summary: tonight was supposed to be the night you finally fed, only somehow eddie munson manages to satiate your appetite without losing his life. [eddie munson x succubus!reader || jennifer's body au]
cw: smut || 18+ only [ft. oral sex (f receiver), virgin!eddie, switch!reader, switch!eddie, lots of biting/teeth,], there's some mentions about not eating for a long time but it's not ed related (you just haven't killed anyone in a month okay?), general mentions of killing (no gore), lmk if i missed any
a/n: this was born out of a conversation w @ringpop-poppy who asked me to tag her lol. thank her for getting me out of my writer's block <3
For someone who’s been obsessed with you since middle school, Eddie doesn’t notice you’re standing next to him until he closes his locker.
“Jesus Christ!” he exclaims in surprise, bumping his side against the row of lockers. The metal boxes clank at the impact.
“Hi, Eddie,” you say blankly, leaning your shoulder against the wall.
He frowns at the tone of your voice– dry and monotonous and devoid of the snark he’s so used to hearing. He scans your figure, the dip between his eyebrows deepening when he notices the sheen of sweat on your forehead and the dullness of your skin.
You look sick– your cheeks are sunken in, cheekbones protruding abnormally and dark circles under your eyes looking more like bruises. Strangest of all, you’ve switched your beloved dresses for a pair of baggy jeans and a purple sweatshirt that looks 2 sizes too big.
Actually, the strangest thing is that you’re talking to him. In public.
“Heeey,” he greets back, dragging the ‘e’ as he looks around the hallway. There’s a couple of people giving the pair of you strange looks, some jocks narrowing their eyes menacingly at him, but everyone seems to move on pretty quickly from this peculiar interaction.
He doesn’t even hear a gaggle of cheerleaders giggling behind manicured hands as they watch you talk to him. There’s only Chrissy Cunningham, standing alone a couple of feet away from you and giving him a small wave. He relaxes ever so slightly. “You okay?”
“I’m fantastic,” you say with a lack of excitement.
Eddie snorts. “You don’t sound very believable.”
“Oh.” You run a long finger nail down the plastic spiral of the notebook you’re cradling against your chest, raising an eyebrow when Eddie shivers at the sound. You stop. “Just hungry. I haven’t eaten in…” you blow some air as you pretend to think, cheeks puffing out. “I can’t even remember.”
“Oh, um, I got some pretzels. If you want. Here.” He unhooks one of the straps of his bag from around his shoulder and struggles to open the zipper, pulling at it with as much strength as he can muster without risking it breaking.
He almost jumps out of his skin when you place a cold hand on his forearm. He stares at it, confused. Why are you so cold? It’s almost spring break.
“It’s okay, Eddie.” He fights back the shiver that threatens to go down his spine at how softly you say his name. “I’m working on it, don’t worry. Besides, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Ask me something,” he echoes back. “Uh, sure. What do you need?”
You kick your foot against the dirty school floor, biting your lower lip. Eddie notices how chapped they are– what’s usually a pair of very smooth and glossy lips is now covered in dried, cracking skin. He frowns in concern even more.
“D’you wanna come over tonight?” You twirl a strand of hair between two fingers and smile at him. “I could rent A Nightmare on Elm Street and make some popcorn. Or The Shining, whichever you want.”
Eddie blinks owlishly at you, chuckling awkwardly and gesturing between your bodies with his index finger. His heavy cross metal ring glints under the fluorescent lights. “Us. Watch a movie. At your house. Uh…” He fleets his gaze back around the hallway and notices a significant lack of students walking around.
He leans closer to you, trying to be as quiet as possible when he asks, “Is this some sort of joke?”
“No,” you shake your head, tilting it to the side when you see a thin chain around his neck. Your smile is more natural as you grab it and bring it out from under his shirt, the corners of your mouth tilting up minisculely when the guitar pick dangles in the air. “Cute,” you say airily.
Eddie can’t take his eyes off you. He’s pretty sure he’s going crossed eyed as he watches you play with his necklace. “So you’re serious,” he pushes.
“As a heart attack,” you deadpan, still staring at the small plastic triangle and poking it with your middle finger. If you felt like your normal self, you’d be giggling at the sound of your nail hitting the guitar pick. “So?”
“Sure.” Eddie nods enthusiastically. This has to be a dream come true. “Sure, yeah.”
“Great.” Some of your usual brightness comes back to your face at his answer. You open your notebook and quickly write down your address, rip the paper and offer it to him with a sweet smile. The kind that Eddie never thought would be directed at him. “My parents leave on vacation at seven, so come around eight.”
“Ookay,” he slowly plucks the paper from between your fingers, almost dropping it when you press a kiss on his cheek.
You wink at him, walking backwards. “Can’t wait.”
He presses his fingers to the spot your lips touched, skin feeling hot, and stares dumbstruck as you walk back to Chrissy and hook your arm around hers, giggling at each other as you make your way to class.
–
Eddie slaps one hand on the steering wheel as he drives down the street, head banging in the air to the rhythm of Black Sabbath’s Evil Woman.
His heart beats a thousand miles per hour, blood pumping through his veins at a speed it never has before. He can’t stop the giddy smile from spreading on his lips, shaking his head in disbelief– he’s driving to the house of the girl of his dreams to watch a movie and… other stuff.
He hopes other stuff happens. You had said it so suggestively, making sure to mention your parents leaving you home alone and– and you had kissed his cheek! That had to be a sign, right?
He covers his mouth with his hand and exhales a breath out, sniffing the air. He grimaces and leans to the side, the van swerving with him as he struggles to keep control of the wheel at the same time as he looks for the pack of gum he kept in the back pocket of his jeans.
He manages to get it out right before he has to turn the corner on the right, hooraying loudly and the wheels screeching as he maneuvers wildly. Keeping his foot on the pedal, he quickly unwraps the gum and throws the paper on the backseat, popping it into his mouth. He chews it through his deafening singing, the fresh minty flavour exploding on his taste buds.
His singing turns into a quiet mumble when he notices that the streets get progressively darker until there are no lamp posts turned on. The hairs on the back of his head stand in alert and he turns down the music completely, his chewing slowing along with the van as he reaches the address written on the paper.
He picks it up from where he tucked in inside the overhead visor, his finger gracing over the smooth letter you wrote. He’s sick with love as he traces the tiny heart dotting the ‘i’.
He looks outside his window and to the row of identical houses across from where he’s parked. There’s only one house with a single light turned on and, effectively, it’s the right address.
Putting the paper back where it belongs, Eddie takes a deep breath and fixes his hair. He gets out of the car and stands facing the houses, adjusting his leather jacket and spitting out the gum. With a reassuring nod to himself he walks forward.
Everything is eerily quiet. He fastens his steps when he gets the feeling that someone is watching him, taking the short porch steps two at a time and comes to a sudden stop when he sees a plank of wood over the front door. Uselessly, he tries the doorknob anyway, jiggling it until it becomes obvious that the door isn’t going to open.
He takes a couple steps back and looks to both windows on either side of the door, noticing a sheet of plastic hanging over the glass like a makeshift protective curtain. His eyebrows scrunch down in confusion– something isn’t right.
There’s no way that the Queen of Hawkins High, resident Mean Girl, lived in a house like this. He had heard through the grapevine how lavish her house was, how big and deep the pool in her backyard was and how she had a room designated to store all the alcohol you could imagine. Everyone raved about how handy it came for the parties he had never been invited to and how they always ended in someone being thrown into the water.
His curiosity is piqued, though. He heads to the left side of the house, jumping off the porch and stepping on the narrow bit of grass between your supposed house and your neighbour’s. He looks up to the sky and notices a ladder out of the corner of his eye, right below an open window.
Making sure it’s sturdy enough, he climbs it, slapping the plastic curtain back and throwing himself inside the house. He groans in pain when he hits the floor with a lack of grace, holding his shoulder and rubbing the sore spot.
Even inside, everything is still pitch black.
“Hello?” He calls out your name, taking a hesitant step forward. “Anyone home?”
No one answers him.
He walks out of the room, quietly moving another plastic curtain to the side and starts navigating the house curiously. He thinks he’s in the living room when he finally hears something, a low and sugary sweet beat coming from up the stairs.
The steps creak under his Reebooks. He’s almost on the landing when a crow appears out of nowhere and flies past him like he isn’t even there, its wings flapping noisily. “Holy mother of God,” he curses, resting his back against the wall and clutching his chest.
When his heart rate is back to normal he keeps climbing, finally reaching the first floor. There’s a crack of warm light coming from the room the farthest away from where he’s standing, the music growing louder as he follows it.
His lips pull up when he sees the many lit up candles around the room, placed between planks of wood and construction tools. There’s a radio on a workshop table playing a song he wouldn’t be caught dead listening to but it fits his fair maiden to perfection.
“You made it,” your voice comes from behind him unexpectedly. He jumps in the air and screams, eyes wide when he turns around and sees how sick you look now. Even worse than you look at school.
Eddie twists one of his rings around his finger as you saunter towards him, hips swaying hypnotically. He gulps, “This– this isn’t really your house, is it?”
Eddie is hit with a wave of your perfume– dark, smelling of chocolates and wild berries– as you stand in front of him.
“No, baby,” you pout, shaking your head softly. You take his hand and place it over your chest. “This is our home. Just for us.”
Eddie chuckles, sounding uncomfortable. His eyes are glued to the chain that dips between your breasts and the heart locket that hangs from it. “What would we need a house for?”
Your giggle is sweet, your touch soft as you caress his chest and squeeze his shoulders. Eddie holds his breath as you lean forward and whisper in his ear, “To play mommy and daddy.”
Oh shit, he thinks. When did the air become so stuffy?
Your hands go to the back of his neck, long nails scratching his nape and almost making him purr. There’s goosebumps on the skin of his throat as you run your nose against it, bump his jaw up with it and nip gently at his earlobe. “Do you wanna play with me, Eddie?”
He’d do anything you asked of him. “Yes, fuck, yes.”
You pull him towards you by the hair and press your lips together, not bothering with taking it slow, slipping your tongue inside his mouth. He tastes good– minty and smokey and something else… something sweet. Not like the other boys you’ve kissed before to feed on them. They were salty with lust, greedy as they tried to control the kiss. Control you.
But not Eddie. No, he molds himself to you, lets you take whatever you want from his and is grateful for it.
You don’t like it.
Determined to forget about… whatever it was that made your heart skip a beat, you pull away and drift your kisses down his neck, biting him harshly while your hands work on the belt around his hips. You can hear his heavy pants as you stroke his cock over his jeans, adding pressure and feeling the hard and heavy bulge under your palm twitch as you run your tongue over the teeth marks imprinted on his skin.
“Fuck, fuck, wait.” He reaches for your wrists to stop you from lowering his jeans. “Jesus– that was… so fucking hot. Need a minute.”
You huff out an irritated breath, snarking, “I don’t have a minute.”
Being so close to feeding, to sinking your teeth into fresh meat and warm blood, and then having it stripped away from you has made you lose some of your charm. “Just let me suck your cock or something, Jesus,” you roll your eyes in annoyance.
Eddie laughs, holding your cheeks and kissing your still chapped lips that are now shiny with spit. “That’d defeat the whole purpose of taking a minute.”
God, why does he have to be so sweet? It’d be easier if he were an asshole that couldn’t wait to get his dicks wet and didn’t care about making it last. You can’t stand it. Can’t stand him.
“How about I eat you out, hm? To pass the time?”
You really don’t mean to, but it’s impossible to stop yourself from blurting out in surprise, “Eat me out?”
“Yeah.” Your stunned face shocks him. “Wait, you’ve never…”
You shake your head, mouth parted. Strictly speaking, you’re not being 100% truthful. Some of your victims have attempted to eat you out, giving you a couple of licks that did nothing for you just to get you wet enough so they could sink their greedy cocks into you without your body rejecting them. Like that would happen.
Still, it’s not like any of those boys managed to get you off with their mouths, so there’s no point in explaining all that to Eddie.
“Oh, baby,” he sighs. His hands that were cradling your face go down the sides of your body, stroking your curves and settling on your hips. He pushes you forward so your pussy can grind on his bulge. You gasp. “Baby, baby, baby, baby. You have no idea what you’ve been missing.”
You don’t like him having the upper hand. Forcing yourself back into character, you grip the roots of his hair until he hisses. “Show me, then.”
Eddie’s grin is wolfish. “As my fair lady wishes.”
He’s the one who pulls you into a bruising kiss this time, his tongue playing with yours as he deepens it. You traipse back towards the wooden table together, stumbling over each other’s feet.
Your hips reach the table first, the tools on it clattering to the floor and the radio shaking as it struggles to keep itself balanced. Eddie chuckles against your lips and helps you get on the edge of the table, pushing you backwards until you’re laying flat on the hard surface.
He trails kisses down your throat and chest, kissing the swells of your breasts that your tank top exposes, sucking on the skin until colourful splotches appear. You arch your back into his face, mumble a curse when his teeth graze your hardened nipple over the thin fabric of your top.
He peppers more wet kisses down your stomach, dampening your shirt with his spit. He laves his tongue his tongue over the exposed bit of skin of your tummy and flips your skirt up, mouth jumping from your hip bone to your inner thigh, completely neglecting your core in favour of feverishly biting marks into the softness of your thighs.
The closer he gets to your panties, the softer his nips become, turning into soft pecks that make you warm where his lips touch you. When he reaches your mound, he presses the gentlest kiss over the little bow stuck to your cotton panties, stealing a glance up at you.
You don’t think you’ve ever been looked at with such tenderness. Not even before you were turned into this monster. It makes you shiver, hips raising to help him lower your underwear.
Eddie’s dimples show when he sees the glistening threads sticking to the fabric, spreading thinner and thinner as he separates it from your pussy.
An involuntary moan comes out from deep within your chest when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking it between his teeth and licking wet stripes up your clit, his warm tongue slipping between your folds eagerly. He chances another look up at you, watches you raise yourself on your elbows and brush back his bangs before tangling your fingers in his messy waves.
Your chest is already panting as you watch him swirl your little nub with the tip of his tongue, rising and falling in rapid succession with the quick, short breaths you take. There’s a thin layer of sweat forming on your hairline, Eddie inadvertently melting away the coldness that had taken over your body at the lack of nutrients and raising your temperature until it feels like there’s wildfire coursing through your veins.
“Eddie,” you whine when he pushes you into his mouth, forcing you to grind against his face. A whimper falls from your parted lips when he forces his tongue into your hole, tasting the deepest parts of you that have never been explored by any man. “S-so good.”
It feels more than good. It is more than good and you’re not used to it ever feeling this good. You tighten your grip on his hair and Eddie moans filthily against you, finally allowing his eyes to flutter shut as he makes out with your pussy like he’s been fantasizing about for years. You taste sweeter than he imagined– unnaturally so. He’s drunk on your taste, his mind becoming foggy, all and any thoughts he had other than you disappearing from his mind as he focuses on the feast in front of him.
You don’t understand what’s happening– your legs spam around his head and your body jerks up, muscles tensing then relaxing immediately as a tsunami of pleasure crashes over you and leaves you breathless.
You fall onto your back as you gush all over him, filling his mouth with your slick. With trembling hands, you force him away from you, hazy eyes blinking up at him.
He looks… messy. Hair mussed up from your fingers gripping it, lips red and swollen from eating you out like a starved prisoner, chin shiny and dripping with your release, pupils dilated and eyes glazed over just the same as yours.
He’s unfairly pretty.
“Are you okay?” He asks, crowding your body as he leans down and examines your face closely. Your skin returned to it’s usual glow, your hair no longer looking oily and thin. Somehow, your lips aren’t dry anymore– they’re plump and soft.
“I feel– I feel weird,” you slur. You had expected to return to normal after feeding on Eddie, but you haven’t even punctured an artery and the immeasurable hunger you’ve been feeling all of last month is almost completely gone.
Something isn’t right.
Eddie’s heart skips a beat at your confession. “Shit, did I hurt you? Was that too much?”
“Too much? That was… Where the hell did you learn that, Munson?”
He shrugs one shoulder bashfully, his cheeks growing pink at your disbelief. “College girls have a thing for struggling rockstars, apparently.”
Something ugly grows in your chest at the thought of Eddie fucking other people, of another girl keeping his cock warm. You’ve always liked the virgins– they were sweet like candy and desperate and let you take whatever you wanted from them. You milked their souls dry before they could even stutter out a “thank you”.
You had chosen Eddie on purpose and had been so very careful before approaching him earlier today. You had smelled him and sensed that honeyed aura virgin boys always had around them. And you knew he liked you, poor boy wasn’t very good at hiding it.
So you started being nicer to him: lending him your book in English class when he forgot his copy, whispering to him the answer to a problem in Miss O’Donell’s class when her back was turned to you, smiling at him when you passed each other in the hallway. You even stopped Jason from mocking him and his nerd group a couple of times.
It had almost cost you your reputation. But you were so hungry, and he was so pretty and smelled so delicious. To have him not be a virgin, have all of your hard work mean nothing, it makes you angry.
Your previously shining doe eyes grow dark and narrow into thin slits. Your canines elongate and you do your best to cover them as you say, “So you’re not a virgin?”
Eddie’s startled by your sudden change of mood. “Uh…” he swallows awkwardly, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with the motion. “Uh, not– not completely. Couple of blowjobs here and there but– but I’ve never…”
“Fucked a girl?” you guess. He nods shyly and you relax your tense shoulders, returning to your mellow self from 3 minutes ago. You’re giving Eddie whiplash.
You wrap a leg around his hips and push them forward, pressing his hard cock against your wet pussy and gasping at the scratch of the denim. “You wanna fuck me, Eddie?”
His breath catches as you grind your hips against his, eyes rolling at the feel of the heat of your cunt seeping through his jeans. He’s pretty sure there’s a damp spot on his boxers caused by his leaky slit. “Y-yes, God, yes.”
You raise a hand to cradle his cheek, stroking his skin with your thumb. “Yeah? Want my pussy to be the first one you ever feel?”
“Uh huh.” He makes a broken sound, nodding repeatedly. Your voice is hypnotizing, your touch so gentle. “Wanna– wana fuck you. Need it. Please.”
You let go of his cheek and his head falls forward, forehead resting against yours and his hot breath fanning over your face. You reach forward and unzip his pants, lowering them enough so that his cock and his balls fall out.
“Shit,” he swears as you lick your hand, maintaining eye contact, and grip him, pumping your fist up and down his length. Eddie’s hips jerk forward.
You kiss along his jawline and whisper in his ear, “Tell me what you want to do to me.”
“Fuck, wanna spread your pussy with my cock,” he whines. You press his cock down to your mound and glide your pussy along his dick, puffy and wet folds spreading around his thick girth and bumping your swollen clit with his pretty pink tip. “Aw, shit. J-just like that. So fucking good.”
You kiss behind his earlobe. “What else?”
“Want to m-make you cum,” he stutters when you cradle his heavy sack in your palm, gently squeezing it. “Want to– to fill you up and watch it drip out.”
You giggle mischievously in his ear and Eddie’s mind short circuits. “You want to make me messy?”
“So messy– oh!” he moans when you push his cock into your weeping cunt. Only his mushroom shaped head is inside but that’s almost enough to push him over the edge. He bites his lip until he draws blood.
You lean forward to lick it up and hum dreamily as you get your first taste of him. He’s so nice and tastes so good, it’s a pity that you have to kill him.
“Holy shit.” Eddie stares at you with eyes as wide as saucers, then glances down to where your tight heat is welcoming his cock home, spread wide around it. If he thought he had been drunk on your taste before, he feels like he’s just chugged three bottles of the moonshine the older teens at the trailer park drank when he was younger. “Holy shit.”
“Come on, Eddie,” you encourage him, “Fuck me.”
“Y-yeah.” He draws back then forward again, slowly finding a strong rhythm. His hips slaps against yours with wet slaps of skin, his balls hitting your ass with every thrust. “Gonna fuck you. Been dreaming about it for years… thinking of– of making you cum all over me… putting my cum inside you… goddamn it.”
The table creaks as he fucks you, the radio tumbling to the floor with a loud clatter but Eddie can’t focus on any of it when he’s burying himself so deep inside you he can feel your throat contracting around him every time you moan. He wants to record your every sound, every little “uh uh” you make so he can listen to them at night while he touches himself to this memory.
His stomach burns and twists, fingers digging into your skin with bruising strength as he forces you back and forth on his cock. You can tell he’s getting close. Can smell his scent get sweeter and sweeter the closer the coil in his stomach gets to snapping in half.
This is your chance.
Your hands frame his scrunched up face as you force him to look at you. “It’s okay,” your tone is soft, gentle. “You can cum now Eddie, it’s okay.”
Eddie looks pained as he shakes his head, cheeks red from embarrassment. “Want you to cum, too.”
You kiss from his cheek down to his jawline, smiling into his skin. “I already did remember? Now I want you to cum. Can you do that for me?”
“Okay. Okay.”
Your back scratches against the wood with every thrust, splinters digging into the skin between your shoulder blades and making you moan at the pleasurable pain. You graze your teeth over his straining neck, allowing them to grow sharper and longer. You open your mouth wide but, right before you can sink your fangs into the vein that’s popping out, calloused fingers grip your chin and pull you into a desperate kiss.
You’re wide eyed as Eddie licks into your mouth, groans of pleasure mixing with whimpers as he spills all of his cum inside you. He loses his rhythm, rutting into you like a dog, cock twitching and painting your insides white.
“I’m sorry,” he pants, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t– you felt so good–”
You don’t know why you do it, really. You should just kick him off you and tear a piece of his side. But he did something to you, somehow managed to satiate your appetite without losing his life, so instead of twisting his arm and pushing him to the floor, you pet the back of his hair and repeat your previous words. “It’s okay.”
Eddie’s chuckle is muffled. “That’s the last thing a guy wants to hear after sex, you know. Or during.”
“W-well, it’s the truth,” you fumble. You’ve never comforted someone besides Chrissy, but she just cried and complained, not expecting any reassurances from you. “You can just make it up to me next time.”
Eddie wonders if you’ve always been this sweet deep down. There had to be a reason why Cunnigham liked you, after all. “Next time?” he asks, hoping his hearing was working correctly.
You’re going to grow hungry eventually. If you can’t eat him then you’ll have him do whatever he did to you tonight to keep you full.
୨ৎ Summary : Two people. One bar. One really, really bad night to be alone. Y/n just caught her fiancé of two years in bed with her best friend. Jungwon just found out his girlfriend of six years has been cheating for god knows how long. Neither of them planned on ending up in a hotel room with a stranger — they just both really, really didn't want to be alone that night. No names. No numbers. Just two broken people borrowing comfort from each other for one night, then going their separate ways like it never happened. Except a month later, y/n's staring at two pink lines on a bathroom floor, and there's only one person it could possibly be. She makes her choice fast, she's keeping the baby, and she's doing it alone. no ring, no husband, no one's permission required. So she books her first prenatal appointment at some random clinic near campus, ready to start this chapter solo like she planned—and her doctor walks in. It's him. Yang Jungwon.
୨ৎ Pairing : obgyn! Jungwon x college lecturer! reader
୨ৎ Wordcount : 6,5k
୨ৎ Warning : aged-up Jungwon (he's 28 here), stranger to.... (still figuring out), one night stand, unprotected sex, cheating (not Jungwon or y/n), unprotected sex (BIG NO NO, PLEASE WRAP YOUR WILLY), pregnancy.
Tuesday was supposed to be ordinary.
The kind of day that disappeared as quickly as it arrived. You finished your morning lecture, replied to a few student emails, stopped by the grocery store on your way home because you'd promised to cook dinner. Nothing remarkable. Nothing that hinted your life was quietly approaching a fault line.
The apartment was supposed to be empty.
You remembered that detail clearly later. He'd told you that morning, half asleep, mumbling something about a meeting running until six. You had the whole afternoon to yourself, or so you'd thought, planning the pasta you'd make, the wine you'd open, the ordinary comfort of a Tuesday night at home.
You unlocked the front door as quietly as always, balancing a paper bag of groceries against your hip. Then you heard laughter. A woman's laugh, low and familiar, drifting down the hallway like something out of a memory you couldn't quite place. For one suspended heartbeat, your mind simply refused to process it
Then it did. Your best friend.
You took another step down the hallway. The bedroom door wasn't completely closed. It didn't need to be. Some truths don't ask to be witnessed completely. You already understood, before your conscious mind caught up, that whatever was happening in that apartment wasn't meant for your ears.
The quiet intimacy of two people who had forgotten the rest of the world existed. Neither of them heard it. Or maybe they did. You didn't stay long enough to find out. There were no questions. No tears. No dramatic confrontation worthy of a movie scene. Because what explanation could possibly undo what you'd already seen?. You turned around before they could notice you. The front door clicked shut behind you with barely a sound.
Two years of engagement, gone.
Two years of wedding plans scattered across your dining table. Two years of apartment hunting, shared grocery lists, lazy Sunday mornings, and conversations about children you thought you'd have someday.
You don’t remember the walk to your car. You remember sitting behind the steering wheel with the keys in your hand and staring blankly at the windshield as the city morphed into streaks of bright light. It was just a blur of street lamps, head lights, and everything moving around you while your world was standing still. For a brief moment, you noticed that your hands weren’t shaking. You thought that was strange too. The way that your body had just suddenly gone still and cold and you were just as motionless as your body, like a state of shock had frozen you just outside of the situation.
You couldn’t say how long it was, but what you knew was that you suddenly found yourself standing in front of your closet. Your eyes were drawn to what was at the very back and hidden from view, your black dress. You hadn’t seen it for years.
"It's a little too much," he'd once said with an easy laugh.
"Too short."
"Too noticeable."
You remembered smiling then, folding the dress away because it hadn't seemed important enough to argue about.
You pulled it from the closet and let it fall over your body, the fabric cool and unfamiliar against your skin, hugging you in ways you'd forgotten you were allowed to be seen. It felt like putting on a stranger. Someone who wasn't trying to be agreeable anymore. Someone who had nothing left to protect and nothing left to lose. You left the engagement ring where it was.
After leaving your phone in your purse, you grabbed your keys for the second time and stepped into the dark. You had no idea where you were headed but felt a certainty in your chest about leaving the life you had. You felt like you could not spend one more moment inside the life that no longer felt like it belonged to you.
.
.
.
Tuesday hadn't given him any warning either.
Jungwon's shift had ended late. A delivery that ran longer than expected, hours stretched thin by complications that weren't anyone's fault, just the unpredictable nature of the job. By the time he clocked out, his scrubs still smelled faintly of antiseptic, his feet aching in a way that had become so routine he barely registered it anymore. All he wanted was his own bed, maybe food he didn't have to think about.
He let himself into her apartment with the key she'd given him two years ago, the metal worn smooth from years in his pocket, attached to a keychain shaped like a tiny stethoscope. A joke gift from early in their relationship, something she'd laughed about giving him, something he'd kept clipped to his keys ever since without really thinking about why.
The shower was running. Her tablet was face up on the kitchen counter, screen still lit from a notification. He hadn't meant to look. He told himself that for weeks afterward, though it stopped mattering fairly quickly whether he'd meant to or not.
A name he recognized. A string of messages that didn't need much context. Photos that answered questions he hadn't known to ask. He stood there in his work clothes, badge still clipped to his coat pocket, and read enough to understand that ‘residency's exhausting’ had been covering for something else entirely for months, maybe longer.
He didn't move at all, actually, just stood there in the kitchen with his hands loose at his sides, feeling something inside his chest go very still and cold. He didn't throw the tablet.
She stepped out of the bathroom in a towel, damp hair pushed back, and stopped short in the doorway when she saw Jungwon standing there. Badge still clipped to his coat pocket, tablet lying face up on the counter exactly where she'd left it. Something in his stillness told her immediately that the evening wasn't going to go the way she'd planned.
"Jungwon?" Her voice came out careful, testing. "You're back early."
He didn't answer right away. He just looked at her, and she followed his gaze to the tablet, and whatever color was left in her face drained out of it in an instant.
"How long," he said. Not a question. A statement in the shape of a question.
"I—" She pulled the towel tighter around herself, a reflexive gesture, like modesty mattered now, of all moments. "Jungwon, it's not—"
"Don't." His voice remained quiet and level, the same tone he used when he had to tell a patient's family something they didn't want to hear. "Don't tell me it's not what it looks like. I read enough."
Her mouth opened, then closed. For a long moment, the only sound in the apartment was water still dripping somewhere in the bathroom behind her.
"How long," he said again.
She sat down slowly on the arm of the couch, like her legs had stopped being reliable. "Since spring," she said quietly. "Maybe a little before that."
"Spring." He turned the word over like he was checking it for a fracture. "Daeun, that's eight months."
"I didn't plan for it to happen." Her voice cracked slightly, and he almost hated how convincing it sounded, how rehearsed and unrehearsed all at once. "We were just–we started as friends, and then residency got so heavy, and you were always working, and he was just there, and I don't know, it just…"
"I was working," he repeated flatly. "Right. Because I have a job that saves lives, and that's the excuse."
"That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?" His voice finally rose. "Because from where I'm standing, you've had eight months to tell me. Eight months of me asking if you were okay, if something was wrong, and you telling me it was just residency. Eight months of me believing you."
She didn't answer that. There wasn't an answer that would have helped her.
"Six years," he said, quieter now, almost to himself. "Six years, and I find out like this. Off a notification on your tablet."
"I was going to tell you." Her eyes were wet now, genuinely, and some old, tired part of him almost felt sorry for her, which made him angrier at himself than at her. "I've been trying to figure out how, for weeks, I swear—"
"Don't," he said again, softer this time, because he didn't have the energy left to argue about her intentions. "It doesn't matter anymore. You could've told me in June. You could've told me in September. You didn't." He stopped, pressed the heel of his hand briefly against his eyes, then dropped it. "That's the part that matters."
"Jungwon…"
"I have to go." He was already reaching for his coat.
"Can we at least talk about this properly? Please. Don't just walk out,"
He paused at the door, hand on the frame, and looked back at her. Tear streaked, still somehow looking for a version of this conversation that ended somewhere softer than where it actually was.
"There isn't a version of this where I stay, and we talk it through.”
"So that's it?" Her voice cracked properly now. "Six years, and you're just leaving? No fighting for it?"
He almost laughed, though nothing about it felt funny. "You didn't fight for it either," he said quietly. "Not for eight months."
He didn't wait for her response. The door closed behind him just shut, quiet and final, the same way the whole relationship seemed to be ending: without the drama it probably deserved, just a soft, ordinary sound marking something enormous coming apart.
He drove without any destination in mind, the radio off, the city sliding past in a blur of red lights, he stopped out of habit rather than attention. Six years. He kept circling back to the number like it might rearrange itself into something smaller, something easier to hold.
He ended up parking outside a bar he'd never been to. Not his usual place near the hospital, where someone always seemed to know his face even without the coat. Tonight, he didn't want to be recognized. He didn't want to be Dr. Yang, careful and composed, the boy faced physician everyone had to double take before trusting. He just wanted to sit somewhere dark and stop being anyone in particular for a while.
He loosened his tie in the car before he went in. Small, useless gesture. It didn't make him feel any less, as something had just been quietly taken from him.
.
.
.
The bar was louder than you expected for a Tuesday, but you didn't care. Noise was better than silence. Silence gave you room to think, and thinking was the last thing you wanted tonight.
By the time the bartender slid your fourth glass across the counter, the sharp edges of the evening had softened. The ache in your chest hadn't disappeared; it had simply become distant, like hearing thunder several miles away. You shifted on the barstool, crossing one leg over the other. The black dress rode a little higher against your thigh, and for the first time in years, you didn't bother tugging it back down.
He would've hated that. The thought came uninvited. You emptied the rest of your drink before it could linger.
That's when he sat down beside you. Close enough that you noticed before you even looked. He was handsome. That was your first thought. Your second was that he looked far too young to be sitting alone in a place like this. His white dress shirt was neatly pressed except for the loosened tie hanging around his neck, as though he'd started the evening trying to hold himself together and abandoned the effort somewhere along the way. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, exposing tired hands wrapped loosely around a glass he barely touched.
His gaze remained fixed on the amber liquid, unfocused, like he expected answers to settle at the bottom if he waited long enough. There was something strangely familiar about the way sadness sat on him. You almost didn't say anything. Almost.
You looked away. It wasn't your business. You weren't here to notice strangers. You were here to forget yourself. A minute passed, or maybe two. The bartender asked if either of you wanted another round. Neither of you answered. Without thinking, you let out a quiet breath.
"You look like you got dumped."
The words escaped before you could decide whether to keep them. Your voice came out flatter than you'd intended, stripped of humor, carrying more exhaustion than wit.
He turned toward you. Not offended, just surprised. For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. His eyes searched your face, lingering there with quiet curiosity, as though he couldn't decide if you were teasing him or speaking from experience. Then his gaze drifted lower to the diamond still resting on your left hand. A ring that caught the warm bar lights just enough to betray you. One corner of his mouth lifted into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"You still have your ring on," he said softly.
You followed his gaze, staring at the diamond as though you'd forgotten it was there. For a long moment, you simply twisted it around your finger.
"I forgot to take it off."
It wasn't entirely true. You hadn't forgotten. You just hadn't found the courage. His eyes met yours again.
"You look like you got dumped too."
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
"I did."
He gave a slow nod.
"So did I."
The words settled between you with the quiet understanding that only strangers could sometimes share. Neither of you asked for details or explanations. For tonight, it was enough to know that the person sitting beside you understood exactly what heartbreak looked like.
He glanced at your empty glass. "Another?"
You shook your head. "I think I've had enough of pretending a drink is going to fix anything."
Something about that made him almost smile, the first real one you'd seen from him all night, small and tired but genuine. "Yeah,me too."
The bartender came by again, and this time Jungwon was the one who waved him off, reaching instead for his wallet. You didn't argue when he paid for both of you. Some nights, you didn't have the energy left to insist on independence.
Outside, the air was cooler than you expected, sharp enough to cut through the haze just slightly. Neither of you moved toward a taxi right away. You just stood there for a moment under the bar's dim sign, the city noise a distant hum around you, both of you clearly aware that the night hadn't decided yet what it wanted to become.
"I don't usually do this," you said, not quite looking at him.
"Do what?"
"Any of this. Bars. Strangers. Standing outside at midnight, not knowing what I'm doing."
"Neither do I," he said. Then, after a pause, quieter, "I don't want to go home yet, though."
You understood exactly what he meant, because you felt the same thing sitting heavy in your chest. Home wasn't home anymore. Home was an apartment with echoes you couldn't bear to hear. Home meant seeing the engagement ring still circling your finger. Home meant admitting that tomorrow would arrive whether you wanted it to or not. For the first time that evening, you really looked at him.
He couldn't have been much younger than thirty, though his face carried an unmistakable softness that made him seem younger than he probably was. His tie still hung loose around his neck, his hair slightly disheveled, exhaustion written plainly across features that were almost unfairly handsome.
He looked as though someone had reached into his life that morning and quietly removed the future he'd expected. That may be why he looked familiar.
"There's a hotel two blocks from here," you said.
He didn't ask if you were sure. He just nodded, like he'd been waiting for someone to say it first.
Neither of you filled the silence with questions about names, jobs, or the people who had broken your hearts. Some things felt strangely unimportant. Inside the elevator, your shoulders brushed for the first time. Neither of you moved away.
The door had barely clicked shut before the tension that had been simmering between you in the elevator boiled over. There was no slow buildup, no romantic preamble; there was only a desperate, starving need to feel something other than the hollow ache in your chests.
Jungwon turned to you, his face flushed from the alcohol and the heat of the moment. He looked so young, almost innocent, but the look in his eyes was raw and hungry. He reached out, his hand cupping the back of your neck and pulling you into a kiss that tasted of whiskey and grief. It was a collision, teeth clashing, breaths hitching as you both clung to each other like survivors of a shipwreck.
You groaned into his mouth, your hands sliding up his chest to grip the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until there wasn't a sliver of air between your bodies. He backed you up against the door, the thud of your back hitting the wood echoing in the quiet room. His tongue pushed past your lips, claiming your mouth with an urgency that made your toes curl.
"Please," you whispered against his lips, though you weren't even sure what you were asking for.
He didn't answer with words. His hands slid down to your hips, lifting you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your skirt riding up to your hips as he carried you toward the bed. He dropped you onto the white linens, his body following immediately, pinning you down with a weight that felt grounding and necessary.
Jungwon’s hands were frantic, stripping away the barriers of clothing. He pulled your dress over your head and tossed it aside, his eyes scanning your naked body with a mixture of awe and desperation. When he stripped off his own clothes, you saw the lean, toned muscles of a man who didn't look his age, his cock already hard and pulsing, straining against the air.
He didn't waste time. He moved between your thighs, his fingers sliding down to find your pussy. You were already soaking, the friction of the night and the emotional turmoil making you ache for him. He slid two fingers inside you, stretching you open, while his thumb worked your clit in a rhythmic, punishing pace. You arched your back, a loud moan escaping you as you neared the edge.
"Look at me," he murmured.
You opened your eyes to see him watching you, his expression a mask of longing. He positioned the head of his cock at your entrance, pausing for a heartbeat before thrusting deep inside you in one heavy, seamless motion.
You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders as he filled you completely. The sensation was overwhelming. The stretch, the heat, the sudden fullness that silenced the noise in your head. He began to move, his thrusts deep and rhythmic, driving into you with a primal intensity. Each hit of his pelvis against your ass sounded like a wet slap in the quiet room.
"Fuck," he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. "You feel so good… shit, so tight…"
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down for another bruising kiss as he picked up the pace. He wasn't being gentle; he was fucking you with a desperation that mirrored your own, as if by driving himself into you, he could push out the memory of the woman who had betrayed him. You met every thrust, tilting your pelvis up to take him deeper, wanting to feel every inch of him.
The friction built, a coil of tension tightening in your lower belly. Jungwon’s movements became shorter, faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He shifted his grip, grabbing your thighs and pinning them back toward your chest to open you up even more. The angle allowed him to hit your cervix with every plunge, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your spine.
"I'm close—" he choked out, his muscles straining.
You felt your own climax rushing toward you, a tidal wave of release. You gripped his biceps, your voice breaking into a series of high-pitched whimpers. As you peaked, your pussy walls clamping tight around him in rhythmic spasms, Jungwon let out a low, guttural growl. He gave one final, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and shuddered violently as he came.
You felt the hot, thick jets of his cum pumping deep inside you, filling your womb with a warmth that felt almost spiritual in its intensity. He stayed buried inside you for a long time, his forehead resting against yours, both of you panting, your hearts beating in a synchronized, frantic rhythm.
As the adrenaline faded, the silence returned, but it was different now. The loneliness was still there, but it had been blunted. Jungwon slowly withdrew, the wet sound of his cock leaving your body echoing in the room. He didn't pull away completely; he rolled onto his side and pulled you into his arms, tucking your head under his chin.
Neither of you spoke. There were no names exchanged, no promises of a second meeting. You just lay there in the dim light of the hotel room, two broken strangers sharing a bed, clinging to the fleeting comfort of a night that neither of you would ever forget.
.
.
.
A month passed by.
Long enough for the memory of that night to start to blur at the edges. Sometimes you thought you invented some of it.
You remembered the warmth of whiskey better than you remembered his face. His tie, loosened. How he’d just listened, without asking questions. A pair of tired eyes that had looked at you as if they knew something that nobody else knew.
