WHEN DID YOU GET HOT, nishimura riki
warnings: idol!ni-ki x older-childhood friend-inexperienced-fem! reader. porn with plot, 11k, ni-ki’s irl family mentioned, usage of y/n and riki, reader know japanese and korean, virginity loss, fingering, oral (f.rec), dacryphillia, nipple play. p in v, unprotected sex (don’t!), missionary, cowgirl, overstimulation, mutual consent (do!), lots of love 🥳
a/n: this was a request from my dms! it took a lot longer, i’m sorry for that 🥺 i hope this was worth the wait!
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You grew up with the soundtrack of Nishimura Riki’s life playing in the background of your own.
Your families were close, his older sister your age was your best friend. That made Riki the unavoidable, scrawny shadow, always a few steps behind, his big eyes watching your every move with a devotion that was equal parts flattering and, frankly, a little annoying when you were fifteen and he was twelve.
You remember the summer you turned sixteen, when your focus was on learning to drive and the senior who worked at the record store. Riki, all limbs and awkward energy, had presented you with a clumsily wrapped birthday gift. It was a mixed CD, the tracklist handwritten in his earnest, blocky script.
“I noticed you like this kind of music,” he’d mumbled, his ears turning red.
You’d ruffled his hair, the way you always did. “Aww, thanks, kiddo. You’re sweet.”
You didn’t miss the way his face fell at the word “kiddo,” but you were sixteen, and the affections of a twelve-year-old boy were as meaningful as a passing cloud. You were kind, but you never took him seriously. How could you? He was the boy who still had Pokémon t-shirts and SHINee posters on his wall, who’d trip over his own feet trying to keep up with you and his sister.
Then life happened. Your family moved away. The friendship with his sister became one sustained through occasional texts and birthday posts on social media. You’d see the occasional post about Riki—he’d become Ni-ki, a trainee, then a member of ENHYPEN. It was abstract, a fact you knew but didn’t truly process. To you, he was frozen in time: the lanky kid with the hopeful smile.
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The reunion happened at his sister’s wedding.
You felt a little out of place, a ghost from a past life. The venue was buzzing, filled with people you barely recognized. You were sipping a glass of champagne, leaning against a pillar and scanning the crowd, when your eyes landed on him.
And your brain simply short circuited. The boy was gone. In his place stood a man. When did he get so hot?
He was taller, for one thing. Significantly so. The lanky frame had filled out with a solid, powerful musculature that was evident even through the elegant cut of his suit. His shoulders were broad, straining the dark fabric, and his posture was no longer a slouch but a confident, easy stance. His face had lost all its baby fat, revealing a sharp, defined jawline and a stronger nose. His hair was styled, but a dark lock fell over his forehead in a way that was artful, not messy.
He was laughing at something his group member, Sunoo, was saying, and the sound; deeper, richer than you remembered, carried across the room and vibrated right through you. This was not the kid you’d pat on the head. This was a man who commanded the space he occupied.
He must have felt your stare. His head turned, his laughter dying on his lips as his eyes found yours. For a long, suspended moment, the wedding crowd, the music, everything just faded into a blur. His gaze was the same; that same intense, dark focus, but the context was entirely new. It was no longer the admiring gaze of a child, but the arrested, appreciative stare of a man.
He excused himself from his group and started walking toward you. Your heart began to hammer against your ribs, a frantic, stupid rhythm. You gripped your champagne flute a little tighter, suddenly hyper aware of your own dress, your makeup, the way you were standing.
“Noona,” he said, stopping in front of you. The honorific, once a casual term for an older female, now felt loaded, intimate. His voice was a low baritone that you felt in your bones.
“Riki,” you managed, your own voice sounding breathy and strange. “You… you look…” Devastatingly handsome? Like a walking dream? “…All grown up.”
A slow, knowing smile touched his lips. It was a smile you’d never seen on him before; confident, a little bit dangerous. It completely transformed his face.
“It’s been so long,” he said, his eyes doing a slow, deliberate sweep from your eyes down to your lips, then back up. The appraisal was so blatant it stole the air from your lungs. “You look exactly how I remembered. Beautiful.”
The compliment landed with the force of a physical blow. He wasn’t a kid reciting a line; he was a man stating a fact. You felt a hot flush creep up your neck.
“Thank you,” you stammered. “You… your music is amazing. I hear it everywhere.” It was a lame, safe thing to say, and you cringed internally.
He chuckled, a low, warm sound. “Do you have a favorite song?”
You were trapped. You could name one, but you were terrified he’d ask you to name a lyric and your mind had gone completely blank, filled only with the startling reality of his presence.
Seeing your flustered state, his smile softened. “It’s okay. You don’t have to answer.” He took a half step closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne; something clean and woody, with a hint of spice. It was nothing like the sugary adolescent scents of his youth. “Can I get you another drink?” he asked, his gaze dropping to your nearly empty glass.
The simple offer felt like the most sophisticated thing in the world. This wasn’t the boy fetching you a soda to earn a smile. This was a man, an idol, offering to take care of you.
As he led you toward the bar, his hand found the small of your back. It was a light, guiding touch, but it sent a jolt of electricity straight up your spine. It was possessive, assured.
You looked at his profile, at the sharp line of his jaw, and the last vestiges of the “kiddo” you once knew evaporated into thin air. The boy you’d never taken seriously was gone. And in his place stood a man you couldn’t possibly ignore. The past had collided with the present, and you were left reeling, realizing that the childhood adoration in his eyes had not vanished. It had simply matured, deepening into something far more potent, and you were no longer immune.
Your childhood in Okayama was painted in the warm, familiar hues of your own culture at home, and the vibrant, new colors of Japan outside. Your family’s import business had strong ties to Korea, which meant summers in Seoul and a household where your parents insisted you become fluent in Korean. You became a bridge between worlds, a fact that fascinated the Nishimura family next door, especially their middle child, Riki.
Even at twelve, Riki was already spellbound by K-pop. The moment he discovered you were fluent, his big, earnest eyes lit up with a new kind of determination.
“Noona, teach me?” he’d ask, clutching a notebook, already filled with clumsily written Hangul. “Please?”
It became your routine. You’d sit on the floor of his sister’s room, textbooks scattered around, and you’d drill him on phrases. “Annyeonghaseyo.” “Kamsahamnida.” In reality, the lessons were as much an excuse for him to be near you as they were about language. He’d watch your mouth form the words with an intensity that went beyond academic interest, his cheeks flushing when you caught him staring. You’d laugh and ruffle his hair. “Pay attention, Riki-kun!”
As the years passed, his Korean improved remarkably. He began insisting you only speak to him in Korean. “We both need to practice, noona,” he’d say, his accent softening, his sentences becoming more complex. It became your secret language, a private bubble in the noisy world of adolescence. You’d gossip about your classmates, complain about homework, and he’d tell you about his dreams of dancing on a big stage; all in the language of a country that felt like a shared, distant dream. You never, not for a second, imagined that the boy tripping over his own feet in his backyard would one day be Ni-ki of ENHYPEN. To you, he was just Riki, the sweet, persistent kid next door.
