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Yuta lay sprawled out on the stiff hotel mattress, one leg bent, head tilted against a pile of too-firm pillows. The muted hum of the AC filled the silence around him, but all he could hear was her voice—bubbling, soft, and bright through the speaker of his phone, which was cradled securely in his hand. His screen was filled with YN—bare-faced, tank-topped, glowing.
God, she looked good.
His lips parted slightly as he watched her apply her skincare, not saying much, just letting her talk, letting her fill the quiet spaces between time zones and miles. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed at home, her hair twisted up in a loose knot, a few coils escaping to kiss her shoulders. Her tank top was thin and old—he recognized it. It used to be his, worn down now into something barely-there. The neckline dipped just enough to make his chest tighten.
He watched, transfixed, as she rubbed toner into her cheeks, her fingers massaging upward in soft, practiced circles. His eyes weren't on her face though—not really. They were drawn downward, to the subtle shift of her breasts as she moved, the faint outline of her nipples poking through the thin cotton. She wasn't wearing a bra. She never did at night. It was one of the many things he loved about her—this casual intimacy, this unspoken permission to see her in her most unfiltered state. But tonight, after four months without the taste of her, without the touch of her—it felt like torture.
Four months.
Four months of hotel rooms with identical curtains and scratchy sheets. Four months of high-energy stages, back-to-back interviews, and pretending like he was fine—like he wasn't constantly craving her. They texted. They FaceTimed. They shared photos. Some were cute. Some were teasing. And some? Some were enough to make him bite his knuckle and breathe through his nose just to keep from groaning out loud. Those photos—the sinful ones—he always kept the brightness turned all the way down for those. They were his. For his eyes only. And tonight, the memory of every single one was crowding his brain.
"And then," YN laughed, her voice still lilting with amusement, "someone quote-tweeted it with that video of the raccoon eating cotton candy and having an existential crisis? Babe, I swear, I lost it."
Yuta didn't say a word. He just stared, his hand still resting on his thigh, fingers twitching as he shifted slightly. The ache was steady now, pulsing low in his stomach. He didn't want to interrupt her—because hearing her laugh, watching her animated face light up while she talked about some random Twitter thread, that was sexy in a way he couldn't explain. It wasn't just her body he missed. It was her. The way she got excited about dumb internet jokes. The way she scrunched her nose when she thought something was stupid but still funny. The way she talked with her hands, even when she was rubbing something into her cheek.
But then—
She reached across the bed for something, leaning just slightly out of frame. Her tank top strap slid off her shoulder, and for a single second, a single blessed moment—he saw it. The curve of her breast. The dusky brown of her nipple. Exposed. Unbothered. Unintentional.
And that's when he lost it.
He didn't say a word. Didn't ask her to repeat herself or acknowledge the flash of skin she hadn't even realized she'd given him. He just slowly, quietly, slipped his boxers down past his hips with his free hand. No need to interrupt her flow. No need to drag her into the filth in his head—yet. He would listen. He would watch. He would burn.
His fingers curled around his length, already achingly hard, and he swallowed tightly. He could still hear her talking, voice slightly muffled as she leaned off-camera, rummaging through a drawer or a basket.
"—oh! I found the screenshot. I'm sending it to you now," she said, her voice distant and cheery. "You have to see how dumb the raccoon looks. It's peak internet."
Yuta forced a soft chuckle. "Yeah, okay," he said, his voice raspier than he intended. "Can't wait."
His eyes stayed on her as she reappeared in frame, stretching her arms above her head for a moment—her tank top riding up to expose a sliver of her stomach, soft and tempting. His breath caught in his throat. He closed his eyes for a beat, tried to ground himself. Tried to stop the scene in his mind from overtaking him completely: YN, underneath him. YN, gasping his name. YN, with her legs locked around his waist and that look in her eyes that made everything else disappear.
He bit his lip hard.
"Babe?" her voice came through again, this time softer. "You okay?"
Yuta's eyes opened. "Huh?"
