written for the heart’s mailroom event ! ༊
⌗ in which . . . you and your drinking buddy, sim jaeyun, have spent months ignoring the tension between you, but one frat party makes something in jake finally snap
流星 ໑ . . fratboy!jake ⋆ fem!reader
⌗ includes . . . smut (18+), alcohol consumption, frat party chaos, mutual yearning so intense it’s actually embarrassing, strong language, jealousy, possessive behavior, drunken confessions, both reader & jake are intoxicated, loss of virginity, inexperienced sex, unprotected sex (don't), fingering, oral (m. receiving), face fucking, nipple play, dry humping, praise kink, slight dirty talk, hickeys, emotional sex, pull out, cumshot ➜ intended for mature audiences | minors do not interact ♡ purely a work of fiction, none of this reflects reality | wc: 4.0k
⟶ featuring ⋮ jihyo (twice) ₊ mingyu (seventeen)
♪ el’s bubble: smut to kick off the event, how wonderful! literally sprinted to my laptop after seeing a fratboy jake x tumblr girls edit on tiktok and this was the result 😭 thank you very much, anon, for the request, this was so fun to write ! enjoy — likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply appreciated on here ♡ requests are open if you want to see me write something specific ۫ ׅ
now playing . . . guilty as sin? by taylor swift
The bass thrums through the soles of your sneakers, a rhythmic heartbeat that vibrates in your teeth and rattles the cheap frames of the windows.
The air in the house is a thick, humid soup of spilled Natty Light, overly sweet vape clouds, and the metallic tang of too many bodies pressed into a space designed for four people, not forty.
You lean against the peeling wallpaper of the hallway, your shoulder brushing against a stranger who smells like citrus cologne and desperation, but your eyes are locked on Jake.
He is in his element, centered in a circle of guys in oversized jerseys and girls with glitter on their cheeks.
His backwards cap is tilted slightly, a few stray dark hairs poking out from the brim. He's laughing so damn loud, the kind of loud, booming sound that always seems to carve out a space just for him, but his gaze flickers to you every few seconds.
It's a magnetic pull, really, a tether that has been tightening for months.
You take a long pull from your red solo cup, the lukewarm beer tasting like tin.
You catch his eye, and for a split second, the frat-boy mask slips. The confidence vanishes, replaced by a raw, hungry sort of longing that makes your chest do a somersault. Then, a girl in a tiny navy blue dress leans into him, her hand sliding up his chest, and the mask snaps back into place.
He grins at her, but he doesn't move closer. He stays rooted, his eyes still searching for yours across the crowded room.
"You're doing it again," a voice shouts in your ear.
You blink and look at Jihyo, who is grinning mischievously, her eyes darting between you and Jake.
"Doing what?"
"The longing look. The 'I want to rip his clothes off' stare. Just go over there and kill him already, you pussy."
You scoff and roll your eyes, but the heat in your cheeks isn't just from the alcohol.
"We're just friends, Jihyo."
"Uh-huh, and you're still a virgin," she cackles, disappearing back into the fray.
You try to ignore the tightness in your chest, but the party seems to shrink around you. Every time you move, you feel him tracking you.
When you go to the kitchen to refill your drink, he is suddenly there, blocking the path to the fridge.
He literally smells like laundry detergent and beer, a scent that has become your favorite thing in the world.
"You're avoiding me," Jake says. His voice is a low rumble, slightly slurred but still carrying that effortless edge.
"I'm not avoiding you. I'm hydrating right now, see?"
He chuckles, stepping closer. The space between you vanishes, and you can feel the warmth radiating off his body. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against your forearm. His hands are always warm, a constant heat that seems to sear through your skin.
"Liars get punished," he teases, his grin widening, though his eyes are scanning your face with an intensity that feels like a touch.
What the actual hell, you think. How many cans of beer has this bitch downed already?
Before you can respond, a guy from the rowing team, some blond specimen named Mingyu, slides in beside you. He puts a hand on the small of your back, leaning in close enough that you can smell the mint on his breath.
