rorie

“you’re doing it again,” he says, not even looking up from his phone.

“doing what?”

“staring at my arms like you want to sink your teeth in.”

you snort, nudge his shoulder with your bare foot. “maybe i do.”

he finally tips his head back, upside-down smile lazy and dangerous. “you’re so fucking obvious when you’re tipsy.”

“shut up.” you flick his forehead. “i’m appreciating art.”

he laughs low, sets his phone aside, and turns to face you properly. the movement makes the tank ride up, just enough to flash the sharp v of his hipbone disappearing into low-slung shorts. you swallow. hard.

“which one is your favorite tonight?” he asks, voice dipped in honey and teasing. he flexes his right arm slow, deliberate, letting the thin script curl around the muscle. 'don’t regret what you do'. the ink looks alive when he moves.

you push yourself up on your elbows, knees knocking together. “that one,” you say, pointing. “always that one.”

“yeah?” he lifts the arm higher, turns it so the light licks every letter. “tell me why.”

“because it’s hot,” you say, too honest, the soju burning away your filter. “and because it’s you. you really don’t regret anything. not even the stupid shit. not even—” you wave a hand between you, “this, probably.”

his eyes go half-lidded. something shifts in the air, heavy and electric.

“and the other one?” his voice is quieter now. "do you like it?"

your gaze drifts to the delicate line of sun, star, moon just under his collarbone. you’ve kissed that spot before. once. more than a year ago. cheap vodka. a dare you both pretended was funny afterward. you remember the way he’d gone perfectly still, breath caught, like the world had narrowed to your mouth on his skin.

“yeah, that one’s pretty,” you whisper. “makes me think of you when i can’t sleep. like you’re all three at once. bright and far and quiet.”

the teasing melts off his face. he looks at you like you just handed him something fragile and priceless.

“come here,” he says.

you slide off the couch without hesitation, knees hitting the carpet between his. you’re close enough now to taste the peach on his breath, to see the faint sheen of sweat at his temple. your hands find his shoulders like they’ve always belonged there.

“you’re really drunk,” he murmurs, but his thumbs are already slipping under the hem of your shirt, tracing the skin just above your waistband.

“tipsy,” you correct, leaning in until your forehead almost touches his. “big difference.”

“is there?”

you nod. “tipsy means i still know exactly what i want.”

his hands settle fully on your waist now, warm and sure. “and what do you want, baby?”

you don’t answer with words. you close the last inch and press your lips to the sun on his collarbone — soft, then open-mouthed when he exhales like you punched him. you drag your mouth to the star, then the moon, tasting salt and summer and him. his grip tightens, fingers digging in like he’s scared you’ll vanish.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you smile against his skin, teeth grazing the curve where neck meets shoulder. “good.”

that’s all it takes.

he surges up, hands sliding to your thighs to yank you into his lap. you go willingly, knees bracketing his hips, and the second you settle you both groan — he’s hard, thick against you, only two thin layers of cotton between you. you roll your hips once, slow, just to hear him curse.

“you’ve been thinking about this,” he says, voice wrecked. “please, tell me you have.”

“every time you wear one of those stupid tank tops,” you admit, tugging at the hem. “take it off?”

he yanks it over his head in one motion and then he’s bare-chested and the tattoos are right there. you can’t help it — you lean down and lick a long stripe up his bicep, right over the words you love. the muscle jumps under your tongue.

he shudders hard. “you don't know what you're doing to me.”

“don’t regret what you do,” you whisper against the ink, then bite down gently.

that breaks him completely.

he flips you so fast the room spins — your back hits the couch cushions, cushions that still smell like him, and then he’s on you, mouth crashing into yours. it’s not soft. it’s years of "almosts" and "maybes" and what if poured into teeth and tongue and desperate hands. you arch up, nails raking down his back, and he growls into your mouth.

“bedroom,” he mutters, but neither of you move. too far. instead he shoves your shirt up, mouth closing over your breast through the thin lace of your bra. you whine, high and needy, fingers twisting in his hair.

“hanbin—”

“i know, baby,” he says, voice shredded. “fuck, i know.”

clothes come off in frantic pieces — your shirt caught on your elbow, his shorts kicked somewhere towards the kitchen, your panties snagging on his wrist when he tugs too hard. you end up naked beneath him, legs spread wide, and he just stops. looks. eyes black.

