aamirazx

[aamirazx]

Wow

FALLING INTO RUIN l.hs

೨౿ ⠀  ׅ ⠀   ̇ 22k ⸝⸝ . ‌ ׅ ⸺ word count.

pairings 𝜗𝜚 bad boy .ᐟ heeseung ៹ ex ballerina .ᐟ reader ᧁ ; smut ˒ angst ˒ bad boy .ᐟ good girl

warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ heavy angst lots of deep mentions of death graphic depictions of death centering around the reader and heeseung meeting at a grief group smut car accidents fights drug & alcohol use cheating (not heeseung) reader is a flawed character socialites past and present shifting timelines - this is dark, please read at your own discretion will have a happy ending.

synopsis ୨୧ your world ended the day your best friend died. In the hushed corner of a grief group you never wanted to attend, you find him — the boy with the defiant gaze and a hard exterior. with cracked pointe shoes and a heart still pirouetting in the past, you feel your family’s disapproval tightening around you like an old corset. He is everything you’ve been taught to avoid: trouble, danger, thrill. But in the quiet ache of loss, you discover something soft in him, something that mirrors your own hollow, and you never want to let go.

.ᐟ rain's mic is on ⋆ ͘ . this one is heavy y'all so please read the warnings before reading, I have experienced a loss like this and let me tell you it is not easy. but honestly I think this will be therapeutic to write...I hope you enjoy.

You sit in a circle of battered folding chairs, each one occupied by a stranger cloaked in their own quiet ache. The walls are an unremarkable shade of beige, the ceiling tiles sagging as if even they are tired of holding up this room’s endless, aching confessions. A fluorescent light flickers overhead, buzzing like a fly caught between windowpanes. It hums in your ears, mingling with the low murmur of voices; voices that float around you like a fog you can’t seem to break through. They’re sharing their stories, each word rolling into the next, and yet none of them find purchase in your mind. You hear phrases —“I lost her six months ago,” “he was my brother, my twin soul,” “I don’t know who I am without them.” The syllables tangle together, a blurred melody of heartbreak and hollow confessions that should resonate, but don’t. Instead, your thoughts roam restlessly, slipping past the edges of this circle like water seeking an escape. 

This is stupid. That’s all you can think. This room, these strangers, this forced performance of vulnerability. You don’t need to be here, you don’t want to be. It was your mother’s idea, or maybe your father’s, or maybe the friend who found you crying in the kitchen and didn’t know how else to help. “You’re not okay,” they’d said, their eyes soft, their voice careful, as though your grief were a fragile thing that might shatter at the slightest touch. “You should talk to someone.” But you don’t want to talk. Not to these people, not to anyone. You’re still angry — so angry you can taste it, bitter and bright on your tongue. Angry that she’s gone, that the world keeps turning anyway, that people you love can slip away as easily as breath. Angry that you’re here, forced to sit in this room and pick at the edges of a wound that still bleeds no matter how tightly you try to hold it shut. 

 Your hands twist together in your lap, fingers knotted tight as you stare down at the scuffed linoleum floor. You watch the shadows shift across the tiles, the way the cheap plastic chairs creak as people shift and sigh. You wonder what they see when they look at you; if they can sense how hollow you feel inside, how every breath feels stolen from the silence you can’t seem to fill. A voice cuts through your reverie, sharper than the rest. The instructor; her name is June, but she introduced herself so quickly you barely caught it, leans forward, her kind eyes settling on you. “Would you like to share today?” she asks, her voice gentle but insistent. Her question drifts across the circle, landing in your lap like a stone.  

You hesitate. You want to say no. You want to slip back into the fog of your own thoughts, let the stories of these strangers wash over you without having to offer anything in return. But June’s gaze doesn’t waver, and there’s a quiet determination in her eyes that tells you she won’t let you slip away so easily. “I—” you start, your voice a dry whisper in your throat. The word feels foreign, as though it doesn’t belong to you. You swallow, trying to find something, anything to give her, even if it’s just a shard of the truth. But before you can force out another word, the door to the room swings open with a soft groan of hinges. The quiet murmur of voices stills, the air shifting like a held breath. You look up, startled by the sudden interruption. 

He stands there in the doorway, framed by the flickering fluorescent light. A boy; no, a young man, but with a reckless, hungry energy that feels too big for this small, sorrowful room. He’s tall and lean, dressed in a black hoodie that hangs loose around his shoulders and jeans torn at the knees. His hair is dark, falling across his forehead in careless waves, and there’s a glint in his eyes that doesn’t belong in a place like this; mischief, or defiance, or maybe both. He walks in like he owns the space, his steps unhurried, each one deliberate and almost lazy. There’s a kind of swagger to him that seems out of place here, where everyone else is weighed down by loss and uncertainty. He moves like he doesn’t care who’s watching, like the world could fall away around him and he wouldn’t miss a beat. 

Your breath catches in your throat as he turns his gaze on the room. His eyes sweep over the group, pausing on you for just a moment; a flicker of something electric in the space between you, something that hums along your skin like static. He smiles then, a small, knowing curve of his lips that makes your stomach tighten. June recovers first, her voice steady as she addresses him. “Heeseung,” she says, her tone calm, as though she’s known him for years. “Glad you could join us. Please, have a seat.” 

Heeseung. The name settles in your mind, a word with edges that feel sharp and dangerous. He doesn’t say anything, just inclines his head in a mockery of respect before sauntering over to an empty chair across the circle from you. He sits with the kind of ease that seems to come naturally to him, sprawling back like he’s at home in this room of strangers and sadness. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. You don’t know why you’re staring, why you can’t seem to look away. He’s trouble; anyone could see that. He carries it in the curve of his grin, the careless way he lounges in his chair like he’s got nothing to prove and everything to lose. Your family would take one look at him and see every mistake you’ve ever been too careful to make. 

But there’s something about him that pulls at you anyway; something that feels like a challenge, or a promise, or maybe just a spark in a life gone too quiet. June’s voice breaks through your thoughts again, gentle but firm. “You were about to share,” she reminds you softly, her eyes encouraging. The others in the circle watch you with polite curiosity, their own pain momentarily forgotten as they wait for your words. You’re too caught up in the magnetic pull of the boy who just walked in, the way he lounges in his chair like it’s a throne and he’s the king of this quiet kingdom of broken hearts. His presence crackles in the air, a live wire of confidence and mischief that feels out of place here; like a thunderstorm that’s wandered into a library. 

Your eyes meet his again, and for a moment, the whole room seems to vanish. The flickering lights, the shifting shadows, the low drone of sorrowful voices, they all dissolve into a hush that’s just the two of you, suspended in a glance that feels like a secret whispered against your skin. Heeseung holds your gaze with an ease that makes your breath stutter in your chest. His smirk is slow and deliberate, a curve of his lips that’s both a challenge and an invitation, and it sends a rush of heat to your cheeks, blooming like a flush of summer in the cold hush of winter. You can feel the rest of the group watching; feel their curiosity flicker and sharpen as they notice the way you’re staring, as if this boy has turned you inside out with nothing more than a look. Embarrassment burns in your veins, a bright, fierce blush that you can’t quite hide. You tear your eyes away, the weight of their collective gaze pressing in on you like a vice, but it’s too late. Heeseung’s smirk deepens, dark eyes glinting with amusement that slices right through you. 

You cough, the sound small and fragile in the hush of the circle. Your hands twist together in your lap, fingers fumbling with the edge of your sleeve as you try to gather the tatters of your composure. “I—I have nothing to say,” you stammer, your voice barely more than a whisper. The words feel like an apology, but you’re not sure who you’re apologizing to, June, the others, or maybe just yourself. June sighs softly, a gentle exhalation that speaks of disappointment and understanding all at once. She doesn’t push further, her eyes lingering on you for a heartbeat longer before she shifts her focus to the next trembling soul in the circle. The moment slips away, swallowed by the rhythm of the meeting, but the echo of it still hums in your bones, a melody you can’t quite silence. 

You risk one last glance across the room, drawn back to Heeseung like a moth to flame. He’s still watching you, his head tilted just slightly, as if he’s trying to see right through the careful mask you wear. His gaze is steady, unflinching, and there’s a kind of quiet challenge in it, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next, or if you’ll let yourself fall into the gravity of whatever this is between you. You know he’s trouble. The kind of trouble that’s all sharp edges and reckless laughter, the kind that would make your parents’ hearts seize with worry. But you also know that there’s something about him that feels like possibility, like the flicker of dawn on the edge of a long night, a spark of something wild and bright in the darkness of your grief. 

You look away quickly, your pulse a ragged drumbeat in your throat. You tell yourself you’re here to heal, to stitch your heart back together with soft words and shared sorrow. But as Heeseung leans back in his chair, that smirk still playing at the edges of his lips, you can’t help but wonder if healing is really what you’re searching for. 

Before 

You’re back in the old studio, the one with mirrored walls that seem to stretch on forever and floors that smell of rosin and sweat and quiet determination. The soft strains of a piano echo through the room, each note a gentle command that your body obeys without thought. You’re in the middle of your rehearsals, your limbs aching in that sweet way that comes only from hours of repetition, from the careful sculpting of muscle and will. Your best friend Nari is there, her laughter ringing like wind chimes as she prattles on beside you. She’s tying the ribbons of her pointe shoes, nimble fingers weaving them into place as she talks a mile a minute about some party on Saturday. Her voice is a melody of excitement and mischief, rising above the music like a warm breeze. But you’re only half-listening, your mind caught on the precise line of your arabesque, the subtle shift of your weight that can make or break the beauty of a single pose. 

The showcase on Friday night looms in your thoughts, its promise and threat shimmering like a mirage just out of reach. It’s everything; the culmination of years spent spinning your soul into motion, of dawns and dusks blurred by practice and sweat. If you can dance this one performance perfectly, if you can become the music itself, there’s a chance you might be seen — truly seen — by those who can open the doors you’ve been dreaming of since you were a little girl with stars in your eyes and blisters on your feet. Nari’s words ripple through the haze of your focus, a bright ribbon of sound you can’t quite catch. “Are you even listening to me?” she huffs, nudging your shoulder with a grin that’s all playfulness and exasperation. You blink, startled out of your reverie, and offer her a sheepish smile. “Sorry, Nari,” you murmur, breathless from both the dance and the sudden warmth in your cheeks. “Can you say that again?” 

She rolls her eyes, but her smile never wavers, eyes alight with mischief and affection. “Beomgyu’s having a party on Saturday,” she says again, slower this time, like she’s repeating the steps of a new routine just for you. “He wants me to come, and he said I should bring you too. You know, his roommates are going to be there, and they’re… fun.” She raises an eyebrow in a way that makes you laugh despite yourself, the sound of it soft and surprising in the hush of the studio. You pause, your breath steadying, and you brush a stray lock of hair from your face. “I’ll think about it,” you reply, your voice careful even as your heart tugs in two directions, between the shimmering future of the showcase and the siren call of a night that promises a different kind of abandon. 

Nari grins, satisfied. “You’ll come,” she says with the certainty of someone who’s already decided for you. “I’ll see you there.” She winks, and for a moment, the air feels brighter; like the soft glow of stage lights just before the curtain rises, or the hush of the audience as they lean forward in anticipation. You just smile, the knot in your stomach unraveling one by one. 

Present day 

The clink of cutlery on china fills the hush of your family’s dining room, each sound a brittle punctuation in a conversation that has long since dried up. You’re pushing your food around your plate, letting the fork drag through the creamy potatoes in swirling patterns that feel like they should mean something. The roast sits in thick slices, glistening with juices that have already gone cold. It tastes like nothing in your mouth, like dust and memory. Your parents are seated across from you, the soft glow of the chandelier casting their faces in warm light that doesn’t reach their eyes. Your father’s brow is furrowed, the way it always is when he’s trying to figure out how to reach you without knocking you further away. Your mother’s lips are pressed into a line that might have once been a smile, but now it’s just another careful crack in the façade she wears for dinner. 

They ask you about your first day at grief group, their voices careful and measured like they’re afraid of stepping on shards of glass. You shrug, your shoulders stiff and aching with the weight of words you’re not sure how to shape. “It’s stupid,” you mutter, each syllable slipping out like a sigh. “I don’t need it.” Your mother sighs, and the sound feels like a door closing softly in the night. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t push, and for a moment you’re grateful for it, grateful for the quiet that settles like a blanket over the table, even if it’s heavy with all the things you’re not saying. She clears her throat, the small sound snapping through the silence. “There’s a banquet this weekend,” she says, her voice careful as she changes the subject. “I think it would be good for you to come. To get out of the house, to socialize a little.” 

Something in you flares at that, a hot spark of anger that surprises even you. Socialize. Like it’s something you deserve, like it’s something you’re entitled to just because you’re still here and breathing. Your fork stills, the silver tines scraping against the porcelain as you lift your gaze to meet hers. “Why should I?” you ask, your voice quiet but sharp. “Why do I get to socialize when Nari doesn’t?” Her name hangs in the air like a ghost, and your mother’s eyes falter, her gaze dropping to the untouched green beans on her plate. The silence stretches, taut and trembling, and you can feel the shape of the words you’re holding back, a raw scream echoing in the hollow of your chest. 

“Nari’s parents,” you continue, your tone as flat and bitter as the cold dinner in front of you. “Will they be there? Beomgyu? Should I smile and pretend it’s all okay while they’re looking at me, knowing I’m the reason she’s not here?” Your mother doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. The way her shoulders slump, the way she can’t meet your eyes; it’s enough. It’s everything. You push your chair back from the table, the legs scraping against the wood floor with a grating shriek that echoes in the quiet. Your hands are shaking, but you keep them fisted at your sides as you stand, your breath coming hard and ragged. 

“I don’t deserve to socialize,” you say, your voice hollow and aching. “I don’t deserve to sit there and smile and pretend I’m okay when I killed their daughter.” The words fall into the silence like stones, and for a moment, no one breathes. Your father opens his mouth, but there’s nothing he can say, no soft reassurance or gentle lie that can wash the blood from your hands, even if it’s only there in the quiet chambers of your guilt. You turn away before you can see their faces; before you can see the pity or the pain or the fear in their eyes. Your footsteps are quick and sharp as you leave the table behind, your pulse a drumbeat in your ears. You don’t know where you’re going, only that you can’t sit there under the weight of it all, can’t stand to be in the same room with the echo of your own confession. 

In the hush of the hallway, you pause, your hand pressed to the cool wood of the doorframe. Your breath is shaking, each inhale a jagged cut. You close your eyes, and for a moment, you can almost feel the soft press of Nari’s hand in yours, the bright laugh that used to pull you back from the edge of yourself. But that’s gone now, a memory that tastes of salt and regret. You open your eyes and step away from the door, the shadows of the hallway swallowing you whole. Empty. 

Heeseung moved like a storm in a bottle, all coiled energy and restless, reckless hunger. The girl underneath him was a blur, a placeholder for a connection he didn’t care to remember the shape of. Her moans were a hollow echo in his ears, a soundtrack he barely noticed as he chased his own release. He didn’t know her name — he didn’t care to know. All she was to him was a means to an end. A small glimpse of euphoria in his already fucked up life.

“Oh god.” Her voice was pitched just right, her body taunt with pleasure as her nails deliciously traced the expanse of his back up and down. It sent shivers down his spine, his head falling forward to rest on her shoulder. His orgasm approached fast and unyielding; blinding him completely for only just a second. When it was over, he didn’t bother with softness or sentiment; he just rolled away, breath ragged, the sweat cooling on his skin in the stale air of his too-small room. 

It was then that the pounding came, a hard, insistent thump on the door that rattled the handle and broke through the post-coital haze. Heeseung swore under his breath, his brow furrowing in annoyance as he pushed himself upright. The girl beside him made a soft, questioning noise, but he didn’t answer. Sunghoon’s voice called through the door, muffled but clear: “Hey man… I don’t mean to bother you, but your dad is at the door asking for you.” A string of curses slipped from Heeseung’s lips, low and biting as he turned to the girl. She was sitting up, her hair tangled and her eyes wide with confusion. Heeseung didn’t bother with apologies, he just grabbed her shirt from the floor and tossed it at her, his jaw tight. “Get lost,” he muttered, his voice like gravel. 

She scowled but didn’t argue, her movements quick and sharp as she tugged the shirt over her head and gathered the rest of her clothes. Heeseung didn’t watch her leave — he was already halfway to his dresser, yanking on a pair of jeans and grabbing a wrinkled shirt from the floor. His movements were hasty, all careless urgency as he buttoned the shirt with fingers that didn’t quite stop shaking. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was still tucking the shirt into his waistband, his hair damp with sweat and falling into his eyes. His father stood in the doorway, the harsh afternoon light casting deep lines across his face and turning his eyes into cold shards of glass. The girl slipped past Heeseung in a hurry, not even sparing a glance at the older man as she ducked out the door. 

His father watched her go, his mouth twisting into a frown that spoke volumes without a single word. “Is she your girlfriend?” he asked, his tone as sharp and clipped as the cut of his tailored suit. 

Heeseung let out a short, humorless laugh, his shoulders rolling back in lazy defiance. “Nah,” he said with a smirk. “Random girl.” His father’s face darkened, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he shook his head in silent disappointment. Heeseung could feel the weight of that look like a hand around his throat, but he didn’t let it show, didn’t let it break through the practiced mask of indifference he wore like armor. “I’m only here because your mother wants you to come to a banquet this Saturday,” his father said, his voice cold and final. “No questions, Heeseung. You’ll be there.” 

Heeseung’s lips twisted, his laughter gone as quickly as it had come. “No way in hell,” he snapped. “I’m not going to sit with a bunch of prissy rich kids and play pretend. Find someone else.” His father’s eyes narrowed, and the room seemed to go still around them, the air heavy with all the things they’d never said out loud. “If you don’t go,” his father said quietly, his words cutting deeper than any shout could, “I’ll yank your inheritance money right out from under you. I’m done watching you piss away everything your brother worked for.” 

The mention of Han hit Heeseung like a blow to the gut, the name a ghost in the space between them. His father didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, just kept his eyes fixed on Heeseung like he was daring him to break. “Usually we’d be asking Han,” he said, his voice low and venomous. “But obviously, because of you, we can’t do that.” The words rang out, sharp and final, the old wound split open once more. Heeseung’s hands clenched at his sides, his breath a ragged snarl as he took a single step forward. “I’ll be there,” he spat, his voice low and dangerous. And then he slammed the door in his father’s face, the sound of it echoing through the quiet of the house like a gunshot. 

He stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, the anger coiling in his gut like a living thing. The silence in the house felt heavy, the memory of his brother’s name still clinging to the air like a curse. Heeseung closed his eyes, let the weight of it settle over him for a heartbeat and then he turned away, his jaw set and his mind already miles from the echo of his father’s voice. 

Before

The memory snuck in like smoke — thin, curling at the edges of Heeseung’s mind as he lay back on his bed, the anger from the encounter with his father still simmering in his chest. It arrived uninvited, as most memories of Han did, but he never had the heart to push it away.  It was a Thursday evening. Late spring, the windows open to a warm breeze that stirred the curtains and carried the faint sounds of traffic from the road outside. Heeseung had just come home from his job; something menial and forgettable at a music store, the kind of gig he kept for pocket money and for the simple pleasure of thumbing through vinyls all day. His shoulders ached, his hair smelled faintly of dust and old plastic, and there was a smear of something, maybe ink on the hem of his sleeve. He strolled through the front door like he owned the place, calling out lazily, “Han! You alive?” 

The house was quiet except for the subtle shuffle of papers in the den. Heeseung followed the sound, and sure enough, Han was there, tucked behind their father’s massive old desk, sleeves rolled up, brows drawn in that signature furrow that meant he was neck-deep in whatever the hell their dad had dumped on him this time. His tie hung loose around his neck like a forgotten noose, and the desk lamp cast a tired yellow light over his papers and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. Heeseung leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching his brother like a man studying a machine. “What are you doing?” he asked, not unkindly, but with a tone that leaned slightly into mockery. Han didn’t look up right away. 

“Contracts,” Han replied eventually, flipping a page with fingers that were stained slightly with ink. “Dad wants me to review the Q2 proposals before the meeting next week. He’s testing me, I think.” Heeseung scoffed and stepped into the room, hands shoved into his pockets. “You know you’re twenty-six, right? You’re allowed to act your age. Get drunk. Flirt with someone. Sleep until noon. Come on, man, you’re wasting your golden years.” 

Han chuckled under his breath, a soft, familiar sound. He leaned back in his chair finally and looked up, eyes slightly bloodshot, but sharp. “My golden years?” he repeated with an amused snort. “You sound like a commercial. Look; I get it. But I can’t afford to screw this up. If I’m going to take over the company someday, I need to prove I’m ready. Dad won’t hand me anything just because I’m his son.”  Heeseung made a face, as if the very idea bored him to tears. “Yeah, yeah. Legacy, pressure, expectations, whatever.” He waved a hand dismissively. “You sound just like him, you know? Minus the part where he breathes fire every time I walk in a room.” 

There was a beat of silence between them, a moment that stretched like taut string. Then Han smiled again, this time with a hint of warmth. “You’re not so bad, Hee. You just… don’t want the same things I do.” 

“Damn right,” Heeseung said, grinning. “And that’s why I’m inviting you to this party saturday. You need to blow off steam. Come on, it’ll be fun. Booze, music, girls who don’t talk about market projections. Maybe you’ll get laid, huh?” Han threw his head back and laughed, a full-bodied sound that filled the room and warmed something deep in Heeseung’s chest. “God,” Han said, shaking his head, “you’re such an idiot.”

“An idiot who knows how to have a good time,” Heeseung countered. 

Han leaned forward again, reaching for his pen, already turning back to his mountain of responsibility. “Maybe next time. I’ve got to finish this before morning.” Heeseung sighed dramatically, shoulders slumping. “Suit yourself, nerd.” He turned on his heel and headed for the hallway. “One day you’re gonna regret choosing paperwork over parties.” Han didn’t answer that, and Heeseung didn’t expect him to. 

Present day 

The kitchen is quiet, too quiet for a house that used to hold the hum of music and the scent of spices and your mother’s laughter like a cradle. Now, it’s just you, curled on a barstool with your knees drawn up and your fingers clenched around a lukewarm mug of tea you forgot to drink. The steam’s long gone, and the honey at the bottom has settled into something thick and bitter. You stare into it like it might offer answers, like it might bring her back. The fridge hums. A fly taps against the windowpane. Somewhere upstairs, your father’s voice filters down faintly as he takes a business call, every word sharp and clipped, like life never paused for him. Like the world didn’t lose her. But yours did.

Nari’s absence is a bruise that never yellows, never fades. It’s sharp even now, especially now. She would’ve hated this silence. She’d be here, chattering about nothing, raiding the pantry for snacks and nagging you to put down your damn phone and just be present. And maybe that’s why your thoughts won’t stay still, because they’re clawing for a world where she still exists, a version of today where she might burst through the back door in her worn-out slippers and call you “ballerina girl” with that lopsided grin of hers. You press your palms flat against the countertop. It’s cold beneath your skin, grounding. You try to focus on the pattern of the granite, the little swirls and veins, but your thoughts still pulse like static. You feel raw. Like someone scraped out your insides and filled you with salt. Then — Buzz.

The sound shatters the silence. Your heart jerks like it remembers how to beat.

You glance at your phone, already half-hoping it’s no one important. Spam, maybe. A group text you forgot to leave. Anything but —

Beomgyu.Can we please talk?

Four words. But they land like a punch. Your chest constricts so tight, it’s like your ribs are shrinking around your lungs. You feel your breath stutter. Your fingers twitch. The guilt is immediate, overwhelming, a tidal wave you don’t even try to brace against. You slam the phone down onto the table without thinking, the crack of it hitting the wood startling in the still air. You don’t check to see if the screen’s cracked. You don’t care. Maybe you want it to be. Maybe if it shatters, it’ll mirror something inside you that already has. You bite your lip hard enough to taste iron. Your eyes sting. You haven’t spoken to Beomgyu since the funeral. He hadn’t looked at you, not once. You’d sat three rows back, your nails digging into your palms, your throat like paper. He’d held Nari’s mother’s hand and stared at the coffin with a hollowed-out look that made you nauseous. You’d wanted to crawl out of your skin. You should’ve. 

You think of how close they were; how easily they fit together. You’d seen it from the start. Even when Nari denied it, even when she’d said it was “just fun,” you’d known he was her heart. You’d seen the way she softened around him, the way she came alive when he laughed at her jokes. And now? Now he was just another ghost in your phone. Your gaze drifts to the corner of the kitchen where she used to sit, cross-legged on the counter, eating cereal straight from the box and swinging her legs like a child. You can almost see her there, smirking, eyebrow raised like you’re being dramatic again. 

You whisper her name, just once, and it falls out of your mouth like broken glass. You don’t answer the text. You can’t. Instead, you let your forehead fall forward until it rests against the coolness of your arms. The silence returns, thick and absolute. And still, your phone waits. Quiet. Unanswered. Just like her.

The room is stuffy today; warmer than usual, like the air forgot how to move. You sit in the same chair you did last time, in the same semicircle of grief-soaked strangers and their tea-stained paper cups, their fidgeting hands, their voices weighed with sorrow and memory. You don’t bother pretending to listen anymore. Your eyes are fixed on a speck on the wall behind the group leader’s head, June, The voices in the room bleed together like watercolor in the rain, a blur of confessions and pain you can’t bear to carry. They all sound the same now. “My mother was my best friend…” “It’s been three years but I still smell her perfume…” “He was just twenty-two…”

You know you should care. You want to care. But your grief is greedy and cruel, and it’s made your heart a locked box. There’s no room left inside for anyone else’s sadness. You hear his voice before you see him; low, a little rough, carved out of something not entirely soft. Heeseung. You turn your head, eyes flicking to him like gravity pulled them there. He’s slouched in his chair, legs sprawled, fingers twitching restlessly in his lap. The swagger he wore like armor the last time is gone today. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t wink. He looks different, heavier. Like something happened between the last session and now, something that hollowed him out and filled him with fire.

June is addressing him now. She’s calm, as always, her voice like a therapist’s lullaby. “Heeseung,” she says gently, “would you like to share something today?” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer. “Heeseung?” she prompts again, a little firmer.

He lifts his head slowly, his dark eyes hooded, unreadable. His jaw is clenched. His voice, when it comes, is low and sharp as a blade.

“I have nothing to say.”

There’s an edge there that silences the whispers around the room. Even June falters, just for a second, before she forges ahead. “Sometimes saying something helps. Even a sentence. Even a word.” Heeseung lets out a humorless laugh, short and bitter. He drags a hand through his hair and stares at the floor like it betrayed him. Then he looks up; at her, at the room, and then, briefly, at you. You look away too quickly, pretending not to care. 

“I belong in jail,” he says flatly. A sharp silence follows, sucking all the air out of the room. Someone coughs. Someone else shifts in their seat. Heeseung doesn’t blink. “I killed my brother,” he says, his tone brutal and matter-of-fact, like he’s just telling them the weather. “I don’t belong in a grief group. I belong in a cell.” 

Your breath catches. The words strike you like a slap. You sit a little straighter, unable to look away. June sighs, quiet and practiced. “Your brother died in a car accident, Heeseung. That’s not your fault.” He’s on his feet before she can finish, the chair scraping violently against the tile as he kicks it back. The crash of it slams through the room like thunder. You flinch before you can stop yourself, your heart kicking wildly in your chest. Heeseung’s jaw is tight now, his face pale beneath his sharp cheekbones. 

“Yeah,” he spits, voice rising. “He died picking me up. That’s why he was in that car. Because I was too drunk to drive myself. Because he was always the one who cleaned up my messes.” His voice cracks at the edges; just slightly, but enough to make you feel like something inside you is cracking with it. “I killed him.” 

He stands there for a moment, breathing hard, eyes burning like twin eclipses. No one dares speak. The silence wraps around him like a noose, taut and thick. And suddenly, he looks so young. So lost. Like he’s still standing on the side of that road, glass in his skin and his brother’s blood in the air. You’re stunned; not just by what he said, but by the way it pierces through you. Because for the first time, you see him — not as some reckless, charming bad boy you were warned about, but as someone broken in the same places you are. Someone who walks with a ghost too. 

You’d thought you were different. You, the quiet ex-ballerina with your good-girl past and your polished life. Him, the disaster with smoke on his jacket and grief in his bones. But maybe you aren’t so different after all. Heeseung doesn’t wait for permission. He grabs his coat and storms out, the door rattling in his wake. The room doesn’t breathe until he’s gone. 

You can’t stop staring at the door. You wonder if he’s crying on the other side. Or if he’s just like you, too angry to mourn properly. Too haunted to move forward.

You sit there in the silence, the words echoing in your head. I killed him. You know what that feels like. And somehow, it makes you feel less alone. 

You wake with a gasp, like you’ve surfaced from drowning. The sheets are tangled around your legs, soaked in sweat, your skin clammy despite the cool air slipping through the crack in your window. Your lungs heave, but the air feels too thin, like it’s not enough. Like nothing is enough anymore. The nightmare clings to you, half-formed and shadowy at the edges, but the heart of it remains vivid, cruelly clear. Nari’s hand; slipping out of yours. Her eyes, red with fury. The way her voice trembled not with sadness, but with disappointment, with anger. 

The way she walked away.

How you let her.

How she never came back.

You sit up, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes like you could rub it all away. The images. The guilt. The truth. The silence of the house is suffocating, so you shove off the covers and pad downstairs on bare feet, trying not to wince as the cold tiles bite into your soles. You want water; something cold, something real. Something to distract you from the storm in your chest. The kitchen lights are off, but the refrigerator hums faintly in the dark. You’re halfway to the cabinet when you hear it: the soft, broken sound of someone crying. You freeze.

At first you think you imagined it. But then it comes again — a quiet, trembled sob. Your eyes adjust slowly to the dimness, and there she is. Your mother, sitting at the kitchen island, her shoulders curled in on themselves like the weight of the world finally became too heavy to hold. One hand grips a crumpled tissue; the other is pressed over her mouth to keep the sound contained, like grief should be polite. You hesitate in the doorway, your instincts at war. Once, not so long ago, you’d have gone straight to her without question. But that was before. That was before everything fractured.

You were a different person then. Back when your world made sense. Back when you could still recognize yourself in the mirror. When you danced like your life depended on it, when your report cards came home like trophies, when your smiles were real. You’d never smoked, never drank, never snuck out. You’d dated the kinds of boys who brought flowers for your mother and shook your father’s hand. You were the girl everyone trusted, the girl who never let anyone down. But now? 

Now you move through the world like it’s made of glass. Angry at everything. Detached. Numb. The mirror doesn’t recognize you, and neither do your parents. Especially your mother. You know it. You’ve felt it every time she looks at you like she’s searching for someone who disappeared. Still, something in you softens. You walk forward, slowly, and without a word, wrap your arms around her from behind. She flinches, surprised; your presence, your touch. You used to be so affectionate, but now? Now you rarely even speak at the dinner table. After a moment, she melts into you, her head leaning back against your shoulder. Her sobs taper into shaky breaths. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you murmur into her hair. “I just… I couldn’t sleep.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Her fingers find your wrist, holding gently. Finally, she says, her voice hoarse, “I miss you.”

You close your eyes. “I’m right here,” you whisper, even though the words feel like a lie. She pulls away just enough to look at you, and in the glow of the fridge light, you see her eyes are puffy and red. She studies your face for a long, aching moment, then says, “No. Not really.” It hits harder than you expect. But she’s right. You haven’t been you in a long time.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice cracking. “I don’t know who I am anymore.” Your mother nods, slowly, like she’s known that for a while but didn’t know how to say it aloud. She reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear the way she used to when you were little. “I know you’re hurting,” she says. “We all are. But I don’t want to lose my daughter.” 

The silence swells again, thick with everything neither of you know how to say. The memory of Nari hangs heavy between you — so present, so piercing. After a long pause, your mother clears her throat. “The banquet this weekend,” she says, as gently as she can manage. “I was hoping you’d come. Just to get out of the house. Be around people again.” You want to say no again. It’s your first instinct. No to the dresses, to the small talk, to the pretending. No to the judgmental stares and whispered sympathies. No to the pressure of having to act normal when everything in you is still on fire. 

But then you look at her. At the hope trembling behind her exhaustion. And for once, you don’t have the energy to argue. Or maybe, deep down, you want to try. Not for you; but for her. For who you used to be. “Okay,” you say quietly.

She blinks, surprised. “Really?”

You nod. “I’ll go.” Your mother smiles, small and sad, but genuine. And you wonder when the last time she smiled at you like that was. You get your water, finally, and sip it in the dark beside her, not saying much. But for the first time in a while, the silence feels a little less heavy. And upstairs, your nightmares wait. But at least now, you’re not the only one wide awake in the dark.

The night of the banquet arrives like a storm you’ve tried your best to ignore; thunder rumbling low in your chest, your limbs heavy with dread. You stand alone in your bedroom, the soft click of your heels echoing in the quiet, a fragile sound in the space that once held laughter. The mirror before you shows a girl you almost recognize. The dress clings in all the right places, something tasteful your mother picked. Your hair is pulled back with delicate precision, a touch of makeup to hide the exhaustion under your eyes. But there’s a hollowness beneath the polish, a dullness in your gaze that powder can’t disguise.

You stare at yourself and remember a different version of this same moment. You and Nari, side by side in front of this mirror, perfume in the air and bobby pins scattered like confetti across your desk. You remember how she'd curl your hair for you, then laugh when she burned her own ear. How she'd spin you around, tilt your chin up, and say “Look at you! total heartbreaker.”

And then she'd wink, adding, “Too bad you're a prude.” You press your hand to your stomach as if that could keep it from twisting. The ache there is sharp tonight. This isn’t right. She should be here. Not as a memory; but in the flesh, wearing that crimson dress she swore made her look “dangerously hot,” even though she always ended up changing it last minute. You’d have teased her for trying on three outfits, she’d have stolen your lipstick, and the two of you would’ve danced to some stupid pop song before leaving late and in a rush.

But tonight it’s just you. Just you and the ghost of her smile echoing in the silence. Your throat tightens. You don’t cry. You haven’t cried in days, not since the last nightmare; but the burn is there behind your eyes. That cruel, unshed weight. You let out a long, steadying breath, palms smoothing the sides of your dress. It’s too tight across the chest. Or maybe that’s just your heart.

Then, with lead in your limbs, you move. Open your bedroom door. Step into the hallway. One foot in front of the other, like choreography. Like a dance. Down the stairs, your parents are waiting. Your mother looks up and smiles, that practiced, brittle kind of smile she’s worn too often. Your father offers a quiet nod, adjusting the cuff of his shirt, saying nothing but scanning you like he’s not sure what version of you he’ll be dealing with tonight.

You don’t speak, just grab your coat and purse. And as the front door shuts behind you, you don’t look back at the mirror. You don’t want to see what’s missing in the reflection. 

The car ride to the banquet was silent. No music. No idle conversation. Just the occasional turn signal and the sound of tires humming against pavement. You sat in the backseat, your hands clenched in your lap like a child trying to behave, your fingers twisting the fabric of your dress with a quiet desperation. Your mother, riding in the front with your father, was too busy reapplying her lipstick in the mirror to notice how stiff you were, how you hadn’t blinked in a minute. You watched the city pass by in blurs of warm gold and shadow. Each lighted window another life you weren’t living. When you arrive, it’s all so… much. The venue is a grand old hotel downtown, the kind of place people book months in advance, with chandeliers like frozen galaxies suspended above a sea of tailored suits and glittering dresses. A string quartet plays in the corner, the music slow and graceful, and the air smells of wine, floral arrangements, and money. You step inside, and it hits you like a punch to the chest. The whispers come fast.

Your chest tightens as if the air itself resents you being here. You swallow hard, your throat raw, and try to breathe around the phantom hands curling around your lungs. It’s not working. You shift your weight, your heels suddenly too high, too loud against the marble floors. Every breath feels borrowed, like you’ll have to give it back if you stay too long. But your mother doesn’t notice. Of course she doesn’t.

She’s swept into a conversation almost immediately, pulled in by polished friends with tight smiles and hands adorned in diamonds. You can see the way she lifts her chin, her lips curving perfectly, as though this night is a role she was born to play. She’s glowing beneath the chandeliers, nodding graciously, clutching a champagne flute like it’s the holy grail. 

You’re a silent shadow beside her, just a flicker in the corner of their eyes. You hope it stays that way. You scan the room, dread rising like water in your throat.  No sign of Nari’s parents. No glimpse of Beomgyu. You pray, silently, fiercely, that they don’t come. That they stay wherever they are. That you won’t have to meet their eyes and see the grief you gave them staring back. But fate has never been merciful to you. You barely have time to brace before another group approaches. Family friends. Old ones. People who used to pinch your cheeks at holidays and ask how your pirouettes were coming along. You recognize them instantly. The couple with the fox-faced smiles. The man in the navy suit and the woman with silver hair too stiff to move. 

“Darling,” the woman says, voice dripping with pretend concern, “we’ve been thinking about you.”

You smile, tight, robotic. “Thank you.” 

“And how have you been?” she continues, tilting her head like she expects something profound.

You don’t offer anything. Just one word: “Fine.”

A silence settles over the group, awkward and dense, before the man fills it with a polite cough.

“And ballet?” he asks, though it’s not really a question. More of a test. “Are you still keeping up with it?” You stare at him for a moment, then at the swirling wine in your untouched glass. 

“No,” you say simply. “I don’t dance anymore.” 

The woman blinks. “But you were so talented. Surely you’ll pick it up again once things settle?”

You force a smile. “Being a ballerina wasn’t in the cards for me. Not anymore.” The way you say it; final, flat, seems to unnerve them. They don’t push further. Just exchange a glance, murmur something about catching up later, and turn back to your parents. You’re left alone again, more alone than you were when you walked in. A knot forms in your stomach. It sits heavy, immovable, like stone. You sip your wine, but the taste is bitter, acidic. It doesn’t help. 

Across the room, someone laughs too loudly. A toast is made. Another waltz begins. And still, all you can think about is Nari. About how she would’ve hated this place. About how her laugh would’ve cracked through the crystal calm like lightning. About how she would’ve made a joke about someone’s ridiculous earrings just loud enough for you to choke on your drink. She would’ve made it bearable. You set your glass down on a table and press your fingertips to your temples, as if that could stop the spinning. You want to leave. You need to.

But before you can step away, before you can disappear into the safety of some forgotten hallway, your gaze lands on a figure across the ballroom. Heeseung. He’s leaning against the far wall, half in the shadows, dressed in black like the storm he always brings. His tie is loose, his hair slightly tousled, and he looks like he doesn’t belong here either. His eyes, dark and sharp, scan the room until they land on you. 

And just like that, the air shifts again.

Not like before—no, not suffocating this time. Different. This is tension. Electricity. A current you can feel down to your bones. He doesn’t smile. He just stares, unreadable. And you stare back, too stunned to look away. For a moment, it’s as if the crowd fades. The whispers fall away. The chandelier light softens. There’s just you, and him, and everything you haven’t said to each other yet suspended in the space between. 

Before

The studio was nearly silent save for the soft shushing of your slippers against the marley floor, the gentle hum of the overhead lights, and the faint throb of your heartbeat in your ears. Outside, the sky had already turned a deep violet, streaked with orange at the edges where the sun had made its quiet descent. But inside, it was still you and your reflection, looping the same phrase of choreography over and over until your legs screamed and your lungs ached. Friday was the big day. The showcase that could change everything. The one that scouts were coming to, the one your instructors called a turning point. You needed to be perfect. There was no room for anything less. So you stayed long after the others had gone home, repeating your variations in dimmed silence, chasing something close to flawlessness.

You paused, chest heaving, sweat glistening along your collarbones. You stepped to the side and grabbed your water bottle, letting the cool liquid ease the burn in your throat. Just as you lowered it, the front door creaked open. You flinched. No one else was supposed to be here. And then, casually framed in the doorway with one hand in the pocket of his jeans and the other running through his shaggy dark hair, stood Beomgyu. Your heart jumped — not just from surprise. 

He was in jeans and a soft flannel jacket, the collar folded haphazardly. His hair looked like he'd been in the wind, or maybe he'd just run his fingers through it too many times. He blinked when he saw you, a little stunned himself, then grinned. “Didn’t expect to see you here this late. Thought everyone cleared out by now." 

You raised an eyebrow, tugging your towel over your neck. “I could say the same to you.” Beomgyu stepped in, letting the door creak shut behind him. The warm light cast soft shadows on his face, making his features look even gentler. “I came to pick up Nari’s pointe shoes. She said she forgot them in her locker.”

You nodded, gesturing to the changing room. “They’re probably still there. I can grab them for you.” 

“Nah,” he said quickly, taking a few more steps inside. “I know where her stuff is. It’s cool. Didn’t mean to interrupt you.” 

You gave him a small shrug. “Was just running through the piece again. Nerves.” Beomgyu lingered near the edge of the room, watching your reflection in the mirror. His gaze wasn’t invasive, just curious. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Big show Friday, right?”

“Mhm.” You leaned against the barre, stretching your arms over it. “It’s the one that decides my whole future, apparently.” 

“No pressure or anything,” he said with a lopsided smile. You laughed, a real one. It slipped out without your permission, caught you off guard. Beomgyu seemed surprised too, like he hadn’t expected to be funny. “I get it though,” he added after a moment. “We have our first show this weekend. It’s nothing big, just a coffee shop gig. But I’ve been running lyrics in my head all day and still feel like I’m gonna forget everything.”

You tilted your head. “You’re in a band?”

“Yeah. We suck,” he said, grinning. “But we have fun.”

You leaned one shoulder against the mirror and crossed your arms, amused. “What do you play?”

“Guitar. I write most of the songs too. Kind of emo, kind of indie. We're in a genre crisis.” You chuckled. “That sounds about right.” The conversation stretched on easily after that. What started as a brief chat turned into something warmer, something slower. Beomgyu stayed, leaning against the mirror beside you, the two of you trading stories about rehearsals and routines, stage fright, and the strange way people expected so much from you just because you were good at something. He spoke with his hands, animated and expressive, his laughter full-bodied and contagious.

You hadn’t laughed that much in weeks. Eventually, the clock on the wall struck ten. Beomgyu checked his phone, then glanced at you. “Want a ride home?” You hesitated. You were tired, your legs aching. And the walk back felt far longer than it ever used to.

“Sure,” you said. You gathered your bag and hoodie, flicked off the lights, and walked with him into the cool night. The sky had gone pitch black by then, stars hidden behind gauzy clouds. The parking lot was mostly empty, quiet but for the hum of streetlamps and the occasional car passing by in the distance. His car was older, navy blue with a cracked windshield and band stickers on the bumper. He opened the passenger door for you like it was second nature. You climbed in, the scent of spearmint gum and cheap cologne lingering faintly inside.

The drive was short. You lived only a few blocks away. But the silence that settled in the car wasn’t uncomfortable. He parked in front of your house, engine idling, the headlights casting long shadows across the street. You turned to him, already reaching for your bag. “Thanks for the ride,” you said softly. 

He was looking at you. The way his eyes lingered was different now. Slower. Focused. Under the streetlight, his features looked almost unreal. The softness of his mouth. The mess of hair falling into his eyes. The calm in his expression that made your chest tighten. “No problem,” he murmured. 

You lingered.

So did he.

There wasn’t a single logical thought in your head when you both leaned in. It was instinct. A gravity neither of you had expected, too strong to ignore. The next you know your leaning over all the while he is too. The kiss was soft at first, tentative; but it didn’t stay that way. Your hand found his jaw, his fingers tangled in the hem of your sleeve. It was impulsive, reckless, and stupid in the way only something that feels too good too fast can be. His lips moved against yours like he’d been waiting for it, like he couldn’t believe it was happening either. Your heart pounded. You could feel it in your throat, in your fingertips. 

The kiss deepened. Your limbs felt light, dizzy with adrenaline and guilt, a dangerous cocktail that made you bolder. You shifted, climbing into his lap as though something inside you had been aching to feel this wanted, this close. 

But then; it hit you.

Like ice water over the head.

Nari.

This was Nari’s boyfriend.

Your best friend.

Oh god.

You jerked back like you’d been burned, scrambling out of his lap, your breath caught in your throat. “Oh no,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Oh no, no, no.” Tears welled up fast, hot and full of shame. Your lips still tingled from the kiss, but the pit in your stomach was already growing. This wasn’t just a mistake; it was a betrayal. Beomgyu looked stunned, his eyes wide, mouth parting like he wanted to say something. 

“I—” he started.

But it was too late. You shoved open the door, stumbling out of the car into the cold night, tears trailing down your cheeks. You didn’t look back. Couldn’t. The porch light blurred in your vision as you fumbled with your keys, your hands shaking. The kiss echoed in your bones like an accusation, like thunder in a silent room.

You slipped inside, heart splintering. And upstairs, alone in the dark, you cried until your chest ached; because you had just made the worst mistake of your life. 

Present day 

The air outside was colder than you expected, bracing against the heat still clinging to your cheeks from the banquet. You leaned back on the stone ledge, your palms flat against it, grounding you as your heart slowly tried to even itself out. Too many eyes. Too many voices. You could still hear them; those low, pitying murmurs, the way people glanced sideways and then looked away like the sight of you hurt too much to bear. Or worse, like it was something juicy they weren’t supposed to talk about but would the second you turned away. 

You hated it. All of it. The way the room had swallowed you whole, a ghost of who you used to be.

A failed ballerina.

The girl who lost her best friend.

The girl who killed her. 

The air helped. A little. The night had a stillness to it, only disturbed by the occasional hum of a car in the distance or the soft click of someone else’s shoes along the sidewalk. You closed your eyes, tilted your head up to the stars that were barely visible through the city’s haze. That’s when a voice broke the fragile quiet. “Hey.” Your heart lurched, and your eyes snapped open. You turned, already bracing yourself, and there he was. Beomgyu. You cursed under your breath, low and bitter.

He looked like he hadn’t changed clothes since the last time you saw him, his tie slightly loosened, his shirt untucked like he hadn’t bothered fixing himself up fully. He looked… tired. More worn than usual. But you didn’t care. He was the last person you wanted to see. The last person you needed. “Did you get my message?” he asked quietly. 

You turned your gaze back toward the dark, refusing to look at him. “Yes.”

He hesitated, then took a few steps closer. “Why didn’t you respond?”

That made your blood boil. How dare he act like nothing happened. Like you haven’t betrayed your best friend and now she's dead. Like your word didn’t end the moment the two of you decided hurt her so badly it drove her to her death. You can’t even look at him without feeling an overwhelming shade of shame. 

You turned sharply, your voice cold. “Are you stupid?”

Beomgyu blinked. “What?”

“You really came out here asking why I didn’t respond? You really thought I’d want to talk to you?” His brow furrowed, eyes filled with a hurt he had no right to feel. “We can’t not talk about this.” 

“Yes we can.” You pushed off the ledge, straightening your back, ready to walk away. “I have nothing to say—” He reached for you. His fingers closed around your wrist. And you yanked your hand back like his touch had burned you. And in a way it did. It felt like a zap to your soul. 

“Don’t touch me.” Your voice was sharp, your body trembling.

He looked wounded, frustrated. “Please, Ju—”

“She said let go.”

Another voice cut through the air, low and cold like the crack of a whip. You froze. Beomgyu did too. Your head turned slowly, disbelieving, and there stood Heeseung. Beomgyu looked at Heeseung, eyes narrowing. “Get lost,” he muttered. “This doesn’t involve you.”

Heeseung didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. He took a single step forward, slow and deliberate, his eyes steady. “It does now.”

Beomgyu scoffed, incredulous. “You don’t even know her.” But Heeseung didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, before you could fully register what was happening, you felt his hand curl gently around your wrist; careful, unlike Beomgyu, and then you were being pulled forward, tucked against him, his arm coming around your waist like it belonged there.  

“Don’t touch my girlfriend,” Heeseung said, cool and quiet, the lie sliding from his mouth like he’d rehearsed it a hundred times. Your breath hitched. What? You stiffened against him, frozen. Your eyes flicked up to his face, searching for a sign that he was joking; but he wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was locked on Beomgyu, steady, unflinching, sharp as cut glass. It wasn’t a threat. It was a dismissal. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know him. You had barely spoken to Heeseung, and yet here he was, holding you like you were something worth shielding. 

And Beomgyu — he just laughed. A single, humorless sound that cracked open something bitter inside you. “Really?” he said, his eyes sliding between the two of you, his smirk twisting. “This loser?” He turned to you then, gaze challenging, voice low. “You can do better.” 

You felt the blood rush to your ears. Your spine straightened, anger fizzing to life under your skin. All the things you wanted to say for months clawed at your throat. You stepped slightly forward, still half wrapped in Heeseung’s arm. “Really?” you said, voice trembling with heat. “Like with you?” Beomgyu stilled.

For a second, just a second, you saw something flicker in his expression; something uncertain and maybe even ashamed. But then it hardened again, sealed over by the same easy indifference he wore like a mask. He gave a low chuckle. “Whatever.” He turned to leave, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his voice floating behind him like smoke. “I’ll catch you some other time. And we will talk.”

You didn’t say anything. You watched his back as he walked away, each footstep carrying the weight of too many things unsaid. The night closed around him until he was just another shadow swallowed by the dark. And then it was quiet. Heeseung’s arm still hovered around you, tentative now, uncertain. You stepped away slowly, enough to put a little distance between you, enough to breathe. 

You stayed in silence for a few minutes, the kind that lingered not awkwardly, but gently; like fog curling around a streetlamp. The chill in the air touched your skin, but the tension in your body had started to ease, little by little. Then you turned to him, brushing your hair back from your face. “Thanks,” you murmured, your voice low, but sincere. 

Heeseung shrugged, his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket. “It’s whatever.” And maybe it was. Maybe to him, stepping in like that didn’t mean anything at all. But to you, it meant more than he could know. There was a pause, and then Heeseung tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in the direction Beomgyu had walked off. “What the hell’s his problem anyway?”

The question caught you off guard. You froze for a beat, lips parting. Then you shut your mouth again and gave him the most practiced shrug you had. “No idea.” Heeseung looked at you; really looked at you and you could tell he didn’t buy it. You could see it in the subtle lift of his brow, in the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t convinced. But he didn’t press.

He just nodded once, slowly, as if to say: okay, I’ll let it go. You didn’t thank him for that out loud, you didn’t need to. The silence consumed you for a few more minutes until finally Heeseung speaks, his words surprising you for the second time tonight. 

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks, his voice low, edged with something reckless, something soft.

You blink. “What?”

“This place sucks,” he mutters, glancing back toward the golden-lit banquet hall like it’s a prison, not a celebration. “We don’t belong here.” You open your mouth, about to say something responsible; about your mother, the expectations, the whispers that would follow, but instead, you hear yourself say: “Yeah. Let’s go.”

