bitsy

[pluvial-lake]

Reader who has a real job and actual bills. Reader who prioritizes her own peace over his feelings. Reader who has hobbies that don’t revolve around a man. Reader who actually has a life outside of him. Reader who says “no” and means it. Reader who isn't easily impressed. Reader who’s petty. Reader who has trust issues. Reader who chooses her girls every single time. Reader who has a body count and isn't ashamed of it. Reader who is exhausted by male fragility. Reader who holds grudges. Reader who’s a mess. Reader who’s mentally ill. Reader who makes mistakes. Reader who’s manipulative. Reader who’s selfish. Reader who’s morally gray. Reader who’s awful. Reader who genuinely doesn’t give a fuck.

[outtamymind00]

god made men then tumblr made pathetic choso as an apology

[iheartyuyu]

5 times sukuna was heavily yearning + 1 time you finally noticed.

oblivious, lonely reader who’s used to doing things alone x downbad!sukuna. jealous!sukuna. gn!reader. reader wears glasses. uncle!sukuna. sukuna calls reader angel. he’s so down bad bro. ooc sukuna as usual. mentions of nsfw contents.

— ☆ —

1. movie nights.

you had a specific, detailed, high maintenance routine for watching movies. you had slowly perfected the process— a mental to do list popping up every time a new movie dropped that you needed to watch.

first, you needed to be in your designated ‘movie night pajamas’, the most comfortable you owned. your favorite blanket had to be there, along with your favorite pillow for support. you liked watching in your home more than cinemas, because you disliked the idea of not being able to pause the movie for whatever reason. who decided to make bathroom breaks that short, anyways?

for snacks, chips poured into your favorite bowl, your favorite niche flavor. a chocolate bar sat beside it just incase the movie got intense enough for you to crave it. your favorite drink was set beside them in a thermal cup, allowing you to drink it as slow as possible without it melting too quickly.

your phone had to be on dnd, blocking out every notification. the room had to be cold, and you avoided any distractions because pausing the movie on piracy websites meant three minutes of closing ads to turn it back on.

tonight, everything was perfect.

you were perfectly wrapped in your blanket, eyes wide as it watched the screen perfectly, chips tasting perfect, drink perfected, everything absolutely perfect—

bzzz.

you immediately groaned. who could possibly be showing up? you hadn’t ordered food. no one was invited over. it was late. what could possibly be urgent enough to prompt someone to ruin your little routine?

you paused the movie (which took three minutes of pressing ‘x’ on ads urging you to ‘text hot, single ladies in your area’, and ‘ai bots who can make you cum in three minutes!’), pushed the blanket off, and pulled the door open with a soft pout you didn’t even register, just to pause when you saw sukuna standing there, eyebrows furrowed, frowning.

you and sukuna weren’t that close, really. you were in the same friend group, but you always felt nervous around him. he was intimidating, scary, too cool for you. he always stared at you blankly, and you decided he was judging you for… everything. you were awkward, nervous, a little odd.

so, him showing up to your home at midnight was a little… nerve-wracking. his red eyes slowly scanned your comfortable, worn out pajamas, messy hair, tiny pout that faded as your eyes widened, before he blinked blankly. “sorry for showing up unannounced.”

he didn’t sound apologetic. at all. his tone was monotonous, almost unamused.

“can i come in?”

you slowly blinked, before realizing how dumb you must look. you grimaced internally, stepping aside, letting him in. immediately, his eyes landed on your little set up, and he arched an eyebrow. “movie night, huh? watching part two of your little movie series?”

“how did you know?” you mumbled, genuinely confused. much to your surprise, his lips twitched up in something that looked like admiration, amused, and it was the closest you ever got to see him smile.

holy fuck, he was so gorgeous it felt unfair. now that you were actually focusing on the man towering over you, dressed in a black shirt and gray sweatpants, tanned skin peaking from under his clothes, muscles on view—

“it’s your favorite series, and it just dropped. i can recognize the sketchy ass website because you hate netflix. you have your little movie night routine, pajamas, chips, and drink.” he murmured casually, nonchalantly, as if it was normal that the guy you thought disliked you knew this much about you. “i listen, you know.”

your jaw was slack, eyes wide. he only snorted, arching an eyebrow. “don’t tell me fucking gojo was right and you really think i hate you.”

you paused. “well…”

“are you serious?” sukuna scoffed. “you’re my fucking favorite in the group, dumbass.”

“what?” you mumbled back, more confused. “you always glare at me. you never talk to me. i was starting to think you didn’t even know my last name.”

he stared at you, almost as if you were insane, then sighed. “you really are oblivious, huh?”

“hey—“

he shook his head, still looking mildly amused. “here’s the notes suguru said he would drop by to give you and forgot. i know you like studying early.”

“oh. you didn’t have to—“

“i wanted to.” he immediately stated, face serious. “‘ll leave you to it, can’t have someone ruining your perfect night. goodnight.”

with that, he was out, leaving you even more flabbergasted.

what. the. fuck.

2. hangouts.

you were still getting used to the idea that sukuna told you that not only did he not hate you, but that you were his favorite in the group. to you, the idea was unbelievable. flabbergasting. maybe even a little more scarier than being hated by him for some reason, but you managed pretty well.

at least you were more comfortable hanging out with your group now.

however, you had a tiny little habit. you hated the coffee at the place your friends loved, so often, you just walked away to the place next to it to buy your own coffee. it provided you a break, making the little pit of your stomach that grows when having to be around people, even your best friends, for too long reset, and you just get a chance to catch your breath.

today wasn’t different. in the middle of the hangout, you grabbed your wallet and slipped out, enjoying the tiny walk in fresh air before you stepped into your favorite cafe.

the familiar barista immediately lit up at the sight of you, boredom fading from his face. he was your age, friendly with a cute grin that grew whenever you two chatted— something that made you feel at ease when ordering.

“my favorite customer,” he immediately greeted, grinning. the bell at the door chimed, and you both didn’t pay any mind to it. “i wonder what you will order this time.”

you snorted. you both knew you ordered the exact same thing every single time. “yeah, i wonder too.”

he chuckled, eyes flickering to the screen. you could feel a figure stopping behind you. “well, you know your total.”

you hummed, about to pay, when the familiar scent of sukuna’s signature perfume finally registered in your mind as he moved to step beside you, eyes narrowed, jaw slowly twitching. “make it two.”

you slowly glanced up. the barista looked up in surprise, before he nodded calmly. “of course.”

before you could register it, sukuna’s card was pressing against the machine, paying for you both. your jaw went slack for the second time this week, flabbergasted once more, but sukuna was already pulling you out of line so that the people behind you could pay.

and, more unfazed that he should be by his own actions, he casually held out the receipt. “here. you take the code and collect points on their app, right?”

“…how the fuck do you even know that?” you mumbled, utterly confused. “why are you here? how did you find me— did you even know what you ordered—“

“easy there, angel.” he murmured, calm. “you always carry the receipt and i see you type something from it on your phone often. ‘m here because the coffee in the other shop is ass. you always come here, so i figured i would try my coffee with you. i know what i ordered because i know your order.”

you openly gaped at him. he only reached over, grabbing both drinks, arching an eyebrow. “are you gonna gape at me forever or drink this sweet shit?”

“…did you just call me angel?”

his amusement immediately faded, ears turning red as he shoved your drink your way, looking away. “absolutely not. hallucinations. let’s go.”

that was what he chooses to deny? not that he knew your movie night in details? that he knew your exact drink? that he knew you secretly collected points from your favorite coffee shop?

you let out a tiny chuckle, amused, following behind him. that somehow managed to make his ears even more red, a scowl pulling on his pretty lips.

fuck. he was gorgeous, and adorable.

how horrible for you.

3. aquarium.

you laid face-down on shoko’s bed, face showed between the pillows, eyes shut in pure horror. “‘m so screwed.”

she sighed for the nth time from where she sat on the ground, studying. “you quite literally could not be more not screwed.”

“i have a crush on him, shoko. i never have crushes. and now i have one, on fucking sukuna. the guy once punched a guy for breathing ‘his’ air. he fucking hates people. i am so utterly fucked. he will kill me.”

she glanced up, as if she knew something you didn’t. “he won’t kill you. kiss you? maybe.”

“stop being delusional.” you mumbled, voice muffled as you buried your face into the sand further. “‘m so fucked.”

she sighed. “you’re delusional too if you don’t realize what’s happening. anyways, isn’t it the twenty seventh? your monthly aquarium night?”

you jumped up, gasping. “it is! fuck!” you quickly grabbed your phone to check the time, before opening the aquarium’s instagram page just in case there were any updates.

and, unfortunately, right there on their instagram story, posted twelve hours ago, was a simple statement.

‘couples only day!’

“oh, fuck my fucking life.” you mumbled, eyes on the story, shoulders drooping. “shoko, be my aquarium date.”

“couples only, huh? if only these weren’t the conditions,” she mused, almost flirty, before tilting her head.

“yes.”

“ask sukuna to go with you.”

you blinked once, twice, before pulling up your phone, nodding, serious. “good idea. ‘m asking gojo or geto.”

“that is quite literally not what i said.”

“you’re a genius.”

you sent off a quick text to geto and gojo, jumping off her bed to head to your own apartment to get ready. after dressing up all cute for the sake of your loved marine animals, you glanced down at your phone, where a vague text from gojo said he couldn’t, followed by maybe three million crying emojis (which was maybe because he had begged before to accompany you said no. aquariums were a single, you-only trip), and geto sent back a simple ‘he’s almost there’, and a thumbs up.

what kind of reply was that? you frowned, sending five questions marks, about to ask who the fuck ‘he’ was, when your doorbell rings.

you pulled the door open, and freeze when your eyes landed on the one and only sukuna. he glanced at you, eyes blank, and nodded once. “let’s go.”

“…where?”

he raised an eyebrow. “the aquarium. date night. let’s go.”

“…are you sure?” you immediately mumbled, voice uncharacteristically low. “‘m, uh, kind of enthusiastic about this. nerdy. geeky. um, annoying.”

his lips twitched up into an endeared smile that he immediately pushed back. “i know what ‘m getting into. let’s go.”

you grabbed your jacket, eyebrows furrowing. “suguru could have just said he couldn’t come. i’m sorry he sent you instead.”

“oh, he could come.” sukuna stated blankly, stepping into the elevator behind you. you glanced up at him, confused, and he stared back blankly, as if waiting for you to collect dots you didn’t even see. he only sighed after a few minutes, shaking his head. “this is both cute and infuriating. so, which stupid creature is your favorite?”

you expected a night with sukuna to be awkward. tense. uncomfortable. a night where you had to hold back so you don’t become labeled as talkative, or annoying, or too much.

you didn’t expect for him to be a good listener. nodding at whatever you said, asking questions at first to keep you talking until you were comfortable rambling. you didn’t expect him to hold your things so you could comfortably get closer to the glass, or stay longer at your favorite animals, or ask you about ones that seemed interesting, his eyes soft and lips twitching upwards just the slightest. you didn’t expect him to disappear at one point and come back with a few limited-edition items from the small gift shop either, dumping them in your arms wordlessly as you two were walking out.

“thank you for being my fake date for the night, kuna.” you mumbled as he was dropping you off, sleepy, eyes soft and voice slurred. he paused at your words, lips twitching into a frown before he eyed how sleepy you were and only sighed.

“of course, angel.” he muttered, reaching over and nonchalantly pressing a kiss to your forehead before he turned around, walking away. “…sleep well, goodnight.”

gaping at him seeming like a new routine, except this time, your sleepy eyes were set on his back as he left, almost getting distracted by his muscles showing through the fabric. oh, you were so, utterly fucked.

4. the beach.

you sat quietly on the sand, wrapped tightly in a towel, eyes ahead as you watched gojo, geto and shoko shoving each other in the water. choso was on a towel beside you, deeply asleep and snoring. toji was playing around with megumi and nobara and yuji, who was yapping about how his uncle dropped him off and disappeared. everyone was enjoying themselves.

you were freezing.

you had gotten there earlier, having known they would all show up too late. you liked swimming alone with no eyes on you, so with too much sunscreen, you stayed in the water under the sun in what you knew was the perfect time for you. by the time everyone else arrived, you were already drying in the shade.

oh, how you wished you had a dry towel—

a dry towel dropped into your lap before the thought even finished. you froze, glancing up at the sky, before immediately closing your eyes again and wishing for a million dollars just in case.

“don’t stare at the fucking sun.”

ah. your genie.

you peaked through your lashes at sukuna, who glared at you, a hand going to shade your eyes from the sun. he was dry, holding a small bag which you assumed was for his wallet and phone and car keys and towel, the sun kissing every spot on his perfect body, as if purposely teasing you.

fuck. how could someone be so pretty?

he sighed, pulling a cap out of the bag. he pushed it on top of your damp hair, shading your face, and slumped beside you. “switch towels. mine is dry.”

“hi.” you mumbled dumbly, blinking a few times to snap yourself from the daze seeing his beautiful red eyes in the sun put you through. his lips twitched, face softening, and he only pulled the cap down further. you finally remembered how to think. “don’t you need your towel dry?”

“‘m not going into the water this late.” he stated. his eyes flickered to choso asleep, and he rolled his eyes, standing back up. you watched shamelessly as he effortlessly pulled the heavy umbrella so it was covering the sun kissed stoner, sighing, voice lower. “that dumbass.”

“i spray him with sunscreen every two hours. flipped him once.” you mused, taking the chance of sukuna being distracted to switch towels, sighing in relief once the warm, dry, soft towel wrapped around you. “thank you, kuna.”

“don’t mention it.” he grunted, then frowned once he registered your words, “you rub sunscreen on him?”

“oh, no, it’s a spray.” you hummed, pulling it out. “isn’t it cool?”

he glanced at the spray bottle, shoulders slowly relaxing. “mhm. it is. can you spray me?”

you nodded, moving to stand up, immediately stumbling in the towel. firm fingers immediately steadied you, and you deeply hoped he couldn’t feel the warmth radiating off you from being flustered as he slowly let go.

you slowly sprayed him, the sunscreen leaving a shiny coat that made him look even more beautiful. after making sure every part of him was covered, you slowly sat back down. “try to rub it to make sure it’s even.”

he hummed, eyes shut, slowly spreading it out, spreading it out on his tan skin.

what a fucking sight, really. he was so, unbelievably gorgeous. you were so fucked.

“…you went early, huh?”

“…yeah.” you mumbled, eyes still on him, hoping he keeps his eyes closed.

“tell me next time. ‘ll go with you.” he sighed. “these idiots always come when it’s already too cold.”

you nodded slowly as he finally finished, slumping next to you on the little beach mat gojo had gotten, so close that his thigh was pretty to your covered figure. he frowned. “your lips are pale. still cold?”

you grimaced. “‘ll be okay. thank you for the towel—“

he sighed, an arm wrapping around your shoulder before he was pulling you towards him. you missed the way his body relaxed, lips twitching into a repressed grin, the face of a man finally achieving one of his long lost goals.

holy fuck. you were pressed to his side, his body oozing warmth. he smelled great, and you could feel his muscles every time he shifted. as you stared ahead, trying to pretend like you weren’t malfunctioning, your eyes landed on shoko, gojo and geto staring back at you guys from the water, jaws slack.

well. at least it wasn’t you this time.

5. studying.

as much as it seemed otherwise, studying with gojo actually helped you. you both kept each other in check— you stopped him whenever he started yapping, and he distracted you whenever you were spiraling. you both were a team when studying— having been one since the first semester, when you both met.

during breaks, however, was when you really liked studying with gojo. you both sat with thirteen expensive pastries in front of you, gojo’s treat, and he grinned excitedly. “oh, this will be so good. you go first.”

“you don’t have to tell me twice.” you mumbled, picking one up. you immediately moaned in delight, holding the rest to gojo, who reached over and took the rest from between your fingers. “fuck. this is so good.”

gojo let out an even louder moan. you both ignored the disgusted glares from the people around you, happily chewing. “oh, these are fucking godsent. thank you for being my taste buddy.”

“thank you,” you mumbled, grabbing another one. “you’re the one spoiling me with these. you’re, like, my dream man right now.”

gojo let out a loud laugh, before pausing, shivering in horror at whatever he imagined. “do not let sukuna hear you saying that. he’ll have my head.”

“why would he have your head for that?” you mumbled, mouthful, and distracted by the heavenly taste of these. you weren’t even a fan of pasteries, but these were on another level. you tried another, and immediately groaned. “fuck. try this one.”

you immediately extended your hand out to gojo. he, as usual, ate half of it off your fingers instead, and dramatically melted in his seat. “ten out of ten. perfect. stunning. i will marry whoever made these.” he swallowed, and quickly ate the rest off your fingers to. “and he will because he’s, like, in love with you.”

“you flipping liar.” you mumbled, unamused with the obvious fake news. “he doesn’t. he’s just a good friend.”

“he’s not a good friend,” gojo snorted. “he almost shoved my head into the toilet bowl yesterday because he was bored. he likes you.”

you did not believe him the slightest. “uh-huh. wanna try the red one?”

“yes, please.”

later that night, you were curled up in bed— going over everything you had studied earlier to lock the information into your mind. the groupchat was blowing up after choso was caught kissing someone (you already knew the news. choso blurted about his ‘secret’ crush to you before when he was high, and forgot.) and you just shot back a sticker laughing, said you were studying and you needed more caffeine to deal with this, and shut your phone off completely.

you really needed caffeine.

everytime you shut your eyes, all you can see is a cold, cup of your favorite coffee from your favorite shop. the condensation running down, the inviting taste, everything—

fuck. you needed one so bad. you frowned, turning your phone on to glance at the time, and paused when a notification stood out from between the ones on the groupchat.

sukuna: pick u up for coffee in five?

you stared at the message, then slowly glanced down at the sweatpants and oversized hoodie you were in, your hair messy, broken glasses on because you were too lazy to get these specific ones fixed and you lost the other, before sighing. you needed caffeine too bad to worry about how you looked in front of him right now.

you: please :c

a car honked downstairs a few minutes. you quickly grabbed your wallet and your half-dead phone, rushing downstairs, grabbing an oversized jacket on the way so you could tug it on top of your thick hoodie, grimacing at how much of a mess you looked. you slid into the passenger seat, and sukuna only stared at you, eyes slowly taking in your appearance, lips softly pulling up.

“don’t say anything.” you immediately mumbled. his smirk widened, but he didn’t speak, immediately resuming to drive, eyes ahead. “‘m so sleepy.”

“uh-huh. let’s get some caffeine in you.” he murmured, turning more serious. “don’t overwork yourself tonight. did you have dinner?”

you nodded, ignoring how your heart felt like it was twirling in your chest. “i did. ate and drank and slept well.”

he hummed. “good.”

in the coffee shop, he got the same as you, paying despite your complaints. once the drinks were out, he grabbed both, wrapping yours in tissues to keep your fingers from being cold before handing it over, humming.

you were looking over notes in your phone, too tired to register his actions. you only quietly took the cup, immediately sipping, shoulders slowly rolling down, tense muscles relaxing. “thank you, kuna.”

he clicked his tongue. “don’t mention it.”

in the car, you focused on sipping the coffee, and he cleared his throat. “gojo said you two were on a study date this morning. pastries and shit. said you called him your dream man.”

you snorted. sukuna glanced over, utterly unamused, almost pouting. “i love gojo.”

his lips immediately formed a scowl. “you love him?”

“not like that,” you snorted. “he’s just… he was the first person who was nice to me in university, you know. the first person who made sure i never felt like a burden. he means a lot to me, platonically.”

he was silent for a while, then nodded, pulling up in front of your building. “good. you deserve to never feel like a burden. you… mean a lot to me.”

was he trying to kill you? you immediately shuffled out, heart beating like it was trying to escape your chest, cheeks burning. “you mean a lot to me too, kuna. um, goodnight. thank you for picking me up.”

“don’t mention it, angel.”

+1.

against your will, you were dragged to a party.

you would have been enthusiastic, really, if finals hadn’t just ended— leaving you too sleep deprived that you couldn’t even walk straight. gojo had came over to force you out and picked your outfit out for you, keeping in mind your pleads for it to be something warm, and you ended up in the passenger seat of his car, asleep soundly, vaguely aware of his whining about you needing to be awake as he drove you there.

you could only remember little snippets between your tiny naps, really.

gojo having his arm around you as he dragged you in.

you slumping down beside choso, immediately falling asleep on his shoulder.

sukuna crouching down in front of you, concerned, eyes worried.

sukuna covering you with a blanket.

sukuna sitting beside you, pulling your head into his shoulder instead.

geto replacing choso. you shifting, head falling into his shoulder because he was warmer.

sukuna immediately pulling you back towards him, an arm falling around your waist to keep you close, bickering with geto.

after that, you drifted into deep sleep— the kind that only came after a week straight of pulling all nighters. and, when you woke up again, you were wrapped in a blanket, on the roof, on a tiny couch with your head on sukuna’s lap and a cigarette between his lips.

the second he registered you awake, he pushed the cigarette into the ashtray, eyes soft, fingers on your shoulders to help you sit up. “you okay, angel?”

“mhm. sleepy.” you mumbled, blinking slowly, still half asleep. you yawned, rubbing your eyes. “thank you for watching over me, kuna. you’re, like, my angel.”

“…don’t mention it.” he whispered— although, it sounded more like a pained whimper. “i… yeah. don’t mention it.”

it was silent for a few minutes. you both stared up at the sky, lost in thought, before sukuna cleared his throat.

“…the stars are pretty.”

“mhm.”

he paused, before speaking again. his voice was low, soft, but it was laced with quiet frustration that you could tell wasn’t pointed at you. “we’re, uh, done with the semester.”

“…mhm.”

he clicked his tongue, and sat up, like he’s restarting. “…we’re good friends.”

“we are.” you mumbled, still dazed from your delicious, needed nap. he let out a small groan, face buried into his palm.

“fuck.”

“…kuna?” you murmured, voice soft, sleepy. his eyes finally flickered up, frustrated and almost disappointed in himself, and you only gave him a small, sleepy smile. “i like you too.”

and finally, it was his turn for his jaw to go slack, eyes widening, before he turned to you quickly. “you’re not fucking with me, right? you like me?”

you nodded, sleepy, but focused. “i like you.”

he didn’t hesitate before dropping to his knees in front of you, eyes soft and almost pathetic. “say that again. please.”

“i like you, kuna.” you repeated, quieter, softer, more serious.

he let his head drop, face pressed against the blanket covering your thighs briefly, voice muffled when he spoke. “…you have no idea how many years i have been dying to hear this, angel. fuck.” when he lifted his head back up, his red eyes were almost glossy. “‘m marrying the fuck out of you one day.”

that managed a sleepy laugh out of you. “take me on a date first, at least. we haven’t even kissed yet.”

his eyes lit up at the mere thought— before you watched him visibly holding himself back, trying to appear more relaxed, probably to not scare you off, despite his reddening ears at the idea. “right. dates. i will date you so fucking good, i promise, you will never think of anyone but me again. not even that stupid barista who clearly wants you so bad. only me.” he nodded, serious, scowling, before his eyes softened again. “best dates of your life. where do you want to go? dinner? coffee? aquarium? your little movie night routine at my place? do you want me to make it a surprise? i will be the best boyfriend— wait, fuck, not that yet—“

you reached over, softly pressing your lips to his,

he froze, eyes probably wide, then immediately melted the second your fingers gently cupped his face to pull him closer, letting out a soft, little sound into the kiss that had his face flushing further.

once you pulled away, your eyes met his dazed ones, and he slowly sucked in a deep breath. “….fuck.”

“dinner sounds good.” you whispered back, thumb brushing over his bottom lip, and he shut his eyes, as if it took visible effort not to groan. “next week?”

“you think ‘ll make it to next week?” he let out a sharp laugh. “you have me fucking kneeling for you, angel. tomorrow. 8. please.”

“okay.” you murmured, voice soft. “now, come back up, i will want to continue napping on you.”

“…anything you fucking want, forever.”

[lac4ygal]

𝑲𝒊𝒔𝒔 & 𝑻𝒆𝒍𝒍 p.sh ┃ 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒆

Since freshman year, you’ve run the university’s anonymous gossip blog, Kiss & Tell. You’ve seen it all: cheating allegations, toxic situationships and at least forty-seven complaints about the cafeteria chicken. But nothing floods your inbox more than posts about PARK SUNGHOON — the university’s resident fuckboy and walking bad decision. So for the blog’s final exposé, you decide to write about him. Too bad Sunghoon’s already in the middle of a bet with his friends: to keep a girl for thirteen days. And somehow, the anonymous girl tearing him apart online becomes the only one he can’t stop thinking about.

pairings. fuckboy!sunghoon x female!reader ┃ wc. 13.2k

content warnings. dual pov · hidden motives · miscommunication · fake dating adjacent · emotional manipulation · pining (both sides, they’re so stupid) · explicit sexual content — oral f. receiving, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, size kink, praise kink, dirty talk, light possessiveness, marking · dramatic irony · this will hurt you and I’m not apologising for it

laceys note // the fic I’ve been most nervous to post… there is SO much happening in this one and I genuinely don’t know how yall are going to react 😋 yes this is heavily inspired by How To Lose A Guy and Gossip Girl x anyway hope yall enjoy and as always thank you for reading 🥰

🤍 kiss & tell

This year I’m giving you something special.

You’ve been asking for it since freshman year. The tips have been piling up in my inbox for three years running — do a piece on him, Kiss & Tell, someone needs to say something, Kiss & Tell, he did it again, Kiss & Tell, Kiss & Tell, Kiss & Tell.

Ask and you shall receive, darlings.

Introducing: 13 Ways To Lose Your Certified Campus Fuckboy.

Thirteen tips. Thirteen days. One subject who has absolutely no idea what’s coming.

We begin next week. You didn’t hear it from me though, because I don’t kiss & tell. x

[1,204 readers. 47 comments.]

FINALLY.

is it who I think it is.

kiss & tell if you’re reading this I have THREE submissions about this man please check ur inbox.

—

The thing about Park Sunghoon is that he is, by every available metric, exactly what the submissions said he was.

You’ve done your research. Three weeks of it, thorough and methodical, the kind of research you’d do for an actual piece — which this is, you’ve decided, this absolutely counts as journalism, your professor would probably disagree but your professor also gave you a C minus on your piece about the university’s dining hall monopoly which was genuinely your best work so his opinion is noted and filed in the bin.

You have a google doc. It has sections. There’s a tab called subjects and a tab called timeline and a tab called tips (working) and another one called notes which is mostly just screenshots of anonymous submissions that all say some version of the same thing: he’s charming, he’s beautiful, he made me feel like the only person in the room, and then he was gone, and I’m fairly certain he didn’t know my name by the end of it.

Seventeen submissions. Seventeen different girls. One name, consistent, at the centre of all of them.

Park Sunghoon. Figure skating scholarship. Second year Humanities, now final year. Shares a house off campus with Jay Park and Lee Heeseung, both of whom feature in the submissions as background characters — his friends were there, they seemed nice, Jay remembered my name even if Sunghoon didn’t appearing in three separate accounts with the specific poignancy of a detail nobody coordinated.

He has a type, according to the submissions. Which is to say he doesn’t have a type. He’ll talk to anyone, charm anyone, make anyone feel chosen — and then the choosing stops, and he moves on, and the girl is left standing in the aftermath wondering what she did wrong when the answer is nothing, the answer is that’s just what he does, the answer is you were never going to be the exception because Park Sunghoon doesn’t do exceptions.

He does this, you’ve established, approximately once every two to three weeks. He’s been doing it since freshman year. He has never, by any account you can find, caught feelings. He has never once, to anyone’s knowledge, repeated a girl.

He is, in short, a certified campus fuckboy, and he has been getting away with it for three years because he’s beautiful and charming and genuinely good company right up until the moment he isn’t, and by then it’s too late.

Not anymore.

You have a plan. The plan is elegant and slightly unhinged and Minji — your best friend, Kiss & Tell’s only reader who knows the writer — has called it both those things and also added extremely on brand for you which you take as the highest possible compliment.

