Archive of Our Own

The roar of Saint’s motorcycle cuts through the quiet dusk as he pulls up just outside the field gates. His tires skid on the gravel, kicking up a cloud of dust as the engine hums its final note. He shifts the bike into park, shoes hitting the ground with a soft thud as he dismounts, already reaching for his jacket pocket. 

Fishing out his phone, he glances at the time

18:02 p.m. it reads.

The faint sound of voices drifts from the field and, unsurprisingly, he’s drawn to it.

The last of the team is filtering out, their voices a mix of exhaustion and laughter, the kind that doesn’t quite mask the weariness. Their shoulders are slumped, muscles sore from the long practice, but they don’t seem to mind. Not when the adrenaline is still probably buzzing under their skin. 

Saint’s gaze searches through the sea of faces, but it only takes him a second to spot him . Like always. 

It’s ridiculous, really. No matter how crowded or chaotic, no matter how many people are around, Saint always finds him first. It’s like he is a beacon in the dark, glowing and magnetic, drawing Saint’s gaze without fail. 

And Saint ? He’s the helpless piece of metal, pulled toward him as though there’s no other place he’d rather be. 

The idea of looking anywhere else feels impossible, foreign even. 

How could he ? Not when he knows what awaits him. Who always waits for him.

Shin.  

Unfairly pretty Shin with his angelic features and kaleidoscope eyes.

He’s standing near the edge of the field, still holding his water bottle, his posture casually leaning against one of the goalposts, like he’s always been there. His dark brown hair is damp from the practice, the tips of his bangs curling slightly from the sweat, but that’s not what catches Saint’s attention.

It’s the way the fading sunlight hits him.

Shin’s hair looks almost black in the shadows of the evening, but when the light catches it just right, it reveals the deepest brown, almost rich and warm like espresso. Saint can’t help but want to run his fingers through it, burying his hand in those waves, letting the strands slip through his fingers like time itself. 

But it’s Shin’s eyes that always steal the breath from his lungs. They’re light brown, soft and welcoming, but depending on the angle of the light, they shift—changing from hazel to gold to green in an impossible dance. It’s like they’re alive, shimmering with every subtle movement, every emotion, like they’ve been kissed by a thousand different shades of the world. 

He could get lost in them forever, in their breath-taking beauty in the way they shine with every glance, with every subtle shift of his expression.

Saint stands there, still watching, as Shin’s lips curl into a tired, lazy smile; one that has always made Saint’s heart race. There’s a softness to it, like he’s sharing a secret that only they know. It’s a smile that Saint would follow into any storm, one he would walk through fire just to see again. Hell, he thinks he would kill just to see Shin’s pretty lips part in that soft curve he loves so much.

He’s beautiful. Strikingly so. Like something out of a dream. No, like something out of a painting that’s been touched by the light of the universe itself. The kind of beauty that makes your heart ache with the knowledge that it’s not yours to claim, no matter how much you want it to be.

As Shin finally spots him, lifting his hand in a lazy wave, Saint’s heart stutters. Then pounds. Then skips all over again.

The almost heart-attack he just experienced from his best friend’s existence alone seems to recalibrate his system, and his neurons too. Or, at least, what’s left of them after they spent years hyperfixating on the very man taking over his every thought.

Damn, he needs to get a grip. 

Yes, he has it bad for his best friend—has it downright horrendous as Eve always likes to remind him—but going all Shakespeare thinking about Shin as soon as he sets his eyes on him feels like an entire new brand of simping. 

One that apparently belongs to Saint now. 

Great. His brain turning into a rom-com playground after catching one glimpse of Shin and his ethereal beauty is just what he needed.

He blames Miss Jan and her lessons about that romantic author he now can’t bring himself to remember the name of. He was asleep half of the time if he was honest with himself.

Yes, it must be that.

No, buddy. You’re just helplessly, hopelessly, stupidly, disgustingly in love , rings a voice in his head that sounds dangerously like—guess who? Yeah. Eve.

Great, she chews his ears off so much that now she’s in his fucking head.

Will he ever be able to get rid of it ? 

Don’t take Saint the wrong way, he’s fond of his friend, of course he is. But having her in his brain like the echo of his own conscience doesn’t appeal to him too much.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on the thought at all, fortunately, because the sight of his best friend approaching obliterates any other thing from his mind.

Shin’s cleats scrape against the pavement as he trudges toward Saint like a man returning from war. 

His head is tilted down, squinting against the fading light, jersey clinging to him like it’s trying to become one with his spine. His whole posture screams I’ve been murdered by this goddamn practice, but somehow— somehow —he still looks like he belongs on the cover of a magazine instead of dragging himself across a high school parking lot.

It’s criminal. Unfair. Borderline offensive.

Saint watches him with the helpless resignation of a man who knows he’s already lost. 

His pretty, sweaty best friend looks like a hot mess and somehow still manages to walk straight into Saint’s chest like a bullet. 

Every single time.

“You’re late,” Shin says the moment he gets close enough to talk, voice rough from shouting on the field and probably yelling at his teammates for being slow. His eyes narrow like Saint committed some grave personal betrayal instead of being literally two minutes off the clock.

Saint smirks, already pulling the spare helmet from the back of the bike. “I’m exactly two minutes behind schedule. You’re just chronically impatient.”

He tosses the helmet with a flick of his wrist. Shin catches it effortlessly—of course he does, of course he has the hand-eye coordination of a K-drama male lead—and straddles the bike behind Saint in one fluid, tired motion that would probably be a lot less distracting if it didn’t involve Shin’s thigh brushing right against his while he shifted into place.

Saint’s brain does something stupid. Short-circuits a little. Reboots. Crashes.

Which is honestly kind of pathetic. 

How many times have they done this? How many times does Saint end up as Shin’s personal driver-slash-human vehicle? A ridiculous amount. Like, if there were frequent rider miles, Shin could’ve redeemed a round trip to the moon and back.

By now, Saint’s brain and body should be used to it. They should’ve built some kind of tolerance. But nope. Every single time, without fail, his nervous system goes highwire like it’s Shin’s first time touching him and not, you know, a regular Tuesday activity.

And Shin—Shin with his arms casually looped around him, like he knows the effect he’s having—just sits there like an overconfident koala, a smug emotional backpack. Not even a useful backpack either. One of those overpriced ones that looks cool but can’t actually hold anything, except unresolved sexual tension and a handful of Saint’s last working brain cells.

Which is fine to Saint. More than fine. Because all Shin has to do is sit still and look pretty, and Saint would sell a kidney just to witness that, just to glance at him from his rearview mirror.

He tries to act normal. Cool. Chill. He really does. 

But his heart is over here doing pirouettes, his thoughts sound like bad pop lyrics, and all because Shin has the audacity to exist behind him.

God. Embarrassing.

Then Shin leans in.

His fingers graze Saint’s side. Just a touch, barely anything, but it’s enough. A jolt of awareness shoots straight through Saint’s spine like someone plugged him directly into the power grid.

And then Shin’s there, all of him, pressing against Saint’s back, radiating heat and exhaustion and that familiar Shin-ness that makes Saint’s stomach turn inside out.

“No, I’m dying,” Shin groans, his voice muffled against Saint’s shoulder. “My legs are literally on fire.”

So is my heart, buddy , Saint thinks as Shin’s breath ghosts over his neck, warm and way too intimate for something so casual. His body feels like a live wire. His pulse is hammering like it’s being paid overtime.

“Poor baby,” he coos, aiming for lighthearted teasing, but his voice comes out softer than he means. Because Shin’s behind him, and it’s hard to keep things sarcastic when his best friend is melting into him like he belongs there.

Shin’s arms circle his waist. Casually, like it’s no big deal. But Saint nearly has a stroke. The contact is easy, comfortable, familiar, and yet somehow more emotionally devastating than a truckload of love songs.

Saint’s hands tighten on the handlebars. Not because he’s nervous. Not because he’s falling apart inside. No, no. Just… grip adjustment. Totally normal biker behavior. Nothing to see here. 

Get it together, Romeo , his brain hisses. This is not a novel. You are not in a slow-burn BL drama.

But what if you are ? A softer, more delusional voice whispers from the depths of his mind. 

The little Eve-sounding devil in his brain needs to shut it. Right now.

Shin sighs again, dramatic and suffering. “My legs are gone. I’ve decided. I’m just a torso now.”

Saint snorts. “You’re a very annoying torso.”

“I am your very annoying torso,” Shin replies, like it’s the most casual thing in the world, and Saint nearly crashes the bike into a lamp post that doesn’t even exist yet.

He doesn’t respond. Can’t. He just exhales, long and slow, and kicks the bike into gear. The engine hums beneath them like a heartbeat.

“Let’s get you home,” he breaths instead.

Shin’s hold on his waist turns a tad steadier.

“Don’t speed,” he hums, his forehead resting lightly between Saint’s shoulder blades now. “Hands on the handles and eyes on the road, or I’ll smack your head. Hard.”

Saint feels the warmth of that touch, the gentle press of his forehead like a punctuation mark on their closeness. He doesn’t argue, but his lips curve anyway. He can’t help it.

“Yessir!” he chirps, tossing a mock salute that earns him a slap on the helmet and the softest, most fond little ‘Idiot’ breathed against the side of his neck.

The best part? Saint can feel Shin’s grin pressed right into him, warm and teasing.

His smile only widens.

The engine growls as they speed down the road, the wind skimming over their skin, the city rolling past in a blur of golden dusk and glowing streetlights. The silence that falls between them is familiar. Not awkward. Not empty. Just...quiet in the way that only exists between people who know each other down to the bone.

And when Shin’s grip on his waist tightens ever so slightly as they round a curve, Saint’s heart jumps and tumbles and does an Olympic-level floor routine he’s not emotionally prepared for.

He doesn’t say anything.

He lets the road carry them forward. Lets Shin hold on. Lets himself feel it all.

Fifteen minutes later, Saint pulls the bike into the familiar driveway and kills the engine, the rumble dying down into a silence that wraps around them like a shared breath.

It’s Shin’s house, technically, but at this point, it might as well be Saint’s too with how many nights he spends there instead of his own home. His keys are already in his hand before he even thinks about it. It’s pure instinct at this point, routine.

The sky is deepening into that golden-blue haze that only happens at dusk, and the soft chirp of crickets filters in from somewhere nearby.

They move like they’ve done this a thousand times before. Probably because they have. Shin swings a leg over the bike, a little too fast for how dead his muscles probably feel, and immediately hisses in pain like someone just stabbed him in the hamstring.

“Shit—ow— fuck ,” Shin groans.

Saint catches him by the elbow before he can stumble, hand tightening instinctively. Shin leans into the touch for half a second before regaining his balance, but he doesn’t shake Saint off. 

He never does.

They head inside without saying much, just the quiet rhythm of shared space between them. The hallway is warm, lit by that soft golden lamp Shin always forgets to turn off. It casts everything in a honey-like glow, the kind that makes the place feel less like a house and more like a memory you want to stay in.

Shin kicks off his cleats with a groan and peels his jersey off in the entryway like it's his personal enemy.

Saint makes the mistake of looking.

He shouldn't. He really shouldn't.

But he does.

His gaze drags helplessly across the exposed skin. Smooth, sweat-slick, and stupidly well-defined for someone who claims he doesn’t even like the gym. There’s a line of grass stuck to Shin’s stomach, some smeared near his ribs like a brushstroke, like art. 

Saint wants to punch something.

Shin tosses the jersey in the general direction of the laundry room. It misses.

Saint tears his eyes away and clears his throat. 

“You smell like something died.” It comes out more strangled than he intended. Something absolutely, idiotically dumb just to fill the silence, and prevent his mouth from doing something worse. Like drooling. 

He tosses his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door, doing everything in his power not to look again. Not to notice how Shin’s back muscles flex as he starts pulling at the waistband of his shorts like it is normal to undress right in front of your best friend in the middle of the living room. Like Saint’s sanity isn’t dangling by a single, frayed thread.

Shin snorts. “You love the way I smell. Don’t lie to yourself.”

Saint rolls his eyes with the force of someone trying not to combust. “I love the way you smell when you’re clean and not bathed in Eau de Soggy Sock. There’s a difference.”

And yes, he is totally aware of what he just said, of the way he just spouted so casually about loving his best friend’s scent, but he likes to think it’s not that big of a deal. 

He’s said stupidly affectionate things to Shin before, definitely even worse than what he just said. And Shin never made it weird, never called him out on it, never flinched. Just took it in stride with the same smug little twitch of his lips, like Saint’s barely contained pining was his favorite background noise. 

Probably because he thinks Saint’s joking, that those big words are just his way of teasing him in an affectionate way. Or maybe it’s the fact that Saint has always said those kinds of things, even before he realized that he might’ve been unconditionally in love with his best friend, and that half of what he said were literally love declarations written between the lines.

Shin, clearly proud of himself, wiggles his eyebrows, then immediately winces. “Shit. Even my eyebrows are sore. What the hell.”

“That’s because you scowl like it pays the rent,” Saint mutters, already flopping onto the couch like a man who’s been through emotional warfare. “Go shower before I burn your clothes in self-defense.”

Shin makes a show of limping dramatically down the hall. “If I collapse in the bathroom, you better come rescue me.”

Saint throws a cushion at him. It bounces harmlessly off Shin’s back.

“I swear to God, if I find you almost passed out and naked on the tiles again—”

“That was one time!” Shin yells from down the hall. “And I was dehydrated!”

Saint sinks into the couch cushions, groaning. 

The moment Shin disappears into the bathroom, the world becomes worse and better all at once.

Worse because the water starts running, and Saint’s brain is immediately like: Hey. Hey. Hey, bestie. Remember what Shin looks like soaking wet? You do now.

Better because the sound of the shower is comforting in its own way. Familiar. Part of the background noise of their weird little routine.

He turns the TV on and stares blankly at some nature documentary, where a whale is giving birth or something equally majestic and not helpful at all. He tries to focus on the screen in front of him, but it’s useless.

He flips over dramatically and stares at the ceiling like it holds the answers to life, love, and the mystery of why God made Shin look like that.  

Get a grip, man. You’re not thirteen. You’ve seen abs before. You have abs.

He shifts uncomfortably, trying not to think about Shin in the shower. About steam curling around his body, about water trailing down his spine, sliding over muscle and skin and that ridiculously small waist— No. Nope. Abort mission.

He tosses the remote onto the table and covers his face with both hands.

“Be normal,” he whispers to himself. “Just be a normal, functioning human. That’s all. You’ve only known him forever. You see him half-naked, like, every day. You can survive this.”

Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Then twenty.

The water shuts off.

Saint doesn’t even pretend he’s not listening.

He absolutely, surely, one-hundred-percent does not spend the next few minutes sitting stiffly on the couch like a Victorian maiden waiting to faint. He definitely doesn’t strain to hear Shin moving around behind the bathroom door. And he most certainly doesn’t picture him towel-drying his hair in slow motion like some kind of boyband music video from 2004.

Except he does. Of course he does.

By the time Shin emerges, Saint’s soul has left his body and is floating somewhere near the ceiling.

And then—

Oh.

He cannot survive this.

Shin steps into the hallway like he has no idea what he's doing to Saint’s entire nervous system.

He’s wearing one of those worn-out tees that hangs a little too loose on him, and those damn soft gray shorts that ride just high enough on his thighs to give Saint a complex, and—

Wait. Hold on. Someone turn off the angels' choir in the background.

That shirt. 

That—That’s his shirt.

Saint freezes. 

Blinks. Stares. Gawks .

Yep. It’s definitely his. 

The little hole near the hem, the faded graphic that used to say something cool but now just says “uh,” and the way it slouches off Shin’s shoulder like it's been training for this moment its entire life.

Shin is wearing his shirt. 

Shin is wearing his shirt.

Saint’s mouth goes dry.

Shin, for his part, is acting like it’s totally normal. Just standing there, hair damp and sticking up like he dried it in a rush, looking irritatingly good and completely unaware that he’s casually committing a crime against Saint’s mental health.

Saint does his best to play it cool. Which is to say, he stares directly at his best friend and experiences a minor internal implosion.

Because there it is. His shirt. On Shin. Looking better than it ever did on himself. Like it was meant for Shin all along. Like his wardrobe has been traitorously matchmaking behind his back.

There’s even a droplet of water on Shin’s neck, slowly sliding down like it’s auditioning for the role of ‘most unnecessary detail to notice right now.’ Saint has the deeply unhelpful thought that the droplet is living his dream, trailing down Shin’s throat, so close to that little mole that Saint has dreamed about kissing more times than not. 

He clears his throat. Loudly. For no reason.

“Is that, uh—is that mine?” he asks, because his mouth is also a traitor now.

Shin glances down. 

“Oh. Yeah.” he shrugs “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

Saint does, in fact, mind. 

He minds so much . But not in the way Shin probably thinks. Not in the way a normal person would. Because how could an ordinarily functioning human be torn between the thoughts ‘ you should wear nothing else for the rest of your life’ and ‘you should wear nothing else, period, because you made me so horny I wish any other piece of clothing didn’t exist anymore’ ?

Shin must catch something on his face—Saint wouldn’t be surprised if his expression had morphed somewhere between awe and panic and, well, want —because he asks, “Do you? Mind, I mean.”

Saint has a ‘Hell fucking no’ and a plea for Shin to keep wearing his clothes forever on the tip of his tongue.

Luckily, his mouth provides a simple “Oh, no. Don’t worry” and a small laugh that comes out a little more high pitched than it should.

It’s supposed to sound casual. 

It does not sound casual.

He stares directly at the TV like he’s being held hostage by his own hormones. He doesn’t even know what show is playing. There’s a talking dog on the screen now. Maybe it's a cooking show. Who knows. He’s dying.

“You didn’t fall asleep” Shin says, voice light and almost…amused?

Saint clears his throat. “Nope.”

“You didn’t move either.”

Saint shrugs, his voice somehow managing to work. “Contemplating the mysteries of the universe.”

“Huh” Shin pads over and drops down beside him with a heavy, tired sigh. The couch dips under his weight, and Saint can feel the warmth of him immediately. He smells like soap, cherry shampoo, clean skin, and his personal damnation. “Find any answers ?”

“Not a single one,” Saint says, and mentally adds, Except maybe that I’m doomed and in love with you and none of this is survivable.

He watches from the corner of his eye as Shin leans back, finally able to unwind from the long, hard day he had. He’s relaxed in that way only Shin can be, like his body is still sore but his soul just melted into the cushions.

And Saint ? Saint is a man hanging on by a thread thinner than dental floss.

Shin turns his head toward him, voice soft now. “Thanks for the ride.”

Saint looks at him, really looks, and the words catch in his throat.

Shin’s lashes are damp, his cheeks faintly flushed from the hot water, and he’s smiling. Just a small, tired smile. A real one. The kind that hits Saint straight in the ribs.

“You say that like I’m not your personal chauffeur” he manages, feigning offense, though his lips curve just a bit too fondly for it to land.

Shin snorts, his eyes gleaming under the warm light of the living room lamp. “You forgot full-time punching bag and part-time chef.”

Saint chuckles, leaning back onto the couch with the casualness of someone actively trying not to stare at the curve of Shin’s throat. 

“All-around Saint,” he says, tilting his head like he’s thinking, testing how the words roll on his tongue. “Name checks out.”

That earns him a groan. “That was terrible.”

“You’re welcome.”

Shin rolls his eyes, dragging a throw pillow behind his back and settling deeper into the couch, moving slowly like his limbs are protesting every shift. 

There’s a little wince when he stretches his legs out.

“Still sore ?” Saint asks, letting his head tip to the side as he watches Shin’s nearly perfect face.

“Yeah” Shin sighs, dragging a hand down his thigh like it’s personally betrayed him. “My legs are still killing me. Like, I actually don’t think they’re attached to my body anymore. I think they quit. Not even a hot shower managed to solve the problem”

Saint raises an eyebrow, mouth quirking up. “You want me to call an exorcist ? Or a massage therapist ?”

Shin gives him an amused sideways glance, his lips quirking up slightly. “You volunteering?”

Oh.  

Oh, shit . 

That was a joke, right ? 

It sounded like a joke. It probably was a joke. 

So naturally, Saint’s entire nervous system decides to play Russian roulette with his dignity.

“Yeah. Sure. I mean—if you want to,” he blurts before his brain can slam the emergency brakes.

Shin blinks at him, clearly not expecting that answer. “Wait, seriously ?”

Saint shrugs, aiming for casual but landing somewhere just shy of convincing. His hands tuck into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders tight with the kind of tension he hopes passes for nonchalance.

“Seriously,” he says, and it almost sounds smooth. If not for the fraction of a second too long it takes to come out.

He doesn’t look at Shin when he says it. Doesn’t trust himself to.

