writing sometimes

Hi I'm J, 30, also posting my (very irregular) writing on AO3 as OriginalPomegranate

[itshardcandy]

Masterlist(s)

BTS

BTS One Shots Kim Seokjin Jinnuendo - Smut + Fluff (NSFW 18+) Stormy Night - Fluff + Strangers to Lovers Min Yoongi The Ramen-Noodle I

ATEEZ

Oneshots Choi Jongho A Delicate Affair - f2l, light Smut (NSFW 18+)

[fandomcentralsstuff]

[stay-the-knight]

[vixvigil]

it’s never a normal temperature anymore it’s always some fucking bullshit

[preciousangelbabyprincess]

at the strip club, I think the stripper likes me! (Ch3)

summary: reader and frat!Caleb share a... study session? more stupid banter during lecture. reader and Tara find themselves at the Chi Sigma Wave house for a cute little kickback.

rating: this series will have eventual smut. 18+ minors dni!!

cw: profanity. banter. reader lowkey bullies Caleb. drunk and handsy. brief mentions of masturbation. intoxication. drinking games. reader wears a bikini. heavy making out. petting. Caleb gets hard. not proof read because idgaf😁

wc: 13.7k

<previous chapter | next chapter>

9:43pm

(xxx-xxx-xxxx): When are you free to study?

His text coming through after you just nearly came to a mere photo of him is like rubbing salt in the wound. You feel like your body has betrayed your mind.

Staring at the notification on your home screen, remembering your plan. You need to look disinterested. Dead end. Mean bitch. Hovering over the message app, hesitating.

A disinterested person wouldn’t respond right away. But it’s getting late, and you have to be up early for the lecture tomorrow.

You could wait til the morning to text back? But then you’re basically just gonna see him in person, might as well discuss it then. Tara’s comment runs through your head. He’s not afraid of confrontation, and that’s not a battle you can win.

Fuck! It’s like he’s constantly 10 steps ahead of you! He’s completed narrowed down your options. Either look desperate and message him back right away, or brave the storm that is Caleb Xia in person, at 7am tomorrow.

Maybe he'll just assume you respond so quickly because it's late, and you're going to bed? That's not desperation, just coincidence, right? Right! He just happened to text you while you were on your phone! Doing nothing suspicious or perverted at all!

you: hey

you: i have a couple hours to kill right after lecture tomorrow? we could hit the lib or smth

Because nothing kills a boner faster than a 9am study session in the stuffy, dark university library! You fire the text off, hoping he can read between the lines. His response comes faster than you expect.

caleb: I've got a dynamics lecture right after :/ Wyd thursday 4pm?

4pm!? He might as well of just asked you for nudes!

you: nah ive got plans w my friends already. nights don't really work for me anyways

Quickly shutting down that road for him, you smirk as you send off the message. A moment or two later, his rebuttal arrives.

caleb: What about this weekend?

you: same thing, busy at night

you: and the lib isn't open on weekends

You're making it as difficult for him as you possibly can. It's hard not to feel a sense of pride.

caleb: We could go somewhere else

caleb: My buddy is a barista at astras if you're a coffee person

Wait. Coffee? Is he suggesting a morning study session? In a public space?

You stare at the message. He's gone totally off script. You were expecting to have to fight tooth and nail to convince him to meet you while the sun was still up. And here he is, doing the complete opposite?

It's a trap. It has to be. You don't know what he's scheming, and that's terrifying. What if Astras isn't open on the weekends, and you arrive at the closed coffee shop only for him to shrug his perfect shoulders and say, looks like we have to go to my place! Then the time of day doesn't even matter, you end up alone at his apartment! The intrusive thought has you googling Astras hours of operation. Nope. Just like any normal coffee spot, they are open bright and early on the weekends.

Maybe he shows up without a charger, and his laptop isn't compatible with yours, so he takes you back to his under the guise of grabbing his cord. One thing leads to another and you're alone in his room!

A hundred different scenarios play in your head, all of them ending in him getting you by your lonesome. Fuck! Is he seriously that manipulative or are you that paranoid? You realize just how long you've been dissociating when he sends you another message.

caleb: They have matcha too if that's your thing

His kindness is a ruse. He is trying to get you to lower your guard, there's no other explanation!

But, lower your guard into agreeing to a study session at a local cafe? During the day?

You want to believe he has ulterior motives. That this is all some game to make you just another name on his list. But the version of himself he's presenting to you just isn't lining up with that. You're being tugged in two different directions, and you don't know which side is going to yield first. Opening his message, you type out your response.

you: i can do astras at 10 on saturday

His reply comes questionably fast.

caleb: Works for me :) See you tomorrow

Right. You still have to face this freak at least two more times before Saturday. There is this sense of defeat in your chest as you shift back under your bed sheets. Defeat, even though your planned study session with him meets the criteria you set for yourself. Public setting. Daytime. You tuck your comforter up to your chin as you try not to pick apart every detail of the interaction.

Shuffling through the musty lecture building at 6:50am, you think there isn't anywhere on this planet that would be less enjoyable than this class. You're half awake, makeup haphazardly applied, hair pulled back into a messy updo. Bracing yourself for the impact of sticky lecture hall air as you push open one side of the double doors.

Calebs already in his seat, right next to yours. Airpods in and doing whatever on his phone. He's in a navy blue sweatshirt, university logo across the chest. Black athletic shorts hug meaty thighs spread on the wooden folding seat.

He's never beat you here. You trudge up the steps, and his attention snaps to you.

"Morning." He greets, pulling his headphones out and watching as you slump into your chair.

"You're here early." You clip, digging through your bag for your iPad.

"My systems professor makes us turn in our problem sets to the boxes in the engineering building, and I'm in lectures during the collection time." He reasons, so coolly. Of course he has a valid explanation. You hum in response. "Rough morning?"

"Any morning that starts before 8am is a rough morning." You snort, and he huffs in response. He's abandoned looking at his phone as he watches you pull up some reading on your iPad.

"Whatcha working on today?"

"2-D and nano materials."

"EE's have to take that?"

"No, I'm a materials science minor."

"Damn, busy girl." You bite back a grin at the compliment. "How is it?"

"The class or the minor?"

"Eh, both." He's leaning his head slightly towards you, gaze still cast downward at the contents on your iPad.

"It's chill. The 2-D professor is a woman, that's always a plus. And the department is way smaller than EE, so it's easier to form relationships with the faculty and stuff." Caleb nods, eyes breaking away from your iPad to look at you through thick lashes.

"Do you not have very many female professors?"

"Not really. Definitely not in electrical, I think I've only had one or two. Materials has a better ratio, surprisingly." He hums.

"I'm sorry." You furrow your brows at him.

"What for?"

"I mean, does it not bother you to not see that kind of representation in your field?"

...

What in the philosophical fuck is going on right now.

Not letting your gobsmacked reaction show on your face, you respond as calmly as possible with a casual shrug.

"You get used to it."

"Doesn't mean it can't bother you."

Why the hell is he trying to acknowledge the adverse effects of being in a male-dominated field at 7am?

"It doesn't bother me anymore."

"'Anymore' implies that it once did." You want to smack him and tell him to shut up.

"Are you bothered by the lack of woman in your field?" You snap. His grin turns predatory as he realizes he's getting under your skin.

“Can’t say I am.” He quips, canines glinting behind a playful smirk.

“Yeah, you seem like the type to enjoy being surrounded by men.” You give him an exaggerated once-over look, Caleb letting out an unrestrained chuckle.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.” The scraping of the entry door against the floor as the professor pushes through it saves you from your misery. Caleb scoffs and leans further into his seat.

Lecture progresses as usual. You do your reading. He does whatever on his phone. No words are shared until the professor dismisses everyone. As expected, he stands up before you do.

“See you around.” And with a teasing drawl of your name, he’s side-stepping past you and down the stairs, a cloud of sandalwood trailing behind him. You’re tempted to flip him off as soon as his back is turned.

Ugh, you want to scream! Every conversation with him has you fighting for the upper hand, and yet, he always wins it! You feel like an amateur going up against a seasoned professional. It’s like he intentionally creates openings for you to attack, all to leave you totally defenseless and flustered.

Feeling bested, you shuffle out of the lecture hall.

You didn’t have the opportunity to tell Tara about your progress with Caleb until Thursday afternoon. The two of you are making your separate dinners as you fill her in.

“He was the one that suggested Astras?” She clarifies, leaning against the counter next to you as you stirfry some veggies on the stove.

“I know, right. It caught me totally off guard.” She hums in thought. “Do you think he’s up to something?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never had the pleasure of being played by him, I don’t know his strategies.”

“You think I’m being played?”

“I just said I don’t know! I think he really only picks up his hookups at parties and shit. This is my first time hearing about his game in a non-rager setting.” You mindlessly toss the contents in the pan in front of you, biting the inside of your cheek.

"I guess it doesn't matter, since this is the only time I'm making plans with him." You can feel Tara's side eye without even looking at her. "What?"

"The way you describe your conversations during class says otherwise." You turn the stove off and face her, spatula still in your grasp as you place your hands on your hips.

"He's the one starting the conversation every time! And the conversation is just... casual banter. It's called being friendly." You quip, frankly.

"Ain't nothing friendly about catching his print when he's wearing shorts." You swat your spatula at her, and she yelps as she dodges it. "And there's nothing wrong with that!"

“Am I supposed to lie and say I don’t find him attractive? He’s hot.” You shrug. “He’s just… I don’t know. Keeping me busy, I guess.”

"Like you aren't already busy enough."

"You know what I mean! He's eye candy." Tara laughs, shaking her head.

"Jeez, I think he's starting to rub off on you." You playfully cock your spatula back and lunge at her, causing her to run to the other side of the kitchen island. "I'm not saying that's a bad thing! It's a good thing, actually! Means you aren't getting attached." She counters, hopping up onto one of the barstools behind the counter.

"He's not rubbing off on me because I have zero intention of sleeping with him. You know casual isn't my thing like that."

"I know. I'm just keeping you in check, girl."

And you know she's being honest. Tara would never just sit back and watch as you marched yourself toward total heartbreak. You don't think she would stop you, but she'd definitely voice every single one of her concerns. And then when it inevitably blows up in your face, she'd be the first one seeking vengeance.

"I know, Tara."

Friday morning has a little extra bounce in your step as you step into the lecture hall, looking forward to a slow and stress-free weekend. As expected, you beat Caleb there. You enjoy the peace and quiet as you get settled, watching other students trickle in and prepare for lecture.

Of course Caleb has to disturb the silence. In the most ironic way possible, considering your conversation with Tara about shamelessly ogling him.

Caleb pushes through those double doors in what you think is the tightest muscle tank you've ever seen on a man. He might as well be shirtless, the way every single curve and groove of his shredded torso is visible through the taut white fabric. Silver pendant sandwiched between two solid pecs. His gray athletic shorts aren't as tight, but equally as revealing. He might as well be walking in slow motion right now, the way you're soaking up every inch of him.

You force your gaze away as he begins to approach, pretending whatever graffiti is etched into the small folding desk is more entertaining.

"Hey." Is all he says as he shuffles past you and into his seat. Phone in one hand, energy drink in the other.

"Aren't those things like, really bad for you?" You nod at the drink in his hand. Not even a 'hello' back. He holds up the canned beverage to inspect.

"Yeah, maybe if you're drinking them every day. I'm working out after this, so it's fine." He takes another sip to embellish his point. You try not to focus too much on the way his hand dwarves the can. "Do you work out?"

"I used to. Like, the whole weightlifting, push-pull-legs split thing. Kinda not my vibe anymore."

"What? What happened?" He pushes, bouncing his leg.

"I don't know. Balancing two engineering degrees and a consistent gym schedule is hard." You fidget with your hands. "And the gym here is like, all douchebag gym bros. It kinda sucks having to wait for every single machine because Chad and Brad are jacking each other off." That earns a chuckle from him.

"That is not true."

"Yeah, says you."

"What about me?" He shifts in his seat to face you, you turn your head to meet his gaze.

"You're clearly one of them."

"How?" He snorts, hands up in mock confusion.

"You just give gym bro, I don't know." You look him up and down. "The outfit. The energy drink."

"Just because I go to the gym doesn't mean I'm a gym bro."

"That's kind of exactly what it means, actually."

"You're saying I'm a douchebag?"

"Yes." He scoffs in fake offense.

"Ouch. And I thought we were friends." Caleb settles back into his seat, crossing one leg over the other.

Friends. That's what this is. That's exactly what this is. He just confirmed it. You don't know why, but you feel a pocket of disappointment in your gut. You're friends! Just friends. Friends don't check each other out or shamelessly flirt. And they definitely don't masturbate to shirtless photos of the other one.

Fuck. You've completely overthought the entire situation! Caleb was never trying to get into your pants, he was just being friendly! You're not some girl he seduces at a muggy fraternity party, you're just the weirdo he sits next to in a stupid lower division history course.

You're internally spiraling. You've convinced yourself you have been playing him at his own game, dodging his advances and making his life hard. This fucker never even stepped on to the court!

"I'll take you to the gym. Defend you from the evil gym bros. Get you the machines you want." He speaks up, pulling you from your descent into madness. It's a sweet sentiment, but you're still hung up on what he just said.

"Thanks, but no thanks." You wave a hand of dismissal, pinching your lips together.

"You don't have to say 'yes' now. No expiration date on my offer." He smiles, and it feels... genuine? No mockery or ill-intent behind it. His gaze is heavy until a cough from the professor up front, signaling the beginning of lecture.

You feel confused the entire class. Not even focused on the work on your iPad, but from your conversation with Caleb. Did he mean it when he said you were friends? The logical part of your brain hopes he did. That the disinterest in sleeping with each other isn't one sided.

The other side of your brain was thriving off the game of cat and mouse you had convinced yourself was real. You had fun leading him on. Giving him your number just to be dry over text. Teasing him and being mean towards his flirty comments. It was empowering to hold the high ground over someone of his stature. But now, you think you've been the one getting played.

Zoning out makes the lecture go by twice as fast, and the professor is calling it before you know it.

"See you tomorrow?" Caleb questions as he stands, fixing his backpack over his shoulders.

Right. Astras tomorrow. To "study." Well, you think he might have actually been serious now. That studying wasn't just an innuendo for fucking.

"Yeah, I'll see you tomorrow." He grins, bounding down the stairs and out of sight.

The comment sits with you all day. Like a brick in your gut during your remaining lectures, your wine and movie night with Tara. It's on the forefront of your mind when you're trying to fall asleep that night.

It’s still in your head the next morning as you get ready to meet Caleb at Astras.

Would a friend put a little more effort into their appearance for a study session? I mean, you are going to be out in public. You don’t want the people around you to think you’re some kind of bum, right? The effort isn’t really for him, but for your own personal image.

That’s what you tell yourself as you blowdry and style your hair. As you ensure your makeup is juuust right, a gentle sweep of blush, soft, wispy mascara, a light-handed glide of lip gloss.

Would a friend wear tank top to study? It’s just a tank top. And you have to wear a bra, obviously. Maybe one of the cute lacey balconette ones, the type that just barely peaks over the neckline of your tank. And some low rise jeans are super casual too. Definitely not a huge step up from the leggings and crewnecks he normally sees you in.

An extra squirt of perfume is fine too. I mean, he always smells good, and he thinks of you as just a friend. So it’s totally casual for you to smell good too, right? Just matching your friends energy.

The town surrounding the university is relatively small, so Astras is only a couple blocks from your apartment. A 15 minute walk, maximum. And the weather was nice, so the possibility of sweating your entire face off and your hair falling flat was low. Not like that matters.

Not like you want to look good for your... friend.

You arrive at Astras a few minutes before your agreed meeting time. The cafe gods are on your side today, there's a small table open near the window. And there's an electrical outlet. Score. Deciding to order a drink before Caleb arrives, you claim the table and head up to the counter.

Turns out the cafe gods actually aren't on your side. Because the person behind the bar is clearly Caleb's "buddy," as he stated.

Fucking Gideon. The little rat that ruined your Friday night a week ago. And the person that knows about your interest in Caleb. You approach him behind the register, and he instantly recognizes you.

"Hey! Tara's friend, right?" You remind him of your name with a tight-lipped smile. "Gideon." He returns, as if you don't remember the name of the guy that had you scared shitless in the middle of that crowded dance floor. "What can I get started for you?"

You give him your coffee order, a small iced americano with honey. You tap your card, very typical interaction. As he's waiting for the transaction to process, he strums his fingers on the bar top.

"Getting some weekend work done?" A harmless question, with no malicious intent detectable.

"Just meeting a friend for some studying." You clip, not interested in idle chat with someone who has proved they're unable to keep a secret.

"Cool, cool. Coffee will be out at the end of the counter." He nods towards the pick-up area and you return to your table to get your things out.

As if you weren't already anxious enough, Gideon being the fucking barista just makes things 100 times worse. Like some kind of surveillance agent to watch Caleb flaunt like a peacock. He probably made sure Gideon was working at this time just to flex his latest capture. And now, he's going to watch the two of you like a fucking hawk and tell everyone about your "infatuation" with the frat boy.

You have to be on guard. Mean bitch. Disinterested. Dead end. You cannot show any kind of comfort or curiosity towards Caleb. This is strictly business.

Lost in thought, the chiming of the bell above the entry door reels you back in.

Good fucking lord.

Caleb Xia, in all of his 6'2 glory, has entered the building. You think every single woman in this joint is ogling him.

He's clearly put a little oomph into his appearance as well. Hair slightly damp. Loose, medium wash jeans hang low on his waist, a step up from the sweatpants or athletic shorts you're used to. A white tshirt with the Chi Sigma Wave logo printed onto the left pec. You think this is the first time you've seen him adorned in any kind of fraternity merchandise.

A quick scan of the coffee shop has him locating your table. With a warm smile, he's approaching you under the gaze of every girl in here. A table of two girls whisper to each other, hands covering their mouths, eyes tracking the handsome boy.

"Good morning." He drawls, sweeping his backpack under the table and settling into the chair. "Have you ordered?" Your curt nod has him sucking his teeth. "Aww, you should have waited for me. My friend could have comped your order." He jerks his head in the direction of Gideon behind the counter. They must have done some sort of discrete, unspoken greeting when he walked in, because when your gaze follows his nod, Gideon is already looking at you both.

Your eyes trail back to the two girls whispering about him when he walked in. They still seem to be paying attention.

But instead of watching him, both of them are staring directly at you. The feeling of multiple pairs of eyes on you makes you uneasy.

Your stomach churns with embarrassment before looking back at the boy in front of you.

"So, did you get your friends history notes?" You clip, trying to distract yourself from the lingering feeling of being watched. Caleb hesitates for a moment, like he didn't completely understand what you were talking about. He's quick to regain his footing.

"I texted them and they haven't replied."

Awesome.

So what the fuck are you even doing here? Neither of you have as much of a scrap of notes from the course. The professor doesn't even post the lecture slides online. You deadpan at him.

"Are you being serious."

"Yeah, I texted them like, an hour ago." You blink once, twice.

"An hour ago?" He shrugs, completely unbothered.

"Do you have somewhere to be or something?" He questions, confused by your reaction.

"I came here because you asked me to study. And now we have nothing to study." You retort, very bluntly.

"So what if we have some time to kill." Running a hand through your hair, you let out a deep sigh.

"So I'm just supposed to sit here and wait for the notes to show up?"

"What's wrong with waiting?" Tempted to drag your hands down your face in frustration, you resist. Your name called behind the counter interrupts the conversation.

"Aren't you gonna order something?" You push, standing up from your chair.

"Oh no, I'm not a coffee person."

This guy. You narrow your eyes at him, eyebrows pinching together.

"Then why are we even here?" The frustration in your voice is obvious.

"Well, don't you like coffee?" You want to grab him by his perfectly shagged out hair and slam his head against the table. Instead of assaulting this man, you huff and turn to go retrieve your drink.

He's wasting your fucking time! I mean, this was already a waste of time, like, who studies for a history essay, especially two weeks before it's even supposed to happen? But still! He could have at least had the fucking courtesy to show up prepared!

You’re irritated. You must have steam coming out of your ears when you approach the pick-up area to grab your drink, because of course Gideon is there is add fuel to the fire.

“You could have told me Caleb was the friend you were meeting.” He quips, hands busy wiping down the prep line as you reach for your coffee. You want to wipe the smirk off his stupid fucking face.

“Oh bite me, Gideon.” You snap at him, aggravated glare over your shoulder as you turn back, missing his amused laugh.

As roughly as you can without spilling the drink, you set it down on the table and clamber into your chair, attention immediately going back to your device. Caleb raises an eyebrow at the clear attitude you’re sporting.

“What are you doing?” He questions, a little cautious of your irritation.

“I came here to be productive. I am going to be productive, Caleb.” Not even looking at him as you pull up work for another course. “If you’re just gonna sit here and wait around, then you’re welcome to leave.”

There’s a beat of silence as he considers your statement. Before reaching into his backpack under the table and pulling out his laptop. You look at him through dark lashes as he sets it on the table in front of him.

“I’m being productive.” He snorts, eyebrows raised in a teasing manner as he types something into the computer.

And so the two of you work quietly beside each other, nothing but the low cafe chatter and aroma of roasted coffee filling the room. You scribble away at your iPad, he types God knows what on his laptop. Taking occasional pauses to sip your coffee, or to give your eyes a break from the screen and observe the people out and about around the small college town.

Your frustration fizzles out, mind too occupied with the differential equation problem set in front of you. At least an hour goes by without either of you saying a word to each other.

A particularly difficult problem trips you up. It isn’t solving as smoothly as past questions, and after staring at your work, you aren’t sure where you’re messing up. The confusion must be evident on your face, because the silence is finally broken.

“Whatcha working on?” Caleb puts his own work on hold, leaning back in his chair.

“DQs.” You’re short with him. Not only does his voice rekindle some of the annoyance you were feeling earlier, but you’d also rather burn alive than ask him for help. Even if he has taken the course before.

“How’s it going?” He’s pushing your buttons.

“Fine.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t written anything in the past 10 minutes.”

“Mind your business.”

“Are you stuck?”

“No.”

“I can help you.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“I’ve taken the class, you know.”

“Don’t care.”

“Fine.” He gives up, putting his hands up in defeat. Believing he’s done pestering you, your attention returns to your work.

Until a big hand is reaching across the table faster than you can react, retracting with your iPad in tow.

“Hey!” You protest. You stand to lean over the table to try and take it back, but the fratboy’s stupidly long wingspan proves useful as he holds it behind his head.

You miss the way his gaze, for a fraction of a second, shifts down to the unobstructed view of your cleavage.

“Will you relax? I’m just trying to help.” He counters, hand over his chest in mock sympathy. Afraid of making a scene or further disturbing those around you, you slump into your chair with a huff. “Thank you.”

Caleb looks at your device for a minute at most, before angling the screen for you to see.

“You’re stuck because you’re trying to force the separation of these variables.” He’s pointing to different coefficients and symbols in the problem. With his big hands that you definitely have not tried rubbing one out to. “It’s not a separation of variables problem, it’s set up for you to use integrating factors. I can see why you tried separating it, because of these two distinct functions. But they’re both with respect to ‘x,’ which is why they won’t separate nicely. And why using integrating factors is the easier route.” He says, so composedly, iPad outstretched for you to take back.

If he wasn't already so irritating, you might have actually found his explanation... attractive? The way he validated your original attempt without being condescending. His reasoning was easily digestible, clear, concise. The way he demonstrated his intelligence without making you feel less than.

Man, fuck this guy.

You take your device back without a word and resume the problem at hand. He let's you have at it for a minute or two.

Of course his methodology was correct. You breezed through the problem.

"Did you get it?" He asks. You look up at him, and he's fucking smiling. An annoyingly handsome, yet cocky grin stretched from ear to ear. You don't answer, and yet, he takes that as answer enough. "A 'thank you' would be nice."

"Thanks." You clip, pulling your gaze away.

"Caleb. Thank you, Caleb." He corrects, wanting to hear the words from your lips. You just roll your eyes. Desperate to diverge from this subject, you circle back to the original reason you're here today.

"Have they replied?" "They," as in his "friend" that has the history notes.

"Has who replied?" His answer makes you stop writing, set your Apple Pencil down and look at him with a cocked head.

"Your friend with the notes."

"Oh, no, not yet." His concentration shifts back to his computer.

"You aren't gonna check your phone?"

"My texts come through on my laptop, too."

You just blink at him. Once. Twice. Three times.

"What?" He laughs under your intense gaze.

"Nothing." You shake your head, not interesting in challenging his suspicious claim.

You continue to be productive for another 45 minutes or so. Putting the utmost effort into your own work, and not the boy sitting across from you.

Not the way he leans back in his chair, arms stretching over his head with a muffled groan. Definitely not getting distracted by the way his shirt rides up to tease the waistband of his black Calvin Kleins, and an even yummier happy trail snaking down under his v-line.

Nor are you derailed by the way his tshirt hugs his biceps just right. Or the way thick veins dance all the way down his forearms to his hands.

Caleb catches you staring. Because he's evil and out to get you.

"You're staring." Fuck. Hoping your pinking ears don't give you away, you make up a lie on the spot.

"I didn't know you were in a fraternity." You nod at the Chi Sigma Wave logo on his chest. He checks out his own shirt as if he's surprised to see the merchandise on his person.

"Oh, yeah. Baristas a Sig Wave, too." He points a thumb in the direction of the counter, Gideon busy doing whatever. For some odd reason, he forgoes mentioning that he's not only a member, he's the vice president. "You ever been to one of our parties?" He crosses his arms over his chest, firm pecs bulging under the tight shirt.