Now, standing at the bar in the wedding venue, that same language falls from his lips, but the voice is entirely new.
“Honestly, I didn’t know you would be here.” His Korean is flawless, the cadence natural and smooth, a far cry from the stilted sentences of his youth.
The sound of it, so intimate and familiar in this formal setting, sends a shiver through you. You answered in kind, the old habit returning effortlessly. “Your sister insisted I come. I even complained that she contacted me so late.”
He laughed, the sound deep and warm. “Of course. She was always obsessed with marriage. Remember? Even when we were in middle school, she only looked at wedding magazines.”
The memory hit you with a wave of nostalgia. “And I was always just studying.”
“And I was always just dancing,” he said, his gaze intensifying, holding yours, “Probably, no one at school saw me. I was always in the practice room.”
You remember that, too. The empty classrooms, the missed school festivals. He was a ghost in the hallways, his life happening in studios to a soundtrack only he could hear. You’d worried about him then. Now, you see where that single minded passion led.
Just then, a ripple of energy announced the arrival of his members. Jungwon and Sunoo approached, their curiosity evident.
“Ni-ki-yah, who’s this?” Jungwon asked, his eyes flickering to you with polite interest.
Ni-ki didn’t miss a beat. He straightened up, his posture shifting subtly into something more protective.
“This is Y/N,” he said, his voice laced with a pride that made your heart stutter. “We grew up next door to each other in Okayama.”
Sunoo’s eyes widened in recognition. “Ah! This is the noona!” He grins, looking between the two of you. “The one you practiced Korean with!” he said, bouncing on his feet a little. “He used to talk about you sometimes when we were trainees. When people asked how his Korean was so good already, he’d just say, ‘A noona I respect very much taught me.’”
The air left your lungs. He talked about you, to his members, during his rookie days, he’d used the word “respect.”
Ni-ki looked down, a faint blush dusting his cheeks, looking more like the boy you once knew than the global star he is. But when he lifted his gaze back to you, there was no boyish shyness left. There was only the unwavering certainty of a man who has carried a piece of you with him all this time.
The members, sensing the charged history, excused themselves with knowing smiles. You were left alone with him again, the sounds of the wedding reception fading once more.
“See?” he says, his voice a low, intimate murmur. “You were always a part of my story, noona. Even when you weren’t here.”
At that moment, the last wall crumbled. This wasn’t just a reunion. It was a convergence. The bridge you built between languages and cultures in a childhood bedroom had led you here, to this man who never forgot the girl who taught him more than just words.
The gentle hum of the reception was cut by the first chords of the processional. A hush fell over the crowd, and all eyes, along with a flurry of camera phones and professional lenses, turned toward the entrance. You instinctively took a step back, melting into the periphery as Ni-ki, with a last, lingering glance in your direction, moved forward with his members to stand near the platform.
This was his world now. The flash of cameras became a constant strobe, illuminating his profile as he watched his older sister walk down the aisle. You saw the soft, genuine smile on his face, the proud younger brother, but you also saw the practiced ease with which he held himself under the relentless gaze. You knew, with a strange, sinking feeling, that images of him at this wedding and by extension, a blurred figure of you in the background, would be dissected by millions online within the hour. The private boy from Okayama was now public property.
After the beautiful ceremony, as the reception kicked into full swing, you finally got a moment with the bride. Ni-ki’s sister, Konon, pulled you into a tight hug, her wedding dress rustling.
“I’m so glad you came!” she gushed, holding you at arm’s length. “Look at you! You look incredible.”
“Says the breathtaking bride,” you laughed, the familiar comfort of her presence easing some of the strangeness of the day.
As you were catching up, a younger voice chirped beside you. “Oi!”
You turned to see Ni-ki’s youngest sister, Misora, who you remembered as a giggling elementary schooler. Now, she was a stylish teenager, but the mischievous glint in her eyes was the same. “You’re so pretty!” she said, her voice sincere. “You look like a star.”
The compliment was sweet, but it came just as you felt a presence on your shoulder. Ni-ki had approached, drawn back into the family circle now that the formalities were over.
Misora, without missing a beat, grinned and poked her older brother sharply in the side. “Doesn’t she, Ni-chan?”
The gesture was so loaded with childhood familiarity and unspoken knowledge that your cheeks flamed. You looked from Misora’s knowing smirk to Konon’s subtle, amused smile, and the truth settled over you: they all knew. The entire Nishimura family had likely been aware of Riki’s childhood crush. It had probably been dinner table conversation. The realization was simultaneously embarrassing and incredibly endearing.
You braced for the awkward, flustered boy from your memories to resurface. But the man beside you simply placed a steadying hand on Misora’s head, giving her a gentle, brotherly shake. He didn’t deny it. He didn’t blush. A slow, confident smile played on his lips as his eyes met yours.
“She’s always been pretty,” he said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact, as if stating the sky was blue.
His nonchalance was more disarming than any stammered compliment could have been. He was completely aware of the effect he was having on you, and he was in control of it. You tried to grasp the persona of the cool, older ‘noona’ you used to be, to ruffle his hair and call him ‘kiddo’ to break the tension. But the words died in your throat. The dynamic had irrevocably shifted.
Later, as the party began to wind down, you found a quiet moment on a secluded balcony overlooking the garden. The cool night air was a relief against your warm skin. You were leaning against the railing, lost in thought, when the sliding door opened and closed behind you.
You didn’t need to turn to know it was him. You could feel him. He came to stand beside you, his arms resting on the railing, his shoulder just inches from yours. The sounds of the fading party were a distant murmur.
“Overwhelming, isn’t it?” he asked softly, back in the comforting cadence of Korean.
“A little,” you admitted, finally looking at him. The fairy lights from the garden cast soft shadows on his face. “It’s a lot to process. The wedding… and all of this.” You gestured vaguely, encompassing everything he had become.
He nodded, understanding in his eyes. “When I’m with them,” he said, nodding back toward the venue where his family and members were, “it feels a little like the old days. But it’s not, is it?”
“No,” you whispered. “It’s not.”
He turned fully to face you then, his body blocking out the rest of the world. The confident idol was gone, replaced by someone more earnest, more real.
“Noona,” he began, his voice low and intent. “That CD I gave you… for your sixteenth birthday. Have you ever listened to it?”
The question was so unexpected it took you a moment to place it. The clumsily wrapped CD from a lifetime ago. A pang of guilt shot through you. You had thanked him, you’d been kind, but you couldn’t honestly remember if you’d ever played it more than once.
Seeing the answer on your face, he gave a small, wistful smile. “It’s okay. I was just a kid.” He took a small step closer. “But I’m not that kid anymore. And I’m not asking you to see me as one.”
His gaze was unwavering, full of a question he’d been waiting years to ask.
