#*hanllucination

Chan seems worn out and tired, but he offers you a smile anyway. It’s warm and familiar and… and something else you recognize but can’t begin to think about. He holds his hand up by your ear and tucks your hair behind it.

“Hi,” he breathes.

You nuzzle into his hand, subconsciously stepping forward, further, responding in the same manner, “Hi. I’m cooking dinner for us.”

It’s so easy to fall into step with him. He finds his way into the middle of your apartment, immediately setting down everything in his hands down the old coffee table. You glance at the paper bag (“That’s just some leftover snacks, if you want it!” he says without you needing to ask), crumpled at the top where Chan had held it, his phone beside it. His small pouch rests at the corner of your small couch.

(He sets them down gently, carefully, methodically, in the same way he set down his heart, some years ago, in the middle of the street after a few drinks at a small, snobbish club. I love you. You held onto his arm, seeking warmth. I love you.)

“It smells good,” he sniffs exaggeratedly, walking towards the stove. “What are you cooking?” he asks as he lifts the glass lid, steam wafting through the air and the aroma of the food becoming stronger.

“Just some veggie soup. The temperature’s starting to drop, don’t you think?” you tell him, chuckling to yourself a little. “Are you hungry? It’ll be ready in around ten minutes. Could you wait a little longer? I have some snacks in the fridge, if you want.”

His lips break into a grin, and you think it’s beginning to form a small laugh on his tongue. You rambled again, and years ago you would’ve been embarrassed, covering your mouth in shame. I love the way you talk, he had told you. You don’t have to hold anything back. I hope you can be comfortable with me.

“It’s fine,” he shakes his head, cheeky and teasing. You sigh jokingly, and he puts the lid back onto the pot before turning back to you. “I’m actually less hungry and more—icky? I need to wash up, I mean. S’been a long day.”

“By all means,” you nod, gesturing to the bathroom. It says a lot more than, yes, you can do that. It also says, your clothes have been in the same place they’ve always been. Your toothbrush, the soap you specifically use because your skin is a lot more sensitive than mine, your towels, everything… they’re still here. “Food’ll be ready by the time you’re done.”

Chan scratches the back of his head, looking down at his feet before he looks back at you, sheepish. He takes a few steps towards you until his hands reach your shoulders—he does just that, rubbing his thumbs on the exposed skin of your collarbone before tilting his head.

“Help me wash up?”

Your face immediately burns up, lips tensing at the suggestion. He knows you weren’t one to like showering together; it’s cramped, a waste of water, and overall impractical. You’d sometimes join him, sure, but the majority of the time you’d politely decline. Chan respects that. He always does.

There’s something about this suggestion now. Something different, something… greedy. A plea, almost. You think he starts to breathe a little heavier with each passing second of your silence, and his hooded eyes wait for the answer on your face.

You think you need this, too.

You nod at him, quickly closing in the gap and placing a small, brief kiss on his lips. He immediately gets his arms around you, but before he could make anything out of it, you pull away. You don’t know if he realizes it but you feel the way his lips chase yours when you move back. Your chest swells at your realization.

“Ten minutes, Chan,” you tease, placing another kiss on his cheek. “Don’t wanna burn the apartment down.”

“I don’t like the veggies too cooked, though,” he clicks his tongue. “Here.”

He suddenly squats down, pulling you by the back of your thighs before carrying you in his arms. A small squeal leaves you before you could even process a reaction, and you had immediately grabbed onto his shoulders in fear of falling. He buries his nose into the skin of your neck and places his warm lips on it.

“Bang Chan! What the hell,” you scold him, hitting his shoulder with furrowed brows. “Impatient.”

Wriggling your way out of his hold proves no use. He holds onto you so firmly that you could only wrap your arms and legs around him tighter. You slap his back weakly, still startled from him carrying you without warning. He laughs onto your skin and you feel its tickle down your spine, flinching slightly with a laugh of your own. You feel his arms pull you tighter.

“We can do all that we need to do later,” he mumbles. “It can wait.”

There it is again. You hear it. A plea, but only subtle. Smooth in his voice, soft and supple. Like the thumbs that rub the skin on the sides of your thighs. He hikes you higher up his torso, and another breath leaves at the sudden little movement. You’re so tempted to give in.

“No. We eat first, then we wash up,” you insist, words leaving no room for argument. You hear a soft whine so you steady yourself with one hand on his shoulder, the other on his cheek. “Okay?”

He presses his lips on yours in response, deep and heavy. Its plushness moves against yours, and suddenly you’re down in your worn out barstool, back in the kitchen. The metal of the old seat creaks and Chan pulls away from you, breathless.

“Stay there, I’ll take care of this,” he presses a kiss to your forehead. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You know,” Chan starts, as if you just know. “Cooking for me. You didn’t have to.”

He doesn’t turn to you when he says it. The clicks of the stove struggling to reignite its flames resound and deep within your chest you think you also hear the same. Click click click. He grabs the wooden spoon just beside the sink and he stirs the soup, lifting it up once just to let the liquid dribble back down into the pot. You rest your cheek against your hand, elbow propped on the countertop.

You stare at his back and wonder how much of its dips and curves you’ve already memorized—how much of it you need to get to know more, the way they move and twitch and tremble under your touch. Beneath his black, slightly tight-fitting shirt, his shoulders visibly loosen up. He grabs two bowls from the cabinets above him and carefully spoons a hearty amount of soup into each.

It doesn’t take long before he sets up your dinner and finds himself on the stool beside yours. Neither of you say a word, tension still warm in the air, comforting—but toeing the line of awkward. The skin of his thigh brushes against yours sometimes, and you’re almost tempted to ask if it’s intentional. If he means it.

Contrary to his earlier impatience, Chan takes his time eating. He smiles when he catches you looking, and you laugh when he hums in satisfaction of a pleasant, albeit simple, dinner. The anticipation is prickling the skin on your shoulders, but you can’t seem to say a word. Chan finishes with a kiss on your cheek and a quiet mumble of another ‘thank you’ before he gathers the dishes to clean up.

It’s awful, thinking about this. You have no idea what’s on his mind right now, and you’re so close to breaking. This won’t do. You have to say something, or he has to say something. What was that all about earlier? What happened? Is he mad? Is he disappointed? What should you—

“Baby,” he calls gently, snapping you out of it—whatever it was. A detachment from the moment, from reality? A fear, maybe. Overthinking.

You barely realize that he’s in front of you again, standing between your knees, dishes forgotten in the sink. He brings a hand to your head and rubs a finger between your brows.

“I can almost hear you thinking,” he clicks his tongue. Then he presses a firm kiss on where his touch lingered. “I’m sorry. We’re fine. You can get in the shower and I’ll be with you in a second, hm?”

No words come out of your mouth. You shudder at the implication, at the tone of his want.

Maybe you’re thinking too much about this. Maybe it’s just another Wednesday of yours, just another time he’s here. A sharing of each other’s company in the quiet routine you’ve fallen into, built over the years. So you nod at him before padding over to your bathroom.

One by one, you strip off your clothes. It doesn’t take long; you’re in your most comfortable, anyway, since your plans were to just stay home. You never needed to impress Chan either. Whenever your fingers brush against your skin, a shiver crawls beneath your bones. There is warmth pooling in your chest—a desire that would burn you if it boils over.

But something feels… different. Like it’s all building to something neither of you is ready to name. The shower opens with a stutter and it’s hot the moment it touches your skin. You don’t mind, though—but Chan will, and you know that. You twist the tap ever so slightly, knowing exactly where it should turn for it to be warm enough to his liking. The temperature should calm you, but it doesn’t.

The way the water thrums against your skin, the tiled floor, the glass door… it’s all too much. It irks you—feeling every drop, reminded of his touch: gentle, deliberate, lingering. Then, you hear your blood pulsating in your ears. You tilt your head back, letting the water cascade over your face. It should calm you, but it doesn’t.

The door creaks open and you feel a slight breeze of chill from behind you, like a wind passing, carrying with it an odd mix of anticipation and vulnerability. It’s not like Chan is trying to be quiet. He knows you’d expect him. He asked for you to be there. There’s a moment of stillness, save for the water pattering around you. Then, the faint rustling of clothes, a slow whistle of fabric sliding down the floor. Your pulse quickens.

It doesn’t take long before you feel him behind you, close enough to stir the air around but not yet touching you. You don’t turn to look at him—your breath catches as if doing so would make the moment too real, too raw, like everything would cease to exist with one wrong move. But you feel him. His warmth is unmistakable, radiating through the steam, undeniable and grounding, a stark contrast to the chill that had briefly brushed your spine. It couldn’t be anything or anyone else. It’s him, always him, cutting through the steam like sunlight through fog.

And maybe that’s how his presence has always been, how he really is: sun, sunlight, sunshine. A warmth you can’t help but lean into, even when it burns.

Chan is the first to break the silence. “Hi,” he simply says before he kisses the skin where your neck and shoulder meet. His hands soon follow, soothing the soreness of your muscles with a gentle massage. You whimper quietly.

“Hi,” you manage to respond moments after.

Chan rests his forehead on the back of your head, stopping you from turning around when you make that first little step. He pulls you closer to his body, your back flush against his chest and you feel it heave in along with his breathing. With every exhale through his nose the air grows heavier.

“Don’t,” he breathes. “Stay there. I’ll wash you.”

“I want to see you, though,” you try to complain, but the words fall weak on your tongue. “Chan?”

“Later.”

You feel him stretch his arm to the side, and your peripheral catches his hand reaching for the bottle of liquid on the small shelf mounted in the corner of the shower, just a bit of an arm away from your head. You lean innocently onto him but his breath hitches, taking you a bit by surprise.

As if that would stop you.

You continue to rub your behind onto him under the guise of needing warmth and seeking softness, and his breathing falters with each minute. He rubs his hands together, soapy and slippery, before rubbing it all along your body in seemingly random but nonetheless tender patterns. He starts with your arms, then he moves to your shoulders, your back, your legs, from back to front—leaning forward to reach further, then to your waist. His hand inches to your center, where you need it most, and you could almost feel the tease in his touch. He reaches for another pump of soap before he brushes his fingers onto the skin of your abdomen. It twitches with the gasp you couldn’t catch before it’s out of your mouth, and you suddenly jolt your hips back towards his, a movement you couldn’t control.

And Chan whimpers. It’s low and hushed, almost too quiet if his lips weren’t all up in your ear. The moment halts and the warmth that pooled in your chest moves down and you like it. So you do it again, pressing back into his body further. And again, wiggling until his cock catches against your lower back. And again, feeling him holding himself back.

Then he grips your arms to steady you. That doesn’t stop his hardness from pushing against the dip of your lower spine. Then you whimper. He still keeps you turned away from him.

“Stop moving,” he grits. “You’re so needy, aren’t you?”

You don’t even try to deny that. How could you, when he moves his right forearm to wrap around your chest, his left hand just below your abdomen. Close, but not enough. He toys with the skin that it frustrates you. It’s so close. You try to stand on your tiptoes, moving yourself closer to where you need his hand to be but he holds you with his arm firmly enough to keep you in place. His hand leaves your abdomen to catch the water from the shower, washing off the soap.

“I said,” he whispers into your ear, tone rough, “stop moving.”

Then he finally, finally touches you. His finger traces your slit lightly, the stroke almost too subtle to feel. Your legs immediately draw close together, and Chan supports you when you almost lose balance. He sighs in your ear, a short, small laugh following the prod of his finger into your core.

In a desperate attempt to stop his teasing, you could only cry out his name. “Chan,” your voice shakes, and you hold onto the arm around your chest in an attempt to ground yourself, to keep yourself together. “Please.”

“Just a little more, my love,” he starts, still moving a single finger—God fucking damn it, only a single one—up and down your folds. “And I’ll give you what you want.”

Your chest quivers with deep, uneven breaths. You hold out as best as you can, keeping your desire from bursting and it burns you. Please. There is only a word in your head, clouded and hazy. Like a mantra, a chant. Please. Please.

“So good,” Chan praises, and you swear you could hear the smile in his voice which only sharpens the greed clawing at your core. Desperate to feel more, to take more.

But between you and him, it’s not your job to take more. That’s Chan’s. That’s him, since the beginning.

So he takes.

He pushes a finger into you and right then and there you feel that you could just give everything you could ever offer for his taking. It feels as if he belongs there, as if you are shaped for nothing but his touch. He pulls his finger out a bit before pushing it back deeper, into a place you’ve never reached for the past month on your own, or the past year, or ever.

Chan finds a steady pace, slow and deliberate strokes exploring your wetness. Still only a single finger, and you are so tempted to curse him out, to demand more—but you know how patience drives pleasure. There is no choice but to wait. He recognizes it and he whispers another praise in your ear, “You are doing so good, baby.”

You feel another finger teasing your sensitive bud, and not long after there are two fingers parting your slick folds with practiced ease. Your knees buckle in surrender to the pleasure. It feels so hot, as if each movement fans the flames in your core and with every touch Chan leaves trails of pleasure. You’re almost gasping, like you’re running out of breath.

It’s not your job to take more, but this is something only Chan could give. He is giving it to you right now. What else are you supposed to do but take it?

