#jo imagines

┆彡 FUMA [ 風魔 ]

highkey makes you match pokémon pjs with him 🥹

he's just so big and warm… you always fall asleep (and wake up) wrapped in his arms<3

he's a light sleeper so most of the time he slurs awake every time you let out a noise or shuffle in your sleep.

given that, he always wakes up first. and no matter how many times you tried waking before him… nope. he even wakes up before your alarms

he will have all the time to take a shower, maybe work out a little, and most important: make you breakfast

especially on weekends you can bet your ass that fuma will make you a breakfast in bed<3

he'll just crawl back into the covers and gently wake you up, definitely with light kisses all over your face… and you're blessed that his face is the fist thing you see when you wake up

(and the delicious smell of food on the nightstand)

┆彡 NICHOLAS [ 奕翔  ]

HIS DEEP VOICE HELLO THATS WHAT WE WILL START WITH.

like UGHHHAIWIOWOWQQ okay im normal. but he will mumble lazily into your ear, half awake, and his deep morning voice sending shivers down your spine

he will whine into your ear to not go. one arm around you, the other pressing down on your hip… breath fanning on your cheek. in cold winter you're doomed because it's SO cozy you wish you could just sleep all day with him<3

he sleeps shirtless so also. be prepared to wake up glued to his torso,,,, esp after a warm summer night

he will not put a shirt on like he knows what effect it has on you AND hello. he's being comfy in his own house. it's a win win for him ~

he's SO stubborn like will not wake up until he decides to. otherwise he's not budging one bit

also keeps your arm glued around you at all times. when you try to escape the bed, he'll pull you back… and welp, usually pin you down without realizing

┆彡 EUIJOO [ 의주 ]

euijoo moves a lot in his sleep so most of the time you end up somewhere else you fell asleep at

him too. once or twice he woke up where your feet were which was so funny that he woke you up with his loud laugh

HAS to throw a leg around you or otherwise he will not sleep pacefully

when he wakes up, he likes to trace your face with his fingers:( the touches are so light and delicate because he doesn't want to wake you up

and if he accidentally does — or if you simply wake up on your own — you lock eyes and spend long moments just enjoying the intimacy

euijoo is a silly fella so sometimes when you refuse to get out of the bed he will… jump on it… and shake you until you beg him to stop lmao

┆彡 YUMA [ 悠真 ]

that is a cat.

will be so hissy when you wake him up LIKE sassy man apocalypse. pulling the cover over his head, grumbling to himself… yeah, good luck

and oh my god. if you try to leave the bed?

drama.

as i said, cat. will pretend not to care, turning his back to you. but underneath his breath he's murmuring about how cruel you are for leaving him… how you're making the bed cold… how dare you…

and if you cave in (and most of the time, you do) and crawl into the bedsheets again, he's locking you in. bear hugging you, your cheeks squished against his bicep ane leg thrown over.

his face is buried in your neck, inhaling your scent and lulling him back to sleep… and you always pretend not to see through his grumpy act, feeling is smile imprint on your skin<3

┆彡 JO [  穣 ]

jo said he's a still sleeper, waking up in the same position he has fallen asleep in so usually it applies to yu as well

fell asleep hugged onto him? or back to back? you will wake up like that too

secretly he's a fan og being the small spoon:( will tug at your pj shyly to suggest that you should fall asleep holding him<3

he takes a while to shake off the sleep and often just… zones out, staring at your sleeping form<3

gets SOOO red when you catch him and tries to hide under the covers

but you just gush about how cute he his and snuggle into him, placing hisses on his blushing face

(also you bet he has a lot of sketches of you sleeping:( live laugh love artists<3)

┆彡 HARUA [ 琉愛 ]

he needs to hug something when he sleeps so… you know well it's you!!!

arms wrapped around you like you're his teddy bear. his chest glued to your back, face nuzzled in your neck and snoring softly. and you bet he will wake up the second you try to wriggle out of his hold (good luck going pee in the middle of the night btw)

you often wake up in the same position you've fallen asleep in, or just. his body plastered on you.

very very sleepy, needs a few moment to shake off the sleep:( in the meantime he often nudges his face into your neck, pretending it's totally not making him even more sleepy

and when you caress his hair? yeah no, he's snoozing again

┆彡 TAKI [ タキ ]

oh my god. a menace.

WILL launch his body onto the bed to wake you up. and tickle you. and blow raspberries into your neck. i mean hey, at least you are guaranteed to wake up properly!

(he feels bad about it later so if he has time he will make you breakfast<3)

if you wake up before him, you're gentle. and enjoy the moment, looking at him and tracing his cheeks. he often pretends to sleep so you keep touching his skin but more often than not, he breaks into a smile.

and then? attack. wrapping his arms behind your neck and pulling you close, peppering you with kisses.

won't admit it but looooves when you lay on top of him. like a weighted blanket!!! it makes him feel warm n secure and he just gets to have you close<3

┆彡 MAKI [ マキ ]

lowkey doesn't care as long as he has you near him. holding hands, cuddling, backs touching like he will be content!!

also sleeps uh. in a sleeveless tanks. so yeah, maybe… just maybe… you ask him to use his arm as a pillow<333

he occasionally startles awake and looks around, just to go back to sleep moments after. at first it scared you but you've grown used to it. however, every time he does wake up, he takes a look at you. just in case.

also his morning voice is dangerously attractive… esp when he stretches and groans, mumbling "good morning" into your ear

WILL yank you back into the bed if you try to escape >:(

a menace too btw so he will put his cold feet on you. and roll his eyes while jokingly complaining about morning breath. and i feel like sometimes he snores, like chainsaw type of snore

masterlist <3

Love is the ballerina gliding across a stage no matter how worn out her feet are. It is the slash of yellow paint across a dark landscape that somehow turns into a beautiful mountain, when manipulated by the painter’s brush. It is the creator of the universe, weaving their fabric of time and space, proud of their complex, confusing creations that they call ‘humans’.

Love as a form of art can also be seen in the mundane. The sweet kiss of a mother on her child’s cheek on the first day of school, the admiration of the steam of a coffee by a burnt out teenager, the way a lover looks up at the night sky so full of stars and constellations and thinks their beloved is still more beautiful. 

To Jo, love had always been you. 

You with those pretty eyes, that starry soul and that beatific heart that he wanted to open the cage to and settle himself in, all comfortable with a blanket and hot chocolate. You with that laugh that made him want to live a bit more, to appreciate the way the wind moved the leaves of a tangerine laden tree and to admire the beauty of life.

The beauty of you, the essence of his life, his soul, the very blood that ran through his veins. 

Love is an art, and you were his muse. 

“The canvas is down there, mister.” You laughed, flicking at his forehead. 

It wasn't unusual to find your lover staring at your face, like a scientist staring at her new discovery—eyes full of awe and love. You weren’t complaining though. You were highly grateful to call Jo yours. 

“But my muse is up here.” He answered simply, his ears already turning red at the line. Jo sent you a sheepish smile and quickly looked down at his canvas.  

The golden light of the setting sun bathed the field in a warm, amber glow, each sunflower stretching tall, their faces turned towards the horizon as if bidding farewell to the day. You and Jo sat cross-legged amidst the towering blooms, paintbrush in hand, art supplies scattered around you. 

“Can I see what you’re painting, please?” You nudged him, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever he had been concentrating on for the past half hour. He looked so pretty engrossed in his canvas, brows furrowed as he brought his art to life with bold strokes of his brush. 

The breeze carried the scent of wildflowers and fresh grass, ruffling your hair and the hem of your sundress and you caught his gaze properly, always so soft but now sweetly so, shaped by the tranquility of the moment, gazing at you with an intensity that made your heart flutter.

Jo hesitated; it was subtle—the way his fingers tightened around the edge of the canvas, the way his shoulders lifted just slightly. You tilted your head, smiling, your hair catching the golden light of the setting sun and for a moment Jo thought he must have gone to his heaven.

“Alright, but just—” He exhaled a quiet laugh, more nervous than amused, before finally turning the canvas towards you, “don’t laugh, hm?”

In one of the most recent art exhibitions you had attended, the hostess talked about Claude Monet—the painter known for making the movement of light across water look like a choreographed dance with just paint and colour. She went on to talk about his wife and muse Camille Doncieux, even after whose death Monet would never let the world forget about, always incorporating her into his paintings.

Artists and their muses. What a lovely poem. 

“Jo…” You breathed out, after a solid minute of staring at his canvas. It was messy, imperfect, unfinished—but undeniably you. The curve of your cheek, the suggestion of your smile, the way your eyes seemed to hold light even in paint. He hadn’t even tried to hide it—his adoration of you. Your breath caught, something warm blooming in your chest as you traced your eyes over it.

“I tried to paint the field,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck, ears turning that familiar shade of red. “But you kept—” he gestured vaguely toward you, toward everything, “—being there.”

You laughed then, soft and breathless, setting your own canvas aside. “So you just gave up?”

“Mmmh. “ He hummed, glancing at you with that earnest look that always made your heart ache in the best way. “I just painted what mattered more.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The wind drifted through the sunflowers, their golden heads swaying gently around you like a quiet audience. Somewhere in the distance, a bird sang its song in praise of the sunset. The world felt slower and softer like it had paused just for the two of you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, though your smile gave you away.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling back. “But I’m your ridiculous.” His ears turned red again and he looked away, far too embarrassed by his line.

You reached over, brushing a bit of paint off his cheek with your thumb. He stilled under your touch, eyes flickering to yours, something unspoken passing between you.

“Hmm, I think I ought to pay you back for that.” You said, a playful glint in your eyes.

“Pay me back?” Your boyfriend blinked away. You pushed yourself up, scanning the field while Jo looked on. 

“Where are you—?”

But you were already a few steps away, weaving through the sunflowers with surprising urgency. He watched, amused, as you carefully plucked a small cluster of tiny yellow blooms from a lower stem, cradling them in your hands. When you came back, you dropped down in front of him, a little out of breath.

“Give me your hand,” You said, which he obliged, watching you like you were performing some kind of magic. 

His fingers were gentle as you worked, looping the thin stems together, twisting them carefully. Your tongue peeked out slightly in concentration, brows furrowed like this was the most important task in the world.

“What are you doing?” He asked, though he already had a feeling.

“Shh,” you murmured. “This is serious craftsmanship.” 

Jo bit back a laugh. Your fingers moved quickly, looping and weaving, tying a small knot with practiced ease. It wasn’t perfect—one end stuck out slightly—but it held. When you were done, you looked up at him with a triumphant grin. 

“There.” You said softly, “you showed me your love and now I’ve shown you mine." Jo stared at the flower ring and then at you, “It’s kind of bad, I know but I haven’t done this in a while so–” 

“No it’s–” Jo interrupted, smiling shyly, “it’s perfect.” 

He didn’t speak again for a moment, just stared at his hand, at the fragile little ring, like it was the most expensive thing in the world. For him, it was. His lips parted like he wanted to say something more, something bigger—but instead, he just laughed under his breath, shaking his head slightly.

“What is it?” You asked him, with curious eyes. 

“I think I just fell in love with you again.”

You rolled your eyes, though your cheeks warmed. “Again?”

“Mhm,” he nodded seriously. “Happens a lot, actually.”

You gestured toward his hand. “Want to learn?”

He sat up straighter, suddenly very focused, like this was the most important lesson of his life. You picked up a few blades of grass and handed them to him.

Jo took the blades of grass from you, his fingers brushing against yours, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine. He studied them intently, as if trying to decipher some great mystery.

With a small smile, you began to weave, your fingers moving with a fluid grace, years of practice guiding each motion. You showed him how to loop the stems, how to tie them together, how to create a simple ring that held all the love in the world.

Jo watched you intently, his eyes following the movements of your hands, learning from your every motion. Occasionally, he tried to mimic your actions, his own fingers fumbling slightly as he navigated the delicate task. But he persisted, determined to learn, to create something as beautiful as you.

“Okay,” you said, leaning closer, your shoulder brushing his, “you have to twist them like this—no, not that tight—Jo, you’re strangling it—”

Jo huffed—a rare adorable sight—trying again, tongue peeking out in concentration. His fingers fumbled, the blades slipping loose, the knot unraveling almost immediately. You bit your lip, trying to hold in your laughter.

He tried again. And again. And somehow, it got worse. By the third attempt, what he held in his hands looked less like a ring and more like a defeated clump of green. You stared at it, then at him, then back at it and a small laugh slipped out before you could stop it.

“Hey,” he protested, though he was already smiling. “This is hard!”

“That,” you said between laughs, pointing, “is not a ring, Jo.” You snorted, “It looks like it gave up halfway through life.”

“Wow.” He gasped, clutching the sad little bundle to his chest. “No faith in me at all.”

You laughed fully now, bright and unrestrained, the sound spilling into the open air. Jo watched you, completely distracted again—your laughter was better than anything he could’ve made.

“Stop laughing,” he said, though he was grinning.

“Why, you don’t like my smile?” You tried to suppress your laughter, failing immediately as another giggle escaped.

Something in his expression shifted then—like relief, like happiness, like he didn’t quite know what to do with how much he felt.

So instead, he stood up abruptly and held out his hand. Still laughing, you took his hand, letting him pull you up to your feet. The world tilted slightly as you stood, the sun dipping lower, painting everything in deeper golds and soft oranges.

“Alright,” he said, eyes gleaming with a rare mischief. “If I can’t make a ring, I can at least do this right.”

And then he ran.

You let out a surprised laugh as he pulled you forward, your feet stumbling for a second before finding rhythm. The sunflowers brushed against your arms as you followed, your laughter blending with his, the sound light and endless.

“Jo!” you laughed, nearly stumbling as you followed, your sundress catching the breeze, your free hand brushing against the tops of the flowers.

