Beyond My Dreams || 18+
The beauty of her face was beyond my wildest dreams.
Pairing: bf!Jo x fem!reader
Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI, p in v, virginity loss (f), fingering, oral (f receiving), making out, soft dom Jo, sub!reader, shit ton of romance because i am sappy rn, mention of food, me being awkward as fuck with dialouge
A/N: ok this took so long to complete IZZY GOMENESAI. Yeah assume that the hands paragraph i wrote specially for you because i lob you mmwah mmwah. bro i need jo to kiss the crown of my head jebal jebal like i love him ok thats my baby he's so soft love coded. As always, enjoy, my darlings!
Word Count: 11.2K (romaaanceee)
Love is an art.
Love is the ballerina gliding across a stage no matter how worn out her feet are. It is the slash of yellow paint across a dark landscape that somehow turns into a beautiful mountain, when manipulated by the painter’s brush. It is the creator of the universe, weaving their fabric of time and space, proud of their complex, confusing creations that they call ‘humans’.
Love as a form of art can also be seen in the mundane. The sweet kiss of a mother on her child’s cheek on the first day of school, the admiration of the steam of a coffee by a burnt out teenager, the way a lover looks up at the night sky so full of stars and constellations and thinks their beloved is still more beautiful.
To Jo, love had always been you.
You with those pretty eyes, that starry soul and that beatific heart that he wanted to open the cage to and settle himself in, all comfortable with a blanket and hot chocolate. You with that laugh that made him want to live a bit more, to appreciate the way the wind moved the leaves of a tangerine laden tree and to admire the beauty of life.
The beauty of you, the essence of his life, his soul, the very blood that ran through his veins.
Love is an art, and you were his muse.
“The canvas is down there, mister.” You laughed, flicking at his forehead.
It wasn't unusual to find your lover staring at your face, like a scientist staring at her new discovery—eyes full of awe and love. You weren’t complaining though. You were highly grateful to call Jo yours.
“But my muse is up here.” He answered simply, his ears already turning red at the line. Jo sent you a sheepish smile and quickly looked down at his canvas.
The golden light of the setting sun bathed the field in a warm, amber glow, each sunflower stretching tall, their faces turned towards the horizon as if bidding farewell to the day. You and Jo sat cross-legged amidst the towering blooms, paintbrush in hand, art supplies scattered around you.
“Can I see what you’re painting, please?” You nudged him, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever he had been concentrating on for the past half hour. He looked so pretty engrossed in his canvas, brows furrowed as he brought his art to life with bold strokes of his brush.
The breeze carried the scent of wildflowers and fresh grass, ruffling your hair and the hem of your sundress and you caught his gaze properly, always so soft but now sweetly so, shaped by the tranquility of the moment, gazing at you with an intensity that made your heart flutter.
Jo hesitated; it was subtle—the way his fingers tightened around the edge of the canvas, the way his shoulders lifted just slightly. You tilted your head, smiling, your hair catching the golden light of the setting sun and for a moment Jo thought he must have gone to his heaven.
“Alright, but just—” He exhaled a quiet laugh, more nervous than amused, before finally turning the canvas towards you, “don’t laugh, hm?”
In one of the most recent art exhibitions you had attended, the hostess talked about Claude Monet—the painter known for making the movement of light across water look like a choreographed dance with just paint and colour. She went on to talk about his wife and muse Camille Doncieux, even after whose death Monet would never let the world forget about, always incorporating her into his paintings.
Artists and their muses. What a lovely poem.
“Jo…” You breathed out, after a solid minute of staring at his canvas. It was messy, imperfect, unfinished—but undeniably you. The curve of your cheek, the suggestion of your smile, the way your eyes seemed to hold light even in paint. He hadn’t even tried to hide it—his adoration of you. Your breath caught, something warm blooming in your chest as you traced your eyes over it.
“I tried to paint the field,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck, ears turning that familiar shade of red. “But you kept—” he gestured vaguely toward you, toward everything, “—being there.”
You laughed then, soft and breathless, setting your own canvas aside. “So you just gave up?”
“Mmmh. “ He hummed, glancing at you with that earnest look that always made your heart ache in the best way. “I just painted what mattered more.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The wind drifted through the sunflowers, their golden heads swaying gently around you like a quiet audience. Somewhere in the distance, a bird sang its song in praise of the sunset. The world felt slower and softer like it had paused just for the two of you.
“You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, though your smile gave you away.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling back. “But I’m your ridiculous.” His ears turned red again and he looked away, far too embarrassed by his line.
You reached over, brushing a bit of paint off his cheek with your thumb. He stilled under your touch, eyes flickering to yours, something unspoken passing between you.
“Hmm, I think I ought to pay you back for that.” You said, a playful glint in your eyes.
“Pay me back?” Your boyfriend blinked away. You pushed yourself up, scanning the field while Jo looked on.
“Where are you—?”
But you were already a few steps away, weaving through the sunflowers with surprising urgency. He watched, amused, as you carefully plucked a small cluster of tiny yellow blooms from a lower stem, cradling them in your hands. When you came back, you dropped down in front of him, a little out of breath.
“Give me your hand,” You said, which he obliged, watching you like you were performing some kind of magic.
His fingers were gentle as you worked, looping the thin stems together, twisting them carefully. Your tongue peeked out slightly in concentration, brows furrowed like this was the most important task in the world.
“What are you doing?” He asked, though he already had a feeling.
“Shh,” you murmured. “This is serious craftsmanship.”
Jo bit back a laugh. Your fingers moved quickly, looping and weaving, tying a small knot with practiced ease. It wasn’t perfect—one end stuck out slightly—but it held. When you were done, you looked up at him with a triumphant grin.
“There.” You said softly, “you showed me your love and now I’ve shown you mine." Jo stared at the flower ring and then at you, “It’s kind of bad, I know but I haven’t done this in a while so–”
“No it’s–” Jo interrupted, smiling shyly, “it’s perfect.”
He didn’t speak again for a moment, just stared at his hand, at the fragile little ring, like it was the most expensive thing in the world. For him, it was. His lips parted like he wanted to say something more, something bigger—but instead, he just laughed under his breath, shaking his head slightly.
“What is it?” You asked him, with curious eyes.
“I think I just fell in love with you again.”
You rolled your eyes, though your cheeks warmed. “Again?”
“Mhm,” he nodded seriously. “Happens a lot, actually.”
You gestured toward his hand. “Want to learn?”
He sat up straighter, suddenly very focused, like this was the most important lesson of his life. You picked up a few blades of grass and handed them to him.
Jo took the blades of grass from you, his fingers brushing against yours, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine. He studied them intently, as if trying to decipher some great mystery.
With a small smile, you began to weave, your fingers moving with a fluid grace, years of practice guiding each motion. You showed him how to loop the stems, how to tie them together, how to create a simple ring that held all the love in the world.
