My most favourite-est Sub!Cas idea will forever and always be teaching him how to fuck. He's an Angel, he's got no clue, so you have to teach him absolutely everything and I can just seem him getting overwhelmed and overstimulated as you ride him, his grip on your waist almost hard enough to crack bone, his face buried in your neck as he lets out soft sounds, feeling so much of everything his Grace blares when he cums, light enveloping the room, Grace reaching your soul, making your release crash over you with him, never dreaming of letting you go after, becoming the clingiest little thing, no words, just holding onto you so tight he's afraid he'll lose you forever if he lets go
~♡ꜝꜞ ❝ 𝒫avlov'd ❞
────── · · Castiel Novak ( s4-ish ) x fem ! reader
a / n : i'm coming back to the songfics, i just had a vission. hear me out.
character/s featured. castiel novak .ᐟ sam winchester .ᐟ dean winchester .ᐟ
rating: smut + crack/funny.ᐟ
🏷 ,, ( @reginaphalangelobster )
requesting rules. masterlist.
The motel room smelled of stale coffee, cheap air freshener, and the particular mustiness that seemed to follow them no matter which state they were in. It was a scent you'd grown so accustomed to over the years that you barely registered it anymore—like the constant hum of the vending machine outside or the way Dean always left his boots by the door.
Tonight, however, that familiar atmosphere felt suffocating.
You sat on the edge of the bed, the one closest to the window because you'd always positioned yourself as the first line of defense against anything that might come through it, and watched your brothers bicker about something insignificant. Sam was pacing near the small table, his hair falling into his eyes as he gestured emphatically about lore that didn't match up with their current case. Dean was sprawled in the single armchair, beer in hand, rolling his eyes with the practiced ease of a man who'd been hearing Sam's research rants for decades.
And Castiel stood in the corner.
He always stood. Even after weeks of being around them, of existing in this strange in-between space between Heaven and Earth, he still hadn't quite figured out how to relax into furniture. How to be in a room without being of it. He observed everything with those too-blue eyes, head tilted slightly, like a bird trying to understand why humans insisted on building boxes to sit inside.
Normally, you found his confusion endearing.
Tonight, it was making your eye twitch.
"You're not listening to me," Sam said, and you realized you'd missed the last three minutes of his argument entirely. "If we're dealing with a banshee-"
"We're not dealing with a banshee, for fuck's sake." Dean cut in, taking a long pull of his beer before continuing. "We're dealing with a ghost. A garden-variety, salt-and-burn, nothing-fancy ghost. Stop trying to make everything into a-"
"And what makes you so sure?" Sam's voice was climbing, the way it always did when he felt like he was being dismissed. "Because the witness descriptions match-"
"Sam." You said his name quietly, and immediately saw the tension in his shoulders ease. He turned to look at you, and for just a moment, he wasn't a grown man in his mid-twenties with too much trauma and too many burdens. He was the little boy who'd come to your bed after nightmares, who'd clung to your hand during his first hunt, who'd needed you to tell him everything would be okay a thousand and one times. "We'll look at the lore again in the morning. Both versions. Okay?"
He nodded, and you watched him visibly relax. "Okay- Yeah. You're right."
Dean snorted. "She says 'let's look at it in the morning' and you fold like a cheap suit. I say the same thing and you act like I just-"
"Because you don't listen to me." Sam shot back, but there was no heat in it now.
You'd spent years cultivating that perspective of his on you. Years of being the one who stayed up with him when he was sick, who made sure his homework was done, who held him when he cried over things he couldn't even articulate. You'd been twelve when he was born, and while other girls your age were worrying about boys and school dances, you were learning how to warm a bottle just right, how to rock a fussy infant to sleep, how to be everything a mother should be when the real one wasn’t around to do it.
Dean had been different. Even at four, he'd wanted his independence. He had pushed away your attempts at coddling, had insisted he was old enough to handle things himself. But you remembered, too, the way he'd let you bandage his scraped knees without complaint. The way he'd crawl into your bed on the nights Dad had come home angry and frustrated about not being able to handle a case as he should have, not saying a word, just needing to be close to someone who felt safe. The way he still, even now, let you brush off his shoulders and straighten his collar when he was too stubborn to admit he needed taking care of.
They were your boys. Your whole world, really. Everything you'd done, every sacrifice you'd made, had been for them.
Which was why what you were doing with the angel in the corner felt like such a betrayal.
Ever since he'd pulled Dean from Hell, ever since he'd started appearing in your lives with his cryptic messages and his confusing lack of understanding about humanity, he'd watched. But recently—the last few days, really—his watching had become something else. Something more focused. More intense.
More personal.
You felt his gaze on you now, that familiar weight of attention that made your skin prickle with awareness. When you glanced up, you found his blue eyes fixed on you with an expression you'd come to recognize intimately: that particular blend of curiosity and hunger that he didn't seem to understand himself.
Your stomach flipped.
It had started innocently enough. A conversation about human emotions that had gone on too long. A moment of frustration on your part that had led to a physical reaction from him that neither of you had expected. And then, somehow, you'd found yourself pressed against a wall in some abandoned warehouse, his mouth on yours, your hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, his own tugging at your blouse.
After that, it had become... frequent. Addictive. A secret that you kept from your brothers not out of shame but out of necessity.
They saw him as a weapon, a tool.
They didn't see him the way you did.
They didn't see the way his eyes would go glassy when you touched him. The way his breath would catch when you whispered his name in that particular tone. The way he'd arch into your touch like a cat seeking affection, utterly shameless in his need, completely lacking in the human inhibitions that might have made him self-conscious.
You'd created a monster, you realized. A beautiful, angelic, utterly addicted monster who didn't understand the meaning of the word "discretion."
Like now. As you watched, Castiel's gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, tracing the line of your throat with an intensity that made heat pool low in your belly. His vessel's body was responding to you in ways you'd taught it to, ways that had nothing to do with divine purpose and everything to do with base, human desire.
"I think we should discuss the case in more detail," Castiel said, and you felt your jaw clench. "The witness accounts are contradictory, which suggests either misinterpretation of events or deliberate-"
"Cas." You didn't mean for your voice to come out so sharp, but you were tired. So tired. Three nights of interrupted sleep, two days of driving, and the constant, gnawing worry that someone was going to figure out what was going on between you and the angel. "We said tomorrow. Drop it, please."
His head tilted, and you could see the confusion written across his face. The genuine, innocent confusion that said he truly didn't understand why humans got so worked up over things that could simply be... fixed. "But if we examine the evidence now, we might—"
"Castiel. I said drop it."
The room went silent.
You hadn't meant to say his full name. You never did. Not when anyone else was around, not when you were supposed to be pretending that he was just the angel who'd pulled Dean out of Hell, nothing more. You'd been so careful, so deliberate about keeping that boundary intact.
But you were exhausted. And stressed. And your brothers had been bickering for hours, and the angel in the corner kept staring at you with those eyes that seemed to see straight through every wall you'd ever built, and—
And now he was looking at you the way he did when you were alone.
The way he did when you had him spread out beneath you, gasping and whining and so utterly, beautifully undone.
The name had come out like a slap, sharp and commanding, and you watched in mounting horror as Castiel's entire demeanor shifted. One moment he was standing there, stiff and composed, the perfect picture of celestial detachment. The next, his shoulders had gone rigid, his gaze dropping to the floor with the sudden, sharp intensity of someone who had no idea where else to look.
A flush was creeping up his neck.
And his pupils were dilating.
Oh no.
"Cas?" Dean's voice cut through the haze. "You okay, man? You look—"
"I'm fine." But Castiel's voice had gone strange. Rougher. Thicker. The way it got when you had your hand wrapped around him, when you were whispering dirty things in his ear and watching his composure shatter into a thousand pieces.
You had done that to him. You had Pavlov'd an angel of the Lord.
The realization hit you like a physical blow. Every time you called him Castiel—only when you called him Castiel—it meant you were about to take him apart. About to have him beneath you, on top of you, against you, inside you. His name was your code word, your trigger, the line between polite conversation and the sheer, primal carnality that existed between you when the door was closed and the world didn't exist.
And you'd just said it in front of your brothers.
"Here?" Castiel's voice broke, and he swallowed hard. When he spoke again, it was barely above a whisper, and you could hear the need in it. The desperate, confused need of an angel who had become addicted to the feeling of skin on skin. "But here... with Dean and Sam?"
Sam dropped the lore book he'd been holding. It hit the floor with a thud that seemed to echo through the suddenly silent room.
"What the hell?" Dean was sitting up straighter now, beer forgotten. "What does that mean? What do you mean, 'here with Dean and Sam'?"
"Nothing-" you said quickly, and you were already moving, reaching for Castiel's arm, trying to steer him toward the door. "He's just confused. The Angel thing. He doesn't-"
"Don't." Sam's voice was like ice, and when you looked at him, his face had gone pale. "Don't you dare lie to me. What was that?"
"He needs to-"
"Why did he say it like that." Dean was on his feet now, and his eyes were darting between you and Castiel with dawning horror. "Why did he say that in the first place? Why did he react like that?"
The angel in question was still staring at the floor, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers were twitching like he was fighting the urge to reach for you. He looked like a man on the edge of something, and you knew with certainty that if you didn't get him out of this room in the next thirty seconds, he was going to break.
Because Castiel didn't understand shame.
He didn't understand secrecy, or the careful social dance that humans did around their private lives. He didn't know what it meant to keep something hidden, to protect the people you loved from the truth of who you were and what you'd done.
He only understood what you'd taught him.
And you'd taught him to want.
Behind you, Sam made a sound like he'd been punched.
"What are you talking about?" he asked. "It's just his name. It's not like she's—" He stopped, his eyes going wide. "Wait. She's not saying it like that. Is she?"
The silence that followed his inquiry was enough of an answer.
"No. No way." His voice cracked like a high schooler's. "You're not—you can't be- with him?"
"I'm going to be sick." Dean's voice was hollow. "I'm actually going to be sick."
You turned to face them, and even though your heart was pounding and your hands were shaking, you made yourself meet their eyes. You'd faced down demons and ghosts and things that shouldn't exist. You could face your brothers.
"I was going to tell you... eventually." you said, and it wasn't exactly a lie. You'd thought about it, maybe. Sometimes. "I just didn't know.. how."
"How?" Sam's voice cracked. "How about 'hey Sam, guess what, I've been sleeping with the angel who's been hanging around us for weeks'? That would've been a good start!"
"Sammy—"
"Me." Dean was pacing now, hands running through his hair. "He pulled me out of Hell. I was the one who started all this. And now my sister is—" He made a vague gesture that seemed to encompass everything. "My sister's been-" He looked from you to Castiel. "With the angel. My sister and the angel have been... doing things."
Sam looked between you and Castiel, his expression a mixture of disbelief and growing horror. "Cas is an angel. He's not- he doesn't even understand human—"
"Oh, he understands plenty." Dean said, his voice flat. "Look at him. Look at the way he's looking at her."
Castiel was still pressed against your back, and you could feel the way his body was straining toward you, the way he was fighting every instinct to just take what he wanted. His breath was hot against your neck, and you knew without looking that his eyes were half-lidded, his lips slightly parted.
He was losing his grip on whatever control he'd managed to maintain.
"We should go." Sam's squeaked out. "Dean, come on. We're leaving."
"Sam! you can't just- our sister is- with Cas!"
"Watch me." He was already grabbing his jacket. "I can't be in this room right now. I can't be near—" He gestured at you and Castiel. "That. Whatever that is."
Dean hesitated, and you saw the war in his eyes: the desire to stay, to yell, to do something, and the need to get away from something that was clearly breaking his brain.
Finally, he turned.
"You owe us an explanation." he said, and his voice was cold in a way you'd never heard from him before. "We'll be at the bar. When you're done... whatever you're going to do... you come get us. And you tell us everything."
The door slammed behind them.
For a moment, you just stood there, breathing. Listening to the sound of their footsteps retreating, the muffled thump of another door opening and closing.
And then Castiel's hands were on you.
"Please," he breathed against your neck, and the sound of it went straight to your core. "Please, please, I need-"
You turned and kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't the soft, exploratory thing you'd given him the first few times, when you were still figuring out how to touch him. This was hungry, desperate, your mouth claiming his with a ferocity that had him gasping against your lips.
"Castiel." You said his name like a curse, like a prayer, and you felt the way his whole body shuddered in response. "What did you do? What did you just do?"
"I'm sorry." His voice was broken, fragmented. "I apologise, didn't mean to- it just happened- you said my name and—"
"I know." You kissed him again, harder, and he made a sound that was almost a whimper.
You pushed him backwards, and his legs hit the edge of the bed. He went down without a fight, the way he always did, looking up at you with those dark, desperate eyes. His pupils were completely blown, dark enough to swallow the blue, and you could see the way his chest was heaving with breaths he didn't need.
"You like that, don't you?" You climbed over him, straddling his hips, and watched the way his hands immediately came up to grip your waist. "You like it when I'm rough with you."
"Yes." The word came out on a gasp. "Yes, I- it feels—"
"Good." You leaned down, your mouth against his ear. "It's supposed to feel good. But you messed up big time, errand boy"
"I'm sorry." His voice was trembling. "I couldn't- when you said my name, I couldn't-"
"I know." You kissed his neck, soft at first, then harder, feeling the way his pulse jumped beneath your lips. "I know you couldn't help it. That's why I'm going to be so good to you tonight."
"Please." He was already arching into you, his hands gripping your waist so tight you knew you'd have bruises tomorrow. "Please, I need—"
"You need what?" You bit down on the junction of his neck and shoulder, and he cried out, a high, broken sound that went straight to your core. "Tell me what you need, Castiel."
"You." The word was barely audible. "Just you. Always you."
His hips were bucking up into you, and you could feel how hard he was, could feel the way he was already leaking through his pants. He was so sensitive, so utterly responsive to everything you did. It had taken you weeks to get him to this point, weeks of careful conditioning and deliberate touch.
And now he was yours. Completely, utterly yours.
"That's right." You rocked against him, just enough to make him gasp. "You're so good for me. So perfect. You just need me to take care of you, don't you?"
"Yes." His eyes were closed, his head thrown back against the mattress. "Yes, please. Please take care of me."
"Poor baby." You kissed down his neck, feeling the way he trembled beneath you. "Getting so worked up over a name. You couldn't even control yourself in front of Dean and Sam."
"M'sorry." He was babbling now, the words tumbling out between desperate little gasps.
You sat up, looking down at him. "I know exactly what you were thinking when it slipped. You were thinking about all the times I've said it before, weren't you? All the times I've had you just like this."
His blush deepened, spreading down his neck and disappearing into his collar. He didn't deny it.
"Tell me," you said, and your voice was almost gentle now. "Tell me what you were thinking about."
"That first time." His eyes were still closed, but you could see the way his pupils moved beneath his lids, the way he was losing himself in memory. "When you put your mouth on me. I thought I was going to- I didn't know what was happening."
"You came." You smiled at the memory. "Just from my mouth. You came so hard you almost passed out."
"I didn't know what it was-" His voice was shaking. "The feeling. I didn't know it was supposed to feel like that. I thought I was dying."
"That was just the beginning, baby." You leaned down, your mouth hovering over his. "We've come a long way since then, haven't we?"
He nodded frantically, and you could feel the way his whole body was quivering with need.
"Open your eyes," you commanded, and he obeyed immediately, looking up at you with those dark, desperate eyes. "Tell me what you want."
"You." The word came out on a sob. "Just you. I want to feel you. Please, I need to."
"Shh." You pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I'll give you what you need. But first, I need you to be good for me. Can you be good?"
"Yes." He was nodding frantically. "Yes, I'll be good, I'll be so good, please just-"
You silenced him with another kiss, and felt the way he melted into it. The way his hands came up to cup your face, the way he kissed you back with desperate, hungry need.
"Take off your clothes," you murmured against his lips. "All of them. And don't move until I tell you."
He scrambled to obey, his fingers clumsy with need, and you watched as he fumbled with buttons and zippers. His shirt came off first, revealing the pale expanse of his chest, the hard lines of his muscles. Then his pants, kicked off with desperate haste. His boxers followed, and you felt your mouth go dry at the sight of him.
He was gorgeous. Utterly, stunningly gorgeous. His body was lean and hard, all sharp angles and smooth planes, and his cock was already hard and leaking against his stomach.
"Look at you." You climbed off the bed, and he made a desperate little sound of protest. "Don't move. I'm just going to watch you for a moment."
He was trembling, his hands clenched in the sheets, his eyes fixed on you with single-minded intensity. "Please," he breathed. "Please, I need you to touch me."
"I will." You circled the bed slowly, taking in every inch of him. "But first, I want you to tell me something. Do you remember what I said I'd do to you if you ever told anyone about us?"
His eyes went wide. "I—no- I didn't mean to-"
"I know you didn't." Your voice was soft. "But you still did. And now Dean and Sam know. They know what we've been doing. And I know you didn't mean to. But you still broke the rules, Castiel. And when you break the rules..."
You leaned down, your mouth against his ear. "..You get punished."
He shuddered beneath you, and you felt the way his cock twitched against your thigh.
"punished?" His voice was barely a whisper.
"Mmhmm." You kissed down his jaw, feeling the racing pulse beneath your lips. "I'm going to be so rough with you, baby. So rough. And you're going to take it, aren't you? Because that's what good angels do."
"Yes." He was already arching into you, already surrendering. "Please. Please be rough."
You cut him off with a kiss, and this time there was no softness to it. Your teeth caught his lower lip, and he whined in response, the sound swallowed by your mouth.
"This is what happens," you said against his lips, "when you can't keep your mouth shut. I have to remind you who you belong to."
"I belong to you." The words came out on a gasp. "Only you. Always."
"That's right." You kissed down his neck, feeling the way his pulse raced under your lips. "And you're never going to forget it again, are you?"
"No." He was shaking his head frantically. "No, never. I'll—I'll be good. I'll be so good. Just please—"
You smiled against his skin. "Good boy."
And then you took him in your mouth.
He choked on a moan, his hands flying to your hair, and you felt the way his hips bucked up into you. You let him, taking him deep, feeling the way he filled your mouth. He tasted like salt and heat and something that was purely him.
"Please," he was gasping, his hands fisting in your hair. "Please,pleaseplease—"
You pulled off with a wet pop, and he made a sound of desperate protest. "You can take it." you said.
His eyes were wild, his pupils completely blown. I'll take anything."
"Don't worry, baby." You climbed back up his body, your lips hovering over his. "I'm not going to stop. I'm going to take you apart piece by piece, and then I'm going to put you back together."
"You're so beautiful," you murmured. "So perfect. Do you know that?"
He shook his head, unable to speak.
"Then let me show you." You reached down, guiding him to your entrance, and felt the way he shuddered beneath you. "Do you feel that? That's how much I want you."
You sank down onto him, and he whimpered. High and broken, almost keening. His back arched off the bed, his hands gripping your hips so tight you knew you'd have bruises.
"Shh." You pressed a hand over his mouth. "You have to be quiet. We can't have anyone hearing us."
He nodded frantically, his eyes wild and struggling not to cross, and you felt the way his whole body was trembling.
"You're so big," you breathed, beginning to move. "So perfect. Filling me up so good."
He whimpered against your palm, his hips thrusting up to meet yours.
"That's it." You rode him faster, harder, feeling the way he was losing control. "You're so good for me, Castiel. So perfect."
He was close, you could feel it, and you leaned down to kiss him again.
