𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 「 ᴺⁱˢʰⁱᵐᵘʳᵃ ʳⁱᵏⁱ」
“𝒀𝒐𝒖'𝒗𝒆 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔, 𝒏𝒐𝒐𝒏𝒂. 𝑰𝒔𝒏'𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝑰 𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖?”
⤿𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛 your job is to dress him for the stage, but Ni-ki is determined to undress the way you see him.
OR
⤿𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛 you’ve been Enhypen’s stylist since their debut, and Ni-ki’s been waiting years for you to finally stop seeing him as a kid.
he’s grown up now, he’s sharper, bolder, and he doesn’t just want your approval anymore, he wants all of you.
wc: 9.6K
DISCLAIMER .ᐟ
THIS STORY CONTAINS THE FOLLOWING:
⤷Power imbalance (age gap, use of “noona,” blurred consent lines, manipulative dialogue); Obsession/Possessiveness (stealing personal belongings, fixation, unhealthy attachment); Boundary pushing behavior; Scenes of bruising, minor injuries, or physical exertion; explicit smut (eventually, sigh).
🧷read at your own risk, if these themes make you uncomfortable, please do not read. this is purely fictional and not representative of real people!!!!!
also if u see any mistakes no u didn’t 😭
You learn people by the way they wear things.
Not just their clothes, the cut, the labels, the price tags—but the small, private habits stitched into them. The way a shoulder hunches when they think no one’s watching. How a thumb rubs the seam of a collar when nerves creep in. How some faces bloom under fabric while others look like they were forced into the wrong skin.
You’ve been watching for years.
It’s the job. Has to be. Stylists aren’t just people who tug zippers and smooth hems; you’re translators. You read a body like it’s text. The slope of a shoulder tells you which jacket will sharpen it. The angle of a hip shows you how fabric will fall. You memorize who sweats under lights, who always rolls sleeves when restless, who only stands tall when pinned into structure.
Clothes lie. Bodies don’t. You’ve built a career out of catching the gap between the two and stitching it closed.
Your world has always been dressing rooms, garment bags heavier than people, the hiss of steamers, the sting of pins in your fingertips. You’ve learned to make silence comfortable inside a space full of mirrors. You’ve learned to smile when someone says, Anything looks good on them, because you know it’s not true.
You’ve worked with idols long enough to understand that most of them don’t even realize what they’re showing you. That the details they think are invisible; how they breathe in, how they flinch when you brush their wrist, how they lighten up the second they catch their reflection—are exactly the things you see most clearly.
“It’s just the job,” you tell yourself. Fabric and form, nothing more.
But some people don’t let themselves be dressed and forgotten.
Ni-ki was supposed to be one of the easy ones. Just a boy growing into his frame. Another set of limbs to measure, another body to learn. You were there when the first spotlight made him blink, when the first perfect jacket made him stand a fraction taller.
To you, he was simple, the baby of the group who wouldn’t stop asking too many questions or taking off his shoes in the wrong place. You smoothed collars, pinned stray threads, lifted hems, and tucked stray strands behind ears with the kind of casual care you reserve for things you have watched grow. You never thought about what it meant to be watched back.
Until he started watching.
At first it was small. A fitting room held a minute too long. A muttered compliment in the chaos of a comeback week. A bag he insisted on carrying. You laughed it off the way adults laugh when kids mistake teasing for courtship. He was still a little boy in the calendar. voice cracking, hands smaller than they wanted to be, and you viewed him like that. A bright, unfinished thing.
But he tried. God, he tried.
He’d linger at the edge of your vision, tugging at invisible strings to stage moments only you were meant to notice. His shirt would stick to his back after practice, peeled off too slowly, sweat tracing down his chest. He wanted your eyes caught there. He wanted the slip, the fluster, the stumble.
And yes. Your gaze drifted. A second, no more. Just enough for him to feel it. Enough for his pulse to jump.
You clapped, sharp and mocking.
“Good job, baby. The gym’s paying off.”
Your smirk was calm, teasing, the kind of tone that turns a performance into a child’s play. His jaw twitched. His fists curled. He wanted to see you break. But you only stretched, loose and unbothered, and walked away.
So he pushed harder.
Backstage, he hovered. Eyes sharp when other men laughed too long at your jokes or brushed your arm in passing. He didn’t speak—he didn’t have to. The set of his shoulders said enough.
“Aw, don’t pout, Riki. You’re still my favorite.”
You said it so sweetly, like soothing a sulky child. Like he wasn’t eighteen, shaking with the need to be seen as anything but.
The breaking point came one late night.
He stormed into the dressing room, shirt clinging damp, hair falling into his eyes. You were bent over a table, folding stage clothes, humming like the world outside didn’t exist.
“Grumpy again? Don’t tell me you’re sulking because I didn’t notice your new hair today.” You don’t look up. You keep folding, fingers smoothing the fabric with infuriating calm. “It’s cute, by the way. Very fluffy.”
His palm slammed against the table. The crack echoed.
“Stop treating me like I’m some fucking kid.”
Finally, you looked up. “Then stop acting like one.”
He steps closer. Too close. You can smell the sweat and cologne clinging to his skin.“You keep laughing at me,” he snaps, voice rougher than he intended. “You think this is funny? Me wanting you?”
Leaning back against the table, you fold your arms, gaze dragging over him slow enough to make his skin prickle. You let a silence stretch between you, before your lips curve.
“Mhm. I think it’s cute.”
His throat goes dry. “Cute?” he chokes, as if the word itself is an insult.
You hum, a soft sound that vibrates in the air between you, and tilt your head like you’re studying him under glass. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”
He burned. You stayed calm. The harder he pushed, the steadier you became. And that’s what broke him most—he could never win.
You thought it would fade. That he’d sulk, then move on the way boys his age do. But Ni-ki didn’t move on.
He latched.
His gaze changed first—hungry, tracking you across rooms. He lingered in doorways, stood too close, stared into mirrors until you met his eyes. He wanted you to know.
You noticed him stop laughing as much with the others. He’d sit quieter during group meals, fiddling with his phone, eyes flicking up only when you spoke.
