You always had a thing for Thanos. Every time you saw him at the club, he was either popping pills, rapping with whoever had a mic, or just messing around with random fucking people. Someone new every time.

Sometimes you catch him watching you. Maybe more than just sometimes. Long enough for it to feel deliberate.

You liked his height. He was lean, toned. His frame fully filling out a t-shirt.

And here you were, in the bathroom. With him.

But you knew it was momentary. Like he’d be chasing after some other girl he picked up on the floor by morning. The guy was a walking commitment issue. Plus, it wasn’t like he’d switch to speaking English with you all the time. He’d get tired of that quick enough.

Still, none of that stopped the way your body responded to him now.

You were sitting in his lap in the men’s bathroom. Everything else was gone on your body, except for your pink underwear, the ones you picked just for this night, just for him.

His fingers moved inside you, slow at first, teasing. Then faster, harder. You bit your lip, holding back a moan as his thumb pressed against your clit, slick and sure.

“You’re fucking wet,” he muttered, voice low and rough, eyes dark with something you couldn’t name.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him down until his mouth found yours. His tongue stroked yours, tasting you, marking you.

The bathroom door rattled somewhere behind you, probably someone knocking, but you didn’t care. You only cared about the way his fingers fucked into you, the way his breath hitched when you pressed against him.

His grip tightened on your hips as his fingers slid deeper. You could notice him feeling around your cervix. His fingers were long, and he knew how to use them to his advantage. Thanos kept a slow rhythm that stole the air from your lungs. Not only did he keep massaging that G-spot inside you, but he gave full attention to your clit with his thumb. How cute. Your body arched into him without thought, craving more of the heat, the roughness, the dangerous edge that was so utterly him.

You felt the tension coil tighter and tighter until it snapped, a sharp pulse radiating through every nerve ending. His mouth left yours to trail hot kisses down your jaw and along your neck, teeth grazing your skin in a maddening tease. You shuddered against him, breathless and trembling.

He whispered against your throat, voice husky, “You’re mine tonight.”

You wanted to argue, or rather, wanted to remind yourself it was just a fleeting moment, a night to forget by dawn. But your body betrayed you. You pulled him closer, your nails digging into his shoulders as his fingers worked their magic, pushing you over the edge again and again.

When he finally eased his hand away, your skin tingled, and you felt empty but still aching for more. His eyes caught yours, dark and dangerous, and you knew this wasn’t over. Not even close.

“You coming with me?” he asked, voice low, a challenge.

You hesitated, heart pounding. Then nodded.

Because you didn’t want to stop.

At least…

Music was never just a hobby for you.

It was more like a messy, codependent relationship.

Your mum signed you up for piano lessons when you were eleven, by force, of course. Said it would teach you discipline. You hated everything about it. It was pure torture. The posture, the ticking metronome, the sweaty palms before every recital. You swore you’d quit the second you were allowed to.

But then came the weird part: you didn’t.

By thirteen, you were sneaking out of lessons early to jam with your friends in someone’s garage. You bought your first guitar - a white Fender Strat with a rosewood neck and just enough attitude to make you feel like a badass (you weren’t). That’s when the band started. It had a name that sounded cool at the time, but now makes you cringe so hard you physically start convulsing.

You played school festivals, dingy bars, and even got kicked out of a house party once for being "too loud" (which, honestly, felt like a compliment).

You saved every scrap of cash from those tiny gigs. While other kids your age were spending money on bubble tea and overpriced clothes, you were stalking secondhand forums at 1 AM, literally drooling while looking at them on your laptop, buying cracked pedals, off-brand mics, and a synth with a dead key that gave your tracks “character.” Your room looked like a RadioShack exploded.

At sixteen, everything shifted again. You’d grown a little tired of screaming vocals and three-chord noise. Techno found you first, then IDM. It started with Baltra, then Aphex Twin, Holy Priest, Snow Strippers, heavy doses of Daft Punk, and KMFDM. You’d improvise your basslines and guitar riffs over their tracks like some weird form of prayer.

You weren’t even sure what you were searching for, but the first time you heard a full, slow-build live set, no lyrics, just texture and tension, something cracked open inside you. You ascended into heaven. You wanted to crawl inside the sound and stay there.

And so, you learned.

Bit by bit.

You taught yourself how to use FL Studio on a laptop that sounded like it had bronchitis every time you turned it on. You watched tutorials on YouTube until your eyes were dry and your spine started curving into a permanent C-shape.

You pieced together a bedroom setup from whatever you could afford. Bootleg gear. Flickering LED strips. A mic propped up with duct tape and hope.

The music didn’t care if you were awkward at parties or slow to text back. It didn’t care about the panic that sometimes clutched your chest out of nowhere. It just said: go louder.

And you did.

Fast forward.

You made it out.

Out of your too-small hometown.

Out of the sticky, in-between years that felt like they’d never end.

Out of the cramped room with the flickering ceiling light and the posters taped up on your pink walls.

You got into SeoulTech - fucking SeoulTech - right in the beating heart of Seoul. The energy and biotech program had always felt like a dream you weren’t even brave enough to say out loud. But now? You were actually there. Walking through glass-paneled labs and polished corridors, clutching your campus map like a lifeline, half-convinced someone was going to tap your shoulder and say, “Sorry, wrong person.”

But no one did.

And somehow, by some crooked constellation of hustle, insomnia, and raw obsession, you landed a part-time DJ slot at Pentagon, a club so underground the floorboards literally rattled with bass. It wasn’t glitzy or filtered; it was graffiti-stained walls, sticky floors, a fog machine that never turned off, and a crowd that lived for the drop.

You cut your teeth in places like that.

Small warehouse raves on the outskirts of town, where people moved like shadows under green lasers, and you felt like you could dissolve into the air. Boiler room setups in cramped apartments where the ceilings were too low and the cops always showed up too early. You played sets on borrowed gear and someone’s Bluetooth speaker more times than you could count. You lost shoes, USBs, and one very sentimental hoodie, but you gained something else.

You learned how to hold a room.

How to control tempo.

How to drop a beat that makes people scream.

Over time, you dyed your hair light blonde, split your tongue in half, and got a septum piercing in the bathroom of a random club with a used catheter needle after getting high with your girlfriends.

Your nights bled into mornings. You worked until your fingers ached, studied until your eyes burned, lived on convenience store ramen, gas station coffee, and playlists with names like “break-my-neck-beats vol.3” and “soundtrack for emotionally combusting in a neon bathroom.”

You were tired all the time. Plus, studying added to that, student loans cut off more than 70% of your earnings from the raves.

But somehow? You were more alive than ever.

You weren’t trying to be famous.

You just needed to make noise.

Your kind. On your terms.

You graduated at twenty-four.

Took you a little longer than most, between the DJ gigs, the burnout, and one particularly brutal semester where you failed two classes and had to claw your GPA back from the grave, but you made it. You crossed the stage. You smiled for the photos. You got the piece of paper with your name and told yourself it was going to mean something.

It was supposed to mean freedom.

Instead, it meant debt.

Mountains of it.