Jo watched you intently, his eyes following the movements of your hands, learning from your every motion. Occasionally, he tried to mimic your actions, his own fingers fumbling slightly as he navigated the delicate task. But he persisted, determined to learn, to create something as beautiful as you.
“Okay,” you said, leaning closer, your shoulder brushing his, “you have to twist them like this—no, not that tight—Jo, you’re strangling it—”
Jo huffed—a rare adorable sight—trying again, tongue peeking out in concentration. His fingers fumbled, the blades slipping loose, the knot unraveling almost immediately. You bit your lip, trying to hold in your laughter.
He tried again. And again. And somehow, it got worse. By the third attempt, what he held in his hands looked less like a ring and more like a defeated clump of green. You stared at it, then at him, then back at it and a small laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
“Hey,” he protested, though he was already smiling. “This is hard!”
“That,” you said between laughs, pointing, “is not a ring, Jo.” You snorted, “It looks like it gave up halfway through life.”
“Wow.” He gasped, clutching the sad little bundle to his chest. “No faith in me at all.”
You laughed fully now, bright and unrestrained, the sound spilling into the open air. Jo watched you, completely distracted again—your laughter was better than anything he could’ve made.
“Stop laughing,” he said, though he was grinning.
“Why, you don’t like my smile?” You tried to suppress your laughter, failing immediately as another giggle escaped.
Something in his expression shifted then—like relief, like happiness, like he didn’t quite know what to do with how much he felt.
So instead, he stood up abruptly and held out his hand. Still laughing, you took his hand, letting him pull you up to your feet. The world tilted slightly as you stood, the sun dipping lower, painting everything in deeper golds and soft oranges.
“Alright,” he said, eyes gleaming with a rare mischief. “If I can’t make a ring, I can at least do this right.”
And then he ran.
You let out a surprised laugh as he pulled you forward, your feet stumbling for a second before finding rhythm. The sunflowers brushed against your arms as you followed, your laughter blending with his, the sound light and endless.
“Jo!” you laughed, nearly stumbling as you followed, your sundress catching the breeze, your free hand brushing against the tops of the flowers.
He didn’t stop and neither did you, the two of you running through the sea of sunflowers, laughter spilling into the open air, hands clasped tight like letting go wasn’t an option. The world blurred around you—gold and green and sky—until all that existed was this moment. This feeling.
This love.
“Jo!” you called, breathless. “Where are we even going?”
“Nowhere!” he shouted back. “That’s the point!”
You ran anyway, through gold and green and the last warmth of the evening sun, your dress catching the wind, your fingers still tangled with his. The world blurred again, but this time it felt even lighter, like nothing could touch you here.
Eventually, breathless, you slowed, your steps faltering until you both came to a stop. You were still holding his hand, smiling, looking at each other like nothing else in the world made sense except this—you and him in your little world.
For a moment, all you could hear was your breathing, the soft rustle of the field and the fading song of evening. Jo glanced down at your hands at the grass ring on your finger, then at the one on his, squeezing your hand gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.
“Well,” he said, still catching his breath, “mine might be terrible…” You looked up at him. “But yours,” he added softly, “I think I’m going to keep forever.”
Your heart did that quiet, aching thing again. Jo, your sweet Jo. Whatever had you done to deserve him?
“Forever?” You tilted your head, “I thought you didn’t believe in forever.”
The wind moved gently around you, brushing through his hair, the sunflowers and the fragile little moment that seemed to stretch between your words and his answer.
“Did I?” He asked finally. You watched as his gaze dropped briefly to your joined hands, to the uneven grass rings sitting there like tiny promises.
It must have been your second or third date when he’d mentioned it. Forever wasn’t in his dictionary apparently and you hadn't questioned it, instead choosing to cheekily ask him about the mathematical aspect of infinity. Forever, for him, was something people said when they didn't know how long things would actually last.
“I think…” Jo said, his breath catching slightly when he made eye contact, “I think I want to believe in it now.” His fingers tightened gently around yours, “Because you’re here.” He chuckled softly, “And forever with you sounds really nice.”
Something in your chest softened and melted like his words had found a place they were always meant to sit.
“Have I changed you then, Jo?”
Jo didn’t answer right away, his thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles, like he was thinking through the feeling instead of the words. Then he smiled.
“I think your love changed me.” He said, eyes so warm in a way that made your chest tighten. You watched as he immediately scrunched his nose, heat rushing to his cheeks at the cringey line he’d just uttered. You laughed again and this time he let out a small laugh too, glancing up at the sky for a second like he might find the correct words written there.
“Aww Jo…” You said in between giggles.
He groaned quietly, dragging a hand down his face. “I know, I know. That was—”
“Adorable,” You interrupted.
“Embarrassing.” He corrected. You shook your head, stepping closer.
“No,” you murmured, “adorable.” He looked at you then and whatever argument he had seemed to disappear somewhere between your eyes and the way you were standing so close now.
You rose onto your tiptoes before you could overthink it. Your lips brushed just beneath his eye, soft and fleeting, like some sort of childish
Jo stilled completely. You felt it, the way his breath caught, the way his hand tightened slightly around yours. You smiled against his skin, pulling back just enough to look at him before leaning in again—this time pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of his nose. He let out the smallest, most helpless laugh.
“Wha—what are you doing?” he whispered, though he didn’t move away.
You didn’t answer; you just kept going. A kiss to his cheek, another just beside his lips, one more near his jaw, light and lingering like you were mapping him, memorizing him in the quietest way you knew how.
“Hey…” he murmured, breath uneven, his hands finding your waist like they needed somewhere to be.
But you were already leaning in again and that was when he pulled you in. His arms wrapped around you, drawing you flush against him, like he’d finally decided he’d had enough of being still, of just taking all the softness you were giving him. He had to give something back, didn’t he?
Your breath hitched, your hands instinctively coming up to rest against his chest. He hesitated for half a second just long enough to search your face, to make sure.
And then he kissed you.
Soft at first, careful—like he was still a little afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t gentle enough. But when you leaned into him, his hold on you tightened, his thumb brushing against your side as the kiss deepened.
The world around you faded again, neither wind nor sunflowers nor evening song remaining. Just him and the fairies of love dancing between you two. When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. His forehead rested lightly against yours, both of you a little breathless and a little dazed.
“I love you.” He whispered after a second, voice barely steady. You smiled softly, hands still curled into his shirt.
“I love you too.” You said, leaning in to brush your nose against his.
The sun dipped lower, painting everything in deeper hues, the last light of the evening wrapped around the two of you. Jo held you a little closer, like he already knew he wasn’t letting go anytime soon.
And somewhere between laughter, paint-stained hands, and a crooked little flower ring—
Love became as golden as a sunflower.
__________________
Your boyfriend was a tall, lean man. Your boyfriend also had very attractive hands.
Very. Attractive. Hands.
