Possessive asf 2yuls with their partners mmmmfff mmffffff
Possessive 2yul 18+
Don’t even get me starteddd!!! Ryul would def get handsy and shoot death glares whenever he senses ‘boy code’ of a dude acting overly friendly. Whether that be a hand on your thigh, pulling you closer by your waist, placing sly kisses along your neck as he stared deadpanned at the guy. The type to eat your out later and tease the fuck outta your clit with his perfect teeth, clamping them around the pulsing flesh until you yelped, then he’d suck it back into his mouth and soothe the sharp pain with his warm tongue while sporting a cocky grin. Prying your thighs apart to plunge his tongue torturously deeper into your narrow hole.
Ohyul feels like the type to get jealous easier and not afraid to show it. Gets needier, pouting whenever your attention shifts away from him, tilting your chin back to him with an innocent look—but it’s like there’s an undercurrent of him getting revenge when you two get home. Soon as you arrived he pushed you down on the bed, holding your release the whole night till you begged him to let you finish around his lengthy fingers. His grin would only get wider the more desperate you sounded, mocking your whimpers as he muffled them all with his mouth. kisses would turn rougher, needing to leave your lips splotchy, bruised—claiming them as his only.
wc ☆ 751 total warnings ☆ diva/sassy man apocalypse (ryul), thc + alc mention (ohyul) an ☆ as a nail tech i couldn’t keep myself from writing abt nails !!! i will do woojin and louis as soon as i have an idea of what to write abt.. this was supposed to be ot4 but i was SO stuck !!! i gave up sry
ryul ☆
ryul is almost more feminine than you in the sense that his instagram is very meticulously crafted, his feed overly aesthetic, only four to five posts up, all of which are carefully created photo dumps.
he has probably only two highlights, one for those dumb photos when you two go out where he stops you like, baby, please get a photo of me right here. this is so tough, and it’s just a pic of him looking at his feet that he pairs with his trap song of the day.
the other one is a little more special, because it’s all of you. that’s the one time you’re okay with his nitpicky photo sessions, where he’s (playfully) barking orders and pouting when you say you’re tired and it’s stupid.
the best photo sessions for his “gf” highlights are the faceless ones, like a photo of his hand in the back pocket of your shorts, or a mirror “fit check” photo that’s really just to show him kissing your cheek. the true best ones though, are him
showing off your nails. black, studded, ryul style in bold font on the ring finger, and any kind of
design that just screams your shared aesthetic.
“come.” he’ll take your hand, guiding it to rest on his chest, fingers splayed against the muscle, hidden under a black tank. “perfect. take a photo like that.” then he’ll have you take another one, this time of your fingers wrapped around his bicep, photo capturing a fresh set laying right atop a vein. once he’s satisfied, he’ll post a collage style story with all the photos you took, a random song added and the caption “paid by me.” yeah, the photoshoot process is annoying, but it’s just because ryul loves you and wants to show you off.
ohyul ☆
the music is booming, you have absolutely no clue what ohyul or any of your friends have been saying to you, but the thc in your system makes it so you don’t care. they probably don’t know what they’re saying either, so it’s chill.
ohyul stands behind you at the couch, you know he’s there just by his scent. he reaches around you to press his can to your lips, offering you a sip, which you take and scrunch your face at the flavor. he pulls it away, and some girl behind you asks your boyfriend for her own sip. from his can. and you know she didn’t just switch her tone from all cute to bitchy when you snap your head around.
he notices, and just smiles at you, before it drops so he can address the girl. the box is over there, you read his lips, and that’s all he says before turning his attention back to you. taking your hand, he leads you out to the back patio. the music is quieter, but still loud, and there’s less people nearby. there’s maybe three or four people, and they’re all locked in on cup pong.
you run your hands up his chest, nails scratching his skin over his black tee. they slide up and lock around his neck, bringing him down to your lips. he kisses you once, laughing into it, but quits when you kiss him back with the bite you only give when your alone. the kind of energy that tells him you’re ready to boss him around how he likes.
“what, are you jealous?” you hum in response to him, pushing yourself into him and kissing him again. “i did everything i was supposed to. except ignore her, sorry.”
“mm.” you prop your chin on his shoulder, eyes falling shut. his hands land on your hips, warm and comforting when he presses his thumbs into your skin. not that it was hard to tell, but he’s always tuned to your moods and knows just what to do when you’re upset.
your eyes open for just a second and you catch the glint of your nails in the corner of your eye. as if you discovered the next best invention, you pull your phone from your back pocket and pull up the camera. with just the bottom of your face in frame, you capture ohyul’s broad shoulder, your nails splayed across it, his name on your ring finger perfectly in the center. pressing a kiss to his neck, you waste no time posting the photo to your story with a song that will definitely show people who your boyfriend belongs to, if nothing else gives it away.
word count: 690 | warnings/summary: SMUT sex, oral, p in v, reader 2 timing ryul and ohyul so they confront reader. i did notttt do a grammar/proof read check.. to lazy
when you first started two timing ryul and ohyul, you knew there was going to be a chance they would find out about you playing both. they were literally best friends for gods sake!
you were more than surprised when months have passes and both of them havent told each other about you, since boys seemed to like to gossip about who theyre talking to.
it becomes hard to have ohyul and ryul wanting to see you in the same day. one wants to take you to the movie theater and the next hour the other wants to watch the same movie you just watched at the same movie theater! the workers at the counter give you a side eye seeing as you were just here with someone else.
those days when you go out with both of them and the other two to go eat at a restaurant, your heart just wont stop beating fast. "fuck, two of the people im two timing are besides me"
ohyul would sit besides you while ryul would be sitting in front of you. ohyul would rub your thigh up and down under the table, as he acts like nothings going on. ryul would stare at you, holding eye contact with him felt too intimate, you can just tell they both wanted to see you alone after this.
you have the power to stop this from escalating, but... having two dicks feel so good.
you should've known that that day would come sooner.
"im thinking of asking her of becoming my girlfriend for real now." ryul confessed to ohyul one day. "i been seeing her for months, its time" ohyul grins, "you have to tell me her name now." ohyul smiles seeing his best friend act so shy.
"its __..." ryul confesses, relief to finally let someone know about your little relationship. when ohyul hears your name come off his lips, his smile starts to falter. "what..?"
ohyuls reaction makes ryul freeze and ask, "is something wrong?" ohyul doesnt want to break it to his best friend that you've been playing both, but he has to. "i think... she's been playing us both." after they both discuss what youve been doing to them both, they hd no choice but to confront at your own home.
"you think its fucking cute to be playing us both, huh?" ohyul groans snapping his hips making you let out another squeak. "was this your plan all along? taking two dicks at the same time?" ohyul just couldnt stop, his dick keeps on hitting that sweet spot inside of you.
hes just so mad and heart broken by your betrayal, he cant stop fucking himself in your pussy. that same pussy he thought he was the only one fucking.
“im-imsorrry” you try to speak but it all sounds gibberish, theres drool all over your lips, from having ryuls cock in your mouth. “fuck, thats it.” ryun groans, head falling back as his other hand gently brushed your hair with his fingers.
theres no way he could be mad at you, yes, hes heart broken that you been toying with him and his best friend. but everytime he looks down at you, with your lips wrapped around his cock- eyes watery and lips swollen. he falls in love all over again.
"ru" you whined, pouting your lips at him with glassy eyes, a sort of way of asking for forgiveness. "our baby just wanted us both, is that right." he makes you take him again, a small smile on his lips as your tongue licks his tip again.
"this slutty pussy belongs to us both now." ohyul groans, his cock still pounding into you, balls slapping your clit that just makes you arch your back into him more. you couldn’t help but get even more wetter and squeeze around him tighter knowing you were getting fucked so good from behind and front.
ohyul scoffed, “ryul, she fucking loves this. our girl loves getting fucked by us.” he grins. ryul just hums to himself as he watches you struggle to take his dick in your mouth and getting your pussy pounded.
SUMMARY: Where the reader smokes marijuana for the first time with plug!Ryul. Both of them get bold and partake in certain activities.
WARNINGS: smoking, drinking mentioned, cursing, fingering, eating kitty, a little bit of pet names... maybe more?
NOTES: Hi guys.... this is my first time ever writing fanfic on this account AND my first time writing about a K-pop idol, gulp. Hopefully, the people who see this like it... :3
God… why did you let him drag you places…
Your childhood best friend, Ohyul, convinced you to go to a party with him. You… were not the type of person to go to parties. Though it sounds very stereotypical, you were an introvert. Dealing with a bunch of drunk college kids is not what you wanted to do on a Saturday night, but Ohyul basically dragged you by the feet to this hellhole of a party.
Roughly an hour into the party, you were standing around, sipping on a cup of water. Either you were talking to Ohyul or glancing around the room, bored, when he left you to flirt with drunk college girls. What a fun night…
After standing alone for maybe 7 or so minutes, you see Ohyul emerge from a crowd of people, holding a red solo cup in his left hand.
“Yooo y/n, you wanna come smoke with me and this guy I know?”
“Ohyul, why would I want to do that. You know that I don't–”
“Oh come on, y/n. You're always so tense. This shit can level you out.” He says, cutting you off before you could finish your sentence
You open your mouth to protest further, when he grabs your wrist and pulls you off to god knows where.
After pushing through a bunch of plastered college dorks, you finally enter a room. The air was dense with smoke and reeked of skunk. The room was somewhat small, like a person's bedroom. There was a coffee table, a loveseat, and a recliner. On the wall, there was a medium-sized TV playing an episode of Attack on Titan. On the loveseat was a guy who you assumed was the guy Ohyul mentioned.
Ohyul finally lets go of your wrist and sits in the recliner. Since it was the only other seat other than the floor, you sit on the other end of the loveseat. The guy, who was now beside you, glances up at you, then at Ohyul, then back at you.
“Who are you?” He said.
“This is my friend, y/n. She’s never smoked before, so I wanted to introduce her to weed.” Ohyul said.
The guy nodded slightly, looking you over one more time. “I’m Ryul.”He said as if he didn't have a care in the world.
You give a small, tense smile before glancing at Ohyul.
“So… you said it levels you out…?” you say, a skeptical tone obvious in your voice.
“Yeah. I mean, it can level you out. It has different effects on everybody. It makes some people more open, and some it makes them super paranoid.” Ohyul replied, shrugging his shoulders as if he wasn't making you feel worse.
“Yeah, like that's going to convince me to smoke with you.” You mutter.
Ohyul chuckled before digging in his pocket and pulling out a joint and a lighter. He lit up the joint and took a hit. He held the smoke in his lungs for a moment before blowing out a large cloud of smoke, adding more smoke to the already polluted air in that room. He then hands the joint ot Ryul, who does the same thing. He then holds out the joint to you.
“Go on, take a hit,” Ryul said, a smirk creeping onto his face.
You took the joint from him, your fingers brushing ever-so-slightly. You look down at the joint. Why were herbs wrapped in paper so intimidating…?
“Y/n, it's fine. It's not gonna kill you.” Ohyul says, trying to ease your nerves, but it wasn't working too well.
“You know what, I can't do this.” You mutter out before handing the joint back to Ryul.
“Aw, come on, it's not even dangerous. It literally comes from the ground.” Ryul said in a faux sad tone, his smirk widening even more. “But hey, if you ever change your mind, call me.” He pulls out a paper and grabs a pen from the coffee table. He wrote what you assumed to be his number before wedging it in the front pocket of your jeans.
“I'm gonna just Uber home.. Bye.” You mutter, mainly to Ohyul, before standing up and walking out of the room.
8 days had passed since that party. Each of those 8 days, you held that paper he gave you, reading over his phone number and debating whether to text him. The idea of smoking sounded cool, but you were just a bit… chicken.
Finally, you gathered the courage to shoot him a text. You type his phone number into your phone and send a text.
“Hey”
You hit send and felt a pang in your chest. A mix of regret, fear, and anticipation coursed through you. After what felt like a lifetime, yet was probably about 3 minutes, you got a reply.
“whos this??”
That… wasn't a great start.
“Y/n. Ohyul’s friend.” You reply. If he didn't remember you after this, you were definitely going to have to block him.
“ohhhhhh I remember u. what u wanna smoke now?”
“I think yeah.
“cool. send me your addy ill come by,” He responded.
You had to reread that message roughly 4 times before being able to even think of a response. Your mind was just not able to process the fact that he's asking for your address. You only met once. You didn't even say a word to him!
You eventually managed totype out your address and text it to him. You waited for a response… but never got one. Then, you heard a knock on your door.
Great. He’s here. The plug whose name you barely remember is at your apartment to smoke marijuana with you. And to think you were ever called a good kid.
You walk over and open the door. You've met with him. Ryul was wearing a white beanie, a plain white tank top with a baggy black zip-up, with some baggy blue jeans that were basically showing his ass because of how much he was sagging.
“Hey…” You mutter awkwardly before opening your door more to let him in.
He doesn't respond; he just gives you a once-over and smirks. A smirk that didn't necessarily make you uncomfortable, but definitely sent a shiver down your spine.
He walks in and makes himself at home. He walks over to your small sofa and sits down on it before digging in his pockets. He pulls out a small glass pipe and a small bag of weed.
You walk over and sit beside him, being sure to keep enough space between you two. He leans back on the couch and glances over at you.
“So, how much am I going to owe you?” you finally say, breaking the silence between you two.
“Don't worry. It's on the house.” He says casually.
“Oh, okay.” You say.
The room fell into another tense silence, though it was mainly tense because he couldn't seem to get his eyes off of you or drop that smirk.
“So, you ready?” He finally says. You nod.
His smirk widens. He opens the small bag in his hands and puts some of the broken-up weed into the bowl of the pipe. He pulled out a lighter and helped with the pipe.
“Oh, I'm going first..?” You said, glancing at him nervously.
“Well, yeah, you're the one who's never done this before.” He replied.
You take the pipe and pause. It seemed obvious what to do from here, but you were second-guessing yourself. For some reason, Ryul made you nervous. You couldn't bear the idea of embarrassing yourself in front of him.
“Here, I'll light it up for you. Just put your lips there and suck the smoke in.” He said casually, as if it was the most normal and easy thing in the whole world.
You nod and watch as he lights the bowl. You suck in the smoke and nearly choke instantly. You blow out the smoke and start coughing before you can take another breath in.
As you cough up a lung, you feel his hand move to your back.
“Hey, just try to take in some deep breaths.” He said, but without his typical confident tone.
After roughly 30 seconds, you manage to catch your breath and stop coughing. You glance over at him, noticing not only how his hand is still gently resting on your back, but how good he looks. The look of almost concern in his eyes really did a number on you.
“You good now?” He said, looking at you.
You nod. “I don't know if I feel anything, though. Does it take long?”
He laughs. A genuine laugh. “It won't take long. Give it another minute or so, baby”
His response made your heart drop. You tried to brush it off, but you knew he could sense your nervous energy by the way his smirk snuck back on his face.
Silence fell over both of you until suddenly you felt it.
Time felt like it had slowed down. Everything seemed almost fuzzy, like you were in a dream. It felt like there wasn't a problem in the world. You glance back over at Ryul to see him smiling at you.
“You feelin’ it?”
“Yeah..definitely.” You said, still trying to comprehend just what was going on around you.
“How's it feel?”
“Amazing… I think…” You muttered, which made him laugh
The weed seemed to make you more open. More talkative. You and Ryul talk for what feels like hours, just laughing and talking about random bullshit.
You felt relaxed, confident, like nothing could bother you, as if you and Ryul were in an unburstable bubble. You told me about yourself. The little things. The bigger things. Things you wouldn't even tell Ohyul, which was saying a lot, since you told him everything.
He seemed to listen, like actually listen. He would add input, but mostly led you to ramble on. That was until he added a question into the mix.
“Hey, can I ask you something real quick?” He said, casually looking at you as you both leaned against the back of the couch.
“Yeah, of course. What's up?”
“Well, if you haven't even smoked weed till now, does that mean you haven't really done anything else?
“Well, what do you mean by ‘anything else’?” You replied, curious.
“You know, like drinking, partying, sex. That shit.”
You pause. While the weed was definitely making you more open, this was a bit of a sensitive topic.
“Well, I mean… no.” You mutter
“Really? Nothing?” He said, with genuine disbelief in his tone.
“Nope. nothing at all.”
“That's crazy. I don't know how you live like that.” He replied, glancing up at the ceiling.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I just can't imagine somebody not having any sexual interactions.”
“Maybe it's just because I'm inexperienced, but I don't even really see the appeal in sex.” You said with a small shoulder shrug.
Silence. He glances over at you. “ Yeah, that's the inexperience talking. If you had sex, that thought wouldn't ever cross your mind again.” He said with a small laugh, almost like he was flabbergasted by what you just said
Suddenly, a wave of awkwardness crashes over you two. Your eyes lock for seconds that feel like hours, until you break eye contact. He smirks.
“What was that?” He said.
“What do you mean?? You reply a bit too fast.
“That look. You just looked me up and down.”
“What? No, I didn't.”
“Oh, you most definitely did, sweetheart. Don't even try to play it off. Don't tell me you're considering me as an option in your little ‘lack of sex’ sexual fantasy.” He said, leaning closer.
“Ryul I'm not.” You mutter, but you couldn't even make eye contact with him.”
“I hope you know I'm not stupid. I know you're lying. You don't have to lie. Just admit it. Maybe I can help.” He said, a smirk spreading on his face.
The sight of his smirk made your stomach twist. God, were you that obvious?
“Well, even if I was, what would you do about it..?” You mutter.
Oh, the look in his eyes when you said that spoke more words than his mouth ever could. He scooted closer, so close your thighs weren't just touching, but full on pressed together.
“What would I do?” He started, looking you up and down. “I can't tell you, but I can show you.”
The air in the room was charged, like it knew shit was about to go down. The fiery look in his eyes, the way his gaze would occasionally fall to your lips, it was all making you melt.
“So show me.”
That's all you had to say. Within a second, he moved and crashed his lips against yours in a heated kiss. His arms snaked around you, one going to the small of your back, the other to the back of your neck. You instinctively move your arms around his neck.
As the two of you kiss, you feel his hand on the small of your back shift down to grab your ass. His tongue makes its way past your lips and into your mouth. He lets out a soft groan as the kiss grows more heated, his hand squeezing your ass once again.
He then breaks the kiss, only to start trailing kisses down your jawline and neck. You subconsciously tilt your head up, allowing him more space. His tongue trails down your neck all the way down to your collarbone. He then looks up at you and talks.
“Take off your shirt and lie back.” He said in a dead serious tone that could've seriously sent your underwear flying off of you.
You immediately listen, pulling your shirt off over your head and lying back on the couch. He grins and moves so he's on top of you. He continues his trail of hot, wet kisses down your body. You feel his hand trail up from your ass to your waistband, where he begins to unbutton your jeans and slide them off.
“Lift your hips for me, yeah?” He said, and you complied instantly. He yanks down your pants, leaving them on the floor. He glances down and notices just how sopping wet your panties were. He grins at the sight. He uses two fingers to slide them off of you, tossing the panties over his shoulder, and on ot the floor. His hand swipes between your folds, slowly tracing up before making a small circle on your sensitive nub. “Feels good, hmm? And to think you thought sex wasn't appealing.” He teased, tilting his head.
You felt his fingers slowly move down to your cunt and nod, already feeling your eyes threatening to roll back in your skull. Ryul sees this and practically melts.
“Fuck you’re so cute.” He lowers his body down, kissing down your chest until his body rests between your already spread legs, his face now eye level with your cunt.
His lips wrap around your clit, slowly circling his tongue around it. He places a couple of open-mouthed kisses, making your whole body tremble. A single finger slowly tracing the opening of your pussy, tracing the edge so lightly it could've made you moan then and there.
Your back arches ever-so-slightly, yearning for Ryul to pick up the pace. He grinned and proceeded on his slow, teasing pace.
He began to pick up the pace, his finger beginning to pump in and out of your cunt slowly, but reaching deep as his tongue slurped down on your clit.
Your hand manages to find his hair, gripping the root and tugging. He lets out a slight hiss before continuing his assault on your cunt. He suddenly picks up the pace, making you break. His tongue rapidly moving against your pussy, and a second finger slipping in your whole. Your back arches, and the sudden change in pace causes you to spill right onto his face.
“Holy shit–” You moan out, unable to hold back any further noises. You cum hard, vision nearly going hazy as your legs buckle and close. Ryul’s hand grips your thigh, forcing your legs back open as he continues to eat your cunt.. His tongue moves even faster, so fast you have to grip both his hair and the edge of the couch. His two fingers are pounding deeper within you as every second passes. His fingers begin to curl, hitting your G-spot, overstimulating you.
“Ryul, I can't–” You manage to spit out between heavy pants.
His mouth pulls off of you, the bottom of his face covered in your mess.
“How was that for a first time?” he said, his smirk widening as he wiped his face with his hoodie sleeve.
You finally come down from the high of the orgasm and look at him, in both shock and awe. He laughs.
He stands up and walks off before coming back with a paper towel. He once again pushes your legs apart, but this time he wipes you clean. When finished, he tosses the disposable rag on the small coffee table before pulling your hand to get you to sit up.
“You good?” He then says, as if he were genuinely asking.
You nod, glancing at him. “Yeah. I'm good. Better than good, actually…”
He let out a chuckle at that. His arm moves around your shoulders, and he pulls you against him.
“I'm glad I could give you a first time. That is for weed and getting eaten out.”
“Me too.” You mutter.
“If you ever want to do this again, you got my number, okay?”
You nod, feeling nothing but bliss from not just the marijuana, but the thought of Ryul being willing for another day like this.
the last bite is so freaking cute 😭 the way it was structured with the ramen instructions felt like it was episodes for a cute kdrama!! I hope you write more for ohyul 🥹🥹 I usually only see shorter lngshot drabbles (i love those too) but it was nice to read a full length one!
hellooo am so happy u liked it !!! Yes u r right I wanted like each step of ramen making to feel like their relationship progress 😽 tysm for giving a long ohyul fic a chance will write more in future !!!💗
Pairing: Kwon Ohyul! x reader
Synopsis: In which the ultimate ramen sale has exactly four packs left, and you are absolutely not about to share with the smug stranger who got there first.
Genre: A romance/rom-com slow burn strangers-to-lovers workplace AU full of fluff and banter.
WC! 9.9K words
ˏˋ꒰🍥꒱ A guide on how to make the perfect ramen relationship
Step One: Boil 2–2.5 Cups of Water
There were exactly four packs of Buldak left on the shelf. The banner above them screamed 70% OFF, TODAY ONLY in a font so aggressive it should have come with a warning label, and you had basically started narrating your own victory speech in your head before your fingers even made contact with the box.
Three days. You had spent three actual days of your one finite life preparing for this. You'd set an alarm. You'd cross-referenced restock timings on two different grocery apps like you were planning a heist instead of buying noodles. You had told Mira with full eye contact and zero shame that if this sale somehow fell through, you would simply have to abandon your degree and become a hermit who survived purely on principle and tap water.
So when your hand finally closed around the box, the box, the one you had been thinking about with genuinely unwell levels of devotion, and another hand landed on it at the exact same second, warm and very much not yours, your brain did not register danger right away.
It registered personal betrayal.
"Okay," you said, staring down at the four fingers that were yours, stacked against four fingers that very much were not. "This is weird."
"Yeah," said a voice that had absolutely no business sounding that calm about it. "Weird. You can let go now."
You looked up.
And immediately, instantly, regretted it, because the universe had apparently decided that the one obstacle standing between you and discounted noodles also needed to have an undercut, a jaw that looked like it had been drawn by someone showing off, and the specific brand of smug, unbothered calm that made you want to either flirt with him shamelessly or shove him face-first into the cereal display. You hadn't decided which yet. Some small, traitorous part of your brain was lobbying hard for both, possibly at the same time, and you immediately blacklisted that part of your brain from having a vote in anything ever again.
"No," you said, tightening your grip. "YOU let go."
"I had it first."
"I had it first mentally. I have been having it first for seventy two hours. My claim has seniority."
He blinked at you like he'd just watched a raccoon successfully open a jar of pickles using only its tiny criminal hands. "That is not a real legal concept."
"It's a spiritual concept."
"Oh my god."
"There's a difference between legal and spiritual ownership and you're choosing to ignore the more powerful one out of convenience."
"I need this ramen," he said, slow, careful, the exact tone you use on someone who might be unhinged, which, fair, you probably did look a little unhinged right now and you had made peace with that about ten seconds ago. "I have a flight in four days and the emotional bandwidth of a man with literally nothing edible in his apartment."
"That's a you problem."
"It's extremely a me problem, but currently it's also a we problem because your hand is still on my noodles."
"They're not your noodles. They're the noodles. I located them first, that's just facts."
A woman pushing a cart full of yogurt edged past you both, gave you a look that very clearly said get a room, not the romantic kind, the please-stop-blocking-the-aisle kind, and you and the stranger shuffled half a step sideways in unison without ever loosening your grip on the box, swaying together like the most hostile slow dance either of you had ever been forced into.
You could feel the warmth of his hand through the cardboard. It was doing something annoying to your pulse and you decided, on principle, to be furious about it instead of examining it further.
"Okay," he said, exhaling like he'd aged two years in the last ten seconds. "There's four packs left. Two for you, two for me. Everybody wins, nobody gets banned from a grocery store today."
"I need four."
"I need four."
"We can't both need four, that's not how math works."
"It works exactly like that if the universe respects me specifically," you said, with the full unshakeable conviction of someone who had clearly already lost this argument several sentences ago and refused, on a cellular level, to admit it out loud.
He laughed. Short, surprised, like it had escaped before he could stop it, and the sound did something stupid low in your stomach that you immediately filed away under things to never think about again.
"Counter offer," he said.
"I'm listening."
"Rock paper scissors. Winner takes the box. Loser lives with the shame forever."
You narrowed your eyes at him. He had the audacity to look amused by this, like he found you funny instead of terrifying, which felt, frankly, disrespectful, because you were being extremely terrifying right now, you were sure of it.
"Fine," you said. "But if you cheat I will personally find an employee and tell them you've been hoarding the sale ramen, and I will make sure you get banned for life."
"That's an insane threat to make over noodles."
"I contain multitudes."
You both let go of the box at the exact same time, suspiciously synchronized, and held out your fists.
"Rock, paper, scissors."
"Wait, on three or after three."
"After three, obviously. Don't be unhinged about it."
"You're the one threatening to get me banned from a grocery store."
"Rock. Paper. Scissors. Shoot."
You threw scissors. He threw rock.
There was a long, devastating silence.
"No," you said.
"Yes," he said, already reaching for the box with the calm of a man who had clearly known he was going to win this entire time, and something about that quiet confidence made you want to scream into a pillow later, purely out of spite.
"Best two out of three."
"We agreed on one round."
"I'm amending the agreement retroactively, effective immediately."
"That's not how agreements work."
"Best. Two. Out of. Three."
He sighed, long and suffering, like he had several younger siblings or had simply, in this exact second, accepted that arguing with you was a battle better won through exhaustion than logic. "Fine. Two out of three."
You threw paper. He threw scissors.
"Ha," you said, possibly too loud, possibly loud enough to draw the attention of an entire aisle of strangers, but you genuinely could not have cared less in that moment, you had never cared less about anything in your life. "One one. Decider round."
"You are really committed to this."
"I told you. Seventy two hours of mental preparation. I refuse to be slandered in my own grocery store."
"It's not your grocery store."
"It is spiritually."
"You cannot keep using that as a legal defense."
"Final round. Shoot."
You both threw rock.
Silence again, heavier this time.
"Okay," he said slowly, dragging a hand down his face. "This is now officially embarrassing for both of us."
"Speak for yourself. I am thriving. This might be the most alive I've felt all semester."
"We are two grown adults standing in the snack aisle playing rock paper scissors over instant noodles, and we have tied twice."
"Third time's the charm," you said, already resetting your fist, fully prepared to do this until store security physically removed you both from the premises, fully prepared for this to become the story you told at parties for the rest of your life. That one time I almost got arrested over ramen.
He was looking at you now with an expression you couldn't quite name, something caught between disbelief and a warmth he was clearly trying very hard not to let show, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was losing a fight against his own face.
"You're genuinely deranged," he said, but it didn't land like an insult. It landed like an observation he found, against his better judgment, kind of charming.
"Thank you," you said. "Final round, for real this time. Loser walks away with their dignity intact and zero ramen."
"Deal."
You shook on it, which in hindsight was a bizarrely formal gesture to attach to a fight over discount noodles, but it felt right in the moment, his hand warm and steady around yours for exactly one second too long before you both yanked back like you'd touched something hot.
Your palm tingled. You hated that your palm tingled.
"Rock," you said.
"Paper," he said.
"Scissors."
"Shoot."
You threw scissors. He threw paper.
You blinked at your own hand like it had betrayed you in the best possible way.
"I win," you said, somewhat stunned by your own victory, the kind of stunned that comes from genuinely not believing your own luck even after three full rounds of complete chaos.
"You win," he agreed, and to his credit he didn't argue, didn't try to negotiate a fourth tiebreaker, just stood there with his hands sliding into his pockets, watching you with something unreadable that made the back of your neck go warm under the weight of it.
You reached for the box, victorious, ready to walk off into the sunset with your prize and never think about this stranger again as long as you lived.
And then, because the universe clearly had a sense of humor it had been saving up all week specifically for you, you actually looked at the shelf properly for the first time since this entire fiasco had started.
There were two more boxes sitting right behind the one you'd been fighting over. Calm. Untouched. Mocking you, somehow, despite being inanimate objects.
You both saw it at the exact same moment.
There was a long, soul crushing silence.
"There were," he said, very slowly, like each word physically hurt him on the way out, "more in the back. The whole time."
"There were more in the back the whole time," you repeated, staring at the two perfectly innocent, perfectly available boxes that had been sitting there unbothered while the two of you nearly got security called on you.
"We just played three rounds of rock, paper, scissors."
"We just played three rounds of rock paper scissors over nothing."
"I called you deranged to your face."
"You DID call me deranged to my face."
"I stand by it," he said, dragging a hand down his face, not laughing yet, clearly too annoyed at himself to find it funny just yet.
You grabbed your two rightfully won boxes off the shelf anyway, because you weren't about to let a logistical error undo a hard-fought victory, and held them against your chest like trophies.
"Well," you said, "this has been deeply unnecessary, and I regret every part of it except winning."
"You didn't even need to win. There was always enough for both of us."
"Doesn't matter. I still won. That's just a historical fact now, you can't undo it."
He grabbed his own two boxes, shaking his head, something flickering behind his expression that wasn't quite annoyance and wasn't quite anything else you could name either. "You're insufferable."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"I'm choosing to receive it as one. It's a personality trait at this point."
He huffed something that was almost a laugh, caught it before it fully escaped, and shifted his grip on his ramen like he was already trying to put distance between the two of you, physically and otherwise. "Well. I sincerely hope I never have to fight you for groceries again."
"Likewise. Genuinely. With my whole chest."
"I'm serious. I have a flight in four days. I will be on a different continent, far away from you and your spiritual ownership claims."
"Good. Enjoy your flight. Think of me never."
"I will think of you," he said, "exactly zero times."
"Perfect. Mutual. We're aligned."
"We're aligned," he agreed, already backing away down the aisle, ramen tucked under one arm like a man retreating from a battlefield with the bare minimum of his dignity intact.
"Bye forever," you called after him, with the cheerful, vicious energy of someone who fully meant it.
"Bye forever," he called back, not even turning around, already disappearing past the cereal display and out of your life, presumably, for good.
You did not exchange names. You did not, at any point, consider that this might be a mistake.
You went home, boiled water for a celebratory test bowl despite already having had dinner, told Mira the entire saga in such exhaustive detail that she made you repeat the rock paper scissors part twice, and did not think about the stranger again. Mostly. Aside from one or two stray moments where his laugh surfaced uninvited in your memory and you had to actively shove it back down where it belonged.
He, for his part, had no flight in four days. He had no flight at all, in fact, had not had so much as a plane ticket booked in over a year, and the lie had simply fallen out of his mouth in the heat of the moment because it sounded final, sounded like a clean exit line, sounded like the kind of thing you said to a deranged stranger you never expected to see again so that the goodbye would actually stick.
He, too, went home. He, too, did not think about you. Mostly.
If you had possessed any psychic ability whatsoever, which you did not, you might have noticed the flyer pinned to the staff board near the front registers on your way out, the one advertising a part time sales position, students welcome, flexible hours, one month only. The exact flyer Ohyul had already photographed on his phone an hour earlier, fully intending to apply the second he got home.
The exact flyer you yourself had screenshotted three days ago, right next to a note in your phone that read, in your own slightly deranged handwriting: *apply before sale ends. need the money. ramen money specifically.*
Neither of you noticed.
The universe, somewhere, was already laughing.
Step Two: Add the Noodle Block Once Boiling
Four days later, you walked into the staff room of a grocery store you had, until this exact morning, only ever thought of as "the place with the good ramen sale," wearing a uniform polo two sizes too big, a name tag still warm from the laminator, and the specific kind of nervous energy that came from this being your actual first part time job that wasn't babysitting your neighbor's chaotic twins.
The contract was for one month. Flexible hours, students welcome, decent pay for a uni kid trying to survive on instant noodles and the occasional act of God. You'd applied the same night you'd gotten home from the sale, ramen victory still fresh, mood embarrassingly good for someone who had nearly caused a minor incident over discount noodles, and the manager had called you back within two days because apparently nobody else wanted to work evening shifts in the snack and beverage aisle for a month.
You'd taken it without hesitation. Rent was rent. Ramen money, as your notes app had so eloquently put it, was ramen money.
You set your bag down at one of the lockers, read the laminated orientation schedule taped to the wall, and felt, for one full minute, like a functional adult who had her life together.
Then the door opened behind you, and every single cell in your body recognized the footsteps before your brain caught up, which felt deeply unfair, because you had only spent twenty minutes with this man and apparently that had been enough for your nervous system to file him under threat, recurring.
You turned around.
He stopped dead in the doorway.
There was a very long, very loud silence, the kind that somehow had a sound even though nobody was speaking, and you watched in real time as several emotions crossed his face in quick succession. Confusion. Recognition. Horror. A flicker of something that almost looked like betrayal, like you personally had engineered this for the sole purpose of ruining his week.
"You," he said, pointing at you with the kind of accusatory energy usually reserved for catching someone red handed at a crime scene, "have a flight."
"YOU'RE the one who's supposed to be on a flight," you said, at the exact same moment, pointing right back, both of you talking over each other like a poorly rehearsed duet.
"I.......I never had a flight."
You blinked. "What?"
"I lied," he said, dragging a hand down his face like the words physically pained him on the way out. "There was no flight. There has never been a flight. I have not so much as looked at a plane ticket in over a year."
"You lied," you repeated slowly, letting the full weight of this information settle into your brain like a stone dropping into still water, "to get out of a rock paper scissors rematch."
"I lied," he said, with the wounded dignity of a man whose perfectly good exit line had just detonated in his face four days later, in the worst possible setting, wearing a name tag, "to get out of ever seeing you again. Specifically. As a goal. And the universe has apparently rejected that request on every possible level."
"This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me," you said, staring at the name tag pinned to his chest, which, against every law of probability you had previously believed in, read OHYUL in the exact same chunky laminated font as your own.
"This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me," he said, "and I have a fairly competitive list of contenders."
"We're going to be coworkers."
"We are going to be coworkers," he confirmed, in the flat, hollow tone of a man reading his own eulogy out loud to a room full of strangers.
Before either of you could spiral further, the staff room door swung open again, and a woman in a navy blazer breezed in, clutching a clipboard, radiating the specific brand of relentless positivity unique to retail managers running on her third coffee of the day.
"There you two are," she said brightly, glancing between you like she had absolutely no idea she'd just walked into a crime scene. "I'm Jihye, the store manager. You're both on the part-time sales intake for the month, evening shift, snacks and beverages aisle. Orientation starts in five, follow me."
She turned and walked out without waiting for a response, clearly assuming the two new hires standing six feet apart in stony silence were simply shy.
Neither of you moved for a second.
"Snacks and beverages," you said.
"The aisle," he said. "Our aisle. The crime scene."
"I want a transfer."
"There is no transfer, this is a one month part time retail job, there's nowhere to transfer to."
"Then I want a refund on my own life decisions."
"Get in line," he muttered, already grabbing his name tag off the counter and clipping it on with the resigned energy of a man walking toward a firing squad, and despite everything, despite the betrayal, despite the flight lie, despite the fact that you were apparently cursed to be tethered to this specific human for the next four weeks, you felt the corner of your mouth twitch upward against your will.
You followed Jihye out of the staff room with Ohyul half a step behind you, both of you radiating the kind of tension that made another employee passing by visibly slow down to stare.
"For the record," he said quietly, just for you, as you walked, "I want it on file that I tried to escape. I made a genuine attempt."
"Noted," you said. "For the record, I also want it on file that I'm furious about this, on principle, and reserve the right to be furious about it for the entire duration of this contract."
"That's fair."
"Thank you."
"I still think you started it. At the shelf. Originally."
"We are not doing this again."
"I'm just saying, historically—"
"Ohyul."
"That's the first time you've said my name."
You stopped walking for half a second, caught entirely off guard by how unfairly pleased he looked about that small, stupid fact, like he'd won something far more significant than a rock paper scissors round, and you forced your expression back into something appropriately unimpressed before continuing down the hallway.
"Don't get used to it," you said.
"Too late," he said, falling back into step beside you, and you could hear, even without looking, that he was smiling.
Jihye led you both through a set of double doors into the main floor, past the registers, past the fruit section, straight toward a long aisle lined with chip bags and soda bottles and, conspicuously, a half empty shelf where the Ultimate Spicy Ramen sale had clearly continued without either of you, and stopped in front of it with the proud, sweeping gesture of someone presenting a kingdom.
"This is your aisle for the month," she said. "Restocking, customer assistance, inventory checks twice a shift. You two will be working together most evenings, so I hope you get along."
