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Rin wasn’t entirely sure how she’d ended up here, perched on Yin Nezha’s lap on a sagging couch in the living room of one of Venka’s friends, who had apparently decided that passing her exams warranted a full-blown party. Rin had always thought that was the bare minimum, but then again, not everyone’s future hinged on a scholarship the way hers did. Especially not the man beneath her, whose breathing hitched slightly when she shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t make the cheap couch dig into her back.
They were close enough that she could count his eyelashes if she wanted to, close enough that avoiding his face was no longer an option. She usually did,out of habit, out of spite, out of self-preservation,but the alcohol softened the edges of her restraint. Now that she was forced to actually look at him, she noticed things she’d somehow missed before. A faint scar traced the left side of his cheek, pale and barely there, like a ghost of an old injury.
Her brows drew together before she could stop herself. Her hand lifted on instinct, fingers cupping his face as her thumb brushed over the spot with surprising gentleness.
He leaned into the touch without thinking, a quiet sound of amusement slipping out of him when he realized what had caught her attention. “Fell down a flight of stairs when I was four,” he admitted, the words loose and unguarded in a way she knew he’d regret sober. “Guess it stuck.”
“You never noticed that, huh?” he added, eyes flicking up to hers, still not pulling away.
She clicked her tongue as she withdrew her hand, ignoring the brief flash of something like disappointment that crossed his face. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, though the words lacked their usual sharpness. “I don’t spend my time analyzing your face.”
Even she could hear how thin the bite was.
She shifted again, trying—and failing—to get comfortable in what Venka’s friend generously referred to as a hangout spot, clearly designed more for smokers than people with functioning spines. Nezha hissed softly, almost reflexively, his gaze dropping to where her legs bracketed his.
“What?” she asked, genuinely puzzled, the question slipping out softer than intended.
His expression eased immediately, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Nothing,” he said. “All good. Promise.”
Somewhere else in the apartment, Kitay and Venka had clearly vanished—probably swallowed by the living room, by games and laughter and whatever chaos passed for fun tonight. The party itself had thinned out without her really noticing; there couldn’t have been more than thirty people to begin with, and at least a third of them had already left. She didn’t know why, and she didn’t particularly care.
What she did know was that the room felt smaller than it had before, the noise more distant, the world narrowed down to the space between them.
And still—somehow—she had no idea how she’d ended up here, perched on Yin Nezha’s lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, as if her body had made the decision long before her mind bothered to catch up.
The realization settled in slowly, like a delayed wave: his hands were resting at her hips, warm and steady, not gripping her but not letting go either, and her weight was balanced against him as if she’d been there for a while. Long enough for it to feel almost normal.
She shifted again without really thinking, a small adjustment meant to get comfortable that, once again, did the opposite. He inhaled sharply beneath her, fingers tightening just a fraction before he caught himself. The sound made her pause.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The music from the other room filtered in, muffled and distant, laughter rising and falling like it belonged to a different night entirely. Up close, she could see the faint flush along his sharp cheekbones, the way his gaze kept dropping to her mouth before dragging itself back to her eyes.
“This is a bad idea,” she said finally, though she didn’t move.
“Probably,” he replied, just as quiet. His voice sounded different this close—less controlled, rougher at the edges. “You want me to stop?”
She should have said yes. She knew that. The sensible answer hovered right there, obvious and easy.
Instead, she leaned in.
It wasn’t a dramatic thing—no rush, no collision—just a slow closing of the space between them until there was nowhere left to look but at each other. She felt his breath brush her upper lip, felt him hesitate, waiting and that hesitation was what undid her.
When their mouths met, it was soft at first, almost careful, like they were both testing whether this was really happening. Then he responded properly, one hand sliding up her back as if to steady her, and the kiss deepened into something warmer, more certain. Not desperate. Not rushed. Just somewhat inevitable.
She pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead resting briefly against his, pulse loud in her ears.
“Well,” she muttered, mostly to herself, “that’s going to complicate things.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, still too close, still not letting her go. “I think things have been complicated. ”
He lifted his hand and tipped her chin up with a careful touch, fingers warm but light, searching her face rather than forcing her closer. When she answered with a small, unmistakable nod, he leaned in and closed the distance again.
