becs. ✘

You’re staring at your own reflection in the bathroom mirror, and the girl staring back looks like she’s about to either throw up or ascend to another dimension. Maybe both. In that order.

The letter is clutched so tightly in your hand that the pale lavender envelope is starting to crease, and you force yourself to loosen your grip before you ruin the one thing you’ve spent three weeks perfecting. Three weeks. That’s twenty-one days of drafting, crossing out, rewriting, Googling “how to write a love letter without sounding like a desperate loser,” and then rewriting again. You’ve used up an entire pack of stationery. You’ve watched so many calligraphy tutorials that the YouTube algorithm thinks you’re training to become a medieval scribe. All for this one moment. This one letter. This one massive, terrifying, possibly life-ruining leap of faith.

You are a hopeless romantic. Hopeless being the operative word.

It’s not that you don’t believe in love. You do. Desperately, overwhelmingly, with every fiber of your first-year STEM student soul. You believe in meet-cutes and slow burns and the exact moment when two people look at each other and the entire world goes soft around the edges. You’ve read about it a hundred times. You’ve watched it play out on every screen you own. You’ve composed entire daydreams about it during particularly boring chemistry lectures. Love is your favorite subject, the one you’ve studied with more dedication than calculus or physics combined. There’s just one tiny, inconvenient, absolutely infuriating problem.

You’re terrified of it.

Not the idea of it. The idea is lovely. The idea is safe. The idea lives in your head where everything unfolds exactly the way you want it to, where you always say the right thing, where you never trip over your own feet or laugh too loud at the wrong moment or stand frozen in a doorway like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. But real love? The kind that requires vulnerability and eye contact and actually speaking words out loud with your mouth? That kind of love makes your palms sweat and your heart race in a decidedly unromantic, fight-or-flight kind of way. You are, and this is the most embarrassing part, a coward. A romantic coward. You dream of grand gestures but can barely manage a coherent sentence when an attractive person so much as glances in your direction.

Which brings you back to the letter.

The letter is your loophole. Your workaround. Your way of confessing your feelings without actually having to say them, because writing them down felt manageable in a way that speaking never has. You can be eloquent on paper. On paper, you can say things like “the first time I saw your smile, it felt like someone had turned on all the lights in a room I didn’t even realize was dark” without immediately wanting to crawl into the nearest hole and live out the rest of your days an hermit. On paper, you’re brave. On paper, you’re the kind of person who goes after what she wants.

In reality, you’ve been hiding in this bathroom for fifteen minutes, and your hands are shaking so badly that a passing person would think you are having an epileptic seizure.

“Okay,” you whisper to your reflection. “Okay. You can do this. You are a woman on a mission. You are a warrior. You are-”

A toilet flushes in one of the stalls behind you, and you nearly launch yourself through the ceiling.

A girl you vaguely recognize from your introductory programming class emerges, gives you an odd look as she washes her hands, and leaves without saying anything. You wait until the door swings shut, then press your forehead against the cool glass of the mirror and contemplate every life choice that has led you to this moment.

His name is Jungwon.

Yang Jungwon. Second year. Undeclared major but leaning toward something in the humanities, which you know because you may have done a bit of light, respectful, completely non-creepy research. He has a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and a laugh that sounds like sunshine if sunshine could make noise, and he holds doors open for people even when they’re still like ten feet away, which creates that awkward situation where the person has to speed-walk to not seem rude, but he never seems to mind. You first noticed him at the campus library during midterms when he quietly slid a pack of gummy bears across the table toward you at 2 AM, muttering something about glucose being good for brain function, and then went back to his book like he hadn’t just fundamentally altered the trajectory of your entire emotional existence.

That was four months ago. You’ve been pining ever since. Pining, yearning, longing, you’ve run through the entire lexicon of unrequited affection, and you’re exhausted. Today, you’ve decided, is the day it ends. One way or another.

You push yourself off the mirror, square your shoulders, and march out of the bathroom with the determination of someone going to war. The envelope is slightly damp from your grip, but it’s still intact, and the words inside are still true, and somewhere on this campus, Yang Jungwon is about to receive the most heartfelt confession letter ever written by a first-year student who has consumed an unhealthy amount of romance media.

Now you just have to find him.

—————

The hallway is bustling with students, the usual midday chaos of people rushing to classes or huddling in groups to complain about assignments. You scan the crowd, looking for a familiar face that might point you in the right direction, and your eyes land on a guy leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone with the dead-eyed expression of someone who has just finished a three-hour lab.

“Excuse me,” you say, and your voice comes out about an octave higher than normal. You clear your throat. “Sorry, um, do you know where I can find Yang Jungwon? Second year?”

The guy looks up, blinks slowly, deciding whether or not to acknowledge your presence, and then shrugs. “PC room, I think. Saw him heading there like twenty minutes ago.”

The PC room. Of course. It’s in the engineering and informatics building, a place you’ve rarely ever been to. But you know where it is, roughly, and you thank the guy with what you hope is a normal smile and not the rictus grin of someone rushing toward emotional catastrophe.

The walk across campus takes approximately seven minutes, and you spend every single one of them rehearsing what you’re going to say. You’ve already written the letter, so technically you don’t have to say anything, you can just hand it over and flee but you want to say something. Something cool. Something memorable.

“Hey, Jungwon, this is for you.” Simple. Direct. Good.

“I wrote you something. No pressure, just read it when you have time.” Casual. Low-stakes. Excellent.

“Hi, I’ve been emotionally compromised by your existence for several months, please accept this paper rectangle of feelings.” Okay, maybe not that one.

The engineering building looms in front of you before you’re ready. You push through the main doors and immediately feel out of place. The students here move with a different energy, less frantic, more focused, the kind of people who probably know what a server is and have opinions about programming languages you’ve never heard of.

You follow the signs toward the PC room, your footsteps echoing in the corridor, and with every step, your heart climbs higher up your throat. This is it. This is the moment. You’re going to walk in there, find Jungwon, hand him the letter, and then whatever happens happens. At least you’ll have tried. At least you’ll have been brave, even if it’s only for thirty seconds.

The door to the PC room is slightly ajar, and you can hear voices inside, multiple voices, which gives you pause. You assumed he’d be alone. Or with maybe one other person.

You hesitate. Your hand hovers over the door handle. Every instinct is screaming at you to turn around, go back to your dorm, and spend the rest of your life wondering what could have been. And maybe you would, if not for the small, stubborn voice in the back of your mind that says: You’ve already come this far. Don’t you want to know? Don’t you want to be the kind of person who actually does the thing instead of just dreaming about it?

Yes. Yes, you do.

You squeeze your eyes shut, take a breath so deep it makes you lightheaded, and push the door open with more force than strictly necessary. It slams against the wall with a bang that makes approximately twelve heads swivel in your direction, and for one horrifying moment, you are the center of attention in a room full of strangers.

But you don’t see any of them. You only see the figure sitting at the computer closest to the door, his back half-turned to you, hair falling over his forehead, the exact silhouette you’ve been looking for. Or at least, the exact silhouette you think you’ve been looking for.

You don’t stop to confirm. You don’t let yourself think. You just march forward, thrust the letter out in front of you like a shield, and launch into the speech you’ve been rehearsing for three weeks.

“This is for you. I’m sorry if this is weird or sudden but I’ve liked you for a really long time and I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore. You don’t have to respond right away. You don’t have to respond ever, actually. I just wanted you to know that someone out there thinks you’re wonderful and I wrote it all down because I’m better at writing than talking and honestly I might pass out if I keep standing here so please just take this and I’ll go-”

You finally look up.

And the face staring back at you is absolutely, categorically, one hundred percent not Jungwon.

The boy in front of you is taller than Jungwon. Broader shoulders. Sharper jawline. Different eyes, darker, deeper, currently widened in a mixture of surprise and something you can’t quite read. His lips are parted slightly, as if he was about to say something before you launched into your emotional word-vomit, and he’s holding a half-eaten protein bar that’s now frozen halfway to his mouth.

The room has gone completely, utterly silent.

You can feel the stares of every single person boring into the back of your head. Someone coughs. Someone else whispers something that sounds suspiciously like “did she just-” before being shushed by their neighbor.

And then the boy, the very handsome, very wrong boy, sets down his protein bar, takes the letter gently from your trembling hand, and says in a voice that’s low and smooth and completely unfamiliar: “Wow. Okay. What’s your name?”

This is the worst moment of your entire life. You are going to die right here, in this PC room, surrounded by computer monitors and half-empty energy drink cans and a dozen witnesses who will spread this story to every corner of the university within the next three hours. Your obituary will read: here lies Y/N, the loser who can’t even recognize her ultimate crush.

“Y/N,” you croak, because your mouth is apparently still functioning even though every other part of you has shut down. “L/N Y/N. First year. STEM.”

You don’t know why you said STEM. He didn’t ask for your department. You’re offering information nobody requested. This is a disaster.

But the boy, he’s looking at you with an expression you can’t decipher, his head tilted slightly to the side like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. He’s wearing a dark hoodie with the informatics department logo on it, and there’s a pair of expensive-looking headphones draped around his neck, and his hair is slightly mussed in a way that suggests he’s been running his fingers through it while concentrating. He’s absurdly good-looking, the kind of good-looking that makes you simultaneously want to stare and look away, and you’re only now noticing the way several girls in the room have been watching him since you entered, not just because of your blunder, but because they’ve been watching him.

“I’m Heeseung,” he says, and there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Lee Heeseung. Third year. Informatics engineering.”

Lee Heeseung. The name registers somewhere in the back of your panic-addled brain. It’s familiar in the way that campus gossip is familiar, attached to words like hot and player and don’t get your hopes up because he’ll charm you and then move on. You’ve heard girls in your dorm talking about him in hushed, giggling tones, trading stories about brief encounters and misinterpreted invitations. And you, in your infinite wisdom, have just handed a love letter meant for someone else directly into his notorious hands.

You have to fix this. You have to tell him it was a mistake. You have to-

“I’m flattered,” Heeseung says, and his smile widens slightly, not quite a smirk but definitely approaching smirk territory. “Really. This is... I mean, no one’s ever confessed to me with an actual letter before. It’s kind of old school.” He turns the envelope over in his hands, examining it with what seems like genuine curiosity. “The handwriting is really pretty. Did you do the calligraphy yourself?”

“Yes,” you say, because you are physically incapable of lying when put on the spot, and also because your brain has apparently decided that the best course of action is to just answer whatever questions he asks like this is a normal conversation and not the emotional equivalent of a tornado.

“Impressive.” He looks at you, really looks at you, and something shifts in his expression. The teasing edge softens just a fraction. “A confession is a lot, though. I mean, I’m honored, but we don’t even know each other.”

This is your opening. This is the moment where you say “actually, that’s because this letter wasn’t meant for you, there’s been a terrible misunderstanding, I’m so sorry, please forget this ever happened.” The words are right there, lined up on your tongue, ready to go.

But the room is still watching. A dozen pairs of eyes. The whispers have stopped, but the staring hasn’t, and you can feel every single gaze like a physical weight pressing down on you. If you correct him now, in front of everyone, you’ll have to explain. You’ll have to admit that you walked into a crowded room and confessed to the wrong person like an absolute buffoon. You’ll become a campus legend for all the wrong reasons: the girl who was too stupid to even identify her own crush. The story will follow you for the rest of your university career. You’ll never live it down.

But if you just... let him believe it... if you just nod and agree and leave as quickly as possible... you can fix this later. Privately. Without an audience. You can find him tomorrow, or send him a message, or do literally anything other than humiliate yourself further in front of all these people.

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“I know,” you hear yourself say. “It’s a lot. I know.”

Heeseung nods thoughtfully, like you’ve said something profound. “But I’m not against it. Starting slow, I mean. If you want.”

What.

“What,” you say, but it comes out more like a statement than a question.

“I’m okay with starting slow,” he repeats, and now the smile is definitely back, a little crooked, a little curious. “You’re cute. And clearly brave. I like that. So if you want to, I don’t know, get coffee sometime and see where this goes... I’m open to it.”

Someone in the room lets out a low whistle. Someone else says “Heeseung, are you serious right now?” in a tone of utter disbelief. But Heeseung doesn’t look away from you. He’s waiting for your answer, his gaze steady and warm, and you are standing in the epicenter of a complete and total catastrophe with absolutely no idea how to get out.

Say no. Say it was a mistake. Say the truth.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Okay?! Okay?!

“Okay,” he echoes, and the smile breaks fully across his face, transforming him from handsome to devastating. “Good. I’ll find you. Y/N, first year, STEM, right?”

You nod mutely.

“Cool.” He tucks your letter carefully into the pocket of his hoodie, like it’s something precious, like he’s planning to read it later, and the gesture makes your stomach twist with guilt so intense you think you might actually be sick. “I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

You don’t remember leaving the room. You don’t remember the walk back across campus or the elevator ride to your floor or the moment you collapsed face-first onto your dorm bed. All you know is that one moment you were standing in the PC room, and the next you are here, staring at the ceiling, replaying every single agonizing second on an endless loop.

You confessed to the wrong person.

You confessed to the wrong person.

And for some reason that you absolutely cannot comprehend, he said yes.

Across campus, in a PC room that has finally returned to its normal hum of activity, Lee Heeseung pulls a slightly crumpled lavender envelope out of his hoodie pocket and stares at it for a long moment.

“Dude,” says his friend Jay from the next computer over, not bothering to hide his grin. “What just happened?”

“I don’t know,” Heeseung says honestly. And he doesn’t. He’s used to attention, he knows how to handle it, how to smile and nod and gently redirect without hurting anyone’s feelings. It’s a skill he’s developed over the years, the only way he knows to deal with the unfortunate side effect of his people-pleasing tendencies. He’s nice to someone, he helps them with an assignment, he holds a door open or offers a pen, and suddenly they’re looking at him with stars in their eyes, and he doesn’t know how to tell them that he was just trying to be polite without sounding like an arrogant jerk. So he lets them down easy, or he avoids the situation entirely, and his reputation grows in ways that don’t reflect the truth at all.

But this, this is new. A letter. An actual, physical, handwritten letter, with swooping calligraphy and a lavender envelope and a girl who looked so terrified that he thought she might actually pass out right there on the linoleum floor.

She looked at him like he was a natural disaster. Like she was watching a building collapse in slow motion and couldn’t do anything to stop it.

And then she said okay anyway.

“She’s interesting,” Heeseung murmurs, more to himself than to Jay, and carefully opens the envelope.

“Interesting how?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s too busy reading, his eyes moving slowly across the carefully penned words, the ink slightly smudged in places where the writer’s hand might have trembled. It’s beautiful. It’s earnest. It’s the kind of letter that someone writes when they mean every single word, when they’ve poured their entire heart onto the page without holding anything back.

He’s never received anything like it before.

And he wants to know more about the girl who wrote it, the girl who burst into his afternoon like a hurricane of nerves and feelings.

“Jay,” he says, still staring at the letter, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I think something interesting just walked into my life.”

He doesn’t notice the way his friend shakes his head and mutters something about “here we go again.”

He’s too busy wondering when he’ll see Y/N next.

—————

The following forty-eight hours of your life can be accurately described as a masterclass in strategic avoidance and tactical regret.

You skip two classes. Not on purpose, exactly, you just can’t bring yourself to leave your dorm room when every shadow in the hallway might be Lee Heeseung coming to collect on that coffee date you apparently agreed to in a moment of temporary insanity. You survive on instant noodles and the protein bars your friend left on her desk with a sticky note that said “FOR EMERGENCIES ONLY,” which this absolutely qualifies as. You watch three entire seasons of Bridgerton without retaining a single moment because your brain is too busy replaying the PC room incident on a continuous, merciless loop.

“I’m Lee Heeseung. Third year. Informatics engineering.”

“I’m okay with starting slow.”

“You’re cute.”

You bury your face in your pillow and scream, but it comes out muffled and pathetic, like a small animal giving up on life.

By day three, you’ve developed a system. You only leave your room during off-peak hours, skittering through campus, your head on a constant swivel. You’ve memorized the locations of every vending machine in buildings Heeseung is unlikely to frequent. You’ve started taking the long way to your remaining classes, cutting through the art department and the greenhouse and once, memorably, a service corridor that smelled strongly of bleach and soap. You’ve become a ghost. A phantom. A creature of the shadows who survives on granola bars and instant noddles.

But the problem with running away from your problems is that your problems don’t actually go anywhere. They just wait. And think about you. And eventually, when you least expect it, they catch up.

It happens on a Thursday.

You’re crouched behind a potted plant near the science building, scanning the courtyard for any sign of tall, attractive informatics students, when your phone buzzes with a text from your best friend, Yunjin.

Yunjin: heard you’ve been living like a sewer rat. want me to bring you real food?

You: can’t. i’m in the middle of a crisis

Yunjin: You’re executing what we talked about yet?

You: it’s in process

Yunjin: at the end of the day, you will have to tell him

You stare at the message for a long moment. It’s such a simple solution. So elegant. So reasonable. And yet, every time you imagine yourself walking up to Heeseung and saying “actually, I meant to give that letter to someone else,” your entire body physically recoils like you’ve touched a hot stove. The humiliation would be astronomical. The look on his face, surprise, then confusion, then that horrible moment of realization that he was never supposed to be the recipient would haunt you for the rest of your natural life. And you’d still have to explain the Jungwon part. And Jungwon would find out. And then you’d be the weird girl who couldn’t even confess to the right person, and Heeseung would be the guy who got accidentally confessed to, and everyone would laugh about it for weeks, and-

Your phone buzzes again.

Yunjin: i can hear you overthinking from across campus. just rip off the bandaid. what’s the worst that could happen

You type back a single message: he could tell everyone and i’d have to transfer schools and change my name and become a farmer in New Zeland

Yunjin: dramatic. but valid. good luck with your plant hiding

You shove your phone back into your pocket and peek around the potted plant again. The courtyard is clear. This is your window. You take a deep breath, steel your nerves, and scuttle out from behind the foliage.

The plan for today is simple: find Heeseung, explain the misunderstanding, and disappear forever. You’ve spent the entire morning psyching yourself up for this. You’ve practiced the speech in the mirror seventeen times. You’ve even written a script on your phone that you can refer to in case of emergency. It’s thorough, it’s clear, it leaves absolutely no room for misinterpretation, and it ends with a sincere apology and a polite request that you both pretend this never happened. It’s perfect. It’s foolproof. All you have to do is locate the target.

Easier said than done. You’ve been looking for him since yesterday, not to talk to, but to observe from a safe distance so you could plan your approach and the universe, in its infinite comedic wisdom, has made him completely unfindable. It’s like he vanished off the face of the earth the moment you actually wanted to see him. Three days ago, you couldn’t walk three feet without catching a glimpse of him, but now? Now he’s a ghost. A myth. A concept rather than a physical entity.

You’re going to have to ask for help.

This is, objectively, a terrible idea. Asking for help means talking to people, and talking to people about Heeseung means potentially revealing that you’re looking for him, which means potentially revealing why you’re looking for him, which means the whole campus could know about the letter situation by lunchtime. But you’re running out of options, and you’re running out of granola bars, and you can’t live behind potted plants forever.

You find your informant near the engineering building, a girl with neon green headphones and a laptop covered in stickers, sitting on a bench and typing furiously at something that looks like code. She seems approachable. She seems like she won’t ask too many questions. You approach with what you hope is casual confidence and not the desperate energy of someone who has been living on protein bars.

“Excuse me,” you say, and your voice comes out surprisingly normal. Points for you. “Do you know where I can find Lee Heeseung? Third year, informatics?”

The girl looks up, her eyes flicking over you with mild curiosity. She doesn’t ask why you’re looking for him, which makes you want to hug her. “Heeseung? Yeah, I think I saw him heading to the quad about ten minutes ago. Something about meeting up with some people before his next class.”

The quad. Of course. The most open, public, exposed location on the entire campus. The place where literally everyone congregates. The absolute last place you want to have a conversation about accidental love confessions.

“Great,” you say, and your voice is definitely an octave higher now. “Great. Thank you. Thanks. So much.”

The girl gives you a weird look, shrugs, and goes back to her coding.

You’re already moving, your feet carrying you toward the quad before your brain can catch up and talk you out of it. This is fine. This is progress. You’ll find him, you’ll pull him aside, you’ll give him the speech, and then you’ll be free. You’ll be a normal person again. You’ll be able to walk through campus without checking every corner for a tall informatics student who thinks you’re cute and brave and worthy of a coffee date.

The quad is bustling when you arrive, clusters of students sprawled across the grass and gathered around the stone benches near the fountain. The afternoon sun is bright and warm, the kind of weather that makes everyone want to be outside, which is lovely and picturesque and deeply inconvenient for your purposes. You squint against the glare, scanning the crowd for a familiar dark-haired figure.

No Heeseung.

You circle the perimeter, weaving between groups of friends and dodging a frisbee that comes sailing dangerously close to your head. You check near the fountain, near the big oak tree, near the cluster of food trucks that’s set up along the east edge. Still no Heeseung. Your informant said ten minutes ago, he should be here. Unless he already left. Unless you missed him. Unless this is a sign from the universe that you should give up and commit to the farmer life plan after all.

You’re so focused on your search that you don’t notice someone approaching until a shadow falls across your path, and a voice, warm, familiar, the exact voice you’ve been daydreaming about for four months, says:

“Y/N? Hey, it is you!”

You look up.

Yang Jungwon is standing right in front of you, smiling like the sun just came out from behind a cloud, and every single coherent thought in your brain immediately evaporates.

He’s wearing a soft-looking cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his dark hair is slightly windswept, and there’s a tiny mole near his chin that you’ve never noticed before but is now seared into your memory forever. He’s holding a book, something with a cracked spine and a title in a language you don’t recognize and he’s looking at you with genuine, undiluted pleasure, like running into you is the best thing that’s happened to him all day.

“It’s me,” you say, because you are a conversational genius. “I mean. Yes. Hi. Hello.”

Smooth. Flawless execution. Ten out of ten.

Jungwon doesn’t seem to notice your complete lack of verbal grace. His smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes in exactly the way you’ve catalogued in your mental Jungwon database. “I thought I recognized you. You’re in my philosophy elective, right? Front row, near the window?”

He knows where you sit. He knows where you sit. This is both the best and worst information you’ve ever received, because on one hand, Yang Jungwon has noticed your existence, but on the other hand, Yang Jungwon has noticed your existence, and now you have to be a normal human being and not the disaster you currently are.

“Front row near the window,” you confirm, nodding a little too vigorously. “That’s me. I like the natural light. For... note-taking purposes.”

“Makes sense.” He shifts his weight, tucking the book under his arm. “You take really detailed notes, by the way. I sat behind you once, and I was honestly impressed. Your color-coding system is no joke.”

Jungwon has looked at your notes. Jungwon has been impressed by your notes. Your brain is short-circuiting at approximately the speed of light, and you have to physically resist the urge to fist-pump in the middle of the quad.

“Thank you,” you manage. “I have a lot of highlighters. Maybe too many. Is there such a thing as too many highlighters? I don’t think so, but I’ve been told my stationery collection is concerning.”

Oh no. Why are you talking about stationery? You need to say something charming. Something witty. Something that will make him see you as more than the girl with the aggressive color-coding system.

“I don’t think it’s concerning,” Jungwon says, and there’s a teasing lilt to his voice that makes your knees go weak. “Passionate, maybe. Dedicated. I respect it.”

“Passionate and dedicated,” you repeat faintly. “That’s... yeah. That’s my brand.”

He laughs, and it’s exactly like you remember, bright and warm, the kind of laugh that makes you want to do whatever you just did again and again just to hear it on repeat. “I like it. Passion is underrated.” He tilts his head, studying you with an expression you can’t quite read. “So what brings you to the quad? You usually eat lunch in the science building courtyard, don’t you?”

Your heart stutters. He knows where you eat lunch. He’s observed your habits. This is either a sign of mutual interest or you’ve accidentally become the subject of a sociological case study, and at this point you’re willing to accept either outcome.

“I’m, um, looking for someone,” you say, and the confession letter debacle comes crashing back into your consciousness like a wrecking ball through a glass window. Right. You’re supposed to be finding Heeseung. You’re supposed to be fixing the misunderstanding. That’s why you’re here. Not to bask in the radiant warmth of Jungwon’s attention like a lizard on a sunny rock.

“Anyone I know?” Jungwon asks, and there’s something in his tone, curiosity, maybe.

“Probably not,” you say quickly. “Just a... just a person. A random person. Not important.”

Jungwon raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but before he can press further, a new voice cuts through the afternoon air like a knife through butter.

“There you are.”

You freeze. Your blood turns to ice. Every cell in your body screams in unison: run.

Lee Heeseung is walking toward you across the quad, his headphones hanging around his neck and his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jacket. He looks exactly as devastatingly attractive as he did three days ago, which is deeply unfair. His expression is a mixture of curiosity and amusement, and when his eyes meet yours, that slight smile, the one that’s not quite a smirk but definitely is a smirk’s second cousin, curves across his lips.

“I heard you’ve been looking for me,” he says, coming to a stop beside Jungwon like this is the most natural gathering in the world. “You know, if you wanted to see me, you could have just messaged. I would have given you my number at the PC room.”

Jungwon looks between you and Heeseung with visible confusion, his earlier smile fading into something more guarded. “Wait. You two know each other?”

This is it. This is the moment the universe has been building toward. Every terrible decision, every act of cowardice, every misguided attempt to avoid embarrassment, it’s all led here, to this exact spot on the quad, with the wrong guy standing next to the right guy and your entire romantic future hanging in the balance.

“I wouldn’t say know,” you begin, but Heeseung is already talking over you, apparently immune to the desperate telepathic signals you’re trying to beam directly into his brain.

“She confessed to me two days ago,” Heeseung says, and his tone is so casual, so conversational, like he’s discussing the weather or what he had for lunch. “Walked right into the PC room, handed me a letter, told me she’d liked me for a long time. It was very romantic. Very old-school. I was impressed.”

Silence. Jungwon stares at Heeseung. Then at you. Then back at Heeseung.

“She... confessed to you,” Jungwon repeats slowly, and his voice has gone flat in a way that makes your heart splinter into approximately seven thousand pieces.

“Full confession,” Heeseung confirms, still smiling. “I’m thinking we’ll start with coffee. Keep it simple, you know? She’s shy. I don’t want to overwhelm her.”

This is a nightmare. This is a waking, breathing, actively-unfolding nightmare, and you are trapped in it like a fly in amber, unable to move or speak or do anything except watch as every possible future with Jungwon crumbles to dust before your eyes.

Because here’s the thing you realize in that horrible, crystal-clear moment: you can’t correct Heeseung now. Not in front of Jungwon. Not when Jungwon has just been told, in no uncertain terms, that you confessed to someone else. If you explain the truth, that the letter was actually meant for Jungwon, that the whole thing was a catastrophic mistake, then what? Jungwon would know you’d been planning to confess to him, but he’d also know that you somehow managed to mess it up so spectacularly that you confessed to his friend instead. You’d look incompetent at best and completely unhinged at worst. And Heeseung would be humiliated, and Jungwon would be awkward, and you’d be the epicenter of a social catastrophe so immense that all three of you would have to avoid each other for the rest of your academic careers.

You are trapped. Completely, utterly, irreversibly trapped.

“Interesting,” Jungwon says, and the word is so neutral that it cuts deeper than any insult ever could. “I didn’t realize you two ran in the same circles.”

“We don’t,” you croak. “We really, really don’t.”

“We’re just getting started,” Heeseung says cheerfully, and he has the audacity to wink at you. Like this is some kind of adorable inside joke instead of the emotional apocalypse it actually is.

You have to get out of here. You have to escape before the sob building in your chest forces its way out and makes everything infinitely worse. You can feel it pressing against your ribs, hot and insistent, and if you don’t leave right now, you’re going to burst into tears in the middle of the quad in front of both of them, and then the disaster will be complete.

“I have to go,” you blurt out, and you’re already backing away, your feet moving before your brain can issue any kind of warning. “I have… a thing. A class. A lab. A lab class. It’s very important. I can’t miss it. I have to go.”

Heeseung’s brow furrows slightly. “Wait, I thought you wanted to talk to-”

“Nope! No talking! We’re good! Everything’s fine! Bye!”

You spin around and power-walk toward the nearest exit, which happens to be in the direction of the fountain, which you only realize when your foot catches on the low stone ledge and you go sprawling forward with all the grace of a newborn giraffe.

Your knee hits the ground. Your dignity hits the ground approximately three feet to the left. Several people turn to look.

“Y/N!” That’s Jungwon’s voice, concerned and moving closer, and you absolutely cannot handle that right now.

“I’m fine!” you shriek, scrambling to your feet with adrenaline-fueled desperation. “Totally fine! Happens all the time! I’m very clumsy! It’s part of my charm!”

You don’t look back. You can’t look back. If you look back, you’ll see Jungwon’s worried expression and Heeseung’s confused one, and you’ll have to confront the full magnitude of what just happened, and your fragile emotional state simply cannot withstand that kind of pressure. So you run. Not jog, not power-walk…run. Across the quad, past the food trucks, through a gap between two buildings, and out onto the main campus pathway like the hounds of hell are snapping at your heels.

You don’t stop until you reach the arts building, and you don’t start breathing normally until you’ve locked yourself in a practice room on the third floor, surrounded by soundproof walls and a piano that’s seen better days. You slide down against the door, pull your knees up to your chest, and let out a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a wail.

Everything is ruined. Everything. You had one chance, one single, solitary chance to fix the misunderstanding and salvage your dignity and maybe, just maybe, preserve the possibility of something with Jungwon somewhere down the line. And instead, you let your hopeless romantic heart get distracted by a five-minute conversation about philosophy notes and highlighters, and now you’re the girl who confessed to Lee Heeseung, and Jungwon thinks you’re interested in someone else, and there is no conceivable way to untangle this mess without making everything exponentially worse.

You’re going to have to transfer schools. You’re going to have to move to another country. You’re going to have to fake your own death and start a new identity as a goat farmer in New Zeland.

The door handle jiggles behind you. “Occupied!” you yell, your voice cracking.

“Y/N? Is that you?”

Your best friend Yunjin’s voice filters through the door, muffled but unmistakable, and the sound of it is enough to crack the dam you’ve been desperately trying to hold together. You scramble to your feet, fumble with the lock, and yank the door open to reveal Yunjin standing in the hallway with a cup of bubble tea in each hand and an expression of profound concern on her face.

“I saw you running,” she says, her eyes scanning your disheveled appearance. “Like, truly running. I’ve never seen you run before. You once told me running was for people who don’t appreciate the journey.”

“Yunjin,” you crumble, and your voice is so pitiful that she immediately sets down both drinks and pulls you into a hug.

“Okay,” she says, steering you back into the practice room and closing the door behind her. “Okay. Sit down. Tell me everything. What happened? Did you talk to Heeseung? Did you fix it?”

You laugh, but it comes out wrong, high and wobbly, on the edge of hysteria. “Fix it? Fix it? Yunjin, I made it so much worse. I made it so much worse that I think I actually created new dimensions of worse. Scientists are going to have to invent new words to describe how badly I messed this up.”

“That’s... improbable,” Yunjin says carefully. “But I’m listening.”

She settles onto the piano bench, and you collapse onto the floor in front of her, crossing your legs and burying your face in your hands. The story spills out of you in a torrent, the quad, the search for Heeseung, the unexpected appearance of Jungwon, the conversation that made your heart soar, and then the moment Heeseung appeared like a harbinger of doom and casually announced your confession to the one person you never wanted to know about it.

“And then I fell,” you finish miserably. “In front of both of them. And I ran away. And now Jungwon thinks I like Heeseung, and Heeseung thinks I like Heeseung, and I can’t correct either of them without making everything even weirder, and my life is a romantic comedy written by a petty incel.”

Yunjin is quiet for a moment. Then she lets out a long, slow breath. “Okay. That’s... that’s a lot.”

“I know.”

“And you’re telling me you couldn’t just say, hey Heeseung, sorry for the mix-up, the letter wasn’t for you, my bad?”

You look up at her, your eyes rimmed with red. “In front of Jungwon? After Heeseung already told him I confessed? What would Jungwon think of me?”

Yunjin considers this. “That you’re a disaster, probably.”

“Exactly!”

“But a lovable disaster,” she adds. “Disasters can be endearing.”

“Yunjin, please focus.”

She holds up her hands in surrender, but there’s a glint in her eye that you recognize, the one that means she’s about to drop some wisdom on you whether you’re ready for it or not. Yunjin has been your best friend since orientation week, when you both accidentally joined the wrong club meeting and ended up spending two hours in a competitive gardening seminar before realizing your mistake. She’s practical where you’re dreamy, decisive where you’re hesitant, and she’s talked you down from approximately four hundred anxiety spirals since the semester started. If anyone can find a way out of this mess, it’s her.

“Okay,” she says, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. “Let me present you with an alternative perspective.”

“I’m listening.”

“Lee Heeseung,” she says, ticking off points on her fingers, “has a reputation. A big one. Everyone knows it. He’s the guy who’s super nice to everyone, especially girls, and then they fall for him and he gets all surprised when they expect something more, and then things fizzle out because he wasn’t looking for anything serious.” She makes air quotes with her fingers. “Sound familiar?”

You blink. “I mean... I’ve heard things. But he didn’t seem like-”

“That’s his whole thing,” Yunjin interrupts. “He doesn’t seem like it. That’s why it works. He likes when everyone is after him. But nice doesn’t equal interested, so girls get the wrong idea and then they get hurt. It’s a cycle.” She pops a tapioca pearl into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “My point is, you don’t need to do anything. You don’t need to fix this. You just need to wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“For him to get bored.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Think about it. You’re not actually interested in him, right? You’re not going to fall all over yourself trying to get his attention. You’re not going to be waiting outside his classes or accidentally showing up wherever he hangs out. You’re not going to be like every other girl who’s chased after him.”

You frown. “So... what, I just... do nothing?”

“No, you do the opposite of chasing.” Yunjin grins, and it’s slightly wicked. “You make yourself as uninteresting to him as possible. You’re awkward, you’re weird, you’re clearly not trying to impress him. You don’t dress up when you know you might see him. You talk about boring things. You mention, I don’t know, your extensive collection of vintage stamps or whatever nerdy hobby you can think of. You make yourself boring.”

“I don’t have a stamp collection.”

“Then make one up! The point is, Heeseung is used to girls who want him. If you clearly don’t want him, his interest is going to fizzle out faster than a cheap sparkler. He’ll move on to the next girl who bats her eyelashes at him, and you’ll be free. No confrontation necessary.”

You turn this over in your mind. It’s... not the worst idea you’ve ever heard. In fact, compared to your current strategy of blind panic and tactical fleeing, it’s practically genius. If you can’t correct the misunderstanding without making everything worse, maybe you can just... let it die on its own. Let Heeseung’s fabled short attention span work in your favor. Become so aggressively unappealing that he loses interest within a week and never thinks about you again.

And once he’s out of the picture, once enough time has passed, maybe you can try again with Jungwon. Properly. With better aim.

“You’re a genius,” you tell Yunjin, the hope creeping back into your voice. “An absolute genius. I could kiss you.”

“Please don’t, you’re covered in grass stains.” She nudges one of the bubble teas toward you with her foot. “Drink your tea. Hydrate. And then we’re going to brainstorm all the ways you can make yourself seem as unappealing as possible to a hot third-year informatics student.”

You grab the drink and take a long sip, the sweetness settling something in your chest. For the first time in three days, you feel something other than panic. You feel strategic. You feel determined. Lee Heeseung might think you’re cute and brave and worthy of a coffee date, but he hasn’t met the version of you that’s about to emerge, a version so bland, so uninteresting, so aggressively mediocre that he’ll run in the opposite direction before the week is out.

“Okay,” you say, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Okay. Let’s do this. Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested starts now.”

Yunjin raises her bubble tea in a toast. “To being boring.”

You clink your cup against hers. “To being boring.”

Somewhere across campus Heeseung is still standing in the quad with a confused expression on his face and a lavender envelope in his pocket, wondering why the girl who supposedly has a crush on him just sprinted away like she was being chased by bears.

He’s not used to this. He’s not used to any of this.

And that, he realizes with a small, bemused shake of his head, is exactly what makes it so interesting.

—————

Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested lasted exactly four days before it encountered its first major obstacle.

That obstacle is approximately six feet tall, has flowing hair that falls perfectly across his forehead, and is currently walking directly toward your table in the cafeteria with a tray in his hands and a smile on his face that suggests he has absolutely no idea he's supposed to be losing interest in you.

You spot him approximately 2.3 seconds too late. By the time your brain registers the approaching danger, you are already mid-bite into a sad cafeteria sandwich, your mouth full of bread and lettuce and the dawning realization that you are trapped. There is no escape route. Your table is in the corner, surrounded on three sides by walls and on the fourth side by Heeseung's rapidly approaching form. You are a cornered animal. A very stupid, very panicked cornered animal with mayonnaise on her chin.

"Y/N!" Heeseung says your name like it's his favorite word, bright and warm and entirely too enthusiastic for someone who's supposed to be a notorious womanizer with a short attention span. "I was hoping I'd run into you. Mind if I sit?"

Mind if he sits? Of course you mind. You mind immensely. You mind with every fiber of your being. Sitting with Heeseung is the exact opposite of what Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested is supposed to accomplish. Sitting with Heeseung means talking to Heeseung, and talking to Heeseung means opportunities to accidentally charm him, and charming him is categorically Not The Goal.

But Heeseung is already pulling out the chair across from you, and his smile is so genuine, and there's a tiny bit of what looks like grease on his cheekbone that suggests he's just come from some kind of engineering lab, and you are weak. You are so, so weak.

"Go ahead," you hear yourself say, and then immediately want to punch yourself in the face.

Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested, Day Four, 12:34 PM: catastrophic failure already in progress.

Heeseung settles into the chair with an easy grace, setting his tray down and immediately stealing one of your fries like you're old friends who share food on a regular basis. You watch the fry disappear into his mouth and feel a small part of your soul leave your body.

"So," he says, leaning back and studying you with those dark, unreadable eyes. "You ran away from me pretty fast the other day. Should I be worried? Do I have something on my face?"

He doesn't. He absolutely doesn't. He has the kind of face that belongs on a billboard, all sharp angles and soft edges and that one little mole on his forehead that you are definitely not noticing because noticing things about Heeseung's face is counterproductive to the mission.

"No," you say quickly. "No, you're fine. Your face is fine. I mean, you don't have anything on your face. I just remembered I had somewhere to be. Very suddenly. It was urgent."

"An urgent… lab class?" Heeseung's lips twitch. "That's what you said, right? An urgent lab class on a Thursday afternoon?"

Your face heats. "Yes. Exactly. Lab class. Very urgent. Science doesn't wait."

"Mmm." He pops another one of your fries into his mouth. "Well, the good news is, you don't look like you're in a hurry right now. So we can actually talk. You know, like normal people who are supposedly getting to know each other?"

Right. Getting to know each other. Because you confessed to him. Because he thinks you like him. Because you're living in an elaborate lie of your own making.

This is your chance, though. This is the perfect opportunity to implement Phase One of the Make Him Uninterested plan: Be Weird and Off-Putting. You just have to be the most boring, strange, unappealing version of yourself that you can possibly imagine. How hard can it be?

Pretty hard, as it turns out, because your brain chooses this exact moment to go completely blank.

"So," Heeseung says, apparently unbothered by your silence, "tell me about yourself. What do you like to do for fun? Besides writing beautiful love letters and then running away from the recipient?"

You choke on your own saliva. Just… straight up choke on nothing, like a cartoon character. "I don't…that wasn't…I do normal things. Normal fun things. Like… watching paint dry. And counting ceiling tiles. Very relaxing. You should try it."

Heeseung's expression flickers, confusion, amusement, something in between. "Counting ceiling tiles?"

"There are forty-seven in this cafeteria," you say, doubling down with the desperate energy of someone who has already committed to the bit. "Forty-eight if you count the one that's partially covered by that vent over there. But some people don't count partial tiles. It's a philosophical debate, really."

"Fascinating," Heeseung says, and the worst part is that he sounds like he actually means it. "What else?"

What else? What else can you say that will make you sound completely unappealing? You cast around for inspiration, your eyes landing on your sandwich. Okay. Fine. If words can't do the job, maybe actions can.

You pick up your sandwich with both hands and take the weirdest bite you can physically manage, mouth open slightly too wide, chewing with exaggerated jaw movements, making an unfortunate amount of noise in the process. You feel like a cow. You look like a cow. You are embodying the spirit of a cow, and surely, surely, this is enough to make any self-respecting hot informatics student run for the hills.

Heeseung watches you chew. His expression doesn't change.

"Good sandwich?" he asks mildly.

"Mmf," you say, still chewing, still being a cow. "Very good. I love-"

And then the lettuce hits the back of your throat.

You don't know how it happens. One moment you're chewing normally, well, abnormally, but in a controlled way and the next moment a piece of lettuce stages a rebellion and lodges itself directly in your windpipe. Your eyes go wide. Your hand flies to your throat. You make a sound that is somewhere between a wheeze and a honk.

"Y/N?" Heeseung's amused expression shifts to concern. "Are you okay?"

You are not okay. You are choking. You are choking on lettuce in front of Lee Heeseung in the middle of the cafeteria, and this is how you're going to die.

Heeseung is on his feet now, moving around the table with surprising speed. "Hey, hey, can you breathe? Do you need me to-"

You shake your head frantically, still making dying cow noises, and grab your water bottle with shaking hands. The first gulp does nothing. The second gulp, by some miracle, dislodges the lettuce just enough for you to cough it up into a napkin with all the grace and dignity of a cat hacking up a hairball.

Silence.

The entire cafeteria, you're convinced, is staring at you. In reality, probably only a few nearby tables have noticed, but it feels apocalyptic. You sit there, red-faced and teary-eyed, clutching a napkin full of your own near-death experience, and want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

Heeseung kneels beside your chair, one hand hovering near your shoulder like he isn't sure if touching you would be welcome. "Hey. You're okay. You're okay, right? Do you need me to get you anything? More water? A doctor? A new sandwich without lettuce?"

His voice is gentle. Genuinely gentle. Not the smooth, charming tone you expect from someone with his reputation, but something softer, something that sounds almost like real concern.