“you’re so fucking pretty,” he says, like it hurts. then he drops between your thighs without another word.

his mouth is hot, wet, perfect. he licks into you like he’s starving, tongue curling just right, two fingers sliding in alongside and crooking immediately. you cry out, hips bucking, but he pins you down with one hand splayed over your stomach.

“stay still, baby,” he murmurs against your clit, and the vibration makes you sob.

you come the first time embarrassingly fast, thighs clamped around his head, his name cracked in half in your throat. he doesn’t stop — keeps licking softly through it until you’re twitching and begging. only then does he crawl back up, kissing you slow and filthy so you taste yourself on his tongue.

“condom,” you manage, reaching blindly toward the coffee table.

he laughs, breathless, nearly knocks over the wine bottle fumbling for his wallet. you watch him roll it on with shaking hands, and the sight of him — head tipped back, throat working, cock flushed and heavy — makes you throb all over again.

“look at you,” you whisper.

he glances down, smirks crooked. “like what you see?”

“shut up and fuck me.”

and that's what he does.

he pushes in slow, eyes locked on yours, watching every inch disappear. you’re tight, wet, still trembling from your orgasm, and he groans like it hurts. when he bottoms out you both stay still for a second, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air.

“move, please, binnie,” you beg, legs wrapping around his waist.

he moves.

hard. deep. the couch creaks beneath you, springs protesting. his hand braces beside your head so he can watch your face fall apart. you reach up, trembling fingers tracing the bicep tattoo again.

“say it,” he pants.

“don’t regret—” your voice cracks as he hits that spot inside you, “what you do—”

he snarls and fucks you harder, like the words are gasoline. the angle’s perfect, every thrust dragging over your g-spot until your eyes roll back. you come again clenching around him, sobbing his name into his shoulder, nails leaving half-moon marks on his back.

he follows seconds later, hips stuttering, burying himself deep and spilling with your name on his tongue. you feel him pulse inside you, moaning your name.

after, you stay tangled, sweaty and sticky and perfect. he’s half-hard still, and neither of you move to separate. his face is pressed into your neck, lips brushing your skin.

“so,” he says eventually, hoarse, “still just tipsy?”

you laugh, shaky and wrecked, and bite the moon on his collarbone just because you can.

“shut up, hanbin.”

he hums, content, and rolls his hips lazily. the drag makes you both gasp.

“round two in my bed?” he asks against your skin. “bigger surface area. more room to make you scream.”

you clench around him involuntarily and he groans.

“yes,” you breathe. “god, yes.”

he pulls out slow, ties off the condom, and then scoops you up like you weigh nothing. your legs wrap around his waist automatically, arms around his neck. he carries you down the hallway, mouth on yours the whole way, bumping into walls because neither of you can stop kissing.

his bedroom is darker, just the city glow through half-open blinds striping the bed in silver. he drops you onto the sheets and follows immediately, crawling over you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

this time is slower.

he kisses every inch of you — collarbone, breasts, the soft skin under them, down your stomach, the crease where thigh meets hip. he spends forever between your legs again, licking you open until you’re writhing and begging, until you come on his tongue a third time with his fingers buried inside you and his name a prayer.

when he finally slides back in — after putting another condom this time — he groans like he’s coming home.

“fuck, you feel even better in this angle,” he whispers, hips rolling slow and deep. “i’m never letting you leave this bed.”

you laugh breathlessly, arching up to meet him. “we’ll die of dehydration.”

“worth it.”

he fucks you like that for what feels like hours — slow, then fast, then slow again, drawing it out until you’re both trembling. you lose track of how many times you come. at some point he flips you over, pulls your hips up, and takes you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair, the other rubbing tight circles on your clit until you’re screaming into the pillow.

when he finally comes again, it’s with his chest pressed to your back, your name muffled against your shoulder, arms wrapped around you so tight you can barely breathe.

you collapse together, his weight a perfect blanket. he doesn’t pull out. just stays inside you, softening slowly, lips brushing lazy kisses over every tattoo you praised earlier.

“still no regrets?” you mumble into the pillow, voice shot.

he laughs, low and wrecked, and bites the shell of your ear.

“never,” he says. “told you the ink doesn’t lie.”

outside, the summer night keeps humming, warm and sticky and endless. inside, you fall asleep tangled with him, hearts racing in tandem, skin marked by his mouth and his hands and the quiet promise that tomorrow you’ll do it all again.

you don’t regret a thing.