What the hell are you doing !? Screams another, slightly more panicked and rational voice inside of his head. 

Great, now Peeta is in there, too. Just wonderful. Perfect timing, really.

He wants to grab himself by the collar and shake. Why? Why would he say that? 

Why offer up his hands like this is some sort of normal, friendly behavior? 

It’s not. He knows it’s not. 

Normal people do not offer full-service thigh massages to their best friends. 

Normal people do not daydream about the exact angle of Shin’s hip bones while trying to pretend like they're watching a documentary on penguins or whatever’s on the muted TV right now. 

But here he is. Committing to the bit. Volunteering as tribute Katniss Everdeen style.

Because Shin looked at him. And smiled. And trusted him enough to joke like that, and Saint—Saint is nothing if not a fool in love.

Shin is still watching him, eyes a little wide, like he’s waiting for the punchline. Like he can’t decide if Saint is joking or not.

Spoiler alert: he’s not. 

He’s about as far from joking as someone can get while still managing to breathe normally. 

And breathe he must, because if Shin decides to take him up on the offer, there is a very real chance Saint will forget how lungs work.

There’s a pause. A beat.

Shin’s lips twitch into that small, tired smile again, like something soft just clicked into place. And Saint, poor bastard, feels it like a goddamn meteor to the chest.

And if Shin says yes, if he actually follows through with this—

He doesn’t have the time to think about his very real, and very much catastrophic existential crisis.

Because Shin moves. 

Just like that. 

He groans as he flips onto his stomach with exaggerated drama, like this is so much effort and he’s clearly suffering for it. He drags one of the throw pillows under his chin, stretching himself out lazily across the couch.

And with absolutely zero warning—none at all—he lifts both legs and drops them squarely across Saint’s lap.

Saint’s mind bluescreens.

His soul ascends to heaven.

His brain makes the dial-up internet noise from 2003.

Shin is belly down, shirt— his shirt— riding up just enough to show a flash of lower back, shorts clinging a little too well to his thighs, his legs now comfortably lounging over Saint like he’s a fucking recliner.

“This good ?” Shin says, glancing at him innocently over his shoulder, like he doesn’t just casually rearrange Saint’s internal organs every time he breathes.

Saint clears his throat. Twice. “Y-Yeah. That works.”

It doesn’t. 

It’s not fine. 

It’s the opposite of fine. 

Saint is two seconds away from dissolving into a puddle of hormonal disaster.

He is so not making it out alive.

Shin shifts a little more on the couch, on him , dragging his legs a little closer. 

“Alright then” he says, tone light but curious. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Mr. Puppy Face”

Saint blinks, staring at Shin’s thighs now stretched on top of him. Long, golden, clearly sculpted by some vengeful god with a thirst for drama and suffering. Or maybe just his suffering. 

Because that’s what this is. A test. A cosmic joke. A direct attack on his remaining self-control.

Or a blessing . 

Ok, he really doesn’t need Eve’s voice in his head right now. Hell no. 

Not when Shin is right there, sprawled on his lap, face down, ass up, waiting.

He can’t help it, he surrenders to each and every of his instincts as he lets his eyes wander, shutting every other thing, voice and thought out. 

Down the length of Shin’s legs, the way muscle shifts beneath smooth, sun-kissed skin with every lazy movement. His shorts have ridden up just enough to make Saint's brain melt, just enough to see the solid line of his quad, the curve where it meets the inside of his thigh. 

It’s obscene, almost, how casually it’s all laid out for him.

Like this isn’t something sacred. Like it’s not rewriting the entire chemistry of Saint’s body just to look.

And when his gaze travels a little higher—

Saint swallows hard, the movement catching in his throat. Because those shorts—thin, worn-in, soft—are doing exactly nothing to protect him from temptation. The way they cling when Shin shifts his weight, the fabric pulled tight across the swell of muscle and resting low on his hips.

And God, Shin’s ass.

Unfair. Criminal, even.

Perfectly round, perfectly lifted. Obscene in the best possible way, shaped like it was designed by someone who got a little too emotionally invested during character creation. Full and firm, with just enough give to make Saint lose all his good sense and maybe his ability to form coherent sentences. 

And, fuck, football practice might kill Shin, alright, but it absolutely obliterates Saint. Because all that running around three days a week has been doing unspeakably effective things to Shin’s body. Like, rude things. Illegal things. Things that should come with a warning label and possibly a restraining order for public indecency, even when fully clothed.

And it’s not like he hasn’t noticed before, of course he did, he’s not blind. But now ?

Now it’s right there. Front row. Center stage like it’s auditioning for a goddamn spotlight in his fantasies. Not that it needs to, that role has belonged to it ever since Saint’s hormones woke up one day in ninth grade and decided to choose violence for the rest of his life.

And now Shin’s fidgeting. One leg stretching farther out, the other bending at the knee, causing his hips to tilt just slightly. His ass shifts with it, firm and stupidly perfect, like the universe decided to hand-sculpt a masterpiece that would haunt Saint’s dreams and then casually drape it across his lap like that’s normal.

He swears he can see the faint outline of muscle flex with every little movement. It’s hypnotic. It’s evil. It’s art.

And Saint is one second away from genuinely having to pray about it. Not even because he’s religious, just because he needs some kind of divine intervention to look away.

Saint’s jaw is clenched.

His brain is a blur of panic and want. Every rational thought drowned out by pure, primal ‘ look at him’ instinct.

This isn’t just thirst. 

This is hunger.  

He drags his eyes back up, as slowly as he dares. Up from those thighs to the curve of Shin’s hips, half-hidden by the hem of his oversized shirt. One inch of exposed skin between fabric and waistband, and it’s killing him.

He wants to touch. Trace. Dig his fingers into that soft skin and pull Shin closer, slide his hands under the fabric and explore every inch he’s only dreamed of.

Instead, he breathes. In. Out. In. Out.

Control. You have control. Right?

Wrong. Because then Shin lets out a soft sigh, moving again, and Saint feels it. Feels the subtle weight of him pressing into his lap, the stretch of muscle beneath smooth skin, the pure heat radiating off him.

His entire nervous system goes haywire.

Mayday. Pull out. Punch yourself in the face. Do something.

But then, in the middle of the madness in his brain, something cracks. Something soft.

Shin sighs again, this time not from pain or discomfort, but from something else. Something heavier, more tangible. A gentle, barely perceptible thing, but it’s enough to make Saint’s heart stutter, skip a beat, and then skip another, like a malfunctioning record player.

His gaze flicks back to Shin’s face. The way his eyes are closed now, his jaw relaxed, the corner of his mouth tipping upward ever so slightly.

It’s an involuntary reaction, this pull. It’s like gravity, he can’t escape it. It literally keeps him anchored to the ground. 

Saint’s stomach flips as he realizes just how much it’s not just the physical proximity, the heat radiating from Shin’s body, or the soft curve of his thighs that’s getting to him. 

It’s the trust . The trust that’s there in the way Shin hasn’t pulled away but shifted closer, hasn’t told him to stop but encouraged him, hasn’t even stiffened in discomfort but half-melted right onto his lap.

Shin might not know this, but Saint’s entire universe just flipped on its head.

Because Saint’s been staring, yes, but Shin has been letting him . He’s been waiting for him to touch, to feel, to get closer. 

Saint feels it now, subtle but undeniable in the way Shin’s breathing deepens ever so slightly, like he’s been waiting for Saint to cross that line.

The realization hits hard.

It’s the kind of revelation that makes Saint’s chest tighten, the kind that makes him feel like his whole body’s been carved out and replaced with something that aches , something soft and unsure and totally out of his control.

Because this isn’t just Saint trying to keep it together anymore. 

It’s Shin.

It’s Shin looking at him like he’s not afraid of whatever might happen, like he’s not backing away from this, from him.

Because what Saint doesn’t know is that Shin’s most definitely not planning to back away from it.

It’s almost unfair how easy this is.

Saint’s touch is tentative, non-existent really, hands hovering like he’s afraid Shin might shatter under the slightest pressure.

Adorable.

And, honestly, laughably naïve.

Shin keeps his face hidden in the pillow, not because he’s shy, or embarrassed, but because he’s smiling, and if Saint catches even a glimpse of that smug little curve of his mouth, the game is over.

Because the thing is Shin’s not sore enough to need this anymore. Not really. Not after the long, hot shower he took twenty minutes ago. The kind of shower that brings you back to life after a long day. The kind of shower that melts away every bit of tension and stress from your muscles. The kind of shower where he made sure— very sure—he was squeaky clean, pristine everywhere. Just in case.

He’s not stupid. He’s seen the way Saint looks at him. The way his eyes linger, the way his gaze always seems to gravitate, magnetic and helpless, whenever Shin stretches or sits just a little too close. He’s caught the pink blooming at the tips of Saint’s ears, the barely-there stutter in his voice when Shin leans in with a little too much familiarity.

And sure, maybe he took a bit longer in the bathroom tonight. Maybe he spent an extra few minutes between his thighs, until there was nothing left to worry about.

Not because he expected anything to happen necessarily—he’s not that delusional—but because he knows Saint. And he knows that the second he throws out a well-timed line, maybe shifts his hips a little, lets the hem of his shorts ride up just a fraction higher…

Saint will fold like a napkin.

He’s counting on it.

That’s why he drops the line, letting his voice go a little lazy, a little teasing.

“So ? Are you putting those big hands of yours to work, or do you plan to stare at my ass all day ?”

And the silence that follows ? Delicious.

He doesn’t need to look. Doesn’t need to. He knows Saint’s brain has just shut down. Can practically hear the little Windows XP shutdown sound going off behind him.

Oh yeah. That one hit the mark.

Shin lets his hips sway ever so slightly, like he’s just getting comfortable. Nothing overt. Nothing obscene. Just enough to let the fabric stretch and shift, hugging tight around his curves before relaxing again. 

An accidental display. A visual landmine for the battlefield that is Saint’s sanity in that moment.

He stretches a little more, forearms sinking into the couch cushions, spine arching ever so subtly. Like he has no idea what he’s doing.

Which is a lie, of course. He’s been planning this. Thinking about this very moment day and night. For months now.

Because he’s tired of pretending.

Tired of waiting for Saint to get brave enough to act on what he feels, what they both feel, when Shin has been throwing hints like a fucking game of Cluedo while embarrassing himself more times than not in the process.

(That joke about the shower earlier? Yeah, he spent about five whole minutes cringing under the hell-level temperature water before collecting himself and remembering that it might’ve been painful for his self-esteem but necessary for his heart to finally find what it’s been wanting for years)

So tonight ? Shin is giving him a nudge. 

Just a small one. An invitation wrapped in casual flirtation.

And if Saint wants to pretend this is still just a massage ?

He’s welcome to try.

But Shin is already clean. Already ready. Already so far ahead it’s not even funny.

Okay, maybe it’s a little funny.

The kind of funny that makes his stomach twist with anticipation.

The kind that leaves him holding his breath, just a little, waiting to feel Saint’s hands finally stop hesitating.

Meanwhile, Saint is on the verge of collapse.

Because, no, he was not prepared for that level of blunt weaponry. 

That wasn’t just a simple phrase, that was a war crime. A full-scale psychological assault launched without warning.

Big hands? Big— 

Okay, no, we are not going there , Saint thinks, panic rising like steam in his skull. 

This is fine. Totally fine. Best friends banter like this all the time.

Best friends talk about hand size and vaguely suggestive implications and make dangerously specific eye contact. That’s normal . That’s what friends do . 

Right?

Wrong. So damn wrong.

Why? Why did Shin say it like that? All casual and lazy and smug, like he knew Saint was two seconds away from spontaneously combusting? Like he could feel Saint’s eyeballs burning a hole in his gym shorts?

Saint forces his eyes up, away from the view, away from temptation, away from the absolute sculpted hellscape that is Shin’s lower body, and back to something safe. Like his neck. Or the pillow. Or the wall. Yeah. The wall seems emotionally stable.

But his hands still hover over Shin’s thighs, frozen mid-air like he’s waiting for divine permission to touch something sacred. 

Because that’s what it feels like.

Shin’s luscious body is holy. Tabernacle-level.

He shifts on the couch, trying to get his breathing under control, his dignity back in order, and something else down.

“Everything okay ?” Shin asks, voice light, teasing, but laced with something else now. Something sharper. Aware.

Saint’s eyes snap to his face, and Shin’s still got that damn pillow under his cheek, but he’s watching him now. Carefully. Like he knows exactly what kind of meltdown Saint is having.

Saint’s sweating. His heart is doing the conga. His brain has packed up and left the building. His dick is very much not helping. But he nods. Or at least he thinks he does. His body has entered some sort of emergency autopilot mode, and he’s not entirely sure what signals he’s sending anymore. For all he knows, he could be morse-coding "please ruin me" with his eyelashes.

Which. Honestly? Feels alarmingly on brand right now.

Then, because he seems to love digging a grave for himself—

“Fine” he clears his throat. “Just—assessing the situation.”

Oh, God. 

Oh, God he should tape his mouth shut and never open it again.

Did he—Did he just make a pun ? 

Ass- essing ? Seriously ?

Is his brain-to-mouth filter broken ? 

Is he broken ? Drooling over his best friend so much his saliva damaged the circuits connecting his synapses to his tongue and letting him make an absolute idiot out of himself?

Shin’s lips twitch, like he’s caught his little slip up. “And what’s the verdict ?”

A national treasure , Saint’s brain screams as he is still trying to process the absolute shit-show that just occurred. 

Thankfully, his mouth, somehow still attached to his last shred of dignity, supplies a cracked “Tense. Probably needs work.”

But Shin doesn’t help. Of course he doesn’t. He shifts slightly, hips tilting, legs parting just enough to make Saint’s palms itch with the effort of staying still. Like it’s an open invitation.

Like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Mmh” Shin hums, low and amused, seemingly enjoying Saint’s disastrous performance. “Start working then”

And then he just snickers. A little smug, barely-there sound, muffled into the pillow but absolutely heard.

Menace. Demon. Incubus in sweatshorts.

Saint glares at the back of his stupid beautiful head and prays for strength.

“Okay,” he exhales, voice weirdly calm considering the mental chaos behind it. “Okay. Just, uh—tell me if anything hurts.”

He shifts closer, palms finally settling on Shin’s thighs, the warmth of his skin bleeding through the thin cotton of his shorts.

And oh . 

This is... different. 

Touching Shin’s legs like this is not the same as all the other times they’ve manhandled each other into headlocks on the couch or tangled up during lazy movie nights or play-wrestled on Shin’s bed until someone (read: Saint) accidentally got a boner and told himself it was totally because of the plot of the movie and not because Shin had straddled him to steal the last gummy worm.

This is intentional. 

This is hands on bare thighs with no buffer of chaotic friendship or a flimsy excuse like “you’ve got a bruise there, let me check it out.” 

And now his hands are just... there. Resting. 

And Shin’s skin is warm . 

Warm and soft and unfairly smooth, like he exfoliates for fun or moisturizes with some enchanted elven balm. And the muscle underneath? Yeah, that’s definitely there too. Taut and shifting, responding to every little brush of Saint’s thumbs like it’s trying to have a full conversation with his fingertips.

Saint swallows hard. His brain makes a sound like a fax machine giving up.

Because sure, they've touched before. Shin’s been in his lap. On his back. Wrapped around him like some kind of clingy jungle cat. That’s not new. 

What’s new is that now every inch of contact is humming like it’s hooked up to a car battery, and Saint can feel it.
Every flex. Every twitch. Every breath Shin lets out through his nose like he’s trying not to react but absolutely is .

His hands press down gently into the muscle, cautious, feeling it tense and shift beneath them. 

Shin exhales a deep breath, his head tipping back slightly.

“Jesus,” he moans. “That’s—holy shit, that’s good .”

Saint freezes.

Not because he wants to stop, but because that wasn’t just praise. That wasn’t polite thank-you-for-your-service level appreciation.

That was guttural. The kind of sound that bypasses the brain entirely and sinks straight into the gut like a perfectly-thrown punch.

He’s never heard Shin sound like that before. Never heard that exact mix of relief and something else. Something warm and low and bordering on… want.

Saint tries to keep his breathing steady. He focuses on the way the muscles feel underneath his fingers, on the way Shin leans back into his touch like he trusts him completely. Like this is ordinary.

It isn’t. It’s torture.

And he is afraid he is loving every second of it.

“Just relax,” he murmurs, voice lower than he means. And he honestly doesn’t know if he is talking to Shin or himself.

Shin hums in approval, and the sound vibrates through Saint like a struck chord.

The massage starts to travel upward, slower, more focused.  

Saint’s thumbs drag slow circles into the firm muscle of Shin’s thighs, working his way up with careful, steady pressure. Every now and then, Shin lets out a soft groan, low and unfiltered, and Saint has to bite down on his own tongue not to respond.

He tells himself this is fine. Normal. Best friend shit.

Except it’s not. Not with the way Shin’s head keeps tilting to the side, exposing the smooth curve of his neck. Not with the way his thighs are parting, just a little wider, under Saint’s hands.

Saint clears his throat. “Tell me if I’m pushing too hard.”

“You’re not pushing hard enough,” Shin mutters, voice half-lost in the couch cushions.

Saint’s mouth quirks up before he can stop it. “Bossy.”

“I’m in pain. Shut up and fix it.”

“I can go harder if you want,” Saint offers, his voice a little too rough, like it’s scraped against gravel on the way out. 

He tries to keep it casual, but nothing about this is casual. Not when Shin looks like that. Not when he’s spread out under his hands like temptation given shape.

“Mmh,” Shin hums, eyes still closed, lips parted in a way that should be illegal. “Yeah. Harder’s good.”

Saint bites the inside of his cheek so hard he might draw blood. 

It’s either that or visibly combust. 

Because of course Shin says that. Just casually, innocently, like he doesn’t know the kind of thoughts that line sends tearing through Saint’s brain like an out-of-control freight train.

Images his mind has so helpfully conjured of Shin saying that in a different tone, under entirely different circumstances, clothes forgotten, arms and knees firmly planted on the mattress, his back arching, his whole body rocking with the force of Saint’s thrusts, finger digging into his waist—

Saint blinks hard, suddenly way too hot, way too aware of the growing ache between his legs, and the fact that now is absolutely not the time for this. 

But his brain, as usual, does not care. And neither does his mouth if it keeps talking like he might offer his whole self to Shin if he just as much as breathed.

Focus. Focus. Focus. For the love of God, just focus .

Saint tries. Tries really hard. He pushes the Very Inappropriate Visual his brain is enthusiastically offering to the background and, instead, lets his hands drift higher, inch by inch. From knee to mid-thigh, working slow precise circles then just above, fingers brushing over the hem of Shin’s shorts before retreating.

A tease, he realizes. 

He’s teasing . 

He’s not even doing it on purpose, he swears; but it feels like his hands are piloted by some sexed-up massage demon now. 

And that demon? Has no chill.

The muscles beneath his palms flex in response, and Saint watches them move under his hands like a man hypnotized. 

Like he’s never seen legs before. 

Which is ridiculous because he has . Dozens of times.

Except these legs are Shin’s, and Shin is warm under his fingers, and there’s a heat rising from his skin that’s got nothing to do with the massage. 

And Saint can feel it, feel him, like a pulse. Ardent, and real, and dangerous. 

Every breath Shin takes feels like a dare.

But he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move away.

Instead, he exhales, slow and shaky, and murmurs, “Fuck, Saint. Your hands…”

Saint freezes like someone hit pause on his entire central nervous system. His breath snags halfway up his throat.

“What about them?” he asks, and the words sound far too innocent coming from a man whose heart just hit Mach 5.

Shin stiffens slightly, as if realizing what he’s said.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, like he didn’t mean to speak at all. Like he let those words slip unintentionally. 

But then, after a beat, too casual to be casual, he adds “They’re just… good. Big. Warm.”

Saint’s heart slams against his ribs.

Because there this sinful, devilish yet at the same time borderline angelic creature laying on his lap goes again. To his hands. How good and big they are. How warm. For the second time.

And it’s not helping. 

Because it means Shin’s been thinking about it. About Saint’s hands, how they would feel on him, how big and strong they would be. Leaving fabric behind, touching him, tuning him around, pressing, pushing, stroking, worshiping—

Stop. No, no, no, no.

He can’t. He can’t hyperfixate on that, he won’t survive.

But it’s too late because Shin’s words echo in his brain again and again.

Big. Warm.  

Great. Now he’s going to be thinking about that for the next decade. Possibly forever. Engraved into the inside of his skull. 

And now Saint can feel his hands. Too much. Like the awareness of them has quadrupled just from Shin saying it. His own fingers suddenly feel foreign, obscene. Like he shouldn’t be allowed to just have them attached to his body while Shin’s talking like that.

