file name : ˗ˏˋ starved teaser ⨾ ─── 「 전정국 」
⤷ full fic coming this kinktober 𐕣
⟶ ꉂ the devil works hard, an incubus works harder ⸝⸝⸝
⤷ incubus!jungkook x afab!reader 1.3k full fic ~6k dirty talk just a taste of what's to cum demon tingz
You wake up to the smell of smoke.
Not the fire-smoke of camping and bonfires—something sweeter, darker, like incense burning in a church with the windows closed for a hundred years. It curls into your nostrils and sits on your tongue, thick as honey.
Your eyes open. Something at the edge of your vision makes your heart kick once, hard, against your ribs.
A man is sitting in your desk chair.
He’s turned it around so he’s facing the bed, legs spread, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely interlaced.
Dark hair falls across his forehead. His jaw is sharp enough to cut glass. His mouth—curved into something that’s not quite a smile, not quite a smirk—sits there like it knows secrets about yourself that you don't even know yet.
But it’s the eyes that stop your breath.
Deep red. The red of embers just before they die, the red of a sunset seen through closed eyelids, the red of something not human.
He’s wearing black. Black shirt, black pants, black boots. Everything about him is lean and deliberate, yet muscular and defined. A body built for movement and bulk.
You should be scared. You know this. A strange man in your apartment in the middle of the night with red eyes and a smile that says prey. Your phone is on the nightstand. The door is ten steps away. Your vocal cords still work, theoretically.
But fear isn’t what’s moving through your bloodstream right now. It’s something hotter. Something that pools low in your belly and spreads outward.
The man tilts his head. His smile widens a fraction.
“You’re awake.” His voice is smoke and silk and laughter pressed together. “I was starting to think you’d sleep through the whole performance.”
“Who are you?” Your voice comes out steadier than you expected. “How did you get in?”
He raises an eyebrow. “There's very few places I can't get into. But funny enough, your deadbolt is also broken.” He gestures lazily toward the door. “You really should get that fixed. Any creature of the night could just…walk right in.”
Creature of the night. He says it like it’s a joke, but his red eyes don’t blink.
“You’re not human.” It's a statement more than a question. Your mouth made the words before your brain approved them, but the moment they’re out you know they’re true.
“Very good.” He leans back, legs still spread. The movement pulls his shirt tight across his chest in a way that has no business being that distracting. “Jungkook. Incubus. Approximately sixteen hundred years old—give or take a century, you lose track. Currently between feeding cycles and exceptionally bored.” He counts off on his fingers. “Anything else you’d like to know before we begin?”
Begin what?
“Incubi aren’t real.”
“Neither is a man who can find the clitoris, and yet here you are, still hoping.”
The laugh punches out of you before you can stop it. It’s a shocked, incredulous sound that hurts your raw throat and makes him grin and it transforms his whole face from intimidating to devastating.
“You’ve been watching me.”
“I’ve been listening.” He drops his voice on the last word, lets it curl into a register that makes your thighs press together under the sheets. “The screaming in the car was particularly moving. Very cathartic. Very moving.”
“How long have you been—”
“Following you? Three days. Watching? Mmm a month?” He stands, and the movement is fluid in a way that human bodies aren’t, no wasted motion, no weight shifting. “Here’s the thing about incubi, little human. We feed on sexual energy. Frustration, arousal, release—the whole spectrum. And you…” His red eyes drag down your body, visible even through the thin sheet. “You are a five-course meal that’s been left to cool on the counter.”
You should be offended, but you’re not. You’re something else entirely, something that has your pulse beating in a place that isn’t your wrist.
“So this is dinner for you.”
He breathes out a chuckle. “Don’t reduce it to just dinner.” He takes a step toward the bed. “It’s dinner and a show. It’s a Michelin-starred tasting menu. It’s…” Another step. “The kind of meal you remember for centuries.” The bed dips as he sits on the edge, one hand braced beside your hip on the mattress. “But only if you want it. Consent is sexy. Also, my kind have rules.”
Your throat works. “What rules?”
“Can’t take what isn’t offered. Can’t feed unless there’s desire already there.” His smile sharpens. “And you, little human, are absolutely dripping with desire. Metaphorically speaking. For now.”
The sheets are still between you. Nothing has even really happened, but your body is already responding in ways that would embarrass you if you had any shame left after everything else tonight—nipples tight, pussy slick, breath coming faster and shallower with every word out of his impossible mouth.
“What do I have to do?” you ask.
“Invite me.”
“I’m inviting you.”
“Say it.” He leans closer. The red of his eyes is hypnotic, depthless. You could fall into and never hit the bottom. “Say I want you to fuck me, Jungkook.”
A full-body shiver rolls through you and your mouth opens. The words are right there, crowding your tongue, and some distant part of your brain is still trying to raise logical objections—he could be a murderer, he could be a hallucination, he could be a murderer who’s also a hallucination—but your body has already made its decision.
“I want you to fuck me, Jungkook.”
His smile goes feral. “Good girl.”
Two words and you’re already gone. He hasn’t touched you yet. He hasn’t done anything but talk and smile and exist in your bedroom with his red eyes and his dark hair and his body that moves like water. But good girl lands in your chest and radiates outward until your fingers are gripping the sheets.
Then he touches you. Just your chin, at first. Your eyes seem to have drifted so he uses two fingers to tilt your face up so you’re looking directly into those impossible eyes. His skin is warm—warmer than human, almost feverish—and the contact sends a jolt through your nervous system like he’s plugged you into a socket.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he says, and his thumb brushes across your lower lip. “I’m going to do all the things those human men couldn’t. I’m going to take my time. I’m going to make you come so many times you forget what century you’re in. And then, when you think you can’t possibly take any more, I’m going to fill this tight little pussy so full of my come that you’ll be dripping for days.” He says it like he’s reading a scholarly journal. Matter-of-fact. “You’re going to feel me every time you sit down tomorrow. You’re going to feel me when you’re at your little desk in your little office, and you’re going to squirm in your chair, and your friend is going to ask if you’re okay, and you’re going to have to lie and say yes when really you’re still feeling my cock inside you from the night before.”
Your breath has stopped. Your brain has stopped. Everything has stopped except the hot pulse between your legs and the way his thumb is swipes along your trembling lip.
“Does that sound like something you want?”
“Yes. Fuck yes.”
“Ah ah ah. Say my name.”
“Yes, Jungkook.”
“Good girl.” That smile again. “Now. Let’s begin.”
⟶ ꉂ some lessons are better learned the hard way ⸝⸝⸝
⤷ lifeguard!chris x lifeguard!reader 3.4k pwp aussie boy is back def jealous even though he denies it possessive!chris graphic smut car sex anal play creampie he might be a lil insane but we love it
You push through the aquatic center doors, the chlorine smell hitting you before you even entered the building. That sharp, clean bite in the air that means summer. Means Chris.
Marigold Hills Country Club gleams under the Australian sun, all white stucco and endless blue water, the lap pool stretching out like a sheet of glass nobody's touched yet. You're early. You're always early on the first day.
Chris is already there. He stands at the edge of the pool, clipboard in hand, board shorts hanging low on his hips, Ray-Bans pushed up into that soft dark hair. His back is to you, but you'd recognize those shoulders anywhere, the way they broaden out, muscles shifting as he scribbles something on the morning checklist. Your stomach does that stupid little flip it does anytime your boyfriend is around.
A whole year. A whole year since last MVP competition that was supposed to be a rivalry and somehow turned into this. Into him. Into late nights cruising around with his hand on your thigh. Into you waking up in his bed with the ceiling fan clicking overhead and his arm draped around you, tugging you close even in sleep.
You drop your bag on the lounge chair closest to you.
"Fucking hell," you say, loud enough to carry. "They let anyone work here now, don’t they?"
Chris turns. And there it is. The dimple and bright smile combo that has your heart skipping a beat.
"Oi, careful," he says, walking toward you with that loose, confident stride, tongue pushing against his lower lip. God, he’s delicious. "Last person who tried to trash-talk me ended up screaming my name in the showers."
"Hmm, doesn’t ring any bells."
"Probably because you blacked out from how good it was."
You snort, crossing your arms. "Does that even happen for real?"
“I don’t know.” He stops inches away, close enough that you can smell sunscreen and the faint musk of the body wash you bought him a few weeks ago—cedar and sandalwood that makes your brain go fuzzy at the edges. His hand finds your hip, thumb tracing the strip of skin where your tank top rides up. "Should we test it out in the showers again?"
You roll your eyes, even as the warmth crawling up your neck betrays you. "Your ego should be studied."
"Mmm." He dips his head, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. "Missed you, baby."
It rolls off his tongue so well. And the way he said it in your ear—he knows what that shit does to you. Your body leans into him before your brain can authorize it and he wraps his arms around you in a hug.
"Missed you too," you murmur against his chest, even though you were just over at his off-campus apartment a week before finals.
Someone clears their throat, loudly and deliberately, with the kind of emphasis that screams I've been standing here for a while and you two are disgusting.
You both turn.
A guy stands by the equipment shed, one hand resting on the stacked pile of kickboards like he's been waiting. He's fit in that gym-rat way, biceps straining against his red polo, jaw so sharp it could probably cut glass. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Teeth so white they're almost offensive.
"Morning," he says, and his smile is a little too toothy. "Matt. New hire. Manager said I should find Chris for orientation?"
Chris doesn't move his hand from your hip. "Yeah, that's me."
"Sweet." Matt's eyes flick to you. Then down. Then up again, slow enough that you feel it like a physical drag across your skin. "And you are?"
You recoil a bit at his obvious leering before saying your name.
"My girlfriend," Chris says immediately.
The words land flat and final. The verbal equivalent of a locked door.
Matt's eyebrows lift a fraction. "Oh, yeah? It's cool that this place lets you date each other."
"’Lets?’" Chris repeats back, scoffing. "We’ve been here the same amount of years. No one ‘lets’ us date. We just do. Anyway, we’re both senior lifeguards, so you'll be seeing a lot of her around."
"Lucky me."
The way he says it—light, almost joking—shouldn't make your skin prickle. But something about the way his gaze lingers just a half-second too long on your lips before snapping back to Chris makes the atmosphere feel about ten degrees warmer.
"Right," Chris says, and he finally drops his hand, but not before giving your ass a quick and firm pat that's definitely not subtle. "You wanna go get changed, baby? I'll get Matt here sorted and meet you at the shallow end."
Chris doesn't normally do that—doesn't normally stake claims in front of strangers like he's planting a flag. But there's something in his jaw now, a tightness you've only seen once or twice before, back when you were still pretending to hate each other and the old, rich geezers would try and hit on you.
“Okay,” you say, shrugging and kissing his cheek. You grab your bag and head for the locker room.
Behind you, you hear Chris's voice, businesslike and clipped. "So. Rules. First one—"
The locker room door swings shut.
Morning shift passes in a blur of sunscreen application, whistle checks, and the eternal struggle of trying to keep children and teens alike from running on wet concrete. You're stationed at the deep end, Chris has the lap lanes, and Matt, apparently, got assigned to the kiddie pool, which means he spends approximately forty percent of his time actually watching children and sixty percent walking back and forth past your chair.
"Need water?" he asks, on his third pass.
"I'm good."
"Sun's pretty brutal today. Sure you don't want me to help you put some more sunscreen on?"
"I'm good."
He grins, unfazed. "Just being helpful."
Right. Helpful.
The thing is, Matt isn't technically doing anything wrong. He brings you a Gatorade without being asked. He offers to switch stations when the sun shifts and your spot gets blasted. He laughs too hard at your jokes about the morning's aqua-aerobics instructor, who keeps playing Cher at ear-bleeding volume. He's friendly. He's attentive. He's—
"Fucking relentless," Chris mutters, appearing at your side during the two pm rotation. His shirt stretches across his chest as he folds his arms across it, making you stare unblinking. Sweat gleams along his collarbones. His sunglasses have slipped down his nose, and behind them, his dark eyes are fixed on the kiddie pool with an intensity you’ve never seen.
"Jealousy looks good on you," you say.
"I'm not jealous."
"Uh-huh."
"I'm annoyed." He shifts his weight, and his shoulder brushes yours. "There's a difference."
You hum, nodding along.
"Jealous is when you're worried. Annoyed is when you're just..." He pauses, and you see his jaw work, muscle flickering beneath the skin. "I don’t know—fucking annoyed, babe."
"Of what?"
"Of how many times Pretty Boy over there looks at my girlfriend."
Heat curls low in your belly. "Chris."
"What? I'm up to fourteen. Fifteen." He doesn't look at you. "There it is. Fifteen. D'you wanna guess how many times he's looked at the actual children he's supposed to be supervising?"
"Zero?"
"Zero. You owe me a beer."
You nudge his ankle with your foot. "You're being ridiculous."
"Am I?" He finally turns his head, and the full force of that gaze hits you square in the chest—dark and steady and burning with something that makes your thighs press together on the lifeguard chair. "Because common courtesy is you don’t look at another man’s girl. I guess he needs a crash course."
"I think he’ll get over it. Plus, I’m not interested. You know that."
"I know, I know." Chris's hand drops, finding the back of your calf. His fingers wrap around it, thumb stroking the sun-warmed skin just below your knee. "But maybe I could teach him a thing or two about how to keep your eyes to yourself."
You roll your eyes as he stares off, thinking. He wasn’t a saint not too long ago either. Still isn’t. But you sit there, letting him plot while his hand creeps an inch higher up your leg.
"You’re not busy tonight, right?" He knows you aren’t.
"No, why?"
"Let’s go on a little cruise together."
"Okay."
His smiles, turning to you and squeezing the same leg. "No convincing needed I see."
Six pm comes slow and sticky, the sun finally starting to dip toward the mountains as the last families pack up their screaming toddlers and their too expensive sunglasses. You're stripping the lane lines with Chris, working opposite ends of the pool while Matt supposedly hoses down the deck chairs. Supposedly being the operative word, because every time you glance up, he's found a new angle to watch you from.
"Okay," Chris says under his breath, coiling rope with aggressive efficiency. "That's thirty-one."
"You're still counting?"
"I'm a man of commitment." He yanks the lane line harder than necessary. "Also he just asked if you needed help carrying the chemical kit. Which weighs like three kilos."
"I can handle it."
"That's what I told him. Politely." His tone suggests the politeness was questionable.
You finish the last lane line and straighten up, stretching your back. Your shoulders ache in a satisfying way—the kind of ache that comes from a full day of work and sun and the low-grade tension of your boyfriend quietly losing his mind over a new hire who hasn't figured out boundaries yet.
Matt materializes beside you like he's been waiting for a cue. Which he probably has.
"All done? Nice. Hey, a bunch of us are grabbing drinks later. You should come."
There's no mention of Chris. Just you. Singular.
"Busy," Chris says, appearing at your elbow. His arm snakes around your waist, squeezing. "Date night."
"Oh." Matt's smile doesn't waver, but something flickers behind it—a micro-expression, there and gone. "No worries. Another time, yeah?"
"Probably not," Chris says, and his dimple flashes, but it’s not friendly.
Matt waits a beat. Two. Then he shrugs, that easy, unbothered roll of his shoulders. "Your loss."
He walks toward the staff exit, his wet flip-flops slapping against the concrete.
The second the door swings shut, you turn to Chris. "Um hello? I can speak for myself."
“I’m sorry, babe. I know you can, but holy shit he pisses me off.”
“Again—not interested in him. You’re acting insane.”
"I'm selfish and obsessed with you," he says, as if that explains everything. Which…yeah it does.
You both quickly lock up, and before you can say a word he's already pulling you toward the parking lot. His grip is firm around your wrist, and there's an urgency in the way he's moving that makes your pulse skitter. Oh, you know that walk. He’s turned on. "Truck. Now."
You let out a small laugh. "Romantic."
"I'll show you romantic." He glances back over his shoulder, and the look in his eyes is filthy. "Get in the fucking truck, baby."
His truck is parked at the far end of the staff lot, tucked behind the maintenance shed where the floodlights don't quite reach. Chris has the back door open before you can even make a joke about his eagerness, and then you're tumbling onto the bench seat, and he's climbing in after you, and the door slams shut with a heavy thunk that seals out the rest of the world. It smells like his cologne in here. Yum.
"Chris—"
He doesn't let you finish. His mouth crashes into yours, and it's not gentle, it's not soft, it's the kind of kiss that means business—tongue and teeth as he angles your head back against the seat. One hand fists in your hair. The other is already under your shirt, calloused palm sliding up your ribs.
"Fuck that guy," he mutters against your lips. "Looking at you, at your ass. You know what that's like? Watching some bloke undress my girl with his eyes for hours?"
"Chris—"
"Bringing you fucking Gatorade." His mouth moves to your jaw, your throat, teeth grazing the tendon there. "Like I don't know what you drink. Like I don’t take care of you. Like I haven't been the only one making you come for the last year."
Your hips buck involuntary at that. Desperate.
"Oh, you like that?" His laugh vibrates against your collarbone. "You like when I talk about making you come?"
"Fuck, Chrissss,” you whine.
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and his grin is wicked and sharp and so fucking beautiful it makes your chest ache. "Get up here."
He flips you. One second you're on your back with him hovering over you, and the next you're straddling his lap, knees bracketing his hips, the hard ridge of him pressing up through the dark sweats he changed into and right against the seam of your leggings. His hands find your ass and squeeze hard, pulling you down against him.
"These," he says, snapping the waistband of your leggings. "Off."
"You're very demanding tonight."
"Off, or I rip them."
"You wouldn't."
His eyebrow lifts. His fingers hook into the fabric.
"Okay, okay, Jesus—" You scramble to shimmy out of them, and it's awkward and ungraceful and your elbow hits the window and Chris laughs, a low smoky sound that makes your stomach flip. "Shut up. Help me."
"Where's the fun in that?"
But he helps anyway, big hands tearing the leggings down your thighs, and then you're bare from the waist down except for a thin strip of cotton that he glares at.
"These too."
"You do it."
He bites his lip and hooks a finger under the elastic, pulling it aside. Cool air hits your cunt—you're already wet, already slick. It’s the evidence of hours of tension and his mouth on your neck and the low gravel of his voice coating everything in a sheen of arousal.
"Fuck." His voice drops, reverent and crude all at once. His thumb finds your clit, making you gasp.
"That's it. That's my girl." He circles slowly, teasing, never quite giving you enough pressure. "Now tell me you’re mine."
"Chris—"
"Say it. Say you're mine."
"Yours." The word tears out of you, ragged and breathless. "I'm yours, Chris, fuck—"
"Good." He pulls his hand away, and you actually whimper like some kind of desperate animal, which makes him groan. "Now ride me. Wanna watch you fall apart on my cock."
His sweats are already down—when did that happen?—and then he's pulling himself out, thick and flushed and gleaming at the tip. Your mouth waters. You want to taste him, but the way he's looking at you, dark eyes heavy-lidded and hungry, tells you there's no time for that right now.
"Go on," he says, stroking himself once, twice. "Take what's yours."
You shift closer and sink down.
The stretch is exquisite. That first inch, that first gasp of fullness, the way your body has to adjust every single time because he's so goddamn big and you always forget, always underestimate exactly how much of him there is. You brace your hands on his chest—muscle and bone and the hammer of his heartbeat under your palm—and take him deeper.
"Jesus fuck," Chris breathes, and his head drops back against the seat, throat exposed, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. "You feel so fucking good. Every time. Every single time you feel like heaven."
Your hips find a rhythm. Slow at first, grinding, savoring the way he fills you, the way his hands clamp onto your waist and guide you. The windows are completely fogged now, the world outside reduced to blurry shapes and muted sounds. Nothing exists but this truck, this moment, the slick slide of your body on his.
"He'll never have this," Chris says, and his voice is strained now, teetering on the edge of something wild. "Never. This pussy is mine. Say it."
"Yours—"
"Louder."
"Yours, Chris, fuck, I'm yours—"
His hand cracks across your ass.
The sting blooms hot and bright, and you cry out, back arching, cunt clenching around him. He groans, low and wrecked, and does it again on the other cheek.
"That's my good girl. Taking this cock so well. Making those pretty noises for me." His thumb traces the seam of your ass, pressing lightly, and your whole body jolts. "You like that, don't you? Put you on huh? Fucking love it when I play with this tight little hole."
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"Inside. Please, Chris, please put your finger inside—"
"Oh my God, you’re incredible, baby."
You've done this before, enough times that your body knows to relax and welcome him, but it still makes your vision spark at the edges. One finger, slick with your own wetness, pushing in slowly while his cock stays buried deep in your cunt. The dual fullness is dizzying.
"Oh my god."
"That’s it." He's smiling again, you can hear it in his voice, but his breathing is ragged, his hips starting to buck up into you. "Now ride me properly, babe. Wanna see those tits bounce."
You move. Faster now, harder, the truck rocking with every thrust. Sweat slicks your skin. Chris's finger stays buried in your ass, flexing, matching the rhythm of your hips. His other hand grips your thigh hard enough to bruise.
"Look at me," he says suddenly. "Wanna see your eyes when you come."
You look.
And he's wrecked. Completely wrecked. Dark hair plastered to his forehead, dimple carved deep from the effort of holding back, lips pressed together, grunting. Beautiful. He's so goddamn beautiful.
"I love you," you gasp.
His eyes flash. They always do when you tell him. "I love you too. Now come for me. Loud, baby."
His thumb finds your clit and his finger curls in your ass. And his phone—wait his phone?—glows on the seat, screen showing an active call.
"Say hi to Matt," Chris pants out.
Your brain short-circuits. "Chris, what—"
"Say. Hi. To. Matt." Each word punctuated by a thrust, by a circle of his thumb, by the obscene wet sound of his finger pumping in and out of you. "He wanted to be so helpful today. Thought he should know how this ends."
Mortification and arousal crash together in your chest like a wave hitting rocks. Your face burns. But your cunt—your cunt clenches so hard Chris actually hisses.
"Oh, you dirty girl. You like this. You like that he can hear you getting fucked."
"I—"
"Say my name. Scream it."
The orgasm hits immediately. "CHRIS—!"
His name tears out of your throat, raw and loud and absolutely unmistakable. Your back bows, your nails rake down his chest, your vision goes white at the edges. Every muscle in your body seizes and releases and seizes again, waves of pleasure so sharp they're almost pain, rolling through you while Chris fucks up into you through every second of it.
"Fuck, fuck, I'm—" His hips stutter. His grip goes iron-tight. "Gonna fill you up, baby, gonna pump you so fucking full—"
He comes with a groan that sounds like it was ripped out of him, hot and pulsing, his cock buried to the root while his finger stays locked in your ass and his thumb keeps torturing your clit. You feel it. Every pulse. Every spill of heat. He gives you everything.
For a moment, there's only breathing, ragged and synchronized. The truck smells like sex and sweat and his delicious fucking cologne. Your legs are trembling. His hand is still on your ass.
Then he lifts the phone to his ear.
"Still there, mate?"
You can't hear the response. But the look on Chris's face—smug satisfaction edged with something territorial and dark—tells you everything.
"Good. Remember that next time you even think about my girl. Orientation's over."
He hangs up. The phone clatters onto the seat somewhere beside your discarded leggings.
"Chris what the fuck!" Your voice comes out hoarse. "Did you seriously call him?"
"Yep."
"You're insane."
"So you've mentioned." He grins, and it's the real grin now, the one with the crinkled eyes. "You love it. You love me."
“Ugh, unfortunately.”
You collapse against his chest, sticky and spent, and his arms wrap around you. His heart is still hammering. So is yours.
"Next summer," you mumble into his neck, "we're requesting separate schedules."
"Nah." He presses a kiss to your temple, soft now, sweet. "You'd miss me too much." He's not wrong.
Chris's laugh rumbles through his chest, low and satisfied. "I hope Matty boy liked his crash course."
"Jesus fuck," Chris breathes, and his head drops back against the seat, throat exposed, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. "You feel so fucking good. Every time. Every single time you feel like heaven." — if my man doesn’t talk abt me like that i dont want him
i don’t usually feel anything specific abt car sex but this time it lowk turned me on. Once again, amazing 🙂↕️ jealous whoever is so fire (but matt rlly pmo</3)
⟶ ꉂ you know hyunjin’s trouble. that’s half the appeal ⸝⸝⸝
⤷ fuck boy!hyunjin x afab!reader 10 ss smau pwp big dick hyun sexting nudes fuck boy tendencies insinuated hookup he's hot ok?
⟶ ꉂ who said business couldn't be pleasurable? ⸝⸝⸝
⤷ only fans!namjoon x only fans!reader 1.3k pwp p*stars? size kink belly bulge squirting graphic smut p in v s*x creampie
Your back bows against his chest, feet dangling uselessly above the floor as he bounces you on his length like you weigh nothing. The cameras are rolling—two DSLRs and a mounted iPhone catching the side angle—but you can’t even remember your name right now, let alone what the cameras are capturing.
“Fuck,” Joon grunts against your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “You feel so fucking good.”
His hands grip the undersides of your thighs, spreading you open so wide your hips ache, and he drives up into you from below. Standing up, like it’s nothing. Like your whole trembling body is just a toy for him to maneuver.
Your head lolls back against his shoulder. A moan tears out of your throat—guttural, embarrassing. But you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when Kim Namjoon is filling you over and over again.
Two weeks earlier, you’d been editing the newest solo video in your apartment when his dm landed.
n.joon: hey :) i know this is out of the blue, but i’ve seen your content and i think we’d make something incredible together. no pressure at all. just wanted to put it out there.
You’d stared at the screen long enough for it to go dark. Joon. The Joon. The one whose videos with other creators had comment sections full of women typing in all caps about how he’d ruined them for other men. The one your mutuals described as disgustingly sweet off-camera and a menace between the sheets.
Your thumbs had hovered over the keyboard for a full minute before you typed back.
pinkvelvet: i haven’t worked with men. only solo and girl-on-girl. why me?
His reply came within seconds.
n.joon: because i have a feeling about you. your energy on camera. the way you move. i think we’d click.
You’d said yes within the hour.
Now you’re here, in his studio—a converted loft space with exposed brick, warm lighting, a massive bed dressed in slate-gray sheets, and three cameras capturing every angle. You’d arrived two hours ago and spent the first hour talking over coffee while he explained how he runs his sets: safewords, check-ins, boundaries clearly mapped before a single button gets pressed.
The second hour involved making out on his couch until your lip gloss was gone and his shirt was bunched in your fists. His mouth moved on to your tits, sucking slow and deliberate with this unhurried, devastating focus until your nipples were swollen and spit-slicked and so sensitive that even the air made you whimper.
And then his head was between your thighs, tongue working your clit in lazy figure-eights while two thick fingers curled inside you, finding that spot that made you gasp and rock into his palm. He’d eaten your pussy like he had planned to be there all day, like your orgasm was a puzzle he was determined to solve, and when you came on his face, he moaned into your cunt like he was the one getting off.
Now you’re here. Impaled and shaking.
“Joon—fuck—the cameras,” you manage, because some professional part of your brain is still flickering, wondering if the cameras are capturing your cathartic experience.
His hips don’t slow. “Got the angles covered. Don’t worry about anything, baby. Just feel me. Feel my cock splitting you open.”
A sob catches in your throat. He’s so deep. You can feel him in your stomach—no, you can see him, a subtle bulge below your navel every time he bottoms out. Your eyes snag on it and your cunt clenches involuntarily.
“There it is,” he breathes, following your gaze. “You see that? See my cock through your little tummy?”
His hand slides from your thigh to your lower belly, palm pressing flat, and the added pressure makes you keen. He’s touching himself through your skin. Through your fucking body. Your walls flutter around him—shameless, desperate.
“Oh my god,” you gasp.
His dimple flashes in your peripheral vision—those stupid, charming, devastating dimples—and then he’s kissing the side of your neck, open-mouthed and messy, tongue dragging over your pulse point. “You’re squeezing me so tight. You like that? Like seeing how big and deep I am inside of you?”
“Yes—yes—fuck, Joonie—”
He shifts his stance, feet planting wider, and the angle changes. You’re not just full now; you’re obliterated. Every thrust nudges against your cervix with this blunt, aching pressure that’s somehow too much and not enough at the same time. Your nails dig into his forearms. You can feel the muscle there, corded and solid, and it makes your head spin—how easily he’s holding you up, how effortless he makes this look while you’re coming apart.
“Bet you’re gonna squirt all over my cock,” he murmurs. “Bet you’re gonna make a fucking mess”
A fresh wave of heat crashes through you. You want to deny it, want to tell him you don’t always, it’s not guaranteed, but your body is already betraying you, that telltale pressure building behind your pubic bone, insistent and liquid.
“I can feel it,” he says. “You’re right there. Give it to me. Soak my fucking cock.”
His hand snakes around to rub tight, fast circles over your clit, and that’s it, that’s the end of you. Your orgasm comes in a single, catastrophic burst, and liquid gushes out of you, splashing down his shaft, dripping onto the floor. You hear it hit the hardwood—wet, filthy—and you can’t stop the sounds pouring out of your mouth, these high, broken cries that don’t sound like you at all.
“That’s it. Fuck, that’s so hot. Soaking me. Fucking drenching me.” His voice is strained now, composure finally cracking. “Gonna put you back on the bed. Wanna see your face when I fill you up.”
He pulls out—you whimper at the sudden emptiness—and carries you the three steps to the bed. Your back hits the sheets and he’s over you immediately, mouth covering yours, tongue sliding against your tongue, and you taste yourself on him from earlier, tangy and intimate. His cock nudges at your entrance and then he’s pushing back in, one long, relentless stroke that makes you both groan into each other’s mouths.
“Legs up,” he says, breaking the kiss. “Higher. Put your legs on my shoulders, honey.”
He folds you in a mating press, and when he sinks back in, the depth is obscene. Your eyes roll back. Your hands scramble for purchase on his back, feeling the muscles shift and bunch as he starts to fuck you in earnest. The bed frame creaks in rhythm with his thrusts.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants. “I’m gonna fucking come in this perfect pussy. You want it? Tell me you want it.”
“I want it—please, Joon—“
“Yeah? Fuck. Want that cum inside you?”
“Yes, fuck, please—”
His hips stutter. His forehead drops to yours. A guttural groan rips from his chest and then he’s pulsing inside you, thick and hot, flooding your insides. You can feel it—feel him—coating your walls, so much of it that it seeps out around his cock while he’s still buried inside. He keeps thrusting through it, working his cum deeper, grunting with each aftershock, and when he finally stills, you’re both gasping, sweat-slicked, and tangled.
Namjoon lifts his head, dark eyes finding yours, and leans in to kiss you slowly. Your hands come up to frame his face before wrapping them around his shoulders. You make out for a few moments, both of you coming down from your highs. The cameras are still rolling, capturing the intimate moment.
He pulls away far enough to see your face. “You okay?”
He really is sweet and thoughtful.
You smile at him and lean in for another kiss. “More than okay. In fact, I’m already thinking about part two.”
