands are on your waist and he's lifting you and repositioning you, and you feel the hard, insistent press of him against your core — already half-hard again, already recovering, because Jake at twenty-something-years-old has the refractory period of a teenager and the stamina of a man who's been waiting his entire life for this.

"Get these off," you say, tugging at the waistband of his swim trunks, and he lifts his hips and you pull them down and his cock springs free, hard and flushed and thick, and you wrap your hand around him again and stroke him slowly, feeling him pulse in your palm, feeling the heat and the weight of him. You shift your position, settling over him, and you reach down and move your bikini bottoms to the side and guide him to your entrance, and you sink down onto him in one slow, devastating movement.

The sound he makes is wrecked. A broken, breathless moan that echoes off the terrace walls and dissolves into the night air, and his hands grip your hips so hard you know there'll be marks tomorrow, and his head falls back against the edge of the jacuzzi and his eyes squeeze shut and you watch the pleasure move across his face like weather, and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

"Baby," he gasps, and the word is reverent, worshipful. "Oh my god, my wife. You feel so good. You're so tight. So warm. I'm not going to last, I—"

"Simply don't," you say, and you start to move, rolling your hips in slow, grinding circles, feeling him shift inside you, feeling every inch of the stretch and the fullness. "We have all week. Just feel it."

"Easy for you to say," he manages, and his voice is strangled, barely holding together. "You're not the one who's been on the edge for six hours. You're not the one whose wife has been parading around in a bikini all day looking like a goddamn Greek goddess. You're not the one who had to sit through dinner with a hard-on because you kept licking gelato off your spoon like that—"

"Like what?" You roll your hips deliberately, a slow, grinding circle that takes him to the hilt and holds, and his eyes roll back.

"Like you knew exactly what you were doing. Which you did. You absolutely did, don't even—" His breath hitches as you do it again. "Don't pretend you didn't know what you were doing to me."

"You like the bikini?"

"I'm going to buy you ten more. I'm going to buy you a bikini in every color. I'm going to make you try them all on for me like a private fashion show and then I'm going to take them off you one by one—"

"Jake." You roll your hips harder, grinding down onto him, taking him deeper, and his sentence dissolves into a moan that sounds like it's being pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. "Less talking. More feeling."

"I'm feeling," he gasps. "I'm feeling everything. I'm feeling you wrapped around me so tight I can barely think. I'm feeling how wet you are, how warm, how perfect. I'm feeling like the luckiest man alive because I get to be inside my wife on our honeymoon in Santorini and—fuck—and the stars are out and the water is warm and I never want this to end."

You lean down and kiss him, swallowing the rest of his words, and his hands slide up your sides, cupping your breasts again, his thumbs brushing your nipples, and he watches you ride him with an expression that's half awe and half desperation, like he can't believe this is real, like he's afraid to blink in case it disappears. The water laps around you, the steam rises into the cool night air, the stars are scattered across the sky like spilled diamonds, and you move together in the warm, bubbling water, your bodies finding a rhythm that's slow and deep and so full of feeling that it borders on overwhelming.

You change the angle, leaning back slightly and planting your hands on his thighs behind you, and the new position lets him see everything, the place where your bodies are joined, the slick, wet slide of him in and out of you, the way your tits move with every roll of your hips, and his eyes are glued to it, hungry and dark and so completely transfixed that you feel a surge of power so potent it makes you dizzy.

"You like watching?" you ask, and your voice comes out lower than you intended, rough with want.

"I like watching you," he says, and his hands grip your hips, guiding your movements, helping you set a pace that's faster now, more urgent. "I like watching my cock disappear inside you. I like watching you take me. I like knowing that nobody else gets to see this. Nobody else gets to have this. Just me."

"Just you," you confirm, and the words come out breathless, fractured, barely more than a moan. "Only you. Forever."

"Close," he chokes out, and his hips are jerking up into you now, his rhythm faltering, his hands gripping your waist. "I'm close, I'm—can I—"

"Come inside me," you say, and the words are barely out of your mouth before he's pulling you down onto him one final time and burying himself deep and coming with a sound that's your name and a moan and something that might be I love you, all of it tangled together into a raw, broken, beautiful noise that you want to record and play back for the rest of your life.

You stay there for a long moment, him still inside you, the water lapping at your skin, the stars above you, and he wraps his arms around you and pulls you against his chest and presses a kiss to your wet shoulder.

"I can't believe you're mine," he whispers.

"I can't believe you're mine either," you whisper back.

"Good. Then we're even."

You laugh, and he laughs, and the sound of it carries out over the caldera and into the night, and somewhere below, the sea catches the moonlight and turns it into a road of silver stretching toward the horizon, and you think, this is my life now, this impossibly beautiful, impossibly lucky life, and you close your eyes and hold on tighter.

The days in Santorini pass in a haze of sunshine and wine and each other.

You sleep late and wake up tangled together, the Mediterranean light filtering through the curtains in warm, golden bars, and Jake presses kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, until you're blinking awake and turning into him and the morning dissolves into something slow and soft and unhurried. He brings you coffee on the terrace, strong and sweet the way you like it, and you sit with your feet up and the sea below and the nowhere you need to be, and the luxury of it, the rareness of having time and nothing to fill it with except each other, is almost too much to bear.

He takes photos of you constantly. Candid ones, when you're not looking. You ordering at a restaurant, squinting at the menu in the bright sunlight. You examining a row of postcards in a tiny shop, holding one up to the light. You taking a photo of the sunset with your phone, your profile silhouetted against the orange and pink sky. You looking at something in a market stall, your head tilted, your hair catching the breeze. He doesn't say anything when he takes them, just quietly lifts his phone or his camera and captures the moment, and you only discover them later, when he shows you the camera roll with that soft, proud smile and says, "Look how beautiful you are," and you look at the photo, at the way he sees you, through his eyes, and your throat tightens because the woman in these photos is radiant and happy and so clearly, unmistakably in love, and you realize that's how he sees you all the time, not just in these moments but always, and the knowledge is so big and so overwhelming that you have to kiss him just to keep from crying.

"You need a new profile picture," he says one afternoon, when you're sitting on a stone wall overlooking the caldera with gelato melting in your hands. "Let me take one."

"I don't need—"

"You do. The one you have is from eight months ago. You've been a wife for four days now. You need an upgrade."

"A wife upgrade?"

"A profile picture upgrade. Come on. The light is perfect."

He positions you against the wall with the blue domes behind you and the sea beyond that, and he takes a dozen photos, adjusting your hair, tilting your chin, making you laugh until the shots are natural and bright and unposed, and when he shows you the best one, the one where you're mid-laugh with the sun in your hair and the Aegean behind you, you actually tear up a little because you look happy, you look so thoroughly, radiantly happy, and it's all because of him.

"See?" he says softly. "Told you. The most beautiful person on this island."

"You're ridiculous."

"You love it."

"I love you."

His face softens into something so tender that it makes your chest physically ache. "I love you too. So much."

You do all the couple things. All of them. You take matching photos in front of the blue domes, squished together with the wind in your hair, and Jake insists on doing a different pose for each one and you end up with a series that ranges from sweet to silly to borderline inappropriate. You find a photobooth in a tourist shop and squeeze inside and take a strip of photos, making increasingly ridiculous faces, and the last one is just you kissing, soft and real, and you cut it in half and each keep one in your phone cases. You buy the matching keychains for the members, small glass evil eyes in different colors, and Jake writes a little note for each one and you package them up in the hotel room and address them and set them aside to mail when you get home. You buy matching sandals from a shop near the harbor because you're a cliche and you don't care, and you wear them for the rest of the trip and take a photo of your feet side by side and Jake captions it "solemates" and you groan so loud the people at the next table turn to look.

He also stares at you. Constantly. In a way that is extremely distracting.

On the beach, when you're wearing a bikini top and a long maxi skirt, and you're applying sunscreen to your shoulders, and you look up and catch him staring at your chest with his bottom lip caught between his teeth, his eyes dark and hungry, and he looks away quickly when you catch him but not quickly enough, and the heat that floods your stomach has nothing to do with the sun.

At dinner, when you're wearing a dress that hugs your curves and you lean forward to reach for the wine, and his eyes drop to your cleavage and stay there for a beat too long, and when you straighten up he's adjusting himself under the table and pretending he's not.

On the terrace in the morning, when you step out in your underwear and a t-shirt, still sleep-soft and rumpled, and he looks up from his coffee and his entire body goes still and his jaw tightens and he says, very calmly, "You're trying to kill me," and you say, "I'm literally just getting coffee," and he says, "In that? With your legs out? And your—" he gestures vaguely at your entire body, "—everything? It's an attempted murder is what it is."

You laugh every time. Every single time. Because Sim Jaeyun, idol, performer, man who has been photographed by professionals and screamed at by fans and trained to maintain composure in any situation, cannot keep it together when you're wearing a bikini and a skirt and the sun is hitting your skin, and the knowledge that you have that effect on him is the most heady, intoxicating thing in the world.

The second time it happens, the morning of your fourth day in Santorini, is softer than the first.

You wake up before he does, which is rare, and you lie there for a moment watching him sleep, the way his lashes fan against his cheekbones, the way his lips are slightly parted, the way his chest rises and falls with slow, even breaths, and the morning light is coming through the curtains in soft, golden slats and painting stripes across the bed and across his skin, and he looks so peaceful, so beautiful, so completely yours, that you feel the familiar swell in your chest, the too-muchness of loving someone this deeply, and you press a kiss to his bare shoulder because you can't not.

He stirs. A small, sleepy sound. His arm reaches for you, pulling you closer, and he buries his face in your neck and mumbles something unintelligible, and you card your fingers through his hair and feel him melt against you.

"Morning," you whisper.

"Mmm. Morning. What time is it?"

"Early. Go back to sleep."

"Don't want to." He presses a kiss to your collarbone, then another, then another, a slow, lazy trail up your neck, and his hand finds your waist under the sheet and pulls you flush against him, and you feel him, half-hard against your thigh, and a slow, warm pulse of desire settles between your legs. "Want you instead."

"You just woke up."

"I've been wanting you all night. It just carried over." He grins against your skin, and his hand slides from your waist to your hip, your thigh, and he grips the flesh there and squeezes, and you feel his cock harden fully against you. "Please?"

"You don't even have your eyes open."

"Don't need them. I know where everything is." His hand slides between your thighs, and his fingers brush against you through your underwear, and the touch is light and teasing and enough to make your breath catch. "Feel that? Already wet for me. You're always wet for me in the morning. I love it."

"Jake—"

"Shh. Let me. Let me make you feel good."

He shifts, pressing you onto your back, and he settles between your legs and looks down at you with heavy-lidded, sleep-soft eyes, and his hair is a disaster and there are pillow creases on his cheek and he's so beautiful it makes your chest hurt. He leans down and kisses you, slow and deep and tasting like sleep and morning and love, and his hands push your shirt up and pull your underwear down, and you lift your hips to help him, and the morning air hits your bare skin for just a moment before his warmth covers you again. His fingers find you immediately, two of them sliding inside with an ease that makes you blush because you are wet, you're soaking, and the slick sound of his fingers moving in and out of you fills the quiet morning air and makes you want to hide your face in the pillow.

"There it is," he murmurs, and his voice is rough with sleep, rough with satisfaction, and he curls his fingers inside you and you arch off the mattress with a gasp. "There's my girl. Always so ready for me. I just have to look at you and you turn into this—this pretty, dripping mess—and you think I'm the obsessed one?"

"You are the obsessed one," you manage, and he laughs, and the sound is low and warm and so fond that it makes your chest ache even as his fingers are doing obscene things inside you.

"Guilty." He adds a third finger, and the stretch makes you whimper, and he swallows the sound with a kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in the same rhythm his fingers are fucking you, and the dual sensation is enough to make your head spin. His thumb finds your clit and circles it with a maddeningly light pressure, barely there, just enough to make you chase it, and you buck your hips up and he pulls away, and the loss makes you whine.

"Jake—"

"Patience." He grins down at you, and his eyes are dark and sleepy and so full of affection that it's almost hard to reconcile with the filth his fingers are currently doing. "I want to taste you first. I've been thinking about it all night. Dreaming about it, actually. I woke up with my mouth watering."

Before you can respond, he's kissing down your body, his lips trailing fire across your collarbone, between your breasts, down the soft plane of your stomach, and when he settles between your thighs and breathes against you, the warm air hitting your wet, swollen flesh, you nearly come apart from that alone.

"God, you smell incredible," he says, and his voice is muffled against your inner thigh, where he's pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin, his teeth grazing the softest part of you just enough to make your hips twitch. "I could eat you out for breakfast every day for the rest of my life and die happy. Forget the coffee. This is what I want to wake up to. You, spread out for me, still half-asleep, making those little sounds—I'd never need another meal."

"You're—unh—you're so—"

"Say it. Tell me what I am."

"Impossible. Infuriating. The love of my life."

His laugh vibrates against your core, and then his mouth is on you, and every thought in your head evaporates like morning mist. He licks into you with a slow, thorough devotion that makes your thighs shake, his tongue flat and wide against your clit before narrowing into a point that circles and flicks and teases until you're writhing against the sheets, your hands fisted in his hair, your hips chasing his mouth. He hums against you, a low, satisfied sound that says he knows exactly what he's doing, and the vibration of it zips through your nervous system like electricity and settles in a molten pool at the base of your spine.

"You know what drives me crazy?" he says, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips brushing your clit with every word, and the graze is so light and so devastating that you can barely process what he's saying. "The sounds you make. These little—" he mimics the breathy whimper that just escaped you, and hearing it in his voice, rough and morning-low and so completely fond, makes you flush from head to toe "—I could record them and listen on repeat. I'd never listen to music again. I'd just listen to you falling apart for me over and over and it would be the only song I'd ever need."

"Jake, please—"

"Please what? Tell me. I want to hear you say it."

"Make me come. Please. I need—"

"You need what? My mouth? My fingers? My cock?" He laps at you again, one long, slow, devastating stroke that has your back bowing off the bed. "You have to tell me, princess. Use your words."

"Your mouth. Your mouth, please, I need—"

He doesn't make you ask again. He seals his lips around your clit and sucks, and the pressure is firm and rhythmic and so precisely calibrated to your body that you wonder sometimes if he has a map of you tattooed on the inside of his eyelids, and two fingers slide back inside you and curl against that spot, and the combination is lethal. It hits you fast and hard, the orgasm rolling through you in waves that make you cry out and clench around his fingers and grip his hair so tight he groans against you, and he works you through it with the same steady, devastating rhythm, not stopping until you're pushing at his head and gasping from the overstimulation.

He crawls back up your body with his chin wet and his eyes dark and that crooked, self-satisfied grin that makes you want to smack him and kiss him in equal measure. "Good morning," he says, and his voice is so casual, so conversational, like he didn't just rearrange your entire nervous system with his tongue.

"Good morning," you manage, and your voice is wrecked and your body is trembling and you feel like you've been turned inside out in the best possible way. "Get up here. I want you inside me."

He settles between your legs and you feel the head of his cock against your entrance, and he pushes in slowly, so slowly, and the stretch and the fullness and the tenderness of it makes you whimper against his lips. He's still for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel the fullness of him, the heat of him, the weight of him, and then he starts to move.

"Feel so good," he murmurs, and his voice is rough with sleep and rough with want, and his hips roll into yours in a slow, lazy rhythm that feels more like breathing than fucking, like your bodies have found a pace that they can sustain forever, unhurried and deep and so full of feeling that it makes your eyes sting. "My wife. My perfect, beautiful wife. I love being inside you. I love being close to you. I love you so much it hurts."

"I love you more," you whisper, and you wrap your arms around him and pull him closer, and his face is pressed into your neck and his breath is warm and ragged against your skin, and his hips are moving faster now, a little harder, a little more desperate, and the shift from gentle to rough happens in degrees, each thrust a little deeper than the last, each breath a little more ragged.

"You know what I love about missionary?" he says, and his voice is a low, rough rumble against your ear, and the question is so unexpected, so absurd, that you almost laugh. "I love that I can see your face. I love that I can watch every single thing you're feeling. I love that when you come, I get to see it happen right in front of me, these beautiful expressions that nobody else will ever get to witness." He rolls his hips deep, grinding against your clit on the downstroke, and your eyes flutter shut. "No, don't close your eyes. Look at me. I want to see you."

You force your eyes open, and his face is inches from yours, so close that his breath is your breath, and his eyes are so dark and so full of love and want and reverence that looking at them feels like staring into the sun. He's moving faster now, his thrusts deeper, more deliberate, and each one punches a small, helpless sound out of your throat that he catches with his mouth, kissing you between gasps, swallowing your moans and feeding you his.

"I'm close," you whisper, and your voice breaks on it.

"I know. I can feel you squeezing me." He shifts his angle slightly, and the new position means he's hitting that spot with every thrust, and the pleasure is building so fast and so intense that you can barely think. "Come for me. Come on my cock. Let me feel you."

The orgasm crashes through you like a wave breaking, your walls clenching around him, your back arching off the mattress, his name tearing from your lips, and he watches you, he watches, just like he said he would, his eyes on your face, drinking in every expression, every gasp, every flutter of your eyelids, and you feel him follow you over the edge a moment later, his rhythm turning erratic and desperate as he spills inside you with a groan that's half your name and half something broken and wordless.

He stays inside you, still half-hard, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard, and the morning light is painting gold across your tangled bodies and the crumpled sheets, and he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your eyelid, and murmurs, "Good morning for real this time."

You laugh, soft and breathless, and card your fingers through his disaster of hair. "The best morning."

He pulls back suddenly, and before you can question it, he's rolling you over, guiding you onto your hands and knees, and his hands are on your hips, steadying you, positioning you exactly how he wants you, and the casual authority of it, the way he handles your body like he knows every inch of it, makes a fresh pulse of wetness slick between your thighs. You feel the head of his cock, still hard, still ready, because Jake at this age has the recovery time of someone who's been waiting their whole life for a week of unlimited access to you, pressing against your entrance from behind, and he runs the tip through your slick, teasing, just once, before he pushes in.

"Again?" you ask, and your voice is breathless with disbelief and want.

"Again," he confirms, and he pushes in with one smooth, deep thrust that punches a gasp out of your lungs. The new angle is deeper, different, hitting a spot inside you that makes your arms shake and your moans go higher and needier, and his hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks that you'll find later in the shower and press your fingertips to with a smile so wide it hurts. He doesn't start slow this time; he sets a pace from the first thrust that's hard and fast and relentless, like he's been waiting for this, like the first round was just the warm-up and now he's taking what he really wants, and the sound of it, the wet slap of his hips against your ass, fills the room along with your moans and his grunts and the creak of the bed frame.

"God, you feel so good like this," he groans, and his voice is wrecked, barely holding together. "Your ass—I can see everything—the way you take me—fuck—you're so perfect—I'm obsessed with you, you know that? I'm completely obsessed with every part of you—"

"Jake—harder—please—"

He obliges, his hips snapping forward with a force that makes the bed creak, and his hand comes around to your front, finding your clit, circling it in tight, firm movements, and the dual sensation of him inside you and his fingers on you is too much, it's all too much, and you feel the orgasm building fast and hard and unstoppable.

He reaches up with his other hand and gathers your hair to one side, exposing the back of your neck, and presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss there that sends a shiver cascading down your entire spine, and the combination of his mouth on your neck and his cock hitting deep and his fingers working your clit is so overwhelming that your elbows buckle and your chest drops to the mattress, and the new angle lets him sink impossibly deeper, and you hear him curse behind you, low and fractured and reverent, like he can't believe how good you feel.

"You know what I think about when I'm on stage?" he says, and his voice is low and rough and right against your ear, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot on your neck. "I think about this. I think about being inside you. I think about the way you sound and the way you feel and the way you look when you come. Every single performance, there's a moment where I'm singing and I'm thinking about you and I have to focus so hard on the choreography because otherwise I'm going to get hard on stage and that would be a scandal."

"Jake—”

"I'm serious. You have no idea. Every time I do that move in Bite Me, I'm thinking about fucking you. Every time. Every single performance. I've conditioned myself to associate it with the way you clench around me when you come and it's a miracle I haven't embarrassed myself live."

The filth of it, the raw, unfiltered honesty, the image of him on stage thinking about this, about you, about the way your body responds to him, it pushes you right over the edge, and the orgasm tears through you so hard and so fast that your arms give out and your face drops into the pillow and you're moaning his name into the fabric, your walls clenching around him in pulsing waves, and he follows a moment later, his hips jerking erratically, his hands gripping you so tight, his moan of your name dissolving into something raw and broken and so full of love that it makes your eyes sting even through the pleasure.

He collapses beside you, pulling you into him, and you both lie there in the warm morning light, breathless and trembling and so thoroughly, completely happy that words feel inadequate. He presses kisses to your shoulder, your temple, your hair, and you can feel his heartbeat against your back, still racing, still catching up, and his arm tightens around your waist like he's afraid you might disappear.

"Best morning of my life," he murmurs.

"You said that yesterday."

"It's still true. I'm going to say it every morning for the rest of our lives."

"That's a lot of mornings."

"Good. I hope there's a lot of them. I hope there's an infinite number of them and I get to spend every single one with you."

You turn in his arms and kiss him, soft and slow and tasting like forever, and the morning stretches out around you, golden and warm and completely, impossibly full.

"I'm hungry," he announces after a long, lazy moment, his voice muffled against your hair.

"Me too."

"Room service or each other?"

"Jake."

"I'm just saying. Both are valid options." He grins, and it's so boyish and so endearing that you want to bite his face, so you do, leaning in and sinking your teeth gently into his jaw, and he yelps and laughs and rolls you over and pins you to the mattress and kisses you until you're both breathless and giggling and thoroughly, completely, absurdly happy.

You order room service eventually. Greek yogurt with honey and fresh fruit and strong coffee, and you eat it on the terrace in your robes with the sea glittering below you and the sun warm on your faces, and Jake feeds you a strawberry and you feed him a bite of yogurt and it's so domestic and so sweet and so newlywed-coded that you should be embarrassed but you're not, not even a little, because this is your life now, this slow, sweet, ordinary magic of being married to your best friend, and every cliche in the book applies to you and you wear every single one of them like a badge of honor.

The rest of the honeymoon passes in a blur of blue water and white buildings and sun-warmed skin. You take a boat tour of the caldera and Jake gets sunburned on his nose and you take a photo and send it to the group chat and the members respond with approximately seventeen crying-laughing emojis. You try Greek coffee and hate it and Jake loves it and you argue about it for the rest of the day. You buy a painting from a street artist that captures the exact color of the sunset on your first night and you know you're going to hang it in your living room and think about this moment every time you look at it. You dance on the terrace to music playing from Jake's phone, slow-dancing in bare feet with the sea below and the stars above, and he dips you dramatically and you shriek with laughter and he kisses you while you're still upside down and the photo he takes afterward, the two of you disheveled and grinning and so clearly, absurdly in love, becomes your new wallpaper.

On the last night, you sit on the terrace with your feet in the cooling water of the jacuzzi, and Jake is beside you with his arm around your shoulders, and the sunset is painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and gold that look so unreal they might be a filter, and he says, "I don't want to leave," and you say, "Me neither," and he says, "We'll come back. Every year. Anniversary trip. I don't care if we're eighty. I'll carry you up the hill if I have to."

"You'd break your hip."

"Worth it."

You lean into him and watch the sun sink below the horizon and feel the warmth of his body against yours and the weight of the ring on your finger and the fullness of your heart, and you think about the past week, about the lazy mornings and the sunlit afternoons and the starry nights, about the way he looks at you like you're the only person in the world, about the way his hand finds yours without looking, about the way he says "my wife" like it's the most precious phrase in any language, and you think, I am the luckiest person alive, and you mean it with every cell in your body.

On the flight home, you fall asleep on his shoulder within the first hour, and he takes a photo of you sleeping and sets it as his lock screen and doesn't tell you until you're in the car on the way home from the airport and you see it when his phone lights up with a message, and you smack his arm and he laughs and says, "What? You look cute. Peaceful. Mine."

"Jake."

"What? You are mine. Legally. Binding contract. Can't take it back now."

"I wouldn't want to take it back."

His smile softens, and he reaches for your hand and interlaces your fingers and brings them to his lips and kisses your knuckles, right above the ring, and the gesture is so tender and so unconscious and so completely him that you have to look out the window and blink rapidly because you are not going to cry in the back of a taxi, you've cried enough in the past week to fill an ocean, but the tears come anyway because this is your life, this impossibly, overwhelmingly, heartbreakingly beautiful life, and you get to live it with him.

Two days after you get back from Greece, you're sitting on the couch in your apartment, still in the post-honeymoon haze where everything feels slightly unreal and slightly too good to be true, when Jake sits down next to you with his phone in his hand and a look on his face that you recognize as the one he gets when he's about to do something sappy and he knows you're going to give him a hard time about it.

"What?" you ask.

"I want to post something," he says. "About the wedding."

"Okay."

"It's a video. Of the ceremony. When they announced us. And us, you know, being us about it."

"Being us?"

"Laughing and crying and kissing. The whole embarrassing thing."

You smile. "That's my favorite part."

"Mine too. I've watched it like forty times. I'm not exaggerating. My screen time is concerning."

"So post it."

"I want it to be a collab. So it shows on both our accounts." He looks at you, and there's something vulnerable in his expression, something like he's asking for permission, like sharing this moment with the world is a big deal and he wants to make sure you're okay with it. "Is that okay?"

You think about it for a moment. About the fans who have been supportive since the beginning, who'd celebrated your engagement and your wedding with a warmth and a sincerity that had surprised you both. About the friends and family who were there, who lived it, who would love to see it preserved and shared. About the fact that your relationship has never been hidden or scandalous or something to be ashamed of, that it's been out in the open from the start, that the world has watched you fall in love and stay in love and now they get to watch you take this next step.

"Yeah," you say. "It's okay. More than okay. I want people to see it."

He smiles, and the relief and the happiness on his face are so genuine that you have to kiss him, so you do, and he laughs against your lips and says, "Okay, okay, let me post it first, then you can kiss me as much as you want."

He opens Instagram, starts a new post, selects the video. You watch over his shoulder as he trims it, cutting it to the most essential part: the officiant's voice saying "I now pronounce you husband and wife," and then the moment after, the two of you laughing through tears as he pulls you in for a kiss, the raw, unfiltered, overwhelming joy of it captured in fifteen seconds of video that somehow contains the entire universe.

He types the caption.

It was simple. The date and a heart. Simple. Corny. Absolutely perfect.

He adds you as a collaborator, and you watch your name appear next to his in the post settings, and the sight of it, your handles side by side, sharing this moment, makes your chest feel too small for your heart.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Ready."

He hits post.

Within seconds, the notifications start. A trickle at first, then a flood, then a tidal wave of likes and comments and shares that makes both your phones vibrate so hard they nearly vibrate off the coffee table. Comments in Korean and English and Japanese and languages you can't read, all of them variations of the same thing: congratulations, I'm crying, this is so beautiful, you guys deserve all the happiness, MY PARENTS, the screaming crying throwing up emojis, the heart emojis, the ring emojis.

Jake reads them out loud in a running commentary, his voice getting softer and softer as he goes, and when he gets to one that says "I've been following you guys since the beginning and I'm so happy for you," he goes quiet, and you look over and his eyes are bright and wet, and he clears his throat and says, "I'm not crying, you're crying," and you say, "We're both crying," and he laughs, and it comes out thick and wet, and you take the phone out of his hand and set it on the cushion and pull him into your arms and hold him while the notifications keep coming, a constant, warm stream of love from people who have watched your story unfold and are so genuinely, generously happy for the next chapter.

The video plays on a loop in the corner of the screen. The officiant's voice. Your laughter. His tears. The kiss that sealed everything. And underneath it, the date and the heart, the simplest, truest, most Jake caption there could ever be, because what else is there to say about the day your life changed forever except the date it happened and a heart to represent everything that came after.

You hold him on the couch and he holds you back, and the sun sets through the window in a wash of amber and rose that reminds you of Santorini, and you think about the mountain where he proposed and the garden where you married and the island where you loved each other in every way a person can be loved, and you think about the ring on your finger and the man in your arms and the life stretching out in front of you, vast and unknown and so full of possibility that it takes your breath away, and you know, with a certainty that lives deeper than thought, deeper than language, deeper than bone, that you will love him through every single moment of it, and he will love you back, and that will be enough. 

It will be more than enough. 

It will be everything.

⭐️ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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💿 ࿐ . . heaven by bryan adams

✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !

Yours to kiss and laugh with, yours to leave marks all over, yours to be absolutely destroyed by in the bedroom. It had been almost two months now since you had him properly. Two painful, sexless months. What was a woman supposed to do?

You tried not to resent the badge, telling yourself it isn’t its fault or the town’s or the emergencies that always seemed to happen just as he walked through the door, hat barely off his head before someone’s knocking again. Worst part was he forbade you from visiting him at the station, too scared you’d get hurt because of some or the other crook.

But sometimes, deep into the melancholic night, when his side of the bed was still cold, you remembered how it used to be.

You were barely more than kids when you got married. Too young, the older women whispered. Too reckless, the men at the bar said. But you had looked at Jay standing there in that simple suit—nervous, smiling too wide, hands shaking when he held yours—and you knew he was your Orpheus.

He used to laugh more back then too, a bright, easy laugh that filled rooms. He’d steal you away in the middle of the day just to walk by the creek. He’d tip his hat low and pretend to be some grand outlaw sweeping you off your feet. You’d cook together in your kitchen, bumping into each other on purpose, arguing over salt and laughing before the argument could even start.

If he rode out, you rode with him. If he fixed fences, you handed him nails. If you sat on the porch swing at sunset, his hand would find yours without looking, like it belonged there.

You were young, so painfully, beautifully young. And in love, in that uncomplicated way where nothing else mattered.

You were inseparable, the perfect example of love.

Love is anything but perfect. 

Now you sat on that same porch alone some evenings. The wood creaked the same, the sunsets were still gold, but the space beside you felt wider. Jay still kissed your forehead when he left in the mornings, still told you he’d be home soon, still called you “darling’” in that low voice that made your stomach flip.

But it’s different. He’s tired now. His smile didn't quite reach his eyes some days. When he came home, he’d collapse into a chair instead of your arms. You’d talk about supper, supplies, the weather—practical things, necessary things, safe things.

And you started to wonder. Did he still look at you the way he used to? Or did he see an obligation, a routine when he saw you now? 

You hated yourself for even thinking about it. But doubt is a quiet, persistent thing. It slipped in when the house was too quiet. When another week passed with only brief touches and half-finished conversations. You found yourself staring at your reflection sometimes, wondering if you’ve changed. Maybe it wasn't that he loved you less. Maybe it was that he was afraid.

Afraid to bring the weight of his job home. Afraid to let you see the things he saw. Afraid that if he let himself relax, even for a second, something would fall apart. You remember how young you both were—how fearless. How sure that love alone was enough to carry you through anything.

Now the love was still there. You felt it in the way he paused at the door and looked back at you, just for a second longer than necessary. In the way his hand lingered on your waist when he passed. In the way he softened when you said his name quietly at night.

But you still missed him.

Your Jay.

How cruel the world was to take him away from the softness.

“I keep telling you—” Your neighbour laughed as she hung up laundry, “—all you need is one magical garment to get your husband back.”

“I am not wearing that old thing.” You scoffed, handing her a wet cardigan, “What’s gonna happen anyway? He’ll see me in it and suddenly drop to his knees?” 

“Precisely.” She laughed, turning to you, placing her hands on her hips, “Just trust me this one time, and you’ll get your husband back this very night.” You rolled your eyes but your mind still drifted.

The white silk garter.

You hadn’t touched it in years. It had been tucked away carefully after your wedding night, folded with ridiculous tenderness as though it were made of spun glass instead of silk. You remember how young you’d been—how your hands trembled, how Jay’s did too, though he’d tried so hard to look confident. You remember the laughter more than anything. The way you both kept breaking into nervous grins like children pretending to be grown.

You cleared your throat and crossed your arms. “It’s old now.”

“So is your marriage, honey.” Your neighbor shot back, “And I’ve never given you bad advice to this day, have I?”

“What if I put it on and he doesn’t even notice?” You leaned closer, lowering your voice dramatically. 

“He’ll notice.” She insisted. “Men are simple creatures. Especially when silk is involved.”

“Is that so?” You laughed as you put the laundry basket down, “You really do get the wildest ideas when you’re not over at the bakery.” You said, inviting her over for a glass of water at your house. These were rare days that you got to hang out with her, on days she didn't open her bakery.

“Come on, show it to me at least!” She said, leaning back against your kitchen counter with her arms crossed. You snorted despite yourself, nonetheless inviting her up to your bedroom. Her eyes went wide as you opened your closet, pulling out the little piece from some forgotten corner.

“Oh. My. God.” She gasped, making you laugh.

“I keep forgetting how young you are.” You ran your fingers over the garter. 

White silk, slightly yellowed at the edges, delicate lace stitched along the top; and suddenly you’re twenty again—heart racing, cheeks flushed, believing that nothing in the world could ever wedge itself between you and the man who looked at you like you were the only thing that existed.

You sat on the edge of the bed, garter in your hands, and wondered if this was foolish—if a scrap of silk could compete with whatever weight he carried home in silence. 

“You’re considering it aren't you?” Your neighbour said slowly, lips curling.

“I’m considering burning it,” You retorted, though your ears were warm,  “If this doesn’t work, I’m blaming you for the rest of my natural life.”

“It’ll work.” She said confidently, grinning like she had won something.

“You are impossible.” You grinned.

But for the first time in weeks, something inside you felt less heavy, less afraid and more like that reckless, hopeful bride who once believed love could conquer anything.

Maybe tonight, you’d remind him of her.

_________________

Park Jongseong considered himself to be an alright man. 

Alright in the sense that he actually considered himself to be a fucked up piece of shit who couldn’t even spare a second for his treasure of a wife. Life had gotten so busy nowadays that he couldn't remember the last time he spun you around in the kitchen, held you in his arms and kissed you all over. 

Most nights, he came home late, right when the clock struck ten. You’d already be dead asleep on the bed, turned away from him, hair falling over your face to frame it in the most ethereal way ever. One day he came home to find you on the couch, apron still on and a cold cherry pie on the table; Jay wanted to be struck down by lightning right there and then. 

His wife.

His beautiful, amazing wife, who had stuck by his side even when he wasn't the sheriff he was now.

And this was how he treated you.

Jay paused outside the door, a habit he’d always had, standing there on the ‘welcome home’ mat for a second before stepping inside, as if shedding the outside world from his shoulders before fully crossing into his home. 

The house was quiet—lamps turned low, curtains drawn against the night, the air thick with the faint scent of…..lavender oil? Jay felt as if he were transported back to the night of his wedding, when your bedroom was all lavender, roses and some good fucking sex. 

His hat came off first and then a quiet exhale as he threw his boots off. 

“Darling?” He called, voice tired but still warm. 

“In here, Jay.” You answered, from somewhere in the living room. Jay stepped into the living room, unbuttoning one cuff absently. Something kept swelling in his chest, was it the amazing scent wafting through the house?

“You’re still up darling? I thought you’d—” 

And then he looked up.

And then the world stopped.

You had seen Jay angry. You had seen him determined, gentle, amused, even broken in the privacy of your arms after a particularly hard day. You had never seen him freeze like that, his hand frozen still mid-motion.

The fatigue vanished from his face so suddenly it almost startled you. His eyes, those sharp, steady eyes that intimidated half the town, widened in a way that made him look almost boyish. They narrowed with heat as he took you in, from the way the fabric clung to your breasts down to the way your hair came loose at some places.

“Hi honey.” You said sheepishly, toying with the fabric of your nightgown. 

You had stood by the mirror for a total of fifteen minutes, making adjustments to every inch of your body.  You’d pinned your hair up the way you used to in those early days, soft curls escaping on purpose. 

The gown itself was a simple, flowing thing in pale ivory, sheer enough in the right light to hint at the curves beneath without giving everything away. You remembered how his eyes had darkened when you'd worn it before, how his hands had roamed all over like he was tracing a map.

And beneath it all, known only to you, was that thin band of white silk. It was delicate, the lace edges soft against your skin, hugging your thigh just below the hem. You’d added a touch of perfume, the one he always said smelled like home and waited in the living room, the soft glow of the lamp casting warm shadows across the space.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You felt heat suddenly creep up your neck. What the actual fuck were you doing?

“You’re staring.” You managed softly. 

Your heart picked up pace as you ran your gaze over him in his uniform shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscles of his forearms. His dark hair was tousled, and a day's stubble shadowed his jaw. You saw the movement of his throat, the tightening of his jaw as though he were grounding himself.

“Can a man not look at his wife now?” The way he said it made your heart stutter, as he closed the distance slowly, “You look…” He stopped, eyes tracing you as though committing every detail to memory. “I don’t even have the right word.”

Jay’s hands found your waist, pulling you against him, and you felt the immediate hardness pressing into your belly. “What's all this, sweetheart?”

“Nothing much.” You avoided his gaze, looking down at your fingers, “Just thought I should remind the sheriff he has a wife.” 

Your hand slid down slowly to palm his hard cock through his hands. It had him graining, his hips bucking forward seeking more of your glorious touch. You smirked at the massive tent in his pants, before leaning in to brush your lips against the shell of your ears.

“You were gone for so long. Might as well have fucked someone else in this town.” You whispered, feeling his grip on your waist tighten, “Who’s gonna resist this pretty body anyway?” 

You pulled back, still avoiding his gaze, but the bruising pressure of his calloused hands on your waist told you everything you needed to know. 

Jay’s hands came up slowly to your chin, his calendar index finger resting underneath it, and then tilting your head up. You had to hold yourself back from humping against his length when you saw his face, brows slightly raised, his tongue poking the inner walls of his cheek as if to ask ‘how dare you?’ 

“No answer, husband?” You slowly inserted his finger in your mouth, sucking on it and then pulling it free, “Well then I guess I have to—”

You barely had time to pull back before his mouth was on yours, hot and demanding. His tongue pushed past your lips to tangle with yours as he backed you up against the wall, pinning you there with his body. One of his hands slid up to fist in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss further.

“What was that sweetheart?” Jay grunted into the kiss, “Who’s gonna resist this pretty body?” His free hand slid down to grab your ass, squeezing hard as he ground his cock against you. You could feel it throbbing, begging to be let out and buried deep inside you. The thought made you whimper, your own arousal growing as he marked you with his mouth and hands.

“Well this pretty body,” He nipped at your bottom lip hard enough to sting, “is mine.” He pulled back just enough to stare down at you with dark, heated eyes. 

You tilted your head up, meeting his stare with a playful pout. “Why don’t you come claim it then hm?” Your fingers trailed up his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath the shirt, “You still haven't apologised by the way. For keeping me lonely all these days.”

“Oh trust me.” Jay’s chuckle was low and promising, his thumbs rubbing circles on your hips through the thin fabric, “I’ll show you how sorry I am, darling.” He gave your ass a light squeeze as he kissed your neck, sucking a dark bruise onto your skin as he rocked against you.

His lips brushed your forehead, then your temple, before capturing your mouth in a deep kiss. It started slow and apologetic, but quickly turned hungry, his tongue sliding against yours as he backed you toward the hallway leading to the bedroom. He tasted faintly of bourbon, getting your senses drunk, though he hadn't touched you properly yet.

Jay scooped you up in his arms, muscles flexing against his shirt as he did. Your legs wrapped around his waist like a choreographed routine as he carried you down the hall. The bedroom door was already ajar and he kicked in shut behind him, the room bathed in soft moonlight. 

“Look so beautiful like this.” Jay muttered, before laying you down on the sheets with infinite care, your gown pooling it around you like a whisper. His eyes roamed over your body, drinking in the sight of you, before his hands traced the hem of your nightgown, pushing it up to expose your legs.

‘I’m the luckiest man in the world.’ He thought, as his eyes caught sight of the white fabric hugging your thigh. Jay wanted to tear that thing right off with his teeth, memories of your first night together flashing in his mind. 

“You really went all out, yeah darling?” Jay said, cupping your cheek in his hand, you nuzzled into it, “I’m so sorry sweetheart.” He kissed your forehead, “I’m so sorry I left you all by yourself.” Then your temple, “Won’t ever do it again, alright?” And then your neck, all the way down to your chest.

With a reverent touch, Jay explored your body like a country he had forgotten he’d discovered, his hands mapping every dip and swell with a tenderness that belied the passion burning within him. You gasped and writhed beneath him, lost in a sea of sensation as he stoked the fires of your desire higher and higher.

“Jay…” You whined, “Want you soooo bad.” 

“I know, darling.” One large hand settled on your hip, fingers splaying possessively over the curve where your gown had ridden up, exposing your skin to the cool air. He traced lazy shapes there—swirling patterns, perhaps hearts or initials, you couldn't quite tell through the haze of contentment—with the pad of his thumb, the touch feather-light and soothing. 

“You remember that thing we used to do?” Jay said, his voice thick. He leaned in, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh, until his breath ghosted over your panties. You were already wet, the anticipation building since you'd dressed for him, and he could tell. “That thing where you’d sit your pretty little ass down on my face?”

Jay gripped your thighs with the force of a thousand suns, yanking you towards him as he sat on his knees on the bed. The action sent a sharp shiver scores your flesh, of arousal and deep affection. You’d only done that thing once before, refusing to do it ever again in fear that you’d break his neck. But the ever loving man your husband was—death by your thighs sounded positively spectacular.