Thirteen tips. The clingy, overwhelming, emotionally catastrophic playbook of everything a man like Sunghoon runs from. You’re going to deploy every single one, document it in real time, post it to the blog, and by day thirteen he’ll have run screaming and Kiss & Tell will have its most-read piece of the year and you’ll have actually done something with your journalism degree that matters.

The only thing you need is an in.

Which is, currently, the one gap in the plan.

You’ve been thinking about this for three days when Minji texts you at 9PM on a Friday: jisoo’s having people over. sunghoon will be there. i heard jay mention it.

You look at the message.

You look at your google doc.

You close your laptop, get up, and start getting dressed.

Jisoo’s apartment is the kind of place that fits thirty people comfortably and currently has approximately sixty, which means the music is too loud and the drinks are wherever you can find them and the air has that particular quality of a Friday night that’s fully committed to itself.

You arrive with Minji at ten, already knowing the layout — Jisoo’s place is a known quantity, you’ve been here before, the kitchen is to the left and the living room is straight ahead and the back patio is where people go when the inside gets too much.

You find a drink. You find a wall. You survey the room with the practiced efficiency of someone who has been reporting on this campus for three years.

You find him in four seconds.

He’s not hard to find. That’s the first thing — he doesn’t try to be found, he doesn’t need to, he simply exists in a room and the room orients around him without being asked. He’s tall, which you knew, and he’s wearing something simple, which you didn’t expect, dark jeans and a plain shirt and the specific ease of someone who has never once had to try very hard.

He’s laughing at something Jay said — Jay, beside him, is grinning with the energy of someone who said something very funny and knows it — and the laugh is real, you can tell from here, unperformed, and this is information you file away because it matters. The charm is one thing. The realness underneath it is something else.

You’ve been looking at him for approximately thirty seconds before Minji says, very quietly, “you’re staring.”

“I’m researching,” you say.

“You have a look on your face.”

“It’s my research face.”

“It’s not your research face,” Minji says, and takes a sip of her drink with the serenity of someone who is going to be right about this and knows it and is content to wait.

Three hours earlier, Jisoo’s apartment is already filling up when Jay Park has his idea.

This is, historically, how most problems begin.

He’s standing with Sunghoon near the back wall, both of them with drinks, watching the room do what rooms do on Friday nights — fill up, get louder, become the kind of atmosphere where things happen that people talk about on Monday.

Jay is on his second drink. Sunghoon is on his first. This ratio is relevant.

“Can I ask you something,” Jay says.

“No,” Sunghoon says.

“When’s the last time you actually—” Jay makes a vague gesture that encompasses a significant amount of meaning. “You know. Stayed.”

Sunghoon looks at him flatly. “What.”

“With someone. Longer than — you know. The usual.”

“I don’t have a usual.”

“You absolutely have a usual,” Jay says. “8 days maximum. You don’t learn their names by the end. You move on. It’s a whole thing.” He tilts his head. “When’s the last time you actually kept someone around?”

Sunghoon is quiet for a moment. He drinks his drink.

“Why,” he says, which is not an answer.

“I was just thinking,” Jay says, with the careful casualness of a man who has been thinking about this for longer than just now, “that it’s been a while. And I was thinking about whether you actually could. If you tried.”

“Could what?”

“Keep someone.” Jay looks at him. “Like. Actually keep her. Not the thing you do. The real version.”

“I keep people.”

“Sunghoon.”

“I do.”

“You kept Chaewon for seven days in second year and forgot her name on day four,” Jay says. “She was in three of my seminars. It was a whole thing.”

Sunghoon says nothing.

“Thirteen days,” Jay says, and the number arrives in the air between them with the particular weight of a challenge that’s been building to its own conclusion. “That’s what I’m saying. Thirteen days. One girl. You actually try. I don’t think you can do it.”

And there it is.

Sunghoon looks at him.

Jay looks back with the grin of someone who has just deployed the one thing that has never once failed to work on Park Sunghoon, which is I don’t think you can.

It goes all the way back to when they were seventeen and Jay said I don’t think you can land that triple and Sunghoon landed it, and then again at eighteen when Jay said I don’t think you can get into that programme and Sunghoon got into that programme, and now they are twenty-two and standing at a party on a Friday night and Jay has said I don’t think you can and the outcome is, as always, inevitable.

“Thirteen days,” Sunghoon says.

“Thirteen days.”

“Fine.”

Jay blinks. Even knowing it was coming, even having built to it, the speed of it catches him off guard. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Sunghoon finishes his drink. Sets the glass down. “Fine.”

Jay opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again with the expression of a man who has just heard the trap click shut and has only just registered that he was also standing in it.

“Great,” he says, slightly less certainly than he’d like. “That’s — yeah. Great.”

“Who loses,” Sunghoon says.

“What?”

“If I lose. What do I owe you.”

“I—” Jay hadn’t gotten this far. “I don’t know. Bragging rights.”

“Bragging rights,” Sunghoon repeats, unimpressed.

“And you do my laundry for a month.”

“And if I win?”

“You won’t.”

“Jay.”

“Fine. If you win I’ll do your laundry for a month and I’ll admit in front of Heeseung that you were right about the Ateez album.”

A pause.

“Deal,” Sunghoon says immediately.

They shake on it. Jay watches him scan the room with the quiet, unhurried focus of someone who has just been given a task and is already approaching it systematically, and feels, somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach, the specific sensation of having made a decision he doesn’t fully understand yet.

He takes a long drink.

He tells himself it’ll be fine.

—

“He’s at the drinks table,” Minji says. “Corner of the kitchen. Jay’s with him but Jay just got pulled into something in the living room so Sunghoon’s alone.”

You look at her.

“You’ve been tracking him,” you say.

“I’ve been observing,” she says. “Go. And look like you’re going for a drink, not like you’re going for him.”

“I know how to walk into a kitchen, Minji.”

“You know how to walk into a kitchen like a journalist on an assignment,” she says. “Which is different. Relax your face.”

You relax your face.

“More,” she says.

You relax it more.

“Good. Go.”

You go.

The kitchen is quieter than the living room, the particular relief of a party room that isn’t the main event — a handful of people, the counter lined with bottles, the window cracked open letting in the cold October air.

He’s exactly where Minji said he’d be.

You clock him in your peripheral vision and do not look directly at him, which is a skill you have developed specifically for this kind of thing — the journalistic sidelong awareness, present without being obvious. You move toward the drinks table with the energy of someone who wants a drink and only a drink and has no awareness whatsoever of the person three feet to her left.

You reach for a bottle.

He reaches for the same one.

Your hands arrive at the neck of it at the same moment.

You look up.

He looks down.

Up close he is — and you’re going to note this for the record and then never think about it again — significantly more than his submissions prepared you for. Which is saying something, because the submissions were not understating it. But there is a difference between objectively good looking as a reported fact and objectively good looking as a thing happening to you personally at close range on a Friday night, and the difference is considerable and you are a journalist and this is a story and you absolutely clock it and file it away and move on.

“Sorry,” you both say, at the same time.

A beat.

He takes his hand off the bottle. “Go ahead.”

“No, it’s—” You gesture. “You were here first.”

“I wasn’t, actually.” Something in his expression is doing a thing — a quiet recalibration, the kind of look that assesses and concludes and moves forward. “I just got here.”

“Same time, then,” you say.

“Same time,” he agrees. He picks up the bottle. Pours two glasses without asking. Hands one to you.

You look at it.

“Bold,” you say.

“You were reaching for it,” he says simply. “Seemed like you wanted it.”

You take the glass. You drink. It’s good — he poured the right thing, which means he clocked what you were reaching for in the half second before you both arrived at it simultaneously, which means he notices things, which is information you file immediately in the subject tab of your mental google doc.

“Sunghoon,” he says.

“I know,” you say, and then catch it. “I think Jisoo mentioned you. She mentioned a few people.”

He looks at you with an expression that suggests he’s heard this kind of recovery before and found it charming rather than annoying, which is somehow worse than if he’d called you out directly.

“Y/N,” you say.

He says your name back, once, quietly. Just to himself. Like he’s storing it.

Something in your chest does something completely unauthorised and you attribute it to the drink.

“Final year?” he asks.

“Journalism,” you say. “You?”

“Literature.” He leans against the counter — not performing it, just settling, the ease of someone completely comfortable in any room he’s in. “And the rink. Early mornings.”

“Figure skating,” you say, as if you’re learning this for the first time, as if it isn’t highlighted in yellow in tab one of the google doc.

“Don’t,” he says.

“Don’t what?”

“Whatever you were about to say.”

“I was going to say it sounds peaceful,” you say. “Early mornings. Quiet rink.”

He looks at you for a moment. Like he was braced for something and got something else instead. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice is slightly different. “It is.”

The kitchen moves around you — people coming in, going out, the ambient noise of a party in full swing — and neither of you moves.

“Can I ask you something,” he says.

“You just did,” you say.

The corner of his mouth does something. Not a smile exactly — the precursor to one, the thing that happens before the decision is made. “Fair,” he says. “Can I ask you something else.”

“Depends what it is.”

“What are you doing tomorrow.”

You look at him. He’s looking back with the steady patience of someone who is used to waiting for things he’s decided he wants, and underneath it something that wasn’t in any of the seventeen submissions — a directness that isn’t performance. He’s not deploying the charm right now. He’s just asking.

You are a journalist. This is a story. Day one begins tomorrow and tip one requires a pet name and you need his number to deploy it.

“I might be free,” you say.

“Might be.”

“Probably am.”

“Can I have your number,” he says, no preamble, just the question, and you think about seventeen girls who probably said yes to this exact question in this exact tone of voice and you think about the google doc and the thirteen tips and the fact that you are not going to be number eighteen.

You are going to be something else entirely.

“Sure,” you say, and take his phone when he hands it over.

You type your number. You type your name. You hand it back.

He looks at the screen. “Just Y/N?”

“You don’t need my last name yet,” you say.

“Yet,” he repeats, and the corner of his mouth commits this time, the full thing, and it gets out before he decides to let it and you think that this specific smile — the unguarded one, the one that isn’t the charm — is going to be the most dangerous part of this entire assignment.

You file it. You move on.

“Goodnight, Sunghoon,” you say, and you take your drink and you leave the kitchen and you do not look back.

In the living room, Minji is waiting with the expression of someone who has been watching through the kitchen doorway for the last four minutes and has formed approximately forty seven opinions.

“Well,” she says.

“I’m in,” you say.

“And?”

You look at your drink.

“He’s worse than the submissions,” you say.

Minji opens her mouth.

“Don’t,” you say.

She closes it. She has the expression of someone who is going to be right about something and has infinite patience.

You drink your drink.

Across the room, through the kitchen doorway, Sunghoon is looking at his phone. You watch him save your contact. Watch him type something. Delete it. Type something else.

Your phone buzzes.

unknown number: it was good to meet you tonight

You save the contact immediately. You stare at what you’ve typed for a moment, then change it.

hoonie 🤍

—

that night, 1:47AM:

hoonie 🤍: it was good to meet you tonight

you: who’s this

hoonie 🤍: you know who this is

you: I might need a reminder

hoonie 🤍: I owe you a drink

you: the one you poured me was actually really good so I think we’re even

A pause. Three dots. Gone. Back again.

hoonie 🤍: what are you doing tomorrow

you: why

hoonie 🤍: no reason. just asking.

you: I’m probably free

hoonie 🤍: I’ll pick you up at 12

you: bold of you to assume you have my address

hoonie 🤍: do I not?

you: …I’ll send it to you

hoonie 🤍: good

you: goodnight

hoonie 🤍: goodnight Y/N

—

🤍 kiss & tell

tip 01: give him a pet name. immediately.

Here’s what nobody tells you about a man who runs on charm — he’s built his whole personality around the way his name sounds in other people’s mouths. He knows how it lands. He’s been watching it land for years.

So take it away.

Give him something else. Something soft and slightly ridiculous, something completely at odds with everything he’s spent three years carefully constructing. Don’t ask permission. Don’t explain it. Just deploy it, directly, and watch what happens to his face.

The goal isn’t to annoy him. The goal is to see who he is when the thing he relies on gets gently, cheerfully removed.

Results to follow

You didn’t hear it from me. x

[1,847 readers overnight. 63 comments.]

she’s actually doing it.

KISS AND TELL THE WAY I SCREAMED.

I know exactly who this is about and I have never felt more seen in my life.

—

He picks you up at twelve.

This is the first thing that surprises you, which you don’t let show — that he said twelve and it’s twelve, exactly, his car pulling up outside your building at eleven fifty-eight and him not texting to say here or outside or any of the things people say when they arrive, just waiting, engine running, until you come out.

You clock this on the way down the stairs. Filed under: he’s punctual. he waited. he didn’t announce himself.

The car is clean. This is the second thing. Not aggressively clean, not the sterile cleanliness of someone performing tidiness — just maintained, looked after, the cleanliness of someone who takes quiet care of things they own. There’s a jacket on the back seat and a reusable coffee cup in the holder and a small air freshener hanging from the mirror that smells like cedar and you are absolutely not going to find this endearing.

“Hey,” he says, when you get in.

“Hi, hoonie,” you say.

A pause.

He looks at you.

You look back.

“Hoonie,” he repeats.

“Mm.”

“That’s—” He stops. Starts again. “Where did that come from.”

“I don’t know,” you say cheerfully. “It just suits you.”

“It doesn’t suit me.”

“I think it really does.”

He looks at you for another moment with an expression that is trying to be flat and not fully succeeding — there’s something underneath it, something that might be the effort of not reacting, which means he is reacting and choosing not to show it, which is more interesting than if he’d just been annoyed.

He puts the car in drive.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

“There’s a place,” he says. “Near the rink. Good food. You’ll like it.”

“How do you know what I’ll like.”

“I don’t,” he says simply. “But if you don’t, we’ll go somewhere else.”

You look at the side of his face.

Filed under: he has a contingency. he’s already thought about what happens if the first plan doesn’t work.

You face forward.

“Hoonie,” you say again, conversationally, and watch his jaw do something in your peripheral vision.

“Please,” he says.

“Please what?”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

He glances at you. You are the picture of innocence. He looks back at the road.

“You’re going to keep doing it,” he says. It’s not a question.

“Probably,” you say.

A pause.

“Fine,” he says, and there’s something in it — resigned, but underneath the resignation something else, something that sounds almost like he finds this funny and is refusing to admit it.

You face forward and smile at the windscreen where he can’t see it.

Tip one: deployed.

The place near the rink is small and warm and the food is exactly what he said it would be, which you note because it means he knows what good food is and he knew enough about you after one conversation to make an accurate prediction.

You eat across from each other at a small table by the window and it’s — easy. That’s the thing that keeps catching you off guard, the thing that wasn’t in the submissions. The submissions covered charm, the warmth, the way he makes you feel like the only person in the room. What they didn’t cover was this — the version of him that exists when he’s not performing anything. The version that eats his food without making it an event and asks questions that are short and real and actually listens to the answers.

He asks about journalism. Not oh cool what’s that like but specific things — what you want to do with it, what kind of writing you actually care about, whether you think print is dead or just resting.

“Resting,” you say, firmly.

“Resting,” he repeats, like he’s testing whether he agrees. “Why.”

“Because people still want stories. They just want them differently. The format changed, not the hunger.”

He looks at you across the table. “What do you write?”

“Pieces,” you say. “Long form, mostly. Campus stuff. Culture, people, the way things work underneath the way they look.”

“Anything published?”

“The university paper. Some external stuff.” You take a sip of water. “Nothing that’s set the world on fire yet.”

“Yet,” he says, giving you your own word back, and the corner of his mouth does the thing.

You look at your plate.

Filed under: he pays attention to the exact words you use. he remembers them. he deploys them back.

This is, you think, how he does it. Not the obvious charm — the specific attention. The making-you-feel-like-your-words-matter thing. You’ve been watching for the playbook and this is it, this is the whole thing, and knowing what it is should make it easier to withstand.

It does not make it easier to withstand.

“What about the skating,” you say, because you need to redirect. “How long?”

“Since I was seven,” he says.

“Competitions?”

“Through high school. Regionals, a few nationals.” He says it the way people say things they’re proud of but have learned not to lead with. “Scholarship for university. Now it’s just — mornings. Keeping it.”

“Do you miss competing?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Longer than the other answers.

“Sometimes,” he says. “Not the competing. The clarity of it. When you’re on the ice and there’s a programme to execute, everything else goes quiet.” He looks at his water glass. “I miss the quiet.”

You look at him.

He seems to realise he’s said something more than he meant to, because he looks up and recalibrates slightly — not retreating, just adjusting. “Sorry. That was—”

“Don’t apologise,” you say.

He looks at you.

“It was a real answer,” you say. “Those are better than the other kind.”

Something in his expression shifts. The recalibration stops. He holds your gaze for a moment with the look of someone encountering something unexpected in a place they thought they knew the map of.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I guess they are.” You are a journalist. This is a story. You eat your food.

He drives you back at two-thirty.

Outside your building he doesn’t turn the engine off, just parks, and you sit there for a moment in the particular quality of the end of a first — not a date, this is not a date, this is day one of thirteen and you have twelve tips left to deploy.

“I had a good time,” he says.

“Me too,” you say, which is true, which is fine, which is completely consistent with the plan.

“Tomorrow?” he says.

“What about it.”

“Are you free.”

You look at him. “Why, hoonie?”

The jaw thing again. “Because I’d like to see you again. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” you repeat.

“Is that a yes?”

“That’s a probably,” you say, and get out of the car, and don’t look back, and get into the lift, and press your floor, and the second the doors close you take out your phone and open the google doc.

Day 1 — complete. Tip 1 deployed. He hates the nickname.

You pause.

He also doesn’t hate the nickname.

You close the google doc. You open the blog dashboard. You start writing.

In the car outside your building, Sunghoon sits for a moment after you go in.

He looks at the building entrance.

He thinks about real answers are better than the other kind said with the particular directness of someone who means exactly what they say and has no interest in softening it.

He thinks about hoonie delivered with complete sincerity and zero apology and the way he couldn’t find a single thing to do with it.

He picks up his phone. He opens the text thread.

tomorrow works. I’ll come to you this time.

He looks at what he’s typed. He sends it. He puts the car in drive.

Across town, your phone buzzes.

hoonie 🤍: tomorrow works. I’ll come to you this time.

You stare at the contact name.

You type back: okay. noon again.

You put the phone down.

You pick up your notebook.

You write: tip two. the move-in. start small. a candle.

—

He comes at noon the next day.

You’ve been up since nine preparing, which is not something you will ever admit to Minji, who would make a face that would live in your memory for years. You’ve done your reading and drafted a column and had two coffees and told yourself that the preparation is logistical, it’s for the piece, it has nothing to do with the fact that someone is coming over at noon and you’d like the flat to look — not different exactly. Considered. Like you live here intentionally.

He arrives at noon exactly. Same as yesterday. You are starting to understand that this is just who he is — the punctuality, the quiet reliability of it — and you are filing it accordingly and not finding it anything other than useful data.

He’s in a different hoodie today. Still simple, still worn-in, still somehow doing more than it should.

You let him in.

He looks around your flat with the attention he gives everything — quiet, unhurried, taking it in properly rather than performing interest. He looks at your books, your desk, the organised chaos of a final year journalism student who lives primarily in her own head.

“Nice,” he says, which from him means something because he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.

“Thanks,” you say. “Make yourself at home.”

He sits on your sofa.

You go to the kitchen.

You come back with two coffees — his black, which you know from Minji’s intelligence and are absolutely not going to reveal that you know — and a candle, which you set on the coffee table with the ease of someone simply adding to their space, nothing deliberate about it, just a girl putting a candle in her own flat.

He looks at the candle.

“Cedarwood,” he says.

“Mm.”

“That’s—” He pauses. “That’s what my car smells like.”

You meet his eyes with complete innocence. “Is it? I’ve had this one for ages.”

He looks at you.

You hand him his coffee.

He takes it, still looking at you, with the expression of someone who is doing a calculation and arriving at a result he finds interesting.

“Hoonie,” you say, sitting beside him. “What do you want to do today?”

The jaw thing. “Stop calling me that.”

“I genuinely don’t know what you mean,” you say.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“Sunghoon is a lot of syllables,” you say. “Hoonie is efficient.”

“It’s two syllables.”

“Exactly. Same as Sunghoon. But softer.” You look at him with perfect sincerity. “It suits you.”

“It doesn’t—” He stops. Closes his mouth. Opens it again. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know yet,” he says, and his voice is different — not suspicious, more like genuinely curious, the specific tone of someone encountering a puzzle they actually want to solve. “But you’re doing something.”

“I’m drinking my coffee,” you say. “In my flat. That I’ve lived in for two years.”

He looks at the candle. Then at you.

Then, slowly, he smiles. Not the charm one. The real one, the unguarded one, the one that got out before he decided whether to let it. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” you agree. You drink your coffees.

He stays for four hours.

This is not planned. The plan was two hours maximum — enough to establish presence, enough to deploy the beginning of tip two’s territorial creep, enough to leave him wanting more rather than enough. Four hours is not strategic.

Four hours happens because he mentions a book on your shelf — something you’ve had since first year, annotated to within an inch of its life — and you end up in an argument about whether the narrator is unreliable or just mistaken, which are different things, which he agrees they’re different things but disagrees on which one applies, and the argument is so genuinely enjoyable that you don’t notice the time until the light through your window has gone from afternoon to early evening and you’ve both moved from the sofa to the floor at some point without registering the transition.

“Unreliable implies intention,” you say, for the fourth time. “He’s not lying. He just doesn’t know.”

“Not knowing is a form of unreliability,” he says, also for the fourth time, from the other side of the coffee table. “Your perception shapes what you report. An unreliable perception makes an unreliable narrator regardless of intent.”

“That’s a really broad definition of unreliable.”

“It’s the correct definition.”

“According to who?”

“According to the text,” he says, and picks up the book and reads you a passage with the ease of someone who has it half-memorised, which means he’s read this book before, which means he recognised it on your shelf, which means—

You stop that thought.

“That passage supports my reading,” you say.

“It supports mine.”

“It doesn’t—”

“It—”

“Hoonie.”

He stops. Looks at you. Something in his expression does the thing — the almost, the precursor — and then he looks back at the book and says, very calmly, “I will concede the passage is ambiguous.”

“That’s not the same as conceding the argument.”

“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”

You look at him across the coffee table, the cedarwood candle burning between you, your annotated book in his hands, and you think about seventeen submissions and thirteen tips and the google doc with its four tabs and the fifth one you opened and immediately closed.

“It’s nearly six,” he says, checking his phone.

“Is it?”

“I should go.” But he doesn’t move. “Jay’s making dinner. He does this thing on Sundays where he decides he can cook and Heeseung and I have to either eat whatever it is or pretend we had plans.”

“Do you ever just tell him he can’t cook?”

“Every time.” He stands, finally, handing you back the book. “He does it anyway.”

You walk him to the door.

He picks up his jacket from the hook — he hung it up when he came in, you noticed, without being asked — and pauses.

“Tomorrow,” he says.

“What about it.”

“I have the rink in the morning. But after.” He looks at you. “Come to ours. Jay will make too much food regardless.”

“You’re inviting me to dinner at your house,” you say.

“Jay’s inviting you to dinner at our house,” he says. “Jay just doesn’t know it yet.”

You look at him.

“So that’s a yes?” he says.

You think about tip two. Move your stuff in. Start small. Establish presence in his space.

“Sure,” you say. “What time?”

“Seven.” He opens the door. Pauses. “Bring the candle.”

He says it completely straight-faced and leaves before you can respond, and you stand in your doorway watching him go down the hall and thinking that Park Sunghoon just made a joke about the candle, which means he knows about the candle, which means he’s paying attention to everything, which means this is going to be significantly more complicated than the google doc accounted for.

You close the door.

You pick up your notebook.

tip two update: he invited me to the house. didn’t even have to engineer it. he did it himself.

You pause. Read it back.

this is either going really well or really badly and I can’t tell which.

That night, after Jay’s food — which was aggressively fine, not bad, not good, aggressively fine — and two hours on their sofa watching something none of you were really watching, you leave the candle on their kitchen counter.

You do it on the way out, smooth and casual, setting it down like you’re just putting something down while you put your jacket on.

Heeseung sees you do it.

He says nothing.

You say goodnight and leave.

In the kitchen, Jay looks at the candle.

“Is that—”

“Don’t,” Sunghoon says.

“I’m just asking—”

“I know what you’re asking.”

“It smells nice,” Jay says. “That’s all I was going to say. It smells nice.”

Heeseung, from the sofa, turns a page of whatever he’s reading.

“She left it on purpose,” he says, to the page.

“Obviously,” Sunghoon says.

Jay looks between them. “And that’s—”

“Fine,” Sunghoon says. “It’s fine.”

He goes to his room.

Jay looks at the candle. Looks at Heeseung. Looks at the candle again.

“He likes her,” Jay says.

“I know,” Heeseung says.

“It’s day two.”

“I know,” Heeseung says again.

Jay pulls out his phone. Looks at the bet, the text thread, the terms. Puts the phone back in his pocket.

“We’re fine,” he says, to nobody in particular. Heeseung turns another page.

hoonie 🤍: you left your candle

you: did I? I didn’t notice

hoonie 🤍: you noticed

you: I’ll pick it up next time

hoonie 🤍: or I could bring it when I see you tomorrow

you: you’re seeing me tomorrow?

hoonie 🤍: apparently

you: bold assumption

hoonie 🤍: is it wrong

A pause. You look at the ceiling of your room. You look at your notebook, open on the bed beside you, tip two update written in your handwriting.

you: no

hoonie 🤍: goodnight Y/N

you: goodnight hoonie

Three dots. Gone.

Then:

hoonie 🤍: I’m not calling you anything back

you: I know. goodnight.

hoonie 🤍: …goodnight.

—

🤍 kiss & tell

tip 02: start moving your stuff in. casually. let him notice slowly.

Don’t announce it. Don’t make it an event. Just — leave things. Small things first. A candle. A jacket over a chair. Let the object do the work while you do nothing at all.

The goal isn’t possession. The goal is presence. The goal is to become a feature of his space so gradually that by the time he notices, you’re already there.

Did it work? He texted me about the candle.

Draw your own conclusions.

You didn’t hear it from me. x

[2,341 readers. 81 comments.]

the CANDLE.

she’s an evil genius and I mean that with full respect.

anonymous: I recognise this man’s entire behavioural pattern and Kiss & Tell you are doing the lord’s work.

—

🤍 kiss & tell

tip 03: cry. in front of him about something small.

Not a breakdown. Not a scene. Something small and genuine and completely disproportionate to the situation — a sad video, a dog, a song that comes on at the wrong moment.

The objective is simple. Men like this have spent years perfecting the art of emotional unavailability. They’ve built entire personalities around not being the one who feels things in public. So you introduce feelings — small, manageable, completely non-threatening feelings — and you watch what they do with them.

Do they run? Do they freeze? Do they do the stiff-shoulder-pat of a man who has never once been asked to sit with someone else’s emotions?

Results to follow.

You didn’t hear it from me. x

—

Day three arrives with the particular energy of something that has already decided what it’s going to be.

You know this before you’re fully awake — the specific quality of the morning, October light coming through your curtains in the thin gold way it does when the weather can’t commit to itself, and your phone already buzzing on the nightstand with a text that came in at seven forty-two AM from a contact saved as hoonie 🤍 which is, you think, perhaps a sign that day three has opinions.

hoonie 🤍: rink was good this morning. you’re up?

You stare at this message for a moment.

He texted you at seven forty-two in the morning, voluntarily, to tell you the rink was good.

You file this.

you: I am now

hoonie 🤍: sorry

you: don’t be. what made it good

A pause. Longer than his usual response time, which you’ve already clocked is short — he’s not a leave-it-on-read person, he responds when he sees it, which means he has his phone nearby most of the time, which means the deliberate pauses are deliberate.

hoonie 🤍: landed something I’ve been working on for two weeks

you: the triple?

hoonie 🤍: you know about the triple

You freeze.

you: you mentioned it. yesterday. when you were talking about the programme.