Joon laughs and kisses you again before pulling out and standing up. He walks towards the main camera, dick swinging even in a flaccid state. “I’m game, honey."
i barely know anything abt this man besides the fact he’s fine and i larped him in 2020, but OML THIS IS HOT. I’m a sucker for these kinda tropes with only fans i’m unwell
“There it is,” he breathes, following your gaze. “You see that? See my cock through your little tummy?” — i’m 100% ok
⟶ ꉂ customer loyalty has its rewards ⸝⸝⸝
⤷ dealer!seungmin x stoner!reader 1.6k fwb kinda dub con? under the influence blowjob spanking dom!seungmin graphic smut p in v sex cumshot
The wet, filthy sounds of your mouth working his cock fill the room before anything else does.
You’re already on your knees between Seungmin’s spread thighs, your jaw stretched wide around the thick head of him, spit pooling at the corners of your lips and dripping down your chin onto the dorm room carpet. Above you, he exhales a cloud of smoke, the cherry of the joint glowing orange in the dim light of his desk lamp. His dark eyes are glassy, half-lidded, watching you struggle to take more of him.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice syrupy from the high. “So fucking eager for it, baby.”
You hum around his cock, and the vibration makes his stomach tense under his rucked-up t-shirt. His free hand comes down to thread through your hair, his thumb stroking the corner of your stretched mouth. You’d come here forty minutes ago to pick up a baggie of his usual good shit, the stuff that made the back of your skull buzz. And then he’d answered the door in those gray sweats, the ones that hung on his frame perfectly, and you’d been on your knees before he even lit the joint.
He’s fucking gorgeous like this. Lean body slouched in his gaming chair, dark hair falling into his eyes, lips parted as he watches you gag on him. The smoke curls between you, and everything feels slow, syrupy, obscene.
“So fucking good,” Seungmin says, and his hips roll up just slightly, just enough to push another inch past your lips.
You choke. A real, messy, throat-clenching gag that makes your eyes water and your nose run. Spit slicks down his shaft, pooling at the base where your fingers are wrapped around what you can’t fit. The sound is obscene—wet and loud and desperate.
“Fuck, yeah.” His head tips back for a second, joint forgotten between his fingers. “Choke on it. Let me hear it.”
You try to pull back, but his hand tightens in your hair.
“No. No. No. Stay there. Breathe through your nose.”
Your nostrils flare. Tears spill over your lash line and track mascara down your cheeks. You blink up at him, vision blurry, and Seungmin makes a sound low in his throat that sounds like a cross between a laugh and a groan.
“You look so pretty crying on my cock,” he tells you, and the praise lights up your bloodstream hotter than the weed ever could. “Messy fucking girl. You love this, don’t you? Love choking on me?”
You nod, or try to, as much as the grip in your hair allows. A string of drool connects your bottom lip to his slick shaft.
“Use your words.”
You pull off him with a gasp, chest heaving. “Yes. Fuck, yes, I love it. Love your cock in my mouth, Min.”
“Good girl.” He takes another hit of the joint, holds it, and then leans down to exhale the smoke right into your open, panting mouth. You close your eyes and inhale, hold it in your lungs, before exhaling the thick cloud. “Now put it back in.”
You don’t need to be told twice.
You suck the head messily, tongue flicking against that sensitive spot right underneath, and his thighs flex on either side of you. The joint gets stubbed out on the ashtray on his desk—you hear the ceramic clink—and then both his hands are in your hair, and he’s guiding you down, down, down until your nose presses against the dark hair at his base and your throat constricts around him.
“There you go. Take all of it. ”
The groan that tears out of him when you swallow around his length is broken, almost wounded. You can’t breathe but you don’t care. Your fingers dig into his thighs, nails leaving crescent marks, and you stay there with your throat full of him until your lungs burn and your vision spots and you have to tap his leg twice.
He lets you up. You gasp, coughing, spit everywhere—on your chin, your chest, the floor.
“Fucking hell,” Seungmin breathes, and then he’s hauling you up by your armpits. “Come here.”
Your shorts are gone before you can process it. He doesn’t bother with your shirt, just shoves your panties to the side and settles you on his lap, knees bracketing his hips on the chair. The leather creaks under your combined weight.
His cock, still soaked from your mouth, slides against your slick folds—and you’re so fucking wet it’s almost embarrassing, the way your body reacts to him. The way it always reacts to him.
“Ride it,” he says, hands gripping your ass, spreading you open. “Put it in yourself. Show me how bad you want this dick.”
You reach between your bodies, fingers wrapping around his shaft. He’s thick enough that your fingers don’t meet, long enough that you’ve felt him in your throat and still haven’t managed to swallow all of him. You notch him at your entrance and sink down.
The stretch makes your mouth fall open. No sound comes out.
“Yeah,” Seungmin groans, head falling back against the chair. “Yeah, baby. You’re doing so—fuck—doing so good for me.”
You don’t move right away. You can’t. You’re impaled on him, full to bursting, every nerve ending in your cunt screaming at the intrusion. His thumbs rub circles into your hipbones, soothing, praising, even as his cock twitches inside you, demanding more.
“You feel that?” His voice cracks. “You feel how deep I am?”
“Yeah,” you whimper. “Yeah, I feel it. You’re so fucking deep, baby.”
“Good. Now move.”
You do. You lift yourself up on trembling thighs and drop back down, and the friction drags a moan out of both of you. His grip on your hips tightens, guiding your rhythm, and you find a pace that’s desperate and sloppy and exactly what you need. Your hands brace on his shoulders, his t-shirt bunching under your fingers. The chair rocks with every thrust.
“That’s it. That’s my girl. Fucking ride it.”
The room fills with sound. Skin slapping skin—your ass meeting his thighs on every downstroke, the wet squelch of your pussy gripping and releasing him. His mouth finds your neck, then your collarbone, teeth scraping, tongue soothing. He’s babbling now, the high and the pleasure short-circuiting whatever filter exists between his brain and his mouth.
“So tight—so warm—you’re gonna make me cum so hard—”
You clench around him deliberately.
“Fucking hell—” His hips jerk up into you, hard enough that you see stars. “You want my cum? Want me to fill this pretty pussy up?”
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, yes, please, Seungmin—”
But he’s already shaking his head, already pulling you off, and you whine at the loss before he’s manhandling you around, bending you over the back of the chair. The leather is cool against your flushed chest. Your hands scramble for purchase on the armrests.
Seungmin stands behind you, watching you reposition while stroking himself. You can hear the wet slide of his hand on his cock, slicked up with your spit and your cunt.
“You look so good like this,” he says, voice wrecked. “Bent over, waiting for me. Pretty ass up, all wet for me.”
CRACK.
His palm connects with your left cheek, and you jolt forward, a strangled cry tearing from your throat. The sting radiates outward, blooming into heat. He soothes the spot with his palm, kneads the flesh, then lands another one on the other side. Harder.
CRACK.
He lines himself up and pushes in from behind, and the angle makes you tremble. Deeper and rougher, his hips slam against your ass with every thrust. He fucks you with no rhythm, no mercy—just raw, punishing strokes that have you gripping the chair, have you moaning loud enough that someone in the next dorm over definitely hears.
“You take it so fucking good,” he chants, and his hands are everywhere—your hips, your waist, fisting in your shirt, wrapping around your throat from behind to pull you up against his chest. “Best fucking pussy. Best. Fucking. Pussy.”
His mouth is at your ear, breath hot and uneven. “You gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna cum on my cock like a good girl?”
You can’t speak. You can only nod frantically, because the pressure building at the base of your spine is unbearable, because every thrust rubs against that spot inside you that makes your thighs shake and your toes curl.
“Do it. Cum for me. ”
Your orgasm hits like a freight train, ripping through you. You sob—actually sob—body convulsing around his cock, nails digging into the leather of the chair. Your vision tunnels. There’s nothing but the pleasure, nothing but the feel of him still fucking you through it, dragging it out, pulling sounds from you that you didn’t know you could make.
“That’s it, that’s it, shit—”
Seungmin pulls out. You feel the loss, feel empty and aching and too sensitive to move, and then you hear the obscene sound of him stroking himself over your back, fast and desperate.
“Gonna cum on you, baby—on your pretty back—on your ass— fuck fuck fuck —”
His cum hits your skin in hot stripes. One across your lower back. Another on the swell of your ass. Another dripping down the crack. He groans through it, a long, broken sound that dissolves into babbling, into your name mixed with curses, his hand slowing, milking out the last drops.
You stay there, bent over, panting, covered in him.
Behind you, Seungmin laughs breathlessly. You feel him shift, feel his fingers drag through the mess on your skin, smearing it. Then those same fingers are pressing against your lips, and you open without thinking, sucking them clean.
He moans at the sigh and grabs the joint, lighting it once more. “Smoke break and then round two?”
⟶ ꉂ something borrowed, something blue, some temptations are worth giving into ⸝⸝⸝
⤷ best man!minho x maid of honor!reader 1.2k best friend's older brother pwp spanking cumshots this is filth y'all graphic smut p in v sex
The headboard slams against the wall in a staccato rhythm that matches Minho’s thrusts—deep, punishing, fucking relentless.
“Oh my god, Minho, fuck, right there, right fucking there—”
Your own voice sounds wrecked, barely recognizable. The champagne from Eunji’s wedding still hums warm in your bloodstream, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of him inside you. Nothing compared to the way he’s been rearranging your guts for the past twenty minutes without mercy.
His hands grip your hips hard, pulling you down onto his cock as you ride him reverse cowgirl, your back to his chest, your ass bouncing against his stomach with every frantic movement.
“Look at you,” he groans, and his voice is all gravel and disbelief. “Teasing me with this ass for years. Years.”
A sob-laugh escapes your throat. “You should’ve—ah, fuck—should’ve done something about it.”
“Yeah?” He leans back and lands a sharp smack across your right cheek. The sting radiates outward like spilled liquor. “Should’ve bent you over at that New Year’s party when you wore that red dress? Should’ve fucked you in the bathroom while everyone counted down?”
“Yes,” you gasp. “God, yes, you should’ve, I would’ve let you, I would’ve let you do anything—”
His hips snap upward, cutting off whatever else you were going to say.
The hotel room spins. Somewhere in the back of your mind you register the damp sheets bunched beneath you both, the discarded navy suit jacket hanging off the desk chair, the way Minho’s dress shirt is unbuttoned and open and clinging to his shoulders with sweat. Eunji’s reception is still raging four floors below. You can hear the distant thump of the DJ through the carpet. Your best friend has no idea her maid of honor is currently getting her back blown out by her older brother.
No idea that Minho’s teeth are grazing the curve of your shoulder right now. No idea that you’re making sounds you’ve never made with anyone else.
“You take it so fucking good,” Minho murmurs against your skin. His words come out punched, breathless. “So tight. Squeezing my cock like you don’t want to let me go.”
“I don’t,” you whimper. “I don’t, I fucking don’t, Minho, please don’t stop, please don’t ever stop fucking me—”
He smacks your ass again. Harder. The sound cracks through the room like a whip.
“That’s my good girl. That’s my fucking good girl.”
Your cunt clenches involuntarily at the praise, and Minho feels it—you know he does, because he lets out this strangled groan that vibrates against your spine.
“You like that, huh? Like being called good girl while you get fucked dumb?”
You can’t form words. You can only nod, mouth open, drool threatening to escape the corner of your lips. His cock stretches you so perfectly, so completely, hitting spots that make your eyes nearly cross.
The bedframe shakes while the headboard pounds drywall like a fist demanding entry. You’re vaguely aware that the neighboring guests can probably hear everything—the creaking bed, the filthy wet sounds of him driving into you, the symphony of your combined desperation.
You don’t care.
You’ve wanted this man since the day Eunji introduced you at a family party during your freshman year. He’d talked to you when his sister disappeared and left you feeling awkward, and something had clicked into place in your chest that never clicked back out.
It had been years of tension. Years of loaded glances across dinner tables. Years of his dry humor making you laugh harder than anyone else. Years of pretending you didn’t notice the way his gaze dropped to your lips when you were close enough, and your ass every time you walked away.
And now, in room 1214, those years of tension have boiled into a raw, passionate entanglement.
“Minho,” you choke out, “I’m gonna—oh fuck, I’m gonna come again, I can’t, it’s too much—”
“You can,” he growls, and one of his hands slides from your hip to press flat against your lower belly. He pushes down, and the pressure makes your eyes roll back. “You’re gonna come on my cock again, baby. Gonna soak it like a fucking good girl, and then I’m gonna flip you over on your hands and knees for me.”
The words are filthy. The delivery is devastating.
Your orgasm hits before you can warn him again—rips through your body in pulsing, white-hot waves that make your thighs shake and your toes curl and your voice break into something animalistic.
Minho fucks you through it. Doesn’t slow down and just keeps pounding into your spasming cunt while you sob his name into the comforter.
“There she goes,” he coos, and the contrast between his brutal rhythm and his soft tone makes your brain short-circuit. “There’s my baby. So pretty when she comes. Sound so fucking pretty.”
Your arms give out. You collapse forward onto the mattress, face buried in Egyptian cotton that smells like hotel detergent and sex, and Minho follows your movement seamlessly—slides a hand between your shoulder blades and presses you down flat while he repositions.
He pulls your hips up, angling you just right, and then he’s back inside before you can catch your breath.
“Shit—!”
“That’s it. Arch that back.” Both his hands palm your ass now, spreading you open, thumbs digging into the meat of your cheeks. His thrusts grow erratic, less controlled, more desperate. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum. Where do you want it, baby? Tell me. Use your words.”
You’re overstimulated, trembling, absolutely wrecked. But you manage to push yourself up on weak elbows and look back over your shoulder at him.
His dark hair is plastered to his forehead. Dark eyes blown wide with lust. His chest heaves through the gap in his wrinkled dress shirt. He’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
“On my ass,” you rasp. “Cover me in it.”
His hips stutter, and he quickly pulls out, grunting, fisting himself while pushing you down flat on the bed. The second you’re on your stomach Minho is straddling your thighs, stroking himself with quick, brutal pulls. His cock glistens with your shared arousal, thick and angry-red at the tip.
His hand moves faster. “Gonna mark up this perfect fucking ass—oh, fuck—” The first rope of cum hits hot and heavy across the small of your back.
Minho groans. Loud. Uninhibited. A sound dragged from somewhere deep and desperate that makes your exhausted cunt throb in sympathy. “Oh my fucking God, baby. Fuuuuuck.”
He keeps stroking, keeps spilling—ropes of thick white painting stripes across your ass cheeks, your lower back, dripping into the dimples above your tailbone. His hips buck into his own fist with each pulse, like he can’t stop, like his body won’t let him.
“So much,” you breathe, genuinely awed. “Minho, that’s so fucking much—”
“I know,” he chokes. “Fuck, fuck, baby—”
The room reeks of sex and the jasmine candle he had lit on the nightstand when we first entered.
Minho collapses to the side, chest heaving, one arm thrown haphazardly across your sticky lower back. The silence that follows is enormous and fragile, interrupted only by the distant bassline from the wedding reception below.
Your skin is cooling. Your heartbeat is a war drum. Your brain is static.
Then Minho laughs—low, incredulous, almost shy—and presses his forehead against your shoulder blade.
“Eunji’s gonna kill us.”
You snort. “Worth it.”
His fingers trace lazy circles through the mess on your back, and even that simple touch sends electricity zipping down your spine.
He hums, kissing your shoulder slowly now. “Worth it,” he agrees.
hot mf gyatt damn. the way belen can goes from writing the softest and sweetest fluff and worldbuilding then turn around and write pure filth needs to be studied.
being a travel blogger has its perks; you get to travel the world, eat delicious food, and…dance with a mysterious, handsome stranger on a cruise?
pairing: hyunjin x fem!reader
genre: fluff, smut
content: oral sex (f + m receiving), fingering, coming untouched, unprotected sex (p in v), choking, a mirror is involved
word count: 5.2k
a/n: i'm so sorry for being late! thank you for your patience with me pls enjoy this reader simping for hyunjin and him being the beautiful man that he is ♡
♡ m.list
a wet hot skz summer event masterlist ☼ schedule
The words you choose to live by are as follows: do something worth writing, then write something worth reading. And that’s exactly what you’ve been doing for the past four years. You have, arguably, one of the best jobs in the entire world. As a travel blogger for a major publication, your sole purpose in life is to see the world and write about it, and hopefully inspire others to see it too.
The breeze on the top deck feels warm as it hits your face, and the smell of the fresh salty air makes you feel hopeful for the rest of your trip. You’ve scored a trip on the Starlost for this assignment, the cruise line’s latest and most luxurious ship. Your company has given you a full suite with an ocean view, and they prefer that the readers have the inside scoop on the ultimate experience.
You pull out your phone and take a few shots of the view. The ship is huge—you’re honestly not sure if you’ll have enough time to explore everything in the next five days, but you’re determined to try.
After spending some time wandering the ship and mentally cataloguing all of the places you’d like to visit, you decide to check out one of the ship’s main attractions. It’s the perfect time, right as the sun is going down, and all of the families with young children head to bed.
Club Miroh is the hot spot of the cruise line for young adults, according to the information pamphlet you read when you got your assignment. The lights are dim and brightly colored, and the bass booms through the speakers.
You sit at the bar, scanning the young crowd. You take a couple of photos of the atmosphere, hoping to convey the youthful and fun vibe to your audience. Maybe in the beginning you’d dance with a few strangers or chat it up with the bartender, but people watching was a hobby you slowly picked up and enjoyed far more.
A couple makes their way to the dance floor, and you imagine what their life must be like. Maybe they left the kids at home, determined to spend quality time together and go on adventures while they’re still young. Or maybe they just met tonight, two singles just looking for a night of fun.
“A tequila sunrise for the lady?” The bartender’s voice cuts through the music as he sets down the orange and yellow drink in front of you.
“Oh, I didn’t order that…,” your voice trails off as you shake your head.
“Ah, the gentleman over there sent it over.” He gestures to the other side of the bar to a man seated alone. You look over at the man and see him hunched over the bar, drinking a dark liquor out of his glass. Eyes trained directly at you.
He’s very handsome. No, scratch that, he’s gorgeous. His long black hair is slicked back, and he’s wearing a dark button-up and jeans that are probably worth your entire paycheck.
You tip your glass to him before taking a sip as a thank you. He lifts his own glass in return, a sly smirk appearing on his face. Before you know it, he’s sliding into the stool next to you.
“Hyunjin,” he says as he introduces himself, his voice low and sultry. It’s not often that a stranger leaves you speechless by looks alone, but he definitely does.
Other than your obvious nervousness, the conversation flows quite well. He’s an artist from Korea, and also flying solo on this cruise. You don’t ask why, whether he had someone he was supposed to come with, or if this was his plan all along.
It’s a quarter to midnight when he leans in close, the spice of his cologne filling your nostrils, and whispers in your ear, “Come dance with me.”
The floors vibrate as you step onto the dance floor, guided by Hyunjin. The flashing lights reflect on every nearby surface and illuminate the crowd. You sidestep a couple of drunken passengers, leaning into Hyunjin for support. He smiles at you as he lets you hold onto him.
He takes your hand and starts to move to the beat. You’re not the greatest dancer, but you try your best to loosen up. You accidentally step on his foot, and you look up at his face in horror as you profusely apologize. But he just laughs it off. His laughter is contagious, and for the first time this trip, nothing exists beyond this moment.
He leans in close and says the words you’ve been waiting to hear all night.
“You wanna get out of here?”
You’re no stranger to a hookup in international waters. It’s not exactly a common occurrence, but it does happen. You just skip over that part of the night when you go back to write about it the next day, your boss never the wiser.
Your back hits the door as it locks, Hyunjin’s lips attacking yours once you’re both alone. His hands held your hips firmly as he rolled his into yours. You can feel his cock straining through his pants, eager to be free.
He peels you off the door and guides you to the bed. Your knees hit the edge, and the two of you topple over onto it.
His hands move from your waist to your thighs, hiking your dress up. He moves his mouth to your neck, kissing and nipping up the side. Your hands are busy tugging at his clothes and his belt all at the same time.
He steps back to unbutton and snatch his shirt off, then undoes his belt and jeans with one hand while leaning over you. He is so fucking sexy, you almost wish you had gotten to know him a bit better before doing this.
You pull him closer with your legs, craving his touch. He hikes your dress even higher, and dips his head even lower, leaving a trail of soft kisses along your belly just above your waistline.
“Fuck, Hyunjin—please,” you plead, raking your hands through his gelled-up hair.
He doesn’t reply, he just kneels on the floor in front of the bed. He slides your lacy black panties down before spreading your thighs wide. His fingers part your folds, giving him a perfect view of your cunt. And then, he lets a string of spit fall directly on your clit.
He’s playing with his food. That’s how you feel anyway, not that you’re complaining. You let out a whine, partially from impatience but mostly because you can’t believe he’s so hot and a little freaky. Then, finally, you let out a noise that sounds like somewhat of a cross between a sigh and a moan once his tongue finally touches you.
The man eats like he’s in a desert, and your juices are the only thing that can quench his thirst. His tongue is long, reaching in spots you didn’t even know existed. He leaves long licks from your entrance to your clit, savoring every drop you give him.
“You taste even better than I imagined,” he hums, sucking your juices up.
He uses his thumb to trace your folds, taking note of what makes you squirm so that he can do it again. It’s not long before he’s pressing two fingers inside of you, curling them just the right way to make you see stars.
“Fuck—keep going, I’m gonna come,” you cry.
“That’s the goal, sweetheart.” He’s smug, which makes him hotter. You want to roll your eyes from annoyance, but they end up rolling for entirely different reasons.
He picks up his pace, fucking you with his fingers while his tongue circles your clit. Your cunt is making the juiciest sounds, and he’s eating all of it up. He’s rutting against the side of the bed, chasing friction for himself, making the bed squeak under the two of you.
He’s intense, but not in an overstimulating way. Everything he does is just perfect. You thank the stars in your head because not once have you had to give him instructions, a rarity these days. You’re straining to keep your orgasm back, wanting to feel this for as long as possible.
“Come on, give it to me,” he says, and you can’t hold it back any longer.
Your orgasm crashes over you, hard, and you cry out in pleasure. Your cunt pulses around his fingers, and your thighs latch on the sides of his head as he coaxes you through it, slowing his movements down gradually. Your legs are still shaking by the time he leans down to plant a kiss over your clit.
“Holy shit,” you say, because they’re the only words you can think of after having the most mind-blowing orgasm of your life.
He stands up to lean over you, wiping your juices on the back of his hand before leaning down for a kiss. You reach for his waist and start to pull his boxers down when he stops you, grabbing your wrist.
You look at his eyes, waiting for an explanation.
“You don’t need to—,”
“I want to.” God, what you wouldn’t give to have this man’s dick inside of you.
“No, it’s not that. It’s—I, um…I already came.”
You blink at him. He stands up straighter to show you, and sure enough, you look down and see a wide wet patch on the front of his boxers. Your brain doesn’t compute because it’s the hottest fucking thing you’ve ever seen.
“I, uh, tend to get off on other people’s pleasure more…” His voice trails off as he explains himself.
You think about getting down on one knee, right then and there.
“I hear there’s a chapel on the ship,” you joke.
He laughs, trying to hide the blush that’s forming on his face. “You trying to make an honest man out of me already?”
“After that—absolutely,” you chuckle, still coming down from your high. “But I’ll buy you dinner first.”
“How about a shower first?”
The water runs off your back as you watch him lather himself up. You were expecting this to be more awkward, or maybe he’d want to bolt right after. But his lingering presence felt more comforting than you’d expected.
You almost invite him to spend the night, before stopping yourself. He’s a stranger that you just met, maybe he has other plans, other people he wants to see. You don’t insist when he goes to leave.
“I’ll see you around, I hope,” he says as he’s getting dressed. And you really, really hope you do, too.
He excuses himself from your room, and the silence fills the cabin with the click of the lock. You feel a smile creep across your face before you can stop it. This trip is going to be one for the books, you can already tell.
The pool deck is crowded when you arrive shortly after lunch. The sun is especially hot today, given the lack of trees and buildings to provide shade while at sea. Still, you strap your bikini on and find a quieter corner to sunbathe in while dipping your toes in the pool. You throw your head back, soaking up the sunlight, and relax.
“Is this seat taken?” A voice breaks through your thoughts and startles you.
You open your eyes to a man you don’t recognize. He’s on the shorter side, and he could definitely use some sunscreen, judging by the bright red that coats his skin. He’s really, really not your type.
He sits down next to you before you have the chance to protest. At first, he sits way too close, so you scoot out of his way, putting as much distance between the two of you as possible. You’re polite, nodding your head to whatever he’s saying, which is a long-winded speech about how fascinating cruise ships are.
It’s boring. Mind-numbingly boring, and this man is not attractive enough for you to pretend to be interested. You should really leave. You’re not interested, and you don’t want to waste the man’s time, or yours, any longer than necessary.
“I should go—,”
“Wait wait, one more thing—,”
“Darling?” you hear as a familiar figure approaches from your peripheral vision.
Hyunjin. He looks down at the two of you, loose tank top, dark swim trunks, and sunglasses perched on the tip of his nose. You can’t help but beam as he sits down.
“Hi, honey,” you say sweetly, leaning into his shoulder. “This gentleman was just telling me about…sorry, what was it about boats?”
“It was cruise ships, and never mind, you’re clearly not interested.”
He gets up before you can give him a polite goodbye, which is probably for the best. Maybe you should have said something sooner, but the look on that man’s face when Hyunjin sat down was priceless.
What are you even thinking? He probably just saw you from across the way, noticed the uninterested look on your face, and decided to step in to save you from embarrassment. He’s not yours, he’s just a nice guy.
“Thank you,” you stifle a laugh as the man walks out of view. “I had no idea what he was talking about.”
“You looked like you were in trouble,” he says with a smile. “And like you needed a refill.”
He places a cold glass into your hand, the same pinkish orange drink you’d sipped on the previous night.
“Another one?” you ask, playfully. “Careful, or I might start thinking you like me.”
“I do,” he says plainly. “You like me, too.” He laughs as he finishes his drink. You feel a flutter in your stomach, like he knows exactly what you want to hear.
“Says who?” you ask, eyebrow raised. You definitely like him, but you’re not about to give him the satisfaction just yet.
“Says God. I went to the chapel and asked him myself.”
“There is not a chapel on board,” you laugh, snorting a bit. “I made that up.”
“There is. I just went.” His straight, convincing face makes you laugh harder.
“You’re very humble, you know that?” you tease, pushing his shoulder a bit.
“You love it,” he winks, and your heart does a stupid little flip. To your surprise, he excuses himself, stands up, and leaves you to finish your drink and sunbathe alone. He disappears into the crowd of people, and you’re still smiling to yourself.
You want to ask him out, maybe to dinner at your next port, but you decide against it. You like him a bit too much, you think, and it’s easier not to let yourself have something if it’s just going to be ripped away from you in the end. Korea’s far, after all.
You go to bed that night wondering what it might feel like to fall asleep next to him.
Who are you to deny yourself the finer things in life? That’s the question you ask yourself as you’re pacing back and forth in your suite, getting ready for the evening.
Maybe Korea is too far. Maybe it’s too far for anything serious, but this is a vacation. It’s five days of living your life to the fullest so you can go back and tell everyone how cool the world is. And living your life to the fullest means asking out the man who made you see stars and not caring where it ends up.
You check yourself in the mirror. It’s a beach port, and you’re hoping to spend most of the day relaxing in the sand and swimming in the ocean. Your swimsuit shows off your body, and your coverup leaves little to the imagination—exactly how you want it.
Making stops in different countries is one of your favorite parts of a cruise. It’s fun to see the beaches, the different towns, and maybe do a fun activity or two while you’re there. The locals are always helpful, pointing out the best restaurants and the places you must see.
But today you have a different mission.
You spot him hunched over the beach bar, laughing with the bartender. He notices you almost immediately, his smile wide as he waves you over. His hair is wavier today, curling at the ends. It’s fluffy, and you have to resist the urge to find out if it’s as soft as it looks.
He orders you the same drink he’s ordered for you the past few days, before leaning in close. “I want to show you something.”
You follow him down the beach, drink in one hand and your sandals in the other, before you reach an area where the beach curves inland. It’s more secluded, away from the big crowds, and the water looks calmer.
“I swear it looks bluer from this side,” he says, sitting down in the sand. You’re close enough to the water to see the bubbles from the waves, but far enough so you won’t get wet. The sight is beautiful, with the sun starting to go down, and the colors in the sky complement the ocean well.
“Why tequila sunrises?” you ask him as you look down at your drink, taking a sip.
He glances at the glass, then shrugs his shoulders. “You didn’t complain the first time.”
You huff out a laugh. “So you’ve just decided that’s my drink forever?”
“Until proven otherwise.”
“What if I wanted something else?”
His lips curve into a smile. “You’d tell me.”
It’s not a romantic answer, but something about the simplicity of it makes your heart warm. The suggestion that if you wanted something different, all you had to do was ask and he would oblige has the butterflies in your stomach going wild.
The conversation begins to dwindle as the sun sets. You look beside you, and Hyunjin isn’t looking at the sunset anymore. He has a book in his lap and is delicately flipping through the pages.
“What’s that?” you ask, gesturing to the pad of paper in his lap.
“A sketchbook.”
“Oh yeah, you’re an artist. What do you draw?”
He flips through the notebook and shows you tons of tiny sketches of different figures. A man holding a child’s hand on the beach. A couple leaned against the railing, staring fondly at each other. A woman quietly reading a book in a corner.
They’re all people. Different kinds of people, from all over the world.
“They’re my muses.”
It’s beautiful. Not just the drawings, but the craft itself. The skill it takes to see something and then draw it out on paper, the patience it takes to make sure the lines are all right, the passion and the will to want it to get it right—it’s all so inspiring.
He has such a beautiful view of life. And not only life, but the people who make up the world you live in.
“Can I do one?” you ask. You may not be an artist or really the best at drawing in general, but you recognize the art and the beauty behind it and want to give it a go.
He flips the book to a fresh page and hands it to you along with a pen. You look around the beach at all the people, and decide there is only one person worthy of drawing.
You turn your body to face him confidently, staring at the features on his face. He gets the hint and poses with a hand on his chin and a big smile on his face. His cheeks are all bunched up, and his eyes are squeezed shut. The sight of him makes you laugh. He looks a bit ridiculous, but it fills you with a warmth you find hard to describe.
“Sit still,” you say after a couple of minutes of silence. Your lines are jagged because you can’t stop laughing, and the light is getting lower as the sun goes down. You hope that he doesn’t judge your awful drawing, but there’s nothing you’d change about this moment.
“You look cute when you’re concentrated.”
“Shhhh! I’m working.” He barks out a laugh.
It’s hard to concentrate when every time you look up, he’s staring at you. There’s a certain glint in his eyes that makes your heart skip.
“Done,” you finally announce.
He scoots back towards you to get a closer look. You hand him the sketchbook to show him, and he bursts out into laughter.
“It’s not that bad!” you argue, crossing your arms in defense.
“No, no, no. It’s beautiful.”
It’s objectively terrible. His eyes are uneven as hell, his nose is crooked, and his hair….you’re not even sure you gave him enough hair. And you forgot about his ears.
“It doesn’t even look like you,” you say, pouting a bit. You did try really hard, but it’s just not your thing.
“Well, I love it anyway.”
He’s so much softer than you first thought. You admire so much about him, from the way he carries himself to his outlook on life and how he views the people around him, even strangers.