There was a pause.
"We've actually already met," Ohyul said, in a tone so carefully neutral it could have won an award.
"Oh, perfect," Jihye said, beaming, already turning to walk off toward the next item on her clipboard, completely unaware of the live grenade she had just casually tossed between the two of you and walked away from. "Even better. You'll have great chemistry then."
The word chemistry hit the air and just sort of sat there.
You turned to look at Ohyul. Ohyul turned to look at you.
"She has no idea," you said.
"None," he agreed. "She has genuinely no idea what she's just unleashed."
"This is going to be a long month."
"The longest month," he said, already reaching for a box of cereal to start restocking the shelf beside you, sleeves pushed up, expression somewhere between dread and something suspiciously close to anticipation, "of both our lives."
And if you noticed, in that exact moment, the small, helpless way his mouth curved when he thought you weren't looking, you decided, firmly, that it meant absolutely nothing.
You were, after all, sworn enemies.
You just happened to be sworn enemies who were about to spend the next four weeks standing three feet apart for six hours a day, restocking shelves, bickering over inventory counts, and slowly, without either of your permission, falling apart at the exact same rate the water in that long-ago grocery aisle had once come to its rolling, inevitable boil.
Step Three: Cook 2–3 Minutes, Separating the Noodles as They Soften
By the third evening of working together, you had developed what you privately referred to as the Ohyul Survival Manual, a mental document with exactly one entry, which read: do not, under any circumstances, let him near the price gun.
This was because on day two, Ohyul had taken it upon himself to "fix" the pricing on a display of off brand potato chips, had somehow priced an entire shelf of them at $0.05 instead of $0.50, and had not noticed until an elderly woman walked up to the register with eleven bags of chips and a smile so radiant it looked like she'd witnessed a miracle.
"I genuinely thought it was a sale," he said, for the fourth time, while you stocked cans of soda directly above his head with the specific, deliberate aggression of someone restraining themselves from dropping one.
"It is not a sale. You invented a sale. You manifested a sale into existence using nothing but a faulty price gun and pure incompetence."
"That woman seemed really happy though."
"She bought eleven bags of chips, Ohyul. Jihye had to comp it out of the register."
"I'm just saying, in a way, I brought joy into someone's life today."
"You brought joy into someone's life and a financial discrepancy into mine."
He grinned up at you from where he was crouched, restocking the bottom shelf, looking entirely too pleased with himself for a man who had, less than twenty four hours ago, single handedly created a pricing crisis. "You're welcome, by the way."
"For what."
"For the character development. You're learning patience. This is basically a gift."
"I am going to put you on that shelf next to the discount chips."
"Kinky," he said, immediately, without missing a beat, and you nearly dropped an entire case of soda cans directly onto your own foot trying to process the audacity.
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing. I said nothing. Continue restocking."
"You cannot just say something like that and then tell me to continue restocking like it's a normal transition."
"I can, actually. Watch. I just did it."
You stared at him for a long moment, torn between genuine horror and the deeply inconvenient urge to laugh, and settled, ultimately, for shoving a stack of flattened cardboard boxes directly into his arms with slightly more force than strictly necessary.
"Break it down. All of it. As punishment."
"For what crime exactly."
"Existing within three feet of me and saying the word kinky in a grocery store."
"That's not a real workplace violation."
"It is in my aisle."
"It's not your aisle, it's our aisle, Jihye said so herself, with the chemistry and everything."
"Do not bring up the chemistry comment again."
"I think about the chemistry comment honestly more than I'd like to admit," he said, breaking down a box with theatrical effort, like the act of folding cardboard required his entire upper body and several deep breaths, "she really just dropped that on us and walked away. No context. No warning. A woman of few words and devastating impact."
"She has no idea what she did."
"She has no idea what she started," he agreed, tossing the flattened box onto the growing pile, and you both worked in silence for almost ninety whole seconds, which, for the two of you, was basically a personal record.
It didn't last.
"Okay but genuinely," he said, breaking the silence like it personally owed him something, "what is your professional opinion on the chip pricing incident. Be honest. Funniest thing that's happened in this store in a year, or funniest thing that's happened in this store ever."
"Neither. It was a logistical nightmare that took Anjali forty five minutes to sort out on the register."
"That's not an opinion, that's a customer service report."
"Fine. It was moderately funny. In hindsight. After the financial damage was contained."
"Moderately funny," he repeated, looking wounded, hand pressed flat against his own chest like you'd physically struck him. "I generated a once in a lifetime grandma related miracle and you're giving it a moderate."
"I don't grade on a curve."
"You should. For me specifically. As a courtesy."
"Absolutely not."
He went quiet for a second, the kind of quiet that you'd already learned, after three days, meant he was building up to something, and you braced yourself accordingly while pretending to be extremely focused on aligning a row of energy drink cans by label.
"You know what your problem is," he said.
"I have several. Please specify which one you mean."
"You're deeply competitive in a way that suggests trauma."
You turned to look at him so fast you nearly knocked over the can you'd just aligned. "I'm sorry, trauma?"
"I'm just saying, the rock paper scissors thing. The seventy two hours of mental preparation thing. The spiritual ownership concept. That's not normal behavior, YN. That's a man, or in this case, a woman, who has Lost Something Before and refuses to lose again."
"I have never lost anything in my life, I am undefeated."
"You're undefeated at rock paper scissors over discount noodles. That's not a flex, that's a cry for help."
"At least I didn't accidentally invent a sale that doesn't exist."
"That happened once."
"It happened Tuesday. It is currently Thursday. The grief is still fresh."
He laughed, properly laughed, the kind that made him have to put a hand against the shelf to steady himself, and you fought, valiantly and unsuccessfully, against the small, traitorous smile threatening to break across your own face, turning back to the energy drinks specifically so he wouldn't see it.
You did not entirely succeed. You suspected, from the smug silence behind you, that he had absolutely seen it.
The thing about working a closing shift together, you'd discovered by day five, was that the store got eerily quiet after nine, the overhead music switching to some instrumental playlist clearly designed to lull both customers and employees into a state of mild hypnosis, and there was something about the emptiness of the aisles that made conversation feel different. Looser. Less like sparring and more like something you were doing simply because you wanted to keep doing it.
Not that you'd admit that out loud. You would rather restock the entire frozen foods section with your bare hands.
"Truth or dare," Ohyul said, apropos of absolutely nothing, while you both folded down delivery boxes in the back stockroom, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead.
"We're not twelve."
"We're bored employees with forty minutes left on shift and nothing to restock. We are, spiritually, twelve."
You paused, mid fold, narrowing your eyes at him. "Did you just use my own spiritual concept against me."
"I learn from the best."
"I hate that."
"Truth or dare," he repeated, undeterred, sitting cross legged on a stack of flattened cardboard like he owned the place, like this was a perfectly normal way for two coworkers to spend their evening.
"Fine. Truth."
"Coward."
"You said it was an option."
"I said it was an option, I didn't say I'd respect the choice." He thought for a second, tapping his chin with theatrical consideration, the kind that made you brace yourself for something deeply stupid. "Okay. Real question. Day one. At the shelf. Be honest. Did you think I was hot, even a little, even for half a second, before you decided to hate me."
You nearly choked on air that wasn't even going anywhere near your throat.
"Absolutely not."
"That was way too fast. That's a guilty answer if I've ever heard one."
"It's a true answer."
"Your voice went up two octaves."
"My voice did not go up two octaves, you're hallucinating, possibly from the fumes of all that cardboard."
"YN."
"I refuse to dignify that question with anything further."
"That's basically a yes."
"It is not basically a yes, it's a refusal, those are two completely different categories of response."
He was grinning now, the full, unfairly bright kind that made the stockroom feel about four degrees warmer than it had any right to be, watching you fumble through your own sentence like it was the single most entertaining thing he'd witnessed all week, possibly all month, possibly since the chip incident itself.
"My turn," you said quickly, desperate to redirect the conversation away from whatever cliff you'd nearly walked off. "Truth or dare."
"Dare. Obviously. I have nothing to hide."
"Everyone has something to hide, that's a deeply suspicious thing to say."
"Dare," he repeated, ignoring you completely, arms crossed, leaning back against the cardboard like a man fully prepared to accept whatever consequence came his way.
You looked around the stockroom for inspiration and landed, with the swift, merciless instinct of someone who had been waiting four days for exactly this opportunity, on the box of leftover sale stock sitting in the corner.
"I dare you," you said slowly, savoring it, "to eat a pack of the Ultimate Spicy Ramen. Raw. Uncooked. Right now. As a tribute to how this entire disaster began."
There was a long silence.
"That feels like cruelty."
"It feels like justice."
"There is genuinely no difference between those two things from where I'm sitting."
"Are you backing out."
"I am not backing out," he said, with the offended dignity of a man who had clearly never backed out of anything in his life and did not intend to start now, already reaching for the box, already tearing open a pack with the grim determination of someone walking willingly into battle. "I want it on record that this is psychological warfare."
"Noted. Eat the ramen."
He broke off a corner of the dry noodle block, examined it like it had personally wronged him, and ate it.
The sound that came out of him afterward was somewhere between a cough and a wounded animal noise, and you laughed so hard you had to sit down directly on the stockroom floor, clutching your own stomach, while he stood there chewing with the deeply betrayed expression of a man who had genuinely believed, right up until this exact moment, that he could handle anything.
"This is," he managed, through what was clearly immense personal suffering, "the worst thing I have ever eaten in my entire life."
"It's dry seasoning powder, Ohyul, what did you expect."
"I expected dignity. I expected to survive this with my dignity intact."
"You haven't had dignity since the price gun incident."
"That's fair," he admitted, finally swallowing, grabbing the nearest water bottle from his bag and downing half of it in one go while you continued to laugh from your spot on the floor, utterly unable to stop, tears actually threatening at the corners of your eyes. "I want it on the record that I did this dare with honor."
"You did this dare while making the exact sound effect of a dying raccoon."
"With honor," he repeated, pointing a finger at you, though he was laughing too now, breathless and a little wrecked, sliding down to sit on the floor across from you, the two of you a mess of cardboard and half eaten ramen and unrestrained laughter in the middle of a stockroom at 9:40pm on a Thursday, and for one unguarded second, looking at him laugh with his head tipped back and his eyes crinkled shut, you forgot, completely and entirely, that you were supposed to still be mad at him.
You filed that thought away immediately under things to deal with never.
You suspected, with rising dread, that the list under that particular heading was getting uncomfortably long.
Step Four: Add the Seasoning Packet, Stir In
You knew, somewhere around day twelve, that something had shifted, because you had started doing the thing where you checked the schedule first for your own shift, and then, immediately after, for his, as though his name printed in the same blocky font as yours was somehow load bearing information you needed before you could properly plan your week.
You did not examine this habit too closely. You had decided, weeks ago, that several things about this entire situation were simply not going to be examined too closely, ever, on principle, and you intended to stick to that policy for as long as humanly possible.
It became significantly harder to stick to on the day the new guy showed up.
His name was Veer, he was doing a rotation through three different departments before settling somewhere permanent, and he had the specific, polished charm of someone who had clearly been told his whole life that he was charming and had simply decided to believe it. He showed up at the snacks and beverages aisle on a Tuesday afternoon to "shadow the team," which in practice meant standing very close to you while you restocked granola bars and asking questions that had nothing to do with granola bars at all.
"So," Veer said, leaning one shoulder against the shelf in a way that suggested he'd practiced leaning against shelves specifically, "you're a psych student, right? That's actually really interesting, I've always thought psychology people have this whole other read on situations that the rest of us don't get."
"That's generous," you said, "mostly I just memorize a lot of acronyms and panic before exams like everyone else."
He laughed like you'd said something far funnier than you actually had, the kind of laugh designed to make you feel clever, and you caught, out of the corner of your eye, Ohyul appearing at the end of the aisle with a restocking cart, stopping dead the second he registered the scene in front of him.
You did not think much of it. You went back to the granola bars.
Veer did not go back to anything. Veer stayed exactly where he was, shoulder against the shelf, asking you if you had plans this weekend, in a tone that made it extremely clear he was hoping the answer involved him specifically, and you were mid sentence explaining that you had an ANOVA practical due, actually, very thrilling, when Ohyul appeared directly beside you with the restocking cart, parking it with significantly more force than the cart's structural integrity probably appreciated.
"Sorry," Ohyul said, in a tone that did not sound sorry at all, "need to get past you for the chips."
Veer straightened up, stepping aside with the easy, unbothered grace of someone who had never once in his life felt unwelcome anywhere, and gave Ohyul a once-over that was somehow both polite and faintly territorial.
"You're on this aisle too?"
"Every shift," Ohyul said. "For a month. With her."
"Lucky guy," Veer said, smiling at you in a way that made his meaning extremely clear, and you watched, with the specific fascination of a scientist observing a new species in the wild, as Ohyul's jaw did something very small and very tight that you had never once seen it do across twelve days of working together.
"Yeah," Ohyul said. "I am."
There was a beat. A very strange, very loaded beat, the kind that made the air in the aisle feel thinner than it had any right to be over a conversation about chips, and Veer, sensing something he couldn't quite name but clearly didn't love, cleared his throat and announced that he should probably go check in with his supervisor, and left with one last lingering smile in your direction that you barely registered, because you were too busy staring at the side of Ohyul's face.
He was restocking chip bags like they had personally wronged him. Aggressively. With great purpose. A bag of nacho flavored crisps did not deserve the level of violence currently being directed at its placement on the shelf.
"You okay there," you said.
"Fine."
"You're attacking a bag of chips."
"I'm organizing them. By flavor. It's a system."
"It is not a system, you've put barbecue next to plain three times now, you keep undoing your own work."
He stopped. Set the bag down. Did not look at you.
"Did you give him your number," he asked, in a tone so carefully, deliberately casual that it sounded like the exact opposite of casual, like a sentence assembled with great effort to appear weightless and failing at the last possible second.
You blinked. "Who, Veer?"
"Sure. Veer. The shadowing guy. The granola bar guy."
"No. We talked about my ANOVA practical for ten minutes, that's hardly a number exchanging level of conversation."
"He seemed very invested in your ANOVA practical."
"He seemed invested in me, Ohyul, the ANOVA practical was incidental."
You said it lightly, half teasing, fully expecting some kind of deflecting joke in response, the kind he always had loaded and ready, and instead he just exhaled through his nose, shoulders tight, still very studiously not looking at you, restocking the same shelf of chips for what was now the fourth unnecessary time.
"Right," he said. "Cool. That's. Cool."
"Are you jealous?" you said, mostly as a joke, the kind of thing you said to make him fluster so you could watch him fumble through a denial, except the second the word left your mouth, he went very still, and the stillness lasted just a beat too long to be the easy, deflective non-answer you'd expected.
"No," he said, finally, too fast, the same too fast you'd used four days ago on day one when he'd asked if you thought he was hot, and the symmetry of it landed somewhere in your chest with a force that startled you.
"Your voice just went up two octaves," you said quietly.
"It did not."
"It absolutely did. I know this because you told me, on day one, in this exact aisle, that mine did the same thing."
He finally looked at you then, and there was something different in his face, something that had shed all its usual easy humor, something rawer underneath it that made you suddenly very aware of how close you were both standing, close enough that you could see the small furrow between his eyebrows, the way his jaw worked like he was deciding whether to say something he'd been holding onto.
"Maybe I was a little jealous," he admitted, quiet, almost reluctant, like the words cost him something to hand over. "Is that a crime."
"No," you said, equally quiet. "It's not a crime."
"Good. Because I don't really know what to do with it."
"With what."
"Any of it," he said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, the chip aisle, the entire last twelve days, like the words for it simply didn't exist yet, like he was trying to describe a feeling that had snuck up on him somewhere between the rock paper scissors and the ramen dare and the closing shifts that had started running long not because there was more work, but because neither of you particularly wanted to leave first.
You didn't say anything. You weren't entirely sure what there was to say, standing in the middle of a chip aisle at 4pm on a Tuesday with your heart doing something distinctly unprofessional, and for a second the two of you just stood there, the overhead lights humming, a shopping cart squeaking somewhere two aisles over, the entire store continuing on, oblivious, around the two of you standing very still and saying nothing at all.
"I should," you said eventually, gesturing at the granola bars, voice coming out slightly rougher than you intended, "finish this."
"Right," he said. "Yeah. Me too. The chips."
Neither of you moved for another three full seconds.
Then you both, finally, turned back to your respective shelves, and worked in a silence that felt entirely different from any silence you'd shared before, charged in a way that made your hands slightly unsteady around the granola bar boxes, aware, suddenly, acutely, that whatever this had started as four days into a discount ramen sale, it had quietly, without either of your permission, become something with weight to it.
Something seasoned. Something that had stopped tasting like plain water somewhere along the way, and you weren't entirely sure either of you knew how to go back from that, even if you'd wanted to.
You were fairly certain, by the look on his face, that he didn't want to either.
Step Five: Add the Extras in the Last Minute
The thing about a one month contract is that it has a last week, and the thing about a last week is that it has a last day, and somehow, despite the two of you spending twenty six days finding increasingly elaborate ways to bicker your way around the truth, the last day arrived anyway, completely unbothered by the fact that neither of you was remotely ready for it.
You found this out properly on a Wednesday morning, when Jihye pinned the new month's schedule to the staff board and your name was simply not on it. Neither was his.
"Contract's up Friday," Jihye said, breezing past with her clipboard, entirely unaware, as always, of the devastation she left in her wake. "You two were great, by the way. Best inventory accuracy we've had all year. If anything opens up permanently, I'll call you first."
She said it like good news. It landed like a verdict.
You stood there holding a box of granola bars you'd already restocked twice that morning out of nervous habit, staring at the schedule, at the blank space where your name should have been, and felt something in your chest drop in a way that had nothing to do with employment status and everything to do with the fact that Friday meant two days, and two days meant the end of something you had spent twenty six days pretending you weren't building.
"Hey," Ohyul said, appearing beside you with his usual restocking cart, reading the schedule over your shoulder. He went quiet in a way that told you he'd done the same math you just had. "Friday."
"Friday," you agreed.
Neither of you said anything else about it. You both went back to work, and the day passed the way every day had for almost a month now, full of small bickering and shelf reorganizing and the kind of comfortable, charged silence that had started feeling less like tension and more like something you didn't have a name for yet, and you told yourself, several times, that you had two more shifts to figure out what to do with that.
You did not figure it out. You ran out of time instead.
Friday's closing shift was supposed to be ordinary. Restock, inventory count, lock up, go home, except the store emptied out early, a slow Friday with rain hammering the windows outside, and by nine fifteen it was just the two of you and one bored cashier up front scrolling on her phone, the snacks and beverages aisle quiet except for the hum of the overhead lights and the rain against the glass front of the store.
You were doing the final inventory count, clipboard in hand, when you reached the end of the shelf, the exact shelf, the one with the faded sale sticker still half peeling off the edge from a month ago, the one that had started this entire disaster, and you stopped.
There, tucked behind a row of off brand crackers, sat exactly one box of Ultimate Spicy Ramen. The last one. Somehow overlooked through an entire month of restocking, sitting there like it had been waiting specifically for this exact night.
"Ohyul," you said.
He came around the end of the aisle, took one look at what you were holding, and went very still.
"You're joking."
"I'm not joking. Look at it. It's the actual last bite. The literal last one. Of the entire sale."
"That's insane. That's actually insane, the sale ended weeks ago, how is there even still stock—"
"I don't know, but it's here, and it's the last day, and it feels like it means something, and I refuse to examine why I think a discount ramen box means something, but here we are."
He laughed, quiet, a little disbelieving, taking the box from your hands and turning it over like it might explain itself. "Of course it's this. Of course the universe saves the last one for tonight."
"The universe has had a vendetta against us since day one. This feels consistent."
"It does," he agreed, and then, after a beat, quieter, "can we make it. Right now. Here. I know we're not supposed to use the break room hot water for personal stuff but I genuinely do not care tonight."
You looked at him. He looked at you. Neither of you needed to discuss it further.
You boiled the water in the break room kettle, the two of you crowded into the small space together, watching it climb toward a boil with a strange kind of reverence, like you were watching something far more significant than instant noodles, and when it finally bubbled you dropped the noodle block in together, both your hands brushing on the same fork as you tried to separate the strands once they softened, neither of you pulling away first.
"You know," he said, quiet, watching the noodles loosen in the water, "I've been thinking about how to say something for like a week now and I haven't figured out a version that doesn't sound insane."
"Try the insane version. I have a high tolerance, you've personally tested it."
He set the fork down. Turned to face you properly, the kettle steam curling up between you, rain still hammering steady against the window outside, and the break room suddenly felt very small and very warm and very far from the kind of place you'd expect anything important to happen, which somehow made it feel exactly right.
"I started this month hoping I'd never see you again," he said, "and now I genuinely don't know what Monday looks like without you in it. I don't know when that happened. Maybe the chip aisle. Maybe before that. Maybe the second you called me deranged in front of a stranger with a yogurt cart and I thought, oh no, I like her, this is going to be a problem."
Your chest did something complicated and warm and slightly unbearable.
"I started this month convinced you were the most annoying person I'd ever met," you said, "and I have never once, in twenty six days, been bored standing next to you, which is honestly the most frightening thing anyone's ever told me about myself."
"So what do we do about that."
"I don't know. I've genuinely never not known what to do about something before, it's deeply unsettling."
"We could," he said, slow, careful, like he was testing the words before fully committing to them, "not stop. After Friday. We could just. Keep doing this. Differently. On purpose, this time, instead of by accident."
"That's a terrifying amount of vulnerability for a man who once ate raw seasoning powder as a dare."
"I'm aware. I'm choosing to do it anyway. Growth."
You laughed, the sound catching somewhere close to tears you hadn't expected to be fighting, and reached out to add the seasoning packet into the pot, his hand meeting yours on the packet at the exact same moment, just like the very first time, except this time neither of you fought over it. This time you just held it together, stirring it in side by side, watching the broth turn rich and warm and fragrant in the small steel pot between you.
"For the record," you said softly, "yes. I want to keep doing this. On purpose."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He smiled then, the real one, the one that reached all the way to his eyes and made something in your chest settle for the first time in twenty six days, and leaned down, slow, giving you every chance to pull away if you wanted to, which you very much did not, and kissed you there in the break room with steam curling around you both and rain against the window and a pot of last minute ramen going slightly overdone on the counter because neither of you were paying it any attention at all.
When you finally pulled back, breathless, faintly stunned by your own life choices, he was grinning at you like he'd won something far bigger than a rock-paper-scissors round.
"For the record," he said, "I take back every cruel thing I ever thought about you at that shelf."
"I don't take back a single thing. You were deranged. I called it correctly from day one."
"Wow. Romantic."
"I contain multitudes," you said, and kissed him again before he could argue, the noodles overcooking quietly behind you, the rain still falling outside, the two of you finally, fully, unmistakably caught.
Step Six: Turn Off Heat, Let It Sit, Serve Hot
Three months later, you still had the same kettle.
Not the break room one, obviously, that belonged to a grocery store and a contract that had quietly, officially ended the same night the last box of Ultimate Spicy Ramen had gone overcooked on a counter neither of you had been paying any attention to. This was your own kettle, secondhand, dented on one side, sitting on the counter of an apartment that had somehow, without either of you formally agreeing to it, become yours, plural, his toothbrush next to yours, his hoodies folded into your drawers, the two of you so thoroughly tangled into each other's daily life that you genuinely could not remember, some days, what your apartment had looked like before him.
You found this terrifying sometimes. Not in a bad way. In the way where you'd catch yourself staring at him doing something completely mundane, like reading the back of a cereal box with unnecessary intensity, and feel a wave of something so enormous and unmanageable that you had to physically look away before you said something deeply, embarrassingly unhinged out loud.
You did not always succeed at looking away.
"You're doing the thing," he said, from the couch, not even glancing up from his phone, somehow able to feel the exact weight of your staring from across the room like it had its own gravitational pull.
"I am not doing a thing."
"You're doing the thing where you look at me like you're trying to figure out how to fit me inside your ribcage."
"That is an insane and oddly specific accusation."
"It's accurate though."
"It's a little accurate."
He looked up then, grinning, and your stomach did the same stupid, helpless drop it had been doing for three months straight, the one that should have calmed down by now, that should have leveled out into something manageable, and instead had only gotten worse, had gotten so bad that you had genuinely, privately, started to worry about your own capacity for rational thought whenever he was in a room with you.
"Come here," he said, holding an arm out, and you went, immediately, no resistance whatsoever, because resisting Ohyul had stopped being something your body was capable of doing somewhere around month one, back when you'd still been pretending the chip aisle hadn't changed everything.
The kettle clicked off behind you. Neither of you moved toward it.
"The water's done," you mumbled, face already pressed against his chest, breathing him in like it was a documented food group, essential to your survival.
"It can wait."
"You're the one who taught me not to let ramen overcook."
"I'm willing to make an exception tonight," he said, voice low, fingers tangling into your hair with a tenderness that still, somehow, after three months, made your chest ache in a way that felt almost unfair, like no one had warned you a feeling could be this large. "I'd let an entire kitchen burn down before I let go of you right now."
"That's deeply unhinged."
"I'm aware. I've made peace with it."
"You'd let the building burn down."
"I'd let the city burn down," he said, with the calm, devastating sincerity of a man who had clearly lost every ounce of his own perspective somewhere along the way and did not care even slightly. "I think about you in the middle of completely unrelated things. I was buying groceries yesterday, alone, no reason, and I saw instant ramen on the shelf and had to stand there for a full minute because my chest hurt. Over noodles. Because of you. You've ruined my relationship with an entire food category."
"You're being deranged right now."
"You made me deranged. I was a normal, functional person before you put your hand on that box."
"You started it. You put your hand on the box first."
"I would put my hand on that box a thousand more times if it meant ending up exactly here," he said, pulling back just enough to look at you properly, eyes soft in the low lamp light, voice dropping into something quieter, something that didn't have any jokes hiding behind it anymore. "I used to think love was supposed to feel calm. Like, settled. And then I met you and it has felt like absolutely nothing calm, not for one single day, and I don't ever want it to. I want to keep being this stupid about you. I want to be ninety years old somewhere arguing with you about rock paper scissors rules."
Your eyes were stinging, embarrassingly, over a conversation that had started with a kettle.
"I love you so much it's genuinely concerning," you whispered. "Like clinically. I should probably mention it to a doctor."
"Don't. I like being your specific, undiagnosed problem."
"You are my specific, undiagnosed problem."
"Good. I want to be the only one."
"You are," you said, voice cracking slightly, hands fisting into the front of his shirt like you could somehow pull him even closer than you already were, like proximity alone could communicate the sheer, overwhelming size of how much you'd fallen, how far past reasonable you'd gone somewhere around the third week of bickering over a shared shelf. "There's no room in here for anyone else. You've taken up the whole thing. It's actually a problem. I can't think straight half the time, I forget words mid-sentence because I'm thinking about your stupid face."
"My face is not stupid."
"Your face is criminally stupid, and I think about it constantly, and I hate it, and I never want it to stop."
He laughed, wrecked and disbelieving, forehead dropping against yours, both of you breathing the same air, hearts going embarrassingly fast over nothing more dramatic than standing in a kitchen at eleven at night.
"Marry me eventually," he said, suddenly, like it had simply fallen out of him the way the flight lie once had, except this time there was no escape plan hiding behind it, nothing to take back. "Not right now. I don't even have a ring. I just need you to know that's where this is going, because if I don't say it out loud I'm going to combust."
You stared at him. "You can't propose like that. In a kitchen. With no ring. Over cold ramen."
"I'm not proposing. I'm pre-proposing. I'm giving you advance notice."
"That's not a real thing."
"It is now. I just invented it. Spiritually."
"You cannot use my own concept against me."
"I learned it from the best," he said, echoing himself from months ago, and pulled you in and kissed you like the answer was already obvious, like he already knew, the same way you already knew, that there was no universe left where either of you walked away from this.
"Yes," you murmured against his mouth, barely a breath, "obviously yes, you absolute idiot, ask me properly whenever you want, I'm not going anywhere."
"I know," he said, smiling so wide you could feel it against your own lips. "That's the part that still doesn't feel real. That you're just. Staying. Every single day. On purpose."
"On purpose," you echoed, the same words from the break room, from three months ago, from the night two extra boxes of ramen had finally stopped mattering at all.
The kettle sat cooling on the counter, completely forgotten, the noodles inside it going soft and overdone and utterly beside the point, because neither of you needed feeding in that moment nearly as much as you needed exactly this, wrapped around each other in a kitchen that had quietly become a home, hopelessly, helplessly, humiliatingly in love in a way that made absolutely no logical sense and that neither of you had any interest in recovering from.
It had started with a fight over the last bite.
It ended, and kept ending, every single day after, with neither of you wanting anything else for the rest of your lives.
જ⁀◝✩ In which your boyfriend cries on the phone mid-party, and you cannot wait to get home to him fast enough.
➤ ohyul x reader, insecure ohyul / hurt-comfort, established relationship, lovesick/unhinged in love, fluff & angst ( not hard-core angst !! )
The party noise hits different when the only frequency your brain is tuned to is several kilometers away, curled up on a couch, probably wearing your hoodie because his smells like his own cologne after a few hours, and he likes pretending it's an accident that he always reaches for yours instead.
You haven't touched your drink. You haven't really touched anything tonight, not the conversation, not the canapés, not the version of yourself that exists in rooms Ohyul isn't in, because honestly, that version feels like a faded photocopy of the real one. The real you only fully turns on when he's in frame. Everyone jokes about it. Your coworkers don't even know him, and they already know you're "the girl who's obsessed with her boyfriend," because you cannot go four sentences into small talk without somehow finding your way back to him.
It's been nine months of this particular insanity. Nine months since the boy who used to tie his shoelaces twice as slow just to walk beside you a little longer finally admitted that he'd been quietly, hopelessly gone on you since the first week of first year and somehow, impossibly, you'd been just as gone on him the whole time, neither of you brave enough to say it until uni stopped giving you excuses to dance around it.
You think about him constantly. Embarrassingly so. Mid-meeting, mid-shower, mid-sentence with someone else entirely, your brain will just — cut to him. The way his nose scrunches when he's trying not to smile. The way he says your name, like it's something rare, he still can't believe he gets to keep.
So when your phone rings and his name lights up the screen, you don't hesitate for even a fraction of a second — you've never once let his call go to voicemail in nine months, not once, because some unhinged, devoted part of you is permanently on standby for him and you've made peace with that about yourself.
"Ohyul," you breathe out, and just saying his name does something stupid and warm to your chest, "baby, what's up, are you okay?"
"Hey," he says. Soft. Too soft. "Are you enjoying the party?"
You already know something's wrong because his voice does this specific thing when he's hurting, gets smaller, gentler, like he's trying not to take up space even in his own sadness. You've memorized every register of his voice the way some people memorize song lyrics. You could pick him out of a thousand voices blind.
"It's boring without you," you say honestly, already drifting from the noise toward a quiet corner like your body is magnetized toward anywhere that lets you focus completely on him. "Everyone's just talking about nothing. I keep thinking about how much more fun it'd be if you were here being weird and feeding me from your plate."
A huff of breath that's trying so hard to be a laugh.
"I'll let you get back to it," he says. "Don't want to—"
A sniffle. Sharp, involuntary, the kind that escapes before pride can catch it.
Then silence. The call's ended.
Your whole body goes cold and electric at once. You don't even process the decision to leave — you're already moving, weaving through people you'll apologize to tomorrow, already outside hailing a cab with shaking hands, because the single most unbearable thought in your entire universe is Ohyul, hurting, alone, trying to hide it from you. You would set the building on fire to get to him faster if it meant shaving thirty seconds off this drive. You are not being dramatic. You would.
The fifteen-minute ride feels like a war of attrition between you and time itself.
The apartment is dim when you let yourself in, heart slamming, and you hear it before you see it — that quiet, hiccupping sound coming from the bedroom, and underneath it, barely audible, your name. Not called out. Just whispered. Like he needed to say it even with no one there to hear, like your name is something his body reaches for automatically when it's breaking.
You've never moved faster in your life.
He's curled on the bed, blanket fisted in one hand, shoulders shaking, and the second he sees you in the doorway his face does this awful, naked thing — caught, ashamed, trying to wipe his face like that erases the last ten minutes.
"Baby, you're supposed to be— I'm fine, I'm sorry, go back, you shouldn't have—"
"Don't," you say, voice cracking, already crawling onto the bed, already gathering him against you like physically closing the distance could undo whatever's hurting him. "Don't you dare tell me to go back. There is not a single universe where I choose a party over you. Not one. I would leave anything for you, do you understand that? Anything."
He folds into you like he's been waiting for permission, face pressed to your neck, and you feel the wet warmth of his tears against your skin and it nearly splits you open.
"I don't deserve how much you love me," he chokes out. "You could have anyone — someone stronger, more — I don't know, manly, someone who doesn't fall apart over nothing, and I've been in love with you since I was eighteen years old and too scared to even sit next to you on purpose, and now I have you and I'm terrified every single day that I'm going to wake up and you'll realize I'm not enough and—"
"Stop." You pull back just enough to grip his face in both hands, forcing him to look at you, and you're crying too now, openly, because you cannot hear him talk about himself like this and stay composed. "Stop talking about yourself like you're someone I tolerate. Ohyul. I am unwell about you. Do you understand that? I think about you constantly. I cannot get through a single day without you crossing my mind a hundred times. My coworkers make fun of me because I cannot stop talking about you. I am not being poetic, I mean this literally, no version of my life makes sense without you in the center of it."
"YN—"
"You ran forty minutes through pouring rain just to bring me an umbrella. You carried me two kilometers on your back when I twisted my ankle, joking the entire time so I wouldn't be scared. You kneel down and tie my shoelaces every single morning without me even asking, like it's instinct, like loving me has become something your body just does without permission from your brain." Your voice is shaking but you don't stop. "You think manliness is the absence of feeling. I think it's choosing me, gently, completely, every single day, and never once making me feel like a burden for needing you back."
He's full-on crying now, but he's also laughing, wet and disbelieving, like he can't hold both feelings without spilling over.
"I love you so much it doesn't feel safe," he admits. "Like I've built my entire life around you, and if you ever left, I don't know what would be left standing."
"Then it's a good thing I'm never finding out," you say fiercely, pulling him impossibly closer, "because I feel the exact same way about you. You're not just my boyfriend, Ohyul, you're the entire architecture of my life. I rearrange my whole day around the five minutes I get to see your face. I have never in my life been this insane over another person, and I never want to be normal about you. I want to stay exactly this unhinged, for as long as you'll let me."
He kisses you then — slow, shaky, tasting like salt and relief — and when he pulls back his forehead stays pressed to yours, breath mixing with yours like neither of you can stand even that much distance.
"You're the manliest, strongest, most impossibly perfect person I have ever known," you whisper against his mouth. "Not because you don't break. Because you let me see you when you do, and you trust me to put you back together every single time."
"I love you," he says, like it's not enough, like he wants to invent a bigger word and doesn't have one. "I love you, I love you—"
"I love you too," you breathe back, just as wrecked, just as gone. "More than that party. More than anything in that entire loud, empty room. More than anything that isn't you."
Outside, the city keeps moving without either of you noticing.
In here, there's only the two of you, tangled together, breathing each other in like oxygen — two people who fell so hopelessly, helplessly in love that it scares everyone around them, and who wouldn't trade that terror for anything in the world.
The thunderstorm outside slammed against the apartment windows, casting long, fractured shadows across the dark living room. It had been four days since the kitchen counter.
Four days since you had left him alone in the dark, bleeding out emotionally while you went back to Ryul’s bed.
Ryul was out of town for a weekend conference, leaving the apartment suffocatingly empty. Ohyul had spent the entire evening pacing his bedroom, his chest tight and aching.
He didn’t want sex. His body was exhausted, but his heart was starving. For months, he had watched from the sidelines as you cuddled with Ryul on the couch, watching movies, whispering, sharing an effortless, warm love.
Ohyul wanted that. He wanted to know what it felt like to be held by you, to be valued, to be more than just a massive piece of meat you used to thrill yourself.
By midnight, the loneliness became a physical sickness.
Trembling, Ohyul walked down the hallway and stood outside your closed door. He hesitated, tears already stinging his eyes, before he knocked softly. The sickness was to much for him.
"Come in" your voice drifted out, cool and indifferent.
Ohyul pushed the door open. You were propped up against the pillows, scrolling through your phone. You didn't even look up at him.
"y/n..." Ohyul’s voice cracked completely, his broad shouldered frame looking incredibly small as he stood in the doorway. He physically sank to his knees right there on the carpet, his hands clutching at his own thighs.
"Please... I don't want anything bad. I promise. Can I just... can I just stay in here with you? I'll sleep on the floor. Right next to the bed. I just want to be near you... please don't make me stay alone tonight."
He looked utterly pathetic, begging with wide, tear filled eyes just to be allowed in your space.
You finally looked up from your phone. Your expression wasn't soft. It was completely blank, staring down at him like a stray dog that had wandered onto your porch.
A cold smirk pulled at the corner of your lips.
"Fine," you said smoothly, tossing your phone onto the nightstand.
"If you want to be my puppy so bad, you can sleep on the floor. But no blankets. No pillows. You stay on the hardwood side by the closet."
Ohyul’s heart squeezed with a brutal mix of intense gratitude and crushing humiliation. "Thank you... thank you," he whispered, wiping a tear from his cheek.
He crawled over to the cold, bare hardwood floor near your closet. He laid down on his side, curling his large body into a tight ball, his knees tucked toward his chest to keep warm.
He stared up at the edge of your mattress. He was in the same room as you, but the distance felt like miles. He fell asleep shivering, pretending that the faint scent of your perfume in the air was a hug, completely forcing himself to believe that being your literal dog meant you cared about him.
In the days that followed, Ohyul became completely enslaved to that pathetic hope. He stuck around you constantly like a damn puppy, always hovering a few steps behind you in the apartment, silently begging for a scrap of your attention.