The weight of the moment becomes impossible to ignore. Heavy. Loaded. 

The air around them is charged, and when Saint moves just a little higher—just an inch, just enough to feel the gentle give of Shin’s muscle under his fingers—he feels it. The heat. The tension. The desire for more.

This isn’t just some friend-helps-friend tension release anymore. No, it’s deeper than that. 

This is something else. 

Saint can feel it in every inch of skin they’re not touching yet, and damn does it scare him. It terrifies him. This paralyzing fear of making one wrong move and losing Shin forever. It’s irrational, he knows that. But it’s there, alive and well, and he just can’t get rid of it.

But he can’t stop now. Not when Shin is looking at him with those eyes. Not when he’s letting him touch him like this.

So he keeps going. Because he might be a coward, yes, and telling Shin he’s been in love with him since the beginning of time, since the molecules that make up their bodies, their souls , even existed feels like the end of the world. But also? He is a greedy one. Because he has the masterpiece that is his best friend right where he has imagined him for years. And he has no intention to let him go.

He lets his hands roam further, just enough to make Shin shift again, his breath coming out shaped like a small moan. Barely there, but with still enough presence to be heard.

Saint’s heart skips, his pulse stuttering in his veins, because it’s too much . The sound goes straight to Saint’s cock like a live wire, making it twitch in interest.

Fuck. Fuck . He cannot have a hard-on right now.

He adjusts his grip, moving higher, thumbs pressing into the tops of Shin’s thighs, dangerously close to the edge of where ‘safe’ ends and ‘Saint’s self-control goes on vacation’ begins.

Oh, look, there's the beach. Hello, tropical drinks. Nice to meet you, I'm Saint, and I'm about to make a huge mistake.

Shin adjusts again, and Saint curses under his breath, trying, and failing, to ignore how much he wants to push things further. 

His erection throbs again. Twice. Just for good measure.

He just needs to get through this. Not a big deal. He’s been in worse situations, right? Yeah, probably. Definitely. But none of those involved this much temptation.

Saint takes a deep breath. Maybe he can make it without combusting. Maybe.

“You’re tense here,” he says, and it comes out almost casual. Almost. Like he’s not having a full-blown internal breakdown.

“No shit,” Shin mutters the ghost of a chuckle woven into his voice, then softer “You can go higher.”

Saint pauses.

“Shin—”

“It’s okay,” Shin says, voice barely above a whisper now. 

And then he shifts. Just slightly. Just enough for his hips to tilt, enough to roll his ass higher into Saint’s space. 

It could be innocent. A stretch. A readjustment. 

But Saint knows better. 

He might be dumb, but he’s not that dumb.

Because when he looks up, Shin’s watching him. Just barely, through heavy-lidded eyes, the corner of his mouth curling in a way that’s down right illegal in at least twenty countries. 

And that smile ? That tiny, criminal, end-of-the-world smirk ?

Yeah. Saint might not be totally stupid, but he sure is totally a slave for that stunning curve in Shin’s face.

“I want you to.” Shin adds, voice soft and devastating.

The words hit like a live wire, lighting every nerve in Saint’s body on fire.

And, right there, with Shin looking at him like that , Saint realizes he is screwed. Completely, utterly screwed.

Because Shin not only is letting him do this.

He wants it.

And who is he not to grant Shin his wishes ?

So he moves again, slower now, thumbs grazing the crease where thigh meets hip like he’s scared the fabric of reality might split open if he goes too fast. His fingers curl around the edge of Shin’s shorts and push them just a little higher. 

A test. A question. 

The hem teases his knuckles now, and yep, there it is. He feels Shin’s breath catch. Sees the subtle clench, the arch of his back, that impossible-to-miss answer written in motion instead of words.

“Let me know if it’s too much,” he murmurs, trying to sound professional. Like he’s not seconds away from turning into a puddle on the floor.

“It’s not,” Shin says, quiet, but sure. “You’re good.”

That should ground him.

It doesn’t.

Instead it hits somewhere deep, in a place that burns in the best way. 

It’s the honesty in Shin’s voice. The softness. Because Shin trusts him. Fully, openly. And Saint knows that he could probably dare to kiss his knee right now and Shin wouldn’t flinch. That he could probably push higher, keep going, all the way, and Shin would just keep letting him.

Because Shin wants this.

His thumb’s brushing along the inside of Shin’s thighs now, not far from where heat pools and tension lives. His touch gentles there, more careful, more aware of how dangerously close he is to crossing a line.

Every nerve in his hands feels electrified, like he’s one wrong move from either burning alive or being born anew.

But Shin still doesn’t stop him.

If anything, he relaxes more, legs falling just a touch wider like a flower opening to light.

Saint’s whole system overloads.

Because Shin has been rather clear about what he wants, but he can’t help asking himself how far Shin wants him to go.

Would he want Saint to kiss the inside of his thighs ? 

Would he want him to bury his face between them, hold him open and feel him fall apart ? 

Would he want him to take his time, slow and aching, like Shin is something precious to unwrap? 

Would he want Saint to whisper filthy things into his skin, tell him how good he tastes, how beautiful he is like this? 

Would he want him to keep going even when his thighs start to shake, when his breath stutters, when all he can do is gasp Saint’s name like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary? 

Would he want Saint to fuck him with his tongue, his fingers slow and sinful, until he’s whining, wrecked and desperate for more? 

Would he ? 

Because Saint—God, Saint would comply. In a heartbeat.

And now all the filth in his head is filling something else, somewhere all of his blood seems to be eager to travel to. It’s filling it painfully .

“Still ok ?” he asks instead, voice rough now because he’s not, and he needs to make sure at least one of them has a handle on reality.

Shin nods. “Better than ok.”

Saint’s mouth is dry. Pulse a damn drum solo. 

He could stop. Should stop.

But then Shin leans back into him, skin warm and inviting, and all that noble restraint just evaporates into steam.

Saint tries to act normal as he reaches for the small bottle of massage oil Shin keeps in the cabinet near the sofa. Totally normal. Like he is not actively trying to not imagine kissing and worshipping every inch of his best friend.

The little container is half full, probably hasn’t been used in months, but it warms quickly between his palms. Unlike him, who has been steadily boiling alive for the past ten minutes.

His heart’s a full-blown riot in his chest. 

He’s not sure if Shin notices how his hands tremble slightly when he flips the cup open, or how he’s breathing like he’s just run a mile, but if he does, he doesn’t say anything. He just stays there, sprawled out on the couch, looking unfairly relaxed and maddeningly gorgeous in nothing but his worn gym shorts, Saint’s shirt, and that soft flush on his cheeks.

“Gonna get a little slippery,” Saint warns, trying for casual and failing spectacularly.

“Sounds good” Shin hums, barely looking over his shoulder. “It’ll make things easier”

Oh, fucking hell. 

Shin is doing it on purpose. Right ?

He can’t just say things like that, so effortlessly. Right ?

That was an innuendo. That was absolutely an innuendo, wasn’t it?

He coughs, trying to play it off, but it’s way too late now. 

He’s already imagining it, the way Shin must’ve heard that. The way Shin’s definitely aware of what he just implied and, fuck, why does he look so… pleased with himself?

No, no, no. He did not just make it worse. He’s totally fine. This is fine.

But Shin isn’t letting it go. The smirk on his face is getting wider, and it’s like he knows exactly what Saint is thinking, how he’s spiraling. 

He’s enjoying it.

And that? That does it. Saint’s heart skips, and he twitches inside of his pants at the thought of that tone. 

He’s about to lose it. He can’t decide if he wants to crawl into a hole and die or if he just wants to drag Shin closer and kiss him senseless to shut him up. 

The mental image of Shin teasing him like this, knowing exactly what he's doing, is enough to make Saint sweat.

Saint closes his eyes for a second, willing his body to calm the hell down. 

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, face flaming.

Shin chuckles softly, a dark sound that makes Saint’s stomach flip. Or maybe it’s the complete innocence Shin tries to mask his pleased grin with that fuels the fire in his veins.

Saint’s still trying to pretend this is fine. 

Except now he’s the one who's feeling slippery, and it has nothing to do with oil.

He kneels behind Shin this time, pouring a bit of oil into his hands and rubbing them together before pressing his palms against the backs of Shin’s thighs. 

The glide is immediate. Smooth. Heated.

And Shin moans —a low, breathy sound that hits Saint like a sucker punch.

He swears under his breath. “You’ve gotta stop doing that.”

“Doing what ?” Shin asks, lazy and innocent.

“Sounding like that .”

Shin laughs— laughs —but it’s breathless, shaky. “You’re the one touching me like that .”

Saint doesn’t answer. No comeback. No coherent thoughts. His brain is empty.

He’s too busy chasing the goosebumps rising on Shin’s skin, dragging his thumbs up and down his thighs, slipping higher and higher until the edges of Shin’s shorts are no longer a boundary but a question waiting to be answered.

And Shin answers it first.

He shifts, just enough to help, to silently ask for more. Just enough to say yes without words.

Saint freezes.

His hands hover mid-glide, palms slick and fingers dangerously close to where every line they shouldn’t cross is humming like an electric fence. 

Except—except Shin just lifted his hips . 

Not accidentally. Not in a sleepy, absent-minded, oops-my-butt’s-in-your-hands kind of way.

No. That was deliberate. That was consent served on a silver platter with a side of please wreck me .

Saint’s brain is melting. He’s sure of it. Neurons shorting out like exposed wires.

He takes a breath. Then another. Tries to force oxygen into lungs that clearly went on strike about five minutes ago. 

His fingers twitch against Shin’s skin, waiting for something. Words, a sign, divine intervention maybe.

And then Shin speaks. Soft. Sure. Sinful.

“Touch me, Saint”

That’s it. That’s all he needs.

Saint doesn’t know if he groans out loud or if it just feels like a groan lives in his bones now, because his whole body responds in one aching, involuntary pulse. 

He leans in, hands smoothing up the backs of Shin’s thighs, thumbs teasing toward the crease where skin grows more tender, more secret. The oil makes it seamless, like touching warm silk.

“Still good ?” he asks again, voice hoarse and higher than he’d like to admit, because if he doesn’t, he might combust from sheer tension. Or do something unspeakably dumb like whisper a reverent thank you into the curve of Shin’s spine.

“Better than good,” Shin assures again. Same words, but heavier now. Thicker with meaning.

Saint swallows hard. 

His hands drift higher, barely , tracing the curve of Shin’s ass beneath the fabric, fingers worshipful, like he’s memorizing every detail. Because maybe he is. Maybe this is some dream he’s going to wake up from, alone and sweating and emotionally wrecked. 

But right now? Shin’s here. Under him. Open. Willing. Trusting.

Trusting him to not fuck this up.

Saint adjusts, trying to ease Shin’s shorts down, moving slowly enough to give him time to pull away if he wants. But he doesn’t. 

Shin lifts his hips again, silently helping, and that quiet kind of intimacy? That unspoken I’m giving you this ?

Yeah, Saint’s gone. He’s so far past the line he’s in a new time zone.

But Shin doesn’t stop there. 

He takes the lead. 

With an almost lazy precision, he pulls his own shorts down, inch by deliberate inch. The way his fingers curl into the waistband, tugging it down with effortless ease, draws Saint’s attention completely. It’s slow, too slow, too intentional, and Saint can’t look away. 

Shin’s movements are almost teasing, deliberate in their restraint, as though he knows exactly what he’s doing to Saint, knows exactly how much of this slow reveal is driving him to the edge.

When the fabric finally slips over his hips and down his legs, Saint’s breath gets knocked out of his lungs.

Holy. Actual. Fuck.

His gaze locks on the exposed skin, his mind scrambling to process the sudden, overwhelming reality.

No underwear.

There is nothing under those shorts, if not inch after inch of devastating perfection.

Shin’s naked. 

He’s completely fucking naked except for the shirt— his goddamn shirt—now pooling slightly on the curve of his back.

This is Saint’s last straw.

His hands freeze, almost trembling as they hover in the space between them.

Shin is beautiful. Stunning. All soft curves and firm muscle, legs spread just enough to drive Saint completely insane. His skin gleams under the soft light, slick with oil, each curve and dip highlighted with perfection. Shin’s body is art, a masterpiece he’s freely offering, and Saint’s pulse picks up, a hot rush flooding his veins. 

His mind can’t process it, can’t hold onto anything except the image of Shin. Perfect, exposed, confident in a way that sends Saint into a spiral. 

And he just… stares. Like an idiot.

A very horny, very reverent idiot.

Saint doesn’t know what to do with himself. His hands are still, like he’s suddenly afraid to touch, even though that’s the one thing his body is screaming for. 

Every inch of Shin’s exposed skin is like an invitation, a challenge, and it’s slowly driving Saint to the brink of losing his mind.

Shin, on the other hand, seems completely at ease, like he’s doing nothing more than casually shedding his clothes. 

But the way his body moves, the way his hips roll just slightly as he slips the last of his shorts down and kicks them off to the side, is anything but casual. 

It’s thought through. Calculated. 

A perfect contrast to Saint’s spiraling thoughts.

He tries to breathe. Tries to focus. But every inhale is a struggle, every exhale a battle to keep his hands from reaching out and just touch, just feel .

And then, just as Saint thinks he might combust, Shin turns his head slightly, his eyes locking onto his with that predatory, dark edge that makes his chest tighten.

“Oh?” he utters, voice smooth and sweet as honey. “Are you done already?”

It’s a challenge, the casual way Shin says it. Like he knows exactly what Saint is thinking, but is willing to drag him further into this mess.

And Saint is nothing but ready to let himself be dragged.

He doesn’t trust his voice, so he doesn’t say anything at all. Instead, he lets his hands move—slowly, trembling slightly—one anchoring on Shin’s lower back, the other sweeping up over his thigh, higher, circling the curve of his ass with slow, careful intent. 

Because what use is it to pretend right now ? To act like he hasn’t wanted Shin like this ever since his brain and his body understood what attraction was ?

As if this craving is something new. As if it hasn’t been living in his bones for years. Quiet, loyal, devastating. As if he hasn’t memorized every version of Shin. 

As if he hasn’t been walking around with this want stitched under his skin, tucked behind every look, every touch. Wanting without asking. Loving without expecting.

So no. He decides he doesn’t want to pretend. Not now.

Not when Shin is here, bare and flushed and arching under his hands like he’s never wanted to be anywhere else. 

Not when Shin gave him this without words, when he reached back and tugged those shorts off himself like he knew what Saint would do, how he’d react, and was ready for it.

Not when Saint has spent sleepless nights imagining this very moment, only to wake up sweating, aching, and guilty.

And now? Shin’s real under his hands. Warm. Willing. His —at least right now, in this flickering stretch of time where nothing else exists.

Saint’s fingers drift higher, slow and steady, like he’s been waiting his whole life for this permission. He brushes the edge of Shin’s spine and feels the way Shin shifts under him. Subtle, but there.

It makes his head spin.

Shin shudders. A full-body ripple that makes Saint’s stomach flip.

He hears himself whisper, “Fuck, Shin…”

“Yeah?” Shin’s voice is barely there. Half-lidded, dreamy, but there’s a knowing lilt to it. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to him.

And now Saint is sure he does.

He leans down without thinking, presses a kiss just beneath Shin’s shoulder blade. Then another, and another. Just because he wants to. Just because he can .

“Tell me what you want” he whispers, thumb sliding slowly, oh so slowly, up the inside of Shin’s thigh.

Shin huffs a shaky breath.

“What do you think I want ?” he purrs, like the smuggest little angel in the history of smug angels.

To be fucked senseless until you’re so full of my cum, you can’t even walk properly without feeling me inside of you for days , his brain so politely provides, and Saint has the urge to bash his head against the nearest wall. Because now he cannot not think about the kind of image his mind has brought up from the deepest and horniest part of him.

“I-I don’t know” he stammers instead, his brain caught in the mess of it all, trying to untangle the raw lust filling him.

“Yes, you do” Shin’s smirk deepens, his voice turning playful, almost challenging. “Don’t lie to me Saint, you’ve never been good at it”

Every bit of oxygen leaves Saint’s lungs in a second.

Because Shin is right.

Every wall Saint has spent years hiding behind tumbles down. Brick after brick. Lust, and want, and need bleeding through the cracks.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice wrecked, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it. Needing the anchor. Something to keep him from flying off the planet.

Shin nods. Then, after a beat, says—quiet, certain, and totally not fair, “I’ve never been more sure.”

Well, fuck me sideways and call it character development.

Because the thing is, yeah, this is hot. Yeah, his whole body is basically an orchestra of desperate tension right now. 

But also? It’s more than that. 

It’s Shin .

And Shin is trusting him. Once again.

Saint leans down, presses a soft kiss to the back of his thigh, just above the knee. Then another, a little higher. 

Shin tenses slightly, then relaxes into it with an unsteady sigh.

“Okay?” Saint asks again, quieter this time. Like he’s asking more than just about those fleeting caresses of his lips.

Shin nods. “Perfect.”

So Saint goes on.

Small kisses, slow, each one a little higher, a little bolder.

His hands are still warm and gliding, massaging, kneading, but now mixed in are these soft, feather-light presses of his mouth over Shin’s skin, against the parts of him no one else has touched like this before.

When he reaches the underside of Shin’s ass, he stops. Waits.

Shin shifts. Just enough. Knees widening.

“Keep going”

That’s it. That’s the prayer. That’s the permission.

Saint exhales like he’s finally allowed to breathe after years of asphyxiation and leans in, pressing a kiss there. Slow. Deep. His hands knead Shin’s flesh, fingers splayed wide, as he holds him steady. Open. His.

And when Shin moans again. Quiet, wrecked, real. Saint swears he feels it in his soul .

His lips are still pressed to the warm swell of Shin’s ass, and for a long, suspended second, he doesn’t move. Just breathes. Soaks it in.

I did that, he thinks, dazed. I made him sound like that.

Saint is in deep. Like, Mariana Trench deep. Titanic-wreck-and-possibly-his-own-sanity deep.

He lifts his head slowly, eyes tracing the slick curve he just kissed, the faint shiver in Shin’s thighs, the rise and fall of his back. 

There’s tension in his shoulders, yes, but not the kind that screams discomfort. It’s anticipation, barely-contained want.

Saint places his hands on Shin’s hips, thumbs stroking little circles into the skin there. Then he drags his hands up again, slow and steady, appreciating every inch like it’s been carved by divine intervention specifically to haunt him. 

His palms settle on Shin’s lower back, one hand sliding up the dip of his spine, grounding him there. The other slips back down.

Lower. Bolder.

His fingertips trace along the crease, teasing now, testing, until Shin rolls his hips again, just the smallest movement. But it’s enough.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “There.”

Saint’s blood is lava. Liquid fire and poor decision-making.

He exhales shakily. “Fuck. Okay.”

He leans in again, mouth finding the inside of Shin’s thigh this time. 

The skin there is even softer, if that’s possible, and Shin gasps, quiet, but desperate, and Saint bites back a groan that probably would’ve come out sounding like a prayer and a curse smashed together.

“Saint,” Shin exhales, more breath than word, like the name is just falling out of him now.

“Mmh?”

“Don’t stop.”

God. God. God.

He’s fucked .

Saint presses his forehead against Shin’s thigh for a second, trying to collect himself. Which is laughable, because his body is screaming, and his brain has officially turned itself off. 

“I wasn’t planning to,” he finally rasps, kissing his way up again, the oil-slick warmth of Shin’s skin making it sinfully easy to glide, to explore, to savor.

And he probably should be concerned about the fact that massage oil isn’t exactly edible per se, but fuck if he can bring himself to care in this moment.

He kneels fully behind Shin’s legs, palms skimming over the backs of his thighs and up to his ass again, fingers pressing in gently, spreading him a little. Not far, just enough to feel the tension shift in the air.

And Shin doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t flinch. Just lowers his head against the pillow and exhales again, like he’s giving himself over piece by piece.

Saint could cry.

Instead, he breathes through his nose, presses another kiss, then another, and then he lets himself linger.

Saint isn’t sure what part of him makes the decision—his hands, his mouth, or the part of him that’s been slowly overridden by pure, unfiltered want—but suddenly he’s leaning in, hands steady on Shin’s cheeks as he parts them further, his fingers gripping the plump flesh, the solid muscle, and then—

Then he dives in.

His tongue glides between the swell of Shin’s cheeks, warm and slick, slow enough to draw out the shiver that races up Shin’s spine like lightning.

Shin makes a sound, somewhere between a moan and a startled whimper, and his whole body goes taut, like a live wire drawn too tight. Then slack again. Relaxed. Ready.

And Saint ? Saint practically sees God. One taste of Shin and the gates of paradise opened and welcomed him in.

He has never been so feral yet so careful in his entire life. 

