What a brat

The week had been obnoxious — long hours, small frustrations stacking on top of each other like a bad hand in a card game nobody asked to play. But you'd kept yourself going with the promise of the evening ahead: your bag of Hawaiian BBQ, a new anime queued up, and Dayeon. In that order, maybe. Or maybe not.

You'd figured she'd come over later. After you ate, after you decompressed, after you had maybe an episode or two to remind yourself what quiet felt like. Since your roommate — her older brother — was out of town for a few days, there was no need to hide anything. No careful distances to keep, no casual tone to perform. It was almost novel, being able to just want something without engineering the room around it.

You unlocked the door, stepped inside, and stopped.

Dayeon was already on your couch. She had her legs tucked under her, phone in hand, completely at home in your space the way she always was — like gravity bent a little differently around her and she'd simply followed it here. She looked up the moment you crossed the threshold, and the smile that spread across her face was slow and entirely too

pleased with itself.

"Hey, Old Dragon," she purred, watching you drag your feet through the entryway with the energy of a man who had personally fought the entire week to a draw.

You groaned. It was a full-body groan, the kind that came from somewhere deep and tired. Then you exhaled, let it go, and moved to the kitchen counter to set down the bag.

Old Dragon. You'd stopped fighting the nickname about two weeks ago.

"When did you get here?" you asked, not looking up as you started unpacking.

"A while ago. Your spare key still works."

"I asked when, not how. That's not an answer."

"It's a better answer than you're going to get."

You felt her watching you as you settled onto one of the barstools at the island, pulling out the containers. The smell filled the kitchen immediately — sweet, smoky, warm — and you heard the cushions shift behind you.

"Oh." Her voice changed register. "What's that?"

You glanced back. She had unfolded herself from the couch entirely, crossing the room like she'd been called by something primal. Her eyes were fixed on the bag with an expression you recognized from the early weeks of your relationship, before you'd learned to account for it.

"Hawaiian BBQ," you said.

She slid onto the stool next to you, close enough that her shoulder pressed against your arm. "It smells incredible. Can I try some?"

You nodded, already opening the container.

You should have seen what came next. In fairness, some part of you did. But you were tired, and she moved fast when food was involved.

Without any ceremony — without even asking for a fork — Dayeon plucked the chopsticks directly from your hand and helped herself. Rice first. Then a piece of chicken, pulled apart neatly. A forkful of macaroni salad. A pinch of cabbage. Methodical. Efficient. Completely unbothered by the fact that the chopsticks had been in your hand.

Her eyes went wide.

"Oh my god," she said, with a reverence usually reserved for things that mattered. "This is amazing."

Something in your chest loosened, despite yourself. "I know, right?"

She nodded vigorously, already going back for more. One bite. Two. Three. You watched the portion size dwindle with the quiet resignation of someone who had technically agreed to this.

"Hey—" you started.

She just smiled. Not at you, exactly — more like at the chicken. She set the chopsticks down only long enough to lean over and start going through the bag herself, with the focused curiosity of someone conducting a professional inventory.

You watched her pull aside the napkins. The extra sauce packets. The receipt you hadn't looked at yet.

Then she found the musubi.

Four of them, neatly wrapped. She held one up and looked at you.

"These too?"

"Two of those were mine," you said, reaching for them.

She was faster. She picked up all four, one at a time, and without breaking eye contact — deliberately, with intent — ran her tongue along the top of each wrapper.

The silence stretched.

"Dayeon."

"Mm?"

"All four."

"They're all mine now," she said simply, and set them back down in a neat row on the counter like they were evidence. "That's how it works."

You looked at her. She looked back at you, completely serene, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth — the one she wore when she already knew she'd won.

You stare at her, and she smirks before taking a bite out of one of the musubi. You don’t know what took over, but you grabbed your girlfriend, lifted her onto the island (away from the food), and yanked her skirt down. As per usual, when it was just the two of you, she didn’t wear panties or bras.

You undid your pants, and your cock sprang to life. Dayeon smiled and said, "All this just for me?"

You nod before aligning and then sliding inside of her. Dayeon groans in pleasure.

"Fuck Dragon, you feel so good inside me," she says, as you bottom out. You groan as she takes more of you.

You slowly pull out, and Dayeon whines, "Put it back in"

So you slowly begin to fuck her. She's so unbelievably wet and tight in her sex wraps around you. sucking you in deeper inside her.

"fuck..." you groan as her walls constrict and relax around you, causing friction and an almost unsettling amount of pleasure. She moans then says, 'fuck" as she convulses around you, her walls creating this unexpected tightness.

"Dragon I...uh... UH...I'm Fucking coming," Dayeon said as her slick gushed around you and pooled beneath the two of you on the floor. You kept thrusting, pushing her deeper into pleasure.

"Fuck Dragon... Fuck me...Cum in me!" Dayeon screamed before you fell over the edge. You painted her walls white with your seed as she greedily accepted you inside of her. When you finished both of your runs, you were breathing raggedly. You took a moment, then said,

"Okay, I am going to finish my dinner, and then we are going to chill."

Dayeon smiled and took one of the musubis and bit into it.

In an act of defiance, you bit the other half while it was sticking out of her mouth.

"Gross," Dayeon winced after finishing the snack. You glared at her and said, "We already swapped spit, so this is fine."

"Okay," Dayeon said, rolling her eyes.

You finish eating and then hop onto your couch after cleaning up Dayeon's little mess on the floor. You put on My Adventures with Superman, and Dayeon cuddles next to you.