If you needed water, he fetched it instantly. If you dropped something, he was on his knees to pick it up. He lived for the rare moments your eyes drifted to him, entirely desperate for the script to change, for you to finally smile at him the way you smiled at Ryul.
But a week later, the emotional toll and the constant freezing nights on your floor finally broke his body.
Ohyul came down with a blistering, severe fever. His skin was burning hot, his muscles ached so badly he could barely move, and his mind was completely delirious from the stress.
Ryul had left early that morning for a double shift, completely unaware of the sickness or the rot inside his own home. Before leaving, Ryul had kissed you goodbye and asked you to please check on his best friend.
Now, Ohyul lay in his own bedroom, shivering under his blankets, his chest heaving with shallow, labored breaths. The bedroom door clicked open, and the bright light from the hallway cut through the gloom.
You walked in, casually holding a single glass of water.
Seeing your silhouette, Ohyul’s fever fried brain sparked with a desperate beautiful hope. He thought this was it. He thought his sickness would finally bring out the caring side of you.
He weakly pushed himself up against his pillows, his face flushed bright red from the fever.
"Y/n..." Ohyul whimpered, his voice broken scratch. He reached out a trembling, burning hot hand toward you, his fingers shaking in the air.
"You came... please, it hurts so much. Just... just hold me for a little bit? Can you just sit with me and hold my hand? Like you do for Ryul... please..."
He was completely exposed, showing his broken, lovesick heart to you, begging for a single ounce of genuine human comfort.
You walked over, but you didn't take his hand. You set the glass of water down on his nightstand with a hollow clink. Then, you sat down on the very edge of his mattress, completely out of reach of his trembling arms.
You leaned forward, your long hair brushing against your shoulders, and reached out to gently stroke his sweat dampened hair. Your touch was incredibly soft, but as Ohyul let out a needy sigh, he looked up at your face.
There was no warmth in your eyes. Only a mocking amused smile.
"You're so pathetic when you're broken, Ohyul."
you whispered, your voice a cruel, sultry that sliced right through his feverish mind. You kept stroking his hair, your fingers dragging down to pat his flushed cheek like a toy.
"You really thought I'd cuddle you? That I'd nurse you and love you like I do to Ryul?"
Ohyul froze, his hand dropping heavily onto the mattress.
"Look at yourself." you let out a mocking laugh, your eyes dropping to the blanket covering his lap.
"You're burning up, you're crying like a baby, and you're still looking at me like a desperate dog. Let's get one thing straight, puppy. You're only useful to me when you're hard and pinned against the kitchen counter. I don't love you. I don't even like you. You're just my favorite little toy."
You pulled your hand away, wiping your fingers on your shorts as if his sweat disgusted you and stood up.
"Drink your water." you said casually, turning your back on him and walking toward the door.
"And hurry up and get better. Your sheets need washing."
The door clicked shut, plunging the room back into absolute darkness.
Ohyul collapsed back into his pillows, a violent, suffocating sob tearing out of his throat. The heartbreak was so intense it felt like his ribs were physically cracking inside his chest. The fever burned his skin, but his soul felt completely frozen.
Now he finally got it. The illusion was entirely gone. He wasn't a secret boyfriend. He wasn't special. He was really a freak slut, an object, a soulless piece of entertainment you used to pass the time while your heart stayed safely, completely filled with Ryul.
He buried his face into his pillows, crying and sobbing into the quiet room, completely ruined by the realization that he would still obey you even after you broke him.
The silence that followed the click of the door was heavier than the thunder outside. It pressed down on Ohyul’s chest until he could barely draw a breath, the cold weight of reality suffocating him in the dark.
He didn’t touch the water you left. He couldn’t even lift his arm. Instead, he slowly curled his large frame into a tight, trembling ball under the sheets, burying his face so deeply into the pillow that his own feverish breath bounced back to burn his eyes.
A silent sob racked his entire body, making his broad shoulders shake beneath the blankets.
It wasn’t just that you didn’t love him. It was the absolute casual cruelty of how easily you had looked through him.
When he had reached out his hand. Burning, trembling, begging for just a shred of the tenderness you showered on Ryul every single day, instead You hadn't seen a human being. You hadn't even seen a man. You had looked at him like a broken appliance, a piece of plastic you were amused by but ultimately didn't care about.
You really thought I'd cuddle you? You're only useful to me when you're hard.
The words repeated in his head, a relentless, mocking loop that sliced deeper into his throat with every heartbeat. He squeezed his eyes shut, but all he could see was the memory from yesterday morning.
Ryul sitting at the table, complaining about a minor headache, and you immediately dropping everything to wrap your arms around his neck, kissing his forehead, whispering sweet soft worries into his hair. Ryul had looked so safe, so fiercely loved.
Ohyul had wanted that so badly. He had stayed up at night on your cold, bare hardwood floor, shivering without a blanket, just to be close to the ghost of that warmth.
He had swallowed his pride, acted like a brainless, eager puppy, and let you treat him like garbage, all because he foolishly hoped that if he was obedient enough, if he was good enough, you might eventually look at him with an ounce of that real affection.
But the truth was a jagged, bleeding wound in his chest. He was entirely disposable.
He was the secret, dirty thing kept in the dark hallway. If he disappeared tomorrow, you wouldn't cry. You wouldn't miss his voice or his smile. You would just find another thick, mindless body to replace him on the kitchen counter when you wanted a thrill, while your heart stayed perfectly, beautifully whole with Ryul.
The tragic irony of it tore a ragged, choking gasp from his throat. He had betrayed his best friend. The only person in the world who genuinely cared about him, the guy who was currently working a grueling double shift to help pay their rent for a girl who didn't even view him as a person.
He had ruined his own soul, turned himself into a pathetic, weeping freak slut, for absolutely nothing.
Ohyul clutched the fabric of his shirt right over his heart, his fingers digging into his ribs as if he could physically stop the agonizing ache inside.
He felt so dirty, so deeply humiliated, and so completely unloved.
Tears flowed completely unchecked down his flushed cheeks, soaking into the pillowcase as his fever raged on, completely abandoned in the dark with the crushing knowledge that no matter how much you broke him, he was already too far gone to ever say no to you.
The agonizing silence of his bedroom was abruptly shattered by the front door of the apartment opening.
Ohyul flinched under his blankets, his heart instantly leaping into his throat. The exhausted footsteps echoing in the hallway belonged to Ryul. He was finally home from his double shift.
"Hey, princess" Ryul’s voice drifted through the apartment, thick with fatigue but instantly softening the moment he spoke to you.
"I'm so wiped out... How's Ohyul doing? Did his fever go down?"
Ohyul held his breath, burying his face deeper into his soaked pillow, his entire body freezing in terror. He listened intently, waiting for your response.
"He's fine, Ryul," your voice replied smoothly from the living room, completely casual, without a hint of guilt or hesitation. "I checked on him a bit ago. He’s just sleeping it off."
"Good... thank god," Ryul murmured. A few seconds later, the floorboards creaked right outside Ohyul's door. The handle turned with a soft click, and the door cracked open slightly.
Ryul poked his head into the dark room, his face filled with genuine, deep concern for his best friend. "Ohyul? Man, you awake? You need anything from the pharmacy?"
Ohyul squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his breathing to remain slow and heavy, pretending to be dead to the world. He couldn't look Ryul in the eye. The sheer weight of the betrayal, combined with the brutal words you had just handed him, made him feel physically sick to his stomach.
"Sleeping like a rock." Ryul whispered softly to himself, gently closing the door to keep the light out. "Get some rest, bro."
Ohyul heard Ryul walk away, his footsteps moving back toward the master bedroom. Through the thin walls, the muffled sound of Ryul sighing with relief as he finally crawled into bed with you cut through the silence.
Ohyul could picture it perfectly, Ryul pulling your small body into his arms, kissing the top of your head, completely safe and secure in the belief that his life was perfect, while you rested your head against his chest, totally indifferent to the boy crying in the next room.
The house grew completely quiet again. Thirty minutes passed. Then an hour.
Ohyul lay paralyzed in the dark, his fever raging, his skin slick with sweat and dried tears. He thought he was safe for the night, buried in his own misery.
Buzz.
The violent vibration of his phone against the nightstand made him jump. With a weak, trembling hand, Ohyul reached out and picked up the device, the bright screen blinding his dilated eyes.
It was a text from you.
Ryul is taking a shower. Come to the living room right now. Bring a cold water bottle with you.
Ohyul stared at the screen, his chest heaving as a fresh wave of panic and agonizing humiliation washed over him. Ryul was right down the hall and you were already summoning him like a dog.
You didn't ask if he was feeling better.
You didn't care that he was burning up.
You just wanted your toy to serve you.
'You're only useful to me when you're hard... you're just my favorite little toy.' Your cruel words whispered in his ears, reminding him exactly of what he was.
His brain screamed at him to stay in bed. Every ounce of his remaining dignity begged him to ignore the message, to lock his door, to choose his best friend for once.
But as he looked at the text, the pathetic, broken slut inside him completely took over. He was so starved for your touch, so utterly enslaved to the tiny scraps of attention you threw at him, that his body moved entirely on its own.
Ohyul swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His knees almost buckled from the fever, but he forced himself to stand. He pushed his bedroom door open without a sound, stepping out into the freezing hallway, completely ready to crawl right back to your feet.
The dark hallway felt miles long. Every step Ohyul took sent a throbbing ache through his fever-ridden joints, his bare feet pressing silently against the cold floorboards.
He crept past Ryul’s closed bedroom door, his breath hitching in his throat. Inside that room, his best friend was showering soundly, completely unaware that the person he trusted most was slinking through the dark like a thief.
Ohyul made his way into the kitchen, his hands shaking so violently that the plastic crinkled loudly as he pulled a cold water bottle from the refrigerator. He pressed the frozen plastic against his burning forehead for a split second, a desperate attempt to clear the dizzying fog of his fever, before forcing his legs to carry him into the living room.
The room was illuminated only by the pale, silver glow of the moonlight cutting through the blinds. You were sitting on the center of the couch, your legs curled up beneath you. You were wearing one of Ryul’s old t-shirts, the sight of it driving a fresh, jagged spike of jealousy and shame straight into Ohyul's aching chest.
You didn't look up when he entered. You just held out your hand, expecting the water.
Ohyul walked over, his massive frame trembling from the fever, and carefully placed the bottle into your palm. Instead of retreating back to the safety of his dark room, he sank completely to his knees right on the floorboards by your feet. He rested his heavy, burning chest against your knees, tilting his flushed face up toward you like a starved animal waiting for a scrap.
"b-baby brought it." Ohyul whispered, his voice a raw, broken crack in the quiet room. Tears of physical exhaustion and agonizing humiliation welled up in his eyes again.
"Your baby's here... please..."
You took a slow sip of the water, your eyes finally dropping down to look at him. There was no pity in your gaze, no gentle concern for the fact that he was physically shivering against your legs.
You reached out, your cool fingers tangling into his messy damp hair, pulling his head back just enough to force him to look directly into your eyes.
"Good boy," you murmured, a faint, mocking smile playing on your lips. You traced a thumb down his wet cheek, wiping away a stray tear, but the gesture held no warmth, it was the way someone might handle a pathetic, obedient pet.
"See? I told you that you were a good puppy. Even when you're burning up, you still come running the second I call."
Ohyul let out a shaky, hitched breath, pressing his face harder into your knees. The heartbreak inside him was a physical, suffocating pain, but the sheer, desperate need for your touch overrode every single ounce of his dignity.
He knew he was being used. He knew he was nothing but a dirty secret, a mindless toy you played with while your heart belonged to the man showering just twenty feet away.
"Please..." Ohyul sobbed silently, his broad shoulders shaking against your legs as he closed his eyes, completely surrendering to his own ruin. "Just... just let me stay right here. Don't send me away."
You stared down at his pathetic, shivering form for a long moment. The sheer desperation radiating off him seemed to amuse you, a small, dark glint of satisfaction crossing your eyes.
Slowly, you let go of his hair and shifted your legs, clearing a small space on the cushion beside you.
"Fine," you whispered, your voice a quiet command that sliced through the dark. "Get up. Sit next to me."
Ohyul’s heart leaped in his chest, a frantic burst of hope flooding his feverish veins. He scrambled up from the floorboards instantly, his heavy knees weak and shaking as he climbed onto the couch.
He sat right next to you, pulling his broad shoulders inward to make himself look as small and not threatening as possible.
He didn't dare push his luck. He didn't try to wrap his arms around you or pull you into the passionate embrace he always dreamed of.
Instead, he just leaned his burning sweat forehead against your shoulder, letting out a long, ragged sigh as your cool skin cut through his blistering heat.
You didn't move away. You let him lean against you, but you didn't wrap your arms around him either. You didn't offer a soothing touch or whisper sweet comforts into his hair. You just sat there, completely still and emotionally detached, leaning back against the cushions while you picked up your phone with your free hand.
To you, he was just a heavy, mindless prop resting against your side.
But for Ohyul, the contrast was a slow burning torture. He was sitting next to you, feeling the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest, yet he had never felt more utterly alone. He knew that if this were Ryul sitting here, you would be running your fingers through his hair, murmuring sweet things, and holding him tight. You would be giving him your whole heart.
Ohyul closed his bloodshot eyes, a single, tear slipping down his cheek and soaking into the fabric of your t-shirt. He was entirely trapped in his own selfmade hell, starving for a love you would never give him, yet too broken and pathetic to ever pull himself away from your side.
The unexpected coolness of your palm against his burning skin made Ohyul flinch, a soft, startled gasp escaping his lips. For a split second, the sheer sensation of your hand on his forehead felt like a dream, a hallucination brought on by the fever.
He opened his glassy bloodshot eyes, staring up at you through a heavy fog of exhaustion.
"You're too hot," you murmured, your voice carrying a rare flicker of actual surprise as the intense, radiating heat of his fever pressed into your palm. You didn't pull your hand away immediately. Instead, you left it there, your fingers brushing against his damp hairline.
"How long has this been going on?"
Ohyul’s heart hammered violently against his ribs, a pathetic, desperate flutter of hope flaring up in his chest. Was you actually worried? Was you finally seeing him as something more than a toy?
"S-Since this morning" Ohyul whimpered out, his voice trembling scratch in the dark room.
He instinctively tilted his head up slightly, pressing his forehead deeper into the soothing chill of your hand like a stray animal begging for a cure. "Before Ryul left... it just kept getting worse. My chest... everything hurts so bad."
He looked up at you with complete unshielded vulnerability, his broad shouldered frame trembling violently against your side. He was baring his physical pain to you, but beneath it, his eyes were still silently begging for the emotional comfort he craved wanting you to wrap your arms around him, to pull his heavy, aching head down to your lap, and tell him it was going to be okay.
You looked down at his flushed stained face, your hand resting on his burning skin for a few more quiet seconds. But the brief moment of surprise on your face quickly melted away, replaced by that same familiar, detached calmness.
"You really are a mess..." you said softly, your voice returning to that cool, indifferent tone as you slowly slid your hand off his forehead, leaving his skin feeling suddenly freezing and abandoned in the dark air. You picked up your water bottle, taking a slow sip.
"If you're this sick, you shouldn't have been staying on my floor all night. Go back to your room after this. I don't want Ryul waking up and finding you shivering on the couch like a freak."
The words cut through the feverish fog like ice water. Ohyul’s heart plummeted straight into his stomach, the brief spark of hope instantly dying out. You wasn't worried about his pain, you were worried about the inconvenience. You were worried about Ryul finding out.
A choking sob caught in his throat, and he quickly closed his eyes, burying his face back against your shoulder to hide the fresh tears spilling down his cheeks. He was so humiliated, so completely shattered, yet he couldn't force his body to move away from your side.
Ohyul froze against your shoulder. The words hung in the quiet living room, echoing in his brain until he wondered if he was completely losing his mind to the delirium.
He slowly lifted his aching head, his eyes staring at you in absolute shock. He looked so fragile, his lips parting slightly as a fresh wave of heat flushed across his cheeks.
A sponge bath.
The phrase sounded so intimate, so incredibly gentle and nurturing, the exact kind of soft, domestic care he had only ever seen you give to Ryul.
"y-y/n?" he choked out, a pathetic trembling whine catching in his throat.
For a terrifying, beautiful second, the desperate puppy inside him wanted to believe that you were finally breaking. He wanted to believe that seeing him shiver, hearing him sob in the dark, had finally sparked a shred of real, human pity in your heart.
He wanted to be taken care of so badly. He wanted you to touch his skin without hurting him, without using him, without demanding him to be a brainless tool for your pleasure.
But then he looked at your face.
You were staring down at him, your cool hand still resting casually on your water bottle. There was no warmth in your eyes, no frantic, loving worry of a partner tending to a sick friend. Your lips were tilted up in that same dangerous smirk that always made his stomach twist with a toxic mix of arousal and absolute terror.
"You're tracking sweat all over the cushions, Ohyul." you whispered smoothly, your voice a cruel, sultry vibration in the dark. You reached out, your index finger tracing a slow, agonizing line down his flushed neck, right over the racing pulse point beneath his ear.
"And you smell like a desperate mess. If you're going to keep hovering around me like a dog, the least you can do is be clean. So? Do you want a sponge bath, puppy? Do you want me to strip you down and wipe you clean?"
The realization hit him like a physical blow to the chest, making him let out a fractured, shaky gasp.
You weren't doing this to comfort him. You were doing it because it amused you to see him completely exposed, to watch a huge, broad supported man be reduced to a weeping, helpless infant at your hands. It was just another game. Another way to humiliate him, to assert your absolute ownership over his body while keeping your own heart safely under lock and key for Ryul.
He felt so dirty, so profoundly heartbroken, and so utterly pathetic. He knew he should say no. He knew he should get up, walk back to his dark bedroom, and cling to the tiny shred of dignity he had left.
But as he looked at your beautiful face, the sheer, starving addiction to your touch won. He couldn't say no to you. He was too weak.
"Yes... please.. " Ohyul sobbed out silently, his broad shoulders collapsing forward as he buried his face right back into your lap, entirely surrendering to his role as your favorite, broken toy.
"Please... wipe me down. I'll be a good boy... just touch me."
Something shifted in the heavy air of the room as Ohyul collapsed into your lap, his massive shoulders trembling with silent, exhausted sobs.
For a few quiet seconds, the only sound was his ragged, feverish breathing and the violent pounding of his heart against his ribs.
You looked down at the back of his head. Your hand hovered in the air above his hair, the mocking smirk slowly fading from your lips. Seeing him completely broken like this, not out of lust, but out of sheer, agonizing exhaustion and physical sickness seemed to touch a quiet nerve.
You let out a soft, barely audible sigh.
"Stay here" you whispered. Your voice wasn't sharp or teasing anymore. It was just quiet.
You gently nudged his head off your lap and stood up, moving silently down the hallway into the bathroom. Ryul already finished showering by this time.
He closed his eyes, bracing himself for whatever humiliating game you were going to play next.
A few minutes later, you returned. You carried a small basin of warm water and a soft, white washcloth.
You set the basin down on the coffee table and sat back down on the edge of the cushions beside him. Ohyul opened his eyes, watching you through a heavy fog of delirium. He expected you to say something cruel, to call him a pathetic slut again, but you remained completely silent.
Instead, you leaned forward and gently pulled the damp hair away from his forehead.
You dipped the cloth into the warm water, wrung it out thoroughly, and carefully pressed it against his burning skin. Ohyul let out a fractured gasp, his entire body flinching at the sudden contact, but it didn't hurt. The touch was incredibly light, sweeping across his forehead, over his temples, and down his flushed cheeks with a slow, soothing rhythm.
"Shh..." you murmured softly, your fingers gently tilting his jaw up so you could clean the sweat from his neck.
"Stop shaking. I got you."
It wasn't a dream. You were being soft. Your hands weren't pushing him down or dragging him around, they were holding him up, treating his aching body with a tender, careful reverence he never thought he’d receive from you.
You unbuttoned his damp shirt with slow, patient fingers, pulling the fabric away from his broad shoulders. You dipped the cloth again, squeezing the warm water over his chest, wiping away the grime of the sickness with a steady, comforting touch.
For the first time since that night in the kitchen, the suffocating ache in Ohyul’s chest began to ease. He didn't care that Ryul down the hall. He didn't care about the rules or the labels. He just leaned his heavy chest entirely into your space, his large, trembling hand reaching up to weakly clutch at the fabric of your t-shirt, silently begging you to never stop.
You didn't pull away. You let him hold onto you, your cool hand coming down to gently stroke his arm as you kept wiping his fever away, offering him a quiet, gentle shelter in the middle of the dark night.
For a few fragile minutes, the cruel games were gone, and he was drowning in the rare, gentle warmth of your care.
Click.
The sudden, sharp sound of a bedroom door opening echoed down the hallway.
Ohyul’s eyes flew wide open, the glassy fog of his fever instantly piercing through. He tried to scramble backward, to pull his half naked, sweat slicked body away from you, but his muscles were too weak, his limbs heavy and unresponsive against the cushions.
Footsteps approached the living room. It wasn't the heavy, dragging shuffle of a groggy man waking up in the middle of the night. It was a crisp, deliberate stride.
Ryul stepped into the silver moonlight of the living room, completely dressed in a fresh of his new matching sleep pajamas. He was adjusting his cuffs when his eyes lifted and locked onto the couch.
He froze dead in his tracks.
The silence that settled over the room was deafening. Ryul’s hands dropped slowly to his sides, his gaze dropping to the basin of water on the coffee table, then to the damp cloth in your hand, and finally to Ohyul, who was shivering, completely exposed, clutching weakly at the edge of your shirt.
A dark shadow crossed Ryul’s face. His jaw clenched so tightly the muscle ticked under his skin. He had always been the safe, secure boyfriend, the one who confidently held your hand in public and received your bright smiles.
But seeing his best friend folded into his girlfriend's space, seeing you look down at Ohyul with a soft, focused attention you usually reserved only for him. Ignited a sudden, roaring wave of possessive jealousy in his chest.
"What's going on here?" Ryul’s voice was dangerously low, thick with a sharp, defensive edge that Ohyul had never heard from him before.
Ryul took two heavy steps forward, his eyes boring into your hands, which were still resting near Ohyul’s collarbone. The sight of them so close, sharing an intimate, quiet moment in the dead of night while he had been showering, made his stomach twist into a bitter, furious knot.
He was your boyfriend. He was the one who was supposed to be taken care of, the one who held ownership over your tenderness.
"His fever spiked." you replied smoothly, your voice instantly shifting back to its cool, unbothered cadence as you set the washcloth into the basin.
You didn't look guilty, you just looked up at Ryul with an indifferent calmness. "He was shaking so bad he couldn't even hold a glass of water. I was just cooling him down."
Ryul didn't look at you. His burning, jealous glare snapped entirely onto Ohyul.
Ohyul shrank back against the cushions. The guilt was suffocating, but beneath the guilt, a pathetic, twisted ache flared in Ohyul's chest. Ryul was jealous. Ryul was looking at him like he was a threat, like he had actually managed to steal a piece of your care.
"You should have called me, y/n"
Ryul snapped, stepping right up to the edge of the couch and physically inserting himself between them, blocking Ohyul from your view. He reached down and aggressively grabbed a blanket from the armchair, throwing it roughly over Ohyul’s bare chest.
"I'm his best friend. If he's this sick, I should be the one handling it. Go back to our room, princess. I'll take care of him from here."
Ryul’s voice was dripping with a tense, hostile possessiveness, his chest heaving as he stood guard over what he believed was his.
You didn’t move. You remained seated on the cushion, your eyes tracking Ryul’s tense, rigid posture with an unbothered, almost clinical calmness. As Ryul stood over the couch like a wall between them, you slowly reached out, your fingers catching the edge of the washcloth floating in the warm basin.
She shook her head smoothly. "No," you said, your voice dropping into a soft, quiet cadence that carried an absolute, unyielding weight. "I can help."
The simple phrase hung in the dim room, dropping like a lead weight between the two men.
Ryul’s chest heaved, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. The raw, possessive jealousy burning inside him flared hotter at your refusal. He was used to being the center of your universe, the one you obeyed, the one you comforted.
To hear you openly dismiss him, to watch you choose to stay on the couch and tend to another man’s bare skin was a humiliating slap to his pride.
"I said I've got it." Ryul repeated, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating with a desperate, defensive authority. He took another step forward, his shadow completely eclipsing Ohyul.
"He’s my roommate. My best friend. You don't need to be doing this for him in the middle of the night. Go to bed."
But you didn’t even flinch. You deliberately ignored Ryul’s commanding tone, lifting the warm cloth from the basin and wringing it out with a slow, systematic twist. You leaned slightly to the side, looking right past Ryul’s hip to fix your gaze on Ohyul’s shivering, half naked frame.
Beneath the blanket Ryul had roughly thrown over him, Ohyul was completely paralyzed. His brain was spinning out of control. He could feel the suffocating waves of Ryul’s fury radiating just inches away, but when he looked up and saw you shaking your head. When he realized you were actually fighting to stay by his side, a dangerous spike of euphoria pierced through his heartbreak.
She's choosing me
The broken, lovesick puppy inside him whispered, completely blinding him to reality.
She’s defending me to Ryul.
"Sit down, Kim Ryul." you murmured, your tone completely devoid of guilt, treating your boyfriend's burning jealousy like a minor inconvenience. You reached out and calmly pulled the edge of the blanket down, exposing Ohyul’s flushed chest once more.
"You're tired from your shift. I'm already doing it. Just let me finish."
Ryul stared down at you, his jaw ticking violently, his eyes darting between your serene face and his best friend’s weeping, exposed form.
The toxic tension in the living room stretched until it felt ready to snap, with Ohyul caught helplessly in the middle, trapped between the territorial wrath of the friend he had betrayed, and the manipulative comfort of the girl who owned him.
Ryul stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the sight of your fingers resting against Ohyul’s collarbone. The absolute lack of hesitation in your voice, the quiet authority with which you dismissed him shattered something in his masculine pride.
He was the boyfriend. He was the one who belonged in the light, yet here he was, standing in his own living room, feeling like an intruder in a moment that felt entirely too heavy, entirely too intimate.
"Fine." Ryul spat out, the word dripping with and bitter venom. He couldn't force himself to leave the room, not while his mind was screaming at him that something was deeply wrong. Instead, he dropped heavily onto the armchair across from the couch, He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, his jaw locked, his eyes boring into the two of them like a hawk.
"I'll stay right here then. Since you're so eager to play nurse."
The air in the room turned to absolute ice.
Ohyul felt the shift instantly. The brief burst of euphoria he had felt when you defended him withered away, replaced by a suffocating dread. Ryul was watching. His best friend, the person who had shared a roof, clothes, and memories with him for years was sitting just four feet away, staring at him with a look of pure, territorial hatred.
Ohyul’s broad shoulders trembled as he shrank back against the cushions. He wanted to pull the blanket back over his chest, to hide his shameful, sweaty body from Ryul’s piercing gaze, but your cool fingers were already pressing the warm cloth back onto his skin.
You didn't care that Ryul was watching. In fact, as you slowly swept the damp cloth over Ohyul’s flushed chest, your eyes flicked over to Ryul for a fraction of a second, a tiny, undetectable glint of amusement dancing in the dark.
You were doing this on purpose. You were using Ohyul’s burning, helpless body as a tool to stoke Ryul’s jealousy, turning his physical agony into a sick psychological game between you and your boyfriend.
Ohyul let out a fractured whine. He looked over Ryul’s shoulder, staring at the dark wall, his heart physically breaking all over again. He had foolishly thought you were choosing him. He had thought your softness meant he finally mattered. But as you deliberately slowed your movements, rubbing the cloth over his chest while Ryul’s breathing grew heavier and more furious in the chair, the brutal truth cemented itself in his soul.
You didn't love him. You didn't even pity him. He was just a weapon you were using to torment your boyfriend, a pathetic, broken toy caught in the middle of your relationship. And the worst part, the thing that made Ohyul want to crawl into a hole and die was that even with Ryul watching, even with the crushing weight of his own guilt, he still leaned into your touch, completely unable to pull himself away.
The slow, deliberate stroke of the washcloth stopped. You let out a soft, satisfied breath, squeezing the cloth over the basin one last time. The warm water trickled down Ohyul’s collarbone, but his skin was already turning to ice under the suffocating, furious glare of his best friend.
Ryul was leaning forward in the armchair, his knuckles white where his fingers gripped his own arms. The atmosphere in the room was a powder keg, a single spark away from detonating.
And you decided to light the match.
Slowly, you leaned closer to Ohyul’s flushed face. You didn’t look at Ryul, but your entire posture was calculated to inflict maximum damage. You rested your cool hand against the side of Ohyul’s neck, your thumb sweeping over his frantic, racing pulse. Then, you tilted your head and pressed your soft lips firmly against his cheek.
The kiss was slow. Lingering. It was an unmistakable declaration of ownership, done right in front of the man who supposedly held your heart.
Ohyul’s eyes flew wide open in absolute horror. His breath caught in his throat, a choked gasp dying in his chest. His heart hammered so violently he thought it might burst through his ribs. He wanted to pull away, to scream, to apologize to Ryul but he was completely paralyzed by the sheer audacity of your touch.
You pulled back just an inch, your eyes locked onto Ohyul’s terrified, glassy gaze. A tiny, dangerous smile played on your lips as you patted his cheek.
"All better." you murmured softly, your voice a sweet, mocking that echoed loudly in the silent room.
Boom.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" Ryul roared, slamming his hands onto the armrests as he surged out of the chair. The jealousy that had been simmering inside him instantly exploded into unfiltered rage. He covered the distance between the chair and the couch in a single, menacing stride, his face twisted in a mask of betrayal and fury.
He didn't grab you. Instead, his hand flew out, wrapping tightly into the collar of Ohyul’s shirt and violently yanking his best friend forward.
"Get off y/n!" Ryul snarled, his voice trembling with a mix of possessive anger and deep, sudden insecurity. He glared down at Ohyul, his breathing heavy and ragged.
"Are you out of your mind? Sitting here letting her kiss you? What the fuck is wrong with you, Ohyul?!"
Ohyul weakly clutched at Ryul’s wrist, fresh tears streaming completely unchecked down his flushed cheeks from the fever pain. The guilt was a physical weight crushing his throat. He looked at his best friend’s broken, angry face and then glanced back at you.
You were already stepping back, picking up the basin of water with a perfectly calm, indifferent expression. You had successfully blown the gasoline wide open, and now you were simply stepping away to watch the two of them burn.
Ryul’s grip tightened on Ohyul’s collar, the fabric ripping slightly as he yanked him forward. The raw fury in Ryul’s eyes was blinding, fueled by the humiliating sight of your lips on his best friend’s skin.
"Answer me!" Ryul barked, his voice echoing off the walls. "Are you taking advantage because you're sick? Is that what this is?!"
Something shifted inside Ohyul. The suffocating fog of the fever was still there, but the sudden, violent threat from Ryul burned it away, replaced by a cold, hard adrenaline. He looked at Ryul, not with the wide, weeping eyes of a pathetic puppy, but with a steady, unblinking stare.
He didn't shed a single tear. He didn't whimper. He braced his heavy weight, grabbed Ryul’s wrist with a grip like iron, and forced his best friend’s hand off his chest.
Ohyul stood up. Even burning with a fever, his broad shouldered frame completely towered over Ryul. He stood tall, his jaw set, looking down at the man he had betrayed with a grim, masculine gravity.
"Back off, Ryul." Ohyul said, his voice dropping into a deep, gravelly baritone, entirely steady despite the sickness.
"I didn't touch y/n. I didn't ask for that. Put your hands on me again, and we're going to have a real problem."
Ryul scoffed, stepping right back into Ohyul’s space, his chest slamming against Ohyul’s chest.
"A problem? You're sitting on my couch, half naked, letting my partner kiss your face, and you're telling me to back off? You think because you're bigger than me, I won't take you down?"
"I'm telling you to look at the room." Ohyul countered, his voice deadly calm, his eyes shifting for a fraction of a second to you, who stood in the background watching them like a spectator at a sport.
Ohyul didn't hide behind excuses. He stood like a man facing his execution, throwing his shoulders back. "If you want to swing at me, swing. But don't act like I'm forcing anything here."
"You piece of shit!" Ryul snapped. The jealousy and the sting of Ohyul’s calm defiance tore through his restraint. Ryul pulled his fist back and threw a hard, desperate punch straight at Ohyul’s jaw.
Thud.
The blow connected, snapping Ohyul’s head to the side. The force of it made him stumble back against the couch, his feverish balance wavering for a second. But Ohyul didn't make a sound. He didn't cry out. He slowly turned his head back, wiping a drop of blood from his lip with the back of his hand, his eyes darkening with a dangerous, quiet intensity.
The two men hit the floor, grappling viciously in the dark, spilling into the puddle of water from basin of water. Ryul scrambled up, throwing a wild punch that caught Ohyul in the ribs, while Ohyul drove his shoulder into Ryul’s midsection, slamming him back against the armchair.
They breathe heavily, teeth bared, two alpha dogs tearing each other apart over a scrap of your attention, while you simply lean against the wall, completely dry, watching the blood and water mix at your feet.
The sound of ragged breathing filled the living room. Ryul lunged forward again, his face twisted in a mask of pure betrayal, driving his forearm right into Ohyul’s throat to pin him against the ruined frame of the armchair.
Ohyul didn't flinch. Despite the fever burning through his veins, making his muscles feel like lead, he choked back the pain. He grabbed Ryul by the shoulders, his grip tight and unyielding, and violently swung his weight around, reversing their positions and slamming Ryul down onto the wet hardwood floor. The splash of water soaked through Ryul’s crisp button-down shirt, instantly ruining his neat appearance.
They lay there for a second, teeth bared, chests heaving, fists clenched and ready to strike again. Both of them were bruised, bleeding, and breathing heavily.
And through it all, you didn’t move an inch.
You stood just a few feet away, leaning casually against the kitchen counter, your arms crossed over your chest. The silver moonlight caught the sharp, beautiful angles of your face, illuminating the absolute lack of panic in your eyes. There was no scream of terror, no frantic begging for them to stop, no tears.
Instead, you just watched.
Your gaze drifted from the dark bruise forming on Ohyul’s jaw to the wet, ruined state of Ryul’s sharp outfit. A small, almost imperceptible tilt of your head showed your clinical amusement.
To you, the violence wasn't a tragedy. It was a highly entertaining spectacle, a literal manifestation of how much power you held over both of them. You had turned two best friends into animals with a single, lingering kiss on a cheek.
Ryul looked up from the floor, his eyes darting from Ohyul’s heavy, glaring shadow to your serene face. The total absence of concern on your face hit him like a physical blow, a cold realization finally piercing through his rage. He was fighting for your honor, yet you were looking at him like a spectator watching a movie.
Ohyul, still hovering over Ryul, didn't break his gaze either. He wiped another smear of blood from his lip, his jaw locked hard as he stood his ground like a man, refusing to let his weakness show in front of his friend. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw your posture. He saw the cold, detached fascination in your eyes.
The physical fight had paused, but the psychological devastation in the room was absolute. They were bleeding on the floor, completely ruined, and you hadn't even dropped your smile.
Ryul’s breathing was a ragged, whistling sound in the quiet apartment. He stared up at you, waiting for a gasp, a shout, any sign of horror that her boyfriend was bleeding on the floor.
Nothing came.
Just that smooth, unbothered posture against the counter.
The silence stretched until the absurdity of it finally broke Ryul’s rage. The possessive adrenaline drained from his face, leaving him looking hollow and incredibly tired. He slowly let go of Ohyul’s shirt, his hands dropping to the wet floorboards with a dull splash.
"You're not even worried." Ryul whispered, his voice cracking, a raw mix of realization and heartbreak cutting through his usual confidence. He looked up at you, the pajamas he’d put on to impress you now soaked and clinging to his skin.
"I'm fighting him... I almost killed my best friend just now, and you're... just watching us."
Ohyul didn't say a word. He slowly stood up, pushing his heavy frame off the floor. His muscles screamed from the fever and the impact, and his jaw pulsed with a dull, throbbing ache where Ryul had hit him. But he kept his spine straight. He didn't look at Ryul, and he didn't look at you. He just stood there like a monolith, his face a hard, unreadable mask, wiping a fresh line of blood from his lip with the back of his hand.
"You both look pathetic," you said smoothly, your voice a calm, velvety ripple that completely dismissed the violence that had just occurred.
You looked at Ryul, your eyes cold. "If you're going to make a mess of my living room over a simple checkup, you can sleep on the couch tonight, Ryul. I'm going to bed."
You turned on your heel, your hair swinging over your shoulder as you walked down the hallway without a single backward glance. The click of your shared bedroom door shutting was the final, definitive stroke.
The two men were left alone in the wreckage.
Ryul slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position, staring at the closed door, his shoulders slumped in total defeat. The illusion of his perfect relationship was lying in pieces on the floor right next to the table.
Ohyul stood a few feet away, his massive chest heaving as the fever began to reclaim his body, making him lightheaded. He looked down at Ryul, the friend he had betrayed, the friend who had just struck him. There was no apology in Ohyul's eyes, only a shared understanding of the trap they were both caught in.
Without a word, Ohyul turned his back on his best friend and walked back toward his own bedroom, his jaw locked tight as he braced himself against the wall, refusing to fall until he was safely behind closed doors.
The sound of Ohyul’s bedroom door clicking shut seemed to snap a wire inside Ryul. The anger, the pride, and the righteous fury he had felt seconds ago completely evaporated, leaving behind nothing but a sheer, frantic panic.
He couldn't lose you. He couldn't let this be the end.
Ignoring the water dripping from his ruined shirt and the blood on his knuckles, Ryul scrambled up from the wet floor and ran down the hallway. He didn't knock. He threw bedroom door open and burst inside, his eyes wide and desperate in the dim light of your room.
You were sitting on the edge of the bed, slowly untying your hair. You didn't look up when the door slammed open, but your shoulders tensed in a calculated show of irritation.
