Angel

even when you two were actively fucking anton had to have some part of you in his mouth or on his tongue. 

specifically, he always found an excuse to play with your tits. claiming that it was to please you.

although it was abundantly clear to the both of you who truly enjoyed it more.  

it’s the tail end of your period and although anton insisted…you opt against period sex. 

so now you lay sprawled out in bed, dry humping your boyfriend like a crazed freak. 

anton’s lengthy body is slotted between your legs; the weight of his hardened cock against your thigh is no help in soothing the agonizing ache of your cunt. each drag against his thigh sending a wave of pleasure from the pit of your stomach up through your chest.

your tits are beyond swollen, sensitive to the touch.

and anton’s busy making a whiny mess of you. 

your shirt is completely deformed from the way he continuously yanked at it to tongue at your nipples. begging, “please.” in his featherlight voice just swearing he just wanted to make you feel good, despite the way he’s rock hard and rutting against the underside of your thigh.

his hand, gentle in contrast with his mouth, cradles your unoccupied mound. 

“toni,” you sigh, jaw borderline unhinged with the way your mouth is wide open—whimpers seeming to be the only way you can indicate to him that he’s making you feel good. 

“shit—baby, you look so pretty like this,” he groans, “wish i had a photo of your tits.” his words are muffled by your cleavage.

you can tell he didn’t intend for you to hear the second part, but he commits.

“proof that you let me do whatever i want when i get you like this.” 

you whine, legs twitching near his hips that force you wide open.

“then take one.” 

his eyes momentarily got wide at the suddenness of those three words.

“yeah? you wanna pose for me?” he urges, eyeing the way you’re covered in the sheen of his spit, scattered hues of violet already in bloom across your entire chest. 

you don’t have to oblige again before he’s already got his film camera in the hand that isn’t squeezing each of your tits, grip embedded like he’s got a hold on a piece of memory foam. 

he hisses at the way your plush flesh bulges from each space between his slender fingers.

you’re embarrassingly responsive as you let anton have his way with you, the noises that fall rushed from between your lips meet his ears, unwavering and combined with the shuttering of his camera. your cheeks flushed, eyes glossed over as they take in the mess of your boyfriend while he’s straddled above you. 

his hair is tousled from the way you ran your fingers through it moments ago, a thin layer of sweat altering the way his shirt clings to his sculpted upper body.

your cunt clenches around nothing.

“gonna develop every. single. photo.” anton mumbles from behind the camera.

your doe eyes peer up at him through the lense. pleading, although you’re not sure what for.

"say cheese." he snorts sarcastically.

*click*

the shutter sounds and a brief flash blinds you.

“for all the nights that i have to be away from you,” anton continues, throwing the camera to the side of your body not caring how it lands on the mattress with a faint thud. 

then his hips are flush against yours, the press of his cock against your clit that’s completely covered makes your thighs shake.

“maybe i’ll scatter the photos across the bed, fuck my hand, wishing it was you touching me instead—cum all over the prints, paint your tits...this pretty face.” he rolls his hips forwards, bringing a hand up to tilt your head towards him. his sentence is punctuated with the way your lips part in a moan.

the way the blood leaking from your insides mixes with your arousal is embarrasingly erotic. each time anton grinds between your hips a squelch can be heard.

you feel disgusting, but the feeling fades immediately when you consider how anton was ready to stick his dick in you earlier despite the crimson beneath your soiled panties. that was a dead give away that you being on your period didn't actually matter to him much.

you lose it, biting down on your tongue to contain yourself.

“you’d like that, hmm?” your boyfriend taunts, his hips not stopping but instead pressing harder. he’s watching your face with intent to watch your resolve continue to slip.

“pretending you don’t, always coy with me so i get embarrassed for wanting this.” he tugs on one of your nipples particularly rough, then he lands an open handed strike in the same spot, watching the way it bounces back right in front of his face.

you yelp, head lulling back between your shoulder blades. both your eyes grow extremely heavy before they fall shut.

“my dirty girl.”

you’re gushing at the lewdness of the nickname, your ankles that are now locked behind him cause the heels of your feet to dig into his lower back.

then his lips are on you again, soothing the increased throbbing of your poor buds.

anton takes both your breasts in his hands, pressing them together until your nipples almost create an arrow pointing directly towards his greedy mouth.

parting his lips he holds out his tongue, flattening it and shaking his head side to side against your nipples that grow even harder than before at the sensation.

the way you choke on a whimper makes his stomach flip, his brows furrow at the feeling of his cock sloppily leaking into his boxers.

“anton—oh my god!” you practically scream, imagining how your throat will ache in the hours to follow.

the thought that you weren’t the one that was supposed to enjoy any of this more than anton is furthest from your mind.

all you can do is reel at the feeling, pussy beginning to spasm. 

it doesn’t take much longer before you start to cum in your shorts, entire body trembling while you hold onto anton like he’d disappear into thin air.

you can feel the heat of his own release against your thigh. his tip damp through the rough barrier of his pants. he’s persistent in smearing his cum against your legs that are still spread impossibly wide. both your hips continue in motion until his cock begins to soften.

anton releases your nipple from his mouth with a pop, bottom lip glistening as it’s connected to you by a singular string of his salvia.

you’re spent, painfully overstimulated now. you attempt to physically recoil against his touch. hissing when he places one last kiss to each of your tits before attempting to fix the disarray of your garments.

when both your bra and shirt are somewhat back in place you’re huffing, struggling to catch your breath. but your mind begins to venture.

your heart hammers in your chest at the thought of how many photos he’d taken, and you become dizzy with the uncertainty of his true intended use.

anton would never show the photos to anybody other than you.

he’d actually rather die than let someone else see the way you looked underneath him: fucked out, clothes messily pulled aside, covered in the evidence of just how much you belonged to him. the thought never crossed his mind. but you knew that.

that’s not why your heart was near lurching out of your chest.

you could only pray that he’d use the pictures of you to get him through a lonely night or two…or three.

but the mental image of him taking a massive hand to yank at his angrily leaky cock while he panted and whimpered as his stomach flexed, sweat soaking every inch of him—it was enough to send one final gush of wetness from of your cunt.

because he’d be doing it while looking at a plethora of photos that would reveal your tits that you let him bruise and abuse.