You don’t even realize that your eyes are locked on his until he starts to lean in closer. Your lips meet, much softer than the first. He brings a hand to your cheek, caressing you gently. You tilt your head to deepen the kiss, and he follows. You swear the only thing missing is fireworks behind your head.
“We have to get back on the ship,” he pulls back to whisper. “Come to my suite.”
You nod, and he helps you to your feet, brushing sand off both of you before walking back onto the dock.
His suite is massive—on the top level of this side of the ship, with a beautiful ocean view. The king-size bed sits perfectly in the middle of the space, and there’s even a fireplace. Your company would have never put you up in a place like this.
“Wow,” you say, gaping at the room. “How successful of an artist are you?”
Maybe the question is in poor taste, but when he said artist, you assumed it was a “starving artist” kind of vibe. Not this.
But he laughs it off. “A couple of my paintings sold at a charity auction not long ago.”
Successful enough to have paintings sell at an auction, apparently. Wealth isn’t something you’d normally care about, but being successful at doing something you love is so hot.
There’s no point in dancing around it anymore. You want him badly. A grin spreads across your face as you pull him towards the bed. The nerves flutter in your stomach as you lie down, guiding him on top of you.
He kisses you with a burning passion, like you might never see each other again after tonight. He moves down from your mouth, kissing along your jawline. You thread your fingers through his hair and let out a small gasp when you look up.
There’s a mirror on the ceiling. A gigantic mirror, right above the bed. You can tell whoever designed the space tried to be fancy, adding some kind of etching details on it. Quite a choice for a cruise line, but maybe a bit exciting nonetheless.
He looks up at you when he hears you, and follows where you’re looking before bursting out in laughter.
“I’ll be honest, I had no idea that would be there when I booked this.”
“It’s kind of hot though,” you reply. He looks at you with wide eyes for a moment before going back to kissing you.
You’re barely wearing anything for him to take off, but something about him carefully untying your bikini strings sends your head spinning.
He works his way down from your neck to your chest, before kneading at your breasts and taking one in his mouth. He moves his tongue around your nipple before sucking gently, and you let out a moan when he lets go with a pop.
“I love it when you make that sound,” he sighs, taking your other breast into his mouth.
You tug on his tank top, signaling him to take it off. He peels it off his back and tosses it on the floor somewhere. He reaches down between the two of you and tugs your bottoms lower, sliding them off to join the growing pile of clothes on the floor.
Your legs part for him instantly, and you can already tell you’re soaked. He sucks at your neck at the same time he dips his hand between your legs, and collects some of your juices before bringing it up to his lips for a taste.
“You taste so good,” he whispers in your ear.
“Let me taste you, too,” you say softly. You reach down to palm him through his shorts, and he lets out a moan into your ear.
You push him back gently, feeling up his toned torso and pressing your lips to his neck. He still smells good after a day at the beach. You suck at the spot just above his collarbone before you work your way down to his chest, leaving a trail of kisses as you go.
“Leave as many marks as you want,” he says gently, combing his fingers through your hair. Something possessive inside you triggers, and you leave several bruises down his torso.
You reach his sharp V line and pause for a moment, untying the strings on his swim trunks and sliding them down slowly, licking your lips. His hardened dick hits his torso with a heavy thump. He’s gifted in more ways than one, to say the least.
You start by licking a slow stripe up his shaft before you chicken out, earning you a moan from him.
“Don’t get shy on me now,” he says, voice low as he slides his hand through your hair to pull it out of the way. “You look so pretty on your knees for me.”
His words embolden you as you drag your tongue up his length again, slower, before swirling it around the head of his cock. The taste of his precum hits your mouth, making you hum around it.
“Fuck, just like that,” he says, grip tightening in your hair. He tries to keep from bucking into your mouth too soon, letting you set the pace.
You take him in slowly, relaxing your throat and letting him sink all the way in. Your head bobs up and down, your hand stroking at the base of what you can’t fit.
“Shit, your mouth feels incredible,” he groans. “Look at me, I want to see those pretty eyes.”
You glance up at him through your lashes, hollowing your cheeks as you take him deeper. His moans are getting louder, and he can’t stop his hips from bucking up into you.
“Fuck, come here,” he says, guiding you off of him slowly. “I’ll come right now if you keep looking at me like that.”
You crawl your way back up his body, licking the salty taste of his precum from your lips. He pulls you in for a kiss, and you grind down against him, the skin-on-skin contact driving you wild.
“I need you inside me,” you gasp between kisses. “Please.”
He flips the two of you around, and you giggle as your back hits the mattress. You pull him in for another kiss before inhaling sharply as he dips his hand between your legs.
“Tasting me really got you goin’, huh?” he teases, slowly running his fingers through your folds.
“Fuck—Hyunjin, please, I need you.” You’re not ashamed to beg for him, hoping your desperation turns him on.
“I got you, baby, just wanna make sure you can take all of me.”
The stretch burns as he nudges the head of his cock inside. Your legs wrap around his legs instinctively, pulling him closer. The two of you let out a chorus of moans as he sinks in deeper, much too slow for your liking.
“Holy—fuck, you’re so tight,” he hisses in your ear, hand gripping your hip hard.
He slams in the rest of the way until he’s buried to the hilt. The fullness is overwhelming in the best way. You look up at the ceiling, the visual of him fucking you makes your head spin.
“You gonna watch while I ruin you?” he grunts in your ear as he starts to move.
You can’t even bring yourself to respond, the feeling of him sliding against your walls makes your brain fuzzy.
“Harder,” you manage to get out.
“Yeah? You want it rough?” He brings a hand to your throat, squeezing the sides gently. The circulation being cut off sends your eyes rolling into the back of your skull.
He sets a punishing pace as you watch the reflection of him fucking you. The sounds of skin on skin clapping together fill the room, mixed with his grunts and your moans.
“You feel so fucking good,” he groans, slowing to kiss your temple. “Fucking made for me.”
Your cunt clenches around him at his words. “I’m yours,” you mutter out as he picks up his pace again.
“Come for me, baby. I’ve got you.” He moves his hand from your hip and slides it between you, rubbing quick circles on your clit. At the same time, he gives your throat a light squeeze. His thrusts get sloppier as he gets closer to his own release.
The combination sends you over the edge. You see stars, and you cry out his name as your orgasm hits you hard. Hyunjin follows right after you with a deep moan, burying himself deep as his cock pulses inside you.
He stays inside for a long moment, letting you both catch your breath. He leans down to wipe loose strands of hair from your face and press a soft kiss to your lips.
Your mind starts to race when he pulls out to get a clean towel for the two of you. You really, really like him, and the idea of flying home and never seeing him again feels like a punch to the gut.
Hyunjin opens the balcony door to let fresh air in before lying down next to you. Neither of you speaks for a long while, just cuddled up in each other’s arms, tracing lazy patterns over each other’s skin.
“Korea’s too far,” you mumble, the sadness evident in your voice.
His hand stills for a moment before he lets out a long sigh. “Yeah, it is.” He smiles down at you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
It’s too good to be true, too perfect to keep. You want to bottle up these small moments you’ve had together and hold them close forever.
“I have an idea,” he says. “What if we book this same cruise next year? Same dates, same place, same ship. I’ll even book the same room so we can have the mirror again.”
You laugh, giving him a playful slap on the arm. But you look up at him and nod your head. “I think I like that.”
“We don’t have to figure everything out tonight. But maybe we can have this again. Maybe a little more next time.”
You bring his jaw closer to yours, kissing him slowly.
“Deal.”
a/n: ahhh thank you for your patience my life has been crazy! sorry if this one feels rushed! please let me know if you liked i've been going back and forth about it all week ahaha ♡
this makes me think of titanic minus the sadness and more ✨freaky✨
“That’s the goal, sweetheart.” He’s smug, which makes him hotter. You want to roll your eyes from annoyance, but they end up rolling for entirely different reasons. — i love smug hyunjin like yes pls rail me into the bed
also now i rlly wanna be railed with a mirror on the ceiling
[ ▸ ] — you arrive at camp skz ready for cabins, campfires, and the particular kind of crisis only a child with wet socks can create. you are not ready for changbin, who turns out to be built, funny, stubbornly helpful, and much too good at making kids feel brave. by the end of summer, cabin fever has less to do with the woods and everything to do with the boy you keep finding beside you.
[ ☰ ] — event masterlist - schedule
[ ✐ ] — 9k
[ ⌗ ] — camp counselor!changbin x camp counselor!reader coworkers to lovers slow burn? camp shenanigans graphic & detailed smut oral ( f receiving ) squirting
[ ✉︎ ] — aaaaaand we're back! first of all—please listen to because and endless sun. these capture the vibe of this fic best <3 i'm so excited for you to get to know my big, beefy, softy camp counselor husband. this boy is quietly c o n f i d e n t over lifeguard!chris's loud cockiness, which is a little refreshing...but just wait until you get to the smut scene 😈 so happy to see everyone's response to the event so far <3 so without further ado, enjoy hunnies, and please like, reblog, and comment to show your support—it really does mean a lot to us writers. and i LOVE seeing what you guys think! feedback is always appreciated. love you all so much! mwah!
The first thing you saw when Chaewon turned off the main road was a wooden sign nailed between two posts at the edge of the trees.
CAMP SKZ
Strength. Kindness. Zeal.
You stared at it through the windshield, your iced coffee sweating between your knees.
“Screaming. Kid. Zoo,” you said.
Chaewon laughed hard enough that the car swerved slightly on the gravel. “We haven’t even parked yet, bitch.”
“I’m preparing myself.”
“You’re going to love it.”
The road curved beneath a canopy of pine trees before opening into a clearing. Cabins sat in neat rows along dirt paths, dark green with cream trim and little wooden signs hanging near the steps. The main lodge stood at the center of camp with a wraparound porch and a bell mounted beside the door. Farther down, the lake flashed blue through the trees, bright under the afternoon sun.
Counselors were already everywhere. Some carried bags. Some dragged coolers. Someone near the sports field was fighting with a volleyball net that had wrapped itself around his leg. Music played faintly from somewhere near the mess hall, interrupted by laughter, shouts, and the slam of car doors.
Chaewon parked beside Cabin Three and turned off the engine.
You sat there for a second.
She nudged your arm. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you said. “Just accepting that I voluntarily gave up six weeks of air conditioning.”
“You also gained practical experience for your social work degree.”
“I could’ve done that indoors.”
“You would’ve hated indoors.”
You opened your door and stepped into warm air that smelled like pine, dust, sunscreen, and lake water. You grabbed your backpack and reached for your duffel just as someone jogged past the parking area carrying two stacked coolers against his chest. He moved quickly over the gravel, shoulders broad beneath a fitted gray shirt, arms locked around the cooler handles like they weighed nothing. His black shorts clung to thick thighs, and his hair was damp at the edges from the heat.
A voice called from the lodge porch. “Changbin! Chan said those go by the mess hall!”
The guy turned his head. “I know. I’m saving them from Jisung.”
“I didn’t do anything!” another voice yelled from inside.
“Yet.”
“No one respects me here!”
The guy, Changbin, laughed and kept walking.
You realized you were still holding your duffel strap without lifting it.
Chaewon followed your gaze. “Oh,” she said.
You pulled the bag from the trunk. “What?”
“You’re studying social work, not anatomy, girlfriend.”
You shoved your backpack higher on your shoulder and started toward the lodge. “Keep talking and I’ll request a different roommate cabin.”
“You can’t. I already claimed you.”
“Unfortunately.”
Inside the lodge, the main room was full of folding chairs, clipboards, name tags, and counselors trying to look normal while silently judging where to sit. You followed Chaewon to two chairs near the middle. A woman with a neat ponytail and a staff binder stood at the front, speaking to a guy who nodded with his whole attention.
“That’s Director Hong,” Chaewon whispered. “She runs the camp.”
A few minutes later, Director Hong clapped her hands once, and the room quieted.
“Welcome to Camp SKZ,” she said. “For those of you returning, welcome back. For those of you joining us for the first time, we’re glad you’re here. The next three days are staff training. Campers arrive on day four, which means you have three days to learn the grounds, your roles, the emergency procedures, and each other.”
Introductions came next.
Chan went first. He was the head counselor, assigned to leadership games, campfire circles, evening reflections, and night rounds. He had a calm, friendly way of speaking that made the room settle around him.
Minho handled nature trails and animal care, introducing himself plainly before telling everyone not to touch anything with teeth, venom, suspicious coloring, or an attitude.
Jisung ran games, skits, and cabin competitions, which explained why he had already made three people laugh before orientation started.
Hyunjin handled arts, mural painting, and talent show costumes, speaking with enough passion about glitter supervision that even Director Hong looked amused.
Felix ran the baking club and kindness crew, warm and bright as he explained that campers would make simple treats and write notes for each other throughout the week.
Seungmin handled music, morning announcements, and talent show rehearsals with a polite smile that made it clear he would absolutely make children rehearse until they got the words right.
Jeongin led beginner archery and team games, relaxed and confident with a whistle already hanging around his neck.
Then Changbin stood.
You made a point of looking at his face, but it didn’t help much.
“I’m Changbin,” he said, one hand lifting in a small wave. “I’m studying kinesiology. I’ll be running athletics, strength challenges, canoe safety drills, and helping with any activity where someone might decide they’re stronger than common sense.”
Jisung leaned back in his chair with a frown. “You can just say my name.”
“I was being polite.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“I was trying.”
The female counselors followed.
Bestie Chaewon handled drama games and cabin bonding, which fit her perfectly because she could make forced group activities feel almost normal.
Yunjin led waterfront activities and swim safety, sunglasses perched on her head, whistle ready, voice strong enough to cut across a lake.
Minji ran crafts and friendship bracelets, sweet until she began discussing bead organization with startling seriousness.
Hanni handled dance and movement games, smiling as she promised to make even reluctant campers move by the end of the summer.
Nari took quiet hour, the reading corner, and puzzles, her voice soft but steady.
Jisoo led gardening and outdoor science, already excited about the herb beds and the little greenhouse behind the mess hall.
Kazuha handled yoga, stretching, and morning warm-ups by the lake.
When it was your turn, you stood with your clipboard against your chest. “I’m studying social work,” you said. “I’ll be helping with camper care, cabin check-ins, conflict resolution, and general emotional damage control.”
Chan nodded solemnly. “We’ll need that.”
“Especially from the counselors,” Seungmin said, glancing at Jisiung.
Jisung pointed at him. “You all are obsessed with me.”
“I didn’t name you.”
“You looked right at me.”
You sat back down, and Chaewon leaned toward you.
“Good intro,” she whispered.
“Thanks. I blacked out.”
After orientation, Director Hong walked everyone through the rules. No campers alone near the lake. No hiking without two counselors. No food in cabins unless you wanted bugs, raccoons, or a lecture from Minho. No swimming without Yunjin present. No campfires without Chan or Director Hong. No using the emergency golf cart unless it was a real emergency.
Jisung raised his hand. “What counts as a real emergency?”
Director Hong looked at him.
He lowered his hand. “I know.”
Staff week moved quickly after that.
You unpacked in Cabin Three with Chaewon, fought over the bed by the window, lost because Chaewon had already put her pillow there. You toured the mess hall, infirmary, craft cabin, waterfront, sports field, hiking trails, storage sheds, and the little patch of garden beds behind the kitchen. By the end of the first day, your shoes were dusty, your shirt clung to your back, and you had already learned that camp maps looked cute until you were the person trying to follow them.
You also learned that Changbin was very helpful.
He carried coolers. He moved tables. He fixed a wobbly bench outside the mess hall because he had noticed it during the tour. He helped Minji lift craft bins onto a high shelf. He took a stack of folded camp shirts from Felix before Felix could insist he had them. He moved through camp like his body was always ready to be useful.
On the second day, you rotated through everyone’s activity areas so you could understand where campers might need support. Baking club with Felix smelled like cinnamon and sugar even before anything went in the oven. Arts with Hyunjin involved brush washing rules, canvas labeling, and a warning that creative freedom did not include painting on cabin walls again. Quiet hour with Nari was peaceful enough that you considered hiding there until August.
Then you reached athletics.
Changbin stood under the shade of a large oak with his clipboard tucked under one arm. He had changed into black shorts and a sleeveless staff shirt, which felt deeply unnecessary and also unavoidable. Sweat had dampened the hair at the nape of his neck. His shoulders looked broad enough to be unfair.
You walked up beside him and forced yourself to look at the equipment.
“Social work has brought me to sandbags,” you said.
He laughed. “You sound thrilled.”
“I’m open-minded.”
“You look suspicious.”
“I can be both.”
He walked you through each station. Relay races for teamwork. Obstacle courses for confidence. Strength challenges adjusted by age. Balance games for campers who hated running but still wanted to feel included. He spoke clearly, not rushing, and every explanation came back to safety and encouragement.
“You really thought this out,” you said.
He shrugged. “Kids remember when adults make them feel weak.”
You looked at him. He kept his eyes on the field. “I don’t want to be that guy.”
The answer stayed with you longer than you expected.
Later that afternoon, during canoe safety training, Changbin demonstrated emergency carries with Jisung, who seemed far too excited to be rescued.
“Lift me like I matter,” Jisung said, standing with his arms out.
Changbin sighed. “You matter less every time you speak.”
“Cruel.”
Changbin still lifted him easily, shifting Jisung over his shoulder while the group clapped and laughed.
You watched the movement of Changbin’s arms, the stability in his stance, the way he carried Jisung like it cost him almost nothing. Changbin set him down and looked across the group.
“Anyone else want to try being carried?”
His eyes landed on you. You felt heat creep up your neck.
“No,” you said immediately.
He grinned. “I didn’t say your name.”
“You looked at me.”
“You can hear smiles and read looks now?”
“With enough suspicion, yes.”
He crossed his arms, which did not help the arm situation. “Scared?”
That was unfair.
You pushed your clipboard into Chaewon’s chest and stepped forward. “Fine.”
Changbin crouched in front of you. “Piggyback is easiest.”
“Don’t drop me.”
He looked back over his shoulder. “You think I’m going to drop you?”
“I just met you yesterday.”
He laughed, and you climbed onto his back before you could overthink it. His hands hooked securely under your thighs, warm through your shorts. Your arms settled around his shoulders. He stood slowly, and your stomach dropped for reasons that had nothing to do with height.
He was solid beneath you. Steady. “You good?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“You sound tense.”
“You’re holding my thighs in front of coworkers.”
His laugh came out low. “That would do it.”
He carried you across the grass with no visible effort, taking even steps while everyone watched. You tried to keep your face neutral. It was difficult when his shoulders moved beneath your arms and his hands stayed firm under your legs.
“Still good?” he asked.
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“I’m responsible.”
“You’re showing off.”
“Also that.”
You laughed, and his grip tightened for half a second before he lowered you carefully back to the grass. When your feet touched down, he didn’t immediately move away. Neither did you.
Chaewon coughed behind you. “So educational.”
You turned and snatched your clipboard from her hands.
By the time campers arrived the next morning, the staff had fallen into a loose rhythm.
You also learned that Changbin could not say no when someone asked for help. That became obvious before lunch on the first camper day.
He carried luggage. Then more luggage. Then a stack of bunk mattresses someone wanted moved. Then water jugs. Then a box of sports jerseys. Then he tried to help Jisoo carry soil to the garden beds and almost walked straight into Director Hong.
“Changbin,” she said.
He froze with a bag of soil against his chest. “Yes?”
“Have you eaten?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. She raised her eyebrows.
You walked over and took the clipboard tucked under his arm. “I’ll finish check-ins for athletics. Go eat.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re sweating through your shirt and you just tried to put gardening soil in the sports shed.”
He looked down at the bag.
Jisoo gently took it from him. “This one’s mine.”
Changbin rubbed the back of his neck. “Right.”
You pointed toward the mess hall. “Food.”
He smiled, sheepish. “You’re kind of scary.”
“I’m practicing for my future career.”
He leaned closer as he passed. “It’s working.”
Your heart kicked hard against your ribs.
The campers turned Camp SKZ into exactly what you had expected and nothing like you had imagined.
They arrived shy, loud, tearful, excited, sticky, sunburned, already missing home, already making friends, already losing water bottles. By the end of the first day, you had learned that a seven-year-old could cry over the wrong bunk with full-body devastation, a nine-year-old could ask forty-three questions about snakes without breathing, and a twelve-year-old could clock adult tension with terrifying accuracy.
Her name was Aria. She was in Cabin Five, wore friendship bracelets up both arms, and had the steady gaze of someone who missed nothing.
She found you on the second day while you were helping pass out orange slices after relay races.
“Do you like Counselor Changbin?”
You dropped an orange slice. “What?”
Aria looked over at Changbin, who was crouched by the water cooler helping a younger camper tie his shoe. “Because he likes you.”
You crouched to pick up the orange. “You should eat more fruit.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You’re very direct.”
“My mom says that.”
“She’s right.”
Aria took an orange slice from the bowl and narrowed her eyes. “He gets smiley when you walk over.”
“I think he’s just friendly, Aria.”
“No, Counselor Felix is friendly. Counselor Changbin is smiley.”
She walked away before you could recover. Across the field, Changbin looked up and caught your eye and smiled while waving.
Damn it.
The first two weeks moved in heat, noise, and routine.
You spent most days moving wherever you were needed. You helped Milo, a quiet camper who hated being away from home, find a book in Nari’s reading corner. You sat with Theo after he scraped his knee and insisted he could see bone. You mediated a fight between two girls who both wanted to be “the moon” in Hyunjin’s talent show backdrop. And you helped Felix talk a younger camper through the devastation of spilling flour everywhere.
Changbin’s athletics area quickly became one of the busiest parts of camp. Kids liked him because he made everything feel possible. He gave them choices. He let them try again. He celebrated effort without making it sound fake.
He was also extremely competitive.
You learned this during the first staff game night, when Jisung suggested charades and Changbin treated it like an Olympic event.
“No, no, no,” he said, leaning over the table as Chan pulled a slip from the bowl. “We need categories. We need a system.”
“It’s charades,” you said.
“It's a competition.”
“It’s people pretending to be lawn mowers.”
“And we should win by being the best lawn mowers.”
“You almost made Felix cry because he guessed pancake instead of waffle.”
Changbin turned to Felix. “I apologized.”
Felix smiled gently. “You did.”
You and Changbin kept ending up together after that. Sometimes it was staff scheduling. Sometimes it was Chaewon’s interference. Sometimes it was the campers, who started treating you like a matched set after Color War planning began. Sometimes it was just you finding him across the mess hall without meaning to, or him appearing beside you with an extra water bottle because you had forgotten yours again.
He was kind in ways that didn’t ask for attention.
His body was easy to notice. Everyone noticed it. The arms, the shoulders, the thighs, the way his staff shirt pulled across his chest when he lifted something heavy without thinking.
But the rest of him was harder to ignore.
By week three, Color War began.
Director Hong announced it at breakfast, and the mess hall exploded. Campers cheered, counselors groaned, Jisung stood on a bench until Chan told him to get down, and Seungmin immediately demanded rules in writing so he could find loopholes.
The teams were divided after lunch. Chan and Minji led Green. Yunjin and Felix led Blue. Minho and Nari led Purple. Hyunjin and Hanni led Yellow. Seungmin and Jisoo led Red.
You and Changbin got Orange.
Jisung and Jeongin were in charge of scorekeeping, which everyone was okay with.
“Why don’t I get a team?” Jisung demanded.
“Because last year you taught your team psychological warfare,” Chan said.
“It worked.”
“A camper cried because you told him Blue had eyes everywhere.”
“That was unrelated.”
“It was very related,” Jeongin said, pressing his lips together.
Orange team met under the shade of a pine tree after breakfast. You had twelve campers, including Milo, Theo, Aria, and two sisters who immediately asked if they could be co-captains.
Changbin clapped his hands once. “Okay. Team name ideas.”
“Orange Crushers,” Theo said.
“Fire Tigers,” one of the sisters offered.
“Cheese,” Milo said.
Everyone looked at him.
He shrugged. “Orange cheese.”
Changbin nodded seriously. “Strong option.”
You covered your mouth to keep from laughing.
Changbin crouched in front of the group. “What about Fire Foxes?”
Milo raised his hand slowly. “Can foxes be scared?”
“Sure,” you said. “Brave doesn’t mean you’re not scared.”
Milo nodded. “Then yes.”
So orange became the Fire Foxes.
Color War lasted three days and nearly ended several friendships.
There were relay races, canoe races, trivia, tug-of-war, obstacle courses, banner painting, skit battles, water balloon tosses, and one very serious marshmallow tower competition. Changbin treated every event like the championship match of his life, but he was never harsh with the kids. He got loud, encouraging, and ridiculous. He let Theo paint orange stripes across his cheeks, and carried Milo on his shoulders during the chant competition when Milo got too nervous to stand in front.
You tried to pretend it didn’t affect you.
The tug-of-war was the worst though.
Orange faced Blue in the final round. Yunjin stood on the opposite side with Felix and their team, looking far too confident. Changbin positioned the Fire Foxes along the rope, checking their hands and feet.
“Lean back,” he told them. “Use your legs. Listen to each other. Don’t yank early.”
Theo bounced in place. “Can we yell?”
“Absolutely.”
You stood beside Changbin at the back of the line. “You’re more excited than they are.”
“I love tug-of-war.”
“I can tell.”
“We’re going to win.”
“You know they’re children, right?”
“Our children.”
You looked at him sharply.
He didn’t seem to realize what he had said until a second later. His ears turned red.
You smiled slowly. “Our children?”
“Team children.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“You made it weird.”
Jeongin blew the whistle, and the rope snapped tight.
The Fire Foxes screamed immediately, some pulling in sync, some just making noise. Changbin planted his feet behind the last camper and shouted encouragement over their heads.
“Lean back! Good! Good, Milo, keep going! Theo, feet down! There you go!”
You shouted with him, laughing when Felix’s team began chanting “Blue! Blue! Blue!” across the line.
“Orange!” Changbin yelled.
“Orange!” the kids answered.
The flag in the center wavered. For a moment, Blue pulled ahead. Then Milo, face red with effort, yelled, “Fire Foxes unite!” The entire Orange team screamed and pulled.
The flag crossed the line. Orange won.
The kids lost their minds. Theo threw himself at Changbin’s waist. Aria grabbed your hand and jumped up and down. Milo smiled so widely it made your chest hurt.
Changbin looked at you over the chaos, face bright with sweat and orange face paint. “We won,” he said.
You laughed. “We did.”
He held up his hand. You high-fived him, but he caught your fingers for half a second before letting go. It was quick—probably nothing. But your heart treated it like something.
Week four was when everyone started to wear down.
The first burst of summer excitement had softened into exhaustion. Campers were homesick again in smaller, quieter ways. Counselors snapped at each other more easily. The heat pressed over the camp every afternoon until even Jisung ran out of energy.
Changbin began overdoing it again.
You saw it before anyone else did. He stayed late to fix the shed door. He covered Jeongin’s team games when Jeongin got a headache. He carried supplies to the waterfront. He helped Chan with night rounds. He ran athletics all morning, then joined canoe drills because Yunjin needed another adult.
Then the accident happened.
Minho led a nature hike with Cabin Four and Cabin Five, and you joined because Milo had been anxious that morning and asked if you were coming. Changbin came because the trail dipped near the creek and Director Hong wanted another counselor there. Jisung came because he claimed hikes needed a morale boost, which Minho argued against until Chan said it might help keep the campers entertained.
It was warm but not miserable under the trees. The campers moved in uneven clusters, stopping to look at mushrooms, interesting rocks, and one beetle that caused all the girls to scream. Jisoo identified plants along the way while Minho reminded everyone not to touch anything without asking.
Milo walked beside you near the back. “You think there are bears?” he asked.
“No.”
“You said that fast.”
“Because I feel confident.”
“What if there’s one bear?”
“Then Changbin will ask it to join tug-of-war.”
Milo looked ahead at Changbin, who was helping Theo cross a muddy patch. “He would win.”
“Probably.”
You heard Changbin laugh ahead of you, like he had caught part of it.
The trail narrowed after the creek. Minho led the group down a slope where roots crossed the dirt in thick lines. He warned everyone to go slowly. And for once, everyone listened.
Almost everyone.
Theo slipped first. His sneaker slid on loose dirt, and he grabbed at the closest thing to him, which happened to be your arm. You caught him before he fell fully, but the sudden pull knocked your weight sideways. Your foot landed wrong against a root, and pain shot through your ankle hard enough to make your vision flash.
You sat down fast, gripping Theo’s shoulder to keep him upright.
Changbin was there in seconds. “I’ve got him,” he said, steadying Theo.
Theo’s face crumpled. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! I didn’t mean to!”
You forced yourself to breathe through the pain. “Hey, look at me. You’re okay. I’m okay.”
“You’re hurt!”
“Yeah, but I’m not mad. Accidents happen.”
Minho crouched by your foot, careful as he checked the ankle. His face stayed calm, but his jaw tightened slightly. “Can you stand?” he asked.
You tried.Pain flared immediately.
“Nope,” you said, sitting back down. “Absolutely not.”
Jisung hovered behind him with wide eyes. “Do we need the emergency golf cart?”
Minho looked at the narrow trail. Jisung looked too. “Right,” he said. “No golf cart.”
Changbin crouched in front of you. “I’ll carry you.”
You looked at him. “It’s downhill.”
“I know.”
“That makes it harder.”
“I know.”
“You’re tired.”
His expression changed, just a little. “I can do it,” he said.
“Bin.”
The campers had gone quiet, all watching.
Changbin lowered his voice. “Let me help you.”
Your throat tightened at the softness of it.
You sighed and then reluctantly nodded.
He turned and crouched. You climbed onto his back carefully, trying not to jostle your ankle. His hands slid under your thighs, secure and warm. He stood slowly, testing your weight before taking the first step.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m conscious.”
“That’s one thing.”
“My pride is dead.”
“We’ll hold a service.”
You laughed despite the pain, forehead nearly brushing the back of his shoulder.
Minho led the group slowly. Jisung walked with the campers, distracting them with a story about the time he claimed to have been saved by a herd of deer.
Changbin moved carefully down the trail. Every step was controlled. You could feel the effort in his body, the way his back shifted beneath your chest, the way his breath deepened as the path dipped and turned. He warned you before uneven patches and tightened his grip when the ground got loose.
“You still okay?” he asked after a few minutes.
“You’re asking a lot of questions again.”
“You’re injured on my back. I’m allowed extra questions.”
“You love extra questions.”
He laughed, breathless this time. “Maybe.”
You rested your cheek near his shoulder and stopped teasing.
By the time you reached the infirmary, your ankle was swollen, Theo was crying again, Milo had handed you a crushed granola bar from his pocket, and Changbin’s shirt was damp with sweat.
Nurse Park checked your ankle and declared it a mild sprain. Ice, rest, elevation, no hiking, and limited activity for a few days.
Theo stood by the doorway, face miserable. You waved him over and he came slowly.
“I really am sorry,” he said.
“I know,” you said. “And I really am okay.”
“You’re not going to leave camp?”
“No.”
His shoulders relaxed.
Changbin stood near the foot of the cot, arms crossed, eyes still on your ankle.
You looked at him. “You okay?”
His gaze flicked up. He blinked. “Me?”
“You carried me down half a trail.”
“I’m fine.”
You tilted your head.
He sighed. “I’m sweaty and I want water.”