“The song I put as track number one,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “It was about having a crush on an older girl who only saw you as a child.”
The air left your lungs. The pieces clicked into place with devastating clarity. The mixed CD hadn’t just been a collection of songs he thought you’d like. It had been a confession, written in a language only he understood at the time. And you had missed it completely.
Before you could form a response, the sliding door opened again. Jungwon poked his head out. “Ni-ki-yah, they’re doing the final group photos. They need you.”
The moment shattered. Ni-ki held your gaze for a second longer, a promise hanging in the air between you. Then, the professional mask slid back into place. “I have to go,” he said.
He turned and followed Jungwon back inside, leaving you alone on the balcony with the echo of his words and the ghost of a childhood confession you were only now beginning to understand. The wedding was ending, but something new, something terrifyingly real, had just begun.
The grand send off for Konon and her new husband was a blur of laughter, tears, and tossed flower petals. You stood with the crowd, clapping and smiling as the car pulled away, carrying your childhood friend into her new life. A bittersweet feeling settled in your chest; happiness for her, but also the end of an era.
As the guests began to scatter, you found yourself momentarily alone, adjusting the scarf around your shoulders in the cool evening air. It was then that Mr. and Mrs. Nishimura found you, their faces warm and familiar, though lined with a few more years than you remembered.
“Y/N-chan,” Mrs. Nishimura said, her voice thick with emotion. She pulled you into a gentle hug that smelled of perfume and wedding cake. “Thank you for coming all this way. It meant so much to Konon. And to us.”
“It was a beautiful wedding,” you replied sincerely, returning her hug. “And she was a stunning bride.”
Your eyes drifted over her shoulder to where ENHYPEN was gathered, a tight knit group of young men in elegant suits, looking both out of place and perfectly at home. They were laughing about something, a bubble of youthful energy amidst the departing older relatives. Your gaze, as it so often did that day, found Ni-ki. He was listening to Heeseung, a soft smile on his face, but his posture was relaxed in a way you hadn't seen all day, now that the official duties were over.
Mr. Nishimura followed your gaze. A fond, slightly sad smile touched his lips. “We miss him,” he said quietly, his voice a low rumble. “The house is too quiet without Riki’s music and dancing. We are proud, of course. But we miss our son.”
Your heart ached for them. You remembered the chaotic, loving noise of their home, contrasting to the silent, empty rooms they must live in now.
Mrs. Nishimura squeezed your arm. “We always loved having you over, Y/N-chan. You and Konon causing mischief, and you,” she looked at you with deep affection, “trying to teach our Riki Korean. You were all so cute together. You made our home feel so full.”
A wave of gratitude washed over you. “Thank you for saying that,” you said, your voice thick. “You have no idea how much your family meant to me. Moving to a new country as a girl… your home always felt like a sanctuary. You made me feel like I belonged here in Okayama.”
Mr. Nishimura nodded, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Of course. We always saw you as one of our own daughters.” There was a beat of comfortable silence, filled with the chirping of evening crickets. Then, he looked directly at you, his gaze flicking to his son across the garden and then back to you.
“You know,” he said, his tone conversational yet loaded, “you would be very good for Riki.”
You froze. Your breath hitched audibly. He continued, undeterred by your sudden flush. “We know you. We know your heart. We know your family. In this life he leads now… full of strangers and cameras… to have someone from his real life, someone we trust completely…” He shrugged, as if the logic was undeniable. “It would be a comfort to us.”
You were utterly, completely flustered. Your mind raced, scrambling for a response. “I… Mr. Nishimura, that’s… he’s… a global star. And I’m just…”
“You are Y/N,” Mrs. Nishimura finished for you, her voice gentle but firm. “The girl he made a mixed CD for. The girl he practiced Korean with for hours just to impress. Some things are more important than being a star.”
Before you could form a coherent reply, a voice, laced with a mixture of curiosity and concern, cut through the tension.
“Everything okay over here?”
Ni-ki had approached, his members lingering a polite distance away, giving the family space but clearly waiting for him. His sharp eyes took in the scene: your deeply flushed cheeks, his mother’s knowing smile, his father’s satisfied expression.
“We were just telling Y/N-chan how wonderful it was to see her,” Mrs. Nishimura said smoothly, though her eyes twinkled with mischief.
Ni-ki’s gaze locked with yours, and you saw the question in them. He knew his parents. He could probably guess the direction their conversation had taken. A faint blush touched his own cheeks, but he held his composure.
“What did they say to you?” he asked quietly, stepping closer.
You looked up at him, the words of his father echoing in your mind. ‘You would be very good for Riki.’ The childhood crush, the shared language, the proud introduction to his members, the confession about the CD—it all coalesced into a single, terrifying, and exhilarating realization. You couldn’t tell him. Not here, with his team waiting. So you just gave him a small, shaky smile. “They just… reminded me of home.”
He searched your face for a long moment, as if trying to decipher a complex code. He seemed to understand that there was more, but he didn’t press.
The venue was emptying now, and as you offered your final congratulations, Mrs. Nishimura placed a hand on your arm, her grip surprisingly firm. Ni-ki glanced at the both of you.
"Y/N-chan, you cannot go to a hotel," she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. "The house is too quiet now. With Konon gone…" Her voice wavered slightly, and she glanced at her younger daughter, Misora, who was in the other corner of the room, looking brave with her older sister now away; seemed suddenly very small. "Please. Stay with us tonight. It would mean so much to have a familiar presence. It would feel like old times."
Your mind raced. Your meticulously booked hotel room, the quiet anonymity it offered; it felt like a necessary escape hatch from the emotional whirlwind of the day. But looking at their faces; the quiet sorrow in Mr. Nishimura's eyes, the raw hope in his wife's, the silent plea in Misora’s, your resolve crumbled. They weren't just being polite; they were clinging to a piece of the past, and you were that piece.
"I… of course," you heard yourself say, the words feeling both right and terrifying. "I'd be honored. Thank you for having me."
"Riki," his mother said, turning the same hopeful gaze on him. "You should come home tonight too. Just for a little while. Your room is just as you left it."
You saw the immediate, visceral longing that flashed across his face. It was there and gone in an instant, replaced by a weary professionalism. He shook his head, a gesture of genuine regret.
"I can't, mom. The manager hyung… we have an early flight for a schedule. They need us all together at the hotel." He gestured faintly towards the waiting vans, the unspoken rules of his new life forming an invisible wall between him and his family.
He looked at you then, and the complexity of emotions in his eyes stole your breath. There was gratitude that you would be there for his family, a deep, aching envy that you would be walking through the halls of his childhood home without him, and a profound sense of displacement. He was the son, the brother, but he was the one who couldn't come home.
His parents nodded, accepting the reality they had become accustomed to. But Ni-ki’s gaze remained locked with yours.
"You'll see Bisco for me?" he asked, his voice low, referring to the family dog he’d adored as a boy.
"Of course," you whispered.