You move your hand from his forearm around your chest to the nape of his neck clumsily. He shifts slightly, letting go of your torso and gripping your thigh to hold it up and oh. Your grasp falters and his fingers remain relentless in giving you the rhythm your body demands. He curls them inside you and you almost choke.

Despite still having your back flushed to his chest, you crane your neck to at least feel his lips against your cheeks. Soft moans are hovering at the edge of your mouth, cries on the verge of slipping out. You struggle to find your voice, lost among the steam, but you try nonetheless.

“Chan–ah,” your voice wavers with a moan. “Please, Chan… I– kiss. Please, kiss.”

You feels Chan’s body tremble behind you, hips bucking that his cock brushes against the curve of your ass. You whimper, and you let it out freely this time.

“Fuck, you’re so…” Chan falters, fingers erratic in your heat. “How sweet you sound, begging like that.” He presses himself against your back, again and again, a desperate attempt to chase his own pleasure too. His breath is hot against your skin, hovering your jaw. The water from the shower does nothing to regulate the temperature of your body. “I just can’t get enough of you.”

Then he kisses you. It’s a little awkward, with your lips not fully slotting or fitting, your necks turned as much as you comfortably can but none of that matters. It’s all teeth and spit and some water gets into your mouth and none of that matters. He kisses you and he curls his fingers in you and you’re almost at your limit. A moan vibrates in your chest, wanton and needy, then Chan pulls away to let you breathe. As if that helps, as if his lips and tongue moving to your jaw doesn’t leave you breathless and writhing in want.

He pulls your thigh closer to him, opening you up further. A guttural sound leaves you and you would be embarrassed at how dirty it sounds but you’re reaching the highest peak of your desire—the roar of the flames in your core now at its full.

“Chan,” you cry out. “Chan, I’m near—ah… please. I’m cumming, please.”

The air is filled with steam and the sound of water, his skin on your skin, his fingers not stopping. Your hips buck against his hand and it drives deeper. He holds it there and you tremble in his arms. You whimper, again and again and again.

“Good,” he coaxes. “You’re almost there, my love. Come on.”

His voice is heavy and rough. He licks the shell of your ear and it sends you over to the edge. His fingers twist inside you and he just takes, drinking up your cries with his lips just hovering yours.

There is a gradual, methodic way in which he slows his fingers, letting you ride out your high until your lungs find a steadier pace, each breath more controlled. He kisses the top of your head before he gently holds your chin—with the very same hand he used to bring you pleasure—turning your face to his.

How filthy, him rubbing your slickness on you. So filthy, and it’s arousing you. It’s surprising because you just got fingered out of your damn mind and you still want more. You’re still willing to give more.

Chan captures your lips in a soft kiss, biting your lower lip lightly before he pulls away just enough to speak, “You did so well.”

He reaches upward to cup water in his hands, using it to wash your chin and your neck. Then again to wash your abdomen and center. You gasp at the touch, and he whispers an apology immediately.

“I know, I’m sorry. Sensitive, hm? Let me just wash you, okay?”

You nod at him, closing your eyes and choosing to rest your forehead on his shoulder as he rubs you clean. When he finishes with a soft pat to your thigh, your eyes open only to be greeted by the sight of his cock, rock hard and almost flushed red. God. Fuck. You pull back, searching his face for something—anything, whatever it is, and he just offers you a lopsided smile.

“Hmm?” he hums in question, curious about the way your brows furrow. “What is it?”

“You,” you simply say. “Are you…?”

“I’m fine.” He brushes it off like it’s nothing. He has given you pleasure and he has taken your pleasure. You want to do the same to him. He shakes his head, “I swear. It’s fine.”

But he doesn’t stop you when you go down on your knees, facing his cock with a hunger you couldn’t fathom. He caresses your hair, whatever he could reach, but he doesn’t even pull you away. “You don’t have to. We can take this to bed,” he still says.

There’s uncertainty in his voice. A crack, an opening he doesn’t intend. He wants this, too. You know it. Anything you could give, he wants it.

“But I want to.”

And he will take it.

He places a finger under your chin to guide you and raise your head, looking you in the eye. You could almost see yourself in the depths of his gaze, a reflection of something shameless, almost jarring. You couldn’t believe you’re liking this—let alone getting intoxicated in arousal for this. It’s like something changed in him in a blink.

“You do?” Chan laughs, almost mockingly. A shiver runs across the expanse of your shoulders, the sound sending another spark of heat through you. Deeper this time, scorching. “You want my cock that badly, huh? Suck me off ‘til your lips grow tired?”

His finger moves, grazing your skin until it reaches your ear. He tucks your wet hair behind it, just like he did by the apartment door when he arrived earlier. His gaze holds you captive, and that feeling of being exposed, vulnerable, it surges again.

Your breath catches as you nod, unable to form any word. He’s always had that effect on you—making you forget your own control, like you’re just a thing for him to take. In the absence of words, you hold his length with a hand and he inhales sharply at your touch. It doesn’t take much to arouse him; with a few nimble strokes his shaft gets hard again. Perhaps even more so.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, firm but gentle, and pulls you closer.

“Good girl,” he whispers, and the praise, laced with an almost indistinguishable amount of contempt, has you reeling. You lick a bit along his tip, testing the waters. His fingers weave through your hair with a slow sigh. “Show me how much you really want it. Give it to me.”

You press a kiss to the side of his cock, soft at first, as if tasting the moment before plunging in. His body shudders. The saltiness lingers on your tongue as you part your lips wider, slowly taking him into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the word barely audible, more an exhale than speech. His hand slightly tightens in your hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself. You hollow your cheeks, sliding further forward, and the groan that rumbles in his chest sends a thrill through you.

The weight of him is heavy on your tongue, and you let yourself sink into a languid pace, drawing him in, inch by inch, savoring the way his body reacts. His hips jerk, just a little, involuntarily, and you can’t help the slight moan that leaves your throat. The sound and vibration seem to undo him.

“You’re so fucking good at this,” Chan grunts, his voice rough around the edges, raw with need. His hand cups the back of your head, guiding you—not forcing, but encouraging—as you take him deeper, working with a mix of tongue, lips, and a shit ton of spit.

Water slides down your cheeks and occasionally finds its way to your mouth. Not that you care. You glance up, catching his gaze. A carnal glint is in his stare, and he smiles. Fuck. The sight of him nearly takes your breath away. His jaw falls slack, his lips part, and his eyes lock on you—heavy-lidded and burning with something primal.

The tension in his thighs grow as you continue, a gradual acceleration in the way you take him in. The soft, wet sounds fill the air, almost louder than the water hitting the walls and floors, mingling with his labored breaths and low groans. His thumb brushes your cheek, a fleeting touch that feels oddly tender amidst the heat.

“Just like that,” Chan murmurs, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t stop. You’re—perfect.”

You give an experimental hum, letting it thrum in your mouth. Chan whimpers and it’s an absolutely beautiful thing to hear. You hum again, louder this time. Your chest heaves at the limited breathing but Chan is slowly losing his sense of control and it rouses you. There is another pool of warmth in your core, and you’re trying your best to rub your thighs together in your position, hoping to relieve a little bit of your need.

“You’re killing me,” Chan laughs to himself, head thrown back, words thorny with lust. His hands move to your shoulders, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he fights the urge to thrust into your mouth. “I won’t last if you keep going like that.” His voice cracks, betraying the thin line of self-control he’s holding onto.

You pull back slightly, just enough to take a breath, and your lips glisten with the evidence of his pleasure. A mischievous smile tugs at your lips and you glance up again, locking eyes with him. The hunger and greed in his gaze sends your mind into a frenzy of heat, something deep and wild, as though you’re caught in the storm of his desire.

“Do you want me to stop then?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper, teasing in its softness. There is a scratch in your words.

His lips curl into a grin, but it’s strained, the desperation clear in the way his eyes darken. “Hell no,” he clicks his tongue. “Just–don’t stop. You’re so fucking good at this, baby. You know what to do, right?”

There is no need for words. You nod at him, eager and wanting.

“Color?”

“Green.”

“Good.” His hand finds its way back to your hair, pulling just enough to keep you in place. His cock lingers on your lips, and you open your mouth wide, waiting for him to push it in. “Hold on tight.”

He waits for you to gain a steady grip on the back of his thighs before he thrusts forward. The tension in his body snaps as you give and give and give. The taste of him, the sound of his labored breaths, the way he tenses under your touch—your lips, your tongue, the wetness in your slit. You give and give and give and he takes and takes and takes.

Just like he did earlier, when he indulged you. Your pleasure laid out, vulnerable and he just takes. Or the past 3 years, with your heart out in the open, unguarded and he just takes.

It all becomes a blur, this moment. He fucks your face so lewdly, desperate to reach his own high. One hand of yours moves downward, to your own clit. You rub in frantic patterns, aroused out of your damn mind.

His movements begin to stutter, thrusts sloppier. You hum in pleasure, of yours and of his, as your fingers move faster on your wet skin. Chan doesn’t even try to stop the filthy sounds rolling off his tongue and you’re sure he is nearing his limit.

He thrusts a few more times before he pushes in deep—reaching farther than he ever had for the past ten minutes of his cock being in your mouth. His tip brushes against the back of your throat and he stays there for a moment. You couldn’t help the obscene moan and Chan’s whole body shudders. His cock throbs in your mouth before he pulls you away, letting his cum release all over your chest.

Your mouth remains open, breathless and trembling. The moment falls heavy between you, and Chan takes a second before he brushes his fingers through your hair and guides you to stand up. He doesn’t say a word, immediately beginning to wash his cum on you. He grabs another pump of soap, letting it bubble in his hands before cleaning you with it.

“Chan,” you begin, the silence getting to you.

“Hm?” he hums simply. He doesn’t stop his hands, but he raises his head to look at you, pupils still blown wide. His breathing is slowly coming down. He offers you a gentle smile before leaning forward to kiss your cheek. “You did so well. I’m sorry if I went a bit rough.”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around his waist in an almost embrace. “It’s okay,” you assure him. “I like it.”

“You like it?”

His hands stop and his attention is now fully on you. He raises an eyebrow at your statement, confused. You feel a bit of shame but you continue. “I like it when you… when you just—take.”

Chan stays silent. He doesn’t react, or say a word. It’s hard to read his expression when it’s almost blank, and he continues washing your body until he just says, “Get on the bed and wait for me. Don’t bother putting anything on.”

Then it dawns on you. Whatever you just told him was dangerous. You’re not quite sure how, and to what extent, but something weighs on your chest when he turns the shower off and waits for you to step out. You don’t even need to be told twice.

You take your time drying yourself off with your towel, lingering for a minute on your slit. Still fucking wet. Heat creeps up your face at the realization and you immediately throw the towel into the basket of dirty clothes. There are extra towels, fortunately, stashed inside the small cabinet by your bathroom sink. You hang it up the shower door for Chan to use, not needing to inform him because you know he knows.

Stepping out of the bathroom bare naked lets you feel the temperature change in full. You realize how warm it was when you were in the bathroom with Chan. You shiver, feeling cold—the loss of a warm body, a presence, the slow decrease of arousal.

You walk your way to your bedroom, making sure to keep your feet light. The shower opens and you hear the water pattering again, then suddenly your arousal comes back in full force. Your bed is cool and unmade and you have half the mind to start toying with your pussy again, to feel at least half of what Chan had made you feel with his fingers. But that’s not what you were told to do.

The sound of the shower persists, steady and hushed, a stark contrast to the chaos in your chest. You spend the next minutes staring at the ceiling, waiting. It feels excruciatingly slow. Time doesn’t feel real, when the bathroom is right next door and you still hear Chan in there. You bite your lip, trying to focus on anything but the ache between your legs or the growing weight in your chest. It feels like he’s taking forever, like the space between you is widening with every drop of water hitting the floor.

Your mind betrays you, replaying the way his hands had felt on you, the way his voice dipped when he whispered praises in your ear. You wonder if he’s thinking about this. Thinking about you. You wonder if he regrets it. Or worse—if he doesn’t.

You close your eyes, willing the thoughts to stop, but they only grow louder. What does this mean? What are you supposed to feel? The heat of desire clashes violently with the icy grip of doubt, and suddenly you’re not sure which will win.

When the water finally stops, you sit up abruptly, heart pounding as if you’ve been caught doing something wrong. The sound of the door creaking open makes you swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. You hear his footsteps, soft but deliberate, and then he’s there, standing by the doorway of your bedroom.

Chan doesn’t say anything first, just looks at you, his gaze unreadable. He’s towel-drying his hair, the damp strands sticking to his forehead, droplets sliding down the sharp line of his jaw. You can’t look away, even though every part of you feels like you should.

“Couldn’t wait, huh?” he says finally, his voice low and teasing, but there’s something in it—something wavering, like he’s waiting for you to tip the balance, unsure if he should pull back or push further.

You manage a weak laugh, though it feels hollow. “Not exactly.”

He steps closer, the tension in the room thickening with every movement. “You okay?” he asks, his tone softer now, almost gentle.

The question lingers in the air and for a moment, you think about lying, about brushing it off like you always do. About giving what he wants to take. But the words are stuck in your throat, you feel. You lean back on the pillows, enough to be comfortable but not fully lying down.

“I don’t know,” you admit, palms up on your thighs. The answer comes out frail and delicate.

