stella | 24 | mdni
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stella | 24 | mdni
navigation!
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you belong to me {psh}
summary: you were stuck in a never ending loop of returning to him.
wc: 1.1k
tags: exes to fwb?, toxic relationship, smut mdni: unprotected sex, manhandling, messy
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ✮ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
How sweet you've tasted on his tongue, not even the liquor that was sliding down his throat could replace the aroma, the scent of your skin that has made him dizzy each time, the desire that pooled at the depth of his stomach, the undying need to consume, to fill.
Nothing in this world could make him forget the sensation of being with you and now when his hands are around another girl's waist, her body leaning into his, craving more of his touch, his eyes, those treacherous eyes were on you.
You in the corner, seeing right through him, some kind of dark veil covered your eyes, the mystery of it drawing him in, as always. Were you jealous, was he doing this right?
Ever since you've broken up, this has been going on, him practically begging for you attention, you losing it and stumbling with him into the empty room, at this point you've said you will stop attending parties altogether, because every time it ended with him leaving his mark on you, deep inside of you.
Sunghoon. The name you've cursed many times, damned the day you met him, but also called it a blessing, because nothing brought you a high like him, no other drug could compare to the heat of his touch, to the sheer strength of him slamming you down into the bed. It was pure lust, you knew, love was buried somewhere deep, between the soiled sheets and empty bottles, only after you've drank to the last drop did the affection wait for you and it was all a blur after it, not knowing if the warmth that crawled it's way into his gaze was a mirage or not.
All reason aside, you've found yourself in the same position, your back to the bed, your front pressed against him, in some dimly lit room, on someone else's bed, as he left feverish kisses down the line of your throat. He was letting out grunts of his own, satisfied with having you where he wanted, he nipped at the skin there with his fangs, the same ones that would generously peek out when he was smiling at you. Nothing mattered when the heat of his body enveloped yours, his knee pressing in between your legs, while his hands gripped possessively on your waist.
His attention drifted to your chest that was peeking out of your tank top, while his fingers curved under the hem of the shirt and started to pull it up. You let him, you always did, arching your back further when he licked one of your nipples. Something about Sunghoon, something you couldn't name made you fall into submission much deeper than with any other man, maybe it was his godlike strength with which he handled you while still maintaining a dose of gentleness, or it was those eyes, those pits of black that were currently staring at you, somewhere in between you being stuck in your thoughts he stopped. He took notice of your absentmindedness, saying, "Focus."
Focus on him, that's what he meant, usually you would've listened but this time something awakened in you, something wicked.
"Why should I? You're going to leave anyways.", you uttered, still a little breathless from the foreplay.
Sunghoon drew his eyebrows together, a dark look overtaking his features, he seemed speechless for a moment then he drawled,"I won't, don't ruin the mood now.", his fingers once again splaying over your ribs. The promise in his words swayed you, even though you knew better in the back of your mind, your head relaxing against the pillow.
The relief was short lived, suddenly he turned you around so your head was buried in the sheets, hand caressing the trail of your spine, coming to grip at your ass over your jeans, then he reached to your front easily unbuttoning them and sliding them off. You were like a doll to him, he was playing with you how he wanted, completely at his mercy, you couldn't see him, only hearing the sound of the zipper being undone. Anticipation rose high in your blood, making your heart beat aggressively, your fingers gripped at the sheets, the hold turning clammy.
Without any preparation he entered you, luckily you were you were already soaked, he must have been mad at you for saying that earlier, some kind of cruelty has possessed him, his movements punishing.You had to adjust while bearing the strength of his thrusts, but somehow the pleasure it has caused you was immense, you were no stranger to this happening with him, his temper sometimes taking a hold. This time it was even more intense, he leveraged against the bed post, angling his hips in the way that would make your breath stop. He knew your body better than anyone else, you couldn't contain the sounds coming out of your mouth, them getting muffled by the fabric, you bit down on the pillow out of pure ecstasy.
He wasn't making love, he never did, even when he pretended to, but now he was absolutely ruining, he was taking your sanity with him, reducing you to a mess of sensations and whimpers.
You were approaching your high, almost thrashing against him, you would've slid of the bed if it wasn't for his arms holding you, he noticed the way you are squeezing around him and chose to remind you, slowing down his movements, "Tell me.", he whispered, his voice hoarse, you were so confused, your orgasm took from you, "Who do you belong to?". He was still deep in you, stretching you out, your wetness pooling in between your legs, and on the brink of release, you cried out his name desperately.
Satisfied he resumed his pace, letting you have your moment of divinity, granting it to you, in return he left a claim on you, staining the skin of your back. Then he got up, not bothering to clean up the mess the made and went looking for his things, you raised your head from the pillow, his silhouette barely visible from how little light came into the room, only his eyes twinkled with pride.
"See you around.", he said, opening the door and leaving.
His previous words resonated in your head once again, reminding you of what you were at the end of it all, a fool, but you were so addicted to the role of it, already imagining the next encounter.
hello??? omggg stella you have NOOOOO idea how good it is to see you again 😭🙏🏾💗 hope you’ve been well, angel! thinking of u always hehe <3
hello! i can't believe you actually recognized me, like my heart is beating so fast rn!! thank you for reaching out! i love you <3
i’m collapsing in front of you tearfully hi baby
hello! i will catch you and hug you and never let go!
I miss you sm i yearn for u
hi! i miss you too!!! so much i can't even type it into words, it surpasses all understanding!
i hope you are doing well! and i wish we get to talk more in the future!
masterlist
a- angst, s-smut, f-fluff
the fall {psh} a,s
eclipse of the mind {sjy} a
instinct of a sinner {pjs} a,s
‘𝑻𝒊𝒍 𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝑫𝒐 𝑼𝒔 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 ⟡ 𝓅.𝓈𝒽 ℰ 𝓈.𝒿𝓎
pairing ⟡ vampire!sunghoon x f!reader & husband!jake x f!reader
summary ⟡ Despite the night terrors that have haunted you for years, you’ve achieved everything a God-honouring woman should want: a husband who loves you dearly, a white picket fence, and the certainty of a perfect future together in your new quiet little town. However, a certain pale-faced neighbour reminds you a little too much of the eerie presence that plagues your restless nights.
18+ mdni ⚠︎ smut with plot, gothic horror/thriller, angst, hurt/comfort, small town au, established relationship (jake), vampire/human relationship (sunghoon), implied major character death, religious imagery & trauma, bible quotes, traditional gender roles & marriage, purity culture critique, loss of faith, slightly patronizing partner dynamic, night terrors, ambiguous ending, sexually repressed reader, infidelity, soul bonds, mildly obsessive love, dubcon: sexual coercion (via soul-contract), biting, blood drinking, physical restraint, vampire venom as aphrodisiac, animal death mentioned, predator/prey dynamic, multiple smut scenes, p in v sex, unprotected sex, handjobs, fingering, loss of virginity, slight somnophilia, dacryphilia, choking, rough sex, praise kink, mild degradation kink FEAT. niki as a vampire lore-obsessed teen
wc ⟡ 31.6k
inspo & creds ⟡ thank you so much to my lovely mutual @seongjesdoll who inspired me with their fic right here please go read it! this fic is also heavily inspired by Nosferatu.
a/n ⟡ this is very different from what I usually write but I adored experimenting with horror/thriller as a genre! this idea hit me like a truck months ago. this has been in the works for a while so I’m soso glad to finally share
please note ⟡ if you are uncomfortable with heavy subject matter such as dubcon, horror, death, themes of religion and purity culture… do not read this!
"...in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, do you promise to be faithful? To love him and to honour him all the days of your life?" "I do."
You'd waited for it since you were a young girl. To walk down the aisle, daylight seeping through stained-glass, in a dress of pure white. You'd imagined your hand in his, fingers intertwined, warmly encompassed in safety and certainty—your shared kiss in the chapel, a declaration of your promise not only to him, but to God. A husband, a family, love. The life every good girl prayed for. You prayed for it too, with your hands folded, head bowed, voice steady. But what you imagined most, in the silence after the amen, was the thing no prayer could sanctify. "...But each person is tempted when they are dragged away by their own evil desire and enticed. Then, after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death."
Your Sunday school teacher had read the verse aloud with the patient severity of someone delivering a warning she hoped you'd never need. She'd looked at you, it seemed, and said that desire was a seed planted in the heart, that what began as a thought could grow into something monstrous, that a woman who let lust take root would one day reap a harvest of ruin. You'd nodded, hands neatly folded on the desk, terrified by the image of something dark and living growing inside you. You'd tried not to think about the heat already stirring in places you had no name for, the tiny seed you could already feel pressing against the soil of your heart, waiting to split open.
The truth was that while other girls spoke of their desires for true love, for the miracle of childbirth, and motherhood, you desired something too shameful to say aloud. Your mind always drifted to the impure. Instead of exchanging vows, you dreamed of how your future husband would lay you down the night after your wedding. You'd thought of how his hands would feel pressed against your bare skin, always hidden under long skirts and sleeves—his lips, worshiping you in places no good girl should dream of. How he'd relieve that ever present ache between your legs that never seemed to dissipate and claim your innocence. You'd thought of it so much, it began to rot you from the inside.
Many times, you'd held back tears during Sunday service, ashamed of the filth that plagued your mind in the holy place of worship of all places. The hymns would rise around you—Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus Dominus Deus Sabaoth—and you'd mouth the words while your thoughts drifted to the heat of an imagined touch, the weight of a body you'd never felt. You'd clench your thighs beneath your Sunday dress and beg God, silently, desperately, to scrub your mind clean.
In your sleepless nights, to avoid temptation, you'd rise from the bed, hands clasped together in prayer before your bedroom window. You'd leave it wide open, in hopes that the frigid wind would cool down the heat inside you. And though you trembled in your nightgown, goosebumps on every surface of your skin, it could never quite quell the fire that never burned out.
At first, you prayed for it to stop. You prayed for purity. Then, you prayed for numbness, believing you'd rather feel nothing at all. Alas, God granted neither, and you began to question which of the two dawning terrors was more catastrophic: the possibility that He wasn't listening at all, or the possibility that He simply did not care.
You knelt until your knees were bruised, you whispered prayers until they turned into sobbing pleas for mercy. There was only so much you could take until you began to lose faith—not just in God, but in yourself.
It was only then, in a moment of desperation, of utter helplessness, that you pleaded for something else:
"I beg of you," you whispered into the night, and whether it reached God, or for something else entirely, you did not care anymore. "If you cannot make this feeling stop, then I beg for relief." Through the white curtains, you felt a presence. There was no face, no silhouette, no sound other than the howling wind. Yet, you looked up, as if to meet someone's gaze. As if something stood there, watching you. A chill ran down your spine, and not as a result of the winter air seeping into your bones. You don't remember a voice. You do, however, remember a silent promise: relief, in exchange for you, eternally. Eternity. You knew what it meant. Heaven. Hell. The soul's unending life before God or in exile from Him. You were old enough to know better. Desperate enough not to care.
Every night, then after, he came to you in dreams. You envisioned bits and pieces: a tall silhouette, cold fingertips, an ever-present stare. You saw visions of your own blood dripping down your neck, staining your night clothes. You felt his sharp teeth pierce your flesh as he ravaged you, corrupted you, made a sin of your body and had you begging for more every single time.
Your eyes rolled back in ecstasy, your fingers curled around your bedsheets, and when it finished, you awoke in a cold sweat. You, alone. Your window, closed. And your body, still untouched, still sacred despite the obscene wetness between your thighs, and the way your body trembled from the aftermath of your high.
Relieved, you were, to no longer repress your lustful urges. Horrified, you were, to realize you'd given into your darkest desires, pleasure coaxed out of you by the hands of something sinister.
"Look at you. My beautiful wife." Jake hovers atop you, the cross at his neck hovering just above your face. Everything was as god intended. Two untouched children of the lord, about to make love on their marital bed, in a home they should hope to raise a family in. For the first time in many nights, the moonlight didn't feel so unholy. "My beautiful husband," you mirror his adoration, heart beating so fast you fear it might leap out of your chest. "I love you." His fingers lace with yours, his palms clammy and shaking. He's nervous, as are you. He'd told you as much before you even reached the bed. "I love you, too," he whispers.
He leans down to kiss you, different from the kiss you shared in the chapel. No longer did you have to settle for quick, chaste pecks. You feel his tongue, his desperation, years of pent-up desire reaching its limit.
Hand still interlocked with yours, he enters you slow and restrained, a gasp leaving his lips, as it does yours.
Everything is as it should be. As God said it should be. You should be overcome with joy. The world should still around you, heaven should open, and some sacred part of you should be remade forever.
It doesn't. The reality is much quieter. A body receiving another body, and nothing more.
Instead, you feel discomfort—sharp and immediate. And it’s not just the physical kind that mothers warn their daughters about before their wedding nights. Your skin crawls, your stomach tightens, and suddenly the world is collapsing. Everything aches. Your head, your heart, the space between your thighs where your body refuses to yield, refuses to feel, refuses to let you forget even for a moment that you belong to something else.
You can't help but think that your husband, basking in his euphoric glow, deserves someone untainted.
Tears stream down your cheeks before you can choke them back, and at the immediate sight of it, he pulls out of you. Cradling you in his arms, he soothes you, gently asks if he’s hurt you. If there’s anything he can do. You shake your head, your sobs turning to whispered apologies.
He holds you close all night, and you cling to him like you're trying to crawl under his skin, hoping Jake will shield you from the inevitable terrors of the night. Because you know, deep down, even after all of this, you'll still feel its presence in your dreams. Its cold, harsh grasp, its teeth, its predatory gaze.
But tonight, the boundary between dream and waking feels thin. As you lie awake, Jake softly snoring at your side, you feel it. That presence. That feeling you've never been able to explain, something better described as an instinct or a sixth sense. Through the window, half-lidded and drifting, you search for reassurance. Instead, you find a pair of eyes in the dark. A shadow, watching you. You jerk upright, heart hammering, but in the blink of an eye, with a flicker of movement, you find nothing.
“Sweetheart?” You hear Jake's groggy voice at your side, an arm tugging at yours, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, just…” Your breath rises and falls, watching the tree branches drift with the howling wind, watching the snow pile up on the edge of the window. “Thought I saw something.”
He pulls you back down to the bed, kisses pressed to the back of your neck. You allow yourself to relax in his arms, the weight of slumber pulling you under.
You make it through the night. You always do. And this time, you wake up in a pair of warm, loving arms, rather than the shivering cold of your childhood twin bed, which you'd been accustomed to for years. You're thankful at least that in spite of your nightmares, your husband is a daydream.
A week was all you had for a honeymoon, if you could even call it that.
You'd told each other you didn't need a vacation. A honeymoon seemed frivolous when you already had everything you wanted: a house, a ring, a future together. You told each other there would be time for travel later. You have forever, after all.
So, straight into your new home you were, ready to build your life together. Your two weeks of time together were mostly spent unpacking boxes and pretending to help your husband build IKEA furniture. Really, you were mostly there to gawk at how attractive he looks when he gets mad at poorly designed instruction manuals.
Though the time slips through your fingers, and suddenly there are no more late mornings tangled in his arms, slow afternoons with nowhere to be, and evenings fumbling in the dark, learning the strange and sacred shape of intimacy.
You'd come to depend on the safety of his presence, the way his breathing beside you kept the dreams at bay. Selfishly, desperately, you did not want to lose it.
"Please don't leave," you whine like a child, rising from the bed.
He adjusts his tie in the full-length mirror at the corner of your bedroom, and your hands snake around his waist from behind, fingers clawing into the fabric of his shirt. You bury your face into his back, just breathing in his presence before you knew it'd inevitably slip away.
"And miss my first day at the office?" He chuckles, an amused smile playing at his lips.
Finished with his tie, he takes your hands, twirling you once before pulling you against him. His mouth finds your neck, then your jaw, then your lips. You melt into the shape of him, this body you're still learning, still marvelling at. But he pulls away all too soon.
"I can't support my wife and our future kids if I get myself fired."
"I know," you pout, following him out of the room, into the hall, hand still grasping his. "But what am I supposed to do here all alone?"
The question is smaller than the fear beneath it. While it is true that here, alone in a new neighbourhood without any real housework to be done yet, you're at a loss with what to do with your time, you both know the real reason why you're gripping his fingers like a child at the school gates: Your terrors, your anxieties and your skittish nature, once soothed and coddled by your parents, had now become Jake's responsibility to tend to, and you are petrified of being alone with your thoughts for the first time in your life.
"You could call your family?" He glances back at you as you both descend the stairs, his hand sliding along the banister.
"My mom has called me every day since the wedding," you deadpan.
He huffs a laugh and turns into the front hall. You reach the coat rack before he does, fetching his coat while he sits on the bench to lace his boots.
"You could go into town?"
"By myself?" You try to make it sound like a joke. It doesn't work.
He stands. You hold the coat open behind him, and he slides his arms in with a small, grateful sound. Then his gaze drifts past you, through the glass of the front door, to the house across the street. A mother is sending her children off, their school bags bright against the white, snowy morning.
"What if you go around and meet the neighbours?"
It isn't a terrible idea. In fact, trying to make new friends in the neighbourhood is what you should be trying to do, as a new couple looking to start their life there. And though ideally, you'd prefer to have your much more socially competent husband alongside you to do the task, you suppose it's about time you start facing your fears alone.
One messy kitchen and a batch of cookies later, you're wrapping up a small bag for each house on your small, quiet street, smiling behind your wool scarf as you ring the bell to the house across the street.
The first house is easy. A middle-aged couple, grateful and brief. The second is an elderly man who mistakes you for a door-to-door salesman. The third, a woman with six cats and one furious white Persian that hisses at you through the screen door until you retreat.
It all blurs together until you reach the end of the street, with only one bag and one house remaining.
You'd be lying if you said you hadn't saved this house for last. Something about it triggered that feeling inside you that you'd grown used to. A dark curiosity that you'd come to fear.
It isn't just the architecture either. Every home on this street is old. That was part of the appeal, why you and Jake had chosen to live here. You preferred something real, something with history. This one, however, feels like the kind of history you don't want to pry into. The kind of spookiness that children sense from the sidewalk and dare their friends to go up to, just to knock on the door and run before anyone answers.
It towers over the neighbouring roofs as if to assert its dominance, shouldering them aside. You don't like the way the entire premise was encompassed by a black, metal gate, and you like it even less now as the sun begins to set—one of the many unfortunate parts about winter; how the sun sets late afternoon, allowing the dark to creep up on you too soon. You hate the dark.
It's all just in your head, surely. Every house in this neighbourhood has an older look and feel, and you're certain that the people living in there are nothing but normal—perhaps even kind. All you have to do is ring the bell, give them the cookies, and leave. It's no big deal.
You nearly laugh at yourself out loud. You're a grown adult, for god's sake, there is no reason to be scared.
With a falsely confident stride, you push past the gates, walking across a jagged cobblestone path. Though you tremble with each step.
Something doesn't feel right, but you remind yourself it's as real as your nightmares—which is to say, not real at all. Your nightmares, the years of psychological torment, it's all in your head. It always has been.
With the sun just about dipping below the horizon, you ring the doorbell, standing before the heavy double doors. You then knock and, for a second, you are relieved to hear nothing back until the doors open with a loud groan. Though you don't see anyone at all, eyes carefully scanning the dimly lit entryway. Your hands curl around the bag in your hands.
"Hello?" You call out, not yet taking a step. "I'm the new neighbour from across the street.”
Silence.
“I… I made cookies.” Your voice echoes into the hall, and you swallow your nerves. “But, if you don't want to be bothered, I totally understand. I can just leave here and be on my way."
You wait a few seconds, hovering in the doorway, and the silence stretches.
You want to leave. Every part of you is screaming at you to turn on your heel and run far, far away. But they'd opened the door for you. You'd made your presence known already. You're standing right there with the cookies in your hand, for God's sake. You can’t just leave now.
Briefly, you wonder what Jake would do. He'd probably walk in with a confident stride and a smile. He'd charm them easily, have them laughing in minutes and get swept up in conversation for hours.
Stupid, you think. You're fine. Completely fine. Just go inside.
You glance around again. The shoe room is empty, save for a small table that stands just beside the door, close enough. And in a split second, you devise your plan: You’ll set them down and immediately leave with your obligations fulfilled, and avoid seeming like a rude, doorbell-ditching neighbour. It’s perfect. Foolproof. Simple.
You step forward, arm extending toward the table, already planning your retreat.
Then the door slams shut behind you.
"Welcome."
The voice comes from directly behind you. You spin, a strangled sound catching in your throat, and there he is—a silhouette pooled in the darkness beside the doorframe, so close you don't understand how you missed him. He must have opened the door. He must have been standing there the whole time, shielded by the shadow of the door, watching you step past him.
"My apologies," he says, stepping aside, the candlelight giving you a proper view of his face. "I've just woken up, and my eyes are sensitive to the sun. I did not mean to startle you,"
Though your heart is pounding through your chest, and you feel like your legs will give out at any moment, you are oddly comforted by his the sight of him. A young man, tall and pale, not much older than yourself and quite strikingly beautiful. You've never seen his face before, though you think it looks strangely familiar, as if you've known him a long time. You’re staring. And though you are aware of it, you don’t tear your gaze away.
"Are these for me?" He looks down at your hand, where you hold your cookies close to your chest.
Wordlessly, you nod, extending your hand. Though you don't expect him to lower his head, his face dipping towards your outstretched hand, the tip of his nose barely grazing the pulse at your wrist.
He inhales.
The sound is soft, barely audible, and his eyes close for a fraction of a second.
They open again, and they find yours, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. There’s a sharpness to his gaze, and it cuts straight through the cold, a dull, traitorous warmth blooming in your lower stomach.
"Smells delicious."
"Thank you," you squeak, shrinking under his gaze.
"My dear," his head tilts, brows furrowing, "You're trembling. You must've been out in the cold a while."
"Yes, well..." You glance toward the door. "Well, I—"
"I would hate to send you back out there." He takes the bag from your hands before you can finish, the motion smooth, unhurried. "Why don't you stay for tea?"
"Oh! Gosh, no, I couldn't possibly impose—"
"I insist."
As if he were commanding you, you find yourself staying, seated on an old-looking couch, the fireplace cackling, warming your chilled hands. Though it does nothing to ease your trembling. The grandfather clock in the corner ticks every second.
Soon, a small teacup is set down in front of you, as he pours both of you a cup from the pot. You look up as he sits himself across from you, face to face, and your palms dig into the couch cushion.
"I must admit, I'm quite delighted to have a visitor," he crosses one leg over the other, his posture upright, poised. It makes you straighten yourself out, embarrassed by your poor manners. "It's been a very long time. You said you moved here across the street?"
"Ah, Yes. My husband and I just moved." You raised your hand to show your ring finger. "Actually, we also just got married."
"Newlyweds. Congratulations," his voice is smooth, "What made the two of you move here?"
"Well, we're not from too far. Just across the southern river. And we looked at houses closer to home but... Something about this neighbourhood felt right. So we decided to start our life here." you smile briefly at the memory, "It's quieter here. Better for raising children—well, eventually, of course. Hopefully."
You falter, the mention of children suddenly feeling far too intimate for a conversation with a man you met three minutes ago. There's a brief, expressionless pause before his mouth curves into a smile.
"It is a nice neighbourhood." He hums in agreement, "Very safe."
"Exactly."
The conversation lulls, and you use the moment to glance around the room. It's grand, immaculate, every piece of furniture polished to a dark gleam. There's no clutter. No photographs on the mantle. No second mug drying on the drainboard. The silence of the house surrounds you, deep and undisturbed.
Your eyes drift back to him. His hands were folded neatly around his teacup. Pale, long-fingered, ever so still. No ring.
It catches you off guard. A man like this, who is wealthy, well-spoken, and irrefutably beautiful in a way that makes your stomach feel strange, and yet he lives alone in a house like this. There should be a wife. There should be children.
Unless there's something wrong with him.
The thought surfaces before you can stop it. You're being judgmental. He's been nothing but polite. He invited you in from the cold. He made you tea. If he's a bachelor, that's his business. Maybe he's shy, maybe he prefers solitude, maybe he's simply never found the right person.
You don't ask. A married woman doesn't comment on another man’s status. The whole line of thought is dangerous, a door you shouldn’t open.
His eyes are on you now, steady and watchful. Too watchful.
You drop your gaze to your untouched teacup to distract yourself, and the grandfather clock ticks.
Then, he laughs. Sheepishly, you watch as he takes a sip of his tea.
"I did not poison it, I promise,” he says, setting the cup down with a clink.
"Oh!" You gape, "No, no. I did not think—I mean, I did not mean to offend you, Mr. ...?"
"Please, call me Sunghoon."
"Sunghoon, then," you let out a sigh, "I'm sorry. I'm easily startled or, as my husband would say, 'a bit of a scaredy-cat,' but I really do appreciate you inviting me in."
"No offence taken. I understand. This is a pretty scary house," he laughs lightly, his voice dropping ever slightly, "and you are a vulnerable young lady."
You laugh nervously at his last comment, certain that he intended well. But it only makes you feel uneasy. Instinctively, your hand goes to the dainty cross at your neck. A habit you'd developed over the years.
"That is to say, you have every right to have your suspicions. And if I were your husband, I wouldn't take your safety so lightly." You don't miss the way his eyes move from you, down to your neck, "He is a very lucky man."
His eyes remain on your throat. You can feel them there, cool and steady, like a fingertip resting just above your pulse. The cross seems to warm under his attention—or perhaps that's your skin, flushing with a heat you don't want to name. Your fingers stay wrapped around the little gold chain, clutching it as if it can shield you from something you can't quite see.
Stop it, you tell your body. Stop it, stop it, stop it.
You hold it so tightly the edges bite into your palm. A penance. A reminder. You are a woman of God. You are pure. You are—
"A woman of faith, I see."
The fire pops, and a log shifts, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. You flinch. He doesn't react. In fact, you aren't sure that you've seen him move at all, his body as still as a statue.
"Of course," you reply as naturally as you can sound, "...aren't you?"
"If I say I am not," he raises a brow, "What then?"
You pause, drawing a breath that feels too shallow and force your lips into something resembling a smile.
"Well," you swallow, "God did say to love your neighbour."
"Ah, Mark twelve, verse thirty-three." Sunghoon's smile doesn't waver. "To love him with all your heart, with all your understanding and with all your strength, and to love your neighbour as yourself is more important than all burnt offerings and sacrifices."
The verse hangs in the air, complete and precise, and the tension in your shoulders eases, if only a little.
"So you are a believer."
"I believe in many things." His voice is soft, almost musing. "I believe in life after death. I believe in sinners and saints. I believe some of us, while we may try to convince ourselves otherwise, do not belong in the light."
He then pauses, and you swear you watch his smile curl into something wicked, before he continues.
"I believe prayers can be answered. Especially the ones laced with shame, whispered breathlessly in the night."
Your teacup rattles, the sound too loud in the quiet room. You set it down, but your fingers are shaking so badly the porcelain nearly slips. The cold that has been hovering at the edges of you since you walked through the door now settles deep in your bones.
You look at Sunghoon, your eyes meeting his lingering, far too intense stare. The horrible ache inside of you, the one you've come to know all too well, the one that has haunted your dreams for years, begins to wake from its slumber.
Something is wrong. His demeanour. The way he doesn't seem to breathe or blink or move at all. His presence. The way he looks at you like he owns you, and how that look makes your thighs clench, an inexplicable heat overtaking you.
You nearly jump out of your skin when the grandfather clock strikes the sixth hour.
"Oh!" You laugh nervously, an attempt to conceal the small yelp that escaped you. "Look at the time! I should really go."
"So soon?"
"Yes! My husband should be arriving soon, so..."
You are scrambling for the door, heart thumping in your chest as he follows close behind. Picking up the pace, you grab your coat from the rack near the door. But before you can grab the knob and swing the door open, you feel his presence behind you, cold and seemingly lifeless. You turn.
"It was lovely meeting you," he takes your trembling hand in his, "I hope to see you again, soon."
He lifts your hand as if to kiss it. Though he doesn't. Not yet.
You hear the soft sound of an inhale, barely there, but unmistakable, a slow, shuddering breath. His eyes flutter half-closed, and you blink, frozen in fear, wondering for a brief second if your mind is playing tricks on you, or if he really just sniffed you like some kind of animal.
He then kisses your hand, his lips just barely grazing your knuckles, featherlight. You should feel horror. You should feel disgust. Both are there, you suppose, but beneath it lies something far more shameful.
In the still, empty silence, you let out the tiniest, neediest whimper.
It lingers long enough for both of you to process what exactly you had just done.
He looks up at you through his lashes with a grin, like the most beautiful predator you'd ever laid your eyes on. And, though you can't quite tell in the dim candlelight, you think the canines peeking out the edge of his smile look rather sharp.
With that look permanently etched into your mind, you run. No other words exchanged, no farewell. You’re sprinting back down the street to your place, as fast as your feet can take you, not sparing a single glance behind.
A sigh of relief, though it sounds more like a sob, escapes you when you see Jake’s car in the driveway.
Your hands tremble so violently the keys skitter against the lock, and when the door gives, you throw yourself inside, slam it shut, press your spine to the wood like you're holding back a flood. You breathe in and out. In and out. Chest rising and falling with every breath. Exactly how Jake had taught you to do every time your fears crept up on you too quickly.
"Jake?"
The house is completely dark, and only the silence whispers back. You take off your boots, your coat, throwing them to the side without care as you move. The floorboards creak beneath your feet, and the panic you had only just quelled begins to rise again.
"Jake, where are you?" You try again, this time a bit louder.
You check the living room. The dining room. The kitchen. Then, on shaky legs, you carry yourself upstairs, hand sliding against the railing as you make your way to the bedroom. Still, not a soul to be found. Your hands grip the doorway, nails digging into the wooden frame as you choke down your heavy breaths, blinking away the tears that threaten your eyes.
A pair of arms wrap around you from behind, and the scream that leaves you is almost inhuman.
"It's just me!"
You thrash around in his grasp, and Jake immediately lets go.
He steps back, palms raised, face slack with shock and guilt. You're shaking violently now, heaving as a single tear falls from your eyes.
"Just me, sweetheart." His voice drops, taking your hand in his and guiding you to the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have scared you like that. That's my fault, I'm—"
You don't let him finish. You collapse into him, and he catches you without hesitation, his arms folding around your trembling form as you curl into his lap. He presses his lips to the crown of your head.
"Don't ever do that again."
"I won't." He murmurs into your hair, "Cross my heart, I never will."
You're sobbing into his chest as he whispers I'm sorries and I love yous—Over and over, until the words blur into a rhythm as steady as his heartbeat beneath your ear. You latch onto him like he's your lifeline. He is warm and solid and alive, and you cling to him with a desperation that should embarrass you but doesn't.
Only when your breathing steadies do you finally find the strength to speak.
"I missed you so much."
"I missed you, too."
"I missed you more." Your voice cracks on the last word, and you feel the tears threatening again.
"Shh. It's okay. I'm right here. It's okay." He smooths a hand down your hair, your back. "What happened, sweetheart? Did something happen? Why were you outside?"
"I..." you trail off, unsure how to even proceed as you sniffle. "I went to meet the neighbours... and... the house at the corner. The man there, he..."
It sounds ridiculous when you try to rationalize it in your head, and would probably sound even more ridiculous if you tried to say it out loud.
Sunghoon didn't technically do anything wrong. He only looked at you in ways that made you feel wrong. He said some things that could be interpreted as threatening, though he said it in a polite tone. He kissed your hand and had maybe sniffed you, if you even remember it properly, or if that's just your terrified, panicked brain making things up. He also made you whimper, but that certainly isn't something you can tell your husband.
The memory of it makes you let out another sob, feeling utterly pathetic and ashamed in his arms.
"Hey, talk to me," his voice drops, "What did he do?"
Swallowing your guilt, you pick up the pieces of the truth you can stomach to say aloud.
"The way he was looking at me, it was—he kissed my hand, and—" you stammer, "I don't know. I don't know how to explain."
You can feel Jake exhale.
"Okay," he says calmly, matter-of-factly, taking in the information, "A creepy neighbour tried to hit on you? Is that it?"
Hitting on you. The phrase doesn't quite capture the feeling of being hunted, like a lamb who wandered aimlessly within a predator's reach.
You don't correct him, though. You nod your head, breathing heavy into his grasp as he smooths down the back of your head, holding you tight.
"I'm sorry," you feel the vibration of his voice against his chest. "You want me to talk to him? Scare him off, a bit?"
You picture that predatory gaze, the eyes of something sinister—something demonic. Then you look to your husband: warm and bright and too good for this world. Your husband is the safest, strongest, and most capable man you know. Still, you are strangely terrified at the thought of letting him go there alone.
"I just want you to stay here. With me." You say, simply, "That's all I want."
"I'll always be here. Forever," he hums, circling your wedding ring, dragging your palm flat along his chest until it rests just above his heart, "That's what I promised to you. 'Til death do us part."
You close your eyes. You try to let the steady thrum of his heartbeat drown out everything else. Safe, you tell yourself. I'm safe. He's here. I'm safe.
It doesn't work. What exactly are you safe from? From a man who only looked at you? From a feeling that had started long before you ever set foot in that house?
The heat is still there, coiled low in your belly, waiting. It doesn't care that you're in your husband's arms. It doesn't care that you want it gone. It's been awakened, and it won't be going back to sleep.
You press your thighs together. You're still hot. Too hot. Jake doesn't notice right away, holding you in his arms, his hand still covering yours above his heart.
Your husband pulls back, cupping your face in his hands.
"You're burning up." He says gently, brows furrowed in pure-hearted concern. "You're really warm. Are you getting sick? You were out in the cold for a while, weren't you?"
You open your mouth to answer, but he beats you to it.
"Maybe we should just order takeout tonight. You should rest. I'll warm you a bath, and we can rent a movie. How does that sound?" His thumb traces the curve of your jaw, his eyes searching your face for clues he doesn't know how to read. "I can call in sick tomorrow, and—"
"Jake."
Your eyes drop to his lips. You're still curled in his lap, your breath shallow, your thighs pressed together beneath your skirt. It takes him a second or two for his expression to shift.
Your mouth is on his before he can speak, hot and heavy, desperate to suppress the dark, deviant desire that refuses to leave you alone. You can't help yourself. Not when you're sitting in his lap like this, your arousal and guilt unrelenting.
He goes rigid, a startled sound catching in his throat. This isn't how you kiss. You never kissed him like this before you were married, and you certainly hadn't after, either.
Every night you've shared so far has been nothing but gentle and loving, always handling you with the care one would give a porcelain doll. He had learned of your fragility and your fears long before he ever learned your body, and made love to you the only way he knew how: carefully, tenderly. As if your pleasure was a gift to be earned and not a hunger you already carry.
Tonight, though, you kiss him with the kind of hunger a sexually repressed Catholic boy can only dream of—the kind he was taught to repent for, to pray away. You moan against his lips, the sound raw and almost wounded, clawing open his shirt and grinding against his hips like it's the only thing you need right now.
"Hey—hey, slow down." His hands close gently over yours, stilling them. His eyes search your face, wide and careful. "We don't have to—are you okay? You were just crying, and I don't want you to feel like—"
You shake your head. All you want is that horrible ache inside you to be gone, fucked away by the man you love, the man you married. You pull your hands free and push him back onto the bed. He goes willingly, propped on his elbows, still watching you with that tender, uncertain concern.
"Baby, I'm serious." Jake's voice cracks. His hands hover at your waist, twitching and uncertain. "I don't need—ah—are you sure you want this right now?" The words tumble out of him, broken and breathless, even as his hips rise to meet yours. His body knows what it wants. His mind is still catching up. "You don't have to do this for me—"
"It's for me." Your voice is low, almost like a growl, and his eyes widen.
You reach for the hem of your own dress first and pull it over your head. The fabric catches for a moment on your ear, on your elbow, and the clumsiness of it makes you want to scream. Then it's gone, discarded somewhere on the floor, and you're working at the clasp of your bra while Jake stares up at you with parted lips and dawning disbelief.
He reaches up again, hand hovering a moment before moving to yours, trying to still or slow your moments, but this time you slap them away. Your hands make quick work of his pants, as you do your own, and without a second to spare, you're staring down at his half-hard length, holding the weight of him in your clumsy, still inexperienced hand. You carefully watch his expression, brows knitted, lips parted, and when you tighten your grip ever slightly as you stroke him, he's thrusting up into your hand.
"Shit." He breathes.
You shift forward, lining him up with your entrance. Your underwear is still on—you realize this too late, and the awkwardness of shoving the damp fabric aside makes your face flush. But you don't stop. You sink down onto him, and the stretch steals your breath.
You sigh at the stretch, not used to taking all of him so quickly—not used to being on top, either, and your eagerness momentarily subsides, taking a moment to adjust. Then, with the awkwardness you'd expect of two adults who only started having sex a few weeks ago, you start to move, hands pressed down against his chest. He gazes up in awe, hands twitching at his sides before moving to your hips.
"Holy shit," he manages, the words repeating in broken moans, desperately containing himself from falling apart right there as he watches you, his gorgeous wife, take him with a newfound hunger. He looks wrecked already, his jaw tight with the effort of holding back. "If you keep moving like that—"
His hands tighten, slowing you. He's trying to pace you, trying to protect you from yourself, and the unbearable, oblivious tenderness of it is the last thing you can stand.
"Jake." Your voice comes out sharp, breathless, a frown tugging at your lips. "For God's sake. I'm not going to break. Just fuck me."
There's a moment of pure shock that lingers, and he goes still. Very still. A part of you almost regrets it. Maybe you frightened him. Maybe you've shown a side of yourself that you were never supposed to show, and now he'll never look at you the same.
He exhales a long, shaky breath.
His hands slide from your hips to your waist, then down to your thighs, gripping with an ownership he's never allowed himself before. He thrusts up into you once, testing, and when you gasp, he does it again. Harder. Your head falls back. A moan spills from your lips, and the sound seems to unlock something in him. "Fuck," he breathes. His fingers dig into your skin as he moves you, setting a rhythm that is no longer careful, no longer restrained. You try to match it, but you're still clumsy, still learning, and after a few desperate, off-beat thrusts, he makes a low sound in his throat and flips you onto the mattress.
Your face falls into the pillow. His hand presses between your shoulder blades, arching your back, and then he's inside you again—deeper this time, fuller. The moan you let out is almost a sob. He pulls back and slams into you, and you feel the curve of his grin against the shell of your ear.
"You like this?" His voice is low, but still laced with that concern he always wears. There's a genuine curiosity to his question, a disbelief that lingers. "You like it rough?"
"Please," your desperate voice is muffled in the pillow, "harder, please."
He makes a sound, something between a laugh and a guttural groan, and his hand spreads warm across the small of your back.
"Look at you," he murmurs, almost to himself. "God, look at you. My wife."
He pulls back slowly, letting you feel every inch of him leaving you, and the anticipation is its own kind of torment. When he thrusts back in, it's deep and full, and the gasp you let out is his name. He does it again. And again.
His hand fists the sheets beside your head. His forehead drops to the curve of your neck.
"Fuck—" His voice is ragged, almost disbelieving. "You're really—I can't—"
His thrusts grow deeper, harder, his hand pressing into the arch of your back as he drives into you with an indulgence he's never allowed himself. You can feel the tension, the pressure building. His name falls from your lips in fragments, and he answers with his body—faster, deeper, more.
"That's it," he breathes, and the pride in his voice is new, too. He's proud of this. Proud of what he's doing to you. Proud of you. "I've got you."
You clench around him, crying out when he hits that spot inside you just right, clawing at the pillows beneath you. The orgasm seizes you and doesn't let go, and he feels it. Every pulse, every shudder. His rhythm falters and then breaks entirely.
His voice cracks, high and wrecked, and he buries himself to the hilt and stills, his whole body going rigid against your back. Then he's coming, too. Deep inside you, his hips jerking with each pulse, his groan a long, ragged thing that vibrates through you. He keeps thrusting, fucking his cum back into you, riding it out until he's shaking, until he's spent, until his forehead drops to the nape of your neck and his breath comes in great heaving gasps against your sweat-damp skin.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. He's still inside you, and you can feel his cum between your thighs, still draped over you, his chest pressed to your back so you can feel the hammer of his heart. Your body hums. The world is quiet. The only sound is your breathing, slowly finding the same rhythm.
Then he laughs.
It starts as a breathless little thing against your neck, almost disbelieving, until it blooms into something utterly delighted. His arms slide around your waist, and he pulls you with him as he rolls onto his side, still buried inside you, his face pressed to the curve of your shoulder.
"Who are you," he breathes, "and what have you done with my wife?"
He's grinning. You can feel it against your skin. His hand is flat across your stomach, holding you close, and he presses a kiss to the crook of your neck.
"Seriously. What was—what's gotten into you?"
You turn in his arms, just enough to see his face. He's flushed, pleased, his eyes half-lidded and warm.
You snuggle into his chest, pressing your cheek to the warm plane of his sternum, and his arms fold around you automatically.
"Missed you," you whisper.
"Clearly." The word is thick with satisfaction, his voice still rough and low. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. "Must've been real lonely, huh? Waiting for me to come home."
“Never leave again. Please."
He laughs softly, pulling you tighter against his chest. The sound rumbling through his chest beneath your ear. His hand moves in slow, soothing strokes down your spine.
"Sweetheart, if this is what I come home to, you couldn't drag me out that door." He presses a kiss to your hair. "I'll quit tomorrow. Become a stay-at-home husband. Live right here in this bed forever."
His breathing deepens, slows. His hand stills on your back. Within minutes, he's asleep, his lips still curved in the ghost of that grin, his body warm and heavy and trusting against yours.
You don't sleep. You can't. The satisfaction is already fading, replaced by the old familiar ache—a low thrum beneath the surface, waiting. You know the dreams will come tonight. You know what waits for you in the dark. But for now, you let yourself be held. For now, his heartbeat under your ear is louder than the guilt. For now, that's enough.
Like clockwork, the dream arrives. Tangled in your husband's arms, you glance to the window, feeling that same presence you always do, tainting your mind with lustful images you could not escape.
Except that tonight, the shadow has a face.
You've never seen a face in your dreams before. For years, the presence has been nothing but sensation—cold hands, sharp teeth, a voice without sound. A silhouette at the edge of your sleeping vision, tall and still. Never eyes you could look into.
Sunghoon's face materializes out of the dark. First the eyes, dark and depthless, then the sharp planes of his face, then the mouth that curved against your knuckles and made you whimper. He looks exactly as he did in the candlelight. Beautiful. Predatory. Waiting.
Why him? You wonder, visions of his lips at your neck invading your mind. Why now?
Though in your dreaming state, you don't have much time to ponder such questions. You're too consumed by the image of those sharp canines that you swore you saw, sinking into your flesh, his hands wandering the length of your body. You don't flinch. In the dream, you arch toward him. You offer him your neck. You come undone with his name on your lips, only a whisper in the night.
You wake with a gasp, still tangled in your husband's embrace, slick between your legs. Though Jake doesn't stir. His breathing is deep and even, his body warm and trusting against yours.
The ghost of your dream lingers, and you press your palm to your mouth to hold back the sob building in your chest.
Dawn comes pale and grey through the curtains, but you're already awake. You couldn't go back to sleep, no matter how hard you tried. So you stop trying. You slip carefully from the bed and pad barefoot to the shower.
You rinse yourself under scalding hot water as if scrubbing every inch of yourself could wash the dream away. You fold Jake's work clothes into a neat pile on the dresser—a reminder that you are a loving, faithful wife and not whatever your dreams make you out to be.
In the kitchen, the coffee machine clicks and hisses. You stand at the window with your empty mug in your hands, and before you've made the conscious decision to look, your eyes have found it. The house. His house.
Just looking at it makes your blood run cold.
You can't help but wonder why every curtain remains drawn, despite the large, beautiful windows. You wonder why he mentioned having "just woken up," though you'd visited him late afternoon—almost evening—yesterday. You think of the way he looked at you, sharp, calculated, like a predator who'd caught its prey. And those teeth, which now that you're thinking back, most certainly had to be sharp, like the ones in your dreams.
Curtains drawn. Cold hands. Sharp teeth.
"Morning, baby," Jake's groggy voice is heard from the hallway, heavy footsteps pattering into the kitchen.
You turn to greet your husband with a broken smile. He chases your lips for a kiss, hands at your waist as they slide down the length of your nightgown with a newfound ease—remnants of last night's confidence still lingering in his touch. You jump in his grasp, a sound of surprise caught in your throat, but you both turn your heads at the beep of the coffee machine.
He pours you a cup first, and you try to focus on his words, you really do. However, his complaints of a passive-aggressive boss and abundantly vague emails fall on deaf ears as your hands tighten around the warmth of your coffee mug, eyes unwillingly and unhelpfully drifting to the window every few seconds.
You hear your name on his lips, but only process it once his hand reaches out to rest atop yours.
"You're spacing out." His thumb moves in slow circles over your knuckles, "Everything alright? Or am I just talking your ear off?"
"Just... tired."
"That makes two of us," he smiles, the two of you sharing a playful look. But he's still watching you, still reading the tension in your shoulders. "Talk to me, sweetheart. I'm here."
Your thumb traces the rim of your mug, and then, before you can talk yourself out of it.
"Do you believe in supernatural things?" You start hesitantly, "Not just God, obviously, but... other things...?"
Your husband takes a slow, pensive sip of his coffee.
"This is about your dreams again, isn't it?"
He gives you that look. The same one your mother and father used to give you at the mention of your nightmares. Sympathetic, but doubtful.
You look down, and he sighs, lifting your hand to his lips. The kiss is gentle and warm, though you shudder regardless.
"Remind me. How long have you been having these dreams, again?"
"Years."
"Years," he echoes, "And how many times, in all these years, have any of your dreams ever hurt you? Really hurt you?"
You sigh, shoulders slumping, a quiet relief blooming in your chest at the sight of his easy, gentle smile. The sunrise peeks through the window just enough to cast a golden glow across his face. His brown eyes and honey skin, now illuminated, were warm and familiar like the fresh cup of coffee in front of you that you had yet to touch.
"They haven't."
"Then I think it's safe to say that whatever it is you're afraid of, that's just your extra creative brain coming up with new reasons to freak out." he taps your head, and you roll your eyes, cracking a smile of your own. "None of it is real. It can't hurt you."
You kiss him goodbye at the door, your worries soothed momentarily as you watch his car disappear around the corner. But soon after, as you're reaching into the sink to work on a day-old pile of dishes, you can't help but watch the house at the corner. You watch all morning. Not a single soul exits or enters the home.
The town library is exactly what you'd expect. The air is stiff, the scent of old books and dust, and an old woman behind the front counter glares at you over the rims of her glasses, like she’s waiting for a reason to shush you.
You hadn't meant to come here. You were going to do errands. That's what you told yourself, anyway. But your feet carried you straight past the grocery store and straight through the heavy oak doors of the town library. And now, you wandered aimlessly through the aisles, unsure of what exactly you're looking for.
Dreams. You find a nonfiction book on dreams. You pull it from the shelf and flip to a chapter on nightmares. The author theorizes that our deepest fears materialize in our sleep, that the subconscious paints faces onto the things that frighten us most. A stranger who unsettled you. A presence that made you feel unsafe. The brain takes what it can't process during the day and works through it at night.
It makes sense. It's rational. He frightened you with that unsettling look in his eyes and his words, and your dreams gave him a form. It's a natural psychological response.
Then the book goes on to list common nightmare archetypes. The falling dream. The dream of being chased. The dream of being naked in public. Nowhere does it mention the dream where a stranger touches you between your legs, their lips on yours, then at your neck, or why you might envision them sinking their teeth into your flesh and drinking your blood. Nowhere does it account for the way your body responded.
Snapping the book shut and shoving it back on the shelf, you continue drifting with a little more purpose now. Past Town Records. Past Local Histories. Past a whole shelf of sermon collections by long-dead Reverends. Your fingers trail the spines, but you don't stop.
You turn down a narrow aisle in the back corner, away from the windows, away from the light.
The titles swimming into focus are older, darker, their spines cracked and their pages yellowed. Supernatural Histories. The Undead: A Historical Overview. Vampires Among Us.
Your hand reaches for one before your mind can stop it, failing to notice the pair of legs, long and lanky, stretched across the aisle, which blocks your path.
"Oh—!" You nearly trip, steadying yourself against the shelf.
A teenager is wedged between the shelves and the wall. He doesn't even look up. His head is bowed over a thick, hardcover book that looks older than time itself, and the sound of heavy drums and electric guitar bleeds from the headphones clamped over his ears. His school uniform is rumpled, tie loose, blazer nowhere in sight. His hair is jet-black except for a single bleached strand.
You clear your throat.
Nothing.
You clear it again, louder.
He turns a page.
"Excuse me…." You say a little more sternly this time, hands at your hips. "Shouldn't you be in school...?” You pause, glancing at his open backpack, at the name on his notebooks. "…Niki?"
He takes his time glancing up, eyes dragging over you with the lazy, unimpressed scrutiny only a teenager can manage. He takes in the sensible skirt. The ironed blouse. The cross at your neck. One pierced eyebrow lifts a fraction. He pulls his headphones down to his neck, his music a low hum.
"Shouldn't you be in the erotica section, or something?" He retorts, rolling his eyes.
"What?" You gape.
"Just saying." He gestures vaguely at you. "You've got the whole... repressed housewife look."
"You—" You give up halfway through your sentence, deciding your time shouldn't be spent exchanging comebacks with a boy who hasn't even graduated yet.
He goes back to his book, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You step over his legs, which he doesn't move an inch, and try to ignore him, scanning the shelf in front of you until you find the book you had your eyes on before. Locating it, you reach.
"Isn't the occult, like, the devil to you people?"
Your hand stops mid-air, and you turn. He's watching you now, the book in his lap forgotten.
"I'm just looking."
"Sure. Just looking." He closes his book finally, giving you his full attention for the first time, and you immediately wish he hadn't. "Listen, lady. Vampire smut's two aisles down. No judgment. I'm not your pastor."
"I already said—" The flush crawls up your neck. "I'm not—I would never—"
"You'd never," he repeats, flat. "Right. So what are you looking for in this section? A cookbook?"
Your hand is still frozen in the air, fingers hovering over the spine of a book with a lurid, painted cover. A woman in a torn nightgown, fainting into the arms of a dark figure with glowing eyes.
"I wanted to... research something.”
"Research.”
You nod weakly.
He pauses a moment, like he’s analyzing you. Then his whole expression shifts.
"Wait. For real? You're not just messing with me?" His eyes are wide now, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. It makes him appear even younger than he is, his mood brightening with childlike excitement. "You're actually researching vampires? Like, the lore? The real stuff? You're not just looking for sexy billionaire novels?"
"I don't know anything about sexy billionaires—"
"Oh my god." He scrambles to his feet, all gangly limbs and sudden, startling height, and you take an instinctive step back. His face is absolutely alight. "Oh my god, that's sick. That's actually so sick. Nobody in this town cares about this stuff. Everybody here just thinks I'm some freak who—" He stops himself, clears his throat. "Okay. Okay. So. What do you want to know?"
He's already pulling books off the shelf before you can come up with an answer, scanning spines with the practiced eye of someone who has memorized every title.
"Okay, so. First of all, don't touch that one." He jabs a finger at the book you'd been reaching for. "Complete garbage. The guy just makes stuff up. Zero sources."
"You've read it?"
"I've read everything on this shelf." He says it with pride and a slight shrug. He pulls down a thick volume bound in dark blue cloth, its cover embossed with a faded silver symbol you don't recognize. "You want this one. Written by a Victorian occultist. Genuine primary sources. He gets into the super niche stuff most modern books ignore."
"Niche stuff?"
"Yeah, like. The running water barrier—they can't cross it. Like rivers and lakes. Which is wild. And the mirror thing? It's not that they don't have reflections, it's that old mirrors were backed with silver, and silver's purifying. So the reflection was there, just corrupted. Sort of." He's talking faster now, words tripping over each other. "And then there's the soul-contract stuff, which is the real deep lore. Most people don't even know about it."
"Soul-contracts?"
"Oh, you have to hear about this." He grins, clearly delighted to have an audience. "Okay, so—vampires need blood, right? And most of them have to hunt for it. Every meal. Every night. That's a lot of work. So some of them, the older ones, the smart ones, they figured out a more... efficient system."
He flips through the book, looking for a page.
"They find a human who's desperate. Like, really desperate. And they make a deal. The human offers themselves up—their blood, their life force, whatever—and in exchange, the vampire gives them something that they want."
Your stomach tightens.
"Oh! That's..." You struggle to find your words, but force your voice to stay steady. "What kind of something, exactly?"
"Anything. Revenge, protection, a cure for some disease. Whatever the human needs so badly, they'd trade their soul for it." He finds the page, runs a finger down the text. "But the key thing is, the vampire can't just take. The human has to give permission. Willingly. Otherwise, the bond doesn't form. Hence, the contract part of the soul-contract."
"The bond?"
"Yep. The bond is formed only if it is totally, one-hundred percent mutual. The vampire is tied to the human just as much as the human is tied to the vampire. It's not a master-servant thing. It's..." He pauses, searching for the word. "Permanent. The connection can never be broken, like some eternally messed-up, toxic situationship."
Your hand has found the cross at your throat. You don't remember reaching for it.
"What I don't get," he continues, frowning at the page, "is how the whole thing starts. Like, how does the vampire hear the human in the first place? The book says it answers a call. Not literally a call, though. The words are weird. It says: 'A plea uttered from the deepest well of the soul, often in a state of such desperation that it transcends the mortal sphere.'"
"What kind of plea?" Your voice comes out as a whisper.
"Doesn't say exactly. But the book keeps comparing it to..." He squints at the footnote, then pauses, turns the page. "Huh. That's weird."
"What?"
"The language it uses. It says 'a prayer inverted.'" He traces his finger down the margin. "'Not all prayers reach the kingdom of heaven. Some are intercepted by hungrier ears.' Spooky, right?"
You can't breathe.
The cross burns against your palm. You press it harder, trying to ground yourself, but the world narrows to a single point: a memory. Your bedroom window. The winter wind on your wet cheeks. Your knees bruised against the floorboards.
I beg of you. If you cannot make this feeling stop, then I beg for relief.
"Hey." Niki's voice cuts through the static in your head. "You good? You look like you're gonna, uh... hurl. Or pass out."
"I'm fine."