This time he was hungrier—his tongue tracing the seam of her lips, slow and unhurried but edged with quiet desperation. When she met him halfway, her own tongue slipping tentatively into his mouth, a low, rough sound escaped him. She swallowed it without thinking.
He tasted like toothpaste and vodka cranberry, nothing fancy, no sharp mint or expensive aftertaste, just the kind you bought without thinking twice. The normalcy of it nearly made her laugh into his mouth, because somehow that might have been the strangest part of all of this. Out of everything about Yin Nezha, this—this utterly mundane detail—felt the most human.
She broke the kiss to catch her breath, lips still tingling as she looked down at him and the sight nearly undid her. His pupils were blown wide, dark and unfocused, lashes damp, mouth parted as if he was still trying to remember how to breathe. There was something disarmingly open about him like this, all sharp edges softened, all the practiced composure stripped away.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The noise of the party felt distant, muffled, like it belonged to another room entirely. His hands stayed at her waist, not tightening, not letting go either, as if he were waiting for her to decide what came next. She swallowed, aware of how close their faces still were, aware of the warmth between them that hadn’t faded with the kiss.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she murmured, voice quieter than she intended.
He huffed a soft, breathless laugh, eyes never leaving her face. “You’re the one who stopped,” he said, low and honest, like that explained everything.
She had been about to snap something back at him when her thoughts short-circuited entirely. Instead of words, she leaned in again, pressing her mouth to his as if the decision had been made somewhere deeper than logic. The kiss came softer this time, exploratory, her lips moving with a tentative confidence as she relearned the shape of him.
His hands tightened at her waist in instinctive response but he didn’t take over. He didn’t steer or push or try to reclaim control. He stayed exactly where he was, letting her set the pace, letting her decide how close was close enough. The realization startled her so much she nearly pulled away, breath catching at the unfamiliarity of it.
When she paused, hovering just a breath from his mouth, he didn’t chase her. He only looked up at her, eyes dark and steady, waiting—really waiting—and somehow that undid her more than anything else could have.
She shifted back just enough to really look at him, trying to steady herself, and he hissed again—sharp and involuntary—as if even that small movement had caught him off guard.
Her thoughts felt slow and slippery, alcohol dulling the edges of everything. “What is it?” she asked, genuinely confused again, her voice softer than she meant it to be.
“Nothing,” he said again, but this time the word came out rougher, breath uneven. His gaze flicked down, quick, almost embarrassed, before returning to her face. “You’re just… moving. And I’m not exactly sober.”
There was a faint huff of a laugh at the end, self-aware rather than smug, like he was trying to defuse his own reaction before it turned into something else.
She tilted her head, studying him. “Okay?” she said lightly. “I don’t mind.” She shifted closer, closing the small gap between them, instinctively chasing his mouth—only for him to pause her, stopping just short.
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he murmured, his breath brushing her lips.
“I literally just said I don’t care,” she replied without hesitation, voice low and certain. “Can you kiss me again?”
They stayed like that for a while, drifting in and out of each other’s space, kisses turning slow and searching before growing impatient again, only breaking apart when breathing became unavoidable. Each time they leaned back in, it felt a little less careful, a little more certain, like they were testing how far the moment could stretch without snapping.
Rin felt warm all over, heat pooling under her skin, her pulse loud and insistent in places she usually ignored. Her thoughts came sluggishly now, dulled by alcohol and proximity, but one realization cut through the haze with startling clarity.
She knew exactly where this was headed.
And instead of pulling away, instead of forcing herself to think about consequences or regrets, she let herself linger there for a second longer, forehead brushing his, breath mingling with his as the noise of the party faded into something distant and irrelevant.
She was achingly aware of her own arousal, slick and undeniable, and the quiet shame of it twisted inside her chest.
She tipped her head back with a quiet, frustrated sound, more overwhelmed than undone, and Nezha’s hands tightened reflexively at her waist to keep her steady. The gesture grounded her more than she expected.
“You good?” he asked again, voice lower now, careful in a way that cut through the haze.
