idk man,, iâm slowly coming to terms that itâs probably heeâs decision to leave the group in the first place. i rarely watch any of enhaâs content now and i am not rly that up to date w heeseungâs stuff anymore, but that jungwon video talking abt the group and that a solo career isnât something heâs thinking of rn, itâs probably true that heeseung wanted to leave the group to pursue his own solo career. it HURTS and i was in denial for so long. i donât want to give up too fast but that video sealed the deal for me.
premise: news travels fast in the frat house. and so do your bedroom noises, apparently. if you wanna sleep your way through the frat, it might be best to keep it down. or don't.
notes: fem!reader, greek life!au, university!au, dom!heeseung, unprotected sex, dirty talk, degradation, breeding, slight begging, mentions of stealing reader from jake, mentions of drugs
a/n: second installment of the 'sleeping around the frat house' series! and so the drama begins. don't worry if jake's installment is shorter than this, he will be coming back in the future installments heh. in the meantime, enjoy your stay with heeseung ;) *divider by cafekitsune
it's fucking horrendous how much the frat house reeks of weed tonight. you're surprised cops aren't banging the door down at this very moment as you're sure the stench has at least a 1-kilometer radius from its point of origin.
the music rings loud in your ears as you shuffle through the crowd of people hollering at the beer pong game in the living room. you bite your tongue when you feel a girl jam her elbow into your side, not even an apology or at least an apologetic glance given your way.
you sigh, trudging on, eyes scanning the faces of the people around you.
jake did say there was going to be a party tonight and that you're welcome to seek refuge in his room while people rage downstairs. but you have needs and one of those is food, and while you would prefer to not have the smell of cannabis sticking to your clothes, you are hungry. the last meal you had was the lunch jake ordered for the two of you nearly twelve hours ago.
you vaguely remember jake getting up to shower roughly an hour after the two of you finished what must have been your third round. that's when he told you about the party. you hummed dismissively, planning to leave even before the party starts.
but apparently, jake must have fucked you real good, because you knocked out for hours after you drifted off to sleep at the sound of jake's soft humming in the shower.
so here you are, scouring the party for your technically-not-boyfriend, wanting nothing more than to see a familiar face.
you reach the kitchen. no jake.
you peek through the window to look at the front yard. still no sign of jake.
you stumble out into the backyard and see that of course, it's a pool party, with about fifteen people crowding inside the water, spilling beer everywhere. because drunk and high college students around bodies of water are totally safe and fine.
you're about to storm back inside the house when you feel a warm presence materialize behind you.
you squeak in surprise when you find yourself face to face with one of jake's friends, his broad frame seemingly shrinking you in comparison as he eyes you down. you've seen him a few times before as his room is next to jake's. but you cannot for the life of you remember his name.
"are you okay?" he asks. his voice is smooth and clear, indicating that he's probably not as inebriated as everyone else.
"yeah, i'm just looking for jake," you explain. "you don't happen to know where he is, do you?"
the friend smiles, eyes flicking up and down briefly over your body.
"oh, you're that girl. the one jake fucks around with," he says, as if stating a well-known fact and not a semi-personal detail of your life.
your cheeks heat up as you nervously glance around to see if anyone's close enough to overhear.
jake's friend laughs, nudging your arm playfully.
"i don't know how to tell you this but there's no point in keeping it a secret. everyone in the house is well-acquainted with your...noises," he says, winking.
you huff, crossing your arms over your chest.
"yeah, well, do you know where jake is?" you press on, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere.
"he's off buying more booze," the friend states. "he just left, actually."
a twinge of annoyance tugs at your chest. he leaves you in his room and not even a text to tell you where he's going?
"you can stay with me for a bit," the friend offers. you study his face and he smiles, raising his eyebrows expectantly.
"we can crash in my room," he adds, thumb jerking upward towards the direction of the house's second story.
you sigh, the beginnings of a headache creeping up behind your eyes.
"sure, yeah, i guess."
he smiles holding his hand out to you. you take it and let him lead you through the party. as you exit the kitchen and re-enter the living room, it seems as if the number of people have doubled, jostling you about and nearly knocking you off your feet. you feel jake's friend wrap an arm protectively around your waist, tugging you along towards the stairs.
he doesn't let go until you're right in front of his door.
the name 'heeseung' is spelled out in those small felt letters, the ones used for scrapbooking, stuck smack dab in the middle of the door.
'cute,' you think as you chuckle quietly to yourself.
"what's so funny?" heeseung asks, a playful look on his face. he swings the door open and motions for you to enter.
you shake your head. "nothing. the name on the door is just very middle school."
heeseung laughs, following you as you step inside the dimly lit room. a sunset lamp is turned on in the corner, casting faint shades of yellow, orange, and hints of purple and pink on the walls.
"it helps when the others drunkenly drag girls up here during these parties," heeseung explains. "you'd be surprised at how they forget which room is even theirs when they've had enough to drink."
you giggle, plopping yourself down on heeseung's bed.
"waitâare you the one that i'm hearing about lately? the girl that's trying to sleep her way around the frat?"
your smile fades as you remember the conversation you've had a week ago with jake. or more appropriately, the challenge jake sprung up on you that you so recklessly accepted.
"uh...," you begin, avoiding heeseung's eyes.
"yeah," you finish simply, shrugging. what else is there to say?
heeseung grins, clearly amused. he keeps his eyes on you as he empties his jean pockets of things, setting them down on his desk. keys, a wallet, a square foil wrapperâoh, waitâtwo square foil wrappers andâ
"why do you have so many condoms?" you ask in mild disbelief.
"i'm director of operations, which just means i manage the house and make sure no one comes home one day with a baby," heeseung rattles off, picking up one of the condoms and brandishing it at you.
"hence, the condoms."
he points to a drawer in his desk. "there are two more boxes there. no frat babies on my watch."
you afford yourself a laugh. heeseung smiles along, stretching his lithe body out. your eyes observe the shift of his muscles under his shirt, the curve of his ass in his jeans, and the way his hair falls messily into his eyes.
heeseung groans in satisfaction and you rip your eyes away from his pecs.
"so, director of operations...," you say, raising a brow at heeseung.
"ah, jake did mention you were narrowing your, er, conquest to the executive committee," heeseung muses as he makes his way to you.
you crane your neck up at him and from this angle, you can easily lean forward, undo his belt, unbutton his pants, andâ
"that's five more people to go through, including me," heeseung says with a grin. "you sure you can handle that?"
you scoff, shaking your head. "i really hate it when people underestimate me."
"i'm not underestimating you, sweetheart," heeseung denies, holding his hands up as if in apology. "i'm just wondering if you know what you're getting into."
you cock your head to the side, eyebrows knit together.
"jake might be willing to share, but the others?" heeseung stops there, whistling lowly.
you think about it for a moment. six guys, some you haven't even met yet. unknown kinks and fantasies. uncharted territories. he's right. what have you gotten yourself into?
"also, just a side note, we get tested every three months," heeseung says, pulling you out of your thoughts. "it's an initiative i started. we just had our last test the other week and everyone was clean."
you nod along, admittedly impressed.
"you're very efficient as the director of operations, heeseung," you compliment. a bashful smile spreads on his lips.
"thank you," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"i'm efficient in a lot of other things, too."
you swallow. you can see where this is going. you know heeseung locked the door earlier, and the show of condoms wasn't an accident, either. it's dark in this room but you know the look in heeseung's eyes.
your first actual conquest in your mission to see if you could sleep your way through the frat.
"really?" you ask, trying to stretch out the inevitable limbo, the in-between, the not-knowing of whether you're permitted to move to the next level.
"and what might those other things be?" you add.
heeseung laughs, sounding exasperated. he leans down and you back up, scooting further up his bed. heeseung plants one knee on the mattress, his arms on either side of your legs. he's not trapping you in. not yet, at least.
at this point, it's anyone's game.
"baby, let's just do what we came here to do."
that easy, huh?
turns out yes, it's that easy. because your legs are parting and heeseung is sinking between them, one hand reaching out to hold your face steady. his other arm braces against the headboard as he finally cages you in between the wall and his broad frame.
heeseung kisses you, rough and spontaneous and intense. you groan against his lips, your hands laying gently on his neck. you can feel his pulse and his heart is absolutely racing.
"come here," heeseung mutters, pulling you forward. he pulls you over himself as he sits back, your legs on either side of his thighs as you straddle him.
"say 'red' if you want to stop, okay?" heeseung whispers, a hand smoothing up your back.
you nod, perching yourself on heeseung's lap, resuming your assault on his lips. you bite down gently on his lower lip and he moans, nails digging into your sides.
you're about to lose your damn mind.
"fuck," you whisper as you feel heeseung roll his hips up against your core. he smirks, his mouth working its way down from your jaw to your neck.
"don't hold back on me now, baby," heesueng coos. he pulls back and looks at you, tucking your hair behind your ear. "i hear you every time you're next door in jake's room. wanna hear you do the same for me."
you bite your lip, your whole body heating up now that you're confronted with just how loud you are.
"come on," heeseung urges, pushing your shirt over your chest. you wordlessly put your hands up, letting heeseung tug the garment off you.
heeseung reaches behind you and snaps your bra open in a second. you shiver as you feel him pull your bra off.
he must have done this a thousand times before.
you let out a breath as heeseung dips his head, lips capturing one of your nipples in his mouth. his hair tickles at your chin and you can smell the faint scent of his shampoo. you smooth your fingers through his silver locks, tugging lightly when you feel him bite down.
"i'm not hearing you," heesueng mumbles between your mounds, leaving open-mouthed kisses on your skin. his fingers reach for your other nipple and he pinches down, hard.
that's when you let out a shriek of surprise, grip tightening in heeseung's hair. he hums, sucking on one spot right in the middle of your sternum.
no low necklines for you any time soon. or maybe you'll wear them, anyway. see what jake has to say about the hickey his friend left on you.
heeseung slides you off him, guiding you down onto his bed. he taps your hip.
"off," he says curtly, referring to your jeans. heeseung pulls back and gives you the space to tug off your pants, his own hands frantically pulling off his own clothing.
a minute later, the two of you are left in nothing but your underwear.
heeseung takes ahold of your thighs, spreading your legs wider. you hear him breathe in as he eyes your core.
"you're such a nasty whore," heeseung says abruptly, his hand coming down to slap your pussy. you gasp, lurching forward in surprise.
heeseung presses a hand on your stomach, applying the smallest amount of pressure. it's a warning. stay still.
"getting wet at the idea of fucking your boyfriend's friends," heeseung sneers, smacking your sensitive mound again over your panties. you whimper, shaking your head.
"n-not my boyfriend," you sniffle. "he's n-not."
"still," heeseung responds. another loud smack. harder this time.
"what kind of person lets a whole frat house slut them out? a dirty fucking whore, that's what."
you feel tears prickle at your eyes as heeseung lands a few more slaps on your aching pussy. you're drenched at this point, making a mess for sure on heeseung's sheets.
heeseung practically yanks your panties off, revealing your glistening cunt. he licks his lips, the pads of his fingers pushing lightly against the relative area of your clit.
your back arches slightly off the bed. your whole body seems to shake of oversensitivity.
heeseung hurriedly discards of his own boxers and your mouth instantly waters as you're greeted with the sight of his cock, long and girthy, tapering off perfectly toward the tip.
heeseung props your legs open, aligning himself with your entrance. your eyes meet and you look at him, confused.
"what happened to your whole 'director of operations and no frat babies under my watch' spiel?" you ask.
heeseung snickers. "i'm a bit of a hypocrite, baby."
he pauses, studying your expression and waiting for you to say something. the safe word. your teeth worry at your bottom lip but you nod.
"go ahead," you whisper.
heeseung nods as well, pressing himself against your leaking entrance. your mouth falls open as heeseung manages to squeeze in half of himself in you. he pauses, planting his hands firmly on your hips. he pushes all the way in, pulling you down on him at the same time.
you both gasp.
"oh fuck," heeseung curses. you clench down on him and he grunts.
heeseung starts to move, and if there's one thing you know about him by now, it's that he wastes no time. he's ramming into you relentlessly after only a minute, your head spinning as your mind tries to catch up with your body.
he feels good stretching you out like this, that's for sure. your pussy squelches each time heeseung pushes in, proof of just how wet you are for him.
you're moaning uncontrollably now, heeseung's hips snapping up against yours. looking at him, his forehead creased, eyes squeezed shut, it dawns on you what you've started.
if all the other guys on the executive committee would look just as good as heeseung does right at this moment, buried to the hilt in your cunt, then maybe you are a nasty whore.
"heeseung, heeseung, heseeung!" you cry out, unable to contain the pleasure coursing through your body.
heeseung leans down to press his lips messily onto yours. tongue and teeth and spit greet you as you kiss him back. you wrap your legs tightly around heeseung's hips and he lets his eyes roll into the back of his head.
"baby, oh god," he says, pressing his forehead against yours.
"you think jake will mind if i cum inside this pussy?" heeseung whispers, his breath ghosting over your face.
you can't help it. you moan out like a cockhungry slut at heeseung's words.
"please," you beg. "need your cum, need it inside me."
heeseung chuckles darkly, pulling away slightly. "you need it? gonna go around and tell my brothers that you need their cum too?"
you shake your head, though you're unsure why you're doing this because you know heeseung's right. maybe at this point, you've truly gone dumb over cock. heeseung's cock.
"no, no," you protest. "n-need your cum now. need it, want it so bad."
heeseung wraps his arms around you, pressing your bodies close together. he buries his face in your neck as he continues to fuck into you shallowly. your belly tightens as your own release approaches. the friction of heeseung's abs against your clit pushing you closer and closer.
"gonna cum," heeseung warns. "gonna cum inside this pussy, godâ"
you feel heeseung twitch inside you and a final drag of his toned abdomen over your nub sends you over the edge. you tighten your hold around heeseung as you sob onto his shoulder.
the two of you lay still for a few moments, breathing heavily. you hold each other close for another minute before heeseung pushes himself off you, sweeping his sweaty hair back.
he grins down at you before kissing you lightly.
"i might need to steal you from jake after this," heeseung jokes as he slowly pulls out of you. he grabs a towel hanging off his desk chair, holding it between your legs.
you laugh weakly, your head lolling to one side as you feel exhaustion wash over you.
heeseung plops down beside you, arms automatically winding around your midsection. "you can stay here for tonight."
you hum in contentment, snuggling up to heeseung.
---
jake is frantic as his call is unanswered for the fifth time. where the fuck are you?
the party has mostly died down by now and he thought you probably had gone home. that's when he started calling. two missed calls. no problem. you weren't a phone call type of person, anyway.
he asked everyone who he thought might know you at this party about your whereabouts and if they saw you leave or not, but no one seemed to know where you wandered off.
hence, five more missed calls.
"you alright?"
jake looks up from his phone to see sunoo dragging a plastic bag behind him, halfheartedly picking up stray cups and chucking them into the bag.
"it's ______. she's not answering," jake complains, pressing the 'call' button once more.
"oh her," sunoo says with a knowing smile. "i saw her with heeseung a few hours ago. they haven't gone back down since."
jake pauses, immediately ending the call. he sighs, half wanting to laugh and half wanting to punch himself.
premise: there's not much secrets to be found out with the director of recruitment. but he does recruit you for one hell of a challenge: fuck your way around his frat house.
notes: fem!reader, greek life!au, university!au, fwb!jake, slightly possessive!jake (but he's also down to share), dirty talk, brief mention of pregnancy, unprotected sex, creampie
a/n: first installment of the 'sleeping around the frat house' series! tried something different here, not sure if it'll work but i like this one~ i'm so excited for this series so i hope you all join along for the ride! *divider by cafekitsune
jake sim is not your boyfriend.
he's a friend. from high school. who happens to go to the same university as you.
for the first few weeks of freshman year, the two of you were each other's default, having moved to this city all on your own for your respective degrees.
orientation, vacant periods, dinner after class. all of these were spent with jake. you clung onto each other like velcro. freshman jake and ______ versus the world.
and then jake decided to rush for a frat and you got roped into your own extracurriculars. the friendship faded into texts here and there about things that reminded you of each other. memes. an occasional selfie update.
until jake invited you to the frat's recruit-organized party for the year.
"i bought all the booze," jake had declared proudly, voice straining over the booming music. you nodded, genuinely impressed by how well the recruits put the party together.
"it's a fun party," you practically yelled into jake's ear. he pulled back and smiled down at you.
the recruits even managed to rent party lights for the night. and under the purple-red glow of the strobes, you realized just how handsome jake is up close. even when he's standing at the top of the stairs and you at the bottom, him beckoning you up, you could readily admit he was hot.
and you kind of did.
"jake," you breathed out quietly, leaning over the banister from the second floor overlooking the party below. jake is right beside you.
he turned to you, eyes blinking slowly from the alcohol he's consumed thus far. jake leans in closer and you can smell the heineken on his breath.
"i'm kinda...bored," you said rather lamely. jake snorted, leaning his head down on your shoulder. you breathe the scent of his shampoo in, nuzzling your face in his soft raven hair.
"what do you wanna do?" jake asked, craning his neck to look at you from where he's still laid down on your shoulder.
jake snaked an arm around your waist and you knew you were done for. a second later, you were kissing, and within another minute, he's pushing you towards the direction of his room at the very end of the hall.
"fuck, you're so hot," you blurted out over the creaking of his bed, his movements messy and frantic but still enough to have you throwing your head back in pleasure.
"so are you," jake had said, grinning down at you. his hands dug into your sides, keeping you pinned in place as he fucked into you with the enthusiasm only a drunk college frat boy could possess.
and the rest was history.
---
it went on like this for the next year and a half. a friendship maintained through quickies in his car and semi-dates in his frat house bedroom, takeout boxes on his desk while he fucked you doggy style on his (still) creaky bed.
it's not to say you kept things exclusive. that wasn't part of the deal.
whatever the deal is. you haven't really talked about it.
there would be times when neither of you would reach out for weeks or months on end. you'd start to wonder why he was gone so long but then you'd see jake post a girl's hand or half of someone's face on his instagram story, complete with an obscure poetic indie love song in the background.
ah. of course.
in your defense, you had your fair share of flings and situationships here and there. one even came close to an actual serious relationship.
yeonjun, a music major senior you went out with last year when you were a sophomore. he took you out to dates and introduced you to his friends and wrote you songs. but he always found an excuse to avoid that conversation.
(you found out without much difficulty that it was just his ex begging for him to come back.)
guess what happens next.
and so by the tail end of last academic year, you and jake somehow were aligned once again. both single. both horny.
three months later and here you are after the first day of classes of your third year, naked on jake's bed. just like the old times.
"i missed you," jake whispers, hands moving frantically over your body, tugging at your clothes while his mouth busied itself on your neck.
"we saw each other back home a few weeks ago," you reply, giggling when you feel jake lick a stripe up to your jaw.
he can be a little excitable sometimes. like a puppy.
"weeks, ________. can't believe you flew off to some island somewhere while i was left alone to jerk off to pictures of you," jake complains, blowing hair out of his eyes as he pulls away. he tugs his shirt off in one graceful swoop and you're greeted with an eyeful of his abs.
"well, if it's any consolation, i touched myself to your pictures, too," you respond, dropping your voice to a seductive lilt. your hand smooths down jake's bare torso as he leans back down over you, a grin spreading on his face.
"yeah?" he asks.
"oh yeah," you affirm, nodding. you reach down to cup jake through his sweats, a quiet hiss escaping him as you do so.
"fuck, baby, need you so bad," jake admits, hurriedly tugging and kicking off his pants. he's bare under the cotton fabric, having foregone boxers. typical jake.
jake spits on his palm, wrapping his hand around his shaft right after, jerking it to full hardness. he bites down on his lip as his other hand grabs at one of your tits, kneading and squeezing.
"wait," you call out, laying a hand on jake's arm. "you haven't fucked anyone while i was gone, right?"
jake rolls his eyes playfully, leaning down to kiss you. your teeth clash for a moment and you gasp slightly, not expecting such passion from jake.
"only wanted to fuck you," jake admits. he quirks an eyebrow, eyeing you curiously. "how about you?"
you shake your head. "couldn't go longer than a day without thinking about you filling me up with that cock."
jake grins, kissing you again. he lines his tip with your entrance, pulling away slightly as he slips in between your slick folds.
"missed this," jake mutters, pushing more and more of himself in. you simultaneously sigh out in relief once he's bottoms out.
"missed you," he adds.
you snake your arms around jake's shoulders, pulling him close as he starts to rut against you. he moans softly next to your ear and you let yourself do the same, your voices mingling and bouncing off the walls of jake's tiny bedroom.
"fuck, _______," jake groans. "how are you always so tight?"
you don't answer, merely wrapping your legs around jake's hips, pulling him closer. you hear him grunt as he leans back to look at you. his eyes are dark but focused on you. you feel fingers snake around your throat and you can't help the way your eyes roll into the back of your head.
"yeah, that's right," jake chuckles. he squeezes at your jugular lightly and you whine, grabbing at jake's wrist.
"such a whore, aren't you? my cockhungry whore," jake declares. you love it when he gets possessive and you know he knows. he uses it to his advantage any time he can.
"yeah," you agree, nodding as best as you can with jake squeezing at your air pipes. your voice is strained, hoarse from the way jake is choking you.
"yours. only yours."
jake curses under his breath, letting go of your neck. you gasp for air but any attempt to breathe is quickly cut short as you feel jake press your legs up against your chest. you cry out in surprise, jake hammering into you with a newfound speed and strength that sends your brain in a frenzy.
you always felt a certain way when jake has you like this, cunt in full view, body folded nearly in half, fucking into you like he was trying to put a baby in you.
"mine." jake sounds nearly animalistic, a primal need taking over him as he forces your legs harder against your chest.
your head is spinning, limbs going limp with how hard jake is fucking you. the feeling in your abdomen snaps tight, threatening to break.
you babble incoherently a barely distinguishable mix of jake's name, curses, and pained pleas of 'more, need more!' or 'feel s'fucking good, jakey! your cock feels so good!'. it doesn't take long for jake to give the last of his frenzied thrusts, pushing in deep when he cums, spurts of himself filling you up just as you'd hoped.
jake continues to fuck into you after a while, knowing you haven't finished just yet. you reach down between your legs to press your fingers onto your clit, hips grinding up to meet jake's. he complains of oversensitivity but he goes on and by mercy, your own orgasm finally takes over, you clenching down on jake's half flaccid dick.
he pulls out after a few moments, finally allowing himself some relief. you're both breathing hard, sweaty and tired from the whole ordeal. you prop yourself up on your elbows, meeting jake's eyes.
"please don't deprive me for that long ever again," jake says with a sleepy smile, slumping over you. you giggle as you fall back against his bed, jake's face cradled in your neck,
you run your fingers through his disheveled hair, lips pressed against his temple.
jake sim is not your boyfriend but it's times like this that it feels like he might be.
a noise jostles you out of your thoughts. a phone notification.
jake lifts his head from your chest, blindly groping around his bed for his phone. he finally locates it after a moment, handing it to you.
"can you read that for me? jake requests, voice muffled as he snuggles closer to you.
you squint as the sudden brightness of the screen practically assaults your eyes. you blink a few times, reading the message displayed on the notification.
from hee: are you done? i had to physically restrain jay from pounding your door down.
"oh shit," you say, throwing your head back in embarrassment.
"your frat bros heard us," you inform jake.
jake merely snorts, winding his arms around you and pulling you closer.
"as they have a million times before," jake points out. "it's not like i'm the only one who fucks loudly in this house."
your ears perk up at that.
"oh? is the rest of the frat a bunch of man whores like you?" you tease, nudging jake lightly with your knee. he lifts his head up, frowning at you.
"i'm not a man whore, thank you very much," jake says with a roll of his eye. "can't speak for the rest of them, though."
"spill," you urge, raising your eyebrows expectantly at jake.
"sorry, babe, the secrets of the frat must be kept with full confidentiality," jake counters with a shrug.
you narrow your eyes at that. you've seen jake's frat brothers around a handful of times. you'd have to be blind to not see their good looks. and you'd have to be a liar not to admit that they are, indeed, good-looking.
"unless you want to find out for yourself," jake adds, giving you a look as if to say, 'i dare you'.
you straighten up, leaning against jake's headboard.
"let's say i do want to find out," you begin, crossing your arms against your chest.
jake's mouth falls open but his expression quickly shifts into a look of mischief. he looks off to the side, as if pondering on what to tell you. after a few seconds, he snaps his fingers and returns his gaze to you. he's practically bouncing with excitement.
"you can always sleep your way around the house," jake suggests, cocking a brow, as if to challenge you.
you pause. a million different questions come tumbling down on you. before you could get a word out, jake holds out his arms.
"or, at least, the executive committee," jake hurriedly adds. "i can guarantee you, all the other members aren't worth your time."
if you weren't interested before, you're definitely intrigued now.
"i got one ticked off so far," you muse, smiling sweetly at jake. "not much secrets to be found with the director of recruitment."
it takes jake a moment to realize you're referring to him. he rolls his eyes, reaching over to tickle your side. you swat his arm away, giggling.
"as if any of the others could fuck you the way i do," jake scoffs. he leans over the side of the bed, reaching for his discarded shirt. he tosses it in your direction.
you catch the fabric in your hands, pulling it over your head. jake stops as he straightens up, the rest of his and your clothes in his hands. he gives you a one-over and smirks.
"make sure to let them fuck you while you wear this, okay?" jake teases, leaning in to kiss you.
"no promises," you taunt back. jake pulls away, a look of confusion on his face.
"you're not actually serious, are you?" jake questions. you nearly laugh at jake's genuinely clueless expression.
"why not? might be fun," you say with a shrug.
"besides, i never back down from a good challenge," you add.
jake studies you for a moment. you briefly think he might be mad or god forbid, disgusted with what you're attempting to do, but after a while, a shit-eating grin takes over his face.
"atta girl," jake says, winking. he kisses you again, hands grabbing at your waist.
jake sim is not your boyfriend because what boyfriend lets you fuck around with his frat brothers? but then again, it's not too late to talk about it. whatever it is with jake.
notes: fem!reader, farmer's daughter!reader, farmhand!ni-ki, AGE GAP (reader is implied to be in her mid-twenties, ni-ki is the age he is irl), ni-ki is referred to as 'riki', dom!ni-ki, oral sex (m receiving), nipple play, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it pls), creampie, breeding kink, hair pulling, praise, dirty talk, ni-ki and reader yearn like it's their business
a/n: i love age gap ni-ki fics and he looked particularly delicious in the afterlight concept photos lol hence why we are on a farm. enjoy! <3 (title from nettles by ethel cain) (as she continues to influence my work ahahaha)
you met him on an unassuming monday morning.
your fatherâs truck was loud against the still air, the engine sputtering noisily as it came to a stop in front of the main house. you gazed out the kitchen window, hands stopping mid-scrub in the sink. there was someone else with your father, a tall figure climbing out of the passenger seat, a shock of platinum-blond hair just out of your line of sight.Â
you dried your hands before going to unlock the front door for your dad.
when you swung the door open, it was him you saw first.Â
he towered over your father despite the obvious slouch in his shoulders, wearing a loose flannel over a thin shirt underneath. you could just make out the outline of a toned chest and an equally muscular abdomen. your dad was saying something or other, but you couldnât really process his words quickly enough. the other man caught your eye, nodding his head politely in greeting.
â...riki, why donât you come in?âÂ
this pulled you out of your reverie. blinking, you saw your father looking at you expectantly. you flushed, stepping aside to open the door wider for both of them.
âriki, this is _______, my daughter,â your dad had said, gesturing to you as both men crossed the threshold into your home.
âhi,â the man named riki greeted. you smiled at him and held your hand out.
ânice to meet you,â you chirped, your heart stuttering the moment his hand came in contact with yours. his was so much bigger, enveloping your fingers against his calloused ones.
âheâll be helping around the farm starting tomorrow, but i wanted to show him around first,â your father continued, drying off his boots by the door, his back turned to both of you, oblivious to the mundane yet strangely significant event happening just behind him.
âyou can finally stop complaining about having to tend the coops by yourself,â your father chuckled, turning around to squeeze your shoulder good-naturedly.
riki let go of your hand, and you instantly felt its absence.
-
â_______?â
you startle, nearly dropping the bucket onto the poor, unsuspecting hens gathered around you. you peer at the entrance of the coop, a figure silhouetted against the early morning light. a flutter shoots through your stomach when you realize who it is.Â
âriki,â you say, a little breathless. you admonish yourself internally for how easily he could make you fold.
âdo you need something?â
riki steps into the low-ceilinged structure, ducking his head slightly to avoid banging it on the doorway. your mouth molds into a soft smile as you watch him, his height always a point of discussion between you two. his stature is both a blessing and a curse working on a farm like this. he didnât particularly like it when you laughed for five minutes straight after he hit his head on the very same spot his first week on the farm.Â
âthought maybe you needed some help,â riki supplies, surveying the horde of feathered creatures around you. he has his hands shoved in his pockets, his default stance, apparently. he always seemed so easygoing this way, like nothing ever bothered him. as if he wasnât causing up a storm in your mind, your heart, and in between your legs.
you swallow, trying to get your head out of the gutter. it wasnât right thinking about a person under your fatherâs employ like this. more so, riki is significantly younger than you. in fact, he was surprised to find this out when he first asked. the two of you were rounding up the horses, and riki had been looking at you strangely all afternoon.Â
âiâve been trying to find out on my own, but i donât think i can take any more guessing,â riki had said as he pulled your fatherâs prized mare towards the stables.Â
you looked at him, confused.
âwill you tell me how old you are?â
you told him then and teased him for trying to guess. âyou could have just asked,â you said.
riki was quiet the rest of the way after that.
you blink, bringing yourself back to the present. you shake your head, hands on your hips as you glance around.Â
âiâm all good here,â you reassure, flashing riki a smile. he nods, looking around as well. he seems to be stalling, exactly what for, youâre not sure.Â
âyou know that your dad hired me so you wouldnât have to do this, right?â riki asks, finally meeting your eye. heâs looking at you with what you can only describe as mild fondness. however, youâre taken slightly aback by the promptness of the question.Â
âyeah,â you begin with a light chuckle. âbut, contrary to what he says, i actually enjoy doing it.âÂ
riki raises an eyebrow. âfarm work?â
you nod. âyep.â
riki seems to ponder on this, pursing his lips as his eyebrows pinch together. he does this a lot, especially in conversations with you, as if he canât decide if youâre lying or not. it worries you if you perhaps come off as disingenuous to him.Â
âhe wants you to go back to the city,â riki blurts out, cringing as he says it. like he wasnât meant to tell you at all.
your eyebrows shoot up and you breathe in as the words register in your mind.Â
âi know,â you respond. âi donât want to, though.â
riki blinks. clearly this wasnât the answer he was expecting.Â
âoh,â is all he says. thereâs a few seconds of silence as the two of you stew in the sudden serious turn of your conversation.Â
âwhy not?â
you shrug, walking away and setting the bucket of chicken feed on its designated hook. âyouâre from the city, too, as iâve heard. i would think youâd have an idea as to why.â
riki nods, as if he truly does understand. you walk up next to him and the two of you lock eyes for a few seconds. heâs so much taller than you, and at this proximity, you can smell his cologne mixed with the first traces of sweat from his earlier farmwork.Â
âi like it better here,â you explain, as if this would dispel all of rikiâs confusion. you hope it would.
âme too,â riki answers almost instantly. you catch the faint flicker of his eyes moving down to your mouth.Â
you smile, walking out of the chicken coop.
-
itâs been two months since your father hired riki and itâs still lost on you what exactly was going through his head when he went through with it.Â
not that thereâs any real cause for you to doubt your fatherâs choices. riki is hardworking, diligent, attentive, polite, and infectious in his ways. your mother, who mostly managed the farmâs finances and shied away from any hard labor, was surprisingly coaxed by an enthusiastic riki to go riding on horseback around the property, something your mom hasnât done in a long time. not to mention, riki is a good conversationalist, making you laugh harder than you ever remember doing. heâs thoughtful, and so, so sweet. itâs nearly sickening how much a simple grin and a well-timed present of a wildflower heâd plucked from the outer fields could make your day so much better.Â
and yet, you ruminate over why your father would hire such a man. your dad is very vocal about you going back to the city to restart the life you left behind. maybe find a good partner and settle down. create a life so different from your upbringing because you deserve so much better. at least, thatâs what he tells you.
but with riki being here, you canât help but wonder.Â
was he trying to tell you something? or is it all just a harmless coincidence? youâre not sure about your dadâs matchmaking skills, but the trouble riki is causing you and your heart seems too obvious.
or maybe thatâs just the way riki is.
because why else would he be asking you to accompany him while he does the end-of-day rounds around the farm?Â
âcome on, ride with me,â riki urges, looking at you expectantly from his perch atop another one of your dadâs horses.Â
âyou and those damn stallions,â you mutter, crossing your arms. âi think you only accepted this job so you could ride around all day.â
riki bursts out laughing, a deep, rich sound that makes your stomach flip.Â
âyou caught me there,â riki says, reaching a hand out to you. you huff, kicking an overturned bucket closer to the horse. thanks to his penchant for riding bareback, something you personally would prefer not to do, you now have to deal with the struggle of actually mounting. you step up and grasp rikiâs hand.
he tugs your arm firmly, and you let out a soft grunt as you feel the momentum carry you up. you swing your leg forward and over, landing safely behind riki.Â
âfarm girl struggles to ride without a saddle?â riki teases, glancing back at you. âobvious skill issue.â Â
you smack riki lightly on the arm. âjust hurry up and get this over with.â
âyes maâam,â riki says, a hand grasping the underside of your thigh to pull you closer.Â
you gasp, hands automatically coming up to grip his waist. a nervous laugh escapes you.
âi know how to ride a horse, riki,â you admonish teasingly.Â
âjust wanted to make sure youâre safe,â riki supplies, looking over his shoulder at you. his eyes soften despite the obvious mischief in his smile.
âsorry if that made you uncomfortable,â he adds, voice dropping to a whisper.
you tighten your hold around his midsection. ânot at all.â
-
âdo you plan on going back anytime soon?â
your fork pauses over the piece of meat you meant to eat. you blink up cluelessly at your father.
âgo back? to where?â you ask.Â
the dining room is bright, the table laden with more food than usual and the broad, hulking, 6-foot man seated to your right is the reason for this. your dad invited riki for dinner, as he sometimes does. youâve grown used to these occasional get-togethers, your and rikiâs relationship easing into a semblance of friendship. even your mother, who observes you now, has encouraged you to take riki out to the city sometime to bond âas friendsâ.
the city.
of course. thatâs what this is about.
âoh,â is all you say. you clear your throat, eyes darting to riki beside you. he doesnât say anything, just looks back politely.Â
âno, i havenât thought about it,â you respond curtly. âi donât think i will be for a while.â
âwell, i thinkââ
âdad.â
your voice is sharp, eyes steely as you glare at your father. his eyebrows shoot up, a silent question as to your sudden mood shift.Â
âi think iâm comfortable being on the farmâs payroll for now,â you add, a little more lightheartedly.Â
your momâs eyes dart between you and your dad. she sighs quietly to herself. sheâs heard this exchange over and over, each time more urgent and less casual than the last.Â
âbesides, i donât want to subject our guest to my issues about the city,â you reason, gesturing to riki. you meet his eyes and he has a tight-lipped smile, as if he knows this is a conversation he shouldnât be hearing.Â
your father drops the subject after this. the rest of dinner goes by uneventfully, though you can feel the stiff and mechanical way riki moves beside you. in all honesty, you feel sorry for the guy. heâs been roped into a job that was meant for him to replace you, and yet here you are, refusing to budge. itâs not his fault that youâre bullheaded and stubborn and adamant about your refusal to return to the city.Â
dinner wraps up soon enough, and your mother shoos you away to entertain your âguestâ. you step out onto your front porch to find riki settled on the little sitting area your family kept in the corner.
âhi.â
riki looks up, startled by your presence. you take a seat beside him on the wicker couch, your shoulder brushing his.Â
âhey,â he greets softly, eyes trained on your face. the porch light is on, casting you both in a warm, yellow glow.Â
âsorry about earlier,â you begin, fidgeting with your hands. âit was wrong of my dad to bring it up in front of you.â
âno harm done,â comes rikiâs quick reply.Â
you both sit in relative silence for a few moments, the cicadas doing the talking for you. you feel riki shift, leaning back against the couch. you mirror his actions, pressing your arm closer to his. neither of you says anything, content to let the dayâs work settle in wordless company.
finally, riki sighs.
âare you going to tell me what happened to you in the city?âÂ
you donât look at him, but you can feel his eyes bore into the side of your head. you turn it over in your mind: the events that led to you returning to your hometown, to your sheltered life as the farm girl, to long stretches of quiet, and fields as far as the eye can see.Â
âitâs nothing particularly interesting,â you inform riki. âi just donât think the city life is for me, after all.â
you finally let yourself meet his gaze and your breath nearly hitches with the way heâs looking at you. some of his hair has fallen over his forehead, casting harsh shadows across his face. but the intensity in his pupils is unmistakable.
âi get it,â he says lowly. âi feel the same way.â
you nod. âso we understand each other, then.â
riki smiles, letting his thigh press against yours as he relaxes even further into the couch.Â
âi guess so.â
-
of course. of course, this would happen to you.Â
the rain pelts down harshly on your skin, cold drops like needles against your face as you dash through the muddy grass. the stables are just within reach, a few dozen feet ahead. lightning slashes across the sky, and the boom of thunder quickly follows, startling you enough to make you scream. you pump your legs harder, your breath turning ragged as you desperately try to get to warm, dry safety.Â
you burst through the door, the indignant whinnies of the horses greeting your ears. your boots are streaked with clumps of mud, and even your jeans werenât safe from the brown splatters. you curse under your breath, frustratedly wiping rainwater from your eyes with the back of your hand.
â________?â
you jump, heart thumping against your ribcage as you peer at the approaching figure from the back of the stables.Â
itâs riki. itâs just riki.
âhey,â you greet nonchalantly, as if you arenât shivering from running through the rain.Â
âwhat happened? jesus, youâre shaking,â riki mutters, quickly jogging up to you to assess the damage.Â
itâs true; your teeth are starting to chatter as the adrenaline ebbs away from your body. you peer up at riki and heâs looking down at you with so much concern. you swallow, trying to purge the words out of your mouth.Â
âwâwas chasing a hen back into the coop,â you explain. âi d-didnât notice the clouds and next thing i know, itâs p-pouring.âÂ
riki exhales heavily, shedding the jacket he's wearing. he drapes it around your shoulders, rubbing your arms over the material.Â
âyou really work yourself too hard on this damn farm,â riki whispers, more to himself than to you. you canât help the amused giggle that escapes you, though itâs cut short by more shivers.Â
âcome here,â riki says, pulling you closer. his arms engulf you, and your cheek is pressed into his chest, the fabric of his shirt soft against your skin. he smells as he usually does. laundry detergent, sweat, and farm. your farm. your home.Â
you hug riki back, burrowing yourself further against him. you feel him lay his cheek against the top of your head and itâs like a million butterflies are released into your stomach.Â
âr-riki, youâre gonna get wet too,â you mumble into his chest. you can already feel some of the moisture seeping into his clothes.
you pull away just enough to look at him. he brushes some wet strands of hair away from your forehead, his thumb grazing your cheekbone momentarily before he pulls his hand away.
âwhat do you mean by that?â you ask, your heartbeat suddenly louder than the rain hammering down outside.Â
riki shakes his head dismissively. ânothing. we should get you to the house soon. you need to stay warm.â
âriki.â
ânot now,â he responds curtly, eyes flashing at you. âweâll talk when youâre dry and rested.â
you huff, letting rikiâs arms encircle you once more.
-
the house is silent, save for the remnants of rain pitter-pattering down against the roof and windows. your parents have been gone since the morning, having both decided to take a trip to town for supplies and whatever else they needed to do.
you sit in your room, freshly showered and clothed. âwarmly,â as riki insisted. he was somewhere downstairs, having used the guest bathroom to clean himself off.Â
the rain let up enough a few minutes after you stormed into the stables, settling into a drizzle that allowed you and riki to make the trek back to the main house. he guided you up the stairs, despite your protests, and made sure that you were actually showering with hot water.
âi better see the steam from out here,â he had demanded outside your bathroom door.Â
itâs ridiculous. why does he care? why should he care?Â
and why do you like that he does?
you get up from your bed and exit the warmth of your room. you pad down the stairs, listening for any signs of movement. thatâs when you hear a faint shuffling, and what greets you as you descend the last step makes you smile.Â
riki is in the kitchen, his back turned to you. heâs tinkering with the mugs and you can see the drawer with your familyâs tea stash wide open.Â
âhey,â you begin gently. riki glances at you over his shoulder and smiles sheepishly.
âhi,â he responds. âhope you donât mind me going through your kitchen. thought i might make you something. even if it is just tea.â
you grin as you approach him, a strange kind of warmth washing over you. you notice that heâs still in his clothes from earlier and a concerned frown settles on your face.
âriki, you should change.â your hand comes up to smooth down rikiâs back, where his shirt is dark from the rainwater. you feel him tense underneath your touch and you pull back ever-so-slightly, afraid that you might have done something wrong.
âiâm okay,â riki assures you. âi donât have any clothes to change into.â
âi can lend you some of my dadâs,â you offer, leaning against the counter beside riki. you move into his line of sight, urging him to look back at you.Â
âi really donât want to impose,â riki argues, shaking his head.Â
âyouâre not,â comes your reply. âitâs just a shirt, riki, whatââ
âokay!â riki says, throwing his arms up. he finally meets your eyes and thereâs a certain look to them you canât quite explain.Â
riki moves and it takes you a moment to realize what heâs doing. he pulls his shirt over his head, leaving him bare from the hips up, his muscles rippling as he tugs the rest of the garment off. he looks at you, an eyebrow raised as if to ask, âhappy?â
he hangs his shirt over one shoulder before resuming what he was previously doing. youâre rooted to the spot, dumbfounded at the sudden, strange turn of events.Â
âyouâll get even colder this way,â you scold riki lightly, fingers curling around one of his wrists. he stops his movements once more, regarding you from the corner of his eye.
âshare some of your body heat, then,â he deadpans.
you gape at him for a few seconds, stunned into silence. a million things are going through your mind, most of which are too inappropriate to say out loud. but you canât. you canât think of him that way. even if heâs half naked in front of you in your familyâs kitchen.Â
âvery funny,â you chide.Â
riki drops everything in his hands, letting the spoon he was holding clatter loudly against the counter. you jump back in surprise, wide-eyed as you take in the man in front of you. the air turns thick with tension as he braces his hands on the tiled surface in front of him. his head hangs between his shoulders, posture reminiscent of someone agonizing over something heavy.
âiâm not joking,â riki says. despite this, heâs looking at you now with a smile, though it borders more on rueful than anything positive.Â
âi havenât been joking for a while now, _______.â
you shake your head, trying to piece together what heâs trying to convey. what is he not joking about? all those times, those remarks that border on flirtatious, the passive touches? is he trying to say something?
âi like you. do you know that? i like you so fucking much,â riki admits, eyes imploring, as if it pains him to say this out loud.Â
âno, i donât know that, rikiâ you retort condescendingly.Â
âand we canât,â you whisper. âiâm years older than you, and iâm your bossâ daughter. we just canât.â
âi donât care,â riki insists, giving you his unfettered attention and drawing himself to his full height. you back up slightly, cursing inwardly when your back hits another counter.Â
âi told you. when it comes to you, i donât care.â
âyou should,â you argue weakly.Â
âwell, i really fucking donât,â riki cusses, crowding into your personal space. his hand finds your waist easily, while the other cages you in from the other side.Â
youâre both suspended in silence for a few moments. you feel the weight of his hand against your skin, and youâd give anything to have it stay there. but the situation begs for you to think this through.Â
âiâll stop if you tell me to,â riki says, voice rough as he narrows his eyes at you. âi dare you to tell me to stop.â
your body flushes with heat, your fists balled at your sides as you fight the urge to just throw yourself at him. his skin glistens under the faint kitchen light, and youâre eye level with the silver pendant he always wears. itâs swinging gently as riki leans even closer. your mind betrays you as it conjures up images of what it might feel like to have that necklace swing above your face as riki makes love to you.
you donât say anything. you donât want to say anything.
and thatâs when riki kisses you, rough and unrestrained. youâre driven back, your tailbone digging against the counter behind you. riki wastes no time and grasps both sides of your face in his large hands. heâs licking into your mouth and all you can do is moan as your lips part for him.Â
âriki,â you mewl between kisses.Â
âgod, youâre soâ,â rikiâs voice cuts off as he dips down to trail his lips over your jaw, your neck, and then your exposed collarbone.