- after that night, anton suddenly became flirty with you. initially, you just saw it as a normal thing. he's like that—a gentleman and a sweet guy.

- it all officially started when he would randomly message you or send you tiktok and instagram reels. you went from nada to having an ongoing tiktok streak of 35 already. ever since, both of you have established that he will facetime you as both of you study. sometimes, he's practicing a cello piece while you're stressed out with org work, but you never get annoyed

- oh, also, he would always sing to you as he practices with his guitar or piano. that's where you start getting annoyed... because you're definitely falling. lol anyway

- well, you could say your battery has already deteriorated from how you and anton would always go on a sleep call

- sitting next to you in hangouts, scooting closer to you on couches, opening the cap of your bottle, resting his shoulder on yours, quickly dropping to his toes to tie your shoelaces, cleaning your utensils when the circle decides to eat outside, explaining to you (in his soft-spoken voice) what the group was bickering about or what the boys were debating about, and so on

- one time, he insisted on having you on his lap during a car ride where only one person brought a car. so you spent an entire hour stiff and breathless as you were settled on his lap. well, sohee was on wonbin's lap. your other girl friend was also on another girl friend's lap... so being on anton's lap seems normal, right?

- his hands steady your waist, your back pressing to his chest when the car suddenly brakes. anton, on the other hand, swears he could smell you and would slightly pull you closer so you can be comfortable. he asks you from time to time to adjust and assures you not to hold back your weight

- the small moments shared and the subtle actions that make your breath hitch continue every day. you let him, though. you don't say anything. and it's just as bad how these lines are blurred. again, you guys have been friends for a long time...

- it's all about the longevity and comfort you guys shared. LMFAOO you try to convince yourself that way

- but those aspects suddenly blur out when it's only the two of you studying together at the library and throwing flirty punches at each other.

- anton's sentences would often start or end with him referring to you as "pretty," "babe," or worse: "baby." and worst of all, you just let him and don't police that habit...

- when everyone's hanging out at wonbin's house, he would suddenly sneak up behind you and lean on your shoulders. he'd compliment how you look and how he likes your scent. apparently, the anton lee likes giving back hugs... and likes being hugged every night...

- also maintaining eye contact while being across the table or sofas? and he would just smirk when you break the eye contact

- to say the least, even the most boring errands—like grocery shopping, buying stuff you need for school, or waiting in line at the hospital—felt so exciting because anton was your company.

- you'd say everything is normal until it's 12 am, and anton's sleeping soundly with his face on your neck, laying on his side clinging to your waist

- then came the days when he would tease you, or plague your late-night talks with "what if" questions

- "you're lucky you're cute." "if you keep treating me like this, i might fall." "what if i actually took you on a real date?" "what if we actually kissed right now? nah, i'm just playing."

- and telling any of your friends about all of this could be the dealbreaker. so both of you never did. hell, you and anton never even addressed this elephant you're nurturing in your friendship... setup.

- "best friends premium?" you shamelessly muttered to your close girl friends when they caught all those selfies of you and anton in bed, cuddling together. or even those photos when the two of you went for breakfast 'dates.'

- sohee mentioned one time to everyone that anton's wallpaper is a baby photo of someone. "oh anton-ah, you didn't tell us you're talking to someone! who is it?" anton remained quiet but he quickly glanced at you to see your reaction.

- you bit your lip, hiding your smile from everyone who was teasing him. it was your baby photo that he found so cute when you showed him one time. you didn't know that he actually took a photo of it. and made it his wallpaper. like fuckkk WAT DAT MEAN?

- you noticed that anton seems different and acts unusual when you're wearing his clothes

- he's flustered each time :p

- so, you steal some of his clothes and he just lets you...

- you swore you saw him bite his lip one time when you were just wearing his oversized hoodie and your sleep shorts

- the subtle (or not-so-subtle) tension that arises when your previous fling or ex situationship is in the proximity. or when you're suddenly clingy with one of your friends (he doesn't care if it's a girl or a guy... he knows you can bend all genders so all of a sudden he's sulky???)

- "i'm not jealous though," he states.

- "okay. i didn't ask though. wha- anton, can you stop pouting?"

- but he still wins because he's holding your hand as you two walk to your house after the hangout or after your classes. sometimes its his biceps you're holding when the two of you are walking.

- finally, your and anton's tiktok streak says 50. so, 50 days of ridiculousness already of whatever-this-is with anton. you have fallen already. definitely. you feel conflicted at the same time. and you hope he does, too

- the routine you shared was present daily and anton was consistent in either being the flirty friend or stirring your feelings. well, to be fair, he's a romantic guy...

- the flower vase in your room was never empty. when he comes to visit for a movie night or a study night or a sleepover, he's never empty-handed as he enters your door. there's always a bundle of fresh flowers from the supermarket in his hands. if it's a special day, they're from a flower shop :3

- your friends can't do it anymore. they have noticed, they pointed it out, they sometimes pretend not to know or care. but they're just tired of seeing anton and you dilly-dally and call it friendship

- one night, as you and anton were walking to his house from a nearby burger joint sungchan recommended, you felt like it was already time to address it. his hand was warm on your palm, and he's just grinning as he sways it playfully

- you stopped in your tracks. the moment you guys were sharing earlier and the quiet of the night made it feel like it was the right time. "do you think we should date?"

- "definitely."

- "cool."

- "yeah, yeah."

- it felt sweet and innocent even though you guys were quiet and red the whole walk back to his place. you guys weren't teenagers anymore yet you acted like it—

- acting all innocent after that declaration of affection and suddenly you're in his lap, hoodie on the floor, your fingers threading through his hair carefully, and his lips almost engraved in yours

- you pulled away, unable to breathe. he whines.

- "well, i'm sorry i don't have the lungs of a swimmer." you playfully rolled your eyes.

- he scoffs lazily, followed by a smirk. "my bad."

- "remove your shirt, lee."

- anton follows and went for a quick kiss then pulled away out of nowhere. he rasped, "you know what else i could dive into?"

- you and anton both slept very well that night

- the following day, he asked you out properly for a date with all the things you could ask for (yet you never did because he did it all naturally!)

Eunseok’s breath was hot in your ear. His hand fluttered over your bare waist as he looked at you in the mirror. He twisted your red curls around his fingers. He pulled them tight, just enough for you to feel, his dark eyes watching your reaction in the mirror.