"I'm fine," you croak, your voice ravaged. "I'm fine. That happens. All the time. I'm very bad at eating. It's one of my traits."

"One of your traits," Heeseung repeats, and the corner of his mouth twitches despite his obvious worry. "Being bad at eating?"

"It's a lifestyle choice."

He laughs. Not a polite chuckle or a mocking snicker, but a real laugh, surprised and bright and completely unguarded. He sits back down in his chair, shaking his head, and looks at you with something that is definitely not boredom or disinterest.

"You're really something else, you know that?"

You don't know how to respond to that, so you don't. You just sit there, still clutching your napkin of shame, and wonder how Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested has somehow resulted in him laughing at your jokes and looking at you like you're the most entertaining thing he's encountered all week.

"So," Heeseung says, propping his chin on his hand, "I've been wondering. What made you decide to confess to me? Was there a specific moment? Something I did?"

Oh no.

Oh no, oh no, oh no.

This is the worst possible question he could ask. You can't tell him the truth…I didn't mean to confess to you, I meant to confess to your friend, you just happened to be sitting in the wrong place at the wrong time, please don't hate me…but you also can't just… not answer. He's looking at you expectantly, his dark eyes curious and open, and you have approximately three seconds to come up with a convincing lie before the silence becomes too awkward to recover from.

"Your… kindness," you say, grasping at straws. "You're very… kind. To everyone. I noticed."

Heeseung tilts his head. "My kindness?"

"Very kind," you repeat, nodding vigorously. "So kind. The kindest. I saw you… hold a door open for someone once. It was… inspiring."

"I held a door open."

"A door. Yes. It was a very heavy door. And you held it. For a long time. Multiple people went through. It was very impressive."

Heeseung stares at you for a moment, and you stare back, your face burning, your soul evacuating your body. This is it. This is the moment he realizes you are completely unhinged and decides to never speak to you again. This is the victory of Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested.

"That's…" Heeseung starts, and then pauses. "That's the first time anyone's ever confessed to me because I held a door open. Usually I get compliments about my face. Or my voice. One girl told me I had a nose made to be sat on, which I still don't fully understand."

"Your node is… fine," you say weakly. "I didn't notice your nose. Or your face at all. Just the door. The door was the important part."

"A door," Heeseung says, and that smile is spreading across his face again, the one that makes him look less like a notorious player and more like someone who has just found a particularly entertaining puzzle. "You wrote me a three-page love letter because I held a door open."

"The calligraphy alone took a week," you say, and immediately regret it.

Heeseung laughs again, and this time it's softer, almost wondering. "You're not what I expected," he says. "At all."

"Is that… good or bad?"

"I haven't decided yet." But he's still smiling, and his eyes are still fixed on you with that curious intensity, and you're starting to get the sinking feeling that everything you do, no matter how strange or off-putting you try to be, is having the exact opposite effect of what you intend.

You need a new strategy. Something foolproof. Something so aggressively unappealing that even the most determined people-pleaser can't pretend to be interested.

And then, like a gift from the gods of social awkwardness, the topic of video games comes up.

Heeseung mentions something about blowing off steam after a tough assignment by playing a few rounds of something, and the question slips out before you can stop it: "Wait, do you play League of Legends?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Sometimes. You?"

And that's it. That's the moment the dam breaks.

You don't mean to start geeking out. It just happens. One moment you're thinking be boring, be uninteresting, be bland, and the next moment you're fifteen minutes deep into an impassioned monologue about the current meta, the problems with the jungle role, and why Riot Games needs to nerf a specific champion into the ground before she single-handedly destroys the competitive scene.

"-and don't even get me started on the new items, because the balance team clearly doesn't play their own game, which is fine, whatever, it's not like I have strong opinions about it except I absolutely do, and I wrote an entire essay about it on the subreddit that got like two thousand upvotes, so clearly I'm not the only one who thinks the armor penetration scaling is completely broken-"

You stop.

You stop because you have just realized, with dawning horror, that you have been talking for an incredibly long time without letting Heeseung get a single word in. You have been gesticulating. You have been making sound effects. At one point, you're pretty sure you drew a diagram on a napkin to illustrate the optimal jungle pathing route.

This is it. This is definitely, absolutely it. There is no way a hot third-year informatics student wants to listen to a first-year STEM girl rant about video game balance for fifteen straight minutes. Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested has just achieved its first genuine success.

You brace yourself for the polite excuse, the awkward glance at his phone, the slow backing away.

Instead, Heeseung leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and says: "Okay, but hear me out, what if the armor penetration scaling isn't the problem, and it's actually the base damage values that need to be adjusted? Because if you look at the win rate data across different elos, the issue isn't consistent at all levels of play."

You blink.

"I main ADC," he adds, as if this is a perfectly normal confession. "So trust me, I feel your pain about the jungle situation. Do you know how many times I've been left to solo dragon because my jungler was AFK farming? Too many. Too many times."

"You… main ADC?"

"Vayne and Kai'Sa mostly. Sometimes Jhin if I'm feeling dramatic."

You have no response to this. Your brain has short-circuited somewhere around the phrase "win rate data across different elos," and it's still rebooting.

"Your essay on the subreddit," Heeseung continues, pulling out his phone. "What was the title? I want to read it. I love seeing well-reasoned arguments about game balance, and honestly, most of what gets posted is just people complaining without any actual data to back it up."

"It was… it was called The Current State of Armor Penetration: A Statistical Analysis and Why I'm Losing My Mind," you say faintly.

Heeseung types something into his phone, scrolls for a moment, and then his face lights up. "Found it. Two thousand three hundred upvotes and fourteen awards? That's impressive. Wait, you made graphs? You made graphs?"

"I was very passionate about the subject."

"Passionate," Heeseung repeats, looking up from his phone with an expression you can't quite read. "Yeah. I'm starting to get that about you."

He tucks his phone away and smiles at you, and it isn't the smooth, practiced smile you expect from the campus womanizer. It's something smaller. Something realer. Something that makes your stomach do a weird, traitorous flip that you immediately try to suppress.

"You know," he says, tilting his head as he studies you, "you remind me of a mouse."

Your brain screeches to a halt. "A… mouse?"

"Yeah. A little field mouse. The way your nose scrunches up when you're thinking, and how you get all twitchy and skittish when you're nervous. It's cute. It's really cute."

Cute. He calls you cute. He compares you to a rodent and somehow makes it sound like a compliment, and worst of all, worst of all, you can feel a traitorous blush spreading across your cheeks like wildfire.

"I'm not…I don't…mice are not cute. Mice are pests. They carry diseases. I'm basically a health hazard."

Heeseung laughs, and it's the same genuine laugh from before, and he's looking at you like you're the most entertaining thing he's seen in years. "A health hazard. Right. Well, consider me warned."

He stands up, gathering his tray, and for one beautiful, hopeful moment, you think the ordeal is over. But then he pauses, looking down at you with that unreadable expression, and says the words that haunt you for the rest of the day:

"I was interested before, but now?" He shakes his head, still smiling. "Now I'm really interested. See you around, little mouse."

And then he walks away, leaving you alone at your corner table with a half-eaten sandwich, a napkin full of regurgitated lettuce, and the sinking realization that Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested is not only failing, it's backfiring spectacularly.

You try to be weird, and he calls you cute.

You try to be boring, and he engages with your niche gaming opinions.

You try to choke to death in front of him, and he kneels beside your chair with genuine concern in his eyes.

You bang your forehead against the cafeteria table once, twice, three times, not caring who sees. This is a disaster. This is an unmitigated, unprecedented, absolutely catastrophic disaster. Hana's plan was supposed to work. Heeseung was supposed to get bored. He was supposed to move on. He was not supposed to look at you like you're a puzzle he wants to solve, or call you a mouse in a tone of voice that makes your heart do gymnastics, or read your League of Legends essay and compliment your graphs.

You need to regroup. You need to call an emergency meeting with Yunjin. You need to figure out a new strategy before this situation spirals even further out of control.

But first, you need to go to the library and return the books that are due today before you accrue another fine, because no matter how catastrophic your love life becomes, the university library shows no mercy.

—————

The library is your sanctuary. It always has been, a quiet, climate-controlled haven where the smell of old paper and the soft hum of fluorescent lights can soothe even the most tensed of nerves. After the cafeteria incident, you need sanctuary more than ever. You slip through the main doors with your stack of books clutched to your chest, inhaling the familiar scent of knowledge and dust, and feel some of the tension begin to ease from your shoulders.

Everything is fine. Everything is going to be fine. You return your books, you find Yunjin, you regroup, and you figure out a way to-

"Y/N?"

The voice comes from somewhere to your left, and you know that voice. You know it the way a flower knows the sun, the way a compass knows north, the way a hopeless romantic knows the exact cadence of her crush's greeting.

Jungwon is sitting at a table near the history section, surrounded by a fortress of textbooks and loose papers. He's wearing glasses…glasses…and his hair is slightly mussed from what you assume is hours of intense studying, and he's looking at you with that smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your entire nervous system short-circuit.

"Hey," he says, waving you over. "What are you doing here?"

Existing in the same space as you, you think. Breathing the same air. Trying not to spontaneously combust.

"Returning books," you say, holding up your stack as evidence. "I have some overdue ones. The library fines are no joke."

"Tell me about it. I had to pay fifteen thousand won last semester because I forgot about a book I'd checked out for a research paper." Jungwon winces at the memory. "My wallet still hasn't recovered."

"That's brutal."

"The library giveth, and the library taketh away."

You laugh, and it comes out surprisingly normal, not too loud, not too high-pitched, just a regular human laugh from a regular human person who is definitely not having an internal meltdown about how good Jungwon looks in glasses.

"Hey," Jungwon says, glancing at the empty chair across from him, "if you're not in a hurry, do you want to study together? I've been here for three hours and my brain is starting to melt. It would be nice to have some company."

Your heart stops.

Yang Jungwon, the Yang Jungwon, the owner of the smile and the laugh and the gummy bears at 2 AM is asking you to study with him. This is the kind of moment you've daydreamed about for months. This is a meet-cute in progress. This is the universe throwing you a lifeline after the cafeteria disaster, a chance to actually spend time with the boy you've been pining over since midterms.

"Yes," you say, before your brain can remind you of all the reasons this is a terrible idea. "Yes, I'd…I'd love to. Let me just return these first."

You practically skip to the returns desk, your heart doing a full backflip in your chest. By the time you make it back to Jungwon's table, your philosophy textbook and notebook spread out in front of you, you've convinced yourself that this is exactly what you need. Some time with Jungwon. Some time to remember why you wrote that letter in the first place. Some time to reconnect with the feelings that got buried under the chaos of the Heeseung situation.

The only problem is that you can't focus on studying at all.

You try. You really, genuinely try. You open your textbook to the assigned chapter. You uncap your highlighter. You fix your eyes on the page and attempt to absorb information about ethical frameworks and moral philosophy. But your eyes keep drifting up, against your will, over the top of your book, to the boy sitting across from you.

Jungwon is studying. Actually studying, not fake studying, not pretending to study while secretly watching you the way you're watching him. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his pen moving steadily across his notebook as he takes notes. Every so often, he pauses, taps the end of his pen against his chin, and then resumes writing with renewed focus. The late afternoon light slants through the window behind him, catching the highlights in his dark hair and making him look like he's stepped out of a painting.

He is beautiful. He's so beautiful that it makes your chest ache, a soft, sweet ache that you've been carrying around since the moment you first saw him in this very library. You watch the way his fingers curl around his pen, the way he bites his lower lip when he's thinking, the way his glasses slide down his nose and he pushes them back up with an absent gesture.

"I can feel you looking at me," Jungwon says, not glancing up from his notebook.

Your entire body jolts like you've been electrocuted. "I wasn't…I was just…there's a clock behind you. I was checking the time."

Jungwon looks up then, and there's a knowing glint in his eyes that makes your stomach do a slow, somersaulting flip. "The clock is to your right, Y/N. Not behind me."

You look to your right. Sure enough, there's the clock, hanging on the wall in plain view, which you would have noticed if you'd spent even one second actually looking for it instead of gazing at Jungwon's face like a Renaissance painter studying their muse.

"I'm… directionally challenged," you say weakly.

"Uh-huh." Jungwon sets down his pen, and the smile playing at the corners of his mouth is soft and teasing and absolutely devastating. "Come here for a second."

"What?"

"Just come here. Lean forward a little."

Your body obeys before your brain can intervene. You lean across the table, your heart hammering so loudly you're certain the entire library can hear it. Jungwon leans forward too, closing the distance between you, and you catch a faint whiff of something clean and subtle, laundry detergent, maybe, or the kind of fragrance that just smells like him.

His hand reaches out, and before you can process what's happening, his index finger gently pokes your cheek.

"Boop," he says.

You make a sound. You don't know what the sound is supposed to be. Maybe a laugh, maybe a question, maybe a plea for mercy. What comes out is something closer to a squeak, a small, strangled, completely undignified squeak that would be embarrassing if you had any brain cells left to feel embarrassment.

Jungwon's smile widens, and his finger lingers on your cheek for just a moment longer than necessary. "You had an eyelash," he says. "Right there. But also, you just looked really cute staring at me like that. I couldn't resist."

Cute. He calls you cute. That's twice in one day that a devastatingly attractive boy has called you cute, and your hopeless romantic heart doesn't know whether to celebrate or go into cardiac arrest.

"I wasn't staring," you whisper, but it comes out completely unconvincing.

"You were absolutely staring." Jungwon withdraws his hand, but his smile stays, warm and fond and knowing. "It's okay. I don't mind. It's kind of nice, actually. Being looked at like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm something worth looking at."

The words settle into your chest like a stone dropping into still water, sending ripples through your entire body. He thinks it's nice. He thinks you're nice or at least your staring is nice and he pokes your cheek and calls you cute and now he's going back to his studying like he hasn't just fundamentally altered your brain chemistry.

You try to return to your textbook. The words swim in front of your eyes, meaningless and blurry. You highlight a sentence at random, realize you have no idea what it says, and highlight it again for good measure. The page is now approximately forty percent highlighter ink.

"You're going to run out of highlighter at that rate," Jungwon observes, not looking up.

"I have backups," you say. "I always have backups."

"Of course you do."

The studying session continues for another hour, and you absorb approximately zero information about ethical frameworks. What you do absorb is a comprehensive catalogue of Jungwon's study habits: the way he organizes his notes with color-coded tabs, the way he mutters to himself when he's working through a difficult concept, the way he absentmindedly drums his fingers against the table when he's thinking. Every detail is another entry in your mental Jungwon database, another thread in the tapestry of your affection.

By the time you pack up your things and say goodbye, "See you in philosophy," Jungwon says, and you respond with something that might be words or might be a series of enthusiastic nods, you are floating. You are literally, physically floating, your feet barely touching the ground as you drift out of the library and across campus toward your dorm.

Jungwon pokes your cheek. Jungwon calls you cute. Jungwon says he likes being looked at by you.

You are winning. Despite the Heeseung disaster, despite the cafeteria catastrophe, despite everything, you are winning.

By the time you reach your dorm room, you are a mess of giddy energy with nowhere to go. You close the door behind you, throw your backpack onto your desk chair, and then proceed to wriggle across your bed like an ecstatic worm, kicking your feet and muffling your squeals into your pillow.

"He called me cute," you whisper to your empty room, your voice muffled by fabric. "He poked my cheek. He did the boop thing. The boop thing, you guys. Who does the boop thing? Adorable people, that's who. Perfect people. People with beautiful smiles and kind eyes and-"

You roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling with a dreamy expression. The ceiling has forty-three tiles in your room. You counted them on your first night in the dorm. But right now, all you can see is Jungwon's face, the way he looked at you across the library table, the way his finger felt against your cheek, the way his voice went soft when he said like I'm something worth looking at.

You are going to marry him. You are going to marry Yang Jungwon and have a beautiful wedding with string lights and wildflowers and a three-tier cake, and you will tell the story of how you stared at him in the library and he poked your cheek and-

You stop wriggling.

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

You can't marry Jungwon. You can't even confess to Jungwon, because Jungwon thinks you confessed to Heeseung. Jungwon thinks you're interested in someone else. Jungwon was sweet and friendly and maybe a little bit flirty, but that's just his personality. He's nice to everyone. He gives you gummy bears at 2 AM; he probably gives gummy bears to everyone who looks tired. You aren't special. You are just… there.

The giddiness begins to drain out of you, replaced by the familiar weight of reality. You are still trapped in the Heeseung situation. You are still the girl who confessed to the wrong person. And no matter how many times Jungwon pokes your cheek, that fundamental fact isn't going to change.

With a heavy sigh, you drag yourself through your evening routine: shower, skincare, the episode of the baking show you're halfway through and finally crawl into bed around midnight, your emotions a tangled knot of hope and despair.

Sleep comes slowly, a gradual descent into darkness, and then-

—————

You are in the PC room again.

But this time it's different. The lights are dimmer, the computers all dark, the chairs empty. It's just you, and the door is swinging shut behind you, and there's someone waiting at the computer closest to the door.

Heeseung.

He's sitting in the chair, facing away from you, his headphones around his neck and his shoulders relaxed. When he hears your footsteps, he turns, and his expression isn't surprised or amused or curious. It's something else entirely. Something darker. Something that makes your breath catch in your throat.

"You're here," he says, and his voice is lower than you've ever heard it, a rumble that vibrates through your bones. "I've been waiting for you, little mouse."

"I'm not-" you start, but he's already standing, already moving toward you, and you can't seem to make your feet work. You're rooted to the spot, watching him approach with a mixture of fear and something else, something you don't want to name.

He stops inches away from you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, close enough that you can see the individual strands of his hair and the curve of his lips and the way his eyes, God, his eyes are fixed on your mouth.

"You know what I've been thinking about?" he murmurs, and one of his hands comes up to brush a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering against your temple. "I've been thinking about that letter. The way you said you only had eyes for me. The way you said you couldn't stop thinking about me."

"That wasn't-" you try, but your voice comes out as barely a whisper, and Heeseung's thumb is tracing along your jawline now, feather-light and devastating.

"I can't stop thinking about you either," he says, and his face is getting closer, closer, and you can feel his breath against your lips. "Do you want to know what I think about?"

Your heart is hammering. Your skin is on fire. You can't move, can't speak, can't do anything except stare up at him with wide eyes as his other hand settles on your waist, warm and solid and pulling you closer.

"I think about this," he whispers, and then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is…it's…

It's intense. It's consuming. It's the kind of kiss that erases every rational thought from your brain and replaces it with pure, unfiltered sensation. His lips are soft but insistent, moving against yours with a confidence that makes your knees weak. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you make a sound against his mouth, something small and breathless and completely involuntary.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his voice is rough. "You’re what I’ve been looking for my whole life, Y/N. You’re my miracle."

And then his lips are on your neck, trailing fire down to your collarbone, and your head falls back, and his name escapes your mouth in a way you've never said it before-

He kneels before you, his movements fluid and deliberate. His eyes never leave yours as he unzips his jeans, freeing his already hard cock. It stands proud and thick, the tip glistening with pre-cum. He takes your foot in his warm hand, bringing it to his shaft.

"Look what you do to me," he murmurs, his voice husky with desire. He wraps your foot around his length, his thumb pressing against your arch as he begins to move your foot up and down his cock. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, a low groan escaping his lips.

The sensation of his hot skin against your sole sends shivers through your body. You watch, mesmerized, as he uses your foot to pleasure himself, his hips thrusting in rhythm with the movements of your foot. His other hand moves to your ankle, his grip firm but gentle, his fingers stroking your sensitive skin.

His eyes open, locking with yours again, and the intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch. "You're so beautiful," he breathes, his movements becoming faster, more urgent. "You’re perfect the way you are."

His breathing grows ragged, his muscles tensing. With a guttural moan, he comes, his hot release spilling over your foot and his hand. He leans forward, his tongue darting out to taste his own cum from your skin, his movements slow and sensual. He licks your foot clean, his tongue tracing patterns on your arch, between your toes, sending waves of pleasure through your body.

Then he shifts, positioning himself between your legs. He looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire. "I need to taste you," he says, his voice rough with need.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He tosses them aside, then leans in, his breath hot against your most sensitive flesh.

His tongue flicks out, teasing your clit, and you gasp, your hands flying to his hair. He chuckles, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure through you. "Patience, little mouse," he murmurs against your skin.

His tongue moves in slow, deliberate circles, building your pleasure gradually. He alternates between broad, flat strokes and quick, precise flicks of his tongue against your clit. His fingers join in, one, then two, sliding inside you, curling to hit that spot that makes you cry.

Your hips buck against his face, your breath coming in ragged gasps. "Heeseung," you moan, your fingers tightening in his hair.

He responds with increased enthusiasm, his tongue working faster, his fingers pumping in and out of you. The pressure builds inside you, a coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter until it snaps.

You come with a cry, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure wash over you. But Heeseung doesn't stop. He continues his assault on your senses, his tongue and fingers working in perfect harmony to bring you to the edge again.

And then you are squirting, your release flooding his mouth and chin as he drinks you in, his movements never faltering. He looks up at you, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he laps up every drop.

When he finally pulls away, his face glistening with your juices, he crawls up your body, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and the intimacy of it sends another wave of desire through you.

"Tell me you’re only thinking of me," he whispers against your lips, his hands roaming your body. "and not Jungwon."

You wake up.

You wake up in your dorm room, in your bed, at 7:43 AM on a Tuesday morning, with your heart pounding and your skin flushed, your panties soaked and your sheets twisted around your legs like they've been through a battle.

For a long moment, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe.

Did you just… did you just dream about… did Lee Heeseung, the guy you're supposed to be making uninterested in you, the guy you've been trying to avoid and ignore and repel, just star in what can only be described as an extremely obscene dream? The virgin you are just cringed at the memory.

You press your hands to your burning cheeks and let out a sound that is somewhere between a groan and a scream.

"No," you whisper to the empty room. "No, no, no. This isn't, this can't…I don't even like him. I like Jungwon. Jungwon! I've liked Jungwon for four months. I wrote a letter to Jungwon. I have a color-coded mental database of Jungwon's habits. I want to marry Jungwon and have a three-tier wedding cake with wildflowers!"

But your brain, traitorous and unhelpful, keeps replaying fragments of the dream, the way Heeseung's eyes go dark, the way his voice rumbles against your ear, the way his hand feels on your waist, the way his tongue is warm and-

You grab your pillow and press it over your face, screaming into it with all the force your lungs can muster.

This is wrong. This is so, so wrong. You are a Jungwon girl. You've always been a Jungwon girl. You don't think about Heeseung like that. You don't think about Heeseung like anything. Heeseung is an obstacle. Heeseung is a problem to be solved. Heeseung is the guy you're actively trying to repel, not the guy who shows up in your subconscious and does things that make you blush in the privacy of your own bed.

"I'm a psychopath," you say to your pillow. "I'm a complete and utter psychopath. Who dreams about this with a guy they're supposed to be making uninterested? A psychopath, that's who. A deranged lunatic. A person with a broken brain."

Your pillow, predictably, does not respond.

You drag yourself out of bed and into the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face and avoiding your own reflection in the mirror. You don't want to look at yourself. You don't want to see the evidence of the dream still lingering in your flushed cheeks…and between your legs.

This is a problem. This is a Major Problem with capital letters and possibly a warning siren. You can't afford to be having dreams about Lee Heeseung. You can't afford to be thinking about Lee Heeseung at all. Your entire strategy, Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested depends on you being able to keep a clear head and a steady heart, and neither of those things is going to be possible if your subconscious keeps ambushing you with extremely vivid, extremely inappropriate content.

You need to talk to Yunjin. Immediately. Before your brain can conjure up any more unauthorized imagery.

But as you grab your phone and type out a frantic message, EMERGENCY MEETING REQUIRED IMMEDIATELY CODE RED REPEAT CODE RED, you can't quite shake the lingering sensation from the dream.

The way Heeseung's thumb traces along your jawline.

The way he calls you little mouse in that low, rumbling voice.

The way he says you were perfect the way you were like he means it, like it's true, like he's been into you his whole life and hasn't even known it.

You shake your head violently, flinging droplets of water across the bathroom mirror.

"Nope," you say out loud. "Nope, nope, nope. We're not doing this. We're not thinking about this. We're going to go to class and eat lunch and avoid all tall informatics students, and we're going to get our brain back on the Jungwon track where it belongs."

But even as you say it, even as you try to mean it, a small, treacherous part of you wonders if maybe, just maybe, the Jungwon track isn't the only track worth following anymore.

You shove that thought into a mental box, lock it, and throw away the key.

You have a plan. You have a strategy. You are going to make Heeseung uninterested, and you are going to figure out a way to untangle the misunderstanding, and you are going to end up with Jungwon like you were always supposed to.

The dream is just a dream. It doesn't mean anything. It can't mean anything.

You refuse to let it mean anything.

(But when you catch yourself glancing toward the informatics building on your way to class, you walk a little faster, and you definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent do not wonder what Lee Heeseung is doing right now.)

—————

The dream haunts you for three days.

Not in a supernatural, ghost-in-the-corner kind of way. More in an I-can't-make-eye-contact-with-my-own-reflection kind of way. Every time you close your eyes, fragments of it flicker behind your eyelids like a movie you hadn't asked to watch. The dark PC room. The way Heeseung's voice drops to a rumble. The phantom sensation of his tongue on your clit, his hand on your ankle, his look-

You physically convulse every time the memory resurfaces, which is approximately every forty-five minutes. Your philosophy notes become a graveyard of distracted doodles, half of which look suspiciously like the curve of someone's jaw. You have to throw away an entire page because you accidentally write "little mouse" in the margin instead of "moral relativism."

Yunjin is no help whatsoever.

"So you had a wet dream about the hot guy who you’re supposedly getting bored of," she says over bubble tea the day after the incident, her expression thoroughly unimpressed. "This is a problem because…?"

"Because I don't like him, Yunjin! I like Jungwon! I've liked Jungwon since midterms! Jungwon is the goal! Jungwon is the three-tier wedding cake!"

"And Heeseung is…?"

"A temporary obstacle! A misunderstanding with legs! A very tall, very inconvenient plot twist!"

Yunjin sucks on her tapioca pearls with the air of a therapist who has heard it all before and is no longer surprised by anything. "You know what they say about protesting too much."

"I am not protesting too much. I am protesting exactly the right amount. I am protesting a perfectly calibrated quantity."

"Sure." She pats your hand with condescending sympathy. "Whatever helps you sleep at night. Oh wait-"

You throw a tapioca pearl at her face. It sticks to her cheek for a solid three seconds before falling off, and the look of absolute betrayal on her face is the only bright spot in your otherwise nightmare-plagued week.

But now it's Thursday. Thursday, 2:15 PM. You're stationed in the science building's main hallway, crouched behind a bulletin board that is absolutely not wide enough to hide your entire body, waiting for the coast to clear so you can sprint to your next class without encountering any tall informatics students.

Your system has evolved since the early days of the crisis. You now have a color-coded schedule of Heeseung's known movements, courtesy of some light reconnaissance work that Yunjin calls "stalking" and you call "strategic intelligence gathering." You know his class schedule. You know his preferred study spots. You know that he tends to grab coffee from the campus café at exactly 3 PM on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which means the science building hallway should, theoretically, be a Heeseung-free zone at 2:15.

Theoretically.

You're just about to make your move, a quick dash to the stairwell, then up two flights, then a straight shot to classroom 307, when you hear it.

"Hey, is Y/N L/N in there?"

Your blood freezes. Your muscles lock. Your soul briefly departs your body and then slams back into it with force.

That's Heeseung's voice. That's unmistakably, undeniably, catastrophically Lee Heeseung's voice, and it's coming from approximately ten feet to your left, where the door to your department's main office stands open.

You press yourself harder against the bulletin board, praying for invisibility, praying for a sudden power outage, praying for the ground to open up and swallow you into its merciful embrace. None of these things happen. Instead, you hear the department secretary respond with cheerful obliviousness.

"Y/N L/N? First year, STEM? I think I saw her in the hallway just a minute ago. Let me check, oh, there she is! Y/N! You have a visitor!"

The secretary is pointing directly at your bulletin board. Your bulletin board that is not hiding you at all. Your bulletin board that is, in fact, leaving approximately seventy percent of your body completely visible to anyone who happens to look in that direction.

Heeseung turns.

Your eyes meet.

Time stops.

There are moments in life that feel like they stretch into eternity, moments so profoundly awkward, so cosmically embarrassing, that the universe itself seems to pause and take notice. This is one of those moments. You are frozen in a half-crouch behind a bulletin board, your backpack dangling from one shoulder, your hair escaping from the ponytail you threw it into this morning, your expression one of pure, unfiltered terror. Heeseung is standing in the doorway of the department office, looking unfairly attractive in a simple black hoodie and jeans, his eyebrows rising slowly toward his hairline.

A small crowd of students has paused in the hallway to watch. You can feel their eyes on you like a physical weight. Someone whispers something to their friend. Someone else pulls out their phone.

You are going to die. You are going to perish right here in the science building hallway, and your ghost will be doomed to haunt this bulletin board for all eternity.

"Y/N?" Heeseung's voice is a mixture of confusion and amusement. He takes a step toward you, and you instinctively take a step back, which results in you bumping directly into the bulletin board and causing several flyers to flutter dramatically to the ground. "Were you… hiding behind that?"

"No," you say, too quickly. "No, I was…I dropped something. A contact lens. I was looking for my contact lens."

"You don't wear contacts."

"I might! You don't know my life!"

"Your glasses are literally on your face right now."

You reach up and touch your glasses, which are indeed sitting on your nose, clearly visible, doing their job of correcting your vision. You have no response to this. There is no response to this. You have been caught in a lie so transparent it's essentially a window.

Heeseung's lips twitch. "You know, most people who have a crush on me don't run away and hide behind furniture. This is very confusing for my ego."

The crowd is still watching. Why is the crowd still watching? Don't they have classes to go to? Midterms to study for? Lives to live that don't involve spectating your public humiliation?

"I wasn't hiding from you specifically," you say, because apparently your mouth has decided to operate independently from your brain. "I was hiding from… the sun. It's very bright in here. I'm photosensitive."

"You're a STEM student hiding from the sun in a basement hallway with no windows," Heeseung says slowly. "That's… a new one."

"It's a medical condition. It's very serious. My doctor says I need to avoid direct fluorescent lighting."

"The fluorescent lighting is what's getting you."

"Absolutely. It's my greatest enemy. Well, second greatest. After-" You stop yourself before you can say after incredibly hot informatics students who keep appearing in my life like a recurring nightmare.

Heeseung waits. When you don't finish the sentence, that smile, the one that's definitely a smirk's second cousin, maybe even its first cousin at this point, spreads across his face.

"Well," he says, "now that I've found you and dragged you out of the shadows, literally, I was wondering if you wanted to grab coffee. With me. Right now."

Every single person in the hallway is looking at you. The secretary is looking at you from the office doorway, her expression one of grandmotherly delight at what she clearly perceives as a romantic overture. The students who stopped to watch are exchanging glances and whispers. One girl gives you an encouraging thumbs up.

You are trapped. You are cornered. You are a mouse being offered coffee by a very tall, very persistent cat.

And just like every other time Heeseung has put you on the spot, you open your mouth and the wrong words come out.

"I love coffee," you say. "Coffee is my favorite liquid. After water. And possibly juice. But it's definitely in the top three."

"Is that a yes?"

"…Yes."

yes, outside he's protective, rough boyfriend but once you're home? oh that boy turns to puddle around you. he's still stuck on you, but he basically clings to you like a koala. "babyyyy, can you pleaaaaase just come to the couch with me?" he whines as you fold your clothes. "ki, i told you that as soon as i'm down with this i'll be all yours." "but," he sighs, "it always takes you so long to do itttt." you'd think he hasn't seen you in days, meanwhile the only time you were separated today was when either of you went to the toilet; and even then he was outside the door yapping your ear off. your person space is his person space and he refuses to change that for a single moment of the day.

ᴘᴜᴍᴀʙꜰ!ʀɪᴋɪ is such a cuddle bug.

the minute you lie down, he's on you. i mean full on covering every part of you, face nuzzling into your neck as his arms circle your waist. a content sigh escapes him, this is his absolute favourite thing. your smell hits his nose instantly and he can't help but try and get closer to (it's literally impossible at this point). if possible, he would crawl into your skin to discover parts of you he has yet to see. "ki that giggles." you giggle, lovingly smacking his shoulder. "mmmm, you smell so good baby." his voice barely noticeable as how closely his lips are pressed against your skin. "you've smelled me a million times before silly boy. how can you not get bored?" in the blink of an eye he sat up. he looked purely distraught. "how can you say that?" he questioned, dead serious. "if i ever happen to lose you i need to be able to find you again! your smell is key here." you stare at him, utterly baffled. a moment of silence passes, both of you just staring at each other. "i mean," you start, "you have my location at all times and you're pretty much always with me." he scoffs, "well obviously, but there's still a small chance of you getting lost or taken from me." your heart swells at his confession. "awwww, come here baby." you open your arms wide and he happily plops back down on you again. content hums leave him again, accompanied by a deep sigh. softly, your fingers start threading through his hair, earning such lovely sounding purrs from him, vibrating against your chest. "i love you so much," he mumbles sleepily, the affect hair playing as him is insane. "i love you, ki." you whisper back as he drifts off to sleep. aren't you the luckiest to have this clingy cuddly giant.

ᴘᴜᴍᴀʙꜰ!ʀɪᴋɪ get jealous easily :((

he would never accuse you of straying away and being not loyal. ever. if someone's eyes linger on you more than three seconds he's ready to pounce. as we've established he always has a hand on you somewhere, so obviously you're off the market! he uses his height as an advantage, no matter how tall you are, he most likely will be taller that you. looking like you shack he sends daggers across the room, eyes narrowing with anger. however, as soon as you notice and spin around, putting a hand on his cheek he turns to mush. "what's gotten you so worked up baby?" you mutter, small smile on your face. "just this guy looking at you. it's insulting to both you and me." he murmurs, but you can tell by his voice that all his attention is on you now, guy long forgotten at your display of attention. you turn, "who is it?" "red shirt." you scoff, "slimey looking thing." at that he chuckles, lips pressing a soft kiss on the top of your head. "i love you, angel." you reach down, intertwining your fingers with his, "don't worry ki," you smile up at him "i'll forever and always be yours."

ᴘᴜᴍᴀʙꜰ!ʀɪᴋɪ leaves innocent kisses anywhere but your lips when you're out and it's the sweetest thing.

considering how much he loves on you, you had some ground rules established. his jealous and protective nature has him on you at all times, not just his hands roaming but also his lips. if provoked, he started a full on make out in the middle of the street. anything to put those hitting or even look at you too long in their place. here comes in one the rules: no public makeouts! a little kiss, a quick peck is fine, it's welcomed. but no full on making out, no tongues intertwining. but of course the little menace finds a way to go around this rule. it started on your hand, just a kick peck to the back of your intertwined hands. next it was you cheek, then your forehead, the top of your head, your temple. if he's feeling extra cheeky he starts kissing the corner of your mouth relentlessly. he's so fucking smug about it too! "whaaaaat, i haven't done anything against the rules!" he's so fucking cute :(( he just wants to love you at all times.

ᴘᴜᴍᴀʙꜰ!ʀɪᴋɪ has a very sensitive nose and tends to bury it inside your neck when he gets overwhelmed

as we've established, riki adores your smell. nothing brings him nearly as much comfort as the smell of your skin. he specifically asks you not to put on any perfume or scented lotions. life gets busy and at some point everyone gets overwhelmed with it all. busy schedules, little sleep, it's all been catching up him and on a random day after running errands with you he finally gets to lay on the couch with you. yet his mind is not any busy, thoughts circling on his mind in a never-ending loop. you were focused on the show playing in the back when he suddenly nuzzles his head into your neck. at first you thought he was simply being cuddly, but he was more stiff than usual. he didn't melt into you as he usually does. "what's up, pretty boy?" you mumble as you stroke his hair. he only manages a weak hum in response. "riki are you okay?" his heart clenches at the sound of your voice. filled with so much worry, he instantly feels guilty. "no it's alright," he mutters as he sits back up again. "no, no, something's up. talk to me." taking a deep breath in as he struggles to meet your eyes. "ki," you say softly, hand reaching over to softly stroke his arm. "you can always talk to me. about anything." oh he's so in love with you, he just wants to kiss you senseless. "i know," he breathes. "i just...i don't know. life is just a lot and i cannot seem to switch my brain off." you coo, "come here my big baby." within seconds he's snuggled up against you, face in your neck again. "you smell like home." just like that; he dropped a sentence like that out of the blue. at a loss for words you can only pepper kisses all over his cheeks and forehead, clutching him extra tight.

ᴘᴜᴍᴀʙꜰ!ʀɪᴋɪ purrs into your pussy while he's eating you out <33

while we're on the topic of smells, this boy goes CRAZY for the smell of your pussy. first time he went down on you he came all over the sheets by just smelling you it's that serious. my boy definitely has an oral fixation, he could spend hours between your legs — and he does. from slow licks, to sloppily making out with your cunt he absolutely worships you. every time he finds himself face to face with your pussy he tries to find new ways to make you lose your mind. he's an absolute MASTER at the tongue and finger combo, scissoring his fingers inside your gummy walls as he sucks and nips at your clit. this genuinely is his favourite thing to pass the time, so it is not wonder that he eventually starts contently purring. the first time it happened you were so surprised at the extra stimulation you came instantly and boy was he proud. the low vibrations add a delicious sensation on top of his already skilled hands and tongue. he sometimes starts and stops, loving the desperate whines that leave your pretty lips, begin him to continue purring. riki gets cocky with it, but every time he goes down on you he gets to the point of his eyes firmly squeezed shut, unconsciously purring at the feeling and smell of you that consume all his senses <333

ᴘᴜᴍᴀʙꜰ!ʀɪᴋɪ leaves bites all over you while being inside of you to muffle his moans (he's still a little embarrassed <33)

big dick rik is a recurring guest on my blog, mans knows exactly what to do to get all obsessed and cock drunk I DONT MAKE THE RULES (i do but whatever). puma!ki however adds the beautiful dimension of biting <33 it started with a little nip here and there to get a reaction out of you, but the freakier the two of you got over time, the more he gets lots in pleasure and can't hold himself back. he knows you'd never judge him, in fact you encourage it, but he does feel a little embarrassed being a moaning mess when your pussy feels too good :(( so nipping turns into his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he has you on all fours, desperately trying to quieten his moans. the warm feeling of your insides has him believing he's in heaven, hips rutting into all messily...and when you moan at the feeling of his canines sinking into you?? yea the moans only get cranked up even more. the first time he drew blood he was so shocked by himself, staring at you all wide eyed :c but when you simply flip your hair over the little wound, exposing the other side of your neck and pushing his head down to meet your soft skin he's back in business.

but it doesn't even have to be the two of you hardcore going at it, it can be lovingly spooning on an early morning and he's just all sleepy still, eyes closed, relishing the feeling of being inside you first thing in the morning. the world still asleep, he buries his head in the crook of your neck (can you tell this boy has a favourite body part on you?), biting down near the pulsing vein. your little gasps and whines music to his ears, he bites down a little harder, hoping that when you leave the house later everyone can still see :(

ᴘᴜᴍᴀʙꜰ!ʀɪᴋɪ is a very whiny boy when you go down on him :,)

do not let the propaganda fool you, this boy is so fucking vocal!!! while he does take quite a lot of the initiative when you go down on him, he lets out the prettiest sound a man has ever made. he's very big on praise, you're his precious girl and he's so thankful that you choose to pleasure him :(( "so fucking pretty huh, fuck look at you," he moans as you lick up and down his length, eyes always on him. he gets so lost in the pleasure that he has to rapidly blink, not wanting to miss a single little thing you do. if you decide to be a little tease (which you usually are) and kitty lick only his tip, refusing to touch the rest of him he falls i love with you even more. while he does have his hands entangled in your hair, he'd never force himself deeper inside of you. you do things at your own pace and he's happy to be there! so when you suddenly stop the small licks and fully take him down your throat in one motion he can't help but gasp, throaty moan following. "filthy fucking thing aren't you? jesus you're perfect." riki looks majestic like this, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and chest heaving. if you moan around him it's most definitely over for him. what his purring is doing to you, your moans do it to him. that's when the whines most definitely come out and you of course love taking advantage of it. it's obscene, you bobbing your head up and down his cock, a mix of spit and precum dripping out of your mouth all over his thighs as you moan nonstop. his legs twitch at the sensation of your mouth, abs flexing every time you have his entire length down your throat. and when he gets close? best believe it's the whine olympics. the grasp on your hair tightens, sending small tingles through your scalp and down your spine. " 'm so close angel, fuck please don't stop oh my god." and with that he releases the prettiest whiny moan as he empties out his load into your mouth.

ᴘᴜᴍᴀʙꜰ!ʀɪᴋɪ does the cutest little head tilt at random times, blinking at you (no thoughts behind those eyes)

pretty boy spaces out every now and then, no thoughts head empty. so when you come into the room, yapping the day away he needs a second to snap out of it and when you look at him expectantly he just goes "huh?". he's so fucking cute, head cocked to the side, brows slightly furrowed in confusion. "did you hear a single thing i just said?". a snail could shake its head quicker than he did, softly blinking at you. how could yoh stay mad at him when he's looking at you like this??? "aww," you coo. "pretty boy was lost in thought weren't you." his nose crunches in fake disapproval, but deep down both of you know he loves being babied.

or sometimes he gives you the most RANDOM look of disapproval it's truly hilarious, he cannot keep a straight face at times it's so fucking endearing. "what did i do?" you ask baffled, hands thrown up in defence. the menace he can be at times he just shoots you another side eye before pulling you closer. but don't think you'll get an answer, his mind works in mysterious ways....