The opening credits for My Adventures with Superman had barely finished before Dayeon had fully committed to the couch — legs draped over your lap, head propped against the armrest, a throw blanket pulled up to her chin despite the fact that it was not cold. She'd claimed the blanket the same way she'd claimed the musubi. Without negotiation.

"I've heard good things about this one," she said.

"It's solid. Clark's written really well."

"Is Lois good?"

"You'll like Lois."

She made a small sound of anticipation and settled deeper into the cushions. You had one hand resting on her ankle, the remote on the armrest beside you, and for the first time all week your shoulders actually dropped away from your ears. The apartment was dim, the food was gone, and the world outside could handle itself for a few hours.

Two episodes in, Dayeon shifted.

"Pause it," she said, already untangling herself from the blanket.

"Bathroom?"

"Bathroom." She pointed at you as she stood. "Do not watch ahead."

"I wasn't going to—"

"Do not watch ahead."

"I literally just said—"

She disappeared down the hall. You heard the door click shut.

You leaned back, exhaled, and reached for your phone. Maybe you'd check the episode count. See how many seasons there were. You were already thinking about how to pace the watch schedule, whether you could get through the first season before—

The front door opened.

You turned your head.

Your roommate stepped through the doorway, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, looking tired and vaguely relieved in the way people looked when they came home earlier than expected. He kicked off his shoes, tossed his keys on the entry table, and then looked up and saw you on the couch.

His face broke into a grin.

"Yo." He dropped the bag by the door. "You're actually home."

"Hey," you said. Your voice came out normal. Completely normal.

"Thought you weren't back until Thursday."

"Change of plans." He rolled his neck, crossed the room, and dropped onto the far end of the couch — the end that, sixty seconds ago, had been occupied by his younger sister's legs. "Trip wrapped early. I was gonna text but figured I'd just come back." He glanced at the TV, at the paused frame of Clark mid-flight. "What're you watching?"

"My Adventures with Superman."

"Oh, I've heard that's good. Any good?"

"Yeah, it's—" You cleared your throat. "It's solid."

He nodded, slouching into the cushions. He looked comfortable. He looked like he was staying. And somewhere down the hall, on the other side of a door that was going to open again in approximately two to three minutes, was his younger sister.

You were fine. This was fine.

"I feel like I haven't actually talked to you in a minute," he said, and there was something under the casual tone that made you actually look at him. He was rubbing the back of his neck, eyes on the TV, and he had that expression — the one he got when he was circling something he actually wanted to say. "Like we've both just been busy, but. I don't know, man. You good?"

"Yeah," you said. "I'm good. You good?"

"I'm good, I just—" He exhaled. "I feel like we've been ships passing lately, you know? We live together and I feel like I haven't actually seen you." He glanced over. "I miss just hanging out. No agenda. Like this." He gestured at the TV.

And there it was. You'd noticed it too, if you were being honest with yourself — the way things had quietly shifted over the past few months, the conversations that had gotten shorter, the plans that kept not quite coming together. Part of it was schedule. Part of it was — well. Part of it was that you'd been spending a lot of your free time with someone you hadn't told him about yet.

"Yeah," you said, and meant it. "Me too."

"We should do a proper hang soon. Get the guys together or just — even just us, order food, run some games. Like old times."

"Absolutely." You nodded. You were nodding maybe slightly too much.

"Yeah, let's do that."

Down the hall, you heard the faucet turn off.

Your entire nervous system lit up.

"I think there's something off with the bathroom sink," you said, at a volume that you immediately recognized as too loud. You modulated.

"The faucet. I've been meaning to tell the landlord."

He frowned. "I didn't notice anything."

"Just — a thing. I noticed it recently."

He looked at you like you were slightly strange, which was fair, and turned back to the TV. "I can take a look tomorrow."

"No, it's — it's fine. Probably fine." You put your phone face-down on your knee. Picked it up. Put it down again.

The bathroom door opened.

You heard her footsteps in the hall — unhurried, completely unbothered, the footsteps of someone who believed she was walking back into an empty living room occupied only by her boyfriend and a paused episode of Superman.

She came around the corner.

She stopped.

The moment lasted about half a second and covered approximately a thousand years.

Dayeon stood in the hallway entrance in her socks and your oversized hoodie, blanket rights long since forfeited, looking at the back of her brother's head with an expression that moved through surprise, then calculation, then a very rapid, very deliberate neutrality.

Her brother turned around.

The silence was the loudest thing in the apartment.

"...Dayeon?" He blinked. Then looked at you. Then looked back at her. "What are you doing here?"

"I—" She pulled at the hem of the hoodie. Your hoodie. "I came by to borrow something."

"At ten at night."

"I needed it tonight."

He stared at her. "You're wearing his hoodie."

"I was cold."

"You texted me that you were staying in this weekend."

"I stayed in. Here. This counts."

You watched this exchange with the composure of someone defusing something they hadn't been trained to defuse. Your mouth was closed. This felt correct. Nothing you added to this conversation right now was going to help.

Her brother looked at you again, slower this time. His eyes moved to the couch — to the blanket piled on one end, the two empty containers on the coffee table, the very domestic, very settled look of a living room where two people had been comfortable for several hours.

Something shifted in his face.

It wasn't anger, exactly. It was the specific expression of a person doing arithmetic they hadn't expected to be doing.

"Dragon," he said.

"Hey," you said.

"Is there something you want to tell me?"

The apartment was very quiet. On the TV, Clark Kent hung suspended in mid-air, waiting.

You glanced at Dayeon. She gave you nothing — just watched you with her arms crossed, the faintest arch in one brow, the universal expression of this is your moment, handle it.

You looked back at her brother.

"So," you said. "You know how you just said you wanted to actually talk more."

He stared at you.

"This is us talking more."