"Hey, I haven't seen you here before," Mingyu says, his voice a smooth, practiced drawl. "I'm Mingyu. Kim Mingyu."
You start to offer a polite smile, but you feel Jake stiffen beside you. The air shifts instantly. The playful energy vanishes, replaced by a sudden, sharp tension.
Jake doesn't say a word, but he shifts his weight, stepping into Mingyu's space and effectively cutting him off. He doesn't push him, but the sheer physicality of his presence is a warning.
"Calm your dick down buddy, she's with me," Jake says.
It isn't a question or a suggestion. It lands like a claim.
Mingyu blinks, looking from Jake's hard expression back to you. He raises his hands in a gesture of surrender and slides away into the crowd without another word.
You stare at Jake, your heart hammering against your ribs.
"Since when am I 'with you'?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper over the blaring music.
Jake doesn't look at you. His eyes stay fixed on spot where Mingyu had been standing, his jaw tight.
"Since I decided I didn't like the way he was looking at you," he mutters.
He reaches out and grabs your wrist, his grip firm but not painful. He doesn't explain. He just pulls you away from the kitchen, navigating the sea of bodies with a focused determination.
“Hey, Jake,” you start, stumbling slightly as you follow him. “Where the fuck are you—”
“Just come with me,” Jake says over his shoulder, tone flat, leaving no room for argument.
You follow him, the world blurring into a smudge of neon lights and shouting voices. He leads you up the narrow staircase, the noise of the party beginning to muffle as you reach the second floor.
“You’re not answering me,” you mutter, trying to catch your breath.
“Am I obligated to? I don’t think so,” he says simply.
The hallway upstairs is dimmer, the air cooler. A few people are passed out on the oversized beanbags in the lounge, but otherwise, it is quiet. Jake stops in front of a door with a faded sports poster taped to it. He pushes it open and pulls you inside, clicking the lock shut behind him.
The silence of the room hits you like a physical weight. The bass is still there, a distant, rhythmic thudding from downstairs, but it feels like you've stepped into another dimension. The room smells of old gym socks and expensive cologne. A few empty beer cans sit on the nightstand next to a cluttered desk.
“Seriously,” you say at last, turning to him. “What is this? Are you kidnapping me now?”
Jake finally looks at you then. Slow. Unbothered.
“If I was kidnapping you,” he says, voice lower now, “you wouldn’t still be talking.”
Jake lets go of your wrist and leans back against the door, his chest heaving. He looks at you, and the confidence is gone.
He looks absolutely terrified.
"My god, what even is this about, Jake?" you ask, your voice trembling. "You can't just drag me up here because you're feeling territorial."
"I'm not," he lies, though his eyes are wide and frantic. "I just... I needed to… you know, talk to you. Away from everyone. Away from whatever tornado is stirring downstairs."
"Talk about what?"
He takes a step toward you, his movements clumsy. He reaches up and rips the backwards cap off his head, tossing it onto the bed.
"About how I can't fucking stand it," he says, his voice cracking.
"Stand what?"
"This! This thing we do!" He throws his arms up, his voice rising. "The movie nights where we're sitting so close I can feel your breath on my neck. The way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention. The way I spend every single fucking party wondering who the hell is talking to you and why they're touching you."
You stand frozen, your breath catching in your throat.
Your thoughts don’t quite line up, like they’re slipping through your fingers before you can grab any of them properly. The beer doesn’t help either; everything is a little too soft at the edges, a little too loud in your chest.
"You... you feel that too?"
Jake lets out a harsh, jagged laugh. He closes the distance between you in two long strides, pinning you against the wall. He doesn't touch you with his hands, but his body is a warm wall pressing against yours.
"Feel it? I'm dying over here. I've wanted to do this for six months."
"Do what?"
He doesn't answer with words. He crashes his lips against yours, and it is not a gentle kiss. It is a collision, to say the least.
The kiss is messy, desperate, tasting faintly of beer and everything he hasn’t said out loud until now.