âyouâre so fucking perfect,â riki finishes, sliding his hands up under your shirt. you buck into him involuntarily, the sensation of his touch on your bare skin new to you. youâve never felt this way before, electrified by a simple pass of rikiâs hands.
âwant you so bad,â he mutters, pushing the fabric up over your chest, exposing your unclothed tits to him.Â
âplease, riki,â you plead, hooking a finger through one of his belt loops. you tug him even closer, rubbing yourself up against him. you can feel the stiffness beneath his jeans and he groans loudly at the contact.Â
he ducks to take one of your nipples in his mouth and all your inhibitions crumble. you moan wantonly as rikiâs tongue toys with you, your fingers sliding through his hair. his other hand rests on your other boob, pinching and teasing. you can smell the faint scent of his shampoo and it only further fogs up your mind, filling only with the thought of riki, riki, riki.
riki parts from your chest for a moment, a wet pop resounding through the air as he pulls off. with one hand, he reaches down to undo the button of your shorts, sliding the zipper down roughly. with his other, he wrangles your face closer to his, kissing you again, this time, letting his tongue lave all over your mouth in a sloppy exchange.Â
your head is spinning and your knees are going weak. but you maintain enough of your faculties to let your shorts slip down, kicking them away.
âiâm gonna fuck you right here so when you walk through this kitchen with your parents sitting right there, all youâre gonna think about is me.â rikiâs voice is gruff with arousal, his words spoken right next to your ear. all you can do is whine, rutting against the rough material of his jeans to find anything, any type of friction at all.Â
riki hums as he runs two fingers over the material of your panties. âyouâre soaked and you have the gall to pretend you didnât want this?â
his words go straight to your cunt, your mouth falling open as he presses harder against your clothed clit. he rubs languidly, letting your pleasure build up, your hips seemingly gaining a mind of their own as they chase his hand.Â
âfilthy,â riki practically spits out. âwhat would your father say?â
you shake your head, not wanting to admit that it turns you on; the risk, the potential that your family might find out about your involvement with your dadâs employee.
riki rips, literally rips your underwear off, letting the tattered material fall to the floor. you gasp, but you donât have time to dwell on the ruined garment too much because riki is unbuckling his belt and undoing his jeans. he tugs both his pants and his boxers down just enough so his dick springs out.Â
your mouth practically waters when you see what heâs been hiding beneath. he pumps his shaft a few times, eyes trained on your exposed figure.
âwanna taste?â riki offers, letting go and pushing his hips out.Â
itâs pathetic how quickly and how willingly you nod.Â
you get on your knees, your hand reaching out to grasp his rock-hard cock. the moment your skin comes in contact with it, riki hisses, throwing his head back. you start with tentative kitten licks, peering up at him through your lashes to gauge his reaction. he groans loudly from above you, his hand reaching down to grab at your hair.Â
âdo it properly, baby,â riki coaxes, pushing his tip past your lips. you obey, opening your mouth further to accommodate him.Â
you whimper when you feel him prod at the back of your throat, and you realize heâs only halfway through. fuck, heâs so fucking big.
you bob your head up and down, trying to match your movement with your hand that strokes what remains of riki outside of your mouth. he moans and groans, his hold on your hair tightening by the minute. you feel him twitch inside your mouth, and a surge of pride courses through you. you wonder how many girls heâd done this with, and if you, perhaps, are his best so far.Â
in a blink of an eye, riki pulls at your hair, harsher than before, and you have no choice but to let him fall from your mouth. you start to protest, as you can see that heâs still red and leaking, begging for release.Â
âget up,â riki commands. you look at him in confusion but you follow, nonetheless.Â
âbend over.â
rikiâs hands push you roughly onto the counter, your front pressing against the cold tile. you feel him lining up with your entrance from behind, and you canât find it in yourself to argue, to warn him to put a condom on, to make sure to pull out. all thoughts fly out the window when he pushes himself into you.Â
âfuck, thatâs it,â riki groans, bottoming out in no time. the stretch has you reeling, your bottom lip caught between your teeth as you try to breathe through it. if you werenât already dripping with arousal, youâd have been in so much more trouble.
riki sets up an unrelenting pace from the start. he gives you no time to adjust as he grips your hips in his hands, pounding into you with abandon. your whole body quakes with the intensity of his movements, your hands groping around for something to hold on to.Â
âoh g-god!â you cry out through pathetic sobs. âriki, please-!â
âwhat do you need, baby? tell me.â rikiâs voice is strained as he continues to fuck you roughly. your tits bounce, unrestrained, and you think about how you must look right now.Â
exposed, broken, debauched.Â
ât-touch me,â you manage to say.Â
âyeah?â riki acknowledges, one of his hands snaking towards your front. he shoves it between your legs, finding your clit between your slick folds.Â
âright here?â
riki rubs harsh circles over your sensitive nub and you fight the urge to scream. your knuckles are white from where theyâre gripping the edge of the counter, your hair falling over your face as all you can do is bow your head forward, tears filling your eyes from the pleasure.Â
riki slows his movements enough to give you some reprieve and to focus on his fingers dancing over your clit. his other hand snakes up your back, threading through your hair. he yanks your head back, and you let out the filthiest sound youâve ever heard yourself make.
âcome on,â riki says, pounding into you. his thrusts have grown more deliberate, harder rather than faster. he angles himself just right, and he manages to press against that one spot inside you.
you keel over, feeling yourself clench around him. he keeps you upright by your hair and continues his movements, both his hand and his hips working in sync, stimulating you from all sides. you start to tremble as you feel the tightening in your abdomen. itâs a wonder how youâre still standing up.Â
riki leans close, kissing the back of your ear. âlet go for me, angel. need you to cum all over this cock.â
this is what undoes you, your vision turning white as your mouth parts in a silent scream. you hear riki groan behind you, both his hands now grasping your hips as he chases his own release amidst yours. the sensitivity gets to you, and you let out a sob, the remnants of your orgasm still lingering as riki uses you to get himself off.Â
âyou feel so fucking good,â riki groans, hips snapping against your ass with near-inhuman speed. you want to tell him itâs too much, but youâre too lost amidst the sensations. so all you can do is whimper.
âgonna fill you up. gonna give it to youâshitâthen iâll make sure you donât waste a single drop,â riki babbles.Â
âgonna knock you up so i have an excuse to stay here with you, yeah?â
your second climax comes as a surprise, ripping out of you with a suddenness that has all your muscles seizing up. riki curses loudly, stilling as he pumps his load deep inside you. youâre full-on crying now, overwhelmed with the pleasure and the slight pain of your back-to-back orgasms.Â
riki slumps over your limp form, his hand catching his weight as he leans on the counter. he doesnât pull out, just holds you up by his other arm, letting you catch your breath.Â
eventually, he peels himself off of you, gently parting from your cushy walls, both of you cringing at the sensation. he turns you to face him, his strong arms wrapped securely around your waist.Â
âyouâre insane,â you say, vision still blurry around the edges.Â
riki manages a winded laugh, leaning in to kiss you sweetly.Â
premise: all good things come in threes. the holy trinity. third time's the charm. peter, paul, and mary. your three roommates willing to help you experience how REAL, pleasurable sex feels like.
notes: fem!reader, roommate au, multiple partners, cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected penetrative sex (wrap ut b4 u tap it plz), voyeurism, exhibitionism, multiple orgasm, reader has prior shitty sexual experience
a/n: inspired by this post i made some months back. also shoutout to @cheolscherries1812 for their original comment on the post about leaders đŤśđť i started this in hopes that it would eliminate my writer's block BUT IT DIDN'T but it's here now, and i'm very proud of it, and i'm slowly getting back to writing. appreciate your patience and support for all of my work across all of my blogs!!! also, if this is reminiscent of my older works, then...;)
it should be a quiet friday evening for you, all things considered.Â
you had gotten off work, came home to dinner lovingly prepared by euijoo, kicked jaehyunâs ass in mario kart, and received an unprompted but well-appreciated shoulder rub from jungwon. it was shaping up to be a good start to your weekend, a smooth transition into two daysâ worth of rest.Â
that was, until jaehyun suggested the four of you have a few rounds of drinks. rarely do you ever get together as a complete unit of four, considering everyoneâs hectic schedules, and this was exactly what jaehyun used to rationalize his little idea as he gathered the shot glasses and raided the apartmentâs not-so-secret stash of alcohol.Â
euijoo and jungwon seemed down for it, too. the snack drawer was emptied and dumped on the carpeted floor of the living room, and before you knew it, the four of you were gathered in a circle, mixing vodka with the monstrous stock of mountain dew that jungwon of all people kept in one of the cupboards.
but the drinks turned into jokes, and the jokes turned into dares, and the dares turned into an impromptu game of never have i ever.
âthis is childish. what are we, in high school?â you give each of your roommates a pointed look, trying to convey just how much you oppose the idea of the game.
yes, these are your roommates, the people you literally live with, and your bond goes beyond usual roommate bounds, but youâre not exactly sure about inevitably spilling all your dirty little secrets to them.
the three of them stare back, unfazed, eyebrows raised in equal challenge.Â
âthatâs the point! itâs fun because itâs childish,â jaehyun reasons, shot glass in hand while he pours vodka into it. he turns to you fully, handing you the liquor.
âbottoms up, sweetheart,â he says.Â
you cringe at the nickname but take the shot glass, anyway. you down the drink in one graceful swoop, your face crumpling as the liquid slithers down your throat. your two other roommates whoop in celebration, and despite it all, you feel yourself relax as the warmth of the vodka spreads from your stomach to your limbs.
jungwon and euijoo throw their own heads back as they take their shots, and you muster up everything in you to stop yourself from staring at the bobbing of their throats.
you hand the glass back to jaehyun. he fills it up once more, pouring to the brim.
ânow this is for the fun part,â jaehyun teases, winking at you playfully.Â
âi told you, i donât want to play,â you reiterate.Â
âboring,â jungwon quips from across you, grinning when you narrow your eyes at him.
âjust one round,â euijoo encourages from your left, peering into your face and smiling sweetly.
you feel your stomach flip, and given your history of not being able to say no to euijoo, you canât help but let his words get to you. you roll your eyes, sighing, though euijoo knows this is just code for âfine, but only because you said so.â
euijoo just knew you like that.Â
and euijoo could just get you like that.
he leans over and bumps your shoulder with his and you feel your face flare up with heat.Â
âyouâre all gonna gang up on me anyway,â you pout. this earns a conspiratorial chuckle from jungwon.
âthen at least you know what youâre in for,â jungwon reasons.Â
you brandish your middle finger up at him, to which he blows you a kiss in retaliation while jaehyun swats your hand down.Â
you should be irritated, annoyed, hassledâwhatever other word describes the negative feeling that you ought to be getting from being teased around like this. but you just canât. for all their shenanigans, your roommates are some of the only people who could get away with being like this with you.
in hindsight, and historically speaking, it probably isnât healthy, and it definitely isnât advised to develop feelings for your roommate, but here you are.Â
crushing on all of your roommates.
youâre not sure when it started, but you try to rationalize it by telling yourself that living with three guys in their early twenties was bound to create some complicated feelings eventually.Â
sure, letâs go with that.
ârelax, ______, itâs just ânever have i everâ,â jaehyun croons, pushing the shot glass into yor hand. you take it, eyeing it warily.Â
if euijoo was the sweet one, then myung jaehyun was the pain in your ass.Â
âitâs never just ânever have i everâ when it comes to you,â you counter. âyou always have some ulterior motive behind these games of yours.â
jaehyun splutters, eyes widening as he throws his hands up as if in surrender.Â
âiâve never been so offended in my life,â he complains.
âcan we just start the game so we can actually start drinking?â jungwonâs voice cuts over the bickering. a finger presses against his temple, his eyebrows pinched together as he stares at you and jaehyun.
âokay, iâll start,â euijoo jumps right in, and you barely have any time to blink, let alone register whatâs happening.
ânever have i ever performed oral sex in public.â
âwhy are we jumping into the sex stuff already?â you demand, a look of alarm settling on your face as you turn to euijoo.
euijoo shrugs, running a hand over his tired eyes. âi donât know, ______. iâm kinda tipsy already, you know, so why not?â
you swallow, pretending that the lazy drawl in his voice doesnât do something to you.
with a disbelieving huff, you take the shot glass from the floor in front of you and gulp down its contents in two swallows. you meet jungwonâs eyes as you finish, his drink gone as well as he sets his own glass down.Â
âokay, ______. we need details,â jaehyun urges, nudging your knee with his foot. you smack him hard on the thigh.Â
âthatâs not part of the rules,â you deflect, snickering when youâre rewarded with a loud yelp from jaehyun. âbesides, you want me to believe that you havenât given anyone head in public?â
jaehyun shrugs, rubbing the spot where you hit him. âi havenât given anyone head in public. receiving it thoughâŚâ
euijoo and jaehyun make eye contact, and as if on cue, the two reach forward to dap each other up.Â
âi know what you mean, brother,â euijoo quips, a shit-eating grin spreading on his face.
âyou?â you turn accusingly to euijoo. âreally?â
euijoo schools his expression into one of innocence. âwhat? you think i donât mess around?â
you pause, the implication clear in his statement. the thought of euijooâyour kind, soft-hearted, considerate roommateâgoing around hooking up with people sends a strange feeling creeping up your spine. not that he canât be kind and hook up at the same time; his disposition has nothing to do with his actual sex life.Â
itâs the images that come to your head that give you pause.Â
his hand running up someoneâs thigh. his lips ghosting over someoneâs neck. his hips slamming againstâ
you blink, willing yourself back to earth lest you completely lose yourself in your thoughts.Â
âyour turn,â jaehyun points out as he refills everyoneâs shots. you blink again, your brain taking a few seconds to catch up.
âoh,â you say, clearing your throat. ânever have i ever received head in public.â
euijoo and jaehyunâs voices meld into a single complaint.
ânow thatâs not fair!â jaehyun cries out.Â
âyou did that on purpose!â euijoo protests.
âtoo bad, you shouldnât have volunteered information i didnât ask for,â you respond, chuckling as they begrudgingly down their shots. you and jungwon high five, identical grins settling on your faces.Â
âokay, you had your chance to get even,â jaehyun grumbles, pouting cutely. some stupid part of you wants to crawl over to kiss it off his face.
seriously, what is up with you?
ânever have i ever faked an orgasm,â jaehyun declares, a wicked glint in his eye as he turns to you.Â
indignation fills you immediately.Â
âhey, now thatâs not fair!â you cry out, reaching over to deliver your nth smack of the night to jaehyunâs shoulder.Â
âwhatâs not fair is you having to fake orgasms,â jaehyun says, laughing. he dodges another one of your attempts at his arm.Â
âstatistically and biologically speaking, a lot of people with vaginas have a harder time finishing for a variety of reasons,â you argue. âyou canât hold my own biology over me!â
the three men burst into laughter, and you glare at each one of them in turn. you mutter under your breath about wishing you had a dick instead, downing yet another shot. your stomach burns with the liquid but the fuzziness is starting to settle now. you feel quite good, actually.Â
âwhat kind of shitty sex are you having?â jungwon asks from across you, head tilting in curiosity. some of his hair falls into his wide, delicate eyes and you watch as he brushes them back with equally delicate fingers.
âthe kind thatâs none of your business,â you retort, grabbing the bottle of vodka to refill your own drink.Â
you catch just enough of it to witness your three roommates exchanging looks. your face heats up and youâre not sure if itâs the embarrassment or the alcohol.Â
âitâs not to say that i havenât ever finished during sex,â you blurt out, cringing once the words had escaped you.Â
âitâs just a phenomenon thatâs few and far between.â
thereâs pure silence for a few seconds, your roommates looking at you with varying degrees of worry and amusement.Â
âwhen do you orgasm?â euijoo asks and it catches you so off guard you nearly drop your glass.Â
âexcuse me?â you demand. euijoo merely smiles lazily, leaning back against the couch behind him.Â
âwhat happens when you actually cum? like, what leads up to it?â euijoo expounds, and his choice of words has your bottom lip slipping between your teeth.Â
fuck, he sounds a little too hot saying the word âcumâ.
âwhat is it with you guys and trying to pry into my sex life?â you question, putting on your sternest expression yet.Â
not that you arenât willing to be forthcoming with them. truth be told, youâd tell them anything if they asked nicely enough. or if they just asked, point-blank, period. they donât even have to be nice about it. you just think that itâs best to put up a semblance of normalcy, barring your filthy, unfiltered thoughts and fantasies from escaping.Â
thoughts and fantasies that involved them, of all people.
âarenât we allowed to be curious?â jungwon questions, fixing you with another one of his looks. the one that has your stomach flipping ten different ways. that one.Â
âno,â you deadpan and you think you see a flicker of something in jungwonâs eyes.Â
if euijoo was kind, and jaehyun was an ass, then jungwon was the iron fist that ruled the apartment. not a hair left on the floor, no piece of furniture crooked when heâs in charge.
you think about how youâd hate to be on the receiving end of his ire. in the conventional sense, at least. elsewhere, thoughâŚ
âyour turn,â you say, shifting the subject back to the game before anyone else gets any more ideas.
but, having lived with your roommates for about half a year, you really should have known that theyâre always full of ideas.Â
ânever have i ever been eaten out before.â
jungwonâs lips rise at the corners as he waits for you to take a shot. you stare back, shrugging. you donât move.Â
no one takes drink.
it takes a few seconds for the rest of them to catch up.
ânever?â jaehyun asks, his voice pitching higher.Â
âwhat, you guys havenât had your ass eaten out?â you feign a giggle, trying to shift the subject to anywhere but at you. âi thought for sure at least one of you would be into that.â
âthatâs unimportant,â euijoo declares. âyouâve never been eaten out?â
you falter. âwellâno.â
âthatâs like foreplay 101. hell, thatâs the main event for some people,â jungwon says, his expression full of disbelief. âyouâre telling us no one had bothered to eat you out before?â
the way he so crudely talks about your bedroom activities has you shifting in your seat, thighs squeezing together in an attempt to relieve yourself of the growing pressure in your belly.Â
âi mean, no one really offeredâ,â
âthatâs fucking insane,â jaehyun interrupts. âiâll eat you out right now, if you want.â
a violent blush takes over your entire face as you nearly choke on air.Â
âyouâre so full of shit, myung jaehyun,â your voice pitches higher as you stare at your roommate, your heart thundering just beneath your ribcage.Â
jaehyun merely shrugs as he beams at you. he pushes his wire-rimmed glasses further up his face, raking a hand through his hair after, and itâs with great self-control that you urge your eyes to look anywhere else but at him.Â
âweâre just saying, your past sexual partners must have been pretty selfish if they hadnât as much as offered toâŚyou know.â euijoo cuts in with a gentler approach, gesturing vaguely as he finishes his statement.Â
it never really dawned on you that this was such a strange phenomenon. sure, sex felt good for you on numerous occasions, and some of your encounters nearly brought you there. but it was never enough. half of them were clumsy, most too eager. their hands would grab too hard at all the wrong places and their fingers would leave you aching, and not in the way you wanted.
âiâve never been fingered properly before, either,â you blurt out, voice fading to an unsure mumble towards the end.
euijoo raises his eyebrows. âiâm sorry, what?â
you sigh, deciding to just let it all out.Â
âmost times, the people iâve been with would try toâŚwith their fingers,â you explain. you meet each of your roommatesâ eyes one by one. âbut it would mostly hurt and it didnât feel good at all.â
you can practically hear the ticking of the clock in the next room over.
âand i ask you once more, what actually makes you cum during sex?â euijoo questions, fixing you with an equally worried and eager stare.Â
your throat feels parched, your words and thoughts a jumble in your head.Â
âi usually just get myself off. i rub one out while theyâŚdo whatever it is theyâre doing.â
silence.Â
jaehyun looks to jungwon who looks to euijoo who looks back at jaehyun. for some reason, this feels more humiliating than if they were all staring at you.Â
âlooks like you pulled the short end of the stick when it comes to the people you sleep with,â jungwon says with a little snicker. you flush as his eyes do a brief once-over of your figure.
âi know, i know, i shouldnât have settled for anything less,â you grumble, pulling your knees to your chest. you curl into yourself, suddenly hyperaware of all of the eyes on you.Â
âi havenât slept with anyone, in like, half a year. canât have shitty sex if youâre not having sex at all,â you add, chuckling humorlessly.
âso your last was the ex you broke up with before moving here?â jaehyun clarifies, scooting closer until his shoulder is pressed up to yours.Â
you sigh, rubbing your eyes. âyes.â
another stretch of silence blankets the four of you, and you internally cringe at the direction this game and this conversation has taken. jaehyun shifts to your right, his arm draping over and around your shoulders.
âwant us to help you?â
jungwon snickers and euijooâs already large eyes widen even more. you whip your head towards jaehyun, equal parts scandalized andâŚaroused.Â
âcut it out,â you mumble halfheartedly, trying to pry jaehyun off of you.Â
âwhat? iâm trying to be a gentleman here,â jaehyun protests with a smile. his body heat and cologne muddle your senses.
âby offering to sleep with me?â you protest, elbowing him hard in the ribs. he winces but pulls you in even closer.Â
âdonât tell me you guys havenât thought about it,â jaehyun says, gesturing to euijoo and jungwon, his brows raised knowingly.
you feel your entire body go simultaneously cold and impossibly hot, the sensations fighting as euijoo and jungwon look at each other.Â
âthatâs quite the accusation,â jungwon muses, tilting his head, a traitorous smirk settling on his lips.Â
you feel all semblance of calm escape you, your heart beating faster than it already was. you turn to euijoo for any sort of reprieve from this situation youâve found yourself in, but even he refuses to meet your eyes.Â
oh.
so itâs like that.
under normal circumstances, this should have scared you. disgusted you, even. but you would be lying if you said that you havenât thought about them that way. sure, it started as innocent crushes, feelings developed for people you live in close proximity to. but as proximity goes, your rooms are crammed into one short hallway, walls like paper, and squeaky doors that donât ever fully close.Â
youâve heard them on certain nights, groans too rhythmic and sighs too loud to be anything but what you thought it was. you had felt like a pervert all this time, listening in and anticipating that stretch of silence right after an audible gasp, or that maddeningly loud creak of a bed as one of them finishes, headboard banging against your wall.Â
(you remember now it was euijoo, as his room is right next to yours.)
so all propriety aside, you have no choice but to admit that youâre irrevocably, undeniably turned on right now.Â
âso you have thought about it.â you finally find your voice and it seems to snap all three men out of their reveries.Â
jaehyun shrugs from beside you. always the candid one, his fingers trace patterns on your exposed shoulder, smiling when he feels goosebumps rise on your skin.Â
âyou know i do. i havenât really been keeping it a secret, have i?â
you meet jaehyunâs eyes and he looks at you expectantly in that annoyingly handsome way of his. you lick your lips and his eyes follow the motion, snapping back up right at the very last second.
âi thought you were just messing with me,â you whisper.Â
but you know. you know deep down he was doing anything but.
âwell iâm not,â jaehyun says, disproving your statement.Â
âletâs make a deal.â
you turn your head towards jungwon whoâs looking at you, calculation evident in his eyes. he glances briefly at your two other roommates before straightening.
âyou let us take care of you and we can finally put this topic to bed,â jungwon continues calmly, as if he were just proposing who gets to do what chore in the apartment.Â
âiâwhat?â your voice is barely above a nervous whisper.Â
jungwon shrugs. âyou said youâve never been eaten out.â
he looks to jaehyun.Â
âwanna help her with that?â
jaehyunâs face immediately breaks out into a grin. jungwon continues before jaehyun can get a word in.
âyou said you havenât been fingered properly. maybe i can do something about it,â jungwon says without breaking eye contact. you feel your whole body tense up and shiver.Â
have all of you gone completely crazy?
âanything else we can help you with?â jaehyun says, glancing at euijoo, who seems to be the only one as affected by all this as much as you are.
euijoo takes a moment before looking over at you. even in your apartmentâs shitty lighting, you can see the way his pupils dilate, eyes raking over your curled-up figure.Â
âwhat do you want?â euijoo questions, shifting his body subtly closer to face you.
you swallow, a million thoughts running through your mind.Â
this is ridiculous. this is reckless. this is dangerous. who thinks about sleeping with all her roommates? who entertains the idea of them âhelpingâ you by granting you sexual favors?
âwhatever it is you think about doing when you jerk off at night,â you respond, despite yourself.Â
you relish the way euijooâs breath catches, his lips pressing into a thin line.Â
jungwon and jaehyun simultaneously let out disbelieving chuckles. euijoo is bright red now, all the way to the tips of his ears.
âguess we arenât so quiet when weâahârelieve ourselves,â jaehyun muses with a chuckle.Â
âyou especially,â you banter, digging your elbow once more into his ribs.Â
âoh, sheâs got some bite,â jaehyun taunts, his hand sliding down your back before resting just above your ass.Â
âbig talk for someone who just admitted to settling for bad sex,â jungwon pipes up. he pushes himself to stand, slinking over to where youâre seated.
jungwon crouches down, and due to his stature, even in this position, you have to crane your neck up to look him in the eye.
âwant us to help you?â
you hear nothing but the steady thud of your heartbeat in your ears, and you feel nothing but sheer weightlessness as you ponder your options.Â
theyâre offering, and youâre willing.Â
you inhale, resolve hardening in your chest.Â
âiâd like to see you try,â is all you say.Â
itâs like a switch is flipped within all three of them. you physically feel the room go still as all three sets of eyes turn to you. jungwon is the closest and in your direct line of sight. he grins, his hand reaching out, his pointer finger resting just beneath your chin.Â
âiâd like to see you take it.â
jungwon glances to jaehyun, raising a brow.Â
âi got it from here,â jaehyun says, voice low and rougher all of a sudden. jungwon nods before returning to his seat.
you turn, your heartbeat still thundering loudly in your ears.
euijoo and jungwon watch with attentive eyes as jaehyun lets his hand fall completely to the slope of your ass. his other hand reaches for your thigh, grabbing onto the supple flesh and maneuvering you to face him.Â
âyou can still say no,â jaehyun whispers, fingers trailing up on your skin.Â
in what world would you do such a thing?
before you can overthink it, you lean forward to connect your lips with jaehyunâs. you hear jungwon snicker and euijoo inhale. jaehyun, on the other hand, smiles into the kiss, a hand coming up to cup your face. he pulls you closer, manhandling you over his lap, to which you allow yourself to respond eagerly, arms circling his neck.
jaehyun shifts beneath you, pressing his semi between your legs, and you gasp, rocking harder against him in retaliation. he moans wantonly into your mouth, but quickly pulls away to discard his glasses before diving back in with renewed vigor.
you tug at his hair and he digs his nails into your waist. months of teasing and sexual innuendos amount to this, with him half-hard and you leaking through your underwear.
âhurry up,â jungwon teases. you pull away, peering over your shoulder to see him chewing on his thumbnail, eyes dark as he surveys the scene in front of him.
euijoo looks like heâs about to explode.Â
glad to know youâre on the same page.Â
âhurrying is what got her here in the first place,â jaehyun warns with no real bite, a corner of his lips twitching up.Â
âisnât that right, pretty? weâll take it nice and slow for you tonight.â
you whimper involuntarily, jaehyunâs fingers traveling down to press firmly into your inner thighs. he wastes no time in coaxing you down, right onto your back.Â
you thank the heavens in your head for the foresight of suggesting that your living room needed a fluffier rug.Â
your hair spreads out beneath your head, and jaehyun rakes his eyes over your face, down to your neck, then to your chest, caging you in with his arms braced on either side of you.Â
âcan i take these off?â jaehyun asks, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts. his hair is sticking up all over, and you think about how ridiculously hot he looks at this moment.
âyes,â you mutter softly. this earns a soft smile from him.
âthere she is. thought i wouldnât be hearing that voice for the rest of the night.â
the soft croon of jaehyunâs words, coupled with the drag of the fabric against your warm skin as he pulls your bottoms down, sends yet another shiver through you. youâre left semi-exposed in just your underwear, your legs automatically clamping shut.Â
ânone of that, sweetheart,â jaehyun urges gently, prying your thighs apart once more. âhow am i gonna help you if i canât even reach whatâs here?â
just as he says this, he reaches down and presses two fingers right at your core, on the damp spot forming on your panties. you gasp, bucking into jaehyunâs hand. he grins, obviously pleased with your reaction.Â
âfor someone so hesitant, you sure are eager,â jaehyun says, rubbing at the spot, movements traitorously slow.Â
ânow youâre just taking the piss,â euijoo comments under his breath. âdonât leave her waiting.â
you crane your neck to look at your other roommate and you have to suppress a moan at what you see.Â
euijooâs still leaning back against the couch, his fingers tapping restlessly against his leg. thereâs a sizeable bulge at the front of his sweatpants.Â
jaehyun rolls his eyes playfully, withdrawing his touch to yank your underwear down in one fell swoop. you startle, but you let jaehyun slip the last barrier standing between his and the rest of your roommatesâ eyes and your aching, wet pussy.
âoh, wow. you really wanted this, huh?â jaehyun questions, spreading your legs even further apart.Â
he settles on his stomach, face level with your core. you can feel his breath on your skin, hot and anticipatory.Â
âhow can anyone let all this go to waste? if it were up to me, iâd make sure you cum at least three times. per session. for as many sessions a day as you want.â jaehyun snickers, his fingers making contact with the moisture pooling between your legs.Â
âj-jaehyun,â you whine, your hand flying down to his hair. he peers up, leaning into your touch.Â
you tangle your fingers in his hair and tug.
the first brush of jaehyunâs tongue over your cunt sends you almost careening over the edge already. having no prior reference to what being eaten out feels like, all you know is that the whole world seems to have fallen away, leaving only this: the sensation of pure, utter pleasure pulsing through your body from what jaehyunâs mouth is doing to you.
he latches his lips over your clit, suckling gently, and your hips shoot straight up, grinding against his face. jaehyun hums against you, his tongue flicking the sensitive nub over and over.Â
your whole body ignites with what you can only describe as the most blissful burning sensation youâve ever experienced. jaehyun pulls you closer to him, your legs thrown over his shoulders as his arms hook around your thighs, locking you in place. his nose brushes your clit as he teases your hole and itâs like a thousand fireworks go off right within your body.Â
âfuck, thatâs hot,â you hear a voice say somewhere else in the room. you think itâs jungwon.
your eyes blink the bleariness away as you try to make sense of your surroundings, an attempt to find reprieve from the near-overwhelming sensation that jaehyun is dealing you.Â
jungwon is worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, the heel of his palm pressed into the front of his pants.Â
you glance to the side and nearly cum from the sight of euijoo languidly stroking himself as he watches you, fully engrossed in the scene unfolding in front of him.Â
jaehyun pulls your attention back to him, his whole mouth suctioning over your clit, tongue flattening and applying a constant pulse of pressure. youâre practically thrashing around by now, not used to the attention dealt to your most sensitive area.Â
your first orgasm of the night comes quickly and unexpectedly, your whole body tensing as jaehyun fucks his tongue into your hole. you clench up, thighs pressing into the side of jaehyunâs head.Â
âoh fuckâjaehyun!â his name falls helplessly from your mouth. âj-jaehyun, please!â
you donât know what youâre begging for, but you know that you never want to stop feeling this way.Â
jaehyun doesnât let up, even when youâre whining in protest, fingers pulling at his hair. still, his tongue laps up at the overflowing arousal, burying his face even deeper into your pussy, as if it were his last meal deprived from him.Â
âcome on, baby, one more,â you hear jaehyun say, words almost completely garbled as he continues to undo you with his mouth. he reaches up and shoves your shirt up, one hand roughly grabbing at one of your tits.Â
how convenient for all of you that you decided to forego a bra tonight.
you moan, arching into his touch, your own fingers curling around his wrist as he kneads at your soft flesh. you feel another orgasm approach.Â
jaehyun pinches harshly at your nipple, tugging right after, and for the second time, your entire world burns white-hot. you cum yet again, breath caught in your throat as your face scrunches in ecstasy.Â
your roommate pulls away from between your legs, watching as you slump back down to the ground, panting and completely spent. you peek at jaehyun, his lips and chin completely drenched in you as he observes your every move.Â
âgood?â he asks. you canât help the chuckle that escapes you.Â
âiâm afraid anyone who comes after you will have a hard time living up to that,â you admit, throwing an arm over your eyes as you try to catch your breath.Â
but before youâre afforded a minuteâs rest, your arm is pulled away as jungwonâs face comes into view.Â
âdonât challenge me, sweetheart,â jungwon says with a smirk. he glances at jaehyun.
âmove. itâs my turn.â
jaehyun exaggerates a bow, leaving you with a wink as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. he stalks off to take jungwonâs seat at the side, the tent in his own pants painfully obvious now.Â
âstill okay?â jungwon asks, a palm smoothing down your arm. âdoes your back hurt? do you need a pillow?â
you shake your head, giggling. âiâm fine, wonie.â
jungwonâs eyes darken at the nickname, mischief painting his smile. âso, is it fine if i do this?â
you donât have time to register his question before heâs reaching down, the tip of his finger circling your hole. you yelp, instinctually pulling away, your core sensitive from jaehyunâs ministrations.
without waiting for an answer, jungwon plunges two fingers in, his other hand pressing down on your stomach to keep you in place.
âi thought you wanted us to show you how itâs done?â jungwon asks, voice steady, with the barest hint of teasing.Â
âor is it too much?â
jungwon drags his fingers out half of the way before pushing them back in. you jolt, a high-pitched whimper spilling out from your lips. the fingers inside you curl up against your walls, sending your eyes rolling to the back.Â
itâs too much and not enough all at once.
âthatâs it,â jungwon says, curling his fingers even harder the second time. âso responsive. so good for us, hm?â
your hands try to find purchase somewhere, anywhere, and eventually, they settle on clutching onto the sleeve of jungwonâs sweater.Â
âplease,â you beg for nothing and everything. âjungwon, h-hurts, need it, pleaseââ
âuse your words properly,â jungwon interrupts, tone admonishing.Â
âfaster,â you gasp. âplease fuck me faster, harder.â
jungwon snickers, pace immediately picking up. your back arches, your clit twitching from the lack of attention. you reach down, rubbing harshly.
âoh, fuck,â jaehyunâs voice is hoarse over the roaring in your ears. âthatâs so fucking hot, baby.â
his words spur you on, your hips moving on their own accord, swiveling and thrusting closer to jungwonâs hand. he slams his fingers repeatedly in and out of you, curling at the very last second before pulling out and then repeating it over again.
âfilthy, arenât you? bet you fantasized about us fucking you like this. using you like this,â jungwon sneers, tugging your shirt all the way up and over your breasts. he continues what jaehyun started, pinching and tugging and rolling your nipples between his fingers.Â
he lands a hard smack to your tits and it sends a shock of pleasure all over you.Â
again and again he repeats this, and you feel the skin on your chest start to warm. finally, as his fingers brush over your sensitive peaks for the nth time, coupled with the pressure in your belly from his fingers, your third orgasm tears right through you, unraveling you once more. you twitch and shudder, tears springing in your eyes with how tight youâre squeezing them shut.Â
it takes about a minute for your whole body to relax, your limbs splayed out as jungwon pulls his fingers out.Â
âgood girl,â jungwon praises, pushing his fingers into your mouth without any preamble. you bristle but let him slide in, your saliva quickly coating his digits, salty from your fluids.
âshit, look at you,â jungwon laughs breathily. âdonât blame me if iâm coming into your room every night just to see this view again and again.â
you whimper as jungwon withdraws his hand. he leans down, pecking your lips lightly.Â
âhope that was good enough for you,â he whispers, pulling back before you can even respond.
your heart is hammering in your chest as you watch jungwon take a seat beside jaehyun, who is now full on jerking himself off, cock slick with precum as he eyes your half-naked body on the living room floor.Â
euijoo drifts into your line of sight, his expression hard to read. he has himself tucked back into his pants, but itâs obvious that heâs still rock hard underneath. he crawls over to you, then settles into a sitting position beside you.Â
âstill good?â euijoo asks, brushing some of your hair away from your face.Â
you nod, pushing yourself up onto your elbows.Â
âneed a break?â euijoo continues. âwe can stop now, if you want.â
you tilt your head. despite everything, you canât help the urge to poke fun at your very mild-mannered roommate.Â
âwhy? what are you gonna do to me?âÂ
euijooâs eyebrows shoot up, eyes moving down to study your figure.Â
âiâm not going to do anything. you are,â euijoo responds. he reaches out, tugging at your arm.
you let yourself be pulled up to a sitting position, too weak to protest much. anticipation courses through your veins as euijoo lies down, propping himself up on his own elbows.Â
âyou asked what i think about doing when i jerk off at night,â euijoo begins, tugging you closer.
âi think about you, riding me, fucking yourself on my cock.â
your breath stutters but a new wave of arousal washes over you. you tentatively push yourself up on your knees, scooting over to where euijoo is. you eye his clothed dick, unsure, momentarily glancing up at him.
his eyes appear glazed over, but still hardened with resolve.Â
âif you want to experience good sex, maybe youâll have to work for it a little, hm?â euijoo gestures to his sweats, to the string still tied tightly.
you balk at his words, not expecting him to take this tone with you. granted, heâs still speaking as he always does, but the way euijoo so flippantly tells you to work for it has your thighs clenching together once more.
you reach over to tug at the drawstring, undoing the knot, careful not to let your hand brush directly on his bulge. you pull at the waistband next, taking euijooâs underwear along with it.Â
his cock springs free and you feel yourself get dizzy.
euijoo is long and full, heavy in your hand as you take hold of him. heâs still slick from his precum, beads of it continuing to leak from his tip. he hisses as you stroke languidly along his length, your mouth watering as you do so.
âdonât be shy,â euijoo says with a little chuckle. it sounds innocent, lighthearted. but thereâs a glint in his eye that has your stomach twisting in the best way possible.
you oblige, swinging one leg over his supine form. you line him up at your entrance, and at the last second, you peer over your shoulder at your two other roommates.
jaehyun licks his lips, cock on full display as he fists it harshly, and jungwon has something in his hand, clutched tightly around his own length. with a jolt, you realize it's your underwear. the lace material drags up and down jungwonâs dick, for sure ruined beyond measure.
âeyes here, _______.â the sound of your name from euijooâs lips forces your attention back to him. he holds you by your thighs, thumb rubbing back and forth on your skin reassuringly.
you inhale, sinking down on euijoo.Â
the first slide in has both of you groaning, your mouth falling open as you make it all the way down. the stretch is unlike anything youâve felt before, and the way euijooâs fingers dig into your things adds another delicious sensation into the mix.
âgod, you feel amazing,â euijoo breathes, his pelvis automatically rolling up. you gasp, bracing yourself on his chest.
âride me, baby,â euijoo implores. âplease, need to see you. ride meâ
without as much as a second thought, you lift yourself up before grinding your hips back down. this sends both of you moaning, your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. you repeat your movement, swiveling your hips just as you remember doing with all those people before, with your exes and flings, desperate to impress them despite them leaving you disappointed time and time again.
but you know euijoo would never disappoint you.
euijoo grunts beneath you, praise coming out in ragged breaths. his voice pitches higher whenever you clench around him and you make it a point to drag this sound out of him with every chance you get.
âyouâre so fucking good at this,â euijoo declares, his hands moving up to grip at your waist as you lean over him.
âyeah, baby, use me. get yourself off.â
âah!â you whimper, hips slamming down against his as you desperately chase your fourth orgasm of the night. thanks to your other housemates, the sensitivity between your legs is at an all-time high, easier for you to coax yourself closer to your release.Â
you can vaguely hear both jaehyun and jungwon behind you, panting and for sure jerking off to the sight of you riding euijoo, and you wonder rather hopefully if perhaps theyâd like to join in.
you feel your knees start to burn against the carpet, despite its soft material. your thighs also ache, but the promise of another earth-shattering orgasm looms over you.Â
âneed me to take over?â euijoo asks between labored breaths. you nod hurriedly and euijoo grins.
âi got you,â he says, and before you know it, youâre being pushed onto your back, a momentary dizziness overcoming you as euijoo wrangles you into a different position.
but before you could get comfortable, euijooâs firm hands grip your hips, twisting you around and onto your front. a gasp catches in your throat as you scramble to maneuver yourself properly onto your chest.
euijoo presses your upper back down, forcing you onto the ground, while his other hand hauls your lower half up.Â
âyou wanted to see them, right?â euijoo croons smoothly as he runs his hands up your back. you feel him poke against your entrance.
you glance up at jaehyun and jungwon, the former now sprawled on the couch, his hand furiously fisting his length, while the latter is eyeing you ravenously, your underwear still clutched tightly in his hand as he fucks into the soiled material.Â
euijoo takes hold of your hips and slides right back in. you whimper as your arms attempt to hold your body up, but to no avail. your elbows buckle and you have no choice but to arch even deeper as you bear your weight on your forearms.
âthatâs right,â euijoo pants. âlook so pretty like this, all bent over for me.â
âfuuuck,â jaehyun drawls, throwing his head back as his hand moves impossibly fast.
euijoo chuckles. âand for them.â
you keep your eyes trained forward, watching your roommates completely lose themselves to the scene in front of them: you getting fucked to oblivion by who you thought was your most respectful roommate.
absolutely nothing is respectful about the way euijoo is drilling into you now.
you feel the telltale coil tighten in your belly and you cry out as euijoo slams in particularly hard.Â
âi-iâm close,â you warn, head falling and hanging uselessly between your shoulders.Â
your whole body is jostled with how rough euijoo is fucking you, and you can feel the desperation radiating off him; the need to get you there and the desire to be right there with you.
âeuijoo, please, please, please,â you repeat, like a litany only meant for the filthiest of ears to hear.Â
âcome on, sweetheart,â euijoo urges, hands clamping down impossibly hard at your waist.Â
âlet go for us. you can let go for us.â
a strangled cry erupts straight from your chest as your orgasm hurtles into you. youâre sobbing into the carpet now, hiccupping and mewling like a hurt kitten as wave after wave of pleasure slams through you.Â
euijoo keens as his own release comes upon him, spilling his load into you and on your ass and back as he jerks himself off the rest of the way.
your arms tremble, body collapsing as the last dregs of your euphoria seep out. you lay on your side, hair a mess, and breathing ragged.
your roommates' muffled voices and footsteps drift around you, but you donât hear much at first, too spent with everything thatâs transpired. eventually, you push yourself up to survey your surroundings.Â
jaehyun catches your eye just as heâs walking into the living room with a bottle of water. he looks disheveled, but the bulge in his pants is gone now, though his lower lip is still swollen from what you assume is him chewing relentlessly at it. a cool sensation presses against your back as someone wipes away at your skin.Â
âi made a mess. sorry,â euijoo apologizes from behind you and you startle, head whipping around. he grins sheepishly at you as he leans in to kiss you briefly.Â
âturn around, please. let me clean you up.â
you donât have to be told twice.Â
jaehyun leaves the water in front of you and jungwon reappears a second later with a bundle of clothing in his hands. you realize quite belatedly that itâs a fresh pair of underwear and shorts of yours.