"Yeah, no." He sets the book aside, straightening up, eyes narrowing. "You're definitely not fine. Was it something I said? I have a habit of—I mean, my mom's always telling me I don't know when to shut up, so if I—"
"You didn't do anything." You shake your head, swallowing hard. "I just need some air."
“Wait!”
You step back, your heel catching on the leg he's stretched across the aisle again. You stumble, and he scrambles to his feet, catches your elbow—a quick, awkward gesture.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to—I just—" He pulls back immediately, shoving both hands in his pockets like he's been burned. He drops his voice to a whisper, then he stares straight at you. “You’ve met a vampire, haven’t you?”
You blink.
"No." You shake your head too fast, an unconvincing laugh escaping your lips before you ramble on, "What? No. That’s ridiculous. Vampires aren't real. Aren’t you too old to believe in these things? Please.”
“But—”
“I'm just... I'm bored. And…” You swallow, “I need to get home before my husband is back."
There’s a pause. A long one.
"Oh… I get it.” He gives you a knowing look. “You can't tell anyone. Vampire confidentiality. Right?" He shifts his weight, suddenly looking less like a brooding delinquent and more like a kid who's spent too many lunch periods eating alone. You open your mouth to protest, but he continues. "Then, if you do see one. Hypothetically. Could you... ask something for me?" You take in his wide-eyed, hopeful stare. "The garlic thing. Is it true? Everyone's always arguing about it, but I think it's just complete crap.”
You let out a sigh.
"I'll keep that in mind."
He beams, looking like he’s about to jump up and down with joy, but quickly reins himself in, dropping his voice an octave and shrugging the excitement away. "Cool... cool. Alright. I'll see you later, then, vampire research lady. I'm always here, so come and find me whenever you wanna, like. Hang out or something...You'll come back, right?"
You don't process any of it. Still shaken, you turn and walk. Past the shelves. Past the desk, where the old librarian still watches you with narrowed eyes. Past the heavy oak doors and into the cold, gray afternoon.
Not all prayers reach the kingdom of heaven.
You pull your coat tighter and start walking, not home just yet. You need to let yourself breathe before you go back to the house with the kitchen window that faces his door, before you have to look your husband in the eye and pretend the conversation you just had never happened.
Teenagers believe anything. You tell yourself with every heavy step, fresh snow crunching underfoot. None of it is real. It can't hurt you.
A thick snowfall arrives on a Friday afternoon, the following week. Schools and stores close, and a company-wide email advises everyone to stay inside. Jake stood at the bedroom window when he read it, watching the storm howl past the glass, and felt two things at once: a quiet disappointment that winter is nowhere near its end, and a much louder, much more immediate gratitude that he doesn't have to leave you today.
He's been worried about you. That's nothing new, actually. He's been worried about you since the day you met, when you laughed at one of his jokes only to screech at the sound of a twig snapping under your step two seconds later. He recognized something in you then. To call it skittishness would be an understatement. There was a weight behind your wide-eyed stare. The look of someone who has been carrying something heavy for a very long time and has never asked anyone to help her hold it. You told him about your night terrors a month into the relationship. Sat him down, explained it like a warning, as if it could ever scare him off from pursuing you. He wanted to be the one to help. He still does. It's the quiet purpose of his life.
He was foolishly optimistic back then. The reality of what it means to live with you, alongside your fears, is not an easy responsibility to carry. You smile when you're sad. You deflect when he asks questions. You say I'm fine and change the subject and slide into his lap, and he lets you, because he loves you, because he doesn't always know the right thing to say, and maybe because some part of him is afraid that if he pushes too hard, he'll be devastated to find there's far more he doesn't understand about you than he realizes. He holds you in the ways you ask him to. He soothes your fears without knowing what they are. He plays the role he's resigned himself to—husband, protector, warm body in the dark—and tries not to notice the moments when your eyes go distant, when your hands tremble for no reason, when you stare into nothing like something else is there, staring right back.
It wears on him. He doesn't resent it. He could never resent you. But there are nights when he wakes up beside you, listening to you stir in your sleep and feels a loneliness he can't explain. Sometimes it feels like there is a part of you he cannot reach, a room inside you where he is not invited.
So he does what he can. He goes to work. He comes home. He holds you when you let him. He prays for you, even on the days when his own faith wavers. And when you reach for him, pulling him into bed with that desperate, devouring hunger that has become the new rhythm of your marriage, he gives you everything you ask for. He gives you more. Because in those moments, you are fully present—your attention is on him and not lost somewhere else. In those moments, he is not your caretaker or your protector. He is simply yours.
It's a relief he didn't know he needed. To be wanted. Not needed—wanted. There's a difference.
Jake's always been good at being needed. Being helpful. At smiling, nodding and letting others feel heard. It's something he carried into adulthood. Into his faith. Into his marriage, where his wife's fragility gave him a role he recognized: the steady one. The unneedy one. The one who holds and is never held.
But desire—real, shameless, take-me-now desire—was never something he imagined being on the receiving end of. He was taught that sex was a service a wife provided to her husband. A duty. A kindness. Something to be accepted with gratitude and restraint. He was prepared to be grateful. He was not prepared for you.
These past weeks, you've become something else entirely. You pull him in by the belt before he's shrugged off his coat. You beg him to be rough, to be merciless, to stop treating you like something fragile. The first time you said it, after the initial disbelief subsided, he nearly wept from relief. From the sudden, staggering realization that you wanted him the way he had always secretly wanted you. That the hunger was mutual. That he was allowed to be hungry at all.
He's been enjoying it more than he probably should. He knows that. Some old, stubborn guilt stirs in him every time he pins your wrists above your head, every time he hears you moan his name like a prayer. He used to repent for thoughts far milder than the things you do together now. But the guilt is quieter than it used to be. Quieter than the sound of your breath hitching. Quieter than the way you say harder and please and fuck me right now.
He assumes it's a side effect of your clinginess. You spend all day alone, trapped by the cold, left to the mercy of your own thoughts. Of course, you reach for him the moment he walks through the door. Of course, you want to be touched, held, filled with something other than the silence of an empty house. He's happy to be that for you. He's happy to be whatever you need.
He doesn't understand the whole of you. He'll never understand what keeps you up at night, and why it does. But he understands the curve of your hip, and the sound of your laugh, and the way your body answers his in the dark. And for now, with the snow piled high against the windows and the fire crackling in the next room and you warm and real and wanting in his arms, that is enough. It's more than enough. It's everything he didn't know he was allowed to ask for.
The neglected part of his heart that spent years believing desire was something to be managed, not felt—that accepted loneliness as the price of being steady, that tucked itself away in the front pew and never asked for more—that part is wide awake, and it reaches for you helplessly.
All of that to say is: being holed up with you inside on a cold evening, he does the only thing that makes sense. He finds you in the kitchen, wraps his arms around your waist from behind, and presses his lips to the curve of your neck.
You giggle, leaning back into him, the wooden spoon still in your hand.
"You want me to burn dinner?"
"I want you," He punctuates each word with a kiss to your shoulder, your jaw, then your neck. "Want you all the time. Everyday. Every second."
"You're insatiable." You swat at his arm, but your voice is fond. "And a distraction."
"What's wrong with being distracted?"
"Jake." You roll your eyes, your tone playful but stern, "Go find something else to do."
"Like what?" He pouts, resting his chin on your shoulder, peering down at the pot.
"Maybe, shovelling the driveway?"
He groans. "I'll do that in the—"
"Morning? You sleep like a log. Besides..." You turn in his arms, your free hand coming up to toy with the collar of his shirt, and a suggestive grin tugs at your lips, "You won't have the energy to."
"Oh?" His eyebrows lift, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Well, if that's the case..."
He presses a kiss to your cheek and pulls away.
"Don't miss me too much," He calls out as he makes his way down the hall, dreading having to bundle up for the cold.
"No promises."
He dreads it even more once he's actually outside, scrunching his nose as the icy cold hits him, like little needles against his skin. But seeing you move about the kitchen from where he shovels makes it all worth it. It's always worth it.
He's watched you sleep enough nights to know how hard you fight just to stay still. The way you squirm and pant and clutch at him, sweat beading at your brow, tortured by something he can't see and you can't name. He's learned not to wake you—it only makes it worse. So he holds you instead.
But morning always comes. You always smile at him over coffee, tired and brave, pushing through the day like the night never happened. Like you haven't spent eight hours running from something he can't fight for you.
So, really, the least he could do as a husband was shovel the driveway without complaining. Even if his back was beginning to ache as if he were a middle aged dad. He can clear a path. He can make one thing easier for you, even if it's just the driveway.
"Hello."
Jake lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched scream and nearly topples over into the snow, managing to brace himself with his shovel. He turns, letting out a sigh of relief when his eyes land on the tall, pale-looking man, who greets him with a closed-mouth smile.
"Man, you scared the crap out of me," Jake laughs, which dissolves into nervous laughter when he notices how the man does not laugh with him. He stands still, almost statuesque.
"My apologies. Jake, yes?"
"That's me." He adjusts his grip on the shovel and extends his free hand, tilting his head. "Do we know each other? I'm sorry, I'm terrible with faces."
"Sunghoon." The hand that meets his is cold, even through both their gloves. The grip is brief and precise. "A pleasure. I live at the corner. Your wife made my acquaintance last Monday."
Jake pauses a moment, his hand freezing mid-shake.
The house at the corner. The weirdo. The hand-kissing, too-long-staring, made-you-uncomfortable neighbour you'd come home crying about last week.
His brows furrow at the realization that this was the guy you were talking about. Although he was imagining someone much older and creepier. Not a polished, perfectly composed, and frankly quite handsome—if Jake is being honest—guy his own age.
"You're the neighbour, huh?" Jake deadpans, shoving his shovel into the snow and standing up straight. He looks Sunghoon up and down, taking his time, letting his gaze drag. Sizing him up. He's taller. That's annoying.
"Yes. We had a lovely conversation. I wish to extend my gratitude."
"How kind. But not necessary."
"Oh, but it is."
"But it really isn't."
"I insist."
"Okay. Look, man. I'll give it to you straight," Jake frowns, eyes narrowing, "I know my wife is beautiful and perfect and all. That's why I married her. You got that? So, I think it's best if you leave her alone."
Sunghoon stares, wordless and expressionless, for a moment. Jake holds his ground, though the silence is starting to get uncomfortable. Maybe he'd been too confrontational. Too harsh. Of course, you and your safety are his number one concerns, but from the way the man's face softens so earnestly, the fear of having possibly misjudged the entire situation starts to creep up on him.
"My apologies. It seems I gave you the wrong impression," His tone is bashful and all too disarming, and he clears his throat as he reaches for his pocket. "You see, ever since I lost my wife, I've become a bit of a hermit. But for a pair of friendly neighbours, I thought I might try getting myself out of my shell."
Jake's frown drops. He stands there in the snow, feeling like a complete and total asshole. He'd been ready to defend your honour, all puffed up and protective and righteous, and instead he'd just threatened a lonely widower who was only being kind. His mother would be appalled. His pastor would probably have words: Lord, we lift up Jake, who apparently forgot every single thing we taught him about loving thy neighbor.
Sunghoon extends an envelope, wax-sealed and dignified, held out with a leather-gloved hand.
"Oh." Jake takes it, and the wax seal feels like a personal indictment. "I'm so sorry for your loss. I didn't mean to—I wasn't trying to—really, I just—I'm so sorry."
"It was a long time ago." Sunghoon waves him off with a gentle grace that makes Jake feel even worse, somehow. "I take no offence. I was also quite protective in my first year of marriage."
Jake nods, grateful for the absolution, and sighs.
"When you really love someone, it’s like you'd do anything for them. You know. Move mountains. Fight a bear. Or—" He gestures at the shovel, at his own puffed-up posture. "Accost a stranger in your own driveway, apparently."
"It's true." Sunghoon's mouth curves. "I once threatened a man on the street because he looked at my wife too long. She was mortified. I was unrepentant."
Jake laughs. "And she scolded you for it, I'll bet."
"Absolutely." Sunghoon's expression is something fond, something distant. "But you know..."
"The wife is always right," they say in unison.
"But we love them anyway."
"We do."
Jake smiles. It's the first time since moving here that he's felt something like this. The kind of easy conversation he used to have with friends back home, before the marriage, the move, the new job.
Sunghoon. An odd neighbour. He speaks as if he could be from another generation, hands out wax-sealed letters, and lives in a mysteriously large house all on his own.
Jake could understand why it might be off-putting. But Jake also remembers when you used to scream at the sight of your own shadow. When you'd cling to him at social gatherings in college and glare at every person in the room like they were trying to hurt you.
You've always been afraid. Of the dark. Of strangers. Of everything. He's learned to calibrate for it, to filter the world through the lens of your anxiety and adjust accordingly.
It's not intentionally dismissive. He listens. He tries to. But this time, he should've known that when you crawled into his arms crying over a neighbour who only did so much as look at you, that it would be what it always is: another false alarm.
A part of him still ponders what he could possibly mean by "a long time" when the man before him doesn't look a day over thirty. And even if he were, say, in his mid to late thirties... late thirties...? That's still too young to have lost a wife and had plenty of time to get over it. He does not dare to ask, though. You know, considering he's already accused the guy of hitting on his wife. Following that up with so, exactly how long has your dead wife been dead? feels like it might not improve the situation.
Sunghoon's gaze drifts. Past Jake, over his shoulder. Jake follows it to the kitchen window, where the curtain twitches. There's a flash of movement, quickly stilled. You've been watching the entire time.
"She mentioned being a bit timid," Sunghoon smiles a little, gaze torn away from the window. "If not both of you, perhaps just yourself? I would be glad to host regardless."
"He's weird, sure. But he went out of his way to invite us. I think he's just trying to be friendly in his own, you know, awkward sort of way." Jake rambles to himself over dinner. "A lot of the other couples on this block are a lot older than us. It would be nice to make friends with a guy my own age."
The dinner invitation sits open between you on the kitchen table, its wax seal broken, its cursive script elegant and old-fashioned. You stare at the words on the page, and all you can see is the way he looked at you through the window. The slow, knowing smile. The way his eyes had found yours through the glass, like he'd known exactly where you'd be.
"I think we should accept." Jake's tone of voice is unfortunately optimistic. And a part of you cannot believe half of what you're hearing, but the other part of you knows this is who you married: Jake, a man who assumes the best in everyone, who never enters a room expecting danger, who extends undeserved kindness to every stranger he meets. "Worst case, we learn to stay away. Best case, you have nothing to worry about. Either way, it will put your mind at ease."
Put your mind at ease. You nearly snort aloud. As if an evening in that house with that man could do anything but the opposite. Jake doesn't notice. He's already picturing the dinner party, already imagining a new friendship.
"...I'm not sure. Maybe we should think on it."
His smile falters. You know that look. It's the closest Jake ever gets to exasperation.
"Come on." He sets his fork down, and you feel the weight of his stare. "He lost his wife, and he lives in that creepy mansion all alone. Don't you feel a little bit bad?"
You offer no response, picking at your food. He gives you a few seconds, letting the tension-filled silence linger, and when it becomes clear you're not going to budge, he sighs.
"Well." He picks up his fork again, his jaw set with a gentle stubbornness. "You can think on it. I'm going."
"What?" Your fork is clattering against the table. "No. You can't go alone."
He blinks at you, fork hovering halfway to his mouth, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and the beginnings of a laugh. His brow furrows.
"Didn't know I needed supervision." The words come out light, almost teasing, but his eyes are still searching your face. He's trying to find the joke. When the smile doesn't come, the teasing edge fades from his voice. "I'm just going across the street, baby. What do you think is going to happen to me?"
"I'm just being cautious."
"Cautious?” He scoffs, “What, you think he’s an axe murderer or something?”
He waits for you to laugh, to roll your eyes, to admit you're exaggerating.
"Sweetheart.” His voice drops, frustration building up. “Be realistic. Seriously."
"I am realistic. He told me I looked vulnerable. Like it was a threat. Like I was in danger, I...” Your words are tumbling out faster now, more frantic, “He sniffed me. That's not normal, Jake. He—”
“Sure he did.”
It lingers in the air a moment, and you stare, suspended in disbelief at how he’s looking at you as if you are a child describing a monster in the closet.
“You think I’m making it up.”
The dismissal is worse than the doubt. He's not even taking it seriously enough to disbelieve. Your hands are trembling. You press them flat against the table.
"I didn’t mean it like that,” He starts, “Sweetheart—”
“You don’t believe me.”
"I believe…" He stops, taking a moment to reel in his thoughts. He lowers his voice to a tone that's more gentle and patient, acutely aware of how your breathing is growing uneven. "Maybe these nightmares are warping your perception of the people around you. Which is making you act a little judgmental."
He reaches across the table. His palm hovers over your knuckles, an offering. But you swat his hand away before it lands. It's a small gesture, but the impact of it lingers.
"You don't believe me." You repeat.
His frown is no longer patient.
"Do you even believe yourself?"
Jake looks at you, searching for something neither of you can name. For an answer. For understanding. For anything at all. You can't help the shame that creeps up on you, rotting you from the inside.
You don't know what you believe. All you know is that your dreams have a face now. The face lives at the end of your street and has invited you to dinner.
It would be so easy to say you're afraid of him. It wouldn't be a lie. But the truer explanation is also the most shameful: you want your neighbour. You've wanted him since he looked at you in the candlelight and made you feel like prey that was begging to be caught. But admitting that would mean admitting that the rot inside you was never his fault—That all of this has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the woman you've been trying not to be since you were old enough to know better.
You don't let yourself finish the thought. You never do.
Through the corner of your eye, through the kitchen window, a passing car's headlights reveal the sight of something in your yard. Something red, in contrast to the stark white snow, and you freeze.
"Listen, I’m not trying to argue. I'm really not. I'm just trying to help. You can’t be afraid of every stranger you—"
"I just saw something." The words leave your mouth before you've decided to say them. "Out there."
Jake stops. His eyes follow yours to the window, where the dark has settled back over the yard like a curtain drawn shut. When he looks back at you, his frown is firm.
Holding Jake's hand, you walk with him through ankle-deep snow, his flashlight flickering ever so slightly. The beam is weak but steady enough to catch the trail he's tracking: small animal footprints, evenly spaced, leading toward the hedge at the edge of the yard.
"There," you whisper, though you don't know why you're whispering. "Behind the bush."
He angles the light. For a moment, the snow is just white and clean and untouched. Then the beam catches it. A bright splash of red, vivid against the pale. It's fresh. Still wet.
"Oh my god." Your hand flies to your mouth.
Jake crouches, his jaw tight, and pushes aside the lowest branch. The cat lies curled beneath the hedge, its fluffy white coat matted with blood. Its neck is torn, and two small punctures sit just above the collar, neat, precise, too deliberate to be random. You'd seen it in movies. You'd seen it in the book Niki flipped through at the library.
That night, after Jake calls the old woman across the street and breaks the news that her beloved house pet lies lifeless in your front yard, you find yourself curled up against Jake's chest. Your violent shaking and panicked breathing had now simmered down into quiet breaths and subtle trembling.
"There were no other footprints around."
"Hm?" His voice is thick with the sleep he's been fighting off.
"The cat."
Jake doesn't sigh, but the way his chest rises and falls tells you he was hiding his frustration for your sake.
"It was dark." His hand resumes its slow circles on your back. "We probably just missed it."
"I know what I saw."
"What do you think it was then, hm?" He teases lazily, thoughtlessly. "A scary cat-killing monster with no footsteps?"
He means it as a joke. Mostly. But you don't miss the edge in his voice, how it's sharper than it would have been an hour ago, before the argument at the kitchen table, before the cold trek through the snow to find a dead cat in your yard.
"A vampire."
The word lands in the dark between you and just sits there. Jake goes still. Then, slowly, he shifts upright, disentangling himself from you. The loss of his warmth is immediate.
He looks at you. Really looks at you.
"Okay. What is going on with you?"
"You don't think it could be?" You try, “Two marks, side-by-side, at its neck. What kind of wild animal does that?”
"Is that a serious question?" He blinks at you, "Baby. Look at me. Please tell me you aren't serious."
You don't answer.
This time, he does sigh loudly, and with a small "come here," he's pulling you in his arms again. He settles back against the pillows, tucking you against his chest.
"Let's pretend, hypothetically, that your little conspiracy theories are real. All the vampires and the cat-killing monsters and the creepy neighbours with sharp teeth..." His voice is warm and tired and almost teasing. But mostly just exhausted. "Then I promise I'll protect you from all the big, bad, scary things out there. Okay? Does that make you feel better?"
It should. But all you can think about is the cat beneath the hedge. The two neat punctures above its collar. The way Sunghoon looked at Jake, curious and patient, eyes at his neck when he wasn't looking.
You don't need Jake to protect you. You need him to stay the hell away from that house. You need him somewhere the monster can't reach.
But he won't stay. He's made that clear.
"Jake?"
"Mm?" He's already drifting, the exhaustion finally pulling him under.
"I'll come with you."
You walk the short distance to the house at the corner hand in hand with your husband, his palm warm and steady around yours. The snow has stopped falling, leaving the street hushed and still, though you feel anything but peace. Jake's thumb traces small circles over your knuckles, a nervous habit he doesn't seem to notice.
"You're squeezing," you murmur.
"Am I?" He loosens his grip, shooting you a sheepish smile. "Sorry. I just want this to go well."
You know why. It's not just about making a good impression or redeeming himself for the confrontation in the driveway. He's trying to give you peace of mind, even if he has to manufacture it. A successful evening means a normal neighbour. A normal neighbour means your fears were just fears. He needs that to be true. For you and for himself.
The gate groans when Jake pushes it open, the iron scrollwork black and wet with melted frost. The cobblestone path is uneven beneath your boots, the same path you fled down some time ago with your heart in your throat and the phantom heat of a stranger's lips still burning on your knuckles. The house looms above you, every window dark, the curtains drawn against the fading afternoon light.
"Nice place, right?" Jake says under his breath. It's such a desperately optimistic read of the looming dark house in front of you. You'd call it a generous lie if you didn't know your husband any better.
The heavy double doors open before Jake can knock.
Sunghoon stands in the shadow of the threshold, tall and pale and composed. His smile is closed-lipped, polite, his eyes moving from Jake to you with an unhurried grace.
"Welcome." He steps aside, gesturing you in. "Please, come in out of the cold."
"I'd shake your hand, but my fingers are still thawing." Jake laughs, "Seriously though. Thanks so much for having us."
"The pleasure is mine. It's been a very long time since this house has had guests." Sunghoon guides the pair of you inside, and you don't miss the way his hand brushes your back. His gaze flicks to you, and the corner of his mouth lifts just slightly. "Welcome back."
You murmur something that might be thank you. The warmth of the foyer wraps around you as the door swings shut, but it does nothing to stop the chill working its way down your spine.
"Man, this place is insane. You could fit our whole house in this entryway." Jake is still shrugging off his coat, glancing around the foyer with wide, earnest eyes. He elbows you gently, grinning. "Why didn't we buy a creepy old mansion, babe?"
You don't answer, shedding your own coat, avoiding Sunghoon's stare.
"It's too much house for one person, I'm afraid. But it does have its charms." Sunghoon turns, gesturing toward the hall ahead. "Shall I give you the tour?"
"Yes, please." Jake nods enthusiastically, following him into the hall.
You trail behind.
Each room is just as beautiful as the last. The parlour with its heavy velvet drapes and furniture draped in dusty sheets. The study, lined floor to ceiling with books, a massive oak desk sitting dark and unused in the center. The dining room, where a long table has been set for three—candles flickering, silver gleaming. The formality of it all makes you feel like you've stepped into another century.
"My wife had a fondness for entertaining," Sunghoon says, noticing your gaze. "I'm afraid I've let the tradition lapse. You'll have to forgive me if I'm out of practice."
"Are you kidding? This is incredible." Jake claps him on the shoulder, already at ease. "Our dining table is just a couple of sad IKEA chairs."
It's in the music room that Jake stops dead in his tracks.
The grand piano sits in front of the large, draped windows. It's an ancient-looking thing, the legs intricately carved and the body engraved with winding patterns, with candelabras on either side, their wax frozen mid-drip. The ivory keys are yellowed with age, but the dark wood gleams, suggesting it's been properly maintained over the years.
Jake drifts toward it. His hand lifts before he seems to realize it, hovering just above the closed lid.
"No way," he breathes. "You play?"
"Occasionally. Though my wife was far better. It belonged to her." Sunghoon comes to stand beside him. "And you?"
"No, no. I just..." Jake runs a reverent hand over the closed lid. "I used to play guitar. Nothing fancy. Mostly in youth group, you know? Worship nights, that kind of thing."
"Ah, yes." Sunghoon's smile deepens. "A man of faith. Your wife mentioned it."
"Born and raised." Jake glances back at you, his expression bright with the pleasure of finding common ground. "Actually, I used to sing in the choir too, back when I was a kid. Drove the conductor insane because I could never remember the Latin verses."
"A church choir. Now that brings back memories." He hums, soft and almost wistful, "I sang as a child, too. Soprano, if you can believe it. Before my voice dropped and they had no more use for me."
"No way." Jake laughs, delighted. "Small world, huh? What denomination?"
"The details blur after a while." Sunghoon waves a hand, "Though I'm afraid my faith hasn't weathered the years as well as yours."
"Hey, I get it. Life has a way of testing you." Jake's hand finds yours, squeezing, as if to say, see? He's just a guy. A normal, lonely guy. "But the door's always open, right?"
"So I've heard."
You stand a few paces behind them, your hand limp in Jake's grip, listening to the easy rhythm of their conversation. It should be a comfort—your husband, making a friend, building the life you'd both imagined for yourselves in this new town. But all you can feel is the way Sunghoon's gaze keeps drifting toward you even as he speaks to Jake. The way his smile never quite reaches his eyes.
You drift away, taking in the rest of the room while their voices fade behind you.
The bookshelf is built into the far wall, floor to ceiling, packed with old volumes in dark, cracked leather. You let your eyes trace the spines without really seeing them—something to do, somewhere to look that isn't the two of them. Most of the titles are in languages you don't recognize. Latin, maybe. Something older.
Then your gaze snags.
A book bound in dark blue cloth, its cover embossed with a faded silver symbol you recognize instantly. You've seen it before. In the narrow library aisle, in the hands of a bored teenager. Instinctively, your hand reaches.
"Have you read it?"
The voice comes from directly behind you, close enough that you feel the words stir the hair at the nape of your neck. You flinch, spinning on your heel, and find Sunghoon standing less than an arm's length away. You hadn't heard him move. You hadn't heard anything at all.
You look around frantically. Jake. Where is Jake? Where did he—?
"It's local history, mostly. Folklore. Old superstitions." He reaches past you, his sleeve brushing your shoulder, and pulls the volume from the shelf. He turns it over in his hands, long pale fingers tracing the embossed symbol. "You don't strike me as the type to believe in such."
"I don't." You say too quickly, "I just find it interesting. The stories. The history."
"So you have read it."
His eyes meet yours. The candlelight catches them strangely, deepening the dark, and for a moment, you can't look away. You don’t want to. Nor do you want to keep trying to convince yourself that the way he looks at you is anything normal.
"What about you?" You tilt your chin up. "Do you believe any of it is real?"
"I think I’ve told you before. I believe in many things." He slides the book back onto the shelf. "They say curiosity is a dangerous thing. It can be. Though I think a curious mind, who is drawn to things they cannot explain, is putting themselves in far more danger by resisting their nature."
"One might call it resistance. One might also call it none of your concern."
The words come out sharper than you intended. Sunghoon smiles, slow and knowing.
"The scaredy cat has claws." He doesn't step back. His gaze doesn't waver.
Against your will, your mind flashes back to the cat in your front yard, lying bloody and lifeless in the snow. A shudder runs through you.
Jake's footsteps echo in the hallway, and Sunghoon steps back, the space between you reasserting itself as if it had never closed.
"Anyway." Sunghoon's voice lifts, smooth and easy, perfectly timed to Jake's reappearance in the doorway. "It's quite an interesting read, even for a skeptic."
"Sorry about that." He says, expression half sheepish. "I kind of got lost on the way to the bathroom. This house is—yeah. What'd I miss?"
"Your wife was admiring my library," Sunghoon replies. "She has excellent taste."
The three of you sit at one end of the long dining room table, silverware grasped in your unsteady hands, your wine glass untouched. Sunghoon brought out the first course—something rich and dark, red wine sauce pooling on porcelain. It smells delicious, and you watch Jake dig into it thoughtlessly. You move the food around your plate instead. Your mother would scold you for bad table manners, but you don't owe this man any manners. Not when he’s charming your husband to his face, and cornering you when he’s out of sight.
"So only a few weeks," Sunghoon says, refilling Jake's glass with a bottle that had no label. "Married, moved in, new job. You've been busy."
"Busy doesn't even cover it." Jake is already reaching for his glass, his shoulders loosening with each sip. "I barely have time to do anything like this anymore. Socializing, I mean. As much as I love being cooped up with my other half..." He shoots you a wink. "This is nice. Really nice."
"It is." Sunghoon hums in agreement. "I remember what it was like. The demands on a new husband can feel endless. The pressure to build something lasting, to be enough for someone who's given you everything."
"Yeah." Jake exhales, something in his posture softening. "Exactly. It's a lot sometimes."
Sunghoon's gaze drifts to yours.
"Of course, it's hard on the wives, too. I'm sure." He says. "The adjustment can be difficult. Old habits. Old fears. They don't disappear just because there's a ring on your finger."
Jake doesn't seem to notice how you shift in discomfort. He’s already nodding, already raising his glass in a loose, tipsy agreement. He doesn't hear the implication. He doesn't see the way Sunghoon's eyes haven't left your face. He doesn’t listen to you when you tell him to stop drinking, either.
One bottle turned into two, and you don't know how many glasses you've watched your husband down, but you know with certainty that he's far gone as you sit in the living room, stiff and silent while the men chat away. You don't listen. You're too busy noticing how your heart beats faster than the ticking grandfather clock in the corner, eagerly waiting to leave.
The fire has burned down to embers, a low red pulse that makes the shadows stretch along the walls. The record crackles to life, piano drifting through the air. Something slow and minor.
"My wife adored Chopin's nocturnes, but I preferred his sonatas. Though one could argue that everything he composed was excellent." Sunghoon places the record sleeve down, the edges worn. "I used to listen to this one to clear my head."
Jake stirs against you, lifting his head with visible effort.
"Oh yeah?" His voice is thick, syrupy. He squints at the record sleeve in Sunghoon's hands, then back at you. "I know someone who could use that."
He looks straight at you. His eyes are glassy, fond, and painfully oblivious. You glare.
"I'm just teasing, baby." His hand finds your thigh, squeezing. A drunken peace offering. It doesn't help at all. "Just teasing."
"Careful." Sunghoon's voice is closer now, light and teasing as he slides into the couch across from you two. "You'll end up sleeping on the couch tonight."
Jake snorts, and you watch something loosen in his shoulders—watch him lean into the camaraderie of it, the easy, too-easy understanding that passes between them. He gestures with his glass, the dregs of wine sloshing against the crystal.
"She wouldn't let me. Who else is going to protect her from all the scary monsters and the dark?" He rolls his eyes, affectionately dismissive.
"Jake." It comes out as a whisper, a plea.
"You're scared of the dark?"
"She's scared of everything." Jake interrupts, his words slurring. "Scared of the dark. Scared of being alone. Scared of herself, even." He raises his hands in surrender, palms out, the gesture loose and exaggerated. "Don't ask me why. Nobody knows why. I've been trying to figure it out since we met, and I've got nothing."
He lets his hands drop, gazing at you with a sad, broken look in his eyes. Something only alcohol could drag out of him, and something he'll hate himself for in the morning.
"I don't know how to help." He continues, "I don't know what to do. I never know what to—"
"Jake, stop it."
He blinks at you, the awareness that he's crossed a line he definitely shouldn't have dawning on him all at once. His shoulders hunch, invisible weight pressing down on him.
"Right. I should shut my mouth. I know, I know." He sets his glass down on the side table, clumsy, the stem rattling. His hand finds your knee and pats it twice, a sloppy apology. "I don't know what I'm saying. I'm not trying to be mean, sweetheart. I just… don't understand you."
"I know."
"I try. I promise, I try."
"I know you do." You soothe him, feeling his weight press against you. You turn to Sunghoon. "I think he's had too much to drink. We should probably—"
"I try, just..." He exhales, long and slow, the last of the fight going out of him. "Just... can't..."
His head dips forward. His shoulders go slack. The weight of him against your side becomes dead weight, heavy and still.
"Jake?" Your hand moves to his chest, shaking gently. Nothing.
His breathing remains deep and even, but there's no flicker of consciousness beneath his eyelids, no reflexive squeeze of his hand where it lies slack in yours.
"Your husband." Sunghoon hasn't moved from his chair. The firelight catches the pale angle of his jaw, the dark gleam of his eyes. "He's lovely."
"He is." The words come out defensive.
His gaze then drops to your throat.
Your hand twitches up. Beneath your blouse, the cross rests against your heated skin. You wore it like this on purpose, tucked away so you wouldn't be tempted to reach for it, so he wouldn't have the satisfaction of seeing you clutch it like a shield. Still, your muscle memory betrays you.
"Though, not quite as lovely as you."
You dart your gaze away immediately, redirecting your attention to Jake. You shake him with less care and more urgency.
"Jake." You hiss his name under your breath, a prayer and a plea. "Jake, wake up."
He returns nothing. Not a twitch. Not a flicker of consciousness.
"Please." Your voice is rising now, shedding its careful composure. "Please, Jake—"
"He's not going to wake up."
Sunghoon's voice is certain.
Your hand stills on Jake's shoulder.
"What did you do to him?" Your voice is low. Gone was the politeness you'd faked for your husband's sake.
He smiles.
"Nothing. He drank my wine. Enjoyed good company. That's all." Sunghoon states plainly, "He's exhausted. You've noticed it, haven't you? The dark circles. The way he collapses the moment he's home."
Your gaze drops to Jake's face. To the shadows pooled beneath his eyes. The way his hand, even in sleep, rests on your thigh like he's still trying to anchor you. Your throat tightens. You've done this to him. Your fears. Your clinging. And—
"And the nightmares," Sunghoon continues, his head tilting. "The things you call nightmares. They must be so tiring for him to tend to."
A slow, creeping horror spreads through your chest as you stare back at him.
"But they're not really nightmares." His voice drops, low and intimate. "They never have been."
You move before you can think.
"Jake." Your hand closes around Jake's arm. You pull, trying to drag him upright, trying to haul his dead weight off the couch. "Jake, get up. We're leaving. We're leaving right now—"
His body is heavy and uncooperative, slumping against you, and you're not strong enough, but you try regardless. You try because you can see Sunghoon start to rise from where he's seated from the corner of your eye.
You reach to set down your wine glass. You need both hands. You need to grip Jake properly and drag him out of this house, even if you have to crawl. But your hands are shaking, and the glass comes down too fast.
It shatters.
The sound is obscene in the quiet—a bright, crystalline burst, shards scattering across your hand, across the coffee table and onto the carpet.
Immediately, the pain rises through your palm, and you hiss, jerking your hand back. You watch the blood well up—dark in the low light, beading along the cut and spilling over, sliding down the curve of your wrist.
A single drop falls to the carpet.
Then you hear it. A low, ragged inhale, shuddering and deep, as if the air itself has become something to be devoured. Your head lifts before you can stop it.
He's already above you, his presence caging you into the couch, and the expression on his face has changed. His eyes are dark. His lips have parted. His whole body is still, but it is not the stillness of composure. It is the stillness of a predator in the moment before the strike.
He reaches down. Takes your wrist. The motion is nothing gentle, but there is a restraint in his grip that makes your pulse hammer against his fingers. He draws your bleeding hand toward his face, eyes fixed on the red tracing its way down your palm. He lowers his mouth to it.
"Sunghoon—"
He inhales, and the groan that escapes him is low and guttural, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. It is pure hunger, pure want, and it makes your thighs press together where you sit, a traitorous heat blooming low in your belly that you cannot control.
"What are you?" Your voice is a mere whisper, weak and trembling. "What do you want from me?"
"You know what I am. You've known me a very long time." His fangs catch the firelight, sharp and unmistakable. He turns your wrist over, watching a bead of blood trace down your palm. "As for what I want... All I've ever wanted is what you promised me all those years ago."
The memories come back to you all at once: The dreams. The cold hands on your bare skin. The sharp teeth sinking into your neck while you begged for it, night after night, year after year. The presence at your window that was never a nightmare at all.
It's always been him.
"For so long, I've waited." He shudders, and the sound is almost pained. "For even just a taste of what is mine."
You watch, frozen, as his lips close around your fingers. His tongue moves against your wounded hand, lapping at the blood with a hunger that feels obscene. His eyes flutter shut. A tremor runs through him, and you feel it echoed in your own body.
Your husband lies sleeping three feet away, a monster is drinking from your hand like a man dying of thirst, and you cannot speak. You cannot do anything but watch and feel the shameful heat pooling between your thighs, the ache you've spent a lifetime trying to pray away now so acute it nearly doubles you over.
A whimper catches in your throat. You try to swallow it back, but it escapes anyway, small and utterly pathetic. His eyes open at the sound, fixed on yours as you watch the slow movement of his throat as he swallows. Your breath is coming short, and you nearly forget how to breathe entirely when his knee comes up to the couch, just between your thighs as he leans over you. Your free hand is pressed flat against your thigh to keep it from reaching for him.
When he finally pulls his mouth from your fingers, a thin strand of saliva, stained with your blood, connects his lower lip to your skin.
"Just a taste..." he breathes, the words ragged. His grip on your wrist tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to make clear he is holding himself back by a thread. "It's not enough."
"Please," You shake your head. "Please, I don't—"
"Don't you remember? The way you kneeled before me. How I answered your call." His voice drops. "I promised you relief—in exchange for you. For your blood. Your flesh. Your soul. Your innocence. We made a deal."
The soul-contract.
Permanent. Mutual. Even if the vampire dies, the connection doesn't break.
You had hoped it was all folklore. Even after you saw his fangs, after he tasted your blood. Some small part of you clung to the belief that the promise you made at your window was nothing more than a desperate girl's cry into the dark.
But the deal was real. Your marriage, your faith, your husband's gentle love—none of it could change what you'd already given away.
"Why now?" Your voice cracks. "Why me. Why—"
"You have no idea how torturous it was. To be bound to someone I could not reach." His voice is ragged now, stripped of its usual composure. "To feel your wanting every night. Your dreams, your shame. To be unable to touch you. To be unable to drink you. Unable to even stand at your window and watch you."
His eyes find yours, and the hurt in them is so raw, so genuine, that for a moment you forget he's a monster.
"And then you moved across the river. Across the street. I thought—finally. Finally, she's come to me." His expression hardens. "But you came with him. You let another man touch what was already mine. How could you do that to me?"
The running water barrier—they can't cross it.
You remember when you viewed the house in this neighbourhood. The unmistakable, almost unsettlingly strong pull you'd felt. You'd taken it as a sign from God that this place was right. That your future belonged here.
So you left your childhood home behind. You crossed the southern river. You brought yourself within his reach, and you brought your husband with you.
God. He hadn't been the one to answer your prayers. He hadn't guided you on the right path, either. Perhaps you'd let him down too many times. Perhaps your faith was too bleak, too fragile. Or perhaps he'd stopped listening altogether the night you knelt at your window and begged for something He couldn't give.
"I felt everything. Every touch. Every kiss. His name on your lips." His gaze cuts to Jake's sleeping form, a strange sort of understanding surfacing beneath his frown. "I even felt your love for him."
He is quiet for a long moment, and so are you. Then, his gaze returns to you.
"I cannot understand how you could love someone else. Though, I also cannot blame you for needing someone in my absence."
His mouth is at your throat now. You feel the graze of his fangs against the thin skin over your pulse, the place where your blood beats closest to the surface.
"But I am here now. Do not deny me any longer." His voice is a murmur against your neck, each word a brush of cool lips. "I've been so patient, my love."
Your pulse is racing, warm and alive under his cold touch. Your blood sings to him, practically begging to be taken. Though he doesn't bite.
You remember why before you can question it: The soul-contract requires permission.
Your body is screaming for you to give in. Your hand wants to curl into his hair and press him closer to your neck, to offer yourself and enjoy every second of it, the way you have done so in every dream you've ever had of him. You are trembling with the effort of holding yourself still as you imagine the pleasure, the relief.
Then you look to Jake, the peaceful look on his face, his soft breathing.
"Don't."
His hand stills. Then it withdraws entirely. The loss of contact is almost worse than the touch—your skin aching where his palm had rested, your pulse hammering against nothing.
His expression shifts, tenderness replaced with something wounded.
"That night." Your voice trembles, but you force the words out. "It was a mistake. I was young. And desperate. That's all it was."
"You can lie to your husband. You can even lie to yourself. But you cannot lie to me." He frowns. "I can smell your desire from down the street. It reeks."
"I don't desire this. I don't. I don't want it. I just want to be left alone." You shake your head as the words fall out, painfully unconvincing. The tears come before you can stop them, spilling over your cheeks. "Please. Please leave me alone."
He watches you weep, ever so still and silent. Then, his hand rises, near your face. For a moment, you let yourself lean into the possibility of the touch, the cold comfort of his fingertips.
"These tears." His voice is barely a whisper as a single finger traces the track of your tears. "You only cry because you continue to deny yourself."
You sniffle. Blink. Meet his gaze through the wet blur of your lashes.
"You've tormented me for years." You try to sound angry. Your voice doesn't obey. "You've ruined me. And now you're ruining my marriage."
"Tormented?" His brows furrow, and he studies your face—the parted lips, the flushed cheeks, the wet gleam of your eyes. His hand remains at your cheek. His touch is cold. It soothes, momentarily, the all-consuming heat inside you. "You have it all wrong. I've loved you for years."
"Love." You'd laugh if you weren't crying, "You're not in love. You're hungry."
"Hunger is the purest form of love. It doesn't think. It doesn't negotiate. It simply wants." He tilts his head. "You know that. You've been hungry your whole life. You hunger for something only I can give you. Something only we can share."
You think of the ache. The one that never goes away. The one you've tried to pray away, fuck away, hide away in the deepest part of yourself. It pulses now, insistently, and you know he could make it stop.
You pull away regardless. Your body screams, but you ignore it. You will not give in to temptation. You will resist.
"Stay away from me."
His expression doesn't change, but the air between you feels as if it does. He looks at you for a long, unreadable moment. Then he inclines his head.
"Very well."
The firelight catches his face—his terribly beautiful face. It hurts to even look at him.
"You're stubborn." His hand drifts from your neck, his gaze longing. "So was I."
He brings his palm to your forehead, and your eyelids grow heavy. The weight of slumber threatens to pull you under, and you try to fight it, but your body is no longer yours to command. It hasn't been for a long time.
"But you know, my dear..." His voice is the last thing you hear, "A vampire still needs to feed."
His gaze shifts past you. Toward the couch. Toward Jake.
You aren't able to protest. The record still plays, the second sonata in its third movement, and it lulls you, allowing the darkness to swallow you whole.
You wake slowly, your body rising before your mind can follow. The first thing you register is warmth. The second is wetness, a slick, shameful heat between your thighs that tells you the dreams have come again even if you can't remember them.
The third is the press of your husband's body against your back. Hard. Insistent.
"Shit, baby." Jake's voice is rough, his arm tightening around your waist. "You're killing me."
Your husband.
You lurch forward, twisting in his grip, your hands finding his shoulders and pushing him flat against the mattress so you can climb over him. Your heart is pounding from the images that linger at the edge of your memory like a flickering candle flame. His face. His teeth. Your blood on his lips. The way your husband slumped against the couch, and how he moved towards him.
"Jake!" The name tears out of you. Your hands cup his face, thumbs pressing into his cheekbones, tilting his head left and right. "Jake, you're alive."
He blinks up at you, squinting against the pale morning light. His hair is a mess, flattened on one side, and there's a crease from the pillow pressed into his cheek.
"Ugh. Barely." He groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. "How much did I drink last night? I feel like I got hit by a truck."
Your hands are still on his face, your eyes still searching.
"Do you... do you remember anything?"
"Uh..." He hums, his brow furrowing with the effort of recollection. "The meal was amazing. And the wine. A lot of wine. And..." He shifts, adjusting himself with a wince. "I remember thinking our neighbour's a really cool guy."
Your heart drops into your stomach.
"I could see myself being friends with him."
Friends. With him. With that monster. You bite your tongue.
"Do you remember anything else?" You ask a little quieter this time.
"Should I be remembering something else?" He props himself up on his elbows, his expression shifting from groggy to concerned. "Did something happen?"
"Do you remember passing out on his couch?"
His eyes widen.
"I did? Shit. That's... so embarrassing." His hands come up to his face, a half-groan, half-laugh leaving him. "It was fun, though. You had a good time too, right?"
You don't answer. Your gaze drifts to his neck, to the skin just below his jaw. There they are. Two small punctures, red and slightly raised, the skin around them faintly bruised.
A vampire needs to feed.
You reach, your fingertips brushing the wounds. Jake flinches.
"What is that?" He twists away from your touch, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and stumbling toward the mirror above the dresser. He tilts his chin, squinting at his reflection. "Huh. Looks like mosquito bites or something. Weird time of year for bugs."
"Vampire bite."
Jake's eyes meet yours in the mirror. For a moment, his expression is unreadable—caught somewhere between confusion and a smile, like he's waiting for the punchline. Then his face settles into something flatter. Tired.
"Ha. Yeah, right. Very funny." He turns from the mirror, reaching for a T-shirt on the floor. "Don't tell me you're still serious about that."
"I am serious."
He pauses, one arm in his sleeve, the other still free. He turns to look at you over his shoulder, his expression wholeheartedly, genuinely, bewildered with disbelief.
"Baby." He pulls the shirt the rest of the way on. His voice is groggy, too tired to give your seeming absurdity any real argument. "Come on."
"You don't understand, you—" At the fuzzy recollection of the previous night—the glass shattering in your hand, and the wound he licked clean, you scramble to show Jake your hand, holding out your right palm. "Look. I cut my hand and he..."
Your voice trails off, seeing your hand. You turn your hand over, flexing your fingers. You know you didn't imagine the pain of the glass piercing your skin. You know you watched him devour the blood from your open wound. And yet, there isn't a single mark. Not even a faint scar. Not a trace of proof to show him.
"Sweetheart. Look at me." Jake says slowly, calmly. "Are you actually suggesting that our neighbour—who, by the way, invited us into his home and made us dinner—is a vampire?" He waits, watching you. Watches how you don't answer, how you ignore him and continue to inspect your hand for proof that isn't there. "You can't be serious. Vampires aren't real. They're Halloween costumes. They're shitty movies. They're— "
"Jake. Just—look at your neck." You gesture, and his hand flies up instinctively to the wound. "It's literally right there. We're both looking at it."
"These are—I don't know what they are. An allergic reaction. A spider bite. I don't know. But it's not..." He stops himself, shaking his head. "You believe this. You actually, genuinely believe that Sunghoon is a vampire?"
"He is."
Neither of you moves.
Jake stares at you. You stare back. And for a long, strange moment, you're both just standing there in your bedroom looking at each other like you've each just discovered the other is speaking a foreign language.
"I don't..." He passes a hand over his face. "I don't even know what to say to that."
"Say you believe me."
"I don't." He exhales, long and slow. "Baby, you're asking me to believe in actual, literal monsters who drink blood and sleep in a coffin and turn into bats."
"He doesn't turn into a bat, or—"
"Oh, well, that's reassuring. Thank you for clarifying." He scoffs. "I can't believe what I'm hearing. I can't—it's too early for this."
"Jake," you plead, "I know it sounds crazy. But I know what I saw."
"What did you see?"
The question hangs in the air between you. He poses it the same way he always does, when he asks about your nightmares. And you realize, with a sinking, gut-wrenching clarity, that there is no answer you can give that he will believe. You could describe the fangs—sharp and white and gleaming in the firelight. You could describe the sound he made when he smelled your blood, animalistic and starving. You could describe the way his mouth closed around your fingers, the way his tongue moved against your skin as he drank from your hand. You could spend hours, talking in circles, trying to explain it. It doesn't matter. Jake didn't see it. He would only look at you with those patient, loving eyes and say you had a nightmare or you were scared and the wine got to your head. "Hey." His voice softens. He crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed beside you, his hand finding yours. "I'm not trying to make you feel bad."
"I know."
"Where is this coming from?" He asks, "The vampire talk. Is it your dreams?"
You nod. It's true, even if not the whole truth.
"Tell me about them." His thumb traces your hand. "I know you don't like talking about your dreams. But I can't help you if you don't tell me."
Jake waits. When nothing comes, he squeezes your hand.
"Please. I want to understand. Please give me something." His fingers lace through yours, intertwined with his hand, "I'm your husband. You can tell me anything."
The words are right there. My dreams, my sins, the things I prayed for in the dark, the monster that answered. But they don't come. Saying them out loud means admitting what you'd done, what you brought into your marriage and haunts the space between your thighs when you wake in the dark. What you still, in the deepest and most secret part of yourself, want.
He wouldn't see the woman he thought he married. He'd see filth. Sin. Your rotting, corrupted soul. A woman who begged evil to touch her.
"I don't think my dreams are just dreams anymore." The words come out barely a whisper. You can't bring yourself to tell him the rest. "I'm so scared, Jake."
The sob that follows is ugly and raw. You crawl into his lap like you did a few weeks ago, your fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt, your face pressed to the warm hollow of his throat. And he holds you. Like he always does. Like he's come to expect.
"Okay," he murmurs into your hair. "Okay. I've got you. It's okay."
But it's not okay. Even now, with his arms around you and his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, you feel it. That hunger. A ravenous void inside you, hot and insistent and utterly indifferent to the tears still drying on your cheeks. It never leaves. It's always there.
Your hand moves before you can stop it. Sliding up his chest. Curling into the collar of his shirt. Your mouth finds his.
He lets you kiss him, his lips parting under yours, a small sound of surprise caught in his throat. His hands come up to your waist, steadying you, and for a moment it's like every other time—the familiar heat, the familiar hunger, the familiar way your body presses into his like he's the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.
You climb deeper into his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. You roll against him, a slow, desperate grind, chasing the friction that might quiet the ache for even a few seconds.
You need him to be enough. You need him to be the answer, the cure, the thing that scares the monster out of you.
"Baby." His voice is breathless, his hands tightening on your waist. "Slow down."
You don't—you can't. Slowing down means thinking, and thinking means remembering the cold hands, the sharp teeth, his mouth on your fingers while your husband slept three feet away. So you kiss him harder. You grind down against the pressure in his underwear, a desperate little sound escaping your throat.
"Hey." His grip shifts, trying to tame you. "Hey, slow down. Just—"
Your hand drops to grasp him, but he's quicker than you. He closes around your wrists, and your back hits the mattress, his weight settling over you, his knees bracketing your hips. He keeps your hands pinned down on either side of your head, breathing heavy above your form.
You thrash. Not playfully, either. Not with a smile or a giggle or a pout. It's a full-body thrash, fuelled by a sharp and sudden frustration, verging on genuine anger. You twist beneath him, trying to free your hands, trying to arch up into the heat of his body.
"Stop." His voice is quiet. "Just stop. For a second."
You thrash again. You hiss his name, and you even try to kick him, but he shifts his weight enough to keep you fully restrained. He doesn't budge. His grip on your wrists is secure, his weight solid and unmovable.
It's only when you feel your tears sliding from your temples into your hairline that you realize you're still crying. You must look insane. You must look like exactly what you are: a woman trying to fuck her way out of her own damnation.
"Please." The word comes out broken, barely a whisper. You don't know if you're asking him to let go or to never let go.
"No." He shakes his head. "We're not doing this."
"Why not?"
"Every time you get scared, or something upsets you, you climb into my lap and kiss me. I don't know what you're trying to do or why, but..." His voice isn't quite as steady as it usually is. A hitch in his breath, a flicker of something else. He swallows. "I can't just fuck the hurt out of you. It's not right."
"It helps." Your voice cracks. "Please. Just help me."
He stares down at you. His eyes are so tired. So unbearably, impossibly tired. And beneath the exhaustion, there's something you've never seen before.
"Sweetheart." He whispers. "You're scaring me."
Your body goes slack beneath him, but his grip doesn't loosen. He still holds your wrists against the mattress, still keeps his weight braced above you, still watches you with those wide, careful eyes. Like you've gone rabid.
He shouldn't have to hold me down, you think. A good wife doesn't need to be restrained.
A good wife doesn't claw at her husband while she's still crying. A good wife doesn't grind against him like a bitch in heat, chasing a relief he can't give her, chasing a hunger that has nothing to do with love. A good wife doesn't show her burning desire. Desire belongs to the husband. It's his to wield and use, and for her to accept it.
But here you are. Pinned to your own marriage bed for all the wrong reasons, your face wet with tears you can't explain, your body still aching with a want he didn't ask for—a want to be consumed, to be devoured without shame, without guilt. Of course he doesn't know what to do with it. You crave something he cannot give you.
The fight drains out of you all at once, leaving nothing but the hollow ache and the shame and the terrible, traitorous thought that rises up before you can stop it.
Sunghoon wouldn't stop.
Sunghoon wouldn't be scared. He would see the hunger on your face and recognize it. He would give you exactly what you were asking for. He would pin you to the mattress and sink his teeth into your throat and make the ache disappear. He wouldn't try to save you. He would let you drown.
"Baby?"
Jake's voice cuts through the dark. You blink, and the fantasy recedes, with Sunghoon's face dissolving, the cold hands retreating, the sharp teeth fading back into the shadows where they belong.
Your husband is still there. Still hovering over you with that furrow between his brows, that gentle, worried look he's been wearing for weeks. He's been talking. You haven't been listening.
"I think I know what's going on."
You look up.
"We haven't been to church in weeks. Either of us. Ever since the wedding, we've just... let it slip." His voice is so certain. "You're losing touch with God, and it's scaring you."
Losing touch.
Your eyes land on the cross around his neck, catching the pale light from the window. It's the same one he was wearing when you met him all those years ago. You've never seen him without it.
Jake is a good Christian. He always has been. His faith has never wavered, never faltered, never turned its back on him the way yours turned its back on you.
Foolishly, you'd once hoped that his goodness might rub off on you, that marrying a man who loved God so easily might help you remember how to do the same. Now you wonder if you're doing the opposite. If you're the one dragging him away from the light.
"I'm not saying it's the whole answer. I'm just saying... maybe it's a start." He presses a kiss to your head. "Let's go. Together. It can't hurt, right?"