She let her head fall forward, forehead brushing his shoulder as she exhaled. “It’s unfair,” she muttered, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “You’re good at this. At everything. And you’re stupidly attractive. And you’ve been nice to me lately, which is rude, because I’m supposed to still hate you.”
He let out a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been something else entirely. One of his hands slid up her back, not pushing, not pulling—just there. Steady.
“I’m not trying to win,” he said after a moment. “And I’m definitely not trying to mess with you.”
She looked up at him then, eyes glassy, expression open in a way she rarely allowed. “Then why does it feel like you already have?”
For a beat, he didn’t answer. He just held her gaze, thumb brushing a slow, absent line at her side before stilling, like he was making a deliberate choice.
“Because you’re not as good at pretending you don’t care as you think,” he said quietly, holding eye contact. “And neither am I.”
The words barely settled before their mouths met again, eager this time. She found herself chasing contact—any kind of friction, anything at all. The shame that had coiled tight in her chest moments earlier dissolved under the sudden, overwhelming rush of want; she couldn’t have stopped herself if she’d tried.
She shifted in his lap without breaking the kiss, restless, searching for something she couldn’t quite name. Then Nezha made a sound—low, raw, somewhere between a moan and a helpless whine—and she swallowed it greedily, instinct taking over as her hips rocked again. When their lips finally parted she let out a small, frustrated groan, the sound almost childish, like she’d been denied her favorite thing in the world.
“What do you want?” he asked, voice rough and breathless, hands still firm at her waist. The question wasn’t playful, it was serious, searching.
“Don’t know,” she half-whined, tipping her head back again in helpless frustration. She was so wet she could feel it soaking through, probably leaving a dark mark on his jeans by now. There was no pretending otherwise anymore. “Anything. Just… anything.”
His gaze locked onto hers, steady and dark. Slowly, deliberately, one hand slid from her waist, fingers trailing down to brush the waistband of her panties—teasing, testing, giving her every chance to stop him.
“You sure about this?” he murmured, the careful edge in his voice cutting through the heat between them. “Really sure? Because you’re not going to wake up tomorrow and want to kill me? Or the day after? You’re not going to hate me and go back to pretending I don’t exist? It took forever to get even this close to your good side, Rin, and I’d hate to watch all that progress—”
“Nezha,” she cut in, voice sharp with impatience, almost a growl. “I promise. I’m not going to hate you.”
As he shifted beneath her, widening his thighs to give himself better access, she finally registered it—he was hard, unmistakably so. The realization hit her like something she’d overlooked until this exact second; her own body had been too consumed to notice his. She must have stared a beat too long, because a quiet, rough laugh escaped him, half amusement, half nerves.
His fingers hooked the damp edge of her panties and eased them aside with careful deliberation. The first direct touch, his fingertips gliding slow and sure along her slick heat,made her breath hitch sharply. Nezha paused there, not pressing, just letting her feel the contact, the warmth of his hand against her.
Her hips jerked forward on instinct, chasing more, and he exhaled something low and unsteady against her throat.
“Still sure?” he murmured, voice gravel-rough now, thumb circling once, deliberately light, testing her reaction.
She nodded—quick, frantic—then managed a shaky, “Please,” the word slipping out before she could catch it.
His laugh this time was softer, almost fond. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”
He slid one finger inside her slowly, deliberately,letting her feel every careful inch as he sank deeper. The gentle stretch, paired with the steady, unyielding pressure of his palm grinding against her clit, ripped a broken, involuntary sound from her throat. Her fingers curled hard into his shoulders, nails biting through fabric as she anchored herself against the sudden, dizzying focus of sensation. The rest of the world—the music, the voices, the party itself—collapsed inward until nothing existed beyond his hand, the frantic thud of her pulse, and the slick, needy glide of her body finally being given what it had been begging for.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word rough and ragged against her ear. “You’re driving me crazy.”
She couldn’t answer, could barely think only managed a shaky whimper as her hips rocked forward into his touch, chasing more of that perfect friction. He added a second finger, curling them just right, and the new fullness made her gasp, head falling back against nothing as her spine arched.
Nezha’s free hand slid up her back, steadying her, fingers splaying wide between her shoulder blades like he was afraid she might unravel completely.