âyou okay?â jungwon asks, placing the clothes gently into your hands.Â
you giggle, leaning up to capture his lips in yours.Â
you're seeing stars. you have been, for the past few⌠hours nicho's been gracing you with the devastatingly deep drag of his cock through your warm walls. can you blame him? he had every intention of giving you a break and peppering you in the kisses he always gave after you put up with his insatiable nature; but that look on your face? the needy, wrecked one? you didn't even know you did it, if anything, your brain was off in a million other places revolving around your boyfriendâ
nicho loved it. your eyes, glassed over, roaming over his face with a pleading look he'd be a monster to say no to. even the way your lashes clumped together a little with wet, cheeks glistening with the hints of tears, all of it went straight to his dick. you knew it did, considering he hadn't stopped in so long.
you took a moment to respond to that. there were so many sounds coming from every angle; the slick of his cock squelching back into you every few seconds; his heavy panting fanning over your ears; the faint buzz in your ears when his bicep pressed too far against your neck. "still with me?" he said that with that low, teasing lilt to his voice, like he knew full well you were being pushed to your very limit.
a pitiful little sound escaped you when you felt the firm press of his fingers into your cheeks, no mercy in the harsh way he grabbed your attention. "asked you a question, baby," a particularly thorough thrust forced the words out of you, wobbly, a little unstable:
"nicho," his fingers pressed further. "m'hereâŚ" the grip he had on you eased, but barely, the pressure of his thrusts somehow growing stronger. your boyfriend had the stamina of a thousand men, whilst you were left to fend for yourself against his voracious appetite.
any hope you had of him giving up and settling down for the night was killed a long time ago. when you'd insisted on laying on your back because you were tired, a glimpse of mercy dawned. perhaps he'd be kind enough to wait till morning?
wrong. extremely wrong. he'd had you held up by his arm for a good while now, locking you in place with a snug practical headlock, pinned down by his body. and damn it, there wasn't anywhere else in the world you wanted to be. stretched around his cock, drooling into his skin? felt like home. was all you could feel, that floaty feeling keeping you in a permanent state of euphoria since your last orgasm.
you couldn't even remember how many times he'd pushed you over the edge. naturally, nicho was keeping count.
"s'the most you've ever cum for me, y'know that?" any other time, you would've been ashamed of the borderline pornographic moan you let out when the pink muscle of his tongue flattened against your cheek, lapping up the salty remnants of his passion littered over your skin. "fuckin' soaked the sheets. pretty pussy can't stop gushing for me."
apparently, you hadn't responded enough for his liking, a gasp tearing out of you when he pulled back, fingers firmly buried against your scalp in order to shove you against the bed. in an act of pure ego, his hips slammed rapidly, faster than before, against the swell of your ass. "gushing for me, i said. leakin' all over the place. who's gonna clean your messy hole up, hm?"
nicho did it on purpose, shutting up for a brief moment in order to make it clear just how wet you were, how good he gave it to you. it surprised even you, the sloppy sound of him pounding onto you without hesitation. the evidence was thereâthick, almost dried with how long it had been, translucent streaks of his seed stained your inner thighs, the sheets.
"shit, i guess i have to. always gotta do all the work around here, huh? you just sit there and get dicked down, that's how it works," enough of making his point, he decided, showing the faintest hint of affection in a few strokes of your hair before his hands firmly planted onto your hips. yanking you back, he managed to get even deeper inside you as your insides clenched around him.
all you could let out was incoherent babble, considering he was practically nestled in your throat from below. "that's it, baby.." he growled, tongue lathing over the soft skin of your neck, nose nestled against the surface. "take it all, shit⌠want you so full of me you forget your name."
you whimpered, whined, clawed at his thighs, leaving the prettiest streaks. it pleased you even more to know he'd be showing them off like battle scars in the morning. "don't need to think, just gotta let me in, baby. let nicho in, there we go⌠see, she knows who takes care of her."
"do you? mm? do you know who takes care of you like this? makes you feel good every time?"
if there was one thing you'd always remember, not even you own name, it was that. "you, nicho, you! you.. shit.. make me feel good." that devilish smirk pulled against your neck, proud, claiming.
"that's right, honey. nicho makes you feel good all the time. no one else. just nicho."
youâre lying on your back in nothing but an oversized shirt, legs spread wide, two fingers pumping desperately into your soaked pussy while your other hand rubs tight, frantic circles over your clit.
youâre dripping wet. all because you couldnât stop replaying the filthy things your friends said ryul could do to you. your hips roll desperately, soft whimpers spilling from your lips.
so close again,
but never quite enough.
the front door opens earlier than expected. ryul freezes in the hallway the moment he hears the wet, needy sounds coming from the bedroom. the door is cracked open just enough for him to see everything.
there you areâback arched, thighs trembling, fingers buried deep inside yourself while you rub your swollen clit. face flushed, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted in frustration.
he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and watches with a slow, amused smirk. silent. patient.
youâre right on the edge when his name slips out in a breathy, desperate moan.
âneed help?â
his voice is low, smooth, and dripping with cocky amusement.
you freeze instantly. your eyes fly open. your fingers stop. heat explodes across your face as you whip your head toward the door.
ryul is standing there, leaning casually like heâs been enjoying the view for a while. his dark eyes drag slowly down your body, over your spread thighs, your glistening fingers, your soaked pussyâbefore meeting your panicked gaze again.
âyouâve been at it for a while,â he says, voice warm but teasing.
âdoesnât look like itâs doing the job, baby.â
it really isnât. the realization burns through you instantly. your fingers had never been enoughânot even close to what you imagined ryul could do.
you frantically yank your shirt down and snap your thighs shut, mortified.
âiâi thought you were still at the studioââ you stammer.
ryulâs lips curve into a smug little smirk.
âi was.â he tilts his head.
âthen i heard you moaning my name.â
he steps into the room with lazy confidence and sits on the edge of the bed. one hand slides up your bare thigh, fingers stroking the soft skin with teasing arrogance. his thumb draws slow circles, getting dangerously close to where you need him but never quite touching.
âlook at youâŚâ he murmurs, voice low and cocky.
âall worked up, legs spread so pretty for me. youâve got yourself so needy.â you canât meet his eyes. your face burns with embarrassment.
ryul chuckles softly, still lazily caressing your inner thigh. his thumb brushes just beside your clit, making your hips twitch.
âneed help?â he asks again, that arrogant smirk deepening. âwant me to give you what those fingers clearly canât?â
you swallow hard, voice barely a whisper.
âi⌠noâiâm sorry⌠i shouldnât haveââ
ryul raises an eyebrow, still stroking your thigh like he has all the time in the world.
âno?â he lets out a low, amused laugh.
âalright then.â
he pulls his hand away and stands up, not even trying to hide the obvious bulge in his sweats as he adjusts himself.
âguess youâve got it handled,â he says casually, flashing you one last cocky grin.
then he turns and walks out, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
youâre left sitting there, shirt bunched up, thighs shaking, pussy aching and drippingâstaring at the closed door in stunned, frustrated disbelief.
⌠big bro caleb copping a feel â smut [cw] incest
âYouâre so gross, gege.â
You bat his hand away when you feel his fingers reach under your skirt from behind you. The mall is packed today, filled with others browsing and looking for something to buy.
âNo panties?â Caleb trails after you, hand slipping under again. His fingers trail up to your hips, feeling the waistband. âHm⌠let me guess. Your red lace ones with the bow.â
âStop touching me,â you hiss, mortified that he knows which pair youâre wearing just by touch alone. âWait âtill we get home. I havenât found the shirt I wanted yet and you said youâd let me stay as long as I wanted today.â
âI know, I know, donât throw a fit,â he hums, hand settling to rest against your hip. âWhat, I canât touch my girlfriend?â
âSister,â you correct. âWeâre in public. Stop acting weird, what if someone like Gideon sees us?â
Caleb shrugs, not bothering to answer as he follows you towards another store.
You go through the racks, humming to yourself as you browse the colourful array of clothing. Suspicious of the silence behind you, you turn to look behind you.
ââŚCaleb,â you whine. The cold case of his phone brushes your inner thigh, unshamefully keeping you still by your waist when he realizes he's been caught. As you squirm, he repositions his phone under your skirt to take another picture of the fabric pressing against your plump folds. âYou pervertâŚâ
Caleb quickly pockets his phone with a smile as he looks down at you with innocent eyes. "What? I was just adjusting your skirt. It looked crooked." He reaches out to 'fix' your non-existent wrinkles, his fingers deliberately brushing against your skin.
You feel your face heat up, embarrassed that he took a picture in such a crowded store with shoppers just feet away. "Delete it. Now." Your voice comes out breathier than intended, which only makes his smile widen.
His arms wrap around your wrist, tugging you closer to press your back against his chest. âI have a better idea.â
â
âI hate you!â The public bathroom is empty, the only sounds coming from Calebâs slick hand and spit covered cock.
He grunts as he glides his thumb against his throbbing, flushed tip. âDidnât you say you wanted that top? Iâll buy it for you, just listen to gege.â
You're holding your skirt and panties stiffly away from your body by the waistband, open for him to stare all he wants as he hunches over you. âYes butâŚâ
Caleb groans, fingers tightening around his length as he continues to jerk off. His eyes are trained on your puffy folds, imagining how it'll look after he finishes on them. "Come on, lilâ sis. You can have whatever you want... just stay still." He bites his lip, eyes flicking up to see your cutely scrunched face as you fidget, your skirt riding up.
âThis is embarrassingâŚ!â You complain, aware that it will probably turn him on further.
He ignores your protest, his breathing becoming heavier as his rhythm picks up. "You're doing so good for me, pips." His free hand reaches out to squeeze your thigh desperately. "Be a good girl for big brother and stay like this a little longer."
âHurry up,â you hiccup, cunt clenching as you watch him pleasure himself at the sight of you. His cock is leaking precum all over his fingers, trailing down the veins of his length and towards his full, heavy balls. The large amount of slick pools down to the dark patch of hair at his base, staining the zipper of his pants.
âSo impatient⌠fuck. I'm gonna cum. Let me see your tight lilâ cunny, baby. Still sore from yesterday?â Panting and bucking his hips into his hand, he carefully aims his tip towards the gap youâve been holding open to unload thick, sticky ropes, his warm cum latching onto your panties and chubby folds.
Riding out his high, Caleb head tilts back as he squeezes the tip of his engorged cock trying to rub out every last drop of cum. âFuck, lilâ sister, you look the prettiest when covered in big brotherâs cum.â
You bite back a whine, focused on the degrading aftermath of his cooling semen clinging to your skin. This is humiliating, you think to yourself, as you watch him tuck his softening cock back into his pants to zip up. He adjusts your panties and skirt for you, patting your sensitive mound through the damp fabric.
âLetâs go get that top, baby sister.â Caleb presses a kiss to your temple. âKeep those panties full for me, yeah? Maybe later we wonât need lube.â
the perfect boyfriend
trigger warnings : dead dove do not eat, yandere, stalking, surveillance, invasion of privacy, voyeurism, upskirt pictures, captivity, restraint, implied noncon (no full smut this time!!! sorry >_<)
i repeat.. dead dove do not eat
you started dating jo about a month ago. he's your classmate in university, and the sweetest, most polite boy that you've ever met in your life. he loved to read, enjoyed drawing and adored cats. you'd never seen him get angry or raise his voice, usually quiet and doesnât talk much in class. he treated you like a princess, his soft, loving kisses on the top of your head, his warm, large hands gently holding yours. you two shared the same hobbies, and interests, reading and cats. in every sense, he's perfect. but you haven't publicly announced your relationship with him yet, wanting to respect his privacy and reserved, shy nature.Â
the two of you were on his bed, scrolling through netflix to watch a movie together. he stood up apologetically, having to use the bathroom, so he handed you his laptop, telling you to feel free to browse and pick whatever movie you'd like.Â
"pick whatever, i trust you. be right back," he smiles brightly at you, gently putting the laptop on your lap, the heat from the bottom of the laptop warming you up. your heart skipped a beat. you always felt so safe and cozy when you're with him.
scrolling through his netflix, you picked out a recently released horror movie. your fingers slipped and accidentally switched browsers, clumsily clicking on an unassuming folder on his desktop. you notice a subfolder with your initials on it. your heart skipped a beat again; but this time, not from affection.Â
your hand hovered over the trackpad, confused. you shouldn't be snooping around. he hadn't given you any reason to doubt him. for the past year that you've known him, he has been nothing short of a gentleman. reserved, quiet and shy. always polite, and even moreso, loving and sweet to you. but, you suddenly felt your mouth go dry and your pulse quickening. something feltâŚ. off. curiosity got the better of you and you clicked on the folder anyway. jo is a really sweet, good-natured boy. the type of person that couldn't even hurt a fly. in fact, you hadn't even gone past second base with him. he wouldn't mind, right?
2024.2025.2026.
your eyebrows knitted in confusion. what could these be? you clicked the oldest folder.Â
2024 - your eyes widened at the tiny square icons that suddenly filled the laptop screen. it seemed to be... images of you from when you were in high school. you looked younger in the photos than you were now, your hair slightly shorter. you at your high school graduation, smiling, laughing with your friends. your class photo. pictures of the apartment building that you lived in at that time. your blood ran cold. there was no logical explanation for this. but for some reason... you couldnât seem to click on the âxâ at the corner of the screen. your fingers subconsciously moved to the other folders.
2025 - the year you started university. the year that you had met him and became friends. hundreds of screenshots of your conversations with him. screenshots of your instagram stories. a picture of your student id. a screenshot of your class schedule. endless pictures of you doing mundane tasks, shopping in a grocery store, walking home, sitting in a cafe. the pictures all look like they were stealthily taken, some shaky and out of focus. but, it was without a doubt, pictures of you that were taken without your knowledge. your palms started to sweat, your fingers trembling as it moved over the trackpad. you couldn't stop yourself now.
2026 - this year. the year you started dating him. this time, the pictures of you were more clearer... closer. more intimate. pictures of you in class, deep in thought and concentration. pictures of you while you were in his room, napping innocently on his bed. another of your back while you were on a escalator. even though you couldn't see a face, it was unmistakably you. the same build and hair length.. the familiar black purse and light blue cardigan. who else could it be, if not you? the camera angle got closer, and closer, and lower. until it centered on the hem of your skirt, the edge resting against the back of your thighs. then the angle moved upwards, capturing the image of your inner thighs, slightly parted, and then up your skirt. multiple upskirt photos. your eyes widen. you recognize the pastel blue underwear, trimmed with white lace. you really liked that pair, but recently, it went missing. you remember digging through your drawer, looking through your laundry, but somehow, it seemed like it vanished into thin air. you gasped.
the images in the folder stared back at you. the file names werenât just a random mix of letters and numbers. each and every image were neatly dated and organized. you noticed the names. âescalator_0410â... âcafe_0219â... âclassroom_0407â. the images were categorised by place and date. for months... years⌠he had been watching you. observing you, cataloguing you as though you were a specimen. like a test subject underneath a microscope.Â
everything started to click in place. how could you be so incredibly blind and stupid? the way jo somehow knew all of your likes and dislikes. the both of you having so many shared interests. the same taste in food... in movies⌠similar hobbies⌠you chalked it up to pure coincidence. meeting him must have been fate. this must be true love, a soulmate put on this earth just for you, you tell yourself. how disgustingly wrong you were. the pastel blue underwear that went missing. you now realized it went missing after the first time he came to your apartment. you recall leaving him alone in the room for a few minutes to brew tea for the both of you. when you returned with the two tea cups, he was sitting in the exact spot as when youâd left, smiling kindly at you. you never suspected him. your naivety in your infatuation was all he needed. everything was a manufactured lie.
you slammed the laptop shut, hyperventilating, face turning pale. you hurled the laptop off your lap like as if it burned. your fingers started to tremble and your stomach started to hurt. you wanted to throw up. the room started to spin around you, making you light headed. a sickening, sinking feeling.
"you found it,"Â
the room became silent. there's a hint of disappointment in his otherwise monotonous voice. that made you shiver in fear. you slowly turned to look at him, like a child who was caught with her hand in a cookie jar. you didn't notice when he came back to the room. you didn't know how long he had been standing there, silently watching you.
"you weren't supposed to see that..." a quiet admission. he stood at the doorway, his hands by his side, the corners of his lip twitching downwards into a frown. his once-soft features looking at you, but now, a hint of something dark surfacing in his eyes. like a mask that was slowly cracking.
you didnât respond. your eyes darted around his room, your heart racing in your chest. suddenly, like an epiphany, you noticed things that didn't catch your eye before. things that you noticed too late.Â
on his desk, a copy of a book that you were reading last year. it had gone missing one day out of the blue, but you didn't think much of it, blaming it on your forgetful nature. you must've left it on a bus or something. you had forgotten all about it. but it's sitting here innocently⌠on his desk. like it was always meant to be here. a cat sticker that you pasted on the cover, the edges of the book bent. it's your book. you never lent him that book, neither did you ever mention it to him.Â
the small calendar on his table. initially, you didn't give it too much thought. a calendar on a desk didn't look out of place at all. but you squinted, and then you realized that the barely legible scribbles were all.... your initials. it wasn't his schedule. it was yours. he had been tracking you without you even knowing. leaving the evidence out in the open, it felt like he was mocking you.Â
"...i just wanted to make sure you're safe," he justifies, noticing that you were looking at the calender. his voice was gentle and coaxing as he patiently explained himself. like as if this was just one small misunderstanding. like as if he is the one being wronged.
he reaches over to the bedside drawer, opening it to pull out a pair of metal handcuffs. the sound of the metal clinking makes a shiver run down your spine. it's a real handcuff, like the ones the police use. not a costume prop. the thought of going through his drawers never crossed your mind before. the sunlight from the setting sun outside catches onto the metal surface of the handcuffs, glinting almost maliciously.
"you'll stay, right...?" he persuades you softly, with wet, pleading eyes. talking to you in his usual gentle voice, as though you were a wounded animal. the heavy weight from the metal of the handcuffs biting into your wrists as he closes it around you. he loops the other end of the handcuff onto the metal bedframe. he looks at you like you're the only person on earth.Â
an illusion of choice. you try to speak. you try to shake your head, try to push him off, but the words wonât come out, your body won't move. you feel paralyzed. he didn't wait for an answer, closing the metal handcuffs with a click, locking it and putting the key back in the drawer. the sound of the wooden drawer closing sharp and final, almost shrill in the quiet room.
you feel the mattress dip under his weight as he moves closer to you. the warmth radiating from his body burning into you like a fever. the warmth that you once craved, the warmth that once made you feel safe and cozy, like a fireplace on a winterâs day. you recall the first time you held his warm, large hand. you remembered how you blushed like a little school girl. now, it feels like molten lava, claws dragging against your skin. your mind races as you recall every sweet text message, every time he laughed at a joke you told, every "i love you" he said. was it all a lie? the room is filled with the sound of the soft rustle of fabric, the bedsheets, his sweatpants, your skirt being pushed up slowly. inch by inch. it all feels wrong. it is wrong.
your eyes close shut as you brace yourself for what you know will happen next.
inspiration from eroge natsu no kusari ... thank you for reading/liking/reblogging/leaving comments and messages. i appreciate it alot (â¸â¸- ĚŤ -â¸â¸) although i take a long time to write hhh.... my greatest worry is that my stuff are all repetitive and too focused on the y/n's inner monologue. feel free to discuss dead dove topics with me in my inbox... some ideas i have red light district worker/host club/neighbour/baby trapping...
also some requests i have -> stepbro! fuma.. somno k...
trigger warnings : dead dove do not eat, dubcon/noncon, use of safeword but it is ignored, pain, gaslighting, violence (slight? not too extreme i think...) , double penetration, use of toys
purple.
your safeword with yuma.
"say the safeword and i'll stop," you recall his promise to you at the start of your relationship when you first started to get intimate with him. "no questions asked," he pecks the top of your head reassuringly.
during the course of your relationship, you've used it before. the first time when you weren't feeling it because you were having a fever, and the second time was when he got too rough. both times, he stopped immediately the moment you said the safeword. both times, he would softly kiss the top of your forehead, stroke your hair and comfort you. you believed him. well, at least you did.
there were times when you caught small moments of his that felt off, things that you can't quite put a finger on what to name it. maybe you'd say no to something he wanted. maybe you weren't in a mood to sleep with him. maybe you told him to slow down. you'd catch a tinge of something dark flash in his eyes, and his jaw would clench, a vein visibly popping in his neck. but you brushed it off. he would never hurt you. he has never hurt you before.
but tonight... you're not so sure. he had wanted to try out double penetration with a vibrator, pleading you with those eyes. you were hesitant at first. you've never done anything like that before. it seemed... painful. you could barely even take him on normal days, but you figured you'd try. worse case scenario, you told yourself that you'd use the safeword.
"yuma-" you whisper out, trying to get his attention. he's slowly pushing at your entrance, the stretch starting to get uncomfortable. the vibrator's already inside of you, buzzing. he had already prepped you earlier with his fingers, pouring enough lube just in case.
"just relax..." he coaxes, almost sleazily. the initial stretch was unbearable, painful. you'd never felt anything like this before. his finger just weren't enough compared to this. you feel like you're being torn apart at the seams. your body tries to push him out, clenching painfully around him.
"purple," you whisper out the word to the best of your ability, tapping out early. you feel your breath being knocked out of your lungs.
he stills for a moment. it's over, you feel a wave of relief. you wait for him to pull out, to comfort you. to say "it's okay" and stroke your hair like he always does, and always has.
he doesn't.
"you're fine," it's a sharp statement, not a question. one that's challenging you, as if asking you if you dare to go against him. you feel his fingers grip into your hip tighter, digging into your hipbones as he continues to push in. he's supposed to stop, you said the safeword. but he doesn't. a dreadful, sinking feeling settles in the pit of your stomach, like heavy lead being dropped onto you.
"yuma-.. purple-" your voice cracks, louder this time. you try to push his chest away, but it's futile. he doesn't move, not even an inch. he's too strong, almost like a wall of well built muscle from all those gymming sessions. a part of you always knew that physically, you're no match for him.
"always like this..." an annoyed tch leaves his lips. "always gotta listen to your bitching..."
your throat tightens. you've never heard him speak to you like that. so bitter, so venomous... like resentment that has been quietly brewing beneath the surface.
"please-.. baby.. purple-" you desperately try to push his arms away, but your defiance only spurs him on. the more you try to fight him, the more he pushes in, and the more you feel like you are being split open. a burning, scraping sensation against your walls. it's overwhelming, the buzzing from the vibrator inside your body only getting stronger, and stronger, the sound filling your ears. you could feel the static-like pain all the way in your toes, like stepping into a pile of needles. you feel like you're about to die.
"i. said. you're. fine." he repeats, more like a snarl this time, each word harshly punctuated with a thrust. his voice is annoyed, like he's dealing with a child throwing a tantrum. "you're dripping. you like it, don't you?"
you shake your head. no, i don't like it. it's not me, it's the lube, you try to say, but your tongue feels heavy and can't form the sentence. tears start to form in your eyes, blurring your vision. you don't know if it's from the pain of being ripped apart or from the way he's treating you. "no- purple- please, purple-"
he's all the way in. a sharp pain, like as if you were stabbed, shoots up your spine, emitting a scream from your lips. he's not gentle at all. rough and impatient, like he's tired of waiting, tired of you.
"see? told you, you like it," his hand grips your jaw, tilting your face up, as if to prove his point. his fingers press into the soft skin right underneath your jawbone. he can feel your veins pulsating, your heart rate spiking from fear and pain, but he doesn't care. his eyes are cold, empty, his pupils black. you don't recognize this man infront of you anymore. your manicured nails try to claw at his arms, desperately trying to make him stop. red scratch marks start to raise on his arms. he hisses at the sharp sting and roughly releases your jaw, letting your head drop back onto the pillows. you catch his left eye twitching in anger. the darkness inside of him that you were never able to name. his hand slides down to your thigh, roughly pushing your legs further open and starting to move quicker.
"purple," you whisper again, a sixth time. the word comes out like a pathetic whimper, barely audible, your voice breaking. "please- purple- yuma- purple... pur-"
his hand slams onto your mouth, clamping it shut. his palm presses so hard that you can feel your teeth digging into your lip, a metallic taste blooming in your mouth from your lip being split. you can feel his cold metal rings, grinding into your facial bones.
"just shut up for once," he doesn't even look at you. he just keeps on thrusting in, and out, the sickening sound of skin slapping filling the room. putting all of his weight onto you, crushing you into the mattress.
you can't breathe. your lungs burn from the lack of oxygen and the tears streaming down your face drowns what little oxygen you could receive inbetween the gaps of his fingers. you can't open your mouth anymore. you lost count of how many times you said 'purple'. the safeword dies in your throat, swallowed down with the rest of the words you couldn't say to him.
it was never meant to keep you safe.
thanks for all the likes/reblogs/follows/comments/messages i really appreciate every single one (;´ - `;)⥠i'm kinda having brain fog recently hhhh....... it takes me like a week to write one fic
Pairing: senior!heeseung x loser!fem!reader
Genre: slowburn, college!au, smut MDNI, comedy, fluff, socially challenged fem!reader, misunderstanding, he fell first he fell harder
Synopsis: The hopeless romantic you are decided to confess and give a heartfelt letter to your all time crush but fate decided otherwise and made you confess to the wrong person...the so-called womanizer of campus, Lee Heeseung. Maybe you should have just keep your feelings to yourself...or maybe it was a sign from the universe.
Warnings: footjob, swearing, oral (fem!rec), fingering
WC: 17k
Note: This one is a long one guys (just so you know), I really wanted to try putting more efforts in my writing and do something longer than I usually do, I don't know if people tend to read the shorter or longer fics but well... I'm really proud of myself for writing more detailed and polished fics, especially knowing that I'm a lazy person who usually do the bare minimum.
"You're a disaster...but God help me if I don't want to be a disaster with you for the rest of my life"
Youâre staring at your own reflection in the bathroom mirror, and the girl staring back looks like sheâs about to either throw up or ascend to another dimension. Maybe both. In that order.
The letter is clutched so tightly in your hand that the pale lavender envelope is starting to crease, and you force yourself to loosen your grip before you ruin the one thing youâve spent three weeks perfecting. Three weeks. Thatâs twenty-one days of drafting, crossing out, rewriting, Googling âhow to write a love letter without sounding like a desperate loser,â and then rewriting again. Youâve used up an entire pack of stationery. Youâve watched so many calligraphy tutorials that the YouTube algorithm thinks youâre training to become a medieval scribe. All for this one moment. This one letter. This one massive, terrifying, possibly life-ruining leap of faith.
You are a hopeless romantic. Hopeless being the operative word.
Itâs not that you donât believe in love. You do. Desperately, overwhelmingly, with every fiber of your first-year STEM student soul. You believe in meet-cutes and slow burns and the exact moment when two people look at each other and the entire world goes soft around the edges. Youâve read about it a hundred times. Youâve watched it play out on every screen you own. Youâve composed entire daydreams about it during particularly boring chemistry lectures. Love is your favorite subject, the one youâve studied with more dedication than calculus or physics combined. Thereâs just one tiny, inconvenient, absolutely infuriating problem.
Youâre terrified of it.
Not the idea of it. The idea is lovely. The idea is safe. The idea lives in your head where everything unfolds exactly the way you want it to, where you always say the right thing, where you never trip over your own feet or laugh too loud at the wrong moment or stand frozen in a doorway like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. But real love? The kind that requires vulnerability and eye contact and actually speaking words out loud with your mouth? That kind of love makes your palms sweat and your heart race in a decidedly unromantic, fight-or-flight kind of way. You are, and this is the most embarrassing part, a coward. A romantic coward. You dream of grand gestures but can barely manage a coherent sentence when an attractive person so much as glances in your direction.
Which brings you back to the letter.
The letter is your loophole. Your workaround. Your way of confessing your feelings without actually having to say them, because writing them down felt manageable in a way that speaking never has. You can be eloquent on paper. On paper, you can say things like âthe first time I saw your smile, it felt like someone had turned on all the lights in a room I didnât even realize was darkâ without immediately wanting to crawl into the nearest hole and live out the rest of your days an hermit. On paper, youâre brave. On paper, youâre the kind of person who goes after what she wants.
In reality, youâve been hiding in this bathroom for fifteen minutes, and your hands are shaking so badly that a passing person would think you are having an epileptic seizure.
âOkay,â you whisper to your reflection. âOkay. You can do this. You are a woman on a mission. You are a warrior. You are-â
A toilet flushes in one of the stalls behind you, and you nearly launch yourself through the ceiling.
A girl you vaguely recognize from your introductory programming class emerges, gives you an odd look as she washes her hands, and leaves without saying anything. You wait until the door swings shut, then press your forehead against the cool glass of the mirror and contemplate every life choice that has led you to this moment.
His name is Jungwon.
Yang Jungwon. Second year. Undeclared major but leaning toward something in the humanities, which you know because you may have done a bit of light, respectful, completely non-creepy research. He has a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and a laugh that sounds like sunshine if sunshine could make noise, and he holds doors open for people even when theyâre still like ten feet away, which creates that awkward situation where the person has to speed-walk to not seem rude, but he never seems to mind. You first noticed him at the campus library during midterms when he quietly slid a pack of gummy bears across the table toward you at 2 AM, muttering something about glucose being good for brain function, and then went back to his book like he hadnât just fundamentally altered the trajectory of your entire emotional existence.
That was four months ago. Youâve been pining ever since. Pining, yearning, longing, youâve run through the entire lexicon of unrequited affection, and youâre exhausted. Today, youâve decided, is the day it ends. One way or another.
You push yourself off the mirror, square your shoulders, and march out of the bathroom with the determination of someone going to war. The envelope is slightly damp from your grip, but itâs still intact, and the words inside are still true, and somewhere on this campus, Yang Jungwon is about to receive the most heartfelt confession letter ever written by a first-year student who has consumed an unhealthy amount of romance media.
Now you just have to find him.
âââââ
The hallway is bustling with students, the usual midday chaos of people rushing to classes or huddling in groups to complain about assignments. You scan the crowd, looking for a familiar face that might point you in the right direction, and your eyes land on a guy leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone with the dead-eyed expression of someone who has just finished a three-hour lab.
âExcuse me,â you say, and your voice comes out about an octave higher than normal. You clear your throat. âSorry, um, do you know where I can find Yang Jungwon? Second year?â
The guy looks up, blinks slowly, deciding whether or not to acknowledge your presence, and then shrugs. âPC room, I think. Saw him heading there like twenty minutes ago.â
The PC room. Of course. Itâs in the engineering and informatics building, a place youâve rarely ever been to. But you know where it is, roughly, and you thank the guy with what you hope is a normal smile and not the rictus grin of someone rushing toward emotional catastrophe.
The walk across campus takes approximately seven minutes, and you spend every single one of them rehearsing what youâre going to say. Youâve already written the letter, so technically you donât have to say anything, you can just hand it over and flee but you want to say something. Something cool. Something memorable.
âHey, Jungwon, this is for you.â Simple. Direct. Good.
âI wrote you something. No pressure, just read it when you have time.â Casual. Low-stakes. Excellent.
âHi, Iâve been emotionally compromised by your existence for several months, please accept this paper rectangle of feelings.â Okay, maybe not that one.
The engineering building looms in front of you before youâre ready. You push through the main doors and immediately feel out of place. The students here move with a different energy, less frantic, more focused, the kind of people who probably know what a server is and have opinions about programming languages youâve never heard of.
You follow the signs toward the PC room, your footsteps echoing in the corridor, and with every step, your heart climbs higher up your throat. This is it. This is the moment. Youâre going to walk in there, find Jungwon, hand him the letter, and then whatever happens happens. At least youâll have tried. At least youâll have been brave, even if itâs only for thirty seconds.
The door to the PC room is slightly ajar, and you can hear voices inside, multiple voices, which gives you pause. You assumed heâd be alone. Or with maybe one other person.
You hesitate. Your hand hovers over the door handle. Every instinct is screaming at you to turn around, go back to your dorm, and spend the rest of your life wondering what could have been. And maybe you would, if not for the small, stubborn voice in the back of your mind that says: Youâve already come this far. Donât you want to know? Donât you want to be the kind of person who actually does the thing instead of just dreaming about it?
Yes. Yes, you do.
You squeeze your eyes shut, take a breath so deep it makes you lightheaded, and push the door open with more force than strictly necessary. It slams against the wall with a bang that makes approximately twelve heads swivel in your direction, and for one horrifying moment, you are the center of attention in a room full of strangers.
But you donât see any of them. You only see the figure sitting at the computer closest to the door, his back half-turned to you, hair falling over his forehead, the exact silhouette youâve been looking for. Or at least, the exact silhouette you think youâve been looking for.
You donât stop to confirm. You donât let yourself think. You just march forward, thrust the letter out in front of you like a shield, and launch into the speech youâve been rehearsing for three weeks.
âThis is for you. Iâm sorry if this is weird or sudden but Iâve liked you for a really long time and I couldnât keep it to myself anymore. You donât have to respond right away. You donât have to respond ever, actually. I just wanted you to know that someone out there thinks youâre wonderful and I wrote it all down because Iâm better at writing than talking and honestly I might pass out if I keep standing here so please just take this and Iâll go-â
You finally look up.
And the face staring back at you is absolutely, categorically, one hundred percent not Jungwon.
The boy in front of you is taller than Jungwon. Broader shoulders. Sharper jawline. Different eyes, darker, deeper, currently widened in a mixture of surprise and something you canât quite read. His lips are parted slightly, as if he was about to say something before you launched into your emotional word-vomit, and heâs holding a half-eaten protein bar thatâs now frozen halfway to his mouth.
The room has gone completely, utterly silent.
You can feel the stares of every single person boring into the back of your head. Someone coughs. Someone else whispers something that sounds suspiciously like âdid she just-â before being shushed by their neighbor.
And then the boy, the very handsome, very wrong boy, sets down his protein bar, takes the letter gently from your trembling hand, and says in a voice thatâs low and smooth and completely unfamiliar: âWow. Okay. Whatâs your name?â
This is the worst moment of your entire life. You are going to die right here, in this PC room, surrounded by computer monitors and half-empty energy drink cans and a dozen witnesses who will spread this story to every corner of the university within the next three hours. Your obituary will read: here lies Y/N, the loser who canât even recognize her ultimate crush.
âY/N,â you croak, because your mouth is apparently still functioning even though every other part of you has shut down. âL/N Y/N. First year. STEM.â
You donât know why you said STEM. He didnât ask for your department. Youâre offering information nobody requested. This is a disaster.
But the boy, heâs looking at you with an expression you canât decipher, his head tilted slightly to the side like youâre a puzzle heâs trying to figure out. Heâs wearing a dark hoodie with the informatics department logo on it, and thereâs a pair of expensive-looking headphones draped around his neck, and his hair is slightly mussed in a way that suggests heâs been running his fingers through it while concentrating. Heâs absurdly good-looking, the kind of good-looking that makes you simultaneously want to stare and look away, and youâre only now noticing the way several girls in the room have been watching him since you entered, not just because of your blunder, but because theyâve been watching him.
âIâm Heeseung,â he says, and thereâs a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. âLee Heeseung. Third year. Informatics engineering.â
Lee Heeseung. The name registers somewhere in the back of your panic-addled brain. Itâs familiar in the way that campus gossip is familiar, attached to words like hot and player and donât get your hopes up because heâll charm you and then move on. Youâve heard girls in your dorm talking about him in hushed, giggling tones, trading stories about brief encounters and misinterpreted invitations. And you, in your infinite wisdom, have just handed a love letter meant for someone else directly into his notorious hands.
You have to fix this. You have to tell him it was a mistake. You have to-
âIâm flattered,â Heeseung says, and his smile widens slightly, not quite a smirk but definitely approaching smirk territory. âReally. This is... I mean, no oneâs ever confessed to me with an actual letter before. Itâs kind of old school.â He turns the envelope over in his hands, examining it with what seems like genuine curiosity. âThe handwriting is really pretty. Did you do the calligraphy yourself?â
âYes,â you say, because you are physically incapable of lying when put on the spot, and also because your brain has apparently decided that the best course of action is to just answer whatever questions he asks like this is a normal conversation and not the emotional equivalent of a tornado.
âImpressive.â He looks at you, really looks at you, and something shifts in his expression. The teasing edge softens just a fraction. âA confession is a lot, though. I mean, Iâm honored, but we donât even know each other.â
This is your opening. This is the moment where you say âactually, thatâs because this letter wasnât meant for you, thereâs been a terrible misunderstanding, Iâm so sorry, please forget this ever happened.â The words are right there, lined up on your tongue, ready to go.
But the room is still watching. A dozen pairs of eyes. The whispers have stopped, but the staring hasnât, and you can feel every single gaze like a physical weight pressing down on you. If you correct him now, in front of everyone, youâll have to explain. Youâll have to admit that you walked into a crowded room and confessed to the wrong person like an absolute buffoon. Youâll become a campus legend for all the wrong reasons: the girl who was too stupid to even identify her own crush. The story will follow you for the rest of your university career. Youâll never live it down.
But if you just... let him believe it... if you just nod and agree and leave as quickly as possible... you can fix this later. Privately. Without an audience. You can find him tomorrow, or send him a message, or do literally anything other than humiliate yourself further in front of all these people.
Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
âI know,â you hear yourself say. âItâs a lot. I know.â
Heeseung nods thoughtfully, like youâve said something profound. âBut Iâm not against it. Starting slow, I mean. If you want.â
What.
âWhat,â you say, but it comes out more like a statement than a question.
âIâm okay with starting slow,â he repeats, and now the smile is definitely back, a little crooked, a little curious. âYouâre cute. And clearly brave. I like that. So if you want to, I donât know, get coffee sometime and see where this goes... Iâm open to it.â
Someone in the room lets out a low whistle. Someone else says âHeeseung, are you serious right now?â in a tone of utter disbelief. But Heeseung doesnât look away from you. Heâs waiting for your answer, his gaze steady and warm, and you are standing in the epicenter of a complete and total catastrophe with absolutely no idea how to get out.
Say no. Say it was a mistake. Say the truth.
âOkay,â you whisper.
Okay?! Okay?!
âOkay,â he echoes, and the smile breaks fully across his face, transforming him from handsome to devastating. âGood. Iâll find you. Y/N, first year, STEM, right?â
You nod mutely.
âCool.â He tucks your letter carefully into the pocket of his hoodie, like itâs something precious, like heâs planning to read it later, and the gesture makes your stomach twist with guilt so intense you think you might actually be sick. âIâll see you around, Y/N.â
You donât remember leaving the room. You donât remember the walk back across campus or the elevator ride to your floor or the moment you collapsed face-first onto your dorm bed. All you know is that one moment you were standing in the PC room, and the next you are here, staring at the ceiling, replaying every single agonizing second on an endless loop.
You confessed to the wrong person.
You confessed to the wrong person.
And for some reason that you absolutely cannot comprehend, he said yes.
Across campus, in a PC room that has finally returned to its normal hum of activity, Lee Heeseung pulls a slightly crumpled lavender envelope out of his hoodie pocket and stares at it for a long moment.
âDude,â says his friend Jay from the next computer over, not bothering to hide his grin. âWhat just happened?â
âI donât know,â Heeseung says honestly. And he doesnât. Heâs used to attention, he knows how to handle it, how to smile and nod and gently redirect without hurting anyoneâs feelings. Itâs a skill heâs developed over the years, the only way he knows to deal with the unfortunate side effect of his people-pleasing tendencies. Heâs nice to someone, he helps them with an assignment, he holds a door open or offers a pen, and suddenly theyâre looking at him with stars in their eyes, and he doesnât know how to tell them that he was just trying to be polite without sounding like an arrogant jerk. So he lets them down easy, or he avoids the situation entirely, and his reputation grows in ways that donât reflect the truth at all.
But this, this is new. A letter. An actual, physical, handwritten letter, with swooping calligraphy and a lavender envelope and a girl who looked so terrified that he thought she might actually pass out right there on the linoleum floor.
She looked at him like he was a natural disaster. Like she was watching a building collapse in slow motion and couldnât do anything to stop it.
And then she said okay anyway.
âSheâs interesting,â Heeseung murmurs, more to himself than to Jay, and carefully opens the envelope.
âInteresting how?â
He doesnât answer. Heâs too busy reading, his eyes moving slowly across the carefully penned words, the ink slightly smudged in places where the writerâs hand might have trembled. Itâs beautiful. Itâs earnest. Itâs the kind of letter that someone writes when they mean every single word, when theyâve poured their entire heart onto the page without holding anything back.
Heâs never received anything like it before.
And he wants to know more about the girl who wrote it, the girl who burst into his afternoon like a hurricane of nerves and feelings.
âJay,â he says, still staring at the letter, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. âI think something interesting just walked into my life.â
He doesnât notice the way his friend shakes his head and mutters something about âhere we go again.â
Heâs too busy wondering when heâll see Y/N next.
âââââ
The following forty-eight hours of your life can be accurately described as a masterclass in strategic avoidance and tactical regret.
You skip two classes. Not on purpose, exactly, you just canât bring yourself to leave your dorm room when every shadow in the hallway might be Lee Heeseung coming to collect on that coffee date you apparently agreed to in a moment of temporary insanity. You survive on instant noodles and the protein bars your friend left on her desk with a sticky note that said âFOR EMERGENCIES ONLY,â which this absolutely qualifies as. You watch three entire seasons of Bridgerton without retaining a single moment because your brain is too busy replaying the PC room incident on a continuous, merciless loop.
âIâm Lee Heeseung. Third year. Informatics engineering.â
âIâm okay with starting slow.â
âYouâre cute.â
You bury your face in your pillow and scream, but it comes out muffled and pathetic, like a small animal giving up on life.
By day three, youâve developed a system. You only leave your room during off-peak hours, skittering through campus, your head on a constant swivel. Youâve memorized the locations of every vending machine in buildings Heeseung is unlikely to frequent. Youâve started taking the long way to your remaining classes, cutting through the art department and the greenhouse and once, memorably, a service corridor that smelled strongly of bleach and soap. Youâve become a ghost. A phantom. A creature of the shadows who survives on granola bars and instant noddles.
But the problem with running away from your problems is that your problems donât actually go anywhere. They just wait. And think about you. And eventually, when you least expect it, they catch up.
It happens on a Thursday.
Youâre crouched behind a potted plant near the science building, scanning the courtyard for any sign of tall, attractive informatics students, when your phone buzzes with a text from your best friend, Yunjin.
Yunjin: heard youâve been living like a sewer rat. want me to bring you real food?
You: canât. iâm in the middle of a crisis
Yunjin: Youâre executing what we talked about yet?
You: itâs in process
Yunjin: at the end of the day, you will have to tell him
You stare at the message for a long moment. Itâs such a simple solution. So elegant. So reasonable. And yet, every time you imagine yourself walking up to Heeseung and saying âactually, I meant to give that letter to someone else,â your entire body physically recoils like youâve touched a hot stove. The humiliation would be astronomical. The look on his face, surprise, then confusion, then that horrible moment of realization that he was never supposed to be the recipient would haunt you for the rest of your natural life. And youâd still have to explain the Jungwon part. And Jungwon would find out. And then youâd be the weird girl who couldnât even confess to the right person, and Heeseung would be the guy who got accidentally confessed to, and everyone would laugh about it for weeks, and-
Your phone buzzes again.
Yunjin: i can hear you overthinking from across campus. just rip off the bandaid. whatâs the worst that could happen
You type back a single message: he could tell everyone and iâd have to transfer schools and change my name and become a farmer in New Zeland
Yunjin: dramatic. but valid. good luck with your plant hiding
You shove your phone back into your pocket and peek around the potted plant again. The courtyard is clear. This is your window. You take a deep breath, steel your nerves, and scuttle out from behind the foliage.
The plan for today is simple: find Heeseung, explain the misunderstanding, and disappear forever. Youâve spent the entire morning psyching yourself up for this. Youâve practiced the speech in the mirror seventeen times. Youâve even written a script on your phone that you can refer to in case of emergency. Itâs thorough, itâs clear, it leaves absolutely no room for misinterpretation, and it ends with a sincere apology and a polite request that you both pretend this never happened. Itâs perfect. Itâs foolproof. All you have to do is locate the target.
Easier said than done. Youâve been looking for him since yesterday, not to talk to, but to observe from a safe distance so you could plan your approach and the universe, in its infinite comedic wisdom, has made him completely unfindable. Itâs like he vanished off the face of the earth the moment you actually wanted to see him. Three days ago, you couldnât walk three feet without catching a glimpse of him, but now? Now heâs a ghost. A myth. A concept rather than a physical entity.
Youâre going to have to ask for help.
This is, objectively, a terrible idea. Asking for help means talking to people, and talking to people about Heeseung means potentially revealing that youâre looking for him, which means potentially revealing why youâre looking for him, which means the whole campus could know about the letter situation by lunchtime. But youâre running out of options, and youâre running out of granola bars, and you canât live behind potted plants forever.
You find your informant near the engineering building, a girl with neon green headphones and a laptop covered in stickers, sitting on a bench and typing furiously at something that looks like code. She seems approachable. She seems like she wonât ask too many questions. You approach with what you hope is casual confidence and not the desperate energy of someone who has been living on protein bars.