"Yeah, actually. My roommate and I dropped into your party last week for a bit. Cowboys vs. Aliens." You try not to shiver remembering the wretched night.

"Oh, what? I didn't even see you."

Yeah, because you were busy putting another girl through your damn mattress.

It's what you want to say. But you keep things cordial.

"We weren't there for long. Maybe an hour, tops." He hums in response.

"I would have looked for you if I knew you were there." Doubt that. Feels like he's just trying to flatter you. And it was a week ago. You didn't even have his number until this past Monday.

"It's fine. You were probably busy or something." In your mind, it's a jab. He obviously doesn't see it that way.

"We're having people over tonight, too. If you want to swing by. No theme." You shake your head.

"I'm not in the mood for another musty frat party." You reply, point-blank.

"Musty?" He gapes, offended by your disapproval of the cleanliness of last weeks rager.

"You heard me."

"Sig Wave is not musty." He protests.

"What I saw last week was pretty nasty."

"And what exactly did you see?"

You seducing some alien girl into your bed.

"It was literally hazy near the DJ booth. And my boots were sticking to the ground." He scoffs amusingly, shaking his head.

"Well, you'll have to come to another one. I'll make sure it meets your high standards." Caleb teases.

"I'm not a second chance type of girl."

"Then maybe you need a personal tour of the Chi Sig Wave residence. Party not included."

"No thanks."

"I'll get the pledges to scrub the floorboards with toothbrushes for you."

"I'd rather not be the reason for any abuse towards the freshmen."

"It's not abuse, they're just making their contribution to the brotherhood." He claims, so proudly.

"The brotherhood." You repeat back, a bit amused.

"Yeah. They're my brothers." The comment has you lifting an eyebrow at him.

"Frats are so weird." He chuckles, running a hand through his hair.

"The kickback this afternoon will be lowkey, I promise."

"I'm not interested."

"Come on, it will be chill. Just drinks, music, maybe get in the pool. You can bring a friend, if you want." He rests his elbows on the table, settling his weight on them.

"I didn't even know the frat house had a pool."

"You didn't go in the backyard when you were there?"

"It was dark. And crowded."

"So you didn't even check out the entire house and you're still being stubborn on your opinion." He challenges, resulting in a shrug from you. "Well, then you have to come tonight."

"Tonights just, not a good night for me." Caleb groans up at the ceiling, leaning back in his chair.

"Fine, suit yourself." He stands up from his seat, straightening out his jeans. "I'm gonna use the restroom." You watch his back as he disappears into the corner of the cafe. Grateful for the silence, you resume your work.

Your phone dings on the table, no more than two minutes later. It's Tara.

tara-dactyl: gideon just invited us to the frat house later for casual pool party🤑 u in?

...

What the fuck?

you: are u being fr rn

tara-dactyl: ya he literally js txted me

tara-dactyl: wait y whats wrong

There's just no way it's a coincidence. The timing is too perfect.

you: are u home rn

tara-dactyl: uhhh yes why😥

tara-dactyl: ur scaring me gf

you: ill be home in like 20 ill tell u then

You can't believe him. Did he fucking get Gideon to text Tara when he got up? Did he send him some kind of covert hand signal when you rejected his invitation? There's just no way!

Not long after your short text chain with Tara, the culprit emerges from the restroom, weaving his way through the tables filled with other cafe-goers. Before he can even sit down, you're speaking up.

"I don't have any other work to do, so I'm gonna head out."

"Oh, no worries. I'll walk you to your car." He offers, mirroring you packing up your things.

"I walked here, my place is like 15 minutes away."

"I can give you a ride, too. I got close parking."

"It's fine, I'm in the opposite direction of your place."

"Let me drive you home as an apology for not coming through with the history notes." He insists, swinging his backpack over his shoulders as he digs into his pocket for his keys.

He's just not going to quit, huh.

"Fine." He smiles, proud to beat your stubbornness into submission. He holds the cafe door open for you, and leads the way to his car.

It's an old 1998 Toyota 4Runner SR5. It's well taken care of, the evergreen pearl paint near sparkling in the sunlight. Slightly lifted, grille guard, its a well loved car.

Painless drive to your apartment. You direct him through the winding streets, but the two of you are silent besides that. When you do arrive, he pulls up along the curb to let you out.

"I had a good time today, even if it didn't go as planned." He adds as you hop out of his car. Shutting the door behind you, he speaks again through the open window. "If you change your mind about tonight, let me know." He leans down slightly to meet your gaze through the window, right arm resting on the shoulder of the passenger seat. You give him a tight-lipped smile in return.

"Bye, Caleb." You shout over your shoulder, ambling up the steps of the small townhouse you share with Tara. He watches you unlock the door, not pulling away until you're inside.

Tara's lounging on the couch, watching some anime when you come through the entryway. Her focus immediately snapping to you, jumping up to look over the the back of the couch. You toss your keys onto the console table near the door with a huff.

"Girl." It's all you say to her, and she knows you're about to spill some crazy tea.

Outside the Chi Sigma Wave house, Caleb sits in his car for a moment before going inside. He grabs his phone from the center console and pulls up his text strand with Gideon.

VPrez Cal: Dude shes definitely sus af

VPrez Cal: I just dropped her off

P-Giddy: Bro I didn't think Tara was gonna respond right away

VPrez Cal: Fuck bruh i thought things were going well

P-Giddy: I'm sorry bro!!!!

VPrez Cal: Convince Tara to bring her tonight or youre on bathrooms until you graduate

Caleb breathes in a deep sigh, running a hand over his face. Fucking Gideon.

"Wait, why does he lowkey want you bad?" Tara covers her mouth, the two of you laughing as you debrief the study session on the couch.

"I'm just confused, like, he literally said we were friends yesterday." You hug a pillow to your chest, Tara stretched out across the other side of the sectional.

"I think you're taking things too literally. Begging you to come over isn't really giving friends. Maybe friends with benefits, but not friends." She reasons, talking to the ceiling. "And I'll admit, the phone number instead of social media is also not really giving quick fuck."

"Okay, but I don't want to fuck him unless he like, actually likes me. And isn't just gonna smash and dash."

"Yeah, and that's fair. But I'm not really sure how that's going to come up in conversation unless he asks to fuck."

"And I don't know if I trust him to be truthful about that stuff if it means taking me to bed."

"Fuck, girl. I don't know either." She drags a hand through her short, black hair. "Your study date sounded like, domestic as fuck." You chuck the throw pillow in your lap at her.

"It wasn't a date!" Your cheeks are dusted pink as you protest.

"Sounded like a date to me." She teases. "You went on a date with Caleb Xia~~" she sings in a mocking voice, gently whacking the throw pillow against your bent knees. The teasing is interrupted by a ring from her phone. You both look at the phone before looking at each other. Hesitantly, she flips it over from where it sits on the coffee table.

"It's Gideon."

"You're shitting me." You cover your mouth. "Read it." She scoots a little closer, leaning back into the couch with her phone.

"He asked if we are coming later."

"Fuck, I don't know, bro." You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, overwhelmed and tired from hours of studying while simultaneously fighting off a bear with a stick.

Caleb being the bear. Obviously.

"I say fuck it." She turns to you, biting her lip in mischief.

"You aren't the one being hunted for sport." Her phone pings with another notification.

"He said, 'any frat members who don't invite anyone have to pay double dues next month.' Is that even allowed?" She chuckles at his ridiculous claim.

"He's lying, dude. Caleb put him up to this, I'm telling you."

"So what if Caleb put him up to this? I say we go, take advantage of the pool and free drinks, and if Caleb tries to pull a fast one on you, we bounce." She shrugs, presenting her foolproof idea. "It's a flawless plan." You throw your head back against the backrest of the couch.

"You promise we’ll leave as soon as shit hits the fan?"

"No, I'm gonna leave you there to suffer." She deadpans, sarcastically. "Of course I'll save you, bitch!" You bury your face in your hands, letting out a deep sigh.

"Tell Gideon we'll be there."

Which is exactly how you found yourself at the doorstep of Chi Sigma Wave, after a quick power nap and refreshing shower, with nothing but your purse and a bikini under your clothes. It's a couple hours to sundown, daylight still in the sky when Tara rings the doorbell to the frat house. She gives your hand a comforting squeeze, and the front door swings open to reveal a very shirtless and wet Gideon.

"Holy shit, you guys are here!" You and Tara raise an eyebrow at his… relief? He steps aside to let you both in. "Everyone's in the back, can I get you guys something to drink?"

As he leads you through the house, you take in your surroundings. It's significantly less cluttered than it was last week. No beer pong tables awkwardly spread out and taking up space, no obnoxious DJ booth, no furniture overturned to barricade the kitchen. With the lack of people and the open windows, the air is much more breathable. Smells faintly of Fabuloso, too.

You follow him into the kitchen, and he opens a mini fridge under the island counter to list off what’s available.

“There’s Coronas, Pacificos, White Claws, a couple Surfsides. We also have vodka if you wanna mix it with some soda or some shit.”

“Do you have limes for the Coronas?” Tara asks. Gideon furrows his eyebrows, still crouched in front of the small refrigerator.

“This is a frat house, not a bar.”

“Well, Jesus, I didn’t know limes were a luxury good.” She clips, using her foot to gently push him over in his squat. “I guess I’ll have a Corona with nooo lime.” You ditto her selection, and Gideon moves to uncap the drinks with the bottle opener magnet stuck to the fridge door. Standing to his full height, he hands over the drinks.

He nods for you to follow, taking you to the backyard to join the rest of the kickback. It’s a decent amount of people, maybe 40 to 50. The ratio of boys to girls is split evenly too. The yard is surprisingly spacious, so the crowd doesn’t feel too overwhelming. House music plays from a speaker near the french doors to the house.

A large in-ground pool takes up the center of the backyard. A small hot tub, also in-ground, is tucked closer to the side fence, yet no more than a couple steps from the stairs of the pool. A dozen or so people hit a volleyball around in the pool, and no more than five lounge in the hot tub.

Behind the pool is a turfed lawn, maybe a little bigger than the designated pool/hot tub area. There are some outdoor furniture pieces under a stone pergola, a few chairs, a couch, a small table, even a gas fire pit. Incandescent bulbed string lights line the perimeter of the pergola, as well as the fence surrounding the yard.

It’s… cute. Not what you expected for a fraternity house backyard.

Beside the pergola, on the turf, four boys split into two teams play die. Caleb is one of the four. You don’t recognize the other three. They’re jumping around, yelling, grabbing each other when they make good shots, very stereotypical frat boy behavior. It’s kind of endearing, if you’re being honest.

Gideon shouts for Caleb to call him over, smile on his face as he sees just what Gideon has offered to the altar. He says something to the other guys playing die, before jogging over to greet you.

He’s not dripping wet like Gideon, but his cheeks are a little flushed from the oh so strenuous drinking game he just left. His skin is a little shiny, silver chain settled between his lats instead of its normal position on his chest. Deep brown hair slightly blown out of his face, probably from pushing it back while he was playing.

“You made it.” He greets, before looking over at Tara. “Tara, long time no see.”

“I saw you like 3 weeks ago for the Beta Steel board meeting.”

“3 weeks is a long time.” He argues, hands on his hips. His focus immediately going back to you. “You didn’t text me you changed your mind.”

“I figured Gideon would fill you in.” It’s a dig, one that you’re not sure goes over his head or not.

“Nope. No word from him.” His gaze flicks over to the other frat boy for just a moment, and it’s unreadable to you, again. “Do you want me to put your bag upstairs?” He nods at the purse hanging off your shoulder.

“I’d rather it stay with me. Thanks, though.” You counter, gaze still surveying the party. He pushes a hand through his hair.

“Well, swim, drink, hang out. Come get me if you need anything.”

“We will, thanks.” Tara answers for you both, giving Caleb a tight-lipped grin as he walks away to finish his game of die. Gideon must have walked away mid-conversation, because Caleb’s departure leaves you and Tara alone.

“Girl, that man just completely undressed you with his eyes.” She whispers in your ear, earning an elbow to her side.

“Will you fucking cut it out, there are people around…” you whisper back.

“Yeah and they’d probably agree with me.” You shoot her a side-eye before scanning the backyard.

“Soo, what now?” You question. You aren’t gonna lie, you expected Caleb to be a little clingier when you arrived. He seemed more interested in mingling with his boys. Tara purses her lips.

“I’m taking advantage of the heated pool, you’re either with me or you’re holding my stuff.” She starts peeling her clothes off, and you quickly realize you don’t want to just stand around like an idiot. You have no other choice but to shed your layers as well.

Tara’s tote bag was big enough to house your both of your outfits, so your purse and her bag are left on one of the couches under the pergola.

You opted for a stringy electric blue bikini, the bright color flattering on your skin tone. A cute triangle top cups your boobs nicely, and cheeky side-tie bottoms let your curves speak for themselves.

Tara just about jumps in head first, while you’d rather sit on the side of the pool. You watch with a grin as she immediately gets absorbed into the group bumping the volleyball around. About 15 minutes go by, dangling your legs into the comfortable blue water as Tara splashes around with people you don’t recognize.

“Not interested in joining them?” Caleb had snuck up on you, voice coming from above as he comes behind you. He matches your position, sitting on the edge of the pool, leaning back onto his palms.

“I just blow dried my hair this morning, I’d like to preserve it until at least Monday.” Your hands come to grip the edge of the pool, slighting leaning forward to distance yourself from Caleb’s hand behind you.

“Ah, I see.” He hums in response. “We’re starting a game of beer pong over there. And I need a partner.” You look back at him, cheeks still a little flushed.

“I’ve never played before.” You finish off the Corona you’ve been nursing since you got here. Caleb shrugs a shoulder with a handsome smile.

“You’re a smart girl. You’ll pick it up fast.”

You try not to blush at the compliment. Fueled by just a little bit of liquid courage, you take the leap.

“Okay.” He tries not to celebrate too obnoxiously, immediately pulling his legs out of the pool to stand. You do the same, him offering a hand to help you up.

Except he doesn’t let go when you’ve found your footing. He holds your hand for the short distance, at most 10 steps, to the table where they’re setting up the game.

You pretend to not be upset when he lets go.

Your opponents are another boy-girl duo. They introduce themselves at Liam and Jenna. You aren’t sure if they’re dating, but they seem pretty cozy with each other.

A couple beers had been divided amongst the 20 red solo cups on the table, 10 on your side, the other 10 on their side. Each arranged into a pyramid formation.

“Liam and I will do eye-to-eye to decide who goes first.” The two boys center themselves on their sides, counting to 3 and locked onto each others gaze, before blindly making a shot. Liam misses. Caleb makes his.

Of course he does. Cocky bastard.

“We get first throws.” He dips the two ping pong balls into the designated wash cup before handing you one. “Watch how I do it, then you’ll go.”

He situates himself for the shot. Ball pinched between his forefinger and thumb. Elbow level with his shoulder, chest not quite square with the target. With a smooth draw back of his hand, he’s flicking forward, releasing the ball in a perfect arc towards the opponents side.

It sinks into the cup at the front of the pyramid.

“See? Super easy. Your turn.” He steps back to let you shoot.

Mimicking his form as much as possible, you move your forearm in a few practice motions, before letting the ball fly.

And it finds its home in the middle cup, third row back. Caleb yells in excitement.

“You’re a natural!” A big hand lands on your shoulder as he expresses his pride. “That’s balls back, by the way. Drink up, unc.” He heckles to the duo across the table. “We get balls back when we both make our shot. It’s like an extra turn.” You nod your head in understanding, as Caleb collects the two ping pong balls from the other side and washes them once again.

This time, his shot hits the rim of one of the cups and bounces astray. He curses under his breath. You take your shot, and sink it again.

“You were lying about never playing before, huh?” He teases, hands on his head.

“No, I was being serious! This is my first time.” You argue. The small amount of beer in your system, plus the added confidence from your success thus far, has you smiling a little wider up at the frat boy.

He thinks it’s adorable.

“Alright, I gotta lock in. Can’t get shown up in my own home by a newbie.” He chuckles, watching the other team make their shots.

Liam sinks one first time as well, flipping Caleb off. Jenna overshoots the table completely, laughing off the mistake.

The game goes back and forth. Sometimes Caleb making his shot, you missing yours, vice versa. You don’t get anymore opportunities for balls back, making the cups dwindle down a little slower than you’d hoped.

You’d realized early on just how handsy he is. Celebrations started as simple high-fives or maybe a fist bump. They evolved into a hand on the back, drifting lower and lower with each turn until it was wrapped around to your hip. Sometimes, a big arm would snake around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest for a hug.

You could have said you weren’t comfortable being touched like that.

But you loved it.

Heavy hands resting on your body. Cheek pressed against his warm, solid chest. It was awesome.

You took turns drinking the eliminated cups. So after Jenna and Liam had gotten 9 of the 10 cups, you were 4 drinks in. They weren’t full beers, by any means. But it was definitely enough for a pleasant buzz.

It was the end of the game. You were tied, both sides with one cup left. It had been that way for a few turns, neither team able to snipe the lone cup.

Your teams turn, and Caleb steps up to shoot. He’s eyeing the cup, before saying something to you at his side.

“What do I get if I make this shot right now?” He drawls, focus coming to you.

“I’m supposed to give you something?” You raise an eyebrow, finger pointed back at your own chest.

“Yeah, I need an incentive for winning. What’s my prize?” He’s teasing you, waiting to see if you’ll still challenge him at his own game.

“I don’t know, what do you want?” You cross your arms over your chest, hip popping out to the side with that attitude that he would never admit drives him wild.

“If I make this shot…” he pauses to think, not long before that ladykiller smirk stretches wide across his face.

“I get a kiss.”

Despite how hard you’ve been trying to convince yourself what you have with him is platonic, his request doesn’t surprise you. You shake your head in amusement.

“Okay. Because you’re not making this shot.” You push, watching his pupils dilate.

“You don’t think I can end this game right now?” He’s getting situated to shoot, gaze still locked on yours.

“No, I don’t.” You shrug, nonchalant about the fact that you just agreed to kiss him if he makes this. He scoffs amusedly, honing in on the single cup at the other end of the table. A deep breath in, and the ball sails across the table.

And into the final cup with a splash.

You have to slap a hand over your mouth to hide the way your jaw dropped. Caleb whips around, yelling in exhilaration with his arms out before he’s bear hugging you and spinning you around on the turf.

A couple party-goers that had been observing the game hoot and holler as Caleb made the winning shot. They laugh as you scream and yelp when the big frat boy lifted you like you weighed nothing to celebrate the victory.

After a few turns, he sets you back down, warm hands engulfing your waist.

“Pay up.”

His hands on you are hot, his gaze even hotter. Suddenly feeling small in his grasp, mind scrambling for a way out of the hole you just dug yourself.

“You didn’t say I had to kiss you on the lips.” You retort, prideful smirk on your face.

“It was implied.” Caleb challenges back, a hand leaving your waist to tuck your hair behind your ear, before settling on the side of your neck.

“Maybe you should have been more specific.” You lean up, one hand on his chest, the other gripping his jaw, and plant a chaste kiss on his cheek. He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t try to turn his head and kiss you on the lips. But the hand that is caressing the side of your neck slips around to your nape, to hold you in place for just a moment extra.

“I’m getting that fucking kiss later.”

Is what he says, quietly, into your ear. Making a shiver go down your spine. Caleb releases you from his hold, grin over his shoulder as he turns to let some of his fraternity brothers dap him up in celebration.

Leaving you standing there, butterflies in your stomach, watching his back as he converses with some other guys. A shout of your name has you glancing towards the pool.

Tara, elbows placed on the ledge of the pool, looks up at you with a half smile.

“Good?” She mouths, thumbs up and brows furrowed. Returning the smile, you just nod your head before walking over to your bag under the pergola to check your phone.

The moment of silence has you reeling. Both of you were definitely just tipsy, hence the touchiness and bold requests. Right? And there’s nothing wrong with that! After tonight, you’ll both just excuse the other’s behavior as being a little buzzed and caught up in the moment.

But fuck, you didn’t want it to end. His attention. His praise. The hard line of his body pressed against yours. It was arguably more intoxicating than the alcohol you were drinking.

As if he wasn’t physically attractive, he’s sweet to you, too. Doesn’t see your stubbornness as this impenetrable wall. Teases you without it being too much. Let’s you bully and mock him all you want without getting defensive. The banter is—

“Good game, by the way.” A foreign voice sounds behind you, grabbing your attention. It’s Liam.

“Yeah, good game to you, too.” You smile at him, tucking your phone back into your bag.

“So, you and Caleb?” He strolls a little closer, hands in his pockets.

“Oh, we’re friends. We have a class together.”

“Aerospace?”

“Haha, no, I could never. It’s just a GE.” Liam hums in response.

“I was just about to head inside to grab another drink. Care to join?” You quickly survey the yard, finding his pong partner, Jenna, talking to another guy. Sensing no malicious intent, you agree and follow him into the frat house. “What were you drinking before the game?” He asks, entering the kitchen to open the main refrigerator, instead of the mini Gideon had served you from.

“A Corona. I’d be down to switch it up, though.” You look over his shoulder to assess your options. More Coronas, Modelos, Blue Moons, a handful of PBRs. “I’ll do a Modelo.”

“Lime?” You laugh, he raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Gideon told us earlier you didn’t have any limes.” You chuckle, watching him grab a Blue Moon for himself and crack the bottles open.

“Well, Gideon's low on the totem pole in this house.” He turns back to the main fridge to pull a lime out of one of the produce drawers. As well as a knife from the knife block on the counter.

“And you’re not?”

“I’m the president, so no, not exactly.” He shrugs, cutting a wedge out of the lime for your drinks.

"Wow, thank you for your service, Mr. President." You quip, accepting the open beer bottle from him.

“Eh, I have seniority but I really don’t do much around here anymore. Caleb’s the real commander in chief.” You feign ignorance.

“Why’s that?”

“He didn’t mention he’s the vice president?”

“Seemed to have left that part out.” The two of you lean against opposite sides of the counter, him against the island, you on the fridge side.

“So humble, that guy.” Liam shakes his head, taking a swig from his drink. “I take it you haven't been friends for that long?"

"Only a couple weeks." You half shrug, crossing a leg over the other where you're propped against the counter. "I wouldn't even really say we're friends, yet." Liam raises his eyebrows.

"Really?"

"I mean, we sit next to each other in lecture. We studied at Astras this morning." You purse your lips. "We're acquainted."

"Hm. Interesting." His hands grip the edge of the island, looking down at his feet. "He's a good guy, you know. Setting himself up for success once he graduates." Weird comment to make, but alright.

"Yeah, so I've heard." You nod along. "Busy, too."

"He manages it well." Liam opposes.

"Seems pretty focused on himself."

"Doesn't mean he isn't willing to make time for other people."

"What are you guys doing?"

A voice booms from the back door. It's Caleb, your bag clutched in his hand at his side.

"Just treating the girl who carried your ass in cup pong to a drink." Liam stands up straight, moving to get back outside.

"She did not carry my ass in pong." He snorts, just as Liam clasps a hand over his shoulder, sidestepping Caleb to reenter the backyard. Caleb takes a few steps further into the living room.

"People were sitting on the couches and I didn't want your bag getting fucked with." He rests it against the armrest of one of the couches. "You could have asked me for another drink."

"He was offering." You cross your arms over you chest, beer bottle neck pinched lazily between your fingers.

"Are you cold?" He saunters a little closer, closing in on you in the kitchen.

"No, I'm fine. You didn't tell me you were VP." You question him. He shrugs, nonchalantly.

"Does it change anything?"

"I guess not, no." He leans a hand against the counter next to you, towering over. You have to crane your neck up to look at him.

"We lit the firepit, if you're cold."

"I just told you I'm not cold." You huff.

"Oh my god, I'm asking you to come sit outside with us." Caleb groans, dragging his free hand over his face.

"You could have just said that." Pushing away from the counter and away from him, you mosey towards the back door.

"For someone so intelligent, you are dense." He's right on your heels, the two of you rejoining the small kickback.

A couple people surround the quaint gasoline firepit. Tara's there, rambling about something to a few girls. Liam is in one of the chairs, Jenna on his lap. There's a space open on the couch, which you occupy. Caleb slides in next you, thigh pressing against your own as he drapes an arm over the arm rest, the other on the back rest behind you, just hovering over your shoulders. You whisper to him quietly, amongst the multiple conversations going on across the firepit.

"I couldn't even tell they were dating during beer pong." You nod at Liam and Jenna, who are also conversing quietly with each other.

"Yeah, they've been together a while, so they’ve definitely outgrown the PDA. He moved out at the end of last year to live with her, which is good for me, because that meant I got my own bathroom in the master suite upstairs."

"Lucky you."

“What were you guys talking about inside?” He’s watching you pick at your cuticles.

“Just small talk. Classes, mostly.” You would never admit that Liam was most definitely vouching for Caleb. Caleb just hums in acknowledgement. “He said you basically run the frat, too.” His chest puffs with a chuckle.

“Liam’s kinda trying to pass off all the president responsibilities before he graduates. It happens with every graduating class, nothing new.” His gaze trails off to watch the fire crackle against the lava rock filling the pit. “And it’s not as strenuous as you’d expect. Our exec board is pretty large, so duties are spread thin. I just approve any major spending, big decisions, stuff like that.”

You meet Taras eyes across the fire pit, an unspoken “I’m okay” between the two of you. She returns to her own conversation.