Something shifts in his expression—concern, maybe, or guilt. He sets the towel aside, crossing the room in a few quick strides, and sits beside you on the bed. His hand hovers for a moment before he places it on your knee, his touch warm and grounding.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and you hate how earnest he sounds, how much you want to believe that he cares.

You don’t doubt that he cares a little bit. Not as much as you do about him, though. Not as much as he thinks he does, nor as much as he did before, in the middle of the street. I love you, he said then.

“This isn’t going to change anything, is it?”

Such weight hanging heavy in the air feels suffocating. It feels like you have to grasp for air. For a moment, he looks like he might say something, but he closes his mouth, jaw tightening, and you choke.

It’s unbelievable, really. After all that, he just kisses you. His lips are on yours without warning and you melt into his arms. The kiss is careful at first, tentative, like he’s trying to find the words he can’t say in the press of his lips. But it’s not enough—not for you, not for what’s bubbling up inside you. Your hands grip his shoulders, turning your torso to him for a more comfortable position. You pull him closer, as if proximity could mend this. His hands move up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing away tears you hadn’t even realized were falling.

He guides you to sit on his lap, and you feel his hardness on your bum again. You swallow a sob back and Chan pulls away in surprise.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your lips, breaking the kiss but keeping his forehead pressed to yours. His voice is shaky, not like the teasing confidence from before. “Talk to me. Please.”

You shake your head, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I don’t know if I can do this,” you whisper. “Not without…” Your voice trails off, but he seems to understand.

He presses, though. “Without what?” His tone is urgent yet gentle, his thumb grazing your cheek.

“Without losing you.”

Your body betrays you as you feel the heat back in your abdomen. It’s a filthy mix of hunger and misery. It boils down into something you’re all too familiar with: desperation. You roll your hips onto him and he whines. You harshly wipe away your tears with the back of your hands before pushing Chan’s chest down onto the bed. He seems taken aback, hesitant with the way he pulls his hands away. You had to grab it yourself, place it on your hips for him to hold onto.

“Make me feel good, Chan,” you plead. Another roll of your hips has you keening, his tip catching just by your entrance. “Please. Take me. Take everything that I am, I will give it to you.”

His eyes meet yours, searching, as if he’s trying to commit every detail to memory. You lean forward to let your hands touch his back, taking your time to go over every dip and curve. Then he nods, his hands moving to slide under your thighs and pulling you closer before flipping you over. He lays you down on the bed, and his gaze roams every bit of your face before he dips to kiss you again, until there is no more space left between you.

What follows isn’t rushed or frantic. It’s deliberate, every touch, every kiss, every movement laden with meaning. It’s like he’s trying to piece together what’s been fractured, even if it’s just for a fleeting moment. A hand slips between your bodies until it reaches your pussy once again. He feels your slick, not needing to prod as much as he did earlier.

Then he leans away, stroking his cock a few times, his head thrown back with the contact. It doesn’t take long before he lines it up on your entrance, and he moves down, almost putting his whole weight on you.

It’s raw, it’s tender, it’s everything you’ve been longing for and everything you know will never last. Not anymore. Funny it took you three long years to feel this. Funny it would be the first and last you’ll ever get this from him.

There is no resistance when he thrusts inside you, deep and slow and whole. He stays put for a minute before you tap his back, letting him know you want him to move—you need him to move. He doesn’t deny you of that, so he pulls back until only the tip lingers inside you before pushing in again heavily.

A visceral sound leaves your lips as your jaw slackens. Chan continues his pace, growing faster with each passing minute and he keeps whimpering in your ear that it sends your mind into haywire. You’re not quite sure how to handle the crashing wave of lust your body is being washed over so the best you could do is hold onto him, fingers gripping the flesh of his back tight enough to feel hot. He moans louder.

Whether it takes thirteen minutes or three years doesn’t matter. It all comes down to the warm tears you feel on your jaw, and you’re not even sure if it’s still yours or if it’s already his. Your fingers tangle in his damp hair, pulling him back to your lips. This time, the kiss isn’t soft or tentative—it’s consuming. It’s every unsaid word, every broken promise, every ounce of love that lingers between you.

He withdraws, lips finding your ear instead before placing a chaste kiss on it. You’re sure now, his tears dropping onto your skin, burning and heavy. Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou. It comes quickly. Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou. He whispers it in your ear, like a prayer. What you once had with him felt sacred, untouchable, and yet here you are, unraveling it thread by thread. Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou.

A long, drawn out cry sounds in your ear as Chan comes undone. You feel every bit of him inside you, and you body twitches as you finish with him. You hear a choked out sob from the man on top of you, and your chest tightens impossibly. You don’t know what to do with your hands. Not now, not before, and never after he leaves.

He stays inside you, cock tucked in your warmth, twitching a little. His cries continue for an amount of time you can’t even comprehend. Your eyes have long dried out now, but the space between your neck and shoulder remains wet with his tears. Your hands try to comfort him by rubbing his back, drawing circles in patterns you hope he recognizes. Soon, he turns quiet.

You feel his chest heave with yours. He stays on top of you, putting his full weight but careful not to suffocate you. As if this whole thing wasn’t suffocating enough. It takes a moment for him to calm down completely, then he pulls out. He falls back away from you, sitting on the edge of the bed by your legs for a moment before you see him visibly relax.

He stands up to walk outside of the room. You don’t even dare to ask, to look at him and follow his movements. Chan comes back before you could even piece back your head with a towel in his hands. The bed dips where he sits before he leans forward to wipe the slick moisture on your folds. You hiss at the contact, realizing that the fabric is damp. He shushes you gently, continuing his ministrations with utmost care.

When he seems satisfied, he sets the towel away in the same place he did with his earlier. Silence lingers and you almost wish you were still in the shower, where at least the sound of water would fill in the empty air.

Chan returns to the bed, but he remains seated, his back facing you. It feels like a wall—strong, unyielding, and unreachable. You think it’s ridiculous now, realizing that there is a wall. There has always been a wall, hasn’t it? There is no way to climb it, to move past it. Invisible that it might as well not exist, yet it stands, separating you. You bury yourself under the blankets, the chill in the room seeping into your bones. You feel so small and cold and fragile. You could only stare at the ceiling, his presence beside you frustratingly overwhelming, yet so distant.

You’ve grown so accustomed to seeing his back facing you. You’re always behind him, following him along, wherever he goes and whatever he does. Always in front of you, always leading, but never turning to face you unless he’s searching for reassurance. You realize now how much you’ve relied on those fleeting glances back. They were your only proof that he still cared, still saw you. He looks back to take and you give. Sometimes you wonder which part of you is yours anymore.

You stare at his back and wonder how much of its dips and curves you’ve already memorized—how much of it you need to get to know more, the way they move and twitch and tremble under your touch. You stare at his back and wish he would just turn to face you.

“I can’t give you what you want,” he says, very quietly, like almost to himself in realization.

You almost don’t realize he said something. You heard every word, but your mind refuses to process it until a second later. And when it did, the room stills.

His words hang dull in the air, filling the room with a bittersweet ache. It’s like every sweet moment this room witnessed for the past three years disappears and there is only grief and misery in it. You want to reach for him, to cross the divide and tell him something—anything. But his back remains turned, and all you can do is fixate on the outline of his shoulders, tense and unmoving.

You mustered a small, mocking laugh. It’s weaker than you intended, but you’re in utter disbelief regardless. “You just fucked me on this very bed, Chan. I came twice today. Is that the only thing you came here for? A quick fuck?”

There is no use in making sharp remarks, but there is nothing else you could say. You’re grasping at straws and you know that.

“No, I…” Chan starts, then he sighs. He roughly ruffles his hair in frustration. “I’m sorry.”

Then it goes quiet yet again. Your mind is scrambling for words, but then, after a minute, you could only really ask, “Do you mean it? Is that what you really want?”

“No,” he answers almost immediately, shoulders heaving. Then he slackens again, almost like he’s curling into his own body, making himself small. “I don’t know what I would do if I look back and you’re not there.”

His voice is withdrawn, as if he’s confessing something he hadn’t admitted even to himself.

“Then why?”

“You’re always behind me,” he continues, words strained. “You’ve always been the one thing I could count on.” There’s a pause, and it feels like the weight of the moment is crushing him. “But what if you’re gone one day? What if I look back and you’re not there anymore?”

His admission stings in a way you weren’t prepared for. The vulnerability in his tone should comfort you, but instead, it exposes a deep-rooted wound. He only looks back to make sure you’re still following, doesn’t he? Never to meet you halfway, never to let you stand beside him.

And as fucked up as it seems, you’re willing to let that be until you can no longer understand what distance means. You’re willing to do all that, over and over again, just so he could stay.

He takes and takes and takes. And you give.

“Then why are you pushing me away?” You couldn’t help the bite in your words, angry and confused. “If you’re so scared, why leave?”

You want to scream. You want to clench your fists and punch a wall and hurt. Yourself, him. But it doesn’t come. The exhaustion overcomes you, and an ache in your chest swells. You wonder if it’s already too late.

“Because you’re like this!” he raises his voice, now matching your exasperation. “I’m giving you a chance to save yourself from me and you’re not taking it!”

Chan’s words hit like a slap, sharp and final. Your chest tightens in a mix of emotions you’re far too dizzy to comprehend. Hatred? Grief? Love? It’s all warring within you. You sit up, the blanket sliding off your shoulders and exposing your vulnerability as much as his words have exposed his.

“Save myself?” you scoff, incredulous. “I think I am way beyond saving, Chan.”

He stiffens. You don’t even give him a chance to respond before you continue, “And what about you?” you ask, your voice trembling. “When do you save yourself, Chan? When do you stop running from everything? From me?”

His hands curl into fists at his sides. “I’m not running,” he mutters, though it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself than you.

“You’ve been running this entire time,” you counter, voice threatening to rise again. “From us. From what this could be. Three years. And now you want me to be the one to end it? To carry that burden so you don’t have to?”

His head drops, shoulders sagging under the weight of your words. For a moment, the silence between you stretches unbearably, like the final frayed thread of something you both know is about to snap.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he whispers, hoarse. “I thought… I thought letting you go would hurt less than holding on and breaking you completely.”

You let out a bitter laugh, louder this time. You meant for him to hear the distaste in it. Tears sting your eyes. “You don’t get to decide that for me, Chan. You don’t get to decide how much I’m willing to give.”

His head lifts slightly, and for the first time he turns to face you. His eyes are glassy, full of a pain you’ve rarely seen him allow himself to show. It breaks something inside you, seeing him like this. It breaks you even further, realizing he turns just like he always did: to see if you were still behind him, following.

“Then what do you want me to do?” His voice cracks when he asks.

You pause, your heart hammering. What do you want? The truth is, you don’t know anymore. You want him, but not like this—not as someone who sees you as a safety net, as a fallback. You know that now, regretting the thought of tolerating his bullshit just to keep him with you.

“I want you to want me the way I want you,” you say finally, voice soft but steady. Resolute. “Not as someone to hold you up when you’re falling. Not as someone to look back on when you’re scared. I want to stand beside you, Chan. I want to move forward with you, not be left behind.”

He shuts his eyes tightly, and your resolve almost falters when a tear slips down his cheek. “I don’t know if I can give you that,” he admits.

The words shatter the last bit of hope you were clinging to. You nod slowly, the realization settling over you like a cold, heavy blanket.

“Then maybe you’re right,” you say quietly. “Maybe I do need to save myself.”

And this time, you turn your back on him. You shift in your bed, lying on your side and staring at the clock by your bedside table. It’s hard, trying to pretend your legs aren’t shaking under the covers, trying to hide the quiver of your lips. Chan doesn’t move, doesn’t reach out to you, and that, more than anything, feels like the final nail in the coffin.

You pause, thinking of any words to say. For finality, for an end. All you could muster is, “I hope one day you stop running, Chan.”

If he leaves later that night or the next morning, you don’t even know. It’s not like you could feel past the weight of the whole ordeal to even feel anything else.

That’s for you to find out tomorrow.

It’s not like he has a bad brain or anything. No, Hyunjin’s brain is perfectly fine, thank you very much. It’s just… overly enthusiastic. One moment, he’s thinking about his latest painting, the next it’s wondering what kind of bread he should eat for breakfast, and then bam! It’s back to you. Always you.

He stares at his reflection on his phone screen, awkward and glaring at him with disdain. There are a million different things he would rather do, but he’s stuck thinking about the text message he had typed and deleted once (or twice, five times) and it’s all so ridiculous. He recalls the reason why he’s here, pacing around his room, and then he feels his chest doing that thing again — that uneven, frantic hammering that makes it even harder to think straight.

Great. Now he wants to shut off his heart, too.

It’s not like he wants to think about you all the time either. (He does.) It’s not his fault! (It is.) You’re just… you. That’s the best his perfectly fine brain could articulate, unfortunately. You’re the person who laughs way too hard at his jokes, even the ones that aren’t funny. You’re the one who somehow always knows when he’s had a rough day, showing up with a quiet smile or a piece of stupid candy like it’s no big deal. And… you’re the one who makes his heart do this strange little thing he could only describe as cartwheels of a toddler that he’s almost certain isn’t part of any standard human anatomy.

That’s the problem.

