Confessions of a Bad Brother

by smnnsfw

Summary:

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

Take a peek at Ricky's diary and his confessions of how he is a bad brother.

Chapter 1

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.

Chapter 2: 16-30.

Summary:

Ricky's perseverance, resolution, perseverance, and descent.

16.

I’m still writing, hoping these pages will somehow clean the mess I’ve made, but it’s not working. I’m a bad brother, the one who’s ruining everything. My ass is too big for these chairs, my heart’s too heavy for this apartment, and Hanbin’s cum is still on my mind, a week later. I thought that night would change things, that he’d look at me different, want me like I want him. But he’s pulling away, and it’s killing me.

When Hao’s home, Hanbin’s like a stranger. He won’t meet my eyes, keeps his mouth shut, no sign of that tongue I can’t stop thinking about. He talks to Hao, laughs, touches his arm, but with me, it’s nothing—awkward silences, quick glances, like I’m something he’s scared of. I’m stuck here all day, my convenience store shifts cut to almost nothing, and Hao’s money is the only reason I’m not on the street. This apartment feels too big, too empty, with its clean lines and those windows letting in too much light. Hanbin’s always around, making coffee, his nipples showing through his shirt, sitting on the couch with his thighs spread, but he’s out of reach.

I tried to get close again. Last night, Hao was cooking, humming, his slim frame moving like he’s still got Chongqing in his bones. Hanbin was on the couch, scrolling on his phone, his boxers tight, that cock I touched outlined like a taunt. I sat next to him, my shorts short, my ass half-out, and let my knee touch his. I asked about his day, kept my voice soft, stared at his lips, those full lips I want to taste. He tensed, slid away, said, “Busy, you know,” and kept his eyes on his phone. I didn’t stop, brushed my hand against his arm, let my fingers stay there, feeling his warmth. He got up fast, said he was helping Hao, and left me sitting there, hard, my ass clenching, my chest tight. He didn’t say no, but that dodge was louder than anything.

I went to my room, jerked off to the memory of his cock, the way it pulsed, the cum soaking his boxers, sticking to my hand. I thought about his balls, how they’d feel in my mouth, his tongue on my hole, his nipples hard under my fingers. But it’s not enough. I’m starving, and he’s shutting me out. Hao smiled at me during dinner, said I was quiet, and I wanted to tell him everything—that I’m a traitor, that I touched his boyfriend, that I’m burning for him. I just ate, nodded, and felt like shit. Hao’s the one who got us out of Chongqing, who pays for this place, who loves me even when I’m nothing. And I’m betraying him, dreaming of Hanbin’s cock inside me. These pages aren’t saving me. I’m still a bad brother.

 

17.

 

Two weeks, and I’m invisible. Hanbin’s avoiding me, especially when Hao’s here. His eyes don’t crinkle anymore, his mouth stays closed, no trace of the heat I felt that night. He’s all about Hao—sitting close, laughing at his jokes, while I’m just the guy in the corner, the bad brother who fucked it all up. I’m home constantly, my job barely a job anymore, and Hao’s salary is keeping me alive. I hate it, hate being the kid from Chongqing who can’t do anything right. This apartment’s a prison, its big windows showing a city that doesn’t want me, its two bedrooms hiding my shame.

I keep trying, even though I know I shouldn’t. A few nights ago, Hao was grading papers on the couch, his sharp features focused, glasses slipping down his nose. Hanbin was in the kitchen, cleaning dishes, his shirt tight, nipples hard, his thighs filling out his jeans. I walked by, my tank top loose, shorts barely covering my ass, and leaned against the counter, close enough to feel his heat. I said his coffee smelled good, let my hand brush his hip, my fingers grazing the edge of his jeans, where I know his cock is. He stepped back, turned away, said, “Thanks, it’s just instant,” and kept scrubbing, his shoulders stiff. I stayed there, staring at his back, wanting to grab him, to feel his balls, to suck that mouth until he’s moaning. But he didn’t look at me, didn’t give me anything, and I walked away, my dick aching, my heart heavier than ever.

It’s like this every time. I’ll sit too close, let my foot touch his under the table, or “accidentally” brush his thigh when Hao’s distracted. He’ll move, shift away, focus on something else, never rude, never calling me out, but it’s clear—he’s done. I jerk off every night, thinking about his cock, the way it felt, the cum I tasted, the way his tongue looked when he licked his lips. I imagine him fucking me, his nipples in my mouth, his balls slapping my ass, but it’s fading, like a dream I can’t hold onto. Hao’s clueless, thinks I’m “better” because I’m not bringing guys home. He doesn’t know it’s because of Hanbin, because I’m saving it all for someone I can’t have.

Hao made breakfast yesterday, his slim fingers quick with a spatula, and we ate together, just us. He asked about my job, said we’d figure out the money, his voice so soft it hurt. I wanted to confess, to tell him I’m not worth his love, that I’m a monster. Instead, I said I’d look for more work, lied to his face. He’s my hero, the one who got us here, who believes in me, and I’m spitting on that, lusting after his boyfriend. I’m a bad brother, and these words aren’t fixing anything.

I’m trying. I’m trying. I’m trying.

 

18.

 

A month’s passed, and nothing’s changed. Hanbin’s a wall, cold and careful, avoiding me like I’m a disease. When Hao’s home, he’s all about him—holding his hand, kissing his cheek, while I’m just there, the bad brother, watching, wanting, breaking. My job’s a joke, two shifts a week, and Hao’s paying for everything—rent, food, my fucking existence. I’m back to being the kid who couldn’t keep up, the one dragging Hao down. This apartment’s too big, its windows too bright, showing me a Seoul that’s laughing at me. Hanbin’s still here, permanent now, his stuff mixed with Hao’s, his smell in every room, but he’s further away than ever.