You and Caleb end up bouncing around the many conversations going on around the group. Laughing, adding your own two cents occasionally, listening attentively. He’d say something just to you every once in a while, maybe a joke, or a piece of information that filled in some hole in the conversation.

The sun was finally starting to set, warm hues of red and orange reflecting off the undisturbed pool water. Some people had started to trickle out, either heading inside or going home. The disappearing sun had the temperature dropping, soft breeze turning chilly.

You had slowly scooted closer to Caleb, the warmth radiating off his body shielding you from the crisp air. Shoulder tucked under his armpit, his hand across the backrest brushing your shoulder on occasion. He must feel you shivering, because the arm behind you presses you a little closer to his side.

“Getting cold?” He asks, quietly into your ear.

“A little.” You look up at him, eyes a little hazy and cheeks dusted pink from the alcohol in your system. Not enough to have you stumbling and slurring, just the right amount to loosen you up.

“We could go inside.” He peaks over his shoulder. “Or the hot tub's open.”

The hot tub.

It's intimate, no doubt about it. It's slightly isolated from the group sitting under the stone pergola. There's no one using it, and everyone has gotten out of the pool, as well.

You know he's going to turn his charm up to the max.

And the thought excites you.

"I'm down for the hot tub."

Caleb knows he's about to move in for the kill. His ravenous grin giving him away.

"Let me grab some towels." He squeezes your knee before standing, his pace quick as he jogs into the house. You get up, making eye contact with Tara. She wiggles her eyebrows at you, you shrug innocently. Saying something to the girls around her, they seem to take it as their cue to leave.

Alone in the backyard, dusk turning the sky purple, you make your way over to the hot tub.

Steam swirls along the surface, the soft purple lights lining the submerged bench making the water even more enticing. Dipping your toe in to test the temperature, before descending the small staircase into the warm liquid.

You stand in the center of the round hot tub, drink still in hand, letting yourself acclimate to the steamy environment.

“Feels nice?” Caleb says, hanging two towels off the railing along the steps into the jacuzzi.

“So nice.” You drawl, moving to set your half-full beer bottle on the edge. “This yard is highkey sick, actually.”

“I think the landlords renovated it a year or two before I got here. The house itself still feels kind of outdated, though.” He explains, coming down the steps and immediately settling on the bench, arms outstretched on the ledge behind him.

You do your best not to openly ogle his firm pecs and bulging biceps.

"Does this mean you've changed your opinion on the cleanliness of our house?" He teases, cocking his head to the side.

"It was pretty tidy inside, I won't lie. And the yard is cute." You purse your lips, deep in mock thought. "I still think what I witnessed last week was kinda gross, though." He throws his head back, Adams apple on full display.

"Fine. Be stubborn." His gaze drags back down to you, still standing in the middle of the hot tub. "Did you come as an alien or a cowgirl?"

"Alien, Tara was my cowgirl." You hold your hair up as you dip down to your shoulders, letting your body adjust to the temperature difference.

"Man, I was a cowboy. We could have matched." Caleb teases, taking a sip of his beer. He must have grabbed himself another one when he went inside, there's condensation on the glass.

"I didn't even know your name at that point. I was supposed to hunt you down and introduce myself?" You raise an eyebrow, finally drifting to sit on the bench across from him. The ledge is kind of deep, your shoulders just barely peaking out from under the water, while the majority of his chest is above the surface.

"I would have introduced myself if I saw you." He counters. "Did Gideon invite you?"

"Yeah, I think him and Tara are good friends." You smile remembering his silly costume. "His inflatable suit was funny."

"So you found Gideon but you didn't come find me."

"He was working the little makeshift bar, he was pretty easy to track down."

"You could have asked him to get me."

"Why would I ask him to find you if I didn't even know you were part of the frat?" He groans, defeated.

"You just won't give in, huh?" His grin is devilish.

There's a sick twist in your gut that says you are about to see just how confrontational Caleb can be.

"I don't know what you mean." You feign innocence, your gaze challenging his.

"I know you asked Gideon about me."

...

God fucking damnit. You let out a deep breath through your nose.

"Okay, fine. I did. What's your point?" You retort, trying to hold onto a shred of your dignity. Hopefully, he can't see how flushed you're getting under his scrutiny.

"Why were you asking about me?" He's getting off on watching you resist his torment.

"Because I wanted to know who you were."

"You could have asked me yourself."

"You were busy." The thought of Caleb schmoozing that other girl makes you nauseous.

"Did Gideon tell you that?" This fucker knows exactly what you witnessed. He wants to hear you acknowledge it.

"I saw you. Take a girl upstairs." You clip bluntly.

"And how'd that make you feel?"

"I didn't feel any type of way towards it. Gideon said you sleep around."

"So you believed him?"

"Kind of hard not to when I watched you lure a girl into your bedroom."

"Were you jealous?" You hold your head a little higher, in attempt to hide your mental writhing.

"No. I don't do casual hook ups." Caleb stands up to cross the distance. You get up, shoulders back, confident to not feel like he has the high ground.

"And yet here we are." Neck craned up to hold his gaze, face only a couple inches from his chest.

"I think I've made it clear I'm not into one night stands. If that's not what you want, then leave."

"I don't want to leave." He moves past you to take your spot on the submerged ledge. "I like spending time with you." You're standing between his spread legs, looking down at him. "And I don't sleep around that often, for your information."

"You literally showed up to lecture with a hickey the other day." He scoffs amusedly.

"When?"

"The Wednesday before the party."

"That's literally impossible. That party was my first hook-up in months."

"I know what I saw."

"I'm telling you you're wrong." He pauses, eyes skating across your figure for a fleeting moment. "Why are you so desperate to find a reason not to give me a chance?"

"Because we obviously have different motives in this situation." You cross your arms over your chest. It takes every drop of strength in him not to watch the way your tits press together. They are, like, right in front of his face, after all.

"I just told you, if I was only interested in sleeping with you I would have given up two weeks ago." His hands sneak off his lap and play with the strings of your bikini bottoms. "I want to get to know you."

"Gideon said you don't have time for anyone else." He groans, rolling his neck.

"Gideon is a fucking idiot."

"And I'm supposed to believe you over him?" He cocks his head.

"Tell me one thing Gideon has done to make him more trustworthy than me."

...

Touché. Caleb pinches his lips together in righteousness.

"My point exactly." His hands have abandoned the ties on your bottoms to rest on your hips. "You have to give me a chance before jumping to conclusions." He says, voice soft with honesty.

He has a point. You took the personality Gideon told you about and ran with it. Even if his actions leading up to this moment haven't necessarily matched the sleaze-bag persona Gideon tried to convince you he was.

You bite your bottom lip, looking down at the frat boy. Eyes tender as he grovels below you. Hair tousled from running his hands through it all day. Warm hands kneading your hips below the surface.

You aren't sure if it's the puppy dog eyes he's giving you. Or if he genuinely upheld solid reasoning to validate his argument. Or the multiple beers in your system.

But you find yourself agreeing with him, giving him a gentle nod.

The big hands on your hips pull you towards him, into his lap. Knees moving to rest on either side of his hips, straddling him. Hands landing on his broad chest.

"I'm kinda offended you thought I was a player." He quips, boyish grin replacing the pleading expression.

"You're attractive and in a frat. If it looks and sounds like a duck, it's probably a duck."

"You think I'm attractive?" His smile grows even wider. You roll your eyes.

"I think you have selective hearing." You retort, drawing a laugh from him. "And you literally said yourself you don't sleep around that often. That still implies you sleep around."

"I haven't slept with anyone since the party. And the last person before that was like, seven months, I think." You hum in response.

“Can I ask you a question?” His hands glide up from your hips to your waist as he nods. “You were never gonna get those history notes from this morning, huh?” His tongue darts out to wet his lip.

“I thought I was pretty convincing.” He kids, giving your waist a quick squeeze. “How else was I supposed to convince you to come out with me?”

“Ummm, maybe just ask me next time?”

“Yeah, okay, Little Miss Attitude.” Caleb jests, narrowing his eyes. “I could practically hear you grumbling with rage when I showed up without the notes this morning. And I’m always the one to start the conversations in lecture. Not exactly the warmest welcome.”

“Yeah, well. I’m still getting to know you.” You argue back at him, finger tracing his collarbone.

“And yet you’re perched so pretty in my lap right now.” Trying not to blush as big hands pull you even closer, chest grazing his. Caleb’s eyes take in all the features on your face.

“I think you still owe me, by the way.” He’s talking about the game of cup pong, and the winning shot he made.

“I already gave you your kiss.” He pushes your hair out of your face, other hand still under the water holding you impossibly close.

“Didn’t count.”

“Yes, it did.” He shakes his head.

“Nuh-uh. You’re still in debt. Only way out is giving me a real kiss. On the lips.” He drawls out the last sentence, emphasizing each syllable with a tilt of his head. “I earned that kiss, fair and square.”

“You know, I technically won, too. You’re not giving me any kind of prize.”

“Now you’re just being greedy.” He snorts.

“No way you’re saying that, as you literally beg for another kiss.”

“I’m about to stand up and dunk both of us into that pool if you don’t pay up.” You gasp, trying to shift away, but his massive arms snake around your back to keep you in place.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Kiss me, and I won’t.” You huff, bringing a hand up to caress his jaw. Slowly leaning in, he angles his head with eager eyes and an impatient mouth. You pause, him straining just to brush his lips against yours.

“Impatient much?” You tease, smiling against him.

“Please just shut up and kiss me.” He pleads, before pressing his lips to yours.

It’s instantly just so addictive.

The gentle push. The wet glide of his lips over yours. The drag of his tongue against your bottom lip, requesting access so politely.

His hands familiarizing themselves with every inch of your hips, your waist, your curves. He’s still respectful with it, not overly vulgar with the groping nor exploring your more intimate areas.

The makeout is hot. Steamy. Intimate. He lets you lead the dance, following your energy and not dominating the kiss. You pull back to breathe, Caleb chasing the connection.

“Keep kissing me.” He whispers against your lips, trailing his own along your jaw, down to your neck.

“I need to breathe, Caleb. You do, too.” Your fingers tug the hair at his nape, pulling him away. His pupils are completely blown with lust. Lips slightly agape, slick, and swollen.

It’s the most handsome you’ve ever seen him.

You just can’t resist going in for another kiss.

You control the momentum. One hand on the back of his head angling him just how you like it. Other hand on his jaw, thumb on his chin guiding the movement of his mouth.

Dragging it down when you want him to open wider, tongue diving deeper into the wet cavern. Pushing it closed when you just want a cute peck, his lips on yours with nothing else in the way.

His hands have your body locked against his, the solid line of muscle pressed against your softer, more feminine figure. A harsh drag of your hips closer to his center has you feeling just how worked up he’s getting, bulge beginning to tent his swim trunks. The gasp that escapes you is swallowed up by his kiss.

“Come upstairs.” He murmurs against the corner of your lips.

“I don’t want to sleep with you tonight.” You place a chaste kiss on his jaw.

“We don’t have to do anything. Just come upstairs.” His mouth is still exploring your neck, a few pecks to your shoulders as you rake your nails through his hair.

“I am going to fuck you if I go upstairs.” You swear you feel him get a little harder at that. “And my roommate is still here. I’m not gonna leave her.”

“I’ll send Tara home in an Uber black on the frats dollar if it means getting you upstairs.” He’s dead serious.

“I’m not sleeping with you tonight, Caleb. You gotta work a little harder for me.” He drops his head against your shoulder with a frustrated groan. “I should probably go show her I’m still alive.”

You move to get off him, but his arms remained snaked around your middle, grip unbreakable.

“Just a little more.” He looks up at you with imploring eyes, saying a thousand please’s without a single word. “5 more minutes.” You cup his cheek, he nuzzles softly into your palm.

“5 more minutes.” You repeat back, as he leans in for another kiss.

5 minutes turned into 10, and 10 into 20. It’s with a reluctant sigh that he finally loosens his grip enough to let you stand. You use the steps to exit the jacuzzi, wrapping one of the towels hung on the railing around your frame. When you turn around, Caleb’s still sitting in the hot tub, head thrown back and hands over his face.

“Aren’t you gonna get out?” You raise an eyebrow at him, clutching the fuzzy towel to your chest.

“Give me a second.”

“I can’t go back in there alone, Caleb.”

“I’m not asking you to leave, I’m just asking you to wait.”

“It’s cold out here, though. Hurry up."

"I can't hurry up."

"What the hell is your problem?" You laugh at his clear embarrassment.

"I'm hard as shit, woman!" Caleb throws his hands up at the admission, an unabashed smile on his face. "Just... I need you to, like... not look at me. For a moment." All you can do is giggle at the sheepish frat boy trying to reel in his arousal.

When Caleb is finally able to calm down, he's towel-drying his body as you wait idly by the water. Your towel is tucked under your armpits, wrapped around your chest, torso, and butt. He wraps his around his waist before stepping a little closer.

"I want to take you out. On a date. A real one." He clarifies, as if it could be misconstrued.

"As opposed... to what? A fake one?" You mock him, making him roll his eyes with a faux irritated utter of your name.

"It's a 'yes or no' question." You pretend to think about it.

"I guess you can take me out." Feigning nonchalance, you shrug. He drops a kiss into your hair before spinning you around by the shoulders and guiding you back to the house.

"You are a fucking handful."

Entering the living room, majority of the party has cleared out. Some people stand around in the kitchen, others sprawled out on the couches watching some movie you don't recognize. Tara is completely starfished on the only recliner in the room, both of your bags in her lap. Her head whips to the two of you coming through the white french doors.

She does her best to keep her jaw from hitting the floor at the sight of you both. It's not a very strong effort.

"Hey. Ready to head out?" You drawl, so coolly. Caleb looms behind you, hand still on your lower back over the towel.

"Yeah, yep! Lemme' just... call the uber." She chirps, attempt to not show her excitement futile.

It doesn't take more than 7 minutes for the Uber to show up, perks of the university town being so small. Towel exchanged for your original clothes, Caleb walks the two of you to the front door.

"Text me when you get back." He mumbles against your forehead, pressing a quick kiss. Watching you and Tara walk across the lawn to the ride, not going back inside until the car pulls away.

As soon as the car door shuts behind you both, she turns to you.

"Girl." You slap a hand over your mouth.

"You have no fucking idea."

hey Google play sexy boy by air

also soft launching submissive frat!Caleb that everyone thinks is a whore how are we feeling

im like fuckkkk i wanna see these mfs crack omlll as if im not the one writing this shit💀💀

as always constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated!

taglist: @elysiasgirlfriend @yes-ishipit @twobitnox @gravitationalbluberry @celaenaglynn

[cal3ris]

is this gonna get me fired you think

[beardedmrbean]

Next up someone is going to claim that the Narnia series isn't kids books.

Kids books is probably not the best way to word it, you can enjoy them at every age, including your childhood, as you get older you may find new truths in them, but they're still good for any age.

[shinraalpha]

i do think lobbying for data centres over climate goals should be considered a crime against humanity btw

[applefishing]

"It's okay," he slurs over and over as you roll against him. "S'okay. Gege's got you."

You're tangled around each other, skin to skin. With his arm wrapped around your shoulders and your leg draped over his waist, it's hardly possible to be closer.

That doesn't stop him trying.

The tips of his fingers brush over your cunt over and over as he palms your ass like he might be able to drag you tighter against him, aiding your rolling hips.

His hums sound like soothing answers to the desperate little sounds you make into his mouth. He's all-consuming, indulgent, relentless. The sloppy lazy cadence of it might put you to sleep if you weren't so desperate to feel him inside you.

He'd never been inside.

So when he slips his aching cock up against your exposed cunt and holds it there as you grind against each other, your heart practically beats out of your chest.

The hot length of him slips over your soppy cunt over and over as eager anticipation sends shivers through your whole body.

"S'okay," he slurs again as you tremble in his arms. "This is what it's made for, mm?" He rolls his hips in one long glide as he presses his hard length firmly against you, coating himself in your slick. "Made for this. Gege's cock was made for this pretty pussy." He bites your lip gently. "Gege is just for you."

Seemingly satisfied with your responding mewl, he applies a little more pressure to the underside of his tip as you continue rolling into him. Gently, in a way that almost seems accidental, he guides himself to dip inside your entrance as his hot breath tickles your lips.

You freeze.

"Just there," he breathes.

Then, he watches your face with rapt attention as he rolls his hips to meet you—sinking into your wet heat with a broken groan. There's a pause afterwards, a mutual indulgence in the delicious release of tension built over years and years as you clench rhythmically around him.

He's the first to break it.

His eyes stay locked on yours as he grips you firmly, fingers digging into soft skin, and tugs you onto his cock with each undulation of his hips. It's a sensual, languid claiming, following a kind of lazy cadence to mirror the way he'd kissed you.

But when you close the tiny space between your mouths and whisper "I love you" against his sodden lips, he whimpers. It's followed shortly after by a full body tremor.

It's different after that.

He wraps his arms tight around you, buries his face in your shoulder, and begins surging up into you—rasping breaths tickling your skin as he gives himself over to long-repressed hunger.

[preciousangelbabyprincess]

at the strip club, I think the stripper likes me! (ch1)

summary: handpicked by frat!Caleb to be his next torture victim! It’s an honor!

I think I want to turn this into a series, just because I have so many little interactions and relationship building ideas. So let me know if this is something you guys would be interested in reading! Obvi this would be pt1😫

cw: no explicit smut (yet😏), reader lowkey has potty mouth, some stem jargon. brief mentions of getting laid, implied hookups. Parties, reader drinks some liqueurrrr not enough to get stupid faded though stay safe people. not proof read srryyy. wc: 3.6k

| next chapter>

General education classes had to be the stupidest things ever. You were an electrical engineering major. And yet, three times a week, you were waking up at 7am to listen to some tenured, jackass professor drone about U.S. history. By the lack of enthusiasm in his voice, you think he gives less of a shit than you do.

It wasn’t even a hard class! Two timed essay midterms and a take-home essay final. Optional homework assignments. But, of course, attendance made up 15% of your grade. Just your luck picking the GE with mandatory attendance.

Most of the class never showed up. You were shocked on the day of the first midterm to see the lecture hall actually full. Typical lectures had no more than 30 people in them, yet it seemed about 200 showed up for the exam. Not that it bothered you, their poor performance just meant a more generous curve for you.

The Monday after the midterm, you saw some unfamiliar faces. Probably just people who bombed the test and realized that 15% attendance mark is just free points.

Nevertheless, you took your preferred spot. Middle row, right side aisle seat. So the little fold-out desk was on your writing side, and you didn’t have to climb over a dozen sets of legs to get up.

Engulfed in differential equation problem sets (because what kind of over-achiever freak takes notes during a GE?), a deep clear of the throat sounds above you.

“Is anyone sitting there?” The masculine tone pulls you from your concentration, neck craning to take in the sight before you.

Jesus fuck.

If a german shepard took on a human form, it’d be the guy currently staring down at you. Was he pulled straight off of Baywatch? He’s the beach personified.

Annoyingly wide shoulders dramatize a slender waist, obvious even under a sweatshirt. Questionably short athletic shorts reveal long, tan, muscular legs. Is that Santal 33 you smell?

He’s so effortlessly good looking, it’s irritating. Like, you think he didn’t even take the time to brush his hair this morning, and yet it’s perfectly tousled. His features are still a little puffy with sleep, but it just emphasizes the dreamy, downturned eyes, the high cheekbones, the full lips…

Oh my god, what the hell is wrong with you?

Snapping out of your trance, you find it in you to respond.

“Nope, all yours.” Your attention immediately goes back to the work on your iPad, trying not to let his woody sandalwood scent distract you too much.

“Sweet.” He drawls, stepping over your feet to get to the seat next you. He’s so stupidly broad, his delts brush yours as he gets comfortable.

God, guys like him were just the worst. Women had to put effort into their appearance. If you showed up to lecture with no makeup on, someone would probably ask if you were sick. Meanwhile, this prick could show up in a trash bag and probably start a campus-wide trend.

You were getting yourself worked up over nothing. Apple Pencil pressing a little too hard on the screen of your iPad. A scowl unconsciously etching itself into your face. This guy was certainly one of the idiots that flunked the midterm! Surely you would have noticed him before. He probably was a business major, with a minor in beer, partying, and gaslighting.

“Is that for DQ’s?” A whisper over your shoulder pulls you from your thoughts.

No way he just said that. There is absolutely no shot in hell this walking Ken doll knows what an ODE is.

“Yeah, you know someone in the class?” You quip, still doubting a man like him would know what he’s referencing. Take that, misogyny.

“Nah, I took it over the summer.”

…

You’ve got to be kidding.

Literally fuck this guy.

You blink at him once. Twice. He takes the silence as an invitation to keep torturing you.

“At the local community college. Way cheaper, too.” His eyes widen to exaggerate his point. “Are you a math major?”

“No, engineering.” You clip, bluntness seeping into your tone.

“Same! Aerospace.” Why is he so eager at 7am?!

“Electrical.”

“Nice! Heard that’s, like, one of the hardest ones.”

“It is.” It seems like your distaste finally translates in your voice, he doesn’t push any further. It’s with angry, trembling hands that you return to your work.

What kind of fucking factory did this guy even come from?

As if his perfect fucking face wasn’t enraging enough, he just has to be smart too! And he’s not some freaky, incel dweeb! He actually struck up a conversation with a girl. Well, at least tried to. If anything, you were the weird, awkward one.

The remaining 55 minutes of the lecture are painfully slow. You’re seeing characteristic polynomials on the walls. The professor could not speak in a more robotic tone. The freak of nature to your left has been texting nonstop.

The professor finally decides to release the class of their educational shackles, and dismiss everyone. You’re stuffing your iPad into its sleeve when Captain Sunshine stands up next to you, backpack slinging over his perfectly rounded deltoid.

“See ya!” He smiles, just about blinding you with ridiculously white teeth. Not even giving you a chance to respond before he’s shuffling past you, sauntering down the stairs and out of the lecture hall.

You look around the room to see if anyone else witnessed the 6’2 hunk make his debut in this random, lower division history course. A couple girls are packing up their things and whispering amongst each other, flattery written all over their faces. So your suspicions were correct. He leaves a trail of dropped panties in his wake. Scoffing to yourself, you shove your iPad into your bag and trudge out of the room.

You have no idea who just sat next to you. He didn’t even give you his name. Not like you expected him to, you did share less than 50 words with each other. Not a single identifying brand on his person, no sports, no clubs, nothing. You couldn’t have hallucinated him, because it seems other girls in the hall were even more flustered by his presence than you were.

So who the hell is he?

“Stop biting your cheek, you’re gonna get premature jowls.” Your best friend, and housemate, Tara scolds you from across the cafe table. You both had some time to kill between lectures, so you’d hunkered down at a coffee shop on campus to chat and get some studying done.

“I know, I know, sorry.” You mumble in response, twiddling your Apple Pencil in your fingers. Tara takes a deep sigh.

“Alright, what’s on your mind?” She always had a knack for reading you. Or maybe you were just a very readable person.

“I literally hate men.” She furrows her brows.

“Whose house am I egging tonight?” You take a sip of your matcha, shaking your head before swallowing.

“No, no, no one did anything wrong. I just had to sit next to this super annoying guy in my history lecture this morning.”

“What did he do to you? Was it another Chucky situation?” Chucky was this super short, ginger guy that had followed you to the library after you wouldn’t give him your number. Average experience as a woman in stem.

“Ew, don’t even say his name out loud.” You look over your shoulder, as if saying his name would summon him or something. “I barely even spoke to this guy, he was like… irritating. I don’t know.” You connect your pencil back to your iPad before slumping in your chair.

“Examples, babe, I need examples. Did he smell bad? Misogynist? Ugly?” Tara gasps, covering her mouth. “Was he a republican?” You cover your eyes as you giggle.

“No. I mean, the republican thing, I couldn’t tell you. But that’s not it. He just like… ugh. The type of irritating you get from really hot guys.” You roll your eyes just remembering the interaction. A look of confusion graces Tara’s face.

“Was he like, trying to hit on you?” She cocks her head to the side.

“I don’t think so. He asked me about my DQ homework. And said he was in aero. Then said bye when lecture was over.” Tara narrows her eyes, setting down her drink.

“Okay, so, a really hot guy sat next to you, talked to you about math, and then left you alone for the rest of the lecture?”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“Have you lost your mind? You should have gotten his socials or something!”

“Oh my god, I’m not explaining it well.” You drop your face into your crossed arms on the table.

“What else is there to explain? He sounds like he’s totally your type!” Propping your chin up, you groan in defeat.

“Yeah, but like… I don’t know! My female intuition was trying to warn me or something.”

“Girl.”

“What?”

“You’re killing me. My obituary is gonna say ‘cause of death: best friend has no game.’”

“You are so dramatic, oh my god.”

“Seriously! When was the last time you got laid?” Tara retorts with a deadpan expression.

“Tara!” You whisper-yell, embarrassed she would bring up such a topic in a public setting.

“All I’m saying is I think some dick would do you good!” She puts her hands up in faux submission. “Why not give the hot nerd a shot?” She wiggles her eyebrows, making you cover your face in humiliation.

The conversation replays in your head two days later, as you sit in your unassigned assigned seat for your history lecture. Like clockwork, the mystery man enters the room a minute before start, slowly making his way up the stairs to your row.

“That seat taken?” He nods to the open chair next to you. This time, his hair is a little damp, presumably from a morning shower. The athletic shorts have been replaced with a pair of black sweatpants. Instead of a sweatshirt, he’s wearing a washed blue tshirt with some surf logo you don’t recognize, showcasing the most vascular forearms you think you’ve ever seen. Santal 33 wafts through the air once again.