You groan into his mouth, your hands flying up to clutch at the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as if you could merge your bodies into one.
He tastes like a fever dream. His tongue slides against yours, searching, demanding, pushing deep into your mouth with a hunger that leaves you breathless. You can feel the heat of him everywhere, the press of his thighs against yours, the hard line of his chest against your breasts. He makes a low, guttural sound in the back of his throat, a sound of pure frustration and relief.
Then, as suddenly as he started rough, he softens. His hands come up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, gentle and reverent. The kiss slows, becomes tender, exploratory. He tilts your head, licking into your mouth like he's memorizing the shape of you, the taste of you.
"God, you have no idea," he whispers against your lips, his breath hot and erratic, his forehead resting against yours. "No fucking idea how much I've wanted this."
He breaks the kiss just long enough to bury his face in the crook of your neck. His lips press soft, open-mouthed kisses along your pulse point.
Then his teeth graze your skin, a gentle scrape that makes you shiver. He sucks a bruise into the curve of your throat, his tongue soothing the spot after, and you arch your back, a moan escaping your lips.
"Jake," you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders.
"I've got you," he whispers, his voice thick. "I've finally got you."
He lifts you up, and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, the denim of your skort grinding against the rough fabric of his jeans. He carries you the few steps to the bed, but instead of dropping you, he lowers you slowly, carefully, onto the tangled sheets. The mattress groans under your combined weight. He follows you down immediately, his weight a welcome pressure that pins you into the cheap polyester comforter.
But his hands are slow, deliberate, as he pushes a strand of hair from your face. His eyes search yours in the dim light from the window.
"You're shaking," he observes, his voice soft.
"I'm nervous, dummy," you admit, a flush creeping up your neck. Your thoughts feel slightly delayed, like they’re catching up to everything that just happened. "I’ve never… I mean, this is my first time,” you say, swallowing hard.
“I’m a virgin, Jake. You know that, right?”
His eyes widen slightly, and you see a flicker of something, surprise or maybe tenderness, cross his face. He kisses your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose.
“Man, me too,” he whispers, and there’s a vulnerability in his voice you’ve never heard before. “I’ve never done this either. Not really. Not like this.”
“So we’re both just clueless drunks,” you say, a nervous laugh slipping out before you can stop it.
He grins, crooked, boyish, softer than before, and it makes something in your stomach flip.
“The best way to be,” he says.
He leans down and kisses you again, slower this time, more deliberate. His tongue slides against yours, still tasting of beer and something sweet. His hands wander down your sides, tracing the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips. He takes his time, like he's mapping every inch of you through the fabric of your clothes.
Then he breaks the kiss and sits up, looking down at you. His fingers find the buttons of your blouse. He fumbles with the first one, his drunk fingers sliding off the plastic twice before he gets it undone. You laugh, a breathless, giddy sound, and reach up to help him.
"I’m sorry," he mutters, a flush spreading across his cheeks. "I'm a little buzzed."
"It's okay," you say, your voice soft. "We've got time."
He gets the rest of the buttons undone, pushing the fabric aside to reveal your bra. His breath catches. He runs his thumb over the lace edge, tracing the curve of your breast.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're so beautiful."
He leans down and presses a kiss to the swell of your breast, just above the bra cup. Then he hooks his fingers under the strap, pulling it down your shoulder. He does the same with the other side, and you reach behind to unhook the clasp, letting it fall away.
He looks at you, his eyes dark and hungry, but his hands are gentle as he cups your breasts. His thumbs brush over your nipples, which have peaked into hard points from the cold air and the heat of his gaze. He watches his own hands, transfixed, as he traces the curves.
"Can I...?" he asks, his voice hesitant, his eyes meeting yours.
You nod, and he leans down, taking one nipple into his mouth. He's careful at first, licking around the areola in slow, deliberate circles, his tongue flicking the tip. You gasp, your back arching, your hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. He takes it deeper, sucking gently, then harder, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak.
"Shit," you moan, your hips rocking instinctively.