I’ve tried so many times. Last week, Hao was watching TV, his legs crossed, reading some teaching book. Hanbin was next to him, his thighs spread, boxers showing that cock I’m dying for. I sat on the other side, my shorts tight, my ass spilling out, and let my hand rest on the couch, close to his knee. I said something about the show, leaned in, let my fingers brush his leg, feeling the heat of his skin. He pulled away, crossed his legs, said, “Yeah, it’s good,” and turned to Hao, ignoring me. I tried again a few days later, when Hao was in the shower. Hanbin was making coffee, his nipples hard, his jeans low. I stood close, said his shirt looked good, let my hand graze his arm, my eyes on his mouth, that tongue I want inside me. He stepped back, said, “Thanks,” and walked away, leaving me hard, my ass aching, my chest tight. I wanted to grab him, to feel his cock, to taste his cum, but he walked away

Every attempt’s the same. I touch, he dodges, no words, no fight, just silence. I’m starving, jerking off to the same memory—his cock, his cum, his balls, his nipples, his tongue. It’s all I have, and it’s not enough. I’m betraying Hao, my anchor, my hero, the one who got us out of Chongqing, who pays for this life, who loves me despite everything. I hate myself, but I can’t stop wanting Hanbin, can’t stop trying, even when it’s hopeless.

Today was my birthday, and Hao made it special. He took me and Hanbin to a restaurant near Gangnam, one with dim lights and good food, not too fancy. He smiled the whole time, his sharp features glowing, said he was proud of me, that I’d find my way. Hanbin was there, quiet, avoiding my eyes, but Hao didn’t notice, just kept talking, laughing, making me feel like I was worth something. He paid for everything, even got me a cake, and when we got home, he hugged me, said, “You’re my favorite person, Ricky.” I almost cried, standing there, knowing I’m a traitor, a bad brother, lusting after his boyfriend, touching him behind his back.

I’m done, or I want to be. I looked at Hao tonight, at his love, his trust, and I swore to myself I’d stop. No more touches, no more looks, no more dreaming of Hanbin’s cock, his tongue, his balls. I want to be good, to be the brother Hao deserves, not this monster who’s breaking his heart. I’m writing this to make it real, to hold myself to it. But Hanbin’s still here, sleeping in Hao’s room, his smell in the air, and I’m scared I’ll fail. I’m a bad brother, and these pages aren’t enough to save me.

 

19.

 

It’s been a week since my birthday, since Hao’s smile and that dinner made me swear I’d stop chasing Hanbin. I don’t want to be the guy who betrays his brother, not anymore. Hao’s done everything for me—got us out of Chongqing, pays for this apartment, believes in me when I’m just a jobless mess. I owe him better, so I’m keeping my promise, or trying to. My convenience store shifts are still cut, and I’m stuck here, living off Hao’s teacher salary, feeling like a kid who can’t stand on his own.

Hanbin’s still everywhere, sleeping in Hao’s room, making coffee, filling this place with his smell—sweat, soap, him. Him. Him. I notice him, can’t help it. His eyes. His shoulders. His thighs. But I’m not letting myself go there, not like before. No more. No more. No more his cock, his tongue, his balls. I’m done, done, done. Or I want to be. But he’s looking at me again, soft, curious, and it’s breaking me, breaking me, breaking me.

Now that I’m pulling back, I catch him looking at me sometimes. Quick glances when Hao’s not watching, his eyes lingering on my face, my arms, maybe my ass. It’s not like before, when he dodged me after that night I touched him. It’s softer, curious, and it makes my chest tight, but I’m not acting on it. I can’t.

I’ve been keeping busy, or trying to. Applied for a few jobs—cafes, delivery, anything to stop leaning on Hao. Nothing’s come through, but it keeps my mind off Hanbin. Hao’s noticed I’m different, quieter. He asked if I’m okay, his sharp features all soft, his slim fingers tapping the table like he’s nervous. I lied, said I’m just stressed about work, and he hugged me, said we’d figure it out. I felt like shit, standing there, knowing I’m hiding so much. He’s my hero, and I’m still the bad brother, even if I’m trying not to be.

 

20.

I met someone yesterday, by chance. His name’s Jeonghyeon, a college student I ran into at a convenience store near Gangnam, not my work one. I was grabbing snacks, feeling low, and he was there, tall and lanky, sharp jawline, kind of nerdy with glasses and messy hair. He dropped his wallet, and I handed it back, and we got talking. He’s 22, studies something like math, stays home a lot, doesn’t go out much. He was shy, kept looking at his shoes, but there was this spark in his eyes when he smiled at me. We exchanged numbers, and I felt something I hadn’t in a while—hope, maybe, that I can move on, be someone new.

 

21.

It’s been two weeks since I met Jeonghyeon, and we’re still going, which is more than I expected. We’ve been on four dates now, actual dates, not just hookups, though there’s that too. He’s different from the guys I used to bring home, different from Hanbin. He’s tall, 185 cm, slender, with this handsome face that’s sharp but soft, like he could be on a drama but chooses to hide in his dorm. His hands are big, long fingers, and when we’re alone, he’s all over me, his touch hungry, like he’s been holding back forever. But in public, it’s a complete 180. He won’t hold my hand, won’t let me lean on him, pulls away if I get too close. It’s like I’m his secret, and it stings, makes me feel like I’m back to being the bad brother, hiding something shameful.

We met up at a cafe first, somewhere quiet near his college. He was nervous, kept adjusting his glasses, talking about math or some anime he loves. I liked it, how he’s so different from me, how he’s got this whole world in his head. We kissed that night, in his dorm, and it was good—slow, a bit clumsy, but real. The sex came after the second date, at his place, and it’s intense. He’s shy at first, but once we’re alone, he’s bold, his hands on my ass, his mouth on mine, like he’s starving. It’s not like with Hanbin, where it was all in my head, all forbidden. Jeonghyeon wants me, and I want him, but only behind closed doors. Outside, he’s distant, and it makes me wonder if I’m just a dirty secret to him.

I’m still trying to be good, keeping my promise to Hao. I don’t flirt with Hanbin, don’t touch him, don’t let my eyes linger too long on his lips or his chest. But I notice things. He’s not avoiding me anymore, not like he did after that night. When Hao’s at work, Hanbin talks to me more, asks about my day, laughs at my dumb jokes. His eyes stay on me longer, like he’s trying to figure me out. Yesterday, I was doing dishes, my shirt loose, and I caught him watching, his gaze on my back, my ass maybe. It wasn’t sexual, not exactly, but it was something, and it made my stomach flip. I didn’t do anything, just kept washing, but it’s hard, knowing he’s looking again.

