Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

1.

You are holding my soul in your hands, as this ring-bound plethora of paper is where I have drenched bled my sins, wants, and shame, hopefully, by writing about my sins, I would absolve myself from them. I am Ricky. I am a bad brother.

I act like I have the world on a leash, but inside? I’m a goddamn mess, always calculating, always wanting more than I should. My life’s a tightrope, and I’m wobbling while trying to juggle three machetes while unicycling a hundred feet up in the air, split seconds away from letting myself fall into something dark and delicious. If you’re into that, then continue to read.

I wasn’t always this way, not back in Chongqing, where things were simpler, where I could hide behind my big brother, Hao. He’s 24, sharp as a blade, with cheekbones that could slice glass and a slim frame that moves like he’s dancing even when he’s just walking. Hao’s the kind of guy who makes people lean in, listen, want to be near him. He’s my anchor, my best friend, the one who held my hand when we were kids and promised we’d conquer the world. We’re tight, closer than blood should be, and I’d die for him when our parents both said that we’re only going to be studying until we were high school, and that is the extent of what they are willing to spend on us. But I’m also a selfish prick, and you’ll see that soon enough.

We left China two years ago, chasing something bigger, something that’d make our bones ache less from the weight of second-class city dreams. Despite the difficulties posed by our lower-middle-class struggle, Hao pushed through with studying, full-grant scholarship, and kept to make ends meet so that we can dream. I was not able to study because I was not as sharp as Hao, so I pretty much took on one part-time job after another, and at one point I was even able to list down all the things you could do that is paid in Chongqing. After Hao finished university, Korea was our gamble—Seoul, with its neon veins and pulse that never stops. We packed two suitcases each, said fuck it to the life we knew, and landed in a city that didn’t give two shits about country bumpkins from a foreign country. The apartment we found is miraculously spacious, two bedrooms, all clean lines and big windows that let in too much light, one con is that it’s a fifteen-minute walk up the hill from the nearest bus station. It’s got enough room for secrets, for shadows to hide in, and I didn’t know then how much I’d need those shadows. It wasn’t exactly in the heart of Seoul, but it was adjacent to it, and is near enough for someone to be able to realistically hold a job in the richest part of this bustling city- Gangnam.

Hao, being Hao, landed on his feet like the cat he is. He’s got this way of charming people, making them feel like they’re the only one in the room. Within a month, he was hired as a teacher—some fancy hagwon where rich kids learn to hate their parents in three languages. He’d come home, eyes bright, telling me about his students, his lesson plans, how he felt like he was building something. I’d nod, smile, but inside I was rotting. I was proud of him, sure, but every step he took forward made me feel like I was sinking in quicksand.

Hao. Hao. Hao. Hao. Hao. Hao this, Hao that, How about me?

2.

You ever feel like the world’s laughing at you? That’s what those first three months in Korea were for me. I was out there, pounding pavement, my barely coherent Korean tripping over my tongue, trying to sell myself to anyone who’d listen. Convenience stores, cafes, warehouses—I didn’t care, I just needed something to stop the bleeding in the little amount in my ban account. But Seoul’s a cruel bitch, and she wasn’t impressed by my sharp jawline or my desperate eyes. Rejection after rejection, each one a little cut, until I was raw, humiliated, coming home to our too-big apartment with nothing but excuses. At one point, I considered sex work, but thinking about it, I cannot imagine myself lowering my standards for some few bills of cash, I was desperate, but not to a point where I’ll betray myself.

Hao tried to help, of course. He’d leave job listings on the kitchen counter, offer to proofread my applications, even slipped me cash when he thought I wasn’t looking. “You’ll find something, Ricky,” he’d say, his voice soft, like he could manifest it into existence if he chants it enough. I hated how much I needed his faith, how it made me feel small, like I was still the small child trailing after him, begging for his shadow to cover me when I cannot stand the image of my own figure. I’d lie awake in my room, staring at the ceiling, my ass filling out the mattress, wondering if I’d made a mistake coming here and if this city aligns with my entirety. Wondering if I’d ever be more than Hao’s little brother, the one who couldn’t keep up and who is holding Hao down.

I’d watch him sometimes, when he wasn’t looking. The way he’d hum while cooking dinner, his slim fingers quick with a knife, or how he’d sprawl on the couch, legs crossed, reading some book about pedagogy like it was an interesting novel. He was so sure of himself, so at home in this new life, and it made my chest ache. I love him, more than anything. He’s the only one who’s ever seen me, really seen me, and not turned away. But love’s a jagged thing, and I was already sharpening its edges, even then, without knowing it.