They were a study in elegant lines, long fingers, lean tendons tracing paths beneath his skin, knuckles that were just pronounced enough. There was a sort of strength in them, a capability that was utterly at odds with the gentle, hesitant way he always moved around you. He had pianist’s hands, sculptor’s hands, hands that looked like they should be doing something profoundly beautiful.
And the veins were just visible enough to make your brain short-circuit a little every time he reached for something. It was distracting, unfairly so.
You know what else your boyfriend and you were? The shyest human beings to ever exist on earth. Masters of the lingering glance hastily averted, the accidental brush of fingers that sent you both retreating into your shells for a full ten minutes.
Which is why you were currently sitting on the couch beside him, a movie playing in front of you that you had not followed for the past twenty minutes—because Jo’s hand was resting casually on his lap.
And you could not stop staring at it. It wasn’t even doing anything—just existing. Occasionally flexing when he shifted, or brushing against the fabric of the couch, or reaching for the popcorn bowl and oh.
Oh, that was worse.
You quickly looked back at the screen like you hadn’t just been caught staring at his fingers like they held the secrets of the universe. You were normal.
You were so normal.
You lasted about ten seconds before your eyes drifted back. This time, his hand was closer, resting between you both now, fingers relaxed, just within reach. Your heart started beating faster for absolutely no good reason.
You could just hold his hand.
You could also just jump into the Pacific ocean. Free will is such a funny thing. People did that all the time, it was normal and you had held his hand before. So why did this feel different?
You were so lost in your spiral and the map of veins on the back of his hand, that you didn’t notice the movie’s scene shift to a bright panorama. The light from the screen flared, washing over the couch, and in that sudden illumination, Jo turned his head.
“Are you alright?”
And then you were a criminal caught red handed or rather, utterly transfixed-by-his-hands-handed. Your eyes snapped up to meet his. A hot, profound embarrassment flooded you, and you opened your mouth to stammer an apology for staring, for being weird, for everything. When they told you about first love, you’d forgotten everything had its shameful moments.
“Yeah, I’m good!” You responded a bit too enthusiastically, not looking at him.
“You’ve been staring at my hand for a while now.”
You froze completely. Slowly, you turned your head toward him. Jo was already looking at you, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips, that soft, curious one that always sent butterflies running around in your stomach. Your face burned instantly.
“I—what—no, I wasn’t—”
“Mhm,” he hummed, not convinced in the slightest. His eyes, usually so shy and darting, held yours with a gentle intensity, a faint pink touching his cheeks.
“I was watching the movie,” you insisted weakly.
“You’re facing the wrong direction.”
You glanced at the TV. You were, in fact, not even looking at it. “…oh.”
Jo let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head a little before his expression softened again. He didn’t say anything else for a moment, just looked at you like he always did when you got flustered. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the TV and the frantic drum of your own pulse in your ears. He looked from your eyes down to his own hands, then back to you.
Slowly, so slowly it felt like time had thickened, he uncurled his fingers and turned his right hand palm-up on the cushion between you, an invitation, a question. Shall we intertwine our hands and souls?
Your breath hitched, the lead blanket of shyness melting in a warm, dissolving trickle. You slid your hand from your lap, your fingers trembling slightly, and placed it in his.
The contact was electric. His skin was warm, slightly dry, his fingers closing around yours with infinite care, as if you were something precious and rare. He let out a breath you hadn’t realized he was holding—a soft, shaky sound that mirrored your own inner turbulence.
You blinked at him, your embarrassment warring with something softer and braver. Because lying felt pointless when he was looking at you like that.
“…they’re just…” you muttered, barely audible, “nice.”
His brows lifted slightly. “Nice?”
“Your hands.” You nodded, still not fully meeting his eyes. There was a pause, then a soft, breathy laugh.
“Is that so?”
You risked a glance up at him and immediately wished you hadn’t, because now he looked even softer, a little pink at the ears.
“Yeah.” You mumbled.
He didn’t say a word, he didn’t need to. His thumb began to move, stroking the side of your index finger, mirroring that same absent rhythm he’d used on his own hand moments before. It was an echo that became a conversation. Your shyness wasn’t gone, but it had metamorphosed, meeting his in the middle and creating a new, charged space that belonged only to you two.
His other hand came up, his fingers—those beautiful, impossibly beautiful fingers—brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek with a touch so light it might have been imagined. His gaze dropped to your lips, then flicked back to your eyes, a silent plea for permission.
They’d told you first love would be like winter snow. So very beautiful when it first fell, but it became suffocating in the first few days. Well now that was a hypothesis without any solid evidence. Your snow felt like a hug you’d like to be absorbed into.
The first brush of his lips against yours was a whisper, a cautious experiment. It was sweet and soft, flavored with the herbal tea he’d been drinking and the underlying warmth that was just Jo.
You kissed him back, and the shyness melted entirely, replaced by a dawning, wondrous confidence. One of his hands came up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone with a reverence that made you want to cry. Your own hands found their courage, one tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, the other resting on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath your palm.
The movie played on, forgotten galaxies blooming and dying in silent bursts of color behind you. There was no world beyond the couch, beyond the gentle pressure of his mouth on yours, the exploring sweetness of the kiss deepening by mutual increments.
It was clumsy at times—your noses bumped, laughter breathed into each other’s mouths when you both turned the same way, but it was the most perfect thing you could ever ask for, a dialogue without words, a confession held in every shift closer.
When you finally parted, breathless and foreheads resting together, his hand was still cupping your face. You opened your eyes to find him already looking at you, his expression so full of awed affection it stole your breath all over again. A slow, wobbly smile spread across his face and you felt your own smile answer it, wide and unreserved.
“Hi,” he whispered, his voice husky.
“Hi,” you whispered back. His thumb stroked your cheek once more.
“Can we—” He began, taking a pause to breathe. God, he was so in love with you, “May we do that again?”
Your saccharine sweet boyfriend, always so very polite. It had been almost three months of dating now and he was still so cautious about kissing you. It was honestly one of the things you admired about him.
“Hmm.” You hummed, feeling a tad bit braver now, “Can I just….”
Without finishing your sentence, you swung a leg over to straddle his lap, feeling his breath hitch as you settled against him. His hands found your hips, his thumbs tracing small, soothing circles over your hipbones. You felt a thrill run through you at the touch, at the expression on his face, so tender it made your heart ache.
Slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wanted to, you leaned in until your mouths were a hair's breadth apart. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, and you watched, entranced, as his lips parted in anticipation. You took that as an invitation, pressing your mouth to his in a kiss as soft as a whisper.
It was a gentle thing, this kiss, almost chaste in its sweetness. Your lips moved against his, learning the feel of them, the taste of him. His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer, but the kiss remained achingly tender, a conversation held in the barest brush of skin on skin.