"And… my room?" A faint, almost shy smile touched his lips. "Is it still a disaster?"
You managed a small smile back. "I'll do a full inspection."
He gave a short, quiet laugh, but his eyes were serious. He needed to do something. He couldn't just let you walk back into the most intimate space of his past while he was ushered into another sterile hotel room.
As his family began to gather their things, he stepped slightly away, pulling out his own phone. “I’ll call you,” he said. It wasn’t a question or a hope; it was a statement of fact. You looked at him, puzzled. He didn’t have your phone number, nor did he ask for it. He gave you a promising look, and walked away. You kept your eyes on Misora as she made her way to her parents and you.
A moment later, your own phone, tucked away in your clutch, buzzed softly. You discreetly pulled it out.
it’s riki. konon just gave me your number
A pause, then another message came through.
when you see my room… don’t laugh too much. and take a picture of bisco for me
i’ll call you tomorrow. don’t stay up too late with misora
You looked up from your phone to see him climbing into the vehicle. He didn't look back, but the message was his anchor, his way of inserting himself into the narrative of your evening at his home, ensuring that while his body was being driven away, a part of him was coming home with you.
The Nishimura house was a beautiful time capsule. Bisco, the family dog, white and gentle, had wagged his tail so hard his entire body wriggled when you petted him. Misora had dragged you to her room to show you her latest projects, the chatter a comforting, familiar sound. But the most poignant moment was when Mrs. Nishimura quietly opened the door to Ni-ki’s room.
It was exactly as he’d left it. A few faded SHINee posters were still tacked to the wall, alongside more sophisticated prints of dancers and athletes. A shelf held a collection of trophies from local dance competitions. The desk was neat, but you could imagine a younger Riki hunched over it, painstakingly writing Hangul in the notebook you’d helped him with. The air smelled faintly of dust and nostalgia. It felt sacred, and a profound sense of tenderness for the boy he was, and the man he’d become, washed over you.
You fell asleep in the quiet guest room, surrounded by the ghosts of a happy past. The ringing of your phone felt like it was tearing through the fabric of a deep dream. You fumbled for it in the dark, the screen blinding you.
Riki. Your heart leapt into your throat. You swiped to answer, your voice a sleep roughened croak. “Hello?”
“You’re still asleep.” His voice, low and amused, came down the line. There was no ‘good morning.’ He knew.
You tried to sit up, clearing your throat. “No, I’m… I’m awake.”
He chuckled, a soft, intimate sound in the quiet room. “Liar. I have a car. I’m outside. Get ready. I have until tonight.”
The suddenness of it left you dizzy. “What? Right now? Where are we going?”
“Anywhere we won’t be recognized. Just… be with me. Please, noona.”
The ‘noona’ did it. The honorific, once a barrier, now felt like a secret endearment. “Give me twenty minutes,” you whispered.
You moved in a frantic, quiet whirlwind. When you emerged, dressed and hastily put together, you found his parents in the kitchen. “I… I’m meeting Riki for the day,” you explained, feeling a blush creep up your neck.
Mr. and Mrs. Nishimura exchanged a single, profound, knowing glance. It was a look that held decades of shared understanding. Mrs. Nishimura simply smiled, a soft, hopeful thing. “Be careful,” she said, and you knew she didn’t mean just with traffic.
The black sedan was idling discreetly down the street. You slipped into the backseat, and there he was. He’d changed out of his suit into dark jeans, a black hoodie, and a baseball cap pulled low, but there was no hiding the sharp, handsome lines of his face. The car pulled away, and you were alone in the moving bubble of the backseat.
The day was a blur of hidden corners of Okayama; a private tea room in an old neighborhood, a drive along the less populated waterfront. And through it all, he teased you.
“Remember that guy, Kenji from down the street?” he asked, a smirk playing on his lips as he stirred his matcha. “He asked you to the summer festival and you told him you had to reorganize your bookshelf by color.”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “My parents would have never let me go!”
“That’s what you said about everything,” he laughed, his eyes crinkling. “You were so focused on being the perfect, studious daughter. Meanwhile, I was skipping class to practice in a studio that smelled like old wood.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “So, tell me the truth. With all that studying and no rebelling… you probably still don’t have a boyfriend, do you?”
He had hit the bullseye with unnerving accuracy. You didn’t want to admit it, to lay that particular vulnerability at his feet. You had boyfriends of course, just not currently. But the truth was plain on your flustered face. He leaned back, looking unbearably pleased with himself. Fine. Two could play this game.
“Well,” you shot back, crossing your arms, “at least I never had a poster of a girl group on my ceiling that I kissed goodnight.”
It was a weak, childish retort, but it was all you had. He just laughed, a full, unreserved sound that made the driver’s shoulders jump slightly.
“That’s the best you can do?” he challenged, his eyes dancing. “You can’t tease me, noona. I’m flawless.”
But the teasing was a thin veil for the tension that was coiling tightly in the small space between you. Every laugh, every shared memory, every lingering glance added another layer. He looked at you across the small table, his gaze dropping to your mouth, then back to your eyes, and the heat in his look was unmistakable.
As the car wound through the city, he’d point out a place.
“See that alley? I filmed a music video there. It was raining and we had to do the same move twenty seven times. My muscles were screaming.” He said it with a wry smile, but you heard the undertone of exhaustion.
Later, as you walked along a nearly deserted pier, the wind whipping at your hair, the conversation drifted into deeper waters. The playful glint in his eyes faded, replaced by a weary honesty that made him look his age for the first time all day.
“It’s… a lot,” he confessed, his voice barely above the sound of the waves and the wind. He wasn’t looking at you, but out at the grey, churning water. “The schedules, the cameras, the eyes. Everyone has an opinion. You have to be perfect, all the time. It’s… stressful. I’m so tired, noona.”
The confession was a gift, a raw piece of the man behind the idol. You didn’t offer empty platitudes. You just listened, your silence a sanctuary for his words.
The topic, inevitably, turned to relationships. His smile was bitter now. “It’s impossible. Or it feels that way. Before anything even starts, there’s a contract, a clause, a ‘hyung’ telling you it’s a bad idea. Or the person only sees ENHYPEN’s Ni-ki, not me.” He shoved his hands deep into his hoodie pockets. “So it’s mostly… nothing. Unserious things. Flings that don’t mean anything. And it just leaves you feeling… empty afterwards. More alone than before.”
Your heart ached for him. You understood the isolation in his words, the longing for something real amidst the glittering artifice. You wanted to offer comfort, to share something of your own, but your own history was a vast, empty landscape in comparison. You had no tales of heartbreak or fleeting romances to reciprocate with. Your struggles were academic, professional, familial; not the surreal loneliness of global fame.
He must have sensed your silence was different. He turned to you, his gaze searching. “What about you, noona? With all that focusing on your studies… there must have been someone. At least… a hookup? Something?”
The question hung in the salty air. He was expecting a story, a confession, something to balance the scales. All you could do was offer a sad, small smile and shake your head. “No, Riki. There wasn’t.”