3.

I got a job, finally, after three months of eating dirt. A convenience store gig, nothing glamorous—stocking shelves, ringing up drunk salarymen at 2 a.m., mopping floors that never stayed clean. The pay’s shit and sometimes below minimum wage when I am a few minutes late, but it’s mine, and I clung to it like a lifeline. I’d come home smelling like cheap coffee and cigarette smoke, my feet aching, but there was a spark in me again. I wasn’t just Hao’s shadow anymore; I was carving out my own piece of this city, even if it was small.

Hao was over the moon, of course. He hugged me so tight I thought my ribs would crack; his sharp features lit up like he’d won the lottery when it’s just a measly 10,000 won per hour, the minimum wage in Seoul. “Told you, Ricky,” he said, ruffling my hair like I was still a child he was teaching. We celebrated that night, just the two of us, splitting a bottle of soju and laughing until the room spun. He talked about his students, I talked about the weird customers I’d already met, and for a moment, it felt like we were kids again, dreaming big in our cramped hometown bedroom, except now, one of us is actually not just dreaming anymore, while I, can only continue to dream.

But there was a hunger in me, even then. Something restless, clawing at my insides. I didn’t know what it was, not yet, but it was there, waiting for a spark to set it ablaze. I’d lie in bed after those nights, my body heavy, sinking into the sheets, and I’d think about how I wanted more. More than this job, more than this apartment, more than being the kid brother who always comes second. I wanted to be seen, to be wanted, to take something for myself.

4.

I’m writing this to the void to try and relieve the heaviness that has been wearing me down by the chest. Seoul’s got me by the throat, and I’m choking on its neon, its promises, its men. Yeah, men. Let’s talk about that, because it’s the one place I shine, the one place Hao’s shadow doesn’t touch me.

I’ve always been hungry, but not just for food or money or a job. I’m hungry for skin, for hands on my hips, for the way a man’s breath hitches when I sink down on him, my ass swallowing him whole. Back in Chongqing, I was too busy scraping by, but here? Seoul’s a playground, and I’m a fucking vixen. I bring guys home—tall ones, short ones, rich ones with slick hair, rough ones with callused hands. Doesn’t matter. They see my sharp jaw, my long legs, this obscene behind of mine, and they’re done for. I’ve had them in my bedroom, bent over the couch, once even in the kitchen when Hao was at work. I’m good at it. I know how to make a man forget his name, how to ride him until he’s begging, how to clench just right so he sees stars. It’s my art, my escape, the one thing I’m better at than Hao.

But Hao catches me sometimes. He’ll come home early, his teacher’s satchel still slung over his shoulder, and there I am, some guy’s hands on me, my moans echoing through our too-big apartment. His face—God, his face. Those sharp cheekbones go tight, his eyes narrow, but he never yells. He just says, “Ricky, really?” in that soft, disappointed way that cuts deeper than any scream. Last week, it was a salaryman, mid-30s, fucking me against the wall, his name was Taecyeon, I think? Hao walked in, froze, then turned and shut his bedroom door. Later, over dinner, he said, “You’re throwing your life away.” Understated, like he’s commenting on the weather, but it burned. He thinks I’m reckless, that I’m wasting myself on strangers. He doesn’t get it. This is where I’m free, where I’m not just the kid brother who can’t keep up. Pleasuring men is my throne, and I’m fucking proud of it.

Still, his words stick, like splinters under my skin. I love my brother, more than I can stand. Hao’s the one who got us out of that dirt-shit city, who studied on a full scholarship while juggling multiple part-time jobs, who dragged us to Seoul so we could be more than our parents’ dead-end plans. He’s my hero, but I’m his burden, and that truth eats me alive. I lie awake thinking about how I’m failing him, how I’m too selfish to stop. But then I hear a notification—some guy on an app, ready to worship me—and I’m gone again, chasing that high, that moment where I’m wanted, not pitied.

5.

Hao’s been busier lately, his hagwon piling on extra classes. He comes home exhausted, his slim frame slumping onto the couch, those big windows casting light on his tired eyes. I try to be good, I do. I cook sometimes—burnt rice and kimchi stew, nothing like his knife-sharp precision in the kitchen. He smiles, eats it anyway, tells me it’s great even when it tastes like failure. Those moments, when it’s just us, laughing over shitty food, I feel like we’re kids again, like I could be enough for him. But then he’ll mention my “guests,” all gentle disapproval, and I bristle. “You don’t need to sleep around to prove something,” he said once, his voice so soft I wanted to scream. Prove something? He doesn’t get that this is me proving I’m more than his shadow, that I can take something for myself.