Tuition loans. Lab fees. Rent you still owed from your last year at SeoulTech. Your credit card was maxed out from buying a single busted laptop and paying emergency medical bills for your mum, who slipped on wet tiles in your kitchen and fractured her wrist, because, of course, there’s no insurance for that kind of thing when you're poor and thirty years past retirement age.

You tried to fix things.

Tried going full-time at the Pentagon, but the scene was drying up. Half the clubs that booked you shut down after a new wave of zoning laws kicked in. One night, you played a flawless set to seven people, two of whom were asleep in the booth. You DJ’d weddings. Bar stuff. It wasn’t working.

You even applied for biotech jobs. Every. Single. Day.

And when the rejections started rolling in - we regret to inform you, we've chosen to move forward with other candidates, your resume is impressive, but not the right fit -you just stopped opening the emails.

You were barely making rent.

You were choosing between food and electricity.

You were ducking calls from unknown numbers because they were either recruiters ghosting you again or debt collectors calling to "remind you" that you were broke.

It was a Thursday. The crowd was thin.

Rainy night. Seoul’s social scene was always allergic to real emotion.

You were halfway through your set at Pentagon, working through a grimy industrial loop that never quite sat right in the mix. Nothing was hitting.

Your brain felt cotton-stuffed and caffeine-raw. What the fuck were you doing?

You shifted into a glitch-heavy cut you’d only finished mastering that morning. It was weird, bassy, full of distorted sirens and synths that sounded like dying machinery. One of your more unhinged tracks. You sucked today.

That’s when you noticed him.

Back near the bar. Leaning with one shoulder against the wall like he owned it. Arms crossed. Head tilted like he was watching a car crash in slow motion. Not in awe, just vaguely irritated it was blocking traffic.

Tall.

Sharp-featured.

Hair was black, down to his ears. He was wearing a mix of… it was hard to tell due to the lighting, but you think it would be something like a black hoodie and baggy jeans.

Like the music wasn’t too loud for him, it was just beneath him.

You tried to ignore it.

Kept spinning.

Willed yourself not to look again.

But you did.

And this time he was still watching. Not the crowd. Not the lights. Just… you.

You cut the track early.

Let it drop into silence for half a second too long.

Some people cheered. A few blinked like they’d missed something. He just sipped his drink without breaking eye contact, like he was bored with you already.

You wrapped your set a little earlier than planned. You didn’t owe anyone an explanation. And after the rave, you found him in the hallway near the staff room. You weren’t going to say anything. You weren’t.

But he opened his mouth first. His lips were thin.

“Is it supposed to sound like that, or was your mixer just broken?”

You stopped.

Turned.

Stared. He had dark brown eyes

“Excuse me?”

He didn’t flinch.

“That third track. The one with the police sirens and the... static? You looked like you were having a stroke.”

He grinned like an idiot.

You blinked at him.

“It’s called distortion. Look it up sometime.”

“Distortion’s only interesting when it has intention,” he said, completely unbothered. “Yours didn’t.”

You actually laughed. Out loud.

“Okay. So what are you, some failed sound engineer with a superiority complex?”

“I just know a bad mix when I hear one.”

You took a step closer. Not threatening. Just tired. Over it.

“Cool. Thanks for the feedback, random guy who’s never touched a turntable in his life.”

He smiled, slow and infuriating.

“Who said I haven’t?”

You sighed and walked off before you could say something regrettable.

But your hands were shaking, just a little. What a fucking shithead.

You told yourself that three times before you made it to the bathroom mirror and stared yourself back into calm.

By the time you left the club, he was gone.

Good.

Forgettable.

You wouldn’t even recognize him if you saw him again.

You told yourself that, too.

Except you did.

The next Saturday, you played a two-hour set at a cramped basement venue with a busted fog machine and a crowd of warehouse rats who liked their BPMs feral. You wore some baggy jeans and a grey hoodie. You were tired. You had dark circles under your eyes - maybe from the smudged makeup or just the sleepless nights.

You were mid-set, twisting a low-pass filter, when you glanced up, and there he was.

Different outfit. Same eyes.

Still watching. He wasn’t alone this time. A small cluster of people surrounded him - one of them had wild purple hair that caught the flickering club lights like a neon sign. They passed around a small baggie, popping pills and lighting up something that smelled like burnt plastic.

You held his gaze for exactly three seconds before dropping the filthiest beat you had on your USB.

The track bled into static, crowd roaring like they’d just seen God itself. You let it ride for a full ten seconds, pulse hammering like a loose snare, then spun into the next transition so smoothly it almost felt disrespectful.

But he was still there.

You didn’t look again, not directly, but you felt it. The gravity of him. Watching like you were some kind of puzzle, he already knew how to solve. With his friends.

When your set ended, you packed up in silence. The adrenaline hadn’t worn off, not really, but your limbs moved heavy, mechanical. Someone clapped you on the back, someone else asked for your Instagram, but it all passed through you like vapor. All you could think about was him.

Again.

Out front, the street was thick with smoke and neon mist. People scattered like spilled marbles. You spotted him near a vending machine, hood down, sipping from a can of something fizzy and toxic. Alone this time.

You could’ve walked the other way. You meant to.

Instead, your feet betrayed you.

He was leaning against a vending machine this time, staring at the can in his hand. His friends were gone, the ones with the pills and the purple hair. Just him now. His hoodie was half-zipped, his eyes unfocused but dilated.

“You again,” you muttered.

He blinked, then smiled. Slow. Lazy.

“Oh,” he said, like it took him a second to recognize you. “DJ Distortion.”

You crossed your arms. “Thought your little entourage ditched you.”

“What are you, stalking me?” He scoffed, taking a sip of what looked like grape soda. “They got bored. Or hungry. Or both.”

“You’re high.”

“I’m elevated,” he corrected, grinning. “Big difference.”

You rolled your eyes and started to walk past him.

“You played like you wanted to start a fire,” he said, voice drifting behind you.

You stopped.

Turned.

“What?”

He tilted his head, looking at you. His pupils were blown, but his words were clearer now, cut from something more sober than his body.

“You dropped that track like you were daring someone to hate it,” he said. “Like you wanted to see who’d leave.”

You didn’t say anything.

“...I didn’t leave,” he added, quieter.

A breeze blew down the alley. It was summer. And it was hot. You stepped back toward him, hands shoved deep in your pockets.

“You like messing with people, huh?”

The man blinked.

You stared at him for a second. His hoodie was fraying at the cuffs, and there was a smudge of ash near the hem.

“Your friends always ditch you like that?” you asked.

“They weren’t really my friends.” He shrugged again, sipping the soda. “Just people I met at another party. We were all trying not to go home.”

You hesitated.

“Why the fuck are you still here then?”

He stayed silent.

And then, like he was just casually tossing a grenade into your chest:

“Do you wanna collab?”

You blinked. “What?”

He shrugged like this was the most obvious next step in the world.

“I’ve got a track. Just percussion and noise right now. Needs texture. You’ve got texture. Thought I’d ask.”

“You thought I’d say yes?”