The simplicity of your answer seemed to stun him. His teasing had been a guess; the confirmation was something else entirely. The ‘flawless’ idol who had just confessed his flings, was now looking at a woman whose life had been so different, so… pure, for lack of a better word. The curiosity in his eyes was no longer playful, but profound. He wasn’t pitying you; he was seeing you, truly seeing the weight of your own choices and circumstances, for the first time.
Before he could form another question, his phone buzzed. He pulled it out, his expression hardening as he read the message. “It’s the manager. We have to go. I need to get to the airport.”
The ride back to the Nishimuras’ was silent, but it was a different silence from the morning. The tension was still there, a thick, live wire between you, but it was now layered with a newfound vulnerability and a deep, resonant understanding. He wasn’t just the handsome idol and you weren’t the flustered childhood friend. You were two people from the same past who had walked wildly different paths, each carrying their own unique loneliness, and in that, you were more alike than either of you had realized.
The car pulled up a block from the house. There was no grand farewell possible.
“I have to go,” he said, his voice thick with a frustration that had nothing to do with traffic.
His hand found yours in the space between the seats. He didn’t lace his fingers through yours, just held it, a firm, warm pressure that seared itself into your skin. It was a promise. A plea. A goodbye.
“I’ll call you,” he said, the same words from the wedding, but now imbued with a desperate urgency.
Then he let go. You slipped out of the car without looking back, the door closing with a soft, final thud. You walked to the house, feeling the weight of his gaze until the car turned the corner and disappeared.
Inside, the quiet of the Nishimura home felt suffocating. You climbed the stairs and, without thinking, found yourself standing in the doorway of his room again. The posters, the trophies, the faint scent of him trapped in time. He was on his way to an airport, to a flight, to a stage, to a life of screaming fans. And you were here, in the shrine of his boyhood, holding the devastating knowledge that the man he had become was just as lonely as you were, and that for one fleeting day, you had been each other’s sanctuary. The space he left behind was no longer just in this room; it was in you.
The call came long after midnight, your time. You were already in your hotel room in Seoul, the city lights a sprawling, silent tapestry outside your window. His voice was laced with a different kind of exhaustion, the kind that came from the relentless machinery of fame.
“I’m sorry it’s so late,” he began, the connection crisp and clear, bridging the distance between your hotel and his dorm. “The moment I landed, it was hair, makeup, rehearsal, a meeting… I forgot how to think for a few hours.”
“It’s okay,” you whispered into the phone, curled on the bed. “I understand.”
And you did. The wedding, the day in Okayama had been a beautiful, stolen dream. This; the late night call, the fatigue in his voice, was his reality.
“Are you back home?” he asked.
“No,” you said, your heart thudding against your ribs. “I’m in Seoul. My company… They needed me for a project. I just landed a few hours ago.”
The silence on the other end was profound. You could almost hear the gears turning in his head, the calculations of schedules and risks.
“Where are you staying?” His voice was suddenly sharp, alert. You told him the district.
“There’s a park. Not far from you. It has a secluded garden, behind the main pavilion. No one goes there at this hour. Can you meet me? In thirty minutes?”
There was no hesitation. “Yes.”
The park was a dark, sleeping beast. You found the garden he described, a small, hidden enclave of manicured bushes and a single, ancient tree, lit only by a sliver of moon and the distant orange glow of the city. The air was cold, and you pulled your coat tighter.
He emerged from the shadows like a phantom, dressed all in black, a mask pulled up over his nose and a beanie low over his brow. Only his eyes were visible, and they were fixed on you with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. He didn’t speak. He just walked towards you until he was so close you could feel the heat radiating from his body.
“This is it,” he said, his voice low and rough, gesturing vaguely at the secluded space around you. “This is what it takes. Hidden corners and the dead of night. This is why it’s impossible.”
You finally understood, not just intellectually, but viscerally. The secrecy wasn’t romantic; it was a cage. The need to hide a simple meeting felt like a violation.
“Riki…” you started, but words failed you.
That was all it took. The few inches between you vanished. His hands came up to cradle your face, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the frantic energy coursing through him. He lowered his mask slowly and your eyes dropped to his plump lips. His thumb stroked your cheekbone, and then his lips were on yours.
It wasn’t a gentle, exploratory kiss. It was a dam breaking. It was weeks of yearning, years of unspoken history, and a lifetime of loneliness pouring out from both of you. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against the hard, unyielding planes of his body, and you melted into him, your hands fisting in the fabric of his jacket, holding on as if he were the only solid thing in a spinning world. The kiss was desperate, deep, and tasting of a bittersweet truth you were both finally acknowledging.
And then, abruptly, he was the one who pulled away. He tore his mouth from yours, his breath coming in ragged, visible puffs in the cold air. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes squeezed shut, his body trembling with the effort of his control.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I’m sorry. I… I can’t.”
“Why?” you breathed, your own heart hammering, your lips still tingling from his. And you hated yourself for asking him, as if you were naked before him and he rejected you. You felt like asking him the reason he stopped kissing you was like begging him to fuck you. Because it’s been so long since you were with someone, that even a kiss from a childhood friend felt like something deeper.
“Because if I don’t stop now,” he said, his voice raw with a pain that had nothing to do with physical desire, “I won’t be able to. I’ll want everything. And I’m so afraid, noona. I’m afraid of this life hurting you. Of the headlines, the rumors, the hate you’d get.” He opened his eyes, and the vulnerability in them was devastating. “And I’m afraid… I’m terrified that when you look at me like this, you still see that scrawny kid from Okayama. That you’re just caught up in the moment, in the fantasy of it all.”
His confession laid him bare. This wasn’t just about the idol and the fan. This was about the man and the woman, and the ghost of a boy who stood between them.
You reached up, your hand cupping his jaw, forcing him to look at you. The stubble under your palm was a stark reminder of the man he is, and his acne scars of the boy he was.
“Riki,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “The boy I knew was brave and stubborn and followed his dreams no matter what. The man I’m looking at right now is all of that, and so much more. I don’t see a fantasy, I see you. The real you; the one who’s tired, and stressed, and who feels empty because he wants something .” You took a shaky breath. “And I want you, not the idol; you.”
A shudder ran through him. The fear in his eyes didn’t vanish, but it was joined by a flicker of desperate, hopeful belief. “This is real for me,” you whispered into the small space between your lips. “Is it real for you?”
He didn’t answer with words. He let out a sound that was half sob, half sigh of relief, and captured your lips again. This kiss was different. It was slower, deeper, filled with a profound, aching tenderness that promised this was more than a stolen moment in a dark park. It was a beginning, fraught with difficulty and danger, but a beginning nonetheless. In the cold, hidden garden, with the world sleeping around you, you both silently agreed to fight for it.
The kiss left you both breathless, your foreheads pressed together, sharing the same air in the cold, dark garden. Getting courage from the raw confession and the feel of him, you took his hand and began to pull him gently, leading the way back toward the lights of the city, toward your hotel.