Last night, I brought home a guy—tattooed, built like a truck, smelled like cheap cologne and expensive whiskey, I think his name was Barom. I had him in my room, door barely closed, my ass bouncing as he fucked me into the mattress. I was loud, too loud, because part of me wanted Hao to hear, to know I’m not just his little brother. He was home, grading papers in his room, and when I came out later, my hair a mess, the guy already gone, Hao just looked at me. “You’re better than this, Ricky,” he said, and I wanted to throw something, to tell him he’s wrong, that this is the best I’ll ever be. Instead, I mumbled an apology, went to my room, and jerked off again, thinking about how his disappointment made me feel so small, yet so alive.

I know he’s worried. He’s been dropping hints about wanting someone to keep an eye on me, like I’m a kid who needs a babysitter. “You need stability,” he says, and I roll my eyes, but it stings. He’s trying to save me, but from what? Myself? Good luck with that, Hao. I’m a fucking wildfire. I do nothing else except crash and burn.

Sometimes, I just wish I could extinguish the flame in me.

6.

Six months in, and Hao’s killing it at work. They made him a permanent teacher, full benefits, the whole deal. He came home beaming, his sharp features glowing like he’d swallowed the sun.

We’re celebrating, he said, dragging me out to a restaurant near Gangnam, one of those places with too many forks and not enough soul. I wore my tightest jeans, my ass practically a weapon, and Hao laughed, ruffling my hair like I was still his kid brother dreaming back in China. You’re gonna be okay, Ricky, he said over soju and grilled meat, and for once, I believed him. His faith in me, it’s like a drug—makes me want to be better, but also makes me hate how much I need it.

The restaurant was loud, all clinking glasses and rich kids flexing their wealth. I was halfway through my second drink, my head buzzing, when Hao waved someone over. “Ricky, meet Hanbin,” he said, and I looked up, and fuck, my world tilted. Hanbin was—God, where do I start? He’s 23, maybe, muscular but soft around the edges, with a face so pretty it’s almost unfair. His eyes crinkle when he smiles, but it’s his mouth that got me—full lips, a tongue that flicked out when he laughed, promising things I shouldn’t be thinking about. He’s got this friendly, almost innocent vibe, like he’d hug you and mean it, but there’s a heat under it, a spark that made my skin itch. Hao said they met at some work event where there was a coffee truck brought in by one of his students’ parents, that Hanbin’s a barista in Gangnam, and now they’re dating. Dating. My brother’s boyfriend, standing there, shaking my hand, his grip firm, his smile so warm I felt it in my fucking bones.

I shrugged it off, the heat that crept up my brain; I swear I did. He’s Hao’s, and I’m not that kind of monster. But my body didn’t get the memo. My eyes kept sliding to Hanbin’s chest, his nipples faintly visible through his shirt, to the way his jeans hugged his thighs, hinting at something thick, heavy, perfect. I imagined his balls, full and warm, and that tongue—fuck, what it could do to me. I was hard under the table, my ass clenching just thinking about him, and I hated myself for it. Hao was right there, laughing, clueless, and here I was, already sinning in my head. I told myself it’s nothing, just a flash of lust, like all the guys I fuck and forget. But when Hanbin leaned over to pour me more soju, his arm brushing mine, I knew I was lying. This wasn’t going away.

7.

My soul’s spilled all over these pages, and it's doing nothing to help my hopeless soul that is probably being burnt in multiple circles of hell. Sata n is probably lapping it up like it’s a buffet of sins—

Hanbin. Fuck, just writing his name makes my dick twitch.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me take you back, let you see how I’m slipping, how I’m letting this city and my own hunger carve me into someone I do not recognize.

That dinner, the one where Hao introduced Hanbin, it’s ingrained into my consciousness. I went home that night, my head buzzing with soju and something darker. Hao was all smiles, talking about how Hanbin’s different, how he’s kind, how he makes him feel alive. I nodded, played the good brother, but my mind was on Hanbin’s lips, that full, wet mouth I wanted to taste, his tongue that flicked out when he laughed, promising to ruin me. I jerked off twice before I could sleep, my ass clenching around my own fingers, imagining his cock—thick, heavy, perfect—splitting me open. I told myself it was a one-night fantasy, that I’d fuck some random guy and forget him. Hao’s boyfriend, for fuck’s sake. I’m not that low.