“Like it?” you said, a little breathless from your boyfriend’s eagerness.

Eunseok shut his eyes, pulled his hand to his face, and inhaled your scent. His other hand stroked your thigh, pushing up your skirt to finger the strap of your lacy thong. His fingers froze when he felt how tiny it was.

“Let’s get through this party and I’ll show you how much I like it.”

-

“So does the carpet match the drapes?” Anton laughed.

You were sitting on the couch with a rum and coke, Eunseok’s hand wrapped lazily over your shoulder.

“What?” you said, your heart speeding up.

“Go on,” Wonbin teased, from across the room. “He wants to know if the hair on your… you know… matches your head.”

“Ha-ha. Very funny.” You rolled your eyes like you didn’t care, but you were squeezing your thighs tighter.

“Come here,” Eunseok said, patting his thigh. “Don’t worry about these guys, Y/n. They’ve just forgotten how to talk to human women.”

You sat with your legs across your boyfriend’s lap, letting him stroke your back soothingly.

As the conversation went on, you forgot all about the awkward joke.

Eunseok’s hand rubbed your thigh, its roughness feeling wonderful. With each rub, he slipped a little deeper between your legs. You sighed, loving how your boyfriend’s hands were addicted to your skin.

Until you felt his fingers burrowing into your thighs, hard. They skated past your panties, then brushed over your heat.

“Eunseok?” you whispered in his ear. No one else had noticed. “What the hell are you doing?”

Eunseok did not reply. His fingers were still working at your panties, trying to pull them to the side.

A spark ran down your spine. Your boyfriend was trying to look at your pussy hair.

Eunseok fisted your thigh. His head was craning down to catch a glimpse between your legs. You pushed him off you, hard, by his hair.

“Tonight,” you whispered. “Not now.”

“So it is red?” Eunseok said, in a voice of awe.

Damn it. Rather than warning your boyfriend off, you’d accidentally peaked his interest.

“Let me look,” he begged. “Just once.”

You quickly looked around the room. Everyone was locked in deep conversations, the couples cuddling. No one cared about you two.

Your heart raced. Alcohol swelled your veins.

Nodding quickly, you turned towards Eunseok. You spread your legs, angling your hips up a little. For just a second, you used all four fingers to pull your panties to the side.

Eunseok grabbed your knee, his face flushed, his dark eyes intense.

Suddenly, he pushed his fingers between your legs. He was scrabbling at your panties himself to a get a look.

Gasping, you grabbed his strong wrist. This was more than you’d agreed to.

“Fuck,” a voice said. “She did dye it!”

You looked down to see Anton sitting right across from you, on the floor. His face was dark red as he stared directly at your bare pussy.

“Shit,” Wonbin said, from the other side of the room. “Let me see.”

You tried to shut your legs, but your boyfriend’s hand was in the way.

Eunseok shrugged, as if to say, They’ve already seen it.

He massaged your shoulder with his, the look in his eyes unmistakeable. He wanted you to show everyone. Judging by the tightness in his jeans, he was turned on by it.

Tingles ran throughout your body. This was the moment for you to decide - you could either leave the room, like a normal person, or do something crazy.

You chose crazy.

Staring deep into Eunseok’s eyes, you stretched your thighs open.

Eunseok’s mouth fell open.

You pushed your panties down, and stuffed them in your pocket.

Everybody stopped talking. There were low whistles of admiration throughout the room. You laughed, shaking from the adrenaline rush.

Anton crawled over the floor towards you, wearing a lopsided grin.

Slowly, he stretched out his hand. It hovered over your pussy.

Eunseok’s hands wrapped around your waist, tight, but he did nothing.

Anton’s fingers brushed the red curls, making you stiffen.

He ran his thumb down from your clit, over your slick lips, to your hole.

Wetness oozed out.

Curiously, Anton pushed a finger in. There was a lewd sucking noise, and everyone in the room groaned in unison.

“Are you okay?” Eunseok whispered, but his hand was resting on the zip of your sparkly skirt, like he was itching to open it.

“I’m okay if you are,” you teased.

You weren’t just okay. This was the hottest thing that had ever happened to you.

Eunseok unzipped your skirt, and ran it off your legs with quick hands. Now, all you were wearing was the green bra, your freshly dyed hair visible to everyone.

Anton kept dragging his fingers up and down your slit, biting his lip and moaning. You felt Eunseok grow hard behind you.

Wonbin pushed next to him, brushing his dark hair out of his eyes to see clearer. His hand joined Anton’s, both of their fingers toying with your lips and spreading the slick around.

Anton pushed two fingers inside you, and you needed it so much you actually shuddered, nearly breaking free from Eunseok’s grasp. Wonbin tried to copy him by sticking his long, calloused fingers in too. Wonbin’s rings were icy against your flesh.

Stunned, you watched both mens’ fingers shove into your pussy as they fought to feel you deeper. Hastily, Wonbin pulled your thigh open, his broad shoulders jostling for space. Anton copied him, pushing your legs wider. The veins popped on their forearms as they thrust their fingers into you.

The attention from both men was too much. Your slit burned with the pressure.

You heard a musical clink of metal, and realised that Wonbin was opening his trousers. Throwing his head back, biting his lip, he stuffed his hand in his briefs and ran it up and down his dick in quick, desperate motions.

You froze for a moment, stunned. This was escalating faster than you’d expected. Were you ready to have sex with another man?

“Please,” Wonbin said, his eyes falling on you. “I need to. I’ll be quick, I promise.”

You turned, your eyes meeting Eunseok’s. He was frowning, his mouth hanging open, his face dark with blood. You couldn’t tell if he was aroused or furious.

“Baby,” you whispered. “We can stop. It’s okay if it’s too much.”

Eunseok blinked. “You want this?”

Laughing at yourself, you nodded. “I think so.”

Eunseok’s eyebrows pulled together. He looked like he might come in his pants any minute. “Do it,” he said, his voice choked.

Wonbin grabbed your thigh, the rough grasp of his hand unfamiliar.

He eased his cock out of his boxers, tugging them hastily down his knees.

You grabbed Wonbin’s hips to control him as he nudged his cock over your sensitive pussy hair. The burning hot press of his cock felt so good you shivered.

Wonbin pushed the tip inside you. Just the stretch of him made you suck in a breath. You lifted a hand to run your nails down Eunseok’s veined arm. It felt so good to have him there.