“You’re gonna sit on my face and I’m gonna show you how sorry I am, yeah?” Your breath hitched at the command, but you nodded, shifting back on the bed as he stripped off his shirt, revealing the broad expanse of his chest and his carved muscles.  

Jay laid down, propping his head on the pillows, and tugged at your hips. You straddled his face, the nightgown bunching around your waist, the garter still snug on your thigh. 

“Seong, you sure?” You asked, you breath coming hard, “I don’t want to—”

His hands gripped your ass and Jay pulled you down until your pussy pressed against his mouth through the thin fabric of your panties.

“Jay!” You whined high at the sudden movement, grasping at his hair to support yourself. Now you were reminded of the reason you married this man.

Jay’s tongue flicked out, tracing the outline of you, and you gasped, one hand bracing on the headboard. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and yanked them aside, exposing your slick folds. 

And then his mouth was on you, hot and insistent, his tongue lapping at your clit in broad, flat strokes. You moaned, rocking against him, the sensation overwhelming right from the start.

“Fuckkkk you taste exactly the same.” He murmured against your skin, “So damn sweet—feel like cherry pie darlin’.”

His tongue flattened and lapped at your dripping slit, dragging up from your entrance to your clit in one long stroke. The sensation hit you hard—wet heat sliding over your sensitive skin, making your hips buck involuntarily. Pleasure sparked through your core, sharp and insistent, your pussy clenching around nothing as you craved to be filled.

“Oh–oh Jay right there right there!” You cried, grinding down harder, thighs trembling as he sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue circling it with expert precision. He knew every inch of your pussy better than you did, and god did that make you want to marry him all over again. 

“Thaaat’s it baby.” His own arousal spiked at you flooded his mouth with your slickness, “Ride my face like you mean it, gotta show my pretty wife how much I missed her.” 

Jay was already rock hard, pre-cum leaking from his tip, obsessed with devouring your cunt before he claimed it. He was relentless, alternating between gentle licks and firm suction, slurp slurp slurp, his stubble scraping deliciously against your sensitive inner thighs. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groaned in approval, the sound rumbling through you.

It didn't take long for the pleasure to build, coiling tight in your belly. You were sensitive tonight, your body primed from the neglect of the past weeks, and Jay knew exactly how to push you. His hands kneaded your ass, one finger dipping lower to tease your entrance, sliding in just enough to make you whimper. 

“Oh god—Jay I’m close.” But he already knew from the way your pussy was clenching like she was talking to him, “F-Feel so goooood…”

He hummed, not letting up, his tongue delving into you now, fucking you with it while his thumb rubbed your clit. The orgasm hit you like a wave against a sinking ship, your body shuddering as you cried out, pussy clenching around nothing. Jay kept licking, softer now but persistent, drawing out the aftershocks until they bordered on too much.

“Wait—ahh ah—Jay, too much!” You panted, trying to lift off of him, but his strong arms locked around your thighs, holding you in place.

“Not done apologizing yet, darling.” He said, his mouth latching back onto your clit.

 He sucked harder, his tongue flicking rapidly, the overstimulation was making your nerves sing with a mix of pleasure and ache. Tears pricked your eyes as another climax built, faster this time, your body betraying you under his skilled assault.

“So damn sensitive.” He muttered, “Haven’t trained her enough, have I?”

“Could have if you were ever home.” You mumbled low enough, but of course your sharp-eared husband heard you, now sucking your clit into his mouth like a starved man, rolling it between his lips. You cried out, the suction pulling a fresh gush of wetness from you, which he lapped up greedily.

You came again, harder, your thighs clamping around his head as you sobbed his name. Still, he didn't relent, his tongue tracing lazy patterns over your swollen folds, lapping up your release like he couldn't get enough.

“Please….Jay—I can’t…’s too much Jay!” You begged, your voice breaking, but there was a bratty edge to it, a challenge because part of you wanted to see how far he'd go.

He finally released you, his face glistening with your arousal as you collapsed beside him, chest heaving. Jay wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction and something darker. 

“You’re really gonna make me work for it huh darling?” His laugh was dark, and he flipped you onto your back in one smooth motion, pinning you beneath his weight, “This your revenge or somethin?”

The nightgown rode up completely now, the garter the only thing left between you and total exposure. Jay's hands roamed your body, rough and possessive, cupping your breasts through the silk before shoving the gown up to your neck. He leaned down, sucking a nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to make you arch.

“Maybe it is.” You bit your lip, nodding defiantly, though your body was still buzzing from the overstimulation, “You’ve got a lot to make up for, sheriff.” 

You knew what it did to him when he heard you call him that. And you also knew what it got you.

“Brat.” He murmured against your skin, his hand sliding down to cup your pussy 

 You were soaked, sensitive from his earlier attentions, and his fingers slipped easily through your folds. He circled your clit once, twice, making you gasp, then pulled away just as the pleasure crested. “Brats don’t get to cum that easy, sweetheart.” 

“Jay please…” You whined, hips bucking up, but he held you down, his palm pressing flat against your mound. 

“Please what, beautiful?”  He slapped your pussy lightly, the sting sending a jolt straight to your core. You yelped, the sensation sharp and arousing, your clit throbbing under the impact.

“Fuck me.” You demanded, your voice laced with that bratty tone you knew drove him wild, “Please fuck me, sheriff. I’ll be a good girl, I swear.”

“Begging already are we?” He slapped your clit again, harder this time, and you moaned, your legs spreading wider instinctively, “You sound just as angelic as you did our first time, my dearest.” His words ignited something within you. Jay had always been a poet.

Your husband stripped off the rest of his clothes, his cock now free, thick and hard, the tip already leaking pre-cum. He positioned himself between your legs, rubbing the head against your entrance, coating himself in your wetness.

With one thrust, he buried himself inside you, streeetching your walls around his girth. You cried out, nails digging into his broad shoulders as he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours. Pain lingered at the edges, a delicious sting that heightened the sensations, making every inch of him feel more intense, as he set a punishing rhythm.

Just right for a brat.

“Pussy’s made—hah—for me.”  The words sent a thrill through you, your arousal spiking, wetness squelching around him, “Fits me like a fuckin’ glove.”

“Oh—ohhh so biggg.” You moan loud, your heart pounding against its cage. You certainly forgot how big your husband was, and he was certainly hell bent on reminding you.

 He angled his thrusts, grinding his pelvis against your clit with every stroke, building you up fast. You felt the orgasm approaching, your pussy fluttering around him, but just as you teetered on the edge, he stopped, buried deep but completely still.

“Jayyyy.” You whined, trying to rock against him, but his weight pinned you down completely, “Don’t stop please.”

“What did I say baby?” His hand came down on your ass, the slap echoing in the room, your cheek blooming with head, “Brats don’t get to cum that easy.” 

He pulled out almost entirely, then thrust back in, repeating the motion while his hand alternated slaps on your ass. Left cheek, right cheek, each one harder, making your skin tingle and your pussy clench around him. “You like that don’t you, my dirty darling? Gettin' wetter with every damn smack.”

“Harder Jay.” You taunted, pushing him further.

Jay's eyes flashed, and he flipped you onto your stomach briefly, yanking your hips up so you were on your knees. He slapped your ass again, the impacts raining down until it burned, then he reached between your legs and slapped your pussy directly, the wet smack making you jolt forward with a cry. The sting was intense, your clit pulsing, but it only heightened the need coiling inside you.

“On your back.” He ordered, flipping you once more, “Need to see my pretty pussy.” 

He hooked your legs over his shoulders, as he drove back into you, the new angle letting him hit even deeper. His thrusts were brutal now, his cock pistoning in and out, the obscene sounds of skin slapping skin filling the room. You were close again, so so close, your walls gripping him like a vice.

“Jay—no!” He edged you again, slowing grinds just as you hovered on the brink.

“Beg for it baby.” He slapped your pussy once more, lighter this time, and then thrust particularly deep, “I’m afraid the sheriff will only let good girls get what they want.”

Tears of frustration welled in your eyes, the overstimulation from earlier making every sensation amplified. “Please, Jay…..need it so bad.” You were a pathetic, babbling mess beneath him, “I’ll be your good girl sheriff, I promise—ahh fuck!”

“That’s my girl.”  But he didn't let you tip over, pulling back to edge you a third time, his hand coming down on your ass as he fucked you slow and deliberate.

“Can’t take it Jay—fuck.” You whined, squirming in his hold, “Please let me cum on your cock please, I’ll do anything."

And there it was.

What a beautiful woman his wife was.

Satisfaction crossed his face as he reached down, skilled fingers hooking under the silk garter on your thigh. With an achingly gentle tug, he slid it off, the lace dragging against your skin and sending shivers up your spine. He held it up, the white silk gleaming in the moonlight, then brought one end to his mouth, biting down on it gently. The other end he pressed to your lips.

“Bite.” Jay commanded, and you did, the silk muffling your moans as he thrust back into you. 

Now in full missionary, your legs wrapped around his waist, he fucked you with long, powerful strokes, the garter stretched between your mouths like a intimate tether. Every time he bottomed out, the pull on the silk made you both groan, the fabric dampening with your shared breaths.

His pace quickened, hips snapping against yours with a violent force, his cock swelling inside you. The edging had you wound so tight that the first orgasm crashed over you almost immediately, your pussy spasming around him as you screamed into the garter. He didn't stop, pounding through it, the silk pulling taut as he leaned closer, his forehead against yours.

“Cum for me, my darling.” Jay moaned around the fabric, his hand slipping between you to rub your clit. The overstimulation hit full force, your body convulsing as a second climax ripped through you, harder than the first. You bit down on the garter, tasting the faint salt of his sweat mixed with the silk.

Jay followed soon after, his thrusts erratic as he buried himself deep, his cock pulsing as he filled you with hot spurts of cum. He released the garter from his mouth, tossing it aside, and collapsed onto you, both of you panting in the aftermath.

“Fucking hell.” Jay grunted, pulling out as slow as he could, cupping your cheek as he did. Your husband was a wildly dual natured man.

He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his breath steadying as the frenzy of passion ebbed away, leaving only the quiet intimacy of your shared exhaustion. Your body hummed with aftershocks, muscles loose and sated, the ache between your thighs a sweet reminder of how thoroughly he had claimed you.

“You alright, darling?” He collapsed beside you, immediately pulling you into his comforting hold, “Need anything? Water?” 

‘No just—” You sunk into him, head on his chest as he ran his fingers through your hair, “—stay like this.”

Jay lifted a hand slowly, brushing a loose curl from your cheek. His fingers were rough and calloused, but his touch was ever so gentle.

“You’re really something, you know that?” He chuckled, “I don’t think you understand what you do to me, darling.” 

You tried to laugh it off, but your throat felt tight. “I was starting to think I didn’t do much at all anymore.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, and his hand stilled against your face.

“Hey,” He said immediately, firm but soft, “Don’t” 

“I know it’s stupid but–”

“You think I stopped thinking about you?” Jay said, squeezing your hand, “I think about you every single day,” He said. “I think about getting home to you. I think about this house, about the porch, about you standing in the doorway.” His thumb brushed along your cheekbone. “I just…..stay away from you sometimes because I’m afraid.” 

Your brows knit. “Afraid of what?”

“Burdening you.” Jay sighed, “I don’t want this damn job to reach you, my dearest.”

Your heart clenched at his words. Oh your sweet, sweet husband. Still that naive boy you married all those years ago.

“You think I married you for easy days?” You whispered, running your thumb over his knuckles. His lips twitched faintly.

“No,” He laughed. “You married me when I was just a fool with a borrowed suit.”

“And I’d do it again,” You said without hesitation, “Just promise me you’ll let me come to the station sometimes. It gets boring here.” 

Jay considered it for a while, the moonlight falling into the room illuminating your face so perfectly. 

“Only if you promise to stay safe.” He said, to which you nodded frantically, making him chuckle, “Although I don’t think I’ll get any work done with your pretty ass hanging around.” 

“Good.” You giggled, “The town should know their sheriff has the ability to smile.”

“Only for you, darling.” 

_______________________

“One of those chocolate madeleines please.” You slid two notes across the counter, “And I’ll take a cream puff as well.” 

Behind the display case, your friend smiled sweetly at you. Flour dusted her cheek, and a streak of chocolate smudged near her wrist where she’d clearly tasted something mid-batch. 

“Just those?” She asked lightly, tongs hovering over the tray.

“Hmm.” You hummed, watching her carefully take the goodies out and package it, “It's for my husband.” 

“I figured.” She laughed, "Everything you bake goes into that man’s stomach. Tell him to save some for us too!” She leaned forward, “I was right about that garter, and I’m right about this.”

“First of all, someone's got to remind that man to eat.” You said, leaning your elbows on the counter, "Second of all…” You paused before smiling, “yeah you were right. Thank you honey.”

“Oh, I’m sure the whole town appreciates your dedication to the sheriff’s well-being.” She snorted softly.

You narrowed your eyes at her teasing tone, sticking a tongue out playfully, watching her fingers as she tied the ribbon neatly around the small brown box. The bakery smelled of melted chocolate and warm sugar, sunlight streaming through the front windows and catching the dust in the air. 

You had just come from your sister’s bar across the street, after listening to her troubles about some or other cowboy who had been hanging around the bar. ‘Troubles’, you laughed at the thought, more like young love.

“You know,” She slid the box toward you,  lowering her voice almost conspiratorially, “I tried something new today.”

“Should I be worried?” You arched a brow. You knew how much she loved to experiment, which often ended up in fire and smoke. 

“It’s harmless,” She insisted. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

She reached beneath the counter and lifted a single cupcake onto a small porcelain plate. Pale frosting swirled high on top, a faint dusting of cinnamon and something darker speckled across it.

“And pray tell what is that?” You said, peering suspiciously at the poor cupcake.

“An experiment.” She said proudly. “Something that will…..have the same effect as that garter.”

You stared at the desert in front of you, and then flicked your gaze to her, scoffing. “You made a love potion?” 

“It’s really subtle, I promise.” She grinned, “Plus I didn't have enough ingredients to make it the usual strength.”

You hesitated, eyeing the cupcake again. It looked innocent enough, almost too innocent. But the thought of walking into that sun-beaten station with something playful—something just for the two of you—made your heart flutter.

“Come on.” She said smoothly, “It doesn't hurt to have a little fun.”

“And you swear it’s not that strong?” Your friend nodded her head frantically, making you sigh and shrug your shoulders, “Alright then.”

“Yay!” She laughed, then carefully lifted the cupcake and placed it in a small white box separate from the others. “On the house,” she said.

“Absolutely not—”

“Consider it payment for that advice you gave me.” She said, “And also for making your husband my guinea pig.” 

You laughed, and picked up your boxes, shooting her a wink before bidding her goodbye and stepping back out into the afternoon sun.

You stepped outside into the blaze of the desert afternoon, the heat wrapping around you like a living thing. The sky stretched endlessly blue overhead, the sun merciless and bright, pressing against your shoulders. The ground radiated warmth through the soles of your sandals as you walked.

Your knee-length dress, a soft cotton fitted at the waist and buttoned down the front, fluttered lightly around your legs as a dry breeze swept through. The skirt swayed, brushing against your calves as you walked, the scent of cocoa drifting faintly from the boxes in your hands.

You walked toward the sheriff’s station, just a block away, pulse picking up the closer you got. You told yourself it was just the heat.

In reality, it was the thought of his expression when you would walk in. The way his tired eyes would soften, the way he’d lean back in his chair, hat tipped aside, sleeves rolled up to reveal those beautiful forearms, the way he’d spread his legs just right, inviting you in. 

God you wanted your husband so bad.

A bead of sweat trailed down your spine as you climbed the station steps, the wooden boards warm beneath your sandals. You paused at the door, taking a slow breath, adjusting the boxes so they wouldn’t tilt.

The desert sun blazed behind you, casting your shadow long across the threshold. Then you reached for the handle and stepped inside, the colder air of the building meeting your skin. The station smelled faintly of paper, dust and sun-warmed leather. Your sandals clicked softly against the wooden floor as you stepped fully inside, hearing the loud buzz of conversation soften a bit.

Two officers near the front desk looked up first, then another from behind a stack of reports. You offered them a warm, polite smile. “Afternoon, gentlemen.”

“Ma’am.” One of them said quickly, nearly knocking over his inkwell in the process. You had invited most of them to dinner at least once, fed them and listened to their stories.But had never once seen you here.

You felt their eyes linger, curiosity sweeping through you moved down the short hallway with steady steps, hips swaying slightly. Heat still clung to your skin from outside, leaving a faint flush along your collarbones, the thin ribbon at your waist accentuating the gentle curve of you. 

At the end of the hallway sat his office, the door half open. You didn't bother to knock, just pushing it wider and stepping inside, closing it shut behind you. 

Jay sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, oh god those forearms. His hat rested on the corner of the desk and a stack of papers lay scattered before him. His head was bent, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Afternoon, sheriff.” You said lightly, walking up to his desk like a mischievous child.

Jay looked up, and for a split second, all his senses crashed. His chair creaked faintly as he leaned back, eyes dragging slowly from your face down to your legs, and then back, resting briefly on the boxes.

“Well if it isn't the biggest criminal in town.” He said, voice shifting lower, legs already shifting apart, “You, ma’am are guilty of stealing my heart.” 

You set the boxes carefully on the edge of his desk and took a step closer, resting your hands lightly on the wood. Jay leaned back further in his chair, boots planted wide, hands resting casually on the armrests. But there was nothing casual about the way he was looking at you.

“Do I have the right to remain silent, sheriff?” You walked around the desk slowly, your skin feeling warm. You could feel his eyes tracking every step, “Do I have the right to do this?”

And before Jay’s mind could process anything, you lowered yourself onto his lap, settling there quite comfortably. 

“Careful darling.” His hands came up fast, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other against your back as he pulled you firmly against him, “You’re really testing the law here.”

Your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt, forehead brushing with his, the solid muscle of his thigh pressing up against the heat building between your legs. The office was quiet, the door firmly shut behind you, sealing out the rest of the station's bustle.

 You could smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the paperwork scattered across his desk, but all your focus was on the way his body tensed beneath you, his breath hitching as you shifted closer.

“And what’s my sentence, sheriff?” You asked.

“Hmm, let me think.” Jay said, voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest into yours, “I suppose, life” One hand went up to stroke your cheek, “with me of course.” 

You smiled, leaning in to brush your lips against his ear. “How do you expect me to change with such a tempting sentence?”

Your hands slid up his chest, feeling the crisp fabric of his shirt, the badge pinned there cool under your palm. You rocked your hips subtly, grinding against his thigh, and felt him harden instantly beneath you.

Jay's eyes darkened, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair. “You’re going to be the death of me.” But he didn't push you away, pulling you closer instead, his other hand squeezing your ass through your skirt.

“I got you something.” You said gently, reaching behind for the boxes, opening the smaller one first, “A cupcake.”

“Are you attempting to bribe an officer, young lady?” He said, gaze dropping to the neckline of your dress, the curve of your shoulders, then back up to your eyes. 

“A bribe you say?” You laughed, pulling out the small cupcake topped with thick, white cream. “Open up.” 

His eyes didn’t drop to the pastry, staying on you. He leaned forward, taking a bite. The cream smeared slightly on his lower lip as he chewed, his tongue darting out to catch it. You watched, heat pooling in your core, as he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing.

“Mmm caramel?” He said, licking his lips, lord give you strength, “What’s the occasion?”

“Just wanted to treat my husband.” You scooped a bit of the remaining cream onto your finger, holding it out to him. 

He didn't hesitate, capturing your finger between his lips, his tongue swirling around it slowly, sucking the cream off with deliberate strokes. The wet heat of his mouth made your pussy clench, imagining that gorgeous tongue elsewhere.

Jay's eyes locked on yours as he licked every trace, his suction firm, teeth grazing your skin lightly. “Tastes even better off you.” He released your fingers with a pop.

You brought your finger to your own mouth, sucking it clean, tasting the faint sweetness mixed with the salt of his saliva. You ground down harder on his thigh, the friction against your panties making you wetter, your skirt riding up slightly.

He groaned, his cock straining against his pants now, the outline visible as you shifted. Whatever was in that cupcake was working fast; you could feel the heat radiating from him, his grip tightening. 

“Fuck….darling, what are you doing to me? I feel weird.” You smirked, popping the rest of the cupcake into your mouth, chewing slowly before swallowing. 

“I’m not doing anything.” You hummed, your hands working at his belt, but he caught your wrists, shaking his head.

“Baby not here.” But his body betrayed him, hips bucking up slightly, pressing his thigh firmer against your aching pussy, The officers–”

“Just one Jay.” You released a soft whine, rocking faster, the seam of his pants rubbing your clit through the thin fabric, “Please?” Your breasts brushed his chest with each movement, nipples hardening under your blouse.

Jay's breath came in short bursts, his face flushing as the aphrodisiac surged through him. His cock throbbed visibly, begging for attention, but you ignored it, focusing on your own pleasure. You rode his thigh relentlessly, the pressure building, your juices soaking through your panties onto his uniform.

“Shit.” He hissed, one hand sliding under your skirt to cup your ass, urging you on. “You’re gonna make me lose my damn mind.” His other hand fumbled with his shirt, to unbutton it, but he stopped himself, glancing at the door.

“Let me make you feel good, sheriff.” You purred, leaning in to nip at his jaw. Your hips circled, grinding your swollen clit against him, chasing the edge but not quite tipping over. He was rock hard now, the aphrodisiac turning his arousal into something primal, his eyes glazed with need.

Just as you felt the first sparks of your orgasm flickering, a sharp knock echoed through the office. Both of you froze, your heart pounding.

“Sheriff? You in there?” A voice called from the other side—his fellow officer, sounding urgent.

“Fuck.” Jay cursed underneath his breath He lifted you off his lap in one swift motion, his strength making it effortless despite the haze of lust. “Under the desk. Now.”

You didn't argue, sliding off and dropping to your knees, crawling under the large wooden desk, his rough voice only increasing your arousal.

 It was cramped, the space just big enough for you to tuck in, your face level with his crotch. The door creaked open as Jay adjusted himself, trying to hide the massive bulge.

“Come in.” Jay said, his voice strained but steady. He scooted his chair forward, blocking you from view, his boots framing your hiding spot.

You heard someone step inside, the door clicking shut behind him. “Sorry to bother you, boss. Got an update on that theft case from last night. Looks like it was kids, but we found some prints that don't match.”

Jay cleared his throat, his hand dropping under the desk to grip the armrest near you. “Tell me more.” But his focus shattered the moment your fingers tugged at his belt again. He shot you a warning glance downward, but you ignored it, unbuckling him quietly.

The zipper rasped softly as you pulled it down, fishing his cock out through the opening, thick and veined, the head flushed dark red and leaking pre-cum. The aphrodisiac had him impossibly hard, pulsing in your hand, hot as a brand. You wrapped your fingers around the base, stroking once, and Jay's thigh tensed beside you.

The officer droned on, oblivious. “We dusted the safe—got a thumbprint. Running it through the system now, but I think it's that punk from the diner. You know, the one with the tattoos?'

“Mm-hmm.” Jay managed, his voice tight. Why was your mouth so fucking hot?”

You leaned in, tongue flicking out to lap at the slit, tasting the salty bead of pre-cum. His cock jerked, and he shifted in his chair, one hand coming down to thread through your hair, not pushing but holding on for dear life.

You took him into your mouth slowly, lips stretching around his girth, tongue pressing flat against the underside as you slid down. Inch by delicious inch, you swallowed him, the musky scent of his arousal filling your senses. He was so thick, filling your mouth completely, the vein along the side throbbing against your tongue.

Jay's free hand gripped the edge of the desk above, knuckles white. “What….what else? Any witnesses?” His words came out clipped, breath hitching as you hollowed your cheeks and sucked particularly hard.

The officer paced a bit, papers rustling. “Some lady saw a truck leaving around midnight—a blue pickup, rusted fender. Matches that punk. We should bring him in for questioning.” 

You bobbed your head, taking him deeper, your throat relaxing to accommodate his length. Saliva coated him, dripping down to your hand as you pumped what you couldn't fit. 

The wet sounds were obscene, but muffled under the desk, drowned out by the officer’s voice. Jay's hips twitched involuntarily, fucking shallowly into your mouth, and you hummed around him, the vibration making him stifle a groan.

“Yeah, sound solid." Jay replied, his voice gravelly. “Pull him in first thing tomorrow.”

His fingers tightened in your hair, guiding you subtly, urging you faster. All his senses zeroed in on you—the slick heat of your mouth enveloping him, your tongue swirling around the head each time you pulled back, teasing the sensitive frenulum.

You could feel how close he was already, the aphrodisiac amplifying everything, his balls drawing tight against your chin as you deepthroated him. Your own pussy throbbed, neglected but aching from the earlier thigh-riding, juices trickling down your thighs. 

You slipped a hand between your legs, rubbing your clit through your soaked panties, but focused on him, sucking harder, lips sealed tight.

The officer chuckled. “You okay, boss? Sound a bit off. Late night?”

Jay's laugh was forced and strained. “Just……paperwork. Keep going—what about the evidence?”

As the officer launched into details about logging the prints and securing the scene, you ramped up your pace, head moving furiously now, mouth a wet, tight vice around his beautiful cock. 

You gagged softly once, twice, but pushed through, tears pricking your eyes from the effort. His pre-cum leaked steadily, coating your tongue, and you swallowed around him, milking him.

Jay's boot nudged your knee, a silent plea—stop. Or don't stop?

But his hand in your hair pulled you closer; every nerve in his body screamed from your mouth: the suction pulling at his shaft, your teeth grazing lightly, the way your throat constricted around the head. The office faded; the officer’s words blurred into white noise. All that existed was the hot, slick gliiide of your lips, the obscene slurp you made when you twisted your head.

“We need to cross-reference with the database from the last break-in.” The officer continued, leaning against the desk. “Might be connected. You think?”

“Absolutely.” Jay grunted, his abs clenching under his shirt. 

You felt his cock swell, the telltale pulse starting at the base. You sucked harder, one hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently, feeling them tighten further.

The officer paused. “You sure you're alright?”

“Fine.” Jay bit out, his voice breaking on the edge. “Just... hot in here. Tell me about the truck—any plates?”

You knew he was seconds away. Your mouth worked relentlessly, tongue lashing the underside, saliva dripping onto the floor between his boots. His thighs quivered, the muscles jumping under your touch.

“No plates visible, but we'll check traffic cams.” He said, wrapping up. “You want me to handle the warrant?”

Jay's hand fisted in your hair, hips jerking forward as he came, hot ropes of cum flooding your mouth. You swallowed greedily, not spilling a drop, your throat working around him as he pulsed, groan muffled into a cough. “Yeah—do that. Good work.”

The officer straightened. “Thanks, boss. Get some rest—you look beat.” The door opened and closed, footsteps fading.

Jay slumped in his chair, cock still twitching in your mouth as you licked him clean, savoring the last spurts. He pulled you up gently, zipping himself with shaking hands, eyes wild with post-orgasm haze and lingering aphrodisiac fire.

“You little minx.” He panted, hauling you onto his lap again. His cock, still half-hard, pressed against your thigh. “What was in that cupcake?”

“That’s a secret I’m afraid.” You grinned, kissing him deeply, letting him taste himself on your tongue, “Round two sheriff?”

Jay’s hands roamed under your skirt, finding your drenched panties. He rocked you against his thigh again, the teasing reversed now, his fingers circling your clit as his payback began, the aphrodisiac still burning in his veins.

“I hope you don’t have anywhere to be today, darling.” 

______________________

“You two are actually disgusting.” You sister scrunched her nose adorably as she took another swig of her beer

She was sprawled comfortably at the dining table, boots hooked around one of the chair legs, lazily tipping the bottle to her lips while she watched the two of you in the open kitchen like it was her evening entertainment.

Jay didn’t even try to look ashamed. You were standing between him and the counter, supposedly cutting slices of pecan pie. Supposedly.

In reality, his hand had found your waist about three minutes ago and hadn’t left, drawing shapes on your clothed skin and subtly kissing your neck, your back pressed to his chest.

“We’re married,” You pointed out sweetly.

“That doesn’t mean I need to witness it,” She replied flatly. 

“What do you think sweetheart?” Jay leaned down slightly, his voice dropping just enough for you to feel it more than hear it. “Should we kick her out?”

You elbowed him lightly. “You invited her.”

He grinned. “Not to sit in my lap.”

“I can hear you.” Your sister gagged from the table.

“Good.” You turned, pie server in hand.

The kitchen smelled warm and sweet, sugar and toasted pecans filling the air. The last light of evening filtered in through the window, casting everything in a golden glow. Jay stood close behind you, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly mussed from the heat. He looked relaxed in a way he only did at home, his thumb tracing an absent pattern at your hip. You tried very hard not to lean back into him.

“Am I getting food anytime soon?” Your sister asked, “Or are you two going to keep being disgusting.”

Jay finally released you long enough for you to carry the pie to the table. He followed with three plates, entirely unbothered by her dramatics.

“If we’re disgusting,” He said mildly as he set the plates down, “you’re free to leave, sweetheart.”

“I was here first, Park.” She pointed her bottle at him, although accepting the plate gratefully, eyes already wide at the sight of your pie.

“You live across the street, sweetheart.” You reminded her.

“And yet somehow I’m still the third wheel in my own sister’s house.”

You sat down beside Jay, knees brushing his under the table. He casually draped his arm along the back of your chair like it belonged there…..which it did.

You slid a generous slice of pie onto your sister’s plate. “Eat up. It’ll distract you from your loneliness.”

“I'm sorry what.” She narrowed her eyes, “I am not lonely.”

“Oh?” You said lightly. “So you weren't staring at those cowboys riding past the bar yesterday with your mouth wide open?” Jay coughed into his fist, very badly disguising a laugh.

“I was not.” Your sister’s mouth formed into a pout, the familiar tactics she employed to get out of being scolded by you and Jay.

Jay leaned back in his chair, looking between the two of you like he was watching a particularly entertaining courtroom argument. “Which cowboys?” He asked casually.

“Nobody!” Your sister defended herself, pointing a fork at you, “Your wife is insane, don’t listen to her.”

“Hey now.” You laughed, leaning your face on your palm, “I’m just saying.” 

“Hopefully it's not that bastard Sunghoon. Almost caught him today but he slipped away.” Jay sighed heavily and took a bite, “Last time he was in town I had to break up two fights and confiscate a stolen saddle.”

You grinned at your sister—she was never that great at keeping secrets and boy was this a big one. “Hear that? The sheriff disapproves.”

“I don’t disapprove,” Jay corrected calmly. “I just prefer when citizens don’t start saloon brawls every other week.”

“He did not start that fight,” Your sister snapped. Jay gave her a look, as if to ask how she knew and she quickly cleared her throat, “I was out that day and I saw what happened.”

“You sound very defensive for someone who isn’t staring.” You chuckled, titling your head at her. 

She groaned. “You two are insufferable.”

“We’re just saying he’s trouble, sweetheart.” Jay smirked.

“You’re trouble,” She shot back.

“That’s different.” You and Jay said at the same time.

She blinked at the synchronized response and then shook her head in disbelief. “This is exactly what I mean. You’re like….a unit. It’s disturbing.” She crossed her arms and huffed, “And quit acting like I’m gonna run off with someone.”

“You wouldn't survive five miles into the desert.” You and Jay snorted, as he squeezed your shoulder lightly, “You’ll find someone soon enough sweetie.” You cooed at her, “Someone to soothe you and all that lovey stuff.”

“I don’t need soothing.”

“You need supervision.” Jay muttered.

“Honestly,” She said, taking a dramatic swig of her beer, “maybe you two should just have kids already.”

You loved your younger sister of course. But you had to admit she had a talent for saying stuff that could shut people up.

“What?” You blinked, feeling heat rise to your neck.

“So you’ll stop hovering over me like I’m fifteen.” She scoffed, glancing over at Jay who had his fork paused halfway to his mouth, “You guys baby me too much.” She continued, gesturing wildly. “You lecture me about my life and you monitor my bar. It’s exhausting.”

“We do not monitor your bar,” You protested.

Jay cleared his throat. “I occasionally ensure it remains… orderly.”

“Exactly!” She threw her hands up with a crude laugh. “If you had children, you’d be too busy to interfere in my life.” There was a brief silence.

You laughed first. “Oh yes, because raising children is famously relaxing.”

She pointed at you. “You’d be great at it.” The words were casual—offhand, something that one said every now and then. 

But the way his blood rushed to his dick made Jay want to go outside and kick a tree. 

There was a subtle shift in his posture; his knee pressed a fraction closer against yours under the table, his heartbeat, steady and calm just seconds ago—seemed to pick up when you glanced at him.

“You think we’d make good parents?” You asked lightly, though your pulse had quickened.

Your sister shrugged. “Obviously. You already act like it with me.” She stole another bite of pie, “You two would have the most well-behaved little outlaws,” She added.

“Outlaws?” Jay laughed, trying to sound stable, and like he wasn't thinking about every position he could put his child into you in.

“With her stubbornness and your personality?” She said, “Terrifying.”

You laughed, but your eyes were still on him. His gaze had softened in a way you hadn’t seen before. Jay’s hand slid down from the back of your chair to rest at your waist under the table. He didn’t say anything, as you leaned subtly into your husband’s side, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest— feeling the way his hand lingered at your waist just a second longer than usual.

It would be a long night indeed.

______________

It was all bruising kisses and harsh words as soon as your sister stepped out the door. Jay didn't even wait till she had crossed the street, to grab at your waist and lift you up, carrying you to the bedroom like one carried diamonds and other precious things,

The words ‘you’d make good parents’ had ignited something primal within him, and now with your sister gone, and the house left all to you two, he was going to unleash it.

Jay’s mouth crashed against yours in the hallway, teeth nipping at your lower lip hard enough to draw a gasp, his hands rough on your hips as he hoisted you up. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, skirt bunching up your thighs, and you felt the hard ridge of his erection pressing against your core through his jeans. 

“You heard what she said, darling.” He moaned against your mouth, voice thick with need, “We’d make such good parents.”

You clung to his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, heart racing as he carried you down the hall. His strides were purposeful, possessive, each step jostling you against him, the friction making your panties dampen. 

“Jay.” You breathed but he silenced you with another bruising kiss, tongue thrusting deep, claiming every inch of your mouth like he owned it.

Your husband kicked the bedroom door open, the wood banging against the wall, and dumped you onto the bed with a controlled roughness that sent a thrill through you. You bounced once, skirt riding up to expose your thighs, and he was on you in an instant, looming over your body, his broad frame casting a shadow. His eyes raked over you, dark and hungry, hands already yanking at the hem of your blouse. 

“Clothes off.” His voice was low and authoritative, “Let me see that pretty body.”

Your fingers trembled with anticipation as you obeyed, peeling off your blouse, unhooking your bra to let your breasts spill free. His gaze zeroed in on them, nipples hardening under the cool air and his stare. 

You shimmied out of your skirt next, leaving you in just your panties, the fabric clinging to your arousal. Jay shed his shirt, revealing the taut muscles of his chest and abs, leading down to where his jeans strained obscenely.

He crawled onto the bed, caging you in with his arms, and started kissing you all over—not the harsh clashes from before, but slower, gentler presses of his lips that spoke of his reverence mixed with raw desire. He began at your neck, sucking lightly on the pulse point, teeth grazing just enough to mark without breaking skin.

“Need to worship this body.” He murmured, lips trailing down to your collarbone, nipping softly, “Before I pump you so fucking full with our child.”

Heat flooded your cheeks and between your legs at his words, the talk sending a fresh gush of wetness to your pussy. You arched into him as his mouth found your breast, tongue circling the nipple before he latched on, sucking hard enough to make you whimper. 

“Ahh—Jay please…” His hand cupped the other, thumb rolling the peak, pinching just shy of pain. You gasped, fingers threading through his hair, holding him there.

He chuckled darkly against your skin, switching sides, lavishing the same attention while his free hand slid down your stomach, fingers splaying possessively over your lower abdomen.

“Please what, my dearest? Please fuck a baby into you?” His kisses continued lower, peppering your ribs, your navel, until he hooked his fingers in your panties and tugged them down your legs, exposing your slick folds, “Cause that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.” He settled between your thighs, shoulders nudging them wider, and pressed a soft kiss to your inner thigh, then another higher, closer to where you ached.

He stripped off his jeans and boxers in one go, veins bulging along his thick cock, the head already weeping pre-cum. He was so damn big, and it was intimidating even after all this time, and your pussy clenched at the sight, knowing how it would stretch you.

Jay stroked himself once, twice, eyes locked on yours as he positioned the tip at your entrance.

“Look at me darling.” His tone was sharp, even as his eyes were soft. “You ready for me?” 

 With that, he pushed in, the broad head breaching you slowly, inch by sublime inch, your walls fluttering around the invasion. You cried out, the burn of his size making your eyes water, hands fisting the sheets as he bottomed out, balls pressed against your ass.

“So tight—ahh fuck.” He groaned, holding still for a moment, forehead resting against yours, “Good little pussy’s made for me yeah?”

 He started moving then, shallow thrusts that let you adjust, but soon deepened, hips snapping forward with controlled power. Each plunge hit deep, the angle brushing your g-spot, sending sparks up your spine. You wrapped your legs around him, heels digging into his back, urging him faster.

“Good girl, goood girl.” He panted, one hand bracing beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to spread you wider. “Feel how deep I am? Right where I need to be to breed you good, pretty girl.” 

"Please, Jay—hah—please..." You begged, voice breathy and desperate as he pounded into you. "Need you to fill me up—ahh!”

Your words only seemed to spur him on further, his hips snapping forward with bruising force as he drove himself into you again and again. The hand on your thigh tightened, fingers digging into your soft flesh hard enough to leave marks.

 His pace quickened, cock pistoning in and out, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room alongside your moans. Jay leaned down to capture your lips in a messy kiss, tongue mirroring his thrusts, while his hand slipped between you to rub your clit in firm circles.

“Close close, I’m close!” You whimpered, nails raking down his back, as pleasure coiled in your lower belly.

“Cum for me.” Jay’s voice was rough, “God she’s squeezin’ me dry, darling.” 

His fingers pressed harder on your clit, hips grinding deep on every thrust, and you shattered, orgasm hitting you like a truck. Your pussy convulsed around him, walls rippling, pulling him in as you cried out his name, body arching off the bed.

He didn't stop, fucking you through it, prolonging the bliss until you were oversensitive, twitching beneath him.

“Good girl.” He praised, slowing down just enough to let you catch your breath. But if you knew anything about your husband, he wasn't the kind to leave you alone after just one swig of ambrosia. 

With a grunt, he pulled out, your pussy clenching emptily at the loss, but he was quick to manhandle you—throwing your legs over his shoulders, folding you in half until your knees brushed your chest. The mating press pinned you open, vulnerable, his cock nudging your entrance again.

“Look at you.” He said, eyes blazing as he sank back in, the new angle letting him go impossibly deeper, the head kissing your cervix. You gasped, the fullness bordering on too much, but the stretch ignited fresh arousal. “My beautiful wife.” He thrust in earnest now, powerful slams that rocked the bed.

You were trapped, unable to do more than take it, hands clutching his arms as he dominated you completely. “Jay—fuck, it's too much.” You sobbed, but your body betrayed you, hips tilting to meet him, chasing the building pressure.

“You can take it, my dearest.” He leaned down to peck at your forehead, “I know you can.”

His hand found your clit again, rubbing relentlessly, while the other braced your thigh, keeping you locked in place. The position made every thrust target your deepest spots, the friction on your g-spot unrelenting. Sweat slicked his skin, dripping onto your breasts as he pounded into you, grunts mixing with your cries.

“Tell me you want it.” He huffed, biting down a moan as he felt you squeeze around him, “Tell me you want me to cum inside.” He leaned down again to nip at your earlobe making you moan loud enough for the whole town to hear.

“N-Need it.” You whined, words tumbling out in a haze of ecstasy, “Need it so bad Jay—need you to fill me—ahh god—fill me up.”

His rhythm faltered at your plea, thrusts turning erratic, harder. “Fuck, that's my girl. Gonna pump you so full, you'll feel me leaking out for days, baby.” 

Your second orgasm built faster this time, the overstimulation from the first amplifying everything, your pussy fluttering wildly around him.

“Cum with me.” He ordered, fingers pinching your clit. “Now.”

 The command tipped you over, ecstasy ripping through you as you clenched down, screaming his name. Jay followed instantly, burying himself to the hilt, cock pulsing as he unleashed thick ropes of cum deep inside. 

“Take it all.” His body shuddered with the force of his release, “Take every fucking drop.” He held you there, grinding against your cervix, ensuring every spurt coated your walls, breeding you thoroughly. 

He stayed locked inside as you both came down, breaths mingling, his weight a comforting press. Slowly, he unfolded you, legs lowering gently, but he didn't pull out yet, keeping his softening cock plugging you. 

“Stay like that.” He murmured, voice softening just a tad. 

The harshness melted away entirely just as fast as it had settled earlier in the evening. Jay kissed you sweetly, lips brushing yours in feather-light touches, moving to your forehead, your cheeks, your eyelids. 

“Love you so much.” He whispered between kisses, hand stroking your hair, "Didn't hurt you did I?”

“You’re asking me that after all that.” You smiled, sated and cherished, pulling him closer as the warmth wrapped around you both, “I loved it, baby.” 