During fittings, he wouldn’t fidget anymore; he’d stand still as a statue, tense and rigid, just so you’d touch him longer. A cufflink, a hem, your fingers brushing his wrist, and he’d live off it for days.
And when he was on stage, under lights, it was worse. He started performing for you. Subtle at first—the angle of his jaw when he turned toward your side of the stage, the way he dragged a hand over his chest when he knew you were watching. But soon it wasn’t subtle at all. He was stripping off jackets too slowly, staring into the cameras too long, moves threaded with the question he burned to ask: Are you watching me now?
Then came the bruises. At first, just a split lip.
“Boxing?” you asked, tone flat, fingers hovering over the makeup sponge.
He smiled too wide. “You noticed.”
After that, there was always something. A scrape. A burn. Knuckles swollen purple. And every time, he waited for your hands to hover, or your eyes to falter.
He lived off those seconds.
Then came the late night messages.
Almost every night, your phone would light up. A photo of his shoulder, mottled with bruises. Does it look bad?
A shaky video of him, breath ragged after running until his legs gave out. Couldn’t sleep. You’d tell me to rest, right?
You stopped replying.
But silence didn’t starve him. It fed him.
Soon he was weaving others into the game. He jokes with the manager until the manager slips, mentioning your name more than is professional. He stages small collisions with other staff, an “accidental” brush, a whispered complaint, and watches how you react. He learns who will cover for him, who will gossip, who will call him out. He builds his own scaffolding of allies and silence, and it always leads back to you.
And of course, fan accounts caught on—photos of him watching you, rumors spun out of nothing. You are careful about public proximity, but the closeness during fittings is unavoidable.
And you, god help you, begin to fear what attention might do to him. You know too well how hope can be an accelerant. If you comfort him, if you let one soft word slip, he will read tenderness as permission. He will drink it and then demand more. He will fold himself around the smallest proof and make it into a rule.
So you swallowed it down. You stayed still. You planned quietly. Report this if it spikes; keep records of messages; refuse the late night calls; push for professional help through the manager’s channels.
You do the grown up things that feel like nails driven into your ribs.
And still, he tightened around you.
It freaked you out, though you’d never say it out loud, not to him, not to anyone.
He wanted your care. Your worry. Your anger. He wanted anything you’d give him, as long as it was his.
The other members started noticing too—his temper sharper, his patience thin. If you were in the room, he was alert, awake, alive. If you weren’t, he was a shell.
You’d created a problem without meaning to. A boy who’d tasted rejection laced with sweetness, who’d felt your attention only in fractions, and decided fractions weren’t enough.
To him, you weren’t just a stylist anymore.
You weren’t even just a woman he wanted.
You were a drug. And he was hooked.
And the worst part—what curls your stomach with ice—is that he is not finished. He is learning how to weaponize his own hurt into performance, and he is very good at it.
You shake yourself free of the memory the way you smooth wrinkles out of fabric. Press, release, pretend the crease was never there.
Chrome Hearts isn’t a place to relax, but your work rarely allows that anyway. You move through racks with precision,You’re too deep in thought to notice how silent the store is, busy running mental inventory against your client list, already mapping what pieces might photograph well and what won’t.
So when a presence shifts behind you, you don’t register it until knuckles graze a hanger and make metal clink like an alarm.
You turned.
And there he was.
Dressed in all black, like the store itself had spat him out, his mask pulled high, his beanie dragging low, his figure cut sharp against the racks of leather and chrome.
Of course it’s him. Of course, he’d be here. If there was another thing he craved with the same single-minded compulsion he wasted on you, it was this. Collecting overpriced Chrome Hearts like charms on a rosary.
A sick, twisted part of you finds it adorable that someone who moves and starves himself on obsession until his bones show, can still turn boyish in his addictions. That beneath, he still has that impulse to collect, to want, to have.
And now, standing there, it feels like you’ve stumbled into the collection he wants most.
“Figured I’d find you here.”
He closes the distance without waiting for permission, body eclipsing yours as if the store shrank just to fit the two of you in. He smells faintly of cologne, layered with the metallic tang of the racks around you. His hand dips into his pocket, while the other brushes too close, knuckles grazing the back of your wrist. Featherlight, but it burned everywhere.
You force your gaze up, higher than you remember needing to. He’s grown again, shoulders broad enough to blot out the rack behind him, the cut of his black jacket sharp against the pale sliver of throat peeking above the mask. And there, barely visible if you weren’t already cataloguing him like a pattern, his mole, the one tucked just beneath his eye, peeks out whenever the mask shifts against his cheek.
His eyes are the worst of it. Dark, steady, searching. He doesn’t look at the jackets or the silver. He doesn’t look at anything but you.
“You’re busy,” he murmured. “But not too busy to say hi, right?”
The line could be harmless. Friendly, even. Except his eyes flick down again, to your wrist, to the pulse hammering there, and then back up, catching yours in a way that makes the ground tilt.
It’s the same old sickness, you realize.
Chrome Hearts could burn down around him, and he’d still look at you like you were the only thing worth salvaging.
You clear your throat, shifting just enough to slip your wrist out of range.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you clipped back. “Half the press camps outside this place. If someone sees you—”
“They won’t.” He cuts you off without hesitation, like the possibility doesn’t even exist. His gaze flickers once toward the window, then back to you.
You laughed under your breath, bitter. “You’re dressed like every other rich kid in Gangnam, that doesn’t make you invisible.”
But he didn’t move. If anything, he leaned closer, gaze cutting straight to your pulse.
“You’re worried about me.”
“I’m worried about the headline,” you hissed. “Idol sneaking with staff? You want that?”
“Let them write it.” His eyes glinted like the thought thrilled him.
“Riki,” you snapped, tugging a hanger free too hard, “you don’t get to decide that for me.”
For a beat, he just studies you, the muscle in his jaw ticking under the mask. Then his thumb lifts, barely brushing the hem of your sleeve.
“I just wanted to see you.”
You ignore him, and move down the aisle, skimming rings, pretending your pulse isn’t racing. He shadows you without hesitation, tall frame cutting through the racks.
“What are you even doing here?” you mutter, eyes locked on a chain displayed under glass.
“Shopping,” he says, but it sounds distracted. His gaze isn’t even on the jewelry. It’s on the way your fingers trace the glass.