ᴘᴜᴍᴀʙꜰ!ʀɪᴋɪ can only purr when he gets too sleepy :((

the thought of this genuinely has me tweaking out. you know when you get too tired and words turn into hums? this is him, but with purring. his head is on your chest, arms loosely around your ways, legs tangled with yours. you were just telling him about your day, nothing out of the ordinary and you knew he was tired, but this sweetheart insists on hearing all about your day. "– so i was just standing there, can you believe it?...ki?" soft vibrations make your upper body tingle. "you wanna go sleep, sweet boy?" you whisper softly but he gives you a more firm, disapproving purr. "alright alright, i'll continue." another, more soft and content purr from him. as always, your hands brush through his hair, earning a constant wave of purrs, which you notice to become more and more slower by the minute. you stop your sentence mid way, continuing to play with his blonde strands of hair. ever so softly, he gives your waist a squeeze, just to let you know a tiny part of him is still awake, an attempt to show you he's listening (or at least trying to). "i'll tell you the rest over breakfast tomorrow." you murmur, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. "i love you, ki." he might be too tired for words, but that doesn't stop him from purring the sound waves of an i love you back :c

ᴘᴜᴍᴀʙꜰ!ʀɪᴋɪ is a teasing little shit and loves to bite down on your lips.

doesn't even have to be when you're kissing NO mfer just chomps down on your lips when he feels like it! it's another thing he does when he's feeling jealous over protective. you could be out in public, just chilling at a cafe when he moves over and bites down on your bottom lip. no explanation, nothing, just a smug smile on his face as he leans back again. "what was that for you?" you look at him, puzzled. "barista drew a heart on your cup and has been looking over here." he replies with a shrug. "riki she was probably just being nice. and she could be looking at you and not me." he firmly shakes his head. "nope, she was looking at you at all times, plus there's no heart on my cup see?" he counters, shoving his cup in your face. you can't help but smile at his theatrics, leaning over the desk to give him a quick peck on the lips, one that he tries to chase with a little whine. "nu-uh," you warn. "none of that in public mister." one would think he was just denied entry to heaven with the way he started sulking.

if you ever decide to do it back, it turns into a little competition. you've heard of tickle fights, now get ready for biting fights. you would be hiding behind a corner, jumping out when he passes but you just to bite down on his plush lips. this would obviously lead into a chase through your entire flat, with him catching you 99% of the time and throwing you down on the couch. his lips are all over you then, kissing, nipping and occasionally biting down. riki loves the way you giggle and squirm at the impact, big hands trying to hold you down but never too tightly, this is far too much fun.

ᴘᴜᴍᴀʙꜰ!ʀɪᴋɪ randomly starts purring songs (yes purring not humming)

it had been a peaceful afternoon, just the two of you lounging around, soft kisses exchanged while lying intertwined on the couch. you were making dinner, dancing around the stove to the record playing in the back. riki hovered around you, giving you the occasional spin to see the pretty smile form in your face. stirring the pot, he stood behind you, hands obviously around your waist, chin on your head, swaying you from side to side to the music. you softly started humming along to the song when you were joined by some deeper melodies, the vibration of his purring tickling the top of your head. "what's got you all giggly?" he questions, oblivious to what he had just been doing. "your purrs were tickling me." "huh?" poor boy had no idea he started doing it, blushing slightly at his unconscious trait. another giggle escapes you, "don't worry, i don't mind it. it's like we're singing a duet in our own way!" the pure beam that was your smile made him believe his heart just stopped for a second and he could only squeeze you tighter, propping his chin back on top of your head.

ᴘᴜᴍᴀʙꜰ!ʀɪᴋɪ is a big fan of the "just five more minutes" phrase because he knows you can't resist him.

it's not news that riki is very much into physical contact, this boy is the definition of velcro. separating from you in the morning is pure heartbreak for him, he's counting down the minutes until he can see you again :( so when your alarm rings in the morning, he's all grumpy whines, refusing to ease the iron grip he has on you. "ki, i have to get ready." you mumble, voice still heavy with sleep. "noooo." he mumbles back, rolling over so that he's on top of you. " 'm not letting you go, you're all mine." it's endearing, this huge man being all clingy. "of course i am," you answer. "but i still have to get ready for work baby." protesting purrs vibrate against your collarbones as he softly nips the skin. "ten more minutes." "five." "deal." his body instantly relaxes, acting like a weighted blanket. "we always do this in the mornings, why are do you argue with me?" he murmurs into your chest and you sigh. "i have no clue if i'm being honest." at that he chuckles, "you love me soooooo bad don't you?" without missing a beat you reply, "always." you could risk being late for work a few minutes, saying no to him was just not in the cards :,)

ʟɪɴ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: this has been collecting dust in my drafts for ages........it's lowkey ass and i'm repeating myself but 😞😞

ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ: @saeivra @shawnyle @kookiesnkim @itsnotawrongnumber @shaiimuraaa @yelihusband @chaebbys @feedrinplz @twerkispeak @noirellee @wonscapes @tamedhoon (comment or send me an ask if you want to be tagged or removed <33)

‘what’s wrong, hm?’ his fingers tapped your cheek as he awaited an answer, something you were unable to give with the string of obscenities leaving your lips.

‘fuck! s’ too much-’

‘but this is what you wanted, isn’t it? you like pushing my buttons.’ he gritted out between clenched teeth, each thrust of his hips emphasising his words as your walls clenched around his fat cock.

‘no-’ he cut you off with his hand wrapping around your throat, his fingertips digging into the marked skin he was biting only a few moments ago. ‘yes, baby. you like pissing me off ‘cause you think i won’t do anything about it.’

his smile only widens at the sight of you shaking your head with a small whine. ‘s’ okay, honey. you don’t have to lie.’

he presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, his chest compressed against your own as he wraps his free arm around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer while his cock continues to impale your insides.

it hurt so fucking good. every thrust stretching you open further, every thrust causing his tip to poke at your cervix, the bulge very evidently showing in your tummy.

‘james,’ you mewl, nails clawing against his bare back, ‘i can’t…’

‘really? it seems your pussy can, she’s squeezing me so tight, baby. i think she wants more.’ sweat glazes his forehead, small beads dripping down to his defined cheeks as his head cocked to the side, mocking you.

god, you wanted to slap the smile off his face and kiss it at the same time.

you couldn’t lie to yourself about the fact that you purposely irked him to this point, you couldn’t help it with the way he looked when he was angry; clenched jaw and eyes narrowed, his brows furrowed ever so slightly as you could see the plotting behind his pupils, his plans of wanting to absolutely ruin you.

the bed creaked beneath you two, the headboard banged against the wall with every thrust. you would pushed him to his limits sooner if you know what he was hiding beneath his pants.

‘you can take it, baby. i know you can.’ he presses a sloppy kiss against your cheek before smashing his lips onto yours. the kiss was everything but innocent; tongues clashed against each other as his grip on your neck kept you still.

you swore that he went deeper with every thrust. how could somebody be this big?

he panted against your lips, trying to keep himself balanced as he effortlessly rolled his hips over and over again, practically moulding the both of you into one.

it didn’t take long for you to finish; your lips shaped into a small ‘o’ with your eyes being furrowed shut. your nails left marks on his back as your legs were wrapped around his waist, an attempt to keep him close as your juices smeared all over his cock.

grunting against your lips, he came with a final thrust. he shoved himself deep into you, letting his warm cum coat your insides.

‘fuuuck-’ his groans filled your ears as he slowly pulled out of you, his tip resting on your tummy as he bought his fingers down to your dripping cunt.

he scooped up his leaking cum, bringing his coated fingers to your lips as his free hand held your jaw. ‘c’mon, taste what i did to you.’ - his smile returns as you open your mouth with the little energy you have left, savouring the flavour of you and him on your tongue.

⋆˙⟡

your eyes felt hazy and your body felt sore until a warm towel was suddenly against the inside of your thighs.

james ensured to be gentle was he wiped the mess layered on your skin - his free hand caressed your cheek with such tenderness, you never would have believed he was capable of what he did only a few minutes ago.

‘i warmed up the bath for you-’ his voice was equally as sweet as his current actions, ‘i’ll carry you there in a second, m’kay? i just wanna clean my baby up first.’

you couldn’t help the fuzzy feeling in your tummy. after all, he still was your best friend. but could you even call him that after what happened, after what he did to you? or rather, after he did you?

that was a conversation to be concerned about for another time. all you knew is that after your bath, you wanted to fall asleep in his arms the same way you always have, just that this time, it would have a deeper meaning.

sure, things will become complicated now but you can take it. you already took him.

⋆˙⟡

2 MONTHS is how long this bitch has been sitting in my drafts. 2 whole months. forgive me everybody but it is posted now 😓

the sign above the door says "thistle & stem" in a pretty hand-painted letters that curve like growing things, each one decorated with tiny gold leaves.

toji stares at it for a long moment, then he stares at his own shop, two doors down — black brick facade, a single neon sign that says "black dog tattoo" in flickering red, a metal grate over the window that he never bothered to take down because it looked appropriately menacing.

it's fine. he's fine.

toji doesn't care what his neighbor does.

he walks past the flower shop without looking in, keys jangling in his fist, and doesn't notice the way his shadow falls across the windowsill full of white roses. he doesn't notice the person inside, sleeves rolled up to their elbows and dirt smudged on their cheek, glancing up at the sound of his footsteps.

toji doesn't notice at all.

— day two.

toji is trying to eat a sad gas station sandwich in his back room when he hears it — a crash that makes him choke on a bite of turkey and cheese, followed by a string of words so creatively profane he almost respects it.

he's not nosy. he's not.

but the wall between their shops is thin enough that toji can easily hear when the coffee shop on the other side of him plays that same annoying indie folk playlist, and right now he can easily hear what sounds like someone fighting for their life against a potted plant.

toji sets down his sandwich.

he tells himself he's just going to check if they need help because he doesn't want the landlord raising his rent to cover someone else's property damage.

when toji pushes through the connecting door — it was left unlocked from his side because he's never had a reason to lock it before — he finds absolute chaos.

there are flowers everywhere. not like, a normal amount of flowers for a flower shop. like, a botanical garden exploded inside a greenhouse that was already mid-explosion; buckets of blooms crowd every surface, half-arranged bouquets spill across the counter, and in the center of it all, you're standing with your hands on your hips, glaring at a fallen shelf that has scattered about fifteen tiny succulent pots across the floor.

you look up when the door creaks.

there's a leaf in your hair and dirt on your forehead and something purple smeared on your wrist that might be paint or might be crushed petals.

"hi," you say, slightly breathless. "sorry, did that wake you? i forget people can hear—" you gesture vaguely at the shared wall. "i'm still figuring out the acoustics in here."

toji blinks.

he'd expected someone different, maybe, older. more... flower-shop-owner-shaped. instead you look like you just finished wrestling a hedge and lost, but you're smiling at him like it's the most normal thing in the world.

"shelf fall," he says, because his brain hasn't caught up yet.

"yeah," you agree, kicking gently at a piece of broken terracotta. "i think i overloaded it. which is funny because i literally told myself this morning, 'don't overload the shelf', and then i looked at this beautiful calathea and i thought, you know what, what's one more?" you laugh, and it's bright and a little self-deprecating. "famous last words."

toji watches you crouch down to start gathering the scattered succulents, and something about the way you handle them — so gently, like each tiny rosette of leaves is something precious — makes his chest feel really weird.

"you need help?" the words come out rougher than he intended, almost reluctant.

you look up at him, surprised.

"oh, i couldn't ask you to—"

"you didn't ask. i'm offering."

there's a little pause.

you tilt your head, studying him, and toji feels suddenly really aware of how he must look — scarred knuckles, the faded bruise on his jaw from a sparring match three days ago, the permanent furrow between his brows that makes people cross the street to avoid him.

but you just smile, smaller this time, and say;

"okay. yeah. thanks."

toji ends up spending forty-five minutes in your shop.

forty-five minutes, crouched on the floor with you, scooping dirt back into pots and holding things steady while you reattach the shelf brackets. you talk while you work — about the shop, about how you've been dreaming of opening it for years, about how your last job made you want to scream into the void so you saved up and jumped.

"it's terrifying," you admit, wiping your hands on your jeans. "like, what if nobody buys flowers? what if i'm bad at this? what if the plants unionize and overthrow me?"

toji snorts before he can stop himself.

"plants unionize?"

"you laugh, but have you seen how fast a pothos can grow? they're plotting something."

you're grinning now, and toji realizes he's still holding a tiny succulent in his palm, a little rosette the color of pale jade.

"you should keep that one. for helping."

he looks down at it, then looks back at you.

"i don't... have plants."

"well, now you do."

you pluck it gently from his hand and press it into his fingers, closing his fist around the pot. your hands are warm, a little calloused, and you don't seem to notice the way toji’s whole arm goes still at the contact.

"it's a haworthia. they're basically indestructible. you could probably forget about it for a month and it'd still forgive you."

toji looks at the tiny plant before looking back at you.

"...thanks," he says finally.

and he means it more than he should.

— day three.

the haworthia sits on the counter of his tattoo parlor, right next to the register, and toji has caught himself staring at it approximately fourteen times today.

it's just a plant; a small green thing in a plain terra cotta pot, but every time he looks at it, he remembers the way you'd brushed dirt off his sleeve without thinking, the way you'd laughed when he'd accidentally knocked over a watering can and soaked his boots, the way you'd said "see you around, neighbor!" like you actually meant it.

his 3pm appointment, a guy named marcus getting a traditional eagle on his forearm, raises an eyebrow at it.

"didn't peg you for a plant guy, fushiguro."

"i'm not," toji says flatly, wiping down his needle cartridge. "neighbor gave it to me."

"neighbor?"

"the flower shop next door."

marcus twists to look out the window, which is currently offering a limited view of the word "thistle" and a lot of morning sunlight.

"oh, shit, the new place? my wife's been talking about it. says they've got those fancy dried bouquets."

toji grunts.

"you should ask them out," marcus continues, because apparently everyone in his chair feels entitled to his personal life. "plant people are chill."

"focus on not moving or i'm gonna fuck up your eagle."

but after marcus leaves, toji finds himself standing in the doorway of his shop, looking sideways at the flower shop.

you're visible through the window, arranging something tall and purple in a pretty vase, your brow slightly furrowed in concentration. every few seconds you step back to squint at it, adjust a stem, step back again.

you haven't noticed him watching.

toji should go back inside, after all, he has a stencil to draw for a 6pm appointment.

instead, he finds himself crossing the few feet of sidewalk and pushing open your door, the little bell overhead chiming in a way that's embarrassingly cheerful.

you look up, and your whole face lights up.

"hey! how's the haworthia?"

"it’s… alive," toji says, because he checked it this morning to make sure.

"good."

you're beaming now, and toji feels something warm uncurl in his chest, which is annoying.

"did you need something?"

he did not need something. he has no reason to be here, but his mouth opens anyway, and what comes out is;

"what's a plant that won't die?"

you blink. "what?"

"like… the most impossible to kill plant you've got. something that even i can't mess up."

you stare at him for a second, and then you laugh — that same bright, startled laugh from yesterday — and toji realizes he likes the sound of it more than he should.

"well," you say, wiping your hands on your apron and moving toward a shelf of small green things. "if you really want foolproof, you want a snake plant. they thrive on neglect. i once forgot i had one for six months and it was basically fine."

you pick up a little pot with long, pointed leaves striped in yellow and green.

"this is a 'laurentii'. very dramatic-looking, and very low maintenance."

toji takes it from you, turning it over in his hands.

"snake plant."

"also called mother-in-law's tongue, but that feels a little aggressive for a first-time plant dad."

plant dad. toji doesn't know what to do with that phrase. he tucks it into a pocket of his brain labeled 'do not examine'.

"how much?"

you wave a hand.

"on the house. consider it a welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift. i should have brought you something sooner, honestly, but day two was... chaotic."

"you don't have to—"

"i want to."

you say it simply, like it's the easiest thing in the world, and toji doesn't know what to do with that either.

he stands there for a moment, holding the snake plant, watching you move back to your bouquet.

you're humming something under your breath, some song he almost recognizes, and the afternoon light is catching the dust motes floating through your shop and turning everything gold and soft.

"thanks," he says finally.

you glance up and smile.

"anytime, neighbor."

toji leaves with the plant and a feeling he refuses to name.

— day four.

the snake plant now lives next to the haworthia on his counter, and toji's 11am appointment — a nervous college kid getting her first tattoo, a tiny crescent moon behind her ear — spends the entire three-hour session glancing at them.

"they're cute," the girl says, when he's wiping away the excess ink. "do you name them?"

"no."

"you should name them."

"i'm not naming my plants."

"you could name one after me."

"i'm not naming my plants after my clients either."

she laughs, pays, tips well, and tells him she'll be back for another one next month. after she leaves, toji stares at the two pots on his counter for a long moment.

he does not name them.

( toji thinks about naming the haworthia 'asher' and then hates himself for it. )

around 2pm, he hears you through the wall — not words, just the sound of you singing along to something on the radio, your voice slightly off-key but very enthusiastic. toji finds himself listening without meaning to, his needle pausing over the stencil he's sketching.

"you're distracted today," says his 2:30, a regular named danny who's been coming to him for three years. "you okay?"

"i’m fine."

"you've been staring at that wall for like two minutes."

toji looks down at his stencil.

he's drawn a small flower, detailed rose right in the center of what was supposed to be a skull.

"shit," he mutters, scratching it out.

danny looks at the wall, then at the door that leads to the flower shop, and grins like he knows something toji doesn't.

toji simply ignores him.

— day five.

the pattern begins today, though toji doesn't realize it yet.

it starts when he runs out of coffee — actually runs out, the bottom of the bag empty, which means he forgot to buy more and now he's facing a twelve-hour shift with no caffeine and that's simply not an option.

the coffee shop is three blocks away.

but the flower shop is right there, and toji can see you through the window, watering something with a long-spouted can, and his feet are moving before his brain catches up.

the bell chimes, and you look up.

"toji!" you say, and the way you say his name, like you're glad to see him, like you've been waiting for him to appear, makes something in his stomach flip. "what's up?"

"coffee," he says, which is not a complete sentence, but you seem to understand anyway.

"oh, i've got a kettle in the back. you want some? it's not, like, fancy coffee shop coffee. it's just the grocery store kind. but it's hot and it has caffeine."

toji should say no. he should simply go to the actual coffee shop three blocks away and get his usual black coffee from the barista who already knows his order.

"yeah," he says. "okay."

you make him coffee in a chipped mug that says 'plant mommy' in glittery letters, and you don't seem embarrassed about it at all. you make yourself a cup too, and you lean against the counter while you drink it, and you ask him about his work — what kind of tattoos he does, how long he's been at it, if he's got any pictures.

toji shows you some on his phone, and you make all the right sounds of appreciation, pointing at one and saying; "the shading on that is insane" and another; "oh, i love the color saturation on this one, that must have taken forever."

most people don't get it. really, most people see toji’s portfolio and simply say 'cool' in a vague way and move on. but you're looking at each piece like you're really seeing it, like you understand the hours of work, the precision, the way a single shaky line can ruin everything.

"you're really good," you say, handing his phone back. "like, really really good."

"thanks," he says, and it comes out softer than he meant it to.

you smile at him over your mug.

"so what made you want to do tattoos?"

toji tells you.

not the whole story — not the parts about his family, about the expectations he couldn't meet, about the years he spent trying to be something he wasn't. but he tells you about the apprenticeship, about the first tattoo he ever did on real skin (a simple anchor on his own ankle, crooked and blown out but his), about the way it felt to find something that made sense.

you listen. really listen, nodding and asking questions and not looking at your phone once.

toji stays for forty-five minutes.

he drinks two cups of coffee, and learns that you moved here from across the country because you wanted to be somewhere that had 'actual seasons' and not just 'hot and then slightly less hot'. he learns that your favorite flower changes depending on your mood but right now it's sweet peas because they smell like your grandmother's garden. he learns that you have an orange cat named beans who is 'an absolute menace' and you're waiting until the shop is more settled before you let him anywhere near the merchandise.

when toji finally stands up to leave, you say;

"the coffee's always on, if you need. i'm usually here by eight."

toji nods. "eight."

"or earlier, if you're an early riser. well, i'm not, but i could be, theoretically."

"you don't have to—"

"i know."

you're smiling again, that easy smile that makes toji feel like he's missing something important.

"but the offer's there."

toji goes back to his shop after that, and he stares at his two plants for a very long time.

— day six.

toji shows up at 7:45am.

you're not there yet — the lights are off, the door locked — and he feels stupid, standing on the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, waiting for a flower shop to open so he can... what? drink your coffee? talk to you about nothing?

toji is about to leave when he sees you coming down the street, a paper bag in one hand and a travel mug in the other, wearing a jacket covered in embroidered flowers that's definitely not warm enough for the morning chill.

you spot him and your whole face changes — eyebrows going up, then a smile spreading across your face like sunrise.

"toji! you're early."

"couldn't sleep," he lies.

he slept fine. he just... wanted to see you.

"well, lucky for you, i brought pastries."

you unlock the door and wave him inside, and the shop smells like soil and something floral and faintly of last night's leftover air. you flick on the lights and the whole space blooms into color, and toji watches you move through it like you belong there, like you were made to be surrounded by growing things.

you make coffee, you give him a pastry — almond croissant, still slightly warm from the bakery, you sit on the counter (on the counter, like you've forgotten there are chairs) and swing your legs while you tell him about a delivery that went wrong yesterday and how you had to re-pot seventeen succulents and your back hurts but in a good way.

toji leans against the doorframe and listens, eating his croissant, and doesn't think about how natural this feels.

"you know," you say, mid-sentence about the structural integrity of different types of potting soil. "you don't need an excuse to come over. you can just... come over. if you want."

toji's jaw stops mid-chew.

you're looking at him with something soft in your expression, something that makes his chest ache.

"i mean, we're neighbors. and i like talking to you. so… you know. door's always open."

toji swallows. "okay."

"okay," you repeat, and you're smiling again, and toji realizes he's in big, big trouble.

— day seven.

toji comes over without a reason.

he just walks through the connecting door at 2pm on a tuesday, when his schedule has a three-hour gap and he's already cleaned his station twice and reorganized his needle disposal system for no reason at all.

you're in the middle of an arrangement — something big and romantic, red roses and white lilies and some kind of trailing vine — and you even don't look up when he comes in, you just says "hey" like his presence is expected now.

"hey," toji says back.

he stands by the counter and watches you work.

your hands are steady and sure, trimming stems, stripping leaves, placing each flower like it's part of a conversation.

you talk while you work, not expecting him to respond much, just filling the space with words about your day, about a customer who wanted "something that says 'i'm sorry i forgot our anniversary but also i love you but also please don't be mad'" and how you solved it with peonies and eucalyptus.

"peonies say 'i'm sorry'?" toji asks, because apparently he's the kind of person who asks about flower meanings now.

"peonies say 'i'm an idiot but i'm trying'," you correct, and toji huffs a laugh before he can stop it.

you glance up at him, eyes bright.

"was that a laugh? did i just make fushiguro toji laugh?"

"no."

"that was definitely a laugh. i'm marking this on my calendar."

"don't."

too late. you're already grinning, reaching for your phone, and toji reaches out to grab your wrist before he thinks about it; your skin is warm under his fingers, and you both go still.

"don't," toji says again, but his voice is different now — a little lower, and way softer.

you look at his hand on your wrist, and you look up at his face; something passes between you, something that makes the air feel thick and electric.

"okay," you say quietly. "i won't."

toji lets go and steps back, clearing his throat.

"i should—" he jerks his thumb toward the door.

"yeah," you say. "okay. i'll see you later?"

"yeah."

toji goes back to his shop and stands in the middle of the room, heart beating too fast, and stares at his snake plant like it might have answers.

it doesn't.

— day eight.

the haworthia has grown a tiny baby.

a little offshoot, nestled against the side of the main rosette, and toji notices it at 9am when he's wiping down the counter.

he stares at it.

then he picks up the pot, carries it through the connecting door, and holds it out to you without a word.

you're repotting something in the back, dirt up to your elbows, and you look at the plant, then at him, then back at the plant.

"is that... a baby?"

"i don't know. it just appeared."

you set down your trowel and take the pot from him, turning it over in your hands with an expression of pure delight.

"toji! it's pupping! that means it's happy!"

"pupping?"

"producing pups. baby plants. it's a good sign—it means you're taking care of it." you look up at him, and your smile is so bright it almost hurts to look at. "you're a good plant dad."

toji's ears feel weirdly warm.

"i just put it on the counter and forgot about it."

"that's literally what haworthias want. you're really perfect for each other."

toji doesn't know what to say to that.

the man stands there while you coo over the baby succulent, explaining how he could separate it and pot it on its own or leave it to grow into a cluster, and he watches the way your fingers trace the leaves so gently, like you're touching something really precious.

"you can keep the baby," toji says. "if you want."

you look up, surprised. "really?"

"i don't need two of them."

you're quiet for a second, holding the pot against your chest.

"okay. but only if you let me give you something in return."

"you don't have to—"

"i want to."

you set the haworthia down and disappear into the forest of plants at the back of the shop, emerging a moment later with a small pot containing something trailing and green, with leaves shaped like tiny hearts.

"this is a string of hearts. it's a succulent too, so it's pretty easy, but it's... prettier. and it grows really fast. you'll have vines hanging down everywhere before you know it."

toji takes the pot; the leaves are delicate, almost whimsical, and nothing like the kind of thing he'd ever pick for himself.

"string of hearts," he repeats slowly.

"yeah." you're looking at him with an expression he can't really read. "i thought it might suit you."

toji doesn't know what that means. he takes it back to his shop anyway and puts it on the counter next to the snake plant, and now he has three.

he names none of them.

( he thinks about naming the string of hearts after you, and the thought makes him feel seventeen years old and stupid. )

— day nine.

the flower shop is busy today — toji can hear the steady stream of customers through the wall, the murmur of voices, the chime of the register.

he's busy too, a full day of appointments, and he tells himself that's why he doesn't go over.

but at 5pm, when his last client walks out the door and he's wiping down his station, toji hears something that makes him pause; not a crash this time, but something softer, quieter.

he pushes through the connecting door without even thinking and finds you slumped against the counter, your head in your hands, surrounded by the wreckage of what looks like a hundred flower stems.

"bad day?" toji asks, and you look up with red-rimmed eyes that make his chest go tight.

"wedding order," you say, your voice rough. "fifty centerpieces. due tomorrow. and i just—" you gesture at the mess around you. "i don't know what happened. i can't make them look right. everything's wrong."

toji doesn't know anything about flowers, he doesn't know anything about centerpieces or weddings or what makes one arrangement better than another.

but he knows what it looks like when someone's drowning, and he knows he can't just stand there.

"show me," he says.

you blink. "what?"

"show me what you're trying to do. maybe a fresh pair of eyes."

you hesitate, then nod, wiping your face with the back of your hand. you pull up a reference photo on your phone; something soft and romantic, blush roses and cream hydrangeas and sprigs of something delicate and white.

"this is what they want," you say. "and this is what i'm making."

you push one of the centerpieces toward him, and toji looks at it. it's not bad. it's actually pretty. but compared to the photo, it's... off. too crowded, and too symmetrical.

"you're trying too hard," toji says.

"excuse me?"

"the photo. look at it." he holds up your phone next to your arrangement. "theirs is looser and more natural. yours looks like you're afraid to let the flowers breathe."

you stare at him. "how do you know that?"

toji shrugs.

"tattoos are the same. sometimes you overwork a piece because you're scared it's not good enough, but what it really needs is for you to step back and trust the design."

you're quiet for a long moment, then you pull the centerpiece toward you, and start pulling out stems, rearranging. toji watches your hands move, he watches the tension in your shoulders start to ease.

"like this?" you ask, pushing it back toward him.

he looks at it; it's better and looser, more like the photo.

"yeah," toji says. "like that."

you let out a breath — it was something between a laugh and a sob — and scrub your hands over your face.

"thank you. i'm sorry, i don't know why i'm so emotional about this, it's just flowers—"

"it's not just flowers," toji says. "it's your business. it's your dream. it's okay to care."

you look up at him, and there's something in your expression that makes toji’s heart completely stutter — something raw and really grateful and maybe something else, something he's not ready to name yet.

"stay?" you ask. "while i fix the rest? you don't have to help, i just—i don't want to be alone right now."

toji should go. he has inventory to do, invoices to send, a million little things he's been putting off.

"yeah," he says instead. "okay."

toji stays for two hours.

he doesn't touch a single flower, he just sits on a stool in the corner and keeps you sweet company while you work, answering your questions about his day and telling you stupid stories about difficult clients and watching the way you relax bit by bit, flower by flower.

by the time you finish, it's dark outside and your hands are stained green and your eyes are tired but you're smiling again.

"you're a good neighbor," you say, walking him to the door.

"i'm a terrible neighbor, actually," toji says. "i often play loud music and my clients smoke outside and i've never once brought you cookies."

you laugh.

"cookies would be nice, but i'll settle for you showing up when i'm having a meltdown over roses."

"deal."

you softly hold out your pinky, and toji stares at it like it's a foreign object.

"pinky promise," you say. "you show up, i'll have coffee."

he hooks his pinky around yours; your skin is warm, your grip surprisingly strong, and the gesture is so silly and earnest that something in his chest cracks open just a little.

"pinky promise," toji repeats, and your smile could easily light up the whole street.

— day ten.

there's a flower on toji’s doorstep when he arrives at 8am.

not a potted plant this time — it was a cut flower, a single stem in a small glass vial of water, with a little note attached in your pretty handwriting.

for being nice when you didn't have to be. — the florist next door.

the flower is a rose. but it was not a red one — it was something way softer, peachy-pink, with petals that curl inward like they're still waking up.

toji stands there holding it for a good full minute before he finally goes inside.

he doesn't know what kind of rose it is, he doesn't know what it means, but he puts it on the counter next to his growing collection of plants, and he catches himself looking at it all day, and he doesn't tell anyone why.

— day eleven.

the pattern has shifted now.

toji doesn't make excuses anymore; the man just comes over when he wants to — when he has a gap in his schedule, when he needs coffee, when he hears you through the wall and wants to see your face. sometimes he brings lunch, and sometimes he brings nothing at all.

today toji brings a customer.

well… not intentionally. but his 1pm appointment, a guy named javier who's getting a portrait of his dog on his bicep, sees the flower shop through the window and goes "oh shit, my girlfriend would love that place" and before toji can stop him, he's crossing the sidewalk and pushing through the door.

toji follows, because apparently that's what he does now.

you're behind the counter, helping an older woman pick out a bouquet, and you glance up when the bell chimes. your face does that thing — that little thing where you see toji and your whole expression softens — and javier notices immediately, because of course he does.

"dude," javier mutters, elbowing him. "is that your—"

"no."

"could be."

"no."

you finish with the customer and come over, wiping your hands on your apron.

"hey. what's up?"

"this is javier," toji says. "he wanted to see the shop."

"i wanted to buy flowers for my girlfriend," javier corrects, grinning. "and maybe watch toji be weird around you."

toji contemplates violence.

but you just laugh — that bright, easy laugh — and say;

"well, javier, what's your girlfriend like?"

javier tells you; she's an artist, she loves bold colors, she's been stressed about work lately and he wants to surprise her.

you listen carefully, ask a few little questions, and then disappear into the back. when you come back, you're holding an arrangement that makes javier's jaw drop — orange lilies and deep purple irises and something spiky and modern that toji doesn't know the name of.

"this is called protea," you say, pointing at the spiky one. "it's a little dramatic and a little weird and impossible to ignore. like you said she is."

javier stares at it, looks at you, and then looks at toji.

"you're good," he says.

you shrug, but you're smiling. "it's just flowers."

it's not just flowers. toji knows that now.

javier buys the arrangement, tips you twenty bucks, and spends the entire tattoo session asking about you. how long have you known each other, are you dating, are you going to date, because honestly man you should really—

"focus on your dog," toji says, pressing the needle a little harder than necessary.

"oww."

"good."

— day twelve.

toji notices the little things now.

the way you bite your lip when you're concentrating. the way you hum when you're happy and go completely silent when you're stressed. the way your hands move when you're explaining something — always gesturing, always reaching for something, like you can't help but touch the world around you.

he notices the way you look at him, too.

the way your gaze lingers on his veiny hands, his arms, the scar on his jaw. the way you lean in when he talks, like you're trying to catch every single word.

toji is not imagining it. he's not.

but he doesn't know what to do with it.

today, he comes over at closing time — 7pm, the sun setting orange through your windows, the shop empty and quiet. you're sweeping the floor, your hair slightly falling in your pretty face, and you don't even look up when he comes in, just says "hey" in that soft way you have, again.

"hey," toni says back.

he helps you sweep. he doesn't ask, he just takes the broom from your hands when you set it down to water something, and finishes the job while you close up.

you don't comment on it, but you smile at him when you notice, and that's enough.

"you want to get dinner?" you ask softly, when everything's done and the lights are off and you're both standing on the sidewalk. "there's a ramen place a few blocks over. nothing fancy, but it's really good."

toji's heart does something complicated in his chest.

"yeah," he says, a little too quickly. "i want to."

dinner is... easy. it’s easier than it should be.

you talk about nothing and everything — about your cat beans, about the worst tattoo toji's ever done (a tribal butterfly on a guy who wouldn't sit still), about the customer who cried because your flowers reminded her of her dead mother and how you cried too, after she left.

"it gets me every time," you admit, stirring your ramen. "someone gets emotional about flowers and i just—i can't help it. they're just plants. but they're also not."

toji nods. he truly understands that now.

after dinner, you walk back together, shoulders almost brushing. the street is quiet, the streetlights casting everything in gold, and toji is acutely aware of how close you are, how easy it would be to reach out and take your hand.

he doesn't.

but toji really wants to.

— day thirteen.

the string of hearts is growing.

toji noticed it this morning — new leaves unfurling along the vines, tiny and perfect, each one shaped like a heart. he'd stood there staring at it for a full minute, feeling something swell in his chest that he refused to examine.

well… he's examining it now, actually.

toji is standing in the middle of his tattoo shop at 10am, with no appointments until noon, staring at the delicate green vines and thinking about you.

the way you'd said "i thought it might suit you."

the way you'd looked at him when you said it.

the way you are looking at him all the time, like toji is something worth looking at.

he's so deep in thought that he doesn't hear the connecting door open. he doesn't hear your footsteps. he doesn't realize you're there until you say his name, soft and close, and he turns to find you standing right behind him.

"you okay?" you ask. "i knocked, but you didn't answer, so i—"

you glance at the string of hearts, then back at him.

"oh. you're looking at it."

"it's growing," toji says, like that's not obvious.

"yeah." you step closer, looking at the plant with him. "they grow fast when they're happy."

you're standing so close that toji can smell you — soil and something floral and underneath it all, something so warm and so sweet. he can see the small scar on your chin, the way your eyelashes cast shadows on your cheeks, the slight parting of your lips as you breathe.

"toji," you say, and his name has never sounded like that before — soft and wondering, like you're asking a question you're afraid to hear the answer to.

"yeah?"

you turn to look at him, and you're close enough that toji could count your freckles if you had any. well, you don't. but he could, if he wanted to.

"i've been meaning to ask you something," you say.

"what?"

you're quiet for a second.

then you reach out and touch his hand — just a brush of your fingers against his, light as a leaf falling.

"do you want to go on a date?" you ask. "like, an actual date. not coffee in my shop or ramen after work. a real one."

toji's heart stops, starts again, then beats too fast.

"a date," he slowly repeats.

"yeah."

you're blushing now, a soft pink spreading across your cheeks, and you're not looking at him anymore, you're looking at where your fingers are still touching his hand.

"unless i'm reading this wrong. and if i am, just say so, and i'll simply go back to my shop and we'll pretend this never happened and i'll—"

"you're not reading it wrong."

you look up. your eyes are wide, hopeful, and terrified.

"you're not," toji says again, and his voice is rougher than he meant it to be. "reading it wrong, i mean. you're not."

"okay," you breathe. "okay. good."

"good."

you're both just standing there, your fingers still touching his, and toji realizes he's been holding his breath. he lets it out slowly, and something in his chest unclenches.

"so," you say, "a date?"

"yeah."

toji has never said yes to something so fast in his life.

"a date."

— day fourteen.

toji spends the entire day nervous.

he usually doesn't get nervous; he's fushiguro toji, he's been doing tattoos for fifteen years, he's faced down bikers and gang members and a guy who tried to pay him with a bag of loose change. toji doesn't get nervous.

but he's nervous now.

he's wearing his good jeans; the ones without the paint stain on the knee. he put on his cleanest black t-shirt and actually brushed his black hair and he's now standing in front of his mirror like a teenager going to prom, wondering if this is too much or not enough.

the date is at 7pm.

you're going to some restaurant you picked out, something 'cute but not fancy', and toji has no idea what to expect.

at 6:30pm, there's a knock on his back door.

not the front — the back, the one that connects to the alley, the one only a few people know about. he opens it and finds you standing there, holding a small potted plant.

"for good luck," you say, pushing it into his hands. "it's a jade plant. they're supposed to bring prosperity and good fortune and also i was so nervous and i simply needed something to do with my hands."

toji looks at the jade plant, then looks at you. you're wearing something soft and flowy, your hair different somehow, and you're looking at him like you're not sure if you're allowed to.

"you look nice," he says, because it's true and because he doesn't know what else to say.

your whole face lights up. "yeah?"

"yeah."

you're both quiet for a second. then you laugh, a little breathless, and say;

"okay. okay. we're doing this. we're actually doing this."

"we're doing this," toji agrees.

dinner is... good. actually, it's more than good.

it's easy in a way that surprises him, conversation flowing like water, no awkward pauses or forced small talk. you tell him about your childhood, about the grandmother who taught you about flowers, about the years you spent working jobs you hated before you finally took the leap.

toji tells you about his son. about megumi, about the custody arrangement, about how hard it is to only see him every other weekend. he doesn't usually talk about this — he doesn't talk about it at all, actually — but you're looking at him with such open attention that the words just come.

"you're a good dad," you say softly, and toji feels something crack in his chest.

"i'm trying," he says.

"that's what makes you a good dad."

after dinner, you walk through the city, not going anywhere in particular; the streets are busy, full of people and noise, but somehow it feels like you're the only two people in the entire world. your shoulders brush, your hands swing between you, close enough to touch.

toji reaches out and takes your hand.

you don't pull away.

you squeeze his fingers instead, and your palm is warm against his, and toji thinks he might actually be okay.

— day fifteen.

the tattoo shop has changed.

toji notices it when he walks in this morning — the way the light falls different, the way the space feels different. it takes him a minute to figure out why.

there are flowers everywhere.

not in a bad way, not in the way you'd expect from a tattoo parlor. but small touches, here and there — a single stem in a glass on the counter, a tiny succulent on the windowsill, a dried bouquet hanging upside down near the back door.

the string of hearts has grown another few inches.

the snake plant is thriving.

the haworthia's baby is doing well in your shop, you told him yesterday, already putting out roots of its own.

toji stands in the middle of his shop, surrounded by green and pretty growing things, and thinks about how different his life looks now than it did fifteen days ago.

fifteen days since a shelf fell and a person with dirt on their cheek asked him for help. fifteen days since he started finding reasons to cross the sidewalk.

fifteen days since toji started falling in love.

the connecting door opens, and you walk in without bothering to knock, two cups of coffee in your hands. you're wearing his hoodie — the one you stole yesterday, the black one with the hole in the cuff — and your hair is messy and your eyes are still soft with sleep and you are, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing toji has ever seen.

"morning," you say, handing him a cup.

"morning," he says back.

you lean against the counter next to him, close enough that your shoulders fully touch, and you look around at the tattoo shop — at the plants, at the flowers, at the evidence of your presence in toji’s space.

"your shop is getting very green," you observe.

"whose fault is that?"

"mine," you admit, grinning. "i have no regrets."

toji looks down at you — at the way you fit against his side, at the way you're looking up at him like he's something good, something worth keeping.

"hey," toji says.

"hey," you reply, giggling.

"i'm glad you moved in next door."

your smile softens into something smaller, more private.

"yeah?"

"yeah."

toji sets down his coffee, reaches out, and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear; his fingers linger on your jaw, and you lean into the touch like you’ve been waiting for it all along.

"i'm really fucking glad."

you stand on your tiptoes and kiss him.

it's so soft, and so gentle; your lips taste like coffee and something really sweet, and your hand comes up to rest on toji’s chest, right over his heart, and toji thinks he might actually die — right here, in his flower-filled tattoo parlor, with his arms around the florist from next door.

when you pull back, you're smiling.

"good," you say. "because i'm not going anywhere."

toji looks around at his shop — at the plants, at the flowers, at the evidence of you everywhere he looks. at the way his life has become something softer, something greener, something that feels like coming home.

"good," he says.

and for the first time in a very, very long time, fushiguro toji lets himself smile.

"Work ran over."

"You're not eating enough."

"I had lunch."

"You had a protein bar at 2 PM. That's not lunch."

You sigh, too tired to argue. "Jake, I'm really not in the mood for-"

He stands up. You stop talking.

He crosses the room in three strides. Doesn't stop until he's chest to chest with you, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him. Close enough to smell him cedar and sweat and something darker underneath, something that makes your stomach flip.

"You're not in the mood for what?" he asks quietly.

His hand comes up. His knuckles brush your jaw.

"To fight," you manage.

"I don't want to fight." His thumb traces your lower lip. "I want to take care of you. But you won't let me unless I make you."

"Make me?"

He tilts his head. That small, predatory motion you've learned to recognize. "Yeah."

And then he drops to his knees.

Your breath catches. He's done this before gone down on you a hundred times, a thousand. But never like this. Never with that look in his eyes, like he's already gone, like he's been thinking about this all day and he's about to come apart before he even touches you.

"Jake what are you-"

"Shut up."

His hands slide up your calves. Your knees. Your thighs. He pushes your skirt up around your hips and hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties.

"I've been thinking about this since you left this morning," he says, pulling them down. "Couldn't focus. Couldn't eat. Just kept smelling you on the pillow and losing my mind."

"You're being dramatic."

"I came twice in the shower thinking about doing this."

Your mouth falls open. "You what?"

He doesn't answer. He's too busy looking at you specifically at the wet spot already soaking through your panties, at the way your thighs are shaking even though he hasn't done anything yet.

"Jesus," he breathes. "You're already soaked."

"You're the one who came twice in the-"

He buries his face between your legs.