The hope in your chest is as steady as a single lit candle in the wind. Somehow, it still burns—It flickers, it wavers, but it still burns. You don't know if it's because you're too stubborn to let it go out, or if you only cling to it because it's the only thing you know.
"Yeah," You nod. You try a smile, though it feels stiff against your cheeks. "Let's go."
The church is small and quaint, an old-fashioned-looking chapel. Stained glass windows filter in colour from the grey winter light, and the air smells of incense and old wood and the faint, sweet perfume of the elderly women who fill the front pews.
You sit near the back, and Jake holds your hand throughout the opening prayers, his thumb tracing those same familiar circles. When the choir rises to sing, he glances at you with a small, encouraging smile. See? the smile says. This is where we belong.
You try to feel it. You close your eyes. You bow your head. You let the Latin verses wash over you, the same ones Jake joked about forgetting as a boy—Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis—and wait for the peace that is supposed to follow.
The prayers feel hollow in your mouth, words without meaning. The hymns rise and fall, but they bring you no peace. The stained glass saints stare down at you with flat, judgmental eyes, and you feel the weight of their disapproval.
You don't belong here. You are sitting in the house of God with the stain of your dreams still fresh on your skin, with the memory of a monster's eyes and sharp teeth and the wet heat of your own arousal clinging to you beneath your skirt. You are filthy.
Jake squeezes your hand, and you flinch.
"You okay?" he whispers.
You look at him, his smile, his earnest concern.
You don't belong. You are filthy, you are damned. But you are trying. God help you, you are trying.
Returning the squeeze of his hand, you nod.
The service drags on. The priest's homily is about faith in times of trial, about holding fast to belief when the world grows dark around you. You sit with your hands folded in your lap, your spine rigid, listening to the words but taking in none of it.
When the final blessing is given, and the congregation rises to leave, you feel like you've been holding your breath for an hour and only just now remembered how to exhale.
"See?" Jake says, his arm slipping around your waist as you walk toward the doors. "That was nice, right?"
"Hey, lady!"
The voice echoes through the vestibule, bright and unmistakable, and you freeze. Jake turns, his arm still around you, and you watch his expression shift from confusion to surprise as a lanky figure in a rumpled button-up shirt comes bounding toward you through the thinning crowd.
Niki. From the library. The collar of his shirt askew. His hair looks like it hasn't seen a comb since last Sunday. And he's grinning like you're the most exciting thing to happen to him all week.
"Hey, lady! And sir—" He glances at Jake, giving him a quick, awkward nod. "Lady's husband. Hi."
"We need to go," you say quickly, your hand tightening on Jake's arm. "Sorry, Niki, we're—"
"What's this?" Jake's free hand has already reached out, plucking a slim paperback from the boy's grip before either of you can react. He turns it over, reading the cover. "Vampire lore, huh?"
Jake turns the book toward you. The cover shows a shadowed figure with glowing eyes, looming over a sleeping woman. The Old World Vampire: A Study of Belief, Burial, and Blood.
"I keep it in the Bible during service," Niki grabs it back, oblivious to how Jake's expression flickers with all the shock, scandal, and the distant horror of a youth group alumnus at the thought of someone tucking something so unholy between the pages of Scripture. "Please don't tell my mom. She'd kill me if she knew I was reading this stuff in church."
Jake doesn't respond to Niki. He's looking at you now, and the lightness in his voice is a thin veneer over something sharper.
"Sweetheart." He waits until you meet his eyes. "How exactly do you know this kid?"
"We met at the library. A few weeks ago."
"Dude." Niki is staring at Jake now with unbearable sincerity. "Your wife is so cool."
Jake blinks, the exhaustion in his face flickering. His brow lifts almost imperceptibly as he glances at you, a question forming at the corner of his mouth. Something in his expression is almost amused.
"She's the only person in this entire town who cares about this stuff. My mom literally tried to get the pastor to purify me one time because of my 'satanic theories' but she—" He jabs a finger toward you, his face alight. "She gets it."
The amusement dies.
"What stuff?"
You can feel Jake's stare now, the weight of it pressing against the side of your face. You don't return it.
Niki opens his mouth to answer, but Jake raises a hand.
"I'm asking her."
The silence that follows has Niki's grin faltering. He looks at you, then at Jake, just catching up to the tension in the room.
"History. Folklore." You swallow, "The occult—"
"Vampires." Jake finishes for you, flatly. Then turns to Niki. "My wife talks to you about vampires, is that it?"
Niki blinks, nodding enthusiastically. "You're so lucky, man. Seriously. I've got no one to talk to about this stuff and you just, like, get to be married to her. That's insane."
"Yeah. Lucky me."
"We should go," you say quickly. "Goodbye — "
"Wait!" Niki is already digging in his pocket, his fingers closing around a crumpled scrap of paper. "I wanted to give you this. My Discord."
He points at the username scrawled across the paper: xX_vampK1_Xx "I kept waiting for you to come back to the library, but you never did, so..." He thrusts it toward you, his expression almost painfully eager. "Message me? Please?"
From the distance, a woman's voice calls out. "Niki! Car. Now."
"That's my mom." He shoves the paper into your hand, his fingers cold and quick. "Okay, bye lady! Bye, lady's husband!"
And then he's gone, swallowed by the crowd of departing church-goers, leaving you standing in the vestibule with a scrap of paper in your fist and your husband staring at the side of your face.
The drive home is quiet.
Jake doesn't speak until you're through the front door, until his keys are tossed onto the hall table and his coat is shed. You shed yourself of your own coat, the small paper Niki had handed you still folded in its pocket.
"When I said go out to town and make friends," he says, his voice carefully level, "I didn't think you'd go befriending... emo teenagers."
You don't answer. You smooth the sleeve of your coat, align it on the hanger and close the closet door with a soft click.
"Kid gave you his Discord in front of me. At church. Ballsy, I'll give him that." A laugh, but there's nothing funny about his tone. "Must've really charmed him with all that vampire talk."
"Don't tell me you're jealous of a high schooler." You turn to face him finally, your back against the closet door.
"You know that's not it." His arms cross over his chest. "You never told me you went to the library. You never told me you were—what, researching? Talking with some kid who hides monster books inside his Bible?"
You push off the door and walk past him, into the kitchen. Away from the hurt in his eyes that you can't quite bear to witness.
"You're keeping secrets from me." He raises his voice ever so slightly, not enough to startle you, but enough to be heard from down the hall. "You're not going to explain yourself?"
His footsteps trail behind you. You reach the sink and turn on the faucet, letting the water run for no reason at all. Just sound. Something to drown out the shame.
"I went to the library to read about vampires. Because I thought—Because I know our neighbour is a vampire." You say, "And I didn't tell you because I knew you would look at me like... this."
Jake exhales, a long, measured breath.
You turn off the faucet, eyes glued to the tub of hot water, but you don't reach for any dishes.
"You don't believe me. So why would I tell you?"
His hands find your shoulders, warm and steady, and he turns you gently away from the sink. Away from the dirty dishes and the pretense that any of this is normal.
"I believe that you believe it." His thumbs trace the curve of your shoulders. "I believe you're scared. I believe something is wrong. I just don't think it's what you think it is."
"That's not the same thing."
"No. It's not."
He's quiet for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he guides you. His hand finds the small of your back. He pulls out a chair at the kitchen table and waits until you sit. Then he sits across from you and takes both your hands in his.
"Don't keep things from me." His voice is low, but it sounds like a plea. "I don't care how crazy it is. Even if you became a madwoman, I would never leave you. Never." He squeezes your hands. "Please. Don't hide. Don't push me away."
"I'm sorry," you look down at your joined hands. "I'm sorry that I'm like this. I'm sorry I can't just be normal."
"Stop. Don't apologize." He lifts one hand to your chin, tilting your face up until you meet his eyes. "I love you. I'll love you 'til the day I die."
You nod, sucking in a breath. You think you would be crying if you hadn't already shed all your tears earlier that morning.
"I love you too."
He nods, but the furrow in his brow doesn't smooth. His thumb traces a slow arc across your knuckles, and you can feel him preparing himself for whatever he's about to say.
"I want you to see someone. A therapist, or a counsellor. Someone who can actually help you work through all of this.” His voice is gentle, but there's no hesitation in it. He's been thinking about this. Maybe for a while. "These fears. The nightmares. It's not healthy. You can't spend the rest of your life like this."
A therapist. Your eyes drop to Jake's neck, where you know a vampire's bite hides beneath his collar.
"It won't help."
"It might." He squeezes your hands, willing you to meet him halfway. "You don't know unless you try. Even if it doesn't, at least we tried."
He lifts your hands to his lips and presses a kiss to your knuckles. His eyes are full of love, but tired. So very tired. You can see it in his movements, in the slight hunch of his shoulders.
You could argue. You could try to explain why it's a waste of money and time. But that's not what he needs to hear.
"Okay." You say. "I'll go."
His eyes widen, like he'd braced himself for a fight and doesn't quite know what to do now. Then he pushes back his chair and stands, pulling you up with him. His arms wrap around you before you've even found your footing, one hand splayed across your spine, the other cradling the back of your head. You feel his breath against your hair, warm and unsteady, and you feel his smile.
"Thank you," he murmurs. "Thank you."
He pulls back just enough to kiss your forehead. Then your cheek. Then the bridge of your nose, clumsy and reverent, and you almost laugh despite everything. He's already talking about a counsellor his mother knows, a name he'll look up, a number he'll call in the morning, but the words blur together, lost in the rhythm of his heart against your ear.
Being held is not the same as being saved, but you close your eyes and accept his embrace anyway. His arms are warm, and his heart is steady, and for now, that's enough. It's all you have left.
The call comes Monday afternoon.
You've been at your laptop for the better part of an hour, filling out a self-assessment form for the counsellor Jake's mother recommended. On a scale of one to ten, how often do you feel overwhelmed by daily tasks? Do you experience intrusive thoughts? Have you ever felt disconnected from reality? The last question is taking you longer than it should, when your phone buzzes against the kitchen table. The number is one you don't recognize, and you almost let it ring. But then you look back at your screen, and decide you'd rather do anything else than pick out numbers on a scale that can't measure what's actually wrong with you.
"Mrs. Sim?"
Your hand tightens around the phone. Jake's boss explains something about how he looks terrible, how he nearly collapsed getting up from his desk, how someone needs to come get him immediately.
"I told him he should have stayed home," the boss's gruff voice says over the phone, "He kept saying he didn't want to let anyone down. Is he always this stubborn?"
You find him at his desk, pale and half-slumped, a coworker hovering uncertainly at his elbow. Between the two of you, you get him to the car. He doesn't argue. That's how you know it's bad. And you watch him from the corner of your eye the whole drive home, his head against the window as he fights his own exhaustion.
"It's nothing. Really." His words slur together as you guide him down the hall, his arm heavy across your shoulders. "Probably just a cold. I'll be fine in the morning."
You ease him onto the mattress. He sinks into it, his body going slack the moment his head touches the pillow. His eyes close. His breathing evens out, shallow but steady.
You bring him soup, which he doesn't eat. You bring him water, which he barely sips. You sit on the edge of the bed and watch the shallow rise and fall of his chest, and the whole time your mind is spinning through the past few weeks like a reel of film you can't stop.
Every night you've woken gasping from dreams you can't confess to. Every morning he's held you through the aftermath, whispering reassurances into your hair while the shadows under his eyes grew darker and darker. Every time he's said I'm trying, baby, I'm trying so hard—and you've let him. You've let him carry you, let him comfort you, let him pour himself out trying to understand something you can't explain.
And what have you given him in return? Tears. Secrets. A hand squeezing his at church while you both pretended everything was fine. Late nights where he held you instead of sleeping, early mornings where he made you coffee and asked gentle questions and got nothing back but silence.
You look at him now, with his work shirt still half-unbuttoned, his face slack, his fingers twitching faintly against the blanket and feel the guilt settle over you. He's spent every ounce of himself trying to save you from a monster he doesn't believe in.
"I'm sorry," you whisper to the quiet room. He doesn't stir.
The next day, he is worse.
You can't get him to lift his head for more than a few seconds. The medicine you brought sits untouched on the nightstand. His skin has taken on a translucence that makes your blood run cold, and when you press a cool cloth to his forehead, he barely seems to register the touch.
"Just need to sleep," he murmurs, the words slurring together. "Don't worry. You worry too much."
You don't leave his side.
You watch the hours crawl past, the gray morning fading into a grayer afternoon, the light at the window never quite brightening, and try to convince yourself it's a fever. A winter bug that hit him harder than most. But even as you tell yourself these things, your eyes keep drifting to the collar of his shirt, to the pale skin beneath, to the two small marks you know are there, still healing. You don't see any other marks, but the thought lingers.
By the third day, he can barely open his eyes.
You've stopped leaving the room except to refill the water glass he can't drink from. You've stopped pretending this is something you can fix with soup and cold compresses and whispered prayers. You sit in the chair beside the bed, your knees drawn up to your chest, and watch him fade.
It's around noon when you notice it. The sun is high in the sky today, not a single cloud, and the light illuminates the blood stain on his pillowcase, clear as day.
A small stain, rust-brown and drying, near the nape of his neck. Your hands are shaking as you reach for him, as you ease him onto his side and lift the hem of his shirt.
The marks are everywhere. Some are fresh—bright red, the skin around them inflamed and angry. Others have scabbed over, dark and ugly and bruised. Bite marks. Dozens of them. Clustered between his shoulder blades, and trailing down like a map of slow consumption.
You don't realize you're crying until a tear falls, mingling with the dried blood on his skin.
The sound you make must wake him, because his fingers twitch against the blanket, and his voice, thin and weak, drifts up from the pillow.
"Hey." A long pause. He doesn't have the strength to turn his head. "Don't cry."
You help him lie back against the pillows, your hands trembling so badly you can barely manage it. His eyes find yours—still that same warm brown, still impossibly gentle, even now, even after everything—and the tears come harder. He opens his mouth, as if to say something, but doesn't. Whether he can't find the strength or the words, you aren't sure. But you aren't about to let him finish, even if he could.
"I have to tell you something." You say quick and certain, though you feel anything but. "Please just listen."
He blinks, slow and heavy. Barely aware, barely awake.
"When I was younger. Before I met you. Before I even knew what I was doing. I prayed for something God couldn't give me. Something sinful. Something—" You swallow, force yourself to continue. "Lustful. Shameful. Every night. Every prayer. It was consuming me."
Jake's brow furrows. His hand moves across the blanket, searching for yours.
"My prayers were answered," you keep going. "But not by God. By something else. Something evil. These nightmares didn't appear out of nowhere. They're the consequence of what I did. It came to me in my dreams. It tempted me. It tainted me. For years. And now..."
You can't look at him. You stare at the blanket, at the pattern of the quilt, at the pale shape of his hand still reaching for yours.
"I've dragged you into the darkness with me." You grip his hand, "I'm sorry, Jake."
Silence. A long, stretching silence, broken only by the rasp of his breathing.
Then his fingers find yours.
"Baby."
You look up. His eyelids are heavy, his brow furrowed with an effort that seems to take everything he has left. The slow, laboured machinery of a mind trying to surface and failing.
"Baby, you are the light of my life." His voice is barely a whisper now, each word an effort. "I know you. I know your heart. It's pure. The purest of them all. Don't say scary stuff like that."
"You don't understand." You shake your head, the tears sliding hot and fast down your cheeks.
"I know." A ghost of a smile crosses his lips. He strokes the back of your hand, the motion so familiar, so tender, that it makes your chest ache. "But you understand me either."
The room is quiet. The light through the window has shifted—the gray afternoon giving way to the pale gold of a winter sunset, slanting through the glass and spilling across the bed.
Jake's gaze drifts to your face, and something in his expression changes. Softens. Opens.
"If only you could see yourself right now." His voice is barely audible, but there is a warmth in it that remains. "The way the light hits you. You're so beautiful." His fingers tighten around yours. It's the last of his strength, poured into a single gesture. "You look like an angel."
Your heart swells.
He doesn't see it. Even as you confess words you'd never dared to even think about out loud, he doesn't see the rot, the sin, the stain that has been spreading through you since long before you ever met him.
"You should see yourself," he murmurs again, his eyes already drifting closed. "So pretty. My pretty wife. I love you so much."
"I love you more." You whisper, watching the rise and fall of his chest.
He doesn't understand what you've told him. Or maybe he does. Maybe the truth is too big, too impossible, too far outside the world he believes in. All you know is that even now, when your sins are quite literally bleeding him dry, he looks at you and sees something worth loving.
You lay your head against his chest, closing your eyes. You listen to the fading rhythm of his heart, like a ticking clock.
You will not let time run out.
"Hello? Who is—wait." A pause. A sharp inhale. "Lady? Is that you? You actually made a Discord!"
Niki's voice crackles through your laptop speakers, tinny and incredulous. In the background, you can hear the faint, distorted blast of music, which cuts off abruptly as he slams a button. A desk chair creaks.
"This is amazing. I didn't think you'd actually call me. I mean, I hoped, but I've been checking my Discord every day since church."
You stare at the Discord interface, feeling decades older than you are. Jake lies down the hall, silent and still. You made sure he was asleep, though that wasn't hard to ensure. He hadn't done so much as open his eyes since the afternoon.
"I need your help."
"Help. Yeah. Okay. Um. Help with what, exactly?" His voice drops to a theatrical whisper. "Is it a vampire thing?"
You take in a breath.
"I need to know how to kill one." The silence on the other end stretches so long you think the call has dropped. Then you add, "Hypothetically."
"Oh. My. God." A drawer opens. Pages ruffle. "Okay. So. Classic methods. A wooden stake through the heart works, but the wood matters—hawthorn, ash, some sources say rowan. Decapitation is more reliable, but that's hard to pull off unless you have a sword, which I'm guessing you don't."
"I don't."
"Sunlight. Direct, full exposure. Not just a cloudy day—like, dawn, clear sky, no shade. Fire works on basically everything, but you'd have to trap it somehow." He's speaking faster now, the words tumbling over each other. "There's also holy water and consecrated ground, but the research on that is mixed—"
"That's enough. Thank you."
"What? No. Wait. I have so much more. I have an entire notebook. I have—" He stops. His voice changes, sharpens. "Wait a second. Why do you need to know this?"
"Goodbye, Niki—"
"No, hang on—You're literally asking how to kill a vampire." His voice cracks, and he clears his throat, the words still returning with a squeak as they come out in a rush. "Holy shit. You do know a vampire. I knew it. Is it in town? Is it drinking people's blood? Did it attack you? Are you in danger?"
You sigh, a hand to your temple. He's talking so fast, you can't find a proper opening to leave, and though you know you should probably just hang up, some part of you doesn't want to leave the poor boy in a state of panic.
"I’m not in any danger. I'm—”
"I can help, you know. I'm not just some kid. I know so much about this stuff. More than anyone. I've read every book in that library twice. I've read books that aren't even in the library. I know lore that isn't even translated yet. You need a vampire taken down? I'm your guy. I mean, I've never done it, but I could probably figure it out."
"That's sweet of you, really, but—"
"And you're just a housewife—not saying that housewives can't kick ass! I'm sure you could. Maybe. But you're not exactly, like, a vampire hunter." He sucks in a breath so sharp you hear it whistle through his teeth. "Wait. Shouldn't your husband be protecting you? Why isn't he—does he even know about this?"
You close your eyes.
"He doesn't know," Niki gasps in horror. His voice drops to a horrified whisper. "That's why you were asking about soul-contracts in the library. That's why you looked like you were going to throw up when I read that passage. You're in a soul-bond with a vampire, and your husband doesn't know."
Your head is in your hands now, his voice rambling through the laptop speaker.
"That's—that's insane. That's literally insane." He sputters, the words tangling in his mouth. "Isn't that like—I mean, a soul-contract, isn't that kind of like—isn't that like cheating? Like, spiritually? Eternally? Your husband thinks he's married to you, but you're already—"
"I have to go."
"Wait!"
You end the call.
The laptop screen glows, Niki's profile picture still visible in the corner—some anime character with a stupid hairstyle, smirking at nothing. A notification pops up. Then another. Then a string of them, rapid-fire, the little red badge counting up.
xX_vampK1_Xx: wait xX_vampK1_Xx: pls dont hang up xX_vampK1_Xx: or die
You don't read them all, closing the laptop instead. Wooden stake. Fire. Sunlight.
You wait for him. Curtains drawn back, the window open. The winter air slips through the gap, cold enough to make you shiver in your nightgown, but you remain there, facing the open night. You wait the way you used to wait—on your knees, on the floor, praying for something that God refused to give you. Down the hall, Jake lies in the guest bedroom. The room you'd once hoped would become a nursery. It seems like a distant dream now, a life that belonged to someone else. You'd moved him there before the sun had set, his body heavy, unconscious, and blissfully unaware. He doesn't know what you're about to do. You hope he never will. When the silhouette appears, it's almost a relief. He steps through the parted curtains, and the moonlight reveals him. He's too pale, too still, his dark eyes already fixed on you before you've even found your voice. He's beautiful. He's always been beautiful, and you hate that he is. It would be so much easier if he were grotesque—if his skin were rotting flesh and his eyes were hollow and vacant pits belonging to something long dead, you could recoil. You could run. Instead, you stare, almost forgetting your true intentions for a moment. "Now, this brings back memories." He looms over you, unmoving. His eyes drift to the bed, where your husband is absent. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" "You're killing my husband." He doesn't flinch. Of course he doesn't. He stands there in the center of your bedroom, hands at his sides, and regards you with an expression that teeters on amusement. "Believe me." His gaze drops to your throat, to the cross trembling against your collarbone. A faint smile tugs at his lips. "I would much prefer to have you." There's a silence before you scoff. "Taking the life of the man I love won't make me want you." "Indeed, it won't. You already want me. Yet foolishly, you continue to deny yourself." He is silent for a moment as he watches you clutch helplessly at the cross at your neck. "Look at you. You waited here. Alone, in the dark, to face something that could destroy you in seconds. And you still clutch that thing." His lips curls into a frown. "As if God could ever save you." He takes a few steps forward, leaning down until his lips are at your ear. "But you're a smart girl. You know that He can't." He says, leaning down. One hand reaches for your chin, lifting it to properly meet his gaze. "That's why you prayed to me instead." "I prayed to God." You hiss. "And as always, God did not answer." He drops your chin. Then he moves past you, toward the window. His fingers brush the curtain, and he looks out at the dark street, the bare trees, the distant glint of the river just visible beyond the rooftops. "I was once like you." He says, "I prayed. I prayed for her to heal. I prayed every waking hour at her bedside." His wife. You assume that's who he means. You think of the house he keeps tidy in her memory, the piano that stays tuned for her, but you don't ask. His tone tells you the grief is old, smoothed by the centuries past, no longer a wound but a scar. You swallow the bitter taste in your throat. Selfishly, you dislike the idea of him loving anyone else. The thought is irrational, and deeply shameful, but it surfaces before you can push it back down. "Please do not fret, my love." He says it all too quickly, as if he sensed the shift in you before you felt it yourself. "It was a very long time ago." You open your mouth to protest but the words die on your tongue. He's looking at you with that quiet, knowing expression, and you realize there is no point in lying to a creature who can read your emotions before you've even named them.
"I was merely a fragile human. Hopeful enough to offer God everything. Foolish enough to believe he would answer with anything other than silence." The breeze howls past the window, brushing his hair from his face. "So I found another way. And I have been what I am ever since."
"You were once human, too?" Your voice is soft, curious, and more sincere than you wish it was. He finally turns to face you again, this time with a hint of a smile.
"We are more alike than you know." he holds out a hand to you, and you take it. You let him help you stand, your nightgown catching the wind as you look up at him. "I can smell the shame in you. I've always been able to. It's the same shame I carried centuries ago."
A monster, comparing himself to you. You should feel offended by the way he looks at you, right through you, past the skin and bone, into the soul you've spent a lifetime trying to scrub clean. Though, you suppose he's earned the right. He's been in your dreams for years. He's seen every thought you tried to drown, every aching desire you tried to bury, and how it rots you from the inside. He's seen all of it, and he does not recoil. A man can judge you. A monster cannot. You're horrified to find relief in that thought. "The difference between you and me, however, is that I've stopped pretending to be something I'm not." Your eyes wander to the door briefly, knowing your husband lays peacefully down the hall. "Jake still looks at me as if I'm pure. As if I'm worthy of his love. Even after everything I've done." Your eyes burn, and you blink hard against the sting. "That's all I have, and you're taking it away." "Because I needed to feed. Because you have not given me permission. I cannot take what is mine unless it is offered freely. So I took what was available to me. Your scent on his skin. Your proximity." His eyes hold yours. "Do you understand what that is like? To be bound to someone, to feel their wanting every night, to taste it in the air, and to not be allowed to have them? The blood of animals does nothing. The blood of your husband is unsatisfying. I am ravenous." He steps closer. The space between you shrinks to almost nothing.
"It is not merely blood that you promised me. You offered me your soul. Your life. Your eternal presence. That is what I hunger for—not the taste of you on my tongue, but the whole of you, bound to me as you were always meant to be." His voice drops to a whisper. "Every second I have waited has been a small death. I have died a thousand times since you made your promise."
You know what that hunger feels like. You've carried it your whole life, coiled low in your belly, hot and insistent, never fully quieted. You tried to fill it with prayer. You tried to fill it with your husband's body. Nothing worked. Nothing ever works.
"He is innocent." Your voice splinters. "He doesn't deserve this."
Sunghoon is silent for a long moment. Then he sighs—a soft, tired sound.
"Innocent. Pure of heart. Kind—too kind for a human, if you ask me." He says. "You're terrified of what he'd think. You don't believe his love is unconditional." "How could anyone love this?" A tear slips down your cheek. You had no idea you were on the verge of crying, but you feel it now. The uncontrollable trembling of your body, the sob threatens to escape your throat. Sunghoon's hand rises. His fingers brush your jaw, cool and smooth, tilting your chin upward. You open your eyes. It's the first time you've seen him this close, the moonlight casting a soft glow over his features. His expression is nothing cruel. It's something almost tender, which is far more devastating. "I do." He says. "I love your scent. Your shame. The way you whisper my name in the dark." Your lower lip trembles, and his thumb traces it, feather-light. In fact, all of you trembles. You've stopped trying to decide whether it's out of fear, want, or the draft of winter air. "You offered me your soul long before you ever gave him your hand. That is a promise no ring can compare to." His eyes hold yours, unrelenting. "I love you eternally." His hand trails down your throat. His fingers curl, lightly, around the column of your neck, just holding it, just relishing your pulse beneath his fingertips. The cross dangles between you, and you feel his gaze flicker to it.
"Please understand. I have only ever wanted you. He was merely the vessel I drank from because I could not drink from you." his voice drops to a murmur. "Give me what you promised me. What you've been promising me every night for years. I'm patient. I've waited long, and I can wait longer. Your husband, however..." his eyes drift to the door, an acknowledgement of his fading life down the hall, "He doesn't have the luxury of patience."
"If I refuse, he dies."
Sunghoon doesn't blink. "Yes."
No hesitation. The truth, cold and simple. You feel your hands tighten into fists at your sides.
"That's not a choice. That's not 'asking for permission.' That's a threat." He only laughs in response. "You made a deal with a monster. Did you expect him to play fair?" Sunghoon tilts his head. "I'd argue I've been rather generous. I could have drained him on your wedding night, when he laid hands on what was already mine. Could have left him in your bed, cold and lifeless. But I didn't. I let him live. I even offered him my wine."
He wears the slightest grin, cruel and merciless, and his fangs catch the light. "Aren't I kind?"
"You are vile." You spit. "You are despicable. Awful. And—"
"And you still want me."
The space between you shrinks as he leans closer, until you can feel the chill radiating off his skin, until you can see the faint gleam of the moonlight on his pupils.
"He is not the reason you will say yes."
His voice is quieter now.
"You will say yes because you have been starving for as long as you can remember. Because you have tried to fill that hunger with prayer and penance and the body of a man who loves you but cannot understand you. Because you knelt at your window and begged for relief, and I am the only one who has ever offered it to you. I am the only one who can give it to you." His fingers brush your jaw. Feather-light. "So, go on." He nods, "Tell me what you want." "I want you to leave Jake alone." You hiss. It only makes him grin. You expect nothing less. "And what else?" "I want you to stop making me feel like this." "How do you want me to do that, exactly?" You open your eyes. He's so close now. Your body is trembling—not from the cold, not from fear, but from the unbearable, humiliating effort of holding yourself back. Your thighs press together beneath your nightgown, a needy, restless friction that does nothing to ease the ache. Your pulse hammers in your throat. Between your legs, you're soaked. You've been soaked since he stepped through the curtains. Every inch of you is screaming for relief. Every inch of you has been screaming for years. It's not really a choice. If you pull away, you're letting your husband die and spending the rest of your life mourning a man you loved but couldn't save. Regardless, your body doesn't want to pull away. It made its own choice the moment you knelt at your window all those years ago. Everything since then has been the long, torturous process of coming to accept it. The prayers. The shame. The dreams you woke from, wet and wanting. All of it leading here. To him. "I want you to touch me," you whisper. The words come out ragged, half a sob, half a plea. "I need you to relieve me from this torment. I can't—I can't take it anymore. Please." His hand tightens just barely at your throat.His hand rests at your throat, cool and steady. His touch remains ever patient, and his eyes flicker from yours to your neck like he cannot decide which is more precious to him in this moment. "Say it properly." And you do. "I give you permission. My blood. My body. My soul. Take it. It's all yours. It's always been yours." He exhales—a shuddering, both reverent and ravenous sound.
His hand tightens around your throat, fingers digging into the vulnerable flesh, feeling the pulse hammering beneath his touch, the rush of blood through your veins. He dips his head into the curve of your neck, and the breath he takes in, the groan that rumbles against your skin—they are not the sounds of a man. They belong to a predator who has caught its prey at last and is trying very hard not to devour it all at once.
Your eyes flutter shut.
"If only you could smell yourself right now." His voice comes out rough, almost like a growl, "Your terror, your desperation. Your arousal." He lifts you in a single, clean sweep, as if you weigh no more than a feather. Your feet are off the ground, your body helpless in his grasp, and you don't have the time to react as he throws you down on the marital bed with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs. You barely have time to register the impact before his body is over yours. His knee rises between your thighs, spreading you open beneath him and his hand fists your hair, tilting your head back, baring your throat to the moonlight and his teeth. His gaze drifts down the length of your body, catching on the way your nightgown has ridden up your thighs, on the rise and fall of your chest. He leans forward. "My stubborn, sinful girl. You were never meant for heaven." His fangs press against your pulse, not yet sinking in, but with enough pressure that it makes your breath catch and your body go rigid beneath him. "You were always meant for me." One hand grips your throat, fingers digging into the flesh just beneath your jaw, holding your head in place with a force that borders on bruising. The other rests over your heart, palm flat, enough to feel the frantic rhythm. "So fearful that nobody could love you in the dark, when I have loved you for years." His fangs sink into you, and a cry is torn from your throat, gasping into the dark and your body arches into him without your permission. The sounds he makes are equally as ungraceful and unrestrained— a growl that sounds like it belongs to an animal, a groan that sounds so guttural and almost pained, as if tasting you after all this time is a relief so profound it hurts. You writhe beneath him, but his body holds you steady, his grasp so harsh that it's sure to bruise. The pull of his mouth is rhythmic, hypnotic, each draw of your blood sending a fresh wave of heat spiraling through your core. You are dizzy with it. You are alive with it. You are his, and you have always been his, and the acceptance of that truth is the single most liberating thing you have ever felt. Disgust is a distant flicker, extinguished before it can catch. The pain is already gone. In its place, a pleasure so sharp and bright it borders on agony races through your veins. You shake with it, every inch of you raw and exposed, the sheets a torment against your feverish skin. Your hands find his back and hold on, clawing at his shirt. "What is—?" Your voice is a whiny, pathetic sound, piercing through heavy, laboured breaths. The ache between your legs from before is now throbbing with a sort of want you couldn't even begin to describe. Something unnatural, feverish and all-consuming. "Why do I feel like—?"
"It feels good, doesn't it?" His fangs retract, but his mouth stays, kissing the wound he left behind, lapping up every last drop of your blood. "The venom. It immobilizes prey. Turns pain into pleasure. Though you didn't need much convincing, did you?" A broken sound tears from your throat as his tongue drags down the column of your neck, chasing a stray bead of blood. His hand rips your nightgown higher, baring you to the cold air, and he finds you soaked. You can feel his grin at your neck.
"You were begging to be fucked long before I ever bit you," he whispers, "Long before your nice little husband ever put his hands on you." "Please, Sunghoon," The words tumble out before your pride can catch them. It's wrecked, shameless, and entirely honest. "Just touch me. Please."
He obliges without a word. Your panties are eased down your thighs, the cold air a brief shock against your overheated skin, and then he finds you—slick and aching and desperately ready. A single, long finger slips inside with no resistance at all, and the sound that escapes you is almost a sob. You might cry from just that alone, graciously accepting any kind of touch at this point. You might already be crying, though you don't have the sense to think about it. You're lost in the sensation, clenching around him, your hips rolling forward of their own accord, chasing more. "It feels so much better when you give in." His voice is soft, almost crooning, as his finger moves inside you with excruciating slowness, a rhythm designed to tease rather than satisfy. "When you stop denying yourself." A frustrated sound catches in your throat. Your hips lift, chasing his hand, and he hums in quiet approval. Then a second finger slides in beside the first, stretching you, and the cry that escapes you is louder than before. Your head falls back against the pillow. Your fingers twist in the sheets. And then his fangs are at your throat again—a sharp, searing sting that melts almost instantly into heat. He drinks as his fingers move inside you, a slow, devastating counterpoint: the pull of his mouth, the thrust of his hand, the weight of his body pinning you to the mattress. You are caught between pleasure and surrender, and you have stopped caring which is which. "My sweet little sinner." He pulls back just enough to speak, his lips stained, his breath cool against the wound he left behind. His fingers curl inside you, finding a place that makes your vision blur. "What would he think if he saw you like this? His fragile, innocent wife, offering herself to a monster, begging for more." He thrusts deeper, and your back arches off the bed. "Would it break him? Would it shatter that pure, simple love he carries for you?" The tears come before you can stop them, spilling down your temples and into your hair. A sob tears free, raw and ugly, and you shake your head against the pillow. "No?" His voice is soft, almost tender. His thumb traces your cheek, smearing the tears there. "Use your words, my love." "I don't care." The words rip out of you, jagged and desperate, louder than you intended. Your hips are still rolling against his hand, chasing the climax he keeps just out of reach. "I don't care what he thinks. I just want this." You feel the pressure building, the tightening in your belly, rushing toward the edge faster than you can outrun it.
"Please." The word is barely a whisper now, your voice wrecked and trembling. "Please take me. I can't—I need—please." His fingers still inside you. You cry out at the loss, at the empty ache he leaves behind, and when you open your eyes, he is looking down at you with something like awe. Something like triumph. Something like love, if a monster is capable of love, as he claims. He grabs the front of your nightgown and rips it open. The fabric splits with a sound like a scream. You gasp, arms flying up to cover yourself, but he seizes your wrists and wrenches them away. Forces your hand down between your bodies, pressing your palm against the hard, aching length of him.
He releases you to tear at his own clothes. His shirt. His pants. Then he is bare above you, and the sight is almost too much—the blood on his mouth, the pale plane of his chest, and his eyes, how they devour the sight of you whole, looking at you in all your filth and finding you holy. "I'm going to ruin you." You feel the tip of him at your entrance, and your body stiffens. His eyes hold yours, dark and depthless and full of terrible tenderness. "Just like you begged me to." He sinks into you in one slow, devastating thrust, and your mouth falls open on a sound that might be his name, but before it can escape, his lips find yours. He swallows your cry the way he swallowed your blood, consuming it, claiming it as his own. His tongue sliding against yours, and you taste your own blood on his lips. His mouth never leaves yours, as if he would drink every sound you make, as if there is no part of you he does not intend to devour. You start to cry. Not because it hurts. Not because you're being ruined, though you are, though you've wanted to be. You cry because it's better than your dreams ever were. Because every fantasy you spent years repenting for, every shameful vision that drove you to your knees at the window, was a pale shadow of this. He pulls back to look at you, and the expression on his face is rapture. His hand is wrapped around your throat, holding you steady for each forceful thrust, pinning you to the mattress, to the moment, to him. The rhythm of his hips is relentless and perfect. Every drag of him inside you eases the ache you've carried for so long it has become a part of you, and at the same time deepens it, feeds it, stokes it into something insatiable. The venom only heightens the feeling—pleasure easing your hunger, each stroke pushing you closer to an edge you no longer want to escape. He is the most beautiful creature you have ever seen. You think it without flinching. You think it while tears stream down your temples and into your hair, while your body arches to meet his, while you give yourself over to the monster who answered when God wouldn't. He is beautiful. He is yours. You are his. And you have never felt less like pretending otherwise. He fills you in a way your husband never could. It's terrible and entirely the truth. You have spent weeks trying to use Jake as a remedy—his body, his love, his gentle, faithful hands—and it worked, for a few hours at a time. But the hunger you carry was never something he could satisfy. He was never meant to. That was never the deal you made. This is what you bargained for. What you knelt at the window and begged to feel. You lose yourself in the rhythm of him. The thick, unrelenting drive of his cock. The weight of his body pinning you to the mattress. The way he takes and takes and takes, and still watches you like you are something sacred. His dark eyes hold yours with something that looks like awe. Something that looks like devotion. Something that looks, impossibly, like love. If you even believe that a creature like him can feel love. Though love is the furthest thing from your mind right now. "That's it." His voice is a low growl, rough with pleasure and hunger and the effort of holding himself back. "Cry for me. Let me see you fall apart."
Your nails rake down his back. Your thighs tremble around his hips. The tears are still falling, streaming into your hair, but you don't hold them back. You don't try to hide. You let him watch. You let him see all of it. The surrender, the pleasure, the relief at last. You finish, your high crashing through your body in pulses that leave you gasping, clenching around him, your back bowing off the bed. You cry out his name, and he groans as he feels you break around him, his rhythm faltering for just a moment before he drives deeper, harder, more. You barely have time to come down before his fangs find your throat again. The bite is sharp and sweet, and the venom floods your veins anew—reigniting the fire that had just begun to go out, pulling you back toward the edge you just tumbled over. "More," you plead. The word is raw, scraped clean of pride. "More." He gives you more. He gives you everything. And you take it all of it with your eyes open and your soul laid bare beneath him. More. More. More. The night folded in on itself, a long, delirious rhythm of hunger and satiation, of teeth and hands and the slick press of bodies moving together in the dark. He would drink until you grew faint, then pull back, laving the wound with a tenderness that made your chest ache, and wait for your eyes to flutter open, for your hips to lift in silent, desperate invitation. And then he would begin again. You lost count. It didn't matter. Time had become a thing that happened to other people. You remember, dimly, the sound of your own voice sobbing his name into the hollow of his throat. You remember the weight of him, the cold press of his skin slowly warming with each swallow of your blood. You remember his mouth tracing the length of your collarbone, his fingers mapping the dip of your waist, his voice murmuring things against your flesh. The window stood open through all of it. The curtains drifted. The winter air slipped in, cooling the sweat on your skin, but you never felt cold. You felt nothing but him. Nothing but the slow, spreading heat of the venom and the terrible peace of finally letting go.
The pale, gray light starts to rise in the distance. The hush of early morning. The distant, muffled quiet of a world still half-asleep.
He is still inside you. Still moving a slow, grinding rhythm, more reflex now than urgency, the last shivering aftershocks of a night that had no end. His face is buried in the curve of your neck, his lips parted against the wound that hasn't closed, and his hips roll against yours in a lazy, hypnotic pulse that feels less like fucking and more like breathing.
Your hand is in his hair. Your fingers are tangled in the dark silk of it, your thumb tracing the shell of his ear, and the gesture feels so natural, so intimate, that your throat tightens with something you refuse to name. Then the light shifts.
It spills through the open window, pale gold, the first true ray of a winter dawn. It creeps across the floorboards, slow and searching, and climbs the edge of the bed. It touches your bare ankle. It warms the tangled sheets. It reaches, like a blessing or a blade, for the man in your arms. You watch it happen.
It finds his shoulder first. The light glistens, a luminous sheen on the marble of his skin catching the ridge of his shoulder blade, the curve of his spine, the place where your nails have left their marks across his back. He doesn't notice. His mouth is still at your throat, his body still moving against yours, lost in the rhythm of consumption. "Sunghoon." He lifts his head.
His eyes are black, pupils blown, the irises reduced to thin rings of dark amber. Your blood is on his lips. Your blood everywhere. All over your own lips, all over your neck, your chest and the sheets beneath you. And his skin, his beautiful, terrible skin, is beginning to gleam in the morning light. Every plane of his face limned in gold, the sharp angle of his jaw, the impossible symmetry of his features. He looks like something that fell from heaven and landed wrong. He looks at you. And you see the moment he understands. The light is spreading. It touches his temple. The curve of his ear. The column of his throat. And where it touches, his skin begins to change—taking on a strange, crystalline shimmer, like the surface of fresh snow catching the first light of dawn. It starts to unmake him. He doesn't move. He doesn't flee. He just looks at you, old and tired and almost, almost human. Your hand is still in his hair. You don't pull it back. A broken growl, low but softened, escapes him, and his forehead drops to yours. His eyes close, and for a long, suspended moment, you lie there together in the path of the rising sun. It starts at the edges, before the shimmer spreads a slow, glittering dissolution, like diamonds fracturing along the surface of him. The places where the sun touches him turn luminous, iridescent, and then they begin to separate. He is coming apart in fine fragments, a mist of dust that catches the light and holds it, suspended, before drifting upward on the morning air. His eyes find yours one last time. There's no fear in them. No anger. Just that same dark, depthless devotion. That same hunger. Your body is still humming with the aftermath of pleasure, your thighs slick, your throat aching with the memory of his hands around it. You close your eyes. They're too heavy to keep open.
"More." The last thing you feel is his hand returning to your neck, and his teeth sinking into your flesh once more. The last thing you hear is the sound of his growl as he savours his last meal. Tangled with death, you lay, lips parted in pleasure.
nav ✰.ᐟ m.list ✰.ᐟ thanks for reading ♡
this story will stay with me for a long time
sTELLAaaAAA~
dropped by to say i miss u and ily
my love, thank you for checking up on me!! i miss you too <3
PAUSE. I didn’t even know you were gone omg im so glad u came back <3
you remembered me!! tears in my eyes for real 😭
i missed being on here and everyone so much!
instinct of a sinner {pjs}
paring: priest! pjs x f! reader
summary: desperation led you to church where you gained affection from a good willed priest.
wc: 11.3k
warnings: heavy mentions of religion, blasphemous themes, smut mdni: unprotected intercourse, oral(m receiving), masturbation (m), alcohol, throwing up, testing of faith, probably some inaccuracies
note: this is fiction! this is a repost from my blog, stellargolden.
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Why did you give in? You knew it was forbidden from the start, yet you gave in. Nobody knew, it was a secret between you and him.
And the God from above, his ever-seeing eye on you, following your movements, reading your thoughts. He was everywhere, you couldn't hide from Him. His presence was the most evident in His creation, for some it was nature, the mountains, the sea or the desert, but for you it was one specific piece, one that came last in His genesis, one that was by Greeks made from clay and water and given life.
It was a man. There wasn't a better example of his genius from that one and it wasn't any man you were talking about, it was somebody special. Somebody whose beauty rivals that of angel's.
He was the most perfect, an incarnation of all your flesh's desires but he was the most prohibited of them all.
You cursed the day you met him, what kind of providence leads you to him only for him to never be yours. You could have anyone you wanted, no stranger to gazes of other men, of their interest, but no, your body and soul belonged to none other than him. The priest.
Now, you weren't the most of religious of people, but you prayed, you prayed till your brain started to bleed, your cry to Heaven, strong and desperate. Somehow, the Heavens never answered, so you decided to change the place of your prayer, from your bed to a cathedral. The tall, gothic walls, only induced you anxiety, the grandness of the place suffocating you, but still you went.
There you saw him, illuminated by the sun rays which were creeping through the stained windows, he was just exiting the confessional, dressed in all black, as a priest would be, his white clerical collar stark contrast to the rest of his clothing. Two sharp, eagle like eyes greeted you, they were the darkest shade of brown, almost black, you swore he saw right through your soul with that gaze alone. Penetrating and all consuming, he saw through your desperation, your call for help. He thought who was this girl that had such sorrow and defiance in her eyes? He could see, it was a gift if you could say, he knew your pain.
The eye contact was a lot of shorter than you thought it was, ending quickly but the impact it left on you was immense. You wanted to fall on your knees right there and then, weep like a child.
You thought you weren't a sinner by any means, but in his gaze you felt like the worst of them all, because deep down in your core you felt a strike of desire. It was brief but strong, an instinct of a sinner awakening.
"Do you need any help?", when Jay looked back and thought, he swore that the devil himself made him utter those words. Now, he was a holy man, but the devil preyed like a tiger on anyone, waiting to attack.
You needed a minute to realize that he was indeed referring, to you.
"I just, I came for a visit, to see the architecture, I mean.", you scrambled for an answer,cheeks turning pink.
A liar. He thought, a beautiful one at that. Where did that adjective come from? He set his face with a neutral expression.
"So you are not one of the followers?", he inquired, raising his eyebrows.
"No, I'm a just a visitor.", you concluded, serious about not telling him the real reason you were there.
"Well, then feel free to look around.", he said, faint smile on his lips, "If you change your mind I'll be in the back.", then he left, leaving you alone. A feeling of emptiness remaining.
That was your first meeting.
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"Why are my prayers not working, father?", you questioned into the silence, lips slightly trembling while uttering those words.
Jay sighed in response, that was a heavy question, even for him, no matter how often he heard it.
What made you come and ask him this? You yourself were unsure, but few weeks passed and your feet have only been leading you to one place. You found yourself visiting, once, twice and then everyday, sitting at the pew, staring at the cross above you. Sometimes you bowed your head, resting it on the cold wood, not thinking, not praying just resting. Jay saw all of that, the way you gazed at the floor, absent. He saw you resilience in coming here, but why weren't you reaching out to him? He could help you, at least he thought he could. A talk never hurt no one, especially with someone as educated as him.
You simply couldn't, this place became familiar to you, and man residing in it, but you were not ready for conversation. Something changed all that, nothing grand or special. Something moved you, unknown, one second you were at home the next you were talking with him. You felt as if you were going to die, if you didn't do that. Maybe just maybe, that force was him, him in his prayers, him at night that thought of you.
He knew that someone like him shouldn't think of a woman that much, especially before sleep, but you have woven your place into his thoughts, your sad eyes, your presence daily in the church. He just wanted to help you, that's what he told himself, even when you sneaked your way into his evening prayers.
"It is often that what we pray for is not aligned with God's will.", he answered gently, as if he was afraid that if he raised his voice a little more you would run away. You looked so scared asking him that, it tickled something inside of him.
"But how do I know what is God's will?", you said, solemn expression on your face.
You were both sat at table in the room where he usually did paperwork for the church, prepared for his sermon and so on. The air smelled like something stale, ancient was there, it was probably the old paint on the walls and the paintings which were there for generations.
"You just need to get close to Him and let yourself be led.", Jay said, serious, he continued:" But... leave all the pride behind and be humble.", now he thought that was going to hurt, that was your problem, he saw it in your eyes, but he had to be honest with you.
Something changed in your eyes, he recognized it as arrogance.
"Why are only my prayers not humble, when people around me get all that they want and more!", your tone was emotional, ready to argue. You were sick of all that talk, it seems like you always wanted what you couldn't get , hopeless. You were the only who God didn't like, it was like that.
"It's..., he started but you didn't let him finish, fed up. "You know what, all of this is stupid, I shouldn't have come here.", you started to get up, taking your coat from the chair.
"Wait!", he almost yelled, getting up as well, he added hurriedly:" I'll do the research for you, I'll help you, just promise me you'll come here again."
Jay was a gifted priest, yes, but he was also still young, oblivious to some things in his profession, he might have missed something, something that could help you, he was going to consult with someone older, he was going to study more.
You looked at his eyes, there was a speck of desperation in them, you knew it too well. It disappeared in a second, like the light was playing tricks on you but you knew what you saw. His words didn't soothe you, didn't even come close to helping you, but then you looked at him again. At the black of his clothes, the shadow he cast over the wall, at his brown hair, golden in the sunlight. Suddenly, a sense of calm washed over you, you couldn't name it, but it was there, present in the silence. If you strained you ears more you could hear his breathing.
He was there in front of you, in flesh, alive, blood the same as yours running through his veins. He was human.
That realization felt like a salvation finally coming to you. You were not alone anymore, there was someone else with you.
You couldn't be in that room anymore, you had to leave. Now. You grabbed your coat that was resting on your hands, put it on and stormed out of the room. No goodbye, no promise.
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Jay was taking a walk, admiring the nature, how perfect his Creator made it and the way it rested his soul, like the most beautiful song. He felt the most inspired when he was outside, the fresh air clearing his thoughts and his focus returning. He was content with his life's calling, he loved what he was doing.
Then he saw a figure he got to know well, your hair flowing in the wind as you walked towards him. He noticed you first, you were too caught up in your thoughts, absent from the world around you.
It was the third day he hasn't seen you, ever since that talk in his office, you hadn't come.
You approached silently, his footsteps came to a stop, wanting to greet you.
"Hello.", he said, you lifted your head up, surprise in your eyes, then it turned to disappointment. You were not happy to see him.
"Hi.", you were ever the kind, choosing to greet back, but you continued to walk.
Jay moved his hand in front of you, stopping you. When he realized what he's done, he hastily removed his hand, as if he was burned.
"Wait, you still haven't come to talk.", he started.
"I didn't promise you, did I?", you fired back, annoyed.
"Then where are you going, as I know this is the path to church."
You looked up at him, surprise again gracing your gaze, you didn't even know you were headed in that direction, letting your feet guide your way. Somehow you ended up in the same place, with the same person again.
"I don't know.", you mumbled, defeated, luckily he caught the vulnerability in your voice before it drifted away in the wind.
He only smiled without showing his teeth, trying to comfort you.
The smile on his face was enticing and mysterious, you wanted to see more of it.
His cheeks were slightly red from the cold creating a pretty blush and his eyes turned warm brown. You weren't a painter by any means but then you wanted to immortalize that sight. It filled your heart with warmth.
"So are you going to visit or no?", he repeated the term you used on your first meeting.
"I guess I could but I don't want to talk."
"A deal.", he answered, letting you pass him by, watching your disappearing form for a long time.
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You continued your visits to the church, just sitting there, relaxing, those tall walls became your home. It was as if only there your thoughts could run free.
Though not once did you attend the mass, you didn't like meeting people there, didn't want to hear them praise and sing. The silence was enough for you, the closest you felt to divine.
Jay's presence became like a steady hum in the background, like white noise. Even when you didn't see him, you knew he was near, somewhere in his room.
Sometimes, when you didn't know, when you were too caught up in your stupor, he observed you from afar. He was only taking a break from work that was it, even though that was part of it as well. He wanted to break your walls, to get to you.
Where did that desire come from? It must have been God. It was innocent after all, right?
He has been reading feverishly, all kind of religious books, writings from saints, anything he got his hands on. He wasn't aware of it but he has become obsessed with helping you.
Little did he know, there was another motive for the continuation of your visiting. Ever since you saw him in the street, surrounded by all the earthly things, like dirty benches and pavements with cracks in them. You saw him as part of that world too, in a different light, you saw him as a man.
A woman should never under any circumstances see a priest as a man. It was a sin.
Who are you to care about such a trivial sin, when you were forsaken already? No prayer of yours reached to God anyway.
Slowly, your gaze has changed, he didn't notice that because all of your interaction were brief after that happening in his office. But your eyes now lingered on his hands for example, on the veins that adorned them, on his slender fingers, his neatly trimmed nails.
You didn't just behold them, no, you imagined how they would feel inside of you.
Your gaze straying away from his face many times, focusing on his shoulders instead, how they filled the shirt he wore, strong and manly or how his Adam's apple protruded from his neck, bobbing as he swallowed, while he talked to you.
Yes, you two talked now. It wasn't about religious matters like before, he left that be, thinking someday he would reach to you but slowly. It was about your day, about something small, about how you liked dogs but didn't own one. About how you thought you were never going to have children, never going to marry. He only laughed at that, saying how you never know.
It was the first time you saw him full on laughing, his perfect pearly whites showing, a breath escaping him, so childlike, creases appearing at his cheek. Again, warmth spread all over your chest at the striking sight.
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One day you came to God's home at an unfamiliar time, it was later in the evening, the lights were on. The closer you got you could hear a faint melody coming from inside, you halted your steps, thought running through your mind that you shouldn't enter.
Curiosity got the best of you for you cracked the door open with clammy hands, taking a peek inside. Empty pews greeted you, but still a song could be heard. You then looked up to the small corner where usually piano was.
There they were, maybe a dozen young people were gathered around someone playing an acoustic guitar.You knew well who that someone was, you could recognize those clothes anywhere. His fingers were strumming the strings with care, his gaze was lowered on the instrument producing the beautiful sound.
You didn't know he could play, so well at that. You were starstruck, something about the whole atmosphere brought tears to your eyes, you quickly blinked them away. Closing the door, taking a deep breath in and leaving to your home. You couldn't come close, you didn't have the courage. Your awakening feelings were burdening you, now they even surpassed the simple crush turning into something deeper. You were afraid to death.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
It was your greed that made you move then. It wasn't God for he wouldn't approve of it.
You completely changed your wardrobe, before as it was winter it consisted of a long coat and jeans, nothing special. Now when it was approaching spring, you opted to wear dresses. Not any kind of dresses, those with lace that accentuated your figure. You wanted him to look, but he never did.
Jay thought nothing of the change, thinking you were only growing more accepting if your femininity. He saw that as a good sign, after all a woman should express herself as one. Also those dresses weren't inappropriate by any means, they were still fit for church, just different from your usual wear and Jay wasn't any kind of priest. He was a devoted one, God fearing, he wouldn't look at a woman with a lustful gaze.
Until he did.
One day, you came to him, saying how you were finally ready to talk but had one condition. It was to be at your home.
Jay might be kind hearted and seeing only the good in people but he wasn't stupid. He knew you could talk in his office just as well, he knew you had an ulterior motive, he just wasn't aware what.