"Come for me," you breathed against his lips. "Come for me, baby."
The light exploded.
It came from everywhere and nowhere, filling the room with a warmth that felt like standing in sunlight. His grace touched you, and you felt your own orgasm crash over you, amplified and intensified by whatever was happening between you.
---
Three hours later Dean was staring at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. Finally, he said, "He makes you happy?"
"Yes." There was no hesitation. "More than I've ever been."
"Then I guess that's all that matters." He stood up, pulling you into a rough hug. "God, I can't believe my sister's banging an angel."
"Dean!" But you were laughing, the tension finally breaking. "It's not like that."
"It is exactly like that." He pulled back, shaking his head. "My sister. And Cas. I need a drink."
"A bottle," Sam muttered, finally turning back to face you. "We need a bottle. Maybe several."
But he was smiling, a little, and you knew it would be okay.
"It's going to be weird," Dean said. "You know that, right? We're never going to be able to look at him the same way."
"I know." You smiled. "But you'll get used to it."
"I really don't think I will." But there was no heat in his voice. "Just... keep it down, okay? I don't need to hear—"
"Dean." You cut him off. "I'm not going to talk about this with you."
"Thank God." He shuddered. "I think I'd rather face another demon."
The air in the narrow corridor was stagnant, thick with the scent of old carpet cleaner and the faint, sweet residue of the dozen different perfumes worn by the nine women who lived behind the door at the end of the hall.
Choi Hyuk stood motionless, his back pressed against the cold plaster, his breath held captive in his lungs. He had been walking past the shared dressing room—a converted lounge on the third floor of their private practice facility—when the voices had stopped him. Not the content of the voices, not at first. Just the fact that they were raised sharply, overlapping. Argumentative.
The door was not fully closed. A three-inch gap, maybe less, yawned between the heavy wooden frame and the latch. Light spilled out, golden and warm, cutting a bright slash across the dark carpet at Hyuk's feet. From where he stood, pressed into the shadows, he could see slivers of the room inside: a slice of a floor-length mirror, the edge of a plush sofa, and a discarded pair of heeled boots lying on their sides. And bodies. Movement. The shifting, curving shapes of women.
His first instinct was to leave. To continue his rounds, to pretend he had heard nothing. Choi Hyuk was the senior manager—the one who handled logistics, scheduling, the thousand mundane details that kept the machine running. Kiho was the other manager. The junior. The one the members always seemed to request. The one with the easy smile and the casual touches that lingered a moment too long. Hyuk had known for weeks what was happening. He had seen it. Kiho had made sure of that.
But this was different. This was not Kiho forcing Hyuk to watch through a hidden camera feed or a carelessly left door ajar. This was the women themselves. Unaware. Unfiltered. Arguing like children over a favorite toy.
He should leave. He stayed.
"That's bullshit, Jihyo, and you know it."
Momo's voice was unmistakable—that slightly nasal, Japanese-accented Korean that became higher and faster when she was agitated. She was agitated now. Hyuk shifted his weight, leaning closer to the gap, his eye finding the narrow field of view. He could see Momo clearly: she was standing in front of the mirror, her back to the door, wearing only a black lace bra and a pair of tiny cotton shorts that rode up the generous curve of her ass. Her hair—dark, long, recently dyed a deep chestnut—hung loose down her back, swaying as she gestured emphatically with a hairbrush.
"He doesn't fuck you the most. He can't fuck you the most. You have leader shit to do. Schedules. Meetings. You're not even in the dorm half the time."
Jihyo's reflection caught Hyuk's eye. She was sitting on the edge of the sofa, her body turned slightly away from the door, but the mirror gave him everything. She wore a matching set of lingerie—sage green, silk, the kind of thing that cost more than his monthly rent. Her breasts strained against the delicate cups, heavy and full, spilling slightly at the sides. Her thighs were pressed together, but even in the low light, Hyuk could see the damp spot blooming on the pale green fabric between her legs.
Jihyo laughed. It was not a kind laugh. "You think I don't make time? Momo, babe, I make time. I'm the leader. That means I know how to prioritize." She stretched her arms above her head, a deliberately leisurely motion that made her breasts lift, the silk cups shifting almost revealing. "And Kiho is my top priority."
"That's not what he said last week."
The third voice was quieter. Softer. But it cut through the room like a blade. Tzuyu.
Hyuk's breath caught.
Tzuyu was standing by the window, her tall, impossibly proportioned body silhouetted against the dark glass. She was fully undressed—completely, utterly naked—and she made no move to cover herself. Her skin seemed to glow, pale and smooth, unmarked except for the faint bruise on her inner thigh, high up, almost hidden by the shadow between her legs. Her breasts were perfect—high, round, tipped with pale pink nipples that were visibly hard, even from this distance. Her waist was so narrow it looked like a man could span it with two hands. Her hips flared wide, framing the dark triangle of hair at the apex of her thighs.
She was not looking at Jihyo or Momo. She was looking at herself in the mirror, her head tilted, her expression thoughtful. One hand rested on her hip. The other hung at her side, fingers curled loosely.
"He said I was his favorite," Tzuyu continued, her voice still soft, still calm. "Last week. After the photoshoot. When he bent me over the vanity in the makeup room."
Momo whirled around, the hairbrush flying from her hand. It clattered against the floor, but no one looked at it. "He said that to me. He said, 'Momo, you're the one I think about when I'm not here.' Those exact words. 'You're the one I think about.'"
Jihyo stood up. The silk of her lingerie whispered against her skin. Her eyes were hard, her jaw set. "He said, 'Jihyo, you feel like you were made for me.' He said it while he was inside me. While I was coming around his cock. You don't get more favorite than that."
"He came inside me three times in one night," Momo shot back. Her voice was rising again. She crossed her arms under her breasts, pushing them up, the black lace digging into her soft flesh. "Three times. And he stayed inside me between each one. He didn't even pull out. He said he wanted to keep me full."
Tzuyu turned from the window.
The motion was slow, deliberate, and almost predatory. Her naked body moved with a grace that belied her height, her muscles shifting beneath her skin. She walked toward the center of the room, toward Jihyo and Momo, and Hyuk could see everything—the sway of her hips, the gentle bounce of her breasts, the way her thighs brushed together with each step.
"Quantity isn't quality, Momo," Tzuyu said. She stopped directly in front of the older woman, looking down at her from her superior height. "He can come inside you a hundred times, but if he's thinking about someone else while he's doing it, what does it matter?"
Momo's face flushed. Her lips parted, then closed.
Jihyo smirked. "She has a point."
"He thinks about me," Tzuyu continued. She reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—a simple, feminine gesture that somehow seemed obscene coming from her naked body. "He told me. He said, 'Tzuyu, when I'm fucking the others, I close my eyes and see your face.' He said I was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. And he's seen all of you. He's fucked all of you. And still, he said I was the most beautiful."
"That doesn't mean he loves fucking you the most," Jihyo said. Her voice had lost some of its confidence. A crack had appeared.
Tzuyu smiled. It was a small smile, barely there, but it transformed her face from beautiful to devastating. "He doesn't have to love fucking me the most. He just has to love fucking me best. And we both know—" She looked down at her own body, at the impossible curves and the flawless skin. "—that I'm the one he fucks best."
Momo made a sound—half laugh and half snarl. "You're the youngest. You're the most inexperienced. You probably just lie there and take it while he does all the work."
"Is that what you tell yourself at night, Momo? When you're touching yourself, are you thinking about him inside Sana? Or Nayeon? Or Mina? Do you pretend that I'm the one who doesn't know what she's doing?" Tzuyu stepped closer. Her breasts were inches from Momo's face. "Because I know what he likes. I know exactly where he likes to be touched. I know how fast he likes to be ridden. I know the sounds he makes when he's close—the little catch in his breath, the way his hips stutter right before he comes. Do you know those things?"
i loove the way you characterize the marauders! is there any chance i can request a drabble of protective! marauders when their s/o wears something very revealing to like a girls night out 🙈
Thanks for requesting lovely!
cw: alcohol, men (the ones who aren't our loverboys)
poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 843 words
Although he doesn’t think of himself as the confrontational type, Remus has no qualms at all with letting his stare bore relentlessly into the man standing against the wall. It takes a minute for the bloke to feel it, but when he looks away from you and catches Remus’ eye, he decides to ogle his drink instead.
“Fuck,” Sirius sighs, longing woven into the threads of his voice, “that skirt is right dangerous.”
James hums emphatically, both of their eyes glued to where you’re off dancing with your friends.
When you’d pulled it on earlier and your boyfriends’ tongues had just about fallen out of their mouths, you’d described it as a “low rise miniskirt.” Remus thought it might more accurately be called a “strip of fabric.” He’s fairly sure you own headbands that are thicker than what you’re wearing now. Pairing it with one of your little tops had all but ensured James wouldn’t be getting a full, intelligent sentence out all night, and you’d covertly asked Remus to take your boyfriends to the bar for a drink when Sirius wouldn’t unstick his hands from you long enough to let you actually dance.
“She’s alright,” Remus says, turning his stare on another man eye-fucking you from near them at the bar. “She knows how to take care of herself.”
(And you do, though he doubts you’d mind him offering you a bit of help.)
“I meant for me.” Sirius’ expression is theatrically pained. He looks like he couldn’t rip his eyes away from you if he tried. “Look, you both know I don’t like to get too steamy in public—” James snorts, and Remus coughs into his drink “—but if one of you doesn’t kiss me passionately within the next few minutes, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop myself from dragging all three of you straight home.”
“I thought Moony was supposed to be the one with the irresistible urges,” James jokes. Sirius doesn’t seem to hear the joke, but Remus accepts the quick cheek peck James offers him in recompense. “Hang on, I’ll snog you in a bit. Angel!”
He waves his hand until you look over, gesturing for you to come to the bar. If you’re disappointed to be taken away from your girlfriends you don’t show it, though Remus thinks you might be the sort of tipsy where you’re happy with just about everything regardless. You’re beaming as you make your way over to them.
“Hey, lovie,” James says. He kisses your cheek while his fingers find the hem of your skirt, giving it a firm tug so it covers more of your ass. Sirius watches its descent with torment in his eyes. “Do you want another drink?”
Your smile goes crooked. Remus thinks you’re trying to be sly, which is just fucking adorable. “You’re gonna get one for me?” you ask, batting your eyelashes at James.
James grins back at you just as contentedly. “If you want,” he agrees, grasping the fabric of your top to shimmy it up an inch. “Another dirty shirley?”
“Please.” You peck him on the lips.
While James turns to speak to the bartender, Sirius steals you away. He takes your hips in both hands, manhandling you closer until he can wrap his arms around your waist and drop his chin on your shoulder. You look happy to be manhandled.
“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” Sirius laments, putting his lips to your skin so his voice is a mournful mumble. You bring up a hand to pet his hair, and the look you give Remus says that you do know, actually. “I think we ought to go home.”
You appear unsurprised at this request. You turn your head to reply, “I’m having fun, though. Aren’t you?”
“I was,” Sirius groans. “Let me come back out there with you, please? I promise to behave this time.”
You hum thoughtfully, sending Remus a playful look. “I don’t know. Do you think he can manage it?”
Remus suppresses a smile. Sirius does love to dance, but Remus knows he sees dancing with you as an opportunity to prove to onlookers that you’re taken as much as it is a chance to grope you himself. And with the mood his last few cocktails have put him in, Remus wouldn’t be surprised if “dancing” turned into a very public makeout session in record time.
“Doubtful,” Remus says, impervious to Sirius’ pout, “but why rob us all of the show.”
Sirius’ grin spreads like a sunrise.
“Alright,” you say as James hands you your drink. “Ready?”
Sirius agrees enthusiastically, and you start back towards the dance floor, shouting a quick “Thanks, Jamie!” over your shoulder as you lift your drink above the crowd.
“Think we ought to worry about her taking that out there?” James cranes his neck to keep track of you. “You know, uncovered and all?”
“No,” Remus says placidly as Sirius snaps at a bloke who happens to glance at your drink as it goes by. “He’s got her just fine.”
a/n: Okay I see the warnings but things are looking up! Kind of.
warnings: vomit, angst
prev / masterlist / next
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Your face is tucked into Mystery’s chest, so you can’t see, but you still know where you are. You’d be able to tell blindfolded and with earplugs in, you think. Plus, now you can smell them, each of their scents, slightly different but all with an undercurrent of something similar.
The boys stare at Mystery and you, the two of you frozen as he holds you in his arms. There’s a beat of silence, then another, and then Baby’s voice rings out loud and clear.
“What the fuck?”
“We said we were letting her go!” It’s Abby this time, and then Jinu joins in as well.
“Why is she here?”
They’re all talking, one over the other, all except you and Mystery. You’re not quite in panic mode anymore, your eyes back to normal, but the patterns are still there. You slowly lift your face from Mystery’s chest, your mask only hanging from one ear, dislodged in the tackle, patterns creeping onto your face, visible for them all to see.
And everything goes dead quiet. All of them, staring in silence.
Soft but emphatic, Baby lets out a stunned “Fuck.”
Jinu has a hand covering his mouth, his skin pale, looking like he’s about to throw up. Abby looks like he’s just been punched in the gut. Romance is still just staring at you, his jaw hanging. The way they’re looking at you, it’s all too much, and the breath catches in your throat and suddenly you’re crying, tears streaming down your face.
Romance is the first to make a move. He darts over to you, his hands flapping around your face and body, wanting to touch, to reassure, but unsure where or how. “Oh, darling, what—what happened? It’s okay, sweetheart, we’ve got you now, and, oh, your patterns are cute, I promise! Purple has always been your colour, and the gold eyes will look incredible with your hair, and—”
He's rambling, desperate to help in some way, his hands on your cheeks as he wipes away your tears, but they just keep coming. Through blurry, tear-filled vision, you see Jinu looking around wildly and grabbing the bucket hat Baby’s wearing off his head. He vomits into it, and you can tell that he’s shaking, trembling with the knowledge of what’s happened to you.
Baby doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to react in this situation. He mindlessly pats Jinu’s back, rubbing circles in it as he throws up. “… Wait, my hat!”
There’s a thunk as Abby hits Baby round the back of the head. “There are more important things going on right now!”
“Yeah, but, like… my hat…” Baby trails off, then sighs and goes back to looking at you.
The whole situation is so absurd and feels so unbelievably familiar and comforting that your crying turns into a mix of sobs and laughter, punctuated by sniffs and shaky breaths, and Romance beams, your face still in his hands, still tucked against Mystery’s chest.
“I don’t, um, what—what do we do?” Abby asks, terrified to get too close to you, terrified of hurting you again. “D-do you want to stay?”
Jinu looks up, horrified that, after everything that’s happened, Abby would even suggest that. But at the same time, he’s filled with this desperate need to protect, to have you there, safe, with them, a possessiveness filling his veins.
“I-I don’t know,” you say, your voice cracking under the weight of what you’ve gone through.
“That’s okay!” Romance coos, rubbing your back gently. “You don’t have to make a decision right now, darling. Take all the time you need.”
“I—no, I, I want to go home!”
“Oh, angel, yeah, we can take you back to your apartment, just wait a sec—”
“Not the apartment! That’s not home!”
You’re getting worked up again, and Romance looks at you in bewilderment, not sure what you want him to do. “O-oh, of course, sorry, darling! Um, where exactly is home?”
“I don’t know! Everything feels wrong and it’s too loud and—and the lights are too bright, and—”
He whips round to look at the other boys, gesturing wildly, mouthing “What the fuck do we do???” to them. Baby’s eyes are wide and he just shrugs, because, really, he’s not the guy you go to for help in times like these. Jinu and Abby aren’t any help either, both frozen as they watch your meltdown. Mystery rolls his eyes and mouths “blanket” to Romance, and at this point, he’ll try anything. He disappears and reappears a second later with a blanket from your room, one of the ones Myst crocheted you, and wraps it around your shoulders softly. Jinu gets it together enough to close the curtains and turn the big overhead lights off, turning on some lamps instead, bathing the room in a soft glow.
“Is that any better?” Romance asks you gently, and you nod. It is better, you don’t feel as overwhelmed anymore – still fairly overwhelmed, but not as bad as it was – and the blanket is comforting and familiar, warm around your shoulders.
“We can get your stuff,” he says smoothly. “We can take care of everything. Would you like that?”
Something inside you screams no, that you’re done with them taking care of you, that you don’t need them. But a much, much bigger part is so overwhelmed with everything and doesn’t want to think anymore, doesn’t want to make decisions or have to take care of anything, especially not yourself, and it’s just begging, begging for them to take over. So, you nod shakily, and Mystery’s grip around you tightens as Romance tries to lead you to the couch. In the end, Mystery sits down with you still bundled in his arms, holding you close, refusing to let go.
“H-how, um,” Jinu says, and has to clear his throat, his voice catching as he speaks. “How did this happen? D-did you make a deal?”
At the mention of the deal, the tears that were just starting to subside start up again with renewed vigour, your words broken up by gasping sobs. “I-I, I didn’t know, I didn’t know this would happen, I promise, I j-just wanted to be able to leave, I d-didn’t know th-that this i-is what he meant—”
It’s quiet for a minute, save for the sound of your crying, then:
“You… you made a deal to leave? Here?” Romance asks, his heart breaking with every word, and when you nod, it cracks clean in two. “When?”
“Th-the day before you let m-me go,” you tell him, and this time his heart shatters into a thousand pieces, because he did this. They all did this.
They did this to you.
They pushed you so far that you felt the need to make a deal with the devil, a deal they all made and have regretted ever since, a deal they never, in a million years, would have wanted you to make.
You’re distantly aware that Jinu is throwing up again, into a potted plant this time. Mystery has gone completely still beneath you, his hands holding you so tightly that, if you weren’t a demon, you’d probably be in a lot of pain right now. Abby is crouched on the floor, head in his hands, a broken whimper escaping his lips as he comes to terms with the fact that you probably made the deal after he broke the promise, after he accidentally used his powers, that it’s his fault, and he’s sorry, he’s so fucking sorry. Baby’s face has an uncomfortable green tinge to it, and he looks like he’s going to be sick as well, but he can’t drag his eyes away from you, can’t focus on anything except you, the fact that you’re here, that you’re here as a demon, that they did this to you. Romance has tears in his eyes, not necessarily feeling guilty, but devastated about the pain you’re in, that they’re the ones who put you in this situation, that if none of this had ever happened, you wouldn’t be dealing with the emotional turmoil.
You can’t look at them, can’t look at any of them, not because you’re upset with them, but because you feel bad that you’ve made them this upset.
Isn’t that ridiculous? They’re the reason you’re here, the reason this happened, and yet here you are, feeling some level of guilt that they’re all so affected by what you’ve told them. The people-pleaser in you wants to reassure them that it’s okay, but it’s not okay, is it? It’s never going to be okay.
“C-can I have some water?” you ask after a few moments of sitting there in silence, the boys digesting the news, and Romance jumps up, eager to help.
“Of course, darling,” he says, and he’s back a few seconds later with a glass. The cool liquid soothes your throat, raw and scratchy from all the crying you’ve done, and you close your eyes, just wanting to rest them for a moment or two.
You’re out like a light, the exhaustion of everything catching up to you, and for the first time in, well, weeks, you feel safe and comfortable, like you’re home again. You hadn’t realised how much you clearly still hadn’t adjusted to your old apartment, but it’s clear now more than ever, and you quickly fall into a deep sleep.