He didn’t stop and neither did you, the two of you running through the sea of sunflowers, laughter spilling into the open air, hands clasped tight like letting go wasn’t an option. The world blurred around you—gold and green and sky—until all that existed was this moment. This feeling.

This love.

“Jo!” you called, breathless. “Where are we even going?”

“Nowhere!” he shouted back. “That’s the point!”

You ran anyway, through gold and green and the last warmth of the evening sun, your dress catching the wind, your fingers still tangled with his. The world blurred again, but this time it felt even lighter, like nothing could touch you here.

Eventually, breathless, you slowed, your steps faltering until you both came to a stop. You were still holding his hand, smiling, looking at each other like nothing else in the world made sense except this—you and him in your little world. 

For a moment, all you could hear was your breathing, the soft rustle of the field and the fading song of evening. Jo glanced down at your hands at the grass ring on your finger, then at the one on his, squeezing your hand gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“Well,” he said, still catching his breath, “mine might be terrible…” You looked up at him. “But yours,” he added softly, “I think I’m going to keep forever.”

Your heart did that quiet, aching thing again. Jo, your sweet Jo. Whatever had you done to deserve him? 

“Forever?” You tilted your head, “I thought you didn’t believe in forever.”

The wind moved gently around you, brushing through his hair,  the sunflowers and the fragile little moment that seemed to stretch between your words and his answer.

“Did I?” He asked finally. You watched as his gaze dropped briefly to your joined hands, to the uneven grass rings sitting there like tiny promises.

It must have been your second or third date when he’d mentioned it. Forever wasn’t in his dictionary apparently and you hadn't questioned it, instead choosing to cheekily ask him about the mathematical aspect of infinity. Forever, for him, was something people said when they didn't know how long things would actually last.

“I think…” Jo said, his breath catching slightly when he made eye contact, “I think I want to believe in it now.” His fingers tightened gently around yours, “Because you’re here.” He chuckled softly, “And forever with you sounds really nice.” 

Something in your chest softened and melted like his words had found a place they were always meant to sit. 

“Have I changed you then, Jo?”

Jo didn’t answer right away, his thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles, like he was thinking through the feeling instead of the words. Then he smiled.

“I think your love changed me.” He said, eyes so warm in a way that made your chest tighten. You watched as he immediately scrunched his nose, heat rushing to his cheeks at the cringey line he’d just uttered. You laughed again and this time he let out a small laugh too, glancing up at the sky for a second like he might find the correct words written there.

“Aww Jo…” You said in between giggles. 

He groaned quietly, dragging a hand down his face. “I know, I know. That was—”

“Adorable,” You interrupted.

“Embarrassing.” He corrected. You shook your head, stepping closer.

“No,” you murmured, “adorable.” He looked at you then and whatever argument he had seemed to disappear somewhere between your eyes and the way you were standing so close now.

You rose onto your tiptoes before you could overthink it. Your lips brushed just beneath his eye, soft and fleeting, like some sort of childish

Jo stilled completely. You felt it, the way his breath caught, the way his hand tightened slightly around yours. You smiled against his skin, pulling back just enough to look at him before leaning in again—this time pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of his nose. He let out the smallest, most helpless laugh.

“Wha—what are you doing?” he whispered, though he didn’t move away.

You didn’t answer; you just kept going. A kiss to his cheek, another just beside his lips, one more near his jaw, light and lingering like you were mapping him, memorizing him in the quietest way you knew how.

“Hey…” he murmured, breath uneven, his hands finding your waist like they needed somewhere to be.

But you were already leaning in again and that was when he pulled you in. His arms wrapped around you, drawing you flush against him, like he’d finally decided he’d had enough of being still, of just taking all the softness you were giving him. He had to give something back, didn’t he?

Your breath hitched, your hands instinctively coming up to rest against his chest. He hesitated for half a second just long enough to search your face, to make sure. 

And then he kissed you.

Soft at first, careful—like he was still a little afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t gentle enough. But when you leaned into him, his hold on you tightened, his thumb brushing against your side as the kiss deepened.

The world around you faded again, neither wind nor sunflowers nor evening song remaining. Just him and the fairies of love dancing between you two. When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. His forehead rested lightly against yours, both of you a little breathless and a little dazed.

“I love you.” He whispered after a second, voice barely steady. You smiled softly, hands still curled into his shirt. 

“I love you too.” You said, leaning in to brush your nose against his.

The sun dipped lower, painting everything in deeper hues, the last light of the evening wrapped around the two of you. Jo held you a little closer, like he already knew he wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

And somewhere between laughter, paint-stained hands, and a crooked little flower ring—

Love became as golden as a sunflower.

__________________

Your boyfriend was a tall, lean man. Your boyfriend also had very attractive hands. 

Very. Attractive. Hands. 

They were a study in elegant lines, long fingers, lean tendons tracing paths beneath his skin, knuckles that were just pronounced enough. There was a sort of strength in them, a capability that was utterly at odds with the gentle, hesitant way he always moved around you. He had pianist’s hands, sculptor’s hands, hands that looked like they should be doing something profoundly beautiful. 

And the veins were just visible enough to make your brain short-circuit a little every time he reached for something. It was distracting, unfairly so.

You know what else your boyfriend and you were? The shyest human beings to ever exist on earth. Masters of the lingering glance hastily averted, the accidental brush of fingers that sent you both retreating into your shells for a full ten minutes. 

Which is why you were currently sitting on the couch beside him, a movie playing in front of you that you had not followed for the past twenty minutes—because Jo’s hand was resting casually on his lap.

And you could not stop staring at it. It wasn’t even doing anything—just existing. Occasionally flexing when he shifted, or brushing against the fabric of the couch, or reaching for the popcorn bowl and oh.

Oh, that was worse.

You quickly looked back at the screen like you hadn’t just been caught staring at his fingers like they held the secrets of the universe. You were normal.

You were so normal.

You lasted about ten seconds before your eyes drifted back. This time, his hand was closer, resting between you both now, fingers relaxed, just within reach. Your heart started beating faster for absolutely no good reason.

You could just hold his hand.

You could also just jump into the Pacific ocean. Free will is such a funny thing. People did that all the time, it was normal and you had held his hand before. So why did this feel different? 

You were so lost in your spiral and the map of veins on the back of his hand, that you didn’t notice the movie’s scene shift to a bright panorama. The light from the screen flared, washing over the couch, and in that sudden illumination, Jo turned his head.

“Are you alright?”

And then you were a criminal caught red handed or rather, utterly transfixed-by-his-hands-handed. Your eyes snapped up to meet his. A hot, profound embarrassment flooded you, and you opened your mouth to stammer an apology for staring, for being weird, for everything. When they told you about first love, you’d forgotten everything had its shameful moments.

“Yeah, I’m good!” You responded a bit too enthusiastically, not looking at him.

“You’ve been staring at my hand for a while now.”

You froze completely. Slowly, you turned your head toward him. Jo was already looking at you, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips, that soft, curious one that always sent butterflies running around in your stomach. Your face burned instantly.

“I—what—no, I wasn’t—”

“Mhm,” he hummed, not convinced in the slightest. His eyes, usually so shy and darting, held yours with a gentle intensity, a faint pink touching his cheeks. 

“I was watching the movie,” you insisted weakly.

“You’re facing the wrong direction.”

You glanced at the TV. You were, in fact, not even looking at it. “…oh.”

Jo let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head a little before his expression softened again. He didn’t say anything else for a moment, just looked at you like he always did when you got flustered. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the TV and the frantic drum of your own pulse in your ears. He looked from your eyes down to his own hands, then back to you. 

Slowly, so slowly it felt like time had thickened, he uncurled his fingers and turned his right hand palm-up on the cushion between you, an invitation, a question. Shall we intertwine our hands and souls?

Your breath hitched, the lead blanket of shyness melting in a warm, dissolving trickle. You slid your hand from your lap, your fingers trembling slightly, and placed it in his.

The contact was electric. His skin was warm, slightly dry, his fingers closing around yours with infinite care, as if you were something precious and rare. He let out a breath you hadn’t realized he was holding—a soft, shaky sound that mirrored your own inner turbulence.

You blinked at him, your embarrassment warring with something softer and braver. Because lying felt pointless when he was looking at you like that.

“…they’re just…” you muttered, barely audible, “nice.”

His brows lifted slightly. “Nice?”

“Your hands.” You nodded, still not fully meeting his eyes.  There was a pause, then a soft, breathy laugh.

“Is that so?”

You risked a glance up at him and immediately wished you hadn’t, because now he looked even softer, a little pink at the ears.

“Yeah.” You mumbled.

He didn’t say a word, he didn’t need to. His thumb began to move, stroking the side of your index finger, mirroring that same absent rhythm he’d used on his own hand moments before. It was an echo that became a conversation. Your shyness wasn’t gone, but it had metamorphosed, meeting his in the middle and creating a new, charged space that belonged only to you two.

His other hand came up, his fingers—those beautiful, impossibly beautiful fingers—brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek with a touch so light it might have been imagined. His gaze dropped to your lips, then flicked back to your eyes, a silent plea for permission.

They’d told you first love would be like winter snow. So very beautiful when it first fell, but it became suffocating in the first few days. Well now that was a hypothesis without any solid evidence. Your snow felt like a hug you’d like to be absorbed into. 

The first brush of his lips against yours was a whisper, a cautious experiment. It was sweet and soft, flavored with the herbal tea he’d been drinking and the underlying warmth that was just Jo. 

You kissed him back, and the shyness melted entirely, replaced by a dawning, wondrous confidence. One of his hands came up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone with a reverence that made you want to cry. Your own hands found their courage, one tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, the other resting on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath your palm.

The movie played on, forgotten galaxies blooming and dying in silent bursts of color behind you. There was no world beyond the couch, beyond the gentle pressure of his mouth on yours, the exploring sweetness of the kiss deepening by mutual increments. 

It was clumsy at times—your noses bumped, laughter breathed into each other’s mouths when you both turned the same way, but it was the most perfect thing you could ever ask for, a dialogue without words, a confession held in every shift closer.

When you finally parted, breathless and foreheads resting together, his hand was still cupping your face. You opened your eyes to find him already looking at you, his expression so full of awed affection it stole your breath all over again. A slow, wobbly smile spread across his face and you felt your own smile answer it, wide and unreserved.

“Hi,” he whispered, his voice husky.

“Hi,” you whispered back. His thumb stroked your cheek once more. 

“Can we—” He began, taking a pause to breathe. God, he was so in love with you, “May we do that again?” 

Your saccharine sweet boyfriend, always so very polite. It had been almost three months of dating now and he was still so cautious about kissing you. It was honestly one of the things you admired about him. 

“Hmm.” You hummed, feeling a tad bit braver now, “Can I just….”

Without finishing your sentence, you swung a leg over to straddle his lap, feeling his breath hitch as you settled against him. His hands found your hips, his thumbs tracing small, soothing circles over your hipbones. You felt a thrill run through you at the touch, at the expression on his face, so tender it made your heart ache.

Slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wanted to, you leaned in until your mouths were a hair's breadth apart. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, and you watched, entranced, as his lips parted in anticipation. You took that as an invitation, pressing your mouth to his in a kiss as soft as a whisper.

It was a gentle thing, this kiss, almost chaste in its sweetness. Your lips moved against his, learning the feel of them, the taste of him. His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer, but the kiss remained achingly tender, a conversation held in the barest brush of skin on skin.

You angled your head, deepening the kiss just a little, and a soft sound escaped him, part moan, part sigh. It vibrated against your lips, sending a shiver down your spine.

You kept kissing him, slow and unhurried, like neither of you quite knew where to go next but didn’t mind figuring it out together. His grip on your hips tightened just a little when you leaned in again, like he needed to remind himself he was on earth.

When you finally pulled away, it was only to breathe. Your foreheads rested together again, your noses brushing lightly. He opened his eyes then, and the look he gave you was so full of unabashed affection it felt like sunshine blooming in your chest. And then you were a bit shy all over again. 

“You’re so beautiful." Jo let out a quiet laugh, the sound soft, “I think I forgot how to function for a second.”

You smiled, your hands still lightly gripping his shirt. “Only a second?”

“Might’ve been longer,” he admitted. You laughed quietly, the sound warm and close between you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then his thumbs brushed over your hips again and he glanced up at you with that same careful softness.

“Was that…..okay?” he asked. The question was so very him that your chest tightened a little.

You nodded immediately. “More than okay.” He smiled at that—small, relieved and a little proud.

“Good.” He said, almost to himself. You shifted slightly, suddenly aware of how you were still sitting in his lap, how close you were and how his hands hadn’t moved.

“Your movie’s probably halfway over,” you murmured.

He glanced past you at the screen, then back at you. “I have no idea what’s happening.”

“Same.” A beat.

“…Do you want to keep watching?” he asked. You pretended to think about it, tilting your head.

“Hmm,” you hummed, then slid off his lap but instead of moving away, you tucked yourself right into his side. One of his arms wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close, while his other hand drifted up to stroke your hair. You felt him relax beneath you, his breath evening out, his body accepting your weight as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Oh,” he said softly.

“This better?” You smiled, cheek pressing against the cotton of his shirt.

“Yeah,” he nodded, pulling you a little closer. “This is…..really nice.”

You reached for his hand again, lacing your fingers together, absentmindedly tracing over them like before. The movie played on—dialogue you half-heard, scenes you barely followed but this time, it didn’t matter. You were warm, tucked into him, his fingers occasionally tightening around yours, his thumb brushing over your skin like he couldn’t quite stop himself.

“Jo?” you whispered after a long, comfortable silence.

“Yes?”

“Your hands are still very attractive.”

He let out a soft chuckle, the sound warm and intimate in the quiet room. His fingers paused their tracing to gently squeeze your arm. “Thank you,” he said, his tone sincerely pleased. “I’ll…..try to keep them that way.”