He gave you a look like he wasn’t asking. He knew.

“I’ll send the file,” he said. “If you’re not too scared to touch it.”

You stared at him.

“You got a number?”

He smirked and pulled a pen from his hoodie pocket like he’d been expecting this.

He took your wrist. Bold. His fingers were long and cold. He had a ring on his middle finger. The man scribbled a string of digits along with a name down your forearm in messy block handwriting - “Nam-gyu”

“Don’t call me,” he said, grinning. “Just send the stems.”

Then he turned and walked off into the night like he hadn’t just rewired the inside of your head.

You looked down at the ink on your skin. Your heart was racing.

You lit a cigarette. Inhaled. Exhaled. Stared at the numbers like they meant more than they should.

Then you pulled out your phone.

And saved him.

You got home just before 4 AM.

Shoes kicked off at the door, the floor cold under your socks. You didn’t bother with the lights. Just your fingers on muscle memory, flipping switches, dropping your bag, tugging off your hoodie with a practiced groan. The room smelled like melted dust and old ramen packets. You liked it that way.

You sat down in front of your setup, only in your bra and jeans. Cracked screen. Jury-rigged speakers. One of your LED strips was blinking like it was trying to say something in Morse code.

You stared at your forearm.

Nam-gyu.

You should’ve wiped it off by now.

You brought it up to your nose. It smelled like ink.

He wrote that on you.

You opened FL.

Paused.

Stared at the empty project window for a beat too long.

Then you grabbed your phone.

NAM-GYU

(no emoji, no last name, no context — just that)

Your hands were shaking.

You switched to Messages. Stared at the blinking cursor for a while, thumb hovering.

Then:

[you]

Send it.

No greeting. No name. Just that.

You didn’t wait for a reply. Just left the phone on the edge of your desk and started fiddling with your MIDI controller, trying not to think about how your heartbeat had kicked up a notch.

It buzzed two minutes later.

You jumped.

Unlocked it too fast.

[Nam-gyu]

Give me five. It's weird. Don't fuck it up.

Then a second message:

[Nam-gyu]

File’s called “noodlebrain.aiff”

Then the Dropbox link.

You clicked it.

Downloaded. Dragged it into FL.

And listened.

It was weird.

No structure. Just loose, layered percussion. Field recordings, maybe? Some kind of creaking metal.

It didn’t sound like a track.

You sat back, exhaled.

Then cracked your knuckles, pulled your audiotechnica headphones on, and got to work.

Because, of course, he sent you something broken.

And of course, you wanted to break it more.

And you broke it.

Not because you wanted to impress him. Not even because you were curious.

You did it because you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked at you. Like a fucking mirror. A bad one. Smudged and cracked, but still too honest.

You didn’t bother making it clean.

You didn’t layer it with intention.

You just let it out.

You started with a dry snare sample - clipped it, dragged it out, distorted it until it sounded like bones cracking through drywall. Then came the kick, raw and off-time, refusing to settle. You threw in a feedback loop from an old mic test you never meant to keep. One shrieking guitar bend, pulled from a recording of your old band. You grabbed your bass and Jackson guitar, set the distorted tone, and overlined it with a rhythm guitar riff.

You didn’t EQ it.

You didn’t master it.

You just left it bleeding.

And you named the file:

“STILL_HIGH.wav”

Attached. Sent. No message. Just the stems, zipped tight and humming.

And then you sat back.

Smoking in silence.

Your fingers were shaking.

Hating how proud you felt. How seen you’d felt in that alleyway. Even if he was high. Even if he was full of shit.

Especially because he wasn’t.

You stared at the screen like it might spit his reply back immediately.

But it didn’t.

Just the faint hum of your fan, a buzz from your old interface.

And your own heartbeat, thrumming in your ears like the start of something you wouldn’t be able to walk away from.

The silence stretched.

You refreshed the thread once.

Then again.

Nothing.

You stubbed your cigarette out in a cracked ceramic dish that used to be your mum’s ashtray. You brought it with you when you moved to Seoul. Rubbed your eyes until you saw little flashes of color. Small stars. Then leaned back in your chair, arms crossed, headphones still on, listening to the track again from the top.

5:07 AM

Still good.

Still ugly in all the right ways.

Still too loud.

You hated how much it sounded like you.

A buzz cut through the quiet.

Your phone.

You stared at it for a second too long before grabbing it like it might bite.

[Nam-gyu]

what the fuck

You stared at the screen.

That was it.

That was the whole message.

Your chest tightened. You typed back without thinking:

[you]

problem?

You didn’t even get to put the phone down before it buzzed again.

[Nam-gyu]

you just made it worse

in the good way

Then another.

[Nam-gyu]

played it five times. roommate thinks i’m losing it

thanks for ruining my night

You blinked.

Then laughed. Actually laughed. Loud. Like someone had just taken a weight off your chest.

Your fingers moved fast this time. You felt adrenaline rush through you.

You could only feel that during raves.

[you]

glad you like it

The typing bubble popped up.

Disappeared.

Then came back.

You waited, suddenly way too aware of how long you’d been awake.

[Nam-gyu]

guitar part at 1:46 is illegal

gonna try writing over it

don’t wait up

You smiled without meaning to.

You didn’t sleep that night.

Just closed your eyes around 8 AM, headphones still on, and let the sound swallow you whole.

When you woke up, you were still in your bra and jeans, drenched in sweat. It was 3:04 PM. Your phone was at 2% - there was a message waiting for you.

[Nam-gyu]

see me tonight?

i’ll bring the strings. don’t be late.

No address. No time. Just that.

You stared at the screen for a solid minute, your eyes burning, before replying:

[you]

where and when

Two minutes later:

[Nam-gyu]

chungmuro line 4. exit 2. there’s a studio behind the old fish market. red door. 9pm.

You almost asked why there, but stopped yourself. No way you were giving him the satisfaction of knowing you were curious.

Instead, you plugged in your phone, tossed it onto your bed to charge, and peeled off your jeans. The air was thick, your skin sticky with old sweat and nerves.

You took a cold shower. Let it bite your shoulders, rinse the night off your spine. Scrubbed off the smudged eyeliner.

And then, for the first time in months, you dyed your roots. You did your skincare like you were trying to convince your reflection you were still here. Lined your lips. Brushed powder across cheekbones you forgot you had. Put on mascara with steady hands, like you weren’t about to go meet someone who already lived in your head.

You got dressed slowly. Something not too eager, not too planned. Something that said: I didn’t think about this twice. I don’t care if you look. You still wore your red bra.

A black cropped tank, baggy jeans low on your hips, pockets overstuffed with nothing useful. A chain looped through one belt loop.

On your feet: beat-up black and white sneakers.

Piercings all over your ears. No necklace. Your septum ring glinted when you turned your head.

And the eyes: rimmed in messy black liner, mascara smudged just slightly on purpose. Lip balm, no gloss. Hair freshly bleached, damp at the roots, still smelling like peroxide and a little bit of defiance.

And you showed up at 8:56.