Then Wonbin thrust inside you, all the way, and you grit your teeth to stop yourself from coming right then. His cock was longer and narrower than Eunseok’s, and it was a world of difference.

His thrusts were shaky at first, but he gradually found his rhythm, dragging pleasure out of your body. The unfamiliar scent of his sweat filled your nose.

Wonbin made no effort to hide his pleasure, panting loudly as he stared straight at your pussy.

Anton’s fingers slipped between the two of you, skating over your clit every now and then and creating lightning sparks of pleasure.

Low moans filled the room, and you could vaguely see a figure moving in your peripheral vision, possibly Sungchan or Sohee, or maybe even Shotaro.

Wonbin thrust into you harder now, his sharp hips bruising yours, his hands digging into your waist. It was impossible for Anton to touch you now, so he just watched, open-mouthed as Eunseok’s hands groped your breasts from behind you.

Without warning, Eunseok unclasped your bra and slid it off you. He flicked your nipples with his thumbs the way you loved, making you moan. You were so overcome you barely realised that you were completely naked in a room full of Eunseok’s friends.

You felt warmth flood your legs as Wonbin silently orgasmed. You felt something warm trickle over your thigh.

You looked up, and saw him staring at you, wide-eyed. His face was flushed dark and his black hair shone with droplets of sweat. Your eyes met for the first time. He looked almost awkward.

This whole time, you felt Anton’s dark eyes on you. You knew what he wanted.

His hand ran up your bare thigh, his gaze trailing over your sticky body and resting between your thighs, where Wonbin’s cum must have been.

You stared straight back at him, fighting the urge to close your legs.

His tongue flashing over his lips, he held your thigh with one hand as he undid his zip and pulled his dick out with one hand. You could feel his hand shaking with excitement.

Anton didn’t ask you for permission. He just stared at you for a moment, and you sighed, shutting your eyes and relaxing into Eunseok’s strong arms.

You felt Eunseok stiffen around you, then Anton’s cock was nudging your hole. From the second you felt him, you knew he was big.

Your eyes flew open. Would it even fit?

You heard Anton’s breath stutter as he pushed in an inch, sweat shining over his thick adam’s apple.

He fucked you hard. Faster than Wonbin, with more force packed into each thrust.

For the first time, you moaned audibly, screwing your eyes shut at the shuddering waves of pleasure.

Anton’s hands reached out for you, and with a shiver, you realised your fingers were interlaced with his. It was suddenly too intimate. You suddenly wished Eunseok couldn’t see you like this, naked, held between three men, shuddering at the feeling of another man’s cock. But you were too far gone to stop.

“Eunseok, I’m coming-” you said, as your orgasm ran through you. You shuddered with overwhelming pleasure, your head falling back onto Eunseok’s shoulder.

Eunseok groaned, and shuddered behind you. A wet spot spread over his trousers where you were sitting.

“Fuck,” Anton said, screwing his eyes shut as he came, his cum joining Wonbin’s inside you.

“Fuck,” Wonbin said, watching from the floor.

A chorus of groans from the other men in the room revealed that no one had missed what had happened.

You laughed, breathless, lust and shock and embarrassment mingling inside you. You felt hungry enough to eat a horse. You felt tired enough to fall asleep on the spot. Honestly, you had no idea what you wanted.

All you knew was that you and Eunseok had crossed a line, and you would never be able to go back. But maybe that was a good thing.

“Basically,” you whispered to Eunseok. “I dyed my pussy hair red.”

Your boyfriend laughed, his voice low and husky. “Ahh… I knew something was different.”

---

kinktober masterlist 🎃 MAIN MASTERLIST

he laughed quietly. the sound rumbling through his chest. "baby, you literally just spoke."

"sleep talking."

"uh huh." his fingers kept their gentle movement through your hair with it occasionally scratching lightly at your scalp in a way that made you want to purr. "you drooled on me again, by the way."

you finally cracked one eye open, spotting the small wet patch on his chest. "oops."

"it's fine. kinda cute actually." but he still hadn't put his phone down. he was still scrolling through what looked like instagram but his attention was clearly divided. his other hand moved from your hair to trace patterns on your back. his fingertips were slipping just barely under the hem of his shirt you wore. "wonbin posted pictures from yesterday. we look good."

"mm." you pressed closer as your leg hooking over his. the sudden movement made his breath hitch slightly and you felt him tense before relaxing again.

"you're really warm," he said finally tilting his head to look down at you. his glasses were slightly crooked on his face and his hair was an absolute mess. it looked cute but it sticking up in weird angles. he looked soft and sleepy and unfairly attractive. "like a little space heater."

"what! no, you're the warm one." you nuzzled into his neck trying to breath him in. "you're always warm."

"thats good. it means you'll stay close." his hand on your back pressed slightly, encouraging you to move even closer even though there was literally no space left between you. "closer."

"toni, i'm basically on top of you already."

"not close enough." he set his phone down on his chest using his now free hand to pull you more firmly against him. both arms wrapped around you tightly with one hand resuming its place in your hair while the other splayed across your lower back. "there. better."

you laughed against his skin, your breath making him shiver. "clingy..."

"you are always complainging." he said jokingliy as his fingers found the ends of your hair, twirling the strands. through his glasses, you could see his eyes were still half lidded. he was sleepy despite being awake. "what time is it?"

"i have no idea and i dont really care."

"good answer." he picked his phone back up with one hand, the other never stopping its gentle movements on your back. you felt him press a kiss to the top of your head, casual and affectionate. "sungchan's asking if we want to get lunch later."

"what'd you say?"

"haven't answered yet. kinda don't want to leave this bed though."

"we should probably eat at some point."

"yeah, but like. later later." his thumb brushed across your spine and you felt goosebumps rise despite the soft warm touch warmth. "we have nowhere to be. no schedules. so its just us and this bed and all the time in the world."

you hummed in agreement as your hand moving from his tponed stomach to his chest. the feeling his heartbeat under your palm was steady and reassuring. anton's hand left your hair to catch yours. he brought it up to his lips to press a kiss to your knuckles before placing it back on his chest, his hand covering yours.

"i see that you're really clingy in the mornings," you noted though you made no move to pull away.