"You're quiet," YN said, her voice gentle but laced with curiosity, the kind that made his chest ache. "Usually by now you've made a corny joke or tried to guess the end of the story."
Yuta hesitated. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second too long, the breath caught in his throat refusing to let go. He adjusted the camera slightly, tilting it upward, away from the place his hand was currently occupied—wrapped around the growing ache beneath the sheets.
He gave her his face. Fully.
Flushed cheeks. Lips parted, slightly damp from where he'd licked them raw trying to keep quiet. Eyes dark, heavy-lidded, and warm with that quiet kind of yearning that couldn't be hidden behind a smirk or a joke tonight.
"I'm okay," he murmured. Voice low. Voice rough. "Just... really miss you right now."
YN's expression softened immediately. The teasing fell away, and what replaced it was pure affection—tinged with something more tender, more knowing. She leaned in slightly, her face filling more of the screen, curls slipping over her shoulder, a small crease forming between her brows. "I miss you too."
And just like that, it was there again. That silence. That pull.
Not the kind that made things awkward—but the kind that made the air feel heavier, like something unsaid was pressing against both of their chests. A shared ache. A hunger that wasn't just about sex—it was about absence. About the void between them that FaceTime could never really fill.
He bit the inside of his cheek, tried to breathe through it, but the camera angle he'd given himself now revealed too much. Or maybe not enough—depending on how cruel the universe was feeling tonight.
Because from this new perspective, he could see it. All of it.
Her tank top hung loose now, a little lopsided, the left strap having slid halfway down her arm without her noticing. The dip of the neckline was deeper from this angle, and he could clearly see the soft curves of her breasts, the swell of skin peeking up just enough to tempt his already-strained resolve. The fabric clung to her in the way only thin, old cotton could—light, barely-there, and offering him a view he had no business being blessed with. He could see the subtle motion of her chest rising and falling as she breathed. Could see her nipples pushing against the worn fabric, tightening with the shift in temperature or maybe something else.
And God—he felt fucking insane.
His hand clenched at the base of his length, fingers tightening briefly before he resumed a slow, steady stroke. He kept his movements minimal, almost reverent, like this wasn't about getting off but about feeling something—feeling her, somehow. The friction only deepened the ache he'd been ignoring for weeks. It wasn't just about release. It was about her. Always her.
He inhaled slowly, letting the breath scrape against his throat before he spoke. His voice came out softer now, almost coaxing.
"Finish telling me about the Twitter thread, baby," he said, the edges of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Come on... I wanna hear about it."
YN blinked, her mouth twitching like she was trying to hide a smile. "Wait, really?"
"Mmhmm," he murmured, his voice smooth now, coaxing. A mix of heat and playfulness. "You were just getting to the good part. Don't leave me hangin'."
She chuckled, still not catching on to what was happening just below the frame. "Okay, okay..." she said, rolling her eyes but clearly pleased that he was listening again. "So after the raccoon tweet, someone else jumped in with that cursed SpongeBob video—the one where he's dramatically sobbing with opera music in the background? You know which one I'm talking about."
Yuta exhaled a shaky breath through his nose, eyes trained on her chest now more than her face, following the way it moved as she laughed—light and effortless. It felt so her, so perfectly her, that it almost hurt.
He didn't interrupt. Just stroked himself slowly beneath the frame, teeth sinking into his lower lip, letting the rhythm match her voice.
She kept talking, hands moving animatedly as she relived the thread for him—still unaware of what she was doing to him, of the absolute chaos she was causing with nothing more than her bare skin and the way she loved to talk with her whole body.
And he let her.
Because this—this was what he missed.
Not just the sex. Not just the heat. But her laugh.
Her voice. Her expressions. The way she'd ramble about something dumb she found online like it was the most important thing in the world.
That's what made it impossible to resist touching himself to the thought of her.
Not just because she was sexy. But because she was herself. And that alone drove him crazy.
She tossed her head back at one point, letting out a full-bodied laugh, and the shirt slipped even lower. He caught his breath—his eyes locking on the faintest hint of her areola, right at the edge of her shirt.