All else had blurred, melting into the sort of memory that belonged to another version of you. You never came back to the bar. If he did, you wouldn't know it. And if he hadn’t, you wouldn’t have known that either. That was maybe how it was always supposed to be. Life went on, as indifferent as ever.
Life had moved on, in its own stubborn manner. You got out of the apartment. You’d gone and blocked your ex-fiancée’s number. You weren't going to speak to your ex-bestfriend, and you hadn't. It was a mercy in itself. Your students didn't know that anything was different. They looked at you like you were just their lecturer. Untroubled. Unbreakable.
You could almost pretend your life hadn’t fallen apart. For three hours at a time. That was enough. Until it wasn’t. It began on a Thursday. Not with nausea or vertigo. Only a date.
You were standing in your kitchen, waiting on the coffee machine to finish brewing, when the thought came unbidden. Your monthly. Your brow wrinkled. You counted backwards, almost absentmindedly. Then you counted again. The answer was the same. It's late.
This was not normal.
Your body was always predictable, almost stubbornly so. Even in college, when your roommates complained about irregular cycles and surprise cramps, yours came like clockwork, and you didn’t bother tracking it anymore. You put your coffee mug down, untouched.
"It's the stress," you whispered to the empty apartment. It must have been.
It made sense, didn't it? The breakup, the move, months of your nervous system running on fumes. Bodies did strange things under pressure. You'd read that somewhere, or maybe you just wanted to have read it somewhere.
You gave it a few more days. Then a week. The coffee you'd started craving black suddenly turned your stomach. Smells you'd never noticed before. The neighbor's cooking, the detergent in your own laundry, sent you running for air that didn't feel like it was choking you.
One day a co-worker came into your office with take out. The smell alone would have you running for the nearest bathroom. You said it was the flu. Food poisoning. Anything. All of it. Except for that one possibility that’s silently trailing you from room to room.
By the time you found yourself standing in the pharmacy aisle staring at a shelf of boxes you never had reason to buy before, some quiet part of you, dreading, already knew.
You stood in front of the shelf longer than you needed to. So many different brands. Different promises. Different prices. As though any of them could deliver a different answer. You bought two.
As soon as you were home, you didn't wait long to do. Sat on the side of the bathtub, phone timer ticking away before you began to look at your hands and realise they weren't even yours.
Two lines. Then two more.
You sat there for a long time after that, the tile cold beneath you, your mind doing the math it didn't want to do. The date, the timeline, the one night that had blurred into something you'd tried hard to forget. There was only one night it could have been.
Your heartbeat stumbled.
"No..."
The word escaped before you realized you'd spoken aloud.
You remained there for what felt like hours, staring at the tests resting in your hands as though they belonged to someone else.
There was only one person. One night. One stranger, with tired eyes and a loosened tie and a sadness that had looked so much like your own it hadn't frightened you. You didn't even remember his name. You didn't know his address. What was his work. If you'd ever see him again. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes. A man who existed in your memory as nothing more than tired eyes and a loosened tie, and you look like you got dumped, too.
You didn't know how to find him even if you'd wanted to.
A baby.
The words refused to settle. They hovered somewhere just beyond understanding, too large to fit into the quiet routine you'd been stitching back together over the last month. You were thirty two. Recently single. Still learning how to sleep in an apartment that echoed because there was no one else in it.
You'd spent years building a career you loved, teaching future educators how to nurture children with patience, consistency, and kindness. Ironically, you'd never decided whether motherhood belonged in your own future. You always assumed there would be time to figure it out.
You thought you had more time to decide that. You thought, if it ever happened, it would happen with someone you trusted, someone who'd chosen it with you, not a stranger from a bar whose last name you didn't even know.
You thought about how easy it would be to end it before anyone had to know it happened at all. No one would ask questions. No one would even know there was something to ask about. You could keep moving forward exactly the way you'd planned, pick your life back up, untangled, unremarkable, the way it was supposed to look after a breakup like this. Clean. Simple.
You sat with that thought for a while, testing its weight, waiting to feel relief.
It didn't come.
Instead, you found yourself thinking about your own mother, who used to tell you that she'd never once regretted having you. Even though your father had left before you turned three. Hardest thing I ever did alone, she'd said once, and still the only decision I never doubted. You'd never fully understood what she meant by that until this exact moment, sitting on a bathroom floor with a truth in your hands you hadn't asked for.
You thought about the years you'd spent in classrooms full of small kids who trusted easily, loved easily, hadn't yet learned that people could hollow you out from the inside without warning. You'd built a career around believing children deserved good beginnings. You wondered, cruelly, whether you were about to fail that belief the moment it became personal.
Then you thought about the alternative. The quiet, empty version of your future you'd have to live with either way. A yes, you might regret, or a no, you were fairly sure you would.
You pressed a hand flat against your stomach, feeling nothing yet, nothing you could point to, and still somehow feeling everything.
A slow breath escaped you.
"I don't need him."
The words were barely louder than a whisper. You said them again.
"I don't."
You weren't trying to convince yourself. You already knew they were true. You didn't need a husband. You didn't need a wedding. You didn't need promises made by someone else to make this decision for you. If this child entered the world, it would be because you chose them. Not because of guilt.
You knew exactly what waited beyond this bathroom door. Questions, whispers and mostly it would be judgment. Forms with blank spaces labeled Father. A future that would be more difficult than the one you'd imagined for yourself. None of that disappeared simply because you'd made a decision. But neither did your resolve.
For the first time since walking into that apartment on Tuesday afternoon, you realized your future no longer felt defined by something that had been taken from you. It was being shaped by something you had chosen. You slowly pushed yourself to your feet and looked at your reflection in the mirror. You looked exhausted. Your eyes were swollen, your hair a mess, your expression still carrying traces of the woman who'd had her heart broken.
But beneath all of that, there was something new. Resolve. You rested your hand over your stomach once more.
"Okay," you whispered to the tiny life only you knew existed.
A faint smile tugged at your lips despite everything.
"It's you and me now."
The words sounded impossibly small in the quiet apartment. Yet, somehow, they were enough.
.
.
.
The dream came to him three nights in a row. Always the same, dissolving the moment he woke, leaving only fragments behind the way real dreams rarely do.
In it, he stood in a garden he didn't recognize, thick with fruit trees heavy enough that their branches bent low toward the ground. A woman he couldn't see clearly handed him a single peach, round and impossibly ripe, still warm like it had just been pulled from sunlight rather than a branch.
He always woke up right after that. Nothing more happened. It didn't need to.
He didn't think much of it, not really. After all, dreams rarely made sense, and he'd learned a long time ago not to chase meaning where there probably wasn't any. Still, on the fourth morning, he found himself mentioning it to Sunoo over coffee in the hospital break room, mostly out of the strange, itching need to say it out loud to someone.
"I keep having this dream," he said, staring into his cup. "Same one, a few nights now. There's a garden, and someone hands me a peach. That's it. That's the whole dream."
Sunoo lowered his own cup slowly, staring at him with an expression somewhere between disbelief and barely contained excitement. "A peach?"
"Yeah."
"Ripe? Whole? Someone handed it to you directly?"
Jungwon blinked at him. "Yes? Why does that matter?"
Sunoo set his coffee down entirely now, leaning forward like Jungwon had just handed him the best gossip of the year. "Do you seriously not know what that is?"
"It's a dream about fruit?"
Honestly, Sunoo never wanted to face palmed himself, but hearing the dumb answer Jungwon gave him got him a reason to.
"It's a taemong." When Jungwon only stared blankly back at him, Sunoo let out a groan of disbelief. "A conception dream. My grandmother used to talk about these constantly. Fruit, animals, sometimes fire or water, show up in a dream right before someone in the family finds out they're having a baby. Whole ripe fruit like that, handed directly to you? That's about as classic as it gets."
Jungwon huffed, unimpressed, turning his cup slowly between his hands. "You can't be serious."
"I'm completely serious. It's not just some old wives' thing. Half the moms I know still swear by it. My cousin dreamed about catching a fish barehanded, and two weeks later, she found out she was pregnant. My aunt dreamed about a dragon curling around her arm and had twins."
"That's confirmation bias," Jungwon said flatly. "People remember the dreams that match and forget the ones that don't."
"Sure, sure, very scientific of you, Dr. Yang." Sunoo waved a hand, entirely unbothered by the skepticism. "But you're not the one who usually has these dreams, that's the funny part. It's not always the mother. Sometimes it's the father, or a grandparent, sometimes even a close friend if the dream's strong enough. But if it's the father dreaming it..." He trailed off, grinning now, clearly enjoying himself far too much. "That usually means it's already happened. The universe is just running a little behind on paperwork."
Jungwon rolled his eyes, though something in his chest had gone strangely tight at the words, an unease he couldn't quite explain rationally. "I don't believe in that stuff."
"You don't have to believe in it for it to be true," Sunoo said, entirely too pleased with himself. "That's kind of the whole point of a folktale, isn’t it?"
Jungwon didn't have a response for that. He just sat there, turning his coffee cup slowly in his hands, telling himself it was nothing. Probably just stress, exhaustion, and an overactive mind conjuring strange images after too many back to back shifts. He didn't have a girlfriend anymore. There was no one in his life the dream could reasonably be about.
He didn't let himself finish that thought all the way through.
"It's nothing," he said again, mostly to convince himself. "Just a weird dream."
Sunoo shrugged, tossing his empty cup toward the trash with practiced ease, clearly unconvinced but willing to let it go. "Sure. Just a weird dream."
Jungwon didn't think much more of it after that. Not consciously, anyway. But the image stayed with him regardless, lingering somewhere quiet at the edges of his following days. A garden, a peach, and a stranger's hands offering him something he hadn't known, yet, that he was already holding.
.
.
.
The clinic wasn't one you'd been to before.
A coworker had recommended it months ago, so excited about the obstetrics department that you'd written the name down without a second thought. It was near campus, near enough to squeeze in an appointment between lectures without sacrificing half your day to traffic.
You wish. That was it. Comfort. Distance from your former life. A doctor who didn’t know your story. Somebody who would see one more first time patient. That's all.
You sat, one leg bouncing under your chair, fingertips tracing the edge of the bracelet wrapped loosely about your wrist. You'd practiced the appointment on the drive over. If they asked about the father, you would tell them as you have been rehearsing it in your mind.
We're not together.
If they pressed further, then—
I'd rather not discuss it.
Simple.
"Y/L/N?"
A nurse called your name, and you followed her down a hallway that smelled like antiseptic and lavender hand soap, into a small exam room with a poster of a fetal development chart on the wall that you deliberately didn't look at too long.
"Dr. Yang will be with you in just a moment," the nurse said, and left you there with your paper gown and your racing thoughts.
You didn't think anything of the name. Yang wasn't uncommon. You sat on the edge of the exam table, hands folded in your lap, running through the questions you wanted to ask — due dates, next steps, whether the exhaustion you'd been feeling was normal or something to worry about.
Then the door opened.
"Good afternoon, I'm Dr. Yang Jung—"
The sentence didn't finish. It just stopped, cut clean in half, the way a record scratches when the needle's yanked away too fast.
You looked up. And your whole body went cold.
He remained frozen in the doorway, one hand still curled around the handle like he'd forgotten how to let go of it. The patient chart in his other hand slipped slightly in his grip, not enough to fall, just enough that you noticed his fingers had momentarily stopped remembering their one job. Recognition moved across his face almost instantly, undisguised, unrehearsed, nothing like the practiced composure a doctor was supposed to walk into a room with.
The overhead lights were full on him now. Clinical, unfriendly, not like the dim gold haze of that bar a month ago. No booze to take the edge off. No shadows to hide the details And you couldn’t miss him. Same face. Same eyes that witnessed you break against a hotel room door. Quiet and searching, in a way that had seemed to him that night the only honest thing left in the world. Except the face was on a man in a white coat. A stethoscope draped around his neck. His name stitched in careful navy thread over his heart.
Yang Jungwon.
Neither of you said anything. The seconds stretched, thin and unbearable, the fluorescent hum of the room suddenly deafening in the silence. As if hoping he was mistaken. He wasn't.
"...You?"
It barely qualified as a word. More breath than voice. Your mouth had gone completely dry. The sentence never got a chance to finish. Neither of you needed it to.
You weren't doing much better. Your hands had grown cold, and sat in your lap, fingers pressed together hard enough to leave imprints. The paper gown crackled a little with each too-quick breath. You’d spent a month talking yourself into believing that night belonged to some other you, reckless and grieving and gone by morning. And here he was, a white coat, a stethoscope around his neck, his name stitched over his heart, undeniably real, undeniably the same man.
Neither of you said anything.
His gaze dropped. Not to the chart. To your left hand. The engagement ring was gone. Then, almost involuntarily, his eyes moved lower. To the file tucked beneath his arm. He looked at your name. Gestational age. Estimated conception date. The room became impossibly quiet. His jaw tightened. Not because he was calculating. Because he already had. He didn't need the dates. He remembered the night. The chart simply confirmed what he already knew.
SYNOPSIS Martin has a habit of ending up next to you. Not beside you in any grand way, just close. He says your name like it's something he likes having in his mouth. He asks for things he already knows you'll give. And somehow, every time, you let him, because you've tried to imagine the alternative and you don't like how it feels.
A/N: this is literally my VERY FIRST fic ever idk what came over me sorry if it's bad i wrote it in like one sitting and did not proofread but hope y’all like it 🥹🫰
"Noona"
He says it like it's a secret he enjoys knowing.
Not loud, not teasing, just close to your ear, low and deliberate, the way he says it when he wants something and knows you can't say no to that particular word in that particular voice.
"Noonaa, I’m calling you."
"Martin i hear you." You said.
"I finished my readings."
"Good for you." You said.
"I finished them an hour ago."
You turn a page. The café you've claimed as your study spot is warm and smells like brown butter and espresso, rain tracing long fingers down the window beside you. Martin is across the table, textbook shut, chin propped in his palm, watching you with that expression he gets patient and a little helpless, like you're a problem he's already decided he doesn't want solved.
"Noona," he says again.
"Martin, I have thirty more pages." You said.
"Your coffee's cold." He said.
You reach for it. He's right, it's cold. You make a face. He looks pleased with himself in a very small, very annoying way.
"I would've gotten you a new one," he says, “but I didn't want to leave."
You look at him over the rim of the cup. "Why not?"
He shrugs. It's the kind of shrug that means you know why.
You do know why.
You set the cold coffee down and look at him properly. There's a faint crease on his cheek from where he'd been resting on his hand earlier, during the hour he claims to have been studying. His sweater is slightly too big. He looks soft in the warm light, a little sleepy, and entirely focused on you.
"Come here," you say.
He moves before you finish the sentence. He pulls his chair around to your side of the table and sits close enough that your arms press together, and then he leans down and kisses your cheek, so soft it barely lands, like a question, and then your temple, and then he stays there, face turned into your hair.
"Hi," he mumbles.
"You're such a baby," you say, and you mean it with your whole heart.
"I'm a baby who finished his readings."
"Mm." You reach up and pat his cheek. He catches your hand and holds it there, eyes closing briefly.
"What do you want?"
"Nothing." A pause. "You."
"Martin."
"I just want to sit here." He says it plainly, without performance. "Is that okay? I'll be quiet."
It is so deeply okay. It's always been okay. You've told him this a hundred times and he still asks, still checks, and you've come to understand that's just how he loves with this particular carefulness, this ongoing, gentle requesting of permission even when the answer has never once been no.
You go back to your reading. He stays.
He's quiet for exactly four minutes. You know this because you count.
"Noona."
"Yes, Martin."
"You're the prettiest person in this café."
"There are like eight people in this café."
"You're the prettiest person in the building."
"The building has four floors."
"You're the prettiest person I've ever seen," he says, easy as breathing, and you feel your face go warm from the ears down.
You keep your eyes on your page. It doesn't help. "Sweet-talker."
"It's not sweet talk if it's true."
"That's exactly what a sweet-talker would say."
He laughs quietly, that small, real laugh he has, barely any sound to it, more felt than heard when you're this close. He turns his head and presses a kiss to your shoulder. Then another, slightly higher. Working his way up with no urgency, unhurried, like he has all the time that exists.
Your collarbone. The curve of your neck. The soft place below your jaw.
"Martin," you say.
"Mm." His lips brush your cheek. Your nose. The corner of your mouth.
You turn your head and catch him properly.
He goes still, always does, that half-second where he just receives it, like he hasn't expected it even now, even after all this time and then he kisses you back slowly, both hands coming up to cup your face with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. He tastes like the latte he finished an hour ago. His thumbs trace your cheekbones.
When you pull back he keeps his forehead against yours, eyes still closed.
"Noona," he says, very quietly.
"What."
"I really love you."
You look at his face, the ink smudge on his knuckle, the small scar above his brow, the way his lashes fan out when his eyes are shut, and something in you settles warm and permanent.
"I love you too," you say. "Now let me study."
He smiles. Leans back. Opens his textbook.
Forty seconds later his knee finds yours under the table and stays there.
boyfriend!martin who wakes you up at the ass crack of dawn because he had a nightmare about you cheating on him :: wc. 826 :: authors note 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 contains established relationship, fluff, just humor lol :: plss like + reblog :: if my work isn’t for you, feel free to leave but negativity has no place here.
♪ she looks so perfect ノ would you wanna run away too? ‘cause all i really want is you : nav : m.list
Martin woke up sad, thought about it for ten minutes while staring at the wall, then slowly grew angry, a pout tugging at his pink lips. He just had the worst dream, and you're not even awake for him to get annoyed at you for it. What the heck, “babe. wake up,” martin started, massaging your hips while gently shaking your body awake.
You had slept on your side, facing his back. Martin loves being the big spoon, yes, but he never said he hated being the small spoon either. So what if he likes being held?
Though the more he shook you awake, the more you didn't wake up. It only made him even more frustrated. “Wake up!” he shook you even more until you finally started to stretch awake, blinking your clouded sleepiness away. “I'm mad at you,” Martin said the second he saw you peek one eye open.
You yawned and stretched your other arm. “Okay? m'sleeping.” You turned your back toward him, getting more comfortable in your new position, putting an arm under the pillow. You smiled when you felt how good a spot you'd gotten; you weren't really registering what he was saying.
Martin glared at the back of your head. “Now you're just making me even more mad,” he said. You heard him climb off the bed. So dramatic, that boy, swear. When you didn't say anything, too busy drifting back off to sleep, he let out a huge, dramatic sigh, grabbed the pillow from the end of the bed, and threw it at you. “I said, now you're just making me more mad.”
“I heard you,” you mumbled, your eyes still closed. You dug your face deeper into the cold side of the pillow. It's like hitting the jackpot of comfortable spots. “Why are you even mad?” You couldn't help but find him getting annoyed at your sleepy state hilarious. Definitely woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.
“Because you're not listening to me!” he groaned when he saw the small smile on your face. You're not taking him seriously! Why are you smiling? “I had the worst dream. no, actually, it wasn't even a dream, it was a nightmare, and you are just trying to be funny when i'm trying to tell you about it.” he's literally been stressing about the nightmare since he woke up, wondering if it's a sign the universe is trying to give him or if his brain just wants to play tricks on him and give him jump scares that'll have his heart beating like no other just for the fuck of it.
You yawned, getting yourself even more comfortable. “Tell me when I wake up then.” Martin can't wait for you to wake up because he's been stressing about it ever since he woke up!
“Where's your phone?”
You immediately sat up. “What?” Oh, so now all of a sudden you're awake? He didn't know if that made him angrier or sadder.
“I thought you were sleepy,” Martin replied, walking around your room to find your phone. If you weren't going to give him the answers now, he would just have to find out for himself, he guessed. “Where's your phone?” he asked again when he couldn't find it.
“Why?” Now you're asking why? Martin is legit about to crash out.
“You're such a cheater,” he spat out. He was standing while you were now propped up on your elbows, watching him as he looked around for your phone. “In my dream, you were cheating on me with this ugly ass guy, and then I woke up to you not even hugging me. It's like, damn, you really don't love me.” he crossed his arms. “That's when I started thinking, hmmm, maybe the universe is trying to tell me something.”
Is he fucking serious right now? “That's what you're mad about? A fake dream of me cheating?” You shook your head and pulled the blanket over yourself. “Wake me up when you're normal again.”
“Babe, see! how do you expect me not to be mad when you just dismissed me like that?” he pouted. Why aren't you giving him your phone? Or your attention? “You're so mean to me.”
He walked over to the side of the bed you were sleeping on, not caring about the yelp you let out when he put his whole body weight on top of you, letting his head fall into your neck. You huffed. Wasn't he just complaining? The switch up in three seconds truly gave you whiplash. “You just said how mean I was to you and got all mad because of your dumbass dream.”
“I am still mad, trust,” his voice muffled into your neck. You almost snorted. mad looked a little different here, but oh well. “and it's not dumb. I'm still gonna be on you because of that when we wake up again,” you rolled your eyes.
⤷ Y/N L/N got dumped, but she’s far from defeated. She’s scheming, and Martin Edwards— loud, chaotic, and just impossible to ignore, is her secret weapon.
Alternatively: the full love story behind how rodrick! martin and regina! reader end up together
ᯓ★ warnings: wc:9.3k rodrick! martin x regina! reader, fake dating to lovers, swearing, reader is mean and uses martin at first, swearing, martin embarrassing himself is inspired by a scene from rodrick rules (2010), intentional mischaracterization of some mean girls (2004) cast, he calls you princess, rushed ending oops
ᯓ★ note: ITS FINALLY HERE >0< !!! i had so much fun while writing this so i hope you guys also enjoy reading it 🫶 characters are from my sk8er boi! post
The last place you expected to be on a Friday night was a cramped, overheated house that smelled like cheap alcohol, sweat, teenage hormones, and something vaguely burnt.
And yet, here you were.
Standing near the very back, half hidden behind a pillar, arms crossed like you weren’t actively choosing to be there. Your disguise was… half-assed at best. A cap pulled low over your face, oversized sunglasses despite the dim lighting, which honestly, if anything, it made you more noticeable. But you refused to take them off. The point wasn’t to blend in perfectly.
The point was to not look like you cared. Because you didn’t. Obviously.
You just happened to be in the area. And he just happened to be performing. And you just happened to step inside for like two seconds. That’s it. Purely coincidental. Even as the flyer he had handed you earlier that month, now folded neatly inside your jean pocket, said something different.
Screams and whistles suddenly erupted around you, dragging your attention toward the stage despite yourself.
Martin steps on to the stage first. And god, he was… loud.
Not just in volume, but in presence. You knew he was loud. You’d grown familiar with the sound of his laughter and shouting (against your will), echoing through the school hallways during his usual over-the-top antics. But this… this was different. He moved across the stage, electric guitar in hand, like it belonged to him. Like every second of attention from the crowd was something he expected, not something he hoped for. His voice cut through the noise effortlessly, rough in a way that made the entire room lean in.
You shifted your weight, trying (and failing) to look uninterested. You weren’t impressed or anything. High school garage bands were soooo last year, you like to believe that your tastes were much more refined than that. But a small, tiny part of you regrettably understood why everyone else seemed to be.
The crowd erupted at the end of the third song. You hadn’t even noticed how long you had been watching him, and annoyingly, he looked good. Not in a polished, put together way--but in that careless, messy way that somehow worked. Hair damp with sweat, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, those ridiculous studded bracelets clinking every time he moved. Even the chipped black nail polish on his fingers, something you would’ve normally judged—looked deliberate as they moved over the strings. It was irritating how well it all suited him.
Cheers bounced off the walls as people pushed closer to the makeshift stage. Some girls even held up signs for someone named James as he played the bass, while the drummer–Keonho, you hear from the freshmen around you– kept the energy going from the back.
Despite the ruckus and adrenaline around you, you didn’t move. You stayed planted at the back, arms still crossed, occasionally checking your nails and the charms on them to look busy, expression carefully neutral. Unwilling to admit how much their performance pulled you in. Scanning the crowd with a bored stare, you caught sight of something that immediately sent blood rushing to your ears. Your nails pressing crescents into your palm, though your face remained completely stone cold.
Aaron Samuels. Your ex-boyfriend. The one who had broken up with you just two days ago because you were “too much.” Locked in a passionate kiss with Cady Heron. Your new friend. (Though some would argue she’s just another one of your ‘minions’ who do everything you ask them to and believe every word you say. But oh well its whatever, friend, sidekick, minion, they're all the same to you anyway.)
Your anger continued to boil beneath the surface, but you weren’t going to make a scene here. You were better than that. Exhaling a staggered breath, you forced yourself to inhale slowly, unwilling to make a spectacle of yourself. You just scoff at their public display, the scene reminding you of two fishes kissing each other that you once saw from a random documentary.
That didn’t mean you were going to let them go. You always had your way, one way or another.
You couldn’t care less if your ex-boyfriend had found someone else right after your breakup. What you couldn’t accept was how he thought he had the power to end things with you, not the other way around. The same could be said for Cady. You had never truly seen her as a friend, but you certainly weren’t going to let her play you for a fool. You would make sure they regretted it.
Just not now. Their time will eventually come.
After throwing one last judgmental glance at the pair, you refocused your attention on the five-person band. Specifically to the blond with spiked hair and messy eyeliner, his red electric guitar slung low.
Onstage, Martin was having the time of his life. He ran a hand through his damp hair, slightly out of breath, eyeliner smudged just enough to look intentional. Leaning into the mic, a crooked grin tugged at his lips as his eyes scanned the crowd.
Until they landed past it.
Straight to you.
You froze.
Oh God, no. There was no way.
“Damn,” he breathed into the mic, voice low, amused. “Didn’t think I’d actually see you here tonight.”
Your stomach dropped. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. You were literally wearing a disguise. Granted, it wasn’t a good one– but still! How did he spot you so easily in a crowd like this?
He straightened, grin widening, clearly enjoying this far too much. “This next song…” he said, dragging it out just enough to make your dread build, “…goes out to a very special lady.”
Your eyes widened behind your sunglasses.
Oh my God. Shut up. No. No fucking way.
He lifted his hand, pointing directly at you. “This one’s for you.” The reaction was immediate.
Heads turned. Dozens of them. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. The energy in the room shifted as people followed his gaze, right to the back, right to you.
Your heart nearly stopped. You ducked your head instantly, pulling your cap lower over your face, as if that could somehow erase the fact that half the room was now staring at you. This was a nightmare.
Being the center of attention wasn’t unfamiliar to you. After all, you were Y/N L/N. Queen bee of North Shore High. The one who controlled the social hierarchy. The one who could make or break someone’s reputation with a single word. But this was completely different. You had no intention of being recognized in this smelly, cramped backyard, precisely why you had thrown on an (admittedly shitty) disguise and left Karen and the others completely in the dark.
Mortification burned through you, hot and immediate.
Onstage, Martin just smiled, like he was genuinely on top of the world just because you were there. And then– he strummed the guitar.
You stilled, the first strum hitting like a loaded gun. And somehow, you just knew it was aimed at you.
God, please no. Just kill me now.
You knew that sound. You knew that opening. Your head snapped up despite yourself, horror dawning in real time. Martin leaned into the mic, eyes still locked on yours, grin borderline wicked. And then he started singing, the four other boys behind him closely mirroring the horror on your face, hands completely still, unsure of what to do.
“You know you love me,” he sang, winking at you. “I know you care.”
You stared at him in pure, unfiltered disbelief. Out of all the songs in the world. Out of all the songs–
He chose that one.
“And I just can’t believe we ain’t together…”
The crowd went wild. Some people laughed, others cheered louder, phones already out. Hesitantly, his bandmates follow his lead and start playing the instrumental. And Martin? He was absolutely eating it up, performing like this was the best decision he had ever made in his life.
And while you were completely, utterly stuck watching in both horror and amusement… a devilish idea began to take root in your head.
Aaron Samuels and Cady Heron might have put you on display– but you’d be the one controlling how this story ended.
The set ended in a blur of noise. After Martin's very humiliating public display, the band tried to do some form of damage control and played more songs, hoping that everyone will forget what just happened.
Cheers, whistles, people chanting for one more song, screaming ‘Cortis’ like they were headlining coachella instead of someone’s overcrowded backyard. The energy lingered in the air long after the last note faded, buzzing beneath your skin in a way you refused to acknowledge.
You didn’t stay for long. Just enough to let the crowd settle. Just enough to make sure no one was paying attention to you anymore. Then you moved.
Through the bodies, past the makeshift stage, toward the side of the house where the five boys had gathered. Laughing, excitedly talking over each other, riding the high of their performance. And there he was.
Leaning back against the wall like he hadn’t just made a complete spectacle out of you twenty minutes ago. A half-empty water bottle in his hand, hair damp, his cheeks flushed from the heat, eyeliner smudged and nearly melted off from the sweat.
His head tilted the second you stepped into his line of sight. A grin spreading across his face like he’d just won something, eyebrows raised in faux shock.
“Oh, wow, look who we have here,” he drawled, pushing himself off the wall, meeting you half way, body towering over yours even with the kitten heels you wore, completely ignoring the shocked look in his friends faces as they pretended that they weren't listening. “Didn’t think you’d actually come see me.”
You stopped an arms length away from him, arms crossing over your chest, expression perfectly composed. “Don’t flatter yourself, Edwards” you said coolly. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
His grin widened.
God he loves when you talk in that bratty tone of yours.
“Yeah?” he said, taking a step closer, fingers fiddling with his earring, voice teasing. “So did you like it? You were looking pretty into it back there.” His head tilting in the direction of the stage.
“I was just dropping by,” you corrected flatly.
“Right right.” He nodded, like he totally believed you. “Dropping by. So the disguise has no reason at all? You just like walking around with a cap and sunglasses during the night?”
Your eyes narrowed slightly behind your sunglasses. “You talk a lot for someone who just publicly humiliated me.”
That only made him laugh. “Humiliated?” he repeated, hand coming up to his chest in mock offense. “I dedicated a song to you. That’s like- the complete opposite of humiliation and totally romantic.”
“You think Baby by Justin Bieber is romantic?” you deadpanned.
“Definitely,” he shot back, nodding vigorously. “Isn’t that how he bagged Selena?”
You stared at him. He only grinned, biting his lower lip slightly, eyes glinting with amusement– like he was waiting to see how far he could push you.
God, he was insufferable. And entirely too pleased with himself.
“Relax,” he added, softer now, tilting his head slightly. “You know you loved it.”
You didn’t even hesitate. “I didn’t.”
“Nah” he dragged out, shaking his head as he leaned in slightly. “You totally did.”
Silence stretched for half a second. From a few feet away, Martin's friends held their breaths. Watching closely to how you would react to the wasian boys comment. They completely expected you to step on his toes and walk away, like how you ran his foot over and drove off a few weeks ago. But all you did was let out a sharp exhale, trying to control yourself. You weren’t here for this.
You straightened slightly, gaze sharpening as you looked at him properly this time.
“Whatever, I need you to do something for me.”
That got his attention. Not that you didn’t already have it, but this shifted it. Made it sharper. More focused.
His grin didn’t disappear, but it changed. Curious now. “Yeah?” he said. “What kind of something?”
You held his gaze. “I need you to play a part.”
His eyebrows lifted, interest piqued. “And what exactly am I auditioning for?”
You didn’t smile. “My boyfriend.”
That did it. For the first time since you walked over, Martin actually went still. Not completely. Just enough that you noticed. Then his mouth twitched, lips pressing tight like he was trying not to react.
“Wow, straight to it, huh?”
“This isn’t about you,” you said immediately. “So don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Mhmmm” he hummed, like he wasn’t listening at all. Like thinking about it was too much of a task, even when deep down all of his nerves were about to explode just at the mere mention of you mentioning ‘boyfriend’ to him. “Fake boyfriend, though… that’s a pretty big role.”
You ignored that. “It’s temporary,” you continued. “It just needs to be public. Convincing enough that people believe it.”
His eyes flickered, studying you more carefully now. “And why, may I ask,” he asked, tone just a little more curious than teasing now, “does the princess need a fake boyfriend?” Martin wasn’t stupid. Everyone had heard about you and Aaron. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder why you chose him.
You tilted your head slightly, choosing to completely ignore the nickname. You could’ve said it simply. You could’ve said: Aaron. But that wasn’t the point. “Some people need to learn a lesson,” you said instead, voice cool and measured, throwing your hair over your shoulder. “And to know never to fuck with me”
There it was. Honest. In your own way.
Martin watched you for a second longer than usual. Expression now carefully neutral, lips jutting out as he lets out a thinking hum sound. Then, he smiles. Not the teasing one he has been giving you all evening, but something sharper. “Damn,” he said under his breath. “That’s kind of evil.”
You didn’t deny it.
“I prefer the word effective.”
He let out a surprised laugh, “So let me get this straight,” he said, now taking a few steps away from you, as if internalizing the information you’ve given him “You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend… so some douchebag realizes he messed up?”
“Yes.”
“And then what?”
You met his gaze, completely unbothered. “Then I turn him down.” You shrug.
That got a real reaction. He broke into loud laughter, a hand coming up to his stomach as he bent slightly, a tear forming at the corner of his eye.“God you really are evil,” he says through laughter, wiping away the tear. “I like it.” he sighs dreamily.
Of course he did.
You ignore his words, and crossed your arms again, a single eyebrow raised. “Well? What will it be, Edwards?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked at you, expression thinking, like he was piecing something together. Then his grin came back, now softer than it was before. “If I’m playing your boyfriend,” he said, voice dropping just slightly, “I’m doing it my way.”
“And what exactly does that mean?”
“It means,” he said, stepping into your space once again, just enough to be intentional, “I don’t do anything half-assed.”
Your chin tilted up slightly. “Good,” you replied. “I don’t either.”
His grin widened. “People are gonna believe it,” he continued. “No holding back. No fake plastic romance shit, If I’m in, I’m in.”
You studied him for a moment. Weighing. Calculating.
“Fine.”
That was all it took. The pink in his cheeks turning to a blazing red color. His eyes lit up–just for a second–before he masked it again with that same cocky expression.
“Didn’t think my night would end with you asking me out.” he said, shaking his head slightly.
“Don’t think too much about it, Edwards” you said flatly. “You just happen to be useful.”
“Yeah?” he shot back, grin returning. “We’ll see about that, princess.”
You turned slightly, already done with the conversation. “I’ll text you the details.”
“Wait,” he called.
You paused, glancing back at him. He was still smiling, but softer now. Not mocking. Not teasing. The same smile children have when they receive the present they’ve always prayed for on their birthday.
“For the record?”
You raised an eyebrow.
“I would’ve said yes anyway.”
You held his gaze for a second. Unreadable. Carefully thinking about your next words.
“I know.” And with that, you turned and walked away.
Leaving him still smiling like he’d just gotten exactly what he wanted, hands shaking at his sides from anticipation.
When Monday rolls around, everything at North Shore High goes on as usual. Hyunjin from the art club is still at his usual spot, handing out flyers and encouraging applicants. Cocona from the fashion club is pinning up yet another poster, looking for models. Soobin from the anime club is Naruto-running down the hall.
Again, everything is as usual.
Except for one thing.
You. And Martin. Together. Walking down the hallway. Together. Hand in hand.
A sly, almost poisonous smile sits on your glossy lips, your arm looped around Martin’s bicep. A pink Juicy Couture bag, very obviously yours, hangs off his shoulder like it belongs there. Your soft pink outfit and gold jewelry, the picture of clean girl, contrasts sharply against Martin’s all black, grungy clothes and silver accessories. And yet, somehow, it works.
You wear your usual proud expression, completely unbothered by the stares and whispers trailing behind you. You walk like this is nothing. Like it’s always been this way. Beside you, Martin carries himself differently. A little too aware. A little too smug. A cocky grin plays on his lips as he basks in the attention, occasionally throwing a mock salute at the random guys frozen by their lockers, jaws practically on the floor.
You don’t slow down. Not when the hallway opens up, not when the noise shifts from passing chatter to something more focused. If anything, your grip on Martin tightens slightly. Because you already know where you’re going.
And more importantly– you know who’s going to be there when you arrive.
The cafeteria doors swing open, loud and careless like they always do, but this time it feels different. Heads turn. Not all at once, but enough to notice, enough for it to ripple through the room as you walk in, still attached to Martin like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You don’t hesitate, don’t slow down, just head straight for your usual table where Gretchen and Karen are already mid-conversation, Cady sitting across from them with that same composed, quietly observant look she always has.
And right beside her is Aaron. He looks up, just for a second, and it’s subtle, the way his expression shifts. Not shock, not even confusion, more like mild amusement, like he’s already decided what this is before you’ve even said anything. A joke. An obvious ploy to get his attention.
You slide into your seat like nothing’s changed, dropping your bag onto the table as Martin takes the spot beside you, a little too close, deliberately so. There’s a slight pause before Cady tilts her head, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Oh, wow,” she says, light, almost curious, resting her chin on her palm, her eyes just a little too wide to still look innocent. “Y/N, who’s this… friend you have here?” There’s something under it—not quite sharp, but not harmless either. A tone you’re familiar with. The very same tone you use when speaking to a child—slow, measured, as if they wouldn’t understand otherwise. And you don’t even blink.
You just shrug, reaching for your tray that a random freshman had brought over like it’s nothing. “Martin. My boyfriend.”
It lands, and then just as quickly- laughter. Not loud, just disbelieving, like you’ve said something mildly entertaining. Karen giggles, Gretchen looks confused for half a second before brushing it off, and even Cady smiles like she’s humoring you. Across the table, Aaron leans back in his chair, a smirk tugging at his lips as he mutters, “Yeah right. Okay.” He doesn’t press, doesn’t question it further, because to him it’s obvious, it’s fake. The conversation moves on almost immediately, dissolving into something else like it always does, gossip or plans or something equally unimportant, and just like that everything feels normal again. Too normal.
You pick up your fork, ready to finally eat, when something nudges lightly against your tray. You glance down to find a raspberry smoothie sitting in front of you, cold and lightly fogged with condensation, the lid already loosened. Your eyes shift to Martin, brows pulling together in a small, questioning look. He notices anyway. Of course he does. He shrugs like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t matter. “You like this, right?” he says simply. “You have it every lunch.” Across the table, Aaron lets out a quiet scoff, wrinkling his nose. “Eugh that shits basically useless. Gatorade’s better.” Neither of you respond, not even a glance, and for a second, that silence feels louder than anything else.
You look back at the bottle, then at Martin. There’s no teasing in his expression, no smugness, no hint that this is part of some act. He’s just… right. You do drink it every lunch. You always have. Aaron never noticed, or if he did, it was to complain about it, actually, saying that it tasted weird, saying you should just get something else.
This is new to you, different. You pause, not long, just a beat, something small and quiet that almost goes unnoticed. “Hm, thanks,” you say finally, casual, like it doesn’t mean anything at all, before taking the cup and taking a sip like it’s just another part of your routine, like it’s normal.
But across the table, Aaron notices. Not the drink, not even Martin, but the pause, and the way that for the first time since you sat down, something about this doesn’t feel like a joke anymore.
It’s small, almost nothing, gone as quickly as it came, but you catch it anyway– the slight shift in his expression, the way his attention lingers just a second too long before he looks away like it doesn’t matter.
And that’s all you need.
Not a scene. Not a reaction. Just that.
Because if he was really over it– over you, he wouldn’t be looking at all. You take another sip like you didn’t notice, a barely there smirk being hidden, like none of this means anything, setting the bottle back down with quiet ease as the conversation around you carries on. But beneath it, steady and certain, something settles into place.