You angled your head, deepening the kiss just a little, and a soft sound escaped him, part moan, part sigh. It vibrated against your lips, sending a shiver down your spine.
You kept kissing him, slow and unhurried, like neither of you quite knew where to go next but didn’t mind figuring it out together. His grip on your hips tightened just a little when you leaned in again, like he needed to remind himself he was on earth.
When you finally pulled away, it was only to breathe. Your foreheads rested together again, your noses brushing lightly. He opened his eyes then, and the look he gave you was so full of unabashed affection it felt like sunshine blooming in your chest. And then you were a bit shy all over again.
“You’re so beautiful." Jo let out a quiet laugh, the sound soft, “I think I forgot how to function for a second.”
You smiled, your hands still lightly gripping his shirt. “Only a second?”
“Might’ve been longer,” he admitted. You laughed quietly, the sound warm and close between you.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then his thumbs brushed over your hips again and he glanced up at you with that same careful softness.
“Was that…..okay?” he asked. The question was so very him that your chest tightened a little.
You nodded immediately. “More than okay.” He smiled at that—small, relieved and a little proud.
“Good.” He said, almost to himself. You shifted slightly, suddenly aware of how you were still sitting in his lap, how close you were and how his hands hadn’t moved.
“Your movie’s probably halfway over,” you murmured.
He glanced past you at the screen, then back at you. “I have no idea what’s happening.”
“Same.” A beat.
“…Do you want to keep watching?” he asked. You pretended to think about it, tilting your head.
“Hmm,” you hummed, then slid off his lap but instead of moving away, you tucked yourself right into his side. One of his arms wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close, while his other hand drifted up to stroke your hair. You felt him relax beneath you, his breath evening out, his body accepting your weight as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Oh,” he said softly.
“This better?” You smiled, cheek pressing against the cotton of his shirt.
“Yeah,” he nodded, pulling you a little closer. “This is…..really nice.”
You reached for his hand again, lacing your fingers together, absentmindedly tracing over them like before. The movie played on—dialogue you half-heard, scenes you barely followed but this time, it didn’t matter. You were warm, tucked into him, his fingers occasionally tightening around yours, his thumb brushing over your skin like he couldn’t quite stop himself.
“Jo?” you whispered after a long, comfortable silence.
“Yes?”
“Your hands are still very attractive.”
He let out a soft chuckle, the sound warm and intimate in the quiet room. His fingers paused their tracing to gently squeeze your arm. “Thank you,” he said, his tone sincerely pleased. “I’ll…..try to keep them that way.”
You chuckled, closing your eyes. The credits ended, and the screen went black, plunging the room into near-darkness. The only light was the soft amber from the window, painting the walls in long shadows.
In the cozy dark, wrapped in the warmth of him and the gentle circles his thumb was now drawing on your shoulder, you felt a quiet contentment. The shyness was still there, somewhere in the foundation of who you both were, but it had been built upon. Now there was this—a safe harbor of closeness, of whispered questions and answered kisses.
“We should probably get up,” he murmured after a while, but his arms made no move to loosen their hold.
“Probably,” you agreed, making no move to stir.
And so you stayed, two souls who had found a brave new language in each other’s silence, cuddled on a couch in the dark, with nothing but the sound of your shared breathing and the promise of many more movies—and many more kisses—to come.
_____________
“Jo! Over here!”
Asakura Jo was rumoured amongst his circle of friends to have come out of the womb holding a paintbrush. Ever since he could remember, he had always painted, the canvas a medium for him to express every single confusing mortal emotion swimming around in his mind. It was easier than talking.
For a second, Jo forgot where he was as your voice cut through the hum of the carnival.
The carnival was a riot of color and sound, a temporary kingdom of light and sugar that had sprung up on the edge of town. Strings of warm lights crisscrossed above like glowing constellations, flickering softly against the deepening evening sky.
A towering Ferris wheel turned slowly in the distance, each carriage glowing as it lifted people up into the horizon. To your left, a carousel spun lazily, painted horses rising and falling to the sound of cheerful music, laughter spilling from children clutching onto golden poles.
Closer by, the air was thick with the scent of sugar and butter. A stall spun clouds of cotton candy in shades of pink and blue, while another crackled with oil as vendors dipped batter into fryers, pulling out golden cakes dusted generously with powdered sugar. Somewhere behind him, popcorn machines popped relentlessly, the smell of buttered popcorn drifting through the crowd.
And there you were, right in the middle of it all, waving at him, eyes shining, a ridiculously large teddy bear clutched in your arms like a trophy.
Jo didn’t move—couldn’t move. In that moment, words failed him utterly. He stopped dead, a few feet away, the crowd flowing around him like a river around a stone. The neon lights painted his face in hues of pink and blue, but his expression was something entirely his own.
He was awe-struck.
It wasn't just that you were beautiful—though you were, with the carnival lights catching in your hair and your eyes bright with triumph. It was the entire composition of you. The way you stood, victorious and slightly silly with that enormous bear, the genuine, unguarded delight on your face, directed entirely at him. You were the still, joyful center of the swirling, noisy universe.
Jo and his artist’s mind, always observing, always translating the world into line and color and light, went quiet—no analysis, no thought of how he would capture the curve of your smile or the way the gold of a nearby prize ring stall reflected in your eyes.
There was only this peculiar feeling—a wave of it, so profound and overwhelming it stole the breath from his lungs.
Oh.
I love you.
The thought wasn't new, but the force of it, here and now, was. It was so simple and absolute, terrifying and wonderful at the same time. Like first snow and all of the beautiful perils it brought with it.
Jo must have stood there for only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity—a perfect, suspended eternity where the roar of the carnival faded to a distant hum, and the only real things were you, the bear, and the universe-expanding love swelling in his chest.
You waved again, more dramatically this time. “Jo!”
That snapped him out of it and he closed the distance between you, his long legs eating up the space. His eyes didn’t leave you once, staring at you with something that made your knees go weak.
“Look!” you said the second he got close enough, holding up the teddy bear proudly. “I won it!”
He glanced at the bear. Then back at you. Then back at the bear.
“…You did that?” He asked, playfully incredulous.
“Yes,” you said, grinning. “All by myself, thank you very much.”
“That game’s rigged.” Your boyfriend huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head slightly.
“Not for me,” you said, smug.
“I leave for five minutes and you defeat my nemesis.” Jo huffed, folding his arms like he was personally offended by your success, “I don’t know how to feel about that.”
“Impressed.” You replied immediately. These were the rare moments you cherished, when Jo would give up his usual shy demeanour and loosen up in your presence.
“Yeah,” he admitted softly with a sweet smile, “definitely impressed.”
You lifted the teddy bear between you again. “You still haven’t helped me name him.”
Jo studied it with exaggerated focus, tilting his head slightly. “He looks like he has a very serious profession.”
“He’s a teddy bear, Jo.”