You roll your eyes, stepping away. “Then shop. Don’t follow me.”
But he does. He keeps a perfect pace, hands tucked into his pocket, head tilted just enough that his beanie slips a little.
“Riki,” you sigh, warning in your tone.
“What?” He blinks at you, feigning innocence.
“You came here for something. Go find it.”
“I did,” he says, and the words are so soft, so matter-of-fact, you almost miss them.
Still, he doesn’t leave.
When you reach for a hanger, his hand slips up too fast— as if he meant to take it for you, or maybe just wanted an excuse to touch your fingers. The back of his thumb grazes your knuckle before you yank away.
He doesn’t apologize. He just smiles under the mask, the curve of it tugging at the fabric, eyes narrowing in that boyish, infuriating way that says he’s proud of whatever he just did.
You try to shake him. Not because you’re scared—though, maybe, a little, but because you know the risk. Paparazzi could be anywhere, some stranger with a phone camera lurking between racks. The last thing either of you needs is a headline about him tailing his stylist through Chrome Hearts like a dog on a leash.
So you pick up your pace. Turn down an aisle stacked with leather boots. Double back through denim. Circle racks like you’re tracing a maze.
By the time you reach the register, your arms are stacked with a few carefully chosen pieces. You risk a glance back, expecting him to be lost somewhere.
But no.
He’s there. Leaning on the counter beside you like he’s been waiting all along, mask pulled down just enough to show the curve of his mouth, the faintest smirk. The mole on his chin catches the light, peeking out from under the edge of his mask, and his eyes—God, his eyes—are locked on you like you’re the only thing in the room worth buying.
“What did you even come here for?” you snap under your breath, shoving your card across the counter.
“You,”
You roll your eyes, and balance the bags on your wrist, muttering a quick thank you to the cashier before pushing out into the cool night air. The mask on your face feels suffocating now, too tight. You glance over your shoulder just once, praying he has the sense to stay inside.
But, of fucking course, he didn’t.
He’s right there, a half step behind you, the picture of calm.
“Are you fucking insane?” you whisper-yell, tugging your shopping bags tighter against your side as the door clicks shut behind you. “Do you want to get caught? Do you even know how fast people will spin this if someone sees?”
Your finger jabbed his chest, words spilling fast. “You can’t just follow me around stores, Riki. You can’t stand so close, can’t—touch me like that, can’t—”
And through it all, he stared. Eyes soft, warmed by your anger, like every harsh word was proof you cared.
When you stopped, breath ragged, he tilted his head.
“You brought your car?”
“…What?”
“Your car. You drove, right?”
“…Yes.”
“Good.” A pause. Then, calm as anything. “Give me a ride home.”
Your mouth fell open. “Excuse me?”
“Chrome Hearts bags are heavy.” His eyes flicked to your wrist, then back. “Besides, you don’t want me walking. Someone might see.”
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
And the worst part? He’s right.
But you’ve already made up your mind. Screw him, you’re going to your car, alone, and he can figure out his own way back. You dig through your purse for your keys, chin lifted, while he trails behind you, quiet. Too quiet.
Then—“Fine,” a pause.“I’ll just wait here, then.”
You turn to look at him, brows furrowing. “…Okay?”
He shrugged, tugged his beanie lower, eyes sliding toward the alley where kids with phones lingered.
“I’ll just stand here. Let them take pictures. Maybe they’ll drive me home too.” He huffs. “Your choice, noona.”
You stare at him, actually speechless for a second.
The audacity. The sheer, unbothered confidence of a teenager who knows he has leverage and fully intends to use it.
“Do you realize what you’re saying?” you hiss, stepping closer, lowering your voice like that’ll somehow shrink the tension crackling between you. “If they get pictures of you here, do you know what happens to me? I’m staff, Riki. Staff. I’ll get dragged through the mud before you even blink.”
He shrugs again, and it’s infuriatingly nonchalant, like he’s debating what flavor of chips to buy and not threatening your entire career. “Sounds like a personal problem, noona.”
“Personal—?” Your voice pitches higher. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m also freezing. And tired. And the last train’s gone. So… car keys, please.”
You glared, pulse racing.
This was manipulation. You knew it. You should walk away.
But then his lashes caught neon light, head tilted, voice syrup-sweet.
“C’mon, noona. You’re not really gonna leave me out here, are you?”
“You are impossible,” you hissed.
And then that fuckass victory crinkle at the corner of his eyes.By the time you unlocked your car, he was already inside, mask tugged down, smirking.
“Good girl,” he murmured, buckling his belt. “Knew you wouldn’t leave me.”
Riki’s head thumped back against the seat, as your knees pressed into the leather. His breath hitched, hot against your collarbone, and you dragged his mouth back to yours with a fistful of his hair.
You straddled him, thighs squeezing tight, his hands bruising your hips as you rode him, the leather creaking under the push of your knees.
You were laughing—low, throaty, like you were drunk on him, as you tugged at his shirt, baring him down to damp skin. Every scrape of your nails down his chest tore a sound from his throat he didn’t even recognize.
“F-fuck, noona,” he gasped, forehead dropping to your shoulder as his hips snapped up hard enough to rattle the car, “Faster,” he begged, voice cracking, and you leaned close enough for your breath to burn hot against his ear.
“You can’t even handle me now, baby. How are you gonna survive when I really fuck you?”
You cupped his jaw in one hand, thumb smearing the sweat at his cheek, and dragged his gaze back up when it threatened to fall. You wanted him to watch. Wanted him to drown in the sight of you riding him like he was nothing more than a seat made for your body.
He could hardly breathe. Every thrust of your hips made the veins in his neck stand out, had his chest heaving as if oxygen was something you controlled.
“Look at you,” you purred, voice steady while his trembled. “All mine. You’ll never get enough, will you?”
His answer was a choked sound, a desperate shake of his head that only made you laugh, cruel and sweet at once. You tightened around him and he nearly lost it, a sob catching in his throat as he jerked up to meet you.
“Say it,” you demanded, nails raking down his chest again. “Say you can’t get enough.”
“I—I can’t,” he stammered, words breaking apart as his hips faltered, pleasure clawing at his spine. “Noona, I can’t—fuck, I can’t—”
“That’s what I thought.”
