#strrykais

You press closer. Close whatever fraction of distance remained between your body and his until there's nothing left — no gap, no air, no pretense of separation. Your fingers find the spaces between his and slide in, one by one, deliberate as threading a needle. His hand opens for you. Accepts each finger like a question answered. When the last one slots into place, he closes around you, and the fit is so precise it feels engineered — your smaller hand disappearing into his broader one, the pads of his fingers settling against the back of your knuckles, his thumb hooking over yours.

He makes a sound. Not a word. Something quieter than that — a breath caught and released, a vibration in his throat that you feel through his collarbone more than hear. His fingers tighten. Not painfully. Just completely. The grip of someone who's been holding on carefully all night and is finally allowing himself to hold on for real.

His other arm pulls you closer still, and the shift presses your face fully into the curve of his neck. His pulse is right against your lips now — warm, steady, alive. You can feel the tendons of his throat move when he swallows.

"Hooyeon-ah."

Your name in his mouth, spoken into the crown of your hair with that impossible voice of his — deep enough to feel in your teeth, soft enough to dissolve on contact.

"I'm glad you chose me."

Not hired. Not booked. Chose.

The word choice isn't accidental. Nothing about Lee Yongbok is accidental, you've learned that much in two weeks — every offered hand, every intercepted water glass, every perfectly timed question has been the product of attention so thorough it looks effortless. But this doesn't feel calculated. This feels like something that slipped out through a crack he forgot to seal, spoken against your hair in a voice that's shaking almost as much as your hands were five minutes ago.

Your eyes are still closed. His heartbeat fills the dark.

"I'm glad I chose you too."

The words come out quieter than you intended — barely above a whisper, spoken into the warm skin of his neck where his pulse has finally settled into something calm and even. You feel the moment they land. His breath catches. Not dramatically — a tiny hitch, a half-second where the rhythm of his chest against your shoulder stutters and resets. His fingers tighten between yours.

Then his head dips. His forehead presses against your temple, and the contact is so gentle, so careful, that it makes your throat ache. You can feel the heat of his skin, the brush of his hair against your brow, the way his exhale fans warm and unsteady across your cheekbone.

"You can't just say things like that," he murmurs. His voice is wrecked. Not broken — just stripped down, all the professional polish and practiced charm sanded away until what's left is raw and low and a little bit helpless. "When you say things like that, I—"

He stops. Swallows. You feel the movement against your forehead, the bob of his throat.

"You what?" you ask.

Silence. His thumb traces a restless circle between your knuckles. Outside, the karaoke continues — someone is attempting a ballad, the high notes cracking and dissolving into laughter. Inside, the only sound is Felix breathing and failing to finish his sentence.

"I forget," he says finally. Slowly. Like he's choosing each word by hand and examining it for structural integrity before setting it down. "I forget that this is..."

He trails off again.

The unfinished sentence hangs between you like a held breath. I forget that this is a job. I forget that this is temporary. I forget that this isn't real.

You know what he's not saying. You've known for days — since the aquarium, maybe, or the dancing class, or the moment in the café when he called you dangerous with cocoa on his nose and meant it. The knowledge has been sitting in your chest like a stone in still water, too heavy to float, too warm to ignore.

His forehead is still pressed against your temple. His hand is still laced through yours. His pulse, when you shift slightly and catch it again through his wrist, is climbing back up.

"Felix."

"Mm."

"Open your eyes."

A pause. Then the subtle flutter of lashes against your skin — you feel it, impossibly soft, the brush of them against your brow as his eyes open. You feel him looking at you even before you open your own eyes, the weight of his attention like a hand hovering just above your face.

You open your eyes.

He's right there. Closer than you've ever seen him — close enough to count the freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose, close enough to see the ring of darker brown around his irises, close enough that his features blur at the edges and all that remains in focus is the impossible warmth of his gaze. His lips are parted. His ears are pink. A strand of blonde hair has fallen across his forehead, and in the dim golden light from the garden windows, he looks less like a professional companion and more like a man who's been trying very hard not to fall and has just realized the ground left a long time ago.

"Hi," he whispers.

"Hi," you whisper back.

The word is absurd. You're both aware of that — the smallness of it, the inadequacy, the way it lands in the charged space between your mouths like a paper boat set afloat on an ocean. Felix's lips twitch. Not quite a smile. Something more fragile than that, something still forming, still deciding what shape to take.

"Hi," he repeats. Softer this time. Like he's tasting the word, finding it insufficient, offering it back anyway because it's all he's got.

You're breathing the same air. Literally — at this distance, every exhale of his becomes your inhale, warm and slightly sweet, and every exhale of yours ghosts across his parted lips. His eyes flicker. Down to your mouth. Back up. Down again. The movement is involuntary and obvious and he doesn't try to hide it, doesn't try to play it off with a joke or a redirect. He just... looks. With the raw, unguarded expression of someone who has stopped performing entirely.

The strand of blonde hair trembles against his forehead with each breath.

"This is the part," he says, voice barely there, "where I should probably say something professional."

"Probably."

"Something about boundaries. Or the booking terms. Or—"

"Probably."