He stopped. His feet planted firmly, his hand holding yours but not moving. A hot wave of embarrassment and rejection washed over you again. You’d misread the moment. Of course, he couldn’t. He was an idol. This was too risky. You started to pull your hand away, your face burning.
But he tightened his grip. He tugged you back, not toward the hotel, but closer to him, until your bodies were aligned again. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a low, husky whisper that sent shivers down your spine.
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he breathed, the words a hot promise against your skin. “I want you so much it’s driving me crazy. But I’m not doing this with you in a hotel room.”
Your breath hitched. “What do you mean?”
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze unbearably soft and serious. “It shouldn’t happen in some hotel. It would be disrespectful for you. It should be somewhere safer, it should be special.”
He knew. He had pieced it together from your silence at the pier, from your lack of history, from the way you kissed him with a fervent, untrained passion. And instead of being deterred, he was treating that knowledge with a reverence that made your knees weak.
“Then where?” you whispered, the word barely audible.
A determined look crossed his face. He pulled out his phone, his thumbs flying over the screen with a practiced urgency. “We’re going to my dorm.” He looked up, his eyes meeting yours. “It’s the only place I can be sure we’re safe. The only chance we have.”
He was texting the members on his floor. You couldn’t see the words, but you could imagine the tone; firm, pleading, leaving no room for argument. Hyung, I need a huge favor. Can you all go to the other unit for a few hours? Don’t come back until I text you. It’s important.
The reality of his world crashed in again, but this time, it was working in your favor. He was creating a sanctuary for you, using the intricate rules of his life to shield yours.
The journey to the dorm was a blur of nervous tension. He led you through a maze of back entrances and private parking garages, his body a protective shield around you. When the elevator doors opened onto his floor, the silence was absolute. He keyed in a code, pushed the door open, and ushered you inside.
The dorm was surprisingly tidy, but lived-in. A gaming setup in one corner, jackets thrown over a chair, the faint, clean scent of men’s perfume and laundry detergent. And it was empty. Just the two of you.
His heart was hammering against his ribs. This was it. She was here, in his space. The girl from his childhood, the one he’d written off as an impossible dream, was standing in his dorm, looking at him with wide, trusting eyes. She was older, but in this, she was inexperienced.
The weight of that responsibility settled on him, not as a burden, but as the greatest honor of his life. He couldn’t rush this. He wouldn’t. With others, it had been about release, about scratching an itch. This was different. This was about connection. He wanted to worship her. He wanted to make her feel so good, so safe, so cherished that she would never regret giving this part of herself to him.
Her first time. The thought made him feel dizzy with a potent mix of desire, protectiveness, and a fierce, burning love. His own pleasure was secondary; her feeling the best she possibly could was everything.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” he asked, his voice softer now, the public persona completely shed. He moved to the kitchen, opening the fridge. “We have water, juice… I think Jay hyung bought some fruit.”
It was so domestic, so sweetly considerate, that it eased the last of your nerves. He wasn’t a predatory idol; he was Riki, the boy who used to share his snacks with you, making sure you were well fed.
“Water is fine,” you said, your voice a little shaky.
He poured two glasses and brought them over, sitting beside you on the couch, leaving a respectful few inches between you. He wasn’t pushing. He was letting you acclimate, letting the reality of your aloneness sink in.
“You okay?” he asked, his dark eyes searching your face.
You nodded, taking a sip of water. “It’s just… a lot.”
“I know,” he said, a gentle smile touching his lips. “For me, too.”
He reached out and took your free hand, lacing his fingers through yours. His hand was so much larger, nails short and taken care of, but his grip was gentle. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Ever. You know that, right?”
The assurance was your final undoing. The last barrier of fear and uncertainty crumbled. You looked at him; at the man who had fought through the chaos of his life to create this quiet, safe space for you, who was treating your inexperience not as a liability but as a treasure, and you knew, with every fiber of your being, that you were exactly where you were meant to be.
You set your glass down on the table. Then, with a courage you didn’t know you possessed, you leaned forward and closed the distance between you, capturing his lips in a kiss that was all the answer he needed.
This time, when the kiss deepened, there was no pulling away. There was only the slow, tender, and breathtaking journey from the couch to his room, a journey guided by whispered reassurances, reverent touches, and a love that had been years in the making.
The air in Ni-ki's room was thick with a new kind of silence, charged not just with desire, but with a profound, shared understanding.
You had been with others before; kisses that turned hungry in backseats, hands that wandered under clothes in dimly lit apartments. There had been moments of heat, of friction, of fumbling in the dark that always, always, ended with you putting on the brakes. A whispered "I'm not ready," a pulled away hand, a sudden, cold wave of self consciousness. They never made you feel safe enough to quiet the voice in your head that told you to be careful, to protect yourself.
But with Riki, it was different. He could feel it, too. He could feel the absence of that familiar tension in your body, the way you melted into his touch instead of bracing against it.
He didn't lunge. He didn't treat your presence in his bed as a foregone conclusion. He didn’t even fuck anyone in his bed beforez That was why he refused to go your hotel, because hotels meant something quick, it was about his urges and the need to release his energy after concerts.
After that first, soul searing kiss on the couch, he had simply stood, taken your hand, and led you to his room. Now, he stood before you, his gaze soft, his hands coming up to frame your face.
"Tell me what you like," he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "And tell me what you don't. Your word is law here. Okay?"
It was the first anchor in the swirling sea of your nerves. Your word is law. You nodded, your throat too tight for words.
He smiled, that same boyish smile, but now it was layered with a man's intensity. He leaned in and kissed you again, slow and deep, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you opened for him. It was a kiss that tasted of patience. His hands slid from your face, down your neck, over your shoulders, mapping you through the fabric of your shirt. Every movement was deliberate, giving you time to feel, to process, to accept.
When his fingers found the hem of your shirt, he paused the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm on your lips.
Another choice. Another anchor.
He lifted the shirt over your head with a quiet reverence, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of you in your simple bra. But he didn't immediately touch. He just looked, his gaze a physical caress. "You are so beautiful," he whispered, the words sounding like a prayer. "I've imagined this for so long."
He made you feel beautiful, not just desired. He guided you to sit on the edge of the bed and knelt before you, his hands on your waist. He pressed a soft, open mouthed kiss to your stomach, just above the button of your jeans. You flinched, a gasp escaping you, and his hands immediately stilled.
"Is this okay?" he asked, looking up at you, his eyes full of concern.
"Y-yes," you stammered, your skin buzzing. "It's just... a lot."
He understood. He didn't push. Instead, he moved his hands to your calves and the back of your knees, his thumbs massaging the muscles in a way that was so unexpectedly intimate and soothing it made tears prick your eyes. He was taking care of you. He was dismantling your defenses not with force, but with tenderness. You put your hand on top of his head, fingers trailing down his hair. He was so different from the Riki you left, he grew up so well. And you could still see the younger boy in his face, the one that never left him.