The alley smelled like wet asphalt and old cigarettes. There was graffiti on every surface, tags, stencils, and one weird mural of a screaming cat. You got your graffiti marker out of your pocket and tagged one side of the alley. The red door wasn’t even a real door. It was a painted metal slab with a broken buzzer and peeling stickers that said things like “NO GODS JUST TAPE MACHINES” and “REVERB IS A LIFESTYLE.”

You knocked.

Nothing.

Then again.

Still nothing.

You were about to walk away when the door creaked open just wide enough to reveal him.

Nam-gyu. Same hoodie, different day. Hair a little messier, eyes a little clearer, looking at you up and down. He wasn’t high this time. He had cologne on. A musky one.

“You’re early,” he said.

“You’re late,” you countered.

He smirked and stepped aside. “Come in. Don’t touch anything.”

You walked in, closing the door behind you.

It was more bunker than studio. No windows. One exposed, red bulb. The floor was covered in mismatched rugs and frayed cables. Guitars lined the wall like weapons: Harley Benton, Jackson, Fender. In the corner sat an amp that looked like it had survived war. There were notebooks everywhere, half-buried under sheet music, ashtrays, and posters on the walls.

He dropped onto a stool near a low table stacked with pedals.

You stayed standing.

“What is this place?” you asked.

“My friend’s studio. He moved to Busan. Left the gear behind.” He shrugged. “I keep it warm.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Squatter vibes.”

“Cultural preservation,” he said, straight-faced.

You snorted. “Right.”

He reached behind him and pulled out a cable, gesturing toward the setup. “Plug in. You’re taking the lead.”

You hesitated.

Then set your bag down and did exactly that.

The first ten minutes were nothing but fine-tuning. You testing levels, him flipping through notebooks like he was trying to find something he’d lost weeks ago. The tension built. Every time he looked at you, you pretended not to notice. Every time you adjusted your guitar strap, he pretended he wasn’t watching your fingers.

Finally, he looked up.

“You always play like that?” he asked.

“Like what?”

“Like that.”

You rolled your eyes, then strummed a wrong chord on purpose.

He laughed. Actually laughed. Like the sound cracked something open in him.

“I’m keeping that,” he said. “Don’t change it.”

You didn’t.

Instead, you played it again. And again. He grabbed a mic, hit record, and started building around it. Loops. Layers. Fragments. Words scribbled in pencil between takes.

Hours passed.

Neither of you spoke much.

But the room filled with sound.

At some point near 2 AM, the music stopped.

He was lying on the floor now, one hand resting over his face, eyes closed.

You sat cross-legged near the amp, lighting up a cigarette.

He spoke first.

“Why’d you call it ‘STILL_HIGH’?”

You looked at him.

“Because it felt like something that should’ve worn off by now.”

His hand slipped from his face. His eyes found yours.

But neither of you said anything else.

The track kept looping in the background.

Nam-gyu sat up slowly, palms pressed against the floor. His hoodie slipped off one shoulder, exposing it underneath.

He didn’t speak. Just reached into his pocket and pulled something out, a little plastic baggie. A couple of colorful capsules inside.

He held it up between two fingers. He still had that ring on his middle finger. The studio light caught on the plastic like it was trying to warn you.

“What is it?”

“Low-dose benzo and a little something else,” he said casually. “Not a couch-locker. Just… floaty. Safe.”

He tossed the bag onto the rug between you, like it didn’t matter if you said yes or no.

“Offer stands. Could make the track sound different.”

He said it like he was joking. But his eyes weren’t joking.

You stared at the pills.

You burnt the cigarette out.

You moved to sit on the rug, reached forward, and plucked a green capsule from the bag like it was nothing more than a Tic Tac.

Rolled it between your fingers.

Then, dry-swallowed it and wiped your hand on your jeans.

Nam-gyu blinked. Raised an eyebrow.

“Didn’t think of you as a joiner.”

You leaned back, arms behind you, already feeling the warmth creeping in behind your ribs. “Didn’t think of you as someone who shares.”

He laughed, low and genuine. “Touché.”

Then he took one too.

You leaned back against the amp, heart ticking like a metronome set wrong.

Ten minutes passed.

Fifteen.

The track kept playing, looping like a lazy heartbeat.

The colors started to shift around the edges.

The strings on the guitar shimmered. Your fingers twitched. You were acutely aware of your breath, of how deep it felt in your chest.

Nam-gyu was lying back down, staring at the ceiling like it was about to open up.

“I can hear the drums behind the drums,” he said softly.

You snorted. “Okay, poet.”

“No, really. Like seriously.”

You let your head fall back.

The sound was everything.

Bass like breathing.

“Still high…” You whispered.

You glanced at him.

He was already looking at you.

You should’ve looked away.

You didn’t.

Nam-gyu sat up again. Not fast, not slow. Just enough that the space between you changed. He reached over and adjusted a dial on the interface without looking at it, then turned back to you like he’d always meant to.

“You look different when you’re quiet,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “You trying to be deep again?”

He shrugged. “No. Just honest.”

You stared at him for a second. Then you laughed. Not because it was funny, but because you didn’t know what else to do with the feeling building behind your ribs.

“I’ve been high a hundred times,” you said, voice low. “This still feels different.”

Nam-gyu leaned back on his hands. His fingers were close. Almost touching yours.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just tilted his head, watching you like you were part of the sound.

“You make it feel different,” he said.

You didn’t answer. Just let your eyes fall to the floor between you, scattered cables, the open baggie, a scribbled notebook with half a verse scratched out in messy Hangul.

The air in the studio felt heavy with something unsaid. Something tipping closer to the edge.

Then he shifted. Not toward you, not away. Just slightly enough for his knee to brush yours.

He didn’t move it.

Neither did you.

There was nothing but the hum of the amp, the weight of his stare, and the sound of your breathing.

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t have to.

He leaned in, on all fours. Nam-gyu grabbed the back of your neck gently.

Close enough to feel the space between your mouths evaporate.

“You gonna stop me?” he asked quietly.

You didn’t.

Your breath hitched.

Because you’d felt this moment building for hours. Maybe days. Maybe since the first time he insulted your mix with that stupid, smug smirk and dared you to do something better.

His hand on the back of your neck wasn’t rough; it was steady. Warm. Calloused fingers pressing against your skin.

Your pulse thudded in your ears like kick drums with no drop.

He didn’t move right away.

Neither did you.

His pupils were so dilated.

You chuckled stupidly.

Then, his forehead touched yours, barely.

Your noses brushed.

You kept looking at him.

He kept looking at you.

You let your hands slide forward, fingers brushing the edge of his hoodie.

“Let me eat you out,” he whispered, “please.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

The words were so soft you could’ve imagined them, but you didn’t. They landed with a kind of reverence, not dirty, not crude. Like he'd been holding it in for too long and finally let it fall out.

His eyes didn’t flick away.

He didn’t smirk.

He just waited.

A beat passed. Two.

You didn’t move back.

Didn’t roll your eyes. Didn’t laugh.

Instead, you reached up, slow and certain, and let your fingers curl in the fabric of his hoodie. Tugged him a fraction closer, not much, just enough that his breath ghosted over your lips.