"Princess... please, wait," Ryul choked out, falling to his knees right in front of you. He threw his arms around your waist, burying his face into your lap, entirely abandoning the confident, sharp man he had been just minutes ago.
"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I lost my mind. I shouldn't have yelled at you, I shouldn't have snapped at you like that."
You let out a sharp, heavy sigh, your body going stiff and rigid in his embrace. You pulled your hands away from him, looking down with a perfectly crafted expression of deep hurt and exhaustion.
"Get off me, Kim Ryul," you murmured, your voice tight, doing a flawless imitation of a partner who had just been deeply traumatized by their significant other's violence.
"You were like an animal out there. You completely humiliated me. Over me trying to help a sick friend?"
"I know, I know, I'm a piece of shit." Ryul begged, his voice trembling as he looked up at you, his eyes swimming with desperate tears.
He reached up, his wet, shaking hands cupping your cheeks, pulling your face down so he could press his lips frantically against yours. He kissed you over and over to your lips, your cheeks, your jaw, trying to force his warmth back into you.
"I was just jealous. I saw him touching you, and I lost control. I love you so much. Please don't do this. Don't push me away. I'll do anything. I'll apologize to Ohyul, I'll fix the table, just please don't be mad at me."
He hugged you tight, wrapping his strong arms around your shoulders and pulling your small body flush against his chest, holding on as if he were drowning and you were his only lifeline.
Beneath his desperate grasp, you let your head rest against his shoulder, your face hidden from his view. The moment Ryul couldn't see your eyes, the fake look of hurt vanished completely from your face. Your expression turned entirely blank, cold, and bored.
You let him hold you, letting him believe his frantic apologies were working, while your fingers casually traced a pattern on his back hair.
You were entirely in control, playing the victim to perfection, knowing that you now had Ryul exactly where you wanted him. Completely broken, compliant, and begging at your feet.
Ryul didn't see the slow, mocking roll of your eyes as he squeezed you tighter, his face still buried in your neck, murmuring a continuous stream of muffled, desperate apologies. He was completely blind to the sharp, malicious thrill humming through your veins.
Inside, you were having the time of your life.
The absolute power of it was intoxicating. With just a few calculated words and a single kiss, you had reduced the two alpha dogs of the apartment to complete ruins.
Down the hall, Ohyul was nursing a bleeding jaw in the dark, forced to stand like a man while burning alive from a fever. And right here, Ryul, the confident proud boyfriend who thought he owned the lease on your heart was literally on his knees, weeping into your lap and begging for your mercy like a dog.
You let out another heavy sigh, your voice dripping with a carefully manufactured blend of disgust and lingering hurt.
"You really are pathetic, Ryul." you whispered coldly into his ear, letting the words sting him just enough to keep him desperate.
"I know... I know I am." Ryul choked out, tightening his grip around your waist, completely willing to swallow every ounce of his pride if it meant you wouldn't leave him.
"Just tell me you forgive me, Please."
You waited a few agonizing seconds, letting him squirm in the silence, savoring every bit of your total victory. Finally, you relaxed your rigid posture, letting your arms slowly wind around his neck in a show of reluctant, exhausted forgiveness.
Your lips curved into a tiny, hidden smile against his wet shoulder, utterly thrilled by the beautiful, chaotic mess you had made of them both.
The next morning, the apartment was suffocatingly quiet. Ryul had left for his early shift, completely exhausted but relieved that you had seemingly accepted his tearful apologies the night before.
The moment the front door clicked shut, the heavy silence returned.
Ohyul stepped out of his bedroom. His fever had finally broken, leaving him pale and physically drained, his jaw a dark, angry shade of purple where Ryul had struck him. He walked into the living room, intending to clean up the coffee table, but stopped dead in his tracks.
You were sitting at the kitchen island, calmly sipping a cup of coffee. The fragile, traumatized partner act you had put on for Ryul was completely gone. You looked up at Ohyul, your eyes sharp and amused.
"You look terrible." you murmured, setting your cup down with a soft click. "But at least you stood your ground. I didn't think you had it in you to hit him back."
Ohyul didn't flinch. He stood tall, his broad shoulders tense as he leaned against the doorframe, looking down at you with a hard, unreadable expression.
"Why did you do it, y/n?" his voice was a low, rough growl.
"You knew exactly what would happen if you kissed me in front of him. You wanted us to tear each other apart."
You tilted your head, a dangerous smile spreading across your lips.
"And you let it happen. You didn't push me away, Ohyul. You wanted that kiss just as much as Ryul wanted to kill you for it."
"Because I'm an idiot." Ohyul countered, his voice dripping with bitter. He took a heavy step toward the kitchen, his shadow falling over you.
"But the game is over. I'm telling him. I'm telling him everything about the kitchen sex, about the bathroom sex, about every single thing you've made me do behind his back. I'd rather he hates me for the truth than keep living in this sick lie."
You didn't panic. In fact, your smile only widened, your eyes gleaming with absolute delight as the gasoline you had been pouring for months finally caught the spark.
"Go ahead." you whispered, leaning forward on the counter, entirely unfazed by his threat.
"Tell him. Let's see who he believes. His cheating, desperate best friend who was caught half naked on our couch, or the girlfriend who was on her knees weeping because you both terrified her."
Ohyul stared at you, his fists clenching so tightly his knuckles turned white. The sheer malice in your eyes was blinding, but for the first time, he didn't back down. The secret was out in the open between you, and the countdown to the final explosion had officially begun.
You slowly stood up from the barstool, your movements fluid and entirely unbothered by the towering, furious man standing in front of you. You took a slow step into his space, your bare feet making no sound against the floor.
"You think you're being a man right now, Ohyul?" you whispered, your voice dropping into a cruel, that felt like ice running down his spine.
"You think standing there with your jaw set and your chest out makes you brave? Look at you. You’re bleeding, you’re sick, and you’re entirely broken. And I did that to you with a single kiss."
You walked a slow, predatory circle around him, your eyes tracking the rigid tension in his broad shoulders.
"Go ahead and tell Ryul. Run to him." you mocked, a sharp, bitter laugh escaping your lips.
"Tell him how you begged for me on the kitchen floor. Tell him how you sat there last night, shivering like a stray dog, completely pathetic, just waiting for me to touch you. Do you think he'll look at you with respect? No. He’ll look at you with disgust. He’ll realize his giant, tough best friend is nothing but a weak, desperate parasite who couldn't keep his hands off his girlfriend."
You stopped right in front of him again, leaning in so close he could smell the faint scent of your perfume. You reached up, your index finger deliberately pressing into the dark, throbbing bruise on his jaw, forcing him to look you dead in the eye.
"You won't say a word, puppy. Because if you ruin his life with the truth, you lose him forever. And you’ll still be stuck here, looking at me, knowing that no matter how much you hate me... you’ll still crawl right back into my lap the second I tell you to."
Ohyul didn’t flinch away from the pressure on his jaw, though the pain flared sharply through his face. He kept his eyes locked onto yours, his expression hardening into stone as your toxic words echoed in the quiet kitchen. Every word you spoke was a calculated needle meant to deflate his spine, to make him shrink back into the submissive, guilt ridden dog you wanted him to be.
But something in him had snapped when Ryul’s fist hit his face the night before. The physical pain had grounded him. It had burned away the desperate fog of his infatuation and left behind a cold, ruthless clarity.
"You're right about one thing," Ohyul said, his voice deep and entirely steady. He didn't yell. The calm tone made his massive frame seem even more imposing.
"He will look at me with disgust. He might never speak to me again. And I’ll have to live with that brand on my chest for the rest of my life."
He reached up, his large, solid hand wrapping around your wrist. He didn't squeeze to hurt you, but his grip was like an iron vice as he slowly, deliberately pulled your finger off his bruised jaw. He forced your hand down between them, refusing to let you touch him like a toy anymore.
"But you're wrong about the rest." Ohyul continued, stepping even closer, his shadow completely swallowing you up.
"I'm not protecting myself anymore. And I'm sure as hell not protecting you. I'm telling him because he deserves to know what kind of viper he’s sleeping next to. I’m going to lay every single dirty detail out on the table, and then I’m packing my bags."
Your dangerous smile faltered for a fraction of a second, your eyes narrowing as you felt the absolute finality in his grip.
"You think you can just walk away?" you hissed softly, your voice losing a bit of its playful amusement, turning sharp and venomous.
"You think I'll just let you leave and play the martyr?"
"I don't care what you do." Ohyul said, releasing your wrist and stepping past you toward the hallway. He stopped at the edge of the kitchen, turning his head slightly to give you one last, cold look over his shoulder.
"Enjoy the quiet while it lasts. The second Ryul gets off his shift, the truth is coming out. Let's see how much fun you have trying to spin your way out of a completely empty house."
The silence that followed his words was heavy and suffocating. You stood perfectly still in the middle of the kitchen, your wrist still tingling from the iron grip of his fingers.
For a long moment, you didn’t say anything. The amused, mocking glint in your eyes slowly hardened into a dangerous glare as you watched his broad back recede down the hallway.
He was serious.
The lovesick puppy had finally grown teeth.
"Ohyul," you called out, your voice dropping the playful, velvety purr completely. It was sharp now. Brittle.
"Step foot out of this apartment to find him, and I will make sure the story he hears is the one where you forced yourself on me while he was asleep."
Ohyul stopped dead in his tracks. His shoulders braced, his hands clenching into tight, rigid fists at his sides. He didn't turn around, but the muscle in his jaw ticked violently.
"You can try," Ohyul said, his gravelly baritone echoing darkly in the narrow corridor. "But I've got the bruises from his fists, and you don't have a single scratch on you. He’s an idiot when it comes to you, but he’s a man. He knows what a real fight looks like. He’ll see the guilt in my eyes, and he’ll see the coldness in yours."
Without waiting for your response, he walked straight into his bedroom and slammed the door shut.
The loud bang of the door reverberated through the empty apartment. You stood alone, your chest rising and falling with shallow, sharp breaths. The fun was over.
The perfect, chaotic chessboard you had built was suddenly sliding out of your control, and for the first time since you had started playing with the two best friends, a flicker of genuine irritation flared in your chest.
Inside his room, Ohyul dragged his heavy duffel bag out from the top of his closet. His hands were shaking slightly, not from the fever, and not from fear, but from the raw, overwhelming weight of the wreckage he was about to cause. He began throwing his clothes into the bag, his movements rough and uncoordinated.
He knew this was the end of his life as he knew it. He was going to lose his best friend. He was going to lose his home. Much worse, lose you. But as he zipped the bag shut with a sharp, definitive pull, a strange sense of freedom settled over his chest. The suffocating weight of the secret was finally gone. He was standing like a man, ready to face the fire.
Meanwhile, out in the living room, you walked over to the window, watching the street below. Ryul’s shift ended in exactly three hours. The clock was ticking, and the gasoline you had poured so carelessly was about to be lit from both ends.
The sound of Ohyul’s zipper closing down the hall was drowned out by the smooth, heavy pour of alcohol. You stood at the counter, completely ignoring the ruined living room around you, and filled a glass to the brim with clear, burning vodka.
You lifted the glass to your lips, taking a slow, deep sip. The liquid burned your throat, but the heat inside your chest was far more intense.
Suddenly, a small, involuntary twitch pulled at the corner of your mouth. You bit down hard on your lower lip, trying to suppress the absolute euphoria bubbling up from your stomach, but it was useless.
A sharp, breathy laugh escaped you. Then another.
Within seconds, the empty apartment echoed with your laughter unfiltered, manic, and chillingly loud. You leaned against the counter, your shoulders shaking as you laughed like a lunatic, the sound ricocheting off the walls where the two men had just bled for you.
Ohyul thought he was winning by walking away.
Ryul thought he was winning by begging on his knees.
They both thought their dramatic, masculine standoffs actually mattered to you.
Finally, you thought, your eyes flashing with a wild, triumphant brilliance as you raised your glass to the empty room.
Finally, I'm free from both of these pathetic boys.
You didn't care about the threats. You didn't care about the upcoming explosion. In fact, the thought of Ryul coming home, finding Ohyul’s bags packed, and the two of them finally exchanging the ugly truth made you want to scream with delight. Let them tell each other everything. Let them realize how thoroughly they had been dismantled.
You took another heavy gulp of the vodka, your manic laughter tapering off into a dark, satisfied smile.
They were going to destroy each other, ruin their brotherhood, and leave this apartment in pieces. And you would walk out of the wreckage completely untamed, without a single scratch, utterly bored with the toys you had finally broken.
The bright, fluorescent lights of the cosmetic store reflected off hundreds of pristine glass mirrors, but Ryul only had eyes for you.
He looked entirely out of place, yet completely unbothered by it. Slung over his broad shoulder was your purse, The thin strap looking hilariously tiny against his frame.
He didn't care who saw him, his left hand was firmly intertwined with your right one, his fingers locked perfectly between yours as he let you drag him through the crowded aisles of lipsticks and eyeshadow palettes.
"Baby, let go for just a second so I can pick up a sponge." you laughed, gently tugging your hand.
Instead of loosening his grip, Ryul just whined softly, pulling you back against his chest. He wrapped his arms completely around your waist from behind, chin resting heavily on your shoulder as he clung to you like a giant needy puppy.
"No. If I let you go, you'll get lost in the skincare aisle for three hours. I'm staying right here."
You sighed playfully, your heart doing a sweet little flutter at his stubbornness. Shuffling together like a single unit, you managed to reach the display of a brand new cushion foundation you’d been dying to try.
Since your own hands were full holding a compact mirror, you looked back at him.
"Hold out your hand. Let me see if this shade matches my undertone."
Ryul didn't hesitate. He gladly extended the back of his hand, tilting his head curiously. You pressed the puff into the cushion and gently patted the foundation onto his skin.
"Woah, look at that coverage." Ryul whispered dramatically, leaning in close to inspect the makeup.
"Does this mean my hand looks flawless now?"
"Shh, let me test the blend." you giggled, using your fingertip to smooth it out.
Right next to the foundation was a row of glossy lip tints. You picked up a gorgeous cherry-red shade, uncapping it. Ryul, anticipating your next move, immediately offered up his hand again.
You swiped three different streaks of lip color right next to the foundation patch. One bright red, one soft peach, and one deep berry.
"Which one do you like better?" you asked, holding his hand up to the light to compare.
Ryul didn't even look at the colors. He just stared deeply into your eyes and lips, a lazy sweet smile spreading across his face.
"I like whichever one stays on my lips after I kiss you later."
Your face instantly turned bright red. "Ryul! Be quiet, we're in public!"
To make matters worse, Ryul leaned down and softly pressed his cheek against yours, completely unbothered by the fact that he was covered in makeup swatches and carrying a purse.
He kept shifting his weight, swaying you side to side playfully while you tried to wipe the swatches off his hand with a tissue.
As you were giggling and whispering together, you suddenly felt a heavy gaze on you. You glanced up and caught the eye of a store staff member standing by the opposite counter. The employee was holding a stack of shopping baskets, giving the two of you a judgment filled side eyes.
You quickly cleared your throat, nudging Ryul in the ribs.
"Look, the staff is judging us. Stop clinging!"
Ryul glanced over at the employee, gave them a polite, entirely shameless little nod, and then turned back to you, tightening his embrace around your waist even more.
"Let them judge." he whispered right against your ear, his breath warm and ticklish.
"I'm just waiting for you to finish swatching so you can test that cherry color on my lips instead."
— All of these are @ryulcom works, please do not copy, translate or even repost to other platforms. Thank you.
MMMPHHH he uses his middle and ring finger to stretch your pussy till you’re nice and loose for him. fingers so long you could feel them so deep trust 🙂↕️ he’s relentless too, not caring about the way you’re tryna squirm away, closing your legs, grabbing his wrist weakly as you beg him to slow down through a string of ah ah’s leaving your dumb mouth. but he's just slapping your inner thighs to keep them spread open, unfazed by your actions as he focuses on the way your sopping pussy opens up for him like a fountain squirting all over his hands and coating both your lower halves ♡
(pssstt he wouldn’t hesitate to give a few slaps directly onto your sensitive cunt if you’re still being a brat ><)
GENRE/CW: fluff, smut, angst, porn with plot, dom!sunghoon, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), oral (fem receiving), fingering, marking, dry humping, slight choking, making out, squirting, multiple orgasms, mentions of jealousy, possessiveness. hoon is clumsy and unnaturally strong, mentions of nicknames, mentions of jake, jay, hee, won, karina, lmk if i missed anything!
WORD COUNT: 29.8k words
SYNOPSIS: when the university’s untouchable campus god accidentally walks into a doorframe the literal second he lays eyes on you, you realize the rumors about park sunghoon being a smooth player are completely fabricated. now, you get a front-row seat to him desperately trying to follow a ten-step wikiHow guide on how to flirt, except you start to think that his clumsy, pathetic devotion is the most attractive thing you have ever seen.
A/N: hihi loves <3 i know it has been a rough few days for us all, i hope this lewser (affectionate) hoon makes you all feel a lil better, take care angels <3
STEP ONE: Introductions by identity theft
Park Sunghoon prides himself on being calm and composed.
At least that’s what he tells himself, if you generously take out the part where he’s clumsy, socially catastrophic, and possesses the spatial awareness of a newborn puppy on ice. To the Uni at large, he’s—well, a concept? The campus god, as wattpad core as it sounds, he simply makes it seem that way. The guy who sits in the back of lecture halls looking bored and devastatingly handsome, presumably thinking about complex philosophical theories or his next modeling gig (he doesn’t have any).
In reality, he’s usually just thinking about whether it is going to rain or stressing over the fact that he held the door open for someone slightly too early, forcing them to do that awkward little run-walk, they were grateful regardless. It’s a fragile ecosystem, really. A reputation built entirely on the fact that he doesn’t talk enough for people to realize he’s actually a massive loser.
Only Sim Jaeyun knew the truth, along with Jay and Heeseung but yeah. Jake knew that Sunghoon isn’t brooding, rather, he’s buffering (as sad as that is). He knows that his oh so cold, mysterious silence is just Sunghoon’s brain playing elevator music (Wii party soundtrack preferably) while he tries to figure out how to function like a human being.
But tonight, Sunghoon feels good, he feels capable somehow. He’s wearing his favorite gray sweatpants, Jay is making pasta and garlic bread, and the dorm smells like home in the best way possible. He has one job—bring the cups to the living room. Jake had been going on about inviting a chaotic duo he came across at a gaming cafe, who absolutely destroyed him during gaming but that eventually led to him aggressively adopting them into his life out of sheer respect for the carry later.
Sunghoon peels the plastic sleeve off the stack of red Solo cups with a satisfying crinkle, feeling that same surge of confidence, headphones playing his favourite EsDeeKid song (Palaces), letting him vibe, completely blocking out the chatter and laughter outside. He steps out of the kitchenette, the bass in his ears vibrating through his skull, making him feel momentarily infinite. He is the main character in a very low-stakes indie movie, he is cool, he is ready to perceive and be perceived, or so he thinks.
And then his eyes land on the center of the living room, and the soundtrack in his head comes to a screeching, violent-ish halt. He expects noise—he can see Jake’s mouth moving rapidly, gesturing with a ladle like a weapon—but he doesn’t expect you.
You are already there, claiming the space in a way that makes the cramped dorm room feel suddenly, terrifically bright. You’re standing near the beat-up sofa, one sneaker kicked off and overturned on the rug, looking comfortably disheveled in a way that art directors spend hours trying to replicate. You’re in the middle of laughing at something another one of your friends said, and he doesn’t know his name yet—a full-bodied, head-thrown-back kind of laugh that Sunghoon can’t hear over his music but can feel in his chest anyway.
You look effortless, like you didn’t even try, yet somehow succeeded more than anyone else in the room. You’re wearing a simple white tank top tucked into vintage denim that fits perfectly, with a leather jacket slipping casually off one shoulder. Your hair is loose, framing a face that is currently lit up with pure, unadulterated joy, and your eyes are crinkled shut with mirth.
Sunghoon’s brain, usually a well-oiled machine of anxiety, simply—stops. The music fades into static, and his calm and composed narrative dissolves. Oh, he thinks, his grip on the plastic stack tightening until it crunches. Wow.
He is so busy processing the sudden, violent realization that you might be the prettiest thing he has ever seen that he forgets a fundamental rule of Newtonian physics, Pauli Exclusion Principle: two solid objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time.
One of those objects is his broad, unsuspecting shoulder, the other is the wooden doorframe, and there’s a loud sound of collision—a bone-jarring impact that cuts right through his noise-canceling headphones and jolts his entire skeleton from the teeth down. The shockwave travels instantly to his hands, and the stack of red cups, liberated by the violence of the collision, explodes outward like plastic fireworks. They rain down onto the carpet in a chaotic, clattering cacophony that seems to echo for ten years, at least for Sunghoon.
Sunghoon freezes, vibrating with pain, staring blankly at a single red cup spinning sadly near his big toe. Slowly and painfully, he slides his headphones down to his neck. The room has gone dead silent.
The friend you were laughing with—the one with the cat-like eyes, stops mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open. Jake blinks slowly from the couch, profound confusion etched into his features. And you—you turn slowly, eyes wide, the laughter still lingering on your face as you take in the tragedy of the cups and the man currently trying to merge with the drywall.
“Holy shit,” the friend breaks the silence, abandoning his game to lean over the back of the couch, “you good, dude?”
Sunghoon stays very still, he is waiting for one of two things to happen—either for the floorboards to mercifully open up and swallow him whole, or for his body to spontaneously combust from the sheer, blinding force of his own humiliation. Neither happens, instead, the throbbing ache in his shoulder radiates down his arm, a dull, pulsing reminder that he is not, in fact, the protagonist of a cool indie film, he is a hazard.
Say something, his brain screams, make a joke, be charming. Recover for fucks sake.
“I’m good,” Sunghoon manages, though his voice comes out about three octaves higher than usual. He clears his throat, “I’m—yeah. Totally fine. Just—slipped.”
“You slipped?” The friend—Jungwon, he remembers Jake calling him—asks, eyebrows shooting up, “into the doorframe? Vertically?”
“The carpet,” Sunghoon says, pointing an accusing finger at the perfectly standard rug, “it’s deceptive man.”
From the floor, a soft snort erupts, It’s you. You aren’t looking at him with pity, which is what he expects. You’re grinning—a wide, genuine expression that scrunches your nose—and before Sunghoon can process the movement, you’ve dropped to a crouch in front of him to help with the plastic disaster zone.
“Deceptive carpet,” you repeat, the corner of your mouth twitching as you reach for a cup that rolled near his ankle.
Sunghoon’s ears are burning. He can feel the heat spreading down his neck, violent and undeniable. He drops to his knees out of a desperate need to avoid looking at Jake, who is currently burying his face in a cushion.
“Right, physics,” you drawl, and your voice is warm, teasing in a way that makes his stomach do a weird flip. You hand him a stack of cups you’ve gathered, “well, try not to fight any more inanimate objects tonight, okay? The dorm deposit is expensive.”
Your fingers brush against his knuckles as you pass the stack. His skin practically zaps where you touched him. Sunghoon flinches like he’s been electrocuted, nearly dropping the cups all over again. He looks up, terrified, and finds your face inches from his. Up close, you’re even intimidatingly prettier. You smell like vanilla and leather, and your eyes are dancing.
“I’m Y/N, by the way,” you say easily, sitting back on your heels.
Sunghoon stares at you. He knows he needs to respond. The social contract dictates that he provides his own name in return, it is a simple exchange. Input: Name. Output: Name. But his brain is currently running on a backup generator powered by a single, terrified hamster, and gosh the hamster is tired.
“Uh,” Sunghoon starts, his voice cracking a little, then he clears his throat, “Y/N.”
He nods, “Right, you’re Y/N.”
You look at him, waiting.
“I’m—” Sunghoon trails off, looking at your eyes, they are very pretty. He looks at your mouth, you’re smiling, “I’m—Y/N?” He stops, eyes widening. No, that is incorrect.
“I mean—” He waves a hand frantically, nearly knocking over the stack of cups he just rescued, “You’re Y/N! I’m Sunghoon. Yeah. Yeah—you’re Sunghoon and I’m Y/N—wait.”
He freezes. The sentence hangs in the air between you, defying all logic, space, and time. Did I just steal her identity? The silence that follows is loud. Behind him, he hears Jungwon choke on a laugh, disguising it as a cough. Jake just sighs, a long, mournful sound of a man who has given up on his roommate entirely, and Heeseung doesn’t bother hiding his jolly laugh.
You blink at him. Then, slowly, that grin widens until it takes up your whole face.
“We’re swapping?” You ask, delighted, “okay—I’ve always wanted to be tall.”
Sunghoon feels his soul attempting to leave his body through his ears, he stands up, he stands up way too fast. His knees pop, adding a nice, crunchy soundtrack to his humiliation.
“I have to wash these,” he announces to the room at large, voice dangerously monotone.
“They were in a plastic sleeve,” Jake points out from the couch, finally turning around to witness the wreckage, “they’re clean bro.”
“Dust!” Sunghoon yells. He doesn’t look back, he can’t, “you can’t see it, but it’s there. It’s everywhere!”
He turns on his heel and flees. There is no other word for it, he practically speed-walks back into the safety of the kitchenette, shoulders hunched up to his ears, clutching the red cups to his chest, leaving the echo of his dignity—and his name—behind on the living room rug. He rounds the corner, out of sight, and immediately presses his forehead against the cool stainless steel of the fridge. He squeezes his eyes shut, his chest heaving like he just ran a marathon.
“He’s usually—uh—he’s usually not like this,” he hears Jake say in the other room, sounding apologetic.
“He’s funny,” you reply, and Sunghoon can hear the smile in your voice, “I like him.”
Sunghoon slides down the front of the fridge until he hits the floor, all while he buries his burning face in his hands. He is absolutely, irrevocably doomed.
“You good down there?”
Sunghoon peels one eye open, Jay is standing above him, holding a pair of tongs, staring at him with the blank, unimpressed expression of a man who has seen too much.
“I live here,” Sunghoon says to the ceiling, his voice hollow, “I pay rent, I have a 3.8 GPA. Why can’t I say my own name?”
“Nerves,” Jay says, flipping a piece of garlic bread, “also, you told her she was you. That was fucking insane.”
“Shut up, Jay.”
Sunghoon groans and scrambles up. He looks at the stack of cups in his hand, they are perfectly clean, but he washes them anyway. He turns on the tap and aggressively scrubs the brand-new plastic with the intensity of a surgeon scrubbing in for a heart transplant, just to buy himself thirty more seconds of isolation. Get it together, he coaches himself, staring at his reflection in the dark window above the sink.
You are Park Sunghoon, you have a twelve-step skincare routine, you know how to parallel park, you are a functional member of society who definitely knows who he is.
He dries his hands, he fixes his hair in the reflection of the microwave, he takes a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to lower his heart rate, and marches back out. The vibe in the living room has shifted. In the three minutes he was gone, you have seamlessly integrated into the environment of the dorm. You’re sitting cross-legged on the rug now, stealing garlic bread from Jake’s plate.
You look comfortable, annoyingly so, considering Sunghoon currently feels like his skin is made of itchy wool and his bones are made of glass. He walks over, moving stiffly, trying to be as aerodynamic as possible to avoid hitting any other stationary objects. He sets the slightly-damp cups down on the coffee table with a thud.
“All clean now,” he announces.
You look up, and you don’t laugh this time, but the corner of your mouth twitches, scooting over slightly on the rug, patting the empty space next to you, wondering what was going in the head of this pretty boy.
“Saved you a spot,” you say easily.
Sunghoon’s brain does that static thing again, he walks over stiffly, like a toy soldier, and lowers himself onto the rug. He sits carefully, hyper aware of everything, of you.
“Thanks,” he manages and it comes out deeper than he intended, almost gruff. Great. Now he sounds like a grumpy toddler.
You tear a piece off the garlic bread in your hand—the one you definitely stole, and offer it to him, “here, eat something, you’re practically vibrating.”
Sunghoon stares at the bread, then at you, “I’m not vibrating.”
“You are,” you insist, pressing the bread into his hand, “eat a lil’.”
Sunghoon takes it. He has to, really, because your fingers are brushing his palm and his brain has decided that obeying you is the only way to survive, and your fingers are soft, very soft.
“I’m calm,” he lies, taking a bite. It’s cold, but he chews it with interest.
“Uh-huh,” you grin, leaning back on your hands, your leather jacket creaking softly, “so, Park Sunghoon, besides forgetting your own identity, what do you do?”
Sunghoon swallows, he wipes a crumb from his lip, trying to regain some semblance of the mysterious aura he allegedly has, “I exist,” he says, trying for deadpan humor, “I listen to music. I tolerate Jake.”
“A noble calling,” you laugh, “I’ve only known him for a week and I’m already exhausted.”
“Jungwon, remove her from the group chat,” Jake deadpans, looking at him straight in the eye.
Jungwon looks his way, then your way before nodding, “let’s remove Jake.”
You both chuckled as Jake let out a gasp, launching a throw pillow that hits Jungwon square in the chest while Heeseung groans, “so no one added me to the chat, huh?”
Sunghoon doesn’t care, he’s zoned out as Jay joins the group with his freshly made mac and cheese truffle, and the room immediately devolves into a clamor of grabbing hands, Jungwon and Jake temporarily calling a truce to eat, and add a now very jolly Hee to the group chat. Sunghoon, however, has his undivided attention on you, he watches through his peripheral vision, as you lean forward to inspect the pot, the movement causes your leather jacket to slip further down your arm, he gulps at the sight.
A nudge almost sends him into orbit, head snapping at your face with mouth wide open, and you’re looking at him with your brow raised, a bowl in your hand, “you okay?” You asked, and he nodded mindlessly, and you were genuinely confused now.
You hand him the bowl, fingers brushing and he’s pretty sure his ears have turned red by now, but you’re not teasing him, and he likes how you simply just fit in here, “eat up, hm?”
“Thanks, yeah,” he mutters, looking down at the pasta, and it makes you smile at him fondly, before Jake’s groan interrupts you as he practically cries watching the cricket match on TV.
Jay sits behind you on the couch, starts talking about the history of this game—which only Jungwon pays attention to somehow, and then he stops to observe the room. His gaze drifts from the television screen to the floor, he watches you settle back against the couch cushions, then, his eyes slide to the person sitting next to you.
Sunghoon isn’t watching the match really. Jay watches as Sunghoon stares at the side of your profile for a beat too long. Then, Sunghoon looks down at the bowl in his lap. A small, shy smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, it’s something soft and entirely unguarded. And then, as if his brain has just caught up with what his face is doing, Sunghoon freezes. He just stops moving completely, his smile vanishing into a look of sheer, silent panic.
Jay pauses, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth. He looks at you, completely unbothered, he looks back at Sunghoon, who is currently staring at a piece of macaroni. Jay closes his eyes, he sighs, a long, heavy exhale.
“Oh no.”
STEP TWO: Prolonged realization
It had been four days since you had dinner at Jake’s place, four days since you met Sunghoon, four days since you took Jay’s tupperware as he packed some pasta for you, Jungwon, and your friend Karina.
To be honest, you hadn't expected to see Park Sunghoon again so soon, mostly because Jungwon had reported that he was currently in hibernation to recover from the sheer embarrassment of introducing himself as you. You’d caught glimpses of him on campus, but he was always in a rush somehow with his long strides.
“If you don’t return these,” Jungwon had told you ten minutes ago, dumping the heavy glass tower into your arms, “Jay is going to skin me, like—it’s just tupperware.”
So, here you were, standing in the hallway of the boys’ dorm, smelling faintly of rain and balancing a stack of glass containers, knocking on the door, expecting Jay to open the door, only to find a very cozy looking Sunghoon.
He looked completely different from the guy you’d seen walking around campus. He was wearing a massive gray hoodie and wire-rimmed glasses that were sliding down his nose, and he was holding a piece of peanut butter toast in one hand. He looked soft, sleepy, and very much at home. He blinked at you, clearly surprised, with his cheeks still puffed out from a bite of toast.
“Oh,” he mumbled, swallowing hard, “hi!”
“Hi,” you smiled, adjusting the heavy stack in your arms, “just here to return these, Jay was getting impatient you see. I also made cookies cause it’s not nice to give back empty containers,” you mumbled, eyes on Sunghoon’s moles—they looked pretty.
He stepped forward to help, reaching out with both hands, clearly forgetting the peanut butter toast in his right hand, which slipped and fell on the ground with a wet thwap. Sunghoon stared down at the rug, his shoulders slumping in instant, silent defeat.
“I literally just made that,” he whispered, looking genuinely pained.
“RIP,” you murmured, biting back a laugh at how tragic he looked over a slice of bread, “the five-second rule is a little risky with carpet, though.”
“Yeah,” he sighed, crouching down immediately to peel the sticky mess off the floor, “Jay just vacuumed, too. I’m dead.”
“Here.” You shifted the stack to one hip, crouching down to hand him a tissue from your pocket.
He took the tissue, “thanks,” he mumbled, ears turning red yet again. He stood up, tossing the ruined toast in the bin by the door, then finally turned back to take the heavy stack of containers from you properly. He carefully set the stack on the narrow entryway table. He stared at the top container for a second, seemingly processing the fact that there were actual baked goods inside.
“You really didn’t have to do that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Figured you’d like something other than pasta,” you smiled, cause apparently that’s all what they ate.
“I swear,” Hoon laughed, and it was cute, “it’s usually good but he uses so much basil, and it’s always penne.”
“What’s wrong with penne?”
“I just like fusilli better,” he mumbled, now aware of how he’s making you stand, “wait—do you wanna—like, come in?”
“I would love to, but I have a lecture in—” you checked your phone, “twenty one minutes.”
He frowned for a second before nodding in understanding, “oh yeah, sorry. You should go, we can hang out some other time.” He looked so crestfallen, standing there in his oversized hoodie with his hands tucked into the sleeves, that you couldn’t help yourself. You took a step closer instead of backing away.
“Hey, Sunghoon?”
“Yeah?” He blinked, straightening up, looking at you with those wide, attentive eyes.
“Hold still.”
Before he could ask why, you reached out. His hair was a mess—probably from the hoodie, or maybe he’d been napping before you knocked—and there was a piece sticking straight up in the back like an antenna. Sunghoon froze, he almost stopped breathing as your fingers brushed against his hair, smoothing down the lock. His hair was soft, softer than it looked. You let your hand linger for a split second longer than necessary, your knuckles grazing the shell of his ear.
“Bedhead,” you murmured, pulling your hand back, scrunching your nose with how adorable he looked. Sunghoon didn’t move, simply staring at you as he gulped, his ears turning red (again) that clashed horribly with his gray hoodie.
It was hard for him to keep his mind elsewhere even when you had taken your leave, especially when he tasted those double chocolate chip cookies—moaning with how perfect they were, crispy on the edges and softer in the middle. He was embarrassed, acting like a schoolboy with a crush, but he told himself it wasn’t that, he simply liked you as a person.
So, when he met you again when the group decided to go out for dinner near the campus, he swore he’d be normal around you, maintaining some distance to not embarrass himself any further.
When they arrived at the barbecue spot, the air thick with smoke and chatter, Sunghoon spotted you immediately. You were standing by the entrance with Jungwon and your other friend, laughing at something he said, wearing a simple dress that shouldn’t have looked nearly as good as it did. Don’t stare, he told himself, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. Say hi. Be cool.
“Hey guys,” you beamed as they approached, your eyes landing on him.
“Hey,” Sunghoon managed, keeping his voice painfully neutral. He offered a stiff nod, barely making eye contact before pivoting toward the empty table.
He made a beeline for the corner seat, the one furthest from where he assumed you’d sit. He was halfway there when Jungwon threw his backpack down.
“I’m taking the wall!” Jungwon announced, diving into the booth and dragging Jake with him.
“I need the aisle to grill,” Jay declared, blocking the other side.
Sunghoon froze cause the geometry of the table was rapidly collapsing against him. Karina (your other friend slash roomie) slid in next to Jay. That left one spot—the middle, right next to the aisle. Right next to—
“Can I sit here?” You asked, appearing at his elbow with a grin.
He stiffened, his brain short-circuiting. He hurriedly shimmied into the booth, pressing his thigh against Jake’s so hard that Jake grunted, “dude, personal space.”
“Sorry,” Sunghoon muttered, staring straight ahead at the metal grill.
You slid in beside him, arm brushing against his, the friction sending a jolt straight up his spine. You smelled like vanilla and the rain from earlier, a scent that was quickly becoming his favorite thing to panic over.
“Did you like the cookies?” You asked, eyes shining in hope.
And gosh—he did. He almost forgot about the protein diet he was planning and ate four of your cookies in a go, saving some for later as well. Not to mention how he fought Jake for the last cookie—who was running away teasing Hoon about his newly developed crush, which resulted in Jake being in his chokehold.
“They were really good,” he managed to say sincerely.
“He snatched the cookies from me,” Jake added helpfully, which surprised you pleasantly, much to Hoon’s dismay who didn’t want Jake to open his damn mouth.
You liked it, liked seeing him panic, it made him look like a lost puppy. It was clear how he was trying to avoid more conversations about you, especially since he shoved a piece of meat in Jake’s mouth each time he tried to talk to you, so you focused back on Heeseung and Karina, who were debating about the new albums and rating them.
Even while doing so, your attention kept diverting to Sunghoon and Jay discussing Maillard’s reaction for the perfect cooking of meat. He was so comfortable talking to others, not stuttering once, and he had nice hands, such nice and big and veiny hands—a kick from under the table made you wince, and you looked up to see Karina winking at you, eyes drifting to Sunghoon, which made you roll your eyes, cause sure—he was cute, but he didn’t even wish to talk to you (he just wanted to survive dinner). And somehow, that distracted you more than you’d like to admit. By the time the bill was paid, the night air had cooled down, and Jay insisted on driving you back home, granted you all lived in the dorms.