He pondered for a long time whether he should go or not. On one hand it could have been innocent, you were kind of friends now, maybe you wanted a different atmosphere and so on, but then it could be a trap as well. His guardian angel whispered not to go as well as his intuition, but the devil tempted.
He has not forgotten about him, no matter how much he strayed away from sin, how much he devoted time for prayer he was still on Earth and so susceptible to his influence.
So he went.
He mentally got ready for all the questions you could ask, all the doubts you could have.
What he didn't get ready for was your motives because they were crafted by the evil one.
You wanted to seduce him, to make him break his promise to God, you wanted him, as a woman would want a man, carnally.
You didn't prepare much, just a small meal, wanting to offer it to him and some wine. You didn't want to make him drunk, just to loosen him up a bit also you weren't going to touch him first. You wanted him to come to you on his own will.
You were in the depths of yourself unsure, as you always were, is this going to work?
A knock resounded at the door. It was him.
You took a deep breath in, walking to the entrance, with a tremble in your hand you opened the door. Jay's face came into view, a welcoming glint in his eyes. You relaxed immediately, shoulders slumping.
"Come in.", you said, showing him in.
"Thank you.", replied, he carried a bag with him, it seemed thick.
His eyes fell on the table, surprised evident on his face.
"I didn't come here to eat though.", he said, slight question in his tone, he was confused.
Your heart beat was drumming in your ears, the tips of them turning red.
" I just, I thought you might be hungry.", you fumbled with your hands in front of you.
He noticed, he always did, his features softening.
" I came here to talk with you.", his voice was gentle bordering a whisper.
Why was he acting that way? It felt like he was crossing a line he shouldn't cross, being careful with you, being aware if every little change in your attitude.
Jay cleared his throat, composing himself.
"I won't eat, but I guess I could have some water, if you're offering."
You nodded your head, suddenly all your resolve crumbling. Things never went your way. Your dress which you changed into, he didn't even glance one time at it.
You didn't know, but when you turned around, he could see the back if your neck, your hair was gathered up. It looked so delicate and soft, he wondered what it was like to trail fingers down it.
There it was. Temptation has come.
Jay shook his head, willing the thoughts to go away, but they didn't want to, they already took root at the pit of his stomach.
He lowered his eyes, focusing on the floor instead.
"I have some wine.", you offered
"No, thank you.", he responded, still staring at floor, unsure of what to do with himself.
"You drink it at the mass though.", you insisted, some kind of courage coursing through you.
"That's not wine, that's the blood of Christ.", he said, turning serious, the lightness of the situation suddenly gone.
He finally sat, down, water in front of him, he opened his bag taking some kind of documents out.
You were not interested, your focus was on his fingers as they worked, shuffling the papers, gripping at them. Those same fingers that played the guitar last night, you wondered what kind of other miraculous things they were able to do.
He caught you in the act, his eyes falling for moment at his hands as well, then he lifted them up as if he hasn't noticed anything.
Slight tension was becoming palpable in the air.
"Okay, so you asked me about your prayers right?", he started.
"Yes.", you finally had the chance to stare at his eyes.
Honestly, you didn't even care anymore, given up on the whole God thing. You were just entertaining this friendship ,if you could call it that, just because you liked him.
"One of the problems could be unconfessed sin.", he continued, "You should come at confess, Y/N.", your name came out of his mouth without any honorifics, you liked the sound of it.
You only scoffed in response.
"I haven't killed anyone.", to you all of this conversation was humourous.
"I know.", how was he so sure, you thought.
"But, sin is not just murder, it's different for everyone.", he wanted to say something but he wasn't sure if it was appropriate, especially in your presence, but then again he's heard it from people many times. So he left all the hesitation behind. It was professional, after all.
He started to speak slowly, :"Lust of the flesh is a sin too, I'm not implying anything, just letting you know."
No, he was implying, if only he knew the thoughts which ran through your head when he wet his lower lip, tongue swiping over it. Okay, you might be a sinner in his eyes. Maybe he already knew, it didn't matter.
You weren't a kid, you knew he was talking about touching yourself, knew the stance which priests would have on it.
What you didn't expect is to talk about it with him, when you've already stained your sheets numerous times to the thought of him.
"What am I supposed to do when the need comes?", you questioned seemingly innocent. You waited for his answer with bated breath, something flashed in his eyes as always, then dissipated.
"You should pray to God for strength.", he said, serious as ever.
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He departed from your home after that, saying he hoped that he helped you, inviting you to mass and that's it. Wine not drank, food not eaten. You were feeling sad and frustrated. Maybe he just didn't see you like that, maybe he was a too holy of man to actually act on it.
You drank all the wine after by yourself.
The need to do something was overwhelming, you just didn't know what.
You fell asleep that night, alone and full of desire.
Jay, on the other hand, couldn't for the love of God get a wink of sleep.
He has gotten up many times to get on his knees and pray, then returning to bed, tossing and turning. He couldn't get the sin away from his mind, it clawed at him, lingered around him breathing into his ear.
He knew the lust well, from his teenage days, when like any boy's, his body was enveloped in some kind of fever. Recurring dreams taking place, waking up in sweat. It was nature he knew, but God's proximity was always there not letting him fall into temptation.
Then he got his calling, all of it stopping, he grew up somewhere between all of that.
The need didn't return ever since.
Until now, his head was plagued with images of you. Your pretty eyes graced with desperation, maybe a little teary from all the pleasure, mouth open, tongue peeking out.
No! The devil himself has weaved those thoughts in his mind, he was only being tempted. He could go through this, he had to.
In response his body burned even hotter.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
The next day he walked through the church with dark circles and a heavy body. He even stumbled across some words at the morning mass, he was completely out of it, that has never happened to him.
You didn't come that day, not the day after it either. All the while he was tortured each night, he was so frustrated, anger almost consuming him. He was never mad at God, but he was starting to ask himself why was he tempted? Just now, when everything came into place.
He couldn't forget your form, the smooth skin of your neck and now you weren't coming anymore, he wondered why.
He lay on his bed, the giant cross residing above it, watching everything from above.
He was wide awake once again, rosary clutched at his hand, his fingers feeling numb from how hard the held onto it. When the car passed the shadows danced along the walls, their light briefly illuminating his room.
The burning sensation spread all over his body and settling deep into the pit of his stomach. He forgot where he was in prayer, he didn't even realize he stopped, his thoughts consumed by you again.
You, on your back, facing the ceiling and him above you, resting on his arms. Your breasts were visible from your thin sleep wear, nipples hard.
He swallowed the saliva that pooled in his mouth at the mental image, beginning to strain against his pants. Fingers of his one hand inched closer to his crotch, the other gripped the beads even more tightly.
He has never been so terrified before, hand trembling, sweat dripping down his neck.
He grazed his hand against his hard on, just a little brush and groaned out at the contact. Pleasure overtaking him just from one touch. He did it again, palming himself over the pants.
He gritted his teeth, trying to keep the sounds in, but continuing his movements, now fully touching himself.
It felt so good, he hasn't experienced such ecstasy ever.
He imagined what you would sound like, what you would look like while overcome with pleasure, he wished you were with him, your hand on him instead of his own.
He was approaching his high steadily, he sensed it before it happened and wanted to cry out to Lord, to help him one last time before he sinned completely.
But he couldn't stop it, pleasure exploding inside of him, reaching the tips of his toes. Dark spot appearing at his pants, staining the fabric with milky liquid.
The beads of rosary snapped under his fingers, rolling all over the bed.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
Where were your beautiful eyes now to comfort him? Why weren't you coming? Jay thought as he witnessed the first sun rays of a new day. The events of last night replaying in his mind. He has sinned, he has lusted after a woman. He was no longer pure, no longer the holy man everyone held him as.
He got up from his bed, remnants of his transgression still clinging to him. He changed into new fresh clothes. He fastened his collar, the whiteness of it reminding him even more of his betrayal.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror, there was a glint in his eyes that wasn't there before. Something has shifted. Jay only sighed deeply, running his hand through his hair, ruffling it.
Another day to get through, now all of it felt like a chore, the things in which he found enjoyment in, all of them seemed like a burden now.
Jay decided, it was a vile thing to do, but he is going to repent and then never stray into sin again, he was sure of it.
By the time sun set, his will turned to stone, he wasn't going to relapse again.
Enveloped in the evening you came.
You never appear this late, what happened, he was getting kind of worried. Again, that instinct inside of him.
You smiled when your eyes met his, as if you knew, as if you were then with him then, tempting him in flesh. Now, you didn't know, but you had an inkling, you knew that with your words, with your implications you planted a seed of something inside of him.
You just waited for it to bloom, leaving him on his own, you might have delved into the forbidden territory now but you weren't going to seduce him directly. You were too afraid to do that. You already gave in, entertaining the idea of being with him, of knowing him as a man, but only in your thoughts.
"Long time no see.", you started the conversation lightly.
"Is everything okay?", he asked, it was three days and three nights that he hasn't seen you.
"Just got caught up with work.", you lied, again.
"I see.", Jay mumbled, glancing at the prayer book held in his hand.
"I have a meeting in about 10 minutes, you can listen, if you want.", he offered.
You thought of leaving, but some kind of force moved you to say,: "I could.", part of you wanted to hear him play again, to witness it once more.
You didn't even notice but people were slowly trailing in the church, most of them were young, teenagers, it was a youth's meeting. You felt out place amongst them, not looking once at him and choosing to go to the farthest pew, where you could still hear the music.
Jay brought the guitar with him, starting to play, his fingers worked slowly, he began to sing as well. Sudden melancholy passed over you at hearing his voice, some feeling you've never experienced before, at that moment, you felt remorse for every lustful thing you've thought about him. You felt dirty and sinful for having touched into something so divine, so pure.
You hated on your nature, on your inclination to sin, but unbeknownst to you it wasn't only your nature at play.
He had that inside of him as well, no one was free from that. He might have gotten a call and he thought it was definite, but God above knows that something hidden in the depths of him, called out for you too.
"Your goodness will lead me home.", he finished the song, the one he wasn't singing for God anymore,no,he sang it for you only. His fingers didn't glorify Him anymore, his devotion was beginning to point towards you.
You wiped at the tears that emerged from your eyes, turned around and left, you couldn't bear it anymore.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
That's how it went for the few weeks, you weren't coming anymore to just stare at he floor and be in silence,you came to hear him. Both of you having almost no contact, aside from small nod here and there. You thought that was it, you have given up on God, given up on the priest. Part of you was satisfied to just watch from afar, but another one was angry. Jealous even. Even the small ounce of salvation you have gotten, it dissipated into thin air.
So you did what you thought was the best, you numbed yourself.
You partied, hard, you drank everything that came under you hands, the stronger burn the better. The haze in your mind comforting, warmth that spread through you blood addicting. Alcohol was your escape, men's touch as well, their stupid sweet words that only wanted to lure you in. You fell for it all, without care in the world, you gave in completely to any kind of cheap high that you could get. Even if it meant coming undone on the stranger's fingers, hiding in the shadowed corner of the street in front of the club.
There was one thing you didn't admit to yourself ever, but you felt it when you sobered up, the clearness in your mind letting you see it for a moment. You wanted to scream then but the feeling went away just as it came, you getting drunk again and forgetting about it.
It lingered though, always at the back of your mind, not once did you keep your eyes open, they were always closed, imagining someone else's fingers, someone else's eyes following your each movement. Sometimes when you dreamed, you dreamed of black clothes and the light filtering through the stained windows. Of the cross and the scent of old wood.
That's how you found yourself in the taxi, which you don't even know how you called, liquor running through your veins. He asked where to drive you and you slurred the address, already half asleep. The man asked you to repeat and you did, he only raised his eyebrows and drove off.
Jay has just been waking up, getting ready for his morning prayer. He couldn't deny that he missed you, you were not showing up anymore, but he thought that was the will of God, coming up once again and saving him from the temptation. He was sad for loosing a potential believer though.
As he was thinking, a sound of thumping reached him, it was dulled, as if it was at the front door of the cathedral. No one was coming in this hour, that must have been stray cat or something else. He brushed it off, but the sound continued and something else too, like a voice. Now, he had to go and check, he got up, still in his sleepwear.
Coming closer , he could recognize he words "stupid", "priest" and "open", the voice was oddly familiar.
Finally he cracked the door open, taking a peek outside, warm air hitting face. It was still spring, but it was close to its end. Your form came into view, you in a short black dress, slumped against door, sitting on the ground. One of your hands was on the door, it looked like an uncomfortable position to be in. Surprise filled his eyes, his breathing coming to a stop. He whispered your name, like he was in a trance.
When you noticed him, you slowly got up stumbling, his hand reached out, settling on your waist, smell of alcohol invading his senses. You were drunk, very.
"Hey, slowly", he said, steadying you. You looked up at him, your eyes were a little teary, out of focus. A smile crept up on your face, greeting him with a mumble. You planted your forehead on his shoulder, finger coming to grip at his shirt. Now, somebody could see you there, he had to get you inside. He quickly removed your head, slinging on of your arms over his shoulder, guiding you inside and closing the door.
You were barely walking, dragging your feet. "Dear God, help me.", Jay said to himself, making you sit on a chair.
"Can you see me?", he asked, what a stupid question. You only stared at him, repeating his name, moving your hands towards him, he avoided them. A sad expression came onto you face.
"You...", you mumbled, "Don't want me...", he chose not answer, he had to get you home somehow.
"I think...", you continued, he watched you with bated breath. You put your hand on your mouth, realization dawning on him, he moved quickly. Jay practically carried you to the back and into the bathroom, praying on the way that you make it.
Thankfully you did, emptying your stomach into the toilet bowl, all the while he held your hair, saying "It's okay", then proceeded to pass out on the cold tiles of his bathroom.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
You woke up, head throbbing, staring at the unknown ceiling. Your fingers came to press against our temple,sheets rustling, they were kind of rough and their scent was that of a detergent and something else. You got up, pressing your feet to the floor and looked around. A cross, directly above the bed. Oh no.
The memories of last night came flooding in, all tangled together but one thing you were certain, you made a fool out of yourself. How did you even come here, out of all places? Oh, yeah the confused taxi driver, that you did remember.
The sound of door clicking open startled you out of your thoughts. There stood Jay, in his daily clothes. What time was it?
"So you woke up.", you couldn't look him in the eyes, staring at your fingers playing with the edge of the sheet.
"I'm so sorry.", you said with a small voice, getting up, the banging in your head getting worse.
He came further into room, pointing at he night counter,:"First, drink that.", there was a glass of water,light dancing in it. You obeyed, downing it in one go, you were thirsty.
"Sit.", he commanded, again you listened, you would do anything he told you.
Finally, with fear reflecting on your eyes, you looked up at him. He seemed angry with you, stern look on his face.
"What was last night about? Why did you drink so much?",your name followed the question, the sound of it cut right through you.
"I don't know.", you cast your gaze down.
"You do.", he said searching for your eyes, "You do.", he repeated, quietly
What were you supposed to say? That it's because of him? Because you can't forget him?
You weren't sober enough for this and your head was killing you. Your clothes were uncomfortably sticking to your skin, now you felt self conscious under his gaze, putting your hands on your knees.
His eyes followed your movement, then quickly retreated from your naked knees.
"God give me strength." , he thought, he didn't know if he was to push you further. You looked so small, sitting on the edge of his bed, your hair a mess.
Jay sighed deeply, he was going to let you leave, like you always do, but he was also confused, his heart and mind having opposing ideas. Just when he was starting to forget, you showed up again. There was no escape, no peace.
In you, however, various emotions waged a war like no other, why did you have to end up in front of him again? Sharing the same air, breathing in his scent, that was him, you thought, that something that clinged to the sheets.
You thought maybe just one time you were going to do it, even if you were to be damned forever. Just once, you were going to be a sinner you were born to be.
You got up, determination in your step and walked towards Jay. He just stood there, not reacting quickly enough.
You grabbed his hand, it was warm against yours and put it on your chest. He tried to break free from your hold then eventually gave up, his hand going limp.
"I want you.", you said, trying to sound as honest as you could. He could feel how clammy your fingers were but as much as it was against his inhibitions, he enjoyed the contact. His heart couldn't help but beat louder in his chest.
Jay looked at you with pain gracing his eyes, he was an image of a man tortured. He shook his head, pulling his hand back, your touch lingered.
"It's better you leave.", he said, defeat in his voice, stepping aside from you.
So you left. It was different this time, you weren't running away, you were leaving with something precious, with the ghost of his touch. You finally got to feel what his skin against yours is like, what you dreamed about for months, you were closer than ever. His hesitation was like a promise to you.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
Next evening come, you were out with a friend. She noticed you were kind of out of it, not prone to having fun anymore, drink resting in your hand, untouched.
"You're no fun tonight.", she said, glancing your way.
"Yeah, sorry.", you answered, absentmindedly staring at the lights on the dance floor. Why did you even come here? When your mind was elsewhere, in certain tall building. You wondered if he was praying or sleeping right now.
Most of all you wondered if he thought about you.
None of this distractions really helped, considering the fact that you still ended at his doorstep, drunk out of your mind. No other men mattered, their touch might have lightened a fire inside of you, but that was only temporary relief. You were imaging him the whole time anyway.
"I'm going to leave.", you announced to her, she only waved you off. You never liked her much anyways, she was just someone that would tag along with you.
You decided to walk, it wasn't that late. The streets were illuminated with artificial lights, the air was warm, breathing it in you calmed down. Under the stars you felt safe, as if you were hugged from all above.
Your building came quicker than expected, you being entertained by your thoughts the whole way back.
You imagined then, that he was waiting for you, head leaned on the door, eyes staring at the ceiling, shoe tapping nervously.
Except he wasn't, empty hallway greeted you.
You thought till when is this going to last, was it just a dream what happened yesterday? You outwardly said you wanted him, you didn't confess but the meaning was still there. Maybe you should've voiced those words differently, to convey your true feelings for it was now becoming much deeper than just want. He now occupied the part of your heart, having reserved himself a place, not anyone could fill anymore.
That night, you fell asleep the most sober you have ever been.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
Inside Jay there was a growing void, one that not even God could fill. Ever since that night, his thoughts have been consumed by you. You said you wanted him, did you know he wanted you too?
Every night he has been burdened by the same dream, your lips on his, your body under him. Needs were awakening in him, those he didn't have before. He was content, now he was empty. Something under his skin itched, tickling and always present.
He couldn't escape from it, prayer stopped working. He was absent during mass, in the confessional, in his office, everywhere where he was there was a thought of you.
Those intrusive thoughts were killing him, he felt as if he was underwater and the air his lungs needed was you.
He would lay awake at night, watching the ceiling like hawk, again, in one hand he clenched a rosary so hard that it left imprints on his skin, while the other was clawing at the sheets. He was in pure torture, wondering why did his God abandon him.
Then one night, after the evening service, as he was just getting changed in the back, a soft knocking resounded at the door of the room.
He ceased his movements, turning around and there you stood, like a vision coming from above.
He voiced out your name, softly.
"I came for a confession.", you said, serious as ever.
He repeated your name, this time louder.
You fell on your knees in front of him, begining to say:" Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been...", he stopped by you grabbing you by the arms, forcefully pulling you up.
"For the love of God, stop.", he never repeated the Lord's name vain, yet he did it in front of you.
"What? I am confessing.", you said, frustrated.
"I know what you are going to say, please don't.", he finally let go of you, moving a step back. You took one forward.
"How do you know?", you asked, continuing,:" How do you know it is about me having a lustful thoughts.", you paused, "about a priest."
Jay winced when that came out of your mouth. You came even closer, bringing your face to his. His breathing started to get laboured, eyes darting from yours to your lips. The tension was thicker than ever.
It culminated when you crashed your lips onto his own, tasting him, finally, the forbidden fruit sweet on your tongue. His lips were a little chapped but soft none the less, euphoric feeling was coursing through you and then you felt it. The pressure, he kissed back, enveloping your mouth in his own.
Like a man starved, he didn't kiss he devoured, holding onto restraint for so long, it snapping all at once. You opened your mouth, coaxing his tongue in, it running over yours, exploring your mouth. You couldn't help but moan, grabbing at his hair, pulling him closer.
Both of you came up for air, panting, his lips swollen, your lipstick smudged at the corners. There was a wild glint in his eyes, his pupils blown, darkness swimming in them. Then he seemed to come to his senses, hands grabbed your shoulders creating a distance between the two of you.
He looked once at the floor, then at you again. He just betrayed himself and his God, all of it crashing down on him at once. He felt disgusted by himself but his lips still tingled, aching for more of your touch.
You stared at him, waiting for him to lash out at you, to scream, because you just crossed the line, but again, he did it too. He kissed you back and with fervor.
It seemed like the devil took control of him completely because he couldn't talk, only think how he wants that to happen again.
He heard a lot about heaven, but he didn't know that he would find it in the taste of you.
Jay turned around and braced one hand against the wall, willing his breathing to calm down.
You didn't know what to do, fiddling with your fingers, his silence keeping you on the edge.
"You know how wrong this is.", he said, facing you now.
"Jay.", you said, just his name alone, intimate and raw.
At the sound of it, pain flickered in his eyes, he brought his gaze up, glancing at the heavens. This was one of hardest moments in his life, he was on the precipice of something, be it salvation or damnation.
The temptation was there, more present than ever, if only he gave in a little, he could have what his body has been burning for. All those nights he spent in sweat, resisting, now it was almost at the palm of his hand, if only he reached out a little.
He cursed in his mind, actually cursed, so unlike for a priest and grabbed your hand, dragging you through the hall and into his room.
He locked the door, twice, begging the God to forgive him but no divine force could stop him.
You just stood in the middle of the room, surprised, watching his every move.
Jay took slow steps towards you until the back of your legs hit the bed. He lifted his hand up, putting it onto your chest and pushed you until you sat down. He came to stand in between your legs.
You watched his movements with a breath caught in your throat, there was a strange look in his eyes. You have never seen such a darkness invading them, they were focused on you, following every nervous twitch of your lips. His nostrils were slightly flaring from how aggressively he was breathing, he trailed his index finger down the line of your neck.
"Always so tempting.", he said, no warmth left in his voice.
He hummed as if he was deep in thought, other hand coming to cup your face, pulling it up so you faced him directly.
You looked up at him, him hovering over you, his eyes were focused on you, devouring you with their gaze alone.
Air was charged with so much electricity, just one match was needed to light up everything in flames. Then you did it, licking your lips subconsciously and swallowing, lump stuck in your throat.
That was all he needed, leaning down and crashing his mouth onto yours.
This time it was only heat, no gentleness, no uncertainty as it had been when you kissed him. He shoved his tongue in your mouth, rubbing it against yours, teeth crashing, some saliva dripping down. He lapped it all up, hungry for your taste.
Your hands were gripping at the front of his shirt, wrinkling the black fabric, engulfed in the intensity of the moment.
He pushes you further up the bed, putting his knee on top of it, caging you in.
He separated from you for a moment to kick off his shoes, then came back to leave warm pecks just under your jaw, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging for you to move your head so he has more access.
You moaned at the pressure on your scalp, arms enveloping his shoulders, moulding your body with his.
Your thin dress did nothing to soothe the heat coming from your skin, the collar of his shirt tickling you. You glided your palms down his back, coming to rest at his front, working the buttons. He pulled his head up, coming to rest his forehead on yours, breathing heavily, watching your fingers fumble.
He helped you, ripping his white collar off in the process. The damnation was waiting for him surely but he was far to gone to care.
His bare chest came into view, your fingers splaying over it, looking deep into his eyes.
Then your turn came, the zipper of your dress being undone, it slipping from your body in one smooth movement.
There you were, only in your underwear, your breasts on display, nipples perked up,skin slicked with sweat. He stared, you were finally here, in his bed, under him, wooden cross above you both. His fingers danced around the lace of your panties, his eyes ogling, desire seeping through them, his other hand came to grope at your chest, pulling a whimper from you.
He was straining so hard against his pants, that it was beginning to hurt. He was dying to be inside of you already, cock twitching from the sole image of you and the way you were looking at him. With wanting and with submission, completely undone.
"Show me.", he whispered, still playing with your underwear.
Your fingers, in response, slipped under the waistband of you panties and pulled them off, sliding them down your legs. He swallowed at the sight, holding onto your thighs. You spread them apart and guided his fingers to your clit. You were so wet that they just glided against it, pleasure making you throw your head back.
Jay needed no time to learn. Rubbing at your nub of nerves with nimbleness, adjusting the pace while listening to the hitches in your breath. Then they wandered lower and lower, until his index and middle finger reached your entrance, slipping them inside.
"Yes, just like that.", you said, out of breath, focusing only on the motions of his hand.
He pumped his fingers in and out, enjoying the way you squirmed. He wanted to taste you, to see how would your wetness feel on his tongue, he licked his lips, resisting the urge just barely, that would have to wait for another time. Another time? He was already thinking of doing this with you again, no semblance of stopping the sin growing inside of him.
His mind was filled with various ideas, how he would like to take you, to have you. All of it couldn't be done by one time.
With his free hand he started to undo his belt, the clinking sound filling the room, mixing with your harsh breathing. It was hard to do it with one hand so he had to stop his ministrations, pulling out his finger with a wet pop, your wetness glistening on them.
He let out a faint moan at feeling, coming to take off his pants, smearing them with you in the process. Those clothes that signified his devotion to God, his restriction, his vow.
Now all of it was about to be broken.
He released himself from his underwear, bare before you, his cock hard against his stomach. Tip red and wet with drops of precum, some of it spilling down his shaft. Your hand reached out, grabbing a hold of him, tending to him with slow pumps of your hand, spreading the wetness even more.
A hiss escaped his mouth, he was so sensitive and ready, barely holding himself back. Then he moved, coming closer, his hands replacing yours and aligning himself with your entrance.
He sank in slowly, your walls fluttering around him, he welcomed the sensation. He has never felt that before, but the feeling was addicting, he pushed in more, bottoming out, groaning at the way you squeezed him.
He put his hands on the side of head, bracing himself and started moving, chasing the sweet feeling you were giving him. He let the pure, primal nature take over him, thrusting his hips in a quick movements, but still reaching deep.
He saw the way your eyes rolled back in your head, your mouth falling open, trying to suppress the moans from the back of your throat. You were aware that you two were still in the back of the church, of the God's house, but he felt so good inside of you.
With every glide of his cock, he brushed the most sensitive spot inside of you, even more wetness gushing out to coat him, aiding in his movements and the sound of his breathing, loud in your ears, fanning your face each time he exhaled.
"Where do you want it?", he asked through gritted teeth, voice rough from pleasure.
He was so close, his cock twitching, not being able to withhold it any longer, it was his first time after all.
"Inside.", you managed to say, almost ending in a moan.
Your fingers tangled on his nape, his hair slicked with sweat, you needed just a little more to come too. Arching your back for him to reach in even deeper, breasts brushing his chest.
He didn't answer, only burying his head in your shoulder, biting there to not let out any sound, his saliva warm on your skin. His orgasm crashing over him, spurts of his release filling you. You held onto his hair tighter with one hand,soothing him while other came to rub at your clit.
That did it for you, pleasure exploding behind your eyelids, painting your whole world in white, your pussy squeezing around him in intense waves.
Your head slumped against the pillow after, hand coming to rest limp on the sheets, aftershocks still running from you. He lifted up his head, forehead wet from sweat, pupils still blown wide, his mouth was slightly open, coming down from his high.
He removed himself from you slowly, as if he didn't want to part, your mixed releases spilling onto the sheets under. Feeling of emptiness enveloping you, you curling into yourself on the bed, overwhelmed.
Jay came to lay beside you, putting one hand over his eyes, breathing in deeply.
God, what has he done?
The thoughts didn't last for too long, he turned to you asking:" Are you okay?".
"I'm fine.", you sighed, looking around the bed for your clothes. You wanted him to hold you close, but he seemed so distant after it all.
After you just gave your body to him. Now, he yearned to be close to you as well, but the anxiety took over him. He was scared, to death. The realization dawning on him, he just willingly broke his vow.
He watched with trepidation in his eyes as you pulled your dress over your head, clumsily zipping it up. You didn't bother with underwear.
"Y/N.", he said your name like in a prayer, dazed.
You finally lifted up your teary eyes to his, Jay felt his heart breaking at the sight. It was because of him.
"This..", he began.
"Doesn't meant anything right?", you finished for him with a lump stuck deep in your throat.
"That's not.", he tried to, but you've already decided, he wasn't going to leave everything for you, no way. He might have broken his promise, but it must have been only the moment. His hesitancy was speaking volumes to you, he was too devoted.
You'll have to satisfy yourself with this brief, passionate encounter you had and forget.
He was a priest, you were just a tortured soul in his path, nothing else.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
Jay continued his well known routine. Get up early, pray, prepare for the sermon, morning mass, confessional if needed and then evening mass, praying before bed and sleep.
Repeat.
One thing however wasn't right, he never confessed and repented for his wrongdoing.
He just like a hypocrite he became, smiled in front of people and talked about straying away from sin, about protecting your soul and virtue. All while his own was rotting away, playing with the devil.
He spent his nights with hand in his pants, fucking his fist to the thought of you.
He chose to keep it as a secret, what happened between the two of you. His own dirty secret, a certain ticket for hell.
He still thought about you, about your whereabouts, about your sweet voice and beautiful eyes. You came to him in dream each night.
He missed you until he couldn't take it anymore.
One night, he got dressed in normal clothes, locked the doors of the church and left in the direction of your home.
Night air was warm and fragrant, his body casting a shadow on the pavement, sharp and dark. He looked at it, it was a shadow of a man, nothing more.
That night, he became just a man, no adjectives could be added anymore, not holy, not devoted.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he feels as if he lost something, closeness of God or His grace, His favour. Then he is brought close to tears, but all of a sudden a whiff of your scent invades his memory.
The way you felt under him, he was ready to give up place in heaven for it.
His legs brought you in front of your building, his mind filled with the thoughts of you.
Jay knocked on your door, once, twice, only silence greeting him. He was growing worried already, where were you this late at night?
Little did he know, you were staring at his form through the peephole, wondering whether to open or not.
His appearance surprised you, all those days you were tortured, replaying that night all the time. You got into temptation to go drinking again, but decided not to, too tired from not sleeping and just thinking.
You wanted it to mean something more, more than just desire, more than just lust.
The attraction you two had was out of this world already, but your heart ached too when you would see him, not just your core.
Another knock echoed.
You opened the door, face to face you both stood. Relief washed immediately over his features, his eyebrows relaxing from their scrunched position.
"Hi.", he said, his familiar eyes boring into yours.
You opened your mouth and closed it, unable to get out even a greeting.
"Can I come in?", he inquired, moving forward.
"What do you need?", you answered back with a question, it came out harsher than you wanted it to.
"You.", he fired back, in a blink of an eye.
That was so unlike him, you wondered what has gotten inside of him to talk that way to you, in public, on your doorstep.
"Look, let's talk inside?", he tried, gesturing with his hand.
You noticed the absence of his usual clothes, jeans so unfamiliar on him. You didn't complain, the way they fit him was so easy on the eye. You quickly darted your eyes up to his. He didn't fail to notice.
You sighed out, moving sideways so he could come in, his body brushed against yours. You jolted, reminded of how he felt that night, so impossibly close to you.
You closed the door with a click, leaning your back on it.
He darted his eyes around your apartment, taking notice of any changes that happened since the last time he was there. It seemed such a long time ago. The night of agony that followed.
Now it was all behind him, he was standing in front of you, beholding your form, finally.
Jay's hands itched by his sides, he wanted to touch you, he didn't think he would ever get enough. The greed was growing inside of him, relentless.
He came here to talk, really, but seeing you, your tired eyes, the dark circles under them and something unreadable in them too.
The need to hug you was overwhelming. So he did just that. Took few steps towards you and wrapped his arms around you, engulfing you in his embrace.
You couldn't move, couldn't think, only feel his warmth, it made your muscles relax just a little, your mind quietened.
The effect he had on you, calming even the most of violent storms inside of you. Except he was the cause of it and the cure.
You pushed him off with trembling hands and stared at the floor, not meeting his gaze.
"I'm so sorry.", he whispered, cupping your face, coming close once again.
He rubbed his thumb in soothing circles over your cheek, cherishing the feel of your skin on his. You moved your eyes to his, a pleading look crept up on your face, as if you were ready to get on your knees at any moment and beg. His eyes stared at you with such gentleness and softness that you couldn't resist them, forgetting about all the pain you went through.
His lips were slowly approaching your own, carefully, so you could pull back if you wanted to. When he saw no hesitancy,he slotted his mouth over yours, softly as if he was kissing a rose, so that your petals wouldn't fall off.
You sighed deeply into the kiss, tangling your fingers in his hair, it felt like something has awakened behind your rib cage, crawled its way up and out of your mouth and into his.
He welcomed each press of your lips on his, you opened your mouth, his tongue slipping inside, sensually exploring. He pushed you against the door, hands coming to grope at your hips, gliding over the small of your back.
It was so easy to get lost in the moment with him, to forget where he ends and you begin.
You would have never pulled away if it wasn't for your treacherous lungs that craved oxygen so much. Coming up for air, you took notice of the lust in his eyes, ache settling between your thighs.
You couldn't find your voice anymore, your blood rushing violently in your ears, instead you opted for gliding your hands over his shoulders.
Jay said your name once, trying to get your attention, searching for your eyes desperately. When your eyes finally met, he smiled that breathtaking smile of his, tucking a hair behind your ear.
He was ready, now. In the deepest, most hidden part of himself he knew. He would die without you.
That realization shook his whole being, slight tremors coming up to the tips of his fingers.
He loved you, no it wasn't just empty lust, you dug your way into his soul, engraving it with your name. He belonged to God only, now he belongs to you instead.
He has known it then, when the gave his body to you, it's just that feeling hasn't crystallized completely, the fog of anxiety covering it.
"I'll do it.", he said, serious as ever.
"Do what?", you questioned quietly as not to break the fragility of the moment.
"I'll leave everything behind and come to you.", he promised, sincerity dripping from his voice.
"You would do that?", you cast your eyes down,you didn't deserve that.
He repeated "yes" three times, once loudly with so much certainty and then whispered it against the skin of you neck, leaving soft kisses there.
Somehow that was more potent than any confession could be, surging through your veins and bringing new life to you.
You dropped down in front of him, unbuckling his belt in an instant. You needed to worship his body like it's holy, you needed to spell all your gratitude into his skin.
When he realized what you were about to do, his eyes bulged out, a shiver running through him. He was already hard and tenting in his underwear. You took him out, a hiss escaping his mouth at the air that hit him.
You licked his tip, tentatively, gulping down at his taste, letting saliva gather on your tongue and then spitting on him, watching it coat his shaft. He moaned out at the warm feeling, then you spread the wetness out with your hand, pumping him a little.
When he was properly lubricated, you slowly took him in your mouth, his cock sinking down you throat until your nose reached his stomach. He felt his knees buckle, one hand coming to brace against the door.
You bobbed your head up and down, flattening your tongue out, being careful of your teeth. Every movement was graced with devotion, bleeding from it. He thought all of his nerve endings were on fire, pleasure so intense consuming him, he threw his head back, breathing hard through his nose.
Your eyes were becoming teary from how deep you were taking him, spit dripping from the corners of your mouth, luckily your hair was in a ponytail already.
You took him out, licking a stripe along the underside of his shaft and then sucked on his tip gently, pumping him with your hand.
You felt he was close, twitching, his whole body tense, his hand was balled into a fist by his side.
You sank down once again, feeling him hit the back of your throat, you swallowed around him and he exploded inside of your mouth. You welcomed all of it greedily, the warm liquid trailing down your throat, you felt as if you've reached heaven, having him pour out his love to you.
He barely stood, gripping at the door for dear life, aftershocks running through his body, his heart beating out of its limits. While you were still down, wiping at your mouth, licking the remains, a faint moan coming out from you. You given head before but never like this, it was almost an out of body experience.
It was all because of him, he brought you a high you've never felt before, a feeling that could come only from above, as if he was a saint and led you to see His grace alone.
Except saints didn't fall apart on someone's tongue like that.
Moonlight — pjs
nocturna series
pairing: downbad!jay x grumpy!reader (afab)
synopsis: having a pain in the ass at your heels all the time was not on your bucket-list for this semester. but still he was chasing you, not giving up even if you said it to his face every time.
genre: crack, fluff, smut, drama, uni au, grumpy x sunshine (kinda)
contains: profanity, smoking, alcohol consumption, family issues (unspecified), bisexual!reader, multiple sex scenes, casual hook-up, jealous!jay, femboy slander (playful, not malicious), side-fuck!jongseob (p1h), toxic ex reappearance, emotional tension, the gradual mess of falling in love without realizing it
(a lot going on just bear with me)
smut warnings: rough/desperate sex, jealous!jay, unprotected sex, dirty talk, clitoral stimulation, praise, oral (m&f receiving), manhandling, overstimulation, begging, teasing, dryhumping, desperate!jay x desperate!reader
NOT PROOFREAD! (english is not my first language)
MDNI!
"I'm a lesbian."
You turned to face him making him halt his steps and almost bump into you. Not like he would complain. You stared at him deadpan, his eyes blinking repeatedly.
"That don't matter babygirl, I got that masc lesbian in me."
He retorted, shaking his head with every word, as if to reassure you. You groaned in frustration, turning to continue the route to the campus cafe where your supposed group study meet up place was. Your steps were accompanied by another set of steps right at your heels. Like always. "You better get that strap ready—"
"Shut up!"
You yelled out, opening the double door that led into the grand room full of tables scattered with students — caffeine-fueled and halfway to burnout. Heads turned. You didn't care. Maybe if enough people witnessed your slow descent into madness, they do throw you a pitty latte. He, of course, followed. Like a particularly chatty shadow.
"I'm just sayin'..." He said, voice dropping like he was about to tell you a secret. "If you were into girls, I could still be your girl. Spiritually." Maybe if you caused enough of a scene, someone—anyone—would call security and drag him off. You didn't dignify it. Your jaw clenched. Steps quickened. He was practically bouncing behind you now, stupid smile on his face like you hadn’t crushed his hopes ten times over this week alone. You rolled your eyes so hard it gave you a headache. "You're exhausting."
"And yet..." He said, walking backward to keep his eyes on you as you made your way toward the back of the café. "You still haven't filed a restraining order. That's gotta mean something." You huffed in response, done with his stupidity. You spotted your study group in the back corner—Nina, Jungwon, Sunghoon—all already mid-cram session. Lucky bastards. They didn't have a personal stalker with delusions of romance. And curse Jungwon for being his best friend that sadly you hang out with almost all the time.
You slid into the chair besides Nina, tossing your bag down with more aggression than necessary. Jay pulled out a chair across from you like he belonged there. Like he had earned the right to haunt your days and ruin your peace. "What's up, study squad? I brought my emotional support bi girl—" You threw him a glare. "—she's emotionally unavailable, but I'm working on it."
You grabbed a pen and pointed it at him. "You are one bad joke away from a highlighter up your nose." Nina snorted, not even looking up from her notes. "You two sound like a married couple." Your head whipped towards her. "Do not put that energy into the universe."
Jay just grinned wider, leaning back in his chair like he was settling in for a movie. "Too late. It’s already there. I feel it. In my loins." Sunghoon choked on his iced coffee. "Bro."
"I'm begging you to shut up." You said, flipping your notebook open and furiously highlighting a sentence you didn't even read. Jay leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin in his hand. "You know, if you ever need someone to help you explore your... sapphic journey..." He wiggled his eyebrows. "I can hold the camera. Strictly for support purposes."
Your jaw dropped, and Jungwon smacked him on the arm so fast, it actually made you feel a little bit of peace for two seconds. "Jay. What the hell, man?"
"What?" Jay grinned, unfazed. "It's supportive! Ally behavior!"
"Call yourself an ally again and I’m turning you into a PSA." you said flatly, still not looking up.
"Oh, you like it when I get educational, huh?"
You threw your pen at him.
"Alright..." Nina sighed, flipping a page in the group packet, "We need to split up and do these practice problems in pairs or we are never getting through this in time." You froze, eyes darting to the one person you absolutely refused to acknowledge sitting across from you with a stupid glow of anticipation already blooming on his face.
"No. "you said immediately.
"Yes." Nina said, not even glancing up. "We don't have time for your situationship drama."
"It's not a situationship!" you and Jay said at the same time. His voice was way too enthusiastic. Yours was basically a scream. Jungwon didn't even look up from his notes. "Yeah, okay. Y/N with Jay. Me with Nina. Sunghoon's alone because he keeps ghosting group chats." Sunghoon didn't even deny it.
"No. No. There are four of you and one of me. That means I get to be the floater." You argued, already standing up like you were going to defect to another table. Jay reached across the table and tugged on your sleeve, grinning. "Come on, baby, don't fight fate. Just sit down and let me mansplain some econ to you."
You blinked slowly. "I will file for academic emancipation. I swear to god." But he was already sliding the worksheet over, patting the seat beside him like this was some kind of romantic dinner and not your personal hell. You sat down with the grace of someone about to commit a crime.
"I'm touching you strictly because I have to." You scooted closer only to see the angle of the paper better, but Jay's smirk deepened like you just confessed undying love. "Of course. It’s purely physical."
You groaned.
"Oh my God." you whispered, fingers already massaging your temple in a state of distress. "I'm going to kill you with a stapler." He leaned in, voice low and stupidly flirty.
"Make sure to do it slow."
• • • • •
It was just another regular weekday. Get up, get ready, campus, annoying lectures, get back to your dorm and just pray that tonight you won't be bothered by a nuisance that turns your best days ever into a "wish I worked at a local convenience store and never had the desire to be a woman in STEM so just i wouldn't have met him" type of day.
Ironic much, considering the situation.
Because the universe? The universe loved irony. It loved watching you suffer under the relentless, infuriating, questionably charming presence of Jay.
And as if on cue, as if he was summoned by your very disdain, your phone buzzed and grabbed your attention from the Netflix show playing on your laptop. You rolled your eyes, pausing the episode and pushing the thick blankets off of you. Grabbing the phone off the charger your lips immediately dropped into a frown.
ignore: are you home?
ignore: because I feel like your building misses me. And by "your building" I mean your door. And by "misses me" I mean "cries softly when I don't show up"
You stared at the message like it personally wronged you. Words on the screen already hitting your nervous system, stare blank and deadpan. A number of things you were debating on sending back to that crossed your mind but still you optioned for the most mellow thing. Even if you should have written the worst.
You: if I pretend I moved to another country, will you stop texting me?
ignore: no. I will just start learning the language
You groaned, tossing your phone onto your bed and collapsing beside it face-first. You should've never gone to that party three months ago when he just transferred. You should've never laughed at that dumb joke he made about your "intense main character energy". You should've told him you were in a committed relationship with your GPA and had no room for men who wore leather jackets unironically and gave people pet names like it was his full-time job.
You should've blocked him.
The knock at your door came exactly a minute later. You didn't dare to move, praying that it was just the wind or your brain giving you early signs of schizophrenia. Then your phone buzzed again. You clasped your hands together in a prayer, sitting up straight and closing your eyes shut tight "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven—"
Knock. Knock.
"Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us—"
"Babygirl..." His voice came from the other side, muffled but still so him. "If you don't open this door in the next ten seconds, I will start singing outside like a Disney prince with abandonment issues."
And he started singing. You winced, each note worse than the last. You huffed in defeat, before you flung the door open before he hit the third note of what was shaping up to be a very aggressive rendition of A Whole New World. He blinked at you, screaming stopping as he held a chip bag in one hand, obnoxious smile ready to go. "See? I knew you missed me."
"Are you insane?! It's freaking 12 am! People are sleeping!" You whisper yelled but no use. Jay walked right by you and stepped in like he owned the place, dropping the chips on your desk and flopping backward onto your bed without hesitation. You fumed at that, taking in a deep breath. "You know—" He said, staring at your ceiling like it held the answers to the universe. "I dreamed about you last night." You didn't turn around. "Was I pushing you off a cliff?"
"No." he said, voice mock-wounded. "You were holding my hand and telling me I was the best mistake you ever made." You turned around just enough to glare at him, his expression still playful"And then I woke up crying." he added with a sniffle, dramatically wiping a nonexistent tear. "Because you left me for a barista named Luca."
"…Good. I hope I leave you for two baristas named Luca." Jay grinned, already with an answer that knew will tip you over the edge. "Threesome?" You threw a pillow at him so hard it knocked his smug ass off the bed.
God this is a nightmare.
• • • • • •
The lawn is calm, scattered with students lying on blankets or half-asleep in the grass. It’s the kind of weather that makes you forget about deadlines—warm sun, light breeze, the low hum of campus life in the background.
You and Nina are sitting on a thin blanket under a tree that’s barely giving any shade, your iced coffees melting fast beside you. A couple of wrappers rustle in the wind, and someone nearby is playing guitar badly enough to ruin the mood, but it’s still peaceful.
"I swear to God, if Professor Bart assigns one more presentation, I’m gonna present my will to live." Nina mutters, scribbling something violently in her planner. You hum. "You'll still make it look aesthetic."
"Obviously." She exhales through her nose and flips the page. "If I'm miserable, at least I’ll be color-coded." You glance over her shoulder at the neat highlighter lines and clean handwriting, eyebrows raised in stunnes. "This is actually terrifying."
Nina doesn’t look up. "It's survival. If I don't control this, I'll spiral." You don't argue. You both know the feeling. She closes the planner finally moving it to the side as she took a breather and leaned back onto her hands, face tilted toward the sun. "Do you ever think we are not built for this?"
You stretch out beside her on the patchy lawn, your arm brushing hers. "Every single day."
There's a pause. Not heavy, not awkward. Just quiet.
"I could sleep right here." Nina mumbles, closing her eyes in enjoyment of the warm sun rays. "Just dissolve into the grass." You squint at her, shifting to pluck a weed near your shoe. "Must be nice. I can't even blink without a certain idiot finding new ways to annoy me." She grins like she's been waiting for this, She cracks one eye open. "You talking about your favorite person?" You scoff. "Jay is not— God, I can't go one day without him breathing down my neck. Who volunteers for a group project and then refuses to do it unless we're in the same room?"
"No, but seriously. If I had Jay drooling over me like that, I'd... I don’t know. Start charging him rent."
You groan. "Don’t start."
"I'm just saying." she sings, stretching her arms behind her. "It's giving... situationship. It's giving banter and unresolved sexual tension."
"It's giving restraining order." You shoot back.
Nina cackles, rolling to her side. "So what's the deal, then? You're not into him?" You looked back at her, your face alone giving enough of an answer with the done expression. "You're blushing."
"No I'm not."
"No seriously," Nina was not giving up, now laying down onto the blanket and turning onto her stomach. "You never thought about —"
"Whatever you wanted to say the answer is no." You immediately cut her off, eyes shooting glares at her. "But like he is so down astronomical. It’s honestly impressive."
"He's annoying." You mutter. "You could just tell him to stop." You fall quiet for a second, thinking back to the event that took place just a while ago, and was actually occurring pretty regularly. " I did. " Nina blinks at you. "...And?"
"He said ‘ten-four, princess’ and sent me a selfie with finger hearts." She snorts. "That sounds about right." The silence stretched again, until your phone buzzes. It's face-up on the blanket. You glance at it, and everything in you just... stills.
Mom
No emojis, no hearts. Just bland. Mom.
You don't move. Don't say anything. The lightness from seconds ago vanishes. Nina notices the silence first. Her voice drops, so used to this reaction from you and just already assuming. "That her?" You nod. Slowly. Then reach out and flip the phone face-down without a word.
The buzz stops. So does the conversation.
Nina's quiet for a moment. Then, softly — "You okay?"
You shrug, everything in you a flat line. "Yeah. I'm fine. Probably just her checking if I'm still alive. "
She doesn’t push. Just changes the subject like she knows you’d rather not. Something dumb about campus drama. Something forgettable. But your mind's not really in it anymore. Not after that name on the screen.
• • • • • •
"Was is cappuccino again?"
"Yeah." You answered to your coworker on the other side of the bar, eyes stuck on a computer as you typed in the order from the table that just sat down. The sound of steamer and the smell of espresso stinging at your senses that were already used to it. Your legs felt sore and worn out, muscles stinging at every move. At moments like this, quiting part timing seemed pretty tempting, but you couldn't even if you wanted to.
"Done." The boys voice snapped you out of your revision of the tables served as you grabbed the empty tray and skillfully arranged the drinks that needed to be delivered to costumers. The blonde boy observed your tired face, your sighing only making him feel worse for you. "You know... It won't hurt to take a day off sometimes, especially when have classes to attend." He spoke slightly humoriously, adding a light smile at the end.
You didn't dare to look him in the eye, annoyance rising in you for no specific reason. Everything almost making you crash out right then and there. "In my case it would Jongseob. Tuition is not something I need to play with right now, is it?" Your sharp answer made him realise the weight of your situation actually, even if he heard some parts of it from other coworkers already. He hummed back as you were already turning around to serve the rest of the café.
Just two more hours Y/N, just two more.
"Fucking hell we are done!" You answered back as you let your head smack against the table in front of you, cash nitely arranged on it, calculated and the tips divided. It was a hell of a shift, the clock ticking at 12:30 am as the bottles of drinks rattled whilst Jongseob was obviously stocking up the fridge for the morning shift. You stretched your limbs, cracking your neck side to side, huff leaving your mouth. You wanted nothing but to go back to your dorm room and fall into a deep sleep.
You gathered all the money up, heading behind the bar to leave it in the regular place, bending down to it. "Jongseob, your tip is here at the bar, do you have the keys-"
The words caught in your throat when he bent down at the same time you reached forward. His shoulder brushed against your side, solid and warm even through your shirt. You were about to step back, but he straightened too fast and nearly collided with you, the sudden nearness making your breath hitch.
Your hand shot out to steady yourself and landed on his arm. The fabric of his sleeve was damp from melted ice, but beneath it was the unmistakable heat of him. His face was close enough that you could see the faint shine of sweat at his temple, the sharp line of his jaw, and that flicker in his eyes when he realized how close you were.
Neither of you moved right away. The hum of the fridge and the faint clinking of bottles filled the space while you both stood suspended in the too-tight air. When you finally let go, it felt deliberate, almost reluctant, as if the silence you broke by stepping back was heavier than the touch itself. The sudden silence and tension took you aback. Well that was weird.
"Yeah, I have the keys." He answered back. "You can go, I will stay and finish everything up." You were already untiying your apron, getting ready to head to the back and change until two figures caught your attention through the front glass. Hate to admit it was Jungwon with Jay by his side, talking and laughing while just passing by with no obvious intention of walking inside, thank God.
Just as you were about to turn around, Jay snapped his head towards the bar, a big smile of amusement making it's way on his lips, he stopped in his tracks and got close to the glass, waving uncontrollably. You groaned, throwing your head back in response, knowing that now he is gonna wait on you, even walk you to your dorm since it was not the first time this happened. He started sending flying kisses, throwing random hearts at you.
A nightmare in it's true form, really.
"Umm, I think your boyfriend is—"
"He is not my boyfriend—"
"Why is he twerking?"
"Because he is clinically unwell." Just as he was about to break down another choreo, Jungwon smacked his arm, trying to hold back his laugh as he pulled at Jay's sleeve trying to make him move. He luckily stopped. "You know... I will help you finish up the rest of the stocking up." All of a sudden staying here for the next thirty minutes didn't seem so bad, considering the fact that you most likely would have to deal with Jay somewhere on the way to campus. Jongseob hummed in response as you already made your way towards the fridges right past him and it did not take him that long to join you.
Locking the café never felt this good. The image of it closed and dark brought an unexplained feeling of calmness and peace to your being. Grabbing the phone from your pocket you checked the time. 1:02am and an unread messages from Jay. Great. If you went just when you planned you would have already been in your bed snuggled up with your pillows and blankets. But universe had other plans like always. "Tommorow the manager will not be at the shift change, you can come in later, I can handle it alone for two three hours, it mostly empty around that time too." Jongseob said as he placed the keys in his pocket, blowing out a breath in the cold air, the cloud of it dissappearing into the night. The boy was just too sweet and endearing, it made you tilt your head at him, the feeling of quilt seeping into you slowly. He was also a part timer, had classes to attend just like you did. It would be unfair.
"Jongseob, you have classes too. You can't always try to make it easier for others you know? Put yourself first sometimes." He fully turned to you, hands in his hoodie pockets, his fresh blonde hair framing his face under the street light making it goldenish, his blush placement adorably complimenting his cheeks and nose. " You think I don't know that when you work with Sora that she comes three hours late. Always."
"Yeah I can be a people pleaser sometimes..." He rubbed his neck uncomfortably, eyes wandering around. "Sometimes?" He chuckled at that, raising his hands in the air by his head. "Okay you got me." You smiled at it, shaking your head in slight disapproval getting ready to flee the scene as soon as possible, sleep being the only thing on your mind. "Well Jongseob, I will see you tomorrow then. At exactly three pm." Just as you were about to walk off, his soft voice made you halt your step. "Wait-Umm..."
You turned to him again, nodding your head at him. "Well I was thinking, maybe..." Oh. You can sense already where this is going. "I mean, I was thinking about this for a while..." He stood there before you, his eyes looking down at your slightly shorter frame, hands now in the pockets of his jeans, shoulders appeared tenser. "Do you maybe— want to go out? Sometimes! It doesn't have to be like a date or something—"
You giggled at his sudden contradiction, trying to sound friendly if he got rejected just in case. You moved a step closer, "Yeah, why not..." He smiled at you, his cute snuggle tooth peeking from the corner of his lips. "See you tomorrow then Y/N."
And he slowly moved backwards as he waved one last time and made his way in the other direction. You were left gagged, mouth slightly opened as you followed his figure get lost in the distance. Eyes narrowed before you shook your head with a smile. What the hell was that? And why were you slightly flustered?
• • • • • •
The library annex smells like highlighters, stale coffee, and stress. You are curled into the corner of a long rectangular table, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, hair pulled back like it's physically keeping you from snapping. Nina's beside you, reading something off her tablet. Dani, Nina's roommate is across from you, chewing gum like it owes her money. And of course—
"Hey."
Jay.
He slides into the chair next to you with the subtlety of a crashing plane. You don't answer. You just keep flipping through the pages of your psych reader like you didn’t hear him. Like the sound of his voice didn’t just spark a full-body sigh of annoyance deep in your chest. He leans over a little, grinning. "You didn't respond to my meme last night."
"Because it wasn't funny."
"You still saw it."
"Unfortunately."
Dani snorts from across the table. "Y'all flirt like middle schoolers."