Because Hyunjin is Hyunjin, and he’s supposed to be cool. That guy who can charm anyone with a single glance, that guy who can hold his own in any conversation because he’s cool. But around you? He’s a mess. A walking, talking, tripping-over-his-own-fucking-feet mess.

He rubs his palms against his sweatpants, trying to steady himself, push all the thoughts away or, at the very least, get them together in a logical arrangement in his head.

Just say it, his inner voice urges. Not good. Now his brain is talking. It’s not a big deal.

He stops in front of the mirror in the corner of his room, dusty and dark. He glares at his face, then winces internally seeing how flushed he looks. “Not a big deal?” he mutters, feeling out of his own mind. “This is the biggest deal ever!”

Then his feet strides across the floor before he throws his whole weight onto his bed. He feels the harsh bounce of his body and he groans, flinging his arm up to cover his eyes. He feels like an idiot, making something big out of something so small.

But, he thinks, there is nothing small or insignificant or trifling about this. Stupid, somewhat, yes. Meaningless? Not at all.

What’s the worst that could happen? He tries to reason with himself, but his brain, ever the pessimist, is quick to answer: Everything. How fortunate, that his brain talks like this. Everything could happen. You could laugh in his face. You could tell him it’s weird. Then the whole thing would be a mistake–

A force of habit brings his hand up to brush through his hair, and he sinks further into the sheets because he just shaved his head, goddamnit. So that didn’t help. His resolve continues to dwindle with each passing second of having no solution to his dilemma, and before it could completely vanish, he holds his phone back up and taps away to navigate to your contact number. Your name, lovingly tacked on with two pink hearts, stares at him and he stares back. His finger hovers over the call button for a second before he just gives up and lets the device fall onto his chest.

He could just sleep on it, right? He’d be better in the morning, he’ll have a fresh mind to think about what to do. Right?

Wrong. His phone slides from his chest down to the side until it falls on his bed. He sighs, staying there for some time. Then his brain, sometimes the optimist, supplies: What if it goes right, though? What if this time, for once, it’s not a disaster? How very fortunate. What if you smiled and held his hand and–

…Maybe this would be easier if he just showed up.

Hwang Hyunjin shows up at your door with nothing in his hands and everything in his heart.

He didn’t mean to bother you so late at night, but he could not bear it anymore; the pinpricks on his palms when his fingers touch, mapping out how he thinks the shape of yours would fit in his. The warmth of your skin on a cold night. From your end of the earth to another. He could not bear it anymore.

(He speaks as if you live hundreds of miles away.)

(You live around five minutes away from his place.)

His hands could not find any purpose in his pockets, fiddling in his fingers his phone tucked behind the flimsy fabric. The breeze blows in late night and he shivers, feeling the shape of the device in his hand. He wonders if he should just ask for help. You know, like any other person with good friends. But — good friends. God forbid he asks help about something like this. Besides, who could he ask? Chan? Minho? Or–fuck, Seungmin? No way.

It’s not like they know either. Hyunjin never told them.

(They don’t. They don’t. Hyunjin never told them. They don’t know… right?)

In his peripherals the streetlights blur slightly as his thoughts wander. He furrows his brows at the flickering one, about 3 blocks away, and wonders when it will get fixed. It’s been like that for months, hasn’t it? He turns to look at it, squinting his eyes and counting its ons and offs. One, two… three… one, two… one… Anything to stall this whole thing.

Doubt clings to him like the cold air. His knees wobble under the weight of his nerves.

Hyunjin exhales sharply and coughs, taking in too much of the night air and clenching his fists inside his pockets. He’s been carrying his secret for too long, letting it weigh him down with every shared glance, every time your laugh bubbled up like music, every casual touch that lingered just a second too long. He can’t live like this anymore, trapped between wanting and fearing, standing in limbo every time you cross his mind.

The fear hasn’t disappeared. He knows it never will. But the possibility — oh, the possibility of you smiling at him, pulling him into a hug, saying something like I was waiting for you to say something ignites something inside him. Something wild, something reckless, maybe something a little stupid. His heart swells and he giggles like the fucking lovesick fool he is. He thanks the heavens that only he isn’t in the right mind in this neighborhood, out on such a cold, late night because then he wouldn’t have to worry about anyone seeing him jumping around the slippery pavement.

He’s at least feeling a little hopeful about this.

The door swings open before he can even bring a hand up to knock. He flinches in surprise before his gaze settles on yours. On you. A mix of confusion and curiosity swims behind your eyes, and all the words he’s practiced, all the things he’s wanted to say… they vanish.

All that’s left is you.

And him.

And the realization that he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

“What the– Hyunjin?” you blink twice, in major disbelief and almost delirious. “Is that you? What the fuck– What are you doing?”

Hyunjin’s face drains of color. “I, uh,” he stutters. The quiver on his lips gives him away, though, and he hopes you would think he is just feeling the cold. “Sightseeing?” is the only thing he could say.

He feels your eyes on him. Somewhere. Through his own, then to his empty hands now lingering helplessly at his sides. He shivers, pinpricks turning into something more intense, a quiet storm brewing under his skin.

He hangs his head low, trying to look as small as he can, except that’s almost impossible with five-foot-ten of legs. Your fingers grip his wrists in a gentle hold as you pull him inside the warmth of your home, and shame is all he feels when your touch lingers on the skin your thumbs had brushed. It’s like it’s burning, but not quite.

The door clicks shut behind him and now — now what?

“How did you know I was outside your door?”

You rub your hands together before walking towards the corner of your living room to grab a pair of house slippers. You set them down in front of Hyunjin and his palms grow sweatier. Oh God, he feels the blood in his ears surge.

“I didn’t,” you shrug. Hyunjin feels your stare as he slips off his clogs (not his best decision, but he hasn’t made a good amount of right choices tonight) to wear the slippers you so kindly offered. “I was just going to see if I can get some takeout, but it’s too cold. I did see a head by the window and you– you scared the shit out of me, did you know that? Since when did you get bald–”

“I’m not bald! It’s a–” Hyunjin cuts himself off with a painfully awkward laugh. “Let’s not talk about it. Do you want some?”

His mouth is almost running as fast as the thoughts in his head. He’s not making any sense to you, for sure, because he is not making sense to him. He clears his throat, wishing he was the only one aware of the palpable discomfort filling the room. The thickness of it tickles his shoulders and he so badly wants to shake it off.

“What?”

“Takeout,” Hyunjin says. “Do you want some? I can go and get takeout.”

He refuses to look back at you. Not with the nerves, the shaved head, the feelings. But he knows there is a wrinkle on your forehead, right between your brows, perturbed, and his heart skips. He wishes he could gather himself enough to be only slightly affected by his inner turmoil because he wants to peer at your expression. But with his gaze down, he only hears you click your tongue before seeing your feet beginning to walk away.

“You’re crazy,” you mutter under your breath. Hyunjin stays in his place just by your door. “This cold? In that ugly jacket?”

That, though? That’s what would make Hyunjin look.

“Ugly?” he grits his teeth. “This is not ugly! This was from–”

It turns out the jacket is part of his not-good decisions for tonight. He watches you slowly turn around and he almost takes a step back. You give him a pointed look and it shoots right through him enough to shut him up. He pockets his hands in his ugly jacket again, and in an attempt to save himself from this ordeal, he purses his lips to try and think of something to say. A justification, a reason. Anything.

But there was nothing logical about this. He wouldn’t be here if there was.

“It’s the first thing I grabbed before running out the door.” Hyunjin settles for an honest explanation. “I was in a hurry.”

You continue to walk and he follows you like a puppy in its new home. He stares at your back, follows the dip of line on your shirt down your spine, and begs you to God, please say something in his head. Instead, you lead him to the kitchen and say nothing until you stop by your fridge.

“I have leftover stuff, I think,” you tell him, one hand on your hip and the other opening the fridge. “Maybe we can make something out of it.”

Hyunjin tries his best to ignore the unease he feels and nods, despite knowing you wouldn’t see it. He moves closer to you, leaning a bit forward to peek into your fridge like the nosy little ass he is. Your fridge is an assortment of things that don’t necessarily go together for a fancy dinner: some leftover rice, a few eggs, a half-eaten pack of seaweed, and a plastic container of what looks like stir-fried vegetables. He couldn’t even comment because he’s well-aware his fridge is much worse. He stares at the contents like they might arrange themselves into something gourmet if he wills it hard enough. They don’t.

It doesn’t help that he has suddenly become hyper-aware of how close he is to you. He hovers over you like a fucking prick in five-foot-ten of legs and he wants to move away, but he feels like he would lose his balance if he so breathes a second too long.

“Have anything in mind?” you ask, shifting in front of him to reach for the rice.

Hyunjin stiffens. He clears his throat. “Uh, fried rice?”

You snort. “Predictable.”

“Hey, it’s a classic.”

He steps back, moving steadily as he finally gains his footing. Your shoulder almost brushes his chest when you unexpectedly move at the same time he does. He wonders if you’ve been noticing the way he keeps tensing up, if you can hear his breath stutter.

“Alright. You’re on chopping duty.”

Hyunjin groans dramatically but takes the knife from your outstretched hand. He guides you with an arm as you dish out everything you need from the fridge and lay them on the counter. He makes sure he doesn’t touch you, though, because he feels his skin would flare even at the lightest touch of yours.

Taking a deeper breath, he tries to calm himself down again before making quick work of the green onions. His mind, though, is less on the task and more on the million failed attempts he ran through his mind. He hadn’t even made one actual attempt yet.

He wonders if you can tell. If you know how much he’s struggling to say three stupid words.

“Why were you in a hurry?” you start again, casualness seeping through every word that it feels so out of place in Hyunjin’s ears.

He stops mid-chop. He doesn’t turn to look, doesn’t even bother knowing what you are doing, afraid he’ll crack right then and there. There aren’t any words that he could piece together confidently enough to respond to your question.

The silence stretches for a moment. “You showed up at my door bald and in that ugly jacket, because you said you were in a rush,” you continue. Hyunjin now feels a pair of eyes drilling through the side of his bald head. Maybe the lack of hair makes him feel it a little more sensitively. “In the middle of the night, too. Did you need something from me?”

Hyunjin’s throat tightens, then his mouth is suddenly dry. This time, your voice carries no playful edge and no hint of amusement, just a directness that leaves no room for evasion. Hyunjin feels he owes it to you to meet your eyes, so he does. When he turns, he almost melts at the intensity of your gaze, silently urging him to speak. It’s as though you know something is up but won’t push unless he gives you a reason to.

His mind races, a chaotic swirl of thoughts he’s been trying to suppress for weeks — hell, months. How do you always seem to see right through him? How do you know when to push and when to hold back, like you’re holding the reins to his emotions without even trying? He wonders if you can hear the way his heart is pounding, if you can tell how much he’s been dreading, and yet craving this moment.

“I…” he swallows thickly. His hands feel clammy against the knife handle, so he carefully places it on the countertop behind him before any accident can happen. “I just… wanted to see you.”

Your eyes soften, but your gaze doesn’t waver. “And?”

Hyunjin forces out a breath, his hands gripping the edge of the counter to balance himself. His five-foot-ten of legs feel like weird jelly. He hates how vulnerable he feels, how exposed, like every wall he’s built is crumbling under the weight of your gaze. He wants to look away, to hide, but he can’t. Not now. Not when you’re looking at him like that… like you already know what he’s going to say but are waiting for him to say it anyway.

“And… I’ve been wanting to tell you something,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. The words hang in the air, fragile and trembling, like they might shatter if either of you breathes too hard. He wonders if you can hear the fear in his voice, the way it cracks under the pressure of everything he’s been holding back.

You set the eggs down, leaning against the counter on the other side of your kitchen. “So tell me.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. He cycles through every possible way to say it, but none of them make it past his lips. His jaw tenses.

You wait, patient but expectant.

And Hyunjin? Well, Hyunjin fucking panics.

“I think we should add some chili.”

A beat of silence. Then, you blink. “What?”

“To the rice.” He gestures wildly to the stove, the pan empty but ready, as if that explains anything. “Chili. It would need chili.”

You stare at him and he sees the ever-so-slight tilt of your head. Then, to his absolute horror, you burst out laughing.

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, clutching the counter for support with one hand and holding your abdomen with the other. “You — Hyunjin, did you just–”

Hyunjin groans, head dropping into his hands before he returns to the countertop of green onions. “Kill me.” Maybe his amazing knife skills could make up for the fucking disaster of a scene that had happened. “Pass me the red chili peppers, please.”

You only laugh harder, and despite the sheer humiliation, he finds himself smiling, too.

Because it’s you.

He hears your light footsteps behind him until they stop just a perceptible length away from him. It catches him by surprise — the sudden embrace you give him, chest cautiously pressed against his back, arms loosely around his waist. It doesn’t feel like an embrace the way most people would know it, but it’s enough to send his brain into overdrive.

Fuck.

It ends as quickly as it happens. You’ve moved away and started on the actual cooking before Hyunjin could even process what had happened. It’s fucking insane to him, as well, what kind of thoughts occur in the depths of his brain, and unconsciously one particular chop has a heavier hand that Hyunjin slightly jumps.

He will not speak of those thoughts. He will never.

After that, he basically blanks out. Hyunjin doesn’t know how much time has passed until you offer to take over cooking dinner. A perfect chance to excuse himself, he thinks. He slips away to the bathroom.