It was very rare for the town to see their cold-hearted sheriff ever soften, or even smile—he was as constant as the northern star in their opinion.

How lucky you were to see his rueful grin, as he pressed his soft lips all over you. He was your husband after all.

Only yours, for now and for as long as the cicadas kept chirping their song. 

fin. 

Taglist: @raven-unkind @bkatarina @shawnyle

He sat by the window nook now, completely drenched, hoodie clinging to his skin while droplets of rainwater dampened the built-in seat beneath him. Dark strands of hair dripped onto his forehead as the storm battered against the glass just beside him. The faint smell of rain followed him inside, familiar enough that you’d long since started associating it with him.

It wasn’t even hard for him to get in anymore.

Your room sat at the very front of the house, the small roof over the entryway sticking out just enough for him to pull himself up if he was careful. Four years together had apparently given him enough experience to do it almost effortlessly.

Well — mostly effortlessly.

“You act like I almost died getting here,” he muttered, lips pressed into a pout while you aggressively rubbed the towel over his head.

“You slipped last time.”

“I caught myself.”

“You almost took the gutter down with you.”

“But I didn’t.”

“You literally scared the shit out of me, Hee.”

Heeseung only grinned at that, soft and annoyingly pleased with himself, like your concern was something precious he wanted to keep.

You sighed dramatically, though your hands gentled almost immediately as you continued drying his hair.

Four years.

Sometimes it still startled you.

You’d started “dating” at sixteen in the careless, unserious way high schoolers often did — passing notes during class, sharing wired earphones during lunch, sneaking around after school with no real understanding of what commitment actually meant. Half the time, the two of you had only dated because your friends insisted you already acted like a couple anyway.

Back then, everything with him had felt light.

Fun.

He’d walk you home carrying your backpack even when you told him not to. You’d spend entire phone calls arguing about songs neither of you actually hated. He’d steal fries off your tray at lunch and swear your food somehow tasted better than his.

You’d broken up once for three days during junior year because he forgot your monthsary.

Then got back together because both of you were miserable about it.

Stupid teenage things.

But somewhere between then and now, things had shifted quietly into something deeper.

It happened slowly enough that neither of you noticed at first.

The late-night calls became late-night conversations about the future. The casual “I miss you” texts turned into him showing up outside your house after bad days because he couldn’t stand knowing you were upset alone. You started becoming part of each other’s routines without trying.

Without asking.

Now he climbed through your bedroom window in thunderstorms just because he wanted to see you for an hour before going home.

The worst part was that you always let him in.

“You’re staring,” he said suddenly.

You blinked, realizing your hands had stopped moving.

“Yeah, staring at this insane man in front of me.”

“That’s not what that look was.”

“Yes, it was.”

He laughed softly under his breath, reaching up to wrap his fingers loosely around your wrist before pulling your hand away from the towel entirely.

“I wanted to see you, pretty,” he murmured.

The teasing tone he usually carried was gone now, replaced by something quieter. More sincere.

Outside, thunder rolled somewhere far off.

“You always tell me to chase after the things I want, right?” he continued, eyes fixed on yours. “So I came here.”

Your expression softened immediately despite yourself.

God.

Four years later, and he still knew exactly how to get away with things.

You dropped the towel onto the floor beside him before stepping closer, your hands moving to cup his rain-cold cheeks. His skin was freezing beneath your palms, but he leaned into your touch instantly anyway, eyes fluttering for half a second like he’d been waiting for it.

“You’re fucking ridiculous,” you whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

Still, you leaned forward anyway, pressing a lingering kiss against his forehead.

His shoulders relaxed beneath your hands almost immediately.

Then, quieter this time, with the corners of your mouth lifting into a smile, “Whatever you say, loser.”

It was no surprise to anyone that your parents were probably the strictest people alive.

Even random strangers you talked to in online chatrooms knew about it.

You were legally an adult already, yet somehow still lived under rules stricter than most middle schoolers. But technically, it made sense — you still lived under their roof while attending college. You’d had plenty of opportunities to move out, plenty of reasons to, too, but staying home meant attending your dream university without constantly worrying about tuition, rent, groceries, or whether you’d survive off instant noodles for the rest of the semester.

So you stayed.

In exchange, your freedom was practically nonexistent.

Your parents were the kind of people who believed every horrifying thing printed in newspapers or aired on television. One kidnapping case three cities away suddenly meant you weren’t allowed outside past seven. A segment about drunk driving meant lectures during dinner for an entire week. Every terrible thing they heard only made them tighter, stricter, more protective.

Most parents loosened their grip as their children grew older.

Yours only held on harder.

They had rules for everything. Honestly, the list was probably longer than the Code of Hammurabi itself.

No smoking. No drinking. No parties. No clubbing. Curfew before sunset unless it involved academics. Finish your chores before touching anything remotely enjoyable. Most importantly — absolutely no boyfriends.

Unfortunately for them, strict parents rarely created obedient children.

They created sneaky ones.

And you were living proof of that.

Drinking?

You started around a year ago.

Your first time happened with your boy best friend, Hoshi, during what your parents believed was an innocent afternoon walk. Somehow, that “walk” turned into the two of you sitting outside in broad daylight with cheap alcohol burning down your throat while you tried not to cough your lungs out in front of him.

The taste was awful.

But the feeling afterward wasn’t.

For the first time in a while, your mind felt quiet. Warm. Easy. Like every frustrating thing weighing on your shoulders had blurred around the edges for a couple of hours.

You still remembered desperately forcing yourself to eat afterward so your breath wouldn’t smell suspicious when you got home. Sitting around for nearly an hour pretending to scroll through your phone while trying to sober up enough to look normal in front of your parents.

Smoking?

That happened a few months ago.

Ryujin handed you a cigarette outside a convenience store while the two of you were buying materials for a class project. You only meant to try one drag out of curiosity.

You nearly choked to death immediately after.

Ryujin laughed so hard she had to hold onto the side of the building.

Then there was the biggest rule of all.

No boyfriends.

Which was ironic, considering you’d already had one since sophomore year of high school.

Four years.

Four entire years of sneaking around your parents behind carefully constructed lies and perfectly rehearsed excuses.

Late-night phone calls whispered beneath your blanket. “Group studies” that were actually dates. Deleted messages. Fake stories. Secret kisses stolen before you went back home pretending nothing happened.

It was exhausting sometimes.

Stressful, absolutely.

But thrilling, too.

Because despite the rules, the lying, the double life — you loved it so, so much.

You loved the freedom hidden inside rebellion.

And maybe, just maybe, you loved him enough to risk getting caught.

Heeseung was sitting in your desk chair now, lazily scrolling through your open tabs of Tumblr and Facebook like he owned the place.

Every few seconds, another ridiculous post from your university friends flashed across the screen.

Photos taken inside crowded clubs with neon lights washing over flushed faces. Videos from late-night drives with music blasting so loudly the audio distorted. Someone posting about a spontaneous sleepover at some questionable motel in the middle of nowhere. Another group catching flights out of the country just because they could.

Everyone always seemed to be doing something.

Living.

Meanwhile, you were stuck sneaking your own boyfriend through your bedroom window like a criminal.

Heeseung, completely unbothered by the injustice of your life, leaned back comfortably in the chair while wearing his old basketball jersey from senior year — the one he’d given you after graduation along with a pile of other sentimental things he claimed “smelled too much like high school.”

The loose jersey exposed his arms entirely, toned biceps flexing every time he scrolled or clicked something on your computer mouse.

It was distracting.

Very distracting.

A pair of gray joggers hung low on his hips too — another thing technically hidden inside your room. He’d accidentally slept over around three months ago after both of you knocked out while studying, and in the panic of sneaking him out before sunrise, he’d forgotten them completely.

Thankfully, your parents had never found the container shoved into the back of your closet filled with clothes you “didn’t wear anymore.”

In reality, half of it belonged to him.

You sat cross-legged on your bed nearby, flipping through the last few pages of your magazine while occasionally glancing over at him.

The black lace trim of your camisole brushed against your skin every time you moved, soft fabric hugging your body comfortably. The beige middle contrasted against the dark details perfectly, and paired with your lounge shorts, the ones your aunt gifted you two Christmases ago, you looked effortlessly pretty without even trying.

Heeseung had already looked at you at least ten times in the last five minutes alone.

Then suddenly—

“Wait,” he said.

You glanced up lazily.

“Hm?”

He pointed at your computer screen.

A newly uploaded post from Ryujin filled the monitor, a blurry group picture of your girlfriends packed together inside some club bathroom, all glittery makeup and drunk smiles.

The caption read:

y/n was actually the one who took the photo (hella real) :-) #wemissyoubaddie #funnightout #yolo

Your face dropped instantly.

“Fuck my life, this is so stupid.”

The bitterness in your voice caught Heeseung off guard enough for him to turn fully toward you.

“What’s up?”

You tossed your magazine aside with far more force than necessary before dragging a hand down your face.

“It’s just so unfair sometimes,” you muttered. “Everyone gets to go out and do normal college things while I’m locked up in this house twenty-four seven like the apocalypse is about to happen.”

Heeseung stayed quiet, listening.

“My parents act like if I leave the house past sunset I’m immediately gonna end up dead in a ditch somewhere,” you continued, frustration spilling out faster now. “Ryujin literally sleeps over at random people’s apartments. Sunoo went to Batanes, that… northernmost province in the Philippines or whatever, for literally three days without even telling his parents first. I don’t even know how the hell he got the money for that! Ugh, everyone gets to just… live normally.”

You stood up from your bed abruptly and walked toward your desk, arms crossing tightly over your chest as you stared at the stupid Facebook post still glowing on your screen.

“And meanwhile I have to lie just to breathe.”

For a moment, the room went quiet except for the rain outside.

Then you felt his hands.

Heeseung reached for your waist gently, pulling you backward until you stumbled between his legs with a surprised laugh leaving your mouth.

“Hee—”

Before you could complain, he tugged you fully down onto his lap.

Instinctively, you settled there comfortably, your arms looping loosely around his shoulders while his hands stayed warm against your waist.

“Shhh,” he murmured softly, pressing his cheek against your stomach for a second. “It’s okay.”

You sighed dramatically despite melting into him immediately.

“It’s not okay.”

“It will be.”

He tilted his head back to look at you properly then, expression calmer than yours always seemed to be.

“You’ll get to experience all that stuff someday,” he said quietly. “The parties, trips, dumb late-night drives, all of it.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“You will. I’m so sure of it.”

The certainty in his voice made your chest ache a little.

He rubbed slow circles into your waist with his thumbs.

“And when you do,” he added with a small grin, “I’ll probably be there annoying you through all of it.”

That finally pulled a reluctant smile out of you.

“You’re already annoying.”

“Mhm,” he hummed. “But you like me anyway, no?”

The chair creaks beneath you, knees pressing into the cushion on either side of his thighs. Your hands rest on his shoulders, fingers curling into the soft cotton of the basketball jersey. Heeseung’s hands settle at your waist, his fingers moving in slow, careful circles as if he’s still learning the shape of where it’s safe to hold you. 

He looks up at you, and the lamplight carves shadows along the sharp line of his jaw. His lips part, then close. 

A beat passes. 

Then another.

You feel the heat creeping up your neck, the weight of his gaze making your skin prickle. So you pout, just a little, just to break the tension, a soft downturn of your lips that's half real, half teasing.

His eyes catch it immediately. A slow grin spreads across his face, lazy and warm.

"You're cute when you get pouty," he murmurs, thumbs stroking the bare skin just above the waistband of your lounge shorts.

Your eyes narrow, but there's no bite in it. "The window is right there if you wanna leave."

He laughs, low and short, and his hands tighten on your hips. "Not a chance, gorgeous."

You roll your eyes, but the smile gives you away. Your fingers slide from his shoulders into the hair at the nape of his neck, soft strands slipping between your knuckles. He leans into the touch, eyes fluttering half-shut for a second.

"You're so warm," you say, quieter now.

"So are you." His voice dips, rougher. "I feel like I'm burning up over here."

The air between you both immediately thickens. 

His hands move — one sliding up your spine, the other settling on your thigh, thumb tracing absent circles on the inside. The fabric of his joggers is soft against your bare skin, and you can feel the heat radiating off him through the thin layers.

You lean in first.

Your lips brush his gently at first, testing. His breath hitches, and then he's kissing you back, soft and slow, his mouth molding against yours like he's got all the time in the world. One hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your face just right.

The kiss deepens gradually. His tongue traces your bottom lip, asking, and you part for him. The taste of him floods your senses, warm, faintly sweet from the soda he had earlier, utterly addictive. A small sound escapes your throat, swallowed by his mouth.

His hand slides down your back, palm pressing flat against the dip of your spine, pulling you closer. The chair shifts as he adjusts, and you feel it — the growing hardness beneath his joggers, pressing against your inner thigh.

He breaks the kiss just enough to breathe, "Fuck, you taste good."

"Shut up," you whisper, but there's no heat in it. You pull him back in.

This time, the kiss turns messier. Teeth graze your lower lip, tugging, and his groan vibrates against your mouth. Your hips shift forward instinctively, grinding down against him, and the friction sends a jolt straight through you.

Heeseung's breath stutters. His hands grip your hips, steadying you, guiding you into a slow roll that makes the chair squeak in protest beneath you both.

"Yeah," he breathes, lips trailing along your jaw, down the column of your throat. "Just like that, baby."

Your nails dig into his shoulders through the jersey. His mouth finds the hollow of your collarbone, sucking lightly, and your head falls back with a soft moan. His tongue soothes the spot, then he's kissing his way back up to your lips.

"You're shaking," he says against your mouth, half a question, half a statement.

"Mmm." You're not sure if it's from want or nerves or both. "Shut up and kiss me."

He laughs, breath warm and distracting. "Bossy."

But he does. His lips capture yours again, hungrier now, tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that makes your head spin. His hand leaves your hip to palm your breast through the lace of your camisole. The fabric is thin enough that you feel every ridge of his fingers, every press of his thumb as he finds your nipple and rolls it gently.

You gasp into his mouth. He smiles against your lips.

"Like that, baby?"

"Don't—" You cut yourself off with a shaky breath. "Don't be smug."

"Never." His thumb keeps circling, and his other hand slides down to grip your ass, pulling you harder against him. The pressure of his cock against your core is maddening through the layers of fabric.

You rock your hips again, a little more desperate this time, and the chair groans loudly beneath you. Heeseung's head falls back, eyes squeezing shut, a low groan rumbling from his chest.

"Fuck," he pants. "You're gonna make me lose my mind."

"What’s holding you back then? Let me."

Your hand slides down his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart beneath your palm. His abs tense under your touch, and he watches you through heavy-lidded eyes as you trail your fingers lower, over the waistband of his joggers, stopping just short of where he's straining against the fabric.

"Please," he whispers, voice cracking.

"Please what?"

He swallows hard. "Please keep touching me. Don't—shit, don’t stop."

You lean in, lips brushing his ear. "Don’t sweat it."

Then you kiss him again — deep, consuming, all tongue and teeth and desperate little sounds. His hips buck up against you, instinct taking over, and you grind back down, matching his rhythm. The chair rocks with you, a steady creak-creak-creak that fills the room along with your mingled breaths.

His hand slides under your camisole, palm flat against your stomach, then higher until he's cupping your bare breast. His thumb flicks across your nipple, and you moan into his mouth.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, pulling back just enough to look at you. Your lips are swollen, your hair a mess, your eyes dark and hazy. He brushes a strand behind your ear, gaze soft. "So fucking beautiful."

"Kiss me again," you demand, breathless.

He does. He kisses you until your lungs burn, until the world narrows down to the press of his body against yours, the heat of his palm on your skin, the way his hips roll up to meet yours with increasing urgency.

His mouth trails down your throat, teeth scraping over your pulse point, sucking a mark into the sensitive skin there. Your fingers tighten in his hair, holding him close.

"Baby," he gasps against your collarbone. "I need—I need more."

"I know." Your voice is ragged. "I know."

He lifts his head, eyes meeting yours, pupils blown so wide they're almost black. His lips are red and wet, his breathing uneven. He looks ruined already, and you've barely started.

His thumb traces your hip bone through the fabric of your shorts. "Can I—"

"Yes."

The word tumbles out before he even finishes. You don't need to hear the rest. You want this. You want him.

His fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, tugging gently, asking again with his eyes. You nod, and he takes a shaky breath before sliding his hand lower, palm pressing against the heat of you through your underwear.

Your breath hitches. His eyes lock on yours, watching every flicker of expression.

"Okay?" he whispers.

"Okay."

He kisses you again, softer this time, while his fingers begin to explore, tracing the outline of you through the damp fabric. Your hips twitch against his hand, chasing the pressure.

The chair creaks. Your heart pounds. His thumb circles slowly, deliberately, and you break the kiss to bury your face in his shoulder, moaning against the fabric of his jersey.

"I've got you," he murmurs into your hair. "I've got you, baby."

His middle finger drags through the slick fabric of your underwear, from your entrance up to your clit, pressing just enough to make your hips jump. You feel the heat of your own arousal soaking through the cotton, and from the way his breath catches, he feels it too.

"Fuck," he breathes, pulling back to look at you. His eyes are dark, hungry. "You're wetter than I was earlier, and I was standing in the rain without an umbrella or anything."

Your face goes scorching. The crimson climbs up your neck, floods your cheeks, burns the tips of your ears. You can't even look at him. You press your face back into his shoulder, mortified, and your hand flies down to swat his away from between your legs.

"Hey—" he starts, but you’re already guiding one of his hands where you want it, slipping it under your camisole so it rests against your skin. 

"Up here," you mumble against his jersey. "Focus on this."

He laughs, low and warm, but his fingers curl slightly as he keeps his hand under your camisole, steady against your skin. "Yeah? This is what you want?"

You nod, face still hidden.

He squeezes gently, thumbs finding your nipples, and a shaky breath escapes you. "Okay, baby. I got you. Whatever you need."

He massages you, slow and deliberate, both hands kneading your breasts while his thumbs circle your nipples until they're pebbled and aching. Your hips start moving again on their own, rolling against his joggers, seeking friction. The length of his cock presses against your core through the layers, and the feeling of it, thick and hard, straining against the soft cotton, makes your mouth go dry.

"I want you so bad," you whisper, the words spilling out before you can stop them. Your hips grind down slowly, deliberately, feeling him twitch beneath you. "You feel so, so good. So fucking big."

You bite your lip, and a soft moan spills from your throat, high and breathy.

His eyes darken. His hands tighten on your breasts, and he pulls you into another kiss, rough and demanding, all tongue and teeth and desperation. His hips buck up to meet yours, and the chair groans beneath the weight of both of you moving together.

He breaks the kiss, breathing hard. "Bed. Now."

Before you can respond, he stands, lifting you with him. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and he carries you across the room, still kissing you, mouths slotting together in between ragged breaths. He pauses at the door, reaches back without looking, and twists the lock. The click echoes in the quiet room.

Then he carries you past the window nook, and you feel him pause again. He pulls back just enough to glance at the curtain, thin, pale, letting in the faint glow of the streetlight outside. He reaches over and yanks it closed, the rings scraping along the rod until the fabric is fully drawn, sealing the two of you in.

He lays you down on the bed, and the mattress dips beneath your weight. He follows you down, hovering over you, but then he sits back on his heels, hands finding the hem of your camisole.

"Can I?"

You nod, breathless.

He pulls it up and over your head, and the cool air hits your bare skin. Your breasts are fully exposed now, and his eyes go wide, his breath stuttering out of him.

"Holy shit," he says, voice barely above a whisper. His gaze drags over you, slow and reverent. "Your breasts are so big. Tiny ass waist..." He trails a finger down your sternum, between your breasts, over your stomach. "This is what you've been hiding from me?"

Your cheeks burn, but there's a thrill in his awe that makes you feel powerful. "Maybe, we’ll never know."

He shakes his head, letting out a disbelieving laugh. "Unreal."

His hands find your shorts next, hooking into the waistband and pulling them down your legs. Your underwear goes with them, and then you're bare beneath him, completely naked, and the vulnerability of it hits you all at once.

He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "You smell so good," he murmurs against your mouth. "Everything shower?"

A surprised laugh bubbles out of you. "Yeah, actually."

He grins. "Knew it. You always smell like vanilla and something sweet. Drives me insane."

His hand slides down your body, fingers trailing over your stomach, through the coarse hair between your legs, until he reaches your slick folds. His middle finger glides through the wetness, gathering it, and you shiver at the touch.

"Look at you," he says softly, watching his own finger move. "So fucking wet for me. Is this all for me, baby?"

You can barely nod. Your breath comes in short, shallow gasps.

His finger circles your clit, featherlight, and your hips jerk. "That's it. Just relax. Let me take care of you."

He slides one finger inside you, slow, and the stretch makes your eyes flutter shut. He's barely in, just the tip, and already it feels like so much. He watches your face carefully, reading every micro-expression.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," you breathe. "Keep going."

He pushes deeper, inch by inch, until his finger is fully sheathed inside you. The feeling is strange and full and good, and you clench around him instinctively.

"There you go," he murmurs. "Feel that? That's me inside you. Just one finger. Gotta get you ready for more, yeah?"

You whimper, and he starts to move, sliding in and out at a torturously slow pace. His thumb finds your clit, pressing tight circles, and the dual sensation makes your back arch off the mattress.

"That's it. That's my good girl. Taking me so well."

A moan builds in your chest, rising, and when it spills from your lips it's too loud — a sharp, breathy cry that cuts through the quiet room.

Heeseung's hand claps over your mouth instantly, but his smile is wicked. "Shh," he whispers, leaning close, lips brushing your ear. "We don't want Mr. and Mrs. L/N to hear their lovely daughter get fucked right now, do we?"

Your eyes go wide, and the heat floods your face again.

"Don't you?" he repeats, voice dropping lower. "Want me to stop?"

You shake your head frantically against his palm.

"Good girl," he says, and removes his hand.

He slides a second finger inside you, and the stretch is sharper this time, making you gasp. He pumps them slowly, curling them up, searching. When he finds that rough patch of nerves inside you, your whole body jolts.

"There it is," he breathes. "Right there, huh?"

He presses against it with every stroke, and your hands fly to the sheets, gripping them tight. His mouth descends on your breast, lips closing around your nipple, tongue flicking across the sensitive peak. He sucks gently, then harder, and the combination of his fingers inside you and his mouth on your chest has your mind going blank.

"So pretty," he murmurs against your skin, switching to the other breast, giving it the same attention. "Look at you. Taking my fingers so well. Think you can take my cock?"

You're not sure, but you want to try. "Yes," you manage. "Yes, I want it."

He kisses his way back up to your mouth, soft and sweet, a stark contrast to what his fingers are doing between your legs. "You're doing so good, baby. Tell me if it's too much."

"More," you whisper. "Please."

He withdraws his fingers, and you feel suddenly empty. He sits up, pulling his jersey over his head in one fluid motion, and your eyes travel over his bare chest. His shoulders are broad, his stomach toned, a light sheen of sweat making his skin glow in the dim light. You reach out, fingertips tracing the line of his collarbone, down his sternum.

He catches your hand, kisses your palm. "You can touch me all you want later. Promise."

He stands just long enough to push his joggers down, then his boxers, and his cock springs free — already hard, already dripping at the tip. Your breath catches. It's bigger than you expected. Thick. The sight of it makes your stomach flip with a mix of anticipation and nerves.

He wraps his hand around himself, stroking slowly. Three times. Once. Twice. Three. His eyes never leave yours.

"Enjoying the view, pretty?"

You can't form words. You just nod.

He climbs back onto the bed, positioning himself by your head. His cock is right there, inches from your face, and you can smell the clean scent of his skin, taste the salt in the air.

"Open up," he says softly. "Let me feel that pretty mouth."

You part your lips, and he guides himself inside. The weight of him on your tongue is heavy, unfamiliar, and you take him as best you can. His hand cradles the back of your head, not pushing, just holding.

"That's it. Nice and slow. Just the tip."

He moves gently, sliding in and out of your mouth at a pace that lets you adjust. His other hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear that slips from the corner of your eye.

"Doing so good for me, baby. Taking me so deep."

You gag slightly, and he stills immediately, giving you time to breathe.

"Okay?"

You hum around him, and he groans at the vibration.

"Fuck, that's good."

He keeps going, slow and deliberate, fucking your face with a tenderness that doesn't match the filth of the act. When he pulls out, a string of saliva connects his tip to your lips.

He kisses the corner of your mouth. "So perfect."

Then he moves down, settling between your legs. His fingers find your slick entrance again, sliding inside with ease. He pumps them slowly, watching your face, and you're already so sensitive from everything that every stroke makes you gasp.

"Look at you. So ready for me. But I want to hear you ask."

"Please," you whimper.

"Please what?"

"Please put it inside. Please, Hee."

His eyes darken. "Good girl."

He reaches over to where his wallet sits on the nightstand, pulls out a foil packet, tears it open with his teeth. You watch him roll the condom down his length, his hands steady, his gaze locked on yours.

He positions himself at your entrance. The head of his cock presses against you, and you feel the heat of him, the pressure, the promise.

"Ready?"

You nod, throat tight.

"Tell me if it hurts. We'll stop. I mean it."

"I know. I want this."

He pushes in.

The first inch is a stretch unlike anything you've ever felt. Your eyes roll back, and you fumble for the pillow, pressing it over your face to muffle the sound that tears from your throat.

He pulls the pillow away, gently but firmly. "No. I want to see you. I want to watch your face when I fill you up."

His hand covers your mouth instead, palm warm against your lips, and you're grateful for it as he pushes deeper. The stretch builds, a burning pressure that makes your eyes water, and then he's fully inside you, seated to the hilt.

He stills. Gives you time.

"Fuck," he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. "You feel... you're so tight. So fucking tight around me."

Your walls flutter around him, adjusting to the intrusion. He stays perfectly still, letting you feel him, letting your body learn the shape of him.

"Okay?" he whispers.

"Okay," you manage, voice muffled by his hand.

He pulls out slowly, then pushes back in. The drag of him inside you sends sparks through your entire body. He sets a rhythm, deep, slow, deliberate, and his hand stays over your mouth, his other hand gripping your ass, kneading the flesh.

"You're taking me so well," he murmurs against your ear. "First time for both of us, baby, yeah? Still feels like I’ve known your body forever.” 

You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks, and he kisses them away.

"My good girl. My perfect fucking girl. Do you feel that? That's me inside you. I'm the only one who gets to have you like this."

His pace quickens slightly, and the sound of him moving inside you, wet and rhythmic, fills the room. He reaches up and massages your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers.

"Look at your tits bounce while I fuck you. Fucking perfect."

The pressure builds in your belly, coiling tight. He feels it too, feels your walls clench around him.

"That's it. You gonna come for me? Gonna come on my cock?"

"I—Hee, baby—"

"Come for me, gorgeous. Let me feel you."

His hand moves from your mouth to wrap around your throat, not squeezing just enough to send a thrill through you, and he fucks you faster, deeper, chasing his own release.

"I'm close," he gasps. "Fuck, I'm so close."

"Inside," you plead. "Come inside."

He groans, his hips slamming into yours, and you feel him pulse inside you, feel the condom swell as he spills into it. The feeling of him coming, the way his body shakes, the way he moans your name — it pushes you over the edge.

"I'm coming," you gasp. "Baby, I'm coming—"

He fucks you through it, his pace never slowing, and the overstimulation makes you cry out. He dips his head and sucks your nipple into his mouth, and the sensation doubles, triples, splintering through you like lightning.

Your orgasm wrings you out, clenching around him, and he keeps thrusting, slow now, riding it out with you.

When it subsides, he pulls out gently, and you feel empty again. He peels the condom off, and you watch as he strokes himself once, twice, spilling the remaining drops of his release onto your lips, your breasts.

"Open," he says softly, and you part your lips. He smears the last of it across your bottom lip, then leans down and kisses you, tasting himself on your mouth.

Then he disappears between your legs.

His mouth descends on your sensitive core, tongue flat against your folds, lapping up the mess of your release and his. You squeak at the intensity, thighs clamping around his head, but he grips your hips and holds you open.

"None of that. Let me taste you."

His tongue circles your clit, flicks across it, and your hips buck off the mattress. He eats you out like he's starving, tongue plunging inside you, then dragging back up to your clit.

"You taste so wet. Could drink you all night."

It's too much. It's not enough. Your hands find his hair, gripping, pulling, and he groans against you, the vibration sending you spiraling.

The second orgasm hits you before you're ready, sharp and sudden, and you cry out his name as you come undone on his tongue.

He laps it all up, gentle now, letting you come down. When he finally surfaces, his chin is wet, his lips are red, and he's grinning.

He crawls up beside you, pulling you into his arms. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing together.

"Hey," he murmurs. "Look at me."

You turn your head, meeting his gaze. His eyes are soft now, the heat faded, replaced with something tender.

“How are you feeling?” he asks softly, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face.

You blink up at him from where you are, he pulls the blanket over both of you carefully afterward, tucking you against his chest while warmth slowly settles beneath the covers.

“Good,” you whisper, voice slightly hoarse. “Really good.”

His expression eases immediately, thumb stroking gently across your waist.

“Any pain?”

“A little sore,” you admit quietly. “But it’s okay.”

He leans down to press a slow kiss against your forehead, lingering there for a second longer than necessary.

“You did so well for me, baby,” he murmurs. “I know this was your first time.”

Your chest tightens a little at the tenderness in his voice.

“And it was yours too,” you whisper back.

A small smile spreads across his face.

“Yep,” he says softly. “Guess we trusted each other that much.”

You feel your eyes sting unexpectedly, emotion settling warm and heavy in your chest. Just something overwhelming and soft and impossibly intimate.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you mumble.

“Always.”

The answer comes instantly.

He pulls the blanket higher around your body afterward, making sure you’re fully covered before settling back against the headboard with you tucked securely against him. One of his hands slips into your hair, fingers combing through it slowly, while the other rests warm against your hip beneath the blanket.

Outside, rain still tapped quietly against the windows.

Inside, everything felt still.

Safe.

He presses another kiss to the top of your head before mumbling softly against your hair—

“Get some rest, pretty. I’m not going anywhere.”

⭐ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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💿 ࿐ . . dirty little secret by the all-american rejects

✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !

his grip on your thigh tightens, thumb stroking dangerously close to where your dress rides up. the rest of dinner drags on in a haze of small talk and laughter, every passing minute making the ache between your legs worse. by the time you help clear the table, you’re already wet, thighs pressing together as you move.

the second the bedroom door clicks shut upstairs in the guest room, jay is on you like a man starved.

he spins you around and pins you against the wall, mouth claiming yours in a deep, filthy kiss. his tongue slides against yours as one hand fists in your hair and the other yanks your dress up to your waist.

“you heard my mom,” he growls low against your lips, voice rough and dark. “she wants grandkids. and all i could think about during dinner was bending you over and pumping this tight little pussy full of my cum until you’re carrying my baby.”

you moan into his mouth, arousal flooding through you. jay doesn’t waste time. he turns you around fast, bending you over the edge of the bed so your ass is up and your chest presses into the soft mattress. his palm cracks down hard on your right cheek without warning. the loud smack echoes in the quiet room.

“fuck— jay—”

“shhh, baby. you gotta be quiet,” he warns, but his voice drips with amusement as he spanks the left cheek even harder. “unless you want them to hear how desperate my wife is to get bred in my childhood bedroom.”

he keeps going, alternating firm spanks that make your skin burn and your pussy clench. each slap sends jolts of heat straight to your core. you push back against him, whimpering, and he chuckles darkly before sliding two thick fingers along your soaked folds.

“so fucking wet already. you like the idea that much? getting knocked up while my parents sleep down the hall?” he pushes two fingers inside you without warning, curling them deep. “my dirty little wife wants me to fill her up tonight, doesn’t she?”

“yes,” you gasp, rocking back onto his fingers. “please, jay… i need it.”

he pulls his fingers out, and you hear the sound of his belt and zipper. a second later, the thick, heavy head of his cock rubs up and down your dripping slit, teasing your clit until you’re shaking.

“beg for it properly,” he demands, landing another sharp spank on your already tender ass.

“please breed me,” you moan, voice trembling. “fill me up. knock me up, jay. i want your baby so bad.”

he groans at your words and pushes in with one long, relentless thrust, stretching you open around his thick cock. the feeling of him burying himself into you makes you both moan. he stays there for a moment, grinding deep, letting you feel every inch.

“that’s my good girl. taking every inch like you were made for it.” he starts fucking you in slow, powerful strokes, one hand fisted in your hair while the other keeps spanking you between thrusts. “gonna fuck you so deep tonight. gonna pump load after load into this perfect cunt until it's dripping. you’re gonna sleep with my cum leaking out of you.”

his pace picks up, hips snapping harder, the wet slap of skin on skin mixing with your muffled moans. he leans over you, chest pressed to your back, lips brushing your ear.

“imagine tomorrow morning at breakfast. my mom asking again and you sitting there with my baby inside you already. pussy still full of my cum from all night.” he spanks you harder, then reaches around to rub tight, fast circles on your clit. “tell me how bad you want it.”

“i want it so much,” you cry out, trying to keep your voice down. “want you to cum so deep. want you to breed me, jay. make me pregnant. please—”

he growls and fucks you faster, the bed creaking under the force. you cum hard first, clenching around his cock, your vision blurring as pleasure crashes through you. jay follows right after, burying himself as deep as possible with a low, broken moan.

“fuck— take it, baby. take every drop.” you feel him pulse inside you, thick ropes of cum flooding your pussy, so much it starts leaking out around where he’s still buried.

but he doesn’t pull out. he stays deep, grinding lazily, pushing his load further inside you.

“i'm not even close to done,” he pants, kissing the back of your neck. he finally pulls out slowly, watching his cum drip down your thighs with a satisfied groan. “on your back. now.”

you obey on shaky legs. jay spreads your thighs wide and climbs between them, sliding back inside your cum-filled pussy in one smooth thrust. he hooks your legs over his shoulders, folding you in half as he starts fucking you again, deeper in this position.

“look at me while i breed you,” he commands, eyes locked on yours. every thrust is deliberate and punishing. “you’re gonna take all my cum tonight. gonna keep this little womb stuffed until it catches.”

he spanks the side of your ass again even in this position, the sting making you clench tighter around him. his filthy words never stop — telling you how full he’s going to keep you, how pretty you’ll look pregnant with his child, how he’s going to fuck you every night until the test comes back positive.

you cum again, harder this time, and jay keeps going, chasing a second load. when he fills you up the second time, he stays buried deep, kissing you slow and possessive while his cock twitches inside you.

later, he flips you onto your stomach, pulls your hips up, and takes you from behind again. more spanking, more dirty promises whispered against your skin. he makes you ride him after that, hands gripping your ass hard as he guides you up and down, telling you to “milk his cock like the dirty wife you are.”

by the time you’re both exhausted, the sheets are messy, your ass is red and stinging, and you’ve lost count of how many times he came inside you. jay pulls you into his chest, one hand gently rubbing soothing circles over your tender skin while the other rests possessively on your lower belly.

“good girl,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “if you’re not pregnant after tonight… we’re doing this again tomorrow night. and the night after that.”

you smile against his chest, still feeling his cum slowly leaking out of you, and whisper back that you’re counting on it. the house is quiet around you, but your body is deliciously sore and full — exactly the way jay wanted.

© jongst4r, 2026

it starts at 7:12 a.m.

you wake up before him, already soaked and aching. jay is sleeping on his back, one arm thrown over his head, gray sweatpants sitting low on his hips. you crawl over him slowly, careful with your barely-there belly, and settle on his lap. your oversized sleep shirt is already pulled up, bare tits — noticeably bigger and heavier now — brushing against his chest.

you start grinding slowly, letting your wet pussy drag along the growing bulge in his pants.

jay stirs with a low groan, eyes fluttering open. “babe—”

“morning,” you whisper, voice already wrecked. you lean down and shove your tits right into his face, smothering him softly. “they’re getting so big, jongseong. feel them.”

his hands come up instantly, cupping your swollen breasts, thumbs brushing over sensitive nipples. he groans into your cleavage and latches onto one, sucking gently. your hips roll faster, desperate.

“can’t wait,” you pant. “need you inside me— please—”

he doesn’t even get his sweatpants all the way off. you just push them down enough to free his thick cock, line him up, and sink down in one smooth glide. the stretch is perfect. you both moan loud enough that you’re grateful your house is big and secluded.

“fuck— you're so wet,” jay hisses, head falling back against the pillow. his hands grip your hips, guiding you as you ride him hard and fast. “my pregnant wife woke up this needy again? gonna use me as your personal cocksleeve this morning?”

“yes,” you moan, bouncing on him shamelessly. your tits jiggle with every movement and he can’t stop staring. “your cock is mine. 24/7. i'm gonna keep you drained dry every single day.”

he sits up suddenly, wrapping his arms around you and thrusting up hard. the new angle makes you cry out. he kisses you filthy, tongues sliding, while one hand kneads your ass.

“good girl. take what you need. i’m yours.”

you cum fast and hard, clenching around him. jay follows right after, pumping you full with a deep groan. he keeps you seated on his cock afterward, rubbing your belly gently while kissing your neck.

“better?” he murmurs.

“for now,” you smile sweetly.

by the time he gets home from the studio that evening, you’ve already sent him six photos.

the first was just your tits in his favorite lace bra. the second was you in his shirt with nothing underneath, lifting it to show your tiny bump. the third was a close-up of your soaked pussy with the caption “come fill me up daddy.”

he barely makes it through the front door before you attack him.

the second the lock clicks, you’re on him — jumping into his arms, legs wrapping around his waist, mouth on his neck. jay stumbles back against the door with a surprised laugh that quickly turns into a groan.

“hi husband,” you purr, sucking a mark under his jaw. “missed your cock all day.”

“fuck, baby— let me at least take my shoes off—”

“no.” you reach down and palm him through his pants. he’s already rock hard. “bedroom. now. or the couch. or the kitchen counter. i don’t care.”

he carries you straight to the living room, lays you on the big sectional, and drops to his knees. he eats you out like a starving man — two fingers curling deep while his tongue works your clit. you cum twice before he even pulls his cock out.

when he finally fucks you, it’s deep and possessive, one hand protectively over your little bump the entire time.

“look at you,” he groans, thrusting slow and hard. “so horny for me even when you’re carrying my baby. my perfect cocksleeve.”

you claw at his back and beg for more.

the shower hijack happens two days later.

jay steps out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, hair dripping. you’re waiting on the bed in nothing but one of his button-ups, half open, tits spilling out.

the second he walks close enough you grab the towel and yank it off. his cock springs free, already half-hard just from looking at you.

“again?” he laughs, but his eyes are dark. “we did it three times this morning, baby.”

“and i need you again.” you push him onto the bed and crawl over him, dangling your heavy breasts in his face. he groans and catches one nipple in his mouth, sucking harder than usual. a tiny bead of milk leaks out and his eyes roll back.

“fuck— that’s so hot.”

you sink down on him again, riding him reverse cowgirl so he has the perfect view of your ass and your tiny pregnant belly. every bounce makes your tits slap together. jay spanks you lightly, gripping your hips, helping you move faster.

“gonna keep you like this forever,” he pants. “pregnant and horny and dripping for me every hour.”

“yes—” you moan, grinding down deep. “fill me up again, jay. want your cum leaking out of me all day.”

he does exactly that, pulling you down hard as he empties inside you with a long, broken moan.

the late-night pawing happens at 2:37 a.m. a few nights later.

you wake up aching again, pussy throbbing, nipples tight. jay is sleeping peacefully on his stomach. you slide under the covers, gently spread his legs, and start sucking him soft.

he wakes up halfway hard, groaning your name sleepily.

“baby— you’re insatiable.”

you just hum around his cock and take him deeper. when he’s fully hard you climb on top and ride him slow and lazy, using his body while he’s still half-asleep. his hands eventually find your hips, guiding you, thumbs stroking your bump.

“my good girl,” he whispers hoarsely. “using her husband whenever she needs. cum on me, princess.”

you do — twice — before he flips you gently onto your side and fucks you from behind, one arm wrapped around you protectively, hand cradling your belly as he fills you again.

by the end of the week jay is exhausted but stupidly in love.

he comes home one night to find you in the kitchen wearing nothing but an apron, tits fully out, bump proudly on display. you’re “making dinner” but mostly just waiting for him.

he doesn’t even speak. just walks over, bends you over the counter, and fucks you right there among the half-chopped vegetables.

“you win,” he groans, pounding into you. “i’m your cocksleeve now too. use me whenever, however. i’ll quit the group if i have to. just keep draining me every day.”

you laugh breathlessly and push back on him. “good. because this baby bump is only gonna get bigger — and my hormones are only getting worse.”

jay kisses your neck, hand rubbing your belly tenderly even as he rails you harder.

“good,” he whispers against your skin. “i love you like this. horny, pregnant, and completely obsessed with my cock. my perfect wife.”

you cum with his name on your lips, already thinking about waking him up with your tits in his face again tomorrow morning.

and jay — sweet, devoted, pussy-whipped jay — will happily let you. every single time.

© jongst4r, 2026

If there was one thing you wouldn’t have ever expected to do, that would have been dating and eventually getting engaged to someone who was younger than you.

The difference, if you could even call it that, was only about a year. 

It was funny, really, because ever since you were a kid, you had always imagined yourself ending up with someone older. Someone who would naturally take the lead, someone steady and mature and a little ahead of you in life. Even in high school, whenever your friends asked about your type, your answer was always the same. Older guys. Maybe someone in the same year if you really liked them, but never younger.