His hips bucked slightly into his own hand.
Still, he kept his voice steady. "You're so cute when you talk about dumb memes," he said softly.
YN rolled her eyes, biting back a smile. "Shut up."
Yuta grinned lazily, voice coming out a bit rougher than before, laced with a quiet breathlessness. "No, I mean it," he murmured, eyes fixed to the screen like it held the very air he needed to breathe. "You could be talking about raccoons stealing cotton candy or some weird theory about ducks waddling to assert dominance or whatever—and I'd still hang on every single word."
There was a pause. Not long, but just long enough for her to study him—head tilted slightly, lips parted, her brows pulling together in that way she did when something didn't quite make sense.
"You're being too sweet," she said slowly, the corners of her mouth twitching. "What are you up to?"
He didn't answer right away.
He let the silence bloom—just a little. Let it stretch like molasses across a hot countertop, slow and thick and sweet. His fingers curled a little tighter around himself beneath the frame of the screen, his pace shifting ever so slightly. Controlled. Measured. Almost reverent.
Then, with a voice so soft it nearly melted into the air, he said, "Nothing..."
A beat passed.
"...just really enjoying the view."
YN narrowed her eyes at him. "What view?"
Yuta dragged his teeth across his lower lip and smiled—slow, deliberate, wicked. His gaze never once left the screen. "You," he said simply.
She rolled her eyes again, but this time with a grin that said she liked hearing it even if she'd never admit it out loud. "You're so corny," she muttered.
But then—she stood up.
And the moment she did, Yuta stopped breathing.
She walked off-screen for a second, and he sat up a little against the headboard, his hand still moving slow and steady beneath the thin hotel sheets. He adjusted the angle of his phone just a fraction so he could see better. His eyes followed the subtle swaying of her hips as she moved across the room—natural, effortless, that kind of casual intimacy that only came when someone forgot they were being watched.
And then she turned.
Faced away from the camera.
Bent over.
Yuta's jaw tensed as his breath caught in his throat.
She was wearing panties. Just panties. The kind that didn't cover so much as they teased—thin at the sides, dipping low at the back, riding up just enough to show the curve of her ass with no shame. They weren't lace, weren't flashy—but they were hers. Worn soft. Familiar. Perfect.
The kind he'd gripped before while pressing kisses to her spine.
His hand paused at the base of his cock. Then he brought it up to his lips, spit into it, slow and purposeful, before curling his fingers back around himself and stroking again. This time firmer. This time with purpose.
God.
He'd imagined her a hundred times over—but this? Seeing her like this, in real time, unaware of how badly he was unraveling?
It was a whole different kind of torture.
She stood up again, turning back to the screen with her laptop now in hand—none the wiser. She crawled onto the bed and flopped down on her stomach like nothing had changed, her legs kicking up lazily behind her. The movement caused her top to ride up just a bit, exposing a sliver of skin along her waist, the waistband of her panties dipping even lower.
Yuta exhaled a slow, shaky breath, adjusting his grip again beneath the sheets.
"So," YN said casually, propping her chin on her hand as she opened the laptop in front of her, "Prada reached out to me about doing a photo shoot soon."
Yuta blinked, trying to focus—trying—but the words barely registered. He was watching the subtle bounce of her legs as they swung lazily in the air, the dip in her back, the softness of her thighs. Her voice filled his ears, but his body was on fire, every nerve lit up like it was trying to map the memory of her skin through a screen.
"That's..." he swallowed thickly, forcing his voice not to crack, "That's huge, babe. Like... that's huge. Did they send you a mood board yet?"
"Yeah," YN said, eyes flicking over the screen of her laptop, completely unaware of how thoroughly she had him unraveling on the other end. "It's giving vintage Italian cinema meets modern streetwear. Lots of blacks and whites, but sharp silhouettes. Think structured blazers with mesh tops. Very editorial."
Yuta's breath hitched.