âExcuse me,â you say, and your voice comes out surprisingly normal. Points for you. âDo you know where I can find Lee Heeseung? Third year, informatics?â
The girl looks up, her eyes flicking over you with mild curiosity. She doesnât ask why youâre looking for him, which makes you want to hug her. âHeeseung? Yeah, I think I saw him heading to the quad about ten minutes ago. Something about meeting up with some people before his next class.â
The quad. Of course. The most open, public, exposed location on the entire campus. The place where literally everyone congregates. The absolute last place you want to have a conversation about accidental love confessions.
âGreat,â you say, and your voice is definitely an octave higher now. âGreat. Thank you. Thanks. So much.â
The girl gives you a weird look, shrugs, and goes back to her coding.
Youâre already moving, your feet carrying you toward the quad before your brain can catch up and talk you out of it. This is fine. This is progress. Youâll find him, youâll pull him aside, youâll give him the speech, and then youâll be free. Youâll be a normal person again. Youâll be able to walk through campus without checking every corner for a tall informatics student who thinks youâre cute and brave and worthy of a coffee date.
The quad is bustling when you arrive, clusters of students sprawled across the grass and gathered around the stone benches near the fountain. The afternoon sun is bright and warm, the kind of weather that makes everyone want to be outside, which is lovely and picturesque and deeply inconvenient for your purposes. You squint against the glare, scanning the crowd for a familiar dark-haired figure.
No Heeseung.
You circle the perimeter, weaving between groups of friends and dodging a frisbee that comes sailing dangerously close to your head. You check near the fountain, near the big oak tree, near the cluster of food trucks thatâs set up along the east edge. Still no Heeseung. Your informant said ten minutes ago, he should be here. Unless he already left. Unless you missed him. Unless this is a sign from the universe that you should give up and commit to the farmer life plan after all.
Youâre so focused on your search that you donât notice someone approaching until a shadow falls across your path, and a voice, warm, familiar, the exact voice youâve been daydreaming about for four months, says:
âY/N? Hey, it is you!â
You look up.
Yang Jungwon is standing right in front of you, smiling like the sun just came out from behind a cloud, and every single coherent thought in your brain immediately evaporates.
Heâs wearing a soft-looking cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his dark hair is slightly windswept, and thereâs a tiny mole near his chin that youâve never noticed before but is now seared into your memory forever. Heâs holding a book, something with a cracked spine and a title in a language you donât recognize and heâs looking at you with genuine, undiluted pleasure, like running into you is the best thing thatâs happened to him all day.
âItâs me,â you say, because you are a conversational genius. âI mean. Yes. Hi. Hello.â
Smooth. Flawless execution. Ten out of ten.
Jungwon doesnât seem to notice your complete lack of verbal grace. His smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes in exactly the way youâve catalogued in your mental Jungwon database. âI thought I recognized you. Youâre in my philosophy elective, right? Front row, near the window?â
He knows where you sit. He knows where you sit. This is both the best and worst information youâve ever received, because on one hand, Yang Jungwon has noticed your existence, but on the other hand, Yang Jungwon has noticed your existence, and now you have to be a normal human being and not the disaster you currently are.
âFront row near the window,â you confirm, nodding a little too vigorously. âThatâs me. I like the natural light. For... note-taking purposes.â
âMakes sense.â He shifts his weight, tucking the book under his arm. âYou take really detailed notes, by the way. I sat behind you once, and I was honestly impressed. Your color-coding system is no joke.â
Jungwon has looked at your notes. Jungwon has been impressed by your notes. Your brain is short-circuiting at approximately the speed of light, and you have to physically resist the urge to fist-pump in the middle of the quad.
âThank you,â you manage. âI have a lot of highlighters. Maybe too many. Is there such a thing as too many highlighters? I donât think so, but Iâve been told my stationery collection is concerning.â
Oh no. Why are you talking about stationery? You need to say something charming. Something witty. Something that will make him see you as more than the girl with the aggressive color-coding system.
âI donât think itâs concerning,â Jungwon says, and thereâs a teasing lilt to his voice that makes your knees go weak. âPassionate, maybe. Dedicated. I respect it.â
âPassionate and dedicated,â you repeat faintly. âThatâs... yeah. Thatâs my brand.â
He laughs, and itâs exactly like you remember, bright and warm, the kind of laugh that makes you want to do whatever you just did again and again just to hear it on repeat. âI like it. Passion is underrated.â He tilts his head, studying you with an expression you canât quite read. âSo what brings you to the quad? You usually eat lunch in the science building courtyard, donât you?â
Your heart stutters. He knows where you eat lunch. Heâs observed your habits. This is either a sign of mutual interest or youâve accidentally become the subject of a sociological case study, and at this point youâre willing to accept either outcome.
âIâm, um, looking for someone,â you say, and the confession letter debacle comes crashing back into your consciousness like a wrecking ball through a glass window. Right. Youâre supposed to be finding Heeseung. Youâre supposed to be fixing the misunderstanding. Thatâs why youâre here. Not to bask in the radiant warmth of Jungwonâs attention like a lizard on a sunny rock.
âAnyone I know?â Jungwon asks, and thereâs something in his tone, curiosity, maybe.
âProbably not,â you say quickly. âJust a... just a person. A random person. Not important.â
Jungwon raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but before he can press further, a new voice cuts through the afternoon air like a knife through butter.
âThere you are.â
You freeze. Your blood turns to ice. Every cell in your body screams in unison: run.
Lee Heeseung is walking toward you across the quad, his headphones hanging around his neck and his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jacket. He looks exactly as devastatingly attractive as he did three days ago, which is deeply unfair. His expression is a mixture of curiosity and amusement, and when his eyes meet yours, that slight smile, the one thatâs not quite a smirk but definitely is a smirkâs second cousin, curves across his lips.
âI heard youâve been looking for me,â he says, coming to a stop beside Jungwon like this is the most natural gathering in the world. âYou know, if you wanted to see me, you could have just messaged. I would have given you my number at the PC room.â
Jungwon looks between you and Heeseung with visible confusion, his earlier smile fading into something more guarded. âWait. You two know each other?â
This is it. This is the moment the universe has been building toward. Every terrible decision, every act of cowardice, every misguided attempt to avoid embarrassment, itâs all led here, to this exact spot on the quad, with the wrong guy standing next to the right guy and your entire romantic future hanging in the balance.
âI wouldnât say know,â you begin, but Heeseung is already talking over you, apparently immune to the desperate telepathic signals youâre trying to beam directly into his brain.
âShe confessed to me two days ago,â Heeseung says, and his tone is so casual, so conversational, like heâs discussing the weather or what he had for lunch. âWalked right into the PC room, handed me a letter, told me sheâd liked me for a long time. It was very romantic. Very old-school. I was impressed.â
Silence. Jungwon stares at Heeseung. Then at you. Then back at Heeseung.
âShe... confessed to you,â Jungwon repeats slowly, and his voice has gone flat in a way that makes your heart splinter into approximately seven thousand pieces.
âFull confession,â Heeseung confirms, still smiling. âIâm thinking weâll start with coffee. Keep it simple, you know? Sheâs shy. I donât want to overwhelm her.â
This is a nightmare. This is a waking, breathing, actively-unfolding nightmare, and you are trapped in it like a fly in amber, unable to move or speak or do anything except watch as every possible future with Jungwon crumbles to dust before your eyes.
Because hereâs the thing you realize in that horrible, crystal-clear moment: you canât correct Heeseung now. Not in front of Jungwon. Not when Jungwon has just been told, in no uncertain terms, that you confessed to someone else. If you explain the truth, that the letter was actually meant for Jungwon, that the whole thing was a catastrophic mistake, then what? Jungwon would know youâd been planning to confess to him, but heâd also know that you somehow managed to mess it up so spectacularly that you confessed to his friend instead. Youâd look incompetent at best and completely unhinged at worst. And Heeseung would be humiliated, and Jungwon would be awkward, and youâd be the epicenter of a social catastrophe so immense that all three of you would have to avoid each other for the rest of your academic careers.
You are trapped. Completely, utterly, irreversibly trapped.
âInteresting,â Jungwon says, and the word is so neutral that it cuts deeper than any insult ever could. âI didnât realize you two ran in the same circles.â
âWe donât,â you croak. âWe really, really donât.â
âWeâre just getting started,â Heeseung says cheerfully, and he has the audacity to wink at you. Like this is some kind of adorable inside joke instead of the emotional apocalypse it actually is.
You have to get out of here. You have to escape before the sob building in your chest forces its way out and makes everything infinitely worse. You can feel it pressing against your ribs, hot and insistent, and if you donât leave right now, youâre going to burst into tears in the middle of the quad in front of both of them, and then the disaster will be complete.
âI have to go,â you blurt out, and youâre already backing away, your feet moving before your brain can issue any kind of warning. âI have⌠a thing. A class. A lab. A lab class. Itâs very important. I canât miss it. I have to go.â
Heeseungâs brow furrows slightly. âWait, I thought you wanted to talk to-â
âNope! No talking! Weâre good! Everythingâs fine! Bye!â
You spin around and power-walk toward the nearest exit, which happens to be in the direction of the fountain, which you only realize when your foot catches on the low stone ledge and you go sprawling forward with all the grace of a newborn giraffe.
Your knee hits the ground. Your dignity hits the ground approximately three feet to the left. Several people turn to look.
âY/N!â Thatâs Jungwonâs voice, concerned and moving closer, and you absolutely cannot handle that right now.
âIâm fine!â you shriek, scrambling to your feet with adrenaline-fueled desperation. âTotally fine! Happens all the time! Iâm very clumsy! Itâs part of my charm!â
You donât look back. You canât look back. If you look back, youâll see Jungwonâs worried expression and Heeseungâs confused one, and youâll have to confront the full magnitude of what just happened, and your fragile emotional state simply cannot withstand that kind of pressure. So you run. Not jog, not power-walkâŚrun. Across the quad, past the food trucks, through a gap between two buildings, and out onto the main campus pathway like the hounds of hell are snapping at your heels.
You donât stop until you reach the arts building, and you donât start breathing normally until youâve locked yourself in a practice room on the third floor, surrounded by soundproof walls and a piano thatâs seen better days. You slide down against the door, pull your knees up to your chest, and let out a sound thatâs halfway between a groan and a wail.
Everything is ruined. Everything. You had one chance, one single, solitary chance to fix the misunderstanding and salvage your dignity and maybe, just maybe, preserve the possibility of something with Jungwon somewhere down the line. And instead, you let your hopeless romantic heart get distracted by a five-minute conversation about philosophy notes and highlighters, and now youâre the girl who confessed to Lee Heeseung, and Jungwon thinks youâre interested in someone else, and there is no conceivable way to untangle this mess without making everything exponentially worse.
Youâre going to have to transfer schools. Youâre going to have to move to another country. Youâre going to have to fake your own death and start a new identity as a goat farmer in New Zeland.
The door handle jiggles behind you. âOccupied!â you yell, your voice cracking.
âY/N? Is that you?â
Your best friend Yunjinâs voice filters through the door, muffled but unmistakable, and the sound of it is enough to crack the dam youâve been desperately trying to hold together. You scramble to your feet, fumble with the lock, and yank the door open to reveal Yunjin standing in the hallway with a cup of bubble tea in each hand and an expression of profound concern on her face.
âI saw you running,â she says, her eyes scanning your disheveled appearance. âLike, truly running. Iâve never seen you run before. You once told me running was for people who donât appreciate the journey.â
âYunjin,â you crumble, and your voice is so pitiful that she immediately sets down both drinks and pulls you into a hug.
âOkay,â she says, steering you back into the practice room and closing the door behind her. âOkay. Sit down. Tell me everything. What happened? Did you talk to Heeseung? Did you fix it?â
You laugh, but it comes out wrong, high and wobbly, on the edge of hysteria. âFix it? Fix it? Yunjin, I made it so much worse. I made it so much worse that I think I actually created new dimensions of worse. Scientists are going to have to invent new words to describe how badly I messed this up.â
She settles onto the piano bench, and you collapse onto the floor in front of her, crossing your legs and burying your face in your hands. The story spills out of you in a torrent, the quad, the search for Heeseung, the unexpected appearance of Jungwon, the conversation that made your heart soar, and then the moment Heeseung appeared like a harbinger of doom and casually announced your confession to the one person you never wanted to know about it.
âAnd then I fell,â you finish miserably. âIn front of both of them. And I ran away. And now Jungwon thinks I like Heeseung, and Heeseung thinks I like Heeseung, and I canât correct either of them without making everything even weirder, and my life is a romantic comedy written by a petty incel.â
Yunjin is quiet for a moment. Then she lets out a long, slow breath. âOkay. Thatâs... thatâs a lot.â
âI know.â
âAnd youâre telling me you couldnât just say, hey Heeseung, sorry for the mix-up, the letter wasnât for you, my bad?â
You look up at her, your eyes rimmed with red. âIn front of Jungwon? After Heeseung already told him I confessed? What would Jungwon think of me?â
Yunjin considers this. âThat youâre a disaster, probably.â
âExactly!â
âBut a lovable disaster,â she adds. âDisasters can be endearing.â
âYunjin, please focus.â
She holds up her hands in surrender, but thereâs a glint in her eye that you recognize, the one that means sheâs about to drop some wisdom on you whether youâre ready for it or not. Yunjin has been your best friend since orientation week, when you both accidentally joined the wrong club meeting and ended up spending two hours in a competitive gardening seminar before realizing your mistake. Sheâs practical where youâre dreamy, decisive where youâre hesitant, and sheâs talked you down from approximately four hundred anxiety spirals since the semester started. If anyone can find a way out of this mess, itâs her.
âOkay,â she says, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. âLet me present you with an alternative perspective.â
âIâm listening.â
âLee Heeseung,â she says, ticking off points on her fingers, âhas a reputation. A big one. Everyone knows it. Heâs the guy whoâs super nice to everyone, especially girls, and then they fall for him and he gets all surprised when they expect something more, and then things fizzle out because he wasnât looking for anything serious.â She makes air quotes with her fingers. âSound familiar?â
You blink. âI mean... Iâve heard things. But he didnât seem like-â
âThatâs his whole thing,â Yunjin interrupts. âHe doesnât seem like it. Thatâs why it works. He likes when everyone is after him. But nice doesnât equal interested, so girls get the wrong idea and then they get hurt. Itâs a cycle.â She pops a tapioca pearl into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. âMy point is, you donât need to do anything. You donât need to fix this. You just need to wait.â
âWait for what?â
âFor him to get bored.â She says it like itâs the most obvious thing in the world. âThink about it. Youâre not actually interested in him, right? Youâre not going to fall all over yourself trying to get his attention. Youâre not going to be waiting outside his classes or accidentally showing up wherever he hangs out. Youâre not going to be like every other girl whoâs chased after him.â
You frown. âSo... what, I just... do nothing?â
âNo, you do the opposite of chasing.â Yunjin grins, and itâs slightly wicked. âYou make yourself as uninteresting to him as possible. Youâre awkward, youâre weird, youâre clearly not trying to impress him. You donât dress up when you know you might see him. You talk about boring things. You mention, I donât know, your extensive collection of vintage stamps or whatever nerdy hobby you can think of. You make yourself boring.â
âI donât have a stamp collection.â
âThen make one up! The point is, Heeseung is used to girls who want him. If you clearly donât want him, his interest is going to fizzle out faster than a cheap sparkler. Heâll move on to the next girl who bats her eyelashes at him, and youâll be free. No confrontation necessary.â
You turn this over in your mind. Itâs... not the worst idea youâve ever heard. In fact, compared to your current strategy of blind panic and tactical fleeing, itâs practically genius. If you canât correct the misunderstanding without making everything worse, maybe you can just... let it die on its own. Let Heeseungâs fabled short attention span work in your favor. Become so aggressively unappealing that he loses interest within a week and never thinks about you again.
And once heâs out of the picture, once enough time has passed, maybe you can try again with Jungwon. Properly. With better aim.
âYouâre a genius,â you tell Yunjin, the hope creeping back into your voice. âAn absolute genius. I could kiss you.â
âPlease donât, youâre covered in grass stains.â She nudges one of the bubble teas toward you with her foot. âDrink your tea. Hydrate. And then weâre going to brainstorm all the ways you can make yourself seem as unappealing as possible to a hot third-year informatics student.â
You grab the drink and take a long sip, the sweetness settling something in your chest. For the first time in three days, you feel something other than panic. You feel strategic. You feel determined. Lee Heeseung might think youâre cute and brave and worthy of a coffee date, but he hasnât met the version of you thatâs about to emerge, a version so bland, so uninteresting, so aggressively mediocre that heâll run in the opposite direction before the week is out.
âOkay,â you say, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. âOkay. Letâs do this. Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested starts now.â
Yunjin raises her bubble tea in a toast. âTo being boring.â
You clink your cup against hers. âTo being boring.â
Somewhere across campus Heeseung is still standing in the quad with a confused expression on his face and a lavender envelope in his pocket, wondering why the girl who supposedly has a crush on him just sprinted away like she was being chased by bears.
Heâs not used to this. Heâs not used to any of this.
And that, he realizes with a small, bemused shake of his head, is exactly what makes it so interesting.
âââââ
Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested lasted exactly four days before it encountered its first major obstacle.
That obstacle is approximately six feet tall, has flowing hair that falls perfectly across his forehead, and is currently walking directly toward your table in the cafeteria with a tray in his hands and a smile on his face that suggests he has absolutely no idea he's supposed to be losing interest in you.
You spot him approximately 2.3 seconds too late. By the time your brain registers the approaching danger, you are already mid-bite into a sad cafeteria sandwich, your mouth full of bread and lettuce and the dawning realization that you are trapped. There is no escape route. Your table is in the corner, surrounded on three sides by walls and on the fourth side by Heeseung's rapidly approaching form. You are a cornered animal. A very stupid, very panicked cornered animal with mayonnaise on her chin.
"Y/N!" Heeseung says your name like it's his favorite word, bright and warm and entirely too enthusiastic for someone who's supposed to be a notorious womanizer with a short attention span. "I was hoping I'd run into you. Mind if I sit?"
Mind if he sits? Of course you mind. You mind immensely. You mind with every fiber of your being. Sitting with Heeseung is the exact opposite of what Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested is supposed to accomplish. Sitting with Heeseung means talking to Heeseung, and talking to Heeseung means opportunities to accidentally charm him, and charming him is categorically Not The Goal.
But Heeseung is already pulling out the chair across from you, and his smile is so genuine, and there's a tiny bit of what looks like grease on his cheekbone that suggests he's just come from some kind of engineering lab, and you are weak. You are so, so weak.
"Go ahead," you hear yourself say, and then immediately want to punch yourself in the face.
Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested, Day Four, 12:34 PM: catastrophic failure already in progress.
Heeseung settles into the chair with an easy grace, setting his tray down and immediately stealing one of your fries like you're old friends who share food on a regular basis. You watch the fry disappear into his mouth and feel a small part of your soul leave your body.
"So," he says, leaning back and studying you with those dark, unreadable eyes. "You ran away from me pretty fast the other day. Should I be worried? Do I have something on my face?"
He doesn't. He absolutely doesn't. He has the kind of face that belongs on a billboard, all sharp angles and soft edges and that one little mole on his forehead that you are definitely not noticing because noticing things about Heeseung's face is counterproductive to the mission.
"No," you say quickly. "No, you're fine. Your face is fine. I mean, you don't have anything on your face. I just remembered I had somewhere to be. Very suddenly. It was urgent."
"An urgent⌠lab class?" Heeseung's lips twitch. "That's what you said, right? An urgent lab class on a Thursday afternoon?"
Your face heats. "Yes. Exactly. Lab class. Very urgent. Science doesn't wait."
"Mmm." He pops another one of your fries into his mouth. "Well, the good news is, you don't look like you're in a hurry right now. So we can actually talk. You know, like normal people who are supposedly getting to know each other?"
Right. Getting to know each other. Because you confessed to him. Because he thinks you like him. Because you're living in an elaborate lie of your own making.
This is your chance, though. This is the perfect opportunity to implement Phase One of the Make Him Uninterested plan: Be Weird and Off-Putting. You just have to be the most boring, strange, unappealing version of yourself that you can possibly imagine. How hard can it be?
Pretty hard, as it turns out, because your brain chooses this exact moment to go completely blank.
"So," Heeseung says, apparently unbothered by your silence, "tell me about yourself. What do you like to do for fun? Besides writing beautiful love letters and then running away from the recipient?"
You choke on your own saliva. Just⌠straight up choke on nothing, like a cartoon character. "I don'tâŚthat wasn'tâŚI do normal things. Normal fun things. Like⌠watching paint dry. And counting ceiling tiles. Very relaxing. You should try it."
"There are forty-seven in this cafeteria," you say, doubling down with the desperate energy of someone who has already committed to the bit. "Forty-eight if you count the one that's partially covered by that vent over there. But some people don't count partial tiles. It's a philosophical debate, really."
"Fascinating," Heeseung says, and the worst part is that he sounds like he actually means it. "What else?"
What else? What else can you say that will make you sound completely unappealing? You cast around for inspiration, your eyes landing on your sandwich. Okay. Fine. If words can't do the job, maybe actions can.
You pick up your sandwich with both hands and take the weirdest bite you can physically manage, mouth open slightly too wide, chewing with exaggerated jaw movements, making an unfortunate amount of noise in the process. You feel like a cow. You look like a cow. You are embodying the spirit of a cow, and surely, surely, this is enough to make any self-respecting hot informatics student run for the hills.
Heeseung watches you chew. His expression doesn't change.
"Good sandwich?" he asks mildly.
"Mmf," you say, still chewing, still being a cow. "Very good. I love-"
And then the lettuce hits the back of your throat.
You don't know how it happens. One moment you're chewing normally, well, abnormally, but in a controlled way and the next moment a piece of lettuce stages a rebellion and lodges itself directly in your windpipe. Your eyes go wide. Your hand flies to your throat. You make a sound that is somewhere between a wheeze and a honk.
"Y/N?" Heeseung's amused expression shifts to concern. "Are you okay?"
You are not okay. You are choking. You are choking on lettuce in front of Lee Heeseung in the middle of the cafeteria, and this is how you're going to die.
Heeseung is on his feet now, moving around the table with surprising speed. "Hey, hey, can you breathe? Do you need me to-"
You shake your head frantically, still making dying cow noises, and grab your water bottle with shaking hands. The first gulp does nothing. The second gulp, by some miracle, dislodges the lettuce just enough for you to cough it up into a napkin with all the grace and dignity of a cat hacking up a hairball.
Silence.
The entire cafeteria, you're convinced, is staring at you. In reality, probably only a few nearby tables have noticed, but it feels apocalyptic. You sit there, red-faced and teary-eyed, clutching a napkin full of your own near-death experience, and want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.
Heeseung kneels beside your chair, one hand hovering near your shoulder like he isn't sure if touching you would be welcome. "Hey. You're okay. You're okay, right? Do you need me to get you anything? More water? A doctor? A new sandwich without lettuce?"
His voice is gentle. Genuinely gentle. Not the smooth, charming tone you expect from someone with his reputation, but something softer, something that sounds almost like real concern.
"I'm fine," you croak, your voice ravaged. "I'm fine. That happens. All the time. I'm very bad at eating. It's one of my traits."
"One of your traits," Heeseung repeats, and the corner of his mouth twitches despite his obvious worry. "Being bad at eating?"
"It's a lifestyle choice."
He laughs. Not a polite chuckle or a mocking snicker, but a real laugh, surprised and bright and completely unguarded. He sits back down in his chair, shaking his head, and looks at you with something that is definitely not boredom or disinterest.
"You're really something else, you know that?"
You don't know how to respond to that, so you don't. You just sit there, still clutching your napkin of shame, and wonder how Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested has somehow resulted in him laughing at your jokes and looking at you like you're the most entertaining thing he's encountered all week.
"So," Heeseung says, propping his chin on his hand, "I've been wondering. What made you decide to confess to me? Was there a specific moment? Something I did?"
Oh no.
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
This is the worst possible question he could ask. You can't tell him the truthâŚI didn't mean to confess to you, I meant to confess to your friend, you just happened to be sitting in the wrong place at the wrong time, please don't hate meâŚbut you also can't just⌠not answer. He's looking at you expectantly, his dark eyes curious and open, and you have approximately three seconds to come up with a convincing lie before the silence becomes too awkward to recover from.
"Your⌠kindness," you say, grasping at straws. "You're very⌠kind. To everyone. I noticed."
Heeseung tilts his head. "My kindness?"
"Very kind," you repeat, nodding vigorously. "So kind. The kindest. I saw you⌠hold a door open for someone once. It was⌠inspiring."
"I held a door open."
"A door. Yes. It was a very heavy door. And you held it. For a long time. Multiple people went through. It was very impressive."
Heeseung stares at you for a moment, and you stare back, your face burning, your soul evacuating your body. This is it. This is the moment he realizes you are completely unhinged and decides to never speak to you again. This is the victory of Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested.
"That'sâŚ" Heeseung starts, and then pauses. "That's the first time anyone's ever confessed to me because I held a door open. Usually I get compliments about my face. Or my voice. One girl told me I had a nose made to be sat on, which I still don't fully understand."
"Your node is⌠fine," you say weakly. "I didn't notice your nose. Or your face at all. Just the door. The door was the important part."
"A door," Heeseung says, and that smile is spreading across his face again, the one that makes him look less like a notorious player and more like someone who has just found a particularly entertaining puzzle. "You wrote me a three-page love letter because I held a door open."
"The calligraphy alone took a week," you say, and immediately regret it.
Heeseung laughs again, and this time it's softer, almost wondering. "You're not what I expected," he says. "At all."
"Is that⌠good or bad?"
"I haven't decided yet." But he's still smiling, and his eyes are still fixed on you with that curious intensity, and you're starting to get the sinking feeling that everything you do, no matter how strange or off-putting you try to be, is having the exact opposite effect of what you intend.
You need a new strategy. Something foolproof. Something so aggressively unappealing that even the most determined people-pleaser can't pretend to be interested.
And then, like a gift from the gods of social awkwardness, the topic of video games comes up.
Heeseung mentions something about blowing off steam after a tough assignment by playing a few rounds of something, and the question slips out before you can stop it: "Wait, do you play League of Legends?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Sometimes. You?"
And that's it. That's the moment the dam breaks.
You don't mean to start geeking out. It just happens. One moment you're thinking be boring, be uninteresting, be bland, and the next moment you're fifteen minutes deep into an impassioned monologue about the current meta, the problems with the jungle role, and why Riot Games needs to nerf a specific champion into the ground before she single-handedly destroys the competitive scene.
"-and don't even get me started on the new items, because the balance team clearly doesn't play their own game, which is fine, whatever, it's not like I have strong opinions about it except I absolutely do, and I wrote an entire essay about it on the subreddit that got like two thousand upvotes, so clearly I'm not the only one who thinks the armor penetration scaling is completely broken-"
You stop.
You stop because you have just realized, with dawning horror, that you have been talking for an incredibly long time without letting Heeseung get a single word in. You have been gesticulating. You have been making sound effects. At one point, you're pretty sure you drew a diagram on a napkin to illustrate the optimal jungle pathing route.
This is it. This is definitely, absolutely it. There is no way a hot third-year informatics student wants to listen to a first-year STEM girl rant about video game balance for fifteen straight minutes. Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested has just achieved its first genuine success.
You brace yourself for the polite excuse, the awkward glance at his phone, the slow backing away.
Instead, Heeseung leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and says: "Okay, but hear me out, what if the armor penetration scaling isn't the problem, and it's actually the base damage values that need to be adjusted? Because if you look at the win rate data across different elos, the issue isn't consistent at all levels of play."
You blink.
"I main ADC," he adds, as if this is a perfectly normal confession. "So trust me, I feel your pain about the jungle situation. Do you know how many times I've been left to solo dragon because my jungler was AFK farming? Too many. Too many times."
"You⌠main ADC?"
"Vayne and Kai'Sa mostly. Sometimes Jhin if I'm feeling dramatic."
You have no response to this. Your brain has short-circuited somewhere around the phrase "win rate data across different elos," and it's still rebooting.
"Your essay on the subreddit," Heeseung continues, pulling out his phone. "What was the title? I want to read it. I love seeing well-reasoned arguments about game balance, and honestly, most of what gets posted is just people complaining without any actual data to back it up."
"It was⌠it was called The Current State of Armor Penetration: A Statistical Analysis and Why I'm Losing My Mind," you say faintly.
Heeseung types something into his phone, scrolls for a moment, and then his face lights up. "Found it. Two thousand three hundred upvotes and fourteen awards? That's impressive. Wait, you made graphs? You made graphs?"
"I was very passionate about the subject."
"Passionate," Heeseung repeats, looking up from his phone with an expression you can't quite read. "Yeah. I'm starting to get that about you."
He tucks his phone away and smiles at you, and it isn't the smooth, practiced smile you expect from the campus womanizer. It's something smaller. Something realer. Something that makes your stomach do a weird, traitorous flip that you immediately try to suppress.
"You know," he says, tilting his head as he studies you, "you remind me of a mouse."
Your brain screeches to a halt. "A⌠mouse?"
"Yeah. A little field mouse. The way your nose scrunches up when you're thinking, and how you get all twitchy and skittish when you're nervous. It's cute. It's really cute."
Cute. He calls you cute. He compares you to a rodent and somehow makes it sound like a compliment, and worst of all, worst of all, you can feel a traitorous blush spreading across your cheeks like wildfire.
"I'm notâŚI don'tâŚmice are not cute. Mice are pests. They carry diseases. I'm basically a health hazard."
Heeseung laughs, and it's the same genuine laugh from before, and he's looking at you like you're the most entertaining thing he's seen in years. "A health hazard. Right. Well, consider me warned."
He stands up, gathering his tray, and for one beautiful, hopeful moment, you think the ordeal is over. But then he pauses, looking down at you with that unreadable expression, and says the words that haunt you for the rest of the day:
"I was interested before, but now?" He shakes his head, still smiling. "Now I'm really interested. See you around, little mouse."
And then he walks away, leaving you alone at your corner table with a half-eaten sandwich, a napkin full of regurgitated lettuce, and the sinking realization that Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested is not only failing, it's backfiring spectacularly.
You try to be weird, and he calls you cute.
You try to be boring, and he engages with your niche gaming opinions.
You try to choke to death in front of him, and he kneels beside your chair with genuine concern in his eyes.
You bang your forehead against the cafeteria table once, twice, three times, not caring who sees. This is a disaster. This is an unmitigated, unprecedented, absolutely catastrophic disaster. Hana's plan was supposed to work. Heeseung was supposed to get bored. He was supposed to move on. He was not supposed to look at you like you're a puzzle he wants to solve, or call you a mouse in a tone of voice that makes your heart do gymnastics, or read your League of Legends essay and compliment your graphs.
You need to regroup. You need to call an emergency meeting with Yunjin. You need to figure out a new strategy before this situation spirals even further out of control.
But first, you need to go to the library and return the books that are due today before you accrue another fine, because no matter how catastrophic your love life becomes, the university library shows no mercy.
âââââ
The library is your sanctuary. It always has been, a quiet, climate-controlled haven where the smell of old paper and the soft hum of fluorescent lights can soothe even the most tensed of nerves. After the cafeteria incident, you need sanctuary more than ever. You slip through the main doors with your stack of books clutched to your chest, inhaling the familiar scent of knowledge and dust, and feel some of the tension begin to ease from your shoulders.
Everything is fine. Everything is going to be fine. You return your books, you find Yunjin, you regroup, and you figure out a way to-
"Y/N?"
The voice comes from somewhere to your left, and you know that voice. You know it the way a flower knows the sun, the way a compass knows north, the way a hopeless romantic knows the exact cadence of her crush's greeting.
Jungwon is sitting at a table near the history section, surrounded by a fortress of textbooks and loose papers. He's wearing glassesâŚglassesâŚand his hair is slightly mussed from what you assume is hours of intense studying, and he's looking at you with that smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your entire nervous system short-circuit.
"Hey," he says, waving you over. "What are you doing here?"
Existing in the same space as you, you think. Breathing the same air. Trying not to spontaneously combust.
"Returning books," you say, holding up your stack as evidence. "I have some overdue ones. The library fines are no joke."
"Tell me about it. I had to pay fifteen thousand won last semester because I forgot about a book I'd checked out for a research paper." Jungwon winces at the memory. "My wallet still hasn't recovered."
"That's brutal."
"The library giveth, and the library taketh away."
You laugh, and it comes out surprisingly normal, not too loud, not too high-pitched, just a regular human laugh from a regular human person who is definitely not having an internal meltdown about how good Jungwon looks in glasses.
"Hey," Jungwon says, glancing at the empty chair across from him, "if you're not in a hurry, do you want to study together? I've been here for three hours and my brain is starting to melt. It would be nice to have some company."
Your heart stops.
Yang Jungwon, the Yang Jungwon, the owner of the smile and the laugh and the gummy bears at 2 AM is asking you to study with him. This is the kind of moment you've daydreamed about for months. This is a meet-cute in progress. This is the universe throwing you a lifeline after the cafeteria disaster, a chance to actually spend time with the boy you've been pining over since midterms.
"Yes," you say, before your brain can remind you of all the reasons this is a terrible idea. "Yes, I'dâŚI'd love to. Let me just return these first."
You practically skip to the returns desk, your heart doing a full backflip in your chest. By the time you make it back to Jungwon's table, your philosophy textbook and notebook spread out in front of you, you've convinced yourself that this is exactly what you need. Some time with Jungwon. Some time to remember why you wrote that letter in the first place. Some time to reconnect with the feelings that got buried under the chaos of the Heeseung situation.
The only problem is that you can't focus on studying at all.
You try. You really, genuinely try. You open your textbook to the assigned chapter. You uncap your highlighter. You fix your eyes on the page and attempt to absorb information about ethical frameworks and moral philosophy. But your eyes keep drifting up, against your will, over the top of your book, to the boy sitting across from you.
Jungwon is studying. Actually studying, not fake studying, not pretending to study while secretly watching you the way you're watching him. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his pen moving steadily across his notebook as he takes notes. Every so often, he pauses, taps the end of his pen against his chin, and then resumes writing with renewed focus. The late afternoon light slants through the window behind him, catching the highlights in his dark hair and making him look like he's stepped out of a painting.
He is beautiful. He's so beautiful that it makes your chest ache, a soft, sweet ache that you've been carrying around since the moment you first saw him in this very library. You watch the way his fingers curl around his pen, the way he bites his lower lip when he's thinking, the way his glasses slide down his nose and he pushes them back up with an absent gesture.
"I can feel you looking at me," Jungwon says, not glancing up from his notebook.
Your entire body jolts like you've been electrocuted. "I wasn'tâŚI was justâŚthere's a clock behind you. I was checking the time."
Jungwon looks up then, and there's a knowing glint in his eyes that makes your stomach do a slow, somersaulting flip. "The clock is to your right, Y/N. Not behind me."
You look to your right. Sure enough, there's the clock, hanging on the wall in plain view, which you would have noticed if you'd spent even one second actually looking for it instead of gazing at Jungwon's face like a Renaissance painter studying their muse.
"I'm⌠directionally challenged," you say weakly.
"Uh-huh." Jungwon sets down his pen, and the smile playing at the corners of his mouth is soft and teasing and absolutely devastating. "Come here for a second."
"What?"
"Just come here. Lean forward a little."
Your body obeys before your brain can intervene. You lean across the table, your heart hammering so loudly you're certain the entire library can hear it. Jungwon leans forward too, closing the distance between you, and you catch a faint whiff of something clean and subtle, laundry detergent, maybe, or the kind of fragrance that just smells like him.
His hand reaches out, and before you can process what's happening, his index finger gently pokes your cheek.
"Boop," he says.
You make a sound. You don't know what the sound is supposed to be. Maybe a laugh, maybe a question, maybe a plea for mercy. What comes out is something closer to a squeak, a small, strangled, completely undignified squeak that would be embarrassing if you had any brain cells left to feel embarrassment.
Jungwon's smile widens, and his finger lingers on your cheek for just a moment longer than necessary. "You had an eyelash," he says. "Right there. But also, you just looked really cute staring at me like that. I couldn't resist."
Cute. He calls you cute. That's twice in one day that a devastatingly attractive boy has called you cute, and your hopeless romantic heart doesn't know whether to celebrate or go into cardiac arrest.
"I wasn't staring," you whisper, but it comes out completely unconvincing.
"You were absolutely staring." Jungwon withdraws his hand, but his smile stays, warm and fond and knowing. "It's okay. I don't mind. It's kind of nice, actually. Being looked at like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm something worth looking at."
The words settle into your chest like a stone dropping into still water, sending ripples through your entire body. He thinks it's nice. He thinks you're nice or at least your staring is nice and he pokes your cheek and calls you cute and now he's going back to his studying like he hasn't just fundamentally altered your brain chemistry.
You try to return to your textbook. The words swim in front of your eyes, meaningless and blurry. You highlight a sentence at random, realize you have no idea what it says, and highlight it again for good measure. The page is now approximately forty percent highlighter ink.
"You're going to run out of highlighter at that rate," Jungwon observes, not looking up.
"I have backups," you say. "I always have backups."
"Of course you do."
The studying session continues for another hour, and you absorb approximately zero information about ethical frameworks. What you do absorb is a comprehensive catalogue of Jungwon's study habits: the way he organizes his notes with color-coded tabs, the way he mutters to himself when he's working through a difficult concept, the way he absentmindedly drums his fingers against the table when he's thinking. Every detail is another entry in your mental Jungwon database, another thread in the tapestry of your affection.
By the time you pack up your things and say goodbye, "See you in philosophy," Jungwon says, and you respond with something that might be words or might be a series of enthusiastic nods, you are floating. You are literally, physically floating, your feet barely touching the ground as you drift out of the library and across campus toward your dorm.
Jungwon pokes your cheek. Jungwon calls you cute. Jungwon says he likes being looked at by you.
You are winning. Despite the Heeseung disaster, despite the cafeteria catastrophe, despite everything, you are winning.
By the time you reach your dorm room, you are a mess of giddy energy with nowhere to go. You close the door behind you, throw your backpack onto your desk chair, and then proceed to wriggle across your bed like an ecstatic worm, kicking your feet and muffling your squeals into your pillow.
"He called me cute," you whisper to your empty room, your voice muffled by fabric. "He poked my cheek. He did the boop thing. The boop thing, you guys. Who does the boop thing? Adorable people, that's who. Perfect people. People with beautiful smiles and kind eyes and-"
You roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling with a dreamy expression. The ceiling has forty-three tiles in your room. You counted them on your first night in the dorm. But right now, all you can see is Jungwon's face, the way he looked at you across the library table, the way his finger felt against your cheek, the way his voice went soft when he said like I'm something worth looking at.
You are going to marry him. You are going to marry Yang Jungwon and have a beautiful wedding with string lights and wildflowers and a three-tier cake, and you will tell the story of how you stared at him in the library and he poked your cheek and-
You stop wriggling.
Wait.
Wait, wait, wait.
You can't marry Jungwon. You can't even confess to Jungwon, because Jungwon thinks you confessed to Heeseung. Jungwon thinks you're interested in someone else. Jungwon was sweet and friendly and maybe a little bit flirty, but that's just his personality. He's nice to everyone. He gives you gummy bears at 2 AM; he probably gives gummy bears to everyone who looks tired. You aren't special. You are just⌠there.
The giddiness begins to drain out of you, replaced by the familiar weight of reality. You are still trapped in the Heeseung situation. You are still the girl who confessed to the wrong person. And no matter how many times Jungwon pokes your cheek, that fundamental fact isn't going to change.
With a heavy sigh, you drag yourself through your evening routine: shower, skincare, the episode of the baking show you're halfway through and finally crawl into bed around midnight, your emotions a tangled knot of hope and despair.
Sleep comes slowly, a gradual descent into darkness, and then-
âââââ
You are in the PC room again.
But this time it's different. The lights are dimmer, the computers all dark, the chairs empty. It's just you, and the door is swinging shut behind you, and there's someone waiting at the computer closest to the door.
Heeseung.
He's sitting in the chair, facing away from you, his headphones around his neck and his shoulders relaxed. When he hears your footsteps, he turns, and his expression isn't surprised or amused or curious. It's something else entirely. Something darker. Something that makes your breath catch in your throat.
"You're here," he says, and his voice is lower than you've ever heard it, a rumble that vibrates through your bones. "I've been waiting for you, little mouse."
"I'm not-" you start, but he's already standing, already moving toward you, and you can't seem to make your feet work. You're rooted to the spot, watching him approach with a mixture of fear and something else, something you don't want to name.
He stops inches away from you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, close enough that you can see the individual strands of his hair and the curve of his lips and the way his eyes, God, his eyes are fixed on your mouth.
"You know what I've been thinking about?" he murmurs, and one of his hands comes up to brush a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering against your temple. "I've been thinking about that letter. The way you said you only had eyes for me. The way you said you couldn't stop thinking about me."
"That wasn't-" you try, but your voice comes out as barely a whisper, and Heeseung's thumb is tracing along your jawline now, feather-light and devastating.
"I can't stop thinking about you either," he says, and his face is getting closer, closer, and you can feel his breath against your lips. "Do you want to know what I think about?"
Your heart is hammering. Your skin is on fire. You can't move, can't speak, can't do anything except stare up at him with wide eyes as his other hand settles on your waist, warm and solid and pulling you closer.
"I think about this," he whispers, and then his mouth is on yours.
The kiss isâŚit'sâŚ
It's intense. It's consuming. It's the kind of kiss that erases every rational thought from your brain and replaces it with pure, unfiltered sensation. His lips are soft but insistent, moving against yours with a confidence that makes your knees weak. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you make a sound against his mouth, something small and breathless and completely involuntary.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his voice is rough. "Youâre what Iâve been looking for my whole life, Y/N. Youâre my miracle."
And then his lips are on your neck, trailing fire down to your collarbone, and your head falls back, and his name escapes your mouth in a way you've never said it before-
He kneels before you, his movements fluid and deliberate. His eyes never leave yours as he unzips his jeans, freeing his already hard cock. It stands proud and thick, the tip glistening with pre-cum. He takes your foot in his warm hand, bringing it to his shaft.
"Look what you do to me," he murmurs, his voice husky with desire. He wraps your foot around his length, his thumb pressing against your arch as he begins to move your foot up and down his cock. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, a low groan escaping his lips.
The sensation of his hot skin against your sole sends shivers through your body. You watch, mesmerized, as he uses your foot to pleasure himself, his hips thrusting in rhythm with the movements of your foot. His other hand moves to your ankle, his grip firm but gentle, his fingers stroking your sensitive skin.
His eyes open, locking with yours again, and the intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch. "You're so beautiful," he breathes, his movements becoming faster, more urgent. "Youâre perfect the way you are."
His breathing grows ragged, his muscles tensing. With a guttural moan, he comes, his hot release spilling over your foot and his hand. He leans forward, his tongue darting out to taste his own cum from your skin, his movements slow and sensual. He licks your foot clean, his tongue tracing patterns on your arch, between your toes, sending waves of pleasure through your body.
Then he shifts, positioning himself between your legs. He looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire. "I need to taste you," he says, his voice rough with need.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He tosses them aside, then leans in, his breath hot against your most sensitive flesh.
His tongue flicks out, teasing your clit, and you gasp, your hands flying to his hair. He chuckles, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure through you. "Patience, little mouse," he murmurs against your skin.
His tongue moves in slow, deliberate circles, building your pleasure gradually. He alternates between broad, flat strokes and quick, precise flicks of his tongue against your clit. His fingers join in, one, then two, sliding inside you, curling to hit that spot that makes you cry.
Your hips buck against his face, your breath coming in ragged gasps. "Heeseung," you moan, your fingers tightening in his hair.
He responds with increased enthusiasm, his tongue working faster, his fingers pumping in and out of you. The pressure builds inside you, a coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter until it snaps.
You come with a cry, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure wash over you. But Heeseung doesn't stop. He continues his assault on your senses, his tongue and fingers working in perfect harmony to bring you to the edge again.
And then you are squirting, your release flooding his mouth and chin as he drinks you in, his movements never faltering. He looks up at you, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he laps up every drop.
When he finally pulls away, his face glistening with your juices, he crawls up your body, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and the intimacy of it sends another wave of desire through you.
"Tell me youâre only thinking of me," he whispers against your lips, his hands roaming your body. "and not Jungwon."
You wake up.
You wake up in your dorm room, in your bed, at 7:43 AM on a Tuesday morning, with your heart pounding and your skin flushed, your panties soaked and your sheets twisted around your legs like they've been through a battle.