“Say it again,” you murmured.

His eyes fluttered half-shut, like he was already dizzy with the idea.

“I want to eat you out,” he said again, this time steadier. Hungrier. “I want you on that rug, in your red bra, legs over my shoulders. Nothing else.”

Your stomach twisted in a way that felt like falling, but soft. He had looked at the straps of your bra. Fucking hell…

“You fucker…” You whispered, but didn’t mean it.

He smiled, barely. “Then say stop.”

You didn’t.

Instead, you pushed your forehead into his, shutting your eyes. The heat was unreal now, crawling up the back of your neck, soaking into your fingertips. The track in the background looped once more, bass vibrating through the floorboards, through your ribs, your spine.

You licked his nose with your split tongue.

He shivered, letting out a breath.

He kissed you first.

Not pretty.

Not soft.

His hand slid from your neck to your jaw, his other bracing against the rug as he leaned into it, into you, like he couldn’t stay still. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, and you bit down gently in return, the two of you locked in some slow-burn push and pull, somewhere between defiance and surrender.

The taste of him was faintly citrus, maybe that capsule from earlier.

Your back hit the rug before you even realized he’d shifted on top of you. Cables tangled near your shoulder, the buzz of the amp still humming like a second heartbeat.

His hoodie was half off now, your fingers dragging it past his collarbone.

And then -

The buzz of your phone.

You both froze.

Buzz.

Buzz.

It was faint, muffled by denim and distance.

Your phone. Somewhere in your bag.

Nam-gyu blinked, hovering over you, lips parted.

Buzz.

You glanced toward your bag, then back up at him.

“You gonna get that?” he asked, voice still low.

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t even look away from him.

Because maybe whoever it was didn’t matter. Or maybe they did. But right now, nothing outside this studio felt real.

“I think,” you whispered, pulling him down by the collar of his hoodie, “you were in the middle of something.”

And he was.

God, he was.

And so were you.

He didn’t need another cue.

Nam-gyu’s hands found your waist - steady, possessive, like he’d been thinking about this too long. Thumbs slipping beneath the hem of your tank, dragging it up slowly, revealing skin inch by inch. He was getting impatient.

It was filthy. Your split tongue flicking against his like a challenge, sharp and deliberate. You felt him jolt a little, surprised, and then groan into your mouth like it turned something primal in him. He buckled his hips into you, his hands gripped harder at your waist as your tongues tangled, sliding together in a way that felt more like a fight than a kiss. It was so wet, open, and messy. His mouth moved with yours like he couldn’t get enough, couldn’t figure you out, couldn’t believe how much you were giving. His breath was hot, his saliva was sticky.

You tilted your head, let your tongue split against his again, and he mumbled a small “fuck-” under his breath, pulling you closer like the taste of you had short-circuited something. Your teeth knocked. He didn’t care. Neither did you. It was all tongue and breath and heat, and when he finally broke the kiss, his lips were red, swollen, spit-slick, and he was looking at you like he wanted to ruin you properly.

Then his mouth was on your neck - hot, open, biting this time. Not gentle anymore. He left marks deliberately. He kept going. Lower. Along your jaw. Your throat. The space beneath your collarbone. Each one blooming under his lips like he wanted to claim every inch. You gasped when his teeth caught your skin just above your bra strap, and he made a low sound in his throat, like he liked that. Like he was saving it for later. You tugged him up face to face by his hair, to which he responded with a small gasp.

Your split tongue slid against his again, slick and precise, flicking against the roof of his mouth before twisting around his like you were taunting him with it. You ran your tongue across his sharp teeth, under his tongue, every fucking crevice you could find. His reaction was instant, a low sound in his chest as he kissed you harder, messier, like he couldn’t decide whether to worship you or devour you.

His hands roamed now, not just your waist but your ribs, your stomach, palms dragging up the curve of your back like he was trying to touch all the places he’d dreamed about but never said out loud.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” he muttered against your mouth, breath ragged.

You smirked, licking your lower lip slowly, forked tongue darting out just to tease him. “You think this is me going all in?”

That did something to him.

His grip on you tightened. The kind of hold that says you started this, but I’m gonna finish it.

Nam-gyu sat back for a moment, straddling your thighs, just looking at you. Your chest rising up and down, your hair messy, makeup smudged, your body covered in bite marks and hickeys. Your skin lit in the red glow of the studio bulb. Your lips are kiss-swollen, pupils blown wide.

It was hungry.

Your top came off easily. You arched into his hips, spine lifting from the rug as his mouth left a trail down your collarbone. The red bra, which was very intentional, earned a soft laugh from him.

“You wore this on purpose,” he muttered, lips brushing the fabric, voice dark with admiration.

You smiled, breath shallow. “Didn’t think you’d notice.”

“Liar.”

His hands slid around your back, fingers expert, unhooking the clasp with one practiced flick. The straps slid off your shoulders, and the fabric tugged down slowly. He smelled it, groaning, and tossed it somewhere behind him without looking.

And then he paused.

Just looked.

He leaned in again, his mouth ghosting over your chest now, and then-

He saw them.

The piercings.

Both nipples, silver barbells catching the red light, glinting against your skin like something sharp and holy. You didn’t say a word, just watched his expression shift.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered, wrapping a hand around his mouth.

His fingers brushed over one, slow and almost careful, like he wasn’t sure if he should tease or not.

“Does that-” he mumbled, curious.

“Y-yes-” you replied, cutting off his question, closing your eyes.

He grinned.

Your hands tug on his hair more.

His lips followed, wrapping around you fully, warm and wet, tongue flicking deliberately over metal. You gasped, and he groaned, low in his throat like the sound of you reacting drove something wild in him.

He sucked harder, one hand pinning your hip down while the other cupped your breast, thumb rolling over the other piercing or twisting it between his index and thumb, dragging a shiver through you.

He hadn’t even made it to your thighs yet.

He ran his thumbs over your hips, then slid your jeans down slowly, inch by inch, dragging the fabric across your thighs. His hands were trembling. It was cute. There was nothing lazy about it. No teasing for teasing’s sake. It felt like focus. Like obsession.

He took off his hoodie in one slow motion, the fabric clinging to him for half a second before sliding free. Then he folded it once and gently slipped it beneath your head, like he didn’t want the rug to steal even an inch of your comfort.

You blinked up at him and stilled.

He was toned.

Not gym-chiseled, not showy, just lean muscle carved out of tension. Wiry arms, faint scars along one forearm, that subtle dip down his stomach where your eyes got stuck for a moment too long. And his arms-

Your eyes caught on them.

He had tattoos of what you thought was a Geisha with butterflies and lucky 777’s. Faint needle scars dotted the insides of his elbows and lower arms, purplish against the rest of him. Some fresh. Some new. Just there.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

But you knew he saw you notice, because his shoulders pulled back, defiant, not ashamed. Daring you to flinch.

You didn’t.

You just reached for him.

You pushed him back on the rug, getting on top of him.