"im only like this with you." he said as he began to scroll through his phone again but you could feel his attention on you. the way his body was angled toward yours, the way his hand kept moving on your back like he couldn't help himself. "gotta make up for all the mornings i woke up alone in hotel rooms."

"you're gonna be sick of me by the end of your break."

"that is impossible." he said it with such certainty that it made your chest warm. his fingers found the hem of his shirt you were wearing, playing with the fabric. "you look good in my clothes, by the way. like, extremely good."

"really?"

"yeah. you should wear them more often. well all the time, actually." you felt him grin against your hair. "just have you walk around in my clothes forever."

"they are very comfortable."

"they look better on you anyways." his hand slid up your back over your shoulder to cup your cheek. he tilted your face up toward his. the glasses on his face were still crooked and you reached up to straighten them. he wrinkled his nose at the adjustment but smiled. "hi."

"you keep saying hi."

"can't help it. i look at you and the word just comes out." he leaned down to kiss you, soft and lazy, like you had all the time in the world. which, technically, you did. when he pulled back, his thumb brushed across your cheekbone. "your face is all puffy from sleep. it's cute."

"shut up."

"it is though." he kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips again. "you're cute. all sleepy and warm and in my shirt." his hand moved back to your hair, fingers carding through it. "this is my favorite version of you. morning you. all soft and cuddly."

"i'm not cuddly though."

"baby, you're literally wrapped around me like a koala right now."

he had a point. your leg was still hooked over his, your arm across his stomach, your face buried in his neck. you were basically using him as a full body pillow. "okay, maybe i am a little cuddly."

he hummed in amusement. his phone buzzed with another notification and then he glanced at it briefly before setting it face down on his chest. "okay, that's enough phone time. you're way more interesting anyway."

"but i'm half asleep."

"exactly. its the best type of entertainment." both his arms wrapped around you properly now with one hand in your hair and the other drawing circles on your back. "so tell me about your dreams."

"didn't have any."

"boring! make something up."

you laughed. the sound muffled against his skin. "why?"

"because i like hearing you talk. and because we're doing the lazy morning thing properly, which means pointless conversations about nothing." he adjusted slightly somehow pulling you even closer. his leg tangled with yours, and he let out a satisfied sigh. "there. perfect. now talk to me."

"about what?"

"anything. everything. what you're thinking about right now."

"i'm thinking about how you need a haircut."

his hand paused in your hair. "ok rude."

"it's getting long." you reached up to run your fingers through it and he immediately leaned into the touch like a cat. "i like it though."

"yeah?" he sounded pleased. "shotaro said i look like a mop."

"shotaro's just jealous."

"true." his fingers found yours in his hair, pulling your hand down to kiss your palm before placing it back. "keep doing that. feels nice."

you obliged. your fingers scratching lightly at his scalp like he did to you. playing with his messy hair. anton made a low, contented sound, his eyes falling shut behind his glasses. "you're gonna put me back to sleep."

"good because you barely slept on tour."

"how do you know that?"

"wonbin posts you guys on weverse at like 1am regularly. and you facetimed me from the tour bus at 3am multiple times."

"okay, fair." he cracked one eye open to look at you. "but i'm home now and you're here. so i'll sleep better."

"you better."

"little bossy here..." but he was smiling. it was soft and affectionate. his hand slid under the shirt you were wearing again, palm warm against your skin. "you're so soft. how are you this soft?"

"lotion."

"what kind? i'm buying ten bottles."

you laughed and he looked so proud of himself for making you laugh that he pulled you up slightly to kiss you again. this one lasted longer though, it was slow and sweet. his hand was now cradling the back of your head. when you finally broke apart, you were both slightly breathless.

"okay, new plan," anton said, his voice rougher now. "we stay in this bed forever. never leave. we can just exist right here."

"we have to eat eventually."

"delivery exists." his hand was back to tracing patterns on your back, his touch light and soothing. "and we have water bottles on the nightstand. we're set."

"what about showering?"

"overrated."

"toni."

"okay, fine. we can shower together so we can conserve water. its very environmentally friendly of us." he grinned at your expression. "what? i'm being practical."

"you're being clingy again like a puppy."

"same thing." he shifted towards you again. he rolled slightly so more of his weight pressed against you, his face finding your neck now. "your turn to be the pillow."

"ugh you're heavy."

"you'd love me anyway." his lips brushed against your neck and you felt him smile when your breath hitched. "knew it."

"knew what?"

"that you're just as affected by me as i am by you." his nose traced up your neck to your jaw. "you get all shivery when i do this." he demonstrated by pressing soft kisses along your jawline.

"confident anton is really dangerous to my wellbeing."

"nope. confident anton is honest." he pulled back to look at you. his glasses sliding down his nose slightly. when you pushed them back up, he caught your hand. then he pressed a kiss to your wrist. "three months away gave me a lot of time to think about all the things i wanted to do when i got home."

"oh yeah? like what?"

"like this." he kissed you again. "and this." his hand slid up your side. "and definitely this." he rolled you both so you were tucked against his side again, his arm tight around you. "just you know, being able to hold you and touch you. all the things i couldn't do over facetime."

your hand found his chest again tracing patterns on his skin. "i missed you."

"good." he caught your hand interlacing your fingers. "because you're stuck with me now. at least for the next three days."

"only three days?"

"okay, forever then. you're stuck with me forever." he said it lightly but there was something underlying that made your heart skip. "thats okay with you?"

"obviously. yeah," you said softly. "that's okay with me."

his smile was brilliant when he pulled you closer to him. his face buried in your hair. "perfect. absolutely perfect." his hand found yours again, fingers threading together. "now can we please go back to sleep? i'm tired, you're comfortable and this is literally the best morning ever."

"we just woke up."

"and now we're going back to sleep. it's called a lazy morning for a reason, baby." he was already settling in, his breathing evening out. "wake me up in like two hours so i can kiss you some more."

"that's your plan? sleep and kissing?"

"it's a perfect plan." his arms tightened around you one last time. "love you. even if you do drool on me."

"love you too, toni."

"mmh. good." and then he was drifting off. his body relaxing completely as his hold on you never loosened. you felt his breathing deepen and felt the way he unconsciously pulled you closer even in his slee. you let yourself relax too. letting yourself sink into the comfort and safety of being held by him.

the sun continued to paint golden patterns across the room, the world outside moved on, but in this moment, time felt frozen. just you and anton wrapped up in each other exactly where you wanted to be after missing each other for moths.