Hao’s been great, too great. He made dinner last night, his slim fingers quick with a knife, and we talked about Chongqing, about old times. He said he’s proud of me for trying, for applying to jobs, and I felt like a liar, knowing I’m still carrying this guilt, this want for Hanbin, even if I’m not acting on it. I’m a bad brother, but I’m trying to be better, for Hao, for myself. Jeonghyeon’s part of that, I think. He’s not Hanbin, but he’s real, and I’m holding onto that, even if it hurts to be his secret.

 

22.

A month since my birthday, and I’m still holding onto my promise, but it’s not easy. Jeonghyeon’s been over a lot, crashing at our place when Hao’s at his hagwon late. We’re on our sixth date, and it’s steady, more than I’ve ever had with anyone. He’s still the same—nerdy, quiet, stays in his head until we’re alone, then he’s all hands, all mouth, all need. Last night, he came over, and we fucked in my room, his long fingers gripping my ass, his kisses deep, like he’s trying to make up for how he is outside. It’s good, really good, but it’s not enough to erase Hanbin, not completely.

Jeonghyeon’s so different when we’re out. We went to a park near Gangnam, and I tried to hold his hand, just a small thing, but he pulled away, looked around like someone might see. At a cafe, I leaned close, and he shifted, put space between us, his eyes on his phone. It hurts, makes me feel like I’m something to hide, like I’m dirty. But at home, he’s mine—curling up with me on the couch, his head on my shoulder, his fingers tracing my arm. It’s like he’s two people, and I’m only allowed the one behind closed doors. It hurts, but the trifecta of being an unemployed foreigner who also happens to be a faggot, maybe it’s justified?

Hanbin’s noticed him, I can tell. Jeonghyeon’s been over enough that it’s obvious something’s going on. Hanbin doesn’t say anything, just watches, his soft eyes catching mine when Jeonghyeon’s not looking. When Jeonghyeon’s here, Hanbin’s quieter, stays in Hao’s room or the kitchen, but I feel his gaze, like he’s trying to understand. Jeonghyeon gets weird around him, too. He’s already shy, but with Hanbin, it’s worse—won’t look at him, keeps his distance, like he’s scared Hanbin knows he’s hiding. Last night, Jeonghyeon was leaving, and I walked him to the hallway. I wanted to kiss him goodbye, just a peck, but he stepped back, glanced at the open door, at Hanbin in the living room, and just said, “See you,” his voice tight. He practically ran down the stairs, and I stood there, deflated, feeling like a disgusting secret, like I’m not worth being seen with.

I came back inside, and Hanbin was on the couch, his thighs spread, his shirt tight, nipples showing. He looked at me, didn’t say anything, but his eyes stayed on mine, longer than before, like he saw how I felt. I wanted to talk, to tell him I’m trying to be good, that I’m not the bad brother anymore, but I just went to my room, closed the door, and sat on my bed, my ass heavy, my chest heavier. Hao was still out, and I thought about him, about how he loves me, how he trusts me, and I felt sick, knowing I’m still not clean, not really. Jeonghyeon’s not Hanbin, and maybe that’s why it’s not enough. I’m trying to be good, but Hanbin’s gaze is back, and it’s pulling at me, even when I don’t want it to. I’m a bad brother, and these pages aren’t fixing me, not yet.

 

23.

It’s been a month and a half since my birthday, since I swore to stop wanting Hanbin, and I’m holding on, mostly. I’m trying to be the brother Hao deserves, the one who doesn’t betray him, but it’s hard when Hanbin’s still here, filling this apartment with his presence. I notice him—his soft eyes, the way his shoulders fill out his shirts, how his jeans hug his thighs—but I’m keeping it in check, not letting my mind go where it used to, not thinking about his mouth or his cock or his balls. I’m better than that now, or I want to be. But something’s shifting. Hanbin’s looking at me again, talking to me, and it’s messing with my head.

Jeonghyeon’s been my anchor, keeping me grounded. We’re still together, pushing past seven dates, and it’s real, deeper than I thought it could be. He’s still the same—tall, lanky, sharp jawline, glasses slipping down his nose, always talking about math or some anime he’s obsessed with. When we’re alone, at my place or his dorm, he’s all over me, his long fingers on my ass, his kisses hungry, like he’s making up for lost time. We had sex again last night, in my room, and it was good—slow, intense, his hands gripping me like I’m all he wants. But outside, he’s different. Won’t hold my hand, won’t let me touch him, always checking if someone’s watching. It hurts, makes me feel like I’m his secret, but I’m accepting it. He’s cute, sweet, and when we’re alone, it’s enough. I tell myself it’s worth it, that I’m lucky to have someone who wants me, even if it’s only behind closed doors.

Hanbin’s been different lately, less guarded. He’s started talking to me again, not just small talk, but real conversations. Yesterday, Hao was at his hagwon, and Hanbin was in the kitchen, making coffee, his shirt tight, nipples showing. He asked about Jeonghyeon, just casual, like he was curious. “How’s it going with that guy?” he said, his eyes on me, steady, like he actually cared. I was honest, told him it’s good but hard, that Jeonghyeon’s shy in public, won’t touch me outside. I even said, “I envy you, you know. You’re not ashamed to be with Hao, showing it all the time.” My voice cracked, and I felt stupid, but Hanbin just nodded, his lips soft, like he got it. “That’s tough,” he said, and for a second, I saw something in his eyes—maybe pity, maybe something else. It made my chest tight, but I pushed it down, didn’t let myself think it meant more.

I’m still unemployed, but I’m trying to change that. Applied for a bartender job at a club downtown, and I’m waiting to hear back. If I get it, it’ll mean less time in this apartment, less time noticing Hanbin, less of Hao’s money keeping me alive. Hao’s been so good to me, cooking dinner, asking about my job hunt, his slim fingers quick with a knife. He said he’s glad I’m “finding my way,” and I wanted to tell him I’m trying to be good, that I’m not the brother who wants his boyfriend anymore. But I’m still carrying this guilt, this weight, and it’s heavy, even with Jeonghyeon, even when I’m trying to be better.

 

24.