You don’t know what possesses you. Maybe it’s the tightness still winding in your chest. Maybe it’s the look on Beomgyu’s face as he walked away. Or maybe it’s something else entirely, the gravity of Heeseung’s presence, the pull of someone who seems just as lost as you. The two of you slip away from the banquet like ghosts through a wall, unseen, unnoticed. The air outside is cool and silver. You trail behind Heeseung toward his car, your heels clicking softly on the pavement, each step peeling away the image of the girl you were expected to be. 

You slide into the passenger seat of his dark sedan, a little stunned, a little breathless. He doesn’t say anything. Just starts the engine and pulls away from the curb like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The ride is quiet. Your hands fidget in your lap, your phone buzzes once — probably your mother, and you silence it without even looking. The streetlights blur past like slow-dancing stars, and you feel something rising in you that you don’t yet have the name for. Guilt, maybe. Relief. Fear. Hope. All of them, maybe. 

You glance sideways. Heeseung’s face is unreadable, cast in the faint glow of the dashboard. His hand grips the wheel loosely, like he’s driving nowhere in particular. Like wherever he’s going, he just wants to go there with someone. Eventually, he pulls into a dark parking lot. Some vacant strip mall long closed for the night. A single broken streetlamp flickers near the far end, humming like it’s trying to stay alive. Heeseung parks, cuts the engine, and the silence rushes in like a wave. Neither of you speak.

You sit there, breathing it in, the quiet, the dark, the feeling of being no one, nowhere. You hadn’t realized how much you needed it. Then, after a while, he shifts slightly. Reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls something out.

A small, ziplock baggie.

Weed.

He doesn’t look at you. Just holds it in his palm like a casual offering, then tilts his head. “You cool?” You stare at it. You remember a time — clean ballet shoes lined up like soldiers, your life scheduled to the minute, your mother bragging about you at dinner parties. You remember being the good girl. The golden girl. But that girl is gone.

You turn your gaze to the windshield. The night stares back. “Yeah,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m cool.” And in a strange, twisted way, you think you mean it. 

He watches you for a beat, his expression unreadable in the dark. The silence hums between you, heavy with something unspoken. Then, almost gently, Heeseung asks, “Have you ever smoked before?” You hesitate, then shake your head no. Never. You never had the chance, too many rehearsals, too many performances, too much pressure to be perfect. But you’d be lying if you said the idea never crossed your mind. If you said you weren’t curious. If you said a small part of you hadn’t longed for the kind of freedom where you could just… let go. 

He raises an eyebrow, not in judgment but in quiet surprise. “Huh,” he says simply, like he’s filing the fact away. Then, he holds the baggie up again between two fingers, his gaze flickering to yours. “You wanna?” 

Your heart kicks, once. Sharp and startled. But what startles you more is your answer. “Yes.” You don’t even let yourself think. You just say it. And it hangs there, bold and fragile in the air between you. Because you mean it. If it will help you forget, if it will quiet the scream you’ve been holding in your chest since the day the world cracked and Nari was gone, if it will make the ache a little duller, the past a little blurrier, then yes. You’d do it. Heeseung gives a slight nod, not smug, not surprised. Just understanding. Like he knows exactly what it’s like to want to float outside your body for a while. 

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s make it a soft one.” He moves with practiced ease, fishing out a crumpled rolling paper and pinching the weed between his fingers. You watch, fascinated, the movements almost meditative. There’s something comforting in the way his hands work, steady, sure, deliberate. 

The flame from Heeseung’s lighter flickered to life, casting a golden glow across his face before it kissed the tip of the joint. He inhaled slowly, his cheeks hollowing slightly, and the ember at the end burned a hot, bright orange in the dimness of the car. You watched him with something close to awe, or maybe curiosity, or yearning, or all three twisted into one. He looked so at ease, leaning back against the driver's seat, elbow perched casually on the window frame, his gaze fixed ahead like the night outside held all the answers he didn’t want to say aloud. He turned to you after a moment, his expression unreadable as he held out the joint. 

You wanted it to help you forget — just for a moment; the aching cavern in your chest where Nari used to be, the guilt gnawing at your insides like acid, the unrelenting pressure of being whoever the hell everyone thought you were supposed to be. Heeseung passed it to you. You stared at the joint for a beat too long, unsure how to hold it, how to breathe it in, like it was an alien thing and you were fumbling through foreign rituals. He noticed. Of course he did. A lazy smirk crept onto his lips, his tongue darting out to wet them slightly. 

“Here,” he said. “Don’t baby it. Just put it to your lips and inhale. Deep. But not too deep, or you’ll cough your soul out.” You rolled your eyes at his amusement, but you did as instructed. You placed it between your lips and drew in a breath, tentative, hesitant, but determined. The smoke filled your mouth and then your lungs and then; You sputtered. Violently.

Coughing ripped through you like a storm, your body jerking forward as tears sprang to your eyes. Heeseung cracked up, his laughter echoing in the small space between you. “Holy shit,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye. “I should’ve recorded that. You sounded like you were summoning demons.”

You glared at him, cheeks burning, but then you laughed too. Really laughed. A broken, breathless sound that felt like relief. Like freedom. You passed the joint back and forth after that, the air inside the car growing warmer, thicker with smoke and laughter and something else unspoken. You slouched lower in your seat, legs folded beneath you, and Heeseung mirrored your posture, his thigh brushing against yours now and then. The world outside faded. The banquet. Your mother. The whispers. The ache. None of it mattered. 

You talked about everything and nothing. Dumb things. Childhood stories. Songs you hated. The worst school lunches you ever had. Heeseung told you he once got detention for throwing mashed potatoes at a substitute teacher. You confessed you used to fake headaches to get out of gym. You both laughed until your faces hurt, the high sinking its claws into your skin like a warm blanket wrapping around your bones. But somehow …..the conversation shifted. 

Heeseung fell quiet. His smile slipped. The light in his eyes dimmed, like a shadow passed across his heart. “My brother used to love this song,” he murmured, nodding toward the faint music trickling out of his car speakers, some old indie ballad, moody and atmospheric. “He’d play it every night before bed. Drove me crazy.” You watched him closely, the haze not dulling your senses but sharpening them in ways that scared you. 

“Is he… the reason you’re in the grief group?” you asked, soft, unsure. Heeseung didn’t answer right away. Then, finally: “I’m the reason I’m in that grief group.” His voice cracked, just a little, like something too heavy to carry was trying to escape his throat. He didn’t look at you, just stared ahead, into the dark. 

And you understood. God, you understood more than you ever wished to. “I know the feeling,” you whispered. That made him look at you. Really look at you. And in that glance, smeared by smoke and shadows and sorrow, you both saw something reflected. A mirror image of broken pieces. A matching ache. Something shifted.

He leaned forward, just slightly, and you met him halfway. The kiss happened so fast you didn’t even think. It was clumsy, desperate, tasting like smoke and everything you’d never said aloud. His hand cupped your cheek, fingers grazing your jaw, pulling you closer like you were the only anchor he had. Your hands found the fabric of his shirt, tugging, gripping, needing to feel something — anything that wasn’t grief. It deepened in seconds. Lips parting, tongues meeting. Heated. Messy. 

Heeseung moved with a hunger that mirrored your own, his hands roaming across your back, your waist, your thighs like he needed to memorize every inch. You felt his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your dress, your breath catching as his palm flattened against your bare skin. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t want to. This, whatever this was, felt like the first thing in months that made sense. That made you feel alive instead of just surviving. Your body reacted before your brain could catch up. The car was hot now, windows fogging, clothes tangling. His mouth left trails down your neck, and your fingers curled in his hair, pulling him closer.

You didn’t think of Nari. You didn’t think of anything but this moment, and the way Heeseung’s lips felt on your skin, the way his body pressed against yours like he needed you to breathe. It was exhilarating, your body alight like a flame catching fire. You didn’t know how to explain the feeling that seeped through your bones and laid a nest in your marrow. 

His hand continued its climb on your thigh inching upward for what felt like a mile a minute. You broke away to catch your breath, your forehead resting on his. “I want you.” Heeseung said, his words low in his throat it almost felt buried, like he was trying to conceal himself but his body wouldn't let him. 

“Ok.” You nod because that's the only word you could say that would be coherent. 

“But not all the way. I want to take my time with you.” His breath shot shivers down your spine, his fingers caressing the skin of your knee. His lips find purchase on the skin of your neck sucking the skin slightly. A gasp falls from your lips, quick and breathy. You were not a virgin, that was the truth but you had never been as needy as you were now. In Lee Heeseung’s car of all people. He was trouble, that much was clear. You had just gotten high with the guy for crying out loud. 

You didn’t care. Not anymore, at least. You were tired of caring. So, you let him continue his kisses down your neck, slow and careful, a strong opposition to your rapidly beating heart. A timeless boom let out into the quiet or your entire body and your entire soul. You welcomed it and it came crashing like a tidal wave. 

His hand inched up, and under your dress. His hands caressing your clothed core with his finger. Your breath shook a small mewl leaving your lips. Heeseung smirked against your skin, a slow languid smirk that told you he was enjoying this just as much as you were. His thumb ran across your panties slowly like he was testing the waters. Watching your reactions, keening at your pleasure. Lee Heeseung knew what he was doing, that much was clear. 

“I’m going to touch you now, Okay?” His voice was questioning but not uncertain. Like he knew you wanted this but just had to make sure. It was more appreciated than you could even say. 

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. His finger pulled your panties aside, his eyes never leaving your face, not even for a second. This was a movie and you were the star of the show, the leading lady. You deserved a fucking standing ovation after this one, only it wasn’t an act. This was real; very much so. You moaned breathily watching Heeseung with careful eyes. He was beautiful there was no doubt about it. His finger traced your clit, moving in slow circles over the nub. Your body felt electrified. 

You reacted with a gasp, your hand reaching to grip Heeseung’s arm “Hee–” You whimpered as he slid a single finger into your entrance, eyes still locked on your face intently. “Feels good.” 

“Yeah?” He asked with a smirk. “How good?” 

“So good.” You withered under his gaze, your hips lifting to meet his fingers. It was euphoric. A mind numbing feeling you’d been searching for. It didn’t take long for you to tip over the edge. Your orgasm hitting you like a truck. Your moans ringing through the car and filling the space. Heeseung’s gaze turned dark, drinking you in. 

“Beautiful.” He muttered “So fucking beautiful.” Then it was over. And not a single part of you regretted it. You had felt alive, ablaze with feeling. You needed this. 

“What time is it?” You asked, after a stretch of silence. You watched as the foggy windows cleared your mind becoming less hazy as you came down from not only the high of your orgasm but the high of the weed. 

“Just passed one. Need a lift home?” You nod tiredly, barely gaining the strength to lift your head. And before you know it, he was starting the car and taking off. Your perfect night ending as you knew it. 

Before. 

The house was already thick with tension, the air humid with summer heat and something more suffocating; disappointment, maybe, or something sharper, something older. Heeseung stood in the middle of the living room, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. The walls around him had once felt like home, but now they felt too close, like they were folding in on him. “You can’t just keep coasting like this,” his father barked, pacing across the living room with his arms crossed, brow furrowed like a permanent fixture. “You’re twenty-three, Heeseung. What are you even doing with your life?” 

Heeseung leaned against the back of the couch, arms folded, expression unreadable except for the faint twitch in his jaw. “I’m figuring it out.” 

“Figuring it out?” his father repeated with a humorless laugh. “You’ve been saying that for two years. Meanwhile, Han’s already lined up for internships, he’s tutoring on weekends, and he’s still pulling top grades. He actually wants something for himself.” And there it was. Han. The golden son. The measuring stick. Heeseung pushed off the couch, tension suddenly uncoiling in his limbs like a spring snapped loose. “Good for him,” he said bitterly. “Why don’t you make him a damn trophy?” 

“Don’t talk about your brother like that,” his father snapped. 

“I’m not talking about him,” Heeseung shot back. “I’m talking about you. You never look at me without seeing what I’m not.” 

His father’s face hardened. “You have all the same opportunities. You just don’t take anything seriously.” 

“Because I don’t want to spend my life miserable just to meet your standards.” 

“God, listen to yourself,” his father muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “You think life’s about doing whatever the hell you want? You think you’re entitled to waste your time and your potential?” 

“I’m young,” Heeseung barked. “Isn’t that what being young is for? I have the rest of my life to hate my job and sit in traffic and drink burnt office coffee. Why the hell would I start now?” 

“You always have an excuse,” his father said. “Always. You’re lazy, Heeseung. And selfish. I’m just glad Han didn’t turn out like you.” The words sliced through the air like a blade. Heeseung went still. His chest rose and fell, his breath shallow. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The only sound was the hum of the fridge in the next room. Then Heeseung laughed; quiet and humorless.

He grabbed his keys from the counter. “You know what?” he said, voice brittle at the edges. “Thanks, Dad. Really. That was the push I needed.”

“Where are you going?” His father yelled after him. 

“Out,” he snapped, walking toward the front door. “To do something useless. Just to spite you.” 

He didn’t wait for a reply. The door slammed shut behind him, the sound sharp as a gunshot. Outside, the sun was still bright, but it felt cold in his chest. A hollowness had opened up inside him, and he didn’t know how to fill it, except to forget. So he texted the group chat, asking what parties were happening tonight. And as he walked down the street, hands in his pockets and jaw still clenched, Heeseung thought only one thing: Han can keep being perfect. I don’t want that life anyway. But part of him knew; even then, that something had cracked open. And that no party in the world would be enough to glue it back together.

Present day 

The car ride home was quiet, the kind of quiet that sinks into your skin and makes a home there. After the haze and heat of that night with Heeseung, the soft high that blanketed your brain, the weight of his body pressed into yours like something grounding, you hadn’t thought about what came next. You hadn’t prepared for the way your real life would be waiting for you like a predator at the door. Heeseung pulls up slowly in front of your house, the engine humming low. The porch light is on. A silhouette moves behind the curtain. Your stomach knots. You should’ve known better. You should’ve gone home earlier. You should’ve texted.

You shouldn’t have disappeared. Heeseung glances at you. “You good?” 

You nod, though you’re not. You open the door and step into the cool night air, the scent of pine and pavement rising with the wind. The moment the door swings open, you’re met with your mother’s worried face, and your father’s fury. “There you are,” your mother breathes, like the air had left her lungs hours ago and only now returned. Her eyes are wide, red-rimmed. Her robe is tied tightly at her waist, hands clenched. “Where have you been? We didn’t know if something had—”

“Where the hell were you?” your father’s voice cuts like a blade. He’s pacing now, his posture rigid, as if he’s been holding himself still for too long and has finally snapped the leash. The living room lamp casts long shadows on the hardwood, your mother’s expression flickering like candlelight. You cross your arms. “Out.” 

“Out?” he repeats, incredulous. “You disappeared in the middle of the banquet. You didn’t answer your phone. We were about to call the police.” 

“I was with someone.”

“Who?” he demands.

You shouldn’t say it. You know the weight the name carries in this house, the implications, the judgment it would bring. But you’re still high. You’re still reeling. And your anger, your rage, has been stewing beneath your skin for far too long. You tilt your head, smirk venomously. “I was busy having sex. With Lee Heeseung.”

Your mother gasps, small, but sharp. A sound of heartbreak and horror all at once. Your father stills. There’s a quiet moment, too quiet, before he explodes. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to your mother?!”

“I don’t care,” you snap.

His face darkens. “You don’t care?” 

“No. I don’t. Because none of you care about me. You only care about what I do. How I act. How I reflect on you. You don’t care about how I feel; about what I’ve been going through.” 

“We’ve given you space—” 

“No,” you cut him off, your voice rising with the heat in your throat. “You’ve given me rules. Expectations. You wanted me to move on quietly. To cry behind closed doors and never, ever make you uncomfortable with the reality of what happened.” Your mother clutches her robe tighter. “We’ve tried—”

“You’ve tried to ignore it!” you cry. “You want to pretend Nari dying didn’t ruin me. You want me to go back to who I was. But I’m not her anymore.” Your father slams his palm against the wall, the sound like thunder. “We’ve given you so much grace this year after Nari’s death but—”

“There is no buts!” your voice cracks. “My life ended the same day Nari’s did.” A silence falls over the room, heavy as snow. Your father’s voice is low, seething. “No, it didn’t. You’re still alive. And you’re treating yourself like some kind of corpse. Wake up.”

“Why should I?” you whisper. “Why should I get to live comfortably, eat dinner, go to banquets, kiss boys in dark cars, when it’s my fault she’s dead?” Your mother lets out a sound like a sob, but you can’t stop now. The words are fire on your tongue, and they’ve been burning there for too long. 

“You don’t get it,” you say to your father, your voice shaking. “You don’t know what it’s like to carry that kind of guilt every single day. To wish it had been you instead. You’re right. I am acting like a corpse; because I should be one.” 

That’s when he takes a step forward, his face pale with fury and pain. “Don’t say that.” 

“Why not? It’s true.” 

“Don’t you ever say that again,” he growls. 

But you don’t listen. You’ve already turned. Your feet carry you down the hall like instinct, your fingers fumbling for your phone. You scroll through your contacts with trembling hands, your vision blurred. You tap his name. He picks up on the first ring. “Hello?” 

“Heeseung…” you breathe, voice cracking. “Please. Come pick me up.” There’s a pause. Then; his voice, calm and certain. “On my way.”

You hang up before your father can say another word, before your mother can cry any harder, before the weight of their stares suffocates you completely. You step outside into the night, wind rushing against your skin like a balm, your heart still thrumming with rage and regret and pain. The world outside is dark, the moon obscured by clouds. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. You stand there on the sidewalk, arms crossed tightly over your chest, waiting. And when his car turns the corner, headlights cutting through the dark like a lifeline; you breathe again. You don’t know where you’re going. But you know it’s away. And for now, that’s enough.

Before

The theatre smelled of velvet and varnish and a faint current of dust stirred by restless feet; an intoxicating mix that lived in your bones long before you ever set foot in its wings. It was Friday, the day everything was meant to unfold exactly the way you’d mapped it in your sleepless imaginings: the day the scouts filled the back row with clipboards poised, the day your instructors whispered Watch this one, the day your life would pivot on the sharpened point of a single relevé.

But all week your nerves had been a live wire sparking under your skin. You’d flitted through dressing‐room corridors like a ghost, ducking Nari’s bright grin, her lilting voice calling your nickname, the glitter of anticipation in her eyes. Pre‐show jitters, you’d told her, forcing smiles so wide your cheeks trembled. In truth, your heart was a glass ornament rattling in its box, because tucked into it was a secret kiss that did not belong to you; a kiss that belonged to Nari, to her late‐night confessions about Beomgyu, to the dizzy way she clasped your arm and said He’s the one, I feel it. That kiss replayed in your mind on a merciless loop: the blurred parking‐lot lights washing across Beomgyu’s face, the soft rasp of his flannel collar, the unplanned tilt of two mouths colliding in a moment that should never have existed. Every beat of silence afterward felt like a fresh betrayal. You’d tried to bury it beneath pliés and pirouettes, to sweat it out into the marley floor, but guilt is a clever shadow; it clings to the arch of your foot, the curve of your rib cage, rides the breath of every port de bras.

Now, backstage, the hush before the storm pressed in on you. Scuttling crew members tacked stray cables to the floor; the stage manager hissed cues into a headset. Beyond the velvet curtain came the low hum of an expectant crowd; parents adjusting programs, instructors scanning rosters, the occasional rustle as someone leaned to whisper good luck to a performer slipping past. Your fellow dancers flitted in and out of light like dragonflies, tutus trembling, pointe shoes ticking softly on the worn boards. Somewhere out there was Nari, waiting two numbers after you, hair pinned in a sleek crown, eyes surely hunting the auditorium for Beomgyu’s familiar silhouette. And somewhere, closer than you wanted to imagine, was Beomgyu himself, sitting with the audience’s polite hush draped about his shoulders. You had not dared to look for him during warm‐ups; the very idea set your pulse galloping.

An assistant stage manager approached, clipboard clutched, voice gentle yet insistent. “Five minutes, star.” The moniker landed like a shard of glass. Star. The word rang hollow when you felt anything but stellar, when every muscle was soldered to fear. Still, you nodded and stepped into the narrow spill of light at stage left, waiting for the house to black out and the overture to climb. The curtain would rise on silence, a single spotlight blooming down like moonlight. You would step from darkness into glow, offering your first breath to the rafters. You’d practiced that entrance so many times the floor all but remembered your weight. Tonight you would give it everything, because failure, you’d decided, was the only penance big enough to fit this sin. If you danced perfectly, perhaps the universe would not forgive you; so you vowed to dance beyond perfect, to dissolve into movement so wholly that the world could forget it ever saw you kiss the wrong boy.

The house lights dimmed. A hush rippled across the audience like the draw of a single breath. In that hush you caught the faintest sound: a program dropping, a throat clearing, the soft scuff of someone shifting in their seat. And beneath it all, your name inside your chest, repeating like a mantra: remember the choreography. remember the music. remember the reason you began. When the curtain ascended, it felt almost slow like dawn unfolding. The low whirr of the fly‐system chains, the gentle rustle of velvet reaching upward, revealing a stage hushed, waiting. The spotlight found you, and heat flooded your skin. Applause dotted the darkness: a scattering of claps, polite and anticipatory, then fading to a reverent hush.

The first note of the piano slipped from the orchestra pit; soft, deliberate, as if testing the air. You drew a breath so deep it lifted your ribs like wings, and then your body obeyed the command that had been etched into its sinew over months of repetition. You stepped forward, ankle rolling through demi‐pointe to full, the world narrowing to the music, the floor, the fire in your muscles. For a heartbeat, it was perfect. More than perfect: it was transcendence. Each développé carved an invisible ribbon through space; each alignement felt true, as though gravity itself had arced to cradle you. You surrendered to the dance and let it carry you across the stage like wind across water. Every beat of the piano pulled another secret thread tight inside your chest, and yet, incredibly, you didn’t unravel; you soared.

Then your eyes lifted. A reflex. A mistake. Rows of faces climbed into the darkness, features softened by the spill of stage light. Far left, a head of sandy hair, a familiar tilt of a jaw, a pair of wide dark eyes that had once closed under your kiss. Beomgyu.

The breath caught in your throat mid‐pirouette. The world jolted slightly off its axle. In that split second, the clarity you’d fought so hard for shattered like a mirror under stone, and the edges flew at you; every shard a memory: his smile in the glow of the streetlight, the click of his seatbelt as you leaned in, the soft shock of his lips. Behind those shards, the imagined face of Nari when — if — she discovered the truth. Your next placement faltered. The edge of your pointe shoe skidded. You tried to salvage it, shoulders tightening, arms shooting wide but the correction was too sharp, too late. Your ankle buckled, and gravity claimed you in a brutal, inelegant swoop.

You hit the floor hard enough to send a tremor through the wings. A stunned gasp rippled across the crowd; a collective intake of breath that sounded like a verdict. The spotlight kept shining, merciless, on the shape of your failure. For a moment you couldn’t breathe; the air seemed to have left the theatre entirely. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. In that bright, silent agony, one thought screamed louder than the pain: I deserve this.

Your palms slipped on the marley as you scrambled upright, but the choreography was gone, blown out like a candle. All that remained was the monstrous echo of what you’d done, of who you’d betrayed. The music continued, an empty cascade of sound; and you, trembling, stared out at the sea of faces until one face met your gaze: Nari’s. Stage left, waiting for her entrance, eyes wide with horror and a heartbreak you prayed she couldn’t name yet. Something inside you broke fully then. You couldn’t stay. You couldn’t finish. You couldn’t breathe in a world where she might learn the truth. With a ragged sob, you spun on your heel and fled the stage, the curtains swallowing you, the orchestra faltering into confused diminuendo. Behind you, the audience erupted, someone calling your name, others murmuring like distant thunder, parents half‐rising from seats.

Backstage smelled of dust and rosin and your own panic. You tore down the corridor, past startled crew members, tutus swishing as dancers pressed back against scenery flats to let you pass. Someone called after you; an instructor, maybe but their voice drowned in the roar of your pulse. You pushed through the stage door into the alley, the night slapping cold against your fevered skin. The street beyond the theatre was shockingly normal, cars rolling by, a neon sign buzzing across the avenue, the faint peppery smell of a late‐night food truck. But inside you, the world had ended. You bent double, hands on your knees, tears splattering the asphalt. On the other side of the stage wall, the showcase continued; voices, hurried announcements, an onstage piano vamping to fill the space you’d left barren. You pictured scouts scribbling notes: promising, but no mental stamina. poor recovery. not ready. 

None of it mattered. You deserved none of it. You deserved exactly this emptiness, this shame coiled tight as wire around your throat. Because what kind of friend kisses the boy her best friend loves? What kind of dancer lets the stage become collateral damage for her guilt? A monster. You pressed your fist to your mouth to stifle a sob. Down the block, an ambulance siren wailed; shrill, insistent and the sound echoed in your bones. You didn’t know it yet, but hours later you’d meet that wail again in a different key, flashing red against wet pavement, broken glass glittering under streetlights, the night Nari would walk away from you for the last time.

For now, there was only the alley and the wreckage of a dream that had shattered under a single glance. You slid down the cool brick wall until you were crouched amid puddles of stage runoff, trembling with adrenaline and remorse. Somewhere inside the theatre, Nari was stepping into her music, dancing her heart out; maybe flawlessly, maybe faltering because of you. You’d never know, because you couldn’t bear to watch. 

You buried your face in your hands and stayed there until the music ended, until the applause rose and fell, until the night air numbed the sting of your scraped palms. By the time a teacher found you, voice gentle, jacket draped over your shoulders; you had already decided you were done. With ballet. With pretending. With believing you deserved good things. Because the monster inside you had spoken, and the stage had listened. And you felt certain — absolutely certain that nothing would ever be bright again.

Present day 

The streetlights flicker past like ghosts, golden halos warping through the tears blurring your vision. You don’t bother wiping them away. You just hope Heeseung doesn’t notice, but of course he does. Silence may fill the cabin of his car, but it's not a silence that shelters. It’s the kind that listens too closely, hears too much. The air is thick; warmer than it should be for nightfall. The windows are cracked just enough to let in a breeze that carries the scent of damp pavement and something flowering in the dark. Your fingers are clenched in your lap, nails carving half-moons into the soft flesh of your palms.

You feel his glance before you see it. Heeseung shifts slightly in the driver’s seat, one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other drumming an idle rhythm against his thigh. He doesn’t say anything right away, and you cling to that mercy for as long as you can, but then his voice slips into the space between you. “What’s wrong?” he asks, gentle. Like he’s afraid you might break if he presses too hard.

You inhale sharply through your nose and keep your gaze pinned to the window. You watch as the night spills over rooftops and lampposts and blinking store signs, blurry and distant, as if you’re floating somewhere above your life instead of living it. You debate lying. It would be easy. Safer. You could tell him it was just a bad day. School stress. A family squabble about curfews or drinking or some other shallow wound that wouldn’t require stitching. But Heeseung doesn’t feel like someone you can lie to. Not right now. Not after the joint, the kiss, the way he touched you, the quiet understanding that crackled between you like static in the dark. This thing between you, it’s not defined, not shaped into anything real; but it’s honest. And in a world where most people look at you with pity or suspicion or sanitized grief, Heeseung looks at you like he sees past the performance. 

So you speak. Quietly. “I got into a fight with my parents.” Heeseung nods, doesn’t push. Just gives you space. You swallow, your throat tight. “It was about Nari.” 

There’s a brief pause. You can feel the shape of the question before he asks it, cautious and curious. “Who’s Nari?” 

Your eyes close for a beat. The ache swells in your chest again, a slow, suffocating bloom. “My best friend,” you say. And then, sharper, crueler, the words tear their way out of you: “My best friend that I killed.” 

Silence. A heavier one now. Weighted. You brace yourself for the flinch, for the retreat, for the cold rush of judgment that always follows. You wait for him to tell you that you’re being dramatic, that it wasn’t your fault, that grief warps memory and blame. But Heeseung doesn’t say anything. And in his silence, there is no retreat. There is no recoil. You glance sideways. His expression hasn’t shifted into pity or horror. If anything, it’s softened. Eyes dark and unreadable, mouth slack with something that might be understanding, or pain. Heeseung just nods. Like he knows exactly what it feels like to carry something unspeakable.

When he pulls into his driveway, you expect him to say something more, to fill the silence with platitudes or distractions. But he doesn’t. He turns off the ignition, tosses his keys onto the dashboard with a quiet clatter, and says, “Come on.” You follow him into the house. The air inside smells faintly like detergent and something warm from earlier; maybe toast or ramen. The lights are low, and the hallway creaks under your steps. There are photos on the wall, but you don’t stop to look at them. It feels like trespassing, being here. Not physically, but emotionally. Like you’ve brought the rot of your guilt into a space that deserves better.

Upstairs, his room is dim and a little messy; sheets rumpled, books stacked sideways on the desk, a hoodie slung across the back of a chair. You hover in the doorway, unsure, until he gestures for you to come in. You sit on the edge of his bed, suddenly small. Your hands knot in your lap. The air is thick again. Not from heat this time, but from the weight of what’s unsaid.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. Heeseung drops to a crouch in front of you, hands braced on his knees. He looks up at you like he wants to memorize your face in this exact moment. “You don’t have to apologize.” 

Your eyes sting again. “I do. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this. I—” 

His voice cuts you off. Firm. “You’re not a bad person for needing someone.” You shake your head, blinking hard. “I betrayed her. She was always there for me, and I hurt her. I broke something so sacred. She trusted me.”

Heeseung’s expression shifts. Not in disbelief, but in recognition. He knows this guilt. Wears it like a second skin. “I get it,” he says, softly. “I killed my brother.”

He doesn’t look away. “Not literally. But I might as well have. I— I did something. I didn’t mean to. But I did. And now he’s dead. And it’s because of me.” 

Your voice is tentative. “That can’t be true.”

“It is,” he insists. His voice trembles just once, then steadies. “I might as well have put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.” You stare at him, stunned. Not because of the words, but because of how familiar they sound. Like an echo of your own worst thoughts. 

“I told her,” you say quietly, “that she didn’t deserve him. I told her he didn’t love her. I lied. I said it to hurt her.” You’re not even sure when the tears start again. They fall quietly, steadily, like summer rain.

“I kissed him. Her boyfriend. She found out. I never got to explain. I never got to say sorry.” Heeseung says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He just kneels there in front of you, steady as a lighthouse, his eyes locked on yours.

You can barely breathe. “It should’ve been me. Not her. I was the one who ruined everything. I should be the one—” 

“Stop,” he says, gently but firmly. Your voice cracks. “Why does the world keep spinning when she’s not in it? Why do I get to wake up every day when she’s in the ground?” 

Heeseung places a hand on your knee. Not romantically. Not out of pity. Just to anchor you. To remind you that you're still here, breathing, even if you don’t know why. “Tell me what happened,” he says. “That night.”

You don’t answer right away. You stare past him, past the walls, past the ache. Your throat works around the lump rising in it. That night. The one you’ve rewound and replayed a thousand times. The night everything shattered. You open your mouth. And the scene begins to unwind behind your eyes. But that’s for the next breath. The next storm. For now, you sit in Heeseung’s room, in the quiet aftermath of too much truth. And for the first time in what feels like forever, someone sees you in all your ruin; and doesn’t look away. 

It was the night after the showcase, and you felt like a ghost in your own skin. The stage lights had faded, but their burn still etched itself behind your eyes, mocking you. You hadn’t even made it through the routine. You’d crumbled; right there, in front of everyone who ever believed in you. Your body, trained and honed like a blade for years, had given out at the mere sight of him. Beomgyu. His eyes in the crowd. His mouth, the one you’d kissed in secret. Nari’s boyfriend. Her everything. And you’d shattered. Now, your phone was a storm. Ping after ping, call after call. All from her.

Nari.

Her contact photo was a blurry selfie from last summer — her smile sun-kissed and wide, your arm looped around her neck. You looked so happy. So unworthy. She was worried. Of course she was. You were supposed to be avoiding her for pre-show jitters, remember? But now the show was over and the lies had nowhere to hide. The texts were a blur. hey. 

please say something. i’m worried about you. i’m not mad. just talk to me. i love you. you know that right? That last one made you feel like you were going to throw up. You dropped the phone onto your bed like it was on fire. You paced. You screamed into your pillow. You considered telling her everything. The kiss. The guilt. The way your bones ached with shame every time her name crossed your lips. But you didn’t. Because what kind of monster kisses her best friend’s boyfriend and lets her say I love you like nothing happened? You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to punish yourself. And then she called.

The ringtone split the silence like a siren. You let it ring. Let it go to voicemail. It rang again. And again. On the fourth try, you picked up, breathless like you’d run a mile. “Hello?” Her voice came through, thin and frantic: “Oh my God; are you okay? Why haven’t you been answering? I’ve been freaking out—”

“I’m fine,” you lied. “Just… tired.”

“Tired? You disappeared after the showcase, you didn’t even stay for the closing photos. Everyone was asking about you. Your parents looked — I don’t know, really worried or something. What happened up there?” You couldn’t answer. Your throat locked up. The sound of her worry made you want to claw your skin off. Nari didn’t push. That was her gift and her curse. She gave you space when you needed it; even when you were lying to her face.

“I think you should come to Beomgyu’s,” she said after a long silence. “I know, it’s dumb. I know you don’t like these things. But maybe it’ll help. Just… I don’t know. I want to see you.”

The line crackled. Her voice wavered. “Please.” It was that word — please that broke you. Even after everything, even not knowing what you’d done, she still wanted you there. Still loved you. You whispered, “Okay.” And hung up before you could change your mind.

The second you stepped through the front door, the night swallowed you whole. Music pounded like a heartbeat, loud and consuming, the bass thudding through the soles of your shoes and up your spine until your body seemed to vibrate from the inside out. The house was an explosion of color and chaos; flashing LED lights staining the air red and green, the smell of alcohol and weed thick enough to choke on. Someone shrieked with laughter from the kitchen, their voice edged in hysteria. The living room looked like a scene from a dream gone wrong: bodies pressed together in the dim light, dancing on tables, spilled drinks soaking into the carpet, lipstick-smeared kisses exchanged without meaning. You were an intruder here, a ghost drifting through a world too loud, too fast, too alive for what was rotting inside of you. Your heart beat too loudly, but only with dread. You were here for one reason — Nari.

Your eyes scanned the crowd in desperation. Faces blurred together, a kaleidoscope of strangers and half-friends you didn’t care to recognize. Every movement felt slow, as if your limbs were dragging through molasses. You called out for her once, twice, but no one heard you over the noise. Your throat burned. Every second that passed stretched thinner than the last, stretched like the lie you’d built between yourself and the girl who’d once been your anchor. You grabbed a boy near the stereo, his breath reeking of vodka and his eyes glazed over with party-born indifference. “Have you seen Nari?” you shouted over the music.

“What?” he bellowed, tipping his head.

“NARI!” you yelled again, your voice hoarse.

He squinted, lips pulling into a sloppy grin. “Beomgyu’s room!” He jabbed his finger upward, then turned back to whatever game he was playing with the girl beside him. The words hit like a brick to the stomach. Your legs moved on their own, carrying you toward the stairs, each step heavier than the last. The music dimmed slightly as you ascended, replaced by the echo of your own breathing; shallow, frantic, uneven. The hallway was lit by a single flickering bulb, shadows creeping along the walls like phantoms. You hesitated at the door, the weight of what might be behind it pressing against your chest. You knocked. 

No answer.

You tried again. Still nothing.

You opened the door.

The room was dim, just the low glow of a lamp in the corner casting a soft golden haze. Beomgyu was there, sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed, fingers knotted in his hair like he was trying to rip thoughts straight from his skull. He looked up at the sound of the door creaking, his eyes dark and distant, the slump of his shoulders too familiar. You stepped inside, heart hammering. “Where’s Nari?” 

He blinked like he’d just remembered you existed. “She’s in the bathroom,” he said, voice low. You nodded, relief flooding your system. You turned to leave, to find her, to finally talk, to explain. 

But his hand caught yours. You froze. “Wait,” he murmured, standing. Your heart leapt into your throat. You turned toward him slowly, your fingers still curled beneath the weight of his. 

“What are you doing?” your voice trembled.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said.

The room tilted, the words crashing into you like a rogue wave. You pulled your hand back, stumbling a step away. “What?”

“I—” He reached up slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, the gentleness of the touch striking terror into the hollow space beneath your ribs. “I think I’m in love with you. And I’m not sorry about it.”

Your breath left your body. The room suddenly felt too small, the air thick and cloying. Your thoughts scattered like dust in sunlight. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember what day it was or who you were or why any of this had happened. Then he leaned in. And god help you, you didn’t stop him.

The kiss was soft, slow, nothing like what you should have felt. No heat. No passion. Just desperation. A collision of two broken people reaching for something to numb the ache. His lips pressed to yours like a promise he had no right to make, and your body moved on autopilot, not because it meant anything; but because you couldn’t stop unraveling. Because the guilt already inside you wanted to finish the job. And then the door opened.

“Sorry, Gyu, the line was lo—” Nari’s voice sliced the moment in half. You and Beomgyu broke apart instantly. Her figure stood in the doorway, her silhouette backlit by the hallway, her face frozen in pure, heart-wrenching horror. Her lips parted. Her eyes wide and glassy. A silence so violent followed that it rang in your ears.

“Nari—” you began, stepping forward.

“What are you doing?” she asked, voice cracking. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I…”

Beomgyu stepped in front of you, shielded you. “I love her.” The words detonated. You saw them hit her like bullets, tearing through her chest, her stomach, her soul. Her mouth opened in disbelief. Her hand flew to her face, eyes flooding. A tear slid down her cheek, and then another. 

“You love her?” she repeated, the disbelief in her voice shattering into something sharper. She turned to you, her face contorted. “How could you?”

You shook your head. “I don’t— I don’t love him—”

“Then what the hell was that?” she screamed.

Your words failed. Every explanation tasted like ash in your mouth. Nari shook her head in disgust, chest heaving, shoulders trembling. “I felt bad for you,” she hissed. “I was here crying for you after you fell at the showcase. I was the only one defending you, worrying about you — and you were falling in love with my boyfriend?”

“I wasn’t—I’m not—” You took a step forward, pleading. “Nari, please—”

“Save it,” she snapped, her voice tight with betrayal. Then she turned and ran. You chased her, heart in your throat, vision blurring with tears. The house blurred around you, voices rising in alarm as people stepped back, made room for the spectacle.

“Nari!” you cried out, louder. “Nari, wait!” You hit the yard just as she reached the edge of the driveway. You grabbed her hand, stopping her.

She spun to face you, eyes wild. “How could you?”

Her voice cracked in two. Your breath hitched. “I made a mistake,” you whispered, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t thinking—I—”

“I loved him,” she spat. “And you knew that. You knew what he meant to me. And you let him touch you anyway.”

You shook your head, helpless. “I was hurting, I wasn’t—I’m sorry—”

But it didn’t matter. She stepped back from you, tears shining in her eyes, her voice growing louder, shriller. “How could you betray me like that?” she screamed. “I gave you everything—I trusted you!”

The crowd that had spilled from the party stood in silence now, some filming, some whispering, none stepping in. She kept backing away, one trembling step at a time, her anger unraveling into sobs. “I hate you,” she choked. “I hate you—” Then headlights cut across the street. A roar of an engine. Screams. Tires screeching too late. 

Your scream ripped from your chest. “NARI!” But the car struck her before she could turn. The impact was sickening. Her body flew; crashed to the pavement like a marionette with its strings sliced clean. Gasps exploded around you, someone dropping a drink, the shatter echoing like gunfire. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. You stood frozen as her body crumpled on the road, limbs twisted, her eyes wide and unseeing.

Time stopped.

The music had gone silent. The world had gone quiet. And all you could hear — over and over and over again, was the sound of her body hitting the ground.

Before Heeseung’s pov 

The world had already begun to blur around the edges. Music throbbed through his skull like a migraine, and every heartbeat pulsed with fury. Heeseung swayed in the middle of the chaos, a red solo cup dangling from his fingers, filled with something that tasted like gasoline and bad decisions. Sweat slicked his back beneath his shirt, his skin clammy and hot. He laughed too loud at nothing, danced with girls he didn’t know; arms flung over their shoulders, mouths close enough to kiss but never quite touching, never quite feeling. He couldn’t feel anything. That was the point.

He hated this place. Hated the way people looked at him like he was just some pretty face with skates on. Hated the smirk that his father wore every time he talked about Han; the good son, the real winner. The one who did everything right. The one who didn’t mess up. The one who didn’t get drunk and high just to silence the noise of expectation. He stumbled into the backyard, stars smeared across the sky like someone had finger-painted them in haste. His phone burned in his hand, screen too bright, too white. His fingers fumbled over Han’s name. He pressed call.

“Hello?” Han’s voice was soft, groggy, that worried older brother tone he always used. “Hee? Are you okay?”

Heeseung let out a bitter laugh, the sound catching in his throat. “You’re not better than me.”

There was a pause. “What? Heeseung, what’s going on?”

“You think you’re so perfect.” Heeseung’s words slurred together like wet paint. “Dad thinks you’re the golden boy. But you’re not better. I’ll show you. I’ll show him. You’re not better—”

“Heeseung, you’re drunk. I’m coming to get you. Stay there, okay? Just wait.” Heeseung hung up. Or maybe he didn’t. He couldn’t tell. Everything was spinning. He staggered forward, gripping the porch railing like it could keep him tethered. He felt like throwing up. Or screaming. Or both. The inside of his head was all static. And then headlights sliced through the darkness. Han’s car. Heeseung stumbled down the steps, nearly eating it on the last one, and staggered toward the passenger side. Han threw the door open, face pale and tight with worry.

“Get in,” he ordered. Heeseung obeyed, limbs heavy and unwilling. He slumped into the seat, slurring more than he was speaking. “You think you’re better than me, huh?” he muttered, leaning against the window, his cheek pressed to the cold glass. “Just 'cause you got your degree and your dumb finance job and your clean record.” 

“I don’t think that,” Han said sharply. “And Dad doesn’t either, he’s just… Heeseung, he’s hard on both of us. You know that.” 

“Bullshit,” Heeseung growled, eyes closing. “You never had to be perfect to be loved. He just loved you.” 

Han’s grip tightened on the wheel. “That’s not true. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re drunk.”

Heeseung kept going, words bubbling out like poison. “You think I don’t see it? The way he brags about you. Han graduated summa cum laude. Han never got suspended. Han’s never in the papers for fighting or failing.” He laughed. “I hope you’re proud. Look at me now, huh? Look how far I fell.” Han opened his mouth to answer, but he didn’t get the chance. Because just ahead, in the fog of motion and the flash of headlights —

There was a girl.

A blur of limbs and hair and horror, stepping backward into the road. Han shouted. The brakes screamed. But the moment came too fast. The sound, oh god, the sound, of impact was the kind that split your soul in two. Metal and flesh, a sickening crunch, a thud that would echo in nightmares for the rest of time. Heeseung’s body flung forward with the jolt, the seatbelt carving into his chest. Time bent sideways. Han swerved. The world spun. A flash of a tree trunk—then blackness. When he came to, everything hurt.

The car was mangled metal wrapped around bark. Smoke coiled from the hood. Blood ran down Heeseung’s face, sticky and warm, his head lolling forward. His ears rang like a bomb had gone off. He blinked once, twice. Tried to move; glass in his leg. Something was wrong. Something was wrong. “Han?” he croaked. There was no answer. He turned his head and screamed.

Han’s body was slumped over the wheel, motionless. Blood pooled under him, his face obscured. Something primal split through Heeseung’s chest; panic, dread, disbelief. “No, no, no,” he muttered. “Han!” He shoved at him with trembling hands. “Come on, wake up—wake up—” Sirens in the distance. Voices shouting. People running.

Heeseung’s breath caught. A sob clawed its way from his throat. It was all his fault. It was too late. And Heeseung had never hated himself more. 

Present day 

The silence stretches between you like a drawn-out breath, trembling and thin. Heeseung sits beside you on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched, jaw clenched like he’s trying to bite back the storm surging in his chest. You can still hear the echo of the past in his voice, the shattered edges of guilt rattling in his throat. The room is quiet but not peaceful; it's the kind of quiet that comes after an earthquake, when everything has fallen and the air still trembles with memory. You sit there, skin cold, heart unraveling, both of you held in the soft aftershock of everything you’ve said. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. 

His voice cracks like dry wood. And it catches you off guard, more than anything else could have. Of all the things you expected him to say, an apology wasn't one of them. Not to you. Not when the pain has stained both your lives in different, irreparable ways. You look over at him, eyes red but dry now, exhaustion threading through your bones like a second skeleton. “Why?” you ask him, barely above a whisper. “Why are you apologizing?”

He turns toward you slowly. The lamplight casts his features in shadow, sharp and soft at once; eyes that have seen too much, mouth that’s tasted too much regret. “Because,” he says, voice thick, “this all started with me. I was the one who called Han. I was the one who needed to prove something. I got drunk, I spiraled, I needed to be seen, and now he’s gone. And so is Nari.”

Your heart pulls painfully in your chest, but your voice is steady when you speak. “No. This isn’t your fault.” He looks at you like he doesn’t believe it, like your words are a kindness he doesn’t think he deserves. “I don’t blame you, Heeseung,” you continue, softer now. “Not one bit. We’re all carrying so much. And grief... grief makes monsters out of moments. It twists things until we forget where they really began.” 

His eyes shine then; wet and wide. He opens his mouth to say something, but instead he leans in. Slowly, hesitantly, as though giving you a chance to stop him. You don’t. You meet him halfway. His lips brush yours with the gentleness of someone who knows how much you’ve lost, how much you’ve suffered. The kiss is slow, tender, and reverent. Like a vow whispered against a storm. His hand cradles the side of your face, thumb grazing your cheek, grounding you in the warmth of something fragile and real. When he pulls back, you both stay close. Foreheads touching. Eyes closed. For a moment, you just breathe. Then, he speaks. “Take a bath with me?”

The words are so simple, yet intimate in a way that leaves you breathless. Not lustful; this isn’t about escape or distraction. It’s about presence. About being in a space where nothing else exists. You nod, and he stands, offering you his hand. The bathroom is dim, lit only by the soft orange glow of a nightlight and a flickering candle someone must’ve left on the windowsill. The tub fills slowly, steam curling toward the ceiling like the last sigh of a day. You both undress silently, not shy, not rushed. You slip into the warm water, and he follows after, settling in behind you. His legs bracket yours. His arms wrap around your middle. The water laps at your collarbones like a gentle lullaby.

You tilt your head back to rest against his shoulder. He exhales into your hair. “I’ve been angry,” he says finally. “So angry. About everything. About my dad. About Han. About the fact that I’m still here when they’re not. That I keep waking up and they don’t.” 

You nod slowly, fingers tracing patterns in the surface of the water. “I feel that too,” you say. “Like life just… kicked me. Over and over. Until I couldn’t stand anymore. Until I didn’t know if I wanted to. I keep wondering if this is the part where I break forever.” Heeseung’s grip around you tightens, just slightly. “You won’t.”

“I don’t know how to start over,” you admit. “Everything hurts all the time. Even the good things hurt.”

He kisses your temple. Not as a promise. Not as a cure. Just as a quiet I know. And maybe that’s enough. Because you’re not pretending it’s all better. You’re not trying to erase the pain. You’re sitting in it together. Letting it be real. Letting it matter. And in that space; where the warmth of the water holds you both like a womb, like a prayer, you begin to believe that maybe you can heal. That maybe ruin doesn’t mean the end. Maybe it’s the beginning of something else.

You don’t know where life will take you from here. You don’t know what redemption will look like, or if you’ll ever forgive yourself for what happened. But right now, wrapped in Heeseung’s arms, you believe in the small, aching miracle of this moment. Of choosing to stay. Of choosing to feel. Of choosing each other. You were ready to fall into the ruin. But not let it ruin you.

Epilogue 1 year later

The sky was soft that day, bruised with a gentle gray, the kind that made the world feel quiet; like the earth itself was holding its breath. You sat cross-legged on the dewy grass, fingers tracing the edges of Nari’s name etched into cold stone. A year had passed. A year of aching, unraveling, rebuilding. And now here you were, knees pressed into the earth, a heartbeat steadier than it used to be.

"You would love Heeseung, Nari, you really would.” Your voice came out tender, barely above a whisper. “He makes me laugh. He never lets me lie to myself. He doesn’t try to fix me, just holds me when it hurts too much.” You reached down and brushed away a few stray leaves that had gathered at the base of the headstone. “I wish you could’ve seen me now. I wish I could’ve said goodbye the right way.”

There were still tears sometimes. And nightmares. And those mornings where the weight of memory made it hard to breathe. But there was also sunlight. And laughter. And Heeseung’s steady presence like a compass in your shaking hands. Therapy had taught you to hold space for both joy and sorrow. Grief group gave you words for the things you once buried. But it was Heeseung who reminded you, every day, that you were allowed to keep living; that you didn’t have to stay in the ruins to prove your love for the ones you lost.

“Babe! I got the flowers!” a voice called out behind you, pulling you gently from the past. You turned to see Heeseung jogging toward you, a bouquet of soft blue hydrangeas cradled in his arms, cheeks pink from the wind. He still carried that quiet sadness in his eyes, the one only you really saw, but it was softer now; tempered by time and the work he’d done to understand it. He bent down beside you and laid the flowers in front of Nari’s grave, brushing your knee with his hand as he settled beside you.

“Did you talk to Han?” you asked, voice gentle.

He nodded, smiling faintly. “Yeah. It was good. I needed that.”

You turned back toward the grave, reaching for his hand. “I did too.”

The two of you sat there for a long moment, silence curling comfortably between your bodies. The cemetery was quiet, wind rustling through the trees, birds flitting through the distant branches. Around you, the world kept moving; cars humming down the road, life unfolding in soft, ordinary ways. But here, in this pocket of stillness, you felt grounded. Rooted. Whole.

Grief never left, it wasn’t something that vanished with time or faded into nothing. It changed shapes. Grew quieter. Some days, it bloomed like a bruise. Other days, it shimmered like memory. But always, it walked beside you, not as a shadow, but as a reminder. Of love. Of loss. Of the choice to keep going. You looked down at the stone again, your thumb tracing the curve of her name.

“I’ll keep living for both of us, Nari,” you whispered. “I promise.” And this time, when you stood, you didn’t feel like you were leaving her behind. You felt like she was walking with you.

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox

[aamirazx]

Damnnn

(2/2)🖇 ༘ ⋆"Moved On Not "

' ╰┈ 'if the sun refused to shine, baby, would i still be your lover? would you want me there?"