Then you met Jay in your university’s music club and suddenly none of that mattered anymore.

At first, it was purely superficial. You noticed him because he was ridiculously attractive. The kind of attractiveness that made people glance twice without even realizing they were doing it. Pretty in an unfair way. Sharp eyes, nice hands, effortless smile, sharp jawline, and that annoying habit of looking good no matter what he wore, whether it was an oversized hoodie during practice or a plain black polo during performances.

You remembered seeing him for the first time during club orientation, sitting lazily in the corner with a guitar resting against his thigh while someone else talked. He wasn’t even doing anything special. He just looked up for a second when somebody called his name, and you thought, oh, he’s handsome.

Then someone mentioned he was younger than you.

Immediately, your brain filed him away into the category of off-limits. Attractive, yes, but he’s younger, and younger boys weren’t your type.

Still, Jay had this way of slipping past your expectations without permission.

Maybe it was because he never acted younger around you. He carried himself with this quiet confidence that made it easy to forget the age gap entirely. Another possibility was the way he listened when you talked, genuinely listened, eyes fixed on you like he cared about every word coming out of your mouth.

If the two of you were standing side by side, most people assumed he was older.

You looked softer compared to him somehow. Friendlier. Easier to approach. Meanwhile, Jay had this composed aura about him that made him seem older than he actually was, especially when he stayed quiet. People always reacted the same way after finding out your ages.

“Wait, he’s younger than you?”

Every single time.

Every single time, Jay looked way too pleased hearing it too.

The more practices you attended together, the more your carefully built preferences started crumbling apart.

You found yourself looking for him first whenever you entered the club room. Saving the seat beside you without thinking. Waiting for his texts longer than you should have.

The worst part was realizing that despite being younger, Jay somehow made you feel more taken care of than anyone older ever had.

Which was ironic, considering you had spent most of your life being the one taking care of other people.

Being the eldest daughter in your family came with responsibilities whether you liked it or not. You grew up reminding your siblings to eat breakfast before school, checking if they brought umbrellas when it rained, nagging them to sleep earlier, helping with assignments that weren’t even yours. Half your personality had probably been built around making sure everyone around you was okay.

It was exhausting sometimes.

It also became second nature eventually.

Jay, for some reason, seemed to love that part of you.

Not because he was immature or incapable of taking care of himself. If anything, Jay was annoyingly competent on his own. He cooked better than you sometimes, carried heavier equipment during performances without complaining, remembered deadlines before anyone else did.

Still, he softened under your care in a way that made your chest ache.

He liked when you reminded him to eat after long rehearsals. Liked when you fixed his hair absentmindedly before performances. Liked when you scolded him for staying up too late working on arrangements.

Sometimes he would deliberately rest his head on your shoulder after practice and sigh dramatically just to hear you fuss over him.

“You’re tired?” you’d ask immediately.

He’d smile without opening his eyes. “A little.”

It was embarrassing how fast you folded every single time.

Your friends noticed it before you did. The way Jay gravitated toward you naturally, like he had already decided you were someone safe to lean on. The way he accepted your care without ego getting in the way.

Most men hated being fussed over too much. Their pride got bruised easily.

Jay, meanwhile, looked at you like being cared for was one of his favorite things in the world.

Maybe that was what ruined you completely.

For the first time, taking care of someone didn’t feel like responsibility. It felt wanted. Desired, even.

Every little thing you did for him mattered.

A few years passed quicker than you expected them to.

University ended, the music club slowly faded into memory, and somehow, through all of it, Jay stayed.

Now the two of you were engaged, living together in a condominium unit that finally started feeling like home instead of just a place to sleep in. His shoes stayed abandoned near the doorway no matter how many times you told him to fix them properly, his guitar picks appeared in random places around the apartment, and half of your closet had quietly become his.

Jay came from money. That much was obvious early on. Nice family, expensive upbringing, connections everywhere. People usually assumed life had been easy for him because of it.

What they didn’t see was how ridiculously hardworking he was.

Even back in university, Jay had never been lazy. He was the type to stay up until three in the morning finishing projects perfectly instead of settling for “good enough.” Now it was late meetings, endless calls, hours spent working on his laptop at the dining table until his shoulders started hurting.

Money gave him comfort, sure, but it never made him complacent.

If anything, Jay worked harder than most people you knew.

Ironically, the same man everyone found intimidating at first glance turned out to be the clingiest person alive behind closed doors.

You could literally be folding laundry on the couch only for him to walk over silently and drop his full weight onto you without warning.

“Baby,” you’d groan underneath him. “You’re heavy.”

“What? I missed my pretty baby.”

“You just saw me twenty minutes ago.”

“Does it change anything? I still missed you.”

Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.

You used to think dating someone younger meant you would always have to act more mature, more composed, more responsible.

Instead, you ended up with a fiancé who looked intimidating enough to scare strangers but secretly wanted to be babied half the time.

Not that you were complaining.

Truthfully, you had grown embarrassingly fond of the way Jay always seemed to seek you out first. The way he naturally gravitated toward you after long days, arms wrapping around your waist before he even said hello properly. The way he rested his head on your shoulder whenever he got tired, quietly waiting for you to run your fingers through his hair.

Maybe being the eldest daughter your entire life wired something into you permanently.

Maybe Jay simply fit into that space too perfectly.

Either way, somewhere between university practices, late-night ramen runs, and years spent loving each other, taking care of him became the easiest thing in the world.

The kitchen smelled insanely good already.

Butter sizzling in the pan, garlic frying until golden, Cajun seasoning coating practically every surface you touched because you kept shaking it onto things without measuring properly anymore. A massive pot of seafood sat nearby waiting to be mixed in while several corn cobs cooled on a tray beside you, covered generously in butter and spices.

“This is gonna change your life,” you announced seriously while cutting another lemon in half. “I’m not even joking when I say this is literally going to be the best meal of your life.”

Jay leaned against the kitchen counter watching you with the most entertained expression on his face.

“Our life, rather,” you corrected. “I’ve perfected everything already.”

“You say that every time you cook seafood, baby.”

“Because every time, I improve it.”

A quiet laugh left him.

Jay was an exceptionally good cook himself. Annoyingly good, actually. The type who somehow made everything look easy no matter how complicated the recipe was.

Still, he always insisted your seafood tasted better. 

Not even just seafood either. Practically everything you made.

Every meal turned into the same thing eventually. Jay praising every bite like you personally invented cooking.

At first you thought he was exaggerating to be nice. Then you realized he genuinely just loved being taken care of by you. Loved sitting at the counter while you cooked, stealing ingredients from the chopping board until you smacked his hand away. Loved hearing you ask if the food needed more seasoning even though both of you already knew he would inhale the entire thing regardless.

“You know,” you said while stirring the sauce carefully, “sometimes I think you just hype up my cooking because you want me to keep feeding you forever.”

“Obviously.”

You blinked at him. “Wow! At least lie a little.”

Jay only grinned before walking closer, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist from behind.

“I mean it though,” he murmured near your ear. “You taking care of me is probably my favorite thing ever.”

“That sounded strangely pathetic.”

“No, listen,” he continued shamelessly. “You don’t understand how attractive it is watching you cook for me looking like this.”

You frowned. “Looking like what?”

“Domestic.”

“That is the corniest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“It’s true.” His chin rested against your shoulder. “Think I’d let another person feed me corn this good?”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “You’re ridiculous.”

Jay hummed thoughtfully behind you. “Still would marry you again over this seafood boil alone though.”

“You already proposed.”

“I’d do it twice.”

Warmth spread across your face despite yourself. Moments like this always got you embarrassingly easy. Jay being clingy, affectionate, constantly attached to your side like he physically needed your attention to survive.

Then, of course, he ruined it.

“You keep saying this’ll be the best thing you’ve ever eaten in your life,” he said casually.

“It will be! Trust me, both you and I will love it.”

Jay glanced downward meaningfully before pointing toward himself.

“Not this?”

You nearly dropped the spoon straight into the pot.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, horrified. “What the hell is actually wrong with you?”

You could already feel your composure slipping in ways you absolutely refused to acknowledge, even as you tried to focus on the pot in front of you. 

“What?” he asked innocently. “Valid question, baby.”

“You act like a teenage boy around me.”

“A horny teenage boy.”

“Jay!”

His laugh filled the kitchen immediately, bright and shameless, especially after you smacked his arm with the towel beside you.

That was the problem with him sometimes.

Jay looked so composed around everyone else. Polite, mature, intimidating even. Then the second the two of you were alone, he started saying the filthiest things imaginable with a completely straight face.

“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered, turning back toward the stove.

“You’re so in love with me, it’s obvious.”

“Unfortunately.”

“You love taking care of me too.”

His arms tightened around your waist slightly after saying it, nose brushing against the side of your neck for barely a second. The gesture itself was innocent enough, but paired with his voice, paired with the way he lingered there, it sent heat rushing embarrassingly fast through your body.

“You know what your problem is?” you said quietly.

“Hm?”

“You get way too cocky when I’m nice to you.”

Jay only smiled against your skin. “So keep being nice to me.”

You stared at the simmering pot for another second before sighing dramatically and setting the spoon down onto the counter.

“That seafood better not burn,” you warned.

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Baby?”

“You’re annoying,” you informed him while turning around fully, hands sliding up the front of his shirt. “Actually so annoying.”

Jay looked entirely too pleased watching you move closer anyway.

With one last glance at the pot, you reached over and turned the heat down to low, just enough to keep it warm, not enough to keep it cooking. 

You rose onto your tiptoes.

Your fingertips found his jaw before your lips did, tracing the sharp line of it, the hard cut of bone and muscle that had made your stomach flip the very first time you saw him. Stubble grazed your skin, rough and dark, already shadowing his face even though it hadn't been more than twelve hours since he'd shaved. You followed the ridge of it from his chin up to his ear, slow and deliberate, like you were memorizing him by touch.

Jay's breath went shaky. His eyes fluttered half-closed, lips parting on a soft exhale.

"You know," you murmured, voice low, thumb brushing along his cheekbone, "maybe that seafood boil won't be the best meal I'll ever have in my life, hm?"

His pupils blew wide. That desperate, worshipful look flooded his face, the one that always made your cunt clench, the one that told you he'd follow you anywhere, do anything you asked, let you take him apart piece by piece.

"Baby," he breathed, and it came out like a prayer.

You kissed him.

Slow. Deep. 

Your lips pressed against his, soft and deliberate, and he melted into you immediately, his hands finding your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like he needed something to hold onto. His mouth opened under yours, a low moan vibrating against your tongue as you slid it along his bottom lip, tasting him. He tasted like the beer he'd been sipping while you cooked. Like warmth. Like home.

Your fingers slid into his hair, gripping the dark strands, and he whimpered, actually whimpered into your mouth, high and needy, and you swallowed the sound like it was the only thing you'd ever needed.

The stove hissed behind you. Butter crackled in the pot. You ignored all of it.

You pulled back just enough to breathe. His lips were red, slick, parted. His eyes were hazy, pupils blown, chasing yours.

"Let's take this over elsewhere, shall we?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but you were already moving, grabbing his wrist, pulling him off the stool and across the kitchen tile. He stumbled after you, all 180 centimeters of him, letting himself be dragged like he weighed nothing. Like being pulled by you was exactly where he wanted to be.

Park Jongseong, who closed deals worth millions in his sleep. Who had a reputation so sharp it preceded him through every boardroom in the city. Stumbling after you with flushed cheeks and quick breath, obedient and eager.

The stove bubbled softly as you passed it. The scent of garlic and butter hung in the air.

You reached the couch and pushed.

He went down without resistance, fell back onto the cushions, looking up at you with wide, dark eyes. His chest was already rising and falling fast. His hands lay loose at his sides, palms up. Waiting. Surrendered.

"Good boy," you said softly, climbing onto his lap.

You settled over him, thighs bracketing his hips. The weight of you pressing down made his breath stutter. His hands flew to your waist immediately, not quite grabbing, just holding, thumbs stroking the bare skin where your shirt had ridden up.

You kissed him again. Slower this time. Taking your time. Teasing his mouth open with gentle pressure, licking along his bottom lip, biting down just enough to make him gasp.

"Take off your shirt," you said against his mouth.

He scrambled to obey. The fabric was gone in seconds, tossed somewhere behind the couch without a second thought. His chest was bare beneath you, warm golden skin stretched over lean muscle, his nipples already hard from the cool air. You ran your palms down his chest, feeling his heart hammering under your touch, feeling the way his stomach tensed and jumped when your fingers grazed lower.

"So pretty," you whispered. "My handsome boy. You know that, don't you?"

He shook his head. A tiny, honest gesture. His cheeks were flushed, eyes dropping away from yours.

"You should," you said, tilting his chin back up with your fingers. "Because you are. Every inch of you. I could look at you forever."

His lips trembled. His eyes went glassy.

"Baby," he whispered, voice cracking.

You traced his collarbone with your fingertips. Then his shoulders. Then back up to his jaw, cupping his face in both hands, thumbs stroking his cheekbones.

"I love your face," you said softly. "I love your jaw. I love the way you look at me like I'm the only person in the world."

"You are," he said immediately. Desperate. Earnest. "You are, baby. You're everything. I can't—I can't think about anything else when you're in the room. I can't think about anything else ever. You're in my head all the time."

The sudden confession hung in the air between you, raw and unfiltered.

You kissed him again. Softer this time. A reward.

Then you rolled your hips.

A slow, grinding press of your cunt against the hardening length of him through both your clothes. His head fell back against the couch cushion. A moan slipped out of him, broken and raw, punched from his throat.

"Fuck—"

"Yeah?" You did it again. Slower. Dragging. Feeling him thicken beneath your heat. "Feel good, baby?"

"So good. Fuck, baby, you feel so—" His voice cracked. His hands flew to your thighs, gripping tight. "Please."

"Please what?"

"Just—don't stop. Please don't stop. Feels too good, I need—I need you so bad—"

You ground down again, watching his face twist with pleasure. His lips parted. His brows furrowed. Sweat glistened at his temple. He looked wrecked already, and you'd barely started.

"That's it," you murmured. "You're taking it so well. Such a good boy for me."

A desperate little sound escaped his throat. His hips bucked up against you involuntarily.

You slowed. Stilled.

He let out a whine, high and needy, pure desperation, his hands tightening on your hips.

"Please, please, baby, why'd you stop—"

"Because I want to taste you first."

His eyes went wide. His cock twitched visibly beneath his sweatpants, straining against the fabric.

The stove crackled in the kitchen. A soft, rhythmic sizzle. Butter and garlic are still warming.

You climbed off his lap. He reached for you immediately, fingers brushing your hip, not wanting you to go even that far.

"Stay," you said softly.

He froze. Hands dropping back to his sides. Obedient. Waiting. His chest heaved with every breath.

You knelt between his legs on the floor.

The position made him whimper, high and embarrassed and so fucking turned on. You could see it in the way his cock strained against his sweatpants, the dark spot of pre-cum already soaking through the grey fabric.

"Look at you," you said, palming him through the material. "So hard for me already. Been thinking about this all night, haven't you?"

"All day," he gasped. "All—all week. Every time you bent over something. Every time you licked seasoning off your fingers. I couldn't—I couldn't stop—"

You squeezed gently. His hips jerked.

"Please, baby, please—"

You pulled his waistband down. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, the head slick and leaking, curving up toward his stomach. You wrapped your hand around the base, feeling the heat, the weight, the way he twitched in your grip.

"God," you breathed. "You're so beautiful. Every single inch of you."

His breath stuttered. "Baby—"

You leaned down and took the head into your mouth.

Just the tip. Slow. Your tongue circled him, tasting salt and want, the slick pre-cum spreading across your lips. His whole body jerked. A low, guttural moan rolled out of him, uncontrolled, shameless, loud.

"Fff, baby— "

You sank lower. Taking more of him into your mouth. Your tongue pressed flat along the underside as you went, feeling every ridge, every vein, every twitch. He was thick, stretching your lips, filling your mouth, and you moaned around him at the feel of it, the vibration making his hips buck.

His hand flew to your hair. Not pulling. Not pushing. Holding. Fingers trembling against your scalp.

"That's it," you murmured, pulling off just enough to breathe. A string of saliva connected your lips to his cock. "You're doing so good for me, Jay. Just relax. Let me take care of you."

His eyes were glassy. His mouth hung open. "I—okay. Okay, baby. I trust you. I trust you so much."

You smiled and took him deep again.

You set a slow, deliberate rhythm. Your hand worked the base while your mouth moved over the head, alternating between deep swallows and teasing kitten licks. You watched him, watched his stomach clench, his chest heave, his lips form words he couldn't quite get out.

"Please, please, please—"

Every plea went straight to your pussy, slick and aching between your thighs.

You pulled off with a wet sound. Stroked him slowly, watching his cock glisten with your saliva.

"You're so loud," you said. "I love it. I love that everyone would know exactly who you belong to if they heard you right now."

"I belong to you," he gasped. "Only you. Just you, baby, always, you own me. I'm yours. I've been yours since the first time you looked at me."

You took him back into your mouth.

Deeper this time. Your throat relaxed, letting him slide further in. He cried out, a broken, desperate sound, and his hips bucked up before he caught himself.

"Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to—"

You hummed around him, and he moaned so loud it echoed off the kitchen tiles. The stove hissed in response, like the apartment itself was reacting to him falling apart.

You pulled off, breathless, saliva slick on your chin.

"Don't apologize," you said, voice rough. "I want you to let go. I want to feel you come down my throat. I want to taste every drop."

His eyes rolled back.

You swallowed him again. Faster now. Your hand working in rhythm, your mouth sucking, tongue pressing, and his sounds got higher, more broken, more desperate.

"Baby, I'm—I'm gonna, fuck— "

You looked up at him. Held his gaze.

And let him come undone.

His release hit your tongue, hot and thick, spilling in pulses. You swallowed around him, taking every drop, working him through it with your mouth and hand until his hips stopped bucking and his body went limp against the couch. His chest heaved. Sweat coated his skin.

You pulled off gently, licking your lips clean, savoring the taste of him.

"Good boy," you whispered. "You did so well. So good for me. I'm so proud of you."

He was panting, wrecked, his eyes half-lidded and dazed. "That was… shit, amazing, baby. Oh my god. I can't— "

"You can," you said softly, kissing his inner thigh. "You can do so much more for me, can't you? You're my good boy."

He nodded immediately. Eager. Desperate. Already half-hard again.

You stood up slowly, keeping eye contact.

"Then watch."

You pulled your shirt over your head. Let it fall to the floor. Your shorts followed, pooling at your ankles. You stepped out of them, standing before him in just your bra and panties.

His hands twitched. Reaching.

"Uh-uh, not yet," you said softly.

He waited. His chest rose and fell. His cock was already thickening again, hard and eager despite having just come.

"You're so greedy," you said, smiling. "So needy for me."

"I'm always needy for you," he breathed. "Every second. I can't help it."

You climbed back onto his lap. His cock pressed against your stomach, hot and hard, as you settled over him. You could feel the slick heat of yourself through your panties, soaking the fabric, making a mess of his thigh.

You reached down and guided him to your entrance.

Just the head. Pressing against you. Teasing through the soaked fabric of your panties.

He whimpered.

"Please, baby, please, I need—"

"I know what you need."

You pushed your panties aside and sank down slowly. Inch by inch. Feeling every ridge, every thick inch stretching you open. His mouth fell open. No sound came out.

"Fuck," you breathed. "You're so big. Always forget how full you make me. How good you feel inside me."

He gripped your hips. Not moving you. Just holding. Trembling.

"Take it," you said softly. "Take all of it. You can take it, can't you, baby?"

"Yes, yes, I can—"

"Good boy."

You lowered yourself fully. Seated. His cock buried deep inside you, filling you completely. You both stilled.

The heat. The stretch. The weight of him inside you.

You didn't move.

"I want you to feel this," you murmured, running your fingers through his damp hair. "Just feel it. Being inside me. Being mine. You feel that? How tight I am around you? How perfectly you fit?"

His hands slid up your back. Pulling you closer. His face pressed into your neck, breath hot and shaky.

"Mmgh, baby, I feel it," he whispered against your skin. "I feel everything. You're so—you're so perfect. So warm. I don't ever want to leave."

"Don’t leave then."

You stayed like that. Cockwarming him. Letting him feel every twitch, every clench of your cunt around him. The stove hissed in the kitchen. Water bubbling. Butter popping softly. The world existed somewhere outside, but here there was only this.

His hands moved to your back. Tracing your spine. Then up to your bra strap.

"Can I—" he started, voice small.

"Unclasp it."

He fumbled. His fingers slipped once, twice. You smiled, watching him struggle, watching the concentration on his face.

"Having trouble, baby?"

"Your bra is… it's tricky—"

"Try again."

He got it. The clasp gave, and the straps slid loose. You let the fabric fall away, baring your chest to him. His eyes went dark, hungry, reverent. He looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Touch me," you said softly.

His hands came up immediately. Cupping your breasts. Thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped at the contact, sensitive and aching.

"It's okay, baby," you murmured. "I'll feed you."

He leaned forward without hesitation. His mouth closed over your nipple, hot and wet, sucking gently. His tongue circled the peak, and you moaned, head falling back, fingers tangling in his hair.

"That's it. Good boy. Just like that."

His other hand kneaded your other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers. He switched sides, mouth latching onto the neglected one, and you felt it everywhere, the pull of his lips, the graze of his teeth, the way his tongue soothed each sensitive peak.

His hips twitched beneath you. A tiny, involuntary thrust.

"Hungry already?" You laughed breathlessly. "Needy already, after just stuffing all that into my mouth?"

He whined against your breast. The vibration made you gasp.

"You're so fucking greedy," you whispered, but there was no complaint in it. Only wonder. Only adoration.

You rolled your hips. The barest movement. Just enough to make him moan around your nipple.

"Tell me what you want, baby."

He pulled off just long enough to speak, chest heaving. "More. Please, baby, please—more, I need more, I need you to move—"

"Beg me."

He didn't hesitate.

"Please. Please, baby, I'll do anything, I'll be so good, I'll be so good for you, just please… I need you to fuck me—I need to feel you—I need—"

"Good boy," you murmured. "Good, sweet boy. That's all you had to say."

You lifted your hips. Slowly. Letting him feel every inch of the drag, the friction, the slick heat of your cunt gripping him.

Then you sank back down.

And you started to move.

Slow. Deep. Grinding in circles at the bottom of every thrust. He moaned with every roll of your hips, his hands gripping your ass, guiding but not controlling.

"Look at you," you breathed. "Taking me so well. My perfect boy. My good, perfect boy."

His head fell back. His throat exposed, that sharp jawline you loved, the column of his neck, the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed.

You leaned in and sucked a mark onto his throat.

He cried out. His hips bucked up, driving himself deeper.

"You like that?" you murmured against his skin.

"Yes, fuck, baby, yes—"

You sucked another mark lower. On his collarbone. Then his chest. Your hips never stopped moving — slow, deep, grinding, filling.

His hands roamed your body like he couldn't believe you were real. Over your hips. Your stomach. Up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples.

"That's it," you encouraged. "Touch me. Take what you need."

"I just need you," he gasped. "Just you. Only you. Always—oh god—"

You sped up. Just a fraction. Enough to make his breath catch.

"Please," he begged. "Please, baby, please can I—can I come?"

"Not yet."

He whimpered. Rocked his hips up to meet yours.

"Please, I've been so good—"

"Have you?" You slowed down. "Let me think about that."

"Please, please, baby, I've been so good, I took everything you gave me, I was quiet, I— "

"You weren't quiet at all," you said, smiling. "You were so loud. I loved every second of it."

He blushed furiously. "Then please—"

"Beg me again."

Another desperate plea. Higher pitched than the last, his voice cracking.

"I'm begging you, please let me come, I need it so bad, I need to come inside you, please, baby—I need to feel you—I need to come, please. "

"What do you call me?"

"Baby. My baby. My pretty girl. My... fuck—my everything. Please."

You leaned down and kissed him. Slow and deep. He melted into it, moaning against your lips.

"Be a good boy and come with me, won't you?"

His eyes flew open. "Yes. Yes, yes—"

You rode him faster. Harder. The couch creaked beneath you. His hands gripped your ass, guiding your rhythm, and you could feel your climax building, hot and tight and desperate, coiling in your belly.

"Come for me, Jay."

He shattered.

His release flooded you, hot and pulsing, his whole body shuddering beneath you. The feeling of it pushed you over the edge. You came around him, clenching, milking him through it, moaning his name like a prayer.

"Jay, fuck—that's it, good boy, my good boy—"

He kept coming, kept spilling into you, his hands gripping your hips so tight you knew there would be bruises tomorrow. You didn't care. You wanted them.

You collapsed against his chest.

His arms wrapped around you immediately. Holding you close. His heart hammered against your ear, wild and fast and alive.

For a long moment, there was only breathing. The soft hiss of the stove in the kitchen. The warmth of his skin against yours. The sticky heat between your thighs.

"That was—" His voice was wrecked. Gone. "I don't have words."

You lifted your head and kissed his jaw.

His stubbly, sharp, beautiful jaw. You traced it with your lips, pressing soft kisses along the edge of it, feeling him shiver under your touch.

"I love your jaw," you murmured against his skin. "I've always loved your jaw. Did you know that?"

He shook his head, eyes closed, a soft smile playing at his lips.

"I do. It's one of my favorite things about you. That and your hands. And your eyes. And the way you look at me like I hung the moon."

"You did," he whispered. "You hung everything."

You kissed him again. Soft. Sweet. A promise.

"Thank you," he breathed. "For—for taking care of me. For being so good to me."

"Always," you said. "You're my good boy. My perfect boy. I'll always take care of you."

His arms tightened around you.

The seafood boil sat between you both on the low table, still steaming, still heavily seasoned with Cajun spices and butter glistening under the warm kitchen light. The corn cobs looked borderline excessive in the best way possible, stacked like you had fully lost control and decided more was always better.

You had barely settled onto the couch when Jay was already beside you, closer than necessary, knees brushing yours as he pulled the tray a little nearer like he was in charge of it now.

“You should eat first,” he said, softer than usual.

You blinked at him. “Since when do you say that?”

“Since you look tired.”

That alone made you pause.

Jay had always been clingy, yes. Affectionate, yes. But this was different. Less teasing, more attentive in a way that made your chest feel warm in a quieter direction.

He peeled a piece of shrimp for you without asking, careful and slow, like it mattered, then held it out with a small expectant look.

“You’re spoiling me,” you murmured, but you leaned in anyway.

“Good,” he said simply. “Let me.”

The way he said it made it feel less like a joke and more like something he meant completely.

He shifted closer again, shoulder pressing lightly against yours, then nudged a corn cob onto your plate like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be doing this.

“You always do this for me,” he added after a moment.

“Do what?”

“Take care of me.”

You exhaled softly, watching him more than the food now. “You’re acting like I don’t enjoy it.”

His gaze flicked to yours briefly, then away like he was suddenly shy about admitting something obvious.

“I just like doing it for you too,” he said.

A small silence settled between you two, but it wasn’t awkward. Just full. Warm. Familiar in a different way than before.

Jay handed you another bite before taking one for himself, but his knee stayed pressed against yours the whole time, like he wasn’t fully satisfied unless he was close enough to feel you there.

“Eat more,” he said quietly after a while. “You barely touched yours.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Yes, my chef.”

That earned you a small laugh from him, soft, fond, and a little clingy in the way only he could manage, even while trying to take care of you for once.

⭐️ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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The night begins in a polished silence that feels heavier than conversation.

It's the kind that follows a public dinner where everything was perfectly performed but nothing felt real, and in the private elevator ride upward, you and Jay stand side by side without touching, yet hyper-aware of each other's presence in a way that makes even the smallest movement feel loaded with things neither of you are saying.

You don't look at him. 

You don't need to. 

You can feel the restrained energy radiating off him, the way he's holding himself with that infuriating composure that makes everyone else look slightly unsure of themselves. 

The elevator's soft lighting catches the sharp line of his jaw, the fitted polo shirt that hugs his broad shoulders and chest in a way that should be illegal at a formal event. 

You've spent too long pretending you don't notice these things, the way he fills a room without trying, the calm authority in his posture, how unfairly put-together he looks even now in private.

But tonight it's way, way, way worse. 

Tonight you keep catching the small things you're not supposed to care about.

The way he looked across the table when someone else made you laugh. 

The controlled silence he kept instead of reacting. 

The fact that he never asks questions he doesn't already know the answer to. 

Worse than anything else is the realization you refuse to say out loud, that you don't just see him clearly, you always have. 

Even when you were supposed to be treating him like a contract, not a weakness.

The dinner replays in your mind on a loop. 

The rival heir, some visiting businessman's son with a silver tongue and wandering eyes, had spent the entire evening making his intentions so damn clear. 

He'd leaned too close when he spoke to you, laughed too loudly at your quiet responses, let his gaze drag over you like he had every right to look. 

His hand had found your arm at one point, fingers lingering on your bare skin, and you'd felt Jay's attention sharpen from across the table.

Though he hadn't said a word, he had just watched you both, composed as marble.

It stung more than anger would have.

When the elevator doors open to the penthouse, the space is vast, expensive, and quiet in a way that should feel comforting but instead feels isolating. 

Floor-to-ceiling windows display the glittering sprawl of the city below, but neither of you pauses to admire it. 

You move through the room separately, shedding the weight of public appearances without acknowledging how tense the air between you has become.

You head toward the walk-in closet without a word, a room so large it feels like its own world, and begin removing your jewelry slowly, methodically. 

The diamond earrings first, then the bracelet, each piece placed with deliberate care on the velvet tray. 

Your fingers find the clasp of your necklace, but the angle is awkward, and you abandon it in favor of working on the pins in your hair.

It's something to do with your hands. 

Something to ground you while your thoughts stay tangled on the dinner, on the way Jay barely reacted, on everything he didn't say.

You're so lost in your own head that you don't hear him approach.

He enters without announcing himself, stopping just inside the doorway rather than fully stepping in. 

The silence stretches. 

For a moment there's only the sound of fabric shifting and the distant hum of the city filtering through glass walls.

You don't turn around.

"Jay, can you help me with the zipper?"

It comes out casually. 

Almost way too casually, like you're trying to ignore how aware you are of him standing there. 

How the temperature in the room seems to have risen ten degrees just from his proximity.

He approaches in silence. 

You feel him before you see him, the warmth of his body, the subtle shift of air as he moves closer. 

His hands are steady when they reach for the zipper at the back of your dress, but there's a pause before he touches you that feels like hesitation he doesn't allow himself to name.

Then the zipper begins to move.

He takes his time. 

Slowly, with deliberate patience that feels almost like punishment. 

The metal teeth give way one by one, exposing the smooth skin of your back inch by inch, and you can feel his gaze following the progress like a physical touch.

You exhale in frustration.

"Damn it, Jay, speed it up."

Your voice is sharper than you intended. 

Behind you, Jay goes entirely still.

"This isn't part of the agreement people think exists between us."

His voice is calm and controlled. 

But you can tell that there's something underneath it, something dark and tightly leashed.

You turn your head slightly, just enough to catch his profile in your peripheral vision.

"Neither is the way you keep acting like you're unaffected when you clearly notice everything."

That makes him pause. 

The zipper stops halfway down your back.

"Excuse me?"

You turn more fully now, and there's something dangerous in the way his dark eyes meet yours. 

You've spent too many nights biting your tongue, too many public events swallowing the words that want to spill out. 

Tonight, something in you snaps.

"You deadass just sat there all evening, watching that guy come close to me. You didn’t even bother saying a fucking word at all while he—" You cut yourself off, jaw tightening.

"While he what?" Jay's voice drops lower. "While he looked at you like you belonged to him? While he touched your arm and made you smile? While he spent the entire dinner trying to fuck you with his eyes?"

The crudeness in his tone catches you off guard. 

He never speaks like this, never lets the polished veneer slip enough to show the raw hunger underneath.

"Please, just look at your pathetic self," you say quietly, almost to yourself. "You're shaking."

He is. 

Just barely, a fine tremor in his hands that he's trying to hide.

"God, it eats me alive."

The confession comes out in a low, controlled voice that cracks at the edges.

"Watching someone else look at you tonight. Having to sit there pretending it didn't matter. Pretending I don't—" He stops himself, jaw clenching so hard you swear you can see the muscle jump.

You should step away. 

You should remind him of all the practical reasons this arrangement exists, all the boundaries you've carefully maintained. 

Instead, you hear yourself saying:

"Our arrangement was built on exactly that kind of emotional distance."

The words come out pointed, almost cruel. 

You're pushing him. 

You know damn well you're pushing him.

"Is jealousy really the first thing you've decided to break the rules over?"

Something shifts in his expression. 

The mask slips, just for a moment, and beneath it you see something raw and unguarded desperation, maybe. 

Want. 

Hunger that's been starved for too long.

"It's not just jealousy."

He steps closer. 

Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his chest, close enough that his breath ghosts across your temple.

"It's the fact that I can't tell anymore where the performance ends and what I actually feel begins."

The words hang between you. 

Your heart pounds against your ribs so hard you're certain he can hear it. 

This is the closest either of you has ever come to saying it, the thing that's been building for months in loaded glances and accidentally tender moments and nights spent lying awake thinking about the person sleeping in the next room.

Then he reaches for you.

His hand cups your cheek, gentle despite the tension radiating through every line of his body. 

His thumb traces the line of your jaw, and his eyes search your face like he's looking for permission, for rejection, for anything that might stop him from doing what he's about to do.

You don't stop him.

He leans in and kisses you.

It starts soft — almost tentative, a question more than a demand. 

Then, without warning, you make a sound against his mouth, something small and involuntary, and whatever restraint he had left shatters completely.

His other hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. 

The zipper, still halfway down, becomes irrelevant as his hands find your waist, your hips, pulling you against him with an urgency that makes your knees weak. 

You feel the hard planes of his chest, the strength in his arms as he holds you, and something hot and demanding pools low in your abdomen.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs against your lips. "Tell me this is just… tell me you don't want this, and I'll walk away. I'll never bring it up again."

You don't tell him to stop.

Because who are you to tell him to stop? 

Instead, you reach for the hem of his polo shirt, pulling it up and over his head in one smooth motion. 

The fabric falls to the floor, forgotten, and for a moment you just look at him. 

The defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, the way the low light plays across his skin, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

"You're staring."

"I'm just appreciating." Your voice is dry, but there's no hiding the way your gaze keeps dropping. "Don't pretend you don't know what you look like."

Something like a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. 

Then his hands are on you again, sliding the dress off your shoulders, letting it pool at your feet in a whisper of expensive fabric. 

You stand before him in a pair of silk shorts, a bra, and underwear, suddenly aware of how exposed you are, how hungry his eyes look as they travel over you.

"Beautiful," he breathes. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this. How long I’ve thought about when this would finally come. About—"

He doesn't finish the sentence. 

Instead, he pulls you into another kiss, this one deeper, more demanding. 

His hands find the waistband of your shorts and tug them down without hesitation, leaving you in just your undergarments. 

The cool air hits your heated skin, but you barely notice because he's looking at you like you're an oasis in the middle of a dessert. 

You can see the effect this is having on him. 

The prominent outline of his erection pressing against his tailored pants, straining against the fabric. 

The way his chest rises and falls more quickly now. 

The dark intensity in his eyes that makes you feel both powerful and completely at his mercy.

"Jay." His name comes out as a whisper. "Fuck, just… touch me already, please."

He doesn't need to be asked twice.

His hands slide up your sides, thumbs tracing the curve of your breasts through the thin fabric of your bra. 

Your head falls back as he explores, learning the map of your body with agonizing thoroughness. 

When he finally unclasps the bra and lets it fall, the sound you make is embarrassingly needy, a soft, desperate whimper that you can't hold back.

"Already making sounds for me?" His voice is rough, pleased. "And I've barely even touched you yet."

"I'm not—" You try to protest, but his hand slides lower, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear, and whatever you were going to say dissolves into a gasp.

"Oh, you're not what? Not wet? Because I can feel how soaked you are through these panties." He presses his palm against you, and your hips jerk involuntarily. "Feel that? That's all for me, because of me."

Your usual silence is crumbling. 

Every brush of his fingers, every press of his palms against your heated skin, pulls another sound from your throat, louder than the last. 

For someone who's spent the entire relationship holding your tongue, keeping your thoughts locked away, you're making an awful lot of noise now.

And he notices.

Of course he does. 

"You're so vocal tonight." His voice is ragged, thick with desire. "I've never heard you make these sounds before. The quiet, composed woman I'm engaged to, the one who barely says two words at dinner, look at you now. Whimpering for me like I’m all that matters."

"I hate you," you manage, but it comes out breathless and unconvincing.

"No, you don't." He presses a finger inside you, and your knees buckle. "You love this. You love, love, love that I can make you fall apart like this. Damn it, just admit it already, won’t you.”

"I—"

"Admit it."

"Fuck, yes." The word tears out of you, louder than you intended. "Yes, I love it. I love your hands on me so, so much. I've thought about this—about you, god—"

He groans against your neck, the sound vibrating through your whole body. "Tell me. Tell me what you've thought about."

"Your mouth." You're past embarrassment now, past holding back. "Your hands. Shit, how you'd feel inside me. How you'd sound when you lose control, things like that."

"Fuck." He pulls his hand away, and you nearly sob at the loss. "I need to taste you right now, pretty ."

He turns you around, walking you backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed. 

You fall onto the plush mattress, and he follows you down, settling his weight over you. 

For a moment he just looks at you, hair fanned across the pillows, chest heaving, eyes dark with want.

"Tell me what you want," he says. "I’ll hear you out… I need to hear you say it, use your words for me, pretty."

You reach up, palms flat against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your fingers.

"You, god, it’s you, Jay. I want you, all of you, actually. Your mouth, your fingers, your cock—I want everything."

He exhales shakily. 

Then he's kissing down your body, lips trailing fire across your collarbone, your sternum, the soft skin of your stomach. 

When he hooks his fingers into your underwear and pulls it off, you're completely bare beneath him.

"Spread your legs for me, gorgeous."

The command makes heat flood through you. 

You obey, and he settles between your thighs, breath warm against your most sensitive skin. 

Then his mouth is on you, and you genuinely forgot how to keep your mouth shut.

A loud, broken moan tears from your throat. 

Your back arches off the bed as his tongue works against you, slow, deliberate strokes that make your thighs tremble. 

He finds the spots that make you gasp, the pressure that makes your hands fist in the sheets, and he exploits every single one.

"Jay—oh god—oh fuck—"

"That's it." The vibration of his voice against you makes you jerk. "Let me hear you. I want the whole building to know who's making you feel this good."

Your usual silence shatters completely. 

Moans and gasps and desperate cries spill from your lips without permission, each one louder than the last. 

You can't control it, can't hold back, not when he's doing that with his tongue, not when his hands are gripping your thighs to hold you open for him.

"More, please, please, fuck—don't stop—"

He hums against you, and the pleasure spikes. Your hips roll against his face without your permission, chasing the sensation, and he lets you. 

Encourages it, even. 

His hands slide under your ass to tilt you closer to his mouth.

"You taste so fucking good," he growls against your flesh. "I could do this for hours, gorgeous. Eat this pretty pussy until you can't think, can't speak, can't do anything but come on my tongue."

The filthy words send a jolt through you. 

You've never heard him talk like this, never imagined the composed, controlled man you're engaged to had this side to him.

"You're close, aren't you?" He sucks on your clit, and you scream. "I can feel it. You're shaking. Come for me. Come on my face."

"Jay—Jay—I'm—"

The orgasm crashes through you without warning. 

Your whole body seizes, back bowing off the bed as pleasure whites out your vision. 

You hear yourself screaming his name, but it sounds distant, muffled by the roaring in your ears. 

He works you through it, tongue never stopping, drawing out every last aftershock until you're twitching and oversensitive.

When he finally pulls back, you're trembling and breathless. 

He rises over you again, lips glistening with your arousal, and you can see how much this has affected him, the heavy-lidded desire in his eyes, the way his body is straining toward yours.

"I want to be inside you," he growls. "Now, literally now. I can't fucking wait anymore."

He reaches for his pants, undoing them with shaking hands and shoving them down his thighs. 

His boxers follow, and then he's naked before you, and you have a moment to appreciate the body he's been hiding under all those perfectly fitted polo shirts.

He's gorgeous. 

Lean muscle and defined lines and hard, flushed cock jutting from a nest of dark hair. 

Thick. 

The tip glistening with precum.

He catches you staring and smirks. "See something you like?"

"Stop fishing for compliments and just fuck me already."

A surprised laugh escapes him, the first genuine sound you've heard from him all night. 

Then he's climbing over you, positioning himself at your entrance, and the laughter fades into something much more intense.

"Tell me if you need me to stop."

You nod. 

He pushes forward, slowly, letting your body adjust to the stretch. 

The sensation is overwhelming, the fullness, the intimacy of being connected like this after months of careful distance.

"Fuck—you're so tight, so sexy." His voice is strained. "So wet, so fucking wet. You're dripping around me."

"Move. Please. I need you to move."

He obeys. 

Slow at first, deep strokes that make you gasp with each thrust. 

His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling, eyes locked on your face like he's memorizing every reaction.

"You feel incredible." He groans, hips rolling. "Better than I could’ve ever imagined, and I imagined this a lot, baby. Every night. Fucking my fist thinking about you."

