synopsis: you and your boyfriend have a huge communication issue, so you find other ways to make up after fights
warnings: silent treatment, oral (f receiving), missionary sex, unprotected sex, nipple play, making out, hickies, plot with porn, pretty romancy so if ur a softie this is for u 🥹
authors note: finally made a longer fic after many shorties! these Ni-ki pics with the camo hat are making me hard 💯 I reallyyyyy hope he goes back to black hair I love the blonde so so so much but his black hair was so auraful!!! anyways yea I loveeee writing big rik so more writing ideas are much appreciated ! pls enjoy 💗
authors note 2: WE are birds for Ni-ki chirp chirp
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It was a chill 3am in your apartment alone. Chill weather wise, other than that it had been an irritating night for you. You and your boyfriend had gotten into a fight over the amount of attention he'd been putting into you (not enough). So you've had him alone delivered for the past 4 hours. This didn't let you sleep at all. The fact that he was left unanswered kept you upset despite you not wanting to answer him. He wasn't spamming you or anything, but he stayed on your mind regardless. Was he mad? Does he know you're ignoring him on purpose? Does he think you're hurt? Is he even awake? Your mind felt cluttered and upset and mad and tired and yet somehow wide awake all at once. Definitely not a pleasant mixture.
You turn in bed again, begging yourself to just fall into rem. The sound of your fan spinning and the rain on the windowsill tapping was consistent and only made you think of Riki more. It was cold. You want him to hold you and wrap you in blanket, run his hands through your hair until the only cold you feel is the occasional grace of his ring against your scalp while he brushes. But another part of you told yourself that he doesn't even deserve the chance. He's had you on delivered for way longer than 4 hours before, something you specifically told him you hated. He's probably not even bothered right now. Probably with his guys doing perfectly fine. But what if he is bothered?? Should I text? You hated how childish these fights made you feel.
You continued to listen into the tapping of the rain, hoping into hypnotize you out of consciousness. Until you hear a raindrop louder than the other ones. Multiple actually. You weren't as awake as before, finally in the state between awake and out of it, so your senses were super clear. Then you heard the tapping again, definitely not rain. It also didn't come from your window, it came from the door. You roll out of bed, not even thinking about what or who it could be. Your groggy mind simply head a door and gave you the elementary task of opening it. When you did make it to the door, it was the sight of Riki that woke you out of this.
You open your mouth to yell the same argument you were aggressively texting him earlier only to be shut up by his gentle shush. His hand found your tense shoulder, squeezing it with a comforting rub that relaxed the muscles in your arm. He walked you back into the house, not with any force or even in a slightly obvious manner, but so casually you barely noticed he was inside. You shut your lips, your body giving up the remaining effort in you to be mad at him. You can feel your eyes weakly tear up as he goes in to hold you. His strong arms around their way around you, the gentle pressure erasing the frustration you felt.
"I know, baby, I know," his voice was smoky, you can tell he was tired too. "I dont deserve you."
You gave in completely to him, letting all your anger solidify into tears that soaked through his tank top. "I'm so awful to my sweet girl." Your hands tightened into fists on his back that you originally wanted to hit him with, but you settled for gripping his top instead. One of his arms squeezed around you in a way that gently let out the bottled emotion in you. The other arm had his hand on the back of your head, the soothing touch making you feel warm and at peace. You hadn't even realized you weren't on the floor, he'd picked you up to keep you at level rather than below him, your legs wrapping around him by default. He kicked the door shut behind him like he owned the place.
His attention didn't leave you for a second, still softly hushing and rocking you. He took you back to the couch, laying you down first then making sure not to lay too much pressure down when he followed atop you. His slender fingers brushed back some stray hairs from your face, and you got a clear look at him for the first time tonight. He looked exhausted, his sharp eyes more weary and heavy-lidded than usual. His usual olive, tan complexion faded to a more pale and washed-out shade. The fight had taken a toll on him, one that shone physically just as it did mentally. Yet that didn't seem to phase him at all, not compared to the way he was bothered by your discomfort. He didn't focus on the way he was three shades lighter than usual or the fact that he hasn't had a blink of sleep all night. Why would he put effort into those invaluable things when he could spend that on you instead?
He went down to plant a kiss on your forehead, one that instantly filled you with relief. His plump lips meeting your skin after what felt like years of depravation from him put you in a deep comfort. It felt like you'd been covered in a blanket of warmth that shielded you from the all the useless fighting that plagued your mind earlier. He let them linger for a moment, one long kiss followed by a shorter peck. He pulled back, a smile finally meeting his face. He wiped a small tear from your cheek that you didn't realize had fallen. "Please don't hate me, baby" he mumbles, his gentle eyes taking in every inch of you. "I'm trying not to" you softly reply.
He burrows his face into your neck like he's trying to hide himself from the reality of how angry you might be. He didn't wanna face it, especially after how much he knew he neglected you. But the thought of you upset and alone made his heart sore, so he'll own up to his actions even if it makes him cringe at himself. He'd been so anxious the hours leading up to this. Being left on delivered didn't help, and he nearly lost it trying to pick between giving you space and throwing himself to his knees in front of you for forgiveness. He expected a barrage of insults and scolds and everything you spewed over text but 10x worse once you saw him in person, so he enjoyed the fact that this wasn't that.
He purred softly, the vibrations low against you. The lack of talk between you two was uncomfy, the rain outside somewhat making up for the silence. You felt his lips pucker to leave a small press to your neck, then another. He wasn't sure if you two were even on "kissing terms", but something in his head prayed that maybe if he kissed you enough it would wash away all the anger in you. Honestly, that would've worked had you been mad at him in the first place. You weren't. Mad at the situation? Yes. Mad at the lack of communication? Even bigger yes. But Riki? Never. Yea maybe you ghosted him for the past few hours or so, but you really didn't know how to solve big issues within your relationship like this. You literally wanted more attention, plain and simple, but writing that on paper sounds way more spoiled and needy than wanting to enjoy a few more dates here and there. What you failed to realize was Riki was more than willing, and what Riki failed to do was prove it.
His lips moved up, tracing a path from your neck to your cheek. The cheek kisses didn't last long before he had his lips woven against yours. You felt as if you could melt at the feeling and drown in his presence. The tension in his body lessened and his shifted more comfortably. Your hand met the back of his neck, something that told him you're enjoying this when words didn't get that across. Despite how often you two fight, you really do think you're perfect for each other. Even when it's too awkward to talk things out, your body language was always in time with his. It's like your minds communicated when your words didn't. Kissing especially seemed to do just the trick. Riki was weak for kisses, and god was he good at it. His fuller lips alone gave him an advantage, and he knew how to move them against yours in a way that fit deliciously instead of that teeth-clashing, eating-each-others'-face-off nonsense he hated.
He pulled back, not far, but enough to give you space to breath. He double checks how you're feeling with his eyes, giving a quick up and down scan before going back in. He knew how easy your relationship would be if you two could just spit out the things in your head, but maybe an easy life wasn't the life for you two. He was fine with this, it still worked at the end of the day. It's not like you two had to be perfect, or that perfect was even this set and consistent definition. You were his whole world, and that's what he loved more than "perfection".
His lips continued against yours, your bodies intertwined. You could feel his heart beating against yours, feel his soft breath on your face. He didn't want to pull back for air, needing every second as close to you as possible. His hands gently carded through your hair, slightly pulling you closer as he did so. Your tongues gently moved against one another. The only thought on your mind was Riki. He was so good at taking away the stress and frustration, even when he's the one who caused it. He presses one last kiss to your mouth before letting his lips roams your face and neck again. Your head tilts to give him more access to your sensitive skin. His eyes were glazed over with want and his demeanor was slipping from detailed and soft to greedy. You keep your hand in his dark locks, partially to egg him on and partially to keep him guided. "Missed you so bad..." he purred against you, his first words to you in a moment. "Wanna make you feel better..."
He kissed and nipped at your collarbone. His hand found yours, locking fingers and brushing his thumb on the back. He parted from your collar to kiss down your wrist, his soft lips on your sensitive pulse making you shudder slightly. He kept his other hand busy with the strap of your flimsy tank, searching your eyes for permission. You sit up to slip it off for him, his hands going to your hips. He pecks all over your neck as a thank you, leaving little purple love bites here and there. "Lay back, baby..." he sets you down onto your back, his hands resting around your waist as his lips start on your chest. He cups one of your soft mounds and eagerly wraps his lips on it. The flick of his tongue on the delicate skin makes you arch off the couch.
He kept his mouth set on your nipple while his free hand toyed with the other, pinching and rubbing. He switches occasionally as to not neglect any part of you. He hums against your chest, sending warm vibrations through your core. His plump lips would keep suction while his tongue swiped against the sensitive area. He pulls off and makes his way down through kisses until his reaches between your legs. By now your body had been doused in the gasoline of his kisses, and his teasing was setting you aflame. He settles between your thighs, his hands gripping either one and brings them apart. You slip off your night shorts and panties at once for him, sitting back to let him take it from there. He's almost taunting, kissing the area around what you need rather than giving into what your body craves. "So soaked.." he murmurs between kisses. You feel his tongue on your thighs, slowly inching towards your wet, puffy lips. Finally he licks a stripe up the middle that makes you readjust for more. He starts with 3 kitten licks before fully diving in. He kept up a nice rhythm: a consistent and not too fast pace, light suction paired with teasing your entrance with his tongue. You repeat his name like a pleasured chant, his presence being the only thing you can think of. No other words leave your mouth before 'Riki' and gasping swears. He targeted your clit, mostly sucking but occupying it with his fingers whenever he moved away from it. He went up and down as he devoured, your legs shaking with him between them. He got you so close to what felt like a promised orgasm before stopping. He rose to his knees, still between you, stripping off his own tank and starting at his pants.
"Spread a little wider pretty thing.." he gets down to his boxers before discarding those too. To think you'd been so mad at him earlier, like his delicious length made up for everything. It stood eagerly as he held it by the base and guided it to your entrance. He let the tip catch onto it teasingly. His brows furrowed in concentration as he slid in, a soft purr leaving his throat. You gasp at the large intrusion, still unable to get over his size despite how much you two get together. This man towered you. His silver chain hung close to your face as he put in the rest of his inches. His breathing was heavy as he bottomed out, staying for a moment to adjust. His eyes catch yours and he smiles. "Feels good?" he lowly asks, to which you nod. You wrap your legs around him as he begins to move, slow strokes at first that get deeper and deeper. You couldn't find the effort to close your dropped jaw with the immense pleasure you were feeling. He was hitting every part of you that itched so badly for him. You tightly gripped onto his strong arm that he held himself up with to the side of you, his other maintained on your waist. He groaned as you squeeze around him, thrusting even deeper to milk the feeling. "So fuckin' good... fuckkk" his eyes closed tightly as he tilts his head back. You felt yourself getting closer with each drill, digging your nails into his biceps. His hips would angle upwards and dug his dick into your sweet spot repeatedly.
He sharply hissed as he felt you come on his dick, keeping up the pace to make it last as long as he could. It didn't take much for his orgasm to follow as well. He buried himself and breathlessly moaned as he emptied himself in your sweet body. He stayed like that for a minute: your bodies tangled and catching breath. After a little cleaning up and more silence between the two of you, you make it to an actual bed instead of the shitty couch you fucked on. He kept you close, spooning you with his arms having you nearly strapped to him. Maybe communication wasn't your thing, but this form of love felt special. A secret, intimate language just between you and Riki.
featured employees: bsf!niki x fem!reader | custom order 📋
staff notes: me and my ayesha titles against the world — i rlly liked writing this one and i actually had a draft like this for jake sooo thank you for the request ! i hope u like it ml ♡ ⸝⸝
also, not proofread bcs i finished this at 2am
niki shifted against the mattress, the ache of his dick straining against the thin fabric of his shorts. it’d been bothering him since his shower, a constant reminder of how horny and desperate he was right now.
he tried fucking his hand, but the friction wasn’t enough. none of the girls he’d usually hookup with were available, and ignoring it clearly wasn’t working either.
niki hooked a finger around his waistband, dragging down his shorts just enough to let his length slip free. his dick twitched, already hard and leaking, the tip a blush red. he looked around the room, searching for anything to help, when his eyes landed on his pillow.
he sighed, already hating the idea, and grabbed the closest pillow to his right. he brought it above his waist and folded it around his dick before lifting his hips into the pillow, slowly at first, like he was testing it out.
“f-fuck…” he shuddered, lifting his hips again, a bit faster and sloppier than the last thrust. his skin dragged across the fabric just right.
soon he rose to his knees and leaned forward, the mattress dipping under his weight. the pillow was still wrapped around his dick, covering his length. he buried his face into the blanket, his hips rolling messy circles, leaving the pillow sticky and soaked in precum.
he was too deep in it that he didn’t hear his doorknob turn or the creaking from the hinges—just the sound of your voice snapping him out of it once it was too late.
“…niki?”
“what the fuck—” he stammered, his face burning as he scrambled backward against the headboard, poorly covering himself with the same pillow he was just fucking into. “you don’t know how to knock?!”
“I did. twice.”
your eyes traveled down his figure, taking in the sight—his messy sheets, disheveled hair, sweat beading across his hairline, and the obvious mess of precum he left.
“I can help with that… if you want?”
his eyes followed your line of sight, then back at you, eyebrow raised and skeptical of your offer. it wasn’t the worst idea to him. you’ve known each other since high school and seen every part of each other already. so, in the end, he nodded reluctantly.
you crawled into the bed next to him, hands trailing up his thighs. his breath caught, body tensing from the coolness of your fingertips against his skin. your hand firmly wrapped around his dick, thumb circling the tip as you lowered yourself between his thighs.
“just relax and let me help,” you murmured, voice low and steady.
you leaned in and licked a long stride under his length before taking the head in your mouth. his hips jerked the second your fist started working along with your mouth. you started slow and deliberately, allowing him to get used to it. your thumb dragged over the sensitive head whenever you pulled back.
the warmth of your mouth, the way your tongue moved expertly, and your hand working at the base, made his head fall back against the headboard. you kept it up until his breathing picked up and his thighs slightly shook.
“fuck— don’t stop, please…” he breathed, his voice a mix of a broken moan and a whimper.
you pulled back only an inch, then slid back down again, cheeks hollowing as your head moved rhythmically. the sound of it—the filthy wetness and niki’s mutters of nonsense—filled the room, bouncing off the walls.
“f-fuck— y/n, god—” he barely managed, voice raspy, eyes shut closed. “i’m so close—shit… just like that.”
you pulled off once more, your tongue dragging against the underside, stroking him faster before slowing down, edging him right to the brink just to deny it.
“you’re doing such a good job,” you cooed, voice sweet and warm.
he lifted his hips into your fist, chasing the friction from your palm before you pulled away completely. you waited until his hips stopped stuttering and the pulse evaporated before wrapping your fingers around the base again.
repeatedly, you brought him closer to the edge, increasing your pace, dragging your tongue over his sensitive head, taking him deeper than before—all to slow down once his moans became needier and his hips moved desperately.
“look how messy you’re getting for me.”
“please… fuck, please let me cum…” he begged, his hand tangling through your hair, hips bucking mindlessly. his breathing hitched, hard and ragged, his hips jerking against his will.
it didn’t take long until he came hard. a hot and electric wave crashed through his body, leaving his vision blurry and body tensed. niki’s body trembled as the wave washed over him, his chest lifting with a sharp inhale.
you stayed there, positioned between his legs, licking him clean. you even praised him softly with every pass of your tongue. “you did such a good job. so pretty when you cum for me.”
staff notes: watched gonjiam haunted asylum with my sister and I was too busy calling everyone fine to be scared (it was also my way of deflecting whenever I was scared)
# | store disclaimer: all work is fictional and is not a real depiction of our staff outside the store !
୨ৎ ֹ : I had to write this because it’s literally what I saw in my dream 🫠
You’re pinned against the cold wall of the hallway, barely inside the apartment door before Heeseung’s mouth crashes into yours. His tall frame towers over you, broad shoulders caging you in as one of his ridiculously big hands grips your jaw, tilting your face up to him. Those long, thick fingers dig into your skin with just enough pressure to make your pulse throb between your legs.
“Been thinking about these all day,” you whimper against his lips, your eyes already glassy as you stare at the hand currently wrapped around your throat. Heeseung chuckles darkly, low and filthy, his breath hot on your cheek.
“Yeah? My pretty girl’s such a slut for my hands.” His voice is velvet-rough, dripping with lust. The hand not around your neck slides down your body, shoving your skirt up to your waist in one rough motion. He doesn’t bother with panties, he hooks two thick fingers into the soaked fabric and yanks them aside, exposing your dripping cunt to the cool air.
You moan loudly as his fingers glide through your slick folds, spreading your wetness messily. Heeseung’s middle and ring fingers are so fucking thick, the calloused pads rubbing perfect circles over your swollen clit before he sinks them inside you without warning. The stretch is immediate and delicious, your walls fluttering greedily around the intrusion.
“Fuck, so wet already,” he growls, pumping his fingers deeper, curling them hard against that spongy spot inside you that makes your knees buckle. “Look at you, creaming on just two fingers. You love how big they are, don’t you baby?”
You nod frantically, eyes rolling back as he starts a brutal rhythm with long, deep strokes that drag along every sensitive inch of your pussy. The obscene wet squelching sounds fill the hallway with every thrust. His palm grinds against your clit while his fingers scissor and curl, stretching you open.
But Heeseung wants more. His other hand tightens around your throat, not choking, but firm enough to hold you in place. “Eyes on me,” he commands, voice low and dangerous. You force your gaze up to meet his dark, hungry eyes, pupils blown wide with lust. The eye contact makes everything more intense, your pussy clenches hard around his fingers as he fucks you faster.
He leans in, kissing you sloppily, tongue invading your mouth before he pulls back and spits directly onto your tongue. “Swallow,” he orders. You do, whimpering pathetically as his fingers never stop their assault. Another orgasm builds fast, coiling tight in your belly. Heeseung feels it, smirks, and doubles down, three fingers now, stretching you wider, his thumb pressing firm circles on your clit. “That’s it, now cum for me. Soak my fucking hand, baby.”
You shatter with a broken cry, walls pulsing violently around his thick fingers as your first orgasm rips through you. Hot squirt gushes out, splashing over his wrist and dripping down your thighs. Your legs shake, but he doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting through it, drawing it out until you’re sobbing with overstimulation.
“Good girl,” he praises, licking a stripe up your cheek, tasting the sweat and tears there. “But I’m not done with you. Not even close.”
Hee drops his head to your chest, freeing his hand around your neck for a second, just to shoving your top down with. His mouth latches onto one nipple, sucking hard while his tongue flicks the sensitive bud. He bites down gently, then soothes it with slow licks as his fingers continue destroying your cunt; relentless, wet, filthy thrusts that make your next orgasm crash over you almost immediately. You squirt again, harder this time, the liquid spraying messily against his palm and soaking the floor. Your vision whites out, pleasure bordering on pain from the overstimulation, but Heeseung just growls against your tit and keeps going.
“Fuck, look at that mess. My needy little girl can’t stop cumming on my fingers.” His hand around your throat squeezes a little tighter this time, forcing your eyes back to his. “Again. Cum again for me.”
You shake your head weakly, overstimulated and drunk on the feeling of those long, thick fingers bullying your g-spot over and over. “T-too much! Heeseung…”
But he doesn’t relent. He keeps using three fingers, stretching you to the limit, curling them perfectly while his palm slaps wetly against your clit. His mouth moves to your other nipple, sucking and biting, leaving red marks on your soft tits as he licks and kisses every inch of skin he can reach.
Another orgasm tears through you, even stronger. You scream his name, squirting all over his hand and forearm, your juices running down your legs in rivulets. Your body convulses against the wall, but Heeseung holds you up with his body and that iron grip on your throat, eyes locked on yours the entire time.
He kisses you again, deep and messy, then spits on your tongue once more before licking a slow, possessive stripe from your jaw to your ear. “Such a good fucking girl. My perfect babygirl. We’re not stopping until you can’t even stand.”
His fingers never slow. Thick, long, relentless. Pumping. Curling. Making you gush and cry and beg while he praises you in that low, filthy voice and worships your body with his mouth. You’re completely pleasure-drunk, lost in the endless cycle of his hands, his mouth, and his dark, loving eyes that refuse to let you look away. And Heeseung? He’s only getting started.
content: rich kids academy au, explicit mature content, cheating, dub-con recording of sex (reader didn't say yes but doesn't mind it), size kink, thigh riding, degrading, praising, unprotected sex, fingering, cunnunlingus, oral sex (m & f receiving), squirting.
word count: 11.5k.
Everyone knows Nishimura Riki. If someone were to ask about him, they would reply with any of the following sentences:
"Riki? You mean the Nishimura Riki? Duh, who doesn't know him? I heard he's the youngest in the team and the coach personally scouted him."
"Ah, him? I don't like him. Why, you ask? Simple, 'cause he's a cocky guy and guys like him need to get knock down from their high horses once in a while. It's nothing personal, don't worry."
"Nishimura? Yeah, I don't know anything about soccer but what I do know is that he's fine as hell. I heard he's single too but he likes someone, so there goes my dream."
In conclusion, everyone in campus both know and have heard of Riki. But then again, who doesn't?
He's the secret weapon of the soccer team, a one man army with insane skills. It's thanks to him that the team was able to bring home many trophies, one after another. Outside of soccer, he has a high reputation—which is to no one's surprise.
He demands for attention without saying it out loud. But there was no need to, not when you're Nishimura Riki. He carries himself with confidence, his signature smug and arrogant grin stretched wide across his face, walking like he owns the place. Heads and eyes will follow him, unconsciously giving their attention to him without them knowing.
With his high-rank status, swoon-worthy looks that made him looked like he was personally crafted from both gods and goddesses and wealthy background, there's no doubt there are all kinds of rumors going around. But what everyone was mostly interested in was his status.
Some shameless girls loudly claim they are Riki's crush, despite the fact they have never talked to him face-to-face before. It's a common sight to see girls confessing to him, followed by him rejecting their confessions, leaving them embarrassed or disappointed.
What no one knew however, was that he already has his eyes set on a certain someone. Someone who is out of his league but he doesn't care. What Riki wants is what he will get, no matter what it takes.
Fweeeeet!
A sharp, high-pitched whistle pierced though the air and echoed throughout the open-air field. Hearing it, everyone stopped what they were doing as they ran to gather before their coach. All of them were drenched in sweat, their jerseys sticking to their bodies, almost wanting to blend into their skin.
The coach—a man in his late thirties, stood before them with a stern expression on his face.
"Alright boys, the competition's in four days and I want everyone to be in their best condition. You hear me? That means no slacking around, no drinking and no wasting time on girls," he reminded them, directing the last part to a certain player in the team, who merely blinked his eyes, acting innocent.
"Yes, sir," everyone replied in unison.
The coach nodded, pleased and blew his whistle again. "Now let's start practice. Split into two teams of four."
~
Practice went on for the next three hours or so under the hot, sweltering sun. By the time it was over, all Riki wanted was to desperately return to his dorm, take a shower and collapse into his bed to sleep the rest of the day away.
His assignments and everything else that isn't important can wait. He slowly trudged to the benches where his duffel bag was, groaning as he knew he'll be experiencing horrible muscle pain tomorrow.
"Oh, Riki!"
The way he straightened up at the sound of your voice was quite embarrassing but thankfully, his teammates were too a few feet away from him, giving him some alone time with you. Riki stopped walking, watching you through his squinted eyes as you approached him, wearing your signature warm and friendly smile on your face.
The soccer player shamelessly lets his eyes scan you from head to toe—greedily drinking in the way your clothes perfectly hugged your body, further accentuating on your figure. Riki gnawed on his bottom lip, eyes darkening a shade when he noticed the skirt you wore was short. Short enough for his mind to start wandering off, going down the gutter.
He could see your clean, bare and unblemished thighs underneath it, making his mouth waters as he wish to sink his teeth into your pillowy thighs, wanting to hear you cry out. Would you moan his name? Would you start tearing up if he nipped at your inner thighs? Would you start shaking and squirming beneath him while beg—
"Babe? What are you doing here?"
Oh right, you're dating someone that's not him.
Riki snapped back to reality, scowling and frowning like your boyfriend—his captain, had committed a grave crime known in the world. In a sense, he did. Riki will never understand how his captain managed to capture your heart or how you ended up falling for him. As far as he was aware, your boyfriend was anything but nice to you.
Firstly, he doesn't treat you as an equal. It's a ritual for the team to host parties whenever they won first place at competitions. Parties is where Riki gets a front-row seat of witnessing his captain treating you like you were invisible.
He will wander off, getting dragged away by his own group of friends while leaving his girlfriend—you, alone to fend for yourself.
And it's always up to Riki to be your knight in shining armor. Thanks to that however, it allow him to build a friendship with you.
Secondly, your boyfriend has a huge ego. Riki always have to hold himself back from throwing hands whenever he heard the low, hurtful comments his captain made towards you. He hated how he couldn't do anything but what he hated the most was the look on your face. The way the smile dropped. The way the light in your eyes died down and most importantly, how his words made you feel insecure.
"Dude, you look like you're about to murder someone," Jungwon pointed out, with a knowing look on his mischievous face.
"Fuck off," the younger replied without missing a beat, causing his friend to let out an offended gasp, resting a hand on his chest.
"Hey! No swearing at your seniors!" Jungwon exclaimed but Riki wasn't paying attention to him.
Instead, his eyes were locked on your figure, watching you from where he stood as you stood beside you boyfriend, who had an arm possessively wrapped around your waist. Riki snorted under his breath, knowing the only reason why he did that was to avoid anyone from looking at you for a second longer.
Fortunately for Riki, he was hidden in the other's blind spot, giving him an uninterrupted view of the source of his wet dreams and someone who he jerks off to.
As if sensing someone's intense gaze on you, his captain looked over his shoulder and made eye contact with him. The two boys stared down at one another, both unwilling to look away and to let the other person win.
To further ignite the flames, your boyfriend had the audacity to grab your chin, turning you to face him. Riki could see the mild surprise on you before he kissed you, right in front of everyone. Some of his teammates made loud, fake gagging noises. Some started cheering and whistling, behaving like the immature boys they are.
Jungwon whistled, impressed with the bold stunt the captain pulled. Riki, on the other hand, was seething with anger. He narrowed his eyes, jaw clenched and fists clenched so hard his knuckles were turning white. He knew what your boyfriend was doing—trying to rile him up. As much as he hated to admit it, it was working.
To make matters worse, he maintained eye contact with Riki the entire time—from before he kissed you to after he broke the kiss. The soccer player nearly sees red when the captain threw him a smug, cocky smirk—taunting him.
Bet you wish you could kiss her huh.
Riki's limbs moved before his mind could processed. He took a step forward, ready to punch the grin right off the other's face but Jungwon was quick to interfere. The older stepped in front of Riki, right arm thrown out to block off his path.
"Jungwon, back off," Riki hissed.
Jungwon turned to him. "Are you crazy!? Do you want to cause a scene and risk sitting out on the competition? I know you like her but don't do something stupid and reckless."
The younger paused at the mention of the competition. He knows Jungwon is right and how he needs to remain on his good behavior for the next four days. It took all of his remaining self-discipline to cool down, forcefully ripping his eyes away from you and your boyfriend, like the sight physically burns him.
"Understood," he said through gritted teeth, turning around to storm to where his duffel bag was, pointedly ignoring the exasperated sigh Jungwon let out.
Riki grabbed it and slung it over his shoulder, walking away from the field without sparing anyone a second glance. If he did turn around, he would have noticed the way your eyes remained fixated on his retreating figure.
He would have noticed the way you furrowed your eyebrows in confusion, wanting to go after him but was stopped by your boyfriend.
Too bad Riki was busy simmering in anger and jealousy to notice anything.
~
The next four days of intense, harsh and grueling practice passed in a blink of an eye. Their coach show no mercy to the team, constantly pushing them over their limits as he barked instructions at them. But deep down, everyone knew that the coach simply meant well for the team and that he wants them to win the competition.
Riki spend most of his time on field, which meant he's in the same breathing space as his captain and this meant he was able to see you as well. Which was a win-win situation. But what he hated the most is the sight of you wearing someone else's jersey, with your boyfriend's number on your back.
His stomach twist and turned into itself whenever he sees you seated among the crowd, with a wide smile on your face as you cheered at the top of your lungs. He hated how you never looked at him, eyes always following your boyfriend—someone who doesn't deserve your attention, time and effort.
He hated how he had to witness the revolting sight of you running towards him, followed by your pathetic excuse of a boyfriend lifting you up into the air before kissing you right in front of everyone to show you belong to him.
Currently, Riki and his teammates were in the locker room as they were changing into their jerseys to get ready for the competition. The boy sat on one of the wooden long benches in the locker room, a damp towel hanging over his head as he looked down at the floor with his elbows resting on his thighs.
It's a routine he does every time before stepping onto the field—to clear his mind, getting rid of any form of unnecessary thoughts. The surroundings were tuned out until they were nothing but white noise to him until his ears registered an annoyingly familiar voice that made his left eye twitched before he could help it.
"So, have you done anything with your girlfriend yet?" One of his teammates ask the captain.
The captain snorts. "Not yet. Every time I try to do something, she always say no. What a pussy."
Riki clenched his fists and on his right, he saw Jungwon shooting him a worried look. The younger pointedly faced the front, staring at the boring, dull gray wall like it was the most fascinating thing in the world while eavesdropping on the conversation, his focus interrupted, much to his frustration.
Three to four teammates who were gathered around the captain laughed like he had said something hilarious. And then, one of them spoke up in a tone that sent shivers down Riki's spine.
"Bet she'd sound good when you fuck her."
That comment alone made Riki see red. He stood up, ripping the towel away from his pitch-black hair, clutching it in his left hand as he stalked towards the group of boys, who were busy sniggering and laughing while making lewd and offensive comments about you.
Their voices died down when Riki stood before them, his tall frame hovering over them and with the dim lights shining down on him, it made him looked intimidating.
The group of boys shared glances among themselves, having a bad feeling of what was about to happen but the captain merely looked up and flashed Riki an infuriating smirk, leaning back to lean against the locker behind him.
"Yes, Nishimura? Need something?" He drawled.
At this point, everyone's eyes were on the two of them, sensing the growing and thickening tension lingering in the locker room. Riki glared down from where he stood, hands resting by his sides. He didn't say a thing, lunging at the captain with incredible speed. He was able to catch the other off-guard to deliver a hard, strong punch right in his face, nearly breaking his nose.
Baam!
The captain's body roughly collided against the locker behind him as he shouted in pain, clutching onto his sore nose with his eyes squeezed shut. The other boys quickly scramble away, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire.
Riki didn't give him time to regain his bearings, stepping closer to grab the captain by the collar, easily lifted him up and slammed him into the lockers, leaving his legs helplessly dangling in the air.
"You fucking piss me off every time you open that mouth of yours, you know that?" Riki hissed, lowering his voice an octave lower so only the captain can hear him. He's well-aware of how some of his teammates had pulled out their phones, recording it to upload the clip onto the Internet later.
The captain was confused for a moment but realization dawned on him a few seconds later. A slow sly smirk stretched across his face, still having the balls to act all cocky despite the odds were clearly against him.
"Oh? Is this about (Name)? I know you like her but too bad she's mine," he sneered, having the time of his life watching how Riki narrowed his eyes, his gaze turning more intense.
In response, Riki shoved him further against the locker, causing it to squeak and groan behind him but the two boys didn't care.
"I'll watch my mouth if I were you," Riki warned—threatened him. "Just because you're the principal's son doesn't mean I can't beat you up. What? You gonna run to your daddy and cry to him that you got your pathetic ass kicked?"
The captain's grin fell and this time, it was his turn to be angered by Riki's words. The younger merely smirked, cocking his head to the side. "What? Cat got your tongue now?"
The captain threw a weak, measly punch at him but Riki merely dodged it by moving his head to the side, allowing him to hit nothing but air. Riki retaliate by kneeing him in the stomach, drawing a pained gasp from him as he hunched over slightly, hands now clutching his sides. The soccer player's ears registered the whispers and murmurs behind him but he paid them no mind. He moved, about to punch him again—
"What the hell is going on?"
Everyone stilled.
They turned to the door, where their coach was standing. His face had turned black, looking at the sight before him in sheer disbelief and anger, like he couldn't believed what he was seeing. The coach went unusually silent, opening his mouth, on the verge of exploding but he thought the better of it, choosing to address everyone instead.
"All of you, get ready and get out there. The match's about to start soon. I want all of you to bring back a trophy when it's over."
The team obediently nodded their heads, not daring to say anything that might cause their coach to snap at any moment. He merely gave them one more glance before leaving, allowing the team to quickly stepped out. Riki threw the captain a final warning glare and released his grip, watching as he ungracefully toppled to the floor without any form of remorse.
Riki was about to leave but stopped on the spot when the captain called out to him.
"Hope you know she'll never choose you," he said and Riki nearly burst out laughing, finding it nidicolous but he didn't show any emotions, not wanting to give himself away.
He merely looked over his shoulder, locking eyes with him. "I won't be so sure of that, captain."
Without waiting for his response, Riki left, fueled with newfound determination to steal you away from that arrogant boyfriend of yours. It was only a matter of time before you finally belong to him.
~
To no one's surprise, they won the match and left with a huge gold trophy and to commemorate the joyous occasion, the captain has hosted a campus-wide party at his place.
Due to him being the principal's son, of course he has his own place and of course he's rich enough to afford living on the wealthier side of the neighborhood.
Everyone on campus are rich since it is a rich kids academy but your boyfriend is on a another league of his own. Riki pulled up at the venue with Jungwon—who had shamelessly demanded to be picked up, as he was too lazy to drive over, much to the younger boy's annoyance. The moment they got out, they were able to hear the loud, slightly muffled sounds of music being blasted from the speakers.
The captain's private property was filled to the brim with a sea of people. Most of them were unfamiliar faces to Riki but he could spot some faces who he recognized as he entered. Everyone's eyes instantly turned to him. Jungwon stepped closer to nudge his elbow against him, a cheeky grin on his cute, round face.
Riki is the walking and literal definition of a fashion show. He's dressed in a black turtleneck with a black leather jacket donned over it. He wore a pair of washed jeans that further accentuated his already long legs, making him looked as tall as always. His fingers was covered in a wide variety of silver rings that glimmered whenever he made hand movements, catching people's attention.
However, they weren't you.
"Look at you, the center of attention again," he teased.
Riki rolled his eyes but the way his lips curved up in a smile says otherwise. "Shut up, it's not my fault I'm popular."
Jungwon snorted at his comment. "Other guys will kill to be in your spot."
"Too bad for them then."
His friend muttered something inaudible under his breath but Riki paid him no mind. He scans the sea of people, trying to search for a certain someone and when he finally found you, he stopped walking, unable to tear his eyes away from you.
There you were—wearing a sleeveless dress that looks sinful on you. You haven't noticed him yet, giving him the perfect chance to admire (and maybe drool, like the horny loser he is) you from where you stood.
You were talking to two girls who he recognized as your friends while holding a shotglass in your left hand. Riki cursed in his mind at how he felt his jeans tightening as he struggle to think of something else.
"Ain't no way you're getting hard now," Jungwon scrunched his nose in disgust at how Riki subtly or unsubtly, fixed his jeans.
"Why are you still here? Go find a girl to kiss or fuck," the younger bite back, "before you ask, no, I'm not waiting for you so go home by yourself."
Jungwon gaped, making an offended sound as he watched Riki made a beeline towards you, leaving him alone. As he got closer, he saw your friends pointing in his direction, causing you to turn to him as he stopped before you. Your friends whispered something to you, giggling among themselves before walking away, leaving the two of you alone.
"Riki, hey! How you doing?" You greeted him, having to raise your voice a little due to the loud music in the background and to his horror (and giddiness), you opened your arms for a hug.
And who was he to deny such a generous offer from you?
He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around you and with how close he was, he could get a strong whiff of your perfume—vanilla and fruity. Riki forced himself to step back, very reluctantly dropping his arms as he forced them to lay by his sides, to act like he was a completely normal human being.
A normal human being who jerks off to your pictures you posted on your Instagram account, that is.
"I'm good, did you watch the match?" He asked, internally wincing at how awkward and stupid he sounds. Thankfully, Jungwon wasn't around to see him making a fool of himself.
You didn't question him, to which Riki was grateful for. "Yeah, I did. You did really well, as expected from the Nishimura Riki," you teased him, playfully nudged him. Riki swore he felt the specific part of where you briefly touched him was warmer than usual.
"You were watching me?" He inquired, shooting another question at your bemused look, "what about your boyfriend? How will he react if he finds out you weren't watching him?"
He asked in a light-hearted, playful tone when deep down, he was genuinely curious. He wanted to hear it from you, wondering what your boyfriend had told you.
You pursed your lips, the tip of your tongue darting out to wet your bottom lip. Riki's eyes zeroed in, nervously swallowing when he felt the familiar sensation of heat shooting straight down to his cock that twitched in the tight restraints of his jeans.
"He plays like he always do, I guess," you answered after a few seconds of pondering, raising your hand to tuck a few stray strands of hair behind your left ear, unaware of how Riki followed the movement with his eyes, like he was a predator and you are the prey.
He hummed, slowly nodding his head. "Is that so? Then, has he told you anything?"
You blinked. "What do you mean?"
Riki stepped closer, loving the way you had to tilt your head up slightly to look at him. "Oh, I don't know. Something related to a particular locker room fight."
Your eyes widened, now on the same wavelength as him. "Oh, that. Yeah, he told me about it. Told me how you made the first move, approached him and started fighting with him out of nowhere."
Riki resist the urge to burst out laughing, teeth sinking into his bottom lip to stifle the laughter threatening to slip. You continued speaking and furrowed your eyebrows, oblivious.
"He told me you were saying some… certain remarks about me and—"
"Woah, let's stop right there for a second," he cuts you off, not wanting to hear anymore of it. He raised a hand to silence you when you attempted to speak, only to close your mouth, allowing him to speak without getting interrupted.
"First of all, he's the one who talk about you to his friends. You don't have to know what he says and all I did was to give him a very much deserved punch, that's all," he summarized and shrugged his shoulders.
You stared at him for a few seconds in silence. Seeing this, Riki waved his hand in front of your face.
"Hello? Earth to (Name)?" He called out to you.
You snapped back to reality. "Oh, right. Sorry I was just—!?"
You didn't finish your sentence when someone knocked into you from behind, causing you to stumble forward. The liquor in the shotglass sloshed out, landing on Riki's clothes but he didn't care about his clothes. He was quick to steady you, hands instinctively resting on your hips so you won't face-plant into the ground.
He looked over you, scowling at how it was a drunk guy who could barely walked straight. His friends were quick to apologize on his behalf as they dragged him away from you. Sighing, Riki diverted his focus back to you, noting how your face was awkwardly squashed against his chest.
"You good?" He asked, hands still resting on your waist.
He could only focus on how his fingers were touching around your waist. But before his mind could leave his body, you straightened yourself and quickly stepped back, leaving some distance between you. Riki pointedly ignored the way his stomach churned. You gasped out loud at the sight of his now drenched and sticky clothes.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry. If you want, I can lend you my boyfriend's clothes for you to change into," you frantically apologized while pointing to the flight of stairs located in the corner of his eyes.
Now Riki would be nothing but a utter fool if he doesn't take the chance you just gave him—the chance where he can be alone with you. Which was why he agreed, letting you lead the way as he followed you up the stairs. Every step he took made the music and noise died down until it was completely quiet.
You opened the first door on your left and he followed you in. One look around and he was able to tell it's your boyfriend's room. Riki stood near the closed door, observing you as you opened the closet to dig for clothes. With your back facing him, he drew closer, directly standing behind you in with his chest pressed against your back.
You went still. "..Riki, what are you doing?" You asked, voice trembling at the end. The slip-up made him smirked.
"Nothing, don't mind me, sweetheart. Continue," he drawled, boldly resting his left hand on your waist, savoring the startled gasp you let out and how your body leaned into his touch.
You clutched onto a sleeve of a shirt to ground yourself, shivers running down your spine at how he proceeded to rest his chin on your left shoulder. This is wrong. You have a boyfriend, for fuck's sake but despite that, you made no move to push him away.
Like a part of you want this. Want him.
The thought itself made his head spin. A part of him wants to take you right there and then—to fuck you in your boyfriend's bed, making you scream and chant his name until everyone can hear it. Hear you saying his name. Another part of him wants to keep that side to himself, not wanting anyone else to hear it.
Riki forcefully ripped himself away, taking a step back to give you some space. He watched as your shoulders loosened when you no longer felt him hovering behind you.
You grabbed a clean shirt and a pair of pants with your borderline shaking hands, giving it to him without looking at him. Chuckling, he accepted it and pointedly cleared his throat when you refused to turn around.
"Are you planning on staying here while I change?" He teased.
You spun on your heels, revealing your red cheeks and ears. "W-What? No! Go change in the bathroom, don't change here!" You protested.
Riki laughed, amused with your reaction. "I'm kidding. I won't do that," he paused for a second, eyes twinkling in mischief, "unless you wanna see?"
"Riki!"
He continued laughing as you attempt to push him towards the door but he didn't budge an inch, due to him being taller and stronger than you. The boy snickered, reaching out to ruffle your hair, to which you slapped his hand away.
Riki was unfazed, dropping his hand and headed to the door. His hand hovered midair, fingers brushing against the handle before looking over his shoulder.
"By the way, you look pretty in the dress," he complimented and stepped out before you could say anything, leaving you standing in your boyfriend's room, staring at him with wide eyes, flushed cheeks and your heart skipping a beat at his sincere words.
What the hell just happened?
~
The weekend passed and to every student's nightmare, it was Monday again. Time slipped through your fingers with you being productive in your lectures as you took down notes, like the diligent and hardworking student you are.
You even managed to spend your free time making notes for your upcoming examinations before it was your term break. Right now, you were waiting for your boyfriend in the library on campus with your headphones blocking out the surrounding noises.
You were so focused in your current task that you were unaware of someone approaching your table. The only form of warning you got was a tall figure blocking the ceiling lights before they removed your headphones, pulling it away from your head. Your head snapped up, ready to tell them off, only to pause when it's none other than Riki himself.
But what caught your attention is his hair.
It's still the same as before—in the same shade of pitch-black darkness but there was something different. There's a stark silver streak that cuts through the front, starting near the roots and breaking through the rest of his hair, like a scar of moonlight. Riki noticed your prolonged silence and how you stared at him.
Of course he did. He notice everything when it comes to you.
He chose to act innocent, still holding your headphones in his right hand. "What's wrong? Something on my face?" He inquired.
You awkwardly cleared your throat, fidgeting in your seat as you slung your right leg over your left while fiddling with your pen. "No, not at all. I just didn't expect the sudden change of your hair."
Humming, Riki sat opposite of you, even though he didn't ask. But it's not like you will kick him out anyways.
"Ah, I wanted something different before the term break starts. What do you think?" He replied, returning your headphones and your fingers accidentally brushed as you reached out.
Time paused and everything else around you stilled. You couldn't looked away from Riki, maintaining eye contact with him with your headphones now acting as the connecting bridge to link the two of you together. All you could focused on is the heat emitted from his fingertips, his intense and unwavering puma-like gaze and how his eyes darkened a shade.
Your breath hitched with how he traced your features with his eyes, showing no ounce of shame. Heck, he wasn't even hiding it to begin with. Somehow, the thought of him wanting you despite how you're taken made heat pooled in your stomach as you rubbed your thighs together. You frantically shook your head, getting rid of the thought.
What you didn't know was how Riki smirked to himself, knowing what you were thinking with how you oh so subtly squeezed your thighs underneath the table. He came to the library after overhearing your pathetic excuse of a boyfriend stating he's going somewhere with his friends, completely tossing you—his girlfriend, aside.
If you're dating Riki, this won't happen. Riki will make sure to spend his time with you, never wanting to leave you alone.
He was the first to break the moment, leaning back into his seat with his long legs stretched out before him.
"So, what are you working on?" He asked, jutting his chin towards your study materials laid out before you.
"Oh, it's nothing much. Just taking notes for my finals," you answered before narrowing your eyes as you pointed your pen at him, "don't you have finals too?"
Riki raised his hands in mock surrender, lips curled up in a smile. "Guilty as charged. I was wondering if you could tutor me."
"Tutor you?" You echoed, letting out a shocked, breathless laugh. "Riki, you're the most smartest person I know. Why do you need tutoring?"
"What's wrong with wanting to be more prepared for finals? Besides, is it wrong to ask the smartest student who always tops the entire cohort?" He pointed out.
You didn't know how to respond to that, knowing he was right and sighed, shoulders slumping. "Fine, when do you want to start?"
"How about now? We can head over to my place. It's quieter there and I live alone, so you don't have to worry about people disturbing us," he proposed.
"Now?" You repeated, your eyebrows flying up so high they nearly disappeared into your hairline. "I'm supposed to meet my boyfriend."