He worked his way back up, his kisses and touches a slow, meticulous exploration. He unbuttoned your jeans and slid them down your legs, his palms skimming the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. When he reached your underwear, he hooked his fingers into the waistband and looked up for one more silent question. You nodded, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
As the last barrier was removed, you expected a wave of shyness. You pressed your legs together and put your hands on your lap. But the way he looked at you; with pure, unadulterated awe, chased it away. He leaned in and pulled your legs apart slowly, and pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, so high up it made you jolt.
"You're shaking," he murmured against your skin.
"I'm nervous," you admitted, the confession torn from you. You slid your hand to his hair again, the way his lips moved on your skin made you impossibly wet that you needed something to hold onto. He lifted his head, his expression heartbreakingly sincere.
"Me too." He crawled up the bed until he was hovering over you, caging you in with his arms. "But we're nervous together. Yeah?"
He wasn't a practiced seducer; he was Riki, just as vulnerable in this moment as you were. You reached up and pulled him down into a kiss, pouring all your trust, all your longing, into it.
He took that trust and honored it with every touch. His hands were confident but never demanding. His hand dipped under you and unhooked your bra, peeling it off your skin and dropping it on the floor. Your hands immediately found his arms for emotional support, and he just looked at your fully bare form under him. He exhaled a shaky breath, closed his eyes, and raised them to yours.
“You have no idea what you do to me.” he whispered, he couldn’t raise his voice because he knew it would crack. It was as if he forgot everything he did, the hookups he had on all familiar hotel rooms, his own first, his inexperience. It was as if he was giving you his first and not the other way around.
You tugged on his hoodie, and he immediately obliged, pulling it over his head to throw it somewhere. His tensing muscles, his broad shoulders caging you in, and the way his abs dipped down to his pants. He saw you looking at him, and he smirked, the teasing look coming back to his face.
“You like what you see?” he said, low and deep. And you immediately clapped your hands on your face, which made your breasts squish together and the view immediately dropped to his guts. You could’ve seen how big and hard he was if he wasn't wearing his signature baggy pants.
He learned your body like it was a sacred text, finding the spots that made you arch off the mattress with a soft cry, and melt deeper into the sheets. His fingers attached to your nipple while you still covered your face, and the way his index and thumb pulled the peaks made you squeal. The look on his face was enough for you to clench into nothing, he was so dazed by you, by the plumpness you created by pushing your arms together, that he could come into his pants just by playing with your breasts.
He squeezed the mass of them, jiggled just to see them move. And when he dipped his head to one of them you held your breath. He licked a wide stripe, and then flicked your nipple with quick strokes. His plump lips latched onto it and sucked, teeth grazing it from time to time. And you moaned loud, not expecting any of it, grateful that there weren't any members around.
When he latched onto your other nipple, his hand slid down and down, his fingers finally, carefully, slipped between your folds, you were wet and aching for him, your body thrumming with a need you'd never felt before.
He stilled and looked up, his eyes searching yours. "You're sure?"
There were no more doubts. No voice of caution. There was only him, and the safe, loving world he had built for you in this room.
"I'm sure, Riki. Please."
He leaned back on his knees and pulled his zipper down, and got rid of his pants. His Chrome Hearts boxer was packing, he was poking through the black fabric and he hissed as he removed the last piece. His cock hit against his belly button, tip angry red just like his plump lips, and oh, he was big. You could see the reason behind his confidence.
He watched you watch him again, you didn’t even realize you’d licked your lips but he smiled upon seeing your reaction. He’d never thought you’d see him like this, the man that he wanted to become. And he was about to fuck you, he was about to give you your first orgasm from a dick and not by your own fingers. Hell, even imagining you fucking yourself with your delicate hands made him twitch onto his abs, precum already leaking from his tip.
“Are you okay?” he asked you again, and you nodded, pulling him closer from his nape for a kiss. He moaned into your lips as he aligned with your wet pussy, using your slickness as lube. Holding your legs open, he pushed in a bit and you moaned back, the blunt pressure was a lot, he was definitely thicker than your fingers. You tried to relax around him, and the moment he entered you was a revelation.
There was a sharp, fleeting sting, a tightness that made you gasp. He froze immediately, his body rigid with the effort of holding still.
"Breathe, noona," he coaxed, his voice thick with strain. You were so tight that he felt like he could cum in seconds. "Just breathe. I've got you."
You focused on his eyes, on the love and concern shining in them, and you breathed.
The discomfort faded, replaced by a feeling of fullness. Of completion. You felt stretched, filled, but in a way that felt utterly right. You were wrapped around him, and he was buried inside you, and the childhood crush, the years of separation, the teasing, the tension; it all coalesced into this single, perfect point of connection.
He began to move, a slow, deep, rocking rhythm that was less about passion and more about fusion. His eyes never left yours. He whispered to you in a mix of Korean and Japanese, a stream of praise and affection. "You feel so good... You're taking me so well…”
And hearing him reassure you like this made you cling to him harder. This was all he could wish for, he’d go back in time and proudly brag to his younger self about this. He smothered you with kisses, your neck was filled with his marks, he sucked and kissed and licked your skin that burned your every single cell on fire. “Riki…” you moaned and he twitched inside you.
“I love you... I've always loved you." he confessed. And you held him closer, moans spilled from your lips and a tear slid down your eyes down to your ears. He kissed your tears away, your chests pressed together as he molded into you.
“I love you Riki.” you said back and he kissed all of your face as he thrusted. And he attached to your lips, sucked your bottom lip slowly as you opened your mouth wider to let your tongues meet.
It wasn't a frantic race to a finish line. It was a shared journey. He watched your face, learning what you liked, adjusting his pace and angle until he found the spot that made you see stars. He was so attuned to you, so focused on your pleasure, that when your orgasm finally broke over you, it was with a force that left you sobbing his name, your nails digging into his back as waves of pleasure wracked your body.
He’d refused to come earlier than you, so when you were coming down from your high, he pressed his hips to yours hard and buried himself in your core. With a guttural groan that was pure, unvarnished emotion, he followed you over the edge, his own release a shuddering, helpless surrender. He’d been holding for too long that he kept coming for a while, moaning endlessly as you jerked under him, leaking his cum.
For a long time, he just held himself above you, both of you breathing heavily, his forehead damp against yours. Then, he carefully rolled, pulling you with him so you were sprawled on top of him, your head on his chest, listening to the frantic, slowing beat of his heart.
His arms came around you, holding you close. He pressed a kiss to your hair.
"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice raspy.
You nodded against his chest, too overwhelmed for words. More than okay. With Riki, it had been different. Because with Riki, it wasn't just physical. It was the feeling of finally, after a lifetime of carefulness, coming home.