“See? Honesty. Growth.”
He smiled.
After that, the camp became unbearable because everyone had heard how Changbin carried you out of the woods.
Everyone.
By dinner, Jisung had already told three dramatic versions of the story. In one, Changbin had sprinted through the trees with you in his arms. In another, he had fought off a raccoon. In the third, he had lifted a fallen tree.
“There was no raccoon,” you said, sitting at the staff table with your ankle propped on an extra chair.
Jisung ignored you. “The raccoon had a knife.”
Minho set his tray down. “There was no racoon.”
“You weren’t looking.”
“I was leading the hike.”
“Exactly. Your back was turned. Raccoon opportunity.”
Changbin sat across from you, still looking tired, still looking pleased every time someone mentioned the carry even though he tried to hide it.
But underneath the jokes, something had changed.
Changbin stayed close. He walked you to meals. He carried your activity binder even when you told him not to. He sat with you during quieter parts of the day when your ankle had to stay elevated. He was careful not to hover in a way that made you feel helpless, but he noticed every wince, every shift, every time you tried to stand too quickly.
The final week came too fast.
Your ankle healed. The talent show took over the lodge. Hyunjin became intense about costumes, Hanni ran dance rehearsals until the campers begged for water breaks, Seungmin somehow got an entire group of ten-year-olds to sing on pitch, and Jisung hosted with enough chaotic confidence that everyone worried until it actually worked. Theo forgot his line during rehearsal, and Changbin crouched near the edge of the stage, gently telling him to say what he meant instead of worrying about perfect words.
On the final performance night, Theo did exactly that.
“Camp is scary at first,” he said, voice shaking into the microphone. “But then it gets less scary because people help you.”
Half the staff cried, Jisung and Felix being the loudest.
The next day, families began arriving after breakfast. Campers who had spent six weeks claiming they were ready to go home suddenly clung to counselors like they were being sent across the ocean. Parents collected luggage, crafts, damp towels, missing socks, and stories their children told too loudly.
Milo found you near the cabins with his backpack on and his eyes wet.
“You’re leaving too?” he asked.
“Tomorrow,” you said.
He nodded, looking down. You crouched carefully in front of him. “You did really well this summer.”
“I cried a lot.”
“But you also tried a lot.”
He thought about that. Then he pulled something from his backpack and handed it to you. It was a folded piece of paper, soft at the edges from being carried around.
You opened it after he hugged you before running off to find his parents. It was a drawing of you, Changbin, Milo, and a fox standing under a tree. Above it, in uneven letters, he had written:
CAMP WAS THE BEST!
You folded the paper again and pressed it against your chest.
After the families left, the camp felt strange.
The staff gathered in the mess hall for one last dinner, though no one was as loud as usual. People looked tired and emotional, picking at pasta, trading stories, pretending the end of camp wasn’t sitting right there beside them.
Later, as the sun started lowering behind the trees, Changbin found you outside Cabin Three.
He sat beside you, knees touching yours. You watched the empty field. The tire stacks were put away. The banners had been taken down. The volleyball net sagged slightly in the middle.
After a while, Changbin said, “Do you want to get out of here for a bit?”
You turned to him.
“There’s a place,” he said. “Past the ridge. Smaller lake. Quiet. Minho showed me during staff week.”
“You’re inviting me back into the woods.”
“I promise not to let you fall.”
“You said that like someone with a hero complex.”
“I have a mild hero complex.”
“It’s not mild and you know it.”
He smiled. “Come with me anyway.”
You should have said no. There was packing to do. Cabins to sweep. Forms to finish. A duffel bag on your bunk, still half-empty because you kept pretending tomorrow was not happening.
But the camp was too quiet, and Changbin was looking at you like the summer was not finished with either of you yet.
“Fine,” you said. “But if I sprain anything else, I’m billing you.”
“I accept the terms and conditions.”
The trail to the hidden lake was narrower than the others, tucked behind the older cabins and past a low ridge where the trees grew closer together. Changbin walked beside you, slowing when the ground got uneven even though your ankle had healed.
You noticed. He noticed you noticing.
“I’m not hovering,” he said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
You smiled. “Maybe.”
The farther you walked, the quieter the camp became behind you. Then the trail dipped, and opened suddenly. The lake sat between the trees, smaller than the main one and completely still near the shore. The water caught the late sunlight in warm strips. A narrow wooden dock stretched out from the bank, weathered and uneven, the planks glowing from the heat of the day.
You walked to the end and looked out. “Damn,” you said quietly.
Changbin stood beside you. “Yeah.”
“You hid this all summer?”
“I didn’t hide it.”
“You didn’t mention it.”
“I was waiting.”
“For what?”
He looked at you. “For the right time.”
You turned back toward the water because it was safer than looking at him. “That was smooth.”
“I can be smooth.”
A breeze crossed the lake, moving over your skin. The sun was lower now, gold touching his face and shoulders. He looked tired from the summer, hair a little messy, shirt wrinkled, small scratches on his forearms from camp work. He also looked calm in a way you had not seen often. No campers to watch. No equipment to carry. No schedule to chase.
Just him. Just you.
Changbin stepped closer. “I wanted to kiss you after Color War,” he said suddenly.
Your pulse jumped. You looked at him, stunned. “After tug-of-war?”
“Yeah.”
“When you said our children?”
He closed his eyes briefly. “I was hoping you forgot that.”
“Not a chance.”
“I wanted to kiss you then,” he said, opening his eyes again. “And after the campfire. And pretty much every minute since I met you.”
Your throat tightened. “That’s a lot of almost kissing.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He reached for your hand, his fingers brushing yours first, asking without words. You let him take it. “I didn’t want to mess up camp,” he said. “Or make things awkward. Or make you feel like you had to let me down gently and then still eat breakfast across from me all summer.”
You smiled despite yourself. “That would’ve been horrible.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re very considerate.”
His thumb moved over your knuckles. You looked down at your joined hands, then back at him. “For the record, I wanted you to kiss me too.”
His expression changed slowly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
You pretended to think. “ Since staff week.”
He stared at you. “Staff week?”
“You carried coolers.”
“That’s all it took?”
You shrugged. “You had arms.”
He laughed, surprised and bright.
And then you tugged him closer by the hand. His smile faded as he leaned in.
The first kiss was softer than you expected.
Careful. Warm. Slow enough that you felt the restraint in it. His hand came up to your cheek, thumb settling near your jaw, and your fingers curled into the front of his shirt.
You pulled him closer, and the kiss changed. His other hand found your waist. Yours slid up to his shoulder, then the back of his neck, damp curls brushing your fingers. He made a low sound against your mouth, and every almost from the past six weeks pressed into the space between you.
When you broke apart, his forehead rested against yours. “Fuck,” he whispered.
You laughed softly, breathless. “That’s one way to put it.”
“I’m trying to be normal.”
“How’s that going?”
“Bad.”
His hand tightened at your waist, and your stomach dipped.
The lake moved quietly beside the dock. You looked toward it and Changbin followed your gaze.
“No,” you said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought something.”
“I was thinking the water looks nice.”
“You were thinking skinny dipping.”
His mouth twitched. “I can think two things.”
You stared at him for a second. Then you stepped back and pulled your shirt over your head.
Changbin froze.
You dropped the shirt onto the dock. “Are you coming or not?”
He blinked once. “I’m coming alright.”
“Don’t sound so shocked. You brought me to a secret lake at sunset after six weeks of almost kissing.”
“I didn’t want to assume.”
“That is, unfortunately, attractive.”
He laughed and pulled his own shirt over his head. You tried not to stare, but let’s be real—that was impossible.
The summer had shown you enough of him to be dangerous. Sleeveless shirts. Swim days. Athletics demonstrations. His arms around coolers, ropes, paddles, sandbags. But this was different. Bare chest, strong shoulders, hard abdomen, water-bright light touching his skin. He noticed your eyes move over him, and the pleased look on his face made you want to shove him into the lake.
“Yeah?”
“You have been visually aggressive all summer, sir.”
“Visually aggressive?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not a real phrase.”
“It is now.”
You unbuttoned your shorts before you lost your nerve, pushing them down your legs and stepping out of them. Changbin’s eyes dropped, then lifted quickly back to your face like he was trying to be respectful and failing in real time.
You smiled. “Yeah?”
“I’m responding.”
“Cute.”
He groaned. “Don’t call me cute right now.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying very hard not to embarrass myself.”
You stepped to the edge of the dock in your bra and underwear. “Try harder.”
Then you jumped.
The water was colder than you expected, closing over your head in a rush that shocked the heat right out of your skin. You came up gasping, pushing hair out of your face as Changbin laughed from the dock.
“That was brave,” he called.
“That was stupid. Get in.”
He jumped in beside you, sending up a splash that hit your face.
“Asshole,” you said, wiping water from your eyes.
He surfaced close, grinning. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
The water settles around you, cool against your skin. You both swim for a while reliving the summer and moving through the lake as the sun lowered toward the trees. It felt unreal after weeks of noise and heat and responsibility.
By the time you climbed back onto the dock, both of you were soaked and breathless, your skin prickling in the evening air. The wooden planks were still warm from the sun. You sat near the edge, water dripping from your hair, and watched Changbin pull himself up after you.
He looked at you like he had run out of reasons to wait, pushing you down gently.
Your back met the dock a moment later, his body over yours, one hand braced beside your head. He kissed you deep, slow, his weight careful but present. Your legs parted for him without thinking, and he settled between them with a quiet groan.
The world narrowed to warm wood beneath you, cool lake water on your skin, and Changbin’s mouth moving over yours like he had been waiting all summer.
His fingers brushed your wet hair away from your face. “Tell me to stop,” he said, voice rough.
You looked up at him, at the damp curls falling over his forehead, at the restraint in his jaw, at the way his chest moved with every breath.
You pulled him down again. “Don’t stop.”
Changbin’s fingers hooked into the waistband of your soaked panties, and he didn’t ask—not with words. His eyes flicked up to yours, dark and searching in the fading golden light, and you lifted your hips in answer.
“There you go,” he murmured, dragging the wet cotton down your thighs. The fabric fought him a little, clinging to your skin, and he laughed under his breath. “These are really on there. You trying to keep them, or…?”
You propped yourself up on your elbows. “Shut up and take them off, Bin.”
“Bossy.” He grinned, that crooked, infuriating grin you’ve been watching all summer across campfires and mess hall tables. “I like it.”
Your panties came free with a wet, heavy sound when he tossed them aside. You were bare now, your cunt exposed to the evening air, and the vulnerability of it made your stomach flip. But Changbin didn’t dive in. He sat back on his heels, his own boxer briefs dark with lake water and pulled down just enough to free the thick, flushed length of his cock. His hand moved on it absentmindedly—a slow, lazy stroke from base to tip—while he just looked at you.
“What?” you asked, and your voice came out a little thin.
“Nothing.” His thumb circled the head, smearing the slickness gathering there. “Just thinking about how long I’ve wanted to see you like this. Spread out on this dock. All summer I’ve been fucking losing my mind.”
Your laugh was breathy and a little nervous. “You hid it well.”
“Did I?” His grip tightened on himself, a quick, rough pump that made his abs tense. “Because I was jacking off in the staff showers every night thinking about your mouth. So maybe I didn’t hide it that well.”
The confession landed in your gut like a hot stone. You felt your cunt clench around nothing, and Changbin noticed. His eyes dropped to the wet gleam between your thighs, and his tongue swept across his bottom lip.
“I need to taste you,” he said. “I’ve been needing to taste you since the first week of camp.” He had already lowered himself onto his stomach, the dock creaking under his weight. His shoulders pushed your thighs apart, and the heat of his breath ghosted over your cunt. “I’m done being patient.”
His tongue found you in one long, flat stroke from your entrance to your clit.
Your back arched off the wood. A sound punched out of you—half moan, half gasp—and your hand flew down to grip his hair, still damp from the lake, soft and thick between your fingers.
“Fuck,” you breathed. “Oh, fuck.”
Changbin hummed against your cunt, and the vibration ricocheted through your whole body. His tongue circled your clit in a slow, deliberate figure-eight, and then he sucked—hard enough to make your thighs snap toward his ears.
He just laughed. “So sensitive,” he said, pulling back just enough to speak. His lips were glossy with you. “I’ve barely started.”
“Then fucking start.”
His eyebrow lifted. “What did I just say about being bossy?”
But he did start. He buried his face between your legs, his tongue pushing inside you, curling and stroking, and his nose pressing against your clit with every forward movement. He wasn’t neat about it. He wasn’t delicate. He ate your pussy like he was trying to climb inside you, and the wet, obscene sounds of it—the lapping, the sucking, the groan he made when you tugged his hair—echoed across the empty lake.
“You taste so fucking good,” he said, the words muffled against your flesh. “Better than I imagined. And I imagined a lot.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn't. All you could do was feel: the slick heat of his mouth, the persistent pressure on your clit, the way his cheeks brushed your inner thighs with every shift of his jaw. Your hips started to move, rocking against his face, and he let you. He groaned and opened his mouth wider, tongue flattening so you could grind against it.
“Yeah,” he panted, pulling back for air. “Use my face. Fuck, that’s hot. That’s so fucking hot.”
His hand moved on his cock again, faster now. You could hear it—the wet slap of skin on skin—and when you lifted your head to look, the sight nearly undid you. Changbin was kneeling between your legs, one hand wrapped around his thick, leaking cock, the other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. His eyes were fixed on your cunt.
“Do you know what you look like right now?” he asked, and his voice wrecked. “All spread open and dripping. Your clit all fucking swollen. I can see it begging for me.”
“Then stop talking and—”
He didn’t let you finish. His mouth closed over your clit and his fingers pushed inside you—two of them, curving up, finding the spot that made your vision go white.
The sound that came out of you was inhuman.
“That’s it,” Changbin said, fucking you with his fingers now, slow and deep. “That’s the spot, isn’t it? Right there? Your pussy is clenching so hard around my fingers. You’re so fucking tight.”
“Bin—”
“I can feel it. I can feel how close you are. Don’t hold back. Don’t you fucking dare hold back.”
You weren't holding back. You were falling apart. The pressure built low in your belly, different from anything you’d felt before—heavier, more insistent. It wasn’t the familiar climb toward orgasm. It was something new, something that almost scared you.
Changbin’s mouth was relentless on your clit. His fingers pumped faster, crooking on every thrust, and his other hand had abandoned his cock now—both hands on you, spreading you open, holding you in place.
“I want you to come,” he said against your cunt. “I want you to come so hard you forget your own name. I want to feel it. I want to taste it. Give it to me.”
The pressure crested. Your whole body locked up. Your thighs clamped around his head. A scream tore out of your throat—loud enough to scatter birds from the trees on the far shore—and then you were gushing. Liquid sprayed from your cunt, soaking Changbin’s face, his chest, the dock beneath you. He didn’t pull away. He groaned, low and satisfied, and kept his mouth on you through the whole thing, drinking you down as you squirt all over him.
“Holy fuck,” you gasped, when you could finally breathe again. Your legs were shaking. Your whole body was shaking. “What the—what was—?”
Changbin sat back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His face was dripping. His hair plastered to his forehead. He looked absolutely wrecked, and absolutely delighted.
“You just squirted,” he said, like he was telling you the weather. “All over my face. All over this dock.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. You clapped a hand over your face. “Oh my God.”
“Don’t do that.” He pulled your hand away, and pinned it to the dock beside your head. “Don’t hide from me. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever fucking seen.”
“I didn’t—I’ve never—”
“I know.” His grin was sharp and filthy. “I could tell. You got so tight around my fingers right before, and then you made this sound—this little whimper, like you didn’t know what was happening to your body—and then you fucking soaked me. Look at me. I’m covered in you.”
You looked. His chest shined with your wetness. His face was still slick with it. And his cock—God, his cock—was so hard it looked painful, bobbing against his stomach, the tip an angry, desperate red.
“I’m embarrassed,” you admitted, and your voice cracked on the word.
Changbin’s expression softened for half a second. Then it sharpened again, that predatory edge returning. “Being embarrassed makes it even hotter. You know that? Knowing I’m the first person to make you do that. Knowing I made your body do something you didn’t know it could do.”
He’s stroked himself again, faster now, his grip tight. The slick sound of it filled the space between you.
“I could come just from watching you,” he said. “Just looking at your pussy right now. It’s so wet. So pink and puffy and wet. I want to fuck you so bad I can’t think straight.”
“Then fuck me.”
His jaw clenched. “Say it again.”
“Fuck me, Changbin. I need your cock. I’ve been needing it all summer.”
Something snapped in him. He moved fast—faster than you expected—gripping the backs of your thighs and pushing them up toward your chest. You folded in half beneath him, and the tip of his cock pressed against your entrance, hot and blunt and perfect.
“Slow,” he said, but he said it to himself, not to you. “I’m gonna go slow. I’m gonna be gentle. I’m gonna—”
The head started pushing in.
You both gasped.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Fuck, you’re—you’re so—I can’t—”
“Bin.”
“Just—just give me a second.” He was trembling. His arms were shaking where they bracketed your shoulders, and his forehead dropped to yours. “You’re so fucking tight around me. If I move, I’m gonna come.”
You clenched around him deliberately.
His eyes flew open. “Did you just—?”
“Maybe.” You clenched again. “What are you going to do about it?”
The sound he made was somewhere between a laugh and a growl. “Oh, you’re in trouble now.”
He pushed deeper—slowly, so slowly—and you felt every inch of him. The stretch was intense, almost too much, and you grabbed at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. He hissed, but didn't stop.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice strained.
“Yeah. Yeah, just—keep going.”
“I’ve got you.” He pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you.”
He bottomed out, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You were so full, so impossibly full, and you could feel him throbbing inside you, could feel the heat of him, the pulse of his heartbeat in his cock.
“You feel that?” he asked. “You feel how deep I am?”
“Yes.”
“I’m all the way inside you. Every inch. You’re taking every fucking inch of me.”
He pulled back, just a little, and thrust in again. A slow, rolling grind that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. Your eyes fluttered shut. Your mouth fell open.
“Look at me,” he said. “I want you to look at me while I fuck you.”
You forced your eyes open. His face was inches from yours, sweat-damp and intense, his eyes burning. He was beautiful like this—all that compact muscle coiled with the effort of holding back, his jaw tight, his lips parted.
“There you are,” he murmured. “There’s my girl.”
The words hit somewhere deep in your chest. You reached up and pulled his mouth to yours.
The kiss was messy and uncoordinated, more teeth and tongue than anything else. He fucked into you slowly while he kissed you, and the rhythm of it built something hot and tight in your belly again. His tongue slid against yours. His cock slid against your walls. Everything was wet and hot and perfect.
“You’re so deep,” you gasped against his mouth. “You’re so fucking deep, Bin.”
“Yeah? You like that?”
“I love it. I love your cock. I love how it fills me up.”
He groaned, his hips jerking harder. “Keep talking. Don’t stop talking.”
“I’ve wanted this so bad. All summer. Watching you lead, watching you swim, watching you laugh with the kids. I wanted you to bend me over the arts and crafts table and fuck me stupid.”
“The arts and crafts table?” He laughed, breathless. “That’s where you wanted it?”
“I wanted it everywhere. The mess hall. The bunk beds. The fucking canoe shed.”
“The canoe shed? That place smells like mildew.”
“I don’t care.”
He kissed you again, harder this time, and his pace picked up. The slow, rolling thrusts became something more urgent. His hips snapped against you, and the dock creaked beneath you both, and the sound of your bodies meeting—wet and rhythmic—filled the evening air.
“I’m not gonna last,” he said, the words ragged. “Not like this. Not with you talking like that.”
“Then don’t last. I don’t care. Just don’t stop.”
But he did stop. He pulled out—completely—and you made a sound of protest that he silenced with a hand on your stomach.
“Turn over,” he said.
“What?”
“Turn over. I want to see you from behind. I want to watch your ass while I fuck you.”
You scrambled to obey, rolling onto your stomach. The dock was hard against your knees, but you didn’t care. Changbin’s hands found your hips, gripped them tight, and he pulled you up onto all fours.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at you. Look at this perfect ass. I’m gonna die. I’m literally going to die.”
“Please don’t die before you finish fucking me.”
“Fair point.”
He pushed back in, and the angle was different like this—deeper, somehow, hitting a spot that made your arms give out. Your chest dropped to the dock, your ass still in the air, and Changbin groaned.
“Yeah. Yeah. That’s it. Face down, ass up. Take my fucking cock.”
He wasn’t holding back anymore. His hips slammed against you, hard and fast, and the sound of it—the wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the dock, his low grunts and your high whimpers—was obscene. It was the filthiest thing you’d ever heard.
“You hear that?” he asked, his voice was wrecked. “You hear how wet your pussy is? How good you’re taking me?”
You couldn’t answer. You could only moan.
“That’s what I thought. You can’t even talk, can you? Too full of my cock to say a word.”
He reached around you, his fingers finding your clit, and rubbed tight circles against it. You bucked back against him. Your thighs shaking. Your whole body shaking.
“You gonna come again? You gonna come on my cock this time?”
“Yes,” you managed. “Yes, yes, fuck, yes —”
“Do it. Come on my cock. I want to feel it. I want to feel your pussy squeeze every drop out of me.”
It hit you like a wave. A real one, not the overwrought kind—violent, sudden, stealing your breath. Your cunt clamped down on his cock, and you screamed, and Changbin shouted something—your name, maybe, or just a string of curses—and his rhythm broke.
He pulled out fast, hand flying over his cock, and you felt the first hot splash of his cum against your spine. He groaned, stroking himself through it, painting your back and ass. It went on and on, pulse after pulse, until you were dripping with him.
The dock creaked as he collapsed beside you, both of you panting, both of you covered in sweat and lake water and each other.
“Holy shit,” he said finally.
You turned your head to look at him. “Yeah.”
“You squirted.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that.”
“I’m going to mention it again. Multiple times. Probably for the rest of my life.” He rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand. “This is the best last day of camp ever.”
You laughed, and the sound was hoarse and broken and happy.
Changbin grinned before it began to fade, just a little, replaced by something more serious. “Hey.”
“What?”
“I meant what I said. About wanting you all summer.” He reached out and tucked a strand of wet hair behind your ear. “This wasn’t just...I mean, it was hot. It was really fucking hot. But it wasn’t just that. For me.”
Your heart squeezed in your chest. “It wasn’t just that for me, either.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He leaned in then and kissed you softer than before.
Afterward, the sky darkened to a deep blue over the trees.
You lay on the dock wrapped in Changbin’s open shirt, your own clothes scattered nearby and your hair still damp against your neck. The wood beneath you had lost some of its warmth, but Changbin was close enough that you didn’t feel cold. His arm rested under your head, and his fingers moved slowly over your side in quiet, absent patterns.
The walk back to camp was darker and slower. Changbin held your hand the whole way, partly because the trail was uneven, partly because neither of you wanted to stop touching. Crickets hummed in the grass, and the camp lights came into view through the trees one by one.
Tomorrow would be full of packing, sweeping cabins, loading cars, promising to text, and trying not to cry in the parking lot. Tomorrow would pull everyone back toward normal life. University. Jobs. Apartments. Schedules that did not include campfire songs and sunscreen checks.
But tonight, Camp SKZ was still yours.
Changbin stopped outside your cabin, turning to face you.
The porch light washed over his face, softening the tired lines around his eyes. His hair was still damp, and his shirt was wrinkled. He looked like summer had left its fingerprints all over him.
He leaned down, and you met him halfway. The kiss was gentle. Slow. Not careful because he was unsure, but careful because it mattered. His hand settled at your waist, warm through your shirt, and you held onto him for a few seconds longer than necessary.
When he pulled back, his smile was small and private. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.
“You better. We have cabins to clean.”
“Romantic.”
“Welcome to real life.”
He kissed you once more, quick and sweet. “I still want it.”
Your chest warmed. “Me too.”
You went inside after that, closing the cabin door quietly behind you. And outside, the camp settled deeper into the night.
i think i said this before but i LOVE camp themed fics, and i absolutely loved this one. The worldbuilding was amazing and so fun to read. u outdid urself with this AHH
Jisoo led gardening and outdoor science, already excited about the herb beds and the little greenhouse behind the mess hall. — 8 year bias spotted in skz fic
“Yeah,” he panted, pulling back for air. “Use my face. Fuck, that’s hot. That’s so fucking hot.” — oh ok so now i’m horny
the smut honestly surprised me cause everything was so soft but it was hot asf arkdnwna
you take up a new summer job—being a fire lookout for the forest service at a national park. you’re added to a group chat and get to know the man in the neighboring tower.
pairing: lee know x fem!reader
genre: smau, fluff, humor
content: coworkers to lovers, grumpy x sunshine, minho is a grump, highly unrealistic depiction of the national forest service, and forest fires in general, a fire happens but no one gets hurt, chanlix mention lol
ss: 21
a/n: thank you for all the love on part one and this event so far, i've been loving seeing everyones comments it warms my heart!!! it's mr. grumpy cat time! ♡
♡ m.list
a wet hot skz summer event masterlist ☼ schedule
part one
a/n: annddd my first fic of a wet hot skz summer is done!! i hope you liked it! lmao reading it back the pacing is questionable ahahah i just didn't want to make it a bunch of parts!!! but i love our grumpy cat hehe ♡
please remember to go check out @binniebb 's fic as well and stay tuned for the rest of the members (it’s about to get a LOT hotter) ♡
you take up a new summer job—being a fire lookout for the forest service at a national park. you’re added to a group chat and get to know the man in the neighboring tower.
pairing: lee know x fem!reader
genre: smau, fluff, humor
content: coworkers to lovers, grumpy x sunshine, minho is a grump, highly unrealistic depiction of the national forest service, and forest fires in general
ss: 24
a/n: i'm so happy to finally share this! the idea was inspired by the video game firewatch, but nothing about the plot is the same. and yes, i know real fire lookouts use the radio. but this format is more fun! this story is sfw, a bit different than the vibe of the event, but i just wanted to tell a cute summer story <3
♡ m.list
[ ▸ ] — at marigold hills, summer mvp is supposed to reward professionalism, teamwork, and excellent guest service. unfortunately, your biggest competition is christopher bang, a cocky lifeguard with a lollipop habit, a shirtless ego, and half the country club wrapped around his whistle. you want the parking spot for next summer, the bragging rights, and the satisfaction of humbling him, but after one locker room argument, winning starts to look a lot less important.
[ ☰ ] — event masterlist
[ ✐ ] — 8k
[ ⌗ ] — lifeguard!chris x lifeguard!reader enemies to lovers kind of crack fic? cocky!chris graphic & detailed smut anal play oral ( m receiving )
[ ✉︎ ] — ayyyyy! and so it begins. welcome to a wet hot skz summer, babes! so excited to kick this off finally. like joy mentioned, this has been in the making for three months, so we were bursting at the seams to finally drop this for you guys! heavily inspired by billy in stranger things ( dacre you have my heart <3 ) but i also just wanted to picture chris shirtless more than he already is teehee. please listen to connected from skz-replay before, during, and after. this is his theme song here lol as always, hunnies, if you do enjoy please drop a like, comment, or reblog. always appreciate feedback and just genuinely love to see your guys' thoughts <3
By the end of June, the Marigold Hills Country Club Aquatics Center had stopped feeling like a summer job and started feeling like a sun-baked gladiator arena where the weapons were whistles, sunscreen bottles, customer-service smiles, and the rare but devastating guest compliment delivered directly in front of your manager’s clipboard.
The clipboard mattered.
You weren’t the kind of person who needed external validation from a man named Craig who wore khaki shorts with a braided belt and treated the aquatics staff like you were all one bad Yelp review away from public execution, but somewhere between Memorial Day weekend and the fourth consecutive shift of Christopher Bang smirking at you over the rim of his stupid mirrored sunglasses, Summer MVP had become less of a workplace incentive and more of a blood oath.
The prize wasn’t even that good.
A reserved parking spot near the front entrance for next summer, a fifty-dollar gift card to the club restaurant, and a laminated certificate Craig would probably hand over with a toothy grin.
It should not have mattered.
It absolutely mattered.
Because Chris had made it matter.
At the beginning of the summer, during the first staff meeting of the season, when Craig stood in front of the lifeguard office explaining “member experience standards” while everyone sweat through their uniforms, Chris had leaned against the lockers beside you with a blue raspberry lollipop tucked into one cheek, his sunglasses pushed up into his black hair, and the kind of easy, irritating smile that made you want to throw a rescue tube at his head.
You had not looked at him. “Congratulations. You discovered incentives.”
“I’m just saying,” he continued, voice low and amused, “don’t worry when I win. I’ll wave at you from the good spot.”
You had turned then, slowly, because some moments demanded eye contact before violence.
Chris looked back at you with his lashes lowered, his mouth glossy from the candy, his shoulders already broad and sun-warm under the red guard tank he had somehow made look indecent by existing inside it.
You smiled. It was not a nice smile.
“And here’s my wave,” you said, giving him the finger.
His grin spread.
And just like that, because men were a plague and pride was a disease you had apparently caught through chlorine exposure, your entire summer turned into a competition.
It was ridiculous and humiliating, but it was also the only thing keeping you from losing your mind while working eight-hour shifts among screaming children, over-served parents, and rich people who believed the phrase “country club standard” could summon fresh towels out of thin air.
Marigold Hills itself was beautiful in the overfunded, morally suspicious way country clubs tended to be beautiful—all white cabanas, blue umbrellas, polished stone, glassy pools, and flowers kept alive by people whose hourly wage could not afford the salad menu. The aquatics area sprawled across the back of the property like a luxury resort had gotten drunk and reproduced. It had a main pool, lap lanes, a lazy river, a splash pad, two hot tubs, a diving board, a shallow family area, and enough lounge chairs to support every affair, divorce, and passive-aggressive brunch conversation in the county.
Which meant there were a lot of lifeguards.
There had to be.
On busy weekends, your red-uniformed little army spread across the pool deck in rotations, scanning water, blowing whistles, bandaging scraped knees, dragging umbrellas across the concrete, fishing abandoned goggles from filters, and pretending not to hear club members say things that should have gotten them banned from polite society and possibly pepper-sprayed in the parking lot.
You had worked there with Chris since high school, back when both of you were sixteen and new enough to the job that a screaming toddler could send your adrenaline into orbit. Through senior year, through college summers, through certification renewals and first-aid refreshers, through the annual chaos of Memorial Day opening weekend, you and Chris had returned to Marigold Hills like cursed migratory birds in matching red.
Somewhere along the way, Chris had gone from cute in an annoying, dimply, boy-next-door kind of way to offensively hot.
He was cocky about it too, which made the whole thing worse.
He walked the pool deck shirtless whenever he could get away with it, sunscreen gleaming on his shoulders, rescue tube tucked under one arm, whistle resting against his chest, black hair damp and curling over his forehead in thick, messy pieces whenever he got out of the water. He wore his sunglasses like a man auditioning for a calendar called May Cause Divorces, and he always had a lollipop in his mouth, because apparently being broad, tan, Australian, and annoyingly good with children wasn’t already enough of a public nuisance.
The mothers loved him. That was not an exaggeration.
The mothers stared at him in a way that made their husbands stare angrily into their gin and tonics, because no amount of money, golf memberships, or boat shoes could compete with Christopher Bang crouching beside the kiddie pool to help a toddler fix her floaties while saying, “There you go, sweetheart, now you’re ready,” in a voice warm enough to fog sunglasses.