The rhythm eased to something almost tender: long, languid strokes that let her feel every inch of the stretch, every careful curl, without overwhelming her. His thumb lifted from her clit entirely for a moment, giving the swollen bud a soft reprieve, only returning with the lightest, barely-there circles—like he was coaxing rather than demanding.
Nezha’s forehead stayed pressed to hers, breath warm against her lips.
“Easy,” he murmured, so quiet it felt like the words were just for the space between them. “I’ve got all the time in the world for you.”
Then—without breaking the gentle rock of his wrist—he let a third finger join them.
The stretch bloomed sharp and sweet at first, a sudden fuller pressure that made her gasp into his mouth. He paused there, buried to the third knuckle, giving her time to feel it: the way her walls fluttered and clenched, trying to decide whether to push him out or pull him deeper. His thumb returned to her clit at the same moment, soft lazy circles again, syncing with the tiny, almost imperceptible rocking motion he allowed himself now—less thrust, more pulse.
“Still with me?” he whispered, voice rougher than before but still quiet, still careful.
Her answer came in the way her hips tilted up, chasing that impossible fullness, in the small, broken sound she couldn’t quite swallow.
Nezha exhaled through his nose, a low, pleased hum vibrating against her cheek.
“Good girl.”
He didn’t rush. He simply held there a moment longer—three fingers thick and still inside her—then began the slowest, shallowest drag outward, letting her feel the drag of every ridge of his knuckles, every inch of withdrawal, before sliding back in just as unhurriedly. The wet sound of it was obscene in the quiet between their breaths.
His free hand slid up to cradle the back of her neck, thumb stroking along the edge of her jaw like he was anchoring her to the moment.
“Tell me when it’s too much,” he said, lips brushing hers with every word. “Or tell me when you want more.”
He crooked all three fingers at once—slow, firm, devastating—and held them there while his thumb pressed the lightest, most patient rhythm against her clit.
She let out a whimpering noise.
He smiled against her mouth, small and wicked and tender all at once.
“There you are.”
She must have started murmuring at some point, too lost in the feeling, too hazy to care, because soft, breathless words slipped out between little gasps.
“—please… don’t stop, just… like that, stay—stay with me, I need—”
Her voice trembled, soft and unsteady, and he answered with a low, gentle hum, the sound vibrating against her skin. His fingers moved with the same careful rhythm, slow and steady, letting her feel every gentle press without rushing her.
“Like this?” he whispered, lips brushing her cheek, her temple. “You’re doing so well… I can feel how close you are.”
She nodded, small and frantic, her hands clutching at his shoulders as the warmth inside her built higher, brighter. Her breath came in quick, uneven little sounds; her thighs trembled faintly against him.
“Tell me,” he said quietly, voice low and steady. “Tell me you’re almost there.”
“I—I’m—” The words broke into a soft, shaky exhale as he eased the pressure just right, thumb tracing the lightest, most patient circles while his fingers curled gently, holding her steady through the rising wave. “I’m so close… please…”
“That’s it.” His free hand slid to her hip, warm and grounding, keeping her close without holding her down. “I’ve got you. Just let go whenever you’re ready.”
The words, quiet, certain, tipped her over.
Her back arched in a slow, trembling curve, a soft, broken sound escaping her lips as the pleasure rolled through her in warm, lingering waves. She tightened around his fingers in soft pulses; he stayed perfectly still for a moment, letting her ride it out, only moving again when the shivers began to ease.
He didn’t pull away. Just held his hand there, warm and steady inside her, giving her time to feel the gentle afterglow, the quiet thrum of her own heartbeat slowing bit by bit.
He pressed a kiss to her temple, then another to the corner of her mouth.
“So beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You did so good. You okay?”
She nodded slowly against his shoulder, still catching her breath, small aftershocks flickering through her every few seconds. Her cheek stayed pressed to the warm crook of his neck, the faint scent of his skin and the lingering trace of vodka on his breath wrapping around her like a second blanket. The room felt softer now, the edges of everything blurred by alcohol and endorphins.
Then she shifted—just a tiny adjustment of her hips—and felt it.
He was still achingly hard beneath her, the thick line of him pressing up insistently against the damp cotton of her underwear and the fabric of his jeans. The realization made her stomach give a fresh, lazy flip.