Sunghoon could see where this was going, especially the way Karina and Jungwon headed to the backseat, Jay took the driver’s seat, Jake naturally opting for the shotgun, which left you, Heeseung, and Sughoon in the middle seating area. Heeseung didn’t bother waiting, sliding in and putting his headphones on. That left the middle seat and the seat closest to the door.
“After you,” Sunghoon said, his voice a little tight. He held the door open, gesturing for you to climb in.
You slid into the middle seat, settling against the upholstery. Sunghoon hesitated for a fraction of a second, staring at the empty space beside you before he finally climbed in and pulled the door shut. With Heeseung passed out against the far window and Jake shouting at the radio in the front, the back seat felt like a private, terrifyingly intimate bubble, more so when Jake decided they should take a detour and take a longer ride.
Jay pulled out of the parking lot, and the car merged into the evening traffic, and by traffic, it was practically a congestion, which made you groan considering how sleepy you felt, “I hate this intersection, it’s always a mess I swear.”
Sunghoon cleared his throat, “the civil engineers set the green light duration for the turn lane too short relative to the main avenue’s volume honestly. It creates a bottleneck every time the cycle resets. If they just added four seconds to the north-bound signal, this entire congestion would clear in no time.”
You looked at him, his skin shining under the dim lights, “you figured that out by just looking at it?”
He just shrugged, wondering if he should have let his mouth shut, cause you probably think he’s even more of a nerd now.
“You know,” you said, a soft smile tugging at your lips, “you’re actually really smart, Sunghoon.”
That actually hit him hard, he expected you to call him a nerd, instead, you were looking at him with genuine admiration, your eyes reflecting the passing city lights. He opened his mouth to respond, but his brain stalled. He settled for a strangled nod, quickly turning his face toward the window to hide the fact that his neck was rapidly heating up. The rest of the ride was a blur of brake lights and the rhythmic thump-thump of the windshield wipers. The warmth of the car, combined with the heavy meal, eventually pulled you under. As Jay navigated the final turn toward the dorms, your head lulled to the side, landing softly on Sunghoon’s shoulder.
He went rigid instantly, he stopped breathing actually. He didn’t move a single muscle, not even to adjust his arm which was starting to go numb from the angle. If he didn't like you, he would have politely nudged you awake or shifted away. Instead, he sat there, a statue in a damp hoodie, terrified that even a single exhale would disturb you, staring at how pretty you looked even as you slept, so comfortable around him.
He wanted to kiss you, he wished to kiss your forehead, and that should have been the sign, but he didn’t, opting to stare like a lovesick puppy who couldn’t admit he was catching feelings. It wasn’t really convenient how he wondered if you’d be just as perfect under him, would you curl up? Pull him closer? Would you want him to touch you?
And he kept on acting like an invisible man after, simply because you woke up and thanked him with that pretty smile of yours, and if it were to get any further Sunghoon swore he would not be able to survive it, not when all his friends were whistling at the fact that Sunghoon could pull someone even with his endearing loser ways.
The invisible act stayed for long, leading to the mid semester exams, which meant that Sunghoon had successfully managed to keep it together for nearly two months since that night, which made him feel proud for handling it so well, or so he thought, until the night before the final major midterm.
The library doors swung open, revealing a torrential downpour, making the group groan in unison—except for Sunghoon, who had checked three different weather apps and was clutching a sturdy black umbrella.
Logic dictated he open it. Logic dictated he offer to walk you to your dorm, sharing the small space under the canopy. But Sunghoon looked at you, shivering in your oversized sweater, and his brain supplied a vivid image of your shoulders brushing for ten whole minutes, so well, panic overrode survival instincts.
“Here,” he blurted out, shoving the umbrella handle into your chest, “cover Jungwon and Karina, It’s big enough for the group.”
“What? Sunghoon, wait—”
“I have to run!” He announced, his voice cracking.
Before you could argue, he turned and sprinted into the deluge, instantly soaking his hoodie as he splashed through the puddles while Jay and Jake watched with absolute disbelief on their faces, staring at each other and sighing, agreeing that Hoon was indeed down bad, and even worse at pretending to be normal about it.
Behind you, Jungwon watched Sunghoon’s retreating figure, then looked at you as you immediately popped the umbrella open and bolted after him, leaving the rest of the group dry but abandoned.
“Idiots in denial,” Jungwon muttered, shaking his head as he pulled his jacket over his head, “I hate it here.”
Sunghoon made it halfway across the quad before the rain stopped hitting him. He skid to a halt, chest heaving, and looked up to see the black umbrella hovering over his head. He turned slowly to find you standing there, slightly out of breath and holding the umbrella over him, your own shoulder getting wet in the process.
“You are ridiculous, Park Sunghoon,” you laughed, though your eyes were soft, “who runs in the rain to avoid sharing an umbrella?”
Sunghoon stared at you, and god you were close, you were wet. You were smiling at him like he was the only person in the world. He was absolutely, irrevocably doomed as you walked him to the dorms, when he insisted on dropping you first, which he did.
What he didn’t expect was the hug you gave him, “thanks Hoon,” you’d mumbled into his ear, god you smelled so good, you were so warm, and fit perfectly into his hug, smiling brightly before heading inside without any care of Jungwon and Karina.
The hug, the smile, the way you used his nickname—yeah, Sunghoon wasn’t sure how he was still breathing, and it was comical how he stood there for five minutes even after you’d gone inside, poor man was broken, and now there wasn’t any room for denial.
Later that night, shivering in his dorm room and wrapped in three blankets, Sunghoon stared at his ceiling with wide, terrified eyes. He fished his laptop out of his bag and typed with trembling fingers:
WikiHow: How to flirt with a pretty girl (with pictures).
STEP THREE: Establish eye contact (like a normal person)
Sunghoon thought he was safe, that closing his laptop’s lid was enough when he went out to get some water before taking a shower, but boy he couldn’t have been more wrong. He walked into the living room with a towel still around his waist after the shower, only to find Heeseung staring at a MacBook with intense focus, but wait—was that his MacBook? Of fucking course, Jay and Jake were there as well, shoulders shaking with silent, violent laughter. Sunghoon froze in the doorway, water dripping from his hair onto the carpet, witnessing the exact moment his social life turned into a tragedy.
“Is that—is that a step-by-step guide?” Jake wheezed, tears streaming down his face as he pointed a trembling finger at the screen.
Heeseung cleared his throat, reading from the screen like a news anchor, “WikiHow: How to flirt with a pretty girl. With pictures. It says here: Smile to show you are approachable.”
“It’s not what it looks like,” Sunghoon yelled, his voice cracking two octaves. He lunged across the room, nearly losing his towel, but Jay blocked his path with a shit-eating grin.
“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Jay sighed, shaking his head with mock sympathy, “Jungwon will kill you.”
Sunghoon froze, the color draining from his face, “wait, why?”
“Cause he likes Y/N,” Heeseung said, keeping his face perfectly straight.
“He what now?” Sunghoon whispered, his voice barely audible.
“Yeah,” Jake added, nodding solemnly, “they’re in love. Haven’t you noticed? The bickering? It’s their thing.”
Sunghoon looked like he had just been shot in the chest. His shoulders slumped, his lips parted in shock, and he stared at the floor with such profound, soul-shattering devastation that the room went silent for a full second. He looked small, wet, and utterly defeated, all while being in his towel, abs out and everything.
“Oh my god,” Jay burst out laughing, hitting Heeseung’s arm, “we’re kidding! You can’t even be jealous without looking like a kicked puppy.”
Sunghoon scoffed, eyes teary, his soul slowly returning to his body as the realization hit, “I hate you, all of you,” he hissed, snatching his laptop and fleeing to the safety of his locked room.
He didn’t know if it would work, but he wished to try anyway, no more running away, which is why he opened the MacBook yet again to go over the steps, preparing himself for the first one, sighing and smiling over the fact that you and Jungwon weren’t actually dating, but that didn’t mean you’d be single for too long, hence, he needs to start step one right after the exams are done. Just like that, Hoon was more focused on the plan rather than the exam, but he was pretty sure he aced it anyway, what he lacked was practical skills, not theory.
The exams came and went, leaving everyone with varying degrees of sleep deprivation, and a desperate need for greasy food. Which is how, mere hours after the final paper was submitted, you all found yourselves crammed into a sticky booth at the campus pub for the weekly Tuesday Trivia Night. You were sitting directly across from Sunghoon, stealing fries from Jungwon’s plate while arguing about the best Mario Kart track (toad harbour). Sunghoon, however, wasn’t listening. He was mentally rehearsing. He had spent the last three days memorizing Step 1: Make Eye Contact.
The article said: Lock eyes with her for a few seconds to show you’re interested. Don’t look away first. Be bold.
He took a deep breath, gripped his pint glass until his knuckles turned white, and initiated the sequence. He looked at you while you were laughing at something Jake said, your head thrown back, looking effortless and bright against the dim pub lighting. Sunghoon locked on, staring with intense focus. You paused, a fry hovering halfway to your mouth, sensing the weight of his gaze. You blinked, confused, but Sunghoon didn’t look away. Hold the gaze, his brain screamed, assert dominance.
“Hoon?” You asked, using the nickname again.
Sunghoon didn’t answer, he couldn’t, he was too busy counting the seconds. Then, you did the one thing WikiHow hadn’t really prepared him for, you didn’t look away shyly, rather, you leaned in.
You placed your elbows on the sticky table and leaned forward, bringing your face alarmingly close to his, a playful smirk dancing on your lips.
“You’re staring, Park,” you lowered your voice, teasing him, “and here I thought you were ignoring me.”
“I wasn’t ignoring you,” he blurted, maintaining that eye contact, “it’s kind of hard—to ignore you.”
The playful smirk dropped from your face as you blinked, caught off guard by the sudden honesty in his tone, which was needed especially when you did spend a gracious amount of time complaining to Karina about how you shouldn’t have hugged Sunghoon cause he had started ignoring you. He wasn’t stuttering now, wasn’t looking elsewhere, just into your eyes—which he finds really pretty.
“Oh,” you breathed, the teasing edge now vanished, leaning back as you felt the faint heat creeping up your neck, matching his own.
“Okay, question one!” The host bellowed, successfully helping Sunghoon escape the situation.
Sunghoon exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He had survived Step 1, but he was pretty sure he’d lost a few years of his life in the process. Then the game started, and Sunghoon forgot about the steps entirely, he just watched you. You were a force of nature, especially when the category switched to 2000s Pop Culture, you were unstoppable.
“Shrek 2!” You yelled before the host finished the quote.
“Correct!”
You high-fived Jake so hard the table shook, and Sunghoon wished he was there instead of Jake. You were competitive, loud, and brilliant. Sunghoon didn’t answer a single question, he just sat there, nursing his drink, tracking your every movement. He watched the way you bit your lip when you were thinking, and the way your eyes crinkled shut when you laughed at Jake’s wrong answers, who was way too competitive for his own good.
“Ouagadougou!” You shouted for the geography round, slamming your hand on the table.
“How do you know everything?” Jungwon asked, looking at you with mild horror.
“I have a brain, Won,” you winked, shooting a glance across the table at Sunghoon, “see? We won.”
Sunghoon felt his heart do a traitorous little flip. He didn’t look away this time. He just smiled, a small, unguarded thing.
Sunghoon processed this as you all started hugging each other, victory being too sweet not to, and he waited patiently, not sure if you would even hug him, but he did stand up with flushed cheeks when you appeared in front of him, the height difference painfully apparent now, he had to look down, his dark hair falling over his eyes, while you had to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. Without overthinking it, you reached out and pulled him into a hug.
He turned into a literal pillar for a microsecond before the realization hit. Then, slowly, his arms wound around you, hesitant at first, then firm, pulling you into the warmth of his chest, and you could hear how fast his heart was beating as you leaned in, your chin resting on his shoulder. The noise of the pub—the clinking glasses, Jake’s loud laughter, the trivia host’s drone—all felt miles away.
You let your hand slide up from his shoulder, your fingers grazing the soft hair at the nape of his neck. His breath hitched, a sharp, audible sound that told you exactly how much effect you were having, and you didn’t mind, simply saying, “don’t be a stranger anymore, Hoonie.”
The nickname did it for him, and he practically shuddered under your touch, his knees actually buckling for a split second. He buried his face in the crook of your neck to hide the fact that his entire face was burning, inhaling sharply. He smelled like mango for some reason, and expensive cologne, but he was more focused on your scent.
“I won’t,” he rasped against your skin, “I promise.”
He held on for a second longer than intended, his fingers digging into the fabric of your sweater as if he were afraid you’d disappear if he let go. When you finally pulled back, stepping out of his personal space with a lingering smile, the loss of warmth hit him as he frowned. You waved at the group and walked out the door with Karina, who was more than ready to gossip about what had just happened, leaving the bell chiming in your wake.
Sunghoon stood frozen in the middle of the pub, his hand instinctively coming up to touch the back of his neck exactly where your fingers had been. He stared at the closed door for a full minute, unable to move, unable to think, his brain reduced to white noise and the echo of Hoonie.
“He’s broken,” Jake announced, waving a hand in front of Sunghoon’s unblinking eyes, “which is fair though, he got called Hoonie.”
“Did you hear that voice crack?” Jay snickered.
Sunghoon didn’t even hear them, just letting out a long, shaky exhale, his legs finally giving out as he collapsed back into the booth, burying his face in his hands.
“You really are like Nobita, just smarter when it comes to studies,” Jake let out as Sunghoon glared at him.
“And Jungwon can be Doremon,” Heeseung laughed, “round head and all, y’know?”
“Shouldn’t WikiHow be his Doremon though?” Jay asked looking at Jungwon who found the comment highly offensive.
“WikiHow?” He asked, and Jay told him the backstory, which had this man laughing like crazy, “Oh, I’m so telling this to Y/N.”
Now, that grabbed Hoon’s attention, who simply grabbed Jungwon and picked him up effortlessly despite him thrashing around—it was a funny sight, Hoon holding him up like a cat, “you wont tell her anything,” he warned, and for the first time he realised the strength of this man.
“Yeah, forgot to tell you he’s strong behind his loser persona,” Heeseung added.
Either way, Sunghoon was in trouble, because he couldn’t sleep that night, and neither could Jungwon, who was contemplating joining gym now.
Hoon spent all night trying to plan his next step, and now he was prepared, he just had to find you.
STEP FOUR: Love is an open door—open it wider.
You were sitting with Karina at the campus coffee shop, finally resting after the exams were over, and right then your brows furrowed as you overheard two girls talking. Now, you weren’t one to eavesdrop, however, they were talking about Sunghoon—granting someone the best pleasure of their life? But he was with the whole group last night, so what’s that even about? Karina was listening as well, genuinely concerned at the very obvious made up story.
“What is going on?” You asked Karina, and she shrugged.
“He has this reputation of being this mysterious fuckboy, and people believe it cause no one really is close to him, she’s faking it all,” she replied, sipping her iced coffee.
“Woah, what the fuck?” You scoffed, “have they even seen how he looks like a puppy who’s always confused?”
“Yeah, they obviously don’t know that—but hey, he could be wild in the sheets, we don’t know that.”
You thought for a second, wondering if it could be true, because to you, Sunghoon seemed so sweet, almost like he’d be the softest, most loving man ever. But—you do wish to know what he was behind those oversized hoodies and shy smiles.
One of the girls smirked, going on about it, “no literally, he was wild last night, he’s got a big cock, and boy he knows exactly how to use it.”
You choked on your doughnut, Karina was amused seeing you like this, even more when the shop bell chimed, “damn, speak of the devil—and is he wearing Prada?”
You turned around, wiping sugar off your lip, and sure enough, there he was. Sunghoon stood in the doorway, clad in a long, structured trench coat over a sleek turtleneck, looking like he’d stepped straight off a runway (yeah, you wanted him in your bed now). The entire coffee shop seemed to dim in his presence. The two girls behind you gasped, clutching each other’s arms.
“He’s looking,” one whispered frantically, “act natural.”
Sunghoon, however, wasn’t looking at them, scanning the room to find you, and he paused when he did. If Jake was there, he would practically see the WikiHow page loading in his brain—Step 2: Smile and be approachable. He tried to soften his face, but the nerves got the better of him. Instead of a gentle, welcoming smile, he pulled his lips back in a stiff, terrifyingly symmetrical grimace that made him look like he was bracing for an impact. He held the expression as he walked toward the counter to order his coffee as you sat there, confused.
“Is he okay?” You asked.
“Don’t know, he’s always like that around you,” she said, and that made you smile—getting a weird glance from Karina.
Sunghoon grabbed his iced Americano, took a deep breath to reset his expression, and walked over. He stopped in front of you, looking slightly thrown off by Karina’s presence, but he played it cool.
“Oh,” he said, his voice dropping to a smooth, feigned nonchalance, “fancy seeing you here.”
He absolutely did not mention that he had asked Jungwon for your location, and Jungwon absolutely didn’t mention that you weren’t alone.
He looked like he was about to retreat to a corner to brood over his failed smile, but you weren’t about to let that happen. Not with the rumor mill churning behind you.
“Hoon, wait,” you said, reaching out to snag the belt of his coat, tugging him closer.
Sunghoon froze, stumbling a step forward, looking down at you with wide, confused eyes, “y—yeah?”
“You look absolutely exhausted,” you said, pitching your voice just loud enough for the table behind you to hear. You reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair off his forehead, letting your fingers linger against his skin, and he wasn’t functioning anymore, that touch sending a shiver down his body and stopping right on his cock.
He fucking loved it when you touched him, your fingers were so gentle, so soft on his skin, and maybe you did like him—that’s why you pulled him closer, right? He looked at you with wide eyes, dropping down to your lipgloss painted lips, which looked too inviting.
“Tired from last night?” You asked, granting him a smile.
He almost fainted, cause it sounded as if you knew he was up all night staring at your photos from instagram, rolling around on his bed with a genuine smile. But how could you know that? So he simply nodded, thinking (hoping) you were referring to Trivia night.
“Yeah, I mean—it did go on for a while, and you were amazing,” he nodded, leaning into your touch instinctively, praying his best to sound normal.
Behind him, the girls inhaled sharply, their imaginations clearly running wild. You smirked, knowing they were picturing a scandalous night while you were actually thinking about him being zoned out for most of the night, paying attention to the winning part only.
“You kept up yknow? That’s impressive too,” you added helpfully even though he had not said a word during the trivia, patting his chest, not knowing how the poor man was suffering—in a good way, “you should rest, we were up really late.”
“I—yeah, it was worth it,” he said, looking down on the floor.
Karina was shaking her head with the biggest smile on her face, turning back to see the girls talking in hushed voices.
You chuckled, “okay, you should go rest now, bye Hoonie!”
He nodded, trying to give you another smile that looked very—uh, scary? But he left, not having it in him to actually stay and talk when there was an audience (Karina), he kicked the random stones on the path as he walked and sat in the Uni park, unsure what had even happened.
“You are a menace,” Karina whispered when he was gone.
“I’m just clarifying things,” you winked, taking a bite of your doughnut as the girls behind you sat in stunned, jealous silence as you both gathered your things and started walking towards the dorms.
It was then when you spotted Sunghoon sitting alone, and you stopped, “I’ll catch you later,” you told her, and she followed your gaze, smirking at how obviously dumb the both of you were.
“Try not to break him this time, hm? Go get him, tiger,” she patted your back and you rolled your eyes, heading towards him, watching him tap his foot to some rhythm, staring ahead blankly.
You slid onto the bench next to him, nudging his knee with yours. Sunghoon jumped, his head snapping toward you. When he registered it was you, he immediately smiled, he had dressed up as well, granted WikiHow did say to dress up nicely and smell good, for which he ended up going to Jay for his perfume collection. He tried to smile, he really did, but he looked so endearingly awkward, you couldn’t help but laugh at him.
“Hoon, please,” you wheezed, reaching up to pull one side of his earpods away from his ear, “what are you doing?”
Sunghoon’s face crumbled instantly, the smile dropping into a pout of genuine despair. He slumped back against the bench, looking miserable.
“I’m trying to be approachable,” he groaned, his voice low and defeated. “I heard that I look mean when I’m thinking. I didn’t want you to think I was—I don’t know, unapproachable.”
“You are unapproachable,” you pointed out, stealing the headphone cup you’d pulled off his ear and holding it to your own, “but that’s because you are handsome.”
“Huh—what—”
You didn’t let him think much as you paused, grinning slightly, “wait. Are you listening to—is this Disney?"
Sunghoon froze. He snatched the EarPod back, his cheeks flushing, “no,” he lied immediately, “It’s—hard rock. Heavy metal, yeah.”
“Sunghoon,” you grinned, leaning into his space, “that was definitely love is an open door from Frozen.”
You didn’t give him a chance to come up with another lie. You just smiled, leaned back against the bench as you grabbed the airpod yet again, wearing it, and you started singing early knowing he’d malfunction.
“I mean it’s crazy—”
Sunghoon froze, he stared at you, his mouth slightly agape. He looked around the park to see if anyone was watching, then looked back at you. You raised an eyebrow, challenging him. You knew he couldn’t leave a verse unfinished. It was against his nature, even if he had to sing the female verse of it.
“What?” he whispered, the word slipping out involuntarily.
You grinned, leaning closer, your shoulder pressing against his, “we finish each other’s—”
Sunghoon’s eyes darted between your lips and your eyes, he fought it. You could see the physical struggle on his face as he tried to maintain his cool, but the music was swelling, and you were looking at him with that expectant, teasing light in your eyes.
“Sandwiches!” He blurted out, perfectly on beat.
You gasped, delighted, placing a hand over your heart. “That’s what I was gonna say!”
Sunghoon let out a defeated, incredulous laugh, but he didn’t stop—he couldn’t. The two of you sat on the park bench, huddled together over a pair of earpods, quietly harmonizing the chorus while a squirrel watched judgmentally from a nearby tree.
“Our mental synchronization,” he sang, looking at you with a gaze that was too obvious, but you didn’t catch it, “can have but one explanation.”
“You,” you sang, pointing a finger at him.
“And I,” he sang, pointing back, a small, genuine smile breaking through his embarrassment.
“Were just meant to be,” you both finished in unison.
Sunghoon let the final note hang in the air before he slumped forward, burying his face in his hands again. His ears were burning a bright crimson, “I can’t believe I just did that,” he groaned into his palms, “I’m wearing a trench coat. I’m supposed to be cool.”
“You’re cool,” you said as he smiled, which made you stop, “hey, you have fangs,” you pointed it out and he got conscious, “don’t hide, your smile is pretty,” you mumbled, and he breathed out, smiling just for you, not thinking this time, as you leaned against his arm.
If Hoon thought yesterday was the best day of his life, he was wrong, cause with how carefree he felt with you in the moment, he swears this is the best day of his life.
Step: Smile at her—successful.
STEP FIVE: Be a hero (by using your crush as a human shield).
You had been smiling way too much lately, and it irritated Jungwon, who was having a shitty day with how his favourite hoodie went missing, how his headphones stopped working, and how he dropped his cupcake on the floor. He glared at you through it all, “stop smiling for fucks sake,” he mumbled.
“Oh shut up, Doremon,” you teased, as Jake had told you about the whole Nobita-Doremon conversation, minus the WikiHow part, while gaming with you. You were disappointed to see the absence of Hoon that day as he had lectures, but that didn’t compare to his disappointment.
He fell down on the floor (it really happened, no exaggeration) when he learned that you had left just ten minutes before he arrived back at the dorm, it was as if he was facing withdrawals of your absence, not having seen you since that day in the park. And of course, he was not confident enough to actually text you. Yes, he had your number from the groupchat, but that was about it. Now, he couldn’t wait much longer as he sat down to actually plan the next step, which was breaking the touch barrier. He actively ignored Jake teasing him about how you were wearing a skirt (which you definitely wore in hopes of seeing him, but oh well), and how you looked so pretty.
Sunghoon rolled into his stomach, pulling his phone out to garner more ideas, and he settled on one which seemed to be the most natural—use a scary movie night as an excuse, hold her when she gets scared, be her protector. He wasn’t fond of it (horror movies), but he believed it was the only way to go on about it, which is why he opened the group chat and started typing, swallowing hard.
He hated horror movies, the last time he watched The Conjuring, he slept with Jay and Jake, who couldn’t really complain, being equally scared, but then, he imagined you—scared and pretty, leaning into him for protection, and he was sold.
Sunghoon: movie night, ill buy pizzas
Jay: ?
Jake: you hate paying bro??
Hee: free pizza i’m in
Jungwon: oh you’re down to this now
Karina: dw ill bring Y/N along
You: sounds like fun, can’t wait :3
Sunghoon threw his phone across the bed, giggling into the pillow, and Jay stared at him from the half opened door, unimpressed at the view of his friend giggling like a schoolgirl, “please control yourself,” he mumbled.
Sunghoon screamed, throwing the pillow his way, “personal space i swear, knock before you come in!”
“You’re cleaning that up,” Jay deadpanned, watching the pillow slide sadly down the wall, “and fix your face. You look insane.”
Three hours later, the dorm living room had been curated better as Sunghoon had dimmed the lights and gathered the pizza boxes.
He was wearing a grey fitted tshirt because WikiHow said grey was a soft, inviting color. He was ready. When the door opened, it was chaos. Jake and Heeseung were already on the sofa, arguing about pineapple on pizza, Jungwon was complaining about the stairs, and Karina was dragging you inside.
“Hi, Hoon!” You beamed, spotting him instantly, you were wearing an oversized graphic tee and the skirt, oh that skirt, looking comfortable and devastatingly pretty.
Sunghoon’s brain short-circuited, “pizza,” he blurted out, pointing at the table, “I mean, hi. There’s pizza.”
“Smooth,” Heeseung whispered as he walked past, patting Sunghoon’s shoulder.
The seating arrangement was a battlefield, but Sunghoon had strategized. He maneuvered Heeseung to the armchair, shoved Jungwon and Karina to the beanbags, and left the sofa for the core trio: Jake on the far end, you in the middle, and himself rightfully claiming the spot on your right.
“So,” Jake asked, grabbing a slice of pepperoni. unimpressed at how Hoon was behaving, “what are we watching?”
Sunghoon took a deep breath. This was it—the ultimate sacrifice.
“The Grudge,” he announced, trying to keep his voice an octave lower than usual.
Jake froze mid-chew, looking at Sunghoon, then at the TV, then back at Sunghoon with wide, betrayed eyes, “bro, are you serious? You slept with the hallway light on for a week after we watched the trailer.”
“I did not! That was you,” Sunghoon lied through his teeth, grabbing the remote to stop Jake from exposing him further, “I crave the thrill now.”
You looked at him, impressed, leaning back into the cushions so your shoulder brushed against his, “woah, really? I love horror movies. I didn’t know you were brave like that, Hoon.”
Sunghoon preened under your praise, ignoring the way his heart was doing gymnastics, “I’m full of surprises.”
He pressed play, and the room plunged into heavy silence that only horror movies can manufacture, Sunghoon sat rigid, his spine glued to the cushions, his eyes locked on the screen, but his entire awareness was tunneled on you—tracking the way you absentmindedly chewed on the crust of your pizza, the way you leaned back, looking frustratingly calm, while his own heart was doing gymnastics against his ribs. Ten minutes in, the tension was unbearable, the protagonist walking down a dark, rotting hallway while the violins shrieked in that nausea-inducing crescendo, and Sunghoon’s palms were slick with sweat, his brain screaming at him to look away, but he couldn't, not when he had a mission.
Wait for the scare, wait for the flinch, be the fucking rock. Suddenly, the ghost appeared, a pale, contorted face filling the screen with a deafening, wet shriek.
“Ahhhhhh!”
A scream tore through the room, high and terrified—but it wasn’t you? It was Jake, who launched himself sideways, burying his face directly into your shoulder and clutching your arm like it was the last life raft on the Titanic.
“Turn it off! Turn it the fuck off! She’s gonna get me!” Jake wailed, vibrating with fear, effectively using you as a human shield against the fictional spirit.
You laughed, startled but amused, patting Jake’s head with fondness, “It’s just a jump scare, Jakey, breathe.”
Sunghoon sat frozen, his arm halfway raised in a pathetic imitation of a yawn, staring at the scene in absolute horror, because that was his shoulder, that was his moment, that was his Step 3 crumbling to dust before his eyes because his best friend had zero dignity. He glared at the top of Jake’s head, jealousy flaring hot and bright in his chest, a burning indignation that momentarily eclipsed his fear of the vengeful ghost.
“Get off her,” Sunghoon gritted out, voice laced with venom.
Jake lifted his head, eyes wide and teary, looking like a puppy, “shut up.”
“You’re crushing her,” Sunghoon lied through his teeth, reaching over to peel Jake’s fingers off your arm with surprising strength, his jaw tight, “sit up, Jake, have some self-respect, be a man.”
“You’re just jealous I got the safe spot,” Jake sniffled, retreating to the corner of the couch but keeping a hand on your sleeve just in case, pouting, and you chuckled, hiding your smile from Sunghoon.
Sunghoon bristled, turning back to the screen, determined to reclaim the moment, because the movie was building up to the next scare, the ghost crawling down the stairs with wet, cracking sounds that made his skin crawl. He lifted his arm yet again, fingers trembling slightly because he needed to be smooth, but he was scared.
And on the screen, the ghost lunched right at the camera, and well, Sunghoon didn’t just scream, he fucking broke. Instead of casually putting an arm around you, he let out a strangled yelp and instinctively yanked you toward him, burying his face into the crook of your neck and wrapping both arms around you in a crushing embrace.
Silence filled the room, heavy and awkward, broken only by the screaming on the TV and Sunghoon’s heavy, erratic breathing against your collarbone.
You sat there, stunned, your face pressed against the soft cotton of Sunghoon’s t-shirt. You could smell his detergent—clean linen and something distinctly him—and feel the way his heart was hammering against your chest, the rhythm so fast it made your own pulse skip a beat. Butterflies erupted in your stomach, not from the fear of the movie, but from the sudden, overwhelming warmth of him surrounding you, his arms holding you like he never planned to let go—and of course, he had well defined muscles, you could feel it.
Jake paused his panic to look at Sunghoon, Jungwon stopped eating mid-chew, and Karina raised a judgmental eyebrow from the beanbag.
“Hoonie?” You whispered, your voice muffled against his chest, trying to ignore the heat rising in your cheeks.
Sunghoon froze as the realization crashed down on him—he was hugging you. He was practically hiding in your neck and everyone was watching. He had failed Step 3 in the most spectacular way possible, yet—you felt so warm. You fit so perfectly against him—and it made him want to bite you? Abort, abort, abort. He slowly pulled his face away from your neck, but he didn’t let go of the hug, he looked down at you with wide, panicked eyes, his ears burning (again), searching your face for rejection.
“I—I got you,” he stammered, his voice cracking, trying to look heroic while his hands still trembled on your back, “I thought—I thought you were going to jump, so I—uh held you.”
Everyone was baffled, and wondering how you even entertained Sunghoon through his outbursts, but they found fun in it, watching it unfold like some sitcom.
“Held me?” You repeated, eyebrows shooting up, though the amusement dancing in your eyes was soft, not mocking, “by trying to merge our ribcages?”
“It was a reflex,” he insisted, though the thought seemed wildly nice, before looking around the room, refusing to make eye contact with Jake, who was now grinning wickedly, “don’t overthink it.”
“I think he’s using you as a teddy bear,” Jungwon deadpanned from the floor, throwing a piece of popcorn at Sunghoon’s leg.
“Shut up,” Sunghoon hissed, but he tightened his arms around you just a fraction, pulling you back down so your head rested on his chest, “i’m protecting her. Look away.”
You didn’t pull away. Instead, you shifted closer until you were comfortably tucked against his side, listening to the rapid thumping of his heart slowing down to a steady, comforting rhythm. You wrapped an arm around his waist, grounding him, feeling the tension slowly leave his frame.
“It’s okay, my brave protector,” you whispered, looking up so your breath tickled his chin, “keep me safe.”
Sunghoon swallowed hard, resting his chin on top of your head, his face still burning. He stared straight ahead at the terrifying screen, absolutely petrified of the ghost, but thinking that maybe, just maybe, failing step 3 was better than succeeding.
Because for the rest of the movie, he didn’t let go of you once, and every time you shifted, his hold only grew gentler, more possessive, and infinitely more real.
STEP SIX: Texting builds character
“You know—I don’t get it, it feels like mixed signals,” you sighed and Karina was baffled.
“What mixed signals? You’re as blind as him I swear,” she mumbles, shaking her head, “you both get such good grades but can’t navigate life, even if you’re a bit better at hiding your dumbass thoughts.”
“Aw thanks for the support,” you gasped in fake sweetness before sitting down next to her and sighing, “one second we are hugging and the other—radio silence, what even is going on?”
Karina sighed, finally glancing at you with a pitying look, “he’s just a guy. And guys are stupid. You look like a sad Victorian woman waiting for her husband to return from war.”
“Shut up,” you groaned.
“Make him jealous, maybe he’ll act up again and confess for real,” she shrugged.
“Confess? Girl I don’t think he sees me that way, definitely just a friend.”
Karina couldn’t believe her ears, but she couldn’t be mean when you looked like a puppy now, just like Sunghoon. It was crazy how similar you both were, yet so different, but yes, you shared that same dumbness of not acknowledging the basic emotions you harboured.
So when you got a text from Sunghoon, you were surprised, rushing into your room before Jungwon could comment on the odd look on your face.
Meanwhile, Sunghoon sat in the library with his textbooks wide open, but he hadn’t read a word in twenty minutes. Instead, he was staring at his phone, his thumb hovering over the delete text button. On his laptop, hidden behind a PDF of organic chemistry notes (his elective), was the tab:
WikiHow: How to Flirt Over Text
Step 1: Be playful. Send a meme that relates to a shared interest or a current mood. Humor lowers defenses.
He had agonized over the image for ten minutes. Was it too weird? Too try-hard? He needed something that said I’m thinking about you without actually admitting that he was, indeed, obsessively thinking about you. He swallowed hard, his heart doing a nervous rhythm against his ribs. Just calm down, Park. It’s a meme, not a marriage proposal (might as well have been a marriage proposal for him).
On the other hand, you had thrown yourself onto your bed, buried yourself under the duvet to block out the world (and Jungwon, who was loudly gaming in the next room), and opened the chat to find a blurry, low-res picture of Psyduck clutching its head, eyes wide in some sort of existential horror.
Hoonie: me looking at this chem assignment rn
A laugh bubbled up in your chest. It was so stupid, so random, and so him.
You: pleaseee
You: that is literally you
You: drama queen
Hoonie: wow
Hoonie: im suffering and this is the support i get?
Hoonie: fake friend
It physically pained him to even type the word, however, the guide did say to start off slow, so here he was, biting his lip as he saw you typing, wondering if you’ll play along or be offended.
You: i’m a great friend btw
You: i’m manifesting good grades for u from my bed
Three dots appeared for you, bubbling, then stopping, then bubbling again.
Hoonie: must be nice to be resting
Hoonie: im starving actually
You stared at the screen, wondering if this conversation was going where you thought it was going cause he was starving, and well, you were starving (always).
You: same tbh
You: i would kill for boba rn
The typing bubble appeared for a long time, then it disappeared. A moment later, an audio file appeared.
Hoonie: [Voice Message 0:08]
You fumbled to hit play, holding the phone pressed tight against your ear.
The background noise of the library was faint—the rustle of pages, a distant cough—but his voice was right there, as if he was whispering directly into the mic so the others wouldn’t hear. The intimacy of it sent a shiver down your spine.
“I’m practically dead here. I was gonna sneak out to that boba place near the campus—the one that’s still open? You should come. Save me from this chemistry nightmare.”
There was a pause, a small intake of breath, and then a softer, rather shy admission, “I’ll pay.”
Your heart slammed against your ribcage, because he wasn’t just texting, he was asking you out, at 11 PM, to get bubble tea. This was it, maybe he was trying to signal directly for the first time. You bit your lip to stop the grin spreading across your face and started typing furiously.
You: deal. give me 10 mins i’m com—
Ping.
Another text popped up before you could hit send.
Hoonie: jake and jay are coming too
Hoonie: so yeah group thing, you can invite won and rina
Hoonie: ill be waiting
Your thumbs froze over the keyboard. The cursor blinked at the end of your unfinished sentence, of fucking course, it was a group thing. The excitement drained out of you like water from a cracked cup. It went from a date to a hangout in the span of three seconds.
Sunghoon stared at his phone, horror dawning on his face. He dropped his forehead onto the library table with a dull thud.
“You idiot,” he whispered to the wood grain, talking to himself, “why did you invite Jake? Jake hates tapioca pearls.”
He had panicked. The voice note had felt too intimate, way too real. The WikiHow guide had a warning in bold red text—don’t come on too strong or you’ll scare her off. In a split second of terror that you might say no, he had used Jake and Jay as some human shields. Now, staring at the chat, he realized he had ruined it.
Beside him, Jake looked up from his laptop, looking at the groupchat where Jungwon had confirmed that he’ll be joining (you had asked him and Rina in a grumpy tone), your supposed date now turning into the usual hangout.
“Bro, did you just invite us to get boba? I thought we were grinding until midnight?”
Sunghoon didn’t reply, simply standing up and grabbing Jake by the hoodie, as he dragged him into a—headlock.
“Ow! What the hell?” Jake yelped.
Meanwhile, you were staring at the text, contemplating throwing your phone across the room, when another notification popped up.
Jay 🦅 sent an image.
You frowned and opened it. It was a blurry, candid photo taken in the library. In the foreground, Sunghoon had Jake in a chokehold. Sunghoon’s face was buried in his arm, his ears bright red, looking equal parts frustrated and miserable. Jake looked like a flailing hostage.
Jay 🦅: hoon is having a breakdown idk
Rina: do i even ask if he’s okay anymore
Hee: click more pics, ill need those
Jun-gone: ,, why?
Hee: science
You stared at the photo, at Sunghoon’s red ears and frustrated posture. The disappointment in your chest loosened, replaced by a sudden, warm laugh. So he had panicked. You grabbed your hoodie, the smile back on your face.