"—or how I'm supposed to maintain a certain level of..." He trails off. His gaze drops to your lips again and stays there this time, fixed, like a compass needle finding north. "...detachment."

"How's that going?"

The breath that escapes him is almost a laugh — shaky, abbreviated, caught somewhere between amusement and surrender. His forehead rolls gently against your temple. His nose brushes yours. The contact sends a current through you — a bright, electric thread that starts at the point of contact and unspools down through your chest, your stomach, the backs of your knees.

"Terribly," he admits. His thumb has stopped moving on your hand. Every part of him is still except his eyes, which are searching your face with an intensity that borders on devotion. "It's going terribly, Hooyeon-ah. It's been going terribly since the aquarium."

The aquarium. Where you rested your head on his shoulder in front of the jellyfish tank and felt him stop breathing for three full seconds. Where the blue light turned his freckles into constellations and you lost the thread of whatever you were saying because he was looking at you the way he's looking at you now.

"Since the aquarium," you echo.

"Maybe before that." His honesty is disarming — not rehearsed, not strategic, just offered, laid out between you like cards turned face-up. "Maybe since the café. Maybe since you called me Yongbok-ah and I choked on my latte and you just... handed me a napkin. Like it was nothing."

"It wasn't nothing."

"I know." His voice drops. "That's the problem."

"Then stop trying to fix it."

The words leave your mouth steady and sure, and you watch them hit him like a physical thing — his eyes widening fractionally, his lips parting another millimeter, the last thread of professional composure snapping so quietly you almost miss it. Almost. But you're close enough to see the exact moment it goes: a subtle shift in his expression, like a door that's been held shut by fingertips finally swinging open.

He doesn't answer. Not with words.

His hand releases yours — and before the loss of contact registers, it's on your face. His palm cups your jaw, fingers sliding into the hair behind your ear, and the touch is so gentle it barely qualifies as pressure. Just warmth. Just the careful, deliberate placement of a hand that's been wanting to be there for longer than either of you has admitted.

His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone. His eyes search yours one last time — not for permission, you realize, but for confirmation that what he's seeing is real.

You don't blink. Don't pull back. Don't make a joke.

Felix kisses you.

It's not urgent. It's not desperate. It's not the dramatic collision of two people who've been circling each other with unbearable tension — although it is that, too, underneath. What it is, is warm. His lips press against yours softly, almost reverently, with the unhurried tenderness of someone who has imagined this exact moment enough times to want to get it right. His mouth is full and warm and tastes faintly of cocoa and champagne, and the hand on your jaw tilts your face up to meet him as though you're something precious, something he's been trusted with and refuses to break.

You feel the tremor in his fingers. Against your cheek, against the hinge of your jaw, the fine vibration of a man whose calm exterior has finally cracked open to reveal the earthquake underneath. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer on the loveseat until your hip presses into his, until the borrowed jacket bunches between your bodies and his chest is flush against yours.

He kisses you like he means it. Like he's been meaning it since a café in Hannam-dong, since a riverside walk with shared earbuds, since a cooking class where he got tteokbokki sauce on his sleeve and you wiped it off without thinking. He kisses you like every carefully maintained boundary of the last two weeks has been a held breath, and he's finally, finally exhaling.

You kiss him back.

Your hand comes up to his chest — not pushing, not pulling, just resting there against the hard plane of his sternum where his heartbeat hammers so fast you can feel it through your palm. His breath hitches against your mouth. The sound he makes is quiet, involuntary, barely a sound at all — a low hum that vibrates between your lips and settles somewhere behind your ribs.

When you finally part, it's by millimeters. His forehead rests against yours. His breathing is ragged. His hand is still on your jaw, thumb stroking the spot just below your ear, and his eyes are closed — lashes dark against his flushed cheekbones, lips reddened and slightly swollen, the composed professional veneer stripped away entirely.

He opens his eyes. They're darker than you've seen them. The warm brown has deepened into something richer, more intent, and the way he looks at you makes the air in the small room feel thin.

"I've wanted to do that," he says, his deep voice roughened to something barely above a whisper, "since you brushed cocoa off my nose and I forgot how to breathe."

His thumb traces your jaw again. His gaze drops to your mouth. Comes back up. His restraint is visible — a muscle twitching in his jaw, his hand tightening fractionally on your waist, the deliberate steadiness of someone trying very hard not to close the distance again without being sure.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, "and I'll stop."

You answer him with your mouth.

Your hand fists the front of his shirt — not his collar, nothing so precise — just a blind grab at fabric that drags him forward as you close the distance yourself. The kiss is harder this time. Less reverent. Your teeth catch his lower lip and he makes a sound against your mouth that shoots straight through you — a startled, breathless thing, half gasp and half groan, swallowed before it fully forms. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands at the base of your skull, and the gentle, careful boy from thirty seconds ago is gone. Replaced by something more honest.

He kisses you back like he's been starving. His mouth opens against yours, warm and insistent, and the depth of his voice translates into the depth of his kiss — thorough, consuming, devastating in its sincerity. His other hand grips your waist hard enough that you feel each individual finger through the fabric of your dress, pulling you into him until you're half in his lap, the loveseat creaking beneath the shift in weight.