“All you.” You respond dryly, tucking your bag under the chair to let him pass.

“Cool.” Another smooth drawl, just like last time. He scoots past you and sinks into the open seat. When he leans down to push his backpack under the seat, you sneak a second glance.

Wait a minute.

Is that a fucking hickey?

This man has a fucking hickey on his neck!

You have no more than 3 seconds to ogle the little bruise before he’s sitting back in his seat.

Are you shocked? Well, no. It would be a little concerning if a man as good looking as him wasn’t getting any girls.

Hold up. It could be from a guy, too. This is a judgement free zone.

But he doesn’t really set off your Gaydar. And you’re pretty confident on the accuracy of your Gaydar!

You’re getting distracted. His sexuality does not matter, because you aren’t interested in him! Absolutely no chance.

He’s just fun to look at! And maybe day dream about cute study dates, walking to class together, dorm sleepovers…

Study dates?? Dorm sleepovers?? You don’t even fucking know this guy!

Blinking a few times to push the thought away, your attention returns to the work in front of you, device physics. So fun.

The professor begins his painful monologue on God knows what. You’re practicing depletion region calculations. He’s texting, again.

But he doesn’t ask you about your work. You’re not even sure he looks over at what you’re doing. The two of you sit in silence.

For the entire lecture.

So much for shooting your shot!

The professor dismisses class, and he stands up before you’re done gathering your things.

“Bye!” He gives you a half smile before swiftly exiting the lecture hall.

At least he had the decency to say bye?

But, fuck! You couldn’t even get a single word out!

You wanna rip out your hair. You wanna rip out his hair. Everyone is getting their hair ripped out!

It’s with heavy feet and poor posture that you stomp back to your apartment. Wednesdays were your easy days, plenty of time to go back to your place and chill before the next lecture block. When you finally drag yourself through the entryway of your place, Tara seems to be getting ready to leave.

“Hey! How was class?” She chirps, clearly in a better mood than you.

“Stupid. I didn’t even get to talk to him.” No context necessary, she immediately knows who you’re referring to.

“Did he skip?” You drop your bag on the couch before collapsing onto it, as well. Digging the heels of your palms into your eyes, you let out a frustrated groan.

“No, he literally sat right next to me. Again.” Her face comes into view above you as she leans over the back of the couch.

“And you didn’t say anything?!”

“He was the one that started the conversation last time!”

“So?! Match his energy!”

“What if he was just being nice?”

“Okay, then he’s just being nice! Will it kill you to at least learn his name?” Another overwhelmed groan escaped you. “If you don’t figure out his name by your next lecture together, I’m changing the locks to the house. Got it?”

“You’re so mean to me.” You turn over to bury your face in the couch cushions.

“It’s because I love you!” Tara shoots over her shoulder as she grabs her keys and tote from her bedroom. She’s halfway out the door when she mentions one last thing.

“Oh! Totally forgot. Gideon invited us to his frat thing Friday night. Theme is Cowboys Vs. Aliens. Attendance is nonnegotiable. Tell you more tonight. Byeeeee!” Her farewell is cut off by the door slamming behind her.

Great. Not only are you weird and off putting in lectures, now you can be weird and off putting at a party! Surrounded by a bunch of drunk college students. Life is awesome!

Friday morning arrives too quickly. Sitting in your favorite seat, twirling your Apple Pencil, waiting for your lecture crush to show up. You even put a little more effort into your outfit today! Gotta fake it til you make it!

The professor begins his ramble, and he’s still not here. It’s whatever, he usually just barely gets here on time anyways! You watch the clock on the wall tick. 5 minutes pass. 10 minutes pass. 20 minutes pass.

He’s still not here.

You pull out your phone to text Tara.

you: hot nerd skipped today 😔

tara-dactyl: tell me why i don’t believe u 🤨

you: im being fr!!! bros nowhere to be found!!!

tara-dactyl: swear?

you: stg 🙏

tara-dactyl: fineeee

tara-dactyl: changing of the locks has been postponed to monday. consider yourself lucky🫵

Smiling to yourself, you tuck your phone back into your pocket. Can’t believe you wasted a good outfit for him to not even show up!

Around 5pm, you start getting ready for the party. A cold shower to calm your nerves. Favorite rollers in your hair for your best blowout. You and Tara bring your respective makeup kits into the bathroom and get ready together. The music is bumping, the pregame drinks are hitting, it’s enough to make you forget about the humbling week you had. Once your face is beat, you toss all of your costume-y, party clothes onto Tara’s bed to collaborate on outfits.

Tara was going as a cowgirl, you were going as an alien. She had a cute pink cowboy hat, along with a skimpy little white tube top, a denim miniskirt the size of a belt, and some matching pink cowboy boots.

You, on the other hand, had this silver sequined cowl neck number. Neckline dipping down extra low for some tasteful cleavage, the back even lower. Paired with a black miniskirt, some white gogo boots, and a cheesy little headband with two bobbling antennae, it was very much giving alien.

The official start time of the party was 9pm, but it was near 10 and you had just called your uber.

“Alright, ground rules for tonight!” Tara slurs, a little more tipsy than you. “No unsealed drinks! No disappearing without the other knowing! And no one under 6’0!” She holds another shot in the air, you both hooting and hollering as you take your final drink before leaving.

“And no hooking up with your ex!” You tease in return, Tara rolling her eyes. Setting your shot glasses in the sink, Tara yells out from the living room.

“Uber is 1 minute out!” Grabbing your purse of the counter, doing a once over in the mirror by the front door, and the two of you go hand in hand out to the curb to flag down your driver.

A short ride over to the frat house later, you’re thanking the Uber as you try not to stumble out of the vehicle. The party is booming. Thankfully, majority of the partygoers are in costume. People on the front lawn are playing die. The big Greek letters above the porch awning are lit up, Chi Sigma Wave. You can hear the distinct thump thump thump of house music from the street. Tara hooks her elbow in yours as you make your way towards the heart of the rager.

It’s insanely packed inside. There’s another game of beer pong happening in the living room, with too many people to count surrounding it. Another section of the living room holds what looks to be a frat brother behind a set of turntables, just absolutely dicing shit up. A group of people dance around the DJ booth, hips swaying and feet bouncing.

The kitchen has been turned into a makeshift bar. Chairs and miscellaneous furniture have barricaded the walkways off, and a couple frat brothers stand behind the island handing out drinks of all kinds.

The air is already a little sticky in here, you don’t even want to think about how it feels in the basement. Or upstairs, for that matter.

“Let’s do a lap and find something to drink!” You shout into Tara’s ear, earning a nod from her. She tugs you towards the living room, weaving her way into the crowd. You’re glad to see even most of the fraternity members dressed up. Some of them obviously trying to be nonchalant with their costumes, others not so much.

One of the guys playing beer pong is painted green from head to toe. You respect the commitment to the bit.

A lap around the main floor, a couple fleeting moments of eye contact with strangers, you and Tara find yourselves at the improvised bar.

“Gideon!” Tara exclaims to the brunette behind the bar. He reaches a hand over to dap her up.

“Tare-bear! What’s up, girl?” Gideon is on bar duty wearing one of those silly inflatable suits that makes it look like you’re sitting on the aliens shoulders. “Glad to see y’all made it! What can I get for you?”

“Got any Trulys back there?” He takes a peak into one of the coolers behind the counter.

“Only got the lime ones left, that cool?” Tara nods and he reaches down to hand her two cans. With a quick cheers, you’re cracking yours open and taking a swig.

Tara continues to catch up with Gideon as you lean your back against the island, surveying the party once more.

You choke on your drink.

By the staircase, a brunette, alien girl leans against the wall, twirling her hair. Crowding her is a 6’2, lean muscled cowboy, wearing nothing but a brown cowboy hat, a red bandana triangle tied around his neck, and some low-slung, dark denim jeans.

No shirt. You can tell from across the room he’s a little damp with sweat, perfectly plump chest just glistening in the flashing lights.

That is, without a doubt, the fucking douchebag from your history lecture.

And he is sweet-talking the hell out of that unsuspecting girl.

Lazy grin taking over his features. One forearm is braced above the girls head, total disregard for her personal space. The other loosely holds a beer bottle at his side.

A predator cornering his prey, she has literally nowhere to run. Except, unlike the wild, she shows no signs of wanting to escape. She is exactly where she wants to be.

You can’t even blame her.

Like a 6th sense, Tara breaks from her conversation with Gideon to check in with you. Only to find you are absolutely honed in on the scene unfolding across the room. She can connect the dots, but not before you whip around to Gideon.

“What’s that guys name?” Finger pointed directly at the familiar figure, Gideon follows your line of sight.

“Oh, Caleb? He’s our VP.” Completely oblivious to the lore behind this man, Gideon can only watch you and Tara stare at each other in disbelief.

“The hot nerd from your history class is Caleb fucking Xia?!” Tara shouts at you in shock. The three of you look at each other, before all switching your attention back to the apex predator across the room.

The predator that is currently going in for the kill.

Caleb, with an effortless tilt of his head, removes his cowboy hat, setting it atop the brunette aliens head. All before he takes her hand, leading her up the staircase, and disappearing from the party.

Well, at least you know he’s not gay!

authors note: frat!caleb im about to make you my bitch😈

also hella paranoid the panhellenic demons are gonna put a bounty on my head if I use a real fraternity name, so let’s all pretend sig waves are the real deal😁

last thing, I totally wanna go back in and edit this to make it all aesthetic and cute but I feel so unc trying to figure out tumblrs UI so we shall deal with that at an undisclosed later date 🫡

[brainstreams]

Don't use AI to write. Use cocaine like a real author.

[hussyknee]

How long have you been on Tumblr?

Over 16 years (before 2010) (toddlers in the dawn of the ant colony)

16 to 14 years (2010-2012) (livejournal and Myspace refugees)

13 to 11 years (2013-2015) (you used to follow thebootydiaries)

10 to 8 years (2016-2018) (era of Russian bot conspiracy)

7 to 3.5 years (2019-2022) (post sex ban to Goncharov)

3.5 years or less (2023–2026) (Twitter refugee)

Voting ended onJul 15

Rebagel for science pls.

[yms1]

what doesn't kill you makes you stay on tumblr for 13 years and counting

[noah-wyles]

[itshardcandy]

holding my tumblr prison cell closed from the inside so society can't force me to leave

[sihaiya]

260517 ASEA

[minkieater]

there are many, many things in life you’ll never understand. but the things you're trying to figure out right now are choi yeonjun, why no one is smart enough to figure out that unscripted is you, and how the fuck jung wooyoung is always right.

🎤︎︎ wooyoung x fem!reader | college au, mini-series, part 3/? 8k words 🎤︎︎ 18+ reader is the host of a sex podcast, wooyoung is a frat boy whore, reader has a boyfriend who is choi yeonjun | smut minors dni

“HOW WAS THE PARTY ON TUESDAY?” Comes from Soobin, fully lounged out on the couch, his eyes on you the moment you step foot in his apartment. 

You close the door behind you softly, even if your heart is already racing in your chest. You ask, “What party?” 

Soobin sits up, a lazy grin on his cheeks, showing off his dimples. Not like San’s dimples, his are different, somehow, not as prominent. Not as damning. There’s something playing on the TV across from him, a cooking show, you think. 

His head tilts, eyes flaring like you both know what party he’s talking about. “I saw you there,” Soobin admits. “You were zip-tied to Jeong Yunho.” 

Heat spreads from your chest outward. You laugh, or try to, it comes out like a nervous sound of forced air, if anything. Tucking your hair behind your ear, you wonder, “I thought you were busy studying on Tuesday night.”

“Not busy enough to miss a handcuff party.” He sits up fully, leaning his chin into his elbows, arms hooked over the back edge of the couch. You creep closer after kicking off your shoes. 

“Is that what they’re called?” you ask, letting your purse fall from your shoulder to your fingers. “I’ve never been to one before.”

“They’re fun,” Soobin watches you carefully, like he’s reading your body language, or trying to. “If you’re tied to the right person.” 

“I was not,” you admit, pinning your arms behind your back, clasping your hands together. “Yunho made me shotgun, like, four beers. I don’t even like beer.” 

“Dirty martini, extra dirty, three olives,” Soobin recites from memory. “No, you’ve never been a Miller Lite kind of girl.” 

“Is Junie in his room?” You glance toward his closed bedroom door.

“He’s in there,” Soobin uncurls from the back of the couch, sinking into the plush leather again, focusing back on the cooking show. “He saw you with Yunho, too.” 

You took one step towards Yeonjun’s room before stopping in your tracks. Your neck snaps toward Soobin, “He was there?” 

“Weird, how you guys don’t talk when you’re in a relationship.” 

You don’t answer, already at Yeonjun’s door, pushing it open to see him exactly where you knew he’d be. At his desk, laptop open, headphones in his ears. Like he did to you Tuesday morning, you walk over to him and pluck one out of his ear. 

You skip greeting him. “So, I couldn’t come over Tuesday night because you were studying, but you could go to a frat party? That doesn’t interfere with your studying schedule?” 

He pushes his desk chair backward, looking up at you with a face that doesn’t read even the slightest bit of guilt. “I had been studying all day, I needed a break.” 

“And that involves frat parties, but not hanging out with your girlfriend?” You throw your purse onto his bed, hands landing on your hips. Anger brings your blood to a steady boil, skin steaming, a kettle ready to whistle. “Jesus Christ Yeonjun, you want to marry me but you can’t spend your Tuesday night with me?” 

“Hey,” he tries to soothe, eyebrows bent up in concern. He shakes his head before words can spill, “It was last minute, baby. I went with Soob and Gyu, I didn’t even drink.” 

“Did you get tied to anyone?”

“Did you?” he counters, and your mouth runs dry. He smiles, a small, soft grin, “I saw, but I’m not angry, am I?” 

Your lips bend downward in a frown, voice coming out quieter, like you didn’t want the answer as you ask, “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you talk to me at the party? We could’ve gone together, been tied together.”

“Come here,” he soothes, holding his arms out. You look at him for a second before moving an inch. Sweats on his legs, a loose tee on his torso, but his hair is still styled from class earlier today. Nothing out of the ordinary. Your Yeonjun. 

You take a step toward him, and his hands land on your hips, giving you the okay to crawl onto his lap, feet dangling off the back of the chair as you settle over his thighs. Hands landing on his shoulders, you pout further, “They made me drink beer.”

He moves your hair away from your face, pouting with you, “How could they be so cruel?”

“You really don’t care that I went?” you ask, voice still small, partially guilty. “I didn’t even tell you I was going.” 

“I figured you needed to blow off some steam,” Yeonjun’s hands land on your bare thighs, warm palms smearing smooth strokes across your skin. “I haven’t been the most attentive lately.” 

“No,” you’re quick to answer. “You haven’t.”

“My pretty girl,” he reaches up for your cheeks, pulling you down to kiss him. A light peck, a greeting in the press of your lips. “Stay over tonight.”

You’re supposed to record tonight, an hour length episode on bondage. You should send Yunho a fruit basket for the idea. 

You hum, keeping your lips close to his. “Maybe.”

He kisses you again, one of his hands falling to your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. He parts with your lips with his tongue, and you moan an almost silent noise into his mouth, a soft plea.

“Why maybe?” he whispers between kisses, teasing. “You’ve got a hot date? Choi San? Jeong Yunho?”

You smile, giggling into his mouth before pushing on his chest. “Shut up,” you press your forehead against his. “Your exam is tomorrow and I have a lot of shit to get done.”

You do, other than the podcast. His hands find your waist, slipping under your tee, warm against your skin. A shiver racks up your spine anyway, body giving into his touch, craving more, needing more. You don’t want to get your hopes up, even if he’s the one coming onto you. 

“Too much that you can’t make some time for me?” he’s smiling, voice too playful for the weight of his words. How did this get flipped on you?

Your response comes quickly. “That’s funny, coming from you.”

He frowns, voice suddenly sharp. “Do you think it’s easy? My classes? My assignments?”

“No,” you mumble, shameful. “I just think you can make more time than you let on.”

“So you think I’m a liar?” He sits back in the chair, leaving you with your hands on your thighs, disarmed. “You think that I enjoy spending all my time sitting at this desk, not doing the things you want me to do?”

Your cheeks feel hot, nails catching onto the skin of your thighs. “That’s not what I said, Junie.”

“You don’t have to say it,” he argues. “Do you think it felt good to see you tied to Jeong Yunho? Laughing with him? Smiling at him the way you smile at me?”

All the color drains from your face, leaving your skin feeling cold, your body stiff with discomfort and guilt. “I— you said you didn’t care that I went.”

“I don’t care,” he reiterates, voice still ridged with frustration. “I can’t care, because I know I’m not taking care of you the way I’m supposed to be. I was there to blow off steam, too, because all I can think about is cardiovascular hemodynamics when I should be thinking about you.”

You’re shaking your head before he finishes his sentence. “You don’t need to be thinking about me, focus on studying. I’m here, I’ll be here, I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry.”

His lips bend in a small smile, hands landing on your thighs again, sliding his palms up and down reassuringly. “It’s okay, baby, I know, I just…” He glances at his laptop. “I need to finish this section.”

You swallow down your unease, mind drifting back to the party, to Wooyoung’s advice that you’ve refused to take for over a week now. Heat returns to your body, your hands landing over Yeonjun’s on your thighs. “Finish it in ten minutes.”

You can feel your heartbeat, moisture surfacing on your palms. You need this, you need him to lay you down, to remind you that he loves you. All of your questions from before the party have been answered: you clearly don’t respect him enough as a med student, you’re a shitty girlfriend for not giving him space, and you do fucking suck because all you can think about is still fucking sex. 

You pull your shirt over your head from the hem, throwing it to the floor beside you. Yeonjun watches, lips parting, eyes darkening to a moonless night.

“Ten minutes,” you whisper, voice coming out sultry, like a glass of red wine. Your right hand slides down your stomach until it passes the hem of your shorts, the only layer separating you. You hear Yeonjun’s breath catch in his throat. 

Two fingers find your clit, adding pressure, swirling a small, precise circle. You release a pleased sigh, head falling to the side, eyes locked on Yeonjun whose gaze is focused on between your legs. 

“Study me,” you whisper just as your hips rock into your own hand, fingers picking up speed between your legs. Yeonjun’s brows furrow, nails sinking into your thighs, body sinking into the chair, dazed. 

“Fuck,” he groans out, voice layered with arousal, deep and seductive. 

“I’m so wet,” you whine, like it’s a complaint. But it’s not, the relief is immediate, body thrumming with pleasure as he watches your knuckles through your shorts. “D’you wanna feel?”

Finally, he looks up, and you can’t believe there’s a full second of debate before he’s grabbing you by your thighs and standing on his feet. In one quick motion he has you on your back, on his bed, legs spread and back arched. 

He tugs both his sweatpants and his briefs down his legs at once, crawling over you, helping you get your shorts down your calves, over the heels of your feet.

“Fuck me,” you whisper as he settles between your legs, before his lips meet yours. Your tongue slides into his mouth as you reach for the hem of his tee, breaking the kiss only to pull it over his head. He presses his chest against yours, and you swear the feeling of his skin against yours brings you closer. 

You can feel him sliding between your thighs, spreading the arousal you’ve spent the last few minutes gathering, unsurprisingly slippery. “Junie,” you pant into his mouth, back arching up into him, “inside, please.” 

He grunts like he’s letting go of the last bit of his restraint. Looking between your bodies, he lines himself up, and you brace yourself for the stretch, sucking in a tight breath, limbs locking. 

He groans as he pushes inside, savoring every inch of your heat, slowly filling you until he reaches the hilt. He's slow at first, like he always is, rocking into you softly, letting you feel every inch, every vein, every ridge. 

“Feel so good,” your boyfriend grits out, chin tucked to his chest, watching himself pull out and fill you up over and over. You reach for his face, keeping your song of pleasure quiet, legs hooking around his back as you pull his lips to yours. 

He picks up the pace, fucking into you steadily, making your lips go slack against his, the two of you breathing into each others’ mouths, fighting to keep quiet.

“Not gonna last like this,” he mutters into your mouth, voice tight. You whimper, using your legs around his middle to lift your hips, angling him upward so his cock curves right into the spot you needed it to. 

“Fuck,” the curse is sharp, his hips stuttering. “So tight, ‘h my god—”

“Wait, wait,” you pant, nails clawing into his shoulders, ankles crossing over his back. You’re not close, you’re barely dipping your toes into the pool of pleasure. You thought it’d be easier to reach the finish line, so wound-up, you assumed after a few measly touches you’d be coming undone. 

“Can’t,” he whines, voice strained, pitched and tight like he was two strokes away from finishing. 

And he was, much to your dismay. 

His pace quickens, staggered, rough, chasing his release until he pulls away, pulling out, he takes his length in his hand until he’s painting the expanse of your stomach white. 

You lay there, catching your breath, hating yourself for being disappointed. Wooyoung’s voice rings in your mind as you watch Yeonjun run a hand through his hair— three minutes of missionary. Was that even three minutes?

Yeonjun hops off the bed, no doubt in search of a towel to clean you up. You should just be happy he finally fucked you, you could work on the specifics later. That was progress. That was sound advice you received, used, and it fucking worked. 

It worked. 

“Are you okay?” Yeonjun asks, wiping your stomach with a warm, damp towel. 

You nod, reminding yourself to smile, “Yeah, ‘m fine. Happy.” He grins, so wide and full it makes the guilt weighing on your chest feel ten times heavier. “Will you be upset if I go? I still have to work on my multimedia report, it’s due tomorrow.” 

He crawls over you, then drops himself on the bed beside you, planting a kiss on your lips as soon as he lands. “I could never be upset with you, baby. You’re gonna be a big-shot reporter one day, aren’t you?” 

“A big-shot journalist,” you correct, smiling before you kiss him again. 

“I couldn’t take time away from you reaching your goal,” he presses another kiss to your forehead, voice soft, even if the wording makes it feel like a dig. “Go.” 

Go, Virgin. 

You crawl off the bed quicker than you mean to, finding your tee, your shorts. Guilt, disappointment and despair are swimming in your gut, a cocktail for you losing your patience, your temper and your mind if you don’t leave his condo now. You should be grateful. You should be happy you’ve made progress. 

But fuck, your insides feel hollow. You don’t feel any better than you did before. 

He mutters something about seeing you tomorrow, and you smile, kiss him once again, then sling your purse over your shoulder and get the fuck out of there. You don’t speak to Soobin, you don’t look at Beomgyu on the opposite side of the couch, you keep your gaze straight ahead as you make for the front door. 

Once you’re outside under the sunset, you finally breathe, filling your diaphragm with air and hope. This can’t be forever. You can’t be one of those wives that men talk about under the AITA subreddit, the ones who won’t fuck their husband because he fucking sucks. 

You can’t be in a sexless marriage. 

You can’t marry him at all.  

S&M by Rihanna is blasting in Wooyoung’s headphones, and only God and Unscripted could possibly answer why. 

“Good morning, afternoon, or goodnight, whatever time you’re listening to this week’s episode of Unscripted. Today, we have an exciting topic that I cannot wait to dive into. Bondage. And I know what you’re thinking: am I secretly really kinky? Well, I guess it’s not much of a secret after over fifty episodes, is it?” 

“If you don’t know what bondage is, then I’ll give you the Merriam-Webster definition. Bondage is a sadomasochistic practice—hence S&M for the intro—that involves the physical restraint of your partner. Or of you, depending on what you’re into. I’d like to start off with a story, if that’s cool with you.” 

Wooyoung internally groans as he stares at the treadmill screen with a blank expression. He needs her to get to the juicy part and fast. 

“This weekend, I went to a frat party. I know, so sophisticated, but it was enlightening in a very physical way. My wrist was zip-tied to a random guy, someone I had barely even met, and it got me thinking— do we all have someone that we're zip-tied to, whether it’s a physical, or an emotional bond?”

Wooyoung almost trips over his feet. She was at his party this weekend? What other frat on campus could have had the same themed party on the same weekend?

“Even though I was physically tied to this beautiful, tall, random ass man I’ve never spoken a word to, there was someone else at the party who is tied to a vastly different part of me. By midnight, the alleged rules state that all couples are to finish a pack of alcohol together, and then you could get your zip-tie cut off your wrists, and enjoy the party. Six beers down, I was freed, and trust me, I enjoyed that tall man and the party. But now, a few days later, I’ve come to realize what was supposed to be such a simple party theme might have changed the trajectory of my life forever.” 

Wooyoung smacks his teeth. Boring. No one cares about hearing about her life if it’s not the sexy bits, especially him. He doesn’t reach for his phone.

“I didn’t even know he was there, the other guy, not the sexy one I was tied to with a strap of plastic. But now that I know, I’m wondering, was I really ever tied to Mister Tall? Did I even consider the fact that I could be tied to Mister Tall? Or was I tied to someone else the whole time, and I couldn’t even enjoy that I was physically attached to a tall, sexy ass man?” 

Wooyoung is confused. So many words, so many words repeated, he thinks he lost somewhere around strap of plastic.

“Do we all find ourselves, at some point in our lives, attached, bonded to someone we know we shouldn’t be, but we can’t do anything about it? We can’t stop because we’re scared of what it’s like to not have them in our lives, we’re scared of what it’s like to feel fully alone again.”

Wooyoung has never disagreed with anything more. 

“Sex should be fun. It should be filled with curiosity, comfort, laughter, and pleasure. You should try new things, like bringing zip-ties to the bedroom or having a woman on your face while another is between your legs.”