 

I got the bartender job, and it feels like a win, like I’m finally pulling my weight. Started last week at a club in Gangnam, all neon lights and loud music, pouring drinks for people who don’t look at me twice. The pay’s better than the convenience store, and I’m learning fast—mixing cocktails, flirting just enough to keep tips coming. It’s late nights, so I’m out when Hao’s home, which is good, keeps me from dwelling on Hanbin. I’m not leaning on Hao as much now, paying my share of the rent, and it’s a relief, like I’m not just his kid brother from Chongqing who can’t do anything right.

Jeonghyeon’s been over a lot, crashing at our place when I’m off work. We’re steady, and I’m letting myself care about him, more than I expected. He’s still shy, stays in his head, but when we’re alone, he’s like a different person—his hands on my ass, his kisses deep, his slender frame pressed against me like he can’t get close enough. We fucked again last night, in my room, and it was slow, his long fingers tracing my back, making me feel wanted. But in public, it’s the same. We went to a movie, and I reached for his hand, but he pulled away, looked around, like someone might know him. At a cafe, I sat close, and he shifted, put his bag between us. It stings, makes me feel like I’m nothing, but I’m telling myself it’s okay. He’s cute, he cares, and I’m unemployed no more, but still not someone to brag about. I get why he hides me—I’m not exactly a catch, not like Hao or Hanbin.

 

25.

 

Hanbin’s been talking to me more, and it’s throwing me off. He’s not avoiding me anymore, not like after that night I touched him. When Hao’s at work, he’ll hang out in the living room, ask about my job, about Jeonghyeon, JEONGHYEON. Last night, I was home early, and he was on the couch, his thighs spread, shirt loose, nipples faintly visible. He asked how the club’s going, and I told him it’s good, tiring, but good. Then he asked about Jeonghyeon, not Hanbin, not Hanbin again, said, “He seems nice, but it sounds tough, him being so private.” I opened up, told him it’s hard, feeling like a secret, how I wish I had what he has with Hao, just being open. “You’re not like that,” I said, “you’re proud of Hao.” He looked at me, his soft eyes steady, and said, “It’s not always easy, but yeah, I’m lucky.” His gaze lingered, and my stomach flipped, but I didn’t let it go anywhere. I can’t.

I’m still trying to be good, keeping my promise to Hao. He’s been busy, his hagwon piling on extra classes, but he checks in, asks about my job, says he’s proud. It hurts, knowing I’m still hiding this part of me, the part that noticed Hanbin’s gaze, that still feels something when he talks to me. Jeonghyeon’s helping, keeping me focused, but he’s not Hanbin, and sometimes, late at night, my ass heavy on the mattress, I wonder if I’ll ever be clean of this. I’m a bad brother, but I’m fighting it, for Hao, for myself.

 

Jeonghyeon. Hanbin. Hao.

26.

 

Jeonghyeon’s my boyfriend now, official, and it’s good, deeper than I thought I could have. We spend most nights together, at my place or his, and when we’re alone, he’s everything—his long fingers on my ass, his kisses slow, his nerdy laugh making me smile.

Last night, he crashed here, and we fucked, his slender body pressed against mine, his glasses fogging up, and it felt right, like I could be happy with him. But outside, it’s still the same. He won’t touch me, won’t look at me too long, always checking for eyes on us. Yesterday, we were at a park, and I tried to link arms, but he stepped away, said, “Not here,” and I felt like nothing again. I’m accepting it, though. He’s cute, he cares, and I’m just a bartender, not someone you show off. I get it.

Hanbin’s been so different, and it’s messing with me. He’s not just talking to me now—he’s seeking me out. When Hao’s at his hagwon, Hanbin will sit with me, ask about the club, about Jeonghyeon, even about Chongqing. His eyes crinkle again, his mouth soft, and he listens, really listens. Two days ago, I was mixing a drink in the kitchen, practicing for work, and he leaned against the counter, his shirt tight, nipples showing, thighs filling out his jeans.

He asked about Jeonghyeon’s closeted thing, said, “That must be rough, feeling hidden.” I was honest, said it sucks, that I envy how he’s so open with Hao, how he’s not ashamed. “I’m just a bartender,” I said, “no wonder I get guys who hide me.” He looked at me, his gaze steady, and said, “You’re more than that, Ricky.” My heart stopped, and for a second, I saw it—his lips, his tongue, the way he used to look at me before he pulled away. I didn’t do anything, just nodded, but it’s been in my head since.

 

27.

Hao dropped a bomb last night. We were eating dinner, his slim fingers quick with chopsticks, and he said Hanbin’s moving in permanently, not just crashing. He asked for my permission, his sharp features nervous, like I’d say no. “It’s been good having him here, right?” he said, and I froze, my mind racing. Hanbin, permanent, his stuff in our apartment, his smell, his body, always here. I was surprised—why isn’t he moving out with Hao, getting their own place? And then it hit me, this stupid, dangerous thought: maybe he’s staying because of me, because he wants me, deep down. It’s delusional, I know, but it’s there, waking up those fantasies I buried. I thought about his cock, his balls, his nipples, his tongue, all the things I swore I’d forget. I said yes, of course, told Hao it’s fine, but inside, I’m shaking. I’m trying to be good, but Hanbin’s gaze, his voice, his permanence—it’s pulling me back.

I’m still with Jeonghyeon, and I care about him, but he’s not Hanbin. When he left this morning, I walked him to the hallway, and he pulled away again, no kiss, just a quick “bye” because Hanbin was in the living room. I came back, deflated, feeling like a secret, and Hanbin looked at me, his eyes soft, like he knew. I’m a bad brother, and these pages aren’t saving me. I’m trying to be good, for Hao, for Jeonghyeon, but Hanbin’s here, forever, and I’m scared of what that means.

 

28. 10 AM

 

I’m hungover, my head pounding, my mouth dry, and I’m writing this to try and make sense of last night, to confess what I did, what I’m still doing, even though I swore I’d be better.

I’m trying to be good, but Hanbin’s here, permanent now, and my mind’s twisting everything, telling me he wants me, even when I know it’s a lie. I’m a mess, and last night proved it.

Hao dropped another bomb a few days ago, at dinner, his slim fingers nervous, picking at his chopsticks. He said he’s got a three-day seminar out of town, some camp thing, starting tomorrow. He looked at me, then Hanbin, and said he trusts us to hold down the apartment.