Your lungs burn. You don't care.

His teeth graze your bottom lip. His tongue follows — a brief, electric sweep that makes your fingers tighten in his shirt and your spine arch involuntarily. He responds to the movement immediately, instinctively, his arm wrapping around your lower back to press you flush against his chest. The size difference registers viscerally — his shoulders wider than yours by a margin that makes you feel enclosed, his hands spanning distances your hands can't, his body a solid, warm cage of muscle and intention.

When you break apart this time, you're both breathing hard. His chest heaves against yours. Your hand is still fisted in his shirt, the fabric twisted and wrinkled beyond repair. His eyes are barely open — heavy-lidded and dark and fixed on you with an expression that makes the air between you feel combustible.

"Hooyeon-ah," he breathes. His voice has dropped so low it's almost subsonic, that deep register that always shocks people vibrating through the space between your mouths. His hand is still in your hair, fingers trembling, and his lips are swollen and slightly parted and very, very close. "If you keep looking at me like that, I'm going to—"

He stops himself. Swallows. His Adam's apple bobs visibly. The flush has spread from his ears down the sides of his neck, disappearing beneath his collar.

"You're going to what?" you ask.

His eyes search your face. Linger on your mouth. Come back up.

"Things," he says, "that aren't in the booking terms."

The words hang in the air between you like a lit fuse.

Things that aren't in the booking terms.

His honesty is disarming in its bluntness — no euphemism, no deflection, just the raw admission of a man whose self-control is fraying visibly. You can see it in the rapid flutter of his pulse at the base of his throat, in the white-knuckled grip of his fingers on your waist, in the way his gaze keeps dropping to your mouth like gravity is acting on it independently of his will.

Your hand is still fisted in his shirt. Beneath the wrinkled fabric, his heart is throwing itself against his ribs with an urgency that contradicts every careful, gentle thing he's done tonight. The flush on his neck has deepened — warm pink bleeding down past his collar, and you wonder, distantly, how far it goes.

"Felix."

His eyes snap to yours. Dark. Waiting.

You smooth the crumpled fabric of his shirt with your palm. Slowly. Deliberately. Feeling the hard plane of his chest beneath it, the ridge of his sternum, the warmth of his skin radiating through cotton. His breath stutters. His stomach tenses under your trailing fingers.

"I don't care about the booking terms," you say.

Something shifts behind his eyes. The last guardrail falling. The last professional calculation dissolving into something purely, devastatingly personal. His jaw tightens. His hand in your hair tightens. For a suspended moment he stays perfectly still, searching your face with an intensity that borders on painful — looking for doubt, for hesitation, for any trace of I don't actually mean this.

He doesn't find it.

"Say it again," he whispers. His thumb traces the shell of your ear, feather-light, and the contrast between the gentleness of the touch and the raw tension in his body makes your breath catch. "I need to hear you say it again."

"I don't care about the booking terms." You hold his gaze. "And neither do you."

His exhale is shattered.

He moves.

Both hands frame your face — his palms warm and broad against your jaw, fingers sliding into your hair — and he kisses you with the full, unleashed weight of everything he's been holding back. It's not careful anymore. It's not measured. His mouth slants across yours open and hot and thorough, and the sound he makes into the kiss is low and involuntary and resonates in that impossibly deep register that you feel in your chest. His tongue sweeps against yours and your spine liquefies.

Your back hits the loveseat cushion. You don't remember leaning back — maybe he guided you, maybe gravity did the rest — but suddenly he's above you, one arm braced beside your head, the other still cradling the back of your skull to keep it from the armrest. The weight of him settles against you incrementally, like he's rationing it, lowering himself in controlled degrees so you can stop him at any point. His hips hover above yours. His chest presses against yours. The size of him registers again — the breadth of his shoulders blocking out the dim ceiling light, his forearm thick beside your head, his body a warm, solid architecture of muscle and restraint.

"Lock the door," you murmur against his lips.

He pulls back. Blinks. The dazed, dark-eyed expression on his face would be comical if it weren't so devastating — swollen lips, flushed cheeks, blonde hair falling across his forehead in disheveled strands.

"Right," he breathes. "Door. Yes."

He pushes himself up. Crosses the small room in three long strides. The lock clicks. He turns back to you, and for a moment he just stands there — backlit by the warm garden light through the window, chest heaving, lips red, looking at you on the loveseat with your hair spread against the cushion and your dress riding up your thighs from the shift in position.

His throat bobs.

"You're sure," he says. Not a question. A confirmation. The voice of a man who needs to hear it one more time before he lets go completely.

"Come here, Yongbok."

His name — his real name — does something to him. The same thing it did in the café, but magnified a hundredfold. You watch the effect cascade through his body: his eyes darkening, his lips parting, his shoulders dropping as the last defensive tension leaves them entirely.

He crosses back to you. Two steps this time — faster than the three it took to reach the door — and your hand shoots up before he gets there, catches the front of his shirt, and pulls.

He comes down willingly. Eagerly. His knees hit the loveseat on either side of your hips, one hand catching the backrest, the other bracing against the armrest by your head. The fabric of his shirt stretches taut between your fist and his chest, and you feel the heat of his skin through it — furnace-warm, the flush you glimpsed on his neck radiating outward like something barely contained.