She lifted her head enough to look at him. His pupils were blown wide, cheeks flushed, lips parted like he’d been holding his own breath the whole time. He gave her a small, crooked smile—half sheepish, half starving.
“You’re still…” Her voice came out husky, a little wrecked. She rolled her hips once, deliberately slow, just enough to drag along his length. His jaw clenched hard; a low sound rumbled in his chest.
“Yeah,” he rasped. “Been trying not to think about it. Failed spectacularly.”
She smiled, slow, tipsy and reached down between them.
His hand was still between her thighs, fingers glossy and warm from her. She caught his wrist gently and drew his hand up, guiding it toward her mouth. He watched, mesmerized, as she brought his slick fingers to her lips.
She slid his index and middle finger past her lips, tongue curling around them, tasting herself—salty-sweet, intimate. His breath hitched sharply. She sucked lightly, then harder, letting her tongue trace the sensitive pads, the webbing between, cleaning every trace while she held eye contact.
His hips jerked once beneath her, involuntary.
When she finally let his fingers slip free with a soft, wet pop, a fragile thread of saliva stretched between her lower lip and his glistening fingertips for one suspended second before snapping.
She didn’t give herself time to think.
“I think we should fuck,” she blurted, the words tumbling out raw and unguarded. To underline it,to make sure he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t heard,she rolled her hips down hard, grinding deliberately along the rigid outline still trapped behind his jeans.
He sucked in a sharp hiss through his teeth, hips jerking up on instinct.
“Rin—” It came out half-whine, half-groan, wrecked and pleading. His hands flew back to her hips, fingers splaying wide, the right one still slick and warm from her mouth. “I don’t think we should. Not… not like this.”
He was trying so hard to sound responsible, but his voice cracked on the last word.
She felt the tremor in his grip, the way his thumbs dug in like he was fighting not to pull her closer and the denim barrier away at the same time.
“I really like you,” he rushed on, tripping over himself. “You know that, right? I mean—fuck—I really, really like you. And I don’t… I don’t know if you’re gonna wake up tomorrow and hate me for this. For taking advantage when we’re both buzzed and you just came all over my hand and—” He cut himself off, swallowing hard, eyes searching hers like he was terrified of the answer. “I don’t think we should.”
The room felt suddenly smaller, the air thicker with vodka and want and something softer underneath.
Rin stayed perfectly still for a beat, letting his words settle. Then she reached up, cupped his face with both hands gentle, thumbs brushing the sharp line of his jaw and tilted his head so he had to meet her eyes.
“ ‘Kay.” She slurred slightly. “Can I touch you though? Will you let me do that? Pretty please? ” She pushed out her bottom lip, the gesture so childish it made him laugh—short, startled, almost pained.
Nezha’s eyes flicked down to her mouth, then back up. His throat worked. “Rin…”
Her hands stopped cupping his face, sliding her palm down the center of his chest, slow enough that he could easily stop her if he really wanted to. “We don’t have to fuck. Just want to feel you, yeah?”
He exhaled hard through his nose, like the air itself hurt. His hand caught her wrist—not hard, just enough to pause her—but he didn’t push her away. His fingers stayed wrapped around her, thumb brushing the inside of her pulse point like he was checking if she was real.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he muttered.
“Only a little.”
She didn’t wait for more permission. Her free hand went to his belt buckle—slow, deliberate, giving him every second to say no. He didn’t. The metal clinked softly in the quiet room. She popped the button of his jeans next, tugged the zipper down with careful fingers. The sound seemed obscene in the stillness.
His cock was already straining against his boxers—thick outline, a dark spot of pre-cum blooming at the tip. Rin’s breath caught. She palmed him through the fabric first, just the heat of her hand, feeling the way he jumped under her touch.
“Fuck—” His hips jerked forward on instinct.
“Shh,” she murmured, almost tender. “Let me.”
She pushed his boxers down just enough. He sprang free—heavy, flushed dark, veins standing out, the head slick and shiny. Rin wrapped her fingers around him slowly, reverently. He was hot in her palm, thick enough that her thumb and middle finger didn’t quite meet. She gave one long, lazy stroke from base to tip, spreading the bead of pre-cum with her thumb.