Trusts us. My stomach twisted, knowing I’m not trustworthy, not with Hanbin around. It’s worse because Jeonghyeon’s finals are the same time, so he’ll be buried in his dorm, studying, leaving me alone with Hanbin for three days. Three days. The thought made my chest tight, not just with guilt, but with something else—hope, maybe, that stupid, dangerous hope that Hanbin’s staying here for me, not Hao.

Hanbin’s been so friendly lately, too friendly, and it’s fucking with me. He talks to me all the time now, asks about my bartender job, about Jeonghyeon, about stupid stuff like my favorite drinks to mix. His eyes crinkle, his lips soft, and he leans close, like he’s really listening.

Yesterday, I was practicing a cocktail in the kitchen, my ass filling out my jeans, and he stood next to me, his shirt tight, nipples showing, thighs strong. He asked about Jeonghyeon again, said, “You seem happy with him.” I shrugged, said it’s good but hard, him hiding me. Hanbin nodded, his gaze steady, and said, “You deserve better, Ricky.” Better. The way he said it, the way he looked at me, I swear it meant something. My mind’s screaming he wants me, that his staying here, permanent, is because of me, not just Hao. It’s delusional, but I can’t stop it.

Jeonghyeon’s still my boyfriend, and I care about him, more than I thought I could. He’s been over, his lanky frame curled up with me, his long lanky fingers on my ass, his kisses deep. But he’s still closeted, won’t touch me in public, and it makes me feel like shit, like I’m not worth showing off. He’s got finals coming, so he’s been distant, focused, and I’m trying to be okay with it. I’m a bartender now, not some jobless loser, but I’m still not someone you brag about, not like Hao or Hanbin. I tell myself Jeonghyeon’s enough, but Hanbin’s here, and my promise to be good is cracking.

Last night was the first night of Hao’s seminar, and I fucked up. I had the night off, and so did Hanbin, some rare scheduling fluke. Jeonghyeon was studying, so it was just us, and I got this idea, against every good thought in my head. I invited Hanbin to my club, said it’d be fun, that he could see where I work. He said yes, his eyes bright, and I felt it—that spark, that delusion that he wanted to be close. I’m a bad brother, and I knew it, but I couldn’t stop. I’m writing another entry later to get it all down, because I’m hungover, and I need to remember everything, need to confess how far I went.

 

29. 4PM.

 

I’m still hungover, my head’s a mess, and I’m writing again because I need to get last night out, every detail, before it blurs. I’m Ricky, the bad brother, the one who swore to be good but keeps slipping, keeps wanting Hanbin, keeps betraying Hao. These pages are all I have, my confession, my punishment, and I’m hoping they’ll make me stop, but I don’t know if I can. Last night was a mistake, a plan I shouldn’t have made, and now I’m sitting here, my ass heavy on this chair, my heart heavier, trying to piece it together.

Hanbin and I went to the club, my work, around 9 PM. It’s all neon lights, bass thumping, people pressed together, and I felt alive, like I could be someone else, not the bad brother. I wore tight jeans, my ass looking good, a black shirt that showed my arms, and Hanbin—God, he looked perfect. His shirt was fitted, nipples faintly visible, jeans hugging his thighs, his soft visuals glowing under the club lights. He smiled at me, that crinkly-eyed smile, and said, “This place is wild, Ricky.” My chest tightened, and I told myself it was just a night out, nothing more, but I was lying.

We started drinking at the bar, my coworker pouring us shots, free because I’m staff. Soju, whiskey, some fruity thing Hanbin liked, and we kept going, laughing, talking over the music. He leaned close, his breath warm, his lips so close I could’ve kissed him. He asked about my job, said I looked good behind the bar, and I felt it again—that delusion, that he was here for me, that he wanted me. I poured us more shots, my hand brushing his, and he didn’t pull away, just smiled, his eyes soft, maybe drunk, maybe something else. We moved to a booth, sat close, our thighs touching, and I was buzzing, not just from the alcohol, but from him, from the way he looked at me, like I was someone.

The drinks kept coming, and we got sloppy. Hanbin was laughing, his head tipped back, his throat exposed, and I wanted to lick it, to feel his pulse. I said something stupid, like, “You’re too pretty for this place,” and he grinned, said, “You’re not so bad yourself.” My dick twitched, my ass clenched, and I knew I was crossing a line, but the alcohol made it feel okay, made me think he meant it. We danced, sort of, just swaying by the booth, his body close, his hands brushing my hips once, maybe an accident, maybe not. I was drunk, he was drunk, and I kept thinking, This is it, he wants me, he’s here with me, not Hao.

The walk home was a blur, the uphill climb to our apartment slow, Hanbin’s warmth against me, his smell—sweat, whiskey, him—filling my head. We got inside, and I didn’t want it to end. I said, “One more drink,” and poured us soju in the kitchen, my hands shaky, my mind screaming to stop. He sat on the couch, his thighs spread, shirt riding up, nipples hard, and I sat close, too close, my knee against his. We drank, talked about nothing, and I kept looking at his mouth, his tongue, thinking about that night, the cum on my hand, the way he let me.

I thought we’d just crash, both of us too drunk, too tired to do more, but it didn’t end there. Hanbin stood, swaying, his jeans tight, cock outlined, and mumbled, “Gotta shower, I reek of alcohol.” His voice was slurred, his soft eyes half-closed, and he stumbled toward the bathroom. I was drunk, my head spinning, but I couldn’t let him go, not like that. “You good alone?” I asked, following him, my voice thick. He nodded, but I pushed, asked again, “Sure you’re okay? You’re wasted.” He leaned against the wall, his nipples hard under his shirt, and I asked a third time, “Hanbin, you sure?” I was worried, but part of me just wanted to stay close, to keep him with me.

He laughed, a low, drunken sound, and looked at me, his tongue flicking out, wetting his lips. “Fuck, Ricky, you reek too,” he said, his words sloppy. “If you’re so worried, just come with me.” My heart stopped, my dick twitched, and I knew I should’ve said no, should’ve gone to my room, but I was too far gone. I nodded, followed him into the bathroom, my ass heavy in my jeans, my mind screaming that this was wrong, that I’m a bad brother, but my body didn’t care.