He switches to the other breast, giving it the same slow, worshipful attention. His hand kneads the one he just abandoned, palming the soft weight, squeezing just enough to make you moan. The wet sounds of his mouth on your skin fill the quiet room, mixed with your soft cries.
When he pulls back, your nipples are glistening, stiff, and pebbled from his attention. He traces a finger down your sternum, over your stomach, stopping at the waistband of your skort.
"Can I take these off?" he asks, his voice low, almost shy.
"Yes," you whisper. “Please do.”
He unbuttons your skort, his fingers fumbling with the zipper. He tugs them down in one rough motion. The cold air hits your exposed skin, and you shiver, watching him as he sits back on his heels, his eyes fixed on the damp spot darkening the fabric of your undergarment.
"God," he breathes, his gaze raking over your body. "You're so fucking pretty."
He doesn't dive down to taste you.
Instead, he lowers himself over you, his body pressing against yours, the rough denim of his jeans grinding against your bare thighs. The friction is electric, the seam of his pants rubbing against your clit through the thin cotton of your panties. He rocks his hips, a slow, deliberate grind, and you feel the hard line of his cock pressing against your center through the layers.
"Fuck," he mutters against your neck, his breath hot and uneven. "Just wanna feel you for a second."
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and he groans, his hips picking up a steady rhythm. The dry humping is maddening, the pressure, the heat, the way he grinds against you like he can't get close enough. His hands slide down to grip your ass, squeezing, pulling you tighter against him.
But then he stops. He pulls back, his chest heaving, and looks down at where your bodies meet. His fingers find the waistband of your panties, and he pushes them aside, exposing your slick, glistening folds.
"God, you're so fucking wet," he says, his voice thick with want. "Is this all for me, pretty?"
"Hell yes," you whisper, your voice barely audible.
He slides a finger through your folds, gathering your wetness, and then he pushes it inside you, slowly and deliberately, watching your face as your lips part and your eyes flutter.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're so tight."
He adds a second finger, stretching you, and you gasp, your hips bucking against his hand. He curls them, pressing against that rough spot inside you, and you cry out.
"Tell me you want this," he says, his voice low, firm. "I need to hear you say it."
"I want this," you say, your voice breaking. "I want you, Jake."
He doesn't let up. He starts pumping his fingers faster, harder, the wet squelch of your arousal filling the room. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles, and you arch off the bed, your hands fisting the sheets.
"Yeah? You want me to fuck you with my fingers?" he asks, his voice a low growl. "Tell me what you want me to do to you."
"I want—" you start, but the words get lost in a moan as he curls his fingers again.
"What do you want?" He presses, his thumb grinding against your clit. "Say it."
"I want you inside me," you gasp. "I want to feel your cock so, so bad."
He groans, his fingers plunging deeper, faster, a relentless rhythm that has you climbing higher, your thighs trembling around his hand.
"You want me to fuck that tight little pussy?" he asks, his voice rough. "Make you feel good?"
"Yes," you moan. "Please, Jake."
"I want to hear you say it again," he says, his fingers never stopping. "Tell me what you want me to do."
"I want you to fuck me," you cry out, your voice desperate. "I want your cock inside me. Please."
"That's it," he murmurs, his fingers curling, pressing, pushing you over the edge.
Your orgasm crashes through you, sudden and sharp, your pussy clenching around his fingers. You cry out, your back arching, and he keeps pumping, working you through it, his thumb still circling your clit until you're a trembling mess beneath him.
He pulls his fingers out slowly, and you whimper at the loss. But he doesn't give you time to recover. He grabs your hips, flipping you onto your stomach, and you hear the rustle of his belt buckle, the unzipping of his jeans.
He straddles your thighs, his knees on either side of your head, and you feel the head of his cock brush against your lips. He's thick, hard, the tip slick with precum.
"Open your mouth," he says, his voice low, commanding but not harsh.
You obey, and he guides himself inside, not all the way, just the head past your lips. You taste the salt of his precum, the warmth of his skin.