You chuckled, closing your eyes. The credits ended, and the screen went black, plunging the room into near-darkness. The only light was the soft amber from the window, painting the walls in long shadows.

In the cozy dark, wrapped in the warmth of him and the gentle circles his thumb was now drawing on your shoulder, you felt a quiet contentment. The shyness was still there, somewhere in the foundation of who you both were, but it had been built upon. Now there was this—a safe harbor of closeness, of whispered questions and answered kisses.

“We should probably get up,” he murmured after a while, but his arms made no move to loosen their hold.

“Probably,” you agreed, making no move to stir.

And so you stayed, two souls who had found a brave new language in each other’s silence, cuddled on a couch in the dark, with nothing but the sound of your shared breathing and the promise of many more movies—and many more kisses—to come.

_____________

“Jo! Over here!”

Asakura Jo was rumoured amongst his circle of friends to have come out of the womb holding a paintbrush. Ever since he could remember, he had always painted, the canvas a medium for him to express every single confusing mortal emotion swimming around in his mind. It was easier than talking.

For a second, Jo forgot where he was as your voice cut through the hum of the carnival.

The carnival was a riot of color and sound, a temporary kingdom of light and sugar that had sprung up on the edge of town. Strings of warm lights crisscrossed above like glowing constellations, flickering softly against the deepening evening sky. 

A towering Ferris wheel turned slowly in the distance, each carriage glowing as it lifted people up into the horizon. To your left, a carousel spun lazily, painted horses rising and falling to the sound of cheerful music, laughter spilling from children clutching onto golden poles.

Closer by, the air was thick with the scent of sugar and butter. A stall spun clouds of cotton candy in shades of pink and blue, while another crackled with oil as vendors dipped batter into fryers, pulling out golden cakes dusted generously with powdered sugar. Somewhere behind him, popcorn machines popped relentlessly, the smell of buttered popcorn drifting through the crowd.

And there you were, right in the middle of it all, waving at him, eyes shining, a ridiculously large teddy bear clutched in your arms like a trophy.

Jo didn’t move—couldn’t move. In that moment, words failed him utterly. He stopped dead, a few feet away, the crowd flowing around him like a river around a stone. The neon lights painted his face in hues of pink and blue, but his expression was something entirely his own.

He was awe-struck.

It wasn't just that you were beautiful—though you were, with the carnival lights catching in your hair and your eyes bright with triumph. It was the entire composition of you. The way you stood, victorious and slightly silly with that enormous bear, the genuine, unguarded delight on your face, directed entirely at him. You were the still, joyful center of the swirling, noisy universe.

Jo and his artist’s mind, always observing, always translating the world into line and color and light, went quiet—no analysis, no thought of how he would capture the curve of your smile or the way the gold of a nearby prize ring stall reflected in your eyes. 

There was only this peculiar feeling—a wave of it, so profound and overwhelming it stole the breath from his lungs.

Oh.

I love you. 

The thought wasn't new, but the force of it, here and now, was. It was so simple and absolute, terrifying and wonderful at the same time. Like first snow and all of the beautiful perils it brought with it.

Jo must have stood there for only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity—a perfect, suspended eternity where the roar of the carnival faded to a distant hum, and the only real things were you, the bear, and the universe-expanding love swelling in his chest.

You waved again, more dramatically this time. “Jo!” 

That snapped him out of it and he closed the distance between you, his long legs eating up the space. His eyes didn’t leave you once, staring at you with something that made your knees go weak.

“Look!” you said the second he got close enough, holding up the teddy bear proudly. “I won it!”

He glanced at the bear. Then back at you. Then back at the bear.

“…You did that?” He asked, playfully incredulous.

“Yes,” you said, grinning. “All by myself, thank you very much.”

“That game’s rigged.” Your boyfriend huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head slightly. 

“Not for me,” you said, smug.

“I leave for five minutes and you defeat my nemesis.” Jo huffed, folding his arms like he was personally offended by your success, “I don’t know how to feel about that.”

“Impressed.” You replied immediately. These were the rare moments you cherished, when Jo would give up his usual shy demeanour and loosen up in your presence. 

“Yeah,” he admitted softly with a sweet smile, “definitely impressed.”

You lifted the teddy bear between you again. “You still haven’t helped me name him.”

Jo studied it with exaggerated focus, tilting his head slightly. “He looks like he has a very serious profession.”

“He’s a teddy bear, Jo.”

“Exactly, my love. Which is why we should subvert expectations.” He paused thoughtfully. “Professor.”

You stared at him for a beat. His playful manner, that soft huff of a laugh, was a perfect counterpoint to the awe-struck silence of a moment before. It grounded you both back into the sweet, familiar rhythm of your six months together.

“Hmmm…” You pretended to think, “No.”

“Doctor?”

“No.”

“Sir Fluffington the Third?”

“Jo!” You burst out laughing. “Absolutely not.”

Jo's smile was all fondness. "Clearly not.” He said, clearly pleased with himself for making you laugh. “I think ‘Professor’ is growing on you.”

“It’s really not.”

“Give it time.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile didn’t fade. “You’re ridiculous.” Your heart did that jump again as you looked shyly down, “My ridiculous.” You murmured. 

His ears turned pink at that, gaze flickering away for half a second before returning to you—softer and deeper, like he was still caught in whatever moment you’d pulled him out of earlier. You shifted the teddy bear to one arm and reached for his hand with the other, your fingers slipping into his like it was second nature now.

“Come on,” you said, tugging gently. “There’s something I want to do.” He followed without question.

“Where are we going?” he asked, glancing around as you pulled him through the crowd—past flashing game stalls, the smell of fried sugar and popcorn, past couples and families and laughter that seemed to echo everywhere at once.

You pointed upward. The Ferris wheel loomed ahead, glowing against the night sky, its slow, steady rotation almost hypnotic. Jo’s steps slowed just slightly as he looked at it, then back at you.

“You want to go on that?” he asked.

“Yep.” You said, like it was obvious. “It’s tradition.”

“For what?”

“For being on a date at a carnival.” You replied. “Keep up, baby.”

“Right, of course.” He let out a small laugh, shaking his head as you pulled him along again.

The closer you got, the brighter it seemed—the lights reflecting in your eyes, in the polished metal and in the glass of the cabins waiting to carry people up into the sky. When you reached the line, you turned to him, bouncing slightly on your heels, still holding the teddy bear between you.

“Are you scared?” you teased.

He raised a brow. “Of heights?”

“Of being alone with me in a tiny moving box.” You replied cheekily

“Hmm….” He pretended to think about it, then nodded solemnly. “Terrifying.”

“You’ll survive.” You laughed, nudging him with your shoulder. 

“I hope so.”

The line for the wheel was mercifully short, a queue of couples and families bathed in the cool, white light of the structure's struts.You contented yourself with leaning your head against his shoulder, watching the world from your temporary perch.

When it was your turn, the attendant swung the cabin door open with a metallic creak. Jo held the door open for you, one hand steady on the frame as you climbed in, then followed, sitting across from you as the door clicked shut.

For a moment, it was still. Then, with a soft jolt, the wheel began to move and the world fell away with a gentle lurch. The cacophony of the carnival softened, becoming a cheerful tapestry of sound far below. Up you went, into the beautiful velvet sky.

Your cabin reached the apex and paused, letting new passengers on below. Here, at the top of the world, it was almost silent. The entire carnival sprawled beneath you like a spilled jewel box, a chaotic mosaic of swirling lights, moving shadows and tiny, ant-like people. The neon was a blur of color from this height, and the distant mountains were just a darker cutout against the star-dusted sky.

You leaned forward, peering out the window, eyes wide. “Look at that…….It's gorgeous up here," you whispered, your eyes on the panorama.

The shifting lights reflected across your face, your excitement quieting into something softer as you watched the world from above. The teddy bear rested in your lap now, forgotten for the moment.

“You really like this, don’t you?” he said.

You nodded, still gazing out. “It’s pretty.”

"It is.” Jo agreed, “It’s beautiful."

But when you turned to look at him, he wasn't looking at the view. He was looking at you, his profile outlined by the distant glow of a thousand lights. The reflection of the carnival danced in his dark eyes. Your smile softened. “What?” You asked.

He hesitated, trying to paint with words, struggling where a brush would have flowed effortlessly. It was the most ethereal thing you'd ever seen. Then he shook his head, a small, almost helpless smile forming.

“Nothing,” he said. But his hand found yours, fingers lacing together like they belonged there. The world felt smaller and quieter like it had made just enough space for the two of you.

Jo’s thumb brushed absentmindedly over your knuckles, his gaze still fixed on you like he hadn’t quite come back down from whatever thought had taken hold of him earlier. A breeze slipped through the small gaps in the cabin, gentle but enough to lift a strand of your hair across your face.

Slowly—like he was handling something fragile, he lifted his free hand and reached toward you. His fingers hovered for just a second, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to.

You didn’t, so he tucked the strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips brushing lightly against your skin. The touch lingered and so did his hand. Your breath caught, just slightly, your eyes meeting his. There was something so soft in his expression it almost hurt to look at, like he was seeing you all over again, like he hadn’t quite gotten used to the fact that you were real, that you were here and that you were his.

“Jo…” You murmured, not even sure what you were going to say. How could you tell someone you loved them more than air itself? More than the essence of your very life? Asakura Jo was only human, but in your eyes, he was what you’d imagined an angel of love to look like.

“Jo I—”

A sharp crack split through the sky. You both flinched, turning instinctively toward the window. A burst of light bloomed above the carnival—gold at first, then red and then a cascade of shimmering sparks that rained down like falling stars.

Fireworks.

Another one followed, then another and the sky soon lit up in colors that reflected across the glass, across your face, across his eyes. You leaned closer to the window, your hand tightening around his without thinking. 

“Oh my god…” Your voice was full of wonder.

Jo didn’t look at the fireworks. Not really. He saw them, sure—the colors, the light, the way they painted everything in brief flashes of brilliance. But it all blurred together compared to you.

The way your eyes widened with every burst, the way your lips parted in quiet amazement, the way the colors danced across your skin like they were meant to be there. And just like that it hit him again.

Oh.

I love you.

He tightened his hold on your hand, almost unconsciously. You turned back to him, still glowing from the fireworks, your excitement softening when you noticed the way he was looking at you again.

“What?” you asked, smiling faintly.

He opened his mouth and paused. For once, it didn’t feel like he could translate this into anything less than what it was. No metaphors, no half-jokes, no deflection. Just the pure truth.

The truth that you were love and love was all he needed at the moment to keep him alive and breathing. That no matter how many pictures he painted, he could never find a colour that could match the hues of your beauty. That oh, did the world always seem to be just you and him?

“I—” he started, then stopped, his breath catching. Another firework burst, gold light spilling into the cabin. He swallowed. “…I really like being here with you,” he said .

“Me too,” you said gently.

He nodded, like that was enough, like maybe, for now, it was. But his gaze didn’t waver.

And as the fireworks continued to bloom across the sky he felt it again, growing stronger with every passing second.

He loved you.

What else could an artist need?

________________

A year. 

Sometimes it didn’t feel real. 

Not in a dramatic way but just how had all these small moments—shared looks, soft laughs, paint-stained afternoons, late-night calls—added up to something this steady, this real.

You sat beside him now, your shoulder pressed lightly against his as he absentmindedly sketched in that little notebook he always carried. His hand moved easily, lines forming without hesitation, like they always did.

You watched him. A year in, and he still had that effect on you like your attention just settled on him without asking. Your heart picked up a little, though, your mind racing with one thought and one thought only. And the thought had been sitting with you for a while now, growing slowly like a tree. 

Your boyfriend was an attractive man. A very attractive man, pulling in men and women like—something that you felt secretly proud of. He was yours and yours only, to wake up in the morning to kiss him on the nose and to die down at the end of the day and let night’s cloak wrap around both of you.

And everytime he rolled up his sleeves, everytime he hugged you from behind while you were cooking, effectively caging you in with his large frame and every time his hands rested on your skin, it sent heat rushing somewhere you couldn't talk about too easily.

A year in and you two still hadn’t had sex. It felt weird, most couples usually went at it by their fifth month  according to your friends. But you two were different—that was what you told yourself.

Of course, it wasn't like you didn't want to. Who wouldn't want to do it with your majestic hunk of a boyfriend? All pretty lips and eyes and those gorgeous veiny forearms. You would have been a damned liar if you said you had never let your fingers stray between your thighs and let them slip into your heat, friction building just at the way he’d said ‘thank you’ in that deep morning voice when you’d handed him his coffee. And there arose the problem. 

Pretty little virgin.

Men were said to be simple creatures. To have sex, to fuck a girl with experience would obviously be more satisfying than someone who’s farthest sexual encounter was touching herself to the image of her boyfriend. But Jo would be different, you told yourself.

And it never hurt to ask, did it?

You shifted slightly, drawing your knees up a bit, fingers fidgeting in your lap. Jo glanced up from his sketch.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded a little too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I just…” Your voice trailed off. He closed the notebook without waiting another moment, giving you his full attention.

“Hey,” he said gently, “what is it?” You took a small breath.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” you started, eyes flickering between him and your hands. “And um…” you let out a nervous huff of a laugh. “I don’t know how to say it without sounding weird.”

“You can sound however you want,” he said, a tiny smile forming. “I’m not going anywhere.”

That helped a little. You looked at him properly then, gathering just enough courage to stay there.

“We’ve been together for a year.” You said.

“Best year of my life.” He added quietly, like it was just a fact. Your heart did that soft, aching thing again.

“And I…” you hesitated, then pushed through, “I feel really safe with you.” His expression shifted—more serious now,  “And I trust you,” you continued. “A lot.” Jo didn’t interrupt, listening with that same calm expression. You swallowed, your voice softer now. “So I was wondering if……maybe…..you know….” 