The world slowly pieced itself back together in the quiet dim of Ni-ki’s room. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex, and your bodies were slick and tangled in his sheets. A profound, humming silence settled between you, broken only by the ragged sound of your breathing slowly returning to normal. His arms were wrapped around you, one hand gently stroking your damp back.
You felt boneless, utterly spent, and yet… a low, persistent ember still glowed deep within you. You still pulsed around his cum in you, leaking and tickling your inner thighs, pooling on his bed. The initial, overwhelming shock of pleasure had passed, leaving in its wake a curious, aching hunger to feel that connection again, to explore the new language your bodies had just started to learn.
You shifted slightly, propping yourself up on an elbow to look down at him. His hair was a mess, his lips were kiss swollen, and his eyes, heavy lidded and dark, held a look of such satiated awe that it made your heart clench.
Before he could ask if you were okay, you leaned down and kissed him. It was a slow, deep, purposeful kiss, different from the frantic ones before. You felt him stir against your thigh, a soft groan vibrating in his chest.
“Again?” he whispered against your lips, his voice rough with surprise and desire.
“Again,” you confirmed, your own voice a husky whisper you barely recognized.
A slow, wondrous smile spread across his face. “Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.”
He moved with you, guiding you until you were straddling his hips. The new position made you feel powerful, in control, and incredibly exposed. His hands settled on your waist, his thumbs stroking your hip bones as he looked up at you with unwavering devotion.
“Your pace, noona,” he reminded you, his voice thick with promise. “Always your pace.”
You began to move, slowly at first, rediscovering the rhythm that had shattered you moments before. His hardening cock was in between your outer lips, his tip kept hitting your hard and aching clit, and you could feel yourself getting wetter and ready for another round. The sensation was even more intense this time, every nerve ending alight. As he hardened fully you got up, and he aligned himself with you again, and you slowly took him in, his white cum leaked down his cock and shaped a ring around him as you bottomed out, creamy and sticky.
You rode him, your head falling back, lost in the feeling of him filling you, the sight of his rapt expression beneath you. His hands moved you in different shapes, and every time he hit a different part of you that pulled moans out of both your mouths. His low purrs and growls made you clench harder and he moaned even louder. He watched you, the filthy scene before him, and he already knew nothing could beat this moment. He closed his eyes in pleasure when you squeezed him with a high, pornographic moan.
The muscles in your thighs, already trembling from the emotional and physical exertion of the night, began to protest. A slow burn turned into a shaky tremble, your rhythm faltering as your legs threatened to give out.
A soft, frustrated sound escaped you. Ni-ki’s eyes, which had been closed, snapped open. He saw the strain on your face, the way your body was beginning to quiver with exhaustion.
“Shhh, I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice a low, soothing balm.
He pulled you down to himself, and as you laid on his chest with your head in the crook of his neck, he held your hips firmly, taking over the rhythm. You kissed his neck and felt him shiver as if you weren’t doing the nastiest thing, and a small neck kiss was enough to unravel him. You held yourself up to be able to look at him, and he still held your hips in place. His eyes dropped to your breasts jiggling with your new position, and you scooted up, earning a loud moan from him.
He immediately took one nipple into his mouth. “Just feel, noona” he whispered, with his teeth still on your nipple as he moved, each deep, deliberate thrust hitting a spot that made you see stars. “Let me take care of you.”
This was different. This was him, no longer holding back, his own control fraying at the edges as he poured all his love, his longing, his protectiveness into every movement. You clung to him, your nails digging into the hard muscles of his back, and pulling his hair as you searched for something to hold onto; your cries muffled against his shoulder as a second, even more powerful orgasm ripped through you, leaving you gasping and shaking beneath him.
He followed you over the edge with a guttural cry of your name, his body shuddering as he spilled himself inside you. His cock was coated in milky white cum, previous release sticking to his balls and your ass, slowing your pace with wet noises filling the room.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your shared, panting breaths. He rubbed your back, soothing your lower back with his warm palms. But he wasn’t finished. He gently withdrew, his eyes dark and impossibly soft. He kissed his way down your body as he laid you down, his hands soothing your trembling thighs.
“One more time,” he whispered, his breath hot against your reddened inner thighs. “Just for you.”
Before you could process his words, his mouth was on you, his tongue and fingers working in a gentle, insistent rhythm from your overstimulated body.
“Riki— what’re you doing?” you moaned as he pushed his cum inside you, the slickness making it easy to slide inside. Middle finger first, ring followed by, you were loose from the girth of his cock so taking his fingers was easier, but you were still so sore, so full of him that you would cry again and this time it’d be physical.
“You can do it, noona. Please.” He stuck his tongue out and flicked your clit, tasting his own cum and yours. He never did this with anyone, he was too compulsive for it. So he just wanted to do this, an instinct told him to and he obeyed. As he fingered you, rubbing a spot and pulling it out of you, you felt the tie in your belly tighter.
It was a different kind of release; deeper, wetter, a surrendering so complete you felt yourself let go, a warm gush of release soaking his hand and the sheets beneath you. You couldn’t even tell him you were going to squirt, you were just doing it. You cried out, your back arching off the bed, every muscle seizing before going completely lax. You were utterly, completely ruined. He let you, fingers still fucking you senseless as you washed over him. His chest was wet, a small part of his chin, the bedsheets, but he didn’t stop until every last drop of you flushed out.
Ni-ki moved up your body, his expression one of pure, male satisfaction and overwhelming tenderness. He didn’t say a word. He simply gathered you into his arms, your damp, spent body molding against his. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, then your eyelids, then your lips. He never saw you like this before, and he’d never thought he would someday. Your orgasmic expressions, your fucked out state, every piece of you was so breathtakingly beautiful that he needed to calm himself down.
He slipped out of bed, returning moments later with a warm, damp cloth. He wanted to wash you up properly, but he made the members wait long enough. With a reverence that brought fresh tears to your eyes, he gently cleaned you, wiping away all your releases from your thighs and stomach. He was meticulous and gentle, his touch devoid of any sexual intent, focused only on your comfort.
He fetched a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, and held it to your lips, helping you take small, slow sips. He pulled a clean, soft t-shirt, one of his, over your head and found a pair of his sweatpants for you to wear, bundling you up in the comforting scent of him. He carried you to the couch in his room and quickly changed the sheets, even the pillow cases. The fresh laundry detergent smell filled the room, getting rid of the sex smell.
He cleaned himself up quickly and carried you back to bed before slipping next to you, pulling the comforter over both of you. He drew you into his chest, your head tucked under his chin, his arms creating a safe, warm cocoon around you.
“Everything’s okay?” he whispered into your hair, his voice thick with sleep and emotion.
“Mhm.” you mumbled, nuzzling closer, your body humming with a deep, soul level satisfaction. You were sore, exhausted, and emotionally raw, but you had never felt more cherished, more seen, or more loved in your entire life. In the quiet darkness of his dorm, with the world locked out, you weren’t a childhood crush or a fan. You were simply his. And he, with his unwavering care and fierce tenderness, was unquestionably yours.
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