This is a lie. He did not mention it yesterday. It is in tab one of the google doc, sourced from a submission sent in by a girl who went to one of his morning sessions three months ago and described watching him attempt a triple axel for forty minutes with the specific admiration of someone who has been thoroughly won over against their will.

Three dots. Then:

hoonie 🤍: I don’t think I mentioned it

you: you definitely did

hoonie 🤍: …okay

He doesn’t push it. You exhale.

you: so you landed it?

hoonie 🤍: yeah

you: how does it feel

hoonie 🤍: like the ice gave me permission

You read this three times. You put your phone face down on the pillow. You pick it up again.

you: that’s a really good way to put it

hoonie 🤍: I’m a literature student

you: is that your excuse for everything

hoonie 🤍: it’s not an excuse it’s a qualification

You laugh, alone in your room at seven fifty AM, at a joke made by a boy you are assigned to lose over thirteen days, and you file this too — he’s funny. not performed funny. actually funny. — and you do not examine the filing too closely.

you: come over later?

You send it before you can think about whether it’s too eager, too fast, inconsistent with the planned arc of tip deployment. It doesn’t matter. It’s day three. The scrapbook is day four. Today is the crying, which requires proximity, which requires him to be here.

That’s why you sent it.

hoonie 🤍: what time

you: whenever. I’ll be in all day.

hoonie 🤍: two?

you: two works

hoonie 🤍: see you at two Y/N

You put the phone down. You open the google doc. You open a new document — not a tab, a separate one, private, not part of the Kiss & Tell infrastructure — and you write:

he said the ice gave me permission. I don’t know what to do with that.

You close it without saving.

He arrives at two with food.

Not a lot — just things, from the place near the rink, the good one, without being asked, without announcing it. He comes through the door and sets a paper bag on your counter and shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on the hook, which he does automatically now, second time and already automatic, and you think about establish presence from your own tip and feel the specific irony of him doing it back to you without knowing.

“You didn’t have to,” you say, nodding at the bag.

“You had food here last time,” he says. “Fair’s fair.”

“I had coffee.”

“And a candle.”

“The candle was already here.”

He gives you a look that says he absolutely knows the candle was not already there and is choosing not to press it, which is its own kind of move — letting you have the small fictions, not calling them out, keeping the game friendly.

You are a journalist. This is a story. You find this extremely interesting and nothing else.

You eat the food he brought at your kitchen counter, standing, which turns into sitting on the floor with your backs against the sofa because your flat is small and the counter doesn’t have stools and somehow the floor is just where you both end up, plates balanced, talking about — nothing. The specific nothing of two people who are finding out that they can fill time with each other without effort, which is either the most ordinary thing in the world or the most significant, depending on who you are.

He’s telling you about Jay’s latest cooking disaster — something involving rice and a confidence level that was not supported by the actual skill — when your phone, face up on the coffee table, plays a video.

Autoplay. Something from your feed. You’d been scrolling before he arrived and left it open.

You both look at the screen.

It’s a dog. A golden retriever, elderly, being reunited with a soldier coming home. The dog sees the soldier and its whole back half starts wagging and it makes a sound — a specific, desperate, you’re back you’re back you’re back sound — and the soldier gets down on his knees on the tarmac and the dog practically climbs into him.

You watch it for four seconds.

Your eyes fill up.

This is not entirely the plan. The plan was to deploy the crying strategically, with a video you’d pre-selected, at a moment you’d engineered. What is happening instead is that the video arrived without warning and you are apparently the kind of person who cries at dog videos at two forty-five in the afternoon in front of someone you are professionally obligated to remain detached from.

You blink. Hard. Once.

Too late.

Sunghoon looks at you.

He looks at the phone. Looks back at you. Looks at the tear that has made it approximately halfway down your cheek before you get a hand up to intercept it.

“Are you,” he starts.

“I’m fine,” you say. “It’s a dog.”

“I can see it’s a dog.”

“He was so happy,” you say, which is not a sentence you planned to say, which arrives from somewhere entirely outside the tip deployment framework. “He didn’t even — the sound he made—”

“Okay,” Sunghoon says.

“I’m not crying,” you say.

“You’re definitely crying.”

“It’s a dog,” you say again, as if this is a complete explanation, which to you it is.

He is quiet for a moment.

Then he does something you did not put in the google doc, which is that he reaches over and hands you a napkin from the food bag — not with ceremony, not with the performance of someone doing a kind thing, just hands it over, plain and practical, the way you’d hand someone a napkin — and goes back to his food.

He doesn’t say anything else about it.

He doesn’t make it weird.

He doesn’t do the stiff-shoulder-pat. He doesn’t freeze. He doesn’t make a joke or look uncomfortable or redirect the conversation with the energy of someone escaping a situation they don’t know how to be in.

He hands you a napkin and goes back to his food and lets the moment be exactly what it is — small, genuine, completely disproportionate — without making it anything more.

You wipe your face.

You go back to your food.

“He was really happy,” Sunghoon says, after a moment, to his plate.

You look at him.

He is very focused on his food. The tips of his ears are faintly pink.

“Yeah,” you say. “He was.”

You do not put this in the blog post.

You write the tip. You write the strategic version, the one about emotional unavailability and the shoulder-pat and watching what he does with feelings he didn’t expect to encounter. You write it with the detachment of a journalist who has the story under control.

You do not write about the napkin.

You do not write about his ears.

You open the private document — the separate one, the one that isn’t part of the Kiss & Tell infrastructure — and you write:

he handed me a napkin and didn’t make it weird. that’s it. that’s the whole thing. I don’t know why I’m writing this down.

You stare at it.

You close it without saving. Again.

—

Day four arrives and you have a scrapbook to make.

You’ve been thinking about the scrapbook since you planned the tips. It’s the most unhinged one — the most deliberately, strategically overwhelming — and it requires actual effort. You need photos, which means you need photos from the last three days, which means you’ve been taking them.

You have, it turns out, taken more photos than you planned.

The food from the place near the rink, the brown paper bag with its logo. A screenshot of a text exchange that made you laugh. The view from his car window on day one, which you took while he wasn’t looking because the light was doing something through the glass that you wanted to keep. His jacket on your hook — just the jacket, the empty shape of it against the door, which you took on day two after he left and have not examined why.

You print them at the campus print shop on Wednesday morning. You buy a scrapbook from the art supplies place next door — not a nice one, not a proper one, the kind with a flimsy cover and pages that are slightly too thick, which is exactly right. You buy stickers, because of course you do, and some tape, and a marker, and you sit at your kitchen table for an hour and make something that is objectively both ridiculous and, somewhere underneath the ridiculousness, completely genuine.

Because the photos are real. You actually took them. The light through his car window is actually beautiful. The jacket on the hook is actually — it looks like it belongs there, which is the thing you noticed when you took the photo, the way it looked like it had always been there, and that’s why you took it, and you are a journalist and this is a story.

You close the scrapbook.

You put it in your bag.

He comes over at noon. He’s in the hoodie again — different one this time, grey, slightly older, and you’ve started to understand that the hoodies are his version of comfortable, that he dresses for other people sometimes and for himself other times and the hoodie version is the himself version.

“Hoonie,” you say, letting him in.

“Y/N,” he says, with the patience of someone who has accepted this is simply going to happen.

You make coffee. You bring it to the sofa. You sit beside him with your bag and he’s looking at his phone, something about the rink schedule, and you pull the scrapbook out and set it on the coffee table.

He looks at it.

Then at you.

“What’s that,” he says.

“A scrapbook,” you say.

“Of.”

“Us,” you say. “Mostly. The last few days.”

He is very still.

“We’ve known each other for four days,” he says.

“Three and a half,” you correct. “But a lot happened.”

He looks at the scrapbook. At the cover, which has a sticker on it — a small gold star, because you had the stickers and it felt right — and his name written in marker in your handwriting, hoonie, which you did partly for the tip and partly because by the time you were making it you’d stopped thinking about the tip.

“Can I—” he starts.

“Go ahead,” you say.

He picks it up.

He opens it.

You watch him.

He goes through it slowly, which you didn’t expect — you expected a quick flip, the polite skim of someone who doesn’t know how to receive something like this and is looking for the exit. Instead he takes his time. Each page. The food bag photo. The text screenshot. The light through the car window.

He stops on that one.

“When did you take this,” he says.

“Day one. On the way to lunch.”

“I didn’t see you take it.”

“You were driving.”

He looks at the photo. At the light through the glass, the way it caught and scattered, the particular quality of it that made you reach for your phone without thinking.

“It’s good,” he says, quietly. Not performing it.

“I know,” you say. “That’s why I took it.”

He turns the page.

He finds the jacket photo.

He’s quiet for a long moment. Long enough that you stop watching him and look at the coffee table instead, the cedarwood candle — his candle now, in their kitchen, you brought a new one for yours — and the two coffees going slowly cold.

“You took a photo of my jacket,” he says.

“It looked nice on the hook,” you say.

“On your hook.”

“On my hook. Yes.”

He closes the scrapbook. Sets it on the table. Picks up his coffee.

You wait.

“You’ve known me for four days,” he says again.

“Three and a half.”

“Y/N.”

“Sunghoon.”

He looks at you. And here is the thing — here is the thing you didn’t put in the google doc and couldn’t have — he doesn’t look unsettled. He doesn’t look like a man encountering an overwhelming situation and calculating his exit. He looks like a man encountering something he doesn’t have a category for and finding, to his own apparent surprise, that he’s not looking for one.

“You’re something,” he says.

“I’ve been told,” you say.

“I don’t mean it like that.”

“How do you mean it.”

He looks at the scrapbook on the table. At the gold star sticker on the cover. At hoonie in your handwriting.

“I don’t know yet,” he says honestly. “I’ll tell you when I do.”

You look at him for a long moment.

Filed under —

You don’t file it.

For the first time since the google doc, since the seventeen submissions, since the plan that is elegant and slightly unhinged, you look at Park Sunghoon sitting on your sofa holding his coffee with the scrapbook of three and a half days on the table between you and you don’t file it.

You just look at him.

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay,” he says.

You drink your coffees.

He leaves at four. He picks up the scrapbook on the way out, without asking, and you watch him tuck it under his arm like it’s something he’s taking home, which it is, which means it worked, which means tip four is complete.

You should feel like you won something. You mostly feel like you did something real.

“Tomorrow,” he says, at the door.

“Tomorrow,” you agree.

He goes.

You close the door.

You go to your desk. You open your laptop. You open the blog dashboard and you write the tip post — the strategic version, the scrapbook-as-weapon version, the this-is-how-you-overwhelm-a-man-who-runs-from-feelings version.

Then you open the private document.

You stare at the blank page.

You type: he took it home.

Four words. You look at them.

he took it home and I don’t know if that’s the tip working or something else and I think the problem is I’m not sure it matters anymore which one it is.

You close it.

This time you save it.

In the house off campus, Jay finds the scrapbook.

Not snooping — it’s on the kitchen counter, which is where Sunghoon put it when he came in, and Jay sees it because he goes to the kitchen for water and it’s just there, and he picks it up because it has a gold star sticker on it and he’s curious.

He opens it.

He looks at the photos. The food bag. The text screenshot. The light through the car window. The jacket on the hook.

He closes it.

He goes to the living room where Heeseung is reading.

“Heeseung,” he says.

“Mm.”

“We have a problem.”

Heeseung turns a page. “I know.”

“She made him a scrapbook.”

“I know.”

“It’s day four.”

“I know, Jay.”

Jay sits down heavily on the sofa. He looks at the ceiling. He thinks about the bet — the text thread, the terms, thirteen days, one girl, you actually try — and he thinks about Sunghoon’s face when he came home, which was not the face of a man who is running a bet.

It was the face of a man who took a scrapbook home and is not entirely sure why and is not entirely bothered by not being sure.

“We should say something,” Jay says.

“Should we,” Heeseung says, not looking up.

“One of us should—”

“Which one of us,” Heeseung says, “is going to walk into Sunghoon’s room and tell him that the girl who made him a scrapbook on day four is doing it on purpose, and also that you made a bet, and also that we’ve both been watching this happen and said nothing?”

Jay opens his mouth.

“Which one of us,” Heeseung continues, turning another page, “is going to do that.”

Jay closes his mouth.

He looks at the ceiling.

“We’ll give it a few more days,” he says.

Heeseung says nothing.

Which is, Jay is beginning to understand, Heeseung’s way of saying you have made a catastrophic error and I am going to let you arrive at that conclusion yourself.

Jay goes back to the kitchen.

He looks at the scrapbook on the counter.

He gets his water.

He goes to bed.

—

🤍 kiss & tell

tip 04: make a scrapbook. day four. show him.

Physical evidence of a relationship that is three and a half days old.

Print the photos. Buy the stickers. Write his name on the cover in your own handwriting. Make it real enough that he can’t dismiss it and ridiculous enough that he should want to.

The goal is overwhelm. The goal is to be too much, too fast, too sincere — to deploy the kind of gesture that sends men like this running for the nearest exit.

Here’s what happened instead… he took it home.

I don’t have a tip for that. I’ll get back to you.

You didn’t hear it from me. x

[3,102 readers. 114 comments.]

SHE DOESN’T HAVE A TIP FOR THAT I’M LOSING MY MIND.

kiss & tell are you okay.

anonymous: I know who this is and I need everyone to understand that this man has never once taken anything home in three years.

⤷ from Kiss & Tell: …noted.

—

🤍 kiss & tell

tip 05: name it. (as in his penis ;))

Give it a full name. Something formal. Something that requires introduction. Deploy it with complete sincerity and maintain eye contact with him while you do it.

The objective here is simple — men who have built entire personalities around being untouchable tend to have one specific vulnerability, which is being caught completely off guard in a situation where charm is not a useful tool.

This is that situation.

Results to follow.

You didn’t hear it from me. x

—

Day five starts with a text at seven AM.

hoonie 🤍: rink. triple again. landed it cleaner.

You read this lying on your back in the dark of your room, phone screen bright in the early morning, and you think about like the ice gave me permission and the private document you’ve been saving things to and the fact that he texts you about the rink now, voluntarily, without prompting, like you’re the person he tells things to.

You’ve been the person he tells things to for five days.

you: cleaner how

hoonie 🤍: the landing. rotation was right last time but the landing was off. today it was right.

you: what does a right landing feel like

The pause is longer this time. The deliberate kind.

hoonie 🤍: like the ground caught you on purpose

You stare at this message.

You type: that’s a really good sentence

hoonie 🤍: I told you. literature student.

you: qualification not excuse

hoonie 🤍: exactly

you: come over tonight?

You send it before you think about it, which is becoming a pattern you haven’t fully addressed. The plan accounts for frequency of contact — it’s in the timeline tab, maintain consistent but not overwhelming presence, let him initiate where possible. You have been initiating more than the timeline accounts for.

You file this under logistical adjustment and move on.

hoonie 🤍: yeah. eight?

you: eight works

hoonie 🤍: I’ll bring food

you: you don’t have to keep doing that

hoonie 🤍: I know

You put your phone down.

You open the google doc.

You open the private document instead.

he said like the ground caught you on purpose. I’ve been thinking about it for twenty minutes. I should probably stop thinking about it. I’m not going to stop thinking about it.

You close it.

He arrives at eight with food from a different place this time — further from campus, somewhere you don’t recognise the bag from, which means he went out of his way, which you note and do not remark on.

He’s in the grey hoodie again. The himself one.

You’re in your flat in your own version of the himself thing — an old university shirt, jeans, hair that’s been up since this morning and is making its own decisions at this point — and when you open the door he looks at you with the expression he gets sometimes, the brief unguarded one, before he recalibrates into easy and casual.

“Hi, hoonie,” you say.

“Hi,” he says, with the patient resignation of a man who has stopped arguing about the nickname and is choosing to interpret this as winning.

You eat on the floor again. This is simply where you eat now, apparently — sofa abandoned in favour of the rug, backs against the coffee table, food between you. You’ve stopped thinking about whether this is strategic. It’s just comfortable.

He tells you about the rink. About the programme he’s been working on for three months, the one the triple is part of, the way the whole thing builds toward a specific feeling he’s been chasing.

“What feeling,” you ask.

“Like it’s inevitable,” he says. “Like every element was always going to be in that order. Like the programme is just — uncovering something that was already there.”

You look at him.

“That’s what good writing feels like,” you say. “When it works. Like you’re not inventing it, just finding it.”

He looks back at you.

“Yeah,” he says. “Exactly like that.”

The room is quiet for a moment. The good kind, the kind that doesn’t require filling.

You are a journalist. This is a story.

“So,” you say, and something in your voice shifts, and he hears it — you see him hear it, the slight attention change, the orientation. “I’ve been thinking.”

“About.”

“About the fact that it’s day five,” you say, “and we’ve been spending a significant amount of time together.”

“We have,” he agrees, carefully.

“And I think—” You look at him with complete sincerity. “I think it’s time we took the next step.”

He goes very still.

“The next—”

“I want to,” you say, and you hold his gaze, “if you want to.”

A pause.

He looks at you. You look at him. The space between you on the rug is not very large and the lamp is doing something warm with the light and he’s in his grey hoodie and his hair is doing the unstyled thing and his expression is—

“Yeah,” he says, quietly. “Okay.”

The thing about Park Sunghoon, which was in the submissions but which the submissions did not adequately convey, is that he is extremely good at this.

Not in the way you expected.

You expected the practiced version — efficient, warm in a generalised way, the kind of good that comes from having done something enough times that it stops requiring thought. You expected charm applied to a physical situation. You expected to feel, somewhere underneath everything, the low hum of being processed. Another girl. Another night. Another name he wouldn’t remember by the end.

What you get is the opposite of all of that.

He notices things.

He gets your shirt off and looks at you with that expression — the brief unguarded one, the one you’ve been cataloguing — and it doesn’t recalibrate this time. He just looks. Openly, unhurriedly, like you’re something he hasn’t finished figuring out and is in no rush to.

His eyes move over you slowly. Your face. Your throat. Lower.

“Hi,” he says quietly, and it sounds like something else entirely.

“Hi, hoonie,” you say, because you can’t help it, and he makes a sound that is almost a laugh and presses his mouth to your collarbone.

And then he takes you apart.

He gets your bra off and looks at your tits with the focused attention of someone making a decision, and then his hands are on them — cupping, thumbs brushing your nipples — and you inhale sharply and he does it again, watching your face while he does it, filing away the reaction.

“Sensitive,” he says. Not a question.

“Shut up,” you say.

The corner of his mouth does the thing. He lowers his head and closes his mouth over your nipple and your hand goes into his hair immediately, gripping, and the sound you make is embarrassingly immediate. He works them with his mouth and hands — unhurried, thorough, learning what makes you twitch versus what makes you actually make noise — and by the time he starts moving down your body you are already significantly less composed than you planned to be.

He gets your jeans off and looks at you and says “fuck” quietly, to himself, like it got out before he decided to let it, and that single unguarded profanity is what tips you from oriented into something else. Because it’s real. Because he means it. Because Park Sunghoon, looking at you in the lamplight of his room, forgot for one second to manage his expression.

You were not prepared for him to mean it.

He gets your underwear off and puts his mouth on your pussy and you stop being a journalist completely.

He eats you out the way he does everything — with complete attention, unhurried, like there’s a right answer here and he’s going to find it. His tongue works through your folds slowly and then finds your clit and stays there and you grip his hair and he takes that as information and presses closer. Two fingers push into your pussy and curl and you arch off the bed.

“Sunghoon —”

“Mm,” he says against you, which is not words, which is just sound, and somehow that’s worse.

He learns you methodically — finding the specific pressure on your clit that makes your thighs shake, the angle of his fingers against your walls that makes you lose language, and then staying there, patient and relentless, not moving on until he’s got exactly the response he was looking for. You have both hands in his hair and you’re not being careful about how hard you’re pulling and he seems to actively prefer this, his fingers curling deeper when you do.

The first orgasm hits harder than you expected. You cry out properly — loud enough to echo off the walls of his quiet house — and he works you through every second of it and then keeps going and you try to pull him up by the hair.

He ignores you.

“More,” he says against your pussy, simply, like it’s obvious.

“Sunghoon —”

“More.” He looks up at you over your body and his eyes are completely dark and the composed literary student is entirely gone and something about the specific way he’s looking at you — focused, certain, like you are a problem he is enjoying solving — makes heat bloom all the way up your chest. “I want to hear it again.”

You give it to him. The second one builds slower and hits differently — deeper, rolling through you in long waves — and you’re shaking by the end of it, thighs clamped around his head, and he pulls back and looks at you and his mouth is slick and his expression is thoroughly satisfied.

He moves up your body. Looks at you. Checks — actually checks, the same care underneath everything.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Yeah,” you say. “Obviously yeah —”

He kisses you and you taste yourself on his mouth and pull him closer and he makes a low sound and reaches over to the nightstand and then he’s back and lining up and pushing into your pussy slow and —

You understand immediately why seventeen girls kept coming back.

It’s not just the size, though that’s — relevant information, significant information, information you are filing carefully. It’s the way he’s completely there. No part of him is somewhere else. His forehead drops to yours and he gives you a moment, feeling your walls adjust around his cock, and when he starts to move the sound he makes against your neck is low and genuine and nothing like performance.

“Fuck,” he breathes. His hips drive forward and you arch up and he groans. “You feel so good.” He pulls back and pushes in deeper and you make a sound that has no consonants in it. “Yeah.” His mouth finds your ear. “Just like that.”

“Sunghoon —”

“I’ve got you,” he says. “Relax.”

He sets a pace that is deep and thorough and completely unhurried — long strokes that drag against your walls perfectly, his cock filling you on every thrust in a way that keeps short-circuiting coherent thought. His hands move over you while he moves — your waist, your hips, sliding up to your tits and gripping before moving back down — like he wants to touch all of you and is working through the logistics of it.

You are loud. You were not planning to be loud. You are very loud.

“There,” he says, when you make a specific sound, and adjusts his angle and does it again. “Right there?”

“Yes —” Your hands grab his shoulders. “Yes, right —”

“Good girl.” He stays at that angle. His thumb finds your clit and you cry out. “So good for me.”

The words land somewhere that surprises you with how directly they land. Your whole body responds to them — clenching around his cock — and he groans at the feeling and his composure slips a fraction.

“Tight,” he says against your throat. “Tight fucking pussy —” His hips snap forward and you cry out again. “You feel that?”

“Yes —”

“Yeah.” His thumb keeps working your clit, small and precise, and his cock is deep and his mouth is at your jaw and your ear and your throat. “Take it.” He drives in harder. “Just like that. Take it.”

You come on his cock with your nails in his shoulders and your head thrown back and a sound that you will think about with some embarrassment tomorrow and he works you through every second of it — hips maintaining that deep steady rhythm, thumb relentless on your clit — until you’re grabbing his wrist and making incoherent noises.

“Too much —” you manage. “Too —”

“One more,” he says. Not unkind. Just certain, the way he’s certain about everything. “Give me one more.”

“Sunghoon I literally —”

“One more,” he says, and shifts his angle, and you sob, and give him one more.

He comes shortly after, buried deep, his forehead to your shoulder, groaning low against your skin with his hips pressed flush against yours and his cock pulsing and staying buried while he rides it out. His hand at your hip is tight enough to leave something tomorrow and neither of you are thinking about tomorrow.

He stays there after. Breathing. Not rushing the aftermath.

You are not going to put all this in your blog. What you are going to put in the blog is what happens approximately forty minutes in, when you are in his bed — you ended up at his, Heeseung and Jay both absent, the house quiet and warm — and things have arrived at a natural pause, and you look at him and the tip, the one you’ve been planning since the google doc, arrives.

“Hi,” you say.

He looks at you. “Hi.”

You look down. Then back up. Very seriously.

“Hi, Gerald,” you say.

The silence is immediate and total.

Sunghoon stares at you.

You maintain eye contact.

“What,” he says.

“Gerald,” you say. “I think it suits him.”

“You—” He stops. “You just—”

“Formally,” you say. “I wanted to do it formally.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Something is happening in his face — a sequence of things, moving through quickly, surprise and bafflement and something else underneath both of them, something that is fighting very hard not to become what it wants to become.

It loses the fight.

He laughs.

Not a small laugh, not the quiet almost-laugh you’ve catalogued — a real one, full, the kind that takes him by surprise, that gets out before he can decide whether to let it, that turns into another one before the first one’s finished, and he puts a hand over his face and laughs into his palm and you watch this happen and feel something in your chest that is completely outside the scope of the assignment.

“Gerald,” he says, from behind his hand.

“Strong name,” you say. “Classic.”

“You planned that,” he says.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You one hundred percent planned that.”

“I acted on instinct.”

He looks at you from behind his hand, eyes visible above his fingers, still doing the aftermath of the laugh — the residual warmth of it, the particular quality of someone who has just laughed properly and the room is different because of it. “Instinct,” he repeats.

“It felt right,” you say.

He drops his hand. Looks at you properly.

And here is the thing that doesn’t go in the blog, that goes in the private document, that you will think about at seven AM tomorrow when he texts you about the rink: he looks at you like you are the most interesting thing that has happened to him in years. Not in the charming way, not the way he probably looks at everyone. In a specific way. The way you look at something that keeps being different from what you expected and you’ve stopped expecting it to stop.

“Gerald,” he says again, quieter.

“Do you hate it?” you ask.

“Yes,” he says.

“Good,” you say.

He laughs again, smaller this time, and pulls you back in, and the rest of the night is — the rest of the night goes in the private document, not the blog.

What goes in the blog is the tip. The strategic version. The maintained-eye-contact version.

What goes in the private document, at one forty-seven AM, lying in his bed while he’s asleep, phone screen dim so it doesn’t wake him:

he laughed. the real one, the full one, not the almost. I’ve been cataloguing the almost-laughs for five days and tonight I got the real one and it happened because of Gerald and I think I need to be honest with myself about something.

I think I need to be honest with myself about something and then a long blank space where you couldn’t find the words, and then:

the ground caught you on purpose. that’s what he said this morning. and I keep thinking about it and I think I’m starting to understand what he means and I don’t know what to do with that.

You save it.

You put the phone down.

Beside you, Sunghoon sleeps with the specific quality of someone who is completely comfortable, one hand near yours on the pillow, not touching but close, and the lamp is still on because neither of you got up to turn it off and the room is warm and the scrapbook is on his desk, the gold star sticker catching the light, and outside the window the campus goes about its late night and inside this room everything is—

You don’t finish the sentence.

You close your eyes.

In the morning you wake up before him.

This surprises you — you expected him to be the early one, the rink-at-five-AM one, and he will be tomorrow and the day after, but today is not a rink morning and so he’s asleep when the light comes through the curtains and you lie there for a moment in the particular disorientation of waking somewhere that isn’t your room.

Then it lands.

Right. Yes.

You turn your head.

He’s asleep on his back, one arm at his side, hair doing something completely unmanaged, and he looks — he looks like himself. The version underneath everything else. Without the careful ease, without the recalibration, just him, and you lie there and look at him and think about seventeen submissions and the google doc and the private document and Gerald and the laugh and the ground caught you on purpose.

He opens his eyes.

Finds you immediately, without looking — just turns his head and you’re there and he looks at you with the specific expression of someone waking up and finding exactly what they were hoping to find and not trying to manage that expression at all.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi, hoonie,” you say.

He closes his eyes again, briefly. “You’re doing that in the morning now.”

“I do it all the time.”

“It’s worse in the morning.”

“Because you’re less defended.”

He opens his eyes. Looks at you. “Yeah,” he says, quietly. “Maybe.”

The room is morning-quiet. The lamp is still on, pale now against the daylight. His desk has the scrapbook on it, gold star, hoonie in your handwriting.

“Rink tomorrow,” he says.

“I know.”

“Early.”

“I know.”

“You could—” He stops.

“Could what,” you say.

“Come,” he says. “If you wanted. It’s early. You probably don’t want to.”

You look at him.

“What time,” you say.

Something in his face does the thing. “Five-thirty.”