"Take it," he says, and he pushes deeper, filling your mouth, not stopping until the head hits the back of your throat.
You gag, your eyes watering, but he holds there for a moment, letting you adjust. His hand comes to rest on the back of your head, gentle but firm.
"I know," he murmurs. "I know. Just breathe through your nose."
He starts to move, slow thrusts, shallow, finding a rhythm that doesn't choke you. His cock slides over your tongue, the taste of him spreading across your palate. The room is quiet except for the wet sounds of his movements and your muffled moans.
"That's it," he breathes. "That's so fucking good. Your mouth is so warm."
He picks up the pace, his thrusts deeper now, his hips meeting your face with a wet slap. You take him as best you can, your hands gripping his thighs, your jaw aching, but the sound of his groans, the way his fingers thread through your hair, makes it worth it.
"Fuck, I'm close," he warns, but he pulls out before he can come, a string of saliva connecting his tip to your lips.
He flips you onto your back, positioning himself between your legs. He looks down at you, his cock slick and glistening, his chest heaving.
"Now," he says, his voice soft again, almost tender. "I want to feel you."
He guides himself to your entrance, the head pressing against you, just barely. He looks into your eyes.
"Tell me if it's too much," he says.
You nod, and he pushes in, slow, agonizingly slow, inch by inch. The stretch burns, a fullness that makes your eyes water. You gasp, your hands gripping his shoulders.
"Okay?" he asks, his forehead beaded with sweat.
"Just... give me a second," you manage.
He stops, buried halfway, and presses soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, murmuring quiet reassurances.
"Take your time. I've got you."
When the burning fades, replaced by a deep, aching fullness, you nod. He pushes the rest of the way in, a slow, heavy slide that fills you completely. You both let out a synchronized moan as he bottoms out, his hips flush against yours.
"Fuck," he whispers, his eyes wide. "You feel so tight. So wet."
He starts to move, slow and deep thrusts, his hips rolling against yours. The pace is languid, almost lazy, each stroke burying him to the hilt. He watches your face, your parted lips, your fluttering eyes.
"Look at me," he says softly.
You meet his gaze, and he thrusts deeper, a slow grind that hits somewhere deep inside you.
"Like this," he murmurs. "Nice and slow. I want to feel every inch of you."
The room is filled with the wet sounds of your bodies meeting, the creak of the bed frame, your soft moans mixing with his heavy breaths. The bass from downstairs is a distant thrum, barely audible over the sound of your heartbeat in your ears.
He keeps the pace slow, deliberate, each thrust a measured, deep invasion. His hand slides down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing slow circles in time with his movements.
"You feel that?" he asks, his voice low. "Feel how deep I am?"
"Yes. God, yes, I do," you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders.
He speeds up just slightly, his thrusts still deep but with more urgency. The wet slap of his hips against yours fills the room, obscene and rhythmic.
"I'm close," he warns, his voice strained. "Where do you want it?"
"In me, please," you breathe, the words tumbling out before you think.
But he shakes his head, a soft, drunken smile on his lips.
"Not this time," he says. "First time. I'm pulling out."
He picks up the pace, his hips slapping against yours, his breathing ragged. You feel the pressure building, your own climax coiling tight in your belly.
"Come for me," he says, his voice a low command. "I want to feel you come around me."
His thumb presses harder on your clit, and that's all it takes. You shatter, your pussy clenching around him, a cry ripping from your throat. He groans, pulling out in one swift motion, and you feel the hot, thick pulses of his seed spilling across your stomach, your chest, the warmth spreading over your skin.
He collapses beside you, his chest heaving, his eyes closed. For a long moment, neither of you moves. The room smells of sex and sweat, his cum cooling on your skin.
He finally opens his eyes, turning his head to look at you. A lazy, drunken grin spreads across his face.
"Holy shit," he breathes.
You laugh, a tired, giddy sound. "Yeah."
He reaches out, his fingers tracing a line through the cum on your stomach, smearing it across your skin.
"That was... I don't even have words," he says.
He props himself up on an elbow, looking down at you. His eyes are soft, hazy.