"I'm not flirting." You snap. "She's not flirting," Jay echoes, a hand over his heart like he's offended." She's bullying me. There's a difference."
"There's no difference if you are into it." You mutter. He raises his brows. "So you do know I'm into you." You look at Nina like you’re asking her to pass you a weapon. She just smirks and sinks deeper into her hoodie. The group settles into a light buzz of activity — or, more accurately, people trying to study while Jay hums softly under his breath and taps his pen against the table like it's a damn drumline. "Do you have to do that?" You hiss, flicking your eyes at him.
He stops. For two seconds. Then switches to tapping his fingers. "Seriously?" He grins at you, eyes bright, unbothered. "I study better with rhythm."
"You live to annoy me."
"No..." he says, leaning in slightly, voice lower. "I live to see how far you will go before you lose it completely. It's a beautiful thing." You glare at him. He holds your gaze, a little too long, a little too calm.
It's Dani who breaks the silence, flipping a page aggressively. "Okay, lovers. Dial it down. Some of us actually need to pass tomorrow's quiz." You scoff. Jay just chuckles under his breath, turning his attention to his own textbook. The corner of his mouth is still tilted upward.
Jay stayed abnormally quiet for the last hour, actually studying and giving you all the piece and quiet you all deserved, Jungwon and Sunghoon even joined just a couple of minutes ago, like always.
"Hi." A light voice spoke as the figure strutted by you grabbing your attention, your head snapping towards the person. Jongseob. His cute smile making your mouth corners rise. "Hi." You whispered back, eyes moving down to scan his outfit. The crop top shirt he wore ended just at start of his v line that was lowering into his baggy jeans that were held up by the belt. The silver bracelets he wore glowing against his pale skin and veiny arms. Oh God.
"Got the day off huh?" One of his hands grabbed at the chair you sat at, looking down at you from the side and noticing your wandering eyes. "Manager insisted. You too?" He slightly chuckle, nodding back with a tight lipped smile. "We could, you know, hang out tonight. If you are down?" The proposition took you aback, but you nodded right away, something deeper in you making you move, you yourself being confused. "Great. Imma text you later. See ya then." And he walked away, his figure already by the library door and he was out.
What you didn't notice was Jay's shocked and disgusted face. Mouth open, eyebrows furrowed as he stared at your whole interaction, from start to finish, not a thing went unnoticed. Your gaze scanning the boy, answering like you were in a trance.
It can't be.
If there was one thing Jay was good at, it was being overly dramatic. Before he knew it his head was between his hands, staring at now meaningless notes infront of him.
"Quick Sunghoon! Get the bromazepam!"
Sunghoon blinked slowly, not even lifting his eyes from his phone. "Bro, what?"
"I'm having a full-blown crisis right now!" Jay hissed, his voice a little too loud for a library. "Did you see that?! She was basically undressing him with her eyes!" Jungwon snorted, leaning back in his chair. "I don't think that's what happened."
You frowned, head snapping up from your book. "What the hell are you on about? I wasn't doing anything." Jay whipped his head toward you, scandalized. "Oh my God, you are actually going to sit there and lie to my face?!" You squinted, genuinely confused. "Lie? We were literally just talking. He asked if I wanted to hang out, I said yes. That's it."
From across the table, Nina and Dani both exchanged a look so loaded it made your stomach twist. Nina lifted her brows like — Really? That's it? While Dani bit back a smirk, twirling her pen between her fingers.
"What?" You demanded, eyes flicking between them. "Nothing..." Nina sang, gaze flicking back to her notes with way too much fake innocence. Dani chuckled under her breath. "Yeah, nothing… except maybe the way you looked at him like he was your last meal."
Your jaw dropped. "I did not!"
Jay slammed his fist against the poor table, voice cracking. "THANK YOU. I thought I was losing my damn mind!"
"I wasn't—" You tried again, heat creeping up your neck, but the words fell flat when Nina gave you a knowing side-eye over the rim of her coffee cup. "You know what—" You rolled your eyes, trying to save yourself the embarrassment of what most of the table was a witness to, trying to play the nonchalant card. "Can you not narrate my life like you are auditioning for some reality show? Nobody cares."
Jay turned on you, eyes wide, hand over his chest like you stabbed him. "Nobody cares?! I care! I care too much!"
"Clearly. "Sunghoon muttered, not looking up. Jay ignored him, gesturing wildly at you. "So what—what was that? You are just gonna… what? Say yes to a date with Jongseob out of nowhere? With his veiny arms and his—his stupid bracelets that look like he raided a Claire's?"
Jungwon chuckled under his breath. "You're so jealous it's painful."
"I'm not jealous!" Jay snapped, his voice cracking at the end like a dying violin. Three heads turned at him from nearby tables, and you pinched the bridge of your nose. "For fuck's sake, lower your voice." Jay slumped dramatically in his chair, throwing his pen down like he'd lost a war. "Unbelievable. Out of all the people in this godforsaken campus, you pick him? You wouldn't even let me carry your bag last week, but crop-top-boy breathes near you and suddenly you are free Saturday night?"
You leaned forward, glaring daggers at him. "Jay, I swear to God, if you don't shut up and let me finish this chapter—"
Jungwon and Sunghoon burst out laughing, Jungwon nearly falling out of his chair while Sunghoon muttered. "Bro, she hates you so much."
Jay just sat there, lips pressed together, looking both heartbroken and furious at the same time. His knee bounced under the table, his pen tapping restlessly as he stared at you like he was trying to figure out what spell Jongseob had cast over you.
And you? You went right back to your book like nothing happened.
• • • • • •
The door slammed shut behind you both, mouths messily colliding, bodies flush. His hands exploring your body with such impatience. The moonlight that was coming through the window was the only illunination you could possibly have. Neither way it was not needed. Definetly not needed.
His moans that he released into your mouth as you tugged at his long blonde locks sent shivers down your spine, your core aching with need. He pushed you into the wall, your back harshly meeting the cold surface, making you gasp. He detached his lips from yours, licking at the remains of your saliva on his own as he scanned your face. Lips swallow, hair messy, the makeup you put on smudge just enough to give him whiplash.
His eyes dropped to your cleveage, the tight top your decided to put on hugging you just right. Just as he was busy checking you out, your hands grabbed at his face, pulling him into a deep kiss. Mouths opening and tongues fighting as he pressed himself against you hard, hands already unbuckling your belt that held up your jeans. Your hands dropped around his neck, feeling his Adam's apple and the slender neck, shoulders that were covered by his simple white T-shirt, everything. The kiss was so messy that the saliva dripped down your chins, right between you and onto your chest, making him transfer his kisses down your neck and right onto your cleaveage, tongue out and licking all the mess up there was. You moaned, still trying to contain yourself since the dorms on both side of you were occupied, but who knows how long you could keep it up.
His teeth met your sensitive flesh between them, experimentaly pulling at it slighly, indents digging hard. And it made you arch right into him, his hands holding at your waist, his face still onto your breasts, kissing and biting in tandem. Your hands flew and entangled themselves into his hair pushing him more into your chest, eyes now dropping to look at him as your hands were faster then ever grabbing at the straps of your tight shirt and pulling them down your arms before pushing it under your chest , revealing your bra to him.
Jongseob eyes sparkled at it, gaze moving up to look at you but was only met with your lust filled face, mouth open, eyes lidded. His hands were quickly onto your breasts, squeezing them hard, massaging them over the restricting material as he moved down. Your whimpers filled the room, slight breathy moans left your parted lips as you threw your head back against the wall, eyes closed. His knees hit the ground and your face immediately snapped down. He was kissing your covered stomach, hands leaving your chest alone as he unzipped your pants, pulling them down and revealing your legs, inch by inch. You kicked them to the side, stepping out of them, and before you knew it his palms were on your hips, eyes hungrily scanning your underwear.
And just like that, his tongue was caressing your covered pussy, you gasped, hips involuntarily bucking into his mouth. "Fuck..." You murmured under your breath, the feeling of his wet muscle sliding over your swollen clit, diving between your folds just right. He grabbed one of your thighs, bringing it over his shoulder and it brought a whole new world. His mouth engulfed your heat, tongue sliding up and down over the drenched underwear, saliva mixing with your arousal. His eyes went up to you the moment your hands entangled in his hair again. Fingers pulling at roots, controling his movement as you used his tongue how you liked it.
You moans echoed the small room, Jongseob was not taking his eyes off of you, nor were you taking yours off of his. The eyes contact made it feel surreal, heavenly even. The tension, his tongue out as you pulled him just the way you like over your covered slit. And you could feel it. You were close. "Faster, please do it faster!" You begged, arm getting tired of controlling the poor boys head and he smirked. You almost cried our at the feeling, gasps leaving your parted lips. Almost. So close.
He pulled away.
Your teary eyes looked at him, chest heaving up and down, mouth barely getting the breaths out. He was quick onto his feet, grabbing at your wait as he pulled you towards him, mouth meeting yours in a heated messy kiss. You did not waste time in hooking one of your legs on his hip, hands exploring his chest. You felt the hardness against you and a moan slipped out, right into his filthy mouth. You could taste yourself on him, tangy and sweet. Just before your hand moved lower he spun you around. You gasped, now your front pressed against the wall. He kissed your exposed shoulder leaning over to your ear. "Won't you let me have my turn now? Hm?"
He asked in a sweet voice, almost baby talking to you as he pressed himself against you, his cock pressing against your lower back, making you grind your hips back at him in desperation. He chuckled lowly. "I let you have your fun with my mouth, don't your think it would be unfair..." His voice trailed lower, lips brushing your ear. "…if I didn't get to ruin you with my cock too?"
All this felt surreal. This shouldn't be happening. Not now, not never.
You shivered, your knees nearly buckling as his hand slid from your waist to grip your hip tightly, holding you in place. The hardness pressing against your lower back made your mouth fall open, another breathless moan spilling out before you could stop it. "God, you're already grinding on me." He teased, laughing low in your ear. His fingers curled under your chin, forcing you to turn your head just enough for his lips to ghost over yours. "So needy. You really want it, don't you?"
Your answer came in a choked whisper, your body arching back into him.
"Yes… please—"
That was all he needed. He smirked against your cheek, hand slipping down your front, between your thighs, brushing over the damp heat of your underwear making your body shudder. "Mm. Begging so sweetly… guess I'll give you what you want." His fingers teased over the thin fabric, the pressure just enough to make your thighs twitch. You whined, pushing your hips back harder, needing more friction.
"Tsk..." He clicked his tongue, gripping your jaw again to keep you against the wall. "Impatient little thing. Can't even wait, huh?" His words were sharp, but the low groan in his throat betrayed how badly he wanted you too. You gasped when his hand slipped under your waistband, his fingers sliding against your wetness, parting you with obscene ease." Fuck. " He muttered against your shoulder, lips pressing hot, messy kisses down your skin. " Already this soaked just from grinding on me?"
Your head thudded lightly against the wall as his fingers curled inside you, stretching you just enough to make your knees tremble. His other hand stayed locked on your hip, anchoring you in place while his own hips pressed forward, cock straining against his jeans, grinding into the curve of your ass.
"Say it again." He whispered, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. "Say you want me."
"I— I want you, Jongseob— please—" You choked out, tears pricking your eyes from the overwhelming heat of it all. He groaned like he'd been waiting to hear it forever, pulling his fingers out just to grab at his zipper with shaky urgency. The sound of his jeans sliding down filled the space, your body already pressing back into him before he even freed himself. He moaned at the feeling of his fingers wrapping around his cock, he bit his bottom lip, stroking himself. Moans spilled from you, thighs too slippery not even allowing you to rub them in search of some kind of relief. You whined, one pf your hands slipping down right into your underwear, fingers meeting with the swollen aching clit and you gasped, hips bucking into your own hand. Jongseob couldn't keep it together anymore, his hand quickly dug into his pocket, searching for the small foil sachet and ripped it open with his teeth.
He was burning up, his cheeks flushed and hot. His hand skillfully put it on, the latex gripping him. You felt his drenched hand pull your ruined underwear to the side and you grinned to yourself, bottom lip between your teeth.
And he streched you, your nails scraped lightly against the wall, forehead pressed against the cool surface and eyes closing in delight. A moan left his plump lips, his chest pressing against your back, breathing right by your ear, one forearm flat against the wall, supporting him. "Move please, fuck —" He hips pulled back and he slammed back in, hard. "Stop begging so much, 'm gonna cum just from it..." His desperate and whiny voice spoke, arising goosebumps on your skin. So hot.
His eyes were closed, mouth agape as breathy moans left it with every thrust, you were no better. A mess, you could feel the wetnees dripping down your thighs, making his thrusts almost too slippery, echoing through the stale night as he speed up. His face twisting in pleasure, His arm slid under you, dragging you back against his chest until you could feel every jagged breath spill from his lips. The rhythm grew rougher, wetter, his thrusts smacking into you so hard the wall rattled. Then, with a frustrated groan, he bent lower, his hand hooking around your thigh. In one swift motion he lifted your knee, pressing it higher against the wall to open you up for him.
The new angle made you cry out, voice breaking as he bottomed out so deep you swore you could feel him in your lungs. His grip tightened on your leg, holding it there, forcing you to take every hard snap of his hips. "There—fuck, right there." He gasped, mouth hot against your ear as his moans tumbled out without control. Each thrust was sharper, grinding right against that spot that had your whole body shivering, nails clawing helplessly at the wall.
He was a mess behind you, eyes squeezed shut, mouth hanging open, the desperate slap of skin filling the room as his pace turned erratic. "You're clenching so—shit—you're gonna make me lose it." He whined, rutting harder, fingers digging bruises into your thigh as he held it high.
You hissed, your legs and thighs burning but still, your body was hungry for this. The stretch had your muscles trembling, but the way he drove into you at that angle made the ache blur into pure bliss. Every thrust punched a ragged sound out of you, the wall doing nothing to muffle your cries.
"Fuck, you're taking me so good." He whined again, voice breaking as his hips smacked against you, unrelenting. You moaned in response, his grip on your thigh tightened, forcing it higher, spreading you open until you could feel nothing but him filling you to the brim. His chest pressed flush to your back, his teeth dragging over the shell of your ear before he bit down just enough to make you gasp.
Your body clenched around him, messy and soaked, each snap of his hips pulling you closer to that edge. Your nails scraped harder against the wall, forehead pressed tight to the cool surface as your moans rose, broken, needy. "God—yes, right there, don't stop—" You begged, voice high and needy, every syllable trembling as he drove into you harder. Behind you, his rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as a desperate, guttural sound tore out of him. "I'm not—fuck, I'm not gonna last like this." He panted, his thrusts rougher, deeper, chasing his high with everything he had.
Your breath hitched, the pace roughening until every thrust sent sparks rattling through your body. The air between you was thick, sticky with sweat and the sound of skin meeting skin. His grip on your raised thigh tightened, nails digging crescents into your flesh as he held you wide open, unrelenting. "Shit—you feel too good." He rasped, forehead dropping to your shoulder as his hips crashed into you with reckless urgency. Your body bowed against the wall, your voice spilling out in ragged, pleading cries you couldn't hold back even if you tried.
The angle had you unraveling, every drag of him hitting where you needed it most, building that pressure until you were trembling, teeth sinking into your lip hard enough to sting. "Please—don't stop, don't—"
He groaned, voice raw, chest pressed flush to your back now as if he needed every inch of you. His pace broke into sharp, desperate thrusts, chasing the inevitable, every move sloppier, rougher, his restraint shattering as you clenched down harder around him. Your vision blurred at the edges, the world reduced to the frantic rhythm of his hips and the molten heat coiling in your belly, seconds away from snapping.
"I'm coming I—" You sobbed, palms sweaty and dragging down the wall as your body gave in first—back arching off the wall as the pressure in your belly snapped, a sharp cry spilling from your lips. You clenched down around him, pulsing, the force of it dragging him with you.
"F–fuck, that's it, that's—" His voice cracked, hips jerking deep one last time before he stilled, a guttural groan torn from his chest as he spilled hot inside the latex. The way you tightened around him only made it worse, had him grinding through it, shaking, like he couldn't get enough.
Your forehead pressed harder into the wall, nails clawing uselessly at the surface as wave after wave wracked you, messy and overwhelming. He was no better—panting ragged into your shoulder, his grip on your thigh trembling but unyielding.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was both of you—harsh, uneven breaths, the faint wet drag of him still buried inside you, twitching with aftershocks. Your legs trembled violently, but he kept you steady, forehead pressed to your damp skin.
And fuck your life because this was something you definitely won't be telling to anyone.
• • • • •
Sunghoon's apartment was a mess of half-empty snack bags, tangled charging cables, and the faint smell of takeout. Sunghoon was on the couch scrolling through his phone, Jungwon was on the floor trying to beat his high score, and Jay… Jay was leaning against the counter, casually pretending to be chill.
"So, pineapple belongs on pizza." Sunghoon said, not looking up.
"Absolutely not." Jungwon said, crunching on a chip. "It's a crime against humanity." Jay suddenly spoke. "Speaking of crimes…"
"Uh oh... "Sunghoon said, glancing at him." Here we go."
"Jongseob..." Jay blurted suddenly, pacing like he’d just uncovered a conspiracy. "He's bagging Y/N..."
"Wait, what?" Jungwon said, frozen mid-laugh. "Bro..." Sunghoon rolled his eyes and, locking his phone as he let himself lay on his side, already sensing the topic and getting himself ready for the rest. "Like what? Out of everyone?"
"He is with me in the Fine Art class. Also, aren't they like working together—"
"Yes Jungwon! Thank you so much for reminding me that they could be going at it 8 hours a day!"
"That's not—"
"THANK YOU I SAID." Jay closed his eyes, breathing through his nose so loudly that made Sunghoon roll his eyes again. "Jay you don't even know if she is into him." Sunghoon added on, trying to at least make it better. Key word. Try.
"Are we talking about the same interaction today?"
"Jay you are being overly dramatic. Like always." Jungwon had to say.
"You are telling me she is getting railed by that lesbian looking man right now?! I can feel it in my bones!" Jay plopped onto the floor, face in his hands due to the disbelief of the situation he is in, evidently stressed. "Well, technically she is partially lesbian —"
"Sunghoon it's really not helping..." Jay groaned, poking at the floor with his finger like it was Jungwon's fault. "Yeah, you are kinda feeding the hysteria at this point." Jungwon said, leaning back on his elbows, grinning. "She could literally be talking about the weather and you'd still have a meltdown."
"I would not!" Jay shot back, flopping onto his side dramatically, like he might pass out from sheer injustice. "I'm just… emotionally invested in her wellbeing!" Sunghoon snorted, tossing a chip at him. "You mean your own ego." Jay caught it midair. "Semantics! Look, she doesn't deserve to get swept up by… by… what did you call him?"
"Jongseob. "Jungwon supplied.
"Right! Jongseob! That guy is—he's smooth, he's soft-spoken, he's—he's everything I cannot compete with! And Y/N… she's actually looking—" Jay's voice cracked halfway, and he buried his face into his arms again.
"Bro, calm down." Sunghoon said, chuckling. "She's just talking to him. You are acting like they are getting married or something."
"I cannot calm down!" Jay yelled, rolling over dramatically. "I'm living in the era of femboy catastrophes, and Y/N is out there… laughing… with him!" Jungwon groaned, covering his face. "Oh my god, you are impossible."
"You are telling me!" Jay pointed at him. "This is the most tragic betrayal since that time I had to share a soda with a stranger at a concert!" Sunghoon laughed so hard he nearly rolled off the couch. "You really need to chill. And can we really stop talking about her? Like, I think I'm staring to miss her too from how much you are mentioning her."
"I agree." Jungwon added on, his eyes on his phone again as he continued to a new game. Jay on the other hand. Devastated, staring at the wall with a pout.
"Soo, next week the fraternity is organizing the big party." Sunghoon added on, phone again in his hand finally enjoying a little of peace and quiet. "Yup. Hey I forgot! Jeno asked if we could get the speakers. I told him I would have to see about it—"
The night continued with a bunch of random talks and slight bickering like always, Jay finally cheering up and challenging Jungwon for a rematch in Mario Kart that he lost early in the night right before his little moment with Sunghoon passing out on the couch.
• • • • • •
"So what's the deal?" Nina asked you with a little to sheepish of a smile on her face, not even waiting for you to plop yourself next to her on the cold metal bench. "What?" You asked confused, eyes furrowing just as your back met the backrest. "You and Jongseob. Spill."
"Oh."
She was already turned to you, eyes squinted. "Well, nothing is happening. We just hang out after he asked me."
Nina snorted, leaning forward like you just told the funniest joke of the night. "Yeah, because guys our age only ask girls to hang out out of pure friendship, right? Totally platonic. No ulterior motives at all. Yup."
You shoved her shoulder. "Shut up, we literally just smoke and talk sometimes. It's not a big deal. We literally work together too."
Her grin only widened. "Not a big deal for sure...except you’ve been walking around like someone finally slipped serotonin into your coffee for the last week. Don't think I haven't noticed."
You scoffed, trying to play it off. "You're so dramatic. I've been the same."
Nina tilted her head, lips curling. "Uh-huh. So the sudden good mood has nothing to do with late-night ‘smoking and talking’ sessions with a very hot coworker?"
You looked away too fast. That was mistake number one.
Mistake number two was the silence that followed.
Nina's eyebrows shot up, and her voice dropped, amused but softer. "Oh my god. Did something… happen?"
Your mouth opened and shut, but you couldn't get words out. You picked at your nails, shrugged like it might make the heat in your face disappear. "Not really. I mean… it's not like that."
"Right," she said slowly, clearly not believing a word. "So if it's not like that, then why are you avoiding the question?" You groaned, dragging your hands over your face. "Because you are annoying. That's why."
She laughed, nudging you with her knee. "Relax. I'm not judging you. Honestly? I think it's good. I like seeing you… like this." Her tone softened in a way that made you freeze. "It's been forever since you looked even half interested in someone after—"
Nina didn't say her name, but she didn't have to. Your chest tightened. You turned your eyes down to the ground, the sounds of other students filling the heavy silence between you two. Nina caught herself, sighing. "I'm just saying, you deserve to move on. And if hanging out with him makes you smile like an idiot, then… I'm glad."
Hanging out. Yeah.
You didn't know what to say to that. The words lodged somewhere between your ribs and throat, too heavy to let out. So instead, you just went quiet, staring at the pavement, chewing on the inside of your cheek.
Nina didn't push again. She just leaned back on the bench, letting the conversation die there, like she knew the wound was still there—even if you didn't want to touch it.
• • • • • •
The late afternoon sun spilled across the quad, catching on the glass windows of the library and painting everything gold. Students were scattered on the grass, some in circles of half-finished assignments, others tossing a football around. Sunghoon, Jungwon, and Jay had claimed their usual spot on the low stone wall under the old oak tree, iced coffees sweating in their hands, halfheartedly pretending to study.
Jay hadn't cracked a smile once. His eyes weren't on the notes in front of him—they were locked across the quad, unblinking.
You.
You were leaned back on the grass with a small group—Nina at your side, two other classmates sprawled out on their stomachs, and Jongseob right there, cross-legged, saying something that made you throw your head back laughing. The kind of laugh that wasn't just polite, but the kind that lifted your shoulders and lingered.
It wasn't a sight the boys were used to.
"Oh, he is hitting it good. " Sunghoon said suddenly, straw hanging between his teeth, voice deliberately loud enough to earn a reaction. His gaze never left the way you nudged Jongseob with your shoulder, still grinning.
Jay whipped his head toward him, eyes narrowing. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Sunghoon shrugged, feigning innocence. "Just saying. Look at her—smiling, talking everyone's ears off? When’s the last time you saw her like that? Must be his influence." He finished, matter of factly.
Jungwon snickered into his drink, finally glancing up from his phone. "Yeah, I thought she was allergic to people. Guess not." Jay scoffed, shifting uncomfortably on the wall. "She's not allergic. She just… doesn't waste her time on idiots."
"Except apparently this one. " Sunghoon muttered under his breath. Jay shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass, but Sunghoon only smirked back.
Jungwon, sensing the tension, decided to stir the pot further. "I mean, she's never like that with us. With us she's, you know… grumpy. Cynical. Classic her." He tilted his head toward the scene across the quad.
Jay didn't answer. His jaw tightened, knuckles whitening as he gripped his coffee cup. He kept his eyes on you, on the way you leaned closer when Jongseob spoke, the way your knee brushed his like you didn't even notice. The sight dug under his skin in a way he couldn't explain—not to them, not even to himself. Sunghoon leaned back on his elbows, satisfied with the irritation sparking in Jay's expression.
"Yeah," he said casually, "he's definitely hitting it good."Jay's glare could have set the whole oak tree on fire. The boys' laughter turned into the background noise to Jay, muffled by the thrum in his ears. He didn't blink, didn't move, just watched you lean closer to Jongseob as though the world had shrunk to that patch of grass.
And then—like you felt the weight of it—you turned.
Your gaze cut across the quad and collided with his.
The laugh on your lips faltered, freezing mid-curve, your chest rising with a small breath as your eyes locked with Jay's glare. The distance between you did nothing to dull it. His stare was sharp, hot, threaded with something you couldn't quite read—anger, annoyance, something else buried deeper. The chatter around you went muffled for a second. Nina's voice tugged at your ear, but you couldn’t look away.
Jay didn't look away either.
It was a standoff that lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like it stretched, like the air between you two tightened enough to snap. Your hand shifted on the grass, fingers curling against your knee. For reasons you couldn't explain, your throat felt dry.
Sunghoon, following Jay's line of sight, grinned knowingly. "Oh, look at that... " he murmured. "She caught you staring."
Jungwon perked up, leaning forward to see. His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, damn. She's looking right back."
Jay's jaw clenched, the corner of his lip twitching like he might say something, but he didn't. Instead, he finally dropped his gaze back to his coffee, ripping the straw between his teeth. Across the quad, you blinked and turned back to your group, smile returning but not quite as effortlessly as before.
Still, the echo of his stare lingered, needling at you long after the conversation picked back up around you.
• • • • • •
The dorm lounge is too warm. Too loud. Smells like popcorn, instant noodles, and somebody's cheap vanilla body spray. You sit cross-legged on a bean bag you didn't choose, arms folded like a grumpy cat. There's a horror movie playing on the busted old flat screen — something with terrible jump scares and dialogue written by AI on crack.
Dani insisted on "something fun" and Nina bribed you with snacks to show up. You still think they are trying to set you up. Subtly. Badly.
Jay's on the couch. Of course. Sprawled like he owns the place. "You are sitting all the way over there?" he calls out with faux disappointment. "Yes." You say. "It's called boundaries.'
" It' s called denial." He fires back." But hey, who am I to judge?"
You flip him off without looking.
The rest of the group snickers. It's familiar. They're used to it — the back-and-forth, the barbs. The fact that you haven't murdered him yet is probably a testament to your willpower. Or maybe your low blood sugar.
He throws a gummy bear at your head. You don't flinch. You just glare. "Do that again and I'll shove that bag down your throat."
"Kinky." He mutters.
"Jay..." Dani warns without looking.
"Sorry. She brings it out of me."
Your response is a silent eye roll. Nothing new, nothing extreme.
Half an hour in, you're halfway through a bag of chips and regretting everything. Nina's fallen asleep on Dani's shoulder. The others are locked into the movie, even though it sucks. And you? You can feel Jay's eyes flicking toward you every few minutes like an itch you can't scratch. You streched your limbs over your head, a yawn escaping before a buzz breaks the room's monotony.
Your phone.
The vibration next to your thigh makes you snap your eyes to it. It would have been better if you didn't—because just the mere sight of a message from Mom on your bright screen makes your back straighten like a pulled string.
You stare at it.
Unread.
Unwanted.
Your chest feels heavy anyway.
The screen lights up your face for a second too long, and you can feel it—the subtle shift of attention from your right. Jay's eyes, sharper now, not the lazy flicks he'd been doing before.You swallow, thumb hovering, but you don't open it. You press the lock button instead, watching the glow vanish into black glass, your reflection staring back at you.
You grabbed your half empty water bottle, that did not need the refill, but still you just wanted a moment. A moment of deep breaths that would bring everything back to just as it was before the message. As you pass the couch, Jay's hand reaches up and gently tugs the end of your sleeve. Your steps halted, his voice never softer.
"You good?"
His voice is low. Uncharacteristically quiet. The teasing is gone.
You nod. Not looking at him. "Fine."
He doesn't say anything else. Just lets go.
You head into the tiny kitchen area, gripping your bottle a little too tight. That moment — that shift in tone — it throws you off. You don't like it.
When you return, someone's taken your bean bag. The only open seat is beside Jay. He pats the spot next to him like it's fate. You roll your eyes and sit down anyway.
He doesn't say a word.
You don't either.
But the air between you is different now. The noise of the movie fades out behind it. It's not peace. It's not comfort.
It's tension.
• • • • • •
The library was mostly empty, the late afternoon sun slanting across the tables. You thought you were here to study, using the days off of work in the best you could getting every assignment done in a vague but still enough to pass way. Until Jongseob showed up. He leaned against the edge of the table behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. "Hi. " His voice was low but cheerful.
You jumped slightly in your seat, the sudden presence surprising you as the hand rushed to your chest, trying to calm your breathing. "Jongseob damn..." He chuckled lightly his hand brushed your lower back as he bent closer under the guise of "looking at your notes". The brush was casual—too casual. "Is that the assignment you asked me about earlier?"
You hummed back in response, eyes going over the notes in front of you. "I have been reading it for the past thirty minutes, and guess what. I can't even tell what a fucking Aristotel's theory of ethics stand by." In times like this you cursed yourself for choosing the sociology as your major. You could have went into engineering, medicine, maybe even architecture would have been easier. Even bussiness even if it meant having to look at one face you hoped won't jump out the corner of your hall everytime you exited your dorm. He hummed in response, eyes going over the highlighted words, actually scanning them before he spoke. "Aristotle's ethics isn't that complicated. It's basically about finding the balance—virtue as the middle ground between two extremes."
You should've been listening. You should've been grateful he was actually helping, because God knew you needed it. It wasn’t the contact itself. It was the smell. Something clean, sharp—his cologne, maybe, or just his laundry detergent—that hit you all at once. Your stomach tightened before you could stop it.
Because it was the same smell that had clung to your shirt after that night.
You blinked, staring hard at the highlighted lines in your notebook, pretending to read them. But your body betrayed you, heat crawling up your neck. It wasn't even about him—it was about what the scent pulled out of you.
"Aristotle’s virtue is basically the middle path..." Jongseob said calmly, tapping the edge of your notebook. He was leaned close, brows furrowed, all concentration—completely unaware of how your brain was spiraling. "See? Right here." Jongseob said, tapping your notebook again pointing to a passage. His voice pulled you back, grounding you.
And then—
"Is he bothering you queen?"
You flinched as Jay's voice carried across the library, way too loud for the quiet space. He strutted between the shelves with a grin plastered across his face, like he rehearsed the line just to embarrass you. His baggy hoodie streched over his form, hiding the waist band of his loose sweatpants. A couple of stray hairs scattered over his forehead with the hood on, obviously the culprit behind the messy hair. One strap of his backpack clinging for it's life on his shoulder.
Jongseob blinked, then laughed softly, back straightening as there was finally some space between you two, his attention now on a newcomer. "Bothering her? I was literally helping her study." Jay shot him a mock-serious glare before turning to you. "Blink twice if you need me to drag him out."
You groaned, eyes shut tight as you threw your head back. "Jay. I really don't have the time for your delusions." You meant it sincerely, you definitely did not need his over the top comments when you already felt like you are drowning in your own misery and the assignments that seemed endless. Not even five cups of hot coffe could bring you up, and you are not even half way done.
Jongseob chuckled again, shaking his head. "We've never talked before, huh? I'm Jongseob. Psych major." He extended his hand casually, no weirdness, no defensiveness, just that calm ease he carried everywhere. But still, the image of Jay twerking in front of the café was not a very pleasant first impression he left on him. Jongseob being the man he is tried his best to hold in his laugh.
Jay eyed the hand like it was suspicious before finally shaking it. "Jay. And don't think I didn't catch you trying to impress her with philosophy talk."
"Pretty sure Aristotle did the heavy lifting." Jongseob said, lips twitching in a half-smile. "Didn't we attend the same class like last year, maybe? Statistics?" The blond boy asked, eyes narrowing in actual recall. Jay's hard stare did not persist. He damn sure did remember sharing the class with him, Jongseobs persona being so outstanding it hurt him.
Pleasant to be around, smiley, soft-spoken, boyish charm, friendly...
Jay listed in his head. The red alarm going off. He squinted his eyes, gaze moving between the two of you, lips pursed. Jay leaned one hip against the edge of the table, close enough that your notes crinkled against his clothes. His grin stayed, but it was edged now—too practiced, too pointed. He completely ignored the question.
"So..."Jay drawled. "Are you her new study buddy? Or do you just make a habit of creeping up on people in empty libraries?" You let out a sharp breath through your nose, too tired to even snap back at him like always.
Jongseob didn't flinch. If anything, he looked amused, still boyishly calm as ever. "I came to help, actually. She asked me about it earlier." Jay's eyes flicked to you, narrowing like you’d just broken some unspoken rule. "Aristotle. Right." He pushed himself off the table, arms crossed." Well, good luck with that. She has the attention span of a goldfish when she's stressed."
You gaped at him, pen pausing mid-spin. "Excuse me?"
"Prove me wrong." Jay teased, voice lilting, but the edge in his stare made your stomach twist. He was playing it off as a joke, but you knew better. He didn't like Jongseob sitting here. Didn't like him leaning close, didn't like the space he was taking up.
Meanwhile, Jongseob only laughed softly, running a hand through his hair. "That's fair. Honestly, she was zoning out a little." Your head snapped toward him. "You're not helping." He lifted his hands in surrender, smile tugging at his lips. "Just being honest." Jay smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "See? Even he agrees with me."
You dragged your palms down your face, muttering. "Oh my God, kill me. "
Neither of them heard you—or maybe they did and ignored it. Jay was too busy pretending to size Jongseob up, and Jongseob was too unbothered to notice the silent tug-of-war happening above your head. "Anyway." Jongseob said easily, pushing off the chair, "I'll let you two… uh, do whatever this is." He gestured vaguely between the two of you, then smiled at you again—gentle, uncomplicated. "We can go over the assignment later."
You nodded quickly, more grateful than you wanted to admit. "Yeah. Later."
As soon as he left, Jay slid into the seat beside you, elbows on the table like he owned the place. His eyes cut to your notes, then back to you. "Don’t tell me you actually like his little lecture voice." You stared at him, jaw slack. "Jay. I swear to God—"Your eyes scanned his face in disbelief, ready to spit out something sharper, but then—something shifted.
Maybe it was the quiet of the library pressing down on you, or the way the light slanted just right through the window, dust specks floating around like the air itself was holding its breath. But when your gaze met his, you froze.
His eyes weren't mocking anymore. Not really. They seemed darker, more focused, the grin on his lips still there but not reaching quite as far. It left you unsettled, like you were staring at someone you thought you knew inside and out, only to realize there was another layer you never noticed.
For the first time you let your gaze wander, slower this time, tracing over the slope of his sharp cheekbones, the faint shadow of stubble he hadn't bothered to shave, the way a lock of hair fell just a little too perfectly against his forehead. He was right there, close enough that you could see small dimple you never bothered to see, the faint crease between his brows when he tilted his head at you like he was waiting for something.
Your breath caught, though you masked it by pressing your lips together.
It was ridiculous—you have seen this face a hundred times, maybe more. Laughing, teasing, annoying you endlessly. But right now, you couldn't shake the heat crawling up your neck, the strange weight of being looked at like that. Like the game he always played with you had turned into something else without you deciding on it.
The silence stretched, heavy.
His grin streched wider, like he knew something was up, like he knew you felt something inside of you that you will never admit to. He tapped your pen against your notebook, leaning closer. "Just making sure you know your options, queen."
He chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. The chair behind him scrapped against the wooden floor as he raised himself, the backpack still on his shoulder as he made his way between the high shelves, toward the exit.
Your eyes were stuck to the chair he just sat on, a deep exhale leaving your chest. You blinked a couple of times rapidly, eyebrows bouncing once as if that could shake the strange weight pressing down on you.
For a beat, you just sat there. The imprint of Jay's presence clung to the air like static, buzzing in your chest in a way you didn't understand—or didn't want to. You rubbed at your face, palms pressing into your eyes until little stars popped behind your eyelids
What was that?
Your brain scrambled for an answer, anything to explain away the sudden tightness in your throat, the way your pulse had jumped at nothing more than a look. And then it came—the excuse you knew would soothe you. You were exhausted. That was all. Too many late nights, too many assignments piled on top of each other, too much caffeine barely holding you together. Your body was wound so tightly you were starting to see things in shadows, imagine things in silence.
That lingering burn in your skin, the way your stomach flipped—it couldn't mean anything. It was just fatigue playing tricks, turning ordinary eye contact into something it wasn't.
"Yeah. " You whispered to yourself, lips pressed in a thin line, eyes back on your open notebook. "I just need sleep."
• • • • • •
The café was quiet for once. Mid-afternoon lull — no long lines of caffeine-deprived students breathing down your neck, no professors demanding specialty lattes with oat milk "or else". Just the low hum of the espresso machine and the faint scratch of a pencil from a kid in the corner doing calculus. You rubbed at your temple, the words presentation, midterm, and readings still etched into your brain like graffiti. School was eating you alive, and on top of it, you were clocking hours here, pretending to care about foam art when you could barely keep your eyes open.
At least Jongseob made it tolerable.
He was leaning against the counter across from you, arms folded, one eyebrow raised in mock judgment as you fumbled with the grinder. "Don't take this the wrong way." Jongseob said. "But you look like one bad order away from crying into the grinder."
"Shut up. " You said flatly, flicking the switch. "See? That's what I like about you. Always so warm." You shot him a flat look. "Hand me the filter." He slid it across without argument, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
But it didn't erase the buzz at the back of your neck — the one you couldn’t ignore even when the café was dead quiet. Because in one corner, at the window seat, sat Jay. With Jungwon and Sunghoon flanking him like they were filming a bad boy group commercial. He had his head tipped back in a laugh at something Sunghoon said, and you hated the way your stomach twisted. Hated the fact you could feel him there, like a spotlight turned your way.
"Table three wants their macchiato and vanilla latte." Jongseob said, jolting you out of it. He didn't catch where your eyes had gone, thankfully. You nodded, tray in hand, heading toward their booth. Hands clammy all of a sudden, chest tight. Predictably, Jay perked up the second he saw you. His grin was shit-eating, the kind of grin that screamed I've been waiting for this.
"Look at that, princess serves too. Multitalented." He leaned back in his chair, all casual arrogance. "Should I tip you now or later?"
"Later..." You said, placing the cups down with more force than necessary. "Preferably in therapy." Jungwon choked on his drink. Sunghoon coughed to cover a laugh. Jay just grinned wider. "You're welcome, boys." He told them, raising his cup. "Front-row seats to the best part of my day."
You clicked your tongue, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you turned on your heels. As you turned to leave, Jay called after you, voice loud enough for half the café to hear.
"Don't work too hard! Wouldn't want femboy over there carrying you home!"
The silence that followed could've swallowed him whole.
Your head snapped back toward him, eyes narrowing. Jungwon was screaming into his sleeve. Sunghoon's face was buried in his hands. You exhaled slowly. "I'm at work, Jay."
The way you said his name — flat, clipped, like a warning shot — almost made him shrink. Almost. Instead, he sat up straighter, grinning like a criminal caught red-handed. "Noted." You said, voice sharp as the snap of a lid on a to-go cup. "Next time you can make your own coffee."
With that, you walked away. But what he didn't see — couldn't see was the way your lip twitched into a smile. Just for a second, a millisecond even, but it happened for the first time in never.
It scared you.
• • • • • •
The dorm was quiet by the time Jay pushed the door open, gym bag slung over one shoulder, shirt sticking damp to his back. The overhead light flicked on with a low hum, and he winced at the ache in his arms. Every muscle screamed at him for that extra set he didn't need to do, the one he'd pushed through anyway because that's just what he did—push.
He dropped his bag by the bed and sank down onto the mattress, elbows resting on his knees. For a moment, all he heard was his own breath, heavy and uneven. The soreness was a good kind of pain, familiar, grounding. But it didn't distract him the way he hoped.
Because even after an hour of running himself into the ground at the gym, his thoughts were still circling the same place.
You.
He leaned back, staring up at the ceiling, the hum of the radiator filling the silence. Usually, he could wear his humor like armor—loud, cocky, impossible to miss. It was easier to throw out stupid lines, to tease, to make it look like he was playing around. That's what people expected of him, after all. Jay, the funny one. Jay, the dramatic one. Jay, the guy who always had a remark ready.
But it wasn't a bit. Not when it came to you.
He thought about the way your eyes narrowed at him when you were annoyed, the way you snapped back like you couldn't help yourself, the way your voice softened when you weren't on guard. You got under his skin in ways he couldn't explain. And instead of facing it straight on—saying it plain—he wrapped it in sarcasm, hid it in stupid nicknames, played it off like he was just being himself.
But he wasn't joking. Not really.
Jay dragged a hand down his face and exhaled, trying to let the thoughts go, but they stuck like burrs. Especially when he remembered how you'd looked earlier in the café. Standing behind the counter with Jongseob at your side, moving so easily around him like the two of you had done it a hundred times. It was nothing, he knew that, but jealousy still twisted in his chest, ugly and sharp.
He hated that part. Hated how fast his chest burned at the idea of you laughing at something that wasn't his joke. Even though it never happened in the first place, but still.
Rolling onto his side, Jay reached for his phone on the nightstand. The screen glow lit his face as he scrolled and thumbed open your chat. He could just… not text you. Go to sleep, drink some water, watch a video, literally anything else.
Yeah, no. That wasn't happening.
what are you doing, princess? don’t lie. i’ll know.
The phone landed next to him, the slight huff of laugh escaping him. Realisation actually hit him after so long even though it was plainly obvious and and just in everyone's face. As if he himself wasn't screaming out about you every two hours. Okay, maybe a little too humble, every twenty minutes.
"You have done it now, Park Jay..." He spoke to himself, eyes locked on the ceiling a smirk on his lips as he shook his head in disappointment. "You have clowned yourself."
• • • • • •
Your dorm room was dim except for the weak yellow desk lamp that buzzed faintly like it was on its last legs. You had a textbook open in front of you, a highlighter clutched in your hand, but your eyes were burning and every paragraph looked like the same sentence rewritten a hundred times.
Work had drained you. School was drowning you. And somewhere in between, you’d convinced yourself you could balance it all—like sheer willpower could make up for the fact you were running on four hours of sleep and vending machine granola bars.
You dropped the highlighter and pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes. God, you needed a reset. Or maybe just twelve uninterrupted hours of not existing.
Your brain, however, had other plans.
Instead of memorizing the theories staring up at you from the page, it spiraled helplessly over the checklist of tomorrow: readings for sociology, a quiz, clocking in at the café, and somehow squeezing in enough sleep not to look like a corpse. The more you thought about it, the heavier it felt pressing down on your chest.
And because your mind was cruel like that, it detoured to Jongseob.
A few nights ago, he'd asked you out—dinner, nothing fancy, just something outside of the café uniforms and coffee stains. His voice had been casual, but you weren't stupid. You knew what it meant. And you shut it down as gently as you could, told him you couldn't, told him you were busy, told him something. The truth was simpler: you'd seen the direction it was heading, and you wanted no part of it.
And maybe you were the villain there. Maybe you had given him a thread of hope in the beginning when your banter blurred lines, when you didn't mind leaning on him to escape your own mess. But the line was clear now. You weren't interested, not in the way he wanted. But he wasn't who your head kept circling back to when the noise of the day finally died down for the last couple nights.
That unwanted spotlight belonged to Jay.
Jay, with his stupid smirk and his endless commentary. Jay, who you told yourself was just an annoyance, an overgrown idiot who thought he was funny. But lately, the word tension followed him around like static. It clung to every exchange, every too-long stare, every remark that shouldn't have made your stomach twist but did.
Because tension was dangerous. Tension meant something was there, whether you wanted it or not. And you didn't want it. You didn't need another complication, another person peeling back layers you worked too hard to keep closed.
But denial didn't erase the way your chest tightened at the thought of him. Or the way his voice still echoed in your head long after you walked away.
What the fuck?
Your mind screamed at you, leading to yourself delivering a light slap to your face. You must be insane.
Your phone buzzed against the desk, the screen lighting up your dim room. You didn't have to look to know who it was. Jay. Sighing, you picked up the highlighter again, directing your useless fouxs back to the book.
It was fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes since the fisrt message and another one made you snap your attention back to the phone. Groaning, you grabbed it aggressively and tapped on the notification.
ignore: what are you doing, princess? don’t lie. i’ll know.
ignore: yo
ignore: wanna grab food?
you: die.
ignore: that’s a maybe. i’m downstairs.
You sit up. No way. You shuffle toward the window and pull back the curtain. There he is. On the front steps of your dorm building. Headphones in, slouched against the wall, looking like he belongs in a coming-of-age movie you'd hate-watch.
You should leave him there. Let him freeze or get bored or mugged. Instead, ten minutes later, you're walking next to him down the dim campus sidewalk, hoodie up, arms crossed. The night felt quiet, much more than the ones you do walk alone to get some air or with Nina to just relax. It felt...suffocating.
Your teeth pulled at you bottom lip, chipping at the cold and dry skin, eyes wandering around the cracked concrete under your each step. Your mind was empty, the only thing stimulating it was Jay's happy humming of some random song you couldn't even recognize that he must be making up at the spot. He kicked at a rock like it personally offended him, the scuffed toe of his sneaker sending it skittering down the path. "You know..." He started, voice lazy and warm. "If this were a date, it'd be going terribly."
You side-eyed him. "Good thing it's not."
He laughed, like you just told him something adorable instead of shot him down for the hundredth time. "Yeah, yeah. Keep telling yourself that, princess."
You groaned, eyes rolling to the back of your head. "Don't call me that."
"Fine." He paused dramatically. "Your Majesty."
You turned your head to glare at him, but he just grinned — that infuriating, lopsided grin that made him look like he knew exactly how to get under your skin and was doing it for sport. "You're insufferable."
"And yet you came out here."
"That's because you showed up like a stray dog and I felt bad." He put a hand to his chest. "Wow. Sympathy. I knew I could break through that icy heart someday."
"You're going to break your nose someday if you keep talking like that." He chuckled again, but quieter this time. The sound melted into the soft crunch of your shoes on the pavement and the faint buzz of a streetlamp overhead. A gust of wind brushed by, and you tugged your hoodie tighter.
For a few moments, neither of you said anything. He walked with his hands buried in his jacket pockets, head tilted toward the stars, lips still curved like he couldn't help himself. There was something softer in the silence than you expected — something that made you suddenly aware of how close he was, how the smell of his cologne lingered in the cold air.
"Why are you even out here, Jay?" You muttered finally. He shrugged, looking ahead. "Was bored. Wanted food. And maybe…" His eyes flicked towards you briefly, a teasing spark hidden in the corner of his grin. "Wanted company." You snorted. "You have friends, go bother them."
"They are not as fun to bother." He said easily.
You didn't answer to that. Mostly because you didn't know how to. So you kept walking, the two of you falling into step again, the quiet stretching between jokes and small talk. You found yourself almost comfortable — almost — until he started humming again, this time louder.
You nudged him with your elbow. "If you start singing, I'm going back." He laughed, the sound echoing down the empty street. "Then I better keep quiet, huh?" You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched anyway.
And he saw it. Of course he did.
You could practically feel his grin widening beside you. "Was that a smile?" He asked.
"No."
"Pretty sure it was."
You kept your eyes straight ahead. "Pretty sure I'm about to trip you."
"Worth it." He said, voice dropping to a murmur that almost sounded honest. You didn’t realize how empty the streets were until his voice filled them. Jay was still humming — off key, as always — his breath visible in the air. He kicked at a pebble until it rolled into a storm drain.
"Bet you regret coming now." He said with a smirk. You shrugged, stuffing your hands deeper into your hoodie pocket. "I regret being awake, period." He laughed softly. "Fair."
The fast food place near campus was almost empty when you walked in — just a guy mopping the floor and a girl behind the counter who clearly wanted to quit. You both ordered half-heartedly and slid into a booth by the window. The harsh fluorescent light made everything feel a little more real than you wanted it to.
The food came out fast — too fast, like the kitchen wanted you gone.
A greasy burger, fries, and a paper cup of soda that already lost its fizz. You sank into the seat, hoodie hood half-fallen off, eyes burning from exhaustion. Across from you, Jay looked maddeningly alive — hair damp, hoodie sleeves shoved up, fingers tapping against the table in some rhythm only he heard.
"You good?" He asked, biting into a fry.
"Define good."
He smirked, leaning back. "Not homicidal."
You gave him a look that said barely, and he laughed — the kind of laugh that cracked through the silence, that warm, stupid sound that made it hard to stay annoyed. "You look like you haven't slept since the Cold War." Jay added, taking a sip of his soda with eyes still on your exhausted figure.
"Feels accurate." You muttered, unwrapping your burger without much care.
He was watching you again — not in that obvious way that would've pissed you off, but quieter. Like he was trying to read something between your blank stares and heavy blinks. You picked at your fries, trying to ignore it.
For a while, neither of you said anything. Just the hum of the neon light outside the window, the low murmur of some late-night playlist from the counter. Then, out of nowhere, he asked. "When's the last time you actually took a break?"
You blinked up. "What?"
Jay shrugged, but his voice wasn't teasing this time. "You're always running around. Work, classes, whatever existential crisis you have got lined up next. You don't stop." You gave a small laugh, mostly to break the weird weight settling in your chest. "Didn't realize you kept track." He grinned, but it was faint, like he didn't mean for it to show. "Hard not to."
You stared at him — tired, irritated, and something else you didn't want to name. "You say stuff like that and then expect me not to hit you."
"Maybe I like the risk." He said simply, and it shut you up. The silence stretched. You looked down at your hands, at the half-eaten burger you suddenly had no appetite for. Your mind was fraying at the edges — exhaustion, caffeine, and the sharp, stupid awareness that his eyes were still on you. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips. "You think I'm just messing around all the time." He said, voice low now. "But you're starting to catch on, aren't you?"
You froze. The words hung there, just between you — heavy and uninvited. "Catch on to what?" You asked, too quickly, hand moving to grab a fry from your plate.
He smiled then — not his usual grin, but something softer, and worse. "Exactly."
You hated the way your heart jumped at that.
And when you looked up, he was already looking right at you, like he'd said something he couldn't take back.
Neither of you looked away. Jay's eyes bored into yours with his famous shit-eating grin that this time made you gulp. Your eyes hurriedly dropped to your plate and brought the fry to your mouth biting into it. Each chew felt heavier and louder, you could feel his eyes still shooting through you. Jay just snickered, his own eyes back on his burger and with a cheeky grin grabbed a fry and plopped it into his mouth.
Neither of you said anything else.
• • • • • •
The afternoon light spilled through the tall windows of the sociology building, golden and lazy, catching the edges of open notebooks and half-empty coffee cups. You sat hunched over your laptop with Nina and Sunghoon across from you, the table cluttered with highlighters, crumpled printouts, and the faint hum of Sunghoon’s earbuds leaking music. Nina going on about the project when your focus started to blur—lines of text bleeding together, caffeine not doing its job.
"No, but think about it—Goffman literally said people perform different versions of themselves depending on the situation. Like, you in class versus you at a party? Two entirely different humans."
You gave a tired snort. "Yeah, except my ‘class’ version is dead inside and my ‘party’ version is slightly less dead inside." Sunghoon cracked a quiet grin without looking up from his notes, one ear bud still in. "That's still a range."
"Don't encourage her." Nina said, rolling her eyes. "She's been in a mood since we got here."
"I'm not in a mood." You muttered, highlighting the same sentence three times. "I'm just bored out of my mind."
"Then go get that Durkheim reference already." She teased. "Before you start biting people."
You sighed, pushing your chair back with a scrape. "Fine, but if I disappear, assume the library finally devoured me."
"Wishful thinking. "Nina called after you. You smiled faintly despite yourself, stretching as you wandered toward the back shelves. The quiet thickened there—dimmer light, the faint smell of dust and paper. You ran your fingers along the spines until one caught your eye.
And then, of course, he spoke.
"Well, if it isn't my favorite grumpy genius pretending to study again."
Turning slightly, you found Jay leaning against the end of the shelf, eyes glinting with that same brand of arrogance that made you instantly want to hit something. He was leaned lazily against the end of the bookshelf like he'd been waiting for this moment all afternoon, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a mess of hair that looked too good for someone who claimed not to care. The corner of his mouth curled in that same smug, maddening smirk.
"Oh, for fuck's sake. " You muttered, eyes rolling to the back of your head whilst arms hit your sides in annoyance. "Do you live here or something?" He shrugged, pushing off the shelf and taking a few steps closer. "Nah. Just heard someone sigh dramatically from across the room and figured it had to be you."
You rolled your eyes, again. "You seriously have nothing better to do, huh?"
"I have plenty of better things to do..." He said easily. "You just happen to be my favorite one." You glared at him. "That was terrible."
"Yeah." He said, grin widening. "But you smiled a little."
"I did not."
"You did." His voice dropped lower now, teasing, but softer in a way that made your pulse flicker. Weird. "It's cute when you try to deny it."
You turned back to the shelf, pretending to look for something just to avoid the way his presence seemed to thicken the air. Something's very wrong with you in the lasst week, you should for sure get that checked out. Something weird is going on, and you don't like it. "You're exhausting, Jay." Those words left your mouth, and you meant it. With your whole chest.
"I know." He said, stepping closer, so close you could feel the warmth radiating off him. "But you keep running into me anyway. Kinda feels like fate, doesn't it?"
"Or a curse."
He laughed quietly, low and rough, and for some reason that sound got under your skin more than it should have. You tried to move around him, but his hand came up—just barely brushing the edge of the shelf beside your arm. Not touching you, not quite. But it was enough to make your breath hitch. You froze. Eyes moved over his figure, ended up staring back at his dark slanted eyes, and for the first time you evidently gulped. In front of him.
He tilted his head, eyes dark with amusement. "What, cat got your tongue? You usually have something smart to say."
"Shut up. " You said, but your voice came out quieter than you meant.