It's almost offensive how reverent he feels right now, kneeling like this, hands firm and grounding, mouth pressed to the most intimate part of the man he’s been hopelessly into for what feels like forever.

And now he's here. He’s doing this.

“Oh, fuck—Saint—” Shin’s voice breaks, cracking right down the middle.

Saint moans in response, the sound muffled, vibrating where his mouth works with slow, deliberate pressure. 

His tongue strokes again, firmer this time, tracing soft, purposeful circles. Each pass makes Shin tremble harder, his hips rocking back just slightly, just enough to chase it.

His hold tightens just slightly, thumbs pressing into the dip of Shin’s hips to steady him, and he licks again, slow and filthy, and Shin inhales so sharply his back arches. 

There’s no mistaking it now: the way he moves, the way his knees slide wider on instinct, the way he’s pushing back, chasing Saint’s mouth, the way he’s making these raw, needy sounds that Saint never thought he would get to hear from him.

Shin needs this as much as he does. Craves it.

And Saint—fuck, Saint wants to give it. All of it.

So he spreads Shin open with both hands, fingers digging into the meat of his thighs like he’s staking a claim. He pulls him apart and leans in, tongue flicking once, teasing. And then he goes deeper . Licks in a slow, filthy stripe that ends in a wet press of his mouth right against Shin’s hole, warm and slick and intentional .

Then he spits —a quick, obscene little sound in the quiet—and laps it right back up, tongue circling the rim with a slow, hungry rhythm that borders on worship.

Shin jerks, thighs trembling.

“Holy shit,” he groans, voice muffled in the couch cushions. “That— fuck —you can’t just—”

“I can , ” Saint murmurs, grinning against him, breath hot now. “And I am . ”

The boldness surprises even him. Must be all the blood rushing south, overriding his shame center. 

He pushes his tongue in, deeper this time, tasting him, fucking him open with slow, relentless pressure. Filthy. Intent. Possessive. His hands grip tighter, keeping Shin spread and helpless and his , and it’s almost too much. Almost. Because Shin’s whole body is shaking now, hips rocking down like he can’t not move.

Saint moans into him, low and guttural, because fuck , the way Shin flutters around his tongue, hot and tight and responsive, is driving him insane. Like his mouth alone might be enough to pull Shin apart.

He flicks again, then sucks around the rim, slow and obscene.

And Shin cries out into the cushions, desperate and needy.

Saint’s a man possessed, drunk on every sound Shin makes, on every little shiver and sigh and whispered curse.

He flicks his tongue again, then presses in more deliberately, circling slowly before retreating just enough to tease. 

Shin groans, frustrated and wrecked.

“Don’t stop, ” he pants again, the shadow of a plea in the brokenness of his voice.

Saint hums low in his throat, a smug, dangerously pleased sound, as his hand drifts down, slow but sure, until his fingers brush the crease of Shin’s thigh. 

He follows it inward, the backs of his knuckles grazing hot skin, until he’s fully cupping him. 

Bare. Heavy. Hard. 

The weight of Shin's cock settles into his palm like it belongs there, like Shin’s body knows his touch. 

Saint doesn’t breathe for a second. He can’t. Because Shin twitches in his grip, a soft noise escaping him that shoots straight to Saint’s own arousal.

His hold turns a little firmer, just enough to make Shin gasp again, thumb dragging over the tip in a slow, teasing circle.

Fuck. He’s dripping. 

And Saint can’t help the borderline feral sound that reverberates in his chest.

Because how the hell is this real? Shin, spread out under him, flushed and panting, skin warm and golden in the low light, hard in his hand like a gift he doesn’t know what to do with except worship, and letting Saint taste him like he’s the best treat the world has ever presented to him.

The touch makes Shin jolt , hips bucking forward, a full-body tremor wracking him as he lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sob.

“Fuck, Saint—” It’s barely a whisper. Raw. Unfiltered.

“You’re so responsive,” Saint mutters, almost mesmerized, dragging his tongue one more time before pulling back just enough to breathe, working Shin’s length in agonizingly slow strokes.

He presses a kiss to the curve of his ass, just above where he’d been licking. Then another. Then lower.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmurs, lips brushing the tender skin. His voice is hoarse, soothing and gravelly at the same time. “You feel so fuckin’ good like this.”

Shin whimpers. Actually whimpers.

Saint almost comes on the spot.

His tongue darts out again, slower this time, savoring, matching the filthy rhythm of his hand. 

The taste, the heat, the absolute decadence of it all is doing things to him.

He's barely aware of the way his own erection is straining against his sweats, painful now, but he doesn't care. 

All that matters is this . Shin, trembling under him. Giving Saint every piece of him. Letting him in in the most intimate way.

Saint’s tongue strokes deeper, slow and firm, his thumb teasing the weeping head and Shin’s body responds deliciously. Hips pressing back, thighs quivering, breath catching sharp in his throat. The sound he makes is nothing short of devastating.

Saint feels it everywhere.

His cock throbs again, hard, aching against the fabric, already damp at the tip. He’s leaking, has been for minutes now, but the wet patch is definitely growing, and there's no way Shin isn’t going to notice eventually. Not with the way Saint keeps rutting subtly into the couch cushion, trying and failing to find some kind of relief.

But it’s not enough.

It’s never going to be enough.

He’s so stiff it hurts, every pulse of blood a vicious reminder that his mouth is currently buried in heaven while the rest of him is just… desperately along for the ride. 

His balls feel tight, too tight, with that warm, urgent ache that says One wrong move and it’s over. Game-fucking-over.

He groans against Shin’s skin, tongue working slower now, languid, savoring the taste of him, the feel, the way Shin’s body keeps offering itself up like Saint’s mouth is a gift.

And holy hell, if he is the one giving right now, why does he feel like the one getting ruined?

His hips rock again, less subtle this time, and he grits his teeth, forehead briefly pressing to the inside of Shin’s thigh while he tries to keep from embarrassing himself. 

His cock is rock-hard, throbbing, straining painfully against his waistband like it knows what’s happening just inches away.

This is so fucking much.

He shifts slightly, grinding down into the cushion beneath him with more intention this time, and yeah, fuck , there’s that lightning crack of pleasure, too sharp and too fleeting. 

It helps. 

For all of three seconds. 

And then Shin lets out this soft, bitten-off moan, half whimper, half prayer, and Saint’s right back to the brink, jaw clenched, dick pulsing like it’s got its own heartbeat.

He could come just like this , he thinks.

From the taste. The sounds. The feel of Shin open and slick beneath his tongue, letting him have this.

One hand abandons Shin’s hip, desperate now, sliding between Saint’s own thighs to press down, palm himself through the fabric. 

It’s soaked. Hot. 

He groans into Shin, nearly losing it right then and there when the pressure sends a spike of pleasure straight up his spine.

But he won’t. Not yet.

Not until Shin gets everything first. Not until he gets to see his beautiful features contorted in pleasure.

Saint pulls back just enough to breathe.

His lips are slick, jaw damp, and when he lifts his eyes to look—really look —at Shin trembling beneath him, something in him nearly shatters.

Hips still arched, legs shaking, body shuddering and quivering, lips parted around a breath he hasn’t quite caught yet. It’s a sight so obscene and so heartbreakingly gorgeous, Saint has to shut his eyes for a beat, like that’ll somehow cool the rush threatening to swallow him whole.

“Turn around for me,” he pants, palm smoothing up Shin’s spine in one slow, coaxing drag. “Wanna see you.”

Shin’s breath catches. He hesitates. Only for a heartbeat. 

Then he moves, limbs heavy with afterglow and heat, and shifts onto his back, thighs loose and spread easy from where Saint’s been working him open.

Saint exhales. Hard.

Because fuck , Shin’s wrecked. In the most devastatingly beautiful way.

Hair a mess across the cushions, cheeks flushed deep, lips bitten and swollen. His chest rises in shallow, uneven pulls, and his eyes, when they meet Saint’s, are dark and glassy and unguarded in a way that makes something burn low and bright in Saint’s chest.

But it’s what’s lower that truly undoes him.

Shin’s arousal hasn’t settled. Far from it. He’s still flushed, still pulsing with need, still achingly hard, his hips giving little snaps every now and then like his skin remembers the rhythm of Saint’s hand even if his breath can’t catch up. Like his body’s still calling out, like it’s not done being touched, taken, worshipped.

Saint’s mouth goes dry and waters all at once. His tongue flicks over his lips without thinking, throat working on a swallow that barely goes down. 

Holy fucking hell, he’s never wanted anything—anyone—in his mouth this bad. It’s not just want. It’s craving. It’s a need so deep, primal, he’s afraid he might break apart if he doesn’t give in to it completely.

And god help him, he wants to paint this moment into memory. The way Shin lies there, legs spread wide, the vulnerable strength in every subtle shift, every tremor. The want is there, raw and open, and written in every shade of those kaleidoscope eyes. But it’s the trust that slays him. Trust, naked and exposed in the softness of Shin’s gaze as it locks with his, and in the way his body melts into Saint’s touch, so damn sure, like he's always known where this was going. Where they were going.

“Shit, look at you” Saint lets out a shaky breath, rough and reverent “Jesus, Shin…”

Shin swallows hard, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths, the pupils of his eyes blown wide and glassy with need. “You said you wanted to see me.”

“I did. I do ” Saint pauses, drinking in the beauty of Shin’s body, the way his skin glows, the way he’s laid out just for him. “Fuck, you’re breathtaking”

And then, without an ounce of hesitation, he reaches down.

Oiled fingers slide along the inside of Shin’s thigh again, slower now, reverent. 

Shin's legs spread a little wider without being asked, knees tilting open, and Saint feels blessed.

He moans—low, helpless, buried in his throat—and lets his fingers drift further, gliding between Shin’s cheeks, slick and slow, a question written in touch.

“Ok?” Saint asks, lips brushing over Shin’s knee, kissing it with a softness he didn’t know could belong to him.

“Fucking perfect . Don’t stop. Please”

Saint’s heart squeezes.

Please.

It shouldn't undo him like this, but it does.

He breathes out shakily, like the word hit somewhere it shouldn’t have, somewhere deep and aching. 

He lets out a winded huff—quiet, awed, almost disbelieving. “You don’t quit, do you?”

Shin tries for a smirk, but it comes out wrecked, hazy. “You started it.”

“I think we both know that’s a lie” Saint huffs, leaning forward, lifting the shirt up and letting it pool right below his neck, revealing inches and inches of utter perfection, until he is close enough to have his lips hover over Shin’s stomach, just above his navel.

His breath fans over the flushed skin there. He’s so close he can feel the way Shin’s muscles twitch beneath him. 

For a second, just a second, he’s still.

Not because he wants to stop—God, no— but because his mind is racing with all the things he wants to do, and none of them are careful. None of them are calm.
His self-restraint is dangling by a thread, strung between the soft sound of Shin’s breathing and the way his skin blooms in goosebumps under Saint’s mouth.

Saint swallows hard, his lips brushing the dip of Shin’s abdomen.

His voice is quieter when he speaks again. Hoarse. Careful. “Can I ?”

Shin blinks down at him cheeks flushed and rosy, and a smile on his face so sincere, so soft and welcoming Saint feels like the luckiest motherfucker on Earth.

“You can do whatever you want to me,” he says. No hesitation, no teasing, just quiet truth. Honest. Dazzling. “Anything.”

Saint almost laughs, not out of amusement but disbelief. Wonder. Awe. 

He could fucking weep.

“Anything,” he repeats, like he needs to taste the word before accepting it. “You sure?”

Shin’s hand slides into his hair, fingertips firm but not rough, thumb brushing against his scalp in a way that makes Saint’s stomach twist.

“I’m sure”

And that’s it. That’s all Saint needs.

He moves slowly, wilful, and presses his mouth to the center of Shin’s chest. His lips part around the warm skin there, tongue sliding out for just a second, just to taste. He licks a slow stripe, savoring the salt and heat, before kissing again, more open-mouthed this time, his teeth grazing slightly.

He trails his way sideways, deliberately, finding one of Shin’s moles with his lips and mouthing around it like it’s something worth worshipping. He kisses it once. Then again, slower. Then a third time, just to feel Shin shiver beneath him.

And Saint does worship them, the beaty marks scattered across Shin’s chest like stars in some fucked-up constellation that leads only to ruin. Or salvation. Tonight, he feels, it’s both.

He moves lower, then back up, tracing a lazy, winding path until his mouth finds a nipple. 

And then he nearly loses it.

Because Shin mewls. Not quiet, not polite, but something raw and restrained at the edges, like he didn’t mean to give it away.

Saint moans into his skin.

He drags his tongue slowly over the sensitive peak, circling it, then flicking just once, just to hear that sound again. When it comes, broken and low, he hums his approval, then closes his mouth around the sensitive skin, sucking gently, teasing it with maddening patience.

His other hand comes up to the other side, thumb brushing over it in tandem, gentle at first, then firmer, syncing the rhythm with the pace of his mouth. Shin’s back arches, fingers tightening in Saint’s hair, anchoring, or pleading or both.

Saint doesn’t stop. Doesn’t rush. He switches sides, licks and sucks and kisses until Shin is shuddering under him, chest flushed and damp and marked.

He moves lower. Not fast. Not greedy. Savoring . Soft mouth dragging slowly over smooth, heated skin, trailing down with maddening patience, taking his time. Each caress of his lips is deliberate, like punctuation to some unspoken vow.

He lingers just below Shin’s navel, feeling the way the muscles there tense under his lips. 

Shin’s fingers card through his hair, firm and insistent, guiding without forcing, pulling just enough to make his want clear, pushing with a soft but steady pressure that says now, please, now . 

And Saint listens.

He leans in, eyes flicking up to meet Shin’s for one breathless beat, and then his mouth opens, warm and wet, lips parting as he sinks down onto him, slow and steady, until the weight of Shin’s cock presses heavy on his tongue.

The taste—salt and skin and something dizzying, something that’s just so Shin —makes Saint groan, and the sound vibrates low in his throat, muffled and sinful.

Shin whimpers, loud this time, his head knocking back against the cushions, one thigh hitching a little higher over Saint’s shoulder. 

“ Fuck, ” he gasps, voice ragged. “Saint—your mouth—”

Saint gives a gentle, experimental suck. His lips slide down farther, wet and tight, until Shin’s cock presses against the back of his throat. He swallows around it, slow and deliberate, and feels Shin shake beneath his hands.

Then he pulls back just enough to breathe, his mouth flushed and slick, tongue flicking out to taste again. 

“Can I use my fingers?” he asks, voice gone low and dangerous, all gravel and sin. “Want to feel you.”

Shin’s response is instant, more noise than words. He nods frantically, moaning through gritted teeth, like even the question is enough to ruin him. 

“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, fuck, please —”

That’s the final lock snapping open.

One hand slips lower, trailing heat down the line of Shin’s thigh. He spreads him open without force, reverent and careful in the way he handles him, until he is settled fully between those legs that make his head spin and his mouth go dryer than the Sahara desert.

His other hand holds Shin’s leg, fingers digging in the supple flesh of his thigh as he hooks it on his shoulder, keeping him still while his mouth descends on him once again. The other slides to answer Shin’s prayers.

He eases the tip of his finger in, slowly, barely breaching that tight ring of muscle, and Shin gasps, thighs twitching.

He moves carefully, gently, easing in further, letting Shin adjust to the feeling. The muscle flutters around him, hot and tight.

Saint hums low, just a pulse of sound, and Shin gasps, the vibration hitting him hard enough to make him shake. His hips stutter forward before he can stop them, the head of his cock hitting the back of Saint’s throat in one fluid yet uncontrolled thrust, fingers flexing through Saint’s dark strands, his breath coming fast and broken.

“Don’t—don’t stop, fuck— don’t stop ” Shin pants, head thrown back, spine curved like a bowstring, hips snapping every time Saint curls just right.

Saint doesn’t stop.

He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. Not with Shin coming undone like this; moaning, trembling, begging . Not with the heat of him slick against Saint’s tongue, not with the tight clutch around his finger dragging him in deeper like Shin’s body needs it, starves for it.

You’re inside him, his brain screams. You’re inside him and he’s letting you and you’ll never be the same.

Saint breathes through his nose, focus razor-sharp, lips sliding down Shin’s length with aching care until his mouth is flush around the base. His throat opens, hungry and greedy, and Shin whimpers, the sound high and helpless, like it was torn from somewhere buried deep.

Saint moans around him—low and rough, all want—and the vibration nearly sends Shin off the edge. 

His thighs tighten around Saint’s shoulders, his hips jerking, and Saint feels the walls contracting inside where his finger’s buried, that perfect rhythm stuttering under the weight of too much sensation.

“More” Shin chokes out “Please—”

Saint doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t ease up. Because Shin’s word is his command.

So he obeys.

Another finger slicks in beside the first like a secret, a stretch that comes slow and steady, like Saint’s coaxing the tension from Shin’s body, replacing it with heat. With fullness. With the kind of pressure that makes your knees go numb and your voice fail.

Shin cries out, broken and beautiful, and Saint moans again, louder this time, his hips grinding down into the couch as he sucks him deeper, digits moving with slow insistence. Gentle curls. Subtle presses. Like he's learning Shin's body one stroke at a time.

And Shin’s unraveling.

His fingers dig into Saint’s hair, tugging hard enough to sting, like he doesn’t know what to hold onto anymore, doesn’t know how to stay together. His cock twitches between Saint’s lips, already wet, already throbbing with it, thrusting harder, and Saint just devours him.

Another push. Another finger, this one sliding in slow, deliberate, like Saint’s hands were made to fit inside him. 

Shin’s body jerks again, tighter this time, a desperate, overwhelmed moan breaking loose from his throat.

“S-Saint— fuck —” his voice shatters, wild with disbelief, pleasure spilling out of him like it can’t be contained. “You’re gonna—fuck, I’m gonna—”

Saint hums encouragement, the sound deep and dirty as he keeps sucking him down, slow, hungry, endless , while his fingers work deeper, finding that spot once more, pressing, dragging, pressing again. And Shin sobs. Real, gut-wrecked sobs, like he doesn’t know what else to do with the pleasure ripping through him.

Saint’s eyes flutter shut, and he lets himself drown in it. The taste, the sounds, the slick heat of Shin’s body wrapped tight around his fingers, the way Shin pulses on his tongue, brushes the back of his throat like he’s already at the edge and still somehow climbing. 

It’s too much. It’s too perfect.

And Shin is begging now.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, please—I’m so close—fuck, S-Saint, please —”

Saint pulls back just enough to breathe against him, to speak. His lips drag, swollen and glistening over the tip, catching every desperate twitch like a kiss.

“You’re taking me so good, baby,” he whispers, voice scratchy, and full of it. Lust, wonder, something dangerously close to devotion. “Look at you, all stretched out and perfect. You wanna come just like this? So full, so good for me?”

He doesn’t register that little term of endearment rolling off his tongue so easily— Baby . Like he’s been saying it his whole life. Like it belongs here, in this breathless space between them—and he surely doesn't know where the hell he learned to talk like that either, like some kind of sex-drunk poet from a fever dream. 

But apparently his brain’s on autopilot and his mouth’s operating solely on instinct and, maybe, desperation.

Shin’s answer is a wail, raw and broken, and Saint gives it to him. Gives him everything.

He sinks his mouth back down, throat working around every throb and thrust, every inch. His fingers curl harder, deeper, relentless, his other hand gripping Shin’s thigh to steady him as he starts to shake .

It happens all at once.

Shin’s body locks up. Tight, straining, every muscle coiled like it’s about to burst. 

And then snaps. 

The orgasm hits like a storm, violent and helpless, and Saint doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t stop sucking, doesn’t stop fucking him with his fingers.

Shin comes with a cry that sounds more like surrender than release, loud and wet and shattered, his whole body seizing as he spills into Saint’s mouth, down his eager throat, hips snapping and pushing with every pulse. His hole clenches around Saint’s fingers, fluttering and pulling, taking him deeper, like his body never wants to let go.

Saint swallows him down, doesn’t miss a drop.

Even as Shin starts to tremble from the aftershocks, still whimpering, overstimulated and dazed, Saint keeps going, slower now, tender, drawing it out like he wants Shin to feel every flicker, every echo of what just broke him apart.

Only when Shin finally slumps back into the couch—boneless and thoroughly fucked-out, chest heaving, fingers limp in Saint’s hair—does Saint ease his mouth away. 

He presses a kiss to the head of Shin’s spent cock, another to his thigh, his fingers slipping out gradually, carefully.

Shin moans, soft and pleased, head lolling to the side as he tries to catch his breath.

Saint's limbs feel like someone cut the strings on a marionette and then poured warm honey through his bloodstream. He’s still on his knees, head pillowed on Shin’s thigh, breathing like he just ran a marathon barefoot and uphill. His heart is still thundering in his chest, an erratic pulse that hasn’t slowed despite the rest of him feeling weightless, floating.