"Jay—"

"I'd think about your face when you come. The sounds you'd make. Now… shit—here you are, underneath me, taking my cock so well."

His words make you clench around him, and he hisses. 

You're being vocal again, gasps and moans and cries that fill the room, each sound spilling out without your permission.

"You like that? You like hearing how much I want you?" He thrusts deeper, hitting a spot that makes you cry out. "You like knowing that your fake fiancé has been obsessing over you? That I've been desperate to get my hands on you?"

"Yes—yes—fuck, more—harder—"

"Harder?" He obeys, snapping his hips faster. "Like this? You want me to ruin you?"

"Yes! God, yes, ruin me—please—"

His pace increases. 

You're being so loud now, louder than you've ever been during sex, louder than you thought possible. 

Each thrust punches another sound out of you, and the more noise you make, the faster he goes.

"That's it. Scream for me. Let me hear you." His voice is ragged, barely controlled. "The neighbors are going to know exactly who's making you feel this good. They're going to hear you screaming my name and know that you're mine."

"I'm yours, I'm yours—only yours—"

"Say that again, gorgeous."

"I'm yours, Jay! Fuck—yes—right there—don't stop—"

He shifts your leg higher over his hip, changing the angle, and suddenly he's hitting that spot with every thrust. 

The pleasure is overwhelming, building inside you like a wave about to break.

"You're going to come for me again, aren't you? I can feel you squeezing me. You're so, so close."

"Yes—so close—please—"

"Fuck, come—come on my cock. Let me feel you."

The orgasm tears through you, even more intense than the first. 

You scream his name, back arching, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave marks. 

He groans above you, hips stuttering as your walls clench around him, but he doesn't stop. 

He fucks you through it, maintaining the pace, drawing out your pleasure until you're trembling and overstimulated.

"One more," he growls. "Give me one more."

"I can't—too much—"

"You can, you will. For me—just for me."

He pulls out suddenly, and you whimper at the loss. 

But then he's flipping you over, pulling your hips up until you're on your hands and knees, face pressed into the pillow.

"This position." His hands smooth over your ass, squeezing. "I've thought about this. Having you like this. Face down, ass up, completely at my mercy."

He pushes back inside in one smooth thrust, and you moan into the pillow.

"No." He tangles a hand in your hair, pulling your head back. "I want to hear you, pretty. Don't muffle those lovely sounds."

He starts moving, harder now, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. 

You're loud again, cries and moans and desperate sounds that echo off the walls.

"You take me so deep like this." His grip tightens in your hair. "Feel that? Feel how deep I am? I'm hitting spots you didn't even know existed."

"Yes—yes—so deep—fuck—"

"This is what you do to me." His hips snap forward, relentless. "You drive me insane. Walking around this penthouse in those tiny ass shorts. Cooking dinner with that concentrated look on your face. Making me want you when I'm supposed to be pretending I don't."

"Jay—"

"I've jerked off to the thought of you more times than I can count. Thought about bending you over every surface in this apartment. About making you scream so loud the whole city knows you belong to me."

His words are pushing you toward another peak. 

You're so loud now, practically screaming with each thrust, and every sound you make seems to drive him faster.

"I love hearing you." His voice is strained, desperate. "I love knowing I'm the one making you lose control. The quiet, composed woman everyone else sees—she doesn't exist when I'm inside you. It's just me. Just us."

"Harder—please—I'm going to—"

"Come for me, pretty. Come on my cock again. I want to feel you fall apart."

The third orgasm hits you like a freight train. You scream, body convulsing, and he groans behind you as your walls clench around him. 

This time he doesn't hold back, his rhythm becomes erratic, hips pistoning faster, chasing his own release.

"I'm going to come," he growls. "Where do you want it? Inside? On your ass? Tell me—"

"Inside, please—fuck, Jay, I need to feel you—"

He thrusts deep one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he comes with a guttural groan. 

You feel the pulse of his release, the heat flooding your insides, and it triggers one last small orgasm that makes you whimper.

He collapses beside you, both of you breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat. 

For a long moment, there's only the sound of your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city.

Then he laughs, low and exhausted and genuine.

"I had no idea you were that loud."

You bury your face in the pillow, suddenly self-conscious. "I've never—I'm not usually—"

"I'm not complaining." He pulls you against him, pressing a kiss to your temple. "It was the hottest thing I've ever experienced, seriously. Every sound you made just made me want you more."

You're quiet for a moment, tracing patterns on his chest.

"We should do this again," you murmur.

He snorts. "Give me ten minutes and we will."

"That's not what I—" You swat at his chest. "I meant—this. Us, you know… not pretending to hate each other's asses anymore."

His expression softens. 

He tilts your chin up, making you meet his eyes.

"I don't want to pretend anymore either. I haven't wanted to for a long time."

"You could have said something."

"So could you."

Fair point.

He rolls onto his side, facing you, one hand propping up his head.

"I have a confession." His voice is lighter now, teasing. "When you said you wanted to 'do this again'—I was hoping you meant right now. I'm not done with you yet."

"Already? Most men need recovery time."

"I'm not most men." He grins, and there's something predatory in it. "And you haven't seen everything I want to do to you yet."

You raise an eyebrow. "Such as?"

"Ride me."

The command makes heat pool in your stomach again, despite your exhaustion.

"You want me on top?"

"I want to watch you. Want to see your face when you take what you need from me. Want to see how pretty you look bouncing on my dick."

"Wow, you’re so eloquent… you have a way with words."

"I have a lot of things." His hand slides down your side, gripping your hip. "And I plan to show you all of them before this night is over."

True to his word, he's hard again within minutes, helped along by your hand wrapping around him, stroking him to fullness while he groans and bit your shoulder.

"Get up here," he demands, pulling you on top of him. "Straddle me. Face me."

You position yourself over him, sinking down slowly. 

The angle is different, deeper in some ways, shallower in others, and you have control for the first time in your whole life. 

"Take what you want," he says, hands settling on your thighs. "Use me."

You start to move, experimenting with different rhythms and angles. 

His eyes never leave your face, watching every expression, every flicker of pleasure.

"That's it. Just like that." His thumbs stroke over your hip bones. "You look so fucking good like this. Taking what you need. Using me for your pleasure."

"You feel—" You break off with a moan as you find the right angle. "So good, so, so, so fucking good. You fill me up so perfectly."

"Made for me." His hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. "This pussy was made for my cock. We fit together perfectly like jigsaw puzzles.”

You're getting loud again, moans filling the room as you ride him faster. 

He groans beneath you, hips lifting to meet each of your movements.

"That's it, baby. Ride me. Take what you need." He pinches your nipples, and you cry out. "You're so sexy when you're loud. I love hearing how good I make you feel."

"Jay, I'm—"

"Uh-uh, wait for me, gorgeous. I want to come with you this time."

You slow down, trying to hold back, and he growls his approval.

"Good girl. So good for me. You listen so well."

He sits up suddenly, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest. 

The new angle presses your clit against his pelvis with every movement, and you keen at the sensation.

"I want to feel you fall apart around me while I come inside you." His voice is rough against your ear. "Can you do that for me? Can you come with me?"

"Yes—yes—please—"

"Good. Now."

He thrusts up into you hard, and you both shatter at the same time. 

You scream his name as pleasure crashes through you, feeling him pulse inside you, filling you up again. 

He groans against your neck, teeth grazing your shoulder, hands tight enough on your hips to bruise.

When it's over, you collapse against his chest, completely spent.

"Round three in five minutes," he murmurs against your hair.

You laugh—weak and exhausted but genuine. "You're going to kill me."

"What a way to go."

But he's not joking. 

True to his word, he's hard again within minutes, his stamina is inhuman, and you're beginning to wonder if you've created a monster.

What kind of shit has this guy been pulling off in the gym to achieve so much? 

"Turn around," he says, hands guiding your hips. "I want you facing the other way. I want to watch that pretty ass bounce on my cock."

You hesitate. "You want—"

"Now." His voice leaves no room for argument. "I want to see you from behind while you ride me. I want to watch my cock disappear inside you."

Heat floods through you at his words. 

You've never been particularly adventurous in bed before, mostly because you've never had a partner who made you want to be. 

But Jay is looking at you like you're a feast he's been starved for, and you find yourself turning around, positioning yourself over him with your back to his chest.

"That's it." His hands smooth over your ass, kneading the flesh. "God, look at you. So eager. So desperate for my cock."

You sink down onto him slowly, and the new angle makes you gasp. 

He fills you differently like this, deeper in some ways, the pressure concentrated against your front wall.

"Fuck—you feel even bigger like this—"

"I am bigger." He grips your hips, helping you find a rhythm. "And you're going to take all of me. Every. Single. Inch."

You start to move, lifting yourself up and sliding back down. 

The sensation is overwhelming, the way he stretches you, the way his hands feel on your ass, the knowledge that he's watching himself disappear inside you.

"That's it. Ride me. Show me how much you want it."

"I do—I want it—want you—"

"Then take it harder. Faster. Fuck yourself on my cock like you mean it."

You obey, moving faster, grinding down with each stroke. 

You're loud again, moans and gasps and desperate little cries that fill the room. 

True to form, the louder you get, the more responsive he becomes.

"Yes—yes—oh god—right there—"

"Right there?" He thrusts up to meet you, hitting that spot perfectly. "Like this? You want me to keep hitting that spot while you scream for me?"

"Yes! Please—don't stop—harder—"

"Harder?" His grip tightens on your hips, and he starts fucking up into you with purpose. "You want me to ruin this pussy? Make it so no one else will ever feel right inside you?"

You're screaming now, completely beyond controlling the sounds coming out of your mouth. 

Every thrust punches another cry from your throat, and you can hear how wet you are, the obscene sounds of your bodies meeting echoing through the room.

"Jay—Jay—I'm—oh fuck—I'm going to—"

"Not yet." He stills your hips, and you whimper. "You don't come until I say. You understand? You hold it."

"I can't—it's too much—please—"

"You can. And you will." He starts moving again, slower this time, torturously slow. "I want to feel you clench around me when I tell you to come. I want you begging for it."

"Please—please, fuck, just let me—"

"Tell me you're mine first."

"I'm yours—I'm yours—only yours—"

"Say it louder."

"I’m yours! Jay, I'm yours—please—please let me come—"

"Good girl. Now come for me. Come all over my cock."

The orgasm crashes through you like a tsunami. 

You scream, actually scream, back arching, body shaking as wave after wave of pleasure tears through you. 

He moans beneath you, and you feel him pulsing inside, filling you up again as he follows you over the edge.

You collapse forward, barely catching yourself on your hands, breathing ragged and uneven. 

He's still inside you, still half-hard, and when he shifts, you whimper from the oversensitivity.

"One more," he growls. "I know you have one more in you."

"Jay, I literally cannot—I can't feel my legs—I… what the fuck are you even made out of?"

"I'll do the work then." He maneuvers you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up so your ass is in the air. "You just lie there and take it. Let me use you."

"Use me?"

"Did I stutter?" He runs a hand down your spine, making you shiver. "I've been fantasizing about you for months. Years, maybe. And now that I have you, I'm going to take everything you'll give me."

He enters you from behind again, this time with your face pressed into the mattress, your hips propped up on a pillow. 

The position is sinful, animalistic, and you feel so deliciously full.

"This is my favorite position," he admits, voice strained. "Having you like this. Face down, ass up. Unable to do anything but take what I give you."

"Then give it to me." Your voice is muffled by the sheets. "Give me everything."

He starts moving, slow, deep strokes that make your toes curl. 

The sounds you're making are embarrassing now, whimpers and moans and desperate little cries that you can't control.

"You're so loud tonight." He groans, thrusting deeper. "I love it. I love hearing how good I make you feel. The woman who barely speaks at dinner being reduced to this. Screaming my name. Begging for my cock."

"More—please—more—"

"More?" He snaps his hips forward, and you yelp. "Like this? You want me to fuck you harder?"

"Yes! Harder—faster—please—"

He obeys. 

His pace increases, and you're being fucked into the mattress so hard the headboard is hitting the wall. 

Each thrust is punctuated by a slap of skin against skin and a desperate sound from your throat.

"This what you wanted?" He grunts. "Wanted me to use this pretty pussy? Wanted to be ruined?"

"Yes—yes—ruin me—please—"

"You're close again, aren't you? I can feel you tightening around me. You're going to come on my cock again like a good girl."

"I can't—I've already—"

"You can. You will. And you're going to scream my name when you do."

His hand snakes around to your front, fingers finding your clit, and you sob at the dual sensation. 

He's thrusting into you and rubbing circles on your most sensitive spot, and it's too much, it's everything.

"Come for me. Now."

Your final orgasm rips through you with an intensity that makes your vision go white. 

You scream his name, scream it like a prayer, like a plea, like the only word you know, and you feel him follow you over the edge with a guttural groan.

He collapses on top of you, both of you shaking, sweat-slicked and thoroughly spent. 

For a long moment, there's nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing and the pounding of your hearts.

Later, much later, you're both tangled in silk sheets, bodies exhausted and satisfied. 

You've lost count of how many times he's made you come, how many positions he's bent you into, how many filthy things he's whispered in your ear.

"You know," you say, voice hoarse from screaming, "I always thought you were the composed, controlled type."

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "I was. Until you."

"Me? I didn't do anything."

"You exist." His arm tightens around your waist. "You walk around this apartment looking like that. You cook meals in those tiny shorts. You bite your lip when you're concentrating. You exist, and it drives me insane."

You're quiet for a moment, processing this.

"I've been pretending too," you admit softly. "Pretending I didn't notice you. Pretending the arrangement didn't feel like anything."

"And now?"

"Now I don't want to pretend anymore."

He smiles against your skin, genuine and warm.

"Good, I have no intention of letting you go."

"Possessive."

"You love it."

You consider protesting, but then again, he's not wrong.

"Maybe a little."

"Good answer." He shifts, pulling you closer. "Sleep now. I have plans for you in the morning."

"More? What the fuck?"

"Many, many more."

You drift off with his arm around your waist and his breath warm against your shoulder, thinking maybe the arrangement was always going to lead here. 

Maybe there was never a version of this story where you remained indifferent to each other.

Some things are worth breaking the rules for.

Even the ones you wrote yourself.

⭐️ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

A car pulled into the driveway and your body jolted. You snatched the umbrella you’d propped by the door earlier and rushed outside.

Seungcheol moved quickly, unbuckling your son from his car seat. He barely stirred as the three of you huddled under the umbrella and hurried back toward the house.

Inside, your son shifted in Seungcheol’s arms, murmuring something with his cheek still pressed to his dad’s shoulder.

“Shit…his bag—”

“I got it. Just take him to his room,” you called over your shoulder, already heading back out.

When you returned, Seungcheol was crouched by the bed, easing your son’s shoes off. You headed straight for the dresser and pulled out a pair of pajamas. Skipping his bedtime bath made you wince, especially after camping. He smelled like campfire smoke and wet dirt. Lord knows if he’d had a proper shower in the last two days.

Tonight you let it go. There was no use waking him up, and you could always wash the sheets in the morning.

He wasn’t supposed to be back for another two. But the storm shifted course overnight, and was headed straight for the camping ground area. You’d called Seungcheol this morning, asking him to pack up early. Surprisingly, he hadn’t argued.

“He conked out right away,” he whispered. “Didn’t even make it past the park exit.”

“Sounds like he had a lot of fun,” you said, then paused. “Sorry I had to cut it short. I know he’s been looking forward to this trip all month.”

“No, no—it’s fine, really. Better safe than sorry.”

Redressing your sleeping son was a delicate balancing act. His limbs hung limp, head heavy against his dad’s chest, making every movement challenging. You reached for the hem of his shirt, and Seungcheol instinctively shifted his grip, steadying your son’s upper body so you could peel the fabric away. Your fingers brushed his as you tugged the sleeve free, and for a moment, neither of you pulled away.

You moved around each other without speaking, with Seungcheol adjusting his hold, and you working quickly to replace dirty clothes with clean ones. A hand on your wrist to help guide a pant leg. Panicked glances when your son stirred. It was a routine you hadn’t shared in a while, but it came back easily. Like muscle memory.

Once changed, Seungcheol gently laid him down. But the moment his head hit the pillow, his eyes fluttered open, bleary and disoriented.

“Mommy?” he croaked drowsily.

“Shhh, it’s okay. You’re home,” you murmured, brushing his hair back. “Go back to sleep.”

Seungcheol leaned in and kissed his forehead. “Love you, bud. I’ll see you next week, okay?”

Strangely, that made him more alert now. “Wait—where are you going?”

“Daddy has to go,” you said gently.

“Go where?”

He was still half-asleep, you told yourself. He knows this routine. “To his house.”

“No, don’t go. Please?” he begged, clutching his father’s wrist.

You forced a smile, smoothing his hair again. “Sweetheart, he has a long drive back, and I bet he’s tired. You’ll stay with him the whole week next week though.”

“Noooo, I want you both,” he insisted, voice cracking. “Please?”

You glanced at Seungcheol, torn. He gave a small shrug, already lowering himself onto the edge of the bed.

“I can stay a few more minutes,” he told him tentatively, then turned his gaze to you. “If…that’s okay with mommy?”

You sighed, then nodded. “Just until you fall asleep.” Your son squealed softly, eyes already fluttering shut in relief.

You settled opposite Seungcheol. Your son reached out and grabbed both your hands in a death grip—just in case one of you tried to slip away before he was fully asleep.

You hummed softly, threading your fingers through your son’s hair. Seungcheol flicked the nightlight switch, and the room was instantly filled with glowing constellations. You remembered when your son unwrapped it for his birthday—how he gasped in wonder, then whispered, It’s like camping…but inside. The memory elicited a quiet laugh from you.

Seungcheol caught the sound and glanced over. His eyes lingered on you, like he was seeing something he hadn’t in a long time. Something he forgot he missed.

Eventually, your son’s grip loosened. His face was peaceful again, lashes matching his dad’s resting against his cheeks. You eased your hand free, and Seungcheol did the same, rising first. You followed behind, pausing at the doorway for one last look before pulling the door closed.

In the kitchen, Seungcheol was rubbing his eyes. He looked away mid-yawn when he saw you coming down the hallway.

“Coffee?”

He hesitated. “I don’t want to impose—”

“Not at all. I offered,” you said, already reaching for the mugs. “Besides, I’d rather you not fall asleep on the drive home. Especially in this weather.”

He nodded, then smiled faintly.

You set a mug beneath the dispenser. “Still take it the same way?”

He was caught off-guard at the question, but eventually nodded slowly.

You handed him the mug, and for a moment, neither of you spoke, as the storm hummed steadily outside. Standing opposite each other in the kitchen wrapped in silence.

Seungcheol’s eyes flicked toward the hallway as he took a sip. “He’s getting so big. He was so excited to help me set up the tent.”

“Interesting.” You leaned against the counter, crossing one ankle over the other. “Last time you let him help, he got tangled in the rainfly and cried for twenty minutes. I thought you were going to throw him into the river,” you snorted.

He clicked his teeth, rolling his eyes at the accusation. “I was not going to throw him,” he muttered, but his smile faded. “I had a short fuse back then. I’m working on it.”

He swirled the coffee in his mug, then chuckled. “He’s just a very strong-willed kid. Like someone I know…” He arched his brow at you.

You shrugged, feigning innocence. “It builds character!”

“Yeah, no shit.” His laugh was soft, but tired.

You sipped your coffee, watching the way he stared into his mug, thumb tracing the rim.

“He asked if we could all go next time.”

You let out a small laugh. “Did you tell him no?”

“I said maybe.” He paused, eyes still on the mug. “He said he missed when we did things together.”

The words settled between you. You nodded slowly, unsure what to do with that. And tonight was hardly the moment to unpack it. “I think he just misses the idea of it.” Your eyes dropped to the floor.

“Sometimes I miss it too.” His voice came so quietly, as if he didn’t mean to say his thoughts out loud. You took a few beats before answering.

“I mostly miss the parts that didn’t hurt.” The words cut deeper than you intended. You weren’t trying to be cruel, just honest.

As much as you wished your son could grow up with both parents under one roof, you and Seungcheol knew that wasn’t possible. Not without reopening wounds that hadn’t fully healed. For all the things you disagreed on, there was one thing you had agreed on: you wanted your son to be happy. And in order to make that happen, you would not raise him in a warzone.

He nodded, quietly acknowledging.

He glanced at the clock behind you, cleared his throat. “I should probably get going.”

You watched him drain the last sip, then move towards the sink.

“Cheol, just leave it.” You tried to intercept him, but he was already rinsing his mug clean.

“Nah, I got it.” He set the mug on the rack and wiped his hands on his pants before heading toward the door. You rolled your eyes at the gesture, but bit your tongue. That’s not your job anymore, you reminded yourself then followed him toward the front door.

He paused at the threshold. “Thanks for the coffee.”

His hand hovered near the door latch, the other tucked into his pocket like he was restraining himself from reaching for you. His jaw tightened and shoulders lifted slightly, as if bracing against a familiar pull.

It had taken months of therapy to stand this close without recoiling. To be in the same room without wanting to rip each other’s head off. Still, tonight felt different. Heavier. Like something was pressing in from the edges.

You gave a small nod. “Drive safe,” you said automatically.

“Yeah.” His mouth tugged faintly, somewhere between a smile and a sigh.

“You should go before the wind picks up.” It was a half-hearted nudge, more suggestion than insistence.

“Guess I should.” But he didn’t move.

His gaze drifted—not to your eyes this time, but lower, to your mouth. You felt it again, that subtle shift in the air.

You looked away first, clearing your throat, but the tension didn’t ease. You swallowed hard. “Goodnight.”

“‘Night,” he echoed. He shifted his weight, hesitating—then stepped closer and wrapped his arms around you. You felt the uncertainty of his hold, but once you leaned in, it settled into something familiar.

It’s just muscle memory, you convinced yourself.

Your hands found the back of his jacket, and for a moment, you let yourself rest there. Into that nook between his chest, the warmth from it, the steady thrum of his pulse beating…It all came rushing back. The ache beneath. Not quite yearning, but something close to it. A whisper of what used to live between you, before the fights, before the silence. Before it all fell apart.

His hold slightly tightened, making you wonder if he felt it too.

He pulled back slowly, reluctantly. Then he opened the door. The cool air slipped in, and you flinched—not from the sudden chill, but from the thought of letting that door close behind him.

“Cheol!” His name tumbled out before you could stop it.

He turned immediately, brows furrowed.

Heart racing, you took a step, close enough to hear the subtle hitch in his breath.

Before your brain could process, your hand lifted, brushing along his jawline. His lashes fluttered, leaning into your touch instinctively.

But logic cut through. You shouldn’t reach for him. You shouldn’t want him. You just…shouldn’t.

You shook your head and stepped back. “Sorry. I… I need to stop.”

He caught your wrist, his hold gentle but firm. “Is that what you want?”

What you wanted was to talk yourself out of this.

He moved closer, crowding your space, whispering, “Tell me to stop.”

But the words wouldn’t come. You were standing at the edge of a cliff, telling yourself not to jump, and yet your body leaned forward anyway.

“Don’t.”

His arm banded around your waist, pulling you against him as his mouth claimed yours. No hesitation left—only the inevitable you’d been running from. He broke the kiss long enough to kick the door shut, the lock clicking into place.

And then you’re freefalling.

***********************

His lips crashed against yours, with raw, desperate hunger that took your breath away. Your hands flew to his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him even closer in response.

Every step toward the bedroom was careful, breaths ragged but hushed—the kind of restraint born from not wanting to wake your son.

A loose floorboard betrayed you. It gave a sharp, sudden creak beneath Seungcheol’s foot, making you both go still. You both held your breaths, listening for any stirring from across the narrow hallway.

Nothing. Just the long stretch of silence.

Relief flickered, and desire resumed. Your fingers curled at his nape, tugging him back down to your mouth.

You moved again, a tangle of limbs and mouths stumbling through the dark hallway. The sound of the bedroom latch barely registered before you spun him, shoving him backward until he fell onto the mattress with a laugh. He barely had a moment to sit up before you were straddling him, settling into his lap and claiming his mouth again. It was as if the last two years had been erased. Just this—the heated, possessive slide of his tongue against yours, so intoxicating it made you ache with the regret of ever letting it go. His hands framed your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks with a tenderness that made your chest hurt, your body molding to his like it had never left.

Your mouth broke from his, trailing a path of wet kisses down the column of his throat. You nipped at his collarbone, and he arched into you. His hands slid down your spine, gripping your hips and pulling you flush against him. He ground his hard length against the ache blooming between your legs.

“A little eager, are we?” you teased, your voice breathless.

“I don’t want to play games,” he rasped, his hand already sliding under your shirt to palm your breast, the material of your bra a rough tease against your skin. He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you?”

You shook your head, a shaky breath escaping you. With a dark smirk, he peeled your shirt off, his movements sure. Your bra followed, his fingers expertly working the clasp. He leaned back, his gaze raking over you, hungry and unabashed.

You cleared your throat. “My eyes are up here, sir,” you joked, though your voice was weaker than you intended.

He chuckled softly. “You’re so fucking beautiful, you know that?” he murmured, his voice thick with awe.

The warmth that spread through your chest was dangerous, a feeling you couldn’t afford tonight. What you needed was raw, not soft. The cool air on your bare skin was a shock, but it was nothing compared to the searing heat of his mouth as it closed over a peaked nipple. You gasped, your back bowing as your fingers knotted in his hair. His tongue swirled and teased, his teeth grazing the sensitive tip with just enough pressure to make you whimper. Shocks of pleasure ricocheted through you, settling between your thighs, where the need for him was so painful you could physically feel it.

Your bottoms felt like a flimsy barrier against the slick heat that begged for him. You moaned, your hands fumbling with the hem of his shirt until he growled in frustration and yanked it over his head himself. You splayed your palms across the warm, solid expanse of his chest, the sight of him bare and wanting making your head spin. He kissed you again, a deep, claiming kiss, before his hand dipped past your waistband.

Without hesitation, his fingers slipped through your slick folds. “Oh, shit… all this for me?” he murmured, his voice a low growl that made your knees weak.

“Mm-hmm,” you hummed, rocking your hips against his hand, shamelessly chasing the friction. He found your clit, swollen and desperate, and began to circle it with the exact, maddening pressure he knew you liked. Your eyes rolled back as white-hot pleasure shot up your spine.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispered against your ear. “Let me hear you.” He slipped two fingers inside you, making you whimper at the sudden, perfect stretch. “So wet. So fucking perfect for me.”

Your hips moved on their own, riding his hand as the tension coiled tighter and tighter, ready to snap. You were so close, teetering on the edge from his touch alone, but it wasn’t enough.

“I need you.”

“Let me get you off like this,” he urged, his fingers stroking deeper. “You’re right there. I can feel it.”

Damn him and every damn secret of your body he still owned.

“No,” you choked out, forcing your hand past his to palm the hard length straining against his pants. You gave him a firm squeeze, pausing his movements as his hips jerked with a groan. “I said, I need you. Now.”

He relented, withdrawing his fingers, the loss a brief, hollow ache. But then his hands were on your bottoms, tugging them down your legs in one rough, urgent motion. You kicked them away, completely bare before him, consumed by a need so visceral it burned away every last shred of control you had.

He made quick work of his bottoms, and when you turned from the nightstand, he was gloriously naked and fully hard. A sight you knew by heart, yet one that still made your breath catch. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you onto the bed effortlessly. The air thickened instantly with his scent—and that fucking cologne. The smell that had been absent for a while was back, and you knew it would haunt your sheets for days.

As he settled between your thighs, he paused. His gaze landed on the foil square in your hand, brows furrowing with surprise. It was a silent but loaded question.

“What?” You pushed the packet into his palm, chuckling. “Safety first.”

A wry smile touched his lips, his eyes narrowing with curiosity and a hint of jealousy. “Who are you fucking?”

You held his stare, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make it feel like a power play. “Right now, you,” you finally answered.

A slow grin spread across his face. The condom was forgotten for a second as he crushed his mouth to yours, the kiss deeper, hungrier. He broke away to tear the foil with his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours. The rustle was loud in the quiet room. You watched as his hands rolled it down his length—a riveting yet unfamiliar sight you’d hated yourself for wanting.

When he finally settled back over you, the skin-on-skin contact you craved was gone, replaced by a thin, sterile barrier that was a stark reminder that you were no longer the same people you used to be.

But the beauty of muscle memory is that it doesn’t care about time. All it takes is the right prompt, and your body flows right back into its old rhythm instinctively. His touch was that prompt.

He positioned himself at your entrance, the heat of him an insistent pressure against your slick flesh. He slid in, and the stretch and fullness took your breath away. A delicious ache that chased away every thought that wasn’t him, here, now.

“Missed this,” he grunted, more to himself than to you.

You didn’t answer. You just hooked your legs around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back, and pulled him deeper. “Fuck… you’re so tight.”

A whimper was all you could manage, your nails scraping desperate lines down his shoulders. The feeling of being so utterly filled, the familiar shape of him, the alien friction of the latex—it overwhelmed your senses.

This was Seungcheol. Your Seungcheol. And yet, at the same time, he wasn’t.

His hips slowly pulled back—almost all the way out—before a rolling thrust buried him to the hilt again, forcing your back to arch off the bed. He set a punishing rhythm from the first stroke, deep and relentless, each one hitting a place inside you that made your eyes roll back and flutter shut.

“Eyes on me,” he demanded.

Your eyes flew open, meeting his with that same fierce, stubborn energy he’d always known. Neither of you said a word, but the argument was right there in the air between you. Every snap of his hips was a question: Remember this? And every helpless gasp he elicited from your lips was your only answer: Yes.

He shifted, angling his hips, and the next thrust dragged directly over your clit. You clenched around him again, milking his length as he drove into you, his rhythm unyielding.

“God, you fuck me so good,” you admitted shamelessly.

You were completely and utterly blinded by how good he made you feel. A cocky smirk touched his lips.

He withdrew, leaving you achingly empty for a heartbeat. He manhandled you onto your side, folding your legs together until your knees touched, then he entered you from behind. The new angle was devastating. The coil inside you tightened violently, pleasure building with every rut of his hips.

You could feel your climax approaching, a tidal wave gathering force just offshore. A cry tore from your throat, the intensity of his movement combined with the utter helplessness of your position hurtling you toward the edge.

“I’m close,” you gasped.

He grunted, his voice strained. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

His words were the final trigger. The room spun into a blur. Your body seized, muscles clamping down on him in rhythmic waves. The sharp and all-consuming pleasure ripped through you, leaving you trembling and boneless.

He fucked you through it, his movements becoming more frantic, chasing his own release. The sound of skin slapping against skin, his ragged breaths, your own whimpers filled the room.

“Fuck,” he growled, his voice raw as his body seized above yours, then you felt that deep, rhythmic pulse as he spilled into you. For a moment, his full weight crushed you, his face buried in your neck, his breath ragged against your skin. Then he propped himself up, his chest heaving, his cock still inside you. The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and confusion. His eyes met yours before he rolled off, collapsing beside you. The air on your sweat-slicked skin felt cold with the absence of his warmth surrounding you.

You stared blankly at the ceiling for a few moments, until unspoken instinct drew your heads to turn, your movements sickeningly synchronized. The raw hunger in his gaze had faded, leaving behind a chilling clarity that was a perfect reflection of the horror dawning in your own gut. What the fuck did we just do?

The question hung in the air, joining the tense silence that had replaced the frantic sounds moments before.

***********************

While Seungcheol showered, you dressed by muscle memory, each layer settling on your skin like a reminder you didn’t want. The soft fabric felt foreign against skin still marked by the raw scrape of his stubble. The elastic of your underwear dug in like a bruising echo of his fingers on your flesh. Every piece of clothing carried its own impossible weight, yet none of it compared to the phantom heaviness of him on top of you.

You floated in those memories, untethered, until a single thought yanked you back to reality: your son.

You slipped out of the bedroom and padded down the hall. You eased the door open, and there he was—your beautiful boy, in a perfect, peaceful heap under the blankets. Mouth parted, one leg dangling free.

A pang of guilt twisted in your stomach. You’d been just feet away, his father pinning you to the bed while the storm raged outside. And here he’d remained, safe in his quiet sanctuary—completely oblivious.

You watched the steady rise and fall of his small chest, forcing your racing thoughts to slow and sync with his breathing, summoning your soul back to the one thing in your world that was still pure.

***********************

It was quieter when you made your way back to the bedroom. The shower was off. The door was ajar, and steam drifted out into the hallway, and with it, the scent of your shower gel and shampoo. It was another jarring reminder that he had been in your space.

He stood with his back to you, a towel slung low on his hips, water tracing paths over the expanse of his shoulders as he dried his hair. You pursed your lips, taking in the sight in front of you. Even now, the sheer sight of him was a physical blow, undoing you all over again.

He turned, and a slow, knowing smirk curved as he caught you staring. Heat flooded your face. You tore your gaze away, feeling like some flustered prude, instead of somebody who’d just been thoroughly fucked.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he chuckled, his voice a low rasp. “It’s not like it’s anything you haven’t seen before.” The light, teasing tone was an attempt to bridge this chasm of awkwardness that had opened between you. He was right, though. You knew every ridge of his chest, the deep V that tapered below his navel, down to the way his skin tasted. But that was before. In another life. Now, that knowledge felt like contraband you were still carrying—and you had to get rid of it.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” you muttered tightly. You pulled the door shut, attempting to contain the potent, dangerous temptation of him on the other side.

***********************

Down the hall, you heard your son’s bedroom door open and close. Moments later, Seungcheol appeared in the kitchen doorway, his hair still damp from the shower.

“Sounds like there’s a break in the storm,” he said, his voice soft.

“Yeah. It looked nasty for a moment there.” You turned back to the coffee machine, your back a rigid line.

He leaned against the counter, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on you. “Looks like you finally remodeled the bathroom.”

“Sure did.”

“Looks amazing. Better than what I could have done,” he joked, a weak echo of his old bragging.

He cleared his throat. “So, uhm… are you okay?”

You glanced over, your expression carefully neutral. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You were quiet after. I got worried when I got out of the shower and you were gone.”

“I just went to check on him,” you said, brushing it off.

He nodded slowly, his eyes searching yours, refusing to let it go. “And after that? You kind of ran off.” His voice dropped, the question a direct challenge.

You let out a sharp exasperated breath. “Look. So we had a moment. We’re both adults, right? Do we really need a post-mortem?”

You felt him retreat, the walls you’d just thrown up brick by brick coming up again. The silence stretched, and in your desperation to break it, you grasped for the first weapon you could find.

“So, I heard she took him to the zoo last week,” you said, your tone sharper than you intended. “Without you.”

The accusation hung in the air. It stopped him dead. She.

“S-sorry,” he stammered, running a hand through his damp hair. “I know we agreed I have to always be there, but the office called, and we were in crisis mode. I just didn’t want to let him down. She assured me she wouldn’t let—”

“It’s fine,” you cut him off, your tone deceptively calm. “I’ve resigned myself to the fact that there would be times when he’d have to be alone with her when you have him. I mean, she lives there.”

Hearing the calmness in your voice didn’t ease his worries, so you met his gaze with a small smile. “Relax. All I’m saying is that if she’s alone with our son, I’d like to know.” You knew you’d regret the next words even as you said them. “If you want, you can give her my number for emergencies. Tell her I don’t bite.”

“Thanks,” he said, the relief washing over him. “It… means a lot that you would offer that.”

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “He, uh, also wouldn’t shut up about her sea lion impression. He brings that little plushie she got him everywhere.” The words spilled out too fast. You were talking just to fill the quiet, anything to drown out your thoughts—whether she made him groan like that, whether her taste lingered on his tongue, whether he was already counting the minutes until he could see her again. Stop! You bit the inside of your cheek.

“Yeah. She’s great with him.” He smiled fondly.

She’s great.

That was the sound of a door closing, a line drawn in the sand. The mind‑blowing sex was a distant memory, just like the version of him that had once been yours. What stood here now was just Seungcheol. Your son’s father. Her partner.

“So, about next week,” he began, hands sinking into his pockets.

“You can pick him up whenever. Just call. I’m working from home anyway,” you cut in, a tight smile stretched across your face.

“Oh. Okay. So… meet at the usual neutral pickup point?”

“Actually,” you said, the thought forming even as it left your mouth, a reckless impulse disguised as efficiency. “It might be easier if you pick him up here after I get him from school. It’s on your way, right?”

He froze. Not shocked, but slightly confused. As if he was replaying the sentence in his head, checking if he’d heard it right. You’d never let him pick your son up from the house. Not since the custody agreement. And for a beat too long, he let himself believe this meant something else.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice softer than it should have been.

“Yeah, it’s only practical!” You shrugged like it was nothing, hoping it would dash whatever internal monologue he was having in his head.

“Right. Practical.” He nodded slowly. The moment stretched, his eyes searching your face for a crack you weren’t offering. Then he redirected, building on the practicality of your offer, to make it sound more justifiable.

“Or… what if I just grab him from school? I get off early Tuesday. I can swing by, pick up his things, save you the interruption.”

You’d only meant to extend an olive branch, to prove you were unaffected. Yet his counteroffer hung there, reasonable and simple, and a reminder that you inadvertently cracked open a door you weren’t sure you wanted open.

“He gets out at 1:15, right? I can come by at 12:30?” he added, nudging that door wider.

The silence weighed heavily with words trapped in your chests. He was trying to be helpful. You were trying to pretend you didn’t need it. Neither attempt succeeded.

“Sure. I’ll have his bag ready.”

“Great. Tuesday at 12:30?”

“Tuesday at 12:30,” you echoed.

He leaned in, aiming for your mouth, but you turned at the last second. His lips brushed your cheek. Tonight was a one‑off. A lapse in judgment. Nothing more.

“See you,” he murmured awkwardly.

“Bye,” you whispered, your throat tightening around the word.

You listened to his footsteps fade down the hall, the creak of the door, the soft click as it shut. The sound brought a dull ache in your chest. You stayed where you were, surrounded by the scent he left behind and the echo of things you didn’t say.

But as your gaze drifted to the small pile of your son’s toys on the floor, the ache settled into something steadier, something you can almost convince yourself is peace. You didn’t lose everything. You just outgrew what wasn’t meant to last. Even if a part of you still wished it had.

Damn muscle memory.

Main SVT Fic Masterlist

Thank you for reading!

Seungcheol could tell the week was eating you alive. You’d been venting about that looming deadline, and judging by your radio silence, he connected the dots. Without saying anything to you, he heads out of work early to start dinner and knock out a few chores, just so you can walk in the door and finally decompress.

Back at your desk, you glance at the clock. Just a couple more hours until you can escape the madness and burn off every last ounce of tension with him. The thought alone has you pressing your thighs together. You lick your lips, letting the anticipation settle into the base of your belly, using it as motivation to power through the rest of the day. And you can come home and claim your well-deserved reward.

******

The scent of dinner cooking welcomes you as you walk through the door after a long and trying day. At the end of the hallway, you catch a glimpse of Seungcheol in the kitchen, his broad back turned to you while he unloads the dishwasher.

The exhaust fan hums softly, and music is blasting in the background. You figure this is why he hasn’t responded to your text that told him you were on your way.

You cock your head and watch him for a moment. Your heart swells with appreciation at the sight of him taking care of some chores at home without you asking him.

He looks up at the jangle of your keys as you hang them on the wall. He beams instantly when his gaze lands on you. “Hey, love! Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

He’s in sweats and one of his old college shirts, whose sleeves he proudly hacked off himself. It used to hang loose around his shoulders, but now it clings and stretches nicely over his biceps. They’ve been looking more defined lately, and you’ve mentioned more than once how good he looks in that shirt.

You spot the V-shaped sweat mark beneath his collar that tells you he just finished a workout. You can’t help but hope he’s not completely spent, and that he’s saved some energy for you.

Honestly, you’re hoping for a little more than “some.” You want—no—need to be manhandled tonight. After hours of trying to hold things together today, you’d want nothing more than to give up control and have him take over.

He strolls over and greets you with a kiss. A grin spreads across your face. “You didn’t have to cook!” you say. “I was going to order takeout, because I thought you’d be working late tonight.”

He turns back to the stove, lowering the flame beneath one of the simmering pots. “I was,” he says, “But Joshua owes me a favor, so I asked him to finish up the rest of the cases. Told him there was an emergency at home.”

You tilt your head, brows knitting in curiosity. “Oh? What kind of emergency?”

He crosses the room again, cups your cheeks, and plants a soft kiss on your forehead. His eyes soften as he meets yours. “The kind where I need to take care of you.”

He’s so cheesy—but your heart still melts. “Ugh... I love you,” you gush.

“Love you too. Now go get changed—dinner’s almost ready.”

******

After dinner, as the food coma settles, you and Seungcheol curl up on the couch to catch up on your favorite show. You’ve changed into an oversized sleep shirt and stretched out sideways, your legs draped across his lap. His eyes are on the screen while his thumb traces lazy circles over your knee.

You’re not really watching the show—your gaze keeps drifting to his profile, bathed in the soft, warm light of the nearby lamp.

“Thank you for dinner,” you murmur. “It was perfect… especially after today.” A slow smile spreads across your face.

He turns to you with a gentle look. “You’re welcome. I know this week’s been a lot,” he says, his voice low and warm. “I thought if I came home early and took care of a few things, maybe you could just… breathe a little easier this weekend.”

“Like what things?”