He tried—really tried—to focus on the words she was saying, to be the supportive boyfriend who nodded along and gave thoughtful feedback. But his mind was far, far away from fabrics and silhouettes.
Because the second she said "mesh," his brain conjured up a crystal-clear image of her in it. Of YN, standing in some moody black-and-white studio, wearing a razor-sharp blazer draped over her shoulders, and underneath—bare skin behind mesh. Her chest rising and falling beneath a barely-there top. Her skin glowing under cold studio lights, nipples pushing boldly through the fabric like a challenge.
His grip on himself tightened without him realizing.
God, she didn't even have to try.
"You're gonna kill me," he muttered before he could stop himself, the words spilling out, hoarse and soaked in want. His head tilted back against the headboard, the pressure in his gut coiling tighter.
"What was that?" YN asked, glancing up from her screen with a little smile.
Yuta blinked quickly, sitting up a bit, brushing his damp hair from his forehead. "I said you're gonna kill the shoot. Obviously."
She laughed, light and easy and so familiar it made something ache deep in his chest. That laugh was home. It was the sound he played in his head when he missed her too much to sleep. It was what he held onto during long flights and backstage chaos.
"You're so dramatic," she said with a soft shake of her head.
But her laugh only made it worse. Because she looked so good laughing. So unbothered. So real. Not posing. Not playing. Just her. Legs kicking behind her as she laid on her stomach, screen light painting her face in soft glows, her voice echoing in the quiet of his lonely hotel room.
She turned slightly to reach for something—adjusting her laptop—and continued talking like everything was normal.
"But anywho," she went on, casually scratching her scalp, her fingers disappearing into the mess of her curls, "I've been thinking about potentially declining it. 'Cause yeah, this is a cute concept or whatever, but I can't think of the last time they had a Black girl in one of their promos that was actually styled well."
Yuta opened his mouth to respond. He wanted to affirm her, to say something supportive like, "Then they don't deserve you" or "You're absolutely right. You shouldn't have to fight to be styled with care."
But he couldn't speak.
Because the moment her hand came up to scratch her head, her tank top shifted with her body. One slow slide of cotton off skin. One easy drag of fabric loosening across her chest.
And then—just like that—her breast slipped fully out the side of the tank.
No bra. Just her. Soft. Bare. Completely exposed on his screen.
His heart stuttered.
They'd seen each other naked more times than either of them could count. They'd memorized each other's bodies with hands and mouths and eyes. A boob slip shouldn't have been a big deal.
But now?
Now—while he was already halfway to the edge, with his hand working slowly over his length and the sound of her voice surrounding him?
It was everything.
His breath left him in a quiet, broken groan that he bit down quickly, not wanting to interrupt her mid-sentence. His grip tightened around his cock, heat rushing to the base of his spine. The sight of her—so casual, so unaware—was more erotic than anything intentional.
"Oh—oop, sorry hon," YN said with a laugh, finally glancing down and tucking her breast back into her shirt with no rush, no shame. "Little miss must've wanted to say hi."
She chuckled to herself, her focus already moving back to her laptop.
Yuta nearly whimpered.
Her nonchalance was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen. The way she barely reacted. The way she acknowledged it like it was nothing, like it wasn't absolutely driving him wild. The way she said little miss like she was referring to a pet instead of the perfect curve of her breast.
He dragged his hand slowly down his shaft, breathing heavily now. His thighs tensed under the sheets. His mouth parted but no words came out.
"YN," he said after a long moment, and his voice was thick, wrecked, edged with something raw. His face flushed red. "You're killing me."
She looked up again, brow arched. "What? Why?"
He hesitated.
Then tilted the camera up just slightly—enough to show her his face, flushed and slightly sweaty. His hair was messy from him shifting against the pillow, and his lips were parted as he exhaled.
"I've been trying so hard to just listen," he admitted, swallowing thickly. "To just be normal. I swear I was really into what you were saying."
She tilted her head, curious.