One of your hands slid into his mouth while the other traced down the inside of his arm slowly. His lips wrapped around your fingers without hesitation, tongue curling between them like he was tasting the intent behind every touch. He didn’t break eye contact.

You leaned down, mouth grazing the crook of his elbow.

Then licked.

Your tongue dragged along one of the faint needle scars - slow, deliberate, split-tip tracing the lines like you were honoring them, not avoiding them. His body twitched beneath you, just barely, like he hadn’t expected that kind of softness from you.

You licked higher, teeth grazing the butterfly ink just below his shoulder, then lower again, pressing open-mouthed kisses into the inside of his forearm, biting just enough to leave marks over the old ones.

He groaned.

“You fucking slut…” he muttered, voice thick, chest rising fast beneath you.

You smiled against his skin, tongue flicking out one more time.

But just as you moved to straddle his hips-

Nam-gyu grabbed your thighs.

And flipped you.

Fast.

You landed with a soft grunt, back against the rug again, hands pinned above your head, hoodie still bunched behind your neck. He leaned in, hair falling into his face.

His mouth was on your neck again before you could answer, biting harder now, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses across your collarbone, chest, and lower, until you weren’t sure where the bruises stopped and the pleasure began. One hand held your wrists in place. The other slid between your thighs, slow and confident.

And when you were finally laid out beneath him, hoodie bunched behind your head, sneakers kicked off into the dark, skin lit red by the studio bulb, he just looked.

DJ distortion only in red underwear.

For a long second.

Breathing hard.

Then his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, slow and deliberate. Like he’d waited too long for this to waste a second.

“Fuck-” he whimpered, preesing his head against your neck, teasing your aching hole with his middle finger, “You’re fucking dripping.”

You felt him inhale against your skin, shaky and low, like he was trying to keep himself together. But failing. He took your underwear off with the other hand. His thumb moved slowly, rubbing your clit, then slower. Just barely touching. Teasing more than claiming. Like he wanted to drag the moment out, make you live in it.

Your moans could be heard echoing through the entire room.

You bucked your hips once, impatient, and he groaned, biting down just under your jaw, the sting blooming hot and fast.

Nam-Gyu moved downward, opening your thighs with his left arm as his right one kept rubbing your clit in slow circles. He slid his middle finger in with ease, finding your G-spot relatively quickly as you let out a loud gasp.

He scoffed.

“What a fucking whore,” he murmured, voice rough. "Bet you've thought about this every time you touched yourself after seeing me, haven’t you?"

You could feel the tension in his arms as he also slid his ring finger in, stretching you open just enough.

He dragged his lips back up to yours and kissed you hard. Tongue against tongue, that split flick of yours making him shudder, his chain brushing against your chest as he leaned deeper into the kiss like he was trying to climb inside the moment and never leave.

When he finally pulled back, breathing wrecked, his forehead dropped to yours. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown, jaw tense. His fingers were still moving against your gummy walls as you whimpered into his mouth.

“Say it,” he whispered.

You blinked, dazed, letting out a whine.

“That you want this. That you want me.”

You stared at him.

Didn’t smile. Didn’t joke.

Just breathed out, voice raw, whining: “I want your fucking tongue on me.”

That did it.

His grip on your thighs tightened, grounding you like he was anchoring both of you to this moment. His whole body shifted, urgent now, but never sloppy. Every motion is deliberate. Focused. Like you were the only thing in the room. The only thing he could see.

His fingers moved faster, pressure intensifying, reading every twitch of your breath.

Then his other hand came up and wrapped lightly around your throat.

Not choking. Claiming.

Your pulse kicked under his palm.

You felt numb.

You felt everything and nothing at once, nerve endings sparking, mind going white. It was overwhelming, dizzying, real in a way that left your spine arching off the rug and your breath falling apart in your chest.

You were close.

So close it scared you.

No one had ever gotten you here before, not like this.

There’d been others. Brief. Boring. Guys fumbling, performative, all ego and zero instinct. You’d faked your way through every one of them, moaning on cue just so they’d stop jamming their fingers into you like a broken vending machine.

But Nam-gyu?

Oh, Nam-gyu…

The looped track was still playing in the background, your riff warped slightly from the recording, fuzzed with static and reverb, like the sound itself was vibrating in sync with your pulse.

It all blurred, heat, sound, breath, his chain dragging over your chest, the soft rasp of his voice every time he moaned something into your skin.

And he looked at you like he’d never be whole again either.

He never looked away.

“Don’t stop-” you whined.

He pulled his fingers out, licking them clean, chuckling.

That fucker.

He grinned around his fingers, smug and slow, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Like he’d been waiting to see you like this - needy and wrecked.

“You taste sweet,” he said, voice low, almost a growl.

Your chest rose hard, breath shallow, thighs still trembling from the edge he’d dragged you to and then left you teetering on. You tried to sit up, to chase him, to say something -

But he was already moving.

Pressing you back against the rug.

Sliding down your body again, breath hot where it landed. He hooked his hands under your thighs and dragged you closer, like he was done playing.

And this time, when his mouth replaced his fingers -

There was no teasing.

He buried his face between your legs like he needed to be there, like he’d die if he didn’t. Tongue moving with purpose on your clit, pressure perfect, messy and rhythmic, and absolutely obsessed.

Your back arched so hard it hurt.

You cried out - unfiltered.

His grip tightened, bruising, like he wanted to pin every part of you in place while he took you apart at the seams.

And the worst part?

He never broke eye contact.

Not once.

Like he wanted you to see what you did to him. How far gone he was. How good it felt to ruin you like this.

The loop kept playing in the background.

“Hold your legs up f’me,” He instructed as he kept your thighs apart with one of his hands. With the other, the same two fingers sliding back into you and hitting that spot over and over again.

But now it was your body that was repeating, pulse stuttering, breath catching, that moment building, building -

And when you finally shattered?

Nam-gyu held you through every second of it.

Like he’d planned to all along.

Your body trembled. Once. Twice. Your voice cracked around his name.

Only then did he pull back, slowly, like he was savoring it. His jaw was slick, wet, lips kiss-swollen and red, breathless and wrecked. He looked like someone who’d just survived a flood and still wanted more.

Your chest rose and fell like you’d just sprinted through the city with no map.

Nam-gyu crawled back up beside you, dragging his lips across your stomach, over your ribs, up your throat, not kissing, just touching, until he was face-to-face again.

His hair was a mess. Mouth shining.

“Still high?” he murmured.

You let out a breathless laugh. “I think I just overdosed.”

He grinned, lazy, cocky, satisfied. “Good. I was aiming for permanent damage.”

You shoved him lightly, dizzy from the rush. He collapsed next to you with a satisfied exhale, both of you breathless, tangled in the rug and each other, the air around you thick with sweat, static, and reverb.

The loop was still playing.

The amp was still humming softly.

The studio smelled like sex and sound.

Silence settled, but not awkwardly. Just full. Full of what just happened. Full of everything neither of you had said.

He turned his head toward you, his voice quieter now.

“I’m serious, though,” he said. “You’re different.”

You blinked up at the ceiling. “How?”

“I don’t know. You don’t… fake anything. Even when you pretend to.”