There was a brief pause. His brows softened slightly. 

“Are you asking…?” he started gently.

You nodded, cheeks warm. “Yeah.”

The heavens could have struck you down right there and then and you wouldn't have minded one bit. The way he was looking at you right now, did he think you were weird? Was it too soon for this? What if he wanted to break u—

“Hey,” he said, voice soft but steady, “look at me for a second.”  Jo reached for your hand slowly. When your fingers slipped into his, he squeezed them lightly. “I’m really glad you told me,” he said. “And I mean that.” You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “But,” he continued gently, “this isn’t something we have to rush just because it’s been a year.”

You nodded quickly. “I know—I don’t feel rushed, I just—”

“I know,” he said, squeezing your hand again. “I trust you. I just want to make sure we both feel completely ready. Like…..not nervous-ready. Actually ready.”

“I think I am,” you said honestly. “But I also don’t want it to feel pressured or like a big scary thing.”

He smiled a little at that. “Yeah. Me neither.” A small silence. Then he added, softer, “If we do, I want it to be because we both feel good about it.”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“And we can talk about it more,” he said. “Figure out what we both want, what we’re okay with. Not just… jump into it.”

That made something in you relax. There your sweet boyfriend was, always so careful and kind. You felt pretty dumb for even thinking whatever you had been thinking five minutes ago.

“Okay,” you said softly. Jo leaned a little closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“We’ll figure it out together,” he murmured.

Silence followed again, in which two lay tangled on the couch, his finger tracing lazy patterns against the back of your hand, both of you staring into the distance. 

“Jo?”

“Hmm?”

“Can we do it now?” You whispered, the words tumbling out like a secret finally freed, heat flooding your cheeks immediately. 

Jo's expression didn't falter; instead, a gentle smile curved his lips. He squeezed your hand lightly. “Of course.” He said simply, his voice low and reassuring. “I'd love that, sweetheart.”

Though his voice was stable as always, Jo saw the flicker of nerves behind your eyes, the way your breath had gone just a little uneven, the way your fingers curled slightly into his.

“Hey…” he murmured, shifting just enough to face you fully. “Come here.”

You moved closer instinctively, and his arm wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest. Your cheek rested against him, your heartbeat a little too loud in your ears.

“I’m a little scared,” you admitted quietly. He nodded immediately, like that made perfect sense.

“Yeah,” he said gently. “That’s okay.” His hand came up to your hair, smoothing it back in slow, calming strokes. “You don’t have to not be scared,” he added. “It’s new. Of course it’s going to feel like a big deal.” 

You let out a small breath, your fingers gripping lightly onto his shirt.

“I just don’t want to mess it up,” you whispered. That made him pull back just enough to look at you, brows softening.

“You can’t mess this up,” he said, almost a whisper. “There’s no perfect way to do it.” He brushed his thumb lightly over your cheek,  “We go slow,” he continued. “And we check in, the whole time. If anything feels weird or uncomfortable or you just want to stop—we stop. No questions, okay?”

“Okay.” You nodded, giving him a small smile.

Your beloved leaned in then, cupping your cheek with one hand, his thumb brushing softly over your skin. His touch was feather-light and reverent. He pressed a soft kiss to your lips, lingering just long enough to let you feel the warmth of him. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. 

“Do you trust me, my love?” 

Oh, you’d have followed him into hell if he asked.

His words wrapped around you like a blanket, easing the knot in your chest. You nodded, a small smile breaking through. Jo stood, offering his hand, and you took it, letting him pull you up. 

His grip was firm but gentle, guiding you toward the bedroom with unhurried steps. The air between you hummed with anticipation, but it was laced with the comfort of knowing you loved him and he loved you and the rest would be confetti.

Once inside, he closed the door softly and turned to you, his eyes tracing your face with that softness that made you go weak. 

“You're so beautiful,” he murmured, stepping closer. 

His hands found your waist, sliding up slowly under your shirt, palms warm against your bare skin. You shivered at the contact, loving how his fingers splayed out, exploring with such care, like he was memorizing every inch.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, his lips moving against yours in a slow rhythm that made your knees weak. As the kiss broke, he trailed his mouth down your jaw, to your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses that sent sparks through you. 

“I love you,” he whispered against your collarbone, his breath hot, “May I?” He asked, tugging at your shirt.

Once you nodded your consent, his hands worked your shirt up and over your head, discarding it gently before his lips found the swell of your breasts, kissing the soft skin there with worshipful presses.

You arched into him, your hands threading through his hair as he knelt slightly, his mouth mapping a path down your stomach. Those hands—god, you loved his hands—hooked into the waistband of your pants, easing them down along with your underwear, leaving you bare before him. He looked up at you, eyes dark with affection and desire. “So perfect, my love.”

Jo guided you to the bed, laying you back against the pillows with infinite care. He stripped off his own clothes, his body lean and strong, movements as graceful as a ballerina.

Your breath caught in your throat as you finally saw him, really saw him, naked and exposed before you. Your eyes widened, drinking in every inch of his body, inevitably drawn to the prominent swell at his groin. His cock was long and girthy, with a prominent vein running along the underside, and you could see it throbbing.

But it was his hands that held your focus as he settled over you, one bracing beside your head while the other traced lazy circles on your thigh, inching higher. 

He kissed you everywhere—your shoulders, the inside of your wrists, the curve of your hip—each touch a soft adoration that built the heat between you. 

“Tell me if I need to stop,” he said, his voice husky but steady, as his fingers finally brushed against your folds. You were already slick with want, and he groaned softly at the feel of you. 

“Sweetheart…” he breathed, his hand cupping you gently, one finger circling your entrance with feather-light pressure. 

Jo watched your face, attuned to every gasp and every shift. Slowly, so slowly, like he was afraid you’d shatter at his touch, he pressed a finger inside, the stretch unfamiliar but eased by his care and your arousal. 

“Oh…” You moaned, clutching at his arm, marveling at the way his hand flexed, those veined forearms tensing as he worked you open, “Jo…” 

God it felt so fucking beatiful, feeling his long fingers reach spots you could never even imagine meeting. Hell you weren't even sure they existed until now, as his digits kissed them so tenderly.  

“Hmm?” Your boyfriend hummed, eyes full of worry already. He wanted to make this experience as relaxing as it could be for you, “Are you okay, my love? Want me to stop?”

"N-No," you managed to stammer out, "don't stop. Please don't stop, Jo." His face softened with relief and something else, something heady and possessive that made your stomach flip-flop.

"Okay," he breathed, his voice low and husky, "I'll go as slow as you need me to. Just tell me if anything feels wrong, alright?"

You nodded, watching as he carefully worked a second finger in alongside the first, stretching you open bit by bit. It burned, but the burn was amazing, like the sweet sting of a deep stretch. And it was joined by so much more—the slick slide of his fingers inside you, the sensation of being filled for the first time, the ache that settled low and deep.

Jo took his time, scissoring his fingers and curling them just so, finding that spot inside you that made your toes curl and your back arch off the bed. He worked you open with an almost obsessive care, checking in with you after every new milestone.

“Jo—nghhh oh!” The sounds falling from your lips were foreign to you, and absolute music to Jo’s ears, “Hmmm—feel so—ohhhh—feel so good.”

“That's it, my love,” he encouraged, kissing your temple. “Just feel me.” He was stretching you with patience, his free hand stroking your hair, your cheek, grounding you in his touch.

He sealed his words with a kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth to tangle with yours as his fingers started to move faster, pumping in and out of you in a steady rhythm. You could feel your orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter in your belly until you were writhing against him, desperate for more.

"Jo... oh god, Jo... I'm... I'm gonna..." you panted against his mouth, too far gone to finish the sentence.

"I know," he breathes back, "I've got you. Let go for me, sweetheart, that’s it.”

And with a last deep thrust, he curled his fingers just right, rubbing against that sensitive spot inside you. That's all it took to send you hurtling over the edge, your body seizing up as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. 

You cried out his name, a broken 'Jo!' that sounded more like a prayer than anything else. He kissed you through it, murmuring endearments, his eyes never leaving yours. Only when you started to come down did his fingers slip out of you completely, leaving you feeling empty and aching.

As the tremors faded, you lay there panting, your body humming with unfamiliar aftershocks. So this was what it felt to have a proper orgasm. You now understand why the French called it ‘la petit mort’. The little death—you were sure part of your soul died and transformed into something new just at the touch of his skin against yours.

Jo withdrew his fingers slowly, his hand glistening as he brought it to his lips, tasting you with a low hum of appreciation. He had that look in his eyes that was so unlike your perpetually calm, shy boyfriend, and god did it get you even wetter. 

Those hands—strong and sooo veined—made your heart flutter even more now. He shifted above you, his cock hard and heavy against your thigh, but he didn't rush. Instead, he cupped your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip.

“My love,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion, “do you want to continue? We can stop if you need to.”

You met his gaze, feeling the depth of his care wrap around you like his arms. Your nerves lingered, yes, but so did your desire for him and your trust in him. Your beloved.

“Yes,” you breathed, reaching up to touch his cheek. “I want you, Jo. Please.”

“Alright, sweetheart.” His smile was soft, full of absolute adoration. “I'll go slow, ok? Just tell me what you need.” 

He positioned himself between your legs, one hand bracing on the mattress while the other guided his cock to your entrance. The tip nudged against you, slick from your release, and he paused there, letting you feel the warmth of him. You loved the way his fingers flexed around his length, steady and sure.

In the philosophy of Epicurus, hedone was described as the utmost state of pleasure that may or may not derive from actions that are virtuous, whereas another form of euphoric pleasure, terpsis, would always be virtuous. And then came the question of whether or not sex was a virtuous act. 

Well, you had no idea what pleasure you were feeling as Jo pushed in, but god did you feel pleasure.

He pushed in gradually, just the head at first, the stretch pulling a gasp from your lips. It burned a little, unfamiliar, but his free hand stroked your hip soothingly.

“Breathe with me,” he murmured, his eyes locked on yours. Inch by inch, he sank deeper, his body tensing with restraint. He didn’t want to accidentally hurt you.

But god, you were tight—Jo's mind reeled at the way your pussy gripped him, velvet walls fluttering around his cock like they were made for him alone. He wanted to savor it, to make sure every moment etched pleasure into your memory, not pain. Halfway in, he stopped, his breath ragged. 

“How's that feel, my love? Too much?” He leaned down to kiss your forehead, your nose, your lips—soft presses that distracted from the fullness building inside you.

You shook your head, adjusting to the sensation, your hands clutching his shoulders. “It's good. Keep going.” The ache was easing into something warmer, needier, especially with his hand now sliding between you to circle your clit gently, easing the way.

Jo nodded, pressing forward again, slower this time, until he was fully seated, his hips flush against yours. He stilled completely, forehead resting on yours, both of you breathing in sync. The thought of your tightness consumed him—how you squeezed him so perfectly, pulling him deeper without effort. It took everything not to thrust, to let you acclimate. 

“You're doing so well, sweetheart,” he praised, his voice a low rumble. “Feels incredible. You feel—hah—incredible.”

“Hmmm…Jo…” You moaned feeling him fill up all your senses to the absolute brim.

After a moment, when your hips twitched experimentally, he began to move—pulling out just a fraction before sliding back in, the motion deliberate and unhurried. Each thrust was measured, his cock dragging along your inner walls, building friction without overwhelming. 

“You good, sweetheart?” He stopped again midway through one stroke, checking your face, his hand weaving into yours to squeeze.

“Yes,” you whispered, the pleasure sharpening now, coiling anew. “Don't stop.”

Your boyfriend resumed the slow rhythm, his body covering yours protectively. Jo's mind swirled with how your pussy clenched around him on every retreat, tight and hot, milking him in a way that made his control fray at the edges. 

But he focused on you—on the soft moans escaping your lips, the way your nails dug into his back. His hand roamed, cupping your breast, thumbing your nipple, while the other held your thigh open, fingers pressing into your skin with gentle possession.

“That's it, my love,” he encouraged between kisses to your neck. “Let me make you feel good, hmm?” 

The pace stayed steady, deep glides that hit just right, his cock filling you completely each time. The intimacy of it all—the eye contact, the whispers—pushed you higher, your body responding to his every touch.

Jo's breath started to quicken as he thrust into you, the pace picking up but still maintaining a steady rhythm. His eyes were locked onto yours, pupils blown wide with lust and adoration, drinking in every expression that crossed your face. One hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over your lower lip, while the other gripped your hip, pulling you into his thrusts and you almost screamed at the sensation.

"You're so perfect, sweetheart," he breathed, voice rough with need.

His words sent a shiver down your spine, your walls fluttering around his cock in response. He groaned at the sensation, hips stuttering for a moment before he regained control. He started to thrust harder,chasing his pleasure while still making sure you were right there with him.

"Jo..." you gasped, back arching off the bed as he hit a particularly sweet spot inside you. "Oh god, Jo..."

"That's it, baby," he encouraged, leaning down to capture your mouth in a searing kiss. "Let me hear you. I want to feel you cum on my cock."

The tension wound tighter, your breaths mingling as he adjusted once more, pausing to grind against you, letting the base of his cock press your clit. And then it was like sunflowers had burst into bloom all around you. 

"I'm gonna... I'm gonna..." you panted, fingers digging into his shoulders as you chased your release.

"Come on, baby," Jo growled, his thrusts becoming erratic as he approached his own peak. "I've got you. Let go, sweetheart."

You shattered around him, your pussy spasming, squeezing his cock in rhythmic pulses that drew a groan from deep in his chest.  Your body seized up, back bowing off the bed as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. The sensation of your tightness gripping him through your climax nearly undid him, but he held on, thrusting shallowly to prolong it, his hand stroking your hair as you cried out his name. Jo followed, buried deep inside you as he found his own release with a hoarse cry of your name.