Not slowly. Not teasing. He just dives in like he's starving, his tongue flat against you, his nose pressing into your clit, his hands gripping your thighs so hard you know there will be bruises tomorrow.

You gasp. Your hands fly to his hair. He moans, the vibration shooting straight through you and his hips jerk against nothing.

He's humping the air like a dog in heat. You can see it from here, the way his sweatpants are tented, the way he's grinding down against nothing because he can't help himself. He hasn't even touched his own cock and he's already thrusting into empty air like he's fucking something.

"Jake, hmm your mm-"

"Don't care." His mouth is muffled against you. "Don't fucking care. Just need to taste you. Need you to cum on my face. Need it so bad I can't think."

He licks into you like he's trying to drink you. His tongue curls, presses, flicks. He finds your clit and sucks gentle at first, then harder, then so hard you see start to see stars.

Your knees buckle. He catches you, holds you up but doesn't stop.

"Please," he whimpers against you.

Jake doesn't whimper. Jake growls. Jake commands. But right now, on his knees with your thighs around his ears, he's whimpering like a puppy.

"Please what?" you gasp.

"Please cum. Please. I need to feel it. I need you to-" His hips buck again, harder this time. A wet spot is spreading through his sweatpants. "I'm so close and you haven't even touched me and I can't- I can't hold it-"

"You're going to cum untouched?"

"I'm so fucked, this is all your fault. I keep thinking about this. Please. Please please please-"

He's begging without even knowing what exactly he's begging for. His nose is running. His eyes are wet. He looks wrecked and he's barely started.

You tug at his hair. He moans, high and desperate, and his whole body shudders.

"Then cum," you say. "Cum for me, show me how good I make you feel."

"Baby call me a- mm fuck please say it need it-."

"Say what?" You tease

"Fuck don't be like that- please tell me I'm a good- I'm a good-."

"You're my good pup." You finish for him.

He whines. He moans. He sobs. And then he cums.

You watch it happen. His eyes roll back. His mouth goes slack against you. His hips stutter into the air once, twice, three times and then his whole body locks up, every muscle going tight at once, and you feel his cock twitching inside his sweatpants, pulsing, spilling.

He's cumming untouched. For the third time today. Just from the thought of you and eating you out.

His moan is broken. Pathetic. Yet so perfect.

He doesn't stop.

Even as he's shaking through the aftershocks, his tongue keeps moving. Keeps licking. Keeps sucking. He's drunk on you, high on your taste, and nothing not even his own orgasm is going to pull him away.

"Fuck," you breathe. "Jake. Jake, that's-"

He doubles down.

His hands leave your thighs and wrap around your ass, pulling you closer, grinding your cunt against his face like he's trying to crawl inside you. His nose keeps bumping against your clit with every thrust of his tongue. He's messy no pattern, no rhythm, just desperate, sloppy need.

You cum with a shout. Your whole body gives out. He drinks every drop, moaning like it's the best thing he's ever tasted, and his hips jerk again dry this time, nothing left, but he keeps thrusting anyway.

When you finally stop shaking, he pulls back just enough to look up at you.

His face is wrecked. Chin wet. Nose wet. Eyes blown so wide and chest heaving. There's a dark patch on his sweatpants, spreading from his crotch down his thigh.

"Again," he says.

"What?"

"Again." He's already lowering his mouth back to you. "I can still taste you. Need more. Need you to cum again. Please. I'll be good. I'll be so good. Just let me-"

"Jake, you just came in your pants."

"So?"

He says it like it's irrelevant. Like his own pleasure doesn't matter. Like the only thing that exists in this world is your cunt and his mouth.

He licks up the inside of your thigh. Bites gently. Sucks a mark into the soft flesh.

"Please," he whispers against your skin. "One more time. Just one more. I'll beg. I'll do anything. I'll-"

You pull him up by his ears.

He whines loud and embarrassingly but he follows. You drag him to the bed and push him down onto his back. His sweatpants are soaked through. His cock is still half hard, twitching against his stomach, leaking the last few drops of his third orgasm.

"Take these off," you say.

He scrambles to obey. Nearly falls off the bed in a rush. Gets stuck with one leg in and one leg out and whimpers in frustration until you help him.

Then he's naked beneath you. His cock is flushed dark red, still wet, still twitching. His thighs are slick with his own cum. His eyes are blown out. His ears are pinned back.

And his eyes are begging.

"Please," he says. "Please, baby. Need you. Need to be inside you. I'll die. I'll actually die if you don't-"

"Roll over."

He blinks. "What?"

"On your stomach. Now."

He moves so fast he nearly falls off the bed again. Ends up on his belly, face pressed into the pillow, ass in the air like he's presenting.

You've never seen him like this. Never seen him so desperate, so obedient, so ready to take whatever you give him.

You straddle the backs of his thighs. He shudders.

"You want to be inside me?" you ask.

"Yes. God, yes. Please."

"You want to feel how wet you made me?"

"Pleasepleaseplease"

You reach between his legs and wrap your hand around his cock.

He screams.

Not a moan. Not a groan. A full throated scream, muffled by the pillow, his whole body arching off the bed. He's so sensitive, so overstimulated, so completely gone that the barest touch makes him see god.

"Shh," you say, stroking him once. Twice. He's dripping, slick with his own cum, and the sound is obscene. "I thought you wanted to be inside me."

"I do. I do. But if you keep touching me I'm going to cum again and I want- I need-"

"You need what?"

He turns his head just enough to look at you. His face is tear streaked. His lips are swollen from eating you out. And nose still glistening from your slick.

He looks completely destroyed. And he's never been more beautiful.

"I need to be inside you when I cum," he says, voice breaking. "Please. I want to feel you around me. I want to fill you up. I want to watch it drip out of you and then I want to lick it up and then I want to do it again and again and again until I can't anymore."

You stare at him.

"Jake."

"What?"

"You're disgusting."

"Fuck I know." He doesn't sound sorry. "Please."

"Flip over"

He flips over in no time and you hover over him to line him up. He's shaking so hard you have to use both hands. His cock presses against your entrance just the tip, just barely and he makes a sound like a dying animal.

"Look at me," you say.

He forces his eyes open.

You sink down.

He cums instantly.

No thrust. No movement. Just the heat of you, the tightness of you, the wet slide of you taking him in and he shatters.

His whole body weakens. His cock jerks inside you, pumping hot and thick, filling you before you've even taken him all the way. His mouth is open in a silent scream. His hands fist the sheets. His ears flatten completely against his head.

He's crying. Actual tears, streaming down his face, soaking the pillow.

And he's still cumming.

It keeps going. Pulse after pulse after pulse. You've never seen anything like it. He just keeps spilling, keeps shaking, keeps whimpering your name like a prayer.

When he finally stops, he goes limp. Completely limp. His face is pressed into the pillow. His breath comes in wet, hitching gasps.

You haven't moved. You're still only halfway down his cock.

"Jake."

No response.

"Jake."

He mumbles something into the pillow. You can't understand it.

You lift off him slowly. His cock slips out, soft now, and a rush of his cum follows dripping down your thighs, pooling on his lower back.

He doesn't move.

His eyes are glassy. His face is a mess of tears and drool and your slick. His lips are moving, forming words you can't hear.

You lean down.

"...love you," he's whispering. Over and over. "Love you love you love you. M'sorry. M'sorry I couldn't last. M'sorry I'm like this. Love you. Love you so much. Please don't leave. Please don't-"

"Jake."

He blinks up at you.

"I'm not going anywhere."

More tears spill down his cheeks. His arms come up weak, shaking and wrap around your waist. He pulls you down on top of him, not caring that you're both sticky, both soaked, both completely wrecked.

"You wreck me," he says into your hair. "You know that? You fucking wreck me."

"Thats good Jakey."

He laughs. It turns into a sob halfway through.

You stay like that for a long time. Him holding you, you holding him, his sitting on both of your skin. His breathing slowly evens out. His heart stops hammering against his ribs.

Eventually, he speaks.

"I meant what I said."

"About what?"

"About doing it again. And again. And again."

You lift your head. Look at him.

He looks wrecked. Ruined. Completely, utterly destroyed. And he's already getting hard again.

"Again?" you say.

His hips twitch against you. His cock presses against your thigh soft at first, then firmer, then fully hard in the span of a few seconds.

"Ughhh I told you," he says, voice rough. "You wreck me."

He rolls you onto your back. Settles between your thighs. Presses his forehead to yours.

"I'm going to be inside you for the rest of the night," he says quietly. "And when the sun comes up, I'm going to make you breakfast. And then I'm going to bend you over the kitchen counter and do it again."

"Hmm that's ambitious."

He kisses you. Soft. Tender. Completely at odds with the way his hips are already pressing against you, already seeking entrance.

"For you?" He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are still wet. His lips are still swollen. His ears are still pinned back, soft and submissive and so fucking endearing you want to bite them.

"For you," he says, "I'll do anything."

He pushes inside you.

And he doesn't stop until the sun comes up.

it started with his paintings, of course. you'd look over during class only to be met with a canvas brilliantly decorated with deep and vibrant hues, bursts of color depending on the day. sometimes you'd see a sunset, with the soft shades of burnt oranges in a stark contrast against cloudy blues. other times you'd see a moonlit sky, with acrylics that made the stars shine so brightly you'd sworn they'd been plucked from the night. campfires, adorned with embers and surrounded by lush trees, detailed depictions of swans, beautiful, beautiful work that you never seemed to have the talent to achieve.

you swore it was just envy. plain and simple. you wanted to be like him, nothing else. that the only reason your eyes kept wandering over to his side of the classroom, had simply been for bits and pieces of inspiration.

but then you noticed it. not just his painting; him. the way he'd spend moments in between his strokes, looking at his art with such an intensity you'd wonder if the painting itself would break into a sweat. you'd watch as he created images with pursed lips and pinched brows. the way he'd bite his lower lip as he made intricate 'corrections' to such minuscule mistakes along his board. but above all, you would notice the level of reverence he'd seem to have for his creations, from start to end. how he never seemed to eye a blank canvas as a sign of failure, but a chance for a new story to tell. how he seemed to care for every aspect, shade, and 'accident' he'd make along the way.

you could learn from him in that regard. maybe even learn a couple more things from the class overall if you stopped staring at him so much, too.

from the stool upon which he sits, your eyes inevitably float back to your very own canvas, shining the same shade of snow it did as when you first began, without so much as a stroke. it's evident you won't be getting much done today, and the time on your wristwatch, confirming the soon approaching end of your class, aids in the thought. you began to pack your items up amidst the sea of chatter from other students, hoping to slip out earlier than the formal end of the lesson.

but it's as if your professor senses the end too, calling everyone to attention in a voice that almost instantly quiets the noise. her pale legs reveal themselves as she hobbles from around the desk, mentioning how quickly the time seemed to have passed without her noticing. you wondered what that was like, too, being able to get so deep and into art; instruction, or the doing, that you lost track of time. the class itself never claimed your attention that drastically, though riki had been a close second.

"class, before you all are dismissed-" professor jona begins, grabbing the thin-framed glasses from her desk and slipping them past her nose. "i'd like someone to share their piece, and the story behind it."

her green eyes search the room for a victim, and you don't bother stopping the packing up of your items. she'll pick riki; she always does. can't say you blame her, really. not when he's clearly one of the most skilled ones in the class. his painting always told a story, the same way his eyes, hands, and teeth-bitten lips did as he created them.

but it's your name instead, you hear ring out from the front of the classroom, freezing you in motion as heads from around the room turn toward the back.

"(y/n)!" professor jona speaks again, as if the state of shock you remained in, backpack suspended in mid-air, wasn't enough to indicate that you'd heard her the first time. "would you like to turn your easel around, tell us about your work today?"

no. not really, you think. especially considering the blank state it's remained in for the past hour, the only story you'd be able to tell is how you'd simply propped the canvas onto the wooden frame, not much else. unless they really want to hear about how you spent the entire class looking at riki's fingers rock back and forth along his own art.

"i um...." you began, throwing the bag over your shoulder with a low huff. maybe if you act as if you're still about to leave early, she'll ultimately end up choosing someone else. "i'd rather not, really."

"oh don't be so bashful!" professor jona persists, her wrinkled hands gesturing to your canvas again, with the pursuit of several eyes following the direction. "we'd all love to see what you have; you don't have to go too into depth."

if there was any depth at all, you would gladly have shared. but just like the stares from your peers and professor alike, the canvas was simply blank.

you wondered if this was your fault. the only reason why you'd gotten by in this class had been coasting on last-minute assignments, turning in poorly depicted attempts at abstract art, void of any true feeling or real emotion. simple lines and splashes of color thrown together in a manner that screamed you were acting out of time constraint, no real passion. your realistic art had always been an inadequate imitation of the theme you'd gone for, never truly able to capture the true 'essence' or feelings the others seemed to channel. something too tethered, controlled with little to no artistic tone or voice. nothing ever effortless, true, or deep. nothing like riki's.

maybe this was inevitable. only a matter of time before she'd stop picking him. after all, you were nearly halfway through the semester, and there had of course been plenty of students with their own, deep, abrasive, and abstract stories to tell. you just wish she hadn't started with you.

but as you held your backpack close to your side; you'd realize that she had no intention of giving up. so in a quick attempt to get the humiliation ritual over with, you picked up your easel and gave it a turn.

silence at first, then the soft attempts to stifle snickers, low mutterings from amongst the class that made you want to burrow into the ground beneath you and hide.

the red curls hanging along the side of your professor's head shook as she gave you a nod: as if both validating and trying to understand the vision herself. "oh, well that's just....."

"missing something." you hear a classmate murmur from beside the professor. upon a glance to your right, you see it's jake whose lips the words leave, followed by hushed chuckles among his surrounding group.

you resist the urge to roll your eyes, quickly flipping the stand back around in part annoyance, part embarrassment. it was bad enough that you seemed to have this massive block regarding creation on your own. but putting it on display, for everyone to see and judge, hadn't made it any easier.

there's a warmth that floods your cheeks upon the remembrance that riki is likely one of those doing the same. he didn't seem like the type to chuckle to himself or make jokes about your disposition, though the thought hadn't calmed you at all. ultimately it had been the principle; the guy you'd spent all the time watching in class had now probably been eyeing you back with an opinion of his own amongst many. artsy, effortless riki. you didn't even want to peer in his general direction to find out.

instead, you let out a quiet huff. "sorry, profesor jo, i just-" you pause, eyes flickering up to meet hers; and only hers for the sake of your dignity. "haven't been able to find much inspiration."

her head bobs faster now, serving as what she surely intends to be an empathic response, despite her already calling you out in front of the entire class. "and that's okay!" she says, a wrinkled smile forming upon her features. "we've all been there," she remarks, tilting her head down to meet eyes with you from above her frames.

she turns her attention back to the overall class, using your sorry canvas as an example of how not to deal with creative block. she mentions the importance of looking into the world around for inspiration and ideas for creation, taking moments of quiet to truly observe before painting.

what she doesn't understand, is that you've tried this before. spent more time than you can recall staring at your own works of art, quietly waiting and hoping to create something that felt real, true to you. any organic idea that you could transfer onto the canvas just as effortlessly as so many others seemed to do. that the whole 'just start painting' thing hadn't worked for you, often ending in a horrid mess of color, devoid of any true explanation or story. all she saw, ultimately, was your apparent lack of effort at all.

"....and i'd like to mention that there are so many wonderful artists in this class!" she drones on, aiding further in your embarrassment. "connecting with other artists helps, especially-" her eyes return to you as she says this.

"take riki for example!"

of course, you think, watching as she gestures over to his stool just next to the left side of her desk. "riki, you'd help out a classmate if asked, right?"

a groan that you manage to suppress, claws at your throat, the heat in your cheeks grows hotter with each second when you see it. riki, from the corner of your eye, giving a slight nod in return to the instructor who thought it wise to air you out.

he can hardly get his verbal response out before she interrupts him, noting once again how class is coming to a close. funny, she'd have more time for instruction had she cut the tangent about leaning on each other altogether. "well isn't that just splendid!" she drawls, turning back to you with a knowing smile. "i suggest you two get together right away!"

you wanted to melt into the floor.

"with all that being said," she clasps her hands together. "i'd still love to hear about someone's piece.....riki, if you will?"

unbelievable. there's just actually no way.

but when the streaked hair giant turns his canvas toward the majority of the class, you close your eyes in acceptance. listen to his annoyingly charming voice as he tells the story of his piece. it's a simple one, so far at least. incomplete, but still containing all the depth yours lacked. he says he'd just playing around with colors for a while, but when your eyes finally peel open to see it, you're amazed how structured it actually looks. how familiar the gently drawn out lines of the picture seem to look. you think it may be a shelf he's working on. whatever story may come of it, you'd inevitably hear about it when he got called on again.

the rest of the class has followed your lead, stuffing items into their respective bags as you pop up from your stool. your professor gives praise to riki (of course) and the last bit of instruction before you finally turn toward the door. you're finally about to leave when you hear it.

hurried footsteps making their way behind you, your name on his lips as he approaches.

you whip around faster than lightning. because there's no way he's actually trying to talk to you.

but when you look back, all six foot two of nishimura riki stands, looking back at you with an expression of gentle curiosity in his features.

he's handsome up close. with long lashes that flutter rapidly as a small smile forms upon his features; he extends his hand in an effort to grasp yours. "(y/n), yeah?" he grips the same hand you hadn't even realized had been drifting upward. "are you busy this weekend?"

you nearly let out a bitter laugh, realizing exactly what this is about. "i'm not, but," a swish of air sounds as you let your hand fall from his gentle grip. "you don't actually have to help me with painting, despite what professor jo says."

although as you eye him carefully, you can't say it wouldn't be nice. you imagine making time to spend with him outside of the classroom. the deep voice of his booming from behind you as he shows you how to make your way around a canvas, stroke by stroke.....

but alas, you know he's got more than enough on his plate. being the arts (to include dancing, singing, and rapping in other curricular areas), prodigy, and all. it was considerate that he'd said what he did upon being called on by professor jo, but truth be told, what else could he have said? can't help her these days, professor jo; i'm busy carrying the world? the comments he'd given were to be nothing more than a courtesy, not an obligation. "besides, i'm sure i'll find my inspo at some point."

"actually," he says, his smile seemingly growing softer in what you presume to be an element of quiet admiration. shyness perhaps? "it'd help me too, if anything." he says.

"i was hoping i could paint you, if you'd let me."

oh. you think. he wants to paint you?

your hand has seemingly drifted up again, because he lets out a low chuckle as your pointer finger finds your chest in confusion. "m-me?"

another low laugh leaves his lips, this time with a nod in confirmation. "yeah, you." he says, his dark orbs glistening with delight under the harsh blue light from overhead. "we'd be helping each other out, really."

then, his voice drops a tone as he tucks his hands into his side pockets. "you inspire me," he says, his eyes shifting gently along your face in a way that feels sincere. you almost miss the way your heart stutters at his words due to pure shock.

because....how did you inspire him? by staring at the back of his head every class? you aren't sure what kind of inspo he usually derives his creations from, but it's quite a shock to say that you've made the list. especially considering that glorious works of art he's decorated his pieces with. maybe he means your essence, truly. the way you'd sit quietly in the back of class, unassuming and clearly out of place.

maybe he needs help depicting a trainwreck.

brushing the thought off, you roll your shoulders, shifting your weight for a brief moment before responding. "oh, well," you clear your throat as the palms that clutch your canvas begin to moisten. "alright, then."

when you offer a smile of your own, he quickly pulls his phone from his back pocket, handing it over to you in a swift movement. you hope he doesn't notice the way your fingers tremble upon typing in your digits before handing the device back over to him in a matter of seconds.

he doesn't seem to, because upon receipt of your contact info, he offers nothing more than a bitten back smile before he sends you a message, confirmation that he's got the right number. "great," he says "how does....." his eyes roll upward as he ponders the thought. "saturday at noon sound?"

"perfect," you say, not giving yourself the chance to overthink the next words. "sounds good to me."

"saturday, then." he reiterates, pulling his hands from his pockets to retrieve his canvas as he makes his way to and out of the door. just before he crosses the threshold, it's as if he remembers to say something. because he pauses, turning back toward you with a slight amusement in his features. "it may not be much help and.....you've probably heard it before, but,"

he gestures to your blank board lazily, biting back another soft smile that threatens to reveal itself at any moment. "just.....try to paint what you feel."

and in a flash, he's gone. leaving you in a manner that far more in need of air than before.

when you finally do return home, it's as if the inspiration that you'd been waiting to hit you for weeks strikes you with a bat. the only thought on your mind is him, and when your fingers finally touch the canvas to adorn it with washed-out watercolors, the image forms underneath the low light of your apartment living room.

you picture his smile from earlier, the shy one before he asked to paint you and tucked his hands away. the stubborn part of your brain recalls the way the ends of his lips seemed to twitch as they formed the words. the recollection makes you feel excited, and a flash of bright orange appears in a flash, straight and long, across the canvas.

sprinkles and specs of purple appear next as you recall his voice, your heart refusing to let go of the way it stuttered when he'd called your name out at the end of class in a manner that made you feel thrilled. they line the edges of the once white board as your fingers move frantically, should they forget even for a split second what he sounds like.

red is next. it's the brightest one that glides effortlessly along the board as you imagine his plump lips, how he'd bitten them up as he spoke to you the same way he'd do so when creating a work of art of his own. you want to project yourself into the image itself, as if to surround yourself with the very color you'd associated with his lips. you wanted to be swarmed in it; and the feeling of warmth you'd imagine they'd give. you picture the lovely pair making their way up your chest, down your back, along your shoulders, before switching to blue.

even if his eyes were brown, it's the one color you feel captures the essence of them. the strength and unwavering gaze they'd seem to trap you in earlier, the same way they'd do with his own art. the color is light as you make broad strokes with your thumb, index, and pinky fingers. because in that sense, his eyes can be that way as well. gentle, soft, in a glint amidst them, like when he'd told you to paint what you felt, before he'd left you in the classroom for the day.

and so you did exactly that; looking at the abstract work now, with its bright blend and fusion of colors, is something you'd never thought you'd be able to do. the work that sits before you now is a highlight of this afternoon, every feeling you'd felt toward him encapsulated in those mere moments before you'd gone your separate ways. bright, intentional, beautiful, and anything but void of emotion.

--

saturday comes sooner than expected.

he offers you a water when you take a seat on the cushioned chair he has set out for you, to which you politely decline. it's sweet of him, truly, but being without a bottle leaves you less opportunity to fiddle with anything. "this is....a nice place."

and it is. the living room of his apartment was spacious, the walls lined with small portraits; some drawn, painted, or taken with a camera. the only spot that wasn't practically littered with images or depictions of art was the wall you sat in front of. instead, it had been lined with shelves of books, serving as the backpiece for the picture he'd soon create.

he offers a small smile as he pulls a stool in front of his easel. "thanks," he says, before setting up an array of various paints in front of his canvas. "make yourself comfortable, please."

you'd worn a dress for the occasion: flowy and floral. light and loose enough to feel comfortable. but it wasn't every day that you'd be offered the chance to be painted by an artist, specifically not from one as talented and handsome as he was. so despite his words, you found yourself shifting within the seat, trying to catch the low hum of bossa nova that played lowly in the background.

he looked comfortable, though. in his black top and grey sweats, you watch as he assembled his items with the same ease and carefree nature he'd always carried with regard to art. the sunlight that peered through the curtains captures the blonde streak of his hair and the delicate features in a manner that makes your chest stir. you wonder if he's ever created a self-portrait: ever tried bringing his own beauty to life on a canvas.

but you don't ask. because you're only slightly more curious about why it's you specifically who sits in the chair amid the backdrop of books. as he settles into a comfortable position on the stool, the words finally leave your lips. "so.....i have to ask," you start, tilting your head in inquiry. "why paint me?"

he pauses his set-up for a second, looking up at you with the same glimmer of amusement behind his eyes as that day in the classroom, as if the answer had been quite obvious. "i think you're pretty."

the words leave his lips so matter-of-factly, you almost feel foolish for asking. a new color that you hope won't last long enough to be captured in the portrait floods your cheeks as you blink in shock. "t-thank you,"

you aren't sure what else to say, really. you didn't think he ever noticed you, not really. from where you sit in the classroom, it was a semi-surprise to you that he had even known your name.

he simply murmurs a hum in acknowledgment, turning his attention back to the partially done canvas. "and a bit frustrating." he says with a sly smile.

that earns another tilt from you. the tone is light, playful, but the truth in his words still clear. "frustrating? how?"

he dips the thick-rimmed brush into the water that sits in the center of his palette, the same way you've watched him do countless times. "i've done countless portraits before; so many sketches," he says, bringing the bristles toward the browns for the background. "beautiful works, people would try to buy them off of me, y'know?"

"but this," he taps the bridge of his nose with the end of the brush, brings it to the space underneath his eyes, then his lips. "you," he says, dark eyes shadowed by even darker hair fall upon you. "i can never seem to get you right."

your heart hiccupped as the words left his lips. he's tried before to capture you, or your essence, by the way he's phrased it. he speaks of you as if you're the art itself, that he's only done his best to replicate it. you almost ask him again; why you? but the answer has been made clear. especially with how he looks now, as he moves his fingers along the whites of his page, etching it with color.

so you ask something else. "i....inspire you that much?"

he doesn't even pause again, nodding ever so slowly as his slim fingers clutch and control the brush. "of course," he says, with a smile "everything does." he continues; and the way the light captures his adam's apple as it bobs isn't lost on you. "the ducks by the pond on campus, the fog in the early mornings before classes,"

"the cherry blossoms by the park," the way his expression shifts as he eyes his painting lets you know something is coming together. "pretty girls that sit in the library," he says, with a gentle wink. "it's hard not to be inspired."

you'd let out a snort if the last remark didn't make you flustered. undoubtedly, there was beauty everywhere, especially the sakura trees and the formation of ducks by the pond. but to be so inspired by it to try to bring it to life was a completely different thing. and to be so inspired; to see it in you, had been something you hadn't even fathomed.

the piece, you begin to realize, is in fact a continuation. this was most certainly the one from class, with shelves arranged to form the image. it was only upon hearing his words that you understood they'd been proper bookshelves, like the ones you'd sit under in between courses. the same thing he'd tried to replicate somewhat in the living room of the apartment.

you suppose this really had been helpful for him. maybe in a matter of moments, he would be able to capture you the same way he does a bright sunset, or a vivid horizon upon a beach. "well," you say, eyes falling onto the way his hands drift. "glad i could help."

the room grows with a soft quiet as riki works. he watches you intently from across his stool before turning back to his piece to drag his hand across it. his brows furrow in that same familiar way they would in class, and he wears the unmistakable expression of concentration when creating something beautiful, something real. it's funny, being on this side of it. you'd never thought you'd be the focus of it when it came to his works.

but here you are, sitting as he moves with pinched brows and quiet precision. it's only the sound of bristles meeting cloth, accompanied by quiet jazz that fills the room, your lips hesitant to even so much as quiver. it's only when he lets out a sigh of frustration that they finally twitch.

"is...everything okay?"

he nods slowly, dark hair bouncing with the subtle shake. "yeah, i'm just..." he huffs, moistening the bristles. "a bit scared is all."

never in a million years did you think you'd hear those words leave his lips. riki, the class prodigy, who'd generated creations worthy of praise and even more....was scared? he, who the professor had looked to as an example to project, promote, and constantly acknowledge. the artist whose minimal 'mistakes' only aided in his works coming alive?

"scared?" you ask now, squinting. "for the....features, right?"

he nods lowly, biting at his lower lip. "i just don't want to mess it up, y'know?" he mutters, as a battle wages behind his eyes. "i don't want to ruin it."

funny, how all the times you'd spent looking at him in the classroom, this is the first time you truly see him. sitting now before you, in a pair of gray sweats and wearing an expression of worry, is when you finally feel as if you recognize him; the real him.

your classmate and peer, the boy who shows to the world the fruits of his labor, the beauty in his works, but deep down deals with the same challenges and worries as you. the boy who feels and experiences the same points of block when creating. the boy who feels stuck in his own work because of: you.

only the pressure for him was ten times worse. often looked at as the example, golden boy of the field, you realized he didn't get to have these rare moments of block, let alone show up and leave his class with a blank canvas the way you did.

maybe, you begin to wonder that you are both more alike than you realize.

he smiles a soft one before shifting back to work, but you've already seen it. the flicker of vulnerability in his features. the gentle frustration behind his eyes at himself for being unable to bring his vision to life. a feeling you know all too well.

before you realize it, you clear your throat. "i tried what you told me the other day," you say, returning the soft smile as you speak. "about just painting what i felt."

when his dark eyes meet yours, you hope the words provide him any kind of consolation, any help as you continue. "my piece was a little more abstract, but.....it worked."

it's true. his advice on a random afternoon had done more than a dozen art lessons, videos, and lectures from professor jona. you'd only hope that even if he hadn't been able to capture what he'd been going for, at the very least, the image could make him feel something other than frustration.

of course, it had helped that you had a very handsome, tall, and downright gorgeous muse in mind as you created it, but maybe: he needed a reminder of his own words to do exactly that. especially if in his eyes; you were as pretty as he said you were.

riki nods, his hands moving slower as he works, as his attention shifts to the words that leave your lips. "that's good," a genuine tone echoes through the room. "what'd you paint?"

"it was....a bit of everything," you say, thinking of the flurry of colors you'd produced mere nights ago in your living room. "but it's better than anything I've done in....a while."

you shock yourself with your own honesty. perhaps it's something in the air; the warm silence in which you two safeguarded within the four walls you sit in, up until this point. there's an ease the energy of the room has shifted into, the jazz being an excellent choice to aid in it.

in a moment's notice, he stops working completely to offer another sweet grin. though it's not unlike the smiles he's given you before, this one is most certainly softer; more authentic. "that's really awesome, actually," he says, a soft glimmer in his eye. "hoping i can do the same, hm?"

before he can even do so much as shift back into his perpetual 'flow-state' you quickly tell him that he can. "i took the advice you gave me a bit literally, but," you start. "whose to say you can't do the same?"

this question seems to intrigue him, because he places both the brush and palette down nearby, before raising a brow. "what do you mean?"

so you tell him. explain that even though the piece you worked had been shapeless, lifeless, it held thousands of words and feelings beyond it. that expression, in that moment, relied more on color, the feeling itself it'd drawn from you. not a series of shapes and angles aligned in a manner that could change at any moment.

"it's like this," you say, practically itching in your seat to tell him about it. "think about what you're feeling and... choose a color that best represents it."

he squints in thought, and you can practically see the art critic in him willing itself out of his body. "that does seem to better fit abstract art, though."

a scoff nearly leaves your lips upon hearing his words. it's as if another switch flips in your body because in that moment, you finally understand the persistent debates and arguments held within class. the snarky remarks jake and other classmates would make amongst each other from and across their sides of the classroom. the rebuttals against those who taught and thought of art as a clinical process, a study; something to be perfected and achieved.

those who thought of the field with deep intricacies and nuances as a craft to be improved upon. the very same people whose views contain such constraint that seep into your subconscious, blocking out any imperfect thought or paralyzing you as you stand before your own page. one to be graded, critiqued, and misunderstood by anyone who didn't quite 'get it' or feel what you felt.

and to be quite frank, it'd be a shock to see if he were one of those people. so you challenge the very thought.

"whose to say it does?" you ask, a newfound confidence rising within your voice and body as you squint back at him. "it may end up capturing more than you think."

and there it is. the flicker of worry, concern, and unease that brings his eyebrows together and purses his lips. the expression seems to rip the words out of you before you can register them.

"you won't mess it up, riki."

there's a sensitivity in your voice that manages to simultaneously ease him and you as it floods the room. professor jo would be in shambles upon seeing this. the class wreck, trying to ease the expert into something new? unfathomable.

but your professor hadn't been there. in the living room sat only two art students, sharing quiet thoughts and confessions in the shadows of their own vulnerabilities across the thin veil of paint and cloth. no prodigies nor washouts; only you and riki, and the gentle hum of jazz the record player provides.

the pause he takes is relieved momentarily, and as his eyes dance along the features of yours he'd so longingly tried to imitate. his eyes flicker back to the painting, then to you, as he purses his bottom lip as if to say why not?

"show me." he then says, though if there weren't so much humility in his voice, you'd think it a command; one you easily oblige to upon hearing it.

accompanying this feeling, is a quiet ache in your chest upon hearing his words that sticks with you. a subtle feeling of regret that sits in your core upon the realization of the truth; that no matter how it seemed, he'd only ever been just like you. intrigued, thoughtful, and curious about the true meaning and value of art. maybe you'd have realized it sooner if you'd spent time with him, rather than merely looking at him from the back of the class. or even at times judging how 'perfect' his presentation had always seemed.

a pang sits in your chest for all lost time, but the curiosity in his tone makes you want to make up for it. in a flash, you're on your feet, crossing the room to stand in front of him. he only watches with intrigued brown eyes as you pop the canvas from the easel, and set it on the floor. "join me?"

he nods quickly, picking up the paints and setting them next to the piece on the floor as you take a seat next to the work. to the record player he goes, to turn up the bossa nova before he returns to sit next to you on the floor. you're grateful, truly: you were beginning to wonder if he'd hear your stuttering heart over the low tone of music.

he sits along the carpet, shifting the paints along the hardwood portion of the floor to prevent any major messes. "so....a color for a feeling?"

"exactly," you respond, watching as he mixes a deep blue with a gentle red, before dropping the tool. "exactly like that."

"so like....red for anger? green for envy?"

"not quite," you say, wracking your brain for the words. "it's more so what something makes you feel."

the images from that night flash in your mind; the recollection you'd had of his smile, voice, and their coinciding colors. a hue of greens, purples, and oranges across the canvas as the emotion had been pulled out of you. "for instance....." you look at the partially done image and faceless depiction of you that lies before you both. "libraries make you feel....."

"warm." he says lowly, an ease in his voice that stirs a new feeling of it's own in your chest. "cozy."

you're just about to ask what color he associates with the feeling, but he's already reaching for the brush again to dip into a slightly dried brown on his palette. instinctively, your hand grips his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. you pull away almost instantly, as if you've burned yourself upon the realization of what you've done.

"sorry," you say quickly, gesturing back to the palette. "i just....i also only paint with my fingers."

a tip he didn't necessarily need to take, but one you'd felt important to mention. he'd been using watercolor this whole time, so you'd felt safe to mention it. had it been acrylic or oil, you'd have been hesitant. though the ease with which you'd be able to work with the material, to you, at least, had made you feel more connected to the creations in a way.

but he does take it, wetting his fingers in the muddled water before connecting them with the brown, drawing lines along the canvas. then, suddenly, "what was your inspo when you did it?" he asks, looking up at you as his fingers dot the blank portions. "any muses of your own?"

you almost don't register the question, looking at the way his pale fingers run themselves along the whites of the board. in a flash, though, it hits you, earning a low, ironic chuckle that flies from your lips.

under different circumstances, you'd have dodged the answer completely; insisted on giving a vague answer or simply telling him "a guy". but in the spirit of revelations about each other and the unguarded ease with which you two had slipped into moments ago, it felt right to tell him. after all, he'd been the one who'd opened that door. insisted on calling you 'pretty' and apparently, the inspiration for his own works.

so, looking up from the piece his hands shuffled across; you attempted to use the same matter-of-fact tone as he did earlier when answering your question. "i thought of....." you give the same genuine smile as he did. "you, riki."

you aren't sure what to expect when the words leave your lips. a flood of color tints his cheeks as he looks back at you, and he bites back a surprised smile. "oh," he says, amusement skirting his tone. "guess i should have known, hm? you are always staring at me in class."

the record player may as well have scratched, because in that moment, you feel your heart plummet.

this entire time, he had noticed.

"i-" for a brief moment, you wondered if this had been what it was like for your brain to actually short-circuit. "i-"

he lets out a soft, throaty chuckle at your perturbation before gripping your wrist in his hand. "relax, pretty," he says, gesturing to the work with stained fingers. "clearly i noticed you, too."

his eyes capture yours under the cast-in light the windows provide. they hold you with a reverence for a brief moment, and upon feeling your once-tense hand loosen a bit, he doesn't let go. not even when he turns back to work the page.

with one hand lining the canvas and the other holding yours, he dots the lines of the depiction of your hair with a mellow yellow. after a moment of watching him sprinkle the color along the edges, you ask what it means.

he looks up at you, before a look of awe unfolds upon his features. "hopeful." he says, running the color along the lines of the portrait.

he spreads the color amongst many along the features of the canvas, slowly making his way toward the portions he'd once been hesitant about. you're tempted to ask what each of them means, but let him move in silence for some time, leaning into the way he clutches your hand.

then, by surprise, you feel a cool sensation against the back of it as he reaches to press the same color of yellow along the smooth skin, streaking the tone in a stark contrast. your heart practically trips over itself upon the contact, and you glance up at him to clarify. "hopeful?"

he nods, and doesn't stop there. before you can ask why, he dips his index finger in a shade of orange before dragging it along your arm, avoiding your floral dress as he does. he mutters something quietly, personal, in a tone so intimate you could melt. the jazz nearly drowns it out, but you think he says the word; "happy."

the sensation of his fingers running along your arm is enough to make you twitch; something you're almost positive he catches as he works the paint along your skin.

but you don't pull away, try to stop him as he continues. you only turn toward him, allowing him to work the paint up toward your collarbone, earning a low gasp from you as he shifts and adjusts his palette.

"shy," he chuckles, gliding his fingers along the curve of your neck. his eyes glimmer with the exact emotion he claims to experience upon exposure to the specific feature, as shown in how his fingers start to tremble upon nearing your face.

it's a feat of your own, trying not to twitch or shudder as his fingers dance along the corners and curves of your body, as if marking you like a portrait itself.

as he dawns you in colors, you'd wonder how long he'd been connected to the feeling of them. how often had he grown shy upon seeing you in halter-tops on the way to and during class? how happy had it made him when you'd rolled up your sleeves to reach a book on the top shelf of a section in a library? did it always give him hope to see the ways in which you'd styled your hair on a specific day?

as the questions float in your mind, it seems as if he has one of his own. because after a moment, he pauses, then glides a swatch of blue along your chin as he lifts it up, as if you ask if the very movement is alright. as if to make sure no lines had been crossed.

it's only when you nod that he continues, muttering a soft "nervous." he wipes the blue along your cheek with his thumb, as he cups it before leaning in. "really nervous."

the words rip a gentle gasp from your throat, and you feel your breathing grow shaky as the gap between both of you begins to shrink. the feeling had been more than mutual, and by the way your hands fumble as they reach for the fabric of his clothes, it had been for some time.

finally, without taking his eyes off of you for even so much as a second, his nimble fingers manage to find the color red, but not before dipping into the water, and gliding the vibrant shade just beneath your lip, along the edges of your mouth. "desire," the words comes out closer to a groan as they tumble from his lips. "want."

you're leaning into his touch, eyes darting along his features, which solely concentrate on you. in that moment, it's as if you completely understand what it must feel like to be the subject of his art. he eyes you in the way he would a canvas, his dark brows drawn together and his plump lips pouting in veneration.

only, as his eyes circle yours, there's something softer behind the brown orbs, a gentleness in the way they glide along the colors of your cheek; and a new question. one that he chooses to now verbalize as he gazes into your eyes underneath the sunlight. "(y/n)," he breathes, blinking softly, as if he could etch the image of you behind his lids. "would you do me the honor of letting me paint you?"

and when you give a shaky nod, accompanied by a soft 'yes', he snaps into action.

the gap is closed with a gentle tug of your face towards his. the lips you'd long thought about feel softer than you could have ever imagined as they move against your own. there's a burst of your own red that seems to flood your chest, want spilling from you like a fountain as you nearly stumble over the painting in an attempt to lessen any further space.

he seems to understand this, because the strength you hadn't realized he had reveals itself as he pulls you into his lap. the flap of your dress rises slightly as he does, and his reaction isn't lost upon you as he steadies your thighs, shuddering lowly.

there's a reverence to his movements, a quiet restraint as he holds you as if you are something fragile, something delicate. his paint-stained fingers make their way up your exposed thigh, each finger tinting your skin a new shade. he stops upon reaching the waistband of your lace panties, before pulling his lips away to inspect your features.

you should feel silly when he does, the gentle features of your own colored in with washed shades of red, blue, and orange alike. admittedly, there's a low chuckle that he can't suppress as he eyes you, which welcomes a warm smile in return as you bring your hand up to wipe his own smudged cheek. but beneath it all is the clear and undeniable expression of sheer want.

so he presses forward, adjusting your body in his lap so that your back is against his chest. you lean into his warm embrace, tilting your head back to look at the delicate, unwavering features of his again.

you think he's going to take your lips between his again, when his arm reaches across the painting you both sit before, and he grabs the paintbrush. "riki..." you mutter, eyes following his fingers as they make their way back to you. "what-"

he silences your concern with a kiss, only breaking apart to whisper the gentle words that send tingles along your skin. "wanna try something first."

and then you feel it.

the drag of the thick-rimmed wooden brush along your skin, along the dips and line of your collarbone. a gasp leaves your lips as he continues moving it down the line between your breasts, the soft fabric of your dress sliding with it.

his other hand pops the clips of your bra mere seconds upon the dress making it's way down, the restraint in his actions growing thin. "riki..." you say again, although it's fathomed more out of a plea than simple concern.

a plea that he moves quickly to fulfill as your satin bra slides off your shoulders. "hm, pretty?" he says, bringing the end of the brush to your now exposed breasts, rubbing small circles along your nipples. then, lower, "feel good?"

you will the words to leave your throat, but they seem to be suspended there with each flick of the hardened material against the peaks of your chest. all you manage to get out is a low whimper as your back arched away from his chest to chase the contact of the brush.

but that doesn't seem to be enough. his lips find new spots along your neck to kiss and bite along as he lets out a low hum. "need to hear you say it, hun."

an unruly shiver emits itself from you as you feel his lips press themselves along your erogenous zones, marking them in a manner that will most certainly leave colors that can't so easily be washed away. the sensation of his bites paired with the lazy glide of the brush just past your areola almost proves too much to handle.

he seems to feel it too, his breathing growing heavy as he watches your lashes flutter every so often from the contact. his sweats don't help much, either; they easily give way to the shape of his hardening cock as it presses into your back while kissing you.

but it's only when you let out a weak. "yes, riki," between ragged breaths that he finally acts.

his nimble fingers move to spread your thighs apart, hiking up your dress as his other hand with the brush moves downward. the handle drifts along your chest, past your waist, then to your slick panties. shockwaves are sent through your body as he glides the wood across your clothed clit, bringing it up and down in an agonizingly slow pace.

your hips buck at the sensation, willing him to apply more pressure along your pussy with the brush, a low moan threatening to erupt from your throat as you grind.