That's something Wooyoung can agree with. He loves it when it feels personal. 

“It shouldn’t be… it shouldn’t feel like a chore. Or like you’re a hole or something, sorry, that’s foul wording, but it’s the truth. Sex is between two people, and it should feel that way, whether you’re bonded to the person or not. If you’re a guy listening, please take everything I just said to heart, and if you’re thinking ‘is this about me?’ then it is.”

Damn. This isn’t the usual fun and flirty sex talk he usually hears from her podcast. He guesses women like Unscripted go through shit, too. And here he thought she was just as free-spirited as he was. Wooyoung guesses everyone goes through shit— he wonders if he’ll ever feel anything close to what she’s going through, or something like what you’re going through. 

He laughs under his breath at the idea. Or tries to, at least, his breath cleared from his goddamn chest thanks to the speed of the treadmill. 

“My bad, someone sent in a question asking if I’d ever experienced a situationship and I needed to let everyone know that even I get lonely sometimes, and sleep with a man more than once. But anyways, let’s move on to the good shit, right?” 

Wooyoung peels his headphones off his ears and cringes when he realizes they’re as sweaty as he is. Resting them around his neck, he turns the treadmill off, wipes it down, and throws his bag over his shoulder all while still trying to catch his breath. 

It didn’t feel like an hour running through podcast episodes, at the end of this one he’ll be all caught up, and by this point he feels like he knows her a little better. He relates to her, in a weird, hatred-filled way, it’s like she’s the female version of him, but he’d rather fall off the treadmill than admit that to someone else. 

Especially San. 

He feels even weirder now that he’s come to terms with relating to her, but knowing that even she’s felt a level of romance before when he’s never felt it at all, makes him feel like an oddball. He leaves it up to a strong case of FOMO, but in his soul he knows he doesn’t actually want to experience it. 

Everyone he knows that’s in a relationship hates it in one way or another. Or they’re too stubborn to admit it, like you, very obviously just showing up for your shift behind the gym counter. 

“Virgin,” Wooyoung says by way of greeting. You’re shoving your bag under the counter when he says it, and when you look up, Wooyoung nearly jumps where he stands on the opposite side of the black acrylic. You look like shit.

“Damn,” Wooyoung mumbles, taking in your dark circles, your zombie-fied, lifeless looking skin. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I don’t have the energy for you today,” you respond, voice curt. No playful tone, no sarcasm, just the honest-to-god truth. It kinda hurts his feelings. 

“What happened?” Wooyoung asks, his tone concerned, and it surprises him that he cares. Instinct, not choice. 

“Nothing,” you mutter, throwing your phone onto the acrylic, a little hard for someone who’s trying to play off their state as fine. “Go home, Wooyoung.”

Something tugs at his gut, telling him to go. Instinct tells him not to press, not to get involved, but by now he’s in too deep to not be intrigued. 

“Does it have to do with the husband?” He pries anyway, crossing his sweaty forearms over the counter. “You look like shit.” 

You deadpan, eyes pointed, jaw locked. “Oh, really?” you ask, sarcasm dripping from your tongue. Maybe the sarcastic part of you stays intact no matter what. “I had no idea, I guess running on no sleep and copious amounts of caffeine isn’t good for one’s appearance. Who woulda thought?”

“I’m serious,” he pushes, his front pressing up against the counter. He leans his cheek on his palm. “Are you sick or something? Why are you working?” 

“I’m not sick,” you mumble, changing directions, as if Wooyoung wouldn’t follow you. You should know him better than that by now. 

“Then what’s your deal?” He meets you at the opposite side, his sweaty arms leaving another mark on the acrylic. 

“God, Wooyoung, what if I’m just having a bad day?” Your voice is raised, basically shouting, sounding exasperated like he’s hit every single nerve he could reach. “And if something is wrong, maybe I don’t want to fucking talk to you about it!” 

His brows raise. Maybe he should have listened to his gut. It's never steered him wrong before, listening to his gut is how he hit his last personal record, six women in one day.

He can’t find it in himself to come up with a snarky response, so instead he taps the black acrylic twice in place of saying goodbye with his lips sealed tight, and carries himself back to his car like he never asked in the first place. He reminds himself he doesn’t care, not about you, not about your love life, he wouldn’t give a fuck if you never spoke to him again. 

He will admit that he kind of wants to know if his advice worked, though. A creeping thought has been breaching the walls of his mind lately, if he could really be the male version of Unscripted, if he started posting podcast episodes of himself talking about sex. Would he become as popular? Would he get as many listeners? Would people take his word as seriously as they take Unscripted’s?

The music playing from his speakers is a low hum all the way back to his house. His mind wanders, from you, the way you looked, to Unscripted, to himself. If sex is his singular, undeniable skill in this life, shouldn’t he do something with it?

“What’s wrong with you?” San asks from the kitchen as soon as Wooyoung closes the door behind him. Damn, did your shitty mood rub off on him?

“Nothing,” Wooyoung shrugs, crossing the living room. “I just left the gym. Did you know Virgin works there?”

“I feel like she appeared out of literally nowhere, and now she’s everywhere,” San indulges the topic while making a sandwich, which was really stuffing different meats and cheeses between two burger buns. Wooyoung thinks it’s Jongho’s turn to go to the grocery store. 

Wooyoung jingles his lanyard at his side, mindlessly listening to the keys playing a small tune. “She seemed weird,” Wooyoung mumbles, lost in thought again, staring at the makeshift sandwich like it's the most interesting thing in the world. 

Yunho walks in from the back door, eyes landing on San’s sandwich, too. “Ooh,” he perks up at the sight. “Can you make me one, too?” 

“Not enough bread,” San holds up the plastic bag that once held the burger buns, now empty. “Go yell at Jongho to go to the store.”

Yunho dips his chin toward Wooyoung, “Wanna go with me?” 

“Hell no,” Wooyoung makes a why-would-you-even-ask face. “It’s Jongho’s turn.” 

“He doesn’t follow the list,” Yunho walks to the fridge, peeling the blue sticky note from the stainless steel. Pinching it between two fingers, Yunho shows it to San and Wooyoung like it's a piece of treasure. “Do you see this list? We make this list for a reason.”

“We see the list,” San and Wooyoung respond as one, voices flat and monotonous. 

“You’re coming with me,” Yunho points at Wooyoung with his other hand. “You’re driving, let’s go.” 

He can’t even shower first? He still smells like sweat and whatever funk is left from your bad mood raining all over him. He doesn’t argue, though, Yunho’s a high-spirited guy and if there’s anyone who could fix Wooyoung’s attitude, it’s him. 

In the car, Yunho rambles about Tuesday’s party, the guy who warmed his bed that night. It's always been interesting to Wooyoung, how Yunho could play for both teams, how he never leaned toward one side over the other. If Wooyoung was honest with himself, he would have slept with a guy a long, long time ago. That day will come eventually. 

Somehow even that reminds him of you. Well, your possibly gay boyfriend, which isn’t doing great things for aforementioned eventually. He tips his head back until it’s leaning against the headrest, tuning Yunho out while he thinks about your sex life instead of his own. When he wonders if you’ve gotten the balls to suck his dick yet, he shivers, and decides to start listening to Yunho again. He fears eventually is nearing closer than he thought.

“Do you ever feel like that?” Oh shit, he wasn’t listening. “Like everything is already mapped out for you, but you don’t know if you’re following the steps? Or the road?”

“Like the yellow brick road?” Wooyoung quips with a sly grin. 

Yunho laughs, sinking further into the passenger seat, knees touching the glove compartment. He’s in workout clothes, sweatshorts, a loose tee, the same headband on his head he always wears. Wooyoung’s dressed in the same— perfect grocery store attire. 

“Why is everyone so deep today?” Wooyoung wonders out loud, turning into the parking lot of the grocery store. He needs to stop thinking so hard while he’s driving, he doesn’t remember getting here. 

“Who else? And deep in who?”

Wooyoung snorts at his lame joke. “I was listening to Unscripted earlier—”

“You hate Unscripted,” Yunho doesn’t let him finish, snapping his body sideways to look at Wooyoung. “Why the fuck were you listening to Unscripted?”

“I just was,” Wooyoung snaps. “And she was talking about the party on Tuesday, she was there.” 

“How many people away from her do you think we are?” Yunho asks, suddenly excited. “Do you think we know her already? Or do you think she’s a friend of a friend? Bro, you’ve probably fucked her.” 

“I have not fucked her,” Wooyoung argues while swiftly backing into a parking spot. The lot wasn’t too crowded for a Friday evening, everyone is probably out partying already. 

“How do you know?” Yunho unclips his seatbelt, folding his big ass to get out of Wooyoung’s low sports car. When they’re both out of the car and the door is locked, Yunho continues, “She doesn’t have an identity. She’s faceless, identity-less, she’s a sex ghost.”

“Sex ghost,” Wooyoung mumbles under his breath, and he’s reminded why the fuck he hates Unscripted so much. “That really bothers me, y’know, that you all listen to her and believe every word she says just because she’s a woman.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Yunho drags out. “I’ve heard it all already. You never mentioned how she got all deep.”

“She was supposed to talk about bondage, like cuffs and rope and tape and shit, but she started talking about this situationship she has, and how he was at the party, too. She seemed pissed or something.” 

Yunho hums, surprised. “I would have thought she was just like you, allergic to relationships of any kind.” 

“I thought that too,” Wooyoung nods while getting slapped across the face by the grocery store’s air conditioning. His nose crinkles, but maybe the air will wash off the rest of his Virgin funk. 

“That reminds me,” Yunho wonders out loud as he bee-lines toward the produce. Wooyoung grabs a basket and follows him. “That girl that almost passed out at the Penny, she was at the party, too.” 

“I know, she interrupted my threesome,” Wooyoung says, holding out the basket for Yunho to throw whatever was on the list inside. 

“So you’re friends,” Yunho turns, brows furrowed like it was a question. “Did you know her boyfriend doesn’t fuck her?”

“Unfortunately,” Wooyoung sighs. Is there no escaping you now? 

“She’s pretty,” Yunho turns again, holding up the blue sticky note, probably making sure he isn’t missing anything. “I’ll never understand staying in a relationship you aren’t happy in.” 

“She’s happy in her own strange way, I guess,” Wooyoung catches the vegetable Yunho throws into the basket. “I don't understand staying in a relationship, period. Could you imagine not having the opportunity to fuck two women at once, because you had a partner waiting for you at home?” 

“You’re twisted,” Yunho shakes his head. “Maybe it’s a good thing you’re getting your whore-ism out now. When you find a partner, you’re going to be more loyal than anyone else on the fucking planet, I guarantee it.” 

Wooyoung laughs, “Sure, and Virgin’s gonna break up with her boyfriend and blow through the frat like a fucking freight train.” 

When Yunho turns to look at him, there’s a twinkle in his eye, and Wooyoung swears it’s hope. There’s a part of him that doesn’t like it, that look, that glimmer. 

He doesn’t know what that says about him. 

You decided to put together a basket. A good job basket, or a be proud of your hard work basket, or a congratulations basket, even if you know Yeonjun doesn’t have his exam results yet. Maybe you’ll just call it an I love you basket. You raced to three different stores after your shift in a panic, worried about not only the episode you posted this morning, but also the fact that you kind of fucking hate your boyfriend.

Okay, you don’t hate him literally at all, but having sex with him didn’t feel right and it’s really freaking you the fuck out. So you need something to do, something tangible your hands can create, something that will help ease the tension in your spine because Yeonjun is supposed to be your forever and you don’t know if you can handle anything other than that.

Were you being too direct on the podcast? What if he somehow ends up listening to it, recognizes your voice, and realizes all the things you said were about him? You suppose if Yeonjun ends up listening to Unscripted, hearing himself in your words is the least of your problems.

You stuffed colorful highlighters, his favorite gel pens, trail mix, protein bars, gum, a brain-shaped stress ball and a handwritten note you wrote about fifteen minutes ago into a wicker basket you got for four bucks at the convenience store. You shift each gift in the basket, making sure each one is visible, then make sure the basket as a whole is visually appealing in height and color.

You’re stalling. It’s past eleven at night and you have no reason to go to Yeonjun’s condo other than to drop off this basket in hopes that Yeonjun feels your appreciation for all his hard work. You’re stalling because it’s not about the basket at all. 

“That’s cute.” You shriek, jumping off the carpeted floor you’re sitting on. Your roommate, Yunjin is standing in your doorway, staring at the basket you can’t seem to finish putting together. “Gift for Junie?”

Her hair, a pretty, chocolate brown, is curled up and pinned in different places, framing her face perfectly. She’s always so put together, even with a bare face, even in the middle of the night. You wish you could say the same, but you still haven’t slept, so you’re pretty sure you still resemble death itself.

“Yeah,” you smile, proud of your basket. You look up and over your shoulder at her, “Think he’ll like it?”

In her matching pink pajama set, she walks into your bedroom and crouches down into her legs beside you, ignoring all the wrappers and price tags you cut off of each gift strewn across your floor. “What’s it for? Are you telling him you’re pregnant or something?”

You choke on your own spit. “You think I’d get him colorful highlighters and a brain-shaped stress ball if I was pregnant?”

“Stress ball for him to use when he freaks out,” she points as she explains. “Then after he’s accepted it, highlighters to document each trimester and what symptoms you’re feeling.”

“That’s actually pretty accurate,” you sigh. “He had an exam today, this is congratulatory or something.” Then on a vulnerable note, you ask, “If I was pregnant, would you be happy for me?”

“Probably not at first,” she shrugs like that was the obvious answer. “You’re basically fresh out of the womb, your womb isn’t ready to have anything in it yet.”

“Stop saying womb,” you scrunch your face, amused. “He told me the other day that he wants to marry me as soon as we graduate, then he wants to get me pregnant.”

“Who cares what he wants?” She sits back on her butt, elbows landing on her bent knees. “You’re always worried about what he wants. What do you want?”

“Can I be honest?” you ask, then add, “can I also be really vulgar for a sec?” She nods with a grin, eyes flaring interest. Vulgar is her favorite. “I want good sex. Like, really good, world-shattering, it’s insane that I just survived sex.”

She doesn’t laugh. Her brows furrow, “You’ve been dating Yeonjun for over a year. Give a girl more context.”

You take your bottom lip between your teeth, unease and a little bit of embarrassment creeping up your spine. You don’t know why it feels so hard to say the words to her, when you can tell Wooyoung and half his frat with ease.

“We had sex last night,” you’re basically whispering, your voice is so low. “I’ve been asking– basically begging for… rougher sex, I don’t know. Sex where I actually feel like he wants me. Last night we had sex and it felt like I accidentally got him hard and he just needed to get off or something. It's always like that.”

“How long?” she asks, her face bent in concern, her already soft features somehow softer. You feel a weight lifted off your chest, maybe it’s because you’re finally confiding in one of your friends, maybe it’s because she’s a woman. You don’t know why you thought that she’d make fun of you.

“A long time,” your lips flatten, scrunching to one side. Then your chest feels tight, and you can feel the tears forming, but you refuse to let them spill. “He just told me he wants to marry me, to start a family with me, but I can’t even get him to have sex with me half the time, and the other half he’s finishing after legitimately four strokes.”

She frowns, reaching a hand out to land on your arm. “I’m sorry,” her voice is filled with pity. “Can you see yourself marrying him?”

“I did,” you blurt, then correct yourself, “I do. I can, I mean. Or I did until last night, and now I’m freaking out, so I made this basket.”

She glances at the basket again, everything inside it with cool, calculated eyes. “One more question, and then I’m done quizzing you, I swear. Is the basket for you, or is it for him?”

“For him,” you answer, but your brows furrow. Why would it be for you?

She hums. “You’re smart, babe. You’re good at seeing people who aren’t used to being seen, you’re good at making them feel special, because you have a big heart, and you care. Shitty sex aside, does he do that for you? Does he see you? Does he make you feel special?”

You swallow, face falling flat, eyes a little wider than they should be. You should be screaming yes, yes, yes at the top of your lungs, but he doesn’t. He hasn’t made you feel special since the six month mark, when the honeymoon phase was over and your relationship flipped overnight into seeing each other only when it was convenient, scheduled dates made weeks in advance, or the two of you coexisting in the same place but not together.

You don’t like how this feels. You don’t like how every sign seems to be pointing in the same direction, you won’t accept it. You can fix this, you can make it feel like the first few months again, you can bring back the spark you lost. 

You won’t give up on him. 

“I’m gonna bring him the basket,” you avert, quickly standing on your feet, not meeting Yunjin’s gaze. 

She doesn’t move, you can feel her eyes on you from the floor. “We could have a girl’s night instead, I have face masks in the fridge already. We can make popcorn and watch a movie, you don’t have to go there.” 

“I want to go there.” You pick up the basket from the floor and grab your purse from your desk, throwing it over your shoulder. 

Watching you cross the living room, she stays standing in your doorframe, arms crossed. When your fingers touch the door handle, she calls out, “You’re too young to be this stressed out over a man.” 

“He’s not just a man,” you look at her over your shoulder. “I’m committed to him.” 

You quickly turn away, you don’t want to see the disappointment in her eyes. You don’t know if this is the right choice, if your relationship is worth fighting for, if it should be this much of a battle. Yunjin seems to have the answer, and you don’t want to see it spelled out on her face. 

You keep your gaze straight ahead for the entire walk to Yeonjun’s condo, just in case the bushes along the sidewalk had some insight to add, too. It looks empty from the outside, all the lights are off, from where you stand it’s almost as if no one is home at all. Being a Friday night, three pre-med students should be home, asleep. You shouldn’t expect that of Tuesdays, though, you guess. You fish for your keyring from your purse before pushing the key to Yeonjun’s into the lock, turning it, then let yourself inside. 

The living room is dark. Eerily dark. The lights are off, even the corner lamp, the couch in pristine condition with the throw blanket folded perfectly over the back. You could see well enough from the moonlight pouring in through the windows, painting streaks of silver on the hardwood floor, on the furniture. The door beside Yeonjun’s opens, just enough for you to see Soobin’s dark eyes peeking through, then it opens halfway, and he leans up against the doorframe, his expression blank. No curiosity, no questions, as if he just wants to watch. 

It makes you panic. Blood surges through your veins, your breath picking up, you rush across the living room and open Yeonjun’s door, expecting to see anything but what was behind it. 

“No,” you whisper, taking in the sight before you, even under the blanket of night you could still make out both figures on the bed. The contents of your stomach fall to the floor, blood pounding beneath your skin, “No, no, this is a dream, I’m dreaming.” 

Beomgyu picks his head up first. Your name tumbles out of his mouth once in confusion, twice in panic, then he’s smacking Yeonjun’s bare back, his bare arms, pushing your naked boyfriend off of his own naked body like it’d somehow hide what you’ve already seen. 

“I’m dreaming, right?” you ask Beomgyu, who stares at you with terrified, wide eyes as Yeonjun blinks his eyes open. A little louder, your voice cracking on the word, you ask again, “Right?!”

“You’re cheating on me?” your voice cracks again on cheating. “You’re cheating on me with Beomgyu?”

Yeonjun sits up, confusion still sprinkled across his features, “Who? What are you doing here? What?” 

“Wake the fuck up,” you’re yelling now, and Beomgyu is scurrying off the sheets, trying to catch his footing on the floor. You point at him, “Don’t fucking move.”

Beomgyu stills like you froze him. Yeonjun comes to, glancing at you, then Beomgyu, then his face contorts in panic. “Baby, I can explain—”

“You can explain Beomgyu naked in your fucking bed?!” You’ve never yelled at him before. He’s never seen you truly angry. “You fucked me yesterday and Beomgyu’s naked in your fucking bed, Yeonjun?!” 

“You had sex with her yesterday?” Beomgyu interrupts, voice sharp, hurt laced into the question. 

Yeonjun sits up fully, pulling the sheets over his lap, and then he holds them over his obviously naked fucking body as he crawls toward the foot. “Baby, it’s not what it looks like— he’s just, we were studying, and then one thing led to another—”

You laugh, dropping the basket to the floor. Yeonjun stiffens, and you know it’s because he’s never heard that laugh before. “Studying for what? Did you even have an exam today?” You turn to Beomgyu who’s already looking at you, features still blown out with terror. “Answer me, you lying piece of shit.” 

Beomgyu’s head even stutters as he tries to shake it, “N-no.” 

“Gyu!” Yeonjun grits out under his breath, then he turns to you. “It’s not what it looks like, just let me explain.” 

You take a step closer to Beomgyu who’s hands are shaking as he covers his bare crotch. His chest is sinking and rising rapidly, you can smell the fear on him. “How long?” Beomgyu blinks. “How long have you been fucking my boyfriend, Beomgyu?!” 

“T-three months,” he stumbles over the words, taking a step away from you, his chest growing red in asymmetrical splotches. 

“Beomgyu!” Yeonjun is yelling now, panic ebbed in his tone, like he could have lied his way out of this. You think he might still try. “He’s lying, baby, listen to me. Listen to me, I’m your boyfriend.” 

“Is this why you won’t have sex with me?” you finally ask, reality becoming crystal clear. “Be honest, Yeonjun, I already fucking caught you, there’s no point in lying anymore. Is he why you won’t fuck me?”

Yeonjun’s face is beet red, color bleeding down onto his shoulders, his chest. Shame, panic, guilt, you couldn’t pinpoint what emotion has his clamped fingers shaking on the sheet. 

“Yes,” Yeonjun whispers. “But it’s just sex,” he defends,  “there’s no feelings involved. I love you, I want to marry you.” 

Beomgyu’s neck snaps, horror in his eyes, spilling from his dropped jaw. You would have already known he was lying even if you didn’t get the confirmation from Beomgyu. 

“I brought you this,” you pick up the basket from the floor, tossing it onto the bed, Yeonjun jumps backward as the contents spill across his baby blue sheets. His dark eyes turn glossy, a frown bending his lips as he glances at each gift. “You don’t deserve my effort or my kindness, you never deserved a second of the time I’ve wasted caring about you. Loving you.”

Your words come out even, almost practiced, as if you’ve been waiting a long, long time to say the words. Your chest aches, of course, but there’s a certain weightlessness to your body, something close to relief. You should be angrier. You should be tearing apart his bedroom, beating his ass and Beomgyu’s.

You can’t bring yourself to move an inch.You turn to the younger man, “I’ve known you since the day I met Yeonjun, you’ve been my friend all this time, Beomgyu. You’re just as guilty as he is.”

“I’m sorry,” Beomgyu squeaks out. “I’m sorry… I— I love him.” 

You give him a weak smile, “So do I.” Turning to Yeonjun again, silent tears stream down his cheeks now, his upper body slouched over, defeated. You keep your shoulders back, steady. “Don’t call me, don’t text me, don’t come to my apartment. Forget I ever existed.” 

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, his voice heavy from crying. He picks his head up, panic still webbed across his features, “I’m not— I’m not gay. It's just… Beomgyu. It’s just Beomgyu.”

Anger strikes, but instead it’s because Wooyoung was fucking right. Again. God— how the fuck are you gonna tell him? After you flipped the fuck out on him earlier, you don’t know if you’ll ever get the chance to tell him. You wouldn’t approach someone after they snapped at you, but it might be for the better, anyway.

“I don’t fucking care what you are,” you blurt, harshly. “I care that you cheated on me, especially after I've spent weeks trying to figure out what's wrong with us. I hope you two are happy together.”

“I’m sorry,” Yeonjun yells out when you turn on your heel. “I love you, I’ll call you— I’m going to fix this, please–” 

You close the door behind you, pushing out a staggered, broken breath from between your lips. Soobin stands across from you, leaning against the back of the couch, body slouched casually like he’s been listening to the entire ordeal. 

“He really thinks he can fix it,” Soobin says first. You can hear Yeonjun yelling at Beomgyu behind the door. “He’s been trying to stop sleeping with Gyu for the past month. Couldn’t bring himself to.”

“You knew,” you whisper your understanding, jaw locked. There’s venom on your tongue as you ask, “Was it entertaining for you, watching me try over and over?”

Soobin shakes his head. “Not necessarily,” he cranes his neck, sinking into his shoulders, fingers clamped over the back of the couch. “I didn’t think it’d take so long for you to figure it out. It wasn’t my place to say anything.” 

You push off the door, a laugh coated in sarcasm tumbling off your tongue. “Right,” you nod, “because your loyalty is to Yeonjun, not to me.” 

Soobin shrugs. “If a guy stops fucking a girl like you, there’s only one clear answer why.”

“You’re just as fucking guilty as they are,” you spit out, striding past Soobin, towards the front door. “I hope I never see the three of you ever again.” 

“I wouldn’t bet your money on it,” Soobin calls after you. “It’s a small campus.” 

masterlist 🍬

[minkieater]

there are three things that are irritating you lately: choi yeonjun, choi san, and the fantasies in your head that you can't for the life of you make reality.

🎤︎︎ wooyoung x fem!reader | college au, mini-series, part 2/? 7.5k words 🎤︎︎ 18+ reader is the host of a sex podcast, wooyoung is a frat boy whore, reader has a boyfriend who is choi yeonjun | smut minors dni, threesome, drinking, banter, explicit content i can't tag for shit

“ALSO, I HAVE AN ANNOUNCEMENT: I’ve learned the ancient art of edging. Did anyone else know it was lowkey a religious-chastity thing in the Middle Ages? Or that it was mentioned in ancient, Hindu texts, the Kama Sutra, and Tantric scriptures? I was reading this essay about it, and they were even edging in the fucking Victorian era. We really haven’t come up with anything original, have we?” 