You lift the tiny black tube like a trophy. “One—perfectly legal—eyeliner. Waterproof. Hypoallergenic. Not responsible for life decisions.”

Anton snorts. “We’re doing a fake tattoo, not a binding contract.”

“Yeah, but still. Waterproof. Foolproof. Regret-proof.”

“Is it artist-proof?”

“No such thing,” you say.

He laughs—quiet, but real—and gestures for you to come inside the living room. You do, trying not to notice the lazy confidence in his movements, or the fact that your heartbeat’s already pretending to be percussion.

“Where do you want me?” he asks.

You glance up from the coffee table, where you’re unboxing the eyeliner. “For the tattoo or… in general?”

He raises a brow. “For the tattoo.”

“Shame,” you say before you can stop yourself. He blinks—once, slow—and you’re the first to look away.

“You say that now.”

He steps back so you can pass, and you feel it again—the hush that likes to sit in the space right by your ribs when he’s close.

You’re just friends.

You have been for so long that the word has grown complicated edges. But it still fits the mouth, most days.

Friends who trade playlists and send each other pictures of ugly cafés that serve perfect coffee. Friends who know exactly when to push and when to shut up. Friends who, apparently, draw temporary tattoos on each other’s stomachs because some friend made an offhand comment about Anton “maybe trying an ink moment one day,” and your brain took a running jump at the idea.

The living room is half studio. Coiled cables asleep under the desk. A cello leaning in the corner like a tall, patient friend. He has that small lamp on—the one that throws a pool of amber light over the rug, as if you’re supposed to confess something in it. You make yourself busy instead, setting your bag on the couch, rolling up your sleeves, twisting the eyeliner open to check the fineness of the felt tip.

“You’re really trusting me with this?” you tease. “A needle would be more permanent, but probably less wiggly.”

“I trust you,” he says, simple as a chord played clean. No rust, no drama. It lands somewhere low and steady.

You try not to show what the word does to your pulse. “Okay then. Design brief time.”

He wanders to the speaker, puts on something you both love—piano that threads through a lo-fi drum like a heartbeat that won’t call itself that. “Nothing too much,” he says. “Just…lines. Under the ribs. Maybe something that follows the muscle. If we hate it, we wipe and start over.”

“If we hate it, you pretend it’s art,” you correct, and he laughs, soft.

It’s absurd how many years you’ve known the choreography of his laugh. The way it starts quiet and widens, like the moment sound engineers push the fader up and up until the track sits perfectly in the mix.

You watched that happen slowly with him: the shy boy who learned to speak more where the music didn’t, the young man who asks you what you think and actually waits.

He pulls his hoodie over his head and tosses it onto the arm of the couch, unhurried, absolutely sure you will not combust. You won’t. You won’t. You will set the eyeliner down gently on the coffee table instead of clutching it like salvation.

Beneath the white tee there is a line where cloth ends and skin begins, and then his hands hook the hem, and the shirt lifts. When he lifts off his shirt, you think maybe this was a terrible idea. His shirt rides up just enough to show the edges of toned skin, and you swear the air gets heavier.

“I thought you said we’d draw, not stare,” he says lightly.

“I’m visualizing the composition,” you mutter, rolling up your sleeves. “Don’t distract the artist.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

He’s teasing, but there’s warmth under the words, a familiarity that makes your stomach do something traitorous. You kneel on the rug, holding the eyeliner like it’s a scalpel. He leans back a little—enough for the lamplight to fall over his stomach, the faint rise and fall of breath.

“Hey,” he says, as if you’re already halfway to the door. “You okay?”

“Yup,” you say, with the voice of someone who absolutely does not notice the soft map of his abdomen, the lines like brackets around breath. “Just trying to remember where I put—”

“The eyeliner is in your hand,” he says, and you look down to find it there, snug against your fingers like something that knows more than you do.

“Right.” You clear your throat and turn toward him. “Okay. Lay down. I need a flat canvas.”

He settles on the edge of the couch, spine a careful line, knees a little open. He’s taller without the hoodie, somehow. He has always been all long lines and quiet strength, like his instrument. You kneel on the rug, and now the space between your bodies is just air—warm, shared, thin.

The lamp hums. The music drips time.

You try not to let your brain wire elsewhere.

The first stroke is tentative, a thin line tracing the edge of his ribs. The felt tip glides easily, the skin warm under your touch. His abs tense slightly—involuntary—and you can’t tell if it’s from nerves or something else.

“Ticklish?” you ask, half-smile, half-dare.

“A little,” he admits. “You’re… close.”

You try to make it sound like you don’t notice. “That’s kind of the point.”

He huffs a laugh, eyes flicking toward you—then staying there. It’s too quiet after that. Just the sound of your breath and the soft drag of eyeliner. You move to draw another line, your knuckles brushing him by accident. His breath catches.

You don’t apologize.

“Do you know,” he says after a moment, voice lower, “you do this thing every time?”

“Do what?”

“Pretend you’re fine.”

You blink, keep your gaze fixed on the line you’re drawing. “I am fine.”

He hums, unconvinced. “Right. That’s why your hand’s shaking.”

You scoff, though your pulse jumps. “Maybe you’re just a bad canvas.”

“Maybe you’re just nervous,” he murmurs, leaning slightly closer.

You look up, ready with something sharp, but he’s already watching you—eyes dark, expression unreadable. The room feels too small.

You grin, because that’s what you do when you’re cornered. “If I was nervous,” you say, “it’s only because I don’t want to ruin your abs. They deserve better art direction.”

He laughs, quiet and breathy, but doesn’t look away. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you say, “you keep inviting me over.”

The smile lingers on his face, but something shifts in the air—the playful tone stretches thin, and underneath it hums something older.

You change the topic.

“So,” you say, because words are a kind of lid and you need one. “We’re tracing the obliques. Maybe a curve like this…” Your hand hovers at his hip, not touching yet. “…and then a thin line running up here. Think calligraphy. Minimal. Pretend I’m ink and you’re paper.”

“Poetic,” he murmurs, and when you dare to glance up, he’s wearing that look—the one that means he’s watching you think. He does it like you’re a good song. You feel seen and flattered and terrified.

“I’ll start light,” you tell him. “If it tickles, don’t laugh. You’ll ruin my masterpiece.”