The backseat rocked with the rhythm of you grinding him down to nothing, his vision blurring at the edges. He was coming apart, strung tight on the sound of your voice, the way you moved like you owned every part of him.
And then—white heat, gutting and violent, tore through him. He spilled with a broken cry, body jerking helplessly, thighs trembling beneath you. Your smirk was the last thing he saw before everything split open—
Riki woke up with a strangled gasp.
Darkness. Ceiling. No car, no heat, no you. Just his room. His sheets. His sweat-soaked shirt clinging to him like a second skin.
For a moment, he didn’t move. Couldn’t. His chest heaved, ribs straining like they might crack open under the pressure, and he stared at the ceiling as if it would rearrange itself into your face if he wished hard enough.
His lashes fluttered shut, his breath shuddering out in a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh—too breathless, too bitter.
He’d lost count of how many times this had happened. How many times he’d woken up like this, wrung out, still trembling, your voice echoing honey sweet in his ears.
He should’ve been embarrassed. Should’ve been ashamed.
But he wasn’t. Not even close.
If anything, he wanted to sink deeper into it, wanted the dream to drag him under until he didn’t have to wake up again. The shame didn’t stick anymore; it melted straight into want, something thick and unbearable that left him grinding his teeth because it still wasn’t enough.
He shoved the blanket off, the fabric tangling at his ankles before falling limp to the floor. Cool air rushed over his skin, but he was still burning, cock twitching sticky against ruined boxers.
His hand flexed, restless and useless at his side. He thought about reaching for his phone, thumb hovering over your name in the dark. Just to feel like you were closer than the four walls of this suffocating room.
What would he even say?
Noona, I keep dreaming about you fucking me dumb. Do something about it.
Pathetic.
But true.
His tongue darted out to wet his lips, the taste of metal still sharp from biting too hard. He exhaled shakily, dragging a hand down his chest, smearing sweat. This had been happening for weeks, months maybe—he didn’t know anymore. All he knew was that it was always you. Always your voice, your hands, your laugh, your eyes pinning him down like a knife point.
And he was starting to think it wasn’t just in his head.
Finally, he forced himself upright. His shirt clung damp and cold to his back, boxers sticky and humiliating, every step toward the bathroom heavy. The mirror light stabbed through his skull when it flicked on, but he didn’t look away. He stared.
Messy hair sticking flat to his forehead. Skin slick, flushed like he’d actually been beneath you. Eyes glazed, swollen, desperate.
It almost made him laugh again. You’d put him in this state without even touching him.
He braced his hands on the sink, fingers curling tight over porcelain, head bowing forward. His breath fogged the glass.
And then he saw… a hair tie?
Black, simple, stretched a little thin from overuse.
He’d pocketed it yesterday when you drove him home, fingers sneaking it off the console while you were too busy scolding him about being reckless with paparazzi.
You hadn’t noticed—not when your hands gripped the wheel, not when your eyes cut to the road, not when your voice rose in that calm, stern way that always made his stomach flip. He’d rolled the band between his fingers the entire ride, listening to you, watching the curve of your jaw glow against the passing streetlights, until the urge to keep something—anything—of you had gotten too strong.
Now, standing in the bathroom with it pressed between his fingers, he couldn’t think past the fact that this was yours. It had been wrapped around your wrist, buried in your hair, warm with your skin.
He lifted it without meaning to, knuckles grazing his mouth. The scent was faint, barely there, but his chest stuttered anyway, lungs tight like he’d been punched. His lips parted against the soft elastic, a low, broken sound caught in his throat.
It was pathetic. He knew it. But it didn’t matter.
His knuckles tightened around the hair tie until the elastic bit into his skin. He shouldn’t feel this way over something so small. Over something so… ordinary.
But it wasn’t ordinary, not to him. It was yours. Again, he should’ve felt guilty—there was a time when he might’ve, but all he felt was the faintest shiver at the base of his spine. The knowledge that he could take from you and you’d never know.
He closed his fist around it, pressing until the edge dug half moons into his skin. Not enough. Nothing ever was.
The shower after that should’ve rinsed you off him. But it didn’t. When he finally cut the water, the steam had nowhere left to go but his lungs, thick and suffocating. He dragged a towel across his skin but it felt useless. He was still sticky, raw, and trembling like you’d just pulled him apart with your soft hands.
He dressed in silence. Black sweats, a shirt, nothing special. The hair tie sat on the counter like it was mocking him. He pocketed it before he could think twice, knuckles brushing it once for reassurance. Like he’s carrying you.
The rest of the day went by in pieces, none of them whole. Practice. Choreography. Someone calling his name twice before he answered. He caught himself rolling the hair tie between his fingers in his pocket when no one was looking, thumb rubbing at the seam.
By nightfall, he wasn’t thinking about whether or not it made sense.
He was just standing in front of your building.
He could see the faint outline of light under the door, hear the muffled sound of the TV inside.
You were home. He knew it.
His fist lifted before his brain caught up. The knock was too loud, a sharp, hollow crack against the wood that echoed down the empty hallway. He flinched at the sound, knuckles stinging. For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Then the shuffle of footsteps, the soft click of a lock.
The door swung open, and there you were. Not in his dreams this time. Real. Hair loose, wearing sweatpants and a tank top, pretty eyes widening in surprise.
You go to shut the door immediately. Reflex.
But his foot slides in before you can, sneaker wedged against the frame.
“Move.” Your voice comes out sharp and mean.
His gaze flickers down to where your fingers curl around the edge of the door, then back up. He doesn’t move his foot. Instead, he leans further in, palm braced against the frame just above your head.
“Why are you acting like I’m a stranger?” he murmurs, voice rough from disuse.
You push harder at the door. He pushes back with nothing but the weight of his body, casual like he’s not even trying, as if resistance only amuses him.
“Go home, Riki.”
“This is home.” His gaze doesn’t waver. The hallway light catches the sharp angle of his jaw, the damp hair clinging to his temples.
“Let me in,” he says, quieter this time. Not a request.
You shake your head, grip the door harder.
But then his hand moves—slowly sliding down from the frame until his fingers brush over yours. Barely a touch. Enough to make your whole arm jolt.