For a long moment, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe.
Did you just⌠did you just dream about⌠did Lee Heeseung, the guy you're supposed to be making uninterested in you, the guy you've been trying to avoid and ignore and repel, just star in what can only be described as an extremely obscene dream? The virgin you are just cringed at the memory.
You press your hands to your burning cheeks and let out a sound that is somewhere between a groan and a scream.
"No," you whisper to the empty room. "No, no, no. This isn't, this can'tâŚI don't even like him. I like Jungwon. Jungwon! I've liked Jungwon for four months. I wrote a letter to Jungwon. I have a color-coded mental database of Jungwon's habits. I want to marry Jungwon and have a three-tier wedding cake with wildflowers!"
But your brain, traitorous and unhelpful, keeps replaying fragments of the dream, the way Heeseung's eyes go dark, the way his voice rumbles against your ear, the way his hand feels on your waist, the way his tongue is warm and-
You grab your pillow and press it over your face, screaming into it with all the force your lungs can muster.
This is wrong. This is so, so wrong. You are a Jungwon girl. You've always been a Jungwon girl. You don't think about Heeseung like that. You don't think about Heeseung like anything. Heeseung is an obstacle. Heeseung is a problem to be solved. Heeseung is the guy you're actively trying to repel, not the guy who shows up in your subconscious and does things that make you blush in the privacy of your own bed.
"I'm a psychopath," you say to your pillow. "I'm a complete and utter psychopath. Who dreams about this with a guy they're supposed to be making uninterested? A psychopath, that's who. A deranged lunatic. A person with a broken brain."
Your pillow, predictably, does not respond.
You drag yourself out of bed and into the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face and avoiding your own reflection in the mirror. You don't want to look at yourself. You don't want to see the evidence of the dream still lingering in your flushed cheeksâŚand between your legs.
This is a problem. This is a Major Problem with capital letters and possibly a warning siren. You can't afford to be having dreams about Lee Heeseung. You can't afford to be thinking about Lee Heeseung at all. Your entire strategy, Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested depends on you being able to keep a clear head and a steady heart, and neither of those things is going to be possible if your subconscious keeps ambushing you with extremely vivid, extremely inappropriate content.
You need to talk to Yunjin. Immediately. Before your brain can conjure up any more unauthorized imagery.
But as you grab your phone and type out a frantic message, EMERGENCY MEETING REQUIRED IMMEDIATELY CODE RED REPEAT CODE RED, you can't quite shake the lingering sensation from the dream.
The way Heeseung's thumb traces along your jawline.
The way he calls you little mouse in that low, rumbling voice.
The way he says you were perfect the way you were like he means it, like it's true, like he's been into you his whole life and hasn't even known it.
You shake your head violently, flinging droplets of water across the bathroom mirror.
"Nope," you say out loud. "Nope, nope, nope. We're not doing this. We're not thinking about this. We're going to go to class and eat lunch and avoid all tall informatics students, and we're going to get our brain back on the Jungwon track where it belongs."
But even as you say it, even as you try to mean it, a small, treacherous part of you wonders if maybe, just maybe, the Jungwon track isn't the only track worth following anymore.
You shove that thought into a mental box, lock it, and throw away the key.
You have a plan. You have a strategy. You are going to make Heeseung uninterested, and you are going to figure out a way to untangle the misunderstanding, and you are going to end up with Jungwon like you were always supposed to.
The dream is just a dream. It doesn't mean anything. It can't mean anything.
You refuse to let it mean anything.
(But when you catch yourself glancing toward the informatics building on your way to class, you walk a little faster, and you definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent do not wonder what Lee Heeseung is doing right now.)
âââââ
The dream haunts you for three days.
Not in a supernatural, ghost-in-the-corner kind of way. More in an I-can't-make-eye-contact-with-my-own-reflection kind of way. Every time you close your eyes, fragments of it flicker behind your eyelids like a movie you hadn't asked to watch. The dark PC room. The way Heeseung's voice drops to a rumble. The phantom sensation of his tongue on your clit, his hand on your ankle, his look-
You physically convulse every time the memory resurfaces, which is approximately every forty-five minutes. Your philosophy notes become a graveyard of distracted doodles, half of which look suspiciously like the curve of someone's jaw. You have to throw away an entire page because you accidentally write "little mouse" in the margin instead of "moral relativism."
Yunjin is no help whatsoever.
"So you had a wet dream about the hot guy who youâre supposedly getting bored of," she says over bubble tea the day after the incident, her expression thoroughly unimpressed. "This is a problem becauseâŚ?"
"Because I don't like him, Yunjin! I like Jungwon! I've liked Jungwon since midterms! Jungwon is the goal! Jungwon is the three-tier wedding cake!"
"And Heeseung is�"
"A temporary obstacle! A misunderstanding with legs! A very tall, very inconvenient plot twist!"
Yunjin sucks on her tapioca pearls with the air of a therapist who has heard it all before and is no longer surprised by anything. "You know what they say about protesting too much."
"I am not protesting too much. I am protesting exactly the right amount. I am protesting a perfectly calibrated quantity."
"Sure." She pats your hand with condescending sympathy. "Whatever helps you sleep at night. Oh wait-"
You throw a tapioca pearl at her face. It sticks to her cheek for a solid three seconds before falling off, and the look of absolute betrayal on her face is the only bright spot in your otherwise nightmare-plagued week.
But now it's Thursday. Thursday, 2:15 PM. You're stationed in the science building's main hallway, crouched behind a bulletin board that is absolutely not wide enough to hide your entire body, waiting for the coast to clear so you can sprint to your next class without encountering any tall informatics students.
Your system has evolved since the early days of the crisis. You now have a color-coded schedule of Heeseung's known movements, courtesy of some light reconnaissance work that Yunjin calls "stalking" and you call "strategic intelligence gathering." You know his class schedule. You know his preferred study spots. You know that he tends to grab coffee from the campus cafĂŠ at exactly 3 PM on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which means the science building hallway should, theoretically, be a Heeseung-free zone at 2:15.
Theoretically.
You're just about to make your move, a quick dash to the stairwell, then up two flights, then a straight shot to classroom 307, when you hear it.
"Hey, is Y/N L/N in there?"
Your blood freezes. Your muscles lock. Your soul briefly departs your body and then slams back into it with force.
That's Heeseung's voice. That's unmistakably, undeniably, catastrophically Lee Heeseung's voice, and it's coming from approximately ten feet to your left, where the door to your department's main office stands open.
You press yourself harder against the bulletin board, praying for invisibility, praying for a sudden power outage, praying for the ground to open up and swallow you into its merciful embrace. None of these things happen. Instead, you hear the department secretary respond with cheerful obliviousness.
"Y/N L/N? First year, STEM? I think I saw her in the hallway just a minute ago. Let me check, oh, there she is! Y/N! You have a visitor!"
The secretary is pointing directly at your bulletin board. Your bulletin board that is not hiding you at all. Your bulletin board that is, in fact, leaving approximately seventy percent of your body completely visible to anyone who happens to look in that direction.
Heeseung turns.
Your eyes meet.
Time stops.
There are moments in life that feel like they stretch into eternity, moments so profoundly awkward, so cosmically embarrassing, that the universe itself seems to pause and take notice. This is one of those moments. You are frozen in a half-crouch behind a bulletin board, your backpack dangling from one shoulder, your hair escaping from the ponytail you threw it into this morning, your expression one of pure, unfiltered terror. Heeseung is standing in the doorway of the department office, looking unfairly attractive in a simple black hoodie and jeans, his eyebrows rising slowly toward his hairline.
A small crowd of students has paused in the hallway to watch. You can feel their eyes on you like a physical weight. Someone whispers something to their friend. Someone else pulls out their phone.
You are going to die. You are going to perish right here in the science building hallway, and your ghost will be doomed to haunt this bulletin board for all eternity.
"Y/N?" Heeseung's voice is a mixture of confusion and amusement. He takes a step toward you, and you instinctively take a step back, which results in you bumping directly into the bulletin board and causing several flyers to flutter dramatically to the ground. "Were you⌠hiding behind that?"
"No," you say, too quickly. "No, I wasâŚI dropped something. A contact lens. I was looking for my contact lens."
"You don't wear contacts."
"I might! You don't know my life!"
"Your glasses are literally on your face right now."
You reach up and touch your glasses, which are indeed sitting on your nose, clearly visible, doing their job of correcting your vision. You have no response to this. There is no response to this. You have been caught in a lie so transparent it's essentially a window.
Heeseung's lips twitch. "You know, most people who have a crush on me don't run away and hide behind furniture. This is very confusing for my ego."
The crowd is still watching. Why is the crowd still watching? Don't they have classes to go to? Midterms to study for? Lives to live that don't involve spectating your public humiliation?
"I wasn't hiding from you specifically," you say, because apparently your mouth has decided to operate independently from your brain. "I was hiding from⌠the sun. It's very bright in here. I'm photosensitive."
"You're a STEM student hiding from the sun in a basement hallway with no windows," Heeseung says slowly. "That's⌠a new one."
"It's a medical condition. It's very serious. My doctor says I need to avoid direct fluorescent lighting."
"The fluorescent lighting is what's getting you."
"Absolutely. It's my greatest enemy. Well, second greatest. After-" You stop yourself before you can say after incredibly hot informatics students who keep appearing in my life like a recurring nightmare.
Heeseung waits. When you don't finish the sentence, that smile, the one that's definitely a smirk's second cousin, maybe even its first cousin at this point, spreads across his face.
"Well," he says, "now that I've found you and dragged you out of the shadows, literally, I was wondering if you wanted to grab coffee. With me. Right now."
Every single person in the hallway is looking at you. The secretary is looking at you from the office doorway, her expression one of grandmotherly delight at what she clearly perceives as a romantic overture. The students who stopped to watch are exchanging glances and whispers. One girl gives you an encouraging thumbs up.
You are trapped. You are cornered. You are a mouse being offered coffee by a very tall, very persistent cat.
And just like every other time Heeseung has put you on the spot, you open your mouth and the wrong words come out.
"I love coffee," you say. "Coffee is my favorite liquid. After water. And possibly juice. But it's definitely in the top three."
summary â Sunghoon is good at exactly two things: gaming and being ridiculously, unbelievably hot. Nothing matters to him more than leading the school's esports team to victory at regionals this year, but a certain summer course is getting in the way of all his practice time. Luckily, he thinks he's found himself the cheat code to an easy A and a clear schedule: you, a project partner so easily flustered by his presence that you'll happily take on all the work.
18+ mdni â ď¸ smut with plot, humour, very mild angst, college au, slowburn, sunghoon pov, in which his face card is the only thing saving him, valorant, e-sports, gaming terms used, toxic gaming culture, emotional manipulation, morally grey characters, misogynistic themes & language, extremely possessive!sunghoon, objectification, sex as an apology, corruption kink, loss of virginity, virgin!reader, dom!Hoon, verbal consent, size kink, big dick hoon (couldn't help myself sorry), big dick=big ego, begging, multiple smut scenes, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, handjobs, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex (pull-out method), oral (f receiving), rough sex, hair pulling, light choking, scratching, slapping, spanking, heavy praise kink, light degradation, please guys do not lose your virginity like this
FEAT. hyung line as roomies
wc â 30.7k
a/n â ah, what a treat it was to return to my comp sci major sunghoon roots. i love writing about losers and uh... i kinda went insane with this one. this is inspired by a comment left by @m-hypen on my other fic ⥠takes place in the same au but this is entirely a standalone. i might make more for the rest of the hyung line eventually? but weâll see. happy reading!
"Sunghoon!"
Headshot, headshot, assistâthat's all that's being processed when the front door bursts open hard enough to rattle the empty energy drink cans on Sunghoon's desk. He doesn't blink, even as one of them falls over, rolling around on the floor. He doesn't even stop to think about the remaining drop left in the can that's probably leaking onto the carpet somewhere.
"Sunghoon, get your ass out here!"
He's in game mode, and nobody stops him when he's like that. Not even his roommates, whose approaching footsteps he fails to register. The only thing that matters is the screen in front of him as he lines up his next shot, just waiting for the remaining enemy teammate to peek around the corner. His prey is right there. Right behind that wall. All they have to do is walk into his trap.
Just peek already, you little pussy bitchâ
"Sunghoon!"
He yelps when a hand clamps on his shoulder. His arm jerks, aim twitching, and the enemy peeks at that very moment, landing a clean headshot on him. His teammates start cursing at him in the voice chat. A lovely, overlapping chorus of "kill yourself" and "delete the game" as if he hadn't carried them for the past two rounds.
Sunghoon mutes the mic and pulls his headphones down around his neck, glaring behind him at Heeseung, who is practically dragging him up from his seat. He tries to yank his arm away, but then another pair of hands is hauling him out of his seat. He directs his glare back at Jay.
"What the fâ"
"Don't act surprised. I literally told you we needed your help an hour ago. It's your fault for queueing a ranked game," Jay states, patting his shoulder. Sunghoon is now on his feet, blinking at him. Annoyed, but... ultimately unable to argue back, given he had ignored all his texts.
"Can't you just get Jake or something?" He mutters.
Jay is already leaving his bedroom, and Heeseung nudges him forward, forcing him to follow. Sunghoon rolls his eyes, a heavy sigh escaping him. He moves with begrudging footsteps out into the hallway.
"It's a four-man job. Turns out my grandma's coffee table is heavy as shit."
"Your grandma's coffee table...?"
He's not exaggerating. The thing is solid oakâmasterfully crafted, intricately carved, and so extremely fucking heavy that by the time they've wrestled it through the front door, all four of them go down, collapsing to the couch. Jake, already muttering something about needing a drink, Heeseung describing his physical decline in real time, and Jay, heaving in silence.
Sunghoon sinks into the cushions, and his vision blurs, wondering which is more to blame for it: the summer heat or the fact that he's been skipping the gym to play ranked and living off microwave ramen for the past few weeks. His headset is still around his neck, and he can hear his teammates losing without him. He doesn't care. He can't feel his arms.
"Fuck, I'm gonna feel that in my back for weeks," Heeseung announces to the ceiling, then his head lifts, "but look at thatâreally ties the place together, right?"
He gestures to the room. Sunghoon's eyes glaze over the sight. Bare white walls, curtainless windows, a TV that sits directly on the floor, and a trash bag in the corner full of takeout containers and red solo cupsâand of course, now, the beautiful table, sticking out like a sore thumb amid the room's college-boy barrenness.
"We've lived here a whole year now," Sunghoon starts between breaths, not enough energy in him to glare at his roommates. "Not once has any one of us said, 'Oh no, where will I put my cup of coffee?'"
"Who says we have to use it for coffee?"
He blinks. He doesn't know when Jake left the room, but he's now returning with a six-pack of beer, setting it down on the new table. He cracks one open immediately, settling next to him on the couch.
"My grandma's downsizing." Jay reaches forward, patting the table's surface with genuine affection. "She gave it to us for free. You don't say no to a free coffee table."
"Well, it looks stupid." Sunghoon folds his arms, "Really helps the whole we have nothing aesthetic."
"Come on. We're adults now." Heeseung perks up, "Adults have coffee tables. It's about presentation. Besides, I heard chicks dig it. Something about owning real furniture and bed frames just does it for them."
"None of us are bringing girls home," Sunghoon starts, looking at each of them. He sees Jake's mouth open to protest, "And no, your weird situationship does not count."
"Maybe that's 'cause we didn't have a coffee table before," Jay shrugs.
"Yeah, tell the ladies all about your grandma's furniture. I'm sure they'll start lining up the block."
Sunghoon feels a headache starting behind his left eye, and when he hears the game end through his headset at his shoulders, he rips the device from his neck, shoving it to the cushion at his side.
"Shitty ass game," He mutters.
A sweat had gathered at his brow, and he now moves to wipe it as he's reaching for a beer, cracking it open and taking a large gulp like it's water.
"Rough match?"
"Nah. Would've been an easy match," Sunghoon replies, groaning, "Just stressed. Coach has been pressuring me, plus there's that stupid course I have to retake this semester."
"Tough life being Captain of the E-sports team, huh?" Heeseung jokes, "Or what is it you were called that one time? The school's biggest virgin?"
Captain of the E-sports team. A title Heeseung delivers like a punchline. Most people do. Sunghoon, on the other hand, wears it with pride, and had long since stopped trying to explain himselfâboth the fact that being the best player in the whole school is a legitimate accomplishment, and the fact that he is not a virgin. Effectively explaining either of those things would require Heeseung to actually care, which he doesn't.
Sunghoon had spent his whole life refining his skills for that sort of recognition. He shoots with precision and wins. He reads his opponents to filth, predicting their every move, and annihilates them with ease. He plays Valorant at a level that makes his teammates worship him like a god, and the enemy team start inventing new slurs to type in the chat. That is to say, he was very, very good at it. And very serious about it.
It's precisely why he doesn't have time for moving coffee tables. Or sitting around like this. Orâ
His phone buzzes.
His is summer course. Right.
The one he'd failed last semester, that his academic advisor had gently but firmly informed him he needed to retake if he wanted to graduate on time. He'd registered for it in a fog of dismissive irritation back in March, figuring it would be easy enough. And then the syllabus had dropped with the word group project, and he'd been assigned a project partner who had emailed him four times before the first week of classes had even ended, asking about meeting up weeks before the deliverable due dates.
He reaches for his phone, scrolling through the feed of missed notifications from you: One shared document link, more than a couple missed messages, andâhe squintsâa voice memo. Who the fuck sends voice memos about code?
"Is that the project partner you keep complaining about?" Heeseung leans over his shoulder, snatching the phone away, "She sends voice memos. How adorable. Don't tell me you're ignoring those?"
"Give it back."
He doesn't; instead, he hits play, raising the volume to the max so the whole room can hear it.
"Hey, Sunghoon. How are you? Um... I'm here at the library now. I know we agreed to meet at three o'clock, but I got here a little early," he hears you laugh a bit nervously through the speaker. You have one of those that's just a little too sweet, a little too apologetic for no reason in particular. "I booked a study room, so text me when you're here. And... that's all for now. Bye, Sunghoon."
The boys sit there in silence. Glaring in disbelief at their friend.
"Oh my god," Heeseung groans, "Sweet Jesus, your partner sounds like this, and you've been ignoring her?"
Jay snatched the phone, glaring at it, then glaring at Sunghoon, "She sounds like an angel. What the fuck is wrong with you? Like, medically. What kind of mental illness does a guy have to have to end up like this?"
"That's the long-term psychological damage of being a Valorant player," Jake scoffs, and Sunghoon rolls his eyes.
"Play it again," Heeseung demands, and Jay rewinds it a bit, just to hear the breathing and that nervous little laugh through the speaker, a smile forming on his lips, "Is she cute? She sounds cute. She's got the voice. You know the one that some girls have, that makes you think about what other noises they couldâ"
"I don't know. I haven't even met herâyet." Sunghoon snatches the device back, "She's annoying. She sends like twenty messages a day."
"Twenty messages a day," Heeseung looks at him, "From a girl who sounds like she whimpers when she's nervous. You know what I'd do with twenty messages a day? I'd be jacking off to the typing indicators."
"That's disgusting. Keep that shit to yourself."
"What's disgusting is you having a girl sending you personalized audio content, saying your name like that, and choosing to ignore it."
"Bet he's got it all in a folder somewhere," Jay snorts, "Keeps it hidden away, playing on loop while he queues ranked. Jacks off between rounds."
"I've never even listened to any of these," Sunghoon says flatly, "She sends so many. Seriously. She's like an organized freak. The kind who start projects early and shit."
"Oh, so she's one of those girls?" Jake grins, "super nervous, apologizes for nothing... You know the type?"
"I don't." Sunghoon deadpans, feeling like his friend is about to start describing a porno category rather than an actual person, given the smirk on his face.
"The type that acts all innocent and sweet on the surface," Heeseung nudges him, "you know what they say about them, right? That they're total freaks in bed. Shit, if a girl like that booked me a study room I'dâ"
"Actually finish your degree and graduate?" Jake offers.
"I'd graduate with honours."
"She's probably been waiting in the library for how long, now?" Jay shakes his head, "She got there early. Early. She's probably sitting there with her little notes and highlighters and her 'bye Sunghoon' voice, checking her phone every thirty seconds, and you're here drinking beer and complaining."
Today. The meeting was today. He checks the timeâforty minutes ago.
"Shit," Sunghoon's on his feet, sprinting towards his room, "Shit, shit, shit."
He starts digging around for his backpack in his room, under piles of laundry, and nearly trips on the can he forgot to pick up on his floor.
"Guys, the library!" he calls out in a panic, "I'm supposed to be at the library. I need a ride. Now. Jay?"
"Not my problem."
"Jake?"
"Nope."
Sunghoon grabs his bag and stumbles back to the living room, bracing himself against the doorframe. Heeseung is already looking at him with that slow, insufferable smile, sprawled on the couch like he's been waiting for this exact moment.
"I dunno," Heeseung says, stretching his arms over his head with a theatrical groan. "I'm feeling pretty tired. That table was heavy."
"I helped."
"You complained the whole time."
"I did notâ"
"And you kept voice memos hidden from me. From all of us. That's a betrayal of household trust."
"I didn't hide anything. You're just a nosy degenerate." Sunghoon's grip tightens on the doorframe. "Are you driving me or not?"
"Hm." Heeseung taps his chin. "Maybe if you ask me nicely..."
Sunghoon takes a breath. Swallows his pride.
"Heeseung." He says through gritted teeth, "Can you please drive me?"
"Ah, I like the sound of that." Heeseung pushes off the couch and brushes past him with infuriating slowness. "Fine. But you owe me. I wanna hear more of cute-girl's voice notes, so be nice to her."
"Okay. Whatever, you fucking pervert." Sunghoon scoffs, watching him snag his keys off the hook by the door. "Just drive."
The library's fairly empty. It's expected, given it's the middle of summer on a weekend, but it's still jarring as ever to walk past empty tables where people would go to war to get a spot during finals season. And, for the first time in a while, he's thankful to be in an air-conditioned building.
"Hi Sunghoon!" you greet him as soon as he enters the room, seemingly startled by the suddenness of his arrival. He watches you for a moment, how your back straightens, and your immediate, almost rehearsed smile.
She's got the voice. Heeseung's words ring in his mind as he takes you in, you know the one that some girls have, that makes you think about what other noises they couldâ
"Hi," he answers, slipping into the seat next to you, "Sorry for making you wait. Roommate stuff. Had to move a coffee table. Very adult."
You laugh a little too quickly, and he notes the way your hands tremble in your lap. He also notes the way you refuse to meet his eyes.
"That's okay," you glance towards your phone, which was still face-up with its messages open. You fumble with it, tucking it away. "I was just worried maybe, like, you got lost or something."
Lost? He has to resist the urge to scoff. He's late, and instead of being upset, you decided to make up lousy excuses for him.
He looks you up and down again. You're cute, like you sounded over the phone. A nervous-looking mess. The type of thing his roommates would call endearing. Sunghoon, on the other hand, finds it frustratingly pathetic.
"So." You're already turning your laptop to face him, "I've been working on the backend structure. I commented everything, so it should be pretty straightforward. Here's the API setup, and the database schema..."
You click through files as you talk, your voice picking up speed, and he doesn't listen. He tries to. He swears, he does. But his eyes instead follow your posture, and how you sit uptight, spine straight. Your hands fumble around, twitching like you can't keep them still, and your knees bounce under the desk like a nervous habit.
Good god, you look like you'll crumble to pieces any moment. He can feel a headache creeping up on him already. It's exhausting just looking at you.
"...What do you think?"
"Huh?" He blinks, taking in whatever you're pointing to on your screen. You're looking at him all bright-eyed and earnest, as if his opinion would add any sort of valuable insight here. "I... think it looks good. You did well."
"Really?"
"Yeah, I mean," he shrugs, "Why do you sound so surprised?"
His question catches you off guard. He suspected it would, that's why he asked it. Not that he was trying to prod around in your anxious little head. Just that you seemed predictable. Now he knows you are.
"I just..." You're tapping the desk now. "I wanted it to be up to your standards. I didn't want to disappoint you."
"My standards?" He repeats. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs. Not at youâwell, maybe a little at you. But mostly at the absurdity of the most competent person in the room, asking for his approval. "You're something else, you know that?"
You blink. "What does thatâ?"
"Here," He's still smiling. The headache from earlier has faded. He's not sure when. "Let me show you what you're working with."
He opens his laptop and spins it toward you. His frontend code sits there in all its tragic gloryâbare bones, placeholder text, a CSS file with plenty of questionable styling decisions. Your take it all in, and for a split second, you forget to hide the horrified expression on your face.
"See? Trash. Actual garbage. I don't even show up to class. I'm not the guy whose 'standards' you should be worried about. Besides..." He leans back. "You're probably the best student in the whole class."
"I'm sure I'm not," you say, almost bashful, brushing it off as if it were a compliment. It wasn't. He was stating a fact. But you're too self-deprecating to know the difference, he supposes. "And your code isn't trashâ"
"It is. We both know it's ass. You don't have to be polite."
"It's... disorganized. And a little rushed..." You hesitate, "Were you busy with somethingâ?"
"Oh my god, you have no idea," he tilts his head back, a sigh of frustration leaving him almost immediately. "Regionals. Scrims every night. Coach breathing down my neck. I'm pretty sure I heard someone call for a flank in my dream last night, and I don't even think I was asleep. Or maybe that was just my roommates fucking with me again..."
You nod along as if you understand, though you definitely don't. You probably don't even know what half those words mean, but you're listening, and for some reason, that's less annoying than it was ten minutes ago.
"Anyway. I know it's rough. But like I said. Don't worry your head over anything else. I'll get to it, I swear."
"I'm not worried. I trust you. We still have another week, so it's not like it's last-minute. We just need to clean up some things here," You nod sweetly, then angle the screen toward him and lean in, your shoulder nearly brushing his. "The class labelling in the HTML is messing with the CSS styling. If you restructure the divs here, it should resolve most of the layout issues. And then here..."
You start explainingâspecificity, nesting, the cascade. Your voice is steady now, in your element. You point at the screen with a capped highlighter like a tiny lecturer. He catches maybe sixty percent of it.
What he catches more of is your instinctive forgiveness. He shows up an hour late with half-done work that looks like a middle schooler's first project, and you're already pivoting to reassurance mode. It's okay. It's a good start. We can fix it.
It's spineless. A little sad, honestly.
It's also nice. You're a nice person. No bite, no sarcasm, no passive-aggressiveness, just pure, unearned kindness.
He sighs, leaning back in his chair, settling in as you continue. He makes himself comfortable as best he can in his plastic library chair, and subconsciously, his legs spread, his knee drifting outward until it presses against yours under the table.
It wasn't intentional, and he's about to mutter a quick apology and draw his leg back, but then you pause completely. Your mouth is still half-open around whatever you were about to say, but nothing comes out. Your eyes drop to the table. Your fingers freeze over the trackpad.
He notices. He absolutely notices all of it. The way you swallow, the way your lip trembles trying to find your next word, the way you glance at him from the side in a panic, checking to see his reaction.
She gets flustered when I touch her, he thinks, filing the thought away like data, interesting.
He doesn't move his knee. Doesn't say anything or make any sort of face. He just watches you scramble, suddenly feeling a lot less bored than he'd felt a few seconds ago.
"Iâ" You shake your head, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. "Sorry, what was Iâthe bullet points. Right. I'll email you."
You clear your throat. Find your place in your notes again, though your hands are fumbling slightly, your crisp efficiency gone. You're scrambling to recover, to be useful again, to reassert the order you're using as a crutch.
"Anyway," you manage, "That's everything from my end. We're in good shape."
You're already packing up. The laptop closed with a decisive click. Highlighters swept into your bag in a single motion. Notebook stacked on top. The organized girl, reassembling her armour. Trying to pretend the last thirty seconds didn't happen.
"You in a hurry?" He has to hold back a teasing grin as you scramble for your words.
"No! I meanâyeah. Just. Gotta go, so... yeah. See you next week. Or something."
"Yeah. Or something."
He doesn't move. He's thinking about the bus. The long, slow route across campus. The forty-minute wait. Maybe Jay will pick up if he calls. Maybe Heeseung will text him something unhelpful, like walk it builds character.
You're standing, bag over your shoulder, then you pause, noticing he hasn't gotten up. "You're staying?"
"Hm? Just deciding if I want to beg my roommates for a ride, or suck it up and take the bus."
"Oh..." you adjust the strap of your bag, watching him thoughtfully.
Your hand is already at the door, ready to go. But you don't. Your mouth hangs open slightly, hesitating on your next word.
"Do you maybe want a ride? I have my car. If you want."
He looks at you. Still shrinking yourself. Still avoiding direct eye contact. And you're offering him a ride he didn't ask for. You're offering favours for himâa stranger you don't know. He files that fact away, too.
"Yeah." He stands, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "A ride would be great, actually."
You smile like he's the one doing you a favour, and he smiles back. Not for the same reason. Just because he's feeling really fucking lucky that his project partner is this nice to him.
What a stupid, stupid idea. Really, what on earth were you thinking? Having him, of all people, in your car? In your passenger seat?
Park Sunghoon. You'd read the name about a hundred times in email threads and shared documents. Now that same man is here, in your car, looking out the window with his jawline catching the late afternoon light like it's trying to blind you. Your blood pressure is rising by the second, trying to keep your focus on the road, while your heart threatens to beat out of your chest.
Admittedly, you were annoyed at first. You'd spend an hour in the library, checking your phone, re-reading the room booking confirmation, composing and deleting increasingly pathetic messages. Hey, just checking in! No rush!
You even practiced in your head the polite-but-firm speech you'd planned to deliver. It's a new thing you've been trying to do where you don't let people walk all over youâwhere you set boundaries and explain that your time is valuable.
Then he'd walked in.
To call him hot would be an understatement. That man right there is not simply hot. Hot is a word for attractive people who still seem human. Sunghoon, on the other hand, looks like someone photoshopped a male model into your web programming course as a prank.
His hair is dark and slightly messy, like he just rolled out of bed and somehow falls perfectly into place. His jawline, so sharp it could kill you, and when he flashed that dimpled smile at youâthat lazy, unbothered, gorgeous smileâyour brain had performed a full system shutdown.
You don't offer people rides. You don't even like having your friends in your car. You get stressed by the thought of someone else in your space, watching you drive, listening to your playlist. And now he's in the passenger seat of your car, looking so gorgeous that you're wondering if he's even real, and you're freaking the fuck out.
His knee bounces idly as he stares out the window, and your eyes snag on the movementâthe way his hand, large and sprawled out, rests loose on his knee. You snap your gaze back to the road.
Deep breaths, you tell yourself, sparing him another glance from the corner of your eye. Stop thinking about weird stuff. Stop being weird. Just make conversation or something.
"So," you manage, and the fact that you manage to say it while sounding almost normal is a small victory. "You said you were busy? With, like, a summer internship or something?"
"Nah." He's still looking out the window, nodding his head slowly to the music. You don't even know what song you have playing. The sound of your own thoughts is too loud for you to notice, but a warmth floods your cheeks at the mere idea that he's enjoying your music. "E-sports. I'm on the school team. We've got regionals coming up."
You blink.
E-sports. You suppose it makes sense. He is in computer science, like you. Most guys in your program are into the whole video gaming thing. It's just hard to imagine him as one of them.
You try to picture it in your head: The E-sports team. A group of socially awkward loners who sit in darkened rooms with headsets, shouting at each other. And then thereâs Sunghoon who, beneath the old hoodie and messy hair, looks like he's one photoshoot away from a skincare campaign.
"That'sâ" You search for the right word. "Cool. I didn't realize the school had an E-sports team."
"Most people don't." He shrugs, glancing over at you. "It's not exactly a spectator sport. But we're good. Made regionals last season. Coach says if we podium this year, we might actually get real funding."
He says it less with arrogance, and more in that matter-of-fact tone he seems to always have. There's something about the way he doesn't perform humility or pride, how he states his truth and moves on. It seems easy. You admire that. You also find it deeply unfair that his voice is making you feel all sorts of things while he's just... talking.
"What game?" you ask.
"Valorant. The shooter. With the agents and the abilities?" He glances at you. "You've heard of it?"
"Oh! My younger cousin plays." You think back, laughing a little at the recollection of the time he made you download it to your laptop. "I'm terrible at it. Like, genuinely embarrassingly bad. I panic and shoot at the floor."
He laughs. It's a real laugh, short and surprised, and a heat creeps to your cheeks. "Everyone's bad at first. It's all just practice."
"Right. Practice." You're smiling now, "I'll add it to my schedule. Between the project and avoiding my parents' calls."
"Your parents?"
"Strict. They mean well, but..." You shake your head, letting your words trail off.
You feel the weight of his stare, a soft hum leaving his lips. The intersection ahead goes yellow. You slow to a stop, grateful for the excuse to look away from him.
"So." You pivot, "E-sports. You must be practicing a lot then, right?"
"It's a lot of pressure," he says, and his voice has shifted slightly. Less casual. His brows scrunch together, and he's looking out the window again, passing streetlights catching the angles of his sharp, beautiful profile. "Coach says if we don't podium, our funding might get cut. Again. So I've been practicing nonstop. Scrims every night. VOD reviews."
Scrims. VOD reviews. Words that do not exist in your vocabulary, but you nod your head along like you understand. You think you get the idea, anyway.
"And then there's this course." He gestures vaguely at you, at the car, at everything. "This bullshit that I have to retake it."
"You failed web programming?"
"I was carrying the team through the playoffs. Sacrificed my homework for practice." He rubs the back of his neck, and your eyes track the shift of his shoulder, the way his fingers press into the muscle there, the brief glimpse of his collarbone where his hoodie shifts. You look away before he catches you staring. "Didn't think I'd end up failing, but. Here we are."
You think about his half-finished frontend. The skeleton components. The CSS file, full of god knows what. He'd shown it to you with the sheepish shrug of someone who knew exactly how bad it was and hated it. He hadn't tried to convince you it was better than it looked.
"But it's okay. It's worth it to make it to regionals." He's smiling to himself, "I'll fucking destroy those losers. They won't know what hit them."
You laugh, but he doesn't. You realize it's not a joke very quickly, and so you clear your throat instead.
"And I'll get my work done, of course," he tips his head towards you, his posture shifting. "Can't guarantee my portion will be as good as yours. But you can blame it on me in the group review doc."
"I'm sure you'll do great," you hear yourself say. "Not just the project. The tournament, too."
He turns to look at you. The late afternoon light catches the side of his face, and you have to force your eyes back to the road.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You clear your throat. "I mean, I don't know anything about E-sports. But you're the captain, right?"
"Yeah."
"So you must be good. Like, actually good."
He doesn't answer right away. When you glance over, he's not looking at the roadâhe's looking at you, head tilted slightly, like he's trying to figure you out.
"I am. I'm the best player on the team." He says it with that matter-of-fact tone again.
You pull up to his place. It's a student housing unitâone of those rundown ones that nobody cares about enough to fix up. Someone inside is yelling, the way guys yell when they're playing video games. You shift into park.
"Thanks," he says, unbuckling his seatbelt. "For the ride. And for... You know. Not being pissed about the code. Or the being late thing."
"It's fine," you smile. "Really. Don't worry about it."
He pauses with his hand on the door. Looks at you. There's something in his expression you can't read, the hint of a smile that you think might be lazy amusement, though you're not sure what he's amused by.
He stops. Shakes his head slightly. "See you soon?"
"Yeah! I'll send the invite. And the notes."
He smiles. That damn smile. And then he's gone, walking up the path to his door, and you're sitting in your parked car with your heart doing something stupid in your chest.
You watch him disappear inside.
You're warm all over, and there's no good reason for it either. All he did was sit there and talk to you like a normal person, and yet you're here, feeling a deeply humiliating sort of heat forming in your lower stomach the more you think about it.
Through the front window, you can see movementâsomeone on a couch, the blue glow of a TV. His roommates, probably. You wonder if he'll tell them about you. You wonder if they even know you exist.
Then you realize you're still parked outside his apartment, staring at his front door like a creep, and you pull away from the curb.
You have to drive all the way back to campus. It's a route you know by heart, familiar enough that your brain has permission to drift. And drift it doesâback to the study room, the way he'd leaned back in his chair, the way his knee had pressed against yours. You'd frozen. Completely, mortifyingly frozen. You'd forgotten your own sentence and stammered through the recovery.
And then he'd smiled at you in the car. And now you're smiling.
You're smiling at a red light with no one else in the car, like an idiot, and you can't stop.
It's late, past two in the morning, and the place has gone quietâHeeseung retreated to his room hours ago, Jake's been dead to the world the moment he got home from his summer job, and Jay's probably doomscrolling, given the amount of Instagram reels he keeps sending to the roommates group chat. The only light is the fridge, a dull white glow illuminating Sunghoonâs tired gaze.
Sunghoon stands in front of it, scanning the contents inside, none of it looking particularly enticing, but he just lost a ranked game, and he needs to eat his feelings.
Leftover takeout. Someone's half-eaten burrito. A case of energy drinks. He grabs a container that looks decent enoughâday-old noodles, probably Jayâs because nobody else in the house bothers to cook. Deciding that dealing with the aftermath of stealing his food is a problem for tomorrow, he shoves it in the microwave.
"Sup."
The floorboards creak behind him, and Sunghoon turns around to glare. Heeseung. Of course.
The microwave beeps, and Sunghoon grabs the container, shoving his chopsticks around. Itâs still cold in the center.
"Why do you always choose to enter the kitchen when I'm here?"
"Because we run on the same sleepless schedule," Heeseung moves to the sink, waterbottle held under the faucet and turns on the tap. His hair is a disaster, his shirt inside-out, and he watches Sunghoon eat Jayâs leftover noodles straight from the container, too lazy to comment on it. "And 'cause I wanna hear about your little library date. Was she cute?"
"Not a date."
"She drove you home. So it clearly went well." He turns off the tap and fastens the cap back on the plastic bottle. "Were you nice to her?"
"I was nice."
"You better have been. Most women would've called you a loser for being a grown ass man with no driver's license."
"Whatever."
"No, not whatever. I can't believe you." Heeseung points the water bottle at him, frowning, "I can't believe what I'm hearing. She waited an hour for you. Then she gave you a ride home.â
"I know. Real nice of her, right?"
"Too nice of her." Heeseung stares at him, watching him shove noodles into his mouth. "Jay's right. We really should do a scan of your brain. Admit you to a psych ward or some shit."
He doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to think about it. But his brain, unhelpfully, is already thinking about it.
The project. He should really start working on the project. That's the thought he keeps trying to hold onto. Not because he actually wants to do it, but because of you.
You'd been kind. Genuinely kind. You'd asked about regionals like you gave a single shit. You'd nodded along while he talked about Valorant, even though you don't understand any of it.
Then there was his codeâhis shitty ass code that he knew was trash, that you knew was trash, too. There was no lecture. No guilt trip. Not even a hint of disdain. You just showed him how to fix it. Carefully explained it, even sent him an email after with an organized bullet-point list of all the steps he needed to implement.
An angel. That's what you are. Or a doormat. Itâs the same thing, in his mind.
A worse person would take advantage of that, wouldn't they?
His phone buzzes on the counter: One new email. An attachment. Then a second notificationâa voice memo.
Heeseung's eyes immediately drop to the screen.
"Is that her?"
"Can you notâ?"
Heeseung snatches the phone. Again. Sunghoon is too tired to fight him.
"She sent you another voice memo. At 2am." Heeseung's thumb hovers over the play button. "You know what girls send voice memos at 2am for, right?"
He's grinning as he presses play, and Sunghoon digs his chopsticks further into his noodles, ignoring his crude commentary.
"Hi, Sunghoon. Um. Okay, so I was thinking about earlierâabout the whole esports thing, and how stressed you seemed about the tournament? And I just... I had some extra time, so I finished up the code. It wasnât a big deal, really. Only took a few hours.â Thereâs a nervous laugh, then a pause like youâd forgotten your next words, âHopefully, this helps? So you can focus on practice and not have to worry about the project on top of everything else⌠yeah. Just. Let me know if you have questions. I'm always happy to help. Okay. This is getting long. Sorry. Bye, Sunghoon.â
Heeseung sets the phone down on the counter, the movement slow and careful, like heâd just handled a sacred artifact.
"Dude."
"I know."
"This is insane."
"I know."
"You've got a girl doing all your work for you. At two in the morning. Because you mentioned you were stressed about a Valorant tournament. Said sheâs always happy to help."
"I said I know. She's nice. Now leave me alone."
"No, I don't think you understand. Do you even realize what this is?" Heeseung is pacing now, the kitchen too small for his indignation. "This is the literal definition of pretty privilege. You literally just sit there, and sheâs doing things for youâHoly shit, it's like when Jake was doing some hot chick's homework for an entire semester 'cause he was begging for a crumb of pussyâ"
"Jake was manipulated." Sunghoon sets his leftovers down. "I'm not manipulating anyone. I didn't evenâI never asked for this."
"Yeah." Heeseung stops pacing and looks at him. "But you could've. That's the fucked up part. You could  ask her to come over right now and do your dirty laundry, and she'd say yes. She'd probably bring her own detergent."
Sunghoon wants to retort that, but... You would, wouldn't you? He drags two hands down his face, sighing as his roommate's mouth continues to run.
"Life's so unfair." Heeseung throws his hands up. "I send a girl one message. One. And she leaves me on read for three days. You ignore a girl for a week, and she's doing your homework, giving you rides home, and sending you audio porn. What is wrong with the world?"
Sunghoon's looking at his phone.
He should type something. Thanks, maybe. Or sorryâsorry youâre doing his work at 2am, sorry he didn't do it himself, sorry he's probably going to keep disappointing you. His thumb hovers over the keyboard.
thanks. you didn't have to do that.
Deletes it.
seriously thank you. i owe you.
Deletes it.
He pockets his phone and walks past Heeseung, leaving the leftovers container behind.
"Where are you going?"
"Bed."
"You're not going to respond? You're just going to leave her on read?" He half-calls out, "You're really gonna act like you're not interested at all?"
He shuts his door. Sits on the edge of his bed, the room dark except for the blue glow of his monitor in sleep mode and with a heavy sigh, he opens the voice recorder. A hand runs through his hair, and he clears his throat, feeling like an idiot. Then he presses record.
"Hey. Got your email. Thanks. You seriously didn't have to do that." A pause. He doesn't know how to end these things. Your voice memos always ended with âbye Sunghoon,â all soft and hesitant-sounding, but he thinks something like that would just sound awkward in his own voice. He then realizes heâs still recording and stammers, "I'llâyeah. I'll make it up to you. Goodnight."
He hits send before he can delete it and stares at it for longer than he should.
Girls like that shit, right? The whole voice memo thing. He's not sure. He just felt like you deserve a little more than a thank-you text for doing his work for him.
He tosses his phone onto his nightstand and lies back on his bed, long limbs stretched out from a long day of doing mostly nothing (apart from moving that damn coffee table).
His brain, unhelpfully, drifts back to the library. The way you'd frozen when his knee touched yours. The way you'd stammered through the rest of your sentence and then offered him a ride anyway. The way you'd looked at him in the car, wide-eyed and nervous. It's been a while since he'd seen anyone look at him like that.
Not that he's inexperienced with womenâunlike what his roommates' constant teasing would imply. It's a lack of interest, something he had discovered about himself in high school with his first whopping three-month-long relationship. He'd gotten bored of her in the first month, and when she asked him to choose âme, or your stupid game,â it really wasnât a difficult choice to make.
Then there was the odd fling here and there in his first year of college. Again, never lasted long. He didn't have the time or energy to commit. In his defence, he was upfront about his intentions. It's not his fault they never listened.
He stopped bothering after that. Girls are drama. They get clingy and weird. They pout and whine over not getting enough attention, trying to drag him away from his game. That shit is annoying. And he doesn't put up with annoying shit.
A part of him wonders if you'd be the same. You're cute, but insecure. The type to get attached too quickly, he'd assume. But you also listened when he talked about his game. You did his code so he could practice more and asked for nothing in return. That's maybe the most supportive any woman has ever been of his future E-sports career.
You could probably ask her to come over right now and do your dirty laundry, and she'd say yes.
He scoffs at Heeseung's voice in his head. Then, a much crueller thought enters his mind:
I could probably get her to do the whole project, too.