“Just a few chores. After grocery shopping, I stopped by the pharmacy to pick up your prescription…”

You could cry listening to him list many of the errands you planned to do this week, but never found the time for. How is it possible to love him even more than you already do?

“Then, before I started cooking, I did the laundry.”

Your shoulders tense up.

Every time he did the laundry, it was utter chaos—darks, lights, and delicates tossed into the same load. You never knew if your white tees would survive unscathed or come out with a tinge of pink. The last time, he left everything in the dryer overnight, and you spent the next morning re-running cycles just to tame the wrinkles. Since then, he’s been unofficially banned from doing laundry unsupervised.

He sees your expression shift and quickly adds, “Don’t worry. I sorted everything. Even used the pre-wash on the sheets—just like you showed me.” He gives you a reassuring look, promising there wouldn’t be a repeat of last time.

Your eyes go wide. “You did what?”

He hesitates. “I… did the laundry?” He breaks into a sweat as he starts to question every decision he’s made in the last couple of hours.

You shake your head. “No, no—what did you say after that?”

“I sorted it and ran a pre-wash cycle?” He winces, hoping this answer will get him in less trouble.

When he sees your jaw drop with a gasp, he assumes the worst and scrambles for an explanation.

“Okay, hear me out. I know I messed up before, but I swear, I did it properly this time. I even folded the clothes and put them away in our closet. I’m just waiting for the last load to finish in the dryer.”

You find yourself…inexplicably aroused by all of this. The thought of him in his cutoff shirt, doing a load of laundry, and carefully folding everything. Not only that, but most importantly, doing it exactly the way you like it—is enough to get you hot and bothered.

He sits there anxiously, completely unaware of the effect this has on you.

“I was just trying to help. Are you mad?”

Instead of answering him, you lunge forward and kiss him.

“Whoa, what? What’s happening?” He’s perplexed, yet pleasantly surprised by your sudden aggressiveness.

You shift to straddle his hips. “You had me at ‘sorting the laundry,’” you breathe against his lips before kissing him again, harder this time.

He pulls away again, still looking confused. “Wait, seriously? The laundry?”

It’s not just the laundry. Your hormones are already raging from ovulating, which not only piles onto your stress and irritability at work, but it also leaves you feeling unbearably horny.

The dinner he made had briefly distracted you, but now he’s stirred the memory of what you’d really been looking forward to since walking through the door.

You glare at him in exasperation for trying to derail your plans again. “Yes! Now, are you going to interrupt me again or do you want to get your dick sucked?”

He blinks slowly, your words echoing in his head. Then a slow smirk tugs at his lips, and his gaze darkens. He mimes zipping his mouth shut, hands lifting in mock surrender. He sinks back into the couch, arms stretched, eyes locked on you with quiet amusement.

“Good choice!” You cup his nape and pull his mouth to yours.

You kiss him with slow, deliberate strokes of your tongue—each one driving him crazy with want. Your hunger is intoxicating, only rivaling his scent: a heady mix of body wash, sweat, and the savory aromatics from the dish he cooked. It’s the perfect cocktail that sends your senses into overdrive.

When you break the kiss, you tug his shirt over his head. Then you lower yourself again, pressing soft kisses along his jaw, tracing it with gentle licks that elicit a low moan from his throat. Your mouth travels down his chest, leaving a trail of wet kisses as you slide from his lap, then finally sinking to your knees between his legs.

He lifts his hips when you tug at his waistband, helping you slide his bottoms, just enough to pull his cock out.

You tease the tip with a gentle flick of your tongue, making him inhale sharply. You slide your mouth down his length, drawing another gasp from him. At the first hint of suction, he sinks his head deeper into the cushions and groans in pleasure.

“Holy…f…uck…” The rush of wet heat from your mouth over his sensitive tip is so intense, he struggles to catch his breath. Your lips tighten around him, your tongue massaging that perfect spot on his cock that you know makes his toes curl.

You pull upward, then tease him with your fingers, stroking with just enough pressure to make him crave more.

His hands are in your hair, his neck straining to get a glimpse of your mouth sliding up and down his cock.

“Fuck, baby…” he hisses through his teeth, “So good.”

You peer up at him and see his lip caught between his teeth, eyes heavy-lidded, face etched with pleasure—the visual intensifies the throbbing between your legs. Unable to resist, you slip your fingers into your panties to ease the ache. Being extra sensitive during this phase of your cycle, it doesn’t take long before your fingers are coated in your slick.

The hum of your moans vibrates through him, fueling his torment and driving him closer to the edge. You can feel it in the way his thighs tense, hear it in the way his breath stutters. Then suddenly, his hands grab your sides, breaking your suction as he pulls you upward.

“C’mere.”

His hands slip beneath the hem of your shirt, gliding to cup the backs of your thighs and the curve of your ass. He pulls you in until your center hovers right over his face.

“Take it off,” he whispers, eyes gazing up at you with dark anticipation.

Without hesitation, your top comes off in one fluid motion.

He presses slow kisses across your stomach, each one making you sigh with pleasure and weak in the knees. His fingers hook into your panties, easing them down your legs, and he guides you back onto his lap.

You gasp as your overly sensitive nipples brush against his bare chest, sending a burst of sensation straight to your core.

“I want you inside me,” you whisper, nuzzling his nose with yours.

“Yeah?” His fingers find your nipple, pinching and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. You whimper when the sharp but pleasurable pain makes goosebumps race across your skin.

“How bad?”

You grind your soaked folds shamelessly along the length of him, then tease the seam of his lips with your tongue. “Really, really bad.”

Seungcheol flashes a cocky grin, clearly pleased with your answer. For a second, you think he’s about to finally put you out of your misery. But instead, he surprises you, lifting you off the couch.

His hands steady beneath you, he tightens your legs around his waist. You band your arms around his neck, clinging to him as he carries you down the hall—both of you giggling and kissing between breaths.

He angles his body and bumps your bedroom door wider. Your thighs hit the edge of the mattress first, and then he lowers you gently onto your back.

With a sly, teasing smile, he leans down and kisses you quickly.

“My turn.”

He hovers over you, then down—his hot mouth trailing over your breasts, your stomach, and finally, your center. You gasp, arching as his tongue flutters over your clit, every flick sending jolts through your body.

His hands slide up to cup your breasts, fingers teasing your nipples while his mouth devours you with unrelenting focus. The more you beg him to fuck you, the longer he makes you wait, savoring every sound you make, every tremble of your body.

“Cheol, please…”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he just slips two fingers inside you and curls them, pressing and stroking that sensitive spot deep inside you.

You’re close to tears when he makes you come once. Then again. And again. By the time he finally lets up, your legs are shaky, your body limp with aftershocks. You lie still, your limbs heavy, your clit still pulsing from his relentless mouth.

You barely register him speaking when his finger strokes you gently across your cheek. “Are you okay?”

You nod weakly.

He chuckles, clearly pleased with the satiated look on your face.

“Time for bed?”

The second the words register, your eyes snap open, and you push up onto your elbows, protesting. “What? No!”

The corners of his mouth twitch. That’s exactly the response he wanted. He leans in close, his breath fanning against your skin.

“Can you take more?”

His teeth graze the shell of your ear, then his lips trace a path down your cheek before claiming your mouth again.

“Please. I just want you inside me.”

He’s seen that look in your eyes before—hunger, need. And because Seungcheol aims to please, he gives in.

“Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

You give a vague nod and your body’s already moving, scrambling upright, too eager to wait another second.

He leans in again, his breath warm on your cheek as he gently tucks a few loose strands behind your ear.

“Say it.”

A small smile curves your lips as you kneel on the bed, hands resting obediently on your thighs, sitting back on your heels–like a good girl.

His teeth catch his bottom lip. God, he could come just from seeing you like this.

“Ask me again.”

He steadies himself, shifting his focus to hang onto his last shred of control. He wants to make this last—for both of you.

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much?”

“Yes.”

He takes a couple of steps back, and your mouth waters as you watch him peel off his sweats. His hand wraps around himself, slowly stroking, before he climbs onto the bed with you.

“Lean into me,” he murmurs.

You shift until your back presses against his chest, resting your cheek against his shoulder. One hand cups your face, tilting your mouth up to his for a kiss, while the other slips between your legs, fingers pumping steadily inside you.

“You ready?” he purrs.

“I’ve been ready,” you whine breathlessly.

He chuckles. “Go ahead,” he coaxes, his tongue touching yours with teasing licks. “Put me in then.”

Reaching back, your hand wraps around his length. He adjusts to line himself up for you. You sink your hips as he pushes up simultaneously, both groaning at the sensation of stretch and constriction.

He wraps his hand gently around your throat, his palm flat against your stomach. He withdraws, then thrusts so hard into you that you could swear you see stars. He holds you firmly in his arms, pumping in and out of you steadily, his groans thrumming against your spine.

“Yes, yes…harder,” you pant, reaching behind and sinking your nails into the flesh of his ass, beyond needy.

You don’t have to ask him twice—he’s already on it. He pulls out, guides you down to the bed, and steadies you as you bend at the waist, cheek pressing into the mattress. His hands grip your hips firmly, and he slides in deep, pulling a whimper from your lips. This is exactly what you wanted, and he’s all too happy to give it to you.

Your insides tense, clenching desperately around him. He grunts through clenched teeth, pulling out just enough before pushing back in intensely. Again and again. Each time, hitting every one of those tight bundles of nerves inside you.

“Don’t stop…” You whine.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Let me hear you.”

He smacks your ass hard, the stinging sensation causing your insides to clench around him in a vice-like grip. Your fingers claw at the sheets, deep moans rumbling from your throat.

Your legs tremble with a particularly rough stroke, but you’re still desperate and hungry for more. The steady rhythm of his hips and the sounds you make only add to his own insatiable need for you.

He spanks you again, before he picks up the pace, pounding into you, his fingers circling your clit add to the torment. Your cunt squeezes around him as another orgasm nears.

His movements grow unsteady and erratic—after delaying his gratification for so long, he’s now racing toward his orgasm.

He comes with a drawn-out, throaty growl, your knees buckling with the rush of his release melding with yours.

You both collapse onto the bed, skin flushed with a gleam of sweat, limbs tangled in the mess of sheets that he had, ironically, just washed.

He lets out a hoarse, breathless laugh. “Sorry if I went too hard.”

You giggle. “Are you kidding? No complaints here—at all!”

You both settle into a comfortable silence as your breathing steadies and heartbeats slow to normal.

After a moment, he glances over at you and asks, “Hey… are you ovulating, by any chance?” His tone is light, but there’s a hint of apprehension to it.

You narrow your gaze, intrigued. “Y-eah,” you draw out the word. “Why?”

He nods, as if that confirms something. “Figured.”

You tilt your head in amusement. “And how exactly could you tell the difference?”

His voice drops as he locks eyes with you. “Because I can feel it.” 

Sure enough, you’re much wetter, and he slips right into you with ease.

You bite back a grin. “Didn’t realize you were keeping tabs on that kind of thing.”

He shrugs, all nonchalant about it. “We’ve been together long enough for me to know you tend to like it rough around this time.”

You glance at him, cheeks warming. He wasn’t wrong. You wanted to be manhandled, and he delivered, as he always does. “Is that weird for you?”

His mouth curves into a smirk. “Weird? Nah. Hot?” He gives an exaggerated nod, eyes trailing over you, and blows out a slow whistle.

You tilt your head back, laughing softly at the ceiling. “Well, I never thought properly done laundry would end up on my list of turn-ons, and yet, here we are.”

You catch his cheeky grin from the corner of your eye.

“Well, in that case,” he drawls, “I should mention that I ran the delicates cycle. Even used that little mesh bag you keep stashed above the washer.”

You roll onto your side and slow-blink at him, as if he’d just grown an extra head.

“And,” he adds, his voice dropping, “I vacuumed.” His eyebrow arches in that cocky way that sends your pulse racing and your self-control straight out the window.

You sit up slowly, crawling toward him with purpose. “Oooh, Mr. Choi,” you whisper, fingers trailing up his chest, “Keep talking dirty to me.”

He breaks into that throaty laugh you love so much. “Round two, then?”

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Thank you for reading!

smut tags ― big dick jay, LOVE MAKING, grinding/frottage, it’s very fluffy and loving but like…also rough, deep penetration, making out, eye contact, pinching/groping, pussy eating, titty kissing, cream pie, unprotected sex, caressing, sweet-talking rather than dirty-talking. 

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

You still remember the first date and how Jay looked at you. Your brain fought hard to lie, to tell you that the joke would be over soon, that he hadn’t tried for months to work up the courage to ask you out. 

He told you that himself, that it took a lot of courage to ask you, that he even felt anxious over the possibility that you wouldn’t like him back, and still your mind told you the opposite. 

No matter how often he found reasons to sit with you in class, or how he would carry your heavy book bag alongside his own all the way to your parked car across campus just so he could tell you to drive home safely…

Still didn’t matter how he said in the softest voice, right next to you as you sat with him for the first time inside of his dorm room, “I think– since the moment I saw you, I had a crush. I never thought you’d actually hang out with me.” He said that before he even asked you on the first date. You thought it was a joke, some sick prank he was put up to.

Yet, still, he looked at you that night in a restaurant neither of you could afford, admitting that he saved up from his part time job for weeks just to bring you here. His eyes shined. Like he was proud to be there with you, almost telling you that it wasn’t a joke, that he truly meant everything he’s ever said to you. 

And when he kissed you that night, just for a moment, you really believed that you were good enough. 

 Six months into your relationship, those negative thoughts faded slowly. All of the negativity, the things everyone always said about you were able to disappear when he held your hand or kissed your forehead. Jay truly seemed utterly enamoured with you, constantly wanting to see you, always wanting to touch, and be close to you. Essentially healing, one by one, every horrible thing ever pounded into your brain from family, friends, and strangers alike. 

But…sometimes, like today, those negative thoughts come back and they’re louder than you remember them being before. He can only silence other voices, not your own. Twenty minutes ago you texted him.

You: can we raincheck? 

Jaybie: what?

Jaybie: why?

You: I’m not really feeling it today

And for nineteen minutes, your phone has been blowing up.

You imagine Jay would tilt his head at you with a face of concern like he’s done so many times before if he were in front of you right now. You don’t need pity, it’s too embarrassing when he says all those nice things to you and you end up deflecting, making the whole situation worse. 

You stare in the mirror, alleviated at the cancellation despite what he’s probably spamming your phone with. Encouragement, reassurances, whatever. Sometimes you just need to isolate and detach, to avoid the mirror, or being seen by anyone. Sometimes, maybe, you even just need to wallow in your own contempt for a bit before facing not just your boyfriend, but anyone at all.

And that sometimes, is right now as you curl up in that ratty t-shirt, flopping back on your bed and trusting that the phone vibrations will go silent after a while. You always feel so guilty when you do this, but it’s just a part of you, it’s what he signed up for. 

You need time to get past this block in your head.  

Unfortunately, Jay doesn’t.

Knock, knock, knock.

Great, just fucking great. You hadn’t expected him to come anyway, and he’s probably just going to give you that pitied look before dragging you out the door with him. 

This type of thing has happened before, and he’s well aware by now to just leave it be, to try again another time, to just text and not facetime, to do this, to do that. Yet he’s on the other side of your door knocking and you’re just sitting here, wondering if you should face him. This isn’t one of those times where he can make it all better with a kiss to your forehead and words of reassurance. 

What’s worse is that it used to work. But over time, as you grew comfortable in the relationship, the stray thoughts became louder. “It’s been three weeks now, and he hasn’t changed his mind?”

“Four weeks, two months, three months…” 

Month six, and he’s on the other side of your door. He never comes over when you ask him not to. Maybe he’s here to tell you he’s done with all this, that you finally pushed him away for the last time.

Your makeup is slightly smeared from the silent tears, and you’ve already undressed and thrown back on that t-shirt. A t-shirt, mind you, that doesn’t hug nor imply any type of human body beneath. Arguably, it’s your most comfortable one because at least in this, looking like a cotton-blend garbage bag is better than witnessing your own being exist in peace, full of what’s needed, rejuvenated in ways you find yourself hating the most. 

There’s nothing to see in you right now, so…you really, really don’t want Jay to be here right now. He wouldn’t find you attractive like this, he would get one look at you and walk away, right? You’re right, he’s here to break up with you for cancelling again.

Knock, knock, knock.

You huff, sniffling and stumbling to your feet, trying to wipe away the remnants of that insecurity that’s hitting you so hard today. And when you look at yourself again, somehow it seems worse than before. You don’t even look like you. 

Knockknockknock, more frantic. 

You hear the emotion in his knocks, making you hurry to the door, hesitating only for a moment before opening it to find him standing there. So handsome with his hair all neat and fixed like it always is. God, you’d be so heartbroken if he ever looked in the mirror the same way you do. For him to not see how handsome, gorgeous, utterly perfect he is in any given room. Any given light, situation, emotion. Always so handsome. 

Always too good for you.

And he looks at you the same as before, tilting his head in the confusion you knew he would, he gives you a once over before inviting himself inside and closing the door, saying nothing, but gently guiding you with his big, warm hand. 

You’re surprised, actually.

“No more of this.” He finally mumbles as he makes his way to your bedroom with you in hand, closing every door behind him. As if allowing you to be in the state you want to be in right now. Where no one can see you, where you don’t have to look at yourself and worry. 

Truthfully, you want nothing more than to be behind two locked doors, curled up and away from the world for the day. What you don’t want is for Jay to be stuck here with you, witnessing you at your worst. If he wasn’t here to break up with you, surely he will be by the end of this. 

“No more pushing me away.” He says this time in a fuller voice, somehow knowing to silence your inner voice as he starts kicking his shoes off and turning to face you. He ignores the uncharacteristic mess of your room and places both hands on your shoulders now. “What’s wrong?”

Oh no, the dreaded question that makes everything rush to surface, making you struggle to hold back tears. It’s harder when he’s looking at you, harder when he’s taking a hand and lifting your chin so you have to look back at him. 

He already knows what’s wrong by the look in your eyes alone. Here he was thinking it could’ve been something else this time. Usually you’d text him back, asking for reassurance in your own little way. Timid, almost cute. Usually, you don’t cut him off like this, you let him text you and you respond back every single time. 

When you left him on read, he knew that this time had to be different.

He truly does know he’s supposed to leave you alone, but it hurts him too when you get like this. Maybe it’s selfish, maybe he’s the one in the wrong here, but it kills him to know that someone he cares for so deeply has felt so horrible, is feeling so horrible, to the point that even he gets shut out. Over and over again, no matter what he does. 

He’s humble even in his thinking though.

The truth from his perspective? He’s tired of it. He’s exhausted with you telling yourself all these things, throwing out every word of love and adoration he’s truly and  meaningfully given to you. Always saying there’s something wrong with you, silent jabs at yourself while using him. “She’s pretty, why are you even with someone like me?” You said all those weeks ago, on a day he thought you really felt better about yourself. “It’s okay to look at other people, I get it.” You had said again, blatantly showing insecurity and writing him off because he glanced for just a moment at someone you deem more beautiful. “I can’t buy that, I wouldn’t be able to pull it off–”, “Oh, I’m not hungry.”, “Sorry, I look kind of gross today–” 

It goes on and on. 

It’s not all easy, pretty, or loving. Sure, you can look exhausted sometimes, so can he. He’s not always feeling the best either, but the difference is that he wants you to see him at his worst. You refuse to let him see you though. Even on your best days, you write yourself off. You write him off, deciding what he must feel about you despite his actions and words trying desperately to prove you wrong.

Looking at you standing in front of him right now is no different. You’re just as beautiful as you were the day he first saw you. Still entirely his type, not a hair out of place in his mind, even if he knows you’d disagree. 

The mess of you is sometimes even better than when you’re trying because he knows you feel the same regardless. He prefers you in the state you hate the most, vulnerable, swollen eyes. There’s something about the rawness compared to when you’re plastering on that false smile. 

Don’t get him wrong, he loves when you dress up too but it hurts him to know it’s not for yourself, not for him, it’s for everyone outside of this bubble. You fear being looked at, and looking at you just so happens to be one of his favorite things. 

In any shape, any form. 

Right now, that smeared charcoal makeup shows him that you tried to go out with him today, that you wanted to go. But goddamn, it makes your eyes look so pretty even messed up like this. Clumped lashes and what seems like a permanent frown on your face. Perhaps it’s guilt, or self-pity, he doesn’t know. The point is, even like this, you’d shine in any room you’re in and he’s so, so happy that you opened door for him.

Honestly? He expected you to not answer it just like you did with the texts and calls. He truly thought he’d be spending all night alone wondering if you are the one about to break up with him.

Yet, still. He can’t keep torturing himself loving someone who so aggressively pushes him away, who always believes the lies before his own tears or cracked voice trying to prove, and prove, and prove that you’ll always be enough for him. He could tell you right now how much he wants to kiss you, but he’s afraid you’ll push him away. 

Rejection after rejection, all because you fear he will be the one doing it eventually.

“What’s wrong?”  He asks again, expression hardening because he knows what it is and he’s desperate for you to just…believe him when he tries to make it better this time.

“I’m sorry, I just–” You try to say, looking down at the floor again despite his hand trying to keep your face angled up. 

“Don’t want me to see you like this?” He interrupts, answering for you. “Don’t want me to take care of you when you’re feeling bad?” 

You keep staring at the floor as he talks.

“Don’t want this, don’t want that. Do you want me?” He pauses, letting out a sigh because that’s not entirely what he meant to say, but he’s so, so frustrated right now. He can’t help it. There’s panic within him every time you get like this. It’s been six months, he wants to add another six more, but he can’t if you don’t fucking let him. 

And fuck, fuck, you’re doing it again. Like so many times before, pushing and pushing away until they finally walk away. You’re shocked he lasted this long putting up with you. Another thing to add to the list, another name of someone who realizes the mistake in picking you. 

“Of course I do!” Your voice cracks when the tears start again, taking a step back and away from him. 

“Then look at me.” He says, more calm now. “It’s okay if you don’t want to go out today, but to ignore me after texting me? Not even answering when I call? I come over and you can’t even look at me.” 

There’s a pause in his frustration here, seeing you cry in front of him like this. He never wants to be the reason you feel bad, even if you’re always his reason for the same negative feelings. He’s tired, but he’s not done being fucking tired. Not yet, at least.

“I won’t look back, if it helps.” He looks away from you now, but fills the gap of space you’ve created. “I just need you to understand that however it is you’re feeling right now, it doesn’t mean I feel the same.”

Your eyes trail to him, noting the way he keeps his eyes averted in the sake of you and it makes you feel…dumb. This whole insecurity thing, it’s something so many people feel and you can’t understand how they push through it on a day to day basis. Are you the only one who curls up inside, unable to allow yourself to be seen? 

Are you the only one with a boyfriend who is telling you to see him, rather than only seeing yourself and whatever monster the mirror forces back at you? Where he promises to not look at you, as long as you let him stay? As long as you hear what he needs to say? 

“Jay…” Your voice cracks when your hands reach for him. For some reason, him not looking at you makes you worse. 

You didn’t want to be touched today, knowing he’d feel the dimples and weight under your skin. Yet here you are, reaching out, inching closer, hugging him as tightly as you can. And still, you feel his chin against you indicating that he’s keeping to his promise. He’s looking away. 

“I don’t know why I get like this.” You comment against his chest, nuzzling into him and the tears that soak through his shirt. “Today is worse than usual.” 

“You’re allowed to have bad days,” He says calmly, almost numbly. “but I need you to let me be here for them. I don’t know how to make you understand how shitty it makes me feel when you start acting like I wouldn’t want to see you.” 

You breathe in as he speaks, letting his cologne calm your mind like it always does. 

“I always want to see you.” 

There’s something crawling in your brain when he says things like that. You don’t know what it is. It slithers in, makes you smile, makes you feel all warm. Like you can pull back from this hug and look him in the eye, or maybe even go to the grocery store without a thirty minute session of trying to look decent first. It’s confidence, something you only feel when he’s around. 

“Why?” You question him still, even while believing him for a moment. 

Seeking reassurance. At his expense, you will always seek it. 

“Why?” He pulls back, finally looking at you again with a dumbfounded expression. Then, he chuckles. “Still? You still don’t know?” 

His tone seems like he’s going to argue with you again, but before you can even look back at him with a nod, you feel him lift you entirely. Instinctively, you squirm to try and get away. 

And when you can’t wiggle away, you try and listen to see if he struggles in the act. Just to shame yourself further. Just to deny his strength, and call yourself huge again. 

“Stop, I’m too heavy!” You squeal out, almost laughing because it feels nice to be…well, picked up. “You’ll hurt yourself!” 

He drops you on your bed without a huff, without dry-heaving, and crawls on top of you, easily sitting on your legs. Yes, Jay is tired of this. You’re just going to ignore the way he goes to the gym specifically so you don’t have to worry? He could have lifted you six months ago, maybe with a bit of a breath or huff, but he can do it just fine now, and you still think you’re too big? 

You’ve never been too big. In fact, there’s a genuine fear that there will never be enough of you for him to love. 

Goddamn. He’s exhausted with the way you see yourself, and the way you almost demand he sees your imperfections too– because he can’t. There’s nothing about you he doesn’t love. If he were to be out of breath right now, it’s not because you’re too heavy, it’s not because you are too much of anything.

It’s because you knock the breath out of him every time he sees you.

And he’s sick of you not understanding him. He’s tired of trying to understand what you feel about yourself. Because in all honesty? It’s bullshit, it’s stupid, none of that shit matters to him. 

He can’t see what you see, regardless of how much you think he does. You can point it out, cry about it, and think whatever you want. He will never agree with you. Reassurance comes too naturally to him, except in his mind it’s not reassurance at all. It’s something he would say to you every minute of every day if you’d give him the space to actually love you, rather than fighting with him on why he should hate you.

“Too heavy? What?” He says as he hovers over you, dipping down to nuzzle his nose against your neck. “How weak do you think I am?” 

You throw your arm over your face, your other hand reaching down to pull down the large t-shirt that had ridden up in your fall to the bed. Jay, on the other hand, keeps you pinned down as he nuzzles. 

“Anything else?” He asks against your ear. 

You pause, opening your eyes behind your arm and taking in a breath. Is he really doing this right now? Asking you to just…tell him?

“Anything else what?” You ask quietly, feeling the way he kisses all over your jaw and hairline, ignoring the heavy feeling of his legs sinking your lower half into the bed as he straddles you in place. 

“Tell me why you didn’t want to see me.” He reiterates, kissing and kissing, not stopping, now slowly moving to push himself between your legs. “Tell me what else there is that you think will make me not want you. All the things you think I can’t or won’t do.”  

“I–” You pause, swallowing hard before squeezing your eyes shut as your legs pry open around him. God, why is he pulling this out of you? Why is it harder to hate yourself when he’s not hating you too? 

“I look like a mess, you deserve someone who–” 

“No.” He instantly responds, knocking your arm away from your face and cupping your cheeks with both hands, forcing you to look at him as he presses his hips forward, letting you feel how attracted he is to you. 

“Not a mess. My favorite.” He adds, moving his assault of kisses across your cheeks, nose, forehead, then to your lips. “I don’t even deserve you.”

A pause as he pulls back to look at you, assessing the damage.

“What else?”

“I feel like you should be ashamed to be seen with me.” You start, feeling even more stupid when it’s spoken out loud. “I can’t wear all those cute clothes you think I’d like, because nothing looks good on me– doesn’t that disappoint you?” 

“Oh?” He smiles cheekily, and you truly will never understand how he could get, like, turned on by you when you feel like this. When you act like this. “Who says I prefer you in clothes anyway?” Then he narrows his eyes at you, pushing his hips forward again to remind you. 

That little breath he takes in before speaking again doesn’t go unnoticed either. Like he’s holding back so much. Frustration, lust, love.

“And I want to be seen with you. Wanna show you off, let everyone know that I managed to get someone like you to be with me.” 

You stare at him when he pulls back, now looking down at you and toying with the hem of your shirt. You could argue that he actually seems a bit…shy now, looking at you from under his lashes as he pretends to focus on what his hands are doing. 

“Anything else?” 

“How—?” You start again, trying to throw your arm back over your face, but he catches it, shooting forward again and this time, pinning your arms down against your pillows. “How are you looking at me right now and getting hard?”

“Because I think you’re sexy.” He smiles just inches from your face, trying to make you understand that he’s not lying. He needs you to see the shine in his eyes, the pure love he feels for you, not just the way he very clearly wants you. Not even words can truly explain it, and maybe that’s why he can’t pull you out of his hole of self hate– but fuck if he isn’t trying. 

“Do you seriously think I’m not attracted to you?” Another push of his hips. He flexes his muscles around you as he does it, and lets out a little breathy sound. “Seriously?”

That question makes you feel stupid for thinking otherwise. If you look outside of yourself for once, you feel worse than you have today in weeks, yet he’s on top of you right now. He’s clearly turned on, kissing all over your face, making those little sounds as if he’s slowly losing it…

Strangely enough, all of the things he’s said to you throughout your relationship felt like a band-aid. Like he was saying stuff to get you to feel better, well aware that it wasn’t going to happen. Today though, right now, it feels like he’s stabbing these words into you, forcing you to look at them, begging you to listen and believe him. 

He’s using his body alongside his words, which isn’t something that normally happens. Mostly because, well, you’ve never let him when the days get this bad. Has it always been like this, or is he just now realizing that a band-aid of sweet kisses can’t fix you? His kisses right now aren’t sweet or docile though, they’re meaningful, almost bruising. 

Everything he’s doing feels more bruising than usual, like he’s trying to make you feel him rather than your own skin. 

All you can do is look back at him when he pulls back again, noting how still, no one has ever looked at you the way Jay does. He’s never said a bad thing about you, never made you feel disgusting or hard to love. Even when he’s upset with you, he never excludes himself from the issue at hand. It’s never all about you unless it’s…good?

Oh. Wait.

“Maybe you just have bad taste in women.” You say casually, as if writing his feelings off again. You see his eyebrow raise at that, his smile faltering, but you huff. 

Then, you smile. You really smile at him, and he…smiles back.

“You need to work on that.” He says, nodding to himself as if what you said just went through one ear and out the other. “My taste is you, and I think you should just accept that or else you’ll have to fight me off, or break up with me or something– because–” 

Ah!  

You half-groan-half-giggle, falling in love with how he can be so playful on such a bad day. So fast with it too, with the way he scoots back, and dips down and under your shirt before you can even fight him on it. You feel his warm cheek rub against your belly, his hands moving to your waist and holding you there before he moves upwards, blatantly lying against your left breast. 

“I love everything about you.” He sighs as if he’s in his own little world now, landing a sideways kiss to the flesh of your chest. “I mean it– fucking everything. Drives me crazy.” 

Your arms instinctively wrap around his hidden head, hugging it as you listen to him mumble praise against your skin. 

“I love this.” He whispers, kissing your breast again before sliding himself up and kissing against your collar bone, letting out another little moan as he simultaneously grinds his lower half on you. 

God, he’s essentially rendering the purpose of this shirt entirely useless to you now. You’re not hidden anymore, he won’t let you be.

 “And this.” He continues. 

“And this,” He moves down, kissing right between your breasts. “This, this, and this.” He mumbles, kissing down to your belly, nuzzling against your belly button before kissing that too. 

“Know what else I love?” He finally asks, pulling himself from under your shirt and letting you get a good look at his blushed cheeks and ears, hair now a mess, slightly frizzy, but still so gorgeous. 

You stare at his drowsy, half-closed eyes in awe, wondering over and over again how anyone could ever be good enough for him, somehow feeling entirely lucky that you’re who he picked. 

“That you let me do this.” He says, gripping the chub on your hips and kneading it before moving to your belly and doing the same. “That you let me appreciate everything about you, even when you hate it.”

And truly, you can’t stand it. Yet, you do. The way his fingers dig into your flesh so warmly, with the purpose of loving, of feeling, rather than wanting to rip it off of your body like you so wish you could do…it’s…kind of igniting? 

After so long of being called all sorts of names. Disgusting, fat, unworthy. Even more words of “You’d be so hot if you’d just–” and “Should you really be eating that?” and yet, he’s digging into their hatred with love and kissing every dimple, looking at you with hearts fluttering from his pupils. 

“Could touch you forever,” He continues talking through those same heart eyes, as if more to himself than you. “Kiss and love on you, let you cry it out, then do it more.” 

You look down at the way his fingers nearly bruise you, and still you don’t wiggle away, especially not when he blinks up at you over and over again, as if there’s so much to look at, and for the first time, it’s okay that there is. 

“So, so, fucking pretty–” He mumbles as he watches you think too hard, nuzzling his nose against your hips now, inhaling the way you smell across your legs, down your thighs, right between your legs. So lovely too, having not had any pants on. Ah, perfect. 

You’re perfect.

“Jay…” You warn him, your voice croaking at the tears threatening to fall. “I’m not sure if I like th–” 

“Sh, cry it out then.” He pauses to look at you, scooting back and now placing both of his hands on your thighs, spreading them out even more. “I already told you. If you want to cry, cry. I’ll make it better.” 

“Eventually, you’ll believe me.” He adds in a sultry whisper after a few silent seconds, eyes leaving yours and trailing down, mouth nearly watering at the sight of you like this. 

For some reason, you don’t cry. Even when you feel him groping the parts of yourself that you can’t stand, when you feel it dimple and shake at his movements– all you can focus on is how pretty he looks against you. How happy he looks down there as he leans back in to kiss and nibble, as if it’s all he could ever want. 

How could you stop him? How can you deny him something he seems to genuinely like enough to touch and kiss? Jay deserves everything in life, even if you’re not someone who can fill his cup and keep him happy. You can…be happy with him right now, at least, right?

Because it’s hard to not feel good when he does it. Being touched on a bad day is something you’ve always dreaded, yet it feels good. It feels better. Like he’s forcing you to let him see every single thing that’s bothering you, proving that sometimes it’s better to stop hiding. No more stressing that he will see you in the wrong lighting, the worst angle, that he somehow didn’t catch on that you aren’t the skinniest girl in the world. He’s seen it all now, and he’s not running. Only his view should matter, and he so desperately needs it to.  

“Hm?” He hums from below, assaulting your thighs with kisses as you watch him retract one hand and grab himself between the legs. You can’t tell if he’s just adjusting, or if he’s kneading it, but you don’t really care. 

He’s…too hot when he looks like this. God.

It’s like something is shifting. He’s different today than he was on all those other days with you. He was always so handsome, but you only saw him as a man who would grow tired and bored of you. A man who was just out of reach despite him clinging to you. You didn’t cling back, you didn’t want it to hurt when he pried you off of him. 

But now? He’s somehow more handsome. More beautiful, more masculine, more of this, and more of that. He’s Jay amplified to the point that he nearly glows in the sunlight from your window. Sharp features leaving little shadows on his cheeks and neck as he does his boyfriendly duties. And maybe you’re just realizing that he genuinely picked you. This isn’t a duty if he doesn’t want it to be at all. Being with you…isn’t a job for him?

 If he was tired, today would’ve been the day he left, wouldn’t it? Is it really just natural for him to be like this with you? He’s not leaving. He’s doing everything you never thought anyone would want to do, and he’s beautiful while doing it. 

Maybe you are too? At least in his eyes. Maybe, it’s okay to believe him. 

“What’re you looking at me for?” He smirks after a long moment and nuzzling all over you.

“You just–” You swallow thickly, feeling your heart thumping against every sensitive spot on your body. “You’re so handsome.” 

“Mm,” He hums with a short nod before sinking his head down further, landing his lips over your panties before blinking up at you. “You think so?” 

That need for confirmation from you brings floods of comfort, knowing that Jay has insecurities too and sets them aside if it means he gets to believe you and what you think of him. Like your opinion on himself matters more than his own. 

“I do–” You sigh, feeling his lips ghost over you, his hands holding you so firmly, his eyes still blinking up at you. Fuck.

“Handsome enough to wrap your legs around me?” He questions cheekily, smirking against your clit before pressing his lips down in a harsh kiss against it, feeling the swell of it himself. 

He knew you’d have to breathe before giving him the “no” and smiles when it’s exactly what happens. 

“N-no-” You groan, body twitching at the slight pressure he offers over your panties. 

“No?” He smirks again, pulling his lips back and looking at you. “I’m not handsome enough? You don’t want to do that to me?” 

“No!” You retort in slight panic, never wanting Jay to feel bad about himself. “I do!” 

He hums a pleasant sound in response, knowing it couldn’t hurt to shoot his shot, hoping that one day you really will stop being so afraid to smother him. He wants that. He wants to feel your thighs press against his ears as your legs pull his mouth ever closer to–

“Someday, though?” He whines over his fantasy, now using one hand to toy with your panties, slowly pulling them to the side. 

You nod with a shiver, blinking down at him as he awaits the answer he wants to hear. It’s the way you know that’s what he wants too, the way you don’t doubt him in this moment. 

He smiles at your nod before darting his eyes back down, seeing the swell of your clit and feeling like he’s making it through to you at this point. You’re wet, you’ve been wet, you’re letting him, you want it. 

Even on a bad day, you want it.

So, he’s not going to sit here and fuck around. No more playing, teasing, or expecting you to say things out loud. He doesn’t want to push his luck, anyway. He goes straight into it too, barely kitten-licking against your clit as he holds your panties to the side, glancing up at you just to get a good look at his beautiful girlfriend before he closes his eyes entirely, and focuses.

He’ll be damned if he doesn’t have you screaming for him, asking for more. He’d be so fucking happy if you even just…thrusted up a bit, chasing his tongue, losing yourself even for a moment in the pleasure where you’re not overthinking what your body is doing. 

Jay is dead set on that, actually. Licking hard and fast against your clit in all sorts of directions. Swirling it around, drooling warm saliva all over you, flicking, sucking, then moving lower to lick long, languid stripes up and down to clean you up. Repeat, repeat, repeat, until finally, you’re making sounds. 

Cute little sounds that he knows probably embarrasses you even more, but he eats them up. He presses his tongue harder, grips your leg tighter, nearly rips the panties from you as a whole over how turned on he is by the sound and taste of you. 

And then, he pulls back just for a moment to glance up. 

“Fuck–” He whispers to himself out of breath, seeing the way you’re chewing on your bottom lip and gripping onto your shirt as if to pull it over your own stomach. You’re so hot, so, so fucking sexy to him. “My hair, grab it.”

It’s a ploy so he can busy your hands and, well, get your shirt back up. He wants to see you, all of you, and– well, he’s into the whole hair pulling thing. 

Jay really, though, really loves the idea of you showing him exactly where you want it. Even now, after so long together, you’ve very rarely asked or indicated what you want. 

He’s actually shocked that you do it. With a bit of guidance anyway, as he lifts slightly to grab your hand in his, placing it in his hair, and the other trapping your hand under his and pushing your shirt up as he moans all the while. 

Then, he’s back at it, one hand pulling your panties out of the way, the other hand flat on your belly, and you’re lying here exposed, watching him ravish you as if no weight on your body could stop him. It’s arguable that he doesn’t care at all about the insecure aspect of yourself. He’ll ignore your self hate if he could, but you don’t let him. You make it so loud. 

Jay is louder though, and he makes damn sure of it as he re-adjusts as he continues to lick and suck against you. He loves the feeling of your fingers in his hair, and really, really loves the way your fingers grip harder when he does that thing. 

So he keeps doing it. Slurping your clit into his mouth before practically making out with it. Full open mouth on you, licking hard, with purpose, then moaning a little vibration to help push you further into that pleasure. 

And oh, there it is. That grip in his hair tightens, he feels you slightly press his face harder and all he can manage is a small “mhm,” against you to encourage more. He’s losing you to the pleasure, which is the exact fucking goal here. 

You deserve this, to feel good without worry. 

He could do this all day if you’d let him too. Arguably, he almost thinks you would if it weren’t for the fact that he feels the grip in his hair loosen and your legs shaking around him. 

He pulls back again to check on you, noting the darkened look in your eye. He thought you were about to ask him to stop, saying that it’s too much, but no. This is…better.

You, for some reason, felt something in your brain shift through all of this. He’s kind of being forceful. Making you let him see everything, wanting you to put in some work too, and you’re into it. Weirdly, you’re very into it right now that the words come out easy. 

Well, kind of. You can’t really think straight right now. 

“Jay–” Your voice shakes as you look down at him, the wet on his chin and lips shining in the light as he looks at you with concern. “Please.”

Then, a smile from him before he’s licking his lips and crawling up and over you. 

“Aw,” He coos, pressing a kiss to your lips before looking directly into your eyes. “You want more now?”

You nod with glassy eyes, looking up at him like a docile pet, very animalistic both internally and externally. Like nothing exists outside of you aside from him, a very willing boyfriend to give you what you want. 

He likes it. Loves it, really, with the way you’re being so vulnerable now. He’ll take care of you always. 

“What do you want, baby?” 

You blink up again. Suddenly feeling, not insecure, but shy.  He doesn’t expect you to answer though, solidifying the understanding part of his personality in your mind. He, instead, grabs your hand and drags it down his own body, right to his cock. 

“This?” 

You moan in response, entirely accidental but, it still happened. His smile at that is something to die for too. Really, really handsome with his sharp features as he presses himself into your palm, urging you to squeeze. 

“Really?”  He puts emphasis on reassurance, confirmation. “You sure you’re feeling up for it?” 

And god, you know if you were a normal person, and he had a normal girlfriend, he probably would have to ask for a confirmation after already being begged to do something, yet here he is. 