Judging by the way Aaron can’t stop watching, you already know how this ends.
By the time the school day ends, everyone across campus has heard the news.
Y/N L/N and Martin Edwards are dating.
There are all kinds of opinions about your relationship. Gretchen would say it’s “so fetch.” A handful of people call it adorable, while some say you're just bored. Some speculate he blackmailed you into dating him. Others insist you’re the one doing the blackmailing. But no one can deny it– somehow, impossibly, the two of you fit.
Martin quietly walks you to your car in the school parking lot, a guitar case slung over one shoulder while your pink juicy couture bag hangs from his hand. The second your car beeps open, he suddenly rushes ahead of you, swinging the door open with exaggerated flair, bowing low like some medieval knight.
“Your carriage, m’lady.”
One hand holds the door open, the other extends your bag toward you.
You scoff, amused despite yourself. “You’re such a dweeb,” you say, but a small laugh slips out anyway as you take your bag and slide into the driver’s seat. Martin lifts his head at the sound of it. He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t even try. Just grins.
“Well, you’re dating this dweeb, so…” he shrugs, gently closing your door.
For a moment, everything is quiet. No whispers. No stares. No rumors trailing behind you. Just quiet.
You would usually drive off immediately, eager to leave the draining campus behind. But for some reason, you hesitate, fingers resting against the steering wheel, unmoving. Martin notices. Of course he does. Watching you has become part of his daily routine. He leans down slightly, arms folding over the edge of your window.
“That was… a pretty eventful day,” he says.
You let out a soft laugh, nodding. “Yeah. It was.”
Silence settles again. Not uncomfortable. Just… unfamiliar. Like both of you are searching for something to say, but neither quite knows what.
Martin clears his throat lightly. “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow? I’ve got band practice, so I can’t take you home. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it, Edwards,” you reply. “My mom would probably have a heart attack if she saw you anyway.”
He smirks. “Are my looks that dangerous?”
You roll your eyes. “No. It’s because you look like a walmart version of Sid Vicious.”
You expect another one of his dramatic comebacks. A joke. A protest. Something. But instead- “You know Sid Vicious?”
You pause. Just for a second. A flicker of hesitation. You know how people see you. You know what they expect. Girls like you don’t listen to that kind of music. Girls like you don’t know things like that.
You open your mouth, already ready to brush it off as a joke but Martin breaks into a wide grin. “You just keep getting cooler and cooler.”
And just like that, the moment shifts. He straightens up, stepping back from your car, hands tucked into his skinny jeans, that same easy smile still on his face.
“See you tomorrow, princess. Drive safe.”
And then he turns, heading back toward the school, probably to the music room, like it’s just another normal day.You watch him go. The way his guitar case bounces slightly, the way his frosted tips catch the light. And watch him disappear through the doors.
And for a moment, something unfamiliar settles in your chest.
Cady Heron had always envied you.
Back at her old school, she had been the it girl. The perfect image of the campus sweetheart. Not only was she beautiful, but she was also helpful. Always tutoring the students who needed it, volunteering at every school fundraiser, dutifully following behind the teachers like their favorite little pet.
She had carefully built her image.
She made sure everyone bowed at her feet and unknowingly ate out of her hand, and the moment she realized how desperately people craved her attention, she knew she could never give up that kind of power.
So when she transferred to North Shore High, she expected more of the same. Only there was one problem.
You.
She could not understand how, despite your abrasive attitude, you still had the entire school trailing after you like lovesick puppies. Despite her best efforts to stand beside you, to replace your reign with her own sweet, charming image– she couldn’t understand how you still managed to remain on top.
That was when she decided she would take everything from you. One by one. Until you had nothing left. And she had everything.
Starting with Aaron Samuels.
Manipulating Aaron Samuels had not been difficult. Despite his good looks and golden retriever charm, at the end of the day he was still just a dog. With a brush of her hand against his arm here, a playful fix of his hair there, and the slightest pout of her lips– She got him into her bed, and got him to break up with you.
She couldn’t wait to see the look on your face. She could picture it already. Your anger at being replaced. Your humiliation. Your jealousy of her.
As she sat at the group’s usual cafeteria table that Monday, Aaron at her side, she waited eagerly for your arrival, ready to watch you desperately try to conceal your rage at realizing you had been replaced by someone better.
But to her shock, you ruined the script entirely.
You walked in smiling. Radiant. Completely unbothered. And hanging off the arm of Martin Edwards.
The same Martin Edwards who now pulled out your chair for you like it was second nature, his hand resting casually on your waist as you sat down beside him like nothing in the world had changed.
Like you hadn’t just been betrayed.
Like you hadn’t just been replaced.
Being seated directly across from your nauseating display of affection, Cady shot a glance toward Aaron and felt her stomach drop. His jaw was tight. His expression dark. His eyes lingered on you far too long.
No.
No, no, no.
She could not allow this to happen. She had worked too damn hard for this. She had fought too hard to get him on her side, and she would make sure he kept his eyes exactly where they belonged. On her.
She had only just begun her climb toward the North Shore throne.
And she refused to let you win again.
The music drifting from Martin’s CD player was the only thing filling his room. Some old rock song you frequently heard bleeding through his earphones hummed through the speakers, blending with the occasional scratch of marker against plastic.
You lay flat on your stomach across his bed, lazily kicking your legs in the air while the taller boy sat cross legged on the floor beside you, colorful key tags scattered around the both of you in messy piles.
For the past hour, the two of you had repeated the same routine. Pick up a key tag. Pick up a pen. Write down:
010 666 1738. Cady Heron’s number.
Over. And over. And over again.
If someone had told you this morning that by the end of the day you’d be in Martin Edwards bedroom, surrounded by several hundred plastic key tags and willingly participating in what could only be described as low-level psychological warfare you would have laughed in their face.
But here you were.
You glanced down at the number written neatly across the bright pink tag in your hand, then at the mountain of finished ones piling up beside Martin. Then around his room. The band posters. The half-open guitar cases. The clothes thrown carelessly over the desk chair. The lingering scent of cologne and something faintly smoky.
Weird.
You had never imagined yourself here.
Had never imagined yourself anywhere near this comfortable in Martin Edwards’ personal space, let alone sprawled out on his bed like you belonged there.
Your thoughts drifted back to earlier that day.
To the exact moment this absurd plan had begun.
Martin had practically bounded toward you in the hallway that morning. Too energetic for eight a.m. Too smug for someone who looked like he’d gotten maybe four hours of sleep.
His grin was suspiciously wide, almost manic, and his hands were tucked behind his back in a way that immediately made you narrow your eyes.
“What are you hiding?” you asked flatly.
He gasped dramatically.
“No good morning? No ‘hello, Martin, you look devastatingly handsome today?’”
“Edwards.”
He rocked back on his heels, still grinning.
“Guess.”
“No.”
“Aw, c’mon, princess live a little.”
You stared at him. He stared back.
Then sighed dramatically.
“You’re no fun.”
“Sucks to suck.”
With a flourish far more theatrical than necessary, he brought his hands forward, revealing a giant ziplock bag, stuffed, to the brim. With brightly colored plastic key tags.
You blinked. Then blinked again. “…What.”
His grin somehow widened. “I have a proposition.”
You looked between him and the bag. “No.”
“You don’t even know what it is yet.”
“The answer is still no.”
He ignored you completely, already too committed to whatever nonsense this was.
“We write Cady’s number on every single one-” He shook the bag for emphasis, the keys rattling loudly. “Then we leave them everywhere.”
You just stared. He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially despite the fact that no one around you was paying attention. “Bathroom counters. Hallways. Parking lots. Grocery stores. Taped to vending machines. Maybe at the doorstep of that weird kid who always smells like cheese–”
He kept going.
“–And thennn random creeps start calling her nonstop”
Your lips twitched. Martin froze mid-sentence. Eyes immediately catching your reaction.
“You like it,” he breathed, eyes twinkling with excitement. “You like my plan dont youuu”
You wiped your smile off instantly. “It’s…petty.”
“But effective?” he echoes your words from your first interaction.
“…Maybe.”
He broke into a victorious grin, voice teasing, “I knew it.”
You crossed your arms. “You bought all of these?”
He nodded proudly. “Three hundred.”
You stared at him incredulously, “You bought three hundred key tags?”
“What can I say, I commit to the bit.”
You should have been concerned. And honestly, you were a little. But he was grinning at you like he’d just invited you into some grand criminal conspiracy. And for reasons you didn’t entirely understand, you found yourself saying:
“When do we start?”
Which was how you ended up here, in his room. Helping him ruin Cady Heron’s week. Martin tossed another blank key tag onto the bed beside you.
“You know, you have freakishly neat handwriting for someone actively committing harassment.”
You snorted softly.
“You bought three hundred key tags for revenge and I’m the weird one?”
“Difference is,” he said, pointing his marker at you, “my insanity is charming.”
“Hm debatable.”
He pressed a hand to his chest. “Ouch Y/N, why do you wound me like this.”
“You’ll survive.”
“W-whats that? Is that the light?” he dramatically gasps, a hand reaching out to the sky, “Is my time over?”
You rolled your eyes, just huffing at his usual theatrics, but there was no real bite behind it. A comfortable quiet settled over the room after that. The kind that should’ve felt strange. Should’ve felt awkward. But didn’t. It was easy. Alarmingly easy.
Martin reached over the bed to grab another handful of tags, his arm brushing against yours. Neither of you moved away.
“You know,” he said after a moment, quieter this time, “I’m glad you asked me.”
Your hand stilled over the tag.
“To help terrorize Heron?”
He laughed. “No. Well- yes? But I meant the whole fake dating thing.”
You looked down at the tag in your hand. “Why?”
He shrugged, suddenly looking almost shy. Or as shy as Martin Edwards was capable of looking. “I don’t know.” He fiddled with the cap of his marker. “I just am I guess”
You glanced at him. He wasn’t joking. Wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t teasing. The sincerity of it caught you off guard.
“You realize I insult you constantly,” you said.
He smiled.
“Yeah.”
“And I ran over your foot.”
“You did.”
“And I only asked you because you were convenient.”
His smile softened.
“And yet you still asked me.”
Something in your chest tightened in the same manner it did in the cafeteria. Uncomfortable. Warm. Dangerous.
So naturally, you looked away first. “Hand me another key tag.”
His grin returned instantly. “Aweee are you shy?”
“Martin.”
“Right, right. Sorry, Your Majesty.”
Later, the two of you drove around town with the windows rolled down and the music blasting loud enough to rattle the car doors. The pile of completed key tags sat in your lap like a loaded grenade.
Every stop became a mission. You slipped one into a changing room at the mall. Martin dropped three in the movie theater lobby. You left two on the bathroom sink at a gas station. He tucked one under a windshield wiper while cackling like a supervillain.
At one point, after tossing a handful into the parking lot of a crowded grocery store, you sprinted back to his car laughing harder than you had in weeks.
“GO, GO, GO–”
“WAITWAIT THE TRUCK WONT START! HOLD ON IM PANICKING-!”
You collapsed into the passenger seat breathless, and he bolted out of the lot dramatically despite absolutely no one chasing you.
By the time the final key tag was gone, your cheeks hurt from smiling. Your voice was hoarse from screaming lyrics with him at red lights.
And when you looked over at Martin, hair windblown and ridiculous, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel while singing off-key with shameless confidence, you felt it.
That strange, unfamiliar ache in your chest. Because somewhere between the fake dating arrangement, the revenge plotting, the laughter…You had realized something dangerous.
You liked this. You liked him. Or maybe—
Not him. Not yet.
But you liked being around him. Liked how easy he made everything feel. Liked how he never expected you to be softer than you were. Never flinched at your cruelty. Never asked you to be kinder. Better. Prettier. Sweeter.
He knew exactly who you were, and instead of recoiling, he matched your energy. Helped you sharpen the knife. You looked at him for a long moment. And for the first time in longer than you cared to admit, you felt something dangerously close to gratitude.
When Cady walked into the cafeteria the next morning, dragging her feet with dark circles under her eyes, you and Martin had to physically restrain yourselves from laughing.
She looked awful. Her usually pristine hair was tied back in what could only generously be called a rushed ponytail, her concealer doing little to hide the exhaustion written plainly across her face. Even the way she walked lacked its usual polished confidence, movements sluggish, as if she hadn’t slept a second.
Martin’s shoulder bumped yours the second he saw her. You didn’t dare look at him. Because if you did, you would absolutely lose it.
Then Cady collapsed face-first onto the lunch table with a long, miserable groan. Aaron was at her side immediately. And Martin choked.
A loud, strangled cough tore out of him as he grabbed his drink, nearly knocking it over in the process. You kicked him hard beneath the table. He jerked, shooting you an offended look. You kept your face perfectly composed.
“What’s wrong, Cady?” Karen asked, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Did you sleep on the wrong side of the pillow?”
“Karen, it’s ‘slept on the wrong side of the bed.’ And no, I’m not okay!” Cady snapped, lifting her head just enough to glare at everyone. “Creeps have been calling me all night asking if I lost my keys or if I want to ‘have a good time.’”
Your lips pressed together so tightly they almost hurt. Beside you, Martin had gone suspiciously still. The kind of still that only happened when he was trying not to laugh.
Aaron frowned deeply. “Wait what?! How did random people even get your number?”
You widened your eyes in perfectly practiced concern. “Oh my God,” you said, your voice dripping with fake sympathy. “That’s awful! How would anyone even get your number?”
Martin nodded, far too quickly. “Yeah,” he added, coughing once into his fist. “That’s, uh… actually insane. Like… who would do something like that?”
Cady’s eyes narrowed immediately. Her gaze darted between the two of you. You stared right back, all wide-eyed innocence. Martin mirrored you, somehow managing to look both confused and deeply offended by the implication.
Karen gasped. “Maybe someone wrote your number in the bathroom!”
Gretchen’s eyes widened in horror. “Or online! Wait do hackers post phone numbers?”
Karen gasped louder. “Can hackers get into your microwave too?”
“No, Karen.”
Aaron reached for Cady’s hand, his expression softening. “Hey, it’s okay. We’ll figure it out-”
“Would you stop?!” Cady suddenly snapped, jerking her hand away.
The table froze. Aaron blinked. “...What.”
“I said stop!” she hissed, shoving her tray away with enough force to make it rattle. “God, you’re all being so fucking annoying!”
Karen’s mouth dropped open. Gretchen looked like someone had slapped her. Even you raised your brows slightly. Aaron stared at her in stunned silence. “Cady, I was literally just trying to help-”
“Well, you’re not helping!” she shot back. “Hovering around me like some desperate puppy isn’t fixing anything, Aaron!”
His expression changed instantly. The confusion. The hurt. And most importantly, the offense.
Cady seemed to realize too late how harshly that had come out, her eyes widening for half a second, about to come up with a half hearted apology, she was interrupted by the sound of her phone ringing, the screen clearly a random number, and that completely sent her off the edge, with a loud frustrated squeal, she promptly ended the call and she shoved her chair back harshly. “God I can’t do this anymore! I need air.” Then stormed off.
The silence she left behind was deafening. Karen turned to Gretchen, visibly distraught. “Was she mad at us?”
“I…” Gretchen frowned. “She’s never acted like that before.”
Aaron remained seated, still staring in the direction Cady had left. His jaw tight. His brows furrowed. The first unmistakable crack of doubt settling into his expression. And when your eyes met Martin’s–
You knew he saw it too. She was slipping. Her image slowly breaking apart. And once people started slipping, they rarely stopped.
Eventually Gretchen scrambled after Cady, Karen hurrying after her in panic, still—Aaron didn’t move. For a second longer. Then another. Long enough to matter. His gaze flickered once more, back to you. Uncertain, like he was waiting. For something. A sign. An excuse. Anything.
You gave him nothing. Of course you didn’t. And that was what made the decision for him. He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair before finally pushing back his chair. The sound scraped too loudly against the floor. He hesitated one last time, just at the edge of turning away. Then without another word he followed after them.
Leaving the table blessedly empty.
The second they were gone. Martin burst. He doubled over in laughter so violently he nearly slid out of his chair. “Oh my- Oh my God–” he wheezed, clutching his stomach. “Did you see her face when Karen said bathroom stall?”
That did it.
You laughed too. Full-on laughed. The kind you usually tried to suppress in public.
“She looked like she was about to cry,” you snorted.
“She looked like she wanted to kill us.”
“Well she probably does if we're being honest.”
His grin widened. “Worth it.”
“Absolutely.”
He leaned toward you slightly, lowering his voice.
“You know,” he said smugly, “I'm starting to think we make a pretty terrifying team.”
You smirked.
“Don’t get too cocky now, Edwards.”
“Too late.”
Then, for a moment– his confidence falters. Just slightly enough for you to notice. He reached down into his bag, pulling out a folded white fabric. Your brows furrowed.
“What is that?”
He held one out to you. A Cortis band shirt. Except, the logo was bright pink, instead of the usual bands black.
You blinked.
Martin rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “We have another gig this weekend,” he said, suddenly sounding much less sure of himself. “And, uh…”
He glanced away, “I had them make one in pink. For you.”
Your fingers paused as you took the shirt from his hands. It was soft. Clearly brand new. He had custom ordered one. For you.
Martin shifted in his seat. “You don’t have to wear it or anything,” he rushed out. “I just thought– maybe if you’re bored and have nothing to do that day, it would be funny if you-”
“I’ll go.”
He stopped. Blinking.
“What?”
You looked up from the shirt. “Obviously I’ll go,” you repeated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m your girlfriend, aren’t I?”
The way his face lit up was almost embarrassing. His entire expression softened at once. Like he physically couldn’t stop himself. “Yeah,” he said far too quickly. “Yeah. You are.”
You stood abruptly, slinging the shirt over your bag. “Don’t make this weird.”
His grin returned instantly. “Too late. I’m already imagining our wedding.”
You rolled your eyes. But as you walked away– you were smiling.
Later that evening as you doomscrolled through pinterest to look for inspo on how to style the shirt you receive a very unexpected notification.
The moment you stepped into the backyard, the entire atmosphere shifted. Heads turned almost instantly. Someone near the drink table audibly muttered, “Holy shit, is that Y/N L/N?”
You ignored them. Let them stare. Let them whisper. Because tonight, unlike the first time you had come here, you had no intention of hiding. No oversized sunglasses. No hat pulled over your face. No pathetic attempt at pretending you weren’t there for a reason.
You walked into that crowded backyard like you owned it. Head high, expression composed, the bright pink Cortis band tee fitted tightly against your body.
The shirt alone was enough to draw stares. Because everyone knew that wasn’t official merch. Everyone knew that had been made specifically for you. And if the shirt somehow didn’t make your intentions obvious enough, the way you marched straight toward the stage certainly did.
The boys were still setting up their instruments when Martin noticed you.
And froze. Completely.
His hand slipped against the neck of his guitar. James followed his stare first. Then Seonghyeon. Then the rest of the band. And suddenly all of them were staring at you like they had collectively hallucinated.
“No fucking way,” Juhoon muttered into the mic.
Keonho laughed so hard he nearly dropped a drumstick. “Holy shit,” he shouted toward Martin. “Your girlfriend actually came!”
The crowd immediately erupted into chatter. Martin, meanwhile, looked like his brain had short-circuited. You stopped just beneath the stage, folding your arms.
“Well?” you called up dryly. “Should I leave? You look like you’re about to pass out.”
That snapped him out of it. He hopped down from the stage so quickly James yelled, “Dude, where are you going?!”
Martin ignored him entirely. He walked straight toward you, eyes wide, gaze flicking between your face and the shirt like he genuinely couldn’t process either.
“You came.”
You raised a brow.
“You invited me.”
“Yeah, but-” His eyes dropped again to the shirt. Then widened somehow further. “You wore it.”
You looked down at yourself casually.
“Oh this old thing? It was just sitting on my closet so I thought why not, you know?”
Martin let out something between a laugh and a choke.
“It’s pink.”
“You made it pink.”
“For you.”
“And I wore it.”
He stared at you. Still visibly stunned. Like he genuinely had not prepared himself for this possibility. You smirked.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting emotional, Edwards.”
He nervously ran his hand through his hair, a nervous smile on his lips. “You have no idea what this is doing to me right now.”
From behind him, “Oh my God, he’s in LOVE love” Keonho teases.
“Dude shut up” James scolds, slapping the younger boy on the back, “You’re embarrassing ‘tin in front of his huzz”
You laughed softly as you watch Martin’s face turn into a blazing hot red at their comments. And the sound alone seemed to make him melt. Despite the embarrassment, he steps closer. Close enough that his voice dropped lower.
“You’re standing front row?”
“Obviously.”
His grin turned crooked. “Planning to scream my name?”
“In your dreams.”
He leaned in closer, “You wearing my shirt says otherwise.”
Before you could retort, he bent down and pressed a soft kiss against your hair. Brief. Gentle. Almost reverent. Your breath caught. Martin pulled back with a smirk.
“For luck,” he murmured. Then turned and jogged back onstage before you could gather enough composure to insult him. Martin played like a man possessed. And maybe that was dramatic. But it was true.
Every ounce of his usual energy had somehow doubled. He moved across the makeshift stage like he’d been electrified, guitar slung low against his body, hair messy beneath the lights, grin appearing every single time his eyes found you in the front row. Which was often. And every time he looked your way, he played harder. Sang louder. Performed like he had something to prove. Or perhaps, someone to impress.
You found yourself smiling far more than you meant to. Cheering louder than was dignified. Singing along to the lyrics of the songs he’d played in his car enough times for you to know by heart.
By the end of the set, the entire backyard was screaming for more. And Martin looked at you from the stage like he had never wanted anything more than your approval. He jogged over the second they finished, breathless and glowing with adrenaline.
“Well?” he asked immediately. “How amazing was I?”
You pretended to think about it. He narrowed his eyes. Then you smirked.
“You were…decent.”
He gasped.
“Decent?”
“Maybe slightly above average.”
“You’re evil.”
“You adore me.”
His grin softened.
“Yeah, can’t deny that.”
He leaned down and kissed your temple quickly.
“I’m getting drinks. Don’t move.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Yes, mom.”
“Funny.” He pointed at you. “Stay.”
Then disappeared into the crowd. You had barely been alone thirty seconds before—
“Y/N.”
Your shoulders momentarily stiffened. You turned. And there stood Aaron.
As expected.
He looked nervous. More nervous than you had ever seen him. His gaze flicked briefly toward where Martin had disappeared. Then back to you. “Can we please talk?”
You crossed your arms. “We’re talking.”
He swallowed. Then stepped closer, hands trembling as they reached out to you. “I made a mistake.”
You blinked once.
Ah. There it was.
Aaron exhaled shakily. “Breaking up with you was a mistake.”
Your expression remained unreadable. He ran a hand through his hair. “Seeing you tonight- with him- I just…” He looked down briefly before meeting your eyes again. “I still want you.”
Silence. Then…slowly– you smiled. Aaron visibly brightened, convinced that he had somehow made you think he really felt bad, that he was just also manipulated by Cady. Until you spoke.
“No.”
His face fell instantly.
“What?”
“No,” you repeated. “I’m not getting back together with you.”
His brows furrowed. “Y/N, come on- that’s bullshit right? You clearly want me back, you-”
“You want to know the funny part?” you interrupted sweetly. “I don’t even miss you.” His face paled. Your smile sharpened. “I just wanted you to realize what you lost.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes. Horror. Humiliation. “You used me?”
You tilted your head. “Please Aaron, don’t act so shocked.”
His voice rose. “So this whole thing with Martin is fake?!”
“Nope.”
Aaron spun. Martin stepped back beside you, handing you your drink like he hadn’t just walked into the world’s best timing. His arm slid naturally around your waist. His gaze on Aaron was cool. Deadly amused.
“You had your chance,” Martin said simply.
Aaron stared between the two of you. At Martin’s hand on your waist. At your complete lack of denial. At the way you didn’t move away. His face twisted. Humiliation quickly curdling into bitterness. Then he laughed. Short and sharp.
“You know what?” he snapped, glaring at Martin. “Fine. Have fun with her.”
Your smile still didn’t disappear despite the malice in his tone but tightened. Aaron stepped back, shaking his head. “You’ll get tired of it eventually.”
The backyard seemed to go quieter. “You think this is fun now?” Aaron continued bitterly. “Just wait until you realize how exhausting she is.”
Your stomach dropped. Martin stiffened beside you. Aaron laughed humorlessly. “She’s high maintenance, controlling, impossible to please–she expects everything to revolve around her.” His voice sharpened. “She gets suffocating, man. Trust me. You’ll want out eventually too.”
For one horrible second, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Because no matter how cruel Aaron was being, a part of you hated how much it sounded like every insecurity you never said aloud.
Martin’s jaw clenched, then, he smiled but there was no humor in it.
“No,” he said simply.
Aaron frowned.
Martin’s arm tightened around your waist. “I like maintaining her.”
Aaron blinked. Martin stepped forward slightly. “I like the clothes. I like the makeup. I like the attitude.” His voice sharpened. “And if she wants the world revolving around her, then it’s because it should.”
You stared up at him. Stunned.
Martin didn’t look away from Aaron. “So maybe the problem isn’t that she’s ‘too much.’” His smile turned sharp. “Maybe you were just too little.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Aaron’s face burned red, almost reminding you of a rabid dog.
He opened his mouth about to come up with another rebuttal but then just closed it. Then finally turned and stormed off without another word. Disappearing into the crowd. Martin watched him go, then looked down at you.
“You good?”
You took the drink from his hand. Sipped, then smiled.
“Perfect.”
His grin spread immediately. “Good.” He leans closer, for only you to hear. “For the record…”
You raised a brow.
“If fake dating gets me to watch you reject your ex in my shirt–” His smile turned wicked. “–I’m never letting this arrangement end.”
A laugh slipped from you before you could stop it. But it faded quickly. Because Aaron’s words still lingered. Still sat heavy in your chest.
Martin noticed immediately. His smile softened. “What?”
You hesitated. Then looked away. “He’s not wrong, you know.”
His brows furrowed instantly.
“What?”
You gave a humorless little laugh. “I am high maintenance.”
His expression shifted at once, turning serious, intently listening to your words and carefully thinking about them. You looked down at your drink. “The clothes, the makeup, the hair, the attitude…” you muttered. “Everything has to be perfect all the time. I know I’m difficult. I know I can be a lot.”
“Hey.” His voice was quiet but firm. You looked up. Martin steps closer.
“Don’t do that.”
You frowned. “Do what?”
“Repeat what people who couldn’t handle you said like it’s fact.”
Your breath caught. He reaches up slowly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Handling you as if you were a porcelain doll.
“You are not difficult for wanting nice things.” His voice stayed soft. Steady. “You are not hard to love because you care about how you look.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “And you are not ‘too much’ just because someone else was too weak to meet your standards.”
Your throat tightened. “If anything,” he murmured, “I think you should demand more.”
You stared at him, completely speechless, completely undone. He gave your cheek one last gentle stroke.
“So no,” he said softly. “You’re not high maintenance." A beat. “You just know what you deserve.”
Something in your chest cracked wide open.
And before you could think, before you could overanalyze, before you could stop yourself,
Your hand caught the front of his shirt, pulled him down, and kissed him.
But you barely heard any of it. Martin freezes for half a second. Then kissed you back like he had been waiting for this longer than either of you wanted to admit. One hand came to your waist. The other cupped your jaw. Holding you like you were something precious.
And when you finally pulled away, breathless and giggling, he stared at you like you had just changed his entire life.
“Well,” he said faintly. You smirked despite your racing heart. “Still think I’m only slightly above average?” His grin turned borderline delirious.
“Hmm fine, I guess you are the best.” you laughed softly, still close enough that your noses nearly brushed.
For a moment neither of you moved. Neither of you seemed entirely willing to. Then Martin’s expression shifted, his grin softening into something almost shy.
Which, on him, looked absurdly endearing.“Sooo…” he said slowly.
You raised a brow. “So?”
His hands tightened slightly at your waist. “That kiss felt…” He trailed off, then huffed out a laugh. “Not very fake boyfriend-girlfriend of us.”
Heat crept up your neck. You tilted your chin defensively. “Maybe I’m just a very dedicated actress.” Martin snorted.
“Right.”
A beat passes, then he asks, “So are we still fake dating?”
Your heart skipped. There it was. The question hanging between both of you. Suddenly far more terrifying than it should have been. You looked at him. At the way his teasing had faded into something careful. Like maybe for once, Martin Edwards wasn’t entirely sure of himself.
And that realization did something dangerous to your chest. You let your fingers smooth absentmindedly over the front of his shirt where you had grabbed him.
Then smirked.
“Well…” you murmured. “That depends.”
His brows lifted.
“On?”
You leaned in just enough to make him follow instinctively.
“Are you asking me to be your real girlfriend, Edwards?”
His eyes widened, then he laughed. A little breathless, hands trembling. “Aren’t I supposed to be the one doing that?”
“You were taking too long.”
He stared at you for half a second then grinned– completely gone for you.
“Okay,” he said, stepping closer until there wasn’t even an inch between you. “Then yeah.”
His voice softened.
“Be my girlfriend for real?”
And for once, you didn’t tease him. Didn’t deflect. Didn’t play coy. You just smiled. Soft and genuine.
And nodded.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “Okay.”
The smile that broke across his face could have lit the entire neighborhood. He kissed you again immediately, laughing into it this time, hands warm against your waist. Forehead pressing to yours when he pulled back.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, still grinning like an idiot, “how long I’ve wanted that.”
You smiled. “Oh, I think I do.” He gasped dramatically. “So you admit you were obsessed with me first?”
“Don’t ruin the moment.”
“Too late,” he said cheerfully. “You’re stuck with me now.”
You rolled your eyes. But smiled anyway. And when he laced his fingers through yours,
You held on.
BONUS:
ʚ🍮ɞ #REI: uni still hasnt released me from its evil clutches and has actually tightened its hold on my neck but this draft has been crying to be released from my docs so i thought might as well 🥀🥀🥀 i hope this was okay for you guys 😖 the plot does feel a bit over the place but i genuinely didnt know what else to do 💔 anyways thats all i have for now, as always thank you so much for the support on my works ily >0< !!!
Sk8ter boi was so good omg i love their dynamic so much, would you consider writing drabbles for this couple? Like outtakes from their relationship and their lives 🥹🥹🥹
.☘︎ ݁˖ | ℳANEATER !
⤷ Everyone knows you. No one knows Martin. (except as “that tall wasian guy”) Still, he’s been down bad for you since forever. Armed with nothing but a band flyer, questionable confidence, and blind faith in fate, Martin finally makes his move.
Alternatively: how rodrick! martin x regina! reader meet each other
ᯓ★ warnings: wc: 1.4k rodrick! martin x regina! reader, reader is mean, fluff, cursing, pre-established relationship, queen bee x loser trope, might seem a bit toxic (?), kms jokes, reader runs him over with a car sorta
ᯓ★ note: the same characters from my sk8er boi! post. little smau at the end 🫶 will be a bit busy again bc im going back to uni </3
You and Martin have gone to the same school for years. But you’ve never existed in the same space– nonono, that would be impossible. You’re far too different from each other, you’re both on completely opposite sides of the high school social hierarchy.
You rule the hallways without trying. Everyone knows your name. Whispered, praised, feared. Sharp smiles, perfect hair, and a laugh from glossy lips that can decide someone’s entire week in an instant. Teachers soften when you speak, as if they’re aware of the power you carry even when you’re not using it. Students watch you from the corners of their eyes, adjusting themselves, hoping for something, anything: attention, approval, mercy. They orbit you without realizing they’re trapped in your gravity. You move through campus like it belongs to you, because, frankly, it does.
Martin, on the other hand, exists in the background.
Don’t get him wrong– he isn’t invisible. Just… overlooked. People notice him in passing: the towering height, the lanky posture, the ripped jeans, studded belts, and band shirts that feel a decade too late. He’s there, always lugging around a guitar case or biting his nails as he scribbles lyrics on loose sheets of paper during lunch.
No one worships him. No one follows. No one looks twice.
You don’t, either. Not at first.
But he looks. Always. From across the cafeteria, from the end of the hallway, from places he pretends are coincidental. His eyes track you without meaning to, like you’re something magnetic and he’s already lost. He notices the way the room changes when you enter. The way people straighten, quiet, move aside.
You don’t know his name yet.
But he knows yours.
Everyone knows who you are. That’s just a fact. Martin knew your name long before he ever shared a class with you, knew the pitch of your laugh before he ever heard it up close. You exist everywhere all at once. To him, at least. Leaning against lockers with your friends, fluorescent lights catching your hair in a way that feels almost staged, fake smiles flashing like a weapon you know exactly how to use.
People have plenty to say about you.
Plastic. Drop dead gorgeous. Condescending. Untouchable. Cruel (if they’re brave enough.)
Martin doesn’t care. He’s embarrassingly, hopelessly, devoted to you
His friends tell him it’s a terrible idea. That you live in different universes. That girls like you don’t even register guys like him.
Seonghyeon once said–very gently, running a comforting hand over Martin’s shoulder as they watched you and your ex-boyfriend, Aaron Samuels, kiss at a stupid house party back in seventh grade–that Martin should “aim for someone more… on his level.”
Martin laughed it off (or more accurately cried it off because the sight of you girlishly giggling as Aaron pecked your lips felt like his whole world was falling apart).
Because he believes. Like genuinely believes. That one day, somehow, the timing will be right. That his moment will come. That one day, you’ll look at him and see something worth noticing. Something more than just another ‘emo’ who has a band with his friends and eyes that follow you like you’re the only thing in the room.
So he waits.
And waits.
And waits some more.
Waiting becomes less a skill and more a full-time cardio exercise for his soul. And next thing he knows, he’s a senior. About to graduate. Standing in the school parking lot under an unforgivingly bright sun, clutching a stack of flyers like they are the last shred of dignity left on earth.
The parking lot is chaos incarnate. Engines roar. Laughter spills in every direction. Plans are being made loudly and all at once, like no one has ever heard of inside voices. Martin stands there longer than necessary, knuckles white on the flyers.
CORTIS – Live This Friday.
The flyer stares back at him in bold letters.
And then he sees you. Your convertible is parked like it’s a throne, roof down, sun spotlighting your every move. You sit in the driver seat, friends piled around you, all pink and confident and careless laughter. You look completely at ease, like the world has already arranged itself around you.
Oh shit she’s right there. This is it. This is my moment. It's finally here. I can totally do this. I'm just going to invite her it's going to be okay. Like I mean, worst case scenario is she laughs at me and she tells everyone I’m pathetic. So totally fine. Toooootally fine. Hahaha.
Martin swallows.
I can do this. I can do this. I'll just walk over to her, look really nonchalant and cool, and invite her and it will be fine. It will be fineeee. Hahaha.
Okay maybe not totally fine. I’m going to throw up oh my god.
She’s definitely going to think I’m a weirdo. My social reputation will be more cooked. Is everyone watching me? Don’t care. Dooooon’t care. Flyers in hand. Give her the flyer. DO IT.
Somehow, against all laws of teenage physics and social anxiety, he’s moving. He’s walking toward you. Every step feels heavier than the last. Juhoon trails behind him, silent but loyal, like moral support in human form. Martin stops just short of your car, clears his throat, and instantly regrets every life choice that led him here.
“Uh- hEy.”
…silence. Juhoon chokes on a laugh from behind him.
My voice fucking cracked. Im going to kill myself. Im actually going to kill myself.
You turn your head slowly, eyes dragging over him with mild curiosity, like you’re trying to remember where you’ve seen him before. Martin forces a grin. His voice wobbles, just a little.
“So, um… my band’s playing in a week,” he says, lifting the flyers. “And, you know- like, if you wanna hear real music, you should like, totally come.”
He tries to sound nonchalant. He really does. Like this is no big deal. Like he was not about to throw up from anxiety just from walking to your direction. Like he doesn’t feel like his heart is about to combust.
You just look at him. Then that smile. The one you wear when you’re not really listening, the one you wear when you’re silently assessing the person in front of you, curves onto your lips. Your friends exchange looks, giggling quietly, clearly entertained by the spectacle of this guy standing in front of you.
Martin holds out a flyer anyway.
And to everyone’s surprise, you take it.
Juhoon’s jaw drops.
Martin nearly short-circuits.
“Sure,” you say lightly, already bored, already halfway gone. You don’t even look at the flyer before tossing it onto gretchen’s lap.
Then you turn forward, foot pressing down on the gas. The car lurches. Pain explodes through Martin’s foot as the tire rolls over it like the universe is handing him a permanent “bad idea” souvenir.
“BRO– WHAT THE HELL?!” James screams, sprinting over from the other side of the parking lot, eyes wide like he just witnessed a murder scene. “Your foot! Are you- OH MY GOD–STOP–”
“Martin!” Juhoon yells, eyes also blown wide in panic, doing that flailing-arm thing people do when they don’t know how else to help. “HELLO? CAN YOU MOVE?! WAIT NO– ACTUALLY DON’T MOVE BUT– AHHHH!”
But Martin isn’t listening.
He’s staring at the empty space where your car just was, chest buzzing like it’s trying to escape his ribcage, brain already off on a one way flight to fantasy land.
She took the flyer. She smiled. She said yes.
He doesn’t even feel the pain. Who cares about toes when destiny is calling?
In his mind, he can already see it. Bright lights, screaming fans, all of them on stage, and you in the crowd, hair shining, laughing, finally looking at him like he’s someone worth noticing, wearing their band merch with a proud smile. He’s already planning your first date, the songs he’ll include in the mixtape he’ll give you, and how you’ll dramatically flip your hair while cheering him on backstage while he’ll be performing.
James is still yelling something about an ambulance. Juhoon is crouched by his side, while Keonho is muttering prayers for toes and human survival. Seonghyeon might even be dialing 911.
Martin doesn’t care. He thinks it was worth it.
Absolutely. 100%. Because y/n took the flyer.
And in his mind that means…you’re already his.
(some pre established relationship tweets from martin >.< all his friends are so sick of him)
ʚ🍮ɞ #REI: hello rodrick! martin lovers i hope this was good !!! i really wanted to post him again before i have to go become a functioning member of society stay safe i love all of you <3
sien's note: this blog is solely and specifically dedicated for kwon ohyul but since it's almost an april fool, why not i make something special >< fuck the calendar, it's april already :p also not proofread!
random nsfw headcanon with james ✮°.‧₊
everyone knows how james is such a perfect boyfriend and you can't thank god enough for that. james born to be a gentleman and sweet on the street and a freak on your sheet.
james is definitely the guy who talks through it. he loves it whenever your legs rest on his shoulder as he is on top of you. he likes to hear you begging, cutely asking for whatever you want from him. he emphasised communication a lot and that's including during intimate moments too. he loves to provide everything for you. time? money? affection? anything? you name it.
he is a total vanilla guy but also an experimental. once he knows how you prefer him being rough to you on bed, he'll make sure you won't be able to walk for at least a week. you love it so much to get pinned down by him that you couldn't care less about your wrist turning purplish. james is definitely worries about that but you tell him how that hue is just as similar as the hickey he paints all over your neck, collarbone, and chest. you turn a masochist whore for him and him only.
honestly, with all those perfect athletic figure and never-ending energies, he can do you for hours. from dusk until dawn. but his mercy is taking over. he doesn't want to drain out you. not even when you begging him to finish you up.
mirror sex is definitely one of his favorite genre. though you are embarrassed watching yourself in a mess infront of it, he would reassure you, whispers how you're actually very gorgeous naked in sweat like that. he adores the sight of your body trembling under his touch. he likes to see how your lips parted away, hairs getting sticky, eyes slowly rolling back, all from the pleasure you received from behind.
lastly, the way you dress is modest. you don't even show any much skin or wearing strong and sensual perfume. your makeup is as light as almost nothing. but the way you talked to him that night after he was confessing, he can't help. his dick erects immediately the moment you started to stutter, eyes wandering and cheeks blushed pink tint. something about you being shy turned him on. he is your first love, first kiss, first experience and first everything. and he promised to be your last too.