"easy, baby." riki purrs, applying just enough contact to drive you insane if prolonged. "wanna take this slow."

but you don't. not with how much time you'd felt had been spent with inaction, watching and waiting from opposite sides of the classroom, but ultimately wanting the same thing. each other.

so you wrap your fingers around the base of the brush, keeping his touch there in alignment with yours in an attempt to bring it closer. "rik, please,"

his restraint seems to fray at your given nickname, and his grip on the handle eases at your touch. he pauses from neck kisses against your shoulder to peer over it instead, watching as you push the end of the brush closer towards your clit. he cracks only slightly as he watches you buck into the thick handle.

"fuucck," he hisses, adjusting his hand on the handle so that it clutches yours along the wood. "okay, baby....just....lemme guide you, hm?"

you nod fervently, loosening your own grip in submission as he changes the tempo and pace with the brush, flicking the tool from side to side in a way that makes your core ache. before you can stop them, whimpers are tumbling from your lips, soft, high-pitched squeals that grow with each movement along your panties. he lets you tilt the brush at a devastating angle to shallow along your lips now, your underwear sticking to the wet folds as you both move.

"shiitt, riki," you finally moan, your handle on the brush growing weak as you succumb to the pleasure that lights up every nerve in your body. "so....fucking good."

riki nods into your shoulder, the pounding of his heart thudding from behind your back as he grunts lowly. "i know, baby," his free hand drifts up to caress your exposed breasts, adorning them with specs of color; reds of course, deep hues and expressions of devastating want. "keep rubbing that pretty pussy for me, wanna see you do it in circles."

there's something about the low tone in which he speaks that makes you wish to obey. so in mere seconds, you switch to the circular motion he's told you to, mouth agape from the sheer pleasure it brings.

"oh," you moan at the contact, feeling his hand tighten around yours in an attempt to maintain the pressure. "oh my fucking god, riki,"

you won't last long. not with the way he picks up the tempo as your hands go slack with delight. the sounds of moisture sliding against the tool and material of the fabric rival with the heavy breaths between moans you let out. "i'm gonna fucking....mmgh.."

the dizzying spell of his hands against your chest leaves you breathless, and the struggle to find words pursues as he presses down harder, drawing out longer, deeper circles. "mm gonna what, pretty?"

the sudden jerk and twist of your body is the answer as you let out a drawn-out moan, clawing at his clothes for any semblance of grounding. your orgasm shoots through you, a sharp jolt that spreads from your pulsing clit along the nerves and veins of your empty walls, past your shaking thighs. the sensation is enough to make your skin along every exposed part of your body tingle as you squeak the words out. "mm....fuckin' coming,"

the sound that erupts from riki upon your undoing is nothing short of feral. he groans as he watches you twist in pleasure, only slowing down the pace of the brush when you push against his hand, whimpering as you ride out the sensation. "my fucking god, baby," he grunts into your ear. "you're so damn beautiful."

your hand is still clutching his clothes when he drops the brush and pulls away. in mere seconds, he slides the dress up and off of your figure, before guiding you out of his lap and onto the carpet. you watch intently as he hovers over you, pulling off his own shirt without doing so much as letting his eyes leave yours.

and boy, is he a work of art.

tattoos along his rib, you see dark letters that spell out 'ROSE' in a stark contrast against his skin. just above his waist, you see a bright red kiss mark, the vibrant in the same hue he'd painted his 'desire' toward you with. the same shade that stains your cheek, after he'd dragged his finger across it with watercolor.

instinctively, your finger comes up to palm it, circling the pair of lips in awe as he throws his shirt to the side. "so are you." you respond, a bit breathless from the high of the climax and the way he looks at you.

you don't miss the flood of pink in his own cheeks as he leans down to kiss you, peeling at your underwear with his fingers. when he gets them off, they are neglected just as easily as the thought of the jazz music that hums lowly in the back, drowned out by the noise of wet, sloppy kisses exchanged between you both.

the kisses grow messier, louder, as his lips move down toward your exposed cunt as he places several along your thighs, then a harsh lick along your clit.

a gasp leaves your throat, and you nearly squeeze your thighs shut as he suckles and rolls your sensitive parts around his tongue. the image is almost too much to bear; his head between your thighs, streaks of paint from his fingers that line them in an attempt to keep them open. your fingers make their way through his locs as you grip his hair, moans from your throat flying freely now.

"shiit, riki, i'm gonna-" your voice cracks at the devastating pulsing his tongue performs against your swollen clit. "m'gonna cum again, fuck." you manage to whimper out.

your eyes squeeze shut, though between flashes, you can see hues of yellow and blues have accumulated within the pale streak of his hair. whether it had been from the paint he'd coated your hand with from earlier, or the flecks from the tip of the paintbrush you'd both held, you weren't sure. but it all added to the image you'd never be able to forget; not now, not ever.

you come with a harsh shudder as he flicks his moist tongue through and around the folds of your pussy. "ngh!" you cry out, gripping the locs of his dark hair even harder as your thighs tremble.

he clutches them as you ride out your high, letting out a deep groan and bringing his head upwards to place another kiss along your cunt. "mhm, such a pretty girl,"

you can only twitch in response, growing weary as the second flood of pleasure washes over your senses. riki is already making his way back up your face with a line of kisses as he mutters sweet words into your skin.

he takes his time making his way up, running his fingers along the sides of your waist, the sticky sweat of it alone enough to activate a new blend of colors he spends on you.

the feeling of his hands along your skin is something you don't think you'll ever get used to. not with how every gentle stroke seems to set you on fire, sending you into a frenzy. the same, you begin to realize, can be said with regard to satiation. because as you lie, trying to recover from your last high, you practically ache to become close to him again. the once skin-tingling pleasure begins to shift to one of want when his lips find yours. "ki...." you mutter between kisses. "need you, please."

"i know, hun," he hums into your lips, the taste of yourself spilling onto your tongue as he kisses you. "gonna give you everything you need, promise."

but he's so agonizingly reverential. his hands move along your sides as if he'll break you should he grip too hard. he treats your body as if you were the painting from earlier, restraint of expression holding him back from painting you with all the brightest colors of his own.

you couldn't wait a second longer. not when you'd already waited for what felt like an eternity for a moment even remotely close to this; to him. so a slight push, you lift his weight from atop you, breaking the kiss.

"ki, i'm not like the painting, okay?" you say, running your hands along the base of the artwork that adorns his own body. "you're not gonna ruin me," you say, tugging at his sweatpants; which does a poor job at hiding his now leaking tip.

the darkness that falls upon his eyes is instant, and the once careful painter you'd known from earlier seems to fade away as the words leave your lips. it's as if he'd been waiting for you to say them all along, because his response is almost instant, his low voice practically dripping with need as he looks down at you. "what if i want to?"

this only makes you tug harder at his sweats, a low plea sliding off your tongue in desperation. "then do it, ki please do it." you gasp. "please ruin me."

and at your words, the last of his resolve crumbles. he practically rips his pants away, willing the space between you to ultimately disappear. "fuuckk, hun," is the only throaty, guttural warning you get before he lines himself up, and pushes into you.

the sensation is instant, hitting you as nearly as hard as the orgasm from mere moments ago, as the sheer width of his cock fills you with pleasure. you claw at his arms, pulling him down for any kind of support as he slams into you, a feeling that leaves you breathless.

a yelp emerges from your throat as you feel a sharp sting across your ass, accompanied by the echo of a slap. the sensation is so sharp you feel your eyes begin to well; that, just like his other markings, will leave a bright hue for you tomorrow, if it hasn't already.

the moans that erupt from him upon entry nearly send you over the edge again. it's as if you can feel the last of his restraint fray as he pounds into you mercilessly. he holds down your arms onto the carpet as he fucks you; as if you could go anywhere, anyway. as if you could do anything more than moan his name as he kissed, sucked, and nibbled at any exposed part of your body.

the moisture that spills between you sends the exchange of color down the valley of your breasts, and along his shoulders. it's a lovely shade of lilac that you've decided feels like passion, harmony, lust; all at once. and maybe one day, something more.

it's the same gorgeous shade you see when he breaks the kiss to look into your eyes. a gasp is evoked from you upon seeing the smudges materialize along his neck, a mix of the blue and red he'd given you.

you wonder how you look underneath him, smeared in the material with your mouth hanging open, willing your teary eyes to stay open as his cock drags in and out of you.

"beautiful," he says, as if reading your mind before picking up the pace. "long way from the back of the class, huh?"

you'd answer him if you could, but the only thing that seems to be able to leave your lips are the high-pitched moans that rival his low, deep groans as he speeds up.

his brows furrow as he presses his forehead to yours, his mouth parting in awe as he loses himself in the velvety warmth of your cunt. "i'm....not gonna last, baby." he mutters, biting his lip between grunts as the slap of his balls sounds throughout the living room. "i'm so close."

you felt yourself nearing the end, too, the coil in your stomach twisting and swelling with a sensation that threatens to spill over at any minute. the long lashes that riki peers through flutter every so often he watches you twitch beneath him. then, his brown eyes manage to stay open for just long enough to give a plea of their own, and a question, low, wrecked tumbles from his gasping lips.

"can i- fucckk, ngh," he starts, gripping your thighs with the tenacity of a man who longed for this just as deeply as you had. a man who took great pride in ruining you the way you insisted. "can i come on your belly, baby?"

you nod gently, whimpering out a soft "yes" as he tastes the salt along your skin with each sloppy kiss along your face. in a few quick, deep strokes, you're sent over the edge, gripping him with your walls as the nerves of your pussy flood with waves of euphoria. "sshiiittt, riki!" you hiss, the tears that formed from your pupils spilling over as he rams into you.

his eyes roll back after he sees you unravel beneath him. through visions of flashes of white you see his sharp jaw slacken as the heat of his breath glides along your cheek. "shit, (y/n) i'm gonna...."

the last of his resolve is used to pull out of your twitching cunt before your skin is pricked with liquid, hot and white, along the curve of your breasts, stomach, and facial features alike. "fucckkk" he groans, his chest heaving in delight. his lips find your face again, now adorned with streaks of his cum. "there she....fuckin' is." he croaks, as his eyes dart along the paint and cum littered portions of your figure.

he wills himself not to collapse on you, as if he'd ruin the very art he'd work so hard to create. but alas, he grows weak, succumbing to the fatigue as he eases himself onto your body, careful not to put all of his weight on you. there's a deep, low chuckle that sounds in your ear as he runs his hands through strands of your hair. "mhm, finally," he says, low, fucked-out. "got you right."

a swell of pride enters your chest, because his words, and the gentle expression of joy in his features as he kisses along your face, you know he's done it. finally brought to life the essence and emotion he'd been trying to for months; if not on canvas, he'd undoubtedly captured the image in his mind for many more months to come.

soft sighs and chuckles erupt from you two, and he takes his fingers to swirl the remaining color around your body gently. he does so the entire time eyeing you as if you'd truly been a mosaic, a mural, and the portrait all at once; as if you had been the real art this entire time. the once-forgotten bossa nova reemerges from the player, no longer drowned out by the sounds of bliss you'd created only seconds ago.

in a swift movement, he pushes off, and pulls you back into a gentle embrace, in no rush to clean either you or him, as if erasing the very proof that what had occurred would undo him completely, all over again.

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You had been with Jungwon for over three years.

High school sweethearts, people liked to call you. The kind of couple that felt inevitable—like the two of you had been gently pushed toward each other by something unseen, long before either of you realized it yourselves. People would smile when they saw you together, whispering about how well you fit, how natural it all looked.

And maybe they were right. Because being with Jungwon never felt forced. It was easy in a way that didn’t need effort, didn’t need explanation. You simply existed side by side, and somehow, that was enough.

Jungwon is a cat hybrid. More specifically—a ragdoll. It showed in everything about him. In the softness of his presence, in the quiet way he moved, in the gentle nature that seemed to follow him wherever he went. Ragdolls were known for their calm temperament, their tendency to relax completely in the presence of someone they trusted.

His blond strands caught the light easily, shimmering faintly whenever it hit just right. Under the soft glow of the lamp or the muted flicker of the television, his hair almost looked lighter—like threads of gold woven between softer tones. It framed his face in a way that made him look even gentler than he already was.

Ragdoll hybrids were known for being affectionate. For craving touch. For seeking warmth. And Jungwon was exactly like that. He held you, stayed close, lingered in your space like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jungwon had always loved you in his own quiet ways. It was in the little things—the way he would lean into you during long study sessions, his head resting against your shoulder as if it belonged there, his weight warm and grounding. The way his fingers would find yours without hesitation when you walked together, slipping between them with a familiarity that made your chest feel full.

Sometimes, his tail would brush against your leg—slow, absentminded, almost instinctive. Not teasing, not intentional. Just… there. Like his body naturally reached for you even when he wasn’t thinking about it. As if being close to you wasn’t a choice he had to make. It was something he simply did.

He was always patient with you. Gentle in ways that made you feel safe without even realizing it. Jungwon had never raised his voice at you—not once. Even when things were difficult, even when misunderstandings lingered longer than they should have, he never let his words turn sharp. There was a softness to him, something steady and careful, like he was always thinking about how his actions might affect you.

And when you had your bad days—the kind that made everything feel heavier than it should—he was always there. Not loud. Not overwhelming. Just there.

A quiet presence beside you, offering comfort in small, careful ways. A hand resting over yours. A soft call of your name. Gentle words that didn’t try to fix everything, but somehow made it easier to breathe.

He knew how to take care of you. He wasn’t the type to show affection openly. In public, everything between you stayed subtle—soft glances that lingered just a second longer than necessary, fleeting touches that could be easily missed if someone wasn’t paying attention. The kind of closeness that existed in the space between you, quiet and unspoken.

But you noticed. You always did. And behind closed doors… It was different. The distance he kept in public would disappear the moment you were alone. He would sit closer, touch more freely, linger longer. His voice would soften even more, his guard lowering in a way only you were allowed to see.

There were nights where you barely left each other’s side—talking, resting, existing in that shared silence that never felt empty. In those moments, the world outside didn’t matter. It was just you and him. And you were inseparable.

You and Jungwon sat side by side on the sofa, the room dim except for the soft, shifting glow of the television. The blue and red flashes from the screen painted faint colors across the walls, across your skin, across him. It was his turn to pick the movie tonight, and without hesitation, he had chosen Spider-Man—something he had been quietly excited about since earlier, even if he didn’t say it outright.

You shifted closer to him, letting your body lean into his side before resting your head gently against his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt was warm beneath your cheek, carrying the faintest trace of his scent—something soft, familiar, something that always made you feel at ease without needing to think about it.

It was comfortable. Too comfortable. The kind of comfort that made time blur at the edges. A large bowl of popcorn rested on your lap, still warm, the buttery smell lingering between you. Every now and then, you would reach in without looking, fingers brushing lightly against the rim—or sometimes against his hand when he did the same.

His gaze remained fixed on the screen, eyes following every movement with quiet focus, his expression calm, absorbed in the story unfolding in front of him. He looked so composed, so unaffected—like nothing could pull his attention away.

His hand rested on your waist. It wasn’t gripping, not possessive—just there. Warm, steady, grounding. His palm curved naturally against your side as if it had always belonged there, his thumb moving in slow, absentminded circles against the fabric of your shirt. A small, repetitive motion.

Each slow movement sending a faint warmth spreading through your chest, subtle but persistent, like something building quietly beneath the surface. Without thinking, you leaned into him a little more, your head settling deeper against his shoulder. Your fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the bowl, then relaxed again as you tried to focus on the movie instead of the way his hand felt against you.

His eyes remained on the screen, his expression unchanged, as if nothing had shifted at all. But his hand pressed just a little more firmly against your waist now, the warmth of his touch more noticeable, more present.

Like he had become aware of you. Of how close you were. You swallowed softly, your gaze drifting away from the screen for a moment, lingering somewhere in the space between the two of you. Because this—this was how he always was. Close. Gentle. Careful. Just enough to make your heart race a little faster. And never enough to cross the line.

Jungwon leaned down without warning, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss against your cheek. It was light—gentle, like everything else he did—but enough to make you break into a quiet giggle, your nose scrunching slightly as his hair brushed against your skin, the soft strands tickling your face.

“Hey—” you laughed under your breath, tilting your head away just a little, though the smile never left your lips.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, a small, fond smile settling on his face. There was something warm in his gaze, something soft that always made your chest feel a little tighter.

“We should watch Cinderella next time,” he said, voice low and easy.

The light from the screen caught in his eyes, making them glimmer—dark and bright all at once, like polished obsidian reflecting something gentle beneath the surface.

You turned your head slightly, closing the small distance between you, and pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his lips.

Your smile lingered, playful, a little teasing.

“Can we watch Beauty and the Beast instead?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Instead, Jungwon leaned closer, his face dipping toward the crook of your neck. You felt the soft brush of his nose against your skin, the warmth of his breath following right after. He nuzzled you lightly—slow, unhurried, almost instinctive.

“As you wish, princess,” he murmured, his voice softer now, quieter, the words barely more than a breath against your skin.

Jungwon had always looked at you like that. Like you were something precious. There was a softness in his eyes whenever they settled on you—something warm, steady, and full of quiet affection that never seemed to fade. And his smile, it was gentle as ever, the kind that came easily when it was meant just for you. It always did something to your heart.

“Should we go to bed, princess?”

His voice broke through the quiet, low and familiar. Before you could answer, he reached for the remote, turning off the TV. The room dimmed instantly, the soft glow disappearing and leaving behind only the faint ambient light from the hallway.

Jungwon carefully took the bowl of popcorn from your lap, moving toward the kitchen to pour the leftovers into a container. It was such a small thing, but so him—tidy, thoughtful, always taking care of the little details without being asked.

You stayed on the sofa for a moment longer, humming softly to yourself as the quiet settled around you. Then, slowly, you pushed yourself up and made your way toward the bedroom, your steps unhurried, familiar with the path even in the dim light.

The room felt calm. Comfortable. Lived-in.

You reached for your usual pajamas, the soft fabric already comforting in your hands, before heading into the bathroom to change. Behind you, you could hear Jungwon moving around the room, the faint rustle of fabric as he reached for his own clothes—a simple tank top and a pair of boxers.

A routine. Something you had done countless times before. A moment later, the bathroom door clicked softly behind you. And not long after, Jungwon followed. Maybe, to others, it would seem a little odd.

A couple who had been together for three years—high school sweethearts, inseparable in every way—and yet still changing separately, still keeping that quiet distance when it came to things like this.

But that wasn’t even the strangest part. Because if anyone knew the truth—that you and Jungwon had never gone further than this, never crossed that invisible line despite all the time you had spent together—

They would be even more surprised.

Jungwon had a habit of holding you when he slept. Not loosely, not absentmindedly, but close. Like, even in his sleep, he needed to make sure you were still there.

You were always the one tucked against him, your back pressed to his chest, your body fitting into his like it had been made to. The little spoon, every single night without fail. And Jungwon—

He was always right behind you.

One arm draped securely around your waist, pulling you just close enough that there was no space left between you. His hold was gentle, never too tight, but firm in a way that made you feel grounded. Safe.

His tail would curl loosely around your legs, the soft fur brushing against your skin in slow, rhythmic movements. Sometimes it would sway, sometimes it would still—but on nights like this, it moved gently, almost like a quiet lullaby meant only for you.

Back and forth. Back and forth. As if he was guiding you to sleep without even realizing it. You could feel his heartbeat through his chest, steady and calm against your back. Each beat slow, consistent—something you had grown used to over the years, something that always seemed to ease the noise in your mind. It was comforting.

Jungwon would hum sometimes, barely audible, the sound low and soft in the quiet of the room. It wasn’t a song you recognized—just a simple melody, something instinctive, something that seemed to come naturally to him. It vibrated faintly against you, warm and soothing.

His hand rested against your stomach, fingers moving in slow, gentle motions, tracing small patterns over the fabric of your shirt. There was nothing rushed about it, nothing demanding—just soft, repetitive touches, like he was grounding himself as much as he was comforting you. Like he needed this, too.

There was something about Jungwon’s touch that always lingered. Soft. Careful. Intentional. Sometimes it made your breath catch. Sometimes it made your heart race, just a little.

And yet—he never crossed the line.

Jungwon had always been clear about that. About consent. About you. About waiting. He had told you before, in that quiet, steady voice of his, that he would never rush you into something you weren’t ready for. That it didn’t matter how long it took. That what mattered was that you felt safe. Comfortable. Sure. Because he knew.

He knew that a part of you was still hesitant, still unsure when it came to things like that. That there was a quiet fear you hadn’t fully let go of yet, something you needed time to understand, to face at your own pace.

And he respected that without question. Never pushing. Never asking for more than you could give. It was something you were deeply grateful for. More than you could ever put into words. And even with that boundary, nothing else between you ever changed.

He still held you just as close, his arms wrapping around you like they always did. He still pressed soft kisses against your cheek, your forehead, sometimes lingering just a second longer than necessary. He was still warm. Still gentle. Still yours in every way that mattered.

────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

“You haven’t seen your boyfriend go into rut?”

Mina’s voice wasn’t loud, but there was a clear note of surprise in it—her eyes widening slightly as she looked at you across the table, like she was waiting for you to correct yourself. You paused, fingers tightening a little around your drink.

“…No,” you answered after a second, your voice quieter than you intended.

A small nod followed, almost hesitant—like saying it out loud made it feel more real than it had before. At first, it had never felt like a big deal. Jungwon was gentle. Careful. Always in control of himself in a way that felt reassuring, not strange. You had simply assumed that was just how he was. That your relationship didn’t need to look like everyone else’s.

But Mina’s reaction—the way her brows slowly pulled together, the faint crease forming between them, her lips parting like she was about to say something but stopping herself. It made something uncomfortable stir in your chest.

“You’re serious?” she asked again, softer this time, but no less surprised.

You gave another small nod, eyes dropping briefly to your drink. The condensation on the glass felt cold against your fingers, but not enough to stop the thoughts creeping in. Because now, you were thinking about it.

Was it… not normal?

Your mind drifted—unwanted, uninvited—to the way Mina talked about her own relationship so casually. The way she mentioned things like it was natural, expected.

He had never. Not once. A quiet unease settled deeper in your chest, heavier than before. Because for the first time, the thought came, clear and impossible to ignore—was there something wrong? With him. With you?

“Is it… wrong?”

Your voice came out quieter than you expected, almost uncertain, like you weren’t sure you should even be asking. Mina blinked at you, clearly caught off guard—not just by the question, but by the hesitation behind it.

“Wrong?” she repeated, her tone softening immediately.

You shifted slightly in your seat, fingers fidgeting against the cold surface of your glass. Your eyes dropped, avoiding hers for a moment.

“I mean…” you hesitated, lips pressing together before you spoke again, “is it weird? That he’s never—”

You trailed off, unable to finish the sentence, the words feeling too heavy once they reached your throat. For a brief moment, there was silence.

Mina leaned back slightly, her expression no longer surprised, but contemplative.

“I wouldn’t say it’s wrong,” she said slowly, choosing her words with more care this time. “But… it is a little unusual.”

Unusual.

“Hey—” Mina leaned forward again, her tone gentler now. “That doesn’t mean something’s bad, okay? Every hybrid is different. Every relationship too.”

You nodded. But the reassurance didn’t quite settle the way it was supposed to. Because even if it wasn’t wrong… It still wasn’t normal. And for some reason, that bothered you more than you expected.

“But, what about your boyfriend?” you asked carefully, “Isn’t he a hybrid too?”

Mina paused for a moment, like she had expected the question.

“Yeah,” she nodded, leaning back slightly in her seat. “He is.”

Your fingers tightened a little around your glass, the cool surface no longer grounding—just something to hold onto.

“And…?” you prompted softly, your gaze flickering up to meet hers before dropping again.

Mina exhaled through a small, almost awkward laugh.

“He goes into rut,” she admitted, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Not all the time, but… yeah. It happens.”

Your heart sank, just a little.

“He gets clingy, more sensitive,” she continued, unaware of how each word settled heavier in your chest. “Sometimes it’s hard for him to control, but—” she shrugged lightly, “that’s just how it is with hybrids.”

Just how it is.

You nodded slowly, even though something inside you felt off. Because Jungwon had never been like that. Never once.

────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

You were just an ordinary person. No heightened senses. No instincts beyond what you could see, hear, or touch. You couldn’t smell the subtle changes in the air the way other hybrids could. You couldn’t pick up on the quiet shifts in pheromones, the invisible signals that something was happening beneath the surface.

To you, everything looked the same. Felt the same. If something changed in a hybrid—if their instincts stirred, if something deeper took over—You wouldn’t know. Not unless they showed you.

And Jungwon, he never did. So you were left with guesses. With assumptions. With questions that had no clear answers. Because if there was something you were supposed to notice, something you were supposed to understand you had no way of knowing.

And maybe that was what made it worse.

The kitchen felt unusually quiet. Only the sound of running water filled the space—steady, soft, almost too loud against the silence. Your hands moved on their own, washing the dishes one by one, the faint clink of plates and glass echoing in a way it normally didn’t.

Usually, you would have music playing. Something light. Something to keep your thoughts from wandering. But today, you couldn’t bring yourself to turn it on. Your mind was already too loud. Mina’s words lingered, replaying in the back of your head like something you couldn’t shut off.

Unusual.

Your fingers tightened slightly around the plate, the soap slipping against your skin as you exhaled slowly. At first, you told yourself it didn’t matter. That Jungwon was just different. That what you had with him was enough. And it was. It had always been.

So why did it bother you now?

Your gaze dropped to the water swirling down the drain, unfocused. Jungwon was affectionate. Close. Warm. Everything he did felt real. Except—he had never gone further.

You swallowed, chest tightening just a little. Because no matter how much you tried to ignore it, the thought kept coming back—

Was he holding himself back?

Or…

Did he just not want you like that?

Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t notice the soft sound of the door opening. Didn’t hear the quiet steps approaching. Not until warmth wrapped around you from behind.

You startled slightly, breath catching as a pair of arms slipped around your waist, pulling you gently back against a familiar chest.

“Jungwon…” you murmured, your voice softer than you expected.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned down, his nose brushing against the crook of your neck, nuzzling into your skin like it was the most natural thing in the world. You felt his breath there—warm, slow—as he inhaled deeply. It was something he always did. Every time he came home.

A quiet, soft purr rumbled from his chest, low and steady, vibrating faintly against your back. Content. Relaxed. His hold tightened just a little, not enough to trap you, but enough to keep you close. One hand resting over your stomach, the other settling at your side as he stayed there, unmoving. Just breathing you in.

And for a moment, everything else faded. The noise in your head. The questions. The doubt. All of it softened under his touch.

Before you could fully gather your thoughts, Jungwon gently turned you in his arms. The movement was slow, careful—like he didn’t want to startle you again. His hands lingered at your waist as you faced him, and for a moment, everything else faded into the background. The kind of smile that always made your chest tighten, your thoughts falter for just a second too long.

“I’m home, princess.”

His voice was low, familiar, laced with that quiet affection he never seemed to run out of. Before you could respond, he leaned in, closing the small distance between you. His lips brushed against yours—gentle, unhurried. A soft kiss. It lingered just enough for you to feel it.

There was a faint taste of strawberry chocolate, subtle but unmistakable, something that made the moment feel softer, more intimate than it already was. When he pulled back, it wasn’t far. Close enough that you could still feel his breath, still see the softness in his eyes as he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

You smiled softly at him, your hand lifting to brush his blond strands away from his eyes. The silky hair slipped easily between your fingers, revealing his gaze more clearly.

“Sorry,” you murmured, your voice quiet, a little sheepish. “I didn’t hear you, baby.”

Your touch lingered for a moment longer than necessary, fingertips grazing lightly against his temple before pulling away. Jungwon’s eyes softened at your words, the corners crinkling just slightly as he leaned into your touch for a brief second longer, like he didn’t want you to pull away just yet.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, voice low and gentle. “You seemed… distracted.”

His hand lifted, brushing lightly against your wrist before sliding down to lace his fingers with yours. The motion was slow, familiar—something he had done countless times before, yet it still made your chest tighten just a little.

“You alright?” he asked softly.

You hesitated. Just for a second. Because you could say yes. You always did. It would be easier that way—quieter, safer, something that wouldn’t change the gentle atmosphere between you. But the words caught in your throat. Your gaze dropped slightly, your fingers tightening just a little around his.

“…Yeah,” you said, but it came out softer than usual. Less certain.

Jungwon noticed. His thumb brushed slowly over your knuckles, a small, soothing motion, but his eyes didn’t leave your face this time. There was something more attentive in his gaze now, more focused.

Like he was waiting. Not pushing.

“Did something happen?” he asked, quieter now.

The question you had been avoiding all day rose back to the surface. Heavy. Uncomfortable. Impossible to ignore. Your lips parted slightly, your breath catching as you debated whether to say it out loud. Whether to finally ask.

“…Jungwon,” you started, your voice barely above a whisper.

Then you hesitated again. Because once you said it, there was no taking it back.

Your fingers tightened slightly around his, grounding yourself.

“I’ve been thinking about something… Mina said,” you admitted, eyes flickering up to meet his before dropping again.

He stayed quiet, patient, waiting. You swallowed.

“…She asked if I’ve ever seen you go into rut.”

The words felt heavier out loud.

“I told her no,” you continued, quieter. “Because I haven’t.”

Your grip on his shirt tightened just a little. A small pause. “…Is that normal?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. Then, softer—“…or is it because of me?”

Jungwon didn’t answer right away. He simply listened—quiet, attentive—his eyes never leaving yours as your words settled between you. Then, slowly, his thumb resumed its gentle motion against your hand.

“It’s not because of you,” he said softly. His voice was calm. Certain. “I use suppressants,” he continued, gaze softening slightly. “So you don’t have to see me like that.”

You blinked. Surprised.

“…Suppressants?” you echoed, your brows knitting faintly.

He nodded, his grip on you steady, reassuring.

“You don’t have to worry about it,” he added gently. “It’s nothing you did. Nothing you’re lacking.”

But instead of easing—Something in your chest tightened. Your fingers curled slightly into his shirt.

“…Then why?” you asked, quieter this time. “Why would you need to do that?”

You looked up at him, confusion slipping into your expression.

“I’m your girlfriend.”

Jungwon fell quiet for a moment. Not distant, just careful. Like he was weighing every word before letting it reach you. His hand slowly lifted, warm against your skin as he cupped your cheek. His thumb brushed over it in a soft, absentminded motion, grounding—gentle.

“Because I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, voice low and steady. You stilled, your breath catching slightly at the softness in his tone.

“When hybrids go into rut…” he continued, gaze lowering for a brief second before returning to you, more serious now, “we’re not the same.”

There was a quiet tension in his expression, something restrained.

“Instinct takes over. It’s… harder to think. Harder to stop.”

His brows pulled together faintly, like he didn’t quite like admitting it out loud. “I wouldn’t be able to control myself the way I do now,” he added, quieter. “And I don’t ever want to risk going too far with you.”

Your chest tightened. His thumb brushed your cheek again, slower this time, more deliberate—like he was trying to soothe something he couldn’t see.

“You’re still new to all of this,” he murmured. “And I know you’re scared, even if you don’t always say it.”

There was no teasing in his voice. No impatience. Just quiet understanding.

“I’d rather hold back,” he continued, eyes softening as they searched yours, “than ever make you feel overwhelmed… or hurt.”

His hand slipped from your cheek to your hand, fingers intertwining with yours again, grounding, familiar.

“So I chose to wait,” he said gently. “To make sure that when it happens… it’s because we both want it.”

His grip tightened just slightly. Reassuring. Certain.

“Not because of instinct,” he added softly. “But because it’s the right time for us.”

Before you could say anything, Jungwon pulled you into him. His arms wrapped around you firmly, one hand pressing gently against the back of your head, guiding you into his chest. The embrace was warm, secure—like he was trying to shield you from something you couldn’t even see.

“You don’t have to think about it like that,” he murmured softly against your hair.

His hand moved slowly, soothingly, brushing up and down your back in a steady rhythm. Calming. Grounding.

“It’s not because you’re lacking anything,” he continued, voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “And it’s not because I don’t want you.”

His hold tightened just slightly.

“I love you,” he said, the words gentle but firm. “More than that.”

You could hear it in the way his voice softened. Feel it in the way he held you closer. “I just…” he paused briefly, his fingers curling slightly against your back. “…I couldn’t live with myself if I ever hurt you.”

The confession was quiet. Heavy in a different way. So instead, he held you closer—like this was the only thing that mattered.

“And I don’t ever want you to feel scared with me,” he added softly, his cheek resting against the top of your head.

His hand slid up, gently cradling you again. Protective. Careful.

“So don’t overthink it, okay?”

His voice softened even more.

“…I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

You knew you shouldn’t think about it this much. Jungwon had already told you not to—his voice still lingering in your mind, soft and certain. And you believed him. You knew he loved you. It was in everything he did, everything he was. But your thoughts didn’t listen.

Because beneath that reassurance, there was something else. You couldn’t stop thinking about how much he was holding back. How effortlessly he hid it, like it didn’t cost him anything. Like choosing restraint over instinct was easy.

Like you weren’t the reason he had to.

Your chest tightened at the thought. Because no matter how gently he framed it, he was still denying a part of himself. For you. You didn’t understand it. You weren’t a hybrid. You didn’t know what it felt like—those instincts, that pull, that loss of control he spoke about so carefully. You tried to imagine it. Tried to put yourself in his place. But it always fell short. Because there was a side of Jungwon that lived beyond your understanding.

You sat across from Jay, your laptop open between you, the assignment neatly laid out on the screen. The quiet tapping of keys filled the space, steady and calm—but your own hands had slowed, fingers hovering without typing.

Your focus had drifted again.

Jay leaned back slightly, scrolling through the material with ease. His black ears twitched faintly at the smallest sounds, subtle and instinctive—movements you couldn’t even register.

Jay is a hybrid. Just like Jungwon. Your fingers stilled completely, your gaze lifting toward him for a brief moment before dropping again. There was a small tension in your chest, something that had been building all day.

Because Jay would understand. In a way you couldn’t. Your lips pressed together, hesitating. The question lingered, heavy on your tongue. Should you ask?

Jay had noticed. Your gaze flickering toward him, too often to be accidental. His scrolling slowed before stopping completely, his eyes lifting from the screen to meet yours. One of his brows quirked slightly, a subtle expression of curiosity forming on his face.

“…What?” he asked, tone casual but knowing.

There was a brief pause. His ears twitched faintly, as if picking up on something unspoken, something lingering in the air between you. “You’ve been staring,” he added, a hint of amusement slipping into his voice.

“Jay… can I ask you something?” you said carefully, your voice quieter than before. He didn’t look surprised.

“Sure.”

You hesitated for a brief second, fingers curling slightly against your laptop before continuing.

“…You have a human girlfriend, right?”

Jay’s gaze stayed on you, steady, waiting—but he gave a small nod. The silence stretched for just a moment. Long enough for your nerves to settle in your chest. Then you asked—

“…Do you ever have to restrain yourself for her?”

The question came out softer than you intended. More vulnerable. Jay’s expression shifted, just slightly. The casual ease from before faded into something more thoughtful as he studied you—like he was trying to understand what you were really asking.

Jay didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on you for a moment, like he was trying to understand what you really meant behind the question.

Then he exhaled softly, leaning back in his chair. “…Not fully,” he admitted, his tone calm and honest. “I don’t suppress it completely or anything—but I do keep it in check.”

He lifted a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it lightly as his ears flicked once. “I just make sure it doesn’t get to a point where it makes her uncomfortable,” he added, quieter. “Instinct can be… a lot.”

Jay shrugged slightly, looking back at you. “So yeah, I hold back when I need to—but not by forcing everything down. Just enough to make sure she’s okay.”

His words settled in your chest. Different from Jungwon. And somehow—that difference made everything feel more complicated.

Jay studied you for a moment longer, something softer settling into his expression.

“I don’t really know why you’re asking me this all of a sudden,” he said, his tone quieter now—less casual, more certain. He leaned forward slightly, resting his arm on the table, eyes steady on yours.

“But I do know one thing.”

A small pause.

“Jungwon really loves you.”

There was no hesitation in his voice.

No doubt.

“He cherishes you,” Jay continued, more gently. “A lot more than you probably realize.”

His ears flicked faintly, his gaze softening just a little. “He’s not holding back because he has to,” he added. “He’s doing it because he doesn’t want you to get hurt.”

You lowered your gaze, fingers tightening slightly against the edge of your laptop. “I know that,” you said softly, your voice almost fragile. “I know he loves me.” You hesitated, breath catching before you continued, “But… I don’t want him to keep holding back.”

Your words came slower now, more careful, like you were choosing each one with intention. “I know it’s hard for him. I can see it.” Your grip loosened, but the tightness in your chest remained, your eyes briefly lifting before dropping again. “I just… I just want to help.”

The confession lingered between you—quiet, but heavy in a way that couldn’t be ignored.

Jay was quiet for a moment, his gaze steady as he took in your words, like he was weighing them carefully before responding. “You don’t have to rush that,” he said finally, voice calm but firm. “If he’s holding back, it’s because he chose to. For you.”

He leaned back slightly, arms crossing loosely as his ears twitched once. “Helping him doesn’t mean pushing him past that line. It means letting him move at his own pace.” His eyes softened just a little. “Talk to him,” Jay added. “Not like this—guessing, overthinking. Just… be honest with him. Let him know you’re not scared, that you trust him.”

A small pause settled between you before he continued, quieter this time.

“And then let him decide what to do with that.”

His words weren’t complicated. But they felt grounded. Real. Like something you could actually hold onto.

────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

Jungwon noticed it right away—he couldn’t not notice. At first, it was subtle enough to ignore. You had always been affectionate, always close, always warm in a way that grounded him. But this felt different. Your hugs lingered longer, tighter, your fingers curling into his clothes like you were afraid to let go. You kept tucking yourself into him, face buried against his neck, your breath warm against his skin as if that was the only place you felt steady.

Even your kisses had changed—no longer just soft, but rushed, feverish, almost desperate. It made his brows knit slightly, confusion settling in as he tried to make sense of it. This wasn’t entirely like you. Gently, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands resting on your arms in a quiet attempt to ground you. “…Hey,” he murmured, voice soft with concern. “What’s going on?”

You didn’t answer—and somehow, that worried him even more.

Like today—just as you woke up, you didn’t even hesitate. You immediately slipped into Jungwon’s lap, wrapping yourself around him, arms and legs locking tight in a koala-like hug. At first, he only thought you were being clingy for attention, acting cute the way you sometimes did in the mornings. But then you shifted, pressing closer, stirring slightly in his hold like you were searching for something—something he couldn’t quite understand.

His hands hovered for a second before settling on you, a faint crease forming between his brows. Because this didn’t feel like simple affection anymore. There was something else in the way you held onto him—something restless, almost uncertain—and he didn’t know what it meant.

Jungwon didn’t dislike it—if anything, he liked it more than he should. He liked how you clung to him, how naturally you fit against him, how you sought him out without hesitation. There was something about it that made his chest tighten in a way that felt good.

But at the same time—It was getting harder.

Harder to keep himself in check when you pressed this close, when your touch lingered like that, when you held onto him as if you needed him more than before. His arms tightened around you instinctively, but there was a tension beneath it now—something he was actively trying to hold back. And that was exactly what worried him. Because the more you leaned into him like this, the harder it became for him to stay in control.

────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

“You know you shouldn’t rely on suppressants too much,” Dr. Kim said, eyes focused as he checked Jungwon’s condition, his tone calm but firm.

Jungwon stayed still, jaw slightly tense as he looked away, already knowing what was coming. The faint scent of antiseptic filled the room, making everything feel colder, more clinical than he liked.

“It’s not meant for long-term use like this,” the doctor continued, adjusting his notes. “Your body will start pushing back eventually. Side effects won’t stay mild forever.”

A brief silence followed. Jungwon exhaled quietly, fingers curling against his palm. “…I know.” But knowing didn’t make it easier.

Dr. Kim paused for a moment, studying Jungwon’s expression before letting out a quiet sigh.

“Then you need another approach,” he said, setting the clipboard aside. “Relying on suppressants alone isn’t sustainable.”

Jungwon’s brows knit slightly, his gaze dropping. “…What kind of approach?”

The doctor’s tone softened, but his words stayed firm. “Control doesn’t always mean forcing everything down. Sometimes it means… adjusting. Finding a balance instead of complete restraint.”

A brief pause lingered.

“You should communicate with your partner,” Dr. Kim added, watching him carefully. “Set boundaries, understand your limits—together. Your instincts aren’t something you can erase, but they can be managed safely if both sides are aware.”

Jungwon stayed quiet, the suggestion settling heavier than he expected.

Dr. Kim had said it before—more than once, every month like clockwork. Maybe the wording changed, maybe the tone shifted slightly, but the meaning always stayed the same: communicate, adjust, stop relying on suppressants alone. And every time, Jungwon listened. He nodded. He understood. But he never followed through, because knowing what to do and actually doing it were two completely different things.

His jaw tightened slightly as he looked away, the doctor’s words lingering in his mind long after the appointment ended. Because how was he supposed to explain something like that to you? How was he supposed to say it without making you scared—or worse, without crossing a line he could never take back? So instead, he stayed silent, choosing the easier option, even if it was slowly becoming the harder one.

Jungwon went home with a weight settling deep in his chest, heavier than usual, the doctor’s words still looping in his mind in a way he couldn’t shut off. By the time he stepped inside, his shoulders were tense, his thoughts still tangled—until his gaze landed on you. You were already home, curled up on the sofa, fast asleep. It wasn’t unusual; he had seen this plenty of times before, you dozing off with something playing softly in the background or your tablet still in your hand.