His jaw aches, his fingers are still glistening, and his cock...well, his cock is furious with him.

But the world is soft now. Quiet. Drenched in the kind of silence that borders pure and utter bliss.

Shin is still trembling faintly beneath him, skin flushed and glowing, one hand draped heavy over the back of Saint’s neck, the other curled lazily in his hair. 

Neither of them speaks. Not yet. There's nothing to say that could even begin to match the way they’re breathing, slow and deep and together, like the same storm just passed through them both.

Saint closes his eyes, lets his cheek rest fully against Shin’s thigh. The warmth there, the subtle twitch of muscle with every slow inhale. It feels impossibly intimate. He could stay like this. Could let himself sink into this stillness, into Shin, and never resurface.

A soft sound escapes from somewhere above him, something between a sigh and a hum, and Saint feels Shin’s fingers trace lightly down the nape of his neck, then up again. A lazy pattern. Meaningless and everything all at once.

“You okay?” Saint murmurs, the words half-melted into the softness of Shin’s skin.

“Mmhmm.” Shin sounds drunk on touch, sated and languid, like his voice is wrapped in velvet. “You?”

Saint lets out a breath that’s not quite a laugh. 

“No,” he admits, not moving. “Think you broke me a little.”

There’s another pause. A shared huffed breath, a weak chuckle coming from both of them.

He’s not ready to speak. Not really. But his mouth opens anyway.

Because reality starts to slowly descend on him.

“What the hell just happened?” he asks, quieter this time, merely above a whisper. More reverent. Like if he says it too loud, the moment might vanish.

Shin doesn’t answer right away. He just breathes out through his nose, all flushed and boneless and smug in a way that should be illegal. 

His fingers curl again in Saint’s hair. Slow, careful, like he’s making sure Saint’s still real.

“What happened is you just gave me the best massage I could ever ask for. All because I swayed my hips a little” Shin says, tone hovering between disbelief and awe, an amused lilt shining through as he adds, eyes sparkling with that hint of mischief “ And you swallowed everything like a good boy”

Saint lets out a noise, something between a strangled groan and a beyond flabbergasted squeak, and immediately buries his face deeper into Shin’s thigh like maybe if he pretends to be unconscious, he won’t have to live with the reality of hearing that said out loud. “Are we seriously starting there ?”

His ears are burning. His soul might be leaving his body.

Because yeah, sure, he did do all that, but hearing Shin recap it like some sexy, smug play-by-play with the words “good boy” tacked on like a cherry on top of the world's filthiest sundae? 

Nope. He’s not built for this.

Shin hums, tilting his head like he’s considering it, a teasing lilt to his tone. “I mean, it was kind of hot. And also incredibly polite of you.”

Saint lets his head peek, but his cheeks are burning. “I was trying to preserve your mom’s couch.”

And it is the truth, Saint swears. 

That floral-print, lace-trimmed, Victorian-wannabe monstrosity has seen enough sin just being in Shin’s living room. No way was he adding to its trauma. He respects Shin’s mom. She made them pancakes in middle school and called him “sweetheart” even when he came home with blood on his shirt. Also she lets him stay over like that house belongs to him, too.

You don’t dishonor that woman. Or her couch.

Only thing is, that it’s just half of the truth.

The other half—the real, hormonal, very unholy half—is another story entirely. 

The one that says he’s been imagining what it would feel like to have Shin fall apart on his tongue since he was fifteen and his body betrayed him every time Shin so much as bent over to grab a notebook. 

The one where his fantasies played on a loop: Shin gasping, Shin moaning, Shin tugging his hair while Saint knelt between his legs like it was where he belonged. 

The daydreams were so vivid, they’d once made him choke on his smoothie in the middle of a group study session. He never told anyone why.

And now…now it’s not a fantasy. 

It happened. It was real. And it was so much better than any twisted-up, late-night thought his teenage brain ever coughed up.

“How considerate of you” Shin laughs, low and bright and totally unbothered, and it does something stupid to Saint’s heart. Makes it swell and ache and want .

The quiet stretches, warm and heavy around them, but Shin’s hands don’t stop moving. 

They’re gentle, absent, almost dreamy in the way they swipe through the silky and slightly messy strands of Saint’s hair. Until they pause.

Then curl.

Then tug .

Just enough to send a spark of heat through Saint’s veins. Just enough to wake him back up.

Saint barely has time to recover. 

He blinks, slow and dazed, lifting his head, and the sight that greets him makes his already-wrecked self fracture further.

Shin, loose-limbed and fucked-out, looking down at him with eyes that burn. Not just from pleasure or satisfaction, but from knowing. From wanting. His chest is still rising fast, his lips bitten and pink, but his gaze is sharp now, cutting clean through the quiet.

“You didn’t come,” Shin says.

Quiet. But not soft.

It’s a statement. A decision waiting to be made.

Saint swallows, heat crawling up his neck. “Didn’t need to.”

And he really didn’t. 

Whatever divine, thigh-shaking miracle he just lived through wasn’t about his own release. 

It was about Shin.

About watching him fall apart beneath him in the most glorious way. About the noises he made, the way he moved like he trusted Saint not just with his body, but with something bigger, something terrifying and precious that he had taken with both hands and a goddamn mouthful of devotion.

Saint has been so laser-focused on every sigh, every tremble, every flushed, exquisite inch of Shin that it hasn’t even occurred to him that he hasn’t come.

But he doesn’t care.

Because this wasn’t just any orgasm denial session from the pits of horny hell. 

This was Shin . 

Gorgeous, ridiculous, best-friend Shin, who had moaned his name like a prayer and arched into his touch like he’d been put onto this world to.

But Shin doesn’t seem half as careless about his not-so-little problem. He shifts slightly beneath him, just enough to glance down, then back up, and his eyes go warm. Too warm. Scorching. Knowing .

And then he smiles.

Soft at first, reassuring. Like he appreciates what Saint is trying to do. But then it sharpens, just slightly, like the edge of a secret he's about to speak aloud. Like he admires Saint’s noble intentions, sure, but doesn’t need them. Like he’s decided something.

“Bullshit,” he murmurs, voice low and devastating, that smile bending into something darker.

Saint doesn’t even have time to question it before Shin moves.

Not rushed. Not frantic. 

Just resolute. Sure. Confident.

He pushes gently at Saint’s shoulders, and Saint lets him, sinking back without resistance. The world tilts, the couch creaks, and then Shin is crawling over him, climbing, slow and deliberate, majestic like the most dangerous of felines, until he’s straddling Saint’s thighs and settling his weight there like he belongs there. Like he’s always belonged there.

His hands plant on Saint’s chest, slender and warm. Fingers splayed like they’re memorizing the shape of him, and Saint’s brain just… blanks. Breathing becomes a luxury he can’t quite afford.

“Shin—” he starts, voice wrecked, half protest, half plea.

But Shin just cocks his head slightly, unbothered, like Saint isn’t literally unraveling beneath him.

“You took care of me,” he whispers, and there’s no teasing in his tone now. Just heat. Intention. “Now I’m gonna take care of you.”

And then, then, he rolls his hips. Just once.

Measured. Firm.

Saint chokes on air, his body jolting, every muscle going tight like someone yanked a wire. His hands snap up to grip Shin’s thighs, hard, and his mouth falls open around a sound he doesn’t even recognize.

Shin smiles again. And this one is pure sin.

Saint swears the air around them thickens, pressing in from all sides, turning electric. Every inch of him is pulled taut, vibrating with the effort it takes not to move, not to buck up into the maddening heat of Shin’s body above him.

And Shin— 

God, Shin just stays there. Still as anything, perched over Saint’s thighs like he’s in no rush at all. Like he has all the time in the world to figure out how best to ruin him.

Their eyes lock.

And suddenly it’s too quiet. Too heavy. 

The only thing Saint can hear is the frantic thrum of his own heart. Beneath it, Shin’s breath. Slow, deep. Measured.

They’re breathing together, unintentionally synced, chest to chest.

Saint watches the rise and fall of Shin’s ribcage, the soft sheen of sweat catching the light along his collarbones, the scatter of moles dotting his skin like perfect little stars.

His hands twitch where they rest on Shin’s thighs, wanting, aching to touch.

But Shin doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t speak. 

He just looks at him like he can see every thought Saint isn’t saying.

And Saint? Saint feels like he’s burning alive under the weight of it.

“Shin,” he tries again, quieter this time. Like it might help him get it under control. Whatever this is.

But Shin only hums, low and thoughtful, sliding one hand up, over Saint’s chest, to his jaw. His thumb brushes across Saint’s lower lip, featherlight.

Saint’s breath stutters. His eyes flutter shut for half a second. 

He doesn’t move.

When he opens them again, Shin is still watching him, eyes dark and hungry and full of intent, reading him.

“You always do that” Shin says softly. 

Saint blinks, brain lagging behind. “Do what?” 

“Fall apart before I even touch you properly.”

Saint’s mouth parts, but no sound comes out.

Because yes, he does have a certain tendency of crumbling under Shin’s mere gaze. So him touching Saint like that? After everything that just happened? He’s already slipping. Already losing ground.

He doesn’t get the chance to answer. 

Because Shin shifts. Just enough to set Saint alight.

His hips roll forward, sultry and oh so carefully calculated, and Saint feels it. Every inch, every promise that presses down against him. The friction is maddening, filthy, not nearly enough.

Saint gasps, hands sliding up to Shin’s thighs like it’s instinct. Because it is. Because if Shin does that again, he’s not going to survive it. 

But Shin just leans in closer, mouth hovering over Saint’s, breathing the same air. 

His voice drops to something dark and velvet-soft. “Still with me?”

Saint nods. Or tries to. He’s not entirely sure what his body’s doing anymore. His hands are gripping tighter than they probably should. His whole spine is arched just slightly off the couch. He’s practically begging and hasn’t even said a word.

Shin grinds his hips again, slower this time. Meaner. 

Saint makes a hoarse, wrecked sound and Shin smiles . Soft, but not sweet.

“Good”

He says it like a promise. Like a threat. Like a prayer. 

And Saint? Saint wants all of it .

Then Shin moves, deliberate and fluid, sliding his hands under the hem of Saint’s hoodie.

“Off,” he murmurs, already tugging it up, “need to see you.”

Saint lifts his arms without thinking, lets Shin peel the fabric away and toss it somewhere behind them. 

The second he’s bare, Shin’s hands are back. 

Everywhere. 

He’s almost reverent in the way his palms glide over Saint’s skin, fingers trailing from the curve of his shoulders down the lines of his ribs. There’s something purposeful in his touch, like he’s mapping out the very essence of Saint with every brush, every press of his hands. He explores the muscle, the warmth, the softness, like he’s searching for something he’s never quite had but always known was there.

Saint’s breath hitches, his pulse spiking at the light touch. “You really gonna take your time with this, huh?”

Shin’s lips curve into that devilish, teasing smile that makes Saint's chest tighten. “What can I say? I like to enjoy the view.” 

His hands move lower, sliding over Saint’s abs with just the faintest brush of his fingertips, and Saint sucks in a breath, his body trembling with anticipation. Shin’s gaze is focused on the way his hands roam, like he’s studying each inch of Saint’s skin.

Saint’s voice comes out a little too shaky, a little too weak. “You’re— you're acting like you’ve never seen me before.”

Shin looks up, his eyes dark, lips curling slightly as he leans closer.

“Yeah, but I’ve never seen you like this . I’ve never touched you like this” he presses his palms flat against Saint’s chest, just over his heart, feeling the erratic rhythm. “It’s... different when I can feel your heartbeat under my hands.”

Saint shivers at the intensity in Shin’s voice, his whole body tingling under the warmth of Shin’s touch. 

“You’re making me dizzy,” he mutters, a chuckle caught somewhere between nerves and desire.

Shin’s hands move to his waist, the touch gentle but insistent, mapping out every muscle, every curve of Saint’s torso. 

“Yeah?” Shin murmurs, gliding his hands up to Saint’s shoulders, massaging gently as he leans in again. “You feel good, Saint. Soft, but strong.”

His thumbs brush over Saint’s nipples and he actually whines, sharp and breathless, hips jerking up of their own volition.

Shin stills. Watches him.

Then, quietly, like he’s just uncovered treasure “Mmh. That’s good, isn’t it?”

Saint’s head falls back with a groan. 

“Don’t—” he pants, voice thin and shaking, fingers digging harder into Shin’s supple flesh “Don’t be smug.”

Shin leans in, close enough for his mouth to ghost over Saint’s throat. His breath is hot. His voice even hotter.

“Smug?” he murmurs, eyes flashing. “I was just asking a simple question.” then lower, lips caressing skin as he speaks “Because I know exactly how it feels.”

Saint tries to curse him, but it comes out as a moan when Shin shifts again, dragging their bodies together, just enough pressure to drive him insane.
And then Shin leans in lower, lips brushing against the top of his chest.

Saint’s skin is not decorated by the same devastatingly beautiful gifts of Aphrodite scattered all over Shin’s. There’s nothing worth worshipping on him. Just skin. Warm and flushed and rising fast with every ragged breath.

But Shin kisses it anyway. Just once. Then again, slower. Then drags his tongue over the same spot like it means something. Like he’s making it mean something.

Saint bucks beneath him, gasps like he’s just being burned.

Shin doesn’t stop.

Another kiss. Another pass of his tongue. Then a soft, wet suck just beneath his collarbone that makes Saint tremble. Full-body tremble. Like his bones are vibrating inside him.

And then Shin’s at one nipple, circling it with maddening patience before sucking it into his mouth.

Saint makes a sound no human should ever make. 

Shin preens .

“Jesus—Shin,” he gasps, trying and failing to stay still.

But Shin is relentless. Gentle but thorough. Working him with his mouth, with his tongue, with the kind of patience that makes Saint feel like he’s being undone molecule by molecule.

When he finally pulls back, lips swollen, chin wet, he looks down like Saint’s the one being offered up.

Saint is gone .

Mouth parted. Eyes glassy. Breathing like he’s drowning in the best possible way.

Shin shifts again. More friction. More pressure. Just right. Just cruel.

Saint’s hands slide up, frame Shin’s waist, then pull. Needy, breathless, desperate.

And Shin grins.

“Say please,” he whispers.

Saint doesn’t even hesitate.

“ Please. ”

The prayer barely leaves his mouth before Shin’s moving again, his hips rolling in one long, drawn-out grind, as Saint’s body sets ablaze beneath him.

Every nerve ending sparks to life. His spine arches. His breath leaves him in a wrecked, helpless moan.

Saint’s hands slide up under the shirt— his shirt, clinging to Shin’s figure like a second breath thanks to the dampness of his skin, and he drags it up, tugging until Shin gets the hint and sits up enough to peel it off. He tosses it somewhere behind him, not caring where it lands.

And Saint—well, Saint forgets how to see . Because there Shin is. In all his fully naked glory, again, in front of his undeserving eyes.

Saint’s mouth goes dry.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You’re not real. You can’t be”

Shin just laughs, low and breathless. “You’re so dramatic.”

But his smile falters the second Saint sits up, palms smoothing down Shin’s sides as he rises to meet him, hands settling on plump flesh, kneading, gripping. Then mouth to chest. Kissing, licking, mouthing at every mark he can reach like each one’s a personal sin he’s repenting for. One mole. Then another. Then another. Again and again, like he hasn’t drawn the same exact pattern mere minutes before.

Shin shudders, hands threading into Saint’s hair again. “Fuck.”

He rocks his hips forward, lazily. Almost dazed. 

Saint meets him with a thrust up, sharp and helpless, groaning into the skin he’s biting at. He’s still clothed from the waist down, but it doesn't matter. The friction is obscene. Too much and not nearly enough. 

Shin buries his face in Saint’s hair with a sound that might be a moan or a curse or a plea, maybe all three.

They breathe together. Fast. Hard. Shallow.

And it’s only then that it hits Saint.

Holy shit. 

Holy fucking shit . This is happening.

This is really happening.

And he’s going to embarrass himself --like, spectacularly —by coming in approximatively 0.7 seconds, because just hearing, watching and feeling Shin as he came apart under his touch brought him closer to the edge more than anything ever did. 

And the thought of him, so warm, so tight and welcoming, wrapping around him in all the right ways—

Saint lets out a broken noise, half laugh, half groan. “I’m not gonna last.”

“Don’t need you to” Shin breathes, leaning down and nosing at his jaw like a kitten asking for cuddles, voice dark and soft like velvet over fire. “Just need you inside me.”

And fuck.

Saint doesn’t remember how his sweatpants come off. Doesn’t remember if he helped or just laid there in stunned awe while Shin worked them down. All he knows is that suddenly he’s bare and aching so badly it feels like need has replaced his blood. 

And Shin has gone still.

“Shin?” Saint says, barely above a whisper. It comes out a little broken, a little panicked.

But Shin doesn’t answer. Not at first.

He stares.

Not in hesitation. Not in fear.

In full-on, jaw-dropped astonishment.

His breath catches, hands faltering mid-motion. His gaze drops, drawn like gravity, and stays there, wide and stunned and drinking him in like he doesn’t know how to look away. His eyes move slowly, almost reverently, like he’s afraid to miss a detail. 

Saint’s cock lays heavy against his stomach, flushed and leaking, twitching like it’s aware of the attention, and Shin’s mouth parts just a little, his pupils blow wide, swallowing the color of his irises whole.

“Holy fuck,” he finally breathes, low and seemingly…impressed. “You’re…Saint, you’re fucking huge.”

Saint’s stomach clenches, nerves prickling under his skin. Because what is he supposed to say to that ? Thank you ? I’m sorry ? Please direct all further comments to my rapidly crumbling sense of modesty?

It’s not like he didn’t know. He’s aware. He’s lived in this body long enough to know it’s kind of… a lot. But that doesn’t mean he knows how to react when Shin looks at him like someone staring down a five-course meal and realizing, with a little too much excitement, that yes, they are going to finish it all.

And now his dick— traitorous bastard —is twitching again, like it heard the compliment and decided to bow.

“You don’t have to—” he tries, low, sheepish. Because the last thing he wants is to make Shin feel like he has to do something he doesn’t want to do or doesn’t feel ready for “Not if it’s too much, I—”

“Are you kidding me ?” Shin cuts in, voice sharp and immediate, like he’s insulted by the very idea. Then softer, slower, dragging each word across Saint’s skin like a brand “I want to, Saint. I really want to.”

Saint’s lips part, but nothing comes out.

Because Shin shifts again. Back over him, straddling Saint’s thighs like he belongs there, like he never left. Like he’s finally home.

He settles heavy and warm in Saint’s lap once again, knees bracketing his hips, and Saint almost loses it just from the way their skin brushes. From the press of Shin’s ass so close, so fucking close , to where Saint is flushed and aching.

“You prepped enough?” Saint asks, voice cracking because God help him, he needs to be sure.

Shin’s eyes narrow, and he gives him that look. The look that makes Saint's insides tighten, and flip at the same time, full of all the heat and hunger he’s been holding back.

“You had your fingers in me five minutes ago,” Shin hushes, almost matter-of-factly, but there’s a gleam in his eye. “And I’m still slick from your mouth. I’d say I’m ready.”

Then, because Shin apparently wants him dead before he can experience a speck of paradise, he looks down at him through his lashes, and, without a word, spits into his palm. The sound is obscene in the quiet.

Saint shivers, those words, that downright pornographic sight he just witnessed, shooting straight to his core.

“Why ?” Shin goes on, his voice dropping a little, teasing. “Afraid you’ll split me open ?”

Saint’s stomach churns. He freezes. The words hit him like a punch to the face. 

Split him open?  

His mind momentarily blanks, and for a second, anxiety sets in right next to the overwhelming need. Did he hear that right? Because the thought of hurting Shin, even just a little—

He swallows thickly, trying to steady his breath. “I don’t—I don’t want to hurt you, Shin—”

“You won’t” Shin cuts him off, and Saint feels his heart skip a beat. Shin’s eyes flash with something darker. Confidence, hunger, maybe even a little bit of impatience. His lips brush over Saint’s ear, sending a wave of heat across his skin. “I trust you.”

And oh.

The weight of those words hits Saint harder than anything else he experienced tonight. He doesn’t know why, but hearing Shin say that, with such absolute certainty, makes his chest tighten in a way that feels like both relief and anticipation. Saint’s fear slips away, just a little bit.

Shin lets his palm ghost along the inside of Saint’s thigh, thumb brushing up until it’s resting at the very base of him. Not gripping. Just feeling.

Like he needs to make sure it’s real.

Saint shudders again, his hands gripping harder on Shin’s hips, nails biting into the skin.