“You don’t even believe yourself,” he says. Eyes locked on yours, he curls his fingers around yours, and pulls your hand away from the door.
You stumble forward half a step, the gap widening. He slips inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
The lock slid back into place, and you stood frozen, pulse hammering, your back pressed to the door like it could still shove him out if you just willed it hard enough.
Riki didn’t look around. He didn’t say anything. He just watched you.
Watched the way your throat bobbed when you swallowed, the way your hands fisted at your sides, the way your eyebrows are slightly frowned.
“Take your shoes off,” you snapped finally, because it was the only thing you could think to say.
Slowly, his mouth twitched. A smirk, faint but there, as he bent to tug at his laces.
“You always nag about the shoes,” he murmured, straightening up. “Even now.”
“Because even now, I’m your stylist,” you shot back. “Not your—” You bit down hard before the word could tumble out.
His head tilted. “Not my what?”
You ignored the question, skirting past him, arms folded tight against your chest.
He trailed you into the living room, steps silent on the hardwood. When you finally stopped, spinning to face him, his gaze dragged slowly over the room before landing back on you.
“Why are you here?” you demanded.
He shrugged, hands buried in his pockets, shoulders loose in a way that made your skin crawl because you knew it was an act. “I told you. I wanted to see you.”
“It’s midnight.”
“So?”
“So, you don’t just show up at people’s doors in the middle of the night like—like—”
“Like what?” His voice was soft, too soft, as he took a step closer.
“Like this,” you snapped, heat rising up your neck. “You can’t keep—”
“Keep…?” He closed the distance in one fluid stride, forcing you back until your calves hit the edge of the sofa, a jolt shooting through you at the sudden halt. He was so close now, body cutting into your space, gaze heavy ready to peel away every flimsy excuse you clung to.
“Keep—” The word strangled in your throat, your mouth dry.
His head tilted, dark hair falling into his eyes. “Hmm?”
You swallowed hard, forcing steel into your spine even as your pulse betrayed you. “Keep showing up like you own the place!”
A humorless hum slipped from him, low in his chest. “Feels like you don’t actually want me to stop.”
Your breath caught, a sharp flare of heat burning its way up your neck. “Don’t twist my words.”
“I’m not,” he murmured, leaning in just enough that the air shifted between you. His hand lifted, slowly, hovering near your waist but never quite touching. “You twist them yourself. Every time you look at me like that and then pretend you don’t.”
This time, it was your turn to ask. “Like what?”
His eyes flicked down, lingering for a heartbeat too long before snapping back to yours, unblinking. “Like you’re afraid of what might happen if you don’t send me away.”
His mouth curved, not quite a smile, not a smirk either. Something darker, unhuman even. “Tell me to leave, noona,” he said softly. “Mean it, and I will.”
You opened your mouth, ready to spit the words out, ready to shove him back into the hallway where he belonged—but then his hand finally settled. Just the faintest press of his fingers against your hip, the heat of his palm bleeding through the thin fabric of your pants.
His touch wasn’t even firm, not insistent, more like… a test? He could’ve grabbed you, could’ve dragged you closer, but instead he stayed there, patient, watching your every flicker.
“Say it,” he murmured again, thumb brushing the curve of your hip bone. “Tell me to stop.”
You could push him away. You should. But your fingers only clenched uselessly at your sides, nails biting into your palms.
He leaned closer, lips nearly grazing your ear when he whispered, “Can’t say it, can you?”
The shiver that shot down your spine betrayed you before you could even breathe a denial.
“Thought so,” he murmured, his mouth curving against the shell of your ear.
Your jaw clenched, but it was useless. you couldn’t disguise the way your chest rose too fast, the way your pulse kicked hard enough to make you sway toward him.
“Riki,” you warned, but your voice came out thinner than you meant.
His hand tightened, not by much, just enough to anchor you there.
He wasn’t dragging you closer, wasn’t forcing anything, and that was the problem. Because it meant you were the one leaning into him.
“Say my name like that again.” His breath ghosted over your cheek, warm. “Like you did in my dream.”
Your stomach dropped.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
This time he did smile, slow and lazy, eyes never leaving yours.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Riki’s smile sharpened. Then, before you could blink, his hand slid higher, from your hip to your waist, fingers curving firm, almost daring you to flinch. The air left your chest in a shaky rush.
“You’re not kicking me out,” he murmured, leaning close enough that his nose brushed the edge of your jaw. “You could, but you won’t.”
You pressed your hands flat against his chest, meaning to push, but the muscle under your palms was hot and solid, and your fingers curled before you could stop them.
“See?” His voice dropped, rougher now, vibrating against your skin. “You don’t want me gone.”
You shook your head fast, too fast, but the words tangled useless in your throat. His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you a fraction closer until your toes brushed his.
“Riki—” you tried again, sharper, but it cracked at the edges.
“You keep saying my name like that,” he whispered, lips grazing your cheek, “and I’m not gonna stop.”
Your stomach swooped, knees going soft. Every nerve in your body screamed to move, push, pull, something—but you just sat there, fists trembling against his chest, betraying you with every second you didn’t shove him away.
You’d spent years—YEARS—telling yourself this could never happen. Not with him. Not when the world would twist it into something ugly, and shameful. He was younger, always had been, and if anyone ever saw this—if they saw you, they’d say you’d been grooming him, waiting, and lurking. They’d call you a predator before they ever called you human.
It wasn’t even that much. Four years, hardly anything when you said it out loud. He was grown now, nineteen, pushing twenty, not a child, not someone you had any power over. If anything, the years had flipped the balance. He stood taller than you now, broader, stronger, looking down at you like you were the one being cornered.
But none of that would matter, not to anyone else. All they’d remember was that you’d known him when he was smaller, younger, not yet a man. And that was enough to damn you. Enough to make every step you took toward him look wrong.
The thought made bile crawl up your throat, panic prickling your skin. You’d rather be skinned alive than admit you’d always felt something, that sometimes, in your weakest moments, you caught yourself looking too long, caring too much. That some secret, shameful part of you had wanted this long before you could ever allow yourself to think it.