' .☘︎ ݁˖' '연준 x f!reader

🎧ྀི 'ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : intro (Ariana Grande)

♫⋆₊˚ ﾟ. 'ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ genre / tags: fluff, smut, emotional tension, friends to lovers, teasing & possessive!yeonjun, intense makeouts, lap-sitting, domestic moments, long build-up, jealousy, banter, soft aftercare, sunrise sex ੈ✩‧₊˚ warnings: NSFW WARNINGS UNDER THE CUT ! explicit language, emotionally vulnerable scenes, jealousy themes, minor angst (resolved), tension from miscommunication, reader is bold, story contains mature themes, recording of sex ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎˎˊ˗ nsfw warnings: porn with little plot (AT LEAST) - oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it up irl), praise kink, hair pulling, neck kissing/biting, dirty talk, soft dom!yeonjun, riding, creampie implied, overstimulation, light marking (hickeys), possessiveness (you’re mine energy), emotionally charged sex, aftercare (wiping, cuddling, forehead kisses), clingy!yeonjun post-sex, reader takes control at times, riding, mirror sex, recording kink. ✩‧₊˚ wc: 7348ੈ ੈ♡ a/n: i've decided this would be the last chapter. a big boo for me, i'll accept that, but i still have a ton of shit works i need to update and post here on tumblr. 2/2 chapters ! MAKE SURE TO READ PART 1 BABES ! and i'm rlly sorry for the mixed-up typings where some parts are detailed, while other are lowercased. i wrote this in different times and places, hope it doesnt bother you much. ENJOY THOUGH !

<to read previous chapter tap the underlined>

You woke up to soft lips brushing along your bare shoulder, the faint scent of his cologne still clinging to your sheets.

“Morning,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick with sleep and adoration.

You hummed, eyes still shut. “You're still here?”

“Where else would I be?” he asked, like it was the dumbest question in the world.

That was the beginning of everything.

Your first actual date wasn’t some candlelit dinner—no, Yeonjun took you on a spontaneous late-night drive to the city’s highest parking garage. The skyline shimmered below, but he only looked at you.

“Look at the view,” you whispered.

“I am,” he said, already leaning in.

You made out for twenty minutes in the backseat of his car, half-undressed, your lipstick smudged on his jaw, your leg thrown over his lap as his hands wandered like he was memorizing you.

“I like kissing you,” he confessed, breathless.

“I noticed.”

Date two? Arcade.

You beat him in air hockey. Twice.

“You’re cheating,” he accused, arms around your waist as you doubled over laughing.

“Maybe you just suck.”

“You wanna suck something else, baby?”

You smacked him with a plushie he won for you. It was a frog. You named it “Junnie.”

The cuddles were the most dangerous part.

After movie nights, you’d fall asleep tangled together on the couch. Yeonjun would always stay just a little longer than necessary. Kiss your hair. Whisper dumb things like “you smell like home” and “I think I’m addicted to you.”

One night, you didn’t let him go.

“Just stay,” you mumbled into his chest.

He did. He always would.

And somewhere between tangled sheets, shared playlists, the way he kissed you mid-laugh, and the way he always held your hand like he was scared to lose you—

You realized it wasn’t just lust. Not anymore.

You were falling.

Hard.

And so was he.

It started when you posted a selfie.

Just a simple one. New gloss, cute top, a subtle “feeling pretty” caption. But your DMs blew up. Including one from some dude from high school.

Yeonjun saw it. He was across the room. You didn’t even realize until you caught him sulking on the couch, arms crossed, lips pouting, jaw tight.

“You okay?” you asked, flopping beside him.

“No,” he said bluntly. “Why is Namjoon from math class calling you ‘gorgeous’ under your pic? Should I fight him?”

You choked. “What?”

He turned to face you, leaning in close. Too close. “Do I not tell you enough? Do I need to remind you?”

You grinned. “You sound jealous.”

“I am.” His voice dropped. “You’re mine.”

Next thing you knew, your back hit the couch and his mouth was back on yours, hot and hungry. His hand slid under your shirt, his words muffled against your skin.

“Wanna make sure you remember it.”

Later that night, when you were curled up in his hoodie, legs tangled under a blanket, he kept staring at you like you held the damn stars.

“What?” you asked, poking his cheek.

Yeonjun hesitated, then shrugged. “I think I’m gonna end up falling in love with you.”

You blinked. “You’re not already?”

His mouth parted. You laughed, cheeks flushed as you looked away. “Oops.”

He grabbed your hand. “Wait—say it again.”

“You’re not already?” you teased.

“No. The other thing.”

You rolled your eyes with a smile. “I love you, idiot.”

He didn’t say anything. Just kissed you like it was the last time. Like it was the only thing he knew how to do.

And maybe it was.

It was Yeonjun’s idea.

“I wanna make cookies,” he said, lying on your bed, scrolling Pinterest like a bored housewife. “The cute ones. With the little hearts.”

You blinked at him. “You wanna bake?”

“With you,” he said, smug, rolling over to kiss your cheek. “And then kiss you after I shove cookie dough in your mouth.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You just wanna make out covered in flour.”

“Exactly.”

It started cute.

He wore the pink apron. You wore his hoodie. The music was soft, sunlight coming through your kitchen window. You measured the sugar, he cracked the eggs. Your fingers brushed in the bowl and he grinned like a sap.

“This is domestic as hell,” you said, smearing a little flour on his cheek.

He did the same to you, but worse—palmed your whole face with flour-covered hands. You gasped. “You’re dead.”

Cue: chaos. You threw flour at him. He dumped a spoon of batter down your shirt. You screamed. He ran.

“You’re cleaning that up!” you yelled, chasing him through the apartment with a whisk in your hand.

Yeonjun ducked behind the couch, laughing. “Not if you catch me first.”

You tackled him. Literally. He hit the couch, arms around your waist as you both collapsed in giggles.

Then the laughter faded. Your eyes met.

His hands stayed firm on your hips.

“You look cute like this,” he murmured, thumbing a bit of flour off your lip. “All messy. All mine.”

Your breath caught. You kissed him—slow, warm, tasting sweet like vanilla.

The cookies burnt.

Neither of you cared.

That night.

You were lying in bed, snuggled under blankets, legs tangled together, watching trash TV with the smell of burnt sugar still lingering.

“You’d still love me if I sucked at baking, right?” he asked.

“You do suck at baking.”

He gasped. “Betrayal.”

You giggled, nuzzling into his chest. “I love you anyway.”

Yeonjun wrapped his arms around you tighter, burying his face into your hair.

“I’m gonna marry you,” he whispered. “One day.”

You smiled.

“I know.”

the tension starts simple.

he’s busy. like really busy. comeback soon, promotions stacking up. rehearsals until 3 a.m., interviews that never end. you say it’s fine—of course it’s fine—but the calls get shorter, the dates turn into postponed maybes, and when you do see each other, he’s tired.

you still kiss. you still cuddle. but you feel it—that hum of distance settling like dust.

“yeonjun,” you whisper one night, curled up on his couch, his head in your lap, “do you miss me?”

he blinks slowly. “what kind of question is that?”

but his answer isn’t yes.

and your silence says everything.

it builds.

you start feeling like a second thought. you wait up for him only to fall asleep alone. he forgets you had a thing on friday. you stop bringing it up.

you still love him. he still loves you. but love doesn’t stop the ache from creeping in like a draft under the door.

you break down one night—not in a dramatic, screaming way—but in the shower. quiet sobs, back against the tile. exhausted. not because he’s mean. but because he’s not here. and you’re starting to forget what it feels like when he was.

then comes the breaking point.

he shows up at your apartment after a long stretch of silence. no warning, just keys rattling, and he walks in like the world hasn’t shifted under your feet.

you don’t greet him.

you’re sitting on the couch, arms crossed, eyes tired.

he knows.

“baby,” he says softly.

and you just say:

“i feel so alone. and you’re right here.”

that’s what ruins him.

he kneels in front of you, burying his face in your lap, arms around your waist like he’s begging the universe not to take you from him.

“i don’t know how to do this,” he chokes. “i don’t know how to be in love with you and still chase everything else.”

you run your fingers through his hair. you’re crying, too.

“then don’t make me choose between being patient and being okay.”

and for the first time, you both understand:

you’re not fighting each other.

you’re fighting the gap between your lives.

and it’s breaking you.

but the love doesn’t go away.

it lingers in forehead kisses and i miss yous. in holding hands tighter. in soft apologies whispered half-asleep.

you don’t break up.

you just… hold on.

even when it hurts.

you learn to fill your days with things for yourself. not to distract from the ache of missing him, but because you know you're your own person too. you work your part-time job at the café near campus, fingers stained with ink from late-night study sessions, eyes puffy from sleep-deprived group projects. but you push through, for yourself.

karina and winter stay your constants—karaoke nights, cram sessions, skincare sleepovers with ramen at 2 a.m. you laugh with them. you vent with them. you cry a little, sometimes. but they keep you grounded.

and still, somewhere in the back of your mind, there’s always him.

you don’t see him much. once every two, three weeks if you’re lucky.

but those nights? those rare, golden reunions?

they’re everything.

he shows up in his hoodie and cap, slipping into your world like he belongs there. and he does. because when he walks into your apartment with takeout in one hand and a tired smile on his lips, your whole chest aches with how much you missed him.

you sit on the floor, sharing food and stories. you’re both quieter than before, but there’s comfort in the stillness. his thumb strokes your knuckles as you talk. your fingers card through his hair while he lays in your lap again, like old times.

and when you kiss—it’s slow. not rushed. not lusty. just… lingering. meaningful. like every press of his lips against yours says thank you for waiting.

there’s no big confession. no promises carved into the stars. just:

"i missed you," he whispers against your skin.

"me too," you whisper back.

and maybe one night, you cancel plans just to be with him. he pulls you into his arms and sways you in the middle of your living room, no music playing, just the sound of your heart beating against his.

“you’re still my favorite person,” he murmurs.

“you always will be,” you reply.

you’re lying on the couch, legs over his lap, the tv playing something neither of you are watching. your hand is in his hair. his hand? well… it’s resting suspiciously close to your inner thigh.

"you always touch me like you forgot how soft i am," you say with a teasing raise of your brow.

yeonjun just smirks, leaning down to ghost his lips over your neck.

"no, baby," he murmurs, voice low, "i remember exactly how soft you are. but it’s been two weeks, and i’ve had to suffer with nothing but your voice memos and those goddamn pictures in my hoodie. do you know what that did to me?"

his hand creeps higher, fingers brushing over the hem of your shorts.

you bite your lip. “yeonjun.”

"yeah?" he breathes, eyes dark and locked on you. “miss me that bad, sweetheart?”

you can’t answer—not with how he’s suddenly kissing you like he’s starving, like you’re the first breath after drowning. teeth, tongue, hands—desperate. and you? you’re melting, grinding against him like you’ve needed this too.

he chuckles against your lips, cocky and breathless.

"someone’s needy," he teases, pulling back slightly just to watch your dazed expression.

"i hate you," you pant.

"yeah?" he grins. "then why are you already soaking through these little shorts?"

his fingers finally slip under your shorts, and he groans when he feels how wet you already are for him.

“fuck, baby… just like this for me already?”

you don’t answer—you can’t, not when he’s rubbing slow circles against your soaked panties, watching the way your body shudders under him. he knows exactly what he’s doing, smug as hell, that stupid chain around his neck swinging when he leans in to kiss the corner of your mouth.

“take ‘em off,” you whisper, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. “now.”

he chuckles darkly. “getting bossy, huh?”

“or you could shut up and let me ride you.”

yeonjun doesn’t need to be told twice. in one motion, the hoodie’s gone, pants tugged down just enough for his boxers to stretch tight over the bulge you’ve been teasing all night. you climb onto his lap, panties pushed to the side, shorts long forgotten on the floor.

“slow,” he murmurs, holding your waist as you sink down on him, your eyes fluttering shut with a moan. “let me feel you. fuck—just like that.”

you bite your lip to quiet yourself, but it’s no use—not with the stretch, not with how deep he feels inside you in this position. he looks up at you like you’re the whole damn sky, hands gripping your thighs so tight they might bruise.

“you ride me like you need it,” he pants, watching the way you bounce, thighs trembling. “missed this pussy so much, fuck—i’ll let you do whatever you want to me if you keep fucking me like that.”

you whimper, nails digging into his shoulders for leverage. your moans spill out freely now, hips moving faster, chasing your high shamelessly.

"i-i'm close—"

"yeah?" he smirks, thrusting up into you as you ride. "make a mess on me, baby. right here. c’mon, be my good girl."

you fall apart with his name on your lips, legs shaking, walls fluttering around him as he groans your name like it’s his favorite prayer.

he kisses you through it, deep and filthy, still inside you when he whispers—

“round two in the shower?”

he doesn’t even give you a full minute to recover. you’re still catching your breath, flushed and sweaty against his chest when he scoops you up like you weigh nothing. your legs wrap around his waist out of instinct.

“wh—yeonjun,” you gasp, clinging to him, “you’re seriously insane—”

“uh-huh,” he grins, kissing your cheek as he nudges the bathroom door open with his foot. “and i’m not done with you.”

he sets you on the bathroom counter first, tugging your top over your head with ease, eyes glued to your flushed skin. you’re sore, trembling, but your body betrays you—you want him just as bad.

he kisses you again, deeper this time. rougher. when his tongue slides against yours, you’re already breathless, already moaning into his mouth.

you barely register him turning on the shower until the room starts filling with steam. he lifts you again, both of you stumbling in, kissing, laughing, wanting.

you press your back against the cold tiles, and he’s right there—pinning you, caging you in with his arms, water running down his toned chest. his cock presses against your thigh, hard again. still.

“you feel that?” he grits out, grinding slowly. “you did this to me. you’re not getting away without paying for it.”

“i’m sore,” you whimper, lips brushing his. “and you’re still—so hard—”

“then let me make it worth it.”

and oh, he does.

he sinks to his knees, kissing down your stomach, your thighs, water beading off your skin like you’re something out of a fantasy. he licks a stripe up your inner thigh, hands firm on your waist as he pulls one of your legs over his shoulder.

“yeonjun—” your head thuds back against the tile, a broken moan slipping past your lips when he finally puts his mouth on you.

his tongue is relentless—slow, deep, teasing strokes that have your knees nearly buckling. and he knows it.

“taste so fucking good,” he groans into you, voice hoarse. “can’t get enough.”

your hands tangle in his hair, tugging, anchoring yourself as he eats you out like a man starved. it’s filthy—the slurping sounds, the water hitting the floor, your breathy moans echoing through the steamy air.

you come with a choked cry, legs shaking, body twitching—and yeonjun doesn’t stop. not until you’re whimpering, begging him to let you breathe.

he stands again, kisses you hard, makes you taste yourself on his tongue. then he’s lining up, hands on your hips, and you barely have time to register it before he pushes inside again.

“you said you were sore,” he growls in your ear, thrusts deep and slow, “but look at you—taking me like you were made for it.”

you can’t speak. you can’t think. not when he fucks you through the afterglow, lifting one of your legs to reach deeper, angling his hips just right until you’re a mess again—head lolling back, eyes rolling, lips parted.

“say my name,” he pants, kissing your neck. “let everyone know who’s fucking you this good.”

you do. over and over again.

you’re not even sure how long it’s been. time’s a blur, your voice is wrecked, and you’ve lost count of how many times he’s made you come. but yeonjun? he’s insatiable. his body’s flushed, breath heavy, eyes dark and absolutely feral—and he still wants more.

“think you can handle one more?” he murmurs, brushing the hair from your face, his thumb teasing your bottom lip. you’re trembling in his lap, straddling him under the hot water as it pours over your bodies, your legs barely able to hold you up.

you nod, eyes glassy, voice raspy. “yeah… just—just don’t go easy.”

his mouth twitches into a grin. “wasn’t planning to.”

he flips you around without warning—your palms slap against the foggy glass, back arching as he presses his body flush to yours. his hands roam your stomach, your chest, hips grinding into your ass with slow, sinful rolls.

“look at you,” he groans, dragging his cock through your folds. “still so wet—fuck, baby.”

and then he pushes in from behind.

you cry out, legs shaking again. he wraps an arm around your waist to hold you steady, the other tangled in your hair, tugging gently as he pounds into you.

skin slapping, breathy moans, wet sounds echoing off the tile—pure filth.

“you’re taking me so fucking good,” he grits out, thrusts sharp, relentless. “fuck—i can feel how deep i am.”

you’re a mess of “please,” “yes,” and “yeonjun,”—nothing coherent, just raw, whimpering need.

he pulls out abruptly and you almost collapse, but he catches you, lifts you like you’re nothing and pins you against the wall. your legs wrap around him again, his hands gripping under your thighs as he sinks back in, deeper than ever, your back hitting the tile with every thrust.

you sob his name against his lips, clinging to his shoulders.

and just when you think it’s too much, he lays you down on the counter—legs over his shoulders now, bending you in half, watching your face as he pushes in again.

“look at me,” he demands, holding your chin. “i wanna see how pretty you look when i ruin you.”

you shatter.

your body tenses, head thrown back, and you come again with a cry that could’ve woken the whole building.

yeonjun follows with a deep groan, burying himself inside you with one last, desperate thrust, fingers gripping your thighs like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

he kisses your forehead after, still inside you, both of you panting and shaking and soaked.

“…we’re definitely skipping class,” he whispers.

you laugh breathlessly, burying your face in his neck.

“worth it?”

you nod.

“worth every. fucking. second.”

“you’re unbelievable,” he mutters as he lays you down on the bed, both of you freshly showered but definitely not rested. your body’s still sensitive, twitching under his touch, but yeonjun? he’s hard again—pressed against your thigh, leaking, throbbing, desperate.

“jun…” you whisper, barely catching your breath. “you’re still—?”

he nods, eyes dark. “can’t help it. you’re too fucking pretty like this.” he kisses your neck, slowly trailing down your collarbone. “and you have no idea what you do to me.”

you whimper as he rolls you onto your stomach, then lifts your hips gently. you glance up, confused—until you see what he’s doing.

he’s angling you towards the mirror at the end of the bed.

“wanna show you,” he breathes, dragging your body back against him. “wanna show you why i keep getting hard for you… why i can’t stop.”

your cheeks flush as he reaches between your legs, fingers slipping through your folds again, spreading you open for the mirror.

“look,” he whispers, hot breath on your ear. “look how wet you still are.”

you try to turn your face away, shy—but he grabs your chin, gently but firm. “don’t hide. want you to see what i see.”

he pushes into you slowly from behind—and you see it all. the stretch, the slide, the way your mouth falls open when he bottoms out.

“fuck—look at that,” he growls, thrusting slow and deep. “your pussy’s so fucking perfect.”

you moan his name, hands gripping the sheets, your gaze locked to the mirror as he begins moving faster, harder, snapping his hips up into you like he’s got something to prove.

and he does.

“see that?” he pants, gripping your hips tighter. “that’s why i’m always hard. every time i see you. every time i think about this—about us.”

you’re shaking, tears slipping down your cheeks from the intensity. and he loves it.

“you’re mine, y/n,” he whispers, dragging your body up so your back’s to his chest. one hand cups your throat, the other sliding between your legs to rub soft circles. “say it.”

“yours,” you gasp, watching the way he ruins you in the mirror. “i’m yours.”

“say it louder.”

“i’m yours, yeonjun—fuck, i’m—!”

you come again, body tensing, back arching—and yeonjun loses it. he holds you through it, biting down on your shoulder with a deep groan as he spills inside you, grinding his hips as deep as they’ll go, cock twitching with every pulse.

you both collapse forward, panting, sticky, sweaty—and yeonjun chuckles, pressing kisses to your shoulder blade.

“maybe next time i’ll record it,” he murmurs. “show you how fucking gorgeous you look when you come on my cock.”

“you’re insane,” you whisper, completely ruined.

“for you?” he grins. “absolutely.”

“you sure?” he murmurs, voice hoarse as he hovers over you, phone in hand, the camera already glowing.

you nod, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from the way he’s been kissing you all night. “just don’t show anyone.”

his gaze darkens. “as if i’d let anyone else see you like this.”

he hits record.

you moan the moment he pushes into you—slow, deliberate, filling you inch by inch while the phone captures the way your legs tremble and your eyes roll back. his other hand is gripping yours tight, knuckles white, anchoring you as your body arches under him.

“fuck, baby,” he growls, angling the camera to show where you're connected. “look at how good you take me. so fucking tight, so wet—god, this pussy’s made for me.”

you’re panting, nearly incoherent, every drag of his cock making your thighs quake. he adjusts the angle so your face is in view too—messy, needy, yours eyes fluttering.

“you look so pretty like this,” he whispers, locking his eyes with yours. “you watching, sweetheart? look at how you’re falling apart for me.”

he thrusts harder, deeper, the camera shaking slightly with every motion as he fucks you into the mattress, your hands scrambling for purchase on his back.

“you like being filmed?” he breathes against your neck. “like knowing i’m gonna watch this again when you’re not here, jerking off to how you sound when i’m buried inside you?”

“yeonjun—fuck—”

he lets go of your hand, pressing your thighs up toward your chest, splitting you open as the camera captures everything—the stretch, the slick, the way your body trembles when he hits that perfect spot.

“come for me, baby. let them hear how good i fuck you.”

you sob his name as your orgasm crashes over you, shaking, broken, and he doesn’t stop—he fucks you through it, hissing when you clench around him, before finally gasping and spilling inside you with a low, wrecked moan of your name.

he ends the video with one final thrust and a deep kiss to your lips.

“mine,” he whispers. “every messy, gorgeous part of you.”

you’re still catching your breath, legs tangled with his, the sheets half-pulled off the bed and your body limp against his chest.

“you okay?” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

“barely,” you mumble, voice hoarse from how hard you were screaming minutes ago. “you literally folded me in half.”

“and you loved it,” he grins, smug and satisfied.

you slap his chest weakly, but there’s no heat in it—not when you’re still pulsing from the orgasm he just gave you, not when his hand keeps drifting higher and higher between your legs again.

“yeonjun—”

“what?” he says, wide-eyed and innocent. “can’t help it. you’re still so warm. still fucking soaked.”

you try to squirm away but he holds you tighter, one hand slipping down your stomach.

“baby…”

“just touching,” he says sweetly, fingers teasing the sensitive spot between your legs. “just wanna see how messy i made you.”

you gasp, hips jerking as his thumb circles your clit, soft and slow. it’s too much, too sensitive—and he knows it.

he shushes you gently, eyes dark as he watches your face. “so pretty when you squirm.”

you’re panting again, body twitching, and he hasn’t even fucked you again yet.

“fuck,” he mumbles, almost to himself. “i should show you how you looked earlier. recorded the whole thing. wanna watch?”

your eyes widen. “you didn’t—”

“you let me,” he grins. “remember? wanna watch it with me now, baby?”

he's already reaching for his phone.

“you’re insane,” you breathe out, forehead resting on his shoulder as he scrolls through his camera roll.

“mm, yeah? but you let me record it, didn’t you?” yeonjun grins, smug and shirtless, the glow from his phone casting a golden light over your flushed skin. “there it is.”

he hits play.

your moans, his groans, the filthy slap of skin against skin, your voice all desperate and needy—it fills the room instantly. you shift a little on his lap, already wet just from the sound of it.

“yeonjun…”

“you sound so hot, baby,” he murmurs, free hand sliding down to grip your hips. “look at how good you take me. you see that?”

you nod slowly, lip caught between your teeth as the video shows him thrusting into you from above, your face twisted in pleasure.

“ride me,” he says lowly. “like you did that night. but slower. i wanna feel every second of it.”

you sink down on him, gasping—he’s so hard already, so warm inside you, and your body fits around him too perfectly.

“shit, that’s it,” he groans, phone still in hand, but his eyes are locked on you now. “look at you. fuck. even better than the video.”

you roll your hips, slow and steady, matching the rhythm playing from the screen. he groans as your walls clench around him, the video moaning right along with you.

“you hear that?” he pants, voice strained. “you hear how wrecked you sounded for me?”

“yeonjun—”

“ride me just like that,” he growls, pressing the phone closer so you both watch. “fuck—look at your face. you were so messy, so needy for me. still are.”

you gasp as his hand slides up your back, pulling you down so your lips are almost touching. “and now? you’re on top of me, pussy soaking my cock, watching yourself fall apart like a perfect little slut.”

your nails dig into his chest, your rhythm faltering as the pleasure builds. he drops the phone beside you, finally gripping your hips with both hands, fucking up into you.

“gonna come for me again, sweetheart?” he pants. “you want me to record this too?”

“yes—fuck—yes—”

you fall apart in his arms again, head thrown back as you cry out his name, body trembling, walls spasming around him. he doesn’t stop until he’s spilling inside you with a broken groan, holding you there—all the way in—as you both shake from the aftershocks.

yeonjun's fingers trace lazy circles along your thigh, his other arm curled around your waist like he has no plans of letting go. his skin is warm, damp with sweat, and you feel every slow rise and fall of his breathing under your cheek.

later that day

You’re tucked into a corner booth at your favorite café with Karina and Winter, oversized iced drinks sweating on the table, and your voice pitched low as you try not to giggle too loudly.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry—but you let him record it?!” Winter nearly shrieks, slapping her hand over her mouth after realizing how loud she was.

You bury your face in your hands, laughing. “I was in the moment! He asked so sweetly, too, like—‘wanna see how pretty you look, baby’—ugh, I folded.”

Karina takes a slow sip of her drink, side-eyeing you. “Don’t act like you didn’t ride him while watching it back. That’s some power move shit. I'm proud.”

“I hate you both,” you mutter, but your grin gives you away.

Winter leans in. “Okay but seriously. Do you love him?”

You pause.

Like, really pause.

The strawberry swirl of your drink is suddenly the most fascinating thing on Earth, but you feel your chest tighten in a way that answers the question even before you say anything.

“I think I do,” you whisper, and both girls go quiet.

Then Karina nudges your foot under the table. “Aww, our little slut’s in love.”

“Don’t call me that in public!” you hiss, blushing hard.

“Too late,” Winter smirks. “Already tweeted it.”

You flip her off, and she blows you a kiss.

meanwhile, across town – yeonjun’s pov

“So,” Beomgyu says, propping his chin on his hand. “How does it feel to be the biggest simp in Seoul?”

Yeonjun rolls his eyes and takes a bite of his burger. “Shut up.”

“No, you shut up,” Taehyun adds. “You show up late to practice, looking like you’ve been drained—literally—and you keep smiling at your phone like a lovesick high schooler.”

“Because I like her?” Yeonjun shrugs. “Sorry I’m not a cold emotionally unavailable asshole like the rest of you.”

“So you do like her,” Soobin says with a smirk.

Yeonjun groans but he’s smiling. “I love her, actually. If that makes you feel better.”

The table goes quiet for half a second.

Then Beomgyu bangs the table. “YO. HE SAID IT. HE’S GONE. HE’S FUCKING GONE.”

Taehyun mock-wipes a tear. “Our boy finally found someone to rail and respect.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Yeonjun mumbles, hiding his grin in his drink. But inside, his heart’s racing a little.

Yeah. He’s so gone for you.

yeonjun’s pov

He’s halfway through roasting Beomgyu for losing a game of pool when his phone buzzes on the table. He glances down, and his entire face lights up like a damn sunrise.

“Who is it?” Soobin asks, already knowing the answer.

Yeonjun doesn’t respond—just picks up the FaceTime without hesitation.

“Hey, baby,” he says, voice dropping half an octave, smiling like a fool.

The screen shows your face, flushed from the café heat, lips glossy from whatever fruity drink you were sipping. “Hi,” you grin, a little breathless. “Missed you.”

Beomgyu chokes on his drink. “MISS—?”

Taehyun snorts. “I’m gonna puke.”

Yeonjun flips them off with his free hand, still smiling at you. “What’re you doing? You look cute.”

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Just left the café. Karina and Winter say hi. And that you’re whipped.”

“Oh, do they now?” he murmurs, eyes softening. “Tell them they’re right.”

Soobin actually gags dramatically in the background.

You squint at the screen. “Are you with the guys?”

Yeonjun hesitates. “...No.”

“Bro, I’m literally sitting across from you,” Beomgyu says loudly.

“Love you too, babe!” Taehyun shouts.

You burst out laughing, and Yeonjun sighs, resting his forehead in his hand. “I hate them.”

“You love her though,” Soobin sings.

Yeonjun groans, but the grin on his face isn’t going anywhere. “Okay. Gotta go before they start planning our wedding. Text me when you get home, yeah?”

“I will. Love you.”

The call ends, and the boys go feral.

“YOU SAID IT FIRST?” Beomgyu screams.

“WHIPPED!!!” Taehyun echoes.

Soobin takes a slow sip of his drink. “How’s that honeymoon planning going, Jun?”

Yeonjun just flips them off again and mumbles, “worth it.”

later that night…

Yeonjun’s sprawled on his bed, one hand holding the remote, the other resting on his chest, scrolling aimlessly through TikTok. His friends finally left after another two hours of teasing the lover boy, and he’s been moping ever since you hung up.

So when the knock comes at the door, he doesn’t expect you to be the one standing there with a hoodie two sizes too big and that little smug smile on your lips.

“Surprise,” you say, holding up takeout and a drink with his name scribbled on the side.

He just stares at you for a second, like you’re not real.

“…baby?” he says, blinking.

You nod. “I missed you.”

That’s all it takes.

In seconds, the food’s forgotten on the desk and you’re pressed into the wall of his bedroom, hoodie bunched around your hips as his lips trail messily down your neck.

“Fuck—what if I didn’t open the door?” he murmurs against your jaw.

“You always open the door for me.”

“You’re right. ‘Cause I’m yours,” he breathes, hands sliding under the hoodie, up your thighs, his fingers grazing the hem of your shorts. “And right now? I need you.”

You gasp as he lifts you easily, your legs wrapping around his waist like second nature. He’s hot, flushed, grinding against you without shame, tongue slipping past your lips in a kiss that makes your head spin.

“You show up like this,” he mutters, trailing kisses down to your collarbone, “and expect me to just eat takeout?”

You tug on his hair, arching into him. “Who said anything about eating?”

“Oh, you’re unreal,” he groans, dragging you to the bed.

He doesn’t waste a second, pinning you underneath him as his lips roam, his hands pushing your hoodie up, eyes dark and hungry.

“Missed me that bad?” you tease, breathless.

He hums lowly, hips rolling against yours. “You have no idea.”

“You have no idea.”

His voice is barely a growl as he tugs the hoodie over your head, revealing nothing but bare skin underneath. His eyes darken instantly.

“fuck.” he stares for a moment, thumb brushing over your bare chest like he’s trying to memorize every inch. “you really just walked in here like this?”

“wanted your attention,” you whisper, eyes fluttering.

“you have it, sweetheart.”

his mouth is on you a second later, sucking a mark into your collarbone as his hands roam your waist, your thighs, your hips—pulling you flush against him. you can feel how hard he already is, pressed tight against the damp cotton between your legs.

“bed,” he rasps, grabbing the backs of your thighs again and tossing you onto the mattress like you weigh nothing. he crawls over you slowly, eyes fixed on your face as he kisses your stomach, then down, then lower.

“can i?” he murmurs, fingers curling into the band of your shorts.

you nod quickly, breath caught in your throat. “please.”

they’re gone in a flash, and then he’s spreading your thighs apart, groaning at the sight of you—already soaked, already twitching for him.

“shit, baby. you were waiting for this?”

“yeonjun—” your voice cuts off in a gasp as his tongue swipes through your folds, slow and deliberate. he eats you out like he’s starving, gripping your thighs, humming against your clit as you squirm under his touch.

he doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, whining, begging, your fingers tangled in his hair as you buck up against his mouth.

“gonna come?” he asks, licking his lips.

“yes, fuck—yes—”

but he pulls away at the last second, and you nearly sob at the loss.

“ride me first,” he says, voice wrecked, dragging you up and flipping you over so you’re straddling his hips. “want you to fall apart on top of me.”

you sink down on him with a broken moan, your body clenching as he fills you inch by inch, thick and hot and perfect inside you.

“shit, that’s it—ride me, baby. show me how bad you missed this cock.”

you start to move—slow at first, rolling your hips, grinding into him, until his hands grab your ass and guide you into a filthy rhythm. your name is falling from his lips over and over again, his mouth latching onto your chest as you bounce above him.

“you’re so tight,” he groans, eyes half-lidded. “so fucking good. look at you—riding me like you’re made for it.”

you lean forward, moaning into his mouth as he thrusts up into you harder, faster, both of you a mess of sweat and whimpers and wet skin. your head falls to his shoulder, fingers clawing into his chest.

“you close?” he pants.

“yes—fuck, yes—yeonjun—”

you cry out his name as your orgasm hits, body spasming around him, and he’s not far behind—hips jerking, spilling inside you with a raw, desperate groan.

you collapse against his chest, both of you trembling, hearts racing.

he kisses your forehead, holding you close.

“you always show up when i need you,” he whispers.

"You’re mine."

It’s the way he says it—quiet but rough, like he needs you to know. Like he can’t stand another second without reminding you.

You’re beneath him, legs tangled in the sheets, your shirt bunched up around your ribs. His hips rock against yours slowly, the stretch of him inside you already making your legs shake. But it’s his eyes—locked on you, all intense and wanting—that make your chest feel tight.

“say it,” he whispers against your neck, voice gravel. “say you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” you breathe out, barely able to form the words.

he groans, kissing you deep, tongue licking into your mouth while his hips push in deeper—a steady, sinful pace that’s nothing like the roughness before. it’s slow. intentional. intimate.

“good girl,” he mutters, thumb brushing over your lips. “you feel that? that’s how deep you take me. every fucking inch.”

your back arches, hands gripping his arms as you moan out his name. he thrusts again—deeper, slower—like he wants to memorize every sound you make, every twitch of your body beneath him.

“i love you,” he says suddenly, panting against your jaw. “fuck—I’m so in love with you, baby.”

your heart skips. your body tightens. everything feels like too much and not enough.

you kiss him—hard, messy, teeth clashing—as your hips start to move with his, chasing the edge together. it’s raw, tender, and so desperate it nearly breaks you.

“yeonjun—i love you,” you gasp, your nails digging into his back. “please—don’t stop—”

“never,” he groans. “never stopping, not when you feel like this. not when you love me like this.”

he fucks into you with slow, punishing strokes, groaning your name with every thrust, until you’re trembling, thighs wrapped tight around him, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure of it all.

“come with me,” he pants. “come with me, baby, please—fuck—i need you to—”

you fall apart at the same time, clutching onto each other like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the world. you come hard, gasping his name, and he follows—shuddering, spilling inside you with a low moan as he presses kisses to your neck, your cheek, your lips.

he doesn’t pull away. not even when you’re both wrecked and panting and twitching with every aftershock.

he just stays inside, wraps you up in his arms, and murmurs soft, broken things against your skin.

“you’re everything.”

the air’s heavy with sex and love and the kind of tension that never really leaves once it’s been touched.

you thought he’d be done after that—after whispering i love you into your skin like it was prayer. after coming inside you like he meant it. but no.

yeonjun’s still hard.

still wanting.

still yours.

your body’s limp from the first round, breaths shallow, heart still thudding like it’s trying to make sense of everything he just did to you. but he doesn’t give you long. doesn’t give you a moment to recover before he’s kissing your shoulder, hands sliding under the sheets to grab your hips again.

“turn around for me, baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low and dark. “wanna see you on all fours.”

you shiver. your legs tremble. but you move.

you shift slowly, limbs heavy, letting him guide you—pulling your hips up, arching your back, face pressed to the pillows while your ass is up for him, all flushed and wet and ready again.

he moans when he sees you like that.

“look at you,” he mutters, hand ghosting over your ass before he grabs it—fingers rough, greedy. “so pretty. so fuckin’ perfect.”

you feel him shift behind you, knees parting, his cock pressing back into you with maddening patience. he slides in again—slow, teasing. the stretch is too much, but you whimper for more.

he pins your arms behind your back with one hand, forcing your chest down against the mattress.

you can’t move. can’t think. can only feel.

“you can take it,” he growls, hips starting to thrust with more force, more rhythm. “you took it earlier. you can take it again.”

the sound of skin slapping skin echoes in the room, and he’s going deeper this time—shoving in harder, dragging it out just to hear you sob into the sheets.

his mouth is everywhere. biting into your shoulder, sucking hickeys down your spine, your waist, even the curve of your ass. branding you like he wants everyone to know you’re his.

“all mine,” he pants. “say it.”

“y-yours,” you cry, legs shaking.

he lets go of your arms just to grab your neck, pulling you up so your back hits his chest, his cock still slamming into you from behind.

“say it louder, baby.”

“i’m yours!” you scream, your body breaking apart.

he wraps his other arm around your stomach, holding you still while he thrusts up into you like he’s chasing your soul. you come like that—again—clenching around him so tight he gasps and curses and bites your shoulder as he comes with you, teeth sinking in to muffle the growl that rips out of him.

you both collapse after. a mess of limbs and gasps and heat.

he doesn’t pull out. just lets himself soften inside you, arms wrapped tight, your bodies stuck together with sweat and come and love so deep it aches.

“you good?” he murmurs against your ear, thumb stroking the edge of one fresh hickey.

you don’t answer. you’re gone. boneless. breathless. he chuckles.

“gonna have to carry you to the bathroom again, huh?”

your body’s trembling, skin flushed and marked, breath barely evened out from the last one. you’re sure he’d let you sleep now, sure he’d hold you close and whisper something sweet.

but then he shifts beside you.

not done.

not satisfied.

not even close.

you feel the way his hand drags down your thigh, slow and possessive. his voice comes next, low and lazy and soaked in heat.

“still breathing?” he murmurs against your neck, tongue flicking over the hickey he left there earlier.

you hum, exhausted but drunk on him. “barely.”

his hand slips between your thighs again, palm pressing against your core, and you flinch—sensitive.

“yeonjun—”

“just one more, baby,” he says, voice coaxing and sweet as sin. “last one. let me make you feel good again.”

you try to protest, but your legs part instinctively when his fingers dip lower, playing with the mess he left inside you. he groans at the wet sound of it.

“fuck, still so full of me,” he mutters. “you’re unreal.”

you don’t even realize he’s gotten up until you’re being gently pushed onto your side. he’s behind you in seconds—pressing in, spooning you, kissing your shoulder. you feel the hard press of him again, thick and ready, sliding between your thighs before he slowly—so slowly—pushes into you from behind.

“mm—fuck—jun…”

“i know, baby,” he breathes, wrapping his arm around you, pinning your hips in place while he moves inside. “i got you.”

this time it’s slower. deeper. the kind that builds a fire instead of starting one. his lips press kisses along your neck, whispering the filthiest, sweetest things into your ear.

“you feel that? how warm you are around me?”

“wish i could stay inside you forever.”

“you’re my favorite place in the whole fucking world.”

you clutch the pillow under your head, body trembling as he rocks into you with perfect rhythm. his fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, firm circles that make your thighs twitch.

you’re so full of him—his cock, his breath, his voice, his love—and it pushes you right over the edge one last time.

you come with a gasp, tears in your eyes, legs shaking as he follows right behind you, groaning your name into your skin like a promise.

he stays inside you after.

holding you tight.

whispering, “you did so good for me.”

pressing a kiss to your temple.

letting the silence wrap around your bodies like a blanket.

he pulls out gently, careful not to overstimulate you more than he already has. his hands find yours under the sheets, fingers lacing together.

“okay,” he whispers. “now you can sleep.”

and this time—you do.

MORNING AFTER

your eyes flutter open to soft breaths against your nape, the warm brush of skin, and an annoyingly firm grip wrapped around your waist.

“jun,” you mumble, voice raw, reaching back to nudge his arm. “let go. i have to pee.”

“no,” comes the groggy reply, muffled against your shoulder. “you’re not allowed to leave.”

you blink. “…you’re insane.”

“mm, maybe. but you’re warm,” he pouts, snuggling closer. “and naked. which is a bonus.”

you feel his morning wood pressed up against your ass and groan. “are you serious?”

“i’m always serious about cuddles and you,” he mutters, tightening his hold. “and if you move again, i’ll get hard for real and we’ll be here for another hour.”

you freeze. “…fine. i’ll hold it.”

he smiles into your skin, satisfied, and lets out a happy hum. “that’s my good girl.”

you roll your eyes, face buried into the pillow as his fingers lazily trace shapes along your belly. he shifts a little, pulling your thigh over his so you’re completely tangled up in him.

he smells like bodywash and sleep. he feels like safety. and when he presses a gentle kiss to your neck, you melt all over again.

“you’re never getting out of this bed,” he murmurs, half-asleep but smug as ever.

and honestly?

you’re okay with that.

THE END an: liked what you read? lmk so i can continue posting these kinds of genre. and btw, all this romance is making me sick, time for a dark romance genre next? just say the word and i'll start working on it babies ! mwaaaaa

[aamirazx]

AMAZING, SPECTACULAR WRITING AHHH

(🔐)🖇 ༘ ⋆"How to Date Discreetly"

' ╰┈ "the day that i met you i started dreaming"

' ' 박성훈 x fem!reader

🎧ྀི 'ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Kingston (Faye Webster)

♫⋆₊˚ ﾟ. 'ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ genre / tags: idol!sunghoon x idol!reader, ice prince x reckless rookie, secret & established relationship, enemies to lovers (kinda), fluff, smut (2nd part) – MDNI, angst (minor), a pinch of comedy ੈ✩‧₊˚warnings: NSFW WARNINGS ON CHAPTER 2 (no smut on this part) ! smut, slight jealousy (m), language, detailed explicit scenes, angst (minor), reader on the pill (birth control), mutual hate that’s just actually horny confusion, mild hate (online), – ugh, theyre so in love, its intoxicating ✩‧₊˚ wc: 6472 –1/2 (mini series) ੈ♡ a/n: lol this is peak delusion. dont like, dont read. also, im open for constructive critisism but fact checks or logical expected outcome are out of the picture, come on yall, this is fanfiction. also, wtf. shit, i really made this? hoon is so fucking adorable, argue with me if you disagree :p . uploading part two tomorrow 5pm kst :) part two is up and posted *^★ playlist: kingston (faye webster), lowkey (niki), august (taylor swift), soft spot (keshi), always (daniel caesar), best part (daniel caesar & h.e.r.), almost is never enough (ariana grande & nathan sykes)

dating was never hard for you.

you breezed through high school with a boyfriend for every semester, each one a lesson in love. you weren’t heartless—you did like them. maybe not enough to cry after the breakups, but enough to smile while it lasted.

you were living the easy life. pretty, popular, and always in love with something… or someone.

but all of that changed on a thursday afternoon.

you’d just turned down a free meal from your friends (and it was their treat, ugh) because your sister texted you, “buy the skincare stuff i told you about. only from that store near the station. they run out fast.”

so there you were, dodging pedestrians, phone in hand, a bit annoyed, very hungry.

you sighed, glancing at your screen for the third time—no calls, no new texts.

and then you noticed her.

a woman, maybe mid-thirties, blazer and red lipstick, standing across the sidewalk and watching you.

your brows knit instinctively. weird. you kept walking.

but then she followed.

“excuse me,” she said, heels clicking as she caught up to you.

you turned. “uh… yes?”

she smiled, like she already knew you. “sorry if this is random. i’m a manager at (-) entertainment. and… have you ever thought of becoming an idol?”

you blinked.

“me?”

“you’ve got the face. the vibe. we’re recruiting trainees right now. it’s competitive, but i think you have a real shot.”

you stared. was this real? was she legit?

she pulled out a card, glossy and gold-trimmed. it looked expensive. official.

“call this number,” she said. “auditions are still required, but… i can pull a few strings.”

and just like that, she walked away.

later that night

you sat at the dinner table, card on your lap, phone in your hand, still processing.

“what’s that?” your sister asked, peering over.

“uh… a manager gave it to me,” you muttered. “she wants me to audition. to be a trainee.”

your mom nearly dropped her spoon.

your dad blinked like he misheard.

“a what now?” he asked.

your sister grabbed the card, eyes wide. “no way. (-) entertainment? they’re huge. that’s, like, the company.”

“it’s probably fake,” you said quickly. “i mean, i haven’t even danced in public before.”

your mom smiled gently. “if it’s something you’re curious about… we’ll support you.”

“what if i’m not good enough?”

“then you’ll try. and if it’s not for you, you’ll walk away knowing you tried.”

your sister nudged your arm. “do it, loser. if you debut, i can brag about you.”

you laughed, but your heart was pounding.

a few weeks later, you stood backstage after your audition, heart thumping, palms sweaty.

the evaluator handed your file to someone behind them.

“she’s raw,” the woman murmured. “but i like her. give her the green light.”

that night, you got the call.

you were officially a trainee.

you were late.

again.

you burst into the practice room, sneakers squeaking against the floor, hair sticking to your forehead. seven other trainees glanced up—some sympathetic, some smug. the trainer didn’t even look surprised.

but he did.

sunghoon.

he was leaning against the mirror, arms crossed, black sweatpants, white shirt clinging to him like he’d already been at it for hours. perfect posture. flawless control. and the most judgmental eyes you’ve ever seen.

“this is the third time this week,” he said flatly.

you rolled your eyes, dropping your bag. “thanks for counting, mom.”

a snicker echoed from someone in the back. the trainer sighed.

“five laps. now,” she barked.

you groaned and started running.

sunghoon turned to the trainer. “i don’t know why you waste time on people who can’t take this seriously.”

you stopped mid-lap, heart racing for a new reason.

“excuse me?”

he glanced at you, cool and unbothered. “you heard me.”

“you don’t even know me.”

“i don’t have to. it’s obvious.”

you wanted to throw your shoe at him. or maybe yourself—how dare he look like that while being such an ass?

“you know, not everyone got trained with a silver spoon in their mouth,” you snapped. “some of us have to catch up.”

his jaw clenched. oh. that got to him.

“then maybe catch up quietly.”

later that week

“again!” the vocal coach yelled. “you're off tempo!”

you bit your lip, trying to hide how winded you were. sunghoon stood beside you, breathing steady, voice perfect, hair annoyingly perfect.

when the session ended, you stayed behind, muttering the chorus under your breath, trying to fix it. your body ached, throat dry.

“you’re holding your breath wrong,” he said suddenly.

you jumped. “oh my god—can you not sneak up like that?”

he leaned against the doorframe, arms folded again. why was he always doing that?

“i’m not sneaking. you’re just slow.”

“and you’re just insufferable.”

he walked over, stopped behind you.

“breathe here,” he said, lightly tapping your stomach. “not up here.” he tapped your chest.

you tensed. “if you’re going to insult me again, don’t bother.”

he sighed. not annoyed. tired. softer than you expected.

“look. i don’t think you’re bad. i just think… you’re distracted.”

you turned, suspicious. “and what would you know about me?”

he shrugged. “nothing. yet.”

your heartbeat did the most annoying little skip.

“for next week’s evaluation,” the trainer said, scribbling on the board, “you’ll be performing in pairs.”

groans. whispers. panic.

sunghoon raised his hand, calm as ever. “do we get to choose partners?”

the trainer gave him a tight-lipped smile.

“no.”

and then she said your name.

and then she said his.

dead. silence.

sunghoon’s head snapped toward you. you were already staring, wide-eyed, mouth open like someone just told you santa wasn’t real and sunghoon would be your new stepdad.

“what?” you said.

“no.” he said at the same time.

the trainer arched a brow. “you two clearly have chemistry.”

“hate-mistry,” you muttered.

“professionalism, park,” she said. “and you, too, y/n. if either of you screws this up, you’re both out of the showcase.”

that shut you up real fast.

day one of practicing together

you stood at the center of the room, arms crossed, glaring at him.

he mirrored you, looking about three seconds from snapping.

“you need to follow my lead,” he said.

“and you need to drop your ego.”

“i’ve been training for years.”

“cool, i’ve been dancing since i was five.”

“not the same.”

“let’s find out.”

music blasted through the speaker—some upbeat, sexy number that had no business making this situation worse.

and yet—you kept up. every move. every beat. matching him step for step, hips snapping, body sharp. when you spun and ended up right in front of him, close enough to feel his breath—

he blinked. stunned. just a little.

you smirked.

“not bad,” you said.

his ears went pink.

day three

you both ran the routine again. and again. until sweat dripped from your jaw and your hair clung to your temples.

the trainer clapped slowly from behind.

“didn’t expect that,” she said. “y/n—your control improved. and sunghoon, i’m glad you finally look like you're dancing with someone instead of against them.”

your lips twitched.

he side-eyed you. “don’t let it go to your head.”

you grinned. “you’re just mad i’m good.”

he didn’t respond.

later, as you wiped your face with a towel, he walked over—less guarded. still annoyingly perfect.

“you really haven’t trained before?”

you shook your head. “just picked things up. why?”

he hesitated.

“…you’re a fast learner.”

you looked up, surprised.

“and you don’t hesitate. most new trainees wait for permission to mess up.”

you blinked. “…was that a compliment?”

he smirked, turning away. “no.”

(yes.)

the music cuts. your breath is caught somewhere between your chest and throat. sunghoon’s hand is still on your waist. your head is tilted back, lips just barely parted—and his eyes are on you. unreadable.

nobody moves.

"are they dating or something?" someone whispers too loudly.

"wow?" another trainee mutters.

the trainer exhales like she just witnessed art.

“that…” she starts, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. “was beyond what i asked for.”

you try to catch your breath. your body still buzzing from the adrenaline. from the dance. from him.

you don’t look at sunghoon when you mutter, “told you i wasn’t just a pretty face.”

but you feel it—how his grip on you lingers just a beat too long before he lets go.

you’re surrounded before you can even step off the floor. compliments, questions, stares—all of it buzzing in your ears.

“that was insane—”

“i didn’t even know she could dance like that.”

“how did they sync so well?”

“isn’t she new?”

you brush past it. you’re used to attention, sure. but this? this is different. this is real.

you find your way to a bench, just as someone flops down next to you.

“you’re kind of a show-off,” yeonjun says, nudging your arm.

you scoff. “jealous?”

“nah, just impressed. you looked like you were born on stage.”

you grin. “thanks.”

he pauses. “...but dancing that close to sunghoon? bold move.”

you roll your eyes. “wasn’t like i had a choice.”

across the room, sunghoon watches. sighing.

“you good?” jay asks, sipping his water bottle.

sunghoon’s averted. “he’s touching her.”

jay raises an eyebrow, finding you and a man together on a bench. “you mean yeonjun?”

“who else would i mean?”

jay blinks. “you do realize you sound like a jealous boyfriend right now?”

sunghoon scoffs. “i’m not jealous.”

“sure.”

“i’m not,” he repeats, harsher this time.

you pass by just in time to catch that last line.

you freeze. look back. sunghoon doesn’t see you.

but now you’ve seen him. and something about that look on his face—it doesn’t match the version of him you’ve built in your head.

your knee twinges wrong during a routine—small misstep, sharp sting. you hiss, stumble, fall back on the floor.

the door creaks open.

you tense—expecting a trainer or staff. instead, it’s sunghoon. of course it’s sunghoon.