Shin exhales shakily, the sound full of restraint, like he's holding back something close to worship. His thumb moves along the vein running up the underside of Saint’s cock, and Saint jerks in response, his hips twitching desperately.

“You’re so fucking hard,” Shin mutters, his voice almost a whisper, as if he’s speaking to himself, barely able to believe the sight in front of him. “What was that nonsense about not needing to come ?”

Saint’s head falls back into the pillow, a broken groan escaping his lips. His chest tightens, the ache in his cock almost unbearable. 

“I didn’t want you to feel obligated to do something about it” he says, voice cracking, unsure and embarrassed by how weak he sounds.

Shin shakes his head, the smirk on his face turning darker, hungrier. 

“Obligated?” he repeats, his voice a low caress that curls in Saint’s stomach. “I want this, Saint. Want you. In me. Filling me up and making me feel everything .”

Saint lets out a sound he doesn’t even recognize, his chest rising and falling with every ragged breath. He’s losing himself completely in the sound of Shin’s voice, in the way he’s moving, in the way he’s asking for this.

Without wasting another second, Shin’s hand wraps around Saint’s cock, slicking him up with a deliberate, languid stroke. He moves slowly, working the spit and precome over Saint’s length, dragging his palm from base to tip with teasing slowness, each glide deeper than the last. 

Saint’s hips jerk with every pass, every teasing pull. The friction is agonizing, pulling more desperate sounds from Saint’s throat.

“Fuck,” Shin mutters under his breath, watching as his fingers curl around Saint, tightening slightly with every stroke. “You’re so—I can barely wrap my hand around you.”

Saint can’t stop the whine that escapes him.

Shin strokes again, this time slower, with more purpose. His body leans forward, just a little, so that every movement of his hand drags against Saint’s cock with the perfect angle. His grip tightens, his thumb brushing gently over the tip before pressing against the slit with a soft pressure that makes Saint’s whole body jerk.

“You’re dripping,” Shin whispers, his voice low, almost triumphant, full of the kind of satisfaction that makes Saint’s pulse spike. “So fucking wet for me.”

Saint can’t even respond. His mouth is dry, his mind too full of the sensations surging through him.

Shin leans in, lips brushing against Saint’s shoulder, his breath hot against his skin as he drags his mouth down to the curve of Saint’s neck.

“I want to feel every inch of you,” he whispers, voice sultry and thick with lust. “Want to sit on this cock until I’m shaking. Until I forget how to walk.”

Saint’s head lolls back with a helpless noise. His hands are white-knuckled on Shin’s hips like he's clinging to a lifeline. 

He’s going to black out. Right here. Fully conscious, fully naked, and emotionally unprepared for Shin’s filthy little words.

Where the fuck has he learned to talk like that ?

Who taught him? 

Did he take a class?

“Hi, welcome to Advanced Erotic Destruction. In this course we’ll cover how to reduce your best friend to a stammering mess using only your voice” type of class?

Because it’s working. It’s working a little too well.

Shin strokes again, another long, slick glide from root to tip, and Saint’s hips thrust up involuntarily, chasing the friction, chasing the release. 

But Shin doesn’t let him move too fast. No, he’s in control, and Saint is so far gone that all he can do is sit there and feel.

Then Shin rises up onto his knees, breath hot and shallow, eyes locked on Saint with something dark and feral burning behind them. One hand wraps around the base of Saint’s cock, steadying it, and the other reaches back to guide himself down.

Saint’s entire world stops spinning.

Because this? 

This is about to be the most blessed, terrifying moment of his entire existence. 

And he’s pretty sure if he dies here, face flushed and utterly ruined, and with the most beautiful man in the universe on his lap it’ll be worth it.

The first touch—just the head catching on the rim of him—makes them both freeze.

Saint because it feels like lightning up his spine. 

Shin because he’s focusing, controlling, savoring .

There’s a moment. A breath. A mutual holy shit.

Then Shin starts to sink.

Slow. Steady. Like it takes effort to hold back, to not just drop onto Saint in one fluid move and lose them both completely. His thighs tense beneath Saint’s hands, his breath coming faster, sharper, as inch by inch, Saint disappears into him.

And Saint is not okay.

Not even close.

He watches it happen. Watches , like some kind of out-of-body experience. His mouth is open, eyes wide, hands digging into Shin’s thighs like he’s hanging on for dear life. His heart is trying to punch a hole through his ribcage and file for early retirement.

Because Shin is taking him. Inch by inch. Like a goddamn miracle.
Stretching around him, smooth and tight and devastating, pulling him deeper with every breathless second.

He freezes halfway down, trembling.

“Fuck,” Shin gasps, breath catching.

Saint’s hands immediately loosen. “Shit, are you—too much? Did I—?”

Shin shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut, jaw tight with effort. 

“No. No, I just—” he exhales shakily, a near-whimper bleeding into the sound. “You’re big , Saint. Just… give me a second.”

That wrecks him. Absolutely wrecks him. 

Saint makes a low sound in his throat, half panic, half awe, like he doesn’t know whether to apologize or cry or grab Shin’s face and kiss him stupid.

“Okay,” he whispers, voice shaking. His hands slide up slowly, grounding them both. “Take your time. I’m right here.”

And Shin nods, swallowing hard. He’s flushed all the way down his neck, eyes glassy when he opens them again, like even looking at Saint hurts a little in the best possible way.

“I can feel everything,” he says quietly, almost like he’s not meaning to say it out loud. “You’re so deep already, and I’m not even—” 

He cuts off with a shiver, the muscles in his thighs twitching under Saint’s touch.

Saint bites down on a curse, his heart thudding so loud it’s embarrassing. He leans in, presses a kiss to Shin’s chest, over his heart. He’s shaking, and not from nerves. Just from how much it is. All of it.

When Shin finally sinks the rest of the way down, slow and careful and trembling through it, Saint lets out a sound like something’s been knocked loose in his chest.

He’s fully inside. Buried to the hilt.

And listen, Saint's trying to be cool about it. He really is.
But he’s one deep breath away from speaking in tongues.

“Holy shit, ” Saint chokes out. “You’re—fuck—you’re so—”

He can’t even finish it. Can’t find words big enough to hold what he’s feeling.

“Yeah,” Shin whispers a little out of breath, forehead resting against his. “I know.”

He’s breathing like he ran a marathon, his whole body is tight, trembling, overwhelmed, and clinging to Saint like he’s the only steady thing in the world.

“You okay?” Saint asks again, barely more than a whisper.

Shin just nods, a bit unconvincing, voice raw when he says, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this full. It’s—fuck, it’s so much .”

Saint groans, fingers tightening instinctively at Shin’s hips, trying to stay still, to be good . “We—we can stop. Seriously. I—Just say the word and I’ll—”

“No,” Shin breathes, eyes fluttering open, glassy and wet and devastating. “Don’t you even dare to think about that. I just—I need to feel it. Just like this. Just for a second.”

Saint’s brain is white noise. Static.

He too needs some time to just feel . Feel everything. Every clench, every flutter of muscle, the warmth, the bliss. 

Shin fits around him like they were built for this. For each other . And Saint, who has imagined this a thousand times in a thousand different ways, suddenly realizes that no fantasy ever came close. 

This ? This is better . Real. Warm and alive and fuck, Shin is right here .

And then, slowly— so slowly—he starts to move again.

It’s careful, at first. Barely perceptible. Just a tentative rise of his hips, the slide of Saint nearly slipping free before Shin eases back down with a trembling sigh. He does it again. Up. Pause. Down. And each time, he sinks a little deeper, adjusting, coaxing his body to open, to accept .

Saint watches it all, completely undone.

He can see the flicker of discomfort in Shin’s expression. The way he bites his lip, the furrow between his brows. But he also sees the way it shifts. The way discomfort gives way to something else. Something warmer. Something needier .

The third time Shin sinks down, his breath stutters. Only, this time, it ends in a moan.

Saint shudders. His hands slide up to Shin’s waist, palms flat, thumbs brushing soothing circles against sweat-slicked skin.

“Shin—” he murmurs, voice so low it’s barely there.

Shin nods, pupils blown, mouth parted. 

“I’m ok—It's ok, I promise” he says, like he reads Saint’s mind. His hips roll instinctively, this time smoother, more fluid, like his body is finally catching up to the rest of him. “Jesus, Saint…”

Saint groans. He’s not gonna survive this .

Because now Shin is moving with more intent, more confidence. Every glide down has a purpose now, a rhythm, and Saint feels it deep. Feels himself seated inside Shin, surrounded by heat and velvet and pressure so good it makes his vision white out at the edges.

And then Shin finds his pace.

It's not fast. Not yet. It’s a slow, rocking rhythm, a steady grind that drives Saint so far past the point of reason he forgets his own name. Shin uses him, rides him, hips lifting and rolling, working himself open until he’s gasping through every downward push.

Saint’s eyes flutter shut. He’s helpless to it.

His hands roam without thought, up Shin’s sides, down to his thighs again, gripping and guiding but not taking over. Letting Shin have this, lead this. He wants to give him everything. Whatever he needs. However he wants it.

Shin leans in, foreheads brushing, breath hot between them.

“Saint—” he whispers, voice low and shaky and wrecked in the best way. “Fuck—you’re so deep.”

Saint whimpers, head falling on the hollow of Shin’s neck, jaw slack.

“You’re—God, you’re—”

Shin moans, high and open and needy, and that sound alone nearly undoes Saint. But then Shin starts grinding rolling his hips in deliberate, sinful circles that drag Saint’s cock just right along every tight, sensitive edge inside him.

And just like that, Saint’s lost again.

Lost in the way Shin feels. Lost in the way he sounds, gasping and breathless and beautiful. Lost in the way his thighs start trembling, in the way he’s chasing his own release with single-minded, desperate focus.

Saint just holds him tighter. 

Lets him take everything.

And Shin does.

He rolls his hips, and starts to ride .

Just a steady rhythm at first, learning the angle, finding where Saint hits just right . And when he does, when the head of Saint’s cock drags right across that sweet spot deep inside, Shin moans loud, head dropping back, spine curving with pleasure so sharp it lights up his whole body.

“ Shit ,” he pants. “Right there—fucking there —”

Saint makes a strangled sound, half-growl, half-moan, and his hips jerk up without his permission.

“Jesus, baby—” he gasps, his lungs burning, his brain too out of it to catch up on that little word falling from his lips again.

Shin starts bouncing harder, faster. Wet, slick sounds filling the room, skin slapping on skin, breathless moans rising louder with every stroke. 

He grinds down, circling his hips between thrusts, milking Saint’s cock like it’s his . Because it is. 

Saint’s whole being is Shin’s.

Saint’s eyes roll back. His entire body jerks with every move, every clench, every squeeze of Shin’s tight embrace around him.

He grabs Shin’s hips and thrusts up like a man possessed, meeting him halfway with no rhythm, no restraint. Just instinct. Just need. 

He’s gone. He’s been gone. He is nothing but noise and heat and the terrifyingly gorgeous man riding him like it's his last day on earth.

“Say it again” Shin pants, almost pleading, almost shy and fully shattered.

Saint blinks, his brain having a hard time processing anything that’s not heat, and warmth and need and more . “W-what?”

“Baby” Shin exhales, his hand sliding to Saint’s cheek, cradling with a softness that goes against all the laws of the force with which his hips are moving. “Say it again. Please— ”

Saint’s heart punches right through his chest. He doesn’t even think.

“Baby,” he says again, like a prayer, like he means it in his bones. Then again. And again. Each time rougher, softer, more desperate than the last and followed by a strong thrust, until Shin is shaking above him, wrecked from the sound alone.

Shin’s whole expression goes molten. He moans like Saint just touched something inside him he didn’t know could break. Then he lets go completely. Unrestrained. His hips snap down in earnest, riding Saint with so much force and rhythm it knocks the breath right out of both of them.

Saint is gasping beneath him, eyes wide and wild, mouth slack with awe and want . 

“You’re so fucking tight,” he chokes out. “You’re—fuck—you’re perfect, Shin, baby—I’m not gonna—fuck— please —”

Shin grinds down harder, bouncing rougher now, chasing it, chasing him . 

And, no, Saint’s definitely not going to make it.

“I can feel you,” Shin whispers, breath hot against Saint’s mouth. “Inside— everywhere —Saint—”

Saint breaks .

He bucks up, hands grabbing Shin’s ass, dragging him down hard as he thrusts up—once, twice—then comes , buried deep, with a sound like something ripped from his soul.

His whole body convulses. He shakes. Every nerve firing at once as his cock throbs inside Shin, spilling heat in wave after wave until he’s left trembling, gasping, falling apart.

But Shin doesn’t stop.

Shin rides it out—rides him out. 

He trembles, groans, half-chuckles in disbelief, and Shin fucks him right through it, keeps rocking his hips, dragging it out until Saint is a mess beneath him, wrecked and so utterly gone.

Shin slows then, rides the aftershocks with a kind of focused cruelty, grinding just enough to make Saint twitch , to pull out every last drop. His movements aren’t meant to tease, not really, but they devastate all the same. Every subtle roll of his hips sends another jolt through Saint’s overworked body, like his nerves haven’t figured out how to stop screaming yet.

Saint groans, low and helpless, a raw sound dragged straight from his chest. 

His hands, still on Shin’s waist, are barely holding on now, more cradling than guiding, fingers twitching with every tiny shift of pressure. 

He can feel himself slipping out, wet and slow, and the drag of it makes a shiver run down his spine and spread through him like a ripple in a still pond.

His whole body is on fire, but it's the kind that lingers warm instead of scorching. A slow, golden burn in his bones, in the hollow behind his ribs where his heart used to beat like a war drum. Now it's just thudding, dazed and drunk on the aftermath.

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice shredded.

Shin doesn’t answer. Just leans down and brushes their noses together, still catching his breath. His hands find Saint’s face, thumbs stroking gently at his cheekbones like he’s memorizing the shape of him, even now.

Saint’s eyes flutter open, hazy and blown wide. 

“I think—I think I died,” he wheezes. “Like, briefly.”

Shin huffs a laugh and finally stills completely, lowering his weight until their bodies are back to being flush together, skin to skin. 

Saint gasps again at the closeness, the heat, the mess between them, inside them. Shin’s still full, still tight around him, and Saint’s oversensitive cock gives a weak pulse in protest.

An involuntary movement Shin answers with a very voluntary roll of his hips.

“ Holy fuck, ” he almost squeaks, his hands flying to Shin’s waist, eyes widening in a slight hint of panic. “Are you trying to kill me ?”

It comes out so high-pitched and raw that Saint feels like he should be at least a bit embarrassed.

He’s not. Or, if he is, his brain doesn’t seem to be processing it.

Because Shin just settled on his lap, with Saint still fully inside of him, like he was a king claiming his rightful throne. And that thought alone—together with a good sprinkle of deadly oversensitivity—is enough to annihilate every other thing in his mind.

Shin smiles, slow and crooked and entirely too smug.

“No,” he murmurs simply. “Just trying to make sure you remember this.”

Saint tries not to start laughing like a maniac, because how in the world does Shin think he could ever forget this ?

Forget the way Shin looked wrecked and radiant, lips swollen and eyes half-lidded, flushed like a sin and shining like salvation? 

Forget the way he moved, all grace and intent, riding that edge of control like he was born to drive Saint insane? 

Forget the sounds—those absolutely devastating sounds—that poured out of him, each one etched into Saint’s skull like a favorite song played on repeat?

Not to mention the fact that Saint’s literally still inside him, still shaking, still struggling to remember what year it is.

Yeah. No. Not forgetting this.

Shin could ask him in twenty years—after marriage, joint taxes, and a tragic but inevitable matching set of bad back problems—and Saint would still be able to describe this moment down to the pattern of freckles on Shin’s shoulder and the exact way the light hit his skin when he came apart.

And maybe he’s thinking a bit far ahead, sure, but he doesn’t care. 

Because it’s the truth.

So yeah. Forgetting this? Hilarious. Delusional, even. And absolutely not an option.

Saint snorts softly, eyes drifting closed as he clutches Shin tighter against him.

“Oh, I’m gonna remember it alright , ” Saint mutters, completely fucked-out and shameless. “I’m gonna see it when I close my eyes. I’m gonna think about it in traffic. I’m gonna have flashbacks in the middle of grocery fucking shopping.”

He knows his mouth is probably running too much, spilling every unfiltered thought like someone cut the breaks and greased the road, but he can’t bring himself to care about the way he is absolutely making a fool out of himself right now, because Shin chuckles, all quiet and pleased, and Saint’s stomach flips on itself.

“You’re ridiculous” Shin breathes in that small flicker of space that separates them, fond and amused and so, so soft Saint has to physically stop himself from melting.

Yet he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t shift, doesn’t pull off, doesn’t even pretend like he’s thinking about it.

Shin just stays there, still straddling Saint’s hips, Saint still buried deep inside him, snug and spent and twitching from oversensitivity. And it’s—

It’s a lot.

Saint’s brain tries to reboot. Fails. 

Tries again. Comes up with a single line of code and it’s just error: still inside . 

Which, sure, accurate, but it doesn’t really cover the emotional damage of feeling Shin still clenched around him, warm and wet and absolutely not going anywhere.

“You’re still…” Saint manages, voice hoarse and several miles past ruined.

“Mmh,” Shin hums, utterly unbothered, chin resting on his shoulder now, like they’ve been doing this for years instead of just fucking each other’s brains out on the living room sofa for their first time.

“Not moving,” Saint goes on, dumbly, like maybe narrating it out loud will help.

“Nope,” Shin replies, and his voice is so content that Saint could die. “I like the way you feel.”

Saint makes a strangled sound. His cock spasms helplessly, still caught inside the warm embrace of Shin’s body, and he can feel Shin’s smirk, right against his neck, like he knows every little effect he has on Saint’s body now. 

But he can also hear the little hiss bleeding into a moan escaping his throat.

Shin lifts his head, looks down at him playfully, eyes a little wide, all flushed and sticky and glowing like sin dressed up in affection. “Oh, I felt that”

And fuck. Fuck .

“I-I’m sorry—Oh, God—”

Saint shuts his eyes, tries to calm the fuck down from the hormonal rollercoaster he just experienced, tries to breathe through it like maybe if he stops seeing, he’ll stop feeling.

Too bad that never works. Especially not now .

“Hey” he hears Shin whisper, but he doesn’t dare move.

He feels his hand move up, brushing gently through Saint’s hair in that maddeningly soothing way. Then it shifts, fingers trailing down to the edge of his jaw. His thumb nudges lightly beneath Saint’s chin, coaxing.

“Look at me,” Shin says, gentle but firm.

Saint resists for half a second, cheeks burning, breath still shaky from everything, but the quiet steadiness in Shin’s voice unravels him. 

Slowly, reluctantly, he cracks his eyes open.

And Shin is there, flushed and bare and still wrapped around him in every way that counts. But his eyes are soft now, warm and impossibly patient.

“It’s okay,” Shin says, voice like a balm. “No need to be embarrassed.”

Saint swallows hard. His heart is thundering in his chest, his face on fire, and his body still trembling in places from oversensitivity and embarrassment. But Shin just watches him. Like he’s not humiliated, like he didn’t just almost break from a single line.

“You liked that,” Shin murmurs, not a question, not teasing. Just quietly pleased. Like the discovery is something fragile and important. Like it means something to be able to say it out loud.

“Yeah…” Saint admits with a small bashful smile on his lips.

Because what can he do ? Lie ? 

He can’t. His body already betrayed him.

Shin hums, a soft, satisfied sound. 

He leans a little closer, his voice low and warm. “I like that you liked it.”

He brushes his thumb gently over the soft skin under Saint’s chin, just enough to make his pulse spike again, but not enough to be overwhelming. “So no apologizing, ok ?”

Saint looks at him, a bit dazed, trying to steady his breath, still processing the feeling of it all, of the intimacy, of the vulnerability they’re sharing. And he can’t stop the quiet smile that tugs at his lips, despite himself.

He doesn’t even know what time it is. 

Doesn’t know how long they’ve been like this. Doesn’t know how he’s still alive, because his heart’s doing this thing , pounding so hard and so slow that it feels like it’s trying to tattoo Shin’s name into the inside of his ribs.

But Shin doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull off. He just keeps petting him, like Saint is a dog who wandered into the sunniest spot on the floor and now refuses to move.

And Saint, well, he kind of is that dog. Soft and needy in a way he doesn’t have the energy to hide.

So he doesn’t. He lets himself take in the sight of Shin openly, unashamed and shameless. Just because he wants to. Just because he can .

Shin’s skin is flushed, glowing even under the artificial light of the lamp, and his lips are swollen from all the failed attempts biting them to suppress the melody of filthy and most perfect sounds that now will be etched in Saint’s brain forever. There’s a tiny drop of sweat at his temple, curling into his hairline, and Saint watches it like it’s an art piece at the Louvre.