Jay's smirk faltered into something slower, heavier. His gaze dropped—not to your lips exactly, but somewhere dangerously close. It made your stomach twist in a way you refused to acknowledge, because there was no way—no way—you were actually reacting to him.
"Careful..." He murmured. "You keep looking at me like that, I might start thinking you actually like me."
Your heart kicked hard, once. "I'm not looking at you like anything."
"Right..." He said softly, smile curling again, though it didn't reach his eyes this time. "Keep telling yourself that."
He leaned back then, the air cooling the second he stepped away. For a moment, you couldn't make yourself move—every muscle locked between wanting to yell at him and wanting and beat him to a pulp. He adjusted his backpack strap like nothing had happened, that same damn grin on his face.
"See you around, grumpy." He said, turning toward the door.
You stood there long after he'd left, staring at the empty space he'd occupied, pulse still somehow hammering? You scoffed, a mocking grin on your lips before you turned toward the bookshelf again.
"Yeah sure, he wishes..."
• • • • • •
Everything is a fucking disaster.
You don't even know how long you have been laying on your bed, eyes stuck on the ceiling, not a thought behind them except this one. Your phone buzzed again on the pillow beside you, lighting up your peripheral vision every few seconds, an irritating pulse.
ping
ping
ping
The group chat was alive—plans, jokes, memes, the kind of pointless chatter you normally rolled your eyes at but kept up with anyway. Tonight it felt like static. Like ten people talking into your skull all at once.
You didn't even open it. You just stared.
Another buzz.
Then another.
And something inside you twitched—some thin, worn-out thread snapping after weeks of being stretched too far. Before you could stop yourself, your thumb dragged across the screen and tapped Leave Group. No hesitation. No second thought.
Just silence.
The absence of noise felt good for a second. Then much, much worse.
The room was suddenly too quiet. As if everything you had been outrunning all day finally had a chance to sit beside you on the bed and breathe against your neck. Things you didn't want to look at. Things you didn't want to name. The exhaustion, the feeling of being behind in everything, the stupid irritation that never left your chest lately, the classes that felt too loud, people who demanded too much from you, expectations you didn't remember agreeing to fulfill.
Another buzz. But this one froze you.
Mom
6 unread messages.
You rolled onto your side slowly, like the movement itself hurt. Your throat tightened involuntarily. You didn't open them. You couldn't. You already knew the rhythm—concern disguised as pressure, questions that felt like inspections, love that came with expectations you never managed to meet. You swallowed hard, fingers curling around the phone until the edges dug into your palm.
The room felt even smaller. You pressed the heel of your hand against your forehead, as if you could push the thoughts back into place.
Maybe you should open them.
Maybe you should just get it over with.
Maybe you should answer.
Maybe—
No.
You turned onto your other side, knees drawing in, fingers worrying at a loose thread on your blanket. The motion was small, absentminded, but it grounded you just enough to keep from spiraling completely. You hated that this was where you were. Hated how easily exhaustion turned into self-doubt, how quickly confidence drained out of you when no one was looking.
Another buzz. You didn't check it.
You squeezed your eyes shut instead, exhaling through clenched teeth. "Fuck." You murmured, the word barely making a sound as it slipped out. Not angry. Just tired. Bone-deep, soul-level tired.
Everything felt like it was catching up to you all at once—every ignored responsibility, every half-finished task, every feeling you'd shoved down because there wasn't time to deal with it. You felt stretched thin, like one more wrong touch would split you open, and the worst part was knowing tomorrow wouldn't wait for you to pull yourself together.
The thought came to you suddenly — sharp, stupid and immediate. Quickly you were again onto your back with phone in hand and before you can overthink it—before guilt or logic or self-respect has a chance to intervene—your fingers move on autopilot. Jongseob's name sits there, neutral and uncomplicated, carrying no weight beyond the one thing he's been useful for: distraction.
You don't sugarcoat it. You don't flirt.
you: you around? can i come over?
You stare at the message for a second too long, thumb hovering like you might delete it, like you might suddenly choose a better coping mechanism. Then you hit send.
The relief is immediate—and hollow. Like exhaling after holding your breath for too long, only to realize the air doesn't actually feel any cleaner. Your chest loosens a fraction anyway, because at least now there's a plan. Something. An out. You toss the phone onto the bed, heart beating just a little faster, not from excitement but from the quiet shame of knowing exactly what you're doing.
You push yourself up with a groan and swing your legs off the bed. Your mouth feels dry, you need water. The dorm hallway greets you with fluorescent light and the low, distant murmur of someone laughing three rooms down. You pull your hoodie tighter around yourself and pad toward the common room, bare feet slapping softly against the floor.
The door is cracked open.
Inside, it's dark—almost completely. The TV is on, casting shifting blue light across the room, some movie playing low enough to feel more like background noise than entertainment. You step in without really looking, already heading for the kitchen counter—
—and then you see him.
Jay is sprawled on the couch, alone, one arm slung over the back, the other resting on his stomach. His face is half-lit by the screen, jawline sharp in the flicker of light, eyes trained on the TV but unfocused, like he's not actually watching. He doesn't notice you right away. Or maybe he does and pretends not to. You freeze instinctively, caught halfway between the doorway and the counter, heart giving an uncomfortable, traitorous jump.
The movie murmurs on, something dramatic and meaningless, the sound filling the space. You move slowly, deliberately, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and filling it at the sink, every small noise suddenly too loud. The clink of glass. The rush of water. You can feel him now—not looking at you, not yet—but aware. Present. Like a weight settling into the room.
You take a sip, drink half of it without really tasting anything, and then just stand there, staring at the sink like it might offer answers if you glare long enough. Your body feels too heavy for the hour. Too heavy for the week. Too heavy for pretending you have any idea what you're doing.
Jay doesn't say anything. He doesn't crack a joke. He just watches you from the couch, the movie's blue light sliding over his face, his knee bouncing once before stilling.
You don't know why you do it.
One second you are standing, the next you are crossing the room and sitting down on the far end of the couch, leaving a deliberate, careful distance between you. Your movements are slow, like you are underwater. Like if you stop moving altogether, something might collapse. The couch dips under your weight. Jay glances over at you, eyebrows lifting just slightly. "Didn't peg you for a late-night cinephile."
"I'm not. " You mutter, staring straight ahead.
"Good. " He says. "This movie is trash." Silence settles again, thicker now. You let your head fall back against the cushion, eyes fixed on the ceiling instead of the screen. The noise in your brain doesn't stop, but it dulls, edges blurring the longer you sit there. Jay's presence fills the space beside you in a way that's impossible to ignore—warm, solid, grounding in the most irritating way.
You can feel the heat from his arm. Not touching. Just close enough to notice.
He shifts slightly, like he's testing the distance too.
"You look wiped." He says finally, softer than usual.
"Wow. Incredible observation."
He huffs out a breath. "I'm serious."
You don't answer. You're too tired to defend yourself, too tired to snap back properly. That alone feels dangerous.
The movie drags on, some dramatic scene unfolding that neither of you are really watching. You're acutely aware of how still Jay is now, like he's afraid that if he moves, you will bolt. The thought irritates you—and, inexplicably, makes your chest ache.
Your fingers curl into the fabric of your sleeve.
"I just needed… quiet." You say, almost to yourself. Jay turns toward you fully this time. "Then you picked the wrong roommate lounge."
You glance at him, deadpan. "Shut up."
He smiles, but it's subdued. "Okay."
That does something to you. The way he doesn't push. The way he lets the word sit there without filling the space with noise.
Your gaze drifts to him without permission. The slope of his jaw. The faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his neck, like he's fresh from the gym. His lashes cast shadows under his eyes when he looks back at the screen.
Your stomach twists.
You look away too late.
Jay notices. Of course he does.
He shifts again, closer this time—just enough that your knees brush. The contact is accidental in theory, but neither of you move away. The air between you tightens, sharp and electric, crawling up your spine.
"You okay?" He asks quietly.
The question hits harder than it should. Your throat tightens, your chest feeling suddenly too small for your lungs.
No — you think. Instead, you shrug. "I will be."
Jay studies you, eyes lingering like he's memorizing the version of you that isn't armored up, the one slumped beside him with dark circles and frayed edges.
"You don't have to be all the time." He says.
Your laugh is soft, humorless. "Says who?"
"Says me."
You turn to him then, irritation flaring on instinct. "And since when do I take your advice?"
He grins, but there's no bite in it. "Since you sat down."
That shuts you up.
Your heart thumps painfully loud in your ears. You become hyperaware of the space between you—of how it's shrinking without either of you really choosing it. His knee presses into yours now, solid, warm. His arm brushes your sleeve when he shifts again.
Jay's voice drops. "You don't look like someone who came here to watch a movie."
You swallow. "Then why do you think I'm here?"
He hesitates. Just for a second. It's the first time you've seen him do that.
"Because you didn't want to be alone. " He says.
The words land softly. Gently. Like he's placing them down instead of throwing them at you.
Your chest tightens painfully. You look at him, really look at him—and the teasing smirk is gone. What's left is something steady. Something dangerous.
"Don't read into it. " You warn, weak.
Jay's gaze flicks down—again, not to your lips, but close enough that it sends a jolt straight through you. When he looks back up, his smile is barely there.
"Relax." He murmurs. "I'm just sitting."
"So am I. " You say.
The silence stretches. Thick. Charged. You can feel it humming between your bodies, loud as a secret neither of you have named.
You don't know how long you sit like that—shoulder to shoulder now, knees pressed together, pretending to watch a movie neither of you can follow.
But when Jay finally leans back, breaking the tension with a slow exhale, he does it with a knowing glance. "Careful... " He says lightly, the tease slipping back into place like armor. "If you keep sitting next to me like this, I might get the wrong idea."
You scoff, standing abruptly, pulse racing. "Get over yourself."
He laughs quietly, watching you retreat. "Already am."
You leave the room with your heart in your throat, body buzzing, frustration and something far worse curling in your chest.
Behind you, Jay stays seated, eyes fixed on the empty space where you were—smile slow, satisfied, like he felt it too.
You thought this could never happen again. You swore to yourself that that was the first and last time. But desperate situations require desperate measures, right?
So here you are in his dorm.
The room is dim, lit mostly by the streetlight bleeding through the half-closed blinds. Jongseob's dorm smells faintly like detergent and coffee grounds, that smell that always lingered to him and now you know why. It made your senses relax, or at least try.
He had you pinned against his sheets, his knees probably at the brink of carpet burns from how long he had his face in your folds. Sweat covered your half dressed body, panties moved to the side with his tongue licking up your mess. He was skillful, like you two did this more than enough for him to know your body like this. The obscene noises filled the quiet room, bouncing off the thin walls right to your ears making your blood rush tight to your already burning cheeks and neck.
It lulled out a moan, broken moan, out of your flushed lips. Your eyes felt heavy, vision blurry from all the edging for the past thirty minutes.
It was torture.
Jongseob's mouth worked wonders, sucking and licking you with such attentiveness, soft and rough at the same time. He sucked on your numb clit, each drag of his tongue now nothing but a itch that is almost enough to send you over. But he always pulled away the moment you arched your back off the bed, when your thighs trembled and legs threatened to close around his bobbing head.
"Jongseob—" You hiccuped out his name, your own voice betraying you. Eyes were full of tears ready to drop down your cheeks, your head felt lighter than ever. Hands went to grab his head, as you somehow raised your trembling body on one elbow for support. His locks felt soft, slightly damp from all the sweat and your wetness.
His tongue slowed down, eyes locked to yours with his boyish smile decorating his ruined flushed face. He flicked your clit with the tip of his tongue before he detached from your pussy, hands gripping your sore thighs, mouth, nose snd cheeks glistening under the moonlight.
"You wanna come huh?"
Before he could get any type of answer his mouth was back on your pussy, his mouth engulfed it whole, tongue dancing around the sensitive flesh as it pulsed right against him. You cried out, throwing yourself back against the mattress. It felt too much, overstimulation taking place before even you came.
Your fingers curl into the sheets, knuckles brushing the fabric as the feeling builds, fast and deliberate. Your breath starts to stutter despite yourself. Heat pools low in your stomach, spreading, tightening, pulling you under. You bite down on your lip, willing yourself to stay present, to stay here.
But your mind doesn't listen.
It drifts — just for a second — and then it betrays you completely.
Jay.
All of a sudden his face was the one between your legs, devouring you impatiently. His mouth warm and filthy lapping up the mess you made, his slender fingers dig into your thighs keeping you spread, for him and his mouth only. His sharp jaw tight as he moved his tongue down to your hole, poking it with the tip of it before moving up to your clit, flicking rapidly. You moaned. Eyes rolling to the back of your head.
His hands.
His face ruined by your wetness.
His moans against you.
Your breath stutters.
The image hits sharper than it should. Uninvited. Inappropriate. Your body reacts violently to the thought, uncontrollable moans spilled from your parted swollen lips eyebrows tight.
The tension snaps all at once, pleasure cresting too fast, too intense, ripping through you before you can stop it. Your back arches, a broken sound slipping from your throat, fingers digging into the mattress as everything goes white for a split second. You gasped and gasped, breathy broken sounds escaping you in despair.
"Good girl..."
And then it's over.
You lie there, chest heaving, skin still humming — but something is wrong.
The high ebbs, leaving behind not satisfaction, but shock. A cold, sinking awareness that spreads through you slowly, mercilessly. Your eyes flutter open, staring at the ceiling like it might explain what just happened. You gulped.
Your stomach twists.
Jongseob exhales, satisfied, oblivious, pressing a lazy kiss against your inner thigh as he gets up on the bed next to you. You barely register it. Your heart is pounding so loud you're sure he can hear it.
What the fuck was that?
Your stomach twists, not with guilt — something worse. Confusion. Shock. A cold, sinking clarity that spreads through your chest.
You didn't mean to think of him.
You didn't want to.
You stare at the ceiling, blinking hard, trying to rewind your own thoughts like that would undo anything. Your skin still hums, but the feeling is wrong now — hollow where it should be full.
Jay. Of all people.
You swallow, throat tight, and gently shift away, mumbling something about needing water. Jongseob hums in response, already drifting, unbothered.
You didn't come here to forget Jay.
And that scares you more than anything else tonight.
• • • • • •
You're walking with Nina when it happens.
Not looking for them, not bracing for anything—just moving across campus half-awake, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the lid while Nina complains about an upcoming midterm like it personally insulted her family.
"I swear, if I see economy in a script one more time—"
She cuts off mid-sentence.
You feel it before you see it. That subtle shift in the air, like your body clocks something your brain hasn't caught up to yet.
"Speak of the devil." Nina mutters, nodding ahead.
Sunghoon and Jungwon are coming down the steps of the student center, backpacks slung loose, mid-conversation. Jay is with them, walking backward as he talks, hands moving too much, grin already half-formed like he knows he’s about to be annoying on purpose.
There he is.
Exactly the same.
"—and I'm telling you..." Jay says, pointing between Sunghoon and Jungwon, "if you actually read the syllabus instead of pretending it doesn't exist, half your problems would be solved."
Jungwon snorts. "You don't read the syllabus."
"That's different. I skim."
Jay turns—and locks eyes with you.
His grin sharpens instantly. "Oh. Great. My favorite person who hates me."
"Morning." You say flatly, forcing your voice into its usual bored register. Jay beams. "See? She greeted me. Growth."
"Don't push it." You reply, deadpan. Sunghoon gives you a small nod, polite as ever. Jungwon smiles like he's watching something quietly unfold and choosing not to comment. Nina greets them all easily, already half pulled into conversation about a party later that week.
The group clusters naturally as you all make your way toward the lecture hall. Your steps slow half a beat. Your shoulders stay tight because of course he will be right next to you.
Jay keeps pace beside you anyway, like he always does.
"You skipping breakfast again?" He asks. "Because if you pass out in Social Theory, I'm not carrying you."
"You wouldn't." You reply.
"I absolutely would. For the attention."
Sunghoon walks a little faster, pretending not to hear. Nina gives you a quick look, the kind that asks a question without words.
You shrug it off.
Inside the building, the air shifts—cooler, quieter. Jay's energy doesn't change, but yours does. You answer his comments a second later than usual. Your comebacks land, just… softer. Less bite.
Jay notices.
Not enough to call it out. Just enough to tilt his head.
"You good?" He asks lightly, like he's joking.
You scoff. "I'm always good."
"That sounded rehearsed."
You stop walking for half a second, taking a deep breath of annoyance, then keep going. "You analyze people too much for someone in business."
"Occupational hazard." He says. "I read vibes."
You shoot him a look. There's still irritation there—real, familiar—but something else slips through with it. Uncertainty. Restraint.
Jay's smile lingers longer this time.
The lecture hall fills quickly. Jay of course takes a seat next to you and drops into his chair, stretching out, fully at ease. The course was barely five minutes in when Jay starts being a problem.
You know this because your pen has stopped moving, the slide on the screen hasn't changed, and Jay is already halfway into a whispered monologue like the concept of silence personally offends him.
"Okay, serious question." He mutters, leaning way too far into your space. "If social stratification is a construct, does that mean I can simply opt out of being broke?"
You don't look at him. "Please opt out of speaking."
He snorts. "Harsh. I thought soci majors were supposed to be compassionate."
"I ran out." You say flatly not sparing him a glance. "Mid-semester."
Jay grins like that's the best answer he's ever heard. He shifts in his seat, knee knocking into yours under the desk—once, then again, like it's an accident the second time too.
It's not.
Your leg jerks away on instinct, and that's when it hits you.
Not gently. Not gradually.
Just—
A flash.
Heat.
Pressure.
Your body remembering something your brain very much does not want to unpack right now.
Your grip tightens around your pen.
"Whoa..." Jay whispers. "Did I just get rejected by a kneecap?"
You inhale slowly through your nose. Focus.
Desk. Notebook. Professor. Anything but—
Jay tilts his head, studying you with exaggerated concern. "You look like you just saw a ghost. Or your GPA."
"Jay."
"Yes, sunshine?"
"Please shut up before I actually snap."
He laughs under his breath, shoulders shaking. "God, I love when you're mean to me. It's like foreplay, but educational."
Your head snaps toward him. "What is wrong with you?"
"Several things." He says easily. "Diagnosable, probably."
Jungwon shoots him a warning look from the other side. "Dude. Inside voice." Jay waves him off, eyes never leaving you. "Relax. I'm being subtle." You finally look at him, deadpan. "You just said 'foreplay' in a lecture hall."
"And yet- " He says, leaning back smugly. "You're the one blushing." You absolutely are not—except the heat crawling up your neck says otherwise.
The professor clears their throat pointedly. Jay straightens a bit, pretending to pay attention for all of ten seconds before leaning over again.
"You good, though?" He asks, quieter now—but still unmistakably him. "You've been weird all day. Like… extra grumpy. And I say that with love."
"I'm always grumpy."
"Yeah." He says, eyes flicking over your face like he's memorizing it. "But this feels… advanced."
Your stomach twists. You look away.
Jay hums, tapping his pen against the desk like he's thinking. Then, without warning, he drops his voice to a murmur meant only for you.
"Okay, theory." He says. "Either you are plotting my murder—fair—or something's got you all distracted. And I gotta say, I'm a little offended it's not me."
You scoff, because if you don't, you might actually combust. "You are always offended."
"True." He admits. "But I'm also observant."
His knee brushes yours again, slower this time, deliberate. Your breath unexpectedly hitched. The sudden image of you last night letting your mind wander and getting stuck on him in the most vulnerable moment felt humiliating, embarassing. Your arched back, mouth open and begging for air.
No.
"You keep zoning out." He adds, grin creeping back in. "Makes a guy wonder what's going on in that head of yours."
Your pen stills.
For one dangerous second, your mind threatens to betray you again.
Jay watches your reaction like he's caught something, eyes lighting up—not smug, not cocky. Curious. Interested.
Then he smirks, satisfied.
"Anyway." He says, sitting back like nothing happened. "If you need help studying later, I charge snacks and emotional availability."
"Pass."
"Liar."
The professor starts talking again. The class moves on.
Jay doesn't push further. Just stretches, folds his arms behind his head, and shoots you one last sideways look that says I see you without saying it out loud.
And you hate—absolutely hate—that your pulse doesn't slow until he finally looks away.
• • • • • •
Jay noticed Jongseob before Jongseob noticed him.
Which was unfortunate, because it gave Jay full three seconds to spiral.
Jongseob was sitting at one of the tall tables outside the student center, legs swinging a little because the chair was too high for him. A hoodie size too big and his blonde hair with a obviously fresh trim, bangs still slightly over his eyes as he scrolled on his phone. He had a juice box. An actual juice box. He was poking the straw into it with one hand, not taking his eyes off the phone screen before he brought it up to his lips,
Jay stopped walking.
Sunghoon took two more steps, realized Jay wasn't besides him anymore and turned around. "Why did you stop?"
Jay pointed. Subtly. Aggresively.
Sunghoon squinted. "Is that-"
"Yes." Jay said dramatically enough. "Him."
Jungwon leaned around them, a smile on his lips ready to stir the pot. "Oh. Cafe guy." Jay scoffed. "He has a name."
"Oh?" Jungwon asked. "You learned it?"
Jay glared. "I didn't learn it. I absorbed it against my will."
They started walking again because standing still made Jay look insane, which—fine, maybe he was—but still.
Jongseob looked up when they got closer, face lighting up in immediate recognition. "Oh! Hey."
Jay hated how friendly that sounded.
"Hey."Jongseob said again, standing up a little too fast. "Uh—sorry, do you guys need this table? I was just waiting for my class."
"No."Jay said." We're good.”
Sunghoon sat anyway. Because of course he did.
Jongseob hesitated, then sat back down too, awkwardly holding his juice box like he didn't know where to put it now.
Jungwon smiled at him. "You're in the interdisciplinary course, right?"
Jongseob nodded. "Yeah! With business and sociology."
Jay's eye twitched.
"Oh." Jay said lightly. "That one."
Jongseob glanced between him and Jungwon. "You're… business, right?"
Jay smiled. It was sharp. "I am."
"That's cool." Jongseob said sincerely. "I heard that course is brutal."
Jay leaned back in his chair. "Depends."
"On what?" Jongseob asked genuinely.
"How much free time you have." Jay said. "Some people are… very busy."
Sunghoon choked on nothing. The dark and ominous tone something that almost made him burst out laughing. Jongseob laughed nervously, ignoring the weight of his stare. "Yeah. Totally."
There was a pause. Jongseob took a sip from his juice box. The straw squeaked.
Jay stared at it.
"…You like those?" Jay asked.
Jongseob blinked. "Uh. Yeah?"
"Interesting..." Jay said. "Didn't peg you for a juice box guy."
Jongseob tilted his head. "Is that bad?"
Jay opened his mouth.
Jungwon cut in immediately to save the situation and possibly his friend of embarrassing them in front of a innocent guy. "It's fine. He judges everyone." Jay shot him a look. "I do not."
Sunghoon raised a brow. "You judged me for ordering vanilla."
"That was justified." Jongseob smiled again, smaller this time, like he wasn't sure if he was included in the joke or the target of it. "You're… funny."
Jay's grin softened without his permission. "Yeah. I get that a lot."
Jongseob nodded, then checked his phone that was forgotten by him the moment the boys stepped in. "I should probably head to class."
"Same." Jungwon said quickly, standing. "We're late."
"It was nice seeing you guys." Jongseob slung his backpack on, then hesitated — just a second too long — before adding casually, "If you see Y/N before me, tell her I left her charger in my locker."
Jay froze.
Sunghoon froze.
Jungwon's eyebrows shot up.
"Oh," Jay said slowly. "Did you."
Jongseob nodded, voice low and soft. "Yeah. She always forgets stuff." He didn't want to bother you, not after you seemed so out of it last night, not when you just left his dorm without even a bye, like you were running from him. "She'll know." Jongseob added, smiling. "Thanks."
And then he waved and walked off, same polite energy, no clue he'd just dropped a grenade and left.
The second he was out of sight—
Jay turned sharply to Jungwon. "Why does he have her charger."
Jungwon blinked. "Jay—"
"Why—" Jay repeated. "is her charger in his locker."
Sunghoon crossed his arms. "Do you want the honest answer or—"
"No." Jay snapped. "I don't."
Jungwon sighed. "You're spiraling."
"I am observing." Jay said. "That's different."
Sunghoon deadpanned. "You're jealous."
Jay scoffed. "Of what? A guy who drinks juice boxes and borrows chargers?"
Jungwon smiled faintly. "Yeah."
Jay looked away, jaw tight, muttering. "He doesn't even look like he deserves that kind of access."
Sunghoon smirked. "Access?"
Jay paused.
"…Shut up."
• • • • • •
You didn't mean to end up alone with him.
Not after another draining shift with no will to live.
You were supposed to be heading back to your dorm—enjoy your night, relax and just simply try not to fall asleep before you shower—but the universe, as usual, had other plans. The hallway outside the student center was dimmer than usual, lights flickering softly as the sun dipped lower, casting everything in that weird in-between glow where nothing felt fully real.
You rounded the corner too fast.
And slammed straight into a solid chest.
"Jesus—"
Strong hands caught your arms before your brain even registered what was happening. You looked up, already annoyed, already ready to snap—
Jay.
Of course.
He blinked once, then twice, clearly just as surprised, before that familiar grin tugged at his mouth like it couldn’t help itself. "Wow." He said. "You always run into men this hot, or am I special?"
You pulled your arms back immediately, crossing them like armor. "Move."
He laughed, stepping aside but not nearly enough to give you actual space. The hallway suddenly felt narrower, warmer, like the air had thickened just for the two of you. He smelled faintly like soap and something clean—probably post-gym—and you hated that your brain registered it instantly.
"You look tired." He added, softer now, eyes flicking over your face. You scoffed. "What do you want, Jay?"
He tilted his head, mock-offended. "Can't a guy exist near you without an agenda?"
"Yes." You said immediately. "Actually. You can't."
That earned a low laugh. He leaned back against the wall, arms folding loosely over his chest, watching you like you were something entertaining and dangerous at the same time. You shifted your weight, suddenly too aware of your body, of how close he still was, of how your pulse hadn't quite settled since earlier.
"You heading to the party tomorrow night?" He asked casually, like it didn't matter.
You hesitated. Just a second too long.
He caught it.
"Thought so." He said, smirk sharpening. "You have that look. Like you're already exhausted by something that hasn't even happened yet."
You rolled your eyes. "You talk too much."
"Only when I'm nervous."
That made you look at him.
He held your gaze this time. Didn't joke it away. Didn't backtrack. Just stood there, quiet for once, the hum of the lights filling the space between you. The silence stretched—not awkward, exactly, but charged. Like something unsaid was pressing against your ribs from the inside.
You felt it then. That pull. That stupid, unwanted awareness of him—of the way his jaw tightened when he looked at you too long, of how his fingers flexed like he was holding himself back from doing something impulsive.
You swallowed.
"Nothing to say now?" You muttered, defensive.
His grin came back, slower this time. Knowing. "Oh, plenty..." He said. "Just… trying to behave."
That sent a spark straight through you, sharp and unwelcome. You scoffed, stepping past him, shoulder brushing his arm—barely, but it was enough. The contact lingered like static, like your nerves had been lit up and left buzzing.
Behind you, he chuckled. Low. Satisfied.
"See you tomorrow, grumpy." He called after you. "Try not to miss me too much before then."
You didn't turn around.
But your heart didn't slow down either.
Jay tells himself he's fine.
He tells himself this as he walks away from you down the hallway, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie like that will keep him from doing something stupid—like turning around, like calling your name, like asking something he doesn't have the right to ask.
Fine. Totally fine.
Except his chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with cardio.
He replays it—of course he does. The way you ran straight into him like the universe had a sense of humor. The way your first instinct was irritation, always irritation, like that was the only thing keeping you upright lately. He noticed it immediately, the tiredness etched into your face, the way you looked like you'd been carrying too much for too long and were seconds away from snapping.
And God, he wanted to be the one thing you didn't snap at.
That's the fucked up part.
Jay's always been good at being loud. Being annoying. Being the joke. It's armor—one that's worked his whole life. People laugh, they roll their eyes, they don't look too close. They don't ask questions. They don't notice when he cares more than he should.
He leans against the stairwell railing now, staring down at nothing, jaw tight. He can still feel the brush of your shoulder against his arm—barely anything, but enough to send something sharp and electric straight through him. You probably didn't even mean it. Or maybe you did. That’s the problem. He can't tell anymore.
And that scares him more than rejection ever could.
Because somewhere along the way—between the banter, the bickering, the stupid comments, the way you always show up looking like you don't want to be anywhere except exactly where you are—this stopped being a game.
He didn't mean for it to.
He meant to flirt. To tease. To poke at your defenses and retreat when you bit back. That was the plan. Harmless. Fun. Controlled.
Now?
Now he notices things he shouldn't. Like how you go quiet when you're overwhelmed instead of loud. Like how your eyes drift when you're thinking too hard. Like how you never actually tell anyone when you're not okay.
He hates that he knows that.
He hates more that he wants to be the one you don't shut out.
Jay exhales slowly, tilting his head back against the wall. The ceiling above him is stained and flickering, just like every campus building ever, and he laughs under his breath because of course this is where he's having an emotional crisis.
He thinks about Jongseob—because of course he does—and the thought leaves something bitter on his tongue. He doesn't even have proof. Just vibes. Instinct. Jealousy he pretends is a joke because that's safer than admitting it's real.
He tells himself he doesn't get a say.
He tells himself that if you wanted him, you'd make it obvious.
But then he remembers the way you froze when he said you were catching on. The way you didn't laugh it off. The way you looked at him like you were suddenly aware there was something underneath all his noise.
Jay smiles despite himself.
Yeah. You're catching on.
That's the problem.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Group chat. Sunghoon sending some dumb video. Jungwon reacting with five skull emojis. Nina saying something he knows is probably about tommorow night.
The party.
He straightens a little.
Tommorow is dangerous.
Tomorrow night is loud and crowded and full of excuses to pretend nothing matters after this shit of a semester. It's alcohol and music and proximity and bad decisions disguised as fun.
Exactly the kind of environment where things slip.
Jay pulls his phone out, thumbs hovering over your name for half a second longer than necessary.
He types something stupid. Something light. Something that sounds like him.
you better show up tomorrow or i’m telling everyone you’re scared of frat basements
He stares at the message before sending it.
Then, quieter, to himself;
"You're so fucked."
He hits send anyway.
You tell yourself you're fine.
You tell yourself this as you walk away from Jay down the hallway, shoulders tight, pace just a little faster than necessary. You don't look back. There's no reason to. Running into him was annoying, that's all. Bad timing. Bad luck. He's everywhere lately, like a campus rash.
You replay it anyway, which pisses you off.
The way he'd been too close. The way he smiled like he'd won something even though you'd given him nothing. The stupid comment. Your automatic snap back. Normal. Routine. That's how this works.
Except your response had come out sharper than usual.
You roll your neck once, like you can physically shake it off. You're tired. That's it. Burnt out. Anyone would be snippy under this much pressure. It has nothing to do with him and his dumb voice and the way he refuses to take a hint.
You take the stairs instead of the elevator just to burn off the irritation.
He's exhausting. He always has been. Loud, intrusive, constantly in your space like he's entitled to it. You don't know how Jungwon puts up with him, or Sunghoon, or literally anyone. And you definitely don't know why he's decided you're his personal hobby this semester.
Your phone buzzes as you reach your dorm room.
You already know.
You sigh, unlocking it with more force than necessary.
ignore: you better show up tonight or i’m telling everyone you’re scared of frat basements
You snort.
Unbelievable.
You type back immediately.
you: i don’t go places that smell like regret and cheap cologne
you: find a new threat
Send.
You toss the phone onto your bed and start digging through your bag, looking for absolutely anything else to focus on. Notes. Lip balm. A pen that barely works. Anything.
Your chest feels tight, but you ignore it. You've been stressed all week. Of course your body's being dramatic. Doesn't mean anything.
You don't check your phone again.
Not right away.
And you definitely don't wonder if he's smiling at your reply.
That would be stupid.
• • • • • •
The café smelled like burnt espresso and cinnamon syrup, which usually grounded you. Today it just made your head ache.
Your shift had been dragging since the minute you clocked in. The kind of dragging where your body was present but your brain was lagging a full two steps behind, every movement feeling slightly delayed. You worked on autopilot—wipe counter, pull shot, steam milk—muscle memory carrying you where your thoughts refused to cooperate.
Jongseob noticed immediately.
"You good?" He asked casually, handing you a cup to lid. Nothing loaded in his tone except his pure softness and concern. Just checking.
You shrugged. "Didn't sleep."
"Yeah, that tracks." He smiled, easy and soft like always. "You're doing that stare-into-the-void thing."
"I am not."
"You are." He said, amused. "But it's fine. Void's comfy."
You huffed, nudging his arm with your elbow before turning back to the register. Easy. Normal. Safe. That's what this was. Coworker banter. No complications. No thinking required.
Except your eyes drifted before you could stop them.
Window seat. Same as always.
Jay sat slouched across from Sunghoon and Jungwon, hoodie half-zipped, iced coffee sweating onto the table. He looked… quieter. Not sulking. Just less loud. His laughs came slower, shorter, like he was present but not fully checked in.
It annoyed you immediately.
You tore your gaze away and focused on the espresso machine. Still, every few minutes—while wiping the counter, while waiting for the grinder, while pretending to read an order slip—you looked again.
And every time, it felt like walking straight into a trap.
Because somehow, impossibly, he was already looking.
Not staring. Not obvious. Just… aware. Like he'd sensed it. His eyes would flick up, meet yours for half a second too long, then drop back to the table like nothing happened.
It made your stomach twist in a way you didn't have time for.
You scowled at the milk pitcher. This was stupid. You were tired. That's all. Lack of sleep messes with perception. Makes everything feel bigger than it is.
Behind him, Sunghoon leaned in slightly, brows knitting together.
"Why are you being weird?" He muttered.
Jay scoffed. "I'm not being weird."
"You haven't made a single inappropriate comment in ten minutes." Jungwon added. "That's weird."
Jay shot him a look. "I'm evolving." The answer was short and empty, it felt off to the two.
Sunghoon snorted. "Liar."
Jay leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking—not to you, absolutely not—to the counter, then away again. "I'm just tired."
"Mhm..." Jungwon said, unconvinced. His gaze followed Jay's for half a beat, then back to him. "You sure that's all?"
Jay didn't answer right away.
At the counter, you knocked over a stack of napkins.
"Shit—" You crouched to grab them, irritation flaring hot and sharp. Get it together.
When you stood back up, heart still thudding for no reason, you caught it again—his eyes on you. This time longer. This time unmistakable.
Something unreadable crossed his face before he looked away first.
That almost made it worse.
Jongseob slid beside you, handing over a finished drink. "You want me to cover register for a bit?"
You blinked. "Why?"
"You look like you're about to fight the espresso machine."
"I am not."
"You kind of are."
You sighed, scrubbing a hand over your face. "Just—yeah. Two minutes."
As you stepped back, you could still feel it. The pull. The awareness. Like there was a thread stretched tight between your table and his, invisible but humming.
You hated it.
You hated that your eyes kept betraying you.
And you really hated that when Jay finally laughed—quiet, genuine, something Sunghoon said clearly catching him off guard—it made your breath stop for a split second.
You turned away sharply, jaw tight.
This was nothing.
Just exhaustion.
Just proximity.
Just a bad week.
Still, when your eyes flicked back one last time—
He was looking again.
This time, neither of you pretended it was an accident.
->Part II
coming back to this fic every time i miss jay!
i spammed you so bad😔
don't worry! i'm immensely grateful for that <333
I MISSED YOUR WRITING SO BAD UGH😍😍😍😍
i missed you more!! i am SOOO sorry for disappearing, i promise i'm going to be more on here from now on!
eclipse of the mind {sjy}
summary: when one sided love knocks on your door and the certain situation presents itself to you, you react on your selfish impulses.
pairing: sim jake x f!reader
tags: angst, non consensual, dark, suggestive mdni
wc: 1k
note: this is fiction!
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"What have you done to him?", he inquired.
His attention zeroed further into the room, into his sight coming disheveled Jake, his hair a mess, clothes askew, barely hanging onto his frame. Then your figure came into view, lipstick smudged at the corners of your mouth, breathing laboured, the strands of your hair that framed your face beautifully before now were disorganised, sticking in various directions. All of it would make sense and the insinuation would redden his cheeks if you two were lovers but you weren't. That was the colossal problem he came to face.
In your mind, there was only darkness, no light or clarity coming through, you could only feel the rhythmic thumping of your heart, its pace accelerating. Blood was rushing through your ears, violently, slowly some sound came through, a song. The lyrics you already knew by heart, having it on repeat for the last few weeks. What a cliche thing it is, to blast the melody of Careless Whisper non stop, the sole thought of it stirred laughter inside of you, then all of it played in front of your eyes like a film, but old one, black and white, the only music was the repeating song that traveled from the main room, trickled into the hall and into the room.
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You were just an ordinary student by every means, an ordinary person with an ordinary set of morals to go by. You were living just fine, heart full of dreams and a brain full of knowledge, stepping into the university life with optimism. You firmly believed you were going to meet your friend group, your found family and have the time of your life during the years that you will stay in the city that doesn't know your name. The concrete jungle, the fast pace of living, the shuffling of feet on the pavement every morning, the changing of red light to green, the roaring sounds of cars, all of it felt comfortable to you, finally, you could get lost in its streets and explore, without being a child, without being a full adult.
Your life was going smoothly, sometimes a party, sometimes a lecture, even thought you held onto the academic life tightly, you were going to have a bright future, you were sure. You didn't steer clear of the boys, rather enjoying their company but with a reserved mindset, it was all for fun anyway. You were too young to commit.
Then, like a lighting in the midst of the summer day, followed by thunder and a summer shower, he came. He was everything your dreams were made of, both in personality and in looks, your hands itched to run through his fluffy hair, your eyes searched for his in the crowds and your ears longed to hear the melodic lull of his voice. You were falling deeply in love, even before you were aware, all it took was one deep gaze from him for your heart to tremble and write his name into itself, wanting to sync yours and his rhythm.
He was made for you, like the gods carved him out from the destiny and molded him from your thoughts, now he was incarnated in physicality, standing beside you.
In parties, in lectures, he was everywhere, when his knee grazed yours, a violent emotion would overtake your whole body, awakening your atoms on every level. Jake, was his name. The name that haunted your every dream, the faceless man you used to know was slowly morphing into him. Running barefoot on the beach, him chasing you, now it was Jake's footsteps which followed your own in the sand. Watching the fireworks and a confession following, it was his lips your own touched, it was his taste.
All of that love, that bloomed inside of you, like a strong and beautiful flower, all radiant, had to mean that there was some kind of reciprocity as well, right? For the few months you thought so. He didn't make a move first? You found million reasons why he didn't, all of them having an explanation that was good willed and optimistic. Maybe he was shy, maybe he was waiting for the perfect moment, maybe...
You were completely certain that he too felt it. That every eye contact meant something, that every fleeting touch carried a promise with it.
Until it didn't.
He came one morning, with a pretty girl on his arm, introducing her as his girlfriend. You could feel your whole world come to a stop, the background noise fading into one strong beep, like the one on the doctor's monitor. Something inside of you died and withered.
The next days consisted of tears and withheld screams. Day by day, they morphed into an emotion, disdain but also something else as well, rage. Why not you? That question followed you everywhere, while you pretended you were unaffected, deep down you knew, there was no way back now.
You lost him maybe forever, hell, you didn't even have him, ever. The rage that quietly grew inside of you, blinded you, your heart turned darker and darker with passing of time and desperation took over and then culminated into this very moment.
Him, under you, all dazed and feverish, calling out her name in the midst of ecstasy, but it wasn't her that was making him feel this way, it was you. Jake's intoxicated mind didn't know that, he was far too gone, that was good, that was right.
────────────
You blinked away the memory, your surroundings coming into focus, the song ended, some disco melody taking it's place instead.
You looked into Jake's friend's eyes, they were frantic and filled with disgust, it directed at you. Seeing as you won't answer he went to tend to his friend, forgetting about your existence. You only smiled gently and left the room.
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Thank you for reading! Please, consider giving me some kind of feedback! Thanks!
[ the fall] {psh}
summary: you were a writer by day, lover girl by night and good girl 24/7. you had a one muse, but what if he's not really yours?
wc: 7.9k
tags: uni au!, mentions of religious ideas, yearning pro, sunghoon is like a coping mechanism, angst, smut mdni: fingering, unprotected intercourse, manhandling, virginity loss, corruption kink
note: this is a repost from my another blog, stellargolden! i am not a lit student!
You stared out of the windows, tracing with your eyes birds that flew past the nearby pine tree, its rich green very pleasant to your senses still drunk from sleep. Sun rays were creeping into the classroom, shedding light on dirty white walls and worn-out desks.
The spacious room was occupied by students, some of them with their heads on the table, some of them doodling mindlessly, while others were busy reading the assignment from the previous class.
That brief moment of harmony and silence was broken by the professor coming through the door, carrying stacks of paper and her beloved notebook.
“How are you feeling on this fine Tuesday morning? I hope all of you are well and I'm sure that you will be even better when we start discussing our legendary renaissance poet! , she paused for a second paying attention to students mainly, lethargic glances.
“She is so pumped at 8`o'clock in the morning, my god!”, muttered a classmate to your right, you just chuckled in response.
The teacher continued, “Anyways, today we are talking about Petrarca. For centuries men wrote poetry about women, glorifying their beauty and virtue, their angel-like features. They loved from afar and wrote.”
“If you don't mind me asking...what about men? Why didn't anyone glorify men and their beauty?”, a boy asked, his tone was confident but it was evident that he was a bit nervous, subtly bouncing his leg.
You laid your eyes upon him, he was beautiful. Sunlight left golden specks in his raven hair, caressing his face gently, his cheeks soft like milky white lilies and lips delicately pink, lovelier than any rose. Then he smiled, revealing white pearls from between his petal-like lips, you quickly shifted your gaze to the teacher. Overwhelmed.
Who was that boy that stirred up the sea inside you, that made waves of emotion clash against your soul? Perhaps, you've met him in your past life, your destinies intertwined. That was a silly thought, probably because you've read too many romantic novels to start believing in fateful encounters, in wild tragic love that awaits everyone.
“That's an interesting question. What was your name again?”, the professor inquired, a little taken aback. Suddenly, the whole class paid attention to the said boy, curious.
His gaze turned sheepish, cheeks a little red, “It's Jake.”, he said, thanking the heavens for not stuttering. Why did he even say anything, he shouldn't have, now everyone's eyes are on him.
“Well then, Jake, my dear, it's due to the way people treated men-women relationships, in which men courtesy women and try to win them over, in this case with poetry. But I'm certain that today many girls would write poetry for their lover, isn't it right?”, she laughed, eyeing the female students. She was a sweet professor but she tends to go overboard sometimes, she really does.
But you wouldn't mind writing a few verses about this boy, would you? That is nonsense, you aren’t a love-struck, touch deprived man from the Middle Ages. No, you were a college student in the 21st century studying literature, even though your family told you a million times it's not profitable, and that you should be a doctor instead. A wild heart cannot be tamed, so you have done what you wanted, knowing that you will struggle, but you couldn’t help it because art in all its forms has always interested you.
How could you study the human body when you wanted to delve into the depths of man’s imagination, to appreciate that strong longing for creation.
You didn't even realize you’ve zoned out the last part of the lesson, teacher announcing the end of it , startling you out of your thoughts. You put your notebook in the bag, shuffling through it to find the book you should have returned to the library last week, taking the wallet out as well to pay for being late. Why are you so forgetful, you question yourself.
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Parties were never your cup of tea, rather willing to drown yourself in the centuries old poetry book and listen to the wanderings of their mind, of their passions which lit up their souls and of cravings which tortured their hearts. If you weren't reading, then you were writing. Poetry and literature has always been an outlet of yours, relieving all your tensions.
While others preferred to drown themselves in wine, the drink of the gods and other alcohol while you just appreciated its sometimes motivating and inspirational qualities (in which you might have indulged yourself when alone). Music was always following you anyways, not going anywhere without your wired earphones, keeping them on while writing and going on walks. The slow thump of an R&B bass calmed you, made you focus.
Overall it was a comfort of yours, like gloves which warmed your hands in the cruel winter months, music soothed you, like a lovers hand on your burning forehead. Winter was your favorite season, the darkness that enveloped the day earlier was like a gentle blanket on your soul. The biting air only helped to clear your mind, your nostrils burning while inhaling it but it was oddly satisfying.
Right now, during the winter, in the month you favored, December, you were taking a long walk, hoping to get some inspiration. Calmness lay all around you, snow covered branches were resting, the path ahead of you was empty, drowned in silence. Not a single soul was present, most of people choosing to rest in the warmth of their little homes.
Only soul outside was yours, alone and wandering, you weren't lost, no, nobody would call their soul lost when dreams resided in it. Dreams of other unknown lands, of their winds and scents, only escape could save it, for your soul was tortured, caged inside the town you were in.
Seemingly you were wrong. You were actually not alone in this path for in your vision came a figure in the distance. What you could see is that it was of a man. His walk was slow but radiating with confidence of someone that was satisfied with himself. Coming closer, you could differentiate that his form belonged to non other than Jake. The boy that asked a question in class, you hadn't even noticed him till then, but could not forget those lips ever since.
Later on you found out that he didn't belong in your class, rather a Literature building for he was a physics student. What you've heard he was very passionate about poetry but the nature,mathematics lover inside of him dominated and that's how he ended up taking lit classes out of pure hobby.
You thought that was rather silly, why go to such lengths and overload your schedule when you could just study one thing and that's it. Also you thought it was intriguing because he was a mix of something rigorous and intuitive and something creative. Nature in its core was actually creative force, its laws taking the most beautiful forms when written mathematically. Not that you would know, but you would know, you were a physics geek in high school.
Everyone thought you would be next Einstein or something until you disappointed your parents and whole family with a literature studies acceptance letter.
When he came close enough to see his face, his warm brown eyes that always swam with something deeper, an emotion you couldn't discern. In some moments they were darker than obsidian, you noticed for he was something of an obsession ever since you came to know about his existence.
Your thoughts swam with inspiration ,he was for you in this moment inspiration incarnate. His hair was tousled from the cold wind, his cheeks pretty pink from harsh air. At first you thought he wouldn't know you, a girl who sat at the very front and secretly dreamed about how abundant his lips were.
"Hi!", his voice was soft, traveling through the air like a whisper. A greeting that would be a catalyst for a cataclysm that would happen inside of you.
"Hi..?.", your voice was was unsure, quiet because why would he know you anyways, you weren't someone to be known, with few friends and that included the cats that would happily come to you in street.
You thought that was it, the small interaction that would drift by like autumn leaves in the wind but no. His footsteps came to a stop.
"I know you from the literature class also I've heard about your work from the professor. He told me you were one of the best students and that I could ask you about things I'm uncertain about", he talked with curiosity swimming in his eyes, he seemed to be really pleased to see you. "I'm sure its God's providence that I see you here in my path", he joked lightly, he continued:" I was curious about something last night."
"Oh, right, I see.", you mumbled, you were never much of a talker anyways.
"Yeah! So if you're willing could we go to the coffee shop or something?", he inquired with raised eyebrows, "Sometime.", he added, nervous laugh coming out of his mouth.
You wondered what possessed him to come to you of all people, but you were trying to be kind so you agreed.
Having exchanged numbers, you both parted ways, without lover's look over the shoulder, without a promise of something more.
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Meeting with Jake went well, as much as you could say, you've answered his questions with no problems, you were a prodigy after all, poetry run through through your blood, you breathed it. Palpable tension was felt throughout the whole encounter but again it could have been because of you being drawn to him that the tension was felt from your side.
What will stay in your heart even when the emptiness fills the space where his body resided is when his hand grazed yours while reaching for coffee. Now you weren't someone that liked physical touch, a hug from friends is fine but it wasn't your favourite way of expressing devotion. It was more actions and words for you. The spot where he touched burned, like exorcism and maybe it was, the love starved demon in you screamed when his atoms collided with yours.
Just a slight touch of his hand awakens melancholic vampire in you, thirsty for love.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
As you said before you would rather indulge in a good book like you were now doing, Hesse's Demian resting upon your lap, the sentences graced your eyes, one more beautiful than another. He was simply one of your favourite authors, aside from maybe romanticist writers whose caged hearts resembled your own, beating inside your rib cage, full of blood and scum.
Even though you enjoyed the silence of your own and his thoughts, you were interrupted by your friend.
"Are you going to the party tomorrow night?", said Selena, one of your closest friends. That damned question haunted you every time a party was being hosted in your proximity. You attended a few, of course when you were a freshman, being a wallflower and ignoring any advances from the male audience present because what was the use? Their flirty words certainty wouldn't reach deeper past the layers of snow which lay upon your heart.
Therefore, you abstained from intimacy, you weren't touch starved in that sense, your friends fulfilled that need with their random hugs and fleeting touches. You craved a connection that surpasses all the understanding, something that would reach into your core and kill that vampire, that demonic presence which commanded your loneliness.
"Jake is going to be there as well! I know the way you look at him.", she smirked, playful and curious.
Now that caught your interest.
You knew that women were not a pursuers by any means but it was 21st century, why not flip the rules and be the chaser instead? Even though it would rarely be called chasing, showing up at a party you knew he would be at.
"Come on, have some fun, you never know what could come out of it", she said.
Maybe it was insanity which started to slowly consume and rot away at your mind or the unbounded yearning of your heart that you agreed.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ✮ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
Feeling of deja vu enveloped your senses, just few days ago you were reminiscing about parties and their overwhelming atmosphere and how it certainly wasn't your type of scene. Now you were in the middle of it, music loud, beat strong reaching even to the furthest, smallest of capillaries inside your body. Beat always carried an energy with it, sensation of inspiration to do something, to break free from the lackluster life.
In a room full of people, you looked for one pair of eyes.
Instead of his beautiful orbs around which your whole world revolved, his silhouette came into vision. You were expecting it to be alone but it wasn't. Beside him was a girl's figure, them caught up in a dance. The spinning axis of your world tilted, its rotation coming to a stop.
You weren't jealous, no, but what was this emptiness inside of you indicating?
"Let's get some drinks!", Selena exclaimed, excited about getting drunk as always, it was her outlet. She was always so care free, not afraid to make out with random people.
Gin, while traveling through your throat left a warming trail, warmth filling your chest, blinding your inhibitions.
The only thought in your head was how to get closer to Jake, he was like a black hole, his gravity pulling you in but you haven't reached the event horizon yet. Oh, how you wanted to reach that point of no return.
You were kind of angry that he saw you only as an academic acquaintance, that rigid attitude in which he treated you while in coffee shop, you wanted his hands around your waist, like that girl's.
No! That was alcohol in you talking, you were content to just observe from afar, like your Beatrice, he was untouchable and he should stay that way. What were you even thinking, coming to this place.
"Mind if I get a pretty girl a drink?", an inquire came somewhere from your right. You were startled out of your thinking stupor. A person, no, a man was standing by your side, smiling, fangs peeking out, sharp. In your mind your answer was oscillating between yes and no, but again what bad could come out of indulging in a drink from a stranger? When your muse was being busy with someone else.
"Well, not really.", you answered, eyes finally meeting his. They were a dark brown, filled with childlike curiosity but there was an insinuation in them as well. Something darker, a motive a man could only have for girl alone in a club, Selena left you to go dancing.
You decided you were not gonna be hostage to one man, who didn't even care for you that way, at least for a little bit you are gonna play a game. To pretend you were someone else, someone free. It was completely out of character of you, your soul was loyal to only one man, proof being words that bled out on paper last night ,the devotion in your hands hidden under the sheets.
You certainly weren't a fool but willing to play one.
The gin was being poured, its translucent form taking a shape of a glass, the glass in turn taking a shape of your hand, your tension evident. You never allowed any advances from men, you were a good girl by the book, you just weren't interested. Something about him, something you can't name pulled you in. He was handsome of course, dark hair and dark eyes, just how you liked. Even though they weren't his. Maybe it was his height, he was towering over you in the most satisfying way.
You didn't want to write poetry about him, you wanted to write poetry with him, in this moment.
He was satisfied with your presence, introducing himself,: "I'm Park Sunghoon, by the way. You?"
"I'm YN...", your voice was hushed, slightly deeper, shy smile making its way onto your beautiful face.
Maybe it was defiance to your god, for he was with another, in the corner of you eyes you could see them kissing now. It was your fall because you let his hand wrap around yours. There was no burning, you could only feel warmth radiating from his bigger hand. Why wasn't it burning? You were falling after all.
Where was that demon that needed to be exorcised from yourself, where was that blood thirsty vampire that awakened when Jake touched you?
Now, maybe it wasn't you, it was him. Maybe there wasn't a demon to begin with.
Where was your god now? He disappeared in a dark room, with another you figured, as Sunghoon's palms traced your lines while dancing.
You put your hands around his broad shoulders, wrapping around them and holding on, your black hole's gravity lessened. His whisper in your ear was warm and filled with promise, : "Want to leave this place?". Now your lust was reserved for only one man. There wasn't beginning nor and end to it, but the warmth of his breath caged you in. You have never shared the same air with a man. Now you were doing it, treason to your god.
The insinuation of his words carried a heaviness with them, your rib cage feeling full of your trembling heart because what are you supposed to do now? You never let it get this far. Where was Selena?
Instead, your hands held tighter to his shoulders, breathed in his scent a little deeper, it filling your lungs like smoke, blinding your senses like absinthe. You lifted your gaze to his eyes, they stared at you expectantly, lust gripping the edges of his pupils. There was shyness reflecting on your own, loneliness even, he could read them, a gift that was presented to him in that very moment.
"Don't be shy.", he whispered in the midst of the dance floor. "I'm not.", you replied with faux confidence.
"Let's go." , you added, disconnecting from him.
His hands pulled you in the unknown direction, you let yourself be guided by him, enjoying the pure strength in his arms, the hastiness in his step.
The door of the bathroom concealed you and him. Alone. The sound of both of your breathing was loud, bass filtering through the wood of the door, but less amplified.
"You are so pretty.", he said. Was it a lie? You didn't care. His gaze was upon yours, irises black, in that moment they were beautiful. You couldn't resist him, his lips were pink, they weren't the lips you yearned for, but were tempting none the less. What possessed you? Were about to give your first kiss to a stranger? Both of you leaned in and your lips collided. Like two stars forming a supernova, gravity so strong, light they emit blinding.