We stripped, clumsy, drunk, clothes hitting the floor. Hanbin’s body was perfect—muscular chest, nipples hard, that trail of hair leading to his cock, thick and half-hard, his balls full, hanging heavy. My ass was out, massive, my own dick stirring, but I tried to focus, to keep it practical. We got in the shower, the water hot, steam filling the room, and we were close, too close, our bodies brushing as we moved. I grabbed the soap, my hands shaky, and started washing myself, but my eyes were on him, on his cock, his balls, his mouth, those lips I wanted to taste. He was washing too, his hands slow, and then he looked at me, his eyes dark, maybe drunk, maybe something else.

“Ricky,” he said, his voice low, slurred, “gimme a hand.” My breath caught, my dick hardened, and I thought I misheard, but he nodded at his cock, now fully hard, thick, the head glistening. I didn’t think, just moved, my hand wrapping around him, feeling the heat, the pulse, the way it throbbed. I stroked him, slow at first, my fingers tight, sliding over his length, brushing his balls, heavy and warm. He groaned, his head tipping back, his tongue darting out, and I was lost, my ass clenching, my own dick aching. I kept going, faster, my hand slick with soap, jerking him off, feeling every vein, every twitch, his nipples hard, begging for my mouth, but I didn’t dare.

He came, hard, his cum shooting onto my hand, thick and hot, some hitting my thigh, mixing with the water. I wanted to taste it, to lick it off, but I didn’t, just kept stroking until he was done, his breath shaky, his eyes half-closed. Then he said, “Lemme wash you,” his voice rough, and I nodded, too drunk, too desperate to say no. He took the soap, his hands on my back, my shoulders, then lower, to my ass, his fingers kneading, spreading my cheeks. I felt his cock, hard again, slick with soap, sliding between my ass cheeks, not inside, just grinding, hot and thick, teasing my hole. I moaned, couldn’t help it, my body burning, my dick leaking, and I pushed back, grinding against him, letting the heat take over.

I turned, desperate, grabbed his hands, pulled them to my chest, my nipples, my thighs, making him touch me, feel me. His cock kept sliding, soaped, between my cheeks, his balls brushing my skin, and I was shaking, grinding back, wanting more, wanting him inside, but he didn’t go there. We were drunk, messy, his hands everywhere—my ass, my hips, my dick, stroking me once, twice, until I came, my cum mixing with the water, my moans loud, my guilt louder. We didn’t kiss, didn’t speak, just rinsed off, the water washing away the evidence, but not the sin.

We got out, dried off, and he mumbled, “Gonna crash,” stumbling to Hao’s room, his jeans back on, cock still half-hard. I went to mine, my ass sore, my body buzzing, and jerked off again, thinking about his cock, his hands, the way he slid against me, the way he let me touch him. I remember every detail—the heat of his cock, the weight of his balls, the slick grind, his nipples under my fingers, his tongue when he groaned. I’m a bad brother, worse than ever, and I hate myself, but I didn’t care then, and I’m not sure I do now.

I stood in my room, towel around my waist, my ass tingling, my body still buzzing from the shower, from Hanbin’s cock, his hands, his cum. I wanted to follow him, to crawl into Hao’s bed and beg for more, but I didn’t. I checked on him instead, like nothing happened, like I wasn’t a bad brother who’d just crossed every line. I knocked on Hao’s door, my head still spinning, and he was there, sprawled on the bed, shirtless, jeans unbuttoned, nipples hard, his soft visuals blurred by alcohol. “You good?” I asked, my voice rough, my dick stirring just seeing him. He nodded, slurred, “Yeah, just drunk,” and I left, my heart pounding, my guilt screaming, but my want louder.

I checked again an hour later, after pacing my room, my ass heavy on the mattress, my mind replaying the shower—his cock between my cheeks, his balls brushing me, his hands on my nipples. He was still awake, sitting up, his thighs spread, jeans low, cock outlined. “Still okay?” I asked, leaning against the door, my towel loose, my ass barely covered. He looked at me, his eyes dark, tongue flicking out, and said, “It’s chilly tonight.” His voice was low, slurred, and my stomach flipped, my dick hardening, my mind twisting his words into something they weren’t. I should’ve grabbed a blanket, should’ve walked away, but I didn’t. “Body heat’s the best for that,” I said, my voice shaky, bullshit spilling out. “Keeps you from hypothermia, you know.” It was stupid, not really a lie, but he didn’t laugh, just looked at me, his lips soft, his nipples begging for my mouth.

I moved before I could stop, dropped my towel, climbed onto Hao and Hanbin’s bed, fully naked, my ass massive, my dick half-hard. I lay down, my back to him, my heart racing, my guilt screaming that this was Hao’s bed, Hao’s boyfriend, but I didn’t care, not then. I backed up, slow, deliberate, my ass pressing against his hips, feeling the heat of his body, the bulge of his cock through his jeans. He didn’t pull away, didn’t speak, and I felt him shift, his jeans gone, his cock hard, hot, pressing against my lower back, his balls heavy, brushing my skin. My ass clenched, my dick throbbed, and I was gone, lost in the heat, the sin, the want.

His breath was warm on my neck, then his lips, drunken, sloppy, kissing the curve where my shoulder met my throat, his tongue flicking out, tasting my skin, salty from sweat and shower water. My body shuddered, my nipples hardening, my ass pushing back, needing more. His kisses trailed up, slow, wet, his tongue dragging along my neck, lapping at the pulse point, sucking gently, leaving heat in its wake. He didn’t kiss my lips, stayed on my neck, my jaw, his teeth grazing the bone, his tongue swirling, coating my skin with spit, making me moan, low and desperate, my dick leaking onto the sheets.

I shifted, spreading my thighs, guiding his cock—thick, pulsing, slick with precum—between them, not inside, just nestled tight, the head brushing my balls, his shaft hot against my inner thighs. My ass cheeks clenched around the base, holding him there, and I started grinding, slow, deliberate, my thighs squeezing, my muscles flexing, milking his cock with every move. His balls pressed against my skin, heavy, warm, shifting with each thrust, the hair tickling, the heat making my hole twitch, begging for more. My dick bobbed, untouched, leaking, the tip grazing the sheets, my nipples aching, my body on fire.