“what the hell are you doing here alone?” he asks, stepping in.

you glare. “i could ask you the same thing.”

he walks over anyway. crouches beside you. “you could’ve gotten seriously hurt.”

“i didn’t,” you mutter, but the way you’re holding your leg says otherwise.

without another word, he grabs the first aid kit from the wall. wraps your knee like he’s done it a hundred times before.

you watch him. confused. curious. quiet.

“…you really care about this, huh?” he says eventually, not looking at you.

“about what?”

“training. performing. dancing.”

you shrug. “is that surprising?”

“a little.”

“why? because i don’t break my back trying to look perfect in front of the trainers?”

“because you make it look easy.”

you pause. “it’s not. i just don’t let anyone see when it’s hard.”

that makes him glance at you. just for a second. then—

“…you’re good, you know.”

you blink. “what?”

“you’re good. at this. i just didn’t want to admit it before.”

you laugh, breathless. “was that… a compliment?”

he stands up, tossing the bandage wrapper in the bin.

“don’t get used to it,” he mutters.

but he doesn’t leave.

and neither do you.

sunghoon was irritated. no—scratch that. he was pissed.

you were laughing at something yeonjun said, all wide-eyed and glossy-lipped, head tilted back like he just told the funniest joke in existence. maybe he did. maybe he didn’t. either way, hoon didn’t like the view from across the room.

he wasn’t sure what ticked him off more—the way your fingers brushed yeonjun’s arm, or the way yeonjun let them.

“you good?” jay asked beside him, noticing the stiff jaw, the tight grip on his water bottle.

“fine.”

a lie.

jay wasn’t stupid.

“you’ve got a weird definition of fine if it includes staring daggers at yeonjun’s face.”

sunghoon didn’t respond. just looked away. jay chuckled.

“she’s cute, huh.”

hoon scoffed. “please. she’s a walking red flag.”

“yeah?”

“yeah. too bold. too flirty. i don’t get how she always gets praise like that.”

jay grinned knowingly. “you mean, praise like she danced better than you yesterday?”

sunghoon gave him a flat look. jay laughed again. “man, just admit it. you like her.”

what he didn’t know was that you were behind the door, holding your breath. oh, you heard that. every word.

so the next day? you stepped on the gas.

“sunghoon,” you greeted, your voice all sugar and sin. “nice to see you glaring at me from across the room again. missed my face that much?”

his eyes narrowed. “you wish.”

“oh, i know you do,” you said with a smirk, stepping just a little too close. “you get jealous so easily. it’s kinda cute.”

“you’re delusional.”

“mm, maybe. but i’m also winning this little game we have.”

“what game?”

“oh, so you do admit we’re playing one.”

he didn’t answer. you leaned in, lips near his ear.

“catch up, sunghoon. or i’ll flirt with someone else again.”

the hallway was dark except for the faint glow bleeding under one door.

you already knew it was him.

you hesitated, then knocked—lightly, like a whisper.

inside, the music wasn’t playing. just silence. and when you opened the door and peeked in, you found him sitting with his back against the mirror, sweat-drenched shirt clinging to his skin, eyes heavy like they hadn’t rested in days.

he looked up. tired. annoyed, maybe.

“what do you want?”

you raised a brow. “aw, you missed me that much?”

he didn’t laugh. just huffed, dropping his head back against the mirror.

you walked in anyway.

“heard your team’s debut’s getting real close,” you said, plopping down next to him on the floor, knees brushing. “congrats.”

he didn’t respond.

you looked at him sideways, voice gentler now. “you okay?”

he nodded, but his fingers were twitchy—fiddling with his rings, bouncing his knee. anxious.

“you don’t look okay.”

he let out a breath. it shook a little.

you leaned forward, peeking at his face. “when was the last time you even slept?”

“don’t remember.”

you reached into your bag and tossed him a mini water bottle. “hydrate, superstar.”

he caught it, glanced at you. “why are you even here?”

you shrugged. “i could say i was worried. or that i heard music earlier and came to see what you were working on.”

you paused. “but honestly? you looked like a kicked puppy lately. i thought i’d put you out of your misery.”

he snorted. actually snorted.

progress.

you beamed. “there it is! that cute little laugh.”

“wasn’t a laugh.”

“was a laugh,” you said firmly. “i have excellent ears. dancer ears. and that? that was a giggle.”

he shook his head, hiding the smile pulling at his lips.

you fell quiet for a bit. then, in a softer voice:

“must be scary. having everything come at you at once. pressure. cameras. fans. and barely anyone who really knows what you’re going through.”

his jaw tensed.

you leaned your head back, mirroring him.

“i think about it sometimes. how that might be me in a year or two. training ‘til i drop. debuting and... still feeling alone.”

you glanced at him. “but hey. at least you’re not alone right now, right?”

sunghoon turned to you.

your face was relaxed. you weren’t being kind out of pity. this wasn’t charity. it was just... you.

for a second, he forgot about everything else.

“you’re really annoying, you know,” he mumbled.

“and yet you look like you’d die without me.”

he looked away, but not before you saw the smile he tried to hide again.

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

the hallway was loud again. busy. debut-season chaos in full swing. managers barking schedules, stylists dragging suitcases, trainees practicing lines and formations in every corner.

you stood off to the side, sipping banana milk like you were just background noise.

“look alive, rookie,” someone called, nearly bumping into you.

you gave a lazy salute. “yes sir.”

just another day of not being noticed.

sunghoon passed by with his group—a cluster of stylists, staff, and busy energy. he didn’t look your way.

not that you cared.

but you didn't see the way he glanced back at you.

“people come and go,” you muttered, raising your banana milk like a toast. “that’s showbiz, baby.”

and then you tripped on a suitcase a stylist must've left there, you didn't see or too distracted to notice.

the banana milk went flying. your knees nearly kissed the floor. and when you looked up—sunghoon was right there.

of course he was.

he blinked down at you, eyebrows raised, and said nothing.

you, sprawled like a tragic mop, just smiled. “hi.”

he blinked, eyebrows raised. “you good?”

you held up the now half-empty drink. “well, the banana milk isn't.”

he bit back a smile. “that’s your third time tripping in front of me this month.”

you raised a brow. “you count my embarrassments now?”

“it's starting to feel intentional.”

you got up, brushing yourself off. “please, if i were trying to get your attention, i’d go bigger. maybe a cartwheel. or a dramatic monologue.”

“the floor dive was convincing.”

you smiled. “i like to keep it original.” then, a little quieter, “you’ve been busy lately.”

his smile faltered just slightly.

you waved it off. “no, seriously. you’ve got fans and press and a glam team. i’ve got... banana milk.”

“sounds like a solid support system.”

you laughed, but your smile faded when he glanced down the hall. his team was already moving.

“you should go,” you said. “hair and makeup’s waiting.”

he hesitated. “you sure?”

you nodded. “go be famous.”

he looked at you like he wanted to say more. but then he just nodded, and walked away.

you watched him leave. then looked down at your shoe.

still sticky.

“tragic,” you whispered.

a few days later

the vending machine blinked angrily at the girl in front of it.

the girl—probably thirteen, maybe fourteen—had her tiny fists clenched and was glaring up at the machine like it had insulted her ancestors.

you crouched beside her, trying not to laugh. “did the evil robot eat your money again?”

“yes!” she huffed. “i pressed the peach drink but it gave me black coffee! that’s not even close!”

you gasped, clutching your chest. “that’s betrayal. you’ve just been betrayed.”

“i don’t even like coffee! It tastes like burnt sadness!”

you dramatically nodded. “we must avenge you.”

she grinned. “you think I can sue?”

“only if you’ve got a lawyer. or at least a really angry eonni (older sister) .”

she tilted her head. “you’ll do.”

at that moment, you kicked the machine gently (totally just a little tap, you’re not trying to go viral for violence). and... silence. the drink didn't fall. awkward.

the little girl snorted, holding her laugh with all her might.

you smiled, laughing under your breath and kicking the vending machine again, a little love tap and—miraculously—the peach drink clunked down into the bin.

both of you screamed.

“victory!!” “you’re a vending machine master!”

you laughed. “told you i can save you.”

a low chuckle behind you made you freeze.

you turned, slow-motion style, to see sunghoon standing there with a water bottle. heeseung stood beside him, sweaty from practice and grinning.

heeseung gave a thumbs-up. “iconic vending machine diplomacy.”

sunghoon raised an eyebrow. “burnt sadness, huh?”

you stood up straight. “i—she didn’t mean—”

“she meant it,” the girl said proudly, sipping her drink. “she says it tastes like regret in a cup.”

you stared at her, betrayed. “you were supposed to have my back.”

sunghoon laughed. like, really laughed. the kind that made your stomach twist a little.

“didn’t know you were mentoring now.”

you shrugged. “somebody’s gotta fight for the little ones. didn't know you were keeping tabs on me now.”

heeseung grabbed his drink, still chuckling. “i’m hanging out here more often.”

sunghoon lingered, eyes still on you. “you’re good with kids.”

you blinked. “oh.”

he smiled, soft and small, before heading off. “try not to start a vending machine riot next time.”

you stood there, stuck.

the girl tugged your sleeve. “...you like him, huh?”

you looked down at her. “no idea what you’re talking about.”

she narrowed her eyes. “peach tea never lies.”

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

“i feel like i keep seeing her everywhere lately,” sunghoon said later, on their way back to the practice room.

heeseung gave him a look. “more like you keep noticing her.”

sunghoon didn’t answer right away. just stared ahead, thoughtful.

heeseung nudged him. “you’re smiling, dude.”

sunghoon wiped the smile off his face immediately. “no, i’m not.”

“you’re so obvious.”

he didn’t say anything for a while.

but later, he’d find himself glancing down hallways a little more. wondering if banana milk girl would be there.

just... wondering.

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

you hadn’t cried in weeks. not since training got serious.

but tonight? the moment the studio door clicked shut behind you, the tears came.

your hands were sore. your voice was gone. and no matter how hard you trained, you still felt behind—like everyone else had a head start and you were just catching up, slipping on a treadmill that wouldn't stop.

the mirror felt cruel. it always did when you weren’t at your best.

and then—

a knock. soft, careful.

you wiped your face fast, spinning around like nothing happened. “practice room’s full. try the one on the second floor.”

“already did.”

your breath hitched.

sunghoon stood in the doorway, hoodie pulled over his head, cap low. casual. unbothered. he should be prepping for stage performances, meetings, shoots—life after debut.

but he was here.

you blinked. “aren’t you like, super busy?”

he shrugged, stepping in. “don’t tell my manager.”

you let out a small laugh. it cracked.

he sat beside you like he belonged there. like no time had passed.

“you’ve been avoiding me,” he said softly.

“i’ve been busy.”

“so have i.”

you didn’t say anything.

he nudged you. “talk to me.”

you bit your cheek. “what’s there to talk about?”

he looked at you, really looked at you.

“you’re scared.”

you looked away. “i’m not.”

“you are.” he reached out, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. his fingers lingered just a second longer. “i was too.”

you met his eyes. they weren’t teasing or smug. just... warm.

“hoon, i’m the last trainee to enter and they expect me to keep up with girls who’ve been doing this for years. i feel like i’m constantly proving that i deserve to be here.”

“you don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

“except everyone.”

he took your hand—held it. his thumb brushed yours like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

“you think i didn’t feel the same before i debuted?” he asked, voice hushed. “you think i don’t still feel like that sometimes? like i’m faking it, or like i’m not enough?”

you stared at him.

“you’re more than enough,” he said. “you were the only one who saw me before all this. let me be that for you now.”

and just like that, the tears were back. but you didn’t hide this time.

you leaned into him. he let you. his arms came around you like a shield, like home, like this was always meant to happen.

“this doesn’t mean i’m falling for you or anything,” you mumbled into his chest.

he smiled against your hair. “sure. and i’m not hopelessly in love with you either.” it was a lie.

ONE MONTH LATER

your body ached. your shirt clung to your back. the playlist on the studio speakers had looped for the third time now, but you weren’t done yet. not even close.

you wiped sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand, hair tied up haphazardly like your last brain cell had done it for you. two turns, down, pop—reset. again.

then the studio door opened.

you blinked, already preparing to snap at whoever thought now was a great time to interrupt—only to freeze.

sunghoon.

cap on. mask half-down. that dumb post-debut glow still clinging to him like glitter. he looked like a k-drama lead showing up in your lowest moment with no right to be that good-looking.

you squinted. “are you... lost?”

he didn’t smile.

he stepped in, quiet. closed the door behind him. took a breath.

“go on,” you said, gesturing vaguely at your unfinished choreo. “you came to judge my pirouettes or what?”

he scratched the back of his neck. “actually…”

pause.

“i wanted to ask you something.”

you raised a brow, waiting. arms crossed. heart racing.

“do you...” he hesitated, then stepped closer. “wanna go out with me?”

you blinked.

was he out of his damn mind?

you looked down at yourself. hair in chaos. sweat-drenched shirt. left sock halfway sliding off. “like... right now?”

he laughed softly, but there was a nervous tremble to it. “no. i mean... soon. when you’re free. like, a real date. just us.”

you stared at him. the air felt too quiet.

he looked serious. almost nervous. not like the usual sarcastic, biting sunghoon who annoyed you daily—this was the one who held your hand when no one else was looking. the one who showed up when you were breaking.

you let out a long sigh, walking past him to grab your water bottle. you took a sip. gave him a look.

“sunghoon,” you said flatly, “you realize i’m one month away from possibly debuting through a televised hunger game for trainees, right?”

he gave you a sheepish smile. “yeah.”

“and you’re busy being an idol or whatever.”

“also yeah.”

you raised an eyebrow. “then why now?”

he didn’t flinch. “because I like you.”

…

you stared at him. like, really stared. and god—he was really standing there. asking you out while you looked like a dehydrated noodle. and it should’ve been dumb. it should’ve been ill-timed.

but he meant it. that was the stupid part.

you sighed again, dramatic. wiped your face.

then, you looked up at him with a small smirk.

“fine,” you said, shrugging. “one date.”

his eyes lit up.

“but if it sucks, I’m ghosting you.”

“deal.”

you narrowed your eyes. “and you’re paying.”

“always.”

“and no kissing—unless I say so.”

he grinned. “so you will say so.”

“shut up,” you muttered, tossing your towel at him—and missing.

ONE WEEK LATER

first secret date

you almost laughed when you saw him.

cap pulled down low. hoodie up. mask on. sunglasses too. like he was about to rob the convenience store instead of take you on a date.

he looked left, then right. then spotted you.

and you—well.

you were in simple jeans, a tucked white tee, lowkey makeup, and your hair done just enough to look effortlessly good. no flash. no glam. just enough to look soft and gorgeously dangerous.

sunghoon blinked under his cap. “wow.”

you tilted your head. “wow?”

“i thought we said casual.”

you smirked. “i am casual.”

he blinked again. “casual doesn’t usually knock the air outta someone’s lungs.”

you bit your lip to hide the smile. “then breathe better.”

he laughed under his mask, tugging it down slightly as you both started walking. he had chosen a small side street near the han river, early evening, sun soft in the sky. not too crowded. not too exposed.

it wasn’t fancy. no candlelit tables. no bouquets. just two kids sneaking time together between a debut and a dream.

and somehow, it was perfect.

“are you really allowed out?” you asked, nudging him. “i don’t wanna be the reason you get exiled from your group.”

he scoffed. “i’ve snuck out for worse.”

you squinted. “like what?”

“like ramen.”

you cackled. “you’re risking your career for cup noodles?”

“if they’re spicy enough, yeah.”

you rolled your eyes, but your hand brushed against his as you walked. he noticed. he didn’t say anything—but he didn’t move it away either.

you felt the heat rise to your cheeks.

later, on a park bench near the river

you sat next to him, knees barely touching. the sun had dipped lower now, painting the water gold.

he was quiet.

so were you.

until—

“you know,” he said, “i wasn’t sure this would work.”

you looked at him.

“i’m busy. you’re about to be busier. and all the pressure—fans, survival shows, cameras…” he exhaled. “we’re barely even normal people anymore.”

you nodded slowly, biting your lip. “so… why’d you ask me out then?”

he looked at you.

“because even when I’m not sure about anything else… I’m sure about you.”

you blinked.

okay. rude.

he was not allowed to drop lines like that while you were emotionally vulnerable, sweaty from practice last night, and wearing your second best sneakers.

you tried to play it off, heart punching your ribs. “you’ve been practicing that in the mirror, huh?”

he grinned. “nah. you’re just that inspiring.”

you stared at him, lips twitching.

then, casually, you reached over and hooked your pinky with his.

that was it.

that was all.

he squeezed gently.

after the date — back at the dorms

you got a text. just as you slipped into the trainee dorm’s hallway.

sunghoon: home safe? you: just got in. you? sunghoon: still outside. walking around like a loser who just got his crush to say yes you: you are a loser. but like. a cute one i guess sunghoon: say that again i’ll screenshot it you: goodnight, hoonie sunghoon: night, pretty girl.

you stared at the screen, face flushed.

then threw your pillow at the bed and let out a scream into your blanket.

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

you barely made it through the last eight-count. your legs were jelly, your ponytail was falling apart, and your throat was screaming for water—but more than anything, your brain was fried. you didn’t even notice someone step into the practice room until you heard a low, familiar voice.

“psst. trainee of the year.”

you turned, and there he was.

sunghoon.

with a hoodie pulled up and a mischievous glint in his eye… holding a snack-sized bag of chips and a chocolate bar like they were illegal contraband.

you blinked. “hoon—what are you doing here?!”

he smirked. “looking out for someone who forgot how to rest.”

“i’m on a diet,” you whispered, eyeing the chocolate like it was your long-lost lover.

he stepped closer. “then pretend i didn’t bring snacks. just come with me for five minutes.”

you followed him to the vending machine hallway—dead center between the boys’ and girls’ dorm floors. no cctv. no trainers.

just buzzing machines, flickering fluorescent light, and the sound of your heart thudding louder than it should.

he leaned against the wall, opening the chocolate and breaking off a square.

you stared at it.

“i said i’m on a diet.”

“i said i don’t care.” he offered it again.

you took it. obviously.

a beat of silence passed. then another. you sighed.

“i’ve never dated someone in secret before,” you mumbled, fingers fiddling with the wrapper. “do you think it’ll work out?”

sunghoon didn’t hesitate.

“I’m actually an expert in secrets…” he said, tone suddenly lower, softer.

he leaned in, closing the already-small space between you.

“...especially dating.”

your breath hitched.

he was close—too close—his scent all cozy detergent and warm skin, his lips ghosting a little too close to your cheek.

“i’ll teach you how.”

you were in the middle of laughing—like, full-on cracking up with the other trainees in the dance room. someone made a joke about one of the trainers being secretly in love with their reflection, and you had tears in your eyes.

you didn’t even realize your phone buzzed until you were finally alone, tying your hair up again, everyone else already off to shower or sleep.

sunghoon: u free? sunghoon: dance room. come before i fall asleep on the floor.

you stared. then blinked. then immediately bolted.

the second you opened the door to his group’s practice room, you saw him sitting there on the floor, back against the mirror, head tilted up like he’d been waiting hours.

he looked up.

“hey.”

just that one word and you were melting. it’s been weeks. actual weeks. and yet, there he was—same hoodie, same tired smile, same boy who made you forget how to breathe.

you walked in slowly. “so you miss me, huh?”

he scoffed, but the smile said it all.

“i’m not gonna lie. i might’ve forgotten what you looked like.”

“rude.”

“well, i remember now.” his eyes swept over you.

you rolled your eyes, trying not to combust.

you sat next to him, shoulders barely touching, and it was quiet for a second. not awkward. just… warm.

“you’ve been working hard,” you said quietly.

“you too,” he murmured. “i see it in the practice logs.”

you raised a brow. “you stalk me?”

he smirked. “maybe.”

he stood up a little while later, stretched, then turned to you again.

“come here.”

“why?”

“just—” he waved you over.

you got up, brushing imaginary dust off your sweatpants. “if you prank me, i swear—”

“i’m not. just come.”

he walked backward, tugging you gently by the wrist until you both slipped behind the tall mirror divider that split the practice room—probably put there for storage or stage simulation. barely any light. no one would check there.

you opened your mouth to ask what is this, but he was already leaning in.

and then—

footsteps.

two voices. familiar.

heeseung. jake.

you froze. sunghoon cursed under his breath, then pulled you closer—closer—until your back hit the mirror and his body shielded you completely.

your heart did a full somersault.

“shhh,” he whispered, breath fanning across your ear. “they’re just grabbing their stuff.”

heeseung’s voice echoed faintly. “you think sunghoon left already?”

“probably. dude’s always staying too long.”

you held your breath, heartbeat racing. he was so close. his hands rested on either side of your head, and he kept glancing down at you like he might actually—

once the door shut and the voices faded, silence fell.

you stared at him.

he stared right back.

then he grinned.

“i wasn’t gonna kiss you, you know.”

“…right.”

“…but now i kind of want to.”

you raised a brow. “you sure about that? we haven’t even had a second date.”

“so?” he whispered, leaning in again. “we’re behind a mirror. does it count?”

you were this close to shoving him playfully, but your breath hitched when he tilted his head just enough.

his lips brushed yours.

soft. tentative.

dangerous.

but then you kissed him back.

just once. quick. stupid. electric.

you pulled away with a shaky breath. “you’re so annoying.”

“you like it.”

“i hate it.”

he grinned. “i’ll teach you how.”

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

the call started with you lying flat on your bed, hair down, face fresh from a shower, hoodie oversized and barely clinging to one shoulder.

“you look tired,” you mumbled, frowning into the screen.

sunghoon was on his dorm bed too, hair pushed back with a headband, cheeks still flushed from rehearsal. “you look pretty.”

you blinked. “that’s not the point—”

“but it’s true,” he said, smiling. “also. i am tired. i miss you.”

you flopped your head dramatically against your pillow. “ugh, i miss you too. stupid idol schedules.”

he laughed. then sighed. then just stared at you for a second longer than necessary.

the silence was comfortable. until your phone buzzed.

you glanced at the notification. trainee gc.

someone: you looked cool in practice today someone else: your form’s improved a lot lately and then: wanna hangout sometime? just chill, talk about training n stuff?

sunghoon raised a brow. “who’s that?”

you snorted, a little too amused. “hm? just the group chat.”

“your phone’s lighting up a lot,” he said, too casually.

you tilted your screen to the side, showing the flood of not-so-subtle messages.

sunghoon squinted. “that guy. the one who complimented your jumps last time. he’s the one who sent the hangout thing, right?”

you blinked slowly. “hoon. are you jealous?”

“no,” he lied, immediately, like a liar.

“you so are.”

“i’m not,” he repeated, suddenly invested in adjusting the blanket on his lap.

you smirked. “you’re sulking.”

he didn’t respond.

“hoon~”

“i’m just saying,” he said, voice all pouty now, “he doesn’t even stretch properly before practice. what does he know.”

you wheezed.

“oh my god.”

“i’m just—i’m just watching out for you, okay?” he said, flustered, biting his lip. “i don’t like how they act around you.”

you rolled onto your back, giggling into your sleeve.

“you’re adorable.”

“no, i’m serious,” he grumbled. “i can’t even talk to you in public, but they’re out here throwing compliments like confetti.”

you peeked at the screen again. his lips were pursed. eyes narrowed. sulk level: maximum.

you reached out like you could actually pinch his cheek through the screen.

“you know you’re the only one i want to hear compliments from, right?”

his gaze softened.

“...really?”

“really,” you said, smiling. “but also, you’re kinda hot when you’re jealous. not gonna lie.”

he hid his face in his hoodie.

“stop.”

“never.”

you grinned.

“hoooon,” you whined through the screen, “can’t you just teleport here? like now? please? i’ll pay.”

he snorted. “what with? ramen and protein bars?”

“yes.”

he smiled, soft and lazy, eyes crinkling. “i wish i could.”

“me too.”

your voice had dropped, just a little. tired. yearning. and his fingers twitched like he wished he could reach through the screen and pull you into his chest.

but then—

“hyung! dinner’s ready!”

jungwon’s voice, right outside his door.

sunghoon groaned, rolling onto his side with a quiet, “just five more minutes!”

“are you still on call with y/n?” jungwon asked, then cracked the door open like he already knew the answer.

sunghoon quickly angled the phone to his chest, like a whole dad caught texting his crush in middle school.

but jungwon just leaned in and waved toward the screen. “hi, y/n!”

“oh my god,” you said, hiding your face with a hand, laughing. “hi wonnie.”

then sunoo appeared in the hallway too, leaning over jungwon’s shoulder. “tell her i say hi too!”

“i did already!” jungwon argued.

niki popped in last, chewing on something. “you’re not slick, hyung. we all know you’ve been heart-eyes emoji for like, three months now.”

sunghoon nearly died on the spot.

“get out,” he hissed.

“we’re going,” sunoo grinned. “but don’t kiss through the screen or anything. the wi-fi’s lagging.”

and they vanished.

you wheezed. “your roommates are literally chaos.”

“they’re menaces.”

“but cute menaces.”

“fine,” he mumbled, trying not to smile again. “but i’m the cutest, right?”

“you’re the cutest and the hottest.”

“and you’re the reason my heart’s doing cardio without moving.”

you blinked. “that was so cheesy.”

“i know,” he grinned.

a few nights later – secret car hangout edition

he picked you up in a manager’s car, hoodie low, cap on, mask covering most of his face. when you slid into the front seat, your eyes met and for a second neither of you said anything.

then you both burst into giggles like schoolkids sneaking out past curfew.

“you’re insane,” you whispered, shutting the door.

“you’re prettier in person,” he whispered back.

“you’re biased.”

“i’m in love.”

you froze. blinked. stared at him.

he blinked back, wide-eyed. “i mean—i—i said that out loud, didn’t i.”

you bit your lip, suddenly warm.

“yeah,” you said. “but… same.”

his hand reached for yours between the seats. fingers laced. thumbs brushing.

you two just sat there for a while. soft music playing. headlights passing. the world rushing around you, but in here, time stilled.

“you’re leaving again tomorrow?” you asked.

he nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. “fanmeet. then music show. then filming.”

“you’re everywhere.”

“except here,” he murmured. “with you.”

your heart tugged.

“then make the most of tonight.”

he turned to look at you.

eyes locked.

“yeah?” he whispered.

you nodded.

then you climbed over the center console like it was nothing, and next thing you knew, you were on his lap, hoodie and all, faces close, lips brushing. giggling quietly, almost getting caught when a van drove past and made the headlights flash inside.

you kissed like the world didn’t know.

you laughed like no one could hear.

and when he pulled back, forehead pressed to yours, breath warm, he whispered—

“i’ll teach you how.”

then just like that, you two were back to kissing. he kept a hand on your chin to angle your head in the perfect position. his tongue slipping in your lips, tasting you like he'll never get a chance to again.

and that's when you two made out recklessly in the car, breath heavy, and in love.

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

the survival show started before either of you could even process it.

you were waking up at 5 a.m., rehearsing until midnight, crash-napping in dance studios, living off energy drinks and willpower.

sunghoon was across the world—london, tokyo, la, award shows, en-oclock, fanmeets, and endless nights of soundchecks.

the phone calls slowed.

the messages became one-word replies.

then one-sided.

then nothing.

but not because you stopped caring.

it was just life.

it was debut season.

dreams were happening in real time.

you both were flying so fast that you didn’t even realize you were flying past each other.

months later

you were back. not just in seoul, not just in the same time zone—but here.

and you were debuting.

you made it into the final group.

four girls. you were the visual, the ace, the one people couldn’t stop looking at.

and the moment you saw his name pop up on your schedule—same venue, different floors—you knew.

you had to see him.

so you did.

your steps were slow but steady. nerves in your chest like fireworks waiting to go off.

he looked up when you entered the hallway. paused.

you smiled.

his mouth parted. just a little.

then you ran—fast, too fast—and wrapped your arms around his middle like you were afraid he’d disappear again.

his arms came around you instantly. like muscle memory. like home.

“i made it,” you whispered into his chest, voice trembling.

he didn’t say anything at first. just held you tighter.

then—

“i know,” he said quietly.

you blinked up at him.

and he smiled, eyes a little glassy, cheeks a little pink. “i saw every performance.”

you laughed through your tears. “you did?”

“mhm.” he nodded. “even the boot camp episode. and your level test. and the one where you cried after your vocals cracked—”

“shut up.”

“i cried too.”

“shut up.”

“i saved the fancam.”

you slapped his shoulder, but your grin couldn’t be wiped off.

“and i saw yours,” you whispered, pressing your palm to his chest like you could feel all the places he grew while you were away. “every award. every encore. every fancam. you were so… amazing.”

“you too,” he murmured. “we both made it.”

and for a second, it didn’t matter that the world was watching.

that you had bodyguards and managers and contracts now.

that there were rules and rumors and cameras always watching.

because right here, in this small hallway of a massive building—

it was just the two of you again.

“missed you,” you said.

“teach me how to get over you,” he whispered.

and you shook your head.

“no,” you whispered back. “i’ll teach you how to keep me.”

a/n: posting part 2 tomorrow 5pm kst ! if you want to be tagged, please reblog so you can be added (that would help me much too hh). i already have a reserved taglist, so if you want to register, just click my forms :>> loveyallsosomuchh

chapter 2 is posted !

<to read next chapter tap the underlined>

taglist: @kpoplover-19 @kpoppiesofinternet

[aamirazx]

Wow, wow, wow so beautifully written 🥹

Please (c.sc)

PAIRING: Alpha!Seungcheol x Omega! f.reader 

SUMMARY: A heatwave in your city makes dealing with your hormones more difficult than usual. Getting locked in a lobby at work for an hour with an alpha makes it ten times worse. Thankfully, Seungcheol is there to help you - and maybe a little more. 

WC: 18,512

AU: Omegaverse, Coworkers to Lovers

GENRE: Smut, A bit of Fluff, the barest hint of angst

RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

TEASER WARNINGS: Mix of traditional and nontraditional Omegaverse dynamics in terms of heat cycles, social statuses, and body chemistry but this fic doesn’t really dip into it very heavily - including no knotting or any of the traditional lore. There are brief mentions of social discourse and discrimination across all three subgenders. Reader has some internal back and forth and moments of feeling embarrassed and frustrated with her body and hormonal fluctuations. Some internal stresses/anxieties on reader’s part about what comes after with Seungcheol. Seungcheol is a touch possessive in parts. Explicit language. Explicit sexual content including very gratutious smut, oral (f. and m. receiving), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, biting, a lot of spit/slick/fluids mentions, nipple play, vaginal fingering, lots of praise (use of good/good girl/baby often), not explicit dom/sub dynamics but more alpha/omega dynamics, no use of a condom as in - I just never wrote one in and they never talk about it tbh I just forgot lol - reader experiences some highs and lows through her heat emotionally… I think that’s mostly it. Please tell me if I forgot anything. 

A/N: I don’t know how I ended up writing so much of this, but here we are. Reader’s struggles as an omega are inspired directly by my struggles with PCOS, especially living in a very hot climate and constantly having fluctuating hormones and just having to exist!!! I hope you enjoy this as much as I did while writing it. 

A/N 2: Thank you @daechwitatamic for beta reading this - I love u thank u hehe. 

MASTERLIST | ASK | NOW PLAYING: BAMBI BY BAEKHYUN

SWEAT TRICKLES DOWN THE BACK OF YOUR NECK AND THIGHS. Irritated, you wipe at the back of your neck for what feels like the hundredth time before pulling at the collar of your shirt, fanning it in hopes of cooling the rest of your body off. It’s unseasonably hot, a heat wave sweeping through the city and turning your office cubicle into a toaster oven.

The small fan on your desk whirs pitifully, barely offering any sort of respite. Adjusting in your seat does nothing but remind you how uncomfortable you are, the scratchy grain of the chair digging into the back of your sweating thighs, the underwire of your bra digging into your ribs, the heat rash forming where your underwear digs into the creases of your hips. 

Unbearable. 

A message pings on your computer and you open it, growling in irritation as you see a message from Wonwoo in the cubicle behind you. 

Jeon Wonwoo: Ever heard of suppressants, diva? 

You: IT’S FUCKING HOT IN HERE

You: Tell this company to BUY SOME FUCKING AIRCONDITIONERS 

Jeon Wonwoo: Irritable… sweaty… irrational… 

You grab the nearest pen and whip around in your chair, launching it at the back of his head. It hits with a satisfying thwack. He flinches, cursing as his hand flies up to rub the spot where you nailed him. Wonwoo turns in his seat, shooting you a dirty look over his shoulder.

You meet his glare with a stuck-out tongue and a very deliberate middle finger before turning back to your screen, face flushed, partially from the heat, partially from embarrassment.

He doesn’t get it. You know he’s just teasing, but it still stings. That old, familiar insecurity curls in your gut at his jest, no matter its innocence. Being an omega is hard enough. You’ve spent years unlearning shame, of trying to accept this part of yourself you never asked for. And you’ve gotten pretty far with that. 

But then something as simple as a heatwave hits, the rise in temperature turning your body traitorous, unable to accommodate for a little bit of humid air and heat. 

Of course, Wonwoo doesn’t understand - can’t conceptualize the level of difficulty it is to maintain a baseline for you. Betas don’t have to deal with this kind of hormonal chaos. Sure, they’ve got their own issues - media erasure, medical neglect, in general being left out - but it’s not the same. Not when your body actively works against you, not when your biology fights you. 

You sigh. There’s no point in going down the rabbit hole and comparing omegas and betas. You’ve traveled that road since your subgender presented itself in your freshman year of college. Comparison is the thief of joy, but it’s also an endless torture device. 

Your thighs rub together uncomfortably when you get up. You swipe your water bottle, unscrewing the cap as you duck out of your cubicle, head down and steps fast. You’re pretty sure Wonwoo is attuned to your scent more than others, having been one of your closest friends and cubicle-neighbor for the better part of five years. But still, you’re nervous about it, hand snaking up to touch the translucent patch on the side of your neck, meant to dampen the smell from your glands. 

No one pays you much mind. You breathe a sigh of relief to find the break room empty. You make a beeline to the water cooler in the corner, sliding the water bottle under it and pressing the tap. As it fills, the air conditioning kicks on, the vent right above you. 

Cool air hits the back of your neck. Your eyes flutter, a shiver of relief slithering through you. For a moment, you lose yourself, letting the cool wick away the sticky sweat, the first time you’ve felt a little relief all day. A small sound escapes your mouth, half whimper and half plea. 

Someone clears their throat and you flinch, losing your grip on the water bottle. It crashes to the ground, water splashing up your legs but more importantly, all over the floor. You squeak in panic, diving to pick it up in an attempt to stop the outflow of water. 

Hands dripping, you pivot on your heel, scanning for paper towels only to find them being offered. You blink in surprise, body going rigid as you become acutely aware of who is offering them. 

Choi Seungcheol watches you with quiet concern, dark eyes steady behind his glasses. He keeps a respectful distance, arms extended with a roll of paper towels, waiting for you to take them. But you don’t move. Your pulse pounds in your neck as your gaze drops from his face to his hands, large and patient.

He has pretty hands, you think absently, staring a beat too long.

For a moment, all you can hear is the roar of blood in your ears. Then, he steps forward without a word, crouching down to wipe the water pooling around  your feet. You jerk, startled, a sharp sound of protest escaping you as you drop down and snatch more paper towels from his hands. Apologies tumble out, disjointed and breathless, your thoughts scattered. 

He doesn’t back away. Instead, he methodically dabs at the wet tile while trying to avoid soaking himself in the process. His proximity is overwhelming, his spicy scent nearly knocking you over. You grit your teeth and clench your jaw, irritated. He’s not supposed to affect you like this - never has before. 

Seungcheol is always mild. Unassuming. He’s worked here as long as you have, one of the few alphas on your floor, and one of the most reserved. He keeps to his office, always dimly lit, always quiet. He greets you politely. Never lingers. 

It surprised you when you first met him. Seungcheol looks like the type of alpha who is the opposite of quiet and shy. There’s a gravitas to him that you haven’t quite figured out and a body made to ruin. Broad shoulders, thick arms, a voice deep enough to rattle through your spine even on your best days. 

Yet somehow, he’s never once made a pass on a single omega at work. 

Which, he shouldn’t. You respect that about him, which feels ridiculous. You shouldn’t have to be flattered by the bare minimum of respect, shouldn’t need to be surprised when an alpha is able to be normal. To treat you like a human being. 

You mumble a quiet thanks, focusing on the mess. It’s the only thing tethering you right now. It shouldn’t feel this intense, but the goddamn heat is getting to you. It’s baking you from the inside out, turning your cube walls suffocating. It makes you tired. Irritable. Prone to throwing pens at Wonwoo’s head. 

“Thanks,” you mutter when you stand. You toss the soggy paper towels into the bin, avoiding his gaze. “Sorry again.” 

“No need to apologize. I’m sorry I startled you.”

Seungcheol stands slowly. You don’t move, watching the way he wipes his damp hands across his slacks. You hate that you notice how the fabric pulls over his thighs. As soon as you have the thought, you avert your eyes, looking anywhere but him, afraid that he’ll see the embarrassment or the way your body reacts without your permission. 

“It’s been a long week,” Seungcheol offers, voice soft. “You alright? I know Jeonghan had you working on that insane report.”

You swallow past the dry patch in your throat. “All good. Just tired. It’ll probably keep me here forever, but what can you do?”

“Mhmm. Don’t forget it’s Friday - cleaning locks the office and will trap you inside.”

“Sounds like you’re intimately familiar.” 

His smile is soft, cheeks flushed. “Cannot confirm or deny.”

“I see.” You gesture to the watery floor. “Thank you, again. And sorry for being a bit clumsy.”

“No problem.” 

You slide away from him, hoping that he can’t tell that you’re leaning, trying to avoid catching his scent again. He doesn’t seem to notice - or has the decency not to make it obvious - and you slip away from the break room, all but running to your cube.

Inside your little haven, you rip open one of your drawers, grabbing a pheromone damp nasal spray. You all but shove it up your cranium, putting it as far up your nasal passage as you can manage before squeezing and shooting a blast of medical grade dampener up your nose, inhaling sharply. 

It helps a little, settling your nerves and erasing the lingering scent of Seungcheol. You breathe out a sigh, calm and collected. Carefully and quickly, you peel the suppressant patch off your neck and swap it for a new one. It tingles when you apply it, the microneedles that embed into the skin to deliver suppressant a cool sensation at first. 

When you settle, you feel much better. It isn’t until you turn to start knocking out the rest of your report that you realize you never refilled your water bottle after dropping it, making you lean back on your desk and groan. 

-

Working for Yoon Jeonghan comes with its challenges. He's incredibly sharp and a natural leader, but he tends to be a bit forgetful and brings a touch of chaos wherever he goes. Jeonghan is the reason you’d started working at this company, though, admiring that there was an omega in charge, defying the long-standing social norms that omegas could not lead. 

It’s a silly stereotype, but you’ve been fighting stereotypes your entire life, unlearning your own and reminding yourself that there are still inherent biases to unlearn. 

Like right now, when you're mentally cursing Jeonghan for tossing a last-minute report your way, even though he had multiple reminders in his inbox and just forgot he'd opened them. You only blame him a little. Work’s been nonstop, keeping him up at all hours, and if there’s one thing that truly makes Jeonghan unbearable, it’s sleep deprivation.

Jeonghan doesn’t have an assistant, but you’re the closest thing to it, one of the few people in the office he trusts to get things done. So when he’s on vacation and starts spamming your email that he dropped the ball, it’s on you to cover for him, like he’s done for you in the past. 

The consequence of competency, he’d told you over the phone, the sound of the ocean in the background. I’m sorry, I owe you, please don’t quit. 

You weren’t going to quit. Despite your irritation, you like working for Jeonghan, and despite the unbearable heat burning in your cubicle, you like being able to focus on pulling and building reports, inputting data into a spreadsheet and setting pivot tables and charts.

It makes you forget about the world for a little bit, including the oppressive office air and the way that the building’s air conditioner barely keeps up with the raging temperatures outside. Makes you forget about the incident in the breakroom, and about everything else, including the passage of time. 

Above you, the lights go out. You flinch, looking up in surprise. Rubbing your eyes, you blink until your computer screen comes back into focus, looking at the time. You groan. It’s past seven, far later than you meant to stay at work. But you’re done with the report, dragging the attachment to your email to fire it off to Jeonghan with a less than happy emoji pasted in the body of the email. 

Exhaustion weighs you down when you stand. Your joints pop and everything feels hot and itchy again, all of your irritations flooding back to pester you now that you’re not locked in on your work. You flip off the fan, lamp and computer at your desk. Immediately without air circulation, your cube is sweltering, the dress sticking to you, fabric itchy and clinging to your skin.

A sudden wave of dizziness makes the room tilt around you. You steady yourself with deep, measured breaths, trying to stay grounded. A spike in temperature is normal. You can deal with it. It’s manageable. Sure, the heat triggers a surge of estriolase, the hormone that kicks in during Stage 1 of an omega’s heat cycle. And sure, it leaves you flushed, restless, skin prickling with irritation, and-  

“You’re still here?”

You shriek, whirling around, heart hammering as your hand flies to your chest in terror. Seungcheol takes a cautious step back into the hallway, hands lifted in surrender, quiet concern etched into his features. For a moment, the air between you is thick with silence, broken only by your uneven breathing, still reeling from the rush of epinephrine and cortisol.

Being an omega means constantly walking a tightrope of hormones. One shift sets off another, like dominoes toppling. Fear bumps into instinct, instinct stirs something deeper, until your body is a storm of tangled biochemistry.

Now, your body is caught in a storm of fear, annoyance, embarrassment and interest, each one fighting for dominance. You swallow thickly and lean off your desk, ignoring the way your body flashes between hot and cold, fear and something else.

“Just finished Jeonghan’s report.”

“Ah.” 

Something passes his face. It’s unreadable, but he’s focused. Your skin prickles under the heavy weight of his stare, watching as his mouth tightens at the corner. 

“You heading out?” 

“Yeah.”

A beat passes. His gaze flickers briefly, so fast that you’re not sure you track the movement correctly, but you swear it drops to the patch on your neck, dampening your scent. His jaw flexes once before he offers you a tight smile, gesturing. 

“Mind if I walk you out? It’s late.”

Your heart hammers. “Sure.” 

You’ve walked out of work with Seungcheol before. He offers to walk anyone out when it’s after hours, even if he himself isn’t leaving yet. It has nothing to do with your subgender and everything to do with him being kind, a sort of stoic office guardian.

Grabbing the rest of your things, you follow Seungcheol in silence. The building is quiet, both of you the only people still around on a weekend. The lack of sound amplifies everything else: the sound of your own quickened breathing, the warmth pulsing under your skin, the spicy scent of Seungcheol as he steps onto the elevator, lingering at the threshold to hold the door open for you.

You murmur a thank you as you pass by him. You can’t help the shiver that snakes through you as you pass. You clench your fists, angry and willing yourself to calm down. This has never happened around Seungcheol, and you blame the fucking weather for the way your body overrides you now. 

The forty five seconds spent in the elevator are borderline hell. Neither of you says anything. You’ve pressed yourself in the corner, trying to remain nonchalant, like your entire world isn’t spinning, like there isn’t a dull ache in the pit of your stomach, like there isn’t saliva pooling at the back of your tongue. 

Seungcheol smells warm. Grounding. Something that lingers, sharp and clean with a bit of a bite. You breathe in, trying to figure it out. Perhaps bergamot and cardamom, spice touched by sweetness, a hint of earth. 

The elevator dings and Seungcheol is halfway through the lobby before you realize it. You push off the elevator wall after him, steps stilted and uneven. It’s even hotter in the tiny lobby of your office building, making a bead of sweat trail down the back of your neck. You adjust your dress, licking your lips in an attempt to relieve the hot flash threatening you. 

Seungcheol pushes on the glass doors at the front, but they don’t budge. Both of you stand and stare for a second before he curses low under his breath, voice like gravel. You ignore what your stomach does at the sound of it as he turns to look at you, expression wary.

“Remember what I said in the break room?” You definitely remember the break room, but not anything he said. “The cleaners come on Friday evenings and they lock the doors.” 

“Oh.”

Seunghecol walks back to the elevator and swipes his badge at the scanner and presses the button. The metal doors do not open again, and the button doesn’t light up. He curses again, pinching the bridge of his nose right beneath his glasses. 

“Badges don’t work after hours.”

“They don’t?”

“No. It’s not the first time I’ve been stuck here, unfortunately.” He adjusts the strap on his bag and pulls a cellphone from his pocket. “Thankfully I have security’s number saved for exactly that reason.”

Seungcheol’s words do little to bring you relief. He paces a few steps away from you, dialing a number on the phone. He holds the phone to his ear, waiting for security to pick up. His free hand is stuffed into the pocket of his slacks, thumb tapping idly. You stand a few feet away, arms crossed, trying to focus on the sterile, white glow of the lobby lights instead of the way your skin feels like it’s humming.

“Yeah, it’s me.” Seungcheol’s voice sounds loud, making you twitch. “Yes, I’m locked in the lobby again.” He glances at you. “I’m with another coworker as well. The badge isn’t working to get us back up. Can you come let us out?” 

You barely register his words. A flush is working its way up from your stomach to your chest, your chest to your shoulders, shoulder to elbows. You feel it unfurl, the slow-burning petals of a flower blooming. The air feels thick and heavy, almost damp, and no amount of focused breathing seems to help with the pulse you feel throbbing in your neck.

Seungcheol’s voice momentarily pulls you from your daze. “They’re sending someone from central security. Might take about an hour, though. They were in the middle of a shift rotation.” 

You nod, swallowing hard. “Alright.” 

“Are you alright?” Seungcheol asks quietly, eyes fixated on you. 

You open your mouth to say yes, but the word dies in your throat. Because you’re not. Not really. There’s a heat curling deep in your belly now, slow and insistent, and your clothes feel too tight, your skin too sensitive. You press your palm against the marble wall behind you, trying to ground yourself with the coolness of the stone.

“Yeah,” you manage, nodding and giving him a thumbs up. 

You’re anything but. It hits you slowly, but when it does, it locks into place with terrifying clarity: the dizziness, the temperature spikes, the way everything around you sounds sharper, smells sharper, the bergamot and cardamom. 

Your body is crawling toward Stage 1 of heat, triggered by the unbearable temperature spike across the city and the unbearable proximity of the alpha standing across the lobby from you. 

You shift your weight, arms tightening around yourself, every nerve ending suddenly too aware of Seungcheol’s presence. He’s not even close, but you can feel him. Or maybe it’s just your scent receptors going haywire, both just as likely. 

“You’re flushed,” he says after a moment, eyes not quite meeting yours now. “You sure you’re not getting sick?”

“No,” you say too quickly. “I don’t think it’s that.”

Seungcheol’s brows pull together, not believing you but not sure what to make of it. He shifts his weight, gaze scanning you, trying to figure you out. You refuse to meet his eyes, looking up at the lobby lights that are too bright, making you squint. But you can feel him watching you, his gaze intense. 

“You look uncomfortable.” He shifts a little further from you. “I apologize if-”

“It’s not you!” You blurt, a little forceful. “It’s just hot in here. It’s… hard on me.” 

When he doesn’t answer, you dare a look at him. Seungcheol tilts his head slightly, like he doesn’t believe you but won’t push it. He nods, leaning against a wall, crossing his arms over his chest. Your eyes track the way his biceps flex, the way his shirt compresses across his chest and your mouth goes dry. 

He studies you carefully now, eyes narrowing just slightly—not in suspicion, but understanding. Something settles in his expression, the faintest flicker of recognition behind his eyes. Fuck. Fuck. He knows. He knows and the embarrassment is so overwhelming you nearly fold over and start crying. 

Still, he doesn't call you out. Doesn’t voice what you’re sure he knows, what his instincts are telling him. Doesn’t corner you with it.

Instead, he says, “Tell me something you enjoy.”

“What?”

He watches you, eyes soft. “Anything. To pass time. I only know the basics about you. Tell me something you’re passionate about.”

Something you're passionate about? A million things run through your mind. You grab the first thing you can think of, a single subject that you’re well-versed in.

“There’s a theory that the Tyrannosaurus Rex didn’t roar.” 

He looks confused. “The dinosaur?” 

“Yes. Like you know in the movie how they… rahhh.” You imitate the noise, immediately wanting to smack yourself for the ridiculousness of it. He presses his lips together, trying not to laugh. He nods and gestures for you to continue, dark eyes focused only on you. “So it’s a total myth. Scientists think they made way lower sounds, like… you know when crocodiles do that weird purr?” 

“Crocodile purr?”

“Yeah you know when they…” You hunch your shoulders. “Do that weird water rumble thing.” 

“I think I follow.”

You nod rapidly, grateful for the distraction even as your heart beats way too fast. “Yeah, like a subsonic hum. They think it was more intimidating that way. A sound that could vibrate through the chest cavity of its prey. Honestly, it’s kind of genius.”

He watches you with quiet amusement, one brow raised but not mocking. “I didn’t know you were into dinosaurs.”

“I was obsessed as a kid,” you admit, shrugging, eyes still fixed on the security panel like it’ll spark to life if you ignore it long enough. “Used to correct people all the time. I was that kid. I got in trouble once for lecturing my cousin while playing with dinosaurs because Stegosaurus and a T. rex never existed at the same time. They lived millions of years apart! And he was trying to tell me they were best friends.” You scoff. “As if.”

You hear a soft chuckle across the lobby and you look up to meet his face. Your pulse flutters again, reminding you why Seungcheol asked you to distract yourself in the first place. 

As though he can sense where your thoughts are going, Seungcheol asks, “So are you one of those people who thinks the Jurassic Park raptors were too big?” 

You huff, a flare of irritation licking through you. “Well yeah. They were too big, thank you for asking. Plus, Alan Grant pointed out in the first movie that they were the size of turkeys, and then they get to Isla Nublar and they’re fucking six feet tall! And they were supposed to have feathers!”

“Not very intimidating.”

“I mean, I feel like a giant bird of prey is pretty intimidating.” 

Seungcheol grins and you feel another shiver threaten to pulse through you. His grin is beautiful, turning his face from intimidating to soft in seconds. “I’m never going to be able to take them seriously again, I think.”

“You’re welcome.”

It’s quiet again. The tension from earlier hasn’t disappeared, but something in the air feels different. Sweat fills the creases behind your knees, beads on the small of your back, gathers on your thighs. Your rambling had made you forget about it all for a moment, but now it’s back, the awareness of the way your body is crawling toward Stage 1 of your heat. 

If security gets here soon, you’ll be okay. It’s the lightest phase of the cycle, manageable with some effort and focus. But it’s unpredictable. Sometimes it lingers, sometimes it crashes into the next stage without warning. And while your body usually keeps a steady three-month rhythm, outside stimuli can trigger an early onset.