✍🏻three months of secret dating are ruined by Jay's obvious affection.
୨୧ ‧₊˚comedy • established relationship • secret dating • playful teasing • fem!reader × jay • kissing • chaotic friend group ── wc. 1910
☆masterlist
miu's corner ✦ sooo finallyyy an enha fic hope y'all enjoy it! If you like my work don't forget to follow and support<33
I always thought hiding a relationship was the biggest relationship red flag.
If you loved someone, why would you hide them?
Turns out... I ended up doing exactly that.
Not because I was ashamed of Jay.
Never because of that.
But because our friends were the type to never let us hear the end of it.
Between the members and my own chaotic friends, a secret wouldn't last five minutes.
If one person found out... everyone would.
So Jay and I made a deal.
Three months.
No one would know. Just three months of peace.
Unfortunately... I forgot my boyfriend had absolutely zero survival instincts.
Class Call One — Under the Table
It was Friday night.
We were all crammed into a barbecue restaurant.
My best friend, Sera, was loudly explaining a dramatic story about her professor.
Jake and Sunghoon were arguing over who ate the last piece of brisket.
I was trying to listen seriously to Sera.
Suddenly, under the table, I felt a shoe nudge mine.
I didn't look across. I knew exactly who it was.
I quietly kicked him back.
Stop it
I thought
Instead of stopping, his foot slid right between mine. He hooked his ankle around my leg.
I froze. My breath hitched in my throat.
"And then he told me—wait, are you okay?"
Sera stopped mid-sentence, staring at me.
"Your face is completely red."
"Hot,"
I choked out, grabbing my cup.
"The soup is just... really hot."
Across the table, Jay sat there sipping his apple juice.
He looked like the most innocent man alive.
He didn't even blink. He just tapped his foot against mine again.
Close Call Two — The Bracelet
I bought us matching silver bracelets.
It was a cute, impulsive purchase. But we agreed never to wear them together in public.
The very next day, we met up at a cafe with Jungwon and Chloe.
Jay walked in, rolled up his sleeves, and rested his arms on the table.
The silver bracelet was shining right under the cafe lights.
He was wearing it proudly.
I immediately pulled my sleeve down, burying my own bracelet deep in the fabric.
Jungwon’s sharp eyes darted down.
"Oh, Jay hyung, nice bracelet," Jungwon said, tilting his head. He looked over at me.
"Wait. Didn't you have the exact same one yesterday?"
"Mine broke," I lied instantly. My heart was pounding.
"Yeah. Snapped right off. Cheap quality."
At that exact moment, Jay shook his wrist.
The metal charms jingled loudly.
He smiled directly at me.
"Really? Mine feels pretty sturdy."
I wanted to evaporate into the floor.
Close Call Three — The Hoodie
The air conditioning in the dance studio was freezing.
Our whole group was sitting on the floor, taking a break.
I shivered, rubbing my arms.
Without saying a single word, Jay stood up. He took off his oversized black hoodie.
And he casually threw it over my shoulders.
The entire room went dead silent.
Sunoo stopped chewing his snack. Ni-ki paused his game.
I panicked. I immediately tried to pull it off to give it back.
"Jay, no, it's fine. Take it back."
He pushed it back onto my shoulders.
"Keep it."
"Everyone's staring," I whispered through my teeth, glaring at him.
He leaned down just enough so only I could hear.
"Good."
Close Call Four — Walking Home
We left the studio together.
The plan was simple—
walk separately so nobody suspects anything.
I walked a few paces ahead with Heeseung and Chloe. Jay was supposed to be in the back with Sunghoon.
But he wasn't.
Suddenly, Jay was right next to me.
I quickened my pace. I walked faster.
Jay matched my speed.
I slowed down, pretending to check my phone.
Jay slowed down too, hands hands casually tucked into his pockets.
Heeseung kept glancing behind his shoulder, looking between us with a deeply confused expression.
"Why are you guys walking like NPC characters?" Heeseung asked.
"It's just a nice night for a walk," I said, laughing nervously.
"Coincidence!"
Jay just hummed in agreement, bumping his shoulder against mine.
Close Call Five — Practice Room
An hour later, we were back in the lounge.
My sneaker lace came undone. I bent down to tie it.
Before I could even loop the strings, Jay crouched down beside me.
He brushed my hands away. He took the laces.
He tied them into a perfect double knot.
Then he looked up, caught my eye, and flashed a soft, warm smile.
From across the room, Jake let out a loud whistle.
"Damn, Jay. Since when are you a gentleman to everyone?"
I almost died right there.
Jay just stood up and patted my head.
"Just helping a friend."
*A friend.*
Sure.
Close Call Six — The Almost Kiss
Later that evening, I thought we were finally safe.
The hallway near the vending machines was completely empty.
Jay caught my wrist and gently pulled me into the shadow of a corner.
"Jay, stop," I gasped, looking around frantically.
"We're in public."
"Nobody's here," he murmured.
His voice was low. He leaned in.
He kissed my forehead. It was warm.
Then he kissed my cheek. It made my stomach flip.
"Jay—"
He didn't listen. He leaned down and stole one tiny, sweet kiss right on my lips.
Instantly, footsteps echoed.
Sunghoon walked right around the corner, holding a water bottle.
Jay and I separated so fast we nearly tripped naover our own feet. I practically slammed my back against the wall.
Sunghoon stopped. He looked at Jay. He looked at me.
He slowly raised one eyebrow.
He didn't say a single word. He just took a sip of his water and walked away.
Neither of us breathed for the next ten minutes.
Closw Call Seven — The Habit
The biggest issue wasn't the intentional stuff.
It was his habits.
Jay had boyfriend habits that he couldn't switch off.
When my hair got messy, his hand automatically reached out to fix it.
When we ate tteokbokki, he reached over with his thumb and wiped sauce off my lips without even looking.
He always remembered my exact drink order.
He grabbed my heavy bag out of my hands before I could even ask.
He always waited for me after schedules, standing by the door.
And worst of all? Whenever I laughed at a joke, his hand instinctively reached out to find mine.
Every single habit screamed one word,
Boyfriend
─
It all came to a head on Sunday night.
The whole crew was gathered at a large round table at our favorite chicken place.
Tonight, the main mission of the group was actually to set up Jungwon and Sera. They had been crushing on each other for weeks, and everyone was trying to play matchmaker.
"So, Jungwon," Jake said, nudging him aggressively.
"Sera mentioned she wanted to see that new movie. Aren't you free this weekend?"
Jungwon turned bright red.
"Uh. Yeah. I think so."
"Great! You two should go together," Chloe chimed in, winking at Sera.
I smiled, watching the chaos. I promised myself I would just sit back, eat chicken, and survive this one meal without exposing myself.
Five minutes into dinner, it started.
Under the table, I felt a hand brush against my knee.
Then, warm fingers slid into mine.
I immediately tried to pull my hand away.
Not right now
I thought frantically.
Jay didn't let go. He caught my hand again, stronger this time.
He interlocked our fingers.
Then, his thumb started gently rubbing slow, soothing circles across my knuckles.
It felt incredibly good. Too good.
I was trying so hard to keep a straight face that my jaw was literally clenched.
Sunoo looked across the table at me.
"Are you okay? You look like you're fighting for your life."
"I'm fine!" I said, my voice a little too high.
"Just... really enjoying the chicken!"
Then, Jay took it a step too far.
He lifted our joined hands slightly under the shadow of the table.
And he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the back of my hand.
My ears turned completely, violently red.
The sudden rush of heat made me jump. My fingers slipped.
My chopsticks clattered loudly against my plate and rolled onto the floor.
"Whoops," I whispered, staring at the floor.
The entire table went quiet. The conversation about Jungwon and Sera completely died.
Everyone stopped looking at them. Everyone looked at me.
Then, they looked at Jay.
Sera finally let out a very long, very loud sigh.
"Okay."
Silence.
"Can you two just tell us already?" Sera asked, crossing her arms.
I blinked, pretending to be clueless.
"...Tell you what?"
Jake burst out laughing.
"That you've been dating for months!"
The silence returned. My brain short-circuited.
Beside me, Jay didn't look panicked at all. In fact, a slow, smug smile started spreading across his face. He didn't even try to hide it anymore.
I slowly turned my head toward him.
"You did this on purpose," I whispered.
Jay shrugged, looking incredibly pleased with himself.
"Maybe."
"You wanted them to find out."
"Maybe."
I groaned loudly, burying my face into both of my hands.
"I hate you."
Jay just grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Love you too."
Chloe interrupted, slamming her hand on the table.
"So we're right?! It's official?!"
I looked around the table.
Every single person was smiling. Ni-ki was grinning. Heeseung was shaking his head. Nobody looked surprised. Not even a little bit.
"Wait," I said, dropping my hands.
"You all knew?"
"Are you kidding?" Sunghoon said, scoffing.
"I literally walked in on you guys kissing in the hallway two days ago."
"And the hoodie incident?" Sunoo added.
"We aren't blind."
"We literally had a betting pool," Ni-ki shouted.
"Jungwon owes me twenty bucks!"
Jungwon groaned, pulling out his wallet.
"I thought they would last at least till next week."
I let out a long, defeated, completely exhausted sigh.
I looked at Jay. He was just sitting there, looking like a king who had just won a war.
I couldn't help but smile.
I reached under the table, grabbed his hand myself, and lifted it up. I placed our joined hands right on top of the table for everyone to see.
This time, I didn't let go.
"Fine," I said, smiling fully.
"Yes. We've been dating for three months."
I glared playfully at my boyfriend.
"And apparently... I've been the only one trying to keep it a secret."
The table completely erupted.
Half the group started cheering. Chloe and Sera started demanding every single detail from the very beginning.
"See?" Jake pointed dramatically at us.
"That is why you guys couldn't hide it. You're too obvious!"
Before I could even reply, Jay leaned over. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my temple.
I rolled my eyes, but the butterflies in my stomach were going wild.
"Happy now?"
Jay didn't answer with words. Instead, he cupped my cheek, leaned in, and kissed me straight on the lips right in front of everyone. It was a real kiss—warm, confident, and full of love.
"Gross!" Ni-ki yelled, covering his eyes.
"Get a room!" Sunghoon laughed, throwing a crumpled napkin at Jay.
Jay broke the kiss, pulling away just a fraction. He looked down at me, his eyes softer than I had ever seen them.
"Incredibly happy," he whispered.
And for the first time in three months, I didn't care who was watching. The secret was finally out, and his hand was firmly in mine.
➪ summary : you disappear hours after a concert, your family reports you missing but the company states that you left voluntarily. cctv shows differently. nothing makes sense, especially with everyone moving on so fast.
➪ other notes : very heavily based on kpop lost footage and analog horror <3 this is my first time posting something like very horror related so im a little nervous but im actually happy with this. creds to @/norvixa6 and @/rnbrednblue on tiktok for making awesome analog horror.
“breaking news : y/n l/n from hit kpop group cortis has officially been reported missing by her family this morning. authorities have confirmed that the idol was last seen was on CCTV footage at 2 : 39 in the morning, just hours after cortis concluded their concert last night. in the footage, y/n was wearing the same stage outfit she had performed in earlier that evening. the grainy footage shows the teenager sprinting in a parking garage, barefoot and physically agitated.
she looks over her shoulder multiple times, and with this repeating motion, investigators confirmed her identity with facial recognition. the footage contains no audio nor where there any witnesses near by that could have intervened or watched the scene. no search party has been organized and officials have not yet confirmed if a ground search will be conducted, stating that the investigation is still in its early stages.
at this time, hybe and bighit music have not made a statement regarding y/n’s disappearance. if you have any information of y/n’s whereabouts, please reach out to authorities immediately. we hope she returns safely home…and with that, later tonight in the world cup, south korea plays against-“
pairing : live-in bf! james x live-in gf! reader
content warning : 18+ content, mdni, unprotected sex, comfy sex, baby-trapping, did not proofread
word count : 1,336 words 7,542 characters
james had been your first boyfriend, and he had been such a total sweetheart to you from the very beginning. james was patient, thoughtful, and endlessly supportive, he always made sure you felt loved in the little ways that he could. both of you were college students, studying different majors, and quite frankly, broke as hell. the two of you lived together in an apartment, living off with cheap takeout, late-night study sessions, and long walks instead of expensive dates had become your normal, yet neither of you ever seemed to mind.
though james came from a very comfortable background, he had been sent to the states for his studies and chose to live frugally despite it. he rarely touched the money his family sent unless he absolutely had to, determined to prove he could make it on his own. meanwhile, you were a very smart girl who had earned generous scholarships through years of hard work. every tuition bill you didn't have to worry about felt like another step toward the future you had always dreamed of.
but what’s important was you had each other, shared ambitions, and the absolute faith that one day, all the sacrifices would be worth it.
together.
it's been two years since you first met him during your freshman year, and one year since the two of you started living together as sophomores. living together often felt like the two of you were like playing house. sharing a tiny apartment, splitting grocery bills, arguing over whose turn it was to do the dishes, and falling asleep side by side after exhausting days of classes. it was messy, imperfect, and far from glamorous, but it was yours, and you wouldn't have traded it for anything.
and james, on top of it all, made it a bearable experience. he had a way of turning even the most terrible days into something you'd look back on fondly.
like he was already your husband, always looking after you like he was your wife. but you thought everything was perfect, you thought james was the best thing that had ever happened to you.
the apartment was quiet except for the creak of the bed frame and your breath hitching in your throat. soft droplets of rain come cascading down your bedroom windows, creating little tappy comforting sounds. james was pounding behind you, fingers digging into your hips hard enough, his thumbs stroking possessive bruises into your skin like he was making sure you won’t slip away any second.
"you're so good to me," he whispered, with his hips rolling slow and deliberate. "you know that? no one's ever been this good to me."
you hummed, your face planted down the pillows of your own bed, your back arching up to meet his pelvis. he felt perfect, that patient rhythm that built and built until you were trembling beneath him.
now he was inside you bare for the first time, the heat of him was appalling. his dick felt slick and fever-hot without the latex barrier. you could feel every vein, every twitch, the way his thick pudgy tip dragged against your walls with each thrust.
james had worn you down for weeks, begging between kisses, whispering how good it would be to do it without the condoms, until you finally gave in. you told yourself it was a gift for him, something special after the brutal semester you'd both survived, but the truth was you wanted it too, wanted to know what he actually felt like.
"right there…" he grunts, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your shoulder, snapping his hips to hit that tender spot deep inside, the one that made your legs shake and your moans spill out helpless, guttural. "fuck, can you feel that, pretty? can you feel me?"
you nodded so compliantly, gasping, nails clawing at the sheets. “i do… i doo..”
he felt enormous like this, raw and entirely too much, his tip nudging that sensitive patch of flesh that had you seeing white, your walls clenching around him instinctively, trying to keep him there, keep him deep.
"that's it…" he pants quietly, grinding against you, his pubic bone pressing rough and deliberate where you were swollen and aching. "take it, prettyyy. take all of me."
you loved how whispery this was, it was going on so perfectly with the contrast of his burning body against the chill in the room. the sheets beneath you were soft and fluffy, the cheap comforter you'd bought together enveloping you as he rutted into you harder.
and the sounds… the wet slap of skin on skin, the obscene squelch of him sliding in your pussy, the creak of the mattress, the ragged exhale he couldn't quite suppress when he bottomed out. you bit your lip to keep from crying out, your cold nose buried in the pillows.
"gonna take care of you, pretty…" he breathed against your neck, teeth grazing just hard enough to mark.
"always… forever." the air thickened with his promise, with james’ teeth on your neck immediately sent a jolt straight to your core. his movements grew more frantic, less controlled, a desperate need for release.
james now fills the small room along with his ragged breathing.
you could feel the tension coiling in his thighs, the way his muscles tightened as he drove into you, chasing that final peak. the hand on your hip moved, tracing lazy circles on your lower back, a soothing touch that made you melt into the mattress.
"you like how this feels?" he murmured, his voice a low, teasing rumble that vibrated through your entire body. "tell me."
“y-yes, james. this feels nice…” he chuckled softly, a warm, satisfied sound that made your heart flutter.
"yeah, that's what i thought," he breathed, nipping gently at your earlobe. "makes you stupid. doesn’t it, pretty?"
his words sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, and you clenched around him, a silent, affirmative answer. he groaned at the feeling, his hips stuttering for just a second before finding their rhythm again.
"fuck, you're gonna make me lose it." he whispered, his voice strained now, the teasing edge replaced by raw need.
but you couldn't see his face, couldn't see the way his eyes, usually so full of warmth, were now dead as he watched his dick impaled on your creamy pussy. you couldn't see the slight downward curve of his lips, and the most selfish desire in his heart right now.
james just loves you so much, and what other way can he make sure that you’ll never leave him?
is getting you pregnant too much to ask?
you did tell him you really loved him.
his rhythm grew sloppy, his hips losing their steady roll in favor of sharp, jerky thrusts. you could feel the change, the way his body tensed, a telltale sign you knew so well. you pushed back against him, a silent invitation, trusting him completely.
the sound of your “no” played like a broken record in his brain as he felt his dick about to burst.
but this was the only way he thinks he can keep you, how he'd tie you to him forever, in a way that’s for permanence. james is just so desperate to fill in this insecurity that one day, you’ll probably leave him for someone better.
and he’d rather die than see that happen before his eyes.
"that's it, pretty, gonna fill you up." he ruins the whispery mood with that, his words sounding strained, almost pained. and one final, deep thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, a guttural groan torn from his chest as he pulsed inside you. the warmth of his cum flooding your unprotected cunt.
you collapsed onto the mattress, boneless and sated, feeling him soften inside you. he stayed there for a moment, a heavy, possessive weight, before slowly pulling out. you didn't see the way he watched his release leak from you, a flicker of cold satisfaction in his eyes before he laid down beside you, pulling you into his arms with a practiced tenderness that felt just like love.
@kiswritting | his no. 1 slave
i feel like i'll come back to this fic, i badly needed to write a gojo james fic soon.
── synopsis: everyone on campus knows Heeseung’s rules — no commitments, no second chances, and no girl stays long enough to matter. As basketball captain he collects hearts like trophies and leaves them broken behind him without a second thought. You watch him from far away, knowing you should stay away, but you don't just want to be another name on his list. You want him to choose you and see only you. The problem is you're completely inexperienced, a virgin in every sense, while the girls around him know exactly how to move, how to flirt, and how to keep him hooked. So you make a plan: practice with other guys, learn the skills you're missing, and completely reinvent yourself to finally make Heeseung notice you — and choose you over everyone else.
warnings: explicit sexual content (mdni), popping cherry, fingering, oral (f. & m. receiving), deepthroat, unprotected sex, creampie, multiple orgasms, riding, missionary, doggy style, against the wall, overstimulation, pussy slapping, spanking, hair pulling, choking, spitting on pussy, praise kink, light degradation, dirty talk, begging, edging, possessiveness, manhandling, public/risky sex (library + locker room), risk of getting caught, use of pet name (babe, doll, angel, baby, slut, good girl), mostly dom!members with a bit of dom!reader.
wc: 18k ┆ a/n: I know some of you are waiting for part 2 of teacher's pet, but I was just so excited to write this one that I decided to work on it first (the idea actually came to me while listening to drake's 'practice') this ended up being way longer than I expected, but anyway... I hope you guys like it. happy reading!
Heeseung is the sun around which the entire campus orbits.
He’s the captain of the basketball team, the big star whose name echoes through the packed arena during every game. With his lean yet athletic build, dark hair that falls over his sweaty forehead after a match, and that lazy half-smile that screams trouble while charming every girl in sight, he moves like he’s always being watched — and he is. Every head turns when he walks by, the crowd in the hallways parting like the sea for him and his teammates. He loves the attention.
Everyone knows the stories about Heeseung. He doesn’t do relationships — he rotates. A new girl every week, sometimes every day if he’s in the mood. They’re often seen leaving his apartment late at night, or early in the morning if he feels like letting them stay over, hair messy and wearing his team jacket like a trophy.
He usually doesn't appear with them in public, but it doesn't take long for the chosen girl to start gossiping in the hallways about how she's being fucked by him. That doesn’t last long though, because once the thrill fades he ignores them completely, never answering their messages once the weekend is over. "Let’s just have fun," he says, and the girls always agree, secretly believing they’ll be the one to change him.
You’ve been watching him from afar for months, studying the way he laughs too loudly at parties with his arm around whatever girl he’s with at the moment, the way his hand rests on her lower back as he guides her through the crowd, and how his eyes scan the room like he’s already searching for the next target while the current one is still pressed against him. It should disgust you — the casual way he uses people, the trail of broken hearts he leaves behind without remorse. But it doesn’t disgust you. It feeds you.
Deep down, in that secret place where you allow yourself to be completely honest, you want to be one of them. Not just another weekly girl — you want to be the one who breaks the pattern, the one so unforgettable, so incredible in bed and out of it, that Heeseung, the campus player, finally chooses you for good.
The problem is you have no idea how to make that happen.
You’re a virgin, completely untouched. The closest you’ve ever gotten to intimacy was an awkward, too-long hug with your best friend Jake after a tough week of exams. Approaching Heeseung as you are now — inexperienced, nervous, and clumsy — would never work.
"He likes confident girls, experienced ones who know how to dominate and be dominated in equal measure, because he doesn’t waste time teaching the basics. He expects you to already know how to please him." That’s what you heard from one of his teammates.
So after watching him leave the court with yet another girl on his arm, you make a decision.
You’re going to practice.
You’re going to transform yourself into the perfect girl for him — experienced enough to impress him, confident enough to stand out, and irresistible enough that when he finally notices you, he won’t be able to let you go.
────────
You stand outside Jake’s dorm room long enough for your legs to start aching. Your best friend’s room has always been your safe haven — the perfect spot for late-night study sessions, movie marathons, and listening to him ramble excitedly about sci-fi. Jake is kind, a bit nerdy in the best way possible, like a golden retriever with brown hair, a sweet smile, and glasses.
With a deep breath, you knock on the door.
Jake opens it almost immediately and breaks into a wide smile the moment he sees you. "Hey, what took you so long? Come in— wait, are you okay? You look tense."
You step inside and sit on the edge of his bed, nervously playing with the hem of your shirt. Jake drops into his desk chair and pulls it closer so he’s facing you directly, his knees almost brushing against yours. "Jake… I need to talk to you about something kind of crazy, embarrassing, and probably really stupid."
He tilts his head, curiosity sparkling behind his glasses. "You know you can tell me anything. What’s going on?"
You tell him everything — how you’ve been watching Heeseung for months, how every time you see him with someone new, something deep in your chest twists, not exactly with jealousy, but with desire. You share the rumors you’ve heard about how he likes girls who know what they’re doing, girls who can match his intensity. Finally, you admit that you want to be the one he chooses — not just for a week, not for a fling, but for good.
"But I’m a virgin, Jake," you whisper, your cheeks burning. "I’ve never even… I don’t know what I’m doing. So if I tried to approach him like this, he’d probably laugh."
Jake’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t interrupt.
"So I’ve decided… I’m going to practice. I’m going to get experience so that when I finally have my chance with Heeseung, I’ll be good enough that he won’t want anyone else."
Silence stretches between you as Jake stares at you for a long moment. He pushes his glasses up, his expression soft — not mocking, not disgusted. Just… Jake. "Wow. That’s… a lot. Heeseung, huh? I mean, I get it, but you’re really willing to do all that for him?"
Biting your lip, you nod. "I know it sounds crazy, but I can’t stop thinking about it. And… I was hoping you’d help me with the first part."
Your voice drops until it’s almost inaudible. "I want you to be my first. I want to lose my virginity with you. You’re my best friend and I trust you. I know you’ll be gentle, you won’t laugh at me or tell anyone. Please, Jake?"
His cheeks flush pink and for a second it looks like he might say no. "You… you want me to what? Oh my God. I don’t even know what to say."
He lets out a nervous laugh, a mix of surprise and something he’s always kept hidden. "I’ve never thought about you like that before or… okay, maybe I have, a little. But you’re serious? This is all for Heeseung?"
"Yes, but right now it’s about learning with someone safe, someone who cares. And that someone is you."
Jake stays quiet for a moment while he thinks, then reaches out and takes your hand, his thumb gently brushing over your knuckles. "Okay… if we’re really going to do this, I want it to be right for you. Not just jumping in headfirst." His thumb keeps tracing slow, soft circles on the back of your hand. "You’ve never done any of this before, right? Not even… by yourself?"
You swallow hard, staring at your intertwined fingers, and admit softly, "No… I mean, I tried rubbing against my pillow once and it felt good, I think? But I got scared and stopped. I don’t know what I’m doing, Jake. That’s why I need you to help me learn."
Jake nods, adjusting his glasses — a nervous habit — with flushed cheeks, but his voice stays as gentle and patient as always. "That makes sense. But before anyone else touches you, you should get to know your own body first. What feels good, what you like. It’ll make everything easier later… for him and for you."
He hesitates for a second, then adds with a small reassuring smile, "Do you trust me enough to try this now? With me here?"
Your heart races with a mix of embarrassment and curiosity. "Yes, I trust you. Just… tell me what to do, please."
Jake stands up slowly and sits beside you on the bed. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your temple, then to your cheek. "Start by getting comfortable. Lie back, and maybe take off your sweater if you want to and feel okay with it."
You do as he says, pulling off your sweater and setting it aside so you’re left in just your tank top and jeans. "Good," he murmurs. "Now touch yourself under your clothes first, over your stomach, along your thighs… feel how your body reacts."
You slide your hand beneath the thin fabric of your tank top. Your fingers graze the soft skin of your belly, then move higher, gently caressing one of your breasts. It feels strange doing this while he watches, but his gaze isn’t hungry or demanding — it’s warm and encouraging, like he’s looking at something precious. When your fingertips brush your nipple, a small sigh escapes you.
"Right there. That’s good. Circle slowly and squeeze just a little."
As he speaks, his own hand drifts down to the front of his sweatpants and then he starts touching himself gently over the fabric, not even trying to hide it. Knowing he’s getting hard just from watching you makes your breath hitch.
Following his instruction, you circle and lightly pinch your nipple, feeling a warm sensation build low in your belly. "Jake, it feels so good…"
"Tell me," he encourages, his hand moving in slow strokes that match the rhythm of your breathing. "Does it make you wet between your legs?"
"Yes," you sigh.
"Keep going, slide your other hand into your jeans and touch yourself over your panties if you’re not ready for more yet."
With your free hand you obey, unbuttoning your jeans and slipping inside. The fabric of your panties is already damp when you press your fingers against yourself and rub lightly, drawing a soft whimper from your throat.
Both of your breathing grows heavier with every second. Jake pushes his sweatpants and boxers down just enough to free himself, stroking slowly while he watches every movement of your fingers.
"Fuck, that’s beautiful," he breathes, the words slipping out like he can’t hold them back. "Rub your clit. Find the spot that feels best."
You circle your clit, experimenting with pressure and rhythm, rolling your hips when you finally discover the perfect way to touch yourself. Jake’s eyes stay locked on your hand while his own speeds up, his thumb brushing over the head of his cock with every stroke.
"Inside your panties now," his voice still gentle but strained. "Feel how wet you are. Explore your body, learn what it likes so you can show someone exactly what you need."
You push your panties aside and slide a finger along your slick folds. "Slide a finger inside, babe," he says and when you do, a moan escapes your lips — it’s tight, but not uncomfortable. Jake groans with the sight, his hand moving faster on himself.
"Add another finger and curl them a little. Yeah, just like that. You’re doing so good, babe." His praise makes you bolder, so you start pumping your fingers slowly, rubbing your clit with your thumb at the same time, while your free hand keeps playing with your breast, pinching harder as the pleasure rises.
"You’re getting close, aren’t you? I can tell by the way you’re breathing. Let it happen. Imagine how good it’ll feel when I’m inside you." His words push you over the edge.
Moaning Jake’s name, completely lost in the overwhelming sensation, your body tenses and your thighs tremble uncontrollably as the orgasm crashes through you. Waves of heat pulse around your fingers, deeper and stronger than you ever imagined.
"Fuck, don’t do this to me." His hand strokes faster until he groans and comes too, spilling over his fingers with a shaky breath.
For a moment, the room falls quiet except for your shared breathing. Jake leans in and presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, his glasses tilting slightly. "Hey… you still with me? How are you feeling after that? Overwhelmed?"
You shake your head and let out a small giggle. "I’m good. Really good, actually." Reaching up, you gently fix his glasses and whisper, "Thank you for being so patient with me, Jake. I know this is probably weird for you too."
He smiles, and it makes you smile back naturally. "It’s not weird. At least not with you. Honestly, seeing you like that… it was beautiful. You’re beautiful." He leans in and kisses your forehead, then your cheek, giving you time to calm down while his hand rests on your hip and his thumb draws slow circles on your skin. "If you want to keep going, I’m right here."
You bite your lip, the mix of nerves and curiosity warms your body all over again. This is supposed to be practice — each new sensation is another skill you’re learning — but right now, with him, it feels like something more.
"I want more," you admit, cheeks burning. "Can you… use your mouth on me? I’ve heard it feels really good, but I don’t know what to expect."
Jake’s eyes widen for half a second. "Yeah, I’d love to do that for you." He moves carefully on the bed, helping you adjust the pillows behind your head so you’re comfortable. "Just relax and tell me what feels good, okay? If anything is too much or not enough, say so. Promise?"
"Promise." You extend your pinky toward him and he does the same, linking them together to seal the promise.
He starts with soft kisses on the inside of your knee, then higher up your thigh. Every touch of his lips sends shivers across your skin. "Your legs are already shaking," he murmurs with a low chuckle against your thigh. "That’s so cute."
When his mouth finally reaches your center, it’s feather-light at first — just his lips brushing against your folds — but it’s enough to make you draw in a sharp breath and grip the sheets tightly.
Then his warm tongue drags upward in one long, torturous lick from your entrance all the way to your clit. The feeling is wet, hot, and incredibly intimate, the texture of his tongue adds a new layer of friction that makes your hips jerk involuntarily.
"My God, Jake…" The words slip out before you can stop them.
"Good?" he asks, pulling back just enough for you to see his glistening lips as he looks up at you.
"Yes… really good. Do that again, please."
With more confidence this time, he explores every inch of you — licking along your folds, circling your clit, then moving down to taste your entrance. The wet sounds of him pleasuring you only heighten the arousal building in your belly.
Jake hums in satisfaction as he finds the rhythm you like best, reading it from your moans. "You taste incredible… so hot and wet."
You reach down and thread your fingers through his soft hair. "Right there, when you suck on my clit, it feels so good."
He listens immediately, sealing his lips around the sensitive bundle of nerves and applying gentle suction while his tongue flicks against it, making the pleasure intensify, stronger than before.
The smooth glide of his tongue, the occasional careful graze of his teeth, and the way he alternates between lavishing attention on your clit and licking down to dip inside you make heat spread through your core — it radiates outward until even your fingertips feel warm. You grow even wetter, and Jake groans in appreciation, licking up every drop like he can’t get enough.
"Jake, I think I’m getting close again," you gasp, your voice breaking into a loud moan as he sucks harder on your clit. Your hips move against his face instinctively, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he doubles down with his tongue. This orgasm builds differently — deeper, more overwhelming — and when it crashes over you, it hits with a full-body shudder.
You cry out his name, fingers tightening in his hair as waves of pleasure pulse through your center. Jake keeps licking you through it all, drawing out every tremor until you’re panting and oversensitive.
He finally lifts his head, wiping his mouth and chin with the back of his hand before leaning over you again. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes shine behind his glasses, and a proud little smile plays on his lips. "You okay? That looked like it felt really good."
You laugh breathlessly. "It was incredible… I didn’t know I could feel so sensitive down there."
Jake chuckles softly. "Good. That’s kind of the point of all this practice, right? Learning what you like." His hand slides over your body again, stopping just above your mound as his fingers trace lazy patterns across your skin. "Are you sure you want me to take your virginity? Your body’s already experienced so much tonight. Maybe you need a break."
You shake your head, caressing his face. "I don’t need a break. I just want to feel your cock inside me, please."
One of his hands drifts lower until his fingers reach your wet entrance, circling it slowly. "I need to make sure you’re ready for me. I don’t want to hurt you. Relax and breathe out for me."
You do as he says, and he slowly presses two fingers inside you.
His longer fingers create a different sensation. The stretch borders on discomfort at first, making your walls clench tightly around the intrusion. "Ah— it’s tight," you whisper, gripping his shoulder. "It burns a little."
Jake freezes immediately. "Want me to stop? We can wait."
"No! Keep going. I want to get used to it."
He nods and presses a soft kiss to your temple. "You’re doing so well… so warm and snug around my fingers. What if I curl them just a little?" He demonstrates, stroking your inner walls gently until he brushes against a spongy spot that sends sparks shooting up your spine.
"Oh!" Your eyes widen. "Right there… my God, that feels so good."
"I found your g-spot," he says, clearly proud of himself. He keeps the movements shallow and slow, pumping his fingers in and out while his thumb draws gentle circles over your clit. The initial burning fades, turning into something hotter, slicker, and far more pleasurable.
"Add another one, Jake," you say after a few minutes, voice breathless. "I think I can take it."
Jake carefully slides a third finger in, the pressure increases and your walls flutter as they adjust to the stretch. Every curl of his fingers against that perfect spot sends waves of pleasure through your entire body, while his thumb on your clit keeps the arousal building higher.
"Talk to me, babe," he says, eyes fixed on your face. "How does it feel now? Too much?"
"It’s full… stretching me," you moan, your hips starting to move in time with his hand. "But it’s turning into something really good. Faster on my clit— yes, like that. God, Jake, your fingers are so deep."
He picks up the pace a little, thrusting more firmly and creating an overwhelming sensation in the best way possible. The pleasure keeps intensifying until your breathing comes in short gasps and your thighs tremble uncontrollably. "I’m getting close again. Please don’t stop."
Jake leans down to kiss your stomach, murmuring encouragement. "Come on, come on my fingers. Let go for me, babe."
You moan loudly, back arching as the orgasm hits you harder than the ones before. A deep wave crashes through you, making your inner walls clench rhythmically around his fingers. Jake keeps pumping slowly and carefully until the spasms ease, then gently pulls his fingers out and brings them to his mouth. "Your taste is addictive."
Smiling you reach up to brush a messy strand of hair from his forehead. "Jake… I want to go all the way. I want to feel you inside me, please."
Jake’s breath catches, then he sits up properly and reaches into the nightstand drawer, pulling out a condom.
"You actually have these," you say with a light teasing note in your voice.
He looks at you with a shy smile as he opens the packet and rolls the condom down his length. "Hey, Heeseung isn’t the only one on campus who has sex, you know? A guy can be prepared even if he’s not out at every party." Jake hovers over you, supporting his weight on his elbows so he doesn’t crush you. "You look so beautiful like this," he whispers, leaning closer and gazing at your lips.
"Can I?" When you nod, he captures your mouth in a slow, deep kiss filled with desire. His lips move to your cheek, your jaw, and then trail softly down the side of your neck, leaving a wet path that makes you shiver. He takes his time, giving attention to every inch of skin he can reach with his mouth and fingers. Only when both of you are breathing heavier does he settle between your legs and position himself.
"Breathe with me, okay? Slow and easy." You nod, inhaling as he begins to push inside.
The initial pressure is intense — a wide, stretching fullness that makes your breath hitch. Your walls stretch around his thickness in an overwhelming way and your body tenses as he sinks into you inch by inch, giving you time to adjust. "Oh my God…"
Jake stops immediately. "Hey, hey… look at me," he says, his voice full of concern. He kisses you softly on the lips, then your nose and forehead. "Is it too much? We can wait. I hate the idea of hurting you, even for a second."
You shake your head and take a deep breath, trying to ease the discomfort. "It’s a lot… really full and there’s some burning, but I want this."
To distract you from the stretch and help your body relax around him, he kisses you again. It works — the pain slowly turns into pressure, and then into something hotter and more intimate. "Okay, you can move a little more now."
Jake slides forward inch by inch until he’s fully inside you — every part of him is wrapped tightly in your heat, making you feel so connected, so completely filled, with a pleasant throbbing where your bodies meet.
"God… you feel incredible," he breathes, staying still for a moment while buried deep inside you. He covers you with more kisses. "So warm and tight around me. Tell me how you feel, babe."
"Full," you sigh. "So deep… it’s starting to feel really good."
Smiling against your skin, he begins rocking his hips in small, gentle movements. Each shallow thrust glides along your inner walls, brushing that sensitive spot and sending sparks of pleasure through your whole body. Jake keeps his eyes on yours, watching carefully for any sign of discomfort.
You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer. "More kisses," you whisper softly, and he gives them freely — deep, passionate kisses that match the slow rhythm of his hips. His hand finds yours, intertwining your fingers beside your head as he sinks a little deeper and a little firmer. The pleasure builds gradually, a warm wave spreading from your center outward.
"You’re doing so well," he praises between kisses, his voice full of affection. "Look at you… my best friend, letting me do this. You feel perfect, so hot and slick around my cock." His free hand caresses your breast through your tank top, his thumb brushing your nipple in time with his movements, pulling more moans from you.
"Faster… just a little," you ask, voice breaking. "I want to feel more."
Jake obeys, finding a slow but steady rhythm that lets every thrust fill you completely, the head of his cock brushing that sweet spot over and over again. "Does this feel good for you too?" you ask between moans, wanting to make sure he’s enjoying it.
"God, yes," he groans. "You’re squeezing me so tight, but right now it’s all about you. I want you to come like this if you can."
You roll your hips to meet his thrusts, learning the rhythm and experimenting with how it feels to clench around him. Jake’s glasses are completely fogged up and slipping down his nose, he pauses just long enough to take them off and set them aside, then kisses you deeply as he resumes his movements.
"I’m getting there," you moan against his mouth. "Please don’t stop, Jake."
"I’ve got you." He shifts slightly, sliding one hand between your bodies to rub gentle circles over your clit. The extra stimulation pushes you right over the edge. Your walls flutter and clench hard around his cock as the orgasm crashes through you. You moan loudly, nails digging into his back while your body pulses around him.
Jake keeps thrusting softly through your climax, murmuring praises. "That’s it… so good. You’re incredible." Only when you start to come down does he let himself go. His hips snap a few more times before he buries himself deep and comes with a low, shaky groan, filling the condom.
For a long moment afterward, he stays inside you while both of you catch your breath. Then he pulls out carefully, discards the condom, and cleans you both with a warm cloth from the bathroom. "You okay?" he asks, his voice soft and full of concern. "No pain? I tried to be as gentle as possible."
You snuggle into the sheets, feeling a pleasant soreness between your legs and a deep sense of satisfaction. "I’m perfect. A little sore, but in a good way. You made my first time really special, Jake. You’re the best friend I could ask for."