“I’ll be there at five-twenty,” you say. “To be annoying.”

He looks at the ceiling. But his mouth is doing the thing and he doesn’t try to stop it, not this morning, not in this room.

“Obviously,” he says.

Jay is in the kitchen when Sunghoon comes downstairs at nine.

He’s making coffee with the focused energy of someone who has been awake for a while and has been thinking about things and has decided to make coffee because it’s better than the alternative. He looks up when Sunghoon comes in. Clocks his expression. Looks at the scrapbook, which has migrated from the counter to the kitchen table at some point. Looks back at Sunghoon.

“Good night?” Jay says, with the careful neutrality of a man defusing a situation.

“Yeah,” Sunghoon says. He opens the fridge. Gets juice. “You?”

“Fine.” Jay pours two coffees without being asked and sets one on the counter. “She go home?”

“Earlier.”

“Right.” A pause. “She’s—” Jay stops.

“What.”

“Nothing,” Jay says. “She seems good. She’s good.”

Sunghoon looks at him.

Jay picks up his coffee.

“What,” Sunghoon says again.

“Nothing,” Jay says. “I just—” He stops again. He has the expression of a man standing at the entrance to a conversation he should have two days ago and is finding the door very heavy. “I just think she’s good. That’s all. I like her.”

“Okay,” Sunghoon says slowly.

“Okay,” Jay says.

Sunghoon picks up his coffee. Looks at Jay for a moment with the particular look of someone who knows a conversation is being avoided and is choosing, for now, not to push it.

He takes his coffee upstairs.

Jay stands in the kitchen alone.

He looks at the scrapbook on the table. At hoonie in someone else’s handwriting. At the gold star sticker.

He takes out his phone. He opens the bet thread. He stares at it. He puts his phone back in his pocket. He drinks his coffee.

—

🤍 kiss & tell

tip 05: name it.

Full name. Formal introduction. Complete sincerity. Maintained eye contact.

Here’s what I can tell you: it worked. The overwhelm landed. He was, briefly, completely caught off guard in a situation where charm was not a useful tool.

Here’s what I can’t tell you: what happened after.

Not because it isn’t relevant. Because some things are happening in this story that I didn’t plan for and I’m a journalist and I know when a story is going somewhere I didn’t map out and I need a minute to figure out what that means before I report on it.

Tip six is boys night. I’ll be there Thursday.

You didn’t hear it from me. x

[4,891 readers. 203 comments.]

KISS AND TELL WHAT DO YOU MEAN SOME THINGS ARE HAPPENING THAT YOU DIDN’T PLAN FOR.

she’s in trouble.

⤷ we’re all in trouble.

the name reveal is going to be in the comments for the rest of time.

anonymous: I go to this campus. I know who this is about. I need everyone to understand that this man smiled at someone in the humanities building yesterday and it was not his normal smile.

⤷ from Kiss & Tell: …I’m going to need you to expand on that.

laceys note // if you guys made it to the end thank u! and yes before yall ask i do have part 2 in the making 😉

perm taglist. @kristynaaah @yuudaiinhs @urlocalengene @woninlove @n4n4files @jimineepaboya @grdientlips @hooniluhv @afanok @engenewilstaykon @seungiesdoll @rinforu @isa942572 @ride-a-nishimura @florarua @baedreamverse @softblaqn @rikisloverrr @kittyvalr @ellushic @dimples264493 @kimmm02 @kiwicup @jakebitez @mystgene @baek-some-cake @betagalactose @kookiesnkim @honeyvelvetinez @violetteaismyfavourite @meowza1 @abbyssful @yandere-stories @imminentcodexcore @mlink64 @k4y-sh @rubadubdubinthetub @jungwno @k3nza @simjakeyjake @heeseungdada @bbrianawhatt @onlyifusayyesxx @mintchocoddeonut @sillycactus143 @heexyzy @wonkiipiilled

[bizidolly]

this is a fucking masterpiece and its just the part 1 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

[snuxxy]

making 18+ works of characters who are not 18+ is weird asf and i'm tired of yall pretending it's not, it's borderline ephebophilia and it's disgusting.

on a similar note it's also gross when writers / artists age up a minor character purely for sexual purposes as the sexual attraction originated from a character that is a minor or presented as a minor.

megumi from jjk is a perfect example of this. I feel like I constantly see smut works of him that don't even try to pass it off as an age up, even more disgusting since he doesn't even appear in modulo or have a canon adult character.

writers / artists are shamelessly sexualizing minors and I don't see nearly enough people talking about it. this is as bad as it is because it can encourage pedophilia related thoughts / behaviors and can also make them seem easier to get away with since it is so minimized and rarely spoken on in this day and age.

please help me spread this message to make tumblr a safer community !!

[zuunary]

geto and zuko twin moment

[bizidolly]

gente, eu nem dormia de tanta preocupação......

[bizidolly]

as pessoas colocam o famoso "não gosta, não leia" na frente das maiores atrocidades já escritas e realmente esperam que o pessoal só ignore o incesto, a sexualização infantil, a PEDOFILIA!!!!, com a qual elas estão compactuando...

é por isso que num mundo com gente assim até liberdade de expressão precisa de limites.

não tem cabimento você escrever um texto que romantiza um dos crimes mais cruéis da humanidade, pedofilia não é brincadeira não gente, é doentil achar de bom tom tratar isso de qualquer forma que não seja como uma abominação!!!

eu ia começar esse post com um "engraçado como..." mas eu reescrevi porque tenho plena noção de que esse tipo de assunto não dá para ser tratado como mais um meme ou de forma leviana, enquanto eu escrevia isso aqui crianças estavam sendo abusadas dentro das suas próprias casas, por seus próprios parentes, e as vezes sem nem ter a noção do que estava acontecendo... não vai ser eu a sem noção a fingir que isso é normal e que está tudo bem escrever sobre um pai tendo relações sexuais com sua própria filha!!!

prestem atenção no que vocês consomem!!!!

o tipo de coisa que você acha "nada demais" porque é só uma historinha pode ser o que vai incentivar um imbecil a perpetuar o que estava escrito ali...

só pra deixar bem claro, não são todos que usam do "dont like, dont read" que escrevem sobre crimes de forma romantizada e eu tenho pleno conhecimento disso, minha crítica aqui não é para os que estão apenas escrevendo literatura erótica, mas sim para os que estão normalizando atos que tiram a dignidade de vida de outras pessoas, que tiram as escolhas de crianças, que as tratam como produto de sexualidade...

só tenham isso em mente!!

[butvega]

vontade de mandar tomar no cu toda essa gente que taca hate em multifandom.

[poeticbe4uty]

ATTENTION !!

Scam alert!! Please read this and reblog to spread awareness!!

┗⁠(⁠•⁠ˇ⁠_⁠ˇ⁠•⁠)⁠―⁠→

Sorry to disturb y'all but the person below is copying and pasting other people's works to replace their placed links with virus ones/ links that lead to questionable sites

You'll find these posts under JJK x reader tags usually ←⁠_⁠←

What to do next ?

Spread Awareness!! Reblog this post and any other posts related to this issue

Report this blog!

Don't interact with these links or this blog any further, they don't need any more attention

Why should I help ?

Even if you don't read or interact with certain themes or blogs that post certain content, everyone deserves to interact with their desired posts safely! So let's all try to keep Tumblr a safe space for all!

Thank you for your help, stay safe and happy reading !! ^⁠_⁠^

[bizidolly]

quebrando meu silêncio

tô com uma sensação horrível, não consigo nem explicar...

por que, como assim o heesung simplesmente saiu do enhypen e vai seguir carreira solo DO NADA???? não faz sentido algum!!!

e na carta dele ele ainda disse foi sugestão da EMPRESA mds, todas as provas estão aí de que a hybe tem dedo nessa história, porque não faz sentido nenhum, o menino se humilhou um monte lá no iland, sofreu uma caralhada, pra desistir do grupo numa terça feira comum????

me poupe né, eu nasci pobre mas não nasci otária!!!!!

sem fala do boicote da hybe com o lançamento de knife por causa do comeback centenário do bts... o enhypen tava tendo uma divulgação fodastica até então, tanto que tava ganhando prêmios importantes e a empresa tava investindo neles, mas é só a velha guarda voltar que eles esquecem quem tava sustentando a empresa nesse meio tempo né, aí fica difícil não achar suspeito toda essa história

vi alguém falando que talvez seja por causa de algum rumor de namoro ou algo do tipo (a indústria la faz muito isso, ate pra encobertar o presidente se for preciso), aí a saída dele seria como o bode expiatório...

independente da razão, tô puta mesmo, mas ainda é difícil de assimilar tudo isso. eu até fui olhar no calendário pra ver se não era primeiro de abril pq tá difícil de aceitar q seja verdade, eu ainda tô esperando q seja mentira!!!

[deesgarden]

I feel like I’m cheating on Nanami by reading all these higurami fics 😭😭

[indiewritesxoxo]

the unnamed extra has become a suspect in the male lead's murder investigation!

what do you do when your second chance of life comes with a new death sentence? enjoy the three really hot men you meet! oh, and solve the case!

synopsis: you died, game over! except, uh, after getting hit by a car, you wake up in the body of a background character who gets murdered in some cheesy romance novel you hadn't finished reading. and before long, you realize there might be more to the murder mystery subplot that meets the eye - only to end up tangled in the middle of it when the cold duke of the north's investigation leads him to suspect you have something to do with the serial stabbings plaguing their kingdom.

starring...knight!Sukuna, duke!Geto, crown prince!Gojo, + isekai'd f!reader

series content: mdni, smut, angst + fluff, inspired by romantic fantasy manhwas, historical inaccuries, murder mystery, mentions of death/blood, falling in love, bit of a slow build, multiple romantic interests, enemies-to-lovers, casual sex, hookups, manhandling, jealousy, eventual smut and piv sex

a/n: this series will be uploaded early on patreon and then the chapters will be posted 1-2 weeks later on here <3 prologue is currently out on there and chapter one should be out in the next couple days

prologue

act one

chapter one: a knight's promise

chapter two: prince and the pauper

chapter three: the dark duke

chapter four: knight and day

chapter five: the prince's pout

chapter six: duke and damnation

act two

chapter seven: sinner and saint

chapter eight: the crooked crown

chapter nine: questions and (no) answers

chapter ten: hard times and alibis

chapter eleven: an affair to be forgotten

chapter twelve: love and war (out on patreon now)

act three

chapter thirteen: heaven or hell

chapter fourteen: one bad bargain

chapter fifteen: duke or devil

chapter sixteen: the prince's punch

chapter seventeen: villains and visitors

chapter eighteen: matching wounds

act four - unread

[miunicornfluff]

coming back on here 2 say this

fuck I.C.E

fuck tr*mp

fuck ep*tein

fuck shitrael

fuck sexism

fuck k*rk

fuck pro-life

fuck white supremacy

fuck racism

everything is political.

no one is illegal on stolen land

arrest everyone mentioned in the files

i love immigrants

free palestine, cogo, venezuela, etc

abortion is healthcare

blame the predator, not the victims clothes.

no uterus no opinion

love is love

trans woman = woman

trans man = man

mental health matters

all addictions matter

[junsfriend]

loyal puppy — sjy

SUMMARY: Ever since your boyfriend Jake transformed from his nerdy high-school self into the university's star football player, you've become everything you thought you’d never be. Jealous. Anxious. Clingy. But Jake really doesn't mind your newfound possessiveness. He encourages it, even. So when he defies expectations again to star in a musical with a stunning costar, you spiral. Now, the “lowkey” relationship you once insisted on gets jeopardized under the weight of your own insecurities.

PAIRING: popular!jake x fem!reader

WORD COUNT: 26k+

GENRE: secret!relationship au, university!au, grumpy gf x sunshine bf (?), smut, angst, fluff, some toxic themes

WARNINGS: mdni, nsfw, porn with plot, tsundere!reader, lowkey crazy!reader, whipped!Jake, lowkey masochist!bf Jake, switch!Jake, emotional constipation, he want that cookie bad, jealousy, avoidancy, football = soccer, unsafe/unprotected sex, cursing, sweat, dacryphilia, storage closet sex, lots of biting/marking, 69, cumplay, jewelry play, begging, failed pull-out method, creampie, squirting, lmk if i missed anything

A/N: Not to pick a favorite child but… I loved writing this fic so much. 

a year ago.

It’s the last year of high school, on a relatively normal walk back home. The same cracked sidewalks, the same autumn breeze, the same shy boy matching his steps beside you like he always did. Just like any other day. 

Until he decided to ruin it.

“Do you wanna… like, date?” Jake asked suddenly, hands shoved deep into his uniform pants pockets, trying too hard to sound nonchalant. “You know… put a label on us. Or whatever.”

You remember almost running away out of pure instinct, soul escaping your body. But instead, you laughed. Because what the fuck was he on about?

You? Jake? Date?

The two of you were barely even supposed to be friends. He's a straight-A student teachers constantly compared you to, with those thick-rimmed black glasses glued to his face and unkempt bowl of hair. A striker on the football team who watched matches from the sidelines just as much as you did… and you weren't on the team.

And on the other hand, there’s you. Not-so-pleasant you. Considered a troublemaker because you always showed up late to class, talked back to ill-meaning adults, and picked fights with boys who catcalled too much. A rumor spread through school that your dad was a terrifying loan shark with gang ties. He’s a banker.

Assigned classroom cleaning duties was what brought you two together in the first place. It wasn’t fate. Nothing notable. You more or less picked him up on your shoulder and claimed him as a personal assistant. Someone who would fetch you water when you’re thirsty or give you answers to math problems when you were too lazy to solve them yourself. 

So why in the world did he think you two should date?

“Who put you up to this?” you wheezed between bursts of cackling. “I’m gonna beat their ass.”

Jake scratched the back of his head, clearly not amused.

“I mean… You and me?” you continued, tears of laughter blurred your vision. “We would make the worst couple ever—”

“I don’t think so.”

You froze mid-step. Jake had slowed his strides down a long time ago, but now he was completely still. You turned to find him a few steps behind, face flushed and hands by his sides. 

He’s holding something. A small, turquoise box. One that looked suspiciously like…

You felt like throwing up.

“I-I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he stammered. “What it’d be like if I were your boyfriend. If we… went on dates and stuff.”

Oh, hell no.

It’s like an immediate sense of panic overcame your body. And before your brain could process a single rational thought, you broke out into a sprint. Running down the street like a maniac. In hindsight, you probably should’ve known that you couldn’t outrun an athlete. But you weren’t really thinking, period. 

You feel a tug on your waist. Jake had already caught up to you. He spun you around, like the male leads do in those stupid romcoms, and pulled you into him. His face was close. Too close. His glasses slipped halfway down his nose, and a bead of sweat clung to his temple. And it wasn’t from running.

It was from you.

He looked nervous. Ridiculously nervous.

The ring box pressed into your back, and you put your palms sternly against his chest, trying to create some distance between you two. It wasn’t helping.

“Jake,” you warned. “Let go of me or I scream.”

He shook his head, his arms only wrapped tighter around you. “Only if you promise you won’t run,” he replied, a sort of desperation laced in his voice. “And that you’ll listen to what I have to say.”

You bit your bottom lip, suddenly too aware of his intense gaze and how they searched yours through those big, fat lenses. You gave a small nod, not trusting your voice to come out right. The moment his grip loosened, you broke your agreement almost immediately. Your feet moved on their own, like fight-or-flight, as you tried to rush out of his arms. But he was one step ahead of you, grabbing your wrist to bring you back right where you were.

“Really?” he asked, exhausted. “That’s not gonna work a second time.”

You glared, but your eyes betrayed you. They slid down to the turquoise ring box, still in his hand. Jake's eyes flickered in the same direction, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

“I can put it away if it’s freaking you out,” he muttered, slipping it back into his pocket. You almost let out a sigh of relief, but not when his large hand was still wrapped around your wrist.

“...Thank you,” you mumbled, eyes fixed on the ground. “Now make it quick.”

Jake's heart constricted. ‘The worst thing she could say is no!’ the internet had told him. This was a lot worse, actually!

“[Y/N],” he started sharply, and the sound of your name on his lips sent shivers down your spine. He released you, only to set both his hands on your shoulders, guiding your gaze up to meet his.

“I… I think—” He stopped, inhaling a deep breath. “No. I know. I… really… really… l-like you.”

His voice was as shaky as his hands, and for a brief second, almost every part of you wanted to knock him out with your backpack because your heart was beating too loud in your chest. It pissed you off. But you held back and just… stared.

Jake, ever the hopeless romantic, had fallen for you the moment you asked him to clean the entire classroom alone while you skipped duties to hang out with your friends. He said yes, only because he has a hard time saying no, especially to someone he found so pretty. But then you laughed and told him you were joking. Told him not to bend over backwards just to please other people. Spent time with him that day when usually, others paid him no attention.

He was enamored ever since. 

But the silence between you two was suffocating, heavy enough to stall his breathing. Jake’s palms were growing damp against the fabric of your uniform blazer, and his heart felt like it was ready to fall to the floor. Maybe this was a bad time to do it. Or maybe the ring really freaked you out. Was it too big a gesture? The WikiHow tutorial he consulted had told him to bring a gift, after all. 

“Hello?” Jake’s voice cut through your thoughts. He gave your shoulders a tiny shake, trying to pull you out of your entranced state.

“Hm? Sorry… say that again? I don’t think I heard you…”

Jake’s expression fell as he dropped his hands back to his sides in defeat.

“Okay,” he muttered, voice small. It wasn’t worth it. Everything went off script anyway. “Never mind. Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

He brushed past you, shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep in his pockets again. He was fidgeting with the ring box, wishing he could throw it into the nearest bushes. God, he felt dumb. So fucking dumb.

Of course you’d say no! He was nobody. Just Jake. Just some guy you latched onto at the start of high school so you could poke fun at him for the next few years and make him pay for your boba addiction. And you, with your cool-ass friends with eyebrow slits and really underground music tastes. You’re way out of his league—

“Jake,” you called out, surprised at how loud your voice could get if you were desperate. 

He turned around immediately, wearing such a pronounced pout even from a few meters away. Somehow, seeing his face again made your throat close up. He liked you. He really liked you.

“Say it again,” you demanded, arms crossed with doubt written all over your features. “I need to hear you say it one more time.”

You walked toward him until you stood close enough to see the nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth. Was this it? Would you actually give him a chance? Jake pressed his lips together and inhaled a deep breath to calm himself. 

“I like you,” he said as softly as a whisper. “Would you… Be my girlfriend?”

You looked at the ground, feigning a calmness when your mind was racing with thoughts too insane to vocalize. When you finally looked up again, your heart betrayed you. It skipped a beat at the way his gaze fell on yours, wide and hopeful. It almost hurt. He was too bright, too cute.

(Okay, so what if you liked him back. He didn’t have to know that.)

“Sure,” you said, forcing your voice to sound casual. Jake froze.

Then his entire face lit up. Suddenly, he was grinning from ear to ear, jumping in place like a dog begging for a treat. “Really? Like really? You’ll go out with me?!”

He took your hands in his, tenderly. Like he wasn't entirely sure the moment was real. You felt the dampness of his palms first, then the tug of his fingers intertwining with yours, like he had already rehearsed this part of his confession a thousand times in his head. Your cheeks warmed.

‘What a weirdo,’ you thought to yourself. It’s not like he’d just won the lottery. What was he so happy about?

“Just don’t make it weird,” you grumbled. “Keep it on the down low.”

Jake’s smile faltered, brows knitting together so tightly you were sure it’d leave a wrinkle on his cute face.

“Like… you don’t want people to know?” he asked, voice quieter now. You nodded, confused by his confusion. 

“Why would anyone need to know?” you asked genuinely. He frowned, his thumb gently rubbing the back of your hand, silently asking you to reconsider.

“Not even Sunghoon or Jay?”

You scoffed. “Especially Sunghoon and Jay.”

“Why not?” he groaned. You just shrugged.

“I don’t want our dynamic to change just ‘cause we’re dating,” you reassured him, letting go of his hands to ruffle his hair. Like you always do when you tease him. Like that would make it all better. “And all that coupley PDA stuff draws too much attention anyway.”

You’d spent years cultivating your intimidating persona, and in your mind, it was simple. No one else needed to know that you were vulnerable to something as cringe-inducing as dating. The other students would only use it against you. For what? Who knows.

But you could just imagine the teasing glances and whispers in the hallways. If Jake were really serious about dating you, surely he’d be understanding of your aversion towards embarrassment. Right?

He didn't seem entirely convinced. At all. “So… what would be the difference then? Between us now and before?” 

You sighed and stepped past him.

“It's what we'd do in private, you know?” you muttered over your shoulder. “Kissing and all that…”

You didn’t see it, how Jake’s ears completely reddened or how his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. His fingers twitched at his side, like he was already imagining what it’d be like to hold you properly. To touch you. To kiss you. Like real couples do.

“D-do you want to see the ring I got you?” he blurted out, catching up to you. “I swear it’s lowkey. It has a ‘J’ engraved inside the band. I got a matching one with your initial, too! No one would even notice if you wore it—”

And you feel your heart thunder in your chest, scaring you into another sudden sprint. “Get the hell away from me, weirdo!” 

Your joined laughter echoed down the street as he chased after you. And even though he could catch up to you, he let you have your fun, staying just a little out of his reach.

–

Jake is very good at obeying orders, always has been. Especially after the first few times you glared at him for accidentally reaching for your hand in the cafeteria. He learned fast.

He tried his best not to show affection publicly, no matter how badly he wanted to wrap his blazer around your shivering frame when you would nap during class. He forced himself not to linger near you when you were loitering with your fellow delinquents by the school staircase, laughing at a joke he didn’t quite understand. He suppressed the urge to defend you from teachers who reprimanded you out in the hallways. Tried not to look behind at you for too long during football games he never played in anyway.

Once, someone asked him about his love life, and he instantly turned into a blushing, mumbling mess. And they laughed it off. It was Jake. No one thought twice. He was always like this. Awkward. Flustered.

The parasites he calls friends, Jay and Sunghoon, would probably go into cardiac arrest if they ever found out how he doted on you in private. How soft he was. How gentle.

You pretended not to notice. But ever the observer, Jake sees how your defenses weaken, ever so slightly, each day.

You let him put his arm around you in dark movie theaters instead of yanking it away. Let him stay for dinner with your parents when he comes over to help you study (because lord knows you need it). You stopped flinching when he called you ‘babe’ in private, sometimes responding without even questioning who he was speaking to. It was baby steps, but to Jake, it was everything.

Was it awkward? Yes. The way his glasses got in the way when he finally kissed you for the first time. Your noses bumped together. Too much tongue involved. It was a mess. Still life-changing, nevertheless. 

He replays the memory often. The two of you on your bed, him holding your plushie hostage, you trying to rip it out of his arms. The way you fell on top of him with your lips accidentally crashing on his. He pretended like the make-out session that occurred immediately after didn't absolutely ruin him.

Jake edged past the warmer parts of you when no one was around to bear witness. And you both were so good at keeping secrets. No one would have believed it anyway. You’d made sure of that.

–

“You two are very strange,” Jay commented, maybe a couple of months into your secret relationship. Every senior was gearing up for graduation, choosing which universities to attend or which path to take in life.

And of course, Jay and Sunghoon found out that Jake and you would both be attending the same university. Not just any school. A top one. Yonsei. 

Jake had earned a full-ride scholarship after finally getting off the damn bench and scoring four goals in a single match against the best high school team in the nation. Jake could've gone abroad to an Ivy League, but he chose not to. Because at Yonsei he could visit family more often, save a lot of money, and… well, keep you close, most of all.

And by the will of a higher being (Jake’s relentless tutoring), you somehow made it in as well.

“I thought you said you wanted to go straight into the workforce,” Jay questioned you. “Now you’re telling me you somehow, in some way, got into the same school as Jake? This fucking nerd?”

Sunghoon chimed in with a smile he always wore before teasing you. “I didn’t even think you could get into college, honestly.”

You wanted to hit him so bad, but you stopped yourself. Your resolution for the new school year was to turn over a new leaf. And that comes with not hitting annoying boys over the head with your fist. You could get arrested for that from now on... So instead, you used your words.

“You’re mad I got in, and you didn’t,” you snorted, sticking out your tongue as Jake snickered beside you. You sat close enough to feel the warmth of his shoulder, but far enough apart to keep Jay and Sunghoon from noticing.

“You guys have no faith in her,” Jake sighed earnestly. “She’s really smart when she applies herself. She just needed a push, that's all.”

You glared at him, not sure if his comment was entirely a compliment. Yes, he played a role in your achievements. No, he could not credit himself for the hard work you put in to get that high-ass score on the college entrance exam. Even your teachers apologized for doubting you.

“Should’ve put those hours of tutoring her into me instead,” Jay groaned. “Now you’re gonna be all alone with no friends.”

Jake’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean? S-she’s my friend.”

He stumbled over the words, clearly thrown off by the ominous comment. You watched him, amused. God, he was so obvious.

Sunghoon just looked between you two, doubt etched all over his face. “Barely,” he scoffed. “Trust me, bro, you are getting left behind as soon as she finds another victim willing to pay for all her food.”

You can start your resolution next week. This time, you really smacked him, sharp on his bicep. Sunghoon yelped.

“Why are you always so aggressive?” he whined, rubbing the sore spot with his arm. You raised your hand threateningly again, but you stopped yourself short. 

At the corner of your eye was Jake’s soured expression, a flash of worry obviously overcoming him. But you couldn’t comfort him. Not now. You wouldn’t hear the end of it from these two.

“You never know,” Jay chirped, faking thoughtfulness with a hand on his chin. “Jake might be too cool for us once school starts.”

Jay and Sunghoon exchanged a look and then burst into laughter.

“Ain’t gonna happen!” Sunghoon cackled, putting his whole gut into it. You joined in hesitantly, though your eyes kept drifting to your sullen boyfriend. And he wasn’t amused. Not at all.

Because he never found it funny, the idea of you leaving him behind.

–

“Do you think I’m weird?” Jake asked one evening, with you curled up beside him on your bed. Your knee draped over his stomach, his glasses pushed up just enough to rest comfortably against your pillow. On his late-night visits, your parents would come in to check if you two were truly studying as you claimed. After Jake gained their trust, they learned to leave the two of you alone (when they probably shouldn’t have).

Your eyes were shut tight to prepare yourself for an oncoming nap.

“Yes,” you said quickly, not even giving him time to process the response.

“Like… bad weird?” he asked after a second. He’d been thinking lately, after the conversation with his friends, how different the two of you really were.

How easy it was for you to stand up for yourself. Go against the grain. How you don’t automatically default to nods as he does or lose your train of thought mid-conversation. How you hated being touched by most people but would smack someone’s shoulder when you genuinely found something funny. 

He wanted that, wanted to see the world the way you saw it. To move around without hesitation. Even when people called you a troublemaker. Even when teachers scolded you for wearing your uniform skirt shorter than the dress code. How was confidence so natural for you?

“Bad weird,” you teased, eyes still closed. “But it’s okay. I’m used to it by now.”

A small ache tugged at his heart. “You still like me though, right?”

You laughed. Jake loved to do this sometimes. Bait for reassurance. But you’re not that kind of fish.

“Who said I ever did?”

You said it jokingly, but a silence followed. You don’t quite catch it as you drift to sleep, the way Jake’s eyes dimmed.

“Oh,” he said disappointingly, staring at the ceiling.

Sometimes, he wondered if the reason you wanted your relationship to be private in the first place was because of him. If his inability to relate to your friends with secret tattoos and chains on their jeans made you embarrassed to be his girlfriend. 

Because you got along well with his friends just fine, could tease Jay and Sunghoon like you’d known them your whole life. But it was so hard for him to do the same with yours. To look natural when he joined that one karaoke hangout, where they looked at him expectantly because you had bragged that he could sing well.

You said it so proudly too, and he wanted to prove himself to them. That he was worthy to be in their presence. And then his voice had to crack.

“Should we get your friend some water?” someone joked, and the whole group laughed. With his cheeks red with embarrassment, Jake sat back down next to you, silent for the rest of the night. It was lame of him. Even he knew that. 