"I love you," he says, the words slurred but heartfelt. "I've loved you for so fucking long."
You reach up and cup his cheek, feeling the stubble on his jaw.
"I love you too, you idiot," you whisper.
He leans down and kisses you, slow and sweet, his tongue sliding lazily against yours. When he pulls back, his eyes are already drooping.
"Tomorrow's going to be awkward," he mumbles.
"Probably," you agree.
"We should shower. And maybe burn these sheets."
You laugh softly. "Definitely."
But neither of you moves. He settles beside you, pulling you into his arms, tucking your head under his chin. His hand rests on your stomach, his fingers tracing lazy patterns through the cooling cum on your skin.
"Best fucking party ever," he whispers.
You smile, your eyes drifting closed.
"Best fucking night ever."
⭐ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
tags: @simsimluver @maishee @grdientlips @psychicdazestrawberry @kristynaaah @heesroses @vmpiricou @seungiesdoll @malibluess @stwryun @hooniluhv @rikisn @hazeheart12 @exclipszz @melancholatte @bluepains @gojopolo @jasmineeee1009 @ming1luvr @ni-k1ttie @enzsstuff01 @ixnotmee @emvss @simjaeyunslut | send an ask if you’d like to be added ˙𐃷˙
A reminder to never let the shadows consume your thoughts
idolbf!riki x fem!reader • wc: 1.4k • slight angst
The car ride today made you slightly dizzy and overwhelmed. Not because of the usual motion sickness, but something else had been weighing you down. The city always looked different from the inside of a car with the night-blurred lights, passing shadows, a hum that settles into your bones. But today it had a different effect. Riki's hand was warm in yours, thumb drawing slow circles against your skin like he always did when he was tired but pretending he wasn't. He hated driving yet he always insisted on driving you, even though you always offer to catch a taxi. The radio is low, bass-heavy, the kind of song that sounds like secrets whispered in the wind. You watched the reflections on the window instead of his face, because looking at him too long still felt unreal, even after all these years.
To the world, Nishimura Riki was untouchable. An idol with undeniable charm, dance prodigy and performance genius. On stage, under the bright lights, he was adored by millions who chanted his name like a prayer. To you, he was the boy who always checked the weather before you left the house, who texted you reminders to eat, who pressed his forehead to yours when words got too heavy. Gentle. Soft. Always worried about you even when he himself was breaking down.
And that's exactly why it hurt.
You've loved him quietly, fiercely, for years. Because how could you not? While to the world he was a strong and unshakable character, to you he was the most attentive boyfriend that remembered every small thing about you, always brought the snacks you loved and fought his manager to get a day off to come and take care of you when you caught a cold.
But, alas, love couldn't stop the doubt from crawling into your chest when the flash of the cameras was forever blinding. A ping in your chest when you came across a video of a talented woman dancing to one of his songs. A random comment about how he deserves the most beautiful and talented woman. And he does. He deserves the best. Sometimes, lying awake beside him while he sleeps, you wondered if you’re that “best” he deserves. Or if you could ever reach there. Hours pass, wondering how someone so luminous could choose someone so ordinary. You didn't sing on stages or trend on social media. You’re the last person who can call herself anyone exceptional. You’re just… you. You didn't belong to a world that devours and worships at the same time. The world where Riki thrives.
Tonight, the weight finally crushed your chest at the worst moment.
“I think you deserve someone better.” The sentence broke loose from your lips before you could stop. Riki's thumb stilled.
“What?” He turned to you, brows knit together, confusion and concern swimming in his eyes. He pulled the car over without hesitation, hazard lights blinking like a warning. “Where did that come from?”
A hard swallow hurt your throat. The words felt scratchy, like a cactus stuck in your throat, but once they're out, they won't stop. The dam broke and stopping it was meaningless.
“You’re so extraordinary… And I’m just… me. Everyone loves you. Everyone wants you. And I…” You laughed weakly, suddenly sounding childish even to yourself. “I feel like I'm standing in the way of something bigger. Of someone who could actually match you.”