"But," he continued, eyes dropping for a second before flicking back to her through the screen, "you're just... making it impossible. With the shirt. And the slipping. And the way you look when you talk about fashion like that. Like it's something holy."
YN blinked.
Then her lips slowly parted.
"Oh..." YN murmured, and her voice softened into something low and velvet-lined, curiosity flickering behind her gaze. She blinked slowly, lips slightly parted as she stilled, her fingers frozen mid-keystroke. "You're—?"
Yuta didn't answer with words.
He just nodded once—slowly, deliberately—his teeth grazing his bottom lip as his breath caught in his throat.
There was no need for explanation.
The flushed pink on his cheeks, the slight tremble in his voice, the tension in his neck, the subtle movement beneath the sheets—it all told her everything she needed to know.
And then, with a voice drenched in heat, barely above a whisper, he admitted, "All I can think about right now is your hand... replacing mine."
That was it.
That one line—uttered with such open need, so raw and unguarded—made something shift in YN's expression. A lazy smirk curled on her lips, but it wasn't just playful. There was something darker behind it. A flicker of power. Possession. Hunger.
She leaned a little closer to the screen, resting her chin in her hand, her voice sweet but coated in something syrupy and wicked. "So you're jerking off to me right now, huh? You dirty dog."
Her giggle that followed was light, but there was a heat behind it. One she wasn't hiding anymore.
Yuta let out a quiet, broken moan, his hips twitching slightly beneath the sheets. "Yes, baby," he breathed. "God, yes."
He sounded like he was confessing a sin. Like saying it out loud made it more real. Like he was afraid she'd laugh it off or tease him lightly and move on.
But instead—
"Do me a favor," YN said, voice suddenly firm. Intentional. A switch flipping in her tone.
Yuta's breath caught. "Yeah?"
She smiled lazily, like she already knew he'd obey. "The hand you've got wrapped around you right now... I want you to spit in it."
His heart pounded.
He didn't speak. Just nodded and obeyed immediately, pulling his hand away from his length with a shaky breath, watching his own spit glisten as it landed in his palm.
YN's voice dipped lower. "But don't put it back on yet."
Yuta froze, hand suspended in the air, pulse thudding beneath his skin.
"Lay completely flat on your back," she said, slow and smooth like silk sheets slipping off skin.
His boxers were halfway down already, but he shoved them off completely now, kicking them away with a quick flick of his foot. Then he shifted, muscles flexing as he reclined into the pillows, spine pressing into the mattress, chest rising and falling like waves. His cock stood flushed and aching against his abdomen, slick already beading at the tip.
He did as he was told. Completely flat. Exposed. Vulnerable.
"Now," she continued, "take the hand that's holding your phone and hold it straight above your face. I want to look down at you."
He didn't hesitate.
He raised his phone, adjusting his grip until his screen framed his face—the mess of dark hair, the glistening lips, the heavy-lidded eyes swimming with arousal.
YN moved her own phone then, setting it flat on her bed so that he could only see the ceiling above her for a moment. He frowned, confused, watching the blank view with shallow breaths.
He heard rustling. Shifting.
And then her voice again—cool and commanding. "Now... with your spit hand, wrap it around your dick. Slowly."
His hand moved automatically. The warmth of his palm closing around his shaft made his thighs tense, breath shudder out through parted lips.
And then—
She appeared.
YN leaned over her phone again—but this time, she wasn't wearing her shirt anymore. She wasn't wearing anything at all. Her bare chest hung freely, her skin glowing in the soft bedroom light, her nipples taut, full breasts swaying slightly as she braced herself over her device.
Yuta choked on a breath.
"Fuck," he whispered, voice tight.
Her eyes locked on his through the screen—dark, deliberate, and filled with fire.
"Now," she said, dragging her bottom lip between her teeth before letting it go with a soft pop. "Imagine that hand is me."
Yuta moaned—loud, guttural, filled with longing.
She started moving—slow, calculated rolls of her hips—back and forth, like she was straddling something just beneath her. Her breath hitched in rhythm with her movements, her breasts bouncing gently with each sway.