The world slowly swam back into focus, the roaring in your ears subsiding into the quiet, heavy sound of your shared breathing. Your body felt like liquid warmth, every muscle lax and humming with satisfaction. 

Jo was a solid, comforting weight on top of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his own breaths coming in deep, shuddering gusts against your damp skin.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, suspended in the perfect, sticky aftermath. You could feel him, still deep inside you, his heartbeat a frantic echo against your own slowing pulse. Then, with infinite care, he shifted, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder, his lips tender against the flushed skin.

“Okay?” he murmured, his voice a raw, husky whisper. It was the first thing he’d said since your world had dissolved into pure sensation, and the gentle concern in it made your heart clench.

You managed a weak, breathless nod, your fingers loosening their death-grip on his shoulders to stroke lazily down his sweat-slicked back. “Mmmhmm. More than okay.”

He let out a long, relieved sigh, the tension finally leaving his own frame. He nuzzled your neck once more, then began to move—so slowly, so carefully it was almost imperceptible. He was pulling out, but it was nothing like the frantic coupling of moments before. 

This was such a tender retreat, mindful of every sigh, every tiny shift of your body. He moved as if handling something infinitely precious and fragile, easing himself from your warmth with a gentleness that brought a fresh, different kind of tears to your eyes.

Once he was free, he didn't roll away, instead shifting to his side, gathering you immediately against him. One arm curled under your neck, the other draped over your waist, his hand splayed possessively on your stomach as he pressed another kiss to your temple.

“You’re trembling,” he whispered, his thumb stroking soothing circles on your belly.

“I’m alright.” You assured him, your voice muffled against his chest. “It’s a good kind of trembling, don’t worry.”

Jo hummed, holding you close until the fine tremors subsided into a deep, boneless relaxation. He let the silence stretch, comfortable and warm, just listening to your breathing even out. 

After a few minutes, he propped himself up on one elbow to look down at you. In the dim light, his eyes were dark pools of soft affection, tracing over your face with an artist’s attention to detail—the flutter of your lashes, the parted swell of your lips. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead. 

“Would you like a bath?” He said, his voice still low and intimate, “I could…..wash your hair for you. If you want.” His gaze dipped, a faint blush coloring his own cheeks. 

The offer was so tender, so domestic and sweet after the raw passion you’d just shared, that it stole your breath all over again. You looked up at him, at this beautiful man who could moan your name in passion one moment and offer to wash your hair with reverent care the next. A slow, blissful smile spread across your face.

“That sounds perfect,” you whispered.

A matching smile touched his lips, shy but deeply pleased. He leaned down and kissed you, soft and chaste, a sealing promise. Jo slipped from the bed, pausing to pull the rumpled sheets up over you, tucking them around your shoulders. 

“Jo?”

“Hmm?” 

“I love you.”

Love was many things. 

An art, first snow, grass rings, fireworks, poetry, complex, simple, and so much more. At least that was what they said—whoever invented the word. And whoever invented the feeling too, God must have been terribly lonely to have invented such a thing as love. But not everything feels like something else.

And as Jo watched you, gazing over your details, those eyes, those lips, that face that could have had him defying the very heavens themselves, he realised that maybe love was just this.

Just you and him and the air around you.

Love was just that.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

fin. 

A/N: had a lot of fun writing this, i think this is the most romance i've ever written Mona poetic verse comeback again yay. There are some references sprinkled throughout this fic so if you notice them PLEASE TELL ME I SNEAKED THEM IN VERY NONCHALANTLY YAY

divider by @cursed-carmine

friends from the same calculus class, you watched nicholas down drinks in celebration after receiving his most recent test results. full fucking marks. the party was definitely unnecessary but who complains about a time to celebrate with drinks. despite your love for him, two hours of heavy bass music, drunk people yelling over the noise not realizing they’re adding to it, and the overall heat from sweaty bodies pressing together became quite overwhelming for you. hence why you bolted the room as soon as nicho’s eyes left you. now you just had to find a quiet room to recharge in.

“sorry. i didn’t realize someone was here already,” you said, ready to back away from the minimalistic room.

“ah, it’s fine. you can join if you’d like,” he shyly gestured to the space beside him on the balcony, scooting a tad to give you some room.

you nod in thanks before taking up his offer. a relieved sigh slips from your lips as you take in the cold night air. crystal clear with small hints of cologne. must be from him. “jo, right? nicho’s friend.” he briefly looks at you to nod. he’s not much of a talker, huh. “i’m y/n, from his calc class.”

“nice to meet you.”

…

shit, this feels really awkward. you really should’ve just chosen a different room. of course you end up disturbing the peace of the quiet guy. fanfreakingtastic!

“do you not like parties?”

oh. “sort of? i have fun at parties but it gets to a point where it feels like too much to handle even if i only come as a guest. sorry that sounds really all over.” you replied, chewing the inside of your cheek.

“i get that,” he mumbled. you looked over in surprise, seeing his ears turn the lightest shade of red at your sudden attention. “the guys throw a lot of parties, and while i like celebrating with them, it gets really loud and unfamiliar. i’d rather have my own space.”

“exactly! you know, i think i heard at least four people yelling complaints about how loud the room was, yet it never clicked in their heads that yelling was making the noise worse. pretty sure your friend k was one of them.”

a chuckle slips from his lips at the idea of k yelling at maki to turn the volume down, only to be met with him turning it up. the house would probably be a mess by the end, with cups littered all over the place and crushed up snacks stuck to the floor from the stickiness of spilled drinks. an utter nightmare to clean up, but for now, jo just wished to relish in this quiet with you even if it was a little awkward. strange how you, a random stranger or acquaintance, made him comfortable.

his smile, so soft and at peace. it was pretty. asakura jo was already a person whose visuals challenged those of a model, but with his smile on top of it, one that made his cheeks puff and eyes soften. all of a sudden, the party music didn’t seem to bother you that much, overtaken by the steady thumping sound of your heart. all you could focus on was that he simply looked–

“beautiful.”

his eyebrows furrowed at the soft mutter of the word, glancing your way only to catch you staring at him so intensely. were they calling me beautiful? cough cough cough. wow, real smooth jo.

“t-the trees.. they’re uhm- like absolutely beautiful. with their long spiky leaves and trunk? making pinecones during christmas… yeah.” you rambled on, hoping he didn’t actually catch you staring like a weirdo.

“i think that’s a shrub.”

“ah.”

you two stayed silent for the next few minutes. with you internally dying from embarrassment, cursing your life with your eyes shut, steadily biting your lip to avoid saying something stupid again. and him, internally dying of laughter, the corners of his lips ticking upwards into a peaking grin as he tried to hide and cool down his obviously red ears. he shifted his attention towards you once more, feeling his cheeks flush from either the cold or from the sight of you, he didn’t know. nicholas’ friend, huh?

speaking of the devil, nicholas, who was between tipsy and drunk, barged his way into the bedroom, body clumsily bumping against the door. “there you are! y/n come drink with me. last i remember, you also got a high score on the test. not as high as me though~” his voice radiating through the quiet space, breaking the trance you had jo in.

“jeez nicho, how much did you have to drink?” you stressed, rushing over to pull him off the door. your eyes look over at ej, another friend from calculus, who was massaging his temple at the sight of his now jacketless friend (he tossed it to juju after his nth shot).

“oh jojo, you’re here too!”

“..this is my room.”

your palm makes contact with your forehead, shaking your head at nicho’s current state. “okay! enough of that, let’s get you some water nicholas. no buts!” finally pulling him off the door and into your side, arm hanging around your neck. “i’ll take care of him. it was nice meeting you, jo.”

“you too, y/n. thanks for.. this.” he offered a tender, relaxed smile, one corner of his lips higher than the other, the kind of look that said he enjoyed your presence despite your slip ups. a weird warmth spread in your chest at the sight of him, face and ears tinged with pink, fingers fiddling with the hem of his sleeve.

you returned the smile, breaking his gaze before slowly closing his bedroom door with much difficulty because of your drunken friend. just as he was about to turn back to the scenery, he could faintly hear the teasing voice of his friend. “so you and jojo, huh?”

“shut up, nicho, you’re drunk!”

and although he couldn’t see it, he could hear how uneven your retort sounded. he let out a long exhale, body slumping against the railing as he looked out at the scenery once more. so many things to look at and yet, all he could see was the stumpy shrub you thought was a tree. that looks nothing like a pine tree. he laughed to himself, already wondering when he’ll see you again.

or maybe it was when you started hanging out with their friend group, sitting a few seats from him. even with all those voices stacked on top of each other– harua and yuma playfully bullying taki again after he slipped with his words, fuma, nicho and maki laughing their ass off, k doting on taki as always, and euijoo just trying to continue the conversation– the only thing that stood out to you was asakura jo actively listening to his friends, face flickering emotions that consisted of laughs, nods, smiles, and frowns.

the more time you spent with him, the more you noticed those little quirks of his. how he would patiently wait for his turn to speak. his manner of maintaining eye contact even if that meant his ears would flush a bright red. how his eyes sparkled and brows furrowed at the taste of good food, especially a warm bowl of white rice. his shyness when it came to affection, how he silently tugs at the hem of clothes before initiating a hug. his habit of gravitating towards a pen or pencil, to spin or scribble a little drawing in the corner of your notes (with your permission). the joy radiating from him when his eyes would crinkle and his grin would be so wide when laughing or talking to his friends.

forgettable? what a joke! jo was everything but forgettable. he was unknowingly so intoxicating to you. every moment with him felt like relaxation and acceptance of the present. even if the world constantly told you to hurry up, he would calmly remind you there was time to slow down and enjoy your surroundings. now you can’t even close your eyes without picturing that pretty smile of his.

“he’s invaded my fucking life without so much as a please and thank you.” you complained, head dropping into your hands with a groan at the laugher beside you. another party with this band of chaos, jo nowhere to be found thankfully. at least your heart could have some peace even with this club-like music pounding in your ears.

“no one forced you to like him, you know. that’s all you.”

“that’s what jojo does best. quietly invades. this time he did it to you, a little too well.”

“he’s got that silent rizz.”

“you should probably learn from him, taki.”

“oi!”

what a great group of friends you have. offering not a single piece of advice in your time of romantic crisis. “guys come on! i’m being serious here, what do i do? jo’s a really good friend. i don’t wanna make things weird between us.”

“do they not realize it’s already weird?” taki quickly gets elbowed to shut up. his comment only made you groan louder, head falling on the table with a thump. ow!

“okay. your solution is really simple actually.” you immediately peeked up at nicholas, hoping his answer would solve everything. he leaned in with a playful grin, “confess.”

your face instantly dropped as you pushed yourself away from the table and started to walk away, a hand ruffling your hair in annoyance. “c’mon, where are you going?”

“to find a better solution!” you yelled in irritation, pushing past overly heated bodies and stepping over crushed red solo cups littered over the floor. you feel sick here. from there, you followed your instincts, excusing yourself every once in a while, turning left then right then up until you found yourself standing in front of his bedroom door. “seriously?”

you subconsciously brush your thumb against the wooden panel hanging on the door. a bold ‘asakura jo’ in the middle, with little doodles positioned around the sides to fill the empty space. a forest, with wolves howling at the moon and a little heart hovering over a shrub. idiot.

“oh. hey y/n.”

“hey jo,” you breathed. what exactly did you expect when you came here? of course he would be in his room genius, it’s his room. he looks so good just sitting on the floor beside his bed. even if he could just sit on the actual bed, that would probably be better for his back.

“y/n?” you snap out of your thoughts, turning your attention back to the current situation. he chuckled at your stiff self, “i asked if you wanna sit with me?” you wordlessly nodded, feet dragging across the floor before quietly sitting beside him. your body tensed at the feeling of his shoulder bumping against yours, heat radiating from him. it felt like fire burning.

“reminds me of the first time we met.” you stayed silent. this distance wasn’t helping your feelings. his scent filled the room, with strong notes of laundry detergent and coffee, and a hint of cedar pine as its undertone. it reminded you so much of him and all the moments you spent together.

the quiet laughs shared over a cup of coffee, the late night walks with him humming a favorite song of yours, the cheesy grin he flashed at you when he caught your eye every time you came to support him during his basketball games. you never expected to grow such intense feelings for jo. you were weak for him. he never demanded attention, yet you still wanted to give him every ounce of yours like it was his to own. shit. you should probably leave before you do something stupid.

“i’m really glad i met you, y/n.” you froze, eyes shifting to look at him nervously. his words were cautious as if he didn’t want to scare you off.

but i'll pray for you all the time

“you make me feel really comfortable with myself. i like being with the others, don’t get me wrong, but i especially like being with you.” stop. please stop saying things that’ll only make these feelings worse. “i don’t have to force myself to talk, but if i do you always listen so attentively. the quiet with you feels different and i like that. it’s like background music, the way you’re like a rhythm flowing through my days to relax and ground me. i’m really happy.. with you.” say it.

if i could be by your side

his pinky shyly grazed yours, sending a spark of static through the air. he gulped. it was agonizingly slow, his movement unhurried as it gently curved around yours, his skin warm and a touch rough, before locking perfectly into place. his gaze on both your linked pinkies remained steadfast, lightly lifting it and grazing the rest of your fingers with his. your eyes stayed constant on him, gut wrenching at the sight of that heart-pounding smile gracing his face again. say it!

i'll give you all my life my seasons

“jo,” he hummed in response at the soft call of his name, eyes focusing on yours, gaze pulling you in. say it now! “i like you.”

by your side i'll be your seasons

his shoulders stiffed, pinky tightening around yours. the room felt like it was closing up on you with every passing moment of silence. you nervously muttered his name, scared out of your mind, “jojo?”