But this time felt different. His steps slowed as his eyes lingered a little longer, noticing what you were wearing—a thin set of pajamas, softer and lighter than usual, the fabric resting close against your body. The shorts were shorter too, more than what you normally wear. Jungwon stilled, and for a brief second, everything else slipped from his mind.

Jungwon slowly lowered himself beside you, one knee touching the floor as he leaned closer. His hand reached out almost instinctively, fingers brushing gently through your hair, careful not to wake you too abruptly.

“Baby…” he called softly, his voice low and warm, barely above a whisper.

You stirred slightly under his touch.

“You should wear something warmer,” he murmured, thumb lightly smoothing a strand away from your face. “I don’t want you to catch a cold.”

You slowly stirred, your eyes fluttering open, immediately meeting Jungwon’s gaze. His expression softened into that familiar, tender smile—the one that always made something in your chest ease.

Without saying a word, you lifted your hand slightly, a quiet invitation. He understood instantly. Jungwon shifted closer, one arm sliding around you as he gently pulled you into his embrace, careful but firm. In one smooth motion, he guided you onto his lap, holding you securely like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Now nestled against him, you didn’t hesitate. You leaned in, nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck, your breath warm against his skin as your arms wrapped around him again.

“Won…” you murmured softly against his neck, your voice still laced with sleep, barely more than a breath.

“Hmm?” he responded, his voice lower now, softer.

You slowly lifted your face from his neck, your eyes meeting his—those familiar, feline-like eyes that always seemed to see right through you. Your hand came up without hesitation, fingers brushing gently along his cheek, slow and tender.

“You’re home, baby,” you whispered.

For a moment, Jungwon didn’t answer. His gaze stayed on you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes as his hand instinctively tightened against your waist, pulling you just a little closer.

“…Yeah,” he finally murmured, voice quieter than before.

“Did you go somewhere?” you asked softly, your thumb still brushing along his cheek, your gaze steady on his.

“…Yeah,” he admitted, his hand still resting at your waist, holding you close. “Just… had something to take care of.”

“Where?” you asked, your voice still soft, but more awake now—curious, searching.

Jungwon’s hand stilled for a brief second against your side. He looked at you, really looked at you this time, as if weighing something in his mind.

“…The clinic,” he said finally, voice quiet.

There was a pause.

“Just a check-up,” he added, like it was nothing.

You knew. You didn’t need him to say it out loud to understand—the clinic, the check-ups, the suppressants. Your chest tightened slightly as it all fell into place, a quiet heaviness settling in. Even if Jungwon acted like it didn’t matter, like it was nothing, you knew it wasn’t that simple. It had to be hard for him too.

“Wonnie…” you called softly, your eyes searching his, trying to reach whatever he was keeping buried. He didn’t pull away; he stayed, listening. “You know… it’s okay,” you whispered, your hand still resting gently against his cheek. There was a small pause before you continued, your voice softer but steadier. “You don’t always have to hold it back. You don’t have to do everything alone.”

Your fingers brushed lightly against his skin, grounding, sincere. “I’m your girlfriend,” you added quietly. “You can trust me.”

Jungwon froze, because of your words. They weren’t light, and they weren’t easy to accept. And somehow, that made everything feel even heavier.

Jungwon understood. He understood more than you probably realized—that you loved him, that you were willing, that you were trying to ease something you knew was hurting him. He could see it in your eyes, hear it in the way your voice softened, feel it in the way you held onto him.

And that was exactly why he couldn’t accept it.

His grip on you tightened slightly, not out of desire, but restraint. Because his feelings for you ran too deep—far too deep to blur that line just because he was struggling. He didn’t want to take advantage of you, not when his instincts were heightened, not when he knew he wasn’t thinking as clearly as he should.

You trusted him. But he didn’t trust himself.

He exhaled slowly, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, gentler this time—careful, almost fragile. Because the last thing he ever wanted was for you to give up something, to sacrifice something, just to make things easier for him. He loved you too much for that.

“I know that, baby… I believe in you,” Jungwon replied, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of his emotions beneath the calm.

Jungwon’s fingers gently traced the line of your jaw, his touch deliberate but soft, as if grounding himself in the moment. He pressed a slow kiss to your temple, letting the warmth of your closeness settle him, even as the tension inside him lingered. “I just… I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured, voice almost a whisper, his eyes searching yours for understanding.

Jungwon’s fingers gently traced the line of your jaw, his touch deliberate but soft, as if grounding himself in the moment. He pressed a slow kiss to your temple, letting the warmth of your closeness settle him, even as the tension inside him lingered. “I just… I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured, voice almost a whisper, his eyes searching yours for understanding.

“Won… you’d never hurt me,” you murmured, your eyes glistening as they met his. The vulnerability in your gaze softened him further, and for a moment, the weight pressing on his chest seemed to ease, replaced by the quiet reassurance of your trust.

"Then, why won't you do it? Why didn't you want to have sex with me? I want to do it with you, too Won. If you're worried that you're gonna hurt me, we can set boundaries."

Jungwon’s gaze softened, a mixture of longing and restraint flickering in his eyes. He shook his head slowly, fingers tightening slightly where they rested on your waist. “It’s not that I don’t want to… I want you too,” he admitted, voice low and careful, “But I can’t risk hurting you. I can’t take that chance, not even with boundaries. Not because I don’t trust you—but because I don’t trust myself.”

He let the words hang between you, heavy but honest, his chest rising and falling with the weight of restraint and care.

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. Tears spilled freely down your cheeks, your body trembling as you pressed closer to him. “Won…” you choked out, your voice breaking, “I just… I just want to be close to you.”

Jungwon’s heart clenched at the sight. He wrapped his arms around you tighter, his own throat tight as he tried to soothe you. “Shh… it’s okay, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick. “I’m here… I’m not going anywhere.”

But even as he whispered the words, his own eyes stung with unshed tears. Seeing you cry hurt him in a way nothing else could, and he couldn’t stop the sorrow from creeping through him. His face buried in your hair, he let a tear slip quietly, matching yours, his chest tightening with the mix of love and helplessness.

You felt his warmth, his trembling hands, and realized—he was crying too. Two hearts breaking in quiet solidarity, clinging to each other in a storm of unspoken emotions.

────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

Jungwon sat there, thumbs flying over the buttons of the controller, but it was like his hands were moving on autopilot. The screen flickered with his character’s failures, each loss stacking on top of the last, and no matter how much he tried to focus, the game slipped through his fingers. He bit his lower lip, jaw tight, trying to salvage it, but the outcome was inevitable—another defeat.

Jay, leaning against the doorway with arms crossed, watched him for a moment, eyebrow raised. There was a pause, a subtle shift in his expression, as if he’d just pieced something together. Something wasn’t right with Jungwon, and Jay’s sharp gaze didn’t miss it.

Jay leaned a little closer, voice low but firm. “Hey… you’re off today, huh?” he asked, tilting his head. His eyes softened as he studied Jungwon, noticing the tension around his shoulders, the way his hands trembled slightly on the controller.

Jungwon didn’t answer right away. He stared at the screen, blinking rapidly, like he was trying to force himself into the game—but it wasn’t working. His chest felt tight, heavy with something he couldn’t push aside, no matter how much he wanted to.

Jay let out a quiet sigh, stepping nearer. “Look, man. You’re not hiding it from me. Something’s eating at you. Talk to me.”

Jungwon finally lowered the controller, shoulders slumping, eyes dark and unreadable for a moment. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. But the way his fingers fidgeted betrayed him, and Jay’s expression hardened with quiet understanding.

Jay didn’t buy Jungwon’s words. He scooted closer and sat beside him, leaning just enough to make his presence felt without crowding him.

“Is it about your girlfriend?” he asked, cutting straight to the point. His tone was calm, but there was a sharpness in his gaze—he wasn’t letting Jungwon slide past this one.

Jungwon stiffened, fingers gripping the controller a little too tightly, jaw clenching. He avoided Jay’s eyes, staring at the screen as if the pixels could answer for him. But Jay knew better. He’d seen that look before.

Jay’s voice was calm, but deliberate. “You know, a few days ago your girlfriend suddenly asked me something.”

Jungwon’s gaze stayed glued to the screen, thumbs moving, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.

“She asked me… if I ever restrain myself with my girlfriend,” Jay continued, watching him closely, letting the words settle between them.

Jay shifted his gaze toward Jungwon, his eyes steady. “And I said… not fully,” he admitted, letting the words hang in the air.

Jungwon didn’t look away from the screen, his thumbs still moving over the buttons, but the tension in his shoulders deepened. He let out a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh, and for a moment, the room felt heavier—filled with unspoken thoughts neither of them wanted to voice.

Jay leaned back slightly, his eyes steady on Jungwon. “I know you restrain yourself for her. You don’t want to hurt her. But…” He paused, letting the words hang in the air, soft but firm. “…You need to believe in yourself.”

Jungwon’s shoulders slumped slightly, his gaze dropping to the controller in his hands. “And… I didn’t believe in myself,” he admitted quietly, the words heavy with a mix of frustration and resignation.

“Hey… it’s okay,” he said gently. “You can believe in yourself. You’ve always been careful because you care—but that doesn’t mean you’re incapable. You just need to trust that you can handle it, that you’re strong enough to protect her and still be with her the way you want.”

He reached out, lightly tapping Jungwon’s shoulder for emphasis. “It’s not about never making mistakes—it’s about knowing you won’t let them break you or her. You’ve got this, man. I know you do.”

Jay’s tone was calm, steady, and patient as he said, “My girlfriend is also a regular human. At first, I was scared too—scared that my animalistic side might hurt her. But we communicated, we set our boundaries, and it worked. You can do the same.”

Jungwon exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “I’m worried,” he began, his voice tight. “The suppressant… It’s not working like it used to. Its effect is decreasing, and my rut is coming. I… I can barely hold it now.”

He looked down at the controller, gripping it almost too tightly. “I’m scared, man. I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want to put her in danger just because I can’t control myself. I thought I could manage it, but now…” His words trailed off, heavy with worry, unspoken fears pressing on his chest.

Jay leaned back slightly, studying him carefully. “Hey,” he said, his tone steady but gentle, “I get it. I really do. But stressing yourself out alone isn’t going to help either. You’ve been handling this all by yourself for too long.”

He placed a hand on Jungwon’s shoulder, firm but not forceful. “You can plan for it. You can communicate, set boundaries, even get help if you need it. It doesn’t make you weak—it makes you responsible. And trust me, you’re not going to hurt her if you actually think this through instead of bottling it up.”

Jay’s gaze met his, serious but reassuring. “You’re not alone in this, Won. You’ve got options. And you’re not failing just because it’s hard.”

────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

Mina hummed lowly, the sound soft but deliberate, clearly deep in thought as she processed your story about the past few days with Jungwon. Her eyes narrowed slightly, lips pressed together, as if she was weighing every detail, trying to piece together what it all meant.

After a long pause, Mina finally spoke, her voice calm but steady.

“You’re worried about him… and about yourself,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “But you can’t carry all of this alone. You need a plan—a way to handle it without putting either of you in danger.”

Her gaze met yours, sharp yet gentle, as if urging you to trust her insight.

Mina leaned back slightly, tapping her chin thoughtfully.

“There’s something that might help,” she said, her tone careful. “It’s called Veromon perfume."

“Since Jungwon’s a cat hybrid, you might want to try the veromon perfume that contains catnip extract. It’s subtle, but it can help him relax—loosen that tension he’s carrying around.”

She gave you a small, reassuring smile. “It won’t override him or anything, just help him feel calmer when his rut comes.”

You tilted your head slightly, thinking. “Veromon perfume… I’ve heard about it before, but I’m not really sure how it works,” you admitted, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve.

Mina nodded, as if expecting your hesitation. “It’s not complicated,” she explained gently. “It’s made with natural pheromones and extracts—like the catnip one I mentioned for Jungwon. It doesn’t force anything, it just subtly signals safety and calm to hybrids. Think of it like a gentle nudge for him to relax around you.”

You blinked, processing the information, a mix of curiosity and hesitation crossing your face. “So… it won’t make him act weird or, you know, uncontrollable?” you asked, your voice cautious.

Mina shook her head with a small smile. “No, nothing like that. It just eases tension. Especially for cat hybrids like Jungwon—it helps them feel safe without overriding their instincts. You’re still in control, and he’ll still be himself.”

You exhaled slowly, feeling a little relief wash over you. It sounded… safe. And maybe, just maybe, it could help both of you.

Mina leaned back slightly, folding her arms. “The key is subtlety,” she explained. “A few drops behind your ears, or on your pulse points—nothing too much. You don’t want it to be overwhelming. Just enough for him to notice and relax.”

You nodded, trying to imagine it. It felt strange, relying on something like a perfume to influence him, but at the same time… maybe it was worth trying. Anything to ease the tension, for both of you.

────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

What Jungwon had been afraid of finally came. His rut.

It didn’t happen all at once—at first, it was subtle. A lingering restlessness, a heat settling under his skin that he couldn’t shake off. His thoughts grew foggy, harder to control, and even the smallest things began to irritate him.

But then it worsened. His breathing turned heavier, uneven, his body running hotter than usual as the suppressant failed to keep it down. Every sensation felt heightened, overwhelming—his instincts clawing their way to the surface no matter how much he tried to push them back.

And the worst part, you were on his mind. Constantly. Jungwon clenched his jaw, gripping the edge of the table as he tried to steady himself. He knew this was coming. He prepared for it. But knowing didn’t make it easier—didn’t make the fear go away. Because this time he wasn’t sure if he could hold himself back.

He had taken the medicine—he did—but nothing changed.

The familiar relief never came. No calm, no easing of the heat crawling under his skin. Just the same restless tension, tightening, building, refusing to be suppressed.

Jungwon exhaled shakily, dragging a hand down his face. He didn’t want to worry. He kept telling himself it would pass, that maybe it just needed time—but deep down, he knew better.

A hybrid in rut is dangerous.

It wasn’t something to take lightly. Not something you could just ignore and hope for the best. That’s why suppressants existed in the first place—why, without them, hybrids were told to isolate themselves, lock themselves away until it was over.

Because losing control wasn’t just a possibility. It was a risk. And right now— with the medicine failing and his instincts growing louder by the second—Jungwon could feel that risk getting closer.

He was supposed to go with you to the amusement park. After everything that happened—the argument, the tears you both couldn’t hold back, the way you ended up crying together in each other’s arms—he had promised. A quiet, fragile promise to make it up to you. To make you smile again.

And he meant it. He wanted to go.

Jungwon leaned against the wall, his breath uneven as he pressed a hand to his chest, trying to steady himself. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. His rut wasn’t due yet—he had time. He always had time.

Except this time it came faster. Too fast. Faster than he predicted. Faster than he could prepare for. It had never happened like this before. A flicker of panic crossed his face as the realization settled in, heavy and suffocating. If it was this intense this early—then what would happen later?

What was he supposed to do about you?

Jungwon groaned softly, frustration laced through the sound as he dragged a hand through his hair, gripping it for a moment like he was trying to ground himself.

While Jungwon wrestled with his frustration in his apartment, you had already finished getting ready. The soft rustle of your outfit settled as you gave yourself one last look, fingers smoothing down the fabric absentmindedly.

Just as you were about to step out, your eyes caught something on the table. The perfume.

That perfume.

You paused, your hand hovering midair as Mina’s words echoed faintly in your mind. For a second, you simply stared at it, hesitation creeping in, your thoughts tangling between uncertainty and quiet hope.

You stepped closer, your fingers brushing lightly against the bottle as if testing its presence. It felt… normal. Too normal, considering what it was supposed to do.

For a moment, you hesitated.

Was this really the right way?

Your lips pressed together, mind drifting back to Jungwon—his conflicted eyes, the way his voice softened when he reassured you, even when he was the one struggling.

You didn’t want to control him. You just wanted to help. Exhaling slowly, you picked it up. The glass felt cool against your skin as you turned it slightly, watching the liquid catch the light.

“…Just a little,” you murmured to yourself.

Carefully, you dabbed a small amount onto your wrist, then behind your ear—just like Mina suggested. Subtle. Barely there. But enough. As the faint scent settled around you, your heart began to beat a little faster, not from the perfume, but from what might happen next.

You glanced at the bottle one more time before slipping it carefully into your bag, your fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary. Then, with a quiet breath, you straightened up and headed for the door, your hand wrapping around the handle as a brief hesitation settled in your chest—just enough for doubt to whisper again. But this time, you didn’t let it stop you. You stepped out, closing the door softly behind you, the faint presence of the perfume tucked away with you, along with all the uncertainty of what was waiting ahead.

────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

When you arrived at the amusement park, something felt off. At first, you thought it was just your nerves—the lingering thoughts about Jungwon, the perfume, everything weighing on your mind. But the feeling didn’t fade; instead, it grew stronger. It took you a moment to notice it—the stares. Not everyone, but enough to make you uneasy, and most of them were hybrids.

Your steps slowed as your eyes flickered around, catching glances that lingered just a little too long before turning away. A knot formed in your chest, confusion settling in. It didn’t make sense. You weren’t wearing anything revealing—just a simple dress over jeans, a cardigan wrapped around you. Comfortable. Modest. Normal. So why were they looking at you like that?

A faint unease crept up your spine as a thought brushed the edge of your mind, and without realizing it, your hand tightened around the strap of your bag.

Then it got worse.

A few of the hybrids didn’t even bother hiding it anymore—low whistles, murmured comments, voices calling out in ways that made your skin crawl. It was subtle to others, maybe, but not to you. Not when every sound felt directed, every glance heavier than before. This had never happened to you. Not here. Not anywhere. Your chest tightened as fear slowly replaced confusion.

Jungwon wasn’t here yet.

The thought hit harder than it should have, making your fingers curl tighter around your bag strap as your eyes darted around again, searching—hoping—to catch even a glimpse of him. But he was nowhere to be seen. And the longer you stood there alone, the more aware you became of just how exposed you felt.

Your heartbeat picked up, each second stretching uncomfortably as unease settled deep in your stomach. Something was wrong. And now you were starting to feel scared.

You were so caught up in your thoughts—the stares, the unease, the growing fear curling in your chest—that you didn’t notice them approaching.

Not until they were right in front of you. Two male hybrids stand in front of you.

Your breath hitched as your steps came to an abrupt stop, your eyes lifting—only to be met with two figures standing far too close. Too close. One on each side, their presence suddenly overwhelming, cutting off your path without you even realizing when it happened. They had cornered you.

A sharp wave of panic surged through your chest as your gaze flickered between them, your grip tightening around your bag. Your mind went blank for a second, heart pounding loudly in your ears as the space around you seemed to shrink.

“What a beautiful girl,” one of them said, a slow grin spreading across his face as his eyes roamed over you in a way that made your skin crawl. “Are you alone, pretty girl?”

Your throat tightened instantly, the words lodging somewhere between fear and disbelief. Up close, their presence felt even heavier—suffocating. You could feel the heat of their bodies, the way they leaned just enough to invade your space without even touching you.

Your fingers clenched harder around your bag strap, knuckles paling as your pulse hammered wildly in your chest. Instinct screamed at you to step back—but there was nowhere to go. One stood too close in front of you, the other slightly to the side, effectively trapping you in place.

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Just the faint, shaky sound of your breath.

One of them moved closer, too close, his hand lifting before settling on your shoulder as if he had every right to touch you. You flinched, your body going rigid as he leaned in, his nose brushing faintly against your hair. For a brief second, everything felt frozen.

Then he inhaled. A grin slowly spread across his face.

“Wow…” he murmured, voice dropping into something more dangerous, more certain. “You smell so good, don’t you?”

A shiver ran down your spine, sharp and uncontrollable. And then it hit you.

No—

That perfume.

“Please…” your voice finally came out, small and trembling, barely steady enough to hold itself together. “Let go of me.”

Your words hung in the air, fragile—almost breakable—as your fingers tightened even more around your bag, your whole body tense, waiting. Hoping they would actually listen.

For a split second, neither of them moved. Then— a low chuckle slipped from one of them.

“Did you hear that?” he muttered, glancing at the other, amusement flickering in his eyes. “She’s asking nicely.”

The hand on your shoulder didn’t leave. If anything, his grip tightened just a little more.

The other one shifted closer, close enough that you had to tilt your head back slightly just to keep space between you. His hand hovered near your arm, fingers twitching like he was deciding whether to touch you next.

“Don’t be like that,” one of them murmured, voice dipped in something that made your stomach twist. His fingers trailed just slightly, testing, like he was waiting to see if you would fight back.

You did.

Your hand jerked away, heart pounding violently as panic surged through you. “Stop—” you tried, but your voice came out uneven, thinner than you wanted it to be.

A soft laugh followed.

“Cute,” the other one said, stepping in even closer, close enough that you could feel his breath. “She’s nervous.”

“Don’t be scared,” he said softly, but there was nothing comforting about it. “We just want to—”

“Hey.”

The voice cut through the air sharply. Cold. Familiar. Everything froze.

The two hybrids paused, their attention snapping away from you as a presence approached—heavy, controlled, dangerous in a completely different way.

Jungwon.

He stood a few steps away, eyes locked on them—no, on the hand still gripping your shoulder. His expression wasn’t loud, wasn’t explosive.

But it was worse. Tight. Dark.

“Take your hand off her.”

His voice was low, steady—but underneath it, something coiled, ready to snap. For the first time since they cornered you, the grip on your shoulder loosened.

Everything stopped. The hand hovering near you froze mid-air. Both of them turned at the same time, irritation flickering across their faces—until they saw him.

Jungwon.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. Each step he took was measured, controlled, his gaze locked onto them with a quiet intensity that made the air feel heavier. There was no hesitation in him, no uncertainty—only something dark simmering beneath the surface.

“I said,” he repeated, voice lower now, more dangerous, “let go.”

This time— They listened.

Silence lingered for a moment after they let go—thick, heavy, almost suffocating. Then Jungwon moved. He stepped closer, closing the distance between you with the same measured pace, each step controlled, deliberate. But now that he was near—too near—you could see it clearly.

There was no smile on his face. No softness. Nothing gentle in his expression at all. Just anger.

Not loud, not explosive—but something far colder, far more restrained. The kind that sat quietly beneath the surface, tightening every line of his face, sharpening his gaze as it flickered over you.

Checking. Assessing. Your breath caught again—but this time, not because of them. Because the way he looked at you now—It scared you.

He stopped right in front of you, close enough that you could feel the tension radiating off him. His jaw tightened slightly, eyes lingering on your wrist, then your shoulder, then your face—like he was making sure you were still in one piece.

But he didn’t reach out. Didn’t touch you. Didn’t say anything at first.

Your fingers curled tighter around your bag strap, your body still tense, still caught between the fading fear of what just happened—and the new, unfamiliar fear settling in your chest.

Silence lingered between you—thick, suffocating, pressing down on your chest until it felt hard to breathe. Jungwon didn’t look away.

“Do you understand what you’re doing right now?”

His voice was cold. No warmth. None of the softness you were used to—none of the quiet gentleness that usually grounded you. His eyes held yours, sharp and unyielding, and it made your stomach twist.

“Do you know what perfume you’re using?” he continued, his tone still controlled—but barely. “Do you understand how dangerous it is to wear it?”

Your fingers tightened instinctively around your bag strap, your pulse still uneven, your thoughts struggling to catch up. You wanted to answer—you really did—but the words wouldn’t come.

Because the way he was looking at you—it didn’t feel like concern. It felt like anger.

Jungwon’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking as he forced himself to stay composed. His gaze dropped for a split second—to your wrist, your shoulder—before snapping back to your face, something darker flickering beneath the surface.

“You have no idea,” he muttered, quieter now, but heavier, “what that scent does to them.”

His hand twitched slightly at his side—like he wanted to reach for you—but he stopped himself, fingers curling into a fist instead.

“Do you think I’m overreacting?” he asked, voice dropping even lower, strained now. “You were just cornered.”

Before you could say anything, Jungwon moved, his hand closing firmly around your wrist, not rough but far from gentle, just enough to make it clear he wasn’t giving you a choice. “Let’s go.” No explanation, no room for argument. Your breath hitched as he turned and pulled you along, your steps stumbling for a second before you managed to keep up, your free hand clutching your bag while your mind raced.

“Jungwon—wait—” you tried, your voice still shaky, still catching on everything you hadn’t said, but he didn’t slow down, didn’t look back, his grip tightening slightly like a silent warning, like he couldn’t afford to let you go—not here, not now. “We’re leaving,” he said, short and final.

The amusement park faded behind you into a blur of lights and distant noise, the excitement you once felt replaced by something heavy settling deep in your chest. This wasn’t how today was supposed to go—you were supposed to laugh, to spend time together, to forget everything else even just for a little while—but now every plan quietly fell apart with each step he took.

Jungwon didn’t stop until you were far enough, until the crowd thinned and the air felt less suffocating; only then did his pace slow, yet he still didn’t let go, not even for a second, and somehow that grip felt less like reassurance and more like control.

The ride home was quiet. Jungwon didn’t say a word as you boarded the bus, his hand still around your wrist until you were both seated. Only then did he finally let go—but not completely. Instead, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders, pulling it close, shielding you as if trying to erase your presence from everyone else. From them.

He shifted closer, his arm resting just behind you, not quite touching—but enough to box you in, to keep others at a distance. Anyone who passed by wouldn’t get close enough. Wouldn’t notice. Wouldn’t smell you.

You sat there in silence, wrapped in his warmth, your fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket as your thoughts grew heavier with each passing second. Because now you understood. This wasn’t just about what happened earlier. It was about him, too.

Jungwon’s jaw remained tight, his gaze fixed ahead, but you could see it—the restraint in the way his fingers curled slightly against his own knee, the controlled rise and fall of his breathing, like he was holding something back. Holding himself back.

And that realization settled deep in your chest, heavy and uncomfortable. You didn’t say anything—couldn’t. Because suddenly, the guilt crept in. He had to hold himself together—had to fight against something just to sit this close to you without hurting you.

By the time you arrived at Jungwon’s apartment, the tension hadn’t eased—it had only grown heavier. The moment the door closed behind you, it became impossible to ignore. Jungwon was barely holding himself together, his breathing uneven and jagged, like every inhale scraped against his throat. Sweat clung to his skin, dampening the strands of his hair, tracing down the side of his face and disappearing beneath his collar, while his ears burned red, the flush spreading down his neck in a deep, unmistakable hue. You had never seen him like this before—not this shaken, not this overwhelmed.

He turned away from you almost immediately, one hand bracing against the wall as his shoulders rose and fell sharply, his other hand curling into a fist at his side, knuckles paling as he tried to steady himself. “Stay there,” he muttered, voice strained, rougher than you’d ever heard it, “don’t come any closer.” It wasn’t harsh, and it wasn’t anger—it was restraint, and somehow that made your chest tighten even more.

You stood frozen near the door, still wrapped in his jacket, your fingers clutching the fabric as you watched him struggle to regain control, the silence stretching between you, filled only by the sound of his uneven breathing, and in that moment, you realized just how much he was fighting against himself.

Something in your chest broke. Before you could stop yourself, tears welled up, slipping down your cheeks as your grip on his jacket loosened. The silence, the distance, the way he kept pushing you away, it hurt more than you expected. “Jungwon…” your voice trembled as you stepped forward anyway.

He tensed immediately. “I told you—” he started, his voice sharper now, a warning barely held in place, but you reached for him first. Your fingers wrapped around his hand, warm and shaking, and that was when he froze.

“I’m okay,” you whispered, your voice unsteady, breaking between breaths as more tears fell. “You don’t have to hold back like this… you don’t have to hurt yourself trying to stay away from me.”

For a split second, something in him snapped. His hand twitched in your grasp, his shoulders tightening as his head turned slightly, like he was this close to losing control. Anger flickered across his face, sharp and sudden. Like a reflex, like if he didn’t push you away now, something worse would happen.

But then he saw you.

The tears. The way your fingers trembled around his hand.

And just like that, the anger stalled. Not gone—but restrained again, barely. His breathing hitched, rough and uneven, his gaze dropping to where you held him before slowly lifting back to your face. There was something raw in his expression now, something dangerously close to breaking.

“…You don’t understand,” he said, voice low, strained, like every word cost him something. His fingers tightened slightly against yours—not enough to hurt, but enough to show how close he was to his limit, how much he was holding back—and how easily that control could slip.

Before he could pull away—before he could say anything else—you moved.

This time, you didn’t stop yourself.

You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him, holding him tightly, your face pressing against his chest as if that alone could close the distance he kept forcing between you. For a split second, everything froze.

Jungwon’s body went rigid under your touch, every muscle tensing at once, his breath catching sharply like the contact burned. His hands hovered in the air, unsure, like he didn’t know whether to push you away or hold you back.

You held on anyway. Tighter.

“I don’t care…” your voice came out muffled against him, trembling but certain, your fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt. “I don’t care what happens… I don’t care what you’ll do to me.”

Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt, but you didn’t let go. Because the fear was still there, but something else had taken over it.

Jungwon’s breathing faltered completely, turning uneven, almost broken as your warmth sank into him. His hands slowly lowered, stopping just short of touching you, fingers twitching like he was fighting himself all over again.

“Do you even hear yourself right now…?” he muttered, voice strained, barely holding together. But he didn’t push you away. Didn’t move. Didn’t break the hold.

“I don’t care anymore.”

The words left your lips before you could take them back—soft, trembling, but certain.

And that was it. Something in Jungwon snapped.

His hands moved suddenly, gripping you tight—almost desperate—as he pulled you back just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, conflicted, barely holding onto restraint, like he was still deciding, still fighting himself.

For a split second—he hesitated. And then he gave in.

The air in the small apartment hung heavy with his scent—musky, primal, like damp earth after rain mixed with something sharper, more urgent, flooding your nostrils and making your pulse hammer in your throat. You could feel the low rumble vibrating from his chest, a growl that wasn't quite human, pressing into your ribs as his hands gripped your hips, claws pricking just enough through your thin shirt to sting without breaking skin.

"Fuck," he rasped, voice roughened to gravel, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. "Can't... can't hold back anymore. Need you. Now." The words weren't a plea—they were a warning, laced with the raw edge of his hybrid instincts overriding everything else. His tail coiled around your thigh, pulling you flush against him, and you felt the hard ridge of his cock straining through his jeans, thick and insistent against your belly. Heat radiated from him, his skin fever-flushed under the faint sheen of sweat that carried that intoxicating musk deeper into your lungs.

His lips crashed against yours, hungry and unrestrained, nothing like the careful control he had been forcing onto himself before. There was urgency in it, something overwhelming, like everything he had been holding back finally broke all at once. His grip tightened as he pulled you closer, closing any space between you as if he couldn’t bear the distance anymore.

You barely had time to gasp before his mouth crashed into yours. It wasn't a kiss—it was a claiming. His lips bruised yours with bruising force, teeth nipping at your lower lip hard enough to draw a coppery tang of blood that he licked away with a guttural groan. The taste exploded on your tongue as his tongue invaded, hot and demanding, his tongue thrusting deep like he was fucking your mouth already. Saliva slicked between you, dripping down your chin as he devoured you, the wet, obscene sounds of sucking and licking filling the living room—smack of lips, his low, hungry growls vibrating straight to your core.

The rut had him feral, every sense overwhelmed—your scent driving him mad, the salt of your skin on his tongue, the way your heart thundered under his palm. He kissed you like he was starving, like you'd disappear if he stopped, his body a wall of heat and muscle caging you in, promising no escape until he'd wrung every drop of pleasure from you.

Jungwon didn’t give you time to think.

The kiss deepened, slower now but no less intense, as he guided you backward step by step, his hand firm at your side. There was a desperation in the way he held you, in the way his fingers tightened and loosened like he was still trying—failing—to control himself.

You barely noticed where he was leading you until your steps faltered. The back of your knees hit the edge of the bed. A small gasp left your lips, the motion breaking the rhythm for just a second—but that was all it took. And he pushed you down onto the bed.

Your back slamming into the mattress before you could draw breath, the springs groaning under the sudden weight. He loomed over you, blues wild and unblinking, chest heaving with pants that filled the dim room with the sharp tang of his rut-sweat and your mingled arousal.

"Fuck these," he growled, voice a guttural rasp as his hands fisted the collar of your long cardigan. The fabric shredded under his claws with a sharp ripping sound, buttons pinging off the headboard like scattered bullets, exposing the thin straps of your dress beneath.

He didn't pause—his mouth latched back onto yours in a bruising clash of teeth and tongue, saliva-slick and desperate, while his fingers hooked into the hem of your jeans. The zipper rasped violently as he yanked, denim tearing at the seams with wet pops of thread snapping, the rough drag scraping your thighs raw as he peeled them down and off in one savage pull. Your panties clung briefly, sodden and sheer, before he shredded those too, the elastic snapping against your hips with a sting that made you gasp into his mouth.

Naked now except for the ruined dress bunched at your waist, cool air kissed your exposed skin, pebbling your nipples to aching points and raising gooseflesh along your arms. But his heat smothered it instantly—his body crashed down, knees bracketing your thighs, cock grinding heavy and leaking against your bare mound through his pants, the wet fabric smearing pre-cum across your clit. He broke the kiss with a suck on your lower lip, fangs grazing, then dove for your neck. His mouth sealed over your pulse, sucking hard enough to hollow his cheeks, the pull sending liquid fire straight to your core. Faint bruises already bloomed from the living room, but he attacked anew, teeth sinking in rhythmic bites—mark, suck, lick—the wet suction loud in the quiet room, mingled with his hungry moans vibrating bone-deep. The metallic hint of blood teased your skin as he lapped it away, tongue rough like velvet sandpaper, marking you as his territory with purple welts that throbbed hotly.

"Everyone's gonna see," he murmured against your throat, voice wrecked and possessive, breath scorching the fresh hickeys. "Know you're mine. Filled with my cum." His tail lashed across your calves, fur tickling sensitively, while one hand shoved the dress straps down your shoulders, baring your chest fully. Cool air tightened your nipples further, but then his mouth was there—lips wrapping around one peak, sucking with brutal force that made your back arch off the bed. The wet slurp echoed as he tugged, teeth grazing the sensitive bud, tongue flicking mercilessly while his claws raked lightly down your sides, leaving faint red trails that burned deliciously. He switched breasts, lavishing the other with the same harsh worship, saliva dripping cool down your ribs, your skin slick and shining under the bedside lamp's glow.

Your hands fisted his hair, tugging at the soft strands between his twitching cat ears, eliciting a deeper growl that rumbled through your bones. He shoved your thighs wider with his knees, spreading you obscenely, cool air hitting your dripping pussy and making you clench around nothing. The scent of your slick arousal thickened the air, musky and sweet, drawing another primal rumble from him. "Look at this perfect cunt," he rasped, eyes flicking down as he released your nipple with a pop, strings of spit connecting his lips to the reddened peak. "Drenched for my rut. Gonna devour it."

He slid down your body in a fluid prowl, shoulders wedging your legs apart until your knees hooked over them, heels digging into the mattress. His claws pricked your inner thighs, holding you splayed as his face hovered inches from your core—hot breath ghosting over your swollen clit, making it twitch. Then he struck, mouth latching onto your pussy with ravenous force. Tongue plunged deep first, spearing into your entrance, thrusting in crude, fucking motions that scooped your slick back out, the obscene squelch filling the room as he growled into you. The vibration hummed straight through your walls, clenching greedily around the intrusion.

He ate you like a beast, no finesse—just harsh, unrelenting suction on your clit that hollowed his cheeks, lips bruised-red from pressure, fangs grazing your folds without mercy. Spit and your juices mingled, dripping down your ass to soak the sheets, the wet smacks and slurps punctuated by his guttural moans—"Taste so fucking good, pussy made for me"—as his nose nudged your clit while his tongue lashed deeper. Claws dug into your thighs hard enough to leave welts, pinning you as your hips bucked wildly, chasing the brutal pleasure. He sucked your clit between his teeth, nipping sharply before soothing with rough laps, then two fingers shoved inside alongside his tongue, curling viciously against that spongy spot that made stars explode behind your eyes.

Your breath came in shattered whimpers, thighs quivering around his head, the fur of his ears brushing your skin as they flicked with his focus. His tail coiled around your ankle, anchoring you as he feasted, rut driving him to wring every drop from you—harsh, messy, animalistic, your cries echoing off the walls as tension coiled tighter in your belly, threatening to snap.

The rut clawed at him from the inside, a relentless fire scorching his veins, turning every lap of his tongue into a battle he was losing. He tried—fuck, he tried—to temper it, muscles in his jaw flexing as he forced a slower stroke, but the scent of your pussy, thick and heady like ripe fruit drenched in honey, snapped his restraint like dry twig. A guttural snarl vibrated from his chest straight into your core, the sound raw and broken, as his claws dug deeper into your thighs—pricking skin now, tiny beads of blood welling under the tips, the sharp sting blooming hot amid the overwhelming pleasure-pain.

"Can't... stop," he groaned against your folds, the words muffled and wrecked, hot breath fanning your clit before his mouth descended again with punishing force. Lips sealed around the swollen nub, sucking so harshly it felt like he was trying to pull your soul through it—vacuum-tight, unrelenting, the pull dragging a keening wail from your throat. Tears spilled hot down your temples, soaking into your hair as your body jerked, hips bucking involuntarily against the brutality. His tongue lashed next, flat and rough like a cat's, rasping over your clit in savage drags that ignited nerves raw from overstimulation, then plunged into your entrance, fucking deep and fast, curling to grind that devastating spot inside.

Tears streamed freely now, your vision blurring as sobs tore from your chest—half pain, half ecstasy so intense it fractured you. "Jungwon—too much, hurts," you gasped, voice cracking, hands shoving weakly at his hair, fingers tangling in the black strands between his ears. But he didn't stop; the rut owned him, pupils blown black, sweat slicking his brow as he panted hotly into your pussy. "Need it," he rasped, voice hoarse and pleading, golden eyes locking on your tear-streaked face with haunted desperation. "Need you crying on my tongue. So fucking sweet when you break." His claws retracted just a fraction—not enough to spare you the bite, but enough to keep from shredding flesh—as he redoubled his assault, sucking your clit between his teeth and humming low, the vibration rattling your bones.

Your thighs quivered uncontrollably around his head, muscles burning from the strain of holding position, slick gushing in response to the invasion, coating his chin and throat in glossy sheen. The coil in your belly wound impossibly tighter, pain blurring into white-hot bliss, every harsh suck and thrust pushing you higher even as sobs wracked your body. He drank you down greedily, swallowing with audible gulps, the salty tang of your arousal mixed with faint copper from your nicked thighs driving his rut wilder. "Come on my face," he demanded mid-lap, fangs scraping your clit as he sucked harder, fingers pistoning ruthlessly, hooking that spot until your walls spasmed. "Cry and soak me, baby—fuck, gonna breed this pussy after."

Tears poured as the orgasm crashed, a shattering wave that ripped a scream from your raw throat, body convulsing under the onslaught. He didn't relent, eating through it harshly, prolonging the peak until black spots danced in your vision, his growls turning triumphant and savage as your release flooded his mouth. Only then did he slow, just a fraction, licking long and possessive over your twitching folds, tasting his victory while his rut raged on, cock throbbing visibly against the mattress, promising more devastation to come.

Jungwon's tongue gave one final, possessive drag through your spasming folds, lapping up the gush of your release with a shuddering groan that rumbled against your oversensitive clit. Tears still streaked your cheeks, breath hitching in sobs as he reared up between your thighs, his face glistening with your slick—chin dripping, lips swollen and bruised-red from his own ferocity.

He shoved his pants down with one clawed hand, the fabric rasping over his hips, and his cock sprang free—heavy, monstrous, thicker than your wrist and longer than anything you'd imagined, veined ridges pulsing under flushed skin, the fat head already weeping thick ropes of pre-cum that splattered hot across your mound. The sheer size made your breath catch, a fresh wave of fear-laced arousal twisting in your gut. "Jungwon… it's too big," you whimpered, voice trembling, hands pressing weakly against his chest where sweat-slicked muscle jumped under your palms. But he was beyond reason, a low, animal snarl curling his lips to bare fangs as his claws pinned your wrists above your head, stretching you taut against the mattress.

"Gonna take it," he growled, voice distorted to a guttural rasp, hips jerking forward as the blunt head notched at your entrance, slick from his spit and your tears mingling with fresh arousal. "Virgin pussy's mine. Gonna ruin it for anyone else." No gentleness now—the beast devoured. He thrust in without mercy, the stretch immediate and excruciating, your walls yielding painfully around his girth, burning like fire as inch after impossible inch forced its way inside. You screamed, the sound raw and shattering, back bowing off the bed as tears flooded anew, hot trails carving paths down your face. It felt like being split open, his cock a searing brand dragging against untouched nerves, the ridges catching and pulling at your fluttering walls.

He didn't stop—couldn't, rut instincts overriding everything, hips snapping forward in brutal increments until he bottomed out, balls slapping heavy against your ass with a wet smack. The fullness was agony, your pussy clamped vise-tight around him, every vein and throb pulsing visibly against your stretched skin, the metallic tang of your faint blood-tinged slick hitting the air from your torn virginity. "Fuck—so tight," he snarled, fangs sinking into your shoulder—not breaking skin, but marking deep purple as his tail coiled around your waist like a vice, holding you impaled. Pain lanced through you, sharp and unrelenting, sobs choking your throat as you thrashed weakly, nails raking his back, drawing red lines that only spurred him on.

The usual Jungwon was gone, buried under layers of feral hunger; this beast rutted into you with savage abandon, pulling back just enough to slam home again, the obscene squelch of your pussy struggling around his girth echoing with each punishing drive. His claws pricked your wrists, pinning harder, while his free hand gripped your hip, claws gouging bruises as he angled deeper, grinding the head against your cervix with teeth-gritted grunts. Sweat poured off him, dripping salty onto your chest, mingling with your tears, the bedframe creaking rhythmically under the onslaught—thud-thud-thud against the wall. "Take it—scream for me," he rasped hotly into your ear, tongue lapping sweat from your neck, fangs nipping your earlobe as his pace turned frantic, hips pistoning like a machine.