Sunghoon groaned, because this step had failed, miserably so.
STEP SEVEN: Turn your failures into wins.
The universe probably hated you, or maybe you were just dumb enough not to check in with Jake about Sunghoon’s availability in their dorms, cause somehow you found yourself there with a plan to game with the boys, Karina and Jungwon had joined in as well, which means everyone was there—everyone but Sunghoon.
“He’s at the library,” Jake had said, waving a controller dismissively as he selected a track on Mario Kart, “something about his thermodynamics assignment or whatever. I think he just forgot we were hanging out.”
So, you gamed. You played round after round, fueling yourself with soda and the competitive rage of losing to Jungwon three times in a row. But as the hours ticked by and the adrenaline crashed, the exhaustion of the week finally caught up to you. The shouting and the flashing lights of the TV became a blur as your eyes felt heavy, which is how you managed to fall asleep on the couch in this awkward position. No one bothered to wake you up.
“Leaving this to Sunghoon now,,” Jungwon muttered and Karina agreed once the session was over.
When Sunghoon finally unlocked the dorm door, the silence was jarring. He had spent the last five hours battling Carnot’s theorem, and his brain felt like mush. He expected to find a room full of pizza boxes and screaming friends. Instead, he found a dim room lit only by the standby light of the TV and Jake, who was scrolling on his phone in the armchair.
And then, he saw the couch. Sunghoon froze in the entryway, his keys still clutched in his hand. You were curled up in the corner of the beat-up sofa, cheek smushed against a throw pillow, looking comfortably disheveled, hair spilling over your face, and your soft, rhythmic breathing was the only sound in the room.
Sunghoon felt his chest tighten, a warm feeling spreading through his ribcage. He stood there, staring, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to be cool and composed. He just looked like a guy whose heart had decided to do gymnastics because a girl was sleeping on his furniture.
“You’re late,” Jake whispered, not looking up from his phone, “we finished like an hour ago.”
Sunghoon blinked, the spell breaking slightly. He toed off his shoes, trying to be quiet, “I was studying.”
“Sure,” Jake snorted. He gestured with his chin toward the couch, “your turn to be the hero. Everyone else bailed.”
Sunghoon took a few steps closer, looking down at you—you looked so small, so peaceful. He wanted to reach out and fix the hair falling into your eyes, but his hands felt too big, too clumsy.
“She’s asleep,” Sunghoon stated the obvious, his voice hushed.
“Comatose, actually,” Jake corrected, finally standing up and stretching his back, “Jungwon destroyed her in Smash Bros, seemed like she was distracted,” Jake looked at Sunghoon, then at you, and rolled his eyes, “don’t just stare at her, dude, you look like a creep.”
“I’m not staring,” Sunghoon whispered defensively, though his ears were already turning red.
“Take her to your room,” Jake said, stifling a yawn.
Sunghoon choked on air, “my—what?”
“Your room,” Jake repeated slowly, as if talking to a toddler, “the couch is lumpy, and my room is not clean right now. Unless you want her waking up with me by her side.”
“That’s not happening,” Sunghoon muttered, a sudden wave of possessiveness washing over him at the thought of you waking up next to Jake, and truly, Sunghoon was a jealous man, something he did, “fine. I’ve got her.”
“Don’t drop her,” Jake yawned, disappearing into his room without another glance.
Sunghoon stood alone in the dim living room, staring at you. Okay, he just had to carry you, just hold you in his arms, simple—right? He crouched down, sliding one arm under your knees and the other behind your back. He expected it to be awkward, expected to trip over the rug, but as he lifted you, he realized you fit surprisingly well in his arms, mentally patting himself on the back for acting normal.
You shifted instinctively, your head lulling to rest against his chest, nose burying into the fabric of his shirt. Sunghoon’s breath hitched, cause god, he was doing it again, trying to get a whiff of your scent, and he was terrified you’d wake up and hear his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He walked carefully down the hall, navigating the darkness and kicked his bedroom door open with his foot. The room was cool, smelling of his detergent and books. He lowered you onto his bed and you sank into the mattress immediately. Sunghoon pulled away, his arms suddenly feeling empty and cold. He stood by the bed, watching you, his hand hovering uncertainly, caressing your cheek gently before he shook his head.
He retreated to the corner, sitting down on the desk chair as he tried to distract himself with physics yet again, but he stared at you for most of the time. Now, it was a big thing for Sunghoon who was pondering deeply—would things be like this if you were to date him? Would you sleep on his bed? Would you let him stay? He was preparing himself without even knowing much. He knew your favourites by heart now—coffee order, the type of pasta you preferred, the bands you’d been listening to. He had found your Spotify account, and he blushed when he saw you actually listening to EsDeeKid when he’d mentioned he liked it.
It was the next step—be caring and attentive, but as much as he was following it, you were doing it too, without a guide, but yeah. There was no doubt he was down bad, he wanted you—needed you. But he was willing to wait, as for now, he was more than content watching you sleep on his bed (he’s not being creepy he swears—although he has done some questionable stuff before). He didn’t register much, especially the time, or the way you were shifting in your sleep.
“Hoon?” You whispered, your voice a small, happy to see him before you gathered your surroundings—it was Hoon’s room, he carried you inside.
Sunghoon jumped so violently his chair creaked, spinning around with wide eyes behind his lenses. He immediately tried to fix his posture, reaching for that composed shield, but he looked too drained to maintain it.
“Hey,” he breathed, his voice deep and rough from disuse.
He stood up and walked over to the bed, his strides careful as if he were afraid to startle you. He reached out, his hand hovering near your shoulder for a heartbeat before he gently grasped the corner of the duvet that had slipped. He tucked it back into place, his fingers lingering agonizingly close to your skin. You saw his knuckles twitch, the silent battle to touch your cheek written in the tension of his jaw, but he clenched his hand into a fist and pulled back.
“You okay? Wanna go back to sleep? It’s late,” he said softly, his eyes reflecting the dim lamp light, “It’s late.”
“You should sleep too,” you murmured mindlessly, reaching out from under the covers to catch his wrist.
Sunghoon froze, his breath hitching as he stared down at your hand against his skin. The heat of the touch was instant, and he stood rooted to the spot, trapped by the gentle pressure of your fingers.
“I will,” he lied, his voice barely a whisper, not moving an inch until you finally let go, his pulse still hammering where your fingers had been.
You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes as you realized the time, and even if yo didn’t want to, you said it, “I should probably go back to my dorm. I didn’t mean to take over your bed.”
Sunghoon looked at his desk, then back at you, a conflict of interest clear in his eyes, “It’s raining really hard,” he noted, his voice dropping to a low murmur.
“So—” you teased softly, the remnants of sleep making you bolder, “should I stay?”
He looked at you, his brain likely running through a twelve-step response plan, but he settled for a slow shake of his head, “I—I’ll walk you back,” he managed, his ears turning a bright crimson because he doesn’t trust himself alone with you, especially at night—especially when you say things like that, “I have an umbrella.”
You chuckled, watching him move around—you always felt so helpless especially when he looked so soft. He was so incredibly caring, and you couldn’t even deny that you wanted more, as selfish as it might sound.
The walk back was quiet, the black canopy creating a tiny, private world for the two of you as you splashed through the puddles. He walked close, his shoulder brushing yours, his hand steady on the handle to make sure you stayed dry while he took the brunt of the mist. When you reached your door, you didn’t just wave, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling him into a firm, warm hug, your emotions taking over. Sunghoon went rigid for a microsecond before his arms wound around you, pulling you into the warmth of his chest naturally now. He rested his chin on the top of your head, inhaling sharply, wishing the night didn’t have to end.
“Goodnight, Hoonie,” you whispered against his heart.
“Goodnight, Y/N,” he rasped back, watching you head inside with a gaze that was far from neutral.
It was hard to let go, he pulled you to him harder, sighing as his hands caressed your sides, and you almost whined when he put just the slightest amount of pressure before he actually let go—eyes darker than ever, as if he was having just as hard time as you if not more.
He walked back feeling emptier than ever, wondering what could have happened if he had asked you to stay. Would you have wrapped your arms around him the same way? Would you let him cuddle you to sleep—to kiss you goodnight or more?
“God,” he mumbled, finally reaching his room again and getting on his bed.
His phone chimed just then, and he frowned because who would text him this late? Mouth opening wide when he saw your notification, a picture attachment. He was scared to open it, and rightfully so. He threw his phone away with a gasp, cause no way—no fucking way you sent him your picture, on your bed, in your tank top that did nothing to hide your cleavage. He’d been doing so well, holding on so well, only to shatter at the sight of you, smiling that easy smile of yours.
Y/N-nie: thanks for tonight hoonie, sleep well 💗
Sleep? No. He grabbed the phone and managed to type a response, saving your picture as he stared deeply at the slight dimple on your face, that one mole which was barely visible—but he wanted to kiss it. The way your clavicle looked so inviting wasn’t helping his case. Was he actually getting turned on at the mere sight of what you could offer him? Yes, he was.
“No—no I can’t do this to her—no,” he mumbled, grabbing his hardening cock through the sweatpants, “pathetic,” he breathed out.
He sat back against the headboard, the air in the room feeling thick and heavy. His breath was coming in short, uneven hitches, and he couldn’t stop the frustrated sound that caught in his throat as he looked back down at the screen. The blue light washed over his face, highlighting the sheer desperation in his eyes as he took in every detail of the photo again. His hand tightened, the fabric of his sweatpants offering little relief against the insistent, pulsing ache. He felt like he was losing a war with himself. Every time he tried to blink you away, the image of that tank top and your soft, teasing smile felt like it was burned into his retinas.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” he choked out, his voice a low, wrecked rasp, “you have to be.”
He shifted, his body reacting to the mental image of being there with you, of seeing that smile in person instead of through a cold glass screen. The tension was coiled so tight in his gut it was almost painful. He palmed himself again, a desperate, clumsy movement born out of a total lack of control, his head falling back against the wall with a dull thud as he freed himself, wrapping his big hand around his leaking cock, groaning louder by the second. Just the image of you, the scent of you on his bed drove him into madness as he pumped himself, praying that his flatmates wouldn’t hear him.
Thrusting his hips up, he chased that feeling, delving deeper into the thoughts of you no matter how embarrassed he was at the situation, he couldn’t help but imagine your soft fingers wrapped around his cock, your pretty eyes looking up at him, calling him hoonie.
“Fuck—need you.”
He would kiss you so deeply, be so close to you so you’d breathe the same air, he’d touch you even softly—god you’d look so pretty arching into him. He gripped himself harder, wondering if you’d like him being so soft with you, wondering if you’d let him taste you, wondering if you’d want him as bad as he wants you.
Would he be soft with you? He’s pretty sure he’d lose control and come off too strong, and maybe you’d like seeing him take control. The image of you moaning his name, pulling him closer and into your pretty pussy—yeah, that had him stroking himself harder, groaning out your name, each sound rougher than the last.
Yes, it was embarrassing how fast his body gave in, thick ropes of cum staining his bed sheet and sweats as he focused on his breathing with his eyes closed, “so fucking pathetic,” he mumbled.
He isn’t sure his step worked out, but he knew one thing—he had never felt such an insane surge of pleasure before.
STEP EIGHT: Mission abort
Guilty.
That was all what Sunghoon felt after waking up—because how did he even manage to get hard at an innocent picture of you? It didn’t matter now, he had fucked up, and now he stood in front of the mirror, brushing his teeth, contemplating his choices. First—he can go out and continue acting as if nothing happened, or second—he can hide in his room and stay locked away forever and ever. The latter seemed very tempting, but that also meant he’d never see you again—the absolute love of his life.
The idea itself was so haunting, that he had no option but to jump in his room, hyping himself for the next meeting—which he was orchestrating by asking Jungwon about your schedule (again), and he was relieved to hear that you were in the library, alone. Maybe he would feel better if he gets to talk to you one on one, since that opportunity has been rare (happened twice and he was struggling). So, he wore a nice button up, parted his hair to the side, sprayed a decent amount of cologne—all while Jake stared at him, amused.
“Are you gonna ask her out?”
Hoon flinched, “Gosh—why don’t you guys ever knock?” He mumbled, pouting a little.
“I’m just going to the library,” Sunghoon deflected, turning back to the mirror to fix a strand of hair that was already perfect, “to study. Alone.”
“Right,” Jake snorted, not looking up from his phone, “just don’t trip on your way to Y/N.”
Sunghoon ignored him, grabbed his wallet, and marched out the door with the grim determination of a soldier going into battle—albeit one armed with a debit card and a crippling fear of rejection. He made a strategic detour to the campus café, the one you swore had the best blueberry cheesecake in the city. He ordered a slice to go and your favorite iced vanilla latte, his brain reciting the text he had highlighted on his laptop screen earlier.
Step 9: Surprise them with small gestures.
Bringing them their favorite snack or drink shows that you listen and that you care about their comfort. It creates a positive association with your presence.
“I listen,” Sunghoon whispered to himself as he carefully balanced the cardboard carrier and the pastry box against the biting wind, “I am a great listener, I am thoughtful, I can do it.”
He felt good, today, he was the guy in the button-up bringing coffee. He had upgraded himself to the romantic lead of a rom-com, from the previous indie movie actor. He reached the library, navigating the quiet rows of books with a newfound confidence. He knew exactly where to find the Biology section—the corner table by the window, he rounded the corner, a rehearsed casual greeting on his lips—Oh, hey, just happened to be in the neighborhood with pastries—but the words died in his throat.
You were there, just like Jungwon said, however, the composition of the scene was wrong. Sitting beside you, occupying the space Sunghoon had mentally reserved for himself, was a guy. Sunghoon didn’t know him, but he immediately felt a surge of irrational hostility. The guy wasn’t wearing a stiff button-up or drowning in expensive cologne. He was wearing a faded, oversized hoodie, leaning back in his chair with a maddening, effortless slouch that made Sunghoon nervous.
Sunghoon froze behind a stack of anatomy encyclopedias, clutching the cheesecake box so hard the cardboard buckled under his thumb.
“If you skew the standard deviation any further, this becomes a guessing game, not a lab report,” the guy said, tapping his pen against your screen.
You laughed and it wasn’t the polite, reserved chuckle you gave strangers, It was the unguarded, head-thrown-back laugh that you provided Hoon with. You nudged the guy’s shoulder playfully.
“We gotta optimize the data, Jaemin,” you teased, “look at that bell curve. It’s beautiful.”
Jaemin grinned, looking at you with a familiarity that made Sunghoon’s stomach drop, “so what? You can’t just gaslight E. Coli into fitting your hypothesis.”
Sunghoon looked down at himself. He saw the carefully ironed shirt, the polished shoes, the thoughtful surprise that suddenly felt like a desperate bribe. He felt like a caricature—a man masquerading as a romantic lead while the actual protagonist was sitting right there in a beat-up hoodie, speaking your language, making you laugh about bacteria without even trying.
The WikiHow guide hadn’t prepared him for this. It had steps for flirting, steps for eye contact, steps for mirroring body language, it didn’t have a step for watching the girl you like shine brightly at someone else, unaware that he was even in the room. He turned on his heel, the movement sharp and painful. He walked back toward the exit, his pace quickening until he was practically fleeing the scene, the cheerful chime of the library door mocking him as he stepped out into the biting wind. Sunghoon had never been good with jealousy, and right now, he wanted nothing more than to pull you away from the guy and kiss you right there, god he’d do so much just to prove a point, but no—he had to stay calm, for now at least, and leaving was the only option.
The chime of the door made you look up from your laptop. The smile that had been on your face while joking with Jaemin faded instantly as you checked your phone for the fifth time in ten minutes. The screen still displayed the last text from Jungwon—he’s on his way, said he has a surprise. You frowned, your brows knitting together as you scanned the entrance, but there was no one there. The library was quiet, devoid of the tall, clumsy boy you had been hoping to see.
“Everything okay?” Jaemin asked, noticing your shift in mood.
“Yeah,” you sighed, dropping your phone face-down on the table with a dull thud of disappointment, “I just thought—never mind. Back to the assignment.”
Outside, Sunghoon sat on a secluded concrete bench, oblivious to the fact that you had been looking for him. He placed the cooling coffee on the ground and opened the pastry box.
“I hate blueberry,” he muttered, picking up the plastic fork with shaking fingers.
He ate the cheesecake aggressively, he felt ridiculous, he was a grown man sitting in the cold eating a cake meant for a girl who was currently laughing about standard deviations with someone else, all because he needed an internet article to tell him how to be a human being.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, the tab was still open:
WikiHow: How to flirt with a pretty girl (with pictures).
He stared at the cheerful illustrations, the bullet points that promised success if he just followed the formula, it all looked so hollow now, so sterile.
“Stupid,” he hissed. He closed the tab, closing the browser next before he cleared his history, as if scrubbing the evidence of his own incompetence.
He was done. He was done treating you like a puzzle to be solved with cheat codes. Watching you with Jaemin had triggered something visceral in him—not just jealousy, but a terrifying clarity. He didn’t want to be the guy who surprised you with coffee because a website told him to, he wanted to be the guy who could make you laugh like that naturally
“Tomorrow,” he said to the empty bench, tossing the empty cake box into the trash with a decisive thud.
The end-of-semester party was tomorrow night, everyone would be there. There would be no scripts, no steps, no hiding behind Jake or a stack of books.
“I’m just going to tell her,” he decided, the wind ruffling his carefully parted hair, “I’m going to walk up to her, and I’m going to tell her. No more steps.”
He stood up, wiping a crumb from his lip. He felt terrified, he also felt nauseous, but for the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel like a project—he felt like Sunghoon.
And Sunghoon was going to confess to you.
STEP NINE: Be yourself (or not)
“Why am I wearing this again?” You asked as Karina stood behind you, zipping up your dress—which was beautiful, however, Karina wasn’t the one to instruct you on your dressing choices.
“Cause I’m fed up of you and Hoon being dumb, maybe this will make him realize what he’s been missing,” she muttered, making you roll your eyes.
“He didn’t even show up at the library, Rin. I think the message is pretty clear—and just when I thought we were actually going somewhere, especially with how sweet he was when I slept at his dorm,” you mumbled, smoothing down the fabric, “he’s not interested.”
“Or,” Karina countered, spinning you around to face the mirror, “he’s an idiot who got lost in his own head. Look at you girl—If Park Sunghoon doesn’t lose his mind tonight, he’s officially clinically dead.”
You stared at your reflection, and you felt nervous, thinking of backing out now, but Karina was already shoving a purse into your hands and dragging you out the door before you could overthink it. The frat house was vibrating before you even stepped inside. The bass rattled your teeth, and the air was thick with the scent of cheap beer and humidity. It was the kind of scene Sunghoon usually avoided, or endured by standing in the back looking bored and devastatingly handsome.
You scanned the room instinctively, your eyes darting over the sea of bobbing heads and red Solo cups, but the familiar silhouette of broad shoulders and perfectly styled dark hair was nowhere to be found. You told yourself you weren’t looking for him, that you were here to dance and forget about the odds, but your subconscious was a traitor. Every time the door opened, letting in a blast of cold air and fresh bodies, your heart did a hopeful little stutter in your chest, only to sink when it wasn’t him.
“He’s not here,” Karina shouted over the thumping bass, reading your mind with terrifying accuracy. She handed you a drink that smelled like fruit punch, “stop looking. If he shows up, he shows up. If he doesn’t, it’s his loss. Now come on, they’re playing that song you like.”
You let her drag you onto the makeshift dance floor, the sticky residue of spilled beer gripping the soles of your shoes. You tried to lose yourself in the rhythm, to let the vibrations of the music rattle the anxiety out of your bones, but the knot in your stomach remained tight. Thirty minutes later, you started feeling odd. It was subtle at first—a ripple of whispers, heads turning toward the entryway. You were by the kitchen island, trying to cool down with a cup of water, when you saw him.
Park Sunghoon had arrived.
And he wasn’t alone; Jake was flanking him like a bodyguard, but Sunghoon didn’t look like he needed protection. He looked—different, gone were the oversized, comforting hoodies. Tonight, he was wearing all black—a fitted shirt that somehow emphasized the sharp line of his jaw and dark jeans that made his legs look miles long. He wasn’t checking his phone, he didn’t even bother scanning the room with that panicked, deer-in-headlights look he usually wore, he looked focused, determined even.
He stood near the entrance, declining a drink offered by a hopeful sophomore, his eyes now cutting through the haze of the party as if he was looking for someone.
“Target acquired,” Jake muttered into Sunghoon’s ear, nudging him hard enough that Sunghoon stumbled a step forward, breaking his cool facade for a second.
Sunghoon followed Jake’s gaze and locked onto you instantly. The noise of the party seemed to fade into white noise for him. You were standing under the harsh kitchen light, the dress Karina picked hugging your frame, looking absolutely breathtaking and terrifyingly out of his league. He took a deep breath, steeling himself as he started to move toward you, his strides long and purposeful.
But before he could reach the kitchen island, you turned abruptly, intercepted by a group of girls who grabbed your arm and pulled you and Karina towards the back hallway—the one usually reserved for coats and couples looking for privacy. You looked confused, casting one last glance over your shoulder, but the crowd swallowed Sunghoon’s view of you.
“Where is she going?” Sunghoon frowned, the panic starting to creep back in.
“Looks like interrogation,” Jake said, squinting, “uh-oh—that’s the gossip squad. Come on.”
Sunghoon didn’t need to be told twice. He followed you, weaving through the sweaty bodies, Jake trailing close behind. They reached the entrance of the narrow, dimly lit hallway just as the voices drifted out. Sunghoon raised a hand to stop Jake, pressing his back against the wall just outside the hallway entrance. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the sound of his own name froze him in place.
“So, be honest,” a voice purred, that made the hair on the back of Sunghoon's neck stand up, “are you his next target?”
Sunghoon froze. He looked at Jake, whose eyes had gone wide, his hand hovering over Sunghoon’s shoulder as if to restrain him. He knew the bullshit the girls used to spew about them, but actually cornering you was concerning.
“Target?” your voice rang out, incredulous, “what are you even talking about?”
“Oh, come on,” the girl laughed, “we know the type. He puts on that whole innocent act, standing in the corner looking all bored and mysterious, but it’s just a trap, right? I heard he’s actually wild. That he has a whole rotation of girls and he just plays the quiet card to lure you in.”
“Yeah,” another voice chimed in, “he looks like he knows exactly what he’s doing. A total player, my friend says he’s dangerous, he had a go at her.”
Sunghoon felt a strange, conflicting tightness in his chest. Part of him—the part that had spent hours reading WikiHow articles on how to be cool—held his breath. He didn’t wish to be perceived as a player, obviously, but he desperately wanted to be seen as a man, someone capable. He waited, heart hammering against his ribs, hoping you would defend him by saying he was respectful, or intense, or maybe even just—cool.
Instead, he heard you scoff, as if you were offended, “dangerous?” You repeated, the word sounding ridiculous in your mouth, “Park Sunghoon? Are you guys blind?”
“Excuse me?” the girl sounded taken aback.
“He isn’t a fuckboy,” you snapped, your voice rising in defense of him, fueled by the protective anger of someone who knew the truth, and you’d been on edge all day, which made Karina look at you with concern, wondering where this is going, “he’s barely even a guy in the way you’re thinking. He’s—he’s so innocent, you’re just tainting his image.”
The word hung in the dank hallway air. Innocent. Sunghoon felt the color drain from his face.
“Innocent?” the girl challenged, “with that face? Please.”
“I’m serious,” you insisted, stepping closer to them, your voice softening into a tone that sounded painfully, devastatingly like pity to Sunghoon’s ears, “he’s not mysterious, he’s just shy, he doesn’t have a roster, he has a skincare routine that has twelve steps. He drinks banana milk because he thinks coffee makes him too jittery sometimes.”
Sunghoon squeezed his eyes shut. Stop, he begged silently. Please, just stop. But you were on a roll, determined to clear his name of these vile accusations, unaware that you were simultaneously dismantling his entire romantic potential, making him feel as if you never saw him as something beyond someone who was just clumsy and cute, as if you didnt see him as a guy after all, as if he couldn’t what—fuck you?
“He’s not like that, okay? He’s like—a puppy,” you said, and fondness in your voice went unnoticed by Hoon, “a newborn puppy on ice. He trips over his own feet when he gets excited. He’s clumsy and sweet and completely harmless.”
Harmless. The word echoed in Sunghoon’s skull, drowning out the thumping bass of the party. Harmless, safe, a puppy. Yes, you were defending him but—he couldn’t even thank you for that, simply wondering what would have happened if he actually confessed. Would you have laughed in his face and called him just a friend?
Jake slowly turned to look at Sunghoon. The amusement was gone from his face, replaced by a cringe of profound sympathy. He looked at Sunghoon’s white knuckles, at the devastation etched into the sharp lines of his jaw.
“Dude,” Jake whispered, reaching out to touch his arm.
Sunghoon felt like he couldn’t breathe. He had wanted to be the protagonist. He had wanted to be the protector, the one who held you during horror movies. He wanted you to see him as a man who could sweep you off your feet. And all this time, you didn’t see him as a man at all. You saw him as a loser, you didn’t look at him with desire—you looked at him with the same fondness one might have for a particularly incompetent golden retriever.
“Let’s go,” Sunghoon whispered, his voice hollow and scraping against his throat.
“But—you were gonna tell her—”
“I said let’s go.”
Sunghoon didn’t wait for Jake. He pushed off the wall, turning his back on the hallway where you were passionately defending his lack of masculinity. He moved through the crowd blindly, shoving past sweaty bodies, the bass pounding in his ears mocking the frantic, broken rhythm of his heart. He felt small and stupid. He felt like the massive loser he feared he was.
He burst out of the front door into the cold night air, gasping as if he had been drowning. He didn’t look back, he couldn’t. He just walked, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the girl who thought he was a loser.
STEP TEN: Accepting defeat
Radio silence.
You had never felt this agitated in your life, never missed someone so much in your life. It had been over a week and you hadn’t seen Sunghoon, and the worst part? You didn’t even know what was wrong, was he just ignoring you or was it the same for others as well? You could have sworn he was at the party, and as soon as you were done with the girls, you had come out to search for him, only to feel his absence even further.
You checked your phone again, hoping to see a reply but no.
You: are you okay hoonie?
You: jake said you are sick
Those were the texts you had sent five days back, but you didn’t stop there.
You: is everything okay?
You: hoon?
You: did i do something wrong
He hadn’t even read it, simply left you on delivered. The lack of response resulted in a physical ache in your chest. You lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the last week in your head. Had you been too clingy? Had the hug outside the dorm been too much? Or maybe, just maybe, those girls were right, and he had simply decided he was bored of his current toy.
No, you thought, rolling over and burying your face in your pillow. He’s not like that—he’s Sunghoon. He’s the guy who covers you with umbrellas and brings you coffee. He’s the guy who looked at you like you were the only person in the room. But if he was that guy, then where was he? The uncertainty was gnawing at you, turning your usual confidence into a frayed mess of nerves. You missed his awkwardness. You missed his sudden bursts of confidence followed by immediate regret. You missed the way he made you feel like you were safe.
Across campus, inside the dorm that smelled of despair, Park Sunghoon was currently lying face-down on the living room rug. He hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. Inside his head, it was a funeral. He was eulogizing his manhood, his romantic prospects, and his dignity. The word echoed in the cavern of his skull—harmless, harmless, harmless.
“Are you going to rot there all day?” A voice asked from above.
Sunghoon groaned, refusing to look up, “leave me alone, Jay. I’m decomposing.”
“You’re blocking the path to the kitchen,” Jay said, nudging Sunghoon’s ribs with his foot, “and you’ve been listening to sad bollywood playlists for three days straight when you don’t even understand the lyrics.”
“Let him rot,” Jake’s voice drifted in from the couch, though it lacked his usual biting sarcasm, “he’s mourning the death of his ego.”
Sunghoon shot up, sitting cross-legged on the rug with a sudden, frantic energy. His hair was a mess, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.
“I’m not mourning my ego,” Sunghoon snapped, though his voice cracked, betraying him instantly, “I’m facing the fucking reality. She called me innocent, Jake. She told them I wasn’t shit.”
“She did not say that dude, she was defending you, you idiot,” Jay interjected, leaning against the doorframe with a dish towel in hand, “I wasn’t even there, and even I know that. Jake told me the whole story.”
“She defended me by neutering me!” Sunghoon argued, the humiliation burning fresh in his chest, “She told them I am clumsy—which is true but—she sees me as a child, Jay. You don’t date children, you babysit them."
“She literally meant she’s comfy with you,” Jake tried to reason, sitting up.
“I don’t want to be comfortable,” Sunghoon hissed, standing up and pacing the small room, “I wanted to be—I don’t know, someone she actually desires.”
He felt foolish for even trying. The button-up shirts, the cologne, the WikiHow articles—it was all just dressing up a golden retriever in a tuxedo. At the end of the day, you saw right through it. You saw the clumsy, anxious mess underneath and decided he was something to be coddled.
“Okay, enough,” Jay decided, tossing the dish towel onto the counter, “you're spiraling. Put on shoes, we’re going to get food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Nobody asked,” Jay said, grabbing his keys, “Jake, grab his other arm.”
Despite his protests, Sunghoon was manhandled into a jacket and dragged out of the dorm. He walked with his head down, hands shoved deep into his pockets, reverting to his resting bitch face now, not because he wanted to look cool, but because he wanted to disappear. They made it to the campus plaza, the wind biting at Sunghoon’s cheeks. He was busy staring at a crack in the pavement, plotting his transfer to a university on a different continent, when Jake elbowed him.
“Hoon—look.”
Sunghoon looked up to find you walking out of the convenience store, laughing at something Karina was saying. You looked tired, your eyes a little puffy as if you’d cried, but the moment you spotted the trio, your face transformed and his heart hurt—it actually hurt. The worry on your face vanished, replaced by a radiant, relieved smile. You took a step toward him, your eyes locking onto his with that familiar warmth. You looked so happy to see him. And that broke him.
Because to Sunghoon, that smile didn’t look like love. It looked like relief of finding a close friend or something similar (he truly had been blind—an overthinker self sabotaging himself). He couldn’t take it, he couldn’t stand there and be the recipient of your pity.
“Hoon?” You called out from a distance, your voice hopeful.
Sunghoon’s jaw tightened and he didn’t wave, didn’t smile back, he didn’t even acknowledge the greeting. He turned his head sharply, breaking eye contact, and walked right back towards his dorm.
“Sunghoon?” Jake hissed, grabbing at his sleeve, “what the fuck are you doing? She’s right there.”
Sunghoon ripped his arm away from Jake’s grip, “I’m going back,” he muttered, his voice cold and flat.
He walked away, leaving you standing on the pavement with your hand half-raised, the smile sliding off your face. You watched his retreating back, the way his shoulders were hunched against the wind. Confusion washed over you first—had he not seen you? But no, he had looked you dead in the eye. He had seen your relief, your joy at seeing him alive, and he had looked at you with something that looked disturbingly like resentment. He just—walked away.
The confusion hardened into something sharper. You had spent a week worrying, heck, you had been crying over him. You had defended him to those girls, you had sent texts that went unanswered, you had lost sleep wondering if he was okay. And he just walked away without even doing as much as acknowledging you.
“Okay,” you whispered to the empty air, lowering your hand, “okay, Park Sunghoon, be that way.”
If he wanted to act like you didn’t exist after everything, fine. You turned back to Karina, your eyes dry and your expression steely, “let’s go,” you said, your voice devoid of the warmth you had reserved for him, “I’m done.”
You started walking as Karina looked back, glaring at Jay as if he could’ve done something—anything, but he was just as frozen, standing with Jake who could feel a headache forming in his head.
“The fuck just happened?” Jake asked, and Jay shook his head.
“Two of the nicest people I’ve met are acting like emotionless mannequins,” Jay mumbled, “I’ve never seen him like this.”
“He doesn’t realize that Y/N meant well—even if the way she worded it hit him hard, can he stop being so difficult? Did he not see how happy she was to see him?”
“Well—now what?”
Jake shook his head with a sigh, “we suffer—all of us.”
And suffer you did.
The days that followed didn’t feel like time passing; they felt like a slow, suffocating slide into permafrost. The end-of-semester exams descended upon the campus providing the perfect, miserable backdrop for two people who were determined to freeze each other out.
The party was a distant, feverish memory, replaced by the stark reality of the library and 24-hour study halls. But if anyone thought the pressure of finals would distract you from the hollow ache in your chest, they were wrong. If anything, the silence of the study rooms only made the noise in your head louder.
You became efficient, terrifyingly so. You attended every lecture, submitted every lab report early, and sat in the front row with a posture so rigid it looked painful. You didn’t laugh with Jaemin anymore, in fact, you barely spoke to anyone outside of necessary academic exchanges. You were over it, you told yourself, you were busy. You had a GPA to maintain and a future to build, and neither of those things required a boy who treated your concern like an insult.
But Karina knew better. She saw the way your eyes lingered on the back of a black hoodie in the cafeteria before snapping away. She saw the way you checked your phone every time it vibrated, only to toss it aside with a scowl when it wasn’t him.
Across the quad, Sunghoon was disintegrating in his own way. He moved through the campus like a ghost, his headphones permanently glued to his ears—though half the time, nothing was playing. He just didn’t want to hear the world asking him if he was okay. He studied, or at least, he tried, staring at thermodynamics equations until the Greek letters started to look like your initials. He sat in the library—not at your table, never at your table—but in the far back corner, hidden behind the stacks. He told himself he was proving a point (he didnt even know what anymore).
But every time he drank black coffee (which he still hated) instead of banana milk, he felt a little piece of himself wither. He missed the warmth, he missed the way you used to look at him before he ruined it. Now, when you passed each other in the corridor, the air temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. There were no shy glances, no blushing ears. Just two strangers walking past each other with aggressive apathy, while their mutual friends trailed behind, looking like they wanted to scream.
“It’s like watching a car crash,” Jake whispered to Jungwon one afternoon in the library. They were watching Sunghoon stare blankly at a blank Word document.
“Worse,” Jungwon muttered, eyeing you across the room where you were aggressively highlighting a textbook without actually reading it, “It’s like watching two cars almost crashing but never quite reaching there, being stubborn and all.”
The tension came to a head on Tuesday night. The library was packed, the air thick with the smell of stress and stale caffeine. You were printing a paper, waiting for the machine to finish, when Sunghoon walked up to the adjacent printer. You didn’t look at him and he didn’t look at you (he did, and he swore under his breath seeing how pretty you looked wearing that skirt he loved).
The silence between you was louder than the whirring of the machines. You could smell him—that damn cologne and clean laundry, and it made your eyes sting. You wanted to scream, you wanted to ask him why he was being such a coward, you wanted to hug him—kiss him.
Sunghoon stood rigid, his knuckles white as he gripped his folder. He could see you in his peripheral vision. You looked tired, he wanted to ask if you were sleeping. He wanted to offer you his jacket because the library was freezing, but the word harmless flashed in his mind like a warning sign. She doesn’t want you, his brain supplied unhelpfully. She pities you.
Your printer beeped and you snatched your papers.
“Excuse me,” you said, your voice polite, as you stepped around him.
“Sure,” he replied, his voice equally flat.
You walked away without looking back. Sunghoon watched you go, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs that had absolutely nothing to do with physics and everything to do with the fact that he was miserably, hopelessly in love with the girl he was currently pretending to hate.
“I hate it here,” Jake groaned from a nearby table, dropping his head onto his open textbook, “I really, really hate it here.”
STEP ELEVEN: Let jealousy take the wheel
“Oh she looks beautiful!”
Jake and Jay kept on cooing, staring at the pictures Jungwon was showing them—pictures of you. Well, since the end sems were over, Karina had decided to do a mini photo shoot with you and Jungwon, and since it wasn’t really a request, you had to comply.
Sunghoon was on the couch, heart hammering at the praises, but he didn’t (couldn’t) ask Jungwon to show him the pictures, which only made Jake compliment you harder. Jungwon shook his head, absolutely done with whatever was going on, he started screen sharing so the pictures would appear on the TV, and Sunghoon tried his best not to look up, but he did. For the first time in a while, his friends could see his eyes shining. You looked beautiful—you always did, and good lord, Sunghoon missed you—cursing himself for behaving exactly how a child would.
He stared more, it was a pretty picture of you sitting on the grass and smiling—however, it didn’t reach your eyes. Sunghoon wondered who were you smiling at, granted Karina was sitting on the other side of you. He saw a hand, a hand that did not look like Jungwon’s hand, and he felt even more nauseous at the image of some other man being there and making you smile.
You had been so detached from reality, you didn’t understand it—you hadn’t processed just how attached you’d felt to Sunghoon, only for him to switch up midway, and you wondered how he was taking it.
He couldn’t take it anymore. He stood up abruptly, muttering something about needing water, and retreated to the sanctuary of his room.
“The kitchen is that way, Hoon,” Jay pointed out helpfully, gesturing in the opposite direction.
“My room,” Sunghoon corrected, not breaking stride, “I have—water in my room.”
He sat on the edge of his bed, taking his MacBook out as he opened the one site that had guided him (poorly) through this entire semester—WikiHow.
He started typing, what to do when you’ve ruined everything with the girl you love and she thinks you’re a child.
No results.
He didn’t give up, trying to find variants, how to fix a relationship when you ghosted her out of insecurity.
The algorithm struggled. Finally, he clicked the same one he’d been following all along—how to flirt with a pretty girl (with pictures). He scrolled past the ads to the last step which said—If it doesn’t work out: accept that it’s over. If she says no or seems distant, respect her space and move onto a new girl.
Sunghoon stared at the screen. Move on to a new girl.
He slammed the laptop shut, he couldn’t do that. The mere thought of looking at someone else, of trying to memorize someone else’s coffee order or the way they laughed, made him feel physically ill. He didn’t want new, he wanted you. He wanted the girl who called him Hoonie and defended him, even if her defense had shattered his ego into a million pieces, and he hid instead of proving her wrong.
He buried his face in his hands, he couldn’t move on, but he didn’t know how to move back.