“This might seem tame for someone like me to have just discovered, but I swear I’m seeing the world in a whole different light. Yes, walk ‘em like a dog, sisters, but holy shit, have we all heard the sound of a man whimpering? How about begging? Have you ever seen tears streaming down a grown man’s cheeks because you won’t let him cum? I’m seeing the light, guys.” 

“I’ve never really given a fuck about a man’s pleasure before, I won’t lie. Their pleasure is guaranteed while we have to focus for ours, we really have to work for it, y’know? So why put that much effort into making a man finish, when he won’t do half as much for you? At least, if you asked me a week ago, that would’ve been my honest answer. Today, I still feel that way, but I’m a little more inclined to put in effort to make a man finish because a part of me is obsessed with seeing him suffer first.”

“And it’s not even just the edging. It's the persona, the character you’re letting yourself sink into before you even get started. I’ve been dominant in the bedroom before, and I know I was just telling you guys to not be afraid of it— but I think, maybe, the times I thought I was being dominant, I was just ensuring I got the same out of sex that my partner did. Now, today, I understand dominance. I understand the responsibility, the effort, the fact that someone is literally putting themself and their pleasure in your hands, and honestly, I don't understand why some men don’t solely get off on making their partner finish. What's hotter than that?” 

“Having someone beg for you, wanting you so carnally, so shamelessly. Tears streaming down their fuckin’ cheeks, guys, it was serious, I’m still recovering, if you can’t tell. Hopefully next episode I’ll have an update with the reverse side of things, and we’ll see if I’m as excited about it. Right now I’m fucking geeked. I hope you all enjoyed this week's episode, and now you know a little more about toys, for your pleasure, for his pleasure, for their pleasure. I hope your partner goes out and buys one just to use on you tonight. Catch you guys next week, unscripted, as always.” 

Damn, you hate hearing your voice recorded. You sound different than how your voice sounds in your head, somehow more nasally, annoying, even. You don’t understand why people listen to you, and continue to listen to you week after week, episode after episode. It’s not like you actually know what the fuck you’re talking about, even with the episode you uploaded last night, all of that information, stolen from a Reddit thread. 

But yet, never once have you actually felt like a fraud. To you, you’re playing a character, an unscripted version of you, but in the way that someone else is playing the character of you. Or, actually, you’re playing the character of you in a different universe, with a different personality, different confidence level, different relationship status. 

“What are you listening to, baby?” Yeonjun asks, climbing into his own bed behind you, stealing your headphone from your ear. Pressing his chest against your back, his head fits into the pocket between your neck and shoulder like it was meant to be. 

You slide down on your screen, lower your brightness, pause the podcast, and turn off bluetooth. “Nothing,” you murmur, backing into him, letting your body mold to his. “What were you doing?” 

“I went to the gym early,” he answers before planting a kiss on your cheek. “I have to study all day today, I have an exam on Friday.” 

You turn, throwing your arms over his shoulders, pulling him down to kiss you. Pink, plump and soft, your boyfriend’s lips, his kiss was your favorite, it’s comforting, home. But you don’t want to feel like you’re home. You kick the sheets off of your lower half, hooking one leg over his hip, splitting his lips with your tongue. “I want you,” you whisper.

He kisses you again, shifting his hips between your legs, one hand trailing down your hip, your thigh, just to hold your knee still. “I have to study,” he reminds you. “I wasn’t kidding. That’s why I got up so early, I need the day, baby.” 

“You can’t spare ten minutes?” you ask, but it comes out more like a whine. Your arms fall from his shoulders, landing on the sheets beneath you. “Skip the shower and fuck me instead. It won’t even take ten, Junie.” 

“I already showered,” he gives you an apologetic look, and then you smell his body wash, bright and citrus like lemon, herby like sage, hints of aloe. He places your headphone in the center of your chest before crawling off you, “I’m sorry.” 

You let out a sharp sigh, legs falling back down to the mattress, spread out like a shriveled fucking starfish. You stare at the ceiling while listening to him rummage around his bedroom, and after a minute or two, you sit up on your elbows, ready to argue. 

“You do understand that we have sex, like, once a week, right?” you ask, bitterness in your tone, clipping every word. 

At his desk, already sitting before his open laptop, he doesn’t even look at you as he responds, “I know, I look forward to it every week.”

Like it’s cheat day and you’re a fucking donut, as if he can only have you on the weekend or something. Anger bubbles up inside you, jaw locking, but instead of fighting for it, you climb off his bed. 

Everything in Yeonjun’s room is pristine. Pictures on his dresser never have a spec of dust, the wood of his furniture always shining, his bed always made. Clothes are never strewn on the floor, always hung up, in his hamper, he doesn’t even keep water on his nightstand. He will get up at two in the morning to fill up a glass for himself, then flip it over when he clears it, and let it dry on the rack in his sink. 

Even your clothes were folded up on the opposite nightstand, even if you know you threw them on the floor last night. Not that you had sex last night, but because you slept naked. He doesn’t even sleep naked. He must have folded them this morning, or maybe when he woke up at two for midnight hydration. 

“Where are you going?” he asks from the desk, brows in his hairline. You refuse to look at his feline features, the dark hair that’s no doubt drying perfectly in place, or even at his desk that has two notebooks, different colors for different purposes, a textbook, and a set of multicolored pens perfectly in a line beside his laptop. 

“Out,” you respond, tugging your jeans up your thighs. “Home, I don’t know. I’m leaving.” 

“Baby,” he tries, and his voice is soft, pleading. “Don’t be mad, are you mad?” 

“No,” you finally turn to him, your lips bent in a sad smile that takes every ounce of strength to force. “I’m not mad, I understand. I just want to give you space so you can study in a distraction-free environment.”

His lips spread in a smile, “Thank you, baby, you’re so thoughtful. C’mere.” He turns in his chair, holding out his arms for you. Standing in jeans and a bra, you cross his room, running your hands through his hair when you land between his knees. “I love you,” he whispers, then leans forward to press a kiss to your stomach. “You’re so good to me, don’t deserve you.” 

It’s you who doesn’t deserve him. Your hands fall to his cheeks, lifting his head to look at you, and you bend down to kiss him. Just one, soft peck, a singular kiss that has no intention of asking for more. You weren’t in the mood to get rejected twice before ten. 

You throw your headphones in your bag after pulling your shirt over your head, and make your way out to the living room, where Beomgyu and Soobin were surprisingly awake, at the kitchen counter eating breakfast. 

“Hey,” you greet, eyes already on the food between them. “Feed me, I’m starved.” In more ways than one. Beomgyu’s always been sexy. 

Beomgyu slides his plate over, “You’re leaving early.” 

Shaggy brown hair shooting in every direction sits atop his head, a short laugh tumbles through your lips at his disheveled appearance. “You’re up early. Too early to brush your hair, I guess.” 

“I have to put it back for class anyway,” Beomgyu shrugs. “I like to let it do what it wants before I put it in ponytail jail.” 

“You should just cut it like the rest of us do,” Soobin says like he’s said it a million times before. 

“I’m allowed to keep it long,” Beomgyu argues, like he’s also said it a million times before. “I just have to keep it neat, which it always is, hence why it looks like this at home.”

Chewing, your eyes bounce back and forth between them. “I seem to have hit a soft spot,” you interject. 

“Just cut it, and I won’t have to slick it back for you anymore,” Soobin’s hands land on the edge of the counter, his height looming over where Beomgyu sat across from him. 

Beomgyu leans back at the display of dominance, but his eyes thin, his shoulders squaring. “I slick it back myself. I asked you to do it one time, Soob.” 

Grabbing a few more pieces of bacon from his plate, you slip away from the counter, leaving them to their own argument that you accidentally instigated. “I’ll be leaving with this. Have fun studying today, boys.”

Soobin turns his head away from Beomgyu, landing on you, already halfway across the room. “Studying?” 

“Junie said you have an exam Friday,” your grip tightens on your bag, head nodding in the direction of Yeonjun’s bedroom. “So study up.” 

Soobin’s brows furrow, lips parting to speak, but Beomgyu cuts him off. “Thanks, girl,” he’s grinning ear to ear, gnawing on a piece of bacon. “Will you be back later?”

You shrug. “If he wants me to. We’ll see.” You wave before slipping through their front door, letting a long breath you didn’t know you were holding loose. 

Your chest hurts. No, maybe it’s your heart that aches, a tiny part of it still beating with underlying fear at the idea of feeling like this forever. It’s not even ten in the morning yet and you’ve felt enough emotion to last you three days. You don’t know why you didn’t listen to Wooyoung, you had yet another opportunity last night to… edge him, or whatever. You had the opportunity to bridge the gap, to fill in the blanks, to make your relationship feel whole again, and you didn’t take it. 

Why not? Unscripted would have edged him until he was a whimpering, blabbering, crying mess. Why is she so different from you? You’re still asking yourself the same question you asked yourself a thousand times while laying in Yeonjun’s bed last night. Starting your walk back into campus again, you curse yourself for promising Wooyoung an update. 

You curse yourself for asking Wooyoung’s advice in the first place. You don’t know what it is about him that’s so intriguing, that makes you feel so ambitious, maybe it’s because Unscripted is basically the girl version of him. Maybe a part of you is jealous, wants his confidence, his shamelessness, maybe part of you wants to be him entirely. You shake off the thoughts, you do not want to be Jung Wooyoung. He’s so careless that he caught an STD— and what about all the women he supposedly got pregnant?

You hate that he’s even on your fucking mind. It was mortifying having him catch you in his bedroom the night of his own goddamn party, and yet you went back to that very bedroom to ask him advice. You have to be losing your mind, or maybe you’re so fucking pent up you’d do just about anything to get your boyfriend to fuck you. 

Coming to the crosswalk that would bridge you over to your complex, you huff, waiting for the hand to turn into a little stick figure. Not anything— you wouldn’t do anything, clearly, because if that was true, you would have gotten fucked the night Wooyoung gave you advice. You would have gotten fucked a thousand times since. 

Instead of crossing over to your complex, you turn to the right, the crosswalk taking you to a strip mall that consists of a coffee shop, a hair salon, a nail salon, and the gym you work at. It was the perfect strip mall for college students, sitting just outside of campus, a quick walk no matter where you are. The coffee shop is bright; floor to ceiling windows, it somehow feels brighter than outside as you walk inside, bells over the glass doors chiming. 

You have class in two hours, and you don’t feel like napping beforehand, so coffee it is. A small shop, a coffee bar and a set of three different tables, all already occupied with students wearing headphones, laptops open in front of them. 

“Virgin!” Your head picks up to the register, and your eyes thin at the person standing behind it. Smiling, dimpled and muscled. 

“Biceps,” you respond, laced with annoyance at the newfound nickname now two people use. “Don’t call me that.” 

“Honestly, I don’t know your name,” he admits from behind the register. He wears an apron over his broad chest, a dark wine color against the black of his shirt, his name is printed on his right pec. San. 

“Good,” your smile is nothing short of sarcastic as you look up at the menu. You hum, lips folding into your mouth before you decide, “Medium vanilla latte, please.” 

“Got it,” he’s still smiling, dimples showing as he types on his screen. Turning to show you the total, he tilts his head as he looks you over, “I would have taken you for a black coffee kind of girl. You’re all hard and mad and serious and shit.” 

Your brows furrow as you tap your phone against the reader. “You very clearly do not know me at all,” you mutter, shaking your head.

His palms find the counter, shoulders meeting his ears as he leans forward, smirk playing on his lips. “You should let me get to know you, then.” 

“What?” It’s a natural reaction. “I— you were there— you know I have a boyfriend, Biceps.”

 “You were about to vomit at the idea of marrying him at the Penny,” he counters, brows high. “I wouldn’t say it’s all sunshine and rainbows in your relationship, would you?”

Your top lip lifts in pure disgust, and you guess it’s the straw that broke the camel’s back because immediately you’re blurting, “What are you proposing, then? Cheating on him? Leaving him, since that’s what everyone else thinks I should fucking do?” 

San doesn’t falter, everyone else means Wooyoung and you both know it. His smirk widens, a twinkle in his dark brown eyes, “No one said anything about cheating, Virgin. What are you thinking about, huh?”

“Are you going to make my fucking coffee or am I going to be stuck here all day waiting for it?” you snap, and not a single word comes out kind. He deserves it, for insinuating cheating on Yeonjun, insinuating that you thought about it first.

San eyes you, then keeps his eye on you as he saunters over to the bar, he only pulls his gaze away when he grabs the top plastic cup off the stack of thirty. You’re fuming, steam rising off your skin, fingertips clasped around your phone so hard you might crack the fucking screen. 

You let it boil down to a simmer before your drink is ready, and San calls your name out, leaving you dumbfounded. You walk up to the pick-up section of the coffee bar with a quirk in your brow, “Thought you didn’t know my name?”

“I lied,” he answers simply, sliding your drink toward you. “We’re throwing tonight, come.”

“You throw a party every other night.” You grab a straw from the container beside you, plucking it into the hole of your lid. “I’m banning myself from your parties. And Wooyoung’s bedroom.”

That gets a laugh out of him. “You know how many women are banned from Wooyoung’s bedroom? I think you might be first to ban yourself,” there’s humor in his voice now, a different kind of humor from the flirty banter he tried earlier. “Come. Leave the boyfriend at home.” 

Your lips tighten, uneasy. Curious, though, you ask, “Why should I leave him at home?” 

Biceps just smiles like a Cheshire fucking cat. “Just leave him at home, Virgin.” 

You can’t believe you’re back here.

You can believe it, because what the fuck else were you going to do, sit at home and sulk over Yeonjun not fucking you? Reread the last text he sent you that said not to come over because he’s still studying?

The text pissed you off, then you went through every stage of grief wondering if you were the problem. Do you not respect him enough as a med student? Are you a shitty girlfriend for not giving him the time he needs to study, so he can succeed in his future? Do you fucking suck because all you can think about is sex?

All signs seemed to point toward yes, and then that pissed you off, too. You’re no better than any of the frat guys inside the tall, two story house in front of you, all of which who will probably fuck the first person they lay eyes on tonight. That’s never been you. Serious boyfriend after serious boyfriend, since you were sixteen years old. Even in the short periods of time when you’ve single you didn’t do the casual sex thing, even though everyone around you seemed ecstatic to participate.

What if Yeonjun finds out you’re here? Will he be angry? Will he even care, or did it not matter because at least you weren’t bothering him?

The last question seemed to answer itself, so you stare at the devil’s mouth from the lawn in an outfit you put too much effort into, the beige door bleeding bass and techno music, reminding you that Biceps is inside, and he actually wants you here. You scratch at your arm that isn’t itchy, shifting your weight from foot to foot, watching as everyone else your age barrels through the front door like they owned the place.

Your feet want to move, but the thought of facing the horde of people inside alone, without a soul at your side, was starting to feel more mortifying than being caught trying to fuck your boyfriend–and failing–in someone else’s bedroom. You could have texted any of your friends to join you, but you didn’t want them to ask any questions, so you didn’t. You didn’t even tell your roommate you were going out, but Yunjin isn’t stupid. She took one look at your outfit and popped a brow, then asked if there was a change in the status of your relationship. You ignored the part of you that wanted to say yes, and told her it was for Yeonjun. 

For Yeonjun. 

Your feet start moving.

Last week, it was packed like sardines, there wasn’t room to do anything between sweaty bodies, and if you could move, you were slipping on the floor beneath you, the dark hardwood covered in a layer of beer, vodka and grime. This week, it was just as packed, the floor was just as slippery, but everyone seemed to be… tied up. 

Is this some kind of sick joke? Did San ask you to come here, tonight, on purpose?

Every person inside the house was a couple, and each couple you saw had a black zip-tie holding their wrists together. Some were holding hands, others didn’t look too happy about who they were tied to, you even spotted a girl making out with someone else, while zip-tied to another who did his best to look the other way. Witnessing that made you smile, just a little, because the lead in your stomach gets heavier when you realize that if you don’t leave right fucking now, you’re going to get zip-tied to someone, too.

“Virgin!”

You haven’t even made it past the fucking living room. You don’t look up, because maybe there’s an actual virgin here, and Biceps wasn’t calling for you from the edge of the kitchen. A second of reprieve goes by before he’s calling out your name, so you curse under your breath, and follow the direction of his voice.

Shirtless. So shirtless. So… lacking clothes, but only clothes, clothes is the only department Biceps is lacking in. Maybe you should just call him Body instead of Biceps, because every single inch of his upper half is sculpted, golden, gleaming with sweat. He doesn’t deserve a body so perfect. He calls you Virgin.

“Like what you see?” He wiggles his brows, a smirk already playing on his swollen, cherry-red lips. “One night without the boyfriend and she’s ready to risk it all.”

The girl he’s zip-tied to smacks her teeth. You didn’t even notice he was tied to anyone. She leans into his side, a pout on her lips, whining, “Sannie, when can we go upstairs? I’m bored.”

“Yeah, Sannie,” you can’t help but tease. “Take the girl upstairs, I’m leaving before anyone else sees me here.”

“Why? What? Don’t go,” San takes a step forward, dragging the girl with him. He transfers his beer to his tied hand before clamping his free one on your forearm, “You didn’t even get tied to anyone yet.”

You shake his hand off your forearm, “I don’t want to be tied to anyone.”

He grabs onto your forearm again with a straight face and turns on his heel. Skipping over your own feet, alarm bells pound in your chest, “San! I don’t want to be tied to anyone, I don’t even want to be here! Let me go.”

“No,” San answers, and for a second you think there might be more. An explanation, at least. He pulls you toward the kitchen, your shoulder bumping the blonde beside you, the girl whose wrist is tied to his. You shoot her an apologetic look, but she doesn’t seem to forgive you for the intrusion. 

“Here,” San announces as he comes to a stop, setting your forearm free when he places you across from an unnervingly tall guy with beige, blonde hair. “Virgin, this is Yunho, he brought beer. Where did the zip-ties go?”

Your lips go flat, an embarrassed flush kissing your cheeks. San is already off searching, leaving you alone with this… guy. Tall guy. Cute tall guy. 

“Do you like Miller?” Yunho asks, holding up the twelve pack in his other hand. He has a comforting look about him, hair softly unstyled, other than the nineties-style headband pushing his bangs back. His body language is nowhere near as uptight as your rigid spine, bent and relaxed, like the house was his. The tee hanging from his shoulders is loose, but leaves a sliver of skin between the hem and his jeans, sneakers on his feet dirtied and scuffed. 

“Um,” you blink, and then keep blinking, trying your hardest not to look at the pocket of skin between his shirt and jeans. You don’t know what to say. “No, but I shouldn’t be here, anyway. I should go–”

“I need a partner,” he offers. “We just have to finish the twelve-pack by midnight. And it’s,” he looks down at the invisible watch on his wrist, “probably really close to midnight. I already drank three, you drink five and I’ll drink four.”

San returns with a black zip-tie in hand, singing, “Wrists, ladies.”

The girl’s wrist is limp, her arm following San’s like she’s a puppet and he’s the puppeteer. You frown, “Biceps, I really don’t want to do this.” 

“You’re gonna leave Yunho hanging?” San’s body suddenly straightens out, brows tied together in a pout. “He needs your help, Virgin, he has nine beers to finish on his own.” 

When you look at Yunho, he’s nodding his agreement, looking at you like it would be the end of the world if you said no. You know you’re not going to get away with saying no, so you loose a defeated sigh, look away, and hold up your wrist for San to tie.

Yunho’s skin is soft against yours. His wrist is smaller than it seems, his arm smooth like he’s completely hairless. San ties the zip-tie just tight enough for you to be able to wiggle your wrist, like a bracelet that’s big enough to fit two wrists. 

“The second issue is that I don’t drink beer,” you muse after San drops your wrists, yours hanging, Yunho’s arm bent ever so slightly. Damn he’s tall. “I’m a dirty martini kind of girl.”

Yunho laughs under his breath, “Are you thirty years old? Where the fuck are you going, drinking dirty martinis? Is that what you were drinking at the Penny?”

“You were at Lucky Penny that night?” you ask before the memory resurfaces. He was at the Penny, sitting to your left, he was the one who asked Wooyoung what he did to you. As if you’d ever sleep with– where is he, anyway?

“Watched your skin get some color back into it as soon as you were away from the guy who’s trying to tradwife you,” Yunho responds, a glimmer in his chocolate brown eyes, a sly smirk on his lips. Your cheeks burn. “Clearly, that’s going well, since you’re here.”

“I’m only here because San told me to come.”

Yunho laughs to himself, “That’s what they all say.”

“Shut up and hand me a beer,” you gruff, holding your free palm out. Wordlessly, he reaches into the box of cans, using both of his hands and yours to crack open the beer. 

He hands it to you with a proud grin, “Only five more!”

“You said–” you stammer, “you said I only had to drink five!”

“I pre-gamed,” he shrugs without a glimpse of remorse. “The only way to get us untied is to finish all of them, so drink up, buttercup.”

At least it’s cold, you think as you bring the carbonated yeast up to your lips. It’s a mild beer, compared to something heavier with more taste, like a Guinness or a Yuengling. Those you certainly can’t get down, especially six of them, even if you were being forced to, like you were tonight. 

Force is still up for debate. You could have put your foot down, and the sentiment sits with you as Yunho takes you for a lap around the frat. The last time you were here, you barely had the patience to look around, your agenda was to get Yeonjun inside the house, and then inside a random bedroom. You didn’t miss much, as it seems, an old paint job on the flag-covered walls, a clearly thrifted, hand-me-down couch in the living room, the speaker system might be the only expensive thing in the house.

“So, tell me,” Yunho finally says after showing you the dirty bathroom that was already out of toilet paper. He cracks open your second beer for you before asking, “Where is your husband tonight?”

“At home,” you admit, “he has to study. He’s pre-med.” It’s easier to get the drink down now, easy enough that you suck down a gulp of it. “All he does is study.”

Yunho sucks in a breath through his teeth, and you know what it means. He explains anyway, “School is his whole life now, then work will be his whole life when he’s in a hospital. If he goes that route.”

“Tell me about it,” you find yourself agreeing. “I can’t even get him to fuck me half the time.” You gasp after it leaves your lips, covering your mouth with your can instead of your palm. Wide-eyed, you look up at Yunho, “Don’t repeat that.”

Yunho laughs, “I don’t have anyone to repeat it to. Can I ask you a question that you don’t have to answer?” Your nod is delayed. “Why are you dating him? If there’s no sex, and the future freaks you out?”

“There’s sex,” you correct him, kicking a crushed beer can out of your way. “Just not as much of it as I want. And it’s not the future that freaks me out, it’s the speed of it all, the way he’s expediting our future, that freaks me out. He wants me to graduate and pop out a baby.”

Yunho’s body shivers. He shivers. For you. “That’s too soon.”

“Thank you,” you nod along, taking another long sip of your beer. “I know it’s too soon, and I’m scared to bring it up again. Wooyoung said he probably already has a ring.”

Yunho’s brows furrow, “You told Wooyoung?”

Your lips flatten, “It was a series of unfortunate events that led me to telling Wooyoung. Is he here, by the way?”

You finally get back to the kitchen, the lights bright, a layer of smoke in the air, dimming them ever so slightly. “He’s here,” Yunho looks over the crowd, and you’re sure at his height, he could see everything. “He’s not big on themed parties. Knowing him, he’s probably already upstairs.”

“I would have thought being tied to a woman would be right up his alley.”

Yunho leans in close to say, “How’s he supposed to fuck her if his wrist is tied to hers?” When you turn to him, clearly taken aback by the notion, he laughs. “I think he’d much rather have her wrists tied together, if you know what I mean.”

You do know what he means, and god, it’s gotta be the beer that’s making your body heat like a fucking furnace. You wish Yeonjun would do something half as kinky as that. That’s a good idea for Unscripted. You laugh anyway, and even if it’s forced, it sounds breathy and natural. 

Yunho’s cool, probably the only normal one in the entire frat, if the other brothers are anything like Wooyoung or San. It’s nice, comfortable talking to him, he’s someone you aren’t scared to confide in, it’s easy to trust him, with his smooth words, playful demeanor, he seems like he’d be someone that everyone tells their secrets to because everyone knows he won’t share them. That’s your favorite kind of person.

“Have you ever shotgunned a beer before?”

Your neck snaps. “Do I look like a teenage boy?”

Yunho grins, ushering to the crowd around you, the people who seemed to have quieted. You think you just got engrossed in the conversation with Yunho. But as you take notice, there’s more and more people untied, drinking, moving freely.

“Oh shit, we’re late, aren’t we?” you ask, then turn to look up at him. 

“We can shotgun the rest back to back,” Yunho offers, nodding like you’ll agree. You’re sure he wants to be free of you, to go find someone to warm his own bed tonight.

“I’ve never done it,” you admit. “But I can definitely try.”

Yunho grins from ear to ear, “That’s what I like to hear. Let’s go on the back porch.”

It’s a quick walk through the kitchen, the crowd seemed to part for Yunho, he’s so tall that maybe the mass of people really are his red sea. The back door is already open, the wooden half pressed against what you can only assume is the pantry door, he pushes open the screen door and sets the box of beers down on a full, messy, glass table.

Ash trays filled with squished cigarette butts, the filters of joints, even a few airplane bottles of liquor have made their way into the glass trays. There’s less people on the porch, smokers, a few couples looking for a quieter place to talk. Deep wood, old and stained by sun, cracks in the floorboards, you have to assume their house is old. Really old.