You watched it happen every shift.
You watched Mrs. Delaney touch his forearm while thanking him for finding her son’s goggles.
You watched Mrs. Cavanaugh ask whether he worked “every weekend” with faux casual interest. You watched a woman named Bianca, who wore a diamond ring large enough to count as a flotation device, drop her towel three separate times in front of him.
Chris picked it up every time.
He also winked every time.
And Craig wrote something down every fucking time.
“He’s such a whore,” muttered Alex from the adjacent lifeguard chair one afternoon, peering through his sunglasses as Chris handed a pool noodle to a little boy and somehow got thanked by the child’s mother with a smoothie.
“He’s not even subtle,” you said, watching Chris accept the smoothie with a smile so bright you hoped his teeth overheated.
Alex tilted his head. “Do you think Craig gives points for slut energy?”
“Craig gives points for whatever makes the members happy.”
“Then Chris is Summer MVP of the century. Half these women look like they’d renew their membership for another glimpse of his abs.”
“Don’t say abs.”
“Why?”
“Because then I think about them.”
Alex turned to look at you slowly.
You kept scanning the pool.
“Interesting,” he said.
“Shut the fuck up, Alex.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to say you’re handling this competition with a lot of maturity.”
“You were not.”
“No, I was about to call you a whore.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Unfortunately, your own tactics were not exactly noble.
Chris had mothers. You had men with wedding rings and the audacity of medieval kings.
It had started accidentally, sort of, when Mr. Ralston asked whether you could help him find the locker rooms despite the sign being directly above his head, and Craig, standing nearby with his clipboard, had written something down after you smiled, guided him politely, and did not tell him that literacy was free. The next day, Mr. Halverson asked for sunscreen recommendations and complimented your “attention to detail” when you explained SPF like he was not staring at your boobs through the entire conversation.
Craig had written that down too.
From there, the moral slope got slippery.
You carried lemonade pitchers for older men who called you “darling” in ways that made your spine try to leave your body. You helped Mr. Leighton find his missing sunglasses, which were on his own head, while his wife sat five feet away pretending not to hear him ask if you gave private swim lessons. You told a father of three that his butterfly stroke looked powerful even though it looked like he was having an actual stroke, because Craig was watching from the towel station and you were not above lying for the parking spot.
“Powerful?” Chris repeated later, appearing beside the first-aid cabinet while you restocked bandages. “That man swam like he was five seconds away from dying.”
You didn’t look up. “He appreciated the encouragement.”
“He appreciated your tits.”
You snapped your head toward him.
Chris’s jaw tightened like the words had come out sharper than he meant them to, but he did not take them back.
“Excuse me?”
“He’s a creep,” Chris said.
“He’s also a member.”
“He’s still a fucking creep.”
“And Mrs. Cavanaugh asking if you do personal swim coaching isn’t creepy?”
Chris opened his mouth.
You lifted a brow.
“That’s different,” he said finally.
“Oh, I cannot wait to hear this.”
“I didn’t flirt with her.”
“You winked.”
“She winked first.”
“You smiled like you were picturing her naked already.”
Chris laughed despite himself, and the sound annoyed you because it was too warm for the amount of irritation you were trying to preserve.
“You jealous?”
“Of middle-aged women who smell like Chanel and marital dissatisfaction? No.”
“Then why are you watching?”
“Because you’re loud.”
“I was standing completely still.”
“You’re loud standing completely still.”
His grin returned, slow and poisonous. “You spend a lot of time noticing me.”
You slammed the first-aid cabinet shut. Chris stepped back just enough to avoid losing a finger, still smirking.
“You spend a lot of time being noticeable,” you snapped.
“Good.”
“Bad.”
“Liar.”
You hated him. Or, more accurately, you hated the way he made hating him feel like a contact sport.
Because the worst part was not that Chris was hot, although that was irritating enough to require some sort of training. The worst part was that he was actually good at the job. When he was scanning the pool, nothing slipped past him. When a kid panicked in the deep end, Chris was in the water before anyone else had finished inhaling. When a toddler busted her chin on the splash pad, he had her laughing through tears within thirty seconds. When elderly members needed help adjusting umbrellas or carrying bags, he treated them with a patience that looked irritatingly real, not just performative for Craig.
It would have been easier if he sucked. Instead, he was competent. Competence, tragically, was hot.
By the third week of July, the other lifeguards had started treating your competition with Chris like a staff-wide entertainment program.
Mia kept score on a napkin taped inside the guard office.
Felix, who worked mostly swim lessons, had created categories with little hearts and skulls beside them.
“Guest compliments,” he said one morning, clicking a pen as you and Chris stood on opposite sides of the break table glaring at each other over a container of grapes. “You have twelve. Chris has thirteen.”
“Bullshit,” you said.
“Mrs. Redding complimented me twice yesterday,” Chris said.
“Mrs. Redding wants to climb you like pool furniture. That doesn’t count.”
“It does if she says I’m attentive.”
“She said your shorts looked snug.”
Alex, lounging on the bench, choked on his iced coffee.
Chris laughs annoyingly. “My shorts work hard keeping my huge—,”
“Stop right there, slut.”
Felix pointed his pen at you. “Sassy points for you.”
Mia leaned in from the doorway. “Does that count as harassment?”
“Only if a complaint is filed. But I kinda liked it,” Chris said, grinning around his lollipop. It was cherry that day, red and glossy and deeply obnoxious.
You wanted to snatch it out of his mouth and throw it into the pool filter. You also wanted, very briefly and very shamefully, to taste it. That thought was so unacceptable you threw a grape at him.
He caught it in his mouth and the room erupted.
“Fucking show-off,” you muttered, crossing your arms.
Chris chewed, swallowed, and winked.
Craig chose that moment to enter with his clipboard, which meant everyone immediately scattered into suspicious productivity.
“Good energy today,” Craig said, squinting at the room.
“Team morale,” Felix said brightly.
“More like ‘more hell’,” Mia muttered.
Craig ignored her. “Big Saturday crowd tomorrow. I expect focus, professionalism, and strong member engagement. Summer MVP is still anyone’s game.”
Chris looked at you. You looked at Chris.
Saturday arrived with the kind of brutal, glittering heat that turned the entire pool deck into a griddle and made every guest behave as though sunscreen, patience, and basic manners had evaporated by noon.
Children ran, screamed, cried, cannonballed, stole each other’s diving rings, and treated “walk, please” like a foreign concept. Parents drank frozen margaritas under umbrellas and pretended they did not see their offspring attempting minor crimes near the shallow end. The lazy river jammed twice because one child refused to exit his tube and another had somehow smuggled in a pool noodle suspiciously shaped like a dick. Someone dropped nachos near the splash pad. Someone else lost a retainer in the lap lanes.
It was chaos with cabana service.
You were stationed near the family pool, scanning through the glare, when you spotted Mr. Halverson near the bar with his phone in one hand and confusion wrinkling his sunburned face.
Perfect.
Mr. Halverson was gross, yes, in the damp, overly familiar way of men who treated wedding vows like background noise, but he was also influential, wealthy, and exactly the kind of member who would corner Craig near the office to compliment “excellent staff responsiveness” if you solved a minor inconvenience while smiling through your suffering.
You climbed down from the chair.
Across the pool, Chris noticed immediately.
He was crouched beside a little boy with a scraped knee, one hand pressing an ice pack gently to the child’s shin while the kid’s mother hovered nearby, gazing at Chris and his stupidly sculpted back. Chris’s eyes slid past her shoulder and locked onto you as you headed toward Halverson.
His jaw shifted.
You smiled—not at Halverson—at Chris. Then you turned all your polished, poisonous sweetness toward the man by the bar.
“Mr. Halverson,” you said, bright enough to make yourself nauseous. “Everything okay?”
He looked up, relief blooming across his face, eyes scanning your swimsuit-clad body from head to toe. “There you are,” he said, which immediately made you want to walk into the deep end with rocks in your pockets. “This damn app keeps asking for my cabana number.”
You glanced at the brass number mounted directly beside his head. “You’re in cabana twelve.”
He followed your gaze, laughed, and touched your side.
You didn’t flinch. You became marble.
“Guess I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached,” he said.
“Good thing we’re trained for emergencies,” you replied, smiling hard enough that you could hear your teeth grind in disgust.
Behind you, a whistle chirped.
You turned. Chris was already walking over, wet from some recent dip into the pool, black hair pushed back from his forehead before falling forward again in damp pieces, sunglasses hooked into the waistband of his trunks, lollipop tucked into one cheek, and expression pleasant in a way that made you instantly suspicious.
“Everything alright over here?” he asked.
His voice was polite, but his eyes were not.
Mr. Halverson’s hand dropped from your side.
“We’re fine,” you said.
Chris looked at you, then at Halverson, then at the phone. “App trouble?”
“I have it handled.”
“Of course you do,” Chris said, smiling. “You’re very helpful.”
You narrowed your eyes.
Halverson chuckled, delighted by tension he had no business enjoying. “You two always like this?”
“Unfortunately,” you said.
“Only when she misses me,” Chris said.
You snapped your head towards him. He smiled around the lollipop. Somewhere behind him, Craig materialized near the towel station, clipboard lifted like a weapon from hell.
Chris noticed. You knew he noticed because his posture changed by half an inch, straightening into that effortless lifeguard golden-boy stance he used when guests were watching, the one that made him look responsible and fuckable in the same breath, which was frankly very inconsiderate.
“Actually,” Chris said, reaching gently for Halverson’s phone, “I can take care of this. Y/N’s been running around all afternoon, and we don’t want her overheating.”
Oh, that smug, shirtless, candy-sucking bastard.
Your smile froze. “How thoughtful,” you said.
Chris leaned closer as he took the phone, enough that the scent of chlorine, sunscreen, and green apple sugar slipped under your skin with humiliating precision.
“You do look a little flushed,” he murmured.
You kept smiling because Craig was watching, but your voice dropped. “You do look a little killable.”
Chris’s mouth curved. “Cute.”
“I’m not being cute.”
“You are when you threaten me.”
“I hope a pool noodle lodges in your ass.”
Halverson made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh.
Craig’s pen moved.
Chris solved the app issue in less than ten seconds, handed the phone back, and earned a hearty clap on the shoulder from Halverson, who announced, “Thanks, Chris. You’re a lifesaver.”
Chris looked directly at you.
“That’s what the certification says.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you said.
“I’m efficient.”
“You’re a parasite.”
“With great member feedback.”
Your manager wrote something down again, and something inside you snapped cleanly in half.
The rest of the shift became war. Not metaphorical war. No, no, no, no. An actual war…if war involved customer service, fake smiles, and two college-age lifeguards competing to see who could be more publicly helpful without getting fired for making it erotic.
Chris helped a crying child locate a missing stuffed turtle named Gregory, then returned it with such gentle sincerity that even you, against your will, felt a tiny flicker of warmth before remembering you hated him.
You carried three lunch trays to a cabana full of women who called you “honey” and asked whether Chris was single.
You told them he had a personality disorder.
One of them laughed and said, “That’s okay. Sometimes you need a little crazy,” with a wink.
Chris heard about it within five minutes because Alex had the loyalty of a politician.
“You told Mrs. Bellamy I have a personality disorder?” Chris asked when your rotations crossed near the diving board.
“You told Mr. Halverson I was overheating.”
“You were.”
“I was plotting.”
“Sure you were.”
“Fuck you.”
“Ask nicer.”
You nearly swallowed your whistle. Chris smiled like he knew exactly what he had done and jogged backward toward the shallow end before you could commit a felony in front of children.
At four, you found Mrs. Redding struggling near the towel shelves, her cane balanced against her hip while she reached for a stack placed just slightly too high.
A gift from God.
You moved instantly. Chris also moved instantly. The two of you converged on the towel station from opposite directions like heat-seeking missiles with lifeguard certifications.
“I’ve got it,” you said, arriving first by half a second.
Chris’s hand reached over yours and grabbed the stack anyway.
“We’ve got it,” he said, handing Mrs. Redding two towels with a smile so bright it could blind.
Mrs. Redding looked between you, eyes bright behind her oversized sunglasses.
“Well,” she said, delighted, “aren’t you both attentive?”
“Yes,” you and Chris both said.
Mrs. Redding laughed, touched both your arms, and wandered away.
Craig watched from near the snack bar, pen not moving.
You and Chris stood in silence. Then Chris said, “Joint credit.”
You looked at him. “That’s worse than losing,” you said.
“I know.”
For one dangerous second, you both laughed.
It startled you more than it should have, the shared burst of it, easy and sharp and familiar in a way that reached backward through years of summers, years of chlorine-soaked shifts and closing duties and training drills. Years of Chris being the person who irritated you most consistently and somehow knew exactly when to hand you water without saying anything about it.
Then he ruined it by biting down on his lollipop and crunching it between his teeth.
You grimaced. “You’re disgusting.”
“You were smiling.”
“I had heatstroke.”
“You’ve been flushed all day.”
“You’ve been staring all day.”
His eyes dipped to your body, then lifted. “Yeah,” he said.
Then a child screamed near the lazy river, and the moment shattered back into chlorine, noise, and professional responsibility.
By closing, you were exhausted enough to feel personally victimized by Christopher Chan Bang.
The last members packed up, the cabanas emptied, the pool lights clicked on beneath the blue surface, and the aquatics center shifted into that strange post-chaos hush where everything smelled stronger: wet concrete, sunscreen, fried food from the snack bar, damp towels, and the faint metallic bite of pool water cooling under evening air.
Craig gathered the staff near the guard office for end-of-day notes.
Everyone looked like shit. Beautiful shit, maybe, because summer staff sometimes looked golden and half-feral after too much sun. But shit nonetheless.
Chris stood beside you, hair still damp, shoulders warm, lollipop gone but mouth no less irritating. Every time his arm brushed yours, your body reacted like he had done it on purpose. Which he probably had.
“Good work today,” Craig said, clipboard tucked against his chest. “Strong member engagement overall. A few preventable issues with towel inventory, but good responsiveness, especially during the lazy river backup.”
Mia muttered, “The dick noodle fucked us.”
Felix coughed.
Craig paused. “Please don’t refer to pool equipment that way.”
Mia shrugged. “It knew what it did.”
Craig wisely moved on. “I also want to recognize both of you,” he said, nodding toward you and Chris, which immediately made every other guard perk up like gossip-starved meerkats. “You’ve shown initiative throughout the month, and today especially, I noticed several examples of guest support, teamwork, and conflict management.”
You whispered, “Conflict management my ass.”
Chris whispered back, “You offering?”
You elbowed Chris hard.
He grunted, then laughed under his breath, and the sound grazed every nerve you had been trying to keep disciplined.
Craig’s eyes narrowed. “Something funny?”
“No,” Chris said.
“Yes,” Mia deadpanned.
Craig sighed. “Summer MVP will be announced next Friday. Until then, keep up the professionalism.”
“Absolutely,” you said.
“Always,” Chris added.
Felix, too softly for Craig but loudly enough for you, murmured, “Lying in the house of chlorine.”
The meeting ended. People scattered toward closing duties and locker rooms, laughing under their breath, dragging rescue tubes, stacking chairs, collecting lost toys. You headed toward the guard office for your bag, fully prepared to rinse off, go home, and spend the night not thinking about Chris’s blunt little “yeah” when you accused him of staring.
Naturally, Chris followed. Because he was a rash in human form. “You okay?” he asked behind you.
You grabbed your bag from the hook. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Do that.”
“Ask a normal question?”
“You don’t ask normal questions.”
“You look pissed.”
“I am pissed.”
“At me?”
You turned sharply. Chris stopped close enough that your bag bumped his thigh. “You cut me off with Halverson,” you said. “You stole towel credit with Mrs. Redding. You spent all day making Craig think you’re Summer MVP Jesus in tight swim trunks, and then you have the nerve to ask if I’m okay like you’re not the problem.”
Chris’s expression shifted, amusement dimming. “Halverson had his hand on you.”
You stared at him. “What?”
“He touched you.”
“So?”
“So he’s a creep.”
“You said that already.”
“Because it’s still true.”
“And that gives you the right to sabotage me?”
“No.” Chris dragged a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back before it fell forward again in those dark, messy pieces that made your irritation feel less structurally sound. “It gives me the right to be pissed.”
You laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “You were pissed?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked at you like the answer should have been obvious, which only made you angrier, because if the answer was obvious then your body had known it before you did, and you did not appreciate being betrayed by your own organs.
“Use your words, Christopher.”
His jaw flexed. Around you, the remaining staff noise faded down the hallway, leaving the two of you in the heavy quiet of the nearly empty guard office.
Chris took a step closer. “Because I don’t like watching him touch you.”
Your pulse jumped. “That’s not your business.”
“I know.”
“You don’t get to act jealous.”
“I know.”
“You flirt with half the pool deck.”
“So do you.”
“For points.”
“Bullshit,” he said, and there it was, his own temper finally sparking through the charm. “You do it because you know I’m watching.”
You could have denied it. You should have denied it. Instead, you tilted your chin up and said, “Maybe you shouldn’t make it so easy.”
Chris’s laugh was low, humorless, and a little wrecked.
“Fuck,” he said, looking away for half a second. “You drive me insane.”
“Good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
He looked back at you. Something hot and stupid moved between you, dragging every unfinished argument, every ugly little spark, every glance across the pool deck into one narrow stretch of air.
“You’ve got a hell of a way of saying you like me,” he said.
“I don’t like you.”
“No?”
“No.”
Chris’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “Then tell me to fuck off.”
“Fuck off.”
“Mean it.”
You said nothing.
His smile returned, but it was different now, not bright or performative, not meant for mothers or managers or the cheering section of nosey lifeguards listening from around corners. This smile was smaller, slower, aimed directly at the space where your confidence had begun to smoke. “That’s what I thought,” he said.
You pushed past him before you could do something catastrophic in the guard office.
“Don’t walk away from me while I’m talking to you,” Chris called.
You threw him a look over your shoulder. “You do it all the time.”
“Yeah, and it pisses you off.”
“That’s because everything you do pisses me off.”
“Then don’t follow me.”
You stopped. He had turned toward the men’s locker room.
The bait hung there, obvious and glittering. You knew it was bait. Chris knew you knew it was bait.
Felix, from somewhere near the supply closet, whispered, “Don’t do it.”
You turned your head slowly toward the sound. A cabinet shut very quietly.
You stood in the hallway for two seconds, maybe three, which was enough time to consider your choices and reject wisdom as a concept. Then you followed him.
The men’s locker room was empty, humid, and coolly lit, smelling of cedar benches, chlorine, clean tile, aerosol deodorant, and the lingering chemical ghost of teenage boys who had once believed spraying themselves in a choking cloud of body spray counted as hygiene. Rows of gray lockers lined the walls. Water dripped somewhere in the shower area with a patient, echoing rhythm.
Chris stood at his locker, spinning the combination. He glanced back when the door swung shut behind you, eyebrows lifting. “Pretty sure this is the men’s locker room.”
“Pretty sure you invited me.”
“I said don’t follow me.”
“You said it like an asshole.”
“Because I knew you would.”
You crossed your arms. “You are so fucking smug.”
“And you’re in the men’s locker room giving me shit after hours, so maybe don’t climb too high up that moral ladder.”
“I came in here because you’ve been acting like a territorial dick all day.”
Chris opened his locker with a metallic clank. “I was acting like a dick before today too. Don’t erase my history.”
“You think this is funny?”
“I think if I don’t laugh, I’m going to do something very stupid.”
The honesty of that landed harder than the joke.
You watched him pull a towel from the locker shelf, watched the muscles in his shoulder shift with the movement, watched the damp ends of his hair cling to the back of his neck. He looked too casual for how charged the room had become, too comfortable in the tension, like he had been living inside it all summer and was only now letting you see it fully.
“What stupid thing?” you asked.
Chris turned. His eyes were darker in the locker room light.
“You know what stupid thing.”
Your mouth went dry. “You’re delusional.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re arrogant.”
“Definitely.”
“You’re still avoiding the point.”
“I’m trying not to make one.”
“You never try not to make points. You’re made of points. Horrible little ones.”
He laughed, real and warm, his head dipping for a second before he looked back at you with something dangerously fond in his expression. “God, you’re mean.”
“You deserve it.”
“Probably.”
“You absolutely do.”
“Then why are you still here?”
The question settled between you.
You could feel the answer in your body, which was unfortunate because your body had terrible politics and no respect for narrative pacing. It had been answering him all day, in every glance, every flare of irritation, every stupid rush of heat when he got too close and smelled like sugar and sun-warmed skin and man.
Chris watched you realize it. Then, with the kind of casual cruelty only a truly confident man could manage, he reached for the waistband of his red swim trunks.
Your eyes widened. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Changing.”
“In front of me?”
“You’re in the men’s locker room.”
“That does not mean you get to just whip it out like a hostile work environment.”
Chris barked a laugh, bright and startled. “Whip it out?”
“Do not repeat my words when I’m angry.”
“You followed me into my locker room.”
“To yell at you.”
“Then keep yelling at me.”
“I am yelling.”
“You got quiet.”
“Because you’re undressing, you lunatic.”
He shrugged, thumbs still hooked in the waistband, mouth tilted like he was enjoying himself far too much. “You can leave.”
The challenge was obvious. Obscene, really.
You should have left. Instead, you turned your head toward a row of lockers with the stiff dignity of someone who had just lost a staring contest with the waistband of a man’s swim trunks.
Chris laughed under his breath. “Oh, now you’re shy?”
“I’m being respectful.”
“That’s new.”
“I hate you.”
“You keep saying.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
“Sure.”
Fabric shifted. Your soul briefly left your body, checked the hallway for witnesses, and returned with a clipboard full of complaints.
“Tell me when you’re decent,” you snapped.
“That depends on your definition.”
“Christopher.”
“I’ve got a towel on.”
You made the mistake of looking.
The towel was, technically, on.
It was just low enough on his hips to suggest it had signed a contract with Satan. His chest was still bare and his hair fell over his forehead in damp black pieces that made him look like he had stepped out of a swimwear ad designed specifically to ruin your ability to win arguments.
You forgot what you were saying.
Chris noticed. His grin went slow. “Careful,” he said. “Craig might give me points for member engagement.”
“You’re not engaging members.”
He looks down at himself, bulge pressing against the fabric.
“You’re disgusting.”
“You’re the one staring at me.”
“You dropped trou in front of me.”
“Then report me.”
“Gladly.”
“To Craig?”
“To God.”
Chris laughed again and turned toward the showers.
You watched him go, watched the towel sit low on his hips, watched his wet hair curl against the back of his neck, watched the muscles in his shoulders shift with every easy, arrogant step, and for one blistering second you hated him so much you could feel it in your teeth.
Then you realized it was not hatred. Or not only hatred. It was the same thing that had been burning beneath every argument all summer, every look across the pool deck, every stupid little competition, every insult that landed too close to flirting, every time his eyes dragged over you when he thought you were too busy pretending not to notice.
You were tired. Tired of smiling at disgusting married men for Craig’s clipboard. Tired of watching mothers touch Chris’s biceps like the country club had installed him for recreational use. Tired of pretending his lollipop, his hair, his body, his mouth, his entire cocky, chlorine-soaked existence did not make you want to spread your legs for him.
So when he reached the shower entrance, you said, “Fuck it.”
Chris paused and turned slowly, one hand braced against the tiled wall, and the amusement on his face shifted when he saw your hands go up.
“What?”
You reached for the straps of your swimsuit and pulled it down, peeling the damp fabric away from your skin with far less grace than you would have preferred, but apparently seduction looked different when you were half-feral from sun exposure and rage. The suit landed somewhere, your whistle followed, bouncing once against the bench before going still.
For once, Chris did not have a joke ready.
His gaze moved over your naked form, quick at first, almost instinctive, before he dragged it back to your face with visible effort—like a man forcing himself to remember that staring too long without an invitation would ruin the very good thing clearly unfolding in front of him.
His mouth curved slowly. “Goddamn, baby,” he said.
The words slid down your spine.
He took one step toward you, towel hanging low on his hips, erection straining against the front of it, damp hair falling over his forehead in messy black pieces, and the look on his face was pure trouble, all heat and arrogance and restraint held in place by the thinnest fucking leash.
He stopped close enough for you to feel the warmth of him, close enough that the air between your skin and his felt charged, but he still didn’t touch you. He stood there looking like sin in a staff locker room, smug as hell, and still left the last inch to you like he knew he didn’t need to chase.
His tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek, like he was trying not to grin too wide and lose the last scrap of composure he had.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re trying to get me fired.”
“You’ve been asking for it all summer.”
“I’ve been asking for a lot of things all summer.”
The way he said it made your pulse kick hard.
Chris’s gaze dropped again. This time, he let himself look. His dark eyes followed the curves of you, from your breasts to your legs, pausing at the junction of your thighs. Then his eyes came back to yours.
“You good?” he asked.
It was casual, almost lazy. But there was a line beneath it, clean and unmistakable, and you knew that if you gave him anything other than yes, if your expression shifted wrong, if your body backed up even half an inch, he would stop.
Cocky bastard. Respectful bastard. Fuck, you wanted him.
“Yes,” you said.
Chris’s smile returned, slower this time. “Yeah?”
“Don’t make me say it twice.”
He leaned in slightly, still not touching. “Say it twice.”
Your breath caught, and he noticed. Chris noticed everything when he wanted to, every swallow, every glance, every crack in your voice and tremor in your attitude.
You stepped closer. “I’m good,” you said, quieter, meaner, because if he wanted the words then he could choke on them. “I want this. I want you. Happy?”
For a second, the smugness slipped. Just a second. Then he exhaled a low, pleased curse and reached for you. “Fucking thrilled.”
His hand caught your waist, hot and firm, dragging you against him with the kind of confidence that made it very clear he had been waiting for permission and now considered permission a loaded weapon. His other hand slid to the back of your neck, not gentle exactly, but controlled, his fingers curling there as he brought his mouth down to yours.
The kiss was filthy immediately. Chris kissed you like he had been imagining your mouth for weeks and was pissed he’d had to wait this long, all heat and pressure and slick, cherry-sugar memory, his teeth catching your lower lip just enough to make your hand fly to his shoulder.
You dug your nails in, making him groan against your mouth.
“Shit,” he breathed, smiling into the kiss. “You like that shit, baby?” Chris smirked, dark and delighted, and backed you toward the lockers.
Your back met metal with a dull thud, and before you could snap at him about bruising, his hand was already there behind your head, cushioning the impact like it was muscle memory, mouth still on yours, body still pressing close, arrogance still humming through every inch of him.
“You’re still annoying,” you said, breathless, when he dragged his mouth down your jaw.
“You’re still naked letting me kiss you,” he said, voice rough against your throat.
His hand slid lower, fingers pressing into your hip with enough grip to make your thoughts scatter. He tilted his head, caught your gaze, and gave you one last out with nothing but his eyes and a low, wicked murmur. “Tell me no and I stop.”
You stared at him. He stared back, water-dark hair falling into his eyes, mouth swollen from yours, towel barely hanging on, every inch of him looking like a bad decision that knew exactly how bad it was.
You reached for the edge of his towel.
Chris’s grin went sharp. “That’s not no.”
“No shit.”
The towel dropped, his control with it.
He kissed you again, harder this time, and whatever had been left of the argument collapsed under the heat of his hands, the slick press of damp skin, the obscene satisfaction of finally letting the whole stupid summer sharpen into one impossible point.
“You have no idea,” he said, breath hot against your mouth, “how many times I’ve thought about this.”
You laughed, but it came out shaky.
“In the employee locker room? That’s disturbing.”
“On the pool deck,” he said, kissing down your throat. “In the office. Behind the towel station. Every time you bend over to pick up some rich asshole’s sunglasses and then look at me like you know I’m watching.”
“You are so gross.”
“You love it.”
“I hate you.”
“No,” he said, lifting his head, eyes dark and certain. “You don’t.”
You growled, pulling him closer by the back of his neck. “No,” you said, mouth brushing his. “I don’t.”
Chris’s smile flickered, less smug for half a second and more real, which you absolutely could not tolerate under current conditions. So you kissed him before he could do anything stupid with it.
He made a rough sound into your mouth, gripped your waist, and dragged you tighter against him, all cocky hunger and barely leashed restraint, the kind of man who knew how badly he was wanted and still waited for you to choose it anyway.
Chris hauls you into the shower stall, his grip iron-tight on your wrist, and the fluorescent lights catch the hard lines of his chest, the defined muscles of his abdomen, the way his cock juts out from his hips, thick and angry and already leaking at the tip.
"You're insane," he hisses, shoving you under the spray before the water's even warm.
The initial blast is ice-cold and you gasp, back arching away from the wall, your nipples pebbling instantly, your skin erupting in goosebumps. Chris steps in after you, his body crowding yours, his hands planting on either side of your head against the tile.
"Insane," he repeats, "following me in here like that. Getting me fucking hard."
The water warms and steam billows around you both. You're drenched now, your hair plastering to your shoulders, water streaming down the valley of your breasts, rushing over the curve of your hips. Chris is just as wet, his dark hair slicked back from his forehead, his dark eyes sharp and hungry as they roam over your body.
Then his lips are on yours, his tongue pushing past your lips, his hand fisting in your wet hair, his hard cock pressing against your belly and smearing precum across your stomach. You kiss him back like you're trying to consume him, your hands sliding over his slick shoulders, digging into the muscles of his back.
He leans back, biting your lower lip, tugging it, and letting it snap back. "On your knees, beautiful."
The tile is hard and cold under your knees but you don't care, don't hesitate, don't give him the satisfaction of seeing you waver. You're eye-level with his cock now, watching it bob with his pulse, thick and flushed, a vein running along the underside that you trace with your fingertip just to watch him twitch.
"Stop teasing."
"Stop being desperate." You look up at him through your lashes, water streaming down your face, and you see the exact moment his patience snaps.
His hand is in your hair again, guiding you forward, and you open your mouth without resistance because you want this just as badly as he does. Maybe more. Maybe you've wanted this all summer, every argument just foreplay, every insult a way to get his attention without having to admit you craved it.
The head of his cock passes your lips and you seal them around his shaft, tongue pressing flat against the underside, tasting salt and skin and something uniquely Chris. He groans above you, his hips jerking forward, pushing deeper into your mouth.
"Fuck," he hisses, his head falling back. "Fuck, that's—your mouth is—"
You take him deeper, relaxing your throat, breathing through your nose as you swallow around him. Your hand wraps around what you can't fit, stroking in time with your mouth, twisting on the upstroke, your other hand cupping his balls and rolling them gently in your palm.
"God, you're fucking good at this." His voice is strained, wrecked.
You hum around him and his whole body shudders. Your eyes water but you don't pull back, don't stop, setting a rhythm that has him cursing under his breath, his thighs tensing under your free hand. You can feel him getting close—the way his balls draw up tight, the way his cock swells on your tongue, the way his grip in your hair tightens to the point of pain.
"I'm gonna—" He yanks you off suddenly, and you gasp, drool and precum stringing from your lips to his cock. "Not like that. Not yet."