But even as he watched you defend him with all your heart, he couldn’t find himself to cheer up. Because in your world, he had always felt out of place. 

–

And so Jake did what he’s known to do best. Research.

He avoided WikiHow tutorials on how to ask out a girl and headed straight to the most honest part of the internet: Reddit.

‘makeover tips for guys’

‘how to gain more confidence’

‘how to be attractive enough that your girlfriend isn’t ashamed of you (serious responses only pls)’

He frequented the self-help section of the school library, took notes on everything from fashion advice to fixing his posture. He practiced eye contact with himself through the mirror until they watered, joined Sunghoon in the gym, and copied his weirdly intense routine.

Jake kept this process all to himself, much like your relationship. He learned to be good at that. Keeping secrets.

He would reinvent himself for university. Become someone you’d be proud to show off because he didn’t want to feel like this anymore. Like he would fall behind. And knowing you… he wasn’t sure if you’d bother to look back and see if your loyal puppy was still there trailing behind you. 

–

present. 

So that’s how your relationship’s been going so far. While Jake was on this great journey to undergo metamorphosis, there were no real complaints on your side.

So why was it like this now? 

Waiting for your very late boyfriend, who was making you miss the first minutes of the university’s freshman orientation ceremony. You almost text him a paragraph about how, usually, you're the unpunctual one in the relationship, but a stranger approaches you.

“BOO!” 

You almost let out a scream when you notice who it is. Or who you think it is. Is it who you think it is?

Because instead of wild, unruly hair hiding his eyebrows and big black frames resting on his nose bridge, your boyfriend looked like someone else entirely. His hair was styled in a middle part, framing his handsome features perfectly. Instead of his usual oversized hoodie with holes on the sleeves masking his athletic body, he’s wearing a varsity jacket and a simple white shirt that clung way too well to his muscular frame. You could even see the faint outline of contact lenses in the whites of his eyes.

Your eyelashes flutter in confusion. You literally just saw him yesterday. When did he find the time to get a haircut and invest in a new closet?

Jake steps forward with a small, hopeful smile and holds out a box of egg tarts. Did it add to his already late ETA? Yes, but he always thinks about you and what you'd like to eat. Could you blame him for getting you a sweet treat?

But that wasn’t the part you were really focused on.

“Who are you and what did you do to Jake?” you ask, fists raised like a boxer. He chuckles nervously, bringing the pastry box back to his side.

“Do I look weird?” he asks quietly, shifting his feet. The vulnerability in his voice made you lower your hands instantly.

“So…” you start, eyes looking him up and down. “This is on purpose? Like, Sunghoon didn’t put you up to this? Or Jay?”

He pouts. His mom practically screamed, “So handsome!” when he showed her his new look over video call. So, why was your reaction like this? 

“I just thought… new school year, new me! No?” he says, puffing up with pride.

You shake your head, moving your hand on instinct to ruffle his freshly styled hair. But he catches your wrist before you can touch him. You pull away, heart squeezing a bit, knowing that he dodged one of your rare bouts of affection. Or whatever you call it.

“It took me forever to get my hair to look like this,” he mutters, looking away. “Don’t want my hard work to go to waste.”

You click your tongue, trudging past him. Since when did he care about what his hair looked like? This was the same guy who showed up to graduation with a T-shirt and sneakers and got confused when the teachers asked him to go back home and change.

“Whatever,” you sigh. “No more standing around. We have to go—”

“Still not wearing the ring?” he asks, catching up to you. He noticed it earlier when he caught your arm. 

When Jake gave it to you just a year before, he set no expectation for you to wear it. He really hadn’t… But it has been a year. Wasn’t it about time? He wears his everyday…

You suck in your teeth and glare at him. “Why would I?” 

He flinches. And you start to feel guilt bubbling in your chest as his steps start slowing next to you.

“It’s just…” he mumbles. “It’s not like we’re in high school anymore. No one’s even gonna notice. And no one’s gonna care if we’re dating.”

You roll your eyes. You care. You still had a reputation to uphold. Maybe not as a troublemaker anymore. But still. Something about wearing your boyfriend’s ring for everyone to see and question seemed like your own personal hell. Who would want to be the center of attention as a university freshman?

“It’s the principle,” you say, not really knowing what you mean by it either. Because you are wearing it. Just not on your finger. It hangs around your neck, hidden underneath your blouse. But Jake didn’t have to know that.

You would rather die than give anyone the satisfaction of knowing you were smitten with this man. Soft, but only for him. Your biggest weakness.

“So are we always just gonna be a secret?” he sighs. You turn to face him, but you keep it pushing. It’s too much to explain right now. Or ever.

“Come on,” you insist. “We need to get to the orientation.”

–

Indeed, it wasn’t high school anymore. Because everywhere you turn, Jake’s name is being brought up.

“The hot guy on the football team—”

“He set the curve on the first exam and proved Professor Kim wrong on the board—”

“I saw him help a grandma cross the street. Soooo dreamy—”

It was enough to almost make you pull your hair out of your head. This was Jake they were talking about! The guy who was too shy to ask for no pickles in his damn burgers, who used to let Sunghoon copy off his homework and then rewrote his own just to make sure the teachers wouldn’t catch on. This was your Jake.

You take a moment to breathe.

You sound crazy. Deranged, even. It shouldn’t even matter. Jake was always good-looking! People just never noticed or took the time to appreciate him outside of his ability to decode the most difficult of physics equations.

“A couple of guys from the team think I’d look good with a sweatband,” he says, showing you a photo during a late-night walk. He’s shoving his phone screen to your face, and you pout at the sight. His hair pushed back, forehead glistening. A perfect view of his beautiful, dark eyes. 

“Nah,” you say dismissively, trying to push down the fluttering in your heart. He tilts his head, staring at the photo once more.

“Really?” he mutters. “I thought it looked pretty good.”

“Do you really wanna look like Jay in junior year? He’s gonna tell you that you copied him.”

He gives a small sound of acknowledgement. You could tell he’s taking your comment seriously, like you said something truly eye-opening.

“You’re right,” he nods. “Then, how do you feel about a lip piercing?”

Your brows furrow at the thought of metal against his pouty lips. The way his teeth would tug on it. The effect he would have on all of his newfound admirers…

“Absolutely not!” 

Yeah, you were losing it.

–

No, really, you might actually be going insane.

It was hard enough for you to create genuine friendships at Yonsei, full of stuck-up rich kids who only managed to get in through elite cram schools and expensive tutors. But after a few polite conversations, their masks fell to show their true intentions. You know now that you are being used as a shortcut to get on Jake’s radar. 

Because why do people you’ve never met before suddenly feel comfortable enough to ask you to introduce them to him? Why do they request to follow you on Instagram only so they can find his account more easily? And what pisses you off most—the question they always ask, without fail: “Is he single?”

And you know there's a quick answer you can give. A very simple solution to your eye-twitching problem. Because every time someone high-fives him in the corridors or bats their eyelashes flirtatiously in his direction, you have the overwhelming urge to just pounce on him. To wrap your arms around his middle and never let him leave your sight. 

But you can’t. Your pride is too big, your ego too fragile to admit that someone actually managed to slip past the cold exteriors of your heart. So instead, you're waiting impatiently for him to reply to your text.

He's not at practice. He's supposed to be on his way. So where the hell was he?

jake: sorry! study group went for a lil bit longer than I thought. everyone kept asking me for help haha. omw!

And then he sends a photo. It's a group selfie, with him in the middle. Three girls on his right and another two on his left, surrounding him like a piece of meat.

you: dont bother coming. im sick.

With envy, maybe. But you're perfectly healthy.

jake: im sorry babe :( you feeling okay? want me to get you anything from the store?

you: Nah.

You almost scream. There's so much you want to say and admit, but your fingers won’t type any of it. You really don't deserve him. He's so nice, and you're so… Fuck.

Why is it so hard to admit to your own boyfriend that you miss him?!

jake: ok :( I love you!

Your stomach flips.

Haha… You needed professional help. Really.

–

Jake was better at football than the bench in high school ever suggested. Senior hierarchy was everything at Yonsei. A starter as a freshman was practically unheard of before Jake. How he managed to level up from being a designated benchwarmer to being on the field at all times felt like whiplash.

Did he just have this in him this whole time?

I mean, you guess he looked kind of cool out there, all sweaty and serious-looking. Shouting call-outs to his team mid-game. Your legs squirm at the sight. He really needs to put on his damn glasses. (Though knowing you, that might only make things worse.)

You sit there, wearing the university colors of white and blue, holding onto a sign that says “Go Team!”

You would have made something with his name on it, but the thought alone sends shivers down your spine. You could not bear to give the stupid boys beside you the ammo of watching you scream Jake’s name and go crazy over his goals. So instead, you silently watch and admire as he steals the ball yet again.

Jay and Sunghoon, decked out in the rival school’s signature red for no reason whatsoever (they don’t even attend that university either), stood on either side of you with a level of passion you’ve never seen from them before.

“GET HIS ASS!” Jay screams. “Play the mental game! When Player 15 cries, he calls his mom first—”

Player 15 would happen to be Jake.

“The guy with ‘Sim’ in the back of his jersey loves to sing Celine Dion in the shower—”

You groan as heads turn, not enjoying the various glares and snide remarks from your surrounding schoolmates. You still haven't made any substantial friends yet at university. Being associated with these bozos would only make it that much harder. This would be the last time you sneak them into the student section. 

“Can you two please sit down?” you mutter. “We’re ahead by like four goals. Psychological warfare is not enough for Jake to lose.”

Sunghoon drops back into his seat with a huff, cracking his neck.

“This won’t do,” he mutters. “Jake’s gonna surpass me in Instagram followers if he wins this.”

Jay chuckles on your left side, still standing and selfishly blocking the view of everyone behind him. “If he wins, you think he’ll invite us to their celebration party after?”

Your brows furrow. “What party?”

Jay finally sits down when the opposing team calls a time-out, one eyebrow raised at your confused expression. “Isn’t that like a thing every school does? First big game of the year, there’s bound to be something.”

Sunghoon nods in agreement. “Yeah, that’s like common knowledge.”

You almost pout before catching yourself. Jake never mentioned anything about a party. 

So when the game ended and, of course, Yonsei won, the two boys could not help but ask. 

“So there’s a party, right?”

“And you’re taking us?”

Jake looks between the two of them, forehead glistening and hair damp with sweat.

“What party?” he asks, and you smile gingerly. That’s right! You weren’t crazy. He would’ve told you if there was—

“You have to go to the party, Jakey!” a voice chirps from behind you.

You recognize her. The team manager of the football team. Short hair and a cute button nose. Very pretty. Your eyes cut between Jake and her. Wait.

Jakey? Who the hell calls him that?

Jay and Sunghoon give each other some shifty glances and step aside, letting the girl join the conversation. You feel this weird inclination to move closer to Jake, but you suppress the urge. 

“Hm?” Jake finally replies, confused more than ever. “No one told me about a party.”

The girl giggles. What even was her name?

“Oh, Jakey! Since you’re a freshman, I’ll give you the rundown.” 

She scooches in between you two, pushing you slightly to the side. The boys don’t seem to notice, and you have half your sense not to shove the girl right back.

“Whenever we win,” she starts, “the whole school goes to En Bar nearby and takes it over! Free drinks and everything. You’re our star player, so you definitely can’t miss it. Your friends are invited too, of course.”

She looks between Jay and Sunghoon, not even sparing you a glance.

Jake scratches the nape of his neck. “Sorry, I’m actually feeling pretty tired—” 

“We’ll be there!” Jay and Sunghoon say instantly. You raise your eyebrow at them, and the two brush it off.

“We’ll make sure he comes,” Jay laughs, slapping Jake hard on the shoulder. Having gotten hit by the ball in that exact spot just an hour before, he winces.

“I’m not really—”

“Great!” the girl smiles, clapping her hands together. “I’ll see you all there then?” 

Of course, her back is fully turned towards you. Dumb and dumber nod in unison, and as the girl walks off, they push at each other excitedly.

“First college party,” they cry out in joy.

“Oh my god,” you mutter. “You two are pathetic.”

Jake nods slowly in agreement. “Well… you guys have fun. I think I’m just gonna head back to my dorm and shower…”

“And get ready, right?” Sunghoon says dangerously, wagging a finger at him. “Because you are coming, right?”

Jake shivers under his friends’ threatening glares. But what really scares him is when his eyes find yours. You look pissed. Fuck. What did he do this time?

“I mean… I guess I could pop in…” Jake says reluctantly. He sneaks in another glance in your direction and sees that your frown grows even deeper. Was that the wrong thing to say?

“Babe?” Jake calls after you as you stride across campus, shivering in your t-shirt and mini skirt. “Why are you walking so fast?”

It’s dark now, save for the dim street lamps. You stop abruptly, and he almost bumps into you. When you turn, your jaw is already clenched.

“Am I crazy, or did that girl just completely ignore me?” you ask genuinely, voice at the seams of losing composure. Because what the fuck was her problem?

Jake laughs nervously. “Choa? I thought she seemed pretty friendly?”

Your expression sours. “Yeah, maybe a little too friendly,” you say under your breath. Jake catches it.

“Wait,” he says with a shit-eating grin, leaning in. “Babe… are you jealous? Hm?”

Your cheeks heat up, arms crossing like a toddler. “Fuck off.”

He laughs now, twisting you around and guiding you forward with an arm around your shoulder. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, babeeee…”

He notices how you don’t pull away from his touch, when normally you would hiss something like, “people are watching,” or something like that. Jake bites back an even bigger smile. You just let him hold you.

The walk to his dorm was peachy for him, save for the fact that his sweaty arm stank up your shirt.

You! Jealous. This has to be a dream. When you reach his room, shared with a sophomore named Heeseung who never seems to be around, you sit on Jake’s bed, still reeling from the earlier interaction.

“Am I overreacting?” you ask him, not at all bothered that he was taking his jersey off. You’re well past the stage of pretending his bare torso flusters you. “Like… did it not seem like she wanted you?”

Jake laughs, wiping his underarms with a nearby towel. “Me? Babe, no. That’s out of the question. She's like four years older than us—”

You roll your eyes. “So where the fuck did ‘Jakey’ come from?”

He shrugs, catching his reflection in the wall mirror hanging on his door. His muscles flex in a way that makes your eyes travel down his well-toned back…

You snap your gaze back to the wall. No. Focus. You’re supposed to be mad.

“New year, new nickname?” he offers, teasingly.

You throw a pillow at his head. Like the athlete he is, Jake dodges it. He turns to you, laughing, amused by how sulky and adorable you look on his bed. Brows furrowed in contemplation, tugging your legs close to your chest. Your plush thighs in your pretty little skirt that would have gotten you dress-coded back in high school with your knee-high socks and…

Fuck. 

“It’s not like I care,” you mumble, unconvincingly. 

Jake huffs out something that sounds like a chuckle, but his thoughts are elsewhere. His mind (and eyes) are on the edge of your skirt. He places a hand on your thigh and rubs it softly. To you, it felt like reassurance, and it was. But he was also incredibly horny.

“Babe,” his words drawl. “Look at me.”

Your eyes meet his for a split second before he plants a wet kiss on your cheek. “Hey—”

He chuckles as he plants another on your nose. Then your chin. And then your other cheek. And now you’re trying to push him away, but he holds your wrists to prevent you from stopping his incessant attacks. 

“Jake—You stink—Freak!” You try to say as his lips find yours, while he’s giggling up a storm. So cute. You're so fucking cute. 

His next kiss is deep, drawing out your breath sharply. Your back is on the bed now with Jake on top, his hands still wrapped around your wrists.

Jake’s lips move against yours, your eyes fluttering shut. His tongue prods and pushes in, his taste so sweet and heavy as you breathe in his weirdly intoxicating scent. Like fresh laundry doused in the salt of his sweat. You clench his biceps as he comes up from the kiss to catch some air.

He looks at you, face flushed and mouth parted. 

“I’m hard,” he blurts out, and you smack him on his naked chest.

“What do you want me to do about that?” you mutter as you start to feel him press against your stomach. “Don’t you have a party to go to?”

He shakes his head, burying his face in your hair. He lets out a groan, grinding onto you just to feel any part of you against his football shorts. You let out a squeak, clenching at his toned muscles harder.

“You’re not coming with?” he asks, and you can hear the shakiness in his breath. You smirk, wrapping your legs around him and shifting up so that his tent could meet your core. Jake fit between you so snugly.

His head lifts to meet yours, pupils already so dilated.

“Why would I?” you say through hooded eyes, and you could visibly see him gulp. It almost makes you laugh. But instead, you tease him, moving your hips up to graze his bulge. 

“I have time,” he groans quickly. “For this. Or whatever you want to do. Like I’m really down for any—”

You roll your eyes, gripping the back of his head to smash him back down to your lips. Your movements are messy, tongues clashing at a feverish pace. He’s still sore from earlier, but like hell he would let this opportunity go. Not when you looked this fucking good. And angry too. (For him, these things aren’t mutually exclusive...)

With trembling fingers, he lifts your shirt and almost moans at the sight of your bare skin. While he wants to thank you for saving him the trouble of not fiddling with a bra clasp, you pat yourself on the back for leaving your necklace at home.

Knowing how frisky Jake gets after the adrenaline of a good win runs through him, it was the right call. You don’t think you could handle Jake seeing you so jealous while having his ring resting on your chest. Yeah, you’d probably die right in front of him.

His hands grab your tits softly, massaging them between his fingers. Jake dips down, swallowing a nipple in his mouth as he watches you sigh out in pleasure.

He’s confident in one thing when it comes to you, and it was this right here. He could make your tough exterior melt just as long as you were under him. Or over him. He has no preference.

His tongue circles your bud, tugging with his teeth lightly. 

“Jake—” When he hears you squeak, his dick twitches with anticipation. So pliant now. What happened to that dominance earlier? He’d like to see it come back…

He moves on to the other breast, licking and massaging so it doesn't feel too neglected. Jake loves your tits, could be buried between them for the rest of his life if you let him. But now isn't the time! He has a very mean and very jealous, but also very hot, girlfriend to please. And maybe some party to make it to, who knows.

Jake pulls his shorts down roughly, just enough so that he can take his dick out. Already so big, the bulbous tip weeps with desire for you. He’s palming himself, relishing in how your eyes shut tight, lips parted open as his wet, pink muscle traces circles over your sensitive skin.

He’s nipping the top of your breasts now, careful not to leave marks in visible areas. Jake knows how you get about that sort of thing. 

His fingers drag your white, damp panties off your legs, but keeps your skirt on. And the knee-high socks for good measure. His hand meets your core, pushing down on your clit with a heavy pressure he knows you like.

You gasp, covering your eyes with your forearm. You’re so embarrassed. The noises you're making are unbecoming of you. All he does is laugh. Still so sensitive during sex after a whole year of dating. And he’s supposed to be the shy one.

His fingers drag slowly on your folds as he spreads your juices all over his digits. Jake might just cum in his pants with how soft your tits feel as he nestles his head in between them. 

He pushes two fingers in right away, and you draw out a sharp breath. You almost hit him on the shoulder. He has no idea how big his hands are. How sometimes you would eye them whenever he helps you with homework. Veiny, like his cock.

He’s moving his fingers in and out of you at a steady pace, wet squelches echoing through the room. 

“Ngh—Mmm—” you groan, arching your back to meet his movements. Impatient. You’re always so impatient.

“JAKE!” you cry out, when he rubs over a certain spot.

He looks up at you from his comfortable position between the valley of your chest, and with a teasing glint in his eyes, he says, “You mean Jakey?”

And it’s not an exaggeration in the least to say that you start seeing red. You grab his wrist, the pads of your fingers digging into his flesh. He stops his movements, looking at you with those puppy-dog eyes like he did something wrong. And he did. Something very. Very. Wrong.

“Sorry, I just wanted to tease—”

You pull his fingers out of you. With one swift movement, you grab him by his shoulders and push him down onto the bed. You’re hovering over him now, eyes dark.

Jake swallows nervously. Why’d you have to look so hot when provoked?

“Did I ruin the vibe or…”

“Shut up,” you growl, crashing your lips onto his. He tries to hold your waist to offer support, but you hold his wrists down onto the sheets. He could probably push you off very easily. But he doesn’t. Because he loves seeing you like this. Loves the urgency in your touch.

You want him! And you’re showing it! His heart is practically doing backflips in his chest.

Your tongue explores the inside of Jake’s mouth, licking the roof of it in a way that has him seeing stars. You’re so rough with it. Sucking on his, biting his lip, moving so desperately against him.

“Babe—” he tries to say in between your assaults on his mouth. But it comes out in a breathless whisper when he feels you grinding your slick pussy against him.

“I said,” you say through gritted teeth. “Shut. Up.”

He almost moans when his leaking tip hits your clit. Just the contact alone has the back of his head hitting the pillow roughly. But he forces himself to watch as you move against him as he offers no assistance. Your grip on his wrists moves to the sheets as you focus on grinding against his dick. Swiveling yourself on him back and forth. Rubbing and rubbing. But it’s not enough. He needs to be inside. Needs to feel you right now.

Your breath is on his neck now, riling yourself up at his stunt. Jakey? What grown woman calls someone that? Choa and her nice ass bob... Fuck her!

“Ngh—” he lets out as you suction an erogenous zone on his neck, sucking and biting him like a vampire. Your tongue lapping at his skin to soothe him from the brutal assaults of your teeth. You close your eyes to relish in his taste. So salty from sweat, but still so sweet. But you’re distracted now as Jake breaks free from your hold. He grips your ass with one hand, the other guiding his pulsing member to your slippery entrance.

“Wha—” 

He’s looking at you with pleading eyes. “Can I, baby?” Jake begs, cheeks tinged pink. “Please?”

You bite back a smile. What a fucking loser.

You push down on him, just slightly, just enough for his bulbous tip to slip inside. His grip on your ass is now slack. He doesn't even want to fight back, really.

“Fuck—” Jake’s mouth parts open, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes when you come back up. No longer inside you, he groans.

“Whyyy,” he whines. “I said I’m sorry—”

He inhales a sharp breath when you engulf his tip again, tightening around him just a little harder. 

“Do you like being called Jakey?” you question darkly. “Like it when other girls feel up on you?”

He shakes his head desperately. “No—Only you—” he says through pained groans.

And then you lift again, laughing at his pathetic form. “I don’t believe you.”

He’s practically writhing underneath you now, his mushroom tip pulsing against your folds. Your skirt hides it all from view, and he just wishes he could rip it off you. Give you a new one, much, much shorter, so he can see everything better. 

But only if you let him.

“You’re literally torturing me,” he whimpers, hips jutting up messily. He keeps missing your entrance, the one he desperately needs to be buried in. “Need to feel you right now—”

“What’s it to me?” you ask meanly, your thumb prodding at his bottom lip. His tongue comes out to lick at the pad of your thumb, sucking it ever-so-slightly. You enjoy this view. Him underneath you. Pleading. Whining. Like he's starving. 

“I’ll make you feel so good, baby,” Jake offers through the haziness of his lust. Not entirely conscious of how desperate he sounds. “You can use me however you want. I’ll literally do anything. Just please—”

And then you sink, so slowly that his eyes roll to the back of his head. The devil. His girlfriend is the devil.

“Babe—” You shut him up with another open-mouthed kiss. Messy, just how he likes it.

He grips his hands into yours as you suckle his tongue, intertwining your fingers together. You try not to wince as you sheath him fully, realizing now that you were overconfident in taking control before he could properly prep you.

Usually, sex was an hours-long ordeal with Jake. He likes to finger you, then eat you out, then repeat, until he can slip into your slick warmth with little issue. Sex is the only time you don’t deny him the pleasure of seeing you flustered over him. Over what he could do for you. What he could provide you if you let him tell everyone in the world that he’s yours. 

Regardless, Jake will always be long and thick, and he still stretches you out so deliciously. Your mouths clash against each other, swallowing back both of your moans as saliva pools at the sides of his bruised lips.

Depraved. That’s all you could think of when Jake bottoms out inside you. He’s so sweaty now, the scent so musky that it drives you insane. Do other girls smell these pheromones when he’s around? Or is this just you and your hypersensitivity to everything that involves him?

You’re moving up and down now, with shallow thrusts that do little to satiate the flame in your stomach. You don’t do this enough—take control enough. Your knees are already weak, wobbling, as you grind down on him.

But you push through it as you continue to impale yourself on his cock, gummy walls clenching him tightly with each thrust. You want to get him off like this, even if your whole body is trembling above him. 

And it’s not like Jake doesn’t notice. But like the little shit he is, he doesn’t feel like helping. Because he enjoys the feeling too much, of your breasts bouncing filthily against his chest. When you lift yourself from his lips so that you can focus on riding him, he finds it so endearing. How you put your hands on his abdomen to steady yourself, how you fuck yourself on his length. How much you struggle to take all of him in. Not sure what to do with yourself.

‘My poor baby,’ Jake thinks, chuckling at how tight your eyes shut just to feel him better. 

“Need help?” he hums, his hand drawing circles on your hip. You shake your head, teeth gritted.

“N-no,” you try to muster out, but it’s unconvincing. Your movements are stuttering, moans slipping out of your mouth too easily. He smirks. His little pillow princess. 

Jake, with his grip on your hips, pulls you down onto his cock. Hard. You gasp as his hips snap up with it.

“Ah—” you cry out, your nails now digging into his shoulder blades. He pounds into a spot that had you almost come undone at that very moment. How did he get so good at this?

Jake lifts you, all the way until his pink tip is the only thing in your wet pussy. Then, as harshly as he could, he pushes you down on him, his thickness grazing at your deepest parts. And he does this again and again until you collapse onto his chest from the roughness of his thrusts.

“I’m gonna—Ngh—Fuck—You—” you try to say through your moans, try to sound angry. But you love it. Love how tight he grabs your bum. Love the slight stretch of pain as he stuffs you full of him. Love that trickle of spit that falls out of his mouth as his back lifts off the bed to feel you better. Ugh, you hate him.

“JAKE—”

“Shhh, baby, ” he whispers, forcing your face into the crook of his neck. “Just take it.”

Jake plunges up into you, propelling your hips down with his harsh grip. He lifts a heavy hand, smacking your ass from behind as you try to match his timing. You scream. He does it again, massaging the tender spot. The pain mixes with the pleasure, as tears prick the corner of your eyes. You feel your climax building now as your lips find his neck again, sucking and biting. Marking him. Let everyone know that he’s yours. That you own him.

“Babe…” he whines, too lost in the suctioning of your tightness to really care. Because he’s close too. So fucking close. 

Jake’s arms move up to your back, caging you into a bear-like embrace. His feet plant themselves on the bed, as his dick shoves into you with newfound energy. He’s going so fast, you could practically hear the speed. Feel it too. The wet squelches of his balls slapping against your ass. You move with him, trying to sync your rhythm to his.

“Mmm—Ahh—” your moans jumble into each other. Your legs are trembling, even more than they were before. A searing feeling within you continues to build and build. A single, full thrust from him has you biting into his neck brutally, stifling your moans as your orgasm crashes through you in waves. 

“Shit—” he cries out, from both the pain of your teeth and the pleasure of your cunt's constricting grip. You grind down on him, whimpering into his skin, back arched to ease yourself through the sensitivity.

Jake’s dick twitches in you once, then twice. He pushes you off of him and onto the bed, harsher than he intended. But he doesn’t have a condom on, and... he likes the way you look in white.

He hovers over you now, his painfully hard length in his hand. He’s stroking himself with urgency, fist wrapped around himself with a panicked grip. He’s watching you intently as you splay out underneath him. So fucking pretty for him. Lips bruised and bitten so sensually. Legs opened with your juices glistening on the inside of your thighs. Maybe he should stuff his cock into your—

“Fuck—” he groans, mouth parting at the sight of his thick ropes of cum spurting out of him, coating your stomach and tits. He strokes slowly, pumping all that he’s worth onto your body. You welcome it, eyes drinking in his flushed demeanor.