“can i kiss you, please?” voice barely above a whisper, already leaning hoping you would say yes. his ears are a bright red, eyes flickering between your eyes and lips. you don’t miss the way his breathing grows heavy.

you nodded and instantly felt his lips press against yours. shaky and uncertain until he feels you ease into it, hand sliding up his chest before carefully cradling his flushed cheek. his hand wrapped around your waist, gripping the fabric of your shirt tightly before pulling you close, perfectly fitting in between his arms. like you were always meant to be there.

both your hearts pounded strongly. the beat ringing in your ears in tune with the muffled sound of the music outside. breathless, you broke the kiss only to see him chasing after it. a laugh slipped before he captured your mouth once again, the two of you now smiling into the kiss like lovesick fools. “jojo..”

“i like you too. a lot. for a while actually,” he breathlessly said, giving your lips little pecks. his eyes were dazed, breath heavy, and lips just a tad swollen. his finger thumbs your bottom lip, pulling at it as he asked, “can i, pretty?”

without an answer, you leaned back into him, arms around his neck and his around your waist, quickly falling back into the rhythm with his lips against yours. asakura jo. a man that easily slipped into your life and now you can’t imagine a day without him.

He steps in at your side, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. Not aggressive. Just present.

“Hey,” he says easily, his hand coming to rest lightly at the small of your back. A grounding touch. “We’re needed.”

His voice is steady, polite. Unarguable.

The man hesitates. K meets his gaze, expression unreadable, smile faint but firm. The kind that doesn’t invite conversation.

You don’t even have to say anything. K shifts his body slightly, placing himself between you and the space that felt too close. It’s subtle, but unmistakable.

As he guides you away, his hand stays where it is, warm and solid. Protective without being possessive.

When you’re far enough that the noise dulls and the air feels easier to breathe, he finally looks down at you.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

Not rushed. Not panicked. Just concerned.

If you nod, he nods too, like he trusts your answer. If you hesitate, his grip tightens just a little.

“You don’t ever have to stay in a situation like that,” he says, low enough that only you can hear. “I’ve got you.”

And then, only then, does the tension leave his shoulders. But his awareness never does.

He stays close for the rest of the day. Not hovering. Just there. Exactly where you need him.

FUMA :

Fuma notices the shift before he understands it.

You’re laughing, because that’s what you do when things get awkward, but it doesn’t sound like you. It’s lighter than usual, a little rushed, like you’re trying to smooth something over instead of enjoying the moment. Fuma’s eyes flick up from across the room, sharp despite the chaos around him.

He sees the distance being ignored. The way the conversation isn’t moving on. The way you glance toward the side, searching for an exit.

That’s enough.

He crosses the room without hesitation, steps falling into place like muscle memory. When he reaches you, he doesn’t interrupt loudly or draw attention. He simply slots himself in beside you, shoulder solid against yours.

“Hey,” he says, warm but firm. “There you are. We’ve been looking for you.”

His arm comes up naturally, resting around your shoulders, not claiming, not showy. Protective. Familiar.

The man pauses. Fuma meets his gaze calmly, the friendliness in his expression not quite reaching his eyes.

“We’re heading out,” Fuma adds, already turning slightly as if the decision has been made. Because it has.

He doesn’t wait for permission.

As he guides you away, he leans down just enough to speak under his breath. “You okay?”

If you hesitate, even a little, his jaw tightens, not in anger, but resolve.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice steady, “just grab me. I don’t care if it interrupts anything.”

Once you’re clear of the situation, he stops and looks at you properly, hands still warm on your arms, grounding you.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says immediately, like it matters that you hear it. “Not even a little.”

There’s no dramatics. No raised voice. Just certainty.

And for the rest of the day, he keeps you within arm’s reach, not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he does. Because if something feels off again, he wants to be close enough to act before you ever have to smile through it.

NICHOLAS :

Nicholas clocks it immediately, not because you look scared, but because you look too polite.

You’re nodding along, smiling in that careful way you use when you don’t want to make things worse. Your hands are folded tight in front of you. Your laughter is short, clipped, not reaching your eyes.

Nicholas straightens and begins walking towards you.

By the time he reaches you, the conversation is already losing its momentum, because Nicholas has a way of taking up space without trying. He stops close enough that the air shifts, gaze cool and assessing as it flicks from you to the person standing too close.

“Hey,” he says, casual. “We need her.”

No question mark.

His hand comes up, fingers brushing your wrist, not pulling, not gripping. Just enough to give you an out. Just enough to remind everyone watching that you’re not alone.

When the other person hesitates, Nicholas’ expression changes. Not angry. Just flat.

“She’s busy,” he adds, tone light but final.

He turns his body slightly, placing himself between you and them without making a scene. If anyone’s watching, it looks effortless. Natural. Like this is where he’s always meant to stand.

Once you’re a few steps away, he glances down at you. “You good?”

If you shrug it off, he doesn’t let it go completely. His thumb taps once against your wrist, a quiet check-in.

“You don’t owe anyone politeness,” he says under his breath. “Especially not at your own expense.”

Later, when things have settled, he finds you again, leans in just close enough that only you can hear.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice low, almost teasing but edged with sincerity, “I’ll step in faster. But you can always grab me first.”

It’s not dramatic. It’s not loud.

It’s just Nicholas, clear, protective, and entirely unapologetic about choosing you.

EJ :

It’s subtle, the way your shoulders tense, the way your smile goes a little stiff around the edges. You’re still being polite, still nodding along, but you’re not relaxed anymore. And Euijoo, who’s spent years reading rooms and people, feels it immediately.

He doesn’t interrupt right away.

Instead, he moves closer.

Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just a calm step forward until he’s beside you, presence warm and grounding. His hand finds the small of your back, light and familiar, a silent question: Do you want out?

When you don’t move, but don’t lean in either, he makes the decision for you.

“Hey,” he says, voice even, respectful. “We were just about to head out.”

It’s not rude. It’s not aggressive. But there’s no opening left for debate.

He turns slightly toward the other person, meeting their eyes with a steady, polite smile that doesn’t waver. “Thanks for understanding.”

Again, no question mark.

Only then does he guide you away, his hand never tightening, just present. Protective without being possessive. Supportive without speaking over you.

Once you’re a little farther off, he slows. His hand drops, giving you space, giving you control back.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

If you nod, he doesn’t push. If you hesitate, he stays right there, matching your pace, your breathing.

“I didn’t want to assume,” he says gently, eyes soft. “But I didn’t like the way you looked just now.”

There’s no lecture. No “you should’ve.” Just concern.

Later, when it’s just the two of you, he brings it up again, not to relive it, but to make sure.

“Next time,” he says softly, “you can squeeze my hand. Or just look at me. I’ll get it.”

Then, almost shyly, he adds, “You don’t have to handle things alone. Not when I’m here.”

It’s not loud protection.

It’s Euijoo’s kind, the kind that stays close, listens first, and makes sure you feel safe without ever taking your voice away.

YUMA :

Yuma notices because you stop laughing.

It’s such a small thing, just half a second where your smile falters, where your eyes flick away instead of meeting his. But Yuma has always been good at catching those details. He’s expressive by nature, tuned in to shifts in energy, and the moment he feels the air change, his attention locks onto you.

He steps closer without thinking, shoulder brushing yours.

“Hey,” he says lightly at first, glancing between you and the other person. “Everything okay?”

The tone is casual, but his body language isn’t. He angles himself just enough to stand between you and them, not fully blocking you, just closing the space. It’s instinctive, protective in a way that feels warm rather than suffocating.

When the other person keeps talking, keeps pushing, Yuma’s smile tightens.

He laughs once, short and sharp. “Okay, hold on.” His voice stays friendly, but there’s steel under it now. “She looks uncomfortable.”

The word lands clearly.

He turns to you, eyebrows knitting with concern. “You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to,” he adds, softer, like he’s reminding you rather than instructing.

Then he looks back at them, polite but firm. “We’re gonna head out.”

No apology. No over-explaining.

He reaches for your hand, not pulling, just offering, and when you take it, his grip is steady, reassuring. As he guides you away, he glances down at you, voice low and warm. “You okay? I’ve got you.”

Later, when the noise has faded and you’re somewhere quieter, he can’t help the way his concern spills out a little more.

“You don’t have to smile through stuff like that,” he says, running a hand through his hair, frustration flashing briefly across his face, not at you, but at the situation. “I hate that you felt like you had to.”

Then he softens, stepping closer. “Next time, just tell me. Or don’t say anything at all. I’ll notice.”

There’s a gentle confidence in the way he says it, not a promise born of ego, but of care.

“You’re not alone,” he murmurs. “Not on my watch.”

JO :

Jo notices long before anyone else does.

Not because you say anything, you don’t, but because the way you stand changes. Your shoulders draw in just slightly, your smile fixed a fraction too long, like you’re holding it in place instead of letting it come naturally. Jo has always been observant in that silent way, the kind that misses nothing because he’s never trying to fill the space with words.

His gaze lifts, calm but sharp.

He steps closer, not abruptly. Just enough that his presence is felt. His hand settles at the small of your back, warm and grounding, a quiet anchor that says you don’t have to do this alone.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, even. “You alright?”

The question isn’t for the other person. It’s only for you.

When they keep talking, when they don’t take the hint, Jo doesn’t get louder. He simply turns his body slightly, placing himself between you and them without fanfare, without hostility. It’s subtle, but unmistakable.

“We’re going to step out,” he says. Not sorry. Not if that’s okay. Just a statement of fact.

There’s no aggression in his tone, but there’s something unmovable there. A calm finality that makes it clear this isn’t a discussion.

As he guides you away, his hand never leaves your back. His steps are unhurried, measured, like he has all the time in the world, like no one gets to rush you.

Once you’re somewhere quieter, he finally looks down at you fully, concern softening his features.

“You don’t have to explain,” he says gently, thumb brushing small circles against your side. “But if something like that happens again… I want you to lean on me.”

You murmur something, a soft apology, maybe, and he shakes his head immediately.

“Don’t,” he says, firmer now. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His gaze is steady, reassuring. “I’ve got you,” he adds, simple and sincere. “Always.”

HARUA :

Harua notices the change immediately. Not because you say anything, you haven’t, but because his instincts kick in the moment he senses tension radiating off you. Your eyes dart just a little too fast, your hands fidgeting, your laugh a shade too sharp. The slight unease is enough for him to know something is off.

He moves closer, voice low and soft but carrying a subtle weight. “Hey… are you okay?”

You give a small, nervous smile, trying to brush it off. Harua tilts his head slightly, scrutinizing you. His gaze is firm, steady, and somehow entirely grounding.

When the person making you uncomfortable doesn’t get the hint, Harua doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward, close enough that his presence is undeniable, his shoulder brushing yours almost imperceptibly. “I think we should step somewhere else,” he says, calm but authoritative. No argument, no pleading, just a quiet command that leaves no room for resistance.

He links an arm with yours, a subtle but protective gesture, guiding you away from the situation. His grip is warm, reassuring, and unshakable, and he keeps his voice low, murmuring as you walk, “You don’t have to explain anything… I’ve got you.”

Once you’re in a safe, quieter space, he releases a slow, relieved breath. His hand brushes against yours, almost unconsciously, as if grounding himself as much as you. “It’s okay,” he says softly, his eyes never leaving yours. “You don’t have to deal with that alone. Ever.”

Even when you try to protest, to downplay it, he shakes his head, a small, gentle smile touching his lips. “No. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just… don’t want you feeling cornered.”

Harua’s presence isn’t loud, but it’s all-encompassing. He doesn’t just remove you from the uncomfortable moment, he makes it clear, without words, that you’re safe, cared for, and never on your own.

TAKI :

Taki notices before you even realize it yourself. There’s a subtle tension in the air, a slight edge in the way someone’s words linger too long, or the way your laugh falters just enough. His sharp eyes catch it instantly, and his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer with that casual confidence he wears so easily. “You good?”

You force a small smile, trying to wave it off, but Taki’s not buying it. Not for a second. He tilts his head, grin teasing but eyes serious, and says, “Nah… you’re hiding something. I can see it.”

The person making you uncomfortable doesn’t notice his quiet tension, doesn’t realize how easily it could snap. But Taki does, and he isn’t the type to sit back. In one smooth movement, he casually positions himself between you and the other person, an effortless shield. “Uh… think we should take a little walk?” His tone is light, joking, but there’s steel under the surface, unspoken warning enough to make anyone hesitate.

He loops his arm with yours, tugging gently but firmly, guiding you away from the situation. “Don’t worry about a thing,” he murmurs, voice warm, low, playful, just for you. “I’ve got you. No one’s messing with you while I’m around.”

Even as you try to laugh it off, Taki’s smirk softens, his eyes locking onto yours. “Seriously, you don’t have to put up with that. Not now, not ever.” His grip on your hand tightens slightly, not to control, but to reassure.

By the time you’re in a quieter spot, he nudges your shoulder with his own, teasing a little to break the tension. “See? Nothing to worry about.” Then, softer, just for you: “I’ve always got your back. Always.”

MAKI :

Maki notices it almost immediately, though he’s not one to make a scene. His eyes flick toward you, catching the smallest hint of unease in the way you shift or force a laugh. He tilts his head, calm but alert, assessing the situation quietly.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping just a little closer, his tone casual but firm. “Everything okay?”

You hesitate, trying to brush it off, but Maki doesn’t let it go. He leans against the edge of the table, arms crossed lightly, studying the other person with an unspoken warning in his gaze. He doesn’t need to raise his voice; his presence alone makes it clear he’s paying attention.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he says, softer now, reaching out to lightly touch your arm. “If someone’s making you uncomfortable, we handle it. No one’s allowed to make you feel small.”

The person notices the subtle shift, the calm authority in Maki’s posture, and instinctively recoils, even if they don’t fully understand why.