Silence stretched between you, thick and uncomfortable. The cars whooshed by providing a distracting noise. You braced yourself for anger, or worse – agreement. Instead, Riki exhaled slowly, leaning back in his seat, fingers drumming on the wheel.
“Is that what you really think?” The slow words seeped out of his lips, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. You nodded, eyes burning with tears.
“Sometimes I feel like I'm hiding in the shadows while you're up on a stage. Like I don't belong in your light.” The truth hurt your chest, but letting it out felt like a taste of freedom you long forgot. He turned fully toward you then, the muscle in his jaw ticking, eyes darker than you’re used to.
“You know what the shadows are for?” The question came out so quiet, you could almost miss it. “They're there to hide when the lights get too bright.” You looked at him, startled. “I spend my life performing,” he continued, voice almost breaking. “Smiling, being perfect, being what people want me to be and answering rehearsed interview questions. And yet every second of this performance all I want is to come back to you, because that is the only place that I don't have to be any of that. You won’t be disappointed in the real me, no matter what you see. Even if it is the holes in my socks after I take my shoes off.” You laughed at the memory of the first time you invited him over and he actually did have a hole in his sock. He smiled, not a happy smile as much as a content one. A confident smile. “You're not hiding in my shadow. You're the only reason I don’t get lost in the brightness of the lights.”
Tears spilled before you could stop them. Hearing these words made you realise just how different your perspective was on the importance of this relationship. You were spiraling in anxiety, thinking you were dragging him down all the while you were his safety buoy. The only reason he hasn’t drowned.
“But what about the fans? The people who think they know you? What if they hate me?” Riki's jaw tightened at the reminder, oncoming car’s headlights illuminating his serious expression.
“Let them think whatever they want. They will never know me anyway, but I'm tired of hiding you like something shameful.” He reached for your face, wiping your tears with careful thumbs. “I love you. And I don't want to pretend anymore.”
You don't realize what he means until days later.
The announcement dropped like thunder.
A simple handwritten post. A confirmation. No secrets, no denial. Just the truth: Ni-ki is dating someone he loves.
You sst on the couch, heart pounding, phone shaking in your hands as you heard the shower start running in the bathroom. Riki just came home from a meeting at work. It all clicked in place in a matter of seconds and now you were looking at the reactions. You didn’t want to at first, but your eyes betrayed you. You expected cruelty. You expected rejection. But instead, you saw words you never imagined reading.
“She’s the luckiest girl ever!”
“He looked happier recently! I knew it!”
“Ah, I’m so jealous she must be really cool!!”
You reread them until the letters blur and didn't even notice the shower stopping. It felt like the world has tilted, revealing something kinder. Something so shocking, you couldn’t stomach just yet.
Riki found you there, staring at your phone in disbelief.
“Hey,” he murmured, sitting beside you, toweling off his hair. “You okay?”
You laughed through the tears, shoving the phone toward him. “They don’t hate me. Well, some want to be me, which is more creepy than not, but I can live with that.”
He smiled softly. “I told you.” You turned to him fully, the weight you’ve carried for so long finally lifting.
“I spent so much time thinking you were too good for me. And I still think you are,” He was about to disagree but you stopped him with a finger on his lips. “But that is precisely why I will try to get better so I deserve to have the best boyfriend ever.” He laughed, shoulders shaking and pulled you into his arms, holding you like you’re the most precious thing he had ever had.
“You never had to earn your place with me,” he whispered into your hair. “There was always a you-shaped space in my heart and you easily slotted in.”
Later, the city hummed outside again, but this time you didn't hide from it. You stood with him on the balcony, lights flickering below like stars in the distance. The night felt dark, intimate, wrapped around the two of you like a secret – but not a lonely one. Not heavy like it used to be.
You leaned into Riki’s side, fingers laced together, no fear this time. Just certainty.
In the quiet between heartbeats, you finally understood: love isn’t about deserving. It’s about choosing. And every time, without hesitation, you chose each other.
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