When he gets there, he nearly collapses into the sink. He grips the edges of the porcelain, head hanging between his shoulders as he forces himself to breathe. The mirror is right there, but he refuses to look. If he does, he’s sure he’ll see the absolute wreck of a man he has become, someone who just botched a confession with chili.

(And he’ll also see the fucking boner he got from the not-embrace. He feels like an idiot and an asshole now.)

“Fucking chili peppers,” he mutters under his breath. His brain replays the way you laughed. Pure, delighted, merciless. He should be embarrassed. He is embarrassed. But at the same time, he wants to hear it again.

He wants to feel your touch again, too. An embrace, and a real one, this time. He wants to hold you closer, envelop you in his five-foot-ten and the million unspoken affections his body can no longer house alone.

Hyunjin splashes cold water on his face, hoping to reset whatever system his body has short-circuited. It’s been such a long, long day. He just ends up blinking water out of his lashes, still stuck with the overwhelming awareness of everything he’s feeling.

Okay. He can do this. He’ll walk out there, act normal, and get through the rest of the night without embarrassing himself further. That’s the plan.

With one last deep breath, Hyunjin straightens his back, wipes his hands on his pants, and steps out of the bathroom.

The scent of garlic and soy sauce fills the air. You’re standing by the stove, stirring the rice with an easy rhythm. Hyunjin stares at your profile, soft under the kitchen lights, and he cannot help but bite his lower lip, an attempt to suppress the way his stomach twists. You glance up as he enters, the corners of your lips still curved in amusement. There is a kind of mischief playing on the plushness of it.

“Hey, Chili Boy,” you greet, tone teasing but warm.

Hyunjin sighs. “Please. Don’t.”

You laugh again, a little quieter this time. He hears the fondness woven into it. “Come on, you made it too easy. And you’re also extremely bad with spice, so you’re also weird.”

“You enjoy making fun of me way too much, don’t you think?”

He drags himself to the counter, standing beside you as you continue cooking. The silence that stretches between you is not uncomfortable, despite the… situation. He watches you scoop a spoonful of rice to taste.

You hum in approval. “Not bad. You were right about the pepper.”

Hyunjin exhales a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Of course I am.”

You smirk, but you get another spoon to scoop another bite of the food, blowing on it gently. His gaze flickers to your lips before he can stop himself. Then you bring the spoon to his lips before he even realizes it. “Here. Taste.”

He hesitates for a fraction of a second before his mouth opens. He feels the heat in his ears at the anticipating gaze you look at him with. Hyunjin swears his pulse trips over itself. He takes a bite, chewing slowly as he pretends he’s thinking very hard about the flavor. The truth is he barely registers the taste.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment, pulling his head back. “It’s good.”

You give him a knowing look, but you don’t say anything. Instead, you turn back to the stove, your presence steady, grounding. He hears the clang of the metal spoon on the sink and he winces. There are a thousand different sensations he feels, emotionally and mentally, physically, that are sure to get him in the morning. It will exhaust him; he’s certain.

Hyunjin shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

The moment is right there; he could say it. He could try again. But instead, he just watches you, the words still caught on the tip of his tongue.

You don’t say anything else, just reach for the plates kept by the rack near the sink. You stack them with quiet efficiency, and Hyunjin takes that as his cue to help, moving on instinct. He tries to ignore the sensation of the unspoken tension he feels in his body, but his fingers brush against yours when you reach for the same thing, and you both freeze.

You recover first, grabbing the plate and nudging it into his chest. “Don’t just stand there, Hwang. At least set the table.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes dramatically, but his fingers tighten around the porcelain anyway. “Yeah, yeah.” He notes how it takes you a second more before completely handing it to him.

It takes a little longer than necessary to get everything ready. Maybe it’s because Hyunjin keeps stealing glances at you while you move around the kitchen, the gentle glow of the lights delicately painting your skin. Maybe it’s because he catches you doing the same.

By the time you both settle at the table, the air between you is dense. You lift your chopsticks first, breaking the moment with a casual “Bon appétit,” and Hyunjin sighs, finally looking down at his plate.

He takes a bite. It’s good. But then again, it could taste like absolutely nothing and he’s not sure he’d notice. His mind is elsewhere, as it has been all day. Now he could only really think of the warmth of the room, the sound of your quiet chewing, the occasional clink of utensils against the plates. Of the way your lips part before each bite. Of the memory of your gaze, heavy-lidded, watching him taste from your hand.

“See? I told you the spice would be good,” he says, mostly to fill the silence.

You hum, nodding as you swallow down another bite. “Okay, Chili Boy. I’ll give you this one.”

He smirks, though it’s a little awkward. He tries, anyway. “One? I think I’ve been right about a lot of things tonight.”

“Mm.” You tilt your head, pretending to think. Hyunjin feels a flutter in his stomach. “Like what else?”

Hyunjin leans forward slightly, resting his elbow on the table with his chopsticks dangling between his fingers. “Like the fact that you enjoy making fun of me a little too much.”

“So that’s two. Still not a lot.” Your lips curve, playful. It feels like the air is treading into a dangerous state. “And that’s not a fact. That’s just my natural response to you making it so easy.”

Hyunjin exhales a laugh from his chest, shaking his head, but it’s edged with something slower, something mellower, and it’s unfolding without his permission. He takes another bite, his eyes glancing at you as you mirror the motion. The silence returns, thick, taut, humming with the gravity of all the words suspended between you.

His knee bumps against yours under the table. He expects you to move away. You don’t.

Carefully, deliberately, you push back. Just slightly. Just enough for him to notice.

His pulse skips a beat.

You don’t even spare him a look. You just keep eating, acting as if nothing has happened, as if nothing has changed. As if this night isn’t shifting into something neither of you wants to stop.

Hyunjin clears his throat. He feels infinitely warm and he thinks he could burst any moment. He grabs his drink, downs half of it in one go. It doesn’t help.

“Are you okay?” you ask, amused. He sees the subtle curl at the edges of your mouth and his gut tightens. He nods, but he doesn’t believe himself at all.

You hold his gaze for a second too long before setting your chopsticks down. “Good.”

The meal continues, but the space between you is thrumming now. It’s like the pinpricks in his palms have now decided to plague his whole body. Every glance lingers. Every touch, no matter how fleeting, feels heavier.

When the plates are empty and the only thing left is the silence between you, Hyunjin knows, he’s so, so fucked. Neither of you moves to clear the dishes.

Hyunjin taps the end of his chopsticks against his empty plate, a quiet staccato rhythm that doesn’t match the rhythm in his chest. He peeks at you, then glances down at his hands, as if the words are hiding there somewhere.

He must do something. Clearly, this isn’t going anywhere until he says something. That’s the plan, anyway, isn’t it? Always has been. He’s just too far up in his fear and doubt and the funk in his confidence to do it properly.

“So…” he starts, his voice rougher than he expects. “Are you always this good at pretending nothing’s weird? Or is that just a special skill you use on me?”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning back into your chair. Another smirk tugs at your lips, and it affects Hyunjin all the same. “Who says anything’s weird? Maybe you’re just bad at handling silence, Chili Boy.”

Hyunjin smiles at your easy tone. He laughs, feeling the way the air descends into something lighter. Less sharp, less embarrassed. It’s a slow deceleration, but he’s happy about it anyway. Although the pounding of his heart remains fast, it feels much more stable and steady; the rest of his body is now able to keep up with it.

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just bad at handling you.”

You don’t respond right away. Instead, your finger grazes the rim of your glass, tracing the condensation lazily. Absentmindedly, really. But then you bring your finger to your lips, tongue flicking out to taste the cool dampness your skin has gathered.

Hyunjin’s mind goes haywire.

It’s nothing. But it’s everything. Something about it, the slight parting of your lips, the brief glint of your tongue, lodges itself in his chest like a glitch he can’t shake. His breath stutters, caught somewhere between surprise and something else he doesn’t want to name.

Something that has been simmering in his core since perhaps the very beginning of the night.

When you finally speak, your voice is smaller.

“It’s funny how quiet you get when it matters.”

Hyunjin’s breath catches again, this time for an entirely different reason. He feels seen — completely, undeniably seen — and it knocks the air right out of him.

You look up then, meeting his gaze head-on. The intensity of it all makes him freeze for a moment, like his body is caught between the instinct to run and the overwhelming urge to stay rooted right there, in that exact second. Your eyes are unreadable, but there is a knowing curve to your lips, like you already know he’s gone for you.

You stand slowly, deliberately, and he tracks every step you take like he’s afraid to blink and miss something. You’re so close now — closer than you’ve been all night, but still not close enough. The kitchen feels impossibly small, impossibly tight. Air stretched so thin, it’s as if a single breath might snap it.

You lean down, palms braced on the edge of the table, your face hovering just inches from his. He feels the warmth of you, the faintest hint of your breath, and it’s unbearable in the best possible way. His pulse roars in his ears, blood thrumming beneath his skin like a live wire.

Then you smile, gentle, but edged with something sharper.

“You’re really bad at hiding it, you know,” you murmur, your voice just above a whisper.

His body responds before his mind can catch up. His muscles go taut, his throat dry, his chest tight with something raw and needy. But he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t want to.

And then—

Your lips find his.

He’s absolutely sure he leans forward to meet you, but his heart swells with satisfaction at the fact that you made your move first. It happens fast and it feels inevitable. Gravity has been pulling you both toward this moment from the very start.

The first kiss is soft.

But when you pull away for a brief moment, just barely, just enough for Hyunjin to see the desire swirling in your eyes, he loses whatever restraint he has left. He knows that look, because it mirrors the very flame that’s been burning in him all night. He leans in this time, closing the distance with a kiss that’s nothing like the first. It’s hungry. Desperate, even. A silent confession in the way his lips move against yours like he’s starving, as if you’re the only thing that could satisfy him.

His hands find you, one threading into your hair and the other holding your waist, tugging you closer. He shifts in his seat to accommodate the new angle and then, without thinking, he guides you onto his lap.

The kiss grows messier, your mouths colliding with a fervor that feels both dangerous and necessary. His tongue flicks against yours, a bit apprehensive at first, but the light grazing of your teeth against his bottom lip undoes him completely. He groans, low and guttural, and that sound seems to break something open between you.

His hands slide under the hem of your shirt, fingertips skating across your warm skin. He’s not even sure what he’s touching, doesn’t care. It’s you, and that’s all that matters.

Your hips shift instinctively, a subtle grind against him, and Hyunjin’s breath shudders.

“Fuck, wait–” he breathes against your mouth, voice rugged and ruined already.

But then he pauses, his hands still resting on your skin, his forehead pressing against yours. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, but there’s a flicker of something in his chest now. Not hesitation, no. Not anymore. Just care. His voice drops to a whisper, warm and sincere, “Is this okay?”

The question melts into the space between you.

You nod first, eager, breathless, but then you cup his face gently, and Hyunjin has a full view of the certainty in your eyes when you say, “Yes. I want this.”

Something in him unravels at your words. His mouth crashes back onto yours with a passion that feels even warmer, fueled by the security of knowing you want him just as much. He pulls back, enjoying the way your eyes flutter shut, before his lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, down the curve of your neck, where he sucks lightly, just enough to leave a mark if you’ll let him. His hands grow bolder. His palms span the dip of your back, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin at your sides, feeling the way you arch into him. He’s not sure when the need became so overwhelming, when it grew teeth and sank right into him, but it’s here now, reckless and relentless.

But then it’s you who pulls back this time, both of you winded, swollen-lipped, eyes dark with want.

Hyunjin exhales a shaky laugh, part disbelief, part surrender. “Why do I feel like I’m losing my mind?”

Your lips find his neck, peppering kisses along his jawline, down the sensitive spot just below his ear. “Maybe because you are,” you murmur against his skin, and the warmth of your breath sends a shudder straight through him. From your end of the earth to his.

That’s all it takes.

Hyunjin stands, his hands gripping your thighs as he lifts you with ease. The scrape of the chair against the floor is lost beneath the sound of his pounding heart. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively and he carries you to your bedroom. It takes forever to walk there, Hyunjin feels, but he’s not about to let this happen on the kitchen counter, with dirty dishes still on the dining table in the same room.

It feels as if he cannot physically remove his lips on your skin. There is laughter slipping between your kisses as he stumbles down the hall, holding you up in his arms. Your bodies stay together like two poles of a magnet, hearts racing in tandem. The door barely clicks shut behind him before he’s on you again, hands everywhere, mouth chasing the warmth of your skin like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Maybe, at this moment, it is.

Your fingers tug at his shirt clumsily and he helps you, pulling it over his head in one swift motion before reclaiming your mouth and pressing you against the wall. It’s all heat and friction, breaths mingling in the small space between confessions neither of you is ready to say out loud. But it’s there, tangled in the way he touches you, in the way you respond to every kiss, every graze of his fingertips.

He pulls at your top next, and it takes him no effort to take it off of you. His gaze wanders, his smile growing wild and dazed. Clothes are thrown off in some corner of the room and Hyunjin knows they’re a problem for tomorrow.

“Wow,” is all that comes out of his mouth.

“Wow?” you repeat, tracing his chest with a finger. Hyunjin gasps quietly at the sensation, leaning forward to let his head fall onto your shoulder.