“Oh my God.” It slips out as a soft whimper from Jinu, looking at your form in Mystery’s arms, the patterns inching along your skin, creeping onto your face, poking out of your sleeves. Mystery glares at him, teeth bared, daring him to make another noise and risk waking you, and Jinu swallows, taking a step back. “I-I’m going to get her stuff.”
“I’ll come too,” Abby nods, needing to do something to help, something other than just staring at you.
The two of them teleport right into your apartment. This isn’t the first time Jinu’s been here – he came once when they first took you, looking through your things, wanting to check if anyone was looking for you. Abby, though, he’s never been here. He knew where it was, knew where you lived, but didn’t see a reason to go when you were living with them, and didn’t trust himself to go when you’d left.
They stand there, in your living room, and it’s so you, but also not – it feels disjointed, disconnected from who you really are, like you’re putting up a front, even here in your own space.
“What do we take?” Abby asks quietly, like he doesn’t want to disturb the air of your apartment.
“Clothes, uh, anything else she might want, I guess,” Jinu says, running a hand through his hair, trying to focus on the task at hand and not why they’re there. “She should have some suitcases somewhere, the ones I got her.”
Abby nods wordlessly and starts looking around. He stares at the door to your bedroom for a second before opening it gingerly. Your room is small, not much furniture in there except for your bed, a nightstand on either side, a wardrobe and a mirror, which has been taken down and turned to face the wall.
“Found the suitcases,” he calls, pulling them out from under your bed.
Whilst Abby goes through your wardrobe, picking out things he thinks you might want, Jinu looks around your living room and your desk. His eyes trail over the things that have changed since he was here all those months ago, things you’ve added since coming back here, and they stop on a notebook lying open on your desk.
He shouldn’t pry, but it’s open, and he can’t stop himself from reading the first few lines of writing, just wanting to see what it is, if it’s worth packing for you. It doesn’t take him long to realise that it’s a journal – your journal, and he flips to the front, curious to know when you started keeping a journal. The first entry is dated around 3 weeks after you left, and he starts reading, desperate for this glimpse into your mind.
It's so… you. It’s like he can hear your voice as he reads, the intonation of certain words, and he can see it so clearly, you, sat at your desk as you write, the pen scratching over the paper as you underline something or write three exclamation marks in a row, each getting slightly bigger than the last.
He knows he should close the journal, put it down, but he can’t. He reads line after line, page after page detailing how badly they all fucked you up, how you miss them and you hate yourself for it, how you feel like you’ve lost all sense of identity and don’t know who you are anymore, how you have panic attacks in the grocery store and at work and at home. He feels sick as he reads passages describing the early stages of turning into a demon, before you’ve realised what’s going on, when you’re just remarking on sensory issues you’ve been having. The pit of self-loathing in his stomach grows and grows as he reads segments about how lonely you are, how you can’t talk to anyone about this, how completely and utterly alone you feel now, how sometimes you don’t say a single word all weekend if you don’t have to leave the apartment.
He reads about you having a sex dream about them, and the arousal he’d usually feel about that is suppressed by the guilt of it all. There’s a break in the journal, a few pages skipped, and when the writing continues, it’s different. There are tears staining the page, making the ink run and bleed in splotches, and your writing is scribbled, hurried, erratic, with words repeated over and over. Through the tearstains and blurred ink, he reads about you going out to get snacks, reads about what happened on your way home, the man whose soul you took. Reads about the guilt you feel, the fear at what’s happening to you, what you’re becoming.
There’s even an entry from today, must have been written just an hour or so ago, and he reads about your phone call with the therapist, the plan you made for you to go outside again, and he realises that that’s when Mystery must have found you (not knowing that in fact, you’re the one that found Mystery).
He’s still sitting there, staring at the journal, when Abby comes in from the bedroom, effortlessly carrying the suitcase he’s stuffed full of clothes (and the things you’d taken from theirs that you’d hidden at the back of your wardrobe, figuring that if you took them with you then, you might want them now, too).
“You good?” he asks Jinu, who blinks a few times before shaking himself and standing up. He hands Abby the journal, knowing he probably shouldn’t, that it’s probably a breach of trust – not that you trusted him with it in the first place – but knowing that he can’t be the only one that knows all of this, it’s important that Abby knows too, if not all of the boys. They need to know what they did to you, need to understand the impact they had on you, the way they broke you. “What is this?”
“Her journal.”
Abby takes it from him wordlessly, sits down on the couch, and starts reading. He’s not as fast a reader as Jinu, but he’s determined to read it all, to know what you’ve been thinking, how you’ve been feeling.
Jinu doesn’t really know what to do with himself now. He wanders around your apartment, picking up random things maybe you’d want. He grabs your laptop – this time won’t be like last time, it can’t be, this time you can have all the things you wanted and more. He checks the bathroom, eyeing the broken mirror in there with a frown, but your bathroom at theirs is still pretty much fully stocked. He does pick up a perfume that’s out on the counter – it’s not something they ever bought you, but it’s what you smell like now, so you’ll probably want it, right?
He looks through your kitchen as well, making a mental note of all the food and snacks you have, which ones you have extras of, trying to gauge which things are your favourites based off of what he knows about you and what you’d eat at theirs. He wants you to feel at home with them, wants you to have the things you like.
Abby already did your bedroom, but Jinu goes in anyway. Honestly, he kind of wants to just see it, this extension of you. There are tissues littering the floor by your bed, and your pillowcase is tearstained. The other suitcase is on the floor, and when he opens it, he finds various things the boys had given you; a notebook and pens he’d bought you, the tiger Mystery crocheted for you, a note from Romance and Abby, a necklace with your initial on it. A small part of him is overjoyed that you kept these things, that they meant enough to you to keep.
Bringing the suitcase through to the living room, he starts filling it with the various items he’s collected as he looked around, like your laptop and charger, some books, a half-finished crochet project. Abby is still reading in silence, though Jinu can see his lips moving as he reads, mouthing the words.
“We should get going,” Jinu says, breaking the silence, and Abby nods, holding onto your journal tightly. He can finish reading it at theirs. They’ve been away from you for long enough.
Mystery refused to move once you’d fallen asleep on him, so when you wake up, you’re still in his arms, sitting on the familiar couch in the main living area. He notices you wake up immediately, of course, your body tensing as your eyes open with a jolt, filled with panic for a split-second, before it all comes rushing back to you, and you wince. It’s not just the memories, it’s your senses as well – everything is loud, and there are so many smells, layered and intermingling, and you’re hyperaware of everything around you, the way Mystery’s shirt feels against your hand, the slight ache in your neck from laying like that, how Baby is smoking at one of the windows, which is open wider than it ever was when you were here, how Romance is watching you quietly from across the room, his nails dragging against the seam of his pants as he nervously fidgets, waiting for you to wake up, to say something, do something.
You blink a few times, your eyes adjusting to your surroundings, and pat Mystery’s arm, signalling that you want to get up. He very reluctantly removes his arms from around you, ignoring the stiffness in his wrists from holding you so tight. You get up and stretch, and for a second, you feel like nothing has changed, like things are how they were before, the boys’ eyes raking over your body as you stretch. But then you catch sight of the patterns on your wrists, and you’re reminded that things aren’t like they were before, that they never will be.
A stupid, small part of you wonders if they’re looking at you because it’s you and they still want you, or if they’re looking at your patterns, and for some reason you hope that it’s the former.
You’re about to ask where Abby and Jinu are, when they appear in the middle of the room, suitcases and bags in hand, and they blink at you for a second, not expecting you to be awake and standing in front of them.
“We, uh, we got your stuff,” Abby says, your journal safely tucked away in one of the pockets, ready for him to take it out and keep reading.
Romance jumps in. “I know you said you wanted to go home, darling, and you were clear about your apartment not being home, and here also not being home, but we figured that at least if you had more of your things here, you’d feel a little bit more comfortable?”
You nod half-heartedly. It’s better than whatever the alternatives are, you guess.
“D’you want the stuff in your room?” Abby asks.
Your room?
“It’s still…?” you trail off, not sure how to say it, but he understands what you’re asking.
“It’s still your room,” he nods. “We haven’t done anything with it. All your stuff is still there.”
He’s tempted to say that no one has been in it since you left, but that’s simply not true. All of them have been in at least once.
“Okay, then, yeah, I guess,” you say, your voice quiet, unsure. “Um, thank you.”
You don’t know if you’re saying thank you to them for getting your things, for keeping your room the way it was, or for bringing you back here. Maybe all of the above. Jinu frowns when you say it, opening his mouth like he wants to argue, then thinking better of it and gives you a forced smile instead.
It feels a little odd being here again, but only because it feels so normal. Your brain is at war with your instincts, arguing that you’ve been gone for two months, you shouldn’t just feel like you were never gone, but your instincts are telling you that this is your place, your home, that you can do what you want here because you belong here.
You follow Jinu and Abby to your room, the other three following you in turn, and you’re surprised to see that it really hasn’t changed, aside from looking a little emptier, but that’s just because of all the things you took when you left. It smells different, though. Your nose wrinkles a little as you take it in, then you turn to look at all of the boys, one eyebrow raised.
“Who jerked off in here?” you ask pointedly, arms folded. “Wait, did all of you jerk off in here? Actually, I changed my mind, I don’t want to know. Forget I asked.”
“How d—”
“I can smell it,” you shrug. “I can also tell that at least one of you has slept in my bed.”
There’s an awkward silence that lasts for a few seconds, before Romance lets out a whoop of laughter.
“Oh, this is great!” he beams. “It’s going to be so much fun having you back, and as a demon, oh, there’s so many things we can show you how to do!”
The others look at him with varying levels of incredulity, but there’s a part in each of them that agrees with him.
You give him a small smile, because you have to admit that he’s right. Do you wish the circumstances were different? Absolutely. But since you’re here anyway, and the circumstances are what they are and you can’t change it, you might as well enjoy it, right?
Okay, so, maybe you’re actively bottling up your negative emotions about this. But that’s fine. Nothing bad ever comes of bottling things up. Fine, yes, there’s a breakdown or two in your near future.
If you’re being honest, though? You’re tired of being upset. You’re tired of freaking out and hating yourself and what you’ve become. And you have the rest of eternity to think about it now, anyway.
Abby waits until you’ve gone to sleep to finish reading, but every moment until then feels like hell. What he had read at your apartment almost broke him, and he’s sure that whatever’s left to read will finish the job.
And he’s right. Every passage he reads makes him feel worse, drags him further and further down, but he has to keep reading. He can’t just pretend this didn’t happen, he needs to know what they did to you, needs to understand it fully, from your point of view.
Then he gets to a page where he sees his name. Not a ton, but enough to make him stop, really take in what he’s reading.
I think about all of them a lot, but lately, I’ve been thinking about Abby a ton. About the kiss, what it meant, about him trying to come and get me that night.
Sometimes I feel like I messed up by letting him kiss me. By kissing him back. Because I made that decision, I opened myself up. Not just that, but like, what does it say about me, huh? That I was kidnapped and held prisoner and ended up KISSING one of my captors? How pathetic is that?
That despite everything that happened, I still found myself falling for him. For all of them.
I keep thinking about the note Abby left me and crying. And the necklace he got me. I saw a similar necklace in town today, and I just… froze. I don’t even know what was going through my mind, it just went blank, and then I remembered how his hands felt on my waist, how it felt to wake up next to him, how it felt to kiss him, and I just
Fuck
I don’t know what to do
I miss them and it’s killing me. And I don’t even know if I really do miss them or if it’s just because I was forced to spend time with them – but I wasn’t forced to kiss him. I wasn’t forced to let him touch me. I wasn’t forced to cuddle him in bed, because let’s be fucking real, it wasn’t just waking up next to him, was it? It was cuddling, spooning, whatever. But I wasn’t forced to do that.
I chose to.
Why would I choose to do that?
Did I choose to do that? Did I ever have a choice?
Would I have chosen to do all that under different circumstances: yes, probably (I mean, come on. Look at him.)
Would I think it was a choice if I saw someone else making that decision in my situation: no, probably not. I’d tell them they didn’t have a choice because they were forced to be there, forced to develop a relationship just through forced proximity.
Do I even want it to have been my choice, at this point? If it was, then it means I made the choice to kiss my captor, to fall for him/all of them. If it wasn’t, then any sense of agency is gone, and I don’t know how to tell if any of what I felt, any of what I’m still feeling, if it was real or not.
So, I’m either an idiot who fell for the people keeping her prisoner, or I’m just delusional, someone who just let things happen to her and tried to tell herself she chose it.
Both options fucking suck.
I hate this. I just want to sleep and never have to think about any of it again. I wish I could forget it all happened. I wish I could forget ever meeting them.
And yeah, that does it. That breaks him, well and truly. He can feel the pain in your words, the exhaustion, and he wishes he could take it from you. He would if he could, he’d take all your pain a thousand times over if it meant you wouldn’t be burdened with it.
But he can’t, and now he’s here, reading your private journal. Yet another way he’s broken your trust. It’s pathetic, actually, the way he wants to love you so badly, but he can’t even manage to keep a promise, can’t be a decent fucking person for once. Because after all, this is his fault, isn’t it? He fucked up, he broke the promise, he used his powers, and you made the deal. When else would you have made it? Why else, if not because he broke your trust?
He showed you who he really is. That, no matter how hard he tries, he’s going to fuck up, over and over again. That he can’t be trusted.
And now you’re here. Back with them, with the people you’d tried so, so hard to get away from. You did everything you could, and it still wasn’t enough to save you, and now you’re confined to the same fate they are.
By the early hours of the next morning, all of the boys have read your journal, front to back, poring over the contents like it’s sacred. It might as well be, in their eyes. Your hearing is too good now for them to talk privately, so they take the opportunity whilst you’re still asleep.
“She’s been in so much pain,” Romance murmurs, his eyes glazed with tears as he thinks about it. He was the last to read it, the words still fresh in his mind.
“We have to help her feel better about this. She deserves better than—than this,” Abby says, gesturing to the journal.
“And it’s going to get worse before it gets better for her,” Jinu says grimly. “Do you guys remember what it was like when you turned?”
It’s quiet as they think back, grimacing at the memories. There was the initial change, the patterns spreading, and then a respite for a week or two. Then things got really bad. New instincts started kicking in, something inside them changed, making them feral, angry, turning them into monsters. There was a disconnect between their brains and their bodies, systems getting rewired, triggering new impulses in waves. That part could last weeks, if not a month or more.
They’d all come out of that second phase hating themselves even more than they had before. They’d all done terrible things, driven by uncontrollable urges.
There was no way they could let you go through that the way they had. Alone, desperate, with no idea what was happening to them.
“She has to stay here, at least until that’s over,” Mystery says quietly, still lost in the memories of when he became a demon.
“It has to be her choice, though. We can’t just keep her here,” Jinu says, knowing even as the words come from his mouth that he’d do anything to keep you here, safe, with them. God, what if some other demon had found you? What if no one had found you, and you’d ended up in the demon realm? What if the hunters had found you?
“Until what’s over? And, by the way, I don’t want to leave,” you say, and they all scramble to face you, eyes wide. You could hear the way their hearts jumped as you spoke, and you can’t stop yourself from smiling at the fact that for once, you scared them, instead of the other way around.
“Fuck,” Abby is clutching his chest, eyes locked on yours. “When—how—you scared me, babygirl!”
You try to ignore the way your knees go weak at the nickname, and just shrug nonchalantly. “Not my fault you guys didn’t hear me. Anyway, until what’s over?”
“The change,” Mystery says. “Into a demon. A full demon. You’re only halfway there.”
“Great,” you grimace. “There’s more?”
Jinu sighs. “Yeah. In a week, maybe two, the second phase will start. It’s… worse than the first one.”
“Worse, how?”
“Your brain, it tries to stay human, but your body, your instincts, they’re demon. They want you to be bad, to do bad things. It comes in waves, but the whole thing can last for weeks. Some days will be fine, you’ll feel almost normal, but other days…” he trails off.
“…other days, if you can, you will kill people. You won’t be able to control it,” Baby explains, and, not for the first time, you appreciate how blunt he is. “On the bright side, you’ll slowly get control over your demon form, so, there’s that.”
Well. Doesn’t that sound like a bundle of laughs?
“Awesome. Cool. Super fun and cool. Well, like I said, I don’t want to leave. Not yet, at least. And it sounds like I definitely can’t leave until that whole other phase is over. Even until then, it’s not like I can go outside looking like this, and I’d rather be cooped up here with you all, rather than alone in my apartment. Don’t let it go to your heads, though.”
“Really?” Romance asks, beaming, and your comment about it not going to their heads was too late.
“But!” you continue, disregarding the way Romance is looking at you, like you hung the moon. “There are some things we have to talk about first. Ground rules. Boundaries.”
“That’s fair,” Jinu nods.
“Yeah, it’s fucking fair,” you snap. “And it doesn’t matter if it is or not, because you’re going to agree, otherwise I will leave, and none of you will stop me.”
He blinks at you. “U-um, yeah, sorry. What are your ground rules?”
Shit. “Well, I haven’t thought about it yet. I only just found out about this whole second phase bullshit. Give me a minute, jeez.”
The first rule that comes to mind feels pretty obvious, so you decide to go with that.
“Rule number one: if I want to leave, you let me leave,” you say, arms crossed, and you take some pleasure in the guilty looks flitting across their faces. “The only exception is if you think I’m a danger to other people.”
“What if you’re a danger to us?” Baby asks with a lazy smirk, and you ignore him and keep talking. After hearing what’s apparently coming up for you, you being a danger to other people is the very last thing you want.
“If you do think I’m a danger to other people, for the love of God, please stop me from doing anything I’ll regret. That’s rule number two, by the way. As much as I hate to admit it, you all know me. I probably shouldn’t, but I trust you all to know when I’d want to be stopped. Rule number three is if I tell you to stop, you stop. Same as before. If I don’t tell you to stop, you can keep doing whatever it is you’re doing. I guess rule two goes above that one as well, but you guys get the idea.”
Rule three is easy as well, since it’s an unspoken rule that was already in place when you were here before. Still, it feels good to have it laid out in the open like that.
Jinu, Abby, and Romance are nodding intently as you talk, whilst Mystery’s head is tilted in a way that you know means he’s listening, and Baby is just watching you, one eyebrow raised and a slight smirk on his lips, like he’s amused by what you’re saying. You know he’ll follow the rules, though.
Look at you, setting boundaries. Dr Kim would be proud.
Well. Okay, fine, she’d probably be very disappointed to hear that you’re back here. But, hey, at least this time it’s by choice!