The next day, I brought home a guy—some college kid, lanky, eager, said his name was Dohoon. I had him fuck me in the shower, water drowning out my moans, but it wasn’t enough. His hands weren’t Hanbin’s, his dick didn’t fill me the way I imagined Hanbin’s would. Hao came home while we were still at it, the bathroom door cracked open. He didn’t say anything, just gave me that look—sharp cheekbones tight, eyes disappointed. “Clean up after,” was all he said, and I wanted to throw the showerhead at him. I’m not throwing my life away, Hao. But his words stuck, and I kicked Dohoon out, my body still aching, unsatisfied.

8.

I’m trying to be good, but good’s not in my blood, I don’t even know how related I and Hao are if I were to compare myself to him. I keep fucking guys—construction workers, office drones, once a bartender with a tongue piercing that made me see stars. My ass is a fucking magnet, and I love how they worship it, how they beg to bury themselves in me. But every time, it’s Hanbin’s face I see when I close my eyes. His soft visuals, those crinkly eyes, that mouth I want to ride until I can’t breathe.

I hate it.

I hate it.

I hate it.

I hate how he’s Hao’s, how he’s untouchable, how I’m betraying my brother just by thinking about him. Hao’s my everything, the one who dragged us out of Chongqing, who believed in me when I was nothing. And here I am, jerking off to his boyfriend’s nipples, those perky little buds that happened to be perked against the white shirt he was wearing when we first met, the buds that I wanted to suck until he’s whining.

Hao caught me again last week. Another guy, some gym rat, pounding me on the couch, said his name was Mingyu. I was loud, reckless, my ass bouncing like it was made for this. Hao walked in, froze, then turned away. Later, he sat me down, his slim fingers tapping the table. “Ricky, you can’t keep doing this,” he said, voice soft but heavy. “You’re worth more than these hookups.” Worth more? I wanted to laugh. This is my worth, Hao—making men lose their minds, taking control where I have none. But his eyes, so full of love, made me feel like shit. I mumbled something, promised to slow down, but we both knew I was lying. I went to bed, my body sore, my mind on Hanbin, wondering if his balls are as full as I imagine, if he’d moan my name if I took him deep.

9.

I saw Hanbin again, and it fucked me up. Hao invited him over for dinner, just the three of us in our apartment, the neighborhood lights flickering from outside. Hanbin was all friendly, innocent, flirty in that way that feels like a hug. He’s a barista, works at some fancy cafe, and he talked about his latte like its fine art, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. I was done for. I wore my tightest shorts, the ones that make my ass look obscene, and I caught him glancing once, maybe twice. Or was I imagining it? I don’t know anymore. He asked me about my job, leaning close, his crinkly eyes locked on mine. “Convenience store life must be wild,” he said, laughing, and I swear, I wanted to climb him right there, Hao be damned.

I threw him an innuendo, testing the waters. “Yeah, it’s hard keeping things… stocked,” I said, my eyes on his, dragging out the word. He laughed, oblivious, but his hand brushed my arm when he passed me a beer, and my dick was screaming. Hao was right there, humming in the kitchen, his slim frame swaying as he cooked. I felt like a monster, but I couldn’t stop. Hanbin kept talking, asking about my favorite music, my life in Chongqing, like he actually cared. Every word was a hook, pulling me deeper, making me think he sees me, wants me. I know it’s probably bullshit, but my brain’s rewriting it, telling me his smiles are for me, not Hao.

I didn’t bring anyone home that night. First time in weeks. I just lay in bed, my ass heavy on the sheets, jerking off to the memory of Hanbin’s mouth, imagining his tongue on my hole, his cock stretching me until I break. I’m slipping, and I can’t stop.

Hanbin. Hanbin. Hanbin. Hanbin.

10.

Hanbin’s been around more, and it’s fucking with my head. Hao’s head over heels, always touching him—his hand on Hanbin’s thigh, his lips on Hanbin’s cheek. It should make me back off, but it’s like gasoline on my fire. I’m wearing less around the apartment now, tank tops that show my nipples, shorts that barely cover my ass. I catch Hanbin looking, or I think I do, and it’s enough to keep me going. He’s so fucking friendly, always starting conversations, asking about my day, my dreams, my stupid convenience store stories. “You’re funny, Ricky,” he says, and I want to scream, Funny? I want you to fuck me until I can’t walk, you idiot.