“I can’t look at you,” he whimpers. “I can’t. My heart is going to burst.”

You laugh softly, arms wrapping around his back and pulling him closer. Hyunjin doesn’t comment on the way his clothed hardness presses against your hips. You keep him there for an amount of time that is enough for Hyunjin to go dizzy over the proximity.

His chest rises sharply, a shudder exhaled that’s drawn long enough to feel like he’s been holding it in for years.

“Is this your first time?” you ask gently, thumbs now brushing just under his eye. The question is laced with curiosity, not judgment, so Hyunjin doesn’t feel like he has to run or hide.

His laugh comes breathless and almost self-deprecating. His nose brushes against yours. “No, but…” His voice grows smaller, quieter, the vulnerability in it tugging at something between you. “But it’s my first time with you. And God, I just want to do it right.”

Your eyes flash with something Hyunjin could not name, but it’s all familiar and comforting all the same. Your hands slide down his shoulders before they find their way into the dip of his spine, and his skin trembles in heat under the brush of your fingers.

“Let’s do it right, then.”

Then he feels your arms stretch outward. He steps back, watches you and the grin on your face widen with every passing second. He’s left dumbfounded, confused, and heavily aroused. But you say nothing.

Hyunjin feels like a fucking idiot. That’s not something new, especially not tonight. Then he still doesn’t get the fucking hint, so you finally say, “Carry me to the bed, Hyunjin.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, but he feels another wave of mortification in his stomach because he was too fucking horny to get that very obvious invitation. He carries you again in the same way he did earlier, holding onto your thighs to let it wrap around his waist. He hides in the crook where your neck and collar meet, feeling a different kind of heat in his cheeks.

It only takes a few steps, but Hyunjin makes sure his touch projects less of his want and more of his devotion to it. It’s not that his greed for this very moment has diluted. In fact, he thinks that desire, when mixed with this kind of tenderness, fuels a fiercer flame. Something that burns satisfyingly within him. It spills from his fingertips, tracing the curve of your waist, and settling in the soft press of his lips against your skin — an ache, yes, but one wrapped in reverence.

He lays you down gently, so fragile and precious, something he’s terrified of breaking. But the way you look up at him, eyes dark with desire yet soft with trust, tells him you’re everything but that. You are precious in ways that tell him, maybe, he can handle you just fine. He can handle you because he is determined to. Your hands find his face again, pulling him down until your lips meet, measured, savoring.

Hyunjin settles between your thighs, forearms braced on either side of your head, caging you in. His mouth trails another path down your neck, across your collarbone, pausing to taste the skin there like he’s memorizing it. He could spend forever here and he would still not get enough.

“Still okay?” he murmurs, breathing against the shell of your ear.

You nod, sighing, fingers threading through his hair just enough to make his eyes flutter close. “More than okay. Please, Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin slightly moves his way down. His fingers dance on the waistband of your pajamas, teasing, barely grazing your skin. He can feel your body shift under his touch, your hips lifting as if urging him to move faster, to give you what you want. But Hyunjin pulls back, just to look at you with those eyes full of want, but still filled with that deep-seated reverence that makes Hyunjin’s heart skip.

“Patience,” he breathes out, letting his tone be a perfect blend of control and desire. The awkwardness and reluctance that plagued his whole evening now almost completely gone, and he thinks he could get drunk in this feeling. His lips brush against your collarbone again, hands now getting dangerously close to your heat.

A frustrated moan spills out of your lips. Hyunjin feels the protest in the quake of your hips. “Please, Hyunjin,” you whisper, fingers gripping the flesh of his back. “Don’t tease me.”

He smiles at your plea, tilting his head sideways before planting a soft kiss on the skin of your breast. “But you had a swell time teasing me tonight, though?” he murmurs, slowly, agonizingly, his fingertips lifting up from your skin. “And I’m not teasing you. I’m just savoring this. Savoring you.”

Then his hand slides under the waistband of your bottoms, finally making contact with your skin. He’s on the edge of control, but he knows sooner or later he would fall over it himself. His fingers find your slit, easing it apart to tease your nub. A satisfied hum rolls off his tongue as your hips jerk upward at his touch. You let out a breathless gasp as he presses a gentle kiss to your lips, his touch finally becoming less teasing and more purposeful.

“Take it off, please,” you say, words caught between breaths. Hyunjin coos.

“My pleasure.”

Not wasting any time, he slides your pajamas down your legs. He relishes the way you lift yourself to assist him, loving how eager you seem about this whole thing. He pulls the rest of the fabric off your feet and kisses his way up, wet and determined, as he looks directly into your eyes. He grows more and more lightheaded with each press of his lips until he finds himself just inches away from your heat. He smiles to himself, seeing your wetness seeping through your panties.

“Hyunjin, I’m…” He hears you whisper, so he turns and looks up to you. 

“Do you not want me to?” he asks, despite his wide-eyed look of arousal. He raises a concerned brow, hands resorting to rub the sides of your thighs in delicate patterns. “I’ll make you feel good, but you can tell me if you want to back out.”

“No! I mean, yes! I–” Your hand finds the side of his head, fingers fondling with his ear, and he keens at your touch. He moves sideways to accommodate your palm before completely nuzzling into it, almost propping his own head in your hand. He looks up to you with a smile he hopes conveys the want and the hunger, as well as especially his respect to give you an out if you wish.

He wants you, but he loves you first. He’s not about to be the bastard who’s set to get his dick down after getting an unexpected boner while attempting a confession.

(There. He admits it. He loves you. He loves you dearly.)

(The verbal confession would have to come later. He swears.)

Hyunjin feels your legs tremble with the shaky breath escaping your lips before he hears you murmur, “I don’t doubt you would. Make me feel good, I mean.” You lean forward, propping yourself on your elbows, which allows Hyunjin to fully see every curve and frown and furrow on your face. “I’m just… embarrassed.”

Your eyes dilate, a familiar hue now in their gleam, one Hyunjin knows you’ve seen in his eyes many times over the past few hours, or the past few months. He stops himself from giggling, a weird feeling in his stomach coming in full force, and instead, he leaves a kiss on the inside of your thigh before pulling your panties to the side with a finger. He feels immense pride at the pleasured gasp you made and the sound of a body falling flat back onto the bed.

Lightly, he licks a strip up your slit. Your legs shiver and he holds them in place by caging them in his arms. Another lick, and a bit-down sigh resounds in the room. He’s determined to let you let all that out. Another lick, bolder, and you moan.

Hyunjin thinks he can do this all night.

With fewer qualms in his mind and more confidence in the patterns that have you reeling under him, Hyunjin begins to prod his tongue into your pussy, deliberate and steady. He savors every twitch of your thighs and every soft gasp you gift him. The taste of you floods his senses, sweet and intoxicating, and he hums against your skin, the vibrations pulling a whine from your lips.

He tightens his grip, thumbs digging gently into supple flesh as he gets more and more aroused with every sound you make. He pulls you closer, tongue delving deeper with eager strokes, pushing into depths that have your back arching off the bed. He listens intently to every breathless whimper, every choked plea, a melody he never knew he craved. His name falls from your lips like a prayer, and God, he feels worshipped.

But it’s not just about the sex.

Between fervent licks, he glances up, eyes locking with yours. Your face is a masterpiece of flushed cheeks, parted lips, and glassy, desire-drenched eyes. He blinks, wishing he could capture it in his memory vividly enough to paint a picture if you allow him to. His heart stutters, and his chest tightens not just from arousal, but from the overwhelming tenderness that crashes over him like a wave.

I love you.

It rings so loudly in his head, louder than your moans, louder than the slick sounds filling the room. It feels as if it’s clawing right out of his chest to escape.

So he doubles down, dragging his tongue flat with more pressure, flicking at the sensitive bundle of nerves until your thighs quake around his head.

“Oh, God, you–” Words cut short with the sudden flick of his tongue on your clit, your hands immediately holding onto what little hair he has and tugging at it. “I’m so close. I’m so–” He adds two fingers, slipping in easily, curling just right, because he wants you to fall apart for him. Wants to feel you unravel with his name tangled in the wreckage.

And when you do — when you cry out, trembling around his fingers, back arching like a bow pulled taut — Hyunjin swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

He slows, gently coaxing you through the aftershocks, pressing light kisses against your inner thighs, his cheek resting against the warmth of your skin as he catches his breath.

His heart still pounds, not from exertion, but from the burden of the words he has yet to say.

Maybe after. Maybe when you’re both lying there, tangled and breathless, he’ll finally whisper it against your skin.

I love you.

But for now, he presses one last kiss to your hip and smiles up at you.

“Was that okay?” he asks gently, though he already knows the answer.

“Okay?” You pull your arms back, letting them fall to your sides. Your body relaxes and Hyunjin sees the upturn at the corners of your lips. You gesture at him, nudging him to move. “Hyunjin, that was fucking mind-blowing. C’mere.”

Hyunjin climbs his way on top of you, hands holding onto your face as soon as it’s within reach before he kisses the tip of your nose. A sigh escapes you, fingers tracing his sides until he feels you tug on his bottoms. There is a determined grin plastered on your face, and Hyunjin swallows the lump in his throat.

He’s had the best time of his life eating you out of your damn mind, but the truth of the matter is he’s far from satisfied.

Heat shoots through his stomach once more, and he feels his hardness straining under all the fabric. He lets your hands play on the waistband of his sweatpants before giving you a nod. Lifting himself up high enough to pull the clothing down his legs, he obliges your impatient touch and whimpers when you accidentally brush against the side of his cock.

“Please, Hyunjin,” you plead, and he thinks he could almost see the need spilling out your lips. He sighs, feeling just as greedy with his cock catching against your slit, then he blinks.

“Condom,” he says, simply. He stares at you like you would make the rubber suddenly appear out of thin air.

“Oh,” you reply, simply. Well. “I don’t… I don’t have one, I think.”

Hyunjin has one. He’s just suddenly overcome with shame at the very idea of it.

Because having it means he thought about this — planned for it, even — and not just in the vague, wishful way. No, he knew he’d want you like this. He knew he’d fall apart under your touch. And now, with you lying beneath him, asking for him like it’s the most natural thing in the world, it feels like a confession he isn’t ready to voice.

I’ve wanted you like this for longer than I’d admit.

He clears his throat, trying to mask the rush of emotions overflowing in his chest. “Uh—I… I have one.” His voice comes out rough, strained, and he winces internally. Cool. Real smooth. He tries to think of excuses, something like, it has always been in my pockets, you know, for luck or Jisung pranked me and left it in my wallet, but I keep forgetting I still have it. Neither of them is good.

But your eyes brighten with a mix of relief and something more tender. “Okay,” you whisper, like it’s not a big deal. He’s wondering how you still don’t realize how much his resolve has been falling apart then coming together, only for it to fall apart again because of you.

Hyunjin shuffles to the side, fumbling through the pockets of his ugly fucking jacket with shaky hands until he finds the small foil packet. He holds it up, hesitating for a second before tossing it onto the bed like it’s burning his fingers. He doesn’t meet your gaze when he climbs back over you, afraid you’ll see right through him.

It’s not like he doesn’t have his heart and dick out in the open, but still.

Then your hand curls around his arm, thumb rubbing small circles on his skin. “Hey,” you hum softly, “it’s okay.”

He leans into your touch, shifting forward to rest his forehead on yours. His eyes flutter shut for a moment before he kisses you, heavy and deep, trying to pour everything he hasn’t said yet into it. His hips grind against yours, the head of his cock brushing against your core. The friction is enough to make both of you gasp into each other’s mouths.

When he pulls back, his question comes. “Are you sure?” he asks, because despite everything, he needs to hear it.

Your answer returns without hesitation. “I’ve never been more sure.”

And that’s all he needs. He’s finally, finally resolute.

With trembling fingers, he tears the packet open, slipping the condom on with practiced ease that makes his face heat up again, not just because of the act itself, but because it’s you this time. It’s real.

He feels your own fingers gently move him away from his cock, and you pump it slightly. His head falls back at the feeling of your hands wrapped around where he needs it most, and he lets his jaw fall slack. He thinks he wants to moan, but he’s left so speechless that not even a sound leaves his throat.

Then, you help him position himself between your thighs, one hand still on his cock and the other pulling your panties to the side. His shaft lines up with your entrance, runs it up and down long enough to catch your gaze. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”

Your breathy, quiet “I won’t need you to” is the last thing he hears before he finally pushes in. Steadily, carefully. His body is trembling with restraint and the tight, wet warmth of you just steals the air from his lungs. For a second, he can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t be — except right here, buried inside you.

A broken moan slips from his lips, his head dropping to your shoulder. “Fuck, you feel–” he cuts himself off with another shuddering breath.

You’re everything, everywhere. Around him, under him, in him in ways he never expected. And deep down, beneath the pleasure, one truth rings louder than anything else.

“I love you,” Hyunjin whispers into your skin. Your hands move to grip his back, nails slightly digging with every stroke he makes. He pulls out, only to push himself back in, reaching as far as he physically can because he wants to feel you completely. “I love you,” he repeats. Again, and again, and again.

Then he feels your shoulders shake under him. He leans back, pulling out until only little of him remains inside you, and he squints his eyes at the shit-eating grin slowly forming on your lips. He almost falters.