"Imagine me," she whispered, "riding you just like this."
Yuta's grip faltered—tightened—then resumed, stroking himself in sync with her rhythm, eyes wide and fixed on the screen like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.
"Fuck, YN," he gasped.
Her head tilted back as she rocked again, letting a soft whimper escape her lips, her eyes fluttering closed for a beat.
She was feeling it too. The build-up. The heat.
She wasn't faking this. She wasn't just doing it for him.
She was doing it for them.
Her moans—light and breathy at first—started to sharpen into something needier, throatier. "Mmm... just like that, baby," she purred, her voice breaking into little gasps. "I want you to feel me... every time you stroke, I want you to feel my hips grinding on you... that tight, wet heat around you... God, you feel so fucking good inside me."
Yuta's hips jerked upward instinctively, his muscles taut, desperate for friction, for the illusion of closeness. His body moved without permission, like it was being pulled by something magnetic—something only she could offer.
Even through the screen, even across the cities and oceans that separated them, she was the only thing that could make his body react like this—this violently, this uncontrollably. She was the fire under his skin, the ache in his chest, the pressure building like a storm behind his eyes.
"I miss you so bad," he choked out, the words raw and cracked. His breath came in shallow stutters, his voice barely keeping pace with the rush of his pulse. "You don't know how bad..."
His body trembled as he stared at her through the phone, every inch of his skin hot, desperate, starving for hers.
But YN wasn't letting him drown alone.
"I do know," she gasped, her own voice fraying at the edges, every syllable laced with urgency. She was moving faster now, her body rocking with a rhythm that echoed his. Her hand disappeared between her thighs, and he could hear it—the slick, wet sounds that made his cock pulse even harder in his grip. "You think I haven't been dreaming about this? About you? About how you feel inside me?"
She whimpered then, and the sound punched the air out of Yuta's lungs.
That breathy, broken noise—pure pleasure—was enough to make his thighs clench, to make his hand stutter and twitch as he stroked himself, to make him bite down on his lip so hard it might've drawn blood.
But then—
Her voice cut through the static of lust again, lower now, rougher, laced with something new.
Something dark and dangerous and laced with total control.
"You wanna see?" she asked, eyes locked on his through the screen, her lip caught between her teeth in the filthiest little smirk. "Wanna see what you do to me?"
Yuta's chest seized.
His eyes widened, every nerve in his body suddenly strung tight like piano wire.
YN shifted, dragging the camera slightly back as she adjusted her position, hair cascading down her shoulder as her lips parted in a wicked, lazy grin.
"Want me to set my phone up?" she continued, voice thick with heat. "So you can watch me ride my fingers like they're you?"
Yuta let out something between a groan and a whimper, breath ragged. "Fuck—yes—YN, baby—please—"
"Or maybe..." she drawled, tilting her head with exaggerated innocence, "maybe you'd rather I use the dildo. The thick one. The one you bought me."
Yuta's hand faltered again, cock twitching violently at the memory. That dildo. The one molded from him. The one she kept tucked away like a secret. The one he'd used on her the last time they were together—pressed her down into the mattress with one hand while he worked it into her with the other until she screamed.
"You remember it, don't you?" she whispered, voice a soft dagger, deadly and seductive. "How deep it goes? How I start shaking before I even hit the base?"
"Jesus Christ," Yuta whispered, his voice hollow with lust, almost disbelieving.
"And maybe," YN continued, leaning forward now, hand still moving between her thighs as her face hovered just inches from the screen, "if you're a really good boy for me tonight... I'll let you watch me squirt all over the place."
Yuta's eyes rolled back.
He was gone.
There was no pretense, no distance anymore—just heat. Just her voice. Her breath. Her filthy promises wrapping around him like silk and chains.
Yuta nearly cried out the moment she brought it into view.
There it was.
Sleek. Familiar. Sinful.