He pulls you to your feet and spins you around, pressing your front against the wet tile wall. The water beats down on both of you, running in rivulets down your spine, pooling in the hollow of your lower back. His body cages yours, his chest against your back, his cock sliding between your thighs, notching against your entrance but not pushing in.
"Tell me you want it."
"I want it."
"Tell me you need it."
"I need it, Chris. I need your cock inside me. Please."
"Please?" He laughs, dark and low. "Where's all that fight now? Where's the girl who was going to steal my MVP title?"
"Inside me. Where your cock should be."
"Filthy." He notches himself at your entrance and pushes in, one long, relentless thrust that has you crying out, your palms slapping against the wet tile. He fills you completely, stretching you, the slight burn mixing with the pleasure until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
He doesn't give you time to adjust. He fucks you hard, his hips snapping against your ass, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the tile, mixing with the spray of the water and both of your moans. His hand finds your throat, tilting your head back, and he bites along the column of your neck, sucks a bruise into the junction of your shoulder.
"This pussy is mine," he growls against your skin. "Say it."
"Yours. This pussy is yours."
"Every fucking inch of you." His free hand slides down your stomach, over your hip, dipping between your thighs to find your clit. He circles it with rough, relentless pressure, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. "I'm going to ruin you for anyone else. Going to make sure you never think about another cock without remembering how I feel inside you."
"Yes, god, yes—"
"Going to fill you up." His voice drops lower, rougher, and you feel his cock twitch inside you. "Going to pump you full of my cum, watch it drip down your thighs when I'm done with you."
The words hit something deep in your core, something primal and desperate. You push back against him, meeting each thrust, your nails scraping uselessly against the tile. The pressure is building, coiling tight in your belly, your orgasm creeping closer with every stroke of his fingers, every snap of his hips.
"Chris, I'm going to—"
"Not yet." He slows his pace, torturously slow, and you whimper. "Not until I say."
"Please, please, I need—"
His thumb shifts, sliding back, pressing against your asshole. You tense for a moment, then force yourself to relax, and he groans at the way your body yields to him.
"Look at you," he breathes, jaw dropping at the visual of his thumb rubbing your tight hole. "So fucking desperate for it. Huh, baby? You'd let me do anything, wouldn't you?"
"Anything. Anything you want."
He pushes just the tip of his thumb past the ring of muscle, and the fullness has you seeing stars. He resumes his pace, fucking you hard again, his thumb working in and out in counterpoint to his cock. The dual sensation is overwhelming, pushing you higher and higher, and you're sobbing with it, begging with sounds that barely qualify as words.
"Come for me," he says in your ear. "Come on my cock and make me come inside you."
You shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you, every muscle clenching and releasing at once, your cunt gripping him so tight he groans loud enough to echo. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, just fucks you through it, drawing out every last wave until you're shaking, until your legs barely hold you.
"Good girl." His rhythm stutters, becoming erratic. "Good fucking girl. I'm gonna fill you up now, baby. Gonna breed this pretty pussy."
"Yes, god, yes, give me everything—"
He slams home one final time and holds, his cock pulsing inside you, rope after rope of hot cum flooding your core. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Oh fuuuuuck,” he groans loudly. You can feel it, feel him marking you from the inside, and the sensation triggers another smaller orgasm that has you writhing against the wall.
For a moment, neither of you moves. Just the sound of water and breathing. Then he pulls out, and you feel his cum immediately start to slip down your thighs, mingling with the water, washing away the evidence of what you've done. His hands are gentle now, turning you around, brushing wet hair from your face.
"You're still not winning MVP," he says, but his voice is soft.
"We'll see about that." You're breathless, wrecked, but you manage a smile. "I think I just proved I can make you lose your mind. That's got to count for something."
He laughs, this real sound, and kisses you again—slower this time, less frantic.
"We're not done," he murmurs against your lips. "Not even close. You started a war when you followed me in here, and I intend to win it."
"Bring it on, Chris."
He grins, and there's something wicked in it, something that makes your spent cunt clench in anticipation.
"Round two in the locker room," he says, already reaching for you again. "I want to bend you over one of those benches and hear you scream."
The water runs cold around you both, but neither of you cares. And something tells you that by the end of it, neither of you will remember why you were fighting in the first place.
BELENN this was so good, i love smut with plot. and i LOVED the worldbuilding. it has a certain vibe to it that i love
“You’re loud standing completely still.” — yn u suck at being slick
Felix, from somewhere near the supply closet, whispered, “Don’t do it.” - You turned your head slowly toward the sound. A cabinet shut very quietly. — WAS HE HIDING IN A CABINET? i’m crying i shouldn’t find that visual so funny wtf 😭 why is he stalking
now the actual smut was amazing and i swear shower sex is soo underrated, love it <3 sorry for getting to this so late </333
could you maybe write a fic where chan and reader did a really intense scene and she falls DEEP into subspace for the first time and she doesn’t know what’s going on and chan is js there to help pls🙏🥺
━━━━ ϐecause i’m still in love with you , b.c. x reader
a/n : omg i just saw bby ku-lia talk about sub space this was meant to be i have to write this RIGHT NOW
it was intense, and you couldn’t lie, chan was being kinda mean. as to be expected, you did ask him to degrade you after all, but now that your orgasm had come and gone, you were starting to worry if what he had been hissing in your ear were true. as chan rolled off of you, trying to catch his own breath, your mind started to whirl. your breath was sucked out from your body and you felt you couldn’t catch a proper breath as your mind started to convince yourself that chan was telling the truth when he had called you a slut and a cock whore.
you had never felt like this before, never had such a deep seeded feeling of sadness effect you this deeply before and you didn’t know how to react. your chest started to rapidly rise and fall as you desperately tried to catch your breath, tears trickling down your cheeks as you did your best to hide your shuddering breaths as to not alarm chan next to you.
but, of course, he noticed. as he rolled on his side to face you, chans face immediately dropped seeing your wet face, “baby? what’s wrong honey? you ok, did i go too hard?”
you couldn’t form words, just gasping for air as your bottom lip pathetically trembled. you wanted his comfort, wanted him to touch and hold you but as chan gently laid his hand on your cheek, you whimpered at the feeling. your body was so sensitive from just moments before when he was pounding into you. this had never happened to you before with sex, you knew that this was your first time having rougher sex, but didn’t think it would’ve effected you this much.
chan immediately pulled his hand back, studying your face before sitting up off the bed, “are you hurt baby?”
words still wouldn’t come to you so you just slightly shook your head. once chan realized that you weren’t in any immediate danger, he gave you a slight nod, his hand hovering over your skin before jumping off the bed and running to the kitchen to get you something to drink. your mind was still running wild, wondering if you had blown the whole relationship by being so weird after sex, this was probably a huge turn off for chan, he probably thought you were so strange.
when chan comes back in the room, he finds you now curled in on yourself, hugging your knees to your chest.
“sweetie? can you sit up for me? i got you some water, you need to drink.” his voice is calming and soothing and for a split second it makes all your dark thoughts slip away. but you don’t want to be any weirder in front of chan, so you force yourself to sit up and shuffle a bit closer to the edge of the bed, taking the glass from your boyfriend with shaky hands.
you bring it up to your lips and do your best to not let it dribble down your chin as you hold back sobs long enough to gulp down some water. he smiles softly, his shoulders relaxing seeing you do as he asked.
“feeling better?”
you just shrug, because you really don’t know how you’re feeling, everything still feels fuzzy like your mind is stuck in a fog and you don’t know if you’ve reached euphoria or if you’re utterly depressed.
chan nods, he knows what’s happening, this isn’t his first rodeo, “is it ok if i touch you? are you still sensitive?”
your voice comes out quiet and shaky, your throat still raw from getting throat fucked just mere minutes ago, “i don’t know…i think i feel a bit better?”
he nods again, slowly reaching out his arm to wrap it around your shoulder, studying your face intensely to see any signs of discomfort, but when he saw none, he continued. chan eventually wrapped you up in his arms, carefully pulling you into his chest, still pausing at every slight movement to check that you were ok. your body was still trembling slightly, the waves and physical shock from before still coursing through your veins, but you felt your brain slowing down, giving you the slightest peace of mind.
your boyfriend seemed to have been reading your mind as he quietly whispers, “you know i didn’t mean any of that, right? you’re not a slut or a dirty girl, you’re my perfect little angel,” one of his hands came up to cradle the side of your head, “you’re the light of my life honey, i was just saying it for the moment, i promise i don’t think less of you.”
you melted against his skin, your heart rate slowing as you focused on his words and the rising and falling of his chest. you didn’t respond to what he was saying, you didn’t need to, chan knew how you were feeling and what you were thinking. he just kept whispering sweet nothings into your ear, his thumb caressing your cheek as he gently rocked you back and forth.
WAIT omg how did i miss this </3 u mentioned me in ur an and i didn’t even see it i’m feeling like reader </3
but BABE, this is so sweet. i’m so bad at angsty scenes so i don’t think i’d be good at the ‘coming down’ of subspace but u did it so well. chan would absolutely be the sweetest <3
Summary: When you change the pet name they call you to be an insult.
Author's note: Hai hai! These are so fun to make hehehe. I’m opening a taglist so comment or send an ask to be added! Also feel free to send in requests c:
Summary: When you change the pet name they call you to be an insult.
Author’s note: Hai hai! This is my first smau so please be gentle ㅋㅋ maknae line will be posted soon~~ Feel free to send asks for any other smau ideas!
My first SKZ fic ever🩵🥹 I really wanted to start the SKZ era with a reaction, I'm working now on some solo pieces. Hopefully I can get those done either today or tomorrow
Be kind, please. If you're new to my blog I'd like to let you know English it's not my first language. Hope you like this, let me know your thoughts please❤️
"Blink and we're done" - SKZ
Warnings: Fluff. Chan is a poor old man, Lee Know is annoying, Binnie is the CUTEST (yes, that's a warning), Drama Queen Hyunjin, GLASSES and CURLY HAIRED JISUNG (another warning), chronically online Felix, Seungmin is a menace and so is Jeongin.
Pairings: SKZ x Reader (separatedly)
Summary: You watch this new trend and decide to try it on your boyfriend
Bang Chan🐺
You walked into the living room with a purpose. Chan.
And there he was, sitting on the floor with his back against the sofa, barefoot, shirtless, and with his short, curly blond hair.
You felt a little bad at first and were about to back down—he looked so handsome and yet so sweet—but in the end, the words came out of your mouth before you could think twice.
"If you blink we're done" Your voice ran through the entire room. While your boyfriend stopped all movement. You laughed when you saw him. His stiff posture, his hands stopped typing on his laptop and what made you laugh the most was his face.
Chris looked as if he’d tensed every muscle in his face, and his wide-open eyes seemed ready to pop right out of their sockets.
"Chris" You said between giggles
"I don't know anything." He spoke almost without moving his lips, making you laugh even harder.
"Honey, you're blushing."
"I can't breathe."
"Well, breathe. I told you not to blink." He shook his head slowly
"Love," you said, leaning toward him and cupping his face in your hands. "Your eyes..."
"They hurt me."
"Come on, blink already."
"No!" he shook his head. "I'm not going to break up with you."
You laughed, wrapped your arms around his shoulders, planted a kiss on his cheek, and without pulling your lips away, you said, "We're not going to break up," and gave him two more kisses.
"I'm not taking any chances."
"Chris, stop!" You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, and as you did, you couldn't help but laugh once more. "Channie, your eyes."
"I'm about to cry, but I'm not going to blink. I’m a man who knows what he wants.”
You smiled. “You are. That’s why I’m staying with you for the rest of our lives.” Chan smiled. “You can blink now.”
Chan started laughing but didn’t blink. “Come on.” He shook his head. “Come on.” You threw yourself on top of him, gently covering his eyes with your hand and kissing his nose and dimples several times. “Channie, it’s a joke. It’s one of those TikTok jokes. I’m not going to let you go.”
“Woman, one of these days you’re going to make me pass out.”
Minho🐰
"Min," you said suddenly as the two of you were having dinner, "if you blink, it's over."
Minho stopped cutting his food and opened his eyes wider than ever before; you bit your lip to keep from laughing.
"That hurts."
"Opening your eyes like that, or breaking up with me?"
"My eyes."
"Hey!" He laughed.
"Both" he corrected with a smile; his eyes never narrowed—quite the opposite, he managed to keep them wider and wider.
You couldn't help but laugh. “Fake eyes open,” you sang softly, laughing.
“You think you're funny, don't you?”
“I know I am,” you smiled, stealing a bit of food from his plate.
“Aigooo,” he said, tilting his head. “Not only do you want to make me cry, but you're taking my food too?”
“Aren't you the one who says what's yours is mine and what's mine is yours?”
“I think that’s someone else,” his hand reached out to grab a piece of your meat. “Are you serious about breaking up?”
“What do you think?”
“I think that if it’s a joke, it’s a really bad one, and I should remind you of a few things,” he raised one of his eyebrows. "Like, for example, that no one else will put up with you the way I do"
“Hey!” you complained, and he laughed. “You're annoying, Lee Minho”
“You love me.”
Changbin🐷
“Binnie” you called out, walking into his room where you saw him finishing getting dressed after his bath.
“What's up, bunny?”
“If you blink, it's over” He immediately placed his hands over his eyelids, forcing himself not to close his eyes
“I won’t blink. I’ll stay with my bunny for the rest of our lives”
You couldn't keep your act up, your heart skipped a beat when you heard him. “Binnie, you’re too beautiful” you said with a smile.
“My bunny is more beautiful"
“You pass with flying colors.” You wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your head on his chest as you looked up at him. “I just knew you’d do something like this”
“Like what?”
“I was just pranking you, honey.” You stood on your tiptoes and planted a kiss on his lips "You did so well tho" You kissed him once again this time longer, his hands came down to the sides of your face, bringing you closer to him
"Binnie?" You called out after breaking the kiss
"What?"
"You really didn't close your eyes while we kissed?"
"I'm not losing my bunny!"
Hyunjin🥟
“The truth is, I never thought my beloved would do something like this to me, ever”
"Hyunjin"
"My muse..."
“Hyunnie, you're making it sound terrible"
“Because it is?!”
“I just said that if you blink, we're done"
“And you don't think that's terrible? You have no heart, woman”
“But I don't see you blinking"
“You'll see me crying and screaming, but I won't blink.
“Drama Queen”
“You're the one who caused this whole mess. We were just relaxing, cuddling up and watching movies when you said that to me” You laughed
“But you took that out of context. I just said that—you either blink or you don't.”
“How am I supposed to blink? You're not a single woman, and I'm not a single man. We're not ending this relationship.”
“Well, then just don't blink.”
Hyunjin opened his mouth and closed it right away, his eyes giving you one of those famous looks of his.
“I got stressed out,” he said, running a hand through his hair. You laughed and snuggled back into his chest
“You can blink, Jinnie.” You lifted your head and planted a kiss on his chin.
“We won't break up if I do that, will we?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“You're impossible.”
“Come on, I'm just kidding.”
“Just say you don't love me anymore and that's it.” You burst out laughing when you heard that.
"I love you so much"
Jisung🐿️
You were sitting on the couch watching your boyfriend sing “From The Start” with all his heart.
“Sungiee,” you called out. He placed his hand on your leg, acknowledging that you'd called him. “If you blink, we're done.”
“What? I'm not— Wait? What?” He lifted his head, confused, and in the process, he blinked. “NO!” His eyes widened as yours did in surprise; you opened your mouth and started laughing.
“Ji, did you just blink?”
“NO! I didn't—wait. YAH!” You burst out laughing. “I DIDN'T BLINK!”
“Yes, you did.” You nodded, laughing.
“No! I didn't.” He set his microphone down on the coffee table and turned around.
He looked handsome with his glasses and curly hair.
“You distracted me! My mind didn't process your words in time, and my body acted on its own.”
“But… did you blink then?”
“NO! I didn't!” he said, sounding a little desperate. His big eyes and chubby cheeks were making your job a little difficult.
“Yes,” you laughed.
“No,” he stood up. “Jagi, we can't break up.”
“Why not?”
“You said yourself that you'd never break up with me because I'm cute. Look, I really am.” He closed his eyes, puffed out his cheeks, and made a half-heart.
“YOU’RE BLINKING!” you exclaimed, laughing.
“AISH—NO! I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!”
“You just closed your eyes!”
“THAT WASN’T ME! WE’RE NOT BREAKING UP!” he said, then threw himself on top of you and hugged you. “I’m cute; I got a perm; I'm baby; you can’t break up with me.” As you laughed, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders and pulled him toward you.
“No, we're not breaking up. I was just pranking you”
“YAH, JAGI”
Felix🐥
"I'm almost Gold now," says your boyfriend, Felix, making you smile.
"You're so good, honey."
"Thanks, sweetheart." Lixie smiles, but almost immediately his smile turns into a frown. "No, wait. I don't know how to do this. Damn it."
Seeing him so focused, you decided to try your luck. If your boyfriend hadn’t been paying attention to social media, you could surprise him with the new trend you saw.
“Lix, if you blink, we’re done.”
“What?” His tone rose slightly. “Babe, I’m in the middle of a game.” His eyes widened a little.
“If you blink, we're done,” you repeated.
“You want to break up?” Lix asked softly, pausing the game and looking at you.
“I'm not answering.” He stared at you seriously for a few seconds until a small smile appeared on his face.
“Or is this another one of your TikTok jokes?” You stared at him for a few minutes without saying a word.
“Why are you like this?” you exclaimed, putting your hands on your hips. “You're chronically online, it's not really healthy” Felix started laughing.
“Do you want me to play along?”
“Yes, sir.” He nodded.
“If I blink, we’re done—is that what you said?” You nodded. “Would you rather see how long I can go without blinking? If I win, you make whatever I want for dinner. If you win, we order whatever you want, and I wash the dishes.”
“Deal.”
Seungmin🐶
“If you blink, we're done,” you said softly while you were playing UNO.
“Absolutely not,” he shook his head. “Take two,” you groaned, glancing quickly at your cards.
“You take four.”
“Six.”
“Eight.”
“I don't know why I'm even with you,” he said, grabbing eight cards from the deck.
“You're the one who started the +2 thing.”
“You started by saying something stupid.”
“Still, I haven't seen you blink.”
“Because I don't want to.”
“So you love me?” You smiled.
“Skip a turn. Skip a turn. Skip a turn. Take two. Two more. Take 8. Take 12. Switch to blue. ONE. And I win.” You watched what had just happened in shock.
"You cheated!"
"Of course not," he shook his head, smiling. Of course he did.
"Kim Seungmin!" He started laughing, got up from the floor, walked over to you, and kissed you on the forehead
"I love you so much. I have to go to practice now." You watched him walk over and grab all his things.
"You're not going anywhere. We're going to play again, and you're not going to cheat!"
"Make yourself look prettier. When I get back, we'll go out." He blew you a kiss.
"YOU DIDN'T BLINK," you reminded him.
"Guess then..."
Jeongin🦊
"Jagi, I was thinking we could go to the movies. That movie I was telling you about last week is coming out, and—" Ayen got into the car.
"If you blink, it's over." You cut him off. You laughed when you saw your boyfriend put his hand to his face and let out a big sigh.
"I'm going to drive."
"You still have to watch the road. So you shouldn’t blink.”
“I—” he cut himself off. “Never mind.” He started the car and fastened his seatbelt.
He looked at you with his eyes wide open, and you smiled broadly at him. “How long do I have to stay like this?”
“As long as you can stand it. Unless you want to break up with me.”
“We’re on our way to dinner with your parents.”
“They’ll understand why we’re running late.”
“I don’t think that makes the best impression.”
"They already love you, Yena."
"And I love you," you blushed. You were about to speak, but you saw Jeongin blink.
or: you don't believe that spiderman is real. who would believe that a masked vigilante just popped out of nowhere, started shooting webs and swinging through Seoul saving people, in spandex?? and most of all, you wouldn't believe that said "spiderman" would have any correlation with han jisung, that's just a load of nonsense!
in other words..: look, in jisung's defense, he didnt mean to get bit by a genetically modified spider. but he did, so now he's stuck with the superhuman side effects, a superhero persona, and his roommates constantly covering for him. and hey, he doesn't mind a sprinkle of chaos into his life. he's actually glad he got this alter ego, a version of himself that does good for other people, y'know...saving the city, and one that he can maybe impress you with, since his original self is stuck being your academic rival that you can't stand even if you were paid.
warnings: academicrival!jisung x reader, college au, nerdsung + nerd!reader, slowburn, eventual smut (not in this chapter), 3racha as roommates, Yunjin as your bsf and roommate, references from multiple spiderman movies, innuendos, profanity, college slop, caffeine slop, group project slop, party slop, talks of biotech and robotics that are probably false (research was poorly done), some action scenes, some injuries and blood loss (not in this chapter), reader is an academic weapon and doesn't catch a break, cameos of other members, crack, fluff, banter, no angst at all because Im sensitive, probably a heck ton of typos.
wc: 14k | part ll
98%.
The number glared up at you from the paper.
it's a good grade, objectively a great one. but there had to be a mistake - you’d stayed up three nights straight reviewing every possible permutation of the material. Your notes had been immaculate. You’d even rewritten them twice just to be sure.
Behind you, someone cleared their throat. you braced yourself for whatever annoying thing Jisung was about to say.
"Oof," Jisung said, leaning over your shoulder. "Ninety eight? I mean, close enough."
His own test fluttered into your peripheral vision, 100%. Of course.
"Better luck next time," he added. His voice was light, teasing - a tone he’d used since freshman year whenever he edged you out by fractions of a point.
You exhaled through your nose, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, you shoved your test into your bag, zipping it shut.
Jisung didn’t take the hint. He never did. He propped his hip against your desk, grinning as he watched you pack up.
"Don’t worry," Jisung continued, "I’ll let you copy my notes next time."
You finally looked up at him - his stupidly perfect face, his stupidly smug grin, stupidly big framed glasses.
"Like hell I’d copy your chicken scratch," you muttered, shoving your chair back harder than necessary. making its legs screech against the floor.
Jisung’s grin widened. "y'know, if you actually got enough sleep instead of staying up all night-"
You stood up and stomped on his foot, hard.
He yelped, hopping backward with exaggerated agony. "Ow! What was that for?"
You didn’t dignify him with an answer. You slung your bag over your shoulder and walked off without a backward glance.
Behind you, Jisung’s dramatic whining faded into the background noise of the lecture hall, punctuated by a burst of laughter from somewhere near the exit. You didn’t need to look to know it was Changbin, doubled over with amusement while Chan stood beside him, hand resting on the strap of his bag, waiting patiently.
The three of them had been inseparable since their second year of high school, when Chan, already broad shouldered and responsible beyond his years, had stepped between a scrawny, loudmouthed Jisung who'd just learned curse words and a group of seniors looking for an easy target.
Changbin, who’d been watching the confrontation from a nearby bench, had tossed a water bottle at the ringleader’s head mid threat. The resulting chaos had somehow ended with all three of them in detention, and that was where their friendship formed.
By graduation, the three of them had already cemented their fate - Chan, Changbin, and Jisung were a package deal, an inseparable trio that had somehow survived four years of high school without murdering each other.
So when university acceptance letters rolled in, the decision was already made, they’d stick together, signing a lease for a cramped apartment near campus before the ink on their diplomas had even dried.
And then there was you.
Orientation week had been the beginning of it all, though you hadn’t realized it at the time.
You hadn’t noticed Jisung at first during orientation. Not really. He’d been just another face in the crowd, another overeager freshman with bad posture and a laugh too loud.
as for him though, he had a stupid, undeniable crush on you.
he tried to talk to you, you’d been too busy rearranging your schedule to register his existence - some mumbled joke about the professor’s hair that you’d brushed off with a polite smile before walking away.
Another time, still during orientation, he’d lingered near your seat after the icebreaker games, hovering like he expected you to acknowledge him. You hadn’t.
What had caught your attention was the first exam. You’d walked out of that lecture hall certain you’d aced it, only to find your name one spot below his on the results board.
he'd realized then that you're probably a perfectionist, and that you did not like being in second place. you never were in second place, ever since high school.
he became your competition from then.
Jisung noticed the shift immediately. He could’ve backed off. He didn’t. Instead, he leaned into it.
It wasn’t that he wanted you to hate him. He just wanted you to look at him.
Don't get him wrong, he did try to befriend you, but when that ended in inevitable failure, he opted for his last option, the one thing guaranteed to make you react, relentless, obnoxious teasing. If you couldn’t stand him, at least you’d notice him.
It worked better than he’d expected.
three years later, and Han Jisung was still the single most irritating person you'd ever met.
~
The sound of the apartment door jolted Jisung awake. He blinked at the ceiling, groggy and disoriented, sunlight already painting stripes across his unmade bed.
His phone lay facedown on the floor where he’d tossed it last night. He fumbled for it, thumb smearing against the screen as he squinted at the time, 9:47 AM.
"Shit."
Jisung groaned, rubbing his face with both hands as the pieces clicked together - his snoozed alarm, the muffled knocking he'd sleepily batted away earlier, Chan had tried. Chan had definitely tried to wake him up.
Jisung rolled out of bed, scrambling upright, one hand already tugging his hoodie over his head while the other fumbled for his backpack.
He was not gonna be that late if he decided to take a short cut. And so he did.
Cutting through the science building was a gamble, technically off limits to non majors before noon, but Jisung had long since memorized the janitor’s schedule.
He ducked under a half raised security gate, sidestepping a cart of lab equipment as he beelined for the west exit. His footsteps echoed too loudly in the empty hallway, but he didn’t slow down - not until a sharp clang from an adjacent lab made him skid to a halt.
Jisung turned his head just in time to see a door marked 'BIOTECH RESEARCH - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY' swing shut, the tail end of a lab coat disappearing behind it.
He hesitated for half a second, before the distant chime of the campus clock tower rang. He was so late.
Jisung shouldn’t have been there.
The lock mechanism whirred as he hovered near the entrance, the distant hum of machinery inside prickling at his ears. Curiosity had always been his fatal flaw.
He glanced over his shoulder. The hallway was empty.
The door hissed open with a nudge of his shoulder, just wide enough for him to slip through. The lab was a maze of steel tables and humming equipment, bathed in the sterile glow of overhead LEDs.
Glass tanks lined the far wall, their murky contents swirling with movement - something skittered behind the frosted glass, too fast to track. spiders.
"Cool," he muttered, stepping further inside.
Jisung's fingers hovered over the nearest microscope, its lens gleaming under the lab lights. The surface was cool to the touch. Before he could explore more, a sharp click from the far end of the room froze him mid reach. His breath hitched. The sound wasn't mechanical. It was footsteps.
He ducked behind a lab bench, his knee connecting painfully with a drawer handle. He bit his tongue to keep from swearing.
Through the gap between two beakers, he could just make out the silhouette of a researcher - tall, white coated, absorbed in a clipboard. The man moved methodically down the row of specimens, pausing occasionally to adjust dials or scribble notes.
When the researcher turned toward a computer terminal, Jisung seized his chance. He crab walked backward, keeping low, until his shoulder bumped into something decidedly not a lab table. it was one of the glass tanks from earlier.
The container wobbled. He lunged to steady the glass before it could shatter and give away his presence that was not allowed in this lab, but his palm slipped against the condensation slick surface. The lid shifted with a silent clink.
A spider the size of a quarter dropped onto his wrist.
Jisung's entire body locked up. The spider's legs were needle thin, its body an unnatural shade of iridescent blue that shimmered under the lab lights.
For a suspended second, neither of them moved - Jisung paralyzed by instinctive revulsion, the spider crouched like a coiled spring. Then it bit him.
The pain was sharp and sudden, Jisung clamped his free hand over his mouth to smother the yelp threatening to escape. The researcher's footsteps paused.
"Who's there?"
Jisung froze. His wrist burned where the spider's fangs had pierced his skin, the pain radiating up his arm in slow, crawling waves.
The spider twitched between his fingers, its iridescent body pulsing unnaturally as he pinched it. For a split second, he considered tossing it aside - but the memory of its bite made his stomach twist.
Without thinking, he squished it between his finger, killing it.
Jisung grimaced, wiping his hand against his pants as the researcher's footsteps grew louder. He ducked lower behind the lab bench. A clipboard clattered onto the table above him, followed by the metallic click of a pen. The researcher muttered something under his breath - numbers, maybe, or measurements - before his shoes squeaked against the floor, turning away.
Jisung exhaled silently through his nose. His wrist throbbed. The bite mark was already red, the skin around it blotchy and hot to the touch. He flexed his fingers experimentally, half expecting his hand to lock up, but aside from the sting, nothing seemed immediately wrong.
The researcher's footsteps faded toward the far end of the lab. Jisung waited ten seconds before risking a glance over the edge of the bench. The man's back was turned, his attention fixed on a row of specimen jars. Jisung didn't wait. He walked backward until his shoulders hit the wall, then slid along it toward the door, keeping low.
The door clicked open just enough for him to slip through. He didn't look back.
The hallway was still empty. Jisung broke into a sprint, rounding the corner just as the lab door groaned shut behind him.
By the time he burst through the science building's side exit, the pain in his wrist had dulled to a steady ache. The sunlight hit his face, momentarily blinding him. He blinked, disoriented, before his phone buzzed violently in his pocket.
Changbin's name flashed across the screen.
Jisung fumbled with his phone, nearly dropping it as Changbin's second call lit up the screen. He swiped to answer just as a cyclist swerved around him, yelling something unflattering about his lack of spatial awareness.
"Where the hell are you?" Changbin's voice crackled through the speaker.
He rolled his wrist experimentally, half expecting a jolt of pain, but only a dull ache remained. strange, but not alarming enough to mention.
"Chill, I'm literally two minutes away," Jisung huffed into the phone, sidestepping a group of freshmen clustered around a campus map.
Jisung skidded to a halt outside the lecture hall, his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor as he yanked the door open. Twenty pairs of eyes swiveled toward him - including yours, narrowed with undisguised irritation from the front row.
The professor paused mid sentence, her laser pointer flickering against the projection screen.
"Nice of you to join us, Mr. Han," she said dryly.
Jisung flashed her a grin "Traffic was brutal."
The professor arched an eyebrow. "You live on campus."
"Exactly."
Jisung collapsed into the empty seat next to you with a sigh. Conveniently, there were no other free seats.
The professor resumed her lecture, but Jisung wasn't listening. His fingers drummed restlessly against the desk, his knee bouncing so fast it blurred. You gritted your teeth.
"Would you stop?" you hissed under your breath, jabbing your pen toward his twitching leg.
Jisung blinked at you like he'd forgotten you were there. "Stop what?"
"That." You gestured pointedly at his knee, "You're shaking the entire row."
He glanced down, as if surprised by his own body. "Huh."
Jisung blinked again, his fingers stilling mid tap against the desk. "Oh. Sorry."
He stopped. His knee went still. His fingers curled into a loose fist against the desk. Even his breathing seemed to slow, like he was consciously holding himself in check.
The professor's lecture droned on, but you couldn't focus. Your peripheral vision kept catching on Jisung's unnaturally still form.
Then he sneezed.
The sound was sharp, explosive, and entirely too loud for the lecture hall. Half the class jumped. The professor paused mid sentence, her laser pointer flickering off the screen. Jisung sniffled, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand.
"Bless you," you muttered automatically.