You stared at the red bulb overhead, eyes still dazed. “That’s a contradiction.”

“That’s you.”

You didn’t respond. Just let your hand drift over the rug until your pinky brushed his. No grab. No cling. Just there.

Outside, the alley was quiet. The mural-cat stared down from the wall.

And somewhere inside you, the track kept looping.

Still high.

Still here.

Still not saying everything.

But maybe that was the point.

You didn’t fall asleep.

It was more like you dissolved with your eyes open, body loose, head tipped sideways on his hoodie while the reverb swelled and softened in waves around you. The track looped on, warped now, slowed just slightly.

Nam-gyu lay beside you, one arm flung behind his head, the other resting somewhere near your knee. His eyes were closed, but you could tell he wasn’t sleeping either.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable.

It just was.

You studied the ceiling, the wires coiled like vines, the faint water damage in the corner where something had definitely leaked months ago. The place smelled like sweat and static and a little bit of cologne - his cologne - which was somehow still clinging to your skin like it had no intention of leaving.

You turned your head.

He was watching you.

Of course, he was.

“You ever gonna write lyrics for that riff?” he asked, voice low.

You blinked. “Didn’t think it needed any.”

“It doesn’t,” he said. “But I wanna hear what you’d say if it did.”

You thought about that for a second. What the song felt like. What it meant.

Still high. Still here. Still not.

You exhaled through your nose. “Maybe it’s better without words.”

He nodded like he understood that. Maybe he did.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t push.

Instead, he rolled onto his side, propped up on one elbow. The red bulb flickered above him, casting shadows under his eyes.

“You hungry?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked again. “Now?”

“I’ve got instant ramen. And half a bag of shrimp chips.” A pause. “Unless you’re one of those people who think shrimp chips taste like packing peanuts.”

You snorted. “They do.”

“But good ones.”

“Debatable.”

Still, you sat up slowly. Bones aching like you’d run a marathon in your sleep.

He tossed you his black t-shirt, which he kept around the place just in case. You pulled it on without thinking. He didn’t look away.

Somewhere between putting on your panties and moving, your phone buzzed weakly from the corner where you left it.

2 notifications.

7% battery.

One from your mom.

One from someone you hadn’t heard from in months.

Nam-gyu leaned over your shoulder. “Bad news?”

You shrugged. “Past life stuff.”

He nodded, then stood up, putting his hoodie on, barefoot, pants riding low on his hips as he moved to the shelf behind the amp.

The silence between you shifted again, less heavy, more domestic. Almost soft.

He shuffled barefoot across the studio, rummaging through a beat-up cardboard box like it was sacred. You watched as he pulled out two mismatched instant noodle cups, one beef, one kimchi, and a half-crushed bag of shrimp chips that had clearly seen better days.

“This is the chef’s selection,” he said solemnly, holding them up like offerings. “Michelin star pending.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You got a microwave in this apocalypse bunker?”

He pointed dramatically. “Electric kettle. Hidden behind the amp stack.”

You stood up, joints clicking, the t-shirt slipping off your shoulders. Still barefoot, still a little dazed, but more here now. Nam-gyu was crouched beside the kettle, filling it from a plastic water jug with a look of concentration like he was defusing a bomb.

You sat cross-legged on a rug that smelled faintly of ash and burnt cables.

He passed you a cup and the seasoning packets. “Kimchi okay?”

You nodded, tearing them open with your teeth.

The kettle clicked.

Steam filled the little corner of the room like breath on cold glass.

Nam-gyu poured carefully, then handed you a pair of black plastic chopsticks.

You mumbled a small “thanks” as you kissed him on the cheek.

He smiled.

“No forks. We’re not animals.”

“Says the man who just called shrimp chips dinner,” you pouted.

He grinned, mouth full of something quiet and real. “Shrimp chips are eternal.”

You took your first bite and hissed through your teeth. “God, that’s hot.”

“Live a little,” he said, already halfway through his own cup like he hadn’t eaten in days.

“Do you chew?” you asked, watching him slurp noodles like it was a race.

“Chewing is for cowards.”

You snorted, flicking a noodle at him. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re still here,” he said, mouth full.

You opened your mouth to reply, then shut it.

Yeah.

You were still here.

Nam-gyu ate fast, like he hadn’t had a real meal in two days, which, honestly, maybe he hadn’t.

“Hey,” he said between bites, mouth half full. “You ever think about leaving?”

You blinked. “What, the studio?”

“No.” He glanced at you. “The city.”

You sat with that for a second.

The room was quiet again, except for the reverb of the loop still faintly playing - your riff, warped now, like a memory trying to retune itself.

You looked at him. He looked tired in the eyes. Not sleepy. Worn. Like the question hadn’t come from nowhere.

“Sometimes,” you said. “But I can’t go back home.”

He nodded, staring into his noodle cup.

He didn’t ask why. Didn’t press.

You stirred your noodles for a moment, then added, “Why? You thinking of running?”

He shrugged. “Not running. Just… not staying.”

You studied his profile in the low light. “What’s here that’s holding you?”

The silence that followed was different.

“Debt,” he groaned, rubbing his temples, “this MG Coin dude, crypto stuff...”

You snorted. “That’s poetic.”

He peeked at you through his fingers. “It was poetic until I realized the studio doesn’t even have plumbing.”

You raised your noodle cup in a mock toast. “To artistic suffering.”

He clinked his against yours, dry ramen rattling inside. “To surviving in reverb and mold.”

You both drank like it was whiskey.

You swallowed, looking down at your cup. “That’s a dumb reason to stay.”

He smirked. “Maybe. Still my reason.”

You didn’t answer right away. You were scared that if you spoke, your voice would give too much away. So instead, you just said:

“Finish your ramen.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Nam-gyu offered you the last of the shrimp chips without a word. You took one, chewed it thoughtfully.

“Still tastes like packing peanuts,” you muttered.

“High-class packing peanuts,” he replied.

You leaned your head against the couch behind you, legs stretched out, stomach warm, eyes half-lidded.

Nam-gyu stood, gathering the ramen cups and chopsticks without a word. He tossed everything away, wiped his hands on the thighs of his jeans, and ran one through his hair. It stayed messy, like always.

Then he crossed the room. Dimming most of the lights and turning off the loop.

He dropped down onto the velvet couch behind you with a sigh. Legs spread wide, arms draped across the back, head tilted just slightly.

You could feel his gaze even before you turned to meet it.

Heavy.

Dragging.

You shifted to face him, head resting on the couch pillow while you sat on the floor, looking at him, suddenly too aware of how your shirt clung to your skin, how your thighs were still bare-

Silence.

“Thanks. For the ramen and the uh…” You looked away, getting a bit red, “You’re pretty good…”

He look at you, one eyebrow raised. “Pretty good?”

You gave him a sideways glance, trying and failing not to grin. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, it’s already there,” he said, setting his cup down with exaggerated confidence. “But I’ll be humble. For your sake.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks stayed warm. “Seriously, though. You didn’t have to…”

His smirk faded just a little.