Pain blurred into something darker, hotter, your body betraying you with clenches around his invading cock, slick easing the burn just enough to let sparks of pleasure flicker amid the torment. He devoured you wholly, mouth claiming yours in a sloppy, fang-filled kiss—tongue thrusting deep as his cock mirrored below, saliva swapping with your whimpers. His tail tightened, fur rasping sensitive skin, while his ears twitched at every cry, drinking in your distress like fuel. Balls slapped wetly, heavy and full, promising the flood he craved to breed you with. "Mine to break," he growled mid-thrust, eyes wild and unseeing, rut turning him into the predator devouring his prey, no escape until he'd filled you to bursting.

Jungwon's thrusts devolved into mindless frenzy, hips slamming with bone-jarring force, the bedframe protesting in sharp creaks that matched the wet, brutal slaps of skin on skin. His blue eyes glazed over, pupils drowned in black, ears flattened to his skull as the rut consumed him utterly—fangs bared in a perpetual snarl, tail thrashing wildly, knocking the lamp off the nightstand with a crash that shattered glass across the floor. Sweat poured in rivulets down his back, soaking the sheets beneath you, his musky scent thickening the air until it choked your lungs. Every drive of his massive cock stretched you to breaking, ridges dragging fire along your walls, the head battering your cervix relentlessly. "Fuck—pussy's sucking me in," he snarled incoherently, voice a beastly rumble, claws raking bloody furrows down your sides as pleasure-pain twisted his face into something feral and unrecognizable.

It was too much—the burn, the fullness, the endless pounding that blurred agony into overload. Tears streamed endlessly, sobs wracking your chest as your body trembled on the edge of shattering. "Jungwon—stop, hurts too much!" you cried, voice fracturing into screams, fists pounding his sweat-slicked chest with desperate thuds, nails scraping over flexing pecs. But the rut blinded him; he only growled louder, hips grinding deeper, and then you felt it—the base of his cock swelling, the knot inflating with ruthless insistence, thicker than his wrist already, stretching your entrance impossibly wider. Pain exploded white-hot, a vise clamping around the burgeoning bulge as it forced its way inside, locking him flush against you with a final, savage thrust. Your scream peaked, raw and piercing, walls spasming in futile protest around the seal, every pulse of his knot throbbing like a heartbeat against your abused nerves.

The world narrowed to that excruciating fullness, tears blinding you, body quaking as sobs tore free unchecked. He was knotting you—claiming you as mate in the most primal hybrid way, the swell plugging you airtight, his balls drawing tight to flood you deep. But the pain snapped something in him; his eyes cleared fractionally, golden slits widening in horror as awareness crashed back. "Shit—baby?" His voice cracked, the beast receding just enough, ears perking uncertainly as he stilled, knot pulsing inescapably inside you. It was too late—the knot throbbed huge and unyielding, tying you together for what felt like eternity, his cock twitching as hot spurts of cum began erupting, painting your womb in thick, endless ropes that overflowed around the seal, leaking sticky warmth down your ass.

Guilt flooded his face, fangs retracting as the gentle Jungwon resurfaced, eyes glistening with his own tears. "Oh god, I'm sorry—fuck, I hurt you," he whispered brokenly, voice soft now, trembling as he released your wrists immediately, claws sheathed fully. His hands cupped your face instead, thumbs brushing away tears with feather-light strokes, calluses rough but careful against your flushed cheeks. "Shh, my love, I've got you. Breathe with me—nice and slow." He leaned down, forehead pressing to yours, nose nuzzling your temple as his tail loosened its vise, curling gently around your calf in soothing circles, the fur soft and warm against your skin.

You whimpered, fists still weakly shoving at his chest, body shuddering around the knot's insistent pressure, but he didn't move an inch—locked as he was—only rocked his hips in the tiniest increments, barely-there grinds that nudged pleasure through the pain without jarring. "You're so brave, taking me like this," he murmured reassuringly, lips peppering your eyelids, your tear-streaked cheeks with kisses soft as whispers, tasting the salt on his tongue. One hand slid between your joined bodies carefully, fingers circling your clit with the lightest touch—gentle flicks, no pressure, coaxing sparks amid the ache. "That's it, feel how good we fit? My perfect mate. Knot's keeping us close—safe. I'm not going anywhere."

His free arm banded around your back, pulling you into his chest as he rolled you both sideways onto the mattress, cocooning you in his warmth without dislodging the knot. Spooned now, his body curved protectively around yours, breath syncing with yours in slow, deliberate inhales—chest rising and falling against your back, the rumble of a soothing purr vibrating from his throat, low and steady like a heartbeat. "Hurts less now? Tell me, baby—anything you need." He nuzzled your nape, fangs fully sheathed, licking apologetically at the bruises he'd left, tongue warm and tender. Cum continued pulsing inside you in lazy waves, the fullness shifting from torment to a deep, grounding pressure as his reassurances washed over you, guilt etching lines around his eyes even as the rut simmered beneath.

Minutes stretched, his knot unyielding but the pain ebbing under his care—circling fingers on your clit building slow heat, purr rumbling nonstop, kisses trailing your shoulder. "Love you so much—never meant to hurt," he whispered, voice thick with remorse, holding you through every throb until, finally, the swell began to soften, the barest hint of give promising release, but he lingered gentle, ensuring you felt cherished, not claimed by force.

Time blurred in the haze of his gentle ministrations, the knot's relentless throb gradually softening after what felt like hours, the pressure easing from excruciating fullness to a tender ache deep inside. Jungwon's purr never faltered, a constant vibration against your back as he stroked your hair, whispered endless "I love yous" into your ear, his tail draped loosely over your hip like a weighted blanket. Finally, a subtle give—his hips shifted experimentally, the knot deflating enough to allow withdrawal with a slow, careful twist. He pulled out inch by torturous inch, the drag of his softening cock and ridges sending aftershocks rippling through your oversensitive walls, a gush of his thick cum following immediately.

He groaned low at the sight, blue eyes darkening as ropes of pearly white flooded from your puffy, reddened pussy—copious, viscous strands spilling onto the soaked sheets, pooling warm and sticky between your thighs, the sheer volume testament to his rut's claim. The musky, salty scent bloomed heavy in the air, mingling with your slick and faint blood, making his ears twitch even as guilt twisted his features. "God, look at that—filled you so full," he murmured, voice husky but laced with awe and regret, one clawed finger gently parting your folds to watch more leak out, the obscene drip pulling a shiver from you.

You were overwhelmed, body a trembling wreck—limbs quaking uncontrollably from the pain, the intensity, the emotional whiplash, shudders wracking you in waves that made your teeth chatter. Fresh tears welled, not from hurt now but sheer exhaustion, every muscle limp and twitching as sobs bubbled up weakly. Jungwon hushed you instantly, gathering you into his arms like fragile glass, lifting you effortlessly from the ruined bed despite his own rut-weakened state. "Easy, baby—I've got you. All clean now, promise." He carried you to the bathroom, the tile cool under your feet as he sat you on the closed toilet lid, running warm water in the sink with practiced care.

A soft washcloth soaked through, wrung gently—no claws extended, his touch feather-light as he parted your thighs with murmured apologies. He cleaned you meticulously, the warm cloth gliding soothingly over your swollen pussy, wiping away the mess of cum and slick in slow circles that avoided pressure, dipping just enough to ease the ache inside without intrusion. The faint sting faded under his tenderness, water rinsing pink-tinged evidence of your virginity away, his free hand rubbing calming circles on your knee. "Such a good girl for me," he praised softly, nose brushing your forehead, inhaling your scent with a contented rumble. Up your body he went—chest, neck, face—erasing sweat and tears until you glistened fresh.

Back in the bedroom, he stripped the soiled sheets in quick, efficient motions, remaking the bed with clean linens from the closet, the crisp fabric smelling faintly of lavender detergent. From the drawer, he pulled your favorite pajamas—soft cotton shorts and a loose tank, oversized on your frame—dressing you with reverent slowness, fingers lingering to smooth fabric over bruises, kissing each mark as it disappeared under cloth. "Sleep now, my mate," he whispered, sliding you under the covers, the mattress dipping as he spooned behind you, arm banding securely around your waist, tail curling over your legs to tuck you close.

His purr resumed, deeper now, a lullaby vibration that seeped into your bones, chasing away tremors as his lips pressed to your nape. "Rest, love. I'm here—won't let go." Exhaustion pulled you under swiftly, his warmth and steady heartbeat lulling you into dreamless sleep, safe in the arms of the gentle Jungwon fully returned.

Morning came quietly. Soft light slipped through the curtains, casting a gentle glow across the room, a stark contrast to the intensity of the night before. You stirred slightly, a faint ache settling in your body as you became aware of the soreness in your lower half, a reminder that made you inhale softly.

Beside you, Jungwon was already awake. He hadn’t moved far—if at all.

He stayed close, his arm carefully wrapped around you as if afraid you might break, his gaze fixed on your face with something heavy lingering in his eyes. Guilt. It was written all over him, in the way his fingers hesitated before brushing lightly against your arm, in the tension that hadn’t fully left his body.

“I’m sorry…” his voice came out low, rough, barely above a whisper. “I hurt you.”

You turned your head slightly to look at him, your expression softer than he expected. Despite everything, despite the lingering discomfort, you didn’t pull away. Instead, your hand found his, gently holding it.

“I love you more,” you murmured, your voice still a little weak but steady. “I wanted to help you… it’s okay. I’m your girlfriend.”

Your words hit him harder than anything else.

For a moment, he just stared at you—silent—before his gaze softened, something conflicted but grateful settling deep within him. He leaned down, pressing a careful, lingering kiss against your forehead, far gentler than anything from the night before.

“Don’t move too much,” he said quietly, his tone softer now. “I’ll make breakfast.”

True to his word, he didn’t take long. When he returned, he helped you sit up, keeping you close against him, one arm supporting you as he brought the food over. The warmth of his body stayed steady behind you, grounding, protective.

“Eat,” he murmured.

You didn’t have to lift a finger.

He fed you slowly, patiently, each movement careful, like he was trying to make up for everything without saying it outright. Between each bite, his hold on you never loosened, his presence gentle but constant.

And this time, there was no restraint. Only quiet care.

The rest of the morning moved slower. Jungwon didn’t rush anything—not your movements, not your recovery, not even the quiet between you. After you finished eating, he stayed right where he was, his arms still around you, holding you close like he was afraid that letting go might somehow undo everything.

His fingers brushed gently along your arm, absent-minded, careful—so different from the night before that it almost felt like two different people.

“…Does it hurt a lot?” he asked after a while, his voice quieter now, stripped of that earlier tension.

You shifted slightly in his hold, a small wince slipping past before you could hide it. He noticed immediately. His grip tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to steady you.

“I told you not to move too much,” he murmured, a hint of frustration slipping through, but it wasn’t directed at you. It never was.

You let out a small breath, leaning back against him more fully. “I’m okay,” you said softly. “Really.”

Silence settled again—but this time, it wasn’t heavy. It was… warm.

Jungwon rested his chin lightly against the top of your head, his hold loosening just enough to be comfortable, his thumb brushing slow, soothing circles against your arm.

“…Next time,” he started, then paused, his voice tightening slightly. “I won’t lose control like that.”

You tilted your head just enough to glance up at him. There was that guilt again. Still lingering. Still eating at him. Your hand lifted, resting over his where it held you, giving it a small squeeze.

“There’s nothing to fix,” you whispered. “I chose to stay.”

He didn’t respond right away. But his hold on you shifted—pulling you just a little closer. And this time, when he pressed a kiss against your hair, it was soft. Careful. Like he was learning how to hold you all over again.

Riki didn't care much for parties. 

Despite how feral he'd get over tequila in his first years of uni, perhaps his taste had matured with time. Graduated to the expensive whiskey his father got him as a reward for going into his last year of uni, shifted from the daze of break-dancing in someone's living room to sitting out back, on plastic white cars passing a blunt between his fingers. He'd dabbled in mostly everything, seeing uni as the lawless and experimental grounds he often laid witness to, which is why he buys his first g of weed in the abandoned park he loved as a child, in the lowlights of a tunnel he had no business being in this late at night. The dealer - a friend of a friend - a uni dropout despite his clientele being mostly uni students gives him a nod before they exchange weed for cash, so casual in nature despite the thrum in his neck. 

Only when he's scattered away, stuffing the bag so far into his hoodie pocket, it'd bury into the material, can he exhale. Except when he gets to his friend's house, free of rigid parents for the weekend, does he realise he doesn't know the first thing about smoking weed. He assumed it was like smoking a cigarette, which he'd regretfully done at a house party once and threw up strawberry wine on some poor girl's shoes. He didn't inhale right, hacked every time he tried burying the puff of smoke in his lungs and then while his high school friends starfished on the living room carpet, giggling to themselves, Riki sits on the couch, legs folded into himself with his cheek pressed into his knuckles, a bit left out but at least busying himself with the run of Courage the Cowardly Dog on the blaring TV. 

Now at uni with people at bit more knowledgeable and empathetic, he tries this and that. Gets his high in more ways than unexpectedly good grades, surprising himself and when he tells his flatmate, Jake about the coursework, he grins like some proud father, corners of his lips to his ears as he gives him a hug. 

"That's my guy," his palm smacks onto Riki's back, hand braced on his shoulder as Jake pulls away, a knowing grin on his face. "I say we celebrate."

"Over some coursework?" Riki's eyebrow quirks. "That's uhm, sweet but no need broski."

"Bro, I'm making brownies. The good kind," Jake nods over his shoulder, the chocolate aroma hitting Riki again, wafting with the current of something unwinding the tension packed in his shoulders. "Hee's finally submitted that CompSci project that's made him a ghost and Sunghoon's got a game he's gonna win. We're celebrating." 

Riki lets the idea carry his smile, stretching further as he deserts his leather bag on the couch and walks into the kitchen with Jake, timbs echoing against vinyl as they check on the progress of Jake's creation. Riki's fairly acquainted with the various ways of ingesting weed, his Chrome Hearts themed bong bought off Etsy one of his prised possession, but brownies are still his favourite. Quick and easy, his second year dealer an aspiring chef with a knack for desserts, from space cake, lemon pound cake and even tiramisu. The latter his favourite, sweet enough for him to stand and strong enough for him to laugh controllably watching Fantastic Mr. Fox, collapsing over Sunghoon's lap in breathless laughs echoed in the back of his throat. 

Needless to say, "What the cuss?" became a go-to phrase between the two, unavoidable in first two weeks of life, but still forever present.

Shuffling out his bedroom door, the front door adjacent to it flings open, heavy clattering following as Sunghoon's figure ambles through. He topples over the mess of shoes stationed at the door needing a wash, hands splayed against the narrow hallway walls to stead himself. Riki raises an eyebrow.

"You good?" His head lowers, mirroring Sunghoon's ducked one as he struggles tugging off his sneakers, a dramatic sigh emptying him as they fling off, his flushed face in full view. "You drank already?"

"The guys insisted on a pint after we pummelled Yonsei 7-0, an embarrassing shutout," Sunghoon runs his hands through his sweaty hair, face settling into a lax Riki's happy to see. "But you know, it's never just one and now I'm halfway smashed and I still need to fucking shower,"

He starts departing, clapping a hand over Riki's shoulder with a heavy squeeze as he says ascending the stairs. "If you hear me fall over, just ignore it. Later!"

Riki can only smile at the interaction, shaking his head as he styles his caramel blond strands into something more spiky, finally having time to put effort into his appearance after coursework that literally stole the swag from him. In the mirror, he's the painting of a 200s punk love interest doomed to his perpetual existence in the mall food court and Hot Topic, baseball long sleeve olive and silver with saggy jagged jeans to match. And soon enough when the lights dim, living room illuminated by disco LED lights and packed with conversating bodies, Riki's dodging drunken spills, reaching into the back of the fridge for Jake's brownies to bring out back, pebbles rubbing together under his shoes as he plots down in the circle of his housemates and a few other friends, a welcome slow in mellow conversation. 

"I'm pretty sure I'm part whatever they put in Monster because except that and microwave Mac & Cheese, that's all I survived off," smoke blows out Heeseung's lips, some cheap cigarette from the corner shop between his fingers as his body slumps into the plastic chair. His free hand pulls his black beanie downwards, his fringe peeking out still. "You know how down bad I've gone back to being a nitty."

He takes another drag, head tilted up to the sky, moonlight bathing the slopes of his face in shadows and brilliance. Riki watches on quietly. 

"Well, it's done now. So, do yourself the favour and buy better cigs," Jake chuckles, eyes averting opposite him to Riki. "You brought them out?"

"Yeah, I'm not looking to drink twelve pints tonight," he unwraps the cling wrap over the brownies, rings clinking together as he offers the stacked amount around. "Plus, they're fresh. And hopefully better than the last batch."

Beomgyu, one of Heeseung's friends breaks out into a chuckle, laughing along with his friend who says, "Those were an attempt."

"Hey! It's harder than it looks, okay?" Jake insists, biting into his brownie. "The fuck would youse know about using an oven, much less baking."

"Well, if your aim was to give us diabetes, you were almost successful," Riki laughs, gulping before he takes a bite. Dense but still somehow airy, not too sweet - good on Jake. "Good attempt this time round."

"Thanks Riki, because I really only live for your validation," Jake's eyes roll, amusement on his face meaning the jabs mean nothing as he nods to Haechan. "What you think?"

"Like I won't need a glucometer," he giggles, mouth full with crumbs against his tanned skin. "It's really science if you think about it. I'm glad you learned from your ways."

"If you think you're taking some home ─ fat chance," the two stick their tongue out at each other, to the sound of Beomgyu moaning, "Just kiss already, I'm close." Jake's laugh only lasts moments before his phone buzzes in his pocket, screen lighting his face. "Oh shit, she's here."

"Who's here?" Riki asks, another bite into his brownie.

"Wonder if she's run into Sunghoon. Lord knows that man is a mess," Jake supplies, neck straining to peek at the backdoor, fingers running through his midnight hair. 

"Yeah, I haven't seen that man so fucked since St. Pattys - and that was last week," Haechan adds on. "Think he'll make a move?"

"He'll try but she won't have it. He's probably got beer and sick down his shirt anyways," Jake replies, lighting up at the opening back door. He waves his raised hand, more enthused than Haechan's. "Took you fucking ages."

"Sorry, but Sunghoon insisted to talking to me with his sicky breath," a feminine voice echoes from the narrow alley leading to where they're situated, your figure emerging from the shadows. "I had to get him to brush his teeth. He gagged brushing his tongue ─ pussy."

Cheeks full of chocolate brownie, Riki feels all his weight sink to his feet, body running arctic cold than densely warm at the sight of you. You're so pretty it hurts, sweet in the face with a confidence keeping your shoulders back and head high, the smirk across your face alone very much capable of making him pop a boner. In the silent howls of the night, so much air surrounds them yet makes no effort to make a home in his chest, emptied out with a heart beating only for you, attuned to every move you make.

"Oh, is that a brownie? Fuck yeah," you lean down into Jake's hand holding his, teeth sinking into the dessert with a nonchalance so alarming Riki only can blink, swallowing heavy in his throat. "Hm, that is good. That dealer hasn't left for France yet?"

"Nah, it's my own humble creation," Jake's hand splays over his chest, nodding proudly. "Happy you like it. Kiss for my troubles?"

"My God, this whole house is full of horn dogs," you drag the last plastic chair closest to Riki, ripped leather trousers crying against the material as you settle, sipping on your drink. "Don't tell me you're one of them."

The sentence is directed at Riki, who's still baffled how he's gone three and a quarter years not having seen you once. Not at any party, not at any club, not even walking on campus. Perhaps it's for the best because if he knew you existed, his focus would boil to only you as it does now. Trailing the stack of silver hoops and chains stacking your ears, the dermals under your right eye haloed by dark, unworried makeup, he snake bites settled beneath the plump of your lips with sharp nails and leather clothing plucked from his wildest dreams. Slouched back and manspread, he gets full view of the belly piercing beneath your black vest, a skeleton hanging at the bottom.

Riki might explode. 

"Riki, you good?" Heeseung asks, blowing smoke with a knowing smirk. Riki can't hide his groan. "Brownies already hitting?"

"Something like that," he only spares his friend a glance, eyes fighting for more time on you, a polite smile on your lips. He hates how quick he is to imagine your lips elsewhere. "We haven't met before."

"Right, we haven't," you confirm, nodding. "I had the misfortune of being in a group with Jake for some workshop a bit ago. I'm only in it for the baked goods."

"Sounds like something totally unrelated." Beomgyu chimes in.

"He wishes," your nose scrunches, laugh contagious in the coy smiles dispensed around the entire group. "Good to meet you, Riki. Your fits seem to live up to the hype."

Riki points to himself, incapable of social interaction. "My fits?"

"Hair's a bit questionable. Bro looks like he got electrocuted." Heeseung jokes, just to wind him up.

"Coming from a man smoking cheapo cigs, I'd pipe down," you retort, eyebrows jerking upwards in a retort that has the guys howling. "It's cool spiked up. A bit out of place, hang on,"

A small, "Can I?" escapes your lips for only his ears to hear, an immediate nod following before your hand with the lightest touch arranges his hair back into place, satisfaction in your grin. "All better. Don't you look handsome."

His blush floods all the way to his ears, not missed by Heeseung who only shakes his head with a chuckle, sending dancing eyebrows and bitten back smirks his way over the background of thumped music inside the house. It’s so starkly dissimilar to the calmness of the back garden, nothing but conversation and Jake's chill RnB playlist humming out of his phone's speakers. Riki learns all sorts about you that night, lulled by your velvety voice and weed making him float on a cloud. However, what becomes blaring obvious is no matter what anecdotes he learns over the short time you spend outside, something else prevails.

The dire obsession he has over you.

Whatever Riki's dissertation his Sports Science degree is based on takes a backseat in his final year, most of - if not all - his thoughts circling back to you. He experiences the phenomenon of life at university, where you see a person and you either never see them again or see them everywhere. You are the latter. Blooming in places unimportant to him, now significant as he catches glimpses of you. Sees you in the university mail room collecting your guitar pick parcel, sees you on the grassy lawn near the library when the sun's out, cat eye sunglasses perched on your septum-pierced nose, laughing as a kicked football bounces off your sunbathing friend's ass, sees you in said library nodding your head to the Drum & Bass music blasting through your headphones, laser focused on the work you blitz though. He even catches you outside the modern Design school building, giggling as you swap a blunt amongst your friends, not the least bit worried of getting caught. 

Having access to you like this makes his mind wonder, go to places on fuelled by obsession and it hotwires his system to you. In your mystery black but bright smile, the silver of your jewellery but the warmth of your heart. How in all the moments he thinks he's alone in seeing you, your head turns. Most times you motion him over or simply smile, acknowledging him with an acknowledgement he thinks of all day. His brain doesn't let him forget you, finding every excuse to bring you up in conversation, try your favourite foods, listen to your favourite artists (lots of crossover between his) and just…well, simp over you as Heeseung so lovingly puts it. 

Riki can protest all he wants, but he knows it to be true. How much he's fallen for how you move through the world like its yours, carving every bit of yourself in spaces he'll never forget, whispering your name in suppressed whimpers as he doesn't let his thoughts venture too far, just the image of you laughing at some poor joke he made or the compliments you so freely give him. 

And then he's coming. All of his hand, chest and in the swirl of relief and shame, even then his mind cannot banish thoughts of you. You're hard to forget after all. 

"Is she coming?" Riki asks, always referring to you as he follows Jake down the stairs. The older between the two scampering through to the living room where Sunghoon's left some hockey game playing and into Jake's room, lived in-neat with the scent of sea salt blowing through.

"Man, I don't know. It's like you have a crush on her or something," Jake says absently, sifting through his closet for something to wear. Except when he only hears the scrape of his clothes hangers, rather than Riki's immediate denial, he stops. Looks his friend in the eye, chestnut curls encompassing his surprised face. "What the fuck? You're joking."

Riki could deny it. Save himself the additional teasing, but he's always been a shit liar. 

"She's cool." He ends up admitting, looking down at his suede sneakers. They need a clean. 

"Yeah, I bet she is since you beat your meat to her," Jake laughs, pulling out an outfit he's satisfied with - jeans and a brown plaid jacket. "I get it, but you're not the only one. Jay from Psych's acting like she's cast a love spell on him and Sunghoon's all over her like a rash, so…"

Riki groans, fed up. "Come on, he has options." 

"And you don't?"

He considers it. Thinks about that girl in his Advanced Sports Biomechanics lecture he's been pining over since they last kissed first year, but quickly got a boyfriend before he could take her to her favourite restaurant. Thinks about the other girl from the library months ago who he suspects likes girls and somehow, he finds peace in it all. Letting go of a past that no longer serves him, that didn't really to begin with and finds you. Nestled into every crevice of his memory and heart.

He's an absolute goner. 

"She's special," Riki lets it be known, his nape a source of comfort for his scraping nails. "I only want her."

"Aren't you a romantic," Back turned to him, Jake circles back with a baseball cap with a design of unbuttoned jeans. He's stolen that out of Riki's closet, reminding him to lock his door when he leaves for lectures. "Maybe talk to Hoon about it. So we can avoid another shared-girl situation,"

"Unless you're into being a cuck or whatever."

"You signed up for that." Riki states, well aware of that situation.

"Different strokes for different folks, I don't know what you're into," Jake can only shrug, bottom lip jutted out. "Don't think I want to either. Just talk to the guy so there's no drama." 

And because Riki's preferences don't line up with Jake's, he makes the trek up the stairs to the attic room, hearing Heeseung yell from his corner room to his right, probably playing LOL. Riki knocks, Sunghoon yelling for him to come in. 

Up the five stairs, he spirals up into Sunghoon's room, fitting for the so-called 'slut' of their house, the most spacious room out of their four, decently clean with hockey memorabilia scattered all around. He's at his desk to the stairs' right, thick-rimmed glasses on his nose bridge as he actually works on his dissertation, slumping back at Riki's presence.

"Needed something?" 

He avoids his gaze, fingers threading through the hairs down his nape. He'd cut it if it wasn't for you saying how much you wished to see it long. 

That night he'd dream of you pulling on his hair, head between your legs. 

"Yeah, I wanted to run something by you," he sits on the edge of Sunghoon's navy blue bedding, legs not having much strength to stand. He chooses to ignore the mystery white stain centimetres from him. 

"Shoot."

"Well, you know," he then mentions your name, shoving back down the spike in nerves at Sunghoon's small but undeniable grin. "You uhm, like her or something?"

"The fuck's with all the awkwardness?" Sunghoon laughs, nose scrunched up as he folds over. "Yeah, she's cool."

Same words Riki said. He's screwed.

"How much do you really like her?" Riki asks, fingers playing with the frayed fabric of his shorts, head all the way down. "Because I mean, there's no shortage of ladies who want you, I just wanted to know so-"

"So you could get a hall pass?"

His question is accented with a disbelieving eyebrow, something like distaste amongst his moled features. Riki's hand smooths over his neck, not sure why he's so nervous about this. 

"A forever thing - more like," Riki supplies, finding it in himself to start verbalising what he's kept to himself for the past few weeks. "I like her, I'd like to take her out if she'd let me."

There's a silence after his words, nothing the house's usual sounds of Heeseung smashing his keyboard and yelling, along with Jake's playlist thrumming through the living room speakers. It's a confession he's known since that fateful night and yet, when said in front of Sunghoon, he isn't quite sure how the words will land.

"Shit Riki," Sunghoon curses, something akin to amusement in his features. He leans back in his office chair, matching grey hoodie and shorts hanging off his large frame. "Should've just said you were serious about the girl. Would've backed off ages ago." 

"You seemed close," Riki recalls, thinking back to when you physically helped him brush his teeth. The intimacy of the moment lingers in his mind longer than he's liked. 

"Well, yeah. I've been trying since first year," Sunghoon laughs, not a sliver of embarrassed at being rejected for almost four years. "But she's pretty set on being friends. Even more so lately,"

Recollection pinches his features together, hands smoothing over the five o'clock shadow he almost always has. "Lowkey she might be into you. She's weaved you into conversations loads."

Riki can't quite believe his ears. "Sorry?"

"She has this Pinterest board - I even downloaded that for her - for guy fits she likes, but I think it's just what she'd dress her boyfriend in," Sunghoon supplies, shaking his head. "Anyways, it's like, yours to a tea. So, she wouldn't have to convince you. Plus, she said you're cute. She never compliments guys."

Riki frowns. "Surely that's not true."

"Bro, during my bulk, when I was at like, my peak sexiness, she said I looked like I was on roids," Riki swipes a smile off his face, clearing his throat to disguise his smile. "She also says nice things about Jake, but never his appearance."

"Maybe that's not what matters to her."

Sunghoon rolls his eyes, turning back in his chair. "Here you go, Romeo," he shakes his computer mouse, monitors coming to life. "Maybe that's shit she's charmed for, couldn't be me. But yeah, go ahead. She's all yours."

A flutter kickstarts in Riki's chest, lips folding over each other to somehow hide his elation. 

"Only mine?'

"Don't push it," Sunghoon warns with a side eye, no real bite to his words. "Close the door behind you, I'm gonna have a tactical jerk before tonight's party." 

"Right, because you've got chyl─"

"Get out, Riki."

How Riki's found himself in this situation, he'll never know. Nevertheless, if there's a higher being orchestrating this, he'd spend his days praising their existence because there's just no way.

The evening starts off with some nerves, enough for him to desert his dinner cooked by Jake's inability to make one serving. He apologises, saying he had a big lunch but that his leftovers will be tomorrow's lunch, whisking off to their shared downstairs bathroom to start getting ready. While he does put effort into his appearance, this is certainly above the rest, every item of clothing or jewellery picked with precision, hair carefully styled. Heck, he even gives himself a manicure, pushing back his cuticle and making sure his nails are trimmed with no sharp edges. When Heeseung comes into his room to borrow some cologne, they're both startled. Riki sitting on his edge of his bed, in a black bathrobe with green face mask on, nail file putting in work. 

Heeseung damn nearly topples over in laughter when Riki pushes him out, shutting the door to hear Heeseung yell out. "Holy fuck, Riki's whipped." 

Perhaps the comedic break does some good to his nerves, but they are very much well and alive once the house party starts, one last night before the Easter break. So, if Riki wants to spend the next four weeks reliving every interaction you've had because he was too scared to get your number, he'd have to put in work tonight.

Usually he has a low amount of drinks before he moves onto weed, but with shaky pupils scanning the living room, he's yet to see you and since his heart can't differentiate between being shot and looking for you, he yields to Sunghoon's request to play beer pong. Sunghoon hard carries their teams against his two teammates, Jungwon and Taehyun, and because Riki can't think straight, he has almost four drinks before he's trudging outside, needing some air and a joint. 

The usual suspects are outside - Jake, Haechan, Beomgyu, Heeseung and you. He'd missed you, your entrance made in the back alley because Jake said he had hot gossip that couldn't wait. Relief drops him into the chair opposite, a side-eye cast at Heeseung whose purposely positioned himself next to you with Jake on your other side, the dirty look all but gone when you acknowledge him in front of the entire group.

"Was wondering when you'd swing by," something unlabelled lines your lips, pulled in easiness accelerating Riki's heart rate the more he looks at you. The bore of your eyes. "Wanna hit the bong?"

He's too hopeless to speak, settling for a nod and looking back on it, he thinks it's then that seals his fate. How tension unwinds from his rigid shoulders and mellowness makes his lids heavy, makes him so open and funny because despite how comfortable you make others around you, the romantic thought of you makes him hold back. Scared that his attention is all-consuming, a turn-off for a lack of better words. However, his perspective on this situation seems warped at best, a shuffle of seats having you end next to him as their circle go in and out the house. You talk like you're the only ones outside, close and whispered, enough for the hairs on the back of his neck to stand when you lean in further, lips so close to his jugular he's afraid you'll hear the hammer. Know he's into you. 

"You've got a mole here too," you offer up some space before the poor boy's about to combust, your finger instead resting on the mole. Where you can definitely feel how fast his heart's going. "They're so pretty."

"I've got more down my back," he answers, because he's stupid. And down bad. "Seven, I think."

You lean back in your chair, leg swinging over to hike up your impossibly short skirt dangerously high, slyness pulling your features. "Isn't that a treat."

That's the nail in the coffin. One Riki doesn't hear beyond the desperate gasp of air he does after your reply, eyes quickly averted to Heeseung's prying ones, mouthing a shared, "What the fuck?" Somehow you miss it and talk more and when Riki talks of his Chrome Hearts themed bong, your eyes sparkle. Ask to see it and he lets you, a quiet hand offered to you as he navigates through the warm bodies swaying to thumping music and beelines to his bedroom.

He notices you lock the door behind you. A shy smile offered. "Don't tell me you haven't been locking your door during these parties."

"I'm usually good about it," Riki speaks slower, aided by the relaxation coursing through him. 

"Good. Because we've had forks stolen during one of ours," you roll your eyes, shrugging off your faux-fur toasted jacket. Hanging it amongst the rack of Riki's coats, fitting in so nicely with his. "Uni students steal anything."

"Tell me about it." He thinks back to the traffic cone Sunghoon had in his bedroom first year, then promptly forgets all about him. About anyone except you.

He shows you the bong, hoping his mind isn't hallucinating how close you are, pretty much doing a Show n' Tell because he doesn't know how to talk about himself. Something he mistakenly utters. 

"I don't think you realise how personal your room is," you express, perched on the edge of his bed alongside him. Thighs touching, face illuminated by the black candles matching with every colour choice in the room beside deep maroon. "It's got all your memories, everything you've loved. It's…refreshing,"

Your hand falls over his, fingers threading between the gaps of his fingers, squeezing. "Thank you for showing it to me."

"Of course," his answer comes out in a whisper, muffled by the background noise of streamlining students coming in and out the house. "I feel comfortable with you." 

Which is a lot more truth he's banked on admitting tonight, but at the sight of your bright smile, he can't hate himself for being vulnerable. On the laptop right in front of them, where his desk is, he gets his Spotify up, putting on a blend at your suggestion. You don't stop holding hands through the entire interaction, more command in his veins as his thumb grazes over your knuckles. Some more talking happens, but it's almost lost in the grand scheme of things when his heavy lids drop down to your lips, wondering how the cold metal of your snakebites would feel, the noises you'd make when he wouldn't rush kissing you like every loser looking just to get some. Savour you like he's wanted to every since he laid eyes on you. 

The opportunity comes like destiny, over the chorus of Joey Bada$$' 'Y U Don't Love Me?' forever remembered as the moment he kissed you. Colour explodes beyond his closed eyes, a moan releasing at the pillowy press of you, your free hand coming up to cup his face while his other rests around your nape, thumb stroking skin as he loses himself in you. The weed cycling through his system intensifies the moment tenfold, having to hold onto you to assure himself he's tethered to reality, groaning at the cold metal sliding his lips as he captures your bottom lip in a teasing bite. You moan at that, the prettiest sound he's been blessed with hearing and when he's ready to get on his knees to serve you, you beat him to it. 

"I wanted to─" Riki starts.

The unbuckle of his belt is striking loud amidst the house party, ringing in his ears as your tongue swipes your bottom lip, teeth left in its wake as you insist. "Later. I want you in my mouth now." 

And who is he to argue? Especially when every second of this is plucked from the dark corners of his mind, watching with a laboured chest as you button his jeans and from him from his precome-damp boxers, cock springing free. 

Wonder dazzles in your eyes, a satisfied hum resonating through your chest as your tongue immediately lolls out, swirling all around his flushed tip, ending off with licking the pool of precome in his slit, groaning at the taste. "Fuck, you're huge. Taste good too."

Riki's shoulders drop in defeat, hand coming out to cup your face as he looks at you with agony. "You're gonna be the death of me."

"Don't go dying on me, Riki," you smirk, lowering your plump lips to his cock, hand folded over it, thumb grazing its engorged veins. "You haven't fucked me yet."

Between the weed amplifying his sense and the sin that is you, Riki doesn't anticipate himself lasting long. Especially when you're working him like this, unconcerned with being messy as you cover his length in spit, smeared it into your hands to account for what can't fit into your mouth. You start off so sweet, teasing disguised as you cover his length in adoring kisses, from his balls your hands fiddle with, up his shaft to his tip, leaking by the time you get there. The chuckle you do vibrates into his hot skin, earning a hiss from him as you lap it up with unparalleled enthusiasm, taking him in your mouth. 

"Fuckkkk," 

If his other hand wasn't supporting him sit straight, it would've pulled at his bleached strands, thighs quivering the warm sensation of your mouth enveloping him more and more. Your head bobs as everytime you duck down, you feed more of him in your mouth. So sloppy too, the wet suction and drag eating at the music nonexistent in his ears from his laptop or the living room, ears only catching to the sounds of the gag you do on him, overconfident but not yielding, your throat closing around him to make him whimper. 

"God, your throat feels so good, baby," the words come so naturally to him, eyes closed in pleasure. "Taking me so well."

Around his length, you mumble, "I'll take more. I want more." 

He damn near comes right then and there, precome beading down your throat closing around him despite your push to continue. Riki throws his head back, fingers carding through your hair and pulling, not meaning to but spurred on by your moans around him, his cock throbbing in your mouth as you keen, "Harder please," 

So sweet to him, he could never say no to you. As your head bobs, your tongue swirls, a groan unearthed from the deepest of Riki's chest as pleasure swirls in his stomach, breaths coming out hard and fast as he tries holding himself back. But you're so good, moving your hand in tandem with your mouth, sucking him like he's the best thing you've put in your mouth and he undoes. 

"Shit, wait ─ I'm gonna come," he warns, eyebrows pulled together but it appears to be no concern to you. Gaining confidence and momentum, you push yourself to take more of him, close to your nose grazing his pelvis, gagging hard enough to wet your lashes but everything's secondary to you. Getting Riki to come is everything, which comes to you as you whimper around his length, nails scratching at his hip, over the mole you kissed on your way down his torso and he comes. "Gonna fill your─hmph!"

He pulls hard at your hair, only adding his orgasm as you squeal around his length, shaking your ass like you'll push into some pressure and it kills Riki, flooding your mouth and not being in you, body curling into himself as his cock reaches where you can only sit there and gag. Once he's blinked enough times for his sight to return, relieved but wanting more, his cock slips from out your mouth, face coming into view as tears streak down your face, so pretty and perfect for him with come edged in the corner of your lips. 

"Don't swallow."

You're about to wipe the come into your mouth when he says that, curiosity in your expression, morphing into surprise as he pulls you closer into a kiss. The gasp muffles against his plump lips, some of his come already down your throat but enough shared between your mouths as his tongue swipes into your mouth, kissing and tasting every inch of you, you're dizzy. Fawn legged as you collapse back onto the grey carpet, looking up at Riki with saucer eyes as he can do nothing but smirk as his thumb swipes away missed come from the corner of your lips, licked off his thumbpad. 

"We taste so good together, angel," he smirks, darkness flared in his eyes. "Just like I thought."

Riki thinks he's scared you off.

Perhaps the heat of the moment led him astray and he did that, but he'd been so deprived of your lips on him, he took every chance to have you on him. Including when your mouth was full of come.

When Heeseung hears this the next morning, he sits there with his pink cat-ear headphones with a jaw dropped, appalled. "You're a fucking freak, dude. Or a narcissist. I can't tell the difference here." 

His words don't inspire much confidence, especially when Riki recalls how after the kiss your phone buzzed, a frantic call coming from your housemate that ultimately ends up with you disappearing into the moonlight, a thousand apologies falling from your lips as you scurry out the door, shouldering people too. On the kitchen stool, house vacant as the rest of guys headed back home for the holidays, Riki runs his hands through his hair, cursing at himself for scaring you when he had you. Plentiful curse words cross his minds, cut off by the blare of his phone lighting up on the kitchen marble counter.

Unknown number: hey, i got your number for jake. sorry for the unexpected text (╥﹏╥)

Unknown number: my housemate's boyfriend broke up with her and i think we've eaten enough ice cream and egged his house for her to go back home feeling okay. i don't like how i left things, but i at least wanted to explain and apologise before anything. im sorry 

Unknown number: if you're still around, you're welcome to come round mine or i can come yours. i'd just like to talk things out if you're willing to. i'm really sorry once again <3

Being mad at you hadn't even crossed his mind, but it very clearly crossed yours. And when the realisation settles, he grabs the few things he needs and bolts out the door, on his way to you. 

You're waiting outside your doorstep for him when he drifts around the corner, air cycling out his lungs as he runs the rest of the way, watching you blink back surprise, only for it muffle against his lips as he crashes onto them, face screwed in all the worry and longing he has for you. Always had for you, body pressed to yours as you melt into his embrace, hands gripping the collar of his jean jacket for dear life as you lose yourself in all things Riki.

Not much talking is done, just a lot of 'miss you's and 'God, you're it for me,' coming from Riki, wrecked when he can have you like this, splayed across your wine and charcoal of your bedspread, shorts and underwear tossed aside, folds glistening with all the arousal swimming your eyes as you cry, "Riki, please," 

"Let me, princess. Let me," he whispers breathlessly, so close to your cunt, the warmth of his breath making you shudder. "You're so fucking pretty, baby. Been dreaming of this forever." 

Speaking like a man tortured, he gives into his dreams, falling into the inevitable as he presses a kiss to your clit before licking a stripe straight from your entrance back to your clit, swallowing it with swirls of his tongue. You keen high in your throat, hands flying to his hair for stability, nails grazing his scalp as his life's purpose is to eat you out, eyes falling shut as he gets off on the withers of your body, the quivers of your breath, each time you whine his name. He catalogues it all ─ somewhere where his brain isn't present, laser-focused on the slow open mouth kisses he gives your clit, tongue swiping to the chorus of your chorus. 

"Rikiii," you whine, his eyes finding yours squinted as pleasure blooms across your face in an angelic halo. "Your fingers ─ hmph! Need them,"

"Anything you want, pretty thing," he mumbles against you, lips glistening in your slick as a two finger trace your entrance, obsessed with the quivers under his fingertips while he noses along your pelvis bone, swirling his tongue with the right pressure to chase after your incoming orgasm. "Just ask me, I'm all yours."