He hovers above you. Close enough to kiss. Not quite kissing. His arms frame you — thick, corded forearms visible below his rolled sleeves, veins pronounced from the tension of holding himself up. The loveseat dips beneath his weight. Your knees press against the outside of his thighs, and the solidity of him — the sheer mass contained in that lean, dancer-trained frame — makes you feel small in a way that has nothing to do with vulnerability.

"You," he murmurs, looking down at you with dark, half-lidded eyes, "are going to be the end of me."

"Good."

His breath escapes him in a rough laugh that dies the moment your hand slides from his shirt to the back of his neck. Your fingers thread into the fine blonde hair at his nape, and his eyes flutter shut. His head tips back into your touch — instinctive, unguarded, a response so honest it makes your stomach flip. A low sound builds in his throat. Not a word. Something more animal than that.

Then his mouth finds your neck.

His lips press against the skin just below your ear — gentle at first, exploratory, the warm drag of his mouth mapping the line of your jaw down to the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. His breath is hot and uneven against your pulse. When he finds the spot that makes your breath hitch — right over the tendon, halfway down — he pauses. You feel him smile against your skin.

"There," he whispers.

He kisses the spot again. Slower. Then his mouth opens, tongue warm and flat against your pulse, and he sucks. The pressure builds in careful increments — not tentative, but deliberate, the focused attention of someone who wants to leave evidence and wants you to feel every second of its creation. Your fingers tighten in his hair. Your spine arches off the loveseat, pressing your chest against his, and the sound you make is embarrassingly loud in the quiet room.

Felix groans against your throat. Low. Deep. The vibration travels through your skin and settles at the base of your spine like a live wire.

He pulls back just enough to examine his work — a dark bloom already forming against your skin — and his expression is something you've never seen on him before. Possessive. Satisfied. Tender. All three at once, layered over each other like watercolors blending on wet paper.

"Been wanting to do that all night," he says, and his voice is wrecked.

His thumb traces the mark on your neck, feather-light, while his other hand finds the zipper at the back of your dress. He pauses there. Waits. His eyes find yours — dark and questioning and patient despite the rapid rise and fall of his chest, despite the visible strain in his arms, despite the hard line of him pressed against your inner thigh that makes the nature of his restraint explicitly, undeniably clear.

"Still sure?" he asks.

You answer by reaching up and undoing the first button of his shirt.

His eyes track the movement of your fingers. The button slips free, revealing the hollow of his throat and the sharp ridge of his collarbone — smooth, pale skin flushed pink, no hair, just warmth and the delicate architecture of bone and muscle beneath. The second button follows. The third. With each one, more of him is revealed: the defined line between his pectorals, the subtle shadow of his sternum, the way the flush on his neck extends down across his chest in uneven, blotchy patches that tell you exactly how far gone he is.

By the fourth button, your knuckles brush his stomach and the muscle there contracts sharply — a visible flinch, involuntary, followed by a shaky exhale. He watches you undress him with an expression caught between wonder and desperation, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, his fingers frozen on your zipper like he's forgotten they exist.

You flatten your palms against his chest and push the shirt off his shoulders.

The fabric slides down his arms with a whisper, catching briefly at his elbows before he shrugs it free. It falls somewhere behind him — the loveseat, the floor, neither of you tracks where it goes. What matters is what's underneath.

Felix without a shirt is a study in contradictions. Lean but defined — the kind of muscle built through years of dancing rather than lifting, every line functional and precise. His shoulders are broader than his frame suggests when clothed, the deltoids curving smoothly into arms that are more solid than they have any right to be. His chest is smooth and completely bare, the flush from his neck bleeding down across his pectorals in uneven patches of pink. His stomach is flat and taut, the faintest suggestion of definition visible when he breathes, which he's doing unevenly — ribs expanding and contracting in a rhythm that's lost all pretense of control.

You stare. You're aware you're staring. You don't stop.

"You're—" you start.

"Freckles," he says quickly, almost defensively, like a reflex. "I know. They're everywhere."

They are. Scattered across his shoulders and collarbones like someone flicked a paintbrush — sparse, delicate, trailing down toward his chest in a pattern that looks accidental and divine. In the warm light from the garden window, they glow faintly gold against his pale skin.

"I was going to say beautiful," you say.

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. The flush on his chest deepens visibly — a new wave of color that starts at his sternum and spreads outward, betraying him completely. His ears are so red they look sunburned.

"You can't just—" He runs a hand through his hair, displacing the already-ruined blonde strands further across his forehead. The nervous gesture reveals the toned line of his bicep, the vulnerable hollow of his underarm. "You can't just say that while I'm—when you're—underneath me—"

"I can," you say. "And you are beautiful."

He drops his forehead against your shoulder and groans. The sound vibrates through your collarbone, deep and helpless and so endearing that you almost laugh. Almost. But his bare chest is pressed against you now, and the heat of his skin is bleeding through the thin fabric of your dress, and his mouth is right there against the curve of your shoulder, breath hot and ragged.

"Your turn," he murmurs into your skin.