“Please,” You smile in your shy bliss when you say it, feeling how hard he is and how wet he’s made you dripping between your legs. 

He nods, leaning down for one more kiss before trailing your hand up to his zipper, allowing you to be the one to take it out. And you do, unzipping his pants and now using both hands to undo his button. 

He watches you do it, utterly in love with the way your shirt stays above your collar bone, and your stomach folds as you lean up to do it for him. He stands up tall on his knees to let you, admiring the view from above before he feels your cold hands slide his pants down and grip him right where he needs it most. 

You finally glance up at him now, noting the way he’s looking at you without a hint of disgust. God, you really like Jay. You really, really, might even love him. Which is scary, but weirdly welcomed right now. He’s in love with you, right? To be looking at you like this? To be so hard, leaking all over himself at the sight of you, the taste of you?

“Oh, you’re so pretty.” He sighs, watching your face, scanning your body, and then moving his eyes to where your hand holds his cock in place. “Lay back.” 

You listen solely because of his softened voice. You lay yourself back against your pillows, suddenly feeling a bit better in your skin when his cock twitches at the view. Still half clothed, whatever, he uses his knees to pry your legs open again as he grips himself now. 

“Baby–” He pauses for a moment, still gripping himself but only looking at your face now. “Can we– um,” He trails off now, looking away and feeling a bit shy himself now. 

You tilt your head so fucking cutely at him that he nearly dies on the spot. God, fuck, how did he manage to be your boyfriend? You’re lying here like this for him, because of him. He’s slightly obsessed, and so badly he wishes you knew. Then, you let out the smallest “What is it?” and his brain malfunctions before he’s throwing himself forward on you, leaving one hand between you to aggressively shove your panties back to the side. 

Lips just inches from you, he’s already bumping the head of his cock against your hole, trying to pry it inside without the conversation needed. And to be fair, he can’t really help it. You just look so pretty, you’re acting so cute, he’s so…so in love with you. He’d stop if you told him to. 

He’d get on his knees and beg you for forgiveness. Yet, still, he has to ask before he goes any further. So, he tries to control it, leaving the head of his cock right there, as if your pussy isn’t begging for it–

“Please, can I just do it?” He groans, one arm shaking as he tries to hold himself up. “Please let me, just this once.”

It takes you a moment or two to comprehend what he’s asking and…oh. You…forgot? You didn’t even think about it. And the fact that he’s asking–

You nod shyly, well aware that you’ve taken your birth control religiously anyway. 

“Oh, fuck–” Jay groans deeply into your ear as he drops back down, instantly sliding his full length into you, raw. The slide is overwhelming for him, surely it’s a lot for you too.

No matter how many times the two of you have had sex, it’s always different without a condom. And this is the first time he’s felt you like this. Both of you always responsible, always so fucking careful with each other. 

You mimic his sounds at the thickness opening you up. It’s hard to adjust when he’s already so deep inside, and you can’t help but squeeze around him with pained little groan. He kisses you through it too, mumbling little words of “thank you, baby, fuck, mmf, you’re so–”  before he slides out again. 

All the way, he slides out all the way before pushing back in again without stopping. Wanting to feel all of it, wanting you to feel all of it too. And he still groans into your mouth, losing himself alongside you with how tightly you’re gripping him even through the wet seeping out of you. 

It’s like he forgot how to use words in this moment, which is fine, given the situation. He’s never been good with words anyway, clearly. And hearing you moan with him, feeling you kiss him harder, your legs wrapping around him as if to shove him in deeper– it’s all he needs. 

“Yeah,”  He manages to whisper in a deep breath, still pulling out entirely before pushing back in. “Fuck– y-yeah, like this?” He pulls back and looks at you. 

“Yeah–” You parrot him, pussy still quivering around him to the point it’s all he can feel right now, and it drives him to shorten his thrusts. 

No longer pulling all the way out, but now just to where his tip is inside of you, then pushing in again, and again, and again. 

You make little sounds each time he bottoms out, and he can feel the way your warm belly flutters under him. It’s so much, so perfect, everything he could ever want. He wants to see it, all of you, the entirety of you take him so well, loving him the way he’s always wanted, letting him love you back.

So, he pulls up now, leaning back and holding your thighs open as he stares down at where his cock, now more quickly, slams into you. The view of your body from this angle drives him to do it harder, harder, watching your whole body move with the act and goddamn– how could you not find yourself sexy?

“I’m already so fucking close,” he seethes to himself, eyes zoning in on your stomach. Because from here, he can see your face in his peripheral as well as his cock sliding in and out and it’s just, “perfect—god.” 

You’ve already lost feeling in your toes at the pleasure as he talks away above you. You’ve only just adjusted to his size and you can’t even focus on covering your body because he seems so lost in a daze at it. Like he really is going to cum right now, regardless of how hard or fast he’s fucking you, regardless of if he had a condom or not. He’s…so focused on you.

You can feel your weight shifting with each thrust, but somehow it just feels better and better as you feel his hand unhook from your panties and shoot to your clit, rubbing it relentlessly. You stare up at his now pleading eyes. 

“Need you to cum first–” He whines, flexing his body as if to hold off. “Please, baby, are you close?” 

Well, you are now. 

Maybe it’s something about him losing himself, or maybe it’s the way he’s rubbing circles around your clit threatening an orgasm whether you want it or not. You can barely answer before he feels it. 

Your body tries to push him out at the tight squeeze of muscles, but he points his thrusts in you much harder, watching your face and focusing entirely on what you look like when he’s giving you what you need. 

Usually, you hide your face, usually, you don’t let him sit up like this to really see you. Now? You’re not hiding your face. Even if both of you are still partially clothed, this is the most natural state he’s ever seen you and in, god, you squeeze so tight, you get so wet–

“Ah-” He groans in surprise as he stares at you and the way your eyes squeeze shut, with your mouth hung open through your orgasm. “Ahhh–” He bellows out as he feels his own release pumping into you so deeply. 

He shoves his hips forward even more, almost shoving you entirely up the bed in one single thrust because, let’s be honest, weight is never an issue. He can and will shove you up this bed with his cock alone just to reach deeper.

You feel it, so deep inside of you that it almost hurts as you come down from your orgasm. But god, the way his hands grab at you, squeezing your flesh as he pumps ropes into you, practically drooling as he falls forward against your neck and continues his panting and groaning. 

In all fairness, he’s never wanted to cum in a girl more. Raw or not, the fact that it’s you just, means something to him. You let him see, let him feel, finally, you let him, and it makes the orgasm last longer.

Makes it feel better. 

So good that his ears pop and his entire body twitches on top of you as he finally comes down. 

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

“I’m supposed to be doing this for you, you know?” Jay pouts as he lays spread eagle on your beg, feeling you drab against his skin with a warm towel. 

“Hmm.” You mostly let his argument fly through one ear and out the other.

“Hey, are you listening?”  He grabs your hand to stop the pampering before pulling you down on him. 

You try to get off of him instantly on instinct, but he knew you would. He holds you tightly, not letting you move even an inch off of him before he can finally feel you relax. 

“Really, why are you the one spoiling me right now?” He asks in a softer voice, much less whiny. 

“Jay,” You whisper against him, hiding your face in his neck. “You literally stood up and got light headed–” 

He hums in disapproval. 

“Still, I wanted to be the one–”

“Sh,” You hush him with a lighter voice than what you had when he came over. “We can shower in a minute. You needed to rest after–” 

“Pfft,” He blows his hair up and out of his face with a short breath. “I’m bothered that you weren’t the one getting light headed, why don’t you need rest?”

You pause, dumbfounded as you pull yourself from his grip and stare right at him. 

“Jay. My legs are literally still shaking.” 

› author's note: hiiii! i'm here to say thank you guys for the support in the pineapple on pizza? post! it was really nice to see that so many of you enjoyed it, so here is a part two! honestly i enjoyed writing dilf!hannie quite a lot and couldn't get him out of my brain for months so here it is, a part two lol. and this chapter is looooong, so buckle in!

also another note: this is incredibly self indulgent. like everything i write. but i think this one takes the cake.

› disclaimer: minors DO NOT INTERACT. this post is intended for 18+ readers ONLY. please have your age stated in your blog description and try not to look like a bot please 🙂

“Have you seen my keys?”

Morning routines were always a mess. Something different happened every time, and somehow, even though you’ve done this more than a dozen times, it was still hard to catch up.

But you were getting the hang of it.

The apartment was a controlled chaos, as you liked calling it. The air smelled of coffee and the soft fragrance that Jeonghan wore to work. Repetition was starting to have its effect as you began to associate your mornings with those two scents.

“Have you tried looking under the couch?” you asked, turning around with a small bowl in your hands. You placed it carefully on the small tabletop of Sohee’s booster seat and watched quietly as she sank her little spoon into her bowl of cereal and milk.

“I should’ve added more milk,” you mumbled, biting on the inside of your cheek.

The little girl didn’t seem to notice, though. She ate happily, kicking her feet in the air and clapping her tiny hands together as she chewed, milk dripping from the corners of her pouty mouth.

You heard a sigh, and then the sound of footsteps approaching from the hall, and you lifted your head.

Jeonghan was still buttoning his perfectly ironed shirt, his hands going lower and lower, distracting you from your initial task. You felt your lips parting before forcing any kind of control onto your facial expression. His black trousers were also yet to be fixed, but as he finished buttoning his shirt, he tucked it inside his pants, quickly fastening his belt.

You lowered your gaze to the little girl slamming her palms onto the tabletop. Sohee was dancing happily. And you were glad that you had zero witnesses to your ogling your boyfriend quite shamelessly.

You brushed crumbs off the table, picked up the empty bowl and put it away. “Alright,” you said with a sigh, pretending to be deeply focused on the morning routine. “Did you find them?”

When you looked up, you found that Jeonghan had also been staring. His eyes were trained on the scene happening before him. His mouth parted, and he appeared to be confused for a split second—giving himself a very brief shake. “Yeah,” he smiled shyly and patted the pocket of his trousers. “Under the bed.”

“Huh,” you grinned. “How could they have gotten there?” you asked, innocently tilting your head.

Jeonghan sighed. The smile was still glued to his face, but it slowly brushed off as he raised his wrist to his face, looking at his watch. “I’m late,” he said, delivering the words with an annoyed edge in his tone. “Fuck. I’m so late,” he added, turning around to grab the jacket that had been previously placed on the couch.

Panic rushed in your veins. It was a big day for Jeonghan at his work—he had a big meeting in which it was certain that he would get some good news about a project that he had proposed for the company he worked for. You knew what this meant for him.

You looked at the time. His shift started earlier than yours did, and with another twist to your stomach, you knew that he wouldn’t be able to drop Sohee off at the daycare and then make it on time to his meeting.

“Go. I’ll drop Sohee at daycare,” you blurted right as he was throwing Sohee’s things into her bag.

His gaze snapped up and locked onto your face. The shock was flitting, but you were able to catch it before he blinked and parted his mouth to say something.

But you were quicker— “Here. Take my car and I’ll take yours so I can put Sohee in her car seat. We can switch later,” you said, stumbling over your words as you fished your car keys from the pocket of your smart trousers, handing them to him.

Jeonghan straightened, fixing the wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose—you always went a little crazy when he did that—but this time he placed his hands on his hips, his face thoughtful, calculating. “Are you sure? I don’t want to cause an inconvenience with—”

“Babe, you’re not causing anything,” you insisted, thrusting your fist holding the keys into the space between you and him. “Take my car. Go to your meeting. I’ve got Sohee.”

At that, Jeonghan’s face relaxed, starting to approach you with a softened look on his face—like he could melt just at the sight of you. He took the keys from your hand.  “You’re godsent, did you know that?” he asked, his tone low as he grabbed you by the waist, pulling you to his body.

“I’m just here to help,” you said lightly, meeting his gaze as he bent his head to meet your lips with his own.

Jeonghan gave you one feathery kiss. “Thank you, baby,” he whispered, pushing his lips on yours again. “Be careful, okay? Call me if anything happens.”

You smiled against his lips. “I got this,” you repeated in a sweeter tone.

Part of you was sure that Jeonghan knew this as well. But Sohee was his entire world. And he was quite literally leaving her in your hands. 

And you were unsure as to what to think about it.

Jeonghan turned, peeling himself from your lips with a begrudged groan and placed a kiss on top of Sohee’s head. “Goodbye, sweetheart,” he cooed gently.

Your tummy twisted again. This time, the reaction was from the way Jeonghan switched into dad mode in the blink of an eye. The switch from hot boyfriend to diligent father never failed to mess with you.

Sohee lifted her head, her eyes looking at her dad, but she didn’t respond.

“Be good today, okay? Eat all of your meals and try not to miss me too much,” Jeonghan insisted, trying to get her to utter something. “I’ll see you later, sweetheart. Byeee,” he cooed again.

But Sohee kept looking at her father fixedly.

“Sweetheart, say bye,” Jeonghan encouraged Sohee again, this time lower but still gentle.

“Maybe she’s not feeling it today, babe,” you muttered behind him.

A few weeks ago, Jeonghan confided in you that he started to notice that Sohee often froze at the moment of speaking full sentences. Initially, he had brushed it off, thinking that his daughter was innately shy, just like himself. But as months passed by and she continued developing other social skills, he began to believe that it was something else.

“Right,” Jeonghan mumbled, not hiding the slight look of worry on his face. But he leaned and propped another kiss on her forehead before stepping back. He kissed you on the cheek, handing you the keys to his car.

“Good luck,” you mumbled, and he replied with a quick nod. You and Sohee watched quietly as Jeonghan slipped through the door.

As soon as the door clicked shut, you realized what you had gotten yourself into. It was supposed to be a simple task, yes. But it had a thousand layers of meaning beneath it. Taking Sohee to daycare was something you could do every day, gladly—but something felt off.

Like you were starting to cross a line, and neither Jeonghan nor you knew how to talk about it.

Taking Sohee to her daycare was one thing—driving Jeonghan’s SUV was another.

It wasn’t a particularly daring task either, but it also put your nerves on edge. After fixing Sohee’s daycare bag and your own stuff, you grabbed her first, hoisting her up your hip, and then you swung your bag and Sohee’s on your shoulder.

“Ready to see your friends today, Sohee?” you asked, raising your tone into a sweet one. It felt practiced, and you remembered the first few times you ever did it—how it made your cheeks flush in embarrassment. But after a time, you could say that you understood why people would talk in a cute way to kids, it came naturally.

“Yeah,” Sohee replied, the word landing almost aloofly. Like you had just caught her in a moment where she didn’t find any barriers for her to speak.

You pushed the button of the elevator and slowly moved your head to look at her.

Sohee was a perfect little girl of almost three years of age. When you met her over half a year ago, you were sure you were holding a little angel. She was gentle and sweet. Her head was full of dark hair that matched her long eyelashes, just like her father’s.

“Oh, yeah? What are their names?” you asked, eyeing her as you stepped into the elevator with her still attached to your hip.

“Dany,” she mumbled perfectly, raising her tone as though she were about to make a list of names.

“Dany? Okay, and who else?”

“Nora,” she said, quieter this time.

The elevator paused on its way down, opening the doors for another person to step in. You knew the conversation was over.

Sohee fell silent, lowering her gaze from you and fixing it on one point on your shirt. You realized after a few seconds that she was staring at your hand, at your painted fingernails. What made you certain was the way she raised her hands to her gaze, comparing her fingernails to your own.

Something twisted inside you, the idea of her and you doing each other’s nails dawned in your head. And you knew what that pang in your stomach was—possibility. You were thinking of the future.

“Here we go,” you mumbled as you approached Jeonghan’s navy blue Kia Seltos. The fresh smell of new and clean leather still lingered inside it as you opened the door and put Sohee in her chair.

She never complained, just quietly sat on the chair and looked at you as you fixed the buckle of her safety belt.

“Safety first,” you said, trying to fill in the silence. You grabbed one of the toys from the toy basket sitting beneath her seat and showed it to her. “Look, it’s Rory!” you cried dramatically, showing her the dinosaur plushie that you knew she loved.

Sohee extended her arms and made grabby hands at the green and very cute T. rex. She didn’t speak again, no matter how hard you tried to get her to say something.

The parking lot was buzzing with activity, cars coming and going, hustling parents coming in and out of the building, dropping their kids off—and you for sure felt like a fish out of water, but you didn’t want to entertain the thought for too long. You signed Sohee in without an issue—the staff mentioned that as you were dropping Sohee off, Jeonghan had phoned them to let them know you were coming in his stead.

You soothed Sohee’s hair and gave her a quick kiss on her head as she scrunched her fingers on your back, almost affectionately. “You be good, sweetie,” you said before leaving her and turning to the parking lot, feeling strangely empty when you climbed inside the SUV.

You carried out work as usual. You didn’t think about the odd feeling clawing at your heart for the rest of the morning. The second the clock hit one o’clock, your phone started vibrating, snapping you out of your monitor screen. You scrambled to get your phone, only to see Jeonghan’s face on the screen.

“Hello?” you responded with a hushed tone, looking over to see if you had interrupted the workflow in the office. But you realized the space was nearly empty, and everyone had left for lunch.

“Am I interrupting?” Jeonghan noticed immediately by your tone alone.

“No. I just didn’t look at the time,” you told him, pushing yourself off the chair and walking in the direction of the elevator.

“Oh, I see. Is this still a good time to speak with you?” he asked.

You smirked at his choice of words. “I don’t know, you tell me. Is this a good time for you?” you retorted, noticing that he was also in his cubicle.

“You got me,” he said, and you could imagine the shy smile on his face. “I’m stepping outside, hold on.”

You pushed the button to the elevator and waited while on the other side of the line, you heard Jeonghan moving.

“Okay, I’m out,” he said with a sigh. “Are you going to the food court?” he asked.

Jeonghan knew your schedule well, and he was also very familiar with your routine since you always kept him in the loop of the things you did. When you started dating, you would quite practically narrate to him your daily life through text messages, to the point that he knew all of your co-workers by name without knowing them in person.

“Yes,” you replied, stepping out of the elevator.

“Chicken salad?” he asked with a low tone, making you think that he probably had some co-worker passed him by.

“Oh, I think I’m moving on from that,” you told him. “I want a burrito. A chicken burrito.”

“Oof, how different,” he teased.

“Let me be,” you bit back and then frowned, suspecting something was off.

“I will. But I’m going to tease you about it either way,” he said with a brief laugh. “How is work going?”

“Fine,” you replied simply. But it was then that you dared to ask, “Is something going on, babe? You’re never this weird.”

Jeonghan sighed, and you knew he was smiling. “Am I being that obvious?” he said, and then, before you could say something, he continued. “I just wanted to tell you to come tonight and have dinner with Sohee and me.”

“Mmn, why do I feel like this could’ve been a text,” you said as you sat down at an empty table that was cluttered with a tray and a single French fry sitting on its box.

He laughed. “I am trying to get somewhere here,” he said.

“You’re taking a lot of detours!” you laughed with him. “Of course, babe. You know I love having dinner with you and Sohee.”

“Good. Great,” he mumbled, and something about the dejected way his words came out made your ears perk.

A long moment of silence happened between you, where you could hear the sound of his breathing and nothing else. Your gaze fell out of focus, landing on a single grain of salt on the dirty table in the very crowded food court.

“Is everything alright, babe?” you asked, your tone lower. “Did the meeting go well?”

“Yeah. It’s not that. I want—” he cut himself off, but then, “I want us to talk,” he said.

Your heart fell to your stomach, the feeling so impactful that it left you completely stunned. There was nothing in the world that could replace the feeling you’d get when you heard the words we need to talk, and all of its variations.

“Oh, then—t-that changes things,” you mumbled awkwardly, not forgoing that he ignored your initial question.

“Wait, no,” he started, noticing the tension in your words. “It’s nothing bad.”

“Okay,” you said under a heavy sigh. “Then tell me now,” you said.

“I’d rather wait until tonight—”

“Did I do something wrong?” you asked instead. And perhaps you could’ve controlled yourself better, but you were fully induced in anxiety now.

“No. I swear it’s nothing bad,” he told you firmly. “It’s something I have been wanting to ask you.”

You started toying with the lonely grain of salt with the tip of your finger. “If it really is nothing bad, then you could ask me now,” you said, fully aware of how shaky your tone was.

“Are you sure?” he asked slowly, stretching out each word.

“Very.”

Jeonghan sighed and then paused. You could picture him clearly—standing on the balcony of the building where he worked, looking very polished on the outside but probably tense, judging by his tone alone.

“I was just thinking that we’re always so busy, you with work and me with—well, with everything and…” You heard him pause, and then release a sigh, and that’s how you knew he was also steadying himself. “I wanted to know if you would like to move in with us. With Sohee and me.”

In all of the things you could’ve possibly imagined him saying, this wasn’t one of them. You straightened in your seat as a chill ran down your spine. “Jeonghan, are you serious?” you asked, unable to control how firm you sounded.

“I don’t mean now, but sometime in the future. We can plan and see how things go from there,” he offered, and he sounded steady, but you could notice the slight edge of nervousness in it.

The feeling invading your body made you feel as if you had been dropped from a very tall building.

“Babe…” you started, looking for the words to say.

“It’s okay if you want to say no,” he said. “I just wanted to talk about it with you tonight over dinner.”

You closed your eyes, swallowing hard. “I’m not saying no,” you told him.

“You’re not saying yes either,” he sighed in defeat. “I’m rushing into things.”

Your chest caved in. You wanted to say yes, you wanted this. But there were so many things that you thought needed to happen before you moved in with him and his daughter. In your book, things like the first I love you had to happen before sharing a roof with that person. Or at least knowing them for a full year.

Oh, and the judgment. Your friends already thought you were insane for dating a single parent, and now you were moving in with him eight months after meeting him? Not only that, your whole life had taken a turn when you started dating Jeonghan—to the point that the person you were a year ago wouldn’t recognize the person you were now.

“Can we talk about it tonight over dinner?” you asked, your tone tiny.

“Of course. We can talk about it more calmly,” he said, and you couldn’t ignore the note of sadness in his words. “I get it, baby. I should’ve waited. I’m sorry.”

“No, Jeonghan. You did nothing wrong,” you said, but then something felt off.

“Listen, I have to go back. See you tonight?” he asked, and you caught the way his tone picked up. Something had come up.

You deflated completely. “See you tonight, Jeonghan.”

And then something hung in the air. An unspoken thing between you, something that needed to be said.

Your heart started to hope.

But then the line went dead.

There was a thought that you couldn’t quite keep away. When you met Jeonghan, you instantly knew this man was for you—every bone, every nerve ending in your body told you that. Then, when you knew he was a single father, you knew that a relationship with him would be challenging. But it turned out to be easier than expected.

However, things started to shift from the first night you and he took things to the next level. Spending the night in his bed was a very conscious decision you both made. You were both ready, and truth be told, aching for each other. What you didn’t foresee was that you were climbing those steps into a serious relationship without paying attention to how fast and how uncontrolled you were.

Now, it felt as though you were in too deep, but there were no rules or boundaries in place.

You gnawed on your lower lip, debating whether to write him a text telling him that you knew he meant well by his proposition.

Instead, you got up and went to the nearest convenience store, got a sandwich, and ate half of it on the elevator ride back to your office.

The rest of your shift happened in a blink. Thankfully, you were so busy that the aftermath of that call with Jeonghan was pushed to the second plane of your brain. You would sometimes remember it with a jolt in your stomach. And he also didn’t text you afterwards, which meant that he was also probably busy—or that’s what you wanted to believe anyway.

You came out of the office some four hours after the phone call, scrambling inside your handbag to get your car keys.

Your phone started vibrating furiously somewhere in one of the many pockets, your heart deflating stressfully in the thought that it could possibly be Jeonghan. A flashing thought drove that anxiousness right into your soul, telling you that he would be telling you that tonight’s plans were off.

But it was an unknown caller. And you picked up solely on the thought that it would be a work-related thing.

“Yes?” you said, putting your bag on top of the trunk of your car.

The caller was a woman with a very polite tone, asking for you using your full name.

“This is her,” you replied almost routinely.

“Hi! This is Katy from the Speech and Learning Center. Am I speaking to Sohee’s mother?”

“Oh—” you gasped, leaving the task of finding your keys completely abandoned due to the sheer shock that question gave you. “No. I’m her father’s partner. Is something wrong?”

“Oh, no. Everything is fine. I’m so sorry, ma’am,” Katy responded kindly. “We have you on Sohee’s file as the emergency contact in case her father doesn’t answer, and we’ve tried him three times just now, but no answer. Are you able to make choices about her appointments with us?”

“God,” you mouthed to yourself, screwing your eyes shut. “Um, Sohee’s birthday is on Friday, so Thursday would probably be better,” you responded automatically, and then you stopped yourself with a shake. “But I think you should try her father again.”

But then you remembered—Jeonghan had mentioned a very important meeting, the one where his boss would determine whether he had the promotion or not.

“I believe he was in a meeting. Maybe you should try in…” you checked your watch. “Twenty minutes. He should be off by then.”

“Understood. I will call him instead. Well, I thank you for picking up this call and wish you a good rest of your day. Bye!”

“Thanks. You too,” you replied shakily.

And then she hung up.

The drive to Jeonghan’s apartment felt like an out-of-body experience. You felt yourself driving, but at the same time, your mind was somewhere else. After being hit with two reality checks, one after another, you were reconsidering what to do, what to say to Jeonghan once you saw him.

He had assigned you as Sohee’s emergency contact. Not her grandmother, not her aunt. And certainly not her mother. You.

It shouldn’t be a big deal—maybe you were making it into a big deal. But after Jeonghan had told you he wanted you to move in with him and his daughter, this just felt like too much.

You turned the doorknob of his apartment door as you released a shaky sigh, trying to drive out all your nervousness. But as you entered and laid eyes on him, you knew it would be impossible not to be nervous for the remainder of the night.

Jeonghan was sitting on the couch, baby Sohee sitting safely on his thigh as he held a triceratops in one hand, making it clash gently against Sohee’s brontosaurus. His gaze immediately switched to the door as you crossed it. Then tension set in, making the features of his face harden.

And you probably were mirroring that same expression. You closed the door behind you quietly and removed your shoes by the entrance.

Jeonghan placed Sohee on the couch carefully as you walked to the living room, feeling strange.

“Hey,” he said, reading your face with his eyes.

Your heart was racing incredibly fast. “Hi,” you replied.

“I got it,” he said with a big sigh.

Understanding dawned on you with a blink. “You got promoted?”

He nodded, but his expression was still blank.

“Oh my god!” you gasped, thinking that the tension in his demeanor was due to the call from earlier. “Congratulations!” you said excitedly, going for a hug.

Jeonghan didn’t appear to be happy, not precisely. But he wrapped your torso in his arms, hugging you tightly. “Thank you, baby,” he sighed, sinking his face into the crook of your neck.

Then you felt a pair of tiny hands palming your leg intuitively. You pulled away from Jeonghan’s arms, looking down to spot Sohee trying to get your attention.

“I think she’s feeling left out,” Jeonghan interpreted keenly.

“Oh, my bad,” you giggled and bent down to hug her. “Come here, princess,” you spoke softly to her as you lifted her in your arms.

“Look,” Sohee said quietly, showing you a new dinosaur toy.

“Wow, what is this?” you asked her, your tone turning into honey.

“Saurus,” she mumbled shyly, still showing you her dinosaur figurine.

“A stegosaurus,” Jeonghan informed you quietly as he watched you carry Sohee in your arms. And there was that look again. The one you had seen in the morning. He was watching intently, calmly—like he wanted to remember this moment forever without missing a thing.

“This is so cool,” you told her, still using that tone. “Is this the one you liked the most?” you asked her.

She listened to you intently, but her gaze was fixed on her figurine. She shook her head.

“Show her your favorite one, sweetheart,” Jeonghan said as you placed her back on the floor.

She ran back to the couch, grabbed the forgotten dinosaur and brought it back to you. You crouched to be at eye level with her as she showed you a new Triceratops.

“Did you just get these?” you asked her sweetly, your tummy twisting in cuteness aggression as she just nodded, ruffling her black hair.

“It was one of her birthday gifts. I thought that it would be safe to keep them stashed in my closet, but I guess that I should’ve known better,” he said guiltily, crouching with you as Sohee went on to show you her new collection of dinosaur toys.

“You’re a very observant girl, aren’t you?” you asked her, to which she ignored completely.

You could feel Jeonghan beside you, his gaze set on you as you continued your silent exchange with Sohee. After some seconds of feeling the weight of his gaze on you, you glanced to his direction.

“Can we talk?” he whispered as soon as he caught your eye.

You nodded, tummy twisting uneasily.

Jeonghan opened and then closed the fridge in one short motion. He placed his empty hands on his hips as he released a sigh. You noticed then that he was anxious. “Sohee’s mother is coming to town.”

You froze in place.

Of course. You should’ve expected her to be for her daughter’s birthday. But part of you was also completely vexed about this piece of information—since you had believed for a moment that Jeonghan wanted to talk about the proposal he’d made earlier. But Sohee’s mother rarely called, to the point that in the eight months you’ve been dating Jeonghan, you had never even seen her in person.

“Oh, I see,” you said, swallowing hard. And then you added quite awkwardly: “Is she… did you… Did she call to see what you would do for Sohee’s birthday?”

Jeonghan understood where your curiosity came from. But he was still looking at you wearily, just like all the times he talked to you about a difficult thing in his life. Like the time he told you about his daughter, or the time he told you about Sohee’s absent mother.

It made your stomach churn.

And you knew what it was. It was selfishness.

“No. I called her,” he said. You knew that he was telling you the truth, and in doing so, he was nervous. “Sohee’s birthday is one of the few times I can get her mother to come see her, so…”

“I understand,” you said, resuming to set the table with the tablecloth and the dishware. “Do you… want me here that day?”

“Of course I do,” he said. You glanced his way, seeing his worried face—his eyebrows knitting softly. “Do you want to be here?”

“As long as you are comfortable with it, yes,” you said, and then added: “I just don’t want to complicate things.”

Jeonghan rolled his eyes. “Believe me, things can’t get more complicated with her. Soomin is just…” he shook his head lightly. “Well, you’ll see.”

You exhaled sharply. “Okay… no pressure,” you mumbled.

All you knew about Soomin was that she was not present in Sohee and Jeonghan’s lives from the moment Sohee turned eight months old. Her reason for parting and leaving everything behind was simply—I don’t want this life—and one day she packed her bags and left. Some months later, Jeonghan asked her for full custody of the baby, receiving it without any fight from her.

“Is she coming the day of?” you asked.

“On Thursday afternoon, after Sohee’s therapy,” he said. And then you noticed that the anxiety hadn’t quite brushed off. “I want you to meet her that day. That way we can have the party without any issues, if any.”

You raised your eyebrows, watching him from the other side of the table. “That bad?”

He nodded silently, throwing a look to the living room, where Sohee was dancing around to the music playing on the TV screen. “I just don’t want her to make a scene on Sohee’s birthday, you know? It’s supposed to be her day.”

The tension in your shoulders dissolved when you turned over your shoulder and saw baby Sohee bending her knees to the rhythm of the music, her tiny hands planted on the sofa to keep herself steady as she danced happily. Your stomach twisted with the realization that you loved Sohee in a way that you wanted to protect her, care for her.

You had gotten irrevocably attached.

You took a deep breath, slowly turning to see Jeonghan. “Don’t worry, babe,” you told him, smiling at him as you approached him again. “We’ll make Sohee’s day just about her, alright?” you said, pushing yourself to your tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

Jeonghan smiled softly. “Alright,” he said.

You stared at that smile on his face for one long second, and slowly, the memory of the phone call from earlier came back to your mind. Your heart faltered. You carefully thought of how to open the conversation, but nerves got the better of you first— “About earlier…” you said in a whisper, pausing to clear your throat. “Were you serious? About me moving in?”

Jeonghan inhaled slowly, blinking away from your face briefly, glancing to where his daughter was in the living room. “We don’t have to rush,” he said, licking his lips before turning his gaze back to you. “It’s a big step, but it makes sense, right? I mean, you’re already here all the time…”

You studied him for a brief moment. You were hearing him, but all you could think about was the way his shoulders were tight, the way he was gripping the back of the chair with one hand. And more than everything else—the way he wasn’t meeting your eyes.

“It feels fast, Jeonghan,” you said carefully.

“It feels right,” he countered, taking one step towards you. His face had changed now that you could see him with more closeness—his dark eyes were full of certainty, full of tenderness. “I want you here. With us. You’re already here all the time, you do morning routines with us, put her in bed, and drop-offs…”

Your chest tightened. Something felt off. And then by pure instinct, you glanced at Sohee. The baby had stopped moving, her gaze fixed on the flat screen mounted on the wall, sticking her index finger in her mouth quite aloofly.

But the sight of her made your tummy twist even harder. It was the realization hitting you like a train. If you lost this—if Jeonghan and you ever get to a point where you split, you would lose Sohee as well. The mere thought threatened to break your heart.

His gaze shifted—and without following it, you knew that he was looking at Sohee. “I’m just… scared of doing this wrong way, you know?”

You reached for his face, cupping it with your hands to draw his gaze back to you again. “Then we should slow down,” you said, your heart protesting against your words with a stabbing pain. “Just a little.”

He swallowed hard. “Okay,” he breathed.

“Yeah?” you replied in kind. “We slow down for just a little while. We could talk about it again when the timing feels right.”

Jeonghan grabbed one of your wrists, squeezing it gently. He looked relieved, so much so that the next sigh he let out was slow as he leaned his forehead on yours. “I’m sorry. The last thing I want is to rush you,” he whispered.

“It’s okay,” you replied, despite your heart deflating a little. “I understand. Just know that I’m not saying no. Okay?” you said, raising your tone just a little bit higher, trying to swallow your nerves.

“Okay,” Jeonghan replied with a breathy giggle, hearing your nervous tone.

You felt his lips grazing yours before he kissed you fully. It was then that you felt those three littlewords sitting on the tip of your tongue. You were falling for him, fast and uncontrollably. But instead of telling him that, you pushed your lips against his, kissing him fervently.

But then a sharp, and very high-pitched laugh pulled you both apart. Baby Sohee was laughing at something happening on the TV. You broke away and stepped back from Jeonghan.

“I’ll… bring her to her chair so she can have dinner,” Jeonghan said. And by the look in his eyes, you knew that there was something else on his mind.

You let out a tired breath. “What a Monday,” you sighed.

“Welcome to my life,” Jeonghan replied.  

After dinner, Jeonghan started to ready Sohee for bed, and that usually involved a bath, brushing teeth and then bed. It took him around thirty or forty minutes. And in that time, you usually took it upon yourself to tidy the space up. Initially, you had started doing it to kill the time while waiting for Jeonghan to come back—despite his insistence for you not to do it—but lately, it felt like it was part of your routine too.

You had put all of Sohee’s toys in the basket, folded the blankets and were now doing the dishes. The task had fallen into a steady rhythm, and so you were deeply focused on washing a pan when a pair of arms snaked around your waist, startling you.

“Stay the night,” Jeonghan said, his tone low as he bent his head to rest it on your shoulder. 

Your tummy twisted.

Ever since you slept with Jeonghan for the first time, you had fallen into a pattern of addiction. You would stay over at every chance you could get, which, granted, weren’t as many since you had a very hectic work schedule as a CEO Assistant and he as a single parent, and now newly ascended to Director. But even as you had finally stepped to that level of intimacy, it was life that constantly would get in the way. It wasn’t as easy to find a time for you to come to his apartment, and it would be nearly impossible for Jeonghan to spend the night at yours.

You felt his lips grazing a particular tender spot on the crook of your neck. “Hannie,” you sighed, recoiling from his sweet kisses.

“What?” he mumbled against your skin, you could tell from his tone that he was smiling. But he didn’t stop kissing your neck slowly.

You swore you could melt. When you took too long to respond, he giggled gently against your skin.

“Want me to stop?”

You had already scrubbed every inch of the pan you were holding under the stream of water; the task had been long forgotten. “No, I want you to let me finish doing the dishes,” you replied with a playful tone.

“Alright, my bad,” he said, stepping back from you and starting to put things away in the kitchen.

You watched him through the corner of your eye as he roamed all over the space. Feeling the absence of his touch on your skin made you swallow hard. “I didn’t say you had to stop,” you mumbled, feeling hot on the cheeks.

Jeonghan huffed, clearly still amused. “Baby, we’ve been going like this for weeks,” he said pointedly, then chuckled as he threw a look at your face, finding your pout.

Since the night when you slept with Jeonghan for the first time, you have had very few occasions of true intimacy. However, that didn’t stop Jeonghan from teasing you, touching you in places he hadn’t dared before that night, but now he did it at every chance he could get when no one else was looking.

It got you nervous. You liked him too much. Every time he touched you intimately, your mind would be thrown back to those nights where it was just you and Jeonghan. It made your blood dance, heating your entire body.

Only Jeonghan had that power.

You placed the last item on the drying rack and grabbed the hand towel, drying your hands before returning it to its place. “Fine, I’m done doing the dishes,” you said, putting your hands on your hips. “Where were we?”

Jeonghan let out a teasing huff. “You’re cute,” he said with a chuckle.

“You’re a tease,” you bit back, trying to sound as annoyed as you could, but instead your tone denoted how flustered you already were.

Jeonghan rolled his eyes at you, the smirk not washing off his face. “So? Are you staying or not?” he asked, his tone still playful.

“Only if you behave,” you said impishly.

Jeonghan raised his eyebrows, stepping closer to you. “Me?” he asked, his tone rising. He was close enough now that all he had to do was lift his hand to cup your face, fixing your gaze on him. “All I do is what you tell me, baby,” he said, his tone so low and raspy it was almost like a purr.

“So whenever you misbehave, is it because I told you to?” you huffed, not caring that his face was closer to yours now.

He smirked slowly as his eyes outlined your face. “Obviously,” he shrugged lightly. He finally closed the space between your lips and his, kissing you tenderly. “I always behave. While you, on the other hand…”

He didn’t finish his sentence, his gaze dipping to look at your lips briefly before he kissed you again. You smiled into the kiss, despite it being chaste in the way that he was only pressing his lips to yours repeatedly, creating soft, wet noises that only incited you to get more.

“Babe,” you muttered, laughing sweetly. “Kiss me properly,” you told him.

Jeonghan didn’t waste a second. Repositioning his hands around your face, he only leaned in, locking his lips with yours. His kiss was soft, but slow, wet, and so full of heat. You closed your eyes and let him dominate the kiss, parting your mouth when you felt the tip of his tongue swipe your bottom lip, and then you felt his tongue against yours.

Your legs tensed as an automatic response, a shot of arousal coursing through you like lightning. His hands switched from cupping your cheeks to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. That made a silent moan bubble in your mouth, so you grabbed him by the belt in his jeans, pulling him closer to you.

Jeonghan grunted in your mouth and then pushed you to the kitchen counter by simply taking two steps forward, making you take two steps back. His lips took yours with more vehemency now, kissing you deeply, with a very unique urgency. It made you lose control, it made you feel hot all over.

So you pulled back, but not far. “Let’s go to bed, yeah?” you said breathily, running a hand over his clothed chest.

Jeonghan smiled, making you think that he’d say something about your nervousness again. But he grabbed your hand, “Alright,” he said, and then he pulled you in the direction of his bedroom.

Whenever you stayed the night, you would wear Jeonghan’s clothes—mostly oversized t-shirts and sometimes sporty shorts. So much so that you’d noticed Jeonghan kept the clothes he’d lent you in a particular spot in his closet, making you suspect that he probably had stopped wearing them, only to keep them clean in case you came to stay the night.

Your gut twisted when Jeonghan pulled the same oversized t-shirt and handed it to you. “You know, you could bring some stuff in. I’ll empty a drawer for you,” he mumbled, turning on the bedside lamp.

He always said something akin to those words whenever he had the opportunity. It reminded you of his other request—of moving in. “Yeah, I’ll bring some spare pyjamas,” you replied nervously, turning on your feet to start unbuttoning your shirt.

“And maybe clothes for work?” he asked, and you could hear the hint of hope in his tone.

You already had a toothbrush and makeup remover wipes that you once bought to keep in Jeonghan’s bathroom. That time you’d also felt you were stepping over a line, for some reason. But Jeonghan thought it was endearing that you had asked him for permission beforehand. You don’t have to ask, he told you every time.

“Yeah, that too,” you replied, sounding short of breath. When finished unbuttoning your shirt, you threw a look behind you, seeing that Jeonghan had just turned his gaze elsewhere in that instant. You smiled to yourself, noticing that he, too, was acting strange, fidgety.

Or perhaps it was just staying behind the line you always painted. That was another thing that drove you crazy about this man—he always waited for your word. But he kept a keen eye on you, certainly making sure that you were not having trouble initiating. And this time was no different.

You liked Jeonghan. No, you loved him. And tonight, with all those questions roaming about in your mind, questions about moving in, taking care of Sohee, meeting her mother… You were simply too much in your head.

And Jeonghan knew.

After brushing your teeth and cleaning your makeup off, you slid into the bed beside him. He was eyeing you and the screen of his phone back and forth, waiting for you. “Ready?” he asked.

Your stomach twisted again. “Huh?”

Jeonghan smiled at you. “To sleep?” he added.

“Ah. Yes. Oh, yeah,” you stuttered nervously, scooting closer to him.

Jeonghan left the phone on the bedside table and turned the lamp off. He turned around, draping an arm around your waist as you also turned, forming up a spooning situation where he was the bigger spoon. He kissed your shoulder over his clothes, and then your cheek.