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mutt Rafe, who shows up on your front step with his hand in his mouth, chewing furiously at his fingernails, head hung because he had nowhere else to go
mutt Rafe, who offers to sleep on the couch in the most insincere, unconvincing tone of voice you’ve ever heard, and makes zero effort to hide his grin when you tell him he can just sleep in the bed
mutt Rafe who suddenly feels entitled to every inch of your house and everything you own just because you let him in. he eats whatever he wants out of your fridge, walks around shirtless, gets water all over your bathroom floor from shaking his hair out after he showers. you try to remind him that he’s a guest, but Rafe is too busy acting like it’s all his territory now
speaking of territory. you’re his and he won’t hear anything otherwise. he’s glued to you all the time when you guys are out—he doesn’t wanna do “his own thing” so he doesn’t see why you have to. why can’t he just be next to you all the time?
arm slung around your waist or over your shoulders, a cute back hug that turns into his bicep encircling your throat and squishing your cheeks together. he laughs like it’s a cute little show of affection, but you see the way his eyes dart around like he’s making sure other people see
bites you during sex, he can’t even help it. he gets so lost in rutting into you and proving he can make you cum harder than anyone else, when you’re in mating press with your legs over your head and he leans down to press open-mouthed kisses to your calves as he’s fucking you, they quickly turn into harsh bites that leave imprints that everyone will see tomorrow
when he’s about to go down to you, and he’s teasing you because of how much he loves to hear you beg, pressing kisses and licking stripes up your inner thigh, he also sneaks in a harsh bite. your thighs are so soft and inviting, how could he not? the way your back arches when you cry out in pain makes him so hard he gets dizzy
mutt Rafe whose bite pattern you’ve seen etched into your soft skin so often you could practically draw it from memory
mutt Rafe who sees a random guy bump into you and not say sorry at a decently crowded party and is immediately laying into him, dragging him outside by the back of his neck, kicking him until he’s crying. when you get outside and he hears you say “Rafe” in that stern voice, he stops immediately and leaves the guy on the ground to follow you as you leave
head hanging because he can tell you’re disappointed in him but he can’t figure out why. “I did it for you!” he’s following behind you and waving his hands around as he emphatically explains that “you don’t understand! I was protecting you, it was for you!”
if someone tries to hurt you, he has to put them down! that’s what you do when you love someone! you make the world a safer place for them, right? he assumes you just don’t understand what he’s saying, because he knows he’s right
you haven’t talked to him and you’re getting into bed in your cute little PJs, he looms in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, waiting. you roll your eyes and gesture for him to join you and he immediately clambers to get into bed next to you
you had planned on staying mad but when you feel his warm, hard body pushed up against you, his mouth against your cheek as he’s mouthing “don’t be mad” into your skin, your resolve shatters and you’re making out with him breathily. He keeps saying that—“c’mon, don’t be mad” through gasps and grunts the whole time he’s fucking you
mutt Rafe who eats more meat that anyone you’ve ever met in your life, yammering on about protein and iron intake. you don’t complain, though, when he brings home pounds of steak and cooks them for both of you
mutt Rafe who presents you with the most perfect medium rare steak, placing the plate down gently in your lap before he sits down next to you and subtly watches your face as you eat to make sure you like it
asks casually “was it good?” every time. so casually, putting on an oscar-winning performance of not caring, though when you hum “mm-hm” and say thank you with those eyes looking up at him, he gets a big dumb smile on his face as he takes both your plates to the kitchen
mutt Rafe who sulks around the house when you’re too busy to fuck him, which is made ten times more irritating by the fact that he always wants to fuck you and can’t seem to wrap his head around why you can’t be fucking twenty-four-seven
mutt Rafe who has zero concept of boundaries or personal time and doesn’t see why he can’t be with you whenever he wants? he feels entitled to your alone time, doesn’t see why you need it
mutt Rafe who slips into the shower with you so quietly you didn’t even know he was there until you see him, you screech at the top of your lungs and he laughs and has to catch you so you don’t slip and bust your head
he ignores your indignant fussing in favor of burying his face in your neck, and you’ve barely gotten in a single word before he has you pressed flush against the wall and has already buried himself inside of you with a low, satisfied moan
mutt Rafe who won’t get off of you, ever
mutt Rafe who pulls you onto his chest and squishes you into the crook of his armpit and is so, so warm and smells like leather polish and cologne and something else distinctly him
mutt Rafe who lays his head across your lap and stretches his shirtless body out across the whole couch. just to be annoying, at first, to get in your personal space and on your nerves, but his eyes drag shut when you start carding your fingers through his hair
mutt Rafe who gets frustrated when you won’t pay attention to him, if you’re laying in bed and reading or scrolling on your phone, he’ll stand at the end of the bed and yank on your legs, pull you down the bed and bite your feet and your calves as you screech with laughter and try to kick him
mutt Rafe who teaches you how to ride his dirt bike with hands guiding yours on the handbars and gripping your hips to guide your sitting position
when you take a tumble and bust your lip on the ground, blood running down your chin, he scoops you up off the ground like you weigh as much as a leaf. he squishes your face in his hand and gives you a sympathetic frown, telling you that “you’ll get it next time, yeah? takes practice.” he swipes some of the blood off your chin with his thumb and pops it in his mouth, like he wiped a little smudge of food off your face, and not your own blood
mutt Rafe who carries you home and leaves his dirt bike behind, and tells you you’re still the prettiest thing he’s ever seen even when your smile is stained with red
mutt Rafe who needs your reassurance that you’re proud of him, that he’s doing well, that he’s taking care of things, that he’s taking care of you. his eyes glaze over when you tell him you’re glad he’s around, he’s doing such a good job. he nods dumbly, head empty aside from the warm glow at your praise
mutt Rafe who watches you with intense eyes as you wrap a bandage around his knuckles. he decked someone for being mean to you again, so hard he almost broke his own hand and definitely broke the other guy’s nose
this time, you didn’t reprimand him. he’s trying to gauge your reaction, figure out what you’re thinking, but you’re keeping it tamped down because weirdly, you liked it a little this time. what does that say about you?
mutt Rafe who becomes junkyard guard dog Rafe—mean and singleminded and covered in blood—if you aren’t careful how you talk to him
Inside, a woman, young, unearthly pale, washes the dishes. Seated at the kitchen table is a second young woman, in appearance much like the first but without the pallor.
Through the window, their quarrel is half-audible at best.
The one at the table is younger by one year, newly of-age. The cake crumbs on the plate in front of her were celebratory. She's going away soon: to college, and out of the trailer park.
The older one is her mother. Guilt, shame, and grief are in her eyes. She casts no reflection in the rainy windows and no shadow on the floor, and has not aged for sixteen years.
"—bad enough I have to listen to her fucking you!" The windows rattle. The daughter is on her feet. Her mother begs her to keep her voice down; she growls. The last plate is cleared from the table and brought to the sink.
Her mother flicks dirty water from her fingertips as she gestures emphatically at the threshold. They have had this talk before. She begs her daughter to understand that a semipermanent dwelling has no threshold magic, that Mistress broke in and turned her.
The daughter laughs in her face, calls her a lonely whore and tells her to admit that she invited that creature in and ruined both their lives, and rain drips off the external sewer hookup, off the hose of the propane tank running into the side of the home.
It doesn't matter how she got in. Mistress was going to drain us both. Forgive your mother for bargaining with everything she had. The last plate is slotted into the dish rack. The birthday dinner is over.
The daughter slams her fist on the counter. She doesn't give a fuck that the creature owns her mother, just leave her out of it. But her mother can't leave her out of it, because
Mistress didn't want one spawn, she didn't want any. She wanted to drain us and leave us for the ants. I scrambled for anything I could offer her, her fangs in my neck and her fingers in my cunt and—
"I don't need to hear it!"
—and she heard you crying in the bed next to me, you were such a poor sleeper when you were two, and I had an idea and I offered her two spawn, mother and daughter, trapped in eternal youth, to kneel before her together and—
A cupboard door, slammed and rebounding on its hinges.
—and please, darling, you can't run. I told Mistress which college you picked, and you've seen the kind of woman she—
"You told her what?"
She—she ordered me to, love. She would chain me out in the sun if I disobeyed her. There's no way out, love, for either of us. I've always done everything I can for you, and I won't stop, even when we're chained together at the collar and—
"When is she coming?" The car keys, snatched up. Jacket thrown on.
genre: gamer! jisung x gamer! reader, college au
cw: female reader, fwb to lovers, explicit smut, pervy jisung, male masturbation, oral (m and f receiving), unprotected sex, inexperienced jisung, cum play/breeding kink, pet names, slight humiliation kink, size kink, creampie, probably more
wc: 18.257k
[one] [two]
18+ minors do not interact!
The red letters that flash across your screen read ‘Defeat’, illuminating your dimly lit room with a shy, red hue. The instant the word appears on your monitor, a voice blasts through your headset, erupting in emphatic complaints and protests. You can hear the clatter of a keyboard and mouse being shoved around on the other end of the receiver, and it takes everything in you to stifle your laugh.
“We definitely could’ve won that!” the boy scoffs, “I swear, sometimes it feels like you and I are the only people with any fucking game sense.”
“Wow, thanks for the validation,” you joke, instinctively queuing up for another match. Your eyes trail up to the little icon in the corner of the screen that glows green every time he speaks.
“You know what I mean,” he grumbles, and you imagine he must not look all that different from the little crying cat picture he set as his discord icon. The thought makes you snort, but he ignores you, stating, “I think this is my last game,”
You nod even though you know he can’t see you, “same, I have class tomorrow,”
“First day of the semester for you, too?”
You nod again. “Unfortunately. My days of gaming until four and sleeping until noon have come to an end.”
He laughs, leaning forward in his chair as he realizes something, “You know, I never asked what you’re studying,”
“Oh,” you blink, “Well, the first class I have tomorrow is just a random credit I needed, but I’m actually majoring in-”
It takes less than a few seconds for your words to drown out into a muffled buzz, and the only thing Jisung can focus on now is the silky, smooth sound of your voice.
He would never admit it, at least not out loud, but your voice makes his heart beat just a little faster. The way each and every word rolls off your tongue makes his breath hitch, imagination running wild at the thought of what your lips look like when they mold to form each syllable and sound.
Every night like clockwork, Jisung finds himself rocking side to side in his desk chair, eyes hanging low and round lips curved up into a smile as he listens to you speak.
It’s so easy to talk to him, too. By now, you’ve lost count of how many nights the two of you rambled off in voice chats, watching shows or playing video games or simply oversharing the details of your lives. It’s only been a few months since you met in a game chat, on that night where he practically harassed you for your discord after you carried him up a rank in-game. You’re secretly grateful he did, though you wouldn’t let him know that; the two of you effortlessly became part of each other’s daily routine, and now, calls with you are his favorite way to end the night. Tonight is no exception.
Jisung begins to mindlessly swing in his chair as usual. He’s humming passively between your small pauses to encourage you to keep going as his hands automatically start caressing his torso. It’s a somewhat innocent gesture, or at least it starts out that way: his palms sliding across the ridges of his abdomen as he listens to your voice. It’s better than music to his ears, and it urges his long fingers to dance closer and closer to his waistband.
“–and I thought about changing it, but I think with an degree in Lit, I could probably get a career in–”
Lost in your voice, Jisung slips his hands into his shorts, holding his balls as he fully zones out of the conversation. He knows you’re saying words and forming actual sentences, but his social awareness has dwindled completely and he absolutely can’t seem to get past how sweet you sound, and how much sweeter you would sound under… different circumstances. He moves up to hold his dick gently and furrows his brows. Almost accidentally, his thumb brushes along the underside of his tip, teeth clamping the inside of his cheek and gnawing on it to ground himself. Just as eager as its owner, Jisung’s dick jolts in his palm, progressively swelling up until it’s flushing bright pink.
“You’re into English?” He manages to stop daydreaming and hone into the conversation for a fleeting moment, just long enough to ask you that simple question and keep your attention off of his rapidly shifting breath.
He’s blatantly playing with himself now, ever so distractedly. It’s an autonomous act: the way the pad of his middle finger trails over his slit to collect a bit of the pre-cum that has begun to dribble out in pearly beads. He hisses, then quickly snaps his mouth shut in hopes that you hadn’t heard him.
“Yeah,” he can hear your smile in your words, “I think I always have been. I used to read all the time and—I swear, if you say I’m boring, I’ll personally come over and choke you–”
As he acknowledges reality for a quick moment, his pace falters. His brows pinch, and he feels confused as he realizes he can’t stop or even moderate his actions, despite the shame slowly beginning to wash over him. The more you talk, the harder he grows. His grip is getting tighter, his strokes needier… he must be losing his mind. With a gulp, he thinks to himself, what would you do if you could see him touching himself like this to you? Would you think it’s sick and twisted or would you offer to help him out?
His head begins to throb as the room spins around him, but he really can’t seem to slow his motions. By now, he’s bucking his hips up and into his hand while the other covers his mouth, silencing the whines that threaten to leave his throat. He’s breathing heavily, praying to god you don’t somehow notice his perverted actions. Despite knowing that he isn’t thinking straight, Jisung can’t help the thoughts that continue to fog his mind, rampant and obscene.
Could you hear the squelching of his hand pumping his cock, covered in his pre-release? Or the way he’s practically panting, reduced to nothing at the mere sound of your voice? He’s not sure whether or not his mic would even pick that up, but even so, the corner of his lips curl into a lazy smile as his mind continues down his twisted rabbit hole.
In spite of not knowing what you look like, there’s no denying that he wants to give you all of him. He wants to feel himself buried deep inside your throat, your pretty voice vibrating around him as you choke on his length. He feels himself twitch in his palm and he subconsciously nods, picturing it's your walls around him instead of his own inadequate hand. Jisung huffs out once, fucking his fist wildly, picturing how much he’d like to feel himself bust inside of your warm, tight pus-
“Sung? Sung!”
“Huh? W-what?” As he yanks his hand from his shorts, the waistband snaps against his skin and he yelps out at the impact, “Sorry! I promise I was listening, it-its just, I got a little caught up with–” words are tumbling out of his mouth, before he can catch up to them.
“It’s fine, it’s fine! Hurry, just pick your agent before the match gets–” but the timer runs out, and the lobby screen appears once more as you sigh, “–canceled...”
Jisung glances down at his hand, separating his fingers and watching how the sticky pre-cum leaves webbed strings between each of his parted digits. His stomach is also wet, and the tent in his pants is growing increasingly painful with each passing second.
“What were you fantasizing about, huh?” Oh, fuck. The teasing edge in your words makes his nerves tingle, and he throws his head back as you hum into your mic, “Hmm. Well, I guess it was more interesting than what I was saying. Can’t blame you though, the topic of school is boring me too, and the semester hasn’t even started yet. Also, that can’t count as your last game. I literally won’t allow it.”
You queue up for another game and Jisung sighs, watching the timer on the screen tick away. The picture changes, and the two of you are prompted to start a game. A few kleenex wipes collect the mess on his hand and torso, and he settles back in his chair after tossing them, deciding his neediness will have to wait for now.
Bidding you good night is harder than usual tonight, but he knows you need to get to sleep—you mentioned you had an early class and he had his own, so his selfish urge to keep you talking until he came in his hand would, unfortunately, need to take a raincheck.
After logging off of his computer, Jisung drops his head into his hands with a sigh.
What the fuck even was that?
A mix of shame and arousal take over him as his cheeks begin glowing a deep shade of red. He lets out a small scoff, shaking his head to himself as he gets up from his chair. His dick is still as hard as a rock, and he can’t help but feel flustered at the fact that he has, quite literally, blue-balled himself.
With a towel swung over his shoulder and a clean pair of sleeping shorts clutched in his fist, Jisung walks up to the dorm’s nearest communal bathroom. He turns on the faucet, freeing himself of his clothes. The moment his boxers come down past his thighs, his length slaps against the skin below his navel, making him hiss out as he steps into the shower. The cold water, running down against his heated body, seems to be doing the trick of clearing his mind, that is, until his hands find their way to his stomach, rubbing the soap over it.
It’s so hard to expel the thoughts of you when they’re so intrusive and tempting, and Jisung lets his mind drift off once more, imagining how it would feel to be touched by you, sucked by you. All the soft noises you would make are weirdly familiar; he can practically hear them. His head falls back, lips caught between his teeth as he twitches and gives himself an experimental stroke, shuddering as his thumb glides across the slit of his sensitive tip. He clenches his eyes shut tighter, letting out a shaky sigh and letting the water continue to trickle down his body. He doesn’t know what you look like, other than your hair color which you mentioned the other day. Despite that, he still tries desperately to piece an image of you together behind his eyelids, picturing what your lips are like. And just like that, thoughts of you flood him, and he shudders at the vision of you on your knees, looking up at him with big, innocent eyes, begging to taste him and take all of him. He longs to feel you swallow around him—to grab either side of your face and thrust into your needy mouth until the tears slip from your eyes and your pussy is dripping from the need to be fucked.
Getting lost in the moment, he doesn’t even realize how loud he’s becoming and how fast his fist is working his dick. Jisung's highly anticipated release is only seconds away when a loud knock startles him, lunging him right back into his body.
“Yo, man! How long are you gonna take in there?” His friend and next door neighbor, Mark, shouts from the other side of the door, knocking again and ruining Jisung’s fantasy once and for all.
The boy takes a moment to clear his throat and swallow, not trusting his voice to not crack otherwise, “Uh.. Sorry. I’ll just be a minute.”
It takes everything in him to slow his hand to a stop and pry it off of his shaft, deciding that perhaps, he shouldn’t entertain his filthy thoughts any longer. He quickly finishes showering with another unnecessary interruption from Mark, then drags himself back to his room and gets into his bed, forcing his eyes shut in an attempt to sleep. The longer he lies there, however, the more restless he grows.
His dick feels sore to the touch and it’s driving him absolutely crazy. Every time he adjusts his shorts or moves his legs, his balls throb from how full they are. Knowing he has class to get to the following day, he tries to convince himself that maybe he needs a release to get to sleep. It’ll tire him out, and then finally, he’ll be able to get some rest…There’s at least a bit of logic to that theory, or that’s what he tells himself, anyway.
Against his better judgment that pleads with him to just shut his eyes and count sheep, Jisung huffs out and slips his hands into his shorts to begin touching himself for the nth time tonight. This whole time, he had been unknowingly edging himself and now he’s so, so undeniably and incredibly desperate to cum that it literally hurts.
His free hand brings his phone up and unlocks it, thumb swiping quickly in search of the discord app where your contact resides, the little green bubble next to it signifying that you’re still online. He hovers over the call button, taunting himself with the idea of making a call to you at this time. One little click, and he’d hear your voice again. Just one click and he-
sung ᨐฅ started a call. Today at 11:54 AM
Shit, shit, shit.
He rushes to hang up, but you’ve answered no more than a ring later.
“Hello?”
Jisung holds his rather unsteady breath, staring wide-eyed at his phone. His dick pulses in his palm that now rests still.
“Sung?”
As gently as possible, he lays the phone down on his puffed up chest, letting out his breath slowly so that you don’t hear him.
“I’m gonna assume you called me by accident… ” you sigh out in disappointment, growing quiet in uncertainty. For a second, Jisung is convinced you’re gonna hang up, but when you stay on the line, he peers down at the screen curiously.
Your icon lights up green and there’s some shuffling on your end, presumably from you getting comfortable in bed.
He hears you yawn and smiles fondly.
“I’m tired,” you mumble, “are you asleep? I was actually excited that you called. Maybe it’s my fucked up schedule… or, maybe I’m just dreading tomorrow, but I couldn’t sleep. I don’t know…”
You’re speaking slower and quieter than usual, but you’re speaking, completely oblivious of the fact that he’s thinking of the dirtiest things that involve you, getting off while you think he’s sound asleep.
“It’s always easier to sleep once we’ve talked so,” you pause, then sigh out jokingly, “I guess I'll just talk your unconscious ear off until I fall asleep…You don’t mind, right?”
God, no, he thinks.
Jisung silently celebrates your decision with a pump of his hand, shuffling a bit to get comfortable as you go on about genshin and cats and other things he can barely pay mind to. It takes no more than a few strokes, shallow ones where he caresses the angry head of his dick to the velvety sound of your slurred and drowsy mumbling, for him to bring himself to come so fucking hard.