Like being trapped in an overheated lobby with an alpha just a few yards away. One who’s quiet, watching, aware. 

Still, it’s not unmanageable. You’ve handled worse. If you can get home in time, the meds waiting in your cabinet will ease you through the worst of it, keep you from slipping into second and third stage alone, unprepared.

If not…

No, you can’t think about that. If you stray too far to the second stage of your cycle before getting home, your options are limited and grim. 

You don’t like any of them. 

You shift your stance again, ankles crossing and uncrossing, arms hugging your waist like that might hold everything in place. But it’s not helping anymore. Your skin feels too tight, like it doesn’t fit right on your body. The heat is building now, no longer a low thrum, but a steady pulse radiating from your core, licking up your spine and sinking into your limbs. Your breaths come shorter, faster, and there’s a dull ache beginning in your lower belly, something deep and hormonal and utterly beyond your control.

“Hey,” Seungcheol says, causing you to look at him. His face is soft. Concerned. “You still with me?”

The way he says it, soft and gentle, makes things worse. Makes you want to whine and cross the lobby floor to him, to let him pull you in tight and tell you it’ll be okay. To comfort you. The desire is so bad that you realize you’re much farther into Stage 1 than you thought.

Panic starts to nip at your heels. You’re unsure what to do. There’s nothing on you besides your nasal spray and your patches to help you out, but those aren’t what you need. Your patches protect others from your scent and the nasal spray protects you from others - from Seungcheol. 

You try to answer, but your voice catches in your throat, coming out thin and shaky. “I’m okay.”

“Are you in prodrome?” he asks quietly, voice pitched low and careful.

You flinch when he finally says it out loud, letting the acknowledgement ring in the lobby. You close your eyes for a moment, your silence an answer in itself. 

Seungcheol sighs and pulls his phone back out of his pocket, dialing as he lifts it to his ear. “Yeah, I know. Look, you need to expedite. My colleague needs medical assistance and we’re still locked in the lobby. No… no.” Seungcheol glances at you. “She’s experiencing prodrome. Can you please expedite? Yes. Thank you.” 

He hangs up and turns back to you, stepping slowly so he doesn’t overwhelm, arms loose at his sides in a show of calm. “They’re sending someone now. Shouldn’t be long.”

You nod, but your breathing is uneven, shallow now. You can feel the sweat dripping down your spine, the pressure behind your eyes. Everything smells too sharp, too thick. Especially him. Spice and warmth and safety. It’s awful. 

Seungcheol stays where he is, a careful distance between you, but his voice is steady when he says, “Tell me what you need. What I can do to help.”

“I’m fine.”

“I mean it. If you need space, I’ll back off. If you need something cold, we’ll figure it out. Just don’t… don’t try to pretend this isn’t happening. Let me help you.” 

The kindness in his voice cracks something in your chest. No judgment, no pressure, just him, steady and solid, offering help while your body betrays you one symptom at a time. 

You swallow hard. “I just need to get out. I just need to make it home before it gets worse.”

Seungcheol nods, no hesitation. “Then we’ll get you home. I promise.”

Time moves like molasses. The silence between you thickens. You give up on standing, sitting on the cool tile floor. It only offers momentary respite until you’re panting again, struggling to maintain your grip on yourself. 

It’s not working. Your entire body is pulsing, tingling, burning in waves that crest and fall without rhythm. Your skin itches with hypersensitivity, every shift of your clothes unbearable, your breath slow and ragged. It feels like you’re melting, burning up from the forge in your chest.

You can feel Seungcheol watching you from his assigned corner. He says nothing, keeping a respectful distance. You steal a glance at him through bleary eyes. He’s just leaning against the wall, hands clenched and jaw tight. He’s doing his best to appear calm, but you see signs of irritation. His throat works and your eyes linger on the way his Adam's apple bobs for too long. You think about sinking your teeth into his neck, tasting him-

His scent, normally warm and grounded, spikes. You sense the shift and it makes you squirm, pressing yourself further into the wall. You look away from him, hiding your face in your shoulder while you squeeze your eyes shut as another wave of cramping crashes into you. 

Seungcheol’s irritation is sharp. Shame floods you, thick and fast. Of course he’s annoyed. Today has gone from bad to worse. He’s now stuck in a lobby with an omega in prodrome, a liability that he now has to be responsible for, and you’re barely holding it together, shaking like a live wire. You’re stuck, and he’s stuck with you, and-

The lobby doors beep and hiss open. You don’t even lift your head. Don’t even hear the first few words from the guards. You only feel cool night air and the sudden shift in pressure, making you keen and melt into the tile. 

Seungcheol appears at your side, his scent fading from acrid to soothing. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, crouching down to your level. It’s the closest he’s been to you all day. You feel the heat of him, the nearness overwhelming. “They’re here. We can go.”

You don’t move. The thought of moving suddenly seems like an insurmountable task. Your world is tilting, your ears ringing. Your limbs feel detached from your brain and your body is locked, curled in on itself. Heat prickles across your skin like static.

Worst of all, you’re starting to panic. Fear sets in, stabbing deep. You don’t know how to get up and take the train home. Don’t know how to get yourself up the stairs and into your apartment. To the cabinet to take a suppressant. To the fridge for water. 

Seungcheol’s voice sharpens. “Hey. Look at me.”

It’s a command. You blink up at him, barely able to focus. Something flashes behind his eyes and he’s on the phone again. “Hi, I need emergency assistance for an omega. She’s in heat prodrome and she’s deteriorating fast. No, she’s conscious. She’s overheating, but having trouble standing and struggling to focus. I have no idea what to do.” 

You barely hear the voice on the other end of the line, but Seungcheol does. His expression shifts, each word they say tightening his jaw.

“She’s a coworker - we were locked in a lobby at work but I can take her to an omega hospital.” You whimper and shake your head vehemently, whining. He softens. “They said they can give you a heat inhibitor on-site.” 

“No,” you pant. “It hurts.”

He nods. “I can’t do that, she doesn’t want to go.” The operator says something else and he nods. His eyes tighten at the corners and he glances at you. “I can take you to a service clinic. They can assign you-”

“Home,” you plead. “I just need to get home. I can- I can deal with it.”

“I don’t know… do you have, um. Do you have an alpha you usually…?”

“No.”

Tears well up fast and hot, blurring your vision, sliding down your cheeks in silent streaks. Your whole body feels wrong, like you’ve been unraveled from the inside, trembling and raw.

“I just want to go home,” you whisper, folding in on yourself. “I have my meds. I can manage if I can just get home. Please.”

He repeats what you say into the phone. They say something and he shakes his head and hangs up, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Okay. Alright. We’re going to get you home, okay?” 

He helps you to your feet slowly, carefully, arms braced around you like he’s afraid you’ll break. You lean into him, weak and unsteady, but there’s no judgment in his touch, just quiet strength and a protective kind of focus that makes your throat tighten all over again.

The lobby fades behind you. The night air hits your overheated skin like salvation. Seungcheol doesn’t say a word as he guides you into the passenger seat of his car, buckles you in, and throws his jacket over your lap for warmth. His hands are shaking as he starts the engine.

“Can you give me directions?”

You mumble them. You’re not even sure that he hears you. He has no idea the bomb he’s given you, tossing his jacket over you. Your fingers curl into it, greedy. Inhaling deeply, you feel yourself drift as he drives, the hum of the engine lulling you into a half-daze. The smell of Seungcheol is overwhelming, but comforting. Steady. No longer a threat, but something you want. Need. 

It isn’t until Seungcheol’s hands are gently shaking you that you realize you’re at your apartment. You blink up at him, stars in your eyes. He looks down at you, glasses a little askew as he asks you a question. His words are garbled and you don’t understand, shaking your head in confusion as he gazes at you. 

“Come on,” he sighs, unbuckling your seat for you. His chest brushes across you as he does, bergamot and cardamom hitting you so hard that it knocks the senses out of you. You’re near catatonic for a second until you feel his hands pressed against your forehead. “Fuck, you’re burning up. Can I carry you?”

You must nod, because he bends low and scoops you out of the car. You jostle against his chest as he carries you bridal style toward the stairs. His scent is mind numbing. Your face is too close to his neck and he doesn’t have a scent blocker on, pheromones doing insane damage to your self control as he climbs the stairs, you in his arms like you weigh absolutely nothing.

Gently, Seungcheol places you on your feet. He slides an arm around your waist, keeping you upright and pinned to him as he unlocks your door. You have no idea where he got your keys, must have fished them out of your purse at some point. 

Seungcheol guides you into your dark apartment, helping you to the couch like you’re made of glass. You collapse onto it, dazed. He crouches, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. His eyes are devastatingly soft, touch featherlight. 

“Let me call a doctor.”

“No.” Your voice is hoarse but immediate. “Please don’t. I can’t go to the hospital again. I don’t want to do this strapped to a bed, surrounded by strangers and white lights and IVs. I can’t.” 

He exhales, hands flexing. “Okay. Okay. But—then what? Do you have anyone who can help you through it? Any alpha you-”

“No. I just do it alone with meds. They’re in my bathroom cabinet. If you could just get them, I can do this.”

“I don’t think meds are going to help.” His admission is soft. Regretful, almost. Like it pains him to tell you this. 

You think he’s right, but you don’t know what else to do. 

Seungcheol’s brows furrow. You watch the internal war play out on his face, concern and hesitance and something harder to name. His throat bobs as he swallows. “If… look, if there’s no one else. I can try to help.”

You suck in a sharp breath. “What?”

“I can try. Only if you want. Only if you need. I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage, I just… I don’t want you to suffer. I know it’s not ideal, but I’m here. I don’t want to leave you like this.”

A fresh wave of tears hits you, shame curling hot in your chest. 

“You don’t want to,” you whisper, voice cracking. “You’re just saying that because you feel bad. And I feel awful. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I don’t want to put you in this position-”

“Hey.” His voice is firmer now, but not unkind. He shifts forward, his hands finding yours, wrapping them gently between his palms. Your skin tingles where he touches you, a fresh wave of heat licking through you. “Stop. Look at me.”

You do. Barely. His face is open and honest, his eyes warm. He’s so pretty like this, looking at you like you’re something he cares about - someone he cares about. 

“I want to help you. Not because I pity you. Not because I feel obligated. Because I care about you. And you’re in pain. And I can do something about it.” He takes a breath, then adds, softer, “Even if that means the more intimate parts.” 

Your face crumples, fresh humiliation rising, but he keeps holding your gaze, steady and calm. 

“Only if you want to,” he says. “Only if you’re lucid and safe and sure. If you want me to sit on the other side of the apartment all night and just be here, I will. If you want to go to sleep and pretend this didn’t happen tomorrow, I’ll follow your lead.”

“I don’t want you on the other side of the apartment,” you admit. “I just feel embarrassed by what I need.”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, especially for something out of your control. Your body isn’t your enemy.”

You press your lips together, fighting the emotions building in your chest, but it’s no use. A soft sob slips out before you can stop it, and Seungcheol is there in an instant, wrapping his arms around you with careful strength, cradling you against him like he’s anchoring you to the moment.

His scent hits you more fully now, warm and earthy beneath the sharp spice, like cinnamon bark and sun-warmed cedar. It fills your lungs and settles into the frantic edge of your nerves like balm, and it’s… comforting. Not invasive. Not overwhelming.

Just Seungcheol. 

“I’m here,” he murmurs into your hair. “Whatever you need, we go slow. I’ll follow your pace. You lead.”

“Even if it’s more than you expected?”

“Even then.”

Seungcheol helps you sit back, propped with cushions on the couch, still watching you like you might unravel again, but not because he doubts you. Because he cares. Because he’s listening to every breath you take like it matters.

“I’ll need… a few things,” you say, quietly. “If this really goes into the full cycle. I have suppressants, but they won’t help much unless I can get them in the next hour, and I don’t think I have that kind of time anymore.”

“Okay. Tell me what you need.”

You breathe in. “Water. A lot of it. Heat spikes dehydrate fast, and I’ll probably get a fever if we don’t keep me hydrated. Heats are a game of chess except sometimes the board blows up.” 

“Funny. Got it.”

“And blankets,” you add quickly. “I’ll feel cold, even if I’m burning. Like weight and softness. Like nesting.”

“Like a bird… or dinosaur.”

You scowl at him and he grins, dimples appearing in his cheek. It makes you want to lean forward and bite him, to sink your teeth in and never let go. 

“What else?” He asks. 

“I’ll need food eventually. Simple things. Broths, carbs. My body’s going to want to burn through everything at once.”

“Easy.”

“And proximity.” You hesitate here, voice wavering. “I’ll need closeness. I haven’t had a heat partner before, but probably a lot of sex. It uh - comes in waves but it helps. Obviously. So there’s that.”

“I can do that.” There’s no hesitation. Just firm dedication. “It’s not a problem. What else?” 

You look at him, something stirring in your chest, still unsure how to express the storm of emotions bubbling beneath your skin. “What have you done for your omegas in the past? During heat? This is sort of new to me.”

He pauses. “I haven’t. I’ve never spent a heat with an omega.”

“What?”

“I’ve never been with an omega at all, to be honest with you.” The gravity of his statement makes you panic. You start to sit up, protests bubbling to your lips but he hushes you, eases you back down. “It’s fine. I’m fine, I wouldn’t have offered it if I wasn’t totally sure.” 

“Why offer at all?”

“Because it’s you,” he says simply. “And I’d rather learn how to help you than let you suffer alone.”

A beat passes. 

“Okay,” you whisper. 

“Okay,” he echos. “Let’s get you settled.”

Seungcheol stands, giving you one more lingering gaze before he sets himself to the task of readying your apartment. He sends you to your room to change into a pair of sweats and an oversized shirt before he lets you settle on the couch, sweaty and shaking.

Seungcheol moves through your space like he’s been here before, like he knows where everything is even when he clearly doesn’t. He opens cabinets and drawers gently, always looking back at you as though he’s seeking permission. You nod each time, endeared by his hesitancy. 

You don’t know what to make of his admission of never being with an omega before. In your experience, most alphas would loathe to admit that, finding something wrong with it. But Seungcheol doesn’t seem to mind, admitting it as a simple fact, neither good nor bad. 

You like that about him, his self-assuredness. 

When he finds your largest pot, Seungcheol fills it with water and sets it over the stove. He pulls out ingredients for simple foods: rice, pasta, anything with carbs like you’d said. He hums under his breath as he moves, a soft, low sound that vibrates in your bones.

It’s soothing. Almost domestic. But every second that stretches between you builds like static, his very presence buzzing along your awareness like an exposed wire. 

Seungcheol brings you a cool glass of water and kneels to hand it to you, his fingers brushing yours when you reach out to take it. You try not to flinch at the bolt of electricity that jumps up your arm. His eyes linger on your face, reading you. Not pitying. Not worried. Just seeing. 

“You’re doing okay?” He asks, but by his tone, he knows you are. You nod, but your throat is dry again, so you take a few gulps of water, nearly emptying the glass. He laughs and reaches for it when some spills over, running down your chin. “Careful.”

Something in his voice changes. The softness of it ripples down your spine and you look at him over the brim of your glass. His scent is warmer. Closer. Still under control, but pressing at the edges of your awareness like velvet, his alpha instincts responding to your body chemistry, the need of your hormones begging for him. 

Seungcheol rises, keeping a respectful distance, and yet his gaze burns where it rests on you. He takes the glass from you, fingers brushing yours again before heading to the kitchen to refill it. 

It makes you unravel, every part of you unspooling wildly as you watch him in your kitchen, the muscles under his shirt flexing. He rolls his sleeves as he turns the stove off before coming back your way, forearms bare, veins throbbing. 

Arousal unravels inside of you. You feel the tip from Stage 1 to Stage 2, your heartbeat kicking up a notch, your hands shaking more. When Seungcheol offers the glass, you don’t take it. You stare at your hands, willing yourself to stop, willing yourself to stop wanting him. The fear of making him uncomfortable is so sudden, a wave crashing into you.

Seungcheol notices. He drops to his knees immediately, putting the glass of water on the coffee table. This time, he doesn’t hesitate when he touches you, putting his palm to your forehead, his other resting on top of your wrist, his thumb tracing back and forth soothingly. 

“What’s wrong?” His voice is like velvet. “What happened?”

Your lips part, but no words come. You try again. Nothing. You don’t know how to shape the words, don’t know how to tell him that a second ago, you thought he was domestic and sweet, and now you’ve strayed into dangerous territory, thinking that you’d like nothing more for him to pin you down and fuck you until you can’t feel anything but him anymore.

You don’t need to tell him. Seungcheol inhales and you see the shift happen, a shiver rattling through him. He closes his eyes, inhaling again. A knowing, almost pained sound grumbles in the back of his throat and you squirm in response. He drops his hand from your head to your shoulder, fingers squeezing. 

“I’m sorry.”

His eyes snap open and he looks up at you, deadly serious. “Hey. No shame. Not with me. You told me to help, didn’t you? Let me do that.”

You nod, small and shaky. He lingers for a second longer, like he's giving you a chance to back out, then slowly rises, curling an arm around your back. You lean into him instinctively, your body already seeking contact, and he lifts you with ease.

Your bedroom isn’t far, but the walk feels endless, every footstep echoes with your racing pulse. You can feel his scent thickening around you, not overpowering, but present, comforting. It keeps you tethered, grounded. You cling to him in silence, your skin flushed hot, thighs pressing together in search of friction, your heart betraying you in its longing.

He places you gently on your bed, kneeling down beside you. For a long moment, he doesn’t touch you. He just watches, reading your every breath, every twitch of discomfort.

At first, you don’t do anything but stare at him. Seungcheol is so beautiful, with a plush mouth made for kissing, long eyelashes that frame gentle eyes, a dimple that appears each time he smiles. You’ve always noticed him, this quiet and soft alpha in your office. You’d never imagined you’d be here, looking up at him with want in your gut so strong that you can barely stand it.

Seungcheol senses it, because of course he does. He surges forward, catching your mouth in a gentle kiss. It’s slow and uncertain at first, hesitating to see if you pull away. You don’t pull away at all. Instead, you keen, a whine slipping between your mouths that makes him groan in response.

He deepens the kiss slowly, reverently. His lips are soft but sure, his hands careful as they frame your face. He tastes faintly of cherry chapstick, your omega running wild as you lean into him and lick into his mouth, eager to taste him. 

“Is this what you want?” He asks, panting as he breaks the kiss. He’s leaning onto your bed now, pressing his nose against yours. You feel him pant against you, barely contained. You nod, unable to speak. “Even if this goes further?”

“Please.” 

That one word seems to break him. He climbs up into your bed, hovering over you, pinning you to the mattress. You let out a sound of appreciation as he settles, his mouth meeting yours again. This time, there’s heat in it. One hand roams you carefully while the other is planted by your head, keeping him looming over you. Every touch eases the ache and stokes the fire in equal measure. 

You can’t get enough of him, running your hands over his stomach and around his waist, pulling at him, desperate. It feels like you’re burning up, both suffering and relieved at the same time as his tongue finds the warmth of your mouth, drinking you in. 

His scent is rich and spicy, unmistakably alpha. It makes your omega instincts claw at you, urging you to submit, to bare your neck. You tilt your head, exposing the sensitive skin, and Seungcheol growls low, his lips brushing the pulse point before he nips gently, not enough to mark but enough to make you shudder. Your slick pools between your thighs, the air thick with your arousal, and he groans again, nostrils flaring as he catches the scent.

“Fuck,” he growls, burying his face in your neck. It might be the first time you’ve heard him curse. “The sounds you make… fuck.”

Seungcheol’s tongue darts out, sweeping against your scent gland. His head snaps up and he frowns, realizing there’s a scent blocker on your neck. His lip curls like he’s offended, and he gently peels the pad off your neck, soothing the sting as the adhesive tears off with his warm, wet tongue. 

His tongue directly against your neck nearly makes you catatonic. Your eyes roll back, breath catching as he mouths at you before pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses up and down your neck. 

“You smell so fucking good,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. 

His hand slides down your body, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your pants. You arch into his touch, a needy whimper escaping as his fingers find your slick-soaked panties. He teases you, fingers circling slowly, pressing the fabric of your underwear into your messy cunt.

“Please,” you pant. 

There’s that word again. It seems to make him malfunction, makes him bend to your will. He nods, peppering your collarbones with butterfly-light kisses as he pulls your underwear to the side. His fingers drag up and down your cunt and you squeeze your eyes shut. Your arms circle around his neck, clinging to him for dear life, hips canting as he leisurely circles your clit, applying subtle pressure. 

“Feel okay?” He asks, breathing the words into your ear. His teeth nip at your ear playfully and you gasp, making him chuckle deep in his throat. “Do you want-”

“Please.” 

He kisses your jaw. “Got it.” 

Seungcheol presses a finger into your heat, wet and slow, aided by the arousal dripping from your entrance.  The stretch is perfect, his fingers curling just right, and you gasp, hips bucking against his hand. 

You whine, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into his shirt. He hums in response, pleased at your reaction. He slowly starts to pump his fingers, restricted by the waistband of your sweats. His thumb swirls against your clit and you hurtle toward an orgasm from the barest stimulation, already too worked up, too fucked out on him and his fingers and the hormones. 

Your body sings under his touch, heat coiling tighter, your omega keening for more, for him, for everything. His lips find yours again, mouths clashing as he slips another finger in, working you open until you’re shaking in his grasp and coming around his fingers. You hear the wet smack of his hand against your pussy, the way his fingers squelch. 

You don’t have the wherewithal to be embarrassed by it. Instead, you’re floating in a fucked out haze, the world dulling. There’s just Seungcheol’s lazy tongue in your mouth and the smell of bergamot and cardamom. The weight of him on you feels safe, setting you in a trance. 

Slowly, he pulls his fingers from you. You make a noise of protest but he hushes you with a gentle kiss. You feel a little more aware as the orgasm subsides, the ache you’d had a few moments ago dulled by the satisfaction. You know it’ll get worse and you’ll need more, but for now, you’re okay. 

You open your mouth to give a shy thank you when you’re stopped, entranced by the way Seungcheol brings his fingers, shining with your cum, up to his mouth. Your lips part in shock as he pops them past his lips, sucking generously. He hums, eyelids fluttering shut as he licks them clean. 

Never had you imagined that, imagined him like this. When he opens his eyes, his pupils are dilated. Starving. Feral. 

“Taste so fucking good,” He murmurs, leaning down to give you a lingering kiss. You taste yourself on him, different but not unpleasant. “Can’t wait to taste you properly later.” That makes you whine and you reach for him, but he smiles and kisses your nose before standing up. You pout and he laughs. “Water. You need water.” 

Seungcheol leaves your room but he leaves the door open just in case. You nuzzle into the bed, fisting the jacket he’d given you earlier as you nuzzle into it. You wish the bed smelled more like him. Right now it just smells like you, with bits of Seungcheol laced in. 

You close your eyes, letting your body melt into the sheets, muscles pleasantly sore and mind hazy with velocetin, a neurochemical that heightens arousal and reduces pain perception during Stage 2 of an omega’s heat cycle. The room is quiet, save for the distant hum of the AC and the faint creak of the floorboards as Seungcheol moves through the house.

When he comes back, Seungcheol is holding a bottle of water in one hand and something else in the other. A bowl of mac and cheese. He brandishes both proudly before sitting on the bed next to you. You prop yourself up on the pillows, looking at him through your lashes.

"Figured you might need both,” he says. 

You shake your head. “Just water.”

“You haven’t eaten dinner.”

“Don’t wanna.”

He levels a look at you. Switches tactics. “It would make me feel better if you did,” he urges gently. He puts the water on the nightstand, bowl of mac and cheese in his lap. He reaches out and brushes his fingers along your bottom lip. “Please.”

That word hangs in the air between you, both a pleasantry and a weapon. You feel the way he means it, the way it would make him feel better if you ate. You nod, sitting up with his careful assistance until you’re leaning against the headboard. 

Seungcheol stabs some of the pasta and lifts his hand before pausing, realizing he was about to feed you. You both flush, averting his eyes and handing you the bowl awkwardly, you trying not to put it down and jump him at the thought of him wanting to care for you this way.

Instead, you bite into the mac and cheese. It’s a little salty, but it’s good. You eat the entire bowl in comfortable silence, Seungcheol holding out the bottle of water for you in exchange for your empty dish. You trade and you chug some of the water, letting it keep you cool.

“I guess I didn’t realize how much of an appetite I had,” you note, sagging into the pillows. You feel good. Far better than you ever have when dealing with your cycle alone. 

He grins, cocky and unrepentant. “Guess I fixed that, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning too. “Shut up.”

“I could,” he says, climbing back into bed beside you, “but then I wouldn’t get to hear you whine like that.”

You flush at the memory, at the way your body still responds to his voice alone. He notices, of course he does, and his smile softens. One hand finds your waist, tugging you closer until you're nestled against him again.

“Take a nap,” he murmurs, leaning back into the headboard. “You need rest.” 

“What about you?”

He smiles softly. “I’m good right where I am.”

-

You wake to the sound of voices. For a moment, you're disoriented, wrapped in sheets that smell faintly like Seungcheol and sweat and a myriad of other scents familiar to you from years of heat cycles. It’s still dark in your room, only the glow of a neon sign outside slipping through your blinds a source of illumination. 

You roll over instinctively, reaching for Seungcheol and you freeze. The spot where he was when you had fallen asleep is now vacant. Cold, like he hadn’t been there in the last hour. 

Panic lances through your chest, so painful that it feels like a physical blow. You all but fall out of bed, heart hammering when you realize he left. He’s gone and you’re alone and you don’t know what to do, terror working its way up your throat. 

Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe everything he said was just talk. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to silence the rush of doubt, of fear- until you hear it again. Voices. Voices that had woken you up in the first place, momentarily forgotten by a hormone-addled brain and sleep. 

The door is shut to your room but you reach for it now, cracking it open. Dim light floods through the gap. All the lights in your apartment are off, but the single bulb over your stove is burning, a warm golden glow filtering down the hall. 

Sticking your head out, you see Seungcheol standing at your door. It’s mostly closed, just enough for him to block the gap with whoever he’s talking to. His broad back is facing you and you cock your head, puzzled. You can see the tension rippling through him, the way his hackles rise and the rigid way he stands, like he’s barring entry to something important. 

“Yeah, you’ve been really helpful,” Seungcheol growls. There’s a low, dangerous edge to his voice that you’ve never heard before. It sets the hairs on your arm standing. 

“Relax, man.” You don’t recognize the voice on the other side of the door. It’s playful, distinctly male. “I brought you your shit, didn’t I? You’re acting like I came to steal her.”

Seungcheol bristles. “Out, Soonyoung.” 

“Okay, okay,” Soonyoung - whoever that is - says. “Message received. You don’t have to piss on the doormat, Cheol.”

“I just might.”

You can’t help the small sound that escapes you, half laugh, half sigh of relief. 

Seungcheol’s head whips around at the sound, eyes immediately softening when they land on you. “Hey,” he says, voice gentler now, but still tight with emotion. “You should be resting.”

You pad down the hallway toward him. Each step closer makes the fire inside of you return. You feel the throb come back, needing more, subtle but growing. “I thought you left.”

His entire expression changes, and he’s at your side in an instant. “No. No, baby,” he says, cupping your face with both hands. “I just went to the door. I called Soonyoung for some clothes and stuff. I wasn’t leaving. I wouldn’t leave you like that.”

Baby. He says it so naturally, so unconsciously, that you’re not even sure he realizes it slipped out. But it hits you like a warm wave, softening every edge of panic still clinging to your chest. Your knees wobble slightly, and he notices. His hands slide from your face to your waist, grounding you there, steady and sure. He pulls you closer, and you melt into him, breathing him in.

Not gone. Not alone. He’s right here with you, like he said he would.

“Sorry. I just panicked.”

“No, it’s my fault. I should have known you’d wake up.”

A throat clears behind him. 

You both freeze, and then Seungcheol stiffens, the muscles under your hands tensing like a drawn bowstring. His eyes narrow behind his glasses as he turns his head, keeping you tight against him, chest to chest, like a shield. A low, warning growl rumbles from deep in his throat.

“Soonyoung was just leaving,” Seungcheol asserts. 

“Soonyoung is leaving, but also says he hopes your cycle goes well!”

Carefully, you peek around Seungcheol to see Soonyoung in the doorway. He’s standing in the doorway with a duffel slung over his shoulder, unbothered and grinning. His dark hair is long around his ears, and his eyes curve into soft crescents when he smiles. He waves at you, the gesture so sincere it makes you falter, like he’s genuinely happy to see you, even though you’ve clearly never met.

“Nice to meet you!” 

Another warning growl vibrates through Seungcheol’s chest. You feel it more than hear it.

Soonyoung just rolls his eyes. “Alright, alright, relax.” He lifts his hands in mock surrender as he backs away. “Let me know if he starts brooding in corners or being unbearable. Happens when he doesn’t get enough attention.”

“Bye, Soonyoung,” Seungcheol grits out. 

Soonyoung flashes one last wink and manages to pull the door shut just before Seungcheol fully turns to kill him. He exhales sharply and mutters something under his breath.

You look up at him, a teasing smile on your lips. “Territorial much?”

His ears flush instantly, color blooming down to his neck. He chews the inside of his cheek, gaze dropping.  “I apologize,” he murmurs, stepping away. “I know I’ve overstepped and-”

“Don’t,” you interrupt, reaching to pull him back, hands curling into his sides. “I liked it.” His brows lift, uncertain. You offer a soft smile. “I don’t think I’ve seen that side of you before. You’re usually so calm. Quiet. Kind of unassuming. Not very…”

“Not very alpha.”

“Not in the way people expect. But that’s not a bad thing.” He studies you for a moment, searching your expression, and something in his shoulders loosens. “I like the way you are. And the possessiveness…” 

You shiver and he grins, cockiness returning to you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Definitely.” 

His hands slide back to your waist, gripping just a little firmer this time. “You shouldn’t have told me that. Now I’m not going to be able to stop.”

“I don’t want you to. Please.” 

Seungcheol forgets all about his bag by the door. He scoops you up in his arms, taking you back to your room. You let out a soft sound, something almost like a purr, keening under him, excitement and arousal flooding you overtime. 

He notices, groaning when he catches the change in your body chemistry. He places you down on the bed gently, crawling over you, hand skimming up your t-shirt as he does. His fingers are warm and light, playful. You don’t want playful, though. You want greedy. Hungry. 

The buzz of anticipation curls low in your belly, heat blooming under your skin like wildfire. You arch into him instinctively, hips twitching. “Don’t play with me,” you breathe, reaching up to fist the fabric at his sides. “Please.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Recognition, you think. Like he sees the hunger gnawing inside of you and he recognizes it as his own. You want it, want that fire in him. You want to dive in head first and never come up for air. You want him so bad it hurts, a physical pain manifesting between your legs as your thoughts drift away and your instinct takes over.

“Please,” is all you can whisper. 

That’s all it takes. The control he’s been clinging to snaps like a thread pulled too tight. He crashes his mouth onto yours, swallowing your moan as his body presses down, heavy and solid, every inch of him demanding to be closer. His kiss is nothing like the ones before, this one is rough, consuming, all tongue and teeth and need. His hands slide up your sides, pushing the shirt higher, until the fabric is bunched at your ribs and he can finally touch bare skin.

His palms are searing, dragging up your waist to your ribs, brushing just beneath your breasts before he groans deep in his throat, your scent thick in the air now, laced with heat, need, you.

“You smell so fucking good,” he growls, mouth trailing hot, wet kisses down your throat. “It’s driving me insane.”

You thread your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan again, his hips pressing into yours, and you gasp at the hardness you feel through his pants. He’s still in his work clothes, though they’re wrinkled and sweaty and a mess. You tug at them desperately, whining, trying to get them off. 

He growls again, low and possessive, and then he’s kissing you hard, his body rolling against yours in slow, grinding movements. His thigh slots between yours, pinning you in place, and the friction makes your back arch, chasing more.

“Tell me what you want,” he mutters against your mouth, one hand cupping your breast through the thin fabric of your bra, his thumb brushing over your nipple. “I’ll give you anything, baby. Anything.”

There’s that nickname again. Baby. It sounds sinful on his lips, like he’d do anything for you, like he would give anything for you. It makes you dizzy with gluttonous power and you pant, pulling him as close as you can get him, a button popping on his shirt. 

“I want you. Now.”

Seungcheol’s eyes darken, pupils blown, and he pulls back just enough to kneel above you. His gaze rakes over you, flushed, trembling. He makes a sound, something pitiful, hands trembling slightly as his fingers work the buttons of his shirt. 

He shrugs his shirt off, the fabric catching on broad shoulders before it falls, revealing hard planes of his chest, skin flushed with a thin sheen of sweat. His muscles flex when he moves, every line of him radiating strength. Your mouth waters, arousal pooling between your legs, screaming to touch him, to taste him. 

He doesn’t rush, though. His fingers linger on his belt, unbuckling it with deliberate slowness, the clink of metal loud in the charged silence. Your hips shift, impatient. He tuts at you, narrowing his eyes and you still immediately, falling into line, eager to please. His mouth twitches and he drops a hand to give your thigh a squeeze as if to say good job.

It makes you want to pass out. 

Seungcheol slides his belt free, letting it drop, and when he unbuttons his pants, the sound of his zipper is tortuous. You want him immediately, you want him now, but he seems dead set on doing this at exactly his pace. So you let him, letting the ache peak inside of you, shivering at what you know he’s going to give you. 

He carefully shoves his pants down, kicking them alongside his briefs in one fell swoop. His cock springs free, thick and heavy, the tip glistening with precum. Your core clenches at the sight, a fresh wave of slick dripping from you, and he groans, nostrils flaring as he catches the scent.

“God, you’re perfect,” he says, voice low. He peels your sweats down your legs, shaking his head as he goes, overwhelmed by the sheer need for him, to your body's reaction. “Fuck.”

He crawls back over you, hands skimming your sides, sliding up to peel your shirt off of you. The air is cold but Seungcheol’s touch is burning you up. He deftly removes your bra, tossing it somewhere behind him. He pauses, eyes locked on you, and the intensity of his gaze makes your breath catch. It’s like he can’t get enough of you, cannot fathom what’s in front of him.

Seungcheol shakes himself as if from a daze and then his mouth is on you, lips trailing fire down your throat, over your collarbone, until he reaches your breast. He takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, tongue swirling, and you moan, back arching to press closer.

His worship is meticulous, unhurried. He lavishes attention on your other breast, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, while his hand slides down, fingers brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You’re trembling, omega instincts in overdrive, and when his fingers finally find your slick-soaked folds, you cry out, hips bucking into his touch. He groans against your skin, the sound vibrating through you, and pulls back to look at you, eyes blazing.

“Yeah?” He asks, voice scratchy. “So wet for me.” His fingers tease, spreading your slick, circling your clit with maddening slowness. “All for me?”

“Yes. Yours.”

Hearing you say it makes something snap in him. His pupils dilate, fucked out and filled with an intensity you didn’t know was possible. He dips lower, kissing a path down your stomach, nipping at the soft skin above your hips. He settles between your thighs, spreading them wide, and the sight of him there, all broad shoulders, dark eyes, and lips parted, makes your core throb. 

He doesn’t tease this time, reaching up with one hand to rip off his glasses and toss them to the corner of the mattress. He drops down and his mouth finds you, tongue dragging a slow, deliberate line through your folds, and you moan, loud and broken, as he tastes you. Relief floods through you. You feel yourself go boneless, the pain that was ebbing in you a moment ago dulling again as Seungheol leisurely tongues at you, groaning while he does. 

Seungcheol is relentless, worshipful, every lick and suck a testament to his need to please you. His lips close around your clit, sucking gently, then harder, and you writhe, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard. He moans into you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine, and doubles down, tongue flicking with precision, lapping up every drop of slick. His fingers join in, two slipping inside you, curling against that perfect spot, and the stretch, the pressure, is overwhelming.

You gasp, hips grinding against his face, chasing the building heat in your stomach. He hums, pleased, and the sound pushes you closer to the edge. He’s messy, slick coating his chin, his lips. He doesn’t care. He seems drunk on it, one hand pressing your thighs to further open you up, pressing his face further into your cunt to drink you in. 

His fingers thrust in time with his tongue, every curl and suck calculated to make you unravel. You shiver under him, your limbs unable to keep up, thighs twitching against his hand. It feels maddening, better than anything you’ve ever felt up until this point. 

Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, dragging you under until you’re gasping for air. Your thighs clamp around his head and he lets you. He laps at your entrance as it drips, drawing out every shudder, every pulse, until you’re whimpering and overstimulated. 

Even overstimulated, you want more. Need more. 

Seungcheol pulls back, lips glistening, eyes wild. He pulls his fingers from you and crawls up to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. The kiss is filthy, desperate, and you moan into it, pulling him closer. 

“Need you,” you gasp, hands roaming his back, feeling the muscles flex under your fingertips, your nails cramping. “Need you inside of me. Please.”

He nods, unable to respond. He lowers his waist and drops a hand down to peel your thighs open. You feel how wet and messy you are but you don’t care. Seungcheol seems to appreciate it, swearing when he looks between your bodies to fist his heavy cock and line himself up with your entrance. 

The anticipation makes you tremble. He pushes in slowly, stretching you inch by inch, and you both groan, the sensation overwhelming. He’s big, filling you completely, and your walls flutter around him, slick easing the way.

“Fuck,” he grits out, dropping his forhead against yours. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck.”

Seungcheol fights to keep still, fights to let you adjust around him. You’re stretched tight, gripping him like a vice, your breathing hitched as you struggle yourself, near ready to come from just this alone. 

You manage to hang on, tangling your fingers in the damp hair at the base of his neck. You need more - always more. You start rocking your hips, urging him deeper. It feels so good you see spots in your vision. He moans and thrusts hard on instinct, bottoming out. 

The pace builds, his hips snapping, each thrust precise and deep, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. The pressure builds so fast you barely register it, chasing your high and whatever he’ll give you, your omega instincts screaming for it. 

He can tell. He quickens his pace, trying to get you there faster. It does the trick, because you come around him without warning. You pulse around him and he slows down, grinding his hips against you, letting you gush around him until your shaking subsides. 

Seungcheol is still rock hard, cock throbbing. Your forehead rests against his forearm, Seungcheol leaning over you, caging you in.

“Can you take more?” You nod but he shakes his head, nosing your temple. “You have to verbally tell me.”

“Can take more.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

He kisses your temple and picks his pace back up. 

It’s slower, but more defined. Deep. Seungcheol’s stroke is slow and deliberate, one of his hands slipping under your thigh to hike it up around his waist. That makes you whine, high-pitched and he loves it, mouth catching yours, drinking in all the sounds you make. 

You’re close again, the pleasure building faster now, amplified by the way he watches you, eyes never leaving your face, like he’s memorizing every gasp, every moan. His hand slips between you, fingers finding your clit, still swollen from his mouth, and he rubs tight, relentless circles.

“Want you to come again,” he murmurs, voice raw. There’s a bit of a command in his voice, laced with something you swear is devotion. “Wanna feel you, baby. Give it to me.” 

His words and the relentless drive of his cock are too much. You whimper, nails digging into his back and he leans down, lips brushing against your neck. Not biting - that’s far too advanced for whatever this is - and his fingers press harder, circling faster.

The coil in your belly snaps and your second orgasm crashes through you, sharper and more intense. Your body locks around him, walls pulsing as you come again. He groans, low and guttural, pleased by the way you clench around him. But he doesn’t stop, fucking you through it. 

You’re shaking and oversensitive, but he’s not done. His thrusts are slow and deliberate, keeping you tethered. 

“So good for me,” he praises, kissing your sweaty forehead. “So fucking perfect. You did so good.”

The praise makes your omega sing, and you cling to him, breathless, as he chases his own release. His hips stutter, breaths growing ragged, and with a final, deep thrust, he comes, spilling inside of you. He groans, dropping his forehead against you, shaking in your arms as he comes down from his high. 

Finally, he collapses over you, careful not to crush you. You stay like that, a pile of tangled limbs, panting. His lips find your neck, kissing softly, soothing spots he’d nipped. 

“You okay?” He croaks, voice hoarse with disuse.

You’re only slightly coherent, somewhere stuck between a dreamlike space where your omega is satiated and reality. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Good.”

“I’m gonna grab water, okay? I’ll only be gone for a second. Just gonna get water and then we can sleep for a little.” 

“Mhmm.”

Seungcheol is hesitant this time when he gets up, no doubt worried about what happened the last time you thought he left. This time, you’re too out of it to really register how long it takes him to get water. One moment he’s out the door and the next the bed is dipping under his weight as he cradles your head to feed you water.

It’s cool and you come back to life a little, opening your eyes as you gulp, greedy. He admonishes you to be careful not to choke, tilting the glass so that the water isn’t gushing into your mouth. When you drain the glass, he smiles and kisses you. 

“Good,” he hums, happy. That makes you beam at him, thrilled that he’s pleased. “More?”

You shake your head. “Tired.”

“Okay. Let me change the sheets - don’t move. I’ll work around you, okay?”

Somehow, he manages to. With a careful series of rolling you to the side and lifting you to slide new sheets under you, Seungcheol executes an impressive sheet change without really bothering you. He disappears once more to throw the spent sheets in the wash. 

Upon his return, you’re barely awake. You reach for him anyway, buried somewhere underneath piles of blankets that smell like him. Finally. 

Seungcheol lets you pull him into bed, sliding across the mattress until you’re flush chest to chest, the beating of his heart against yours. He smells good. Content. Happy. Your eyes blink heavily as you breathe him in, all pain forgotten.

“Sleep,” he mumbles, just as tired. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

-

When you wake up again, you’re not really sure what time it is. All you know is that there is orange light burning through your blinds, something like late afternoon. More important, there’s an ache between your legs and there’s sweat on the back of your neck, already restless from whatever dream had woken you up.

The room is quiet, save for the soft rhythm of your breathing and Seungcheol’s steady exhales beside you. His arm is draped loosely over your waist. His scent is warm and spicy, grounding you. But beneath that cool calm his presence brings is a restless heat simmering, starting in your core and spreading to your limbs.

You try to ignore it, shutting your eyes and willing yourself back to sleep. It doesn’t go away, an ache growing in its place. A whine slips through your lips, despite your best efforts. The sound is small, but piercing through the stillness and before you can tamp down on it, Seungcheol is stirring, arm tightening briefly before he’s hooking a chin over your shoulder. 

“What’s the matter, baby?” He asks, voice low and rough with sleep. “You okay?”

His fingers brush back and forth across your waist. It’s supposed to be soothing but it’s almost maddening. 

“Feel hot. Need you.”

Seungcheol presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. You feel the curve of his smile. “I’ve got you.”

He moves slowly, peeling the sheets back. His hands are reverent, skimming your thighs and parting them as he settles between them. The air feels electric, every brush of his skin against yours sending sparks through you.

Like always, Seungcheol takes his time. His lips start at your knee, kissing softly, then trailing higher, nipping the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. You whimper, hips twitching, needy and desperate, and he hums, pleased. 

“So needy,” he teases. You’re not embarrassed this time, knowing that with him, there’s nothing to be worried about. 

He spreads your legs wider, exposing your warm, wet core. He bites his lower lip, teeth digging into the flesh as he groans, like he’s trying to fight himself on diving in and taking what he wants versus giving you what you need. 

The first pass of Seungcheol’s tongue is slow and deliberate, a long, slow-soft drag through your folds that makes you gasp, hands fisting the sheets. He hums, the vibration making you twitch. His lips close gently around your clit, giving an experimental suck. You cry out and he grins, dragging his tongue to dip back down to your entrance for a taste.

Seungcheol is relentless, his mouth working you with a devotion that borders on obsession. His tongue traces every inch of you, slow and thorough, lapping up your slick like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. He alternates between broad, languid strokes and precise flicks, learning your reactions, lingering where you tremble most. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you open, grounding you as you writhe, the slick coating his chin and lips only spurring him on.

“Fuck,” he mutters, pulling away for a second. He leans over your cunt and lets a string of spit and cum drip from his swollen mouth to your cunt before chasing it with his tongue. “I could stay here forever.”

He dives back in, tongue pressing into you, fucking you with slow, shallow thrusts of his mouth. Your moans are broken, and he takes it as encouragement, running his tongue in lazy circles, tasting all of you. Just as you start to near a soft high, his fingers join in, pressing in gently, making your vision blurry. 

The first orgasm builds fast, your body already primed from the restless heat of your sleep. His fingers pump in time with his tongue, relentless, and when he sucks hard on your clit, you shatter. A cry tears from your throat, hips bucking against his face as slick gushes, your walls clenching around his fingers. He doesn’t stop, lapping through your tremors, drawing out every pulse until you’re shaking, oversensitive, whimpering his name.

“One more, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You can give me one more.”

You can. He knows it. You know it.

His mouth softens, less intense but no less thorough, kissing your folds gently before returning to your clit with slow, teasing licks. Your body protests, too sensitive, but the heat is already building again, coaxed by his worshipful attention. He’s patient, methodical, every movement calculated to keep you on the edge without overwhelming you. His fingers slide back in, slower this time, curling lazily, and you feel the stretch, the fullness.

Your second orgasm creeps up, slower but deeper, a steady wave that builds as he works you with unwavering focus. His tongue flicks faster, lips sealing around your clit, and when he hums, the vibration tips you over. You come with a sob, less sharp but more intense, your whole body trembling as pleasure rolls through you, slick coating his hand, his mouth. He laps at you softly, easing you through it, until you’re boneless, panting, your omega sated.

Seungcheol’s kisses turn languid, worshipping, cleaning up the mess he made, savouring every drop. Your hands loosen in the sheets and he finally pulls back, crawling back up to the bed, pressing scattered, wet kisses up your body as he does. 

“Better?” He asks when he reaches your face, nose brushing against yours. 

“Thank you.”

He smiles, dimples flashing, and settles beside you, pulling you into his chest. His scent surrounds you, grounding, and you feel the bond pulse, warm and steady.

“Rest a little. Then we’ll shower.”

-

The shower fills with steam and the scent of eucalyptus. Fog covers the shower door as hot water runs over you and Seungcheol. His broad frame stands behind you, hands gentle but firm as he massages shampoo into your hair, working slow circles into your scalp. You lean into his touch, eyes fluttering closed. 

If only for a moment, it’s perfect. Almost too perfect, which makes your chest tighten with a quiet ache. This is just Seungcheol helping you through your heat, a temporary balm for a fire that will ultimately flare again.

You don’t know how you ever did this without him before. Don’t know how you’re going to manage to do it without him in the future. After just a day, Seungcheol has flipped your scope of the world upside down, changing your heat cycle entirely. 

Typically, it’s days of foggy suffering with suppressants to numb you. It’s a listlessness that chases you for days until your hormones are right again, until you can feel the sun on your face and let it make you smile. 

Now, you don’t know what it’s supposed to be. 

You turn to face Seungcheol. Water is streaming down his chest, catching the sculpted lines of his front. Each droplet clings to him in a way you understand - you want to cling to him too.

Seungcheol is breathtaking, all strength and quiet care. It’s a wonder that someone so powerful can also be so gentle. He’s unlike anything you expected, and breaks the norms of what you thought having an alpha help you through your heat might be like.

You don’t fool yourself into thinking there’s anyone else like him. You already know that this is just him, just Seungcheol. It makes a flicker of fear come to life in your chest, wondering what will happen when your heat fades and the intimacy here dissolves like the water flowing down the drain. 

You push the thought down. Gliding your hands over his chest, your fingers chase the droplets of water, feeling the steady pulse of his heart beneath your palm. It makes you ache with need again, an always there need for him coming back to life.

Heat cycles are like that. They’re made up of peaks and lows, moments where the need is so high it drives you insane followed by a near catatonic need to drift and sleep. 

Now, you’re approaching another peak, pulse picking up, body thrumming.

Seungcheol senses the shift immediately. He’s attuned to you quickly, but you refuse to let yourself wonder what that means. He steps closer, hands pulling at your waist, dipping his head to brush his mouth against yours in an almost kiss. 

His eyes darken with a mix of concern and something darker. “What’s that look?”

He steps closer, pressing you against the tiled wall, water pooling where your bodies meet. The warmth of him, the slickness of his skin, feels like a dream you’re terrified to wake from. You don’t answer, can’t. Your hands dip lower, tracing the hard ridge of his abdomen, and he tenses, breath catching. 

“Baby,” he warns, voice rough. There’s no real protest there. Just a playful warning, edged with want. 

The endearment hits you like a spark, igniting you.  You can’t get enough of it when he calls you that, when he says it velvet-soft and purring, when he says it like you are his baby. His world. His omega.

You sink to your knees, tiles cold and wet beneath you. You look up at him through wet lashes, biting your lower lip, hesitant, wanting permission. His cock is already hard - has been the entire time you’ve been in the shower - and the sight pulls a whine from your throat. You want to taste him. Want to make him feel good. 

“Please,” you ask, still unmoving, hands resting on your thighs.

The way he looks at you - everent, undone - makes you feel like you’re everything, even if part of you whispers that this is just your heat talking, just his alpha responding to your need.

Seungcheol nods. He places one hand to brace against the wall as you lean in to press soft kisses to the base of his shaft, lips brushing his warm skin. He groans, the sound deep and raw, and it sends a tremble of excitement through you. 

Your tongue traces the underside of his cock, following a thick vein from base to tip. You swirl your tongue greedily around the crown of his cock, tasting the faint salt of him. It’s intoxicating, perfect, and you let yourself sink into it, humming pleasantly. 

One of his hands comes down to rest on top of your head, not pulling, not pushing, just anchoring himself as you take him into your mouth. You go slow, savoring the weight of him. He’s big, stretching your mouth painfully to the limit, but you relax, breathing in through your nose. 

“Shit,” he hisses. “Shit fuck. That mouth.”

The praise makes your omega preen. You hum again, the vibration making his hips twitch as you build a steady rhythm, head bobbing, tongue working the underside of his cock while your hand wraps around the base, stroking in sync. 

Water rains down on you, making everything fluid. Your lips glide effortlessly around him, your grip on him firm, squeezing gently as your hand meets your mouth on the upstroke. His groans grow louder, more desperate, hips twitching but never taking control of your pace. His fingers tighten on your head, and yet he remains in control of himself, letting you take what you want. 

“Fuuuck, just like that,” He pants, head tipping back. Water falls down his throat in rivulets. The sight of him, vulnerable and unraveling, makes your pussy throb, a wave of arousal running down your thighs and mixing with the water. 

You take him in deeper until your nose brushes his pelvis, swallowing around him. He makes a broken sound, half growl, half moan, and his hips finally jerk. You welcome his shallow thrusts eagerly, moaning around him, encouraging him.