Something akin to annoyance flickered across his face but it was gone when you blinked. "He wants me to pass you a message. Said he'll be going somewhere with his friends so he's not coming over."
You pursed your lips, pulling out your phone to check and there wasn't any messages from him. You wanted to say something but you felt your resolve vanishing when you saw Riki giving you wide, pleading eyes with his lips jutted out in a pout.
"..Fine, let's go then," you agreed.
Grinning, Riki helped you to pack up. Before you could carry your bag, he had carried it for you, slinging it over his shoulder without a care in the world as he walked ahead of you, leaving the library to where his car was parked.
"I can carry that myself," you said, wanting to snatch it back but Riki merely raised your bag up into the air, out of your reach.
"No can do. Let me do this for you," he clicked his tongue.
"Nishimura Riki."
"(Full Name)," he answered without hesitation, matching your tone just to be annoying.
You scowled as you caught up to him. "What's wrong with you? Why are you doing all of this?"
Riki stopped out of a sudden. You swore under your breath as you nearly crashed into him.
"You still don't get it?" He asked, voice strangely even and steady.
"Get what? Stop talking in riddles and just get straight to the point, Riki," you demand, frustration seeping into your voice.
Riki fully turned to face you and you were taken aback with how serious he looked—a huge contrast to his usual confident and laid-back demeanor he often carried himself in.
This was different, like this truly mean something to him. You dryly swallowed as he began speaking, or rambling, letting out his pent-up feelings he had been harboring for months.
"Every time I see you with him, it makes me sick. Why choose him, out of everyone else? Why settle for someone who doesn't even love you?" He started off, raising his voice slightly as he speaks, gripping onto the strap of your bag that was slung over his left shoulder.
You openly gaped. "What the fuck are you talk—"
"Are you blinded by love to the point that you'll settle for the bare minimum? Settle for someone who doesn't see you as an equal. Settle for someone who keeps brushing you off and parade you around like you're an item," he continued, cutting you off.
He couldn't stop now, not when you had unlocked the Paradox's Box.
"Riki—"
"Seeing you, someone who deserves so much more, going for a piece of fucking scum," he paused briefly, grabbing onto the front of his shirt—right where his heart was, "it hurts, a lot."
"Riki, wai—"
He steps forward. You retreated back but he followed.
This went on until your back hits the firm, smooth surface of a wall behind you. Riki braced his arms on both sides of you, blocking off any exit routes. Your heart betrayed you by skipping a beat at how tall he was, towering over you and how with his larger frame, he can completely engulfed you easily.
You parted your lips but your voice died down in your throat when he roughly tilted your chin up with his left hand, his thumb hovering over your bottom lip, not touching but you could feel his touch. You let out a soft, startled gasp when he harshly tugged on your hair, forcing you to further tilt your head back until your muscles start to ache in protest.
"Seriously, Riki, what's gotte—!?"
"Shut up and listen to me," he growled, the sound low and deep, causing you to clench down on invisible air and your knees buckled, threatening to give way.
You weren't sure what it was. Maybe it's the way he spoke, in that cruel and firm tone, like you were beneath him, like you're supposed to listen to him. Maybe it's the way he looked down at you, using his height to his advantage. Whatever it was, you let out an involuntary whimper before you could stop yourself.
Both of you stilled.
Riki reacted first—a slow, knowing and cunning smirk stretched across his lips. Like he had you all figured out. He gave a light, experimental tug on your hair, to test the water and just like before, another whimper fell from your lips. The taller chuckled, leaning down to brush his lips against yours.
You knew what he's doing. He's making you begged for it and honestly, with how you were already dripping between your legs.
"Say it," he demands, now firmly pressing his thumb against your bottom lip. He watched with smugness at how you willingly let him do as he pleased, letting him tugged your bottom lip down.
"Say you want me."
Your eyelids fluttered shut, mind going hazy. Riki waits, like the patient man he is. After all, he has waited long enough to have you like this so waiting for a few more seconds won't hurt him.
"I.." You whispered, like it's a sacred secret meant for just the two of you. Riki arched an eyebrow questioningly, waiting for you to finish your sentence.
"I want you."
You have the front-row seat of witnessing his eyes darkening a shade, desire written all over his face after you said it, giving him the consent for what he's about to do to you. For a moment, you thought he will jump on you right there and then—out in the open, in the hallway where anyone can walk in at any second.
But he retreated, fingers purposely tracing your jawline before dropping his hands. Your fingers twitched at your sides, tempted to pull him back. You felt cold out of a sudden, no longer feeling the heat emitted from his body.
"Not here," he murmured, eyes darting left and right to check for anyone and when no one was around, he crowded you against the wall again, savoring the gasp you let out.
You felt something thick and hard poking against your inner thighs, making you bit down on your lip, wondering how he will feel when he's inside you. Riki smirked, cupping your face up, forcing you to look at him.
"But when we get back, I'll make sure you'll only think of me once I'm done with you. And that, is a promise I intend to keep," he warns you, sending shivers down your spine at the implication behind his words.
~
The drive back to his place was quiet in a tense way. There was so much tension that you felt like it was suffocating you, the air curling itself around you while waiting in the shadows.
Riki didn't say a word, one hand on the steering wheel while the other firmly on your right thigh. Every time you look down, you gulped at how huge his hand looked on your thigh.
He didn't glance or speak to you the entire time, even after he had parked his car. Even when he led the way to the lift. Even when he brought you to the door leading to his home.
The moment you stepped in, all hell broke loose.
"Wha—!?"
You gasped out, vision shaking at the edges when you were slammed against the nearest wall surface, only for your lips to be captured in a passionate, intense kiss. Riki kissed you like he wants to devour you whole—from inside and outside.
He kissed you like he needs you to survive, to breathe. His hands never stay still, wandering around your body as he greedily mapped and traced your silhouette, leaving lingering heat and warmth behind in his trail.
You mewled into his mouth when he gave a tight, possessive squeeze at your hips, wanting to squeeze your thighs but Riki slotted his right, solid thigh between your legs, forcing you to keep them open. Your lips parted, eyes nearly rolling to the back of your head when you felt his cock perfectly aligned against your wet core.
"Feel that? That's what you do to me," he rasps, slinging your right leg to hook it around his waist, giving an experimental thrust up, grinning against your lips at the breathless, choked-out moan you let out.
"Ngh, Riki!" You cried out, throwing your head back, breaking the kiss to reveal your neck and it's only right for him to follow suit.
You arched your back off the wall, pressing your chest against his as he trailed hot and wet kisses down. Riki stopped at a particular area, his hot breath fanning against it before he sank his teeth into your skin, hard enough to leave a bite mark behind. A physical claim to show you belong to him.
"Fuck, you drive me crazy. Been wanting you like this ever since I first saw you," he groaned, the sound low and guttural, making your head spin.
You began moving your hips forward slowly, moaning at the delirious friction of your sticky panties rubbing against the rough surface of his gray pants. Riki didn't stop you but instead, he encourage you by flexing his thigh against your soaked pussy while he continued decorating your neck with hickeys and marks.
"Oh f-fuck," you shamelessly moaned, not caring how loud you were and how his neighbors might be able to hear you. All you cared was how you were embarrassingly close to reaching your climax.
Riki smirked, pulling back to look at you, eyes drinking in the sight of your flushed face and cheeks, your half-lidded eyes, your pretty, kissable and swollen lips.
All of it made you looked downright sinful—the exact opposite of how you normally were on campus. He repositioned his hands so now both were gripping onto your waist, bypassing the barricade of your clothes.
Your body visibly flinched at the feeling of his large, warm and calloused hands touching your bare skin, causing more slick to drip from your pussy. You were so wet that there's a visible wet stain left behind. Seeing this, Riki chuckled as leaned closer, angling his head to the side to whisper into your right ear.
"Look at you, humping my thigh like you're a dog in heat. How would your boyfriend react if he sees you like this?" He coos, faux sweetness dripping in his voice.
His crude words and condescending tone only made you grind faster, your movements growing sloppier and more frantic when you felt your stomach tightening. Riki noticed the way your breathing grew ragged, the way your shoulders rise and fell unevenly and how you kept moaning and whining, which is music to his ears.
"Wanna cum just like that?" He barked out a laugh, moving you when he saw how you were slowing down.
"Mhm! Pleasepleaseplease," you pleaded oh so prettily for him.
"Then cum for me, princess. Wanna see you soak my thigh," he groaned and you shattered, pussy clenching and unclenching around nothing as violent tremors coursed through your body.
Riki didn't give you time to regain your bearings, easily swooping you into his arms, drawing a squeak from you. You instinctively threw your arms around his broad, sturdy shoulders as he brought you to his bedroom with the door already opened. He threw you onto his messy bed and was quick to clamber over you for a kiss.
You met him in the middle, hands flying into his hair as you tugged on him, drawing a low, satisfied purr from the back of his throat. You parted your lips, spreading your legs wider to accommodate his taller and large frame as he situated himself between them. Riki sensually slides his tongue against yours before exploring every inch of your mouth, ensuring nothing is left untouched.
He hum as he grabbed the hem of your shirt, pushing the fabric up until it's near your neck. You were forced to break the kiss only for a second, allowing him to remove it. Riki tossed it to the floor before kissing you again, practically slamming his lips against yours.
He didn't bother unbuckling your bra, forcefully pulling it down to free your breasts as they bounced free from the restraints.
You let out a muffled whine at the cool air against your hardened nipples. Riki broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours with you two breathing in the same space. He sharply inhaled as his eyes trailed down, raising his right hand to give a gentle squeeze to your right breast, kneading it like it's soft dough.
"Fuck," you sighed, leaning your head back, allowing yourself to be pushed back until you were now laying on his bed, with his pillow underneath your head.
Riki paused for a moment to take in the sight of you—shirtless, panting with looks that could rival against the goddess, like Aphrodite. His fingers twitched, tempted to take a picture but an idea hit him. Confusion appeared on your face when he slide off the bed without explaining.
You raised your head slightly, observing as he pulled out his phone from the pocket of his pants. He moved to the bedside table situated on the left, opened the Camera app and switched it to video mode. You watched as he expertly placed it an an angle to capture your lower half, your face out of the frame. But despite that, you felt embarrassed that he's recording it.
"What are you doing?" You asked, eyes tracking his movements as he grabbed something from his opened closet before moving back to the bed, placing himself between your legs. You wordlessly raised your hips when he patted twice on your thighs, allowing him to tug your pants down, leaving you in your soaked, utterly ruined white cotton panties.
Your ears turned red when he muttered "cute" under his breath. You tried to close your legs but Riki held you down, throwing you a pointed, warning look, leaving you no choice but to leave them spread open for him.
"Wear it," he instructs you while holding out the bunched up fabric in his left hand. You recognized what it was with the red jersey with his name imprinted on the back, along with his position number.
"This…" Your voice trailed off as you accepted it, staring at the jersey like you've never seen it before.
Riki smirked, moving to hover over you while tilting your chin up, forcing you to meet his dark and lust-filled eyes. "I want you to wear my jersey while I fuck you. Don't worry, your face won't be recorded in the video. It's for me to keep it. I'm not letting anyone else see you like this."
He paused, letting his words sink in before leaning closer to brush his lips against yours, your breaths mingling and intertwining together.
"I want you to remember I'm the one who's fucking you. Not that shitty boyfriend of yours. Not anyone else either," he continued, lowering his voice until it's in that rich deep tone that made your heart fluttered.
Feeling shy out of a sudden, you looked to the side but Riki didn't like that. With a click of his tongue, he grabbed your chin, directing you to face him with him hovering over you.
"Don't look away. I want you to look at me, got it?" He asks and you wordlessly nodded your head.
"Use your words, baby. I want to hear you."
"Y-Yes, I got it," you whispered, watching the way he looks proud at your response.
"Now wear the jersey."
You obeyed, putting it on with your shaking hands as you slipped it over your body. The jersey is way bigger than you, completely engulfing you in it with the hem reaching your upper thighs. Riki stilled, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight before him. He nearly stopped breathing at how good you looked in his jersey. But more importantly…
"You look like you're mine," he swore, breathing ragged, sounding out of breath like he had ran a marathon.
Seeing the effect you have on him with you just wearing his jersey drew a soft whimper from you. You fidget about on the sheets, feeling nervous being on the receiving end of his firm and unwavering gaze.
"Riki, please.. do something," you whispered.
The boy chuckled, finding it cute. "Lay back, baby. All you need to do is to stay still and look pretty for me."
You complied, laying back down on the bed.
"Good girl," he praised you, eyes never leaving your face.
What the fuck.
A needy keen left your lips without you knowing at his sudden praise. Hearing it, Riki arched an eyebrow, mentally filing that aside for future purposes. Right now, he has a more important task to focus on—the task of getting his first ever taste of you. The boy shifted down until he's supporting his weight with his elbows.
He threw your legs over his shoulders, ignoring the surprised noise you let out. Your mind blanked out at the first hot, wet and rough long, slow and deliberate lick of his tongue, starting from damp, smooth entrance to your throbbing, aching clit. It's filthy, with Riki using his tongue to spread your remaining slick from your previous climax all over your pussy, making it even more messier than it already was.
"F-Fuck!" You cried out, back arching off the bed in an impressive arch that could put even the crescent moon into shame. You blindly fist the sheets beneath you, nails digging into it—a poor attempt to ground yourself.
Spurred by your expressive reaction, Riki continued. He dive in like a man on a mission, like he had been craving, yearning for this for many years. It's sloppy, rushed and intense. It's clear all he cares now is to bring you to your second climax, wanting to have your taste on his tongue.
He ate you out with sheer focus and determination, using his thumb and index finger to spread your fat, puffy pussy lips apart. Riki slid his tongue in and out, repeating the pace he sets while you were being reduced to a flushed, trembling and sensitive mess, all thanks to his skillful tongue.
"Shit, you taste so good. Should've done this sooner. Bet your boyfriend doesn't know how good you taste," he groaned, sounding like he was in heaven and he is.
If he could choose a way to die, he'd rather die with his face buried between your legs. To him, your slick tastes like sweet poison or some sort of drugs he could never get enough of. You clenched down on his tongue at his words, making him grinned smugly.
"You didn't let him eat this pretty little pussy, did you?" He asks, pulling away, drawing a sound of protest from you as the cool air of the room brushed against you.
You didn't speak, simply staring at him. Riki clicked his tongue, dissatisfied with your lack of response and delivered a sharp, light but stinging slap to your pussy, right in the middle. The sound echoed in the four walls of the bedroom.
You whimpered, your pussy pathetically twitched at the sudden rough attention.
"I asked you a question. Answer me."
"N-No!" You cried out, hating how his stern personality and the way he treats you—like your only purpose was to satisfy him was turning you on.
Riki hummed, pleased. "Good, I don't want anyone else to do this to you. You're mine."
He snarled the last two words, possessive seeping into his voice. Hearing him like this—all worked up and how jealous he was made your pussy throbbed, both at the lack of attention and his evident jealousy.
You briefly wondered: just when did he learned this? But the thought flew out of your mind when he pushed two fingers into your pink, twitching hole until he's knuckles-deep in. You could feel the cold, smooth metal surfaces of his rings pressed against your outer lips.
Riki moaned at how you clamped down on him with a vice-like grip—showing no signs of letting him go, the sound muffled with how his face was practically buried deep between your thighs.
Your mind didn't register the fact you were aimlessly rambling random nonsense now, saying words that sounded like please, more, Riki and so on. Whatever it was, it seems to do the trick, with how he expertly curled his fingers, brushing it against that delicate spongy spot hidden between your delicate walls.
His action made you see stars exploding behind your eyelids, mouth dropping open with a silent, high-pitched moan leaving your lips. Riki pushed forward until your lower half was now dangling in the air with his nose bumping against your clit, drawing a series of whines and whimpers from you.
"S-Stop. C-Can't," you weakly protested, trying to push him away but it was futile.
Riki snarled, like a cat baring its teeth at you at your rejection. "Yes you can. And you will take what I give you."
A part of you want to sob, to throw a fit that you seriously can't cum again but another part of you want to be good for him, want him to treat you like this—manhandle you around like you're a rag-doll, going all pliant while letting him do as he pleased.
Riki continued eating you out like a starved man, the obscene sounds of his lips loudly smacking against your clit. He swirled the bud peeking out with the tip of his tongue in a agonizingly slow, clockwise motion that has your legs twitching. You cried out for the unknown time when he wrapped his lips around the bud, almost like he's about to tear it off your pussy.
The wet, slimey muscle explored every inch and you were able to feel his purrs and moans, sending vibrations up your spine. You ended up locking your legs around his neck, holding him in place as he alternated between pumping his fingers in and out of you and moving them in a scissors-like movement when he's deep inside you.
You were dripping so much that the sheets were soaked and ruined beyond recognition. Riki didn't care that your slick was trickling down his chin, not caring that there were stains left behind. All he care about was pushing you to your second climax.
"S-Stop—ngh, g-gonna cum," you whined, one hand clutching the pillow while the other grabbed a fistful of his hair as you desperately rocked your hips against his skillful, talented mouth. The lingering thought of him recording you had already flew out of your mind.
Riki tapped your inner thigh twice with his free hand, giving you permission. All it took was a long, flat swipe against your entrance for you to violently squirt against his mouth. The boy drank it up, treating it like sweet nectar from flowers as he lapped away, not wanting to waste a single drop.
"You're amazing, you know that?" He groaned, pulling back to reveal his lips and chin practically glowing from the sheer amount of slick stained on the lower half of his face.
Without breaking eye contact, his tongue darted out, wetting his already damp, thick and puffy lips before the pink muscle retreated into his mouth.
Your face turned as red as a tomato at how lewd he looks, like something straight out of a cheap porno video. Riki shifted up, cupping your face with both his hands and kissed you, letting you taste yourself on your lips.
You moaned, instantly parting your lips, body flinching at a particular harsh suck on your tongue, drawing a muffled whine from you. You blindly moved your hands about, slipping them underneath his hoodie to trace the faint outlines of his abs, feeling them contract at your touch beneath your fingerpads.
Riki nipped at your bottom lip, sliding his tongue against the seam of your lips as a form of apology. He shivered against your lips as your hands went beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, playing with the hem of his Chrome Hearts boxers.
"You're a fucking tease," he growled but his lips curved upward in a soft, loving smile at the giggle you let out.
"Wanna suck you off," you murmured, hearing an audible, muffled groan from him.
"You sure?" He asks, breaking the kiss as he lets you push him backward until your positions are swapped.
He's now laying on the bed, head near the edge while you straddle his lap, looking like a wet dream with his jersey hanging off your right shoulder. You nodded your head, leaning down to kiss him again and he eagerly reciprocate it, hissing into your mouth when you teasingly rolled your hips against his, feeling his clothed cock rocking against your overly-sensitive pussy.
Riki lifted his hips off the bed, allowing you to pull both his boxers and sweatpants down. You tossed them aside, not caring where it landed. His cock sprung free, laying flat against his stomach with his hoodie pushed up, the fabric brunched around his chest.
You paused for a second, taking in the sight of the tip of his cock already in a ferocious shade of reddish-purple, due to the lack of attention.
"Scared?" Riki asked, noting your prolonged silence and how you kept staring at it with wide eyes and poorly hidden surprise.
"N-No, just didn't expect you to be this big," you replied without hesitation, tucking your hair behind your ears as you shifted down, moving into a more comfortable position.
Riki watched with bated breath as your lips hovered near the tip, your hot breath grazing against it. You glanced at him, leaning forward to press a light, fleeting kiss, watching how his hips jerked upward, cock gliding against your lips. You took the chance to take him whole, lips wrapped around his cock like you're sucking a lollipop.
"Oh fuck," Riki groaned, head thrown back with his eyes fluttering shut at how tight and warm your mouth felt.
You hollowed your cheeks, sucking him as you moved forward. This is how he finds out you don't have a gag reflex, with how you easily took him whole until the tip hit the back of your throat. Riki reached out, right hand grabbing a fistful of your hair, using it like the reins—like you're a horse and he's a cowboy.
"S-Shit, takin' me so well," he rasps, voice cracking at the edges with how you began bobbing your head back and forth, one hand reaching between to fondle with his heavy, cum-filled balls.
Riki canted his hips into your mouth, savoring the muffled, startled moan you made and he felt your jaw slackened, he wasted no time in fucking into your mouth while you laid there—between his legs, letting him used you to chase after his incoming orgasm. Tears prickled your eyes as you readjusted your hands to rest them on his muscular thighs.
"So good for me, aren't you? Lettin' me use your mouth like a cockslut," he sneers, subtly shivering at how you moaned with your lips obscenely stretched wide around his cock and how a stray tear droplet rolled down your cheek.
He lifted his head slightly when he saw your hand between your legs and realization hits him. He barks out a dark, degrading laugh.
"Greedy little thing, touching yourself while getting your mouth fucked. You like this, don't you?" He coos, watching as you tried your best to nod your head while looking at him with wide, pleading eyes.
Riki didn't warn you as he spilled down your throat. You didn't gagged on the tangy, salty taste of his thick cum, swallowing all of it while not letting a single drop roll down your chin.
You withdrew your head with a soft, audible "pop" sound as you rested your chin on his left upper thigh, your lips now looking extremely bruised and swollen, like you had been mauled around by a beast, which wasn't far from the truth.
"Open your mouth," he ordered, cupping your chin upward and you obliged, parting your lips. You let him turned your head side to side and his cock hardens immediately at how you swallowed everything.
His eyes darkened a shade as he swore under his breath. He roughly tugged you forward, making you let out a startled yelp as your hands landed on his chest to avoid knocking your head against his, forcing you to straddle his lap.
"C'mon, ride me, pretty girl," he said, folding his hands behind his head as he watched you, having no intentions of helping you out.
You threw him a glare at how unhelpful he was as you raised yourself up while aligning him against your gaping, empty hole. Riki's eyes zeroed in on how you rubbed his tip against your outer lips, how you shuddered and how you let out a long sigh at the feeling. Biting down on your bottom lip, you slowly sank down, taking him inch by inch until he's fully sheathed in you.
Both of you moaned in unison at the heavenly feeling. You felt like you were being split apart and you swore you could feel him hitting the back of your throat too, with how big, long and thick he is. Riki's phone was still recording, capturing your back view as you rose up until his tip was still inside you before you slammed down, your thighs and asscheeks jiggling.
"Fuck, you're too—hah—b-big," you whimpered, head thrown back as you repeat the movement—raising yourself up before going down on him, riding him at the pace you set.
Riki hissed at how you tightened around him, thumb rubbing your clit while matching your pace, drawing a series of whines and moans from you. He rested his other hand on your hips, nails digging into your skin hard enough to leave imprints behind.
"Big? But you're takin' me so well. You're made for this. For me," he taunted and in a blink of an eye, he surged forward, easily switching your positions.
Your vision spun. One moment you were riding him. The next, you were on your back. Riki threw your legs over his shoulders, bending you forward into a mating press position as he jackhammer into you at a ruthless and merciless pace.
Your legs dangled uselessly in the air. The bedframe loudly smacked against the wall behind it with every thrust. You were certain his neighbors will be launching a noise complaint tomorrow.
The thought flew out of your mind when he shifted his hips slightly, his cock hitting that one spongy spot, making you moaned as you arched your back as you curled your toes, pressing your chest against his. Riki knew he hit bullseye from your reaction, wasting no time in abusing the same spot, over and over. He cupped your face, index and middle finger resting on both sides of your cheeks.
"Open up, doll," he demands and you did, bemused with his intention.
Only for him to spit into your mouth.
It's filthy, like he's claiming you as his. His sudden action made you clenched around him and he closed your lips, watching as you swallowed it without hesitation.
"That's my girl. So good for me, aren't you? Gonna let me fuck this little pussy, hm? Let me make you remember the shape of my cock," he growled, ducking his head to nip at your left earlobe.
You sobbed, unaware of tears now freely rolling down your cheeks, eyes rolling up to the back of your head. Your mouth dropped wide open, forming an "O" shape at how his cock kept sliding in and out of you, reshaping your insides to fit the outline of his cock, like he's forcing your body to remember it belongs to him.
"R-Rik—ngh—m-more—hah," you moaned, nails digging into his shoulder blades, hard enough to leave crescent-moon shaped indents behind.
"Fuck, you're squeezin' me so fuckin' tight. Still tight even after I open you up," he panted against the column of your hickey-covered neck.
His eyes flicked down, noting a faint bulge on your stomach. His bangs fell over his eyes but he's able to see it—the outline of his cock inside you. Riki slowed down, tuning out the weak sound of disappointment you made. He watched, mesmerized at the erotic sight of watching it moved along with him.
Riki moved his left hand and lightly pressed down on it, matching it with the same time as he thrusted into you, gaining a choked out moan from you beneath him.
"You're so small but takin' me so well," he breathed out, mind spinning. He couldn't look away, even when he resumed the brutal pace he set earlier on.
"F-Fuck, g-gonna cum—pleasepleaseplease," you begged, voice all needy, whiny and desperate.
Riki moved to capture your lips in a kiss, although it wasn't a kiss with how you were openly panting against his lips but he didn't care. From his phone's point of view, it's capturing both of your side profiles with your features hidden.
"Yea? Wanna cum, baby?" He cooed, watching how you squeezed your eyes shut but he was quick to give a mean pinch to your clit, chuckling as you flinched from the sudden stimulation.
"Mhm! Please!"
"Then cum, show me you're mine."
With the combination of the possessiveness in his voice and a long, final thrust from him, you cum while chanting his name like a sacred prayer. You cum so hard that your vision blacked out for a few seconds, making you think you had actually passed out on the spot.
Riki fucks you through your orgasm, his own movements growing sloppier as your pussy spasmed violently around his cock, almost like you're sucking him in.
Riki was quick to follow suit, burying himself to the hilt as he painted your gummy, velvety walls in the shade of white. You whimpered at the sudden, uncomfortable feeling of being pumped full of his cock. He didn't pull out, choosing to collapse on top of you, earning an "oof" from you as he was crushing your lungs.
"Get off of me. You're crushing me," you complained, lightly whacking his shoulder but he remains unfazed with your measly attacks, choosing to shamelessly bury his face in the middle of your breasts.
"Nah, I'm comfy here," he mumbled, wriggling about so he could wrap his arms around you as well.
You sighed, resting your hand on his head as you stared at the ceiling. None of you said a thing, spending a few seconds to regain your breathing before you broke it, voice small and hesitant.
"..So, now what? What does this make us?" You asked, glancing down to see he was already looking at you, eyes locked on your face.
"Well, it's simple. You cheated on your boyfriend and now, we're dating," he casually answered.
Your cheeks flushed red at the sudden reminder but instead of feeling embarrassed, you felt strangely proud. It was then you realized that he was right the entire time—your boyfriend, well ex-boyfriend, had treated you with nothing but disrespect. He didn't see you as a girlfriend. He see you as an item—and the thought itself is enough to make you sick to the core.
"What's in that mind of yours, pretty girl?"
Riki's soft voice snapped you out of your thoughts. You blinked, snapping out of your trance to see his face is close to yours now, with him staring at you, like you're the only one in his world. Clearing your throat, you averted your eyes to the side, choosing to stare at the door instead.
"I was thinking how I'm gonna tell him," you answered.
Riki snorted, turning you back to face him. He leaned in until the tips of your noses brushed against one another. His eyes gleamed in mischief as he smirked, the sight downright attractive, making you clenched down on him.
He felt it. Of course he does, since he didn't pull out yet.
"Oh, don't worry. I'll handle it," he purred and without warning, gave a light thrust, drawing a startled gasp from you.
𓊆西村力 x fem reader𓊇 💌 scent kink, panty sniffing, riki jerks off to your scent and panties and bra, sunshine gf x grumpy bf troupe kinda, he's NASTY and disgusting
𓆩♡𓆪 i cannot resist it U guys. nishimura riki i fucking love u. ure so fun to write with and your girlfriend will always be the contrast of u. if u <3 it pls give it lots of love and feedbacks!!
“sooo… how do i look?”
your boyfriend was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs spread, wearing nothing but black sweatpants and a sleeveless white tee. his phone slipped from his hand the second he looked up. his eyes dragged slowly down your body, then back up.
“whoa… hot stuff,” he breathed, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “you’re looking way too good. c’mere,”
you walked closer until you were standing between his knees. riki leaned back slightly on his hands, tilting his head as he took you in again.
“turn for me.”
you gave him a slow swirl. the second your back was to him, you heard him curse under his breath.
“fuck. again. slower.”
you obeyed, turning even slower this time. when you faced him again, riki’s hands were already reaching out. he grabbed the side of your skirt and tugged you forward sharply, making you stumble into him with a small gasp and a giggle.
“damn,” he murmured, voice lower now. his gave went straight to your waist, nose brushing the fabric of your top before he inhaled deeply. “god… what is that perfume? you smell insane.”
you giggled, hands coming up to brush his blonde locks. “it’s very good girl, baby. you bought it for me, remember?”
riki let out a low groan, like the name itself turned him on.
yeah… you’re a very good girl. his very good girl.
he tugged you forward, bringing you down to sit on his lap with your back pressed against his chest. the moment you were settled between his legs, his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
“yeah… fuck, i chose too well, didn’t i?” he whispered right against your ear.
you let out a bright, giggly laugh as his nose immediately buried into the side of your neck, inhaling deeply. the warm scent of your perfume (that he bought)—sweet, flirty, a little sinful for his sanity—drove him crazy.
he dragged his nose slowly along your skin, breathing you in.
“mmmhm,” he hummed, the sound vibrating against you. his hands started roaming—one sliding up your thigh under the hem of your skirt, the other resting possessively on your tummy, fingers stroking that sliver of bare skin.
you squirmed and chuckled, that contrasting sunshine energy bubbling through you. “ki, that tickles—”
but he only smiled against your neck and pressed a slow, open–mouthed kiss right under your ear. then another. and another. above the marks he left just a few days ago. his lips trailed lower, sucking softly on your pulse point while his hand squeezed your thigh.
“you smell so fucking addictive,” he muttered between kisses. he turned his head and kissed your other cheek, then nibbled softly on your earlobe, making you squeal with laughter.
“ki!” you whined, tilting your head away instinctively out of tickledness, but he just followed, chasing your skin.
“can’t help it. my girl smells too sweet.” his hands kept moving—one slipping under your top to caress your waist, the other stroking up and down your thigh like he was feeling you up.
riki kissed along the curve of your neck, then moved up to your jaw, cheek, and back down again, leaving wet little marks everywhere. everytime you giggled and tried to wriggle away, he only tightened his arms around you and pulled you closer.
“you’re really gonna walk out smelling like this?” he mumbled between kisses, voice muffled against your skin. “gonna make other people lose their minds too?”
he sucked a little harder on one spot, trying to leave a more obvious boyfriend territory mark before you left later—if he even allowed you still. when you shivered, he smiled against your neck.
“‘m gonna be late, kiiii,” you whined playfully, body leaning slightly forward.
riki hooked one arm around your waist and pulled you right back against his chest, nose burying deeper into the crook of your neck as he inhaled again. his free hand slid up your thigh under your skirt, hiking the denim up while he pressed more kisses along the side of your throat.
“mmm… i don’t think i wanna let you go today,” he murmured, voice teasy against your ear. he gently nippled at your lobe before kissing the sensitive spot right underneath. “you look way too pretty—just stay with me?”
he hugged you tighter, lips never leaving your neck.
you let out a soft “nooo,” dragging the word in that sweet, whiny way that always, always made his heart doing somersaults.
your boyfriend laughed, the sound low vibrated against your lips. he gave up (for now) but he still kept his arms wrapped tightly around you, refusing to loosen his hold.
“fine, fine,” he chuckled, sucking the spot beneath your ear. “you can go… but, wait.”
he reached over to the bedside and grabbed his own bottle of perfume and with a playful grin, he held it up in front of you.
“let me spray you with mine real quick.”
you giggled and tilted your head up against his shoulder so he could spray a light mist along the side of your neck and collarbone—and riki, being riki, sprayed a mist between your cleavage too.
that pervert.
he leaned in instantly, nose brushing your freshly scented soft skin.
“mm… yeah, that’s better.” he hummed happily, clearly satisfied. “now you smell like me too.”
——
fap. fap. fap. fap. fap.
“shit…” he groaned, eyes rolling back. his fist started moving fast, slick and desperate from the precum already dripping down his length. he buried his nose deeper into the crotch of your panties, breathing you in while your bra rested against his cheek and mouth.
he could smell your everywhere.
“fuck, you smell so good,” he moaned into the lace, voice muffled. his tongue darted out, licking the fabric where your pussy had been just this morning. the taste made his cock throb violently in his fist.
riki stroked harder, hips bucking up into his hand, messy and frantic. the wet clicky sounds filled the room as he pressed your panties tighter against his face, inhaling over and over like he was trying to consume you.
he was completely lost in it…
these were the panties you’d worn all night long—slept in, curled up beside him. the ones that had been pressed against your pussy for hours while you were soft and warm. this was your most natural scent—sweet, intimate, you. the best fucking perfume in the world.
“so warm… fuck, you wore this all night, baby,” he groaned to himself, voice wrecked. “little pussy was rubbing against them for hours… so fucking good.”
he took another long, greedy inhale, nose buried deep in the crotch. his fist moved faster along his big, curvy cock, slick and noisy and annoying.
fap. fap. fap. fap. fap.
then, he grabbed your bra and wrapped the lace strap around his throbbing cock, right under the head, and squeezed. the feeling of your bra tightening around his length made him moan aloud.
“shit—fuck—”
he started stroking again, using the bra strap like a cock ring, the lace rubbing against his sensitive skin with every frantic pump. riki started sucking on your panties—smashed against his face, breathing you in.
he thrust up into his fist, hips stuttering, eyes rolling back as he moaned into the soaked lace.
“gonna cum so fucking hard… because of you—fuck, baby—”
his strokes turned brutal, the wet clicky sounds getting louder and messier as precum dripped all over your strap. sucking on the fabric of your panties and inhaling deep—riki cums.
thick ropes of semen shot across his abs and chest, some of it landing on the cups of your bra. his whole body jerked hard with every pulse, hips still weakly fucking his fist while he kept your panties pressed to his nose, riding out the high on nothing but your scent.
even after he finished, he stayed like that for a long minute—chest heaving, your used panties still covering half of his face, your bra strap loosely around his throbbing cock.
you’re trying so so hard, but no matter how many times you reread the same paragraph, it never makes sense.
you’re on the couch with your knees drawn to your chest while you propped your laptop against your knees as you desperately try to review some article on the effects of sleep deprivation on memory retention for your psychology assignment due tomorrow. unfortunately, since you started.. you haven’t made much progress.
infact, you were so immersed in the stupid paragraphs that you didn’t notice the sound of the front door click. your boyfriend, heeseung, has just came home after a long day at work. he ruffles his hand through his hair before dropping his bag straight onto the floor, when he sees you.
‘still on that assignment?’
you scoff, ‘no i’m just reading an article on cognitive psychology for fun! that’s all!’
he lets out a smile at your sarcastic response before settling on the couch, sitting right next to you. he covers your view of the laptop with his hair, reading over the same paragraphs you thought weren’t even in english.
he points at that one paragraph, the one that just made absolutely no sense to you no matter how hard you tried. his tired eyes meet your soft ones, ‘It says that a lack of sleep makes it harder for your brain to keep and recall information. so, even if you study, you'll probably forget it later.’
‘what the hell? how did you do that?’ you genuinely thought that whoever made this assignment and gave you that article was praying on your downfall when you read that paragraph, the one that your boyfriend just summarized in one sentence.
he quietly laughs at your widened eyes and gives you a kiss on your temple, ‘don’t worry baby, i’ll help you finish this’ so, for about ten minutes you both continue going through the article while he finally makes sense of the words that you thought were just modern-day curses designed to make you fail.
as he explains, you find yourself shifting onto his lap. feeling the familiar wrap of his arms instinctively wrap around you, heeseung looks down at you. ‘comfortable?’
‘yup’ you kiss his cheeks before settling the laptop back against your knees while his arms stay wrapped around your waist.
around thirty minutes pass by, and you are so so bored. at this point your brain has tuned out heeseungs explanations and you mindlessly nod at anything he says while you stare into the abyss. you keep on shifting your head until your mouth instinctively latches onto heeseungs neck, leaving soft open-mouthed kisses onto the side of his neck. he doesn’t seem to mind as he lets you leave a few more.
your mouth reaches his adam’s apple, gently sucking on it till he finally lets out a groan. he looks down onto you meeting your gaze, ‘you weren’t listening to me right?’ your heart couldn’t help but beat faster after noticing how fast his tone changed speaking to you.
due to your half-hearted apologies, heeseung softly tells you to just listen and focus on what he’s saying. but of course, you don’t. all the kisses you’ve been planting on your boyfriends neck got you all worked up and the damp fabric in between your legs is getting increasingly uncomfortable.
heeseung tries to shift his hand from your waist to point at something on the screen of your laptop, when his finger accidentally brushes over the place you need him most. his hand freezes in the air, oops.
‘you’re wet? from kissing?’ he can’t help but let out a soft laugh. you nudge your shoulder into his chest in embarrassment. he then takes the laptop into his hands and sets it aside, pulling your legs down and feet of the couch. he spreads your legs by hooking them over his own.
‘okay, tell me one thing you learnt’ his hand slowly slides down your stomach and stops right at your covered clit.’
‘heeseung-‘
‘if you want me to touch you, you have to answer’ his hand lightly rubs over your clothed cunt, but you need more.
‘the fuck? no..’ the truth is, you didn’t learn anything.
his hand moves away from you, ‘fine, then you don’t get to cum’
he closes your legs and reaches for the laptop, you grab his wrist before he can touch the laptop, ‘fine… i’ll say anything just- just fucking touch me’
you notice the smile appearing on his face as soon as you surrendered. he opens your legs once again and reaches back down. ‘okay, now tell me what you learnt, anything.’
you are trying, trying so hard to just think of one thing you remember. ‘oh- it affects the brains ability.. to store information?’
‘good girl’ his hand finally slides inside of your panties, fingers rubbing with just the right pressure. ‘tell me more’ he eases a finger into your entrance. you bite back a moan and try to remember more, you just can’t, not when your brain is preoccupied with whatever’s happening between your legs.
‘i’ll help you a little, okay baby? listen’ he eases another finger into you, two fingers repeatedly hitting the spot that makes your eyes squeeze shut. ‘lack of sleep diminishes activity.. where?’ heeseung increases the speed of his hand, his eyes glued to the absolute mess you’re making.
‘fuck- i don’t know’ you’re so frustrated, you remember when he said the answer to this ten minutes ago, but you just can’t remember the exact word he said because you were to busy devouring his neck.
he stills his fingers inside you, ‘you do know, i told you’
you can’t even think straight, your legs already trembling from his fucking fingers. you look back at him, trying to flash your ‘innocent’ lightly glossed eyes. ‘don’t cry baby, you can do it. think hard’ you turn your head away from him, eyes locking onto the laptop untouched on the side.
‘hippocampus? right?’
he grabs your jaw and tilts his head around to reach your mouth, tongue pushing past your lips and savoring your mouth. his fingers finally start moving again, with more pressure and speed. he lets go of your mouth, ‘good job baby’
he fully focuses on his fingers thrusting in and out you, making sure to go in as deep as possible. right as you were on the edge, so close to reaching the high you’ve been needing for an hour, he takes his fingers out of you abruptly.
his fingers reach his mouth, leaving you empty and aching as he licks clean the mess you made. you’re too confused and pleasured to even protest, all you can do is look at him with pleading eyes. ‘i’m not gonna let you cum from one answer, review the whole thing. okay baby?’ you can feel his smile as he kisses you on your check before reaching for the laptop once again.
k/n: — wooh dat was alotttt my gcse n alevel psychology teacher would be Fuming at her icl
film contains…….You are doing skin care for your best friend by sitting on his lap as usual, while he is gaming, but accidentally grind on him, ending up with his cock inside you
film caution …….MINORS DO NOT INTERACT Unprotected sex(don’t do it) dry humping, making out/ kissing, grinding, fingering, edging, nipple play, talking abt fem!reader body parts, neck kisses, nipping the neck, spanking, usage of the word ass, clit play?, mentions of nick names like baby and etc, riding, tell me if anything more should be mentioned.
film length………5.2min(5.2k)
film keeper whispers ……….This is my first ever time publishing fic, I’m learning to write since I imagine a lot, I want to get it into words and now I got an idea for this with the help of Pinterest 😪. I tried my best, and slowly I’m gonna start my oneshot, idk how long it’s gonna be 🤷♀️. If any mistakes, let me know. Please request if u want anything. I will try my best to write butI’m a slow writer 😢. Would love moots, reblogs and likes ♥️
film melody playing……….. into you- ariana grande
˚ ༘ 🎞️ ｡𖦹 ° 🎥 ⁀જ⁀➴ film starting……..
The chaotic bursts of neon light from the monitors washes over the room, casting long, jagged shadows against the walls of Heeseung’s room.
The room smells of expensive cologne, ozone from the humming PC, carrying the faint and sterile scent of rosewater and gentle soap in the air.
You are seated on Heeseung’s lap, straddling his hips, knees around them, on his chair, facing him in a position that the friction of your thighs against his jogger’s can’t be ignored.
Heeseung is fully concentrating on his game for now.
His eyes are sharp, darting to every move in the game, playing it very carefully though you are quite a distraction to him.
The headset he has on is filled with sounds of explosions and gunshots, and he pushes one piece of the headset aside so he can hear you.
You hold a small glass jar aloe vera gel, the product cool and smooth between your fingertips.
You’ve been massaging it on his face for the past ten minutes or maybe you just use it as an excuse to stay on his lap longer.
But then still, you don’t care about the game he was playing, you just wanted to end the ‘washing face with whatever soap is there in the shower’ routine for him, so he can get good and fresh skin.
“Stop moving idiot” you murmur, voice soft but firm and commanding him a little because he keeps on moving.
You can feel the heat radiating from him as you blend the cream on his face in small upwards circles.
His jaw is clenched, trying his best not to feel you and your stupid tactics as a distraction, which you are sitting innocently on his lap like you don't understand what’s wrong in doing this.
“I’m in an important fight, Y/N” he grunts, though there’s no real anger behind his voice.
“If I lose this round, I’m gonna blame you and your so-called skincare routine” he adds, mocking lightly.
“Uhh, my skincare routine is obviously way better than whatever you do in the stupid shower,” you retort, sliding your fingers on his temple now.
“No soap is gonna clean your face like my skincare does, your skin feel shit, and it’s screaming for help, so think of this as an upgrade for your face”
He lets out a laugh, his eyes fixed towards the screen. “Sure,” he says as if it’s nothing, “My skin has a mouth and it’s screaming”.
You roll your eyes at that, moving a little back so you can look at him even though he doesn’t.
“Just because it doesn’t have a loud, cocky mouth like you, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” you shoot back.
“And for your kind information,” you continue, leaning closer to his face again, to spread the gel on his face, “You’re skin is so dehydrated, maybe it looks fine, but it really isn’t, so be grateful”
“I should be— What? grateful? Why? And what? I have a cocky mouth?” he splutters, turning towards you showing an exaggerated, horrified expression which was totally just acting.
"First place, I don’t even care about my skin, Second, you should be grateful that I’m letting you do this while I’m literally in the middle of a serious fight, Third—”
“Hey, dont move!,” you interrupt, pushing back his face towards the screen.
“I can’t do it properly, if you keep moving” you add and he becomes quiet and goes back to playing his game very seriously.
You slowly get even more closer to his face.
For real, you’ve done this almost a hundred times before, sitting on his lap touching his face and all stuff, but today something in the air feels different.
For the first time the closeness doesn’t feel normal.
It feels dangerous, surreal and maybe something new.
Every time he breathes near you, every time his chest brushes against yours, you feel your pulse raise.
You try to ignore it, focusing your attention back to what you are doing, but it only makes it worse, because now, you’re actually looking at him.
The sharp line of his nose, the long lashes that fall against his skin, the bambi-like looking eyes, and then your gaze drops down— unintentionally.
You blink, realizing you are staring at him, you shake your head slightly to clear it, pushing those sudden, distracting thoughts away as quickly as they come.
You don't want to be caught by him, which will only make it more embarrassing.
You quickly turn back to your work— properly this time.
So, you shift your weight, moving closer to him, trying to adjust the position so reaching the bridge of his nose would be easier.
As you move, your thighs slide against his joggers, hips very slightly against each other, the friction sending a sudden spark through your body, but you push it away.
It was just a small moment for you, which you just want to ignore, but it sent a shudder through Heeseung’s body which you didn’t know.
“Fuck—” Heeseung groans, throwing his head back against the chair, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down, suddenly gripping your hip with one hand so tightly as you freeze at the pressure.
“Don’t—Don’t fucking do that, I’m trying my best to concentrate, baby” he forces out softly, the words tight as he grits his teeth.