It's sharp and invasiveâso much so that he's rolling over with a groan, burying his face into the pillows.
Sunghoon's a lot of things. A shitty project partner being somewhere near the top of that list, but he is not a freeloading whore.
He'll be grateful and move on. He'll do his work, he'll win regionals, and when the semester is done, he'll never see your face again.
Sunghoon did not, in fact, do his work.
He tried toâif opening up an empty file and staring at it for five minutes before queuing another ranked Valorant game counts as trying.
Bless your heart, you even sent him reminders. Texts of encouragement with little smiley faces, offers to help, to which he replied with empty promises. Don't worry, I'm working on it tomorrow. I've got it. All good.
All of that, until he woke up the next week with a calendar notification:
deliverable 2 meeting today
It's a weekday, which means Jay took his car to work. Which means he has to take the bus to the library. Which means he won't have time to string something together at the last minute for when he's supposed to meet you.
Sunghoon: can we meet at my place?
Sunghoon: got no ride today
You: sure :)
He grins at the text. Perfect. That's perfect. All he has to do is sit down, write some bullshit, and hope that you offer to fix itâwhich he's sure you will. You're nice like that. You're understanding.
But then he's at his computer, and he's looking at the Valorant icon in the corner of his home screen. And then he's queuing another game. Then another. And another... andâ
The doorbell rings.
Hours. He'd just spent hours playing instead of doing his work like a fucking idiot. And now he's in the middle of a ranked game, clutching up another round.
"Heeseung!" He yells, "Get the door!"
No response. Of course, there's no response.
Luckily, the last remaining enemy peeks, and he finishes the round with another win. With that, he's sprinting to the door. Swings it wide open. A wave of muggy outdoor air hits him, the summer sun beaming down, and you're there smiling slightly, hands gripping the strap of your bag. He doesn't have time to process you.
"Come in," he gestures, sprinting back towards his room. He calls out over his shoulder, "Sorry, I'm in a game. Ranked. Can't leave. Make yourself at home."
He's sliding back into his seat, and your footsteps follow tentatively behind him.
âRanked?â
âLike, if I leave, Iâll be penalized and lose ranked points.â
âAh.â
You stand behind him, a polite distance away, still gripping your bag. You shift your weight where you stand, squinting at the screen.
"I'll be done soon, don't worry. These guys are easy."
"Okay..." You sound a little confused, leaning over his shoulder, watching him move through the map.
Somehow, the feeling of your eyes on him as he plays feels like a power boost. And something in him feels the urge to show off just a little bit. You watch him easily take out two enemies with precision, and he smiles, cockily.
"Told you. Easy."
A voice perks up in the lobby chat. The enemy team. "Reported for aimbotting. This is fucking bullshit."
Sunghoon presses the button on his mic to talk, "Nah. I'm just better."
The voice on the other end proceeds to start cussing him out, mouth close enough to the mic that it cuts out every few words, calling him every slur and cuss word under the sun and from the corner of his eye, he sees your face drop in horror. He mutes himself for a second.
"It's just trash talk. Don't worry. Happens all the time."
"All the time?"
âGaming culture. Itâs not for the weak.â
He gets another headshot, and another voice joins in, "Yo, asshole, how does it feel being a basement-dwelling, virgin?"
"Wouldn't know.â Sunghoon quickly unmutes again, firing back, âWhy don't you tell me about it?"
A third voice, "Don't bother with him. This guy probably jerks off to his own highlight clips. I guarantee he's never felt the touch of a woman."
Sunghoon's about to respond, but then you're leaning forward in one confident stride.
"Oh? You guarantee that?"
The mic picks up your voice loud and clear, and the lobby explodes. Both the enemy team and his own.
"NO WAY."
âWHO IS THAT?"
"Bro has a whole woman in his room, and he's playing Valorant right now."
"She sounds hot as fuck."
"Dude, I'll forfeit if you get her to moan in the mic."
"Can we get a whimper if we win the next round?" His teammate says.
âFuck off,â He says immediately, glancing over at you. Youâre shifting your weight, your arms around yourself, looking incredibly embarrassed, but youâre grinning proudly. He grins right back, unable to resist the urge to rub this moment in on every other loser in the lobby. âSheâs a little busy under the desk right now.â
Your eyes go wide at the implication, and the voice chat explodes.
âWHAT THE FUCK DOES HE MEAN BYââ
The whole lobby talks over each other, and when he gets his final shot, VICTORY printed across his screen, he leans back in his chair.
"Anyway, sheâs waiting for me," He glances over at you, his voice terribly smug, and you visibly embarrassed. "Later incels."
The post-game stats load, and finally, there is silence in his headset. He lets it fall to his neck, still grinning.
"Sorry." You start, "I didn't mean toâ"
"Sorry?" He raises a brow, "Sorry for what? That was badass. You just destroyed them. Now those guys have to cope with losing and being bitchless. They're gonna be crying over it for the next year, at least."
"Well... good. They deserve it." You say a little proudly, watching him report the guy who called him slurs for bullying. "I don't understand. How can people get so mad over a game?"
"Sore losers," he says simply, "they're mad because they're bad."
"Or they're mad because you're really good," you offer a smile, "I didn't see you miss a single shot. How is that possible?"
He opens his mouth to answer, but the words don't come. Instead, heâs blinking, really taking you in for a moment, because if his eyes donât deceive him, you actually seem⌠impressed. Genuine admiration. The kind he only gets from his teammates and other losers in game.
"Practice," he starts, letting his gaze drop, taking you in. The skirt that rides up your thighs, your hands clasped in your lap, and those wide, attentive eyes of yours. "Years of aim training. Game sense. Good instincts."
Something stirs in him, and suddenly heâs thinking about how good youâd look underneath him, making that same wide-eyed expression for an entirely different reason. How nervous that little voice of yours would sound making other kinds of noises for him, what youâd actually look like if you were under his desk on your knees.
You'd give in so easy.
âAnyone can learn it.â He finally says, the intensity of his gaze half-wiped, replaced with something more polite. âIt just takes dedication."
"I'm a lost cause with this stuff. Trust me," you laugh, "Anyway. We should probably get to the project."
Ah. The project.
The thing he has nothing to show for on his end because he didn't do anything.
âThere's a lot more ground we have to cover this time. There are a lot more features that need to be implemented this time and..."
You ramble on as you seat yourself at the edge of his bed, opening up your bag, and Sunghoon gulps.
He could rip off the band-aid and admit it right now. "Sorry, I'm an idiot, and I played ranked instead of doing my work, but I'll get it done in the next week, I swear."
But you already did his work last week. Already spent a whole week sending him reminders and sending sweet little voice notesâall of which he'd responded to with empty promises. He swears he never meant for those promises to become empty. He planned on doing his work. He just... didn't.
Instinctively, he stands, and mid-sentence, he's placing his headset on your head, adjusting it. You freeze up like last time, and look up at him with the most helpless gaze, all train of thought just gone. His train of thought is rather lost, too, if he's being honest.
"Better idea," he says, "What if I teach you how to play?"
"Butâ"
"You defended my honour in a Valorant lobby. That kind of bravery deserves a reward.â He pulls out his chair for you, "Sit."
You hesitate. He can see the war happening behind your eyesâthe good, responsible side of you trying to fight the flustered one that wishes to give in.
"Just one game. For me?" He reaches out and nudges your shoulder. He lets the touch linger a second longer than it needs to, and he watches your breath hitch.
"Just one.â
The gaming chair swallows your frame, and he pushes it in, hovering just a little too close as he leans over you. He puts you in practice mode to start.
"Alright. Basics first. This is how you move." He guides your hand to the keyboard, his fingers deliberately brushing yours. "WASD. Forward, left, back, right. You know that already?"
You nod weakly, moving around, not quite with ease, but at least you know how to do it. He laughs a little at the jerky movements, and your flustered demeanour from him being this close. He's enjoying this.
"Good. Now shooting." His hand covers yours on the mouse. "Left click. Aim for the head."
The bot appears. You click. Miss entirely. Click again. Hit the shoulder.
"See? You're already better than half my ranked teammates."
"Don't make fun of me."
"I'm not, I swear."
He lets you get comfortable with the practice range. You're clumsy but getting the hang of it, your movements less awkward, your aim less panicked. By the time he queues you into a real matchâcomms and text chat both disabled, he's not having a repeat of earlierâyou're at least facing the right direction.
He drags a chair from the kitchen and sits next to you.
"Real game now. Real players. They're going to be better than the bots."
The first few rounds are rough. You die early in the first. Then the second. By the fourth round, you've done exactly zero damage, and the enemy team is up 3-1. Your teammates are probably flaming you. He's glad he muted them before the round started.
"See? I told you I'm terrible."
"No talking. Just play."
Round five. Your teammates are dropping around you. It's a disasterâyour teammates rushed in too soon, leaving you behind. And then it's just you. One versus two.
"Stay behind the corner," Sunghoon says, his voice low near your ear. "Wait for them to come to you."
"But our team is supposed to be attacking, right?"
"Yeah, but these players are stupid. They're playing too aggressively. They'll come to you."
His hand lands on your shoulder, and your hands are trembling slightly on the keyboard.
"Keep your crosshair at head level. Right there."
He adjusts your mouse, and you nod. In your ears, you hear footsteps. Then, the enemy peeks. You click. The headshot sound is unmistakableâa clean, crisp dink that echoes through the headphones. One enemy down. Pings explode from your dead teammates.
"Holy shit!" Sunghoon leans forward, grinning. "Look at that! You got a headshot!"
"IâI did?"
"You did. One tap. Clean as hell," he's beaming, "Now, don't lose focus yet. One more to go."
You're staring at the screen like you can't quite believe it. Your hands are still trembling, but you're smiling nowâa real smile, wide and bright and unguarded.
Though you donât have time to celebrate, because a body shot hits from behind you, not enough to kill you, but enough that you scream. You move behind the wall, frantically moving the mouse around.
"Don't panic. They're coming to you. Just waitâ"
The enemy appears, and you click, your bullets spraying clumsily, and by some miracle, you outlive them with barely any health leftâbut you won. You won the 1v2.
"That's my girl!" He's grinning wide, "You're a natural, you see that?"
You play terribly the rest of the game, but your team locks in, their hope reignited by your clutch up, and carries you to a win. VICTORY. It appears in big letters across your screen.
You take off the headset, your smile unwavering, your cheeks warm. "That was... actually kind of fun."
"See? Told you."
"I still mostly did nothing."
"You won. Stop being humble." He nudges your shoulder, allowing the touch to linger. "Most people don't win their first game. Bet I can help you win your second, too."
"Sunghoon." You laugh, gently moving his arm away as he tries to queue another game. "We have to do the project."
"We can do that another time."
"We can do this another time. We need to work."
"Do we really need to?"
"Yes."
He pauses a moment. A beat of silence passes, and your gaze lingers on him.
"Sunghoon," you say again, gently, carefully. Like you already understand where this is going, "If your work is a little messy like last time, I don't mind. I just want to make sure we're on the same page."
"I just..."
He looks at you. Still in his chair, still wearing his headset around your neck now, and the way you're looking at himâhalf-flustered, half-stubborn, trying so hard to be responsible and even going so far as to push backâmakes him realize he'll have to try harder than he thought to distract you.
"I just think with you, it's always: Project this. Project that. You work so hard. You know it's okay to relax sometimes, right?"
"Iâ"
"You know what your problem is? You worry too much. Whenever I see you, you're always worrying. What's up with that?"
He leans back in his chair, arms folded over his chest. Your eyes follow them, how his biceps strain in his shirt, and his knee bumps yours. He stays watchful, analyzing the way your breathing picks up. The way your eyes go wide again.
"I don't know... I've always been..." you manage, shaking your head, "My parents were strict growing up, so..."
"I don't see your parents anywhere."
"Right. I know it's silly, but sometimes it's like I still hear them in my head," you laugh nervously, avoiding his gaze, "it was always study, study, study. No fun, no friends, no boysâ"
"No boys?"
All of a sudden, it clicks for him. The shyness. The stuttering. The way you'd frozen in the library when his knee touched yoursânot just flustered, but genuinely short-circuited, like your brain had no protocol for what to do. The way you'd offered him a ride, even though you could barely look at him. The way you'd defended him in voice chat, fierce and uncalculated, with no idea of the attention it would bring.
It all makes sense now. Every single thing.
You're not just anxious or sheltered. You're completely, profoundly inexperienced. He's likely the first guy who's ever been this close to youâand youâre here, in his room, wearing his headset. Every reaction you've had, every flush and stammer and nervous laugh, it's all because you've never done this before.
He smiles, enjoying the thought more than he should. A lot more.
"No boys," he repeats, and his voice comes out slow and deliberate. "What does that mean, exactly?"
"It means no boys. Like." You're flustered already, and he hasn't even moved. "No dating. My parents were really strict about it, and I justâI never reallyâ"
"Never really what?"
He knows exactly what you're trying to say. He just wants to hear you try to say it.
"Never really... dated?" he offers, tilting his head. "Never really had a boyfriend?"
You shake your head, barely a movement.
"Never really..." He lets the pause stretch. Watches you squirm. "...anything?"
You can't manage another word, so you don't speak. You don't have to. The silence speaks for itself.
"You've never done anything?"
The question hangs in the air. He watches you process itâthe implication, and how you canât hide from it.
"Never even been kissed?"
"No." There it is. The confession, small and brave. "It's embarrassing. I know. I never reallyâ"
"It's cute, actually."
You look at him, wordless. Maybe he should feel bad. He should feel guilty for prying this out of you, for enjoying how uncomfortable you are and filing all of this away as useful information. Some distant, rational part of his brain knows that. Instead, he's thinking about how nobody has ever touched you. How heâs the first one now to have been close enough to see you all flustered and vulnerable and completely unguarded.
His hand finds your knee. It's innocent enough, not drifting any higher than above it, his thumb moving in slow circles, and he watches in real time as your mind goes completely blank.
He's going to kiss you. Honestly, he knew he was going to kiss you the moment he understood what "no boys" meant, and while part of him is still trying to distract you from the project by getting you all hot and bothered like this, another part of him wants to do it just because he can. Just because you're there, in his chair, looking at him like that, reacting to his touch like this. That kind of power is a drug. It only makes him want to see just how far he can push you.
"Sunghoon," Your voice comes out thin, breathless. Your hand flutters up, not pushing him away, just hovering, like you're not sure what to do with it. "The project. We really need toâ"
"The project." He says it flat, like the word itself is a chore. "The project will be fine. It'll get done. Right?"
He tilts his head, lets the implication hang there: You did the last one. You'll do this one, too.
Your mouth opens, but whatever argument you'd prepared dissolves the second his hand moves. It slides up from your knee to the edge of your skirt, his fingers tracing the hem where it brushes your thigh, and you go absolutely still beneath his touch.
"You look cute today, by the way." His voice is low, and his eyes look you up and down. "I like this."
He toys with the hem of the fabric, his knuckle grazing bare skin. Your thighs press together involuntarily, and he catches it. The movement. The sharp little inhale. The way your hands grip the armrests, fingers curling into them.
A sound escapes your throat, something small and embarrassing. A whimper you clearly didn't mean to make. His eyes flick up to your face. Your lips are parted, and you're looking at him like you've forgotten how words work.
"That's it," he murmurs, "You'll be good for me, right?"
Your eyes drop to his lips. You nod. It's a tiny, helpless movement, and the last of your resistance crumbles.
His free hand comes up to cup your chin, tilting your face toward his. He's close enough now to feel your breath, shallow and uneven. Close enough to know that no one has ever touched you like this before, and you're terrified, but you're not pulling away.
He leans in, slowly inching forward, closer and closer andâ
"Sunghoon!" The door bursts open, "Have you seen my charger? I think..."
Heeseung's voice trails off as he takes in the sight. You. Sunghoon. The proximity between you. His hand on your thigh. Valorant open on his PC.
"Well, well, well..." he grins, leaning against the doorframe, "do my eyes deceive me, or is that a girl? In your bedroom? Sitting on your throne?"
"Leave."
"And you're making the poor thing play your stupid game. That's no way to treat a lady," he gestures around, then looks to you, "You. Don't tell me you're pretending to be impressed by his KDA ratio?"
You shrink under his gaze, looking like you wished to flee any second.
"Listen, I get it.â He raises his hands in surrender, âHe's a good-looking guy. But his personality?" He shakes his head, "Heâs a walking red flag. And not in the hot bad boy way. In like, a discord-moderating, redditor way."
"Seriously, get out."
Sunghoon is on his feet now, jaw tight. But you're already up, already grabbing your bag, already not looking at anyone.
"Actually, I should go."
"You don't have toâ"
"I'll see you soon." The words tumble out.
You duck past Heeseung, out of the bedroom, into the hall. Your footsteps go fastâpast the living room where the coffee table sits in all its carved, solid-oak glory.
Heeseung follows you as far as the hallway, leaning against the wall with the lazy confidence of someone who knows he ruined something, but has no idea what.
"Wait!" he calls after you. "Before you leave, what do you think of the coffee table? Real craftsmanship, right?"
The front door slams. Hard enough to rattle the empty energy drink cans still scattered on Sunghoon's desk.
Heeseung turns back to the bedroom doorway, where Sunghoon is standing rigid, hands at his sides.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Sunghoon spits.
"Me? What's wrong with you?" He strides on into his room, taking his lost phone charger from the port near his bedside. The one he took yesterday without asking, "You steal my shit, you get cockblocked. Sorry."
"You know that was my project partner, right?"
"I know who it was." Heeseung wraps the cord around his hand, watching Sunghoon with an expression that's sharper than before. "The one with the voice. The one who did your work at two in the morning. I guess now she comes over to stroke your ego too, huh?"
"I was this close toâ"
"This close to what?" Heeseung quips, raising a brow. "Finish the sentence."
"This close to... to taking her mind off of worrying. She's a chronic worrier. It's annoying. It's..." his voice trails off.
Silence. Sunghoon notices the look in his roommateâs eyes: disapproving, doubtful.
"You know what I think?" Heeseung says slowly, "I think you're getting a little too comfortable with the amount of kindness she gives you."
"I don't know what you mean."
âThe walls are thin, and Iâm nosy. I know what I heard,â he scoffs, heading toward the door. "Youâre pushing your luck. And trying to tongue your project partner so she can do your work for you is a new low. Even for you."
Sunghoon then gapes at the offensive, downright defamatory implications his roommate is making towards him.
"I didn'tâ" Heeseung leaves before he can defend himself. And Sunghoon stumbles to the hallway, calling out after him. "I didn't do anything wrong!"
Sunghoon slams the door shut on him, taking a second to breathe. There's a ping on his phone. A new voice note. He clicks it immediately, your voice rushed, the sound of your car running in the background.
"Hey Sunghoon. Sorry for leaving like that. I got kinda nervous when your roommate walked in. But I had a really good time with the game! And with you. And... oh, and about deliverable 2." You pause, then a sigh escapes youâheavy, but hesitant. "I've thought about it, and I know your tournament is coming up really soon, so I don't mind taking it off your hands. Anyway, goodbye for now, Sunghoon."
Sunghoon sinks into his gaming chair. Relief morphs into glee, a short laugh escaping him. He canât believe it. He canât believe you.
Whatever guilt Heeseung was trying to make him feel fades instantlyâeasily. Too easily.
He queues another game.
The basement is quiet. Still. Peaceful. Just Sunghoon, the ironing board, and his team jersey, steam hissing in the silence.
His gamer tag stares up at him from the back of the jersey, crisp and clean. Tomorrow he'll be wearing it on stage. Tomorrow it's game time. Tomorrow, he's locked the fuck in, with his team at his side and everyone there to watch him take that victory.
He's in the zone. Has been all night. Showered, prepped, head clear. No distractions. No thoughts about the final project deliverable due next week that he definitely hasn't started, or thoughts about Heeseung's accusations, or thoughts about you, and your wide eyes, and the way you looked at his lips right beforeâNope. Heâs not thinking about it.
The basement door groans open, followed by footsteps. Sunghoon doesn't bother turning around. He knows itâs Jay, judging by the heaviness of the tread, and because heâs the only one of them who regularly uses the washer instead of letting clothes pile up until they smell.
"Game's tomorrow?"
"Yep." Steam hisses. Sunghoon runs the iron along a sleeve. "You're still driving me, right?"
Thereâs a pause. Too long a pause. Sunghoon turns. Jay's standing by the washer, suddenly fascinated by the lint trap.
"Jay."
"Huh?"
"The tournament," Sunghoon says it slower this time, the iron forgotten in his hand. "The thing I gave you the date for a month ago. The thing you swore you'd drive me to. Ringing any bells?"
"Right, right." Jay shuts the washer door. Doesn't meet his eyes. "Well."
"Jay."
"Thing is," Jay scrubs the back of his neck, "my grandma's moving. Already told my mom I'd help tomorrow morning."
âDude.â Sunghoon blinks, gaping at him, "You promised me first."
"Sorry, man. Grandma over you."
"I gave you a month's notice."
"And my grandma gave me twenty-two years of birthday money." Jay shrugs, already turning toward the stairs. "Can't put a price on that."
Sunghoon sets the iron down with a little more force than necessary. "You could've said something before tonight."
"It's not the end of the world. Just take the bus."
"It's an hour drive. Longer by bus. On a Sunday. That'sâ"
"Tough luck."
"Jay." Sunghoon's voice sharpens. "This is the biggest day of myâ"
But Jay's already halfway up, and the basement door clicks shut behind him. The washing machine hums into the silence. Sunghoon stares at the empty staircase.
The bus is not an option. Absolutely not. He didn't grind all season to show up to regionals late, all sweaty from sprinting across a transit terminal because the Sunday schedule runs once every forty-five minutes if he's lucky.
And his teammates? He could squeeze into someone's car, knee to chest, listening to them argue about team comps and whose mom packed snacks. He'd rather walk.
But⌠there is another option.
Someone who's given him a ride before. Someone who is always happy to help. Someone who did his code, who defended him in a Valorant voice chat, who can't resist him, no matter how many times he's proven himself incompetent.
He pulls out his phone.
It seems like a shitty thing to do. He knows that. But, it's mutually beneficial, isn't it? He gets a favour, you get to see him. It's a win-win, really.
Besides, it's not like he's only calling for the ride. He genuinely does like the idea of you there, front row, cheering his name. Watching him destroy the enemy team live instead of from his bedroom. You'd get all confused, trying to follow the game, and then he'd win, and you'd be proud even though you don't really understand what you're proud of andâhell, maybe he'd finally get to give you that kiss. Maybe more.
It's been on his mind too much lately. Your eager, parted lips, your thigh tense beneath his touch, the way you leaned into it like a good little plaything. Always so desperate to pleaseâyou'd make him feel like a real champion, wouldn't you? All nervous and untouched and entirely his. His prize, his to guide, his to take.
It's a perverse fantasy. It's also not entirely impossible. Though, he shakes his head at himself, not erasing the thought, but putting it back on the shelf.
The ride. That's the priority now. Having a pretty girl at his arm is just a bonus.
You press submit.
Deliverable two, done. Your portion, pristine, commented, tested, and complete. His portionâthe portion you told yourself you wouldn't doâalso complete. Also entirely yours.
You close the laptop and sit there in the dark of your dorm room.
This is getting out of hand. You know it is. It's been out of hand, actually, ever since the library and the first deliverable that you fixedâthe thing you shouldâve never done in the first place but did anyway.
He didn't do his work again, and this time he didn't even try to pretend otherwise. He just looked at you with those eyes, said âIt will be fine,â and you let the subject drop because his hand was on your thigh, your brain had stopped working, and the only thing on your mind was not wanting to let him down.
But what about him letting you down? Itâs happened twice now. Not enough times to call it a pattern of behaviour yet, but enough to imply something about his character and where his priorities lie. He's unreliable. Lazy. Probably manipulative, if your best friend's theories are true. That's not the kind of guy you want. That's not the kind of guy anyone should want. You should be furious, actually. You should send him a firm email. You should stand your ground.
Heâs hot, though, your brain unhelpfully reminds you. Stupidly, impossibly hot, and he almost kissed youâyou think. Sometimes you replay it in your head, and you're certain of it. Other times, you wonder if you imagined the leaning in, the pause, and the way his voice dropped when he said you'll be good for me, right?
You sigh, hand twitching against your thigh. When you close your eyes, it's like you can still feel him touching you there. Every time you think about it, your whole body goes hot, and you think about it a lotânot just about what happened but what could've happened if his roommate hadn't walked in. You can't even keep track of the amount of times you've lied awake, drenched in your own sweat, thighs pressed together, just thinking about his hand slipping further up your skirt and relieving you of the torturous, wound-up feeling that's had you in a chokehold all summer.
Your phone buzzes.
Incoming video call: Sunghoon
You stare at the screen, still recovering from your fantasy. It takes you a minute to actually process that it is, in fact, him calling you and not a figment of your imagination. He's never called you before. Not once. All summer, it's been voice memos and texts and the occasional thumbs-up emoji.
It rings again, and you fumble reaching for it, nearly dropping it on the floor. You pick up, and as soon as you see the FaceTime video loading, you click to turn off your camera.
Your eyes are glued to the screen as you take in the sight of him. He's lying in bed, his hoodie pulled up over his head, shadows cutting across his jaw, and his hair falls over his eyes. You're almost pissed at the fact that someone can look that good so casually.
"Hey." His voice comes through your earbuds low and rough, and it travels down your spine. Your whole body shivers.
"Hi," you manage, small and a little breathless.
"How's my girl doing?"
My girl. That's the second time he's called you that. The first was during the game, when you landed the headshot. You'd assumed it was adrenaline, or a reflex. Something guys said to their duo partners, like "my man" or "my guy". But he's not gaming now. He's in bed. Talking to you.
"I'm goodâfine." You swallow. "What aboutâ?"
"Can I see you?"
"See me?" You glance down at yourself. Old t-shirt. Not a trace of makeup. Yeah. That's not happening. "I'm in bed. It's dark. There's nothing to see, so..."
"Hm," he sighs, and you hear the rustling of fabric as he adjusts himself. "Too bad."
"What's up?" You're trying to sound normal, clearing your throat, "Why'd you call?"
"Just wanted to chat."
His free hand finds the drawstring of his hoodie, twisting it idly around one finger. Your eyes follow the movement, staring at the veins, the size of his hand, the length of his fingers andâyou drag your eyes back to his face.
"About?"
"You free tomorrow?"
He shifts again, and the camera jostles, this time a light groan escaping him.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow you haveânothing. You have absolutely nothing. And even if you did have something, you'd still say you have nothing because it's him who's asking. Your heart skips a beat, a stupid smile breaking on your face.
"Yes," you say, immediately trying to downplay the eagerness in your voice. "Yeah, I'm free. Why?"
"And you can drive?"
"Sure. Whyâ?"
"Good." He ignores the question again. "Then I'm taking you out."
Your heart does a full stop. "Where?"
"Surprise.â Â He smiles. âJust wear something cute, m'kay?"
Wear something cute.
What does that mean exactly? Cute how? Cute like a dress? Or is a dress too much? Maybe a skirt. He said he liked your skirt last week. He toyed with the hem and said I like this and you made a sound you're still embarrassed to remember.
"Sleep well," he then says, breaking the long, silent pause with a slight chuckle, "See ya."
And before you can get another word in, he's gone. The reflection of yourself stares back at you in the darkened screen.
Maybe you should call him back and ask what 'cute' means. What kind of 'cute'? Dinner cute? Coffee cute? Hanging out at his house, cute? But after a long time of staring at his contact, debating how to even ask, you decide it's too late.
You shower, scrubbing every inch of yourself. Exfoliate. Shaveâyou shave everythingâcarefully, methodically, in places you don't normally bother with because usually you're thinking "who's going to see?" But if his hand travels further than it did last time, you do not want to be stuck in your own head worrying about it, so you do it just in case. Just to be prepared.
Then you stand in front of your closet for forty minutes trying on everything you own, trying to decide what feels like too much, and what feels like not enough. You don't know.
Eventually, you settle. A skirt you usually avoid because it rides up your thighs too much. A top that's nice without trying too hard. You look at yourself in the mirror. You feel pretty. Normally, you feel clean, or presentable, or fine. But today, you feel pretty.
It's a dangerous feeling. You're getting dressed up for a boy who hasn't done a single assignment all summer. You're shaving your legs for him when technically you're still not sure what "taking you out" implies. But your heart is racing, and your cheeks are warm, and you find yourself smiling at your reflection in the mirror like an idiot, anyway.
So what if you dressed up for him? You're allowed to feel pretty. You're allowed to want him. You're allowed to hope.
You're shaking when you pull up to his place. Not visibly, at least, as youâre gripping the steering wheel hard enough to hide it.
Youâve been talking to yourself under your breath for the last three blocks. Be normal. Be cool. Which would be a lot easier to do if this weren't the first time a boy had asked to "take you out" and youâve been alone with your own anxious thoughts for so long now that you're starting to dwell on what that might mean again.
Dinner, maybe? The thought simultaneously makes your heart flutter and your stomach churn. You're so nervous, you're not sure you could hold down any food. What if he asks why you're not eatingâ?
You're getting ahead of yourself. Maybe he's right. You do worry too much. You don't even know where you're going yet, and you're already jumping to conclusions.
Predictably, you're early. Of course you are. You'd left your dorm with an extra twenty minutes because you couldn't stand to pace around your room anymore, and now you're pulling up at the curb feeling like an idiot. But, to your surprise, he's already waiting on the porch.
He spots your car before you even have time to honk, jogging down the steps, and you roll down the window, smiling bright and stupid and probably too eager. Then...
Then your eyes drop to his chest.
The jersey. The school's E-sports team jersey, to be precise. You know what it looks like because you've stalked the team's Instagram page about a hundred times just to stare at the photos of him on there until they were permanently burned into your retinas forever.
"Hey," he says, pulling open the passenger door. "Right on time."
"Hi," you swallow, smiling politely. "What are you wearing?"
"Team gear." He slides into the seat, dropping his bag at his feet. "Regionals are today. Didn't I tell you?"
Your blood runs cold.
No. No, he did not. He said I'm taking you out. He said to wear something cute. He said it was a surprise.
"Regionals," you repeat. "Right. The tournament."
"Yeah. It's at the convention centre. About an hour drive." He's buckling his seatbelt, "Coach said we could bring anyone we want. Figured I should bring my number one supporter, right?"
So it's not a date. Not at all what you were thinking when he called you late at night with his voice all low and asking if you were availableâasking if you could drive.
Still, you smile. You smile because even if your heart has sunk into your stomach, you know it's your own fault for thinking this would be anything more than it was.
And, well, this matters to him. This is the thing he's been neglecting the project for. The thing he told you heâd been practicing for, talking about it in the car that first day you met him. Heâs choosing to bring you to his thing. That alone must mean something... right?
"That sounds fun," you say, and the words feel like they belong to someone else. "I've never been to an E-sports thing before."
"You'll love it. You'll finally see me play for real. Not just some ranked lobby."
"Yeah." Your smile starts to hurt your cheeks. It strains and fails to reach your eyes. "Can't wait."
The drive is an hour. You spend most of it listening. He talks about the bracket, the teams they're facing, and some enemy team player who's been trash-talking him online. He talks about comps and strats and something called a meta. You nod, you smile. You ask questions. You try to seem engaged.
In a way, you are a little. Not because you care about the game, but because it's hard not to feel warm in the face when you see him like this. He's barely able to sit still in the passenger seat, gesturing with his hands, more animated than you've ever seen him, smirking with the kind of confidence you'd expect a star player to have. This is his thing. This is what he's good at. He invited you.
That has to mean somethingâyou're certain of it now. Even if it's not what you thought. Even if you spent an hour getting ready, shaving everywhere and trying on countless different outfits just to sit in a convention centre folding chair.
You glance down at your skirt and your pretty top. All that effort you put into looking like you hadn't put in effort now feels wasted.
Maybe people dress up nice for these things, you tell yourself. You've never been to an E-sports tournament, so you wouldn't know.
At least, that's what you tell yourself, refusing to believe that he chose those words on purpose, knowing how they'd come across, knowing how they'd affect you.
"You look pretty, by the way."
Your head snaps toward him. He's looking out the window, and the words slipped out of him so casually that you almost don't catch it. Your heart furiously pounds in your chest, all doubt in your mind momentarily forgotten.
"You too." The words tumble out before your brain can catch up, and immediately you want to grab them and shove them back in your mouth. You too? "I meanâyou look good. The jersey. It suits you."
There's a hint of a smile on his lips, and yours tug into one tooâsomething small and hopeful.
You keep driving, trying to focus less on the quiet ache in your chest and more on the fact that he is here right now, in your car, bringing you into his world.
The convention center is freezing, the kind of cold that seeps through your thin top and settles into your bones. The air conditioning is blasting, likely to prepare for the body heat of the crowd that'll pack this place in a few hours. But right now, it's just you and a handful of other early arrivals and staff members scattered across folding chairs, listening to the distant sound of someone testing a microphone.
He didn't introduce you to his team. Didn't even glance back. Just pointed at the front row and said, "Sit there," and then he was goneâswallowed by a cluster of matching jerseys and equipment bags. You'd stood there for a moment, awkward, watching him disappear, arms wrapped around yourself against the cold.
That was hours ago. Hours in a hard plastic chair, scrolling through every app on your phone until you'd seen every post, every story, every notification that wasn't there. You got up once to buy an iced coffee from the convention center cafeâwatery, gone in ten minutes. It did nothing to quiet the growling in your stomach.
You're cold. You're hungry. You're bored. You're wearing a skirt and a cute top in a convention centre full of strangers who smell like they don't shower, and you feel stupid. So, so stupid. But when he jogs over to you, twenty minutes before the tournament starts, everything brightens. Like you're not freezing to death where you sit. Like it all makes sense now, why, against your better judgment, you decided to stay.
He's got his headset looped around his neck, and his eyes have that focused, sharp kind of intensity you witnessed the first time you saw him play in his bedroom. He carries himself like heâs already won. Itâs the kind of easy confidenceâor arrogance, ratherâthat others would call obnoxious. To you, however, itâs captivating.
"Hey!" He squeezes your shoulder, just once. The warmth of his hand cuts through the chill. "Still awake?"
You blink up at him, smiling before you can stop yourself. Your head is foggy from too much fluorescent light and not enough food, but suddenly none of that registers.
"Barely.â You laugh, âBut still alive. What about you?"
"Iâm ready." He grins, that cocky, unbothered grin. "More than ready, knowing that you're here."
Your breath catches. Stupid. It's such a small thing yet the warmth that blooms in your chest catches you off guard, and for a moment you forget about the miserable afternoon you've just had. You just smile back at him, helplessly.
"Don't get too sleepy. I want to hear you cheer. Loud."
"I will." You say without hesitation.
"Good."
He flashes you one last smile, and then he's gone, slipping back toward the stage. You call after him, "Good luck!" He doesn't turn around. Just raises a hand in acknowledgment.
You sink back into your chair, still smiling, still warm from the brief press of his fingers on your shoulder. It's pathetic, honestly. You know it's pathetic. One touch, one sentence, and suddenly the hours of waiting and the overpriced coffee and the cold that's still seeping through your clothes don't feel like such a big deal anymore.
When the tournament starts, you come to realize you know a lot less about this game than you thought. There's a lot of terminology that flies past your head. Strategies you donât understand. Names you donât recognize. But you know enough that you understand when his team is winning, and when he's the last one alive on his team, wiping out the enemy team like they're nothing, and you definitely understand why the crowd cheers loudly when he clutches a 1v5.
They win. Easily. Itâs not even close, and when the final round ends and the casters are screaming, and his teammates are out of their chairsâyou're on your feet too. Clapping until your hands sting. Cheering, though you're certain you'll lose your voice for it.
He finds you the moment his team filters off the stage. One second you're standing alone, scanning the crowd of jerseys; the next, his hand is at your waist, fingers curling against the fabric of your top, pulling you into his side like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like he's done it a hundred times. His palm is warm through the thin material, his thumb pressed just above your hip, and he's wearing the world's biggest grin.
The hall is chaosâpeople talking in every direction, the music playing too loudly, a coach yelling something across the room. You can't really hear what he's saying, just the rumble of his voice near your ear, the occasional word breaking through: ...killed it... ...see that clutch?... You nod, smiling, hyperaware of the heat of his hand and the way his fingers tighten whenever someone jostles past. He steers you toward his teammates with that grip on your waist, guiding you through the crowd like you're an extension of his victory.
The other boys are clapping him on the back, shouting over each other. Every time someone congratulates him, his hand flexes against your hipânot quite pulling you closer, but not letting you drift either.
"...You good with sushi?"
"Hm?" You furrow your brows, not quite catching his words still.
"Post-game celebration. Coach is treating us," he leans in right next to your ear this time, his words a little clearer. He grabs your arm. "Let's go."
The sushi place is in a strip mall across the parking lot from the convention centre. Laminated menus, lighting that's too bright for a celebration, and employees who look like they're regretting every life choice that led them to this shift. The sheer amount of noise coming from the table doesn't help.
The team has been going around making speechesâthanking the coach, thanking their friends, thanking Sunghoon, their number one captain and player. He soaks it up like a sponge, leaning back in his chair with the ease of a star player who knows he killed it. The table goes a little quieter when itâs finally his turn.
"I'd like to thank my team, of course, for putting their best foot forward. Coach, for keeping us in line. But most importantly..." He turns to you. His arm slides from the back of your chair to your shoulders. "I'd like to thank this one right here. For the support. For cheering me on louder than anyone." He squeezes your shoulder. "You made my life a hell of a lot easier this semester."
Easier.
You're not sure why that choice of words doesn't sit right. Maybe because it felt too cold, or detached. He could've said you made his life better, brighter, happier⌠and maybe you're reading too much into it. Youâre probably overthinking it and jumping to conclusions that arenât there, like you always do. But easier implies convenience, nothing else, and you donât really like the way that makes you feel.
He's being nice, you tell yourself. Heâs thanking you in front of everyone. It's a good thing.
"Oh, and I got you something." He reaches into his bag and pulls out a jersey. Identical to his own. "My spare jersey. Since you know. I couldn't have done it without you."
You take it, the fabric stiff and unfamiliar in your hands. You open your mouth to say somethingâthank you, maybe, or you didn't have toâbut nothing comes out.
"Put it on."
You do, and the shirt swallows your frame, the hem only a few centimetres above where your skirt ends. His gamertag is printed in bold letters on the back, and on you, it feels like a brandâa mark of his claim. You hold your breath, too overwhelmed by the scent of him, and your stomach does that flipping thing it always seems to when he gives you crumbs of affection like this, except this time with a newfound heaviness resting uncomfortably somewhere within you.
"Looks good," He hums, pleased, nodding to the rest of his team, "Right guys?"
The team cheers, someone whistling while the guy sitting next to him claps his back, and he takes it all in with pride, while you look down at your lap.
"Hey. Don't be shy." He leans in, voice dropping just for you. His knee bumps yours under the table. "I meant it. You do look pretty today."
The heaviness lifts. Just a little. Just enough to put on your brave face again, and the wait staff starts serving up whatever platters they ordered earlier. The boys descend like hawks, piling their dishes high, chopsticks clacking. Two of them fight over the remaining spicy salmon rolls, and someone orders another round of sake; meanwhile, Sunghoon is already talking about the next tournament.
You stare at your plate.
You were hungry earlier. Starving, actuallyâyour stomach had been growling through the final matches, but now you just poke at a piece of nigiri with your chopsticks, turning it over and over, watching the rice fall apart.
This isn't exactly what you had in mind when he said he was taking you out⌠but he thanked you in front of the team. Gave you a jersey. Called you pretty. And his knee keeps bumping yours under the table, making an embarrassing flush creep to your cheeks every time.
He wants you here. That should be enough. That should make you happy. So why do you still feel so hollow?
"Excuse me," a voice appears behind you both. You and Sunghoon turn to face him. "I'm with the school paper. Mind if I grab a few quotes?"
A guy with a press badge and a notebook is standing beside the table. You'd seen him earlier, sitting in the same section near the front as you. Reserved seating. It makes sense. Regionals are a big deal for your school; this is probably the most interesting story they've had in years.
"Yeah, sure."
"Just a few questions about the match. The clutch in finalsâwhat was going through your head?"
"Oh. Easy. I locked the fuck in," he breaks into a smug grin.
Sunghoon talks about game sense. Instincts. Reading the enemy. The reporter scribbles notes, asks a few more questions. Asks about his training schedule, the responsibilities of being the team captain, and the pressure.
You continue to poke at your food, assuming none of it involves you, until he glances at you.
"And I see your girlfriend is here. How does it feel to have that kind of support showing up for you?"
Your heart skips. Sunghoon glances at you, but his gaze isn't nearly as panicked as your own
"Oh. She's not my girlfriend." He says it casually. Like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like the idea had never even occurred to him.
Suddenly, the table is a little quieter, like everyone had hushed their conversations just to overhear. Feeling the weight of everyone's eyes, your fingers tremble around your chopsticks.
"Ah." The reporter looks at youâthe jersey, the arm around your shoulderâthen offers an apologetic smile, "Sorry, I just assumedâ"
"She's more like..." He tilts his head, considering. "My lucky charm."
Lucky charm. Not a girlfriend. Not a friend. Not even my project partner, who gave me a ride here and did all my work for me. A lucky charm. Something you carry around for good fortune and toss in a drawer when you no longer need it.
"Or maybe," he starts again, "She's like my prize. You know, you win the tournament, you get the trophy. She's kind of both. Good luck and a good reward. You know what I mean?"
You hear a snicker from across the table, and he laughs too. He laughs. His arm is still around your shoulder, heavy and warm, and his thumb is tracing idle circles against your sleeve like nothing is wrong. Like he didn't just reduce you to an object in front of a reporter and his whole team.
"I'm just teasing. But, really, the closer I keep her, the easier my life becomes. So, you asked how it feels, right? I'd say it feels pretty damn good," he pulls you closer for a second, giving your shoulder another squeeze, "I was telling the whole team earlier. It's all thanks to her."
"Wait, so she's single?" One of his teammates leans over, "Dude, you've been gatekeeping her all nightâ"
"Fuck off." He snaps, turning back to the reporter, "Next question."
The interview fades to background noise.
Lucky charm. You want to laugh. Or maybe cry.
As if luck had anything to do with it. The only reason he's here, celebrating, getting interviewed, is because of the labour, time and energy that you freely offered him like a fool. And now he's calling it luck.
You sit there in your seat, his arm heavy around you like he owns you. You realize only then that it means nothing. Absolutely nothing.
You slide out from under it. "Bathroom," you murmur, already on your feet.
He doesn't look up. His hand drops to the back of the empty chair without pause, and the reporter is already asking the next question.
You walk toward the door, and the bell chimes as you leave.
The parking lot is hot. The heat, humid and suffocating, rises off the asphalt, and the air feels thick in your lungs. Your car is at the far end. Too far away, you think, as you make your way. You walk fast, the jersey still hanging off your shoulders, and it feels like the weight of it is slowing you down. You hate that you're still wearing it.
Behind you, the restaurant door opens, and heavy footsteps follow. "Hey! Hey, wait upâ"
You don't wait. Obviously. But he catches up very easily, hand on your shoulder to halt your frantic steps.
"What's going on?" He catches up, slightly out of breath. "You just left. What gives?"
You spin around. "I'm a lucky charm? A prize?"
"What?" His expression shiftsânot guilty, but confused. Like he genuinely doesn't understand. He takes a moment to gather himself. "Yeah. Like, it's a compliment. Like, I'm lucky to have you here with me. I mean, what did you want me to say? Project partner? Female friend?"
"Listen." Your voice is shaking. "I'm happy for you. You won. Congratulations. But I want to go home now."
"But why? We were having fun, right? And the team loves youâ"
"No." You cut him off. "Your team loves you."
"Yeah, and you're with me."
"I'm with you?" The words catch in your throat. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Your heart thuds, watching him carefully. You hold your breath, hopingâdesperately, patheticallyâto hear something other than a lucky charm this time. Something meaningful. Something more.
"It means..." his voice is careful, processing every word in his head before he decides to say it, "You're wearing a shirt with my name on it, and I'll be the one taking you home afterâ"
A laugh escapes you. Not because any of this is entertaining, but because you truly cannot fathom how that is the best response he could come up with.
"You're taking me home?"
"You know what I mean."