“Exactly, my love. Which is why we should subvert expectations.” He paused thoughtfully. “Professor.”
You stared at him for a beat. His playful manner, that soft huff of a laugh, was a perfect counterpoint to the awe-struck silence of a moment before. It grounded you both back into the sweet, familiar rhythm of your six months together.
“Hmmm…” You pretended to think, “No.”
“Doctor?”
“No.”
“Sir Fluffington the Third?”
“Jo!” You burst out laughing. “Absolutely not.”
Jo's smile was all fondness. "Clearly not.” He said, clearly pleased with himself for making you laugh. “I think ‘Professor’ is growing on you.”
“It’s really not.”
“Give it time.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile didn’t fade. “You’re ridiculous.” Your heart did that jump again as you looked shyly down, “My ridiculous.” You murmured.
His ears turned pink at that, gaze flickering away for half a second before returning to you—softer and deeper, like he was still caught in whatever moment you’d pulled him out of earlier. You shifted the teddy bear to one arm and reached for his hand with the other, your fingers slipping into his like it was second nature now.
“Come on,” you said, tugging gently. “There’s something I want to do.” He followed without question.
“Where are we going?” he asked, glancing around as you pulled him through the crowd—past flashing game stalls, the smell of fried sugar and popcorn, past couples and families and laughter that seemed to echo everywhere at once.
You pointed upward. The Ferris wheel loomed ahead, glowing against the night sky, its slow, steady rotation almost hypnotic. Jo’s steps slowed just slightly as he looked at it, then back at you.
“You want to go on that?” he asked.
“Yep.” You said, like it was obvious. “It’s tradition.”
“For what?”
“For being on a date at a carnival.” You replied. “Keep up, baby.”
“Right, of course.” He let out a small laugh, shaking his head as you pulled him along again.
The closer you got, the brighter it seemed—the lights reflecting in your eyes, in the polished metal and in the glass of the cabins waiting to carry people up into the sky. When you reached the line, you turned to him, bouncing slightly on your heels, still holding the teddy bear between you.
“Are you scared?” you teased.
He raised a brow. “Of heights?”
“Of being alone with me in a tiny moving box.” You replied cheekily
“Hmm….” He pretended to think about it, then nodded solemnly. “Terrifying.”
“You’ll survive.” You laughed, nudging him with your shoulder.
“I hope so.”
The line for the wheel was mercifully short, a queue of couples and families bathed in the cool, white light of the structure's struts.You contented yourself with leaning your head against his shoulder, watching the world from your temporary perch.
When it was your turn, the attendant swung the cabin door open with a metallic creak. Jo held the door open for you, one hand steady on the frame as you climbed in, then followed, sitting across from you as the door clicked shut.
For a moment, it was still. Then, with a soft jolt, the wheel began to move and the world fell away with a gentle lurch. The cacophony of the carnival softened, becoming a cheerful tapestry of sound far below. Up you went, into the beautiful velvet sky.
Your cabin reached the apex and paused, letting new passengers on below. Here, at the top of the world, it was almost silent. The entire carnival sprawled beneath you like a spilled jewel box, a chaotic mosaic of swirling lights, moving shadows and tiny, ant-like people. The neon was a blur of color from this height, and the distant mountains were just a darker cutout against the star-dusted sky.
You leaned forward, peering out the window, eyes wide. “Look at that…….It's gorgeous up here," you whispered, your eyes on the panorama.
The shifting lights reflected across your face, your excitement quieting into something softer as you watched the world from above. The teddy bear rested in your lap now, forgotten for the moment.
“You really like this, don’t you?” he said.
You nodded, still gazing out. “It’s pretty.”
"It is.” Jo agreed, “It’s beautiful."
But when you turned to look at him, he wasn't looking at the view. He was looking at you, his profile outlined by the distant glow of a thousand lights. The reflection of the carnival danced in his dark eyes. Your smile softened. “What?” You asked.
He hesitated, trying to paint with words, struggling where a brush would have flowed effortlessly. It was the most ethereal thing you'd ever seen. Then he shook his head, a small, almost helpless smile forming.
“Nothing,” he said. But his hand found yours, fingers lacing together like they belonged there. The world felt smaller and quieter like it had made just enough space for the two of you.
Jo’s thumb brushed absentmindedly over your knuckles, his gaze still fixed on you like he hadn’t quite come back down from whatever thought had taken hold of him earlier. A breeze slipped through the small gaps in the cabin, gentle but enough to lift a strand of your hair across your face.
Slowly—like he was handling something fragile, he lifted his free hand and reached toward you. His fingers hovered for just a second, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to.
You didn’t, so he tucked the strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips brushing lightly against your skin. The touch lingered and so did his hand. Your breath caught, just slightly, your eyes meeting his. There was something so soft in his expression it almost hurt to look at, like he was seeing you all over again, like he hadn’t quite gotten used to the fact that you were real, that you were here and that you were his.
“Jo…” You murmured, not even sure what you were going to say. How could you tell someone you loved them more than air itself? More than the essence of your very life? Asakura Jo was only human, but in your eyes, he was what you’d imagined an angel of love to look like.
“Jo I—”
A sharp crack split through the sky. You both flinched, turning instinctively toward the window. A burst of light bloomed above the carnival—gold at first, then red and then a cascade of shimmering sparks that rained down like falling stars.
Fireworks.
Another one followed, then another and the sky soon lit up in colors that reflected across the glass, across your face, across his eyes. You leaned closer to the window, your hand tightening around his without thinking.
“Oh my god…” Your voice was full of wonder.
Jo didn’t look at the fireworks. Not really. He saw them, sure—the colors, the light, the way they painted everything in brief flashes of brilliance. But it all blurred together compared to you.
The way your eyes widened with every burst, the way your lips parted in quiet amazement, the way the colors danced across your skin like they were meant to be there. And just like that it hit him again.
Oh.
I love you.
He tightened his hold on your hand, almost unconsciously. You turned back to him, still glowing from the fireworks, your excitement softening when you noticed the way he was looking at you again.
“What?” you asked, smiling faintly.
He opened his mouth and paused. For once, it didn’t feel like he could translate this into anything less than what it was. No metaphors, no half-jokes, no deflection. Just the pure truth.
The truth that you were love and love was all he needed at the moment to keep him alive and breathing. That no matter how many pictures he painted, he could never find a colour that could match the hues of your beauty. That oh, did the world always seem to be just you and him?
“I—” he started, then stopped, his breath catching. Another firework burst, gold light spilling into the cabin. He swallowed. “…I really like being here with you,” he said .
“Me too,” you said gently.
He nodded, like that was enough, like maybe, for now, it was. But his gaze didn’t waver.
And as the fireworks continued to bloom across the sky he felt it again, growing stronger with every passing second.
He loved you.
What else could an artist need?
________________
A year.
Sometimes it didn’t feel real.