“Why’d you stop?” you complain.

“Are you laughing?”

“Yes,” you blurt out immediately, cheeky in tone. “And I was being fucked so good until I wasn’t. Don’t stop. Please.”

Hyunjin pushes back in, only slightly, and it has you gasping. He feels your hips shift to chase the feeling of his cock in you, but he doesn’t relent. “I’m the one fucking you good. Don’t laugh at me.” He thrusts fully, the suddenness deliberate to take you by surprise.

“I’m just…” Another moan betrays your words. Hyunjin takes his time thrusting in and out of your pussy, allowing him to feel every drag of his cock inside you. “That’s something… something you should say before you have your cock… fuck–inside me, you know.”

Hyunjin snorts, half-embarrassed. He leans down to kiss you on the side of your head before he presses a palm on your abdomen. The action got you choking on a wanton sob, then he pushes another drag of his shaft into you. He almost fucking cums when he feels you tighten around him.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your skin, voice sliding down your cheeks. “I love you,” he repeats.

“Apology accepted,” you whisper back, hands now fiddling with the hair at the nape of his neck, heavy enough to keep him in place. “—after you show me how good you fuck.”

Holy fucking shit.

Hyunjin gasps as you pull him down for another kiss. His hips stay in place, twitching whenever your tongue pokes the insides of his mouth. When you pull away, a wicked smile plasters on his face and he grabs your thighs to pull you closer. He holds them up, the angle accommodating his body better and his cock deeper.

Then he fucks you good, because that’s what you asked.

The pace he sets is merciless, each thrust a declaration and a tangible response to your challenge. Skin slapping against skin, the sound fills the room, mingling with the wet, obscene slickness of your arousal. His name spills from your lips like a mantra, and yours rolls off his tongue like a prayer. It’s breathless and broken and so lewd, each syllable unraveling under the force of his hips snapping into yours.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Hyunjin’s hand slides from your thigh to your throat, not to squeeze but to ground himself, his thumb brushing along your jawline tenderly, a stark contrast to the way he’s fucking you like he’s trying to imprint himself in every part of you. His eyes find yours, blown wide with lust, but there’s an ache there, too. A need beyond the physical.

“You feel so good,” he pants, voice ragged, lips a hair’s breadth away from yours. “Like you were made for me.”

Your body clenches at his words. You’re on the edge, teetering, and he knows it. His free hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to have your back arching off the bed once again.

“Hyunjin—fuck, I’m–”

“I know, baby,” he breathes, kissing you once. His pace grows erratic, losing its steady rhythm and growing more and more inconsistent. Fuck. Holy shit. Fuck. Fuck. Then he kisses you hard, swallowing your moans beneath him as you fall apart. Your insides squeeze him almost impossibly tight that has him trembling and gasping into your mouth. His vision blurs at the edges as he feels you come undone. He follows soon after, hips stuttering as he spills into the rubber in you, a low, grating groan ripped from his chest.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing, the weight of his body grounding the both of you, the warmth of him inside you. Then he shifts, pulling out gently that has you shivering and whimpering quietly, rolling to his side and pulling you with him so your bodies stay tangled.

He traces lazy patterns on your back, his other hand cradling your face.

“I meant it,” he sighs softly against your temple, his promise to whisper his affections onto your skin finally coming to fruition. “I love you. So damn much, you have no idea.”

This time, there’s no teasing on your lips, no cheeky comeback. “I think I do.” Just the truth, bare and simple, as you whisper back, “I love you too.”

The ringing in your ears fills it, that hollow sound you get when your body’s stretched too tight. You could almost hear your skin tearing apart where your nails have picked on your hands. You could almost hear the pleasure and pain, if those have any sound at all. And you wonder what they would sound like when they do.

A scream? A groan? A sob? What would you hear? Whose voice would it be?

His?

It feels heavy, and it feels heavy for an infinite amount of time. Like the beginning of this silence started long before you were even alive, and it stretches until a million years have passed. Maybe it would go for millions more, until the weight becomes so crushing that time would end.

“I’ll go now,” you say, and the millions of years left in the sands of time shatters. Your hand fiddles with the handle, waiting — foolishly — for a word, a glance. Anything. You’d be fine without it, but you wait anyway.

The door swings open.

Call me, you should say. Or I’ll call you. That’s how it goes — the ritual before the separation. Text me when you need anything, you would suggest. He always knows what you mean. Then, a week later: Come by tomorrow. I might have plans the week after. A full cycle. I’ll see you again.

Your mouth instead forms words that feel to you like, “Thanks, again.” Your voice sounds like it belongs to someone else.

This is the part where you run away.

But his voice catches you. “Wait–”

A hand on your elbow, warm and steady, draws you back in. His grip is careful but unyielding; you don’t resist. He could push you, pull you, drag you for all you cared. It has always been this war, the push-and-pull, an unfilled space between. The rope between you is never cut, just stretched until your hands burn.

It has always been so hard to understand what you have. You and Seungmin have had each other at an arm’s length, always in reach, in touch, but never in each other’s arms.

“We need to talk first,” Seungmin starts. The door clicks shut. His hold remains. His skin on your skin burns, like it always does. It seethes of something that you know is akin to sin. Some levels of hell, loveless pits.

Is it really the pit of empty romance? When he touches you, time and time again, you have never felt such a rush in your spine and it kills you that only he could do it to you. Only he knows your body. Only he knows you.

“Talk?” you echo, voice sharp and small. “About what?”

“You know what.”

This war.

“This again,” you mutter. “I don’t–”

“Stop lying.”

The push-and-pull.

“I’m not lying!” you snap. “I’m not lying. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Seungmin flinches, but it’s so small a move that you bet you would not even notice if it isn’t you.

But it is. You, who knows his body well. You, who knows him well.

(You do not know him well enough to understand what you are to him, and what he is to you. You do not know him outside of burning flesh and the pits of hell.)

“We have to talk,” he grits his teeth, and you hear it in his words. His hand has begun to loop around your arm that you have to shift your body to turn to him. You face him and he faces you, eyes staring each other down.

“And I asked you. About what?”

“Stop being so goddamn dense!”

An unfilled space between.

“Stop being so fucking vague then, Seungmin!” you cry. A finger to his chest. “Tell me right now. What should we talk about? Sex? Bodies? Because that’s all we ever know about each other.”

“No,” Seungmin stutters. “No, I–”

“Or about how this sick thing we do is just a repeating series of– of whatever bullshit this is?”

Seungmin tightens his lips together. He seems to have something to say, but he keeps it. He stares forward, mapping out the points on your face like lights in the deep night.

You suppose that is fair. You have never seen each other up this close. You and him always had your eyes closed, afraid to see what secrets hide under your skin. The sense of touch does not help you know where the devil is playing. The sense of touch deceives you into the wicked pleasures of the devil until you dance with it.

But it is too late. Because the devil lets you feel what you are aching to repress.

Intimacy is the only truth in sex. Without it, it’s just self-destruction dressed as desire.

One wrong step and you fall, again and again–and again, into the bottomless pit. Pleasure and pain.

And you’re both still here.

“Kiss me,” you whisper. You don’t have to tell him, and you know that. He’s already too close.

It all crashes.

You collapse into each other and it feels so right. The devil is somewhere letting the smolders form the fire that melts your bodies together. It feels heavy, and it feels heavy for an infinite amount of time. But you don’t mind the weight, not right now. Not when it’s this.

A sigh falls against your lips and your mouth comes back to the plushness of his. He retaliates with his tongue teasing into your depths.

Unholy, is what this is. You, and Seungmin, and this.

His hand slides down your body, teasing what little skin gets exposed with your shirt riding up. He rubs his thumb on it, and he could be etching his name onto your hip but you do not care. He could mark you and you would let him because you’re his. His. His.

“Mine,” he breathes.

Your hand rests on his thigh, nails biting through the fabric.

His hand slowly slides up, up, until he finds the curve of your waist under your shirt. It feels too much and altogether, not enough. You needed more. You ask for more.

You pull at each other until you don’t know when you start and he ends. It’s all coming together, in the front seats of his godforsaken car and it’s coming together now.

“Fuck,” he clicks his tongue when you find yourself pulling away to breathe, “Come here.”

He guides you into his lap as you feel his seat slowly moving back. You move with the rush of a being so hungry, so starved and he lets you settle on top of him, straddling him with your palms splayed over his chest.

“What now?” you ask him. His stare is so blown that it almost scares you, because it feels like a dangerous mistake. They almost swallow you.

He grabs both your hands and brings it around the back of his neck. Seungmin steadies you there before reaching to your face, letting his thumb pull your bottom lip.

“What now?” he repeats, brows raising when he tries to put more of his thumb into your mouth and you welcome it willingly. You close your lips around it, slow. His breath hitches.

You smile against his fingers, knowing what this means and knowing how this would end tonight. All sentiments forgotten. All anger and frustration, fuel to this desperation.

“I’m going to do what I do best,” he murmurs lowly, inching closer before removing his thumb from your lips then giving it a taste of his own. God. Fuck. “Make you feel good.”

He does not give you any time to respond before pressing his lips onto yours again. This next kiss is harder, hungrier. You answer with your whole body, rocking into him just enough to feel him curse under his breath.

Your name spills from his mouth. His grip on your hips is possessive, dragging you forward until there’s no space left between you. The friction is sharp and intoxicating, denim on denim, heat building so fast it’s dizzying.

You gasp against his lips, and he takes it as an invitation, tilting his head to kiss you deeper. One hand stays anchored at your waist while the other slips under your shirt entirely, splaying wide against your chest. His palm is hot enough to make you shiver.

You roll your hips once, twice, and feel him tense beneath you. A low groan rumbles from his chest, the sound vibrating straight into your mouth.

“Seungmin–” you breathe, but it comes out as more of a whimper.

“Don’t stop,” he sighs, voice rough and pleading.

His thumb strokes over the curve of your ribs, brushing the edge of your bra, testing your breath. You arch into his touch, and the motion drags you harder against him. His hips lift instinctively to meet yours, and the perfect press of him against you draws another sound from your throat you didn’t know you could make.

“God, you feel–” he breaks off, kissing you like the words might burn him if he says it whole. He pushes your bra up, exposing your bareness to his fingers and he immediately plays with whatever he could touch.

Your hands are in his hair now, tugging just enough to make him inhale sharply. He answers by sliding his other hand down, cupping the back of your thigh and pulling you in tighter, grinding up into your heat in a rhythm that makes your head fall back. He takes the opportunity to dive under your shirt and nibble on the side of your tits.

The car is thick with heat, with your breathing, with the wet sound of your mouths meeting over and over. Every shift of your hips sends sparks crawling up your spine, every lick of his tongue and every squeeze of his hands leaves your skin buzzing.

You’re seconds from letting go, from losing the careful hold you still pretend to have. His lips have found their way back to your jaw, then to your throat, teeth grazing before his tongue soothes over the mark he’s already claiming.

“Mine,” he says again, voice muffled against your skin. “All mine.”

His mouth finds yours again just as his hand slips under the waistband of your jeans — not inside, not yet, but close enough that you feel your pulse there, frantic.

You break the kiss to suck in air, forehead pressed to his. “We shouldn’t,” you manage.

“I know.” His thumb brushes just under the line of your underwear. “Then tell me to stop.”

But you don’t.

Instead, you kiss him again, harder, like maybe that’s your answer. His hand doesn’t move further, but it stays there — a threat, a promise, a tether.

You take the words out of each other’s mouths and fill it with unrelenting sighs and the utterance of each other’s name. Seungmin, your lips mutter. Seungmin. Seungmin. Seungmin. Please, Seungmin.

Time doesn’t stop, not even under the suffocating fog of pleasure and pain in the air. Not even when everything is shed away and all that’s left is you and him, bare. With only skin as the barrier for the secrets of your insatiable souls.

This is the part where you run away.

But you don’t.

His hands trail down your sides, feeling the shape of your body on his palm and lingering at your hips. Deft fingers catch the hem of your shirt, and he lifts it slightly to find the skin on your waist. They stay there, tracing random but measured lines and he smiles into the kiss when he feels your body slightly twitching under his touch.

This feels too good, too fast. I can’t stop. Jisung feels his chest surge. I shouldn’t stop. All the thoughts in his head now fleeting, drowned by the heat of your skin, the pressure of your weight against his. His palms slide higher, brushing against the expanse of your stomach. He should slow down, he knows that. He doesn’t want to rush this. But I can’t help it. 

“Ji,” you try to pull away, but he keeps coming back. Coming onto your lips. “Ji– ah…”

Jisung nibbles on your bottom lip gently before giving you space only enough to whisper into your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he pants, eyes wide. He struggles to focus his gaze on you. “I just… really need you right now.”

And he dives right back in. Harder, this time. A little forceful, but not to hurt you or break you. Far from it. It’s only enough to make sure you feel it, feel him. Enough to lose himself in your warmth, in the way it wraps around him and makes him forget about everything else.

You gasp his name when he licks a tentative stripe across the plushness of your lips. Each passing minute of you and him being all up in each other’s spheres, intertwined and feverish, is a step into your home. Jisung kicks your door closed, moving a hand momentarily away from you to click the lock shut behind him. Your fingers now trace his shoulders, jaw, cheeks, ears, until it settles on the nape of his neck, where you toy with the delicate, wet curls gathered there.