Back in the living room, the atmosphere had shifted from admiration to, well, tactical planning.
“He’s hopeless,” Jake said, staring at the closed door of Sunghoon’s room, “did you see his face? He looked like a kicked puppy again.”
“We can’t keep doing this,” Jay agreed, leaning back and crossing his arms, “the atmosphere in this dorm is insane. Sunghoon is miserable, Y/N is miserable, and I’m tired of hearing sad playlists through the wall I swear—they need to fuck it out.”
Jungwon disconnected his phone from the TV, a determined look on his face (before he gave Jay an odd look, of course), “we need to force them into the same room.”
“How?” Jake asked, “Hoon won’t leave his room unless the building is on fire.”
“A party,” Jungwon said simply, “Beomgyu texted. They’re throwing a massive end of Exams bash in the Grand Suite downstairs like two days later, it’s the biggest dorm and everyone is going.”
“Sunghoon hates parties,” Jay pointed out.
“Exactly,” Jungwon smirked, “which is why we aren’t asking him—we’re dragging him.”
“And Y/N?”
“Karina is already on it,” Jungwon said, holding up his phone to show a text confirmation, “she’s bringing Y/N. The plan is simple honestly, just get them in the room. If they see each other, they’ll have to interact—if Y/N doesn’t break, Hoon sure will.”
“Sounds risky but okay,” Jake muttered.
“Well, do we have any other options?” Jay asked, only to be met with silence, “great, then operation—get them to fuck is a go.”
“I don’t really like the operation name—”
“—Leave the styling to me,” Jay said, spinning the keys around his finger as he headed for the door, his mission clear, “I’m going to the mall. He needs an edge. I’m getting him a leather jacket—”
Jake and Jungwon shook their head, hoping it will work out for the better.
STEP TWELVE: Grand romantic (?) gesture
“I’m not going,” you mumbled, staring at La La Land playing on your MacBook (again), and you knew well you were torturing yourself, calling it your coping mechanism.
Karina sighed, “you need to let loose, it’s not the end of the world,” she muttered, snapping the laptop shut, “and watching Emma Stone get her heart broken for the fifth time this week isn’t going to fix yours.”
“It’s not broken,” you lied, rolling over and burying your face into the pillow to muffle the waver in your voice, “It’s just—bruised. Badly.”
It felt like more than a bruise, though. It felt like a phantom limb ache—a nagging, persistent sensation of something missing that should have been there. It had been days of absolute radio silence from Sunghoon. No awkward texts or Pokémon memes, no shy glances across the campus quad, no memes sent at 2 AM. Just a sudden, inexplicable void where his presence used to be. You had replayed the last week in your mind until the memories were frayed at the edges, trying to pinpoint the exact moment the shift happened.
The thought gnawed at you. You remembered defending him with such ferocity, calling him innocent and harmless, painting a picture of a boy who was sweet and misunderstood. Now, lying in the dark, you felt like a fool. Maybe he wasn’t misunderstood. Maybe he was just a guy who got bored and moved on, leaving you to dissect the silence he left behind.
“Get up,” Karina commanded, pulling the duvet off you, “Beomgyu’s party is starting, and I am not walking into that sweatbox alone. Besides, if he’s there, don’t you want him to see what he’s missing? Do you really want him to think you’re rotting in bed over him?”
That struck a nerve, the indignation flared up, burning through the lethargy. You didn’t want his pity, and you certainly didn’t want him to think he had the power to dismantle your entire life with a week of silence (he did and you missed him). You sat up, pushing hair out of your face with a grim determination. It was amusing to the others—watching you and Hoon having this insane personality shift, but garnering feelings would do that to anyone, so they couldn’t really question it.
“Fine,” you snapped, though there was no real bite in it, “but if I see him and he ignores me, I’m gonna kiss the first guy i see after him.”
You were lying (obviously), you couldn’t even imagine kissing anyone but him. At first it used to be sweet, you wanted to know if he’d smile into the kiss—but now? Now you wanted him to actually break and prove a point, which seemed a distant thought granted he wasn’t even willing to look your way.
Sunghoon was undergoing the same thought process in his room where Jay had shoved a very expensive leather jacket his way with a simple command to dress up for the party which made no sense because Sunghoon hated parties, and somehow, he thought that you would not be there—would you? Then his mind drifted to the guy from the library and he realized that maybe you would be there—there with him.
“He’s buffering again,” Heeseung noted from the doorway, watching Sunghoon stare at the leather jacket as if it were a sentient threat, “Hoon, if you don’t go, you’re just proving you’re a coward. You’re going to let some other guy take your spot because you’re too busy sulking?”
Sunghoon’s head snapped up. The thought of Jaemin at the party, standing in the space he should be occupying, made his stomach do a violent flip. He realized that yes, you would be there—and the thought of you being there with him was a catalyst that finally burned through his lethargy.
“Fine,” Sunghoon gritted out, grabbing the jacket. He stood up, his height and the sharp lines of the leather making him look like a stranger even to his roommates.
“Great,” Jay muttered, though he gave Sunghoon a lingering, skeptical look, “I’m not letting you leave that party until you open your mouth and say something that isn’t an apology for existing.”
The walk down to Beomgyu’s suite was a blur of neon lights and thumping bass. The Grand dorm was the largest in the building, and tonight it was a humid, vibrating mass of people. Sunghoon felt like a passenger in his own body, his social anxiety acting like a lead weight, yet the leather jacket served as a suit of armor. He ended up leaning against the kitchenette counter, a red cup held in a white-knuckled grip, completely zoned out as the other boys left to find Jungwon to discuss the situation.
Despite his internal collapse, he looked devastating. A group of girls had already drifted toward him, laughing and brushing against his sleeves which he was not comfortable with, but he didn’t hear a word they said. He was staring at the door, his heart hammering against his ribs in a frantic, desperate rhythm, not paying attention to the girl who clearly wanted a night with him, cause he had reserved that for someone else tonight (and forever if things worked out right).
He closed his eyes for a while, just standing there collecting his thoughts as the group watched from a distance, muttering about how they weren’t even sure what to expect anymore, but gladly, Karina had informed them about their arrival, which Hoon missed—but you did not miss the way he was there, as if put on display right there for you to feel even worse.
You turned away, your eyes stinging, desperate to find an exit, a drink, anything to numb the sudden spike of pain.
“Well, look who finally decided to show up.”
The voice was smooth, familiar, and right in your ear. You turned to see Jaemin standing there, a lazy, charming grin plastered on his face. He looked effortless, holding a drink in one hand, his posture relaxed and open—the antithesis of the tension radiating from the kitchenette.
“Hey, Jaemin,” you managed, though your voice sounded thin to your own ears.
“You look incredible,” Jaemin said, stepping into your personal space with a confidence that felt practiced yet sincere. He tilted his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners, “though you look like you’re plotting a murder, do you need an alibi?”
You let out a weak, breathy laugh, grateful for the distraction, “just overwhelmed. It’s loud in here.”
“It is,” Jaemin agreed, leaning closer so you could hear him over the pounding bass, “I’m just feeling lucky to catch you without your usual entourage.”
Across the room, Sunghoon had opened his eyes again, now trying to find Jake, to inform him that he wishes to leave, especially when he couldn’t find you—but oh he did, and the static in Sunghoon’s brain cleared with a violent snap. He had been zoning out, letting the chatter of the girls around him fade into white noise, his mind a continuous loop of misery. But the moment his eyes landed on you, everything sharpened. He saw the way you looked—beautiful and somehow sad, and then he saw Jaemin.
He watched Jaemin lean in. He watched the easy familiarity, the way Jaemin smiled at you, the way you offered a small, reluctant smile in return. It was a smile Sunghoon hadn’t earned in days. And then Jaemin reached out, his fingers brushing a lock of hair away from your face, his touch lingering near your cheek.
The innocent boy within him died right there. The harmless label incinerated in a flash of pure, blinding jealousy. Sunghoon didn’t think about this, just felt a rush of adrenaline—which is why he felt so confident now, so sure of what he had to do, and it was interesting how one hormone could manage to switch up someone to such lengths.
He moved through the crowd with a purpose now, his eyes locked on Jaemin like a predator sighting a threat. He was like a storm front moving across the room. You were just about to answer Jaemin’s question when the air shifted. A shadow fell over you, and before you could turn, a heavy arm clamped around your waist, pulling you backward until you were flush against a hard, solid chest. The scent of expensive cologne and leather enveloped you instantly, drowning out the stale beer smell of the party.
Sunghoon stood behind you, his body a wall of heat, his grip on your waist possessive and unyielding. He wasn’t looking at you. His dark, furious eyes were bored into Jaemin, his jaw set so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek.
“You should leave now,” Sunghoon said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register that vibrated against your back, completely devoid of any stutter or hesitation, and for a minute, you just tried to process the situation, heart hammering in your chest.
Jaemin blinked, his smile faltering as he looked from the white-knuckled grip on your waist to Sunghoon’s icy glare, “I’m just catching up, Sunghoon. Relax.”
“Conversation’s over,” Sunghoon snapped, his fingers digging into the silk of your dress, staking a claim that required no interpretation, “leave.”
And he did, knowing when to turn back and sent a wink towards Jungwon, who had put Jaemin up to this—and it seemed as if their plan had worked, though, it was a hilarious sight to see the boys hiding at the back with their jaws hung wide open, Heeseung laughing freely.
“What the fuck—let go of me, Sunghoon,” you almost screamed, trying to pry his hands off of you.
He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he spun you around, his eyes dark and burning with this volatile mix of desperation and the remains of that blinding jealousy. He didn’t look at the group of boys huddled near the drinks, whose jaws were indeed still dropped at the sudden, predatory shift in the guy they usually described as buffering, he only looked at you, his jaw set in that same tight line that suggested he was one second away from either shattering or exploding. Without a word, he grabbed your hand—his palm hot and slightly damp against yours—and began weaving through the crowd, hauling you toward the exit.
“The fuck are you doing?” You asked, stunned at his new behaviour.
“We’re not doing this here,” he said, jaw clenched.
“Oh—now you wanna talk, huh?” You seethed—because god, you were so angry, so confused and yet your heartbeat betrayed you because you were looking forward to what he had to say, what excuse he wished to use.
The walk up the stairs to the boys’ floor was a blur of cold concrete and the echoing sound of your heels. He didn’t stop until he had reached his door, swinging it open and pulling you inside before slamming it shut with a finality that made the air in the small room feel suddenly very thin. The silence of the dorm was jarring after the chaos downstairs, but it wasn’t a peaceful quiet, it was heavy and pregnant with everything that had been left unsaid since before the exams began.
“You don’t get to do that,” you snapped the moment he let go of your hand, the anger finally breaking through the shock, “you do not get to treat me like I’m invisible for weeks, ignoring my texts and walking past me in the library like I’m a fucking ghost, only to act jealous because you saw me talking to someone else.”
Sunghoon paced the small space of his room, his hands shaking as he pushed them through his hair, successfully ruining the perfect styling Jay had insisted on, “I wasn’t ignoring you on purpose,” he shot back, his voice cracking with a jagged edge you had never heard before, “I was stopping you from looking at him the way you used to look at me before you decided I was someone you couldn’t even consider a man.”
“A man? What are you even talking about?” You yelled, stepping into his space, refusing to let him retreat into the mysterious silence he used as a shield, “I have spent weeks wondering what I did wrong! I was crying over you, Sunghoon. I defended you when everyone was asking why you were acting like this, only for you to ignore me right when I was there in front of you!”
“That’s exactly the problem!” Sunghoon roared, finally stopping his pacing and turning to face you, his eyes glassy, “I heard you, Y/N. At the party before finals, I was right there in the hallway when you were telling those girls exactly what you think of me.”
You froze, the memory of the gossip squad cornering you flashing through your mind, “yeah? And what’s wrong about it? I was defending you! They were calling you a fuckboy.”
“By basically calling me what—a loser?” He hissed, stepping closer until he was looming over you, the scent of his cologne and the leather jacket enveloping you, “I heard the words you used. You told them I was like a puppy, someone who trips over his own feet. You told them I drink banana milk because I can’t handle coffee and that I have a twelve-step skincare routine. You made me sound like an incompetent child, Y/N.”
You could not believe it—all this crying, the heartbreak stemmed from you defending him? And he took it in the worst way possible, as if his mind could not admit you would love him the way he is, and formed a thought process that did irrevocable damage to both you and him.
“I said those things in a good light,” you screamed back, your own heart hammering against your ribs, “I called you sweet because I thought you were! I didn’t know your ego was so fragile that you’d rather be seen as a villain than a person who actually cares about things!”
This conversation was not going the way you both had intended—anger taking over and ruling all the other feelings out, yet none of you were ready to back down.
“It’s not about ego!” Sunghoon grabbed your wrists, pinning them against his chest so you could feel the violent, erratic rhythm of his heart, “It’s about the fact that I’ve been sitting in this room for days trying to be a man you’d actually desire, only to find out that you look at me with pity, you made me feel like I wasn’t even an option for you—just a clumsy loser you had fun to be around.”
“So you decided to punish me instead of talking to me normally?”
“Yeah, just like you forgot all about me the second Jaemin came into your life.”
“Are you fucking hearing yourself right now?” Your throat hurt with all the yelling, and you couldn’t even back down, not when he was so close to you, “fine, if you don’t want that to happen then stop acting like a coward and actually do something, fight for me, not against me!”
His hand shot out, not to grab your wrist this time, but to grip your chin, forcing your head up so you couldn’t look away—and god he looked so different, but his eyes were the same, sweet and gentle despite the anger, “I dragged you out of there because I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else having your attention. I’m standing here, wrecking everything, screaming my lungs out because I am fighting, Y/N. I’m fighting the urge to completely lose my mind.”
“Then show me,” you breathed, challenging him, your heart pounding so hard as the tip of his nose brushed against yours, “prove it to me you’re not the harmless boy I defended. Prove to me that you want me.”
He didn’t need to be told twice—he’d waited too long, and he couldn’t say no when you stood there with watery eyes, chest heaving up and down, bottom lip bitten, and Sunghoon swears you look the prettiest you had ever looked. He had gone through myriad scenarios of this happening, none of them involved Sunghoon surging forward with his mouth crashing against yours—which is exactly what happened.
It did not happen with the tentative sweetness of the boy you had defended in the hallway, but with a searing, desperate hunger that tasted of frustration and a few week’s worth of repressed longing. He groaned into the kiss—it felt good, too good as he let his lips convey what he couldn’t, and it wasn’t sweet, it was rather messy and uncoordinated, a collision that felt less like affection and more like a necessity—as if he were trying to breathe you in to keep from suffocating.
You stumbled back, your spine hitting the wood of the door with a dull thud, but he didn’t let up. His hands were everywhere—one tangled tightly in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back to deepen the angle, the other gripping your waist with a bruising possession, anchoring you to him. He was heavy against you, a solid wall of heat and leather, and for a moment, the sheer shock of his intensity froze you, a shiver going down your spine, feeling the frustration radiating off him.
But then the indignation flared—the audacity of him to think he could solve this with physical force had you fighting back. You kissed him back with the same jagged intensity, your hands balling into fists against the lapels of that ridiculous jacket, pushing and pulling all at once. The kiss was an argument in itself, sharp and biting, stripped of any pretense of politeness.
He broke the contact with a ragged gasp, but he didn’t really pull away. He buried his face in the sensitive crook of your neck, his breathing harsh and uneven against your skin, his lips grazing your pulse point, breath warming you up further, especially when he nibbled on your skin. You could feel him trembling—fine tremors running through his frame that betrayed the facade he was trying so hard to maintain.
“I missed you,” he mumbled into your skin, the words thick and slurred, vibrating against your clavicle, “god, I missed you so much it physically hurt.”
It was the vulnerability in his voice—the way it cracked on the confession, stripping away the anger to reveal the desperation underneath—that finally undid you. You could feel the dampness of his eyelashes against your neck, a stark contrast to the aggression of moments before.
“You have a terrible way of showing it, Sunghoon,” you whispered, your voice shaking, your hands slowly uncurling from his jacket, moving up to grip his shoulders to keep yourself upright.
“I’ll show you, fuck—i’ll show you everything,” he mumbled, pressing opened mouthed kisses over the expanse of your neck, making you gasp his name, to which he groaned, “‘m not Sunghoon, call me Hoonie.”
“Fuck—”
“Tell me you missed me—tell me you’re feeling this too,” he hissed, which almost seemed like a plea against your lips—especially with the way he was holding your nape, looking right into your eyes.
“I—I did, Hoonie,” you mumbled against his lips, and he shook his head.
It’s filthy how he leans in to bite your bottom lip, pulling you flush against him with ease, his right thigh settling in between your legs as he did so, making you whine, and he loves the sound, he loves it too fucking much to not pull you into another kiss to absorb each sound you’re giving him so lovingly (at least he thinks so).
“C’mon—say it,” he urged, pulling your lower lip before letting go, a string of saliva connecting you both regardless.
“What happened to you?” You breathed out, knees threatening to give out as you held on to Sunghoon’s shoulder, who only chuckled.
“Did you really think I was a virgin? That I’m someone who can’t make you feel good, hm? As if I hadn’t thought about having you close before,” he leaned in again, and this time, you could see how calm he was, “I’m still the same man—just this time, I’m desperate to please you.”
Your eyes widened, pressing your thighs together only to cage Hoon’s leg harder, shoulders curling in, “Hoonie, you don’t have to—”
“Shh—just be good for me tonight, I really really want to kiss you again.” He couldn’t help but express his feelings, “you look so pretty, so pretty I swear,” he grunts, and he swears it’s intoxicating the way you taste, how he can feel your pulse as he sucks on skin. His lips linger on your neck, sucking gently at the tender skin, drawing out the heat that blooms under his touch. The pull of his mouth is unhurried, deliberate, each drag of his tongue sending a fresh wave of warmth spreading through your veins. You feel the rapid thump of your own pulse against his lips, matching the erratic beat of your heart, and it makes your breath hitch in your throat.
“Say it, baby,” he murmurs.
“I missed you—was waiting for you,” you whined, and he swore, the way you said it sent this insane feeling down his cock—which twitched with need.
One of his hands stays firm at the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair with a possessive grip that grounds you, while the other slides slowly down your side. His palm flattens against your ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your shirt, tracing the curve with feather-light pressure. The fabric bunches slightly under his exploration, and you arch into the contact without thinking, a soft whimper escaping as the sensation teases your nipple into a tight peak.
“God, your body responds to me like it’s been waiting,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low and rough, laced with that raw need that's starting to unravel you both. His breath fans hot over the damp spot he’s left on your neck, making you shiver, and he presses closer, his chest rising and falling against yours in sync with your quickening breaths, “thought about this so much—thought about you all the time, fuck! Pretty, yeah just keep your eyes on me.”
You can feel the hard line of his cock straining against the front of his jeans, pressing insistently into your hip as he shifts his weight. It’s a solid reminder of his arousal, thick and unyielding, and the knowledge sends a flush of heat straight to your core, your pussy clenching with empty want—mind still trying to process the situation. Your hands, still clutching his shoulders, slide down tentatively, fingers splaying over the firm planes of his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath the leather jacket. The material is cool and smooth under your palms, juxtaposing the feverish warmth of his body seeping through.
“Thought you got bored of me,” you gasped out.
“Could never—I thought about you each fucking day, each second.”
He groans softly at your touch, the sound vibrating through him and into you, and his hand at your side dips lower, cupping your hip with a squeeze that borders on bruising. His fingers dig into the soft flesh there, kneading slowly, pulling you tighter against him so that his thigh remains wedged firmly between your legs. The pressure against your clothed pussy is maddening—subtle friction that builds with every tiny shift, making your clit ache for more direct contact.
“Hoonie,” you whisper, your voice trembling with the mix of lingering frustration and surging desire, your nails scraping lightly over his jacket as you grip him harder. The vulnerability in his earlier confession lingers in the air, softening the edges of your indignation, and now it’s just the two of you, bodies communicating what words can’t quite capture.
He lifts his head from your neck, eyes dark and intense as they meet yours, pupils blown wide with lust and something deeper—longing perhaps, or the fear of losing this again. His free hand moves up, cupping your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone before trailing down to trace your jaw, then your throat. The touch is reverent, almost tender, but there’s an undercurrent of hunger in the way his fingers linger, pressing just enough to feel your swallow.
“I need to touch you everywhere,” he confesses, his voice cracking slightly on the words, and before you can respond, his mouth claims yours again. This kiss is slower than the last, exploratory—his tongue sliding against yours in languid strokes, tasting and teasing without the frantic edge. You melt into it, your body going pliant as his hand on your hip ventures bolder, slipping under the hem of your dress to caress the bare skin of your waist.
His palm is soft, and the texture against your smooth skin makes you gasp into the kiss. He takes the opportunity to deepen it, tongue curling around yours as his fingers spread wide, exploring the dip of your waist, the slight curve of your lower back. Each inch he claims feels electric, igniting nerves you didn’t know were so sensitive, and you press your thighs together around his leg, seeking relief from the growing wetness soaking your panties. The friction only heightens the ache, your pussy throbbing with each subtle grind, and he notices—god, he notices everything. A low hum of approval rumbles from his chest, and his hand under your dress inches higher, thumb grazing the edge of your bra. He doesn’t push further yet, just circles the underwire with agonizing slowness, feeling the way your breath stutters, the way your nipple strains against the lace.
“Tell me what you feel,” he pulls back just enough to whisper, forehead resting against yours, his eyes searching your face. His other hand leaves your face to join the first, both now under your dress, palms sliding up your sides in tandem, thumbs brushing the sides of your tits, all while he tries to memorize every inch of you, the most perfect girl for him.
“You—everywhere,” you manage, voice breathy, your hands moving to his waist, tugging at the hem of his shirt to feel the heat of his skin, “your hands—it’s too much and not enough, i need you, baby.” The confession spills out, raw and honest, mirroring his earlier vulnerability, and it seems to spur him on.
He chuckles softly once he’s done groaning cause—fuck, he’s been waiting to hear that, to have you to him. And finally, his big, veiny hands cup your breasts fully, squeezing with a firm pressure that has you moaning into his mouth as he kisses you again. His thumbs flick over your nipples through the bra, back and forth, hardening them further until they're aching points of need. The groping is thorough, unhurried—he kneads the soft flesh, feeling their weight in his palms, rolling them gently as if memorizing every curve.
“So the girls were right—ah,” you whine.
“No,” he breathed out, “I’m like this just for you, just because of you.”
Your hips rock against his thigh instinctively, the seam of your panties rubbing against your clit, and the spark of pleasure makes you clench around nothing, arousal trickling down your thighs. He feels the movement, presses his leg harder to encourage it, his own cock twitching against you in response. The air between you thickens with the scent of your combined arousal, heavy and intoxicating, and his kisses trail back to your neck, nipping lightly as his hands continue their worship.
“So responsive,” he breathes, one hand slipping around to your back, fingers working at the clasp of your bra with practiced ease. It gives with a soft snap, and he wastes no time pushing the straps down your shoulders, exposing your tits to the cool air. Goosebumps prickle your skin, but his mouth is there immediately, hot and wet, latching onto one nipple while his hand covers the other, “fucking pretty—all fucking mine.”
He sucks gently at first, tongue swirling around the peak, teeth grazing just enough to send jolts straight to your core. Your pussy pulses with each pull of his mouth, wetness seeping further, and you thread your fingers into his hair, holding him close. The feelings crash over you—the possessiveness in his grip, the desperation in his touches, the way his body trembles slightly against yours, betraying how much he needs this reconnection as much as you do.
“Seems like you have a lot of experience,” you mumbled, looking elsewhere.
He smirked against you, “is my baby jealous?”
“No—fuck,” you whined as he let his free hand roams lower again, palming your ass through your panties, squeezing the cheek hard enough to make you gasp. He kneads it slowly, pulling you tighter against his thigh, guiding your movements as you grind, the friction building that sweet, torturous pressure, “that’s it, feel how much I want you, only you,” he murmurs against your breast, voice muffled, before switching sides, giving the other nipple the same devoted attention, and fucking hell—he was in love with you, absolutely there to hear each sound you make and every movement of your body in response to him.
Every touch, every grope, layers the intimacy, stripping away the walls between you, leaving only the raw, aching need to be closer, to feel more.
He pulls back from your breast with a wet pop, his eyes dark and feral as they lock onto yours, “get on the bed, baby. Now,” he growls, voice thick with command, and you stumble back with him, legs shaky from the grinding, your soaked panties clinging to your pussy lips as he shoves you toward the mattress. You hit the soft sheets on your back, bra discarded somewhere on the floor, tits bouncing free.
His body follows, crashing over yours, knees pinning your thighs apart. Those veiny hands dive straight for your naked tits (which he seemed to love, especially wanting to mark them), squeezing hard—fingers digging into the soft flesh, thumbs crushing your nipples until you arch and cry out, “fuck, these tits are so perfect,” he mutters, leaning down to bite one peak sharp enough to sting, his fangs sinking in while his tongue flicks the tip. Pain mixes with heat, shooting straight to your clit, and you buck under him, pussy clenching empty and desperate, repeating his name as you find yourself wetter than ever, and he had barely touched you—you really fucking needed him.
His fingers press deep into your skin, bruising your waist as he kneads them like he owns every inch—because he does, tonight, tomorrow, always, all him to ravage, “you love this, don’t you? Watching me go crazy over you, fuck,” he rasps against your skin, breath hot, his free hand sliding down to grip your hip, nails scraping.
Your hips jerk up anyway, grinding your drenched panties against his thigh, the fabric sodden now, rubbing your swollen clit with every desperate roll. Wetness seeps through, coating his jeans, and you feel his cock twitch hard against your side, “yeah, keep going, doing so fucking well for me, c’mon, rub yourself before I lose it and fuck you dumb,” he taunts, pressing his thigh firmer into your pussy, forcing the friction deeper. You moan loud, fingers clawing at his shoulders, the ache building fast, your core pulsing with slick heat.
“Please—Hoonie, you’re insane,” you mumbled, biting his shoulder to conceal your moans, “want you, I’ve always wanted you.”
He chuckles dark despite the way he felt butterflies in his abdomen, cause god, he literally fell for you at first sight, only to truly fall for you with each passing interaction. And now? He wanted to show you exactly how good he can make you feel—leaning in low, shoving your legs wider with his knee, “enough teasing. I want that dripping cunt bare and pretty for me.” His hands hook into your panties, yanking them down rough, the elastic snapping against your thighs before he rips them off completely, tossing them aside. Cool air hits your exposed pussy, lips puffy and glistening, arousal dripping down to the bed sheet. He spreads you wide, knees hooking under yours, thumbs parting your folds to stare at your slick hole, eyes shining, “fuck—look at this messy pussy, begging for my tongue, all fucking mine, yeah?”
Before you can gasp, his head dives between your legs, mouth latching onto your cunt like a starving man, licking a stripe from your hole up to your clit before going down again. His tongue thrusts deep inside, fucking your hole with wet, urgent strokes, lapping up your juices as they flood out. You scream, back bowing off the bed, hands fisting the sheets while he devours you—sucking your clit hard, then plunging back in, tongue curling against your walls, “taste so fucking good, all wet and ready for me,” he groans into your pussy, vibrations humming through you, his stubble scraping your inner thighs raw.
“God—”
“No god, just me,” he groaned against you.
He eats you out relentlessly, nose bumping your clit as his tongue spears deeper, slurping noisily at your folds. Fingers join in, two thick ones shoving into your pussy alongside his tongue, stretching you, pumping hard while he bites your labia lightly, tugging. Your hips buck wild, grinding into his face, soaking his chin with your cum, “that’s it, fuck my mouth—come all over it,” he demands, voice muffled but commanding, free hand reaching up to pinch your nipple again, twisting until tears prick your eyes.
“God—feels so good, ah—slow down—”
Pleasure coils tight in your gut, his dominance flooding you—the way he holds you open, owns your body with every rough lick and thrust. He pulls back just enough to spit on your clit, rubbing it in with his thumb before diving back, tongue flicking fast, fingers curling to hit that spot inside that makes you see stars, “stop? Oh baby—you’re mine to fuck, mine to eat, gonna make this pussy squirt before I ram my cock in, yeah? Gonna claim you, make you forget about anyone else who had you before me,” his words hit like slaps, so very dirty and possessive, pushing you closer to the edge.
You bit your lip, trying to rile him up even further, “you sure you can—ah!”
He slapped your cunt, making you arch off the mattress, making you cry, moans turning to pleas, his mouth working you harder, rougher—sucking your clit like he’s trying to bruise it, tongue fucking your hole until your thighs quake around his head. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t ease up, just dominates your pleasure, drawing out every drop of slick, every shudder. The room reverberates with the wet sounds of his feast, your cries echoing, bodies slick with sweat and need. But he’s not done—far from it, his cock grinding against the mattress now, hungry for more than just your taste.
“Sure I can, and I will.” Sunghoon doesn’t remember the last time he felt so feral, perhaps never before, perhaps this was just for you, and he didn’t mind especially when you were spread out so pretty for him, reacting to every bit of him, he fucking loved it—he loved you. He grabs your hips suddenly, dragging you back down the bed with a rough yank, your ass sliding over the sheets as he positions you right where he wants—legs splayed wide, pussy exposed and dripping onto the mattress. His big, veiny hands clamp onto your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh to spread your soaking slit wide open, folds parting with a wet schlick, your clit throbbing in the cool air
“Stay fucking still, baby,” he snarls, eyes locked on your glistening hole, arousal leaking out in thick strings. Before you can catch your breath, his head drops again, mouth crashing against your cunt like he’s starving for it.
His tongue buries deep inside you in one brutal thrust, spearing into your walls, lapping up the fresh flood of juices with savage hunger. He sucks hard on your inner folds, pulling them into his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to sting while his tongue flicks wildly against your entrance. The suction pulls at your core, making your pussy clench around nothing, and you cry out, hips jerking up to grind against his face. Slurping sounds fill the room, obscene and wet, his stubble scraping your sensitive skin raw as he devours you deeper, nose pressing into your clit with every forceful lick.
“This cunt’s mine, hm? Gonna eat it till you can’t walk, gonna show you how sorry I am,” he mutters right into your slit, the vibration rumbling through your nerves, sending shocks up your spine, “sorry, baby. Sorry my pretty girl—hm, so fucking sorry. You’re mine and I’m not fucking sorry about that.”
You arch off the bed, fingers twisting in his silky hair, pulling him closer even as the intensity borders on too much. His tongue thrusts in and out, curling to scoop out more of your slick, swallowing it down with greedy gulps, sucking your clit between his lips and biting down lightly, making you scream. Pleasure-pain explodes, your thighs trembling around his head, but he pins you harder, dominance radiating from every rough movement—owning your body, forcing ecstasy on you whether you can take it or not.
Without warning, he shoves two thick fingers inside you, knuckles deep in one brutal push, stretching your walls wide around the intrusion. Your pussy grips them tight, sucking him in as he starts pumping fast—curling and twisting, slamming against that spot inside that makes your vision go blur.
“Fuck, so tight and wet—good fucking girl, stay this way, hm?” He rasps, mouth still latched on your clit, sucking hard while his fingers piston in and out, the wet squelch echoing with every thrust. Juices coat his hand, dripping down to soak the sheets, and you buck wildly, the stretch burning sweet as he adds a third finger, scissoring them to open you up more.
“Fucking crazy, what happened to clumsy Hoon?” You breathed.
“Gone for now.”
His cock throbs hard against your thigh now, the thick length straining through his pants, hot and leaking pre-cum that smears sticky on your skin. He grinds it there deliberately, humping your leg like an animal in heat while he finger-bangs you relentlessly, thumb circling your clit in rough swirls.
“Feel that? My dick’s aching to split you open, but first I’m gonna make this pussy gush all over my face, need to taste you,” he keeps on mumbling against you, voice muffled against your folds, breath hot and ragged.
You drown in the raw lust, moans spilling loud and broken from your lips, every nerve firing as he devours you deeper. The pressure builds unbearable, your hips rolling desperately into his mouth, chasing the edge as waves of heat crash through you. Sweat slicks both your bodies, the air thick with the musk of sex—your arousal, his sweat. You claw at the sheets, thighs shaking, the dominance in his grip holding you down as pleasure rips you apart.
“Can’t anymore, please—”
“Come on, pretty girl, cum on my tongue, let me taste you,” he demands, voice gravelly, tongue flicking your clit one last time before sealing his lips around it, humming low to vibrate through your core.
The orgasm hits you like crazy, your walls clenching hard around his fingers, gushing slick that he laps up hungrily, not missing a drop. You thrash and sob, body convulsing under his relentless ministrations, but even as the aftershocks ripple, he keeps pumping slow now, drawing it out, his cock still grinding insistently against your thigh, and you wondered what happened to the clumsy boy you knew, and why was he a fucking beast in bed for real—not knowing how he wasn’t really sure himself, just drunk in your essence probably? Or too fucking adamant to make you feel good, prove something even though you wanted him regardless.
“That’s one—now I’m gonna fuck you raw till you beg for me to stop.”
Well—fuck. He was too good at this, cause you were left speechless, staring at how spent he looked, pulling back just enough to meet your dazed eyes, lips shiny with your juices, hunger far from sated, and eyes darker than ever—he looked insanely hot.
Sunghoon’s gaze holds yours captive, that predatory glint in his eyes sending fresh shivers racing down your spine. His lips curve into a smirk, wicked and knowing, as he wipes a stray bead of your essence from his chin with the back of his hand, never breaking eye contact. The air between you crackles, thick with the scent of sex and sweat, your breaths mingling in the charged space. You can still feel the ghost of his fingers inside you, the way they curled just right, coaxing every last tremor from your core. But he’s not done—not by a long shot. That insistent press of his cock against your thigh grows bolder, the heat of it branding your skin, a silent vow of what’s to come.
“Speechless already?” He teases, his voice a husky rumble that vibrates through your chest. He leans in closer, his nose brushing yours in an almost tender gesture, a stark contrast to the feral hunger etched on his face, “I thought you wanted me to show you exactly how much I want you, hm? Will you be satisfied when I’m buried in deep?” His words drip with challenge, laced with that raw affection you’ve always known from him—the clumsy stumbles, the shy smiles—but twisted now into something intoxicatingly dominant.
You swallow hard, your throat dry despite the slick mess between your legs. The room spins a little, your body still humming from the high, but his proximity grounds you, pulls you back into the moment, “Hoonie—” you manage, your voice a breathy whisper, fingers twitching at your sides as if unsure whether to push him away or pull him in. The old him flickers in your mind—the boy who tripped over his own feet during movie nights, who blushed when your hands brushed accidentally. How had he transformed? It was like unleashing a storm you’d never seen brewing.
He chuckles low, the sound vibrating against your collarbone as he trails open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, savoring the salt of your skin, “yeah? Say my name like that again when I’m fucking you senseless.”
His hand slides up your thigh, possessive and unhurried, fingers digging in just enough to leave faint marks—reminders that you’ll feel tomorrow, a secret map of this night. He stopped just for a minute, and you watched him take off his pants and boxers in a go, your eyes widening in process as you watched him undress, the dim lights accentuating every inch of him—even the ones you wondered whether you’ll be able to handle or not.
He hooks your leg over his hip, opening you up further, the tip of his cock now teasing your entrance, slick with your arousal and his own pre-cum. The anticipation builds like a slow fuse, every shallow nudge sending sparks skittering through your nerves.
“Please,” you murmur, the word escaping before you can stop it, your hips arching instinctively toward him. It’s not begging—not yet—but it’s close, the vulnerability cracking through your haze. You want to unravel him too, to see that beast roar, but god, the way he looks at you, like you’re the only thing anchoring him—it makes your heart clench alongside the ache low in your belly.
Sunghoon pauses, his breath hitching, eyes softening for a fraction of a second as he searches your face. There’s that tenderness again, peeking through the cracks of his intensity—a silent question, a check-in amid the storm, “you okay, baby?” He asks, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper, his thumb stroking soothing circles on your hip. It’s so him, this blend of fire and care, and it only makes you want him more.
“More than good,” you reply, reaching up to tangle your fingers in his damp hair, tugging lightly to bring his mouth back to yours. The kiss starts soft, exploratory, lips brushing like a shared secret, but it ignites quickly, tongues tangling with renewed urgency. You taste yourself on him, musky and intimate, and it fuels the fire, your free hand roaming down his chest, nails scraping over the ridges of his abs.
He groans into your mouth, the sound raw and needy, breaking the kiss to nip at your lower lip, “fuck, Y/N—you drive me crazy. Always have.” With that admission hanging between you, he shifts his hips, the head of his cock pressing insistently now, parting your folds with deliberate slowness. Inch by torturous inch, he sinks into you and it takes a while, leaving the room with reverberations of your moans and groans as you accommodate to his size, the stretch burning sweetly, your walls yielding to his thickness. You gasp against his shoulder, biting down to muffle the sound, but he doesn’t let you hide—his hand cups the back of your neck, forcing your eyes to meet his as he bottoms out, fully sheathed.
“Look at me,” he demands, though his voice wavers with the effort of holding still, letting you adjust, “feel how perfect you are? Made for this—for me.”His forehead rests against yours, breaths syncing in the intimate cocoon of your bodies. The fullness is overwhelming, every pulse of him echoing through you, but it’s the emotion in his stare that hits hardest—the need of wanting you. Lovers entangled in a way that feels inevitable.
You nod, words failing as you clench around him experimentally, drawing a hiss from his lips, “Sunghoon—move. Please, I need—”
“I know what you need, baby,” he cuts in, voice strained, and then he’s moving—slow at first, a languid roll of his hips that grinds against that spot inside you, building the tension like embers catching flame. Each thrust is measured, deep, his cock dragging along your sensitive walls, the friction sparking pleasure that coils tighter with every pass. His hand slips between you, thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy, circling in time with his rhythm.