His fingers find the zipper at the back of your dress again. This time they don't hesitate. The zipper descends slowly — a controlled, deliberate drag down the length of your spine that you feel tooth by tooth. His knuckles trail the path of newly exposed skin, and goosebumps erupt in their wake. The air of the room touches your back first, cool against the warmth he's generated, and then his hand follows — his palm flat against the bare curve of your lower spine, fingers spread wide, holding you against him while the dress loosens around your shoulders.

He leans back just enough to watch you. His hands move to your shoulders, hooking under the straps of your dress, and he pauses — thumbs resting against your collarbones, eyes dark and questioning.

You nod.

He slides the straps down. Slowly. One side, then the other. The fabric pools at your waist, and the cool air meets your chest, and Felix's gaze drops.

He goes still.

Completely, utterly still — like a painting, like a held breath, like something that has forgotten how to function. His lips are parted. His hands hover at your shoulders where they stopped, fingers suspended in air. The only movement is the rapid rise and fall of his bare chest and the almost imperceptible widening of his eyes.

"God," he whispers. The word cracks in the middle.

His hand comes up — trembling, visibly trembling — and traces the line of your collarbone with his fingertips. Down. Following the curve of your breast with such delicacy that the touch barely registers as physical contact. More like heat. More like intention made tangible.

"You're..." He swallows. Tries again. "Hooyeon-ah, you're so..."

He doesn't finish.

"Show me, then."

The challenge lands exactly where you aim it. His eyes snap to yours — startled, searching, then igniting. The trembling in his hand stops. Something shifts in his expression, the shy uncertainty burning away to reveal the focused, intent presence you've caught glimpses of all night. The dancer. The man who learns choreography by drilling it until his body knows it better than his mind.

He shows you.

His mouth descends on your collarbone — open, hot, deliberate. Not gentle this time. He drags his lips across the ridge of bone, tongue tracing the hollow at the base of your throat before moving lower. His hand finally closes over your breast, and the contact makes you gasp — his palm is broad and warm, fingers curving underneath to hold the weight of you, thumb sweeping across your nipple with a precision that stutters your breathing.

"Here?" he murmurs against your skin.

You arch into his hand instead of answering, and he takes that for what it is. His thumb circles again, slower, while his mouth continues its descent — kissing down the slope of your breast, the warm flat of his tongue leaving a trail that the cool air follows. When his lips close around your other nipple, the sound you make bounces off the walls of the small room.

He groans in response — a deep, resonant vibration against your breast that makes your hips jerk involuntarily. His free hand clamps down on your waist, pressing you into the loveseat, and the strength of his grip is a revelation. Dancer's hands. Stronger than they look. Strong enough to hold you exactly where he wants you while his mouth works you open breath by breath.

He switches sides. Takes his time. Learns you like choreography — repeating what makes you gasp, adjusting when your breathing shifts, building patterns and then breaking them until you're shaking underneath him. His freckled shoulders flex in the garden light as he moves, and you thread your fingers through his hair and grip, and the sound he makes then — guttural, punched out of him, lost against your skin — is the most honest thing you've ever heard.

"You're incredible," he breathes between your breasts. His lips are swollen and wet and his eyes, when he looks up at you through a curtain of fallen blonde hair, are almost black. "Every part of you. I want—"

His mouth moves lower. Across your ribs. Your stomach contracts beneath his lips, and he presses a smile into the skin beside your navel. His hands follow the path of your dress, pushing the fabric down over your hips until it bunches at your thighs. His fingers hook the waistband of your underwear and he stops.

Looks up at you. Flushed from his chest to his ears, lips bruised, hair wrecked, the garden light gilding his shoulders in warm gold. His thumbs trace small circles against your hipbones.

"Can I?" he asks.

"Yes."

He pulls them down. Slowly — achingly, deliberately slowly, trailing the fabric down your thighs and over your knees and off, gone, discarded somewhere with his shirt and your dignity. Your dress follows, and then there's nothing between you and the warm air and his gaze, which travels the length of your body with the focus of someone memorizing a landscape.

He kneels between your legs on the loveseat. His hands rest on your knees, thumbs pressing into the soft skin of your inner thighs, and the contrast is almost obscene — his broad, freckled hands against your smaller frame, his fingers spanning distances that make you feel held.

"Tell me what you want," he says. His voice has dropped to that basement register, the one that always shocks people, and from this close it reverberates through the points of contact between his hands and your thighs. "Anything. I want to hear you say it."

"I want your mouth on me."

The words come out steadier than you feel. Felix's fingers tighten on your thighs — a convulsive squeeze, involuntary, his body responding before his brain catches up. His eyes darken impossibly further. His tongue darts across his lower lip, an unconscious movement that makes your stomach drop.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, I can do that."

He lowers himself. Slowly. Pressing his mouth against the inside of your knee first — a lingering, open-mouthed kiss that makes the muscle in your thigh jump. He smiles against your skin. Moves higher. Another kiss, this one wetter, his tongue dragging a short line against the sensitive inner flesh. Then another. Higher. Each one deliberate, unhurried, mapping the territory between your knee and where you actually want him with a patience that borders on cruelty.