Yunho doesn’t seem bothered by it as he sets the box of beers down, then pulls out two. “I’m gonna poke a hole at the bottom,” he holds up a beer can, your wrist limply mimicking his as he explains. “You’re gonna crack the can and chug it down as fast as you can. Okay?” 

You nod, too optimistic for the objective at hand, “Okay, I can do that, that’s easy. This is easy, right?”

“So easy,” he nods, clearly just as optimistic as you. You feel like he’s your coach right now, guiding you through gameplay or something. “Crack it, chug it, crush it.”

“Crack it, chug it, crush it,” you repeat under your breath as he grabs a set of keys from his back pocket. One silver and pointy, he uses it to poke a hole at the base of the beer can, then pushes it toward you. 

You suck in a breath before taking the can from his hands, and holding the hole up to your mouth. Yunho’s hand follows yours as you crack the lid, and then you start chugging. The carbonation makes it hard, heavy in your stomach, it’s still cold enough that it kinda hurts going down. Your brows furrow, but you keep going, you can hear him cheering for you or something, too focused on actually getting the bubbles down to listen. 

When you finish, you throw the can to the ground, and crush it with your foot. Yunho’s already clapping his (and your) hands, “You did it! You fucking did it!”

“Fuck, I have to do that three more times?” you ask, free hand flying to your stomach.

“You’re gonna burp,” Yunho’s lips tighten to the side in apology. “No judgment, I will too. But yeah, three more.”

You chug another, then Yunho shotguns his last two while you’re releasing all the fucking air in your gut, then you can finish chugging your last two. When the box is empty, he’s immediately racing you both into the kitchen, looking for whoever has the responsibility of carrying around scissors tonight.

You already know you’re fucking drunk. 

Wooyoung thinks he might have become one of God’s favorites.

Threesomes were usually hard to come by, a few and far between godsent activity. To have two threesomes in the timespan of one week, with two different sets of women, was unheard of. Insane behavior. Even for him.

He thought himself clever, zip-tying his wrist to another woman’s, then zip-tying his other wrist to another woman’s. He spent all of thirty minutes letting them get to know each other while they took turns feeding him liquor until he was suggesting they go upstairs, instead. 

He had a beautiful hour, a generous, orgasmic, sweat-filled hour of fucking until there were knocks at his door. Quick, hurried knocks, as if there were a fire outside and he needed to get the fuck out. Wooyoung quickly decided he would die there, with a redhead riding his face, and a pixie-cut bombshell between his legs, sucking the skin straight off his dick. The two women didn’t seem to share the sentiment, both of them stopping, going rigid as the door that was still being fucking knocked on.

“They’ll go away,” Wooyoung keeps his voice low, but assuring. His hands slide up the backs of the redhead’s thighs, squeezing her ass, he lands one encouraging smack before she lowers herself down again.

Bliss, pure fucking bliss. His eyes flutter closed, fingers sinking into her ass, moving her until she’s grinding against his tongue. He moans, but he’s not sure what he’s moaning at, the taste of the woman on his face or the woman who just took his cock down her throat until he reached the hilt.

“Hello?” is all he hears before there’s a pitched shriek sounding through the entire second floor of his home. “Oh my god!” He knows that voice. “Fuck, I can’t even get one and you get two? This is so unfair!”

Wooyoung genuinely can’t believe this is happening. The redhead jumps off his face, landing beside him, doing her best to cover herself up with his sheets. The girl between his legs pops her lips off his cock with a verbal noise, then turns her head toward the intruder.

You. Drunk, in his fucking bedroom. Wooyoung immediately barks out, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’m sorry!” you squeal, palms already over your eyes, backing yourself up into his wall. When you bump into it, one of your hands flies to catch yourself, and you shimmy to the side, clearly searching for your escape. 

Wooyoung sits up on his elbows, unphased, watching you. “To your right a little more.” You bump into his dresser. He snorts, “Oh shit, my bad. Your left, my right.”

You laugh a little, a tiny giggle that lets Wooyoung know how much you drank tonight. You turn around to face away from him in the doorway, complaining, “I have to pee, all the other bathrooms are out of toilet paper.”

“What are you even doing here?” he asks, and the girl between his legs smacks his thigh. He hisses, looking at her, and her face has fallen flat, as if to say get her the fuck out of here.

“Biceps invited me,” you respond, hands on your hips now, tone light like Wooyoung didn’t have two girls naked in his room right now. “Can I pee in your bathroom? I won’t look, you can continue.”

Wooyoung’s head tilts to the side. He notices your little skirt, short enough that it shows off the muscle in your legs, the tiny heels on your feet. The top you’re wearing doesn’t quite reach your skirt, your hair flowing across the dark fabric, a little messy and unkempt at the ends. If you weren’t drunk and your life wasn’t such a mess he might have asked you to join them.

“Are you checking her out?” the redhead accuses from behind him in a whisper-yell. 

Wooyoung’s head snaps, “No, what are you talking about?” His voice is too high. He’s a better liar than that. The redhead smacks her lips together, clearly offended, then rolls off his bed. 

Wooyoung, disappointed, tries to save face. “No, don’t go, you were close. She’s leaving.” He turns his head toward you, who’s stealing a glance over your shoulder. “You’re leaving.”

“But I have to pee,” you whine. Whine. You even tap your little fucking kitten heel against his floor. 

Wooyoung’s back hits his mattress, both of his hands roughly rubbing at his face, pushing a muddled groan through his lips. “This can’t be happening to me right now.”

“I’m sorry!” you repeat, then scurry across his bedroom like a fucking rat in the subway. “I’ll be quick!” you yell, closing his bathroom door behind you. 

The girl between his legs sits back on her calves and whispers, “Who the fuck is that?”

Wooyoung can’t believe she’s still here, he certainly would have left if he was her. He doesn’t even have an explanation. “She’s someone who needs serious fucking help.”

“And you’re helping her?” The girl asks, as if Wooyoung being the one to help was inconceivable. 

Wooyoung sits on his elbows again, and frowns at his cock that’s already falling limp. He glances upward at the girl with just his eyes, “I guess.”

“Shame,” the girl says, crawling off the bed. Wooyoung doesn’t even have it in him to argue when she starts pulling her clothes on. “I could have gone all night.”

“You and me both,” he mumbles, watching her leave. At least she closes the door behind her.

When you finally come out of his bathroom, you’re still pulling your shirt down. Or fixing it, Wooyoung thinks, because you lean your back into the doorframe of his bathroom, using it as leverage as you slide your top over, centering it over your torso. 

“Need help?” Wooyoung asks, and it’s genuine. You’re the last person he expected to see tonight, and to see you this drunk, stumbling across his bedroom? In no way could this be a good sign.

“No,” you mumble, chin tucked into your chest, still trying to slide your top over. Wooyoung watches you struggle with a flat, unimpressed face, the poster board for patience as your body slowly but surely starts sliding off the doorframe. At least you catch yourself with a, “Woah.”

When you finally get your top fixed, you look up at him, and there’s not a thought behind your eyes until you notice he’s still laying there butt-ass naked. “Wooyoung!” you screech, then turn around again, covering your eyes. “You had time to put some fucking clothes on.”

Good to know your personality is still intact. “It’s my bedroom,” his tone is dripping in nonchalance as he stretches on his sheets, sighing in delight. “You’re the one intruding.”

“I had to!” you shout, “there’s no toilet paper, I had no choice.”

Wooyoung decides to show you mercy by pulling the sheets over his lower half. “I’m covered, Virgin Mary,” he muses, sitting up until his back is pressed against the headboard. “You never updated me.”

“Oh!” you say as you turn around, all your features blown out, your voice high. “It went well, super well. It was a good idea, thank you–”

“You didn’t do it,” Wooyoung cuts you off.

Your face goes flat, “I didn’t do it.”

He smacks his teeth, “Why not, pussy? I gave you the step-by-step.”

You whine, walking around his bed, sitting at the foot like you did just a few days ago. “It’s hard,” your head tips back, “I don’t know how you do it, how you do all of this.”

“It’s just sex,” Wooyoung argues. “It’s not that hard.”

“You have enough sex for, like, fifty people,” you bite back. “Of course it’s not hard for you.”

“You’ve been dating him forever!” Wooyoung is amused now, because what the fuck is the point of a relationship if you aren’t trying new shit all the time? “You’re telling me you aren’t comfortable enough to suck his dick?”

Wooyoung can see the flush on your cheeks as you shyly mumble, “I am.”

“Why are you here, anyway? Other than San inviting you, there has to be another reason you’re here and not picking out wedding invitations or whatever the fuck.”

You whine again, a frustrated, dragged out annoying sound. “He told me not to come over because he’s studying.” Wooyoung thins his eyes. “I’m serious!” You sound defensive. “I even tried to have sex with him this morning and he rejected me. He has an exam on Friday.”

Wooyoung shakes his head, disappointed. “You’re gonna fuck the silicon off your dildo if you don’t get him inside you soon.”

You gasp, jaw on the floor as you whip your head around to look at him. “I don’t even own a dildo!”

“You need one,” Wooyoung quips. “Do you at least masturbate with your hand?”

“We should not be having this conversation,” you hiss. Quieter, almost under your breath, you answer, “Yes.”

“You should do that in front of him and see what happens,” Wooyoung is grinning now. “That shit is so sexy, if he doesn’t fuck you after that, then he plays for the other team.”

“Can’t he just be, like, not a super sexual guy?” you ask, shrugging. “Why is the immediate thought that he’s gay?”

“Because, objectively, you’re hot,” Wooyoung says, and judging by how your face contorts, he assumes that was the wrong thing to say. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. Anyone who’s into women would jump at the chance to fuck you.”

Your brows raise. “Like San?”

Wooyoung’s brows furrow. “San? I mean, yeah, probably.”

“What about Yunho?” you try, head tilting. Curious. 

“Virgin,” Wooyoung warns. “You’re drunk. Go home and go to bed.”

You smack your teeth, standing up from his bed to plant your hands on your hips. “Who are you, my father?”

“No, I’m a guy who wants his bed to not be empty anymore.” His arms fly outward, emphasizing his very empty queen-size bed. “You emptied it.”

“I had to pee!” you whine again, kitten heel tapping his floor again.

Wooyoung points to his bedroom door, “Go.”

“Fine,” you stomp all the way to his door. Opening it, you turn your head, “For the record–”

“Go, Virgin.”

masterlist 🍬

[queenofsa1gon]

private lessons | 𝙆.𝙃𝙅

₊˚⊹ CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

ao3. masterlist. chapter twenty-two. chapter twenty-four (coming soon).

pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x reader & tutor!hongjoong x reader x roommate!seonghwa)

genre: college au, slow burn, romance, fluff, angst, smut

summary: struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons.

warnings: MDNI. 18+. cussing, explicit sexual content, heavy dom/sub dynamics, harddom!hongjoong, meandom!wooyoung, switch!seonghwa, sub!reader, threesome, degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, nipple play, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, praise kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, overstimulation, dual stimulation, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, jealous/possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!

word count: 8.6k

note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. enjoy...

"Come on, just one drink," Yunho pleads. He's looming over your spot on the couch, offering you a sweating can of cheap beer as he sways on his feet. "It's Saturday night, ____. And I promise, it won't even be crowded. Mingi said the house only gets crazy on Fridays."

You scoot further back into the cushions, leaning away from his arm. Raising your glass of plain tap water, you shake your head. "You all know I don't do frats. Or beer, for that matter." You take a sip, pointedly raising an eyebrow. "Not gonna happen."

Your living room—usually at least somewhat presentable, despite sharing it with a gymrat like San—has been trashed tonight. The coffee table is buried under cardboard pizza boxes full of greasy pepperoni and sausage slices, and the whole room is doused in the stale tang of the lukewarm beer Yunho picked up from a friend's dorm on his way over. Your three best friends had originally told you they were pregaming at Yunho and Yeosang's place, fully aware you'd opt out to study but extending the courtesy invite anyway. Apparently, those plans had changed without anyone bothering to inform you, because the trio is now sprawled out around your couch, getting progressively tipsier by the second. 

Taking advantage of the short moment of distraction while Yunho doubles over laughing at something Yeosang yells from across the room, you quickly slide your phone out. You shoot off a lightning-fast text and bury it beneath your thigh before anyone notices. 

"It won't be that bad this time, I swear," San grins from his spot on the floor, where he's resting his back against the couch. While everyone is dressed to go out, San clearly spent a little extra time in front of the mirror, as per usual—he's wearing a fitted black tank top paired with matching jeans. His only apparent defense for the freezing temperature outside is an expensive leather jacket with a borderline ridiculous number of decorative zippers. Reaching up, he tosses a half-eaten pizza crust back into the open box beside you. "Tell her, Yeosang," he urges, jerking his chin toward you. "Didn't you say it sounded fun?"

You blink, your gaze shifting over the man quietly nursing his beer on the opposite end of the couch. "San, I really don't believe Yeosang would ever say that."

But Yeosang sighs, a defeated smile playing on his lips. "Look, Mingi swore tonight's going to be relaxed. The semester's almost over, so..." He shrugs. "I figured it wouldn't kill me to show face for a little while. But the second it gets crowded," he warns, shooting a pointed look down at San, "I have no shame in being the first to leave."

You snort, grabbing another slice out of the box by your side and handing it up to Yunho before he starts pacing around the coffee table again. "I hope that's true. Because I have a feeling Mingi is a liar."

"Hey! Don't call my boyfriend a liar!" Yunho laughs, throwing his head back as he tilts his can to drain the last stubborn drops. The moment he sets the empty aluminum down on the table, though, he freezes. You watch as a tipsy epiphany flashes across his face, your stomach sinking as he then points a finger right at your nose and snaps repeatedly, his buzzed brain scrambling to catch up with his mouth. "Wait—where's Hongjoong? He should be here!"

You choke on your water, sputtering a cough and wiping your chin with the back of your hand as Yunho whips around to face San and Yeosang with ecstatic eyes.

"I forgot to tell you guys!" he blurts. "She said yes! She's letting us hang out with him!"

Yeosang's eyes widen over the rim of his can. San's head snaps toward you so quickly you're surprised he doesn't accidentally give himself whiplash.

"No way, really?" he shouts, his zippers clinking as he nearly drops his drink onto the carpet. 

"Yeah!" Yunho beams, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "I met him on Thursday morning, and he—"

"What? You met him before me?" San interrupts, looking betrayed. He scrambles to his feet, almost tripping over Yunho's discarded shoes, and jabs a finger at you. "____, what the hell?" he demands. "We live together! We share a bathroom! Why the fuck did Yunho get to meet him before I did?"

"Calm down, it wasn't like I planned it!" you shoot back, already feeling your cheeks burning. "Yunho trapped me! He cornered us on our way to lunch."

"Doesn't matter," San pouts, crossing his thick arms over his chest. "I'm your roommate. And the one who called it from day one. I knew this whole thing was gonna happen since Yunho's birthday."

"We all called it, San. You're not a psychic," Yeosang cuts in. He leans forward, setting his beer down on the cluttered table. "But seriously, ____. If you're finally ready for it, why isn't he here tonight? We're already pregaming. You should've invited him over."

"Because look at you guys!" you counter, throwing your hands up at the state of your living room. "Yunho can't even stand still for two seconds without drifting sideways. And we—we have work to do. We need to study. I'm, um..." You clear your throat. "I'm going over to his place. In a little bit."

Yunho's eyes narrow. "Studying?" he repeats. "Again? Didn't you study all night on Thursday, too?"

"Yeah," San nods, tossing the pizza box to the floor so he can plop down onto the couch beside you, wedging himself in. "I didn't hear the door unlock until almost three in the morning."

At that, you feel the tips of your ears burn. "Well... there's a lot I need to catch up on before the final!"

"Uh-huh."

You roll your eyes at Yunho.

"Maybe you don't have to study, but I do! There's an insane amount of grammar to review," you stammer. "And there were a few... specific chapters we didn't get to finish."

The second the excuse leaves your mouth, you regret it. The three boys fall silent. Slowly, a grin spreads across Yunho's face. Yeosang bites his lip like he's trying his hardest to suppress a smirk. It only takes San a second before he snorts.

"Well," he grins, "maybe the chapters didn't get finished, but I have a pretty good idea of who did—"

"San!" you shriek, lunging for a crumpled napkin abandoned on the couch and whacking him across the forehead with it. He ducks with a bark of laughter, throwing an arm up to shield himself. "This is why I'm scared of him meeting you!"

He only laughs harder, catching the napkin and teasingly waving it in front of your face while you try to swipe his hand away. "Weren't you two studying in the library?" he asks innocently. "Do flashcards make you guys horny or something?"

"No!" you shout far too quickly, cringing as you finally rip the napkin from his grasp and throw it to the floor. 

"Okay, okay," Yeosang chuckles as you both settle down. "Listen, ____. Tomorrow night, we're staying in. Bring him over to our place."

"But tomorrow is Sunday," you argue. "We all have early classes on Monday morning."

"Exactly!" Yunho says, nodding his head so vigorously that a few drops of his freshly opened beer slosh over the rim and splash onto the floor. "Which means none of us will be tempted to drink, and we won't do anything stupid! I promise I'll be on my best behavior. And you already know Yeosang will be, too."

You let out a reluctant sigh, your gaze sliding over to the third man in question, the wild card sitting right next to you. He's grinning mischievously, chewing on a rogue piece of pepperoni he plucked off a slice.

"I'll be an angel, I swear," he promises, pressing a hand on the center of his chest, right over his heart. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

You shove his shoulder, huffing. "Why do you always get so corny when you drink?"

"Is that a yes?" Yunho bounces in place, his eyes practically sparkling. "Tomorrow night?"

You glance between the three of them, weighing it. As tempting as it may seem, you know you can't keep Hongjoong hidden forever. And despite all their teasing, deep down, you know they'll love him—and he'd probably know how to handle them better than you could, anyway. Letting out one last sigh, you run a defeated hand through your hair.

"I'll... I'll ask him if he's free."

"And if he is?" San presses.

You roll your eyes, though now, it's paired with the faintest hint of a smile you'd rather die than let them fully see.

"Then... fine," you say at last. "Sure. Whatever. He'll be there."

The room erupts. Yunho and San jump up, shouting in victory as they clink their cans together in a toast, sloshing more beer to the floor. From the other side of the couch, Yeosang chuckles, raising his own can toward you. 

You stay seated, watching the tipsy trio with a resigned shake of your head. 

As always, their departure is anything but quick. It takes another ten minutes of mirror-checking, shoe-tying, and last-minute cologne-spraying before the three of them finally bundle up and head toward the front door. They tumble out into the hallway amidst loud, overlapping goodbyes, leaving the dorm deafeningly silent as the door shuts behind them.

The moment they're gone, you immediately scramble to fish out your phone from beneath your thigh. Your fingers fly across the screen as you pull up your texts with Hongjoong. 

You: Okay, they finally left. You can come up now.

You shove your phone in your pocket and immediately set to work cleaning up the mess your friends left behind. Within seconds, your arms are full of pizza boxes stuffed with abandoned crusts and a tower of empty beer cans. You're carrying the pile toward the kitchen, dumping everything into the trash when—not even thirty seconds later—a quiet knock rattles the front door.

Quickly shoving the last of the garbage into the bin, you pad across the hardwood in your socks and open the door. 

Hongjoong is waiting in the hallway, greeting you with a soft, slightly nervous smile. He looks ridiculously cute, bundled up in a hoodie and gray sweatpants layered under a comically large winter coat. A dusting of white snow clings to his dark hair, and you notice his knuckles, gripping the strap of the backpack slung over his shoulder, have turned a frostbitten shade of red from the walk over.

You look him up and down and have to clap a hand over your mouth to smother your laugh. "Oh—It's already snowing out there?"

He nods quickly, his shoulders shivering. "It—It doesn't get this cold in Korea," he mutters through chattering teeth.

Laughing softly, you step back and swing the door wide to let him inside. The second he catches sight of the living room, he makes a beeline for the couch, dropping his backpack onto the carpet beside the coffee table. He starts rubbing his hands together, blowing warm air into his cupped palms to thaw them out. Watching him with a smile, you cross the room to reach for the collar of his damp coat and help him shrug out of it. After sliding it off his shoulders, you carry it to the kitchen and drape it over the back of one of the barstools to dry.

Shoving his hands deep into his hoodie pockets, Hongjoong follows after you as you head into the kitchen area, his eyes curiously scanning your dorm for the very first time. 

"I like it here," he decides after a minute.

You scoff. "You don't have to lie, Joong."

"I'm not lying."

You shoot him a skeptical look over your shoulder as you pull open the pantry door, scanning the shelves for hot chocolate mix. "I know it's not as nice or modern as your big, fancy international dorm," you tease, "but it's cozy."

You shove aside a box of granola bars and locate two unopened packets tucked in the back. Grinning, you bump the pantry door shut with your hip and reach up to grab a small saucepan from the upper cabinet.

"Seriously, I mean it." He leans against the island with his hands still buried in his pockets, his gaze following you as you pull a carton of milk from the fridge—though you can't help but wrinkle your nose at the smell of leftover takeout San has probably left rotting in the back corner for at least three days. "See?" He chuckles at your reaction. "It's charming. But... where do you keep all your records?"

"I told you, I don't even have half as many as you do. You're gonna be disappointed." You pour the milk into the saucepan and turn the burner on. "Besides," you add, reaching into the cabinet for the bag of marshmallows, "they're in my room. Which you are not seeing today."

A little smirk spreads across his face. "Why not?"

"Because my tutor decided to keep 'rewarding' me instead of actually teaching me anything last time I tried to study," you say, emphasizing the word with air quotes. "So tonight, I need to take things seriously. And the couch is already bad enough. Studying on my bed would be the point of no return."

His eyes dance with amusement. "Don't blame me for that. It's not my fault you were being such a good—"

Ripping open the plastic bag, you pluck a marshmallow out and hurl it right at his head, hitting him squarely on the left lens of his glasses.

"No more talking about it!" you scold, though you can feel your own cheeks heating up. "I'm not failing my final, okay? We need to focus. Seriously."

Hongjoong just smiles, reaching to pick the marshmallow off the countertop and popping it into his mouth. "Okay," he hums, chewing happily. "Then we'll focus. Seriously."

You give him one last warning glare as you tear open the hot chocolate packets, emptying the powder into two ceramic mugs.

"How did you get up here so fast after I texted you, by the way?" you ask, keeping a watchful eye on the saucepan to make sure the milk doesn't scald. "They didn't see you, did they?"

"They didn't," he chuckles. "I was waiting outside the main entrance. When they left, I managed to catch the door before it locked behind them so you wouldn't have to come all the way down to buzz me in. Honestly, I think they were a little too tipsy to even register a stranger walking in."

You giggle, clicking the burner off and pouring the milk into the mugs. "They probably just thought you were any other student. San and Yeosang have no idea what you look like yet anyway."

Dropping a generous handful of marshmallows into each mug, you pick them up by the handles and walk over to him, holding one out. "Be careful, it's hot."

He takes it from you with a soft, grateful smile. His free hand naturally finds its way to your lower back, guiding you out of the kitchen and over to the couch where he'd dropped his backpack.

"I would like to meet them, though," he reminds you gently as the two of you settle down side-by-side, both blowing on the steaming hot chocolate.

"I know," you sigh, staring into the swirling marshmallows in your mug. "Actually... they brought it up before they left."

Hongjoong raises his eyebrows, silently prompting you to continue. 

"Um... if you're free tomorrow night... they wanted to know if you'd want to come over to Yunho's dorm. We could just order some food and hang out. No drinking or anything crazy, just..."

"That's perfect," he interrupts softly.

"Are you sure? We can always push it to next weekend if you're busy. I really don't want to mess up your schedule." You remember him mentioning last week that his Sunday nights are usually reserved for preparing his demos for the upcoming week.

He smiles, sets his mug down on the coffee table, and turns to look at you fully. "I'm sure, ____. I'm always free for you."

You nearly inhale your hot chocolate, sputtering a cough as a laugh bubbles out of your chest. "Oh my god, why is everyone being so corny tonight? I expect it from San, but from you?"

Hongjoong laughs loudly at your reaction, though the tips of his ears immediately turn red. "I have to practice flirting in English! I can do it in Korean. I learned from all the movies and dramas I watched growing up. But English is still hard for me."

You can't help but smile. It's undeniably dorky, but seeing how hard he's trying to be a good boyfriend completely melts your heart. Leaning in, you press a soft kiss to his cheek, which only succeeds in turning his face an even deeper shade of pink.

To make him feel less embarrassed, you lean back and fix him with a playfully serious look. "Well, Mr. Kim... if you're always free for me, I guess I'll just have to keep your schedule fully booked for the rest of the semester."

He lets out a flustered huff of a laugh, reaching up to nervously adjust his glasses. "I told you that you're not allowed to call me that, didn't I?" he asks, attempting to summon an authoritative tone, though he looks way too flustered for it to land.

"Why not?" you ask, blinking innocently.

Hongjoong's gaze drops to your mouth, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Because," he says, "I thought you said you wanted to focus tonight."

A nervous little giggle escapes you, your own face suddenly burning. You tear your eyes away from his lips, clearing your throat. "Right. You're right. I did," you manage, setting your mug down next to his. "Okay. Let's get to work. We still have two more sections to cover, don't we?"

Hongjoong nods, smiling fondly at you as he reaches down to unzip his backpack.

For the next half hour, true to your word, the two of you actually manage to stay on task. You fly through the remaining sections of the textbook with surprising speed, but despite your best efforts, neither of you can seem to fully shake the cheesy, flirty tension humming between you on the couch.