There goes your first kiss, he doesn't need to know that. There was nothing chaste about it, his tongue soon invading your mouth, dominating yours with easiness. You were pliant under his touch, expectant and soft. So soft, your curves were tempting, attracting his hands, fingers digging into your skin over the fabric.
Your hands were by your sides, unsure where to put them, all your thoughts consumed by him. He guided them to the nape of his neck, wanting you to tug at his hair, your hands remained still. Sunghoon's lips departed from yours, he looked at you, confused. "Have you done this before?", he said, voice rough and laden with lust.
You were caught.
Your eyes lifted from the whiteness of the tiles of the bathroom and stared into his,: "No..", you shook your head slowly, "I haven't.", you continued, looking at him with softness. He knew now what lured him in, he couldn't name it then, unsure but that unknown trace in your eyes was innocence. He cursed inside of his mind, suddenly feeling even hotter, blood pumping through his veins with violence.
His kiss traveled to your neck, gentle and wet, he whispered: "Don't worry, I'll teach you." Fingers wrapping around your chin, pulling your head to the side to allow more access. You were sensitive, cheeks burning, feeling awakening in your core. A feeling you knew too well from the nights you spent buried under the sheets, worshiping your god.
You thought nothing could cause it but his image, but seems like you were wrong, was it the two glasses of gin you consumed? You were drunk before and only felt motivated to write more, to dream more not this.
Who was this devil that tempts you? His touch intoxicating, his words even sweeter, he bit at the softness of your skin, nectar pooling in between your thighs. Your breathing ran deeper, harsher, no sounds escaped you, for you didn't dare to. You needed more, your fingers finally tangling in his raven locks. They were smooth to the touch, like silk of your bed sheets, the sensation rising reminded you of unknown lands, waiting to be explored except you wanted to explore him instead. You wanted to savor each tremble of your lips, each nibble that graced your skin, you remembered the sharpness of his fangs, now they were on your neck, moving south toward your chest.
His hands touched you like they were praying, grounding but setting you ablaze at the same time, a little calloused as they reached for the hem of your skirt. Fingers nimble and experienced hiked it up around your waist, you had no thoughts of stopping him. You just reached for his lips once again, stubble at the top of his lip tickling you.
Sunghoon let himself not be swayed by you, he continued to explore the area around your panties, drenched with desire. You felt like you were confessing each of your sins the more he touched you. At last, his thumb pressed against your clit, the sound that came from the back of your throat could not be contained. He pulled your underwear to the side, fingers finally reaching your entrance, your mouth fell open when his two fingers reached inside you. They were thicker and longer than yours, coming to contact with places you haven't explored yet.
"Tell me how you feel, pretty.", he muttered out, breaking the silence between you two. No words could come out of your mouth, his pace only increasing, it wasn't too fast, he was savoring the feeling of you, the wetness that gushed out each time he plunged his fingers in you.
"Feels--- good...", you finally said, voice soft, breathless, you were not someone to not use your words, you were a writer after all but this confession seemed bland for your taste, you couldn't find a sentence that described the overwhelming emotion which dominated you.
You were scared to turn your eyes to him, but you did it anyway to find him looking at your reactions, your open mouth, he wished he could fill it instead. The tension in his abdomen was unbearable, his composure being barely contained, the need to be inside you consuming his senses. He wanted to be the gentleman but all he could think about is bending you over the sink and fucking you until the only thing you can remember is his name. You didn't even know anything other than it.
You were tipsy, letting a stranger finger you in a dirty bathroom and by the way he was working his fingers he was about to make you come too. He added a third finger in, stretching you, you put a hand over your mouth, trying to suppress the sounds making its way out of your mouth and which could land on prying ears outside the door.
"That's it, relax a little more", he said, voice deep. The thought of someone hearing you two only aided your pleasure and when he pulled his fingers out, spit on them and brought them back inside you, you swore you felt the air under your wings swooshing while you fell. Orgasm was like a fall because it wasn't supposed to be his hands that you soaked but another's. You completely betrayed your god, your muse.
Sunghoon let out a groan when he felt you squeezing around his fingers, your pussy fluttering like butterfly's wings, delicate but so sweet. He pulled them out, licking them clean while maintaining eye contact. Smile making a way on his face, fangs peeking out.
You didn't know if you should but you wanted to thank him for corrupting you because you didn't feel like burning anymore, you didn't feel like destroying anymore. Somehow your fall was your salvation.
While your sleepy eyes drifted to the front of his jeans, a knock sounded at the door, breaking a dream like encounter you had. "Is somebody inside?!", came an urgent voice, male.
Sunghoon only smiled more, pulling down your skirt, smoothing over it with care and remaining lust, he didn't get a release after all. "You wouldn't mind giving me your number either, would you?", he winked, his voice flirty.
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You couldn't sleep that night. After your steps carried you out of that damned bathroom, Sunghoon in tow.
What reason compelled him to even approach you let alone pleasure you was out of your mind's possibility to conjure.
You never let them get close, not like that, you were so caught up in the dwellings of your mind, words that you hurriedly wrote on paper, blood and ink having the same purpose. You had your muse. That was enough for you, an ideal that can't be reached, just a light from his eyes pleasing you, satisfying you.
As Dante said, he was a bigger god that came to rule over you. But gods cannot be touched for they are not of this world. Only if they take a form of a swan or a human and by their own will they reach you.
You hoped Sim Jake would do the same for you.
His affection towards another awakened a violent sea inside of you, a monster of betrayal preying it, waiting to devour you whole. That was a part of the reason you let the last night's events happen, for them to escalate into a stranger taking your first kiss, your first orgasm in the vicinity of another.
Your thoughts consisted of his scent, his manly, intoxicating fragrance that lingered on the pores of your skin.
Sunghoon touched you with such restraint and delicacy, it was unknown to you but then again you didn't know the touch of a man. Only the graze of their eyes.
His attention bloomed a flower of corruption in your chest, it's scent of freedom enveloping you in a embrace of want, of need for more.
The unknown lands you dreamed of were hidden within yourself, the treasure map to finding them was in the touch of another. In the eyes that tracked every flutter of your eyelids, every hitch in your breath, every minuscule sound that escaped from the cavern of your mouth.
You stared an the unknown contact which reached out for you, a singular message "hey, it's sunghoon" gracing your screen. What were you supposed to answer? To keep this going?
Another message, "i had a lot of fun last night, could we meet somewhere?". Now you knew absolutely nothing about this man, you had to get some intel on which department he goes to.
Who better to ask than your friends, your shaking hands opening up the chat room, asking about him and nervously waiting for an answer. Which came in a form that he was an engineering student and none the less friend of Jake.
How you haven't known about him but then again it was probably because you never involved yourself too much in other students affairs. Just your well known friend group which you held dear to your heart and trusted the most.
Now what did this whole thing with Sunghoon even mean, you were never for careless decisions but the freedom which you tasted is becoming addicting. You were always holding back, straying away from rooms full of people, from the dark gazes of men. You didn't learn to indulge the lust in their eyes, always indifferent.
All of those thoughts brought your fingers closer to the keyboard and you wrote a reply to him, agreeing.
You didn't think you could ever forget Jake, nothing could compare to your Beatrice. His shining and soft eyes, his messy hair, the glasses that rested upon his nose.
Sunghoon, on the other hand was all darkness and sin, his allure undeniable. He was your Hades and you were Persephone, you couldn't help but be drawn to him, being ready to be dragged to the underworld just so you could feel that touch again.
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You decided to get to know Sunghoon more.
His form making an appearance in the caffe you both agreed to meet at. He wore a black leather jacket, his hair falling freely against his forehead. It was combed back that night, this look made him appear softer, more approachable.
Sunghoon's eyes light up, sparkles filling his eyes when he saw you. You waved him a little waiting him to approach your table.
You were the first to greet him, "Hello!", "You look good.", compliment making its way out without you realizing.
He smiled, breath escaping him, "Hello to you too and thank you." "You look pretty as always." , he continued.
It was very well past six p.m, darkness enveloping the world outside the window, snow glistening in the yellow street lights. Your focus was on the tiny twinkling speckles which reflected the artificial lights, Sunghoon's eyes were on you instead.
You were just not sure how to begin the conversation, your hands gripping at your jeans, sweaty. Thankfully, he pulled you out of your misery.
"I heard you're one of the best students, that's so cool.", he broke the silence. You took a sip of your coffee, its tanginess hitting your tongue, leaving a pleasant bitter sensation. His compliment only served a purpose to sway you, to make you cave in. You didn't know that.
You smiled shyly, showing your pearls just barely, "Everyone seems to know that already.", your tone was a little cocky, defiant. He was coming to like that side of you. It was one of the things that attracted him then, that look in your eyes, like you were on the top of the world already.
The conversation flowed smoothly after that, talking about trivial matters, little things and school, just a type of talk that friends that haven't seen each other in a long time would lead. He got to know about your favourite author, you about his dearest songs, he was rather passionate about music.You also got to know he used to be a figure skater while younger, that surprised you in the best way possible, you didn't know that engineering student would lean so much to artistic practices.
There was almost no tension left from the last night, he genuinely wanted to get to know you, while talking you have almost forgotten how his fingers in you felt like.
It was time to part ways, you were standing outside, both of your breaths leaving a smoke like trail in the air.
"It was nice getting to know you. Do you want me to walk you home?", he inquired, uncertain. It was dark, past nine p.m, your flat was not far away from here, you didn't reside at the campus.
"No, thank you.", you answered.
"I insist.", he said, looking at you with raised eyebrows. What you didn't know is that he had an ulterior motive, he now knew you lived alone.
Your eyes laced with innocence stared in his own. You were debating inside yourself whether to agree or not, while you were certainly inexperienced you weren't dumb, you knew what could come out of it.
At last, you said yes.
The walk back to your home was filled with comfortable silence, Sunghoon when not trying to pursue you was rather introverted and quiet. Stars shined in the moon illuminated sky, its form casting a comforting feeling over you. You've always loved the moon and its craters, he was your friend in the loneliest of nights.
When the front of your building was visible, your footsteps came to a stop. Sunghoon turned towards you and leaned down intending to give you a parting hug. Your smaller frame was enveloped in his own bigger one, your silhouettes merging into one. Your hands wrapped around his shoulders, their resting place since that night, his around your waist. His hands were warm, his fingers took place where your jacket has ridden up.
Again, his scent was bewitching. You arched closer to him, Sunghoon's head came to rest upon your shoulder, his breath was hot against the column of your neck.
"Goodbye...", you murmured into the silence, tension wrung thin. You expected him to let go but instead he left a gentle peck just under your jaw, pulling you closer, his hands moving to rest upon your cold bitten cheeks.
They were cold but gentle. The pads of his fingers caressing your skin, his eyes found your own.
There was darkness reflecting in his own but also something softer, more intimate as if he was allowing a glimpse into his soul in that moment. It pulled the poet in you in. Who was this stranger that makes every atom inside of you tremble?
You spent your days being in love with one man, writing poems about him, dreaming about his attention, now he was stuck at the back of your mind, like your inhibition.
His dark brown eyes dropped down to your lips, shiny from your dew, just then he kissed you.
It was deep, mind numbing, his lips were soft against your own, moving slowly, his tongue coaxed your mouth open, taking place inside. It was like it belonged there, exploring, rubbing over yours, his taste overpowering.
The sensuality of the moment being broken when both of you parted for air, lungs hungry depraved of oxygen. You were feeling dizzy.
"You are shaking.", he whispered, hands smoothing over your arms. You were not aware of the tremor that possessed your body, it coming in waves.
You didn't answer only choosing to pull him in the direction of your home, you had to have this now or else you were going to go succumb to insanity. You gazed long enough into the abyss and now it finally stared back at you. Oh, how you craved its attention.
Sunghoon stumbled after you, your steps hurried and filled with urgency. You unlocked doors with sweaty fingers, choosing the wrong key twice in a row. Only the sound of your heart beat in your ears, your blood heating up.
When you finally greeted the hall, it was dark, only light being the one filtering through the windows, as you reached for the switch, Sunghoon grabbed you and pushed you against the wall, your back facing him.
His body caged you in, his sheer strength startling you, making you feel small and helpless, you thought that would scare you. It only turned you on.
You were looking at your shadow that adorned the wall. He was breathing hard down you neck, his resolve crumbling.
"I've been wanting to do this ever since that stupid party.", he mumbled, voice darkened with desire.
"This.", fingers of one hand danced along your tights, the other was bruising your waist, "has been driving me crazy."
Your style usually consisted of skirts, it was nothing new.
You tried to turn around in his hold but he only put his leg in between yours, locking you in place. You desired to see his face, to kiss him more, you wondered how that stubble would feel against you once again.
"Please.", you whimpered quietly.
That made the strength in his arms lessen, your sweet plea reaching into the furthest places inside of him, he has never heard someone beg so prettily.
You were so submissive, it made the man inside of him proud, he just wanted to dominate you until the end of time.
He manhandled you once more, turning you around, his eyes reflecting the lights, you couldn't even see his pupils. His thick eyebrows were pulled together by tension, shadows danced along his face.
Whole this time you were waiting for a god but found your salvation in a man.
"What do you want, pretty", "Tell me."
Fingers grabbed your chin lifting it up. He was looking at you with such honesty it made the tears come to your eyes, them dampening slightly, like your underwear.
"Need... ", you paused, starstruck, "You."
That made the desire inside him burn brighter, cock twitching.
He didn't verbally answer, his arms taking a hold under your knees lifting you up bridal style. "Show me the bedroom.", he demanded. You pointed in the direction of the door.
He carried you with easiness, putting you gently on the sheets, your hair fanned around you on the pillow. He wasted no time, coming to rest on his arms above you. His heat was transferring to your skin, his weight pleasant.
Your yearnings, your unknown lands that were waiting for you, all of it gathered in that singular moment, the heaviness of them lifted by the gravity of his mass.
He was like a dark angel above you, his metaphorical wings draping over you like curtains.
He kissed you so passionately, fingers unbuttoning your blouse, your jacket being left on the floor in the hall.
His attention turned to your neck, the nibbles familiar but they were more hungry now, as if he was finally letting go of control. Unwrapping your chest, he found that you wore no bra, nipples hard and bare. His lips automatically latched onto one, the other being tended to by his fingers, twisting and turning.
You arched your back from his touch, pleasure hitting directly to your clit, you needed a release from this sweet torture.
Your hands reached under your skirt, craving relief.
"Keep your hands to yourself.", Sunghoon commanded, he didn't want you to touch yourself, his fingers replaced your own, opening the zipper. Rolling the tights down your legs.
He took your panties off as well, you were completely naked before him. Shyness wasn't even in the back of your mind. He was still dressed in his leather jacket.
The sight before him was striking, your skin slick with sweat. His tongue tracing your lines, coming closer to your center. You were so needy, so wet.
Finally, he licked your clit, pleasure pooling in your stomach, familiar fingers prodding at your entrance. You were so soaked that he could bury two fingers in you to the knuckle in an instant, reaching that spot inside of you. Sunghoon pulled his fingers out, only to plunge them in deeper, spreading them apart, scissoring you.
His tongue flattened on your sensitive nub, his saliva intertwining with your fluids, only more to come. Something in you keened.
Your moans filled the otherwise quiet room, here there was no need to hold back. Only the night birds outside could hear you.
You watched with untamed desire how his fingers disappeared inside of you.
"Need to stretch you, pretty", for what is to come, he finished in his mind.
You couldn't talk, overwhelmed but you managed a quiet, "Hoon...", the nickname escaping you without restraint.
He seemed to really like the endearment for he added a third finger in, stretching you completely. Your hands clawed at his jacket, wanting to pull it of his shoulders.
"Can't", you said, breathless.
You grabbed at his wrist shakily, he stopped, attentive to your touch, pulling his fingers out, wet with you. Sunghoon shrugged the jacket off, his vest following, then t shirt next.
His toned torso coming to view, muscled arms flexing above you.
Your eyes swam along the every ridge of his abdomen, saliva collecting in your mouth, thighs pressing together. The manliness of his image exciting you.
Smug smile made it to his face, "Like what you see?", "You haven't even seen the real thing yet.", he added. Fingers gripping the button of his jeans, opening the zipper slowly, savouring each twitch of your hands resting by your side.
You ached to touch him.
Finally his length sprang free, hitting his stomach, he was big. Long, thick and veiny. It was the first you've ever seen in real life.
His tip was a vibrant shade of pink, swollen and adorned with the dewdrops of precum.
"You're virgin right?", he said voice rough, gripping himself tightly.
"Yeah.", your voice was feathery soft, drifting through the empty air. He knew it. Desire burned in him hotter, he couldn't wait to absolutely ruin you.
You were his now, untouched and beautiful. His goddess.
Sunghoon spread your legs open wider, placing his hips between them.
He entered you slowly, just a tip at first, loving how you squeezed around it, sucking it in, soaking him in your wetness. Centimeter by centimeter, taking space inside of you, it wasn't unpleasant by any means, only slight discomfort.
Every glide of him awakened something inside of you, something wild.
He buried himself to the hilt, coming to a stop, breathing hard, holding himself back. His head dropped to your shoulder, a quiet groan being emitted in the air.
"Tell me when I can move.", he said through gritted teeth.
"Just need a moment, please."
Please. Again, you were so nice, even when he was a balls deep inside of you.
Unseen to the both of you, it was too dark for it but blood stained the white of your sheets, proof of your innocence, of your loyalty to your god. Where was that god now?
Where was he, when an angel or a devil occupied the depths of you which were reserved only for him.
Your sweaty palms tangled in his locks, whispering, "You can move now."
He lifted up his head, coming eye to eye to you. Then he pulled out and slammed back in, no gentleness, only claim.
Softer thrusts followed the first one, pace not too quick but powerful. Pleasure took you hostage, mouth falling open, your tongue licking your lips, smacking them together, lost in the haze.
"Look at me", he said roughly, taking a hold of your chin. Eyes feral with lust greeted you, glowing in the dark like two embers.
You couldn't, his eyes were just to intense, their gaze reaching into the depths of your soul. Your eyes instead traced the moles on his face.
"I said. Look at me.", his hold was bruising. You couldn't do anything but obey, taking everything he gives to you.
Perspiration was collecting at the top of his brow, some of the droplets dripping down onto your cleavage, leaving a trail.
Wet sounds originated from where you were connected, raw in its form, the delight it caused in your core when they reached your ears was almost abstract, out of this world.
His pace increased in its intensity, a hushed groan emerging from his throat. You wanted to hear more of him, in response you arched your back further, mimicking an erotic figure artists would passionately carve out of stone.
All you could feel was heat, no words were coming to your thoughts, only sensations, every nerve set ablaze. You clenched around him, strongly, hands traveling along the expanse of his back.
You have never been fucked before but you were sure that no-one would fuck you with the same ardor as he did.
Sunghoon felt you were close to precipice of pleasure, he wasn't far behind either. His thrusts turning sloppy, uncoordinated in their frequency. Some of them were fast, then dragging it out, turning slower.
His fingers found your clit, pressing down, saying,: "Come for me.", his form pushing you further into the pillow. Now, you didn't think it was possible to fall twice.
You did. Your second fall was even more intense, wings tearing when hitting the depths. Somehow you've reached heaven while falling to hell. All while in the arms of a mortal.
Your betrayal, your damnation was complete but somehow it was a beginning of a new life for you.
The ecstasy induced by your release transferred to him. Squelching getting louder.
"Good God.", his utter was resembling of a prayer of sinner at the death bed. When all that is left is to confess with ferocity or be damned forever.
A strained whimper followed as he painted your most sensitive of parts with his essence. He held his hips connected to yours, not letting go until he completely emptied out himself.
Sweetness of him filling you, leaving a mark for centuries to come because now you were ruined for anyone else.
Your head was lulled to the side, eyes unfocused, remnants of pleasure coursing through your veins. He pulled apart slowly, coming to rest by your side, the back of his neck hitting the pillow.
The pillow upon which his scent would reside.
Sunghoon was waiting for his breath to come back to a normal rhythm, eyes travelling along your ceiling.
It started to snow outside, hard, wind carrying the snowflakes in various directions, them hitting the glass of your window.
He is supposed to leave but the warmth of you bed is weighting him down, pulling his eyelids closed.
You on the other hand were coming to your senses, the feeling of a stranger in your bed was scaring you but at the same time it was comforting, to have someone resting by your side.
You realized that all pain that lead you to this place wasn't in vain after all.
Second Law — s.jy x f!reader
Summary — Girls don't talk to Jake. But you did. The day you slid into the seat beside him in class, like you'd chosen him, his world tilted on its axis. Though, you only ever seem to text him when assignments are due, and he just can't bring himself to stop answering.
CW & Tags — 18+ MDNI, Smut with plot, Humour, Mild Angst, Fluff if you squint, College AU, nerd!Jake x popular!fem!Reader, Jake pov, extremely sad and pathetic Jake, pining/yearning, "omg he took off his glasses and he's hot now" trope, unrequited feelings but complicated, slowburn, thermodynamics as metaphor, toxic relationships, moral decline, morally grey characters, emotional manipulation, transactional sexual relationships, power reversal, public humiliation, blackmail, misogynistic themes and language, toxic masculinity, power dynamics, planned revenge, ambiguous ending, awkward boners, premature ejaculation, loss of virginity, oral sex (m and f), p in v sex, mild praise kink, degradation, dom/sub undertones, verbal consent but sexual coercion (negotiated under durress), multiple orgasms, hair-pulling, begging, protected sex, everyone in this fic is genuinely a piece of shit!!! FEAT. hyung line as roommates
WC — 18.9k
A/N — i got the idea to write something extremely pathetic and Jake was the first person that came to mind. something about him screams unfortunate (i say this with love). this is a scheduled post so if you see this i'm in an exam right now please pray for me.
There are very few things out there that Jake can't figure out. The universe runs on rules, after all, and he'd spent his whole life studying them. From theoretical mathematics to quantum physics, there was never a problem he couldn't solve, never an equation that failed to make sense.
So, it kind of throws him off completely when you—all pretty, soft-looking, and sweet-smelling—plant yourself right next to him on the first day of his thermodynamics lecture. One, because how has he never seen you before? Two, because girls like you don't talk to him. Or smile at him. Or ask for his name while leaning in that close like you actually care to know it.
He tries to look straight ahead, holding his breath, hanging onto every word that leaves the professor's mouth as if he doesn't have the entire textbook memorized already. All that, just to distract himself from you. It doesn't work, though, the messy chalk writing blurring in his vision as his mind drifts.
Sure, it's a bit strange that you sat next to him when other seats were clearly open... but you probably only sat there because it's the spot with the clearest view of the board, right? That's why he chose it, anyway.
Then, you're tapping his shoulder, two fingers pressing into the fabric of his hoodie ever so lightly. He nearly jumps out of his skin as his eyes snap to you, seeing you lean in close enough to make his heart skip a beat.
"Hey," your voice is just above a whisper, and with the quirk of your brow, you ask him, "Do you understand, like, anything he's saying right now?"
Of course, he understands. He knows this subject like the back of his hand. He could probably explain it in his sleep. And yet when he tries to speak... nothing.
His mouth hangs open for half a second, eyes fleeting from you, back to the board, back to you again, then down—eyes up, Jake—then up. He blinks, and finally he manages something.
"Yeah, uh—it's just the second law stuff. Entropy increasing over time," he drags a hand through his hair, trying to smooth down the mop of messy brown strands that refused to stay put.
Now he wishes he'd spent more than thirty seconds getting ready this morning instead of rolling out of bed in his old high school mathletes hoodie.
"It's basically like... systems move toward disorder unless you put energy into keeping them organized, so—"
You laugh, a small teasing smile on your lips.
"You sure know your stuff, huh?"
"I just looked over the textbook during the winter break," he replies, a little less distressed this time. "Tried to get a head start. Don't wanna fall behind or anything."
Slowly, he feels less guarded, seeing how you don't scoff at him or roll your eyes or do any of the things he'd expect you to. Instead, you watch him—and not the passive kind that some people do when they're bored and have nothing else to do, but like, you're really watching like you're kind of, maybe, possibly... impressed? That's new. The thought alone has a warmth blooming in his chest.
"You studied before the class even started?" Your smile grows wider, amused, but not mean.
She's not being mean.
He lets out a laugh, half-relieved, though still half-embarrassed at how you're realizing that he's checking every stereotype in the box.
"Yeah, I get it, I'm a nerd," he waves it off, looking away self-consciously, "or a loser, or whatever you wanna call—"
"You're adorable, actually," you cut him off. Your knee brushes his under the desk, lingering just a moment before you're tucking your legs back in. Still, he feels the ghost of your touch, his ears turning red. "Guess I'm pretty lucky that I sat down next to you, aren't I?"
The fluorescent lights of the lecture hall usually make everyone look cold and stale. But to him, you're something else entirely—a star collapsing inward, and he's already slipping into orbit. Even if he knew how to calculate the escape velocity, he isn’t sure that he wants to.
You don't make sense. Though he thinks even if he tried to pull you apart and figure you out, his logic would slip somewhere along the way. How could anyone be expected to form a cohesive thought when lost between the sound of your voice and your pretty eyes which follow him like he's the most interesting thing in the room?
You: heyy :) You: did you finish the thermo assignment yet?
It's late on a Sunday evening when you first message him, phone buzzing on his nightstand just when he's about to turn off his lamp and cozy up in the sheets of his twin-sized bed.
He stares at the notification for a good second, heart skipping a beat as he reaches for his glasses. He reads it a second time and pauses. He waits five minutes—long enough to seem like he's not desperate (but he is) yet short enough to show he's not ignoring you. At least, that's what Heeseung does when he texts girls, and he's at least moderately successful.
Jake: finished last week
I-T... W-A-S... E-A-S-Y...
He starts typing, deletes. Then retypes.
Jake: wasn't too bad Jake: you? You: wow ok smarty pants
He smiles, a blush creeping to his cheeks.
You: [sent an image] You: im struggling so bad You: worried i wont finish on time :(
He swallows hard when he opens the image.
A selfie, your zip-up hoodie slipping down one shoulder, your tank top strap exposed, your textbook open in front of you. Your pouty face is highlighted by the blue light of your laptop, the rest of your room dimly lit.
Respectfully, as if you were in the room watching over him, he feels the urge to avert his gaze away from your face, and the skin you're revealing, instead looking to the background.
In the dim light, he spots an array of polaroid pictures on your wall—you with other girls at what looks like a party, you laughing with people he doesn't recognize. You're cool. Socially competent, clearly. You have a life. Yet you're here, texting him on a weekend night, sending him pictures.
He then returns to you, the subject of the image, and whatever respect he had been mentally trying to maintain only seconds ago is suddenly lost on him. His eyes drag over every sliver of exposed skin, however slight, practically drooling as he follows where the shadow dips just above the neckline of your top.
You look pretty. Tired, a little frustrated, and very, very, painfully pretty. Like, his head is going to explode kind of pretty. And from scribbles in your notebook, you don't appear to be anywhere close to finished. His heart thumps in his chest, followed by an ache.
That assignment is due tonight. There's no way you could finish it all now, even if you rushed for it. Unless...
Jake: [sent Assignment_1.pdf] Jake: here Jake: just change the answers a bit :) You: omg youre actually the best!! You: idk what id do without you You: tysm jake <3
He literally has to resist the urge to kick his feet and giggle, grinning like the biggest idiot as your messages come through.
Jake: it’s nothing haha Jake: happy to help You: youre actually so smart it's kind of unfair You: wish i had you in all my classes lol You: literally my hero <3
He's blushing to himself, biting his lip, and he rolls over onto his back, head against the pillow. His fingers tremble over the screen for a second before scrolling up. He rereads the exchange. Reflects. Analyzes.
Those emojis mean something, right? You didn't have to add a heart, but you did. Then there's the way you smile at him and touch him in class—that has to mean something. Girls don't go around just touching anyone, especially not him, but you do. You sat next to him. You're nice to him. And you asked him for help. You chose him.
With a newfound confidence, he's typing out his next message and clicking 'send' before he can give himself the chance to second-guess it.
The worst she can say is "no," right?
Jake: i could help you study for your other classes? Jake: if you want sent 3 weeks ago Jake: or not haha Jake: no pressure sent 2 weeks ago Jake: sorry if that was weird... sent 1 week ago Jake: hey! Jake: noticed you haven't been to class for a while Jake: you ok?
Three weeks go by like that. Every time his phone buzzes, his hand is on it before he even realizes he's moved, only to find what he already knows: that it isn't you. It never is. He starts keeping it face up on his desk when he studies. Sleeps with it on his pillow some nights, just in case.
It's stupid. It's embarrassing. He knows it is.
Maybe he shouldn't have said anything. You probably get messages like that all the time—from guys like him who think a smile means more than what it is. You're probably used to it. Of course, you'd think he's a weirdo. Or a creep. Or both. Probably both.
"Seriously, Jake, just move on already," Sunghoon says, not even looking at him, thumbs mashing into the buttons of his controller. He then slumps back in defeat when Jay is crowned winner for the third Smash Bros game in a row, "Fuck!"
Jake shifts on the couch, controller untouched at his side, phone in his hand instead.
He lounges in the living room along with his other three roommates, two empty boxes of pizza on the floor because they insist they'll eventually buy a coffee table for their "living room". Though it's been almost a year since they signed the lease and the room was still empty save for the couch and TV.
"When did you get so dogshit at this game?" Heeseung snorts at Sunghoon as he aims to throw his pizza crust in the empty box. It narrowly misses, rolling onto the floor instead. He dusts the crumbs off his hands, then turns to Jake, "But yeah, man. He's right. Rejection hurts, but it happens."
"You would know all about rejection, wouldn't you?" Jay mutters, about to take a sip of his drink, before he ducks his head, dodging the empty can Heeseung tries to throw at his face.
"She didn't even reject me though," Jake tries, quieter this time, "She just disappeared—"
"Which means she doesn't want you," Sunghoon says all too quickly, almost impatient. He nudges Jay, lowering his voice, "Can you believe this guy has a 4.0 GPA and still can't understand women?"
Jay laughs under his breath, and the two start to snicker.
Jake swallows, scrolling up to stare at the selfie you shared with him all those weeks ago. He thinks back on your laugh. Your smile. The way you used to sit with him in class. He misses your face, your voice.... He misses you.
"Listen, man. You put yourself out there, and I'm proud of you. We all are, right?" Heeseung starts, and Sunghoon and Jay nod their heads along mindlessly, only half listening as they argue over what map to choose next. He then brings a hand to his back, patting it a couple of times, and Jake winces from the impact, "But she's definitely not texting you back. Like. Ever."
Jake takes one final look at his screen before sighing.
"Guess not."
He closes the phone, eyes turning back to the game on the TV, not quite ready to accept what he thinks is the truth: that you were just being friendly and he misinterpreted the whole thing and ruined something good, but he knows there's no point in dwelling on it any longer.
"Aw, come on. Look on the bright side," Heeseung continues, "At least you got a cute picture out of it. Can never go wrong with good fap material, right?"
Before Jake can scoff it off and pretend like he definitely hasn't thought about that, his phone pings. And just like that, all eyes stop to turn to him, and where his phone lies face up in his lap.
Jay and Heeseung scoot closer on the couch, and Sunghoon nearly trips over one of the pizza boxes, stumbling over himself just to glance over Jake's shoulder.
You: heyy You: sorry i didnt reply i was super busy :( You: have you started assignment 2 yet? read at 9:13pm
"Oh."
"Oh, my god."
"Oh, hell no," Sunghoon gapes, "This bitch is evil."
"She's using you for schoolwork," Jay scoffs, "That's even worse than the friendzone, holy shit."
"You've been calculator-zoned," Heeseung shakes his head, "Absolutely brutal."
Jake's thumb hovers over the keyboard. The room feels too small, the weight of his three roommates' judgmental gaze almost suffocating as they lean over him—the smell of someone who definitely forgot to wear deodorant also suffocating, but he's not about to play detective to figure out which one of them it is.
"What are you gonna say?" Sunghoon demands, jabbing a finger toward the screen. "Tell her to fuck off."
"No, don't do that," Jay interjects, "Just ignore her. Leave her on read for, like, a month. Make her feel what you felt."
"Jakey, my man. Don't give in," Heeseung shakes his head, "To her, you’re just a warm body with a brain and enough desperation to do her work for free."
But Jake isn't listening. He's looking at the three little dots that appear, then vanish, then appear again at the bottom of the chat window. You're typing, and the thought alone sends a jolt through him, a stupid, pathetic little flutter that overrides his rationality. He wants to know what you're going to say. He needs to know.
You: helloooo? :( You: [sent an image] read at 9:22pm
Jake opens the image, another selfie. Seems like you're really trying to impress him more this time, seeing how the angle reveals just a little bit more, your pen pressed to your lower lip, looking so kissable and soft and everything he yearns for. But he knows better. It's not enough to entice him.
It is enough to make him screenshot it, though.
"Bro, seriously?" Sunghoon deadpans, as if he isn't also staring.
"Just safekeeping," Jake mutters, avoiding his glare, "She's hot, okay?"
"Shit. I take back what I said. Become her human study guide, and lemme see more of that," Heeseung whistles, trying to take the phone, but Jake yanks it away from his grabby hands, "Come on, I'll do your dishes next week if you share."
"You don't even do your own dishes, dumbass," Jay shoots back, noticing how Jake's thumb hovers over the keyboard.
In an instant, he snatches the device from him, and the three boys groan, outstretched arms trying to reach for it back. He doesn't spare a single glance as he types back.
Jake: yeah i finished it. You: really? You: uhg i wish I had your brain You: i'm so lost :( Jake: oh. Jake: thats too bad. Jake: good luck.
He throws it back into Jake's lap.
"There," Jay declares, crossing his arms. "Dignity. Intact."
"Jay, you fucking idiot," Heeseung groans, "We could've secured way more pics."
"You can find tits online if you're so desperate to jerk off," Jay retorts, slumping back down into the couch, "We're not letting our friend get taken advantage of by some campus slut."
Jake looks at the phone. He knows, deep down, Jay is right. The tiny, rational part of his brain that isn't currently short-circuited by the ghost of your knee against his agrees.
Then, the three dots appear again. And vanish. Then appear again, staying for a long, long time. All of them watch at the edge of their seat.
You: wanna come over and help me? ;)
Jake's breath catches in his throat.
"Oh, she's good," Sunghoon whispers, a grudging respect in his tone. "She's really good."
"Yeah, but she can't get our Jakey," Jay adds, a smugness in his tone, "Sure, he looks a little desperate and pathetic, and like he’s never felt the touch of a woman, but little does she know that he's way too smart for—"
Jake's thumb moves quick.
Jake: sure
The room is dead silent for a moment.
"Dude," Heeseung stares at him, mouth slightly open. "I mean, like—not that I'm one to judge but what the fuck?"
"Don't look at me like that," Jake gulps, already grabbing his hoodie from the arm of the couch, "What do you expect me to do! Say no?"
"Man," Jay laughs dryly, shaking his head. "You have to be shitting me."
Sunghoon falls back against the couch cushions, hands over his face.
"She just wants help this time. Not answers," Jake continues to explain, slipping his arms through the hoodie sleeves. "It'll be different."
"Jake..." Heeseung stands, eyeing his friend. His hands move to his shoulders, staring him dead in the eyes, "You're gonna come back here at two in the morning, heartbroken and blue-balled, and eat the leftover pizza crusts off the floor."
"You don't know that—"
"Bro." Sunghoon glares. "Yes, we do. We all know it. Even the pizza boxes know it."
He should stop. He knows it. You've given him zero reasons to defend you like this, but maybe he's tired of being logical. Maybe, for once, he just wants to feel something.
"You don't know her," he says firmly, "We don't know her. I mean. What if she really was busy, you know?"
Heeseung sighs, long and winded. And though he's shaking his head, he helps zip up his hoodie, like a mother sending off her kid to school. He spares a glance back at Sunghoon and Jay, who seem to share the same look in their eyes: pitying, a little disappointed, but resigned to the inevitable.
He returns his gaze to Jake, a hand coming up to pat his head, ruffling his already messy hair.
"Just… try not to get eaten alive, okay?"
He finds your place easily enough—another student housing unit, like his, with a porch that creaks under his weight, and a railing that's falling apart. Somewhere down the block, someone's partying, the bass a little too loud, and yet it's still not enough to drown out the sound of his heart thumping against his chest as he knocks on your door. He wipes a sweaty palm on his jeans, mentally rehearsing what he'll say. Though his mind goes completely blank when the door swings open.
So yeah. That's how he finds himself in your room, the assignment questions open on his laptop, sitting at the very edge of the bed. Meanwhile, you move about, apologizing for the mess and explaining something about your roommates being gone while picking up piles of clothes from the floor and shoving them into the laundry hamper at the corner of your room.
He swallows hard when the bed dips next to him under your weight, and he finds himself sitting upright, stiffly, like the hammock of plushies in the corner is judging him, watching his every move.
Your legs are bare beside him, wearing shorts that barely cover anything, close enough that if he shifted even a few centimetres, his knee would brush your thigh. Your tank top has one of those necklines that dips when you lean forward, which you're doing right now, peering at his screen.
"So," you say, "Where do we start?"
The fairy lights catch the curve of your shoulder, and he notes how your skin looks warm. Soft. It probably feels that way, too, doesn't it?
It takes a moment to find his words.
"I'll walk you through it," he starts, clearing his throat, "It's not bad once you get it. I swear."
"Okay," you reply with an innocent smile.
He reaches for the notebook in your grasp.
"May I?"
"Mhm," your grip loosens, and he plucks it from your hands, along with the pen. The same pen he remembers being pressed to your lips in that one photo.
Focus, Jake.
"Alright, this part," he gestures to the equation on his screen, flipping for a clean page in your very disorganized, doodle-filled notebook. "It's the same thing from last time. You just—"
His mind goes blank as you angle yourself just a bit closer, squinting your eyes at the page, and he sucks in a breath when your knee presses against his. You don't move it.
"—You just rearrange it like this," he finishes, quickly scribbling it out step by step. "Then plug it back in. Makes sense?"
"Hm," a hum escapes your lips, sounding almost breathy and whiny as you ponder the page, making him think of things he definitely shouldn't, "...I think I get it."
"Try it," he smiles, handing the pen and notebook back.
A second passes, pen tapping your chin slightly as you stare. Then blink. Then furrow your brows together.
"Actually... I don't get it."
"Okay," he nods slowly, determination not yet shaken, "Well, look, it's the same thing, you just have to—"
"Can you show me one more time?" You look at him, wide-eyed. Confused. Helpless. Your tank top strap slips off your shoulder just a bit, and his eyes follow the movement as you reach to adjust it. "Please?"
As if he's on autopilot, he takes the notebook back from you, nodding wordlessly as he writes the question for you.
He tries the same thing with the next question. Writing up a nearly identical example and solution in clear, detailed steps, explaining as best he can. But he freezes when he feels your hand on him, looking over his shoulder.
"Sorry, I just see better this way," you say so casually, like it's nothing, like he isn't losing his goddamn mind. You're then pointing, "Why does that happen?"
"Oh... because of the negative sign. So when you move it over—"
"I'm so bad at this," you sigh, voice close to his ear, "I don't even know what I'm doing."
There’s a tug at his heart.
"You're not bad!" He says almost automatically, "Not at all. Don't say that. You just need more practice."
"You think?" You ask, your hand sliding down his shoulder, until your careful fingers reach the sleeve of his hoodie. Fiddling with it, absentmindedly, you continue, "You're really patient, you know that?"
"I... I mean, I—"
"Most people would've given up by now. But not you," you whisper, "You're good to me, aren't you?"
"I try my best," he stammers out in a nervous laugh, trying not to malfunction. He taps his pen against the notebook, "How about you try the next—"
"Jake," you sigh again, though it sounds more like a whimper in his ear as your chin rests against his shoulder, "Can we just... do this one together?"
He nods, enjoying the feeling of you pressed against him too much to bother passing the notebook back to you anymore.
It's faster this way anyway, right? That's what he tells himself as he does the rest of your assignment. He can always explain it after. You'll get it once it's done.
"Really, you're the best, Jake," you repeat for what must've been the fifth time that night as he clicks the 'submit' button.
For a while now, you've been lying back against your pillows, smiling at your phone while he works, occasionally moving to watch him or leave some kind of commentary, and his roommates' warnings began to echo in his mind. Especially as he's folding up his laptop, shoving it to the side, watching you from the corner of his eye. He can't see your screen, but your hands move like you're texting someone. That thought alone makes him want to crawl into a hole somewhere and die.
"It's nothing..." his voice comes out too quiet.
Your gaze shoots up, expression changing in seconds.
"Oh, but it's not nothing!" you reply, tucking your phone. "I seriously feel like such a jerk for ghosting you! I'm sorry. I'm just so bad at texting."
Before he can process it, you're sitting up, on your knees, scooting a bit closer. Too close.
"Really, it's—"
"And doing all of this for me... You work so hard."
Your hand lands on his shoulder, gentle but firm enough that he doesn't think to resist, and you pull him back. His head hits the mattress softer than he expected.
You come into view, sitting up now, face above his. He doesn't know where to look, your eyes, your lips... definitely not where your tank top hangs low, revealing way more than you probably realize. He opts to stare at the ceiling instead. Then your face. But your face is too pretty to stare at for too long without making him nervous, so he looks anywhere else.
"You must be tired, huh?"
He's not quite sure how to even process what's happening, so he mindlessly nods.
"Poor thing," you coo, and the way you say it, soft and almost sweet, makes his chest ache, a warmth blooming in it. "I'm really happy you showed up. Actually, I was kinda nervous to ask. Thought you might be busy. Or that you'd hate me."
There's another pause as you stare down—waiting, watching with your brows furrowed in worry, lips pulled into a pout.
"Do you hate me, Jake?"
"Hate you? No. No, no, no," He's shaking his head profusely, the words tumbling out too fast. "Life gets in the way sometimes. I get it."
He should have a harder time believing it, given that he's seen you posting on your social media everyday, videos and photos from parties he'd never be invited to in a million years.
Still, how could he ever hate you when you're letting him lie down on your bed like this, looking at him like that? The memories of hurt from weeks of radio silence practically melt away like it was never even there to begin with.
"You can ask me anytime. Always. I'm free whenever."
"Whenever?" You tilt your head, mildly amused.
He swallows, mentally scolding himself as you reach for the strings of his hoodie, toying with the ends of it absentmindedly.
Come on, Jake. At least pretend like you have a life.
"Well. Not always, whenever but, I'm not busy on weekends, unless..." unless I'm playing Smash Bros with my other loser roommates. Yeah, genius. That will really impress her. "Unless I'm... studying or something."
"Is that all you do? Study?"
"I, uh..." he thinks, "I go to the gym. Sometimes."
He looks at you, searching for a reaction.
"Mm." You hum, and he swears he's going to have a heart attack when he feels your hand slide up the sleeve of his arm, firmly grasping his bicep. You barely squeeze, just once, and your hand then quickly slips away. "I can tell."
What the hell.
He gapes.
What the actual hell.
"Your girlfriend must like that."
"Girlfriend?"
"You don't have a girl?" You raise a brow.
"No—I mean—no."
"Oh?" You tilt your head, curiously, "But you talk to girls, right?"
"I'm just... I study a lot so..."
"So I have you all to myself, then?" You smile, "That's good to know."
You hum, blinking at him. Suddenly, you're reaching for his hair. He literally has no idea what the fuck is happening or how it happened, but your fingers are now in his hair, raking through it slowly. And when he feels you gently scratch at his scalp, his eyes almost close, biting down on his lip just to stop himself from making god knows what kind of pathetic noise he would've.
This isn't normal. Girls don't just do this—not to just anyone... right? He has no idea. All he knows is that he's getting embarrassingly flustered, and increasingly worried that he's misinterpreting everything all over again. It all blurs together in a messy, dizzying spiral of infatuation and anxiety.
"Do you talk to guys?"
It sounded more casual in his head. Now, it sounds stupid coming out of his mouth.
"Why?" You tilt your head, grinning, and he gulps, "You trying to see if I have a boyfriend, or something?"
"No! Just you asked, so I thought I'd ask, too. So—"
"Kidding," you sing-song, a soft laugh escaping you, "I don't really take that stuff seriously, you know?"
Jake nods, like he understands what that means. He thinks it means you at least don't have a boyfriend, which is reassuring enough. For now.
Though he can't really think anything at all, actually, because suddenly, he's panicking over a much larger problem than the thought of you talking to other guys. Your fingers, still working at his scalp, slow and deliberate, start to build a familiar heat inside him, and not the innocent kind.
Stop. Think about something else. Thermodynamics. The quadratic formula. Jay’s morning breath. Literally anything—
You graze a particular spot just behind his ear, and his whole body betrays him. He feels it immediately—a rush of need, a tightening in his jeans that he cannot under any circumstances let you notice.
He sits up so fast his vision blurs, back snapping straight.
"You okay?" Your hand hovers in the air where his head used to be.
"Bathroom," he stammers, already scrambling off the bed, nearly tripping over himself, "Um. Where's the bathroom?"
You point him down the hall.
After a good few minutes of splashing his face with cold water and thinking the unsexiest thoughts he could think of, he's calmed down enough that it's unnoticeable.
But unfortunately, when he's out, you're already guiding him to the front door, talking about some eight a.m. lecture tomorrow.
He nods along, trying to focus on tying his sneakers instead of the way you're leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him.
He finishes the second knot after fumbling with it for longer than he should've and stands up, brushing off his jeans.
Alright, Jake, this is it.
"So, um, hey," he starts, hesitantly. "Would you want to hang out sometime? Not for school stuff. Maybe... like... go see a movie, or something?"
He watches you carefully. Holding his breath. Waiting for what feels like forever.
"Sounds fun!" You smile.
The words ring in his ears the whole walk home, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt, so stupidly infatuated and lovestruck by you that he barely registers the cold breeze that cuts through his sweater.
He wastes no time plopping down on his couch to tell his roommates about his new date plans, feeling on top of the world when their concerned expressions shift into grins—cheering him and patting him on the back before quickly devising his next move;
"Ask her what movie," Jay insists.
"What? No. That's way too passive," Sunghoon rolls his eyes, "Tell her what movie. Girls like it when guys are decisive."
"And make it a horror movie," Heeseung adds, nodding in agreement, "She'll get all scared and cling to you. Trust me, man."
"That's such a cliché."
"Cliché, but it works."
His roommates keep arguing—something about jump scares versus psychological thrillers, about whether first dates should even be movies at all, but Jake stops listening. He's staring at his phone, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
Jake: does friday or saturday work?
He waits.
And waits.
And waits...
"I don't get it," Jake frowns, staring at the unread messages on his phone. The screen glows in the dim kitchen light, the last message he sent still hanging there, no reply.
"She said she wanted to hang out again," he continues, more to himself than anyone else. "She said, 'Sounds fun!' She even smiled when she said it."
His roommates are scattered around the kitchen like they normally are post-dinner, with Sunghoon and Jay fighting over whose turn it is to do the dishes. Meanwhile, Heeseung scarfs down his third bowl of cereal, like he hadn't just devoured a full plate of food less than an hour ago.
"No offence, but like... are you really asking that?" Heeseung doesn't even look up. Just raises the bowl to his lips and gulps down the remaining milk, dribbling a little down his chin.
Jake blinks.
"She's playing you," Jay adds, turning off the running water at the sink, sponge in one hand and a plate in the other. From that, Jake gathers he lost the dish war. "And it's working. Clearly."
"But—"
"She ghosted you for three weeks," Sunghoon cuts in, drying his hands on a dish towel. "Hit you up when she needed homework help. Then ghosted you again the second you asked her out. What part of this says 'interested' to you?"
Jake opens his mouth, then closes it again, looking back at his phone, and Sunghoon's already plucking the device from his hands before he can even consider double texting. He closes the phone, laying it face down on the kitchen table, and presses his palm flat against it like he's putting down a verdict.
"Listen, you really wanna give this homework-stealing attention whore even more attention?" He frowns, "She doesn't deserve another word from you."
His words make Jake wince a little, the pathetic urge to defend you still lingering, but he doesn't say anything. He knows what it looks like.
Heeseung sets his empty bowl down with a clink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He leans against the counter, arms crossed, studying Jake.
"Why are you so attached anyway?" He raises his brow, "Like sure, she's hot, but did you even, you know... get any action?"
"I mean."
The kitchen goes quiet, and Jake feels a heat creep up his neck. He looks down at the table, recalling his time with you last week.
"She played with my hair."
There's a pause.
"...the fuck?" Heeseung finally says.
"Like, head scratches. You know?" Jake can feel how stupid it sounds even as he says it, but he keeps explaining, as if it will make it sound any better, "She was saying all these things, and talking, and running her fingers through it. It was nice. It was—"
"Bro," Heeseung cuts him off with a laugh—not a mean one, but something close to it, "She pet you."
"Like a dog." Sunghoon grins.
"Did you start kicking your leg when she scratched behind your ears?" Jay snickers.
"Did she call you a good boy for doing her homework?"
The three of them burst into laughter. Sunghoon has to brace himself against the table, and Jay doubles over, gripping the counter. Heeseung is just shaking his head, grinning, like Jake is the saddest thing he's ever seen.
Jake flushes.
"Guys, come on—"
"Listen, Jakey," Heeseung's voice softens, "You do realize what this is, right? She uses you for your brain, then forgets you exist until she needs you again. And like a stupid, loyal mutt, you keep running back to an owner who doesn't reward you with any treats."
"I know it looks like that, but you weren't there," Jake shrinks in his chair, pulling his hoodie sleeves over his hands, "She was talking to me. For real. Like. Touching me and—"
"And she didn't text you back," Sunghoon states. There's no bite to it. No malicious intent. Just that. That's what it is, after all.
The truth of it hurts more than he expects, maybe because deep down he knows it already. His throat tightens, and he stares down so that none of them can see how his eyes get glossy.
He just thought that maybe this was it. That maybe, for the first time, someone actually liked him. Is he really so wrong for wanting to believe that?
The kitchen is quiet now. Jay has gone back to washing dishes, but slower, quieter and Sunghoon joins him, pretending to be interested in dishes to avoid addressing the emotional tension in the room.
Heeseung is the only one who still watches Jake.
"Look, man," he starts, softer this time. "We're not trying to be dicks. We just—"
All four of them glance at the device face down on the table. No one moves. The buzz fades. Then another one. Then another.
Jake's hand twitches toward it.
"Don't," Sunghoon warns.
"It could be important."
"It's not."
Jake's hand hovers. What if it's you? What if you're apologizing? What if you have an explanation?
Sunghoon beats him to it, snatching it from the table with dishwater hands.
"Oh? Would you look at that?" he raises a brow, and Jake's heart pathetically flutters, "Let's see what the she-devil wants now."
Jake watches, holding his breath, as Sunghoon swipes open the messages. His face is unreadable for a moment.
"Gee. Shocker." He reads aloud, dripping with sarcasm. "Hey Jake, sorry I've been MIA—And there's a sad face emoji, how sweet—Did you start the next assignment yet?"
"She can't be that shameless," Heeseung states in disbelief.
Jay sets down his sponge and grabs the phone from Sunghoon, scanning the screen himself. His jaw tightens.
"That's it." He turns to Jake, holding the phone up like evidence. "This is an intervention. If you're not getting anything out of this, and I mean anything, then ignore that bitch."
"She's not a—"
"She is." Sunghoon sighs, dragging a hand down his face. "Honestly, it's just sad at this point. You're better than this."
Jake looks between them. His phone is still in Jay's hand, the screen lit up with your message. He can see the little three dots at the bottom of the chat box. You're still typing, probably coming up with another excuse— another reason for him to come running.
"Jake," Heeseung steps forward, blocking Jake's view of the device, "She hurt you. Do not respond. I'm serious this time. You hear me? You hear us? We're looking out for you."
Jake swallows. He wants to say that it'll be different this time—wants to say that they don't know you like he knows you. Wants to believe his feelings are reciprocated, and that your soft touch and sweet words were more than just a cheap manipulation tactic, but they're all watching. And he knows. He knows he has to concede.
Deflated, he nods, promising his friends he won't give in. Even if the memory of your hands in his hair sticks. Even if he swears it was real.
He really does ignore you. He doesn't respond to your messages, doesn't screenshot your selfies—well, he does look at them maybe a couple times, but that's not technically breaking his word. He keeps his phone on the other side of his bedroom when he sleeps. He spends his time with his friends laughing, instead of sulking in the corner over ignored messages.
The inexplicably strong ache he felt in his chest when he thought of you was nowhere near close to disappearing, an ache that couldn't decide between desire and hurt, but he could feel himself slowly, bit by bit, start to return to some semblance of normalcy.
Then you decide to show up to class for the first time in weeks.
Jake notices you the second you walk through the door. How could he not? You're all he can think about still, as terrible as he knows that sounds. How could he possibly bring himself to look away as your eyes scan the room, ultimately landing on him, making your merry way to slip into the seat at his side?
"Hey!" You're smiling, bright and easy, like no time has passed at all.
It's tempting to return the smile. God, he wants to accept your warmth again so badly, and maybe that would've worked on him a few weeks ago, but time has passed for him.
He'd spent all this time second-guessing every smile, every touch and word. Suffered while listening to his roommates call him a dog. He doesn't have it in him to continue hoping for anything more. Even if you look extra pretty today.
"Hey." Jake keeps his eyes on the board.
"How are you?"
"Fine."
Your smile doesn't waver, but something in your gaze is a little different, a little more steady than usual. You lean in close enough that he can smell you, breathing in your sweet, warm, intoxicating scent, close enough that his resolve starts to crumble before he can stop it. That's just what you do to him.
"You look cute today," you say softly. "I like your hair."
"Thanks."
He manages to keep his tone flat and his face neutral, as if he doesn't still dream of your hands in his hair, like you had the last time he saw you, still weak from the mere thought.
Stay strong, Jake. His jaw is tight. His hands are curled into fists under the desk. She hurt you. Don't give in.
Your smile then fades, if only a little.
"Hey... what's up with you?"
He turns to you finally, unable to keep up the act. In a moment of weakness, he lets you see the hurt, the confusion, the resentment.
You seem concerned. A little confused.
She's playing you. She's using you.
"Listen," he inhales, trying to sound firm, but there's a shakiness in his tone that he just can't hide. "I'm not helping you this time, okay? So don't—"
His eyes catch something on the desk that halts his thought process completely.
Your phone is sitting there, face up, dressed in a clear case like always, but with a new set of cute little charms attached—though that's not even the thing he notices first. The screen is covered in cracks, fractures spreading from a point near the top all the way to the bottom, and a chunk of glass is missing from the corner, exposing the dark screen underneath.