Yesterday, I pushed it further. We were alone in the living room, Hao at work. I sprawled on the couch, my shorts riding up, my ass practically spilling out. “This couch is too firm,” I said, smirking, my eyes on his. “I need something... softer to sit on.” He laughed, that crinkly-eyed laugh, and said, “You’re a trip, Ricky.” Oblivious, or pretending to be. But he sat closer, his thigh brushing mine, and I swear I felt his heat, his cock just inches away, heavy in his jeans. I wanted to grab it, to feel his balls in my palm, to suck that perfect mouth until he’s begging. Instead, I just grinned, let my hand linger on his arm, and changed the subject.

I’m not fucking anyone else anymore. Hanbin’s presence is like a leash, and I hate how much I love it. Hao’s noticed, too. “You’ve been... calmer lately,” he said last night, his sharp features softening. Calmer? I’m a fucking volcano, ready to erupt. I’m not bringing guys home because I don’t want Hanbin to see me like that, to think I’m just some slut. I want him to want me, to choose me, even though he’s yours Hao. I’m a piece of shit, but I can’t stop dreaming about his tongue, his nipples, his cock ruining me.

Maybe I'll stick up something with a flared base inside of me tonight.

11.

Big news, and it’s fucking me up. I can't even be sure if this is good or bad news.

Hanbin’s lease is ending, some bullshit with his landlord that was merely a farce only because he found a new sucker to charge a higher rent, so he’s crashing with us for a bit. Hao suggested it, all casual, like it’s no big deal. I was in the kitchen, pretending to care about dishes, when Hao said, “It’ll be nice having him around, right, Ricky?” I mindlessly nodded, even when my heart pounding, my ass clenching at the thought of Hanbin in our space, his smell, his body, just steps away. I don’t have much say, not that I would say no—Hao pays most of the rent, and my convenience store gig barely covers my share. I’m trapped, and I fucking love it.

Hanbin moved in yesterday, just a duffel bag and a smile that probably got him hired and his cheap rent with his previous landlord, maybe he’s fucking that person too. He’s sleeping in Hao’s room, of course, but he’s everywhere—making coffee in the morning, his nipples perked under his shirt, lounging on the couch, his thighs spread like an invitation. I’m losing it. I wore a thong under my sweatpants today, let them ride low so he’d see the straps when I bent over. “Oops, laundry day,” I said, catching his eyes on my ass. He laughed, said, “Oh wow,” and started talking again about the new seasonal drink that they have put on the menu, like I give a fuck. Every word he says, every smile, it’s feeding this delusion that he wants me, that he’s just waiting for me to make a move.

Hao’s thrilled, by the way. He pulled me aside last night, his slim fingers on my arm. “You haven’t brought anyone home since Hanbin’s been around,” he said, his eyes bright. “Maybe this is good for you.” Good for me? He thinks Hanbin’s some fucking babysitter, keeping me in line. He doesn’t know I’m jerking off three times a day, imagining Hanbin’s cock in my throat, his balls slapping my chin, his tongue on my hole. I’m not calmer, Hao. I’m a fucking predator, and your boyfriend’s my prey.

12.

Hanbin’s been here a week, and I’m drowning. He’s so fucking perfect, it’s unfair. His mouth, those lips I want to bruise with my own, his tongue that I know would feel like heaven. His nipples, always poking through his shirts, begging to be bitten. And his cock—God, I see the outline in his sweats, thick, heavy, a fucking weapon. I’m obsessed, and it’s not just lust anymore. It’s something sick, something that’s eating me alive. I love Hao, I do, but every time Hanbin talks to me, asks about my day, laughs at my dumb jokes, I feel it—this pull, this need to take him, to make him mine.

Hao’s pushing for Hanbin to stay permanently. “It’s working, Ricky,” he said yesterday, his voice soft, like he’s solved me. “You’re not... you know, acting out.” Acting out? I wanted to laugh. I’m not fucking strangers because I’m saving it all for your boyfriend, Hao. I’m wearing skimpier clothes, dropping dirtier innuendos, watching Hanbin’s every move. Today, he was stretching in the living room, his shirt riding up, showing his perfect change, that trail of soft fibers of hair leading to his nether regions. I said, “You’re gonna break something with all that... flexibility,” my eyes on his crotch. He grinned, said, “Gotta stay flexible, Ricky,” and kept going, oblivious. Or is he? I don’t know anymore. My brain’s screaming that he wants me, that his friendly chats, his touches, mean something.