Not in a dramatic way but just how had all these small moments—shared looks, soft laughs, paint-stained afternoons, late-night calls—added up to something this steady, this real.
You sat beside him now, your shoulder pressed lightly against his as he absentmindedly sketched in that little notebook he always carried. His hand moved easily, lines forming without hesitation, like they always did.
You watched him. A year in, and he still had that effect on you like your attention just settled on him without asking. Your heart picked up a little, though, your mind racing with one thought and one thought only. And the thought had been sitting with you for a while now, growing slowly like a tree.
Your boyfriend was an attractive man. A very attractive man, pulling in men and women like—something that you felt secretly proud of. He was yours and yours only, to wake up in the morning to kiss him on the nose and to die down at the end of the day and let night’s cloak wrap around both of you.
And everytime he rolled up his sleeves, everytime he hugged you from behind while you were cooking, effectively caging you in with his large frame and every time his hands rested on your skin, it sent heat rushing somewhere you couldn't talk about too easily.
A year in and you two still hadn’t had sex. It felt weird, most couples usually went at it by their fifth month according to your friends. But you two were different—that was what you told yourself.
Of course, it wasn't like you didn't want to. Who wouldn't want to do it with your majestic hunk of a boyfriend? All pretty lips and eyes and those gorgeous veiny forearms. You would have been a damned liar if you said you had never let your fingers stray between your thighs and let them slip into your heat, friction building just at the way he’d said ‘thank you’ in that deep morning voice when you’d handed him his coffee. And there arose the problem.
Pretty little virgin.
Men were said to be simple creatures. To have sex, to fuck a girl with experience would obviously be more satisfying than someone who’s farthest sexual encounter was touching herself to the image of her boyfriend. But Jo would be different, you told yourself.
And it never hurt to ask, did it?
You shifted slightly, drawing your knees up a bit, fingers fidgeting in your lap. Jo glanced up from his sketch.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
You nodded a little too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I just…” Your voice trailed off. He closed the notebook without waiting another moment, giving you his full attention.
“Hey,” he said gently, “what is it?” You took a small breath.
“I’ve been thinking about something,” you started, eyes flickering between him and your hands. “And um…” you let out a nervous huff of a laugh. “I don’t know how to say it without sounding weird.”
“You can sound however you want,” he said, a tiny smile forming. “I’m not going anywhere.”
That helped a little. You looked at him properly then, gathering just enough courage to stay there.
“We’ve been together for a year.” You said.
“Best year of my life.” He added quietly, like it was just a fact. Your heart did that soft, aching thing again.
“And I…” you hesitated, then pushed through, “I feel really safe with you.” His expression shifted—more serious now, “And I trust you,” you continued. “A lot.” Jo didn’t interrupt, listening with that same calm expression. You swallowed, your voice softer now. “So I was wondering if……maybe…..you know….”
There was a brief pause. His brows softened slightly.
“Are you asking…?” he started gently.
You nodded, cheeks warm. “Yeah.”
The heavens could have struck you down right there and then and you wouldn't have minded one bit. The way he was looking at you right now, did he think you were weird? Was it too soon for this? What if he wanted to break u—
“Hey,” he said, voice soft but steady, “look at me for a second.” Jo reached for your hand slowly. When your fingers slipped into his, he squeezed them lightly. “I’m really glad you told me,” he said. “And I mean that.” You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “But,” he continued gently, “this isn’t something we have to rush just because it’s been a year.”
You nodded quickly. “I know—I don’t feel rushed, I just—”
“I know,” he said, squeezing your hand again. “I trust you. I just want to make sure we both feel completely ready. Like…..not nervous-ready. Actually ready.”
“I think I am,” you said honestly. “But I also don’t want it to feel pressured or like a big scary thing.”
He smiled a little at that. “Yeah. Me neither.” A small silence. Then he added, softer, “If we do, I want it to be because we both feel good about it.”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
“And we can talk about it more,” he said. “Figure out what we both want, what we’re okay with. Not just… jump into it.”
That made something in you relax. There your sweet boyfriend was, always so careful and kind. You felt pretty dumb for even thinking whatever you had been thinking five minutes ago.
“Okay,” you said softly. Jo leaned a little closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.
“We’ll figure it out together,” he murmured.
Silence followed again, in which two lay tangled on the couch, his finger tracing lazy patterns against the back of your hand, both of you staring into the distance.
“Jo?”
“Hmm?”
“Can we do it now?” You whispered, the words tumbling out like a secret finally freed, heat flooding your cheeks immediately.
Jo's expression didn't falter; instead, a gentle smile curved his lips. He squeezed your hand lightly. “Of course.” He said simply, his voice low and reassuring. “I'd love that, sweetheart.”
Though his voice was stable as always, Jo saw the flicker of nerves behind your eyes, the way your breath had gone just a little uneven, the way your fingers curled slightly into his.
“Hey…” he murmured, shifting just enough to face you fully. “Come here.”
You moved closer instinctively, and his arm wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest. Your cheek rested against him, your heartbeat a little too loud in your ears.
“I’m a little scared,” you admitted quietly. He nodded immediately, like that made perfect sense.
“Yeah,” he said gently. “That’s okay.” His hand came up to your hair, smoothing it back in slow, calming strokes. “You don’t have to not be scared,” he added. “It’s new. Of course it’s going to feel like a big deal.”
You let out a small breath, your fingers gripping lightly onto his shirt.
“I just don’t want to mess it up,” you whispered. That made him pull back just enough to look at you, brows softening.
“You can’t mess this up,” he said, almost a whisper. “There’s no perfect way to do it.” He brushed his thumb lightly over your cheek, “We go slow,” he continued. “And we check in, the whole time. If anything feels weird or uncomfortable or you just want to stop—we stop. No questions, okay?”
“Okay.” You nodded, giving him a small smile.
Your beloved leaned in then, cupping your cheek with one hand, his thumb brushing softly over your skin. His touch was feather-light and reverent. He pressed a soft kiss to your lips, lingering just long enough to let you feel the warmth of him. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“Do you trust me, my love?”
Oh, you’d have followed him into hell if he asked.
His words wrapped around you like a blanket, easing the knot in your chest. You nodded, a small smile breaking through. Jo stood, offering his hand, and you took it, letting him pull you up.
His grip was firm but gentle, guiding you toward the bedroom with unhurried steps. The air between you hummed with anticipation, but it was laced with the comfort of knowing you loved him and he loved you and the rest would be confetti.
Once inside, he closed the door softly and turned to you, his eyes tracing your face with that softness that made you go weak.
“You're so beautiful,” he murmured, stepping closer.
His hands found your waist, sliding up slowly under your shirt, palms warm against your bare skin. You shivered at the contact, loving how his fingers splayed out, exploring with such care, like he was memorizing every inch.