You don’t understand what happened.
One second, you’re applying the gel on his face, moving closer to reach his nose—and the next, he throws his head against the chair and it’s pissing you since you already told him to not move.
“I said to not move, Heeseung!! And seriously, it’s not my mistake that you can’t concentrate on your game” you say, a hint of irritation slipping through your voice.
You don’t understand what is wrong or what is his problem, even though it was quite obvious you couldn’t figure it out, so you just get back to working on his face.
You shift your weight again, trying to adjust your position to get a better angle on his face, slightly moving left.
This movement causes your leggings to unintentionally rub your thigh against his growing hardness.
“Baby, fuck—“ he rasps, as his other hand also leaves keyboard to grab the other side of your hip and holds you so tightly with both of the hands that you were sure it will leave few bruises by tomorrow.
His head abruptly falls on your shoulder as the room fills with the loud harsh blares from the monitor which indicates he lost the game but you didn’t know it.
“Heeseung what the—” before you could even scold him, you gasp from him pulling you down, pressing you against him in a way that you can feel his big bulge on your core.
“Heeseung….” you whisper, your voice trembling.
“Don’t—fucking don’t,” he starts, speaking as his head is still on your shoulder, you hear it in his voice, how he is trying his all best to control himself.
“Don’t tell me stop when all I was doing was sitting here….trying my all best to control myself, while here you are sitting on my fucking lap, moving how ever you want……. God! Y/N you’ve been killing me here, I can’t stop anymore—”
He stops talking, lifting his head from your shoulder before capturing your lips in a searing, aching, desperate kiss, hands moving from your hips to your waist, gripping it so tightly it knocks the air out of your lungs.
He kisses you rough, like gentleness isn’t even an option right now, like he’s done holding back, done pretending this doesn’t mean anything as the gel smears on your face from his face.
All the years of your friendship, when he did his best to hold back, but now he’s done.
For a second you forget how to breathe, the intensity, the desperation and the desire from his mouth against yours, knocking the thoughts out of your brain.
You don’t even process the fact that HE, HE, your best friend is kissing you right now. Never in a million years did you think this out of all would happen—a lie you had a lot of sex dreams with him cuz he was too hot, and……..never mind.
You are still trying to process this when the grip on your waist tightens to pull you out of your thoughts.
The jar slips from your hand, shattering into pieces, and gel spreads everywhere on the floor, but you don’t even notice it.
You melt against him, your hand slowly moving from his shoulder to the nape of his neck, fingers curling tightly in the hair as you pull him closer and kiss him back with the same desire, desperation and intensity.
He lets out a low deep growl, something filled with satisfaction like he knew you would kiss him without holding back.
It vibrates through your whole body, slowly heat starts coiling up in your lower belly more than what you felt a while ago.
You start feeling needy and want him more than you ever did.
But then he pulls back, forehead against yours, his breath hot, and his lips swollen from the hard rough kiss.
“Tell me to stop—” he whispers against your mouth in a low hoarse, octave voice which sends a shiver through your body.
You shake your head instantly before he can even finish.
“No,” you whisper, the word barely leaving your throat. “Don’t. Please don’t ”
You roll your hips against his voluntarily.
You need more.
You need the friction to not be a tease and start being the truth. The reality.
“Fuck—“ Heeseung hisses the moment he hears the deny and feels the roll of your hips directly against his bulge.
This time you’ve done it on purpose, you need more and you are clearly showing it.
He roughly grabs your jaw,tilting your head back, and crashing his lips on to yours again.
This time it’s all tongue and teeth, he doesn’t ask for permission, he claims it like it’s his.
You gasp into the kiss, this was more aggressive and desperate han before.
He takes his chance to enter his tongue into your mouth when you gasp.
His tongue plunges into your mouth, taking in your whispers and every inch of your mouth, he doesn’t waste a single single second.
His palm is hot.
He moves his hand from your waist to your hips as they slowly slip under your long hoodie or probably his which you wear all the time.
His hands move on your lower back, pulling you closer that there isn’t a millimetre also left between you both.
He breaks the kiss to move lower, his lips dragging along your jaw, sucking gently, before moving down to the column of your throat.
You tilt your head back without thinking, giving him more, your fingers going to his shoulders to hold tightly as his kisses grow firmer, more lingering.
“Hee….mm….Hee…” your breath stutters, his name coming from your mouth like a chant, unsteady whispers, which you can’t hold back anymore.
His hand moves down to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze before delivering a spank.
His palm against your ass made you leave out a loud gasp, your back arching slightly.
He doesn’t pull away, he soothes it down slowly, in a way it makes your toe curl.
The literal sensation sends sparks right over to your core, making you clench a round nothing.
He starts placing open mouthed kisses near your collarbone and neck, his breath hot and damp, leaving the warmth of his mouth behind.
He moves below your ear, instantly financing your sweet spot and nips your skin lightly.
You let out a sharp cry, breathing unsteadily.
The moment you let it out, he leans in again, nipping it harder than before, sucking a dark, purple mark, visibly claiming you.
He follows down to your collarbone, nipping wherever he finds your sweet spots to let out those sweet little sounds that feel like music to his ears.
You don’t stop, you keep whimpering his name, gasping when his tongue darts out to lick gently after nipping on your sweet spots.
You are drenched.
Your panties are suffocatingly tight because of the silk clinging to your folds as you leak for him.
You need him.
You need to feel full.
You were sure it is making it hard to even take in air properly just because of his hot kisses on your body.
One of his hands tugs the hem of your hoodie, asking you permission if he was allowed to remove it while he was still busy marking you up.
“Yes! Please—remove it” you please, your voice cracking a little bit.
He doesn’t even take a second to tug it off, the moment you accept it, in one fluid motion he pulls it off you.
For a second he freezes.
You aren’t wearing a bra, the cool air hitting your bare skin, making your nipples harden and maybe you weren’t even sure if it was air or his gaze all over your body making you turn again and again and again…..
You aren’t wearing anything else except the black lace of your panties peeking out of your tiny shorts you wore.
“Fuck baby—” he growls, his eye’s darkening, pupils expanding until his hazel is almost entirely black.
He looks at you like you’re both sin and miracle given to him at once.
“This is what you have been gatekeeping from me, huh?” he asks, his hands moving to cup the underside of your breast, lifting them up slightly, as his thumb slightly grazes over the peck.
You whimper, throwing your head back at that little touch surge of pleasure shoots to your core.
“This tiny waist,” his hands moving to the mid section, squeezing the softness there, devouring your body with his eyes.
“These wide, beautiful hips,” his finger moving on the waistband, pulling the elastic tight.
He bends a little, pressing a hot, lingering kiss right above the fabric of your panties, his lips grazing the skin of your hip.
The sensation sends a jolt through your body, sending shivers as your legs shake.
“Including the ass you’ve been teasing me with for years,” he said his voice filled with lust and love, and then he looks at you, how you look wrecked just for his touch.
He spanks you again, harder and more firm this time.
You cry out, a sound filled with shock, pleasure and pain, but please wins it all for now.
You thought he would probably soothe it again but no, it was paining harder but he made no movement to touch or soothe it, just casually leans back on to the chair.
He just lets it linger there, making it a reminder for you.
To remind you, who you actually belong to though he hasn’t fucked the shit out you yet.
Now his gaze isn’t on your face, it moves lower.
Your neck. No
Your collarbone. No
Your Shoulders. No
Just shamelessly, directly looking at your breasts with a hungry gaze, something you wanted to see all along.
“And finally……these beautiful, big boobs” he whispers.
He bends down, his lips hovering right over your breast, his hot breath teasing your nipples.
And then he pecks it…..to just tease you more.
The moment his hot breath was on your nipple.
Just his hot breath.
Hot.
Breath.
You found yourself getting hungrier for him, you didn’t want him to tease you, you needed him, right then and there.
He knew it, he knew how you felt, how you are breathing, how you need him, but won’t give you what you want right now.
“Hee please—” you grind on him again but he holds back your hips making you stop, before you please again or tell him how badly you need him.
Then he starts sucking it, like he can’t hold back anymore, like this was the last thing left on the earth, maybe even like he was thirsty for them.
He wants to tease you, but couldn't hold himself back from you either, that grinding, those pleas from your mouth, made him rethink his decision from teasing you.
You could hear his sucking sounds, wet and vulgar, because of the wetness of his saliva spreading on to your nipples.
Your back arches, your hands instinctively find his hair, gripping it tightly.
He groans at the tight pull of his hair, making him harder underneath.
He sucks on your nipples, tongue circling around the peck, and tugging it slightly before sucking it again, doing the same thing over and over again, while his other hand finds your breast, squeezing, kneading it and rolling your nipple in between his fingers.
You moan, loud, honest, no stopping.
The pleasure was too good.
Your hips start bucking instantly against his bulge again, rolling your hips harder than before, grinding more.
He notices it as he pulls back from sucking with a wet plop.
“Eager now baby?” He teases, his voice dropping low.
You nod, hips moving harder, searching for friction.
For a second he thought to let you do something at least for yourself or not stopping you like he was before but no, straight away his hands move to your hips stopping you right when you thought it was getting better.
Then he bends down and moves to the other breast without a word to you, giving it the same attention as before, while his other hand was on the breast which was wet from his saliva, but still playing with it, satisfying you with his hand.
It was good, undeniably you like you, but the fact that your pussy was throbbing to be filled was not ignorable.
You didn't want to wait.
“Hee….please…please..I need you so bad—ahh” you let out a sharp cry as he bites down your nipples, his hands lowering, across your thighs and rids your shorts from your legs without asking you.
“Needy baby?” He asks as he pulls back, like knew nothing.
“Hee—ahhh” you moan when his fingers touch the wetness of your pussy just through the lace black panties.
“So wet for me baby” he coos as he feels the moisture soaking through the lace.
He finally strips them away also, leaving you bare on his lap, pressing against him.
The contact is sharp, as now you are directly pressing against the rough fabric over his bulge.
He finds his way to your clit, pressing on the swollen bud right away, rubbing it in circles with no patience, but with punishing pressure that makes your vision blur.
Your mouth opens, letting out sharp breaths, eyes shut, finally getting whatever you’ve been longing for, you instinctively bite down on your lips as choked sobs and moans come out of your throat.
“No baby, don’t bite your lip, don’t stop, moan for me, darling” he says softly, before pushing 2 fingers into your soaking warmth at once.
You scream from the sudden push, it wasn’t warned, it was too sudden.
He starts pushing deeper into your spongy walls, as your walls clench around his fingers, he groans in your neck, his fingers curling in spots making you moan and vision blur from the pleasure.
“Fuck baby, thats it, take my fingers like a good girl” he finally adds the third finger, stretching you apart as you wail, and then heeseung leans to kiss you again, tongue entering your mouth directly, taking in all your sounds while pumping his fingers in and out, while his thumb presses and circles on your bud.
He moves faster, pulling away from the kiss, gripping your hips tightly while pumping his fingers faster, your hands move to his shoulders tightening as you squeeze your eyes shut tightly, while whimpering and gasping, leaving out breathy huffs.
As you feel your orgasm building, tightening low in your belly, just the tension in your thighs becomes unbearable.
“Hee— I’m—” before could even finish your sentence, he pulled out his fingers, just only the pad of his thumb pressing over your swollen clit, trapping the pleasure before it could explode.
Your eyes open wide, blown in shock as a moan of frustration screeches from your throat at the literal loss of his fingers inside.
“Hee, why–” you gasp, hips bucking instinctively towards his hand wanting more.
“Mmm” he just hums, looking down at your pussy while circling your clit, rubbing it in small circles but never quite providing the friction you need to tip over the edge.
“Hee, please!” you whine, trying to grind his hand, but he holds your hip tight enough to not let you move, he is still looking at your pussy, but then finally looks up.
Eyes dark with lust, his smoldering gaze at you making you pause for a second before he says “please, what?” in a low octave, his voice sounding husky.
“I-I need to come,” you wail, grinding on his bulge over his rough fabric making you want more, in fact you’ve never felt this needy.
Him edging you just made it worse, you couldn't take the teasing now, you need him and you won't stop asking for it.
“please hee please I need you, I want you so badly. I can’t take it anymore!!” you beg.
He chuckles, a dark, hungry sound.
He doesn't put his fingers back in you or do anything you asked for.
Instead, he starts to kiss you, deep, demanding kisses that taste of mint and desperation.
The intensity of the kiss swallows you while leaving you breathless and your hands move to his head, running your hands through his long, lustrous black hair.
His tongue slides against yours, sucking and swirling desperately while sliding down his joggers and boxer to pull his cock out.
He pulls away from the kiss, pulling your head back away from his.
You look down into his hands and the moment you saw it, you were starstuck.
He is big.
Not big like you think, very big in a way you weren't sure if you could even take him.
It was shocking.
You knew this was coming, when you guys crossed your lines today but god he is just so big.
His cock is big, fucking standing straight, curling a little but still so so straight in way you never stood in your whole life, wow, it is hot and swollen, throbbing as the tip is in a beautifully pink color, glistening with precum as he held the shaft in his hand.
You are staring at it shamelessly, because who wouldn't look at something so beautiful and gorgeous.
“Like what you see baby?” he asks, when he caught you staring at his cock.
You snap out of your thoughts, raising your head up, eyes locking on to his eyes, as your cheeks burn from embarrassment.
“Want it inside you baby?” he questions as he feels your arousal just by looking at you face.
You nod slightly and that's what it takes before he jerks it on your pussy once, slapping his cock against it a few times, spreading his precum all over.
An unfiltered screech comes out of your throat, showing how needy you are when he slaps the tip on your pussy.
You move a little, rubbing it a little on his cock, whimpering a little.
“You want it so bad right? You’ll get it baby” he doesn't wait another second.
He grips your waist and heaves you upward and then slams you down on to his cock.
Your hands find their way to his shoulders as you scream into the crook of his neck when he buries himself, all the way to the hilt inside you in one fluid, powerful motion.
The fullness is overwhelming, a blunt pressure that hits your cervix and sends ripples of pleasure radiating through your entire lower body.
The sensation is overwhelming, the feeling of being completely filled, the stretch of your pussy, the sudden, intense heat of him deep within your pussy.
You feel your internal muscles spasm around him, clamping down tight, clenching it so tight which makes Heeseung leave a raw guttural growl out feeling you all around him.
His cock twitches inside you, showing how badly he needed this.
“Baby–fuck, so tight…you feel so good baby” he says, his hands sliding down to your ass gripping.
You stay still for a moment, both of you catching your breath, the only sound the heavy thrum of the PC fans and your synchronized gasping.
The gaming chair creaks as you begin to move, tentatively at first, lifting your hips a few inches and then sliding back down.
You only lift an inch before slamming back down, the impact making the gaming chair rock precariously.
The feeling of him filling inside you was so so good, that you didn't care about anyone hearing your moans, as your moans echo all through the room.
Your grip on his shoulder tightens as the pleasure of him being inside you, stretching you apart with his cock was the best feeling you ever felt.
The squelching and wet sounds of your pussy moving on his cock, taking him all the way down to his shaft, then moving back halfway, and falling back down, with your moans and Heeseung’s groans fill you the room.
The sounds are lewd, obscene or even pornographic, it didn't feel real.
You riding your best friend's cock feels like a dreaming true.
You slowly find your rhythm, more confident, more desperate.
Your mouth falls agape, moaning loudly every time you ride him, head falls back as the tip hits that spot that makes you see stars, your breasts bounce with every downward thrust, your hardened nipples scrape against his shirt every time.
“Yes, just like that baby” he groans as his head hits the chair, while he grips your ass and starts lifting you higher so he can move deeper.
You are desperate now, the need for release overriding everything.
The friction against your clit is intense, a searing heat that builds with every slide.
You lean forward, your hair falling over your face, your mouth finding his again.
The kiss is sloppy, desperate, the sound of your tongues clashing mixing with the wet slaps of your bodies.
Tentatively, Heeseung also starts moving his hips up, thrusting upward slowly, testing the waters to see how it would be.
And fuck it, it was so so so good.
“Ahh” you moan as the tip of his cock hits deeper in your pussy, as your walls clench around him in pleasure.
You scream into his mouth, it is so intense, your pussy takes him all the way on to his shaft.
You keep riding him until you feel that low tingling feeling in your lower stomach.
You are about to come, you needed it any minute now.
You are moving faster, breath uneven, shamelessly moaning so loudly, you are sure your neighbours could hear it but you couldn't care less.
“Ngh heee” you wail, you dont know if its pain or pleasure or all together but it was good and stretching you apart and finally you are about to come.
“Hee–hee i-m im coming!!” you choke out, the orgasm is about to come as he moves his hips faster, thrusting harder.
“Yes baby, yes, come for me, come on my cock baby” he says, holding your hips, gripping it so hard, it could leave red marks on it and speeding up the movements, slamming you down onto his cock, taking control.
“Ahh–mm yess, yess im coming!!” you throw your head back, a loud, uncontrolled cry escaping your lips as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you breathless and shaking.
Heeseung doesnt stop, he fucks you through it, chasing his orgasm.
“Hee—” you scream so loudly, it was too much, you are overstimulating, you coat his cok, milking it all the way.
“I-i cant..too much–”
“Yess, you can, you can for me baby” his movements becoming faster, more erratic. He's grunting now, the sounds guttural and raw.
He lifts you slightly and then slams you down, the leather of the chair creaking loudly under the strain.
The sound of your pussy engulfing him is a wet, rhythmic squelch, the air being pushed out of your orifice in small, needy puffs.
“Im-im coming baby” he moves faster again and again.
“Im gonna fill you up, you’re gonna take me like a good girl and fill me up right?” he says as he looks at you and captures your lips into kiss again.
You feel him tense, his entire body turning to stone beneath you.
With one final, deep thrust that feels like it reaches your very soul, he lets out a loud, guttural roar, his entire body tensing.
He gives one final, massive thrust, burying himself as deep as possible as you feel the hot, pulsing jets of his cum hitting your cervix, filling you up, the liquid warmth spreading through your internals.
“Fuck–take it baby”
You moan as he fills you up, while he grunts and finally comes undone inside you which felt so so so good.
As the intensity fades, he doesn't move.
He keeps you pressed against him, his heart hammering against your ribs.
You can feel his cock slowly softening inside you, though he remains deep within. A small amount of semen and lubricant leaks from the junction of your bodies, dripping onto the black leather of the chair with a soft patter.
“That was–soo good” you whisper to him.
He smiles, that goddamn smile that melts you right away, probably even your bones.
He pushes a wet hair stand behind your hair as he finally speaks.
“Very good. Are you happy?” he asks and that genuinely made you feel happy that he was asking your opinion.
You nod, you look wrecked so did he, both of you breathing heavily, faces flushed.
“Are you ok?” he asks you sweetly after showing his dark side which you loved and so did you like that gentleness in his which made your heart filp and beat faster.
You blush as you nod and hide your face in the crook of his neck.
“Dont hide baby” he pulls you back cupping your face.
“Mm” you whine sweetly.
He kisses your forehead gently.
"So," he says, a small, tired smile playing on his lips. "I think I lost that match."
You let out a soft laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder.
"Worth it?"
"The best loss of my life," he whispers, kissing your temple.
Heeseug twitches inside you, making you whimper.
“You’re still inside me hee” you say to him as it hurts a little but don't bother but it's still sticky and messy altogether.
But then he shrugs it off as if it's nothing, you frown and ask him “what?” and try to pull away.
He doesn't let you, he slams you back down as you scream and squeal from shock.
“Hee–” then while you are still inside him, he abruptly stands up, while still holding you tightly around your waist and still inside you.
“Ready for round 2 baby” he asks as you widen your eyes in shock while his cock gets stiff all the way till his shaft again.
“Hee~” he crashes his lips on to yours slamming you onto the wall and starts moving inside you.
You thought you’d moved on. You had Heeseung now, sweet, safe, perfect. Sunghoon had Sooha, bubbly, convenient.
But the fire between you never died. It only waited.
One rooftop party, too much alcohol, and a slow R&B song was all it took. Now you’re grinding on your ex’s hard cock in the middle of the crowd, his fingers knuckle-deep in your soaked pussy while your boyfriend chats nearby. From there? A locked bathroom, messy blowjob on your knees, getting fucked raw and creampied over the sink like the desperate little slut you are for the one man you shouldn’t want.
Old habits fuck hardest.
pairing: ex!sunghoon x reader !
warnings: cheating (both hoon and reader) betrayal strong language possessiveness jealousy alcohol infedilty complete mess for their exes porn with no plot
warnings (smut): cheating (reader on Heeseung, Sunghoon on Sooha) risky semi public sex heavy sexual tension consented sex even if drunk mutual masturbation blowjob fingering grinding doggy style mirror sex creampie tit play nipple play choking multiple orgasms degradation praise
playlist: Drive You Insane by Daniel Di Angelo [] Sweater Weather by The Neighbourhood [] Call Out My Name by The Weeknd [] Into It by Chase Atlantic []
likes and reblogs for a cookie!
☆ WORD COUNT: 5.2k!
(Masterlist)
YOU AND PARK SUNGHOON HAD BEEN TOGETHER FOR ALMOST TWO YEARS BEFORE IT ENDED.
The breakup was mutual but painful, two young, passionate people who burned too hot and too fast. Careers, schedules, jealousy, and the weight of keeping everything secret had worn you both down. One rainy night in his dorm, after another argument about time and attention, you both agreed it was better to let go. The last kiss you shared tasted like salt from tears. Heeseung, Sunghoon’s best friend, had been there through the aftermath, listening to you vent late at night when the pain felt unbearable. Slowly, comfort turned into something deeper. Six months after the breakup, you and Heeseung started seeing each other. It felt right, safe, warm, steady. Heeseung was attentive, funny, and deeply caring. You fell for him hard.
Meanwhile, Sunghoon started dating one of your close friends, Sooha. She was sweet, bubbly, and had always gotten along with him during group hangouts. Seeing them together at first stung like hell, but you told yourself it was for the best. Everyone moved on. Or so it seemed.
The problem was the friend group. You all ran in the same circle, mutual friends from the industry, trainees, dancers, and staff who loved throwing parties, dinners, and weekend getaways. No matter how hard you tried, you and Sunghoon kept crossing paths. At first, it was awkward. Polite nods, short conversations, avoiding eye contact. But the tension never died. It only grew.
Every time you saw him, memories flooded back. The way his large hands used to grip your hips. How he’d pin you against the wall and kiss you until your knees buckled. The low groan he made when he was deep inside you. The way he’d look at you with those sharp, dark eyes right before he made you come. And you knew he felt it too. You’d catch him staring at your legs in short dresses, or the curve of your ass when you bent over. His jaw would tighten, and he’d quickly look away, especially when Heeseung was right beside you with an arm around your waist, or when Sooha was laughing and clinging to his arm.
The air between you two was always thick, charged and dangerous.
It started small. A house party six months after you and Heeseung became official. Sunghoon and Sooha had been dating for three months. The music was loud, drinks were flowing. You were in a tight dress that hugged every curve. Sunghoon couldn’t stop glancing at you. When you passed each other in the narrow hallway on the way to the bathroom, your bodies brushed. Just shoulders and hips, but it was enough. You felt him, hard, warm, familiar, and your breath hitched. He froze for half a second, eyes darkening, before muttering a low “sorry” and continuing. That night you rode Heeseung like you were possessed, but it was Sunghoon’s face you saw when you came.
Another time, at a beach trip with the whole group. Sunghoon was shirtless in the water, water dripping down his toned abs and sharp v-line. You were in a bikini. Heeseung was building sandcastles with friends, Sooha was napping under an umbrella. You and Sunghoon ended up wading in the shallows at the same time. The waves pushed you closer. His hand accidentally grazed your waist as he steadied you. Electricity shot through your body. Your nipples hardened instantly under the thin fabric. You saw the bulge in his swim trunks grow. Neither of you said a word. You both swam away, hearts pounding, bodies aching.
These encounters kept happening. Birthday parties, award after-parties, late-night karaoke sessions. Every time, you’d leave the function wet and throbbing, panties soaked, thighs clenched. You knew he was going home hard too, probably fucking Sooha while thinking about you. The guilt was there, but the desire was stronger.
One particular night, it became unbearable.
It was a small, intimate gathering at a friend’s luxurious apartment. Only twelve people. Heeseung was there, sitting beside you on the couch, his hand resting possessively on your thigh. Sunghoon and Sooha were across the room. The lights were dim, music soft. Someone suggested truth or dare. Stupid idea. When it was your turn, someone dared you to sit on Sunghoon’s lap for three minutes. The room erupted in laughter. “For old times’ sake!” they joked, not knowing how deep the cut went.
You hesitated. Heeseung chuckled and nodded, thinking it was harmless. Sooha looked a little uncomfortable but played along. Sunghoon’s eyes met yours, dark, warning, hungry.
You sat on his lap.
The moment your ass settled over his crotch, you felt him. He was already half-hard. As the timer started, his hands rested lightly on your hips to “steady” you. His cock twitched beneath you, growing thicker and harder against the thin fabric of your dress and his pants. You were wearing nothing but a tiny thong underneath. You could feel every inch of him pressing right against your clothed cunt. Heat flooded you. Your clit throbbed. You shifted slightly, “accidentally,” grinding down on him. He exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers tightening on your hips. His cock was fully hard now, thick and long, the same shape you remembered so well. You were soaking through your thong, your juices starting to wet the front of his pants.
Three minutes felt like eternity. Torture. Bliss. When the timer ended, you stood up on shaky legs. Sunghoon’s eyes were nearly black. A small wet spot was visible on his thigh where you’d been sitting. He quickly adjusted himself. You excused yourself to the bathroom, locked the door, and leaned against it, breathing hard, your pussy was dripping, you wanted to cum so badly it hurt.
That night, after the party, Heeseung fucked you in his car before you even got home. You came twice, but it wasn’t enough.
Two days later, you were alone in your apartment. Heeseung was away for a schedule. The memory of sitting on Sunghoon’s lap had been haunting you. You took a long shower, trying to calm down, but your body was on fire. After drying off, you opened your drawer and found it, the pale pink satin slip Sunghoon used to love.
It was short, silky, with thin straps and a deep neckline. The hem barely covered your ass. There was a high slit on the left side that went almost to your hip. He used to push the strap down, suck on your tits while fucking you in it. You hadn’t worn it since the breakup.
Tonight, you slipped it on. The fabric felt cool and luxurious against your heated skin. Your nipples were already stiff, poking obviously through the thin material. You stood in front of the full-length mirror in your bedroom, dim lights on. The slip clung to your body, the hem riding up to show the bottom curve of your ass.
You climbed onto your bed, heart racing with guilt and excitement. This was wrong. So fucking wrong. Heeseung was your boyfriend. Sunghoon was his best friend. He was dating Sooha, your friend. But you couldn’t stop.
You lay back against the pillows, knees bent, legs slightly spread. Your hand slowly trailed up your body. You cupped one breast through the satin, squeezing it gently. A soft moan escaped your lips. You imagined Sunghoon’s large hand instead, bigger, rougher. You pinched your nipple, rolling it between your fingers the way he used to. The sensation shot straight to your core.
“Oh god…” you whispered.
Your other hand slid down, pushing the hem of the slip higher. The slit on the side made it easy. You parted your thighs wider, exposing your bare, dripping pussy. You were soaked. Your fingers brushed over your swollen clit, and your hips jerked.
In your mind, it was Sunghoon touching you.
You pictured his sharp jaw, his intense eyes looking down at you. The way he’d smirk when he felt how wet you were for him. You imagined his long fingers replacing yours, two thick digits sliding inside you while his thumb circled your clit. You pushed two fingers into your tight heat, moaning louder. The slick sounds filled the room as you pumped them slowly, curling them just right.
Your other hand kept playing with your tits, pulling the strap down so one breast spilled out. You pinched and tugged your nipple harder, imagining Sunghoon’s mouth on it, sucking, biting, licking.
“Sunghoon…” you breathed, even though you knew you shouldn’t say his name. It felt too good. You added a third finger, stretching yourself, fucking yourself deeper. Your hips rolled, grinding against your hand. The satin slip bunched around your waist now. You were completely exposed, legs spread obscenely, fingers plunging in and out of your creamy pussy.
You thought about that night on his lap. How hard he’d been. How big he felt. You imagined pulling his cock out right there in front of everyone, sinking down on it, riding him while the party continued. You imagined him bending you over in the bathroom after, slamming into you from behind, hand over your mouth to keep you quiet while he filled you up.
Your fingers moved faster. The heel of your palm rubbed your clit with every thrust. Your other hand switched to your other breast, squeezing hard, twisting the nipple. Pleasure built rapidly, hot and intense.
You were so close.
In your fantasy, Sunghoon was on top of you, thrusting deep, whispering how much he missed your tight pussy, how no one fucked him like you did. You imagined his hips snapping harder, his balls slapping against you, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside.
“Fuck—Sunghoon—yes—” you moaned, voice breaking.
Your orgasm crashed over you violently. Your back arched off the bed, thighs shaking. Your pussy clenched hard around your fingers, gushing wetly. You kept fingering yourself through it, drawing it out, riding every wave. Juices dripped down your ass onto the sheets. The slip was ruined with sweat and your arousal.
Even after you came, you kept your fingers inside, gently stroking as the aftershocks rolled through you. Your chest heaved. Guilt tried to creep in, but the pleasure was too strong, too addictive.
You knew you’d do this again. You couldn’t help it. The tension between you and Sunghoon was only getting worse. Sooner or later, something was going to break.
But for now, in the quiet of your room, wearing the slip he used to love, you let yourself drift in the fantasy of him, your ex, your boyfriend’s best friend, your friend’s boyfriend, fucking you senseless the way only he knew how.
—
A few weeks had passed since that night you spent alone in your apartment. The guilt had lingered for days afterward, especially when Heeseung came back from his schedule and kissed you so sweetly, completely unaware of whose name you’d moaned. But the ache between your legs never fully went away. Every time you saw Sunghoon in the group chat or caught a glimpse of him at a quick schedule overlap, the memory of his hardened cock pressing against you during truth or dare flooded back.
Tonight was another mutual friend’s birthday party, held at a spacious rooftop venue. The city lights glittered below like scattered diamonds, and the air was warm with late spring humidity. Fairy lights and soft neon accents bathed the space in a seductive glow. Music pulsed from hidden speakers, R&B and deep house tracks that made bodies move instinctively. About thirty people were there: dancers, idols, staff, and close industry friends. The drinks flowed freely, champagne, soju cocktails, whiskey on ice.
You arrived with Heeseung, dressed in a dangerously short, deep burgundy silk dress that clung to your curves and ended high on your thighs. The thin straps left your shoulders bare, and the low back dipped dangerously close to the curve of your ass. Heeseung had complimented you endlessly in the car, his hand sliding up your leg the whole ride. But the moment you stepped onto the rooftop, your eyes found Sunghoon across the crowd.
He looked devastating. Black button-up shirt with the top few buttons undone, revealing the sharp lines of his collarbones and the beginning of his toned chest. Tailored black pants that hugged his long legs and narrow waist. His dark hair was styled messily, falling over his sharp eyes. Sooha wasn’t there, she’d texted the group earlier saying she felt sick and was staying home. Heeseung, oblivious as ever, spotted Jay and Jake almost immediately and gave your waist a quick squeeze. “I’ll be back in a bit, baby. They want to talk about the new choreography.” He kissed your cheek and disappeared into a group of guys near the bar.
You were alone, and Sunghoon noticed. The tension started immediately.
You felt his gaze like a physical touch the second you walked toward the open bar. When you turned to order a drink, a strong soju cocktail with peach, he was already watching you from a few meters away, leaning against a high table with a glass in his hand. His eyes dragged slowly down your body: lingering on the way the silk hugged your breasts, the exposed skin of your thighs, the way your hips swayed when you walked. You met his stare boldly, heart racing, and took a long sip. The alcohol burned pleasantly down your throat.
For the next hour, it was a game of stolen glances and near-misses.
You danced with some girlfriends on the makeshift dance floor, laughing as you moved your hips to the rhythm. But every time you turned or dipped low, you felt him. Sunghoon stayed on the edge of the crowd, talking to a few guys, but his attention never left you. You caught him staring at your ass when you bent slightly to adjust your heel. His jaw clenched. When you licked a drop of drink from your lower lip, his eyes darkened.
You grew tipsy. Then drunk. The cocktails hit harder than expected, warmth spreading through your veins, loosening your limbs, making your skin feel hypersensitive. Your cheeks flushed. Your pussy already felt warm and slick just from the weight of his gaze.
Heeseung was still deep in conversation with Jay and Jake on the far side of the rooftop, laughing loudly, safe, distracted.
Sunghoon finally moved closer during a slower song. You were at the bar getting another drink when he appeared beside you, ordering a whiskey. His arm brushed yours. The contact sent electricity shooting through your body.
“Looking dangerous tonight,” he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear. His breath ghosted over your bare shoulder.
You turned your head, lips parted. “You’re one to talk.”
Your eyes locked. The air between you crackled. For a moment, it felt like the rest of the party disappeared. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, watching your chest rise and fall. You pressed your thighs together, already feeling yourself getting wet.
The night blurred deliciously after that.
You danced again, this time with a mixed group. Sunghoon joined casually, keeping a safe distance at first. But the music grew slower, more sensual. Bodies moved closer. You swayed your hips, feeling the alcohol make you bold. Every time you turned, your eyes met his. He watched the way your dress rode up your thighs. You watched the way his shirt stretched across his broad shoulders when he moved.
Another song, you danced near him, shoulders brushed, then hips. He smelled like whiskey and that familiar cologne that used to drive you crazy, your head felt light, body hot.
Finally, the moment broke. A slow, heavy R&B track started playing. The kind that made people grind without shame. Most of the group had paired off or were lost in their own conversations. Heeseung was still occupied. Sunghoon stepped behind you without a word.
You didn’t resist. His tall frame pressed against your back as you both started swaying to the music. Your ass nestled perfectly against his crotch. Even through the layers of fabric, you could feel him, already semi-hard, thickening rapidly as you moved together.
“Fuck…” he breathed against your ear, so quietly it was almost lost in the music.
His hands settled on your hips at first, guiding you. The dance was filthy. You rolled your body against him, grinding slowly, deliberately. His cock grew fully hard, long and thick, pressing right between your ass cheeks through his pants. You bit your lip to hold back a moan.
The crowd around you was drunk and distracted. No one was paying attention to the exes dancing far too intimately. Sunghoon grew bolder.
One of his hands trailed down your side, fingers brushing the hem of your short dress. He leaned his head down, lips grazing the side of your neck. Not quite kissing, just hot breath and the faintest brush of his mouth. Your skin erupted in goosebumps.
“You’re driving me insane,” he whispered, voice rough with lust. “Been hard since I saw you in this dress.”
You pushed back against him harder, feeling his cock throb. “Then do something about it.”
His hand slipped lower. While your bodies continued swaying sensually to the slow beat, your ass grinding in slow circles against his erection, his fingers crept under the hem of your dress from behind. The rooftop was dimly lit here, and his tall frame mostly shielded you.
He found the edge of your tiny black lace panties. You were soaked. Dripping. His middle finger traced the wet fabric covering your pussy, pressing lightly against your swollen folds through the lace.
You gasped softly, knees weakening.
Sunghoon’s lips finally pressed against your neck, open-mouthed, hot and wet. He sucked gently, then harder, teeth grazing your skin as his finger pushed the lace aside. The pad of his long finger slid directly along your slick pussy lips, parting them, collecting your arousal.
“Shit, you’re drenched,” he groaned quietly against your neck, voice vibrating through you. “This pussy still gets this wet for me?”
You nodded frantically, biting back moans as you kept swaying with him, pretending it was just a dance. His cock was rock-hard, grinding slowly against your ass in time with the music.
He pushed one thick finger inside you without warning. Your walls clenched around it instantly, sucking him deeper. The wet sound was faint but filthy under the music. He added a second finger, stretching you, curling them perfectly against that spot he knew so well.
His mouth worked on your neck, kissing, licking, sucking hard enough to leave marks you’d have to hide later. His free hand gripped your hip tightly, holding you against him as he fingered you deeper, faster. His palm rubbed against your clit with every thrust of his fingers.
You were trembling. Pleasure built rapidly, hot and overwhelming. Your juices coated his hand, dripping down his wrist. The silk of your dress bunched up further. Anyone looking closely might have seen, but the risk only made it hotter. “Sunghoon…” you whimpered under your breath.
He bit your earlobe. “Missed this tight little cunt. Missed how you fall apart for me.”
His fingers pumped faster, curling relentlessly. The heel of his hand ground against your swollen clit. Your orgasm crashed into you without mercy, hard, sudden, devastating. Your pussy spasmed violently around his fingers, gushing slick arousal down his hand and onto your thighs. You moaned softly, body shaking as he held you upright, still swaying slowly to the music like nothing was happening.
He didn’t stop. He kept fingering you through it, drawing out every wave until your legs felt like jelly. When it finally subsided, he slowly withdrew his fingers, bringing them up to his mouth behind you. You heard him suck them clean with a low, satisfied groan.
The song ended. You turned in his arms, flushed, breathing hard, eyes glassy with lust and alcohol. His eyes were nearly black with desire, lips parted, chest rising fast. His cock was straining obscenely against his pants. Neither of you spoke. The tension had finally snapped.
You both knew this was only the beginning of the night.
The song faded out, but the heat between you didn’t. Your legs were still shaky from the orgasm he’d just pulled from you on the dance floor. Sunghoon’s chest was pressed flush against your back, his breath hot against your ear as he spoke in a low, rough whisper.
“We need to go somewhere private. Right now.” His voice was strained with barely contained lust. “Before I bend you over in front of everyone.”
You didn’t even hesitate. The alcohol and adrenaline made you bold. You gave him the smallest nod, and he immediately took your hand, guiding you through the crowd with purposeful strides. Heeseung was still laughing with Jay and Jake near the bar, completely unaware. Sooha was safe at home. No one noticed as the two of you slipped inside the luxurious indoor section of the venue.
The bathroom was a single, spacious unisex room, dimly lit, marble counters, a large mirror above the sink. The second the door clicked shut and locked, all restraint vanished.
Sunghoon was on you instantly. He spun you around and pulled your back flush against his chest, positioning both of you in front of the mirror. Your eyes met in the reflection, his dark and feral, yours glassy and desperate. His hands were rough with urgency as he yanked the hem of your short burgundy dress up over your hips in one swift motion, bunching the silk around your waist.
“Fuck,” he growled, staring at your reflection. Your tiny black lace panties were soaked through, the fabric clinging obscenely to your swollen pussy lips.
His right hand slid down immediately, fingers slipping under the waistband of your panties. Two long, thick fingers dragged through your slick folds, parting them, coating themselves in your wetness. He pressed them against your clit first, rubbing slow, firm circles that made your hips jerk.
A broken moan spilled from your lips. “Ah—Sunghoon…”
He relished it. His eyes darkened further in the mirror as he watched your face contort in pleasure. “That’s it. Let me hear you moan for me again.”
He pushed those two fingers deep inside you without warning, burying them to the knuckle in your dripping heat. Your walls clenched hard around the intrusion, still sensitive from the earlier orgasm on the dance floor. He curled them instantly, stroking that perfect spot he knew better than anyone.
Your head fell back against his shoulder, another loud moan escaping you. The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers pumping into your soaked pussy filled the bathroom.
Your hands moved behind you with frantic need. You palmed the massive bulge straining against his tailored pants, feeling how hard and hot he was. Sunghoon hissed sharply as you squeezed him through the fabric. With trembling fingers, you tugged his zipper down, reaching inside to pull his thick cock out.
He was rock hard, veins pulsing, the head already glistening with precum. The familiar weight and girth made your mouth water. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking from base to tip in long, firm pumps exactly the way he liked it.
“Shit—yes,” he groaned, hips bucking into your fist. His fingers fucked you harder, faster, plunging in and out while his palm rubbed relentlessly against your clit. The mirror gave you both a perfect view of everything, your flushed face, your tits nearly spilling out of your dress, his hand disappearing between your thighs, your smaller hand working his cock desperately.
You pumped him faster, twisting your wrist at the head, spreading his precum down his shaft. Every time you squeezed him, his fingers would thrust deeper into you, like a filthy feedback loop. Your moans mixed with his low grunts.
“Look at yourself,” he demanded, voice hoarse. His free hand came up to grip your jaw, forcing you to watch your reflection. “Look how fucking desperate you are for me. Dripping all over my fingers while your boyfriend’s right outside.”
The words only made you wetter. You whimpered loudly, stroking him quicker, feeling his cock throb and twitch in your hand. His fingers curled and scissored inside you, stretching you open, hitting that spot over and over until your thighs started shaking.
You were both lost in it, driven by pure, pent-up lust. The sound of his fingers plunging into your creamy pussy mixed with the slick sound of your hand jerking his cock. Your juices were dripping down his wrist and onto the marble floor.
“I’m gonna—fuck, Sunghoon—I’m close again,” you gasped, eyes half-lidded in the mirror.
He leaned down, biting the side of your neck hard as his fingers sped up. “Cum for me, baby. Cum all over my fingers like the dirty little slut you are for your ex.”
Your orgasm hit you like a freight train.
Your mouth fell open in a silent scream, then a loud, broken moan tore from your throat as your pussy clenched violently around his fingers, gushing slick arousal all over his hand. Your knees buckled, but he held you up, still fucking you through it with his fingers while you frantically stroked his cock.
Sunghoon groaned deeply, hips stuttering as your orgasm pushed him over the edge too. Thick ropes of cum shot from his cock, spilling over your hand and onto the sink counter as he came hard. For a few long seconds, the only sounds were heavy breathing and the faint bass of the music outside.
You both stared at each other in the mirror, flushed, messy, and still hungry.
This wasn’t going to end here. The bathroom air was thick with the scent of sex, your arousal and his cum. You were both still panting, staring at each other through the mirror. Sunghoon’s fingers were still buried inside you, lazily stroking through the aftershocks while your hand was covered in his release.
Without a word, you slowly turned around and sank to your knees on the cool marble floor in front of him. His cock was still hard, glistening with cum and your spit from earlier strokes. You looked up at him with hazy, lust-drunk eyes as you wrapped your fingers around the base.
You leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his swollen tip, tasting the salty remnants of his orgasm. Sunghoon’s breath hitched sharply, one hand immediately threading into your hair.
“Fuck… you’re really gonna do this?” he rasped, voice wrecked.
You answered by parting your lips and taking him into your mouth. You sucked on the head first, swirling your tongue around it, cleaning every drop of cum. Then you sank deeper, relaxing your throat to take as much of his thick length as you could. The familiar stretch of your lips around him made you moan around his cock.
Sunghoon groaned loudly, hips twitching. “That’s it… just like that, baby.”
You bobbed your head, sucking him eagerly, hollowing your cheeks. Your hand worked what you couldn’t fit in your mouth, stroking him in time with your movements. The wet, sloppy sounds echoed obscenely in the bathroom as you deepthroated him again and again, eyes watering, spit dripping down your chin.
He watched you through the mirror above, the sight of you on your knees in that tiny burgundy dress driving him crazy. His grip tightened in your hair as he started fucking your throat gently.
“Missed this pretty mouth so fucking much,” he growled.
You moaned around him, the vibration making his thighs tense. You could feel him throbbing against your tongue, growing even harder. His breathing turned ragged.
“Shit—I’m gonna cum again—”
You didn’t pull away. You took him as deep as possible, looking up at him with teary eyes. Sunghoon cursed loudly as he came down your throat, thick spurts of hot cum shooting straight into your stomach. You swallowed every drop, milking him until he was shuddering and oversensitive.
He pulled you up roughly by your arms and spun you around, bending you over the marble sink. Your hands braced against the counter, eyes locked on your own reflection, flushed face, swollen lips, messy hair. Sunghoon yanked your dress up again and ripped your soaked panties down your thighs in one motion.
He rubbed his still-hard cock between your dripping folds, teasing your entrance. Then he pushed in, one long, powerful thrust and he buried himself to the hilt inside you.
Both of you moaned loudly at the same time. “Oh my god! Sunghoon…” you cried out, the stretch overwhelming after so long apart.
“Fuck—your pussy… still so tight,” he groaned through gritted teeth, eyes squeezed shut for a moment. The feeling of your warm, velvety walls clenching around him made his knees weak. “I missed this so fucking bad.”
He gave you only a second to adjust before he started moving, deep, hard strokes that slammed into you with every thrust. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the bathroom as he fucked you against the sink. Your tits bounced heavily inside your dress with every powerful snap of his hips.
Sunghoon reached around and yanked the front of your dress down, letting your breasts spill free. His large hands immediately grabbed them, squeezing and kneading roughly just like he used to. His fingers pinched and rolled your sensitive nipples, tugging them as he pounded into you harder.
“Look in the mirror,” he demanded, voice low and filthy. “Watch how I’m fucking you.”