“Like that?” He murmurs, lips ghosting your ear, his free arm wrapping around your waist to hold you flush against him. The position is intimate, chest to chest, hearts pounding in tandem, but there’s nothing gentle about the way he picks up speed, hips snapping forward with increasing force. The wet sounds of your joining fill the room, obscene and arousing, mingling with your shared moans.
“Yes—god, yes,” you cry out, head falling back as the pleasure mounts, your nails digging into his shoulders for purchase.
“No baby, say my name,” he chuckles when you do so on repeat, and he’s relentless now, the beast fully unleashed, pounding into you with a ferocity that borders on punishing, yet every so often he slows, grinding deep, whispering praises that melt your bones, “so tight—so wet for me. You’re gonna cum again, aren’t you, love? Milk my cock until I can’t hold back.”
The words push you higher, your body responding with a flood of heat, slick coating him as you chase the edge. You can feel him everywhere—his sweat-slicked skin sliding against yours, the musky scent of him overwhelming your senses, the way his breath stutters when you squeeze around him. It’s raw, but threaded with that emotional undercurrent, the clumsy boy proving himself not through words, but through this worship of your body.
“Sunghoon, I’m—fuck, I’m close,” you gasp, your voice breaking as the coil snaps taut. He senses it, angles his hips just right, thumb pressing harder on your clit, and the world fractures. Your orgasm crashes over you, fiercer than the last, walls fluttering wildly around him as you sob his name, body arching in ecstasy. Stars burst behind your eyelids, pleasure radiating from your core in endless waves.
He doesn’t stop, riding it out with you, his thrusts erratic now as your release triggers his own, “that’s it, baby—cum on me. Fuck, you feel so good—”
With a guttural groan, he buries himself deep one final time, spilling hot inside you, his cock pulsing with each spurt. His body shudders against yours, arms tightening like a vice, as if afraid you’ll slip away in the haze, in awe of how you clenched harder, squirting all over his cock and abdomen, which is something you had never really done before.
For a long moment, you stay locked together, breaths ragged, the afterglow wrapping around you like a warm blanket. He presses soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, murmuring nonsense words of adoration, “you’re incredible,” he breathes.
He watches you staring at him with your pretty eyes, and now, he feels shy, yet not ready enough to part ways, so he settles with hiding his pretty face in your neck, trying to be impossibly close to you, licking the spots he’d marked earlier, making you giggle slightly, his own smile blooming when he hears that, and somehow, everything feels right again. With you playing with his hair, he giggles, and the switch up in his demeanour amuses you, because the fiercely jealous guy who dragged you out of the party had entirely melted back into the sweet boy you’d been missing for weeks.
“You’re like two different people, Hoonie,” you whisper, your fingers gently detangling the dark strands at the nape of his neck.
He hums a low, contended sound that vibrates against your skin. He shifts his weight, wrapping his arms even more securely around your waist to pull you flush against him, as if he’s terrified you might still disappear if he loosens his grip.
“I’m just me,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your skin. Slowly, he lifts his head. His cheeks are dusted with a pretty, shy pink flush, and his dark eyes are incredibly soft, completely devoid of the panic or anger that had clouded them earlier. He looks at you with a vulnerability that makes your breath hitch.
“I didn’t know what I was doing, Y/N,” he confesses, his thumbs gently stroking the sides of your waist. He swallows hard, “I was so desperate for you to see me as a man you could desire, not just some harmless puppy you felt sorry for. I—I actually looked up a guide.”
You blink, your hands stilling in his hair, “a guide?”
Sunghoon groans, dropping his forehead against your shoulder as if trying to hide from his own embarrassment, “WikiHow,” he mumbles, “how to flirt with a pretty girl, uh—with pictures.”
The room goes completely silent for a second. You stare down at the top of his dark head, your brain struggling to process the information.
“Wait,” you breathe out, the pieces suddenly snapping together in your mind, “the staring contest at the pub during trivia night?”
“Step one: Make eye contact,” he grumbles miserably.
“The voice note asking me to get boba, and then immediately inviting Jake and Jay?”
“I panicked because the guide said not to come on too strong. I used them as human shields.”
A massive, overwhelming swarm of butterflies suddenly erupts in your stomach. The guy who looks like he belongs on a runway, was secretly reading step-by-step internet articles because he was so nervous around you. It is the most endearingly pathetic, incredibly sweet thing you have ever heard in your entire life. You can’t help it—a laugh bubbles up in your chest, bright and genuine.
Sunghoon flinches slightly, his grip tightening, “don’t laugh at me,” he whines, sounding exactly like a babie, “Jake and Heeseung already found it on my laptop and roasted me for it. It was humiliating.”
“Hoonie,” you laugh softly, cupping his face and forcing him to look up at you. His eyes are wide and entirely unguarded, “you didn’t need any of that. The steps didn’t make me like you—you made me like you.”
He searches your face, clearly searching for any trace of pity, but only finding absolute adoration, “really?”
“Really,” you promise, your thumbs brushing over his sharp cheekbones, “I didn’t fall for the guy trying to be a smooth, mysterious flirt. I fell for the guy who fought the doorframe and lost, the guy who shared his umbrella in the rain, and the guy who sang Disney songs with me in the park. You never needed a guide, Sunghoon, I wanted you.”
A beautiful, relieved smile breaks across his face, the one that reaches his eyes and shows off his cute fangs. He leans into your touch, completely melting into your space, “I like you so much it makes my brain short-circuit,” he breathes out, his forehead resting against yours, “I’m entirely, hopelessly down bad for you, Y/N.”
“I really really like you too, you puppy,” you whisper, pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to his lips as he whined, making your eyes wide, “oh you’re into that—”
“Uh—i’ll get you some water,” he panicked, getting up, cock slipping out of you, and entirely forgetting about the clothes sprawled all over the floor, which made him yelp as he fell down.
You laughed freely, cause gosh, you really were falling for this man. Grabbing his leather jacket, you wore it as he tried to hide himself with embarrassment. It was a stupid choice to get up when your legs were not stable, because it resulted in you wobbling and falling right over hoon, the jacket doing nothing to hide your body, pressed against his so perfectly. Now, it was his turn to chuckle as he grabbed a strand of your hair, kissing it sweetly.
“Damn, was i that good?” He smirked, clearly loving the way you were hiding your face in his neck now.
“Oh shut up, puppy,” you mumbled, and he held on to you tighter.
“Well—this puppy isn’t done with you. C’mon baby, let me help you shower.”
Safe to say, you did much more than just showering, and even though exhaustion took over, sleep wasn’t something you entertained, pecking each other sweetly all night, acting clingier than ever, and honestly?
You wouldn’t have it any other way.
MEANWHILE:
Jay rattled the handle one more time, putting his shoulder into it just to be absolutely sure. He slowly turned his head to look at Jake and Heeseung in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the hallway.
“He locked it,” Jay said, his voice completely flat.
Jake pressed his forehead against the heavy wood door, looking genuinely heartbroken, “you’ve got to be kidding me—tell me you’re kidding. My bed is in there, Jay, my toothbrush, my entire life.”
“I don’t care about your toothbrush, Jake,” Jay snapped, rubbing his temples, “I care about the fact that we are currently homeless because Sunghoon final-fucking-ly figured out how to flirt.”
Heeseung didn’t even argue, he had already accepted his fate, sliding down the wall until he hit the floor. He lay flat on his back, staring blankly at the sky, “I planned this,” I muttered, “I planned the whole party with Beomgyu, and my reward is the floor.”
Down the hall, Jungwon and Karina stepped out, stopping dead in their tracks as they took in the tragic scene. Jungwon let out a loud snort, crossing his arms, “wow, look at this sad display. You guys look pathetic.”
Heeseung immediately sat up, he scrambled over to Karina, looking up at her with giant, desperate eyes, “Karina please, have mercy.”
Karina took a step back, “what are you doing?”
“Y/N’s bed is empty,” Heeseung pleaded, “i’m a great houseguest. I will literally buy your coffee for a week—do not leave me out here in the hallway with them.”
Karina looked down at Heeseung, then over at Jay and Jake, who were staring at her like abandoned stray dogs. She let out a long, suffering sigh, “fine, get up. Heeseung, you can take Y/N’s bed. But just you.”
“Bless you,” Heeseung whispered, jumping up and sprinting before she could change her mind.
Jungwon shook his head as they all made your way towards their dorm, looking entirely too amused as he walked over to unlock his own bedroom door down the hall, “well, good luck on the carpet, you two. Build a fort or something.”
He turned the key and pushed his door open. But the second the lock clicked, Jay and Jake exchanged a single, desperate look. Pure survival instincts kicked in, and no words were needed. Before Jungwon could even step inside, Jay and Jake shoved past him, rushing into the room like they were escaping a burning building.
“Hey! What the—” Jungwon yelled, spinning around.
It was too late. Jake was already laid across Jungwon’s mattress like a starfish, pulling the duvet up to his chin, while Jay wedged himself against the wall side of the bed, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing heavily to fake being asleep.
“You can’t kick us out!” Jake screamed, hair disheveled.
“I’m asleep!” Jay announced loudly, “so deep in sleep.”
Jungwon stood in the doorway of his own bedroom, staring at the two fully grown men currently occupying his mattress. He looked at Jake’s death grip on the blanket. He looked at Jay, who was very clearly peeking with one eye. The silence stretched for three agonizing seconds.
Jungwon just let out a long, deeply exhausted sigh, slowly reaching over and grabbing a single throw pillow off his desk chair, and turned on his heel.
“I hate all of you,” Jungwon muttered flatly, dragging his feet out into the living room to sleep on the couch.
“it’s okay, baby, i know,” satoru whispers words of comfort in your ear from behind. one of his arms is wrapped around your waist to keep your body close, the other circles your thigh, holding up your leg so his cock could slide in and out smoothly.
you’ve both just woken up from an afternoon nap, needy for each other’s touch. your lover’s raspy voice paired with his bedhead has been an irresistible combination.
satoru wasted no time in pulling your shorts down and freeing his erection from its confines. he went from rolling his hips against the fat of your ass and fondling your tits under your shirt, to burying his fat dick all the way up your cunt.
he’s so soft—so caring. his butterfly kisses make you drowsy again, the tingly sensations running from your face to your nape, and back down to your shoulders and upper arms. “let it out, yeah—good girl. don’t be shy,” satoru chuckles softly as he grinds his cock upwards, tip prodding at that sweet spot that makes your toes curl.
your eyes are half-lidded and blurry. you’re feeling so good and loved, so pleased and happy to have a partner like him. “right there, ‘toru,” you whimper quietly once you feel the head of his dick rub back and forth on the deepest parts of your velvety insides. satoru happily obliges, hugging your body even tighter to his chest before burying his face into the crook of your neck.
“here, baby?” the white-haired man asks, his hot breath sending a shiver down your spine as it ghosts over your skin. he keeps his dick balls deep inside you and switches to slow and shallow strokes, “y’re so pretty. you always know jus’ how to take it. so, so, so good.”
your hands are scrambling to hold onto the white sheets. you can’t physically take the amount of pleasure you’re getting, that inevitable peak gets closer and closer. your hips involuntarily jolt back against satoru, reciprocating his gentle thrusts. a big hand reaches out to yours that’s tugging at the covers, slender fingers intertwining with your own.
“m’sgood,” you mumble incoherently through a soft whimper. your back is positioned in a nasty arch that makes satoru’s dick tingle. he sighs against your nape before allowing his tongue to wet the skin, sucking on the same spot soon after. he does the same to your sensitive ears and neck—covering you with his love while also filling your body with the same.
satoru holds your hand tightly, squeezing it every now and then to reassure you. “i love you so much, y’know that, right?” he says in a gentle tone. he’s confessed his love to you so many times before, though he always makes it sound like it’s his first time doing so.
“i’m never letting you go, ever,” your partner promises before leaning over your shoulder to catch your lips in a kiss. satoru’s tongue sweeps over your bottom lip before rolling around in your warm mouth. his hips don’t stop, cock repeatedly appearing and disappearing inside of your pussy. the pace never escalates to make the moment last longer.
“mhmm— wanna b-be with you forever,” you mutter against his glossy lips, feeling safe and protected in satoru’s embrace like this. all you’re feeling, hearing and smelling is him. that’s what peace is for you. as long as you got him, you’re going to be just fine.
satoru smiles at your words. you feel so perfect around him, your cunt molded to fit his cock whenever he pleases, remembering its shape and allowing it to ruin your insides. “of course, sweets. i’ll treat you so well, ‘kay? you can count on me,” he comforts you with a forehead kiss.
“pretty girl. you’re perfect,” satoru continues to praise you like no other. his free hand runs over the small of your back and back to your thigh, keeping a gap between them so his cock can move a bit more freely. “let me hear your cute moans, c’mon. fuck, y’ turn me on so much,” he sighs, not knowing what he’d do without you.
satoru is obsessed with all of you. the combination of your personality and looks is heavenly. his lips never stop distracting you, his tender kisses covering your entire upper body. the lovey dovey atmosphere in the room never dulls even once.
“ah, ‘toruu, hnghh—can’t last f’ any longer,” you moan, your eyes nearly rolling back. your lover is all the evidence needed to let you know that sex doesn’t have to be rough to be good. he can make you cum for an infinite amount of times by simply grinding his hips against you—changing his techniques every now and then.
rolling his hips in small circles or simply pressing his cock all the way inside your cunt and then prodding at your sweet spots, is all what’s needed to make you feel like you’re on cloud nine.
“aww, my poor baby. can’t hold it in f’me?” satoru pouts before kissing your temples lovingly. he caresses your hip, other hand still not letting go of your hand. there’s such a deep connection between you two—no one can ever sever it. that strong bond feels more intimate when you’re merged into one like this.
“nooo, can’t,” you shake your head and whine about how close you are. satoru nods at your needy words and dips a hand down to rub your clit. his middle and ring finger move around the small bundle of nerves in circles. “khehe, that’s okay. let’s cum together,” he whispers as kisses find their way down your jawline.
you hum in agreement, little moans filling satoru’s ears as you get closer to your climax. your body trembles and heats up, your tummy tingles and tenses up. satoru’s in the same situation as you, his low moans turning into hisses and even quiet whines against the skin of your shoulder.
he holds you close, preparing both of you to reach your long awaited releases. “sh—shit, ‘m g’nna pull out, baby—give me a second,” you hear him whimper under his breath as his hand tightens its grip around yours. he’s nearly crushing your bones.
you don’t give him time to even think of pulling his cock out. you want to relive the sensation of having his seed spread inside of your cunt, overflowing until it’s dirtying the sheets. “no- ‘toru. inside, please,” you beg quietly as your pussy locks around his cock. your walls cling onto his dick, yearning to milk his heavy balls dry of every drop.
satoru gasps and hisses, trying to speak up, but getting overpowered by his own noises of desperation. “fuck, all right, princess. as you wish,” his voice is husky and deep as he pushes his cock in to the base before dumping his load inside you.
ropes of hot cum come out quickly, one after the other, filling you with a hot creamy liquid. you can feel every drop being drained inside your spasming cunt. your own cum mixes with his, creating a lewd mess between your thighs.
“th-thank you,” you whisper tiredly. your body relaxes in satoru’s embrace. you’re trembling due to the intense aftershocks and your lover wastes no time into kissing it better. your forehead is peppered with small pecks, the rest of your face following.
satoru giggles at your fucked out state. he gives you a head pat and nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. you can feel him grinning uncontrollably against your skin—the joy emitting from him is contagious.
“any time,” he sighs. you can feel his cock softening after that release, still nestled deep inside of you. he has no intention of pulling out, especially since it’s so comfortable. you let him cum inside you and thus he’ll do everything to keep that hot load buried deep inside your cunt.
you can nearly fall asleep like this with satoru. you have zero complains and simply need to relax after what just happened. perhaps take another nap or two.
the white-haired man kisses your shoulder and rubs your lower tummy, enjoying the softness, “i’m gonna prepare us a warm, relaxing bath in a second. let’s just cuddle some more, baby.”
Hrkg got a character song sung by their va's and they are so freaking sweet in it
They way it's all about their waking up routine?? And how two people that are not early birds came to appreciate exchanging "good mornings" ??!
Them being the person each other relies on???!!
The title referencing the blue earrings Kagi gave to Hirano???!!!(At this point those freaking piercings are more of a symbolic wedding ring than anything else)
·.⌇ 𝐒𝐘𝐏𝐍𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒. coming home from university has both stressed and tired you out — causing you to forget about satoru’s birthday. maybe your boyfriend could help you remember.
word count. 4.7k-ish
note. was supposed to come out on his (our) bday but writer’s block was ruthless :p hope you enjoy anyway x
tags. older bf!gojo satoru x sub!female reader. p.orn with plot. fluff to smut. age gap (reader 20 - early 20’s, satoru’s in his early 30’s). p in v -> unprotected, size difference, missionary, creampie, breast play, dirty talk, body worship, hickeys, praise, you f.uck in the kitchen, aftercare-ish, reader gets called ‘princess, sweetheart, baby, pretty.’ i present to you soft dom&older bf!gojo satoru. he’s absolutely smitten with you btw.
“lookin’ tired, sweetheart.” satoru comments with a subtle grin as he welcomes you home. home being his apartment that you had basically moved into. why? because it was close to the university you attend.
and maybe because your lover had coaxed you into it.
you sigh, eyes half closed and glazed over. the stress of exams, assignments and whatnot has been too much for your brain, “yeah, i’m sorry. i probably look like absolute shi—”
a pair of lips were quick to shut your negative remark up. satoru pulls you closer to him by the small of your back. his fluffy bangs brush over his closed eyes, the hairs lightly grazing your forehead as well. he smells and tastes sweet. like those strawberry flavoured candies he always carries with him in his pockets.
a faint string of saliva hanging between your two mouths was all that’s left after the intense kiss. it snaps, causing the small bit of liquid to cling onto your bottom lip.
“what’d i say about apologising when you did absolutely nothing wrong?” satoru asks in a gentle and hushed tone. his thumb presses down on your bottom lip to get rid of the transparent trail of saliva. his gaze is soft and loving — like it always is when he looks at you.
that man had once again rendered you speechless. it’s the small things that make you fall for him over and over, “that—uhm—i shouldn’t apologise for something i don’t have any control over.”
satoru’s dimples show as he looks down at you fondly. a large hand settles on the top of your head, messing up your hair whilst his lips lock yours in for another kiss.
“exactly,” your lover nods in approval before grabbing your bag and placing it aside. he also helps you take off your coat and even bends down to undo your shoes for you.
you wonder how you’ve even managed to land such a man.
satoru’s long fingers work quick to undo the laces on your shoes. your tired eyes can’t help but steal a glance at the veins that run down his slender hands — up his forearms and. . .
“somethin’ on your mind, princess?” his voice calls out as he massages your feet for a split second to ease the accumulated tension from all the walking. you simply shake your head ‘no’, though satoru knows you better than you know yourself.
with a light-hearted chuckle, he raises to his full length and leads you through the hallway. his footsteps were light whilst yours were the exact opposite: heavy and exhausted.
maybe a shower or bath would help you refresh and relax. thus, that’s exactly what the sorcerer recommends;
“why don’t you go take a nice shower whilst i prepare you a hot meal, hm?” satoru comments and stops in his tracks right before the door to the bathroom. his gaze lingers on your pretty face—his hands never leaving your skin.
the idea of taking a shower did seem like the ideal solution to your problems at the moment, “okay i will, but err. . .”
your voice trails off as you look up at satoru. his knuckles run over your cheeks lovingly and his warm gaze tells you that he’s smitten with you. totally. utterly. he makes you so nervous without even realising it in the slightest.
“you don’t have to cook me something. i know work has been hard on you too.” you finish your sentence with an apologetic little smile. one that makes satoru want to squeeze your cheeks together.
you had always been a bit selfless and it’s an admirable trait, but your boyfriend also has this gnawing urge to take care of you in any way he can. maybe it’s because he’s a few years older than you and knows from experience how tough things could get at your age.
satoru smirks and pokes your sides playfully, “don’t you worry your pretty little head ‘bout that. now let’s get you in that shower.”
a little yelp leaves your throat as you feel yourself get hoisted over his shoulder. the white-haired sorcerer opens the door with one hand, the other protectively placed on your waist to keep you from falling.
he settles you back on your feet in the middle of the room—eyes now filled with a playful glint. you could probably already guess the next words that leave his mouth.
“need help undressing? i’ll gladly do it for you,” satoru laughs. you roll your eyes and teasingly shove him towards the door. he puts his hands in the air to show his surrender, though doesn’t miss the opportunity to look you over one last time.
you’re like the embodiment of beauty even when your eyes have lost their usual spark. even if you barely have any energy left to do anything. he loves every side of you, no matter what.
resisting the urge to pull you into his arms for the nth time, your boyfriend eventually leaves you be and closes the door as he steps out. his mind, however, was still overly full with thoughts of you.
“ah, what a woman.” satoru mutters in pure amazement under his breath after departing from the bathroom. there’s a visible spring in his step as he walks to the kitchen—happy to take care of his girl.
. . .
you finish your much needed bath after about half an hour. you look in the bathroom mirror whilst wrapping a simple white towel around your torso. the bath sure did help to clear your mind, though there’s still one thing bothering you. something you’ve forgotten.
you can’t really put your finger on it, but it must have been something important. there’s an iffy feeling in your chest as you walk out of the bathroom — instantly heading towards the kitchen. surely, satoru could help you remember it.
“toru,” you call out before stepping into the kitchen. your lover is standing at the counter, his back towards you and his hands working fast to chop up some vegetables. the many pans and stoves scattered around the area only further prove his determination to prepare you a nice hot meal.
“yeah, princ— oh.” satoru eventually turns his head, looking over his shoulder to see you standing a few steps behind him. he couldn’t believe his luck; to have his gorgeous, gorgeous girlfriend in his apartment was one thing—but having his girlfriend in front of him with only a towel on was another thing. the remaining waterdroplets running down your skin made you all the more attractive.
he grins as he puts the knife down and quickly dries his hands. he couldn’t wait to put his hands on your body, “c’mere, pretty.”
you grunt the moment satoru envelopes you into a tight hug with your face squished into his chest. he nuzzles his cheek against the top of your head—over dramatically acting as if he hasn’t seen you for days.
his hands teasingly find their way under the material of the towel. the tips of his fingers are cold in comparison to your warm and damp skin. he drags the pad of his thumb up and down the curve of your ass; sighing in content as he feels the plush flesh.
“perv.” you mutter under your breath, though can’t deny that the light touch makes you putty in his hands. satoru responds with his usual ‘only when it comes to you’ comment before pulling away to take in your embarrassed expression. he lives for those physical reactions you have to his advances.
you slightly turn your head to the right, purposely avoiding his gaze. you face the door of the fridge that you stood in front of. your eyes fall onto the sticky notes. there’s one standing out from all the others.
you had placed it on there a few weeks ago so you wouldn’t accidentally forget that oh-so-important date.
turns out you did just that.
your face drops and you instantly go into panic mode. how could you fail to recall that today is satoru’s birthday? you don’t even know how to explain yourself. no amount of excuses would ever make this right. or so you thought.
satoru is an attentive lover; he is aware of almost everything that’s going on in your head. perhaps he is good at reading minds. or perhaps it’s just that your body language and facial expressions disclose everything he needs to know about your current mood.
“hey, i’m not upset.” satoru breathes out, eyes closed as he slides ticklish kisses down your neck. it is a sign of reassurance; he doesn’t want you to conclude that he’s angry with you for forgetting such a thing. besides, he understands that being an university student is a struggle by itself, “having you here with me at the end of the day ‘s all that matters to me, okay?”
you sigh, both in frustration and content. you’re frustrated with yourself for being too caught up with your studies, though you’re also appreciative for satoru’s empathy and lenience. he is so kind and mature; always optimistic about everything. your mindset is the opposite of his. your age gap sure did explain those cognitive differences.
despite satoru’s consolation, you still feel like you owe him something. you tilt your head back so you’re able to look him in the eyes. you give him the cutest pout ever and that man is—once again—feeling light-headed. satoru can’t decide whether to continue consoling you or to tease you about forgetting his birthday.
you are adorable when you sulk.
“i’m still.. well, sorry.” you sniffle, cuddling up to your lover to show your genuine remorse, “i know that you wouldn’t ever forget about my birthday - no matter how busy you might. . . .”
blahblahblah. you are babbling on and on about how inappropriate it is of you to forget his birthday, but satoru is hearing none of that.
his coherent thoughts shut down the moment he felt your tits press up against his chest. it is meant as an innocent hug on your part, however apparently couldn’t be interpreted as one.
your visible cleavage and the way the towel is doing a bad job at hiding the volume of your breasts increases the lewd thoughts gathering in his mind. there is no way that he can survive any more physical contact between you two without taking some action.
“..so, i was thinking that i could make it up to you somehow.” you conclude at one point in the conversation. satoru’s body subtly jolts as he snaps out of his dazed state.
he gives you a sheepish smile and tries to play it off by continuing the conversation, “make it up to me, huh?”
you nod in response and give him your best puppy dog eyes. your lover sighs in defeat; satoru couldn’t keep his emotions and carnal desires in check anymore. his hands are twitching, aching and longing to touch you all over.
the rational part of his mind told him to continue comforting you. to tell you that there was no need to compensate for failing to remember his birthday. the lust-driven part of him craves to take you up on the offer and give a different and more sexual twist to it.
satoru takes a deep breath and puts some distance between you two. not because he is annoyed or irritated by your behaviour, but because he might lose control of himself.
you can’t guess the intentions behind your lover’s actions, thus confusion follows; “satoru? you okay?”
maybe he actually is displeased by your lack of remembrance—deep, deep inside. you bite your lip anxiously, reaching your hand out to hold satoru’s in attempt to try and get him to look at you. his vision is obstructed by his own bangs, a dark shadow casted over his eyes, one that prevents you from gauging his mood.
you feel a light electric shock go through your body the instant your fingers curled around his hand. your boyfriend’s body stiffens and it’s like time stilled.
“fuck, i tried.” satoru mutters under his breath.
then, before you knew what was happening, you’re pinned to the door of the fridge. there are efforts made to articulate proper words, but the shock has overtaken all your senses. it isn’t like you could speak either—your lips are sealed shut by your lover’s.
his hands didn’t waste a single second now that they have free rein. they fondle you everywhere; from cupping your cheeks, to sliding down your neck and lower. his fingers rub up against the area where your nipples would be, sensually stroking them through the towel. his feverish kisses combined with his constant touches make you shiver in exhilaration.
you’re trying to keep up with his sudden burst of lust and that’s adorable to the white-haired sorcerer. he can feel you struggling to keep yourself balanced on your toes, your arms wrap tightly around his neck so you’d be inseparable. you feel him grin against your lips for a split second—the gesture alerting you of what might be coming.
“mmh,” satoru grunts once he frees your bare body from its confines. he finally breaks the kiss—the sole reason being to admire the sight of you.
it feels like he just unveiled a heavenly painting. his eyes don’t know what to focus on. if he is to properly and completely appreciate your nude body, it’d take him days or even weeks, “god, have i ever told you how lucky i am to be yours?”
your heart stutters in your chest as all attention is on you. the gentle yet hungry touch of your lover, his hands caressing everywhere they can reach and his half-lidded eyes that are focused on your most intimate parts—you don’t know how much more you can take.
satoru’s breathing becomes even heavier than it was moments ago. he leans his head down to your level, lips hovering above the space between your neck and shoulder. his mouth latches onto your skin after taking a moment to try and keep himself from rushing into things. but alas, he is a simple man.
his lips work precisely and diligently to leave hickeys on every inch. his teeth gently sink into your flesh here and there, his warm saliva coating the faint markings left. your body is his canvas for tonight and the many other nights that are yet to come — for as long as you give him permission to.
“ngh— t.. toru,” you stammer, almost squealing. the sloppy kisses left on your sensitive skin resulted in you whining for more. satoru feels a rush of satisfaction like no other; the frequency of his touches only increasing with each sound erupting from your throat. his tongue slides over your plump breasts, his fingers flicking the nipple he isn’t sucking on.
he eventually detaches from your tits, leaving them both covered in his saliva. he hums in delight at the erotic view and gives both your breasts a last kiss. satoru looks up into your eyes again—a sense of want in them, “you look like you have somethin’ to say, baby.”
you do, but, don’t know how to bring the message across. it is embarrassing to say all of your thoughts out loud; all that you actually want him to do that you. you know satoru would love it if you do, however you do not have the guts to.
your body does all the talking anyway. there is a pool of slick forming between your thighs, your bodily fluids showing just how aroused you are. you aren’t the only one in that state; satoru has had a raging hard-on the entire time.
“i want you.” there it goes.
you avert your eyes, though not for long. gentle fingers hold your chin up, forcing you to stare at your lover. his face is intensely close and your heart is in your throat. satoru grins at your shy behaviour, finding it all the more endearing.
“awh, my little princess wants me?” he pouts, almost mockingly if you didn’t know better. his gaze flickers downwards, “where d’ya want me? show me, baby.”
if you aren’t embarrassed already, you’d sure be now. satoru’s teasing words and the sultry tone of voice he uses eventually urges you to comply. your shaky fingers wrap around his wrist, bringing his hand down towards your tingling cunt, “here.”
the older man hisses at the direct contact his hand makes with your pussy. it is so wet and ready — he wanted nothing more than to bury his fat cock between your folds and feel your sweet little cunt cling onto it.
he cups your cunt delicately, grazing his thumb against your clit. he traces faint circles on the sensitive bundle of nerves to make you squirm and whimper in pleasure. his other fingers spread your folds apart so he can collect your wetness on them.
“how naughty,” satoru sighs. his index finger prods at your entrance, but your thighs clamp down around his hand before he’s able to push it in.
he snickers in amusement and retracts his hand. he licks your juices off of his long fingers in a painfully slow manner, “well.. who am i to deny you? what the princess says, goes.”
satoru lifts your body up in his arms, allowing your legs to wrap around his waist. he kisses you passionately again—his tongue swirling around yours. you exchange soft moans as your hands lift his shirt up and over his head.
you cut the kiss short to appreciate the sight of your lover’s well-built upper body. that drives him utterly insane. that look you give him.
satoru curses under his breath and pulls you down onto the carpet below. he carefully places you on your back and—once you are settled—instantly rushes to undo his grey sweatpants.
his eyes are darting from his clothes to your naked body under him. god, he wants to fuck you so bad. the view of you spread out and patiently waiting for him to take you had him weak in the knees. it’s a sinful scene, yet the pleading and almost innocent-like look in your eyes is a complete contrast.
“don’t worry, i’ll give it to you in a second, baby.” satoru grins once he pulls his boxers down to his knees—revealing his hardened cock. he strokes it slowly and the pre-cum drips down the shaft, his thumb smearing the droplets all over his pink tip.
after getting a couple strokes in, he grabs the base of his dick and guides it to your wet cunt. satoru rubs his tip up and down your slit. what he didn’t expect is for his cockhead to slide into you so easily. he didn’t even have to put in the slightest of effort.
your back arches due to the feeling and your nails dig into the carpet below you. the mixture of your slick and his pre-cum is all the lubricant you need.
“shit. seems like she doesn’t wanna let go any time soon.” satoru addresses your cunt with a groan whilst he slips his fat cock deeper into you. his eyes roll back as he feels the warmth of your pussy engulfing him, “. . .not like i was planning to leave her empty anyway.”
you moan and shiver at both satoru’s dirty words and his dick that’s currently stuffing your insides full. your mouth hangs open, your eyes remain shut and your brain takes in all the granted sensations. adjusting to his lengthy size takes you a few seconds and when you gave your boyfriend permission to continue— that’s exactly what he does.
his hips thrust in an almost hypnotising rhythm: back and forth, back and forth. every interval between the firm movements is the exact same. the thing that differs and makes the experience all the better, is the difference in strength behind each thrust.
one moment he’s carefully sliding in and out of your sopping cunt and in the next he’s forcefully slamming his cock all the way in and out. satoru stifles his moans by attaching his lips to yours—capturing them in a sloppy, rough kiss.
“satoru—satoru, ah, please.. right there,” you mewl into his mouth. his tongue finds yours and your salivas mix.
your lover answers your pleas by holding onto your hand, your fingers interlocking with his thumb soothingly rubbing your skin. satoru never fails to make you feel loved during intimate acts like these. no matter how filthy, nasty and rough he’s fucking you.
you arch your back and your chest presses against satoru’s, causing him to groan against your lips. a cocky grin appears on his face after he moves his head to the crook of your neck. he leaves a couple hickeys along the area of your throat—his hips not giving you a break. even as you continuously whimper and look like you’re about to lose your mind from pleasure.
that’s what satoru wants; to have you come undone beneath him. it’s the most beautiful thing in the world to him. others may call it perverted, but the older man always aims to make you reach as many orgasms as you can in one night. it fuels his carnal desires to see you convulse and shake after every intense climax.
his baby feeling good is all he wants to achieve.
“mhm, i know, princess. i know.” satoru breathes out and returns his lips to yours. he can’t go on long without tasting you. you’re like a drug he’s addicted to. every reaction—small or big—gets him going, “take it easy—fuck, you can do that f’me."
you reply with incoherent noises of agreement. there’s not a thought going on behind those watery eyes of yours. that much is obvious to your boyfriend.
your legs lock his cock inside of you by wrapping around his hips. your eyes are glazed over; a cockdrunk look. one that would make any man cum on spot.
“princess, wait,” satoru whines. he can’t stop himself, yet he’s telling you to wait. his body refuses to come to a halt as it strives towards a satisfying orgasm. he can feel it, his balls tightening and ready to spill everything they have, “if you continue looking at me like that, ‘m gonna fuckin’ cum.”
he isn’t lying. you’re nearly driving him over the edge with everything you do. your legs that tighten their grip around his hips in fear of him pulling out is his favorite thing to experience. it’s like you’re desperate to continue.
your hands play with his sweaty body, fingers caressing his hard chest to feel his heartbeat. you’re drooling. your head is spinning as you think of your lover claiming you. fucking his precious cum into you, “inside—want it inside. all of it.”
satoru chokes on his spit. you don’t know what you do to him. muttering such erotic words causes the older man to malfunction every time. without fail. his hips are painfully ramming against yours.
“you sure? ah, shit.” satoru curses. his brows are furrowed, his hands holding you by your jaw. the view of you with your head tilted back and your teary eyes looking straight into his is pure perfection, “can’t deny you when you look so hot begging me to cum inside your greedy little pussy.”
the room is spinning. your nails claw into satoru’s back, leaving faint red marks on his pale skin. you shudder the instant he slides out of you until all that’s left is his pink tip prodding at your entrance.
it’s like he gets off on it. to see you whimper, quiver and struggle to contain your pleas for permission to cum. your boyfriend drags his tip up and down your slit, tapping it against your clit repeatedly.
“cum f’me, baby.” satoru coos. he knows you’re right on the edge. before you can reply, he shoves his cock back inside your spasming cunt—ruthlessly pounding you until you scream his name.
your eyes roll back and all you can do is hold your breath the moment the intense orgasm washes over you. your hips buck, your legs tremble and your pussy gushes all over his cock.
spurts of clear liquid cover satoru’s thighs. you squirting isn’t something he had expected to see, but it is a pleasant surprise regardless. it all gets too much for your lover and it drives him to his own climax as well.
satoru hugs you tightly to him. your chests press together with one of his arms holding your upper body up—his nose buried into your hair. a muffled grunt escapes his mouth and that’s when you know that he's reaching his finish.
“please—take it, take it, take it,” satoru stutters and stammers. he can’t form any proper words the moment his cock twitches and releases a huge load of sperm into your womb. it’s an overwhelming amount; globs of transculent white liquid ooze out from between your folds.
his sticky cum slides down to your asshole and onto the carpet, staining it. satoru bites his bottom lip whilst his body is still recovering, cock going soft once he pulls it out. he doesn’t know what to do or where to look, yet somehow his gaze always darts back to your dripping cunt.
“fuck. . . that’s hot.” the older man takes in a deep breath. it’s too soon to get hard again, he figures. the way you’re still trembling and struggling to catch your breath tells him enough. you need a break. and a well-deserved one it is.
your weak taps against satoru’s shoulder snaps him out of his dazed state. he takes your hand in his and gently squeezes before helping you into a sitting position. his blue eyes flash with worry,
“hey, hey, baby—you okay?” satoru asks. his voice is raspy, though obviously filled with concern. he rubs your back and encourages you to take deep breaths. small kisses to your temples help calm you down too.
your breathing eventually returns to normal. you chuckle tiredly and lean your head against his shoulder. your attentive lover wipes the saliva from the corners of your lips and does the same with the tears around your eyes. you sniff, “y-yeah. just felt amazing, hehe.”
satoru sighs in relief. he was scared that he hurt you somehow. your confession makes him laugh and squeeze your body against his. he cups your face and kisses you twice out of pure adoration.
you’re always ten times more adorable to him after you’ve had sex.
“aw, glad it did.” satoru smiles, his dimples showing. your eyes glisten and you smile back out of reflex. you pucker your lips and your lover takes the hint. he presses his mouth against yours once more; this time playfully swiping his tongue over your bottom lip.
you pull back and teasingly swat his bicep. satoru tickles your side as a response. and that’s how you once again end on the floor, with a heavy weight pressing onto your front.
satoru nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck and breathes in your scent. you’re the best thing to have happened to him. you, the love of his life.
“the best present i could have ever gotten.” the white-haired sorcerer mumbles to no one in particular. though, you heard it. faintly.
you rub his back. you’re sure you made it up to him. he’s clinging onto you, nearly suffocating you by laying on top of your smaller body, but you don’t mind. you play with his hair and your fingernails graze against his undercut to which satoru reacts with a low purr.
you’re happy. he’s happy. that’s all that matters;
Hello everyone I have decided to discontinue MARIONETTE ....my exam's pressure is really getting to me and tbh I have lost the motivation for writing at this point I might ( just a slight chance) continue MARIONETTE again in the future but for now I don't see any ideas coming to me on how it's going to end .... Writing oneshots seems much easier currently so I'll be posting marionette on private now