“I love you,” Jake mutters as he comes down from his high. And you don’t say anything back, distracted as your fingers coat themselves on the sticky fluids on your skin. Such a mess, both of you.

You hear it then. Intense vibrations on his nightstand. Jake’s phone, very much neglected, is blowing up with texts and calls. Was it going off like that the whole time? Then his eyes go wide like saucers.

“Shit! The party—” 

Your eyes narrow. Before he can pick it up, you grab the nape of his neck to pull him down into another sloppy kiss. Your legs wrap around Jake once more, smirking as you feel him melt into you with little resistance.

“What party?”

morning after.

“You’re a bitchhhh,” Sunghoon cries out, over a FaceTime call that Jake was forced to pick up at nine in the morning. You were already gone by then, running late to your morning lecture. 

Heeseung, thankfully, still hadn’t returned to the dorm. Or else you wouldn’t have been able to stay over and let Jake devour you a few more times, but that’s besides the point. He starts humming happily to himself with the memories of last night still fresh in his mind.

“They wouldn’t even let me into the bar because I was wearing the wrong colors,” his friend continues to complain.

“I get it, I get it,” Jake replies, only half-listening. He’s fixing his outfit in the mirror, admiring how well a polo shirt fits him. It’s weird. He’s getting used to not looking like a dweeb all the time, just a few weeks into his big transformation, even with his glasses on right now.

“Yo, do you think these pants look better with a belt or nah?” he asks, not really sparing Sunghoon a glance. He adjusts his shirt’s collar slightly until—

“WHAT THE FUCK—”

Jake jumps, phone nearly dropping from the desk he sat it on.

“WHAT IS THAT?!”

“What? What?!” Jake snaps his head to look behind himself, like Sunghoon might have seen a ghost.

“Did you get eaten by a fucking lion?!” Sunghoon gawks. Jake’s cheeks turned a bright shade of red.

Damn, he forgot.

“W-what are you talking about?” he mutters unconvincingly, slowly coming out of frame. He strips the polo off in a panic, digging through his closet until he finds a turtleneck. It’s autumn anyway. This is fine, right?

“Our friendship is done,” Sunghoon deadpans at the camera. “You got fucking laid and didn’t tell me?! I mean, I understand Jay, he’d make it weird. BUT NOT EVEN ME?!”

Jake shakes his head, tugging the turtleneck on. He tries to roll up his sleeves to look more casual, but now he looks like Steve Jobs. Shit. He should put his contacts on.

“So who is it?!” Sunghoon presses. “Who’s the unlucky girl?” 

 When Jake doesn’t reply, Sunghoon gasps.

“Unlucky guy?!”

“Man, shut up!” Jake cries, snatching his phone off the desk and coming back into frame. “Please don’t tell Jay.”

–

“Okay, so he told Jay,” he blurts, shielding himself with his arm like you’re about to hit him. “Please don’t get mad at me.”

You almost asked why he was wearing a turtleneck in relatively warm weather when he tugged the collar down to show his neck. Absolutely purple and bruised. And yes. Maybe a dark, suppressed part of you jumped with glee. But the more rational part started cursing yourself out.

“I can’t believe you’d video call him the morning after,” you groan, massaging your temple with your fingers. “Ugh, I’m so stupid. What was I even thinking?!”

Jake gives you a sly smile. “I mean, I’m not complaining—”

You shoot him another icy stare, and he stops. 

“W-well, it’s not like they know that it’s you! They probably think it’s someone else…”

You inhale a sharp breath at the thought. Was he gonna tell them the hickeys on his neck were from someone else? Who? Choa?

“Whatever,” you mutter, whipping around as your bag purposely smacked his bicep. You walk off, fists clenched, ignoring Jake’s calls out to you. 

Fucking Choa.

–

A full week has passed since the disaster that was Sunghoon seeing Jake’s bruised neck. Your boyfriend only felt safe enough to see the two idiots once the marks faded, and even then, he was a little disappointed to wake up and see them all gone. 

“So run it through with me again,” Jay requests, leaning over the boiling hot pot broth. The boys sit in a dimly lit restaurant with a stage in the back. 

“Like, you were just walking back to your dorm and boom—you found a rando to hook up with out of nowhere?!” Jay questions, dropping tofu into the soup so aggressively that it splashes Jake’s wrist.

“Why are you making up fantasies in your head about my sex life?” Jake mutters, pushing his glasses up his face. He was too lazy to put his contacts on just to hang out with these two. “I plead the fifth.”

“Bro, I thought you were a virgin this whole time!” Sunghoon adds unhelpfully. “Excuse us for trying to be supportive.”

Jake rolls his eyes, struggling to grab an udon noodle with his chopsticks.

“Wait,” Jay says through the hot pot steam. “Weren’t you walking with [Y/N] that night?”

Jake gulps, throat bobbing as he fiddles with the noodle more to avoid suspicion.

“Right!” Sunghoon snaps his fingers, and for a second, Jake’s life flashes before his eyes. They know. They have to! Fuck, you’re gonna be so mad at him—

“Why don’t we just ask her who it was?”

Jake stares at them and breaks out into a nervous laugh. Never in his life was he happier to have a more idiotic set of childhood friends.

“Please do,” Jake smiles, wondering how you would weasel out of that conversation with them. “She knows her very well…”

A piercing sound of microphone feedback ricochets through the restaurant. The three cover their ears as everyone’s attention turns to the neglected stage.

“Who wants to sing?! It's open mic night!” the restaurant owner booms. When a deafening silence fills the air, Jay lifts Jake’s hand straight into the air without hesitation.

“This guy loves Celine Dion!” he cries out as Jake tries to yank his arm back down. He curses at his friend, but to no avail.

“Okay!” the owner shouts excitedly. “Come on right up, sir!” 

Jay and Sunghoon practically drag Jake up the stage, laughing themselves all the way back to their seats in the far back of the restaurant. Jake stands frozen as dozens of strangers stare at him, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. He takes off his glasses, shoving them in his pocket, and brushes his hair back. He couldn't bear to look at all these blank faces staring at him. Confidence. This is all about confidence.

When ‘My Heart Will Go On' starts echoing through the restaurant walls, Jake’s face flushes all the way red. This is exposure therapy; he tries to cope with himself. If he could do this, he could probably build up the courage to ask you about going public. So that his friends stop thinking he’s a loser. Maybe for you to stop thinking it, too.

He sucks in a deep breath. What’s the difference between this and a showerhead? Nothing. Absolutely nothing!

“Every night in my dreams, I see youuuu… I feel youuu…” he starts slowly, welcomed with a soft gasp from an audience member. Jay and Sunghoon’s laughter dies as Jake sings. Shit. He was actually doing it. And he sounded good, too. Like an angel. Was Jay crying?

Jake loses himself in the slow melody of the song, singing his heart out as he does in every postgame shower. ‘This one’s for you, babe,’ he thinks. Wherever you are… 

When the song ends and Jake’s eyes open, he’s met with a standing ovation. At a damn hot pot restaurant. Jay and Sunghoon are cheering the loudest, holding their hearts like their once-nerdy best friend was their child at a talent show. The owner comes up to the stage, sniffling.

“Give it up for this random kid!”

As Jake makes his way back to the table, he holds his head up high. He couldn’t have imagined doing this a year before, let alone ordering food at a kiosk without stuttering. It’s like taking off his glasses gave him super powers.

“Excuse me—” Jake turns around. A girl with long flowing hair stops him. 

“Are you Jake Sim? The freshman on the football team?” she asks, eyes bright. He nods. Does he know her?

“I’m Suji from the Dance department.” She bows slightly. “Your performance was incredible, by the way!” 

He nods, giving a small “thanks,” before he turns back around.

“Actually!” She calls after him. He stops again. “I just wanted to ask if you were interested in auditioning to be the male lead of our upcoming musical! It’s about a football player who finds passion in singing and dancing. I just thought it would fit you so well!”

Jake turns back to face the stranger. He ponders deeply. A musical? Him? He’d never thought about it before, but what the hell! He guesses he’s the type to try new things now. The power of a good haircut, maybe.

“I’ll think about it,” he says with a polite smile. 

Suji grins back. “Auditions start tomorrow. We’d love to have you.”

By the time Jake finds his way back to his seat, his friends are already geeking.

“You pulled another?!” Jay cries in anguish, biting his fist. “I should have gone up there. That should have been me! Damn it!”

“It’s not fair,” Sunghoon wails, leaning his head dramatically against the wall. “You had no play in high school. Like absolutely zero bitches—”

Jake snorts, scrounging for his glasses once more to slip them back on. “She was just asking me to audition for some musical.”

“I’m sure she was,” Jay says with a smirk. “I’m sure she’s staring straight at your back right now because she wants you in that musical soooo bad.”

Jake shifts in his chair uncomfortably, and sure enough, Suji is watching him. She shoots up her arm to wave. He looks back at his friends with a confused glance.

“Maybe they’re desperate?”

Sunghoon groans. “I’m gonna call [Y/N]. Let’s get her expertise on this.”

“Don’t!” Jake lunges, trying to grab Sunghoon’s phone as he takes it out of his pocket. But then flashes from that night start playing in his head. You above him. Riding him. Gripping his shoulders. Your lips on his neck, marking him until he whined and begged. All at the mere mention of Choa’s weird pet name for him. Jake clears his throat and sits back, not even trying to hide the shit-eating grin spreading across his face.

“...Yeah,” he says more casually. “Ask her.”

–

ma baby: Come over. Now.

Jake receives your text after Sunghoon’s impromptu call, bringing his hands together in a prayer position to the sky. Thank you to whatever higher being was watching over him.

When he reaches your residence hall, you’re waiting outside your door in pajamas, foot tapping impatiently against the carpet. You start glaring at his silhouette even before he comes into view. 

“So,” you start slowly, “you just let anyone talk to you these days?”

Jake’s already giddy. Yes… Be angry with him… Let him in your dorm room and reprimand him, while you’re at it…

“Babeeee,” he teases, his arms already reaching for yours. You dodge him. “Are you mad at me?”

“No,” you reply flatly. “I’m just wondering when you started serenading restaurants and accepting invitations from random girls?”

“Just thought I could finally get some appreciation for my many talents,” he says teasingly, raising an eyebrow at you. 

“Are you saying I don’t appreciate you?” you ask, not at all amused by his playful gaze. “I tell you all the time that you’re smart!”

He chuckles. “Everyone and your mom knows that by now, babe.”

You narrow your eyes. ‘He’s learning how to fight back,’ you think sourly. 

“So you enjoyed that girl's appreciation, then?” you counter, knowing that you were riling yourself up by asking such a loaded question. Jake bites his lip to stifle a smile. There it is. 

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, pushing his glasses up. “I think I might actually consider auditioning!”

And this part is genuine. He’s always enjoyed singing. It could be a cool new experience, especially since he shied away from doing theater back in high school. Maybe now was his moment to shine... But when he notices how your expression darkens, he’s suddenly excited to audition for the musical for a whole different reason.

You look around the hallway, checking to see if anyone's coming by. Then you pull him by the collar and into your dorm room. The door shuts behind you two as you push him to sit on the bed. Jake looks up, eyes bright with pure anticipation as you climb onto his lap.

“What’s up, babe?” he asks, feigning ignorance. And you fall for it. Because your cute, nerdy boyfriend couldn’t possibly have ulterior motives… Right?

“You have class tomorrow?” you ask as you adjust yourself on him, legs encasing both sides of his thighs. His hands find your hips, pulling you closer.

“It depends,” he says, knowing full well he has an 8 a.m. physics lab. “Is your roommate coming back anytime soon?”

Oh yeah. Her. 

“Not tonight,” you mutter, already peppering his neck with small kisses. “She’s visiting her parents.”

Jake smirks, tilting your chin up so your eyes meet his. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip as the wheels are already turning in his head. He fakes a cough.

“You know… I think the musical is actually a romantic comedy.”

You’re on your knees, carpet harshly grazing your skin. 

“Fuck,” Jake groans, head thrown back as his hand clutches your hair. He’s pushing you down onto his cock, relishing in the way your cheeks hollow around him. How you take his whole length into your mouth without your usual snappy commentary. Look at you. Underneath him. So eager to please, but so in need of control. He bites his bottom lip at the view. It's addictive.

“Just like that,” Jake encourages, stroking your cheek so lovingly. Your tongue licks the underside of his thickness, careful not to have your teeth graze his sensitive skin. He’s so flushed above you, a darkness blooming in your heart. The sight of his glasses pushed so low on his nose bridge. So focused, so desperate for release.

‘My Jake,’ you think to yourself. ‘All mine.’

You bob your head up and down, your mouth plunging down to the base of his member with the help of his tight grasp on your hair.

“Y-yes,” he sighs, his hips coming up to meet your lips. Jake’s gaze never leaves yours, unable to tear his eyes from the tears forming in your eyes from just how much he fills you up. You always had something to say. Always rolling your eyes at him. Now, your eyes were rolling back for a different reason.

His mouth falls open. “F-fuck—” 

You smirk as his hips start to lose rhythm. You remember the first time you gave him head. Just like this, knees on the floor of his room back home, with his parents watching TV downstairs. Glasses perched and foggy. He came within seconds. You were proud, just a little, that he was able to last this long now.

“B-babe?” he tries to cry out. “I’m close—”

You pull away from him with a pop of your lips, teasing the slit of his tip with the flat of your tongue. He groans in frustration, but his hands don’t push you down to take him in again.

“Already?” you say, eyes batting up at him. “Why should I give you the satisfaction?” 

He whines, his grip on your hair tightening just a little. 

“Please?” he asks, not really sure what you want from him. It’s not like he asked you to just fuck him with your mouth! That was all your doing. Okay, yes, maybe he did provoke you. But did that mean he didn’t deserve to orgasm?!

You’re pumping him slowly with your right hand, gripping tightly and stroking enough so that he’s still edging close to his climax. But not close enough to actually reach it.

“I thought I was supposed to be showing you appreciation,” you say pointedly. “Take my time with you and all that.”

He shakes his head ferociously, his hips snapping up into your fist. 

“Babe—Please—I’m so—” he groans when he feels you slow your pace again. 

“So what?” you ask, feigning naivety. You really are the devil.

He shakes his head. He can’t speak. Can’t even think. Just frustrated with how your lips aren’t wrapped around his fucking dick anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he cries. “I’ll do anything, baby. Please—Just stop teasing—Please—”

His sobs are music to your ears. Your wrist’s pace on him quickens, as your mouth engulfs his swollen tip. Your tongue circles the head, pumping him up and down with all your strength and might. Jake’s hands are clutching the sheets, hips pistoning up into your sticky fingers. He feels his load threatening to spill over. 

“Fuck—Yes, baby—There—” He pulls your head back, hand encasing yours, pumping ferociously with you. Your mouth is wide open, tongue sticking out, eyes looking directly up at his. An invitation.

Spurts of his hot, white release coat your pink tongue. He unloads everything within him all over your features. Your cheeks. Your chin. Your cute ass nose. All covered in his milky cum. His mouth parts at the sight. So pretty. His girlfriend is so fucking pretty.

“I love you,” he whispers, as he wipes dribbles of his liquid off your chin with his thumb. “I love you so fucking much…”

You hum back in approval as he lifts you back up and onto his lap. Your face, still stained with his orgasm, comes up to kiss him. He grimaces slightly. You taste infinitely better than he does. He’s almost thankful you part ways with his lips so that you could pepper kisses down his neck.

And when you start sucking and nipping in the same way you did that game night, he smiles. His arms wrap around your waist as you suction his pulse point.

‘I could get used to this,’ Jake thinks.

The audition the next day went surprisingly easily. He truly was the only one trying out for the main role, while Suji was already pre-selected to play the female lead. Jake thinks it’s a bit unfair. What if other people wanted to audition too? But whatever. At least he got the part.

He finds you in between your lectures, holding out a boba for you in his hand. Jake’s not wearing a turtleneck this time, proudly wearing the battle scars of your teeth on his neck. No one’s brave enough to bring it up to him yet, to his dismay. Except you, who promptly smacks him in the arm for his shamelessness. 

“You look like a pervert,” you grumble, still taking the drink from him.

He chuckles at your cute expression. You say that like it wasn’t your intention to have him show the bites off. To show that he is very much occupied with someone else. Not Choa. Or whoever this other girl was.

“I was wearing my jacket the whole day,” he reassures. “Just took it off when I came to see you.”

He flexes slightly. “You think I’ve bulked recently?”

You roll your eyes and ignore his obvious fish for compliments. “So how’d it go? The audition?”

He smiles. “You’re looking at the male lead of Singing Striker,” he says proudly, hand to chest. “And before you ask, the name was not my choice.”

You scoff at the cheesiness. “Congrats,” you say through small sips of your gifted drink. “Break a leg.”

“Babe… when you say it like that, I feel like you mean it the other way.”

You shake your head, speaking robotically. “So who’s the female lead? It’s a romcom, you said?”

“The girl,” he starts, snapping his fingers like he doesn’t already know who she is. “Suji. From the restaurant. The one who recruited me.”

Your eyes morph into a squint, like you’re glaring at him. 

“...Interesting,” you say, willing yourself not to overreact. So Jake is hot now (always was). Girls just love to approach him with invitations to stuff. And he gets to act in a musical with someone that Jay described as “the baddest girl I’ve ever seen in my life.” Great! You love that, actually.

You bite down hard on the boba straw. “You know what… Are they casting for extras?"

And it's like a bad habit now. How you nip and scar his neck like you’re feeding off him every time a girl even so much looks in his direction. It’s easier than saying you’re jealous, easier than admitting that you have a sick sort of need to control who Jake interacts with.

You almost bent a metal spoon in the cafeteria when a girl asked for his number while you were sitting right in front of him. Granted, you did denounce being in a relationship with him pretty heavily the first few weeks at school. You knew she had every right to shoot her shot, but that didn't stop you from taking Jake right into a janitorial closet and making you eat him out as an apology.

“Fuck, baby,” he moans into the space between your thighs as your hands push him deeper into your wetness. “I've never even seen that girl in my life—”

You grit your teeth, angry that he even mentioned her.  “Did I ask?” you growl through sharp breaths. “Just shut up.”

He smiles against your clit, sucking harshly to elicit more of your beautiful noises. He hums into you. Happy that you're mad at him. Happy that he gets to do dirty things with you without having to practically be on his knees and begging. Well, really, he already was.

His tongue laps at your folds, thrusting in and out to prolong his stay in between your thighs. Maybe he is teasing, but really, he’s just taking it all in. Your addictive noises. Your sweet taste. The feeling of his fingers digging into your ass just to hold you up. The way you clench around his tongue when he arches it inside, real deep. Yeah, he needs you bad.

Jake is lapping at you, your legs constricting around him even tighter when he finds his way back to your clit. When he tugs on it with his teeth, you jolt.

“Jake—” He does not care. He nips again, flattening his tongue to soothe the slight pinch. You arch your back into him, riding his face until you stop yourself. You look desperate. Pathetic even. But Jake groans.

“Keep going,” he huffs. “Use me, babe. Use me like I’m your fucking toy.”

You tsk, wondering where he learned to talk like that. 

“Fucking pervert,” you mutter through harsh breaths. But your grip on him does tighten, and he whimpers at the feeling of you tugging on his locks.

“You like it when I'm like this, don't you?” You grit your teeth, pushing him in further. His nose is practically buried into your clit as he fucks his pink muscle into you at a merciless pace.

“Like when you get attention. Like when everyone fucking wants you.”

You're seething, practically riling yourself up. He tries to speak, but you clench around his tongue, trapping his voice. He hums into your folds instead, licking the roof of your warm hole as he finds the exact spot he's been searching for. You mewl.

“Fuck! T-there!”

You're grinding onto his face now, smothering him with your scent. Yes, he thinks to himself, please suffocate him. Tremors go through your body as you feel something intense build in the lower pit of your stomach. So close. So fucking close.

Jake’s grip on your ass loosens as he lets you do all the work. Your legs over his shoulder pump furiously into his face. Like, Jake is just a mere vessel for your climax. And he wouldn't have it any other way. He doesn't even nurse his own hard-on, one that's painfully stretching his jeans. 

You're fucking his tongue, whining with each thrust, eyes starting to roll back, fingers almost pulling Jake’s hair from his scalp. Your hips stutter and then—

“Fuuuck…” Your orgasm pulses through you in ways that have you screaming silently. Your legs are trembling as his mouth vibrates with his hums against your core. Jake’s lapping up all your juices with an urgency.

Everything. He wants to taste everything. When you gently push him off from the oversensitivity, he resists at first. He holds you in place until he gets his fill, until tears are threatening to spill over. But your legs finally find the ground as he looks up at you with half-lidded eyes.

“I love you,” he whispers, out of breath. 

‘Whore’ you want to say out loud, but you know that would only make him hornier. He’s weirdly into stuff like that. But you smile as you comb through his hair. He doesn’t have complaints about you messing it all up as long as you’re fucking him, huh?

Jake, still on his knees, looks up at you with a lick of his lips, savoring the remaining taste of you on it. You wish he could see how he looked. Flushed. Damp. Yours. You almost lift him up to kiss him when—Ding.

The loving gaze you two share is cut off by the sound of his phone. He finally gets up from his knees, checking the notification.

“Oh shit,” he mutters. “Suji says I missed the costume fitting. I think I need to head out soon—”

You smash your lips against his, interrupting his train of thought. You moan at the taste of yourself on his devious tongue. Jake smirks, wrapping his arms around your waist. Maybe you could add a few more hickeys to his collection before he heads out... Just for good measure.

jake: let’s go to jay’s together?

For one of your weekly hangouts. The nights you try to avoid because they always end with you ignoring the pile of assignments you’ve already been putting off. 

you: sure. wya rn?

You smack your forehead the second you realize how quickly you sent that text. You swear you weren’t waiting. It wasn’t like you were staring at the last message he sent five hours ago, ruminating over whether it was appropriate to tell him how much you missed him.

jake: meet me by the bleachers :D practice is ending soon.

The speed at which you change outfits is impressive, already heading to the damn field before you realize it. He’s there, dribbling with a couple of his teammates. You sit at the top of the stands, a bit out of his sight. He catches a glimpse of you anyway and waves. You shoot him a simple smile of acknowledgement that dampens almost immediately.

Because you also see Choa, handing him a water bottle. When Jake reaches for it, trying to avoid brushing her hand, she purposefully finds his fingers anyway. It’s enough for your stomach to sink.

Even though he’s just smiling politely. Even when it looks like their conversation lasts for two seconds. It doesn’t feel any less bad. Choa notices you staring, and she scoffs. “This is a closed practice—”

“She’s with me,” Jake corrects her immediately. “I told her to come. That’s okay, right?”

You lift an eyebrow, challenging her. Jake said it the nice way. If she had to hear you speak, you would have probably been escorted off the field by now. She coughs awkwardly and nods, instantly folding under Jake’s attention. Your boyfriend, by the way.

“O-of course,” she stammers. “Just make sure she doesn’t see the playbook.”

The guys continue playing, and you move down a few rows, keeping Choa in your line of sight. It’s like she feels the daggers you send her way because she whips around to glare at you.

“It’s kind of pathetic,” she starts. “How you cling onto him.” You squint at her, not sure if you heard her correctly. You turn around, too, to check if she really had the audacity to speak to a stranger like you in that way.

“You talking to me?” you ask, pointing at yourself mockingly. She clicks her tongue.

“Who else?” she bites back. “Do you even have a name, or do you usually just go by Jake’s guard dog?”

Your cheeks burn in anger. Oh, if you were in high school… She’d have been on the ground by now, makeup stained with turf and pebbles. But unfortunately, you’re trying to stick to your resolution. A reformed delinquent girl at a prestigious university—

“You mute too?” Choa adds in for good measure. You stand, and it’s like Jake’s Spidey senses tingle because he stops to watch, monitoring if he needs to step in.

“You know,” you say, voice cool and devoid of emotion, “you’ve got a lot to say for someone who has to talk like a baby to get a man’s attention.”

She snarls. “Excuse me?”

“Jake’s not gonna let you hit,” you mock, scanning her up and down with a disgusted face. You only say the next part just to piss her off. “You’re not really his type.”

“And you are?” She steps in closer. “You’re stuck in the fucking friendzone, acting like hot shit—”

Oh, if only she knew. The truth is sitting on your tongue, burning, begging to be spoken just so you can wipe that stupid smirk off her face. But you’re not that angry yet. Not enough to expose yourself.

“You seem like such a loser,” she continues, voice laced with malice. “Everyone already thinks you look like some stray puppy following Jake everywhere he goes. Don’t you have a life of your own? Any hobbies? Isn’t it sad showing up where you’re not wanted?”

Ouch. Jake was your puppy. He follows you around everywhere. 

She digs right into that ugly little fear in the back of your mind. That you look as pitiful as you feel. That you truly were just biding your time in this dumb university until Jake showers you with attention. Is this what a relationship’s supposed to feel like? Like you’re waiting for him, all the damn time?

You inhale a deep breath. You’re better than this. Better than catfights over someone that’s already yours. A man who sleeps on your chest almost every night... But you’re not above being petty.

“And did he tell you all that,” you ask with fake sweetness, “or are your delusions that Jake’s gonna fuck you starting to get to your brain?”

She opens her mouth, but you cut her off. “I’ll make sure to put in a good word for you,” you continue, sarcasm dripping in your voice. “Make sure Jakey knows exactly the kind of girl you are.”

Choa bites the inside of her cheek. “Not like I said anything wrong.”

“Oh, right.” You pitch your voice up to that grating baby tone she uses with Jake. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate you calling me a ‘fucking loser,’ since you care so much about what he thinks.”

You could laugh at her suddenly hunched shoulders, but you just drop back down onto your seat, fake scrolling through your phone. “Don’t you have a team to manage?”

Choa whips her bob around, stomping back toward the group and desperately hoping that no one heard. But Jake is already staring. He doesn’t look mad. Just resigned. 

“Choa?” he calls out, voice low and almost inaudible. He’s not smiling like usual.

“Yes?” she answers immediately, with that lilted tone that sounds like nails on a chalkboard. You don’t hear the conversation that takes place, so curious as to why Choa’s expression suddenly drops.

“Don’t ever talk to her like that again,” he says, and the entire team stiffens around them. 

“And next time,” he adds, walking past her, “Just mind your fucking business.”

–

You never, in all your years of living, thought you’d be sitting in an auditorium seat watching your boyfriend act like he was in love with another girl on stage. But here you are, leg bouncing and forearms itching from the irritation bubbling in your chest.

“But don't you get it?!” Jake rehearses, script in hand. His hands flail in fake exasperation. You cover your mouth to hide the wince forming on your lips. “How can I choose between the stage and football?!”

“You don't have to choose,” Suji steps in, acting much better than Jake, at least. “You can do both.”

Jake sighs, throwing his hands up in the air. He's facing her now.

She's pretty, you think. Really pretty. Probably one of the most gorgeous girls you've ever seen in your life. And Jake is staring right into her eyes. You can’t help but wonder if he thinks the same. You grit your teeth at the thought.

“But what would people think of me?” he sighs. Suji shakes her head, moving closer. Your brows knit. That's not part of the script.

“Who cares what other people think?” she says softly, resting her hand on his chest. Your expression darkens immediately. “If it feels like you're alone… Then I can be there to support you.”

Maybe Jake's character should care what other people think, especially if he’s gonna prioritize singing on stage with some pretty girl over his football career—

You slap your own cheek lightly. Relax.

“Cut,” the musical director calls out. “Great job, you two! After this is the dance scene. We can rehearse that tomorrow. I think that's all for the day.”

When the actors and stage crew finally funnel out, you watch Jake stay behind, chatting with his costars onstage. So radiant, smiling at them with his toothy grin and cracking jokes as he says goodbye. He never used to be like that. Used to be so painfully shy that Jay had to accept his academic awards for him in high school.

And yeah, you feel like shit when he's standing there, surrounded by people who have stars in their eyes when he talks, while you're grumpily waiting in a faraway seat with no real excuse to interrupt. You're just part of the stage crew, after all. Just one of the invisible people who move props in between scenes while Jake and Suji’s characters fall deeply in love with each other. Yuck.