He kissed you again, deeper this time, his lips moving against yours in a slow rhythm that made your knees weak. As the kiss broke, he trailed his mouth down your jaw, to your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses that sent sparks through you.
“I love you,” he whispered against your collarbone, his breath hot, “May I?” He asked, tugging at your shirt.
Once you nodded your consent, his hands worked your shirt up and over your head, discarding it gently before his lips found the swell of your breasts, kissing the soft skin there with worshipful presses.
You arched into him, your hands threading through his hair as he knelt slightly, his mouth mapping a path down your stomach. Those hands—god, you loved his hands—hooked into the waistband of your pants, easing them down along with your underwear, leaving you bare before him. He looked up at you, eyes dark with affection and desire. “So perfect, my love.”
Jo guided you to the bed, laying you back against the pillows with infinite care. He stripped off his own clothes, his body lean and strong, movements as graceful as a ballerina.
Your breath caught in your throat as you finally saw him, really saw him, naked and exposed before you. Your eyes widened, drinking in every inch of his body, inevitably drawn to the prominent swell at his groin. His cock was long and girthy, with a prominent vein running along the underside, and you could see it throbbing.
But it was his hands that held your focus as he settled over you, one bracing beside your head while the other traced lazy circles on your thigh, inching higher.
He kissed you everywhere—your shoulders, the inside of your wrists, the curve of your hip—each touch a soft adoration that built the heat between you.
“Tell me if I need to stop,” he said, his voice husky but steady, as his fingers finally brushed against your folds. You were already slick with want, and he groaned softly at the feel of you.
“Sweetheart…” he breathed, his hand cupping you gently, one finger circling your entrance with feather-light pressure.
Jo watched your face, attuned to every gasp and every shift. Slowly, so slowly, like he was afraid you’d shatter at his touch, he pressed a finger inside, the stretch unfamiliar but eased by his care and your arousal.
“Oh…” You moaned, clutching at his arm, marveling at the way his hand flexed, those veined forearms tensing as he worked you open, “Jo…”
God it felt so fucking beatiful, feeling his long fingers reach spots you could never even imagine meeting. Hell you weren't even sure they existed until now, as his digits kissed them so tenderly.
“Hmm?” Your boyfriend hummed, eyes full of worry already. He wanted to make this experience as relaxing as it could be for you, “Are you okay, my love? Want me to stop?”
"N-No," you managed to stammer out, "don't stop. Please don't stop, Jo." His face softened with relief and something else, something heady and possessive that made your stomach flip-flop.
"Okay," he breathed, his voice low and husky, "I'll go as slow as you need me to. Just tell me if anything feels wrong, alright?"
You nodded, watching as he carefully worked a second finger in alongside the first, stretching you open bit by bit. It burned, but the burn was amazing, like the sweet sting of a deep stretch. And it was joined by so much more—the slick slide of his fingers inside you, the sensation of being filled for the first time, the ache that settled low and deep.
Jo took his time, scissoring his fingers and curling them just so, finding that spot inside you that made your toes curl and your back arch off the bed. He worked you open with an almost obsessive care, checking in with you after every new milestone.
“Jo—nghhh oh!” The sounds falling from your lips were foreign to you, and absolute music to Jo’s ears, “Hmmm—feel so—ohhhh—feel so good.”
“That's it, my love,” he encouraged, kissing your temple. “Just feel me.” He was stretching you with patience, his free hand stroking your hair, your cheek, grounding you in his touch.
He sealed his words with a kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth to tangle with yours as his fingers started to move faster, pumping in and out of you in a steady rhythm. You could feel your orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter in your belly until you were writhing against him, desperate for more.
"Jo... oh god, Jo... I'm... I'm gonna..." you panted against his mouth, too far gone to finish the sentence.
"I know," he breathes back, "I've got you. Let go for me, sweetheart, that’s it.”
And with a last deep thrust, he curled his fingers just right, rubbing against that sensitive spot inside you. That's all it took to send you hurtling over the edge, your body seizing up as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.
You cried out his name, a broken 'Jo!' that sounded more like a prayer than anything else. He kissed you through it, murmuring endearments, his eyes never leaving yours. Only when you started to come down did his fingers slip out of you completely, leaving you feeling empty and aching.
As the tremors faded, you lay there panting, your body humming with unfamiliar aftershocks. So this was what it felt to have a proper orgasm. You now understand why the French called it ‘la petit mort’. The little death—you were sure part of your soul died and transformed into something new just at the touch of his skin against yours.
Jo withdrew his fingers slowly, his hand glistening as he brought it to his lips, tasting you with a low hum of appreciation. He had that look in his eyes that was so unlike your perpetually calm, shy boyfriend, and god did it get you even wetter.
Those hands—strong and sooo veined—made your heart flutter even more now. He shifted above you, his cock hard and heavy against your thigh, but he didn't rush. Instead, he cupped your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip.
“My love,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion, “do you want to continue? We can stop if you need to.”
You met his gaze, feeling the depth of his care wrap around you like his arms. Your nerves lingered, yes, but so did your desire for him and your trust in him. Your beloved.
“Yes,” you breathed, reaching up to touch his cheek. “I want you, Jo. Please.”
“Alright, sweetheart.” His smile was soft, full of absolute adoration. “I'll go slow, ok? Just tell me what you need.”
He positioned himself between your legs, one hand bracing on the mattress while the other guided his cock to your entrance. The tip nudged against you, slick from your release, and he paused there, letting you feel the warmth of him. You loved the way his fingers flexed around his length, steady and sure.
In the philosophy of Epicurus, hedone was described as the utmost state of pleasure that may or may not derive from actions that are virtuous, whereas another form of euphoric pleasure, terpsis, would always be virtuous. And then came the question of whether or not sex was a virtuous act.
Well, you had no idea what pleasure you were feeling as Jo pushed in, but god did you feel pleasure.
He pushed in gradually, just the head at first, the stretch pulling a gasp from your lips. It burned a little, unfamiliar, but his free hand stroked your hip soothingly.
“Breathe with me,” he murmured, his eyes locked on yours. Inch by inch, he sank deeper, his body tensing with restraint. He didn’t want to accidentally hurt you.
But god, you were tight—Jo's mind reeled at the way your pussy gripped him, velvet walls fluttering around his cock like they were made for him alone. He wanted to savor it, to make sure every moment etched pleasure into your memory, not pain. Halfway in, he stopped, his breath ragged.
“How's that feel, my love? Too much?” He leaned down to kiss your forehead, your nose, your lips—soft presses that distracted from the fullness building inside you.
You shook your head, adjusting to the sensation, your hands clutching his shoulders. “It's good. Keep going.” The ache was easing into something warmer, needier, especially with his hand now sliding between you to circle your clit gently, easing the way.