The next morning, you wake up in his bed. The ache between your legs reminds you of everything — the careful way he touched you, the gentle thrusts, the tender kisses. It had all been perfect for your first time.
But as you slip out of bed carefully so you don’t wake him, a realization settles in your mind. It wasn’t enough. Not for what you really want.
Heeseung isn’t gentle. From the rumors, girls get pinned against walls, left breathless and marked. He likes control, intensity, rough hands. Jake would never give you that, even if you begged. He’s your best friend who worries about every little sound you make. He would never push your limits the way you suspect Heeseung would.
You also need to practice that side — the rougher kind of sex that leaves you deliciously sore, the kind that teaches you how to take and give back. You can’t show up to Heeseung soft and inexperienced if you want to stand out, if you want him to crave you for more than one night.
So you leave Jake a note on his desk. "Thank you for last night. Let’s talk soon," and head back to your dorm with a new determination.
────────
That weekend, the hockey team is throwing a big party at their off-campus house — an event that always draws a different crowd from the basketball scene. There’s no explosive feud between the teams, just a quiet rivalry and enough tension that basketball players rarely show up at hockey parties and vice versa. It’s perfect. No chance of running into Heeseung or his circle, and you need that space to level up without any complications.
You take extra time getting ready because you want to be noticed. You choose a short black dress that hugs your curves, the hem riding high on your thighs. It’s simple but dangerous — low neckline, thin straps, the kind of outfit that makes you feel powerful when you look in the mirror. You add a bit more makeup than usual, nothing too dramatic, and slip into heels that make your legs look longer.
The hockey house is already packed when you arrive. Hockey players in their varsity jackets, girls in tight dresses, and red solo cups everywhere. You grab a drink and wander through the crowd, heart racing with anticipation.
That’s when you see him.
Sunghoon, the captain of the hockey team, is standing near the kitchen island, leaning against the counter like he owns the place — and he does. He has a cold, almost untouchable aura that makes people shiver when he walks by. His teammates laugh around him, but he only offers a slight, distant smile, like he’s above it all.
Your eyes meet across the room and he doesn’t look away. Instead, his gaze slowly travels down your body, taking in the dress you chose so carefully, before returning to your face. A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips — not warm like Jake’s, but something sharper, more predatory. It sends a shiver down your spine.
You don’t look away either. After all, that’s exactly why you came.
He pushes off the counter and makes his way through the crowd toward you. The suffocating tension hits you the second he stops right in front of you, like all the air has been sucked out of the room. "You don’t usually come to our parties," he says, his voice low as he tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he’s already halfway to solving. "Or are you from the basketball crowd, doll?"
You take a sip of your drink to steady yourself. "Maybe I was waiting for the right night… Plus, hockey parties have a certain reputation."
A faint smile tugs at his lips as he steps a little closer, invading your space enough to make your pulse race. "Reputation for what, exactly?" He’s so close now that you can smell his cologne — something fresh and expensive that makes your head spin.
You shrug, trying to look calm. "Good music, strong drinks… You’re Sunghoon, right? The captain of the team. I’ve heard a lot about you." The words come out bolder than you expected, but they hit something in him and his gaze darkens.
He raises a thick eyebrow and crosses his arms over his chest, making his impressively attractive biceps stand out. "I hope they’re good things."
You smile slightly. "Depends on who you ask. Some say you’re intense. Others say you’re… hard to keep up with."
Sunghoon studies you like he’s deciding something. The air between you grows heavier, and you can feel the pull — the way his eyes drop to your mouth, then lower, before sliding back up. "And what do you think? Do you think you could keep up?"
The question makes your breath hitch. "I think it depends," you reply, taking a small step closer, letting the tension build until it feels almost unbearable. "Are you offering to find out?"
He leans in even closer, his lips hovering near your ear so only you can hear him, his warm breath brushing your skin and sending shivers down your spine. "Careful. Talking like that might get you more than you bargained for."
You turn your head just enough that your cheeks nearly touch. "Maybe that’s exactly what I’m looking for."
His hand settles on your lower back, firm and guiding, pulling you subtly closer. "Come upstairs with me," he says, his voice steady as he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again. "There’s a room up there. Quieter. We can… talk more."
This is it — the next step.
You nod, letting him guide you through the crowd toward the stairs with his hand still resting on your back as you climb the steps.
The door clicks softly shut behind you, and the room instantly feels much quieter than the chaos downstairs, lit only by the soft glow coming through the open window. Sunghoon leans back against the door without saying a word, simply watching you with a playful smile on his lips.
"So," he begins softly, pushing away from the door and walking toward you, "you showed up at a hockey party dressed like that, with your eyes on the captain. You’re either really brave or really curious. Which one is it?"
"Maybe both."
Your back hits the wall before you even realize you’ve been moving backward. "Bold. I like that, I don’t waste time with girls who don’t know what they want." He towers over you, his presence intense and dominant.
You swallow hard. "I know exactly what I want tonight. Someone who won’t hold back."
He leans in closer, one hand settling on your hip, fingers pressing firmly enough for you to feel his strength. "Careful what you wish for… You look like the type who melts easily, and I think I’d really enjoy finding out."
His gaze drops to your mouth, then returns to your eyes, dark and hungry. Without another word, his lips crash against yours in a deep, overwhelming kiss right from the first second. Sunghoon doesn’t take it slow like Jake — he claims your mouth completely, his tongue sliding against yours with raw intensity while his free hand moves up to caress the back of your neck, tilting your head exactly the way he wants.
You try to match the intensity of his kiss, but it’s overwhelming — he devours every sigh and gasp that escapes you. When he finally pulls back enough for you to breathe, his eyes are darker, his lips slightly swollen. "Not bad," he murmurs, voice rough. "But you can do better, doll."
Before you can respond, he kisses you again, slower this time, pressing his body against yours so you can feel the hard line of his cock straining through his jeans. Your stomach tightens with a mix of nerves and excitement.
"Come here." He takes your hand and guides you away from the wall toward the bed. Sitting on the edge, he pulls you close until you’re straddling his lap, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his thighs, your dress riding up as you settle against him.
He pulls you into another deep kiss while one hand slides up your body and the other grips your thigh. You rock lightly in his lap, feeling him grow even harder beneath you, and he lets out a low groan into your mouth. "You’re so fucking hot. I want to see what else that pretty mouth can do." His fingers trace your jaw, thumb brushing over your lower lip. "Get on your knees for me. Show me what that mouth is capable of."
Your heart stutters because his words hit you hard — part excitement, part panic. On your knees. Sucking him. You’ve never given a blowjob before.
You slide slowly off Sunghoon’s lap and drop to your knees, your hands shaking as you reach for the button of his jeans and try to pull down the zipper. Reality crashes over you: you’re on your knees for the hockey team captain, about to give him head with zero experience.
His eyes narrow the moment he notices the tremor in your hands and the hesitation in your movements. A low, cruel, mocking laugh escapes him. "Wait." He reaches down, gripping your chin with two fingers, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. "You’ve never done this before, have you?"
Biting your lip, you shake your head. "No… I’ve never done it."
Sunghoon’s expression doesn’t soften with pity. Instead, it sharpens with something darker — satisfaction mixed with pure control. He releases your chin and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, looking down at you like you’re a player who needs to learn the drill.
"Good, I like honesty. So you’re going to listen carefully. I’m not in the mood for guessing games tonight. You want to learn? I’ll teach you, and you follow my instructions. Got it, dol?"
You swallow hard and nod again.
"Words," he commands, cold and firm. "Use your words when I ask you something."
"Yes," you repeat, your voice steadier this time. "I understand."
He gives a small nod of approval. "Good girl. Now unzip me."
You obey, slowly pulling the zipper down. Sunghoon lifts his hips slightly to help you tug his jeans and boxers low enough to free his cock. It springs out, hard and heavy, the tip already glistening with precum.
His hand rests on the back of your neck, not pushing, but guiding. "Look up at me when I’m talking to you. Don’t just stare at it like you’re lost. Wrap your hand around the base and feel the weight."
Your fingers are still trembling as you obey, curling them around his thick length. He feels incredibly warm and heavy in your palm, the skin smooth over steel. You give an experimental squeeze, watching his reaction.
"Yes, just like that," he praises coolly, like he’s directing a teammate on the ice. "Now stroke up and down. Keep a firm grip. That’s it— good. Don’t be shy."
You pump your hand firmly, finding a rhythm that makes Sunghoon’s breathing grow a little deeper, but he keeps complete control, his eyes locked on you the entire time. "Spit on it, get it nice and wet. Good girls make it sloppy."
You gather saliva and let it drip onto the head, using your hand to spread it all over his length. The wet sounds that follow make your face burn even hotter, but the way his cock twitches in your grip sends a shiver through you.
His fingers twist into your hair with enough force for you to feel it, then he pulls you closer to his throbbing length. "Now use your mouth. Start with the head, wrap your lips around it, no teeth. Suck gently while you swirl your tongue."
Your heart races as you wrap your lips around the tip, tasting a man’s cock for the first time — slightly salty, but surprisingly good. Your tongue moves in slow, hesitant circles, trying to find the rhythm you think will feel best for him.
"Eyes up," he orders sharply. "Look at me while you do it. That’s good, but take me deeper now. Relax your throat, don’t force it. Move your head slowly and keep stroking the part you can’t reach."
You open wider and take him deeper. It feels strange at first — the stretch of your jaw, the way he fills your mouth, the occasional gag when you go too far, causing tears to gather at the corners of your eyes.
"Relax your jaw and breathe through your nose. Faster with your tongue on the underside. Use your hand in sync with your mouth."
You follow every instruction carefully, the clear commands making it easier despite your inexperience. The room fills with wet, obscene sounds as your mouth works on him — licking, sucking, and your hand sliding smoothly along his cock. Sunghoon’s thighs tense under your free hand, and his voice grows a little rougher, though still tightly controlled. "Hollow your cheeks more when you pull back. Take me deeper whenever you can, I want to feel the back of your throat."
Pushing yourself, you take him deeper until your nose brushes his stomach, triggering a light gag. You try to hold it, but end up sliding back up, gasping for air. A thick string of saliva connects his cock to your mouth, and his grip tightens in your hair, the slight sting only heightening the moment.
"Not bad for your first time. Now focus on the head again. Suck harder while you move faster. Yeah— just like that. You’re gonna make me come if you keep going."
You throw yourself into it completely, determined to get better so you can do this perfectly for Heeseung one day. Your hand and mouth work together, faster and sloppier now, until Sunghoon’s breathing turns heavier and his abs tighten visibly.
"Fuck— keep your eyes on me," he growls, his voice dropping lower. "I’m close. When I come, you swallow. Every drop. Understand, doll?"
You murmur something unintelligible around him, the vibration drawing a low groan from deep in his throat. His hand guides you with a little more firmness now as his hips begin to rock, meeting your mouth with each movement. His dominance is intoxicating — no endless questions, no overthinking, just clear and commanding direction that pushes you exactly where he wants you.
With one last deep thrust into your mouth and a low groan, he comes. Hot spurts hit the back of your throat as you swallow desperately, trying not to gag while you take everything he gives you, your hand still gently stroking him through it.
Sunghoon holds you there for a few more seconds before finally releasing your hair and letting you pull back. You release his cock with a wet pop, your lips swollen and glistening. He looks down at you with that same cool satisfaction, his thumb brushing a stray string of saliva from your chin. "Clean every inch with your tongue."
You nod and obey, licking him carefully with slow, deliberate strokes of your tongue until he’s completely clean.
"Good," he says, his voice satisfied. "Now come here."
He pulls you up from your knees and back onto his lap, guiding you into a deep kiss that’s slower and less aggressive than the one against the wall, yet still possessive. His tongue slips into your mouth, tasting himself on you, letting out a soft groan against your lips.
"You did well for your first time," he praises quietly as he pulls back, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. "A little messy, but eager. I like that. You look even better with that flushed face after sucking me off, doll."
The praise sends a warm flutter through your stomach, and before you can respond, Sunghoon moves, flipping you onto your back on the bed. He hovers over you, one hand braced beside your head while the other slides up your thigh, pushing your dress higher. "You’ve never sucked a cock before… so I’m going to ask. Are you a virgin?"
You shake your head quickly. "No, I’m not."
A flash of relief crosses his face, quickly replaced by a darker, almost predatory smile. "Good. That’s actually perfect. It means I don’t have to be gentle with you." His hand glides along your inner thigh, spreading your legs apart. "I hate holding back."
Two of his long fingers press against your entrance, finding you already soaked from everything that’s happened. He pushes your panties aside and slides them inside you in one smooth motion. His fingers are noticeably longer than Jake’s, reaching places that instantly make your breath hitch.
"Fuck, you’re so tight. You sure you’re not a virgin, doll? Because you’re squeezing me like one." He starts moving right away, no slow buildup, no endless questions about how you feel, just his fingers thrusting in a steady rhythm — faster and deeper — while his thumb rubs firm circles over your clit.
You gasp, arching your back off the bed as his long fingers reach so deep that they stroke that sensitive spot inside you with every thrust. "Sunghoon—" you moan, clutching his shoulders.
"Eyes on me." His free hand pins your wrists above your head while the other moves faster, scissoring his fingers to stretch you further. He watches every reaction on your face, adjusting the intensity until you’re writhing beneath him. "You’re already soaking my hand, doll. Come on, let me feel you come around my fingers."
He adds a third finger, pushing deeper and curling harder against that spot while his thumb presses firmer circles on your clit. The combination is overwhelming — fast, deep strokes that tighten the pleasure in your core until your thighs start trembling around his hand.
"I… oh God…" Your words dissolve into a moan as the orgasm crashes over you. Your walls clench hard around his fingers, pulsing with every wave, but Sunghoon doesn’t slow down, he keeps going until you’re shaking and gasping, hypersensitive and completely spent.
Only then does he pull his fingers out, bringing them to his lips for a quick taste while he looks down at you with dark satisfaction. "You taste so good, doll."
Without wasting another second, he shoves the rest of his pants and boxers down and climbs fully on top of you. "Arms up." You lift them without hesitation and he pulls your dress off, tossing it aside somewhere in the room. Your bra follows immediately, exposing your breasts to the cool air. In the same motion, he squeezes one firmly, his thumb brushing over your nipple until it hardens, then leans down to suck it, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp.
"These are perfect," he murmurs against your skin before moving to the other. His free hand yanks your panties down your legs in one swift pull, leaving you completely naked beneath him. Sunghoon sits back for a moment, his eyes slowly roaming over your bare body with cool appreciation. "Perfect. You’re perfect, doll."
He positions himself between your spread thighs, one hand gripping your hip while the other guides his cock to your entrance. Only then do you realize there’s no condom. This is going to be the first time you feel someone raw. "Wait, Sunghoon…"
"I’m clean," he says dryly, reading your hesitation perfectly. "We’re good." He doesn’t say anything else, simply pushing forward and sinking the thick head of his cock into you with one precise thrust.
With no latex barrier, you feel every inch of him — hot, hard, and completely bare. The stretch is more intense than it was with Jake, deeper and fuller in a way that makes your walls flutter and clench tightly around him. A low moan escapes you as he sinks even deeper, filling you completely until his hips press flush against yours.
"Fuck, you feel so good," Sunghoon groans, closing his eyes for a brief second before locking his gaze on your face again. He doesn’t give you much time to adjust, starting to move with long, deep strokes that brush every sensitive spot inside you while he watches your every reaction, every gasp, fucking you with firm control.
You grab onto his arms, your nails digging crescent moons into his skin. "Sunghoon… it’s so deep like this." Every thrust knocks the air out of your lungs.
He kisses you hard again, swallowing your moans as his hips snap forward faster, growing more intense. The pleasure feels stronger than your first time because there’s nothing between you, but after a few minutes, Sunghoon suddenly pulls out, leaving you empty and whimpering.
"On your knees. Face down, ass up," he orders. "I need to go deeper. I want to watch this ass bounce while I fuck you stupid."
You get on all fours, feeling incredibly exposed with your ass up and back arched. The vulnerability of this new position you’ve never tried before sends a fresh wave of nerves through you. Sunghoon kneels behind you, his hands spreading your cheeks slightly as he lines himself up again.
He thrusts into you hard, burying himself to the hilt in a single stroke. The new angle lets him go incredibly deeper, the head of his cock pressing against spots you didn’t even know existed. You cry out, fingers clutching the sheets tightly. "Oh my God, it’s so much deeper like this."
Sunghoon groans in satisfaction. "That’s exactly what I wanted." His hands grip your hips firmly as he starts fucking you with more intensity. His thrusts are relentless, hips snapping forward with a force that makes your entire body shake.
One hand slides up your back and fists in your hair, pulling your head back sharply and arching you even more. "Fuck, look at you taking it so well like this."
His other hand comes down hard on your ass, a firm slap that makes the flesh jiggle and sting deliciously, drawing a loud moan from you. He spanks the other cheek, then again, alternating while he keeps pounding into you.
Without a condom, you feel every vein, every ridge, the way his cock stretches and fills you completely with every powerful thrust. "This ass looks even better when it’s moving for me," he says, landing another harder slap. Your arms tremble, barely able to hold you up as the pleasure builds hotter and tighter in your core. "You’re clenching so fucking hard. You like it rough like this, don’t you?"
"Yes," you moan, pushing your hips back to meet his thrusts. "Harder, please."
He obeys without hesitation, fucking you with punishing force that makes the bed creak beneath you and his balls slap against you with every deep stroke. "Touch yourself, rub your clit while I fuck you."
You slide a hand between your legs, circling your swollen clit. Another sharp slap lands on your ass, the sting spreading hot across your skin and making you clench hard around him. "Fuck, do that again, doll." He delivers one more firm spank, then squeezes the reddened flesh possessively. "You’re dripping all over my cock, soaking the sheets like a good girl."
His words, combined with the relentless rhythm, the sharp tugs on your hair, the stinging slaps, and the overwhelming depth of this position, push you straight over the edge. Your orgasm hits hard, your walls pulsing and contracting tightly around his bare cock as waves of pleasure crash through you. You moan loudly into the mattress, your whole body shaking.
Sunghoon doesn’t slow down at all — he keeps fucking you through your orgasm, chasing his own. "I’m gonna come," he growls. After a few more deep, powerful thrusts, he buries himself to the hilt and groans as he fills you with hot pulses of cum, spilling deep inside you for the first time. The sensation is new and overwhelming — warm, wet, and so intimately raw that it makes your mind spin.
Sunghoon collapses beside you on the bed and pulls you against his chest, lazily stroking your back. "You should come to our parties more often. Those basketball idiots don’t deserve someone like you at their parties."
────────
Not everything is about the plan. After all, you are still in college — assignments pile up and deadlines approach without caring about your personal obsessions. When the professor pairs you with Jay for the next project, you don’t think much of it, you just need to finish the work as quickly as possible so you can get back to your plan.
The second-floor library was strangely quiet that night. Most students have already left, and the few who remain are buried in their books. You and Jay sit at a secluded table in a corner, surrounded by tall bookshelves that give you a sense of privacy.
Jay sits across from you, looking effortlessly attractive in a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his veiny forearms. You’ve been discussing the project for nearly an hour, but the conversation slowly drifts away from the assignment and becomes more personal.
"You always seem so put-together," you say with a small smile. "Even during finals week. How do you do it?"
Jay chuckles softly, leaning back in his chair. "Coffee. A lot of coffee… You’ve been glowing lately. There’s a new confidence in class. It looks good on you."
Your cheeks flush slightly. "Thank you. I’ve been pushing myself out of my comfort zone lately."
"I noticed and it’s honestly really attractive." The compliment is light, but it’s enough to make your breath hitch. Jay’s voice drops lower as he continues. "You know, it’s easy to talk to you… and easy to look at, too."
You laugh, quickly glancing around to make sure no one is nearby. "You’re not bad yourself. Always so polite and charming... It’s kind of dangerous."
His smile widens, and then he reaches across the table, lightly brushing his fingers against yours. The touch is gentle but sends a spark through you, making the library feel even quieter now, like the rest of the world has disappeared and only the two of you remain behind the shelves.
Before you can overthink it, Jay leans forward over the table. "Come here."
You meet him halfway, and the kiss starts soft and sweet at first — a gentle brush of lips that quickly deepens as he tilts his head. Jay kisses with care and skill, one hand gently cupping your cheek while the other rests on the table for balance. It feels good, warm, and surprisingly right.
When he finally pulls back, breathing a little faster, he whispers. "No one’s around… Come sit with me."
He gently pulls you around the table and onto his lap. Your legs part over his thighs, the skirt riding up as he settles you against him and wraps one arm securely around your waist.
"Jay," a nervous laugh escapes you as you glance at the shelves surrounding you. "We’re in the library… Someone could walk by any second."
"It’s okay," his hand traces slow circles on your lower back while the other rests on your thigh. "Look around, it’s almost empty, and the shelves block most of the view." He leans in and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, then along your jaw. "We’ll be quiet. I just want to be close to you for a little while… if you’re okay with it."
Sitting on his lap like this in a public place feels incredibly bold, but Jay’s gentle confidence makes your hesitation melt away. "It’s okay," he whispers, kissing you again, slower this time. "Just relax. It’s just us right now."
You kiss him back, and it doesn’t take long for your hips to start moving almost on their own, grinding against the growing bulge in his jeans. The friction feels good even through your clothes — a slow, delicious rhythm that builds heat between your legs. Jay lets out a low hum of approval against your mouth, his hand squeezing your thigh encouragingly.
"That’s good… really good." His hips continue moving in deliberate circles, letting you feel him hardening beneath you — the thick outline pressing right against your core.
The kiss deepens as he traces your lower lip with his tongue, seeking entrance, and you open for him. "Yeah… keep doing that." One of his hands slides up to your cheek, tenderly stroking it with his thumb, while the other guides your hips, helping you find a rhythm that feels even better. "You’re driving me crazy doing this… it feels so good."
Jay pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again, his gaze is dark with desire but still incredibly gentle. "Do you want to do this here?" he asks, thumb caressing your hip. "We don’t have to… but if you’re comfortable, I need you right now."
You quickly glance around — there’s still no one nearby. "Yes." The certainty in your voice surprises even you. "I want to."
He pulls you into another kiss, deep and reassuring, before reaching between your bodies to push his pants and underwear down just enough to free himself. His cock springs out — long and incredibly thick, the head flushed red and already glistening. It’s bigger than you expected, heavy, with prominent veins.
Your eyes widen in surprise and nervousness. "Jay… you’re really big. I don’t know if I can take all of that."
He cups your face with both hands, noticing your nerves. "Hey… look at me. We don’t have to rush anything, and if it’s too much, we stop, I promise." A soft, caring expression takes over as thumbs gently stroke your cheeks. "We’ll go really slow… I’ll make sure it feels good for you."
You nod, biting your lower lip. "Okay. I trust you."
One hand stays on your waist while the other guides his thick cock, rubbing the head against your soaked panties, teasing your entrance through the fabric. "Move your panties to the side for me."
With trembling hands, you hook your fingers under the fabric and pull it aside. The cool air hits your wet folds, making you shiver. Jay helps by tugging your skirt up until it’s bunched around your waist. Only then does he position himself at your entrance — the blunt head of his cock brushing against your slick pussy. "When you’re ready."
You take a deep breath and start sinking down, the stretch is immediate and intense — almost too much. His thickness slowly pushes your walls apart as you lower yourself, inch by inch. A soft moan escapes your lips from the burning sensation and the way he fills you so completely. It’s deeper than anything you’ve felt before, his huge size presses against every sensitive spot inside you.
Jay groans, tilting his head back for a moment. "Fuck… you’re so tight. Take it slow, angel. You’re doing so well."
You pause halfway, breathing deeply to ease the burning feeling. It’s almost uncomfortable, but the raw heat of him, bare and deep, sends sparks of pleasure through the stretch. Determined, you continue lowering yourself until you’re fully seated on his lap, his cock buried to the hilt inside you, your walls fluttering as they try to adjust to his enormous length.
For a few seconds, you stay still, adjusting to the feeling of his cock pulsing deep inside you. Jay’s arms wrap around you, holding you close as his lips brush your temple. "You’re perfect, angel. Taking me so well... Tell me when you want to move."
You start experimenting, at first moving simply — rising and sinking as you’ve seen in porn videos. The motion drags him along your walls, creating delicious friction, but it feels a little awkward. It feels good for him, his groans make that clear, but it isn’t quite hitting the right spots for you.
"This is incredible," he says honestly. "But I want you to feel good too. You don’t have to just go up and down. Grind on me… roll your hips in circles, and when you bounce, use your whole body. Let me guide you, angel."
He gently guides you with his hands on your hips, and you follow, shifting from simple up and down movements to a smooth, rolling grind. The change is instant — his thick cock now rubs perfectly against your front wall, pressing hard into that sensitive spot with every circle of your hips, making a sharp moan escape you. "Yes, just like that. Feel how deep I am when you roll your hips? Now try bouncing while you do that."
You combine the movements — lifting and dropping while rolling your hips on the way down. Each bounce takes him incredibly deep, his cockhead dragging against places that make your toes curl. The stretch remains intense because he’s almost too big, creating a delicious burn.
Jay groans louder, and one hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck as he kisses you again. "Yes… fuck, you’re riding me so well. Look at you, angel." His other hand stays on your hip, guiding you to bounce harder.
The praise makes you bolder. You brace your hands on his shoulders for balance and start bouncing faster, moving up and down while grinding. Jay is so big that you can feel his cock reaching deep into your stomach, creating a profound pressure that makes your head spin.
Your newfound confidence makes him throb inside you as Jay starts thrusting up to meet you, the added force sending waves of pleasure through your core. "Deeper… like this," you moan.
Jay’s hands roam all over your body — squeezing your ass, caressing your breasts over your shirt, pulling you down for more kisses. He doesn’t take full control, letting you lead while offering guidance and praise. "That’s it… move just like that. You’re getting so wet for me. You look so beautiful riding my cock."
The pleasure builds quickly, a deep, spreading heat that consumes your entire body. You lean forward, changing the angle, and cry out when you hit an even more sensitive spot. Jay groans, holding you tighter. "Right there? Good girl. Keep going, take what you need."
You moan loudly, burying your face in his neck as the orgasm crashes through you violently. Your walls clench uncontrollably around his cock, pulsing and milking him while you keep bouncing, pushing him over the edge right after. He groans, thrusting his hips up against you as he cums deep inside, filling you with hot, thick pulses of cum.
Once you both come down, Jay lifts your chin and kisses you again, his tongue moves lazily against yours, savoring the moment. You kiss him back, feeling his cock still twitching softly inside you.
"You were incredible, angel," he whispers between kisses, smiling against your lips. "So beautiful riding me like that."
Jay’s hands run gently down your back, his gaze dropping to your chest. "Can I see more of you?"
You nod, and he doesn’t waste a single second, pulls your blouse up just enough to free your breasts. The cool air of the library makes your nipples harden instantly. "Perfect,” you sigh softly as he takes one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it.
He sucks harder, then grazes his teeth over the sensitive bud with a careful bite that makes you moan and clench around his cock, which is still buried deep inside you. Switching to the other breast, he gives it the same attention — kissing, licking, sucking, and biting. You roll your hips slowly in his lap, savoring the way his cock twitches inside you every time he sucks harder.
"You’re so sensitive here," he murmurs against your skin, pressing open-mouthed kisses between your breasts. "I could spend hours doing this."
You let out a soft, needy sound, holding his head closer to your chest as he continues marking you with his mouth — sucking hard enough to leave hickeys that will remind you of this moment later. He’s getting hard again inside you, growing thicker and longer, pressing against your sensitive walls.
"Fuck, you’re making me hard again. The way you squeeze around me while I suck on these… you’re driving me crazy." Suddenly, Jay’s arms tighten around you and, in one swift movement, he stands up.
"Jay—!" you gasp, clutching his shoulders.
"I’ve got you," he says carefully, sitting you on the edge of the table with his cock still buried deep inside you. "I need to move for a bit. Okay, angel? Tell me if it’s too much."
Before you can respond, he starts fucking you at his own pace — deep, powerful thrusts that make your body shake on the table. The angle is perfect, making his thick cock drags along every inch of your walls with each stroke.
You try to stay quiet, but the pleasure is overwhelming, and moans far too loud for the silent library keep escaping. "Ah— Jay!"
He quickly covers your mouth with his hand while continuing to thrust firmly. "Shh, angel." His hips snap forward a little harder, testing your silence. "You have to stay quiet… someone might hear."
Even with his palm muffling your sounds, the deep thrusts still pull muffled but audible moans from you. Jay glances around nervously, unsure what to do because stopping isn’t an option, so he makes a quick decision. He pulls his cock out, reaches for your panties, which was pulled to the side this whole time, tugs the wet fabric free and then he pushes it between your lips.
"I’m sorry," he whispers immediately as he slides back inside you with a deep thrust. "I hate doing this… but I don’t want us to get caught, okay?"
You nod slightly, eyes watering from the intensity, but the gag works — your next moan comes out completely muffled. "You’re being so good for me, so wet and tight." Jay returns to your breasts, sucking on one nipple while he continues fucking you senseless.
His pace quickens, hips snapping harder against yours as he tries to keep control. The risk of getting caught and the feeling of you around him push him closer to the edge. "Cum for me. I’m close too… let go, angel."
You scream into the gag, your body shaking in his arms as you cum hard, and the sensation of your walls pulsing around him sends Jay over the edge right after. He buries himself as deep as possible and cums inside you with hot, intense pulses.
Still buried inside you, he strokes your hair and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. "You were incredible… so responsive and beautiful."
A shy smile tugs at your lips. "You were incredible too."
He runs his thumb across your flushed cheek. "I’d love to do this again someday… if you want. Maybe somewhere more private next time, so I can take my time with you."
Biting your lower lip, you nod. "I’d like that. A lot, actually."
That night, back in your dorm, you realize something: during those hours with Jay, you didn’t think about Heeseung even once because you were completely lost in the moment — in his gentle touches, his warm voice, and the way he made you feel so good.
────────
The basketball team has just won a home game. The crowd is still roaring and the players are celebrating in the middle of the court. Sitting in the stands, you spot Ni-ki — Heeseung’s close friend and teammate. He’s younger than the others but carries himself with an easy, playful confidence.
When the court finally quiets down and the players start heading toward the locker rooms, you walk calmly through the internal hallways of the building, following the path that leads to the locker room area. To avoid being seen by Heeseung, you hide behind a pillar. From there, you have a perfect view of anyone leaving the locker room, while people passing through the hallway are unlikely to notice you.
A few minutes pass before the door opens. A group of players steps out, talking loudly, and Heeseung is right in the middle of them. You press yourself tighter against the pillar, holding your breath as he walks by, laughing at some joke.
More athletes leave after that until the hallway falls completely silent. Knowing most people have already gone and the risk of seeing Heeseung has passed, you finally step out of your hiding spot and walk to a brighter, more visible part of the corridor, right near the door.
When Ni-ki comes out, his eyes land on you almost immediately. He slows his steps, tilting his head with clear interest and a mischievous smile playing on his lips. "No way. You actually waited? Most girls chase after the captain." He stops right in front of you, looking you up and down without even trying to hide it. "Damn, you look dangerous."
You feel a flutter in your stomach but smile back at him. "I thought the guy who kept stealing the ball and grinning like he owned the court deserved some attention tonight."
Ni-ki laughs, running a hand through his damp hair. "You’re bold, huh? I like that." He steps a little closer, his eyes sparkling with playful curiosity. "So what’s your deal? Are you a basketball fan or did you just come here to make my day way more interesting?"
There’s a seductive tease in his voice — arrogant but fun. He clearly likes what he sees and isn’t shy about showing it. "Because if you’re here for me, you should probably tell me your name before I start calling you ‘mine’ in front of the whole team."
If you play this right, he might casually mention you to the team later, and Heeseung would hear your name and maybe get curious. But if you mess up and come across as too eager or awkward, Ni-ki could joke about it in the locker room and ruin everything before you even get close. Still, you trust yourself. "It’s y/n."
"y/n," he repeats, like he’s savoring the sound. "Nice. It suits you. So, y/n… do you always wait outside the locker rooms after games looking this good, or did I just get lucky today?"
"Only when the player on the court is showing off like he’s trying to impress someone."
Ni-ki moves even closer. "Ah, so you were really watching me? Careful, I might get too cocky." He tilts his head, his eyes tracing your face before dropping to your lips. "Or maybe that’s exactly what you want. To make me arrogant enough to do something about the pretty girl who showed up just for me."
His gaze continues sliding down from your lips, appreciating the way your top hugs your body. Suddenly, Ni-ki glances around, checking if anyone is nearby. The hallway is empty. Without warning, he grabs your hand with a grin. "Come with me for a second."
He pulls you into the locker room, but not near the entrance. He keeps guiding you deeper inside, past a small entryway and around the corner of the main area, where he presses your body against the wall. The tension that has been building finally snaps. Cupping your face with one hand, he kisses you with raw hunger — his lips moving against yours with confidence as his tongue teases yours, deepening the kiss almost instantly.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, a cocky little smirk on his face. "Fuck… you taste even better than I imagined."
He presses you harder against the wall and slides one thigh between your legs, creating just enough pressure to make you gasp into his mouth. "You’re so fucking addictive." His hands slip under your top, warm palms gliding over your skin and sending shivers through you.
Suddenly, Ni-ki drops to his knees in front of you, looking up with an even more mischievous smile. "I’ve been thinking about this since I saw you waiting outside." His hands move quickly, unbuttoning your jeans and tugging them down along with your panties. He lifts one of your legs, hooking it over his shoulder, opening you up to him.
Ni-ki presses his mouth against your pussy like he’s starving for it — voracious and rough. His tongue licks long, wet stripes from your entrance up to your clit before swirling around the sensitive bundle of nerves.
"Oh my God — Ni-ki…" you moan, one hand flying to his messy hair.
He moans against you, the vibration shooting pleasure straight up your spine. "You taste so good." His tongue dives inside you, licking and savoring every inch like he can’t get enough. Messy and eager, his lips suck on your folds before focusing back on your clit with small, hungry sucks and licks.
He eats you out like he wants to memorize every taste, every reaction — switching between long, slow licks that make your toes curl and faster movements that force you to bite your lip to stay quiet.
"Ni-ki… that feels so good." He looks up at you while his mouth works, eyes gleaming with satisfaction and desire, clearly loving the way you’re falling apart for him.
Ni-ki murmurs in response and doubles his efforts, sucking your clit into his mouth while his tongue moves fast. "Ni-ki… fuck, right there," you gasp, fingers tightening almost painfully in his hair as your hips start grinding against his face.
He slides two fingers inside you while his tongue keeps working your clit, curling them instantly against that perfect spot.
Your breathing turns ragged, your thighs trembling uncontrollably around his head. "I… I’m gonna—" you try to warn him, voice breaking, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he sucks harder on your clit and pumps his fingers faster.
Your whole body locks up for a second before a violent tremor runs through you. Your pussy clenches hard around his fingers as your clit pulses wildly against his tongue.
Ni-ki groans proudly against you, licking you through every wave, addicted to the way you fall apart. He keeps going until you’re whimpering, oversensitive and shaking. Only then does he finally pull back, lips glossy and swollen. "Shit, you come so beautifully."
He rises to his feet with a satisfied smirk and pulls you into another kiss so you can taste yourself on his tongue, his hands grip your waist, pressing your body against his. "You’re so sweet. I could eat you every day, all day long."
You open your mouth to respond, but the metallic click of the main door handle cuts through the air.
You both freeze and footsteps echo on the tiled floor, accompanied by a familiar voice humming something.
It’s Jungwon — another teammate, the point guard.
"Shit." Ni-ki quickly grabs your hand and pulls you toward the shower area with its open stalls and curtains. Yanking one curtain aside, he guides you inside, and presses your back against the cold tiled wall.
The footsteps grow louder, closer. "Hey, is anyone still in here?" Jungwon’s voice sounds casual, like he heard something and decided to check.
Ni-ki presses a finger to your lips, leaning in so close that his warm breath brushes your ear. "Don’t make a sound," he whispers, almost inaudible.
Your heart pounds hard against your ribs, but Ni-ki doesn’t seem bothered at all. In fact, the risk seems to excite him even more. Jungwon’s footsteps get closer, and right at that exact moment, Ni-ki pushes two fingers inside you without any warning. Your eyes widen and a sharp gasp almost escapes before you bite down hard on your lip.
He curls his fingers instantly, stroking that sensitive spot deep inside you with ease, a small mischievous smirk on his face as he watches your reaction. He pumps them slowly at first, then faster, while his thumb presses firmly against your swollen clit.
Trembling violently, you bury your face in his neck, desperately trying to muffle the moans threatening to spill out. "Shhh," Ni-ki whispers right against your ear, but his fingers don’t stop — deep, curling thrusts that make your knees buckle. "You’re squeezing me so tight. Does almost getting caught turn you on?"
You nod frantically and bite down on his shoulder through his shirt to stay quiet as Jungwon moves just a few meters away. Ni-ki’s thumb presses harder on your clit while his fingers thrust faster, making your thighs shake and your walls flutter uncontrollably around him as you fight to stay silent. Tears gather in the corners of your eyes from the effort.
Jungwon’s voice echoes again, closer this time. "I heard noises coming from here. Who the hell is in here?"
Noticing Jungwon getting closer, Ni-ki curls his fingers harder, rubbing your sweet spot relentlessly while his thumb works your clit in fast, precise circles. You dig your nails into his back, letting out a silent scream against his neck as pleasure peaks. Your pussy clenches violently around his fingers, dripping as waves of spasms run through you.
Finally, Jungwon’s footsteps retreat. The door opens and closes again. The second it does, Ni-ki pulls his fingers out and kisses you hard, swallowing the broken moan that finally escapes you.
Without breaking the kiss, he tugs down his basketball shorts and boxers in one quick motion, freeing his hard, thick, flushed cock. It’s already leaking at the tip from how turned on he is after eating you out and fingering you.
You reach for him without thinking — and without really knowing what you’re doing — wrapping your hand around his length and stroking slowly at first. You feel the heat and the way he pulses hot against your palm as your thumb brushes over the head, spreading the precum. "You’re so hard… I can feel how much you want this."
"Yeah? Then let me have you." He quickly helps you pull your jeans and panties all the way down your legs, kicking them aside before pressing you against the cold tiled wall of the shower stall. One hand grips your thigh as he lines himself up and with one smooth thrust, he pushes inside, burying his cock deep into your still-sensitive pussy. The stretch makes you gasp at the sudden, overwhelming fullness after everything that’s already happened.
He fucks you against the wall with firm, deep thrusts, his hips snapping forward while he holds you in place. "Fuck, you feel so good. So fucking good," he groans, burying his face in your neck as he drives into you harder, each movement pressing you against the tiles. "So wet and tight."
"Ni-ki… you’re so deep," your voice trembles with pleasure as he hits that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. "Don’t stop… it feels so good."
He keeps going like that for a while, fucking you firmly against the wall with his hands gripping your ass. But soon the position isn’t enough for him, with a low grunt, he suddenly lifts you as if you weigh nothing, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist. The new angle lets him sink even deeper, and you let out a muffled cry as he starts bouncing you on his cock, thrusting up with hungry movements that make your breasts bounce inside your top.