Jisung turned his head so fast you heard his neck crack. "Thanks," he whispered back. His voice was hoarse, like he'd been yelling earlier - though you couldn't remember hearing him speak at all today.
The strangeness of it prickled at your neck. Jisung didn't whisper. He didn't apologize. And he certainly didn't stop fidgeting for twenty straight minutes.
weird
~
after lectures, you were supposed to be studying.
Keyword: supposed.
Currently, your textbook lay abandoned as Yunjin scrolled through her phone, legs kicked up onto the library table in direct violation of at least three campus rules.
"I swear to god," she muttered, stabbing her screen, "if Professor Kang assigns one more reading—" she cut herself off with a sigh.
"I'll drop out," Yunjin announced, tossing her phone onto the table. "I'll move to a remote island. Raise goats. Never think about electron configurations again."
You snorted, flipping a page in your textbook without absorbing a single word. "You'd cry over the first goat that liked someone else better."
"Excuse you, I'm extremely likable-" Yunjin's protest cut off mid-sentence as she caught you glancing sideways for the third time in five minutes.
"Ohhhh. That's why you're failing to absorb basic chemistry. Distracted by your archnemesis over there."
You stiffened. "I don't know what you're—"
"Han Jisung," Yunjin sing songed, nodding toward the table where Jisung was slumped over a pile of notebooks, dead asleep.
His cheek was pressed against an open textbook, one arm dangling off the edge of the table, the side of his wrist adorned with what looked like a nasty bruise. A thin line of drool connected his mouth to a page. "You were staring at that."
"I was not staring," you hissed, slamming your textbook shut . Several students at nearby tables startled. Jisung didn't even twitch. "I was just—"
"Admiring his scholarly dedication?" Yunjin smirked, kicking her feet down from the table. "Or maybe his impressive drool radius?"
"I was wondering how someone who sleeps through every lecture still manages to ace every exam."
As if on cue, Jisung shifted in his sleep, his dangling arm swinging. he nearly toppled him sideways out of his chair. Your body reacted before your brain could stop it, half standing, hand outstretched - only to freeze when he somehow righted himself without waking.
Yunjin's eyebrows shot up. "Wow."
"Wow what?" You dropped back into your seat, face burning.
"Nothing," she said, stretching the word into three syllables. "Just never realized you cared so much about Jisung's spinal health."
"I just didn't want to witness a concussion in the library."
Yunjin grinned, kicking you lightly under the table. "Uh huh. Sure. That's definitely why you looked ready to dive across three tables like a superhero." She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. "You secretly like him."
You choked on air. "Like him? Are you insane? He's—" You gestured wildly toward Jisung's sleeping form. "—that. That's what he is. A menace. A sleeping menace."
"Aw, but look how peaceful he is," Yunjin cooed, feigning innocence. "Like a little angel."
At that exact moment, Jisung snorted loudly in his sleep, mumbled something unintelligible, and promptly face planted directly onto his textbook. You winced. Yunjin burst out laughing.
He lifted his head blearily, blinked at the drool smeared page stuck to his cheek, then promptly slumped back down without a single coherent thought behind his eyes.
Yunjin wiped tears from her cheeks, still giggling. "Oh my god. He's adorable."
"You're delusional," you muttered, shoving your notebook into your backpack. The zipper caught on a loose page, and you yanked it free with a frustrated huff. "Let's get lunch before I have to listen to any more of this."
Yunjin’s eyes lit up suddenly, "Oh! Right," she said, snapping her fingers as you shoved the last of your notebooks into your bag. "You’re coming with me to that party tonight."
You blinked. "What party?"
"The one hyunjin’s throwing at his apartment," she said, as if this were obvious. "The one I told you about last week."
"You absolutely did not."
She waved a hand dismissively. "Semantics. Anyway, after lunch, we’re going back to our dorm so you can try on at least three outfits before I approve one."
You groaned, slinging your backpack over your shoulder. "No way. I have actual responsibilities."
Yunjin stood, shoving her phone into her pocket "Nope. You’ve been holed up in the library for weeks. You’re coming, and you’re going to socialize, and you’re going to like it." She paused, then added with a smirk, "Unless you’d rather stay here and stare at Jisung some more."
You nearly tripped over your own feet. "What? I wasn’t—"
"Uh huh." She linked her arm through yours, steering you toward the library exit "lunch first, outfits second, party third. No arguments."
You dug your heels in halfway to the door. "What if I want to argue? - who the hell even hosts a party on a school night-"
Yunjin sighed dramatically, turning to face you with a look of exaggerated pity. "Sweet, naive, delusional you. When have your arguments ever worked on me?"
"...Never."
"Exactly." She patted your cheek. "Now move. I’m starving."
You did end up going according to Yunjin’s plans - not that you had a choice, given she’d physically dragged you out of the library, then out of your dorm.
to top it all off, you had to wait for her because if you didn't, there'd be no one to take her drunk ass home, and you'd end up finding her in a ditch somewhere next morning.
so you had to wait till the asscrack of the night to take her home because no matter how un enjoyable a party is, you were not a bad friend.
and you were gonna be so late tomorrow.
~
The blaring alarm tore Jisung from his sleep this time. He gasped awake, limbs tangled in sheets that felt suspiciously sticky - had he spilled something last night? His hand shot out blindly toward the nightstand, fingers slapping against anything but his phone.
The alarm continued shrieking. Jisung groaned, pawing at the edge of his nightstand until his fingertips brushed warm metal. He grabbed his phone and hit the screen repeatedly-
The screen cracked under Jisung's fingers with a pop when he swiped to turn off the alarm. not a full shatter, but a spiderweb of fractures radiating from his thumbprint.
He blinked at it, sleep fogged brain struggling to process why his phone screen suddenly broke just from a few taps of his finger.
The display still functioned beneath the damage, the time, 8:15AM, visible through the splintered glass. Jisung flexed his fingers. He hadn't pushed that hard. Had he?
Jisung frowned, pushing himself up onto his elbows. The cracked phone screen wasn't the only thing that felt off, his head throbbed like he'd pulled an all nighter.
He grabbed his glasses from the nightstand, fingers fumbling with the frames in his haste.
The moment he slid them on, the world tilted.
Everything blurred into a nauseating smear of colors and shapes - like someone had smeared Vaseline across his lenses.
Jisung ripped the glasses off his face. The world snapped into focus, he could see perfectly without his glasses. He blinked rapidly. His vision hadn't been this clear since elementary school.
"What the fuck," he whispered, turning his hands over in front of his face. The calluses on his fingertips stood out in stark relief, the whorls of his fingerprints unnervingly detailed.
He rubbed his eyes hard till he saw colors and shapes behind his eyelids, but when he opened them again, his dorm room remained horrifically, impossibly sharp.
Jisung exhaled slowly through his nose and tossed the glasses onto the nightstand - they landed with a clatter, one temple arm snapping off completely.
His wrist itched. The bite mark from yesterday was gone.
Jisung rolled out of bed, his feet hitting the floor with an audible thud that made the loose change on his nightstand rattle.
He stretched, arms arching high above his head - and froze mid yawn when he heard the distinctive rrrip of fabric.
His sleep addled brain registered two things at once, the sudden draft across his shoulders, and the fact that his favorite hoodie, the one he’d slept in last night, now had a gaping tear along the seam.
He blinked down at himself. The fabric clung to his torso in ways it never had before, stretched taut across shoulders that suddenly looked broader. His biceps pressed against the sleeves, the cuffs riding up his wrist like they’d shrunk in the wash.
Jisung frowned and tugged at the hem. It didn’t budge.
his full length mirror confirmed it. His reflection stared back at him - same messy hair, same sleep creased cheek, but it was like he hit a second puberty overnight.
The hoodie that used to hang loose now hugged every contour of his torso, the fabric straining across his chest when he inhaled.
he took his hoodie off - since when did he have abs?? he was met with whole six pack. he even counted them.
he prodded at his own bicep experimentally, half expecting it, I don't know, deflate? It didn’t.
The bedroom door creaked open - Chan appearing at the doorway, "I swear to god, if you're still asleep-" His threat died halfway out of his mouth when he saw Jisung.
Jisung stood frozen in front of the mirror, shirtless and wide eyed, one hand still gripping the torn remains of his hoodie. The morning light caught the sharp new definition of his shoulders, the lean muscle coiled along his arms like he'd spent the last six months living in a gym.
"...Did you steal Changbin's protein shakes?"
Jisung whipped around "What? No! I just-" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "I woke up like this."
Chan stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him with his heel. His gaze flickered over Jisung's torso - the previously soft lines of his stomach now taut, the faint shadows of ribs replaced by something decidedly more athletic.
Chan reached out and poked Jisung's bicep with two fingers. It felt like pressing against granite.
"Ow," Jisung lied automatically, then blinked. "Wait. That didn't actually hurt."
Chan's eyebrows raised. "You're telling me you went to bed and woke up as-" He gestured vaguely at Jisung's entire existence. "-whatever this is?"
A beat of silence. Then, from the hallway, "If you two are having a moment, I'm throwing myself off the window." Changbin's voice, muffled through the door.
Chan ignored him. "Did you take something? Experimental pre workout? Sketchy supplements from the gym bros?"
Jisung's fingers twitched toward his wrist - where the spider bite had been. The skin was smooth. "I might have... broken into the biotech lab yesterday."
Chan's expression grew even more confused. "okay...?"
The bedroom door slammed open before Jisung could answer. Changbin stood in the threshold, mouth already open to ask why the hell they were whispering with the door closed - then his eyes landed on Jisung’s bare torso. His eyebrows shot up. "Woah. What happened to you?"
Jisung threw his hands in the air, "I know! I woke up like - okay listen," he took a deep breath,
"yesterday I was late, like super late, so I took a shortcut through the science building even though I’m technically banned from the biotech wing after the centrifuge incident—"
Changbin mouthed 'centrifuge incident?' at Chan, who pinched the bridge of his nose.
"-and then I heard this noise from the restricted lab, right? So obviously I had to check it out-"
"You didn’t have to," Chan groaned.
"and there was this spider, this huge freaky blue one, in a tank that I maybe knocked over-"
"You knocked over-"
"-and it bit me! Right here!" Jisung brandished his unmarked wrist, "It hurt like hell yesterday but now it’s gone and suddenly I can see everything without my glasses and I just ripped my favorite hoodie like it was tissue paper-" He demonstrated by grabbing the hem of his remaining sleeve and tugging. The fabric split with a sound like tearing paper.
Changbin's mouth dropped open. Chan's blinked in disbelief.
"Okay," Chan said very slowly, "So you're telling me a genetically modified spider bit you, and now you're..." He gestured vaguely at Jisung's new physique. "This?"
Jisung flexed his arms experimentally. His biceps jumped under his skin "I mean, when you say it like that-"
Changbin suddenly lunged forward and punched Jisung square in the stomach - or tried to. His fist connected with what felt like solid concrete instead of soft flesh.
Jisung didn't even flinch. Changbin yelped, shaking out his hand. "Holy shit, dude. That's not normal."
Jisung looked down at his own abdomen, prodding the spot Changbin had hit. "Didn't feel anything." His voice went unnervingly quiet. "Should I be freaking out?"
Chan grabbed Jisung's shoulders - or attempted to, before his fingers slipped off the unexpected slope of muscle. "You shouldn't be able to bench press a car after one spider bite!"
"Technically I haven't tried that yet-"
The alarm on Jisung’s shattered phone blared again, 8:45AM, and Chan visibly flinched. “Shit. Class starts in fifteen.”
Changbin was already halfway out the door, yelling over his shoulder, “I’m not getting marked absent because you two want to dissect Jisung’s sudden glow up!”
Chan walked out of Jisung's room too, coming back after a moment,
"Here," Chan grunted, tossing a black hoodie at Jisung's face. It smelled faintly of fabric softener and Chan's inexplicably expensive cologne. "It's the biggest one I've got. Don't pop the seams."
~
Jisung reached campus a full minute before Chan and Changbin, his sneakers skidding to a halt outside the lecture hall with unnatural ease.
His lungs barely burned, just a pleasant warmth where there should have been heaving breaths.
He turned, bouncing on his toes while waiting for his roommates to catch up, when a sudden prickle raced down his spine. His scalp tingled.
Something was about to happen.
The prickle exploded into full body alarm a half second before the weight hit him.
Jisung spun without thinking - his hands snapping up just as you tripped. His palm connected with your shoulder an instant before you would have face planted into his chest.
The force should have sent both of you crashing to the ground, but Jisung didn’t budge an inch - just absorbed the impact like you weighed nothing.
Your coffee wasn’t so lucky, The cup slipped from your grip. Jisung’s free hand shot out, snatching it mere inches from the ground. Hot liquid sloshed against the inside of the lid but didn’t spill. He held it there, frozen, your shoulder still cradled in his other hand, both of you staring at each other in stunned silence.
Up close, you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes - something you’d never noticed before.
“You-” you started.
“I-” he interrupted at the same time.
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Uh. You okay?”
“Yeah,” you said, too quickly. His hands were still there.
Jisung blinked like he’d just remembered they were attached to him, then jerked them away. The coffee wobbled dangerously in his grip. You grabbed it before it could spill .
“Late too?” he asked, stuffing his hands into the pockets of Chan’s hoodie.
You nodded, adjusting your bag strap. “Yeah.”
You stared at him for a second too long, suddenly noticing how the hoodie strained across his shoulders - when had Han Jisung gotten broad? The absence of his usual thick framed glasses left his face strangely exposed, his cheekbones and dark lashes more pronounced than you remembered.
"Thanks," you muttered, brushing nonexistent lint off your sweater where his hands had been.
After a beat, you added, "Good reflexes," because it was true and you hated leaving truths unsaid, even for him.
Jisung blinked at you, momentarily stunned by the compliment - his mouth opened, closed, then opened again. A faint pink spread across his cheeks, "Uh," he managed. His fingers twitched toward his face, a habitual gesture to push up glasses that weren't there, before aborting the motion halfway.
"Uh, thanks," Jisung managed after an awkward pause, He cleared his throat "I mean - you're welcome. Obviously. Because I saved your life."
"You caught my coffee," you corrected flatly, lifting the cup slightly as evidence.
His grin returned, familiar. "Same difference." He rocked back on his heels, "You would've face planted on the pavement if I hadn't intervened. Tragic, really."
"I take it back. Never complimenting you again."
before he could retort, Changbin's voice cut through the courtyard "If you two are done flirting, we're gonna be late!" He stood at the lecture hall doors with Chan, who was rubbing his temples like he'd aged ten years in the past hour.
Jisung whipped around so fast his sneakers squeaked against the pavement. "We're not-!"
You walked past him before he could finish the sentence, shoulders brushing hard against his as you passed.
~
Jisung didn't plan to become a hero - it just sort of happened at 1:37 AM outside a convenience store three nights after The Bite.
He'd been pacing his dorm room, fingers twitching with pent up energy, when Chan threw a couch cushion his head and told him to "go climb a building or something, Jesus Christ."
So he did. Sort of. Mostly he just jumped fire escapes until his thighs burned and his lungs finally felt normal again, which is how he ended up perched on a rusty AC unit overlooking the 24 hour convenience store when the guy in the ski mask walked in waving a gun.
The gun glinted under the lights of the convenience store, its barrel wavering between the cashier and the racks of snacks. Jisung's body moved before his brain caught up, one second he was crouched on the AC unit, the next he was dropping through the open window like a damn action hero.
His sneakers hit the floor with barely a sound, knees bending to absorb the impact that should've shattered his ankles. The robber whirled around, gun swinging wildly. Time slowed. Jisung saw the trigger finger tense, saw the cashier duck behind the counter.
He lunged.
What happened next was equal parts luck and whatever the hell that spider had pumped into his veins. His palm smacked the gun sideways just as it discharged - the bullet embedding itself in a display of energy drinks with a sickening thunk.
Jisung's other hand grabbed the guy's wrist, twisting until the gun clattered to the floor. The would be robber screamed. Not from pain, Jisung realized, but from the sight of his own fingers bending the wrong way under Jisung's grip. He let go like he'd been burned. The guy bolted, leaving his ski mask behind in Jisung's fist.
Silence.
Jisung didn’t realize he was holding his breath until the cashier wheezed out a shaky "Holy shit." The gun lied abandoned on the floor between them, still warm from the misfired shot.
Jisung stared at it, then at his own hands - his bare hands, no gloves, no mask, just his stupidly recognizable face that was probably caught on camera. His stomach dropped.
Chan was going to murder him.
The cashier - a guy his age with a nametag reading 'jeongin' - slowly straightened from behind the counter, eyes darting between Jisung and the discarded ski mask. "...Are you gonna rob me too?"
"What? No!" Jisung’s voice cracked. He kicked the gun farther away for emphasis. "I just-" He gestured vaguely at the empty space where the robber had been. "-stopped that guy. Obviously."
The ski mask stared up at Jisung from the convenience store floor. He scooped it up, fingers brushing the rough knit fabric, still warm from the robber's panicked sweat.
The cashier was already dialing the police with shaking hands, but Jisung's feet were moving before his brain caught up. He bolted out the door like he was the criminal, the stolen mask crumpled in his fist.
His knees nearly buckled when he hit the pavement - the sudden realization that he'd just stopped an armed robbery barefaced hit him.
Jisung sprinted down three alleys and ducked behind a dumpster just as police sirens wailed past the mouth of the alley. His heart hammered against his ribs, not from fear, but from something far worse. exhilaration.
He lifted the ski mask toward his face, hesitating for just a second before remembering its previous owner had been sweating bullets into the fabric.
He tentatively sniffed it - then recoiled so hard his head smacked against the dumpster behind him.
"Yuck," a stench clung to it, absolutely not.
He sprinted home in record time, sneakers barely touching the pavement. His enhanced legs carried him up the fire escape in three leaps. The window to their apartment's living room was still cracked open from his earlier escape, curtains fluttering in the night breeze. Jisung slid inside, falling right onto his ass.
"Ow," Changbin deadpanned from his bed, not looking up from his phone.
Jisung scrambled upright, ski mask still clutched in one hand. His gaze flicked from Jisung's disheveled hair to the crumpled mask.
Chan’s eyebrow twitched. “So. You robbed a robber.”
Jisung flapped the ski mask like a surrender flag. “No! I disarmed a robber. Then maybe borrowed his mask. Temporarily.”
Changbin snorted "And you didn’t think to cover your face before playing hero?"
this rooted a bad, bad idea into jisungs head.
he spent the next morning hunched over Chan’s laptop, scrolling through fabric stores frantically. His fingers drummed against the keyboard, pausing only to zoom in on a breathable material that promised "enhanced mobility" and "sweat wicking technology."
The description sounded like something straight out of a superhero movie - which, he supposed, was exactly what he needed now.
Chan watched from the doorway, arms crossed. "You realize this is insane, right?"
Jisung didn’t look up. "Less insane than stopping another robbery barefaced."
his first attempt at making a suit for his superhero persona was a disaster.
Jisung had underestimated the complexity of sewing stretch fabric, resulting in a lopsided mess of seams that bunched uncomfortably around his shoulders.
The second attempt fared slightly better - until he tested its durability by scaling the dorm’s exterior wall, only for the pants to split straight down the middle mid climb.
soon enough, Chan saw jisung's genuine dedication, and had taken pity on him. they spent late nights hunched over fabric scraps, Chan’s steady hands guiding the sewing machine - that chan bought from is own money earned from DJ gigs, mind you - while Jisung sketched designs in the margins of his notebooks.
The final prototype emerged from their shared efforts, a sleek red and blue suit with reinforced stitching and breathable mesh panels. The mask took another three attempts before achieving the perfect fit, complete with oversized white lenses that concealed his identity while enhancing his already unnaturally sharp vision.
Jisung examined himself in the dorm’s full length mirror for the first time, twisting to check the fit. The suit hugged his new musculature without restricting movement, the fabric stretching effortlessly as he flexed. He rolled his shoulders experimentally - it was the most comfortable model so far.
Changbin tossed an empty soda can at Jisung’s head from across the room. Jisung caught it without looking, reflexes kicking in. The can crumpled further in his grip.
"Show off," Changbin muttered.
The mask was the final piece. Jisung hesitated before pulling it on, fingertips brushing the blank white lenses. Once these went on, it'd be an official embodiment of... whatever this was.
The fabric settled over his face. His breathing echoed strangely in the enclosed space, but his vision remained clear. He blinked, adjusting to the surreal sensation of seeing more while being seen less.
Chan exhaled sharply. "Well. That's... a look."
Jisung twisted to examine his reflection in the mirror. The suit clung to his new physique like a second skin, the red and blue panels accentuating rather than hiding the slope of his shoulders. with a spider logo stitched across the center of his chest.
"So. What now?" chan cleared his throat.
Jisung exhaled through the mask, watching the fabric flutter slightly with his breath. "Now I test it."
His fingers found purchase on the brickwork without thought, his body moving with an instinct he shouldn't possess. He scaled the dormitory wall in seconds. Below, Seoul sprawled in a grid of neon and shadow, its pulse thrumming through the pavement under his palms.
He jumped.
The world tilted. His stomach lurched from the sheer impossibility of what his body was doing. He arced over the alleyway, arms outstretched, fingertips brushing the opposite fire escape before his feet even registered the landing.
The impact should have shattered his knees. Instead, he rolled smoothly onto the grated metal platform, his pulse steady in his ears.
That was when he heard a scream.
It cut through the ambient city noise . Jisung's head snapped toward the sound. Four blocks northeast. A woman's scream. fear, urgent terror in her voice.
He moved.
His body propelled him forward before conscious thought could interfere. The city blurred around him as he swung from ledges, his shot web lines that shouldn't have held his weight. Yet they did.
The polymer strands stretched taut as he launched himself between buildings, and landed on the third story balcony of a love hotel just as the scene unfolded below, a man dragging a woman toward a waiting car, her heels scraping against pavement as she fought.
Jisung didn't think, he immediately droped down, landing between the assailant and the car with a thud. The man recoiled, dragging the woman tighter against him as a human shield. Up close, Jisung could see the knife glinting in his free hand, the woman's smudged mascara.
"Back off!" the man snarled, blade pressing into her side.
Jisung's hands came up instinctively, palms out. The woman's wide eyes locked onto his mask. "You're-" she gasped.
Then everything happened at once. The man lunged, knife flashing. Jisung's body moved - his hand shot out, catching the blade mid air. Metal screeched against reinforced fabric, but didn't pierce.
The man's eyes widened comically as Jisung twisted his wrist, sending the knife clattering to the ground.
The knife skittered across the pavement. Jisung didn’t wait for the guy to process what had just happened, he pivoted on his heel, using his own momentum to yank the woman free in one motion.
She stumbled forward, gasping, but Jisung was already stepping between them, his body angled to shield her completely.
“Run,” he said. The word came out muffled and distorted through the mask, more like a growl than actual speech. The woman didn’t need to be told twice. She bolted, heels clicking against the sidewalk as she disappeared around the corner.
The would be attacker stared at Jisung, then at his own empty hand, then back at Jisung. “What the hell are you?”
Jisung's breath hitched behind the mask - What was he? A broke college student who'd bitten off more than he could chew. A walking science experiment. Definitely not someone who should be standing between an armed assailant and certain doom at 3 AM on a Tuesday.
"Uh," he managed, voice cracking through the fabric. "spiderman?"
The man lunged. Jisung sidestepped on instinct, the guy's momentum carried him straight into a dumpster with a metallic clang that echoed down the alley. Jisung winced. That had to hurt.
Police sirens wailed in the distance, close enough to spook the would be kidnapper, who scrambled upright and bolted in the opposite direction.
Jisung let him go. Chasing him down would mean explaining why he was dressed like a rejected Power Ranger, and frankly, he'd already pushed his luck far enough for one night.
Jisung crouched on the rooftop ledge, peeling off the mask with a wet shluck sound - the fabric sticking stubbornly to his sweaty forehead.
Below, the woman he'd rescued was giving a statement to the police, gesturing wildly toward the rooftops. He ducked back before she could spot him.
His phone buzzed violently against his thigh. Chan's caller ID flashed across the cracked screen, followed immediately by Changbin's bombardment of texts
BRO
DID YOU JUST GO VIRAL ON TWITTER
THERES VIDEO OF YOU DOING A BACKFLIP OVER A CAR
Jisung groaned, flopping onto his back. Gravel dug into his shoulder blades through the suit. Above him, Seoul's light pollution drowned out the stars, leaving only a murky orange haze.
He held up his phone, squinting at the blurry footage someone had uploaded. there he was, mid backflip, his red and blue suit a neon smear against the night. The caption read
Spiderman??? In SEOUL????
The first tweet had thirty seven likes. By morning, it had seventeen thousand and counting.
Jisung woke to Changbin shoving his phone in his face, screen displaying a grainy video of someone in a red and blue suit flipping over a moving car. "Congratulations," Changbin said. "You're a meme now."
Chan was less amused. He paced their dorm room, pausing only to read the growing pile of news articles on his laptop:
SPIDERMAN IN SEOUL? SUPER-HERO OR SUPER-ZERO?
before rounding on Jisung. "This," he hissed, jabbing a finger at the screen, "is the opposite of keeping a low profile."
Jisung groaned into his pillow. "It was one car."
~
You'd seen the videos. Everyone had. Grainy footage of some idiot in red and blue flipping over cars and catching falling flowerpots like it was nothing. The internet had collectively lost its mind - #SpiderManSeoul was still trending and it's been a whole two weeks - but you refused to join the hype.
"Obviously fake," you muttered in the cafeteria, stabbing your chopsticks into a piece of kimchi. The table next to yours erupted into excited chatter about the latest clip, Spiderman allegedly stopping a truck from hitting a pedestrian near Hongdae.
Yunjin slammed her phone down on the cafeteria table hard enough to make your soup bowl rattle. "That's three robberies he's stopped this week," she hissed, scrolling through blurry footage. "How can you still think this is fake?"
You rolled your eyes, stirring your half cold soup. "Easy. Because physics don't work like that, and neither do people." You pointed your chopsticks at her phone screen where 'Spiderman' was currently doing something that should've snapped his spine in five places. "That's either CGI or a really dedicated performance artist with a death wish."
Across the table, Yunjin made a noise like a deflating balloon. "You're impossible." She flicked to another video, this one showing the vigilante webbing a purse snatcher to a lamppost mid sprint. "Explain that then,"
You leaned in, squinting at the pixelated mess. "Okay one, that 'web' looks suspiciously like industrial grade fishing line. Two-" you tapped the timestamp in the corner "-this was filmed at 2 AM near Hongdae. Everyone's either drunk or sleep deprived enough to hallucinate shit like this."
You snorted into your soup, watching Yunjin's face contort in frustration. "Honestly, anyone dumb enough to believe in 'Spiderman' probably thinks pigeons are government drones too." You waved a dismissive hand toward her phone. "He's probably just some adrenaline junkie with too much free time and a GoPro."
From the neighboring table, someone choked on their rice. You glanced over just in time to see Jisung wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Chan smacked him hard on his back, whether to help him breathe or silence him, you couldn't tell.
"Or," Jisung wheezed, voice still rough from coughing, "maybe he's actually helping people?" He twisted in his seat to face you fully, elbows propped on the table behind him. "Ever think of that, genius?"
Changbin groaned audibly and slid down in his chair.
You arched an eyebrow. "Didn't realize you were such a Spiderman fan, Han. Got a poster of him over your bed?"
Jisung's ears turned pink. "I'm just saying-" he jabbed a chopstick in your direction "-if someone's stopping crimes for free, maybe don't trash talk them while chewing with your mouth full."
Yunjin added "You're just jealous because you can't backflip over cars."
"I could if I wanted to," you shot back, knowing full well your athletic abilities peaked at speed walking to morning lectures.
Jisung snorted. "Sure, and I'm the queen of England."
Chan materialized between the tables. His palm hit Jisung’s shoulder with a dull thwack that knocked him forward into his bibimbap. “We’re late,” Chan announced, already dragging Jisung upright by the collar like a misbehaving kitten.
Jisung spluttered, chopsticks clattering to the tray. “Late for what?”
“The thing,” Changbin interjected smoothly, sliding out of his seat “The very important thing.”
You watched as Chan dragged Jisung toward the exit, Jisung still craning his neck to shout over his shoulder, “Ask me about my queen of England autograph later!”
Chan’s exasperated groan echoed down the hallway as the door swung shut behind them.
Left in their abrupt absence, you blinked at Yunjin. “What the hell was that about?”
She shrugged, scrolling through more Spiderman footage. “Dunno, but Han Jisung defending a vigilante’s honor is weirder than you denying literal video evidence.”
She paused the playback right as Spiderman executed a midair twist that defied every law of physics. “anyway, I think you’re just salty because Spiderman could probably out academic you and out athletic you.”
well...he literally did.
~
your disbelief in spiderman came back and smacked you right in the face.
you were at the library after you finished your lectures for the day, the library was unusually quiet for midterm season, the usual chatter replaced by the frantic scratching of pens and the occasional sniffle from sleep deprived students. You rubbed your temples, staring at the same differential equations page for forty five minutes straight. At this rate, you'd be here until sunrise, again.
Outside, Seoul had long since plunged into darkness, the campus pathways illuminated only by streetlamps. You hesitated at the library doors - your dorm was a fifteen minute walk through the least lit part of campus, but the alternative was another all nighter hunched over textbooks.
You'd taken three steps onto the pavement when the first catcall sliced through the quiet.
A group of drunk frat boys loitered near the bus stop, their laughter too loud, eyes tracking your movement.
You tightened your grip on your backpack straps and picked up the pace. Their footsteps followed, uneven against the pavement.
"Hey sweetheart, why you walking so fast?"
Your pulse jackhammered against your ribs. The shortcut through the engineering building's side alley was suddenly a terrible idea — too narrow, too dark, too isolated. You fumbled for your phone just as a hand grabbed your elbow.
Your elbow jerked instinctively, but the grip tightened. One of the drunk guys leaned in, his breath sour with soju as he slurred, "Don't be like that. We're just walking you home."
The others chuckled, closing ranks around you. Your phone slipped from your sweating fingers, clattering to the pavement.
You tried to say something, anything, but your voice came out shaky and thin, "Let go," you managed, but it sounded more like a question than a command.
The guy holding your elbow laughed, his grip tightening just enough to make your bones protest. His friends shuffled closer, their shadows swallowing the dim streetlight whole.
A second hand clamped onto your shoulder from behind. "Relax," someone slurred. "We're nice guys."
You twisted against the hold, but there were too many of them, too many hands, too many laughs, too many bodies boxing you in.
Then, movement. A flicker of red and blue in your peripheral vision. One of the drunk guys yelped as his hand was suddenly gone from your arm, yanked backward by an invisible force. The others barely had time to turn before something - someone - slammed into their midst like a human wrecking ball.
The drunk guy's hand vanished from your elbow with a wet thwip sound, followed by his startled scream as he was yanked backward into a dumpster.
His buddies whirled around - just in time to see a red and blue blur drop from the fire escape above, landing between them with a crouch.
"Hey guys," Spiderman said, tilting his head. The blank white lenses of his mask made his expression unreadable, "Didn't your moms teach you it's rude to grope strangers?"
One of the drunk guys lunged. Spiderman sidestepped without looking, webbing the guy's sneakers to the sidewalk mid swing. The dude faceplanted with a grunt, his friends gaping as he struggled against the sticky white strands now gluing his shoes to concrete.