Seungcheol looks down, eyes locking with yours. His are fucked out and fazed, the raw edge to his gaze making your heart beat faster. You pull back a little, focusing on the tip, sucking hard, tongue swirling. Your hand pumps faster and his breathing turns ragged, muscles in his stomach twitching. You know he’s close and it makes you grin up at him, mouth full of spit and precum.

“Gonna - fuck - come,” he warns, voice strained. 

You don’t pull away. You suck at him harder, desperate to give him this, to hold onto this perfect moment. With a guttural sound, he spills into your mouth. You swallow down every drop, lips sealed until he’s over sensitive and shying away from your mouth. 

Easing back, you look up at him, your knees aching. He pulls you to your feet and to his lips, pressing you into a kiss that’s deep and messy, tasting himself on your tongue. He licks into you, uncaring as he pulls you close to his chest. 

“So good,” he murmurs between kisses. “Such a sweet girl for me.” 

You grin as he turns you around, walking you forward so that you're pressed against the warm tile of the shower wall. “My turn.”

-

Soft, neon light filters in from your window, washing your room in a smear of watercolor. You fidget in bed, body coming alive, arousal starting in gentle waves, building the more your body catches up. Seungcheol is already awake beside you, sensing your need. His warmth is a quiet anchor.

Seungcheol’s lips brush your neck, nuzzling and scenting, his gentle possessiveness soothing your omega. You let out a soft sigh, going pliant for him. He hums, pleased at your easy submission, tongue darting out to lick your neck playfully. 

He’s tender, peppering your shoulder and neck with soft, wet kisses. Each one stokes the steady fire in your core and chest. The way he handles you is maddening, like you’re spun glass but he knows you can take whatever he gives you. Your omega preens and you shift closer, feeling the heat of him against you. 

This is different from earlier. At this point, you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve done this. You’ve lost track of time and the days. There’s just this: Seungcheol’s hand sliding down to lift your leg up for him, the thick head of his cock nudging your entrance, weeping and wanting for him. 

Then he slides in, slow and stretching you inch by inch, earning a dreamy exhale from your trembling lips. He grinds his hips against the curve of your ass, deep and languid, easing the ache between your legs. His strokes are measured and intimate, each one dragging against your walls, stoking the flames without rushing. 

You moan, breathy, as your slick coats his cock, the wet sounds of your bodies obscene in the silence of the room. His hand slides up, cupping your chest, thumb brushing back and forth over your nipple until it pebbles under his rapt attention. You arch into his touch, whimpering. 

“So good for me,” he murmurs against your neck. His voice is rough with sleep, just how you like it. 

Seungcheol keeps the pace slow, hips rolling lazily. It builds a steady burn. His lips find the pulse point below your ear, sucking gently, not enough to make tender, but enough to make you shiver, cunt leaking down your thighs.

You reach back, fingers sliding in his hair to tug softly. He groans, low and raspy, the sound sending a fresh wave of arousal through you. 

“Seungcheol,” you breathe, voice barely a whisper. “Cheol.” 

He hums, pleased at the nickname. He grinds deeper, the friction perfect and overwhelming as the tip of his cock brushes against the soft spot inside of you, making you unwind. 

Your eyes flutter open and you peer over your shoulder at him. The neon light catches the sweat on his skin, making him glow. You marvel at how beautiful he is, a powerful alpha, yours in this moment. Maybe not later, but you don’t think about that now, trembling as he brings you close to your orgasm like he’s done every time before.

His hand slips between your thighs, fingers seeking your clit, slick and swollen. He starts to circle the throbbing bud with agonizing slowness, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. The sensation is devastating, punching the breath from your lungs. You rock your hips to meet his, desperate for your undoing, needing to come. 

“Come on,” he urges, lips brushing your ear. He presses his fingers hard, circles them faster. Your breath catches and he feels it, deepening his thrusts, becoming more deliberate. “Come for me, baby.” 

The words mixed with the intoxicating feeling of his cock makes you shatter, a soft cry spilling out of your lips as your pussy pulse around him, soaking him thoroughly. He groans, fucking you through it, slow and steady, drawing out the full length of your orgasm until you’re boneless and barely there. 

But he’s not done. Seungcheol eases out carefully and shifts you onto your back. You blink, starry eyed and warm as you watch him slide down the bed and settle between your legs. Your thighs fall open at the sight of him and he groans, pleased at how you immediately know what he wants, ready to comply with your alpha.

No. Not your alpha. But he is right now and that’s all that matters.

Any fight on that subject vanishes as he kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. His eyes are dark and burning when he looks up at you, pupils wide. 

“Need to taste you,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. 

Then, his mouth is one you, tongue dragging through your folds, lapping at the mess left over from your orgasm. It’s filthy, the way he moans into you, lips and chin glistening as he buries his face in your cunt. But it’s gentle, his tongue slow and worshipful, circling your clit.

It’s soothing, the way he moves, tongue tracing lazy patterns, circling your clit with no pressure, just presence. His hands rest on your hips, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there, grounding you further. Your fingers find his hair, threading loosely, not pulling, just holding, and he groans softly, the sound muffled against you. The ache in your core softens, not gone but eased, replaced by a warm, liquid comfort that spreads through your limbs.

Seungcheol mouths at you with no purpose other than to soothe and because he can. He doesn’t seem focused on getting you off, isn’t trying to overstimulate you. It builds a soft glow anyway, your breathing hitching as he keeps going, tongue dipping lower to taste your entrance, letting you drift toward the edge without pushing you toward it. 

“Taste so good,” Seungcheol mumbles, mouth full of you. 

This time, your orgasm comes like a tide, not crashing but rising, warm and steady. You whimper, hips shifting and he holds you steady, one hand sliding up to lace his fingers with yours. You squeeze his hand tight, letting him keep you tethered as you come undone, throbbing softly. He drinks you in, tongue lapping and slow, easing you until you’re limp and sated, the ache finally gone. 

Seungcheol pulls back, mouth glistening neon in the low light. His eyes are heavy with something that you can’t read. When he crawls back up, you realize he’s come untouched, spilling his own release while getting you off. It makes your chest tighten, instincts purring at the proof of his want, his devotion to you. 

He slides in beside you, kissing your temple before pulling you close. 

“Better?” He rumbles, already half asleep.

“Better.”

-

“You have to eat.”

You huff. “Don’t want.” 

You’re curled up on the couch in one of his jackets, inhaling deeply. His scent makes you tired, limbs heavy. You tuck your knees to your chest, wrapping  your arms around them to make yourself small. The blanket over your shoulders is warm and smells like him, making you sink further into the cushions. 

Across the room, Seungcheol watches with thinly veiled amusement. He holds a steaming bowl in one hand, a spoon in the other. You love him like this, hair fluffy and still damp from a shower, glasses pushed high on the bridge of his nose as he glares at you.

“You need to eat,” he repeats gently. It has to be the third or fourth time he’s said it, each time just as gentle as the last. 

You grumble and turn away from him, hiding in your blankets. He sighs and pads over to you, dressed in nothing but sweatpants. Shirtless Seungcheol is a weapon in itself, but the way you smell him immediately, can tell he’s using pheromones against you, makes you growl at him. There’s no heat in it and he laughs. 

“Yeah?” He teases. “Gonna growl at me?”

“I’m tired.”

“I know,” he coos, voice dropping into that low, soft register that always seems to settle you. “Your body is working hard. But you still need to eat something, baby. For me.”

“Meh.”

“I’ll feed you.”

That sparks your interest. You peek out from your blankets with one eye, peering at him. He smiles, dimples appearing when he sees he’s got you listening now. His scent wraps around you, luring you deeper into his spell.

“What if I say no?”

“Then I’ll start pouting. I don’t care if I’m an alpha, I’m good at pouting.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. The image of him pouting is sweet. His smile grows, triumphant as he stands up to sit next to you on the couch. You sit up, squirming toward him. 

“There she is,” he hums, happy. “Open up that pretty mouth for me.”

-

Blue light flickers from the TV while golden light of the afternoon sun washes the room, peeking through the blinds. You’re curled into Seungcheol’s side, his arm around your shoulders and your legs tangled together beneath the shared blanket. Jurassic Park plays quietly in the background because you asked for something familiar, something comforting. 

Your heat is finally starting to fade, edging toward Stage 3. The decline leaves you exhausted, but the full haze of Stage 2 is lifting, leaving you with less thoughts of tangled bodies and tongues. You can feel it in the way your body no longer aches with desperation, clarity seeping in like a slow tide.

With the clarity comes unease. Because… Well, what now? 

Neither of you have brought it up, the what happens next. Everything still feels good, but it also feels fragile, like you’re balancing in the quiet moment between inhale and exhale, waiting for the next breath to shatter whatever this little bubble you’re in. 

Your fingers fidget lightly against his chest. He notices, as he always does, and his hand smooths down your arm in slow, comforting passes. You lean into him instinctively - you don’t know how you will ever unlearn this - basking in his warmth. 

But your thoughts keep spinning. 

You don’t know how to voice the big question, don’t know how to talk about it. Don’t know what the best approach is. So you pretend it isn’t there, staring at the TV screen with unseeing eyes, thoughts burning you from the inside out. 

Seungcheol senses it anyway. 

“What’s up?” He asks, lips pressed against the top of your head. His eyes are still on the screen, the movie reflected in the lense of his glasses.  

“Did you know the stegosaurus had brains the size of walnuts?” You ask suddenly, eyes fixed. “Built like a bus with a very small brain. It was like two ounces.”

“Really?”

You nod, grateful he doesn’t question why you’re talking about dinosaurs again. “Yep. For years people thought they had a second brain somewhere near the anus.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m serious. There’s an enlarged area near their hips and early scientists thought it must have been for a second brain because they couldn’t believe something with so much mass could operate with such a small brain. Turns out it wasn’t an ass-brain.”

He huffs. “Ass-brain would have been cool.”

“Right? I always hated that people thought they were docile too. They literally have massive spiked tails as a built in morning star and could beat predators' asses. People need to put respect on them.”

“Hmm. Sounds like we’re talking about more than dinosaurs here.” 

You go quiet. Your eyes flick toward the screen, but you’re not really seeing it. He’s not wrong. You chew your bottom lip, fingers playing with the edge of the blanket. 

Of course it isn’t just about dinosaurs. You’ve always admired creatures like that, misunderstood, underestimated. Not flashy, not predators, not something people are afraid of on instinct, but fierce all the same. Stubborn. Ready to dig their heels in and fight if they had to. 

Which is why you liked the stegosaur. You resonated with that. Maybe not the smartest or the strongest, but never easy to push over, always ready to bare teeth when push came to shove. It was why you liked working for Jeonghan, too, seeing a lot of that fight in him. 

Which brings you back to thinking about work, and that tomorrow is a new work day, and your heat will most likely be fully complete. And you’ll have to go back to… normal?

You don’t know.

“Why are you so nervous?” Seungcheol asks, bringing you out of your reverie. You look at him, eyes wide. He gives you a soft smile. “What, think I didn’t notice?” 

You hesitate. His face is open. Honest. He’s giving you no reason to hold back, no reason to hide from him. But what you have to say is scary. 

You take a deep breath and think about the stegosaurus. “Because my heat is fading. And I know things felt intense and - to me - special. I just… what happens after?”

“What do you mean?”

Tears prick your eyes and you curse your hormones for making you emotional. “When my heat is over, what then? We go back to normal? I’m… I don’t know. Having a heat partner is new to me, and I’m not begging you to stay or make you feel bad, I just-”

“Hey,” he interrupts, catching your face in his hands. His eyes are round, gentle. “I’m going to be honest, nothing is changing for me when your heat is over.” 

You blink in surprise. See nervousness flicker across his face when he says carefully, “I stayed because I wanted to help you. I - look, I was already a little soft for you. Now that I’m here, I like being with you, heat or no. Even when you’re talking about dinosaur ass-brains.” 

That makes you laugh and his smile lights up the room. “Really?”

“Really, baby.” 

His thumb brushes across your cheek, catching a single salty tear. “Unless you don’t want-”

“I want,” you insist. “I want so much. I have never wanted this much in my life.”

“Then I’ll stay. I’m yours.”

“Even if I start talking about ass-brains?”

“Even then.” 

The air in the room shifts, charged with something warm and unspoken. You move without thinking, surging forward and climbing into his lap where he sits on the couch. The soft fabric of his shirt brushes your thighs as you straddle him, your hands settling on his shoulders. He feels solid and warm beneath you.

Seungcheol’s hands find your hips, pulling you closer. Your forehead rests against his, breathes mingling, and for a second, you just stay there. Savoring the intimacy. Savoring his scent, bergamot and cardamom. 

“You’re sure?” You ask, voice small.

“Very sure.”

His hands slip upward, slow, under the hem of his hoodie. His fingers graze the sensitive skin of your waist, making you shiver as heat pools low between your legs. You lean in and kiss him softly, lips brushing, then pressing, slow and deliberate. 

You deepen the kiss, unhurried. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, tasting you, opening you up. You shift, grinding down on him gently, feeling the hardening length of him through his sweats. He makes a sound, soft and low, and it buzzes through your mouth. You feel yourself grow wet against your underwear and he sucks in a sharp breath, catching it. 

“Yeah?” He mumbles against your mouth, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are fathomless but warm. His hands push the hoodie up and over your head, baring your chest to him. His eyes flicker and he curses. “You’re so perfect.”

You flush, shy under his gaze. His lips find your collarbone, kissing softly before drifting lower, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the curve of your breast. Your head falls back as the cool air hits you, your eyes closed. 

He takes a nipple into his wanting mouth, tongue swirling, sucking gently. You gasp, hips rocking instinctively, grinding harder against him. The friction is delicious. He groans against your skin, sending sparks through you. 

Seungcheol’s hands stay on your hips, encouraging your slow, rolling movements. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t push. It’s soft, the couch slightly creaking under the weight of you. 

His mouth moves to the swell of your other break, lavishing it with the same care. His teeth graze just enough to make you whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him close. You feel slick drip down your thighs, not as heavily as before, but still just as ready for him. 

“Cheol,” you breath, voice shaky. 

He hums, lips sealed around your nipple. The wet buzz of his mouth makes you grind on him faster, chasing the heat in your belly. 

Seungcheol pulls back just enough to look up at you, eyes glassy. “Love watching you like this. Love feeling you. Want you like this.”

He pulls back just enough to tug at his sweatpants, shoving them down his thighs, his cock springing free, thick and heavy, the tip already glistening. You bite your lip, the sight making your core clench, and he catches the look, a soft smirk tugging at his mouth.

Carefully, he helps you kick your sweatpants off. You sit back in his lap, not bothering with your underwear. He pushes them to the side with a careful finger, his knuckle deliberately dragging over the wet heat of your pussy. 

“Fuck. Wet.”

You nod as he grabs the base of his cock, helping you sit high on your knees. He rubs the rib through your messy folds, both of you moaning in unison before the head catches your entrance and sticks. You sink down, taking him slowly, the stretch punching the breath from your lungs. 

His shirt stays on, bunched where you fist it against his chest. It is work, sitting on him fully. You feel him deep in your stomach, your breath turning ragged. You savor the fullness, hands tangled in his shirt. 

Taking a deep breath, you start to move. His hands grip your hips, not controlling but encouraging, letting you set whatever pace you want. His cock drags against your walls, smooth and fluid. His lips find your chest, mouthing at a nipple, sucking gently. 

Your nails dig into him through the fabric of his shirt, the wet heet of his mouth, the press of his cock, all of it driving you mad, sticky with sweat as you continue to use him however you want. 

He lets you, content to suck and mouth at your chest all the while. The couch creaks faintly, a quiet underscore to the soft filth of it all, your slick coating him, dripping down to soak his sweatpants, the way his shirt clings to his sweat-damp chest.

Pleasure builds, slow and warm, a glow that starts in your core and spreads. You grind deeper, chasing it, and he groans, head tipping back, eyes half-lidded but never leaving you.

“How could I ever wanna leave this?” He asks. “How could I ever want anything but the perfect omega?”

The words, the way he says them, tip you over, and your orgasm comes soft but deep, a gentle pulse that has you trembling, walls clenching around him, a quiet moan spilling from your lips.

The way you tighten pushes him to the edge, and he groans, low and broken, thrusting up once, twice, before he comes, hot and thick inside you. His hands grip you tighter, pulling you close, and you collapse against him, panting, forehead pressed to his, the fabric of his shirt sticking to your skin.

“Mine,” he assures you, giving you a gentle kiss. “Ass-brain and all.”

“Please,” you laugh. 

That single word makes him melt, makes him all soft at the edges. “Anything for you, baby.” 

-

The office feels noticeably cooler when you return, the hum of the air conditioning a welcome sound after days away. Cold air brushes the back of your neck as you step off the elevator, a stark contrast to the lingering warmth on your skin, not from the building, but from Seungcheol following close behind you.

Seungcheol’s presence is unmistakable. And people notice.

Jeonghan is the first. He’s perched near Wonwoo’s cubicle, half-lounging on the edge when he glances up and spots you. His gaze flicks from you to Seungcheol, then back again. His eyes widen. A slow grin spreads across his face, and he immediately points a finger.

“You-”

“Not a word,” Seungcheol warns, voice low as he slides a steadying hand to the small of your back and gently guides you toward your desk. Your cheeks heat, teeth sinking into your cheek to suppress a laugh as Jeonghan starts bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“We’re just walking, Jeonghan,” you mumble, feeling anything but casual.

“You’re glowing!”

Wonwoo straightens in his chair, peering over his cubicle wall. His brow lifts as he spots Seungcheol casting a warning glance back at Jeonghan, lips curled into something between a snarl and a smirk.

“I knew it,” Jeonghan asserts, looking at you and nodding. “He’s always thought you were the cutest omega. Does he know you’re obsessed with dinosaurs yet?”

“Ugh, Jeonghan.”

“Yes,” Seungcheol confirms with a flat grin. “You remind me of a Stegosaur, Jeonghan. Very… you have similar brains.” 

You snort before slapping your hand over your mouth in horror.

Jeonghan saints at him. “I don’t get it.”

Seungcheol ignores him, turning to you instead. He brushes his fingers against your arm, and his gaze softens instantly, all gruffness melted into something warm and fond. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

You nod, smiling despite yourself as he walks away calm. Sure. Unmistakably yours.

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[aamirazx]

whatever jungwon said on weverse + his tshirt

[aamirazx]

Wow wow wow this was sooooooo good !!!!!

champagne war - nishimura riki ˚⊹♡

❤︎⊹.

“In which reader can’t stand being a single more minute in a fancy party, so she leaves with Nishimura Riki, and although she doesn’t really like him, there’s tension between the two of them that will end up breaking.”

content: +18MDNI fem! reader x ni-ki, rich kids! au, kind of enemies to lovers, think about like chuck bass x blair waldorf kind of thing, drinking, mentions of drug use, smut, power play, lots of teasing (like lots), dirty talk, fingering, oral (f. rec), unprotected sex, creampie.

hate comments will be deleted and blocked, likes and reblogs are appreciated !!

The champagne flute had gone warm in your hand, but you brought it to your lips anyway, only to have something to do. The bubbles fizzed faintly against your tongue, sharp and sweet like the words you kept locked behind glossed lips. You stood a step behind your parents, quiet and statuesque, letting their conversation wash over you like white noise. Real estate, stocks, someone’s daughter getting into Yale.

God. It was exhausting.

The room was exactly what you expected, opulent and nauseating. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city like it was a painting, but even the skyline looked bored. Velvet curtains draped in dramatic folds. Crystal chandeliers dripping like icicles. Everyone was dressed like they were auditioning for the role of “wealthy elite,” down to the men’s cufflinks and the women’s clutches that cost more than your car.

You didn’t hate parties, just the kind you were raised in.

The kind with string quartets and crystal chandeliers, where the champagne was expensive and the smiles even more so. Where every glance was a transaction, and every compliment had an expiration date. You’d grown up in these ballrooms, wrapped in satin and expectation, taught to smile just wide enough to be polite, but never too much to look desperate.

You knew how to walk like your mother. How to speak like your father’s advisors. You had the art of charm down to a science, and if anyone thought you were cold underneath the sugar, they never said it out loud.

You were soft-spoken. Elegant. Polished like marble—cool to the touch, impossible to chip. You knew which fork to use, how to read a room in under five seconds, and when to laugh even if the joke wasn’t funny. But just because you were composed didn’t mean you were nice.

Not always.

You had a reputation. Not the kind people said to your face, but the kind they whispered after you turned around. She’s… dangerous. That was the word someone once used. Not because you did anything wrong, but because you didn’t need anyone to like you.

And still, somehow, they always wanted to.

But no amount of etiquette classes had prepared you for just how boring it all was.

You let your eyes wander lazily around the ballroom. Everyone looked the same. Different brands, same price tag. You caught the eye of one of the girls from your prep school, she gave you a tight smile and a wave, the kind that said I hate you, but we’re in public, so I’ll pretend not to. You returned it with a tilt of your head and a slow blink, the way your mother taught you to dismiss people without ever breaking a sweat.

The string quartet in the corner was playing some hollow, classical rendition of a pop song, stripping it of any soul it once had. You tuned it out and took another sip of your drink, wishing it were something stronger. Something that could actually take the edge off the evening.

Your heels were beginning to pinch, but you wouldn’t sit. Sitting made you look tired. Tired made you look weak. And appearances, in a room like this, were everything.

One of your father’s associates turned to you suddenly, a portly man with thinning hair and a Rolex that screamed midlife crisis.

“And how’s school going, sweetheart?” he asked, in the tone of someone who didn’t really care. “Still planning to go into international law?”

You gave him a demure smile, the kind that made men underestimate you.

“That’s the plan,” you said smoothly. “Unless I marry rich first and skip the whole ‘working’ thing entirely.”

He laughed like you’d made the most charming joke in the world, and your parents chuckled along. You sipped your drink again, wondering how hard you’d have to slam your glass on the marble floor to make the night interesting.

A passing waiter offered a tray of hors d’oeuvres. You declined with a soft “thank you,” though you hadn’t eaten all night. Hunger, like emotion, was a luxury you rarely indulged in at events like this.

Somewhere across the room, another group burst into laughter—loud, fake, the kind that echoed for attention. A girl squealed over a Cartier bracelet. Someone was bragging about their upcoming summer in the Amalfi Coast. Someone else was trying to one-up them with Aspen.

You hated all of them.

And yet you smiled.

Because that’s what you were supposed to do.

Perfect girls didn’t frown. Perfect girls didn’t complain. Perfect girls endured.

But if you had to hear one more story about someone’s trust fund or private jet, you were going to scream.

So you did what you always did when you felt trapped in a place like this: you planned your escape.

You glanced toward the massive glass doors that led to the balcony, to the cool night beyond the golden glow. The idea of slipping away—unseen, untouched—was suddenly intoxicating.

You didn’t know where you’d go. Maybe you’d order an Uber. Maybe you’d walk just for the sake of walking. You didn’t care. As long as it wasn’t here.

You were just about to vanish—maybe for good this time, maybe just long enough to get air—when a woman in pearls clutched your arm with the strength of desperation disguised as curiosity.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she slurred slightly, her smile brittle with Botox and too many gin martinis. “Tell me again, what was the name of that summer program you did in Geneva? Was it language immersion or finance? My niece is dying to do something impressive for her college apps—”

“Excuse me, i really need to go to the bathroom” you said softly, with a practiced smile that barely reached your eyes.

You slipped away before she could protest. Polite, elegant, untouchable. It was an art form—one your mother had drilled into you since you were twelve.

You turned—and then collided with someone at full force. The sharp splash of champagne was immediate, cold and sticky as it splattered across the front of your silk dress. You flinched, took one slow step back, and then looked up—

Of course.

Nishimura Riki.

He looked like trouble dressed in Saint Laurent—tie askew, top button undone, one hand in his pocket and the other loosely holding a half-empty glass. Dark hair perfectly slicked back, golden Rolex on his wrist and diamond rings on his fingers. He blinked at you, a little unsteady, a smirk blooming lazily across his face.

“Oh, fuck,” he said between a chuckle, eyes trailing down your dress. “Shit. That’s… my bad.”

He didn’t sound sorry at all.

You arched a brow.

“Seriously?”

His grin widened, he tilted his head, chuckling again, his gaze now fixated on your face.

“Oh, but it’s the golden girl.”

You stared at him. Not surprised at all by his teasing tone, you knew it too well.

“Nishimura Riki. Of course you had to make an entrance.”

He chuckled.

“I was here first, actually. You just have a habit of running into people you pretend not to see.”

You exhaled through your nose, slow and sharp, and looked down at the damage. Champagne shimmered down the front of your dress like a crime scene in gold.

He tilted his head again, eyes tracking every drop.

Pervert.

“Don’t stare,” you snapped.

He didn’t look away.

“Can’t help it. You always dress like you want attention, but God forbid anyone actually gives it to you.”

Your lips curled.

“Better than dressing like you got thrown out of a boarding school.”

That much was true. Everyone knew the stories.

Riki was the son of a well known, disgustingly rich CEO— the kind of CEO with his own private jet fleet and a Forbes feature, the type of man who turned everything he touched into gold except his own kid. Riki had grown up in penthouses and luxury hotels, always photographed but never watched closely enough. He had a driver, a trust fund, and a habit of flipping off expectations with a champagne bottle in one hand and a permanent smirk on his face.

He was rich enough to do whatever he wanted. And reckless enough to actually do it.

He was infamous. A playboy, trouble dressed in elegant clothes and Prada perfume. He was so handsome, that was impossible to deny, tall long body that owned every place he walked into. But you never fell for it, never allowed yourself to.

And yet—he was still here. Still invited to every charity gala, every benefit, every masked ball thrown by people who talked shit about him behind $400 facials. Because no one dared cross the Nishimura name.

His father didn’t attend these parties anymore. Too busy flying to Dubai or brokering oil deals in Monaco. Everyone knew it. Everyone whispered that Riki had no leash, no filter, no shame. He was a storm dressed in designer. Uncontrollable. Dangerous.

And, apparently, drunk. As always.

“Just when i thought my night couldn’t get worse” you muttered, dabbing at your dress with a napkin from a nearby waiter’s tray.

He shrugged, tipping his glass toward his lips.

“Just when i thought mine couldn’t get better.”

“Insufferable.”

“Only when I’m around people who take themselves too seriously.”

You didn’t answer right away. You were too focused on your soaked bodice, the sticky cling of silk against your skin, the way his gaze hadn’t once wavered.

You glared up at him. This was typical Nishimura, you knew his games too well. Everyone did.

Riki not only enjoyed spending his time on casinos, surrounded by strippers, drowning on champagne and sniffing cocaine until his nose was sore red, but he also found — for some reason — extraordinary joy in annoying you. Ever since you’d known him.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I mean… yeah,” he said, unapologetically. “When else am I going to get to ruin the golden girl’s night and get away with it?”

You narrowed your eyes.

“You think you’re so untouchable.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make your spine prickle

“I am untouchable.”

God, you hated how calm he sounded. How amused. Like nothing anyone said ever got under his skin.

But you knew better. You’d heard the rumors, same as everyone. His father tried to keep him under control once—enrolled him in military school overseas. It lasted less than two months. He crashed his own car into the gates and got sent home. You’d seen the footage. He came back laughing.

And now here he was. Dripping champagne on the marble floors and looking at you like he wanted to see what you’d do if he kept pushing.

You should’ve walked away.

Instead, you stepped closer.

“I could have you thrown out,” you said sweetly.

He grinned like you’d complimented him.

“I’d let you.”

You snorted, flipping your long hair over your shoulder, posture perfect, as always. You smiled softly at an old couple — some people who worked with your parents before.

“You’re drunk.” You spoke between your teeth, still smiling.

He tilted his head.

“And you’re bored”.

You didn’t reply.

Because he was right.

And you hated that he was always right about you.

You hadn’t smiled all night. Not really. You hadn’t laughed, or breathed, or done anything that made you feel like a real person. Just another mannequin in heels, saying thank you and how are you and yes, Geneva was beautiful.

“I’m not going to sneak out with you,” you said finally.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

You raised a brow.

“Yet.”

The silence that fell between you now was heavier, tighter. Like something was wrapping itself around the space, pulling it closer.

The music from the string quartet swelled behind you, some delicate Mozart piece meant to impress people who only pretended to know what they were listening to. You could hear your mother’s laugh somewhere behind the champagne tower—sharp, polished, reserved for people who mattered.

Nishimura Riki didn’t move.

He just stood there, lazy and tall and smug as hell, looking at you like you were a puzzle he was dying to ruin.

“You’re staring again,” you said.

“You’re fun to watch,” he replied, unabashed.

You scoffed.

“That’s a lie.”

“No, it’s not,” he said, swirling the last of his drink. “You’re like a museum piece. Pretty, untouchable. Except I know for a fact you’re not as sweet as everyone thinks you are.”

Your lips curled.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“Sure I do,” he said, stepping just a little closer. “You hate parties but you still show up in that perfect dress, say all the right things, nod at all the right people. You drink champagne like it’s water. You roll your eyes at small talk but smile anyway. You’re bored as hell, but you won’t leave. Because if you leave, they win.”

Your fingers twitched around your empty glass.

He tilted his head.

“And if someone calls you out? You bite.”

You said nothing.

He smiled like he’d won something.

“You like playing pretend.”

“And you like pretending you’re a rebel,” you said, cool and even. “But you still show up, too. No one really told you to come, did they?”

He blinked once. It was subtle. Barely there. But you saw it.

Bullseye.

“I go where I want,” he said, voice low.

“Right,” you murmured. “And it just happens to be wherever your father’s enemies are throwing a party.”

He laughed under his breath.

“You really have been paying attention.”

“I pay attention to threats,” you said sweetly. “Not boys who think causing a scene is a personality.”

That got him. You saw something flicker behind his eyes—something brief and brittle.

Then it was gone.

“Well,” he said, swirling the last of his drink before tipping it back, “I’d rather cause a scene than be the scene.”

You blinked.

“What does that even mean?”

He leaned in, just enough for his breath to brush your cheek.

“It means people don’t come here to drink champagne. They come to stare. At you. At me. At the freakshow. At the perfect daughters and the disappointing sons. We’re the entertainment, babe.”

You swallowed.

He grinned again—sharp this time, like he could taste how close he’d gotten to getting under your skin.

“Don’t call me babe.”

“Fine,” he said. “Golden girl.”

You hated that more. So you spoke.

“You know what your problem is?” you asked.

“I’m sure you’re dying to tell me.” He looked unbothered, almost lazy, like enjoying himself too much.

“You think you’re a tragedy,” you said. “But you’re just a cliché.”

His eyes glittered, but that same smirk stayed on his lips, his gaze trailed down your body, slow, intentional.

“And you think you’re better than all of us. But you’re still here.”

You opened your mouth.

Then paused.

Because that hit a little too close.

Another sip. Another breath. The air between you was charged now—sharp and quiet, filled with all the things neither of you were saying. His gaze dropped to your dress again, then back to your mouth, and you felt your spine straighten instinctively.

“You’re still wet,” Riki said, eyes full of mischief, words filled with double sense that shouldn’t have caused something in you.

You rolled your eyes.

“Charming.”

“You should probably get out of it,” he added, grinning. “Before the stain sets.”

You looked at him, eyes dark and sharp behind the black eyeshadow decorating them.

“Don’t push me, Nishimura.”

He leaned in one last time, voice barely above a whisper.

“Or what?”

And just like that, your phone buzzed in your clutch. A message from your mother.

Where are you? Come say hello to the Yamamotos.

You sighed.

He was already watching you like he knew.

“Ten bucks says you ignore it,” he said.

“I’m not like you,” you muttered.

“Right,” he said. “You’re better.”

You should’ve left. You meant to. But instead, you looked at him and said:

“Are you driving?”

He blinked. Just once. Like he hadn’t expected that.

“Why?”

“Because i can’t stand being here.”

Then he smirked, he put his hand on his pocket and twirled the keys between his fingers. You rolled your eyes, heels clicking as you started walking towards the exit.

The moment you stepped outside, the air kissed your skin. Cooler than inside, but thick with summer—humid, electric, like something was about to happen. His car sat at the edge of the marble drive, low and gleaming under the soft spill of golden lights from the mansion.

Convertible. Black. Obnoxious.

It looked fast even while standing still.

He slid into the driver’s seat like he owned the whole damn world, one hand on the wheel, the other tossing his blazer into the backseat. You hesitated before slipping into the leather passenger seat beside him. Cold against the backs of your thighs. Your dress shifted with every movement, fabric tight against your skin.

“Seatbelt,” he said lazily, not looking at you.

You clicked it into place.

Then he stepped on the gas.

The tires screeched against the gravel, and the wind slammed into you like a wave. Your heart jumped into your throat. You gripped the door instinctively as the city blurred around you—golden lights streaking like melting stars in your periphery.

Riki drove like he was running from something.

Like he knew the rules but never learned how to care.

One hand on the wheel, one arm lazily thrown over the back of your seat, fingers ghosting too close to your shoulder. His rings flashed as he shifted gears. The wind tore through your hair, tangled it, dragged it across your collarbones. The air felt alive in your lungs—cool, sharp, laced with smoke and perfume and night.

“You always drive like this?” you asked over the roar of the engine.

“Like what?” he shouted back, not taking his eyes off the road.

“Like you’re trying to flip us.”

He glanced sideways, grin tugging at his lips.

“Wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”

“You’re insane.”

He just laughed, and something about the way the sound curled in his throat made your stomach tighten.

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t empty either. There was something there—simmering between you, thick and unspoken. The way the tension pulled tight with every passing second. The way your legs angled toward the door, but your eyes stayed on his hands.

You hated how good he looked like this—wild and untouchable.

“You’re not drunk, anymore, are you?” you asked, eyeing him.

He smirked.

“Buzzed. Why, scared?”

“Terrified.”

He let out a sharp breath of amusement, the kind that could’ve been a laugh if he’d let it go.

“You’re not really the type to get scared easily.”

You shrugged, fixing your hair, fingers sliding across your collarbone as if that’d tame the wind.

“Maybe you don’t know my type.”

“Oh, I do,” he said, low and certain. “Daddy’s little princess. Polished to perfection. Killer glare. Gold-plated heart—if there’s one at all. Everyone knows you made a girl three years younger than you cry because she wore the same purse.”

You turned your head, slowly, sweet and dangerous smile on your face. Not ashamed, never.

“I’m sorry,” you said coolly. “Are you giving a monologue or just projecting?”

He whistled low.

“There she is.”

“There who is?”

“The version of you that’s actually interesting.”

You scoffed, biting down a smirk.

“You’re full of shit.”

“And you like it.”

You hated that he was right.

The tension between you was a string pulled taut—vibrating, dangerously close to snapping. His knee bumped yours slightly with each turn, just enough to notice. Your legs were crossed tightly. You could feel the way your dress had started to ride up, how the wind licked at your thighs, your chest, making your skin feel bare even under luxury fabric.

“I bet you like causing problems,” you said, voice lower now. “Just to see if someone finally puts you in your place.”

He didn’t answer right away.

He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. Then he cut into a sharp turn—fast enough to make you jolt and reach for the edge of your seat again. His fingers brushed yours as he steadied you, casual but not innocent.

“That’s funny,” he said, glancing at you. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

Your breath caught.

Something changed in the air—thicker, hotter. You realized how close you were. How intimate fast cars made things feel. Wind roared around you, but all you could hear was his voice in your ear. The space between you felt dangerous. Too charged.

He looked at you then. Really looked. Hair a mess from the wind. Jaw clenched. Lips slightly parted like he was about to say something he wasn’t supposed to.

You didn’t back down.

“You like being hated, don’t you?” you asked softly. “It’s the only kind of attention you don’t have to work for.”

“I don’t have to work for any kind of attention.”

“Exactly.”

He smiled, but there was something dark beneath it.

“So what kind of attention are you looking for?”

You didn’t answer.

Not because you didn’t know.

But because the answer was him—right now, like this, reckless and fast and stupid. Something wild enough to shake you awake.

“Where are we going?” you asked instead.

He licked his lips.

“Somewhere quiet.”

You leaned back in your seat, let your eyes slip closed for just a second as the wind whipped past your skin, making your pulse race in your throat.

You could still feel his gaze on your bare thighs.

He didn’t have to touch you to set your skin on fire.

It smelled like leather and something faintly woody, expensive cologne clinging to the air, subtle but heavy. You stepped out slowly, heels clicking on the marble floor, the distant hum of the city bleeding through the panoramic windows like a heartbeat.

The penthouse was too clean. Too curated. Everything in shades of charcoal and deep navy, cold steel edges and spotless surfaces. The kind of place no one really lived in, just passed through, like a ghost. Sleek, polished, lonely.

It was huge, it screamed luxury, but it didn’t surprised you, you had been in places like this many times before.

“Welcome to the void,” Riki muttered as he tossed his keys onto a stone countertop, the sound sharp in the stillness. He took off his shoes, letting them slide with casual indifference before throwing them across the floor.

You followed him in slowly, your fingers brushing the silky fabric of your dress at your hips. The air inside was cool, raised goosebumps on your arms. His silhouette moved through the dimness like it belonged there—shadow and tension, hands slipping into his pockets as he disappeared into the kitchen.

“You live here alone?” you asked, voice quiet but clear, as you wandered further in.

“Technically,” he called back. “My dad pays for it, so I guess that makes me a tenant of the bank of neglect.”

You snorted softly.

He returned with two crystal glasses of something amber. The ice clinked gently, catching the light as he held one out.

“Drink?”

You took it wordlessly, fingers brushing his for a moment too long. The glass was cool against your palm. You brought it to your lips, and the whiskey hit your tongue like fire—sharp, smoky, leaving a slow heat in your throat.

Riki leaned against the island, taking a lazy sip, eyes fixed on you over the rim of his glass. His jaw was sharp in the city light. Hair mussed from the wind. Collarbone peeking from his shirt like he didn’t care who saw.

“You always this quiet?” he asked, voice a little lower now.

“Only when I’m somewhere I don’t trust.”

He smirked.

“What gave it away? The walls or the host?”

You looked around, letting your eyes drag over the space, the untouched bookshelves, the single ashtray on the coffee table, the sterile absence of anything personal.

“You don’t really live here,” you murmured.

He tilted his head, confused.

“You sleep here, you drink here, maybe you fuck here,” you said, turning back to face him. “But you don’t live here.”

He didn’t respond. Not right away.

Instead, he watched you. The way your dress hugged your body. The way your bare shoulders glinted under the dim lights. The way you said things like they weren’t meant to cut, but they always did.

“You know me so well,” he muttered, but it wasn’t sarcastic this time.

You didn’t answer. You moved toward the windows instead, drawn to the open sky and the glowing chaos of the city below. It sprawled beneath you like something alive—lights blinking, cars crawling, neon and glass and ambition.

You felt him follow, the soft shuffle of his socks against the marble. He stood behind you, close enough that his warmth brushed your back, his scent curling around you like smoke.

“You didn’t have to come up,” he said quietly.

You kept your gaze on the skyline.

“I know.”

“You could’ve gotten in a cab, gone home, played nice like everyone expects you to.”

You tilted your head just slightly.

“And miss out on you offering me mediocre whiskey and a monologue about your daddy issues?”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound rough.

“Ouch.”

You took another sip. It burned less this time.

The silence stretched again—heavy, but not empty. There was a pulse in it. A question neither of you wanted to ask. A tension you refused to name.

His voice dropped, smoky and slow.

“Why did you come?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your fingers toyed with the rim of the glass, catching condensation with a slow drag of your thumb.

You turned to face him, lifting your chin slightly. His face was too close. His breath ghosted across your lips.

“I’m not going to sleep with you, Nishimura Riki.” you said.

It wasn’t a threat. Just a fact you threw into the charged air between you, daring him to make something of it.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

“That’s what they always say,” he said with a quiet smile.

“I’m not ‘they.’”

“I know.”

Riki leaned in—not touching, just there, and it made your pulse flutter stupidly at the base of your throat.

“That’s why you’re still here.”

Your breath hitched, and you hated the way your body reacted to his voice—how low it was, how sure. Like he already knew what would happen and was just waiting for you to catch up.

You stepped back, just an inch. Enough to break the magnetic pull, to feel your skin cool where his presence had burned too hot.

“This place is cold,” you murmured, turning away.

“Then take off your coat,” he said with a grin.

You glanced back at him with narrowed eyes.

“I’m not wearing one.”

His smile widened.

“Exactly.”

You hated him. You hated him, and you wanted him, and you hated that more than anything.

You walked past him toward the couch, the whiskey warming your blood, your skin buzzing from his nearness. His eyes followed you like gravity.

“You have any music?” you asked, settling on the edge of the leather cushions. Cool against your thighs.

“Are you asking me to set the mood?” he asked, walking toward a console.

“I’m asking you to shut up and stop making this feel like an interview.”

He pressed a button. Low, ambient beats started to fill the space—something dark, slow, sexy. He turned back to face you, now bathed in the low golden glow of a floor lamp.

“I thought you weren’t going to sleep with me,” he said again, voice light but eyes dark.

You tilted your head, legs crossing slowly.

“I’m not.”

He just smiled.

“Sure,” he said softly. “Keep telling yourself that.”

You sank further into the couch, the leather cool under your thighs, the whiskey warmer now—softening your limbs, loosening your tongue. The music throbbed low in the background, some sultry beat that made the silence between you feel more intimate than it had any right to be.

Riki sat across from you in the armchair, legs sprawled, glass dangling lazily from his fingers. His shirt had slipped open a little at the collar, showing a sliver of skin that made your throat tighten for no good reason.

He was watching you again. That same amused, unreadable gaze that had followed you all night. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The air was thick enough already, stretching thin with unspoken things.

You took another sip. Let the burn roll across your tongue. Let your knees brush just slightly against the edge of his.

“Still judging me?” he asked finally, voice rough from the alcohol, half-lidded eyes locked on you like he was trying to read beneath your skin.

“I’m trying to figure out if this whole act is a performance or just bad personality.”

He grinned.

“Who says it can’t be both?”

You tilted your head, watching him over your glass.

“It’s just funny. You always pretend like you don’t care about anything. And yet, here you are—looking at me like I’m your last meal.”

His smirk didn’t falter, but something in his eyes flickered—something darker, hungrier.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

The tension coiled tighter between you. Like a thread pulled taut between two magnets, neither willing to move first—but the pull was getting harder to ignore.

“I think you like me,” he said, lazily swirling the drink in his hand, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth.

You huffed a laugh.

“You’re drunk.”

“Not drunk enough.”

“Maybe you should be,” you said, voice quiet now. “Maybe then you’d stop talking.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His knees brushed yours now—subtle, but deliberate. His voice dropped, molten low.

“You want me to stop talking, princess?”

Your breath caught. Just for a second. Just enough that he noticed.

He smiled like he’d won something.

You set your glass down a little too fast. The ice clinked sharply.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” His fingers brushed the inside of your ankle—just a graze, casual and slow, like he didn’t even realize he’d done it. But he had. You knew he had. “You act like you’re above it all. Like this place, this world, isn’t yours too. But it is. You like the games. The power plays.”

You glared at him.

“You don’t know anything about me, i told you.”

“I know you didn’t leave,” he said, eyes on your legs now, then dragging slowly up to your throat, your jaw, your lips. “You could’ve, but you didn’t.”

His words settled deep in your stomach, hot and dangerous.

“Maybe I wanted to see how desperate you’d get,” you whispered, leaning in slightly—close enough that he could feel your breath.

His smile sharpened.

“I never get desperate.”

Your fingers twitched against the couch cushion, fighting the urge to reach for him, to push him back just to see if he’d stay there. You hated how his words slithered under your skin, how the heat between your thighs had nothing to do with the whiskey anymore.

“You always this cocky?” you asked, voice tight.

He leaned closer. The space between your mouths now was nonexistent. His lips hovered just out of reach—just enough to make your pulse throb against your neck.

“Only when it works,” he whispered.

You could feel it building, second by second. The tension wasn’t even coiled anymore—it was vibrating, taut, hot, hungry. Every breath you took felt like permission. Every brush of skin like a warning.

Your thighs pressed together.

You looked at him through heavy lashes, eyes glistening, voice low and teasing.

“You’re such a fucking cliché.”

“And yet you’re still sitting here,” he said, voice like velvet, like sin. “Looking at me like you want to be ruined.”

Your breath hitched again. You hated that he was right. Hated that he knew it. Hated how much you wanted to taste him just to shut him up.

But you stayed perfectly still. One inch away. Daring him to make the next move.

And he didn’t. He just looked at you.

You shifted your legs, crossing them slowly, and his eyes followed the motion like it physically affected him. His grip on his glass tightened, and his tongue flicked across his bottom lip, wetting it before he leaned back slightly in his seat.

He looked relaxed. But you weren’t stupid. There was a firebanked tension in his muscles, a tension that mirrored your own.

“You know,” he said lazily, letting his voice drag over you like velvet, “someone really needs to fuck the attitude out of you.”

Your entire body went still. The words hit like a slap—sharp, deliberate, too cleanly delivered to be a joke. He wasn’t smiling now. Just watching you, waiting to see if you’d break.

You didn’t.

Just tilted your head, exhaling slowly through your nose.

“You’re crossing the line.”

“Maybe,” he said, taking another sip of his drink. “But that’s kind of my thing, and you like it.”

“I don’t,” you replied coolly, but the heat climbing up your neck betrayed you. You could feel it blooming just beneath your skin—rage or want, you weren’t sure. Maybe both.

He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, eyes darker now.

“No? Then why are your thighs clenched so tight?”

You narrowed your eyes, chest rising. A shiver went down your spine, settling between your legs materialising in wetness that you tried so hard to ignore.

“You think you’re the first boy who ever said that to me?”

“No,” he said. “But I bet I’d be the first to actually mean it.”

You stood then—not out of fear, but because you couldn’t take sitting still with that kind of pressure between you. The air was vibrating. Your skin felt too hot, too tight.

“You don’t know what I need,” you said sharply, turning your back to him.

“Wrong,” he said, voice low. “You need someone to ruin you slowly. Someone who doesn’t worship the ground you walk on. Someone who grabs you by the throat and tells you to shut up because for once, you talk too much.”

Your stomach dropped. Fire roared through your veins.

You turned slowly, jaw tight, hands curled into fists at your sides.

“You think you can handle me?”

“No,” he said without hesitation. “I think I can break you. And the fucked up thing is—I think you want to be broken. Just once.”

You took a deep breath, your heart hammering against your ribs like it wanted to escape. This wasn’t flirting. This was warfare. And you were losing ground by the second.

You walked toward him, slow, controlled, like every step was a challenge.

“You think you’re dangerous,” you said, now standing in front of him, voice soft but cutting. “But you’re just bored. Just like the rest of us. Daddy pays the bills, so you cause chaos, sniff coke until you black out, make scenes at fancy parties and fuck around to feel something.”

He smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. You got him, he knew it. But the thing is he didn’t care, not when it came from you.

“You’re right,” he said. “I am bored. And you… you’re the most fun I’ve seen in a long time.”

You leaned down, placing your hands on the armrests of the chair, caging him in.

“Say one more thing like that to me, Riki, and I swear I’ll leave.”

He stared up at you, lips parted slightly, chest rising as you closed the space between you.

“You won’t.”

“Try me.”

He looked at your mouth again—too long. Too slow. Then back to your eyes.

“Tell me to stop.”

You hated that you didn’t. You hated how your body buzzed from every word he said, how your thighs ached from the tension, how badly you wanted to slam your mouth onto his just to end the game.

But you didn’t.

You stepped back.

And smiled.

“I said I’m not going to sleep with you. I mean it.”

He leaned back in the chair again, exhaling like he was amused.

“Then you better get out of that dress before it catches fire.”

You took another slow sip of your drink, letting the burn of the whiskey distract you from the ache settling low in your stomach. His words still echoed through you like a bruise someone kept pressing—slow, intentional, just to see how much you could take before flinching.

Riki was watching you from the couch, one arm thrown lazily across the backrest, like he owned the whole room. Like he owned you, too. That same smug tilt to his mouth like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

His tongue flicked across his bottom lip.

“I know you like control.”

You arched a brow.

“So let’s play something.” He reached over and gently took your glass from your hand, setting it aside. “A game.”

“A game,” you repeated, wary.

His grin sharpened.

“Two truths and a lie.”

You rolled your eyes.

“That’s hardly threatening.”

“Yeah, but here’s the catch,” he said, stepping in until your knees almost brushed. “Every time you guess wrong, you lose a piece of clothing. Same goes for me. But also, every time i guess right, you lose a piece of clothing, and viceversa.”

You blinked.

“You want to strip with words.”

“I want to see how long you last before you lose control,” he said, voice low now, the edge of a dare in every syllable. “And I want to know what’s under all that silk and pride you wear like armor.”

You held his gaze, ignoring the way your heart beat louder. It was dangerous, not a good idea. There was tension between you two, you knew that. But not only sexual, there was more, like a power play, like none of you wanted to surrender to whatever the hell was going on.

“Fine,” you said coolly, crossing your arms. “But don’t pout when you’re down to your socks.”

He laughed, stepping back just enough to give space.

“Ladies first.”

You looked at him, letting your lips part slowly, letting him wait. Then:

“One: I’ve broken a boy’s heart at a debutante ball. Two: I’ve snuck out to Paris because i was sad. Three: I’ve never thought about fucking you.”

His brows lifted. A long pause.

“That last one’s the lie,” he said, voice almost smug.

You tilted your head.

“Prove it.”

“Because you’ve definitely thought about it.” His voice dropped a note lower. “You’re thinking about it right now.”

You said nothing, just slowly unhooked the top button of your dress. It wasn’t a win for him. Not when you made it look like an invitation you had total control over.

He stared.

“Your move.”

Riki’s smirk returned, a bit crooked now.

“Alright. One: I got kicked out of boarding school twice. Two: I’ve had sex in a Ferrari. Three: I’ve never been scared of my father.”

Your silence stretched.

You studied his face, the twitch in his jaw, the faint tension in his shoulders at that last line.

“The lie,” you said, “is that you’re not afraid of him.”

His grin faltered for half a second.

“Touché.”

He unbuttoned his shirt, slow and dramatic. The fabric slid off his arms and dropped to the floor like he didn’t even feel it. But his eyes never left yours. Under the shirt, Defined, lean, all lines and tension, the kind of body that was sculpted from privilege and discipline but carried like he didn’t give a single damn.

Your eyes trailed over his chest, broad and toned, the hard cut of his shoulders leading to arms that looked like they’d been chiseled out of shadow and heat. His skin glowed faintly under the ambient city lights, golden and warm like he belonged in a Renaissance painting—or under you.

You breathed deeply.

“Next round,” you said, feeling the heat rise between you like steam.

“You going to behave,” he murmured, “or are we gonna see who begs first?”