I’m not sleeping, not that I can. I lie awake, my ass sinking into the mattress, my dick hard, thinking about Hanbin’s balls, how they’d feel in my mouth, how his cock would stretch me until I’m sobbing. I’m betraying Hao, my anchor, my hero, and I hate myself for it. But this hunger, it’s bigger than me, bigger than love. You see it, don’t you? I’m not just infatuated. I’m possessed, and I’m not stopping until I taste him.

13.

Life’s kicking me in the teeth again. The convenience store cut my hours—some bullshit about “overstaffing.” I’m down to two shifts a week, barely enough to cover my phone bill, let alone rent. Hao’s picking up the slack, of course, his teacher’s salary keeping our Gangnam-adjacent apartment afloat. He didn’t even blink, just said, “We’ll figure it out,” his sharp cheekbones soft with that big-brother love that makes me want to just crash out. I hate it. I hate being his burden again, now back to the down-trodden kid from Chongqing who couldn’t keep up. I’m home all the time now, rattling around this too-big apartment, my ass filling out every chair, my mind filling with Hanbin.

He’s everywhere, Hanbin, with his crinkly eyes and that mouth I want to fuck until I’m raw. He’s gotten... careless, you know? Like he’s too comfortable here. After his showers, he’ll wander out in just a towel, water dripping down his muscular chest, his nipples hard from the cold. I saw his balls once, heavy and full, peeking out when the towel shifted. I had to turn away, my own cock trobbing paired with the clenching of my hole like it was begging for him. I’m not much better, mind you. I’ve ditched my sweatpants for tiny shorts, the kind that ride up my thighs, showing off every curve of my fat ass. I catch him looking, or I think I do, his eyes lingering a second too long before he laughs it off, starts some friendly chat about coffee or movies. “You’re always so lax, Ricky,” he says, and I want to grab his cock and show him how unchill I am.

Yesterday, I was doing dishes, my thong peeking out, and he walked by, shirtless, his jeans low enough to show that trail of hair leading to his dick. I stared, didn’t even hide it. His tongue flicked out, wetting his lips, and I swear he saw me watching. He just grinned, asked if I wanted to try his new coffee blend. Coffee? I wanted to drop to my knees and suck him dry. But I played along, leaned close, let my arm brush his. “Sure, make it strong,” I said, my eyes on his nipples, imagining them between my teeth. He didn’t flinch, just kept talking, and my brain’s screaming,

He wants you, Ricky. He is Hao’s, but he wants you.

Hanbin wants me.

I want him, too.

Hanbin. Hanbin. Hanbin. Hanbin. Hanbin. Hanbin. Hanbin. Hanbin. Hanbin. Hanbin. Hanbin.

14.

I’m a fucking mess. Being home all day’s turning me into a predator, stalking Hanbin’s every move. Hao’s at work, his hagwon keeping him late, and it’s just me and Hanbin in this apartment, the Gangnam lights mocking me through those big windows. Hanbin’s so fucking oblivious, or maybe he’s not. He’s stopped wearing shirts after his showers, just struts around in boxers, his cock outlined like a fucking invitation. I saw it twitch once, when he caught me bending over to “pick up” something I dropped, my ass practically in his face. I’m wearing less too—crop tops, thongs, anything to make him look. And he does. His eyes linger, his tongue darts out, and then he’ll start some dumb conversation, like, “You ever try yoga, Ricky?”

Yoga? I want you to bend me over and fuck me until I forget my name.

I’m not fucking anyone else, haven’t in weeks. Hanbin’s ruined me. Every guy I used to bring home feels like a cheap knockoff now. I lie awake, my ass heavy on the sheets, jerking off to the memory of his balls, the way they’d feel in my mouth, the way his cock would stretch my hole until I’m sobbing. I love Hao, I do, but it’s like he’s fading, like Hanbin’s filling every corner of my soul. Hao came home last night, exhausted, his slim frame slumping onto the couch. “You okay, Ricky?” he asked, his voice so soft it cut me. Okay? I’m a traitor, Hao, dreaming of your boyfriend’s tongue on my hole. I mumbled something, helped him with dinner, and felt like the worst brother alive. He thinks Hanbin’s saving me, keeping me “calm.” If only he knew.