Every time you successfully conjugate a notoriously difficult verb, Hongjoong insists on leaning over to press a kiss to your cheek, murmuring that it's a "preview of your actual reward" and making your skin flare. And every time he gets a little too cocky, you sneak a "Mr. Kim" into your next question and watch him get just as flustered as you are. A few times, you catch his eyes dropping to watch the movement of your lips instead of actually listening to the vocabulary you're reciting. Whenever he realizes he was caught, his mouth curves into a shy, guilty smile before he clears his throat and tells you to start the sentence over. 

As you work together, you find yourself unsure how much grammar is actually sticking in your brain versus how many times you come dangerously close to throwing the textbooks to the floor and pulling your tutor down on top of you for a kiss.

Suddenly, a loud knock rattles the front door.

Both of you freeze. Hongjoong's pen halts mid-stroke over the lined paper of his notebook, and your fingers lock around the corner of the textbook page you were just about to turn. You stare at each other, wide-eyed and unmoving in the silence of the dorm. 

Are they already back? Did someone forget their wallet? Lose their ID? It hasn't even been an hour since they left. 

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The second round is louder, more impatient. 

You scramble to your feet, your stomach giving a sudden lurch. Hongjoong slowly unfreezes, setting his pen down onto the coffee table. He looks up at you from his spot on the cushions with a smile that is trying very hard to be reassuring but failing miserably.

"Well," he whispers as if the three men waiting outside might hear him through the door, "I guess I'm meeting the family a little sooner than expected."

Despite everything, you let out an anxious laugh as you glance toward the entryway. "Yeah... I guess you are." Taking a steadying breath, you look back at him. "Okay. Stay right here. Let me tell them you're inside before they come barging in and start yelling, okay? I don't want them to freak you out."

Hongjoong lets out a faint chuckle, but you don't miss the way he's subconsciously wiping his sweaty palms against the cotton of his sweatpants. He's nervous. And that only makes your pulse race faster.

Taking another deep breath, you force your legs to carry you toward the front door. With every step, the twisting sensation in your gut pulls even tighter.

Just as your fingers graze the handle, another loud, more aggressive knock bangs against the wood. You jump, tossing one last look over your shoulder at Hongjoong. He offers an encouraging smile, and you do your best to return one of your own before swinging the door open, plastering the most casual smile you can manage onto your face.

"Okay, before you guys come in, I really need to tell you—"

The words die in your throat.

Your heart plummets past your stomach, crashing somewhere near your shoes as an icy, paralyzing wave of vertigo washes over you. The fake smile vanishes from your lips, the blood draining from your face.

Because instead of your three best friends stumbling drunkenly down the hallway, you're standing face-to-face with the most terrifying sight imaginable.

The cruel, wicked smirk of Jung Wooyoung.

"I knocked three times," he says lightly, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement as he looks down at you. "You busy or something? You know, most girls run to the door the second they hear my footsteps coming down the hall. But that's right..." He tilts his head. "You're different, aren't you?"

Your hands tremble as you grip the doorframe, your knuckles turning a bloodless white. "Woo—Wooyoung... what the hell...?" you manage to whisper, frozen in place.

He clicks his tongue, lazily shoving his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans. "Aw, nervous to see me again, baby? Don't worry, I'm only stopping by for a minute. Unless you want me to stay." A dark chuckle rumbles in his chest. "I'm more than happy to cancel my plans tonight for a... third date."

Your breathing turns shallow as you stare at him, panic wiping your mind blank. "What—What are you doing here, Wooyoung?" 

Your eyes sweep over him. He's dressed for a humid night out in late August, not a freezing December evening. He’s wearing a black tee and jeans—the same outfit you've seen him in every time you've been together. His hair is gelled and styled exactly the same as always. Nothing about Wooyoung has changed in the slightest.

He catches your gaze tracing over him, and his smirk deepens. "So you did miss me. I knew you would." But when his eyes lock onto yours, the teasing edge vanishes: he's dead, chillingly serious. "I'm here for my jacket."

Your heart plummets into what feels like an endless freefall.

The jacket.

Your eyes flash to the kitchen barstool where that stupid leather jacket had rested like a cursed object for nearly a week—a week where everyone in the dorm had been too afraid to even touch it. But it isn't there anymore. Hongjoong's winter coat is draped over that very stool instead.

The wind is knocked out of you as you realize that Hongjoong is here, sitting on the couch right behind you. With how you've barely cracked open the door, shielding the entryway with your body, Hongjoong probably still assumes you're talking to one—or all—of your friends.

Terror grips your throat. You can't let them see each other. If Wooyoung sees Hongjoong, it's over. If Hongjoong finds out who is standing at this door, he'll discover everything. He'll know you lied to him about your past. Think, ____, think, you scream at yourself, your head spinning faster and dizzier by the second as you stare blankly at the man in the doorway.

Oblivious, Wooyoung laughs. 

"You know, I thought I'd lost the damn thing," he continues, his voice dripping with condescension. "I searched my place for days. I must've been too drunk that night to realize I let you take it. I thought someone stole it at the bar or some shit. Even went out and bought myself a new one before I finally remembered." His eyes filthily trace your body, from the top of your head down to your socks and back up again, making your skin crawl. "Yeah. It was stolen. By you."

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat making it impossible to breathe, but he keeps talking.

"You been wearing it? It's nice, right? I bet it looked so cute on you that night. If only I could remember anything that happened." The cruel curve of his lips returns. "I was just gonna forget about it. Let you keep it. A little souvenir to remember me by, yeah? To remind you of how much fun we had." He pauses, feeding off the way your stomach twists at his words. "But the new jacket's missing one thing. The inside pocket for my camera. And I plan on taking a lot of pictures tonight."

He suddenly takes a step forward, trying to peer over your shoulder and into the dorm.

"I need my jacket back, baby," he murmurs. "Let me in."

You remain rooted in the doorway, every muscle in your body locked as the panic finally spills over and chokes the breath out of your lungs. 

"Wooyoung, I... I don't know where it is," you stammer.

He pauses. One eyebrow arches. "You don't?"

You shake your head, your terrified mind scrambling to construct any lie that'll keep him out of your dorm and clinging to it for dear life. "San took it," you blurt out. "He put it away somewhere, but I have no idea where. Just—just come back later when he's here. He'll find it for you."

The lie sounds flimsy to even your own ears, and judging by the look on his face, he knows it too.

Desperate, you throw your weight forward and attempt to push the door shut, but Wooyoung is faster. His palm slams flat against the wood, stopping it dead in its tracks. Slowly, his eyes narrow.

"Well, if you don't know where it is..." His gaze snakes past your shoulder again, drinking in the narrow sliver of your living room visible from the hallway. "...maybe we should look for it together."

Wooyoung suddenly shoves the door inward. You stumble backward with a choked gasp, your socks slipping across the polished hardwood as he steps inside and kicks the door shut behind him.

"Wooyoung—"

He ignores you, already turning down the hallway, heading straight in the direction of San's bedroom. But on only the second step, he freezes.

Your hands are still suspended uselessly in the air from where you'd tried—and failed—to block him from coming inside. Your stomach drops so hard and fast that you feel like you're about to faint. 

Everything falls silent.

Wooyoung is standing in the center of your living room, staring straight at the couch. And standing perfectly still amid the messy notebooks and open textbooks, Hongjoong is staring right back. 

At some point, Hongjoong rose to his feet. His posture is rigid, his shoulders squared as he stands between the coffee table and the cushions. His eyes sweep over Wooyoung with a piercing glare. It's almost as if, in a matter of seconds, he's already deciphered exactly what kind of person this intruder is, all without a single word being exchanged.

You open your mouth, desperately trying to force a sound out—Hongjoong's name, Wooyoung's name, an explanation, an excuse, a plea, anything—but your vocal cords have been locked in place by the fear gripping your throat.

You can only watch, helplessly pinned in place, as Wooyoung's eyes drag over the man standing across the room. He takes his sweet time, lingering on Hongjoong's crooked glasses and tousled hair, before his gaze drops to the table. He stares at the scattered Korean textbooks, the vocabulary worksheets covered in red corrections, and finally, the two steaming mugs of hot chocolate sitting side by side in the center of it all. 

As the reality of what he walked into dawns on him, a horrible, bitter smirk curls at the corners of Wooyoung's lips.

"Holy shit," he murmurs, a breath of malicious disbelief.

For a moment, the entire dorm goes quiet.

Then an ugly bark of laughter rips from his throat.

Wooyoung throws his head back and erupts into a fit of dark, hysterical laughter. "Holy shit! Holy fucking shit," he cackles, clutching his stomach as he spins to look at you, eyes glittering with vindictive delight. "You're kidding me, right? Tell me this is a fucking joke."

Still laughing, he turns his attention back to Hongjoong, openly raking his eyes up and down his body with blatant disrespect.

Hongjoong's expression hardens. His breathing grows shallow, mirroring the rise and fall of your own chest, as he slowly tears his gaze away from Wooyoung and looks at you instead.

"____." His voice is practically a growl. You watch the gears turning behind his eyes: he knows. He knows something is wrong. "Who is this?"

You can't speak.

You stare helplessly back at Hongjoong, your vision blurring as tears begin to well in your eyes, stinging your lash line. 

It's over. 

You should've just told him the truth.

Hongjoong sees the shiny glaze of tears brimming in your eyes, and his posture stiffens. His lips part in a quiet breath of disbelief, a devastating combination of confusion and betrayal already bleeding into his eyes before he even fully understands what he's looking at. 

Wooyoung wheezes with laughter, bracing himself by slapping a hand down onto the nearest kitchen stool—landing right on top of Hongjoong's snow-dampened coat.

"Fuck, ____, this has to be the funniest thing I've ever seen," he gasps, shaking his head. "Seriously. Holy shit, you're actually with him? You're dating the fucking tutor?"

The first tear spills over, cutting a humiliating path down your cheek.

Seeing it fall, Hongjoong snaps his gaze away from you, his expression shattering. His eyes flick toward the wall, betrayal flashing across his features before he suddenly manages to bury it, squaring his jaw and turning back to Wooyoung.

"Who are you?" he demands when you can't work up the courage to give him the answer.

However, this only seems to amuse Wooyoung even more. "She didn't even tell you about me?" he laughs mockingly, pouting his bottom lip. "Damn. What a shame."

He closes the distance between them, swaggering over to the couch and extending a taunting hand for Hongjoong to shake. "Jung Wooyoung," he says, his grin widening. "Hongjoong, right? I can't believe I'm actually getting to meet you. I'm a big fan."

Hongjoong doesn't even glance at the outstretched hand, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone looks like it's ready to snap. 

"Not kidding," Wooyoung continues without flinching, dropping his arm back to his side. "I've been dying to ask you what your secret is."

The two men stare each other down from opposite sides of the coffee table. Wooyoung is grinning; Hongjoong looks ready to kill.

"My secret?" Hongjoong repeats.

Wooyoung nods, leaning in closer with a wicked smirk. "Yeah," he sneers. "How the fuck did a guy like you get her into your bed?"

A deafening tension crashes over the room. 

Hongjoong's eyes narrow as a furious, bewildered scoff escapes him.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

A cold shudder crawls down your spine, pinning you in place against the front door. You've seen Hongjoong angry before, you've seen him frustrated, and you've heard him mutter Korean curses under his breath. But you've never heard him swear in English. 

Wooyoung laughs again, cruel and bright. "Guess she really didn't tell you. Well, she's always been a little shy about these things. Haven't you, baby?" He flashes you another grin over his shoulder before turning his back on Hongjoong, sauntering toward San's room, still chuckling to himself.

You feel sick. The room is spinning so fast you have to press your hand against the doorframe just to stay on your feet. You need to get Wooyoung out of here. You have to stop him before he digs any deeper. 

"Wooyoung," your shaky, fragile voice manages to force out just as his hand reaches for San's doorknob. He pauses, glancing back at you with an arched eyebrow. "It... it's in the bathroom," you whisper. "In the storage closet. San... San put it there."

His hand drops from the knob. Turning around, he looks you up and down, taking in your trembling state before scoffing. "Thought you didn't know where it was?" he asks. "What happened? Suddenly remembered?" His mouth curls. "Or are you leading me on again? Huh, I guess some things really never change."

You flinch. Your eyes remain glued to his back as he changes direction and disappears through the bathroom door.

You don't look at Hongjoong. You can't.

You don't want to see the impending heartbreak taking shape in his eyes, don't want to witness the moment he pieces the ugly puzzle together and realizes how much you've hidden from him. So, like a coward, you decide to delay the devastation, to avoid his gaze, for as long as you possibly can.

From down the short hallway, the loud and destructive sounds of Wooyoung's search begin. You can hear him rustling through the cramped storage closet, carelessly shoving boxes aside and tossing towels to the tile floor as he digs around for his jacket.

You keep your tear-filled eyes locked on the empty doorway, nails biting into your palms. If you stare hard enough, maybe Hongjoong will disappear. Maybe the consequences of your own lies will fall solely onto your shoulders, sparing the man you finally managed to start something real with.

Wooyoung emerges a minute later, shrugging the leather jacket over his shoulders. He smooths the collar into place with a grin.

"Well, I'm heading out. Got a party to get to," he announces cheerfully. "You two enjoy your little date night, yeah?"

He nods mockingly in Hongjoong's direction, smirking as he makes his way toward the front door—the door you're still weakly barricading with your body. Stopping mere inches in front of you, Wooyoung looks down with an amused raise of his eyebrow. His fingers slowly wrap around yours, peeling your trembling grip away from the doorframe. 

A repulsive shiver rips through your body as he holds your gaze, his grin widening. 

"She's a great student, isn't she?" he calls out over his shoulder, addressing Hongjoong even though his eyes never leave yours. "I taught her a few things myself last month. You should ask her about the knife. Or the fork." Your blood turns to ice as the smile on his face turns mocking. "She really has a thing for cutlery."

Dropping your hand, he gives you one final, bitter sneer before yanking the door open and stepping out into the hallway. The door slams shut behind him, and he's gone, sealing you inside the silence of your own destruction.

You stand paralyzed in the entryway for what feels like an eternity.

You've always known Hongjoong to be a brilliant man—how could he not be, as someone who is quite literally paid to teach you? But the intelligence you're seeing now has nothing to do with grammar or vocabulary. From your spot against the door, you're forced to watch him click every single ugly, disjointed piece of the puzzle named Jung Wooyoung into place in his mind.

Slowly, as if he's fighting his way through water, Hongjoong lowers himself onto the couch. A stray pen falls off the cushion, onto the floor, without him even noticing. His previously rigid posture collapses in on itself as he sinks back into the cushions. The color drains from his face, leaving his skin an unrecognizable, sickly pale, and his hand trembles as he raises it to push his crooked glasses up the bridge of his nose.

You don't know what to do. You don't know what to say. You don't even know if there's anything you can say to make a difference. So you just stand there with a burning ache in your throat as shameful tears continue to well and threaten to spill over your lashes, watching your boyfriend sift through every last humiliating second he'd just been forced to witness.

After a long time, Hongjoong finally turns his head. When he speaks, his fragile voice breaks your heart in two.

"When we studied together for the first time... in the library," he begins shakily. "His name... Wooyoung... it came up on your phone. You told me he was just a friend. That... that was a lie, wasn't it?"

Your breath hitches in your chest as you stare at him. You try to explain, but your voice breaks on the way up. You can't answer him. You can't.

But your silence is answer enough.

Hongjoong inhales sharply. He rises to his feet, his entire body shaking as he takes a few steps forward, closing the distance between the couch and the entryway. The closer he gets, the clearer you can see the glossy sheen of unshed tears pooling behind his glasses.

"Y—You told me you've only ever slept with one person." His voice cracks as he stops just a few feet away from you. "You said you were seventeen. With your ex, back in high school." His eyes plead with yours to deny it, to give him the answer he wants. "Was that a lie, too?"

A single, damning tear slips down your cheek. 

Hongjoong watches it fall. He stares at you for a long moment, the last trace of hope draining out of his face. He gives a faint, defeated nod, breaking eye contact just as his own tears finally begin to spill over.

"He said he... he taught you. Last month. Last month, ____," he breathes, looking back at you with so much betrayal in his eyes that it hurts to meet them. "But you told me you liked me since the first time you saw me. Since the beginning of the semester. Was... was that another lie? While I was... I... you were... with him...?"

You frantically shake your head, your chest caving in. "Joong, n—no, I—"

"He asked me how a guy like me got you into my bed," he continues, cutting you off as more tears track silently down his pale cheeks. "I know... I know I'm not experienced. I know I've never done this before. I know I'm not the kind of guy who... who you would normally look at twice—"

"Joong, that's not true—!"

"But," his voice cracks, ignoring your pleas. "I thought... I thought..."

He stops, unable to finish the sentence. He shakily reaches up, pulling his glasses off his face to roughly press the heels of his palms into his eyes, wiping away the falling tears. When he finally lowers his hands, he turns away from you and stares at the wall across the room.

You don't try to speak. You gulp down your tears, giving up on trying to defend yourself. There's nothing that feels capable of fixing this. Not words, not explanations, not anything you could possibly say. 

"He said you led him on," Hongjoong says quietly. "Is that what you're doing to me? Am I just..."

A choked sob finally rips from your throat. Without thinking, you reach a hand out to grab his sleeve, to ask for forgiveness, to show him you care. But he flinches, jerking his arm away like your touch burns.

You freeze, your hand falling numbly to your side as the outline of his body becomes a blur.

"How many times, ____?" he asks, his voice cracking. He can't even bear to look at you anymore. "How many times did you sleep with him?"

Your heart stops. He stands there, holding his breath, waiting for the truth. 

"It... it was twice," you whisper.

Hongjoong lets out a gut-wrenching, wounded sound, biting down on his trembling lower lip as he squeezes his eyes shut.

"But... but the second time wasn't... I—I stopped it, Joong," you plead, willing him to just open his eyes, to understand what happened. "I only went out with him to end it. To... to tell him that I didn't want him, that the whole thing was a mistake—"

"He was your first, wasn’t he?"

The question is quiet.

You stop rambling. Hongjoong's eyes open, and when his gaze finds yours again, you watch the realization wash over his pale features. 

"It wasn't your ex," he whispers, his throat bobbing. "It was him."

You go silent, tears falling down your cheeks, unable to deny it. 

And for Hongjoong, that's all the answer he needs.

A strangled sob tears its way out of his throat. He abruptly turns away, hurrying back over to the couch, refusing to look at you again. Panic surges through you, and you hurry after him, your voice cracking as you beg him to listen.

"Please, just let me explain, Joong!"

Hongjoong grabs his backpack from the floor and starts shoving his textbooks inside, his eyes fixed blankly on the coffee table, avoiding your face at all costs. 

"Explain what, ____?" he asks. His voice is flat, and that emptiness is somehow a million times worse than if he'd turned around and screamed at you. "Explain which version of you is the real one? The one I started falling in love with... or the one who looked me in the eye and lied to me about letting him—"

He chokes on the words, his jaw clenching as he yanks the zipper of his backpack shut.

The one I started falling in love with.

The words shatter what little is left of your heart.

"I wanted to tell you!" you choke out, stepping closer, though you keep your hands glued to your sides, too afraid to try and touch him again. "I wanted to tell you the truth, but I was so scared! Joong, I... I liked you from the very first day we met. That was never, ever a lie. But... you were my tutor! I never in a million years thought you'd look at me as anything more than your dumb student who couldn't even pronounce her own name. I didn't think you'd ever look at me the way I looked at you."

Hongjoong stops moving. His hands clamp around the straps of his bag. He doesn't turn to face you, but you can see the tension snapping across his shoulders and can hear the uneven sound of his breathing. He's listening.

"I was so stupid," you confess, your voice cracking as you furiously wipe the tears from your cheeks. "I was... I was horrible. I tried to use him. Wooyoung. My friends told me he didn't do relationships, that... that hookups meant nothing to him. I thought... I thought maybe I could drown out my feelings for you by doing something reckless. Maybe doing something meaningless with him would make me forget about how badly I wanted to mean something to you."

You take a shaky breath, your tears blinding your vision. "But it didn't work. After that night... I felt terrible. About everything. I... I couldn't stop imagining what it would've been like if it were you instead. He told me he wanted more. I guess he actually liked me, or at least he thought he did, but... he couldn't give me a single, tiny fraction of what you already had, even back when we'd barely spoken outside of tutoring. I felt so much for you, Joong. So, so much. I always knew it, even if I was too scared to admit it to myself."

Hongjoong remains still, his back turned to you as he listens.

"That's why I went back the second time," you plead. "To end it. To tell him it was a stupid, one-time mistake because my heart belonged to someone else. But he... fuck, Joong, I was so stupid, and he was so manipulative. Yes, we did it again, but I... I cried. I pushed him away. I made him stop. And... and that's when he realized. He'd heard my friends teasing me about my crush on my tutor, and he... he realized they weren't joking. You saw it, just now: he's mad. His ego is destroyed. He thinks I chose you over him, but... it was never a choice in the first place. I was always yours. From the very beginning."

He doesn't move, his head bowed as he stares down at the bag crushed in his hands. You choke out another sob, desperate for something in your confession to break through to him.

"And then, in your bedroom..." you whisper, the memory tearing you apart. "When you said it was your first time... when you told me how scared you were of making a mistake... I panicked. How could I look at you, after everything you just confessed, and tell you that I let some asshole like him take my virginity only a few weeks ago? I wanted to be the perfect girl for you, just like how I tried so hard to be the perfect student. I was so ashamed of what I'd done, of how I'd been so reckless for the first time in my life! I was scared that if you knew that ugly, mindless side of me, you'd never look at me the same way again. That you'd hate me. So... I lied. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Joong. I... I wish I could change it. I wish I could take it back. I really, really do."

You wipe your face with the backs of your hands, but the tears refuse to stop falling as you stand there, staring at his back, waiting, praying he even has a response. 

After a long moment, Hongjoong turns to face you again. His face has gone completely still except for the single tear that breaks free, trickling down his cheek.

"An exam," he whispers. "Is that what this whole thing was to you? You had to be perfect? You wanted to get an A... in what? In me? In us?"

He takes a hesitant step closer, looking at you with eyes full of heartbreak. "You know I've never cared about your mistakes, ____," he says, his voice cracking as he points a trembling finger at the coffee table, where your textbooks and vocabulary sheets used to lie scattered. "When you mess up a conjugation, we fix it. When you mispronounce a word, I help you say it right. That's what we do. That's what we've always done. I thought you knew... I thought you understood that I was the one place where you didn't have to be perfect right away. That I'd help you get there, no matter how hard it would be or how long it would take."

He looks down at his shaking hands, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows the lump in his throat. When he finally looks back up, the disappointment in his eyes is almost unbearable. "You said we'd figure things out together. Those were your words," he continues. "But now I think you were so afraid of failing that you felt like you needed to hide the truth from me. What did you think? That if you hid all these parts of you, if you lied about your past, everything would just magically turn into reality? That you'd just get whatever grade you wanted without letting me help you get there?"

He shakes his head, taking a sharp breath in. "I don't care about him. I don't care that he was your first, or even that it happened so recently. Do you really think my feelings for you are so shallow that something like that is enough to make me walk away?" He drags the back of his hand across his face, but it's useless. His fingers are trembling so badly he can barely wipe away the tears before more take their place. "I care that you looked me in the eye, in my own bed, in my arms, and lied to me. You let me pour my heart out to you, ____! I told you my most pathetic insecurities, the most embarrassing secrets I've never said out loud to anyone, and you... you let me feel safe. You let me believe we were doing the same thing. That we were both being honest with each other, putting all our cards out on the table so we could start something real. How... how could you sit there, comforting me, telling me it was okay not to be perfect, all while knowing it was you who was hiding who you really were?" His voice finally shatters. "How am I supposed to trust anything you've ever said to me?"

"Joong, no, please—" Your voice breaks apart on his name.

You reach your hand out, but he pulls away again. Without another word, he turns his back on you and walks over to the kitchen island. He grabs his coat from the barstool, where you'd left it to dry barely a full hour ago, not even bothering to put it on. Your heart plummets as he swings his bag over his shoulder and stares blankly at the front door, refusing to cast a single glance back at where you're standing no matter how hard you're silently begging him to.

"I didn't ask about your past because I was looking for mistakes," he says quietly to the empty air. "I asked because I wanted to know the girl I was giving my heart to. The girl I wanted to create something real with... for the very first time in my life."

Another tear slides down his jawline as he shakes his head faintly, taking the last few steps toward the door. He doesn't speak again. When his hand wraps around the handle, your tears begin to fall harder.

"Joong, please, that's all I wanted too—" you choke out, your trembling legs moving on their own. You stumble after him, too terrified to touch him, but too desperate to let him walk away. "Please, Hongjoong, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry... I can fix this, I can—"

He turns his head, but he isn't looking at your face. His deadened gaze fixes on the floorboards right next to your feet as his shoulders tremble with the effort to hold himself together.

"You can't fix a lie like this with an apology, ____," he whispers, and you can tell he's given up. "You know that. You fix it with the truth. But I had to get yours from him." He takes a final, shuddering breath. "I... I never would've found out about this if he hadn't shown up tonight, right?"

You take a horrified step back, biting your lip so hard the taste of blood floods your mouth.

He's right.

You would've let this remain a secret forever. 

"Joong..."

But for the first time all night, you have nothing left to say.

Hongjoong shakes his head and pushes the door open. Without another glance back, he steps out into the hallway and gently pulls the door shut behind him, disappearing back into the cold.

@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33

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