But you’re not gonna do the usual thing of dragging him to the nearest secluded area and fucking his brains out. No—you’re better than that. You’re not a loser! You’d let this pass.

“Bye, I’ll catch up with you guys soon! My friend’s waiting for me.”

The word ‘friend’ digs deep into your heart. But that’s your own fault.

Jake walks toward you, and the quick smile he throws your way is cut short the moment he pulls his phone out of his pocket. He stops in front of you, forehead still glistening from the stage lights, eyes glued to the screen even as he talks.

“I have practice in like thirty minutes,” he sighs, scrolling through his calendar. “And then the crew wants to have, like, a group dinner later tonight.”

He cranes his neck to release some tension, finally looking up at you. “Damn. My character is lowkey right. It really is hard balancing the two.”

You roll your eyes and stand up. “The crew? Like Jay and Sunghoon?”

He shakes his head as he walks beside you, still a bit occupied with his phone. He's sending text messages to some massive group chat, text bubble after text bubble popping up.

“The main acting crew,” he says, emphasizing the second word. “I think they wanna run the lines at En Bar and get a couple of drinks.”

You almost stop in your tracks, but you force yourself to continue walking with him, arms crossed. Good for him, you think. And you mean it. He's adjusted so well to university life, while yours feels like it revolves around him.

What's Jake up to? Is his practice done? Who's he talking to? Is it Choa? Is it Suji? Is it every girl that makes eye contact with your newly socially adept boyfriend, who just so happens to have the most gorgeous face known to mankind?

You want to punch yourself real bad.

“Do you wanna come?” he asks when he notices you've fallen silent. He thinks it's cute when you're jealous. Sulking and pouty—when it’s obvious why you’re upset. Not when you're quiet. Not when you're creating distance between you two as he walks beside you.

“I can ask them if we can reserve more chairs—”

“It's fine!” you interrupt, but even you don’t convince yourself. “I have work to catch up on anyway.”

His lips part as if recalling something important, something he promised you. 

“I'm so sorry, babe!” he gasps. “I totally forgot that you needed help studying for your exam tomorrow!”

You shrug your shoulders. You’re a cool girlfriend. Super chill. Not crazy at all.

“No, it's okay,” you say, chain necklace feeling heavy on your chest. “I'll just go to the tutoring center. You're busy, I get it.”

His eyes are still laced with concern. You sound so disconnected, so not yourself. Did he do something wrong?

“I can come over tomorrow?” he suggests, but it almost comes out as a plea. “We can watch the new movie you wanted—”

“My roommate’s gonna be home.”

“Okay…” he says, voice fading. “What about my dorm?”

You shake your head.  “I'm not really up for a movie, I guess.” 

Jake’s expression sours. It feels like you’re shoving sheets of metal down his throat. He can take you angry. Can handle you screaming, kicking, crying, and calling him names. He can’t take whatever this is.

“I can just cancel,” he says quickly. “I’ll come over tonight!”

And Choa’s voice resounds in your ear.

“You seem like a fucking loser.”

You bite your bottom lip and stare at his wavering gaze. You wonder if he pities you. 

Has he noticed? How quickly you reply to his texts? How often you show up to his extracurricular activities? How you can’t seem to admit that you’re hurting, even when he’s right here in front of you? God, you hate this feeling.

“It’s okay,” you say, and it’s small like a whisper. “Need some alone time anyway.”

“Alright,” he breathes, relenting to whatever boundary you’ve set with him. He reaches out to brush a strand of hair from your face, but when you flinch, he retracts his hand instantly.

“I love you?” he tests.

You give him a small smile and nod, pushing past him. He moves like he wants to catch your hand and stop you. But as always, he lets you walk just a little too out of his reach.

Because you still don’t say it back.

–

So this is what it feels like to twiddle your thumbs and try not to scream as Jake misses yet another hangout... He’s busy with his daily practices and rehearsals. You get that. But it’s still physically torturous to sit through Jay and Sunghoon stoking the fires of your insecurities.

“He’s gotta be seeing someone,” Sunghoon sighs, reclining into the beanbag in Jay’s apartment. “Dude just abandons his friends without any pussy involved? There’s no way.”

You smash a throw pillow from the couch and into his face, and Jay throws another one for good measure.

“Why do you always think with your dick?” Jay mutters. “Just let Jake be. This is his moment. Not like he had much to work with in high school.”

Sunghoon sighs. “Yeah,” he mumbles, almost apologetic. “He was pretty lame back then.”

You never thought so. Maybe you joked about it, but you never really meant it. He was kind. A little shy. So eager to please and follow you around. And now that the roles were reversed, you weren’t sure how to feel anymore. Fuck. Why couldn’t you just be happy for him?

He has this amazing life outside of you now. Cool friends (not Jay and Sunghoon). Great prospects for the future. It’s like a bird leaving the nest. Your carefully cultivated nest.

You felt like a cloud raining over his head when you’re around him now. After Choa, you started to notice the whispers around campus a little more. How people avoid him when you’re around because you can’t carry empty conversations about upcoming exam scores the same way Jake can.

It’s just different. He is. And it feels like you are too. But not a good different. It’s the kind that makes you feel like this isn’t how you should be. That you aren’t who you want to be… Maybe Choa was right.

And now a pillow is thrown in your direction. You shoot daggers at Sunghoon with your glare.

“What?!” you yell. He pounces in fear.

“I asked,” he coughs. “Is college treating you okay? You making friends?”

You roll your eyes. “Are you my dad?”

Jay sighs. “We always talk about Jake. Sue us for wanting to know how you’re doing for once.”

The words linger. What are you doing?

–

You’re stewing in it, marinating in how lonely it feels to stand in a corner with the stage crew while Jake, Suji, and the rest of the main cast laugh amongst themselves. Whatever.

“Those two are so cute,” a girl beside you says. Gaeul. So sweet, so bubbly. So oblivious to how tightly you clench your teeth. “They’d be like the it couple on campus, no?”

When you look between Jake and his toothy grin and Suji with her sweet laugh, you can’t help the way your heart constricts. “Yeah,” you mutter in disgruntled agreement. “I guess.”

Jake sends you sneaking glances, ones you don’t notice despite your eyes lingering on him. 

You haven't been the most responsive lately. He texts you a lot in between practices and rehearsals. Whenever he has the chance. He asks to come over. Asks you to come over. And you’ve turned him down almost every time.

You didn’t attend his last two games, you’re skipping rehearsals that you used to sit through for hours, and Jay knows where you're holed up more than he does. He’s worried about you. Worried that you’re avoiding him. Were you avoiding him?

“I heard you two are really good friends,” Gaeul asks you with sparkling eyes. “He seems like such a catch. How’d you not fall in love?”

You shrug. What answer are you supposed to give? It’s not like you were resistant to his charm either. “He went through a transformation recently,” you admit. “We were both kind of outcasts in high school.”

“Me too!” she says excitedly. “I bleached my hair, and everything before uni started. What about you? Were you two like super shy?”

You shake your head. “Jake was. I was just a bad student. Got in trouble a lot. My parents literally laughed when I told them I wanted to go here.”

And your heart thuds in your chest from a memory. Because Jake believed in you. Sat through hours of studying, teaching you the difference between derivatives and whatever the fuck linearization was, just for the chance to attend the same university. So he could spend time with you, so he could be with you. And now you barely see him.

“Really? I’m not surprised, though. You seem like such a chill girl. Like you don’t care what other people think of you.”

“Trust me. I’m far from it.” You catch Jake’s longing gaze again, but you turn away.

“Starting to think it was a mistake joining this thing,” you mumble, “with how often everyone forgets their lines.”

She laughs. “I like how straightforward you are,” she says with a wide smile. “Don’t really mince your words, do you?”

You smile too, in what feels like forever. It felt free to talk about something—anything—outside of him.

“Unfortunately, I don’t know how to hold back what I say.” Which is a lie. Because you hold back a lot. More than you let on. 

“Alright!” the stage manager yells. “Let’s get in position for the final scene.”

The kiss scene. The one you’ve dreaded for so long. You and Gaeul move across the stage, setting up the mics and instruments in their right place. You move past Jake with your head down. He frowns. So you are avoiding him.

“Places, people!”

You watch, from the wings, as Jake pours his heart out into the lyrics. A song about breaking free from stereotypes and whatever other inspirational stuff this whole musical’s about. He’s good. Really good. He moves like a natural on stage, throwing Suji these soft, tender glances that look so painfully real. She glows under the lights, stars in her eyes. And as the song comes to an end, he picks her up to spin her.

Just like the script says. And you clutch your forearm at the sight.

“I feel like I can really be myself with you,” he says to her. “Like I don’t have to hide or pretend.”

Whatever.

“And you make me feel like the luckiest girl in the world.”

The two stare at each other. A pause. Jake leans in. And so does she. Fuck.

You can’t do this. Can’t watch. You turn and walk out the back exit. Your chest is heavy, constricted with that ugly pang of envy.

Fuck this feeling. It hurt. Why did it have to hurt? You hate the tears that well up in your eyes, hate the shivering of your shoulders as you hug yourself in the parking lot of the stupid auditorium. You need to go back in. Save face. Show how little that kiss scene affected you because you’re supposed to be his friend in the eyes of everyone else.

You clutch your necklace through your shirt, fingers twisting the ring. Jake, who loves you. Who desperately wants your relationship to be public, to show you off. The same Jake on stage kissing another girl for a stupid musical you didn’t even want to be a part of.

He doesn’t deserve this. This monstrous version of you, who cares too much but gives too little. Overbearing to the point of suffocation.

So you walk back in, face steeled and tears wiped. He’s talking to the director with Suji, like nothing happened. Like all semblance of your self-esteem wasn’t just ruined a few minutes ago. But you need to stop. Because it isn't his fault. It isn't even Suji’s.

It’s yours. You hurt your own feelings.

Jake sees you and immediately lights up, calling your name as he jogs over. You don’t smile back.

“I have some time after rehearsals,” he says lovingly, his hand tugging your arm. “Wait for me?”

This would be the last time you would.

–

He tries to hold your hand on the walk back home to steady his heart rate. Opening night creeps closer and closer, and preparation alone won’t save him from the nerves. But when you pull away before his fingers can intertwine with yours, he flinches.

Maybe there are too many people around, Jake tells himself. You’re probably worried about being seen. And so he continues his merry yapping. He doesn’t notice the defeated glint in your eyes or the slow steps you take next to his. He’s still riding the high from rehearsal, still proud he finally made it through every line without stuttering or needing the script.

Maybe he’ll do well enough on opening night that you’ll let him kiss you afterward. Maybe you’ll walk toward him with flowers while he wraps you in his arms. He’d spin you around, brag to the whole world that you’re his girlfriend. Say it loud and proud in front of annoying ass Jay and Sunghoon, who got front row seats.

The thought pulls a grin onto Jake’s face, making him skip ahead a little. And you both keep walking toward the dorms. Just like any other day.

Until you ruin it.

“I’m dropping out of the stage crew,” you say, casually. He stops in his tracks. All semblance of a smile wipes from his face. The show is sold out. It’s too late to get you tickets. 

“You won’t be able to watch,” he says, panic laced in his voice. You’re at a standstill, in the middle of campus, surrounded by trees and concrete. “You should’ve told me! I can see if I can pull some strings—”

He’s already taking his phone out to text someone. Probably the director. He doesn’t even ask why. Just goes straight to problem-solving. Your Jake. Too good. Too kind. Too forgiving.

It’s too much.

“I’m not coming to watch,” you say, harsher this time, stopping him from sending the message. Guilt washes over you instantly. Because he looks at you with his brows knit together, eyes wavering.

“I don’t understand.”  You don’t want to come? You don’t want to support him?

Your mouth opens to say something. Anything. But your throat feels hoarse, shoulders too heavy. Shit. Don’t cry. You don’t cry in front of anyone.

“Jake,” you start, clenching your quivering hands open and closed. “I can’t do this anymore.”

His heart drops. 

“Do what anymore?” he swallows, his mouth dry. “I’m confused—”

“I think we need to break up.”

Numb. Everything is numb.

“W-what?” Tears sting Jake’s eyes before he can blink them back. “Don’t… don’t say that.”

You shake your head. “Jake,” you whisper, careful not to get too close. Careful so you don’t make the mistake of taking back your words. “I don’t think we’re good for each other.”

He inches forward. You take a step back.

“Do you think that? That I’m not good enough—”

“No,” you interrupt. But he isn’t listening. And he doesn’t want to. Because this feels like a fucked up joke, a prank on him that’s been taken too far. Won’t you stop?

“Because if it’s something I did, I can change,” he begs. And your heart breaks a little at how desperately he searches for a hint of emotion in your face. But you don’t relent. You can be the bad guy. You always are. 

“Please. We can talk this through.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, an unusual softness in your voice. “I don’t want to change my mind—”

“Why not?!” he asks, voice louder. The quiet that falls between you two is masked by the rustle of surrounding trees, orange and red leaves falling around you two. The cool, autumn air brushes your face. His eyes sting with redness. 

“Why don’t you tell me anything?” His voice cracks. The aching in your heart makes you want to give in, to take it all back. But you aren’t like Jake. You can’t adjust, can’t welcome change so openly. 

So as you look at him with his slicked back hair and sharp features, so different from a year ago, it feels like you've already lost something. The version of yourself who had more to give than hollow excuses and marks left on his skin.

You couldn’t admit to it even now. That you hate who you’ve become. “I’m telling you right now,” you gulp, bracing your own words. “That I want to break up.”

And the first semblance of tears falls down Jake’s cheeks as he lets out a bitter laugh. He doesn’t believe it. Can’t accept it. He won’t let this be the end.

“If it’s because of what Choa said—”

Your brows furrow. “You heard what she said?” 

His hands are in his hair, tugging at it with frustration. You seem angry, but he doesn’t know why. He never does.

“I told her to mind her business,” he explains quickly. “It doesn’t matter what she thinks. So if you’re breaking up with me just because she called you clingy or whatever…”

And he doesn’t know it, but the words trigger something in you. Something you’ve been pushing down over and over again. The feeling of seeming weak, of needing him. The need to monopolize. It sickens you.

“It matters what I think Jake!” you finally burst out. Frustration etched in your voice, shaky from the cold air and your wavering emotions. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

“All I ever do now is wonder who you’re with, why you’re with them, and I just… I just feel so fucking lonely.”

He reaches for you, but you push him away. Your grievances spill out of you before you can hold them back.

“I’m paranoid of anyone who talks to you. I couldn’t even fucking watch you do that stupid kiss scene,” you continue. 

“We didn’t even kiss!”

“That’s not the fucking point!” you scream, before you can stop yourself. You inhale sharply when he flinches. Calm down. This is not his fault. Why are you getting angry with him?

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, taking one more step back. He holds your wrist gently to keep you in place.

Jake stares at you with his lips parted, stunned. “So why can’t we just go public?” he pleads. “You wouldn’t have to feel this way if—”

“That’s not the issue either,” you scoff, but you can’t even convince yourself. Because isn’t this how it all started? Your unwillingness to be embarrassed, to seem vulnerable in front of others. Was this not the root of it all?

“Then what is?!” he cries, his grip on your wrist tightens, not to hurt you, but so that you don’t run. Because you’re good at that. Running.

“I get insecure too,” he reassures, but you look past him now. “But I tell you. I tell you when I’m hurt, I tell you when I’m down. Because I… I want you to understand me. I want to understand you too…”

He swallows hard before continuing. “So I don’t get why you would even bring up breaking up before we even try to solve the problem together—”

“Because I don’t want to solve it, Jake.”

His hold on you loosens instantly, arm dropping to his side. You feel colder as he steps back. Jake stares at you, hurt laced in his gaze. Like you stabbed him in the heart and twisted the knife in to marinate.

“...You're always like this,” he mutters under his breath. “Always saying hurtful things without thinking about how they make me feel.”

He feels his throat close up as he draws in some baited breaths. The tears come in more heavily, his cheeks damp as they roll down his pained face. 

“So you see what I mean?” you say, your own tears threatening to spill over without you even realizing. A part of him instinctively wants to wipe them away, to pull you close and make it stop. But all he feels is anger. Because you’re the one breaking up with him. You’re the one choosing to end things. What right do you have to cry? What right do you have to look shattered when he's the one in pieces?

“I’m horrible to you,” you let out with pained laughter. He shakes his head immediately. 

“No, you’re not—”

“I always pick fights—”

“You don’t—”

“I act like a fucking bitch—”

“Don’t call yourself that—”

"I feel like I’m insane when I’m around you,” you let out, before you can stop yourself.

“I don’t think that at all—”

“But I do, Jake,” you cry. “I hate how jealous I get when you’re surrounded by other people. I hate feeling like I’m holding you back. I hate what I’ve become since…”

And you can’t finish because his tears have stopped. He’s looking at you with a new kind of anguish. The kind that you don’t necessarily expect. The kind that feels like disgust. 

“Since you started dating me?” he says like he correctly finished your statement. But that’s not what you're going to say. Never that.

“Since you didn’t need me anymore,” you whimper. “I’m not a good girlfriend, Jake. You’d be so much happier without me. Everyone would think it if they knew.”

He stands in front of you, hollow. If they knew. He has to laugh. That’s the problem. No one does. You don’t want them to. It’s clear now.

“Fine,” he says, and the steadiness of his voice makes you shudder. Good. This is what you wanted. 

He’s staring at you, jaded like he had come to terms with it. He used to love how insistent you were about your point of view on things, how firmly you stood by your opinions. Used to envy it. But now, he detests it. That stubbornness. 

“Whatever you want,” he sighs, hands slipping in his pockets. “Let’s break up. Pretend we never happened.”

Your mouth parts. “Excuse me?”

Jake scoffs, hands tightening into a fist. They’re trembling, but he won’t let you see. He can do what you do. Act like he’s okay. Act like you didn’t just kill him. He’s gotten very good at that. Acting.

“I’m being honest, Jake—”

“You don’t love me,” he cuts in. And your heart sinks. “That’s all this is. You never show it. You never say it. And I’m tired of hearing you pretend like you’re doing me a favor when I’m practically begging you not to leave.”

His voice cracks, but he continues. “So fine,” he mutters. “Have it your way. You won’t ever have to admit that we dated, start a clean slate without me. Just like you want.”

He presses his lips together and gives you one last look before he takes his hands out of his pockets. He’s fiddling with the ring. His ring. The ring that matches yours.

“You know,” he starts, voice trembling and bitter, “when it was the other way around… when I felt like shit about myself…. I never once thought of leaving you.”

His gaze is on the ground. “Because I always thought I was better with you than without. Because you made me want to be better.”

His voice falters. He looks at you now, sniffling. 

“I tried to be better.”

And in one swift motion, Jake takes off the ring.  “...But you didn’t even want me enough to stay.”

“Jake, no—” 

But it’s too late. You see him throw it, the bushes rustling nearby. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He shoves his hands back in his pockets and walks past you to the direction of the dorms.

“There,” he says quietly behind you. “Like we never happened.”

He doesn’t look back, doesn’t even spare you a glance. It’s only when he’s fully out of sight that you dig through the orange and red pile of leaves, through dirt and branches. Tears stream down your face as you sob, searching for it like a mad woman. Pathetic. So fucking pathetic. 

But you can’t find it. No matter how hard you try to find a silver glint in the greenery, there is nothing. And you clutch onto yours like it’s your lifeline. He threw it away. How could he throw it away?

And you wonder then if you made the biggest mistake in your life.

–

You thought the pit in your stomach would fade once you ripped the bandage, but the hole in your heart opened wider. And it’s only been a week.

Jake used to dodge questions about his love life, but now he admits to anyone with ears who walks by that he’s single. You have ears. And you walk by often. You’re not sure if he’s taunting you or if you just want him to be.

When your eyes meet his at the one lecture you still share, he’s the first to turn away. Jake used to sit beside you, shoulder brushing yours, tilting his laptop so you could keep up when the professor switched the slides too quickly. When you pass the football field, you try not to wince when you see Choa latch onto his arm like she belongs there. He used to always pull away. 

The worst part is that these stolen glances are all you have of him. He’s blocked you on everything, which feels weird to think about. Jake, who’s always gentle, always forgiving, always offering second chances—even to people who don’t deserve it. Maybe this time you’re one of them.

You have no right to be upset. Not anymore.

And so you wrap yourself in your studies, check out new extracurriculars, even try to make new friends on campus who know nothing about Jake. You try to rebuild, try to go back in time before that fateful day in high school when you met him. But it’s been far too long. 

He was a part of you, so deeply ingrained in your daily life. How could you act like you two never happened? Like your relationship never existed? How could he do it so well?

And then, you have to remind yourself. You'd already been doing that anyway.

–

“So what did he do?” Jay questions, tuning his guitar while Sunghoon and you sit in his living room. “Did he tell you he was done paying for your stuff or…”

“Shut up,” you grumble, already agitated enough as you scroll through Suji’s Instagram. You couldn’t even muster the energy to be jealous over a photo of Jake and her holding up peace signs next to each other. You just feel empty. “Nothing happened.”

Jay rolls his eyes. “He’s usually texting one of us to get you to answer his messages by now. It’s been crickets from him for the last two weeks.”

You swallow hard. He used to do that?

Jay’s gaze flickers toward you and sighs as he fiddles with his guitar strings. “You know, I really don’t get the two of you,” he mumbles. “Like you already rejected him in high school, you’re practically just stringing him along at this point—”

You sit up. “Excuse me?”

He shakes his head, dropping the guitar onto his lap. “Jake told us,” he starts hesitantly. “That you ran away when he tried to confess last year.”

‘But that’s not the full story,’ you want to scream out loud. 

“Yeah,” Sunghoon laughs as if recalling a memory. “Dude! Remember in the summer when he started going to the gym with me?”

Jay cringes. “Yeah, and he told us it was because he’d be starting this season, but we knew it was just because you said you liked macho guys.”

You shake your head, ears warming at the thought. That’s insane. 

“Oh, and that stupid ass ring,” Sunghoon adds, clutching his stomach. Your hand instinctively clutches at your necklace, fingers brushing the chain. “His mom beat the shit out of him when she found out how much he spent on it.”

You twiddle with the ring through your shirt. You should've taken it off by now. He'd already thrown his away. So what use was it leaving him if all you were going to do was hold on?

“Why would he do all that for me?” you mutter, not realizing that you said your thoughts out loud. 

Jay shrugs. “Love makes you do stupid things.” And then he sighs. “Go easy on him, okay? You know how he is. Jake’s a sensitive boy. Especially when it comes to you.”

You look down at the ground, shame bubbling up in your chest. Jake loved you. He really did.

–

You smile from your view of the auditorium, even from the back, feeling like a speck of dust in the full house. A bouquet is in your hand as you nervously find your seat. Jake’s right. Everyone’s here to watch.

You could see Jay and Sunghoon’s tiny heads toward the front, pushing down the bitterness of not being able to sit as close as they were. It's not fair, you think. You had to buy a last minute ticket off a student who could no longer make it while they don’t even like musicals. You shake your head.

This isn’t about you. It’s Jake’s big night. 

The lights dim. Your boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—steps onto the stage in a football jersey that looks almost exactly like his real-life one. The audience quiets at his entrance. As he delivers his cheesy opening monologue, you mouth the words with him. He’d practiced it so much in front of you. Pride wells up in your chest. He doesn’t stutter once. 

Even when Suji joins him on stage, even as they sing together during their characters’ first meeting, you couldn’t help but smile. 

The scenes blur as you lose yourself in the show. You watch the characters as they are and not as your ex and the girl you desperately wanted to hate. It was actually fun. The cheeky glances, the perfectly rehearsed dance scenes. The way the main character so seriously thought that singing was going to affect his football career. It made you laugh, made you tear up, made you suck in a deep breath when Jake leaned into her. 

And because you’re still you, and because the wounds still feel fresh, you close your eyes. You don’t have to know if he really did it or not. It doesn’t matter. It’s his moment.

‘If only I felt like this the whole time,’ you thought to yourself. Then maybe you wouldn’t have to psych yourself up to find him afterward and pour your heart out to him. You shiver at the thought.

But Jay had said it: love makes you do stupid things.

And you do. Love him. 

Enough to buy him flowers. Enough to admit that you’re done hiding. Enough to risk asking him to love you again—even if there’s a chance that he already moved on.

–

“Bro,” Jay starts, with tear-stained cheeks. “Don’t ever do that again. I can’t be crying like that in front of everybody.”

“Quit football,” Sunghoon says, patting Jake on the back with unusually red eyes. “Just focus on this musical shit. I swear you could make it big time.”

Jake chuckles, watching as the auditorium empties of guests. “Thanks, guys. I’m glad you two liked it.”

God, he wishes you were here. He could imagine exactly what you’d say when you walk up to him, with a small smile you try to suppress. Saying good job while ruffling his hair. Trying to act like you didn’t cry like everyone else. Jake smiles, quietly, at his own thoughts. It’s ridiculous, coming up with hypotheticals when you’d already made it clear. You don't want to be with him anymore. 

“Jake.” 

His heart instinctively skips a beat.

When he turns, the air in his lungs escapes him. You’re holding a bouquet so big it hides most of your frame, looking at him expectantly as you push it towards him. His eyes widen, unable to speak or even take the flowers from you. Is he dreaming?

“You did a good job,” you say, trying to sound as genuine as possible, wanting him to feel your sincerity.  “You killed it up there.”

“Thanks,” he says shortly, finally taking the flowers from your hands. He can’t help but stare. 

“I—” you try to push out, but Suji rushes to the stage to tap Jake on the shoulder.

“Hey.” She smiles up at him. “We're heading out soon for the celebration. Did you still want a ride with me?”

“Damn, even musicals got afterparties?” Sunghoon mutters to Jay, who attempts to shush him.

Jake returns a smile. “Yeah, just give me a second.”

And when he turns around to look at you, to finally hear what you have to say, your eyes are glossed over. Maybe you’re too late. Maybe this is idiotic after all. It's been weeks. There's no guarantee he'll even listen.

“I just wanted to say congratulations,” you mutter, though you've changed the words you meant to say entirely. It's supposed to be: ‘I’m so proud of you. Will you take me back? I’ll stop being so mean. We can tell everyone we’re in love—yes, even Jay and Sunghoon.’

But old habits die hard. And Suji—beautiful fucking Suji—crushed every ounce of confidence you had to come up to him in the first place.

“That's all,” you say, shooting him a small grin. It doesn't quite reach your eyes. He notices. Jake always does. Just never knows the reason why.

Before you can step back, he grabs your wrist, spinning you into his arms. Like the male leads do in those stupid romcoms.

“Don't,” he whispers. “Please… don't run away this time.”

You stare up at him, searching his gaze.

“Man, what the fuck is going on…” Jay whispers behind the two of you.

Sunghoon shrugs. “You think they finally…?”

Jake turns his head to give a disgruntled look to his two idiotic friends, and they shrink, making their way down the stage to finally give the two of you more privacy. He turns his attention back to you, wrist still in his hand, and gently moves it down to take your hands in both of his.

“I thought you didn't want to come,” he starts, licking his lips through the nerves. “Why are you here?”

Your cheeks heat up. Fuck. Where do you even start?

He draws circles with his thumb on the back of your palms. “Why?” he asks again, more confident this time.

It would be easy to act like your old self and push out a half-assed excuse. That you just want to be supportive, even after you’ve broken up. That you don’t miss him at all. But you're too tired to pretend like Jake's absence in your life didn’t feel worse than when you were with him. 

“Because…” you start, with a shaky breath. “Because I wanted to talk to you.”

His brows furrow. “About what?”

And you feel your heart pumping in your chest, your palms slick with sweat. This is harder than you thought.

“I wanted to—” You swallow, taking in a deep breath before continuing. “I wanted to apologize. With the ring. The one you threw away.”