A wave of lovely chills ripple down his spine as he tastes a giggle from your lips. He moves away to see a grin forming on the curves of your mouth, and he raises an eyebrow at you.

“You’re so hot in that white shirt, did you know that?” you murmur into the space between, casual and low. “Especially when it’s all wet and sticking to your skin.”

Jisung laughs, leaning forward to nuzzle a kiss just below your ear. His breath ghosts over your jaw, voice a hush against your skin. “Am I?”

He hums in satisfaction as you tilt your head slightly to accommodate him. He flitters another peck, then another down, and another until he trails a path back to your lips. There he kisses you once again, messy and sloppy, but short to let you keep talking.

“Yeah. But you’re making a mess on my floor, getting water all over,” you click your tongue. “Take it off.”

“Eager, are we?” Jisung teases, but he makes quick work of pulling his shirt over his head. Your hands immediately roam over his skin, caressing a brush-like touch on the places you know he loves most. His breath hitches when you close in to dart your tongue onto the flesh of his chest. “God. You–”

“Pants, too, please.”

The frantic pace gives way to something softer, something sweeter. Jisung loves that the air has begun to slow, and he finds himself savoring every second. His quick, rushed tempo in the beginning of the night is now down to a sensual, delightful pace. You’ve always been the only person who could take his frenzied energy and transform it into something tender, something meaningful.

It’s why he’s here in the first place.

Jisung begins to take his pants off, thumbs pushing against the button expertly before he haphazardly pulls the fly down. He shimmies it off his legs as he takes small steps back into your reach, appreciating the careful hand you help him with. His heart races, not just from the anticipation, but from the quiet ache inside him that only you can fill. He lets his pants drop to the floor, his rain-drenched clothes now pooled at the entrance of your house. He doesn’t give a damn. He steps out of them as he pulls you closer, hands now lingering on the back of your thighs.

With you so close, he doesn’t want to rush any of this anymore.

“I’m here,” he murmurs onto your lips before he kisses you again. He drinks in every line of your form, every inch of you that he’s allowed to touch. “I’m right here, baby. Come on. Up.”

His voice is low and calm, but he’s barely keeping himself together. His mind is buzzing, racing. The heat of your body against his, the way your breath catches as he lifts you, his fingers digging into the back of your thigh to steady you. Your legs immediately wrap around his hips, not a single moment of hesitation because of course you know what to do.

That is enough to make him feel like he’s losing control. He could drown in you if he’s not careful.

“What’s on your mind?” you pry carefully. Your breath is warm against the crook of his neck.

Jisung hesitates. There’s so much he wants to say, so many words caught in his throat. About how everything is too fast, everyone too intense. About how you make everything slow down and make sense again. How these moments with you feel like coming home.

But he’s not ready for them to form realness on his tongue. That’s too much for something like this, no?

So instead, he just holds you closer, breathes you in. “Just glad I’m here with you.”

You hum contentedly, fingers back to playing with the damp hair at his nape. “Me too, Ji.”

The trust between you is tangible in moments like these — in the way you melt into his touch, the way he lets his guard down completely. No pretenses, no walls. Just two souls finding comfort in each other’s warmth.

He carries you down the familiar path to your room, each step deliberate and careful, and you flash him an easy, toothy smile. He traces the curve of your lips with his eyes, memorizing how the dim light catches on your features. The weight of you in his arms tethers him down, keeping him within your gravitational pull and he’s not quite sure if he could part from you. Not that he wants to. Not ever.

When he lays you on the bed, it’s with a reverence that surprises him. Your eyes meet his in the darkness, full of understanding and something deeper that makes his chest ache. There’s only this — only you, only him, only the quiet sound of rain against the windows — and in the space you’ve carved out together, everything is quiet and still and perfect.

He forgets how he’s almost fully naked until he realizes how much clothes you still have on. He glares at your top, like it personally offends him, before he helps you out of it. You sit, arms up and he pulls the top off of you, then he wastes no time to explore your body, now bare right in front of him. He pushes your legs apart with his knee, slotting himself in between.

A giggle escapes your lips at the awestruck look on Jisung’s face. To tease him, then, you bring your hands up to push your tits together, and Jisung thinks his eyes would fall out of his head.

“You’re so–” he starts, but cuts himself off with a low groan as his hand immediately finds a nipple. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes glinting with mischief. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

“Dramatic,” you laugh, breathless, body shifting to accommodate his weight better. You reach for the hem of his briefs. “Isn’t this supposed to be, you know, no strings attached? Why are you talking like you’re in a romance novel?”

He catches your wrist, stopping you mid-motion, and raises an eyebrow. He knows you’re only teasing, and he doesn’t feel even the tiniest bit insulted by your words. Mocked, maybe, but he’s not going to cry about it.

“Can’t I appreciate you without you giving me shit for it?”

He doesn’t need to hear your response. He leans down, takes the other neglected nipple between his lips and enjoys the sigh — his or yours, he’s not sure anymore — that echoes in the room. His mouth is warm and insistent, his tongue swirling around the nub as his fingers tease the other. You arch into his touch, a quiet moan escaping you, and he groans in response, the sound vibrating against your skin. He’s always been like this — attentive, almost obsessive in the way he worships your body. Like he’s trying to memorize every reaction, every sound you make.

It’s so easy to get lost in the epiphany of desperation when it’s you.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he mewls against your chest, his voice rough and strained. He nips lightly, just enough to make you gasp, before soothing the spot with a kiss. He free hand trails down your side, fingers skimming over your hips before slipping between your thighs. “Always so ready for me.”

Jisung peers up through his eyelashes, watching you bite your lip. Your breath stutters when he pushes past your shorts and his fingers brush against your core.  

“Ji,” you whimper, your hands tangling in his hair. “Don’t tease.”

He chuckles, low and dark, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, he takes his time, his fingers tracing lazy circles that make your legs tremble. “But you’re so fun to tease,” he says, his voice dripping with mischief. He looks up at you, his eyes glinting with something dangerous. “You make the prettiest sounds when I take my time.”

You groan, frustration seeping through the sound, and he grins before finally giving you what you want. His fingers slide inside you, slow and deliberate, and you cry out, your legs twitching beneath him. He watches you intently, his gaze locked on your face as he curls his fingers, searching for that spot that he knows would send you the pleasure he so badly wants to give you.

“There it is,” he chuckles when your body jerks in response. He leans down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing every sound you make. His thumb circles your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure, while he pumps his fingers into you at a slowly increasing pace. He feels your warmth clenching, and he knows you’re already close, so close—

But then he stops.

You whine, your hips chasing his hand, but he pulls away completely, sitting back on his heels with a smug grin as he licks his fingers.

“Not yet,” he says, firm but playful. He begins to pull your remaining clothes off. “I’m not done with you.”

You glare at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. You kick your shorts along with your panties away when it pools around your ankle.

Jisung just laughs, leaning down to kiss you again. And then, before you can respond, he’s flipping you onto your stomach, his hands gripping your hips as he pulls you up onto your knees.

You bury your face in the pillows, and he nods to himself, happy at how pliable you are underneath him. He momentarily moves away, reaching for your bedside drawer where he knows the condoms, among other things, are kept. It takes little to no time for him to pull his underwear just enough to get his cock out, rip the foil packet, then roll the rubber down his length. He's done this with you enough to feel like his body can move on its own. He hisses at his own touch, feeling vaguely sensitive and highly aroused, and he pumps a couple of times to get himself fully hard.

His hands roam over your body then, squeezing and teasing, before settling on your hips. He leans down, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he whistles lowly, his voice thick with desire. The tip of his cock catches against your clit. “I could spend hours just looking at you, watching you fall apart.”

You turn your head to look at him over your shoulder, your eyes dark with need. “Then stop fucking talking and make me fall apart.”

He grins, his teeth flashing in the dim light, and then he’s pushing into you, slow and steady. You both groan in unison, the sensation overwhelming after the buildup. Jisung pauses once he’s fully sheathed, his hands tightening on your hips as he lets you adjust.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his head dropping forward. “You feel so good.”

You push back against him, urging him to move, and he obliges, setting a slow, deep rhythm that has you reeling beneath him. His hands move all around your body, touching everywhere he can reach, and he can feel the tension building again, tighter and hotter than before.

“Ji… Ji–sung-ah,” you gasp, your fingers clutching at the sheets. “Don’t stop.”

Jisung grits his teeth, fighting to maintain control as your walls squeeze around him. It takes every ounce of his restraint to keep his movements steady, deep and unhurried. He wants to lose himself in you, to give in to the primal urge clawing at him, but he’s determined to savor every second of this.

“I won’t,” he promises, his voice strained.

His hand slips around your waist, fingers splaying across your stomach as he pulls you flush against him, your back arching into his chest. The new angle lets him sink even deeper, and he groans at the way you shudder, a broken moan spilling from your lips.

“Right there?” he murmurs, his voice low, teasing. He rolls his hips, slow and deliberate, making sure to brush that spot again. “Does that feel good?”

You nod frantically, words failing you as your body rocks in time with his thrusts. Your hands grapple at his arms wrapped around your chest, desperate for something to hold on to, but he only chuckles, clearly pleased by the way he has you trembling beneath him.

His pace picks up then, each push sharp and precise. He pulls almost all the way out before thrusting back in so deeply that it almost seems like the room trembles. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, mingling with your breathless cries and his ragged grunts. He leans in, his mouth tracing the line of your shoulder before biting down gently, enough to leave a mark but not enough to hurt.

Your body jolts and he smirks, tongue licking over the redden skin. “You’re mine tonight,” he whispers possessively, something raw spilling from the corners of his mouth. “Every inch of you.”

His words feel light and dizzying against his tongue, and your pussy clenches around him in what he believes as a silent response. Jisung curses under his breath, his grip on you tightening as he fights to keep his rhythm steady. But you’re making it difficult, so, so difficult with the way you’re gasping his name, the way your body moves to meet him.

“Please. Please. Jisung–” You try to push back against him, but he holds you in place, controlling the pace.

“Ah, ah,” he chides, his tone mischievous even as his voice wavers with need. “I’m still not done with you.”

He pulls out suddenly, and you whine at the loss, your body instinctively trying to follow him. Before you can protest, he flips you onto your back again, his mouth crashing down onto yours in a kiss that’s all heat and hunger. He swallows your surprised moan, his hands wandering.

Jisung breaks the kiss just as quickly, his lips moving down your neck, over your collarbone, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin. He’s relentless, nipping and sucking until you’re a writhing mess beneath him, your hands buried in his hair as you try to pull him closer.

“God,” you groan, “you’re so fucking annoying.”

“I only aim to please.”

He lines himself up, rubbing his cock head up and down your slit to tease you. When he feels a complain threatening to leave your mouth, he thrusts back into you, hard and deep, and your mouth falls open. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he buries himself to the hilt. He sets a brutal pace this time, his hips snapping forward with purpose, each stroke drawing a choked moan from your lips. His name falls from your mouth like a prayer, over and over, and he swears he could get drunk off the sound.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Come on, baby. I want to feel you.”

Your body tightens around him, your walls fluttering as the tension coils impossibly tight. You’re so close, so close it hurts, and Jisung feels himself spiraling, his own release just within reach. But he holds on, waiting for you, needing to see you fall apart first.

“Look at me,” he demands, his voice shaking with restraint. “I want to see you.”

Your eyes snap open, locking onto his, and that’s all it takes. Your body shatters around him, a strangled scream ripping from your throat as pleasure crashes through you. He feels you clench around him, impossibly tight, and it sends him over the edge, his own release hitting him with devastating force.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his body shuddering against yours as he rides out his high, his hips moving erratically until he’s completely spent.

For a moment, neither of you move, your heavy breathing the only sound in the room. Then, slowly, he pulls out, his arms giving out as he collapses beside you, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

Jisung reaches out, pulling you close until you’re tangled together, your bodies still buzzing from the aftershocks. He presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on your back.

“I wasn’t too rough, was I?” he asks, his voice soft, tender.

You shake your head, a sleepy smile playing on your lips as you nuzzle into his chest. “No… You were perfect.”

“Good.”

He feels the tip of your nose brush against his neck as you nuzzle into him. Into the small space of it, you whisper, “Something’s bothering you.”

Jisung breathes deeply, remaining silent. The rain outside continues to patter against the window. His arms tighten around you, and he feels the way your chest rises and falls, the way your fingers press just a little harder into his skin. For a moment, he thinks you’ll goad him about it further. It’s not like he is uncomfortable with telling you, or that he wants to keep it a secret from you. He just feels it a little insignificant and maybe a little stupid.

“Tell me sometime, yeah?” you say, smiling up at him assuringly.

“Sure,” he breathes. “Sure. Yeah. I’m so fucked, I think.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, light and tender, and you press a kiss to his nose. “Yeah. But so am I. Literally. Maybe figuratively, too. You know.”

He smiles then, the tension easing from his shoulders, his arms tightening around you as if to anchor himself. “I know.”

You both settle into the silence, limbs tangled together, heartbeats steadying in unison. The rain continues its gentle rhythm outside, a soothing lullaby that wraps around you both.