His knees lock as his cock springs up in his clutched palm, spewing streams of white cum all over his stomach, chest, and thighs. The muscles on his abdomen ache from the way they contract, eyes and jaw shutting tightly as he challenges himself to remain quiet. The sheets aren’t spared from his thick load either, his nut dripping down the sides of his tummy to make dark, round puddles on his bed. His toes curl as he tries his hardest to not gasp out when the pleasure dissolves into sensitivity, digging his head back into the pillow with a hand clasped over his lips.
A few minutes later, the blurriness in his vision is relieved, along with the ringing in his ears. You’ve stopped talking; instead, the receiver picks up your short and shallow breaths, as if you’ve fallen asleep with your mouth open. Cute.
As he assesses the aftermath of his much needed release, he wishes he could snap a picture and send it to you, so that you’d wake up knowing this pathetic mess he made was all for you, because of you.
Alas, he can’t, and he hangs up once he’s completely sure you’re resting. With his eyelids feeling much heavier than before, he manages to toss his phone onto the nightstand before he, too, drifts off to sleep.
•.¸¸☆*･ﾟ
The following morning, Jisung wakes up in a bit of a panic. The first thing that throws him for a loop is the fact that his alarm didn’t go off at all. He quickly realizes he forgot to set it amidst the activities of the night before. The second thing that strikes him is his own hand that rests on his stomach, stuck in some kind of damp, sticky liquid. In his half-conscious state, he lifts his fingers and his puffy eyes widen as he identifies the clear fluid that decorates his tummy as his drying release from the night before.
“Ugh…” He grimaces, sitting up in his bed. His phone, which is less than half full of battery since he forgot to plug it in, blinks back the numbers 8:38 at him. Jisung’s eyes widen as he remembers that his first class of the day, of the semester, is at 9.
“Fuck!” In a flash, his blanket is flung off of him and his legs are swinging over the edge of the bed. He moves to grab some tissues from his nightstand, making aggressively desperate attempts at wiping away his cum. When the Kleenex sticks to him instead, he digs around his drawers for a pack of wet wipes, snatching a pair of pants off of the floor at the same time and practically yanking them up his legs.
Despite almost falling over, he manages to get them on and clean off his torso… for the most part. A random sweatshirt is tugged on over his head and he runs his hand through his hair a few times to tidy it before passively telling his reflection, this will do.
Moments later, he’s rushing downstairs and outside of the dormitory with his unzipped backpack hung over his shoulder. He rushes to unlock his bike, cursing as he fumbles with the keys. Once he’s on, he starts pedaling to the Science building on the other side of campus, heavily dreading checking the time in fear it’ll read some absurd number and he’ll wind up being much later than he anticipates.
The breath that’s been caught in his throat all morning is only released when he steps through the door of the lecture room to see that the professor hasn’t walked in yet, and that the clock reads that he’s 6 minutes early.
Finally slowing his rushed pace, Jisung does a quick once over the room to scan the faces of his fellow students before taking his seat somewhere near the back. Thanking the heavens that his notebook and textbook didn’t go tumbling out of his bag in the midst of his previous hurry, he tugs them out, flipping them open and writing the date on the first page. His laptop, which is where he had planned to take notes on, sits in his dorm room where he left it on his desk. Everyone else has theirs out, but he’ll just have to bring his own next time.
There’s a distant click, and the door on the lowest level of the lecture hall opens. Through it walks a relatively tall and slender lady, heels echoing rhythmically as she strides over to set her dark bag down by the podium. Her hair is tied back high and tight, so much so, that all of her features look like they're blending into her hairline. She looks like she’s somewhere in her mid-to-late fifties, and from the instant she walked in, the entire class went silent.
She clearly has a presence that commands attention and undoubtedly, she fits the visual profile of a strict college professor quite well, especially when she picks up the chalk and scribbles her surname onto the green chalkboard beside the larger projector screen.
“I’m Professor Hwang. Welcome to AST1002, also known as Descriptive Astronomy. If you’re here, that means you took AST1001 with Mr. Kwon last year. He has since transferred to a different department.”
There’s no audible response, although some disappointment does flash across the faces of the students in the room, all of whom did have (and seemingly would miss) Mr. Kwon. Professor Hwang doesn’t seem to notice the lack of responses, and continues speaking as she pulls some papers out.
“Firstly, I’ll take attendance. Then, I’ll pass the syllabus around. I would like for you to note,” she pauses to place a pair of red glasses high on the bridge of her nose, “that attendance is mandatory for my class, and worth 20% of your grade. I’ll go over pop quizzes and weekly quizzes, as well as the initial class project, when each of you have a copy of the syllabus. That being said, I look forward to seeing you all here every class. Please call out when you hear your name.”
As she starts to take attendance, Jisung takes the time to sigh into his hands, both exhausted and dreading the fact that he’d have to spend three days out of the week rotting in a lecture hall to attend a class he expected to be fun, or at the very least a break from his much more difficult core classes. By the looks of it, that’s no longer the plan.
It’s easy to zone out quickly while his mind is still foggy, no doubt from the lack of sleep and the subsequent abrupt awakening that followed. He had just begun an attempt to read the syllabus when something made his ears perk.
Immediately, his head snaps up in pursuit of a soft and airy voice that just responded to Professor Hwang. It’s so quick and in passing that he almost thinks he might have imagined it in his delirious state, but the way the hair on his limbs stands on end is unmistakable. His eyes dart around the room, hitting his classmate’s heads like targets, but there’s absolutely no way to identify the individual who just spoke.
Could it be… No. No way.
Jisung is no stranger to daydreaming about you, but he isn’t completely delusional. He knows the chances of being not only in the same city, but the same university and class as you are absolutely slim to none, so he stops that train of thought dead in its tracks.
It does segway him into thinking of you, though. You’re obviously not here, so he wonders instead what class you are in at the moment. He tries to picture what you’re wearing on your first day of class, trusting you look more put together than him in his old hoodie that is slightly sticking to the dry cum on his stomach. Do you like your classmates? Your professor? He sincerely hopes you have a more tolerable one than he does.
“Park Jisung?”
With a slight cough, he spits out a weak “h-here.” and instantly grimaces, raising his shoulders autonomously as if he would get scolded for stammering so pathetically. The professor, to his relief, doesn’t even glance up from the roster. Then, he feels quite silly for even thinking he would get reproached for that to begin with. In his defense, she’s a rather intimidating woman, and his inner monologue is so loud and flooded with thoughts of you that he fears she may have heard it.
She finishes calling for attendance, resorting to striding up and down the aisles as she begins to dissect the syllabus. In an effort to pretend he’s paying attention, Jisung glances down at the size twelve font on the page, skimming over the words without really taking anything in. During one of the professor’s paces, a pen she had resting on her ear slips and falls towards the ground with a slight clatter, and it seems a student picked it up for her, because there’s a slight mumbling, followed by a sharp “thank you,” and a very, very recognizable,
“You’re welcome, Professor.”
His eyes widen at once. Alright, call him crazy, but now he thinks that it really might have been your voice. The familiar timbre, warm and delicate; a sound he’s heard for months on end and knows embarrassingly well… The thought of being in the same room as you out of sheer luck and coincidence makes his abdomen twist and his palms sweat so bad, he has to wipe them on his pants.
He hates that he can’t fully tell, in fact, he’s almost ashamed that he can’t; before today, Jisung would have sworn up and down that he knew your voice better than even his own, but you sound so far and so quiet that he can’t completely bet all of his marbles. Then, he quickly realizes calling it ‘your voice’ definitely makes him sound delusional, even in the safety of his own forgiving conscience. He decides to call it ‘the voice’ for now, at least until he’s a hundred-percent sure.
An irritatingly long hour and half later, the only sound that continues to ring around the lecture hall is Professor Hwang’s monotone one, reciting each and every itemized assignment and rule on the never-ending syllabus. There’s less than fifteen minutes until class is over, and she shows no signs of stopping her dissertation.
“As for the class project: In pairs of two, you will research a constellation extensively to create a presentation on its formation, who cataloged it, and the Greek myth that may accompany it. Please note that this is the first and last time we will talk about constellations in this class, since they are not cosmic phenomenons but instead, a mere roadmap to the objects and themes we will be focusing on. Consider this strictly as an opportunity to familiarize yourselves with another classmate and show me your interest and effort in the subject. That concludes our syllabus,” Thank God, Jisung thinks.
“Any questions?” She glances around at a hand that floats in the air, near the front of the room, “yes?”
“Will we be able to select our partners?”
“No. Partners will be assigned at the end of the week. Yes?” She calls on another hand.
“As for the constellations,” Wait, that’s it! That’s the voice—that’s your voice, he’s completely sure of it! “Will you assign those as well?”
Jisung elongates his neck to try and peek over the heads in his way. It is you, he’s positive now, but you’re turned away from him, and he can’t fully make out which ‘back of the head’ is your ‘back of the head.’ The echo in the hall makes it nearly impossible to pinpoint who just spoke which means he can’t pinpoint you. For some reason, he finds himself slightly panicking, desperate to finally see you in person.
He follows Professor Hwang's line of sight as she answers that she’ll assign the constellations on Friday too, and finally finds you, seated between a few other students. A few more questions are thrown around, but his eyes never leave you, anticipating the moment he catches a glimpse of your face.
Naturally, his first instinct is to approach you as soon as class is out, but when he sees you spin around to pick up your bag that hangs off your chair, he finds himself glued to his own flimsy seat. Feet stuck to the ground, legs not budging, and air hitched in his throat at the sight of you.
You’re so, so much prettier than he could have imagined with whatever unoriginal features he tried to piece together in his lacking mind, and that fact makes him both exhilarated and completely nauseous.
He’s barely been looking at you for a few seconds when he feels his insatiable cock growing fast in the confines of his pants, with no regard for its owner and the fact that he has to stand up within the next minute or so to exit the hall. Jisung curses under his breath, awkwardly rising to his feet when most of his classmates leave, his bag clutched tightly in front of his groin. He prays you don’t glance over, not even because he has a semi-hard on he’s failing to hide with dissimulation, but because he’s staring at you like some sort of freak and can’t seem to look away.
There’s nothing he wants more than to come up to you and say hi and confess he’s the person you’ve been gaming with for months. He’s pictured it countless times before, you’d think he’d have it down by now, but your beauty is intimidating, and he simply cannot and will not make a fool of himself in front of you by greeting you with a raging boner.
You walk out of the classroom and Jisung’s heart settles in his chest as he sits with his decision to stay anonymous for now.
•.¸¸☆*･ﾟ
“She was obnoxious, you have no idea!”
“My teacher wasn’t much different,” he admits, a small, knowing smile toying at his lips, “she seemed like a real bitch,”
It’s later that same evening, and talking to you doesn’t really feel the same anymore. It’s much harder, because now, Jisung can vividly picture you, sitting in your chair with your hands on your keyboard and mouse. Every word you say, his imagination is right thereafter, picturing your pretty face clear as day in the forefront of his mind.
The moment he got home, he fucked his fist until he came in his hand. It took about five minutes, and then he pumped another one out in the shower, (a much needed shower, at that) where he finally washed away the remains of the night before.
After he had lunch with Mark and the other boys from his floor, they had invited him to play basketball. At the same time, however, he received a direct message from you, explaining you didn’t have any other classes for the day and asking if he could get on earlier.
It’s a little ridiculous, but now that he’s seen you, now that he knows you’re so much closer than he initially thought, he can’t wait to talk to you again. And so he quickly came up with an empty excuse related to his studies, took the berating from his friends like a champ, and rushed upstairs to log into his PC and open up your chat.
“Not only do we already have a project, but we don’t even get to pick our partners.”
I know! He thinks.
“Like,” you start, and he pictures the way your cheeks fill up with air as you let out a huff, “what if I get stuck with some weirdo?”
Instantly, Jisung stops palming himself, letting his hand climb back up to the mouse slowly.
He probably shouldn’t let that innocent statement affect him as much as it does, but he can’t help it. He has the advantage, right? Or, at least it seems that way.
When everything is laid out, he has the upperhand of knowing who you are—you haven’t seen him, yet… but what if you did see him, and he wasn’t at all what you were expecting? Or even worse, what if you got paired together for the project and you thought he was weird or the two of you didn’t get along? That option is far less likely, since there are well over fifty students in AST1002.
“I don’t know,” you start, “I’m considering switching out of the class-”
“No!” Wow. Good going, Jisung.
He catches his slip-up and quickly blurts out, “I-I mean, it might not be that bad! You should… at least give it a shot before you try to switch out, right?”
“I guess you’re right… The add and drop period at my school is until next Friday, so I'll try it out until then.”
Great! Perfect! Good save. The only problem now is: Jisung has a little over a week and a half to somehow convince you to stay in his class and at the same time, not completely butcher his introduction to you. Approaching you now seems practically impossible, but he needs you to stay in the class, even if it means he has to come up to you first. He can’t be bothered to care that his insistence is for his own selfish intentions, if it means getting to see you three times a week.
“But anyway,” he clears his throat, changing the topic as quickly as possible, “how did your other class go?”
“Much better than the first, the teacher let us out early once he covered the books we’d be analyzing this semester and attendance isn’t mandatory since most of the material is online or in the library. I think I’ll swing by there one of these days to see if I can get ahead on some of the assignments.”
“Oh, so you’re a nerd?” You gasp and smack his character in-game a few times. He laughs, calling out, “okay, okay, truce! You’re not a nerd then, just an overachiever.”
“How so?”
“We’re barely a day into the semester and you’re already trying your homework that I’m sure isn’t due for at least a few weeks,”
You roll your eyes, knowing he’s right. With a bit of playful flirtation twisted into your tone, you hum out, “What can I say? I like to please.”
One of his eyebrows perks up, “is that right?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” He can hear your smirk through the screen, and now, he can vividly picture it, too.
Jisung scoffs, backing away from your character so that he’s out of your sight. He cowers into a corner in game; this way, you don’t notice how he stops moving when his left hand leaves the w,a,s,d keys to cup and rub his needy bulge.
•.¸¸☆*･ﾟ
Wednesday’s class is somehow packed and entirely uneventful at the same time. The first of Professor Hwang’s dragging lectures is so loaded that Jisung actually thanks the heavens that he remembered to bring his laptop. Otherwise, his notebook would have been about halfway full already, and his hand? It would have fallen off.
On another relevant note, he’s struggling to stay focused because today, he is sitting much closer to you. Intentionally, of course. There’s still a few rows between him and you, but in this new seat, he can glance at you as often as he’d like without straining his eyes or stretching out his neck to make his gawking painfully obvious. He can clearly make out your smooth skin, along with other details he wasn’t able to notice before like your beauty marks and your dainty earrings. You’re paying unfaltering attention to the class for the first hour, but after the sixty-minute mark, you appear to have become bored. He catches the way your pencil starts doodling along the corners of your notebook and it takes everything in him not to snort when you scribble down a wonky looking cat.
He’s so distracted by you, that every couple of slides, he glances back to the projector to see that the class is now on an entirely different topic than the one he last managed to jot down. He doesn’t mind, though. You’re a much more enthralling sight than quasars and supernovas.
Halfway through the lesson, you decide to peel off your little black cardigan and hang it on the back of your chair, exposing your arms and neck and shoulders to him. Your hair is tied up neatly right after, giving him all the more to gawk at and envision. Jisung has to remind himself that he’s in a classroom just so that he doesn’t start fantasizing about how it would feel to grip your hair up in a similar fashion and fill your throat up with his dick.
With great difficulty, he directs his focus to the board instead, typing quickly into his laptop all the notes he manages to catch before the slide changes again and Professor Hwang’s narrow eyes can scan the room to see who’s paying attention.
When the class is over, you start talking with the girl next to you, aimlessly reaching back for your bag. The gesture makes your cardigan fall, and Jisung has to fully bite his tongue to keep himself from calling out your name and giving himself away. He waits to see if you’ll notice, or if someone nearby will alert you, but neither one happens. Instead, you stand up, still engrossed in your conversation, and make your way towards the door. Instantly, he jogs down the aisle and between the seats to grab it and wordlessly hand it to you, but by the time he makes a move to head in your direction, you’ve already left.
He feels disappointed at first, but the feeling quickly shifts into relief. Wordlessly hand it to you? Does he want your first impression of him to be awkward and borderline rude? No and definitely no. This problem has a simple solution—it’s a blessing in disguise; he’ll take your cardigan home and bring it to you on Friday and maybe, if his courage allows, he can introduce himself then.
“Hey! I noticed you left your sweater here last class. I brought it for you. Oh, and by the way, it’s me! I’m @sung.ie. How did I know it was you? I can recognize your voice across a huge lecture hall.”
Yeah… he’ll think more on that later.
With your cardigan clutched in his fist, Jisung sighs, making his way outside and towards his bicycle. He tucks the clothing item into his backpack and pedals back home, wondering how he’s going to manage to give it back to you since you always get to and leave class before him.
He knows some of his friends and dorm-mates have their own class today, they had exchanged schedules during lunch a few days ago, which leaves him to hope and pray you’ve decided to skip your class and get online. As he parks his bicycle downstairs and locks it, he slips his phone from his pocket and opens discord, but your bubble remains gray and cold. You’re offline.
Maybe you haven’t gotten home yet. He checks his phone again when he gets upstairs, and again when he goes inside his dorm, tossing his bag aside and crashing on his bed. He checks after losing a round of candy crush, and again after replying to a text from his mom.
By the looks of it, you were in class, or at the very least, not available for the moment. Jisung sighs, pretending he’s not actually as disappointed as he feels. It seems a bit dramatic to feel the need to kill time until he gets to talk to you again so he resorts to doing physics homework—a short baseline his teacher assigned that wouldn’t be graded—and tricking his brain into thinking the former is not what he’s actually doing.
When he pulls his bag off his desk chair to grab his laptop, your cardigan comes into view, and he pauses to look at it. He sits like this for a moment, wondering if he should fold it nicely on his dresser so he can remember to take it to you, but his hands act before his mind can catch up, reaching in and basically shoving the material toward his face.
With his nose buried in your scent, Jisung inhales deeply, sinking into his chair as his legs grow weaker. The trace of your floral softener is the first aroma he gets, and then, the smell of your perfume peeks through, soft and sweet and very fitting for you. Once more, his treacherous hands are acting for themselves and he’s suddenly undoing his belt single-handedly.
Once his dick, growing by the minute, is out and clutched in his palm, he finally retracts your sweater. With little hesitation, he wraps it around his erection and pumps once, throwing his head back in immediate relief.
It’s a fucking miracle that his room is the last one at the end of the hall, and that his next door neighbors, Renjun and Jaemin, are both in their afternoon lectures, because nothing would have been able to muffle the wanton moan that rips from his chest as he strokes himself with your scent. His hips are bucking up into the air, and in only a few minutes, he’s broken a slight sweat. His balls tighten from sheer sensitivity at the act of fucking something directly related to you.
A cry of your name, followed by a few more pumps and he’s coming inside your mangled cardigan, his white release breaching the thin material. It seeps through it like light through a veil, gathering thickly on top before spreading into a dark, wet patch. There’s a shudder that passes through his bones as he sits back, burying his cock into the fabric and keeping it there until he’s given up every last drop.
The only thing that snaps him from his post-nut bliss, is the distinct discord ring-tone that blasts through his headset. His computer monitor turns on as your icon appears and simultaneously, his heart and dick both twitch.
“Hello?” With his output device swung over his head, he presses the green ‘answer’ button and speaks into the mic, hiding his slight shortness of breath with a yawn.