That thick toy gleamed under the soft glow of her bedroom light, already glistening with her slick. The way her fingers moved—slow, teasing, deliberate—made his cock twitch in his hand like it knew what was coming. Like it remembered how her body looked wrapped around it. How it sounded when she gasped his name with her walls fluttering tight around its length.
And she hadn't even slid it in yet.
Yuta's throat bobbed with the force of his swallow. His whole body was tense, coiled like a spring beneath his hotel sheets. Muscles locked. Eyes locked. Heart thudding so hard it might've shaken the phone in his hand.
Then she spoke—and her voice was everything.
"Now," YN murmured, her tone satin-smooth and soaked in command. "You gonna come with me? Or you gonna make me come alone tonight?"
His breath caught in his throat. That familiar ache swelled in his chest—equal parts need, reverence, and something deeper. Something sacred.
"Ride it, baby," he rasped, barely able to form the words. "Please. Just ride it for me."
She gave him a look then—half amused, half fire. Like she knew the power she had over him and reveled in it.
And God, he wanted her to.
She shifted slightly, spreading her knees wider on the bed, one hand holding the phone steady, the other guiding the toy between her folds. Yuta watched, transfixed, as she dragged it along her slick heat, circling her clit with the head in slow, tantalizing spirals.
"I've been thinking about this all day," she whispered. "You don't even know how bad I've needed to feel full again."
Yuta groaned, hand tightening around himself. "Tell me," he whispered. "Tell me everything."
Her eyes fluttered shut, mouth parting on a sigh as she pushed the tip in, just barely. "I've been so empty, Yuta. All these nights without you? I go to sleep wet and wake up soaked."
"Fuck," he exhaled, dragging his palm slowly up the length of his cock, spit-slick and twitching with every word she said.
"I think about your voice in my ear," she continued, voice quivering now as she eased the toy in deeper. "The way you'd grip my hips. How deep you'd be inside me. How you'd make me beg just to come."
She let out a soft moan—high, breathy, and entirely unfiltered.
Yuta's hand moved faster, matching her pace. His jaw was clenched, brows furrowed, trying to hold onto control he knew he wouldn't keep much longer.
"God, you look so beautiful like this," he breathed. "So perfect, baby. You're driving me insane."
Her eyes locked on the screen again, lips trembling. "Then lose your mind for me," she whispered. "Come undone with me, Yuta."
She began to move in earnest now, hips rolling as the toy disappeared deeper into her, her thighs trembling. Her moans grew louder, more urgent—little broken cries that made his chest ache with longing.
Yuta could barely see straight. The screen blurred in and out of focus as his hand pumped harder, hips lifting from the mattress with every stroke. He was spiraling fast, the sound of her pleasure crashing into him like waves.
"I'm so close," she gasped, her body trembling.
"Me too, baby," he groaned, barely coherent. "Don't stop—please don't stop—"
"I want you to come with me," she cried out, her voice breaking. "I want to feel it. I want to hear you fall apart for me."
Her words were the last push he needed.
With a raw, desperate sound, Yuta's body jerked forward, his orgasm ripping through him like a current. His chest heaved, vision going white-hot as he spilled over his hand, hips stuttering uncontrollably. His voice caught in his throat as he let himself drown in the release, YN's face the only thing anchoring him.
And then—almost perfectly in sync—her back arched, her head fell back, and she cried out his name as her own climax washed over her.
For a long moment, the screen was filled with nothing but the sounds of heavy breathing. Shaky exhales. Quiet moans tapering off into blissful silence.
Yuta blinked, heart still pounding in his chest, chest sticky and rising fast.
YN was sprawled on her sheets now, the toy discarded to the side, her hair fanned out like a halo, lips parted and flushed.
"You good?" she finally whispered, voice lazy and teasing.
He gave her a dazed, lopsided smile. "I think you just reset my nervous system."
She laughed—soft and sleepy—and his heart ached all over again.
"Can I fall asleep with you?" he asked, voice tender now. "Just like this. Just for a little while."
Her face melted into a warm, affectionate grin. "Yeah, baby.
Always."