You scoffed, stepping forward, your mouth just barely brushing his ear.

“You’re going to lose, Nishimura.”

His breath hitched.

The game had just started.

And he was already falling apart.

You circled him slowly, the way you might admire a painting—or a weapon.

“You’re looking a little flushed, Riki.”

He leaned against the edge of the couch, bare chest rising and falling in measured control. The city lights glowed behind him, a cold contrast to the heat curling through the room.

“You wish,” he said, licking the corner of his mouth. “Hit me.”

You gave him a slow smile, walking past him, letting your perfume linger like a trap.

“One: I got suspended for slapping a girl at cotillion. Two: I’ve never had an orgasm someone else gave me. Three: I used to dream about marrying a prince.”

His jaw flexed. He looked at you like he wanted to rip the answers out of your mouth.

“That second one,” he said, tilting his head. “The orgasm one. That’s the lie.”

You raised a brow.

He smirked.

“You look too smug for someone who’s never come.”

You took a single step forward, hands on your hips.

“Wrong.”

He blinked.

“That one’s true.”

Riki’s knuckles tightened against the couch edge.

“You’ve never—?” he started, disbelieving.

“No one’s ever made me forget myself.” You walked back toward him, voice like sin. “Not even close.”

Something feral flashed in his eyes.

“Fuck.”

He took his rolex watch off, letting it rest on the table in front of him, smirking, and you rolled your eyes. Tricky.

“Your turn,” you said sweetly, though the room was humming with voltage.

He dragged a hand through his dark hair, trying to keep himself together. But you could see it now—he was fraying.

“One: I’ve been kicked out of four elite schools. Two: I once made a girl cry just by smiling at her. Three: I don't think about you when i touch myself.”

You didn’t blink. You tried not to think about it too much, about the fact, about him stroking himself to the thought of you. Not only because it was flattering, but because it was him. Because you knew, about his little obsession with you.

“Lie,” you said, gaze fixed on him. “The last one.”

He exhaled slowly, head tipping back.

“Fuck.”

“Thought so.”

You watched as he tugged the belt of his tailored pants loose, slow, reluctant. The sound of the metal buckle clinking was obscene in the quiet. The fabric sagged on his hips, his confidence slipping just a bit with it.

“You want to keep going?” you asked, eyes hooded.

He looked at you like he could eat you alive.

“Try me.”

You took another slow sip of your drink. Your lips glistened.

“One: I once snuck into a royal embassy. Two: I've faked every orgasm i've ever had. Three: I don't want to kiss you right now.”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Last one’s the lie.”

You tilted your head.

“Wrong again.”

He stared.

“I don’t want to kiss you,” you repeated, voice velvet-wrapped venom. “I want to see how long you last when you’re not the one in control.”

His jaw clenched.

You stepped closer.

“Shirt’s already gone,” you murmured. “Watch. Belt. What next, Nishimura?”

Riki said nothing. He just reached down and shoved his pants lower, until he stood in just black boxers, his hard-on not exactly subtle. Thick, throbbing beneath the thin fabric. You tried to ignore the wetness pooling against the lace of your own underwear.

“You think this means I’m losing,” he said, voice rough.

“You’re sweating.”

“You’re bluffing.”

You reached out, traced one finger down the center of his chest—just a whisper of contact. He didn’t move. But his breathing caught.

Your mouth ghosted the shell of his ear.

“Let’s see if you still think that when you’re on your knees.”

His growl was low, primal, sharp enough to scrape against your spine.

“I’m going to wreck you,” he whispered.

You smiled, slow and delicious.

You let the silence stretch, thick and heavy between you, tasting like heat on the back of your tongue. Riki stood half-naked, eyes fixed on you like you were something sacred and profane all at once. His chest rose with slow, forced control, but you saw the flicker of desperation behind the composure. He was trying—trying—to hold onto the upper hand.

You were about to take it from him.

“I'll take this turn, just for fun” you said softly, walking away just enough to make him twitch, then turning to face him fully. “One: I’ve had a senator’s son beg me on his knees. Two: I once watched a boy cry when i left his bed without a word. Three: I'm not going to take off my dress right now, just to tempt you.”

His throat bobbed.

“That last one’s the lie,” he said hoarsely, almost too fast.

You didn’t answer with words.

Instead, you reached for the straps of your dress.

Riki didn’t move. He just stared.

You dragged one silk strap off your shoulder. Then the other. The dress slipped like water down your body, catching at your waist for one breathless second before pooling at your feet with a soft, luxurious sound.

You stepped out of it, graceful and slow, standing in nothing but your black lace lingerie—delicate, tailored, made for seduction even though you wore it like armor. It hugged your curves perfectly, the push up bra enchancing your breasts, shimmer from your perfume still on them, the kind of thing meant to be looked at, never touched.

And Riki was looking.

Like a man starved. Like he’d just been punched in the gut.

His mouth parted slightly. You saw his hand flex against the edge of the couch like he didn’t trust himself not to reach for you. The muscle in his jaw ticked, throat working like he couldn’t swallow fast enough.

“You okay there?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head. “You look a little… tense.”

He dragged his eyes up your body like it hurt him.

“What the fuck are you trying to do to me?”

You smiled, innocently.

“Just playing the game.”

He exhaled a curse under his breath. His eyes were darker now, clouded, no trace of smugness left—just hunger and something barely restrained.

“You think you’re in control,” he muttered, his voice rasping.

“I don’t think,” you said, stepping closer. “I know.”

You stood directly in front of him now, only inches between you. He didn’t touch. He couldn’t. Like if he did, it would all shatter.

“You wanna know what the lie was?” you whispered.

He nodded once, wordless.

“There’s never been a boy on his knees,” you said. “Not yet.”

He blinked, stunned.

Then a sound left him—deep, from the chest, something like a growl.

You smiled and turned your back on him, walking away slowly, letting him watch the way your hips moved in that barely-there lace, letting him sit in the ache you’d left in your absence.

You didn’t hear him move.

But you felt him.

A split-second flash of heat, a shift in the air—then your back hit the velvet cushions of his sofa, and the room tilted. Your breath caught sharply in your throat, lips parting in stunned silence as Riki caged you in with his body, his bare chest radiating heat that scorched every inch of skin it hovered over.

He didn’t touch. Not right away.

One palm pressed into the cushion beside your head, the other gripped the top of the sofa, holding himself above you like he was barely holding on. His eyes drank you in—flushed, breathless, all curves and lace and smirking defiance.

“You think you can just walk away after that?” he asked, voice rough with something unspoken—need, frustration, want. “Like I’m not gonna do something about it?”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence, glossy lips curling as your gaze dragged slowly—purposefully—down his torso. The carved lines of his stomach flexed under your stare. He was breathing harder than he should’ve been.

“Looks like you already did,” you murmured.

His jaw clenched, his eyes burned. Then he snapped.

He kissed you, like punishment.

There was no soft entry. No gentle incline. Just a crash of mouths, messy and immediate, like he’d been waiting too long for this and couldn’t bear the space between you for even another breath. His lips crushed yours, thick, firm and hot and full of intent. Tongue pushing past your teeth, not asking but taking, fingers finally curling into your jaw like he was trying to memorize the shape of you with touch alone. He tasted like whisky, perfume, and problems.

You moaned into him—reflexive, guttural—and he smiled against your lips.

Cocky, dangerous.

“Not so smug now, are you?” he breathed, voice low and wicked.

But you weren’t done playing.

You gripped the back of his neck, slid your fingers into his dark hair, and yanked, just hard enough to make his breath hitch and his body stutter above yours. His mouth tore from yours with a curse, lips swollen, jaw sharp under your fingers. You pulled him back down and kissed him like fire—rough and open-mouthed, all tongue and heat and teeth. He groaned into you, low and unfiltered, and the sound went straight to your core.

When you pulled back, your lips hovered near his ear.

“Don’t confuse surrender with strategy.”

He went still. Then you felt him laugh, dark and low against your throat, and you shivered.

“You think you’re still winning?” he asked.

You didn’t answer, just looked him in the eye and dragged your nails slowly down his spine, pressing your thigh higher between his legs. You felt how hard he was. How close he was to losing it. And still, you gave him that same knowing smile.

“I know I am.”

He let out something between a hiss and a growl, and his hand finally moved—sliding down your ribs, slow and deliberate, hi touch leaving a trace of fire on your soft skin, until it gripped your thigh hard enough to bruise. He pulled your leg over his hip, his body pressing flush against yours now, no space, no denial.

The friction made you gasp—just for a second. His hardness pressing against your soaked underwear, sending a jolt of pleasure through your whole body, your skin jumping, your lashes fluttering.

His breath hitched at the sound.

“I swear,” he whispered, forehead pressing to yours, “you keep playing like this, I’m gonna ruin you.”

Your eyes locked, and everything burned—your lungs, your limbs, the air between you.

You smiled, same sweetness that made him want to lose all of his self control.

“Then do it.”

For a second, he didn’t move. He just stared at you like he couldn’t believe you’d said it. Like you’d just set the fuse on something he couldn’t put out now.

Then his lips found yours again, slower this time—deeper. Less rage, more intent. His hand trailed up your leg, thumb brushing the edge of your lace underwear like a silent promise. You arched under him, still refusing to break, still matching him push for push. Your skin was on fire, the need and lust taking over your whole body.

Every kiss, every grind of his hips, every soft moan he pulled from you was a move in the game.

Your hands wandered up the smooth expanse of his bare back, fingers dancing along his shoulder blades. He was carved perfection under your touch—warm skin stretched over hard muscle, the kind of body that had been sculpted for nights like this. You felt the tension in him—coiled, trembling restraint  just beneath the surface.

You pulled back, just enough to breathe, just enough to speak.

“You kiss like you’re trying to win,” you whispered, your voice a velvet drag.

He smirked, not moving, still hovering over you like a predator stalking his prey.

“Isn’t that the whole point?”

Your brow lifted, gaze dropping between your bodies, to the obvious proof of how not in control he really was.

“You sure about that?”

His smile faltered for half a second. Then his hand slid up your thigh, fingers skating under the edge of your lace. Not enough to touch, just to tease.

“You talk a lot for someone whose legs are already wrapped around me.”

You let out a breathless laugh, half a scoff.

“Confidence or delusion, Nishimura?”

His name on your tongue made his grip tighten. The sound of it wasn’t gentle. It was challenge and heat and poison wrapped in satin. He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.

“Say it again.”

You turned your head slowly, letting your mouth graze his cheek as you whispered,

“Riki.”

A groan left him and he kissed you again.

In a flash, his hands gripped your waist and flipped you beneath him, the cold leather of the sofa brushing your back. He caged you in, his body a shadow over yours, hot breath against your lips. You gasped, but the sound turned into a moan when he rolled his hips down once—slow, hard, just enough friction to remind you of exactly what he was packing.

“No more games,” Riki muttered, voice barely a breath.

“I thought you liked them,” you managed, tone breathy, but your words laced with challenge.

“I like winning.” His fingers slid down your body, over your ribs, then curled around your panties and tugged. “And you’re mine now.”

He said it like a fact, not a question. Not a request.

You let out a shaky breath as he dragged your underwear down your legs, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact. The cold air hit your skin and you shivered, the damp fabric leaving you bare in front of him, wet, pulsing pussy in display, dripping your glistening arousal, but he was already sliding back up, spreading your legs open with his knees as he came to hover over you again.

“Look at you,” he murmured, eyes dropping down your body with reverence and hunger. “All that attitude and elegance, and now you’re dripping for me.”

“I’m not—”

But your protest died the second he dipped his head and kissed the inside of your thigh, then another, higher up, closer. His lips were soft, his mouth unbearably hot, and you felt yourself melting, unraveling, right there under him.

“You don’t have to act tough anymore,” he whispered against your skin, so close to where you needed him. “I already know what you want.”

His tongue licked a stripe up your inner thigh, deliberately skipping over the center. You gasped, hips twitching, but his hands pinned you down.

“And I’m gonna give it to you,” he promised darkly, "You said before no one has ever give you an orgasm before, now you'll find out."

He looked up from between your thighs, lips glistening, eyes lit with something wild and dangerous. The same look he wore when he drove fast, when he walked into a party like he owned the world, when he said your name like it was a sin and a prayer all at once.

“Ready to lose control, princess?”

You didn’t answer him.

You didn’t have to.

The look in your eyes said it all—dark, needy, defiant. Like you wanted to fight him just to see who would snap first. Like this wasn’t about sex at all—it was about power. About finally unleashing something that had been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.

And Riki? He was ready to burn.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and what he saw there had him biting his lip like he needed the pain to anchor himself. Still on his knees, he dragged his hands up your thighs with reverence and possession, thumbs brushing the insides as he parted them wider, just enough. His touch left goosebumps in its wake—featherlight, and yet you felt scorched.

Then, his lips met the inside of your thigh again. Slow. Intoxicating.

He kissed there like he had all the time in the world, like he was building a shrine to the very idea of you. The way his mouth dragged—hot and wet—left a trail of heat so devastating it made your legs tremble. You could feel his breath ghosting just shy of where you wanted him, teasing your soaked pussy.

He was taking his time on purpose.

And it was killing you.

“Riki,” you warned, your voice breathy, wrecked already.

He looked up again, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“What? I’m just appreciating my prize.”

Then finally, his mouth.

You choked on a moan, your head falling back with a thud against the leather behind you as his tongue met you, hot and deliberate. He licked a long stripe through your folds with maddening precision, starting slow, then swirling his tongue around your clit with devastating ease. Your hips jolted at the sensation, but he was already there, hands anchoring you in place, strong and steady, holding you down like he’d been waiting to do this forever.

“Oh god—” you gasped, your fingers flying to his hair, threading through those dark, soft strands and tugging hard.

He moaned into you at the pull, deep and guttural, the sound reverberating against your skin. The vibration made your knees buckle, and if it weren’t for his grip, you might’ve collapsed completely.

“Not so mouthy now, huh?” he murmured against you, voice dripping with cocky amusement. “Look at you. You taste so sweet, your making a mess on my couch.”

You could barely think, barely breathe, but your pride flared like a second heartbeat.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you panted, jaw clenched, refusing to give him the full satisfaction.

“Oh, princess,” he growled, dragging his tongue in tight circles before sucking your clit into his mouth so hard you nearly cried out, “you’re the one writhing for me.”

And you were. Your thighs trembled in his grip, your stomach clenched. The heat between your legs had grown unbearable, liquid and pulsing, every nerve ending burning under his mouth and fingers.

And then, he added more.

One long finger slid inside you, slow and careful, curling just right as he worked you open. Then another, the stretch dizzying, delicious, your walls clenching around them, sucking him in with every thrust, with every wet sound of your own cunt. His tongue never stopped moving, switching between slow, torturous licks and messy, greedy flicks that made your spine arch off the wall.

You gripped his hair harder, gasping, your voice breaking.

“Shit—Riki—”

He hummed again, deep and pleased, like he’d already won. Like this had never been a game at all. His fingers pumped into you with an unrelenting rhythm now, knuckles deep, stroking just right while his mouth stayed locked on you. It was overwhelming—the speed, the precision, the fucking pressure building and building—

You were losing control. And he knew it.

He looked up once, his mouth still on you, and smirked against your heat.

Your breath hitched. Everything inside you tightened, coiled like a spring seconds before snapping. You weren’t just close, you were trembling on the edge, your body betraying every last defense you thought you had left.

And he knew it.

Riki kept his rhythm steady, cruelly steady. His fingers worked you open with precision—pumping, curling, stroking the exact spot that had your thighs clamping around his shoulders. His mouth, impossibly skilled, never strayed, tongue dragging over your clit with maddening consistency.

Each time you thought you’d fall over the edge, he’d ease just slightly, like he wanted to stretch it out, draw it from you slowly, painfully, until you were begging. Until you were nothing but need.

You squeezed your eyes shut, nails digging into his scalp, trying to pull him closer and push him away all at once.

“Riki—fuck—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled against you. “Look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, heavy with tears and lust, and you glanced down.

The sight alone almost did you in—him on his knees, dark hair messy from your hands, lips slick and glistening with you, pupils blown wide and locked on yours like you were the only thing in the goddamn world.

“You gonna come like this?” he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a smirk. “Fall apart on my tongue?”

The arrogance in his tone should’ve pissed you off. Should’ve made you say something biting. But instead—

Instead it made your legs tremble harder.

His tongue flicked with a little more pressure now. His fingers curled with a little more purpose.

And that was it. The tension in your gut pulled so tight it snapped.

You came hard, loud scream leaving your swollen lips, hips stuttering against his mouth as your body convulsed. The wave hit you deep, dragging you under in a rush of white heat and sparks, every nerve singing with release. Your fingers fisted in his hair, your thighs quaked around his shoulders, and still—still—he didn’t stop.

He rode out your orgasm like he needed to feel every second of it. Lapping, sucking, stroking through the aftershocks until you were nothing but soft whimpers and twitching limbs, until your body sagged against the window, boneless.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was swollen, slick with you, dripping your own fluids. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, but he looked satisfied.

No. He looked possessive.

He stood slowly, towering over you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand but never taking his eyes off you. He tilted his head slightly, lips parted, expression dangerous.

“Still think this is just a game?” he asked, voice low, rough.

You met his gaze, dazed and disheveled and flushed. But despite everything—your orgasm, your shaking legs—you held your chin high.

And smiled.

“Isn’t it?” you breathed.

That look—dark, smug, defiant—hit him harder than any climax could. You saw the flicker of disbelief in his expression, the way his jaw clenched like he couldn’t believe you were still pushing him. Still trying to win.

In a blink, his hands were on you again.

Rough, possessive, done playing nice.

You barely had time to gasp before he spun you, pressing your chest against the backrest of the couch, your knees sinking into the cushions. His body was flush against yours, heat radiating off him like a furnace. One of his hands wrapped around your throat, the other palmed your hip, pulling you back until your ass pressed into the hard line of him, still beneath his boxers.

“You think you’re cute?” he growled in your ear, his voice dark silk stretched tight.

You smirked, even as your heart pounded.

“I know I am.”

His laugh was low, disbelieving, almost breathless with how much you drove him crazy.

“I should ruin you for that,” he muttered, dragging your hips back again, slow and deliberate, just to feel you rub against him. His grip tightened. “I will ruin you.”

He leaned in closer until his chest pressed into your back, his mouth brushing your ear.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” he murmured. “That you can just bat your lashes and push my buttons and I won’t do something about it?”

Your answer was a soft whimper when he rolled his hips into you, hard and slow. Teasing. Not enough.

Never enough.

“You want me to lose control?” he went on, grinding against your soaked, pulsing, still sensitive pussy. “You want me to fuck it out of you, until all that attitude melts right off your tongue?”

You bit your lip.

You were soaked. From the orgasm, from his words, from what he was saying. From him.

Without warning, his hand slid between your thighs again — this time rougher, surer — cupping you, pressing his fingers through your folds like he was checking just how far gone you were. He squeezed just enough to make you jolt, moaning before you could stop it. He shoved three of his fingers inside you, curling them perfectly and you bit your lip, shutting your eyes as the wet sounds collided with his heavy breathing in your ear.

Your back arched even more as he found a rhythm, not rough, not rushed, just intentional, like he knew he could break you, and he was breaking you. His fingers curled perfectly against your soaked walls, his wrist twitching and then he touched your g-spot, that was enough for you to whimper again, rocking your hips against his hand, which made him chuckle low.

He didn't say another word, simply removed his fingers with a slick sound, bringing them to his mouth before sticking his tongue out and licking them clean. Riki's hands then grabbed your hips, strong, posessive, making your back arch even more, creating a perfect curve just for him.

"So pretty like this" He mumbled, kissing along your spine which made you breathe through your nose "Been wanting to have you like this for so long"

You didn't respond, because you knew.

Then he pulled down his boxers, his red, throbbing, thick cock finally out, resting hard against his abdomen. Riki hissed through his teeth, stroking himself a couple of times before rubbing his tip against your aching folds, and you moaned again.

Then, slowly, he pushed in.

The stretch was gradual, deliberate — like he wanted you to feel it, to take in every slow, aching second of it. Your mouth fell open, no sound at first, just a breathless gasp as your fingers clawed into his back. He was everywhere — heat and weight and pressure — grounding you, filling you, claiming every part of you inch by inch.

Your body arched into his, instinctively, like it knew this. Like it had been waiting.

Riki groaned low in your ear, the sound raw and strained, like he was barely holding on.

“Fuck,” he hissed, forehead pressed to yours, eyes shut tight. “You feel—”

He didn’t finish. Couldn’t.

You could feel it too — the way your bodies fit, the way his control trembled at the edges. The pace he set was slow, almost reverent, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your body from the inside. But it was more than just physical — it was the weight of everything that had led up to this moment: every insult, every glare, every look that lingered just a little too long.

His grip on your hips turned rougher now, fingers digging in like he wanted to leave something behind, a mark, a reminder, anything to prove he’d been there. The pace of his thrusts shifted, picking up speed, power, purpose. No more softness. No more control.

Just heat and need.

Your breath hitched sharply as he slammed into you again, the rhythm brutal in the best way — precise and punishing, every stroke deep enough to steal the words from your mouth, his cock buried deep inside of you, stretching you so good with every thrust.

“You should see yourself,” he groaned, voice ragged. “So pretty when you’re taking it. All that attitude gone now, huh?”

You whimpered, but that defiance still flickered in your eyes. So he leaned down, lips brushing your ear as he snapped his hips again.

“Say it,” he breathed. “Tell me who’s fucking you this good.”

You bit back a moan, turning your head just enough to meet his eyes, even as your body trembled around him.

“You talk too much.”

He grinned — wild, wicked.

“You won’t be so mouthy once I make you come again,” he growled, then shifted his angle, driving deeper — harder — hitting something inside you that made your back arch and your fingernails rake down his spine.

The sound you made this time was broken, involuntary.

“Yeah,” he hissed, voice thick with satisfaction. “Right there, huh? You like that?”

You couldn’t lie. Couldn’t pretend.

Because you did like it. You loved it , the way he was breaking you down and building you up all at once, the way he knew just how to push you to the edge.

He didn’t let up — just kept moving faster, rougher, chasing something in both of you. And when your moans turned to gasps, when your legs shook against the soaked leather of his couch and your knees started to falter, he dropped his head to your shoulder and growled.

“Don’t hold back. Let me hear you.”

You hated how fast the pressure coiled inside you again — hated how good he was. How right he felt.

Your bodies were slick with sweat, the air hot and heavy with breathless moans and skin against skin. Every thrust sent you deeper into the couch cushions, your thighs trembling from the aftershocks of the last orgasm and the promise of the next.

He was relentless.

And you were falling apart.

Your voice broke on a moan as he hit that spot again, your back arching, chest brushing against the couch with every movement. His mouth found your spine, then your neck — teeth grazing, tongue licking a trail of heat — and you could feel how hard it was for him to keep it together.

“You feel that?” he rasped against your skin. “How tight you get for me?”

You whimpered — nodding, gasping — unable to form words, because he was right. You could feel everything. Every stroke, every grind, the way he filled you so deep your head was spinning.

“You were made for this,” he groaned, driving in harder, deeper, chasing the way your body clenched around him. “For me.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you managed to whisper, voice shaking, breath hitching.

He let out a breathless laugh, but it was wrecked, frayed at the edges. His control was slipping fast. You could feel it — in the way his thrusts turned erratic, in the tension burning beneath his skin, in the wild look in his eyes when he pulled back just enough to see your face.

“You’re not gonna last,” you taunted, hips rolling to meet him. “You’re already close.”

His eyes darkened instantly.

And then, he snapped.

He grabbed your wrists, pulled out of you, flipped you over so your back was now against the leather and your legs wrapped around his shoulders, pinned your hands over your head into the cushions, and fucked into you so hard you cried out, your body jolting from the force.

“Say that again,” he growled, panting. “Say it, and I’ll show you just how long I can last.”

You stared up at him, dazed, ruined, lips parted in shock — and something in you loved this. Loved the fact that it wasn’t just lust between you. It was power. It was challenge. It was two people playing with fire and refusing to get burned first.

The rhythm of his hips was punishing now — deep, fast, precise. You were unraveling beneath him, every part of you hypersensitive, your body slick with heat and want. The friction, the pressure, the sound of your bodies colliding, it all built around you like a storm.

You couldn’t hold it together much longer.

Riki could feel it too.

He watched your face like he needed to memorize it — the way your brows knit together, the way your lips parted around breathless gasps, the way your legs trembled around his waist. You looked like a dream in ruin, all flushed skin and flushed pride, and he couldn’t get enough.

“Come on,” he whispered, low and rough against your ear. “Don’t fight it.”

You blinked up at him, trying to speak, but the words caught in your throat, choked by sensation. He rolled his hips again, grinding into the spot that made your eyes roll back, and his fingers never stopped working your clit, drawing tight, dizzying circles that pushed you closer with every stroke.

“Let go,” he murmured, breath hot against your skin. “Be good for me.”

The way he said it — soft, coaxing, like he already knew he’d won — made something inside you snap.

Your body seized beneath him, back arching as white-hot pleasure exploded through you. You clutched at him like you’d fall apart without the anchor of his body, your mouth falling open in a gasp that never quite turned into a scream, too overwhelmed to make sound.

He didn’t stop. He rode it out, held you down, let you feel every ripple, every aftershock, like he wanted to imprint the high of it into your bones.

And when your body finally went slack beneath him, shivering, lips parted, utterly spent, he leaned down, kissed the corner of your mouth.

You were still shaking when he cursed under his breath—low and hoarse—gripping your hips like he was holding on for dear life.

“Fuck,” he growled, buried deep inside you.

You felt the change in him, his pace faltering, his movements becoming rougher, more erratic. His breathing was ragged, shallow against your skin, chest pressing into yours with every desperate thrust.

His control was slipping. Finally.

You opened your eyes, just barely, and caught his expression—eyes half-lidded and burning, jaw clenched, every muscle in his body pulled tight like a bowstring. He looked like he was in pain. Like holding back was killing him.

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a growl, then buried his face in your neck as he thrust one final time, deep and hard. You felt him tense, whole body going rigid above you as he let go with a broken gasp of your name, spilling his warm, creamy seed inside of you, filling you, making you his.

The heat of it, the way he clung to you like he needed to feel every pulse of pleasure, it wrecked you all over again. He stayed there for a long moment, chest heaving against yours, your bodies tangled in sweat and silk and aftershocks.

The silence settled like mist over the room, warm and slow and heavy. Just the hum of the city outside the window, the quiet rustle of breath as your bodies slowly came back to earth. You laid tangled on the couch—bare limbs pressed against bare skin, his arm draped loosely around your waist, fingers absentmindedly tracing circles along your spine.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then Riki broke the silence.

“So…” he murmured, voice still rough from everything, “do I get points for making the golden girl come apart on my couch?”

You huffed a laugh against his collarbone.

“Please. That ego of yours doesn’t need points.”

He grinned. You could feel it without even looking.

“I think I deserve a medal, honestly.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, hair falling over your face.

“For what? Finally keeping up?”

His eyes narrowed playfully.

“Keeping up?”

“You heard me,” you smirked. “Don’t act like you didn’t almost beg.”

He rolled his eyes, but his fingers dug into your hip in warning.

“Watch it.”

“Or what?” you teased, raising a brow. “You’ll punish me?”

His eyes darkened again, just for a second—but the spark in them was unmistakable.

“Careful,” he said softly. “You say things like that, and I won’t let you sleep tonight.”

The way he said it sent a slow burn through your already sensitive body. You bit your lip, turning your face away to hide your smile. But he caught it anyway.

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek, his touch uncharacteristically gentle. And when you looked back at him, something softer had settled behind his gaze. Something quieter.

His grin returned, cocky and slow.

“What do you eat for breakfast? French toast? Smoked salmon? A fresh man's heart?”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away, not yet. Because you weren’t quite ready to leave the warmth of his body. Or the way his voice sounded in the dark. Or how, despite everything, you felt like maybe—just maybe—he was your match.

I finished this at like 3:00 am so sorry if there are any mistakes!! <3 thank u sm for reading.

[aamirazx]

stargirl — lhs

— you are heeseung's perfect star, glowing just for him and the way he fucks you makes you shine even brighter.

warning: explicit content (smut) dom heeseung, unprotected sex: kitchen sex, dacryphilia, hee gets crazy at reader's ahegao face, creampie, overstimulation, squirting. MDNI.

“I had a vision, a vision of my nails in the kitchen…”

Stargirl Interlude played softly in the background, a sultry contrast to the sound of skin slapping against skin, echoing through the kitchen.

“Scratchin’ counter tops, I was screamin’—”

“Heeseung, fuck!” you squealed, nails digging so hard into the counter they nearly bled. Behind you, Heeseung only groaned, gripping your hips tighter as he thrust into you again and again.

"My back arched like a cat, my position couldn't stop,"

Your back arched, the curve of your spine deepening as Heeseung slammed into you.

“Fuck—right there,” you gasped, fingers slipping against the countertop, your body trembling with each thrust.

“You were hittin’—” the song purred in the background, perfectly mirroring the way Heeseung had you pinned, his cock driving deeper, chasing every pulse and squeeze of your walls around him.

"Yeah?” he rasped, as he leaned in, his breath hot on your neck. It didn’t take long before your arms finally gave out, your body surrendering as your bare chest hit the cold marble countertop.

Heeseung only chuckled at your weakness, he slowed his thrusts, letting you feel every inch of him dragging in and out of your soaked cunt. Until his gaze dropped, mesmerized by the way your slick coated his flushed, throbbing cock, glistening under the light.

“Messy little thing,” he murmured, groaning at the sight. He groaned, his fingers tightened around your wrists, wrenching your arms behind your back, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. He drove into you harder, your body jerking forward with each ruthless thrust.

“You like this, huh? Getting fucked like a needy slut on the kitchen counter?”

A broken moan tore from your lips, your toes curling, legs shaking as he thrust deeper.

“And I shouldn’t cry, but I love it, Starboy,” the song purred in the background.

“You hear that?” Heeseung mocked, his lips curling into a smirk as Stargirl Interlude moaned through the speakers. “Even the song knows what a filthy little thing you are.”

His hips snapped forward, forcing a strangled gasp from your throat as he buried himself to the hilt, stretching you open, making sure you felt every inch of him.

Heeseung released your wrists, his hands sliding down to grip your waist before snaking around your stomach, pulling you flush against him.

His chest pressed firm against your back as he guided your hips to move with his thrusts, forcing you to take him even deeper.

“Do you love having my cock this deep?” he murmured, "do you love being bent over like a desperate little slut while I use you?”

“Yes, Hee! Yes! Yes!” You moaned, your voice breaking as tears streamed down your cheeks, dripping onto the countertop below.

Heeseung’s eyes darkened, his grip tightening before one hand slid up to wrap around your throat. He tilted your head back, his lips brushing over your damp skin before his tongue flicked out, tasting your tears. Then he kissed you hard, his tongue shoving past your lips.

When he pulled away, his gaze dropped to your face, and his cock twitched at the sight—your mouth hanging open, your heart eyes glazed over with pleasure

"I just wanna see you shine, 'cause I know you are a stargirl"

“I love being your perfect little fucktoy, Hee,” you choked out, your eyes rolling back as the pressure around your throat tightened.

Heeseung watched every expression that flickered across your face—the way your brows knitted together, your lips parted, your lashes fluttering as you gasped for air. Your hands flew to his wrist, not to push him away, but to ground yourself, fingers trembling against his skin.

Then, with a low grunt, Heeseung pulled you up, his strength effortless. Your back arched against his chest, your feet no longer touching the floor, legs dangling as he held you up by the throat.

Your head lolled onto his shoulder, your mouth hanging open, your tongue slipping out as you went completely fucked out—limp in his hold, lost in the overwhelming pleasure.

“Fuck—” Heeseung groaned, his cock twitching at the sight, his hips snapping up harder, rutting into you like he couldn’t get enough. His breath was ragged against your ear, completely immersed in the way you looked.

“H-Hee, ahh—” you gasped, your voice breaking, nails digging into his wrist as he kept you suspended in his grip.

Heeseung barely heard you, too mesmerized by the sight in front of him—the two of you reflected in the dark, tinted window. The city lights outside barely illuminated the glass, but it was enough. Enough for him to see the way you glowed.

His perfect star.

Your body trembled in his grasp, skin damp with sweat, flushed and glistening. Your breasts rose and fell with each ragged breath, your nipples hard from the cool air and the intensity of his hold.

His cock throbbed at the sight, the way your body arched so beautifully, muscles quivering as he fucked into you mercilessly.

“Hee—Seung, ah… gonna cum,” you barely managed to whisper.

Heeseung groaned but didn’t slow down, his pace only growing rougher. His grip on your throat loosened before he let go entirely, his hands dropping to your thighs to spread your other leg as he focused on chasing his own release.

“Hold it,” he ordered, his breath ragged.

You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders as his tip slammed against your g-spot over and over.

Your legs trembled violently, your walls tightening around him, dangerously close. “Can’t,” you gasped, shaking your head, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Can’t—gonna cum—”

“Hold it,” he growled, his head tilting back as his eyes rolled, lost in the way you clenched around him.

Then, without warning, he pulled out.

A desperate sob left your lips as he dropped you to the ground, your legs barely holding you up before he grabbed you again, strong arms hooking under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly.

This time, you were facing him.

Your back slammed against the wall, his grip on your legs was tight, fingers digging into your flesh as he spread you open, his cock sliding back inside in one brutal thrust.

The new angle had you seeing stars.

“Heeseung—!” you gasped,he was deeper like this, impossibly deep, hitting that spot over and over, forcing every last coherent thought from your mind.

His lips found your breast, latching onto the sensitive skin, sucking hard, his tongue flicking over your hardened nipple in sync with every thrust.

The song in the background was fading, the last notes dissolving into the air, but it didn’t matter. Your moans filled the space now, replacing the music.

Heeseung smirked against your chest, his breath hot as he lifted his head slightly.

“Sing more for me, baby,” he murmured before he snapped his hips forward, his pace turning brutal.

Your body jolted against the wall, arms clinging desperately to his shoulders, you could barely form words—only gasps, whimpers, and broken moans of his name.

“That’s it,” he groaned, watching your face contort in pleasure, completely fucked out. His grip on your thighs tightened, spreading you even wider, letting him sink deeper, hitting your sweet spot so perfectly you thought you might break.

“You take it so well,” he panted, biting down on your bottom lip before kissing you hard, swallowing every sound you made.

The way his stomach ground against your clit making it impossible to hold back. Your fingers found his hair, tangling in the strands, pulling him impossibly closer.

Your orgasm tore through you violently, your body arching against the wall as you keened, your pussy clamping down around his cock so tight it ripped a deep groan from his throat.

“Fuck—” Heeseung hissed against your lips, his rhythm faltering for the first time as he felt you milking him, your walls fluttering around him like you never want to let go.

His grip on your thighs bruised as he held you still, fucking you through your high, prolonging every delicious aftershock.

Your eyes unfocused, lips swollen, body limp in his arms. Heeseung cursed, barely holding himself together, the way you clenched around him sending him dangerously close to the edge.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged. “Gonna fill you up—make sure you’re dripping with me.”

You gasped, body trembling from the overstimulation as he kept fucking into you, relentless. Your walls were still sensitive from your last orgasm.

“C-Cum, Hee,” you whimpered. Your body was burning, and Heeseung only made it worse, his pace unyielding. Your head spun, the kitchen lights blurring into a dizzy haze.

He chuckled breathlessly, his lips brushing over yours. “I’m so close, baby,” he panted, voice strained with pleasure. “You can cum again for me, right?”

You shook your head, whining, trying to squirm away as his hand found your clit, rubbing tight circles.

“Hee—n-no, I can’t—” you sobbed, legs shaking in his grip, but he just groaned, ignoring your protests, his cock twitching inside you as he felt you tightening again.

“Yes, you can,” he rasped. “C’mon, my stargirl. One more. Let me feel you.”

Your scream tore through the air as the burning sensation coiled unbearably tight, heat pooling in your stomach, rising too fast. Your body convulsed, your walls squeezing him in a vice-like grip, dragging him to the brink along with you.

“Fuck—” Heeseung gasped, his rhythm stuttering as your pussy clenched hard around him, refusing to let go.

Your mind blacked out as a sudden rush of liquid gushed from your cunt, soaking his abdomen, drenching his cock. It left you shaking, breathless, your body trembling violently in his arms.

“Shit—baby,” Heeseung groaned as he buried himself deep, spilling inside you, hot and thick, mixing with the mess between your thighs.

His high-pitched moans filled your ears as he fucked his cum deeper, his hips rolling lazily even as his body shuddered from the aftershocks.

Your body was completely spent, limp in his arms, head falling onto his shoulder as your breath came in shallow, uneven pants. Heeseung groaned softly, still sensitive, but he held you close, his arms secure around you as he carried you effortlessly to the couch in the living room.

He lowered you onto the cushions with care, watching as you sprawled out beneath him.

Heeseung pulled out slowly, groaning at the sight of his cum spilling from your ruined pussy, dripping onto the fabric beneath you.

His gaze traveled upward, drinking you in.

Your eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, lips parted as you struggled to catch your breath. Your chest rose and fell heavily, your body completely dazed.

Your skin glowed—shining even brighter, like a star burning just for him.

[aamirazx]

250503

[aamirazx]

© saturn do not edit/crop logo

[aamirazx]

Wtffff this was sooo freaky AHHHHHHHHH

SPEED IT UP — pjs

— BMW luxury, but make it filthy.

content tags: established relationship, profanities, dangerous driving lol, bratty? reader (she's so down bad), explicit content (smut): semi-public, oral (m receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, creampie, cockwarming, somnophilia. MDNI! WC:6.7k

"No smoking inside the car."

You rolled your eyes but didn't argue, the weight of the cigarette between your fingers grounding you in the chill of the early morning. The air was thick with dew, mist curling around the trees.

You huffed quietly, turning to toss your duffel bag into the backseat with a soft thud. With one last drag, you inhaled deeply, letting the burn settle in your chest before flicking the stub to the gravel and grinding it beneath your boot.

It was 4 AM. The forest around the cabin still hummed with nocturnal life. Jay leaned against the car, door already open, engine off. The soft yellow dome light cast a glow over his profile.

"Come on, baby. Gotta hurry up. Sun's gonna catch us if we don't move," he said.

You didn't reply immediately. Just gave a low hum, your brow knitting as you brushed invisible ash from your crop top and walked around to the passenger side. Sliding in, you exhaled slowly and popped open the glove compartment, grabbing the half-used bottle of alcohol spray. The plastic crackled under your grip.

You sprayed your palms, rubbed it down your arms, neck, even your chest—anywhere the smoke might've clung. The chemical tang stung your nose, but it was better than the stale scent of cigarettes. You hated smelling like it around Jay, even if he didn't seem to care. It made you feel careless.

You tucked the crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds into the compartment and shut it.

"Why won't you let me hit some in here?" you asked, half-joking, half-serious, already settling into the seat as he started the engine. "We could just crack the window."

"It'll still smell around the car, baby," Jay said, not looking at you. He reached over and tapped the center console. "Just grab a lollipop in there. Cherry or something."

You sighed, opening it to see a few crumpled wrappers, some candy sticks, loose change. You pulled out a lollipop and unwrapped it lazily, slipping it between your lips. The taste was artificial, sharp and sweet. Not the same, but it would do.

Jay started the engine with a soft rumble, the dashboard lights glowing a muted blue in the dimness. You leaned back against the passenger seat, eyes drifting to the scenery slipping past the window, dense trees, low-hanging mist, an occasional flicker of distant headlights disappearing into the curve of the road.

The AC in the BMW kicked in, instantly cooling the cabin. Jay reached forward and turned on the stereo. A mellow playlist filled the space—lo-fi beats and slow, grooving instrumentals that matched the stillness outside. He adjusted the mirror, then placed both hands on the wheel.

You glanced at him. He was always like this when he drove, silent, too concentrated. No conversation, no music requests, no touching. Just the road, it annoyed you a little, though you understood it in some part of your brain you weren't in the mood to access.

An hour passed. Your lollipop was down to the dry nub of the stick, which you lazily chewed until it bent. You flicked it into an empty bottle in the cupholder and sighed, scrolling through your phone for something or anything worth looking at. There wasn't. Notifications were dry, feed was stale, and none of your apps offered enough distraction to fight the weight of the boredom settling in.

You tried to nap, leaning your head against the window, but the vibrations of the car and the occasional curve in the road jolted you awake every few minutes. The silence stretched. Jay didn't even glance at you. Always so damn responsible when behind the wheel.

You stared at the glove compartment.

You didn't have a cigarette problem. You weren't addicted. It was just comfort. A way to shake the fog in your brain, to make the dullness float away. A cigarette wasn't a need. It was a solution.

You shifted in your seat, groaning softly. "Jayyyy," you whined, dragging his name out like a child begging for candy. You popped another lollipop into your mouth. "It's so boring."

You lifted your legs, planting your feet on the dashboard, angling your knees toward him. Not to annoy him. Not just to annoy him.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye but said nothing.

You pouted, your voice a little softer, a little more teasing now. "C'mon, babe. Say something. Look at me. Do something. I'm rotting in here."

Jay didn't bite. His eyes stayed forward, hands steady on the wheel. "My iPad's in the bag. Play some Block Blast or something," he said casually.

You rolled your eyes, clicking your tongue against the lollipop in your mouth. Your gaze shifted again to the glove compartment. You needed to hit a cigarette—desperately. The urge itched at the back of your throat.

"I need to suck cigs. Please," you whined, putting your palms together in mock prayer, bottom lip jutting out in the most dramatic pout you could manage.

Jay flicked his gaze toward you, just for a second, then back to the road.

"Baby, I told you. You can't," he said gently.

That tone. Soft like a warning wrapped in velvet. You sighed, sinking into your seat. You wanted to be annoyed. You wanted to roll your eyes and push more. But it was Jay. And when he said no like that, so calm, so controlled—it didn't piss you off.

You rested your head back, still pouting. "I'll blow it outside, promise. I'll even hang half my body out the window if I have to," you mumbled, trying again.

He chuckled under his breath. "Just stick with the lollipop for a while," he said, "I'm not against you smoking, even if it wrecks your lungs. Just... know when to pull back. Put it in the right place, baby. Okay?"

The way he said it, respectful, with just a trace of that steady dominance. Not a scolding, not a demand. Just Jay, being Jay. Always that calm force in the middle of your chaos. He didn't shame you, didn't raise his voice. He just held you there in his orbit, and somehow that was hotter than any fight.

God, the way he lectured you like that, so soft, so unbothered made your thighs press just a little tighter together.

You turned your head, resting your cheek against the seat, eyes fixed on him from the corner of your gaze. The stick of the lollipop shifted between your lips, and you bit down gently, letting it click against your teeth.

The cigarette could wait.

A minute passed, maybe more, but you didn't notice. You were too focused on him. The way his hands gripped the steering wheel, veins visible beneath the smooth stretch of his skin, tendons flexing subtly with every slight turn. The road curved gently, and his knuckles followed.

His hair was down, bangs loose and framing his face, still slightly messy from the rush of getting up so early. It added to the casual, half-wild allure he wore without trying. The strands brushed against his cheeks just right, softening the sharp angles of his jaw while somehow making it look even more defined. The slope of his nose, the quiet focus in his eyes, the way his lips pressed into that unconscious pout whenever he was thinking.

Then your gaze dropped.

His thighs. Thick and tense beneath his joggers, spread just enough to make the posture feel unconsciously dominant. You watched the muscles shift slightly as he adjusted in his seat, the fabric stretching across the solid shape of them, giving away more than you knew he intended. The heat in your stomach pooled lower, slow and heavy.

Jay looked so hot right now.

You sucked slowly on the lollipop, the cherry flavor suddenly feeling too sweet, too on-the-nose, as your tongue toyed with it lazily. Your eyes traveled back up, lingering on the slope of his neck, the faint line of his collarbone visible through the stretched collar of his hoodie.

How could he be this attractive without doing anything?

He wasn't even looking at you.

Your voice slipped out before you could second-guess it, "I want to suck you off."

Jay let out a short laugh, the kind that vibrated through his chest more than his throat. His hand came down from the wheel, resting on your thigh. His palm was warm, fingers steady as they began to rub up and down—slow and absent-minded.

"Yeah?" he murmured, not taking his eyes off the road. His thumb slid just a little higher on the inside of your thigh. "That lollipop not doing it for you anymore?"

You smirked around the candy, pressing your knees together, feeling the throb pulse through you as his hand stayed exactly where it was, teasing you. Jay was always like that, he never rushed. Always knew exactly how to make you fall apart while he stayed in control.

It was unfair how good he was at it.

"You're so hot, fuck. I'm horny," you whined, shifting in your seat.

Your hips arched subtly, your body leaning closer toward him, craving proximity, anything that could bridge the space between his restraint and your need. You tugged the lollipop from your mouth, your lips slightly parted, breath warm.

Without another word, you leaned in and kissed the forming bulge in his joggers.

Jay hissed through his teeth, his hand tightening briefly on the wheel. "Wait, baby... this is a highway. I can't pull over right now."

But you weren't listening.

Your fingers worked fast, tugging down the waistband of his joggers just enough to free him. His cock sprang upward, hard and flushed, thick against the cool air of the car.

Your mouth watered at the sight, breath catching at the heat radiating off his skin. You leaned in, inhaling—soap-clean with a trace of sweat and something purely him. The scent only worsened the ache between your thighs, your panties already damp, your body begging for friction.

You pressed a kiss to the base, then another up the shaft, taking your time. Jay's breath grew heavier, chest rising a little faster beneath his hoodie.

"Baby—fuck—stop," he groaned, his voice strained but still trying to stay composed. "I could totally crash the car right now."

You just hummed around him as you let your lips part wider, taking the thick head of his cock slowly past your tongue. He was heavy and hot, stretching your mouth already, and you hadn't even gotten halfway down.

The cherry lollipop was still clutched loosely in your hand, forgotten now as the stereo played on, low beats humming through the BMW's speaker system, a lazy backdrop to your sin.

The cold air from the AC kissed your skin, but your body was burning, flushed and restless. The interior of the car is smooth leather, subtle lighting, the muted rumble of the road beneath. It felt far too intimate now. Comfortable, yes. Spacious? Not really. But maybe that made it even hotter.

You adjusted your position, knees curled beneath you as you leaned over the console, one hand braced against the seat. Not exactly ideal for sex but the idea sparked inside you anyway. You and Jay had never tried it in a moving car. And right now, with your mouth full of him and your panties soaked through, it was hard to think of why not.

"Baby..." Jay's voice broke again, raspier now. His other hand left the wheel, then tangled in your hair, fingers flexing as you took more of him into your mouth. The muscles in his thigh twitched beneath your palm. You felt the car lurch forward slightly, speed climbing.

You pulled back just a little, teasing the tip with your tongue, then swallowed him again, deeper, your throat beginning to ache in the best way. Your saliva coated him, warm and slick, and his low moan echoed under the pulse of the bass-heavy track on the stereo.

"You're going to kill us both—oh God," Jay breathed out, his hand clenched tighter in your hair, the other white-knuckling the steering wheel.

His hips jolted forward, enough to make you take him deeper, feel him press against the tight clutch of your throat. You gagged, eyes watering slightly, the sensation just on that edge of unbearable but you loved it.

You glanced up through your lashes. His profile was everything. Lips parted, panting. Brows drawn tight. Jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped under the skin. His focus was fractured now, no longer completely on the road.

And fuck, that made him even hotter.

You moaned around him, muffled and needy, the vibration making his cock twitch against your tongue. You needed more. You began to bob your head faster, greedier, your spit slicking him all the way to the base. The wet sound of your mouth choking on him grew louder, rising above the hum of the stereo and the increasingly erratic purr of the engine.

"Shit—fuck, baby—" Jay hissed, and you felt the car jerk slightly, a small swerve. His hand stayed tight in your hair, guiding you just enough. You could feel his restraint crumbling with every second, every stroke of your tongue, every time you swallowed around him.

Your body moved with the car, every sudden jolt of speed, every shift of the wheel. Your hips instinctively rolled against the seat, legs squeezing together as your own arousal throbbed, hot and insistent. You could barely think past it.

His foot slammed harder on the pedal. The BMW roared forward.

You gasped around him but didn't stop, not even when he made a sharp, desperate turn onto a gravel pull-off, the tires crunching and skidding slightly. Trees blurred past the window, then the car jerked to a stop, engine still running, headlights slicing through early-morning mist.

That's when his hips snapped forward. Fast, and rough, he groaned your name as he began thrusting into your mouth, not giving you a second to breathe. His composure shattered completely. Both hands now tangled in your hair, guiding you down, using your mouth with a desperation you'd never seen from him before.

You took it. Gagging around him, drool slipping past your lips and down your chin, your eyes locked on his face. He was gone, lost in the feeling, in you, in the heat of your mouth and the pressure building in his core. You could feel it. The way his thighs trembled. The way his rhythm became erratic. The way he started whispering curses under his breath.

"Fuck, fuck, baby—don't stop—don't fucking stop," he growled, voice cracking, head falling back against the seat.

Your hands gripped his thighs, holding yourself steady as his thrusts grew wild.

"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum." he gasped, hips jerking up into your throat one last time.

With a final, broken groan, his whole body locked—hips freezing, muscles taut, cock pulsing hard between your lips. Hot, thick release spilled down your throat, and you moaned around him as you swallowed, tongue cradling every last drop. Your eyes fluttered shut, rolling back just slightly as you held him there, savoring it.

You slowly pulled off, his cock twitching slightly as it slid from your lips. A slick string of saliva stretched between you and him.

Jay collapsed back against the seat with a shaky exhale, head tilted, eyes shut. He reached down and adjusted the seat, giving you more room but his cock was still hard as fuck, standing proud, flushed a deep red and glistening. Not even release could cool the heat between you now.

With a quiet rustle, you slipped your bottoms off, panties and all, tossing them into the backseat without a thought. The cold air brushed against your bare skin, but the heat inside you burned hotter. You popped the lollipop back into your mouth, sucking lazily as you climbed into his lap, knees on either side of him.

Jay's eyes opened slowly, hazy with lust, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin.

"Come here," he growled.

You settled over him, letting your soaked pussy drag along the length of his cock, his tip brushing your clit with every rock of your hips. Your head fell back instantly, a soft cry slipping from your lips as you circled your hips.

"Ahhh—fuck," you moaned, dragging your folds across him again and again, letting the friction tease you both to the edge.

Jay's hands flew to your hips, then lower, one of them cupping your mound, fingers spreading your lips, rubbing slow, delicious circles near your clit. The wetness was obscene, your arousal practically dripping onto his length, coating him in slick heat.

"Jesus Christ," he hissed, eyes fixed between your legs. "Your pussy's fucking soaked—fuck, baby. You're fucking dripping."