“Fuck you, you bastard,” she muttered more to herself, voice slurred and fond at the same time. “Of course your cock has to be pretty too, huh?”
“Mm-hmm.” She stroked again—slower this time, twisting her wrist just a little at the head the way she knew made his thighs tense. “Makes sense that it would look like that.” She clicked her tongue, the sound soft and teasing in the quiet room. “Pretty face, pretty hands, pretty cock. You’re just unfair, aren't you?”
He let out a strangled laugh that cracked into a groan when her thumb dragged slow and deliberate over the slick slit again.
“You’re—fuck—talking shit to my dick now?” His voice was wrecked, hips twitching up into her loose grip like he couldn’t help it.
“Talking to the prettiest part of you,” she corrected, voice low and syrupy from the vodka still buzzing through her veins. She gave him another long, lazy pull—base to tip—then loosened her fingers completely, letting him throb untouched in the air for two heartbeats just to watch his abs clench and his breath hitch.
“Look at it jump. So needy. Bet it’s been aching since I came on your fingers, huh?”
“Rin—” His head tipped back again, throat exposed, Adam’s apple bobbing hard.
“You’re torturing me.”
She wrapped her hand around him again—firmer this time—and started a steady rhythm: long, slick glides, thumb circling the crown every few strokes, fingers tightening just enough on the downstroke to make him hiss. Pre-cum kept leaking, glossy and warm, coating her palm until every pump sounded wet and filthy.
His breathing turned ragged fast. Small, helpless sounds slipped out every time she twisted at the head—little punched-out “fuck”s and “please”s he probably didn’t even realize he was making.
“You sure you don’t wanna fuck me?” She blurted the words out before she could stop herself.
He groaned, deeply and desperate. “Don’t ask that—”
But his hips jerked up hard into her fist anyway, betraying him. The motion pushed more pre-cum over her knuckles; she felt it drip warm down the back of her hand.
Rin slowed her strokes deliberately—long, torturous glides that kept him right on the edge without letting him tip over. She leaned in until her lips brushed the shell of his ear, voice barely above a whisper, thick with vodka and want.
“Why not?” she murmured. “I’m so wet I can feel it soaking through my panties, dripping down my thighs. You could just… slide in. No one would know. Just once. Deep. Slow. Let me feel how your cock really is inside me—how it stretches me, how it throbs when you’re all the way in.”
Nezha’s whole body locked up. His hand shot to her wrist—gripping tight this time, stopping her completely. His cock throbbed angrily in the sudden stillness, flushed darker, leaking steadily onto her fingers.
“Rin.” His voice cracked on her name—half warning, half plea. “We said no fucking. You’re drunk. I’m drunk. If we do this now and you regret it tomorrow—”
“Oh you’re so reasonable, it’s annoying.” She gave his cock another stroke—slow, firm, twisting at the head—and he almost whined, hips jerking up into her hand while his fingers dug into her hips like he was trying to anchor himself to the couch.
“Always trying to be the good guy. Even when your dick is leaking all over my fingers.”
She shifted then—deliberate, shameless—swinging one leg over so she was straddling just his left thigh, knees bracketing the muscle, her soaked panties pressed right against the rough denim. The seam of his jeans caught her clit perfectly when she rocked forward; she gasped, low and surprised, then did it again—longer this time, grinding down hard enough that the friction dragged a soft, needy sound out of her throat.
Nezha’s eyes snapped to where they were joined—her hips rolling slow, filthy circles against his leg while her hand kept working him in steady, slick pulls.
“Fuck,” he breathed, watching her use him. “You’re humping my thigh like a desperate little thing.”
“Uh-huh.” She leaned forward, bracing her free hand on his chest so she could grind harder, faster. The denim rasped against her swollen clit through the thin cotton of her underwear; every forward roll sent sparks shooting up her spine. “Feels good. You’re so hard under me- can feel every twitch.”
His hands flexed on her hips, helping now, guiding her rhythm while she jerked him off in time with her own movements. The wet sound of her hand on his cock mixed with the softer, rhythmic drag of her pussy against his leg; both sounds obscene in the quiet room.