His shoulders wedge between your thighs, spreading them wider, and the breadth of him is obscene — broad and freckled and solid, filling the space between your legs like he was built for it. His hands slide beneath your thighs, lifting slightly, angling you toward him. His breath fans warm and unsteady against your center, and the proximity alone makes your hips twitch.

He presses his mouth against your inner thigh, right at the crease, and sucks. Another mark. You feel it bloom — the sharp sting of pressure, the soothing sweep of his tongue after, the vibration of his quiet groan traveling through your skin. He pulls back, examines the darkening spot with heavy-lidded satisfaction, then turns his head and does the same to the other thigh.

"Felix—"

"I know." His voice is muffled against your skin, deep enough to register as sensation rather than sound. "I know. I'm getting there."

"You're teasing."

He looks up at you through the curtain of blonde hair. The angle is devastating — his chin between your thighs, his swollen lips inches from where they need to be, his dark eyes holding yours with an expression that's equal parts adoring and wrecked.

"Maybe a little," he admits. Then — softly, sincerely, his thumb tracing the mark he just left on your thigh: "I want to remember all of this."

Before you can respond, his mouth is on you.

The first touch is gentle. His lips press against your clit in a closed-mouth kiss that's almost chaste, impossibly tender considering the position. Then his lips part, and his tongue drags a slow, flat stroke from your entrance to your clit, and every coherent thought you've ever had exits your body through the sound you make.

"Oh—"

Felix groans against you. The vibration is devastating, traveling through the slick, sensitive flesh directly into the base of your spine, and your hips buck off the loveseat. His hands tighten on your thighs, holding you open, holding you still, and the strength in his grip is shocking — firm enough to anchor you, gentle enough to leave no bruises. His shoulders flex as he adjusts the angle, tilts his head, and finds a rhythm.

He eats you out like he kisses. Thorough. Attentive. Devoted. His tongue works in slow, deliberate patterns — circling your clit, dipping lower to taste you fully, returning to the spot that makes your thighs tremble around his ears. When you gasp, he repeats what he just did. When you moan, he does it harder. When your hand finds his hair and grips, he makes a sound against your pussy that's pure, unfiltered need — deep and broken and so low it feels seismic.

"You taste—" He pulls back just enough to breathe, lips glistening, chin wet. "God, Hooyeon-ah, you—"

He doesn't finish. Dives back in. His tongue flattens against your clit and he sucks, and your spine arches off the loveseat so sharply that only his hands on your thighs keep you from folding in half. The pressure builds — tight and hot and coiling at the base of your stomach — and he feels it, reads it in the tension of your legs, the pitch of your breathing, the way your fingers twist in his hair.

"There?" he murmurs against you. Barely a word. More of a vibration.

Your hand slides down from his hair. Finds his hand on your thigh. Your fingers thread between his — the same way you did on the loveseat before everything caught fire, the same deliberate, one-by-one interlacing — and you feel his rhythm falter.

He makes a sound against you. Not a groan. Something softer, more fractured, like something inside him just cracked open that he didn't know was sealed. His fingers close around yours and grip — tight — and when he resumes, the pace has changed. Slower. Deeper. More intentional, as though the connection of your hands rewired something in him, turned this from performance into conversation.

His tongue circles your clit in long, unhurried strokes, each one building on the last. His thumb traces the back of your knuckle — that same familiar pattern, that grounding orbit he's been drawing on your skin all night — and the tenderness of it against the obscenity of his mouth undoes you faster than urgency ever could.

The coil tightens. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders. Your fingers crush his, and he squeezes back — I'm here, I'm here, I've got you — communicated entirely through pressure and the steady, devastating attention of his tongue.

"Felix— I'm—"

He doesn't pull back. Doesn't change pace. Just holds your hand tighter, presses closer, and hums against you — a low, resonant vibration that tips you over the edge.

You come with his name in your mouth and his fingers laced through yours. The orgasm rolls through you in waves — not sharp but deep, pulling you under and holding you there, your back arching, your thighs clamping around his shoulders, your hand gripping his so hard your knuckles ache. He works you through it with patient, slowing strokes, reading the tremors in your body the way he reads everything — attentively, precisely, without rushing the ending.

When it ebbs, you're boneless. Sunk into the loveseat cushions, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling through a haze that makes the warm light blur into halos. Your hand is still tangled with his. You can't feel your legs.

Felix presses one last kiss — closed-mouthed, gentle — against your inner thigh. Then he rises, slowly, bracing himself on the arm of the loveseat. His face emerges from between your legs flushed and glistening, lips swollen and wet, blonde hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His chest is heaving. The flush has spread all the way down to his stomach, blotchy and uneven, and his eyes are glassy and dark and looking at you like you're the only fixed point in a spinning room.

He brings your joined hands up and presses his lips to your knuckles. Lingering. Reverent. The gesture is so sweet, so jarringly tender given that his chin is still wet with you, that something behind your ribs cracks wide open.

"You're beautiful when you fall apart," he whispers against your fingers. His voice is raw. Ruined. "You know that?"

He's still hard. You can see it — the obvious strain against his dress pants, the way his hips shift restlessly as he kneels between your legs. He hasn't asked for anything. Hasn't redirected your attention. Just held your hand and watched you come apart and told you that you're beautiful.