He steps a little closer, just enough to close the gap, his eyes on you. “Come on, let’s step away for a bit,” he says gently, guiding you with a firm yet careful hand at your elbow. “Don’t let anyone make you feel anything less than yourself.”

Once you’re in a quieter spot, he exhales softly, glancing at you with that mix of care and quiet pride. “See?” he murmurs, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing to worry about. You’re safe with me.”

Maki’s protection isn’t loud or dramatic; it’s steady, precise, and quietly unwavering, exactly the kind of reassurance you need.

the weird rivalry between you two started during freshman year after a fight over the last strawberry cake in the campus café. jo insisted he saw it first. you insisted he was a liar. in the end, you won the cake and jo held the grudge.

ever since then, the teasing never stopped.

nicholas and taki once got so tired of the constant fighting that they literally locked both of you inside a practice room storage closet for an hour, convinced it would force the two of you to talk things out properly.

instead, the two of you came out looking even more annoyed with each other.

or at least that’s what everyone thought.

because the truth was—

the closet incident actually worked.

somewhere between yelling at each other in the dark and arguing over whose fault it was, something shifted. the tension stopped feeling irritating and started feeling dangerously different.

after that night, you and jo agreed on one thing: absolutely nobody could find out.

if nicholas or taki discovered their stupid plan actually worked, neither of you would ever hear the end of it.

so the “hatred” continued. except now it was fake.

behind closed doors, jo held your hand under restaurant tables, stayed over at your apartment until 3 a.m., and kissed you goodbye like he didn’t want to leave.

meanwhile, in front of everyone else, he still rolled his eyes whenever you entered the room.

and honestly? it worked surprisingly well.

until recently.

because jo was getting terrible at pretending. especially whenever other guys got too close to you.

like now.

jo sat on the bench beside fuma while watching taki help you balance on a skateboard near the basketball court. your laughter carried across the area every time you nearly lost balance, fingers gripping tightly onto taki’s sleeve.

jo’s jaw tightened immediately, which fuma noticed almost instantly. “you’re staring again.”

“i’m not.”

“you look one second away from fighting taki.”

jo looked away with a scoff. “he’s literally holding onto her.”

“because she almost fell three times.”

still, jo hated it. he hated how naturally touchy taki was. hated how close he stood. and hated how you smiled so easily around him.

most of all, he hated that he couldn’t do anything about it without exposing everything.

“seriously,” fuma continued, “why do you dislike her so much?”

“just annoying, i guess.”

jo couldn’t stop watching you.

his promise to keep the relationship secret suddenly felt impossible to maintain when all he wanted was to pull you away somewhere private and remind everyone you were his.

before he could spiral further into jealousy, your skateboard tilted too far forward.

“oh wait—” you lost balance instantly.

everyone flinched as you fell onto the concrete with a painful sound. jo was already halfway standing before he remembered himself.

taki hurried toward you first. “are you okay?”

“i’m fine,” you groaned, laughing from embarrassment despite the sting on your lip. then your eyes met jo’s.

his expression immediately gave him away—worry, panic, and guilt. you quickly nodded at him like a silent reassurance. 'i’m okay.'

“oi, jo,” fuma called out, “stop standing there and go buy water and bandages.”

“why me?” jo complained automatically.

“then, do you want stay here with her?” jo froze. “…i’ll buy it.”

"on second thought, it might better for taki and me to go instead."

"just stay with her. and please don't start any fight with her," added taki.

the second fuma and taki disappeared around the corner, jo immediately crouched in front of you.

“let me see.” his voice dropped completely softer now. you moved your hand away from your lip, revealing the small cut near the corner of your mouth.

jo frowned immediately, “you scared me.”

“it’s just a scratch.”

“but still, you fell really hard.”

his hand hovered near your face carefully before brushing lightly against your chin to inspect the injury better. the concern in his eyes made your chest ache a little.

“thank you for not running over earlier,” you teased quietly. “i know you wanted to.”

jo sighed under his breath. “that was really hard, actually.”

you smiled.

he glanced toward the direction fuma and taki left before looking back at you again.

“how much longer are we hiding this?”

the sudden question caught you off guard.

jo leaned back against the bench beside you, frustration written all over his face now.

“i’m serious,” he muttered. “i don’t think i can keep pretending i dislike you when every guy here keeps looking at you.”

your expression softened immediately. “jo…”

“and don’t think i didn’t see how close taki was standing.”

you laughed quietly. “were you jealous?”

“obviously.”

his honesty made your face warm instantly.

before you could respond, jo wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you gently against him, resting his face against your shoulder.

finally. nothing holding him back.

“jo,” you whispered, laughing softly, “they could come back any second.”

“then let me stay like this for one minute.”

“one minute?”

“…maybe three.”

you had been circling each other for months, that electric pull neither of you could deny, living in lingering glances and almost-touches and conversations that ran two hours past when they should have ended. you thought he was pulling away because he’s intimidated by your confidence, your sheer presence. you were not wrong about his fear, though you haven’t quite found out what the root of it was. or, at least, as well as you thought you did.

jo wasn’t intimidated by you.

he was terrified of what would happen when his carefully maintained self-control finally snapped. because beneath that gentle sweetness akin to a young buck lived a terrible man with a hunger so intense it kept him up at night; replaying and rehearsing scenarios, building walls out of willpower when it came to you.

could jo survive the moment he stopped holding back? you had built your confidence on the assumption that you were the one in control of this dynamic. the bold one, the one who set the pace. almost like a bully beating down on the weaker, nearly a sense of guilt taking over you—but more so, upset. you recoiled from him, fearing he didn’t yearn with the same fervor. better, you’d reasoned, to let the embers fade if your heart’s language remained unspoken. he was a handsome young gentleman after all, who would find his match quite easily after you—even if it took time due to his introverted tendencies.

what you failed to realize was that you had been standing next to a man who had been starving himself for you all this time.

you only understood desire when it was all aggressive pursuit and blatant interest, when you felt that you were cornered, and demanded to be seen. you knew how to recognize hunger when it bared its teeth.

but that was never who jo was.

jo wanted quietly. painfully quietly. he rationed himself down to scraps around you, swallowing every instinct before it could fully surface, convincing himself all this restraint and distance was dignity for him and courtesy for you. every glance lingered, every impulse to reach for you was checked, dissected, buried beneath politeness so excessive it bordered on self-denial. he was starving himself for you.

the quiet of the apartment always felt absolute once night started to fall, helped by the fact that it was curated entirely for one person to the point that it invoked a sense of loneliness that was suffocating some nights. you wouldn’t even know that you had neighbors had you not seen them with how sound-proof the insolation was, which made the sudden, metallic click from the front door sound odd enough to reach deep into your subconscious and jolt you awake amongst the papers you had made into your bed for the night.

the deadbolt had been turned with a heavy, deliberate scrape by the time you gathered your bearings. a slow realization that bloomed in your chest before panic did; nobody else but the darling you had condemned owned a spare key after all. the thud of footsteps soon followed, moving down the hardwood corridor with a measured cadence that could only belong to him.

when he made it to your home office, he stood in the doorway longer than necessary, not hesitating so much as analyzing the room before entering it. the copy of keys you’d gifted him had never seen use before was finally utilized—a fact you had intended to remedy by requesting their return. for a split second, you reconsidered whether you wanted them back. perhaps, you mused, friendship might yet survive; if he could only bury the sickeningly unlabeled tether that bound you both, the one you were not quite ready to let go of yourself despite your pride telling you otherwise—though part of you knew better than to make a friend out of an almost.

jo had never been abrupt in his presence; even when he arrived, he possessed the languid grace of a story perpetually unfolding, never a decisive movement, never quite an action fully taken. a man marinated in the past perfect continuous, a tense he embodied even in the fleeting present.

“you haven’t answered my messages lately,” he started the conversation as soon as he saw that he had your attention from across the room. no complaint, though an acknowledgment of the fact nonetheless. he crossed the threshold with a measured pace, each step teasing the possibility of retreat, as if he might still pirouette away from the inevitable. his gaze found you instantly, embracing your presence and everything except his own yearning.

“i was busy,” you told him simply. any semblance of care and connection had to be buried deep, a necessary self-preservation. it was a meager comfort you’d grant yourself, a doubtful consolation.

he nodded, almost imperceptibly, as if this answer aligned with the reality he had made up in his head. there was no relief in it, fidgety as always with his hands. his gaze remained fixed, unblinking, holding your face captive.

“you always are.” it sounded awfully accusative, despite it being a mere observation.

he moved further into the room, then paused mid-step, hesitant like everything else with him. his hands remained still at his sides, betraying a deep-seated unease. there was always something slightly interrupted about his stillness, as though he had stopped himself from becoming more expressive at the last possible moment. he would then remedy it with the cherubic and saccharine smile potent enough to sway the staunchest resolve you had, were it not a well-rehearsed mask hastily donned to conceal the fleeting glimpse of his real emotions.

he searched your face again through the said smile, taking his time as if cataloging your features anew, ensuring you remained the same version of yourself he held captive in his mind. the one ready to take the leap with him at any moment.

“you didn’t have to come,” you breathed, a brittle defense was the words you formed against his arrival at your doorstep—in response to ignored messages. a gesture that, weeks prior, would have been cherished, but it now felt like a wasted effort in the wake of what it could have been.

he blinked slowly, as if at a loss for words, as calculating as he always had been.

“i know,” he said.

and that was all, for a moment.

then, softer, as if compelled by the quiet, “i was already on my way.”

he left the words in the air, unburdened by explanation he desperately wanted to let out, as he knew better. he didn’t need to elaborate; it would not fix things anyway.

his gaze momentarily passed your hands before returning to your face, settling with unwavering intensity.

“i came here because i wanted to. it’s not an inconvenience, is it?” he finally remarked after a pause. he did not think it was an inconvenience to him, but he had made the discernment it might have been so for you. he subtly adjusted his stance, betraying a growing awareness of his own stillness.

“it’s not,” you replied curtly, as you desperately clawed and maneuvered your focus back to the project at hand—where it belonged all along, instead of foolishly investing your time in him and naively trusting that your skills would withstand the pressure of the deadlines.

he accepted that too quickly. not entirely out of agreement, but it did not contradict what he already perceived after all.

his eyes remained fixed upon you.

“good,” he replied simply. the word, seemingly simple and devoid of inflection, amplified by the art of omission.

his gaze lingered, unblinking, yet it lacked a crude invasiveness. it was far more unsettling: a sustained observation unbroken even by courtesy, as if looking away demanded a courage he did not possess.

“you’re tired,” he said at last. the inherent awkwardness he had to him, despite his well-chosen and well-timed words, agitated you: a reaction even you knew bordered on the irrational. a mere statement, formed after prolonged scrutiny, only to be offered with a strange detachment. how could it not agitate you, but how could you look reasonable should you express it?

his hand lifted by a fraction, then stopped mid-motion before he let an audacious impulse sought to make contact win. something he hadn’t done in weeks despite all your efforts. he seemed to register the near-touch only after the intention betrayed him, then reeled his hand back into its controlled stillness.

“i’m fine,” you replied flatly, a deliberate act to rebuff his clumsy attempts at amends. petulance held you captive, refusing to meet him halfway with sincerity, for your solace was now something that could only be given to you if you still had control of what you two had.

he accepted it too quickly again, despite the disbelief that flickered behind his eyes. always poised like a timid deer ready to bolt, yet he regarded you as the feeble, socially inept one in his warped perception despite knowing better.

another awkward pause stretched between the two of you, thin and taut as a wire pulled to its limit. but beneath that stillness, a decision hardened. he would not allow such a blatant lie to hold, nor would he permit the distance to widen further. the threshold of his patience had been crossed, and he simply refused the rejection you tried to leave him with.

his gaze flickered to the side of your face marked by your impromptu nap on your work desk before he came around, then back to the weariness etched around your eyes, verifying a flawed imitation to push him away from you further. something within him coiled tight.

“you say that a lot,” he said. he took another step, then stopped himself again, the movement halting in the middle of becoming something else.

his fingers flexed once at his side, then again. controlled, contained, reset.

“i don’t think you mean it.”

a disquieting stillness settled once again, devoid of even nervous chatter, empty recovery, or retreat into softness.

“you think i don’t want to be here,” he mumbled. a pause. his jaw tightened briefly. “that’s not true. i chose– i choose to be here, as i always have, at your side.”

his gaze dropped briefly to the space between you two, then returned to your face with the same unyielding focus. the more time passed with that space between you, the more of his usual pretenses started stripping away.

the silence that followed felt thick, weighted with a sudden shift in his posture as he remained rooted to the spot. you leaned back against the leather of your chair, your fingers tightening against the edge of the desk to keep your hands steady. the irritation that had sustained your distance for the past weeks began to fracture so much so that you almost cowered before him. you had spent so long convincing yourself of his indifference that this sudden change felt like an entirely new challenge to your authority.

“you have a strange way of showing it, jo.” you wanted to sound sharp, to maintain the upper hand you always assumed was yours by the right of your louder nature, but the tone came out raspy, worn thin by the late hour. the petulance you had sought to conceal bled through, far too evident.

he took another step forward. this time, his stride lacked the usual hesitation that defined his movements. step by step, the distance between you dissolved until he stood close enough that the scent of him reached you, clean and sharp in a way that made your throat tight. jo had crossed behind the desk—the one you sat behind to keep it as a shield between the two of you. you turned around to be face to face with him, to not let him have the upperhand. without mercy, he looked down at you, his eyes darker now under the soft light of the desk lamp.