Jo nodded, pressing forward again, slower this time, until he was fully seated, his hips flush against yours. He stilled completely, forehead resting on yours, both of you breathing in sync. The thought of your tightness consumed him—how you squeezed him so perfectly, pulling him deeper without effort. It took everything not to thrust, to let you acclimate.
“You're doing so well, sweetheart,” he praised, his voice a low rumble. “Feels incredible. You feel—hah—incredible.”
“Hmmm…Jo…” You moaned feeling him fill up all your senses to the absolute brim.
After a moment, when your hips twitched experimentally, he began to move—pulling out just a fraction before sliding back in, the motion deliberate and unhurried. Each thrust was measured, his cock dragging along your inner walls, building friction without overwhelming.
“You good, sweetheart?” He stopped again midway through one stroke, checking your face, his hand weaving into yours to squeeze.
“Yes,” you whispered, the pleasure sharpening now, coiling anew. “Don't stop.”
Your boyfriend resumed the slow rhythm, his body covering yours protectively. Jo's mind swirled with how your pussy clenched around him on every retreat, tight and hot, milking him in a way that made his control fray at the edges.
But he focused on you—on the soft moans escaping your lips, the way your nails dug into his back. His hand roamed, cupping your breast, thumbing your nipple, while the other held your thigh open, fingers pressing into your skin with gentle possession.
“That's it, my love,” he encouraged between kisses to your neck. “Let me make you feel good, hmm?”
The pace stayed steady, deep glides that hit just right, his cock filling you completely each time. The intimacy of it all—the eye contact, the whispers—pushed you higher, your body responding to his every touch.
Jo's breath started to quicken as he thrust into you, the pace picking up but still maintaining a steady rhythm. His eyes were locked onto yours, pupils blown wide with lust and adoration, drinking in every expression that crossed your face. One hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over your lower lip, while the other gripped your hip, pulling you into his thrusts and you almost screamed at the sensation.
"You're so perfect, sweetheart," he breathed, voice rough with need.
His words sent a shiver down your spine, your walls fluttering around his cock in response. He groaned at the sensation, hips stuttering for a moment before he regained control. He started to thrust harder,chasing his pleasure while still making sure you were right there with him.
"Jo..." you gasped, back arching off the bed as he hit a particularly sweet spot inside you. "Oh god, Jo..."
"That's it, baby," he encouraged, leaning down to capture your mouth in a searing kiss. "Let me hear you. I want to feel you cum on my cock."
The tension wound tighter, your breaths mingling as he adjusted once more, pausing to grind against you, letting the base of his cock press your clit. And then it was like sunflowers had burst into bloom all around you.
"I'm gonna... I'm gonna..." you panted, fingers digging into his shoulders as you chased your release.
"Come on, baby," Jo growled, his thrusts becoming erratic as he approached his own peak. "I've got you. Let go, sweetheart."
You shattered around him, your pussy spasming, squeezing his cock in rhythmic pulses that drew a groan from deep in his chest. Your body seized up, back bowing off the bed as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. The sensation of your tightness gripping him through your climax nearly undid him, but he held on, thrusting shallowly to prolong it, his hand stroking your hair as you cried out his name. Jo followed, buried deep inside you as he found his own release with a hoarse cry of your name.
The world slowly swam back into focus, the roaring in your ears subsiding into the quiet, heavy sound of your shared breathing. Your body felt like liquid warmth, every muscle lax and humming with satisfaction.
Jo was a solid, comforting weight on top of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his own breaths coming in deep, shuddering gusts against your damp skin.
For a long moment, neither of you moved, suspended in the perfect, sticky aftermath. You could feel him, still deep inside you, his heartbeat a frantic echo against your own slowing pulse. Then, with infinite care, he shifted, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder, his lips tender against the flushed skin.
“Okay?” he murmured, his voice a raw, husky whisper. It was the first thing he’d said since your world had dissolved into pure sensation, and the gentle concern in it made your heart clench.
You managed a weak, breathless nod, your fingers loosening their death-grip on his shoulders to stroke lazily down his sweat-slicked back. “Mmmhmm. More than okay.”
He let out a long, relieved sigh, the tension finally leaving his own frame. He nuzzled your neck once more, then began to move—so slowly, so carefully it was almost imperceptible. He was pulling out, but it was nothing like the frantic coupling of moments before.
This was such a tender retreat, mindful of every sigh, every tiny shift of your body. He moved as if handling something infinitely precious and fragile, easing himself from your warmth with a gentleness that brought a fresh, different kind of tears to your eyes.
Once he was free, he didn't roll away, instead shifting to his side, gathering you immediately against him. One arm curled under your neck, the other draped over your waist, his hand splayed possessively on your stomach as he pressed another kiss to your temple.
“You’re trembling,” he whispered, his thumb stroking soothing circles on your belly.
“I’m alright.” You assured him, your voice muffled against his chest. “It’s a good kind of trembling, don’t worry.”
Jo hummed, holding you close until the fine tremors subsided into a deep, boneless relaxation. He let the silence stretch, comfortable and warm, just listening to your breathing even out.
After a few minutes, he propped himself up on one elbow to look down at you. In the dim light, his eyes were dark pools of soft affection, tracing over your face with an artist’s attention to detail—the flutter of your lashes, the parted swell of your lips. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead.
“Would you like a bath?” He said, his voice still low and intimate, “I could…..wash your hair for you. If you want.” His gaze dipped, a faint blush coloring his own cheeks.
The offer was so tender, so domestic and sweet after the raw passion you’d just shared, that it stole your breath all over again. You looked up at him, at this beautiful man who could moan your name in passion one moment and offer to wash your hair with reverent care the next. A slow, blissful smile spread across your face.
“That sounds perfect,” you whispered.
A matching smile touched his lips, shy but deeply pleased. He leaned down and kissed you, soft and chaste, a sealing promise. Jo slipped from the bed, pausing to pull the rumpled sheets up over you, tucking them around your shoulders.
“Jo?”
“Hmm?”
“I love you.”
Love was many things.
An art, first snow, grass rings, fireworks, poetry, complex, simple, and so much more. At least that was what they said—whoever invented the word. And whoever invented the feeling too, God must have been terribly lonely to have invented such a thing as love. But not everything feels like something else.
And as Jo watched you, gazing over your details, those eyes, those lips, that face that could have had him defying the very heavens themselves, he realised that maybe love was just this.
Just you and him and the air around you.
Love was just that.
“I love you too, sweetheart.”
fin.
A/N: had a lot of fun writing this, i think this is the most romance i've ever written Mona poetic verse comeback again yay. There are some references sprinkled throughout this fic so if you notice them PLEASE TELL ME I SNEAKED THEM IN VERY NONCHALANTLY YAY
divider by @cursed-carmine
Perm taglist: @eu1joo @kwnnies @nichozzystuffs @blueuijoo @pglpblm @your-local-lune @ikigaijo @tokunodoll @leehancore @dearvampyr + comment or shoot me an ask to be added!