“Rin—” His voice was wrecked, hips canting up every time she stroked down. “You’re gonna come like this, aren’t you? Rubbing yourself off on my leg while you jerk me off. Fucking filthy.”
“Sh- Shut up.” She managed. “You’re twitching in my hand right now.”
She gave his cock another slow, firm stroke—twisting gently at the head—and he groaned, low and helpless, hips lifting off the couch in a small, involuntary thrust. The motion pushed more pre-cum over her fingers; she felt it drip warm down the back of her hand.
Rin rocked forward again—deliberate, needy—pressing herself harder against his thigh. The rough denim caught her clit through her soaked panties, sending a sharp spark up her spine. She gasped softly, hips rolling in slow, needy circles that dragged a quiet whimper from her throat.
Nezha’s hands flexed on her hips—guiding her now, helping her find the rhythm while she kept stroking him in time with her movements. The friction was perfect; every forward slide made her breath hitch, her thighs tremble.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice rough but softer than before. “So close already. Can feel how wet you are through my jeans—warm, slippery. You’re soaking me.”
She moaned—quiet, breathless—and ground down harder, chasing the building heat. Her free hand braced on his chest for balance; her fingers curled into his shirt as the pressure coiled tighter.
“Gonna—” she whispered, voice cracking. “Gonna come just like this—”
“Do it,” he said, thumbs stroking encouraging circles over her hipbones. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
That was all she needed.
Her hips stuttered forward one last time; she pressed down hard and came with a soft, trembling cry—muffled against his shoulder. Her body shook in gentle waves, thighs clamping around his leg as the pleasure rolled through her in slow, lingering pulses. Slick warmth spread beneath her, darkening the denim in a warm patch she could feel clinging to her skin.
Nezha watched her fall apart—eyes dark, breathing uneven—and lost control.
“Fuck—Rin—” His hips bucked up into her grip; he came with a long, ragged groan, thick pulses spilling over her fingers, her wrist, dripping down onto his stomach and the waistband of his jeans. His cock throbbed helplessly in her hand; she kept stroking, slow, gentle coaxing every last tremor until he was whimpering, oversensitive, hips jerking away then back.
Rin eased her grip only when the last weak pulse faded. She lifted her hand slowly—strings of cum stretching between her fingers and his softening length before snapping—and watched it glisten in the dim lamplight. Her own breathing was still uneven, thighs trembling from the orgasm that had just rolled through her in soft, lingering waves.
She let her head drop forward, forehead resting against his collarbone. The sticky warmth of his release smeared between their bodies where her hand had pressed against his stomach; she didn’t care. Neither did he. His arms came around her tighter, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her neck, fingers threading gently into her hair.
For a long minute they just breathed—slow, synchronized, the only sound the faint creak of the couch settling under their weight and the distant hum of the city outside.
Eventually Nezha spoke, voice still rough but quieter now, almost careful.
“Rin”
She hummed against his skin—acknowledgment, not quite words.
He swallowed. His thumb stroked a slow circle behind her ear.
“I want to fuck you,” he said. Low. Honest. “Not tonight. Not like this—drunk and half-dressed and messy on a couch. When you’re sober. When you wake up clear-headed and still want me inside you. I want to take my time. Want to kiss every inch of you first. Want to hear you say my name without anything blurring it.”
Rin lifted her head slowly. Met his eyes—still hazy from release, but steady. Searching.
“You mean that?”
“Yeah.” He brushed a damp strand of hair off her cheek with his knuckle. “I mean it. Well, if you don’t hate me when you wake up tomorrow and the alcohol has worn off that is. Which would suck, because I really like spending time with you and kissing you is also nice—”
Rin laughed—soft, a little breathless, the sound muffled against his collarbone. She lifted her head just enough to look at him properly, eyes still hazy but warm, lips curved in that small, crooked smile that always made his chest do something stupid.
“You’re rambling,” she murmured.
“I know.” Nezha’s thumb traced the shell of her ear, slow and absent. “I ramble when I’m nervous. And you just came all over my leg while jerking me off, so yeah. I’m nervous.”
“Well, let’s see if I hate you tomorrow.” She tilted her head slightly, eyes catching the dim lamplight, a lazy, teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Guess you’re in for a surprise, huh?”