You see Jake's ears turn a bright shade of crimson. “Actually—”

“But I couldn’t find it,” you cut in. “No matter how hard I looked. I tried. I really, really…”

You start to choke up. Because fuck. He'd gotten you that ring to confess to you. Spent all his pocket money so that he could get something he knew you'd love. Had it engraved with the letter J. Your Jake. Your handsome, talented, smart, and wonderful Jake.

“...really want to get back together,” you finally let out, eyes shining underneath the stage lights as tears threaten to spill over. “I'm sorry, Jake.”

His breath hitches, hands releasing yours so suddenly. Your heart clenches. “You broke up with me,” he mutters.

You nod. “I-I thought I needed to. To find myself. But… you were right. I was just running away from my problems.”

You swallow hard, correcting yourself. “Our problems.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “So is this the part where you expect me to forgive you?”

Your heart clenches. “I'm sorry,” you say again softly.

“You still haven’t even given me a reason,” he scoffs. “So tell me why. Why do you want to get back together when—”

It’s like slow motion, what you do next. You cup Jake’s face right into your hands, crashing your lips onto his. In front of Sunghoon. In front of Jay. In front of the whole cast and crew who were packing up to leave. The same people he’s had to make excuses to about why he suddenly looked so distraught these past few weeks. You pull back, breathless.

“Because I love you,” you say, loud enough to elicit gasps from your watchers. You don’t even have it in you to be embarrassed anymore. Because the words fall naturally from your lips, like breathing. And it's like music to his ears. 

“I fucking love you,” you repeat, hands still on his cheeks. His mouth parts open, breathless. He blinks. Once. Twice. And then he smiles, tears forming in his eyes. Jake swoops in, his lips finding yours again. His mouth moves against yours in tandem, slow and passionate. Your eyes flutter shut, soaking in the taste of him. You missed him so much.

When he pulls away, a shit-eating grin lights up his face. “Finally,” he whispers, cheeks flushed. “You finally said it back.”

You lightly swat his shoulder. You should've known he was trying to egg you on. Jake and all his damn questions.

“I love you too,” he mutters against your temple, squeezing you against him. “I love you so much.”

He peppers kisses all over your face, and you hear gagging on the sidelines.

“Don’t ever leave me again,” he mutters into your hair. “That shit fucking hurt.”

You smile sadly. “I promise—”

“YOU TWO WERE DATING?!” a familiar voice cries out. Of course. Nosy-ass Sunghoon. You resist the urge to drop kick him right then.

“I have a better question,” Jay pipes in. “Are we invited to this afterparty too or…”

Jake furrows his brows, turning to the idiotic duo. “What afterparty?”

Sunghoon and Jay bombard you with questions about your secret relationship, but mainly just start arguing about who was gonna call the taxi for the party they still desperately wanted to go to, since Suji had already left.

Running far away from the auditorium, Jake and you giggle as the two idiots try to chase after you. When you both reach his dorm, he doesn't waste one second after you close the door to lift you over his shoulder. You yelp as your feet lift off the ground, squeaking when your back hits the mattress with a soft bounce.

He sets the bouquet softly on his nightstand before hovering over your frame, and his knees sink into the mattress as he traps you underneath him. Jake strokes your cheek lovingly, his hand trailing down and down until it reaches the edge of your skirt. Still as short as ever. Thighs so pretty underneath the thin fabric.

“I missed you,” he sighs, hands trailing to the edges of your panties. He strokes your plush skin, sending shivers down your spine. You want to roll your eyes, deflect the warm stirring in your core as he scans your figure, eyes clouded with lust. But you’re supposed to be turning over a new leaf. Honesty and all that.

“Imissedyoutoo…” you mutter lowly, rushing through your words.

He moves closer, ear practically touching your lips. “Hm?” 

You lose patience, baring your teeth and nipping his helix. He flinches, glaring at you with a playful scoff.

“You said you weren't gonna be mean anymore…” Jake sighs, tone dripping in mockery as he pouts. And you want to say something more, but Jake’s hands land on your ass, giving you a subtle squeeze.

You know what. You'll humor him. Just this once.

You bring your lips to the ear you just bit, kissing it lightly. Steady hands trail down the fake football jersey he adorns, and to the painful bulge of his shorts. Jake sucks in a deep breath.  You chuckle, amused at how suddenly it hardens. So easy to arouse. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, licking his outer shell. He shudders against your touch, your breath on his neck triggering goosebumps all across his arms. You squeeze him through the fabric, his head falling to your shoulder. “I’ll stop…”

“Don’t,” he lets out through ragged breaths, as you stroke him languidly. You chuckle. He’s so cute. Cheeks tinged with pink. It makes you want to do worse things to him...

“Lie down,” you command, and he gladly takes your place on the bed. Your knees encase him now, tugging his stupid jersey over his head. “Let me make it up to you…”

His muscles are so well-defined, glistening under the light of your dorm room. You trail kisses down his chest, licking down his abs. Salty. Just how you like him. Jake squirms underneath you as you tug his shorts down, his dick slapping your chin on the way up as it springs free. Jake almost cums from the sight, tip flushed red and pulsing with need. To feel you. To be so buried deep inside you that he can feel the head poking through your stomach. 

When you move your head down to kiss his hardness, he digs his fingers into your shoulder. “No, baby,” he mutters. “Come up here, hm?”

You furrow your brows. Why the fuck was he trying to interrupt you during your apology?

“Wha—” 

Jake cuts you short, manhandling your waist as his fingers press into your hips. He positions your knees on both sides of his head, turning you around. He pushes your mini skirt all the way up to scrunch around your midsection. Yes, you might have an amazing view of his throbbing cock, but now you can't see his beautiful fucked out face. He breathes in the scent of your panties with hooded eyes, nose grazing your clothed folds. 

You pout. “I thought I was the one making it up to you—”

“You are,” he chuckles, interrupting you instantly. He pushes your ass down to his face with one hand, using the other to press your chest flush against his body. Your face inches closer to his member. Oh. That's what he's doing.

“Pervert…” you mumble, coyly reaching out for him. So thick and large that you need to use both hands to engulf him, pre-cum dribbling out of him as if on command. 

“I am,” he mumbles, pulling your panties low enough to give him access to your cunt, lying just below your knees. He licks a stripe up your drenched folds all the way to your puckered hole. You wither against him. “Call me whatever you want, baby. Just sit on my face when you do it.”

Your hips land down on him softly as your thumb spreads his liquid down his engorged length. This position was new to you, meaning it was also new to him. But Jake moves expertly like the quick learner he is. He plants open-mouthed kisses on your folds, pink muscle lapping at your labia like a man starved. Your tongue sticks out to offer kitten licks over his tip. 

But Jake hasn’t had you in weeks. And he knows what he wants. And it’s not the weak jutting you do against his face, or the shallow sucking you offer his engorged cock. No. He wants all of you. The sick part of you that would degrade him, that would rile yourself up like all those nights before. And he doesn’t want to have to mention a stupid nickname some stupid girl said to bring it out of you.

There were more healthy methods, he’s sure, to guide you right where he wants to be. And so Jake’s hands grip your ass, pushing you down on him harder. Forcing your hips to grind back and forth against his face at the rabid pace he sets, nose sticking in between your folds slightly as his tongue laps at your clit. Like this. Dirty. Raunchy. Aggressive. He fucking loves it. 

“Ngh—” you cry out, propelling him to push himself deeper in your mouth. You take a deep breath so his cock can slide through more easily, taking as much of him as you can to drown out your warbled moans. Your tongue finds the underside of his thickness, tapping him as you start to gag. And when Jake reaches the back of your throat, he gives you a second to calm yourself before he bucks his hips up into you. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, remembering to hollow your cheeks as he shoots forward. But it’s hard to stay focused when his wet, pink muscle pushes into you. 

“Fuck—Taste so good, baby—” The squelching sounds that mix with Jake’s moans against your bundle of nerves are obscene, sucking and flicking his tongue with a fervor you try to match now. Your tongue curls up to meet the underside of his girth, bobbing your head up and down with ferocity. Anything to please him. 

“Mmmm—” you moan around him. Your mouth feels so fucking good, but your pussy on his lips was like actual heaven. He could eat you out all day. As a reward. As a punishment. Anything. 

And he breathes your scent in again, groaning once more. He pushes his nose closer to your folds, the tip of it engulfed in your wetness. You almost gag around his dick at the intrusion, saliva pooling at the base of his cock. You wrap your thighs around him tighter, bouncing on his face like he was nothing but a sex toy. Erratic. Desperate. Yes. Just like that. Fuck him like you never want him out of your sights again.

He knows you're close, knows by the way you start scratching at his thighs like an agitated pet. But, no. Jake needs it. Needs you to cum all over his face. Make a mess on him. Of him. His tongue plunges into you now, index finger coming up to play with your clit.

His cock pops out of your mouth with little resistance as your body goes slack with pleasure. You're just licking at his dick with a loose hand at this point, eyes rolling back from ecstasy. 

You whimper against the slickness of his sloppy mouth, drool continuing to fall out of the corners of your mouth through your slurred speech. “Ngh—No—Let me—Fuck—Jakeeee—” you try to say, but it all sounds nonsensical.

Jake understands, more than you know, as his heart constricts so deliciously. 'My poor baby,' he thinks. Just wants to make him feel good. Wants to make it up to him so bad. But you don’t know that the only thing that could make him happy right now is for you to choke him out with your sopping cunt. 

“Mmm—Ngh—Ahh—” He’s too good down there. Too fucking messy. Why does he do this? Why does he love making you sound like a fucking animal? Your toes curl, the grip around his shaft tightening as your back arches even more into him. 

You feel it. But it's different from usual. It feels like too much. Like an impending explosion. You claw at his thigh even more, all of a sudden panicked. “Jake—Let go—Jake—” 

When he shakes his head, his tongue swipes your clit left and right. His grip on your ass pushes his nose more deeply into your soaked folds. You whimper, cheek nuzzling against his length in desperation. 

“I'm serious….” you whine as you try to pull away. This is weird. You feel weird. You try to run away from it, that foreign feeling. But it's no use. Jake's too smart, too quick. He presses you down on him harder, hugging your waist, suctioning your clit, cheeks flushed from how quickly his mouth works against you. 

“JAKE!” you scream as your thighs clamp around him, hips shuddering uncontrollably. Like a hose turning on for the first time, a spray of your juices lands onto Jake's chin and neck, coating him in your dampness. He welcomes it, tongue sticking out to taste as much of it as he can.

You cry above him, tears landing on his dick that still rubs against your heated face. He laps up every last remaining bit of your climax desperately, like they’d dry up too quickly if he didn’t. You whine, grinding yourself on him to steady your heart rate. When he’s fully satisfied, Jake frees you from his clutches, lying you down on the bed so your head can finally rest on a pillow.

His cock is still incredibly stiff. And you're still in tears.

“You… fucking… dick,” you say in between sniffles, not believing you could ever climax that hard in your life. “Where the fuck did you learn how to do that?”

And he knows what’s going through your head. Because old habits do, in fact, die hard. And now you probably think he was out fucking anyone and everyone during the weeks-long hell that was your breakup. Jake chuckles, pulling your skirt down. He bites his bottom lip at the sight of your folds. Glistening with his saliva and your juices. He fists himself tightly. 

“Still so jealous, baby?” He smirks. God, please let him indulge in his pouty girlfriend at least once more.

“No, but be honest,” you mumble. “Did you—”

“Fuck other girls?” he finishes your sentence, scoffing playfully at the ridiculousness. Your eyes narrow.

“Well, did you?”

Jake spent almost every day crying, unblocking and blocking your number over and over again just to see if you'd notice. But he can tell you all that later. Because right now, you're giving him a death glare that only makes his cock throb harder. 

“No, babe,” he mutters, swiping his wet tip against your even more drenched folds. So puffy after all he's put it through. He peppers kisses on your shoulder. “You know I’d never.”

And you do. He’s only ever been with you. Will only ever be with you. You know that. But still. The wheels are already turning in your head. You know… you're usually the one worried about these things. Doesn't he deserve a taste of his own medicine?

“Imagine if I did—”

And he slams his dick into your plushness, eliciting a scream from you. He doesn’t even let you complete your evil plan.

“FUCK—”

“Don't finish that sentence,” Jake glowers, brows furrowed. You lick your lips deliciously. "That's not funny."

“See how it feels?” you whimper, as he delivers another harsh thrust, your shirt riding up your stomach from the impact. You arch your back off of the bed as Jake groans into your neck, licking a stripe up your jaw.

“All this just ‘cause I made you squirt,” he mumbles angrily, wincing as your pulsing walls squeeze his length into a tighter grip. “So fucking immature.”

You chuckle evilly. “Immature like who? Sungho—”

His childhood friend’s name doesn't even leave your lips when Jake clamps his teeth into your neck. Hard. “OW—”

A taste of your own medicine. But his skin grazes something then—a thin chain that he's seen before but never questioned.  You never wore it when you fucked. A circular hardness underneath your shirt that weirdly looks like…

He tugs on it before you can protest, and there on the chain is a ring. With J engraved on the inside. His gaze softens. And you become a blumbering mess underneath him, shy with embarrassment. “I can—Explain—Just—” 

Jake pulls out enough so his tip is the only thing suctioned in your folds before pistoning into you harshly once more. You whimper.

“Shut up and let me fuck you,” he mutters into your ear, before engulfing your lips in his. With a newfound energy, Jake pounds into you with urgency, pace brutal against your already sore pussy. His hand comes up to grab your tits, spilling over your bra from the impact of his movements. So rough. So mean. Damn, you were rubbing off on him.

You have this aching desire to flip him over and ride him back into submission, but the slapping of his hips into yours devolves your thoughts into unintelligible moans. 

“Ngah—Fuck—Oh my god—”

Jake’s mouth leaves yours as his eyes travel downwards to the piece of jewelry. He likes how it looks on you. Sitting so nice between your bouncing breasts. Maybe, he’d buy you a necklace next. A pretty Tiffany necklace to go with the pretty Tiffany ring on his pretty girlfriend’s pretty finger. Fuck. You’re so fucking pretty.

He brings the ring up to his mouth, biting down on the metal, before he lowers himself onto your lips once more. With the ring in between his teeth, he grabs at your jaw to open for him. Jake transfers it over to your parted lips as you catch the ring with your tongue, coated in his saliva. He dives down into you, your tongues battling as the coolness of the metal moves between your mouths. His thrusts are slower now, but you moan just the same.

Drool drips down both of your lips, the ring getting passed between you two in the movements of your open-mouthed kisses. He lets up, the necklace falling wetly onto the pillow. He admires the red marks the chain leaves on your neck. Maybe a Tiffany choker instead?

And his thrusts deepen, until your cervix repeatedly kisses his mushroom tip. He wished you could see your expression right now. So needy. So perfect. 

“Jake—Baby—” When the pet name leaves your lips, Jake lets out a deep, guttural groan. Like he'd been waiting his whole life for you to say it.

“Yes, baby?” He repeats after you, sweat beading down his forehead as he continues to split you open, pumping into your tightness with urgency. His hands are pushing your thighs open now, admiring how the ring sits sloppily on your neck as he jackhammers into you.

“I love you,” you moan out, your hands reaching for his face. “I love you so much.”

He looks at you with glassy eyes, soft and tender. He kissed you again, sweeter this time. 

“I love you too.” 

And he spreads you apart further, fucking you into the squeaking mattress with his pulsing dick, so big that it fills you everywhere you need him. He pushes in and out, evoking a new set of tears to stain your cheeks. “Baby,” you cry out. “I'm almost—”

“Wait for me,” he pleads, elbows falling to the sides of your head. He buries himself in the crook of your neck. “Can you, baby? Please—”

You try to nod as he's ramming into you as deep as he can go. He whispers sweet nothings into your ear, about how good you are for him, how pretty, how perfect, how he loves the marks you leave him, how he wants you to control him, how you’re the only one he’d ever be with in any lifetime ever.

“Ngh—” His hips snap forward with everything he can give. He feels it now, too. That coil that threatens to spill inside you. But he can't. No condom. No birth control. 

And when your hips rise, clenching around him, your orgasm hits you like a truck. You mewl out in pleasure, crying as Jake tries to pull out of you. But you suction him so well, too well, that it's a little too late. He twitches deep inside of your pussy. And his mouth falls open as the first spurts of cum spill, but nothing escapes his lips. 

“Fuck, baby,” he whines. He needs to pull out. But your cunt feels so damn good… So warm… So wet… And so much of himself has already spilled inside you… It's okay, right? To fill you up with all of it? But he has self-control. He swears it.

“No…” You whimper when he actually pulls away, his seed dribbling everywhere.

“...’m sorry, babe,” he groans, as his hand wraps around himself, stroking languidly. “I’m so sorry.”

Jake’s cheeks are flushed as he pumps the remainder of his climax on your drenched folds, painting your clit a milky white. He sees the first of his juices push out of you, his fluids like cream all over your puffiness.

“Fuck,” he moans, his fingers coming up to spread it all across your folds. But when you look down, all you feel is empty. All you feel is the need to push down against his fingers and take him all over again. 

Jake's eyes widen as he lets out a shaky breath. You look so desperate. For what? He's not sure. But he can't deny his baby anything. He can't deny himself either. He wants to see it just once. Seems like you do too. 

“Can I?” he asks in a low whisper, fingers spreading your folds apart to watch more of his load seep out of you. And you nod, shyly, relieved you didn’t have to beg for it yourself, already going through too much exposure therapy for one day.

And so Jake gathers the cum that's gushed over his digits, and with a shaky breath, he pushes them back into you. You tighten your grip on his biceps.

“Fuuuuck—” You cry out when he starts pumping them in and out, slow but still so fucking deep. His veiny fingers always know which parts to knead. 

Jake’s eyes are in a daze, obsessed with how his cum goes back in so easily—even when you’re still so tight and so sensitive. Everything feels so fucking drenched. And like this, he wants to see you come undone again.

“One more, baby…” he pleads in a low whisper, pressing butterfly kisses on your eyelids. He licks the tears that spill from your eyes. So pretty like this. “You want to make it up to me, right?”

You can only whine in response, hands shaking as they clutch onto him for dear life. 

“Hm?” He asks for confirmation, curling his fingers up to the spongy spot inside you. He grinds his palm on your engorged clit. Whimpering out a pathetic ‘yes,’ you let the pleasure overtake you once again. Your body feels like it's on fire. Too hot. Too much. But still, your back arches up into him, whimpering.

“Come on,” he whispers into your ear. Low and steady. “Give it to me.”

And you can practically hear the mess that his three fingers are creating as they pump into your folds, can feel the stickiness of your mixed juices coat your inner walls. But you shut your eyes, letting the warm tingling overtake your core. Yes—Right there—Fuck—

“I'M—” you screech, but it's no use. Your head falls back against the pillow as you sob. And Jake curses underneath his breath as you spray all over him once again, massaging your clit as he pulls his fingers out to watch. Your hips rise to meet nothing, just your body spraying so beautifully against his torso. His dick could harden once more any second now from the sight. He relishes in it, admiring his work as his cum pushes out of you again. Thick and creamy.

You look down too, seeing the fucked-out state he's put your body into. Maybe you would've been right to flick his forehead and call him every insult in the book for filling you up like that. But fuck. Could you ever have him cum outside of you again if it felt that good to have his cum inside you? No, you'd definitely need to get on the pill ASAP.

Jake’s gaze falls onto your face now, at your bruised lips and your dried tears. But the ring catches his eye once more, the one he hadn’t seen in a year. And his heart flutters.

“Babe?” he starts, lying softly next to you. He wraps you in his arms, not minding the dampness of the sheets below. He’ll clean you up later.

“Mmm?” You respond, on the brink of unconsciousness. Satiated. He touches your chain, the other hand wrapped around your stomach, giving a reassuring squeeze.

“How long have you been wearing our ring like this?” Your breath catches. You'd hoped that he'd forgotten, that the conversation could wait for the morning when your heart wasn't thumping so loud. It takes you a second before you respond.

“Since you gave it to me,” you admit, slowly. Jake can feel the warmth creep up to your ears. And he wonders how he's never seen it, how you seem to hide it so well after all the times he's undressed you before. But then again, you’ve always been good at keeping secrets.

Still, he smiles. Because even after you walked away, even when you said you were done, you still kept this piece of him. Wore it so beautifully around your neck, too.

Fuck—he’s never letting you walk out on him like that again. If you even hint at breaking up, he might actually end up begging on his knees and—

“Not like it matters anyway,” you cut through the silence grumpily. “You threw yours away.”

He lets out a surprised laugh and pulls you closer, squeezing you tight. You pout. What’s he so jolly for?

“What do you mean?” he asks cheekily. “That never happened.”

You turn around abruptly, facing him with furrowed brows. “I literally saw you—”

Your words are cut short when his mouth finds yours, one hand steadies your jaw as the other reaches blindly into his nightstand. A drawer opens. He pulls back just enough to show you the turquoise box, one eerily similar to the one you have in your closet, as he flips it open.

His ring. Silver and engraved with your initial. But how…?

“I guess I'm really good at pretending to throw things,” he answers before you can even ask. Thought I’d be a little dramatic that day…”

You smack his shoulder, but your hand massages the spot soon after, swallowed by the wave of relief that crashes over you. He didn't really let go like he made it seem. He was still yours, even when you thought you lost him. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” you grumble, pinching his cheek. All he does is chuckle. 

In one smooth motion, Jake lifts your necklace and unclasps it, letting the ring unfurl out and into his palm. You don’t stop him. 

He looks at you for a second, as if asking for permission. You offer Jake your hand instead of speaking. He slips the piece of jewelry onto your ring finger, kissing your knuckles. Then he slides his own ring back where it belongs, to where he’s always kept it. Jake smiles up at you, planting another sweet kiss on your lips.

And you know you’ll wear it proudly this time. Without him having to ask. 

“I love you?” he says, gently, like he needs to hear you say it back just one more time. Just to make sure. And you kiss him again, warmth coating your features.

“I love you too.”

His heart clenches in the best way possible.

Damn, he could really get used to this.

epilogue

Jake runs to the benches, grabbing at his water bottle like it’s his last salvation. He gulps it all down in seconds, sweat seeping down his body. Practice was way too intense today.

“Oh my god, Jakey,” a lilting voice punctures through his ear. “You're literally dripping.”

His eye twitches as she enunciates the last word. 

“Choa,” he starts, shooting daggers at her. He's too exhausted to put up with this today. Or ever. She was graduating in a few months anyway. He might as well say his piece. “First of all, my name is Jake. And second of all, it makes me really uncomfortable when you say things like that.”

Choa pouts, tugging his sleeve like a toddler. “Why?” she giggles. “Do I make you nervous?”

“No.” He pulls away, not even bothering to look at her. “I just don't appreciate how you talk to me.”

She glowers, thrown off by his disposition. He's usually so sweet, so polite. What happened?

“It's ‘cause of your friend isn't it? You know she was so fucking rude to me—”

“My girlfriend,” he corrects immediately. Choa’s hands drop down to her sides. Jake pays her no mind, packing his stuff into his duffle bag instead.

“W-what?” she stutters out. “Since when?”

He shrugs, finally slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Since forever.”

“What?!” she screeches. “How come you never told—”

“Oh Jakeyyyy,” you sing out in an octave higher than your regular speaking voice. He presses his lips together to prevent the laughter that almost seeps through his mouth.

“Yeah, babe?” He calls out, looking past Choa. You're standing with your arms crossed, eyeing her down from a few meters away. A bright new necklace shining above your shirt. 

Your gaze flickers back to him, not bothering to waste your precious energy on the small, vicious girl. You tilt your head to the side, beckoning him over in a silent command. And he follows.

Your loyal little puppy.

Jake takes your hands into his just to really rub salt on Choa's wound, your matching rings clinking against each other.

“Do you remember Gaeul from the backstage crew?” you announce proudly, the bob-headed girl long-forgotten. “She wants to hang out with me tomorrow!”

Jake smiles, ruffling your hair. “That’s great!”

“She's throwing something at her apartment this weekend, too,” you slide in. “Maybe… we can go together?”

“Oh yeah, Suji told me—” And he stops himself. But it’s too late. You’re already frowning.

“Okay, so let me go ahead and take Jay instead…” And he pouts at your words.

“Not fair,” he mutters, but you see the smile he suppresses. 'What a freak,' you think to yourself.

You click your tongue, squeezing his hand a little tighter. “...I'm biting the shit out of you later.”

And if Jake had a tail, it most definitely would’ve started wagging.

“Promise?”

fin.

A/N: Don't save him, he don't wanna be saved.

Taglist: @missoxy @cutehoons02 @zohaaz @f4loveex @rianzysworld @tinastar13 @woniewonwon @starfallia @liaviva @lhspeachie @fancypeacepersona @sanasour @reasonablyminiatureandroid @tinyhrry @nyxphobia @aernx @soulskiu @shining-won @esoteric-eye @yohanabanana @jungwongfs-blog @starjoongie @yeeunlvr @gyu-luvs @ikeuster @not-aya @ppeachyttae @psyches-reid @moonxiiey @hueningsgirl @sylphjeong @mariegibeau @beaepa @jisiziu @aloveminsalade @ilovetimotheechalamet8 @vixensss @chyshiacat @chuuiehearts @heyinnnn @sparkcling @moonstrucksofie @snghon @nct-sticker-127 @fdzvie @synielve @honeyyjw @simj4k3 @petalsofink @axfyl

[nctlegacy]

260127 CHENLE IG Update

[bizidolly]

tô mogged

[butvega]

(🫧) . ݁₊ você e o dk terminaram.

e agora?

{❄️} headcanon sobre como seria o término/possível volta, entre você, e seu namorado dk.

— nunca existiu um homem tão perfeitinho quanto ele. por isso, quando você quis terminar com ele, ele aceitou de “bom” grado.

— você se sentia confusa, quase não conseguia vê-lo, mal tinham tempo juntos, e você se sentia triste, e carente. achou melhor terminar antes que ambos se machucassem ainda mais.

— por mais que ele tenha concordado, ficava horas e horas vendo as fotos de vocês na galeria dele. tudo isso com uma carinha triste de cachorrinho que caiu na mudança, com os olhos cheios de lágrimas, mas sem chorar.

— ia tentar se distrair na maior parte do tempo, andar com os amigos, sair, beber, porque sempre que estivesse sozinho lembraria de ti.

— ia te escrever mil mensagens, e apagar antes de enviar:

“surreal o qnt eu sinto sua falta.”

“só queria poder ouvir sua voz, queria te ligar, te ver, te beijar.. crl que saudade que eu tô de você”

“te amo p smp… nada mudou, nunca vai mudar, eu vou te amar pra sempre, vou ser seu pra sempre”

— não conseguiria ficar com outras meninas. não teria vontade, e pra ele faria zero sentido.

— de verdade, ficaria cabisbaixo, finalmente choraria pela primeira vez, mas seria logo no palco cantando música de amor, e os fãs iriam perceber facilmente que algo estava errado.

— cheol iria conversar com você, tentar te convencer de voltarem, e te explicaria que seokmin estava pessimo. você estranharia, já que terminaram “bem”.

— daria uma chance pra uma conversa com ele, e na conversa ele finalmente iria dizer como sente sua falta, diria que daria de tudo pra te ver mais vezes, faria mais esforço pela relação de vocês.

— você iria ceder com facilidade, e o desenrolar seria vocês dois na cama. pós sexo, receberia de bom grado os carinhos dele, o cafuné dele… enquanto recosta a cabeça no peitoral largo e malhado dele, sentindo aquele perfume gostoso e característico dele.

— “que saudade que eu tava de você, amor… do seu cheiro, do seu beijo… do nosso sexo.”

— pronta pra mais uma rodada?

[sugar-petals]

tired of the dull dystopian 2026 world smh we need XG to turn the met gala into an x-gala already 

to launch the peaceful and inspired glam universe we deserve

in fact aliens couldn’t land any sooner tbh i’m kinda into this idea

i mean they’re so fashionably fly and can vogue duh they’re literally more than welcome i’m not threatened

 because whatever futuristic society XG is planning i agree with it

like. beam me up like this cocona i am ready

ngl i wish XG could just abduct us in their spacecraft and blast off tbh