“Would never,” he says.

You use the back of your knuckles first, easing your hand against the warmth of him, letting your skin tell your brain this is real. He inhales, slow—heavy, and the muscles shift under your touch like fish under clear water.

You have painted hundreds of lines in your life.

None of them were on him.

Careful.

You put felt to skin and draw the first small stroke, a testing dash along the slope of his hip. The eyeliner leaves a narrow ribbon, dark and obedient. You’re close enough to see goosebumps pebble and fade. His hand, relaxed on his knee, tightens just a fraction. Not a flinch. More like a hello.

“Cold?” you ask.

“Fine,” he says. His voice comes out lower than it was a second ago.

Years, you think. Years of this. Years of cups warming your hands on his couch while he mixes a bass line, years of walking side by side and never bumping shoulders because it would break the spell, years of hungry jokes that you both pretend are just jokes.

Well, who’s to blame, honestly?

You add a second stroke, curving the line to hug the edge of his abdomen. The felt tip glides. You are absurdly, disastrously careful. You want the tattoo to look effortless; you want your hands not to shake; you want not to want this so hard you can taste it. You breathe and the scented lamp breathes with you. It smells like someone’s kitchen at night.

The second stroke finishes.

“Do another one here,” he says, voice lower, bringing your hand in his and guiding it just above his waist.

You ignore how warm his hand engulfs yours.

You move the eyeliner there, trying not to tremble. “Bossy.”

“You like that,” he says, almost absentmindedly.

Your hand hesitates for half a second—enough for him to notice. His eyes lift to yours, and the faint curve of his lips is gone now.

“Anton,” you start, but he only tilts his head.

“What?”

“This is—”

“Nothing?” he finishes for you, soft but edged.

You don’t answer. You draw instead—the thin black line curving just above his waist, the shape of something you can’t name. Your hand lingers too long, your thumb brushing over the line to “smooth” it. His breath hitches again, and that’s when you realize how close you’ve gotten—the space between you measured in heartbeats now.

His voice drops. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Playing.”

You set the eyeliner down carefully, because suddenly your hands don’t feel steady at all. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not.”

You force a smile, leaning back. “You’re the one who asked me to draw on you. Don’t make it weird.”

“It’s already weird,” he says, and there’s no teasing left in it—just quiet honesty.

You swallow. “Then maybe we stop before it gets worse.”

A pause. Silence.

You clear your throat. “Look down?”

He looks, and for a second your eyes meet across the distance of his torso, as if your gaze could touch him too. You don’t want to think about what the gaze intended—what it thought of behind that head.

You blink first. You always blink first. It has kept you safe and starved in equal measure.

“Okay,” you say, swallowing. “Now the thin accent line—here.” You hover the tip just under the nearest rib, trace a path you can already see. It’s a dangerous place to write. If you misjudge the curve, the whole design will feel off. The thought makes your hands quieter, steadier.

“Breathe,” he says, breathlessly. You’re not sure who he’s telling. You exhale anyway. The line appears where you want it, a simple arc, intimate in its simplicity. You could stop now and it would already look like something meant.

“You’re really good at this,” he adds, and you almost ruin the next stroke.

“I draw things all the time. You know this.” You hear your own voice, bright with a kind of practiced carelessness you could probably sell for money.

“Not like this,” he says, softer. “Not…on me.”

The song changes. The piano keeps talking.

“You’re going to smudge it if you keep flattering me,” you warn, because banter is a fence and fences keep the deer out. You nudge his knee with the back of your hand, a friendly press.

He takes it as you meant it; you wish he wouldn’t, and also that he would.

He goes quiet then—comfortably quiet, the way he gets when he’s focusing. You draw three more lines: one that echoes the curve you made, one that cuts across at a deliberate angle, one that disappears into the hollow near his side like a secret. The design starts to grow bones. It looks like motion. It looks like restraint. It looks—goodness help you—like longing you can see.

Anton shifts just enough to bring him closer, leaning back on his hands to get a better view. The shift pulls his body long, the clean stretch of stomach a map your fingers want to memorize. The move also brings his face down toward yours, closing the altitude until you could count each of his lashes if you were rude enough to stare.

You are not rude; you are a coward. You look at the tattoo instead, and because you’re a professional at pretending, your voice comes out light. “We’re halfway. You doing okay? Need a break?”

“I’m good.” He’s watching you again. “You’re the one concentrating like you’re defusing a bomb.”

“I am.” You add a tiny dot at the end of one line, a punctuation. “There are very few absolutes in this world, but ruining your abs on a Tuesday would be one of them.”

He laughs, and the sound tips your line a hair; you catch it, correct it, make the tilt look purposeful. It’s a small miracle. He watches you pull off the save like he expected it, like he knows how your brain thinks around mistakes. He has known you so long that of course he does.

“Do you want this to mean something?” you ask, and it’s a question about the tattoo, and also not. “Or just pretty lines?”

His gaze flickers to your mouth and back—not in a way that presumes, just a low, honest circuit that makes your breath stumble. “Everything means something,” he says, and then, gentler: “Even if we don’t say it.”

You’re the one to look away again. You are always the one to step back onto the safe part of the path. “Okay,” you murmur, businesslike. “Then it means ‘good angles and symmetry.’”

You work in silence for a while—not empty silence, but the charged kind that asks for attention without making demands. Every time the felt touches him, his stomach tightens slightly, then eases. Every time your hand braces at his side, heat collects under your palm like a secret that doesn’t want to be secret anymore. You place another line and see him swallow. You pretend not to.

A memory moves through you—the third winter of your friendship, when he let you put your freezing hands under his sleeves while you both waited for the night bus. He didn’t joke. He just held still. That’s what he does: he holds still for you in a world that doesn’t.

If you were braver, you would say something now. If you were reckless, you would press your mouth to the clean skin by the sharp new line you’ve drawn and make your mark in two inks at once. Instead you wear the same old disguise: You paint and you talk about nothing.

“Do you think,” you ask, “you’d ever get a real one? For real?”

“Maybe,” he says. “If I found the thing I wanted to keep.”

Your hand stutters and recovers. “Hm.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” You’re almost done. That makes something in you panic. The scene will end; the spell will break. You will put the cap back on the eyeliner and say something chirpy, and he will pull his shirt down and you will go back to being people who only sometimes stand so close the room feels the size of a breath.