You obeyed, eyes glazed with pleasure as you watched his reflection. His sharp jaw was clenched, dark eyes burning into yours through the glass. One hand stayed on your tit, playing with it possessively, while the other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise.
He fucked you relentlessly, cock dragging against every sweet spot inside you. The angle had him hitting so deep you felt him in your stomach. Your moans were loud and broken, impossible to hold back.
“Sunghoon—ahh—fuck, you’re so deep—”
He leaned over you, biting your shoulder as he played with your tits and slammed into you. “This pussy is mine. Always been mine.”
The pleasure built fast and brutal. Your second orgasm ripped through you without warning, your walls fluttering and clenching around his cock like a vice. You cried out his name as you came, juices dripping down your thighs.
The feeling pushed Sunghoon over the edge right after you.
With a deep, guttural groan, he buried himself as deep as possible and came hard inside you. Thick ropes of cum flooded your pussy, filling you up completely. He kept thrusting through it, pushing his load deeper, claiming you in the most primal way.
For a long moment, you both stayed like that, his cock still buried inside you, his hands still groping your tits, both of you breathing heavily as you stared at each other in the mirror.
Reality slowly crept back in. Heeseung was somewhere outside. Sooha was waiting at home. But neither of you could bring yourselves to care yet. Sunghoon pressed a messy kiss to the back of your neck, still twitching inside your cum-filled pussy.
“We’re not done tonight,” he whispered darkly. “Not even close.”
can you please write pussydrunk hee I need that BAD
dada hee strikes again
Heeseung is completely gone.
He’s been between your thighs for what feels like hours now, face buried so deep in your pussy that the rest of the world doesn’t exist anymore. The bedroom is filled with the wet sounds of his mouth devouring you, long, hungry licks, filthy slurping, and his constant, broken groans like he’s the one getting fucked instead of you.
“Fuck… baby,” he rasps, voice wrecked and hoarse. His strong hands grip the back of your thighs, spreading you wider, almost folding you in half so he can get even deeper. “I can’t stop. I can’t fucking stop tasting you.”
Your back arches clean off the bed when he drags his tongue from your leaking hole all the way up to your swollen clit in one slow stripe, then sucks your clit into his hot mouth like it’s his favorite candy.
“Heeseung—! Ahh—too much—” you whimper, fingers tangled tightly in his dark hair, pulling hard enough to make his scalp sting. But he only moans louder into your pussy at the pain, hips grinding desperately against the mattress because he’s so painfully hard just from eating you out.
He’s drunk, drunk on your pussy, and completely, stupidly addicted.
His tongue pushes inside you again, fucking you with it in messy, eager strokes while his nose grinds against your clit. Every time your walls flutter and clench around his tongue he lets out this broken, needy sound, like he’s dying and being saved at the same time.
“Shit… she’s sucking me in,” he mumbles against your folds, half-delirious. “Your pretty little pussy keeps pulling my tongue in like she missed me. So fucking greedy… just like her owner.”
Two thick fingers slide into you without warning, curling instantly against that spongy spot that makes you see stars. Your thighs start shaking violently around his head as he pumps them slowly, scissoring you open while his tongue flicks relentlessly over your clit.
“Oh my god—Hee—Heeseung—!” Your voice cracks into a high, sweet whine as another orgasm crashes into you. Your pussy gushes around his fingers and tongue, soaking his chin, his lips, dripping down to the sheets.
But he doesn’t stop. He never stops.
Heeseung moans like a man starved as he drinks every drop of your release, tongue lapping messily, fingers thrusting faster to draw it out longer. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide when he glances up at you from between your legs, hair messy, cheeks flushed, mouth and chin shiny with your slick.
“You taste so fucking good,” he groans, almost whining. “Sweeter every time you cum for me. I’m addicted, baby. I need it. Need your pussy on my tongue all the time.”
He pulls his fingers out only to spread your folds open with his thumbs, staring at your clenching, dripping hole like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Then he leans in and licks a long, slow stripe through your sensitive folds again, humming happily when your hips jerk.
“Hee—please— I can’t— I’m so sensitive—” you sob softly, trying to close your legs, but his grip is iron.
“Just one more,” he lies sweetly, pressing a tender kiss right on your clit that makes you twitch. “Just let me have one more. Please, baby. I’ll die if I don’t taste you again.”
You’re a trembling, overstimulated mess, but you nod shakily because the way he begs for your pussy is too hot to deny.
Heeseung dives back in like a man possessed. This time he’s even messier. Sloppy. Desperate. His tongue laps at you like he’s trying to memorize every fold, every twitch, every taste. He sucks your clit, then moves down to push his tongue as deep inside you as it’ll go, fucking you with it while his fingers rub tight, fast circles on your clit.
Your moans turn into broken sobs and whimpers. “Nnghh— Hee—! Feels too good— gonna cum again—!”
“Yes— fuck yes, give it to me,” he growls into your pussy, the vibration sending you over the edge again.
You cum hard, thighs clamping around his head, hips grinding against his face as you ride it out. Heeseung moans loudly, happily, drinking everything you give him like it’s nectar. His fingers keep moving, prolonging it until you’re shaking and crying his name.
Even then, he keeps going, gentler now, but still obsessed. Soft, loving licks through your soaked folds, kitten licks on your clit, pressing slow kisses all over your pussy like he’s worshipping it.
“My favorite thing in the whole fucking world,” he murmurs, voice thick with lust and affection. “This pretty pussy. So wet… so warm… clenching around my tongue like you want me to live here.”
He slides three fingers back inside you slowly, watching with dark, hungry eyes as your walls suck them in greedily.
“Look at that,” he whispers in awe. “She’s hugging my fingers so tight. Greedy little thing. Just like you, baby.”
You’re nearly delirious at this point, body limp and glowing, but Heeseung still looks like he could eat you for hours more.
He crawls up your body eventually, but only after one last long, possessive lick from your entrance to your clit that makes you jolt. His face is glistening, lips puffy, eyes half-lidded with pure satisfaction and need.
He kisses you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, grinding his painfully hard cock against your thigh.
“I’m not done,” he breathes against your mouth, voice rough. “I’m never gonna be done with this pussy. Gonna eat you every single day until you understand how fucking obsessed I am.”
He slides back down your body again, already hooking your trembling legs over his shoulders.
Because Heeseung is completely, utterly pussydrunk.
And he has zero plans of sobering up anytime soon.
can u write a niki smut with intense eye contact?🫣i NEED that with him so bad
...oh hundred percent
The dorm was dead silent, the rest of the members out for the night. Only a single warm lamp glowed in the corner of Ni-ki’s room, casting soft golden light across his sharp features. He had you pinned beneath him on his bed, your back against the soft sheets, heart hammering wildly as he hovered over you like a predator who had all the time in the world.
His dark eyes were already locked on yours.
He hadn’t even touched you properly yet, but that intense, unblinking stare made your thighs press together. Ni-ki’s lips curved into a small, cocky smirk.
“Eyes on me the whole time,” he murmured, voice low and husky. “If you look away even once… I stop.”
You nodded, already breathless. His gaze alone was enough to make you wet.
He started slow, torturously slow. His long fingers slipped under your shirt, pushing it up and exposing your skin to the cool air. He peeled it off completely, then your bra, never once breaking eye contact. When his palms finally cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples, a soft gasp left your lips. He watched every flicker of pleasure on your face like it was his favorite movie.
“So sensitive tonight,” he whispered, leaning down to drag his tongue over one nipple while his eyes stayed glued to yours. The wet heat of his mouth made you whimper, but you forced yourself to keep staring back at him. The eye contact made everything ten times more intense.
His hand slid down your stomach, dipping beneath your skirt and panties. Two long fingers teased your folds before pushing inside you without warning. You moaned louder, hips twitching, but his gaze held you captive. He curled his fingers slowly, stroking that perfect spot while watching your lips part and your eyes glaze over with lust.
“Look at you,” he breathed, adding a third finger, stretching you open. “So fucking pretty when you’re falling apart on my hand.”
You were dripping by the time he finally pulled your skirt and panties off, leaving you completely bare under him. Ni-ki stripped too, revealing his toned body and his hard cock, already leaking at the tip. He settled between your spread thighs, gripping himself as he rubbed the head up and down your soaked slit.
Still, his eyes never left yours.
“Beg for it,” he said quietly.
“Please, Ni-ki… I need you inside me.”
With a dark, satisfied smile, he pushed in, slow, thick, and deep. Inch by inch he stretched you open, never blinking as he watched your face twist in pleasure and slight discomfort. When he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, he stayed there, letting you feel every single inch pulsing inside you.
“Fuck… so tight,” he groaned, voice strained. “You’re squeezing me so good, baby.”
Then he started moving.
Deep, rolling thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. The eye contact never broke. Every time he pulled back and slammed back in, his gaze grew darker, hungrier. Your moans filled the room as he fucked you with devastating control, not too fast, not too slow, just enough to make you lose your mind.
“Eyes open,” he reminded you when your lids fluttered. He grabbed your chin gently, forcing you to look at him again. “I want to watch you cum around me.”
He shifted angles, hitting deeper, harder. The wet, filthy sound of his cock sliding in and out of your soaked pussy mixed with your broken moans. Sweat started to glisten on his collarbones. His hair fell messily over his forehead, but those sharp eyes stayed locked on yours the entire time, like he was claiming your soul with every thrust.
You reached up, nails digging into his back as the pleasure built unbearably. Ni-ki leaned down closer, forehead pressed to yours, breaths mingling, but his eyes remained open, half-lidded, burning with lust.
“You’re mine,” he rasped between thrusts. “This pussy is mine. These moans are mine. Every fucking expression on your face when I wreck you… is mine.”
His pace picked up, hips snapping harder. You cried out, clenching around his thick length as your orgasm crashed into you violently. Your whole body shook, walls pulsing wildly around him, but you kept your eyes on his the entire time, just like he wanted. The intensity of his stare made your climax feel endless.
Only when you were gasping and trembling did Ni-ki let himself go. With a deep, guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard, filling you up with hot, thick spurts while still staring straight into your eyes.
For a long moment, the only sounds were your heavy breathing.
He didn’t pull out right away. Instead, he stayed buried deep inside you, both of you sweaty and connected, eyes still locked in that intense, intimate stare.
“You did so well,” he whispered, finally pressing a soft kiss to your lips. “But we’re not done yet.”
He flipped you over onto your stomach, pulled your hips up, and slid back inside you in one smooth thrust, already hard again. This time from behind, but he made you turn your head so he could still see your eyes.
“Keep looking at me,” he ordered, voice rough with new hunger. “I want to watch you fall apart all over again.”
──── in which ︵ niki’s drunk enough to lose his filter, and obsessed enough to bury his face between your legs like he never wants to come up.
✩now playing - she | tyler the creator | - ✩viewmasterlist to check out my other works!
the bass thumps faintly through the walls, but up here, in the bedroom, the air feels thick and slow. like the world stopped moving the second you let niki press you down against the bed, eyes glassy, lips swollen, drunk off cheap whiskey and the thought of getting you like this—under him. for him.
or more accurately, above him.
he’s on his knees between your thighs, flushed and mouthy, palms pushing up under your skirt like he’s impatient just to feel where you’re warm.
your panties hit the floor ages ago, somewhere between breathy giggles and him whispering “c’mere– i– let me...please, i…i need it– haah...”
now? his face is buried in you like he means it.
“fuck– baby,” he groans against your inner thigh, kissing it sloppily, tongue dragging a line up toward your heat. “you’re so soft. can’t stop thinkin’ about this. can’t—”
he doesn’t finish. just licks again, slower this time, his tongue flat and warm as it presses into your folds, collecting slick with a deep, hungry sound in his throat. he buries his mouth against you, breath hot and wet, tongue working through the mess like he’s savoring every inch.
your hips twitch. you’re already dizzy.
“wanted you all night,” he mutters, kissing the top of your mound like it’s something sacred. “and you’ve been sittin’ there, bein’ sooo sweet—lookin’ at me like that…”
you don’t even realize how tight you’re gripping his hair until he groans again, tongue dipping down low to circle your entrance. he noses deeper like he wants to drown in it, breath dragging out in a ragged, half-drunk moan when your thighs try to clamp around his head.
“n- niki…” you whimper. you can barely think. his jaw is working so messily between your legs, and his nose—fuck, it presses up right against your clit every time he licks upward, slick building with every pass of his tongue.
he doesn’t wait for permission. doesn’t tease nor slow down. he spreads you open with both thumbs and devours—broad, greedy strokes from base to tip, then quick little flicks right over your clit like he knows it’ll make you jump.
“don’t care,” he says into you, slurring it a little, voice sticky and full of praise. “i’ll be good. just—lemme taste. please.”
he’s so drunk and it’s making him reckless. he kisses your pussy like he doesn’t know what shame is—mouth open, chin wet, tongue messy and constant. he moans again when your hips grind up into his face, and he fuckin' ruts against the mattress like the taste of you is getting him off.
“fuck, you taste so good,” he groans, licking harder now, rougher.
“could stay here all night. you’d let me, wouldn’t you? sweet girl,”
his mouth latches onto your clit, tongue circling it sloppily while his nose bumps against it with every twitch of his head. you cry out, legs tightening, trying to run—but he grips your hips, growling low, and buries himself deeper.
“that’s it...baby–let me have it.”
and with the way his mouth is moving—wet, hot, tongue stroking fast and needy—you do. you cum shaking against his face, back arching, moaning something close to a sob as his name stutters off your lips.
and niki? he moans too, like you did something to him.
synopsis : you can’t take heeseung’s fake gentleman act anymore and finally confront him. unfortunately, it doesn't go quite as you expected as he retorts it against you.
( toxic situationship, dom!heeseung who’s lowkey a dick, kinda bratty sub!reader, mentions of alcohol and smoking, size kink lowkey, petnames, name calling (slut), fingers in mouth, oral f and m receiving, spanking, hair pulling, p in v (unprotected), praise and degradation, teasing!! )
check out my other drabble here!
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You didn’t really know what you would call you and Heeseung.
Fuck buddies? Friends? In a relationship? (probably not)
You just knew that you wanted him now. As you sat next to him at dinner, surrounded by all your friends. You couldn’t help yourself from looking at the way his blonde hair fell just above his eyes, how he listened attentively to whoever was speaking, not interrupting, or how his leg kept twitching under the table, in the way he always does when he can’t stay still.
You fought the urge not to rest your hand on his knee, not knowing the boundaries that could be crossed in front of your shared friends.
You also told yourself that was the reason he had barely acknowledged you during the dinner, except for when you arrived and his eyes raked over your body.
He was aware of this. It was kinda hard to miss with how you kept sipping on your wine glass and how your heel “accidentally” nudged on his shoe.
It didn’t bother him though, you looked hot and he wanted to take you home after this. Especially when he thought of last time, you kneeled down in front of him with your eyes watering and your mouth full of his cock.
As he noticed people getting more distracted in conversations, he placed his hand over your thigh.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, flashing that pretty smile.
You turned to him and your eyes flicked down to his hand. “Yea” you replied, trying to seem as normal as possible.
He nodded and his thumb started tracing circles, higher and higher, as he watched your eyes dart between him and your friends.
“You look pretty,” he whispered, leaning closer. He always knew what to say to make you melt.
You smiled and rolled your eyes, slightly embarrassed.
It was probably a combination of the fact that you were, well, surrounded by people, but also the recollection of the last encounter, that was followed by 2 weeks of radio silence by the both of you.
He looked down to where his hand reached the edge of your skirt.
“Heeseung,” you warned. He smirked at the sight of your doe eyes, and then dropped his hand, turning his attention back to his meal. You let out a breath you were subconsciously holding. He was so fucking frustrating.
The worst part was his kindness. He would never leave you shivering and always offered his jacket, always complimented you even when you had no makeup on and your hair was a mess, always carried you when you were drunk, paid for you, held your bags.
But at the end of the day, he acted that way with everyone. All of your girlfriends could testify that he was a gentleman and you had always loved that when you were just friends but now, you wanted him to yourself. Despite how much you hated admitting this, it bothered you to see him treat every girl the same. Like you were nothing special, like you were just the one who had foolishly let him in your pants.
You thought this as you watched him help a girl shell her lobster and you threw more wine back.
Well, you for sure were the only one at that table that knew the sounds he made when he was about to come, or the feeling of his hands cupping your face when he kissed you. Or how his tongue- fuck. You just spilled some wine over your thighs. Real classy.
“Shit.” you muttered and Heeseung turned his attention from the conversation happening at the other end of the table to you. His eyes dropped down and then back up.
You were tipsy. Your cheeks were flushed, eyes slightly watery and you had a stupid smile planted across your face as you dried your thighs off with a napkin.
“Y/n.”
You glanced up and saw Heeseung looking at you.
“What?”
He said nothing and took the napkin from you to help you.
“Let me take you to the bathroom.” he said as he gently grabbed your arm.
There he goes; the gentleman act, the “taking care of you when you’re drunk” act,
you thought to yourself as he excused you and led you out the table to the bathroom.
“I’m fine” you said as you pulled your arm back and rested your back against the wall. He just looked at you.
“I think you’re a little drunk y/n” he chuckled and wet a paper towel under the sink.
“Sure. You’d like that” your voice came out a lot more unsure than you’d intended it.
“What does that mean?” he asked as he leaned down and put his hand on your hip to clean your thighs. As you looked down you kinda forgot what you were gonna say.
“Dunno.”
He chuckled and rose back up. Then he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and you wish you could say you pulled away. But you kissed him.
He kissed you back, smiling, and put his thumb on your chin, pulling down gently to slip his tongue in between your lips. He guided your head back against the wall and stepped between your thighs until you could feel the bulge against his jeans.
You put your hands behind his neck and he pulled you closer by your hips, not interrupting the sudden make-out session against the restaurant bathroom wall.
“Fuck baby, missed you,” he panted against your neck, trailing kisses from there to your collarbone. You felt the heat pooling in your underwear and tugged on his hair to continue kissing him. He smiled as your lips met, tasting the wine on your breath. He pressed one last soft kiss to your lips and pulled away, running a hand through his now messed-up hair.
He fixed it in the mirror and when he noticed you staring: “You okay?”
You pushed off the wall. “I’m fine.” you said, as if you had something to prove and tried to walk as straight as you could to the sink.
“Hey” he said in that soft, concerned voice that always made your knees weak. He turned you towards him as he searched your eyes.
“You sure?” he asked and your eyes widened slightly.
Suddenly someone came in and he stepped back, clearing his throat.
He said nothing more as he left the bathroom.
Later, you were outside the restaurant, smoking a cigarette. You love this weather; the phase when summer is just starting and every evening after sunset you can enjoy the light breeze flowing through your hair and the glow of the sun beginning to soften. You think this moment could stretch out forever by how peaceful you feel.
“Hey” he approaches and wordlessly asks for a drag. You pass it to him, watching how he exhales the smoke out of his mouth.
“Sorry about..you know” he adds after a while, passing the cigarette back to you as he searches your eyes.
You take it and go back to watching the scene of kids playing soccer unfold in the park in front of you.
“No, I don’t know,” you reply.
“Y/n.” he stares at you and sighs. “I mean about what happened two weeks ago. I should’ve called.”
You watch the group of kids cheer and hug each other as they finally win the game.
“Are you listening to me?”
You turn to him, flicking the cigarette away.
“Yea, you should’ve called,” you shrug.
After a few moments of silence you add “But I didn’t either so I guess it’s okay.”
He offers you a soft smile. “I don’t want to ruin this friendship.”
You look up at him.
“But I think it’s been really good.”
You giggle at that.
“What? Why are you laughing?” he chuckles too.
“It’s been good?”
“Yea- I mean- what we’ve been doing,” he shrugs “I think you enjoy it too.”
You roll your eyes as you remember him making you come twice last time, one on his fingers, one on his cock. He wasn’t wrong.
“Come home with me tonight,” he suggests.
You stay silent for a moment and then nod.
“You aren’t too drunk right?”
You laugh at that and hit his arm. “Hey! I was just a little tipsy. Besides, is sex the only thing you care about?”
He stays silent for a moment before going, “Well..why do you think I’m inviting you over, for a movie?”
You stare at him, processing. “Yea, I know, I was joking.” you add softly.
Fuck, he could at least pretend those aren’t his only intentions. Dickhead.
You should tell him to go to hell and go back home to your cats.
But you don’t.
He leads you into his apartment, hand resting on your lower back.
You don’t know if it’s the shitty response he gave you earlier, or how he made you walk in opposite directions to the car so your friends wouldn't notice but you were feeling incredibly frustrated.
He sits you down on the couch, helping you take your heels off.
Maybe the frustration was more anger at yourself that despite this, you still wanted him.
“I can do it myself.” you push his hand away
He looks up at you
“Y/n.” nothing. “Baby”
You stop and look at him.
“Will you let me help?”
You roll your eyes but let him.
“Such a gentleman. Do you do this to all girls you take home?” you mock and tilt his chin up to you as you look down at him.
His eyebrows furrow in frustration and he pulls away.
“There.” he takes your heels off and stands up, towering over you.
You say nothing and look down at your feet.
“You’re welcome” he adds.
You scoff.
“Do you have a problem y/n?” he asks, running a hand though his hair as he already gets impatient.
“I don’t know, do I?” you look up at him and try to ignore that familiar heat in between your legs at his intense gaze.
“Spit it out. I’m not a mind reader”
Your eyes narrow as you look at each other.
“Are you really that embarrassed of me?”
“What-”
“It’s like if our friends even had a sliver of doubt that we’re-” you sigh, trying to find the right word, “well-fucking, it’d be the worst public humiliation of all time.” You get up and he steps back, as you walk to the kitchen to get some water.
“Here we go,” he mutters.
“I mean, how do you think that makes me feel?” you slam the fridge shut. “You’ve basically been with a different girl every weekend since I’ve known you and you’ve never had any problem informing others but when it’s me it’s a problem? ” You say as you pour it in your cup. “Okay” you scoff and drink.
He’s watching you attentively. Of course it’s a fucking problem when it’s you ‘cause he actually cares about you and doesn’t want to ruin your reputation in the group. But he doesn’t say that.
“It’s like ever since this has started I’m just some sex object to you. Did you even talk to me tonight after 2 weeks of silence if not to ask me to come over here?” you cross your arms as you look at him from across his kitchen.
It’s honestly ironic to him. How you’re yelling at him for being a hedonist when you’ve done nothing but flirt with him the whole night in that ridiculously short skirt.
“-and you know what pisses me off the most?” you continue. “The fact that you still act like you’re this– gentleman when all you do is flirt with every single girl you lay eyes on. I mean did you actually want to fuck me or do you just find me easy?” you rant as you run your hand through your hair.
Actually wanted to fuck you. He thinks to himself.
“Like with Lydia- when you literally shelled her lobster for her, I mean come on,” you scoff and chuckle to yourself.
“There basically isn’t any difference between how you treat me and any other of your female friends.”
He was getting ticked off. It wasn't hard to tell. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowed and he was looking at you with that dark gaze that gives you tingles.
“Are you done?” he simply asks.
“..yea” you replied, arms crossed.
“Good, cause lets not pretend you weren’t looking at me the whole night like you wanted me to take you back here and fuck the shit out of you.”
“I- Excuse you?”
“You heard me baby. Don’t act all innocent when that skirt barely covers your ass and every single man in that restaurant was looking.”
You scoff and wave your hand in the air, exasperated. “Fuck you.”
He walks around the table and towards you as you look back, crossing your arms.
His eyes dart down to your low-cut top and your tits almost spilling out of it, as if proving his point.
You notice and scoff, barely walking past him before he grabs your wrist and pulls you right back in front of him.
“Don’t run away.”
“Well what do you want me to do?” you snap back.
His jaw clenches. You can tell he’s holding back.
He looks at you for what feels like an eternity before chuckling.
“Nothing. If im such a dickhead then leave. I don’t wanna force you to be here okay? I’ll take you home.”
You look at him surprised as he starts getting his keys.
“Heeseung”
You stop him and look up.
“Look I’m sorry, okay? I’m–it’s just frustrating.”
He says nothing, waiting for you to continue.
“I hate how you act around others.”
“Well we’re not around others right now are we?” he asks, stepping closer.
You say nothing and let him step closer, suddenly feeling hot.
He tilts your chin up so you’re looking at him. The height difference always turned you on.
“Want me to apologize?”
You say nothing, suddenly feeling small under his touch.
His fingers trail along your side and you shiver.
“Want me to take you home and pretend this never happened? Hm?”
You shake your head, hesitant.
Thats what I fucking thought.
“I don’t wanna go” you pout slightly, suddenly wanting his attention badly, after your growing ache was neglected the whole night.
His fingers stop at your waist and he pulls you closer.
“Then stop fucking talking for two seconds” his jaw clenches as he watches your frown deepen, acting all innocent as if you’re not dripping into your panties.
“And stop looking at me like that” he looks down at your lips
He smooths his thumb over your frown and when that does nothing: “Stop pouting or I swear to god-”
You open your mouth and he swallows.
“Y/n..” he warns and his eyes narrow as he watches your small mouth open in obedience, he pushes his thumb in and you suck on it. He groans at the sight
He pulls it out and immediately replaces it with his lips, kissing you passionately. You put your hand in his belt loop to pull him closer and he grips onto your hips, trying to stop himself from grinding against you. You bite his lower lip and he curses into your mouth. He grabs your hands and pins them to the wall as his mouth works over your neck.
“Heeseung-” you whine as you push your hips forward
“Stay fucking still.” He bites down and sucks on your neck.
“Better? Now everyone can see you’re taken.”
You whine and he sucks more marks into your skin.
He pulls away to kiss you, surprisingly soft, as he lets go of your hands to pull your top off.
You let him and he looks at you in awe before sucking and kissing at your chest. You run your fingers through his hair and tug.
“You’re so impatient” he smirks against your nipple before continuing to circle it with his tongue. You’re just arching embarrassingly into him, before he kneels down and kisses down your stomach.
It's incredible how even knelt down he still arrives at your belly button.
He pulls your skirt up and buries his face in your panties, feeling how soaked you are.
“God you’re such a slut” to which you gasp and whine helplessly.
He pulls your panties down your legs, suddenly acting like he has all the time in the world as he presses a kiss over each fold before pulling your thigh over his shoulder and spreading your pussy out for him.
“Heeseung..”
“Acting all annoyed, dicking at me for half an hour over stupid shit when you’re here dripping, hm? Why do you do this to yourself baby?” He licks a stripe from your hole to your clit and sucks, hard.
You cry out.
“You could have a good boyfriend, who treats you right, takes you out, listens to all your stupid rants,” he collects your slick with his fingers and sucks them into his mouth.
“But here you are.” you make the mistake of looking down at him.
How can he have this much power over you when he’s the one knelt down, with his face in between your legs?
He pulls your thigh higher against his shoulder and dives back in, licking and sucking like he’s addicted to you.
“F-fuck H-heeseung–oh my god” you moan as your head tilts back against the wall and you feel him smile against your pussy.
“You’re so loud” he comments, making you heat up and swallow your moans. He grips onto your hips, holding you close so he can lick firm, precise stripes up and down your pussy, occasionally sucking and bumping his nose with your clit.
You can’t help it as you cry out and tug on his hair when he suddenly plunges his digits into your pussy. You know your legs would probably give out right now if he wasn’t holding you up and that notion just turns you on even more.
“Fuck y/n.. you’re so wet” he plunges his fingers even deeper, causing you to grind your hips against them, trying to find release.
He pulls them out, despite your whimpering, and sucks them clean.
“Not yet.”
You look down, eyes filled with tears as you try to compose yourself.
He doesn’t say anything, just smirks, like your face speaks for itself.
In the bedroom he pushes you against the door as he kisses you like he’s trying to suffocate, and you think he might be by how he smiles in satisfaction when you pull away to breathe.
He leans down to kiss you again before biting your lower lip and tugging on it. You moan at the sting and hit his shoulder. He lets go and hovers over your lips.
“Did you just hit me?” his calm, confident gaze burns into you.
You swallow.
“Hm.”
He just gives you a knowing look, like subtly telling you you’re going to regret that later on.
You know he’s being a dick, but your body isn't cooperating with your mind as you get the overwhelming feeling to make him feel good.
You say nothing and kneel down. His breath catches.
You undo his pants and pull them down, as you don’t break eye contact.
“... what are you doing?” he runs a hand though your hair as he looks at you, conflicted.
“What do you think?”
“You really don't have to– fuck” you press your lips against his clothed dick, sucking as the only thing that seperates you from his skin is the thin layer of his cotton boxers.
You pull away, pouting slightly.
“You don’t want me to?” His eyes widen slightly and he cups your face.
“No no no no baby it’s not that I don't want it- it’s just- I don't want you to feel forced-”
You pull away from his touch, smirking. “I want to.”
You pull his boxers down, moaning at the sight of his dick and his brain short circuits. “Fuck. Okay-”
You wrap your lips around the tip first, earning a shaky moan from him. You whine and suck as he tightens the grip on your hair, making you take more. He groans at the vibration.
You look up at him and the way his head falls back as you suck harder.
Your eyes clam shut as you take his dick deeper in your mouth, and he tenses.
“S-shit” you try to push deeper but end up gagging around his thick length.
He groans and pulls you off by your hair.
“For fuck’s sake y/n would you slow down?”
You try to take him again but he holds you back by your hair. You look up at him, a quiet exchange of looks between you two in which neither of you backs down.
“Y/n. God-” he groans and you suck the tip again, swirling your tongue over it.
Then you wrap your hand around the thick portion of his cock that isn’t in your mouth and start stroking, taking in his groans.
“Fuck–you’re being so good” he moans and thrusts his hips forward, making you rub your thighs together, trying to find some relief for your aching need.
He notices this and tugs on your hair, making you pull off.
You look up and he grins at the sight of your doe eyes.
“Is my baby getting needy?”
You feel your face heat up and nod. He has you under some sort of spell you can’t break and you don’t even realize what’s happening as he slips two fingers in your mouth and makes you suck.
You don’t stop till he pulls out and caresses your cheek.
“Heeseung..” your breath is shaky, your chest rising and falling. You know you look soo pathetic right now.
To him, he’s never seen a sight so beautiful.
“I want you to ride me.”
You crawl on top of him and he smooths his hand over your body until he reaches your clit and rubs circles on it with his thumb as his middle finger runs over your hole, gathering your wetness
“Baby-you’re soaked” he groans.
“Just from sucking my dick?”
“Also from that fucking orgasm that you took away earlier.” you drop your seeping cunt on the base of his dick and grind up and down.
He moans. “Right. I’ve been neglecting you, hm?” his hands settle on your hips, slowing you down. “Bet you’re gonna come as soon as I get the tip inside.”
You look at him, exasperated.
“Maybe I shouldn’t,” he grins.
“Maybe I should just let you grind until you cry from frustration.” he holds your hips still.
“Heeseung..” you lean down so you can beg in his ear.
“Please baby...it hurts” you whine softly.
He grins in satisfaction and lightly kisses your neck.
“Mhmm, so you’re not mad anymore?” he tilts your chin so you’re face to face with him, your bodies pressed together.
“No- fuck–” you lean down to kiss him but he holds you back.
“That’s what I thought. Fucking whining for an hour over nothing.” he smacks your ass and you moan, your head dipping down to his shoulder.
“Go on then, ride me. Show me how much you need it.”
You really hated him right now. You hated how he talked to you.
But you craved him so bad.
So with teary eyes from all his teasing you sat up and lined his cock with your entrance. He watched you as his hands gripped your waist, not helping you in the slightest.
You sank down and moaned, your hands on his chest for support.
“Oh my god,” he was the perfect fit. Not too big but big enough to hit the spot as you weakly lifted your hips and sank back down again.
You whimpered at the feeling and he started rubbing firm circles on your clit.
“Come on baby, you can take it.” he urged you to move faster, thrusting up and making you shudder. All it took was another thrust from him.
“Heeseung-” it was too late as you moaned out his name and convulsed around him, grinding up and down and clenching impossibly around his dick.
“Fuck- fuck- fuck-” you whined, eyes shut.
He looked up at you, in disbelief at how fucking perfect you were and how right he was when he said you’d come immediately.
Your movements came to a halt and you opened your eyes.
“I fucking knew it.” he said as he rubbed circles on your clit, and you whined in overstimulation.
You looked down at him and pulled his hand away, already ready for his insults.
“You’re so fucking sensitive. 5 seconds on my cock and you’re already coming,” despite his mean words he’s pulling you down against his chest and caressing your hair.
“It’s okay baby. Don’t worry.” he kisses your neck and his hands drop to your hips.
He’s still inside you and throbbing. He thrusts up and you gasp, holding onto him.
“You can take it, right?” you nod in response.
“Good girl.” he feels you clench around him and groans, thrusting back up.
“You’re so tight-fuck” he moans as you grind back.
“Think you can ride me princess? Come on,” he kisses your neck and you nod as you sit back up. You feel your stomach flutter as you catch his intense gaze.
He’s in the midst of realizing he’s an idiot for thinking he wouldn’t catch feelings.
“Nice and slow.” he groans as he picks your hips up and helps you rise and fall back on his dick.
He’s basically doing all the work but he doesn’t mind.
You moan as you pick up the pace and you watch his eyes roll back in pleasure.
“Fuck-” you whine and dig your nails into his chest as you ride him.
“Sh-shit come here.” he sits up slightly so he’s closer and immediately takes your boob in his mouth. You arch and don’t stop riding him as he pulls you up and down his cock.
He sucks all over your chest and neck, trying to stifle his groans.
He speeds up and captures your mouth in a passionate and hungry kiss.
“I’m so close- fuck y/n”
You relish in his grunts as you bounce up and down and throw your head back.
His fingers find you clit and rub urgently.
“Wanna feel you come--fuck,”
You whine as you get closer and closer and he digs his fingers into your hip.
You look down and the look he’s giving you is enough to push you over the edge. He thrusts up violently into you and pulls you flush against his chest so he can fill you up completely.
In the midst of your moans you hear him groan in your ear:
“F-fuck that’s my baby. All mine. All mine.”
You lift your hips weakly as you watch his cum leak out of you. You say nothing as you flop down beside him, spent.
“Go to sleep. You’re exhausted.” he says as he moves some strands of hair from your face.
You just smile as his words from earlier repeat in your head.
✩ ₊˚ making niki take you in backshots as punishment
"please, baby. i wanna see your pretty face," niki pleads for the umpteenth time.
niki will take you however you need him to, but you and him both know he prefers it when you're facing him.
tonight you're denying him of that pleasure, not even straining your neck to spare him a glance.
"m-mm. no riki. take me just like this, since you want to–shit–act out."
his hips slow into deep strokes. he's close and he knows you are too. but he doesn't want to finish like this.
"y/n, i'm sorry. i promise i won't do it again, hm? just let me flip you over, or at least look at me."
you push your hips back into his, chasing your own pleasure, while pretending to still think about it. "what do i get out of it, hm?"
niki almost rolls his eyes, but he knows he's already on thin ice. anymore mishaps you might leave him with blue balls. "the best orgasm of your life," he replies.
you suck your teeth. "fine, riki."
he barely wastes a second before he's flipping you over and manhandling your legs onto his shoulders, damn near folding you in half.
he slips back into you with a moan, finally being able to see that beautiful face he's fallen in love with.
"f-fuck baby. you look sooo good." he groans, hips pounding into you. you clench at the praise, moans starting to flow out as he repeatedly hits that spot inside of you.
his eyes never leave your face, every reaction and twitch going straight to his dick. and then you make a face he knows all too well.
"you close, baby?" he grunts, trying to keep up his pace.
"yes, please– don't stop." now you're the one pleading. he could be mean. he could deny you of a sweet release like you did him, but at this point he needed to see you cum more than you needed to feel it.
"cum on this dick, y/n, give it to me. fuck–"
like a rubber band, you snap, legs shaking as you clench around him, his release following soon after.
₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊
a/n: i literally wrote this all in one go idk i got bored. anyways i think he would genuinely like to be all up in ur face during sex so . yea
You came back for summer. You got him instead. Sun, salt, and scandal, Jeju’s elite playground is back in session, and so is your favorite mistake: Lee Heeseung. Your enemy. Your almost. Your what-if. One house apart. One argument away. One drink too many from disaster.
pairing: enemy!heeseung x reader !
warnings: yearning slow burn strong language possessiveness jealousy alcohol banter secrecy angst parties rich people (yes, that's a separate warning) loads of sexual tension porn with plot enemies to lovers childhood rivals friends with benefits mutual pining unresolved tension emotional constipation family friends beach-town drama arguments miscommunication fear of commitment
warnings (smut): Multiple explicit sex scenes Enemies -> friends with benefits → Lovers Rough unprotected sex (no!) Creampie Tit/nipple play Fingering Handjob Grinding Teasing Wall sex Door sex Kitchen counter sex Manhandling Dirty talk Cum play Overstimulation Marking & biting
playlist: Call Me Maybe by Carly Rae Jepsen [] Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift [] Espresso by Sabrina Carpenter [] Are You Bored Yet? by Wallows []
likes and reblogs for a cookie!
☆ WORD COUNT: 29k!
(Masterlist)
Sam: happy birthday to me, love u dada
HELL HAD A VERY SPECIFIC SMELL.
Not sulfur. Not smoke. Not whatever dramatic nonsense poets liked to compare suffering to, or any of the bullshit propaganda movies liked to spread.
No, hell, in your experience, smelled like salt in the air and expensive sunscreen. Like sun-warmed pavement and blooming jasmine climbing over white-painted fences. Like the ocean sitting just close enough to hear from your bedroom window, taunting you with the promise of peace you were never actually going to get.
Hell smelled like summer in Jeju Island. And unfortunately, you had just arrived.
You stood in the driveway of your family’s beach house with your sunglasses sliding down your nose and your patience already clinically deceased, staring at the towering white house like it had personally offended you. Which, honestly, it had. The place looked like every rich family’s Pinterest board had thrown up on it, ivy curling around stone walls, floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the blinding afternoon sun, hydrangeas blooming obnoxiously blue along the front walk.
Beautiful. Expensive. Full of memories you preferred not to examine too closely. Your mother stepped out of the car behind you with the kind of energy only women with fresh manicures and vacation plans possessed.
“Don’t just stand there,” she said, already fishing her oversized sunhat from her tote bag. “Help your father with the luggage.”
You adjusted your sunglasses and gave the house one last deeply unimpressed look. “I’m considering simply walking into the ocean instead.”
From somewhere near the trunk, your father sighed. “And every year, you make the same joke.”
“Because every year, the ocean remains an option.”
Your mother clicked her tongue, the universal sound of maternal disappointment, and handed you two bags anyway. “Be dramatic later. We’re already late for dinner at the club tonight.”
Of course you were. Summer in Jeju Island wasn’t really summer. It was a social performance with a beachfront view. Three months of yacht parties, country club dinners, charity galas disguised as drinking events, and the same old-money families pretending they didn’t all know each other’s scandals already. Everyone here had grown up together, gone to the same private schools, kissed the same people, ruined each other’s lives in aesthetically pleasing ways. It was beautiful. It was exhausting.
It was home, in the most unfortunate sense of the word.
You hauled your bag up the front steps, pushing the door open with your shoulder. The familiar coolness of the house greeted you immediately, air conditioning and polished wood and lemon-scented cleaning products. Somewhere upstairs, your childhood room waited exactly as you’d left it last August, probably still holding the ghosts of every bad decision you’d made between seventeen and twenty-two. A charming thought.
You dropped your bags by the staircase and wandered toward the kitchen, where your mother was already directing the opening of windows and the placement of flowers like she was staging a home magazine shoot.
She looked over her shoulder at you. “And before I forget,” she said, in the dangerously casual tone mothers used right before ruining your day, “be nice to the Lees this summer.”
You stopped mid-reach for the lemonade pitcher. Slowly, you turned. “Excuse me?”
“The Lees,” she repeated, as if she hadn’t just spoken your personal curse into existence. “We’re having them over next weekend, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t start any unnecessary arguments.”
You stared at her. There was a long, silent moment in which your soul quietly left your body and floated somewhere over the Atlantic. Then, “I’d like it officially noted,” you said, setting the pitcher down with great dignity, “that I never start the arguments.”
Your mother gave you a look. You gave her one back. She won. “You absolutely do.”
“I finish them beautifully,” you corrected. “That’s different.”
She sighed, turning back to her flowers. “Just behave. Especially with Heeseung.” And there it was. The name. The final nail in the coffin. Lee Heeseung. Your lifelong enemy. Your annual migraine. The human embodiment of every smug text message left on read.
Next door. Living, unfortunately.
You leaned against the kitchen counter and closed your eyes for one brief moment, like maybe if you didn’t move, the universe would take pity on you and reverse time. It did not. Because of course he was here. He was always here.
Every summer since childhood had come with three guarantees: humidity, your mother’s obsession with hosting dinners, and Lee Heeseung existing entirely too close to your personal space. Your families had been friends forever, which meant your lives had been annoyingly, inescapably intertwined since before either of you had enough common sense to avoid each other.
There were photos somewhere, horrifying evidence, of the two of you as children on the same beach, him with scraped knees and you with a missing front tooth, already looking like you were one wrong comment away from attempted murder.
Some things, apparently, were timeless. As teenagers, it had only gotten worse. He’d grown into his face in the kind of unfair way that should’ve required government intervention, too handsome, too charming, too aware of both. The kind of boy adults loved and girls wrote bad poetry about. Golden boy energy in expensive linen. Meanwhile, you had perfected the art of making eye contact while verbally destroying someone. Naturally, you got along terribly.
Every summer had become its own tradition of verbal warfare, stolen drinks at parties, arguments on docks at midnight, insults dressed up as flirting and flirting disguised as threats. There had been one almost-kiss when you were nineteen, drunk and angry and standing far too close on his parents’ balcony.
Neither of you had ever mentioned it again. Civilization had survived. Barely. Your mother was still talking. “His mother mentioned he got back last week.”
Wonderful. Fantastic. Thrilling.“Did she also mention if he’s developed the ability to shut up?” you asked.
“She mentioned he’s doing very well.” Of course he was. Lee Heeseung was always doing very well. He probably woke up looking expensive and emotionally unavailable. You poured yourself a glass of lemonade with the gravity of someone preparing for battle.
“Great. I can’t wait to not care.”
Your mother pointed a flower stem at you. “I mean it. No fighting.”
You took a sip. “With all due respect, mother, if Lee Heeseung and I stop fighting, one of us has probably died.”
From the front yard came the low sound of a car door shutting. Then another. Your father’s voice drifted in from outside, greeting someone. Your mother brightened instantly. “Oh! Perfect timing.”
No. Absolutely not. You set the glass down very, very slowly. “No,” you said. She smiled the smile of a woman who had already decided your fate.
“Yes. Go say hello.” You looked toward the window like it might offer an emergency exit. Sunlight poured across the garden. Beyond the hydrangeas and white fencing sat the neighboring house, just as grand, just as obnoxiously perfect. And somewhere in that orbit of privilege and poor decision-making was Heeseung. Back for another summer. Meaning your peace, your dignity, and probably your better judgment had all officially expired.
You inhaled once. Exhaled. Straightened your sunglasses like armor. “Well,” you muttered, heading for the door, “welcome back to hell.”
The universe, unfortunately, had a sense of humor. Because the second you stepped out onto the front porch, armed with sunglasses, a bad attitude, and the vague hope that maybe your father had been greeting the mailman instead of your greatest seasonal inconvenience, you saw him.
Leaning against the hood of his car like he’d been placed there by an overly confident romance novelist. Of course. Of course Lee Heeseung would make an entrance by simply existing in expensive sunlight.
His car was obnoxious. Sleek, black, expensive enough to probably have its own trust fund. It sat in the driveway of the house next door like a personal insult, gleaming under the late afternoon sun while he leaned against it with all the irritating ease of a man who had never once struggled to be liked. White linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Dark sunglasses pushed back into his hair. Skin already carrying the kind of summer tan people paid money to fake.
And that smirk. That stupid, smug, entirely too familiar smirk. Your father was by the front gate, already deep in conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Lee, who were as lovely as ever, warm, elegant, and somehow still producing that man without demanding an apology from the universe.
Mrs. Lee spotted you first. “Oh, there she is!” There was genuine affection in her voice, which made this all worse. You pasted on your best socially acceptable smile and walked down the steps with the slow, resigned grace of someone approaching their own execution.
Mrs. Lee kissed your cheek, your mother appeared from somewhere behind you like she’d been waiting for this exact moment, and within seconds both sets of parents were exchanging the usual summer pleasantries.
How was the drive?How long are you staying?You’ve gotten so grown up.We must have dinner together soon.
The rich-people mating dance. You answered where necessary, smiled where required, and tried very hard not to look to your left. Naturally, you failed. Because Heeseung was looking directly at you. Still leaning there. Still smirking. Like he’d been waiting for this. You crossed your arms instinctively. He pushed himself off the car. Slowly. Like a villain with excellent posture. Then, with the audacity of a man untouched by divine punishment, he looked you over once, head to toe, unhurried, deeply annoying, and said, “Missed me?”