© jongst4r, 2026

“you’re heavy,” he murmurs, warm at your temple.

“am not,” you mumble into his shoulder, but you shift and he laughs, the low sound rumbling under your palms.

his laugh fades when you tilt your face up and kiss him.

it starts soft because you’re soft—always careful, always checking—but the second his mouth parts, the second he sighs a little against your lip, something tilts. your fingers fist in his shirt. his hand spreads at your spine. the kiss deepens like a tide.

you break first, breath catching, and he doesn’t chase. he just looks at you the way he always has: patient, steady, like nothing you could do would startle him. it only makes your heart hammer harder.

“okay?” he asks, voice quiet. not a roadblock—just a hand held out.

you nod, then shake your head, then nod again. “i… i want—”

“use your words,” he says, and his thumb strokes along your jaw so lightly it makes your eyes sting. “tell me what you want, sweetheart.”

“you,” you whisper. it falls out of you easier than you thought it would, like truth does. “i want you.”

his eyes soften and sharpen at the same time. “yeah?”

“yeah.” you lick your lips, nerves fluttering. “i’ve just never… you know.”

“i know.” his smile is small and real. “and we go slow. you don’t have to impress me. you just have to be with me.”

you breathe out, a shaky little sound that makes his hand tighten at your waist. “okay.”

“can i kiss you again?” he asks.

“please.”

he does, a little deeper this time, a fraction hungrier, like he’s letting you feel what he holds back. when he pulls away, he doesn’t stray far; his mouth lingers at your cheekbone, your jaw, a soft path toward your neck. everywhere he goes, you follow—jaw tipping, chest lifting, breath stuttering when he finds the place below your ear that makes your toes curl.

“pretty,” he murmurs against your skin. “you make the prettiest sounds.”

“don’t,” you breathe, mortified.

“i don’t mean it to tease.” he presses a kiss to the apology he hears in your tone. “i mean it because it’s true.”

his hands map the edges he’s allowed: over your ribs, down your sides, across your thighs where your shorts have ridden up. when he squeezes the soft at the top of your leg, you jolt, a tiny gasp escaping before you can stop it. heat flashes up your neck.

“hey.” he stills, lets you feel the stillness. “breathe. we’re not in a rush.”

you nod, swallow, and deliberately sink your weight onto him. he makes a sound he didn’t mean to make, a muted groan right against your collarbone, and your stomach drops like you stepped off a ledge.

“sungchan?”

“mm?”

“you… you can touch me,” you say, the words nearly a whisper, like they’re shy to be heard. “if you want. i want you to.”

he sits up a fraction. you’re inches from each other. the lamp hums, the night presses close at the windows, and his eyes are the only thing you can focus on.

“i always want to,” he says. “but i only will if you want me to. is that now?”

you exhale, a shaky laugh tucked in the middle of it because he’s exactly who you thought he was. “that’s now.”

“okay.” he touches your cheek with his knuckles first, that gentlest of starts, and when you lean into it, his palm cups your jaw. “i’m going to ask you things. you don’t have to explain—just nod or say yes or no. and if you need me to stop, you say stop. not because we’re playing a game,” he adds, mouth tilting, “but because i’ll stop.”

“okay.” your voice steadies on the repetition. “okay.”

he kisses you once more. then his hand slides under the hem of your shirt.

your breath catches automatically. he pauses automatically.

“okay?” he murmurs, fingers warm at your waist.

“okay,” you say, and you mean it.

he lifts your shirt in inches, waiting. when it clears your ribs, you raise your arms and let him take it. the lamp paints you in honey; you’ve never felt so seen. he looks for a moment—not greedy, not clinical, just memorizing—and then he bends and kisses the center of your chest. you stutter on a breath.

“you’re beautiful,” he says into your skin. “you know that?”

“i’m trying to learn it,” you admit, and his laugh is soft against you.

“let me teach you, then.”

he does it with his mouth first, open and warm as it finds the swell of your breast. his hand cups you, thumb stroke-light, and when his lips close around your nipple you gasp so sharply he hums. the pull is gentle and sure, not asking for anything from you except the sound you’re already making. you grip his shoulders; he sucks again; your hips rock before you know they’re moving.

he lifts his head, breathing a little rougher. “that felt good?”

you nod, dazed. “feels like… like it’s too much and not enough.”