"What happened?" he blurts. Whatever he had been planning to say, to finally tell you, vanishes in an instant.
You look down at the phone. Then back at him.
"Oh my god, you have no idea." You're already shaking your head, "Last week, I lost my phone. Like, lost lost. Couldn't find it for days. I tore my whole apartment apart. I filed a lost and found report. I even checked the campus security office."
Jake stares at the cracked screen, your thumb swiping over it.
"Then," you continue, wincing as you recall the story, "my roommate tells me she felt a crunch when she was pulling out of the driveway. Turns out my phone was lying face down there. For three days. And she ran over it."
"You're kidding."
"I wish I was. I think it must've fallen out of my pocket in the dark." You pick up the phone, sighing, "It was like this when I found it. But you wanna know the craziest part? It still works."
Jake just blinks, and you laugh a little as you hold up the device to his face, showing off the horribly cracked home screen.
"I guess you thought I was ignoring you again, weren't you?" Your expression falls, "I'm so sorry, Jake. I really didn't mean to."
"It's..." He blinks again, then shakes his head. A laugh escapes him, feeling relieved, almost giddy, and all the emotions he thought he had buried for good come rushing back to him in an instant. Just like that. "I just thought you were, like, using me for homework, or something—"
"What?" You gasp, shock flashing across your face. "Oh my gosh, no, I would never."
A hand lands on his arm. Warmth spreads through him where you touch.
"I guess asking about homework first thing when I got my phone back was pretty stupid of me, wasn't it?" You shake your head, muttering, talking to yourself almost, "I was just so stressed after the whole lost phone situation, and school was the first thing on my mind. I didn't even think about how it would look."
A nervous laugh escapes you, fidgeting with the sleeve of your sweater, glancing at him wide-eyed like you're scared that he hates you for real this time. Suddenly, his roommates' words are fading to nothing in his head.
"I mean," he says slowly, and then a small smile tugs at his lips. "Yeah. It was a little stupid."
You stare at him for a second. Then you laugh, bright and real and just like he remembered, your whole face lighting up. Relief seems to wash over both of you, and when your hand lightly grazes his shoulder again, he leans into it this time.
"Okay, okay, I deserve that," you say. "But I'll make up for it. I swear."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You pull out your phone, squinting at the cracked screen as you pull up a tab in your search engine. "There's this new indie horror thing my friends keep talking about. Apparently, it's super scary, and I'm terrified of watching this kind of stuff alone."
You tilt the screen to him, rambling about different showtimes, explaining bits of the synopsis of the film, and he swears his heart is about to explode. His mind is already conjuring images of you clinging to his arm, burying your head in the crook of his neck at the sight of a jump-scare.
"So?" You finally ask, "You free Friday?"
There's a moment of hesitation as he thinks about his roommates. Their warnings. Their jokes. Their certainty that you were using him. Then he looks at your phone—the cracks, the missing chunk. The undeniable proof that you weren't lying.
Then he thinks about getting to hold your hand in a dark theater, driving you home after. Would you let him kiss you? Would you pull him closer, with your hands at the back of his head, fingers grazing through his hair again? Would you pull away, breathless and smiling, and invite him inside? Probably not that last part, but the thought still makes him blush.
"I'll check my schedule."
"Okay," Your smile turns almost shy, but your determination doesn't waver, "Well, no pressure, but you better say yes."
Jake spends the entire lecture trying not to smile back, thankful that all the pain he had felt, all the hurt, had been nothing more than his own imagination.
He's already knows he's going to say yes.
Jake is halfway to the door when Sunghoon's voice stops him cold.
"Where are you going?"
Jake winces, hand hovering just above the doorknob. His keys are already in his other hand, jingling softly. He doesn't turn around, certain that the look on his face will give him away, and to be honest, he's tired of being looked at like a lost cause when it comes to you.
"Out."
"Out," Sunghoon repeats slowly. "Out where, exactly?"
With a shaky breath, he turns finally. His eyes land on Jay and Sunghoon sprawled on the couch—same as always, controllers in hand, paused mid-game. Heeseung pokes his head out of his bedroom door down the hall, drawn by the sound of an argument brewing.
Jake allows himself a small, hopefully convincing enough smile.
"To study."
Like a cruel joke, a small foil square slips out of his jacket pocket and flutters to the floor—revealing the condom he'd stolen from the box Heeseung keeps at his bedside.
They all watch wordlessly, staring for a beat.
Jake's face flushes, bending down to snatch the condom off the floor, and he tucks it back into his pocket.
"Uh-huh. Study." Jay deadpans, setting down his controller. "Studying what, human anatomy?"
"It's a study date," Jake says too quickly, waving it off, "With uh... that one girl I was lab partners with last semester. You guys remember?"
"The girl you said you weren't into?"
"Well, I changed my mind."
He can feel the weight of their stare. Watching. Waiting. Judging.
"You think you're gonna get laid." Heeseung gestures vaguely to him. "And you didn't try to tell any of us about it?"
"It's just in case," he replies, still a little embarrassed, "Besides, why should I tell any of you? It's none of your business."
Heeseung tilts his head, studying him. The other two exchange knowing glances.
"It's not that you have to," He says, "But you would've. Which means you're hiding something."
"You're running back to your master, aren't you?" Sunghoon cuts to the chase with a grin, "Did she throw you a bone again?"
"No."
"Aw, I can see his tail wagging," Jay teases, "He's so excited. Thinks he's gonna finally get his dick wet this time if he plays fetch."
"Shut up."
"Jake, man," Heeseung almost groans, "You can't seriously think she wants you for real this time, right?"
"What's the score now? Campus slut: three, Jake: zero? You're losing pretty badly," Sunghoon whistles, shaking his head, "Just don't come crying to us about it after."
His fingers tighten around his keys, metal biting into the palm of his hand. He wants to tell them tonight will be different—and he's sure it will. It has to be. But he's done explaining himself, and he's done trying to explain you.
"I'm going on a study date with my old lab partner," he lies through gritted teeth, "And while you sit your lazy asses on a dirty fucking couch, marinating in your own filth, I'm going to actually be talking to a girl. So fuck you."
He doesn't wait for a response. He just turns, yanking the front door open and slamming it behind hard enough to rattle the frame just a bit.
The boys don't say anything. They just stare at the door, watching the frame shake in silence until it goes still.
"Well," Sunghoon pauses, "He kinda got us there, didn't he?"
He pulls up to your place, eyeing the same rickety-looking porch and broken railing he remembers, noting how the light above the front door flickers. And though it's anything but perfect, he still feels like he's in a scene from a movie as he walks up your steps—the kind where the guy finally gets the girl and sweeps her off her feet.
His heart is pounding as he knocks on the door and stops the moment it swings open, smiling as soon as he sees you, expression dropping when his brain catches up to realize you're... not dressed for a date. At all.
You look at him wide-eyed, almost shocked, a pencil tucked behind your ear, wearing an old hoodie and those little shorts he remembers from last time. And there, in your hand, is your thermodynamics textbook.
"Oh, Jake..." you say, blinking at him like you'd forgotten he was coming. "I totally lost track of time."
You're already turning away, leaving the door open for him to follow. Already walking back into the place, socked feet padding against the hardwood, muttering to yourself.
"This is due on Monday, and I haven't even started and— gosh, I'm so sorry. I'm such an idiot."
Jake stands still in the doorway of your bedroom, watching you plop down on the bed, looking up at him with a silent plea.
"I really thought I'd have this done by tonight. I mean, I could spend the rest of the weekend doing it, but I have all these plans and other things I have to do..." You continue to ramble, but he stops listening.
You're doing it again.
He watches you for a long, silent moment. You're already flipping through the textbook, muttering to yourself about equations and deadlines, completely absorbed.
Any butterflies he'd felt were gone, replaced with... nothing. He felt absolutely nothing, just hollow and empty and utterly deflated because he's been here before. He knows the script. He knows what happens next.
Somewhere in his mind, he can hear his roommates laughing. Hell, he's sure those stupid plushies in the corner of your room are probably laughing at him, too.
"I was thinking maybe if I could just get the first few problems, I think I could figure out the rest. But I don't even know where to start."
You look up at him, and there's that look again. The same look you gave him the first day of class. The same look that made him want to solve all your problems.
Just like that, he's doing it again, too.
She needs me, he starts to think.
People get stressed, don't they? People lose track of time. You're just one of those people. It's not on purpose. It's not malicious. It's just you.
You're tugging at his sleeve, then slipping past it just to grasp around his wrist.
"I know I'm asking for a lot, but you'll help me, won't you?" You pout, "Please, Jake?"
That almost gets him. It shouldn't, but it almost does.
"But the movie—"
"I promise we'll see it another time," you cut in, "Pinky swear, on my life, we will."
Jake can feel his hands trembling at his sides. All he wanted was a date with you. Just one night. No textbooks. No equations.
He'll be damned if he lets your poor time-management skills and terrible studying habits be the reason his night is ruined.
"What if I just... send you the answers later?"
He manages a broken smile, and you blink.
"Really?" You gape, "Oh, Jake, I'd feel terrible—"
"We can't let our movie tickets go to waste, right?" He shrugs like its nothing, like he's nonchalant or something, but there is absolutely nothing chalant about the way he needs to go out with you tonight. "I don't mind. Really. Don't worry about it, okay?"
You beam at him, and with a squeal, you're jumping off the bed faster than he can process. Your arms are around him, hugging him tight, so much that he can feel every part of you pressed against him. Suddenly, he's light as a feather again. Drifting. Weightless.
"Thank you so much!" You pull away all too quickly, shoving him out your bedroom door, "Just give me a few minutes, 'kay? I won't leave you waiting too long."
Jake can barely focus on the screen, eyes drifting from the atmospheric shots of a creepy house in the middle of nowhere, towards you instead.
He's hyper-aware of you sitting there, next to him. He can't help the way he watches you, how the light flickers across your face, catching the curve of your cheek, and your gloss-covered lips. He also can't help the way he's falling apart from just the feeling of your arm brushing against his in the dark, soft, accidental, and electric all at once.
The scent of your perfume mixes with the smell of buttery popcorn, neither of you had touched yet. He can't bring himself to eat it. Actually, he can't bring himself to do anything when he can barely manage breathing in your presence.
His heart is doing that stupid stuttering thing again, the one that makes him feel like he's a teenager taking his school crush to prom, as his hand twitches restlessly at his side.
He wants to hold your hand. He's wanted to since the moment you slipped into the passenger seat of his car, wearing that sundress, but he knew he had to wait. He rehearses the motion in his head, a slow, deliberate slide of his palm against the armrest until it touches yours. He even tries, for a second, his hand slowly drifting until his pinky barely brushes yours, enough to feel the warmth of your skin.
For a moment, he allows himself to imagine what it would feel like to do it—to take your hand in one smooth, confident stride and feel your fingers interlace with his. The thought alone is exhilarating... and far, far more terrifying than the movie's been so far.
Before he knows it, he's chickening out, hand drawing back to his lap when the screen flashes.
A face appears, a shrieking sound erupting through the theatre speakers, and he swears his soul fucking leaves his body. He jumps, a full body flinch, arm nearly knocking over the popcorn bucket as his heart slams against his ribs.
And almost immediately, he glances at you, mortified at the thought of you witnessing him actually get scared at a jump scare. But you had jumped too, hands flying to his arm, fingers digging into his sleeve. It only registers in his mind after the fact that you're clinging to him, your smaller hands curled against him, just like he had imagined. Just like he had hoped.
"Sorry," you whisper, still holding him.
"It's okay," he whispers back, silently praying that you'll continue to.
You do, and he doesn't dare move a single muscle for the remainder of the film. Even as there's more blood, more screaming and horrifying faces that genuinely make him want to sprint out of that theater crying like a baby, he stays put, trembling at the thought of the nightmares he'll have for the next few days and enjoying every second of you burying your face into his shoulder, clinging to him like he's the safest thing you've ever known.
Sometime halfway through the film, your hand finds his, fingers intertwining with his, still leaning into his shoulder. In that moment, he thinks all the missed texts, all the hurt and confusion, all of it was worth it just to feel this.
"That was so good," you rave on the car ride home, smiling from the passenger's seat, "Honestly, way too many jump scares, but the cinematography... wow."
Jake's hands grip the steering wheel just a little tighter than usual, still nervous. More nervous, actually, because he's still trying to figure out what he's going to say to you when he gets back to your place. But he knows he's overthinking it; tonight had reassured him of that.
Relax, he thinks, glancing at you from the side.
"The cinematography?" Jake teases lightly, "You were hiding in my shoulder for half of it."
"Because it was scary," you swat his arm, rolling your eyes at him, "You're supposed to protect me. Not make fun of me."
"I'm just saying..."
"You're saying nothing," you shake your head, grinning, "Don't think I didn't see you flinch a few times, too."
"You got me," he winces a little, then it's his turn to grin, "But at least I didn't scream out loud at the part with the axe, unlike someone—"
"Stop, that was so embarrassing!" You groan, bringing a hand to your face. "I'm pretty sure the entire row in front of us turned around to look. I can never go back there again!"
Jake just laughs, and you're hiding your face further in the palms of your hands as you plead with him not to tease you any further.
It's nice. Easy. He only wishes the night didn't need to end. But, alas, he's pulling up just outside your place, putting the car into park, feeling a little foolish now for having slipped that condom into his pocket at all. As if tonight could have ended any other way. But he shakes the thought away. That's not what he's here for. He's just glad that he even got to hold your hand.
"Well," he starts a little shyly, "If you're too embarrassed to go back, we can do something else next time?
He looks at you. Eyes shining. Hopeful.
"Jake..." you smile, "I had a great time tonight."
His heart swells, warm and fragile, like a balloon stretched too thin.
"But..." you continue, and he feels himself start to deflate. You look down, fidgeting with the hem of your dress, "I probably can't hang out like this for a while. You know how I am. Busy with school and all my other classes."
There's a silence, the engine still humming in the background.
"I'll help you," he then says. It's too eager sounding, the words just tumbling out of him as he goes on, "Whatever it is. Whatever class. I can do it."
"Really?" You look at him wide-eyed, seeing him nod enthusiastically, "You'd do that for me?"
"I'll do anything," he continues to nod without a second thought, "It's nothing to me, if it means—"
You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, and he feels himself turn bright red, butterflies exploding in his chest. He's breathing heavy as he watches you pull away, your lips against his skin forever burned into his memory.
"You're the best, Jake."
"You don't mean that," he waves it off bashfully, smiling like an idiot now.
"No, I do," you smile right back, tilting your head to the side. "You're just the sweetest thing, you know?"
He looks at you, eyes dropping to your lips.
This is the part where he's supposed to kiss you, right?
He'd pictured it so many times in his head that he couldn't even believe it might be happening. It's too surreal. Feels too far removed from anything within the realm of possibilities, and yet here he is. With you in his car. Sitting in silence.
He's not sure how it's supposed to work. Or when the right moment is, but he feels like it has to be now.
Swallowing his nerves and his fears and everything else, he starts to lean in, his eyes about to fall shut when—
"You're a really great friend."
His stomach drops.
"You're just so easy to talk to, you know?" You continue, as if his entire world isn't crumbling around him.
He pulls back. Watching you. Confused. Hurt. It doesn't hit him all at once, dizzy and disoriented from the whiplash you've just hit him with.
"Any girl would be lucky to have—"
"Friend?" The word escapes him like a sharp, ugly hiss, tasting bitter on the tip of his tongue.
"What?"
You blink innocently—or, with what he would've convinced himself was innocence only moments ago, had you not decided to rip his heart and squash it beneath your feet like it means nothing to you. Like he means nothing.
"I did your assignments for you. I took you out, paid for everything," His voice is shaking now. He can hear it, can hear how pathetic he sounds, but he can't stop. "And you think I'm trying to be friends?"
"I don't understand—?"
"I like you. You know that I like you and you still..." Shaken, he trails off, looking back at the steering wheel. He can't look at you anymore. Actually, he thinks he'll literally die if he has to spend any longer in your presence, playing whatever game it is that you've been playing with him. "Forget about the schoolwork. I'm done with you."
"Jake—"
"Get out of my car." He manages, "Please, just leave me alone."
He's blinking away tears that threaten him, hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white.
You don't move, but something in you shifts. He can't quite place it, but it's like the air around you grows colder, distant. The softness drains from your face, replaced by something else entirely.
"Seriously?" You scoff, low and annoyed, "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Jake's eyes snap back to you, arms folded over your chest as you scowl. Not pouting. Not looking concerned or helpless or confused like you usually do.
"You're the most annoying nerd I've ever had to deal with. You know that?" You continue, venom dripping with every word, "Every other loser folds with a bit of flirting and a couple selfies, but you? You realize how much time and energy I've spent on you? God, I'm way too deep in thermodynamics hell to find a new pathetic little thing to deal with, but you can bet your ass that as soon as this semester ends, I'm never, ever going near you again."
Jake's jaw falls slack, and you take a deep breath.
"And I'm literally so nice to you. I had you over in my house, on my bed. I pretended not to notice your boner—which you're terrible at hiding, by the way. I even went on a fucking date with you and clung to your arm for, like, an hour," you huff, exasperated, like you've just been dying to get it all off your chest. "What else could you possibly want from me?"
He doesn't react. He doesn't know how to.
"You were pretending." His voice is timid. Weak. Everything he tried so hard pretending not to be all night. "Everything you said, playing with my hair, going out with me, holding my hand..."
"You're just making it sound bad," you sigh, "You liked all those things, didn't you?"
"I liked them because I thought they were real."
"What difference does it make?" You snap.
Jake swallows the lump in his throat. He always knew he was a loser. Always knew he was a bit of a pathetic simp. But he never truly thought he could ever be this blind—this stupid.
"Your phone," he recalls the cracks, "That was fake, too?"
"A real convenient coincidence, wasn't it? I thought for sure I'd lost you. Luckily—or unluckily—the universe gave me a real excuse," you wave it off, looking at him, "So. What is it you want, hm? I have an assignment due in a few days, and the clock is ticking. Let's get this over with."
"I don't want anything from you."
"Come on. Everyone has something," you groan, "You could show me off to your other nerd friends. Is that what you want? Or are you gonna be one of those perverts who asks for my used panties or something?"
"You've traded your panties for grades?" His eyes go wide. The image is ugly and nothing like the fantasy he'd built up of you in his head. "How far have you gone for—?"
"I'm not a prostitute." You snap, "No touching."
Right. You've done this to other guys before. Not only was he tricked, but he's not even special. He's just the latest unfortunate soul in a long line of desperate idiots who line up to worship the ground you walk on.
Campus slut, Sunghoon had called you. Jake had scoffed at the time. Wanted to defend you. Convinced himself his roommates didn't know you like he knows you. This might even be worse than any of them could've ever imagined.
That's the sad part, too. He could sit here and ask for your used panties, but he didn't even want that. He never did. Sure, he'd gotten hard over things he probably shouldn't have. Had wet dreams about you that he should probably never repeat out loud. But talking to you was never about just wanting to get laid— even if he'd thought of it countless times. All he really wanted was to be wanted.
You start to get impatient with his silence.
"Look. I didn't want to be so brutally honest, but you were starting to act like I was your girlfriend, and I panicked." You take in a breath, still watching him. "But... I could've been a little nicer, so I'm sorry, okay? Does that make you feel a little better?"
He is just looking at his hands, the hands you held in the theatre. Which apparently now meant absolutely nothing.
"Alright, fine. Maybe this time I can make an exception," your voice is a little softer this time. "What about second base? Is that enough for you?"
"I already said I don't want anything."
"Jake," you start, your hand landing at his knee, thumb stroking in slow circles. "You're a virgin, right?"
"I'm—"
"Shh..." you press a finger to his lips, your other hand now sliding up his knee to his thigh, "I know you are, it's okay. You've never touched a girl, either, have you?"
He shakes his head.
"Then I'll ask again." Your hand trails high enough that it's just barely grazing the tent in his jeans, but still somehow earning a sound from him.
You look up at him through your lashes, like you've finally caught him, and take his hand. He watches, wide-eyed, as you lead his hand closer to you, hovering just above the swell of your breasts. His hand is so close he can feel the heat radiating off your skin, almost touching.
"Is second base enough for—?"
"No."
He draws his hand back, and your expression falls... and so does something else. Both of your eyes land on the condom- the one in his jacket pocket, which had decided to choose that exact moment to fall to the floor.
His face burns with humiliation. How stupidly hopeful he'd been just hours ago, stealing it from Heeseung's bedside like it was a talisman that could make him into someone you might actually want.
He scrambles to pick it up, but you beat him to it, holding it between your fingers with an amused expression. You're grinning like you're trying to hold back a laugh, and he thinks that kind of reaction might be worse than disgust.
"No?" you echo him, reaching to tuck the little foil back into his pocket for him. You give it a few pats before drawing back your hand. "Don't get too greedy, Jake. You know I won't do that."
"I wasn't—I was just—" he shakes his head, collecting himself, "I'm not gonna ask to feel your tits in exchange for homework answers. That's just weird," He says weakly, like it hurts him. Honestly, it does, a bit, because he's about to turn down the opportunity to feel you up in exchange for something far more pathetic sounding. "But..."
"But...?"
He looks at you, thinking of how pretty you look in the dim light—how romantic this would feel if the circumstances were different. It's just not fair how badly he aches for something he knows now, for certain, that he'll never have; something real. But he thinks that if, even for a moment, he could feel the same way he had in the theatre, when you'd taken his hand and held it, that maybe he could settle for just pretending that it's real. Maybe he could go home tonight and not feel entirely awful.
"Would you kiss me?"
You blink.
"Just a kiss?"
"Yeah," he can feel his ears turning red, "But you have to kiss me like you want me. Like we're actually on a date."
Your eyes flicker over him for a good few seconds, expression unreadable. Not upset, not weirded out, just... thinking.
"One kiss, and you promise to do my work for the rest of the semester?"
"One kiss to cover the debt you owe from the past three assignments," His voice is firmer now, though his hands are still shaking, "Then we can negotiate the rest."
"Seriously?"
"You need my help more than I need your stupid kiss," he shrugs, eyes flickering to your lips. "You asked for my price. This is the cost of my labour. Take it or leave it."
"Fine." You inhale, "One kiss—"
"With tongue."
"...With tongue," you deadpan.
You sigh, reaching up to take his glasses off. Your fingers brush his temples, gentle despite everything, and you fold the glasses carefully, setting them in the cupholder.
In this light, he looks different. Not that anything about him has changed. Rather, you're acknowledging things about him that you hadn't thought too much of before. Unlike a lot of other nerds you've led on, Jake actually showers. His skin is clear, and his smile is bright. You suppose he's also a lot kinder than the rest, too, if that counts for anything. And now that you're looking at him up close, without his glasses, you're thinking that maybe he's actually kind of cute.
Still. That's not enough to make your heart race, or something. He's pathetic enough to ask for a kiss in exchange for doing your work. That says all you need to know about him.
You lean forward and press a soft, gentle kiss to his lips. Slow, tentative, expecting a nervous response from him, so you're a little bit taken aback by the way he returns the kiss so eagerly. He's needy, not exactly rough, but too worked up to be gentle, and his hand comes up to your jaw a little too fast, fingers pressing in just enough to keep you there, like he's afraid you'll tear away all too soon.
He's messy with it. All tongue and desperate whimpers, not trying to hide how badly he clearly wants you— like he's been thinking about this for weeks and doesn't give a shit about hiding it anymore. It's not the most coordinated of kisses, but it certainly makes you feel something.
You start to forget that you're supposed to be pretending to enjoy it— not actually enjoying it. So much that you don't notice right away how his hands reach for your waist.
"Closer?" He practically whines against your mouth, "Please, can you...?"
You're sighing as you concede, not fully understanding why you choose to. You tell yourself it's to make him content enough so that he won't complain later when you ask for help again, but you're sliding into his lap so easily, dress riding up, suppressing your own noises as his hands roam your body so freely. It's only when you feel his hand slide up, feeling your chest, that you're coming to your senses.
You break the kiss, panting, hands on his shoulders to push yourself away. He lets you, but not without a string of saliva connecting your mouths. He's breathing heavily, lips swollen, and eyes wide with an emotion you can't quite read.
"The deal was a kiss," you say, trying to sound firm, but your voice comes across shakier than intended.
He just stares at you, chest heaving, like he's trying to process what just happened. His gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes, then down to where your dress has bunched up around your thighs.
"I know," he says, his voice rough. "I know. I just... got carried away."
You can feel the heat radiating from him, the solid evidence of his desire pressing right up against you. This is dangerous territory. You've always been in control of these situations, leading guys on, getting what you need, and walking away unscathed. But something about Jake's desperation, the raw, unfiltered need in his eyes, has you losing your grip.
"Please, just..." his eyes drop to your heaving chest, "Can I see them? Or like touch them?"
He's like a helpless puppy begging for a scrap of affection. And it's pathetic, really. But also... kind of hot in a weird, sort of sad way. You're not sure what that says about you, but you're there, in his lap already and against your better judgment, you find yourself nodding regardless.
You bite your lip, watching him swallow hard as you slowly pull down the strap of your sundress. You can see the hope in his eyes, the way he's practically holding his breath as the fabric starts to fall, revealing the lace of your bra. Under his gaze, fixed and intense, he reaches behind you, fumbling with the clasp until your bra falls away, and you're bare to him.
He makes a sound, a strangled, restrained sounding gasp that's part surprise, part pure, unadulterated lust. His hands are on you in an instant, not rough, but with a curiosity that sends a shiver down your spine. His thumbs brush over your nipples, and you can't help the small sigh that escapes your lips.
"You're beautiful," he breathes.
Oh. Your face heats up, and the throb between your legs suddenly becomes a bit harder to ignore.
You should stop this. You know you should. You've given him what he asked for already with this deal.
His mouth is on your chest. Sucking. And he can't control the way his hips buck up into yours, muttering sweet whispers into your skin. You allow yourself, if only for once, to enjoy it—not daring to allow any of the sounds you desperately wish to make escape you, but closing your eyes and just letting him do his thing. You couldn't even begin to remember the last time you've been touched like this, with this kind of earnestness.
All too soon, his hips stutter, and he's whimpering into your skin. His hands are at your hips, gripping you in place, moving them against his own, almost subconsciously, and you can't even form a single word as you watch him grind up against you, chasing the craps of friction you've offered him until he's coming apart. A string of choked noises leaves him as he rides out his orgasm, and you stare, unblinking, in... shock? Horror? Awe, maybe?
You stare at his pretty, big brown eyes, and his perfectly kissable lips, and the gorgeous expression on his face as he unravels beneath you until he goes still. Breathing. Forehead against your bare chest as he collects himself.
Then, you blink.
"Did you just...?"
He doesn't answer, but he nods against you, and your blood runs cold.
Suddenly, you remember where you are, who you're with, and why you're here. Suddenly, you remember you're right outside your place, in a university student-ridden neighbourhood, on a Friday night. Suddenly, you're just humiliated as he is—if not more—and sick to your stomach at the realization of just how fucking badly you want him right now.
You push him away, not too hard, but enough to make a point. He looks up at you, dazed, his lips slick and swollen.
"Did you actually just cum in your pants right now?"
"Sorry," he stammers, though he does seem like he means it, even if his eyes are glued to your tits now. "Sorry, just—"
"Yeah. You should be sorry. Because what the hell?” You shake your head, all too defensively. "That wasn't a part of the deal, you freak!"
He watches you fumble with your bra strap, watches you smooth down your dress, watches you avoid his eyes. Your movements are sharp, defensive, like you're trying to erase the last five minutes from existence.
For a moment, he had you. Now, all he was left with was the shame of the aftermath; you, looking at him with disgust. Him, humiliated. His pants, ruined, sticky and uncomfortable.
"I can't believe I let a loser like you touch me," you continue, muttering more to yourself in disbelief than anything else, "That was so... just... ew!"
Your words are like a slap in the face, only instead of knocking him down, they make him snap back to reality, like he'd suddenly just decided to ask himself the question he should've been asking all along: what the actual fuck is he doing?
He can't make you like him. He can't even make you respect him. Clearly, you can't even pretend to either, even with your grades on the line.
He feels different, like something about jizzing in his pants reset his brain and brought him back to normal again. Maybe that's just the post-nut clarity talking, but regardless, he's seeing you now. Not that fake fantasy version of you in his head, but you.
You need him. You need him far more than he needs you. Without him, you fail thermodynamics—you'll sit there, in your room all alone, staring at a textbook you don't understand, praying for a miracle.
He's not the pathetic one. You, the one adjusting your dress in the dark, acting all high and mighty, pretending like you don't trade your dignity for easy A's, are the pathetic one.
The hurt isn't close to dissipating, still heavy and aching within him. The slight flutter in his heart that he feels in your presence isn't gone either. But something else lies beneath it all, something that feels a lot like freedom.
"Get out."
"Just give me a sec—"
"Get out," he snaps, flashing a glare at you while you're in the middle of fixing your hair in the side mirror. "Transaction's over. You can leave."
"Okay, jeez!" You scoff.
You get out of the car, slamming the door shut behind you, and he drives away from you faster than he's ever driven away from anything in his life.
"Well, well, well. Look who's back."
Jake doesn't say anything upon his return, hanging his keys and kicking off his shoes. Of course, all three of his roommates are still awake, sitting on that damn couch, waiting for the resident punching bag to return so they can have a good laugh before crawling to bed.
"So," Sunghoon says, a smirk on his face. "How was the big 'study date'?"
He doesn't react. Not really. He just stands there in the doorway, tired expression taking in each of theirs. The silence is abnormally long, and he notices how Sunghoon shifts in discomfort, how Jay sits up straight, how Heeseung's smile fades to concern.
"She asked me to do her homework again," he says, his voice flat, "Asked me to help with the rest of the semester too."
To his surprise, there's no 'I told you so'. For once, there's no laughing or mocking. Just silence.
Jake doesn't want to admit how much that means to him.
"So it was her." Jay says in a low voice, finally.
"The she-devil strikes again," Heeseung lightly jokes, but his tone remains sympathetic. "She really doesn't beat around the bush, does she?"
"You told her no, right?" Sunghoon blurts before Jake can respond, "Right?"
"I said yes."
The three of them sigh almost in unison. Jay has his face in his hands, and Heeseung shakes his head like a disappointed father, and Sunghoon just glares like he can't actually believe what he's hearing.
"Then I got to feel her up."
The chorus of disappointment stops, and they watch as a grin spreads across Jake's face. Not the dopey sort of puppy-love grin he used to wear when he thought of you. It's broken, revealing the hint of something cruel beneath it.
"She said I could touch her if I send her the answers, so I did, but..." He pauses, laughing to himself under his breath, "I'm not gonna send her shit."
The room goes quiet.
Heeseung is the first to move. He stands up slowly, like he's processing. He crosses the room, footsteps heavy on the hardwood, and stops in front of Jake.
For a second, he just looks at him. Then he places a hand on Jake's shoulder. Squeezes. Then grins wide.
"That's my boy."
Sunghoon recovers first. He grins, getting up to clap him on the back, and holds up a hand for a high-five. "Respect, man. Actual respect."
Jake leaves him hanging.
"No fucking way," Jay is also beaming like a proud father, "No way you actually did?"
"I did. And I'm not doing shit for her anymore," Jake says with a timid sort of smugness, "I'm done. I saw her tits, and I'm out. I'm serious this time."
"You guys hear that?" Heeseung shakes him, "Our little Jakey's all grown up."
"I'm not little."
"Your dick is little."
"Shut up, Sunghoon."
"He's just jealous," Jay rolls his eyes, moving to pick up his gaming controller. "He's never even seen tits in real life."
"I've seen plenty of tits!"
Sunghoon moves to try and wrestle Jay on the couch, their bickering falling on deaf ears as Heeseung returns his attention to Jake. He lowers his voice just a bit this time, his gaze softening.
"For real though. You're good? Like... actually good?"
Jake thinks about it. The drive home. The way his heart sank when you called him a friend. The way your voice sounded when you called him a loser.
Then, he offers his friend a smile.
"I'm good."
Heeseung smiles back before gesturing for him to join them for the next game, and Jake then seats himself on the couch. Laughing. Enjoying the rest of his night. Trying to ease the sting of your words.
He's not good. Not right now. But he'll feel better soon.
It's only a matter of time before you come crawling back.
The assignment deadline looms, a ticking clock in the back of your mind. It follows you everywhere—to class, to the dining hall, to bed at night when you should be sleeping.
Jake still hasn’t texted you the answers, even though you let him cross way too many boundaries just to secure it. You’re stewing in your own frustration. Never in all the times you’ve traded your attention for the academic labour of sad, lonely boys had you come across someone who asked for so much.
You kissed him. You let him grope your chest. You even made him cum in his pants. How on earth was that not enough to make him happy?
But. You kinda broke his poor little heart, didn’t you?
You sigh, and you realize, sitting alone in your bedroom with your textbook open to a page you've been staring at for at least forty-five minutes now, that maybe you were harsh.
You called him a loser. You called him gross for finishing in his pants—something you'd never seen happen before, something you should feel disgusted by, and yet something that you can't stop thinking about.
The thought should make you roll your eyes. It should make you shrug and reach for your phone to find the next desperate nerd willing to do your work. That's what you always do. That's what you've always done.
But Jake is different.
Unlike the other creatures you've put up with in the past—the ones who ask for nudes or used panties or god forbid feet pics—Jake was so stupidly, sickeningly sweet.
He blushed when you touched his arm. He held your hand like it was something precious. He asked you for a kiss when you offered him more. He called you beautiful.
You shift in your seat, pushing the memory away.
What an idiot.
There’s an inexplicable heaviness that sits in your chest that you’re still trying to decode. It's not guilt. You don't do guilt. Guilt is for people who care about things like morals and consequences and other people's feelings. But there's something else there that feels a lot like guilt if you squint.
You didn't need to cuss him off. Or belittle him. Or call him a gross loser for coming in his pants—the look on his face after, now forever burned into your mind. Not angry, not defensive, just hurt. Like you'd confirmed something he already believed about himself.
And underneath that disgustingly new achy feeling that you refused to name, there was a desire far worse:
You want him to text back.
You want him to want to text you back.
You want him to want you.
The thought is so foreign, so uncomfortable, that you shove it away immediately. You don't need his admiration. You don't need anyone's admiration. You're fine on your own.
Then, you look down at your textbook and sigh.
The assignment is due tonight. You haven't started. And Jake still hasn't texted back.
So you do what any normal person would do.
You find where he lives.
Not in a creepy way. You just... have connections. Your roommate happens to have a friend who has a friend who knows a girl who went out with his roommate once. Sure, you had to do a little digging, but desperate times call for desperate measures, right?
You make sure to arrive dolled up, pretty as ever, hoping that when he opens that door, he'll fall to his knees and bark for you like the good mutt you know he can be. And when he answers it, he's definitely looking, but not with the same kind of desperation as before. Rather, he looks at you like he has the right to.
His eyes are entitled to wander every inch of your body freely without complaint. And to be fair, you realize that in order to get his help again, you might just have to let him. So you let him. You even give him a little smile.
"What are you doing here?" he asks, his tone flat. He doesn't invite you in, only opening the door enough to block it with his frame. He glances a moment, back inside, distracted for a second until he turns back. "Wait, how did you even find where I live—?"
"The assignment is due," you state, plainly, "I'm collecting my end of the deal."
"Are you, now?" He scoffs, "Pretty sure that deal was broken when you started calling me a gross loser to my face."
Your eyes narrow at him, realizing he’d actually grown a semblance of a spine. How inconvenient.
"Come on, Jake, you got to take my bra off and hump me. That's way more than you bargained for."
"It's not," he says firmly, and before you can even protest that, or demand what it means, he continues, "And I'm not making deals with you anymore."
"Jake," you plead, "I'm going to fail."
"Good."
He tries to close the door on you, but you hold your arm out to keep it open.
"No. Not good," you snap, "Stop being a dick and just tell me what you want!"
"What I want, huh? Well, it's gonna take a lot more than some used panties or a pair of tits, I can tell you that much," He mocks you, a grin you've never seen him wear before spreading across his face, "What exactly are you willing to-"
You grab him by the collar of his shirt, dragging his face down to meet yours at eye level. Those big brown eyes of his blink at you, and that's how you know. You know he's still in there. The Jake who looks at you like you're the sun, and he's the planet perpetually stuck in your orbit. Not the new “Jake” who ignores your texts and acts like he doesn't want your attention.
"Anything," you seethe, sounding a little more desperate than you would hope to, but that is what you are. You still need his help. You still need to know that he wants you. "I'll do anything."
"Anything?"
"Anything."
He blinks, his twisted smile returning in an instant.
"You want a blowjob or something, you perv?" You roll your eyes at his expression, "You'll finish in five seconds, but I'll be nice and offer a round two if you send me the answers first."
You let go of his shirt, and he stumbles back as he begins to laugh, foot kicking the door. Distant laughter joins him, and the door opens just enough to reveal his three roommates sitting there on the couch, looking real amused by the scene that just played out.
"Shit, you hear that, Jake?" Heeseung calls out, "Buy one, get one free. That's a steal."
"Didn't know blowjobs were on sale this season," Jay snorts, "What's next, handjobs for half off?"
"Is swallowing included, or is that a part of the premium package?" Sunghoon grins, eyes meeting your murderous glare, "What? I'm just trying to understand the business model."
You feel your face flush with humiliation, and Jake just watches.
"Jake," you step closer, voice just above a whisper, a quiet plea, "You want something. Everyone does. Don't act like-"
He grabs you by the wrist, pulling you inside. And you both ignore the shock and teasing that escapes his roommates as he practically pushes you inside his room, firmly shutting the door behind him.
It's a small, cluttered space, but it's clean. A desk with his gaming PC, his twin bed in the corner with a rumpled comforter, and some nerdy-looking posters on the wall. It's exactly what you expected.
You open your mouth to speak again, but he cuts you off.
"I don't want a blowjob." The words cut you off, flat and final. He's already pulling out his phone, thumb swiping across the screen. He doesn't look at you. "I want something else."
He opens his roommates' group chat. Scrolls. Taps. Then, he's holding up his screen for you. A video loads, sent only a few minutes ago—blurry, shot from inside the apartment, the frame slightly obstructed by what you think is a couch pillow or someone's pocket. Though your voice is unmistakable.
"I'll do anything."
"Anything?" Jake can be heard too, but his voice is a little lower, and with his back turned to the camera, he's not easily identifiable. It could be any dark-haired guy at your school.
"You want a blowjob or something, you perv? You'll finish in five seconds, but I'll be nice and offer a round two if you send me the answers first."
Your face is clearly revealed in the final frame just as the door cracks open, and just before the camera falls into the couch cushions. The video then cuts off.
You blink at what you'd just been shown, your stomach dropping, then you blink at the man before you.
"What I want is for you to promise you'll never do this to anyone ever again." His voice is steady. He locks the screen and tucks the phone into his back pocket. "Otherwise, this is getting sent straight to the university's confessions page."
You twitch, and your fingers curl at your sides.
"Jake." You let the old sweetness drip back into your voice—the one that used to make him blush, the one that used to work. "Are you really trying to blackmail me?"
"I'm not trying to." He holds your gaze. "I am."
You gape.
"My roommates want to leak it right away." He shrugs, moving away to lean back against his desk, arms crossed. "But I thought you at least deserved a chance to redeem yourself."
He lets the words hang. Lets you imagine the comments. The screenshots. The whispers in the hallway.
"You know what this would mean for you." His voice is quiet. Matter-of-fact. "Social suicide. No one will talk to you. No one will want to associate with you. You'll be..." He pauses, tilting his head. "Ah, what do you call it again? Right. A loser."
The word lands like a slap.
"Aw, don't look so down," he coos, "You'll always have me, right?"
You scoff, narrowing your gaze.
"You can't do this to me."
"Oh, please." He pushes off the desk and takes a step toward you. "You started this. It isn't even a big ask. Just stop flaunting yourself around and open your textbook for once."
You glare at him.
It isn't a big ask. But it's not about what he's asking you to do. It's the fact that he's holding this over your head, thinking he has the right to control you, acting like he's above your little con—all for what, revenge? Vengeance?
Boys are usually easy. You're not sure how you got stuck making deals with the most difficult of them all. But a boy is still a boy. And Jake is still Jake. And currently Jake is, you notice as your eyes drop, obviously hard in his pants.
His sweatpants do nothing to hide it. You watch his eyes drag over you—your lips, your chest, the curve of your waist—against his better judgment. He swallows, and you smile to yourself. He's still in there.
"It kills you, doesn't it?" You step closer, voice like silk. "Having a girl in your bedroom for the first time. Offering to let you do anything you want with her. And turning it down just to pretend like you're a hero."
His jaw tightens.
"Are you hoping to be applauded?" You tilt your head. "For saving all those poor innocent guys from the terrible fate of a pretty girl flirting with them?"
"It's more than that."
"Jake." You laugh, "All the other losers on campus aren't going to thank you. The only thing you'll get out of this is a pat on the back from your little friends. But if you make a deal with me..."
You reach out, trailing a finger down his chest, then let your palm slide over it instead. You can feel his heartbeat beneath your touch, his chest heaving as you look up at him through his lashes.
"I can make it more than worth your while."
You drop to your knees, ignoring how they dig into the cold, hard floor. The look on his face is priceless, seeing him slowly unravel in your grasp.
"You're upset, aren't you?" Your hand trails up and down his thigh, and your eyes shift back and forth from him to the desire in his pants, "I've been feeling down, too. I miss the little thing we had going on. It was easy, don't you think? You and me. Helping each other out."
"I helped you." His voice is strained. "And then you hurt me."
"I was so mean to you last time, wasn't I?" Your hand rests above cock this time, and he winces at the feeling of your palm engulfing him, even if through the barrier of fabric. You lean forward enough to nuzzle him, lips brushing over his crotch, "I'm sorry... But I can make up for it."
You tease him—slow, deliberate, mouth half parted over him.
"Just forget about the video." You purr, finally pressing your palm against him—just enough pressure to make him gasp. A strangled whine escapes his throat. "And just send me the assignment, Jake. I'll let you have your way with me. I'll scream loud enough to make your roommates wish they were you. You just have to click send."
You look up, and you know that look. It's the same one that folded for you when you brushed his shoulder at your house, ultimately convincing him to do your work. It's the same one he had in the car when you offered him second base. It's the look of someone who wants something so bad that they can't possibly deny themselves any longer.
"You said anything?"
"Anything."
He looks at you, pained. Helpless. Brows furrowed together, then he nods.
Your eyes glimmer.
He pulls out his phone. His thumb moves across the screen, and you wait somewhat impatiently. It feels like it takes longer than it should, you think, before your phone buzzes in your back pocket.
You immediately move to open it, ignoring the other notifications.
Jake: [sent Assignment_3.pdf]
He reaches out immediately, his fingers tangle in your hair. It's not gentle. It's a warning. Your phone tumbles from your grasp, landing with an ungraceful thud to the floor.
"You better act like you enjoy it."
You don't flinch; instead, you lock eyes with him, letting a sly smile curve your lips before your fingers hook around the waistband of his pants. His length springs free from its confines, baring him to you for the first time, and admittedly, you stare.
"That's a nice surprise," you coo, sounding genuinely impressed, rather than the act you had planned on, as you wrap your hand around his cock, thumb collecting the precum at his tip and spreading it down the length of him. You look up, seeing how he watches in complete adoration and awe, biting down his lip. He's barely holding himself together already, and you're already grinning at the thought. "You're big. You've really been keeping this thing hidden away?"
Your lips part around the head of his cock. Your tongue darts out , lapping up every drop of precum you can taste—salty, warm, proof that you've already got him. He whines, fingers curling tighter in your scalp.
"Ah- fuck," You hear him hiss. "Fuck, fuck, fuck-"
You moan around him, low and appreciative, the vibration buzzing straight through his shaft as you take him deeper, inch by inch, your mouth stretching to accommodate his thickness, taking him like your damn life depends on it- and well, your social life now does depend on it. Your tongue presses flat against the underside to trace every ridge and vein, and you can't look away from him. You're just beaming, knowing that he's struggling so hard not to lose himself this soon, when you've only just started.
His thighs tremble, muscles jumping under your hands as you grip them for leverage, nails digging in just enough to heighten the sensation. A whine slips from him, high and needy, when you take him down your throat, relaxing to let him nudge the back. You gag softly on purpose, eyes watering but never breaking contact.
"Fuck... you're really working for it, huh?" he stammers, almost in disbelief, "Maybe if you'd done this at the start, I would've done your work- shit."
His hips are stuttering into your mouth, throwing you off, and his words are laced with a mix of mockery and raw hunger, even as his body betrays him with those trembling jerks. You keep taking him anyway.
"B-but you chose to lead me on. Let me hope," He grabs your hair this time, pulling you closer despite the whines escaping him, "You're such a bitch."
Strangely, his words send a sharp pain through you, and his sounds, which grow more desperate as you work your mouth on him, start to sound less like a whimper and more like a cry, like a wounded animal. You knew you had hurt him. You just never placed yourself in a position where you had to confront that reality. But here, on your knees for him, you were forced to.
He finishes with no warning, unravelling completely in your devoted mouth, and you swallow every last drop, up until the moment he's dragging your head off of him and staring down at you. He's starry-eyed, a little distant-looking, laced with a foreign sort of desire that you don’t quite understand.
"Jake—?"
You're not sure how it happens, but you're being pushed to the bed, lips clashing into yours, tugging your clothes off your body until you're bare. You only pull him closer, removing his shirt too, and he kicks his pants to the side. He wastes no time dipping his head between your thighs, marvelling first at just how wet you were for him, then letting a shaky finger drag through the folds.
"Wanna taste you." The words escape him almost involuntarily, before he's diving right in, lapping at your folds with an eagerness that makes you gasp.
There's no teasing. His tongue laps at your folds, sloppy and unsure. There's no technique, just raw, desperate need, and yet somehow, it has you gasping for air like you've forgotten how to breathe. Your hips jerk involuntarily as he grabs you, pressing his face further into you.
You shouldn't love this nearly as much as you do. You shouldn't be showing him your cries of pleasure- you should be having to fake them. But your body betrays you. You want this. You want him so fucking badly.
Jake doesn't stop to think or second-guess; he just devours you with single-minded focus, eyes shining in wonder every time they flicker up to note your reaction, and you're losing yourself. Your fingers twist into his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, and yet it only makes him moan against your skin, adding fuel to his burning desire. Clumsy or not, it's too much, too intense, and your back arches off the bed, legs threatening to thrash around, though he keeps your thighs steady.
"Jake—ah, Jake!" The name rips from your throat, not only loud enough for everyone in the house to hear, but you'd be surprised if the neighbours didn't hear it, too. Your breaths come in sharp, uneven pants, body coiling tight.
"Come for me," he mutters into you, and you swear you feel his stupid grin between your legs. "Come for the disgusting loser you hate."
You come with a cry, trembling all over, soaking his chin as your thighs clamp around his head. But he doesn't stop. His hands lock onto your thighs, fingers digging in to hold them wide, keeping you pinned as his tongue keeps working—lapping up your release, circling your oversensitive clit with that same relentless hunger.
"Jake—ah—Too much," You sob it out, voice breaking into higher pitches, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
He just keeps going, humming against you, coaxing his name from your mouth until you're a whimpering mess.
When he finally pulls away, crawls back up to cup your face, staring at you.
"You let me do that," he breathes, "And you liked it."
It's not a question. It's a fact. He knows it. You know it. You both know it. If screaming his name like that wasn't proof of it, the stickiness between your legs and all over his chin certainly served as evidence enough.
You can fake flirt with him. You can fake a pitiful, sorry-eyed gaze that makes him weak in the knees. But you can't fake the way your body reacts from his touch. That, alone, seems to make him malfunction all over again, his face flushed, and his eyes dropping to your lips again.
And though you only just finished coming down from your high, you're pulling him down to kiss you, hungry and wet and needy and... slow. He kisses you slow this time, breathing you in, letting his mouth learn the shape of yours. You feel the length of him against your thigh, hard again, and against all common sense, you let yourself say the one thing you never thought you'd be saying to him, of all people, so easily.
"Fuck me."
He pulls away, but he blinks from the fog in his glasses. Quickly, he removes them, fumbling around as he scrambles to hover back over you. His arms brace himself on either side of the bed, and you look up. You could take back your words. But you don't. You don't want to.
"...What?"
"Fuck me," you repeat, a little slower this time like you're spelling it out for him, "I want you to fuck me, Jake."
He looks at you, and for a moment, you see a flicker of hesitation, a flicker of the Jake you'd known that first week of class, the one who was so desperate for your affection.
"Okay," he nods, a little dazed, "Okay, lemme just..."
His hand fumbles around at his bedside, half-blindly for the little foil he'd had yet to use, but you beat him to it. You tear it open, rolling it down his cock yourself. And, a little clumsily, he positions himself, though he turns to you uncertain, his eyes meeting yours.
"You know, when I said 'you better act like you enjoy it' I didn't mean like you have to. I was just kinda saying stuff," his voice is soft, sounding almost conflicted. His hands are at your waist, thumbs moving in slow circles, and though he's achingly hard against you, he hesitates, "So if you don't want this—"
"I want this," you affirm him, and you sort of raise your brow, "Do you want this?"
He smiles, then practically scoffs in disbelief at your question.
"Do I?" He laughs, a slight shakiness to it, "I've dreamed of this."
He presses his hips forward, and you both gasp at the sudden intrusion. He's big, but it's more than you expected, and the feeling of him inside you, stretching you, filling you, is overwhelming. A whine escapes him as he pushes just a little further, until he's buried all the way in. Then, he takes a moment to steady his breathing, like he's trying not to cum on the spot.
"F-fuck, I thought about this every day for weeks." The confession is ripped out of him, hands digging just a little harder into your waist at the feeling of your walls fluttering around him, "You're so tight, holy shit."
He starts to move, slow, like if he dared to move any faster, it might end all too soon, though you're thankful he does, considering you feel every movement all the way in your guts. You're a mess yourself, hands digging into his shoulders for support.
"Thought about your face," he keeps going, his mouth running like he doesn't know how to stop it. His hand moves to your jaw, taking in your glossy-eyed gaze and parted lips. "Thought about you saying my name-"
"Jake," you involuntarily squeak, his hips starting to pick up the pace just a bit.
"Just like that," he half-laughs, half-moans, looking down at your chest. He brings his hand to it, "Thought about these. Thought about all the pretty noises you'd make."
You're arching your back, meeting his thrusts, your nails digging into his shoulders, urging him on. He leans down, capturing one nipple between his lips, sucking hard while his tongue flicks over the sensitive peak. His free hand slides down your side, gripping your hip to angle you better, driving deeper into your slick heat. You can feel every inch of him dragging against your inner walls, the friction building that delicious pressure low in your belly.
"You like this, don't you?" He breathes. Though he's bringing a hand to your face, forcing you to look at him, "You like being fucked by the nerd you used."
You can't answer, can't form a coherent thought. All you can do is feel, feel the way he's filling you, the way he's making you feel alive in a way you haven't in a long, long time. You nod mindlessly, uncaring.
One hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your neck. He presses open-mouthed kisses there, sucking into your skin like he wants to claim every part of you.
"If I'm such a gross loser, what does that make you?" His breath is at your neck, then at your ear. "Campus slut, right? That's what they'll call you."
You cry out his name, a raw, desperate sound, as his cock presses right against the right spot inside you, and he's already following you over the edge. You clench around him, nails digging into his shoulders as he fucks you through your climax, riding out his own release you until you've both gone still.
He collapses on top of you, his body heavy and warm, his face buried in the crook of your neck. For a moment, you just lie there, tangled together, the smell of sweat and sex thick in the air. It's dizzying, trapping you in a post-climactic haze, so much that you cannot suppress the way your chest swells as he nuzzles into you. You look down at his peaceful form and instinctively, your hand reaches for his head, brushing through the mop of hair on his head. The gesture draws a groan from his throat, making you smile.
"You like it when I do that, right?" You ask softly.
He hums approval into you, arms wrapped tighter around you, all sweetly like he hadn't just fucked your brains out moments ago. It's nice. It's easy.
His breathing evens out, and for a second, you think he might have fallen asleep. So you just stroke his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands. You’ve always thought his hair is soft. The kind of soft that makes you want to bury your face in it and never come up for air.
"Jake?" You whisper.
"Mm?"
Your words get caught in your throat for a moment, your heart beating faster than you're used to. It makes you want to laugh at yourself.
"I liked holding your hand in the movie theatre," you finally say, with an unintended shakiness to your voice that makes your cheeks grow warmer, "and I liked kissing you in the car after."
He tilts his head at you, smiling. Wordless. Unreadable. You're not sure why it makes you nervous. You're not really sure what kind of response you had been hoping for, either.
"Just... thought I should let you know."
You scratch a particular spot close to his ear, and he lets out another happy grunt.
Your phone pings the floor, discarded somewhere along with your clothes, but you ignore it, deciding Jake's arms are too warm, and his bed is too comfy. But then it pings another time. Then another. Then his head turns to you.
"Not gonna check that?"
"Should I?" you raise a brow, and he shrugs.
You sigh, begrudgingly pushing yourself from the bed. It's probably your roommates texting about someone's dirty dishes, or your friends blowing up the group chat. But when you dig your phone up, you're blinking at the notifications.
Crawling back into the bed, you swipe through them as they filter in. Tags, messages, reactions, and your stomach drops at the one that stands out most—a mention in the university confessions page.
It's the video. From outside his door. Your voice, your face, your words: "You want a blowjob or something, you perv? "
There are already hundreds of comments, the video having been posted sometime an hour ago.
He sent it an hour ago.
You scroll in a panicked haze, skin crawling where his arms move to hold you again.
Laughing emojis. Jokes about your "business model." People you've never met are calling you a dumb whore, a desperate bitch. Campus slut. People you have met are calling you that, too. Your 'friends' have already unfollowed you, posting gossip to their stories, reposting memes.
Your social life is over. You could say goodbye to parties, to the circle of popularity you'd clawed your way into, to the image of perfection you'd upheld for years.
Pathetic. That's what you were, and that's all you'd ever be known for on campus from now until graduation, maybe even after.
The phone trembles in your grasp as you turn to him. You don't have the strength to ask how or when or why, though you suppose you already know why.
"Don't worry. I'll still help you with school," his voice is steady as he reaches over, taking his glasses from the nightstand and putting them on. "But that was my price."
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