You stared at him. There were many possible responses. Most of them involved violence. Your mother, standing three feet away, would probably object to murder in broad daylight, so you settled for a look sharp enough to qualify as attempted manslaughter. “I was actually having a wonderful day,” you said, “but thanks for asking.”
His mouth twitched. Your father laughed because traitors lived everywhere. Heeseung slid his hands into his pockets, infuriatingly calm. “Good. I’d hate to ruin your summer that quickly.”
“Please,” you said sweetly. “You ruin my summer just by continuing to exist.”
Mrs. Lee sighed in the fond, exhausted way of a woman who had witnessed this dance for over a decade. “See? Exactly the same.”
“Worse, actually,” you said.
“At least she admits she thinks about me,” Heeseung replied.
You inhaled. Exhaled. Decided prison orange would not flatter you. Your mother gave you a warning glance over the rim of her sunglasses, the universal signal for ‘do not embarrass me in front of the neighbors’. You smiled tightly. Heeseung smiled back like he was enjoying this far too much. He was. He always did. That was the problem.
From the outside, the two of you probably looked like some kind of old-Hollywood screwball romance, beautiful people exchanging insults in linen by the sea. From the inside, it felt more like mutual destruction with excellent lighting. Mr. Lee was discussing the yacht club renovation with your father now, and the adults had drifted slightly toward the garden, leaving just enough space for danger.
You turned toward him, lowering your voice. “If you’re planning to spend this summer being extra unbearable, I’d appreciate a warning so I can emotionally prepare.”
He leaned slightly closer, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not the amusement written all over his face. “Emotionally prepare?” he repeated. “You? I thought your whole thing was pretending not to have emotions.”
You scoffed. “My whole thing is surviving despite your presence.”
“Cute.”
“Don’t call me cute.”
“I didn’t. I said your delusion was cute.” There it was. The familiar rhythm. Effortless. Annoying. Dangerous in the way old habits always were.
You hated how easy it was to fall back into it, like no time had passed at all. Like last summer hadn’t ended with the two of you arguing on the marina docks at two in the morning, both too stubborn to say whatever actually needed saying. Like the almost-kiss years ago had never happened. Like your pulse didn’t do something deeply embarrassing every time he stepped too close.
You adjusted your sunglasses and took one deliberate step back. “Try not to get hit by a yacht this summer, Heeseung. It would create paperwork.”
He grinned. “There she is. I was worried college made you soft.” You smiled back, bright and false and weaponized. “And I was hoping maturity had found you. Shame we’re both disappointed.”
Mrs. Lee called his name from the garden before he could answer, and for one brief, shining moment, you experienced peace. He glanced toward his parents, then back at you. That smirk again. Like he knew something you didn’t. Which was unacceptable. “See you around, neighbor.”
You folded your arms tighter. “Threatening me already?”
“Just making promises.” God, you hated him. Truly. Deeply. Artistically. He turned then, walking back toward his parents with the lazy confidence of someone who had never once doubted the world would make room for him. Mrs. Lee adjusted his collar as he passed, and he let her, smiling in that easy, golden-boy way that made adults adore him and should have been scientifically illegal.
Spawn of the devil. Your father was still laughing at something Mr. Lee had said. Betrayal, everywhere. A few more polite goodbyes later, the Lees disappeared back into their perfectly landscaped kingdom next door, and you stood in the driveway watching Heeseung disappear behind the white fence like a storm cloud in designer sunglasses.
Your mother touched your arm. “You could at least pretend to be nicer.”
“I was radiant with charm.”
“You looked like you were planning arson.”
“That was charm.” She sighed, already turning back toward the house. Inside, the air was cool again, but your mood had fully committed to violence. You followed her to the kitchen, where she resumed unpacking with suspicious calm, the calm of someone about to ruin your evening.
You should have known. “By the way,” she said casually, arranging lemons in a bowl like a woman with no regard for her daughter’s suffering, “we’re having dinner with the Lees on Saturday.”
You stopped. “No.”
She didn’t even look up. “Yes.”
“Cancel.”
“No.”
“Fake your death.”
She placed the final lemon down and finally turned to face you. “Be serious.”
“I am serious. I’m willing to help stage it.” Your mother smiled in the dangerous way mothers did when they’d already won. “Saturday. Seven o’clock. Try not to start a war before dessert.”
You stared at her. At the lemons. At the kitchen. At the universe. Somewhere next door, Lee Heeseung was probably alive and smug. And now there would be dinner. Shared wine. Forced politeness. His knee probably brushing yours under the table just to ruin your life.
Your villain origin story, apparently, came with a seafood course. You picked up your abandoned lemonade and took a long sip like it contained stronger coping mechanisms. Summer had officially begun.
Tuesday arrived the way summer days in Jeju Island always did, slowly, lazily, like the sun itself had nowhere better to be.
By ten in the morning, the entire town had already settled into its usual rhythm. Tennis whites at the country club. Mothers with iced coffees and expensive sunglasses pretending not to gossip. Men in linen shirts discussing boats like they were discussing national policy. Teenagers and college kids spilling toward the beach in swimsuits and bad intentions. Everything here moved with the polished ease of old money and old habits. You hated how easy it was to slip back into it. There was something dangerous about returning to a place that remembered every version of you.
The boardwalk still creaked in the same places. The little café near the marina still sold iced vanilla lattes overpriced enough to count as emotional damage. The beach still stretched golden and endless, all warm sand and glittering water and sun-drunk afternoons that made bad decisions feel like destiny instead of stupidity.
Summer here had a way of convincing people they were invincible. It was probably responsible for at least seventy percent of your mistakes. By afternoon, you’d decided your mother’s constant rearranging of flowers and reminders about Saturday dinner were enough to qualify as psychological warfare, so you escaped. You packed a beach tote with the seriousness of a military operation, sunscreen, sunglasses, a bottle of water, your newest hardcover, lip gloss, and the kind of bikini your mother would call unnecessary and your best friend would call revenge.
Then you walked the familiar path down to the shore. The beach behind the summer houses was quieter than the public side near the clubs and restaurants. Less crowded. More private. A stretch of pale sand bordered by dunes and sea grass, where the houses sat like silent judges overlooking the ocean. This part belonged to families like yours and the Lees, generational wealth and carefully curated summer traditions.
It also meant escape was limited. Still, the ocean was worth it. The salt-heavy breeze hit first, warm and familiar against your skin. Then the sound, the endless hush and crash of waves folding into shore, gulls overhead, distant laughter carried by the wind. You slipped your sandals off and let the sand burn briefly against your feet before finding your usual spot. Far enough from the water to keep your book safe. Close enough to hear the tide.
Perfect.
You spread your towel out, dropped your bag beside it, and stretched out on your back like a woman personally committed to becoming one with summer. Sunlight soaked into your skin almost instantly, warm and golden and heavy in that way only coastal afternoons could be. Your bikini was barely enough fabric to qualify as clothing, but that was the point. Tiny black straps against sun-kissed skin, sunglasses shielding your eyes, a paperback novel open against your stomach.
Peace. Actual peace. No dinner invitations. No passive-aggressive mothers. No Lee Heeseung. Just heat and salt and the kind of silence that felt earned. You read for a while, though read was a generous term for occasionally turning a page while mostly listening to the ocean and contemplating whether adulthood could be legally postponed forever. The book was good. The sun was better.
A few familiar faces passed along the shore, neighbors, old classmates, people you’d known your whole life in the vague, privileged way beach towns operated. There were waves, smiles, the occasional “welcome back,” but no one lingered. Exactly how you liked it. At some point, you must have drifted halfway to sleep, caught in that hazy summer state where time stopped mattering. The sun had shifted warmer against your shoulders. The edges of your book blurred. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed.
Then a shadow fell across you. Immediately, your soul knew. Without even opening your eyes, you sighed. Deeply. Spiritually. Like a woman who had seen the face of God and found it disappointing. “No.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, “That’s not very neighborly.” Of course. You opened one eye. And there he was. Lee Heeseung, standing over your towel like some sort of beautifully dressed natural disaster. Shirtless, because apparently humility was not part of his summer wardrobe. Swim trunks slung low on his hips, sunglasses on, skin bronzed by the sun like he’d been handcrafted by someone with a personal vendetta against your patience.
Water still clung to his shoulders, droplets sliding slowly down his chest like the universe itself was trying to make your life harder. Annoying. Extremely annoying. You closed your eye again. “If I ignore you long enough,” you said, “will you evaporate?”
“I think that only works on your personality.” You considered throwing your book at him. It was hardcover. Tempting. Instead, you shifted onto one elbow and looked up at him over your sunglasses. “Don’t you have a yacht to crash or someone else to emotionally inconvenience?”
He grinned, infuriatingly pleased with himself, and sat down uninvited at the edge of your towel like personal boundaries were a concept he’d heard of once and rejected on principle. “I was swimming.”
“I can see that. Congratulations on your ability to enter water.”
“Thank you. I worked very hard.”
You stared at him. He stared back. There was something uniquely exhausting about Heeseung’s presence, like he moved through the world assuming everything, and everyone, would make room for him. And worse, they usually did. He looked out toward the ocean, arms resting loosely over his knees. For a second, with the sunlight catching against his skin and the sea stretching endlessly behind him, he looked less like your lifelong enemy and more like one of those postcard summers people spent the rest of their lives trying to recreate.
Which was dangerous. You hated when he looked cinematic. It made being annoyed significantly less efficient. “You’re ruining my peaceful beach solitude,” you informed him.
“I noticed. You seemed too happy.”
“I wasn’t happy. I was tolerating existence.”
“Even worse.”
You let your book fall shut against your lap. “This is exactly why people warn me about you.” He tilted his head.
“No, they warn people about you. I’m universally beloved.”
You scoffed. “By mothers and women with no standards.”
“And yet here you are, talking to me in a bikini.”
You sat up fully. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was here first.”
“Mm. Territorial.”
“Get off my towel.”
He laughed then, low and easy, carried by the wind and the waves, and it did something profoundly irritating to your bloodstream. That laugh had been the soundtrack to half your summers. Bonfires at sixteen. Pool parties at eighteen. Drunken arguments on docks at twenty. Memory was a cruel thing. You stood abruptly.
Enough. Absolutely enough. If you stayed any longer, you’d either drown him or make eye contact for too long, and both options felt equally dangerous. With the sharp efficiency of someone preserving her dignity by force, you started packing your things. Your book went into your tote. Sunscreen. Water bottle. Sunglasses pushed into your hair.
Heeseung leaned back on his hands, watching the whole performance with zero remorse. “Leaving already?”
“Yes.”
“Because of me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
A pause. Then, truthfully: “Yes.” His smile widened. You hated how much he enjoyed winning tiny wars. You shoved your sandals on and slung your bag over your shoulder, glaring down at him with all the righteous fury of a woman denied a peaceful tanning session. “You are genuinely the most irritating person I have ever met.”
He looked up at you, sunlight in his hair, smirk already waiting. “And yet you keep coming back every summer.” You opened your mouth. Closed it. Because unfortunately, he had a point, and you refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing that aloud. Instead, you gave him one last glare sharp enough to qualify as a formal threat and turned toward home.
The walk back felt warmer somehow, the sun heavier against your skin, sand clinging to your ankles. Behind you, his laughter followed, soft at first, then clearer as the wind carried it over the shoreline. Infuriating. Familiar. Summer itself, if summer had a god complex and perfect teeth. You didn’t look back. But you could still hear him. And somehow, that felt worse.
Saturday arrived wrapped in sunlight and bad intentions. By six in the evening, the entire house smelled like citrus candles, your mother’s perfume, and the kind of expensive stress that came with hosting, or in this case, being hosted by, the Lees. The sun was beginning its slow descent over the water, pouring honey-colored light through the bedroom windows and turning everything soft and golden in a way that made even impending social torture look romantic.
Outside, Jeju Island was in full performance mode. The streets near the coast glowed with polished summer wealth, convertibles pulling into curved driveways, tennis bracelets catching the light, champagne already being chilled somewhere on a yacht that absolutely did not need to exist. The ocean breeze drifted in through the cracked windows carrying salt, jasmine, and the faint sounds of someone laughing too loudly three houses down.
Everything looked beautiful. Which was unfortunate, because beauty made suffering feel theatrical. You stood in the middle of your bedroom surrounded by what looked like the aftermath of a small fashion war. Dresses across the bed. Shoes abandoned like casualties. A hairbrush on the floor. Three rejected outfit options hanging from your closet door like public executions.
And in your hands, your salvation. An oversized gray hoodie. Soft. Reliable. Emotionally supportive. The kind of hoodie that said I do not wish to be perceived. Perfect. You pulled it over your head with the solemnity of a woman entering battle. It swallowed you immediately, sleeves too long, hem brushing your thighs, the entire look somewhere between off-duty model and suspicious raccoon. You stared at yourself in the mirror.
Excellent. If all went according to plan, the Lees would assume you were a drifter who had wandered in from the beach and politely ask you to leave before appetizers. Peace at last. Your mother entered without knocking, because privacy was apparently a concept reserved for only the elites. She stopped in the doorway.
Looked at you. Looked at the hoodie. Looked back at you. Silence. Long enough to be considered legally threatening. “No,” she said.
You folded your arms. “Counterpoint: yes.”
“No.”
“This is fashion.”
“This is a cry for help.”
You turned back to the mirror, adjusting the hood with dramatic precision. “I’m cultivating mystery. They’ll be intrigued.”
“They’ll think I forgot to raise you.”
“Honestly, that might buy me sympathy.”
Your mother crossed the room with the terrifying calm of a woman who had already made her decision three minutes ago. From behind her back, like a magician revealing the final trick, she produced a dress. Yellow. Of course it was yellow, why? Because, summer, darling. Not soft yellow. Not subtle yellow. The kind of rich, golden, sunlight yellow that looked like it belonged in a movie where everyone had unresolved feelings and excellent cheekbones.
A sleek sundress. Fitted enough to be dangerous, effortless enough to pretend it wasn’t. You narrowed your eyes. “No.”
“Yes.”
“It looks like optimism.”
“It looks like summer.”
“It looks like a setup.”
She held it up against you with complete disregard for your emotional well-being. “It looks like you clean up beautifully.” There it was. The betrayal. Because that was exactly the problem. You knew the dress looked good. That made it worse. Wearing the dress meant effort. Effort meant possibility. Possibility meant Lee Heeseung seeing you in a dress that suggested maybe, potentially, under the right atmospheric conditions, you had once been nice to someone.
Unacceptable. You stepped back. “I would rather be hit by a jet ski.”
“Wonderful. You can wear this to the hospital afterward.”
“Mother.”
She sighed, setting the dress on the bed like a final verdict. “You are not wearing that hoodie to dinner with the Lees. Mrs. Lee adores you, your father is already pretending this evening will be civilized, and I refuse to let my daughter look like she escaped from a beach bonfire.” You looked at the hoodie. The hoodie looked back. A fallen soldier. Somewhere in the distance, a gull cried out over the ocean like it, too, understood your suffering.
You flopped backward onto the bed with all the grace of a dying Victorian heroine. “This is oppression.”
“This is dinner.”
“There’s seafood involved. That makes it worse.”
Your mother sat beside you, smoothing a wrinkle from the yellow dress. For a moment, the teasing slipped into something softer. “You’ve been doing this with him for years,” she said.
You stared at the ceiling. “Doing what?” She gave you a look, not sharp, not smug, just the tired wisdom of a woman who had watched two stubborn people circle each other for too long.
“This one. The fighting. The pretending.” You groaned dramatically and threw an arm over your face. “If this conversation ends with you calling him charming, I’m moving to another country.”
She laughed then, quiet and warm. “I’m just saying… maybe try not to make tonight a battlefield.” Too late. The battlefield had excellent landscaping and probably a wine pairing. Still, after she left, the room felt quieter. The golden light had shifted lower now, stretching long shadows across the floorboards. From your window, you could see the neighboring house through the trees, white walls glowing in the sunset, lights beginning to flicker on, elegant and smug and entirely too close.
Somewhere over there was Heeseung. Probably looking expensive. Probably being annoying. Probably existing with that stupid face. You hated that your first instinct was to wonder what he’d be wearing. Probably linen. Men like him were always in linen, like they were personally sponsored by summer. With a sigh heavy enough to qualify as literature, you sat up and stared at the yellow dress again. It stared back, victorious.
Fine. Fine. You changed. And, because the universe enjoyed humiliation as a hobby, your mother was right. The dress fit like it had been designed specifically to ruin your peace. Thin straps, bare shoulders, the kind of silhouette that looked effortless and absolutely was not. Against sun-kissed skin, the yellow made you look like you belonged in this town, like expensive mistakes and beautiful bad decisions.
You hated it immediately. Mostly because you looked good. You stood in front of the mirror, turning once, suspicious. Like maybe if you stared hard enough, you’d find a flaw large enough to justify changing back into the hoodie. There wasn’t one. Traitorous fabric. You added gold hoops, minimal makeup, lip gloss sharp enough to count as a weapon, and tried very hard not to think about why any of this mattered.
It didn’t. Obviously. You were dressing for yourself. And if Lee Heeseung happened to see you and suffer emotionally, that was simply community service. Downstairs, your father was already waiting by the door with car keys and the resigned expression of a man who knew he was escorting two women into battle and had chosen survival over commentary. He looked up when you descended the stairs. Paused. Smiled. “Well,” he said, “you look expensive.”
You picked up your clutch. “I plan to act accordingly.” Your mother beamed like she’d personally invented beauty. You refused to acknowledge this. Outside, the evening had turned warm and velvet-soft, the sky streaked pink and gold over the ocean. The walk next door was barely two minutes, just enough time for dread to fully settle in.
The Lee house stood glowing at the end of the path, every window lit, laughter already drifting from inside. Dinner. Wine. Politeness. Heeseung. You inhaled slowly as your father reached for the front gate. Summer, apparently, had decided subtle suffering wasn’t enough. It wanted dinner and a show. The Lee house always looked like it belonged in a magazine spread titled People With Better Lives Than You.
White stone, warm lights spilling from enormous windows, ivy climbing tastefully up the walls like even the plants here had trust funds. The front garden smelled like jasmine and sea air and whatever expensive candle Mrs. Lee probably had burning somewhere inside. Everything about it radiated polished wealth and the kind of family dinners where people said things like summering abroad.
You hated how nice it was. You hated even more that you’d spent half your childhood here. Birthday dinners. Pool parties. Christmases once, before everyone got too busy and too grown up for normal traditions. There were memories tucked into every corner of this place, most of them involving some version of you losing an argument to Lee Heeseung and plotting revenge by dessert.
Tonight, unfortunately, promised tradition. Mrs. Lee opened the door before you could even knock, all elegance and warmth in a silk dress the color of champagne. “There you are!” She kissed your cheek before you had time to prepare emotionally. “Look at you,” she said, holding you at arm’s length. “Absolutely gorgeous.” From behind you, your mother made the smug little sound of victory.
You chose to ignore it. “You say that now,” you said, stepping inside, “but let’s revisit after I inevitably insult someone over seafood.”
Mrs. Lee laughed like she always did, like your bad attitude was somehow charming instead of hereditary. “Nonsense. We’re all family here.” That was the problem. The foyer opened into soft golden light and polished wood floors, the low hum of conversation drifting in from the dining room. Somewhere, glasses clinked. Somewhere else, your father and Mr. Lee were already discussing something expensive and unnecessary, probably boats.
You slipped off your sandals and stepped inside, the familiar warmth of the house wrapping around you. And then, of course, there he was. Lee Heeseung, leaning against the archway to the living room like he’d been strategically placed there for maximum irritation.
Black button-down this time, sleeves rolled, top buttons undone just enough to be a public health concern. Dark slacks. Watch glinting at his wrist. Hair slightly messy in that suspiciously intentional way attractive men got away with. He looked like summer trouble dressed in designer clothing. Annoying. Extremely annoying.
His gaze found you immediately. Paused. And for one dangerous second, he said nothing. Just looked. Slowly. Unhurriedly. Like the room had gone quiet around it. It started at your feet, moved upward, and landed finally on your face with something unreadable flickering behind his expression. Not smug. Worse. Appreciative. You wanted to throw yourself directly into the ocean. Instead, you smiled sweetly, the kind of smile that had ruined lesser men.
“Try not to look too shocked. I know basic hygiene is a surprise.”
His mouth twitched. “There she is,” he said, voice low and easy. “I was worried the dress had made you nice.”
Your mother, traitor that she was, immediately linked arms with Mrs. Lee. “Oh, perfect,” she said. “You two can catch up while we finish setting the table.”
No. Absolutely not. You opened your mouth. “No—” Too late. The parents had already vanished with the terrifying efficiency of adults who believed proximity solved everything. Your father gave you a look on the way out, the kind that said ‘behave’, and disappeared toward the kitchen like a man abandoning a sinking ship.
And suddenly, it was just the two of you. Silence. Not awkward. Worse. Familiar. The kind of silence built over years of unfinished conversations and too much history. You crossed your arms. He mirrored nothing, which somehow made it more annoying. In your deeply correct and entirely unbiased opinion, “catching up” with Lee Heeseung translated loosely to trying to have a normal conversation without committing a felony.
A challenge, certainly. You managed three words. “Well. You’re alive.” He nodded thoughtfully.
“Still devastatingly handsome too, thanks for noticing.”
You sighed. “This is why people drink before family dinners.”
“And yet you came sober. Brave.”
You were preparing a truly excellent insult, something elegant, devastating, probably Pulitzer-worthy, when Mrs. Lee’s voice floated in from the dining room. “Dinner!” Saved by seafood. You gave him one final look. “Don’t make me regret this.”
He stepped aside, one hand gesturing toward the dining room like some smug Regency villain. “No promises.”
The dining room looked exactly like every old-money summer dinner should. Long table, linen napkins, candles despite it still being warm outside. Too many wine glasses for any morally responsible evening. French doors stood open to the back patio where the ocean breeze drifted in soft and salted, carrying the sound of waves somewhere beyond the dunes. Sunset had bled fully into evening now, the sky darkening violet over the water.
Everything felt cinematic. Which was rude, considering your mood. Seats were assigned by parental conspiracy, obviously. You discovered yours and stopped. Heeseung. Right next to you. Naturally. Mrs. Lee smiled far too innocently. “I thought it would be nice.” It would not. It absolutely would not. But protesting would only make it worse, so you sat with the grace of a woman choosing violence internally. Heeseung took the seat beside you, looking entirely too pleased with the universe.
Across the table, your mother was already discussing someone’s daughter getting engaged. Your father had wine. Mr. Lee had opinions about coastal property values. Everyone settled into conversation with the practiced ease of people who had done this for decades. And somehow, despite all of it, your entire awareness kept narrowing to the person sitting six inches to your right.
His knee brushed yours under the table. Lightly. Accidental. Probably. You froze for exactly half a second. Then refused to acknowledge it because dignity still mattered. You reached for your water. His hand reached for the bread basket. Fingers brushed. Again. This time, definitely not accidental. You turned your head. He was already looking at you. Calm. Composed. Infuriating.
Like he hadn’t just weaponized table manners. You smiled without showing teeth. “If you’re trying to start something over dinner rolls, I’d like you to know that’s a deeply embarrassing way to die.”
His expression remained perfectly neutral as he handed you the basket. “I’m just being polite.”
“Suspicious already.”
Across from you, Mrs. Lee sighed fondly. “You two are exactly the same.”
You and Heeseung answered at the same time. “Absolutely not.” Everyone laughed. You considered faking your death. Dinner continued in that dangerous, glittering way summer dinners did, wine poured generously, stories repeated beautifully, everyone glowing a little softer in candlelight. Your parents kept bringing up old memories.
That camping trip when you were thirteen. The sailing lessons disaster. The time Heeseung pushed you into the pool and you threw his phone into the ocean. Mrs. Lee was still mad about that one. You maintained it had been justified. Everyone treated the two of you like old friends. Like there had always been affection under the arguments.
Like this was charming instead of mutually assured destruction. It was infuriating. Because they weren’t wrong. That was the worse part. Every now and then, while someone else talked, you’d catch him looking at you. Not casually. Not the usual teasing glance. Longer. Quieter. Like he was trying to remember something. Or decide something. Too much. Entirely too much.
You focused on your wine. On your fork. Your plate. Literally anything else. But awareness sat there anyway, warm and sharp and impossible to ignore. The yellow dress suddenly felt like a mistake. The ocean breeze moved through the open doors. Candles flickered. Someone laughed at the far end of the table. And beside you, Lee Heeseung leaned back in his chair, looking unfairly good in soft light and expensive black clothing, like every bad decision summer had ever offered.
You hated him. Probably. Mostly. Which was becoming, very inconveniently, less convincing by the second.
By the time dinner ended, the sky had softened into that strange in-between hour where everything looked prettier than it had any right to. The table was abandoned in stages, wine glasses left half-full, dessert plates forgotten, your father and Mr. Lee still arguing about boats like it was a blood sport. Mrs. Lee and your mother disappeared into the kitchen with the kind of determined energy that suggested they were about to wash dishes neither of them had touched all evening.
Which left the younger generation exactly where summer always did. Outside. Near water. With alcohol. And poor judgment. Someone, probably Jay, because it always felt like a Jay decision, had suggested a beach fire, and within twenty minutes everyone had drifted down toward the private stretch of shoreline behind the houses like it was instinct.
It kind of was. This was what summers here were made of. Bonfires and old friends. Salt in your hair. Music from someone’s phone speaker. Drinks passed around without anyone asking whose they were. The beach at night felt different than it did during the day. Softer somehow. Less polished. The tide rolled in slow and silver under the moonlight, waves folding quietly against the shore while the bonfire crackled warm against the cooling night air. Sand clung to bare ankles, the fire throwing gold over familiar faces.
It made everyone look younger. Closer to the versions of yourselves that had first started all this. Sunoo arrived first, carrying drinks and looking like downtown Cove had personally appointed him its stylish representative. Sharp grin, prettier than most women, and already prepared to be everyone’s problem. “Look who survived dinner,” he said dramatically when he spotted you. “I was taking bets.”
“You should’ve bet against me,” you said, taking the drink he offered. “I nearly drowned in polite conversation.”
“Tragic. And in that dress too. What a loss.”
“Don’t encourage her,” Jay called from where he and Sunghoon were attempting to set up folding chairs in the sand with all the competence of men raised by money.
Jay looked exactly the same as always: clean-cut, expensive taste, and permanently carrying himself like he was five minutes away from judging someone’s life choices. Which, to be fair, he usually was. Sunghoon stood beside him, all cool quiet and expensive silence, somehow managing to look elegant while losing a fight against a beach chair.
Some people were simply born unfair. From farther down the shore came the sound of laughter, bright and familiar, and then Eunchae appeared with Yunjin and Yoonchae trailing behind her, all of them carrying the kind of chaotic energy that guaranteed tonight would end with at least one regrettable decision. Eunchae saw you first and immediately pointed.
“There she is! The woman of the hour.” You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds like a threat.”
“It is,” Yunjin said cheerfully, pulling you into a quick hug. “We’ve heard about dinner. We’re here for details.”
“There are no details.”
“There are always details,” Yoonchae said.
And then, because the universe had apparently decided your suffering needed an audience, Lee Heeseung arrived. Late, naturally. Walking down the path from the houses with his sleeves rolled and his hands in his pockets like he was entering a film scene instead of a beach fire. The ocean breeze moved through his hair, and for one deeply annoying second, every girl within a ten-foot radius visibly remembered he was attractive.
Including you. Unfortunately. Sunoo, traitor that he was, smirked immediately. “And there’s the other half of our favorite summer divorce.”
“Please,” you said. “I’d need to marry him first, and I do have standards.” Heeseung dropped into the sand beside the fire like he belonged there, which, annoyingly, he did, and looked at you over the rim of the beer Jay handed him. “She says that now. Give it ten years.”
“In ten years, I’ll still be filing restraining orders.”
“Romantic,” Yunjin sighed. Everyone laughed. That was the problem with old friends, they remembered too much. This group had grown up together in fragments. Family dinners, yacht parties, beach bonfires at sixteen, too many summers collapsing into one long memory of sunburns and terrible choices. They’d all witnessed the evolution of whatever it was between you and Heeseung. Which meant they were insufferable about it. Sunoo stretched out dramatically in the sand.
“I still think you two should just get married and save us all time.”
Sunghoon, staring into the fire like a philosopher trapped in a luxury campaign, added, “At this point, it would actually be less dramatic.”
Jay nodded once. “Financially, it makes sense.”
You looked around the circle. “I need better friends.”
“No,” Eunchae said, grinning, “you need to admit you’ve been flirting through mutual destruction for like eight years.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “That is an incredibly rude accusation.”
Heeseung took a sip of his drink, far too calm. “She’s right.”
You turned toward him so fast it nearly counted as whiplash. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged. “You’re meaner when you like someone.”
Sunoo made the loudest, most disrespectful sound of delight known to man. “Oh my god, we’re finally saying it.”
“We are saying nothing,” you snapped.
Yunjin leaned forward, eyes glittering. “Should we bring up the balcony incident?”
Absolutely not. You pointed at her. “If you value our friendship, you’ll choose silence.” Too late.
Eunchae gasped dramatically. “Oh my god, the almost-kiss.” And there it was. Like a match dropped into gasoline. The balcony incident. Nineteen years old. One of Jay’s stupid summer parties. Too much champagne. Too much moonlight. Too much unresolved tension and a stupidly beautiful balcony overlooking the ocean. You and Heeseung had been alone for exactly seven minutes before an argument turned into standing too close, then silence, then that terrible suspended second where both people know exactly what’s about to happen.
You’d almost kissed. Almost. Then someone had opened the balcony door, reality had returned, and both of you had spent the next three years pretending it never happened. Civilization had survived. Barely. Around the fire, everyone looked delighted. You wanted the ocean to take you.
“It was not an almost-kiss,” you said with dignity.
“It absolutely was,” Sunoo replied.
“There was tension,” Yoonchae added.
“There was eye contact,” Eunchae said.
“There was champagne,” Yunjin said solemnly.
Jay, like a judge delivering sentence, finished: “That counts.”
You looked to Heeseung for support. A mistake. Because he’d gone strangely quiet. Not smug. Not teasing. Quiet. His gaze stayed on the fire, beer loose in his hand, jaw set just enough for you to notice because unfortunately, after years of knowing someone, you learned the small things. Interesting. Very interesting. You tilted your head slightly. He wasn’t embarrassed.
If anything, he looked… annoyed. Or thoughtful. Like the memory had landed somewhere deeper than expected. That was new. Usually, Heeseung met chaos with amusement. He was good at pretending nothing mattered. But now, under the firelight, with everyone laughing around him and the ocean dark behind you, he looked still. You watched him for a second too long. Then he glanced up. Caught you.
And just like that, the moment snapped. His expression shifted back into something easier. Familiar. Dangerous. He smirked. You rolled your eyes so hard it should’ve caused medical concern and took another drink. The conversation moved on, someone brought up an old yacht party disaster involving Sunghoon and a very expensive pair of loafers, Sunoo started a dramatic retelling of his brief and toxic relationship with a bartender from last summer, Eunchae laughed so hard she nearly fell backward into the sand.
The night folded around you, warm and nostalgic and too easy. This was the trap of summer. It made everything feel survivable. Even him. By the time the fire burned lower and people started drifting home, the moon sat high over the water and the beach had gone quiet again. You walked back alone, sandals in one hand, the other curled around your phone.
The sand was cool now under your feet. Waves whispered against the shore. Somewhere behind you, someone was still laughing. Your dress smelled like smoke. Your hair smelled like salt. And despite yourself, your mind kept circling back to one thing. That silence. The balcony. The firelight. The way Heeseung had gone quiet.
Interesting. You were still thinking about it when your phone buzzed in your hand. A text. You stopped walking. Looked down. Of course.
Heeseung
A single message.
Heeseung: still thinking about that balcony, or are you finally admitting i almost won?
You stared at the screen. There it was. The beginning of every bad idea. You should ignore it. You absolutely should. Instead, standing barefoot under the moonlight with the ocean at your back and your better judgment somewhere drowning offshore, you smiled. And typed back.
You: won what? you almost passed out from cheap champagne. history remembers the truth.
Three dots appeared almost instantly. Danger, apparently, texted first.
The following week was suspicious. Not in any dramatic, life-altering way. No scandals. No yacht crashes. No accidental engagements announced over brunch. Just… suspicious. Because you were happy. Unreasonably, offensively happy. The kind of happy that made people around you uncomfortable, like spotting a shark in shallow water and realizing it was smiling.
It started subtly. You slept better. You stopped glaring at sunlight like it had personally betrayed you. You let your mother drag you to the farmer’s market on Wednesday morning and only complained twice, which she later described to your father in the same tone people used for religious miracles. By Thursday, you had laughed, genuinely laughed, at something Mrs. Lee said over iced coffee, and your mother had nearly dropped a peach. “Are you ill?” she asked immediately.
You looked up from your sunglasses. “Deeply, but unrelated.”
She narrowed her eyes. “No, seriously. You’ve been… cheerful.” The accusation hung between you. Cheerful. As if she’d caught you committing tax fraud. You leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping your coffee with all the dignity of a woman being unfairly persecuted.
“I’m always cheerful.”
She gave you a look so flat it could’ve ironed shirts. “Last week you called a seagull a personal enemy.”
“It knew what it did.”
Your father, reading the paper at the table, lowered it just enough to contribute, “You also threatened the blender.”
“It started first.” He nodded thoughtfully and returned to the business section. Traitor. The truth was harder to explain. There was no grand reason for it. No cinematic revelation. No dramatic confession under moonlight. Just summer. The beach. The sun. Late-night fires. Salt in your hair. And texts. That was the real problem. Because after the bonfire, Heeseung had texted again. And then again. Nothing serious. Nothing dangerous enough to name. Just stupid things.
A picture of the terrible coffee from the marina café with the caption: thought of you and your bad taste
A midnight text that only said: are you still pretending you didn’t almost kiss me first
A blurry photo of Sunoo asleep on a yacht chair: proof he can be quiet
And every single time, against your better judgment and your carefully cultivated reputation for emotional self-preservation, you replied. Sometimes immediately. Sometimes after twenty strategic minutes. Because dignity mattered. Still, the effect had been catastrophic. You were smiling at your phone now. In public. Like a woman with no survival instincts.
On Friday afternoon, your mother found you standing in the garden staring at the hydrangeas like you were in a coming-of-age film. You were holding one bloom gently between your fingers, sunlight warm on your shoulders, genuinely appreciating how ridiculous and beautiful summer looked here.
She stopped on the patio, and squinted, then called into the house, “Honey, come outside. I think our daughter has been replaced.”
You rolled your eyes. “Please. If I were replaced, the imposter would be nicer.”
“Exactly my concern.” Unfortunately, your brief and scandalous flirtation with floral appreciation ended there. The hydrangea wilted two days later. Probably out of sheer terror. Even worse, people noticed. Everyone noticed. Sunoo, after seeing you smile at your phone during lunch, gasped like a Victorian widow and clutched his chest. “Oh my god. She’s in love.”
You nearly threw your drink at him. “I’m blocking you.”
“Denial. Classic.”
“It’s called boundaries.”
“It’s called a crush.” Across the table, Heeseung said absolutely nothing. Which, somehow, was worse, because lately, he’d been watching you. Not constantly, not obviously, just enough, across dinner tables, from the beach, leaning against his car while pretending not to. Curious. Like he’d noticed the shift and hadn’t decided what to do with it yet, like he was waiting.
On Sunday, you passed him outside while coming back from the beach, still warm from the sun, tote bag over your shoulder, skin glowing with the kind of happiness you were trying very hard not to examine too closely. And for reasons still unknown to science, you smiled at him. Not your usual sharp smile, not sarcastic, not weaponized. Bright, easy, and real.
It happened before you could stop it. For one glorious second, Lee Heeseung looked genuinely startled. Actually startled. He stopped mid-step, eyebrows lifting like his brain had temporarily lost signal. He didn’t smile back, just looked at you with that unreadable expression and one slightly raised brow, like he was trying to solve a puzzle and deeply suspicious of the answer.
You kept walking, because stopping would imply weakness. But halfway up your front steps, you could still feel it, that look, and somewhere behind you, you just knew he was still standing there, watching. Interesting. Very, very dangerous.
By Friday night, the entire town had collectively decided to be beautiful. You could feel it in the air. Summer in Jeju Island had a rhythm to it, and bonfire nights sat somewhere near the top of the food chain, just beneath yacht parties and just above making terrible decisions in someone else’s kitchen at two in the morning. The beach changed on nights like this.
During the day, it belonged to families and sunscreen and children building sandcastles with inherited wealth. But at night, especially on Fridays, it belonged to people your age. To music drifting over the dunes. To bottles hidden badly in tote bags. To girls in tiny dresses and boys pretending they weren’t trying too hard. Bonfire nights were for performance. And if there was one thing you respected, it was committing to a bit. You stood in your bedroom with your closet doors thrown open and the kind of focus usually reserved for military strategy.
Your bed was covered in options. Black satin. White linen. Something red Yoonchae once described as “emotionally irresponsible.” You were considering that one. Because tonight wasn’t just any bonfire. Tonight, everyone would be there. Which meant he would be there. And while you were a mature, evolved woman who absolutely did not make outfit decisions based on Lee Heeseung’s potential suffering, you were also not a liar. You pulled the red dress off its hanger. Short, silk, and worst of all, backless. The kind of dress that looked like bad decisions and expensive apologies. Perfect.
You slipped it on slowly, watching yourself in the mirror as the fabric settled against your skin like it had been waiting for this exact moment. It clung where it should, skimmed where it mattered, and left just enough to imagination to make imagination work overtime. Dangerous. Excellent. You added gold jewelry because subtlety was for people with less interesting lives. Glossed lips. Soft waves in your hair. Perfume that smelled like jasmine and poor choices.
Then heels. Not practical for the beach. That was beside the point. When you walked downstairs, your father was on the couch pretending to read and your mother was rearranging flowers for sport. Both looked up. Your father blinked once. Then lowered his book. “Should I be concerned?”
“Always,” you said.
Your mother smiled like she was watching an expensive revenge plot unfold in real time. “Where exactly are you going dressed like that?”
You picked up your clutch. “To remind people to mind their business.”
Your father muttered something about raising a supervillain. Your mother kissed your cheek on the way out and whispered, “Be safe.” Which, translated from mother-language, meant: Don’t get arrested. Don’t set anything on fire. Try not to ruin anyone’s son permanently. No promises.
The walk to the beach felt cinematic. Warm night air against bare skin. The sound of waves pulling at the shore. Music already carrying from farther down the sand, bass soft and distant beneath the ocean. The moon hung low and bright over the water, silver against black waves. Firelight flickered somewhere ahead. And by the time you stepped over the dunes and onto the shore, every head turned. Good. Let them. There was power in being seen and knowing exactly what they were seeing. Sunoo, standing near the cooler with a drink in one hand and judgment in the other, spotted you first.
He froze dramatically. Then placed a hand over his heart. “Oh,” he said. “She came to kill.” “Someone has to keep standards alive.”
He looked you up and down with the solemn respect of a man appreciating art. “That dress should come with legal paperwork.”
“Excellent. I’m hoping for emotional damages.” Eunchae appeared next, immediately grabbing your arm. “No, seriously, turn around. I need to hate you properly.” You did, because generosity mattered. She groaned. “I’m ending our friendship.”
“Understandable.” Yunjin, from beside the fire, raised her drink toward you. “Whatever crime you commit tonight, I support you.”
“Thank you. That means a lot.” The bonfire itself was already in full swing. Someone had dragged out chairs no one was using. Music played low from a speaker half-buried in someone’s beach bag. Jay and Sunghoon were debating something useless near the waterline with the seriousness of men discussing world peace instead of tequila brands. People moved in loose circles, laughing, drinking, pretending not to stare at each other. Summer. Beautiful and a little stupid.
And then, like a sixth sense specifically designed to inconvenience you, you felt it. That look, across the fire, Heeseung. He stood with Jay near the cooler, beer in hand, black shirt rolled at the sleeves, looking like he’d walked straight out of an ad for poor decisions. The firelight caught against the sharp line of his jaw, the glint of his watch, the expression on his face, which, for one deeply satisfying second, was surprise. Real surprise.
His eyes landed on you and stayed there. Paused. Moved once, slow and deliberate, like he was trying very hard not to react and failing in private. He noticed, immediately, of course he did. You smiled, not at him, but in his direction, which was somehow worse, and turned your attention elsewhere. Because if you were going to weaponize beauty tonight, subtlety would only dilute the effect.
His name was Minjae, which you remembered mostly because he’d tried to kiss Yunjin two summers ago and gotten publicly roasted for it. Harmless. Pretty enough. From one of the families near the marina. More importantly, available. He approached with exactly the kind of confidence men borrowed from expensive watches. “Well,” he said, smiling as he stepped closer, “you’re either trying to ruin someone’s life tonight or start a small war.”
You took the drink he offered. “Can’t it be both?” He laughed, leaning in just enough to suggest intention. And from the corner of your eye, there, heeseung watching, not openly, but enough. His posture had changed, slightly stiffer, beer untouched, expression neutral in the way men got when they were trying very hard not to look like they wanted to commit a felony. Interesting. Very interesting.
You smiled brighter. Poor Minjae. A perfectly nice civilian about to become collateral damage. “You clean up well,” he said. “I usually do.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Have you?” The conversation was easy, almost too easy. Light touches. Leaning closer. The practiced dance of summer flirting where no one meant too much and everyone pretended otherwise, and the entire time, you could feel it.
That awareness from across the fire. Sharp, and steady. Heeseung. You laughed a little louder than necessary. Touched Minjae’s arm. Tilted your head just enough. Purely for scientific purposes. Across the beach, Sunoo noticed first, because gossip was basically his cardio.
He looked from you to Heeseung and nearly ascended. “Oh,” he whispered to no one and everyone. “Oh, this is delicious.”
Jay followed his line of sight and physically winced. “Someone should probably stop this.”
Sunghoon, wise as ever, took a sip of his drink and said, “No.” Correct. Absolutely no one should stop this. Because now Heeseung was walking over. Slowly. Calmly. Which was infinitely more dangerous than if he’d looked angry. He moved like someone with a purpose. Like the ocean itself had personally requested violence. Minjae was still talking. Something about boats. You had no idea. Because Heeseung stopped beside you, close enough for the smell of expensive cologne and sea air to ruin your peace.
And said, casually, too casually, “Didn’t know you liked boring men.” Silence. Beautiful. Terrible. Immediate. Minjae blinked. You took a slow sip of your drink. Turned your head. Looked directly at him. And smiled.
Oh. This was going to be fun. Minjae, to his credit, had enough self-preservation instincts to realize when he’d accidentally wandered into someone else’s war. He looked between you and Heeseung, your too-sweet smile, Heeseung’s dangerously calm expression, and gave the kind of laugh people used when backing away from wild animals.
“Well,” he said, lifting his drink slightly, “I’m suddenly remembering I promised Sunoo I’d help him with… something.” Sunoo, across the fire, yelled, “I did not—” Too late. Minjae was already retreating into the night, leaving you alone with the problem. Which was standing far too close and looking far too pleased with himself. You turned slowly, crossing your arms.
“Did you just scare off my entertainment?”
Heeseung took a sip of his beer like he hadn’t committed a social crime. “If your entertainment starts explaining boat engines, I’m doing you a favor.”
“I was having a lovely time.”
“No, you were being annoying on purpose.” You placed a hand dramatically over your heart. “And here I thought I was subtle.”
He looked at you then, really looked, and the amusement thinned just enough to let something sharper through. “That’s the problem.” The fire crackled behind you. Somewhere farther down the beach, someone shouted over the music. Laughter carried on the wind.
But here, in the small space between you and him, everything had gone quieter. You tilted your head. “What exactly is the problem, Lee?” His jaw shifted. That tiny thing he did when he was trying not to say too much. Dangerous.
“You always do this.” You blinked once, deliberately. “Do what?” He stepped closer. Not enough for touching. Enough for trouble. “Act like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.” There it was. Not a joke. Not banter. Something real enough to make your pulse trip over itself. You should’ve backed up. You didn’t. Instead, you smiled, that slow, sharp smile you used when you were either about to win or about to ruin your own life.
“And what exactly am I doing?” He let out one quiet laugh, humorless. “Seriously?”
“Very.” His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. Mistake. Terrible, catastrophic mistake. Because suddenly the entire night rearranged itself around that single glance. The firelight. The ocean. The red dress. His voice lower now, rougher around the edges.
“You flirt with people you don’t care about,” he said. “You get that look on your face when you’re trying to prove something. And then you wait to see who notices.” Your heartbeat was officially embarrassing. You folded your arms tighter, mostly so he wouldn’t notice.
“And you noticed.” He didn’t answer immediately. Which was answer enough. The moonlight silvered the edges of everything, the shoreline, the glass in his hand, the expression he was trying and failing to keep neutral. You swallowed. Slowly. “Sounds like a you problem.” His mouth twitched.