The impatient whines dye his ears red, eased by helpless whines as his arm extends to your chest, pushing up the flimsy material of your tank top to play with your pebbled nipples, thighs closing around his head. He doesn't care, the close proximity only gets him harder as his fingers push into your crying walls, closing in on him with everything you have. 

Your fingers pull harder on his hair, a groan stifled against your clit as his fingers curls in you, a croak in your throat echoed as the sensation ripples through your sizzling body. 

"You're so pretty when you don't know what to do with yourself," he chuckles, a harder curl of his fingers bringing a stretched groan out your bared teeth. "Feel good, baby?"

"I-I can't think," you admit, cheeks flushed and expression dazed, eyes trying to find his. "Just want you, Riki. Want all of you."

"You'll get me, princess. Let me eat you out first," he speaks with a husk, only aiding the tension-filled coil pulling in your stomach. "You taste so good, baby. I'd spend all day here if I could."

And to an extent, he does. He's so attuned to what you like, how much pressure, how much suction that it's not long before desperate gasps for air swallow the room whole, eating at the wet mess sound Riki makes between your thighs. Again, it's all secondary to the hurtle into space your body does, a cross between cries, begs and screams running out your lips as you chant his name, coming and coming. The burst of ecstasy is unlike anything you've ever felt before, body mirroring the free float you do in between someplace between time and space, body raking through with shakes Riki only feeds off, maintaining the curl of his fingers as they pump into you without restraint, tongue migrating down around his fingers to taste every drop of your come. It's the kind of fixation you couldn't concoct in your wildest dreams, everything a mere mirage as your body just takes whatever Riki gives, sucking your clit and fingering you until you're shivering from overstimulation, bedsheets wet beneath your butt as you struggle for air. 

Riki is nice enough to allow you the time between when he removes his mouth off your cunt to pressing your lips again for you to breathe, whining against your lips as his tongue darts into your mouth, your head tipped back as your syrupy head lives off the taste of you two mixed, getting every bit of obsession of you two together. 

"Don't we taste so good together?" he'd asked and even then, you agreed. More so now that with the bloom of softness and intimacy between you, fingers curled in his strands as he rids himself of his pesky clothes, not having the heart to separate your lips as you help get rid of his trousers and boxers. 

When he does, you do like you did back then in his room, fingers tracing the tattoo on his ribcage with a hungry fever, a kiss pressed into the kiss mark just near his hip before your teeth sink into the mole on the other hip. You're feral, one-track minded as Riki consumes all your thoughts, back pushed back down into the plush of your mattress as your legs spread, head lifted to view him hold his hard cock in his hand, tip weeping as his body folds with desperation, tip smearing your folds with precome. 

"Tell me you want it," Riki gruffs out, eyebrows knitted with parted lips. "Beg me to fuck you."

"Riki, please fuck me," impatience and frustration extend every letter of your plea, similar tears lining your eyes as your hand lowers to spread your folds, enticing him by the bite of his lips. "Your cock would feel so good in me. Am I not yours?"

"Fuck, you are." He says immediately.

"Then make me yours."

It's all he needs to hear, having had enough of his own games before he pushes in, both your mouths falling open at the stretch of him gliding in, your walls gripping him with all the hunger you have for him and more. The molten burn curls your toes and grits your teeth, feeling Riki everywhere accessible to your senses, breath stunted by the fill of him as he feeds himself until he's buried to the hilt, rewriting any concept you know of pleasure to him. 

He stalls in you, chest rising and falling as all his eyes consume is you, your body beneath him, cunt stuffed with his twitching length, cheeks dusted in pink with a body quivering to the size of him, pupils blown to your eye colour serving as a ring around them, so gone for him he doesn't know how he maintains his composure. Just strokes hair out your face with the back of his fingers before he starts thrusting.

He doesn't start off slow, fast-forwarding to the moment he's pondered when alone and everything about this doesn't compare. Not in the slightest, the warmth of your skin, the squeeze of your cunt, the cries you do as your stomach pulls in overload, nails scraping at the duvet cover with forgotten restraint. Everything about this, he will never get over, refuses to and with the look you give him, he thinks you share the sentiment. 

He notches himself harder into you, groaning at the high keen you do as your eyes roll back, blinking tears away as you cry. "Kisses, Riki."

"You're so fucked out, I've barely done anything, princess," he purrs, a carnal feeling conjured in his chest as he lowers himself down to you, safety-pin pendant on his chain feeding into your mouth as you suck on it. "Your mouth's lonely, huh baby? Need to keep it stuffed, don't I?"

You nod around the pendant, all teary and doll eyed at him, gasping for air as you let it go, finger curling around it to pull him closer. "Kiss me." 

"Manners."

"Pleaseeeee!" it comes out so rushed, so pathetic you can't quite believe the voice belongs to you, so high you only seek what you want. And what you want is him. "Pretty please, need you. Need your lips, want it so bad, 'Ki."

"Open your mouth." 

All commands come out with such authority your body always falls into compliance, lips parted as spit lands at the back of your tongue, at the back of your tongue. Your mouth closes to taste him, whimpering at the taste. "Again, again. Please,"

"You're so greedy, baby," he replies, voice frayed by the grip of your cunt, smacking bodies bouncing off your cluttered walls. "It's okay, I want you too. Need you always."

He gives in, jaw unhinged under a dominating hand that keeps your mouth open for his spit, the force of its landing closing your eyes and contracting your body, a squeal muffled to your closed lips before his lips find them, kissing you like a man possessed. Kissing and tasting everywhere, making sure to fuck you through it all, nails scraping down his shoulder blades and back as he hits your sweet spot again and again. 

You could cry. You do, stray tears escaping the squeeze of your eyes, their trail licked by Riki as he separates from you, sharing breaths with his forehead against yours before he leaves altogether, firm hand pressing into the bulge peeking through as he thrusts in, a whimper out your lips. 

"Rikiiii," you moan, so lost. "So good. You fuck me so─ngh, so good."

"I do, don't I, princess?" he muses, composure fraying further as he feels his tip against his palm. "You're close, can feel you clenching for me,"

"You gonna be my good girl and come on my cock?"

The coil in your stomach is so impossibly tight, you don't know much more you can take, frantic breaths choked back sobs as you swipe tears out your eyes, looking at him despite the fact. "Yes. I'll be your good girl, best girl. I'm gonna come."

"Who's making you come, baby?" he asks, his husky voice all around you, your legs pushed to your chest as he leans his bodyweight into you. You cry. "Tell me."

"You, Riki. You!" you sob, stumped by your intercepted breath as he pushes further into you, face so close that your lips brush as you whine. "You're gonna make me come."

The coil snaps, everything coming afterwards. The cry of your lungs, the suspension of your breath and the dismantling of your body, so malleable to Riki's whims you accept him whole, hold his face as he ruts into the last few times, whispering words that make you clench around him. 

"God, you're milking me princess," he whimpers, eyebrows screwed tight. "Gonna keep you nice and stuffed. You want it, don't you?"

You do, a chorus of agreements and kisses peppering his face as he shatters in your hold, burying himself deepest in you as he convulses, swallowing the room in his drawn out moans and curses as he gives a few half-hearted ruts before collapsing onto you, going soft in you as he keeps you plugged. 

"You're everything I want," he confesses, pink in his cheeks and tip of his nose as he caresses hair out your hair, easing off you. "Tell me you're mine, that I can take you out."

Merriment flutters in your chest, producing the giggle you do as you cast hair behind his ear, loving the overgrown look of his bleached hair. "Took you long enough." 

He smiles, the boxy kind that makes your heart soar before he giggles, kissing you with everything between the two of you, together as one. 

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You fired back about his constant lack of consideration, and from there it escalated—petty accusations flying, voices rising until neither of you could remember the original point.

You called him selfish.

He called you nagging.

The words hung heavy in the air, cutting too deep to take back now.

Now the apartment felt suffocating, thick with that post-fight tension and sickening silence that made every breath feel calculated.

You stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door behind you with more force than necessary. Your heart pounded, a mix of anger and frustration burning in your chest.

Tears threatened to spill, hot and wet, but you blinked them away, refusing to let him see you break over something so fucking stupid.

Kicking off your shoes, you sank onto the edge of the bed, arms crossed tightly around your frame, staring blankly at the wall as you replayed the fight in your mind—his irritated tone, your biting retorts, the way his eyes had flashed with genuine hurt after something you said hit deeper then intended.

The door creaked open a few minutes later.

Riki stood in the doorway, wearing nothing but a white towel knotted low around his hips.

He'd clearly started his post-practice routine, his dark hair damp and tousled, his toned chest and defined abs on show—that pre-shower glow.

At 6'1", his presence filled the room immediately—broad shoulders, long limbs, and those massive hands that could be so gentle or commanding depending on his mood. His jaw was still clenched from the argument, but his eyes softened the moment they landed on you, a flicker of regret breaking through his stubbornness.

He didn't speak at first. He simply closed the door with a soft click and crossed the room in three long strides, stopping right in-front of you.

He was close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, smell the sweat still clinging to him and the linger of his aftershave that she prayed hours ago—ceaderwood and musk filling your senses.

You didn’t look at him, pride making you keep your gaze fixated on the floor. "What do you want, Riki?"

"You," he said simply, his voice low and rough-edged from the tension of the fight.

Before you could snap back another spiteful retort, his hand cupped your jaw firmly, tilting your face up to meet his dark eyes. His thumb brushed your lower lip, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

Then he leaned down and kissed you.

The kiss wasn't soft—it started with all the unresolved anger, his lips pressing hard against yours, teeth grazing your bottom lip with a sharp nip that stung just enough to make you gasp.

His tongue swept in dominantly then, tasting of mint and faint salt, claiming your mouth as one hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you exactly where he wanted.

You grabbed his shoulders instinctively, nails digging into the warm, sweaty skin as heat flooded your body, the fight's frustration twisting from anger into something primal and raw.

"Riki—" you breathed when he pulled back for air, but he silenced you with another bruising kiss, his free hand gripping your hip and tugging you to the edge of the bed.

"Shut up," he muttered against your mouth, voice filled with irritation and that hot undertone of desire. "You're still mad. I'm still mad. But I'm not letting you go to sleep like this."

His hands moved with purpose, tugging your shirt over your head in one swift motion, exposing your lace bra.

He didn't pause, his fingers go to work by unbuttoning your jeans and peeling them down your legs along with your panties—which were embarrassingly wet.

You lifted your hips to help, the lingering anger mixing with arousal as he undressed you efficiently, like he owned every inch of you—which, in moments like this, he did.

Naked now except for your bra, you stared up at him, chest heaving. Riki's eyes raked over your body, dark and hungry, his towel tenting so obviously.

He dropped it without acknowledgement, revealing his cock—thick and long and flushed with prominent veins running along his shaft, curving slightly upward, heavy balls hanging low.

The sight made your mouth water despite the fight, the anger and the hatred you held for him right now, your thighs pressed together as slick gathered between them.

He smirked faintly, noticing. "Still wet for me even when you're pissed. Pathetic little thing."

The degradation sparked heat low in your belly, your core clenching around nothing. "Fuck you," you shot back, voice breathy.

"Planning to."

He scooped you up effortlessly, strong arms spanning around your waist as he carried you to the en-suite bathroom.

The shower was already running—he'd turned it on earlier—steam filling the air and fogging the mirror. He stepped under the hot spray first, pulling you with him, water cascading over both of you in a warm rush that soothed some of the tension.

The fight's edge sharpened the intimacy, turning anger into raw, primal need.

Riki pressed you against the cool tiled wall, a stark contrast to the steaming water and his heated skin. His mouth claimed yours again, rough and demanding, one hand tangling in your wet hair to angle your head as he pleases, the other gripping your ass hard enough to leave red fingerprints.

He nipped your jaw, your neck, sucking marks that will definitely bruise tomorrow.

"You're such a brat," he growled between bites, voice echoing over the gushing water. "Starting fights over nothing just to get fucked like this."

"Shut up," you gasped, but your body betrayed you, legs wrapping around his waist as he lifted you higher.

His cock slid hot and heavy against your folds, the tip nudging your clit with every grind, drawing moans from both of your throats.

He chuckled darkly, the vibration rumbling against your skin. "Look at you—soaked for it. Desperate slut even when mad."

His hand cracked down on your ass with a wet slap, the sting blooming sharp and hot. You jolted with a whine, and he rubbed the spot roughly, teasing. "This what you wanted? Arguing to get punished?"

"Riki—please—" Your voice cracked, nails raking his back, probably leaving deep lines that will be visible tomorrow.

"Please what?" He wrapped a hand around your throat—not tight, just possessive, thumb pressing your racing pulse. "Beg properly. Tell me how bad you need this cock after being a bitch."

The words hit you perfectly, pussy clenching and begging to be filled. "Need you inside. Fuck me hard—make me forget."

"Good girl." He rewarded you with a deep kiss, then lined up and thrust in slow, letting you feel the stretch of every thick inch of him, the girth burning so good as he bottomed out, his balls snug against you. Full to the brim.

You cried out, head falling back against the tile.

He set a brutal pace immediately—hips snapping deep, head bullying that spot inside you with practised precision, the hot water making skin slapping sound even louder.

His hand on your throat controlled your air just enough to dizzy you, the other spanking your ass again and again before gripping to yank you down harder onto him.

"Take it," he grunted. "Fighting just for dick. Needy whore."

Thumb circling your clit viciously, and the first orgasm crashed through you— your walls clamping, squirting messy around him, soaking his abs and the shower floor.

He groaned, fucking through it relentlessly.

When tremors faded, he spun you to face the wall, hands braced high on your hips. Re-entered from behind, a deeper angle than before, hair fisted in his palm to arch you as pleases, your ass spanked red and raw.

Your second climax ripped harder—squirting once again, legs buckling under the pure pleasure—he held you firm, thankfully, railing you until his rhythm broke.

"Milk me, slut."

He buried deep in your pussy, flooding you with thick white spurts, coating your inner walls, creampie leaking down your thighs from how much

You sagged against the wall, boneless and trembling. Riki pulled out gently, turning you in his arms. His expression softened instantly, his massive hands cradling your face oh so tenderly.

"Baby," he murmured, kissing your forehead, cheeks, lips with featherlight tenderness. "You okay? Too rough?"

"Perfect," you slurred, still blissed out, nuzzling into his neck, wet from water droplets.

He smiled softly, love in his eyes. "My good girl. Let me take care of you." The roughness vanished, replaced by pure gentleness.

He grabbed your body wash, lathering his hands and washing you—starting with your shoulders, massaging the tense muscles there until you sighed.

Suds trailed down your arms, chest; his palms cupped your breasts softly, thumbs circling your nipples with care, not arousal.

Once rinsed clean, he then shampooed your hair—fingers kneading your scalp in slow, soothing circles, nails scratching lightly, a heavenly feeling. Conditioner next; he worked through strands, combing them with his fingers.

"Lean back," he whispered, supporting your weight as water rinsed everything away. Including the fight.

He then wrapped you in a fluffy towel after, carrying you to bed.

Tucked you under fresh sheets, and climbing in to spoon you—his chest to your back, massive arm banding your waist protectively, hand splaying over your stomach.

"Love you," he breathed into your hair, lips pressing soft kisses. "Sorry for the fight. Dumb as hell."

"Love you too," you mumbled, melting into him further. "I forgive you."

He hummed content, holding you like a prized possession. While sleep claimed both of you within minutes.

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bully!niki who’s secretly in love with you, but keeps messing with you because he’s scared. he’s never felt anything like this before, never had someone get under his skin the way you do. so instead of facing it, he pushes it away the only way he knows how—by hurting you, over and over again, convincing himself it doesn’t mean anything.

bully!niki who realizes just how much he misses you when you don’t show up to uni for a week. how empty his days suddenly are without someone to look for, to bother, to be around. and when he finally sees you again in the hallway on monday, it hits him all at once. for the first time, he has nothing to say. he stands in front of you with wide eyes, swallowing hard, before walking past you quickly like he’s running from something. and you’re left there, confused, heart beating fast.

bully!niki who’s completely caught off guard when you finally snap at him in the hallway after he calls you useless. eyes glossy with tears but filled with anger as you hit his chest, shoving him back “just shut up! what did i ever do to you?!” and for a second he’s stunned, before something in him snaps, grabbing you and pushing you back against the wall, trapping you as he kisses you hard. you try to push him away, struggling against him, but he catches your wrists and pins them beside your head, not letting you go until your resistance slowly fades, your body melting despite yourself. “you’re so cute when you yell at me.”

bully!niki who keeps pulling you into the empty library every day, hands on you the second you’re alone, kissing you breathless between the shelves. one hand slips around your throat, holding you in place while the other drifts under your shirt, until you’re both a mess,“you drive me fucking crazy, do you know that?”

bully!niki who didn’t really stop bothering you, he just stopped calling you names. now he’s always around instead, annoying you and teasing you, finding any excuse to get your attention. his hands are always on you in some way and he sometimes pulls you into a quiet corner to give you a quick kiss before letting you go.

bully!niki whose hard bulge presses against you as you make out in the the library. soft, shaky sounds slip past your lips, and you can feel yourself growing more needy, and he is too. your hand drifts down without thinking, pressing against him through his jeans, rubbing and squeezing gently, and he lets out a low, strained groan against your mouth, grip tightening on you “you dirty fucking girl…”

bully!niki whose fingers are tangled tightly in your hair as he pulls you down on his cock, your knees pressed against the cold floor, eyes wet as you struggle to keep up, softly gagging and moaning. “thaaat’s it baby girl. what a good little pet you are.” your dainty finger wrapped around what you can’t fit into your mouth, trying your best to please him, but just when it starts getting too much, he pulls you up suddenly, crashing his lips against yours.

bully!niki who has you bent over the bookshelves, your panties pushed aside as his fingers pump slowly into your drenched cunt. his hand comes up to cover your mouth, muffling the moans and whimpers that keep slipping out of you. his breath is warm against your ear as he leans in “are you always this wet when i’m around?” and all you can do is nod, eyes squeezing shut from the overwhelming feeling, completely at his mercy.

bully!niki whose big cock has you crying from how good it feels inside you. tears fall down your cheeks, some of them landing on the hand he still has pressed over your mouth to keep you quiet. he moves slowly, draaagging it out just to make you feel every inch, every vein. it’s too much and not enough all at once, your body trembling, thighs slick with your juices as you struggle to hold on while he keeps going, deeper, harder, spanking and squeezing your ass “please please please lemme cum—please—nghh!”

bully!niki who pulls out at the last second, right when he feels your pussy tighten around him, your body shaking from your orgasm, and finishes on your swollen pussy and ass cheeks, completely mesmerized by the sight. he takes a second just to look, breathing heavy, taking in everything—red marks left on your ass, glistening from his cum, your hair a mess and your neck covered in hichkies. you look completely undone beneath him, exactly how he dreams of you every night with his cock in his hands.

stoner!riki who calls you “baby” in the softest, deepest voice when he’s faded, eyes half-lidded as he stares at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, even if you’re just wearing his oversized hoodie and messy bun.

stoner!riki who loves late-night drives with you, windows down, music low, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh, occasionally glancing over with a lazy smile and saying “you’re really pretty, you know that?”

stoner!riki who gets the giggles at the smallest things your laugh, a bad pun, the way you scrunch your nose and then pulls you closer on the couch so he can bury his face in your hair while laughing quietly.

stoner!riki who always shares his snacks with you, breaking off pieces of his favourite chocolate bar and feeding them to you with his own hands, eyes soft as he watches you eat.

stoner!riki who becomes surprisingly deep and thoughtful at 2 a.m., lying on the floor with you, staring at the ceiling and whispering things like “I think I’ve liked you for a really long time… like, before I even knew I was allowed to.”

stoner!riki who gets protective in the softest way, pulling you into his lap if anyone at a party even looks at you too long, mumbling “mine” against your shoulder with a lazy kiss.

stoner!riki who loves when you play with his hair while he’s chilling, eyes closing in bliss as your fingers run through the strands, letting out little contented sighs that make your heart melt.

stoner!riki who sends you the most random, barely coherent voice messages at odd hours — “babe… the clouds look like cotton candy today… wish you were here so I could show you” voice low and raspy from smoking.

stoner!riki who always makes sure you’re taken care of first, offering you water, his hoodie when you’re cold, or pulling a blanket over both of you when you fall asleep on the couch together.

stoner!riki who looks at you with those hazy, warm eyes and says the sweetest things when the high hits just right, voice quiet: “You make everything feel calmer… like the world slows down when you’re around.”

You were sitting on the edge of his bed, just out of frame, pretending to scroll through your phone. But you weren't reading a single word. All you could hear was him your Jake talking to fans in that soft, commanding tone.

Whatever it was.

He ended the stream twenty minutes later with a warm "Goodbye, I love you all " and a wink that made your stomach twist.

The room went quiet.

He spun in his chair, stretched his arms over his head, and finally looked at you. His smile was easy, unguarded. "You're quiet."

You shrugged. "Just tired."

Jake's eyes narrowed slightly. He stood up, crossed the room, and sat on the bed next to you. Close.

"Did I do something?" he asked softly.

"No."

"Liar."

You finally looked at him. His expression wasn't teasing yet. It was careful. Curious. Like he was genuinely trying to figure out what he'd done wrong.

"You didn't do anything," you snapped. And meant it, kind of. He hadn't done anything. He was just him. And that was the problem.

Jake tilted his head. Then his lips twitched.

"Oh," he said slowly. A new light flickered in his eyes. "Oh."

"What?"

"You're jealous."

"I'm not"

"You are." His voice dropped. Not mean. Just certain. He reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, fingers dragging lightly along your skin. "You've been sitting here frowning at your phone for twenty minutes because I was nice to my fans."

Your face went hot. "I wasn't frowning."

"You were pouting."

"I don't pout."

Jake laughed soft and low and leaned closer. His knee pressed against yours. "You're doing it right now."

You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because he was looking at you the way he looked at the camera, but more. Deeper. Hungrier.

"Baby," he said quietly. The word hit you differently now. Private. "You want me to talk you through it?"

Your breath caught.

There it was.

Your whole body went weak, like he'd pulled a string and everything inside you unraveled. Your phone slipped from your hand onto the bed.

Jake noticed. His smile turned slow. Knowing.

"Yeah," he whispered. "There you are."

"You're shaking," he said softly, not even a question.

You were. Your fingers trembled against your thighs, and you didn't know if it was adrenaline or nerves or the way he was looking at you so intently.

"I'm fine," you whispered.

You could smell his cologne clean, warm, a little smoky. He tilted his head, and one hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing your lower lip.

"You're not fine," he said. "But you will be. Because I'm going to take good care of you, okay?"

Your breath caught. "And how are you going to do that?"

His smile was gentle. Almost sweet. But his eyes weren't.

"By giving you exactly what you need but before I do that you're going to give me what I want since you didn't want to admit you're jealous."

Before you know it you're on your knees in front of him, and you've never felt more exposed not because of what you're about to do, but because of the way he's looking at you. Jakes eyes are dark, half lidded, his chest rising and falling a little faster than usual. His hand comes down gently to cup your chin, tilting your face up toward him.

"Wait." His voice is quiet but firm. "Look at me first."

You do. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip.

"You're gonna tell me if it's too much, yeah? Just tap my leg. Twice. Can you do that for me?"

You nod again, and he smiles that slow, teasing smile that makes your stomach flip.

"Good girl. Now go ahead. Take it off."

Your fingers hook under the elastic. He lifts his hips just enough to help you, and you pull his sweats down slowly, then his boxers. He's already hard, and you hear him let out a soft breath when the air hits his skin.

"There you go," he murmurs. "That's it."

You wrap your hand around him first, just to feel the weight of it. He groans quietly, his head falling back against the wall for a second before he looks down at you again.

"Whenever you're ready, baby. No rush."

You lean in and lick a slow stripe from the base to the tip. His hand moves to your hair not pushing, just resting there, fingers threading through softly.

"Just like that," he says, his voice already rougher. "Warm me up first. Nice and slow."

You take the tip into your mouth and he inhales sharply.

"Oh- yeah. There ya go. That's it. Just a little at a time. You don't have to take it all."

His hands guides you gently, not forcing, just showing you the rhythm he likes. You sink down a little more causing your spit to drip down, he lets out a shaky laugh.

"Messy already, huh?" he says, thumb wiping a bit of spit from the corner of your mouth. "You're doing so good. So fuckin' good."

You moan around him, and he feels it his thigh tenses next to your cheek.

"Fuck. Do that again."

You do. His grip in your hair tightens just slightly, not hard, just there.

"Breathe through your nose," he reminds you. "There you go. You're a natural, you know that?"

You pull off for a second to catch your breath, and a string of spit connects you to him. He looks down at it, then back at your face, and his expression goes soft and dark at the same time.

"Look at you. All messy for me." He cups your cheek. "You want to keep going?"

"Yes," you whisper.

"Yeah? You want me to talk you through it?"

"Please."

He grins. "Then get back here."

You take him in your mouth again, deeper this time, and his composure cracks just a little. A low groan escapes him, and his hips twitch forward before he catches himself.

"Easy," he breathes. "I got you. You're okay. Just- yeah, fuck right there. Stay right there for a second."

He holds you still, not deep throating, just letting you feel him pulse on your tongue. His thumb strokes your cheekbone.

"You feel that? That's you. You're doing that to me."

You look up at him with watery eyes, and something in his face breaks open.

"Holy fuck," he whispers. "You're so fucking pretty like this."

You start moving again, finding a rhythm, and he lets you lead for a while just his hand in your hair, his voice a constant stream above you.

"That's it. Good girl. Don't rush. Just take what you can."

Spit drips down your chin. You don't care. He doesn't either in fact, he watches it happen and groans.

"So messy. I love it. I love you like this."

His breathing gets heavier. His hips start moving in small, shallow thrusts not rough, just desperate.

"I'm gonna- fuck, I'm close. You want me to pull out?"

You shake your head as best you can with him in your mouth.

"Yeah? You want it?"

You moan yes.

"Okay. Okay, baby. Keep going. Just like that. Don't stop- don't stop, you're almost there-"

His voice gets breathy and higher.

"I'm gonna- fuck, fuck right there you're so good "

He cums with a choked sound, his hand cradling the back of your head, holding you gently in place as he spills into your mouth.

"That's it. Take it. You did so good. So fuckin' good for me. I got you. I got you."

When he's done, he pulls you off slowly and immediately pushes his fingers in your mouth to make you show him you swallowed. His forehead presses against yours, both of you breathing hard.

"Fuck you're so perfect for me," he whispers, wiping your mouth with his thumb. "You okay?"

You nod, trembling.

He laughs softly. "Now come here. My turn."

He didn't rush.

That was the first thing you learned about Jake when the cameras were off. He didn't grab or tear or demand. He asked, but in a way that left no room for you to say no.

"Lay back for me," he said quietly.

You laid.

"Good fucking girl."

Those three words hit you somewhere deep, and he saw it. Of course he saw it. He saw everything.

His hands landed on your shoulders warm, solid, grounding. His mouth found your ear.

"I'm gonna take care of you," he murmured. "But you have to listen to me. Can you do that?"

"Yes."

"Say yes, Jake.'"

Your throat tightened. "Yes, Jake."

His hands slid down your arms slowly, like he was memorizing you. When he reached your wrists, he didn't grab them he just circled them with his fingers and held.

"I want you to feel everything," he said. "But I don't want you to think. Just feel. Just listen to my voice. Can you do that for me?"

"Fuck yes I can Jake."

"Good."

Then he kissed you.

It wasn't messy at first. It was slow, deliberate, his lips coaxing yours open like he had all the time in the world. One hand stayed on your wrist. The other slid into your hair, gentle but firm, tilting your head exactly where he wanted it.

When he pulled back, you almost whimpered.

"Shh," he breathed. "I've got you. I'm right here."

His thumb traced your cheekbone. "You feel so good already, and I've barely touched you. Do you know that? Do you know how hard it is for me to go this slow?"

You shook your head, lost.

"I'll show you," he said. "But first take off your shirt."

Your hands moved before your brain caught up. The fabric slipped over your head, and suddenly you were standing in front of him in just your bra, and his gaze dropped like a physical weight.

"Gosh so beautiful," he said softly. "Now tell me. Do you want me to keep going?"

"Yes."

"Say it all the way."

"I want you to keep going, Jake please."

His smile was warm, but his voice dropped lower. "Then look all pretty for me while you keep your eyes on me." "I'm going to give you what you deserve cause you've been so good to me," he said. "And every time you feel like you're getting lost, I want you to look at me and watch me talk you through it. Can you do that?"

You nodded.

"Cmon use your words, baby."

"Yes, Jake. I can do that."

"Good girl."

His hand moved first to your side just a slow drag of his fingers from your ribs down to your hip. Then back up. Then down again, lower each time, until his thumb brushed the waistband of your pants.

"You're already breathing so fast," he observed, like he was fascinated. "I love that. I love that I can do this to you without even trying."

His fingers dipped beneath the fabric, just barely. Just enough to make your hips lift off the bed.

"Ah ah," he murmured. "Stay still. I'll give you what you need, but you have to let me lead. Understand?"

"Yes, Jake."

"Perfect."

He pulled your pants down slowly, agonizingly slowly his knuckles grazing your thighs the whole way. When you were bare from the waist down, he just stopped and looked at you.

"You're so wet already," he said, and it wasn't teasing. It was reverent. "Goodness. You really do want this, don't you?"

You couldn't speak. You just nodded.

"I know," he said. "I know, baby. And I'm gonna make you feel so good."

He lowered himself until his mouth was right next to your ear.

"I'm going to put my fingers inside you now," he said, voice low and steady. "And I want you to tell me how it feels. Every single thing. Don't hold back. Can you do that?"

"Mhmm yes Jake yes."

"Then show me."

When his fingers finally touched you just a light, teasing press you gasped so loud you almost scared yourself.

"That's it," he said, circling slowly. "That's exactly it. Let me hear you."

He pushed one finger inside, and your back arched.

"Oh-"

"Yeah," he breathed. "Feel that? That's just the beginning. You're taking me so well already. So fucking good for me."

He added a second finger, and you grabbed his wrist not to stop him, just to hold onto something.

"I know," he said. "I know it's a lot. But you can take it. You're doing so good. Just breathe for me."

He started a rhythm slow, deep, curling his fingers on every pull back. And he kept talking. Kept guiding.

"Every time I do this," he said, pressing exactly where you needed him, "you squeeze around me. Do you feel that? Do you feel how your body knows what to do?"

"Yes- yes, Jake-"

"You're close already, aren't you?"

You couldn't lie. "Yes."

"Not yet," he said, and pulled his fingers out.

You almost cried.

"Shh, shh, shh," he cooed, kissing your forehead. "You gotta listen to me pretty and right now, I'm telling you you're not cumming until I'm inside you. You understand?"

"Please-"

"Please what?"

"Please, Jake- I need you-"

He smiled. That same gentle, devastating smile. "That's all you had to say."

He pulled off his own clothes in a way that should have been rushed but wasn't. Every movement was deliberate. When he was bare, he knelt between your legs and wrapped a hand around himself, stroking once, twice.

"Look at me," he said.

You looked.

"I'm going to go slow," he said. "But I'm not going to stop. If it's too much, you tell me yeah? I'll be right here through everything Understand?"

"Yes, Jake."

He lined himself up, and then he pushed inside just an inch. Just enough to make you both gasp.

"Oh my god-"

"I know," he groaned, dropping his forehead to yours. "I know, baby. You feel- fuck- you feel so good. Better than I imagined. And I've imagined this a lot."

He pushed deeper, and your nails dug into his shoulders.

"That's it," he whispered. "Take all of me. You're doing so good. So fucking good for me."

When he was fully inside, he stopped. Just held there, letting you adjust, his breath hot and shaky against your cheek.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yes- yes, please don't stop "

"I won't," he said. "I'm gonna move now. And I want you to keep your eyes on mine. Don't look away."

He started moving slow at first, then deeper, then faster in a way that was still controlled but just on the edge of messy. His hips snapped against yours, and the sound of it filled the room.

"You feel that?" he breathed. "That's me inside you. That's me taking care of you. You're not thinking about anything else right now, are you?"

You shook your head, barely able to speak.

"No," he said. "Because I've got you. I've got all of you. And you're so- god- you're so perfect like this all fucked out. Messy and loud and all mine."

His hand slid between your bodies and found you he pressed exactly where you needed him and you shattered.

"Let go for me baby," he commanded softly. "I've got you.

You did. You cum undone completely, crying out his name, and he followed right after burying his face in your neck and groaning low and long as he spilled inside you.

He didn't stop talking, even then.

"That's it," he murmured against your skin. "That's my good girl. You did so well. You took everything I gave you. I'm so proud of you."

Afterward, he didn't pull away.

He stayed inside you for a long moment, breathing hard, one hand cradling the back of your head. Then he eased out slowly and gathered you against his chest.

"You okay?" he asked again.

You nodded against his shoulder, still trembling.

"Talk to me," he said softly. "I need to hear your voice."

"That was-" you started, then laughed weakly. "I can't even think."

He smiled and kissed your hair. "Good. That's what I wanted."

He pulled the blanket over both of you and held you tighter.

"You were so good for me," he said one more time. "And tomorrow, I'm gonna talk you through it all over again."

You smiled knowing he meant every word.

"it’s not a big deal, jake," you mutter, looking everywhere but at him as you pick at a loose thread on your duvet. your face is burning, the heat creeping up your neck. "i just… it’s never come up. i’ve been fine without it."

he doesn’t let it go. he’s already moving, crawling across the mattress with a predatory sort of grace. he crowds into your personal space, his presence suddenly overwhelming. "fine? 'fine' is for a mediocre meal or a boring movie. 'fine' isn't what you're supposed to be feeling when someone should be worshiping you," he leans down to nudge his nose along your covered slit, inhaling the scent of your dampening heat. "...worshipping this perfect perfect cunt."

he reaches out, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw to force your gaze back to his. "such a pity...," he whispers, sounding genuinely sympathetic. "everyone else is out here getting ruined, feeling the slow fuck of a warm wet tongue.., experiencing what it’s like to actually lose their mind because its hitting just the right spot, and you’re just… sitting here... left out? don't you feel like you're missing the best part of being alive?"

"i mean, i guess when you put it like that..." you trail off, your breath hitching. his hand slides down to your knee, slowly inching your legs apart. you know that you should probably move, but you feel paralyzed by the way he’s looking at you. "jakey, what are you doing?"

"shh princess, i'm just helping you realize how deprived you are," he murmurs, his eyes darkening as he ignores your half-hearted protest. "i bet you don't even know how sensitive you are down there,, bet you have no idea how much of a mess you'd make if someone who actually knew what they were doing decided to take care of you"

he gazes up at you, eyes still holding that pitying gaze. how ironic that the man you claim to know and can read like the back of your hand — like an open book– you fail to notice how those usually soft warm eyes are dark, pupils dilated with a raw hunger.

"you deserve to know, don't you? it’s almost a crime to keep such a sweet little pussy like yours waiting this long... you have a pretty pussy, don't you princess?"

"i... i don't know," you stammer, your head spinning from his cologne and the low vibration of his voice. you feel small, caught in the loop of him telling you how much you've been missing– how much your poor pretty pussy has been missing. "is it really that different?"

"it's everything," he says, his tone shifting into something far filthier. before you can process the shift, he’s hooking his arms under your knees, dragging you toward the edge of the bed. your heart hammers against your ribs, but your body feels heavy and compliant.

"jake, wait—" you start, but the words die in your throat as he drops to his knees on the floor, settling right between your spread legs.

he looks up at you from below, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "what kind of person will I be if I deprive my sweet girl of this? just relax for your best friend, okay? I'm just gonna show you what everyone's been raving about... that's it baby. let jakey see that pretty pussy. promise it'll feel so good"

"jake, please..." you gasp, your fingers curling into the sheets as you look down at him.

"god, look at you...look at this perfect pussy. i'm gonna make you regret every second you spent without my mouth on you."

his hands are heavy on your inner thighs, his knuckles dragging slowly upward until they’re brushing against the very edge of your panties. you let out a shaky breath, your hips involuntarily lifting off the mattress as you look down at him.

"jake, i—"

"i'm gonna eat you so good you'll forget your own name, princess. gonna lick every inch of this pretty little cunnie until you’re begging me to never stop,, you have no idea how loud you’re about to scream for me"

he doesn’t go straight for the center. instead, he uses the flat of his finger pads to trace the outer seams of your underwear, circling closer and closer until he’s pressing firmly against your clit through the thin fabric. you let out a sharp, surprised moan, your head hitting the pillow behind you.

"look at that," he murmurs, his eyes fixed on the way you're reacting. "one touch and you’re already trembling. you’ve really been missing out on this, haven’t you? all that wasted time."

he hooks two fingers into the waistband, tugging the silk aside to expose you fully to the cool air and his hungry gaze. he doesn't use his tongue yet; instead, he curls his hand into a loose fist and uses his smooth knuckles to rub slow, agonizing circles over your sensitive nub. the pressure is blunt and intense, making your toes curl and your breath hitch in broken stutters.

"jake, please, it's—it's too much," you gasp, your hands flying down to grip his wrists, but he doesn't budge.

"nuh uh... it's not enough," he corrects you, a dark, playful glint in his eyes. "i'm barely even started with you. you’re so sensitive, princess. i bet if i just keep doing this, you’ll be soaking my hand in no time."

he increases the pressure, his knuckles rolling over you with a rhythm that makes your vision go blurry. just as you think you might snap, he leans forward and replaces the friction with the sudden, searing heat of his tongue. the first long, wet stroke from your bottom to your top makes you scream his name, your back arching off the bed.

"there she is," he chuckles against your skin, the vibration sent straight through your nervous system. he starts to lap at you with broad, greedy strokes, his tongue flat and firm. "god, you taste so much better than i even imagined. and you're so wet for me already. did you know you were gonna be this much of a mess the second your best friend put his mouth on you?"

he starts to get more intricate, using the tip of his tongue to flick rapidly against your clit while his finger pads spread your folds wide, exposing every sensitive inch to his teasing. he’s relentless, swirling his tongue around the opening of your cunt before darting it inside just a little, then retreating to focus on your peak again.

"you like that, don't you?" he murmurs, pulling back just an inch to see your wrecked expression. "little cunt twitching against my lips... you’re doing so good for your first time, princess. but i want to see you completely come apart. i want to feel you pulsing against my tongue while i'm buried in you."

his voice contimues to vibrate against your skin with every squeeze of your thighs around his head, as he looks up at your wrecked expression. "you’ve been walking around this whole time not knowing you could feel like this. It’s a fucking tragedy, princess."

he doesn't give you a second to recover, leaning back in, his hands sliding under your ass to tilt your hips up, offering you to him completely. he starts using his tongue in long, slow, agonizingly wet laps that start at the very bottom and drag all the way up over your clit, flicking the sensitive bud at the end of every stroke.

"jakey, please—I can't—" you sob out, your fingers tangling in his hair, trying to either pull him closer or push him away, you don't even know anymore.

"shh baby.. you can, can't you?," he murmurs, his hot breath ghosting over your drenched skin. "for me hmm? for your jakey? you're gonna take every bit of this. wanna make you feel how much better my mouth is than anything you could've done for yourself..."

he decides to shift his technique, his tongue narrowing into a sharp point as he begins to focus entirely on your clit, swirling around it with dizzying speed. at the same time, he presses the knuckles of his other hand against your opening, rubbing firmly in a way that makes you feel stretched and full even without him being inside you.

"so tight,, so fucking perfect..." he mutters, his words muffled against you. "and you’re dripping for me...god,, look at how much of a mess you’re making on my face, baby. a fucking natural at this, princess"

after wat feels like both hours and seconds somehow, the pressure finally starts to build behind your eyes, a tension in your lower stomach that feels like a cord being pulled tighter and tighter. you’re shaking now, your legs twitching against his shoulders as he relentlessly pursues your peak, adamant on making you not see the stars, but the fucking big bang behind your clenched shut eyes.

"that's it, baby... almost there, want you to feel it.." he encourages, his voice dropping into a filthy, demanding tone. "i can feel your pulse right here on my tongue... my sweet sweet girl about to cum on her best friend's face,, such a dirty baby for me, for her jakey..."

"I want to—please, jakey.. wanna cum,!" you scream, your voice breaking as the first wave of heat crashes over you.

he lets out a dark triumphant hum and sucks your clit into his mouth, his tongue swirling frantically while his knuckles press hard into your entrance. the world explodes into white light. your hips jerking violently, muscles clenching around nothing as you sob his name, the orgasm rolling through you in heavy, rhythmic pulses.

"fuck,, just like that, take it," he growls, refusing to pull away, his tongue continuing to tease you through the aftershocks until you’re practically limp. "that’s exactly how you’re supposed to look for me... my dirty girl"

the peak of your orgasm begins to settle into a heavy, throbbing ache, but jake doesn't pull away. he keeps his face buried right there, his breath hot against your soaking wet skin as you try to catch your breath, your chest heaving.

"look at you," he murmurs, his voice muffled by your thighs. "all sensitive and shaking. You didn't even know you could make a mess like this, did you?"

before you can even stammer out a response, you feel the soft, fluttering sensation of his tongue again. this time, it’s not the demanding, rhythmic pressure from before,, slow, shallow kitten licks—short, dainty strokes that barely graze the surface of your swollen clit and the sensitive folds, fluttering at the slightest of touch.

"jake... stop, it’s too much," you gasp, your hips instinctively trying to twitch away from the overstimulation. the sensation is so light it's almost agonizing, making your nerves scream in a way that’s entirely different from the initial climax.

"i'm just cleaning you up, princess," he chuckles, his hands tightening their grip on your ass to keep you pinned right where he wants you. "you’re so sensitive now, aren't you?"

he continues the teasing licks, moving up and down the length of your slit, occasionally pausing to press soft, lingering kisses against the hood of your clit. the contrast between the wet, rough texture of his tongue and the soft pressure of his lips is driving you insane. he’s worshipping you, his mouth moving with a terrifyingly gentle precision that makes you feel even more exposed than when he was being rough.

"you taste like you were made for me, baby.. made for your precious jakey," he whispers against your skin, lips dragging over your folds. he blows a puff of cool air over the wetness, making you cry out and arch your back. "does that feel good? having your best friend kiss every inch of this pretty little cunt?