“that’s the part i help with,” he says, and there’s a smile in his voice that you can’t see. “may i touch you lower?”

you want to be braver than a nod. “yes.”

“over your shorts?” he asks. “or inside?”

your mouth opens and closes. you force yourself to look at him. “inside,” you say, steadier than you feel. “please.”

he squeezes your thigh like a reward. then he does something that startles a little laugh out of you: he reaches for his ring, slides it off, takes your hand by the wrist and, with such carefulness it makes your throat tight, eases the ring onto your thumb where it sits a little big and a little perfect.

“keep that on,” he says, kissing the knuckle below it. “so you don’t worry about me scratching you.”

“oh,” you say, stupidly, because there’s something so intimate about his ring on your hand you can’t find other words. “okay.”

“pretty,” he says again, and then his hand slips into your shorts.

you’re already wet. the contact makes a sound you’re not prepared for, slick and soft and obscene in the quiet room. you bury your face in his shoulder, mortified, but his arm tightens around you like he loves it.

“that’s mine,” he murmurs, and the possessive is so gentle you only feel safe. “all that. that’s for me.”

his fingers explore without hurry. one stroke, another, mapping the length of you, the dip, the plush at the top that makes your thighs jump. when he circles your clit the first time, he barely touches you; when you breathe out hard, he smiles against your temple.

“there you go. that’s the place, isn’t it?”

“yes,” you whisper, the word shaking. “oh—god, yes.”

“look at me,” he says softly. you do, even though your lashes are heavy and your cheeks are hot. his eyes are dark and warm and steady. “good girl,” he says, like he’s handing you a gift.

you keen a little. his thumb circles. his other fingers slide down, gather slick, return. he builds nothing and everything: a slow sweetness, a rhythm you catch without trying. you rock into his hand; he follows you; he murmurs little nothings that are really everything.

“that’s it,” he says. “you’re doing so well. you can hold me as tight as you want.”

“can i—” you swallow, dizzy. “can i feel your fingers?”

“inside?” he asks. “yes. breathe for me first.”

you do. he kisses your mouth while his middle finger slides in, impossibly careful, impossibly patient. the first stretch makes your brows knit; he feels the way you tense and stills immediately, thumb going light on your clit, mouth pressing into your cheek.

“you’re okay,” he says, and you must be because you are. “tell me when it starts to feel good. i can wait all night.”

“it— it’s starting,” you whisper, the words catching on a moan when he curls just a little.

“there,” he says, pleased. “there you are.”

he moves in shallow strokes, unhurried, never chasing. when you melt, he adds a second finger, and your shocked little sound has him groaning under his breath. you cling to his shoulders, ring cool against his skin, and he works you open with a reverence that makes your chest ache. you don’t know when the edge finds you—somewhere between his thumb circling you and his mouth at your jaw and the slow, sure slide of his fingers—but when it arrives, it blots out the room.

“sungchan,” you whisper, high, desperate, “i think— i think i’m—”

“you are,” he says, voice so soft you don’t realize you’re crying until he kisses a tear. “let go for me, sweetheart.”

you do. it’s messy and quiet and everything. your body breaks, and he holds you together, murmuring “that’s it, that’s it, good girl, so good, i’ve got you” as you tremble through it. when your breathing stutters back into rhythm, he eases his fingers out and cups you with his palm, grounding, gentle. your sweat slicks your temple where it rests under his mouth.

“was that okay?” he asks, after a while.

“better than okay,” you say, voice small and awed. “that was… i didn’t know it could be like that.”

“it can be like anything with us,” he says simply. “do you want to stop here tonight?”

you do not. the want is so stark you flinch from it. “i— i want more,” you admit, like you’re confessing to a crime. “i want you inside.”

his breath goes ragged. his hand tightens at your hip. then he nods like he’s steadying himself. “okay. then we’ll do that.”

you expect the world to spin; it doesn’t. he keeps it careful. he shifts you off his lap only long enough to fetch the little box from the drawer, the one that’s been there and unopened for months because he never pushes. you feel shy when he tears the foil, shy when he rolls the condom on, shy when you glance down and realize just how big he is—how much of him there is to learn.

he sees the way your eyes widen and reaches for your hand. the ring glints on your thumb. he threads his fingers through yours.