“Probably.” There it was again, that unbearable thing between you, stretched tight as wire. Years of almosts. Arguments that had never really been about arguments. Every summer version of yourselves layered on top of each other until neither of you knew where the joke ended and the truth began. You could still remember the balcony. Nineteen. Champagne. His hand on the railing beside yours. That second where everything had almost changed.
You wondered if he was thinking about it too. You suspected he was. Because now he was closer. And now you could smell the ocean on his skin, something expensive underneath it, and the very specific danger of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. You should absolutely leave. Instead, because self-destruction was apparently hereditary, you said softly, “You’re jealous.”
His expression sharpened. “Don’t flatter yourself.” “Too late.” “You think this is funny.”
“No,” you said. “I think you’re jealous, and I think you hate that I noticed.” He stepped in once more. Enough that your breath caught. Enough that the entire world narrowed. “Careful.”
“Or what?” Your voice came out quieter than intended. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His gaze dropped again, slower this time, and when he spoke, it was barely above the sound of the waves. “Or you’ll say something you can’t take back.” Silence. The dangerous kind. You could hear your own breathing. The ocean behind him. Someone laughing far away, in another universe where people made good choices. Here, there was only this. His hand brushing your bare arm as he shifted. Your pulse in your throat. The ridiculous certainty that if either of you moved half an inch, the entire summer would split open.
You thought, this is it. Finally. At last. And then, “OH MY GOD, THERE YOU TWO ARE.” Eunchae. Of course. She appeared like divine punishment in platform sandals, carrying two drinks and absolutely no sense of timing. You jumped back so fast it should’ve counted as cardio. Heeseung looked like he might walk directly into the ocean. Eunchae stopped. Looked between you. The space. The tension. The crime scene. And grinned like the devil herself.
“Wow,” she said. “I almost feel bad interrupting whatever deeply repressed thing was happening here.” “Don’t,” you said immediately.
“Never,” Heeseung muttered at the exact same time. She handed you a drink with the smugness of a woman collecting evidence. “Cute. Anyway, Sunoo is taking bets on whether you two make out before August.”
You took the drink because murder was illegal. “Tell Sunoo I hope he loses money.”
“Oh, he definitely won’t.” She skipped away before either of you could respond, leaving behind chaos and the lingering smell of coconut perfume. Silence again. But ruined now. Worse, somehow. Because now both of you knew. Not the joke. Not the performance. The actual thing underneath it. And once you knew that, pretending got harder. You stared out at the water. He stared at the fire. Neither of you said anything. Eventually, as the night thinned and people started leaving in groups of laughter and half-finished conversations, it became painfully obvious that your usual ride home had abandoned you in favor of some post-party food run.
Which left, “Get in.” You stood beside Heeseung’s car, clutching your shoes in one hand and your pride in the other. “No.” He unlocked the passenger door without looking at you. “Yes.” “I’d rather walk.”
“It’s two miles.”
“I’m resilient.”
“You’re dramatic.”
You narrowed your eyes. He opened the door wider. “Get in.” And because the universe hated you, you did. The drive home was quiet. Not awkward. Worse. The kind of silence that knew too much. The windows were down, warm night air rushing through the car, carrying salt and smoke and the last traces of summer bonfire on your skin. Your heels sat abandoned on the floor. Your red dress still smelled like fire.
He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console, expression unreadable in the passing streetlights. You looked out the window because looking at him felt like volunteering for emotional damage. Neither of you mentioned the almost-kiss. Neither of you mentioned anything. When he pulled into your driveway, the house was dark, your parents already asleep.
For one second, neither of you moved. Then you reached for the door. At the same time, his hand shifted. Your fingers brushed. Just barely. Warm. Accidental. Or maybe not. You froze. So did he. And for one stupid, suspended second, it felt like the whole world was holding its breath again. Then you pulled your hand back. Too fast. “Goodnight,” you said. Too quiet. He nodded once.
“Night.” You got out. Walked to the front door. Did not look back. But you could feel him there, still sitting in the driveway, engine running, watching until you got inside. And later, long after the house had gone still and the ocean whispered somewhere beyond your window, you lay awake staring at the ceiling. Wide awake. Heart traitorous. Mind worse. Because now you knew. And so did he. Nobody slept.
The next few days were a masterclass in mutual psychological damage. Not dramatic damage. Worse. Polite damage. The kind where nothing happened and somehow everything did. You didn’t fight. That was the first sign something had gone horribly wrong. No sarcastic remarks over morning coffee. No pointed comments when passing each other near the beach path. No weaponized flirting in front of your parents. No smug little “morning, neighbor” from across the driveway.
Nothing. Just awkward, terrible silence. You’d see him and immediately become fascinated by literally anything else. The mailbox. A cloud. The concept of sand. Anything but eye contact. Because eye contact implied remembering. And remembering implied the bonfire. The almost-kiss. The car ride. His hand brushing yours like the universe personally wanted you to suffer. No, thank you. You were suddenly the busiest woman alive. If he was at the beach, you were tragically needed elsewhere.
If he was by the marina, you had urgent business in the opposite direction. If he was leaning against his stupid car looking like a rich-boy problem in linen, you turned around. Dignity first. Unfortunately, subtlety had never survived around your families. By Wednesday morning, Mrs. Lee noticed. Of course she did. That woman could detect emotional tension like a bloodhound. You were outside watering your mother’s increasingly judgmental hydrangeas, a task you’d been assigned after the tragic and suspicious death of the previous one, when it happened.
The sun was already warm, the kind of bright coastal morning that made everything look too innocent. Birds chirping. Ocean breeze drifting through the hedges. A peaceful suburban scene. Lies. Across the white fence separating your houses, Mrs. Lee stood on her patio with a basket of laundry and the sharp, narrowed gaze of a woman putting pieces together. You should’ve run. Instead, you smiled weakly.
Mistake. Because at that exact moment, Heeseung stepped outside. Coffee in one hand. Sunglasses. Half-awake and offensively attractive. He looked toward you automatically. You looked anywhere else so fast it nearly caused whiplash. Silence. A beat. Then, Mrs. Lee gasped.
Not a small gasp. A full-body gasp. The kind that meant family history was about to be rewritten. She turned toward her son so fast the laundry basket nearly died for it. “Lee Heeseung!” He stopped mid-sip. Already tired. “Mom, what.”
Her hand flew dramatically toward your side of the fence like she was presenting evidence in court. “What did you do to Y/N?” From your yard, you froze. The watering can continued pouring directly onto your foot. Fantastic. Heeseung blinked. “Mom, what do you mean?” “She isn’t looking you in the eyes!”
Across two properties and approximately three decades of neighborhood gossip, your soul left your body. “Mrs. Lee—” you tried weakly. She was unstoppable. “Do not Mrs. Lee me. I raised you both. I know things.”
Heeseung rubbed a hand down his face. “Mom—” Her eyes widened. Her voice rose. “Did you finally have sex?” Silence. Birds stopped singing. The ocean itself paused. From somewhere inside your house, your father definitely dropped something. And then, Mrs. Lee, with the volume of a woman chosen by God for this exact purpose: “DON’T TELL ME SHE CAN’T LOOK AT YOU BECAUSE SHE KNOWS WHAT YOUR DICK LOOKS LIKE—”
“MOM!”
“Mrs. Lee!” You. Heeseung. Probably the entire coastline. At that point, survival instincts kicked in. You dropped the watering can. Actually dropped it. Water everywhere. Dignity nowhere. And then you ran. Not walked. Not gracefully retreated. Ran. Straight through the back door, up the kitchen steps, past your mother, who was holding coffee and looked far too entertained, and directly into the sanctuary of your bedroom like a Victorian woman fleeing scandal.
Your heart was trying to leave your chest. Your cheeks were on fire. You pressed both hands to your face and groaned into the universe. This was it. This was how you died. Not dramatically. Not beautifully. Killed by secondhand embarrassment and one very loud mother. Worse, far, far worse, you were blushing. Blushing. For a man currently being publicly lectured about sex on a Wednesday morning.
Humiliating. Absolutely unforgivable. Your mother knocked once on your door and entered anyway, because privacy remained a myth. She took one look at you face-down on the bed and smiled like a woman watching reality television. “Well,” she said, setting her coffee down, “that clears some things up.”
“Please leave me here to decompose.”
“I’d love to, but dinner is in two hours.”
Cruelty. Pure cruelty. Later that afternoon, once the heat of your humiliation had cooled from catastrophic to survivable, you made the dangerous mistake of leaving the house. Just a quick walk, you told yourself. Fresh air. Emotional recovery. Absolutely no Heeseung. The universe laughed. Because halfway down the lane near the beach path, there he was. Of course. Standing beneath the shade of the jacaranda trees like some handsome curse. You stopped. He stopped.
For one horrible second, neither of you moved. Then you made the deeply strategic decision to simply walk faster. Ignore. Evade. Survive. Unfortunately, Lee Heeseung had longer legs and audacity. “Y/N.” His voice behind you made your spine straighten. You kept walking. Badly. “Y/N.” Closer now. You stopped because running twice in one day felt like poor character development. Slowly, with all the grace of someone approaching public execution, you turned.
He stood there looking… weirdly nervous. Interesting. Suspicious. Your cheeks immediately remembered this morning and attempted betrayal. No. Absolutely not. You stared at a point somewhere near his left shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you blurted. Fast. Too fast. Like the words had tripped over each other trying to escape.
“For the thing. Earlier. Your mom. I mean—not your mom, obviously she’s lovely, but the yelling and the—” you gestured vaguely at existence “—everything. Sorry.” Excellent. Elegant. A true masterclass in social recovery. You were already preparing to evaporate when he stepped forward and stopped you. Not dramatically. Just enough. A hand lightly catching your wrist. Warm. Immediate regret. “Y/N.” You looked up instinctively. And there it was. Eye contact. Actual, dangerous eye contact. For one second, all the confidence he usually wore like expensive cologne just… vanished. Gone. He blinked once. Twice. And then— “I—uh.”
You stared. Heeseung Lee. Golden boy. Professional menace. Smooth-talking devil of Jeju Island. Stuttering. You would treasure this forever. He cleared his throat. “Sunoo wanted me to give you this.” He shoved a folded paper into your hand like it had personally offended him. “An invite. For Friday. He’s doing some thing—well, not some thing, it’s a party, obviously, and he said if I forgot, he’d kill me, so—” He kept talking. Rambling, actually.
Words continuing in increasingly unnecessary detail while you stood there holding the paper, blinking. Because now he was nervous. Actually nervous. And somehow that was worse. Far worse. You grabbed the invitation. Nodded once. And, choosing self-preservation above all else, turned and walked away at a speed just barely pretending not to be fleeing. Fast. Very fast.
Behind you, his voice stopped. Silence. Then, a soft scoff. Followed by a quiet chuckle, carried lightly by the ocean breeze. You didn’t turn around. Absolutely not. But you could feel it anyway. Him standing there. Watching you speed-walk your dignity down the lane. And annoyingly, your heart was still beating too fast. Friday night arrived heavy with heat.
The kind of heat that sat low against your skin and made the entire town feel slower, softer, dangerous in ways daylight never was. By nine, the sky over Jeju Island had gone ink-dark, the moon hanging pale over the water, and the beach had transformed again into its usual summer ritual, music spilling over the dunes, bonfires burning low and golden, laughter rising and dissolving into the sound of the tide. Sunoo’s parties were never really parties. They were events. Carefully chaotic, full of beautiful people pretending they were not looking at one another too closely. Someone always brought expensive liquor. Someone always made a bad decision. Someone always kissed the wrong person under the excuse of summer.
Tonight, the air felt like it had already decided who that would be. You had tried not to think about it while getting ready. Failed, of course. Because the truth was, the last few days had left something unsettled between you and Heeseung. No more easy arguments. No more familiar rhythm to hide behind. Just glances held too long and silences that felt louder than fights ever had. And the memory of his hand on your wrist.
The way he had looked at you. The way he had lost words. It had followed you all week. So when you dressed tonight, it wasn’t for attention. It was armor. A black dress this time, simpler than the red one, but worse somehow. Thin straps, soft fabric, bare skin at your back, the kind of dress that didn’t ask to be noticed because it already knew it would be. Your hair loose, your mouth glossed, gold at your throat catching the light. You looked like someone about to make a mistake.
And maybe that was the point. By the time you arrived, the party had already spilled toward the shoreline. Music low, drinks in warm hands, familiar faces blurred by firelight and moonlight and too much history. You let yourself be folded into it. Yoonchae pressed a drink into your hand. Yunjin laughed at something dramatic Sunoo was saying near the fire. Jay stood half in the water, arguing with Sunghoon over something neither of them would remember tomorrow. Everything looked normal.
It almost felt normal. Until you saw him. Heeseung stood near the edge of the beach, farther from the fire than everyone else, a drink untouched in his hand, dark shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms. He wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t talking much. Just watching. And when his eyes found yours, the rest of the beach seemed to pull backward.
There it was again. That terrible, quiet thing. You looked away first. Coward. The night stretched. Another drink. Then another. Enough to soften the edges but not enough to blur them. Enough to make your body warm and your thoughts reckless. Enough to make him impossible to ignore. You felt him before he reached you. That shift in the air.
That awareness. You turned, and there he was. Close. Too close.
“Having fun?” he asked, voice low enough that no one else could hear. You tilted your glass against your lips. “Immensely. I’ve only considered fleeing twice.” His mouth almost smiled. “Only twice?” “I’m pacing myself.” Silence settled between you, but not the easy kind. The kind that waited. The kind that knew.
The ocean stretched black behind him, waves breaking silver under moonlight. Firelight moved over his face in pieces, catching the sharpness of him, the tension in his jaw. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said. Not accusing. Worse. Certain. You looked at him then.
“Have I?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you’re just easier to avoid lately.”
His expression shifted. Something quieter. Sharper. “That morning embarrassed you.” Mrs. Lee’s voice echoed in your memory and heat climbed your neck instantly. You looked away toward the water. “Your mother nearly announced your sex life to the entire coastline.”
“She likes you.”
“I nearly died.”
A brief silence. Then, softer, “You ran.” You let out a dry laugh. “Wouldn’t you?”
“No.”
“No,” you agreed. “You’d stand there and make it worse.”
“That does sound like me.” For a second, it almost eased. Almost. Then he said, quieter this time, “That’s not why you’ve been avoiding me.” The wind moved between you, carrying salt and the faint smoke of the fire. No. It wasn’t. Because the truth sat uglier than that. You had been avoiding him because once something shifted, you couldn’t shift it back. Because pretending was harder now. Because every look felt like standing too close to the edge of something.
Because if you let yourself think too hard about him, you would ruin everything. And maybe you already had. You set your drink down in the sand. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Do this.” His gaze didn’t move from yours. “Do what?” You laughed once, breathless and frustrated. “This. This thing where you look at me like I’m supposed to know what you’re thinking.”
He stepped closer. Moonlight and firelight and trouble. “Maybe you do.” Your pulse stumbled. “You’re impossible.” His voice dropped. “So are you.”
And there it was. Years of it. Every argument. Every summer. Every almost. The balcony. The beach. The car ride. Every second spent pretending there wasn’t something here because admitting it would mean letting it matter. You could hear your own breathing. His too. Close enough now that it blurred. You should walk away.
You should say something cruel, something sharp enough to put distance back between you. Instead, you stayed. Because the truth was simpler than pride. You wanted him. Maybe you always had. And he looked at you like he knew it. Like he had been waiting for you to stop lying. His hand brushed your bare arm, slow enough to feel like a question. You should have answered no. Instead, your voice came out quieter than you intended. “Tell me to stop.” He didn’t. For one suspended second, neither of you moved.
Then he kissed you. It felt like anger, like relief, like something starved, messy and immediate and years too late. Your hands found him without permission, his shirt, the line of his jaw, the back of his neck. His mouth was warm and rough against yours, like he’d thought about this too many times and was done pretending otherwise. There was nothing careful about it. No softness. No hesitation.
Just all the tension finally breaking open. He kissed you like he was trying to win something, and you kissed him like losing had never sounded better. The sound that left him was low, wrecked, against your mouth. His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left to pretend inside. When he finally pulled back, it was barely, forehead against yours, breath uneven, your lips still brushing when he spoke.
“Fuck.” The word sounded like confession. Then his mouth found yours again, harder this time, and the world narrowed to heat and salt and the way his hands made thinking impossible. He kissed down the corner of your mouth, breath warm against your skin, voice rough and half-lost. “Mm. Fuck, inside. Now.” You should have laughed. Should have reminded him he was arrogant, impossible, and absolutely not carrying you anywhere. Instead, when he lifted you, your legs finding his instinctively, your mouth was still on his.
Still kissing him as he walked. Across the sand. Up the path. Toward his house lit quiet against the night. The world beyond it disappeared. There was only this. His hands. Your heartbeat. The sound of the ocean somewhere behind you like witness. The back door. The hallway. Darkness and breath and mouths and hands and years of wanting collapsing all at once.
He barely got his bedroom door shut before you were against it, the sound of it closing sharp in the dark. Heeseung didn’t waste a second. His mouth was back on yours before the echo faded, hotter, deeper, more desperate than on the beach. One large hand cupped the back of your head, the other already sliding down the curve of your waist, gripping the soft fabric of your black dress like he’d waited years to tear it off.
You gasped into the kiss as your back hit the door again, the wood cool against your bare shoulders. His body pressed flush against yours, hard and burning, the evidence of how much he wanted you unmistakable against your stomach. “Fuck, this dress,” he muttered against your lips, voice gravel-rough. His fingers found the thin straps first, tugging them down your shoulders with impatient hands. The fabric whispered as it slid down your body, pooling at your waist before he pushed it lower, letting it fall completely to the floor in a dark heap around your ankles.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, bare except for the delicate black bra and panties, skin flushed, chest rising fast. His eyes darkened, jaw tight. “Beautiful,” he breathed, almost angry about it. “So fucking beautiful it pisses me off.”
Then his head dipped. His lips found the swell of your breast above the bra, hot and open-mouthed, tongue dragging over the lace. You arched into him with a shaky moan as he mouthed at your nipple through the thin fabric, sucking lightly, then harder, the wet heat of his mouth making your knees weak. His teeth grazed just enough to make you whimper.
Your hands trembled as you reached for his belt, fumbling with the buckle in the dark. The metallic clink sounded loud in the quiet room. You shoved his shirt up and off his shoulders, desperate to feel skin, and he helped you, ripping it the rest of the way off and tossing it somewhere behind him.
The moment his belt came undone, your hand slipped inside, palming him over his boxers. He groaned low against your chest, hips twitching forward into your touch. But Heeseung wasn’t letting you set the pace. His hand slid down your stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and pushing them aside without ceremony. Two long fingers dragged through your folds, finding you already slick and aching for him.
“Shit,” he hissed against your nipple, voice vibrating through your skin. “You’re soaked.” You couldn’t even answer properly, only a broken sound escaped as his fingers circled your clit once, twice, before sliding lower and pushing inside you without warning. The stretch was sudden, perfect, and your head fell back against the door with a soft thud.
Heeseung’s mouth switched to your other breast, sucking harder now, tongue flicking over the hardened peak while his fingers curled inside you, slow and deep, stroking that spot that made your thighs shake. His thumb pressed firm circles against your clit in time with every thrust of his fingers.
Your hand tightened around his cock, stroking him through the fabric as best you could while your other hand clutched at his shoulder, nails digging in. “Heeseung—” His name came out wrecked, half-moan, half-plea. He lifted his head from your chest, lips shiny, eyes nearly black with want. His fingers didn’t stop moving inside you, steady and relentless.
“Say it again,” he demanded, voice low and rough. “My name. Like that.” You did, moaning it louder this time as he added a third finger, stretching you open, preparing you for what was coming next. His mouth crashed back onto yours, swallowing every sound you made while his fingers fucked you against the door, wet sounds mixing with your ragged breathing.
Your dress was long forgotten on the floor. His pants hung low on his hips. The only thing that mattered now was the burning friction between you, the years of tension finally snapping apart in the dark of his bedroom. And neither of you was nearly done yet. Heeseung’s fingers were still buried deep inside you when he suddenly pulled them out, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. You barely had time to protest before his hands gripped the back of your thighs.
In one smooth motion, he lifted you, wrapping your legs high around his waist. Your arms instinctively looped around his neck as he carried you away from the door. The movement pressed his body flush against yours, and the second your weight settled, his pants, already tugged low on his hips, slid further down.
His cock, hot and heavy, shoved straight against your soaked folds. Your panties had been dragged aside earlier and stayed that way. There was nothing between you now except bare, slick skin. The thick length of him slid right between your folds, the head nudging insistently against your entrance with every step he took. You gasped sharply at the sudden, intimate contact.
Heeseung groaned deep in his chest, the sound raw and broken. “Fuck—feel that?” he rasped, hips twitching involuntarily as he walked you across the room. Every movement made his cock drag slowly through your wetness, the head rubbing right over your swollen clit.
The friction was maddening. Skin to skin. Hot. Wet. Overwhelming. You moaned into his neck, legs tightening around him as another wave of arousal slicked between you. Heeseung’s grip on your thighs turned bruising, his breathing ragged against your ear. By the time he reached the bed, both of you were trembling. He laid you down carefully, never fully breaking contact. The moment your back hit the mattress, he followed, settling between your spread thighs. His pants were shoved just low enough. His shirt was long gone. And his cock, thick, flushed, and glistening with your arousal, rested heavy against your pussy.
Heeseung braced himself on one forearm, the other hand guiding his length. He rubbed the head slowly up and down your folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your clit with every pass. His eyes found yours in the dim light filtering through the window. Dark, hungry, and strangely vulnerable. You could feel him throbbing against you. Could see the tension in his jaw as he held himself back, waiting. You nodded, barely a breath. “Yes.”
That was all he needed. Heeseung didn’t hesitate. With one smooth, powerful thrust, he pushed inside you, burying himself to the hilt in one go. The stretch was intense, perfect, overwhelming. A broken moan tore from your throat as your walls clenched tight around his cock. Heeseung let out a low, guttural sound, forehead dropping to yours as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours.
“Shit— so tight,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You feel… fuck.”
For a few heartbeats, he stayed still, letting you adjust, letting himself feel every pulse and flutter around him. Then he started moving. Slow at first, long, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. Each thrust pushed a soft cry from your lips. Heeseung’s rhythm quickly grew harder, more desperate, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the dark room. His mouth found yours again in a messy kiss as he fucked you deeper, hips snapping forward with increasing force. One hand slid under your ass, tilting your hips up so he could hit even deeper, grinding against your clit with every thrust.
You were lost in it, lost in him. The way he filled you. The way he moaned your name against your mouth like a prayer and a curse at the same time. The way years of tension finally shattered between you with every brutal, perfect stroke. Heeseung’s pace turned punishing, relentless, like he was trying to make up for every summer you’d spent pretending this didn’t exist.
And you took every single thrust, legs wrapped tight around his waist, nails raking down his back as the pleasure built sharp and fast inside you. Heeseung’s thrusts grew erratic, deeper, harder, his hips slamming against yours with a desperation that bordered on violent. You were so close it hurt, every stroke pushing you right to the edge.
“Fuck— I’m gonna cum,” he groaned against your mouth, voice strained and raw. “Come with me. Now.” You could only nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders as the pressure inside you finally snapped. Your orgasm crashed over you hard, walls clenching violently around his cock as you came with a broken cry of his name. The intensity made your vision blur, thighs shaking around his waist.
Heeseung followed right after, burying himself to the hilt with one final, deep thrust. A low, guttural moan tore from his throat as he came inside you, hips stuttering, pulsing hot and deep while he rode it out, filling you with every twitch of his cock. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your ragged breathing. He collapsed on top of you, chest heaving, sweat-slick skin pressed against yours. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, breath hot and uneven against your throat. You could feel his heart hammering wildly against your chest.
Silence. No soft kisses. No gentle words. No confessions whispered in the dark. Just heavy breathing and the slow realization of what you’d just done. After what felt like forever, Heeseung finally pulled out of you with a quiet hiss. He rolled off to the side, staring up at the ceiling, one arm thrown over his forehead. You both lay there, naked and still catching your breath. Then, quietly, “This was a mistake.”
Your voice came out steadier than you expected. “Yeah,” he answered, just as flat. Liars. Neither of you believed it. Not even for a second. But neither of you said anything more.
Morning came like regret. Too bright. Too warm. Too aware. Sunlight spilled through the curtains in long golden strips, cruel in the way only summer mornings could be, soft and beautiful and entirely uninterested in your emotional devastation. Somewhere outside, the ocean moved lazily against the shore. A gull screamed like it had a personal vendetta. Your head hurt. Not from alcohol. Worse. Memory.
Every second of last night returned in fragments the moment you opened your eyes, his mouth on yours, your back against his door, the way he had said your name like it meant trouble, the heat of it, the impossibility of pretending it hadn’t happened. You stared at the ceiling for a full minute. Then another. Then sat up with the slow dread of a woman remembering she had, in fact, made every bad decision available to her.
Excellent. Fantastic. Character development. Heeseung’s room looked unfairly like him, clean without trying, expensive without showing off, sunlight falling over dark wood and linen sheets and the kind of quiet luxury that made you want to rob him on principle. He was standing by the window, already dressed. Of course he was. Dark T-shirt. Messy hair. Coffee in hand. Looking like the human embodiment of consequences. He turned when he heard you move. And for a second, neither of you said anything.
No teasing. No smugness. Just that strange stillness people had after crossing a line they couldn’t uncross. You pulled the sheet tighter around yourself for dignity. It did nothing. He leaned against the window frame, studying you with an unreadable expression. “Well,” he said finally, voice rough from sleep and something else, “this feels healthy.”
You let out one dry laugh. “Absolutely thriving.” His mouth twitched. Dangerous. Because if he smiled right now, if either of you made this softer than it was, the whole thing would collapse into something harder to survive. You got out of bed, collecting your clothes from the floor like evidence. “This was a mistake.” The words landed between you. Again. Too quick. Too sharp. You regretted them immediately. Something in his expression shifted, not hurt, exactly, but enough to make your chest tighten.
He set his coffee down. “Was it?” You pulled your dress on with more focus than necessary. “That depends. Are we pretending this was a one-time lapse in judgment, or are we being honest?” He watched you for a long moment. Then, quietly, “Pretending clearly hasn’t worked for us so far.”
No. It hadn’t. Not for years. You sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted by the weight of it. The almosts. The history. The fact that wanting him had somehow become the least surprising part of all this. Outside, the day kept moving. Waves. Sunlight. People living normal lives. Inside, it felt like standing at the edge of something. You looked at him.
“So what now?” He crossed his arms, considering. And because the universe had a sense of humor, the answer came with the terrifying logic of two people who were entirely too good at making bad ideas sound reasonable. “We don’t do relationships.”
You snorted. “Understatement of the century.” “You said it yourself. No settling down this summer. No complications.” “No emotional disasters.”
“Preferably.” Silence. Then, you said it first. “Friends with benefits.” The words hung there. Ridiculous. Obvious. Inevitable. Heeseung looked at you like he hated how much sense it made. “Very mature.”
“Extremely.”
“Probably a terrible idea.”
“The worst one we’ve had so far.”
Another silence. Then both of you, at the same time, “Okay.” You stared at each other. And somehow, that was the funniest part. Because of course this was how it happened. Not with romance. Not with confessions. With negotiations. You stood, stepping closer now, the air between you still carrying the remains of last night. “Fine,” you said. “But if we’re doing this, there are rules.”
His brow lifted. “Of course there are.”
“Obviously. I’m not running an emotional free-for-all.” He leaned back against the desk, arms crossed, watching you like he already knew this would be entertaining. “Go on, then.”
You started counting on your fingers. “No dates.” “Agreed.”
“No jealousy.” A pause. Small. Noticeable. Then: “Agreed.”
You narrowed your eyes but kept going. “No emotional attachment.” “That sounds healthy.” “It sounds necessary.” He nodded once. “Fine.”
“No sleepovers.” His expression shifted slightly. You ignored it. “No public affection. I’m not becoming beach gossip.”
“Sunoo will be devastated.” “He survives on disappointment.”
A ghost of a smile. You continued. “No calling unless it’s late.”
“That sounds suspiciously specific.”
“It sounds like boundaries.”
“And?”
You took a breath. The final one. The one that mattered. “This ends with summer.” That one stayed in the room longer. Because suddenly it wasn’t just about tonight or last night or whatever this was becoming. It was a deadline. An expiration date. A promise to keep it temporary. Necessary. Smart. A lie, probably. But necessary. Heeseung looked at you for a long moment before nodding once. “Ends with summer.”
You hated how that felt. Still, you extended your hand like a business deal, because if you were going to ruin your life, professionalism mattered. “Deal?” He looked down at your hand. Then back at you. Slowly, he took it. Warm. Steady. His fingers closed around yours and something about it felt far less casual than either of you intended. “Deal.”
Too intimate. Too dangerous. You pulled your hand back first. Because someone had to be responsible here, and apparently it was going to be you. You grabbed your bag from the chair and moved toward the door before common sense could return and save either of you. At the threshold, you paused. Didn’t turn around. “Just so we’re clear,” you said, hand on the door, “if this ruins my life, I’m blaming you.”
Behind you, his voice came low and familiar again. “If this ruins your life, it’ll be because you let it.” You smiled despite yourself. Didn’t let him see it. Then opened the door. And walked out into the sunlight like a woman with a plan. Very mature. Very stupid. Exactly the kind of thing summer was made for. It started quietly, almost politely. As if whatever existed between you and Heeseung had agreed to disguise itself as something manageable.
A bad decision with boundaries. A summer arrangement. A temporary indulgence. Nothing more. That was the lie you told yourself the first time he texted you after midnight and you slipped out of your house barefoot, cardigan thrown over bare shoulders, the path between your homes lit only by moonlight and terrible judgment.
That was the lie you told yourself when he opened the back door before you even knocked, like he had been waiting there, like he knew the exact second your resolve would break. That was the lie you told yourself when his hands found your waist before either of you said hello. This is fine. It was not fine. At first, it felt almost easy.
There was a thrill to it, sharp and bright and addictive in the way summer secrets always were. The private satisfaction of sitting through family dinners knowing exactly how his mouth had looked against your skin the night before. The way his knee brushed yours under the table and neither of you reacted, though both of you remembered. It lived in stolen things. In late-night visits when the whole neighborhood had gone quiet, and the only sound was the ocean somewhere beyond the trees and your own heartbeat betraying you on the walk next door.
In the pool house one humid Thursday afternoon, when everyone else had gone sailing and the house sat warm and empty under the sun. Chlorine in the air, sunlight breaking over the water in fractured gold, your bikini still damp against your skin while Heeseung stood too close and said your name like it meant trouble. His hand sliding underneath the strap to touch you then quietly adjusting it back into place as if he hadn’t branded your entire neck in marks.
In parties where you crossed crowded rooms without touching, where his hand at the small of your back lasted only a second but ruined the rest of your night. Where you’d disappear separately and meet somewhere quieter, on balconies, behind the marina, near the dunes where the music couldn’t quite reach and the summer air felt heavier.
Every moment carried that same dangerous illusion: that because no one knew, it somehow meant nothing. You learned each other in fragments. The sound of his laugh when it was real, not performed for a room full of people. The way he got quieter when he was tired. How he always reached for your wrist first, like stopping you there somehow felt more honest than pretending he wasn’t pulling you closer.
How you started recognizing the sound of his car before it even turned into the driveway. You hated that one. Because it meant anticipation. And anticipation implied care. Care was not part of the agreement. So you became very good at pretending. You rolled your eyes when Sunoo accused you of being suspiciously unavailable lately. You blamed “family obligations” when Eunchae asked why you kept vanishing halfway through parties.
You told your mother you were staying in because the heat was unbearable, and then spent the entire afternoon in Heeseung’s room with the windows open, listening to the sea and trying not to think too hard about the intimacy of daylight. That was the dangerous part. Not the sneaking around. Not the kissing. Not even the wanting. Daylight. Because night made everything easier to dismiss. Midnight had always been built for mistakes. But sunlight was honest. It stripped things down. Left no shadows to hide inside.
And lately, you were both finding reasons to stay. A cancelled beach day because it was “too hot.” Skipping a yacht party because neither of you were “in the mood.” Sunday brunch abandoned halfway through because one look across the table had made patience impossible. Your parents thought you were finally becoming mature. Choosing rest. Prioritizing peace. If only they knew. On Tuesday, your mother found you in the kitchen at noon, wearing one of Heeseung’s old shirts thrown hastily over your swimsuit because you had forgotten your own cover-up and panic had terrible fashion sense.
She looked at you. Looked at the shirt. Looked back at you. And simply said, “Interesting.” You nearly died on the spot. “Laundry accident,” you replied immediately.
She sipped her iced tea. “Of course.” You fled before she could smile. It was becoming ridiculous. The kind of ridiculous that should have frightened you more than it did. Because somewhere between the late-night texts and the locked doors and the way he said your name when no one else was around, the rules had started feeling less like boundaries and more like decorations.
No sleepovers, and yet you had woken up in his bed twice this week. No emotional attachment, and yet you knew when he was in a bad mood before he said a word. No jealousy, and yet when a girl from the marina laughed too long at something he said, your entire evening soured without permission. This is fine. It was not fine. And the worst part was how natural it all felt. Like maybe this had been waiting for years. Like every summer before this had only been rehearsal.
One evening, stretched beside him on the pool house couch while golden light slipped slowly across the floorboards, you listened to the distant sounds of your families having dinner on separate patios, laughter drifting across the hedges, glasses clinking, the whole world carrying on politely while the two of you existed here in the quiet center of your own disaster. His hand rested lazily over your waist. Your head against his shoulder. Too comfortable.
Far too comfortable. You should have left an hour ago. Instead, you stayed. Because leaving meant acknowledging it. Because staying meant pretending this was still simple. You traced absent patterns against his arm and stared at the ceiling fan turning slowly overhead. Summer had always felt like this, beautiful enough to make bad ideas look romantic. Temporary enough to make them feel safe. You told yourself that was all this was.
A season. A secret. Something that would end when the weather changed. But even then, with the evening light soft around you and his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, some quieter part of you already knew the truth. This was never going to end cleanly. But the thought vanished as quickly as it came when you felt his hand sliding between your legs. Later, neither of you said much.
The room was quiet in that intimate, ruined way it only became after too much honesty, sheets tangled at your legs, the windows cracked open to let in the salt-heavy night air, the ceiling fan turning lazily overhead like time had slowed just for this. Outside, summer kept moving. Waves somewhere beyond the trees. A car passing faintly down the road. Someone laughing in the distance, far enough away to belong to another world entirely.
Here, everything felt still. You lay on your back staring at the ceiling, your body heavy with exhaustion, skin still warm, his sheets twisted around your legs like evidence. Your hair was a mess. Your thoughts were worse. This had become dangerous. Not because of the sex. That part had been inevitable the second either of you admitted wanting it. No, the dangerous part was afterward. This. The silence that didn’t feel awkward. The way neither of you rushed to leave. The softness that slipped in when no one was paying attention.
You hated softness. Softness made people stupid. Beside you, Heeseung was quieter than usual, one arm thrown behind his head, the other resting across his stomach, his breathing finally even after the storm of the last hour. In the low light, he looked younger somehow. Less polished. Less like the version of him the rest of the world got.
Just him. That was somehow worse. You turned your head slightly, watching him. His eyes were closed. For once, he wasn’t performing anything. No teasing, no arrogance, no carefully placed smirk like armor. Just tired. Real. You wondered if he knew how dangerous that was too. As if sensing it, he spoke without opening his eyes. “If you’re staring because you’ve finally admitted I’m right about everything, I’d like it formally documented.”
Your mouth twitched despite yourself. “I was actually wondering how someone can be this annoying while unconscious.” He opened one eye. “Talent.”
“Curse.”
“Chemistry.” You rolled your eyes and turned back to the ceiling, but the smile betrayed you anyway. Silence returned. Softer this time. The kind that settled around people who had stopped trying so hard to fill it. You should leave. That thought came and went three separate times. You should absolutely get up, find your dress, reclaim your dignity, and walk back to your own house like a woman with standards and emotional boundaries.
Instead, you stayed exactly where you were. Because moving felt like too much effort. Because his room was warm and the ocean breeze through the window made everything drowsy. Because your body had given up on principles sometime around midnight. Because leaving would make this feel real. And staying let you pretend it was still just summer.
Your eyes grew heavier. The last thing you really registered was the lamp on his bedside table casting soft amber light across the room, and the faint smell of salt and clean linen and him. Then sleep came quietly. No dramatic realization. No final declaration. Just exhaustion winning where common sense had failed. Sometime later, minutes, maybe an hour, you felt movement.
Half-asleep, caught somewhere between dreaming and waking, you registered the mattress shifting, the lamp clicking off, the room falling deeper into darkness. Then warmth. A blanket pulled over you. Careful. Quiet. His hand brushing lightly against your shoulder for just a second longer than necessary.
You should have opened your eyes. Should have made a joke. Broken the moment before it could become one. You didn’t. You stayed still, breathing slow, pretending sleep because somehow that felt safer than acknowledging tenderness. In the dark, his voice came low and almost amused. “Rule number four,” he murmured.
No sleepovers. You felt him settle beside you. The mattress dipped. The silence deepened. And then, after a beat, “Terrible at following instructions.” You smiled into the pillow where he couldn’t see it. Outside, the ocean moved patiently against the shore, summer stretching endlessly into the night. And there, in Lee Heeseung’s bed, beneath his sheets and your own very bad decisions, you fell asleep. Oops.
Something shifted after the sleepover. Not dramatically. No confessions, no declarations, no grand cinematic moment where either of you admitted the obvious and ruined everything properly. Worse. It changed quietly. In the spaces between things. And somehow, that made it far more dangerous. Because sex was easy to dismiss. Sex could be blamed on summer, on heat, on proximity, on years of unresolved tension finally finding somewhere to go. Sex was physical. Temporary. Conveniently stupid.
But softness, softness was treason. It started with coffee. You were standing in his kitchen one morning, barefoot, wearing one of his hoodies because your own clothes were somewhere upstairs and dignity had long since packed its bags. The house was still half-asleep, sunlight slipping pale and warm through the windows, the kind of slow summer morning that made everything feel deceptively gentle.
You were reaching for the coffee tin when he slid a mug across the counter toward you without looking. Iced. Too much milk. One sugar. Exactly right. You stared at it. Then at him. He was leaning against the opposite counter, scrolling through something on his phone with the dangerous calm of a man who had no idea he’d just committed emotional violence. “You remembered.”
He looked up. At the mug. At you. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You complain about bad coffee like it’s a moral issue.” You narrowed your eyes. “It is a moral issue.” He smiled into his own cup. That was the problem. Not remembering. How natural it felt. As if of course he knew. As if of course you noticed. As if this was normal. It wasn’t. Nothing about this was normal. And yet the days kept folding around it anyway.
He started bringing you food without asking. Not in some dramatic, romantic gesture way. Nothing obvious enough to name. Just showing up at the beach with the exact sandwich you liked because he “happened to be near the deli.” Leaving fries on the passenger seat when he picked you up because you’d skipped lunch and he could always tell when you did. A bottle of water handed to you silently after too much sun and too much pretending at some yacht party, his hand brushing yours for only a second before he walked away.
Little things. The kind people noticed. The kind people definitely noticed. By the second week of July, your friends had reached collective suspicion. It happened on a Wednesday afternoon at the beach club, where everyone had collapsed under umbrellas with overpriced drinks and varying levels of sunburn. Sunoo was the first to say it, because of course he was. He lowered his sunglasses dramatically and pointed between you and Heeseung like a detective solving a murder. “You two are weird.”
You didn’t even look up from your book. “That is the least shocking thing anyone has ever said.”
“No,” Yunjin cut in, leaning forward, “like weird weird. You’re not fighting.”
That got your attention. You looked up. Across from you, Heeseung was stretched lazily in a chair, sunglasses on, looking entirely too comfortable for someone under investigation.
Yoonchae nodded. “It’s unsettling. I miss the hostility. It was romantic.” Jay, who treated gossip like a legal proceeding, added, “The last thing you said to him that even resembled an insult was, and I quote—” He lifted a hand, reciting with criminal accuracy: ‘Don’t stay in the ocean too long, your wig might fall off.’ Silence. You blinked.
Sunghoon, traitor, added quietly, “That wasn’t even an insult. That was concern wrapped in a taunt.” You hated all of them.
“It was a warning,” you said.
“Because you care,” Sunoo sang.
“Because baldness is a public issue.” Across the table, Heeseung laughed. Actually laughed. Low and easy and far too pleased with himself. And you, idiot that you were, smiled back before you could stop it. The entire group gasped like Victorian women witnessing an exposed ankle. Eunchae clutched her chest. “Oh my god. They’re smiling at each other. We’ve lost them.”
You buried your face in your drink. This was unbearable. But the truth sat heavier than embarrassment. Because they were right. You weren’t fighting anymore. Not really. The sharpness had softened at the edges, and in its place had come something quieter. More dangerous.
You knew when he was lying. It was always in his shoulders first, too relaxed, too deliberate. Like if he made himself look calm enough, no one would notice. And he knew when you were upset before you said a word. Sometimes before you did. Like the night you came back from dinner with your parents, frustrated and restless and not wanting to explain why, only to find him sitting on the hood of his car outside your house.
He took one look at you and said, simply, “What happened?” No performance. No jokes. Just knowing. You sat beside him without answering, and he handed you fries in silence. That was worse than comfort. That was intimacy. And intimacy was not part of the agreement. Neither was the fact that you kept ending up in his clothes.
His hoodie mostly. Dark gray, too big, sleeves falling over your hands, smelling faintly like him and expensive detergent and whatever impossible thing made you feel too warm when you wore it home at sunrise. The first time, you’d told yourself it was practical. The second time, convenient. By the fifth, even you had stopped pretending. One evening, walking back from his house with that hoodie wrapped around you and the sun barely rising over the water, you caught your reflection in a neighbor’s window and had the deeply humiliating realization that you looked happy.
Not smug. Not victorious. Happy. You nearly turned around and walked directly into the sea. And then there was jealousy. The rule neither of you talked about because talking about it would make it real. No jealousy. Very simple. A lie, obviously. It surfaced one night at another party on Jay’s yacht. Some guy, tall, forgettable, rich in the boring way, spent too long talking to you by the bar. Leaning in too close. Laughing too easily.
You were polite. Mostly. But from across the room, you felt it before you saw it. Heeseung, watching. Still. Cold. Not dramatic, that would’ve been easier, just quiet. His expression shuttered in that way he did when he was trying very hard not to let something show, and suddenly the rest of the night tasted wrong. Later, when you found him outside near the dock, the air heavy with salt and dark water below, you said it before you could stop yourself.
“You’re being weird.” He leaned against the railing, gaze on the ocean. “I’m always weird.”
“Not like this.”
A long pause, the air thick with unspoken tension. Then, “Nothing’s wrong.” You laughed softly. There it was, the lie. You stepped closer, “You know I can tell when you’re lying, right?”
Finally, he looked at you. Moonlight catching the edges of him. That familiar unreadable expression. “No,” he said. “You just like thinking you can.” You folded your arms. “And you like pretending I’m wrong.”
His jaw shifted. A tell. You noticed. Of course you noticed. For a second, it almost cracked. Whatever this was. Whatever sat under all the rules and pretending and carefully chosen silence. But then he straightened. Looked away. And the wall went back up. “It means nothing,” he said. The words landed heavier than they should have. Because both of you knew he wasn’t talking about the guy. He was talking about all of it. This. You. Him.
The arrangement. The softness. The way neither of you were following your own rules anymore. Nothing. You stared at him for a long moment, the ocean loud in the silence between you. Then you nodded once. “Right.” A lie, both his and yours, both of you standing there in the warm dark of summer, pretending not to bleed where it hurt.
It means nothing, and somehow, that hurt worse than if he’d said everything, the silence between you lingered for a second too long. Warm night air moved around you, carrying the salt of the ocean and the distant hum of music from the party still going on behind the marina. The dock swayed faintly beneath your feet, water dark and endless below, moonlight breaking silver across the surface.
You stood there with his words still sitting heavy in your chest. It means nothing. Such a simple sentence. Such a stupid, transparent lie, but you hated that it hurt. More than that, you hated that he knew it hurt. That somewhere beneath all the arrogance and all the careful pretending, he knew exactly where to place the knife. And still, somehow, neither of you left. Because leaving would mean ending the conversation. Because staying meant there was still something unfinished here.
You folded your arms tighter, more for protection than attitude. “Right,” you said again, quieter this time. Heeseung looked at you like he wanted to say something else, something better, or worse. You could see it in the hesitation. In the way his mouth opened slightly, then closed again. In the tension sitting sharp in his shoulders, like even he was tired of performing indifference.