“I wanted to,” he said, voice softer now. “Wanted to since… I don’t know. That first time you yelled at me for compressing your vocals like shit.”

You laughed into your sleeve. “They were compressed like shit.”

“Okay, professor.” But he was smiling again, less smug, more real.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Full of breath and static and the kind of quiet you only get after saying something that matters.

He nudged your leg with his socked foot. “Hey.”

“What?”

“You’re pretty good, too.”

Your laugh came out smaller this time. “At what, exactly?”

He grinned, keeping his eyes on you.

“You gonna just stare at me all night?” you asked, not looking.

He hummed. “Probably.”

That made your breath hitch a little. You glanced at him from under your lashes.

He was still watching you.

His tongue slid slowly over his bottom lip. Not cocky, hungry.

“Come here,” he said.

Your stomach flipped. “Why?”

His voice dropped, low and smooth: “Because I want to see how you look when you sit in my lap and pretend you don’t want to ride me.”

You froze.

Just for a second.

Then, slowly stood, knees aching from how long you’d been on the rug. Your body felt too warm, too aware of him now. The room tilted slightly with the static from the amp, the ghost of your loop still vibrating through the floorboards.

You stepped toward him.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just watched you like a match about to catch fire.

You straddled him slowly, one knee on either side of his thighs. Your hands rested on his shoulders, but you didn’t settle your weight. Not yet.

His hands came up, one to your waist, the other trailing up your back beneath your shirt, fingers splaying across your spine.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you murmured.

“What thing?”

“Looking at me like you’re starving.”

Your hips rolled forward, settling your weight on him, just enough to make him suck in a sharp breath through his teeth.

You smiled.

“Ramen didn’t fill you up?”

He kissed the corner of your mouth, slow, deliberate, teasing. “Not even close.”

His lips hovered near yours, barely brushing. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just enough to make your breath stutter.

Your hands slid up into his hair, fingers tangling at the roots, tugging lightly.

He groaned under his breath, and you felt it in your stomach.

“You gonna keep talking,” you whispered, “or do something about it?”

Nam-gyu’s fingers dug into your waist. He leaned forward, kissed you, finally, and it was deep from the start. Messy. All tongue and hunger and teeth tugging your bottom lip like he couldn’t stand how long it had been since the last time.

His hand dragged your shirt up your back, bunching the fabric, fingertips grazing your nipple piercings, twisting them, like he was trying to memorize it again.

You rocked your hips into his lap and felt him hard against you.

His breath hitched against your mouth.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re such a tease.”

You smiled, pulling back just slightly, lips swollen, breath shaky. “You’re the one who sat over here all dramatic like you weren’t thinking about fucking me.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Oh, I was.”

His hand slid down between you, knuckles brushing where your thighs met. Just pressure. Barely there.

“And you’re still wet,” he said, voice almost reverent. “Jesus.”

You bit your lip, your head falling forward to rest against his. “What’re you waiting for, then?”

That broke something in him.

In one smooth motion, he stood and turned, laying you down on the couch without warning. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, a gasp catching in your throat as he hovered over you.

He pulled your shirt off completely, tossed it somewhere behind him, his eyes drinking you in like he was starved.

Like he needed this more than he could admit.

“Fucking hell…” he said, voice ragged, kissing your sternum, down your stomach, leaving a trail of heat in his wake.

You arched under him, breath shaky.

“I’m not stopping this time,” he growled, fingers hooking into your underwear, sliding it off in one swift motion.

“Good,” you breathed, eyes locked on his.

“Didn’t ask for permission,” he added, unzipping his jeans.

“Didn’t need to.”

He moved you to lie on your stomach, pushing a pillow below your stomach to steady you as you arched your back into him.

The pillow dug into your stomach, velvet rough against your skin. You were slick, aching, thighs were trembling. Nam-gyu’s hand gripped your hip so hard you knew you’d bruise, and you wanted him to. You wanted to wear the proof of him.

“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered behind you, voice low and wrecked. “Dripping all over my couch. Could eat you from the back and still not get enough.”

You whined into the pillow, shifting your hips back against him, needy.

“Oh, now you wanna act shy?” he growled, lining himself up again, running the head of his cock through your folds, slow, deliberate, teasing. It felt big. “But a second ago you were grinding on me like a bitch in heat.”

You gasped as he slapped the tip against your clit, the wet sound obscene in the quiet room.

“I’m not-” you started, but he pushed in with one rough thrust that stole the air from your lungs.

“Oh, you are,” he said through gritted teeth, burying himself to the hilt. “Fucking soaking for it.”

You moaned, high and broken. “Nam-”

He didn’t give you a chance to breathe.

He started thrusting, hard and slow, hands braced on your hips, dragging you back onto him with every snap of his hips. Your body jolted with every movement, the couch creaking under the force of it.

“Shit,” you gasped, face pressed into the fabric, “you’re- mh- deeper than before- with your fingers…”

“That’s ‘cause I’m not holding back this time,” he snarled, voice right against your ear as he leaned over you, pressing you into the cushions. “You wanted this.”

You nodded, desperate. “I did. I do- fuck, don’t stop.”

He grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled, making your back arch. “Say it again.”

“I want it,” you moaned, eyes rolling back. “Want you to fuck me stupid, Nam-”

“Then take it,” he growled, snapping his hips harder, your ass slapping against his thighs with each thrust. “Take it like the needy little slut you are.”

Your walls clenched around him, tight, fluttering, and he felt it.

“Ohh,” he chuckled, “you like that? You like it when I talk dirty?”

You nodded furiously, mouth open, moaning into the pillow.

“Say it,” he demanded, hand slipping under your body to rub tight circles on your clit.

You nearly screamed. “I like it-I fucking love it- don’t stop-”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he grunted. “You’re so fucking tight. You gonna cum on this cock like a good girl?”

You choked out a yes, hips rolling helplessly as he fucked you deeper, rougher, the filthy sounds of your bodies slamming together louder now than the breath in your lungs.

Then he spanked you- sharp, fast, right on the curve of your ass - and your vision whited out.

“Cum for me,” he groaned. “Wanna feel this pussy milk me.”

And just like that, you shattered. Your body tensed, thighs shaking as your orgasm ripped through you. You clenched around him so hard he cursed, grabbing your hips like a lifeline.

He barely lasted a second longer.

“Fuck- fuck,” he hissed, voice a growl now, hips stuttering. “I’m gonna - ah-shit- take it.”

He came with a grunt, cock twitching inside you, thick and deep. You felt it, everything, his cum spilling inside you, hot, overwhelming. You stayed there, still twitching, breathless, ruined.

When he finally pulled out, the mess between your thighs was obscene, sticky, and dripping, your pussy swollen and raw.

He looked down at you, wrecked, trembling, and let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.

“You look fucking ruined,” he said.

“I am,” you whispered into the couch. “Thanks.”

Nam-gyu grinned and dropped a slow kiss to your shoulder blade, trailing a few more down your spine before whispering against your skin:

“Round two in ten minutes.”

You turned your head just enough to smirk at him, breath still shaky.

“Make it five.”