But then his thumb dragged slow circles into your waist, grounding, steady. His body leaned into yours, not crushing but surrounding, and the fear blurred at the edges.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured, brushing his lips over your cheekbone. “You don’t have to be scared of me.”
And fuck, it got you, the tiniest spark of heat flickered low in your stomach.
You hated it. Hated the way your thighs pressed together like you could smother it, hated the way your chest rose too sharp against his, hated that his words, so damn gentle, made your pulse trip harder instead of slowing it down.
“Not scared,” you managed.
“No?” His lips ghosted lower, skimming the corner of your mouth. “Then why are you trembling? Hm?”
Your hands fisted tighter in his shirt, nails digging crescents into the thick fabric. He was too close, too warm, too gentle. You felt caged, not by force but by choice, like your body had already decided for you.
When his thumb slid higher, grazing the underside of your breast, your breath stuttered hard enough to give you away. His gaze flicked down, caught it, and the smirk that curved his mouth nearly undid you.
“Not scared,” you whispered again, weaker now.
“Yeah? Then what?” he pressed, voice low, rough, curling under your skin. His nose brushed your jaw, his mouth grazing your pulse point. “Excited? Turned on?”
Heat surged to your face, a hot, ugly rush of embarrassment, but your hips shifted minutely against him before you could stop yourself. His grip at your waist tightened instantly, like he’d been waiting for that single slip.
He groaned against your neck, a sound too raw, and needy. “You have no idea what you do to me, noona.”
The word split you open— literally. Your head spun, stomach plunging as the flicker of heat inside you roared, fed by everything you swore you’d never want.
Your legs parted just slightly, enough for his thigh to slot between yours. The friction was subtle, barely there, but it was enough to drag a shaky breath out of you, enough to make your fingers finally stop pretending they meant to push.
“Fuck,” Riki hissed, the sound breaking against your throat as he pressed harder, grinding his thigh up into the heat of you. “Knew it. Knew you’d feel so good like this.”
“Don’t—” You tried, the word collapsing into a gasp as your hips betrayed you, rolling against him without permission. Your nails clawed at his chest, not to push him back but to hold on.
“Don’t what?” His voice was wrecked now, no trace of teasing left, only hunger. His hand slid under your shirt fully, palm rough against your bare skin, dragging higher until your bra gave way beneath his touch. “Don’t make you feel good?”
Your head fell back when his thumb brushed over your nipple, the sharp spark shooting straight down to where you ground helplessly against his thigh. The noise that slipped past your lips didn’t even sound like you—it was too needy, too raw, too much like the thing you swore you’d never be with him.
He swallowed all, kissing you hard, messy, teeth clashing, tongues sliding. His other hand fumbled at the hem of your sweats, tugging until the waistband dipped low on your hips.
“Riki—” It came out strangled, a last-ditch warning, but he didn’t stop.
He only tore his mouth from yours long enough to pant against your lips, “Say you don’t want this, and I’ll stop.”
But you couldn’t. Your hips moved faster, chasing the relief, chasing him. Shame burned hot in your chest, but the ache between your thighs drowned it out, begging for more.
“Yeah?” he rasped, catching the silent answer in the roll of your body. “That’s what I thought.”
He shoved your sweats down with a harsh drag, the fabric pooling at your knees, leaving you bare against the press of his thigh.
“Shit,” he groaned, grinding up harder, desperate. “So wet already… all for me.”
Your head spun, heat flooding so thick you could barely think.
But then he shifted, pulling back just enough to make your chest heave at the loss of him. Before you could protest, his hands slid down, gripping your hips tight.
“Move,” he muttered, voice shredded, and when you blinked in confusion, he was already sinking back onto the sofa with a grunt.
The world tilted. You landed straddling his lap, thighs spread over his, your knees digging into the cushions on either side of him.
Just like his dream.
“Yeah,” he whispered, head tipping back as his hands spanned your waist, holding you there, pressing you down until the hard length of him strained against the thin barrier of his sweats. “Exactly like I said.”
Your hips rocked once, tentative, and the sound he made, half groan, half curse shot straight through you.
“Noona…” His head fell forward, mouth dragging along your collarbone, teeth scraping before sucking at the skin there. His grip on your waist tightened until you couldn’t stop your core from grinding against him, slick already dampening the fabric between you.
Your fingers dug into his shoulders, clinging for balance as his lips chased higher, jaw, throat, chin, then finally crushing back against yours, wet and messy, tongues tangling like neither of you had ever learned how to stop.
The shame whispered wrong, wrong, wrong in the back of your head, but his hands were hot on your skin, his cock straining against you, his voice breaking when he moaned your name—and the part of you that had spent years denying him finally snapped.
Your hips rolled harder, and Riki’s grip on you turned bruising. His head tipped back against the sofa, jaw tight, throat working as a guttural sound tore out of him.
“Fuck—” He cut himself off, biting his lip, eyes blazing up at you. Then his hands were on his waistband, shoving the sweats low enough that the heat of him sprang free, thick and heavy against your stomach.
The shock of it made your breath hitch. Flesh on flesh, no fabric left to save you from how hard he was.
“Feel that?” he rasped, dragging your hips down against him, your heat sliding over his cock. “That’s what you do to me.”
A broken whimper slipped out before you could choke it back. He groaned at the sound, grinding up to meet your slow, shaky roll, the head of him catching perfectly against your clit.
Your nails dug into his shoulders, useless and desperate. “Riki, this—”
“This is mine,” he snapped, rougher now, panting as his lips found your throat again, sucking bruises into skin you’d have to hide tomorrow. “You’re mine. Always have been.”
You gasped, arching into him, pulling him closer. His teeth grazed your collarbone, sending sparks down your spine.
“Say it,” he begged, teeth grazing your ear. “Say you want me.”
And maybe it was the years of denial, maybe it was the weight of his hands on your waist, maybe it was the filthy way his cock slid against you—but the words tore free anyway, ragged and raw.
“I want you.”
His groan was instant, his whole body shuddering beneath you. “Fuck—say it again.”
“I—” Your hips rocked down hard, clit catching against him just right. Your voice broke on the moan that followed. “I want you, Riki.”
“God, you’re gonna kill me,” he gasped, bucking up against you, cock sliding wet and perfect through your folds. “Been waiting for this.”