“Did you have a good day at work?” he asked, his tone soft and low.

You blinked, turning slightly to look at him. “Yeah. Why?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Hopefully I didn’t distract you too much with my stupid phone call,” he said.

Your heart softened. “It was okay, babe. Today's work was nothing out of the ordinary,” you told him, and then showed him a playful smile. “And I love your phone calls.”

“No matter how inopportune they are?” he asked, his tone waning ever so softly.

You nodded. “They never are. Stupid or inopportune,” you replied, your tone waning too.

He paused, looking briefly at your lips before bringing a hand to pinch your chin softly. “Where were you my whole life?” he asked.

Your heart could burst. You wanted to say a million things to him. You wanted to tell him how you fell in love with him at first glance, you wanted to tell him you loved him.

But you choked up. “I could say the same,” you whispered. And you weren’t lying—despite having had other boyfriends in the past, you had never ever felt love like this in your life. It only made you think that Jeonghan hadn’t either. And the thought broke your heart.

He smiled, moving his head so he could touch your forehead with his. “I’m never letting you go, you hear me?” he said.

You nodded. “Never.” Please.

You and Jeonghan fell asleep shortly after that, going back to your original spooning position. He wrapped an arm around you, and you snuggled close to him under the covers. Sleeping with him was extraordinarily good—he never moved, never snored, and you were careful not to disrupt his sleeping either.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, you felt him stir and slip out of bed. You became too conscious about it because the bed grew colder around you, and it was getting harder to go back to sleep.

You turned over, thinking that you might’ve done something to wake him up. But he was nowhere to be seen. “Jeonghan?” you called.

He stepped into the bedroom, carefully leaving the door ajar. “Did I wake you?” he asked, his tone low.

You watched him as he came back to bed. “What’s wrong?” you asked instead.

He sucked in a breath when he felt your warm body, as though he had been exposed to a chill temperature. “Sohee’s mother called.”

“This late?” you asked. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah. She’s fine. I suppose she didn’t look up what our time zone was before calling,” he explained calmly.

“Well, what did she have to say?” you asked, feeling sharply awake now.

He slipped his arms around your body, pulling you closer to him. His clothes were cold, as well as his skin. He was probably having the phone call outside on the balcony so as not to wake you or Sohee up. “A bunch of nothings. She cancelled Thursday’s plan. Said she’ll be meeting us at the party.”

You couldn’t help but feel relieved. “Did she say why?”

Jeonghan shrugged. “Yeah. But it was all an excuse.”

Something inside you deflated with shame. Here you were, feeling relieved that you wouldn’t meet Soomin a day sooner; meanwhile, that also meant that Sohee wouldn’t see her mom either until the party. And Jeonghan’s lower tone reflected that pity.

“I’m sorry, babe,” you murmured.

“It’s fine. I had expected something like that,” he replied, but you could still hear the hurt in his tone. “She promised she’d be here for Sohee’s birthday. So, I’ll take whatever at this point.”

Now, you were even more reluctant to meet her. Your gut twisted, but before you could even process what type of feeling you were having, Jeonghan kissed your brow, easing the storm cooking up in your mind.

“Shall we go back to sleep, beautiful?” he whispered, moving his lips to kiss your eyelid, then your cheekbone.

Jeonghan was so sweet, so loving, that it scrambled your brains to think how he was yours.

His lips reached your cheek, and you moved your face so that the next kiss landed on your lips. He planted a sweet kiss, but then you parted your mouth, trapping his bottom lip in. You kissed him deeply, trying to put all of your feelings into one single kiss.

You wanted to show him that you were madly in love with him without having to say the words. You kissed him with such force that had him moaning in your mouth. He said nothing, only letting you lead as you pushed him by the shoulders, wordlessly telling him to lie on his back.

He gave you one confused look that quickly evaporated once you straddled him. His hands snaked on your thighs as you bent forward, taking his face in your hands to kiss him, moaning on his lips once his fingertips grazed the lace hem of your panties. The sound only gave him the green light to continue, exploring your skin with the pads of his fingers as he hiked the t-shirt up your torso.

You pulled back, but only to let him take the t-shirt off, leaving you only in your panties, and your chest bare for his view. His gaze roamed all over your bare skin, but it was for just a moment. You leaned in again, his hands latching to your waist, while the other fisted your hair by the side of your head.

You shifted on your knees, grounding your hips down on him—but just barely. Jeonghan was already hard, and you could feel him just by moving on top of him a little.

Dragging your fingernails down his chest, you crawled back to give yourself space to pull his shorts down. Your fingers hooked around the waistband of both his boxers and shorts, and you pulled, uncovering an inch of skin as one of your fingers traced a line over his thin but dark, happy trail.

Jeonghan sucked in a breath—but this time it was because of something else. “Sweetheart,” he mumbled, looking at your hands as you pulled his cock out, grabbing it with your other hand.

“Mn?” You raised your gaze to him.

His hands slipped on your hips, clutching you gently as you lifted them to move your panty line aside. “Condom?” he mumbled, groaning and clenching his jaw as you guided the head of his cock down your folds.

You pretended not to hear, lowering your hips and slipping him inside your warm walls, all in one go. And fuck, he was perfect—his cock was perfect too. The feeling of having him raw and stretching your pussy was the sweetest feeling you’ve ever felt. Your mouth fell open, eyebrows drawn together as you started bouncing on him gently.

“Fuck,” Jeonghan gasped, closing his eyes before sinking his head back on his pillow.

You anchored your hands on his chest, using him as support to roll your hips on top of him. And yet again, you wondered what the scene would look like—middle of the night, his pants halfway pulled down, you bouncing on top of him with your panties still on and trying your best to be quiet.

But it was nearly impossible. Jeonghan moved his hands from your hips, palming your breasts and caressing your pebbled nipples with the pad of his thumbs. You clenched your teeth together, letting out a soft whine as you ground your hips on him, trying to take his cock deeper into you.

“Quiet, baby,” he said, smirking. But then he moved his hands, one to your hip, the other on your lower abdomen. He pushed your panties further aside, pressing your lower belly with his palm before starting to rub your clit with the pad of his thumb.

“Fuck—Daddy,” you mewled, hips buckling on top of him.

“Do you like that?” he asked, his tone low. He glanced at your face once before his gaze dipped to your cunt, moaning at the sight of his cock disappearing inside you.

You nodded, picking up the pace of your hips. The pad of his thumb rubbed your clit steadily, not switching, unstopping. It was driving you closer to the edge with every second that passed, making your walls tighten around his girth.

“Is this what you wanted, baby? Daddy’s cock?” he asked with that lazy smile still on his face, his tone raw, but waning.

It drove you insane—the switch from being sweet and gentle to talking to you like that. “Mm-mmph,” you admitted.

He tilted his head back slightly, teeth clenched tightly as he tried to exert some control on himself. But as you continued rolling your hips on top of him, you saw him starting to fall apart—his eyes went white before he squeezed them shut. And then, he made a sound, a long, raspy moan that was stuck in his throat. “Baby, I’m not going to last long,” he said.

It was your turn to smile now. “That’s okay, Daddy,” you told him sweetly, and then you tilted your head, showing him a playful side. “I could slow down for you.”

Jeonghan’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. “I don’t think that’ll make a difference,” he gritted, smiling despite himself.

His hands switched to your sides, lifting your hips with one powerful groan that rumbled in his chest. The sound made your pulse quicken, and your gaze immediately shot to the door, as though trying to fish for any kind of sounds coming from down the hall.

Jeonghan acted quickly—rolling your back onto the mattress effortlessly. A gasp spilled from your mouth, eyes locking with his as he slid your panties down your legs. And then he crawled between your thighs before taking his t-shirt off.

“We should be quiet,” you told him, smiling shyly as he placed his palms on your knees, pushing your thighs up to your chest.

“Let’s see how long you can do that,” he replied, letting out a tired giggle.

And he had a point about that. Last time you and Jeonghan had sex, you had been so noisy that the downstairs neighbors made some tacit remarks about a creaky bedframe. So you watched as Jeonghan grabbed a pillow, probably thinking the same as you and placed it behind the headboard.

“Can’t make any promises,” you mumbled, still looking as he pulled his shorts and boxers down, taking his hard cock in one hand and guiding it to your drenched pussy. You swallowed hard, holding your breath as the crown of his cock nuzzled against your entrance, and then he slipped inside you, so fucking slow.

You couldn’t resist it. The sight of his length disappearing in your mound was alluring, and the feeling of him reaching so deep inside you was even more delicious than riding him. He pushed your thighs to the sides of your ribs by climbing on top of you, so he was now fully pressing your body with his.

Jeonghan smiled. “See? Didn’t last long,” he said, hearing your soft whines as he bottomed out inside you.

“Fuck—daddy,” you gritted, breathing hard under the weight of his body, but you loved it. “Move, please, move.”

You didn’t need to beg—he did it right away, pulling back to push right in, creating a steady pace effortlessly. He framed your face with his forearms, his face so close to yours that he only leaned slightly to get a swift kiss. You cupped his head in your hands, lifting your head so you could kiss him deeper, earning a soft moan from him.

It was truly suffocating. The warmth of his body, being so close to him. Looking into his eyes as he claimed your body like it was his. It overwhelmed you—the need to be his woman and have him like this every night, forever. You were going insane with the mere thought—waves of love and lust coursed through you uncontrollably.

The room became flooded with the muffled sounds of pleasure—the small whines you made, the short moans Jeonghan let out in between tired breaths, and the very obvious creaking of the bedframe despite the headboard having a pillow to not slam against the wall.

You loved it. Loved how you both had fallen into an addiction of silent quickies in the middle of the night, stifling moans and speaking filth in hushed tones. The sheer adrenaline of trying and failing to be quiet made you wet. You could even catch the slippery sound of your arousal as Jeonghan pushed his cock deep inside you.

“God,” you gasped when he picked up a pace, fucking you faster, still massaging that glorious spot inside your walls. 

And you let pleasure bloom inside your body with a hot, intense shiver. Long ago, it was so rare that you’d cum with penetration alone—but somehow Jeonghan always made you cum like that, effortlessly. Your mouth dropped open, almost tasting your orgasm on the tip of your tongue.

“You close?” he asked with sharp, ragged breaths. He gave you a dazed look, outlining your features with his gaze. When you nodded, he gave you another light smile. “Let go, baby.”

You stared into his eyes, watched him as his jaw twitched when he ground his teeth down—you noticed he was close too. “Cum with me?” you asked, cheeks turning hot as you heard how fucking sweet you sounded.

Oh, you were in love. You had come to this realization a while ago, but now it was becoming more and more unbearable. Your mind spun with questions—did Jeonghan know? Could he see it in your eyes? Hear it in your tone? There you were, riddled with questions while you were begging for him to cum with you, and he wasn’t wearing a condom.

“You’re cumming first, Babygirl,” he replied, his tone waning.

You could’ve sworn that he had a way to hear your thoughts, but you didn’t let that distract you—because you were instantly swept over by an intense wave of pleasure. A gasp tore from your chest, and before you could let out a scream, Jeonghan crushed his mouth against yours, drowning out your sounds of pleasure.

He continued thrusting in that same calculated pace until you became a puddle of pleasure. You were wet. Sweaty, hot, and quivering on his bedsheets. And he was kissing you softly, passionately, like he hadn’t done before.

“Felt good?” he mumbled.

You nodded. “Amazing,” you drawled sweetly.

“Good,” he mouthed, the muscles of his face tightening, like he was in pain—he was close.

Your heart skipped a beat. “Don’t pull out,” you said.

He blinked, his gaze finding you instantly.  

“Please,” you whispered, linking your wrists behind his nape, as though trying to hold him right there.

He blinked slowly and then let his forehead rest on top of yours. “Fuck,” he sighed, pushing his hips against yours with tight, deep thrusts. You closed your eyes as another euphoric rush gripped your body wholly. “God—fuck, baby,” Jeonghan drawled, letting out a raw, quiet moan as he gave you a final push, his cock twitching in your walls as he spilled himself deep inside you.

Jeonghan remained there, breathing fitfully, his body completely glued to yours as though unable to move. And then you wished you’d known what to say next. You wished you knew what to do or say after making love. So instead, you moved your face, finding his lips with your own. You kissed him slowly, trying to convey the quick rhythm of your heart, the butterflies swarming inside your chest.

He pressed his lips against the corner of yours, then he kissed your cheek. “You’re okay?” he whispered, gently pushing the tip of your nose with his before pressing another kiss against your lips.

Your heart gave another leap. “Yeah,” you mumbled shakily. “We should probably get ready to sleep. You have work tomorrow.”

Jeonghan pulled back, blinking at you confusedly. “Yeah. Sure,” he replied, his gaze outlining your features. “But after I’ve taken care of you, baby.”

And when he peeled off your body, you knew you had made a mistake. You felt foolish then, because this man was clearly thrown off by the switch in your tone, confused by your evident refusal to talk about what was going on in your mind.

But he took care of you with the utmost gentleness, offering to start a shower for you, which you declined due to how late into the night it was. However, you cleaned up in the bathroom, and when you came out, he had a glass full of water ready on the bedside table, and he’d already changed the bedsheets.

“I put your clothes in the washing machine and programmed it for a quick start early in the morning,” he said thoughtfully as he unstuck the pillow behind the headboard. “They should be clean and dry by the time we both get up.”

It made you smile—the very careful manner in which he was fluffing the pillows as you approached the bed. “Thank you, babe,” you replied, feeling your heart warm up.

“Don’t thank me,” he whispered, lifting his head as you stood beside him before the bed. “Hopefully you will remember to bring in some spare clothes next time?” he insisted, smiling shyly about something, and then— “Sorry. I keep bringing it up.”

Your heart deflated. “Don’t apologize,” you replied, placing your palm on his side, feeling the muscle of his abdomen contract at your touch. “I’ll remember to bring some stuff in. I promise.”

“Okay,” he mumbled, grabbing your hand and taking it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles. “Let’s go to sleep.”

You nodded, climbing back on the bed and snuggling him close. Jeonghan wrapped your waist with one arm, the little crook beneath your earlobe.

Your heart fluttered. “Do we already have a cake?” you asked suddenly.

Jeonghan pulled back. “What?” he mumbled.

You turned slightly. “For Sohee’s party. Did you order a cake?”

His brow creased. “Yes. Why?” he asked curiously.

You turned again, face to your pillow. “It’s nothing. I can bake really good chocolate cakes,” you gave him a light shrug. “Thought I could help with something.”

Jeonghan smiled; you felt the change in his breath on your neck, making you shiver. “I’ll remember that,” he said, pressing his lips to the first spot of skin he could find. “For her fourth birthday.”

The knot in your tummy twisted harder. “Yeah…” you trailed off, deciding to snuggle closer to him, silently telling him to hold you tighter to his body.

“Sleep well, pretty,” he whispered, unaware of the shift happening in you.

Your head was about to blow up. You were sure. And every time you blew air out of your lungs, your abdomen screamed in pain and exhaustion.

“Perhaps I’m not made for this,” you mumbled to yourself quietly, wrapping the bead around your fingers to secure a tight knot, and then proceeded to put tape on one side of it, sticking it to the wall.

You had successfully decorated the side of the dining room that had the most cleared space for it. There perched a big and colorful daisy of white and light blue petals, with a Happy B-day Sohee sign sitting in the centre in baby pink colors, made by your hand. You had pulled out your party decorating skills, which you had put away since entering college, but they came in handy the moment you realized Jeonghan wasn’t planning on decorating.

“Okay,” you sighed tiredly, looking at the wall. Now that you had one task done, you needed to tend to the other two tasks you had set for yourself.

Task number one was decorating, done. Task number two was tidying up the place for the guests. And task number three was psyching yourself up for meeting your boyfriend’s ex, and the mother of his daughter.

Your stomach did that thing again—it felt like some deep part of you protested against what you had ahead for you, and it wanted to draw your attention to it by stabbing you right in the gut.

But you went ahead and tidied the place up—putting toys where they belonged, folding blankets and taking them to the bedrooms, cleaning the kitchen counters, and setting the table just nicely.

Two hours had passed since you’d arrived at Jeonghan’s place, and all of your tasks were done. You realized you could sneak fifteen minutes of mirror talk and touching up your makeup before Jeonghan and Sohee arrived back home.

When you came out of the bathroom, you felt like something was shaking inside your veins, leaving a trail of prickled nerves in its wake. But you took a deep breath—catching the sweet smell of vanilla, sugar, and cinnamon from the birthday cake set in the centre of the round dining table. You outlined the entire space with your gaze, mentally checking every single item you told Jeonghan you were in charge of getting for the party.

Balloons. Fruit tray. Candy tray. Banana milk. Peach drinks (Sohee’s favorite), candles and goodie bags, which were dinosaur themed.

The smart lock of the main door clicked and beeped, making your stomach contract and your nerves fire up in different directions inside your limbs. Jeonghan was crossing the door carrying a backpack on one shoulder, gift bags hanging on the same arm he was carrying Sohee with.

“Hello, you two,” you chirped, anxiety instantly swept when you saw Sohee’s adorable face. “What took you so long?”

“Sohee’s teachers,” Jeonghan exhaled tiredly, closing the door behind him and watching you approach him and Sohee. “They had a lot to say to me. One of them even got emotional.”

“And what did they have to say?” you asked, eyes set on the little girl perched on her father’s arm.

“Oh, just how much they appreciate Sohee,” he replied, bumping his daughter on his arm and turning to her. “They said you were the best girl, right? The smartest, kindest and friendliest. She’s been pretty talkative at school,” he added at the end, giving you a meaningful glance.

You made a shocked expression. “Is that true?” you asked, and then giggled at the sound of your own voice.

Sohee was listening to the conversation while she chewed on the tip of her index finger. But she nodded intently.

“They gave her a couple of presents,” Jeonghan said, gesturing to the gift bags on his arm. “Some of them were from her friends, two of them were from her teachers.”

You took one glance at the gift bags. “Oh, shoot,” you muttered.

“What?” Jeonghan said, brow furrowing.

“I forgot the present I got for her back in my apartment,” you said dispiritedly. But you turned to Sohee, extending your hands at her. “Hi, sweetheart!”

Sohee inclined her little body forward, just as you grabbed her by the torso and wrapped her around your hip. The movement was so natural that it went almost unnoticed, but it was Jeonghan’s gaze, the way he blinked, and his eyes lit up as he looked at his daughter, pointing at the wall behind you.

“That’s okay, we can go get it tomorrow morning,” Jeonghan mumbled faintly, still looking at his daughter perched now on your hip.

“Mn,” Sohee hummed softly, kicking her legs up in the air and pointing at the wall slightly harder.

“Oh, right,” you turned on your feet, taking the baby girl to the living room area so she could see the wall decorations. “We made this for you, kiddo,” you chirped, looking at her pretty face.

She pointed again.

“D’you like it?” you whispered, heart warming up at the sight of her sweet brown eyes taking in the big daisy on the wall.

She nodded aloofly. And then kicked her legs, pointing them to the floor.

“Alrighty,” you mumbled, carefully setting her on the floor. You watched her run joyfully to her bedroom, perhaps to get something, a toy for her to show you.

But then you turned, catching Jeonghan still staring at you, hands deep in his pockets, head tilted to one side. But it was the tenderness in his eyes that made your heart flip in that same rhythm as before—the one you had been so keen on avoiding, but was becoming unbearable.

“Do you like it?” you parroted, showing him the wall with your hands. You exhaled, trying to calm your nerves down—but it was futile.

“I love it,” he replied with a warm tone coating his words. Then he approached you with a slow step, slipping a hand on your waist to pull you closer to his frame. He leaned his head forward, planting a sweet kiss on your forehead. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

A vehement shudder crossed your entire body, and you let your eyelids fall closed as he planted another kiss on your forehead, this time longer. The words he said were ones you knew your heart was aching to hear—but the noise inside your head didn’t let you form a response.

The doorbell rang loudly, making you cringe visibly and turn to the door. “I’ll get it,” you said, slipping out of his embrace.

“No, I’ll get it,” Jeonghan said kindly.

“Then I’ll go get the birthday girl,” you said, forcing a smile that didn’t feel too stiff on your face—but your heart was going a thousand miles per second.

Jeonghan caught something in your face, his eyes outlining your features before you turned around and hurried down the hall and to the toddler’s bedroom.

Sohee was playing with the new dinosaurs that her father had gotten for her birthday. She already got them all lined up on the colorful bookshelf in one corner of the room. Your stomach twisted with cuteness overload when you heard the tiny noises she was making for a triceratops as she made it stomp across the shelf.

“Hey kiddo,” you cooed, approaching her and crouching behind her. “Your friends are here. Do you want to come with me and greet them?”

She turned around and directed a steady look at your face. “Yeap,” she nodded happily, taking another dinosaur in her fist and running out of the room, squealing like she knew she was the star of the day.

You rose, and with a big sigh, you followed the toddler down to the dining room. You greeted the guests, parents of Sohee’s friends from daycare. And before you knew it, the party had already started, and it was going smoothly.

You made light conversation as you got juice boxes for all the kids, who weren’t many, but they felt like a massive multitude when they were swarming around you trying to get juice boxes and goodie bags.

“Alright, alright!” you laughed, holding up both hands. “Everyone will get one, I promise!” you said while handing a goodie bag to each kid.

You felt a hand on the small of your back. “That includes me?” Jeonghan asked close to your ear before planting a kiss on your cheek.

You leaned into the kiss. “If you behave, I’ll consider it,” you replied warmly.

“Mmn,” he hummed, pressing another loving kiss. “You know you’re all I want.” 

Your heart stammered, making you blink and find his eyes. Your tongue twisted, and you wished you had been quick enough to quip back something as enticing—but it was already too late. The doorbell rang again, but this time, neither you nor Jeonghan had to go get it.

It was Sohee’s mother, Soomin. She had only rung the doorbell to announce her arrival, since she knew the combination to the smart lock—a thing you had thought only you and Jeonghan knew, but you were proven wrong.

The person who crossed the door was entirely not what you had imagined. In all the scenarios where you had pictured yourself meeting Jeonghan’s ex and the mother of his child, you’d never imagined that it would be like this.

Soomin was beautiful. She was tall and had a bright smile as she crossed the door. “Where’s my girl?” she shouted from across the apartment, and your poor heart fell to your stomach when you saw Jeonghan smile widely.

“Oh, thank god,” he mumbled beside you. He ran quickly to his daughter, snatching her from the floor and making her squeal with the abrupt movement. Sohee laughed, drawing the attention of the room as Jeonghan carried her to see her mother. “Sohee baby, mom’s here!”

“Hi, peanut,” Soomin said in a high-pitched tone. “Happy birthday, sweetheart! Mommy is here,” she said, and then she leaned towards Sohee, who was sitting in Jeonghan’s arms.

But Sohee recoiled, turning her back to her mother. It was only natural, you thought, since the child barely recognized the face in front of her. But the scene before you hurt to watch either way. Jeonghan bounced the toddler in his arms, trying to drag her attention back to Soomin, who was getting something out of her leather handbag.

“Look what mommy got for you!” Soomin said, still speaking in that faux sweet tone. “Look!”

Sohee turned to see her mother getting a red gift bag, small enough that it fit inside the slick black leather bag. Sohee stared at it for a hard second before extending her hand and grabbing it, and then she proceeded to kick her legs to the floor.

“Alright,” Jeonghan said, putting the toddler back on the floor.

Sohee ran freely, and back to her little friends. Your gaze followed back to Jeonghan, who greeted Soomin with a very dry hey, but then approached to give her a quick hug, devoid of all kinds of affection. It was almost like neither of them knew how to treat each other anymore.

“Wow, you really went out this time,” Soomin said, looking at the decorations, the birthday cake carefully set in the centre of the table, birthday plates piled up, and trays of fruit and candy already about to empty.

“Oh, it was all her,” Jeonghan said, extending an arm towards you almost ceremoniously.

Your heart warmed up at the gesture, but your nerves had eaten you up already. You approached them with a stiff step until Jeonghan wrapped his arm around your waist to pull you up to his side, showing you off proudly.

“So I can put a face to the name, finally,” Soomin said, showing you a dashing smile. She extended a hand towards you. “I’m Soomin, Sohee’s mother.”

You took her hand. “Pleasure to meet you,” you said, smiling at her politely.

At that exact second, one of the little kids had pulled one of the candy trays from the table and thrown the candy all over the floor. “Oh—” you uttered, motioning to go clean the candy from the floor.

“I’ll get it,” Jeonghan said, giving you a quick but reassuring look. And then he said to you, “I’ll be back, baby.”

And you knew he didn’t want to leave you alone with his ex, but he also didn’t want you to go and clean up the floor. So you stood there, anxiously watching as Jeonghan picked the candies and put them back on the tray one by one.

“Can I help with anything?” Soomin asked, more for decency than true intentions of helping.

“Nope,” you said awkwardly. “Everything’s set up.”

Soomin leaned her head to one side slightly before throwing one glance to the kids playing with Sohee. “You’ve done a lot already.”

“It’s not that big of a party,” you said, shrugging.

She smiled faintly, and you knew what she was looking at. “It’s big enough,” she said faintly.

You followed her gaze, finding Sohee playing with one of her little friends. They were both sharing a soundboard that someone at the party had gifted her.

“She’s shy, isn’t she?” Soomin said, her tone was devoid of snark, but then she added, “Kind of like her father.”

Although the comment wasn’t ill-natured, it hurt your heart to hear it. “She just takes a minute,” you replied, wishing you hadn’t sounded so harsh towards Soomin. But your heart was beating frantically, making you afraid that it was going to jump out of your chest.

And then you watched as Soomin’s gaze went around the room again, stopping on the wall behind you. Her dark brown eyes went over the balloons forming a giant daisy, and the big birthday sign made by you.

“You’re really good with her,” Soomin said after a moment. Her eyes found you. “Jeonghan has told me about you.”

Your tummy clenched. “I care about her.”

“I can tell,” she replied, and then you caught an edge in her tone. And then added, softer, “Not everyone would step into something like this.”

You frowned. “Like what?”

Soomin raised her eyebrows, gesturing around the apartment, the toddlers. “Well, a life that’s already in progress, you know what I mean?”

You told yourself that the words were neutral. Nothing was targeted towards you. But it still felt like it was.

You forced a smile. “I didn’t see it that way.”

Soomin’s expression didn’t change; it was as though she were having a great time talking with you. “That’s probably why you’ve made it work. It was really brave of you to have stepped in. To do what I couldn’t.”

Your stomach clenched again, and your mouth twitched like you were about to tell her something you’d regret.

“Baby! Where are the candles?” Jeonghan called from the kitchen.

You exhaled, glad. “Excuse me,” you said, and as you walked away, you felt Soomin’s gaze on you, following you.

Your ears were ringing, anger still boiling inside you. Jeonghan was closing a drawer, his expression hardening at once as he took one look at you. “Everything okay there, beautiful?” he asked, glancing towards the living room.

You could still feel Soomin’s eyes on you. You nodded. “Yeah, everything’s fine,” you said, trying to mask your anger. You would talk about it with him later.

His eyes outlined your expression. “Sure?” 

“Sure,” you said, opening the top cabinet and then handing him the pack with green and pink candles in it.

Jeonghan grabbed the candles, sighing. “Looks like the party is going well,” he said, giving you a hopeful smile and glimmering eyes.

Despite the rage still tightening your stomach, you smiled at him. “Sohee’s happy,” you said, casting a look at Sohee. “I’ll go get her,” you told him, turning around and walking towards Sohee.

The toddler was happily focused on her toys and her little friends. Her eyes were wide and glimmering in excitement, and candy wrappers were spread all across the floor. Something caught your eye—a red, unopened gift bag, forgotten in one corner of the living room.

“Princess, come here,” you called softly, crouching behind her to see her at eye level. “Do you want cake?”

The question caught her attention immediately, making her turn around and face you. You stretched your hands to her, and she silently responded by stretching her little arms to you. You grabbed her, standing up to secure her at your hip, and she instantly wrapped her legs around you.

“Oh, I got her. Let me.”

Soomin was already behind you, showing you her palms so you could transfer Sohee to her grip. A pang of jealousy sank deep inside your belly, making you want to hold Sohee closer to your body, almost like a protective defence mechanism.

You conceded, though begrudgingly. “Of course,” you replied, but there was no way you could hide the disappointment in your tone.

With a fretful pain lacing your heart, you handed Sohee over to her mother. The toddler kicked her legs anxiously and turned to look at you as though trying to understand she wasn’t in your arms anymore. And with little control over yourself, you glanced in Jeonghan’s direction, almost as knowing he’d be looking. He had watched the whole exchange from afar, and he immediately recognized the dispirited look on your face, because all he did was offer you a solemn smile.

It made your blood boil. What else could he do? A tiny voice called inside your head. You’re not Sohee’s mother. The voice said with painful regret.

It was the truth. No matter how bad it hurt, you weren’t Sohee’s mother. And you were getting attached to her—attached to this life without having a true anchor to it.

And the thought ruined the rest of the night for you.

So you watched as Soomin sat on the table with Sohee sitting on her lap, the toddler forgot about the anxiety of being with a stranger as soon as Jeonghan stepped beside the chair and lit up the candles on the cake.

You debated whether to step closer or just watch from afar. The candles you had picked for Sohee’s cake were green and pink, and a single sparkling candle that, once Jeonghan got to light it up, stole the attention of the toddler. Her big, brown eyes glimmered in the dark against the sparkles that flew up to the ceiling, and instead of gasping or crying out as the other kids did, Sohee just stared at it, fascination spread across her face, parting her little lips.

Your stomach twisted in adoration. And you couldn’t resist it. You pulled out your phone and hit the record button, determined to save this little moment forever—even if in real life it only lasted about fifty seconds.

Sohee was happy. She ate cake happily, shared her toys with her friends and seemed to be getting better at talking with others. And that was the only shining light in your night.

By the time that all the guests had left, the apartment didn’t look as wrecked as you half expected it to be after hosting about fifteen people in it. The paper plates were stacked in a crooked tower, forks and spoons piled next to it on the kitchen counter, breadcrumbs spread all over the surface. There were plastic cups everywhere, toys, gift bags and confetti all over the living room floor.

The front door opened, and Jeonghan slipped inside the apartment, quietly closing the door behind him. The minute he stepped in, you decided to busy yourself by looking for a large trash bag that you had left somewhere in the kitchen.

“Well, that’s everyone,” Jeonghan said, pleased that all of the guests had gone home. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing.

You started shoving trash into the bag as quickly as you could without making too much noise, and you were half glad that there was so much to do before you went home because you needed to think.

But Jeonghan had already noticed you were in a mood, and you could feel him hovering in the kitchen, trying to get a read on you. “The party went really well. Everyone had a lot of fun,” he said, his tone gentle.

You were grabbing a bunch of plastic cups in one hand, throwing them inside the bag without caring that they were still half full. “Yeah. Sure,” you huffed, continuing to clean the dining table.

The silence that followed was truly unsettling, making you weigh on the tone you had used and the manner in which you were moving. You were stepping out of control, and you didn’t care where you were taking this conversation.

By the time you found the courage to raise your gaze, you found Jeonghan frowning at you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Air left your lungs like you were suddenly punched in the chest. “Did you have fun today?” you asked, raising your eyebrows. “Because I didn’t.”

Jeonghan’s frown didn’t ease; he was confused. But his gaze softened, showing you worry. “What do you mean?” he asked, his tone dropping when he added, “Did something happen?”

You left the bag aside on the floor, dropping your arms at your sides in a defeated manner. “I mean, I spent the entire evening running around, trying to make sure everything worked,” you said, gesturing around you. “I made the food, drinks, decorations, and cleanup. I didn’t have the chance to sit down once.”

Jeonghan blinked. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

You sighed. “That’s easy to say now.”

He shifted his weight, motioning to approach you. “That’s not what I meant—”

“I know,” you cut him off, putting a hand between him and you. “I know you meant it nicely.”

You could feel the waves of emotion coming closer, coming to get you. And your body acted off of instinct, picking up one stray napkin on the table and folding it in half, almost as though preparing yourself to have something in your hand for when you started crying.

With a tearless sob, you added. “It would’ve been nice if someone had noticed while it was happening.”

Jeonghan’s frown disappeared. “I noticed.”

“Did you?” you asked, still holding your emotions back.

“Of course I did,” he said, his tone dropping to an even gentler one.

But you could still feel the tears prickling in your eyes, everything you held back making you taste them in your tongue. “Then why was I still doing everything while everyone else was enjoying the party?”

Jeonghan tilted his head to one side, looking at you as though finding you endearing that you were about to cry for something like this, but still approached you with caution. “Why didn’t you ask for help?” he said, and then he hesitated, almost as though wanting to take back his words, so he added instead, “I was busy with things as well, I thought we were both busy, baby.”

You deadpanned to him. “You really didn’t think I wanted to enjoy the party too?”

He opened his mouth, his eyes widening as his mind started to reel, you knew it.

But you kept going. “I wanted to sit down with her when she opened her presents. Or be next to her when she blew out the candles. Honestly, Jeonghan, I felt like a guest at a party I helped throw. I couldn’t even hold Sohee for two minutes!”

His face fell in utter worry, his shoulders going slack. “Is this all because Soomin wanted to hold her?” he asked, his tone hollow, like he now couldn’t believe you were throwing a tantrum over this.

You let out an exasperated sigh. “No—! Yes! But it’s not only that!” you stammered.

Jeonghan stepped back, but just slightly, as though he wanted to take a good look at your face—disbelief still contorting his face. “Soomin was just trying to have a moment with her as well,” he shook his head. “I don’t see that as a bad thing. Maybe you’re reading too much into it.”

“Am I?” you asked, raising your tone.

And Jeonghan sighed. “Baby… she’s Sohee’s mother.”

It wasn’t necessarily cruel. His tone was devoid of venom, but it still hurt—like a bitter truth being forced down your bloodstream, burning and leaving an ache in its wake.

Your entire body shook before a powerful shudder. “Right,” you said slowly.

Jeonghan immediately realized the weight of his words, the pain translating in your features. “Wait—” he said, his jaw set tight as his eyes widened in worry. “Baby, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—”

You shook your head. “No, I get it,” you said, but your voice had lost all power, and the wall you had put between reason and emotions crumbled. Tears burst in your eyes, and a sob broke through your chest.

“You’re right. I’m not her mom,” you continued, giving him a brittle smile. “I never forgot that. Not for a second,” you said, voice cracking slightly. “You know, I keep reminding myself of that. Of where I stand.”

Jeonghan took another step towards you, this time more decisive. “Baby, you’re blowing this out of proportion,” he said, trying to be nice still, trying to figure out how to calm you down.

You looked down to wipe your tears. Confetti was spread all over the floor, and your stomach twisted at the thought of how this scene might appear from the outside. The apartment was a mess—gift bags, wrapping paper, candy, and new toys scattered across the living room. A half-eaten cake sat on the table, and balloons were stuck to the walls. The lights in the kitchen and living room remained on. You and Jeonghan were arguing, trying to keep your voices down so as not to disturb the little girl’s sleep.

You finally found the strength to look at him again. And when Jeonghan saw your tired face, fear replaced the worry in his eyes. He saw the determination in your eyes—he knew you well. “I think I’m going to go.”

Jeonghan sighed, motioning a step closer. “It’s late. Stay,” he said, his tone still wrapped in a careful gentleness.

You shook your head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jeonghan,” you said, your tone fading into a mere whisper. “I’m going home.”

He took a pause, studying you with his gaze roaming all over the features of your face, finding something in your eyes that made you wonder what you would look like. Because he seemed to lose all composure. “Baby, come on,” he said, his eyebrows drawn in. “We just had a fight. That doesn’t mean you need to leave.”

You sighed tiredly. “It wasn’t just a fight, Jeonghan,” you said calmly. All need to fight was gone now. You had lost. You shook your head. “I’m done.”

You turned around, heading towards the door. But you caught a glimpse of Jeonghan’s expression, the shock and worry making his eyes wide and glistening. “Baby.”

You grabbed your sweater and your handbag. The only two non-disposable belongings you had in his house.

“Baby,” he insisted again, more firmly now. “You’re not seriously leaving because of something I said.”

You paused, but you didn’t let the moment catch you in your determination. “It’s not just something you said. It’s a fact.”

Jeonghan stiffened, but words got stuck in his mouth, making his throat bob visibly.

You wrapped your fingers around the doorknob. And then all self-control slipped out of your hands. “Today I learned two things. One is that I was changing my whole life to fit into yours,” you told him, pulse quickening when you realized what you were doing, what you were breaking. “And the other thing is that I was the only one doing that.”

Jeonghan took a weak step towards you, his eyes showing the realization of what was about to happen. “We can still figure things out,” he whispered, eyes wide and glossy.

And something reminded you of how easy Soomin walked back into Jeonghan and Sohee’s life, how fleeting her presence was compared to the mess you had in your hands now. Your heart was breaking, and you couldn’t fit in your head how easy it was for her to walk out and walk back in. You envied that for a split second, because now you had a broken heart to fix.

Jeonghan still thought the problem was logical. And not something you had been wanting him to truly see.

You took in a deep breath. “Goodbye, Jeonghan,” you whispered, slipping out through the door and shutting it quietly behind you.

Coming back home to your apartment felt hauntingly out of the ordinary. It was as though you were stepping into a scene that had been put on pause. There was a forgotten glass of juice half empty on the kitchen counter, and you couldn’t remember leaving it there. The ironing board was standing in the middle of the living room, iron unplugged and in the holder—two things you had left there while in a hurry to get to your work in time. Plants all over the apartment were starting to wither, neglected.

A secondary instinct kicked in, telling you that at this hour you’d be helping Jeonghan tidy the place up while Sohee slept. You’d be stacking toys back into their place, folding blankets while Jeonghan did the dishes.

You closed your eyes slowly, finally hurting when you realized that you had walked out on all of it.

And your apartment didn’t feel like home.

You left your things on the counter and decided to plop down on the couch, face down against the cushions. Your pulse hadn’t slowed down since the moment you’d said goodbye to Jeonghan—and when you collapsed on the couch, you realized that you were crying. And you weren’t crying angry tears like when you were having a fight with Jeonghan, no.

You sobbed uncontrollably, tears kept coming and blurring your vision. And there was nothing in your mind except the memory of Jeonghan’s face when you walked out on him. You did the right thing, you told yourself, but your heart felt empty.

It had been the right thing. That much was true.

You loved Jeonghan. You loved Sohee.

Somewhere in the kitchen, you heard your phone buzzing, vibrating furiously inside your handbag. You ignored it. And you ignored it ten times all through the night, until it eventually ceased ringing.

Quiet settled around the empty apartment. An apartment that was yours, with all the things you built on your own. And the worst part is that it didn’t feel like home anymore. You kept wanting to reach for your car keys and leave somewhere.

Did you overreact? You wondered. I probably did blow everything out of proportion. You thought, remembering Soomin’s satisfied face when she told you that you were brave for stepping into her shoes.

Your chest tightened.

But you pushed it down.

The first twenty hours were hell.

That’s how Jeonghan felt. Like a long, gruelling torture that only pushed him to reflect.

The balloons on the wall had started to deflate, but he didn’t want to take them down. The rest of the things that you had prepared for the party had already been cleaned up, one thing that Jeonghan had done the morning after you left. It helped him think instead of bombarding your voicemail with messages pleading with you to call him back.

I could just go to her apartment, he thought. But he imagined the scene—Sohee on his arms as he begged you to come back. And he instantly pushed the idea away.

The apartment was awfully quiet. Until his phone started to vibrate on the dining table, making his stomach drop, and his hand reached for it instantly, thinking it was you, finally calling him back.

Soomin.

Jeonghan sighed, his heart deflating.

But then, a knock came to the front door. And for a moment, he thought he imagined it.

Then it came again. You knocked two quick times, deciding to step back from it and wait, clasping the gift bag with your hands. Standing there, your gaze fell out of focus, and inevitably started comparing the times you had stood there, how quickly Jeonghan would get to the door and welcome you in with open arms.

When Jeonghan finally opened the door, it was the first time you had seen him truly torn. It was normal for you to see him untidy after a long day at work, hair messy, unmade tie, untucked shirt, whatever. But no, this time was different. His face was darkened by the dark circles under his eyes, but it was the deep, conflicted sparkle in them that disheartened you completely.

“Hi,” you croaked, and cleared your throat nervously.

Jeonghan let out a quick sigh, running a palm down his mouth and chin before stepping aside, letting you in.

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t know what you were expecting him to say, but silence was the last thing you had anticipated. But you stepped into the apartment anyway, immediately spotting the quietness, which could only indicate one thing.

“Where is she?” you muttered, turning around to see Jeonghan shutting the door behind him quietly.

“Asleep,” he told you quietly, leaning back against the door with his hands tucked behind his back. You noticed the tired look he gave you, but that wasn’t the only thing that consumed your attention wholly—he was wary. “I just put her to bed.”

Your heart squeezed one more time, and you gave him a reproachful look. “Oh, okay,” you sighed, looking at the green gift bag in your hands. “Then I’ll leave this with you. She’ll like it, I’m sure. It’s a—it’s an axolotl plushie,” you said, stammering over your words with the need to hurry and get this over with. You wanted to run back to your car and cry.

Jeonghan nodded, licking his lips in a way that told you he had a lot to say, but decided to remain quiet. See how things would unfold first.