This morning, Hanbin was in the kitchen, making coffee, his boxers tight, his nipples begging for my teeth. I wore a mesh tank top, my own nipples hard, my shorts so short my ass was half-out. I leaned over the counter, pretending to read a text, and said, “You’re gonna burn the place down looking that hot.” He laughed, his crinkly eyes sparkling, and said, “Says the guy who’s basically naked.” Naked? I wanted to rip his boxers off and show him naked. Instead, I smirked, let my eyes drop to his crotch, and he didn’t look away. He kept talking, something about his barista shifts, but his voice was tighter, like he felt it too. I’m so close, so close to breaking him.

15.

Today, I crossed a line so dark, so filthy, I’m not sure I’ll ever climb back.

Hao was gone, his hagwon chaining him to some late-night seminar, his slim frame probably hunched over a desk, those sharp cheekbones glowing under fluorescent lights. The apartment was ours, mine and Hanbin’s, the Gangnam lights sneering through those big windows, daring me to fuck it all up. I was a mess. my jobless ass trapped in this too-big space, my hours cut to nothing, my wallet bleeding, Hao’s money the only thing keeping me afloat. I hate being his burden again, the kid who needs his gege. But Hanbin—God, Hanbin—he’s my escape, my drug, my fucking ruin. His mouth, those full lips I want to bruise, that tongue I dream of riding. His nipples, perky and begging for my teeth. His cock, thick and heavy, his balls so full I can almost taste them. I’m possessed, and today, I let the devil win.

I decided to work out in the living area, a desperate bid to burn off this hunger that’s eating me alive. I wore my sluttiest outfit—black leggings so tight they’re practically painted on, hugging every curve of my massive ass, the fabric digging into my crack like it’s trying to fuck me. My crop top was a joke, barely covering my chest, my nipples hard and visible, screaming for attention. Hanbin was there, sprawled on the couch, scrolling on his phone, his muscular body relaxed, his tank top clinging to every ridge of his abs, his nipples poking through like little invitations. His boxers peeked out, hinting at that cock I’ve been jerking off to for weeks. I started stretching, slow, deliberate, my ass in the air, my back arched like I was presenting myself to him. I felt his eyes, I fucking felt them, burning into my glutes, tracing the way my leggings stretched over my hole.

Damn, Ricky, you’re ripped, he told me, his voice all friendly, that crinkly-eyed smile hitting me like a fist to the gut. His tongue flicked out, wetting his lips, and my dick twitched, my ass clenching like it was begging for him. I grinned, flexed my arms, and threw a compliment right back. Not as jacked as you, Hanbin, those arms could crush me.

He just laughed, stood up, and started doing push-ups, his muscles bulging, his biceps flexing, his nipples hard as fuck through his shirt. I was done for, my brain short-circuiting, my hole pulsing with need. I moved closer, “correcting” his form, my hands on his shoulders, feeling his heat, his sweat, the raw power under his skin. “Like this,” I said, my fingers sliding down his back, lingering on the curve of his spine, so close to his ass I could’ve grabbed it. He didn’t pull away, just kept going, his breath hitching, his body trembling under my touch.

“You’re strong,” I said, my voice low, dripping with want. “Bet you could lift me, pin me down, no problem.” He chuckled, said, “Maybe,” and his eyes met mine, a spark there, subtle but fucking real, like he knew what I was doing and didn’t hate it. We kept at it, complimenting each other, my hands brushing his arms, his thighs, every touch a fucking test. “Look at these pecs,” I said, my fingers grazing his chest, circling his nipples, feeling them harden under my touch. He grinned, flexed, said, “You’re not bad yourself, Ricky,” and his arm brushed my chest, my own nipples screaming, my dick leaking in my leggings. I was bold now, no shame, no stopping. I did squats, my ass bouncing like a porn star, my hole winking through the fabric. He stared, his tongue darting out, his eyes dark, and I knew he was feeling it, his cock twitching in those boxers.

You’re killing it, he said, his voice thicker, his friendly vibe laced with something hotter, something that made my blood sing. I caught him adjusting himself, his hand brushing his crotch, and I wanted to drop to my knees, rip those boxers off, and suck him until he’s sobbing. Instead, I pushed it further, suggested a movie, anything to keep him close, to keep this heat burning. “Let’s chill,” I said, grabbing a blanket from the couch, my ass swaying as I walked. He nodded, plopped down, his thighs spread, his boxers tight, his cock already half-hard from our workout, the outline so clear I could’ve traced it with my tongue. I threw the blanket over us, our thighs pressing together, the heat between us like a fucking furnace. His smell—sweat, soap, and something musky, all Hanbin—hit me like a drug, and I was high, so fucking high.