You whimpered, rolling your hips down into his touch, desperate for more.

"I can't help it," you panted, voice slurred slightly as the lollipop shifted in your mouth. "You're so fucking handsome—God, you look so good when you're trying not to lose control. Makes me wanna—ahhh!"

Your words cut off in a cry as Jay pushed two fingers into you. Your body clenched around him instantly, hips jerking down to meet the rhythm he set. He knew exactly where to curl them, just the right angle to pull sounds out of you.

"My pretty baby," Jay murmured, eyes locked on your face, drinking in the way it contorted with need. His thumb brushed your clit while his fingers pumped steadily, coaxing every ounce of slick from your cunt.

You were riding his hand now, shameless, grinding yourself down on his palm. Jay leaned up, his lips brushing against your jaw, hot breath ghosting over your skin. "Makes you wanna what, baby? Don't hold out on me. Say it."

You whimpered, rocking harder into his hand. "M-Makes me wanna ride your fat cock. Fuck, Jay, I want it so bad—want you to fill me up till I'm leaking all over your lap."

He groaned deep in his chest, teeth grazing your neck, and just as your back arched and hit the steering wheel—honk!

The car horn blared suddenly, sharp and loud, slicing through the haze of lust.

You both froze for half a second, startled then burst into low laughter. Jay reached down with his free hand and killed the engine, the dashboard lights dimming as silence fell. Except for the slick, wet rhythm of his fingers still inside you.

"Fuck," he grinned, voice low and ragged. "You're about to make me wreck and get us arrested, all in the same damn hour."

You moaned, grinding your hips harder, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Then shut up and fuck me, Jay. I need your cock. Now."

"Take it then," he growled, pulling his fingers free with a slick pop and grabbing the base of his cock, still hard, flushed, glistening with precum. "You want it so bad? Show me. Get yourself on it. Ride it like you mean it."

You didn't hesitate. One hand braced on the headrest behind him, the other guiding him to your entrance, you eased down onto his length with a moan that scraped from your throat. The stretch burned in the best way. He filled you completely, inch by inch, thick and hot, and by the time your hips met his, you were trembling.

"So big," you gasped. You rocked your hips once, then again rising up just enough for his tip to almost slip out before dropping back down, hard enough to make the slap of skin-on-skin echo off the leather interior.

Jay groaned beneath you, his head tipping back, one hand gripping your waist while the other fisted the edge of the seat.

Your mouth hung open, saliva slicking your lower lip, too lost in the pulse of your body to even speak. Your rhythm picked up, your hips grinding in slow, firm circles between thrusts, making him hit every sensitive spot inside you.

Jay's eyes locked onto your face, then dropped lower to your bouncing tits, to your soaked thighs, to where you were stretched around him. He bit his bottom lip and reached up without a word, fingers slipping the lollipop from between your lips.

He popped it into his own mouth, sucking lazily as he watched you ride his cock. "Mmm," he moaned, sugar-sweet and sex-drunk. "Taste even better when it's mixed with your spit."

"F-fuck, Jay," you whimpered, hands sliding up his chest, nails scraping over his hoodie.

You rolled your hips harder, faster. Your clit dragging against his pelvis with each bounce, making you cry out. You didn't care how filthy you looked, how loud, how desperate, you wanted more.

Jay shifted beneath you, planting his feet firmly, bracing himself and then thrusting up to meet you, perfectly timed as you came down. The angle was brutal, perfect, splitting you open so deep your head snapped back.

Your mouth fell open in a voiceless scream, hands flying to his shoulders, gripping him.

"Fucking ride it," Jay growled, breath ragged. "You wanna act like a needy little brat? Then prove it. Show me how fucking bad you want this cock. Work for it."

He punctuated the words by slapping your tits twice, and quick smacks that made you clench around him involuntarily.

You gasped, back arching as your pussy squeezed him tight. He yanked your crop top up with one hand, tugged your bra over your tits and latched onto one nipple, rolling it between his fingers, tossing the lollipop into the cupholder, he then leaned in and sucked the other into his mouth.

You bounced faster, trying to keep pace with the relentless rhythm, but the space was killing you. The roof of the car pressed against your head every time you moved too high. Your thighs screamed from the cramped position, the passenger seat squeaking beneath your frantic movement.

The air was hot with your breath, the windows had fogged completely now, blurred shapes of the outside world lost behind the film of heat and sweat.

"Jayy," you whined, voice cracking as your rhythm faltered. You were drenched in sweat, your skin slipping under his grip. "C-can't—fucking—move!"

He pulled back from your chest, mouth wet, lips slightly swollen from how hard he'd been sucking on you. His gaze found yours, and the wicked amusement behind it made your stomach twist.

"You're the one who begged for this," he murmured. He dipped his head again, tongue flicking lazily over your tender skin, circling your areola in slow, deliberate licks that made your spine arch involuntarily. "What, already worn out?"

"M-My legs," you breathed, nails digging into his shoulders for support, "they're cramping. I can't—I can't take it anymore, Jay. Please."

Your body was shaking from the strain. Every joint, every muscle begged for relief, but the heat building inside you was still screaming for more. It was maddening—to be this close and unable to keep going.

Jay exhaled through his nose, a quiet scoff that bordered on a laugh. "Could've just said you wanted me to take over," he muttered, the smirk returning to his lips as he slid his hands under your thighs. "But sure, cry about it first."

With a sudden shift, he lifted you off him, just enough to reposition and then he lowered the seat back, just a little, giving himself more room. His hands stayed firm on your hips, guiding you down slowly, letting gravity do the work as he filled you again, inch by throbbing inch.

"Lie back," he said, his tone low. "Let me fuck you properly."

Your back hit the steering wheel again, but this time it didn't matter. You let yourself collapse forward, resting your head on his shoulder as your body trembled around him.

He adjusted his grip, thrusting up into you, slow, controlled movements at first, deep and precise. You gasped, voice caught in your throat. Your entire body tensed around him.

"Yeah," he breathed into your ear, one hand slipping between your legs again. "That's it. Let me feel you give up. Let me do all the work now. Since my pretty girl wore herself out."

You whimpered, nodding weakly, surrendering everything.

Jay wrapped his arms around you, holding you close for a moment, before he shifted again beneath you. He adjusted his angle, pulled you flush against him, and drove his hips up.

He slammed into you so deep it knocked the air right out of your lungs.

Your voice cracked in a strangled cry, your body going rigid, then melting around him, clenching tight, pulsing with desperate need. You buried your face in his neck, moaning helplessly.

"Shit," he growled, his breath vibrating against your cheek. "This pussy's choking me. So tight. So fucking hot."

His grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into the softness. He was fucking you from below with complete control, every upward snap of his hips is bruising

You could barely keep your hands still. They roamed without direction—slapping blindly against the fogged window, leaving streaks and prints as your body rocked against the glass. Then they were at his shoulder, gripping the thick fabric of his hoodie; then in his hair, twisting, tugging, trying to anchor yourself.

Jay's mouth was everywhere, he kissed the curve of your throat, then bit your jaw with just enough pressure to make your eyes roll back. He licked a slow, hot trail across your collarbone, then sucked a bead of sweat from your skin.

"Can feel you, baby." He whispered, one hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck, keeping you close. "You're gonna cum for me, aren't you?"

"Y-Yeah," you choked out, barely able to hold on. Your legs trembled violently, muscles twitching as your body struggled to keep pace with the intensity crashing down on you. "I'm—fuck, Jay—I'm right there—"

"Good," he murmured, teeth grazing your throat. "Then cum for me. Let go. Give it to me."

His thrusts grew sharper, each one punching a breath from your lungs, your hips colliding with his in a staccato rhythm of need. The sound of it filled the car: slick, obscene, mixed with your cries and the ragged sounds of his breathing. Your vision began to blur around the edges, your body too overwhelmed to process anything but sensation.

"I-I'm gonna—!" you gasped, voice cracking as the wave surged through you.

Jay caught your jaw in his hand, forcing your eyes to meet his for a breathless second then he kissed you. His mouth swallowed the ragged sob that tore from your throat as you shattered in his arms.

At the same time, his thumb found your clit again, circling fast. The moment your climax hit, your whole body keened. You went rigid, then completely undone, spasming around his cock so hard it forced a groan from his chest.

Your body slumped forward against him, completely spent, your skin sticking to his as you trembled in his lap. But Jay didn't release you. He held you close, his breath ragged against your neck, cock still buried inside you, twitching—still hard.

His fingers slid beneath your chin, tilting your face to meet his. His gaze was hooded, wild, drenched in a hunger that hadn't dulled at all.

"Back seat," he murmured. "Now."

You nodded, dazed, barely functional, still pulsing from the orgasm he'd dragged out of you. Your legs felt like jelly as you moved, fumbling your way off his lap. His cock slipped free with a wet sound that made both of you groan. You reached for the handle, pushed the passenger seat forward with a shaky hand, and climbed into the back.

Bags cluttered the floor, some half-unzipped from earlier when you'd thrown your clothes in, but Jay didn't care. He followed you in, kicking the duffel bags out of the way without even looking. His focus was entirely on you.

You were already on your knees, body too wired to think about modesty, hands braced on the middle seat for support when you felt him behind you.

"There she is," Jay muttered under his breath, running a hand up your spine. "My filthy girl."

He grabbed your hips, positioning you exactly how he wanted—arched, ass in the air, legs spread just enough to give him the perfect view. You felt the tip of his cock brush between your folds, dragging through the mess he'd already made of you.

"You're dripping down your thighs," he said, almost with pride, dragging his thumb along your inner thigh to collect it.

You whimpered as he pressed the head of his cock back into you, slower this time but it felt even more intense now. The sensitivity made you jolt forward, your hands gripping the seat tighter as he filled you all over again.

"F-fuck," you gasped, back arching more as your walls stretched around him. "Jay—oh my God—"

"Not done with you," he groaned, thrusting in deeper, hips slamming into the curve of your ass with a sound that echoed sharply in the tight space. "Not even close."

The car rocked slightly with every movement. The leather creaked under the shift of weight. Your breath fogged up the already-blurred windows as you gasped against the glass, leaving new streaks beside your earlier prints.

Jay's rhythm turned savage, his body slamming into yours with purpose, one hand tangled in your hair, the other squeezing your hip so tight

"We're gonna ruin the seats," he growled, thrusting harder, his voice cracking slightly with the effort.

You moaned, your hips moving back to meet every thrust with desperation, you could feel him hitting that perfect spot over and over again, and every time he did, you swore your knees buckled a little more.

"Jay," you sobbed out, unable to stop yourself, "want you to cum inside me—please—I want to feel it leak out while I'm still full of you."

He froze, his hips slowed, pulling almost all the way out, leaving just the swollen head of his cock lodged inside you. He watched the way your body tried to pull him back in, your ass pushing back in tiny, desperate motions, trying to fill yourself again.

"Say that again," he rasped, voice shaking as he gripped your waist harder, thumbs digging into your soft flesh.

"I want you to cum in me," you panted, looking back over your shoulder with glassy eyes and swollen lips. "Fill me up. Claim me. Make a mess."

He slammed back in, one hard, deep stroke that punched a cry from your lungs. His grip shifted, both hands now on your ass, squeezing, spreading. He slapped you once, hard, and you yelped, your pussy clenching around him so tight he hissed.

"Ahh, fuck, baby." He moaned, pulling back to watch your ass slap against his pelvis.

Your hips started moving faster, chasing his rhythm, the slick sounds of your bodies meeting reaching a fever pitch.

"Fuck, fuck," Jay breathed, voice cracking as his hands slid up from your hips. One traced along the curve of your spine, rough palm gliding over slick, sweat-damp skin, before his fingers dug into your shoulder, pulling you back into him, forcing you to take him even deeper.

"Please," you choked, "I want all of it—don't pull out, Jay—I wanna feel it drip down my thighs."

His breathing turned erratic, his rhythm faltering as his control slipped completely.

"I'm about to creampie your fucking pussy, baby," he snarled, hips slamming into yours hard enough to rock the whole car. "Gonna fill you till you're leaking. Stuff this sweet cunt like you begged for."

"Yessss!" Your orgasm slammed into you out of nowhere, your clit untouched, no fingers, no pressure, just the sheer brutality of his cock. Your mouth dropped open in a silent scream, vision going white at the edges, your core locking down around him like a vice.

Jay's moan cracked from his chest like a growl dragged through gritted teeth. He drove in once more, deep, deep, hips pressed tight to your ass as he spilled into you. His ears are ringing at the intensity.

You felt every throb, every twitch, every pulse of his cock releasing inside you. The heat of it flooded your core, thick and warm, coating your inside.

You cried out, not from pain but from relief, your body going limp beneath the weight of the moment. Your pussy fluttered around him as you milked every last drop, and Jay wasn't done.

He kept moving. Small, grinding thrusts keeping you full, keeping himself deep, pushing his release further into you with each roll of his hips.

"God," he groaned, burying his face between your shoulder blades, teeth grazing the damp skin there. You trembled beneath him, whimpering with every movement.

Jay didn't move to pull out. He stayed buried inside, cock still twitching, thick with release, his arms wrapped around you. His lips found your shoulder, then your neck, planting slow kisses while your body shook with the last of your orgasm.

By the time your orgasm began to fade, your body felt boneless, pliant, ruined in the most perfect way. A breathless, broken laugh slipped past your lips—half-delirious, half-relieved—as you collapsed forward onto the seat, your hands lazily finding their way to Jay's shoulder. Your fingers curled weakly into the fabric of his hoodie, grounding yourself against the aftershocks still rippling through you.

Jay didn't speak at first. He just held you there, still inside you, his chest rising and falling against your back. Then he leaned in slowly, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your temple, your cheek, each one landing with a wet smack that made you giggle.

His nose nuzzled against your face, tracing the line of your jaw, his lips brushing over your damp skin. You turned your head just enough to meet him, eyes fluttering half-open, your lips found his.

A sudden jolt of pain surged through your leg and your whole body jerked.

"Fuck, cramps!" you yelped, voice breaking through the heavy quiet. Your muscles seized. "Oh my God—my thigh, it's dead—completely fucking dead—"

Jay laughed, "hold on," he murmured, placing a steadying hand on your lower back.

He pulled out slowly, and you winced again from the sensation. You both felt the thick stretch of him slipping free, followed instantly by the warm slide of his cum spilling from you. It dripped down your inner thighs in slow, lazy rivulets, and Jay's eyes locked on it.

His breath caught. "Shit..." he muttered under his breath, his tone dipped low, eyes wide with something between awe and filthy satisfaction.

You flopped onto your side, trying to stretch out your cramped leg, your body still twitching with residual sensitivity. "Ugh, Jay—help—I'm dying."

"Baby," he chuckled, leaning forward, still staring at the mess between your legs, "you can't say shit like 'cum inside me' and then get mad when I fuck your legs into paralysis."

"I didn't think physics were gonna get involved," you whined dramatically, punching his shoulder with the strength of a wet noodle.

Jay grinned, eyes still glassy and high off the intensity, and leaned over you again. "C'mon, let me help. Gotta get you out of this position before your legs give out completely." He gently lifted one of your knees, massaging the cramp away with slow, circular pressure.

"There," he whispered, eyes focused. "Is that better?"

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, head dropping back against the seat. "God, yes. Keep doing that and I might fall in love."

Jay smirked. "Might?"

You grinned, eyes fluttering half-shut as he kept massaging, then slowed. He pressed a final kiss to the inside of your knee before sitting back, reaching for a water bottle from the center console and cracking it open for you.

"The next stop's only four miles out," he said, settling into that post-fuck softness. "I can grab you a Salonpas patch or something if you're still sore."

You took the water, chugged it like you hadn't just been moaning his name ten minutes ago, then looked up at him with wide eyes. "Can I smoke before we leave again?" you asked, blinking innocently.

Jay paused, narrowed his eyes at you like he already saw the trouble brewing behind your sweet expression.

He sighed. You knew that sigh.

Without waiting for his response, you grinned and mimed zipping your lips shut, pretending to toss the imaginary key out the window. "Okay, okay," you said with a dramatic shrug. "I said nothing."

He gave you a look, but the corner of his mouth still twitched like he couldn't help but find you ridiculous and adorable all at once.

Then your eyes dropped down, your voice lowering.

"Okay," you said, leaning in just enough to whisper it, "can I at least cock warm you while you drive?"

"Excuse me?"

You gave him your most innocent look—too wide eyes, soft voice, coy little smile. "What? I said warm. Not ride. Warm. That's, like, the most passive, wholesome form of love."

Jay barked a laugh, head falling back as he covered his face for a second. "You want to sit on my dick while I drive."

"Well, yeah," you said casually, already shimmying your hips to adjust your sore muscles. "I mean, it's already warm in there. Might as well keep him company. You don't want him to feel neglected, do you?"

Jay looked at you, he was grinning, hand sliding to the back of your neck, pulling you in for another kiss. "Fine,"

Together, you climbed back into the front seat, Jay adjusted the recline of his seat, just enough to give you space, and you straddled him with a slow exhale, easing down onto him with a shiver.

You sighed, your head dropping forward against his chest as your body settled, molded around him. Jay's hands moved to your waist automatically, steadying you. With one hand, he reached down and draped a blanket, pulled from the mess of bags in the back—over your legs. The soft fleece shielded your bare skin from the AC.

The engine rumbled to life beneath you.

"I've got you," he whispered, adjusting the wheel with one hand while the other stayed on your thigh, tracing idle patterns against your skin. "Comfortable?"

"Mm-hmm," you murmured sleepily, nuzzling your face into the side of his neck. The scent of his cologne, Jo Malone wrapped around you. "Love you."

He glanced down at you, heart in his throat. His lips brushed your hairline, then pressed there in a lingering kiss.

"Love you more," he whispered back, and then shifted into gear, pulling back onto the dark road.

You let yourself sink into him completely, your eyes already starting to flutter shut. Your head slumped on his shoulder, mouth slightly open, your breath slowing.

You started snoring loud, unbothered, fully passed out in the lap of the man still very much inside you. You didn't care about the cramped space. Or the soreness creeping into your thighs. Or how uncomfortably good it still felt to be stuffed full of him.

You'd deal with the cramps when you woke up.

Jay glanced over and shook his head with a quiet chuckle, his hand smoothing down your back beneath the blanket.

He turned off the highway when the sign for the next rest stop came into view.

Maybe it was the way your hips shifted slightly in your sleep, or the way his cock throbbed just right inside your soaked heat—but something snapped again.

"Fuck it," Jay muttered,

He parked behind the convenience store, engine still running, rain starting to mist lightly on the windshield.

And he sped it up.

His grip tightened, and he began thrusting into you again from beneath—slow at first, rocking the seat, then harder, faster, building up to something messy and rough again, even with you half-asleep and whimpering against his chest.

You woke up mid-moan, dazed, grinding into him like your body already knew what to do before your brain caught up.

He kissed your shoulder between thrusts. "Just one more," he murmured. "Then I'll get your damn Salonpas."

[aamirazx]

[aamirazx]

250419

[aamirazx]

What…the…fuck THIS WAS AMAZING I CANT THINK STRAIGHT ANDHSJJJE

diet pepsi - nishimura riki 𓈒ིུ ❤︎

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

"In which reader films a hot, sexy music video with the world’s favorite supermodel, but the tension between them is so palpable that it ends up exploding"

content: +18MDNI fem! reader x ni-ki, popstar x supermodel, usage of both riki and ni-ki, drinking (wine), sexual tension, explicit sex, oral sex (m. receiving), fingering, riding, unprotected sex.

i love addison rae and i love diet pepsi so this was slightly inspired by it.

hate comments will be deleted and blocked, likes and reblogs are appreciated!! <3

There was something about the air of a freshly built set, the warm lights already buzzing overhead, and the distant rustle of crew members preparing for chaos, that made your heart race every single time.

You stepped onto the soundstage in platform heels and a silk robe, a Diet Pepsi can in hand (prop or not, you actually liked the taste). The soft curve of a smile found your lips as you took in the glossy tiled floor, the velvet chaise, the retro signs glowing like neon halos. The whole set screamed glamour. Over-the-top. Effortlessly iconic.

Very you.

At your age, you were pop music’s favorite contradiction. Sweet as sugar off-stage, barefoot in studios, always bringing snacks to rehearsals, thanking every crew member like it was second nature. But the moment a camera turned on, something inside you clicked. Your voice dropped, your stare sharpened, and your body moved like it was fluent in seduction.

Soft. Wildhearted. But when it was go time? You locked in.

That’s how you made it here, headlining your own tour, pulling millions of views in a matter of hours, and now, filming the summer's most anticipated music video.

And it was exactly how you pictured it.

Every shot, every frame, it started in your head. You’d pitched the concept to your label yourself. You wanted soft-focus lights and a sultry track that felt like summer sweat and silk sheets. You wanted that old-Hollywood-meets-modern-muse vibe. You even storyboarded scenes on your iPad at 3 a.m, manicured fingers swiping through reference photos and aesthetic inspo like your life depended on it.

Because in some ways, it did.

This wasn’t just another video. This was you, your vision, your control, your era. You fought for this.

What you didn’t fight for was Riki Nishimura.

That part was your manager’s idea. “Trust me,” he’d said. “The chemistry will be insane. He’s got the look. The mystery. The fanbase.”

You knew who Riki was before the meeting even ended. Everyone did. He was fashion’s crown jewel, elusive, unreadable, and unfairly beautiful. The kind of guy who didn’t chase cameras; they chased him. Long, tall body, not so muscular but somehow ripped, gorgeous face decorated with moles, plump, thick lips that glistened in every shot, and a perfect, almost jaw dropping smile.

You hadn’t worked with him before. But you’d seen him. On runways, in perfume ads, in magazine spreads where his gaze practically peeled skin. He had that thing, the kind that couldn’t be taught.

Still, when they told you he’d agreed to do the video, your first thought wasn’t excitement.

It was wariness.

Because something about him felt dangerous. Not in the way guys tried to be dangerous, loud, flashy, fake, but in the quiet way. The way that creeps under your skin and settles there. The kind of danger you don’t notice until it’s too late and he’s already in your bloodstream.

You handed off your empty can and settled into the glam chair, locking eyes with yourself in the mirror.

Eyes sharp. Lips glossy. Pulse steady… enough.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

Riki arrived on set like he always did, silent, sharp, unbothered.

He didn’t need to announce himself. People just knew when he entered a room. Maybe it was the height, or the face, or the way he moved like time bent around him. Smooth, slow, unrushed, like he was already in the center of the frame.

The stylists barely looked up as he passed by, just nodded, eyes wide, like they were seeing a deity in the flesh. He was used to that by now. The stares, the whispering, the cameras pretending not to follow his every breath.

Riki Nishimura wasn’t born a model, but the world acted like it.

He started when he was fifteen, walked for a niche Tokyo brand no one cared about, except someone did. Someone important. The next season, he was in Paris. By seventeen, he was on the cover of GQ. By eighteen, he had his pick of luxury campaigns. Runway, editorial, billboards. He became the face of mystery. The body of fantasy.

Now he was unstoppable, but he was ambitious, he wanted to reach peak iconography.

So when they first called him, asking for him to do a music video, he hesitated at first. That was something he'd never done before.

Then he heard your name.

Y/N.

The popstar with the velvet voice and the lightning eyes. The girl who wore glitter like armor and moved like she was born to ruin people. He’d seen you before, on award show stages, in commercials, in paparazzi clips where you laughed with your whole chest like you didn’t care who was watching.

You were different. Not because you were pretty, they were all pretty. But because you meant it.

Every look, every note, every time you walked into a room like you owned it and yet somehow still made people feel welcome. He respected that, maybe even admired it. He was a full believer of work ethics and safe environments in an industry where he started so young.

So he said yes.

Now, as he stepped onto set, he saw you before you saw him.

Sitting in the glam chair, head tilted back, lips parted slightly as someone lined them with gloss. A robe slipping off one shoulder. That same energy curling around you like perfume, soft, sweet, dangerous.

He didn’t react.

Didn’t let the flicker of heat show on his face. But inside?

He felt it. That flicker of something he couldn’t control.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

A chrome convertible gleamed under heavy rig lights, surrounded by buzzing PAs, cables curling across the floor like snakes, a faint haze from the fog machine made the air feel thick, almost humid.

You tugged down the hem of your barely-there silk dress, heels clicking against the concrete, your lips already glossed and your heart drumming way too fast beneath your ribcage. You’d been on hundreds of sets, you were used to eyes on you, used to being the moment, the vision, the concept. But today, it wasn’t just your concept anymore.

Because he was here.

Your manager’s voice echoed in your head. “He’s a little quiet, but he gets it, he has the look, the edge. You two will kill this if the chemistry’s there.”

You hadn’t seen him yet, not in person.

But the moment you turned the corner and caught sight of the figure getting inside the car? You knew.

He was taller than you expected, dressed simply in black jeans, a snug white tee, silver rings on his fingers, hair slightly tousled like he hadn't even tried. Ni-ki's features were even more enchancing in person, he didn't even look real. You had to swallow, breathing hard as you approached him.

He didn’t look nervous, or excited. He looked like he belonged.

Riki didn’t see you at first, his gaze was low, focused on something in his hands, maybe a ring he was fidgeting with, maybe nothing. The jeans sticked to his legs so perfectly his muscles were visible through the fabric, he was so tall he couldn't even sit straight inside the car.

Then his eyes flicked up, and locked onto yours, you didn't know why, but your stomach dropped.

There was no smile, no wave, just a stillness in the way he watched you walk toward him. Eyes steady, almost unreadable. But there was something under it, curiosity, heat, something you couldn’t name yet.

“Hi,” you said first, voice sweet, casual smile on your lips, stopping a foot away from him. “So you’re the mysterious co-star.”

His lips quirked, just barely. “And you’re the reason everyone’s pretending they’re not watching.”

His voice was smooth, low, deep, didn't match with his face at all, in a good way. Then you smiled softly, tilting your head, hair falling down your shoulders.

"You rehearsed that one?" there was tease in your voice, friendly, of course.

He scoffed, knees parted as he fixed his composure a bit, lazily, natural. Your eyes drifted for just a small second. Then he smirked, because he noticed.

"Maybe. Did it work?" Ni-ki raised an eyebrow, and you laughed again under your breath.

You didn't respond.

The director clapped nearby. “Places! We’re starting with the car scene. Y/N on his lap. Close. Intimate. You’re just back from some chaotic night out, everything’s charged."

Riki let out a sound, staring at you a little amused.

"Starting strong, huh?"

"I like strong starts."

You opened the car door, palm resting against the frame, took a deep breath, your face changing as you slipped into the character mode. You stared at the passenger seat, then him, relaxed, body resting on the driver's seat, like it was his own car, his own set.

Then you stepped forward, and carefully, climbed into his lap. Your bare thigh brushed his jeans, his hand steadied you, fingertips on your waist, featherlight but very real. The movement was awkward for half a second, your knee slipping against the console, your hand pressing into his shoulder to balance, the unfamiliar weight beneath you. After a few seconds, you settled, straddling him. Face inches from his, chest to chest, you could smell his scent, you recognised it without problem, Luna Rossa Black, Prada. Clean, a little smoky, expensive.

Ni-ki didn't even move.

"Is this okay?" you asked quietly, more out of professionalism, but for some reason your voice sounded breathless.

His gaze dropped to your glossy lips, just half-second, you still caught it. A shiver went down your spine.

"Yeah, you?"

"I've had worse monday mornings." You joked, and he laughed, quiet and short.

The director's voice crackled again. “Y/N, lean in. Let your hand trail down his collar like you’re teasing him. Riki, rest your hands on her thighs. We want electricity, not fire. Not yet.”

You sighed deeply, your fingers moved up, tracing the collar of his shirt, brushing lightly over the edge of his throat, your knuckles grazed skin. He inhaled through his nose. His hands came up, one landed on your thigh, then the other. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t drag, just rested them there. Warm, steady, too much. You looked down at him, eyes sharp, lips parted like you were about to say something, his gaze flicked between your eyes, your mouth. Again.

"Action."

The camera slid in close, tracking the curve of your jaw as you leaned in just slightly, you moved your hips an inch forward to adjust, purely for comfort.

He exhaled through his nose, barely. But you felt it.

The whole world narrowed to this, your thighs pressed against him, the heat of his breath, the way his fingers twitched on your skin like he was deciding if he should stay still… or not. Your voice played in the background, slow, sultry, the lyrics dripping with tension. The timing was perfect, the mood was perfect. You slid forward in his lap, slowly, feeling the heat between your bodies grow unbearable in a blink. His hands tightened instinctively, you pretended not to notice, but you felt it.

The director's voice echoed from somewhere in the background “Perfect, perfect, just like that, don’t blink, don’t move.”

So you didn’t. You leaned in, your mouth a breath from his, your palm dragged from his jaw to the nape of his neck, you felt his pulse there, rapid and betraying him. He tilted his head, slightly, as if expecting a kiss. It was all supposed to be pretending, but for some reason, it didn't feel like that.

Ni-ki’s hands slid higher on your thighs. His thumbs grazed your skin, barely brushing the edge of your dress, tingles, all over your body. You sucked in a quiet breath, but your face stayed composed.

You wanted to stay in control, but he was peeling it away, inch by inch, with nothing but touch and breath and timing. He was too good at this.

“Cut!” the director finally said. “That’s it. That’s the shot.”

The crew broke into applause, and you sat perfectly still. Ni-ki didn’t move either, you were still in his lap, still breathing the same air, still buzzing from the high of pretending to be something you weren’t.

Long seconds passed, and you finally climbed off his lap, too carefully, too slow. And as you stepped out of the car, your heart beating through your dress, you felt his eyes on your back.

Watching, burning.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

The second set was darker.

Low, red-tinted lights, velvet curtains, a red chaise lounge that looked like it belonged in a 90s R&B music video. You recognized the mood instantly, it was the “after” scene. The one where you weren’t just lovers, you were drunk on each other. The energy that simmered after the chase, heavy with implication.

You stood near the monitor, adjusting the strap of your dress, watching crew members adjust cameras and angles, you knew this scene would be riskier. Not explicit, not technically. But the subtext?

Oh, it was loud.

And for some reason it made you nervous, because you already knew how good Riki was at this, how he pretended with so much ease, as if he'd been doing it his whole life. But was he pretending? The way he touched you before, the way he looked at you, they way his dark gaze kept wandering down your face, your lips, your body.

The concept was simple: you on your back, legs draped over the edge of the lounge, Ni-ki kneeling between them. No kisses, no touches beyond the waist. But all closeness, all suggestion, a game of restraint. Timing was perfect, of course.

You felt him before you saw him.

His presence was becoming familiar, like the storm air before thunder, that heavy awareness your body picked up before your brain could name it.

“You ready?” he asked from behind.

You turned.

He stood close, too close. His shirt was now half unbuttoned, part of the look, apparently, his collarbones sharp, skin dewy under the glow of the set lights, his lips were glossed, hair slightly messier. He looked so good, so dangerous. You were sure he was the most beautiful man you'd ever laid your eyes on.

“I should be asking you that.”

Ni-ki’s mouth twitched into something small, dangerous. “I’ve been ready.”

Your stomach flipped, but you turned away before you let it show.

“Places!” someone called. “Quiet on set!”

You exhaled once and moved to the chaise, the silk of your dress whispering as you lowered yourself onto it. You leaned back, one leg bent at the knee, the other draped lazily to the floor. A little slutty, a little powerful.

Ni-ki took his mark, kneeling between your legs like it was the most casual thing in the world.

But there was nothing casual about it.

His hands rested on either side of your thighs. Not touching. Just hovering. The space between you felt electric.

“Okay,” the director said. “Ni-ki, lean in. Get close like you’re listening to her heartbeat. Y/N, you’re still, unmoving. You’ve got him in the palm of your hand. This is control. Seduction. Don’t blink. Don’t flinch.”

“Action.”

The music kicked in—low, bass-heavy, slow. Your voice cooing something breathy and loaded through the speakers. Ni-ki moved, he leaned forward, head low, jaw brushing just shy of your knee. He didn’t touch, not at first. But he looked up, eyes trailing along your body, then locking with yours. And he smirked.

It was small, barely there, but it was cocky, confident. A secret he wasn’t sharing.

Your heartbeat spiked.

Then, slowly, so slowly, his hand crept up the inside of your thigh. Your body lit up, it was such a subtle touch, but it was enough for you to almost flinch, for the skin on your legs start to jump, shivering, down your spine and settling beneath your legs because you were wearing only underwear under the dress. And god, he looked at you as if he'd noticed, his pinky brushing the silk fabric of your clothes, his breath crashing between your legs, and your thighs almost twitched.

It wasn’t in the script.

But he didn’t go far, just enough, just inside the line. Was he being professional? Or was he holding himself back?

You didn’t stop him. His head dipped, lips close to your skin now, his breath hit your inner thigh, and you nearly lost it.

He was testing you. You raised one hand and brushed your fingers along the line of his jaw, light, teasing.

“You’re supposed to look like you’re worshipping me,” you whispered low, just for him.

“I am,” he murmured, voice rough, eyes never leaving yours. “You just don’t realize yet.”

Oh.

Your breath caught, but you turned it into a sigh, letting your head tilt back, you closed your eyes for just a second. When you opened them, he was closer. One hand pressed just above your knee now, thumb rubbing slow, lazy circles into your skin. The camera was still rolling. Nobody stopped you, nobody noticed. But he knew exactly what he was doing.

“You’re dangerous,” you whispered.

“So are you,” he said back. “But I’m starting to like it.”

You let your hand trail down his neck, your nails grazing lightly. He shivered, just a little.

“Cut!” the director finally called. “That’s it. That was perfect.”

The crew clapped, but Ni-ki didn’t move right away, his hand slid just a little higher, fingertips brushing the lace of your underwear, and you had to stop yourself from spreading your legs.

And then he looked up at you, mouth right at the edge of your thigh, and said:

“Tell me when I go too far.”

You swallowed, then, very quietly, you whispered:

“You haven’t yet.”

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

You hadn’t stopped thinking about him, not for one goddamn second.

It was like your body hadn’t left the set even after the cameras stopped rolling, the velvet, the heat of his hands, the way he whispered things no one else could hear. You were back in your hotel room, alone, trying to move on, but your fingers still remembered the curve of his jaw.

This was weird for you, you'd always been so professional, your work and your career meant everything to you, you were used to work with gorgeous people, gorgeous men. No one like him, though. Everytime your mind wandered and remembered the look in his eyes, you felt it, it was like your whole body knew, how much you wanted him.

And he wanted you too, you knew that. It didn't matter how good he was at his job, he wasn't even an actor. The look in his eyes was real, the heat, the fire. The music video wrapped three days ago, the press was already talking, chemistry, sparks, rumors. You were supposed to be ignoring it, letting it die out, being above it all.

You sighed as you stared at the ceiling, the night quiet, it was only you and these unholy thoughts. Then your eyes landed on the mini-bar, a full, brand new bottle of Amelia Chardonnay looking straight at you, like trying to tempt you.

Your hands reached for your phone before you could even stop yourself. Then you clicked on his name, and stared at the last exchange of messages. Casual thank yous, post-shoot “you did amazings.” All polite, all surface.

Then you typed:

hey do you wanna celebrate tonight?

You stared at it. Deleted it. Typed again.

just me, nothing big i have a bottle of wine in my room no pressure :)

The seconds stretched.

You told yourself it was fine. If he said no, you’d move on. No harm done. You’d drink the wine yourself and call it a night.

Your phone buzzed.

what room number?

Your breath caught.

He was coming.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

You changed outfits twice. Ended up in a silk slip dress that felt just casual enough to pass, but it was short, and soft, and clung in places you knew would betray you if the night went sideways. Heart was racing in your chest, you were feeling like a teenager about to see her crush for the first date, and you slapped yourself mentally. You were a powerful, famous, millionare pop star, who everybody adored, you were a sex symbol, a bombshell.

And yet, your knees weakened when the door knocked.

You had to recompose yourself before opening, stared at yourself through the mirror, hair down, looking casual, no make up on, you didn't want to look like you were trying too hard, but you also wanted to look good for him, to see if it was real, if he truly was holding himself back.

Your hand reached the door, and you opened.

Ni-ki, in all black, a hoodie half-zipped, chain peeking out from underneath, eyes locked on yours like he’d been thinking about this for days too. His hair was slightly damp, like he’d just showered. He looked so good, and your chest tightened, your mind going circles at his damn smell. Manly, strong, elegant.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, hands in his pockets.

“Come in,” you said, stepping back, trying not to think about how clean your room suddenly looked. How the dim lamp made everything feel more intimate.

He walked in, looking around. “Nice view.”

You grabbed the bottle of wine from the counter. “It’s overpriced. But it works.”

He smirked, pulling off his hoodie and tossing it onto a chair. Underneath, a fitted black tee clung to his chest. Arms long, veins popping under his skin.

You swallowed and handed him a glass.

“To... successful collaborations?” you offered.

He clinked his glass with yours, smirk in his thick lips, a little low chuckle leaving his throat, then he took a sip from his glass, and his eyes wandered, slow, intentional, over your body, there was no way to hide it now.

The night went away, and you both had your second glass before the conversation started drifting. At first, it was surface-level: tour schedules, brand campaigns, a horror story about a malfunctioning fog machine mid-shoot. But the wine was working fast. Not enough to slur. Just enough to slow the world down, to take the edge off your restraint.

You leaned back on the couch, leg curled under you, facing him.

“Do you ever wish you’d picked something else?”

Ni-ki blinked at the question. “Like… not modeling?”

“Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re good. Stupid good. But do you like it?”

He tilted his head, swirling the dark red liquid in his glass. “Sometimes. Not always.”

You waited.

“There’s something lonely about it,” he admitted. “People see the pictures, but they don’t know you. They just… project onto you.”

You hummed. “Yeah. Pop music isn’t that different.”

Ni-ki glanced sideways at you. “Except you write your own songs. That’s real. Vulnerable.”

You sipped. “It can be. But sometimes I wonder if anyone hears what I’m actually trying to say. Or if they just hear the beat and move on.”

“Isn’t that what art is though?” he asked. “Hiding in plain sight?”

That made you laugh, a soft, surprised sound. “Okay, philosopher Riki.”

He grinned. “Shut up.”

“No, really. I didn’t think you were this deep.”

“You didn’t think I was anything,” he said, and something flickered behind his eyes. “Before the shoot.”

You hesitated. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but you couldn’t, he wasn’t wrong.

“I thought you were gonna be arrogant,” you admitted. “A pain in the ass. And okay, you kind of are.”

He smirked.

“But then you surprised me.”

His smile faded, he tilted his head, his eyes were already lazy, because of the alcohol in his system. “How?”

You looked at him, really looked. His hair was a little messier than before, cheeks slightly red from the wine, lips wet because he kept running his tongue over them. He was so handsome, so effortlessly tempting.

“At first I thought you were just good at pretending. The way you got so close to me, like it was nothing. But then… you kept listening. You never broke character, but your eyes? They didn’t lie.”

Ni-ki’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, and your eyes followed the movement.

The silence after that was heavier. Not awkward, just pulsing, charged, like the air had thickened between you and was now buzzing with every unsaid thing. You both reached for your glasses at the same time, your fingers brushed. And neither of you moved away.

“You keep doing that,” you whispered.

He raised an eyebrow. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

You exhaled. “Like you’re going to ruin me.”

He stared for a beat. Then, so softly you almost missed it, he said: “Maybe I will.”

Your breath caught.

He set his glass down slowly, deliberately. And then leaned in, not all the way, not enough to touch.

“You invited me here,” he said, voice low, eyes flicking to your lips. “Did you think we were just gonna talk about work and drink wine?”

“I didn’t...” Your voice cracked. “I didn’t know what I wanted.”

“You do now?” he asked as if he was desperate for your answer, desperate for you.

Your pulse was loud in your ears. Your body was already answering before your mouth could, the space between you practically begged to be closed.

And then you whispered, “Yes.”

He didn’t wait.

His hand cupped your jaw, gentle but firm, and he kissed you.

Soft at first, testing, tasting. But the moment your lips parted, it shifted. You moved at the same time, like something snapped. You were suddenly straddling him, the wine long forgotten, your hands in his hair, his mouth on your throat. It was messy, hot, desperate. And yet, still controlled. His hands slid down your sides, slow, like he wanted to memorise the shape of you. You gasped when his fingers pressed into your hips, pulling you against him, and he groaned into your mouth like he’d been holding that in for days.

Ni-ki's hands then traveled down your thighs, grabbing, squeezing just a bit, not too hard, but enough to make you sigh in his mouth and unintentionally rock your hips against him, while pulling strands of his dark hair, tangling your fingers, lips crashing, tongues against each other, hot, warm, wet. Just like your underwear was now, you felt it, pooled against the thin fabric. Your dress was lifted up, showing more, the lace of your panties showing up, but you didn't care, you wanted it like this, because he kept touching you. Warm fingers ended up in your asscheeks, squeezing again, and you rubbed yourself against his crotch again, he moaned deep, hot breath colliding with yours, hard beneath his pants.

Then a knock on the door, and you separated from the kiss, breathing heavily, but he didn't stop, trailing with his soaked lips along your jawline, down to your neck, tongue licking, sucking, but not marking. His lips brushed your ear as he whispered.

"Don't answer."

You don’t even remember how you end up horizontal, just the feel of his hands under your thighs, lifting, the soft thud of your back hitting the plush hotel bed, the silk of your slip bunching under your hip, his shirt forgotten on the floor, his lips on your collarbone.

Underwear was the only thing covering you know, after he lifted your dress and helped you slip out of it, throwing it across the room like a hungry man, like he couldn't wait any longer to have you.

He stared like he’d never seen anything more devastating.

And when he leaned in again, this time with no hesitation, no restraint, you knew you were gone. You weren't the popstar. He wasn't the model. You were just you, and he was just Ni-ki, and this was the crash you both saw coming from a mile away. Your lips crashed again, messier now, hotter, you traded kisses like secrets, like confessions, like sins you both wanted to keep making. He grabbed your throat, but didn't choke, just held, not wanting to let go of your mouth, and you moaned softly, sucking his tongue as his hand now traveled between your legs, above your underwear, he touched you, slow, like teasing, your arousal soaking a spot in your panties, and he moaned against your mouth.

"Can i take this off?" he asked, voice weak, breathless, forehead against yours, his fingers rubbing slow circles in your clothed clit.

You just nodded, you couldn't talk, you just wanted him right there.

So he smirked, pecking your lips before sliding your underwear out of you, and his eyes sparkled, he bit his lip, hands on your knees so you could be spread open for him. He wasted no time, fingers between your folds as he soaked them in your arousal, glistening, thick wetness that made him inhale through his nose and hiss between his teeth, and you arched your back lightly, sensual, one of his hands squeezed your breast.

"You're soaked. Dripping." You tried to smile, but a whimper left your lips when he slid a finger in.

"You like it." a breathless chuckle came from your throat, and he smirked again, sliding a second finger, curling them inside of you, stretching you, so good.

"I love it."

Then he started thrusting them, in and out of you, fast, with skill, his palm crashing with your clit, and you moaned again, closing your eyes and letting your head fall on the pillow, your thighs twitching, but he kept you spread, not wanting to miss how his fingers disappeared inside your tight walls. His other hand kept groping your breasts, pinching your hardened nipples, and a jolt of pleasure washed you completely. He chuckled, but not making fun of you, just amused, lustful.

"You're sensitive." he bit his lip again, fingers still curling inside of you "Fierce, hot, bombshell popstar is sensitive, right here." He pinched your nipple again and you trembled, high pitch moan leaving your throat, he smiled when he felt how your pussy clenched around his digits. "Cute."

He kissed you again, tongue and spit in your mouth, and you whined when he added a third finger, your wetness now dripping between your thighs and soaking the silk bed sheets beneath your body, he reached your g-spot and teased it with the tip of his fingers, and you arched your back again, biting his lip and pulling it which made him hiss, your legs trembling when his thumb rubbed your aching clit.

Then he removed them, catching his breath, straightening on the bed, knees against the mattress, his weight heavy, his body hot. He slid out of his pants and underwear in one movement, and you looked up at him, devastated, eyes teary, shiny, full with lust and need. His length was thick, hard and veiny, dripping from his red tip, throbbing in his hand as he stroked himself just a little.

You moved before even saying anything, lifting your torso and replacing his hand with yours, rubbing your palm against his throbbing member, and he groaned low, placing a hand on your head, softly, gentle, but it made you shiver anyways. Then you licked, long, slow, wet, from the base to the dripping tip, and he hissed louder, now pulling your hair just a bit, thrusting his hips forward to meet with your mouth. Your lips wrapped around him, and you relaxed your jaw, taking him deep, until he touched the back of your throat and you had to suppress a gag, eyes watering, vision hazy, head spinning, the room hot around you.

"S-Shit." Ni-ki groaned, letting his head fall backwards, his adams apple moving up and down as he breathed hard, and you bobbed your head, tracing with your tongue the veins on his cock, tasting him, swallowing him. You pulled back and repeated the process, until spit and tears were dripping, until he had to make you stop because he didn't want to cum yet.

Your back touched the mattress again, and he placed himself between your legs, kissing you, tasting himself in your soaked mouth, and then pushed your legs against your chest, forcing you spread open just for him. He then grabbed the base of his cock, rubbing the tip against your soaked slit, up and down, side to side, slow, and you whined at the anticipation, at the tease, your pussy pulsing, aching, needy and wet, his precum dripping against your folds.

He slid inside of you, arms above your head, heavy on you, slowly, but his gaze was sharp, dark and full of lust, and he groaned your name as he stretched you, soaked walls swallowing his length so good, so tight, and he felt so thick inside of you that you had to reach for his shoulders, eyes shut and lips parted trying to breath. His hips met yours, your pussy clenched tight around him. He stayed still for a few seconds, dropping his forehead against yours, sweaty, sticky, your nails digging against the soft skin of his shoulders. Your vision was blurry, your body completely clenched, as if it had been waiting for this too.

"I’ve thought about this since the first take,” he admitted, voice wrecked “When you climbed into my lap in that car.”

And you whimpered as his hips pulled back a little, you felt his stretch leaving your insides, your walls fluttered, clencing around nothing for a few seconds, but he pulled in again, skin against skin. You moaned breathless, your bare breasts against his chest.

"Fuck, you feel so good, baby." his breath was hot against your face, and you arched your back, hot and sweaty bodies just so close to each other.

Then he started moving, setting a rhythm that was just so perfect, not so fast, not so rough, but deep, you could feel him in every inch of you, stretching you, shaping you, your pussy clenched around him in every thrust, soaked, dripping, creating a slick sound everytime his hips crashed against the skin of your entrance. And you could only whimper, combining the sound of your weak voice with his long and low groans.

"Ni-ki..." you cried his name, lips parted, eyes sticked to his.

"I'm right here, baby." his voice was raw, he talked through his teeth, his strokes growing a little rougher.

He was stroking, not too fast, but forceful, every thrust forcing moans out of your chests, and the bed creaked beneath both of you, his rhythm perfect, hard, persistent. Ni-ki's lips found your neck again, and he dragged them along your skin.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging crescents into his skin. “You feel so good...”

“I know, baby,” he grunted again, voice breaking around the words. His hand slipped under your thigh, now lifting it higher around his waist, and suddenly he hit a spot that had your back arching off the mattress, a sharp cry ripping from your throat.“There?” he panted, smirking despite the sweat at his temple. “Right fucking there?”

You nodded frantically, too gone to speak, tears prickling in the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming heat between your legs and the maddening pace he kept. His mouth was everywhere, your shoulder, the swell of your chest, your jaw, littering kisses and bruises, like he wanted to mark you, leave proof that this happened.

“You’re so tight,” he groaned, forehead pressing to yours. “So fuckin’ perfect, taking me so well.”

His thrust were steady, perfect hips rolling over you, breaking you, wrecking your body just how you needed, his lips never leaving your skin, as if he couldn't keep them off of you, as if he was trying to devour you and never forget you.

Suddenly, something shifted.

Your hand moved to his chest, pressing just hard enough to make him pause. He blinked up at you, chest heaving, confused for half a second, until you lean in, kiss him slow and deep, and whisper against his mouth:

“My turn.”

Ni-ki didn't argue, a soft grin in the corner of his swollen, red lips. He let you push him back, his head falling against the pillows, lips parted as you swinged your leg over him and straddled his waist in one smooth, practiced motion.

“Fuck,” he breathed, hands automatically landing on your hips. “You look..."

You rolled your hips once, teasing him, wet folds against his thick hard cock, and his words dissolved into a moan. You lined yourself up again and sunk down slowly, inch by inch. His head dropped back with a curse, hands gripping your thighs so tightly they might bruise. You started slow. Rolling your hips just enough to make him twitch beneath you, your hands braced on his chest, nails dragging down his skin. He watched you like he was in a trance, eyes glued to the way you rode him, mouth open, completely undone.

“You’re so deep,” you gasped, throwing your head back. “So fucking deep.”

His hands slid up your body, one gripping your waist while the other palmed your breast, thumb circling lazily over your nipple. You leaned down, mouths meeting in a messy kiss, your movements never faltering. His abs tensed under your touch, hips bucking instinctively, trying to meet you thrust for thrust, but you pinned him down with a smirk.

And the rhythm built again, faster, sharper. The air was thick with moans, sweat, skin. Your name tumbled from his lips again and again, until his grip tightened, your breasts bouncing against his face, skins crashing, you jumping up and down on his length until your thighs felt like burning, but it felt so good, he was so deep, so thick inside of you, so meant to be. Ni-ki's hand stretched, and he circled your clit, at the pace of your bounces, and you whined his name and moved erratically, wetness dripping until his pelvis was soaked.

Your body started trembling over him, that familiar wave building fast, too fast. You slowed down for just a second, rocked into him deeper, his thumb dragging down to press right where you needed it most.

“I-I’m close,” you choked out, voice shaky.

“Then come,” he whispered, almost pleading. “Come with me.”

And then you fell.

Head thrown back, mouth open, thighs squeezing around him as your whole body convulsed from the force of it. The climax crashed through you, white-hot and blinding. You fell forward, shaking, mouth pressed to his shoulder as your body pulsed around him. He was not far behind, watching you unravel completely, eyes dark and wild, as he thrusted once, twice, then buried himself deep with a strangled moan. He let go seconds later, hips jerking, hands clawing at your back as he spilled into you with a broken groan of your name.

The world blurred.

Silence followed, heavy and satisfied.

You stayed on top of him, both of you breathless, sweaty, clinging like the high might never fade. And then, quietly, he whispered, voice hoarse:

“I don’t think I can ever look at you the same way again.”

You smirked against his skin. “Good.”

thank you so much for reading <3 i hope you enjoyed this and you understand my vision damn i love addison rae so much she’s so iconic to me

anyways, i really like this one <3

hope you guys love it !!