He stares as it glistens, hypnotized by the way it traces the smoothness of Shin’s skin, following its path like he’s witnessing something divine. 

His heartbeat quickens, a dull thud in his chest, because, goddamn, Shin looks like a fucking angel. 

No, not an angel. He’s too far beyond that. 

Shin’s the sun, and Saint is just some poor fool standing too close, letting himself burn in the warmth of him.

Saint’s eyes flicker over Shin’s body—still damp, flushed with exertion and desire—and he feels the weight of it all in his chest, a tightness that has nothing to do with the way he’s breathing heavily, or the way he’s still buried inside Shin. It’s the weight of realizing that in this moment, Shin is the singular most beautiful thing Saint’s ever seen. His hair’s a mess, his body slick with the aftermath of everything they just shared, and Saint wants to memorize every inch of him, burn this image into his mind so he can carry it with him forever.

The way Shin’s chest rises and falls, still trying to catch his breath, the subtle tension in his muscles, and those half-lidded eyes gleaming with a satisfaction that should be illegal. He’s everything Saint’s ever wanted, everything he never thought he could have, and now, here he is, sitting in front of him, on him, like the world is melting away.

Shin lifts his gaze slowly, meeting Saint’s eyes with a smirk that’s half playful, half curious. 

“What?” he asks, voice still rough and a little croaky. He raises an eyebrow, teasing, but there’s an underlying softness to the question. 

He runs a hand through Saint’s messy hair, lips curling into a grin that barely masks the warmth spreading through him. 

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he adds gently, barely above a whisper.

Saint swallows hard.

Because the truth is, he doesn’t know it either.

This is the part where he’s supposed to say something. 

Not another joke. Not a deflection.

Just the truth.

Shin is still on him. Still full of him. Still warm and soft and boneless in that post-orgasm haze, like he doesn’t have a single worry in the world.

Saint, on the other hand, is buzzing. Not with lust anymore. God, no, that ship sailed the second his brain stopped blacking out from pleasure. 

It’s something sharper. Louder. A little colder.

Because now the high’s fading, and what’s left in its place is a knot sitting heavy in his chest.

He can feel it in the silence between them.

Thick and loaded and too much.

Shin’s body is still flush against his, skin tacky with sweat, legs sprawled wide on either side of him, their bodies still joined like some obscene metaphor for everything they’ve never said out loud.  

It should be perfect. It is perfect. 

So why does Saint feel like he can’t breathe?

Because he knows what’s next.

Not from Shin. From himself.

The words are there, crowding his throat like they’re desperate to get out. But Saint can’t help wondering what happens after .

What if he says it and ruins everything?

What if Shin hears it and laughs?

What if this—this one perfect night —was just something fun, something reckless, something physical , and nothing more?

What if Saint has it all wrong?

His stomach twists. His heart’s already halfway up his throat, beating so hard he’s sure Shin can feel it where they’re still touching. So close. So goddamn close. Close enough that Saint could kiss him again right now and not miss.

But this isn’t about kissing.

This isn’t even about sex anymore.

This is about everything.

Because Saint’s been in love with him for years. Silently. Carefully. Hopelessly. He’s buried it down so deep he thought he could keep it there forever, wrapped in jokes and half-hearted flirting and late-night texts that always stopped just short of too much.

But tonight cracked him open.

Shin looked at him like he mattered. Touched him like he was precious. Said yes without hesitation. Took him like it meant something.

And maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was just sex for Shin. Maybe it was just curiosity or chemistry or some beautiful, reckless mistake.

But what if it wasn’t?

What if it meant something, and Saint just doesn’t say it and misses his chance?

His mind flips between the two possibilities like a coin spinning in slow motion.

Ruin it. Or risk it.

Stay safe. Or be honest .

To speak. Or to die.

He’s never been good at that. Being honest when it counts. But Shin is here, curled around him, looking down at him like the world’s already decided. Like Saint doesn’t have to be afraid.

So maybe, for once, he doesn’t have to be.

Saint closes his eyes.

Breathes in, shaky.

And when he opens them again, Shin’s still there. Warm. Patient. His.

So Saint says it.

Soft. Scared. Real. 

“I’m in love with you.”

Just like that. Quiet. Almost like an accident. Like the words slipped out before he could stop them.

It hangs there. Suspended in the air between them, fragile and terrifying and completely irreversible.

Saint immediately wants to take them back.

Not because they’re untrue. God, no. They’ve never been more true. But because now they’re real. Now they’re out there. No longer tucked away behind teasing grins and sidelong glances and all the things he’s never been brave enough to say.

Now they’re a weapon. A risk. A prayer.

He doesn’t even realize he’s stopped breathing until his chest starts to ache.

Shin hasn’t said anything yet.

He hasn’t moved, hasn’t blinked, hasn’t done a goddamn thing except look at him.

And that’s maybe the worst part.

Because Saint doesn’t know what that look means.

Is it surprise? Disbelief? Confusion? Or something quieter, something hopeful, maybe, if he squints?

He’s not sure. He’s too scared to read it right.

And in that silence—that stretched, thin, murderous silence—every bad possibility unravels in his head like thread snapping under pressure.

What if Shin regrets it now?

What if he’s realizing he made a mistake?

What if this ruins everything? 

What if this is the end of them. The stupid jokes, the long nights, the friendship they’ve built over years of knowing everything about each other except this?

Saint’s stomach churns. His pulse is roaring in his ears. He suddenly feels too exposed, too open, like he’s just laid his entire soul out on the table and now has to wait while someone else decides whether to keep it or crush it.

He wants to run. Or hide. Or vanish.

He wants to rewind time five seconds and shove the words back down where they’ve always lived in that cramped little box labeled Too Dangerous to Touch.

But it’s too late.

He said it.

He said it because he meant it. Because it’s been boiling in his chest for so long, and tonight cracked the lid off that pressure valve so hard it had nowhere left to go but out.

He loves Shin.

He loves him.

And now, he’s just waiting to see what that costs.

A heartbeat passes.

Then another.

Then another.

And Shin is still looking at him, unreadable, lips parted just slightly, eyes wide, but not pulling away. Not running. Not laughing. Not rejecting him, but not—

Not saying anything, either.

And Saint can’t take it.

“Like, actually ,” he adds quickly, because silence is unbearable and now his mouth won’t shut up. “Not just the horny kind. I mean—I am incredibly horny for you, obviously, that’s... that’s evident. But it’s also more than that.”

Shin says nothing, so Saint keeps going. He has no idea if he’s digging a hole or building a shrine.

“You breathe and I go insane. You look at me and I forget what words are. You just exist and I want to dedicate my entire life to you. Not just the good parts, either. I want the sleepy mornings when you’re grumpy and your hair is sticking up in twelve different directions. I want the days you can’t stop laughing, and the ones where you go quiet and hide in your own head and think I don’t notice. I do. I notice everything.

“I’ve been in love with you for years, Shin. Since—God, I don’t even know when. Since you laughed so hard at my math joke you snorted water out your nose in tenth grade and then made me apologize for it. Since you wore that stupid scarf I got you, even though it was hideous and way too long and made you look like a colorful drowned cat. Since that one summer you spilled an entire slushie on me in front of half the school and tried to mop it up with your sleeve, like rubbing cherry syrup into my shirt was going to help.

“Since every time you touched me—even just casually, even just a nudge or a shove or a hand on my shoulder—I wanted to cry, because it was never enough. I wanted to hold your hand and not let go. I wanted to hug you without a timer, without an excuse. I wanted to kiss you every time you smiled at me like I was something special and didn’t even know you were doing it.

“I’ve loved you through bad haircuts and midterm breakdowns. Through every ‘I’m fine’ that meant you weren’t. Through the way you always hum under your breath when you’re focused, and how you say my name like it’s something safe. You’re stitched into every part of my life, every memory that matters. And I think—no, I know —somewhere along the way, it stopped being a crush or a phase or even just a feeling. It became you. You became the feeling.”

Saint’s voice breaks on that last word. Just a little. Just like the crack that opens in his heart.

Because Shin isn’t moving. Isn’t saying anything. Isn’t as much as breathing.

He just looks at him. Not shocked, not upset, not even amused. Just watching him, eyes unreadable, expression soft but serious. And it’s that calmness, that stillness, that makes Saint start to unravel.

Because why isn’t he saying anything ?

Saint’s brain promptly begins its descent into full catastrophe mode.

Oh, God. 

Oh, God . 

He said it. He actually said it.

And now Shin’s just sitting there. Silent. Beautiful. Likely re-evaluating every decision he’s ever made. Just watching him with those big, dark eyes, and it’s killing him.

Because Saint doesn’t know what it means. Doesn’t know if Shin is stunned or confused or quietly preparing a soft rejection that’ll still manage to split him in half.

So he panics.

Naturally.

“Okay,” he blurts, voice cracking like glass under pressure. “Wow—ehm. Cool. I didn’t mean to—well, I did , but maybe not right now, and definitely not while you’re still literally full of me, Jesus Christ .

“Not that it’s a bad thing, necessarily, I mean—unless it is. Is it? Bad? Because if it is, I take it back. Not the love part, that’s permanent, apparently, fuck , but the part where I said it out loud like a total idiot mid afterglow—Because who does that? Who just L-bombs their best friend after getting railed into the divine plane of existence, am I right? I should be arrested. Or sedated. Or both.”

He’s rambling now. He knows it. He knows he’s embarrassing himself but he can’t stop .

He’s ruined it.

He’s ruined everything .

“I mean, I wasn’t trying to guilt you into saying anything, I swear. I don’t expect you to say anything, just—don’t run, okay? Or, like, evaporate . Or tell me this ruined everything, because I know it might’ve, and I’ll deal, I swear, I just—I couldn’t not say it because—fuck—I didn’t want to hide anymore. Even if it makes everything worse. Even if you don’t—”

He doesn't end that sentence. 

He can't.

Because Shin kisses him.

Just— kisses him .

No warning. No dramatic pause. No asking for permission, because permission has already been granted a thousand times over in every look, every laugh, every night spent tangled up in each other’s gravity. Just a hand sliding up into Saint’s hair, the other cupping his cheek, and then bliss.

One second Saint is panicking, spinning out, unraveling. The next, Shin is on him, kissing him with the kind of soft recklessness and unstoppable need that steals every last ounce of air from his lungs.

It’s urgent. It’s hungry. Not the hunger that burns, no. The hunger that consumes, the one that makes you savor every bit of flavor on your tongue. All teeth and lips and hands that don’t know where to land first because he wants everything . A kiss so deep, so devastating, Saint forgets every word he’s ever known.

Shin’s hand curls around the back of his neck, dragging him closer like he can’t stand a single inch between them, like their bodies are not still connected. The other slides down his spine, firm yet trembling slightly. Just enough to betray how badly he’s shaking.

Saint freezes. Completely.

Not because it’s wrong. 

Because it’s right. It’s so fucking right. 

Because for a full second, he can’t comprehend that this is really happening that Shin is kissing him like the world might collapse if he doesn’t.

He’s been so wound up in the fear of losing this, in the chaos of confession and the silence after, that it takes him several stunned, blinking heartbeats to catch up.

To feel it.

Saint lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, shaky and small, and slowly— so slowly —his eyes flutter closed, and he melts.

Everything in him gives way.

Shin’s lips are soft, sure, their mouths sliding together like they were built for it, like they’ve been circling this for years and finally, finally landed .

Saint’s hands find Shin’s waist. Not grabbing, not pulling. Just holding. Anchoring himself to the moment. To him . 

And when he kisses back, it’s soft. Hesitant at first, like he’s afraid he’ll break whatever spell they’ve just stumbled into. But Shin just tilts his head slightly and deepens it. Not to take more, but to stay longer.

Saint opens up for him without thinking, lips parting, breath catching, welcoming Shin in like he’s gravity and Saint’s never learned how to stand on his own.

And Shin takes . Shin gives .

He kisses him harder. Not rougher, not wilder, but more , deeper, like he’s pouring himself into the space between them. Like he needs Saint to feel it.

His fingers slip into Saint’s hair, tugging just slightly, and Saint melts, his body giving out all at once, folding into Shin like that’s where he was always supposed to go.

The kiss turns desperate in its softness, like they’re trying to catch up for all the time they lost. Like now that they can , they can’t stop.

There’s no rush, no urgency anymore.

Just quiet desperation, wrapped in tenderness.
Just years of unspoken words passed through the shape of a mouth finally allowed to speak them.

When they part, it’s only by a breath. Their faces stay close, foreheads nearly touching, eyes half-lidded, lips still brushing like they’re not quite ready to let go.

Saint is left breathless. Not just in the oh wow, I need air kind of way, but the kind where his lungs feel too small for the moment. Where his chest aches with something big and terrifying and so utterly beautiful he could cry if he weren’t too stunned to move.

His vision is a little blurry. His heart is jackhammering behind his ribs like it’s trying to escape and maybe jump directly into Shin’s hands.

“You kissed me,” he whispers, as if saying it aloud will make it real.

Shin smiles. A small, trembling thing, full of wonder and relief. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I did.”

“W-why?”

It comes out before he can think, all croaky and breathy and so incredibly stupid.

Shin huffs out a laugh. It’s quiet, almost disbelieving. Like the question is so deeply absurd that he can’t help it. 

He leans his forehead against Saint’s, still smiling, still catching his breath.

“You just told me you’re in love with me,” he murmurs, voice cracking on the edges. “And you’re asking why I kissed you?”

Saint blinks, nods dumbly. His heart is doing something truly stupid in his chest, thumping out of control.

Shin’s laugh softens into something quieter. Fonder.

“You idiot,” whispers, a half chuckle laced in the words. “You beautiful, oblivious idiot.”

The words should sting. They don’t. They land soft, soaked in affection, like a secret they’ve both been keeping too long. 

Saint’s throat tightens, chest squeezed tight in a grip that feels suspiciously like hope .

“Is that… good idiot?” he manages, voice dry, “Or like, run-for-the-hills idiot?”

It feels like the dumbest thing to say in that moment. The kind of thing that scrambles out of your mouth when your neurons are too busy overworking themselves to form proper words. And maybe it is dumb. Maybe it’s incredibly, profoundly moronic. But Saint’s brain stopped working about a few seconds ago.

Because Shin— Shin kissed him.

And not just a kiss. Not just some haphazard brush of lips, not some tipsy mistake to laugh off later. No.

It was a kiss . With purpose. With heat. With hands in his hair and a softness in the way Shin held him like he’d been waiting his whole life just to do it.

Saint’s still reeling from it. His heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of his chest.

Shin just breathes a soft laugh, his fingers sliding into Saint’s dark locks again, slower now, gentle, reverent. His other hand drifts to Saint’s chest, right over his racing heart, as if to ground them both there, here, in this moment.

“I’ve been waiting years for you to say that,” he says quietly.

Saint blinks.

His brain lurches, skips, then backpedals violently. “Wait. What?”

Shin lets out a quiet chuckle, starry eyes locking in his.

“I knew,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb across Saint’s cheek, slow and soft. “I’ve known. Maybe not at first, but… for a while now. I just didn’t want to push. Didn’t want to risk scaring you off.”

Saint's brain is scrambling to timeline everything, recontextualize every moment, every accidental touch, every too-long glance.

“Since when?” he croaks.

Shin’s head hangs a little low, like he is trying to cover the fondness of his expression, his warm and gentle smile as he says, “Since you tried to fix my bike in eighth grade and stripped the gears, like, five seconds in.”

Saint stares. Open-mouthed. Appalled.

Because—

“That was six years ago ” he gapes, eyes so wide they threaten to roll out of his skull “You knew and you still—this whole time—you let me go around pining like an idiot?”

Shin chuckles, and the sound is lethal in how affectionate it is, warm, rich with fondness. It slips under Saint’s skin like honey.

“You were an idiot for sure,” he says, brushing a strand of Saint’s hair from his forehead with a tenderness that nearly makes his heart explode. “But you were my idiot. I was just waiting for you to catch up.”

Saint lets out a quiet, helpless sound and leans forward without thinking, burying his face against the warm curve of Shin’s neck. He breathes him in like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. 

Shin doesn’t hesitate, just wraps both arms around him and pulls him close, one hand curling protectively around the back of Saint’s head, the other stroking slowly up and down his back.

For a long second, they just stay like that—pressed together in the hush, their bodies fitting like puzzle pieces long overdue.

“You could’ve told me,” Saint mumbles, voice muffled against skin. “You could’ve saved me so much pining. And crying. And—God, that year I made you a playlist called 'Things I Wish I Could Say to You Without Dying’ —”

Shin’s laugh rumbles low in his chest, vibrating right into Saint’s bones. 

“You think I didn’t listen to that on loop?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to Saint’s temple. “I practically had it memorized.”

“It was supposed to be subtle” Saint pouts, finally emerging from the warmth of Shin’s skin, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and wounded like a kicked puppy.

Shin grins, tilting his head a little, that teasing spark igniting in his gaze. 

“With that title and a photo of us holding hands when we were ten on the cover?” he teases, brows raising like he’s daring Saint to argue. “Yeah, super subtle.”

Saint groans, pressing a hand to his face like he wants to disappear in the cushions. “Was I really that embarrassing?”

“You were thirteen and in love” Shin says, grinning fondly like it’s his favorite memory. “And dramatic. Don’t forget dramatic.”

Saint lets out a noise—somewhere between a groan and a wheeze—and buries his face in Shin’s chest for half a second before tilting it back up with a dramatic sigh. 

He’s flustered. He’s wrecked. And he’s so deeply, painfully, beautifully in love he could scream.

Shin strokes a slow hand down Saint’s back, fingers tracing lazy, grounding patterns like he’s spelling out truths against his skin.

“I almost did, you know?” Shin’s voice comes out low, breaking the silence like a ripple over still water.

Saint lifts his head slightly, gaze drawn to Shin’s face. “Did what?”

“Tell you.” Shin’s eyes don’t waver. “I almost did, a bunch of times.”

Saint blinks a few times, like the words don’t really settle inside his brain 

“Y-you did?” he stutters, nothing short of a whisper.

Shin nods, brushing a thumb across Saint’s cheek again, his touch as soft as his voice.

“Yeah. But then you’d look at me like you were terrified, and I’d think, ‘Okay, not yet. He’s not ready.’” his smile tilts, a little crooked, a little shy now. “So I waited.”

There’s a pause. A quiet inhale. A moment where Saint just stares like Shin hung the stars in his personal universe.

“You’re unbelievable,” he mutters then, softly, the words tangled somewhere between awe and exasperation.

“I know,” Shin says, smiling now. That particular smile. The one Saint has caught glimpses of in the softest hours of the night. The one that makes his bones forget how to hold him up.

“And for the record” he adds, tilting forward just enough to nudge their noses together, one hand drifting down Saint’s arm, his fingers dancing on his skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake as he reaches his hand, taking it gently, like something fragile, before bringing it to his chest, pressing it flat over his thundering heart “I love you too.”

Saint’s world short-circuits.

His heart doesn’t just skip. It skyrockets . It goes full marching band, full fireworks finale, full Broadway closing number. His fingers tingle. His lungs forget how to work. The heat blooming across his skin is blinding, the rush in his head dizzying. Everything’s loud and silent all at once, and it’s all because of those four words. Words he’s dreamed of but never expected to actually hear. Not like this. Not real.

His eyes sting with the pressure of it all. Not quite tears, just the ache of everything crashing in at once. The truth of it. The weight.

He lets out a helpless sound—part sob, part laugh—and throws his arms around Shin, dragging him in like he’ll never let go again, a love-sick smile blooming on his lips that he couldn’t stop even if he tried. 

“Say it again.” he breathes, desperate and delighted and maybe just a little unhinged.

Shin wraps around him instantly, like he was waiting to be asked. His arms hold tight. Sure. Home. His lips curve into the softest, most beautiful smile Saint has ever seen. It’s all warmth, all tenderness, his eyes softening as he leans in, the affection there unspoken but overwhelming. 

He tilts his head, his lips brushing the shell of Saint’s ear, and he says it again, like a prayer.

“I love you.”

Saint shudders.

“I love you,” Shin repeats, slower this time, lips grazing his temple. 

“I love you,” between kisses along Saint’s jaw. 

“I love you,” into the softness of his cheek. 

“I love you, Saint” a breath away from his lips, voice cracking just slightly, like he can’t believe he gets to say it at all.

Saint can’t take it. His heart’s breaking open in the best way.

So he kisses him. Because he wants to, because he needs to, because he can.

Because he loves Shin and Shin loves him.

He crashes forward like he’s falling, hands grasping at Shin’s waist, trying to ground himself in the only thing that feels real.  