You sit up. His eyes widen slightly as you reach for his belt.

"Hooyeon—"

"Your turn," you say, and watch his throat bob.

Your fingers find the buckle. Cool metal against your fingertips, warmed at the edges where it's been pressed against his skin all evening. You take your time. Let your knuckles graze the flat plane of his lower stomach as you work the prong free, and the muscle there flinches — a sharp, involuntary contraction that ripples visibly beneath his skin.

Felix watches. His hands are at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling against the loveseat cushion like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for you. His breathing has gone shallow and audible, each exhale carrying a faint tremor. When the buckle comes undone with a soft metallic click, his jaw tightens.

You pull the belt free. Slowly. The leather hisses through the loops — one, two, three, four — and each one draws another fraction of control from his expression. By the time you drop it on the floor, his bottom lip is caught between his teeth and his chest is rising and falling fast enough that the freckles across his collarbones seem to shift in the light.

The button of his pants is next. You pop it one-handed, and the zipper follows — the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. Beneath the fabric, the outline of him strains against dark boxer briefs. You can see the shape of him, the heat radiating off him, and when your fingers brush him through the thin cotton his hips jerk forward and the sound he makes is wrecked.

"Fuck—" The curse is bitten off, strangled, so uncharacteristic of his usual careful sweetness that it sends a bolt of heat straight through your center. His hand flies to your wrist — not stopping you, just holding on, fingers wrapping around the narrow bones like a lifeline. "Sorry, I— you just—"

"Don't apologize," you say. You press your palm flat against him through the fabric and his head tips back, throat exposed, tendons taut, Adam's apple bobbing on a swallow that looks painful. The long line of his neck is marked with the flush that started at his ears — blotchy, uneven, spreading down to his chest in a way he couldn't hide if he tried.

You push his pants down. He helps — lifting his hips, kicking the fabric free — and then he's kneeling between your legs in nothing but the boxer briefs, and the sight of him steals the air from your lungs.

Felix is beautiful. Not pretty — though he is that too — but beautiful in the way things are beautiful when they stop pretending to be anything else. Lean, defined, every muscle earned through movement rather than vanity. The dancer's V-cut at his hips disappears into the waistband of his briefs, and the trail of freckles you discovered on his shoulders continues here — scattered across his ribs, his hip bones, the taut skin of his lower stomach like a private constellation you weren't supposed to see.

You hook your fingers under the waistband. He inhales sharply. You pull them down.

He's hard. Flushed and straining, the head slick, and the size of him makes your breath catch — proportional to his frame, which means longer than you expected, thick enough that your hand won't close around him completely. He makes a choked, desperate sound when the cool air hits him, and when you wrap your hand around his length his whole body shudders.

"Hooyeon—" His voice breaks on the second syllable. His hand is still on your wrist, feeling every movement of your fingers, and his hips rock forward into your grip in a stuttered, involuntary thrust. "God, your hands are—"

You stroke him. Slow. Base to tip, your thumb tracing the sensitive ridge beneath the head, and his reaction is electric — his abs contracting, his thighs tensing, a broken moan spilling from his lips that's so deep you feel it in the loveseat springs. His forehead drops against yours. His breathing fractures against your lips. His hips move with your rhythm, trying and failing to stay still.

"Wait—" He catches your wrist again. Gentle but firm. His chest is heaving, his voice wrecked. "Wait, wait. If you keep doing that I'm going to—I want to be inside you. Please. Please, Hooyeon-ah."

The please undoes you. Twice.

You reach down between your bodies. Your fingers wrap around him — he hisses, hips stuttering — and you guide him to your entrance. The slick heat of you meets the flushed head of his cock, and for a suspended moment everything stops. His arms brace on either side of your head, muscles trembling. His forehead presses against yours. His breath comes in short, ragged bursts that ghost across your lips.

"Look at me," you whisper.

His eyes open. Dark. Bottomless. Terrified and certain all at once.

You tilt your hips and take him in.

The stretch is slow and full and overwhelming. He's thick enough that you feel every inch of the slide — your body opening around him in increments, the pressure building at the edge of discomfort before tipping into something deeper and more consuming. Your breath catches. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails pressing crescents into the freckled skin, and he makes a sound above you that you will remember for the rest of your life.

It's not a moan. Not a groan. It's a shattered exhale that carries your name inside it — "Hooyeon" — broken across two syllables, spoken like a prayer or a confession or both. His arms shake. His abs tremble against your stomach. His hips still themselves with visible, agonizing effort once he's fully inside you, giving you time, giving you space, even though every taut line of his body is screaming for movement.

"Oh god," he whispers. His eyes haven't left yours. They're glassy and wet at the edges, and you realize with a start that it's not pain — it's feeling. Too much of it. "You feel— I can't—"

His forehead drops against your temple. His breathing is wrecked, each inhale catching on something sharp. You feel him everywhere — the weight of him above you, the stretch of him inside you, the tremor of his thighs between yours. He's bigger than you anticipated, filling you completely, and the difference in your frames makes itself known with every point of contact: his broad chest eclipsing yours, his hips pinning yours to the cushion, his hands spanning the space beside your head with fingers to spare.