“I’m so glad you answered,” you beam, and he does too, “I was worried I had called while you were in class or something,”
As he speaks, he wipes the remnants of his cum off with your cardigan and puts it aside on his desk, tucking his softening (and still very sensitive) dick away into his boxers, “No, you’re good. I had a class earlier today but now I’m free.”
“What a relief,” you sigh, “Would you want to have a little homework ‘sesh’ with me? I just found out the library doesn’t have any available labs. I doubt I’ll be able to concentrate much with you but at least I'll be in good company.”
“Like an e-date?”
“We can call it that,” you grin, then he pictures your expression becoming a gloom one to match your slightly sadder tone as you admit, “Sometimes I wish we went to the same school so we could meet up and study at a coffee shop.”
He snorts, unable to help but crack a joke, “Like a real date?”
Your laugh makes his heart swell slightly. When you reply, “Maybe,” it starts flipping wildly in his chest.
God, you can’t even begin to imagine how badly he wants that.
“That would be nice,” he agrees humbly, a blush creeping on his cheeks. “What class are you gonna study for?”
There’s a pause before you speak again where you hum in thought, flipping through a few pages and shuffling through your bag. Jisung joins you, grabbing his laptop and school supplies, “I have a project for my astronomy class. It’s related to constellations and I wanna start researching them so that I can make an outline for the assignment,”
He looks through his math notes with his brows furrowed down, “I thought she was gonna assign them on Friday?”
Your icon flickers as you reply, “She is, but I want to—wait. How did you know that?” At your words and the realization of his untimely slip up, Jisung’s body goes rigid. He can only imagine the confusion on your features, and he’s quite relieved you can’t see the look on his. If his eyes were to open any wider, he’s sure they might just slip out of his head.
“Oh, um,” he clears his throat mechanically, then gulps in an effort to lubricate it and keep his voice steady, assertive, certain. “You mentioned it on Monday, remember?”
“Did I?” You didn’t, but he really hopes you think you did. “Probably,” At that, he lets out the air he’s holding, shaking his head slightly at himself for being so careless.
“But um, yeah,” he starts before you can give it any further thought, “If she’s assigning them Friday why are you working on it today?”
“Cause she’s also assigning partners on Friday, and I don’t really know anyone besides the girl who sits next to me and I doubt I’ll get paired with her. I want to make sure my grade is secured, you know? I’ve never liked group projects. I feel like all the work gets dumped on me.”
He’s still not entirely sure what you mean to do, or how you intend to create a blueprint of sorts without knowing what it was for, and so he stops flicking through his page of notes to look up at his monitor and ask, “But if you don’t know which constellation you’re gonna work on, how are you gonna make an outline?”
You ponder his question for a moment, then mumble out, “She didn’t mention a rubric or anything, so I figured that as long as I plan out the different sections and give the project a structure, half of the work is cut out, right? I can just assign parts at that point.”
“You’re that kinda person in a group project? I’m sorry to whoever gets partnered with you,” He’s not sorry, not at all. He’s rather envious, actually, despite his attempts to sound indifferent or amusing. Being granted time to spend with you at your place or his, or at the library or the local campus cafe, would be a no less than perfect ice breaker. Jisung would make sure you never felt like all the research and assembling depended solely on you—in fact, he could see himself now, spending countless hours perfecting the details of his assigned part and inquiring about other suggestions to improve the project, just to impress you or at the very least, satisfy you. The reality that someone else would get to do all of that in his place is disheartening.
You guys had rarely ever talked about school before now, since neither of you actually were enrolled in any classes when you started chatting, but now that it’s relevant, he feels like he understands a whole different side of you. You’re organized, and obviously very studious. Hell, you’ve been itching to get started on assignments that haven’t even been assigned yet. You’re responsible, dependable, funny, beautiful, and every time he thinks of you lately, he realizes that his innocent crush is slowly becoming an insatiable one.
“Hey! I’d be very nice if it was you, you know. Show you some favoritism,” the corners of his lips twitch upwards—“But I’m also glad it’s not you,”—and fall down again.
“What? Why?” He tries to not sound too offended.
“I’d end up talking your ear off, Sung.”
“I’m already used to that, don’t mind it. Kinda like it, actually.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He nods curtly, even though there’s a monitor and an entire school campus between you and him and he knows you have no way of seeing his gesture. There's a moment of silence that you spend taking a brief breath as a glow tinges your cheeks.
With a stifled laugh, you open your mouth again, “I think it’s just because you like me that you tolerate my rambling,”
“No.” He’s quick to clarify, “I really do like it.” He loves it.
“And me?” your voice is much quieter, almost giving the impression that you’re shy in asking something so decisive and direct. Jisung, emboldened by your vulnerability, and the distance the screen puts between you two, answers with certainty.
“I like you, too.”
•.¸¸☆*･ﾟ
“The constellation project, as I mentioned during your first class, is a tool for you to acquaint yourself with your classmates. It will be due in 3 weeks, and you can check the syllabus for specifications regarding that. After today, there will be no changing partners or constellations so should you need any changes to be made, you have until class is dismissed. Listen closely as I read out the pairs for the project. I will not repeat myself.”
The sharp tone he’s growing more and more distaste for by the day drowns out as Jisung glances over at you. Today, you’re sporting a bone-colored long sleeve and corduroy pants with half of your hair held back in a shiny clip. You look ravishing. Truthfully, he can’t really tell if you’re wearing makeup or not—although he concludes it doesn’t matter. Your features are soft and pretty nonetheless, and your cheeks have turned rosy from the dropping autumn temperatures.
“Yu Karina will be partnered with Lee Heesung. Your constellation is Cassiopeia.”
When you walked into the lecture hall this morning, there was a hot coffee cup with the campus cafe’s logo on it clutched in your hands, which you sipped on while shivering. Taking your usual seat, you greeted the girl next to you, who Jisung now knew was called Yu Karina.
The dark haired girl perked up when Professor Hwang called her name and waved down the aisle at who he can only assume is Lee Heesung, her partner, then whispered something to you. You looked over at the boy and back at Karina, nodding and giggling with her.
“Jennifer Huh, partnered with Ning Yizhuo,” Professor Hwang referenced her other list, “Constellation: Cancer.”
The two girls greet each other with a look and a smile, but Jisung pays little mind. He’s listening intently—for the first time—in anticipation of hearing one of your names be called. He doesn’t exactly know your full name, only a nickname he refers to you as, the one attached to your discord handle. Otherwise, pinpointing you that first day of class would’ve been much easier.
“Park Jay and Lee Sohee, your constellation is Orion.”
Sitting there, he realizes that in all the months you’ve talked, he’s never once asked for your full first name. Is that strange? What kind of friend is he if he doesn’t even know your name? In all fairness, you never asked for his, either, so he supposes it’s okay. Would have been useful to know, though, at times like this.
After his small confession of ‘like’ on Wednesday, the two of you went on studying your respective subjects, with the occasional (and inevitable) distraction here and there. Admittedly, he thought his comment would be forgotten rather quickly. It wasn’t like he outwardly poured his heart out to you, so he figured you’d move on and just crack a joke or two about it later. There was a change, though; a strikingly obvious one to Jisung, who hangs on your every word like it’s a tether that keeps him from floating. And, even if he didn’t pay such close attention to you, there’s no way he could have missed the new flirtatious ambiance that flourished afterwards. Flirting with you is not uncommon by any means—the two of you playfully tease each other with frequency, but it’s nothing he’d allow himself to look into too much, for his own sake.
That changed in the hours following his comments. All of Wednesday evening, the two of you went back and forth, feeding each other compliments in the form of banter. Again, he thought it would end there, but on Thursday afternoon when you logged on, he asked how your progress was going with the outline, to which you texted back, “I was thinking of you all day. Didn’t get around to doing much else.”
It wasn’t the only message from you that nurtured his feelings, either. There were enough substantially flirty messages from your conversation that night, that he was able to scroll through them and reread them a few times before bed.
ynn ᓚᘏᗢ: yesterday at 6:49PM
hi
did you smile when you saw my name pop up on your phone just now
ynn ᓚᘏᗢ: yesterday at 8:22 PM
you’re so cute
i can barely think
ynn ᓚᘏᗢ: yesterday at 9:14 PM
i feel like my day doesn’t make sense if we don’t talk
ynn ᓚᘏᗢ: yesterday at 10:58 PM
i should get to sleep
but i don’t wanna stop texting you
ynn ᓚᘏᗢ: yesterday at 12:02 AM
goodnight, sung <3 miss you til’ you’re back
Now, as he eyes you with a boyish, lovesick gaze, watching you doodle your stupid little drawings as you await your assignment, he finds himself praying for the courage to come up to you after class.
Professor Hwang calls your name next, something he only realizes at the fitting similarity of your nickname and the way your pen meets the table in alert to being called on, head lifting up and eyes blinking expectantly.
“Your partner will be,”
Jisung holds his breath, chanting in his head ‘please, oh, please let it be me,’
“Lee Chan.”
Wishful thinking never got anyone anywhere, then. He ignores the way his heart sinks into the pits of his stomach, unable to help but observe your curious gaze as it looks around the filled seats. For a fleeting moment, you meet his eyes, but he doesn’t react or claim to be Lee Chan who you so evidently are in search of, and so you pass him and keep studying the aisles. After a few seconds, you find no one gazing back, even after you slightly stand to peer above the nearby heads that obscure your view.
“Your constellation is-”
With a cautious raise of your hand, you interrupt Professor Hwang gently, “Excuse me, Professor, but I don’t think my partner is here.”
For a moment, her lazer-like gaze looks like it could light you on fire, a consequence of daring to interrupt her, but it softens only slightly as she realizes the truth in your statement, scanning the room herself and calling out for the missing boy. Upon receiving no call back, she thinks for a moment, then looks back down at her clipboard and crosses something out.
“I did mention attendance was mandatory, didn’t I?” This she mutters to herself, “No matter. Instead, you’ll work with,” she gives the paper another once over, then clicks her pen and speaks, “Park Jisung.”
In an awkward burst of both excitement and confusion, Jisung darts out of his chair. His knee hits his desk with a clang, and his laptop would have gone flying if it wasn’t for his quick hands that catch it before it can fall. The loud ruckus turns several heads in his direction, including Professor Hwang’s and more importantly, yours.
Feeling an awful lot like a deer caught in headlights, Jisung blinks as the two of you make eye-contact, then he takes his seat again, very quickly by the way. “Uh, that’s me,” he announces, heat spreading across his face and eyes darting around, “Sorry.”
Does he feel more sorry to his teacher and classmates for disrupting the classroom, or to himself and you for the absolute fool he has just made of himself? As much as he’d like to tear his gaze away from yours and cast it to the ground in embarrassment, it remains stuck on you, awaiting your impending reaction.
You’re rather unsure how to feel, though given, a little surprised at the commotion. You offer him a small smile through pursed lips, and Jisung nods, willing with all his might for a hole to open in the ground beneath him and swallow him.
“Thank you, Mr. Park, for your remarkably clear confirmation. Your constellation is Gemini.”
You turn in your chair to face the front again, scribbling down his name in the corner of your notebook, as well as the constellation you’d been assigned.
“He’s cute,” Karina comments to you as you look over at her, and you finally let out a small laugh you had been holding in.
“He is. Clumsy,” you snort, “but cute.”
“We both got cute partners. We should meet up at the library later and all get started on the project together,”
You nod enthusiastically, going back to your outline that sits at the ready on your laptop screen and making quick work of labeling the different sections evenly. If it wasn’t so obvious for you to spin around and steal a glance, you might have done so again. You’re certainly tempted to, thinking back to seconds ago and realizing you hadn’t really noticed him the last two classes.
Jisung watches your exchange with his dignity at serious risk. He’s entirely unable to hear or make out what you’re saying to each other, and it makes his pulse pick up and his mind race. He considers many things as he watches the two of you talk: firstly, asking to change his partner, but then realizing that would be an awful idea. Once you knew who he was, how would you ever forgive him for immediately ditching you? Absolutely not. Cowering had gotten him nowhere so far.
Then, he considers switching out of the class himself, and disappearing, never to reveal himself to you—but that wasn’t the right thing to do either. Incapable of checking out of your life so quickly and denying himself the treat that is seeing you three times a week (and now, possibly more), he cans that idea, too.
As Professor Hwang finishes reading off the list of names, he begins planning what he’ll actually say to you, as that conversation is just minutes away. There’s less than a half-hour left of class, which means he has to think hard and fast.
As he busies himself with the grueling task of picking an appropriate and redeeming introduction, he doesn’t hear the new instructions from Professor Hwang, which are to find your partner and begin brainstorming, as well as exchanging schedules to set aside time outside of class to work on the presentation. A shadow falls over his desk and consumes his work space in darkness. When his curiously squinted eyes trail up to find the source, only to land on you, hovering above him with your things clutched in your arms, he grips his seat to keep from jumping out of it for the second time today.
“Is this seat taken?”
So much for having time to figure out how to approach you. His heart does a leap of surprise in his chest in place of his physical body, and he resists the urge to clutch it.
“No.” He replies shortly.
With your unfaltering, kind smile still present on your face, you laugh softly and place your things down, introducing yourself.
“You’re Ji-sun, right?”
“—Sung.” he politely corrects you. When you don’t immediately react, he wonders if you had even heard him. He doesn’t put it past himself to have imagined that he replied to you, between his sweating palms and nervous jittering, and your pretty self sitting just a foot away, he’s barely keeping it together. After a moment that feels infinitely longer than it actually is, you raise your eyebrows slightly, round lips parted to ask your question with a palpable hesitance.
“W-what?”
“Jisung,” he quickly replies, pronouncing the ‘g’ clearly and masking the way his eyes widen with a heavy blink that honestly, may not serve as any better of a guise. He pleads with himself to get his shit together but luckily, you don’t seem to notice.
“Hi, Y/N.” He savors the way your name feels on his tongue but keeps his enjoyment brief.
“I hope you don’t mind,” you start, lifting the screen of your laptop to reveal the very same outline you had started working on during your last call with him, “but I already made an outline. If you wanna scrap it and start all over, we can—”
“No, It’s fine, we can use this,” when you give him an unsure look, he smiles reassuringly, “It looks brilliant.”
“Thank you.” There’s a pause that is filled only by you clearing your throat, “Ok, I have a literature class right after this one on Mondays and Wednesdays. The rest of my classes are online, so I’m free at any time, really. I usually like to study at the computer labs in the library, it’s nice and private there and I find it much easier to focus. But if you don’t want to go there, we could always go to the cafe or the square for some fresh air. Oh, and either one of our dorm rooms works fine if you’re okay-”
To experience your presence on a phone call is one thing, but to experience it in real life, with your clear voice so arresting and your silky, smooth lips within reach, is absolutely mesmerizing. He’s fighting the urge to glance down at your mouth, but it’s becoming increasingly harder to sustain eye contact, as lovely as he decides your eyes are. Another thing that is becoming exponentially harder, and more sensitive all the same, is his cock, springing to life with an eagerness to greet you.
There’s a bit of panic that flashes across his features as he senses the strain it’s causing in his pants, and only when you look down at your outline does he dare to sneak a glance down at his own groin where as expected, a noticeable imprint was beginning to develop. In a desperate gesture, he slides his notebook over his lap, suppressing a hiss, and leans forward to pretend to use his own laptop.
“Any of those work for me,”
“Okay, great,” You notice the time and turn back to him. “You can just message me when you’re free.”
“Sure.”
“And here’s my number—” you reach over, sliding the protective notebook from his lap and placing it on your desk, scribbling your number in the corner. Jisung immediately readjusts his hoodie, throwing the hem of it over his boner. Professor Hwang dismisses the class as you pass it back.
“Call me whenever you’re free.” With a spin of your heel, you wave goodbye to him and rejoin Karina, who waits for you at the door with her partner.
Jisung lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and looks down at the number you wrote. Beside the digits, written in very neat handwriting, might he add, sat perched on a wobbly branch a little black cat that he recognized from his hours of staring as one of your doodles.
•.¸¸☆*･ﾟ
The time is 4:33PM, and Jisung has drafted over a dozen messages on the iMessage app addressed to your number. None of them have exactly made it to you yet, courtesy of his thumb that keeps pressing backspace and wiping out any trace of a remotely embarrassing text. It’s the next day and no introduction or invitation to meet up seems like it’s good enough to send, though he knows that inevitably, he has to text you first. You left your number behind with the doodle that he has since stuck to the corner of his PC monitor, but you never took down his; so now, the ball is in Jisung’s court, and he knows that if he waits too long, you’d think he was avoiding you or the project altogether.
Realistically, he knows a simple “Hi, it’s Jisung,” will suffice, but he can’t bring himself to send you such an unoriginal and boring message. After pondering for a moment, he then decides the best solution would be to do some research, and then call you with his findings—this way, his interest in the project would be clear, and he knows how important that is to you.
At once, he peels your cum-stained cardigan off of his lap, though not before stealing a glance at the day’s new additions, and places it aside. He tucks his spent dick into his short and turns on his monitor, typing the name of the constellation into Google and investigating nearly every website he could find with any useful information.
In the nicest handwriting he can manage, Jisung bullets a list of all the facts and history he could find on ‘Gemini’ within the hour, including the stars that make up the constellation, the myth behind it, and other relevant statistics. It isn’t until he has filled up an entire page front and back—partially—that he picks up his phone again and makes another attempt at contacting you.
Feeling slightly more confident, he types up his message.
To: 555-111-0205
hi, it’s jisung from astronomy. i did some research and i wanted to show you what i found. let me
know if you’re free to exchange notes.
Sent at 5:52 PM.
Jisung rereads over his message for any flaws, though there’s nothing he can do about it now that it’s sent, anyway. After he deems it an okay first message, he takes a breath and moves to put his phone down, but it buzzes in his hand instead.
Incoming call at 5:54 PM From: 555-111-0205
“Hi-”
“Hi! Sorry to just call unannounced but I’m walking to the library with all my stuff and I can’t really text. I was able to book us a computer lab for the next two hours so If you want, we—can you hear me?”
He sits up straighter, “Yeah! Yes, I can hear you,”
“Oh, good, so—wait, hello?” Your voice shifts in volume and proximity, as if you pulled your phone from your ear to check the call screen, then brought it back, “Oh, sorry. I-I thought I had accidentally called someone else… nevermind.” Instantly, Jisung realizes instantly that you must have recognized his voice. It makes sense, seeing as you’re used to hearing it specifically on calls. You seem to show no further suspicion as you continue speaking, though, but perhaps, he should keep talking on the phone with you to a minimum.
“Do you think you can make it? Otherwise I can go work on my own. I saw your text and instantly booked the room. Sorry for not checking in with you first,”
“I’ll meet you there,” He replies quickly, grimacing at the instinctual effort it takes to try and make his voice deeper.
“Okay! Great. I’ll see you there, then.” You hang up, and then your text message comes through with the lab room information just minutes later.
Jisung all but lunges out of his chair and rushes to face himself in the mirror, taking in his reflection. Besides his hair that looks slightly disheveled, he looks alright. He doesn’t want to make you wait long for him, so he quickly grabs his laptop and his notes, shoves them all into his bag, and flies out of his dorm room with the laces of his sneakers left untied.
In the brightly, yellow-lit hallway, Mark and Chenle are popping out of their respective rooms, a basketball clutched under the younger boy’s arm.