"Oops," Spiderman said, tapping his chin. "Must've slipped."
Another guy charged. Spiderman flipped over him effortlessly, landing on the dumpster lid with a metallic clang. "Wow," he mused, watching the guy stumble past. "You're really bad at this. Like, impressively bad."
You stood frozen against the alley wall, watching Spiderman web the third guy's hands to his own jacket zipper. "There," he said, patting the stuck zipper. "Now you can't unzip or zip. Poetic, right?"
The last drunk guy made a break for it. Spiderman sighed dramatically. "Come on, man. Group project participation counts toward your final grade." A web shot out, snagging the runner's ankle mid stride.
He yelped as Spiderman reeled him in like a fish, depositing him neatly beside his webbed up friends.
Spiderman dusted off his gloves. "Alright, team huddle! Here's the deal-" he crouched to their eye level,
"-next time you think about cornering someone in a dark alley? Don't." He tapped the first guy's forehead with one finger. "Or I find you."
The drunk guys paled. Spiderman straightened, turning toward you then froze. His masked head tilted slightly, the lenses widening almost imperceptibly.
You realized three things at once
one, Your knees were shaking.
two, Spiderman was much shorter in person than the videos made him seem.
three, You'd dropped your phone and backpack during the scuffle, and your differential equations notes were now scattered across the alley like confetti.
Spiderman bent to gather your papers, his movements almost... familiar. He stacked them neatly and held them out. "You, uh. You okay?" His voice was softer now, the earlier bravado gone.
You took the notes with numb fingers. "Yeah. Thanks." The words came out hoarse.
Spiderman nodded awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Cool. Coolcoolcool." He cleared his throat. "So. Should I web these guys to a lamppost for the cops, or...?"
One of the webbed up drunks whimpered.
You swallowed hard. "Lamppost's good."
Spiderman saluted. "Lamppost it is."
Spiderman made quick work of securing the drunk guys to the nearest lamppost, his webs forming a messy cocoon around their legs. One of them hiccuped pathetically as Spiderman gave the webbing an experimental tug. "There," he said cheerfully. "Now you can reflect on your mistakes while waiting for the cops."
You hugged your notes to your chest, still processing the fact that Spiderman, the same one you'd spent weeks insisting was fake, just saved you.
"You're... shorter than I expected," you blurted out before you could stop yourself.
Spiderman's head snapped up. For a second, the mask's lenses just... stared.
Then he pressed a hand to his chest. "Excuse you, I'm perfectly average height for a-" He cut himself off abruptly, clearing his throat. "Anyway. You're welcome for saving your life or whatever."
"You didn't save my life," you muttered, kneeling to gather the last of your scattered pens.
Spiderman made a noise between a laugh and a wheeze. "Right. Sorry for interrupting your very important... pen collecting."
You looked up at him, "I was handling it."
"Uh huh." He crossed his arms, the red fabric stretching taut over his shoulders. "Because saying 'let go' in a squeaky voice is totally handling it."
Your cheeks burned. "I wasn't squeaky."
Spiderman's mask tilted slightly, "Sure," he drawled, dragging the word out.
You opened your mouth to retort when a police siren wailed in the distance. Spiderman's head snapped toward the sound, his posture more alert. "Right. That's my cue." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Need a swing home?"
You blinked. "A what?"
Before you could protest, he'd already grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but careful, "Do you trust me?"
"No," you said immediately.
Spiderman grinned beneath his mask - you could hear it in his voice. "Perfect."
Then he yanked you forward before you could react, making you drop your bag in the process, his other hand shooting a web line to the nearest rooftop with a sharp thwip.
Your stomach lurched violently as your feet left the pavement, the ground dropping away beneath you with terrifying speed.
You shrieked, instinctively locking your arms around his neck in a death grip as the world tilted sideways. Buildings blurred past, wind howling in your ears loud enough to drown out your own panicked breathing.
Spiderman's arm banded around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest as he swung into open air. "Relax!" he shouted over the rush of wind. "I've only dropped one person!"
"WHAT?!" You dug your fingers into his shoulders hard enough to bruise - if normal humans could bruise whatever weird super skin he had.
"Kidding!" He adjusted his grip slightly, angling his body to catch the updraft as he launched you both higher.
he released the web line, freefalling for one terrifying second before another thwip sent you arcing upward again. The city sprawled beneath you, the view would've been beautiful if you weren't convinced you were about to become sidewalk confetti.
"wait- you passed my dorm!" you yelled over the wind, nails digging into Spiderman's shoulders as another swing took your breath away. The familiar building of your residence hall flashed below - then vanished behind you .
Spiderman's grip tightened fractionally around your waist. "Yeah, well," he called back, voice strained from the wind and what sounded suspiciously like laughter, "you looked like you could use some fresh air!"
You tried to say something back, but your words dissolved into a startled squeak as the city tilted dizzyingly. Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, but somewhere between the fourth and fifth swing, you realized your death grip had eased slightly. Maybe it was the way his arm stayed locked around your waist like a seatbelt, or how he angled his body to shield you from the worst of the wind.
"See?" Spiderman's said, "Not so bad once you stop trying to strangle me." He flipped midair just to hear you yelp, catching another webline with practiced ease.
"You're insane!" you managed, but your arms relaxed incrementally as you adjusted to the rhythm of his swings. The initial terror dulled into adrenaline, mixed with reluctant awe as Seoul sprawled beneath you in glowing grids.
The Han River flashed between buildings, and for one insane second, you understood why people did extreme sports.
Then Spiderman corkscrewed sideways without warning, shooting a web toward a higher rooftop. "check out this view!"
Before you could protest, he backflipped off the webline, sending you both soaring over a pedestrian bridge in a wide arc. Your stomach dropped straight to your shoes.
and suddenly you let out a laugh at the sheer absurdity of everything. at the fact that you were saved by spiderman in an alley, at the fact that you were finally getting your first breath of fresh air after days of being cooped up in either your room, or the library, or the lecture Hall.
The sound burst out, bright and startled against the roar of wind. Spiderman's head snapped toward you so fast, then he laughed too, the sound muffled by the mask but real, bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest as he swung you both higher.
you spent a minute or two like that. Spiderman took a sharper turn than intended, nearly clipping a Samsung billboard with his shoulder. "Shit, sorry!" he yelped, twisting midair to avoid impact.
The sudden jerk should have terrified you, but instead you just laughed harder, your fingers loosening their death grip on his shoulders as you clung to him more out of habit than panic now.
"Are you trying to kill me?" you shouted over the wind, a smile still on your face.
"Only a little!" he called back.
Your dorm building came into view far below, Spiderman slowed his swings gradually, letting momentum carry you both downward in gentler arcs until. He landed with surprising grace on the sidewalk out front, setting you down carefully - though your legs wobbled like jelly the second your sneakers hit concrete.
"Whoa there," he chuckled, steadying you with a hand on your elbow. You swayed slightly as your feet touched solid ground again, still dizzy from the swinging.
Spiderman's gloved hands lingered on your elbows, steadying you. "You good?" His voice was softer now .
"I'm-" You swallowed hard, willing your legs to stop shaking. "I'm alive. Which is... surprising."
The adrenaline was fading now, leaving you strangely lightheaded. "I... thanks. Really." The words came out quieter than you intended, but you meant them.
"Yeah. No problem. That's kind of... the whole point of the suit." He gestured vaguely at himself, the red fabric stretching with the movement.
You snorted despite yourself. "Yeah, well. You're still insufferable."
"Ouch. And here I was going to offer you a free ride anytime."
"Hard pass," you said immediately, but you were smiling, a small, reluctant thing.
Spiderman chuckled, the sound muffled by his mask. He rocked back on his heels slightly. For a second, neither of you spoke, just stood there in the quiet aftermath, the distant city sounds filling the space between you.
Then he straightened. "Right. Don't get kidnapped again."
you smiled. "I'll try."
Spiderman gave a two fingered salute, already backing toward the alley wall. "If you do get kidnapped again-" he shot a webline upward without looking, the *thwip* cutting through the night air "-I'll be there." He tugged the web experimentally before adding, "But try not to make it a habit, yeah? My web fluid's expensive."
Before you could retort, he launched himself upward with a sudden burst of movement, the red and blue blur disappearing over the rooftop edge before you even processed the motion.
You stood frozen on the sidewalk, staring at the empty space where he'd been, your brain still trying to reconcile the fact that Spiderman - the same Spiderman you'd spent days dismissing as fake - had just swung you across half of Seoul.
The walk up to your dorm felt surreal. Your legs were stilll shakey, and you were still slightly dizzy.
You collapsed onto your bed fully dressed, convinced you'd lie awake replaying the night's events - then promptly passed out the second your head hit the pillow.
outside, Spiderman nearly faceplanted into a building mid swing. Because he was smiling like an absolute idiot under his mask, cheeks aching from the stupid, unstoppable smile that had been plastered on his face since he'd heard you laugh mid air.
He landed on the fire escape of their building, still buzzing with adrenaline. Peeling off the mask felt like surfacing from underwater - cool air hitting his sweaty face, the sounds of the city rushing back in clearly.
he shoved the window open, tumbling into the living room. Chan and Changbin were sprawled on the couch when Jisung crashed through the window.
Changbin glanced up from his phone. "Oh good, you didn't die." He paused his game just long enough to take in Jisung's disheveled state, mask off, hair sticking up in wild directions, and that ridiculous grin still plastered across his face. "Wait. Why do you look like that?"
"guys, you won't believe what just happened"
Jisung was halfway through inhaling to launch into his story when he froze mid breath, his eyes widening comically. "Wait - shit, her bag" He scrambled to his feet so fast he nearly tripped over.
Chan blinked. "Whose-"
"Be right back!" Jisung yanked the mask back over his head, the lenses setteling into place as he lunged for the window. "Forgot something super important"
Changbin's shout of "What the hell-" was cut off by the sharp thwip of a web line as Jisung flung himself back into the night.
~
You woke to sunlight stabbing your eyelids and the distinct sensation of having been hit by a bus.
The events of last night rushed back in - drunk guys, Spiderman, swinging through Seoul.
You groaned into your pillow, half convinced it had all been some dream.
Then a gust of wind hit your face like a slap. You squinted against the sunlight, realizing with a start that your window was wide open, and you definitely hadn’t left it that way.
you scrambled out of bed and approached your window sil. There, dangling from a single strand of web, was your missing backpack.
The backpack swung slightly as you reached out, the web strand stretching oddly. You tugged it free with a disgusting schlorp sound, and you saw a folded square of notebook paper stuck to the fabric with another glob of web.
You peeled it off with two fingers, The note was written in messy, angular handwriting that looked familiar.
you dropped this. your phone is inside too, you're welcome.
also, you snore.
- s
you stared at it, brain short circuiting between he brought my bag back and he watched me sleep?! before settling on the most pressing question, how the hell had Spiderman even known which dorm was yours? You hadn't told him. You were certain of it.
but maybe he'd just checked every single window till he found you -which would be extremely creepy, but made sense.
"There you are," Yunjin's voice cut through your spinning thoughts. You spun around to find her leaning against your doorframe, hair still mussed from sleep, squinting at you. "I was worried sick - where the hell were you last night?"
You opened your mouth - then froze. The backpack in your hands suddenly felt like damning evidence. "Library," you blurted too quickly.
Yunjin’s eyes dropped to the backpack in your hands, then narrowed at the sticky web residue still clinging to the fabric. Her gaze flicked to the note in your hands, then back to you. "Library," she repeated flatly. "Right."
She padded into your room, plucking the note from your hand with two fingers, then reading it, "You do snore," she said laughed, squinting at the handwriting. "Also, who the hell wrote this, who's 's'?" She waved the note in your face, the web glue still tacky.
You snatched it back. "no one."
She pointed at the webs on your bag. "spider webs?" Her voice pitched higher. "Did you, oh my god. Did Spiderman bring you home last night?"
She planted herself on your bed, legs crossed. "Start talking. Now." Her eyes flicked to your window, then back to you "And don’t even think about leaving out the part where Spiderman apparently knows where you live."
You sighed, sitting infront of her, "It’s not that dramatic. Some guys were being creeps last night, Spiderman showed up, webbed them to a lamppost, and then-" You hesitated, "And then he insisted on swinging me home."
Yunjin’s eyebrows shot up. "Swinging you home?" She grabbed your shoulders, shaking you slightly. "You swung through the city with spiderman?!"
"Yes! And it was terrifying!" You pried her hands off your shoulders. "And also... kind of amazing? But mostly terrifying. I almost threw up on him twice."
Yunjin's mouth fell open. "You- what" She grabbed your shoulders again, shaking you "You rode Spiderman?!"
"Swinging with Spiderman!" you corrected, cheeks flushing as you smacked her hands away.
Yunjin's grin turned positively feral as she flopped onto your bed, "Details. Now. How tall was he?"
"he's definitely shorter than you'd expect"
"Did he smell nice? Was he hot under the mask? Did he-"
"I didn't see his face. And you're disgusting," you hissed, chucking a pillow at her face.
"I'm invested," she corrected, hugging the pillow to her chest. "Also, I told you he was real."
You groaned, collapsing onto the bed beside her. "Okay, fine, he's real. Happy?"
"Ecstatic,"
safe to say, Yunjin wouldn't stop fangirling over this all afternoon.
~
Midterms came and went. You barely had time to process the fact that Spiderman had swung you across Seoul before exams swallowed your entire existence whole.
The only upside was that Jisung, for once, wasn't hovering around to gloat about his grades.
He seemed more busy, like he got a life or something, you'd catch him dozing off more than once, dark circles under his eyes like he hadn't slept in days.
Winter break arrived soon after. If not at some party with yunjin, you spent most of it holed up in your bedroom, halfheartedly scrolling through Spiderman footage.
The videos had multiplied exponentially, now there were compilations of him rescuing cats from trees, stopping bike thieves, even helping an old lady carry groceries up six flights of stairs when her building's elevator broke.
The comments sections were flooded with debates about whether he was a hero, a menace, or just some guy with too much time.
You never commented. But you watched.
When the new semester started, campus was buzzing with fresh Spiderman gossip. Someone claimed they'd seen him perched on the humanities building at 3 AM.
Another swore they'd spotted him buying convenience store ramen in full costume.
Yunjin, of course, had compiled an entire folder of sightings on her phone and updated you daily despite your protests.
Jisung stumbled into Professor Kim's lecture hall seventeen minutes late, face still puffy like he'd rolled straight out of bed, which, given the pillow crease still visible on his left cheek, he probably had.
he blinked blearily at the seating chart projected on the board before shuffling toward the only empty seat in the room- right next to you, of course.
"You're late," you muttered as he collapsed into the chair with a groan.
"Yeah, well," Jisung yawned so wide his jaw cracked, "tell that to the asshole who decided 9 am classes were a good idea."
His elbow slid off the desk mid sentence, nearly knocking over your water bottle before he caught it with reflexes that were still annoyingly precise despite his obvious exhaustion.
Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, deep enough to be visible even in the lecture hall's dim lighting. and when he reached for his notebook, you caught a glimpse of fresh scrapes across his knuckles.
You didn't think much of it - Professor Kim clears her throat, and announced the semester's major project.
"Partners are assigned randomly," she said, tapping her clipboard as murmurs rippled through the lecture hall. "No swaps, no complaints. You'll be working together for the next eight weeks."
You barely had time to dread the possibilities before the projector screen lit up with the pairings list. Your stomach dropped straight to your shoes when you saw your name right next to Han Jisung's.
"Aw, we're finally spending quality time together."
You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, but didn’t protest. Because - annoyingly - Jisung would a good project partner if he bothered to focus.
“Here,” you muttered, shoving your phone across the desk toward him “Put your number in before I change my mind.”
Jisung’s eyebrows shot up, he just stared at your phone. Then his face split into that infuriating smile.
“Aw,” he cooed, snatching the phone before you could reconsider. “You do care.” His thumbs flew across the screen with alarming speed. “Should I put a heart next to my name? Or maybe-”
“If you put anything besides your name and number, i'll take Chan's number and all interactions will be through him”
Jisung pouted before deleting the heart emoji he'd already typed, and then handed your phone back. "You're no fun,"
after class was over, you spotted Yunjin leaning against the courtyard railing, scrolling through her phone per usual.
The moment she caught sight of you, her eyebrows shot up, then immediately waggled suggestively as she took in your exhausted expression.
"Let me guess," she drawled, pocketing her phone with a smirk. "Spiderman swung by again? Or was it just Han Jisung being his usual pain-in-your-ass self?"
You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. "the latter." You paused, then sighed dramatically. "And also... we got paired for Kim's semester project."
Yunjin's eyes widened. "Oh my god. You're finally spending quality time together"
"You said the exact same thing he did," you groaned, "Word for word. I swear, both of you share the same overworked brain cell."
Yunjin snorted, "Girl, I wish I did share a brain cell with him, then maybe I'd actually be able to solve Kim's exams without wanting to yeet myself into the Han River."
you sighed, already drained from all the work you'd have to do this semester before it even started "then there's the university festival too"
"oh yea, what'cha planning to do for the big fair" yunjin said. "gonna work on something with han too?" she wiggled her eyebrows.
"absolutely not" you answered quickly, "I won't do anything, I'll just rest. yeah. I'll catch up on all the sleep I'm about to lose"
"aw, what a shame," yunjin said, then she leaned in, whispering, "Though honestly, if you really want to tap into that academic powerhouse, there are way more fun ways to-"
"Finish that thought and I'm throwing you into the Han River myself."
"I'm just sayin'," she said, dodging your attempt to push her, "both of you just need to have a good fuck for this rivalry to go away."
"Speaking of fucks," you said, leaning against the courtyard railing, "I’ll be working on the project at Jisung’s place most days. Which means our dorm will be delightfully empty."
You flicked a stray leaf off your sleeve "Feel free to bring your Tinder disasters over, just keep them away from my room, please"
Yunjin gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. "Excuse you," she said, tossing her hair over one shoulder with exaggerated offense. "My Tinder disasters are upstanding gentlemen—"
"Who leave their boxers on your floor and eat my cereal," you deadpanned, "Just wash the sheets afterwards. And hide the good mugs."
~~~
when Jisung kicked the door open - a lethal combination of unwashed socks, stale ramen, and the faint metallic tang of something that might have been blood hit his face.
Chan looked up from his laptop just in time to see Jisung hurdle over the couch, skidding to a stop in front of the coffee table where changbin was demolishing a bag of chips.
"We have a problem," Jisung announced .
"You are the problem." changbin said.
Chan sighed, closing his laptop, "What did you break this time?"
"Nothing!" Jisung paused. "Well. Maybe the window latch. But that’s not the point." he paused. "She is coming here. To work on the project."
Changbin froze mid chip. "Who’s ‘she’-"
Chan’s eyes widened. "Oh no."
Jisung nodded frantically. "Oh yes."
Changbin’s eyes darted between them. "Wait. Are we talking about-"
"Yes," Chan groaned, already dragging a hand down his face.
Changbin’s chip bag hit the floor with a crunch. “Oh, hell no.” He scrambled up, scanning the apartment with mounting horror.
Medical supplies littered the kitchen counter, spare web cartridges rolled under the couch, and most damning jisung’s half finished suit upgrades dangled from a makeshift clothesline strung across the living room.
“We have twenty minutes to make this place look like normal people live here.”
Chan was already in motion, snatching stray web shooters off the coffee table. “Jisung, hide your suit. Changbin, take the first aid kits.” He paused mid step, “And for the love of god, air out this place. It smells like a rat died in here.”
Jisung went to yank the prototype suit off the clothesline, "It's not that bad," he protested, bundling the fabric under his arms.
The apartment was almost presentable by the time you knocked.
You stood outside their door, knocking twice, when a crash echoed from inside followed by frantic whispering.
after a minute, the door opened, revealing Changbin "Heyyyyy," he drawled, voice pitched an octave too high. "You're early"
you blinked, pointing your thumb back towards the elevator, "I can come back in a bit if you guys are busy-"
Changbin waved a hand like he was shooing away smoke. "Nah, nah, we’re good!" he stepped aside,
“Home sweet home,” Changbin announced, “Ignore the-” He gestured vaguely at a suspicious lump under a blanket that was definitely not laundry. “Decorative choices.”
You toed off your shoes at the entrance, noting with mild surprise that the apartment was cleaner than expected - though said suspicious lump under the blanket suggested they'd simply relocated the mess rather than actually cleaned it.
Chan looked up from his laptop, offering a casual salute as you stepped further into the apartment. "Hey," he said, "Jisung's in his room pretending he didn't just spend twenty minutes panic cleaning."
You snorted. "Sounds about right."
Jisung's bedroom door was slightly ajar, revealing a space that had clearly undergone a last minute excavation.
The floor was visible and his desk was suspiciously organized, textbooks stacked next to his laptop.
"Wow," you said, leaning against the doorframe. "I didn't know you owned a trash can."
Jisung spun around from where he'd been adjusting a poster that was still slightly crooked. "Shut up," he muttered, He gestured vaguely at the desk. "I set up already. Figured you'd want the, uh-" He waved his hands. "The workspace. Or whatever."
You walked in and over to the desk, project outline stared back at you from Jisung's laptop screen - neatly formatted, color-coded, and some parts were already done . You blinked. "You... started without me?"
Jisung shrugged, spinning a pen between his fingers, "Couldn't sleep last night." His knee bumped yours when you sat down, "Figured I'd get a head start before you could accuse me of slacking."
You stared at the spreadsheet he'd prepared, grudgingly impressed despite yourself. The formulas were flawless, the research sources ready, "Well. At least you're not completely useless."
"Wow. Wow. That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me." he leaned closer, "Careful. Keep this up and people might think we like each other."
"get to work," you muttered, pulling your chair closer to his desk.
Jisung straightened, "Yes, ma'am."
You shook your head, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you with a twitch. He noticed instantly, and his grin widened like he'd won something.
You kicked his chair leg under the desk in retaliation, sending him wobbling sideways with a yelp.
Working with Jisung turned out to be - annoyingly - far less painful than you’d anticipated.
He had a way of cutting through your overthinking, dismantling problems you’d tangled into knots. When you got stuck on a statistical analysis, he spun his laptop around to show you a ridiculously simplified formula that somehow worked.
When he hit a dead end with the literature review, you pointed him toward three obscure sources he’d missed. It was infuriatingly efficient.
you'd also grew to realize that Jisung focused when it mattered.
Then there were the snacks. Jisung kept shoving food at you - convenience store food, but its the thought that counts “Eat,” he’d say, nudging a bar of chocolate toward you without looking up. “Your blood sugar’s crashing. I can hear your stomach growling from here.”
You’d protest, but he wouldn't hear any of it until you tore open the packaging begrudgingly.
and he actually remembered things. Tiny, insignificant details you’d mentioned in passing - your preference for blue pens over black, the way you organized your citations, the fact that you always forgot to save drafts until it was too late.
Halfway through typing, your laptop would ding with a message from him You didn’t save again, genius. You’d glare at him, but he’d already be smirking at his own screen.
You didn't expect to bond with Chan and Changbin too, but somehow their apartment became your second home for the past 6 weeks.
you stayed past 10 pm once, Chan slid a takeout menu across the table. "Pick something," he said, "Jisung forgets to eat when he's focused, and you're worse than he is."
The takeout containers were long empty by the time you stretched your arms over your head, joints popping from hours hunched over textbooks.
"You should head back," His voice was casual, but his eyes flicked to the time on his phone, 11:47 PM, then back to your face. "It's late."
You sighed, gathering your notes into a pile. "I've walked home later than this."
"Yeah, and nearly got followed by drunk assholes," Jisung muttered under his breath.
"I'll be fine. It's like, twelve minutes max." You slung the strap over your shoulder.
"at least let me walk you home?" jisung asked.
"Relax. you don't have to act like my hero for the night, i'll be fine."
jisung heard the word "hero" and an idea popped into his mind. bingo
"Fine. Die in a dark alley. See if I care."
"You won't," you shot back, toeing on your shoes by the door.
"Night, guys," you called over your shoulder as you stepped into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind you.
Inside the apartment, Jisung was already running to put his suit on before Chan caught him by the hood. "Are you serious right now?"
"I'm just gonna-" Jisung started.
"Follow her as Spiderman?" Changbin supplied, "Dude. That's creepy."
Jisung froze. "It's not creepy if I'm making sure she doesn't get murdered."
"It's extremely creepy."
"She literally said she didn't need an escort!" Changbin pointed out.
Jisung waved a hand. "She always says that."
"Because you always try to escort her!"
Jisung hesitated, just long enough for Chan to sigh and release his hood. "If you're gonna be an idiot, at least put the mask on first."
Changbin tossed a web shooter at Jisung's head. "And try not to get arrested for stalking."
Outside, you were halfway down the block when a shadow flickered across the streetlight above you. You glanced up just in time to see a blur of red and blue vanish behind a rooftop.
"Really?"
A thwip sounded overhead. Spiderman landed lightly on a lamppost ahead of you, "Fancy meeting you here," he said, voice dripping with faux surprise.
You crossed your arms. "Are you following me?"
Spiderman gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. "I'm patrolling. This is a coincidence."
"A coincidence," you deadpanned.
"Yep." He swung down to street level, falling into step beside you like this was completely normal. "Totally random."
You sighed. "I don't need an escort."
Spiderman tilted his head. "Says the person who nearly got jumped last time."
"That was one time-"
"And here I am," he said, spreading his arms wide, " not letting it happen again."
You glared at him. He smiled at you - or at least, the mask's eyes crinkled in a way that suggested a smile.
"Fine," you muttered, stomping ahead.
Spiderman matched your stomping pace, "So," he drawled, swinging around a lamppost to land directly in front of you, forcing you to halt mid step or you'd have walked straight into his chest. "What's a pretty girl like you doing out so late?"
Your ears burned "I was just coming back from a friend’s place," you muttered, sidestepping him to continue walking. "Working on a project. Unlike some people, I actually take my education seriously."
Oh the irony.
he fell into step beside you, his posture casual, "So this friend," he pressed, "What's their deal? Study buddy? Secret admirer?"
You shot him a glare. "None of your business."
Spiderman gasped, "Ouch. And here I thought we had something special." He swung ahead, landing lightly on a parked car’s roof just to force you to look up at him. "Come on, humor me. Tall? Short? cute?"
You stayed silent, refusing to dignify that with an answer. But Spiderman was nothing if not persistent, he dropped down directly in your path again, close enough that the lenses of his mask reflected your exasperated expression back at you.
"Han Jisung," you finally said, shoving past him. "My project partner. Happy?"
"Han Jisung," he repeated, "Wow. Sounds like a real catch. Bet he’s incredibly handsome and talented."
"He’s annoying," you corrected, kicking a pebble harder than necessary. "And arrogant. And-"
"And?" Spiderman prompted, suddenly right beside you again.
"And none of your concern," you finished through gritted teeth.
Spiderman made a wounded noise, "Rude. Here I am, risking life and limb to escort you safely home-"
"You invited yourself," you corrected.
"-and you won’t even indulge my harmless curiosity about your mysterious project partner." He swung ahead to perch upside down from a streetlight, "Tell me more about this Han Jisung character. Does he have any redeeming qualities? Or is he just tragically, devastatingly handsome?"
You scoffed, refusing to acknowledge how accurately that described Jisung’s stupid face. "Fine. Jisung’s... not completely terrible." You looked at the sidewalk. "He remembers stupid things. Like how I always forget to save my work, or that I hate when people highlight in yellow."
Spiderman’s mask tilted, the lenses narrowing slightly. "Wow," he said, his tone an exaggerated awe. "Truly, a monumental compliment. Does he also breathe air and occasionally blink?"
You kicked a pebble at him, which he caught mid air with a web before it could hit his chest.
"Shut up. He’s..." You hesitated, then sighed. "He’s weirdly considerate. Makes sure I eat when we’re studying. And his roommates are..." You gestured vaguely, as if that explained anything. "nice. more tolerable than him, actually. they insist on feeding me too"
Spiderman went suspiciously quiet. Then, in a voice devoid of sarcasm "They sound nice."
You snorted. "They’re menaces. But yeah. They... grew on me."
A beat of silence. Then Spider-Man dropped from the lamppost, landing softly beside you. "And Jisung?" he prompted, suddenly closer than before. "What’s his fatal flaw?"
You didn’t even have to think. "He's always right somehow. And he gloats about it. alot."
"Horrifying," he agreed solemnly. "Anything else?"
"He’s always there," you muttered, more to yourself than to him. "Even when I wish he wasn’t."
The mask hid his expression, but his next words came out oddly soft. "Sounds like you’ve got it pretty bad, genius."
The familiar nickname prickled at the back of your memory, but you couldn't place it, until Spiderman abruptly straightened, realizing his mistake, clearing his throat.
"So!" he said, "How much further to your dorm?"
You narrowed your eyes at the obvious subject change. "Why? Getting tired already?"
Spiderman scoffed, "Please. I could do this all night." then shrugged "Just making conversation."
"You were doing just fine until the nickname," you pointed out, watching his lenses widen fractionally.
"What nickname?" he asked, voice pitching slightly higher.
"Genius." You tilted your head, studying his frozen posture. "Jisung calls me that."
spiderman got into character again, "Jisung calls you that?" His voice was pitched an octave higher than usual, his hands fluttering in dramatic disbelief.
"Wow. What a coincidence." He leaned closer, "Maybe l'm Han Jisung. Ever think of that, genius?"
He lowkey regret what he said the second the words came out of his mouth. but hey, reverse psychology?
you stopped walking for a second, facing spiderman, genuinely considering what he just said.
"nah" you snorted, shaking your head. "Jisung can barely walk in a straight line without tripping over his own feet." You gestured vaguely at Spiderman's lithe posture. "No way that disaster could pull off... whatever this is."
"Ouch. That hurts. I'll have you know some people find my-" he gestured at himself, "this extremely charming."
"You mean annoying," you corrected.
"Charmingly annoying," Spiderman corrected, He swung lazily ahead, landing atop the lamppost outside your dorm building.
You stopped beneath the lamppost, glancing up at Spiderman’s silhouette squatting on top of it. "This your stop, genius?" he asked, voice lilting with amusement.
"Yes," you said flatly. "And don't call me that."
"Call you what? Genius?" He leaned forward, resting his chin in one gloved hand. "Or pretty girl?"
Your face heated instantly. "Both."
Spiderman laughed, a sound that you swear you heard before.
"Fine, fine. Wouldn't want to inflate your ego too much." He swung down from the lamppost.
He turned to leave, then hesitated, just long enough to glance over his shoulder and add, voice softer than before, "Sleep tight, pretty girl."
Then he was gone, vanishing into the night sky with a thwip of webbing before you could retaliate.
you stayed glued to the pavement for a minute as you watched spiderman's figure get smaller the more he swung away, face slowly heating up.
"Talking 'bout some pretty girl," you muttered under your breath, walking to the entrance of the building
who is this guy?
~
a/n: *takes in a big deep breath* I initially meant for this to be way shorter (10k ish words) but it kinda spiraled and now its more than double that so I had to split it into two parts 😞. the second part is ready just needs proofreading and a few tweaks. hope it doesn't disappoint because I put my entire coochie and butt into this.
turnnoffyourmind
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