“you tell me to stop at any point,” he says. “i mean that.”

you nod, dazed and certain all at once. “okay.”

he lies back, draws you over him, keeps one hand on your hip, the other cradling your nape so you can hide if you need to. he fits himself at your entrance and waits. you breathe. you nod. he presses in.

the world narrows. your breath catches. your body resists, then yields. he goes slow enough that you could count the seconds between shallow pushes, slow enough that you feel everything and somehow don’t drown. pain bites at the edges, but the warmth in his voice catches it and turns it into something else.

“good,” he says. “breathe, baby. that’s it. you’re taking me so well.”

“you’re too—” you gasp, then bite your lip hard enough to sting. “i mean— i can feel… all of you.”

“i know.” his laugh is strangled. “i can feel all of you too.”

when he’s fully sheathed, he stops. it’s not for him; it’s for you. he stares at your face like it’s the only piece of the universe he needs to read, and when your muscles stop fluttering and your brows ease and your lips part on a sigh that sounds more like pleasure than pain, he closes his eyes for one long breath.

“okay?”

you blink, slow. “okay. more than okay.”

“if i move—”

“please,” you say, and he does.

not much, not a brutal rhythm, just the kind of slow slide that shows your body what it can do. you feel impossibly full and impossibly safe. you feel owned and worshiped at the same time. he watches you like the sky opened in his living room. he keeps your hands pinned gently to either side of your head so you can hold on without hiding your face, and every time you make a noise he murmurs something back.

“that’s my girl.”

“look at me.”

“you’re perfect.”

“you’re doing so well.”

“i’ve got you.”

you believe him. your hips are clumsy at first, then more sure as you learn the tempo he sets. when he angles his pelvis and hits a deep place you didn’t know you had, you cry out so loud you yelp and clamp your mouth shut. his smile breaks across his face like summer.

“don’t hide them,” he says, breath catching as you squeeze around him. “give me everything.”

you do. the sounds you make are ugly and beautiful. you think you say his name and a thank you at the same time. when you begin to fall apart the second time, it’s not because of the rhythm or the angle or the heat—it’s because he kisses your mouth, slow and sure, right as the wave crests, and you realize you’ve never felt safer during anything.

“let go for me,” he says again, voice frayed. “please.”

you do. you shatter like softened glass, your body clenching around him so tightly he groans, the sound punched out of him. he stutters, swears, buries his face at your jaw. you feel him follow you, hips jerking once, twice, a harsh breath breaking into a moan as he comes. he keeps kissing you through it, heady and helpless.

silence after is a cocoon. the lamp hums. the world exists somewhere else.

he doesn’t leave you. he strokes your hair back, thumbs beneath your eyes to swipe at dampness you didn’t feel fall. you breathe into his mouth. he breathes into yours. eventually, he eases out, ties off the condom, disappears long enough to toss it, and returns with a warm cloth and a glass of water you didn’t realize he’d put on the side table.

“mean,” you whisper, blinking at the ceiling while he cleans you with such care your throat tightens again. “you prepared.”

“i hoped.” he presses a kiss to your knee like it’s a thank you. “never assumed.”

you tip the water to your mouth, and his hand is there under the glass like he can’t not take care of you. when you set it down, he catches your left hand and slides his ring off your thumb, turns it once, then—after a beat—slides it right back on.

“keep it for tonight,” he says. “until you fall asleep. just so you remember you did something brave and you did it with me.”

your eyes burn. you pull him down and kiss him, softer than any kiss so far. when he rolls onto his side, you go, easy as a tide, and fit yourself to him like you’ve been practicing all your life.

“did i do okay?” you ask, ridiculously small.

he makes a sound like a laugh and a groan. “you wrecked me, sweetheart.”

heat floods your cheeks. he catches it and kisses it, then tucks your head under his chin, palm stroking your back in those same steady lines from earlier, as if nothing’s changed and everything has.

“i’ll be sore,” you say, mostly to fill the space because the quiet is so big.

“i’ll draw your bath in the morning,” he answers without thinking, like of course he will. “and make you that tea you pretend you don’t like.”

you nudge his ribs. “you’re a bully.”

“i’m yours,” he says, and the words settle like a blanket over a chair—obvious, right where they belong.

you drift first, hand heavy on his chest, ring a cool circle against his skin. before sleep takes you all the way, you feel his mouth at your hairline, the whisper there so soft you might have dreamed it:

“mine.”

and you are—finally, fully, sweetly—his.

tysm for reading! want to read more? @ masterlist