You roll your hips. Experimentally. Just once.

"Fuck—" His composure shatters. His hips snap forward in a reflexive thrust that drives him deeper, and the sound you both make collides in the small room — your sharp gasp tangling with his broken groan. His hand flies to your hip, gripping hard enough that you feel each individual finger imprinting on your skin. "Sorry— sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Do it again."

He stares at you. Pupils blown. Lips parted. Sweat beading at his temples.

He does it again.

The first real thrust drives the air from your lungs. He pulls back slowly — almost all the way out, the drag of him exquisite — and pushes in deep, and the sound of it is obscene in the quiet: skin against skin, the wet slide of your bodies fitting together, the creak of the loveseat protesting beneath you. His pace is deliberate at first, restrained, each stroke measured and thorough, his hips rolling with a dancer's fluid control that makes every movement feel choreographed. He finds an angle that makes you cry out — your back arching off the cushion, nails raking down his back — and he locks onto it with the same focused precision he applied to every mark he left on your skin.

"There?" He knows the answer. Asks anyway. Needs to hear you say it.

"There— don't stop, right there—"

He doesn't stop. His pace builds, each thrust landing deeper, harder, the controlled rhythm gradually giving way to something more urgent. His mouth finds your neck — the same spot he marked earlier — and he bites down gently, tongue soothing the sting, and the combination of his teeth and his cock hitting that spot inside you makes your vision white out at the edges.

Your legs wrap around his waist. The angle shifts and he sinks impossibly deeper and you both moan — his muffled against your throat, yours escaping toward the ceiling. His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, hitching it higher against his ribs, and the possessive strength of his grip contradicts every gentle thing he's ever said to you.

Your hands come up from his shoulders to frame his face. Your palms cup his jaw — feeling the tension there, the sharp clench of muscle, the heat radiating off his flushed skin — and you tilt his head down to meet you.

The kiss is different from the others. Slower. Deeper. You pour everything into it that words would ruin — gratitude and want and the terrifying, unnamed thing that's been building between you for fourteen days. His hips stutter at the contact, rhythm fracturing, and a sound escapes him into your mouth that's so vulnerable it makes your chest ache. His hand comes up to cover one of yours on his face, pressing your palm harder against his cheek, and his fingers are shaking.

He kisses you back like he's drowning and you're air. His tongue slides against yours in a counterpoint to his thrusts, which have slowed to match the kiss — deep, rolling movements that you feel in your entire body, each one punctuated by the press of his hips against yours and the quiet, wet sounds of your bodies meeting. The loveseat creaks beneath you in a lazy rhythm.

You feel the wetness on your thumb before you understand it. A tear. Tracing a line from the corner of his eye across the freckled bridge of his nose. Then another, catching against your palm where it cradles his jaw.

You break the kiss. His eyes are open. Bright. Swimming.

"Hey," you whisper. Your thumb brushes the tear away. "Hey. Stay with me."

"I'm here." His voice is wrecked — thick, cracking, barely held together. He turns his face into your palm and presses his lips against the center of it. The thrust that follows is slow and deep and shuddering, and his breath hitches against your hand. "I'm here. I just— you're— this isn't—"

He squeezes his eyes shut. Swallows hard. When he opens them again, the tears haven't stopped, but his gaze is steady and fierce and utterly certain.

"This isn't just sex for me," he says. Raw. Undecorated. "I need you to know that."

Your throat closes. You pull his face down and press your lips to his forehead — the damp, warm skin at his hairline where blonde strands cling with sweat — and hold there. His breath shudders against your collarbone. His hips slow to an aching grind, still buried deep, still connected, the physical and emotional so tangled together that you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

"It's not just sex for me either," you say against his skin.

The sound he makes is half sob, half laugh — a raw, broken thing that shakes through his chest and into yours. His arms wrap around you. Not bracing anymore — gathering. Pulling you off the cushion and against his chest until you're pressed together from hip to shoulder, your legs locked around his waist, his face buried in the curve of your neck. He holds you like something precious he's terrified of dropping.

Then he starts moving again.

The pace is different now. Still deep but more urgent, his hips driving into yours with a focused intensity that makes the loveseat rock against the wall. Each thrust punches a sharp, breathy sound from your lips, and his mouth finds your neck and leaves more marks — open-mouthed, sucking, claiming — one below your ear, another at the junction of your shoulder, a third on the curve of your throat where everyone will see it tomorrow. He doesn't care. Neither do you.

"Yongbok—" Your nails rake down his back, leaving red trails across freckled skin. His spine arches into the sting. "I'm close— I'm—"

"Me too." Gasped against your throat. His hand slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy, and the pressure he applies makes your vision swim. "Together. Come with me. Please—"

The please breaks you.

You come apart with a cry that you muffle against his shoulder, your teeth sinking into the muscle there, your whole body tightening around him — legs, arms, the slick heat of your walls clenching in rhythmic pulses that drag a shattered moan from his chest.

Wanna make your own choices and see what happens next? READ/PLAY HERE! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

🎮interactive fanfic "The "Rent-A-Boyfriend" Experience" by Bomi

© strrykais ⋅

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