"Yes, like that… it feels so good," you moan while he fucks you in the air, your back pressed against the wall for leverage as he holds you like you’re weightless. The sensation is intense, every thrust hits so deep it makes your head spin and your toes curl.
"Open your mouth." He brings two fingers to your lips. "Suck them for me. I want to feel that pretty mouth while I fuck you."
You part your lips obediently and take his fingers into your mouth, sucking them eagerly while he keeps thrusting into you. His cock twitches at the feeling of your warm mouth around his fingers, the taste of you still lingers on them from earlier, making you moan around them.
"That’s it," he says, eyes locked on your face as he watches you suck his fingers while bouncing you on his cock. "You look so fucking hot like this. Keep sucking just like that."
You do exactly that, swirling your tongue and sucking harder as he drives deep inside you, clearly losing himself in how good it feels.
You pull off his fingers with a wet pop and gasp, "Ni-ki… I’m so close again. I’m gonna come."
With a mischievous smirk, he pushes his fingers back into your mouth, moving them in time with his cock as he fucks you harder against the wall. "Then come for me again. I want to feel you squeezing my cock while you suck my fingers."
The dirty words combined with his relentless pace finally push you over the edge. You moan loudly around his fingers as your legs tighten around his waist. Wave after wave of intense pleasure crashes through you, making your entire body shake in his arms.
Ni-ki groans at the feeling of you coming and his thrusts turn erratic. He buries himself as deep as possible and comes hard inside you, pulsing with hot spurts while holding you firmly against the wall.
After a moment, he finally lowers you gently until your feet touch the floor again, but he doesn’t pull out immediately, he stays nestled inside your heat, kissing you slowly and almost lazily, like he isn’t ready to end the moment yet. "Fuck… that was incredible. And honestly? That was the best post-game sex I’ve ever had. No joke. I’m gonna be thinking about this pussy for days."
You let out a soft giggle, cheeks burning. "Really? I don’t think I’ll be able to walk properly after this."
Surprisingly gentle, he laughs and presses a kiss to your cheek before finally pulling out slowly. Both of you hiss at the loss. "That’s actually great. Means you’ll be thinking about me too. When can we do this again? After the next game, or maybe after every practice?"
────────
The basketball team had crushed their biggest rival that night, and the victory party at the massive off-campus house is going to be loud, chaotic, and packed with people. This is the moment you’ve been carefully preparing for with every practice session and every new experience. Tonight is the night.
You choose a bold black dress that clings to your body like a second skin, short enough to show off your legs and thighs, with a neckline that reveals just enough to be daring. Your hair is styled exactly the way you like it, and your makeup is flawless, enhancing your features in a way that makes you feel powerful. When you look in the mirror, you look like someone who belongs in Heeseung’s world.
When you arrive at the party, the music is already pulsing through the walls, bodies are moving everywhere, and the air smells like alcohol and sweat. Your eyes scan the room until they find him.
Heeseung is sitting on the large couch in the main room like he owns the place — which he basically does. Two girls are practically draped over him. One is half in his lap, her hand resting possessively on his chest, while he has one arm casually around the other girl, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her shoulder as he talks to his teammates.
Spotting Ni-ki nearby, chatting with some of the other players, you walk toward him with confident steps because you aren’t going straight to Heeseung. No — you’re going to make him come to you. Ni-ki’s eyes light up with immediate recognition and interest.
"I can’t believe you’re here," he says with a grin as he pulls you into a side hug that lasts a second longer than necessary. "You look dangerous tonight. Come here, I want you to meet some of the guys."
You laugh softly and stay close to him, letting him introduce you to some of his teammates, including Jungwon. Your cheeks heat up as you remember that moment in the locker room, and when you glance to the side, Heeseung is watching — the girls are still around him, but his eyes are locked on you, following every move you make.
Ni-ki leans in and whispers in your ear, "You know, I still can’t stop thinking about that day in the locker room. Jungwon almost catching us… My fingers buried so deep inside you while you tried so hard not to moan. I’ve been replaying that shit all week."
Your face flushes instantly and the memory makes your thighs press together in a rush of heat. "Ni-ki…" you whisper back, half embarrassed and half turned on, "you can’t just say that here."
You’re too focused on Ni-ki to notice Heeseung pushing the girl off his lap, standing up, and walking over with his usual confidence. He stops right in front of you, his gaze shifting between you and Ni-ki, who is still grinning widely.
"What’s so funny over here?" Heeseung asks, a hint of curiosity in his voice. "You two look like you’re sharing secrets."
You freeze for a second before answering quickly, a little too fast. "Nothing."
"Nothing? Come on. Nothing stays hidden from the captain, especially when my teammate is standing here grinning like an idiot and you’re looking all flustered." He steps closer, his full attention now on you. "Gonna tell me what got you so worked up, pretty?"
Ni-ki’s playful smile fades, replaced by something closer to jealousy as he watches the captain focus entirely on you. "We're just messing around. It's fun talking to y/n, that's all."
Heeseung looks you up and down slowly, taking in the way the dress hugs every curve of your body. "Want a drink? I can’t have you standing here empty-handed."
"Yeah… I’d like that."
Ni-ki’s jaw tightens as he glances between the two of you, clearly not happy about being sidelined, but he knows better than to push it with Heeseung. "Catch you later, y/n," he says, giving you one last look filled with a mix of jealousy and desire before disappearing into the crowd.
Now it’s just you and Heeseung.
He guides you toward the kitchen, his hand lightly brushing your lower back. “So… y/n,” he says, savoring your name like he’s testing how it feels on his tongue. "You show up at my party looking like sin, talking to my boy while wearing this little dress that makes everyone wonder what you’re hiding underneath." A mischievous smile curves his lips as his eyes flick to your mouth for a moment. "You gonna let me find out, or are you just here to tease?"
You feel yourself getting wet just from the way he’s looking at you — that hungry stare and confident tone making your panties stick to you. "Talking about what I’m hiding under this dress already? We just got to the kitchen… but yeah, I might let you discover it." Your voice comes out bold because you refuse to sound nervous now, after waiting so long for this moment.
Deep down, all you can think about is how badly you want him to stop talking and just fuck you senseless.
Heeseung’s smile deepens, a flash of satisfaction crossing his face. He glances around to make sure no one is paying too much attention, then leans in even closer, his lips brushing your ear as he speaks. "There’s an empty room upstairs. Third door on the left, go up in a few minutes. I’ll follow right after so no one notices."
He pulls back, sliding his hand slowly along your waist before disappearing into the crowd. You wait a few minutes, taking a sip of your drink to calm your nerves, but it barely helps — the ache between your legs only grows with every passing second. After exactly five minutes, you head up the stairs and find the third door already slightly ajar. You step inside with shaky, anticipatory breaths.
Moments later, Heeseung appears. He closes the door firmly behind him and locks it.
The second the lock clicks, he’s on you.
There’s nothing gentle about the way his mouth crashes against yours in a hungry, intense kiss. He bites your lower lip, tugging it between his teeth before sucking it into his mouth, then does it again harder just to hear you whimper.
His hands slide down to grip your ass firmly under the dress, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulls you flush against him, letting you feel the hard outline of his cock through his pants.
"Fuck, this ass feels even better than it looks in that dress," he growls against your mouth, squeezing harder and spreading your cheeks. The kiss deepens, his tongue dominating yours while he continues kneading and groping your ass like he can’t get enough.
Heeseung’s mischievous smirk returns when he hears you moan into the kiss. He doesn’t break it as he walks you backward toward the bed. When the back of your knees hit the mattress, he pushes you down and climbs on top of you.
A string of saliva connects his lips to yours when he pulls back to strip your dress off in one quick motion, leaving you in just your bra and panties, his eyes darkening with lust as he takes in every inch of your body.
"Look at you… such a pretty little slut, all dressed up for who? For me?" His hands make quick work of unclasping your bra and tossing it aside before he drags your panties down your legs and throws them away too, leaving you completely naked and exposed for him.
With a firm hand, Heeseung spreads your legs wide, getting a perfect view of your glistening, dripping pussy. "Already so wet for me, but it’s not enough." Suddenly he leans down and spits directly on your pussy, the warm string of saliva hitting your clit and dripping down your folds. The sight makes his rock-hard cock twitch inside his pants so he does it again, spitting a second time, then spreads it with two fingers, rubbing the wetness all over. "Gonna get this pussy nice and sloppy for me."
You moan loudly at the filthy feeling of his saliva sliding through your folds — hips jerk while your pussy clenches around nothing.
Heeseung drags his tongue slowly up your pussy, licking from your entrance to your clit in one long, deliberate stroke that makes you gasp. When you do, he laughs against you — the vibration sending shivers through your entire body.
"You taste so fucking good," he says before diving back in. He eats you out messily, his tongue swirling around your clit before dipping down to push inside you, savoring every drop of your arousal mixed with his spit.
Your hands fly to his hair, gripping it tightly as the overwhelming sensation hits you. "Heeseung, that feels incredible…"
He keeps going, licking deeper inside you while his nose brushes against your clit, but suddenly he pulls back, looking up at you with a devilish smirk. Without warning, he brings his hand down in a sharp, wet slap against your soaked pussy, the sting mixed with pleasure makes you cry out loudly. "Holy fuck, Heeseung."
"You like that too?" He slaps your pussy again, harder this time, hitting your folds and swollen clit. "Such a dirty girl, getting even wetter when I slap this pretty pussy."
"Yes— God, yes," you moan, thighs trembling. "It burns, but it feels so good at the same time."
That encourages him to give you another slap and right after, he buries his face between your legs again, sucking hard on your clit while two thick fingers push inside you. He fingers you mercilessly, curling them to hit that sweet spot over and over as his tongue works your clit. "Fuck, you’re so tight. Taking my fingers like a good little slut for me."
He spits on your clit again, spreading the saliva with his tongue before adding a third finger, stretching you deliciously while pumping them faster and harder. All you can do is moan, your thighs shaking violently around his head. "Heeseung, I’m getting close… please don’t stop."
He obeys, alternating between long licks, hard sucks on your clit, deep thrusts of his fingers, and firm slaps that make your pussy burn and throb. "I’m gonna come," you moan, arching your back off the bed.
"Then come for me." Your entire body tenses, your walls clenching hard around his fingers as spasms rip through you. You come hard with a loud cry, thighs trembling violently around his head. But Heeseung doesn’t stop, he keeps licking and fingering you through every pulse, drawing out your pleasure until you’re oversensitive and whimpering.
When he finally pulls back with glossy lips and chin, he kisses you again so you can taste yourself on his tongue. "Get on your knees for me," he commands against your lips. "I want that pretty mouth around my cock."
It’s time to put into practice what Sunghoon taught you about sucking dick.
With a confident little smile, you gently push him so he lies on his back. Once he does, you position yourself between his legs and reach for his belt, slowly unbuckling it. He lifts his hips to help as you pull his pants and boxers down, freeing his cock. It springs up thick, hard, and leaking precum, making your mouth water at the sight.
You wrap one hand around the base of his cock, lean in, and press a soft kiss to the tip before dragging your tongue slowly along the underside, drawing a shaky breath from Heeseung. "That’s it… suck me like a good girl."
Feeling confident, you take him into your mouth and slowly suck on the head, swirling your tongue around it while savoring the precum there. Then you take him deeper, bobbing your head as your hand strokes what doesn’t fit, your movements growing smoother as you find the right rhythm. "Fuck… your mouth feels so good."
His praise encourages you to take him even deeper until the head brushes the back of your throat, making you gag. A wet choking sound escapes as your eyes water, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you stay there for a moment, breathing through your nose the way Sunghoon taught you, before sliding back up and sinking down again.
Heeseung grabs your hair and tightens his grip as a needy groan escapes his throat. "Shit, that’s… ahh—"
You keep going, moving your head faster and sucking harder while your hand twists around the base, making his thighs tense and another desperate moan slip out.
It’s hard to believe that Heeseung, the guy everyone on campus talks about, the one with a reputation for being experienced and dominant, is moaning and whimpering under your mouth. It’s unexpected, but not in a bad way, especially because your pussy clenches around nothing every time he makes those sounds.
You pull back a little, sucking on the head while stroking him faster with your hand, which draws another broken moan from him. "Yes— fuck, yes, baby."
Wanting to pull even more reactions from him, you take him deep into your mouth again, gagging softly around his length as your head moves faster. Saliva drips down his entire shaft and onto your hand, making everything slick and messy.
Heeseung’s moans grow louder, breathier, and more frequent. "Fuck, I… I’m gonna come. Please don’t stop… I’m so close, baby."
You moan around him and suck harder until his thighs start to tremble. "Fuck… fuck—!" His voice cracks as the orgasm finally hits him.
His cock pulses hot and hard on your tongue, releasing thick jets of cum into your mouth. You try to swallow as much as you can, continuing to suck him through every last spasm and moan.
When you finally pull off his cock with a wet pop, Heeseung moves fast. He flips you onto your back and hovers over you — the whimpering guy from moments ago is gone. Now his eyes are filled with raw hunger.
"I’m not done with you yet." With a firm hand, he spreads your thighs, exposing your dripping pussy, begging to be fucked. "Now I’m going to fuck you properly."
You blink at him, confused and surprised by the sudden shift because seconds ago he was moaning and almost begging under your mouth, and now he’s trying to act like the dominant guy everyone talks about.
He lines up the head of his cock at your entrance, rubbing it up and down your wet folds, coating himself with your arousal. Without warning, he thrusts into you hard in one brutal stroke, stretching you around his thick length.
The sudden fullness makes you cry out loudly, your back arching off the bed. "Oh my God — Heeseung!" The stretch feels so good, especially while you’re still sensitive from coming earlier.
He fucks you hard and deep from the very first thrust, his hips slamming against yours with relentless strokes that make the bed creak beneath you. "Fuck, this pussy is so wet and greedy," he groans, leaning down to capture your lips in a messy kiss while one of his hands wraps around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. He holds it for a few seconds before loosening his grip, letting you gasp for air. "Look at you, sucking my cock like a good little slut. You love being used like this, don’t you?"
"Yes, fuck, yes," you moan, your voice breaking under the pressure of his hand. "You’re so deep inside me. It feels so good, Heeseung."
He chokes you again, a little harder this time, and the mix of pleasure and lack of air makes your head spin deliciously.
Heeseung pushes your legs back toward your chest, folding you in half so he can fuck you even deeper. The new angle makes his cock hit that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, causing your eyes to roll back.
When he finally releases your throat, you gasp desperately for air, moaning loudly as he keeps hitting that sweet spot over and over. "Please… harder. I can take it."
Heeseung lets out a needy groan at your words, his hips stuttering for half a second before he gives you exactly what you asked for. He fucks you harder, rougher, driving his cock into you with punishing depth. The sound of skin slapping against skin grows louder and wetter as he pounds into you, pressing your body into the mattress.
Just as your next orgasm starts to build, he suddenly slows down, keeping his cock buried deep inside you but barely moving. "Not yet. You don’t get to come until I say so, slut."
You whine desperately, trying to lift your hips for more friction. "Please, Heeseung… I need to come. I’m so close already. Don’t stop— I’ve been so good."
He smirks wickedly, shaking his head as he starts thrusting with slow, teasing rolls of his hips. "Beg better than that, baby. I want to hear how badly you need it."
You’re a complete mess underneath him, tears of frustration and pleasure gathering in your eyes. "Please… I’ll be so good for you. Just let me come on your cock, please. I need it so bad— I can’t take this teasing anymore."
Heeseung groans, but the sound turns into a needy moan as your walls clench around him. He starts fucking you harder again, his hand returning to your throat. But he isn’t done teasing you yet, so he edges you two more times — bringing you right to the brink with deep, brutal thrusts only to slow down and leave you whimpering and empty.
On the third time, you’re crying and babbling nonstop. "Heeseung… please, I can’t take it anymore. It hurts so good… I need to come. I’ll do anything you want. Just let me come on your cock."
"Fuck… you look so pretty when you beg," he groans, his voice rough with his own need to come. He thrusts into you with brutal force, tightening his hand around your throat again while his hips move relentlessly. "Come then. Come all over my cock like the desperate slut you are. Let me feel you."
Your entire body seizes underneath him. Your walls clamp down hard around his thick cock, your thighs shaking uncontrollably as you soak his cock and the sheets beneath you, screaming his name.
Heeseung fucks you through your orgasm, groaning as your pussy milks him. "Fuck, that’s it. Good girl… you’re squeezing me so tight." A few more brutal, deep thrusts and he buries himself as deep as possible, coming hard inside you with thick, hot pulses.
Lying under him with your heart racing and breath coming in short, heavy bursts, his cock still buried deep inside you, your mind keeps returning to the sounds he made minutes ago — those desperate, broken moans and whimpers when you had him in your mouth.
Something about hearing him lose control like that makes heat pool low in your belly. After a few seconds of hesitation, you gather your courage, place a hand on his chest, and push him gently but firmly. "My turn to break you now. I want to hear you moaning under me." You say as you swing your leg over his waist, straddling him.
Heeseung’s breath hitches as his cock, already hardening again beneath you, shows just how much he likes the shift in power. "Baby… fuck," he gasps, his hands reaching for your hips.
"Don’t touch unless I say so." You slap his hands away, then wrap your fingers around his thick cock, stroking him slowly and teasingly while rubbing the head up and down your cum-soaked pussy. "Look at you. The captain of the basketball team. Everyone on campus thinks you’re this untouchable stud who ruins girls and never gets ruined."
You sink down onto him in one slow motion, taking every inch until your ass meets his thighs — the stretch making both of you moan. You stay completely still, clenching around him just to watch him squirm, a mischievous smile spreading across your face. Then you start moving your hips slowly, rubbing your clit against his pelvis. "Ahh— fuck… please don’t tease me."
You begin riding his cock properly, using everything you learned — deep movements, tight squeezes, and powerful bounces that make your ass slap against his thighs and your clit grind deliciously against his pelvis.
"Fuck, baby," he hisses, his hands flying to your hips, but you grab his wrists and push them away. You lean down so your breasts brush against his chest and his cock hits even deeper. "Don’t touch. Just take this pussy like a good boy. Got it, captain?"
Heeseung’s cock twitches hard inside you at your words, and a low, surprised moan escapes his throat. "Shit… yes," he groans, clearly turned on by the way you dominate him. "Use me, baby. Fuck me."
So this was the real Heeseung? A whimpering mess when someone takes control. All that arrogance on the court, all those girls throwing themselves at him, and here he is — moaning and shaking underneath you like he can’t handle how good your pussy feels around him.
You watch every reaction closely, mesmerized by the way his lips part, his breath coming in short, needy gasps every time you bounce and grind on him, and the broken moans slipping from his throat when you clench hard around his cock.
'God, he really is a whimperer,' you think, amazed by the sight as you bite your lip and ride him harder. "All that reputation and you’re crying because a girl is riding you. That’s kind of pathetic… but so fucking hot."
Heeseung lets out another broken moan, his hands desperately gripping the sheets since you won’t let him touch you. "Fuck— you’re killing me. Your pussy feels too good, I can’t… ah— slow down a little, please."
You laugh softly and keep riding him mercilessly, clenching around his cock rhythmically, rolling your hips in tight, dirty circles while bouncing faster and faster, making sure he feels every movement. "You’re going to take this like a good boy, captain."
Heeseung moans louder, letting his head fall back against the pillow as his body trembles beneath you. "Shit, you’re so mean. Please don’t stop. Your pussy is squeezing me so tight— fuck, I’m losing my mind."
You lean back, bracing your hands on his thighs so he has the perfect view of his cock disappearing into your dripping pussy. "Look how deep you are," you moan, rolling your ass on him in small, obscene movements. "You like watching me use your cock like this, don’t you? Such a big, strong captain… and now you’re moaning under me."
The pleasure and the delicious sight of the untouchable Heeseung moaning and whimpering push you toward your own orgasm. "I’m gonna come," you gasp, leaning down to kiss him messily while still bouncing on his cock. "And you’re going to come with me, crybaby."
Heeseung moans loudly, the nickname making his cock twitch hard inside you. "Fuck… I’m coming!" His hips buck up to meet your bounces as thick jets of cum spill deep inside you once again.
You follow right behind him, your orgasm crashing over you as you keep riding him through both of your peaks, milking every last drop from his cock.
"Don’t tell anyone about this," he begs breathlessly, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "That I’m… like this. Please. This is our secret, okay? Just between us."
────────
Jake’s hands grip your hips tightly, you clench around his cock and roll your hips in those filthy, perfected movements. His broken moans fill the room as you bounce faster, grinding harder against him. Suddenly, your phone starts ringing on the nightstand, Ni-ki’s name lighting up the screen.
You slow your movements, reaching over to answer the call while still sitting on Jake’s cock. "Hey," you sigh, slightly breathless.
Jake groans, his hips twitching desperately. "Babe… please don’t stop," his voice is full of need. "I was so close… keep going, please."
You cover his mouth with your hand to silence him to continue the call. Ni-ki sounds frustrated on the other end. "You free right now? We lost tonight and I’m pissed. Come to my dorm… I need that pretty pussy to help me forget this shit game."
"I can come over soon," you say, trying to keep your voice steady while rolling your hips on Jake. "Give me a bit."
"Good. Don’t take too long. I really need to fuck you," Ni-ki says before hanging up.
You drop the phone and start riding Jake again. "Sorry about that. Now be a good boy and come for me.
Later that night, you’re on all fours in Ni-ki’s dorm as he fucks you hard from behind. His hips slam against your ass with deep, aggressive thrusts.
In the middle of a particularly rough stroke, he suddenly asks, "I saw you leaving the hockey rink the other day. What the hell were you doing there?"
You moan and push back to meet his thrusts. "None of your business."
Ni-ki’s hand comes down hard on your ass with a loud smack. The sharp sting makes you clench around his cock and moan louder. He slaps you again, even harder. "Wrong answer."
"Again," you moan, arching your back. "I like it."
Ni-ki laughs darkly and keeps spanking you repeatedly while fucking you harder, his palm leaving red marks on your ass as he pounds into you until both of you come hard.
The next afternoon, you’re on your knees in Jay’s dorm with his huge cock stretching your mouth as you suck him. Jay has one hand gently stroking your hair, looking down at you with proud eyes.
"You’re doing so well. Taking me so deep like this… you look so beautiful with my cock in your mouth, angel."
You relax your throat, taking him as deep as you can, sucking harder, using every technique you’ve learned. Jay groans, his fingers sliding gently through your hair.
"Fuck… you’re incredible. Such a good girl for me. Keep going, you’re making me feel so good."
He keeps praising you the whole time, soft and sincere, until he finally comes down your throat with a soft, shaky groan, lovingly stroking your cheek as you swallow everything.
When you leave Jay’s room, still a little flushed and disheveled, you run straight into Sunghoon in the hallway. He looks at you, then at Jay’s door behind you, and his expression darkens instantly.
"What the fuck were you doing in there?"
You don’t answer, trying to walk past him, but he doesn’t let you. Sunghoon grabs your wrist and pulls you into his own dorm, slamming the door behind you. He fucks you hard and jealous, bending you over the desk, taking you from behind with brutal, possessive thrusts.
"You’ve been fucking everyone lately, haven’t you?" he growls, driving deep and angry. "Greedy little slut."
You moan loudly, loving the jealous tone in his voice.
During the rough thrusts, your phone starts vibrating on the desk — it’s Heeseung sending message after message.
Heeseung:
I can’t stop thinking about that night with you.
Come over.
Baby, answer me.
I know you’re getting these.
Don’t play games with me.
Stop fucking ignoring me.
Sunghoon notices the constant buzzing, picks up the phone, uses your face to unlock it, and opens the chat. With a dark, possessive smile, he takes a photo of your flushed, teary-eyed, moaning face while he fucks you hard from behind and sends it to Heeseung with the caption: "She’s busy."
He tosses the phone aside and fucks you even harder after that.
────────
You finally understand why Heeseung never wants to be tied to just one person. Having options is liberating. Jake, Sunghoon, Jay, Ni-ki, and Heeseung — each one offers something different: different rhythms, different kinds of pleasure, different versions of yourself. You don’t have to choose just one because you can have them all. Now you understand Heeseung’s lifestyle — it’s freeing.
And you realize you want that freedom too.
Thank you for reading! and a special thanks to everyone who asked to be tagged <3
SYNOPSIS :: You’d think having spent months ‘dating’ that the two of you would’ve sorted out whatever issues underlined every argument you shared, but, truthfully, you both enjoyed the bickering far too much to want it to stop.
W.C :: 6.6k
CONTAINS :: skater!keonho x regina!reader, a spinoff of she’s kinda hot, can be read as a standalone (but highly recommend reading the first fic), angst + fluff, description of injury, mentions of death/killing (joking), bickering/arguing, kono’s friends are haters, use of dollars, cliché, skinship, pet names, the love bomb, kissing
PLAYLIST :: She looks so perfect - 5sos; My own worst enemy - Lit; Still into you - Paramore; Teenage dirtbag - Wheatus; Take me away - Christina Vidal Mitchell
You and Keonho had been… something for about three months now.
Three months of arguing over everything. The thermostat. The last slice of pizza. Whether or not a hot dog was a sandwich (he said yes, you said absolutely not, and you'd nearly broken up over it twice). You fought like cats and dogs, like fire and gasoline, like two people who had absolutely no business being in the same room.
But the thing that got you the most—the thing that made you want to scream, to pull your hair out, to shake him until his teeth rattled—was his complete and utter inability to plan.
You planned everything. You had spreadsheets. colour-coded calendars. Alarms set on your phone for things that were still three weeks away. You knew where you needed to be and when and what you needed to wear and who you needed to impress and exactly how many minutes late you could arrive before it went from fashionable to disrespectful.
Keonho just… existed.
And apparently, for him, that was enough.
"We'll figure it out," he'd say, whenever you tried to pin down a date, a time, a commitment. "It'll be fine," he'd say, when you asked him what he was wearing to something important. "Don't worry so much," he'd say, when you were clearly, obviously, rightfully spiraling.
You wanted to strangle him.
You wanted to kiss him.
Usually both at the same time.
Tonight's fight had been brewing for weeks, simmering under the surface of every text he left on read, every plan he showed up late for, every time he looked at you with those stupid, calm eyes and said "we'll figure it out" like it was the easiest thing in the world.
The dinner was important. People who mattered would be there. People whose opinions could make or break things you'd been working toward for years. A single wrong move could, and would, unravel everything.
You'd told him about it three times. Texted him the address twice. Sent him a reminder the morning of, complete with a photo of the venue and a highlighted map. Told him, specifically, explicitly, begged him to wear something nice.
He showed up forty-five minutes late in a wrinkled band tee and ripped jeans.
You spotted him the second he walked through the door: that stupid beanie, that lazy slouch, the skateboard he'd somehow snuck past coat check. Your blood went cold. Then hot. Then cold again.
You excused yourself from a conversation and crossed the room in what felt like slow motion. Your heels clicked against the marble floor. Your perfectly applied lipstick felt like warpaint.
You grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the hallway before he could say a word.
"What is wrong with you?"
"Traffic," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. He looked completely unbothered and completely unaware that he'd just detonated a bomb in the middle of your perfectly constructed evening.
"You don't have a car."
"Pedestrian traffic."
"Keonho."
He shrugged. That infuriating, shoulders-up, I don't see the problem shrug. His beanie was crooked. His hair was a mess. There was a small rip in the knee of his jeans that you were pretty sure hadn't been there yesterday.
"I'm here, aren't I?"
"You're late." Your voice came out sharp, each word a knife. "You're dressed like that. I told you—I specifically told you—"
"You told me a lot of things, princess."
"Don't call me that."
He tilted his head, beanie slipping further over one eye. There was something in his expression, not quite a smirk yet not quite a challenge, that made your stomach twist. "Then stop acting like one."
You wanted to hit him. You wanted to scream. You wanted to grab him by that wrinkled band tee and shake him until he understood.
"Do you have any idea how this looks?" You hissed, glancing over your shoulder at the crowd inside. Laughter spilled through the doorway. Glasses clinked. The world you were supposed to be performing in continued on without you. "I've been talking you up for weeks. Telling people you're coming. Telling them you're—"
"What? Worthy of being seen with the great and mighty you?"
"That's not—"
"Is that what this is about?" He stepped closer, and suddenly the hallway felt smaller. His voice was quiet now, but no less sharp. "How it looks?"
"It's about respect, Keonho. It's about showing up when you say you will. It's about not making me—" Your voice caught and you closed your eyes to recollect yourself. " —not making me look stupid for defending you to everyone who said I was making a mistake."
He went quiet.
"Who said that?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
"It should matter to you that you were late. That you're wearing that. That you can't seem to—" You stopped and pressed your fingers to your temples, the beginnings of a headache pulsed behind your eyes. "I had a plan. I had everything planned. I knew exactly how this night was supposed to go, and you just— you just—"
"We'll figure it out."
"We'll figure it out?"
You laughed. It came out sharp and bitter, nothing funny about it. The sound echoed off the hallway walls.
"That's your answer to everything." You were pacing now, heels clicking against the marble, back and forth, back and forth. "'We'll figure it out.' 'It'll be fine.' 'Don't worry so much.' You don't plan. You don't think. You just show up whenever you feel like it and expect everyone to be grateful that you bothered to exist in their direction."
"Maybe because I trust that things will work out without me having to control every single detail."
"Not everyone has that luxury."
He crossed his arms, leaned against the wall and watched you pace. "What's that supposed to mean?"
You stopped and faced him, your chest heaving.
"It means some of us don't have the option to just exist and hope for the best. Some of us have to earn our place. Some of us have to fight for every single thing we have, and one wrong move, or late appearance, or bad outfit can take all of it away."
He was quiet for a long moment.
"Do you understand how embarrassing this is for me?" You asked, and your voice was more tired now. "How it feels to stand there and watch people's faces when they see you? To know they're thinking that's who she chose?"
He pushed off the wall.
"Embarrassing."
"Yes."
"I'm embarrassing to you?"
"That's not—" You stopped. Swallowed. The lump in your throat was hard to get past. "You're not trying, Keonho. You're not showing up. Not really. You're just—here. Floating. Existing. And that's not enough. Not for this. Not for—"
You didn't finish the sentence.
He stared at you. His face was unreadable—that careful blankness he wore when he was actually hurt, when he was trying not to show it. His jaw was tight. His hands were in his pockets, but you could see the tension in his shoulders.
"Why does embarrassment matter so much to you?"
The question landed like a slap.
"What?"
"Embarrassing." He said the word slowly, like he was tasting it, turning it over in his mouth. "Why does it matter so much? Why do you care what they think?" He gestured toward the doorway, toward the laughter and the clinking glasses. "They don't know you. They don't know us. They don't know anything. They're just people with opinions that don't actually mean anything."
"Opinions mean everything."
"To who?"
"To me."
He nodded slowly. Something flickered across his face: disappointment, maybe. Or understanding. It was hard to tell.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I know."
The silence between them was heavy. Wrong. Stretching like taffy, thin and about to snap.
You could hear your own heartbeat atop his breathing, the distant murmur of the party you were supposed to be charming slicing through the quiet.
"Look," he said, running a hand through his hair, knocking his beanie completely off. It landed on the floor with a soft thump. "I'm sorry I was late. I'm sorry I wore this. I'm sorry I'm not—whatever you need me to be for this to work."
"Keonho—"
"I'm trying, princess." He bent down and picked up his beanie, dusted it off against his thigh. His voice was quiet, as though he was choosing every word carefully. "I'm just not trying the way you want me to. And I don't know if I can."
He turned toward the door and something in your chest cracked.
"Don't."
He stopped. His back was to you still and his shoulders were tense.
"Don't walk away," you said. "Not from me."
"I'm not walking away." His voice was soft, almost gentle. That made it worse. "I'm giving you space to go back in there and do your thing, make it the perfect evening." He glanced back at you over his shoulder. "I know you need that. I know you planned for that. So go. I'll see you tomorrow."
"And what about us?"
He was quiet for a long moment. The kind of quiet that felt like a held breath.
"We'll figure it out."
"Stop saying that."
"It's all I've got."
There was a momentary lull until you crossed the room before your brain could catch up with your body.
You grabbed the front of his wrinkled band tee, pulled him down and you kissed him.
Your fingers twisted in his shirt, knuckles white, pulling him closer like you were afraid he'd disappear. His free hand caught your waist and the other dropped his beanie again, completely forgotten, his fingers threading into your hair, loosening pins, ruining your perfect updo.
He kissed you back like he'd been waiting for it. Like the fight had been building toward this all along: every argument, every slammed door, every "we'll figure it out" and this was the only possible conclusion.
His mouth was warm. He tasted like the energy drink he'd been nursing on the way over, sweet and sharp, and his lips were slightly chapped, and you didn't care. You didn't care about any of it.
The party behind you faded away, the carefully constructed walls you'd spent years building came crashing down. All that existed was his hand on your waist, his fingers in your hair, his mouth moving against yours like he was trying to tell you something he didn't have words for.
When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard, your chests heaving, your foreheads pressed together, he let out a shaky breath.
"What was that?" he whispered.
"I don't know."
"You kissed me."
"I know."
"Why?"
You opened your eyes. He was so close that you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes and the way his lips were slightly swollen.
"Because—" You swallowed. Your voice was shaking. You couldn't remember the last time your voice had shaken in front of anyone. "Because I didn't want you to leave. Because I don't care about the dinner. Because you're right, embarrassing doesn't matter. It never mattered. I just—"
"Just what?"
"I don't know how to be anything other than this." You gestured vaguely at the party behind you, at your perfect dress, at the life you'd built out of sheer will and terror. Your hand was trembling. "I don't know how to let go. I don't know how to trust that things will just work out. I don't know how to be like you: how to just exist and believe that's enough."
He was quiet for a moment. His thumb was tracing small circles on your hip, through the fabric of your dress. His other hand was still in your hair, loose strands falling around your face.
"I'm not asking you to be like me," he said finally. His voice was soft and gentle in a way that made your chest ache. "I'm just asking you to let me in."
You stared at him. His eyes were dark and steady and warm. There was no judgment or frustration there. Just... him. Just the boy who showed up late in wrinkled band tees and said "we'll figure it out" like it was a prayer.
"I don't know how to do that either," you whispered, and watched as his eyes scanned your face.
"Then we'll figure it out," he said. "Together."
He said it like a promise. Like a vow. Like he meant it.
You kissed him again and this time it felt less like a fight and more like a surrender. Your hands slid up from his chest to his shoulders, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. His hand pressed flat against your lower back, pulling you closer, and you let him. You let yourself be pulled.
When you finally pulled back his band tee was even more wrinkled than before, your perfect lipstick was definitely smeared across both your mouths, and your updo was a lost cause.
"You're still late," you said.
"I know."
"You're still dressed like that."
"I know."
"And I still want to kill you."
"I know." He grinned that stupid, lopsided, infuriating grin that had made you want to scream the first time you saw it. "But you still kissed me."
"Shut up."
"Make me, princess."
And that sums up pretty much the entirety of your… whatever you are. You’ll be at each other’s throats constantly, and yet you can’t seem to stay away from one another.
Another aspect of you two being together was that you had the emotional expressiveness of a rock and would close in on yourself whenever something upset you, driving Keonho absolutely mad.
The first time you stopped going to the skate park, he didn't say anything.
He noticed, though. Of course he noticed. Keonho noticed everything about you: when you were tired, when you were faking, when you were one wrong word away from shattering.
And most of all he noticed when you started pulling away, though he let you be by yourself for a few days to mellow until he finally had enough.
You were half-asleep when you heard it: the soft scrape of a shoe against the trellis, the creak of the window frame, the quiet thud of a body dropping onto the roof that sat just below your window with a few too many scuff marks. Your heart lurched and you sat up, pink blanket pooling around your waist, hair a wild mess from tossing and turning.
And there he was.
Keonho, in the flesh, backlit by the dim glow of the streetlights outside, pulling your already slightly open window wider. You immediately rose, moving towards him and shoving your curtains aside, already knowing what this was about.
"Talk to me," he said, already swinging his leg through the frame. "Or I'm climbing in."
"You're already climbing in."
"So talk to me faster."
"You can't just show up at my window at two in the morning," you said, your voice still thick with sleep and something a bit too close to relief, moving back to sit on the edge of your bed.
"I can't? Because I just did."
"It's breaking and entering."
"My feet were already in the room before you said you didn’t want me here." He dropped his skateboard against your wall, kicked off his shoes, and stood at the foot of your bed with his arms crossed. "That's not forceful. That's just... hovering without opposition."
"That's not a thing."
"It's a thing I just came up with." He tilted his head, beanie askew, hair falling into his eyes. "Now. Talk."
"I don't have anything to say."
"That's a lie." He took a step closer. "Your left eye is twitching."
"My left eye is not—" It was, you could feel it. You hated him. "I'm fine."
"Stop saying that."
"Stop meddling."
"No."
You glared at him and he glared back. The air between you crackled. This was your love language: two people who cared too much and didn't know how to say it any other way.
"I heard your friends," you said finally.
He went still. Completely, utterly still. Like someone had frozen him in place.
"They said I was using you." Your voice came out flat, practiced, like you'd rehearsed it in the mirror a hundred times. "That I'd get bored. That I'd throw you away." You swallowed but your throat was dry. "And I thought maybe they're right. Maybe that's what I do. Maybe that's all I know how to do."
Keonho didn't say anything for a long moment. He just stood there, looking at you with an expression you couldn't read: something between frustration and tenderness and a third thing you were too scared to name.
Then he walked around the bed, sat down next to you, and knocked his shoulder against yours. Hard.
"Ow," you said.
"That's for ignoring me for six days."
"I wasn't ignoring you, I was—"
"Busy." He knocked his shoulder against yours again, softer this time. "Yeah, I know. You're always busy when you're scared."
"I'm not scared."
"You're terrified." He turned to face you, close enough that you could see the dark circles under his eyes from staying up toolate. "You're so scared you can't even say it without your voice going up at the end like a question."
Your breath caught.
"My friends are idiots," he said. "They don't know you."
"Neither do you."
"I know you leave your shoes in the middle of the floor even though you yell at me for the same thing—"
"Because I live here. You're a guest."
"—I know you pretend not to like my music but you added three of my songs to your playlist—"
"I added them so I could identify them and properly hate them."
"—I know you're mean because you're scared, not because you're cruel."
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
He was looking at you with something far too soft for his sharp face that made your chest ache and your eyes burn and your heart beat too fast. "I know you haven't thrown me away yet. And I've given you plenty of reasons."
"You are annoying," you whispered.
"Yeah." He almost smiled. "But you keep me around anyway."
"I'm reconsidering."
"No you're not."
"Get off my bed."
"It's my bed now." He leaned back on his hands, looking up at your ceiling like he owned the place. "I call dibs."
"You can't call dibs on someone else's bed."
"I just did."
You sat there for a couple of seconds, weighing up your options, then you grabbed your pillow and hit him square in the face with it.
He grabbed it and hit you back.
What followed was a full-scale pillow war, leaving feathers floating in the air and both of you breathless and laughing, his beanie somehow on your head and your silk scrunchie around his wrist.
You eventually ended up tangled together in the pink blanket, his chest against your side, your leg thrown over his, both of you gasping for air.
"See?" he said, grinning. "This is why you keep me around."
"I'm going to push you out the window."
"You'd miss me."
"I'd watch you fall."
"Kinky."
"Keonho!”
A week later, he crashed.