His hand found my chest, fingers rough, drunk, circling my nipple, pinching, twisting, sending jolts through me, my moans louder, my thighs tightening around his cock. He kept licking, his tongue broad, sloppy, painting my neck, my jaw, sucking the skin, his teeth nipping, not hard, just enough to make me shake. His cock slid, slick, between my thighs, the head nudging my balls, the shaft dragging, the friction burning, his precum smearing, mixing with my sweat. I grinded harder, my ass bouncing, my thighs gripping, feeling every vein, every pulse, his balls slapping softly, the sound wet, obscene, filling the room.

My body was slick, sweat beading, my ass cheeks flexing, my hole clenching, empty but desperate, as his cock fucked my thighs, slow then fast, his hips thrusting, his breath ragged against my neck. His tongue kept working, lapping my jaw, sucking the skin under my ear, his spit dripping, cooling, making me shiver. His fingers rolled my nipple, tugging, the pain sharp, the pleasure sharper, my dick jerking, cum pooling at the tip, smearing the sheets. I pushed back, my ass grinding, my thighs squeezing, his cock trapped, throbbing, his balls tight, pressing, the heat overwhelming, my moans a mess, my guilt drowned by want.

He shifted, his other hand gripping my hip, fingers digging into my ass, kneading, spreading my cheeks just enough for his cock to slide higher, the head grazing my hole, not entering, just teasing, making me gasp, my body shaking, my dick pulsing. I grinded faster, my thighs slick, his cock gliding, the friction raw, his balls slapping, the rhythm unsteady, drunken, but relentless. His tongue was everywhere—my neck, my jaw, my ear, licking, sucking, his spit coating me, his breath hot, his moans low, vibrating against my skin. My nipple burned under his fingers, pinched, twisted, my chest heaving, my ass clenching, my thighs trembling, his cock fucking them, hard, fast, the head nudging my balls, the shaft pulsing, ready to burst.

I came first, my dick untouched, cum shooting, thick, hot, splattering the sheets, my moans loud, broken, my thighs squeezing, milking his cock. He kept thrusting, his cock slicker, his balls tighter, his tongue lapping my neck, his fingers tugging my nipple, and then he came, his cum flooding between my thighs, hot, sticky, coating my skin, dripping onto the sheets, mixing with mine. His cock pulsed, spurt after spurt, his balls emptying, his hips jerking, his breath ragged, his tongue still on my jaw, licking, sucking, as we both shuddered, spent, but still grinding, slow, messy, the cum slick, the heat lingering.

We didn’t stop, not really. His cock stayed between my thighs, half-hard, slick with cum, and I kept moving, gentle, my ass pressing back, my thighs flexing, feeling him, wanting more. His hand stayed on my nipple, softer now, circling, his tongue lazy, lapping my neck, his spit cooling, his breath steadying. We were drunk, exhausted, but the heat didn’t fade, the want didn’t stop, and I knew, lying there, naked on Hao’s bed, Hanbin’s cum on my thighs, that I’d gone too far, that I was a bad brother, worse than ever.

 

It’s evening now, and Hanbin’s awake, in the living room, acting like nothing happened. We haven’t talked about it, but he’s here, his shirt loose, thighs spread, and I’m still hungover, still wanting. Hao’s gone, Jeonghyeon’s studying, and this apartment’s a trap, holding us together. I don’t know what tonight will bring, but I’m scared, because I’m already planning, already wanting more, and I’m not strong enough to stop. I’m a bad brother, and these pages are just proof of how far I’ve fallen.

 

30.

 

I’m writing this in the dark, my hands shaking, my mouth still tasting of him, my heart heavy with what I’ve done. I’m Ricky, the bad brother, the one who keeps breaking every promise, who can’t stop wanting Hanbin, who’s betraying Hao with every breath. These pages are supposed to clean the sin from my soul, but they’re just a record of how far I’ve fallen, how I’m drowning in this apartment, in Hanbin, in my own fucked-up head. Last night didn’t stop with the shower, with his cock between my thighs, his cum on my skin. It kept going, and tonight, it went further, deeper, and I’m a monster, worse than ever, writing it all down because I need to remember, need to confess, even if it doesn’t fix me.

We didn’t talk about last night, not a word about the shower, the bed, his hands on me, his cock fucking my thighs. Hanbin acted normal, like it never happened, and I followed his lead, checking on him through the day, asking if he needed water, if he was still hungover, like I wasn’t burning inside, like my ass wasn’t tingling from his touch. He was in the living room, sprawled on the couch, his shirt loose, thighs spread, nipples faintly visible, his soft visuals calm, like he hadn’t fucked my thighs hours ago. I kept my distance, tried to be good, but my mind was screaming, replaying his cock, his balls, his tongue on my neck, and I knew I was losing, knew I couldn’t keep my promise to Hao.

Dinner was takeout, hangover soup, spicy and steaming, ordered because we were both too wrecked to cook. We ate at the kitchen table, the apartment quiet, the street lights dim through the windows. Hanbin’s boxer briefs were tight, his cock outlined, his lips soft as he sipped the broth, his tongue flicking out, and I had to look away, my dick stirring, my ass clenching. We talked about nothing—work, the soup, how we drank too much—but it felt like a lie, like we were dancing around what happened, what we both knew. My guilt was heavy, knowing Hao was gone, trusting us, his slim frame probably hunched over seminar notes, while I was here, wanting his boyfriend, failing him again.

After dinner, Hanbin suggested a horror movie, his voice casual, his eyes meeting mine, crinkling just enough to make my stomach flip. “Something scary, you in?” he said, and I nodded, my head still fuzzy, my body already buzzing. It felt like months ago, that night on the couch, when I touched him, when his cum soaked his boxers, and I knew, sitting there, that this was dangerous, that I should’ve said no, gone to my room, called Jeonghyeon, anything. But I didn’t. I followed him to the living room, my ass heavy in my shorts, my heart racing, my mind twisting his suggestion into something it wasn’t, telling me he wanted this, wanted me. Bad brother. Bad brother.

We sat on the couch, close, like before, a blanket thrown over us, the TV flickering with some cheap jump-scare flick. Hanbin’s legs were open, his thighs strong, his boxer briefs barely covering him, the fabric thin, clinging to his cock, the head already peeking out the leg hole, rock hard, throbbing, a dark silhouette in the dim light. His arm went around my waist, casual, his fingers grazing my bare skin where my shirt rode up, drawing slow, maddening circles, each touch sending sparks through me, my dick hardening, my nipples tightening, my ass aching. I leaned into him, my shoulder against his chest, his nipples hard through his shirt, brushing my arm, and it was like that night, the same positions, the same heat, but worse, because I knew what we’d done, what we could do.