"Sunghoon." Your voice drops. The frustration is bleeding out, leaving something softer behind. Something that hurts more. Your hands are trembling. "You told me to wear something cute. You said you were taking me out."
"So that's it?" He asks. You donât know when he moved closer, or how you allowed him to, but suddenly his hand is at your shoulder again. He rubs it as if to comfort you, and his words tumble out, a little more frantic than he usually sounds, "You wanna go out? We can go out. We can go out right now. Just tell me where you want to go. I'll take youââ
"We aren't going anywhere." You say a little firmer this time, brushing his hand away. "I'm leaving."
You walk toward your car, but he doesn't relent. He came here with you, and his ride is standing in front of him, keys in hand, about to disappear. He can't let that happen.
"Wait."
He grabs your arm, his hand warm and familiar. You hate that it still makes your breath catch.
"Please." His voice is different now. Lower. The arrogance is goneâor maybe just hidden. "Don't go. I'm sorry. Okay?"
"Sorry for what?"
"For..." He runs a hand through his hair. "Calling you a lucky charm? And not taking you on a date? Whatever I did. Just⌠don't leave me here. Please."
"You don't even know what you're apologizing for," You hiss, your hand curling tighter around your car keys.
"Yeah. Because I'm confused." He tries, "I was being nice all night. I gave you the jersey. I don't know what I did wrong, so tell me. I'll do whatever you want. I'll fix it."
"Sunghoon," you frown, taking in a breath. You're going to do it. This is the moment where you stand your ground. "I am not some doll that exists to give you free rides whenever you want. Or do all your work. Or sit through your gaming tournaments and make you look good in front of your teammates."
"You're notâ" his brows furrow, "That's not what you are."
"Then what am I?"
You try to step back, but your back meets your car door.
Now you're cornered, and he still hasn't answered. Instead, his hand comes up. Hesitant, not quite sure if he's allowed, or if it's the right choice to make currently in the heat of the moment, but he does it regardless. His fingers brush your jaw, featherlight, just tracing it and his thumb settles under your chin. Everything else around you ceases to exist.
"Tell me what you want me to say." His voice is rough, and he tilts your face up, "What do you want from me? I don't understand what you want."
"Sunghoonâ"
"I keep thinking about last week," He exhales, something between a laugh and a breath. His other hand finds your hip, fingers curling into the fabric of the jersey. "What we never got to finish. I know you think about it too."
His forehead nearly touches yours. His thumb still rests under your chin, holding you in place, and his eyes drop to your lips.
"One last time," he asks, "What do you want?"
You realize he's doing it again. The thing where you try to talk about something seriousâthe project, the way he's been treating youâand weaponizes his irresistibility against you. You wonder if he even realizes that he's doing it.
Regardless, you canât help how you stare. He's just so... beautiful. So incredibly irresistible. The warm press of his body, caging yours to the car. The intense look in his eyes. His height, and how he towers over you. It's too much.
"You know what I want,â your voice comes out smaller than you intended.
There it is. The part where you give in. You always do. How could you not? Youâre just a girl, caged between the hottest man you've ever seen and your car door.
Your eyes drop to his lips.
"That's all you had to say," he murmurs.
He kisses you. Your first kiss. It's not gentle. It's hungry, desperate, his hand sliding into your hair, his body pressing against yours. Your brain shuts off entirely. Your hands come up to his chest, and instead of pushing him away like you should, you're gripping his jersey, pulling him closer. You have no idea what you're doing, but the feeling of his tongue in your mouth and his hands all over you has you whimpering under his touch, melting into his arms.
"You're with me." He says against your lips, rough and unrelenting. "Stay here with me."
His hand slides from your hip to the car door behind you.
"Let me make it up to you. I'll treat you so well. I promise."
Your whole body is trembling. He's so close and so warm, and you've wanted this for weeks andâfuck, who are you kidding?
The back seat of your car is cramped, but he doesn't seem to mind. He's above you, his body a warm weight, kissing you, worshipping you with his tongue and his mouth, kissing along your neck. He takes his time, letting you get familiar with the shape of him atop you, his hard cock pressed against your thigh through his pants.
You're embarrassed with the amount of slick between your legs and how your skirt has ridden up all the way at your hips to reveal it all. If you thought you could ever try to hide what he does to you before, you certainly canât do it now.
"Look at you," he murmurs against your mouth. His fingers find the hem of the jerseyâhis jersey. "You look so good in this. So fucking good."
You can't speak. Your voice is gone. His hand slides up your thigh, pushing the jersey higher. Then he pauses. Looks down. A slow grin spreads across his face. His hand traces over your underwear, smooth skin separated by thin fabric.
"You prepped for this?" Your face burns. "All this?" His fingers thumb the lace edge of your panties, "For me?"
"I didn'tâI wasn'tâ"
"You were expecting something." His voice is teasing. "Weren't you? All dressed up. All smooth." He kisses your throat. "Fuck, that's so cute."
A sound escapes youâa whimper you didn't mean to makeâand he chuckles, the vibration of it travelling down your neck. His hand is still on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles against bare skin just above the hem of your skirt. You can feel the heat of his palm, the way his fingers splay wide like he's claiming territory. Your hips shift without permission, angling toward him, chasing the pressure he isn't giving you.
Then his hand retreats. Slides back to your waist. His lips capture yours in another open-mouthed kiss, and you make a frustrated little sound against his mouthâhalf protest, half plea. Your fingers wrap around his wrist and guide it back down, pressing his palm right where you need it, your thighs parting in invitation.
âHm?â Â He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyebrows raised, lips still slick. There's genuine surprise underneath his evident amusement. "You wantâ?"
âMore.â
The word comes out sounding more certain than you expected. His expression flickers, both taken aback and deeply, thoroughly pleased, then his hand resumes its position, palm pressing flat against the lace of your underwear. He doesn't slip beneath the fabric, rubbing only slow, deliberate circles over it, letting the friction build until your hips are rolling into his touch.
It's a lot. The pressure, the heat, the way he watches your face the whole time like he's studying you. You're so sensitive that even just his hand over fabric has your breath catching in your throat.
"Like that?" he murmurs.
You nod, not trusting your voice. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeve, holding on.
"I've neverâ"
"I know." There's a teasing lilt to his voice, his lips curving against your throat. He likes this. Likes the way you're coming apart beneath him, all trembling and flushed and brand-new. His fingers don't slow. "You want to stop?"
It's a dare. He already knows the answer. His thumb presses down just a little harder, drawing another broken sound from your lips.
"No." The word is torn from your throat too fast.
Stopping is actually the opposite of what you want. You've been dreaming of his touch all summer. Even if he's a complete asshole, he's a beautiful asshole, and the ache between your thighs knows where its priorities lie.
"Yeah?" His voice drops, words brushing against your ear, "Then tell me what you want."
"Sunghoon..." you trail off, his thumb still circling your clit over your underwear, "I don't know. Just touch me more, please."
âBegging already?â He smiles against your mouth, and then his hand slides back down, dipping beneath the waistband of your panties. His fingers are warm as they brush through your slick folds, gathering the wetness that's been building since he first kissed you. He doesn't push in yetâhe circles your entrance lazily, teasing, letting you feel the pressure without the invasion. "You're too good to me."
It's been a while since he's done any of this, but he's always been good with his hands. Itâs like facing an opponent: The technique is muscle memory, and the strategy is played by ear. He just has to watch you, learn your weaknesses, and exploit them until he wins. Though when it comes to you, he's learning that you're weak to pretty much everything he does, watching your lips part and your brows scrunch together without his fingers even inside you yet.
âSo wet. So worked up. You really wanted this, didn't you?" he whispers, "Don't worry. I've got you."
He pushes one finger inside youâslow, deliberate, sinking deep until his knuckle presses against your entrance. Your back arches, a sharp gasp escaping your throat, and he watches your face as he curls that finger, searching, finding the spot that makes your eyes flutter shut.
"That's it," he breathes. "That's my girl."
He adds a second finger, stretching you, and the wet, slick sound of your body accepting him fills the foggy car. He pumps them in and out, his thumb pressing circles against your clit, and you feel yourself clenching around him, your hips rolling to meet his rhythm. Your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.
"Feels good?" His voice is in your ear, low and rough. You nod, unable to respond. Breath catching in your throat because you can barely breathe, think or do anything coherent. "Is this all you wanted? Needy girl just wanted my attention?"
In the midst of the fog, it catches your eye again. His cock, hard and untouched in his pants. You want to see him. All of him. And you reach out for the waistband, desperate to feel the weight of him in your hands.
"Wanna touch you, too," you manage, and his fingers slow inside you for a moment.
"Yeah?" He grins, watching you pull the waistband down and palm him through his boxers. He just watches you fumble around, looking up with that awestruck, wide-eyed gaze. "You sure?"
You pull him free anyway. And then you stop, staring for what you're sure is way too long. Because he'sâwell. He's big. Not that you have any real-life experience to compare him to, but still. It didn't take a genius to figure out that he's impossibly, unfairly big. So much that it makes you wonder if the universe just decided to give him everything: the face, the hands, the voice, and now this. Maybe you should've expected that the literal embodiment of the genetic lottery would have a pornstar cock.
"What's the matter?" He laughs, propping himself up on one elbow to get a better view of your face. "Nervous?"
âNo.â You swallow, still staring. "You're just reallyâ"
"Big?" He says it for you, clearly enjoying himself. "Yeah. I know."
The bigger the dick, the bigger the ego, huh?
You watch him grin down at you, and you really do want to pretend like you're not affected by it, but it's actually kind of terrifying and a lot more than you bargained for.
âDonât think about that right now,â He takes his free hand and encloses it around yours, around him, not showing you how to do it. Just guiding you. âIâm enjoying this.â
Your fingers are gentle and trembling and completely unsure, but he doesn't mind. He takes in the sight, watching you try to please him with your hand while you fall apart on his fingers. You clench around him as he presses inside, finding the right spot that makes your eyes roll back, and you can't help the cry that leaves your parted lips.
"Thatâs it," he murmurs. "Good girl. Just let go."
You unravel around his fingers, back arching off the leather seat, and he has to press his free hand flat across your hipbones to keep you from bucking against his palm. Your thighs clamp around his wrist, trembling, and his name, broken and breathless, catches in your throat. Itâs the most beautiful sound he's ever heard you make. He watches it happen, watches your mouth fall open, and your lashes flutter, watches the tension seize through your body and then release, all at once, around his fingers.
When you come back to yourself, you're still gripping him. Your fingers are wrapped around his cock, loose now, your palm slick with the precome that's gathered at the tip. He's still hard and aching. His breathing is ragged, his chest heaving, and for a long moment, he doesn't moveâjust stares down at the way your hand looks wrapped around him, your delicate fingers against the flushed, heavy weight of his length. Then his jaw tightens, and his hand closes over yours, repositioning your grip.
"Like this," he guides you, pumping your hand up and down his shaft. He tries to show you the rhythm, the pressure, the speed. And to your credit, you're trying. You are. And if he were in the mood to be a little more patient, he'd let you play with him. But currently, he doesn't have it in himself to torture himself any longer.
He closes his fist around yours, harder. Then he's moving, fucking into your hand with short, desperate thrusts. The sound of it fills the cramped car, skin on skin, his hips snapping forward in a rhythm that's too fast, too ragged to be anything but pure need. You watch him, still dazed from your own release, still sprawled across the back seat with your skirt bunched at your waist and his jersey twisted around your torso. Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, and your eyesâwide, glassy, utterly fixed on where his cock slides through your palmâare the only thing he can look at.
"Fuck, look at you," he groans. His head drops forward, hair falling into his eyes, but he forces himself to keep watching his length disappear and reappear through your grip. "All spread out for me. My cute little reward. My prize. All mine."
His rhythm breaks. His hips stutter, and then he's spilling across the jersey with a low, broken groan, something primal and possessive curling in his gut at the sight. You lie there, still catching your breath, wearing his name and his release.
He braces himself above you, breathing hard. His forehead nearly touches yours. The windows are fogged opaque, sealing you both inside this cramped, humid quiet.
Your skirt is bunched at your hips. The jersey is twisted around your torso, damp and clinging to your sweat. You don't move. Don't speak. Just lie there beneath him, wearing the evidence of what just happened, still recovering.
He exhales, long and slow, and his eyes trace over you.
"Shit," he breathes, sounding almost in awe. "You're really something, you know that?"
You don't answer. You're still catching your breath, floating somewhere between the high and the slow, creeping return of reality.
He doesn't notice. He's too busy looking at you and the jersey he's made a mess ofâat the way you're sprawled beneath him with something between satisfaction and wonder. All of his doing.
"So," he murmurs, propping himself up on one elbow. His free hand traces a lazy line down your arm. "You forgive me?"
"Hm?" Your eyes finally meet his, blinking up.
"The tournament. The project. The stuff I said. Or did." He presses his lips to your jaw, peppering kisses until he meets the shell of your ear. His thumb draws a slow circle on your hip. "You're not still mad, right?"
Your chest rises and falls, not quite finding the words just yet.
"Because I meant what I said. You're with me. Thisâ" he gestures between you, "âthis thing we have. I like this."
His eyes are on youâhis unfairly beautiful eyes.
It would be so easy to forget the whole night ever happened. Your hands twitch where you hold onto him, warm and solid, and the part of you that's still deeply infatuated with the sight of him like this wants so badly to pull him back down and discover all the other ways he could take you to heaven and back.
But then you look down at the jersey. His jersey. At the stain already drying on the fabric. He'd marked his territory and tried to present it to you as a gift, and you think the worst part of it all is that he really, truly does believe it's something to be grateful for.
He presses a kiss to your forehead, and you close your eyes. Your throat tightens. For a moment, you almost let it go. You almost fall back in.
"Also, like... youâll still drive me back, right?"
Your eyes snap open.
You glare up at him. At his perfect, oblivious face. At the faint smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth. He's still braced above you, still warm, still inside the afterglow you were both supposed to be sharing. And for a moment, you wonder whoâs more stupid: him or you.
"Get out."
He lifts his head, "Huh?"
"Get out of my car."
"We justâhold on," He pushes himself up, still dazed. "I made youâyou literally justâ"
"You made me cum. Great job." You shove at his chest until his back hits the door, and he fumbles with his pants. "Youâre still an asshole. Now get out of my face."
"You're kicking me out?" He gapes, "You canât do that to me.â
"There's a bus stop nearby."
Your hand reaches for the door behind him, shoving him out, and he stumbles onto the asphalt. His brows furrow.
"I'm not taking the fucking bus."
"Not my problem." You yank the jersey over your head. Ball it up. Throw it at his chest, and he catches it on reflexâhis own name, crumpled, damp, ruined. "Find your own way home."
You slam the door and climb into the driver's seat, ignoring the way he pleads outside the window, knocking on the glass. He's frantic, still recovering from the whiplash, but you don't stop.
You start the engine and back out of the parking spot, speeding away and in the rearview mirror, he's still standing there. Jersey in one hand, watching you disappear.
The ride back to your dorm is quiet. Radio off. Just you and your thoughts, the sun bleeding orange across the horizon.
People always say your first kiss is supposed to be special or that your first time is supposed to mean something. Meanwhile, your first kiss was followed by getting fingered in the backseat of your car in a strip mall parking lot with a boy who treats you like trash, wearing his cum-stained E-sports jersey.
It's a tale as old as time: a girl who doesn't know any better gives everything to a boy who couldn't care less. Maybe you should feel used or ashamed. Maybe it should feel wrong, or cheap, or degrading. Yet, it doesn't really. Because honestly? You'd wanted it all summer. His hands on you, his voice in your ear, touching you in places you've never been touched before. It wasn't special. It wasn't romantic. But it was yours, and you took it.
There is a heaviness in your chest. You can't deny that. But there is something else that shines brighter, that courses through your veins, head to toe.
Satisfied. You feel satisfied. A little giddy, even.
Park Sunghoon. Brilliant esports player. Terrible project partnerâand terrible person, really. But fuck, if he wasn't good with his hands. And body. And words. And face.
You grin to yourself at the memory of it all, free of the anxiety that used to cripple you every time you thought of him. All those hours you'd spent wondering what he thought of you, if he liked you back. You don't give a shit what he thinks anymore.
He debated for a while who to call. Not Jay, obviously. Jay would take one look at the crumpled fabric in his hand and drive in the opposite direction. He could've called JakeâJake wouldn't judge him for his sexual failures, given his pathetic history with women, but Jake would certainly judge everything else about the situation. Also, thereâs no way he would drive an hour out on a whim just to pick him up.
That left Heeseung. The one most likely to actually pick up, only because heâs a nosy little shit and he'll absolutely never let Sunghoon live it down.
Sunghoon finds himself sitting in the passenger seat, jersey crumpled in his lap, staring out the window, and Heeseung takes a loud, dramatic sniff.
"You smell like jizz." He glances at the jersey. "The fuck did you do with that?"
"None of your business."
"None of my business, my ass." Heeseung pulls out of the lot. "I'm doing you a big favour. Think I deserve to know."
"I don't get it. I mean, I don't get her. I was doing everything right. I gave her the jersey. I told the team I couldn't have won without her. I made her feel good. Really good. Like, screaming-my-name kind of good." He pauses. "Not to brag. But I blew her fucking mind. And then suddenly it's 'get out of my car,' and she throws the jersey at my chest and drives off."
He turns to Heeseung, genuinely bewildered. "What am I missing?"
"Let me get this straight," Heeseung changes lanes. Checks his blind spot. "She drove you to your game? On top of all the project shit she did for you?"
"She wanted to."
"Did she?"
"...Well, she wanted to see me." He folds his arms, "She had a good time. So I don't get the problemâ"
"Sunghoon. Dude." Heeseung sighs, "The whole seduction manipulation thing you're trying to do? It only works if you're hot and smart enough to pull it off. You're just hot."
"I'm not manipulating her."
"Sure you're not."
"I'm not. I'm just trying to keep her happy. Which, judging by how hard she came, I thought I was doing my job right."
Heeseung snorts. "Your job?"
"What?"
"You're treating her like a resource. Like a side quest. Keep her happy, get the rewards. She's a human being, not an NPC, dumbass."
"That's notâ" The denial dies halfway out of his mouth. Sunghoon stops, brows furrowing at his roommate's words. "That's not what she is. No, she's nice to me. Like, genuinely nice." The corner of his lip tugs, almost involuntary. "She's fun to be around. Laughs at my jokes. She listens when I talk about Valorant. She has this look, like she's all impressed, even though she probably doesn't understand any of it. And man, you should've seen the way she cheered for me. It was like... the best feeling in the world."
He stops a moment, sighing, the memory of you beneath him in the car resurfacing itself. You, falling apart for him.
"She's cute," he says, and the words feels a little too innocent for what he actually means, but he probably shouldn't say anything more in front of Heeseung anyways. "She's really cute."
He stops. Blinks. His own words catch up to him, and suddenly the inside of the car feels very small.
Suddenly, he feels warm. These days, he always seems to feel that way when he thinks about you. It's annoying. It's distracting. It'sâ
"Hold the fuck on." The car comes to a screeching halt at a red light, and Heeseung turns. "You like her."
"What?" It comes out too fast. "Yeah, right. You know I don't do dating. Or any of that bullshit. It's a waste ofâ"
"I didn't ask if you wanted to marry her. I asked if you liked her."
Sunghoon looks out the window, streetlights passing.
He thinks about you. Your laugh, your smile, the voice notes you always leave and how he sometimes finds himself listening to them late at night when he has nothing better to do. He thinks about the way you looked in the crowd, sitting there for him. The way you always show up when he needs you and let him treat you like trash.
For a while, he told himself he was only getting close to you for convenience. Though thereâs nothing convenient about the jittery feeling in his stomach right now, is there? He shoves it back down.
"No," he folds his arms. "Obviously no."
Heeseung gives him a long look. A very long look. Then he turns back to the road.
"Then stop bothering the poor girl and do your damn project."
Heeseung turns up the radio. The highway hums beneath them.
Sunghoon stays silent. The jitteriness in his stomach fades into something new. Something that aches. A terrible feelingâan awful one. He wonders how you might feel right now. Worse than him, he's sure.
"I will," he suddenly says. "I'll stop."
He'll do his work. He'll make things right. And next time, when you inevitably come back around, he'll apologize properly.
Sunghoon opens the project folder. Stares at the empty files, the frontend he never built. The CSS that's still mostly placeholder comments.
This should be easy. He'd always told himself I could pass this class in my sleep if I actually tried. But now he's trying, and his brain is a blank wall.
He types a line, deletes it, types again. Wrong syntax. The error at the bottom of the screen glares red and refuses to explain itself. He opens google, checks Stack Overflow, which presents and answer he doesn't understand. He copies the code anyway, slots it in, and five more errors bloom where one used to be.
This is bad. Severely bad. If he fails this course again, his GPA risks dropping below the minimum threshold for athletic eligibility. No GPA, no team. No team, no playing next season. And if Sunghoon canât play next season, the team loses the tournament, and they lose funding. No funding means the program folds, which means he can kiss his E-sports career goodbye.
His hand twitches toward his phone. It's become a reflex nowâreach for you the moment something goes wrong, except now you wonât help him. Because he fucked that up and asked for too much too quickly and made you feel used. And now heâs stuck, watching the errors keep piling up, knowing the deadline is three days away.
Leave the poor girl alone.
He grabs his phone anyway.
He can't do it without you. He doesn't know the syntax, doesn't know the structure. You were always there, filling the gaps, smoothing the edges, making it look easy. And he let you. He counted on it. He counted on you, and he didn't even realize it until you were gone.
He needs you. He opens your chat and looks at his messages. Still unanswered. Still unread.
Sunghoon: hey. i'm sorry.
Sunghoon: i know you're mad but
Sunghoon: idk how to do this without you
sent three days ago
Sunghoon: hey
Sunghoon: i donât wanna bother you again
Sunghoon: but i really am trying
Sunghoon: and im stuck
Sunghoon: please
sent two days ago
"Hey. It's me. I don't know if you're listening to these anymore." He clears his throat, eyes on the timer of the voice recording. Heâs sent a lot of these over the past few days, and heâs long since stopped hoping youâll respond. He treats it almost like a confessional instead. "I'm sorry. For everything. I really am. I tried to do the project. Like, actually tried. And I can't. I don't know how. I never went to class, and I neverâI know it's all my fault. And that I've dug my own grave. Just... I hope you know I'm trying. And..."
A long silence. The recording meter ticks.
"...I miss youâfuck. Sorry. Just. Yeah. Sorry"
He hits send, immediately shoving the device aside and burying his face in his hands. He keeps telling himself he doesn't want to bother you. That he can figure this out on his own. That he should leave you alone. But the cursor's still blinking on an empty file, and his phone's still dark, and the lie is getting harder to hold onto every time he reaches for it. He needs you.
Sunghoon waits outside the lecture hall.
He's never even been to this building before, even had to look up the room number, the time, and the building itself. But now heâs there, leaning against the wall, hood pulled over his head, arms crossed, watching the doors like he's holding an angle. Students trickle out in pairs and clusters. He scans every face.
Then he sees you.
You're near the back of the crowd, and you're not alone. Some guy is walking beside youâboring and forgettable. He's leaning in as you talk, nodding at whatever you're saying, and smiling at you, and Sunghoon wants to call him pathetic, but you're smiling back at the guy. His jaw tightens.
You haven't noticed him yet. You're still talking, gesturing with one hand, your bag slung over your shoulder, looking strangely relaxed. You never looked like that with him. He only knows you as the flustered girl who froze in the library when he knee touched yours. You, who melted into his touch in the backseat of his car. Not... this.
The guy says something, and you laugh, making Sunghoon's fingers dig into his own arm.
Then your eyes sweep the hall, landing on him. You hold for half a second before immediately looking away, starting to walk faster. You brush past him like he doesnât exist, but Sunghoonâs already pushing himself off the wall, falling into step beside you.
"Hey." His hood falls back over his shoulders. "Can we talk?"
"I have somewhere to be."
"Five minutes. Please."
"Pretty sure she said no," The other guy frowns, then looks at you. "Everything okay? You know him?"
"She's my project partner," Sunghoon practically seethes, not looking at him. His eyes are on you. "Now leave us alone."
"Think that's up to her to decideâ"
"She's with me." Sunghoon's voice is flat and final. "Right?"
You stop walking. Your shoulders square and you turn to face him, chin lifting, and for a split second, there's something almost amused flickering at the corner of your mouth. Like you'd been expecting this. Still, your eyes are cold, your jaw set. Youâre pissed. Heâs never seen you truly, completely pissed. You always hid it beneath a smile.
"It's fine," you say to the guy, your voice calm. "I'll catch up with you later."
The guy hesitates. Looks at Sunghoon, then back at you. He's probably weighing his options, and Sunghoon watches him do the math in real time.
"Yeah. Okay." He scoffs, walking off, "Later."
Sunghoon turns back to you immediately, his jaw still tight from watching that guy disappear around the corner.
"Who was that?"
"Classmate." You say it flat. Youâre already walking again, your pace hurried.
"Yeah, right." He scoffs, falling into step beside you. "Does he know that? That he's just a classmate?"
"Why does it matter to you?"
"You're ignoring my messages." He avoids the question.
"Okay." You don't slow down. Don't even glance at him. "And?"
"And I'm kind of desperate here," His voice is rising now, frustration bleeding through the cracks. "I've been trying to reach you for days. I need your help."
You stop at the stairwell door, hand on the push bar, and finally, you look at him. Your expression is unreadable, but there's something almost pitying in the tilt of your head.
"You always need things, don't you?"
He blinks, and you're already pushing through the door, your footsteps echoing up the concrete stairwell. He hesitates for half a second, one hand braced against the doorframe, watching you climb, and then he's following, the door slamming shut behind him.
"You're greedy, Sunghoon. I've already given you so much."
"I know." His own footsteps fall heavy behind yours. "I know I don't deserve anything."
"Then stop wasting my time." You snap back.
You shove through the fire door at the top of the stairs, and suddenly you're both outsideâthe heat hitting him like a wall after the stale cool of the lecture hall, sunlight glaring off the sidewalk. You cut across the quad, weaving between clusters of students without slowing, and he stays on your heels like a shadow. You know heâs there, but you keep walking. Past the fountain. Past the library.
By the time you reach your dorm building, you're both breathing harder from the pace, and when you push through the glass doors into the air-conditioned lobby, he slips through behind you. Slowly, you turn.
"Why are you still following me?" Your frown cuts deep, brows furrowed. "Seriously, this is stalker behaviour."
Sunghoon doesn't flinch. Doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed.
"I won't leave until you help me."
"I dare you to tell that to campus security." You retort, chin tilted up, eyes locked on his.
Then you exhale through your nose, sharp and dismissive, and turn on your heel toward the elevator. You jab the call button with your thumb, harder than necessary.
"I dare you to call campus security." Suddenly, he stands beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulder nearly brushing yours, a ghost of that infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You won't."
The elevator dings, soft and cheerful, utterly indifferent to the tension coiled in the tiny space between your bodies. He steps in and stands close enough that you catch the familiar scent of him, and the doors slide shut, sealing you both inside.
"Because you don't scare me," you say, prodding a finger at his chest. He glances down at it, then back up at you, eyebrow raised. "You're like a whiny little toddler. Throwing a tantrum just because I won't give you what you want this time."
He doesn't step back. If anything, he leans into the prod, just slightly, letting your finger press into the fabric of his hoodie.
"Please," he says, and his voice has shiftedâlower, stripped of the smirk. "The project is due in three days. None of my code works. I tried. I actually tried. I wanted to do better. But I don't know how to do this. I never learned, because you were alwaysâ"
"Always doing it for you." You stare at the elevator doors. "Yeah. I know."
"I'm sorry, okay? I know I fucked up. The tournament. The jersey. The lucky charm thing. All of it." He huffs, a short, humourless laugh at his own expense. "It wasn't very feminist of me. I shouldn't have treated you like an object, or something."
"No." Your voice is flat. "You shouldn't have."
The elevator dings, and you step out fast, keys already in your hand. Still, he's right behind you. His footsteps fall heavy on the carpet, matching your pace, refusing to give you even a stride of distance.
"Stop following me." You say again, firmer this time.
"I told you I won't."
"Well, you can cry in the hallway, then. I'm not dealing with this." You reach your door, and the keys jingle sharply as you slot them into the lock, missing the first time because your hands are not quite steady. You twist the knob and slip inside, already rolling your eyes, already swinging the door shut. "Byeâ"
His hand catches it. Palm flat against the wood, fingers curling around the edge, arm braced. The door stops dead, half-open, and you're left gripping the handle on your side.
You stare at his hand. Then at him.
He pushes, though not very hard, and he steps through the gap, his body filling the frame and then clearing it. The door clicks shut behind him, and he leans back against it, his chest rising and falling with breaths that are just a little too fast to hide, like heâs equally as shocked as you are that he just forced himself inside your dorm room.
Your keys are still in your hand. Your knuckles are white around them, and you back up a few steps. Your chest is rising and falling to match his now, and the room feels suddenly very, very small.
âListen, I just want toââ
"Get the fuck out of my room, or I swear to god I will actually call security."
"What do you want from me?" His voice comes out raw, louder than he meant. He pushes off the door, one step forward, then stops himself. "I apologized. I've tried to do my work. I'm trying to make things right. You want me to get on my knees and beg? 'Cause I will. I'll fucking do it."
"Sunghoonâ"
He drops.
The movement is sudden and unceremonious. His knees hit the carpet with a dull thud, and for a second, he just stays there, head bowed, hair falling forward into his eyes, probably in need of a haircut. Then he looks up at you from the floor, hands clasped together.
"Please." His voice cracks. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
You stare down at him, distraught. A little horrified. Kind of cringing to yourself, honestly. And for a moment, you just watch him apologize over and over again. He mutters the same things he texted you about already. Missing you. Wanting to be better. Wanting to fix things. Needing to pass the class.
You drop your keys on your bedside table. The clatter breaks the rhythm of his apologies, and he goes silent. His head lifts, tracking the sound, tracking you as you take a step toward him. Then another. He doesn't move. Doesn't breathe, it seems like.
Stopping just in front of him, his clasped hands loosen, fingers uncurling, and then he's reaching for yours insteadâslow, uncertain, like he's not sure he's allowed. His palms are warm, a little clammy. His fingers wrap around your knuckles and squeeze, and you can feel the tremor in his grasp. You think this is the first time you've ever seen this man experience any sort of real fear.
You lift his chin with your free hand, fingers pressing into his jaw, tilting his face up. The movement isnât gentle or kind, as if the frown on your lips wasn't indicative enough of your displeasure with whatever this display is.
"You're pathetic."
"I know."
"You're an entitled, egotistical, manipulative loser."
"I know."
"Get up."
He does, and now you're the one craning your neck to look at him.
"For the last time." You say it slowly, "Leave me alone."
He doesn't move. His eyes trace your face. Your throat. The line of your collarbone. Your lips, still pulled into a tight frown.
"I can't do that." A silence follows. "You don't want me to do that either."
"I do."
"Maybe you do," he clarifies, hand finally reaching out until his fingers meet your throat, grazing your skin until they meet your chin. You lean into the touch. Itâs your weakness. Your fatal flaw. You can say whatever you want, but when he has his hands on you, you crumble in his grasp. "But your body wants something else."
His thumb brushes your lower lip. Your mouth parts without permission.
You hold his gaze. Your breathing is shallow, your pulse hammering at the base of your throat where his fingers just were. You hate the way you can't pull yourself away.
âTell me what you want,â He rests leans in closer, his voice rough. "I can make it up to you. I'll make you forget what you were even upset about. You just have toâ"
You kiss him. Hard enough to shut him up. Hard enough that he makes a small, surprised sound against your mouth before his hand tightens in your hair and he kisses you back.
It's different from the parking lot. Slower, a little hesitant because you're still learning how this all works. Desperate still, but less immediately urgent. His hand cradles the back of your head, and his lips work yours like they have something to prove. Your hands come up to his chest, and this time you don't push him away.
When you break apart, you're both breathing hard. His forehead presses to yours, his eyes dark and a little dazed. The look of someone who knows they're about to get exactly what they wanted. You despise it.
"Are you really whoring yourself out for grades?" Your voice comes out breathless, undermining the bite you'd intended.
He laughs, low and warm against your mouth.
"If I'm whoring myself out for anything, it's forgiveness." His hand drops to your waist, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip. "I meant it when I said I missed you."
"Oh, I'm sure you do." You laugh bitterly, but his lips are already trailing down your jaw. "I'm sure you miss the way I did all your work and drove you around andâ"
"I miss when you were mine." He says it against your throat, the words vibrating against your skin. His hand tightens on your hip. "And not laughing at some other asshole's jokes."
You can feel the shift in him, his possessiveness bleeding through the charm.
"Seriously, who was that guy?"
"Told you. Nobody." Your head tips back as his mouth finds the hollow beneath your ear. "Just a classmate."
"Did you do anything withâ?"
"No. Obviously, no." The sigh that escapes you is half-frustration, half-surrender. "Just you. You know it's just you."
"That's right." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's satisfaction in his eyesâwarm and smug and entirely undeserved. "Just me."
His hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him.
"What we did in the parking lot was just the start." His lips brush your ear, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. "I can do so much more for you. You know I can."
Your back suddenly hits the mattress. You didn't feel him walking you thereâdidn't register the steps, the turn, the careful way he lowered you down. But now he's above you, braced on his forearms, looking at you with a kind of hunger and hope.
"Let me apologize properly." He squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing your knuckles. "Will you?"
You look up at him. At his jaw. His mouth. His dark, beautiful eyes. You nod without questioning it.
His lips find your throat first. Soft. Slow. He traces the line of your pulse with his mouth, feeling it flutter beneath his attention. Then lowerâyour collarbone, the hollow at the base of your throat, the warm skin just above the neckline of your shirt. He pushes the fabric aside, just enough, and presses a kiss there. Then another. Then lower.
His hands move with the same precision he brings to his game, but slower. Like he's memorizing the landscape of you as he strips you of your clothes. His mouth traces a slow path down your stomach. Youâre near-bare when his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, and he pauses, looking up at you through his lashes.
"Just lay back."
You nod again, not trusting your voice.
He pulls the fabric down. His breath is warm against the inside of your thigh. Then his mouth is thereâgentle at first, testing, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you go still. His hands hold your hips, thumbs tracing circles into your skin, steadying you.
"Too much?" He murmurs against you, the vibration of his voice sending a shiver up your spine.
"No," You swallow. "Don't stop."
With that, he's grinning, lowering himself between your thighs.
He takes you apart slowly. Thoroughly. His tongue works in patterns you can't track, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs, his voice a low murmur of praise against your skin. So good for me. So pretty. Just like that.
When he feels you getting close, he doesn't speed up. He holds the rhythm steady, deliberate, drawing it out until your hands are fisted in his hair and your back is arching off the mattress and his name is the only word left in your vocabulary.
"Who's making you feel this good?" His voice is rough, muffled against your skin. "Tell me."
"Sunghoon."
"Say it again."
"Sunghoonâpleaseâ!"
You shatter. The wave crashes through you, and he works you through every second of itâhis mouth never stopping, his hands grounding you, holding you together even as you fall apart. When the last tremor leaves your body, you're gasping, your fingers still twisted in his hair.
He kisses his way back up. Your hip. Your ribs. The curve of your shoulder.
"All mine," he murmurs against your skin, pressing the words into you like a claim.
Finally, his lips find yours. Still slow, none of that frantic hunger that had him pressed against you before you could think in the back of your car. His hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and his mouth moves against yours like an apology he doesn't know how to put into words.
But you're not done with him yet. Not even close.
Your hands drop from his chest to his waistband, fingers finding the drawstring and tugging. You fumbleâtoo eager, too impatientâand the knot catches, your knuckles pressing into the hard plane of his stomach as you work at it. His abs tense under your touch. He pulls back, eyes wide, lips still swollen.
"What are you doing?" His voice is rough, caught between surprise and something else. His hand hovers over yours, but doesn't stop you.
"Want you." You meet his eyes and hold them, your chin tilting up. "Inside me."
He nearly groans at the sound of that, dick twitching in his pants. But, for the first time, he hesitates. Even nowâeven with you laid out beneath him, even with the taste of you still on his lipsâthere's a flicker of concern in his expression. "You sure?"
"You want forgiveness." Your voice is steadier than you feel. "Show me how sorry you are."
He stares at you for a beat. Something in his expression shiftsâsurprise giving way to something darker, more amused, thoroughly impressed. A low chuckle escapes him, warm and rough, and he shakes his head like he can't quite believe you.
"You want it that bad, huh?"
You push his hoodie up over his shoulders, suddenly self-conscious of how much skin youâre showing compared to him. He finishes the job for you, peeling off the hoodie and shirt beneath it in one motion, and then heâs reaching for the waistband.
You barely notice how his sweatpants are gone in a single impatient shove, too focused on him; the broad sweep of his chest, the tight lines of his stomach, the way his arms flex as he braces himself above you. Your hands flatten against his chest without second thought.
"How the hell are you so..." You trail off, too stunned to finish.
"Gym. Sometimes." He shrugs, "What? I'm not a complete loser."
"You're worse than a loser." You retort, but your words betray your actions as you find the waistband of his boxers.
"I am?" He's grinning now, watching your hands fumble, "You don't seem to mind."
He shifts his weight as you pull them down, and then you have himâhard, bare and intimidating, grinding against the inside of your thigh. Your breath catches.
"I'm serious, though." His voice drops. His forehead presses to yours, and his hips still. "You sure you want this? It feels sort of wrong. Like..."
"Like what?"
He doesn't answer right away. His thumb traces a slow line along your hip, grounding himself, grounding you. Like you should save it for someone else, he thinks. Someone more deserving. The thought makes him shudder. He can't stand itâthe image of someone else's hands on you. Someone else seeing you like this, all flushed and open and unguarded. He's too obsessed with the way you react to his touch. Too greedy to give it up.
"Sunghoon," you sigh, "I literally don't care. Just put it in."
He sucks in a breath.
"Well, I care." He presses closer, and you feel him at your entrance. He doesnât push in yet, just rests there, heavy and warm. His eyes find yours. "So tell me if it hurts. Tell meâ" He pushes in just barely, just the head of him, and your mouth falls open. "âfuck, you're gorgeous."
He's not fully in yetâjust working his way inside, pausing to let you adjust to each inch. His thumb strokes the back of your hand in slow, soothing circles. And yet stillâ
"So big," you whimper, glancing down between your bodies, almost disbelieving. You already feel so impossibly full of him. Your fingers squeeze around his, your other hand gripping the back of his neck. "So much..."
"I know." He whispers it, and you catch the corner of his mouth twitchingâtrying not to smile too smugly, trying not to let it get to his head. But he's still just a guy, and the way you're looking at him, all wide-eyed and overwhelmed, is doing things to his ego he can't quite suppress. "Too much for you?"
You shake your head in denial, your nails pressing little crescents into his shoulder blade as he sinks in deeper. The stretch is intense, almost too much, but the thought of him stopping is worse.
"I know it's a lot." There's a trace of that smugness in his voice now, but it's tempered by something softer. Something almost tender. "But it feels good when you get used to it, angel. I swear."
He's fully in now. You feel him everywhereâa deep, satisfying fullness that borders on overwhelming. His palm presses flat against your lower belly, and you watch his jaw go slack as he feels himself there, buried inside you, just beneath his hand.
"Fuck," he breathes, almost to himself. "Feel that? That's me. Right there."
You can't speak. You can only nod, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your body still adjusting to the size of him.
You feel him in your guts, an almost unbearable fullness that borders on pain before it tips into something else. When he starts moving, shallow and careful, it's like your whole body shakes with the sensation. Want. Need. Anticipation. You've wanted him so badly. All summer, every night, every time his knee brushed yours or his voice dropped low. And now here he is inside you, above you, finally, and you're barely able to handle it. The frustration prickles at the edges of your bliss.
A strained sound escapes you with each shallow thrust. Your face is still tight, your body still struggling to accommodate him, but you are so, so determined.
"More," you manage, the word half-demand, half-plea. "You can go harder. Faster. I won't break."
He just laughs, Low and warm.
"Not yet." He purrs. "Not this time. You'll take it like this."
He fucks you slow and deep. His thumb finds your clit and circles it in a lazy rhythm, matching the roll of his hips. The discomfort lingers at the edges from the stretch of him that still borders on too much, but then he shifts, angling your leg slightly higher, and something inside you ignites.
A raw, involuntary noise escapes you, and he catches it immediately.
"Right there, huh?" He does it again, same angle, same depth. You bite back a cry. "Feels good?"
"So good." Your nails rake down his back. "Fuck, itâs soâ"
You don't finish the sentence. You cum around him, rather abruptly, a broken cry on your lips, your back arching. He groans, low and strained, and rocks you through every pulse of it, his hips rolling gently, letting you ride out your high.
When your eyes blink open, hazy and unfocused, you stare up at him. At the sharp cut of his jaw. His mouth, still slightly parted. The dark hair falling over his gorgeous eyes. He looks like a fucking pornstarâit's actually unbelievable. Every inch of him is perfect, and it just makes you even more pissed.
And he hasn't finished yet. Still hard. Still inside you. Still watching you with that smug, knowing look, like he's got all the time in the world.
That also makes you pissed.
With a single-minded focus, youâre pushing him to his back, mounting him, your legs still shaking from the aftermath of your orgasm.
âWhat are youââ His voice is genuinely startled. His hands come up to your hips on instinct, not guiding, just holding, like he's bracing for impact. His eyes are wide, fixed on your face.
You lower yourself onto him, slowly. Sinking down until youâre fully seated there. Itâs a lot. A lot more than it was trying to take him from just lying down. You feel all of him, even deeper than before, filling you to the brim, and your eyes squeeze shut, trying to swallow the slight discomfort that still lingers.
âI donât know if you shouldââ His voice is strained. He's trying to be decent. Trying to hold still. You can feel the tension in his thighs beneath you, the effort it's taking him not to thrust up into the heat of you.
You start to move. Mostly to shut him up. Thereâs no rhyme or rhythm. No technique. Only directionless desire. Your hips rock in a shallow, uneven pace because you can't really handle what you're trying to takeâthe angle is different, and every downward stroke punches a gasp from your lungs. Your thighs burn with the effort. Your balance wavers. But you don't stop.
"Fuck." The word tears out of him, strangled and reverent. He's leaning back against your pillows now, propped on his elbows, watching you with helpless awe. "Just take it. Take what you want. It's yours."
Your nails drag down his chest, leaving angry red lines in their wake. The sting makes him hiss, but he doesn't stop youâdoesn't grab your wrists, doesn't flip you over. He just watches, enthralled, as you claw at him like you're trying to leave a mark he'll feel for days.
You're cursing at him under your breath. Asshole. Entitled. Selfish. Using me. Words he can't quite catch but definitely deserves. Your rhythm stutters and breaks, your hips faltering as the pleasure builds too fast, too intense, and you can't keep the pace steady when every nerve in your body is screaming.
Maybe he should feel terrified that you're clawing at him like an animal, cursing his name with the same breath you use to moan it. But he's captivated. He's never been more attracted to anyone in his life. Your lips are parted, your chest bare and heaving, and you're riding him with zero grace and a summerâs worth of pent-up fury and sexual frustration.
"Shit," he breathes, his hands sliding up from your hips to your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your hipbones. "Look at you. So fucking hot when you're mad. Maybe I shouldâ"
You slap him across the face.
As hard as you can.
It shocks you, even.
Itâs not very hardâhe's basically a wall of muscleâbut the sting is real, and the crack of it echoes in the room.
For one suspended second, he doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. His head is still turned from the impact, a faint pink bloom already rising on his cheek. Still trying to wrap his head around the fact that youâthe girl who stutters over her words and whimpers from a single touchâjust slapped him across the face while riding him.
His eyes find yours.
"Shut the fuck up." You hiss.
He should probably feel pissed, right? Offended, maybe? He's never been slapped in his lifeânot by a girlfriend, not even by his roommates, though heâs sure sometimes they want to. And yet the sting on his cheek is radiating down his neck, into his chest, settling low in his gut where it twists into something insatiable.
His dick twitches, and a sound he's never made escapes himâwhich he does not have the time to unpack currently. He'll think about it later, probably, when he's alone and confused and trying to figure out what the hell just happened to him.
A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Make me."
You slap him again, and his smile only widens.
His cheek is definitely pink now. He can feel the heat of it, the slight throb, and it's doing something to him. His hands tighten on your hips, not to restrain you, just to keep you there, like this. Steadying your hips.