The movie was bullshit, some explosions-and-guns flick, but I didn’t care. I was watching him, his chest rising, his nipples poking through his tank top, his mouth parted just enough to show that tongue I wanted to suck. I leaned closer, my shoulder against his, my skin burning where we touched. “Your muscles are fucking insane,” I said, my hand on his bicep, squeezing, feeling the steel under his skin. He grinned, flexed, said, “You’re not bad, Ricky,” and his arm brushed my chest again, my nipples throbbing, my dick screaming. I pushed it, I fucking pushed it. “These thighs, though,” I said, my hand sliding to his leg, resting just above his crotch, my fingers grazing the edge of his boxers, feeling the heat of his cock, the pulse of his balls. He froze, his breath catching, his eyes on the screen, but he didn’t move, didn’t speak. I felt it—his cock, thick, throbbing, hard as fuck under the blanket, pressing against my hand, begging for me.

I didn’t stop, couldn’t. I shifted, my palm pressing firmer, rubbing slow, deliberate circles through his boxers, feeling every inch of that perfect cock, the vein pulsing, the head slick with precum. His balls were tight, full, shifting under my touch, and I wanted to bury my face in them, to lick and suck until he’s screaming. He was stricken, silent, his crinkly eyes wide, his lips parted, that tongue darting out to wet them, but he didn’t push me away, didn’t say a word. His cock throbbed, leaking through the fabric, and I was lost, fucking lost in him. “So fucking strong,” I whispered, my voice a growl, my hand working him, balancing the pressure in circular motions, pressing his cock against his thigh, feeling it pulse, feeling his balls clench. His breath was shaky, his body trembling, but he let me, he fucking let me, his friendly vibe cracking, his desire spilling out like the precum soaking his boxers.

I was bold now, no turning back, no pretending this was innocent. I shifted again, my ass pressing against his hip, my own dick leaking in my leggings, my hole aching to be filled. I rubbed harder, my palm grinding against his cock, feeling it swell, feeling his balls tighten, ready to burst. I wanted to rip those boxers off, to take him in my mouth, to taste every drop, but I didn’t. I kept it here, under the blanket, my hand a fucking weapon, stroking him through the fabric, slow then fast, teasing the head, pressing his balls until he’s shaking. “Hanbin,” I whispered, too low for him to hear, or maybe he did, I don’t know. His hips twitched, just once, a subtle thrust into my hand, and that was it, that was the spark that set me on fire.

He came, fucking exploded, his cock pulsing like a heartbeat, his cum shooting through his boxers, hot and thick, soaking the fabric, seeping onto my palm, sticky and warm, coating my fingers like a fucking prize. I felt every spurt, every shudder, his balls emptying, his cock jerking under my hand, and I wanted to cry, to scream, to lick my hand clean and beg for more. His face was flushed, his lips parted, that tongue resting just behind his teeth, and he didn’t say a word, just stared at the screen, his chest heaving, his nipples hard as fuck. I pulled my hand back, slow, deliberate, wiping the cum on the blanket, but some stayed, clinging to my skin, a reminder of what I’d done. My ass clenched, my dick throbbed, but I didn’t touch myself, didn’t break the spell. I just sat there, my heart pounding, my soul rotting, the taste of his cum on my fingers when I brought them to my lips, just a quick swipe, salty and perfect.

We didn’t talk about it, not a fucking word. The movie ended, the credits rolling like a mockery of what we’d just done. He cleared his throat, mumbled, “Gonna shower,” his voice tight, his cock still half-hard in those cum-soaked boxers. I nodded, said, “Cool, see ya,” like I didn’t just make my brother’s boyfriend cum in our living room, like I didn’t betray Hao in the one place he feels safe. He stood up, his thighs flexing, his nipples still begging for my mouth, and walked away, leaving me with the blanket, the smell of his cum, and a hunger that’s only getting worse.

I’m sitting here now, my hand still sticky, my dick hard, my ass aching for him. I love Hao, , I swear I do. He’s my anchor, my hero, the one who dragged us out of Chongqing, who pays for this apartment, who believes in me even when I’m nothing. But Hanbin’s mine now, even if he doesn’t know it, even if he’s still Hao’s in every way that matters. I tasted his cum, felt his cock, and I’m not stopping. I’m a monster, I'm a bad brother.