“i show it. i always have, by staying even while you’re pushing me away now,” he breathed, his voice stripped of its usual deep and melodic cadence. “i show it by resisting the urge to take what i want every time i am in this room with you. i show it by letting you be the one to take what you want just to be allowed in your presence to be someone more than just another friend, though you seem you’d rather have me as that.”

the air grew thin. the confidence you usually wore like armor felt entirely useless against him. his gaze dropped to your lips, unblinking and heavy, carrying the weight of all those months of deliberate starvation. a subtle tremor passed through his right hand, his fingers twitching against his thigh as if fighting the impulse to reach out and grip your waist. you swallowed hard when you noticed his gaze, your chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths that betrayed the sudden heat blooming beneath your skin.

the untamed hunger simmering behind his eyes… how long had it been there? could you truly have been this blind?

he stood over you, not as a boy fooling around with you but as the man holding himself back by a single thread that was visibly fraying. jo leaned in slightly, his shadow falling completely over you, trapping you within the slim radius of his warmth. he did not touch you, but the space between the two of you was so narrow you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. his gaze dragged back up to meet yours, intense and demanding.

“tell me to leave,” he murmured, his breath brushing against your cheek now that he was in your space more than before. “tell me you want me to go, and i’ll go back the way i came.”

your tongue felt thick, your pride warring with the heavy, pulsing ache that had taken root in your belly. you could not speak the words he had asked for. you could only stare back at him, your lips parted, your own hunger finally rising to match the depth of his.

the silence that followed once again was heavy with the unsaid. you glared at him, your pride still acting as a shield, waiting for him to offer one of his usual apologies to back away, to smooth over the tension with a gentle smile and a polite exit. you expected the retreat. you expected the wallflower to wilt under the heat of your feigned indifference.

but jo didn’t wilt. he got closer, no longer stopping at a polite distance, leaning and looming over you in a way that felt entirely uncharacteristic of the man who usually apologized for the very air he breathed.

“i can see it in your face that you wish i’d just leave, yet you can’t even offer me an escape,” he whispered. before you could snap back a defense, his hand moved, devoid of the tentative touch of a gentleman you were used to; the decisive grab of a man who had finally reached the end of his wits. his fingers curled around your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly against the curve of your lower lip, forcing it to part. the sheer heat of him was staggering.

“you aren’t busy,” he murmured, his eyes darkening. “you’re avoiding me. you’re punishing me because you think i don’t feel the same way you do, isn’t that right?”

the sudden shift in him sent a jolt of electricity down your spine. you tried to find your footing, to reclaim the control you so coveted, to push back and reassert yourself. “and what if i am?” you challenged, your voice breathier than you intended. “what if you’re just too timid to do anything about it, jo? what if you’re just fronting because you’ve realized that we won’t be the same if you don’t?”

a low, dark and guttural sound escaped his throat halfway between a huff of disbelief and a scoff, “timid?”

he leaned in further, crowding you into your chair. he gripped the arms of your chair, a gilded cage of his making. pinning you in place, his face inches from yours.

“you think i’m fronting?” he echoed, his breath warm against your lips, smelling of mint and desperation. “you think because i am quiet, i am weak. but, god, do you have any idea how much effort it takes not to tear you apart right here?”

without another word uttered, he crashed his mouth against yours, a collision of months of repressed hunger. there was no grace in the kiss; a stifling demand, a hysterical claim, teeth clashing hard enough to bruise your mouth as well as his upon impact. jo’s tongue swept into your mouth with a ferocity that made your head spin, tasting of the storm he had kept locked behind his teeth. this was more your speed, the only dialect of desire you understood, yet it overwhelmed you to your very core when it came from the very darling you had yearned for months.

his hands, once so still, were suddenly everywhere tangling in your hair, tilting your head to bare the vulnerable curve of your throat, sliding down to grip your waist with a strength that promised he was done being careful. the apologetic man had vanished, replaced by one demanding his due: the due that was yours as much as his.

the kiss was all-consuming, maw on maw like wolves. after all, you weren’t going to just sit there and let him take what he wanted when you waited so long for this.

despite your efforts, his mouth did not yield to your whims. you let out a muffled, frustrated sound against his lips, your hands flying from the desk to his chest—torn between pulling him closer and pushing him so you could devour him on your own terms. yet, a feeble smack or two to the chest was most you could muster.

jo, of course, didn’t budge. he was a solid wall of heat and muscle, absorbing your resistance and using it to press even harder against you. he let out a groan, his hands sliding from your waist to the undersides of your thighs, hooking them and lifting you effortlessly from the leather chair.

“don’t,” he rasped against your skin once he pulled away, almost disheartened, as he hoisted you onto the desk and scattered pens and papers alike to the floor with a clatter that sounded deafening in the quiet office. you almost felt your skin jump at that, but you had no time to worry about your work at that moment. “don’t try to push me away now, you just called my bluff. is this not what you wanted?” the unspoken words hung heavy in the air; a question, perhaps, of whether he was what you truly wanted.

you gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, your hair spilling wildly over the dark wood. “i would have gotten what i wanted either way,” you hissed, jagged edge of desire and haughtiness painting your tone. you arched your back, tilting your hips up to meet him, grinding down, a challenge to see if he could handle the heat you were throwing back at him.

he let out a sound that was almost a snarl. a desperate, needy thing. his hands moved with a frantic purpose, unbuttoning your shirt, his fingers trembling with the sheer force of his restraint finally snapping. he leaned down, his mouth trailing fire from your jaw to the sensitive hollow of your throat, his teeth grazing you just hard enough to make you gasp and arch toward him.

“you’re so loud and mean,” he murmured against your skin, his hands sliding under your clothes to find the curve of your waist, his touch possessive and heavy. “always so much noise to hide how much you want things. have i been one of those things, is that why you act this way?”

“shut up,” you commanded, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling his head up so you could reclaim the power you had held over him all this time. you leaned forward, catching his lower lip between your teeth, biting down so you could force a sharp intake of breath from him.

one moment he was pinning your wrists to the desk, his heavy frame looming over you, eyes dark and full of intent; the next, you were pulling him down by the fabric of his top, dragging him into your space, forcing him to meet the intensity of your gaze.

before long, he stripped his shirt off with a restless impatience, and when he returned to you, the sensation of his bare chest pressing against yours was overwhelming.

“tell me,” he breathed, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven heaves. he was shaking, his muscles taut as wire. “tell me you want me to stop, tell me now. because if you don’t say it now… if you won’t tell me to go…”

the sentence died in his throat, as it was unnecessary. your nimble fingers made quick work of the fabric imprisoning your eager flesh, as well as his. impatient as with everything else. all pretense had crumbled, discarded like the clothes now pooling on the ground. without missing a beat, he moved between your legs, his hands sliding up your thighs, parting you with a reverence that felt like a prayer, even as his eyes burned with the hunger of a sinner.

he didn’t rush despite his patience wearing thin, though the tension between you was a live wire, humming with the threat of snapping. instead, he crouched down, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his breath hot and damp against you. the sensation sent a shiver up your spine, your hips jerking instinctively toward him, seeking the friction you were starving for. you reached for him, your hands sliding down his sweat slicked back, pulling him closer, your nails grazing to urge him forward and pulling another groan out of him.

his gaze dropped to where you were already slick and aching; to the heavy, pulsing heat that seemed to radiate from your very core. he used his thumb to smear the moisture across your entrance, a slow, agonizingly deliberate stroke that made your breath hitch. you were a mess of want, your body arching toward his touch, your eyes searching his ones for a moment of reprieve that neither of you actually wanted.

“look at you,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate register that made your skin prickle. he leaned closer, his eyes tracking the way your muscles jumped under his touch. “so much noise, and now you can’t even find your breath. is this what you were hiding behind all that attitude?”

“shut up,” you managed to hiss once again, though the command lacked its usual bite, sounding more like a desperate plea. you reached down, grabbing his wrist to guide his hand, trying to force the pace, but he was a mountain of unyielding muscle.

“say it,” he murmured, his thumb pressing a little firmer, circling the sensitive heat of you until you were whimpering. “tell me how much you need it. don’t be proud now. not when you’re shaking like this.”

you tried to bite back a moan, to reclaim some shred of that prideful composure in response to his taunting, but as he increased the pressure, your hips betrayed you, bucking upward in an uncoordinated search for more. your hands flew to his hair, tugging him closer, your knuckles white as you fought the sensation of coming undone.

“you… you’re insufferable,” you gasped, the words catching in a throat tight with arousal. you wanted to push him away just to see him chase you, but your body had other plans, winding your legs tighter around his waist to anchor him to the heat he was creating.

he watched you unravel, his eyes dark with a pride as he saw the way you trembled under his hand. he leaned in, his chest brushing against your sensitive peaks, the friction of skin on skin making your head swim. he paused there, just inches away, letting the anticipation build until it became a physical pressure in your lungs that demanded to be released.

“please,” you breathed, the word slipping out before you could catch it, your pride finally fracturing under the weight of the tension. you reached for him, your fingers curling into the muscles of his arms, pulling him down. “jo, please.”

his forehead dropped against yours for a fleeting second, letting out a needy sound different from others—a desperate plea, almost a moan. “you’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered against your lips, and yet, he waited until you were practically begging, until your hips were stuttering in a clumsy rhythm against the air, before he finally yielded to give you a second little death.

once he had aligned himself with your entrance, he moved with languid intent, a searing intrusion of the thick head of his cock quenching the ache you had been carrying for months. you keened shakily as he bottomed out, your head falling back with your eyes fluttering shut. the dominance you had fought so hard to keep dissolved into a singular, pulsing need.

you reached for him, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him as deep as he could go, your fingers clutching at his back. you had lost the distinction between where your hunger ended and his began.

his hands slid from your thighs to the small of your back, arching you upward until there wasn’t a single millimeter of air left between your bodies.

when he moved again, it was a relentless, driving rhythm that demanded you to keep pace. every thrust was a rough, bruising collision that sent jolts of electricity straight to your core. your hips snapped to meet his, your teeth bared in a silent snarl of pleasure, your nails leaving red crescents in his skin as you tried to anchor yourself.

“look at me,” he groaned, urging you. when you forced your eyes open, burning with unshed tears of sensation, his pupils were blown wide, dark and wolfish, fixed on yours with terrifying intensity. “don’t close your eyes. stay here, stay with me.”

the friction was becoming unbearable, a feverish build that made your vision blur and your thoughts fragment. your breath came in jagged, desperate hitches, and every time his hips slammed against yours, a new wave of heat crashed over you, pulling you deeper. you reached for his face, your palms damp with sweat, pulling him down so you could bury your face in the crook of his neck. you bit his shoulder, a desperate attempt to ground yourself, as the second tremors of your release began to coil deep in your belly.

“jo… jo,” you gasped his name like a broken prayer. you called for him again and again, but the words were swallowed by the sound of your own ragged breathing and the heavy thud of him driving into you. there was no room for conversation now, only the raw, wordless language of skin and sweat.

he didn’t slow down; if anything, the sound of your voice seemed to strip the last of his restraint away. he started riding into you harder, his movements becoming frenzied in his own desperation to reach the same precipice. he let out a low, animalistic sound—a noise halfway between a sob and a growl as he buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your skin. his entire body tensed, muscles locking like a bowstring pulled to the breaking point.

all of a sudden, the world shattered. the tension snapped in an explosion of sensation that left you gasping, your vision fracturing into a thousand points of light. you clung to him, your fingers digging into his back, as if his weight was the only thing keeping you from spinning off into the dark abyss amidst the liquid light, drowning in the sheer intensity of him.

then came the heavy pulsing of him. jo let out one final, choked sound against the skin of your shoulder, his body jerking as he hit his limit. you felt the hot, thick flood of him filling you, so intense that it almost made your stomach flip. he slumped against you, his weight nearly pinning you to the desk. he stayed there, buried deep, his muscles twitching with the aftershocks of his release, while you laid beneath him, your heart hammering against your ribs.

as the initial rush of heat began to recede, the silence of the office returned, no longer drenched with exhaustion. the pressing friction slowed to a dull, heavy ache. jo eventually pulled back, the sound of his skin sliding away from yours feeling unnaturally loud in the quiet room. he didn’t move far, though; he simply collapsed to his side, pulling you with him so that you were curled against his chest, your head resting on his damp shoulder instead of the harsh material of the desk.

the heat of your bodies began to cool, replaced by the slight chill of the air on your sweat slicked skin. you stared up at the ceiling, your eyes unfocused, listening to the slow, steadying rhythm of his breathing. you felt heavy, your limbs like lead, the adrenaline slowly draining out of you to leave a satisfied soreness in its wake.

he reached out, his hand clumsy and slow, to brush the stray hair away from your face. he didn’t say anything, and for once, you didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with a sharp remark or a defensive shield.

his fingers lingered at your temple, the gesture stripped of its earlier desperate urgency. it was the same careful measurement he always brought to a room, though the underlying madness had dissolved into a grounding weight. he pressed his forehead against your crown, drawing a long, shuddering breath that filled the narrow space between you.

“i thought i would destroy you, y’know?” he murmured, stripped of the elaborate politeness, yet still gentle. “or that you would look at me and see how much i lacked.”

you moved closer, shifting your weight until your cheek pressed into the dip of his collarbone. you reached up, your fingers finding the slow, even pulse in his throat, anchoring him there.

“you wouldn’t have destroyed anything, jo,” you whispered, the admission soft but absolute. “and, you’re all i’ve ever wanted. and, i want you still. you as mine, me as yours...”

more words flooded your mind, though no string of comprehensible ones came together to offer him. you would have to make it up to him later, give him the verbal reassurance he desperately needed before he came over to your place, but you could only offer snuggling into him further for the moment.

in response, he tightened his grip, his hand flattening against your back to press you into his chest as if trying to close whatever small distance remained between your skins. a profound relief settled into the hold. he kissed the top of your head, a lingering pressure that carried the weight of every promise he had kept unspoken and locked away for months. you closed your eyes, listening to the steady beat beneath your cheek. though the hunger could never truly be banished, he no longer needed to starve, no longer needed to let the ravenous beast gnaw at him in your presence.

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