The call came from his friend, one of the ones who still looked at you like you were a bomb waiting to go off. "He's at your place. He said you'd know what to do."
You did.
You were already climbing out of bed, already pulling on the nearest hoodie (his, you realised later), already running down the stairs before your brain caught up with your body.
You found him on your front steps.
It was worse than you'd imagined. Worse than any of the scenarios that had played out in your head while you were running. He was sitting on the cold concrete, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent at an awkward angle. His jeans were torn at the knee and there was far too much blood. His palm was scraped raw, little flecks of gravel embedded in the skin, and his board was lying in the bushes where he'd apparently thrown it in frustration.
"Keonho."
"Hey princess." He looked up, and smiled like nothing was wrong and he wasn't bleeding on your mother's precious front steps. "Nice pajamas."
"You're bleeding on my steps."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine, get inside."
"I can't feel my left hand."
"Keonho."
He let you pull him up, though winced at the sudden weight on his injured leg. He let you drag him inside, through the foyer, up the stairs, down the hall to your bathroom. He let you push him onto the marble counter, that he had always commented was way too expensive, and he let you kneel in front of him to push his ripped jeans up his legs.
"It's fine," he said again.
"You keep saying that like it's going to become true."
"Optimism."
"It's delusion."
He watched you dab antiseptic on his knee—watched your face, specifically, the furrow between your brows, the set of your jaw, the way your lips pressed together like you were holding back a flood of words you didn't know how to say.
"You look like you're about to fight someone," he said.
"I'm about to fight you if you don't stop crashing into concrete."
"Skateboarding involves concrete. It's kind of the whole thing."
"Then stop skateboarding."
"Now that's delusion."
You pressed the antiseptic harder than necessary. He hissed through his teeth.
"Serves you right."
"You're so mean."
"You love it."
He went quiet, his gaze following your every move as you attempted to patch him up as well as you could. "You're really worried about me."
"I'm worried about your knees." You dabbed at a particularly nasty scrape, your touch gentler now. "They're going to be nothing but scar tissue by twenty-five."
"That's not what I meant."
You looked up at him and his face was soft in the bathroom light: no smirk, or teasing, or armour. Just Keonho. Just the boy who somehow, against all odds, makes you feel safe and loved and more yourself than ever before.
"Of course I'm worried about you," you said quietly. "You're an idiot who throws himself at the ground for fun."
"That's not why you're worried."
"You're very annoying today."
"You're avoiding the question."
"I'm cleaning your wounds. Show some gratitude."
He caught your wrist before you could pull away. His thumb pressed against your pulse point that was racing, betraying you, telling him everything you were trying to hide.
"You're scared," he said.
"I'm annoyed."
"You're scared and you're pretending to be annoyed because that's easier."
"You're scared and you're pretending to be fine because that's easier."
He blinked. You'd surprised him. Good.
"See?" You said, pulling your wrist free. "We both have things we don't want to talk about. Now let me finish cleaning you up so I can go back to hating you in peace."
"You don't hate me."
"I'm working on it."
He laughed, or at least attempted to, his breath hitching because moving his ribs hurt. You flicked his forehead.
"Ow."
"Stop making me worry."
"I can't promise that."
"Then stop crashing."
"I can't promise that either."
You sighed, long and dramatic, and went back to work on his other knee.
"You're gonna give me gray hair," you muttered more so to yourself.
"You'd look good with gray hair."
"Keonho."
"What? You would."
You pressed a kiss to his kneecap before you could think better of it—a quick, impulsive thing, your lips brushing against his scraped skin.
He went very still, then very red. The flush crept up his neck, spread across his cheekbones, turned the tips of his ears pink.
"Don't," you said.
"I wasn't gonna—"
"You were gonna smirk."
"...Maybe."
You flicked his forehead again. This time, he caught your hand and kissed your knuckles instead of complaining, one slow and deliberate kiss to each finger, his lips warm against your skin.
"That's cheating," you said.
"Is it working?"
"No."
"Your face says yes."
"My face says I'm going to smother you in your sleep."
"I'd love that."
"Get off my counter."
After that, he started coming over just to be there, sprawling across your pink blanket like he pays rent, watching you exist with an intensity that should have been illegal.
"Can I help you?" You said, for the fifth time, as you stood at your vanity.
"Nope."
"Then why are you staring?"
"Because you're doing something interesting."
"I'm doing my skincare routine."
"Exactly. Interesting."
You stared at him in the mirror. He stared back from your bed, chin propped on his hands, looking like a cat who'd found the warmest spot in the house. His scraped knee was bent, his bandaged hand resting on the blanket, and he looked so comfortable that it made your chest ache.
"What's that one do?" He asked, pointing at your toner.
"It balances my pH."
"Your... what?"
"pH. The acidity of my skin."
A pause. "That's a thing?"
"Yes, Keonho. That's a thing. Some of us care about our skin."
"I care about my skin."
"You use bar soap on your face."
"It works!"
"It works against you. Your pores are screaming for help."
He snorted. "You're so dramatic."
You ignored him, choosing to move through the steps—cleanser, toner, serum, moisturiser—explaining each one as you went. He asked questions just to annoy you. You answered them just to prove you knew more than him. It was a dance you'd perfected over three months, a back-and-forth that felt like second nature.
"So this one," he said, pointing at your serum, "is basically magic water?"
"No, it's… actually, yes. Kind of. But expensive magic water."
"So you're putting magic water on your face."
"Antioxidant-rich magic water."
"That's not a real thing."
"It's a real thing that costs eighty dollars."
He sat up so fast his hair became disshevelled in a scruffy mess that made him look almost… adorable. "Eighty dollars? For water?"
"It's not just water, I literally just explained the ingredients to you—"
"You said 'fermented something' and I stopped listening!"
"That's on you!"
"I could buy three decks for eighty dollars!"
"You don't need three decks!"
"You don't need eighty-dollar water!"
You threw a cotton pad at his face and it ended up stuck to his forehead. He left it there, too focused on your current bickering.
"This is why I don't explain things to you," you said.
"This is why you should explain things to me. I'm learning."
"You're judging."
"Learning and judging. They're the same thing."
"Get out of my room."
“No.” He grinned, cotton pad still stuck to his forehead, looking like the stupidest person you'd ever been in love with. "You'd be sad if I left."
"I'd throw a party."
"You'd cry."
"I'd celebrate."
"You'd cry while celebrating."
"Keonho."
"What's that one?" He pointed at the smallest bottle on your vanity.
You picked it up. "That's eye cream."
"What's it do?"
"It... moisturises my eyes."
"Your eyes?"
"The skin around my eyes."
He stared at you and you stared back. The cotton pad was still on his forehead because he still hadn't removed it.
"So," he said slowly, a grin spreading across his face, "most of these are just... different kinds of water?"
"I'm going to kill you."
"You put water on your face. Then more water. Then different water."
"I'm going to kill you and hide your body in my closet."
"You'd miss me too much."
"I'd miss nothing."
He tilted his head, the cotton pad finally falling onto the blanket, his smile so wide it made your chest hurt. "Say that again but look me in the eyes this time."
You threw the eye cream at him.
He caught it one-handed like some kind of action hero, and immediately shoved it into his hoodie pocket.
"I'm keeping this," he said.
"That's forty dollars."
"Then I'm keeping forty dollars."
"Keonho. You're not keeping the eye cream," you said, crossing your arms and turning to face him fully.
He patted his pocket. "Already in there. It's warm now. It's bonding with me."
"Take it out."
"No."
"Keonho."
"That's my name, don't wear it out."
You glared at him and he only looked back utterly unbothered and the absolute picture of smug satisfaction.
"You're actually going to steal from me?"
"I'm not stealing. I'm... relocating."
"To your pocket."
"Temporary relocation."
"You're not going to give it back."
"Temporary can mean a lot of things princess." He shrugged, utterly shameless.
You lunged for him.
You grabbed his hoodie sleeve and tried to shove your hand into his pocket. He twisted away, laughing that stupid, warm laugh that made your stomach flip, and you ended up half on top of him, both of you grappling like children fighting over the TV remote. The pink blanket bunched beneath you and your hair came loose from its clip.
"Give it," you hissed, your face inches from his.
"Make me."
"I will actually hurt you."
"You've been saying that for three months and I'm still standing."
"Barely."
He snorted. You used his distraction to jam your hand into his pocket. Your fingers closed around the tiny bottle—yes—but his hand closed around your wrist at the same time.
"Nice try," he said, breath warm on your face.
"Let go."
"Say please."
"I'd rather die."
"Dramatic."
"Keonho."
He grinned, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You were tangled together on your bed, his back against the headboard, you half-sprawled across his lap, your hand in his pocket and his hand on your wrist and his face entirely too close to yours.
"You're ridiculous," you said quietly.
"You love it."
"I love nothing."
"You love me."
The words landed differently than they had before. He'd said them casually—joking, teasing, the way he always did. But something about the way he was looking at you now, something about the way his thumb was tracing slow circles on your wrist, something about the way his voice had dropped an octave made it feel less like a joke and more like a test.
You pulled your empty hand out of his pocket, though you didn’t care about the cream anymore.
"I'm serious," you said, sitting back slightly, though you didn't move off his lap. "Give me the cream."
"I'm serious too." He didn't let go of your wrist. Didn't stop tracing those circles. "Say it."
"Say what?"
"You know what."
"I really don't."
"You're a terrible liar."
"I'm an excellent liar. I've built my entire social reputation on it."
"Then be honest." His voice went quiet. "For once. With me. Just say it."
Your heart was doing something stupid in your chest. Something loud and panicked and entirely out of your control. It was hammering against your ribs like a caged animal, and you were sure he could feel it through your wrist, through the thin skin where his thumb was pressed against your pulse.
"I don't know what you want me to say," you whispered.
"You do."
"Keonho—"
"Three months." He shifted, sitting up straighter, bringing his face closer to yours. "Three months of fighting and stealing my hoodies and pretending you don't care. Three months of you letting me climb through your window at 2 AM. Three months of this." He gestured between you with his free hand. "And you're still going to sit there and tell me you feel nothing?"
"Yes."
"Stop lying to me."
You looked at him. His eyes were dark and steady and completely, terrifyingly sincere. There was no escape route. No exit strategy. Justhim, waiting and patiently choosing you.
"Why do you do this?" You asked, and your voice was smaller now. Smaller than you wanted it to be, than you'd ever let yourself sound in front of anyone else.
"Do what?"
"Stay." Your throat was tight. Your eyes were burning. "Even when I'm like this. Even when I push. Even when I say things I don't—" You stopped. Swallowed. "Why do you stay?"
"Because I know you don't mean it."
"What if I do?"
"You don't."
"You don't know that."
"I know you." He reached up with his free hand and brushed some hair off your forehead and tucked it behind your ear, the way he always did when he was being gentle. "I know you're scared. I know you've been hurt. I know you push people away before they can leave so you don't have to feel it when they go." His thumb traced your cheekbone. "And I know—" He paused. Took a breath. "I know that underneath all of that, there's someone who just wants to be chosen. For real. Not for the crown. Not for the reputation. Just... chosen."
You couldn't breathe.
"I'm choosing you," he said. "Right now. Every day. I'm choosing you. And I'll keep choosing you. Even when you're mean. Even when you push. Even when you throw things at my head." A small smile tugged at his lips. "Especially then, actually. You have crazy good aim princess."
"Keonho—"
"I love you."
There it was. Not a joke. Not a test. Not a weapon. Just... the truth. Dropped into the space between you like a stone into still water, sending ripples through everything.
"I love you," he said again, softer this time, like he was telling you a secret. "And you don't have to say it back. You don't have to do anything. I just needed you to know. Because someone should choose you. For real. And I'm done pretending that's not what I'm doing."
The room was too quiet and your heart was entirely too loud. You could feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes and you blinked them back furiously.
"You're an idiot," you said.
"I know."
"You're the biggest idiot I've ever met."
"I know."
"You steal my skincare products and you put your shoes on my rug and you never shut up and you—" You ran at of steam for a brief moment, breathing heavily. "You climb through my window at 2 AM and you see me and you stay and I don't—I don't know how to—"
You stopped, pressing your palms against your eyes. "I don't know how to be loved," you whispered. "I don't know how to receive it. I only know how to perform and defend and attack and—"
"Then let me teach you."
You looked up. His face was so open. So vulnerable. So completely unlike the lazy, smirking boy who'd nearly murdered you with his skateboard when you first met. His eyes were bright, almost wet, and his lips were parted slightly, and he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
"Let me teach you," he said again. "Slowly. Badly. While we fight about the thermostat and the last slice of pizza and whether or not hot dogs are sandwiches—"
"They're not."
"—they're absolutely sandwiches—"
"They're not—"
"Stop doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Avoiding."
You closed your mouth and he waited.
Then, finally, quietly, like you were admitting something you'd been hiding your whole life:
"I love you too."
His whole face changed. Like the sun coming out from behind clouds. Like you'd handed him something precious and fragile and entirely unexpected, and he was holding it with both hands, afraid to drop it.
"Say it again," he said.
"You heard me."
"Say it again anyway."
"No."
"Say it and I'll give back the eye cream."
"Liar."
"Okay, I won't give it back." He was grinning now, wide and real and bright. "But I'll actually shut up.”
"You won't."
"No." He laughed. "I won't. But I'll try."
You laughed surprised and almost giddy. It bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest, and you couldn't stop it, and you didn't want to.
"I love you," you said. "I love you and you're the most annoying person I've ever met and if you ever tell anyone I said this first—"
"You didn't say it first. I did."
"Semantics."
"I'm telling everyone."
"I'll kill you."
"Worth it."
He kissed you as soon as the words left his mouth.
His hand came up to cup your jaw, fingers splaying across your cheek, tilting your face exactly where he wanted it. His lips moved against yours with a confidence that made your head spin—slow at first, then deeper, then hungry, like he'd been waiting for this, and he'd been starving for it.
You kissed him back with everything you had. Your fingers tangled in his hair: soft, slightly messy, smelling like his cheap shampoo and the skate park. His other hand slid around your waist, pressing you against him until there was no space left between your bodies.
His mouth was warm. Addictive, even. He kissed you until your lungs burned and your lips tingled and the world outside your bedroom had ceased to exist entirely.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours. His thumb traced your cheekbone. His eyes were dark and soft all at once.
"Hey," he whispered.
"Hey."
"I love you."
"You said that already."
"I'm going to keep saying it."
"I know."
He kissed you again—softer this time, just a brush of lips, a promise. Then again, a little longer. Then again, like he couldn't help himself from memorising the shape of your mouth against his own.
You smiled against his lips. "You're going to give me permanent lip damage."
"Worth it."
"Keonho."
"What? You're kissable."
"That's not a word."
"It is now. I invented it."
"You can't just invent words."
"I just did. Kissable. It means deserving of many kisses." He demonstrated. Twice. "See?"
You shoved his chest weakly. He caught your hand and kissed each of your knuckles, slow and deliberate, the way he'd done in the bathroom.
"You're ridiculous," you said.
"You love it."
"I love you. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes."
He grinned, and you kissed him again just to wipe that stupid thing off his face.
It didn't work. You could feel him smiling the whole time.
When you finally settled: both of you tangled in the pink blanket with your head on his chest and his arms wrapped around you, he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
"The eye cream is still mine," he said.
"Over my dead body."
"We can arrange that."
You shoved him. He fell back against the headboard, laughing, and you let yourself fall on top of him, face buried in his hoodie, heart so full it hurt.
"I love you," you mumbled into his chest.
"I know."
"Don't get cocky."
"Too late."
You could feel him smiling against your hair. His arms tightened around you, one hand tracing lazy shapes on your back—circles, spirals, a heart. The other hand was definitely still clutching the eye cream in his pocket. You could feel the little bottle pressing against your hip.
"Hey," he said again.
"Mm?"
"You're my favourite person to fight with."
"You're my least favourite person to exist near."
"Same thing."
"It's really not."
"Shut up and let me hold you."
"You shut up."
He laughed a warm, rumbling sound that traveled through his chest and into yours. You smiled into his hoodie. And somewhere in his pocket, your forty-dollar eye cream sat warm between your bodies, a tiny hostage in the middle of a war neither of you wanted to win.
Because winning meant stopping.
And stopping meant no more fights.
And no more fights meant no more this.
And this—messy and loud and full of arguing that truly served no purpose—was exactly where you wanted to be.
SYNOPSIS :: The sight of the queen bee with the school’s loser was peculiar to everyone who had been witness to your constant bickering, but they don’t see how he seems to be the only person you can truly be yourself with. (skater!keonho x regina!reader)
WC :: 13.4k
CONTAINS :: arguing, both of them are kinda mean (especially reader), profanities, reader is rich, Keonho is poor (is insulted for it), kissing, skinship, pet names, description of injury, use of dollars, some cringe/cliché dialogue, time skips (choppy)
PLAYLIST :: She's kinda hot - 5sos; sk8er boi - Avril Lavigne; Cupid's chokehold - Gym Class Heroes; Dirty little secret - The All-American Rejects; Cherry waves - Deftones; Colors - Halsey
SPINOFF :: She looks so perfect (6.6k)
Keonho was currently lying on his front in your bed, the pink fluffy blanket pulled up around him like he belonged there. His head rested on his crossed arms, dark hair falling across his forehead, eyes half-lidded as he tracked you pacing back and forth across the massive room. You were on the phone, your voice clipped and sharp.
"Well, if she said that to you, she obviously doesn't care how you feel." A pause. A flurry of muffled words from the other end. "No, don't cry. Crying is what she wants. You cry, she wins."
Keonho pressed his smile into his forearm. You were wearing his hoodie. The black one with the ripped sleeve. You'd stolen it three weeks ago and hadn't given it back.
He wasn't going to ask for it.
The sight of you wrapped in his clothes while he laid on your bed was peculiar to say the least. Especially to your entire school, who had spent months watching you argue in hallways and courtyards, never realising you were toeing the line between hatred and something neither of you had a name for yet.
The first time you'd really noticed him, he almost hit you with his skateboard.
It was the second week of junior year. The leaves were turning, and you were walking across the courtyard with Hana, mid-sentence about someone's ugly backpack—"I'm just saying, if you're going to spend four hundred dollars on a bag, at least make it look like four hundred dollars"—when a blur of motion came flying around the corner.
Shhk shhk shhk. Wheels on pavement. Then a body slammed into your side.
Not hard enough to knock you over. Hard enough to send your phone flying out of your hand and skidding across the concrete, face-down, the sickening crack of impact echoing off the fountain your family had donated.
"Shit—sorry—"
You stumbled, caught yourself on Hana's arm, and whipped around.
A boy you'd never seen before was already crouched down, scooping up your phone. His skateboard had rolled several feet away, still wobbling on its side. He was wearing the school uniform, but barely. The tie was missing and the top button of his shirt was undone. His dark hair was a mess under a gray beanie, and there was a small scrape on his palm where he'd caught himself.
He stood up and held out your phone.
The screen was cracked. A spiderweb of fractures spreading from the top left corner, right through your home screen. Your perfect, carefully curated home screen.
"You broke my phone," you said. Your voice was flat and cold.
He looked at the screen. Then at you. Most people would have started apologising immediately, groveled, turned red, stammered, promised to pay for it, even got down on their knees if that's what it took.
He just shrugged. "It's just a screen. You can get it fixed."
Just a screen.
As if you hadn't spent hours picking out the perfect case. As if the crack didn't ruin the entire aesthetic of the phone you'd only had for three weeks. As if he hadn't just barreled into you like a human wrecking ball and then had the audacity to act like it was nothing.
"Do you have any idea who I am?" you asked.
He tilted his head, studying you with an expression that wasn't quite recognition. More like mild curiosity. The kind you'd give a mildly interesting bug on the sidewalk.
"No," he said. "Should I?"
Hana snorted behind you. You could feel her phone already out, probably recording or texting the group chat.
You snatched the phone from his hand, holding it up so he could see the full extent of the damage. "This is a thousand-dollar phone."
"It was a thousand dollars," he corrected. "Now it's a thousand-dollar phone with a cracked screen. Still works, probably."
"Probably."
"Did you check?"
"No, I was too busy being hit by a skateboard."
He didn't apologise and didn't even look sorry. He just walked over to his board, kicked it up into his hand with a smooth, annoyingly practiced motion, and slung it under his arm.
"You should watch where you're going," he said. "You walked straight into my path. I had the right of way."
"Right of way?" Your voice came out half an octave higher than usual. "This isn't a road. It's a courtyard. For walking. There's no such thing as right of way."
"There's always right of way. It's basic physics. Object in motion stays in motion. You were an object. I was in motion."
"You're not a physicist. You're a guy on a toy."
His jaw tightened, just a fraction. "It's not a toy."
"It's a board with wheels."
"It's transportation."
"It's a mere hobby."
"At least I have a hobby." His eyes swept over you, slow and deliberate. "What's yours? Judging people? Making lists? Seeing how many compliments you can fish for in one outfit?"
Your mouth dropped open. Actually dropped. Nobody talked to you like that. Nobody. Not the teachers, not your parents, not the other kids who whispered behind your back but smiled to your face. Nobody had the nerve.
"I don't fish for compliments," you said.
"Sure you don't." He nodded at your outfit: designer boots, perfectly pressed skirt, blazer that cost more than most people's rent. "You just dress like you're going to a brunch meeting with your publicist because it's comfortable."
"I like fashion."
"You like attention, that’s obvious."
Hana made a small, strangled sound that was either a laugh or a gasp. You couldn't tell. You couldn't think. Your face was hot, your hands were shaking, and this absolute nobody was looking at you like you were a puzzle he'd already solved.
"My family donated that fountain," you said, pointing to the marble monstrosity in the center of the courtyard. "My name is on a plaque in the main hall. I could make one phone call and you'd never eat in this courtyard again."
He looked genuinely unimpressed. "Cool. Doesn't make you immune to the walkway."
And then he just walked away with his skateboard under his arm and his beanie pulled low. His shoulders were loose, like he didn't have a care in the world, like he hadn't just committed social suicide in front of half the junior class.
You stood there, frozen, watching him disappear around the corner.
"Who the hell was that?" Hana whispered.
"I don't know." You were gripping your cracked phone so hard your knuckles went white. "But he just declared war."
The next day, you found him in the cafeteria.
He was sitting alone at the end of a table, eating what looked like a convenience store sandwich. The same gray beanie. The same frayed hoodie under his uniform blazer. His skateboard was propped against the table leg, and he was scrolling through his phone with his free hand, completely oblivious to the fact that everyone in the room was stealing glances at him.
Or maybe he wasn't oblivious and he just didn't care.
That made you angrier than anything else.
You walked straight up to him, dropped your bag on the table with a loud thump, and planted both hands on the surface before leaning in, making sure he couldn't ignore you.
"You owe me three hundred dollars for the screen repair."
He looked up slowly, still chewing on his sandwich before he eventually swallowed.
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do. You broke it."
"You dropped it." He leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. Arms crossed. One eyebrow raised. "I bumped you. You dropped it. That's on you. Physics."
"Don't start with the physics again."
"Why not? It's a solid argument. Cause and effect. Your hand let go of the phone. My skateboard didn't even touch you. I touched you. With my body. Which is flesh and blood, not a weapon."
He shrugged and took another bite of his sandwich, chewing with his mouth open just to annoy you. You could tell but you didn’t say anything, too shell shocked from someone actually biting back.
"You've been thinking about me all night, haven't you?" He said, gesturing at you with the sandwich. "Couldn't sleep. Just lying there, replaying it, getting mad all over again."
Your face heated. Because he was right. You had been up half the night, tossing around, furious at the memory of his stupid face and his stupid skateboard and the way he'd looked at you like you were nothing. Like you were just another person, instead of the person.
"I don't think about you," you lied.
"Sure you don't." He picked up his sandwich again. "That's why you tracked me down in a cafeteria with like two hundred people in it. Because you don't think about me."
"I didn't track you down. I'm eating lunch."
"You don't eat in the cafeteria. Everyone knows that. You eat in the courtyard with your friends." He nodded toward the window. "The courtyard you apparently own. The one with the fountain. Your fountain. The one your family donated."
Your nails dug into the table. "How do you know where I eat?"
He shrugged. "I notice things."
Something about the way he said it so casually made your stomach flip. A tiny, traitorous flip that you refused to acknowledge.
"Three hundred dollars," you repeated.
"Zero dollars."
"Two hundred, then."
"Still zero."
"One hundred and fifty. Final offer."
He set down his sandwich and looked at you properly for the first time. His eyes were dark and warm, with little gold flecks you hadn't noticed before, not that you cared anyways.
"You're not gonna let this go, are you?"
"Never."
He sighed theatrically and reached into his pocket. Pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. Worn soft, the edges frayed. He slid it across the table toward you.
"That's all I have. Take it or leave it."
You stared at the twenty. Then at him. Then back at the twenty.
"You're serious."
"I'm a skateboarder, not a trust fund kid. Sorry I don't have a fountain donation in my back pocket."
The jab hit exactly where he meant it to. You snatched the twenty off the table and stuffed it into your blazer pocket.
"This isn't over," you said.
"I know." He picked up his sandwich again. "See you tomorrow, fountain girl."
"It's Y/N."
"I know that too."
He smiled. Just a little. Just enough to make you want to throw something at his head.
You turned on your heel and walked away, Hana falling into step beside you, already asking a million questions you didn't have answers to.
After that, the arguments became routine.
Every day, you found a reason to cross paths with him. Every day, he had a lazy comeback that made your blood boil. Every day, you walked away angrier than before, promising yourself that tomorrow you'd ignore him completely.
And every day, you never did.
"You're obsessed with him," Hana said one afternoon, watching you scan the courtyard for the familiar gray beanie.
"I'm not obsessed, I'm just dedicated like I always am."
"No, this is something else."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You've been looking for him for ten minutes. We haven't even sat down yet."
"I'm not looking. I'm observing my environment."
Hana gave you a long, flat look. "Your environment is a courtyard full of people eating lunch. What exactly are you observing?"
You spotted him near the bike racks where he’d moved to eat lunch after your canteen run in, the same as every other day, lacing up his skate shoes, and your feet were already moving before your brain could catch up.
"Keonho!"
He looked up, and that small smile appeared. The one that made you want to scream.
"Fountain girl. Right on time."
"Don't call me that."
"Okay… princess." He said it under his breath, just loud enough for you to catch. Your jaw dropped.
"Princess? Did you just call me princess?"
"You heard me." He didn't even look guilty. Just went back to tying his laces, all casual, like he hadn't just committed a felony against your entire brand. "You prefer 'your highness'? Because that feels like a mouthful. Lots of syllables. I might get tired halfway through."
"I prefer my name."
"Right. Y/N." He drew out the syllables like he was tasting them. "Y/N, who crossed the entire courtyard just to yell at me about a twenty-dollar bill I already gave you. A transaction which we both agreed was final."
"That twenty dollars didn't even cover the tax on the repair."
"Not my problem."
"Everything is your problem. You're the one who hit me with your skateboard."
"You walked into me."
"I was walking. On my feet. Like a normal person."
"So was I. On my skateboard. Which is a form of transportation, last time I checked. Legally recognised. Some cities have lanes."
"Skateboards don't belong in lanes. Skateboards don't belong anywhere near people."
"They belong everywhere. That's the beauty of it. I can go anywhere. No rules or restrictions. Just me and the board and the open road."
"You sound like some lame commercial."
"You sound like you've never had fun a day in your life."
The words landed. You felt them land. Your face went hot, then cold, then hot again.
"I have plenty of fun."
"Name one fun thing you've done in the past month."
"I—that's—that's none of your business."
"That's what I thought." He stood up, grabbing his board. "No fun. Just school and social obligations and making sure everyone knows you're the most important person in the room."
"I don't have to make sure. Everyone already knows."
"Sure they do." He spun the board in his hand, a lazy, practiced motion. "That's why you're here. Talking to me. Because everyone already knows how important you are, and you're bored of it."
"I'm not bored."
"You're definitely bored. You're the most bored person I've ever met. You have everything, and you're still bored. That's kind of sad, actually."
Your heart was pounding and your hands were shaking. How on earth could he read you so easily?
"You don't know anything about me," you said quietly.
"I know you're still standing here." He tilted his head, those dark eyes boring into yours. "I know you could have walked away five minutes ago. I know you didn't. I know you won't."
"Maybe I will."
"Maybe." He shrugged. "But probably not."
He started walking, and you fell into step beside him without thinking. He noticed. Of course he noticed.
"I've been eating lunch by the bike racks for two months since you banished me from the canteen," he said. "You'd never been here once before that. Not once. Now suddenly you're here every day?"
"Maybe I wanted a change of scenery."
"Maybe you wanted a change of someone."
You stopped walking. He stopped too, a few steps ahead, looking back at you with that insufferable half-smile.
"What is that supposed to mean?" you asked.
He turned to face you fully. The courtyard was mostly empty, everyone else already inside. It was just you and him and the sound of wind through the bike racks.
"It means," he said, taking a step closer, "that you're not as complicated as you think you are. You've got your perfect life and your perfect friends and your perfect little routines, and you're bored. And I'm the only thing in this school that doesn't bore you."
"That's not—"
"It means," he continued, like you hadn't spoken, "that you don't actually hate me. You just don't know what else to do with me."
Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. "And what do you want to do with me?"
The question hung between you, heavier than you'd intended. His smile faded, just slightly, and for a second he looked almost... serious. Almost vulnerable.
"I don't know yet," he said. "Guess we’ll have to figure it out."
He turned and kept walking toward the side door of the science building.
"Hey, Keonho?" you called out.
He looked back.
"You still owe me a hundred and thirty dollars."
His laugh echoed across the empty courtyard. "Keep dreaming, fountain girl."
"Stop calling me that!"
"In your dreams!"
You grabbed a pebble from the ground and threw it at him. He dodged it easily, grinning, and disappeared through the door.
You stood there for a long moment, alone in the cold, your left eyebrow doing something you couldn't control.
You don't actually hate me. You just don't know what else to do with me.
The worst part was, you were starting to think he was right.
Weeks continued like that. The arguments became the best part of your day.
It was strange, admitting it to yourself. You'd spent years building a life that was supposed to make you happy: the right friends, the right clothes, the right words at the right times. You were good at it. Everyone said so. You had everything anyone could want.
But nothing had ever made your heart race like stepping into the courtyard and spotting that gray beanie.
Some days you found him at the bike racks. Some days near the vending machines. Some days you'd round a corner and there he'd be, like he'd been waiting, like he knew you were coming before you did.
"You're late, princess,” he said one Tuesday, not looking up from his phone.
"I'm not late. Class ran over."
"Excuses."
"It's not an excuse. It's an explanation."
"Same thing."
"It's really not."
He looked up then, and that small smile was there. The one that made your stomach flip.
"You always have to have the last word, don't you?"
"Obviously."
"So do I."
"Then we have a problem."
"We've always had a problem." He pocketed his phone and leaned back against the bike rack, arms crossed. "That's kind of our whole thing."
You hated how easily he said it. Our whole thing. Like there was an us to have a thing.
"There is no our," you said.
"Sure there isn't." He tilted his head, eyes glinting. "That's why you're here. Every day. Like clockwork."
"I'm here because the courtyard is crowded."
"The courtyard is always crowded. You've been eating there for two years. You never left before."
Your jaw tightened. "Maybe I wanted a change."
"Maybe you wanted me."
Your heart stopped. Then restarted at double speed. "That's—you're—no."
He laughed. Actually laughed, his whole face lighting up in a way you'd never seen before. It was annoyingly beautiful. His nose crinkled and his eyes disappeared into crescents. He looked like a completely different person.
"Your face is so red right now," he said.
"It is not."
"It's the color of your bag."
You looked down at your pink designer handbag. You wanted to throw it at him.
"I hate you," you said.
"No you don't."
"Yes I do."
"Then why are you still here?"
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Nothing came out.
He seemed to be the only person able to leave you speechless
The turning point was February. Valentine's Day, actually, which made it worse.
You'd been crying in the greenhouse behind the science wing. Not because you were sad, exactly. Because your mother had called and she'd reminded you, in that sweet, sharp voice she used when she was disappointed, that your "little art hobby"— the one thing you actually cared about, that made you feel like a real person instead of a performance—was "lovely but impractical." That you should probably focus on something that would "actually matter" in college applications. That there were expectations.
You'd thought you were alone.
You hadn't been.
Keonho was sitting in the corner, behind a rack of potted ferns, eating a granola bar. He had his beanie pulled low and his knees drawn up. He'd clearly been there first. Maybe he'd been there for a while.
"Go away," you said, your voice thick.
He didn't move. "No."
"I said go away, Keonho."
"And I said no." He took another bite of his granola bar, chewing slowly. "You're not gonna throw things at me, are you? Because you have scary good aim and I'm not trying to catch a rock with my face."
You stared at him, tears still wet on your cheeks, too exhausted to even be properly angry. "Why are you like this?"
"Like what?"
"Like you don't care about anything."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I care about stuff. I just don't care about the stuff you're supposed to care about."
Something about that, the simplicity of it, the way he said it like it was obvious, made something crack inside you.
You sat down on the dirty greenhouse floor. Right across from him. And you cried for real. Not pretty tears. The ugly ones that left your face blotchy and your nose running and every single wall you'd ever built crumbling into dust.
He didn't say anything. Didn't try to comfort you with empty words. He just handed you a crumpled napkin from his pocket and waited.
When you'd finally stopped, you looked at him with red-rimmed eyes and said, "If you tell anyone about this, I will end you."
"I know," he said. And then, so quietly you almost missed it: "I won't."
You sat there for a long time in silence. The greenhouse was warm and smelled like dirt and flowers, the ferns cast dancing shadows on the floor. Eventually you pushed yourself up, walking away without looking back.
After that, the hatred started to feel different.
Like a game neither of you were really playing anymore, but neither of you knew how to stop. The insults got softer. The fights got shorter. You found yourself seeking him out in crowds, just to see what he was doing, just to make sure he was still there.
"I think he likes you," Hana said one afternoon, and you laughed so hard you choked.
"He doesn't like me. He's messing with me."
"That’s the same thing sometimes."
It wasn't the same thing. It couldn't be. Because you didn't do boys like Keonho. You did boys with trust funds and family names and futures already planned out. Boys who understood the rules and played by them. Boys who would never dream of sitting on a dirty greenhouse floor or eating convenience store sandwiches or looking at you like they could see every single crack in your armour.
You didn't do boys who made you feel seen.
But maybe that was exactly the problem.
"Judging me again, princess?"
He was sat under the bleachers, back against the chain-link fence, knees drawn up with his skateboard across his lap. The afternoon light filtered through the metal slats, casting stripes of gold and shadow across his face. His beanie was crooked, his uniform shirt untucked, and he was looking up at you like you were exactly who he'd been waiting for.
You stood in front of him with your arms crossed, heels sinking slightly into the dirt. "I'm not judging. I'm wondering how you haven't been expelled yet."
"Charming."
"I'm serious. You don't do the work. You don't follow the rules. You show up late every single day. What's the point of even being here?"
He set his skateboard aside and leaned back on his hands, tilting his face up toward you. "Free wifi. Heated building. Sometimes they hand out granola bars in the front office."
"That's not funny."
"Wasn't trying to be funny. Was trying to be honest." He shrugged. "You should try it sometime."
"I'm always honest."
"No you're not." His voice was flat. Certain. "You've never had an honest conversation in your life. You just say whatever keeps you on top."
Your jaw tightened. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you fake-laugh when your friends make jokes that aren't funny, which is all the time. I know you wait until everyone's looking before you do anything nice. I know you've never apologised to anyone for anything, ever, because that would mean admitting you were wrong." He tilted his head. "Should I keep going?"
"You don't know me."
"I know you better than your friends do."
"Stop."
"Why? Because I'm right?"
"Because you're insufferable." Your voice was rising now. You could feel the heat climbing up your neck, the tightness in your chest. "You think you're so smart. You think you've got everyone figured out. But you're just a guy with a skateboard and a chip on his shoulder who can't even afford—"
You stopped yourself. The words hung in the air, half-finished.
He stood up slowly. Brushed the dirt off his pants. His face had gone very still.
"Can't even afford what?" His voice was quiet. Too quiet.
"Nothing."
"No, go ahead. You were saying something. Don't stop now."
"Keonho—"
"Can't even afford what, Y/N?" He stepped closer. "New shoes? A car that isn't fifteen years old? Lunch that didn't come from a gas station? What was it? What were you about to say?"
You took a step back. Your heel caught on a rock. You stumbled, caught yourself, and hated him for making you stumble.
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"You were. You always are. That's your whole thing." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You walk around this school like everyone beneath you is a bug you might step on. You think I don't notice? You think I don't see the way you look at me?"
"How do I look at you?"
"Like I'm dirt." He jabbed a finger toward his own chest. "Like I'm something you stepped in and can't scrape off your shoe. And you know what? Fine. I don't care. I've been looked at like that my whole life. By people richer than you. By people meaner than you. By people who actually had a reason."
"I have a reason."
"What reason? Because I bumped into you one time? Because I didn't fall on my knees and beg for forgiveness when your precious phone cracked?"
"You called me fountain girl."
"And you’ve called me poor."
You flinched. He saw it. His eyes narrowed.
"I didn't mean—"
"You’ve meant every word. That's what kills me. You're not even pretending to be sorry. You just stand there with your arms crossed and your perfect hair and your perfect shoes and you look at me like I'm the problem."
"You are the problem!"
"How? How am I the problem, Y/N? Because I don't bow down to you? Because I don't laugh at your jokes? Because I won't pretend you're something you're not?"
"Because you won't just leave me alone!"
The words tore out of you. Loud and raw, echoing off the metal bleachers above.
He stopped. Blinked.
"You heard me," you said, your voice shaking now. "You won't leave me alone. You're everywhere. The bike racks. The vending machines. The greenhouse. Every time I turn around, there you are, with your stupid beanie and your stupid skateboard and your stupid eyes."
"So now I'm the problem because I exist?"
"Yes! No! I don't—" You pressed your hands to your face, breathed in, breathed out. "I don't know what I'm saying."
"Yes you do. You're saying you can't stop thinking about me."
Your hands dropped. "That is not what I'm saying."
"That's exactly what you're saying. You're just too proud to admit it."
"I am not—"
"You are. You're standing under a set of bleachers with me instead of eating lunch with your friends. You're shouting at me instead of ignoring me like you ignore everyone else. You're here, Y/N. You've always been here. You just don't want to admit why."
"Don't tell me what I want."
"Then tell me yourself. What do you want?"
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your temples.
"Nothing," you said.
"Liar."
"I want you to stop."
"Stop what?"
"Stop making me feel like—like—" Your voice cracked. You hated that it cracked. You hated him for making it crack. "Like I'm not allowed to just dislike you. Like I have to have a reason. Like I have to justify it."
"You don't have to justify anything. You just have to admit it's not dislike."
"It is dislike."
"It's not." He stepped closer. "You don't seek out people you dislike. You avoid them. You destroy them. You don't show up to them every single day with your arms crossed and your face flushed like—"
"My face is not flushed."
"Your face is so flushed right now." He laughed. Not the mean laugh from before. Something almost... fond.
You stood there, frozen, your arms still crossed, your heart still pounding, your face definitely still flushed. He was too close. He'd been too close for months. Too close in the hallways, too close in the greenhouse, too close in every argument that had somehow become the best part of your day.
"I hate you," you said.