But he didn’t, of course he didn’t. Instead, after a long moment, he stepped closer. Not enough to be dramatic. Just enough to be familiar. And maybe that was the problem. The familiarity of it. The way your body recognized him before your mind had time to argue. His hand brushed your arm lightly. A thoughtless gesture. Comforting. Soft. Dangerous. You should have stepped back. Instead, you stayed still.
And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like his body had made the decision before his brain could stop it, he leaned down and pressed a quick, absent kiss to your forehead. Gentle. Careless. Tender. The kind of kiss that belonged to something entirely different than whatever this was supposed to be. And the second it happened, you both froze. Completely, the world stopped, the ocean, the music, your heartbeat, everything. Because that, that was not in the rules. Not even close. No public affection. No emotional attachment. No softness.
And forehead kisses? Forehead kisses were practically emotional terrorism. You stared at him. He stared at you. His hand was still lightly on your arm. Your lips parted, but no sound came out because honestly, what exactly was the appropriate response to being emotionally assassinated on a dock? Apparently, the answer was, a dramatic choking noise.
You both turned. Too late. Because standing ten feet away, carrying drinks and what looked like the absolute time of their lives, were your friends. All of them. Sunoo. Sunghoon. Jay. Eunchae. Yunjin. Yoonchae. Witnesses. To your death. For one beat, nobody moved. Then Yunjin made a sound like a Victorian woman seeing a man’s ankle and clutched her chest.
“No,” she whispered. Then louder, “No. No, I refuse.”
And with all the theatrical commitment of a woman born for performance, she dramatically dropped backward onto Eunchae. “I’ve fainted,” she announced to the night. “I’m dead. Tell my family I died right.” Eunchae, instead of helping, was already doubled over laughing. Actually laughing. Tears in her eyes. Full-body betrayal. Jay turned away entirely, hand over his mouth like he was trying and failing to remain dignified. Sunghoon stood there in complete silence, which for him was basically screaming.
Sunoo looked like he had ascended to another spiritual plane. And Yoonchae, traitor, elegant, terrifying, just slowly raised one eyebrow and said, “Well.” You wanted the dock to collapse. Immediately. Preferably with you on it. Beside you, Heeseung cleared his throat with the deeply haunted expression of a man realizing public humiliation was hereditary.
“It was nothing.” Silence. Then six people spoke at once. “Nothing?” Sunoo repeated, scandalized. “You kissed her forehead!” Eunchae shouted.
“That’s husband behavior,” Yunjin yelled from her fake death position. Jay pointed accusingly. “That is not casual. Casual men do not forehead kiss.”
Sunghoon, finally contributing, said simply, “That was intimate.” Which, somehow, was worse. You covered your face with both hands. This was how legends ended. Not with dignity. Not with grace. But with your friends conducting a public trial over a forehead kiss. Heeseung rubbed the back of his neck, visibly regretting every life choice that had led him here. “It was automatic.”
“A Freudian slip,” Sunoo said immediately.
“A cry for help,” Yunjin added.
“A confession,” Eunchae gasped.
“A legal declaration,” Jay said.
“A marriage proposal,” Yoonchae finished.
You made a strangled noise. “Please stop talking.”
“No,” everyone replied. Across the chaos, you finally looked at Heeseung. Really looked. And annoyingly, he looked just as wrecked as you felt. His composure cracked at the edges. His usual confidence gone. His ears, very slightly, red. Interesting. Very interesting. For one brief second, despite the humiliation, despite the six idiots currently planning your wedding in real time, you almost smiled. Because he was embarrassed. Actually embarrassed. And somehow, that made the whole thing worse. Or better. Definitely worse.
He looked back at you. Something unspoken passing there. Something quiet and dangerous. Then, because the universe refused to let either of you have peace, Sunoo threw an arm dramatically into the air and declared to the ocean, “THEY’RE IN LOVE AND THEY’RE MAKING IT EVERYONE’S PROBLEM.” You and Heeseung, at the exact same time: “Shut up, Sunoo.” Which only made everyone laugh harder.
—
The yacht looked like something built for people who had never been told no. White and gleaming and impossibly large, anchored just far enough from shore to feel exclusive, close enough for everyone to pretend it was casual. Music spilled across the water in low, expensive waves. Champagne sweated in silver buckets. Someone was laughing too loudly near the upper deck, and somewhere below, the ocean moved dark and patient against the hull, like it had seen this all before. Summer in Jeju Island had always been performative, but yacht parties were theater. Everyone arrived looking like they had something to prove. Girls in silk and gold, boys in linen and old money and inherited arrogance. Sunglasses even after sunset. Bare shoulders catching the last of the light. Beautiful people pretending they weren’t waiting for someone specific to notice them.
You hated how much you fit into it. Tonight, the dress was white. Soft and dangerous. The kind of dress that looked innocent until someone stood too close. Thin straps, bare back, fabric skimming your skin like seawater. Your hair loose from the salt air, gold at your throat, your mouth glossed and unhelpful. You looked like a mistake dressed as a good idea. Maybe that was the point. By the time you stepped onto the deck, the sun was already beginning to sink, everything dipped in amber, the ocean turning molten and gold around you. The air smelled like sunscreen, champagne, and money.
Sunoo spotted you first, of course. He stood near the bar, already three drinks deep into being everyone’s problem, and his eyes widened slowly as you approached. “Oh,” he said softly, like someone witnessing divine intervention. “Someone is about to ruin a life.” You took the champagne he handed you. “Only one? I’m aiming higher.”
He smiled, but it faded quickly when his gaze shifted past your shoulder. There. At the far end of the deck. Heeseung. Talking to Jay, drink in hand, sleeves rolled, dark shirt open at the throat in that infuriating way he never seemed aware of. The wind moved through his hair. The sunset caught against the sharp line of his profile. And then he looked up. Found you. Paused. There was always that moment. That small, suspended second where everything else fell away and it was just this, the recognition, the tension, the memory of every version of yourselves that had led here. His gaze moved slowly.
Not rushed. Not subtle. Like being touched without contact. And even from across the deck, you felt it. Something in your chest pulling too tight. It would have been easier if he looked away first. He didn’t. Neither did you. Until Yunjin bumped your shoulder lightly and saved you from your own poor decisions. “Don’t do that,” she murmured. You blinked. “Do what?” She took a sip of her drink, watching the sunset like she wasn’t dismantling your life. “Look at him like that. It makes the rest of us feel like unwilling participants.”
You laughed, but it sounded thinner than you meant it to. Because tonight, something already felt wrong. Not wrong. Fragile. Like standing barefoot on glass and pretending it was only sand. Maybe it was the accumulated weight of it. The weeks of pretending. The rules bent past recognition. The softness neither of you spoke about. The forehead kiss that still sat in your chest like a bruise. Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe you were tired. Tired of pretending this was casual. Tired of pretending you didn’t care. Tired of him saying it meant nothing when it had started to feel like everything.
So tonight, you decided to be reckless. Not because you wanted someone else. Because you wanted him to react. Which, in hindsight, was the kind of decision people wrote warnings about. Minjae found you first. Again. Pretty enough. Easy enough. Familiar enough to be useful. He leaned against the rail beside you while the yacht drifted slow under the dying sun, talking about some party in Seoul, some mutual friend, something forgettable. His hand brushed your arm when he laughed.
You let it. You smiled. You leaned closer. You let the dress do half the work and the silence do the rest. And all the while, you could feel it. Heeseung. Across the deck. Watching. It wasn’t dramatic. He wasn’t storming across the yacht like some jealous cliché. Worse. He was quiet. Still. The kind of stillness that meant all the dangerous things were happening underneath. You knew him well enough now to recognize it.
The way his shoulders went too rigid. The way his mouth flattened when he was holding something back. The way he stopped pretending to enjoy the party. You kept flirting. Because cruelty, apparently, was a love language. By the time the sky had gone violet and the city lights glittered faintly across the water, the tension had become its own living thing. Heavy.
Everyone noticed. Sunoo kept looking between you and Heeseung like he was watching a live sports event. Eunchae physically winced every time Minjae touched your arm. Jay had the expression of a man reviewing poor investment choices. And Heeseung, he stopped speaking entirely. You should have stopped. You didn’t. Because part of you wanted him angry. Wanted proof. Wanted something undeniable.
You found it when you excused yourself to the lower deck for air. The music faded there, softer beneath the sound of the water. The yacht rocked gently beneath your feet. Moonlight stretched silver over the sea, and the world felt quieter, suspended between one decision and the next. You barely had time to breathe before he was there.
“Seriously?” His voice behind you was low. Controlled. Too controlled. You turned slowly. He stood in the narrow corridor of moonlight and shadow, jaw tight, eyes dark enough to make the night feel thinner around you. There it was. Finally. You leaned back against the railing, crossing your arms like your pulse wasn’t trying to leave your body. “Are we opening with accusations? Very romantic.” His laugh was short. Humorless. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re late. I thought jealousy would get you here faster.” That landed. You saw it. The flicker in his expression. The anger sharpened by something much worse. He stepped closer. “You think this is funny?”
“No,” you said quietly. “I think you don’t get to care.” The ocean moved below you. Dark and endless. He stopped. For one second, the entire world seemed to hold its breath. “And why not?” The question came softer than you expected. Not angry, not sharp, honest, and that was worse, because there was an answer. A real one. Because caring meant naming this. Because naming this meant breaking it. Because if he said it first, if either of you said it first, there would be no way back to pretending.
You looked at him and saw all of it at once, the boy you had spent every summer fighting, the man standing in front of you now, the terrible inevitability of wanting someone you were never supposed to want this much. Your throat felt tight. “Because,” you said, and even your own voice sounded unfamiliar, “you were the one who said it meant nothing.” Something in him shifted. Like regret. Like anger turned inward. He moved closer again, and this time you didn’t step back. There was nowhere to go.
Moonlight on the water. Champagne still bitter on your tongue. His hand braced against the railing beside you, trapping you there without touching. His voice dropped, rough around the edges. “And you believed me?” Your heart stuttered. Because no. No, you hadn’t. That had been the problem. You had heard the lie and let him keep it because the truth was too dangerous.
You looked up at him, and the space between you felt like standing in the ocean during a storm, like drowning and floating and drowning and floating, never knowing which one would win. “Tell me I’m wrong,” you whispered.
He stared at you like he was trying to decide whether honesty would ruin him. Maybe it would. Maybe it already had. His hand lifted, slow enough to stop, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a tenderness that felt far too intimate for a yacht full of people and all the lies between you. His mouth was only inches from yours. And when he spoke, it was barely sound at all. “I think,” he said, “I stopped being careful with you a long time ago.”
Not quite a confession. Worse. Because it was true. And truth, between the two of you, had always been the most dangerous thing of all. He stood there for one suspended second after saying it, like even he was startled by the sound of his own honesty. The yacht rocked gently beneath you, the ocean below black and endless, moonlight breaking itself into silver shards across the water. Somewhere above, the music still played, muffled now, distant, belonging to another life entirely. Laughter drifted from the upper deck like something from far away, from people who had not just stepped to the edge of something irreversible.
You could still feel the words between you. I stopped being careful with you a long time ago. It settled into your chest like saltwater, slow, stinging, impossible to separate from your own blood. For weeks, maybe years, the two of you had been circling this. Pretending desire was just annoyance sharpened into habit. Pretending every almost was accidental. Pretending the way he looked at you meant less than it did. And now here it was. Not clean. Not graceful. Just true. You should have said something. Something intelligent. Something devastating. Something that would let you keep whatever remained of your pride. Instead, your body betrayed you first.
Your hand found the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like instinct, like gravity. You didn’t even realize you’d done it until he looked down at your hand and something dark and quiet moved across his face. His restraint snapped so softly you almost missed it. Then he took your wrist. And before you could think, before either of you could retreat back into irony and self-preservation, he pulled you with him. Up the narrow staircase. Past the low spill of music and careless laughter. Through the blur of warm bodies and champagne and summer pretending to be harmless.
You barely registered the startled glance Sunoo gave you as Heeseung walked past him without a word, your hand still in his like a confession neither of you were ready to speak aloud. The hallway inside the yacht was cooler, quieter. White walls. Dim lights. The hum of the engine beneath your feet. Somewhere, a door shut. Somewhere else, the sea kept breathing against the hull.
He kept walking. You followed because there was no version of this where you didn’t. Because at some point, resisting him had become another kind of surrender. At the end of the corridor, he stopped. A private deck. Smaller. Hidden from the party. Open to the night. Only the ocean. Only the moon. Only the two of you and everything you were pretending not to destroy.
The door shut behind you with a soft click. Silence. He turned. For a moment, neither of you moved. The wind came off the water cool against your overheated skin, lifting your hair, carrying salt into the space between you. You could hear your own breathing. His too. He looked at you like a man standing too close to fire and knowing he was about to step in anyway.
And suddenly, it felt like standing at the edge of land. Like the last piece of solid ground beneath your feet. Like one more step would mean surrendering to something larger than either of you, something tidal and reckless and impossible to survive unchanged. You crossed that distance first. Or maybe he did. Later, you wouldn’t know. Only that one second there was space, and the next there was none. His mouth found yours like gravity.
Not gentle. Not hesitant. Like being pulled under. The kiss hit you like cold water and summer lightning, sharp, immediate, consuming. Every part of you lit at once, every defense dissolving so quickly it felt humiliating. His hands were at your waist, your neck, your jaw, like he couldn’t decide where to hold you, only that he needed to. You kissed him back like drowning. Like if you let go, you’d wash out to sea. His mouth tasted like champagne and salt and every bad decision you’d ever wanted to make. It was anger and relief and hunger all tangled together, all the years between you collapsing into something hot and breathless and overdue.
The world tilted. Or maybe it was just the boat. Or maybe it was him. You had the absurd thought that this was what slipping away from land felt like, that moment your feet stopped touching the ocean floor and suddenly there was nothing holding you up but instinct and want. Floating. Falling. The same thing, sometimes. His hands slid to your back, pulling you closer, and the sound that left him against your mouth was low, wrecked, like even he was surprised by the force of this.
You understood. Because kissing Heeseung felt like melting. Like sun-warmed skin slipping beneath water. Like losing the shape of yourself. Like becoming something softer, stranger, more dangerous. He kissed you like he was angry at how much he wanted to. You kissed him like you were tired of pretending you didn’t. And somewhere in the middle of it, all your carefully built walls, your rules, your boundaries, your clever little exits, went under like they had never been there at all.
His forehead rested against yours for one brief second, both of you breathing like you’d been running, like maybe you had. His thumb brushed your cheek. A tenderness so small it almost hurt more than the kiss. When he spoke, his voice was rough enough to sound like truth. “You make this impossible.” You smiled, breathless, your lips still close enough to steal.
“So do you.” Then his mouth was on yours again, and whatever was left of reason disappeared with the tide.
—
The rain started sometime after midnight. By morning, Jeju Island had turned silver. The sky hung low and heavy over the coastline, clouds blurring the horizon until the ocean and the storm became one endless sheet of grey-blue. Rain slid steadily down the windows in soft crooked lines, tapping against rooftops and palm leaves and the quiet little streets of the neighborhood with the kind of patience only summer storms possessed.
Everything felt slower in the rain. Softer. The beach emptied. Yacht plans were cancelled. The marina sat abandoned except for boats rocking gently against their docks like sleeping animals. For the first time all summer, the town stopped performing. And somehow, that felt dangerous too. You woke late to the sound of thunder somewhere far away, curled beneath your sheets with damp air drifting through the cracked window. Your phone rested beside your pillow, screen lighting softly against the grey room.
A text.
power’s out at our house.
Then, a second later:
mom says yours still has electricity
And finally:
tragic. devastating. i’ll survive somehow.
You stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary. Then sighed. Because despite everything, despite all your promises to yourself about boundaries and self-preservation and not becoming the kind of girl who let boys ruin her summer, you were already smiling. An hour later, Heeseung arrived at your front door soaked from the rain.
Not drenched dramatically. Just enough that dark strands of hair clung messily to his forehead, rainwater catching along the line of his jaw and disappearing beneath the collar of his sweatshirt. The storm had turned the whole world softer around the edges, and standing there beneath the muted grey sky, he looked less like the polished golden boy everyone knew and more like something real. Your mother let him in with entirely too much enthusiasm. “Oh good,” she said brightly, already walking back toward the kitchen. “Now you can both stop pretending you don’t miss each other.”
“Mom,” you warned. Heeseung coughed into his sleeve to hide a smile. Rain followed him inside in traces, the smell of wet pavement and ocean wind clinging faintly to him as he stepped into the warmth of the house. For a moment, neither of you moved. No parties. No music. No late-night tension sharp enough to cut through.
Just quiet. The kind that made you suddenly aware of ordinary things. The soft ticking of rain against the windows. The oversized sweatshirt hanging off his shoulders. The fact that he looked at home here. That realization unsettled you more than it should have. The day unfolded slowly after that. Not exciting. Not dramatic. And maybe that was why it mattered.
You spent most of the afternoon in the living room while the storm darkened outside, half-watching terrible movies neither of you cared about. Your legs stretched across the couch beneath a blanket, his shoulder brushing yours every so often in that absent, thoughtless way intimacy sometimes arrived. At some point, your mother disappeared upstairs with a suspicious smile and the kind of timing that deserved investigation.
The rain deepened. Hours passed unnoticed. You learned strange things about each other in the quiet. Not the big things. Not the carefully curated versions people offered at parties. Small things. Real things. Heeseung hated peaches because he got sick eating too many as a kid one summer. You used to fake injuries during tennis lessons because you hated losing more than you liked sports.
He still remembered the time you punched a boy at thirteen for making Eunchae cry near the marina. “You broke his nose,” he recalled from the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand.
“He deserved worse.” “You were terrifying.” “I still am.” A smile touched his mouth then. Soft. Unthinking. Rainlight filled the room pale and blue around him, and suddenly the years between childhood and now felt strangely thin. Like maybe you had always been circling each other. Like maybe every version of yourselves had led here eventually. Later, thunder rolled low across the coastline while you sat cross-legged on the floor beside the couch, flipping through an old photo album your mother had abandoned on the shelf years ago.
Bad idea. There were photographs everywhere. Sunburnt summers. Beach days. Bonfires. All of you impossibly young. You paused on one picture, eight years old, missing front teeth, shoving Heeseung into the sand while he laughed hard enough to blur in the frame. Your chest tightened unexpectedly. “We look awful.”
“We look happy,” he corrected quietly. The room fell still after that. Outside, rainwater slid endlessly down the glass. Inside, something shifted. Not loudly, just enough to feel it. He sat down beside you on the floor, close enough that warmth gathered between you naturally. The photo album rested forgotten between your knees. And for the first time since this began, it didn’t feel like war. No tension sharpened into cruelty. No sarcasm waiting like a weapon.
Just this strange, aching softness neither of you knew how to hold. You turned another page slowly. Another photograph. Older this time. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. A summer party. You standing near the water laughing at something outside the frame while Heeseung looked at you instead. Not the camera. You. Your breath caught slightly. “You kept this?” He glanced down at the picture. Then away. Your pulse stumbled. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
His jaw shifted faintly. For a second, you thought he might dodge the question. Turn it into a joke. Deflect the way he always did whenever things came too close to honesty. Instead, his voice came quieter than you expected. “I think,” he said slowly, “I’ve spent a long time trying not to.”
The rain outside seemed to hush around the words. You looked at him carefully. Something vulnerable flickered there beneath all the practiced ease. Something raw enough to make your own chest ache in response. And suddenly you understood something terrifying, this was no longer just desire. Desire was simpler.
This, whatever this was becoming, had roots. Deep ones. You looked back down at the photograph because meeting his eyes felt too dangerous. “I used to hate summers here,” you admitted softly. The confession surprised even you. He looked at you then. “Why?” You traced your thumb along the edge of the page.
“Because everything always ended.” The words settled heavily between you, summer romances, bonfires, fireworks, warm nights, every beautiful thing in Jeju Island came with an expiration date stitched into it from the beginning, and suddenly, without meaning to, you had said something true. Something too true. You felt him shift closer beside you. Not touching. Almost worse.
For one suspended moment, it felt like standing at the edge of another confession, like both of you could ruin yourselves completely if you kept talking, so neither of you did. Cowards.
By evening, the storm had softened into a quiet drizzle. The whole house glowed warm against the rain-dark world outside, lamps casting amber light across the living room while distant thunder faded somewhere beyond the ocean. You’d lost track of time entirely. Dinner had happened somewhere in between conversation and silence and accidental touches that lasted too long. And now he stood near the front door pulling his sweatshirt back on while you lingered barefoot by the hallway, neither of you acknowledging how reluctant this felt. The rain tapped softly against the windows.
He looked tired. You probably did too. For one dangerous second, you almost asked him to stay. You could feel the question there, hovering at the back of your throat. Stay, not because of sex, not because of loneliness. Just, stay, and somehow that made it infinitely more frightening, across from you, he hesitated too, his hand resting on the doorknob, eyes on yours. Like he almost wanted to ask, but neither of you moved.
Because asking would mean admitting this had already crossed into something neither of you knew how to survive. So instead, he opened the door. Cool rain air slipped inside. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said quietly. Not later. Tomorrow. Something about that felt dangerously permanent. You nodded once.
“Yeah.” He left. And somehow the house felt emptier after. You stood there for a long moment listening to the rain before your mother appeared behind you carrying two mugs of tea. She looked toward the door knowingly, then back at you. “You know,” she said lightly, “summer’s ending soon.”
The words hit like cold water. Suddenly, the room felt too small. Too warm. Your heartbeat stumbled somewhere beneath your ribs. Because for the first time all summer, the ending no longer felt theoretical. It felt real. And terrifyingly close.
Summer began leaving in pieces. Not all at once. That would have been kinder. Instead, Jeju Island unraveled slowly, quietly, like a tide pulling back from shore before anyone realized the water was disappearing. The marina grew emptier first. Boats vanished from their slips one by one, carried back toward cities and obligations and real lives waiting elsewhere. Beach houses that had glowed warm every night for months slowly darkened at the windows. Suitcases appeared in entryways. Goodbyes drifted through the neighborhood in soft, temporary promises.
See you next summer.
As if next summer was guaranteed. As if people stayed the same long enough for promises like that to survive. The air changed too, still warm, but thinner somehow, the evenings arriving earlier, sunsets softer, touched already by the melancholy of something ending, even the ocean looked different, darker blue, quieter, less forgiving. You hated noticing it, because noticing meant acknowledging the clock, and the clock meant him, everything suddenly seemed measured in remaining time, three more Friday nights, two more yacht parties, a handful of mornings left before the entire town dissolved back into memory.
Your arrangement had always come with an expiration date stitched into it. Ends with summer. At the beginning, the rule had felt safe, now it felt like standing beneath a blade waiting to fall. You started sleeping badly after that, not because of him, because of the way he had started looking at you. More carefully, more openly, like somewhere along the way, he had grown tired of pretending.
It happened in small moments at first, his hand lingering too long at your waist before letting go, the way his gaze searched for you automatically in crowded rooms now, no hesitation, no embarrassment about it, how he no longer acted surprised by tenderness, as though caring had become instinctive, dangerous, dangerous things. And worst of all, he had stopped treating this like it was temporary.
You noticed it one evening at the beach. The sky had gone pale gold with approaching sunset, the shoreline nearly empty except for scattered locals and gulls drifting low over the water. You sat wrapped in one of his hoodies, knees pulled loosely to your chest while the tide crept closer across the sand. Heeseung sat beside you quietly, one arm draped over his bent knee, watching the horizon.
Comfortable silence stretched between you. The kind that should have felt peaceful. Instead, it terrified you, because this wasn’t supposed to become comfortable. Comfort implied permanence. Permanence implied loss. “You’re thinking too loudly,” he murmured eventually.
You glanced at him. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you get this look on your face when you’re spiraling.” You looked away too quickly. The ocean breathed in and out before you answered. “I’m not spiraling.”
“You started reorganizing the snacks in my kitchen alphabetically yesterday.”
“That was stress cleaning.”
“That was psychotic.” A faint smile touched your mouth despite yourself. His gaze softened when he saw it. There it was again, that look, something gentler, something infinitely more frightening. Your chest tightened.
You stood abruptly before the feeling could settle properly. “I should go.” The shift was immediate. You saw him notice it in real time, the distance, the retreat, his expression changed carefully, like someone stepping onto unstable ground. “You just got here.”
“I know.” Rain clouds gathered faintly over the horizon, turning the water darker beneath the evening light. You avoided his eyes while brushing sand from your legs, because lately every time you looked at him too long, something inside you started giving way, and you couldn’t afford that, not now, not with endings everywhere. The drive home was quiet. not tense, worse, careful, as though both of you could feel something fraying between your hands and neither knew how to stop pulling. After that, it became impossible not to notice. How often he reached for you now. How naturally your lives had begun folding together. How every goodbye felt heavier than the last.
And the more real he became, the more frightened you grew. So you started pulling away, subtly at first, taking longer to answer texts, leaving earlier, skipping late-night visits with excuses thin enough that even you didn’t believe them, too tired, family dinner, headache, lies, all of them, because the truth sounded too ugly to admit aloud: You were beginning to love him, and loving someone with an end date felt like volunteering for heartbreak in advance. He noticed immediately, of course he did, he had always known you too well.
One night at Sunoo’s house, while music drifted softly through crowded rooms and everyone else played cards half-drunk around the kitchen island, you felt his eyes on you from across the room almost constantly, not possessive, not angry, trying to understand, which somehow hurt worse. You laughed too brightly at things that weren’t funny. Let conversations distract you. Pretended not to see the way his jaw tightened every time you slipped further away from him. By midnight, the tension between you had become unbearable.
You found him eventually outside on the balcony overlooking the ocean, moonlight silvering the sharp edges of his profile. The wind moved softly through the dark. Neither of you spoke immediately. There was too much sitting between you now. Finally, he turned. “You’ve been avoiding me.” Not accusatory. Just tired. You crossed your arms tightly against yourself. “I’ve been busy.”
A pause. Then quietly, “That’s not true.” Something sharp moved through your chest. Because no matter how carefully you built distance, Heeseung always walked straight through it. You looked out toward the water instead, far easier than looking at him. The ocean below looked endless tonight, cold, restless. “I just think maybe we forgot what this was supposed to be.” The silence after that felt dangerous. When he spoke again, his voice had gone lower. “And what exactly was it supposed to be?” You swallowed, temporary, easy, nothing, but none of those words fit anymore. Not after rainy afternoons and forehead kisses and sleeping beside each other until sunrise, not after the way he looked at you now.
You could feel him watching you carefully, waiting, and suddenly the pressure of it became unbearable, the ending hanging over everything, the fear curling tighter around your ribs every day this became more real, because if you admitted what this was becoming, then losing it would destroy you. So instead, you stepped backward emotionally the way frightened people always do. “You said it yourself,” you murmured. “This ends with summer.”
His expression shifted, hurt, this time, barely hidden, “And that’s all you want?” You opened your mouth, nothing came out, because the answer existed, because it terrified you. The wind moved cold against your skin, below you, waves crashed endlessly against the shore, over and over, like something trying desperately to return to land. He stared at you for a long moment. Then finally asked, softly enough to hurt, “What are we doing?”
The question hung there between you, not angry, not dramatic, honest, and honesty had become the most dangerous thing between the two of you. You looked at him, really looked, at the exhaustion in his eyes, the hope he was trying not to show, the terrifying possibility of being loved back. Your throat tightened painfully. But fear arrived faster, fear always did.
So instead of answering, you stayed silent, and in that silence, something began to break.
—
The storm rolled in after midnight, it didn't rain at first, just pressure, heavy clouds swallowing the sky whole, the air turning electric and difficult to breathe. Wind moved through Jeju Island in restless waves, rattling windows and palm trees and the fragile remains of your composure. You hadn’t slept. Couldn’t.
His question kept replaying in your head like something unfinished. What are we doing? You had no answer that didn’t terrify you. So instead, you spent hours pacing your room while lightning flickered faintly beyond the ocean horizon, illuminating the walls in brief silver flashes. Coward.
The word followed you everywhere now, by one in the morning, your thoughts had become unbearable, by one-thirty, you were walking toward his house through the storm, barefoot, sweatshirt pulled tight around yourself, heart beating too hard.
The neighborhood lay silent beneath the dark sky, every house asleep except his. Light still glowed beneath his bedroom door upstairs. Something inside your chest twisted painfully at that. Like some foolish part of you had hoped he’d be sleeping peacefully. Unaffected. But of course he wasn’t.
You knocked once before opening the door. He looked up immediately from the couch. And the moment your eyes met, you understood this was going to hurt. The room was dim except for one lamp near the window. Thunder murmured low outside, rain finally beginning against the glass in soft scattered drops. Heeseung stood slowly. Neither of you spoke at first.
The distance between you felt enormous. You hated it. You hated that you were the one who created it. “You came,” he said eventually. His voice sounded exhausted. You wrapped your arms around yourself tighter. “I couldn’t sleep.” Something unreadable moved across his face. For one dangerous second, it almost softened. Then he remembered. “What do you want me to say?”
There it was. No avoiding it now. Your pulse stumbled painfully. “I don’t know.” “That’s the problem.” The words landed harder than they should have. Thunder rolled somewhere closer now. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through the calm he’d been holding together for days. “I feel like I’m standing outside a locked door with you lately.”
You looked away immediately. Because if you looked at him too long, you would fold. “You’re making this more serious than it is.” Even saying it felt wrong. You could hear the lie rotting underneath the sentence. So could he, his laugh this time sounded hollow.
“Seriously?” You swallowed hard. “This was supposed to be simple.” “Simple?” His voice sharpened suddenly. “You think any of this has felt simple?” Rain hit harder against the windows. The room felt smaller now. Too warm. Too full of things neither of you knew how to survive. You took a step backward instinctively, he noticed, of course he noticed, and something inside him finally snapped.
“I’m tired,” he said quietly, “of pretending I don’t care.” Silence, the words settled into the room like lightning striking water, there it was, the thing both of you had spent all summer running from, not hidden anymore, not softened into implication, real. You stared at him, your heart hurt so badly it almost felt physical, because part of you had wanted this, wanted him to say it, and another part, the larger, more frightened part, wanted to run until your lungs gave out.
Loving someone meant they could leave. Summer always left. You knew that better than anyone. So fear reached for cruelty the way drowning people reached for air. You laughed softly. Wrong move. His expression changed immediately. You felt your own panic rising now, wild and sharp and impossible to control. “This was never supposed to mean anything.”
The second the words left your mouth, you wanted them back. Too late. Silence. Not dramatic. Worse. Stillness. You watched the hurt move across his face slowly, like something extinguishing. His eyes lost warmth first, then softness, then hope, and suddenly the room felt freezing. He nodded once, a small movement.
“Right,” he said quietly. “Got it.” You opened your mouth instantly. Nothing came out. Because the truth was trapped somewhere beneath all your fear, clawing at your ribs too late. He grabbed his keys from the counter. Didn’t look at you again. Thunder cracked outside just as he reached the door. “Heeseung—”
He stopped. For one second, hope flared painfully inside you again. Then he spoke without turning around. “I think,” he said softly, “I deserved better than that.” And left. The door shut behind him with terrifying finality. You stood there frozen while rain hammered against the windows and the storm swallowed the coastline whole. For the first time all summer, he didn’t come back, and afterward came silence.
No texts. No late-night knocks at your window. No headlights outside your house. Nothing. Just absence. Cold and endless as the sea. After Heeseung left, summer collapsed in on itself. Not dramatically. No thunder. No shattered glasses. No cinematic unraveling loud enough for the world to notice. Just absence. Quiet and creeping and everywhere.
It settled over Jeju Island like fog rolling in from the ocean, slipping beneath doors and into lungs and through the spaces between ordinary things until everything familiar felt wrong. The beach became unbearable first. You still went sometimes out of habit, carrying books you never opened, towels that stayed folded beside you untouched. The shoreline stretched wide and glittering beneath the August sun, beautiful in the same indifferent way it had always been, but now it felt hollow somehow.
Like a photograph of somewhere you used to belong. Everywhere you looked, there were ghosts of him. Near the dunes where he had first kissed you like he was starving. At the marina docks where moonlight had turned his honesty into something dangerous. On the stretch of sand where he’d once laughed at you for trying to fight the tide after too much tequila and too little dignity. You kept expecting to see him.
Leaning against the lifeguard tower. Walking toward you through the surf. Looking at you the way he always did lately, like he had already memorized every version of your face. But the spaces stayed empty, and somehow emptiness had weight.
The parties weren’t any better. Without him, they felt exposed somehow. Too loud. Too artificial. Music thumping against hollow spaces where your heartbeat used to live. Champagne too sweet. Laughter arriving half a second too late to feel real. You drifted through them like someone haunting her own life.
People noticed, of course they did. Sunoo stopped cornering you with gossip and instead watched you carefully whenever you thought nobody was looking. Eunchae started hugging you too tightly before leaving parties. Even Yunjin, who usually treated emotional devastation like a spectator sport, went strangely quiet around you. One evening near the bonfire, while everyone else sat tangled in conversation and salt air and late-summer exhaustion, Sunghoon settled beside you silently with two drinks. You accepted one without looking at him.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The fire cracked softly before him. The ocean breathed dark beyond the shoreline. Then finally, “You look miserable.” No judgment. Just fact. You let out a quiet laugh that sounded closer to breaking. “I’m fine.”
“Right.” The word carried enough disbelief to hurt. You stared down at the bottle in your hands. “You know,” he said after a moment, “you’re the first thing he’s ever taken seriously.” Your chest tightened immediately. You looked at him then. Sunghoon kept his gaze fixed on the fire. “He acts like nothing matters most of the time,” he continued quietly. “But you did.”
Past tense. The word sliced through you before you could stop it. You swallowed hard. The fire blurred faintly. “He won’t even come out with us anymore,” Sunghoon admitted. “Jay says he’s been packing.” Packing. Something cold moved through your ribs.
You looked away quickly toward the ocean because suddenly breathing felt difficult. Summer had always ended. You knew that. You had built your entire heart around that truth years ago. Nothing beautiful stayed. Not beach towns. Not warm nights. Not people. Especially not people.
But somehow, somewhere between the rainstorm and the yacht and the way he remembered your coffee order, you had forgotten. Or maybe you had simply hoped he would become the exception. That realization arrived slowly over the following days. Not all at once. In fragments. You missed him in stupid ways first. Reaching automatically for your phone after something funny happened.
Turning toward the empty seat beside you at dinner before remembering. Still wearing one of his hoodies to sleep because taking it off felt too much like admitting he was gone. You found traces of him everywhere. In your routines. In your silences. In yourself.
And the worst part was understanding that this grief did not feel temporary. It rooted itself deeper every day. One afternoon, rain threatened faintly over the coastline while you wandered through town half-distracted, passing storefronts already packing away summer displays. Towels disappearing from racks, souvenir stands closing early, seasonal flowers wilting slowly in the heat. August ending in real time. You paused outside the small café near the marina where you and Heeseung had once hidden from the heat for nearly two hours, sharing iced coffees and childhood stories neither of you had meant to tell.
You remembered the way he’d looked at you across the table that day, soft, unarmed. Like loving you had happened quietly when he wasn’t paying attention. The realization hit then, simple, terrible. Oh. This is love. Not infatuation, not summer lust, not convenience sharpened into attachment. Love.
Real enough to hollow you out. Real enough to ruin everything else afterward. You leaned against the storefront window, eyes burning suddenly. Horrible, absolutely horrible, because now you understood why everything felt wrong without him. He had become stitched into the shape of your summer so completely that removing him tore pieces out alongside it.
And worse, you had done this. Fear had done this. You replayed the fight endlessly afterward, every cruel sentence tasting more poisonous each time you remembered it. This was never supposed to mean anything. You had watched those words break him in real time, and still you’d said them. Coward.
By the final week of August, panic settled fully into your bloodstream. You started looking for him without meaning to. Driving past the Lee house too slowly. Watching the beach at sunset. Checking your phone at two in the morning like your body still expected him to return eventually. He never did. The silence between you became its own kind of violence. Finally, the worst part.
It happened accidentally. Your mother stood in the kitchen arranging flowers while late afternoon sunlight spilled gold across the countertops. Outside, cicadas buzzed lazily in the heat, summer sounding exhausted now. You barely listened until she said, “I saw Mrs. Lee earlier.” Something inside you immediately sharpened.
“Oh?” “She said Heeseung’s leaving tomorrow morning.” The world stopped. Your hand froze halfway around your coffee mug. “What?” Your mother glanced up, surprised by the sudden rawness in your voice. “He’s heading back early. Something about work starting sooner in Seoul this year.” Tomorrow. The word crashed through you like cold seawater. Tomorrow meant this was real. Tomorrow meant endings.
Tomorrow meant there was suddenly almost no time left to fix the thing you had destroyed with your own hands. Your pulse turned violent beneath your skin. Outside the window, the ocean stretched blue and endless beyond the cliffs, glittering beneath the fading August light. Beautiful. Temporary. Already slipping away.
—
The next morning arrived too bright. Cruel sunlight flooded Jeju Island in sheets of gold, the ocean glittering innocently beneath the sky like yesterday had not split your heart open. Everything looked painfully beautiful in the way endings often did.
You barely slept. Every hour had passed tangled in panic and memory and the unbearable realization that if you let him leave now, this would become one of those tragedies people carried forever. The kind stitched permanently beneath your ribs. By nine in the morning, your hands were shaking. By nine-fifteen, you were in your car.
You drove too fast down the coastline road, sunlight flashing violently through the trees, your heartbeat louder than the music still playing faintly through the speakers. Wind rushed through the open windows carrying salt and heat and the last dying breath of summer. Your mind replayed him endlessly. The rainstorm. The yacht. The forehead kiss. The way he had looked at you like you were something worth staying soft for.
The moment his face went cold after your cruelty. You gripped the steering wheel harder. Not this. Please not this. The marina came into view suddenly beyond the cliffs, boats swaying gently beneath the sunlight. People moved lazily along the docks carrying luggage and coffees and ordinary lives. Heeseung. Standing near the end of the dock beside one of the ferries heading toward the mainland.
White T-shirt. Dark sunglasses. One duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Leaving. The sight hit you so hard you nearly forgot to breathe. For one terrible second, fear almost won again. Turn around. Protect yourself. Pretend this never mattered. Then he glanced up. Saw you. And everything stopped. You barely remembered getting out of the car. Only the sound of your footsteps against the dock, the ocean below, your pulse roaring loud enough to drown the gulls overhead.
He straightened slowly as you approached, no smile, no anger either, just exhaustion, like he had finally become tired of hoping, that hurt most. You stopped a few feet away from him, sunlight breaking across the water between you both. Neither of you spoke at first.
Words suddenly felt impossibly small compared to everything sitting between your ribs. Finally, he exhaled quietly, “You came.” The simplicity of it nearly broke you, no accusation, no bitterness, just surprise, your throat tightened painfully. “I had to.” The wind moved softly around you, carrying warmth off the ocean.
He looked at you carefully then, like he was trying not to expect too much, and suddenly you realized something devastating, if you stayed silent now, you would lose him forever, no more pride, no more running, just truth, your eyes burned. “I was scared,” you admitted first. The words came rough, fragile around the edges. Heeseung stayed perfectly still. So you kept going before courage disappeared again.
“I think…” You swallowed hard. “I think I knew what this was becoming before you did. And it terrified me because everything here ends eventually and I didn’t know how to love someone without already grieving them.” His expression shifted slightly. You stepped closer. “I said those things because I thought if I ruined this first, it would hurt less when summer ended.”
Your voice cracked embarrassingly on the last word. The ocean blurred faintly behind him. “But it already hurts,” you whispered. “It hurts all the time.” Silence. Not empty. Listening. You looked at him fully then, no defenses left anywhere inside you. “I was stupid.” A breath. “And cruel.” Another. “And completely in love with you.”
Just love. Messy and terrifying and real enough to destroy you if he rejected it. Your chest ached violently waiting for him to say something. Anything. Heeseung stared at you for a long moment that felt endless beneath the August sun. Then finally, he laughed softly, not mockingly, disbelieving, like he had spent the entire summer waiting for a miracle and couldn’t quite believe it had arrived, you frowned immediately through the tears threatening your eyes. “That’s your reaction?”
He stepped closer. Close enough now that you could see the exhaustion beneath his eyes, the relief slowly undoing it. “I’ve been waiting all summer for you to admit that,” he said quietly. Idiot. You made a broken sound halfway between a laugh and a sob before grabbing the front of his shirt and kissing him, hard, desperate enough to make up for every moment you wasted being afraid. His hands found your waist instantly, pulling you against him with something almost painful in its urgency, and suddenly the entire world dissolved into sunlight and saltwater and relief.
The kiss felt different now, not drowning, not war, like finally reaching shore after spending months lost at sea, his forehead rested against yours when you finally pulled apart, both of you breathing unevenly beneath the burning light. “You are unbelievably difficult,” he murmured.
You laughed wetly. “You stayed anyway.” “Yeah,” he admitted softly. “I did.” Around you, the marina continued moving, boats departing, gulls crying overhead, summer ending one irreversible second at a time. But for the first time since this began, nothing about this felt temporary anymore.
—
The late afternoon light filtered through the curtains of Heeseung’s bedroom, casting a golden haze over tangled sheets and bare skin. Months had passed since that messy night, since the angry kisses and the “this was a mistake” lies. What started as stolen moments and stubborn denial had slowly, stubbornly, become something real.
Now, you were exactly where you belonged, underneath him, legs locked around his waist as he moved inside you with deep, unhurried strokes. Every thrust pulled a fresh sound from your throat. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, back arching as pleasure coiled tight in your core. “Heeseung— mmph!” Your cry was muffled as he leaned down and kissed you, slow and filthy, his tongue sliding against yours while his hips kept that devastating rhythm. Heeseung chuckled warmly against your mouth, the vibration sending sparks through your body. He kissed you once more, softer this time, then pressed his lips gently to your forehead, lingering there as he stayed buried deep inside you.
Still teasing. Still chaos. Still both completely insufferable. But now it was real. He pulled back just enough to look at you, sweat-damp hair falling over his eyes, that signature smirk playing on his lips even while he was still pulsing inside you. “Thought I told you not to fall in love with me,” he murmured, voice low and rough with affection.
You smiled up at him, glowing and utterly wrecked, your hand coming up to brush his hair back.
“Thought I told you not to call.” Heeseung let out a genuine laugh, the kind that made your chest feel too full. He rolled his hips once more, slow and deep, drawing a soft gasp from you before stilling again. “Yeah, well… I never was good at listening,” he said, brushing his nose against yours. “That night after the party, when I texted you to come over… I told myself it was just one more mistake. One more time and we’d get it out of our systems.”
You raised an eyebrow, tracing your fingers down his spine. “And how’s that working out for you?” “Terribly,” he admitted, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Because every time you walked away, I kept thinking about you. Every summer. Every fight. Every time you looked at me like you wanted to kill me and kiss me at the same time.”
He shifted slightly, still deep inside you, and rested his forehead against yours. “I kept telling myself not to fall. And then you showed up at my door the next morning anyway. Stubborn as hell. Beautiful as ever.” You laughed softly, tightening your legs around him. “You’re the one who kept calling. Kept texting. Kept pulling me back in.”
Heeseung’s eyes softened, that rare vulnerable look breaking through the cocky exterior. “Because I couldn’t stop. Even when I tried.” His thumb stroked your cheek. “Guess I’m the idiot who fell first.” The room felt smaller, warmer, wrapped in golden light and years of history finally settling into place. All the almosts, the what-ifs, the angry almost-kisses on balconies and beaches, they had led here. To this. You pulled him down into another kiss, slow and sweet this time, savoring the way he melted against you.
When you broke apart, Heeseung froze for half a second, then broke into the brightest, most boyish grin you’d ever seen on him.“That’s what this whole thing has been, hasn’t it? One long, messy ‘maybe’ that turned into forever.” You nodded, eyes shining. “No more mistakes. No more running. Just us.”
“Just us,” he echoed. He kissed you again, deeper, hungrier, and started moving inside you once more, slow and intentional, like he was sealing the words into your skin. The laughter faded into soft moans and whispered names, the two of you losing yourselves in each other one more time.
Later, as the sun dipped lower and you lay tangled together under the sheets, Heeseung’s fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare back, he pressed one last kiss to your shoulder.
“So… Call Me Maybe?” he asked, smirking.
You grinned. “Only if you promise to always pick up.”
written for the heart’s mailroom event ! ༊
✷ nishimura riki spends an entire luxury fashion event forcing himself to stay composed while watching another man flirt with you, his oblivious fiancée, only to completely lose the battle against his jealousy the second you guys get home !
🗯️ 内容 explicit sexual content ♫ 18+ ⸝⸝ intended for mature audiences | minors do not interact ᯓ established relationship, public event tension, lots of emotional intimacy and domestic moments, jealousy, reassurance, possessive behavior, markings, praise kink, edging, oral sex (f. and m. receiving), face fucking, tipsy sex, unprotected p in v, dacryphilia, creampie !