Something snapped inside you.
Your hand slid up, fingers curling tight in his damp hair, yanking just hard enough to make him groan into your mouth. You pulled back, watching his lips part, glossy and swollen, his chest heaving.
“Slow down,” you murmured, breath ghosting over his mouth. Not a suggestion.
The noise he made shot straight to your core. His hands tightened on your waist, like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. His hips stilled under you, trembling with restraint, waiting for you.
That was when it hit you. The control you hadn’t wanted to admit you had.
You rolled your hips deliberately slow, grinding down against him. His head fell back against the sofa, another strangled sound ripping out of him, and you smiled—sharp, watching him come apart with nothing but the drag of your body over his.
“That’s better,” you breathed, nails dragging down his chest,“Look at you.”
His eyes cracked open, glassy, unfocused, searching for you. “Don’t—fu—don’t tease me.”
You leaned in, lips brushing his ear, voice steady even while your own thighs trembled. “I’m not teasing baby. I’m showing you how to take it.”
His entire body shuddered at that. You felt it under your palms, the way he melted and strained all at once, like he didn’t know whether to worship you or beg.
You rolled your hips again, slower this time, drawing a wrecked groan from his chest. “Good boy,” you whispered before you could stop yourself, the words slipping free, too natural.
Riki choked on his breath, hips jerking helplessly up into you, like that single phrase had shattered him.
Your hands slid up from his chest to his throat, not squeezing—just resting there, thumb brushing lazily over the frantic beat of his pulse. His breath stuttered, eyes wide, and the sound that crawled out of his throat was half-moan, half-plea.
“Sensitive,” you murmured, tilting your head, watching the way he shivered beneath you. “You like when I touch you here, sweetheart?”
His answer came out broken. “Y-yeah.”
Your hips rolled again, slow, dragging slick over the length of him. His body arched up into yours, and your grip at his throat firmed—not to choke, just to keep him still. “Then stay still for me.”
He whimpered, actually whimpered, as his nails dug into your thighs. But he obeyed. His eyes squeezed shut, teeth sinking into his lip hard enough to draw blood, but his hips stayed pressed to the sofa just like you told him.
The sight made your cunt clench around nothing, desperate. You shifted, angling your hips, and with one slow push, you slid down onto him, inch by inch, stretching around the thick length of his cock until you were full, and stuffed nicely.
His hands flew to your waist, but you caught his wrists, pressing them down into the cushions, pinning him there. His chest heaved, eyes blown wide, staring up at you like you were something holy.
“Fuck—noona—”
“Shh.” You rocked your hips once, shallow, just enough to make him choke on the word. “I’m not done with you yet.”
Your hips dropped hard, swallowing him whole, and Riki’s strangled cry ripped through the room. His head thudded back against the sofa again, and again, throat exposed, hands flexing uselessly under your grip where you pinned them down.
“That’s it,” you breathed, grinding down on him, feeling every twitch, every pulse. “Take it.”
His eyes squeezed shut, jaw slack as a wrecked moan poured out of him. He tried to thrust up, tried to meet you, but you kept him pinned, rocking on his cock at your own pace—slow, then sharp, rolling your hips until he was gasping.
“Look at you,” you whispered, leaning down to bite at his throat, your breath hot against his skin. “All those years acting grown, acting like you could handle me. And now?” You circled your hips, and his entire body shuddered, cock pulsing deep inside you. “Now you’re shaking.”
“I—fuck—I can’t—” He broke off with a sob, wrists twitching beneath your grip, but you only pushed harder, grinding down until he was whining into your shoulder.
“Yes, you can.” You let go of his wrists only to drag his hands higher, pinning them above his head this time. Your nails dug into his skin, claiming. “You’ll take everything I give you, Riki. You wanted this, didn’t you?”
“Y-yes,” he gasped, eyes glassy, mouth falling open. “Wanted it so bad—fuck—I dreamed about it, noona, I—”
“Dreaming about me?” You bent low, your lips brushing his, your pace never faltering. “And what did I do to you in those dreams, hm?”
His chest heaved under yours, sweat slick and burning hot. His eyes fluttered shut, a low sound ripping from his throat as you ground down on him, hard, coaxing it out.
“Tell me,” you demanded, your hand slipping from his wrists to curl around his throat again.
“I—I shouldn’t—” His voice cracked, strangled, but his cock twitched inside you again, betraying him.
“You already gave yourself away. Now say the rest.”
His head tipped back, throat arching beautifully beneath your palm. “I dreamed—fuck—I dreamed you… rode me. Just like this.” His voice broke into a moan when you slammed down harder, milking every word from him.
“Yeah?” Your laugh was breathless, taunting. “You dreamed of me using you like this? Keeping you under me, making you take it?”
“Yes—yes!—” he gasped, hips jerking uselessly beneath your hold. “You wouldn’t stop—you made me—”
“Made you what?” Your nails dug lightly into his skin, hips grinding faster, chasing both of you toward the edge.
His eyes snapped open, wild and glassy, his mouth spilling the filth you knew he’d been hiding. “Made me cum in you. Over and over. Didn’t let me go. Said I was yours.”
The words slammed into you, molten and devastating. Your thighs trembled, a broken moan clawing its way out of you as you rode him harder, harder.
“And you liked it?” Your voice was sweet, your lips brushing his ear as you pushed him deeper inside. “Liked me using you like my toy?”
His answer was a sob, desperate and raw. “Loved it—love it now—fuck, noona, please—don’t stop—”
“Look at me,” you demanded, your voice ragged but sharp.
He obeyed instantly, his gaze snapping to yours, dark and desperate, pupils blown wide. Sweat dripped down his temple as he panted, “I’m looking—fuck—I’m looking at you.” His hips jerked, trying to thrust deeper, but you tightened your thighs around him, controlling the pace, letting him feel every inch without letting him take more.
Your hand slid from his throat to his jaw, fingers digging in as you ground down hard, drawing a guttural cry from him. “You think you deserve to cum?”
His hips bucked helplessly beneath you, cock twitching deep inside where he was buried to the hilt. “Only—only if you let me,”
You leaned down, your lips brushing his ear as you rolled your hips in slow, agonizing circles. “Then beg properly.” Your free hand slid between your bodies, fingertips finding your clit. “Show me how much you need it.”