"No you don't."
"Yes I do."
"Then why are you still here?"
The question hung between you. Heavy. Electric. Inevitable.
"Because—" You stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "Because I don't know what to do when I'm not here."
His expression shifted. The teasing faded. Something else took its place: something softer, something almost tender.
"Y/N—"
"Don't." You held up a hand. "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you care."
"Maybe I do."
"Well, stop. People don't care about me. They're afraid of me. That’s how it’s supposed to be."
"Maybe," he agreed quietly. "But I'm not afraid of you."
"You should be."
"I'm not."
"Then you're stupid."
"Maybe." He shrugged. "Or maybe I just see something everyone else is too scared to look at."
Your throat was tight. Your eyes were burning. You weren't going to cry. You weren't. You'd cried in front of him once and you'd sworn you'd never do it again.
"What do you see?" The words came out smaller than you wanted. Quieter.
He stepped close enough to the point that you could smell him: cold air and soap and something warm underneath.
"I see someone who's exhausted," he said. "Someone who's been performing for so long she forgot there was a person underneath. Someone who's smart and talented and so terrified of being ordinary that she'd rather be hated than ignored."
"You're wrong."
"Am I?"
"Yes."
"Then tell me what I'm missing. Tell me what I'm saying wrong. Tell me you don't lie awake at night wondering what it would be like to just stop."
"Stop what?"
"Stop performing. Stop pretending. Stop being the person everyone expects you to be." His voice dropped. "Tell me you've never looked at me and thought about being free."
Your breath caught.
"I've seen you," he continued, quieter now. "In the art room. When you think no one's watching. You make things; real things, messy things, things that aren't for anyone but you. That's who you are. That's who you could be all the time if you weren't so busy being who everyone else wants you to be."
"You don't know anything about my art."
"I know you're good at it. I know you care about it more than anything else in your life. I know you'd rather be in that room than anywhere else in the world."
"Stop."
"And I know," he said, stepping even closer, "that you feel more alive arguing with me than you do with anyone else."
"Stop."
"Why? Because I'm right?"
"Because you're—because you can't just—because—" Your voice was rising again, cracking again, falling apart in your hands. "Because you don't get to stand there and see me like that. Because no one sees me like that. Because if you see me like that, then I have to be real, and I don't know how to be real, I only know how to be her—"
"Then stop being her."
"I can't—"
"Yes you can." He grabbed your arms, not hard, just firm enough to stop you from pacing, from running, from falling apart completely. "You can. You just don't want to."
"I don't know how."
"Then let me help you."
"You can't help me. You're just a guy with a skateboard. You don't have a plan. You don't have a future. You don't have anything."
The words landed like stones. Heavy and unforgivable.
His hands dropped from your arms. His face went blank.
"Wow," he said quietly. "Okay."
"Keonho—"
"No, you're right. I don't have anything. I don't have a trust fund. I don't have a fountain with my name on it. I don't have a future planned out for me by people who care more about appearances than they care about me."
"That's not what I meant—"
"It's exactly what you meant." He stepped back. "It's what you always mean. You just said it out loud this time."
"I didn't—I was angry—"
"You're always angry. That's not an excuse."
"I know, I just—"
"You just what? You just wanted to hurt me? Congratulations. You did." He ran a hand over his beanie, hair poking out at the ends. "You always do. And I always let you. Because some part of me thought maybe underneath all the armour there was someone worth waiting for."
Your heart stopped.
"But maybe I was wrong," he said. "Maybe there's no one underneath at all. Maybe you're just the armour."
"That's not—"
"Then prove it." His voice cracked on the last word. "Prove me wrong. Show me there's someone in there. Just once. Just for a second. Please."
That broke something in you.
You didn't think. You just moved.
You grabbed the front of his stupid, frayed, too-big shirt,and yanked him down. The fabric bunched in your fists, pulling him off balance, forcing him to stumble forward into your space as you twisted awkwardly. His hands shot out instinctively, bracing against the chain-link fence on either side of you, caging you in without meaning to.
And then your mouth was on his.
It wasn't gentle or soft. It was months of frustration and confusion and the unbearable weight of being seen finally cracking open. You kissed him like you were trying to win an argument. Like you were trying to prove a point. Like you were trying to shove every word you'd never said directly into his lungs and make him breathe them.
Your lips crashed against his, off-center at first, your nose bumping his jaw before you corrected course. You didn't care. You couldn't care. Your fingers were still twisted in his shirt, knuckles pressed against his collarbone, and you were pulling him closer even as you were kissing him harder.
His lips were warm and softer than you expected for a boy who spent his afternoons falling off skateboards. The contrast sent something sharp and electric down your spine.
For a single, suspended second, he was frozen. Completely, utterly frozen. His body went rigid against yours, his hands still pressed flat to the fence, his lips parted but unresponsive beneath yours. You could feel his breath: caught somewhere between an inhale and an exhale, trapped in his throat like he'd forgotten how to let it out.
Then something shifted.
His hands uncurled from the fence. His fingers found your waist, the touch light at first, almost questioning, as if he was waiting for you to shove him away.
You didn't.
You kissed him harder.
His lips finallymoved against yours. Slowly at first, like he was waking up from a long sleep. He tilted his head, adjusting the angle, and suddenly the kiss fit differently: better, deeper.
Your fingers loosened in his shirt, then tightened again, pulling him closer until there was no space left between you. His chest pressed against yours, firm and solid. His heart was pounding—you could feel it, or maybe that was your own heart, maybe they'd synced up somewhere in the chaos of the kiss. You couldn't tell anymore.
His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, fingers splaying wide, pressing you into him. The other hand came up to your jaw, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone, tilting your face up to meet his more fully. He kissed you deeper now, with more confidence, like he'd finally caught up to what was happening and was making up for lost time.
Your head was spinning. Your lungs were burning. You couldn't remember how to breathe through your nose, and you didn't care, because pulling away meant stopping, and stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant admitting what you'd just done.
So you didn't stop.
You kissed him until your lips were numb. You kissed him until his thumb was tracing patterns on your jaw and his other hand was pressed flat against your spine and the chain-link fence was digging into his knuckles and neither of you cared. You kissed him like you were trying to crawl inside his skin, like you were trying to prove that you were more than armour, like you were trying to make him understand something you didn't have words for.
And then, finally, you pulled back.
Your hands uncurled from his shirt. The fabric was wrinkled now, permanently creased where your fists had been. You sideways, one step, then two, putting distance between you. Your heels sank into the dirt. Your chest was heaving. Your lips were swollen and wet and tingling.
You crossed your arms. Locked your knees. Lifted your chin.
And you looked at him with the most neutral expression you could muster.
"You talk too much."
Keonho was still standing before the fence. His hands were braced where you had left them, fingers curled around the chain-link like he needed it to stay upright. His beanie had slipped sideways, and a strand of dark hair had fallen across his forehead, and his lips were parted, pinker than before, slightly swollen.
He looked like someone had reached into his chest, rearranged his organs, and forgotten to put them back in the right order.
"You—" His voice came out rough. Cracked. He stopped, swallowed, and tried again, turning to face you fully. "You just—"
"I just what?"
"You kissed me."
"Did I?" You tilted your head, fighting the smile threatening to break across your face.
He blinked. Once, then twice. His hands dropped from the fence, and he ran one of them over his mouth, fingers pressing against his lower lip like he was checking to make sure it was still there.
"I'm—you can't just—" He stopped. Ran his hand through his hair, dislodging his beanie entirely. It fell to the ground. He didn't pick it up. "You can't just kiss someone and then act like—like that—"
"Like what?"
"Like you didn't just short-circuit my entire brain."
You shrugged. One shoulder. Casual. Like your whole world hadn't just flipped upside down, and your lips weren't still buzzing, and your heart wasn't threatening to beat its way out of your ribcage.
"Maybe you should stop talking so much," you said. "I warned you."
"You didn't warn me about anything—"
"I've been warning you for months."
He opened his mouth but nothing came out.
And then something shifted in his expression, the shock faded, the confusion cleared, something else took its place.
"You think you're funny," he said slowly.
"I think I'm hilarious."
He was at a loss for words and you watched him struggle, try to reach for words that weren't there, his hands flexing at his sides as if he was trying to physically grasp a sentence and failing. His chest was still rising and falling too fast. His lips were still parted. His eyes kept darting from your eyes to your mouth and back again, like he couldn't decide which one to focus on.
"You're staring," you said.
"I'm not staring. I'm... processing."
"Process faster. You're making it weird."
"I'm making it weird?" He let out a short, incredulous laugh. "You just—you just kissed me. Out of nowhere. In the middle of an argument. While I was begging you to be real with me for one second. And now you're standing there like you didn't just—like you didn't—" He gestured vaguely at the space between you, at his mouth, at the air itself. "Like you didn't just do that."
"What do you want me to do? Apologise?"
"I want you to acknowledge it!"
"I acknowledged it. I kissed you. You were there. You felt it."
"That's not—that's not acknowledging it, that's just doing it—"
"Same thing."
"It's really not!"
"It really is."
There was a beat of silence. He stared at you and you stared back. The afternoon light shifted, stripes of gold sliding across his face, catching the flush on his cheekbones.
The wind picked up, rattling the chain-link fence beside him. Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed. The world was still moving, still spinning, still completely unaware that yours had just cracked open and rearranged itself into something you didn't recognise.
Keonho bent down and picked up his beanie. He didn't put it back on. Just held it in his hands, twisting the fabric, avoiding your eyes.
"Why did you do it?" he asked quietly.
"Do what?"
"Kiss me."
"You asked me to prove you wrong."
"That's not—" He let out a breath, slow and shaky. "That's not a reason."
"Sure it is."
"No, it's not. It's an impulse. It's a reaction. It's not a reason." He looked up at you then, and his eyes were different: softer, almost vulnerable, stripped of the emotionless facade he usually wore. "I've been asking you for months. Months. To just be honest with me for five seconds. And you finally do something real, and I just... I need to know why. It wasn’t just because you were trying to win an argument or to shut me up, you know that. Just tell me why."
Your throat tightened.
You could lie. You were good at lying. You'd been lying your whole life, to everyone, about everything. You could tell him it meant nothing, and you were just frustrated. You could tell him a hundred different things that would make this easier, simpler, less terrifying.
But he was looking at you like he could see every crack and he'd been waiting inside one of them for months just hoping you'd eventually climb down to meet him.
"Because I couldn't not," you said.
His brow furrowed. "What?"
"I couldn't not do it." Your voice was quieter now, stripped of its usual sharpness. "You were standing there, and you were saying all those things, and you were looking at me like… like you actually wanted to see me." You paused, swallowed, forced yourself to continue. "And I thought about walking away. I thought about saying something mean. I thought about every single thing I usually do to keep people at a distance. And then I thought—what if I just... didn't. For once. What if I just did what I actually wanted to do instead of what I was supposed to do."
"And what did you actually want to do?"
You met his eyes. Held his gaze. Let him see.
"I wanted to kiss you," you said. "I've wanted to kiss you for weeks. Maybe longer. I don't know. I wasn’t keeping track."
The confession hung in the air between you, fragile and enormous.
Keonho didn't move. Didn't speak. His hands had stopped twisting his beanie. His eyes were locked on yours, wide and dark and unreadable.
"You're not joking," he said finally.
"No."
"You're not trying to mess with me."
"No."
"You actually—" He stopped, swallowed, then started again. "You actually want—"
"Don't make me say it again."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not good at this. I'm not good at being real. You know that. I’ve never known how to be anything other than what I’ve always been at this stupid school."
"And now?"
You looked down at your hands. They were shaking. You curled them into fists, then uncurled them, then curled them again.
"Now I don't know what I am," you admitted. "But I know I'm still standing here with you and I'm not running away."
He took a step closer and his beanie dropped to the ground again, forgotten.
"You're really bad at this," he said softly.
"I know."
"The whole vulnerability thing. You're terrible at it."
"I know."
"It's kind of endearing, actually."
"Keonho."
"Y/N." He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the individual lashes framing his eyes, the small scar on his chin, the way his lips were still slightly swollen from your mouth. "You kissed me."
"I'm aware."
"You said you've wanted to for weeks."
"I'm aware of that too."
"And now you're standing here, shaking, looking at me like you're about to either kiss me again or throw up."
"I’m not throwing up—"
"So kiss me again."
Your heart stopped.
"What?"
"You heard me." His voice was low, steady, certain. "You kissed me to prove a point. Now kiss me because you want to. No argument. Just you and me."
You looked at him and saw it all: the mess of his hair from his hand running through it too much, the frayed shirt collar, the dark eyes that had been seeing you for months when no one else bothered to look.
"You're annoying," you finally whispered.
"I know."
"You're insufferable."
"I know."
"You're—"
He kissed you to shut you up and it was nothing like the first kiss.
His fingers slid into your hair at the nape of your neck, not pulling, just there, a warm weight against your scalp. His other hand found your waist again, palm spanned the curve of your side like he was memorising the shape of it. His thumbs pressed lightly into the fabric of your shirt, and you could feel each individual fingertip through the thin material.
He kissed you like he had all the time in the world.
Where your mouth had been frantic and desperate against his, his was deliberate. Measured. His lips moved over yours slowly, like he was learning you from the start, like he was tracing the outline of something he'd been waiting to touch for months. He started at the center, pressing his mouth to the seam of your lips, then tilted his head and tried again from a different angle. And again. And again. Each kiss was a question. Each press of his lips was a sentence he didn't need words for.
Your hands, which had been hanging uselessly at your sides, found their way to his chest. Not pushing him away, nor pulling him closer. Just resting there, palms flat against the worn cotton of his shirt, feeling his heartbeat under your fingers. It was fast, much faster than his movements suggested. The contrast made something in your chest tighten.
He pulled back just far enough to breathe, his forehead still pressed to yours. His eyes were still closed. His lips were parted, slightly swollen, and you could feel his breath warm against your mouth.
You stayed like that for a moment, his thumb still tracing small circles on your waist and his fingers still tangled in your hair. The world under the bleachers had gone completely silent, like even the wind was holding its breath.
Then he kissed you again.
This time, his mouth was softer. He brushed his lips over yours once, feather-light, then again, then a third time, each touch gentler than the last. It was as though he was asking permission for something he'd already been given and he couldn't quite believe you were still there.
When he finally pulled back, after many more minutes, his eyes were open and he was watching you like you were something precious and breakable and he was terrified of dropping you.
His thumb came up to brush across your lower lip, where his had just been. The touch was so light it was almost not there.
"Say something," he whispered.
You couldn't. Your voice was gone, lost somewhere in your throat, buried under the weight of everything you'd just felt.
So instead, you pulled him down by his shirt again. And you kissed him.
Slower and far more certain this time.
His mouth met yours halfway. His hand cradled the back of your head. His body pressed against yours from chest to hip, and you could feel the warmth of him through both your shirts, solid and real and there.
You kissed him until your lips were numb and your lungs were burning and you couldn't tell where you ended and he began.
And that was the start of whatever was going on between the two of you.
Neither of you named it. Not that day under the bleachers, not in the weeks that followed, not even when you found yourself seeking him out between classes or staying late after school just to walk with him. There was no conversation about what you were, no labels, no promises. Just the quiet, unspoken understanding that something had shifted, and neither of you knew what to do with it.
The arguments didn't stop. If anything, they got worse.
Because you were still you: sharp-tongued and quick to deflect, armoured in expensive clothes and sharper smiles. And he was still him: infuriating and observant, unwilling to let you hide behind your walls now that he'd seen what was underneath. You'd crack open for him once and now he expected cracks all the time. Expected you to be soft. Expected you to be real.
And you couldn't. Not when the hallways were full of eyes and the courtyard was full of whispers and your whole life was a performance you'd been rehearsing since birth.
So you fought. Loudly and publicly. You called him a burnout to his face in front of the vending machines. He called you a robot in front of the bike racks. You told him he had no future ahead. He told you your designer bag cost more than his mom's rent and what did that say about you, really?
People stared. People whispered. People placed bets on when one of you would finally snap.
What they didn't see was what happened after.
The way you'd find him behind the gym twenty minutes later, breathless from running, your hands shaking as you grabbed his shirt. The way he'd already be waiting, like he knew you'd come, like he'd been counting on it. The way he'd pull you into the shadow of the building and kiss you like the argument had never happened—or like it had, and this was the only way to finish it.
"You're late," he'd murmur against your mouth.
"I hate you," you'd breathe back.
"Sure you do."
And then you'd kiss properly, desperate and hungry, your fingers twisting in his frayed collar, his hands pressing into your waist. You'd stay there until the bell rang, until the world demanded you return to your separate lives, until you could compose your face into something that didn't look like a girl who'd just been kissed within an inch of her sanity.
Then you'd walk back to class. Straighten your skirt. Lift your chin. And pretend nothing had happened.
People noticed, though. How could they not?
You'd always been careful; meticulous, even. You knew where every camera was, where every teacher stood during passing periods, which stairwells stayed empty and which bathrooms had broken locks. You'd spent years cultivating your image, protecting your reputation, making sure no one ever saw anything you didn't want them to see.
But Keonho made you sloppy.
It started small. A hallway glance that lasted a second too long. A pause by the bike racks when you should have kept walking. The way your eyes shone when they tracked him across the courtyard, following the gray beanie like a compass pointing north.
Hana noticed first, because Hana noticed everything.
"You keep looking at him weird," she said one day at lunch, not even bothering to phrase it as a question.
"I'm not looking at him weird."
"Y/n, you literally look at him like he’s the answer to everything."
"I’m looking at him the same as I’ve always done."
Hana stared at you. You stared at your salad.
"You're seeing him, aren't you?" she said quietly. "Like, seeing him seeing him."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Y/N."
"Hana."
She leaned closer, dropping her voice. "I saw you. Last week. Behind the science building."
Your heart stopped and your face went cold. "You saw what?"
"Nothing. I didn't see anything. That's the point." She paused. "But I saw you go behind the science building. And I saw him go behind the science building. And then you both came out five minutes later looking like—" She gestured at your face. "Like that."
"Like what?"
"Like someone who just got kissed and is trying really hard to pretend she didn't."
You set down your fork very carefully.
"You didn't see anything," you said.
"I know."
"Because there's nothing to see."
"I know."
"And if you tell anyone—"
"I won't." Hana held up her hands. "I'm not an idiot. I'm just... surprised."
"At what?"
"That you picked him." She glanced across the courtyard, where Keonho was sitting alone by the bike racks, eating his usual gas station sandwich. "I mean, he's cute. In a scruffy way. But he's not exactly... you know."
"Not exactly what?"
"Your type."
You looked down at your salad. At your perfectly manicured nails. At the designer bag hanging off the back of your chair.
"Maybe I don't have a type," you said.
Hana didn't respond. She didn't have to. Her silence said everything.
After that, you tried to be more careful.
You stopped seeking him out between classes, started taking different routes to the vending machines, sat with your back to the bike racks so you wouldn't be tempted to look.
It lasted three days.
On the fourth day, you found yourself behind the art building at 3:15, your back against the brick wall, his body pressed against yours, his mouth locked on yours.
"We have to stop," you whispered, even as your fingers tightened in his hair.
"I know," he murmured against your lips.
"We're being stupid."
"The stupidest."
"Someone's going to see."
He pulled back just enough to look at you with slightly swollen lips.
"Then stop me," he said.
You didn't.
You kissed him instead. Harder than before. As though you were trying to memorise the shape of his mouth, the taste of his breath, the way his hands felt on your waist.
And you were terrified of how much you didn't want to stop.
The first time anyone properly saw you alone together was behind the bleachers.
Someone's little brother was looking for a lost phone and he found you instead.
You were sitting with your back against the fence. Keonho was lying with his head in your lap, eyes closed, your fingers absently running through his hair. Neither of you was talking. Neither of you was fighting. You just... existed.
His hair was softer than you expected. His breathing had evened out until you weren't sure if he was awake or asleep. The late afternoon sun made everything gold and warm and stupidly cinematic.
You should have moved. The moment you heard footsteps crunching on the gravel, you should have shoved him off and stood up and smoothed down your skirt and pretended this never happened. The old you would have sensed someone coming from a hundred yards away. The old you was always watching, always calculating, always performing.
But the old you hadn't spent the last hour with her fingers in Keonho's hair, watching the clouds drift past, feeling something in her chest unfurl like a flower she'd forgotten she'd planted.
You looked up. The kid was standing at the edge of the bleachers, frozen mid-step. His mouth was open. His phone was in his hand, must have found it, and you realised with a sinking feeling that he'd been taking pictures. Or filming. Or both.
You didn't say anything. Neither did he. For one long, suspended second, the three of you existed in perfect, terrible stillness: you with your hands still in Keonho's hair, Keonho still half-asleep and oblivious, the kid staring like he'd just witnessed a unicorn.
Then the kid turned and ran.
His footsteps echoed off the floor, fast and frantic, disappearing around the corner.
Keonho stirred. His eyes fluttered open, squinting against the light. "What was that?"
"Nothing."
"Sounded like someone running."
"It was nothing." You pulled your hand out of his hair and your fingers felt cold without him. "We should go."
He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, his hair sticking up in a dozen different directions. He looked at your face and something in his expression shifted.
"Someone saw us," he said. Not a question.
"Someone's little brother."
"Did he—"
"He had a phone."
Keonho was quiet for a moment. Then he leaned back on his hands and tilted his face toward the sky.
"Well," he said. "That's that, then."
"What do you mean, that's that?"
"I mean people are going to talk. Your friends are going to freak out. The whole school's going to know by tomorrow morning." He looked at you sideways. "You okay with that?"
You should have said no. You should have stood up and walked away and never looked back. You should have spent the rest of the week damage-controlling, spin-doctoring, finding ways to convince everyone that what they'd seen wasn't what they thought.
Instead you said, "I don't know."
Keonho nodded and didn't push any further.
"Come on," he said, standing up and offering you his hand. "I'll walk you to your car."
You took his hand and let him pull you to your feet, your fingers lingering in his for a moment longer than necessary.
"Your hair's a mess," you said.
"You're the one who did it."
"You shouldn't have fallen asleep on me."
"You shouldn't have been playing with my hair."
You took a good look at him: his crooked smile and his tired eyes and his stupid, beautiful, infuriating face.
“Your hair was too soft for me to stop," you said quietly.
His smile softened and he squeezed your hand once before letting go.
"Come on, fountain girl. Let's go cause some rumors."
The school lost its collective mind.
The photos spread like wildfire, your friends asked countless questions on if you were really dating him of all people.
Hana seemed to be the only one capable of at least showing a bit of support, in her own way of course.
"Okay, I don't understand it and I think you're making a mistake and I think you're going to get hurt." She reached to take your hand. "But you're my best friend. And if this is what you want then I'm not going to stand in your way."
"He's not—I don't—" You stopped. Took a breath. "I don't know what I want. I just know I'm tired of pretending I have it all figured out."
Hana squeezed your hand. "Then stop pretending."
You looked down at your joined hands and saw her perfectly manicured nails next to yours.
"I don't know how," you admitted.
"Figure it out." She let go of your hand. Leaned back in her chair. "But do me a favor?"
"What?
"Next time you're going to make out with the skateboard boy behind the bleachers, maybe pick a spot without a line of sight to the school."
Your face went hot. "We weren't making out—"
"Your lips in those photos say otherwise."
"The photos weren’t taken after we—he was sleeping—"
"Sure he was."
“He was! His head was in my lap and he fell asleep and he I was just playing—”
“Uh huh.”
"Hana."
"Y/N." She smiled a real smile, the first one you'd seen from her all day. "I'm teasing. Mostly. But seriously. If you're going to be with him, be with him. Don't sneak around, or lie, or pretend he's something you're ashamed of."
"I'm not ashamed of him."
"Then don't act like you are."
And from then on, you didn’t hide. You stopped crossing to the other side of the hallway when you saw him coming. Stopped pretending not to know where he ate lunch. Stopped taking the long way to class just to avoid being seen walking next to him.
Everyone now knew that you two were a thing of some sorts, and maybe it was better that they all knew. The secrecy had been exhausting. The sneaking around, the lying by omission, the constant fear of being caught; it had been eating at you, wearing you down, making you someone you didn't want to be.
Now there was nothing to hide.
You no longer had to explain why you’d stopped driving to school just to be able to walk with him, his skateboard rolling beside you, his hand occasionally brushing yours and your shoulders bumping as you talked. Or the new scratches on your knees, the scuffs on your formerly pristine shoes, the tiny bruise on your palm from catching yourself when you fell from Keonho attempting to teach you to ride his skateboard.
"You're doing it wrong," he said one afternoon, watching you wobble across the parking lot after school.
"I'm doing it exactly the way you showed me."
"You're doing it exactly the way I told you not to."
"You told me to not lean back, so I'm leaning forward."
"Don't do that either." He ran his free hand through his hair, the other reaching up to grab your arm, steadying you before you could tip over. His fingers wrapped around your bicep firmly, keeping you upright. "Leaning forward is just as bad as leaning back. Actually, it's worse. When you lean forward, the board shoots out from under you and you land on your face."
"I'd rather land on my face than on my back because I’ll catch myself before I hit the ground."
"That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."
"I've said stupider things."
"Name one."
"I told Mina her new haircut looked good."
He stared at you. "That's not stupid. That's just mean."
"It was stupid and mean. Her haircut was terrible."
He adjusted his grip on your arm, his thumb pressing into the inside of your elbow. "Okay. Listen. Actually listen this time."
"I always listen."
"You listen to argue, not learn."
"I don't know what that means."
"Yes you do."
"Stop talking."
"Stop proving me right." He stepped around to face you, both hands on your arms now, looking down at you with that exasperated expression you'd grown weirdly fond of. "Keep your weight centered. Right over the board. Imagine there's a string pulling you up from the top of your head."
"That's the worst visualisation I've ever heard."
"It works."
"It works for you because you're weird."
"I'm not weird. I'm effective."
"You're weird and ineffective."
"I taught myself to skateboard when I was twelve. I think I know what I'm talking about."
"You taught yourself. That explains why you're such a bad teacher."
"I'm not a bad teacher. You're a bad student."
"I'm an excellent student. I get straight A's."
"In history. This isn't history. This is physics."
"It's a board with wheels, Keonho. It's not that deep."
"It's literally that deep. Center of gravity, momentum, weight distribution—"
"You're using big words to sound smart."
"I'm using big words because they're the right words."
"The right words are 'stand still and don't fall.'"
"The right words are 'engage your core and relax your shoulders.'"
"My core is engaged. My shoulders are relaxed."
"Your shoulders are up by your ears."
"No they aren’t."
"Princess, they're literally trying to escape through your neck right now."
You glanced down at your shoulders. They were, in fact, up by your ears. You forced them down. "Happy?"
"Ecstatic."
"Don't be sarcastic."
"I'm not being sarcastic. I'm genuinely ecstatic that your shoulders are no longer trying to flee your body."
"You're so annoying."
"You're so tense."
"I'm not tense. I'm focused."
"You're so focused that you're forgetting to breathe."
"I'm breathing fine."
"You're holding your breath."
"I'm not holding my breath."
"You just turned purple."
"I did not turn purple."
"You turned a very lovely shade of lavender."
You exhaled. Hard. Right in his face.
He didn't flinch. Just raised an eyebrow.
"Feel better?" he asked.
"No."
"Then take a real breath. In through your nose. Out through your mouth."
"I know how to breathe."
"Then prove it."
You took a breath. In through your nose. Out through your mouth straight onto his face again. He blinked.
"Did you just exhale onto me again?"
"Maybe."
He just sighed, already realising he was losing this battle, and let go of your arms, stepping back. "Okay. Try again. Keep your weight centered. Shoulders down. Breathe. And for the love of God, stop leaning."
"I'm not leaning."
"You're leaning."
"I'm standing perfectly upright."
"You're leaning so far forward you're practically bowing."
You wobbled as you adjusted but managed to catch yourself.
"Look," he said, smiling at you softly. "You're doing it."
"I'm doing it."
"Don't sound so surprised."
"I'm not surprised. I'm impressed with myself—"
Before you could even finish your gloating, your weight shifted. One moment you were upright, almost steady, almost balanced, almost doing it. The next, the board slipped out from underneath you like the ground had turned to ice. Your arms windmilled. Your center of gravity betrayed you completely. And then your knees hit the asphalt hard: a sharp, jarring impact that sent shockwaves up your thighs before Keonho could even properly react and grab you.
His hands reached for you a second too late, fingers closing on empty air where your arm had been.
You stayed there for a moment, on your hands and knees, breathing hard. The asphalt was rough and warm beneath your palms, little bits of gravel digging into your skin. Your knees throbbed. Your pride throbbed harder.
"Y/N." His voice was closer now. His hand landed on your back, warm and steady. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"You're not fine. You're on the ground."
"I'm resting."
"You're bleeding."
"I'm bleeding and resting. Multitasking."
"Y/N."
"Keonho."
He crouched down beside you, his face level with yours and his eyes wide, scanning your face, your knees, your hands. "You went down hard."
"I've gone down harder."
"That's not—" He stopped. Pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's not the flex you think it is."
He reached for your arm, gently pulling you up from the ground. His hands were more careful than usual, and you let him guide you to your feet, wincing as your weight settled onto your scraped knees.
"Can you walk?" he asked.
"I can walk."
"You're limping."
"I'm not limping. I'm just… taking my time."
He shook his head, but he was smiling. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."
He led you to the concrete steps outside the gymnasium, and you sat down heavily, stretching your legs out in front of you. The damage was worse than you thought: both knees scraped raw through what used to be your favorite pair of tights, thin lines of blood beading up through the torn fabric.
Keonho sat down next to you, close enough that his shoulder pressed against yours. He pulled a crumpled gas station napkin from his pocket and held it out to you.
"That's not going to be enough," you said.
"It's all I have."
"Then get more."
"Where am I supposed to get more?"
"I don't know. The bathroom. The nurse's office."
He ignored you and dabbed at your knee with the napkin anyway, gentle and inefficient, the cheap paper sticking to your skin. You hissed through your teeth.
"Sorry," he murmured.
"You should be. This is your fault."
"How is this my fault?"
"You're the one who put me on the board."
"You're the one who wanted to learn."
"I wanted to learn from a competent teacher."
"I am competent."
"You let me fall."
"You fell before I could catch you."
"You were literally right in front of me."
"You went down way too fast for me to react."
“Well maybe next time I’ll get an actual competent teacher to teach me how to skate.”
“Oh really? And would that competent teacher still be here tending to your wounds?” He looked at you and something in your chest tightened. You looked away, down at your scraped knees, at his hand still holding the crumpled napkin against your skin.
"You're bleeding too," you said.
He looked down at his own hand. There was a small scrape on his palm, must have happened when he reached for you and caught the asphalt instead.
"That's nothing," he said.
"It's bleeding."
"It's a scratch."
"It's bleeding and you're not even complaining."
"Why would I complain?"
"Because that's what people do when they're hurt. They complain."
"I'm not hurt. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're bleeding."
"It's a scratch, Y/N."
"It's a bleeding scratch."
He stared at you. Then he started laughing, bright and surprised, his whole face lighting up.
"What?" you demanded.
"Nothing." He shook his head, still laughing. "You're just—you're sitting there with two knees that look like ground beef, telling me my paper cut is a medical emergency."
"It's not a paper cut. It's a gash."
"It's literally smaller than my fingernail."
"Size isn't everything."
"That's not—" He stopped, his smile wide whilst he rubbed his hand over his face. "You're looking way worse than me."
You wanted to be annoyed at the fact that he was still laughing, his shoulder shaking against yours. You wanted to push him away and tell him this wasn't funny, that your knees were ruined and your tights were ruined and your pride was in shambles on the asphalt.
But instead, you started laughing too.
It bubbled up from somewhere unexpected, somewhere you'd forgotten existed. You laughed until your stomach hurt and your scraped knees throbbed and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You laughed because you'd just fallen off a skateboard in front of half the school and Keonho was sitting next to you with a napkin stuck to his palm, his eyes full of light, watching you finally, finally, be yourself.
When the laughter finally faded, you were both breathing hard. His shoulder was still pressed against yours. His hand had somehow found yours, fingers laced together, resting on the concrete step between you.
You eventually leaned your head against his shoulder. Just rested it there, your temple pressing into the worn fabric of his hoodie. He didn't move. Didn't pull away. Just sat there with you in the warm afternoon sun while the rest of the world went on around you.
At some point he turned his head and his lips brushed against your hair so softly you almost missed it, but you felt it. You felt everything.
People walked past, some gawked at the sight of you, others turned and whispered amongst each other, but neither of you seemed to care.
That seemed to become a recurring thing. The stares and the whispers. People still took photos when they thought you weren't looking. The speculation never ended: were you dating? Were you enemies? Were you friends? Were you something in between that no one had a word for?
But you stopped noticing. Or maybe you just stopped caring.
They couldn't understand what was going on between you two. How you'd go from wanting to strangle each other to cuddling up just a second later. How you'd be screaming in each other's faces one moment and then sitting in comfortable silence the next, your head on his shoulder, his hand in yours. How you'd call him every name in the book and then defend him viciously when someone else tried to do the same.
It didn't make sense. Not to them. Not to your friends, who still looked at you like you'd grown a second head every time you walked past the bike racks without stopping to sneer. Not to his friends—the few he had that you had only learnt about recently—who raised their eyebrows every time you appeared and said nothing.
And, to be honest, neither of you understood it either.
But none of that mattered.
Not when he'd sit there and let you ramble for hours about whatever new person who annoyed you had done. How a girl had worn the same dress as you to a party and actually looked good in it: "She had no right, Keonho. No right. I specifically told her I was wearing the green one with the flowers, and she showed up in the exact same dress like it was nothing." Or how Hana had started talking to her ex again, the one from the football team, the one who'd cheated on her at summer camp two years ago: "I don't understand it. I don't understand her. He literally lied to her face for a whole weekend and she's just going to pretend that didn't happen?"
He never interrupted. Never told you to calm down or change the subject or stop caring so much about things that didn't matter. He just listened with his eyes half-closed, his head tilted back, and his fingers absently tracing patterns on his knee. Sometimes he'd nod. Sometimes he'd make comments like "that's messed up" or "she sounds exhausting" or "you're right to be annoyed." Sometimes he’d just watch you, a look in his eyes that made you feel giddy.
Not when he laid on your bed, still watching you pace back and forth whilst on a call that felt never ending.
He should have been paying attention and following the conversation, tracking the drama, even offering the occasional grunt of acknowledgment. But his eyelids were heavy, his body was warm, and the sound of your voice, even when it was sharp, annoyed, and mid-takedown, was somehow the most soothing thing he'd ever heard.
”Okay, call me later once she replies.”
Keonho perked up as he heard you wrapping up the call, his chin lifting from his arm. His eyes tracked you still walking back and forth, back and forth, like you couldn't quite remember how to stop.
"You're gonna wear a hole in that ridiculously expensive rug," he commented, his voice thick with sleep.
You ignored him. Kept pacing. Kept muttering under your breath, something about ‘can't believe she said that’ and ‘who does she think she is’ and ‘wait until I get my hands on her’.
"Y/N."
Nothing.
"Y/N."
"I'm thinking."
"You've been thinking for like ten minutes. Think quicker.”
“I’d be able to if you shut up.”
He just blinked at you, slow and unbothered. “I’m not the one who’s been pacing around for an hour.”
”It was literally twenty minutes, and last I checked you were asleep.”
”That was before you left me all by myself.” He pouted, his bottom lip jutting out, his eyes wide and faux-tragic, and you scrunched your face in disgust, though you'd never admit it secretly made your heart swell. The stupid, infuriating, adorable pout. The way his hair was all messed up from the pillow. The way the pink blanket was pulled up to his shoulders like a child who didn't want to get out of bed.
He mumbled something you were only just able to catch, his voice thick and sleepy: "Twenty minutes too long."
"I was on the phone."
"You were on the phone without me."
"You were asleep."
"So? You could have woken me up."
You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face before stepping forward. He twisted to lay on his side, the pink blanket pooling around his waist, and lifted the blanket up at your approach.
You climbed under the blanket with him, the sheets cool against your legs, the duvet soft beneath your head. His free arm enveloped you immediately, your face pressing into his neck, your nose brushing his collarbone, and your breath warm against his skin.
”You’re so clingy.” You grumbled.
"You love it."
"I hate it."
"You love hating it."
You elbowed him and he didn't even flinch, just tightened his arm around you, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you.
"I was in the middle of something," you said.
"You were in the middle of pacing."
"I was strategising."
"You were spiraling and I needed to stop it."
His hand found your hair. His fingers threaded through it, slow and steady, the way he knew you liked. His thumb brushed against your scalp, gentle circles that made your eyes flutter closed.
"I'm still thinking about it," you murmured.
"I know."
"I'm going to keep thinking about it."
"I know."
"I'm going to talk about it. A lot. For a long time."
"I know."
"And you're going to listen?"
"I'm going to try. No promises. I'm very tired."
"You're always tired."
"You're always thinking too much."
You wanted to argue. Wanted to fire back something sharp and cutting that would wipe that sleepy smile off his face. But his hand was in your hair and his heartbeat was steady under your ear and the world outside your bedroom door had stopped mattering.
"She's going to reply later," you said. "And when she does—"
"You're going to do nothing."
"I'm going to do something."
"You're going to do nothing," he repeated. "Because it's late. And you're tired. And whatever she said, it'll still be there tomorrow."
"But—"
"Tomorrow," he said. "You can destroy her tomorrow. Right now, you're going to sleep."
"You can't tell me what to do."
"I just did."
"And I'm not doing it."
"You're literally in my arms with your eyes closed."
"That doesn't matter." Despite your words, you snuggled into him tighter, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, your face pressing deeper into the hollow of his throat. He was warm, so, so warm, and his heartbeat was slow and steady beneath your palm, a rhythm your own heart had started to match without your permission.
You felt him press a kiss onto your hair, it seemed to be a thing he did subconsciously now.
"Mhm." He just about managed to say, the sound rumbling through his chest, vibrating against your cheek. His arms were loosening around you, his grip going slack, his body sinking deeper into the mattress. He was drifting off, you could feel it in the way his breathing had slowed, in the way his hand had stopped moving in your hair, in the way his heartbeat had dropped to a deep, steady thrum.
You lifted your head just enough to look at him as you felt him settle.
His face was soft in the dim light. The sharp lines of his jaw had blurred, his lips were slightly parted, his dark lashes fanned out against his cheeks. His hair was a mess across his forehead and he looked younger like this. Softer. Less like the boy who argued with you in parking lots and more like the boy who pressed kisses to your hair when he thought you weren't paying attention.
You should have woken him up. Should have told him to go home, to sleep in his own bed, to stop taking up space in yours.
But you didn't.
Instead, you reached up and brushed the hair off his forehead. Your fingers lingered there for a moment, tracing the line of his brow, the curve of his temple, the soft skin just above his cheekbone.
He didn't stir. Didn't wake. Just sighed in his sleep and pulled you closer, his arm tightening around your waist even as he dreamed.
You smiled, just a little, placing a featherlight kiss onto his jaw.
"You're impossible," you whispered, so quietly that not even the fairy lights that hung above your bed could hear.
Then you settled back against his chest, closed your eyes, and let yourself drift.
Tomorrow, you'd argue. Tomorrow, you'd pace and mutter and plot revenge. Tomorrow, you'd be sharp and cutting and impossible in all the ways you knew how to be.