EL’S ✷ BUBBLE : again, i got a bit carried away with this one so oops ! this may lowkenuinely be one of my most favorite fics i’ve written for this event >< if it wasn’t already obvious, i’m a complete sucker for fashion, polka dots (swear on my life i loved them before they became a trend everywhere), and anything nishimura riki 😚 requested by my one and only @vmpiricou, of course! aaand technically this isn’t even an event request, but a request that’s been rotting in my brain and inbox for forever now, so i thought it’d be the perfect addition to the lineup . . . basically a two-in-one request fic hehe ! enjoooooy <33 mwehehehehe with much love
The invitation had come in the mail three weeks prior, thick, cream-coloured cardstock with the Prada logo embossed in matte black foil, the kind of paper that felt like money between your fingertips.
A winter showcase.
An outdoor installation that merged fashion and architecture, held on the grounds of a privately owned estate just outside the city, where hedges were trimmed into geometric shapes and the fountains had been drained for the season so they wouldn't crack under the frost.
You'd been on the guest list before, your brand had collaborated with half the houses present tonight alone, but this year felt different.
This year, you weren't just a designer in attendance. You were the fiancée of one of Prada's youngest ambassadors, and the whole world knew it.
You'd spent the entire morning preparing. Not because you needed the time, you could throw together a look in twenty minutes flat, a skill honed from years of running your own label, but because the outfit required precision.
Every detail was deliberate, every accessory a statement, and if there was one thing you refused to do, it was to show up to a Prada event looking anything less than editorial.
The fuzzy grey high-neck winter jacket was your own design, a prototype from your upcoming fall-winter collection that you'd finished stitching at two in the morning the night before.
The thick scarf wrapped around your neck was a mix of blue, white, grey, and brown plaid patterns, hand-woven by a small atelier that was run by the sister of your online friend in Scotland that you'd been supporting since your brand first turned a profit.
The black mini-skirt was deceptively simple, a high-waisted silhouette that hugged your hips just right, the hem hitting mid-thigh.
Your brown winter boots were lined with shearling, practical but polished, the kind of footwear that said you understood the assignment: fashion first, frostbite second.
But the highlight, the pièce de résistance, was the tights.
Black polka dot tights.
Tiny white dots scattered across the sheer black fabric, close enough together to form a pattern but far enough apart that you could still see skin underneath. The dots caught the light differently depending on the angle, shifting from stark white to almost pearlescent when you crossed your legs. You'd spent an embarrassing amount of time deliberating over them, holding up pair after pair in front of your full-length mirror until Riki had finally wandered into your studio, chin resting on your shoulder, arms looping around your waist, and murmured, "The polka dots. Obviously."
You were also wearing a pair of black-framed glasses, rounded, slightly oversized, with thin metal arms, that Riki had gifted you on your six-month anniversary. He'd picked them up from a vintage shop in Harajuku during a tour stop, tucked them into his carry-on between his passport and a half-eaten pack of melon bread, and presented them to you in the back of a van with his manager yelling at him to hurry up.
The frames suited you in a way that made his chest tight every time you put them on, which was precisely why he'd bought them. Your hair was curled at the ends, soft waves framing your face, and your bangs were clipped back with two small silver clips, half-moon shaped, another one of your designs. White fuzzy earmuffs sat over your ears, the kind that looked like they belonged on a snow bunny in a 1960s ski film.
When you finally emerged from the bedroom, Riki was leaning against the kitchen counter, scrolling through his phone with a glass of water in his other hand. He glanced up, did a full double-take, and then just — stopped.
His phone slipped. Not all the way, not dramatically, but enough that he fumbled to catch it, his fingers closing around it a second too late, and it clattered against the marble countertop with a sound that made you wince.
"Riki—"
"Don't move."
"Huh?"
"I said don't move." He set his glass down carefully, deliberately, like he was afraid any sudden movement would shatter the image in front of him. His eyes dragged over you slowly, from the earmuffs perched on your head to the glasses sitting on the bridge of your nose, down the column of your neck wrapped in plaid, the grey jacket, the mini-skirt, the polka dot tights, the boots, and something in his expression shifted. His lips parted. His throat worked. He looked, for a moment, like a man who had just realised he was thoroughly, devastatingly out of his depth.
"You look," he started, and then stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "You look unreal."
"You already said that when I tried on the jacket last week."
"I meant it then and I mean it now." He pushed off the counter and crossed the kitchen in three long strides, his hands finding your waist like they were magnetised to the spot. He dipped his head, pressing his forehead to yours, and you could feel the warmth of his breath fan across your lips. "The tights," he said, voice low. His fingers skimmed down your side, over your hip, settling at the bare strip of thigh between your skirt hem and the top of your boots. "The tights are going to be a problem."
"Ow, you don't like them?"
"I like them too much." He kissed you then, soft and slow, his thumb tracing circles on the outside of your thigh where the polka dots pressed against your skin. When he pulled back, his eyes were half-lidded and there was a faint smudge of your lip gloss on his bottom lip. "We're going to be late."
"You started it."
"I'm aware." He smiled, the smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and showed the slight overlap of his front teeth. "Come on, baby. Car's waiting."
Riki's outfit was, by his own admission, "an attempt at restraint." A black puffer jacket with a fur-trimmed hood that made him look like he'd stepped out of a streetwear lookbook, a white sweater peeking out from underneath the hem and collar, baggy denim jeans that sat low on his hips in that effortlessly cool way that only he could pull off, and his trusty pair of winter boots, the same ones he'd worn to three different fashion weeks and refused to replace because, in his words, "they're broken in perfectly." Around his neck was a striped blue scarf that you were eighty percent sure he'd stolen from your dad's closet last Christmas, but you didn't have the heart to call him out on it because he looked so damn cozy wearing it.
The estate was beautiful in the way that only places with old money could be, ivory walls and wrought-iron gates, gravel paths that crunched underfoot, and a sprawling garden that had been transformed for the event.
Heaters stood at intervals along the walkways, glowing orange against the early evening dark, and sheer tents had been erected over the main areas, their fabric catching the golden light of the chandeliers suspended within.
The air smelled like pine and expensive perfume, and everywhere you looked, someone was wearing something that cost more than a semester of tuition.
You and Riki entered together, his hand resting on the small of your back, and the cameras erupted. Flash after flash after flash, a wall of white light that made your glasses reflect like mirrors, and Riki's grip on you tightened, not out of possessiveness, but out of practice. He'd learned to guide you through crowds like this, his body angling to shield you from the worst of the surge, his hand a steady anchor against the chaos.
"Over here, Mr. Nishimura!"
"Miss! Miss, over here! The tights—who designed them?"
"Are those your own brand? Can you confirm—"
You smiled, tilted your chin, let the cameras capture the outfit from every angle. Riki did the same beside you, effortless, practiced, the product of years in an industry that demanded you be both accessible and untouchable. But just before you stepped past the photo wall and into the venue proper, he leaned down and pressed his lips to your temple, and the resulting shutter sound was deafening.
"You're killing me," he muttered against your hair.
"Behave."
"No."
The event was the kind of thing that looked effortless but required an exhausting amount of social choreography. You and Riki had been seated at different tables, his as Prada's ambassador, yours as the founder of your label, and while the tables were only about twenty feet apart, the distance felt insurmountable in a room where every conversation was a negotiation and every smile was a calculated move.
You handled your end with the ease of someone who'd been doing this since she was nineteen, when your grandmother's old sewing machine had been your only investment and your kitchen table had been your cutting room.
You shook hands with buyers, charmed editors, laughed at jokes that weren't funny, and somehow managed to compliment someone's shoes without lying.
Your grandmother had raised you to be warm, to hug people when you met them, to touch their arm when you laughed, to lean in close when they spoke so they knew you were listening. It was second nature to you, as automatic as breathing, and in the fashion industry, where everyone was accustomed to a certain degree of frostiness, your affection was disarming.
Which was how you found yourself in conversation with a man whose name you hadn't quite caught, something French, maybe, or Belgian, who had apparently designed the installation's centrepiece and was very keen to tell you about it.
"Your work is extraordinary," he was saying, his accent rounding out the consonants in a way that made everything sound like a compliment. "The way you construct silhouettes—it's architectural. Structural. I see a lot of myself in it."
"Oh, thank you!" You beamed at him, genuine and bright, because you appreciated any kind of comparison to architecture. Your grandmother had been a seamstress, yes, but she'd also been the daughter of a carpenter, and she'd always told you that building a garment was no different from building a house, you needed a strong frame, good materials, and a steady hand. "That means a lot coming from you. The centrepiece is incredible, by the way. The use of negative space—"
He stepped closer. You didn't notice. You were too busy gesturing at the installation, your hands painting shapes in the air the way they always did when you were excited about something. He reached up and adjusted the clip in your bangs, his fingers brushing against your hairline, and said, "This was falling. I fixed it."
"Oh! Thank you," you said, smiling. "These clips are tricky, they slip sometimes—"
"Your glasses too. May I?" And before you could respond, he was sliding them further up the bridge of your nose, his fingertips grazing your cheek, and you blinked at the proximity but didn't pull away because why would you? He was being helpful. He was being nice. That was a thing people did — they helped each other. Your grandmother had always said that kindness was free and should be given freely, and you'd lived your whole life by that philosophy.
Across the venue, Riki was in the middle of a conversation with a Prada executive about an upcoming campaign, and he was doing an admirable job of appearing engaged.
He was nodding at the right moments, asking the right follow-up questions, even managing a convincing laugh when the executive made a joke about a rival house. But his attention was divided. It had been divided since the moment you'd separated, his eyes tracking you across the room like a compass needle finding north, and right now, that needle was spinning wildly.
He saw it all.
He saw the man lean in too close — close enough that his breath was probably visible in the cold air between your faces. He saw the hand that reached up to fix your clip, fingers lingering a beat too long against your hair. He saw the way the man adjusted your glasses, his touch drifting from the frame to your cheek like it belonged there. He saw the way you smiled up at the man, bright and completely, heartbreakingly oblivious, because you were you, and you assumed the best in everyone, and it had never once occurred to you that someone might be using the excuse of helpfulness to touch you in ways that made Riki's blood pressure spike.
His grip on his champagne flute tightened. The glass was sturdy, Prada didn't skimp on glassware, but he could feel the tension in his knuckles, the fine tremor of restraint running through his forearm.
"Nishimura?" The executive's voice cut through. "You had thoughts on the Milan venue?"
"Sorry, yeah." He dragged his gaze back to the conversation, forced his expression into something neutral. "The Milan venue is great. The lighting is the main thing—we need to make sure the—"
The man had his hand on your shoulder now. Your shoulder. He was leaning down to say something near your ear, his thumb rubbing small circles against the wool of your jacket, and you were nodding along, completely unaware of the way his eyes were tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck, the dip of your collarbone visible above the high neck of your jacket.
Riki smiled through it. He smiled through the next conversation too, and the one after that, and the one after that. He smiled when a photographer asked for a solo shot, and he smiled when a stylist complimented his scarf, and he smiled when a fellow ambassador asked about the ring on your finger, visible now that you'd taken your gloves off to accept a drink, because what the hell could he say? That he wanted to cross the room, slide his arm around your waist, and tell every man within a ten-foot radius to back the fuck off? That he wanted to bite the spot where that stranger's thumb had touched your shoulder? That he was actively restraining himself from doing something that would end up on every gossip account by midnight?
He could practically see the tweets already.
Oh my god.
PRADA’S NISHIMURA RIKI CAUSES SCENE AT PRADA EVENT—JEALOUS BOYFRIEND OR JUST BAD TEMPER? followed by a thread of clips taken from unflattering angles and captioned with takes so hot they could melt the ice on the garden paths.
He could see the think pieces, the psychoanalysis, the stan Twitter wars between people who thought he was justified and people who thought he was toxic, and neither side would be right because neither side knew the truth — they didn't know that you were the most oblivious person on the planet, that you thought everyone was just being friendly, that if someone flirted with you using the subtlety of a sledgehammer you'd probably just think they had great posture.
So Riki stayed where he was. He smiled. He networked. He kept his grip on his champagne flute tight enough that the tendons in his hand stood out like cords, and he watched, and he waited, and every time the man touched your shoulder, three times, he counted them, three goddamn times, he filed the number away like a brand seared into his memory.
By the time the event wound down, Riki had shaken approximately forty hands, smiled through approximately sixty conversations, and consumed approximately four glasses of champagne on an empty stomach.
He was tipsy, not sloppy, not sloppy enough for anyone to notice, but just enough that the edges of things had gone soft and warm and his tongue felt loose behind his teeth. The buzz was pleasant, distracting, a buffer between his brain and the image of that man's hand on your shoulder that he kept replaying like a scene he couldn't stop watching.
You found him near the exit, adjusting his scarf with one hand and his phone with the other, and you slipped your arm through his like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Ready to go, baby?"
"Yeah." His voice came out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, let's go."
The car was waiting — a sleek black sedan with tinted windows, booked privately through the service Riki always used when he didn't want the company van's driver to overhear whatever half-coherent conversation would inevitably happen on the ride home. You climbed in first, pulling your earmuffs off and shaking out your hair, and Riki followed, immediately reaching for the partition button to close off the driver's compartment.
Then you were on him.
Not in a sexual way, not consciously, but in the way you always were when you'd been apart from him for more than an hour. You pressed yourself against his side, your cheek finding the curve of his shoulder, your fingers walking up the front of his puffer jacket to fiddle with the zipper pull. You pressed a kiss to his jaw, then another to the spot just below his ear, and you could feel the way his pulse jumped under your lips even though his posture remained carefully, deliberately relaxed.
"I missed you," you murmured against his skin. "The event was so, so long, baby. I kept looking over at you."
"Did you?" His arm came up around your shoulders, his thumb rubbing a slow circle against the curve of your arm. The gesture was affectionate, automatic, but there was something in the rhythm of it that felt… off. Like a metronome that was slightly out of time. "I was watching you too."
"Were you?" You smiled against his neck, your nose brushing the collar of his sweater. "Did you like how I handled the Barneys buyer? I think I got them to commit to the spring line—"
"You seemed pretty busy." The words were casual. Too casual. The kind of casual that was constructed, deliberate, a mask placed over something sharper. "With that guy."
"What guy?" You pulled back just enough to look at him, your brow furrowed. Your glasses had slipped down your nose again, and you pushed them up absently. "Oh—you mean the installation designer? He was super sweet, Ki! He helped me fix my clip, and he had really interesting things to say about textile architecture. Did you know he studied under—"
"He was flirting with you."
The car took a turn, and the glow of a streetlight swept across Riki's face, illuminating the hard set of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows, the way his eyes were fixed on the window instead of on you. You stared at him, blinking.
"He was what?"
"Flirting. With you." Each word was clipped, precise, like he was biting them in half before they could escape. "He touched your hair. Your face. Your shoulder—three times. He was leaning in so close I could practically see his dental work."
"Oh." You sat back slightly, processing this information the way you processed most social cues with a delay long enough to be endearing and a little bit tragic. "He was... flirting? With me? But he was just being nice. He fixed my glasses, Riki. Who fixes someone's glasses if they're not being nice?"
"Someone who wants an excuse to touch your face," Riki said flatly. "Someone who sees an opening and takes it because you're too sweet to notice that he's not being nice, he's being interested, and there's a difference, and you—"
He stopped himself. Exhaled through his nose. His jaw worked, the muscle there jumping, and you watched the tension ride through his frame like a current, shoulders rigid, fingers flexing against your arm, the tendons in his neck taut. He looked like he was physically holding something back, and the realisation hit you like cold water.
"Baby," you said softly, reaching up to touch his face. "Hey. Look at me."
He did. His eyes were dark in the low light of the car, the amber of the passing streetlamps catching in them intermittently, and there was something raw there, something unguarded that made your chest ache. You'd seen Riki walk for ten thousand people. You'd seen him navigate boardrooms and red carpets and interviews with the ease of someone who'd been trained to be likable since he was fourteen.
But this — this was different.
This was your Riki, the one who got sulky when you ate the last mochi, the one who practiced his confession in the mirror for three days before actually saying it, the one who was sitting in the back of a black sedan with champagne-warmth in his veins and jealousy sitting heavy and obvious in his chest.
"I'm sorry," you said, and you meant it. You were sorry — not for being friendly, because that was who you were and he'd never ask you to change, but for not noticing, for making him sit through that, for being the kind of person who could have a man practically draw her a map to his intentions and still think he was just being polite. "I didn't realize. I would've—I should have—"
"It's not your fault." He said it quietly, firmly, and his hand came up to cover yours on his cheek, pressing your palm against his skin like he needed the warmth. "I know that's just how you are. I know you don't see it. That's not—you're not the problem, okay? That bitch is the problem. I just—" He exhaled again, sharper this time, and his eyes fluttered shut. "It drove me insane. Standing there, watching him touch you like that, and I couldn't do anything. I couldn't just walk over there without it being a whole thing, and I knew if I said something it'd be everywhere, and—"
"Ki."
"—and he just kept touching you, and you were smiling at him, fuck, and I know you didn't mean anything by it, but you're mine, and—"
"Riki."
He stopped. Opened his eyes. Looked at you with that expression you'd only ever seen in the privacy of your shared spaces, hungry and soft and a little bit desperate, like he was standing at the edge of something and needed permission to fall.
"I'm yours," you said simply. "You know that."
"I know." His voice was rough. The champagne had loosened something in him, stripped away the careful composure, and what was left was raw and wanting. "I know. I just—need to remind myself."
The rest of the drive was quiet, but it wasn't the comfortable kind.
It was the kind of quiet that hummed with tension, that filled the space between your bodies like static electricity, that made every point of contact, his hand on your thigh, your head on his shoulder, his thumb tracing absent patterns on the inside of your wrist, feel charged and significant.
You pressed more kisses to his cheek, leaving faint traces of lipstick like signatures, and he let you, his eyes half-closed and his jaw still tight, and the offness you'd sensed earlier crystallised into something you could finally name.
He was jealous. He was jealous, and he was tipsy, and he was holding himself together with the kind of restraint that was fraying at the edges.
The house was warm when you walked in, you'd left the smart thermostat on before you left, and the heat had been cranking for the past four hours, turning the space into a cocoon against the winter chill outside.
You kicked off your boots in the entryway, your feet finding the hardwood in just your tights, and you were reaching for the zipper of your jacket when Riki's hands found you.
Not your jacket.
You.
His arms wrapped around your waist from behind, his face pressing into the curve of your neck, and his entire body folded into yours like a building collapsing in slow motion.
He was heavy, taller than you by nearly a head, broader across the shoulders, all long limbs and lean muscle, and when he let go, he let go, his weight sagging against your back until you staggered slightly under the pressure.
"Whoa, hey—"
"You're mine." The words were muffled against your neck, damp and warm, and his arms tightened around your waist like he was trying to press you into himself, eliminate any space between your bodies. "You're mine, and he was touching you, and I couldn't—I wanted to—"
"I know, baby. I know." You turned in his arms, your hands coming up to cradle his face, and he looked at you with eyes that were glassy and dark and so painfully honest that it made your heart crack open. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should've noticed, I should've—"
"Don't apologize." He shook his head, his hair falling across his forehead in that way that always made you want to push it back. "Don't. It's not—it's not your fault. You're too good. You're too good and people take advantage of it and it makes me—"
He broke off, his throat working, and something shifted in his expression.
The whine was still there, the babyish, I-need-complaint pout that he wore when he was feeling small and wanted to be coddled, but underneath it, something else was surfacing.
Something harder. Hotter. The jealousy that had been simmering all evening was reaching its boiling point, and the warmth from the champagne was fanning the flames.
"Enough." His voice dropped. Not angry, never angry with you, but firm, decided, the kind of firm that brokered no argument. "I've been patient all night. I've been good. I've smiled and shaken hands and let that man put his hands on what's mine without saying a word, and I'm done being patient."
Your breath caught. "Riki—"
"I need to mark you." He said it like a confession, like something he'd been holding behind his teeth all evening and could finally release. "I need to mark you, doll. I need to see my marks on you so that the next time someone thinks they can touch you, they'll see them and know."
He kissed you then, not the soft, reverent kisses from the car but something deeper, harder, his teeth catching your bottom lip and tugging until you gasped into his mouth.
His hands were everywhere: cupping your jaw, tangling in your hair, sliding down your back to grip your hips and pull you flush against him. You could feel the heat of him even through the layers of your jacket and his puffer, the hard line of his body pressing against yours, and the champagne on his tongue was sweet and sharp and made your head spin.
"Up," he muttered against your lips, and then his hands were under your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing, and you wrapped your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck and held on as he carried you down the hallway to your bedroom.
He kicked the door open, not hard enough to damage it, but hard enough that it bounced off the wall, and laid you down on the bed with a care that contradicted the urgency of his movements. You sank into the duvet, your hair fanning out across the pillows, and he stood over you for a moment, chest heaving, eyes dragging down your body like he was committing every detail to memory.
"Keep the tights on," he said, and his voice was hoarse.
You blinked up at him. "What?"
"The tights." He sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, his hands finding your ankles and sliding up reverently over the smooth fabric dotted with tiny white polka dots. "Keep them on, baby. I have... plans."
His fingers traced the pattern, pressing gently into the sheer fabric, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath. The polka dots were like Braille under his fingertips, tiny raised dots that he read like a language only he knew.
He pushed your mini-skirt up, baring the expanse of your thighs, and the sound he made, low, guttural, somewhere between a groan and a growl, sent a shiver racing down your spine.
"God, these tights." He pressed his lips to your knee, then to the soft skin above it, the fabric of the tights a whisper-thin barrier between his mouth and your skin. "Do you have any idea what you've done to me tonight? Walking around in these—looking like that—and then letting some other man put his hands on you—"
"I didn't know—"
"I know you didn't, doll. That's what makes it worse." He kissed the inside of your thigh, open-mouthed and hot, and your breath hitched. "You're so trusting. So sweet. You think everyone's just being nice, and meanwhile I'm standing across the room watching some guy memorize the shape of your body through these—" He bit down. Not hard enough to hurt, not yet, but hard enough that you felt the pressure of his teeth through the thin fabric, and you let out a startled, breathy sound that was half gasp and half moan.
"Riki—"
"He touched your shoulder three times." He bit down again, harder this time, and this time there was no mistaking it, he was leaving a mark, his teeth indenting the skin of your inner thigh through the polka dot tights, and the contrast was devastating: the delicate pattern of dots, the dark fabric, and the red bloom of a bruise rising underneath. "Three times. I counted. I counted every single time his hand made contact with your body, and each time I wanted to break his fingers."
"Baby—"
"Three." He bit down again, higher up on your thigh, and you arched off the bed with a cry that you muffled against the back of your hand. The pain was sharp and bright, but it faded almost immediately into something warm and throbbing, and when you looked down, you could see the mark already forming, a dark, mouth-shaped bruise against the polka dot fabric, the white dots like witnesses to the claim.
"Two." Another bite, on the other thigh now, and his tongue swept over the mark after, soothing and wet and obscenely hot through the tights. You were trembling, your fingers twisted in the duvet, your glasses askew on your face, and he hadn't even taken off a single piece of your clothing.
"One." The last bite was the hardest, placed high on your inner thigh where the skin was softest and the tights were stretched thin, and you felt the sting of it all the way down to your toes. He pulled back to admire his work, and the sound he made, low, satisfied, almost predatory, made heat pool in your stomach. Three marks. Three whole ass bites. One for each time that man had touched you, each one a brand that would darken over the next few days into deep, mottled purple.
"Perfect," he breathed. His fingers traced the marks, pressing lightly, watching the way your breath stuttered. "You look so pretty with my marks on you, angel. So pretty. And everyone's gonna know. Not that they'd see these—" He dragged his thumb over the bruise on your inner thigh, and you whimpered. "But I'll know. And you'll know. And every time you move your legs tomorrow, you're going to feel them and remember that you're mine."
"I'm yours," you whispered, and you meant it with every cell in your body.
He smiled at that, not the sharp, possessive smile from before, but something softer, something that cracked through the jealousy like sunlight through clouds. "Yeah," he said, and his voice was gentle even though his hands were still pressing bruises into your thighs. "Yeah, you are."
He reached for the waistband of your tights then, hooking his fingers under the elastic and dragging them down your hips slowly, pressing open-mouthed kisses to every inch of newly exposed skin. The tights peeled off like a second skin, the polka dots sliding away from the bruises he'd left, and he tossed them somewhere over his shoulder without looking.
Your underwear followed, a scrap of black lace that he pulled down with his teeth, and the visual of it, Riki on his knees, his eyes dark and fixed on your face, his mouth dragging lace down your thighs, was enough to make your breath come in shallow, desperate pants.
"Ki, please—"
"Please what?" He settled between your legs, his breath warm against your inner thighs, his lips ghosting over the marks he'd left. "Tell me what you want, doll. You have a mouth for a reason."
"Your mouth. Please—I need—"
"What do you mean by please?" He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you needed him, and his tongue darted out to taste the mark he'd left.
The sensation was electric, warm and not nearly enough, and you squirmed beneath him, your hips lifting off the bed in silent pleading.
"I need your mouth on me. Please, Ki. Please, baby."
"Good girl." The words vibrated against your skin, and then his mouth was on you, and you stopped thinking entirely.
He was thorough.
He was always thorough, Riki had never done anything half-heartedly in his life, and that included this, but tonight there was an edge to it, a hunger that bordered on desperation. His tongue was hot and precise, mapping every fold and curve with the focus of a cartographer charting new territory, and when he found the spot that made your back arch off the mattress, he stayed there, circling and pressing and sucking until you were making sounds you didn't recognise.
"Riki—oh god—Ki—"
He groaned against you, the vibration of it shooting through your body like a shockwave, and his hands gripped your thighs hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises alongside the bite marks.
He was making noises too, low and guttural sounds that were half-moan and half-growl, the kind of sounds that came from a man who was losing himself in the taste of you, who couldn't stop even if he wanted to, who was drunk on champagne and jealousy and the sweetness of your body on his tongue.
"You taste so good," he murmured against you, his voice wrecked. "So fucking good, angel. My doll. Mine."
"Yours—ah—yours, baby, I'm—"
He didn't let you finish the sentence. His tongue flattened against you, broad and wet and relentless, and he licked into you with a determination that made your vision blur. Your glasses were completely fogged now, the lenses clouded with heat and moisture, and you reached up blindly to pull them off, tossing them somewhere on the nightstand, and the world went soft and dark at the edges. Not that you needed to see. You could feel every stroke of his tongue, every press of his lips, every sharp inhale he took between your legs like he was breathing you in.
The orgasm built slowly, a tightening coil in your lower belly that wound tighter with every stroke of his tongue. You could feel it approaching, cresting, your thighs shaking around his head, your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer even though closer was physically impossible—
And then he stopped.
You made a sound of protest that was embarrassingly close to a sob, your hips chasing his mouth, but he pulled back just out of reach, his hands pressing your thighs down against the mattress. "Not yet," he said, and his voice was steady even though his lips were swollen and glistening and his chest was heaving. "You don't get to come yet."
"What—why—"
"Three." He said it simply, and the meaning crashed over you like cold water. Three. Three edges. Three denials. One for each time that man had touched your shoulder, one for each moment Riki had watched from across the room and done nothing. This was the reckoning.
"Riki, I can't—"
"You can." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, gentle and reassuring. "You can, and you will. Because I asked you to. Because you're mine, and you're going to take what I give you, and you're going to be good for me. Can you do that, doll?"
Your eyes were stinging. Your body was thrumming with unresolved tension, every nerve ending screaming for release, and he was asking you to hold on, to wait, to endure. But the way he was looking at you, soft and dark and so full of love that it made your chest ache, made it impossible to say no.
"Yes," you whispered. "Yes, I can be good for you."
"My good girl." He smiled, and then he was moving, shedding his puffer jacket and pulling his sweater over his head, revealing the lean lines of his torso, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, and the faint definition of his abs. He was beautiful. He was always beautiful, but like this, dishevelled and hungry and looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, he was absolutely devastating.
"Come here," you whispered, reaching for him, and he went.
He kissed you as he settled over you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, sweet and strange. His hands worked at the remaining pieces of your outfit, the jacket, the scarf, the mini-skirt, until you were bare beneath him, your skin flushed and dotted with the marks he'd already left, and he pulled back to look at you again.
"You're so beautiful," he said, and his voice cracked on the last word. "So fucking beautiful, and you're mine. Say it again."
"I'm yours, Ki."
"Again."
"I'm yours. Only yours. Always yours."
He kissed you harder, his hands roaming your body with a reverence that bordered on worship. He traced the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips, the dip of your collarbone, his touch feather-light and burning. "This body," he murmured against your jaw. "This body is mine. Every inch of it. Every curve. Every mark."
His lips found your breast, his tongue circling your nipple, and you arched into the wet heat with a broken moan. "He can look all he wants. He can fix your glasses and adjust your clips and touch your shoulder until his fingers fall off. But at the end of the night, this—" He bit down gently on the swell of your breast, and you keened. "—this comes home to me."
"Yes—yes, baby, always—"
"Open your mouth for me, doll."
You did, without hesitation, without question, because you trusted him with every fibre of your being and because the look in his eyes right now, the raw and naked need, made it impossible to do anything but surrender.
He shifted, his knees bracketing your shoulders, and you watched through half-lidded eyes as he freed himself from his jeans, the hard length of him bobbing heavily against his stomach.
He was big.
You'd never gotten used to it — the first time you'd been together, you'd actually laughed, because what else were you supposed to do when confronted with something that looked like it belonged in a textbook? He'd been mortified until you'd explained, and then he'd been insufferably smug about it for approximately five weeks. Now, though, there was no laughter — only hunger, only want, only the desperate need to feel him in whatever way he'd give you.
"Tap my thigh if it's too much," he said, and his voice was gentle even though his hand was shaking where it gripped the headboard. "Okay?"
"Okay."
He pressed the head of his cock against your lips, and you opened wider, your tongue darting out to taste the salt of him, and the sound he made, a sharp, bitten-off groan that he tried to swallow and failed, sent a pulse of heat straight to your core.
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust, and you felt the stretch of him, the weight, the girth, the way he filled your mouth until your jaw ached with the effort of accommodating him.
"Fuck," he breathed. His head fell back, the long line of his throat exposed, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "Fuck, doll, your mouth—"
You hummed around him, and his hips jerked forward, pushing himself deeper, and you fought your gag reflex bravely, your throat fluttering around the intrusion. He noticed, he always noticed, and his hand came down to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek in a gesture that was so tender it made your eyes water.
"You're doing so good," he said, and the praise washed over you like warm honey. "So good for me, angel. Taking me so well. My perfect girl."
He started to move then, shallow thrusts at first, letting you set the pace, but gradually deeper, faster, his hips rocking into your mouth with a rhythm that was steadily losing its restraint.
The sounds he was making were obscene: low, rumbling moans that came from somewhere deep in his chest, punctuated by breathless curses and fragments of your name. He was vocal always, had been since the very beginning, the first time you'd been together he'd been so loud that his neighbour had pounded on the wall and he'd just laughed, breathless and unashamed, but tonight, with the champagne stripping away his inhibitions, he was practically singing.
"Ah—fuck, yes—just like that, doll—your mouth feels so—god—"
His hand fisted in your hair, not pulling, just holding, and his thrusts grew more erratic, his breathing more ragged, and you could feel him getting close, the way his muscles tensed, the way his moans pitched higher, the way his thighs trembled against your shoulders.
But he pulled back before he could finish, his cock slipping from your lips with a wet sound that made you both groan, and he was breathing hard, his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed shut like he was physically holding himself together.
"Not yet," he said, more to himself than to you. "Not like that. I need—I need to be inside you when I come. Need to feel you."
He moved down your body, settling between your legs again, and this time when he kissed you, it was slow and deep and tasted like the two of you mixed together.
You could feel him hot and hard against your stomach, the slick of him smearing across your skin, and you reached down to wrap your hand around him, but he caught your wrist and pinned it above your head.
"Patience," he murmured against your lips, and you whimpered because patience was the absolute last thing you had right now.
"I've been patient," you protested, and your voice came out wrecked, raw and hoarse from his cock in your throat and the moans you couldn't stop making. "Please, Ki—I've been so good—"
"You have," he agreed, and his free hand was sliding down your body, over the curve of your hip, between your legs, and his fingers found you dripping and swollen and so achingly sensitive that even the lightest touch made you jerk. "You've been so good for me, baby. My perfect, perfect girl. You deserve a reward, don't you?"
"Yes—please—"
He entered you in one long, slow thrust, and the sound you both made was identical, a broken, desperate moan that harmonised in the quiet of the bedroom.
He filled you completely, the stretch of him bordering on too much and then settling into something that made your eyes roll back in your head, and he held himself there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in ragged pants.
"Feel that?" He rolled his hips, a slow grind that pressed against every sensitive spot inside you, and you sobbed. "That's mine. You're mine. Say it."
"I'm yours—fuck—I'm yours, Ki—"
He started to move then, really move, and the pace he set was punishing. Deep, hard thrusts that drove you up the mattress, each one punctuated by the slap of skin against skin and the wet sound of your bodies moving together. He was relentless, his hips snapping forward with a precision that spoke of barely contained control, and each thrust hit something inside you that made your vision go blank.
"This is mine," he gritted out, his hand sliding down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise. "This body—this pussy—all of it. Mine. Not his. Not anyone else's. Mine."
"Yours—only yours—baby, please—"
"Please what?" He shifted the angle, hitching your leg up over his hip, and the new position let him sink even deeper, and you heard yourself make a sound that was barely human, high and thin and desperate. "Please let you come? Is that what you want, doll?"
"Yes—yes, please, I need—"
"You need to wait." He thrust into you hard, and you screamed, and he swallowed the sound with his mouth, his tongue sweeping past your lips in a kiss that was all teeth and desperation. "Three, remember? You've had one. You need two more."
"I can't—I can't take it—"
"You can. You will." He pressed his forehead to yours, his eyes dark and molten, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "You're so strong, doll. So perfect. So beautiful. You can take anything I give you, and you'll thank me for it. Won't you?"
"Yes—yes, I'll thank you—thank you, Ki—"
"Good girl."
He kept moving, and you kept climbing, and just as the coil in your belly was about to snap for the second time, he pulled out. Stopped out of nowhere.
The emptiness was unbearable, your body clenching around nothing, your hips chasing the friction that had been so cruelly denied, and the sound you made was a full-bodied sob that echoed off the walls.
"I know," he said, and his voice was gentle even though his hands were shaking. "I know, baby. I know it's hard. You're doing so well. Just one more."
"One more," you repeated, like a prayer. "One more. I can do one more."
"My good girl."
He pushed back in, and this time the thrusts were slower, not gentler, not by a long shot, but more deliberate, more controlled, each one a calculated assault on your senses. His hand found the spot between your legs, his thumb pressing in tight circles, and the sensation of him inside you and his fingers on you was too much. You were shaking, tears streaming down your temples into your hair, your hands fisted in the sheets so tightly that your knuckles were white.
"You're so beautiful like this," he said, and his voice was reverent, worshipful, like he was looking at something holy. "All teary and desperate and mine. Nobody else gets to see you like this. Nobody. Not the designers, not the buyers, not the men who think they can put their hands on you at events. This—" He thrust deep, grinding against you, and you keened. "—this shit is mine."
"Yours—only yours—Ki, please—"
"Please what?"
"Please let me come—I can't—I'm going to—I need—"
"Not yet." But his voice was strained, his own control fraying, and you could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his thrusts were becoming more erratic, the way his moans were pitching higher and more desperate.
He was close too, you could feel it in the tension of his body, the way he was fighting his own release alongside yours, and the realization that he was denying himself as much as he was denying you made something hot and tight twist in your chest.
"Ki—"
"One more, doll. Give me one more. You can do it. I know you can."
He changed the angle again, deeper now, impossibly deep, the head of his cock pressing against your cervix with each thrust, and the pleasure was so intense it bordered on pain. You were beyond words now, beyond coherent thought, reduced to a creature of pure sensation, every nerve ending firing, every muscle trembling, your entire being focused on the point where his body met yours.
He pulled out again.
The third denial was the worst. Or the best. You couldn't tell anymore. You were sobbing openly, your body wracked with tremors, your thighs shaking around his hips, and when you reached for him, your hands were so weak that you could barely grip his shoulders. The orgasm that had been building for what felt like hours was hovering just out of reach, a wave that had crested but hadn't yet broken, and the frustration was so acute it was almost its own kind of pleasure.
"I can't—" you wept. "Ki, baby, please—I can't take another one—please, I need to come—I need—"
"I know," he said, and this time his voice broke on the words. "I know, doll. You've been so good. So perfect. So patient. You took all three so beautifully. My good girl. My perfect, perfect girl."
He thrust back in, and this time there was no stopping. No pulling out. No denial. Just the relentless, punishing rhythm of his hips and the pressure of his thumb on your clit and the sound of his voice in your ear, low and rough and so full of love that it made your chest hurt.
"Come for me," he said, and it was a command and a plea and a prayer all at once. "Come for me, doll. Let go. I've got you. I've always got you."
You came.
It hit you like a wall of light, blinding, all-consuming, every muscle in your body seizing at once as the orgasm that had been denied three times finally, finally crashed over you.
You were aware of screaming his name, of your nails raking down his back, of your body arching off the bed so violently that he had to pin you down with his weight, and the pleasure was so intense that for a long, terrifying moment, you couldn't see or hear or think, you could only feel, every cell in your body exploding and reforming and exploding again.
He followed you over the edge a moment later, his hips stuttering, his breath catching, and then he was spilling into you with a groan that seemed to come from the very marrow of his bones.
You felt the warmth of it, the pulse of him inside you, the way his body shuddered with each wave, the raw, animal sound of his release, and it triggered another smaller orgasm in you, your walls clenching around him in aftershocks that made you both gasp.
He didn't pull out. He couldn't. His body had given out the moment the orgasm hit, and he collapsed on top of you with his full weight, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps that you could feel against your sweat-damp skin.
You held him, your arms wrapping around his back, your fingers tracing the scratch marks you'd left, thin red lines that would be visible tomorrow if he took his shirt off, and you pressed kisses to whatever part of him you could reach: his temple, his hairline, the shell of his ear.
"I love you," you whispered, and your voice was wrecked—raw and hoarse and barely audible. "I love you so much, Ki."
"I love you too." His voice was muffled against your neck, thick and slow and sleepy, the champagne and the orgasm hitting him all at once. "I love you more than anything. You know that, right?"
"I know."
"Good." He pressed a lazy kiss to your pulse point, and you felt him smile against your skin. "Mine."
"Yours."
The silence that followed was warm and comfortable, the kind of silence that could only exist between two people who had just dismantled each other completely and were now lying in the wreckage, too spent to move but too content to care. The heater hummed in the corner. The snow was falling outside the window, visible in the glow of the streetlight, and somewhere in the distance, a car alarm went off and was ignored.
Eventually, Riki shifted, just enough to lift his head and look at you, his eyes heavy-lidded and soft and so full of affection that it made your heart do something embarrassing in your chest.
"Hey," he said.
"Hello to you too."
"Are you okay?"
"Mm." You stretched, wincing at the soreness that was already settling into your muscles, and you shifted your legs experimentally, and that was when you saw them.
The marks.
What the fuck.
You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking down at your body, and the sight that greeted you made your breath catch.
Your inner thighs were a patchwork of bruises, the bite marks from earlier, already darkening into deep purple and blue, overlapping and intersecting like some kind of abstract painting.
Your hips were fingerprinted, ten small crescents where his hands had gripped you.
Your breasts bore the faint impression of his teeth, and your collarbone — well. It looked like you'd been attacked by a very determined vampire.
"Oh my god," you breathed.
Riki followed your gaze, and the satisfied smile that spread across his face was entirely unapologetic. "Oh my god?" he repeated, his tone incredulous. "That's all you have to say?"
"Riki, there are—there are marks everywhere."
"That was kind of the point, doll."
"I know, but—" You shifted again, wincing as the bruises on your thighs pressed against the mattress, and then a thought struck you that was equal parts mortified and relieved. "Oh, thank god it's winter."
Riki raised an eyebrow. "Thank god it's winter?"
"So I don't have to head out in shorts twenty-four-seven," you explained, gesturing at the constellation of bruises decorating your thighs. "I mean, can you imagine? I'd walk into the office and my team would think I'd been attacked by a wild animal."
"A very handsome wild animal," Riki corrected, and you laughed.
"A very handsome wild animal who can't control his teeth," you amended.
"I control them just fine. I placed every single one of those marks with intent." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then another to the mark on your collarbone, his lips warm and lingering. "And besides, baby, you won't need to worry about shorts. I just washed and prepared your maxi skirts, especially the denim one your mom reworked, so thank me later."
You stared at him. "You did what?"
"Washed your maxi skirts." He said it casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world, like he hadn't just confessed to doing your laundry — which he never did, not because he was unwilling but because you were particular about the way your garments were handled and he'd once shrunk a cashmere sweater and you'd made a face so tragic that he'd sworn off laundry duty entirely. "The denim one is hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I air-dried it like you showed me. And the grey wool one is in the closet, third hanger from the left."
"You, Nishimura Riki, washed my skirts. By hand. And air-dried them."
"Yes." He blinked at you, all innocent and earnest, like he wasn't lying there with love bites covering his throat and your lipstick still smudged on his jaw. "Is that... is that weird?"
"No." Your voice came out thick, and you realised with a start that you were getting emotional, over laundry, of all things, but it wasn't really about the laundry, was it?
It was about the fact that this man, the same man who had marked you like a territorial wolf not fifteen minutes ago, had also spent time carefully hand-washing your skirts because he knew, somehow, that you'd need them. That he'd thought ahead. That he'd taken care of you in ways that were quiet and domestic and so fundamentally him that it made your eyes sting again.
"It's not weird," you said again, softer this time, and you cupped his face in your hands and kissed him, slow and deep and full of a love so enormous that you couldn't possibly contain it. "It's the opposite of weird. It's the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me."
"Now who's being dramatic," he murmured against your lips, but he was smiling, and you could feel the way his chest expanded with the kind of quiet pride that he'd never admit to out loud.
"Thank you, Ki."
"You're welcome, baby." He shifted, pulling out of you with a wince that matched yours, and the absence of him left you feeling empty and cold and aching in ways that were both physical and emotional.
He reached for the duvet, pulling it over both of you, and gathered you against his chest like you were something precious and breakable and infinitely worth protecting.
"Hey," you said, your voice muffled against his skin.
"Hm?"
"Next time someone flirts with me at an event and I don't notice, you have my full permission to come over and be insane about it."
He laughed, the kind that shook his whole body and made the bed creak. "You're going to regret saying that."
"Probably." You smiled against his chest, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin. "But at least I'll have the maxi skirts to cover the evidence."
"The denim one especially," he said, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "Your mom did a great job on it. The hem is perfect."
"You’re so weird."
"You love it."
"Yeah." You pressed a kiss to the centre of his chest, right over his heart, and felt it beat steady and strong against your lips. "Yeah, I really do."
Outside, the snow kept falling, blanketing the city in white, and inside, under the warmth of the duvet and the weight of each other, you fell asleep to the sound of his breathing and the knowledge that tomorrow, when you pulled on that reworked denim maxi skirt, the marks on your thighs would press against the fabric like a secret — yours and his and nobody else's.
When Riki handed you your glasses from the nightstand the next morning, his fingers lingering on the frames just a moment too long, you thought about the way he'd looked at you when you'd put them on the night before, like you were the only person in the room, in the city, in the world, and you smiled, and you didn't bother wondering whether the man from the event would reach out, because it didn't matter.
None of it mattered.
The only hands that would ever touch you like that, the only hands that had the right, were the ones currently reaching for the coffee maker, still clumsy with sleep, still wearing the scratch marks on his back like a badge of honour.
"Hey, baby?" Riki called from the kitchen, his voice rough with morning and fondness.
"Yes?"
"The tights—are they hand-wash only? Because I may have like… thrown them on the floor last night, and I want to make sure I don't ruin them when I pick them up."
You laughed, bright and so full of love it hurt, and you padded barefoot into the kitchen, your bruises hidden under the oversized sweater you'd stolen from his closet, and you kissed him until the coffee went cold and the snow outside melted into slush and the whole world narrowed down to this: his mouth on yours, his hands on your waist, his heart beating against your palms.
"Hand-wash only," you murmured. "Cold water. Lay flat to dry."
"I'll add it to the list," he said, and he smiled, the one that was just for you, and you thought, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that you were the luckiest woman alive.
And the polka dot tights, when you finally retrieved them from the bedroom floor, were perfectly fine, ready for the next event, the next outfit, the next time Riki would look at you across a crowded room and know, with absolute certainty, that you were his.
Just as he was yours.
⭐ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
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💿 ࿐ . . moonlight by kali uchis
✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !
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