Shin makes a startled noise, something between a laugh and a gasp, and then melts into it like he’s been waiting his whole life.

It’s messy. It’s clumsy. Not perfect, not practiced, but raw and real. It’s full of need and giddiness that they can’t hold back. Saint pulls Shin closer, crashing their lips together with more urgency than he meant to. 

Their mouths collide, their teeth knock, noses bump, and neither of them cares. They're both too busy beaming into each other’s mouths. 

Saint laughs into it, because how could he not ? He’s kissing Shin for fuck’s sake.

He’s high. He’s so high he doesn’t think he will ever be able to come down. Not even if he wanted to. Which he really doesn’t.

Shin pulls back just barely, eyes wide with surprise but so clearly glowing . “What’s so funny?”

Saint shakes his head, grinning like he’s never been this happy in his life. 

“I don’t know. I’m just—” he chokes on another laugh. “I can’t believe this is really happening.”

Shin’s lips twitch, his own chuckle escaping before he leans back in, kissing Saint again. This time, slower, but still full of that ridiculous, giddy joy they both can’t contain. 

Their lips meet again, but the laughter doesn’t stop. It keeps slipping between them, this shared joy that makes everything feel like a dream, and they both can’t get enough.

Shin pulls back again, just enough to look at Saint with married eyes and a mock-scolding frown despite the clear grin tilting the corner of his lips. “Stop laughing, you idiot! I’m trying to kiss you here”

“Sorry, sorry” Saint says, his voice breathless, still trying to calm the surge of pure euphoria bubbling in his chest and shaking his head like a fool. “I can’t help it” he presses his forehead against Shin’s, chuckling softly. “You—You’re just... too perfect. I—”

Shin softens immediately, his smile going quieter, deeper. He cups the back of Saint’s neck and pulls him in again, this time kissing him like a promise. Like he’s sealing something between them. It’s slower, steadier, but just as electric.

Saint’s laugh fades into a breath, then into a soft sigh. His hands move to Shin’s waist, holding him there, like he’s afraid if he lets go, everything will slip away. And then the laughter doesn’t feel quite so important anymore. It’s just the two of them, wrapped up in this impossibly perfect moment.

When they finally pull apart, both of them are still grinning, giddy and a little dazed, but entirely content. They’re both breathing a little too hard, both caught in this whirlwind of feelings that they can’t quite explain, but they don’t need to.

“See?” Shin breathes, his voice low and warm, a touch of smugness curling his lips, his eyes softening as he meets Saints gaze. “Not so hard to stop laughing, huh?”

Saint, still catching his breath, tilts his head to one side, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“Hard to laugh when you take my breath away like that,” he says, his voice light but laced with sincerity.

Shin snorts, rolling his eyes affectionately. 

“You’re so cheesy.” he mutters, shaking his head as he lets out a soft chuckle.

“Can you blame me?” Saint whispers, brushing a thumb along Shin’s jaw, his voice turning softer. “I have the love of my life right here in my arms.”

There’s a quiet beat. A shift in the air. 

The playful banter hangs for a moment before Saint’s expression shifts slightly. His heart races again, not from laughter this time, but from something softer, something more real. 

He looks up at Shin, his voice quieter this time, almost tentative, as if asking a question he isn’t sure he’s ready for. “So…what now?”

Shin’s smile grows smaller, lopsided, like he’s keeping something hidden behind that soft curve of his lips. He brushes a hand through Saint’s hair before letting it rest on his shoulder, leaning in just enough to close the gap between them. 

“Now,” Shin begins, his voice steady and sure, “you keep touching me and kissing me like that forever. Or until one of us dies. Whichever comes first.”

Saint’s chest tightens at the words, but before he can react, he lets out an involuntary laugh, too surprised not to. His hand brushes across Shin’s chest, his fingers lingering there. 

“That’s…romantic,” he says, still chuckling.

Shin shrugs casually, though there’s something tender in the way he looks at Saint. 

“It seems like a solid long-term strategy” his voice is soft and sincere as he speaks, but there’s still a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Saint snorts, still grinning, his fingers trailing over Shin’s chest like they’re tethered now. Like if he stops touching him, Shin might evaporate into a particularly vivid daydream.

“So that’s the plan, huh?” he murmurs with a playful lilt in his voice, head tilted in faux-thought as his fingers lazily trace patterns against Shin’s side. “Can I haunt you if I die first?”

Shin blinks. “What?”

“Like, romantically. Not spooky.” Saint gestures vaguely in the air above Shin’s shoulder. “Open your fridge at midnight. Rearrange your socks into little hearts. Possess your coffee machine and steam messages into your oat milk foam.”

Shin blinks again, slower this time. “That’s… specific.”

“I’m a man of vision.”

Shin just stares at him, half in awe, half in ‘ how did I fall in love with a literal cartoon character? ’

Saint’s about to elaborate on his plans for “eternally devoted ghost-boyfriendhood” when something finally clicks.

His brain, maybe. Or that little switch inside of it that keeps swinging between ‘Award Nominated Shakespeare-inspired Romantic Drama’ and ‘ Wake up, this the real world ’

Well, that button seems to finally set on reality.

He stiffens. Blinks once.

Then twice.

And then slowly, slowly looks down at their bodies.

“Wait,” he says.

Shin arches a brow, slightly alarmed. “What?”

“Holy shit, I’m still inside of you.”

Shin flushes. Hard. But it’s Saint who lets out the most deranged, high-pitched noise of sudden awareness and horror.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. We’re having our big fluffy rom-com moment and I’m literally still balls-deep in you on the couch where we eat noodles and watch anime— Shin, this is so undignified. ”

Shin is trying not to laugh, biting down on his lip, eyes crinkling as he watches Saint spiral once again.

“We haven’t even cleaned up! There’s lube—oil?—on the remote! The cat saw us!”

“We don’t have a cat.”

“Well, thank God, because I would never be able to look it in the eye again.”

Shin loses it, laughing now, full-bodied and unbothered, as Saint flails and covers his face with both hands like that’ll shield him from the situation.

“This is—” Saint groans, palms sliding down his cheeks to reveal a sheer red flush. “We should’ve had this conversation in, like, a bed. With clothes. And dignity.”

Shin’s head tilts back a little, chuckling like Saint’s despair is his personal entertainment. “You’re the one who blurted out your undying love mid-afterglow.”

“It just—came out!”

“You ranted for five straight minutes while still—” Shin gestures vaguely downward, “—very much situated.”

“You situated yourself first!”

Shin’s grin softens as he lifts his hand to lightly trace the curve of Saint’s jaw with a finger. 

The simple gesture—just his finger, barely a touch, and the way Saint’s breath hitches—feels like the most intimate thing in the world. 

He can’t quite explain it. It’s the way their worlds collided, their hearts finally settling into one shared rhythm. 

“Well, I told you, didn’t I?” Shin’s thumb brushes over his lips, and Saint instinctively leans into the touch, “I like the way you feel.”

Saint short-circuits. His whole system shuts down like someone poured water in the control panel. He forgets how to blink. How to breathe. Hell, he might’ve forgotten his own name for a second there.

But the one thing his traitorous body doesn’t forget how to do?

Send all his blood directly south.

He gasps and, God help him, he twitches. 

Inside of Shin.

Who jerks a little in his lap, eyes going wide, mouth parting in a soft, breathless gasp. 

“Oh,” Shin exhales, breath catching on the syllable. His voice is amused, tinged with something soft, hungry. “You really do like when I say that.”

Saint very nearly dies.

“You can’t—” he chokes out, voice frayed and uneven, as if each word is being dragged from the back of his throat. “You can’t just say things like that. While still—while we’re—you—”

He cuts himself off, hands flailing uselessly before slapping over his face. Because no full sentence—not in English, not in Thai, not even in interpretive dance—could accurately encompass the absolutely absurd amount of feelings, arousal, and sheer what-the-fuckery ricocheting around inside his body.

He’s vibrating. Internally. Like someone stuck a soda can full of bees inside a microwave.

And, of course, Shin, with his insufferable pretty-boy smirk and eyes that say I know exactly what I’m doing and I love it , tilts his head and adds more gasoline to the fire by curving his lips in a more than satisfied grin.

“You love watching me crash out completely, don’t you?” Saint says in despair, half-laughing, half-pleading for mercy.

“Yeah,” Shin replies smoothly, unrepentant. He leans in and presses a maddeningly gentle kiss to Saint’s cheek, just below his eye. “It’s adorable. And honestly? Wildly entertaining. Like a little dog in a panic spiral. Except, somehow, hot.”

Saint lets out a strangled sound. His hands drop from his face just to clutch at the couch cushions like he needs to physically anchor himself.

He’s going to pass out. 

Right here. 

Fully naked, absolutely balls-deep in the love of his life, and said angelic creature is comparing him to a hot puppy .

And the worst part? 

Saint’s never been more in love.

So he leans in, all smiles and crinkled eyes, and presses his lips to Shin’s. 

Their noses bump a little, their mouths slot together like puzzle pieces, made for each other. Saint’s hand comes up, fingers curling gently into the hair at the nape of Shin’s neck, holding him, bringing closer like it could still be physically possible with how their bodies are intertwined. 

It starts gentle, almost reverent. Just the brush of lips, warm and careful, like Saint’s still stunned he’s allowed to do this. But then Shin makes a small, breathy sound against his mouth, and he can’t help but put his brain in stand-by.

Saint smiles against his lips, tilting his head slightly, kissing him again. Firmer now, slower, but with a teasing edge, like he’s daring Shin to keep up. Like this is the new language between them, and he’s fluent.

Shin hums, clearly not one to back down from a challenge. He shifts, pressing a little closer, and then—cheeky little menace—slips in the barest flicker of tongue, teasing Saint’s bottom lip.

Saint makes a quiet, surprised sound in his throat and immediately grins into the kiss, huffing out a laugh between them. 

“Oh,” he mumbles, lips still brushing Shin’s, “ that’s how it is, huh?”

Shin pulls back just enough to smirk, eyes gleaming. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“Tease,” Saint whispers, chasing his mouth.

Shin laughs, the sound muffled by Saint's lips as they meet again. Warmer, a little sloppier, but still full of that heady mix of affection and teasing and years of wanting finally, finally catching up with them.

When they break apart, Shin’s cheeks are flushed, lips kiss-swollen, breath shallow.

Saint leans their foreheads together and murmurs, breathless and grinning, “Okay. Bathroom. Now.”

“Huh?” Shin blinks, tilting his head in a picture-perfect performance of wide-eyed innocence that would’ve been more convincing if Saint hadn’t known him since he was eight and already a deceiving little shit. “Why?”

Saint narrows his eyes, staring at the luscious piece of art on his lap unimpressed, a tad bit scolding, and so deeply, stupidly in love. “Don’t you dare play coy with me, you demon in soft boy packaging.”

Then—because he is, in fact, completely insane and operating on horny autopilot—he stands up.

Shin makes a startled noise somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, instinctively wrapping his arms around Saint’s shoulders and legs around his waist like a koala. 

A very flushed, smug, still impaled koala.

Saint sucks in a breath. 

Shin lets out a broken, breathy “oh.”

The shift, the pressure , is indescribable. Their bodies are already too much and too close and too everything , but now? Saint is moving. Carrying Shin. Still inside him.

It’s a ridiculous position. It’s obscene. It probably defies several laws of physics and biology.
But it’s the most them thing they could ever do.

And Shin is melting .

“Fuck,” he breathes, half-laughing, half-moan. “That is... so much. How are you still this hard?”

Saint barely manages a shaky chuckle.

“I’m inside of you , Shin. And you’re like the most gorgeous, beautiful, ethereal, breath-taking and wet dream worthy being I have ever seen in my entire life. To say I have the hots for you would be an understatement here” he then shifts his grip slightly, letting his fingers splay wide across Shin’s bare back, grounding himself in warm skin and the soft, damp press of Shin’s body against his as he kisses his temple and adds with a grin “Plus, I'm literally in love with you, all of you . Can that be considered an aggravating factor?”

Shin giggles into his neck, breath warm and fluttering, arms tightening like he wants to stay there forever. The little sound is equal parts bashful and overwhelmed, and it makes something inside Saint melt like butter under the sun.

“Stop being so damn sweet” Shin mumbles, voice muffled against his skin, clearly trying to sound annoyed but absolutely failing to hide the smile in it.

Saint grins, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest as he leans in to kiss just below Shin’s ear, nuzzling gently. 

“Or?” he murmurs, all teasing affection and shameless adoration, as he walks stark naked through the hallway leading to the bathroom.

Shin pulls back just enough to look at him, cheeks pink, eyes sparkling. 

“Or I might spontaneously combust into glitter and Sanrio characters stickers,” he says solemnly, like this is a real and present danger.

Saint laughs, genuinely and loudly, the sound echoing like joy made audible. 

“You’d make a beautiful glitter explosion,” he says fondly, pressing their foreheads together. “Very aesthetic.”

Shin lets out a breathy chuckle small, but real. Then he leans back just far enough to look at him. His eyes are glossy, mouth swollen, skin flushed and still, somehow, he manages that infuriatingly smug grin.

“You’re such a dumbass.”

Saint smiles back, just barely, and leans in. He presses a slow, lingering kiss to Shin’s lips, one hand hosting Shin up, the other pushing the dark wooden door of the bathroom open.

Shin softens instantly. His hands slide up to cradle Saint’s face, thumbs brushing over cheekbones, like he can’t decide whether he wants to hold on or fall into him completely. He kisses back with a quiet kind of hunger. Not needy, but sure. Familiar. Like a song they both know by heart.

When they part, barely an inch of space between them, Shin’s voice is quieter. 

“You’re mine,” he says.

Not a question. A fact.

Saint’s eyes flicker, heat coiling low in his chest. He shifts his hold, guiding Shin gently backward until his hips meet the edge of the marble sink. It’s a careful motion, tender. 

He lets Shin rest there, just enough to support his weight, but not enough to break the connection between them. 

Shin breathes out a little stutter of a gasp as their bodies settle again, his thighs tightening instinctively around Saint’s waist like his body refuses to let go.

“Yeah,” Saint whispers. “I really fucking am.”

The angles of Shin’s lips quirk up, sure, soft and he presses another kiss to the corner of Saint’s mouth, then one to his jaw, slow and reverent.

“And I’m yours.”

Saint blinks, like the words physically hit him. His throat works around a breath that feels too big for his chest, and all he can do for a moment is hold Shin a little tighter.

His voice is hoarse when he finally speaks. “You mean that?”

Shin doesn’t hesitate. “I’ve never meant anything more.”

Saint leans in, resting their foreheads together, eyes fluttering shut as his arms wrap around Shin’s waist like he’s afraid he’ll slip away if he isn’t careful.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, like he can’t even begin to believe that what he is living is reality and not another dream “Holy shit, you’re mine. Like— actually mine . ”

Shin pulls back just enough to meet his eyes, and there’s something raw and open in his gaze. Like every wall between them has already fallen, and all that’s left is the truth, “I’ve always been, you blind fool.”

Saint is this close to crying. He really is.

Because, fuck, how could they have been doing this ?

How many times could he have said something ?

How many late-night walks home, shoulder brushing shoulder, the air between them buzzing with things left unsaid? Conversations about nothing that meant everything, their voices low, their steps slow, dragging out every moment just to be near each other a little longer. Silence so heavy with almost it could’ve cracked the sidewalk.

How many movie nights, knees pressed together under a shared blanket, the glow of the screen painting Shin’s face in soft colors while Saint sat there thinking, say it, just say it , but never did? Too scared to ruin it. Too scared to want.

Too many.

Too many times Shin laughed a little too hard at his jokes, or hugged him a little too long, or looked at him like he already knew . And Saint just smiled through it, playing dumb like a coward in cute pajamas.

God, he could’ve had this, him , sooner.

If he’d just opened his mouth and let the truth fall out instead of shoving it down next to every other feeling he refused to deal with. If he’d had the guts during that one night in first year when Shin fell asleep on his shoulder and mumbled his name like a prayer. Or the time Shin held his hand at that concert and didn’t let go, not even when the crowd thinned out. Or any of the million tiny moments that weren’t quite enough to push them over the edge.

So many chances.

So many stupid , missed chances.

Years of pining like a Shakespearean tragic hero with zero stage presence and a dramatic internal monologue sponsored by repression.

He could’ve been kissing Shin like this, loving Shin like this, so much sooner.

But...okay.

Okay.

It doesn’t matter now.

Because somehow, despite everything, they made it here. Not caught in the ache of "what if" or the haze of "someday." Just here . Tangled up in each other. Real and present and theirs .

Shin, flushed and grinning and calling him a fool.

Saint huffs a laugh through the ache in his chest.

“Why does you calling me names make me want to kiss you even more ?”

Shin doesn’t miss a beat, all amused grin and shiny eyes as he says, “Because you might have a light degrading kink going hand in hand with your very prominent praising one?”

Saint lets out the most put-upon sigh in human history and shoves his shoulder lightly, because God forbid he puts too much distance between him and his only reason to live.

“Shut up.” he half-whines, half-begs.

Shin smirks, head tilted, eyes dark with amusement and challenge.

“Make me.”

And Saint does.

He grabs Shin’s face with both hands and kisses him like he means to steal the air from his lungs.

There’s nothing slow about it now. Nothing restrained. It’s a full-body, bone-melting, mind-wrecking kind of kiss. The kind that starts with teeth and heat and then just keeps going . Their lips crash together, mouths open, and Saint immediately slips his tongue in, deep and deliberate.

Shin moans into it, low and needy, and grabs fistfuls of Saint’s hair like he needs something to hold on to. Their tongues slide, curl, taste , wet and messy and obscene in the best way. Every movement is hot and hungry and dizzying, like they’re trying to make up for every second they could’ve been doing this but weren’t.

Saint kisses him like he’s never kissed anyone before. Like he never wants to kiss anyone else. His fingers press into Shin’s jaw, keeping him close, tilted just right, and Shin matches him move for move. Eager, greedy.

They only break for air when absolutely necessary, panting into each other’s mouths, breath hot and shallow, lips kiss-swollen and trembling with the aftershock of everything they’ve just given.

Saint barely has time to recover when Shin moves again.

But this time, there’s no rush. No urgency. No teeth.

Shin leans in and kisses him like he owns him.

It’s slower. Controlled. Heat that simmers low, relentless, like fire spreading beneath the skin. His tongue licks gently into Saint’s mouth, deliberate and smooth, every motion practiced, patient, like he’s tasting, claiming, memorizing.

Saint shudders. It’s unbearable in a completely different way. The kind of kiss that doesn’t consume. It brands.

Shin kisses like he knows exactly what he’s doing to him. Like he wants Saint undone, slowly, stretched thin across every second. One hand tangles in Saint’s hair, the other slides down his back, tracing muscles and skin, firm and possessive, holding him in place as their mouths move in sync, wet and hot, but paced. Intentional.

Saint melts. There’s no other word for it. His whole body goes pliant in Shin’s hands, and he lets out the softest whimper when Shin sucks lightly on his tongue before sliding back in, deep and slow.

Their mouths move like a dance. Slick, sinful, hips rocking together in time with the drag of tongue against tongue.

Saint’s fingers twitch against Shin’s back, gripping hard, like he’s trying to anchor himself in skin and muscle and breath. He feels open, exposed, but it’s safe here. In Shin’s arms.

Shin finally pulls back, just enough to bite at Saint’s lower lip—barely there, a soft tug—and Saint gasps, eyes fluttering open.

The kiss doesn’t feel like it ended.

It feels like it left a mark.

They stay there, close enough to share breath, noses brushing, their foreheads pressed together as they try to remember how their lungs work again.

Their chests rise and fall in sync, lips parted, mouths swollen and wet from everything they just did with zero self-control.

Saint tries to speak, but his voice catches at first. He swallows, still breathless, and manages a low, wrecked murmur against Shin’s flushed skin.

“We…” inhale “…we need to clean up. Get presentable…” exhale “…before your mom and ChingChing come home.”

He doesn’t let go. His arms are still wrapped tight around Shin’s waist, hands curled like they have nowhere else in the world they’d rather be. His voice is soft, but it still carries that familiar teasing edge.

“We can’t have them catching us all... distracted. ”

Shin lets out a breathy huff of laughter, barely catching it between pants. He leans back just enough to raise an eyebrow, messy-haired, kiss-bruised, smug as hell, and utterly beautiful.

“Distracted, huh?”

Saint nods once, deliberately, still trying to catch his breath, eyes locked on Shin’s like he’s not done with him yet. He pulls him just a little closer, their bare skin sticking slightly with heat.

“Very much so, yeah,” he says, voice lower now, rougher. “And if you keep kissing me like that , we might end up in a very different type of massage .”

“ SAINT. ”