You draw the last small curve, a grace note that pulls the whole design together. It is undeniably beautiful. It is also unbearable.

“Okay,” you say, too fast. “That’s it. Don’t move for, like, thirty seconds. I’ll—uh—grab tissues? In case I need to clean an edge.”

You rock back on your heels, already retreating, reaching for the coffee table, for your bag, for anything that looks like distance. Your heart’s doing that runaway thing—it doesn’t trust you either.

“Hey,” he says, and it’s soft, warning and wonder together. You keep going anyway. You toss the eyeliner in your bag, rummage like the right napkin will make this a different story.

“Looks good,” you say—brisk, bright, safe. “I’ll take a picture, send it to you, you can decide if you want me to redo any—”

“Quit.” The single word is gentle, but it hits like a hand catching the back of your sweater just before you step off a curb you didn’t see. “Stop playing.”

You blink. “What?”

“Quit pretending this doesn’t mean anything,” he says, voice low, steady. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Anton—”

He leans forward, the motion slow, deliberate, until you can feel his breath near your cheek. “You keep pulling away like I’m going to let you,” he murmurs. “Like I don’t notice.”

Your throat feels tight. “If I don’t?”

His smile is small, almost sad. “Then maybe I do.”

You freeze. Your fingers close uselessly around nothing. You tell yourself you don’t know what he means.

You do.

He leans forward, and the couch sighs with him. Your name in his mouth is quieter than the lamp hum, but you hear it fine. One of his hands comes down to the rug, steadying. The other finds yours where it’s busy being frantic inside your bag. He doesn’t pull. He just covers your hand with his own—warm over warm—and you realize how long you’ve been cold.

“Anton,” you start, and the word is a little frayed. You pull back out of habit; his fingers follow, not trapping, just present. You are good at this—the art of slipping sideways, the quick joke, the neat turn into less. It has saved you a hundred times. It has cost you, too.

“Look at me,” he says.

You do. You always do, in the end.

He isn’t smug or triumphant or anything you could fight against. He’s steady. His eyes are the same quiet as the cello in the corner. He looks down at the design you drew on him, then up again. You know what it says. You wrote it.

“I like our lines,” he says. “All of them. The ones on me and the ones between us. But this—” His thumb lifts, barely there, skimming the back of your hand like the promise of a stroke you could still draw. “This thing you do. The way you make it a game.”

“It’s not a game,” you say, too quickly. Your face is hot. The room shrinks to the radius of your joined hands.

“I know,” he says. “That’s the point.”

You could joke. You could tell him to practice his cryptic producer lines somewhere else. You could find a sentence that sends you back up onto the river path where the air is thin and safe. You feel all the old exits like doors in a hallway you could sprint. None of them feel like air.

He tilts his head, a tiny, helpless smile breaking through like the sun under thick clouds. “You’re a major tease,” he says, but it’s not accusation, not cruel; it sounds almost fond, like he’s naming a mischievous cat that keeps knocking pens off the desk. “And I don’t mind—most days. I like when you’re here, in whatever way. But I—” He exhales. “I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t know what this is.”

For a moment, neither of you move. The world narrows to lamplight, the faint scent of tea, the warmth of his hand as it finds your wrist. His thumb grazes your pulse—a barely-there touch, but it unravels you anyway.

You breathe his name—not quite a word, not quite a warning—and the sound seems to undo something in both of you.

He exhales slowly, eyes dropping to your lips, then back up, like he’s asking without asking.

You could close the distance. You could make it easy.

But you just whisper, “Anton…” and let the silence hang there—heavy, suspended, the kind that hums right before something gives.

And when his forehead touches yours—barely, just enough to feel it—you don’t move. You let the moment breathe. You let the question stay unanswered.

The eyeliner is still open on the table, black and waiting, but neither of you look at it again.

You breathe heavily now, feeling his breath on yours as you wait on nothing.

“Tell me you don’t want this.” He whispers, his eyes desperately searching yours for a dare to deny once again.

You swallow your breath, your answer.

“Tell me. Use your words.” He pleads, brows furrowed in frustration though his roaming hand already reaches for your hip.

It presses gently on your hip, and only when he used his thumb to circle patterns on them did you break.

“I want this, Anton,” You confess, like a forbidden secret just unfolded—and his adam’s apple bobs from swallowing earnestly, “I want you.”

For a second, the world paused. Like an almost. Almost, the thread snaps. Almost, your emotions burst out of the jar you forced it into.

And then.

And then you bring your gaze up to his, and the clock ticks once more.

He pushes his lips on yours—hungry and starved and wanting more.

You grip his forearm to stabilize yourself, not expecting the impact and letting out a noise of surprise.

Somehow, that encouraged him more.

His other hand held the other side of your hip, and in an instant—as if you weigh nothing, he lifts you up and reverses your positions, holding your hips steady as he pushes you down on the couch.

He deepens the kiss, and you let him, hands latching onto his hair as years and years of pent up frustration releases.

Years of ignoring the obvious tension. Years of toying around thin ice.

You part after a while, short of breath and dazed.

“Do you like it?” you ask, and you’re not asking about lines.

He gives you that look. Midsummer, all warmth, all patience—except that earnest longing he hid underneath is obvious now. “Yeah,” he says, still catching his breath back. “I like it.”

You laugh—a little wrecked around the edges, but it feels good. You reach for the eyeliner again, not to flee this time but to ground yourself in the thing that brought you here. “One last dot,” you announce, “so the composition feels intentional.”

“Everything’s intentional,” he says, and you shake your head because he stole your line and made it better. He watches you place the dot, a tiny star where two arcs nearly meet. He watches like it’s also his story.

“Don’t move,” you murmur, and he doesn’t. You blow gently across the fresh ink and he shudders. The air returns to your lungs like it’s been waiting.

“Photo?” you ask.

“For me,” he says, possessive—“Not for anyone else.”—but it’s not a rule; it’s a wish.

You nod, and you’re gentle with the angle, with the light, with the possessiveness in both your chests that doesn’t demand an explanation tonight. The photo captures shadow and line and the hint of your fingers near the edge of the frame.

You send it to him. His phone hums on the table; he doesn’t check it. He looks at you.

Only you. Only ever you.

And perhaps, under the moonlight, the both of you were always supposed to happen, no matter how far you try to run.

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