His breath hitched, eyes locked on yours as his hips trembled beneath your control. “Please,” he choked out, voice cracking. “Please let me cum, noona. I need it—need you—fuck, I’ll do anything—”
Your fingers circled your clit faster, matching the punishing pace of your hips. “Louder,” you demanded, grinding down until he cried out, the sound raw and broken. “Tell me why you deserve it.”
Riki’s back arched off the sofa, muscles straining as he gasped, “Because I’m yours—all yours—” His voice shattered on a moan as your thumb pressed hard against your clit. “Please—I’ll be good—I’ll be so so good—”
His words dissolved into ragged cries when you slammed down onto him, grinding deep, the wet slap of skin echoing in the small apartment. You’re definitely gonna get a noise complaint.
you hissed against his mouth, your hand still cupping his jaw, nails biting just enough to leave crescents in his skin. “Say it again.”
“I’m yours—” he gasped, voice gone high and ruined, “all yours—noona, please—”
His fingers dug into your hips, desperate, but you caught one of his wrists and pinned it to the sofa above his head again, keeping him open, helpless. With your other hand you slid back down between your thighs, circling your clit as you rode him.
He let out a broken moan, eyes wide and wet. “Pleasepleaseplease—need to cum—”
“You’ll cum when I say,” you murmured, your voice breaking on a groan of your own as the pleasure built low in your belly. You bent down until your nose brushed his, eyes locked. “Do you understand?”
His throat worked, a strangled sound escaping as he nodded frantically. “Yes—yes, I understand!”
Your thumb flicked your clit harder, faster, your hips moving in a brutal rhythm now, squeezing him tight with every thrust. “So good for me,” you breathed, the words ragged, almost surprised as they left your lips, and his whole body shuddered at the sound, eyes rolling back for a second.
A strangled sob tore from his throat, his muscles trembling under your weight, his cock pulsing deep inside you. “Noona—please—please—need it so bad—”
You rocked down hard, harder, until your clit dragged perfectly over his pubic bone, a gasp escaping you at the sudden rush of heat spiralling up your spine. “You want to cum?” you demanded, your voice shaking with it now. “You want to fill me up like you did in your dream?”
“Yes—fuck, yes—” he almost screamed it, his voice cracking, his body arching beneath you like a bowstring pulled too tight. Sweat slicked his chest, his eyes wild and unfocused, pupils blown black with need. His cock throbbed deep inside you, pulsing with every ragged breath he took, and you knew he was so close—right on the edge.
“Then do it, baby” you commanded, your voice low and ragged. “Show me how much you want it.”
The words broke him. His back arched off the sofa, a hoarse cry ripping from his chest as he spilled into you, hips jerking helplessly beneath your grip. The feeling of him pulsing, filling you, dragged your own release out of you, your nails digging into his jaw as you rode it out, grinding down on him until he whimpered, oversensitive.
You stayed there, panting, forehead pressed to his, still holding his face in your hand. His eyes were blown wide, glassy, his lips parted in a dazed little smile.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The room was too small for the sound of your breathing, too quiet except for the wet slide of your bodies as you finally sagged forward, boneless, still full of him.
Riki’s hands trembled where they’d crept up to your waist, fingers flexing like he didn’t know whether to hold you closer or let go. You could feel his pulse hammering through his chest, hot against your palms where you still cupped his jaw.
“Hey…” His voice was a rasp, almost a whisper. His thumb brushed a damp strand of hair back from your cheek, hesitant, like he was scared you’d flinch. “You’re shaking.”
You swallowed hard, throat tight. Now that the heat had passed, reality seeped back in, heavy and cold. You became aware of everything at once — the sweat cooling on your skin, the faint bruises his hands had left on your hips, the way his cock still pulsed inside you with every shallow breath.
“I know,” you managed, your voice low, and shaky.
He searched your face, eyes wide and dark but not demanding anymore. Just watching. Waiting.
“You okay?” The question was soft, almost boyish, a crack of vulnerability that twisted in your gut. “Tell me you’re okay.”
You shut your eyes for a beat, breathing him in — his scent, his warmth, the way he still hadn’t tried to move. Not forcing. Not dragging. Just… there. Waiting for you to decide.
Your nails eased out of his jaw. You let your forehead rest against his again, breaths mingling. “I’m okay,” you whispered, even if the words didn’t feel real yet.
His hands loosened on your waist, sliding up to your back instead, palms broad and warm as they stroked you once, twice, like he was trying to soothe a wild animal. “I didn’t mean to—” he started, but you cut him off with a soft shake of your head.
“Don’t,” you breathed, your voice breaking. “Don’t say sorry.”
Riki went still, eyes searching yours. “Then what do I say?”
You didn’t have an answer. Not yet. The shame was still there, coiled in your chest, but so was the aftermath of your orgasm, the heat of his body, the way his face had looked when he begged. It was too much to take in all at once.
You shifted slightly, wincing at the sudden sensitivity, and he hissed, hands automatically tightening on your hips to steady you. “Easy,” he murmured, the word almost tender.
That single sound almost undid you more than everything else.
You leaned back enough to look at him, to really see him. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his lips swollen, his pupils still blown wide. But his expression — god, his expression — was open, unguarded, a little scared. Like he was waiting for you to scold him.
Your throat ached. “Riki…”
He swallowed hard. “Yeah?”
You almost told him it couldn’t happen again. You almost climbed off his lap, almost shoved the shame back into the box you’d kept it in for years. But your hands betrayed you again, sliding up to cup his face, thumbs brushing his rosy cheeks.
For a moment he just melted into the touch, eyes fluttering shut, leaning into your palms.
“I don’t know what this is,” you admitted, your voice thin and cracked. “I don’t know what to do with it.”
He opened his eyes then, slow and careful, gaze steady even as his breath shook. “We’ll figure it out,” he said quietly, almost shy. “If you want to.”
Your stomach flipped. He was still inside you, still hardening again already, but he didn’t move. Didn’t push. Just waited.
For the first time since he’d touched you, you felt like you were breathing on your own.
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