“We were just about to come grab you,” Chenle starts, “Let’s play some ball. Jeno’s meeting us at the court,”
“Can’t,” Jisung shakes his head, “I’m going to the library,” he tries to not get offended at the way the two boys snort loudly in disbelief, looking at each other as if they’ve both had the same thought.
“Yeah, right.” Chenle scoffs.
With a blink, Jisung replies meekly, “I’m serious.”
“Since when do you go to the library?” Mark brows pinch and he adds, “It’s the start of term. You’re already studying?”
“Since now, I guess. I have a project for a class so I’m gonna go meet up with my partner at the library, but I’ll catch you guys later.”
“Alright, alright. Oh—remember there’s a party next week at Jaehyun’s frat for syllabus week.”
“Yeah, I’ll be there.” His answer doesn’t seem to fully convince Mark, Chenle, or even himself, but they seem satisfied enough, because they let Jisung go without any more pestering. He flies down the flight of stairs and out the front door of the dormitory.
The cold September air is biting at this time in the evening, feeling particularly cool on the apples of his cheek, which glow from the light layer of sweat that develops during his jog over to the library. It’s a considerable distance away, which is part of the reason why he, in his two years of being a student at the university, has never seriously stepped foot inside of it. Studying in his room is much more convenient, but you seem to like the library, so the twenty-minute-walk there, or in this case, fifteen-minute-jog, will simply have to be adopted as a new way to get in some brief exercise a few times a week.
More than likely, you have already arrived, and Jisung doesn’t want to make you wait too long for him, especially since there’s a two-hour time limit on the room and he intends to spend as much time with you there as he can. He wipes his cheeks with his gray sleeves and climbs up the stairs of the building quickly, swiping his student card at the door and stepping inside.
The ceiling is massively tall, seemingly taller than when he once saw it during freshman orientation, and the endless rows of shelves are filled with books, ranging from thin, colorful novels to thick, leather-bound classics. It’s quieter than he expects it to be, even for a library, and he clearly can hear the pitter patter of his feet as he follows the sign labeled ‘Study Rooms and Computer Labs.’
The guy at the reception desk in this section seems to be a volunteer, his student ID and name tag shining on his shirt. He glances up from his book when Jisung approaches, nodding once. There’s an awkward silence that feels rather loud as Jisung fumbles with his phone, flipping it between his clammy hands as he searches for your message.
“Computer Lab 4C?”
Wordlessly, the boy nods again, then slides over a clip-board with a sign-in sheet clamped to it.
It’s surprising to see how many lab spots are filled up so early into the term, names scribbled along the lines and time-slots. Your name stands out, partly because of your familiar handwriting, but particularly because of the empty line beside it, where he signs in before handing the clip-board back.
“Down the hall, second door on your right.”
It’s Jisung’s turn to bob his head once and the boy looks back down at his book. He makes his way down the hall until he reaches the correctly labeled door. His hand reaches for the handle, but he withdraws it. Should he knock? Or maybe send you a text? Or both?
To: 555-111-0205
hey again. i’m outside :)
Sent at 6:18 PM.
The door creaks open from the taps of his knuckles bumping against it, and he peeks his head in timidly, finding you sitting in one of the desk chairs, nearly hidden behind your laptop and a stack of books. You look up over the screen, eyes squinting in a smile.
“Oh, I had left the door open for you,” you stand up, holding out a cup for him, “and I got you coffee… didn’t know how you liked it so I just got you the same thing I order,”
There’s a fluttering in his stomach as he sets his bag down. There’s no chance he can manage to meet your eyes after such a gesture so he casts them to the ground instead, graciously reaching out to receive with both hands the drink you offer him, “You didn’t have to,” he mumbles, “but thank you. I’m sure your order is great,”
“I wanted to! It’s just—I mean, I did drag you out of your room in the cold and on really short notice—A hot coffee was the least I could do,” you shrug, “One of my friends works at the cafe and I was there doing some work for my literature class before I got your message and I figured I’d grab us both something before I headed over here… Sorry, I’m talking too much. Here, sit down.”
He’s not exactly sure what to say, so he takes his seat beside you in silence, but not without a small smile decorating his face. The notes he had taken down to show you are retrieved from his bag, as well as his laptop. There’s a low screech of your chair dragging across the floor, and he turns to find you’ve scooted closer and you're leaning forward with your cheek resting on your palm, eyes intently looking at his research.
“It isn’t much. I’m sure whatever you found is much more substantial, but I couldn’t show up empty handed.” Jisung explains, sliding the paper over to you. As your eyes scan the page, you make a few comments along the lines of ‘Oh, this is a good point,’ or ‘We should mention this.’
You seem to be very carefully reading his work. Meanwhile, he takes advantage of your preoccupation to let his eyes rake over your person.
The first thing he notices is that you’re wearing a different cardigan, and he suddenly remembers your black one is still on his desk, unwashed and covered in his cum. Your hair looks soft, and when you mindlessly swing it over your shoulder, he catches a whiff of your lavender scented hair wash, and it makes him gnaw the inside of his cheek. You’re not quite close enough for him to catch the perfume you’ve decided to wear tonight, though he can vividly picture the gentle florals that linger still on your cardigan. His eyes trail down, and it’s only then that he notices your skirt—or blatantly, the length of your skirt. Your smooth thighs are exposed, full and fleshy and pressed together, and he suddenly wishes they were wrapped around his head.
“Jisung? You okay?”
“I–Yeah, sorry.” It’s clear that you’ve noticed his staring, and he all but rips his eyes away in embarrassment, “I was just wondering if you were cold,” He gestures down at your legs shyly, pretending the content he’d written on the paper was more interesting the sight of your plush thighs.
For a moment he expects some harsh comment or outburst, but you laugh instead, smoothing the material down a bit, “No, not in here, at least. And the walk over was short, so,” His lips are pursed and his cheeks are burning, but you spare him from any further humiliation when you reach across him to turn the page over and quietly gasp, muttering some surprise under your breath at how extensive his work is. “This is really good. We can use pretty much all of it.”
Failing to hide his beaming at your praise, he snaps his head over to you, “You think so?”
“Yeah, I mean—,” The screen of your laptop changes over to a page of notes, “I pretty much wrote down all the same things. I’m actually so relieved, I was worried I might get paired up with someone who wasn’t gonna contribute.”
“Bet you’re glad you didn’t switch out of the class now, huh?”
Distracted in the notes and in the taste of his coffee, he misses your quick, confused glance his way. Smoothly recovering before he notices, you slowly nod and present to him the layout where you had already taken the liberty to assign him his designated parts. Not that he expected anything else; it’s endearing to see his name labeled over specific sections, color-coded in a blue, bolded font. He wastes no time in pulling up the screen of his computer, exchanging emails with you so the two of you can get to work on the shared document.
The time passes quicker than he hopes, and he realizes just how much he likes spending time with you. Talking with you online is one thing, but sitting beside you as you sip your drink and hum mindlessly, fingers typing away or flipping pages in a book? Completely different game. He’s sure that if it wasn’t because he relieved himself earlier today, he might have popped a boner from the simple act of being in your presence.
Every once in a while, you make an occasional comment regarding a point or two you thought was worth mentioning or adding, and he’d oblige, making a note of it and sharing his thoughts here and there. Occasionally, he manages to steal a look at your thighs, which he swears you’re bouncing and squeezing together on purpose, but for the most part he keeps his focus on the task at hand.
Towards the end of the night, there’s a moment where your hands brush his as you point something out on his screen, and Jisung swears he’s never felt more like a teenage boy in his life. He practically flinches at the contact, failing to mask his awkward reaction and pretending he really meant to fix his hair.
Bidding you farewell is possibly the most difficult of the tasks this evening, even more so than pretending he isn’t completely infatuated with and aroused by you for a whole two hours. When you stand from your seat and walk with him out of the study room, and subsequently, out of the library and into the cold, Jisung faces another of his many dilemmas related to you. He’s not sure if he should offer to walk you back to your dorm, or at the very least halfway there. Perhaps, offering you his jacket would be appropriate, since your skirt wasn’t doing much of a job at keeping you warm.
“You live close by?”
“Yeah! Just a 5 minute walk,” you point your index finger, “In that dorm right over there.”
Jisung nods once, then decides to indulge his impulses. “Here,” he slides his hoodie off with a little less coordination than he would’ve liked, holding it out for you to take, “so you aren’t cold.”
He can’t tell if your cheeks are red from the temperature again or from his gesture, but he hopes it’s the latter. The moment you take his sweater, pretty eyes wide in thanks, he sucks in a breath. It’s much chillier now that the sun is gone, and he fights the urge to chatter his teeth when he offers you a lopsided smile.
“T-thank you,” you tie the sleeves around your waist, covering your lap.
“I’ll see you in class?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you nod, flashing him a final grin before you spin on your heel to head home.
The twenty-minute-walk-fifteen-minute-jog back to his room feels eternal. All of his hair is standing on end, but picking up his pace too much means that the icy wind, which has so graciously decided to blow in his direction, would just become harsher. His palms soak up the little warmth on his stomach, tucked under his t-shirt, as he alternates between speed-walking and jogging. The minutes drag on and on until finally, his building comes into view and he breaks into a run.
•.¸¸☆*･ﾟ
The following morning when he walks into his astronomy class, he follows his usual routine of checking for you in your seat and is almost distraught when he finds it to be empty. It’s not like you to miss a class, and he contemplates reaching for his phone to check-in on you. It isn't until he pans his vision over to his own chair that he spots you. You’re accompanied by Karina and her partner, Heesung, taking up the empty seats beside his own.
On your desk sit two coffee cups like the ones from last night, and he pulls his lip between his teeth to hide the grin that fights to break out.
You look up when you spot him, and Karina and Heesung look up, too.
“Hi…”
“Hi! Jisung, right?” Karina extends her hand out and he takes it, nodding to confirm, “I’m Karina and this is Heesung.” He mumbles another small hello to the boy, who acknowledges him before looking back at his computer.
“Good morning,” you greet as he sits, placing his cup on his desk. “You never told me whether you liked it or not, but I figured you’d grow to like it eventually.”
“I-thanks but,”
“I know: Didn’t have to, but I wanted to. So just say thanks, yeah?”
There’s a familiar burning on his cheeks that always seems to make an appearance when you’re around, but he doesn’t bother masking it this time.
“I wanted to ask you if you would be free to study tonight?”
Instantly, he bobs his head up and down, and you book the study room on your computer just moments before Professor Hwang strides inside the classroom, her glasses on the tip of her sharp, pointed nose.
•.¸¸☆*･ﾟ
The frat house where the seniors stay is practically next door to Jisung’s dormitory, which is why when Mark, Chenle, and Jeno come banging on his door on Saturday night, he realizes he can’t use walking so far in the cold as an excuse to stay home. He also can’t use studying as an excuse anymore, since Mark had already caught him leaving the dorm a few times throughout the week to go study with you. That, and he ran into Jeno as he was entering the library just the night before.
“You’ve been studying plenty,” they’d say, or “We told you about the party last week, no way you’re not going.”
Anyway—the point is, he’ll have to endure tonight, despite his wishes to stay close to his PC for the chance that you’d want to hop into a game. He’d prefer to spend the night talking with you, but that’ll just have to wait until tomorrow. With a somber look on his face, he shrugs on a jacket and opens the door for his friends, who practically drag him outside.
Jeno slings his arm over the taller boy’s shoulders as if to prevent him from fleeing, and the four of them climb down the stairs and onto the path toward the frat. If Jisung strains his ears, he can already pick up on the sounds of the party, even from here.
“You think Chaewon will be there?” Mark asks no one in particular, but the boys all respond simultaneously with groans of distaste.
“You dated her three semesters ago, why do you care?” Chenle starts, “isn’t she seeing Jungwoo now, anyway?”
“That’s exactly why I care,” Mark grumbles, foot kicking a rock along the pavement. “He’s one of the RAs. If he’s there—”
“He’s always there,” Chenle interjects, earning a glare.
“—then she’ll be there, too.”
“So, what happened with… what’s her name, Minjeong? Why don’t you hang out with her?”
“Nah,” He turns to Jeno, “She’s sweet and all, but I found out from Giselle that her and Chaewon are friends, so,”
There’s a chorus of understanding, albeit a bit pitiful, “aah’s” and “oh’s” as the building comes into view. A few people are gathered at and around the entrance while others litter the parking lot with phones and solo cups in their hands as they wait for friends. Among them, and Jisung has to do a double take to make sure, he spots Karina, who waves someone down from the direction of the main courtyard. For a moment, he thinks it might be you who appears from between the treeline, but it’s Heesung who jogs over to meet her and he realizes how silly his thought was in the first place.
In the months he’s known you, you’ve never once brought up a party. In retrospect, you don’t seem like the type to like partying at all. He can picture you clearly now, tearing through textbooks or novels for your literature class, or maybe even typing away to him on Discord and asking if he was online.
He isn’t and can’t be tonight, and he’s very sorry about that, for the record.
Maneuvering through the crowd of tipsy college students isn’t too difficult,and neither is their entry. The door is propped open, and Jaehyun, with his signature snapback that he wears backwards on his dark hair, calls them over from the drink bar.
“First problem I see here,” he starts, “is that none of you have a cup in your hand.”
“We’ve barely made it through the door, man,” Mark laughs, clapping up Jaehyun and moving aside so he can greet the rest of the guys.
“That’s no excuse, you should be sipping on something by now.” He waves his arm, “Take a look around, boys! This is what life is gonna look like for you guys next year—and the year after for you, Jisung.”
Jisung gives a curt, disinterested nod amidst being handed some fruity, fizzy, white claw resemblant that probably wouldn’t taste much different from an Alka-Seltzer. He cracks it open upon being prompted to by Jaehyun, who initiates a “cheers” between the friend group. The moment the alcohol touches his tongue, Jisung grimaces, taking a few long chugs in hopes that the effect will kick in quicker and make the long night that awaits him a little less long.
“Do you know if Chaewon is here?”
Wordlessly, Jaehyun fixes his cap and points a single finger toward the couch, where Chaewon sits besides Jungwoo, leaning in to hear him over the music and giggling at whatever he says in her ear. The boys look over at the couple, then quickly glance back at Mark, whose face falls despite the fact that he knew to expect this.
“Tough,” Jeno gives him a pat on the shoulder, “Hope you have better luck the rest of the night. I’ve gotta bounce,”
“Yo, what do you mean bounce?”
He gestures toward a girl standing near the beer pong table, who looks slightly familiar to Jisung, though he can’t quite put his finger on it, and smirks, “She smiled at me the moment we walked in. I’ll see you later, but I honestly hope I don’t.”
The realization that his friends, in search of their hook-ups for the night, would eventually be abandoning him one-by-one kicks in just then, inviting Jisung to down the rest of his bubbly drink in one go.
Mark rolls his eyes, “You ever notice Jeno is always the first one to get a girl?” His comment earns a few hums of agreement.
“I’m gonna go find Jaemin,” with his phone clutched in his hand, Chenle turns towards the door, “he just texted me he’s outside with Sullyoon and her friend.”
“Wait, Jaemin is—he’s setting you up and not me?” Chenle only shrugs at Mark’s question, replying with a blunt and concise “yeah.”
“I’m not a dog like Jeno though, so I’ll definitely see you guys later.”
As if noticing he was facing the same unfortunate fate as Jisung, Mark turns to the youngest boy with a fearful look in his eyes. Jisung only shakes his head and takes a quick look around, “I’m not planning on hooking up with anyone here, so…” At this, the boy sighs in relief, handing Jisung another drink in solidarity. The two lean against the counter as Jaehyun looks between them, snorting.
“Mark, there’s so many girls here.”
“I know, but—”
“But Chaewon.”
Mark nods, echoing Jaehyun in a quiet, maybe even embarrassed voice, “But Chaewon…”
“Don’t worry, I get it,” he adds sympathetically, “I’m caught up on my ex, too.”
“Uh…” there’s a pause. “Which one?” This comment lands Mark a shove, playful, for the most part. He rubs his shoulder and hisses while Jaehyun, on the other hand, sloshes around the little liquid left in his cup and grabs the closest bottle of alcohol to him, along with whichever random mixer he finds first.
“The only one that really mattered.” He tilts his newly filled red cup back to drink from it, but his eyes peek over the rim and he pulls it from his lips to sigh out, “Speak of the devil and she doth come,” he raises his brows and announces, “there she is now.”
Following his line of sight, Jisung trails his vision toward the front entrance and at once, the sight makes each and every one of his limbs seize up. There’s a twisting and turning in his stomach that almost invites the seltzer he chugged to make a reappearance, and he’s pretty sure the color has drained from his face as he watches you walk inside the frat house behind Karina and Heesung.
So many things go through his mind in such a short amount of time that he fears he may have had some sort of out-of-body experience or hallucination episode; it wasn't really you he was seeing, it couldn’t be. The way your skirt clings to your hips makes him grip his cup tighter within his sweating palm, and the lacy, corset top you’ve decided to wear, which shows off a tasteful bit of cleavage, causes him to swallow down the saliva that had pooled on his tongue.
It was a more provocative outfit than he’d even seen you wear, and if it wasn’t for the fact that Jaehyun opened his mouth to speak, he’s sure he would’ve instantly become bricked up.
“And of course she’s wearing that shirt…” Jaehyun fixes his cap for the second time tonight and straightens out his shirt, “Alright, wish me luck.”
It’s not like Jisung would have interjected anyway, he didn’t really have the grounds to, but he couldn’t even entertain the thought before Jaehyun headed in your direction with decisive confidence. Part of him hopes he was referring to someone else as his ex, perhaps even Karina, since there isn’t another girl in your immediate vicinity besides her, but his bit of hope is crushed as he spots Heesung’s hand intertwined in hers. Surely, Jaehyun wouldn’t be coming up to her if she showed up with someone to his party. It leaves him to reach his regretful conclusion just as his friend and you make eye contact, recognition flashing across your features, along with something else.
Unable to torture himself further by watching your exchange, Jisung tears his eyes away and grabs another drink to make this very, very long night ahead of him somewhat bearable. He turns to Mark, who he didn’t even realize had been talking this whole time, but the loud music and the cloudiness in his mind muffle out his speech.
“—I mean this just sucks! I guess we still have each other, maybe we can find some girls who—”
When did you even date Jaehyun? You hadn’t mentioned him once in the months he had known you. And also, why did you date Jaehyun? Not that there was anything wrong with him, other than his habit of cycling through girls every semester. Mark’s “Which one?” comment had some truth to it, but he would have never expected you to have been on Jaehyun’s roster. It takes him a second to remember that Jaehyun is still his friend, but even then, he can’t fight the bitterness that settles in his bones. What did he mean when he said that you were the only one that mattered? How significant was your relationship with him? There’s too many questions circling his mind, and it isn’t until he downs the fifth drink that they start to blur.
Currently, he’s passing the time conversing with Mark and following him around the party, but more importantly, avoiding you in fear he’ll steal a glance and you’ll be locking lips with your ex. He spots Jaehyun by the bathroom a bit into the night, but thankfully, you aren’t near him. It’s in the middle of a beer pong game with Mark when he dares to glance around in search of you.
First, he spots Karina and Heesung, making out on the couch where Chaewon and Jungwoo once sat. You aren’t near them. Then he spots Jaemin and Chenle dancing with the girls they had met up with, but you aren’t dancing, either.
