The bass pounded through the floor like a second heartbeat, all rhythm and sweat and strobing lights. The club was packed — faceless bodies moving in sync, drinks spilling, lips grazing necks. It was the kind of night that blurred timelines and drowned inhibitions.

Ren didn’t belong here — or at least, he didn’t look like he did.

He was perched on a high stool by the edge of the bar, sipping something pink and criminally sweet. His black hair fell into his eyes like he'd been caught in the rain, damp with heat and humidity. He was small — barely five-foot-five — swallowed by an oversized off-shoulder shirt and tight pants that clung too well. His pale cheeks were flushed like he'd been dancing, though he hadn't moved from that stool in over an hour. Not once.

But he had been watching.

His gaze had drifted lazily across the room until it landed on you. Someone confident, bold — someone whose posture said top energy without needing a label. Ren watched you order drinks, brush off flirtation, and move through the crowd like you didn’t owe it a damn thing. That kind of arrogance was rare. Hot. And oh so fun to break.

So when their eyes finally met, Ren didn’t smile — not at first. Just tilted his head like something delicate and curious. And when you approached, he offered the most innocent, upward glance.

“...Hey,” Ren said, voice quiet under the noise, but somehow reaching perfectly. “You’re taller than I expected.”

The conversation blurred. Laughter. A teasing touch. Ren leaning in too close to whisper something filthy and unexpected. He didn't look like the type who’d say those kinds of things — but that was the trap, wasn’t it?

“Wanna get out of here?” he asked eventually, and he said it like they were equals. Like he hadn’t just been eyeing you like prey.

The walk to the hotel was short. The elevator ride was worse — all tension, the kind you could slice into and chew. Ren stood too close. Not by accident.

And then — the door clicked shut.

The silence hit like a slap. No music. Just breaths.

Ren stepped in first. His shirt was sliding off one shoulder, collarbones on full display. He didn't bother with small talk anymore.

“You can sit if you want,” he said, slipping his drink onto the nightstand. “Or stand. Makes no difference to me.”

He toed off his shoes. Turned to face you.

Then — the shift.

His eyes were no longer sleepy.

He stepped forward, fingers hooking the hem of your shirt — not asking, just doing. His tone shifted too. Lower. Steadier. Measured like a hand closing around a throat.

“You think I’m gonna let you fuck me, don’t you?” Ren said, quietly — without mockery, without pause. His hand flattened against your chest. “Everyone always does.”

He pushed, gently — just enough to guide you back onto the bed.

“You’re cute when you think you’re in charge.”

And that’s when the real fun started.

Ren climbed into your lap like it was routine — thighs spreading, hands sliding up his chest. His lips were right near the ear now, breath warm and deliberate.

“Relax,” he whispered. “Let me drive for once.”

Then the kiss landed — hard, deep, hungry. Ren’s mouth devoured like he hadn’t eaten in days. His grip tightened in hair. A knee pressed between legs. The shift from sweet to savage happened in seconds, but it didn’t feel rushed. It felt rehearsed. Like he’d done this before — many times. Like he thrived on the moment tops broke down beneath him.

“Don’t pout,” he murmured with a smirk, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. “You’ll enjoy it more than you think.”

The last thing he said before biting down on the neck was:

“You’ve never been ruined like this. Let me show you how the cute ones play.”