You're breathing hard, staring down at him, the stretch of him wearing you thin. He splits you open in a way that borders on too much, your body still struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him even now, even after everything. Every inch is a presence you can't ignore, and for a dizzying second, you wonder if this is what it feels like to be completely consumed. Still, you take him. You take what you want.
You finish with a broken cry, your rhythm shattering completely. Your hips stutter, lose their pace, and then you're collapsing forward, forehead pressed to his chest, your whole body seizing and releasing around him in waves that don't seem to stop. His hands find your hips and hold you steady through it, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your hipbones, grounding you while you shudder apart on top of him.
For a moment, he lets you rest there. His hand cradles the back of your head. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek. He's still hardâachingly, painfully hardâand the feeling of you fluttering around him, spent and trembling, is almost enough to finish him right there.
But not quite.
He flips you onto your back.
It's fast. One arm wraps around your waist, and then the world tilts, and suddenly you're beneath him again, your back sinking into the mattress, your legs falling open around his hips. He doesn't give you time to adjustâdoesn't give himself time to think. He just drives back into you, burying himself to the hilt in one desperate thrust.
"Hoonâ!â
"Take it," he chokes out, hand reaching for your neck, "Don't tap out on me, now. Fucking take it like a good girl."
The pace is different now, a lot less considerate. He's been holding back all nightâletting you adjust, letting you set the rhythm, letting you take what you wanted. But now he's wound too tight, every thrust driven by a pure, animalistic need.
His breath goes ragged. His jaw clenches so tight it aches. The hand around your neck tightens, not enough to choke you, but enough to keep you in place, and he fucks into you like he's trying to outrun somethingâthe guilt, the fear, the dawning realization that this isn't just about getting off anymore and that it probably hasn't been for a while.
"I'mâ" His rhythm breaks, stutters, and then he's pulling out at the last possible second. His hand wraps around himself. He finishes on your stomach with a low, broken groan that sounds like it's been dragged out of him against his will, and he stares at the image of it all: You, covered in his cum. Finally his again.
He stays there for a moment, braced above you, his arms trembling. His head hangs low, breath coming in ragged gasps. The mess between you is warm and slick, pooling on your skin, and neither of you moves to clean it up. Not yet, anyway.
The room goes quiet, the two of you only breathing.
He blinks down at you. At the mess. The way you're still catching your breath, still flushed, still looking up at him with those wide, unreadable eyes. Something flickers across his faceâsomething almost tender, almost frightenedâand then it's gone, replaced by the ghost of that infuriating grin.
"Shit," he breathes, and it comes out half-laugh, half-apology. "Come here."
He kisses you. Soft. Gentle. Nothing like the desperate, driving intensity of a few minutes ago. This kiss says something differentâsomething he can't quite put into words and isn't sure he's ready to. His lips linger on yours for a beat longer than necessary before he pulls back.
"You got anything to clean up with?"
You point him to the drawer at your bedside, and he reaches over. A pack of wet wipes. He cleans you up with careful, methodical hands, wiping the mess from your stomach, between your thighs, his touch efficient but gentle. Like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like he's done it a hundred times.
He tosses the wipes toward the garbage bin in the corner. It lands short. He doesn't pick it up. Instead, he climbs back onto the bed and lies down beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.
"Does it hurt anywhere?" He turns his head on the pillow to look at you. His hair is a disaster, still damp with sweat at the temples. "I was trying to be careful, but you were kind of intense. You were a virgin, like, two hours ago."
"A little sore." Your voice comes out hoarse. "I'll survive."
"You sure? I can get you Advil." He's already half-propped up on one elbow, ready to go searching through your bathroom cabinets. "I don't know where you keep your Advil."
"I'm sure."
He nods, settling back down. His arm finds its way around your waist, pulling you closer until your head rests against his shoulder. His hand traces idle patterns on your hipâslow, absent shapes, like he's not even aware he's doing it.
"You're staying?"
He looks down at you. The question catches him off guardânot the words, but the way they sound to him. Soft and Uncertain, like you're bracing for him to leave. Clingy already, he thinks, but the thought makes him smile, rather than feel annoyed.
"Come on." He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "I'm not a complete asshole."
"You're not?"
"I'm staying." Another kiss, softer this time. "I'm not going anywhere."
You hum, a sigh leaving your body, head settled against his chest. His heart does something inconvenient in his ribcageâa flutter, a stutter, something he refuses to name. He pulls you a little closer anyway.
"I mean it," he says, and the words start coming faster now, tumbling out in a ramble he hadn't planned. The afterglow loosened something in his chest. "I'm gonna make it up to you. For real this time. Not like the parking lot. I know I said that then, but I mean it now. I'm gonna take you out. An actual date. No tournaments. No sushiâunless you want sushi? But a nicer place than that one. Just you and me. A real restaurant. Not some strip mall junk."
You're quiet, your thumb drawing lazy circles against his chest. It's a soothing, steady rhythm that has his eyes growing heavy.
"And I'll stop calling you a lucky charm or prize or whatever. That was stupid. I shouldn't have said that. I don't even know why I said it. I was justâthe reporter was there, and I was still hyped from the match, and my teammates were all listening." He presses another kiss to your hair. "You're not any of that. You're good to me. Really good to me."
Still no response. Your thumb keeps tracing those slow circles, but you haven't looked up at him. You must be tired. Poor thing.
"Oh, and I'll teach you," he adds, a chuckle escaping him. "How to ride me. Properly. Not that I'm complaining. It was cute watching you struggle up there."
A yawn cracks his jaw. He tries to smother it, but it's too late. His body reminds him that he got zero sleep trying to work on the project, and that he just made you finish three times. The adrenaline is gone. What's left is heavy, dragging exhaustion. Almost peaceful.
"Anyway," he mumbles, eyes closing. "I'll be better. I swear. Actual date. No name-calling. Riding lessons. Sunghoon 2.0. The redeemâ" Another yawn. "The redemption arc."
You turn your head on his chest. Your voice cuts through the haze of his exhaustion.
"Sunghoon."
"Mm?"
"What did I say about shutting up?"
He blinks. The question catches him off guard, and then a laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep in his chestâgenuine, surprised, a little bit giddy. A laugh only you seem to be able to pull out of him.
"Yes, ma'am," he says, grinning. "Shutting up now."
You settle back against his chest. Your hand resumes its position over his ribs, but the circles have stopped. He doesn't notice. He's already sinking, the warmth of you pulling him under.
He closes his eyes. The weight of you against his chest is warm and solid and real. His, some quiet, possessive part of him whispers. And the taste of you still lingers on his lips, tasting a lot like victory.
It's been two weeks. Sunghoon has learned a few things about you.
He's learned that you're insatiableâand that Heeseung was right when he said something about the innocent ones being the freakiest in bed. He's learned that you like it when he pulls your hairânot hard, just enough. He's learned that you like to pull his hair and dig your nails into him and cuss him out, while begging him to go harder and faster.
He's also learned that you still won't let him take you on an actual date. And trust him, he's tried.
"Let me take you out," he'll say, and you're cutting him off with your sweet, irresistible lips.
"I'm serious," he'll insist, and your hand is down his pants, teasing him for being hard already.
"I'll buy you dinner. Anything you want," he'll try, and you're sinking to your knees, taking his dick down your throat like itâs nothing.
Then he forgets whatever he's arguing about.
It bothers him. Not the sex part, obviouslyâhe enjoys that more than he's ever enjoyed anythingâbut he doesn't want you to think that's all he wants. He's been trying to prove otherwise. Trying to show you that he actually gives a shit. That he's not an asshole. That he's changed.
You don't seem to believe himâthat's the only reason he can think of why you keep avoiding his advances, anyway. Every time he brings up a real date, you dodge, distract and deflect with your hands and your mouth and the warm press of your body.
He's determined to prove you wrong.
Today is no different. You're in his bed, head pressed into the pillows as he fucks you from behind, and he's covered in a layer of sweat.
"Shit," he seethes, watching himself disappear inside you, your greedy cunt taking all of him. "So fucking gorgeous."
"Faster," you whine, predictably. He almost laughs.
"Let me take you out." He slows deliberately, his cock dragging along your walls at an agonizing paceâso slow you can feel every inch of him, the thick ridge of his head catching on just the right spot before he pulls back again. "Tomorrow. Dinner. Real restaurant."
"Sunghoon." His name is muffled against the pillow, half-moan, half-protest. Your fingers twist in the sheets.
"Somewhere nice." He rolls his hips, just barely, just enough to make you gasp. "No sex. Not before. Not after. Not even a little. Just talking."
"You're already talking right now." You push back against him, trying to take him deeper, but his hands tighten on your hips, holding you still. "And it's very annoying."
"I'm serious."
"So am I. Now faster."
"No."
A squeal escapes you as his palm connects with your assânot hard, just a sharp little crack that makes you jolt forward. The sting blooms warm across your skin. He rubs the spot immediately, his palm soothing over the heat he left behind, and the contrast makes you shudder.
"Just say yes." He leans over you, his chest brushing your spine, and you can feel the heat of him, the slick slide of his skin against yours. His lips find the shell of your ear. "Lemme hear it, and I'll fuck you right."
His hips rock forwardâbarely an inchâand you moan at the shallow stretch. Then he pulls back again, leaving you empty and aching.
"Fine," you huff, "Maybe."
He stops moving entirely. You wait for the next thrust, the next tease, but nothing comes. Then he's pulling out completely, his hands leaving your hips, and the sudden absence of him is so jarring you actually whimper.
"What are youâ?"
"No date, no dick."
You crane your neck to glare at him over your shoulder. He's kneeling behind you, cock slick and ready, one hand wrapped lazily around himself. He strokes himself, just watching you squirm.
"That's not fair."
"It's completely fair." Trying not to grin, seeing the look of frustration on your face, "Seriously, what am I, a piece of meat to you?"
"Yes," you don't even hesitate, "So put your dick back inside me and stop talking."
"So demanding," he raises a brow, hands leaving his cock to return to your hips. You whine when you feel the tip of him tease along your slick heat, absolutely dripping for him.
You huff, dropping your forehead to the pillow. Your body is aching. Empty. You can feel how wet you are, how ready, and he's just kneeling there, smug and gorgeous and utterly infuriating.
"Please." Your voice drops, softening. "Please give it to me."
He bites his lip, hands gripping your hips tighter as he grinds against you. The begging. You know he can't resist the begging. He sucks in a breath. Donât give in, donât give in, donâtâ
"Want it so bad." You push back onto your elbows, arching your back, presenting yourself to him. "Need you inside me. Need you to fill me up. Please, Sunghoon. Please."
"Fuck." He stutters and lines himself up, the head of him pressing against your entranceâjust barely, just enough to make you gasp and push backâand then he sheathes himself in one brutal, devastating thrust. "So fucking needy."
You cry out, face buried in the pillow, your whole body jerking forward as he sheathes himself to the hilt. He doesn't give you time to adjust, nor does he give himself time to be careful. His hand presses flat between your shoulder blades, pinning you to the mattress, and his other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise.
The headboard slams against the wall in a frantic rhythm, his pace punishing. Your fingers curl into the sheets, twisting the fabric, trying to anchor yourself against the force of him. Every thrust punches a broken sound from your throatâhalf gasp, half moan, muffled by the pillow. He watches himself disappear into you, the slick glide of his length, the way your body stretches to accommodate him, the way you push back against him even now, even pinned, even helpless.
"That's it," he grits out, his voice wrecked. "Take it. Take all of it."
You're babbling something into the pillowâhis name, maybe, or just incoherent pleading. He can feel you tightening around him, your walls fluttering, the telltale tremble in your thighs. He reaches around, finds your clit, and the sound you make when he touches you there is almost enough to finish him on the spot.
"Come for me," he breathes, his rhythm stuttering as his own control starts to fray. "Let go. I've got you."
You shatter. He feels itâthe clench, the pulse, the way your whole body seizes and releases. Your cry is muffled by the pillow, but he hears it anyway, feels it in the way you grip him, in the way you shudder beneath him. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release now, and when it hits him, a low, broken groan is torn from his chest as he spills inside you.
He collapses forward, bracing himself on his forearms so he doesn't crush you. His forehead presses to the space between your shoulder blades, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your damp skin. Beneath him, you're still tremblingâsmall aftershocks rippling through you. The room is quiet now, just the sound of breathing and the distant hum of his PC.
He stays there for a long moment, letting his heart rate settle, letting the sweat cool on his back. Then he shifts, pressing a kiss to the center of your spine. Then another, higher. Then another, at the nape of your neck. He works his way up slowly, reverently, like he's memorizing the landscape of you.
"Come here." His voice is wrecked, barely more than a rasp. He eases out of you gently and tugs you down onto the pillows with him, pulling your back against his chest. His arm drapes across your waist, heavy and warm. His nose brushes the curve of your ear. But then heâs watching you slip from the bed, and he canât help but frown. The sheets pool around his waist as he sits up, reaching for you. His fingers catch your arm before you can stand.
"Where are you going?"
"Back to my place?â
âWhy?â
âBecause.â You break from his grasp, âIâm busy.â
"With?"
"Studying. Work. Social life." You're pulling on your clothes with that efficient, no-nonsense energy he's come to recognizeâunderwear, shirt, the quick twist of your hair into something presentable. "Some of us care about our lives."
He ignores the jab, tugging you back toward him. You stumble, one knee landing on the mattress, and he takes the openingâhis mouth finding the curve of your neck, pressing slow, deliberate kisses along your throat.
"Sunghoon..." Your voice wavers, a warning and a surrender all at once.
"I want to take you out." He murmurs it against your skin, his hand sliding up your arm. "Wanna do more than just this. Wanna do this right."
You pull back just enough to look at him. Your expression is hard to readâsomething between exasperation and something softer you won't name. "This is fine. I like this."
"I know. I like it too." His thumb traces your jaw. "Butâ"
"I have to go." You lean down and kiss him. Brief. Almost dismissive. Then you're pulling away, grabbing your bag, and he's left in the bed, still warm from your body, still tasting you on his lips.
He groans, dragging himself upright. Hastily, heâs tugging his sweatpants on, and throwing a hoodie over his head, and he follows you down the hallway, catching up just as you reach the living room.
The usual suspects are in positionâHeeseung on the couch, Jake in the armchair, Jay sprawled on the floor doing something on his phone that's making him smirk. Three heads lift in unison as you pass.
"Leaving so soon?" Heeseung calls, not looking up from his phone. "Not even cuddling? Sunghoon, man, don't tell me you fumbled that bad?"
"I have places I need to be," you reply simply, not breaking your stride, "Bye, guysâ"
He catches you at the door. His hand finds your waist, spinning you back toward him, and then he's kissing youânot the brief, dismissive peck you tried to give him in the bedroom, but something a lot more intentional.
He ignores the wolf whistle from the couch and the âget a room!â comment, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt at the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, and when they part on a surprised breath, he deepens the kiss without hesitation.
You make a sound against his mouthâhalf embarrassment, half something elseâand he grins into the kiss, pleased with himself.
"Sunghoonâ" You pull back, hand pressed to his chest.
"Next time." His voice is low, meant only for you, his forehead nearly touching yours. "I'm taking you out. Even if I have to keep my hands to myself the whole night."
"Sure," Your smile is unreadable, but you don't pull away. "Next time."
Then you're gone. The door clicks shut, and Sunghoon turns to face the room. Three stares bore into him.
"Bro," Jake says, "That was disgusting."
"Downright pornographic," Jay agrees from the floor.
Heeseung just shakes his head slowly, "You're down bad. Like, down bad, down bad."
"Catastrophically down bad."
"You guys don't get it." Sunghoon flops onto the couch. "She's perfect. Like, actually perfect. She's smart, and she's funny, and she puts up with my shit. And..." he cracks a smile as he gestures to his bedroom, "You know."
"We know," the three of them say in unison, flatly.
His head falls back, and he sighs, the scent of your perfume still lingering on him. The one trace of you that stays behind whenever you leave too soon.
"But," He pauses, his brows scrunched, "I don't think she believes me when I say I want more. I think that she thinks that I'm just trying to get in her pants."
"To be fair," Jake says, "you have been in her pants. Multiple times."
"And you literally spent the first half of the summer ignoring her while she did your coursework," Jay adds.
"And you made her take you to your E-sports tournament, then came on herâ" Heeseung starts.
"I know. I did a lot of shitty things I regret." He stares at the ceiling. "Itâs different now. I want to show her I actually care. That I'm not using her for her body or something. But every time I try, she changes the subject. Or distracts me. Orâ"
"Distracts you with sex?" Heeseung raises an eyebrow. "That must be terrible for you. Imagine that? Trying to take a girl out for dinner, and she just wants one order of your load down her throat instead. How awful."
"Iâm serious."
"Sunghoon." Heeseung puts a hand on his shoulder. "You're complaining that a girl who's hot and smart and good in bed won't let you take her to Olive Garden. Do you hear yourself right now?"
"She's got you whipped," Jay says, not looking up from his phone. "Never thought I'd see the day. The guy who once said 'relationships are a debuff' is now begging for a dinner reservation."
"I'm not whipped." He retorts. "I just want her to know that I care. That's all."
"Simp," Jake coughs.
Sunghoon's head snaps toward him. "Oh, you did not just say thatâ"
"Right message, wrong messenger," Heeseung interrupts him, "You are objectively a simp now. You, the guy who famously chose video games over his last relationship, who once said 'dating is a distraction from the grind'â"
"The grind is still important."
"âis now begging a woman to let him buy her overpriced appetizers."
Sunghoon would normally fire back with some well-aimed jab about Heeseung and Jay's own nonexistent love life or Jake's shit show of a dating history. But he's distracted. Thinking about you. About next time. About how he's finally going to convince you that he means it.
"I am," he says simply, a smile on his face, "I'd buy her everything on the menu if she asked me to."
A beat of horrified silence passes, the three boys sharing glances with each other.
"Seriously, what happened to him?" Jay whispers to Jake, who shrugs in response, matching his look, "This is terrifying."
"I'd almost rather hear him screaming at his ranked teammates."
"Or cry over a broken Nintendo Switch controller."
"Or talking to himself in the mirror before games. 'You got this, Sunghoon. You're him. You're cracked.'"
"It's hard to believe," Heeseung says, lowering his head between them and pulling them into an impromptu huddle, their voices dropping to stage whispers, "but maybe love really did change him."
"He's not in love," Jake rolls his eyes. "He's in heat or something."
"Yeah, well, it's the closest he's gotten to love in like, what, years?" Heeseung replies, "Look at what he's wearing. That's a brand new hoodie. Clean, pristine condition, not a single stain or wrinkle. When's the last time you saw him in something that didn't come out of the laundry pile?"
"Itâs like when male birds start doing those weird dances to impress the females," Jay shudders, "Puffing up their chests. Spinning in circles. Except it's Sunghoon doing it. Which just feelsâ"
"Gross?" Jake offers.
"Unnatural.â
"Wrong.â
"A crime against nature."
"You know I can hear you guys, right?" Sunghoon deadpans. "Literally everything."
"We know," Heeseung says without turning around. "We donât care. Go back to daydreaming."
Sunghoon opens his mouth to fire back, but his phone buzzes on the cushion beside him. A notification. He glances down, expecting your name on the screenâa text, maybe, or one of those voice notes he's learned to listen to the moment they arrive. His lips quirk up. Then he reads it.
Transcript Updated:
Summer Semester â Web Programming
Final Grade: F
The smile freezes on his face like a video paused on a single frame.
"What?" Heeseung leans over, trying to see the screen. "What's that face? You look like you just watched your favourite vandal skin get vaulted."
Sunghoon doesn't answer. He opens the grade portal. Opens the project submission page. There it is: The final project. Submitted. Your name, alone. His? Nowhere to be seen.
"I failed." His voice is small, hollow. "The class. She took my name off the project." Silence.
Then Jay starts laughing. A sharp, incredulous bark. Heeseung joins in, his shoulders shaking. Jake sets down his controller with the slow deliberation of a man who wants to fully savour what's about to happen.
"No way," Heeseung manages between breaths. "She didn't."
"She did."
"Oh, this is beautiful." Jay wipes his eyes. "This is the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed."
âSo dicking her down didnât get you anywhere after all,â Heeseung is grinning widely, âTried to use her for grades, then caught feelings.â
"That's notââ
"You thought you had it all, huh? The A, the tournament win, the girlâ" He wheezes, "You thought you were out here playing her, and she played you."
"I told you it wasn't like thatâ"
"Bro." Jake sets down his controller. "It was exactly like that."
Sunghoon stares at the screen. At the F. At your name, alone on the submission page. His chest feels strange. Hollow. Like someone reached in and scooped something out and left a Sunghoon-shaped shell on the couch. He doesn't even have the energy to fight his roommates anymore.
He stands up from the couch, words dying on his lips. One moment heâs there, staring at his phone, and the next heâs walkingâfeet carrying him down the hallway toward his room. The laughter of his roommates fades behind him, muffled by the closing door.
His room is dark except for the blue glow of his monitor. The Valorant home screen stares back at him, waiting for a queue that wonât come. He sits at the edge of his bed and stares at the transcript notification again, as if looking at it long enough might change the grade.
His thumb hovers over your contact. The last message from youâa short, simple text from earlier that day. On my way. He'd smiled when he read it then.
He presses the call button.
"Sunghoon." You pick up after a few rings, "What's up?"
"What's up?" His voice comes out strangled. "You failed me. You took my name off the project. I thoughtâI thought we wereâ"
Thereâs a laugh on the other line.
"You thought what?" You ask, clearly amused. "You really thought that because you fucked me, suddenly I'd decide to let you keep your name on a project you didn't contribute to?"
"No, Iâ" He's stammering. "Not like that. But you made me thinkâ"
"I didn't make you do anything."
"You let me believeâ" He runs his hand through his hair, pacing. "Had me under the impression we were good. With each other. That things were fixed. That I apologized and you forgave me."
"Oh? Do you feel misled?" You tease, a content sigh, then leaving you, "I never promised you anything, Sunghoon. It's not my fault you assumed things."
His stomach drops. He sits there, in the middle of his dark room, phone pressed to his ear, and the silence stretches long enough that he's not sure why you havenât hung up on him yet.
"I like you." The words tumble out before he can stop them, earnest and vulnerable and nothing like how he usually is. "I wasn't just trying to get in your pants. I want to take you out. I've been trying to take you out for weeks. I wanted to show youâ"
"Oh, I know. You made that very clear."
"Then whyâ"
"But I'm sorry to break it to you," you continue, "I don't date guys who can't fix their own broken code."
He swallows, phone trembling in his grasp.
"Call me when you want to fuck again, 'kay? That's all you're really good for." You say. Itâs not smug or cruel. Itâs just honest. "Bye, Sunghoon."
note â°.á this work exists in the same au as this fic here
︾ ೠmdni. satoru is undoubtedly attractive but you still see him as the annoying little kid you babysat every weekend to earn some extra money during high school. little do you know that he wants to rail you bad ( pervert!satoru / reverse age-gap )
satoru gojo used to be the annoying little kid you babysat every weekend to make extra money during high school.
he was your neighborâs sonâloud, spoiled, with those striking blue eyes that always followed you around the house like you hung the stars. youâd tuck him in, read him stories, and laugh when he threw tantrums about bedtime. âyouâre like my big sister,â he used to say, clinging to your leg. you found it cute back then.
now heâs nineteen, tall, ridiculously handsome, and somehow even more trouble.
you still live next door, working part-time while finishing your degree. satoru has grown into something dangerous. six-foot-three of muscle, messy white hair, and that infuriating smirk that makes girls on campus lose their minds. but to you, heâs still little satoru. the kid you used to scold for eating too much sugar.
he wishes youâd stop seeing him that way. because every night when heâs alone in his room, itâs your face he sees. your soft smile, the way your hips sway when you walk, the curve of your breasts under those old t-shirts you wear when you come over to help his mom. he wraps his hand around his cock and strokes himself slow and desperate, imagining bending you over the same couch you used to read him stories on.
he cums hard every time, biting his lip to stay quiet.
seeing you now drives him insane.
youâre in his kitchen again, helping his mom with groceries like you always do. satoru leans against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you laugh at something his mother says. youâre wearing shorts that hug your thighs and a loose top that slips off one shoulder. he wants to rail you so badly it hurts. wants to push you against the counter, shove those shorts down, and fuck you until you finally see him as a man.
âhey,â he says, voice low and smooth as he walks in. heâs learned how to turn on the charm. âyou look good today. new shorts?â
you glance down, then smile like heâs still ten years old. âthese old things? thanks, satoru. youâre sweet.â
sweet. the word burns.
he steps closer, towering over you now. âiâm not a kid anymore, you know.â
you laugh softly, patting his arm like you used to when he threw tantrums. âof course youâre not. youâre all grown up. my little troublemaker became a heartthrob, huh?â
satoruâs jaw tightens. he wants to grab you, pin you to the wall, and show you exactly how grown up he is. instead he flashes that signature gojo grin, leaning in so his breath brushes your ear.
âyou should let me take you out sometime. dinner. drinks. whatever you want.â
you blink, tilting your head with that innocent confusion that drives him crazy. âaww, thatâs so nice of you! are you practicing your lines for the girls at school? youâre gonna break so many hearts.â
he nearly groans. âiâm not practicing. i mean it. i want to take you out. just us.â
you wave him off with a smile, completely missing the heat in his eyes. âyouâre adorable. but iâm way too old for you, satoru. focus on college girls your age.â
adorable.
the word makes something snap inside him. heâs imagined you on your knees, lips wrapped around his cock. imagined folding you in half and pounding you until you scream his name. imagined filling you up while you moan about how big he is.
and you still call him adorable.
he steps even closer, backing you against the counter. his height makes it impossible for you to ignore how much heâs grown. âiâm not a little kid anymore,â he says, voice dropping. âi know what i want. and i want you.â
you laugh again, reaching up to ruffle his hair like you did when he was eight. âyouâre so funny. always teasing your old babysitter.â
satoru catches your wrist gently but firmly, holding it against his chest so you can feel how fast his heart is racing. his blue eyes burn into yours.
âiâm not teasing.â
for a second you pause. but then you smile again. âyouâll find a nice girl soon. i promise.â
he lets you go, watching you walk away to help his mom again. his cock is half-hard in his pants just from being close to you. the frustration is driving him insane.
every time you treat him like the child he used to be, it only makes him want to ruin you more. to prove how much of a man he is by fucking you so deep you forget you ever saw him as anything but yours.
satoru leans against the counter, eyes dark and hungry as he watches you move around the kitchen. he stays there until he canât take it anymore, then pushes off the counter and heads upstairs to his room without a word.
the second his door clicks shut, heâs already palming himself through his pants. he frees his aching cock and starts stroking, hoping that youâll take the garden path home like you usually do so youâll walk right past his window and hear the wet sound of his hand pumping his cock and the moans he doesnât even try to hide because he wants you to know. he wants you to hear exactly what you do to him.
a few days later, satoru comes back from a late training session when he cuts through the side yard like he always does. your bedroom curtain is pulled mostly closed, but thereâs a gapâjust enough, and he stops dead. through the narrow opening he sees you.
youâre on top, completely naked, riding your stupid boyfriend with slow rolls of your hips. your head is tilted back, lips parted, hands braced on his chest. the moonlight catches the curve of your breasts, the way they bounce every time you sink down. your boyfriendâs hands are on your waist, guiding you, but his thrusts look lazy.
satoruâs mouth goes dry.
he should look away. he knows he should. but he canât. his cock hardens instantly, straining against his pants as he watches you move. you look so pretty like thisâflushed, glowing, lost in pleasure. but something ugly twists in his chest because itâs not him underneath you. he wants to be him so fucking bad.
before he can think, satoru slips behind the bushes, hidden in the shadows. his hand shoves into his pants, wrapping around his aching cock. he strokes himself in time with your movements, eyes locked on the way your body rises and falls. every soft moan that drifts through the cracked window makes him leak.
âfuck⌠you should be riding me,â he whispers. his fist moves faster, thumb swiping over the head as he imagines itâs your tight, wet heat instead. he pictures grabbing your hips, slamming you down on his much bigger cock, making you scream his name instead of whatever soft sounds youâre making now.
he cums hard, biting his lip to stay quiet, painting his hand while watching you chase your own pleasure. the sight of you cummingâback arching, mouth open in a silent cryâpushes him over the edge again. he milks himself through it, thick, messy spurts flooding into his boxers and soaking through his pants. after the orgasm fades and reality came back he stares down at the dark wet patch on the front of his sweatpants.
later that night he lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, still half-hard while his damp pants he cleaned in a hurry so his mom wouldnât notice, dry on the back of his chair in his room. that loser didnât even make you cum properly. satoru could tell.
your moans were pretty, but not desperate enough. your body moved like you were doing most of the work. he knows he would be so much better for you. he would flip you over, pin you down, and fuck you so deep and so good youâd forget any other man existed. heâd make you cum until you cried, until your legs shook, until you begged him to fill you up. heâd treat you like the goddess you are instead of some half-assed ride.
the jealousy burns hotter than the lust now. you still see him as the little kid you babysat. you have a boyfriend who canât even make you cum right, and you smile at satoru like heâs harmless.
it makes him insane.
the next afternoon he sees you working in the garden.
youâre kneeling in the flowerbed next door, wearing those same old shorts that ride up your thighs and a loose tank top, hair tied back messily as you dig around the roses. the sun makes your skin glow. satoru leans against the wooden fence that separates your yards, arms crossed over his chest, watching you in silence for a long moment. his eyes trace the curve of your back, the way your shorts cling when you shift, the soft bounce of your breasts every time you reach forward.
his cock twitches at the memory of last nightâyou riding that loser, the way your body moved, the sounds you made. he still feels a little ashamed about cumming in his pants like a desperate pervert, but the hunger is stronger.
finally he speaks, voice casual but laced with something darker.
âhad a good night?â
you look up, brushing dirt off your hands, and give him that same bright, innocent smile you always do. âoh, hey satoru. yeah, it was alright. why do you ask?â
he shrugs, but his blue eyes are intense behind his sunglasses. âjust curious. you seemed⌠busy.â
you laugh softly, standing up and stretching. the hem of your tank top rides up, showing a sliver of skin, and satoruâs gaze drops there instantly.
ânothing special,â you say. âjust hung out with my boyfriend. watched a movie, you know how it is.â
satoruâs jaw tightens. he wants to tell you that âhung outâ clearly wasnât enough if you werenât even satisfied. instead he flashes his usual grin and leans further over the fence.
âmovie, huh? sounds boring. you deserve better than boring.â
you tilt your head, amused. âare you offering to entertain me now, little satoru?â
there it is again. little satoru.
the nickname stings worse than usual after what he saw last night. he wants to vault over the fence, push you down into the dirt, and fuck you right there in the garden until you scream his name instead of calling him little anything.
âi could entertain you way better than a movie,â he says. âjust say the word.â
you chuckle and wave him off, going back to your flowers like heâs still the kid you used to babysit. âyouâre such a flirt these days. go find a girl your own age.â
satoru stays leaning against the fence, watching you work, heart pounding and cock half-hard again. the frustration coils tighter in his chest. one day youâll stop seeing him as the little boy next door. one day heâll make you see exactly how much heâs grownâpreferably while heâs buried nine inches deep inside you.
as you lean down deeper to reach a stubborn weed, your loose tank top slips forward. satoru catches a clear view of your titsâsoft, full, and perfect, nipples just barely hidden by the thin fabric. the sight hits him like a punch to the gut.
his cock instantly swells, painfully hard again in seconds.
he canât tear his eyes away. he imagines pulling your top down completely, watching those pretty tits spill out into his hands. he wants to grope them, squeeze them, bury his face between them while he fucks you. he wants to suck on your nipples until theyâre swollen and sensitive, until youâre whimpering and arching into his mouth.
the urge to take a picture is so strong it almost hurts. he wants to save this view foreverâthe way your tits hang and sway as you work, the soft curve of them, the way they move when you shift. his fingers twitch at his side, desperate to grab his phone, but he forces himself to stay still.
he canât. not without risking everything.
instead, he just stares, breathing hard through his nose, cock throbbing angrily in his pants as fantasies flood his mind. he wants to cover them in his cum. he wants to watch them bounce while you ride him. he wants to mark them as his.
he canât take it anymore. muttering a quick excuse, he turns and practically runs inside his house. he doesnât even make it up the stairs to his bedroom this time. the second heâs inside the downstairs bathroom, he locks the door, yanks his pants down, and wraps his hand around his throbbing cock.
he strokes himself furiously, leaning against the sink, replaying the image of your tits spilling out of your top and the memory of you riding your boyfriend. it only takes him a minute before he cums hard again, biting his arm to stay quiet as thick ropes paint the sink.
panting, flushed, and still half-hard, satoru stares at his reflection. he knows heâs completely fucked. but he also knows he wonât stop until you finally see him the way he sees you. lucky him, it didnât take long for the next opportunity to arise.
the next time you come over, itâs to help with groceries like always.
satoruâs mom is out running errands, leaving the two of you alone in the kitchen. youâre putting things away, humming softly, completely unaware of the way satoru is watching you. heâs done playing nice. the images from the garden and that night through the window have been burning in his brain for days. heâs tired of being âcute little satoru.â
you reach for the top shelf, standing on your tiptoes, trying to slide a heavy bag of rice into place and your shorts pull tight across your ass.
âhere, let me help,â satoru says.
he steps right behind you before you can protest. his tall frame cages you against the counter, one arm reaching easily over your head to push the bag into place. but he doesnât step back. instead, he presses forward, letting you feel every inch of his hard cock against your ass through his sweatpants.
you freeze. âsatoruâŚ?â
he doesnât move away. if anything, he presses closer, rolling his hips just enough for you to feel how thick and heavy he is. his breath is hot against your ear.
âyou feel that?â he murmurs. âthatâs what you do to me. every time i see you. every time you smile at me like iâm still that little kid.â
his hands slide down to grip your waist, holding you in place as he grinds slowly against you. the hard line of his cock nestles perfectly between your cheeks, and he lets out a shaky breath.
âiâm not a kid anymore,â he continues, lips brushing your ear. âiâve been jerking off to you for months. thinking about bending you over this counter and fucking you. thinking about how much better iâd be than that useless boyfriend of yours.â
you try to turn around, but he keeps you pinned, chest pressed to your back.
âsatoru, this isnât funnyââ
âiâm not joking.â his voice drops even lower, more aggressive. one hand slides up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast. âi saw you riding him the other night. through your window. he couldnât even make you cum properly, could he? i would. iâd fuck you so good.â
he rolls his hips again, letting you feel how hard he is, how big. his cock twitches against you, desperate and leaking.
âtell me to stop and i will,â he whispers, even as his grip tightens possessively. âbut i think you feel it too. how much i want you. how much better i can make you feel.â
youâre breathing faster now, trapped between the counter and his tall, muscular body. satoru leans down, lips grazing your neck. âlet me show you. just once. iâll make you cum so many times youâll be begging for more.â
youâre breathing faster now, trapped between the counter and his tall, muscular body. satoru doesnât wait for a clear answer. he rolls his hips forward again, slower this time, deliberately dragging the thick ridge of his cock against your ass through your thin shorts.
a shaky breath escapes you and he feels itâthe way your body tenses then softens just a little. encouraged, he does it again, pressing harder, grinding his clothed cock between your cheeks in slow rolls. the friction is maddening. even through two layers of fabric, you can feel how hot and heavy he is, how big.
âsatoruâŚâ your voice comes out breathless.
âshh,â he murmurs against your ear, lips brushing the sensitive skin. âjust feel me.â
his hands tighten on your waist, holding you still as he starts dry humping you properly. long, deliberate thrusts that slide his hard length up and down between your ass cheeks. every roll makes your shorts ride up further, the fabric catching and pulling against your pussy. you can feel yourself getting wet, your body reacting even though your mind is still spinning.
satoru groans softly, forehead pressed to the back of your head. âfuck⌠you feel so good. been dreaming about this for so long.â
he picks up the pace a little, hips snapping forward with more urgency. the kitchen is quiet except for your shared heavy breathing and the faint rustle of clothes. you grip the edge of the counter, knuckles turning white, trying to steady yourself as heat pools low in your belly.
âyouâre getting wet, arenât you?â he whispers. one of his hands slides down your stomach, stopping just above the waistband of your shorts. âi can feel how warm you are. your body knows iâd be better.â
you bite your lip, a soft, involuntary whimper slipping out as he grinds particularly hard against you. the pressure on your clit through the fabric is driving you crazy. your breathing is turning faster, chest rising and falling quickly.
satoru notices immediately. a pleased sound rumbles in his chest.
âthatâs it⌠getting breathless for me already?â he teases, but his voice is strained. he rolls his hips in a slow circle, pressing his cock right against your clothed entrance. âgood girl. let me hear those pretty sounds.â
he keeps grinding harder, faster, like heâs trying to fuck you through your clothes. every thrust makes your tits bounce slightly and pulls another shaky breath from your lips. youâre starting to push back against him without thinking, chasing the friction.
satoruâs hand finally slips under your tank top, palm hot against your bare stomach.
âtell me to stop,â he rasps, lips against your neck, âor tell me to keep going. because if you donât⌠iâm not gonna be able to hold back much longer.â
youâre panting now, head spinning, body burning under his aggressive touch. satoru keeps grinding against you like heâs possessed, cock throbbing against your ass, waiting for you to decide how far this is going to go.
âsatoru⌠we canât.â your fingers dig harder into the counter, knees feeling weak. âthis is wrong⌠youâreâyouâre basically still myââ
âwe can,â he cuts you off. âwe definitely can. and weâre going to.â
before you can protest again, his hand leaves your waist. you hear the metallic clink of his belt buckle, the sound of his zipper being dragged down. your heart hammers wildly as he frees his cock. itâs heavy and hot as it springs out, slapping against your ass cheek. heâs so hard it looks painful, the tip already leaking.
âfeel what you do to me,â he murmurs, pressing the thick length against you again, this time with nothing but your thin shorts and panties between you.
his fingers hook into the side of your shorts and panties, tugging them just enough to the side. cool air hits your soaked pussy for a second before he slides his bare cock along your drenched folds. the hot, velvety length glides up and down your slick lips, parting them slightly with every slow stroke but never pushing inside.
you let out a broken whimper, forehead dropping against the cabinet door.
âfuck⌠youâre soaked,â satoru groans. he rocks his hips, sliding his cock repeatedly between your folds, coating himself in your wetness. the head catches on your clit with every pass, sending sparks shooting through you. âall this for me? and you still tried to say we canât?â
he keeps the teasing motion goingâlong, deliberate slides from your entrance up to your clit and back down. every time the thick head nudges against your hole, you clench around nothing, aching to be filled. your breathing is ragged, little gasps and moans slipping out despite yourself.
satoruâs free hand comes back to your hip, holding you steady as he grinds his bare cock against your dripping pussy.
âsee? we can. and it feels so fucking good, doesnât it? just imagine how much better itâll feel when i finally slide inside you.â
he presses forward a little harder, the head of his cock dipping just slightly against your entrance before sliding back up, teasing mercilessly. youâre trembling, breathless, torn between pushing him away and pushing back for more.
âtell me to stop⌠or tell me you want it. because iâm this close to bending you over and fucking you right here on the counter.â
finally, you break.
ââŚjust the tip,â you whisper. âokay? just the tip, satoru. and donât come inside me.â
the words barely leave your mouth before satoru groans like heâs been granted heaven. âfuck, yes. just the tip, baby. i promise.â
he lines himself up, the fat head of his cock pressing against your dripping entrance. he pushes forward slowly, and the stretch is immediate. only the tip slips inside youâjust the swollen head breaching your tight walls. itâs enough to make both of you lose your minds.
âoh my godâŚâ you gasp, fingers scrabbling against the counter. the feeling of him inside you, even just that little bit, is overwhelming. heâs so thick.
satoruâs forehead drops to your shoulder. âfuck⌠youâre so tight. so fucking warm. just the tip feels this good?â
he rocks his hips in tiny, shallow movements, fucking just the head in and out of you. every shallow thrust makes wet, obscene sounds echo in the quiet kitchen. he doesnât push any deeper, but the way heâs teasing your entrance is driving you insane. the constant stretch and release has your walls fluttering around his tip, trying to pull him in further.
âsatoruâŚâ you whimper, pushing back against him despite yourself.
âi know, i know,â he pants. âjust the tip. iâm being good. but fuck, baby⌠youâre sucking me in. your pussy wants more, doesnât it?â
he keeps it like thisâshallow little thrusts that only give you the head, never more. itâs torture. for both of you. satoruâs hands grip your hips so tightly you know youâll have bruises. his breathing is harsh against your neck as he fights every instinct to slam all the way in.
âyou feel so perfect,â he groans, circling his hips so the head rubs against that sensitive spot inside you. âi could cum just like this.â
youâre moaning softly now, completely breathless, knees shaking. the denial is making everything more intense. every shallow thrust sends sparks through your body, but itâs not enough. you need more, but youâre scared to ask.
satoruâs control is hanging by a thread. his cock twitches inside you, leaking precum, and he has to bite back a whine. then his hands slide up under your tank top, pushing it up until your breasts spill free. he immediately gropes them, one large hand squeezing and kneading your soft tits while his thumbs flick over your hardened nipples.
âmmhâ satoruâŚâ you moan, pushing back against him desperately.
he chuckles against your neck, pinching your nipples hard enough to make you gasp. âwhatâs wrong, baby? your loser boyfriend doesnât play with these pretty tits like this? doesnât know how sensitive you are here?â he rolls your nipples between his fingers, tugging them while still fucking you with only the tip of his cock. every shallow thrust makes you clench greedily around his head, but itâs never enough.
âbet he doesnât even make you wet like this,â satoru says, voice dripping with arrogance as he squeezes your breasts harder. âbet he fucks you like a pathetic little boy and still canât make you cum. thatâs why youâre dripping down my cock right now, isnât it?â
you whimper helplessly, forehead pressed against the cabinet, hips trying to push back to take more of him. but satoru keeps perfect controlâonly giving you the tip, no matter how much you beg with your body.
âsay it,â he murmurs, biting your shoulder lightly while still playing with your tits. âtell me his dick isnât enough for you. tell me you need mine.â
he punctuates his words with another shallow thrust, the head of his cock catching perfectly against that spot right at your entrance. your moan comes out broken and needy.
âsatoru⌠pleaseââ
âplease what? please fuck you properly? or please keep teasing this desperate little pussy until youâre crying for me?â then, just to torture you more, satoru pushes in a little deeperâonly an extra inch, but itâs enough.
you cry out sharply, the sudden stretch pulling a broken, needy sound from your throat. your body reacts on instinct, pushing back against him desperately, trying to take more of his thick cock.
âgreedy girl⌠you said just the tip, but look at you pushing back like you want me to ruin you.â
he gives you another shallow thrust, still not going all the way in, but deeper than before. you whimper pathetically, hips rocking back against him again, chasing the feeling. your pussy clenches hard around him, dripping down his length.
âfuck, you really want it, donât you?â he laughs breathlessly against your ear âyou want your former babysitting kid to fuck you stupidââ
the front door suddenly swings open.
âsatoru? iâm back earlyââ
his momâs voice cuts through the air like ice water.
you both freeze.
satoru reacts instantly, pulling out of you and yanking your tank top back down to cover your chest. he quickly tucks himself back into his pants, heart hammering. youâre still pressed against the counter, legs shaking, face burning with embarrassment as you try to fix your shorts.
his mom stands in the doorway only seconds later, holding grocery bags, blinking at the two of you.
satoru clears his throat, somehow managing to sound almost normal. âhey mom. we were just⌠putting the groceries away.â
you nod quickly, too mortified to speak, cheeks flaming red. your thighs are still trembling, pussy aching from being left empty and dripping.
his mom narrows her eyes slightly, suspicious. âhm. well, donât make a mess in here.â
she sets the bags down and walks further into the kitchen, completely unaware of how close she came to catching her son balls-deep inside you.
satoru glances at you, eyes still dark. he leans in close while his momâs back is turned, whispering hotly against your ear: âthis isnât over. next time iâm not stopping until youâre creaming all over my cock.â
you shiver, pressing your thighs together as you try to calm your racing heart.
germansingergirl
yousharknotpass
snowghoul
izzy806
theartofmadeline
kaledo-art
dailybridgerton
gummygunk