We kept up a fake conversation, our voices low, pretending the movie mattered. “This part’s creepy,” I said, my eyes on the screen, but my mind on his cock, on the way his fingers moved, teasing my skin. “Yeah, that ghost’s intense,” he said, his voice steady, his hand still circling, dipping lower, brushing the edge of my shorts. A jump scare hit, and I flinched, playing it up, my hand landing on his thigh, inches from his cock, feeling the heat, the pulse. “You scared?” he said, his tone light, but his fingers pressed harder, his cock twitching, the head fully out now, glistening, thick, the vein pulsing, the shaft curved, heavy, begging for me. “Kinda,” I lied, my voice shaky, my ass clenching, my dick leaking. “Take cover if it’s too much,” he said, and it was all I needed, his words a key, unlocking every sin I’d tried to bury.

I moved, slow, deliberate, sliding down, my face level with his lap, the blanket half-off, the TV’s flicker lighting his cock, a fucking masterpiece—thick, seven inches, the head swollen, purple, slick with precum, the shaft veined, pulsing, the leg hole of his boxer briefs stretched, his balls barely contained, heavy, hairy, spilling out, musky, perfect. My breath caught, my mouth watering, my guilt screaming, but I didn’t care, not then. I reached out, my fingers trembling, and pulled his cock free, the fabric ripping slightly, his balls tumbling out, full, warm, the skin tight. I leaned in, my tongue flicking out, tasting the precum, salty, bitter, coating my lips, making me moan, low, desperate, my dick throbbing, my ass twitching.

I licked him, slow, my tongue flat, dragging from the base, where his balls met his shaft, up the length, tracing every vein, circling the head, dipping into the slit, his precum smearing, dripping onto my chin. His cock pulsed, hard as steel, the head flaring, his balls shifting, tightening, as I licked, my tongue swirling, lapping the underside, teasing the frenulum, my spit mixing with his precum, slick, messy, dripping onto the couch. I took the head in my mouth, my lips stretching, my tongue curling, sucking gently, then harder, my cheeks hollowing, my moans muffled, vibrating against him. His hand tightened on my waist, fingers digging, circling faster, his thighs trembling, his cock throbbing, leaking, filling my mouth with precum, salty, thick, making me greedy.

I went deeper, my throat relaxing, his cock sliding, the head hitting the back, making me gag, my spit drooling, coating his shaft, his balls, the couch. I bobbed, slow then fast, my lips tight, my tongue swirling, sucking, my hand gripping the base, stroking, twisting, my other hand cupping his balls, rolling them, feeling their weight, their heat, the hair tickling my palm. His cock was slick, my spit everywhere, dripping, the taste of him—musk, salt, him—overwhelming, my dick leaking, my ass clenching, my nipples hard, brushing the blanket, sending jolts through me.

Hao’s boyfriend Hanbin’s hips moved, subtle at first, then harder, fucking my mouth, his cock sliding, the head hitting my throat, my gags loud, wet, my spit pooling, dripping onto his balls, his thighs. I let him, opened wider, my throat burning, my lips bruised, my hand stroking, faster, my fingers squeezing his balls, tugging, making him groan, low, primal, his fingers on my waist gripping, bruising, his circles frantic, teasing my skin, driving me insane. I sucked harder, my tongue flat, dragging, my lips tight, my throat milking, his cock pulsing, swelling, ready to burst, his balls tight, heavy, slamming against my chin with each thrust.

The movie kept playing, screams and music a distant hum, our fake conversation gone, just the sound of my sucking, my gags, his groans, the wet slap of his balls, the squelch of my spit. I was lost, my ass raised, my dick grinding against the couch, my nipples aching, my mouth full, his cock fucking, relentless, his precum flooding, salty, thick, coating my tongue, my throat, making me choke, making me want more. His hand left my waist, gripped my hair, guiding me, pushing me deeper, his cock hitting my throat, my gags desperate, my spit dripping, my eyes watering, my dick pulsing, close, too close.

He came, hard, his cock jerking, his cum flooding my mouth, hot, thick, bitter, spilling over my tongue, down my throat, too much, choking me, dripping from my lips, onto his balls, the couch. I swallowed, greedy, my throat working, sucking, drinking him down, his cum coating me, filling me, his cock pulsing, spurt after spurt, his balls emptying out, his hips bucking, his groans loud, raw, his hand tight in my hair, holding me there, fucking my mouth until he was done, spent, trembling. I pulled off, slow, my lips swollen, my tongue licking the last drops, his cum on my chin, my chest heaving, my dick throbbing, my ass aching, my guilt crashing back, heavier than ever.

I sat up, the blanket falling, my dick hard, wet, my mouth raw, his taste still there, sharp, lingering. He looked at me, his eyes dark, soft, his lips parted, tongue out, his cock softening, slick with my spit, his balls glistening, his hand back on my thigh, calm, like it was nothing. The movie ended, the credits rolling, and I nodded, said, “Goodnight,” my voice hoarse, my throat sore, my chest tight. He nodded back, said, “Night,” and we got up, him to Hao’s room, me to mine, like nothing happened, like I didn’t just suck my brother’s boyfriend off, like I’m not a bad brother, drowning in sin.

I’m lying here now, my ass heavy, my dick still hard, his cum in my stomach, his taste in my mouth, and I hate myself, but I don’t, not really. Hao’s gone, My boyfriend’s Jeonghyeon’s studying, and Hanbin’s here, and I’m planning, wanting, knowing I’ll do it again. These pages aren’t saving me, they’re just proof of what I am, what I’ve done, and I’m scared, because I’m not stopping, not with him so close. I’m a bad brother, and I’m falling, deeper every day.

Notes:

I had the muse to continue, but I'm not even sure what comes after next, please give me thoughts, dm me on Twitter!

Notes:

This is a drabble that got cut short as I am not sure if I want to proceed with it as a full-length thing, but the prompt was floated to my brain by my oomf felis, although it didn't exactly match what they probably had in mind, I went with a prompt they shared with me in detail because I was curious about a tweet they made.