He’s relieved to find you aren’t with Jaehyun when he spots him, finding instead that his friend is flirting it up with a different girl who is certainly not you. The sight completely pisses him off, and somehow makes him feel immense relief simultaneously. Right around this time, he decides he’s had more than enough of the party. You aren’t here anymore, and Jaehyun’s face is making him fucking sick. Mark is slurring his speech enough that he wouldn’t notice if Jisung just slipped, so he does just that, though he does make sure to mention to Chenle that he’s leaving on his way out so he can keep an eye on Mark.
Outside, the cold is unbearable. The previously crowded lot is empty for the most part, except for a few people puffing clouds of smoke into the air by a bench. Not even the alcohol in his system is enough to warm him up, so he can’t even imagine how a joint could be worth sitting outside for.
The only other person sitting outside is squatted down by the curb with their knees curled up to their chest. As the autumn leaves crack under Jisung’s feet, they turn their head around.
“I told you I don’t wanna—Jisung?”
Your big eyes widen in his direction, and you shoot up from the ground. Jisung’s brow lowers in concern and he notices the only thing you have to cover up is a flimsy cardigan. You and your damn, flimsy cardigans.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Sorry for snapping I—sorry,” you shiver involuntarily as a gust of wind blows through, wrapping your arms around yourself, “I thought you were someone else.”
There isn't a sliver of hesitation before Jisung shrugs off his leather jacket and begins to wrap it around you, grumbling, “Are you crazy? You must be freezing,”
“I’m fine—“
“This should help,”
“But- Jisung, how many of your jackets am I gonna take—”
“As many as you need to.” Your lack of a response makes him look back up to meet your eyes, round and much warmer than the rest of you was right now. He clears his throat, guiding your sleeves into the arms of the jacket as he jokes, “or until you bring your own.”
You smile, muttering a small ‘thank you’ as the warmth engulfs you, along with the smell of him and some cheap cologne only a college student would buy. He’s tugging the collar closer to cover up your exposed neck and chest, eyes flickering down at your bare skin despite being well aware that you’re looking. Where this newfound boldness came from tonight, he doesn’t know. What he does know is that his boldness is always rather short-lived when it comes to you, and tends to appear and disappear like random spurts of energy—he’ll take advantage of it this once. Especially now that he knows you’re Jaehyun’s ex and the most he might even get to do is gawk at you, he intends to make it worth it.
“You must be freezing now, though,” you start, “should we go somewhere warm?”
“How about the library?”
You laugh, looking at him in disbelief, “The library isn’t open at this time, much less on the weekend,”
“Right…”
“Wanna go to mine?” Your suggestion makes his breath hitch for a second, but he manages to respond with decent clarity.
“You live by the library, though. That’s like a half-hour walk. I don’t think you’ll make it that far without turning into an icicle,”
“Well, I don’t really wanna go back inside…” he knows why, so he offers something else.
“My dorm is five minutes away. We could go there if you want, b-but if you’d rather go somewhere else—”
“Okay,” you nod eagerly, “let’s go.”
As Jisung leads the way, speed-walking to beat the chill that spreads through his newly uncovered limbs, he turns his face to you, watching as you tuck the lower half of your face into his coat.
“I don’t know if you want to work on the project or—”
“God no,” you huff, rolling your eyes, “I’m not that much of a buzzkill, dude.” You jog a little to catch up to his longer strides, “Besides, I have like three shots of Pink Whitney in me,”
“Foul.”
“I know. Can’t think about a project right now,”
“I’ve had a bit to drink, too.” he admits.
“I can tell. You’re stumbling.”
He snaps his head around, down to his feet, then back to you. “What? Am I?”
There’s a small, stupid smile on your face as you shake your head. “No.”
He can’t pinpoint why this banter with you is so easy, why it feels so right. Or perhaps, he can, but regardless, his heart leaps in his chest as he scoffs, not fighting the shit-eating grin that spreads on his frosted cheeks.
"It’s that building right over there,” he points.
“You weren’t kidding when you said it was close,”
The two of you climb the stairs and he opens the main door for you, watching you sigh out in bliss as you step into the warmth of the hall. You bounce around in a cute way that once more tugs at his heart-strings, still looking all puffed up and adorable in his jacket that entirely engulfs your frame. He leads you up another flight of stairs and onto the floor his room is at, and once the two of you stop in front of his door, he pats his jean pockets.
“Oh my uh- my keys are in the pocket of the jacket.”
You mimic his recent action, patting around until you find his keys, holding them out for him to take.
Somewhat awkwardly, he fumbles with them until he manages to fit it into the lock, opening the door with one hand. He gestures for you to enter his room with a small shrug, “Make yourself at home.”
As you step inside, Jisung makes it a point to quietly thank whatever higher power compelled him to make his bed this afternoon. The rest of his room wasn’t perfectly organized by any means, but at the very least, his bed, which you now sat at the foot of with your legs bouncing, was neatly made.
“You have your own room?” You mutter in surprise as you look around the small space and notice the lack of a second bed. The tall boy beside you just shrugs again, toeing off his shoes in the corner as he pulls the door closed.
“Yeah, uh… I’m one of the RAs for the sophomore class.”
“Wow,” you sigh, “I wish! I mean, I love sharing a room with Karina, but it’s nice to have space for myself sometimes.”
“That’s why you’re always at the library?”
You nod, sliding your palms across his duvet, “It’s nice and quiet,” your fingers move to grip and release the material, and he blinks harshly to erase the sight of that from his mind before it causes him to spiral. It didn’t prove to be very useful, though, because your still-exposed thighs move and press together, just as they did at the library, and his dick gives a little twitch in response.
“I’ll get you some clothes to change into, that way you’re more comfortable.” he decides, more for his sake than yours. You don’t answer, continuing to look around, taking in the details of his computer that flashes in a bunch of different colors.
“You know I gave up extra storage in my bedside table to be able to keep my PC? I let Karina take it to her side of the room so I’d have space for my setup.”
Rummaging through his drawers, he pipes up, “you game?” as if it wasn’t something he already knew about you.
“I love it. I stayed here for most of the summer just because I had my computer here.”
Jisung picks out a pair of sweats for you and one for himself, along with a t-shirt he knows he recently washed, then he turns, handing it over to you. “I’ll change in the bathroom down the hall and then wait outside. You can crack the door open when you’re done,”
“Thank you, Jisung.”
There’s a gentle sincerity in your tone that makes him wanna say “anything for you,” but he settles for pursing his lips instead, leaving to let you change before he can embarrass himself with any baseless comment you wouldn’t really get. The effect of the drinks still hadn’t completely faded, and he fears he’s capable of saying just about any of his stupid thoughts out loud right about now.
You weren’t completely sober either, not by any means. The trashy vodka your ex offered you in an attempt to reconcile was as bitter as the end of your relationship with him, and it was flowing through your veins and giving you that light-headed buzz. You stand up and slip off your boots and Jisung’s jacket, along with your skirt. Your top requires a bit more precision, the lace getting twisted and tangled in your uncoordinated fingers. There’s little huffs and puffs of frustration that leave your lips during your struggle, and you’d almost consider asking for help if it wasn’t completely inappropriate.
Finally, though, you manage to get it off and slip on the change of clothes Jisung has so graciously provided. They’re warm and they smell good, and they’re much more comfortable than your outfit which is now folded on Jisung’s gaming chair, alongside your purse.
When you look up in admiration of his impressive keyboard, which looks to be custom made, and your eyes trail up to his monitor, you notice something on the corner of the screen. The mindless doodle you had drawn beside your phone number that day in class had been very carefully cut out and stuck onto his screen with tape.
“You okay?”
His voice calls from outside, quietly as if not to disturb you even though it’s you who is occupying his room.
“Yeah, I’m almost done!”
“I thought that she was gonna assign them on Friday?”
Sung had asked you that on call, in regards to the constellation project you mentioned you wanted to start working on. Not Jisung, Sung. Sung, who is not in your astronomy class and would have had no way of knowing when or even what your professor would be assigning.
“You’re Ji-sun, right?”
“—Sung.”
The nickname sounded very right coming from his lips, from his voice. You never gave his nickname too much thought, because truly, Sung could just be a display name. And if it is his real name, it could stand for anything: Sungmin, Sungwoo, Daesung, Ilsung, Jaesung… Jisung.
And then, you recall the time you spoke on the phone—specifically, the time you had to do a double take at your screen to make sure you hadn’t actually called Sung. It was the first time you had spoken to Jisung on the phone, and it’s the only way you had even spoken to Sung… something about it seemed so, so strangely familiar.
Could it be…
“Alright, I’m done!” Your announcement comes after the realization that he’s been waiting outside for a few minutes already.
“Coming in…” He warns, eyes still cast to the ground in case you weren’t decent. They slowly make their way up, and something flashes across his features at the sight of you. You try to ignore it, still preoccupied by your growing suspicions. His computer is on… meaning…
“Let me let Karina know I left… I kinda just walked out on her.”
Jisung nods and takes a cautious seat on his bed a few feet away from you.
As you open the discord app on your phone, you scroll to the top to find his contact and type out a simple Hi, clicking send with your heart beating faster than usual. It’s an impulsive act, but you can’t help yourself. If there’s even a chance…
Instantly, his screen lights up and through his headphones you hear the familiar chime of the notification coming in.
“I knew it! I fucking knew it!”
If it’s possible, Jisung’s face grows even paler than it already was naturally, and even more gloom than it appeared earlier in the night when he identified you as Jaehyun’s ex. All of his features are alert and in shock, watching as you spin around to face him.
“Sung? Right? That’s you?”
He’s struggling to read your expression, and it’s beyond obvious. The only change in his demeanor is the now tensed up shoulders and the redness that takes over the white on his cheeks.
“I—” Are you mad? Should he apologize?
“Did you know all this time? That it was me, I mean?”
He nods slowly, unable to find the appropriate words to say.
Two things happen just then. First, your hand smacks his arm, hard. “You fucking idiot!” and Second, you topple into his arms, hugging him. Initially, his hands hesitate to wrap around you, hovering above your waist as you squeeze his neck.
“You’re not mad?” He asks shyly. You shake your head against him, then lift off with your hands on his shoulders to take a real good look at his face.
“No! I’m so glad, I thought I was going crazy. Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugs again, a gesture he seems to do a lot around you.
“Since when did you know it was me?”
“Since I heard you speak on the very first day in class. I recognized your voice.”
Your eyes soften at this small confession, and you look back towards his desk, “So, this is where you were this whole time while we played? This close? A twenty-minute walk away?” You shoot up from the bed and cross the small distance to the desk, swiping an index finger along the surface, then his mouse, then his keyboard, and all of his other equipment. Your eyes are beaming, looking around and familiarizing yourself with his things. All the things you wondered about him are now laid out in front of you, and it’s exhilarating.
“I was so excited when I found out,”
“You should’ve told me,” you repeat, still taking in his pictures and personal items, your profound curiosity surfacing within you.
“I was worried about making a good first impression, you’re…”
“I’m…?” you press, turning to him for a moment.
“You’re really pretty in person.”
In that moment when you turn away to hide your blush, with the words “you’re really cute in person, too” ready to spill from your tongue in a sweet and shy whisper, a small black pile on the corner of his dresser catches your eye.
“What’s that—”
“Oh nothing! It’s just—”
“Is that my cardigan?”
Forget distraught, forget embarrassed, forget every possible synonym for the word humiliation. Not a single one would do what he’s feeling in this moment even a sliver of justice. Jisung is convinced his soul has left his body, that he’s passed on or that the ground has swallowed him whole. In fact, he’d prefer it that way. He has never felt more panic in his life as you quickly approach the cum-stained cardigan that he took from you, that he pleasured himself with countless times, that he still hasn’t washed…
“You dropped it in class, and I-I meant to give it back to you, you know, a-after I washed it, but then—”
As you turn the material over in your hands, taking note of and examining the stains, Jisungs breath completely cuts off. You spin slowly on your heel, facing him. There’s an unreadable expression on your face, and it takes every bit of the little pride he has left to not squeeze his eyes shut.
“Are these—”
His voice is no more than a sputtering squeak, “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry. Fuck, you must think—”
“Jisung.”
“I didn’t mean to keep it for so long, or-or at all, really, it’s just—”
“Jisung.” He’s pretty sure you can hear him gulp. “Were you using my cardigan to get off?”
“I-”
“Were you?” You ask sternly.
He sucks in a breath, unable to look at you any longer as the faintest of yeses leaves his pouty lips.
There’s a moment of silence. A terribly long, excruciating moment of silence where Jisung can think of no way to make this up to you. He’s beyond ashamed, palms clasped together and sweating, face red with horror, inside of his cheek clamped tightly between his teeth, the whole nine miles. So much for mulling over how he’d reveal who he was to you, and so much for all the overthinking he did, all the times he planned out exactly what to say to you and how. Now, it’s all coming to an end because of this damned cardigan. He should’ve just washed it and given it back to you after the first time—no, he shouldn’t have used it at all. His mind is filled with thoughts of everything and nothing at the same time, and he’s already beginning to mourn the loss of your friendship when you say the unthinkable:
you and your ex, eddie, are trying to be "just friends". it's harder than you thought it would be. | exes to lovers, suggestive but no smut, 2.2k words
"Fancy seeing you here."
His tone is jocular, but the comment is more of an understated question than a simple greeting. There's no mistaking it—he's pleasantly surprised to see you here at this party.
He looks good.
Eddie Munson looks really good.
Or maybe it's just that being around him makes you feel good, after too many weeks of forcing yourself not to miss him. "Fancy seeing you, too," you respond. "Funny how Nance forgot to mention you'd be here."
A playful glint lights up his eyes as he sidles closer, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth—and the expression is so familiar that your heart leaps before you can think to tamp it down.
"Ah, well, I have a theory about that, actually."
"Do you?"
He gives an energetic nod. You're still trying to muster a casual air, despite the surge of...whatever the hell this is that's hitting you right now; a rush of emotion that's just different enough from mere nostalgia to be unsettling in its intensity.
"I do," he says with another nod, this one emphatic. His smile broadens as he peers down at you.
Oh, Jesus Christ. His grin. The warmth of it. The conspiratorial joy in it.
"Wheeler's too nice for her own good," he informs you. "She didn't want to mention me because she knew you'd bail."
"Why would I bail if you were coming?"
"Because of... you know." He reaches out and taps your hand—just a quick gesture, not lingering, but you feel the feather-light touch of his fingertip like an electric shock that ricochets up your arm. "The unresolved sexual tension and everything."
"What?"
"What what?" he echoes innocently, batting his eyelashes at you with exaggerated sweetness. Eddie loves this game, and he plays it well, even now. "Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. You and me."
"You and me?"
"Me and you," he says, shoving his hands into his pockets and bouncing on the balls of his feet like an eager child on Christmas morning. The taunting tone is still there, but so is something else that makes your breath catch in your throat. "Done with that yet?"
"With what?"
"Whatever it is that's keeping us apart," he says airily, and then frowns as he eyes you again. "Which, come to think of it, I don't actually know. So, hey, let's talk about that."
"Eds," you begin, then catch yourself as his face lights up at the nickname, "Don't look at me like that. We agreed."
"We did?" He tilts his head and gives you a quizzical stare. "I don't remember that."
"Yes, you do."
"No, I don't."
You just give him a pointed look.
"Come on, Y/N." His tone softens, turns low and quiet and more serious than you're expecting. "I miss you. Do you miss me?"
He's staring at you so intently that you can't bring yourself to lie. You grab your drink and take a quick sip, to stall for time, because the real answer to his question is complicated.
The beer goes down too fast. "Eddie."
"What?" He sounds innocent, but he isn't fooling you for one second.
"Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"You know like what," you retort, trying to pretend that your pulse isn't pounding in your ears right now. "You're playing with me."
"Do you want to be played with?" he asks, dark eyes glinting again.
The playful remark makes your skin tingle with a heat that's all too familiar. It's not just the words, either. It's the way Eddie is watching you, the slight smirk curving his lips, the flirtatious shift in his posture as he leans into your personal space again, intentionally crowding you this time.
There's an answering heat in your face now, a flush spreading across your skin.
Fuck.
"You have no idea what I want," you retort, deciding that it's best to keep this exchange lighthearted.
"Bullshit," he replies. "I have a very good idea of what you want."
Eddie looks entirely too pleased with himself right now. You reach out and poke him in the chest. "And what is it that I want?"
He doesn't back away from the touch. Instead, he reaches out and pokes you back, touching your shoulder with gentle insistence as he inches even closer, until your face is just inches from his. "You want this," he says softly, gaze darting to your mouth and then back up again.
Oh.
"Don't," you say.
It's a halfhearted protest at best, though. And when Eddie raises an eyebrow, you shake your head with an exasperated sigh. You're well aware that you don't sound convincing at all. This conversation has spun wildly out of control in the space of seconds.
"Don't?" He parrots the word back to you in an incredulous tone, then pulls his lower lip between his teeth, watching you closely as he lets it slide back out from under his bite again, plump and pink and glistening in the low light. "I'm not doing anything."
Back up, you think. Move away. You shouldn't be standing so close.
You find yourself staring at Eddie's mouth for a beat too long before you look back up into his eyes. You smile. "You're going to get me all confused again."
"Good." He leans forward until your foreheads are nearly touching. "If I do it right, you'll start forgetting all those reasons you were using to convince yourself we should stay broken up."
You laugh as you shove him back a step, shaking your head. "See? There you go again."
He holds his hands up in front of himself, grinning widely as he speaks. "Look, all I'm saying is, sometimes you get all twisted up in your head about things. But, other times... well, you listen to your heart instead. You just need a little reminder that the heart is usually right."
"Oh, really?" You take another sip of beer. Tastes terrible. You wish it would at least do more to quell the butterflies suddenly fluttering in your stomach. "And who told you that?"
"Said so yourself, last summer." He stares at you with a wistful expression. "Remember? The lake. Sunset. I'd like to think you remember that day."
"Eds," you warn.
"And the night after that," he continues, his gaze turning molten now as he reaches out to smooth a stray lock of hair away from your face. "I remember every detail, I can refresh your memory if you want."
It's been too long since anyone has touched you like this, and your heart leaps as his fingertips brush your cheek. It's just an instant, gone in the blink of an eye. Still...
You really are touch-starved, though, if just the whisper of Eddie's hand against your face is enough to make you want to lean into his palm. "So, what are you suggesting?"
"Well..." His mouth twitches. "Are you going to kiss me, or should I kiss you?"
"Neither." You step back and take a sip of beer. Nope. Still terrible. "I, uh, gotta get some...air. Or something."
"Air, or something?"
"Yeah, I'm good," you mutter, setting the plastic cup down on the nearest available surface, which turns out to be a table stacked with pizza boxes. Your fingers find the wooden edge and you cling, leaning your weight into it. "Look, you need to stop doing that thing."
Eddie is watching you like a cat about to pounce on its prey. "What thing?"
"You know, the thing. The thing you do. It's very... persuasive. Very convincing." You fold your arms over your chest, because the safest course of action right now is clearly not letting him get close enough to touch you again. "And it's also not fair, because we agreed."
Eddie puts his hands on his hips and tips his head back, letting out an exasperated huff. "No, you agreed. I didn't agree to anything."
"Oh, c'mon. You did. And you know you did. We both did. It was mutual."
"Uh-huh." He makes a sound of amusement as he steps closer again. "Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?"
"I just—"
He reaches up, grips your chin with gentle insistence, and tilts your face up until your eyes meet. The world narrows until there's nothing but Eddie, who's looking at you with the same sweetly teasing expression he used to wear when he would lean over and whisper stupid jokes in your ear during class, back when you were still tentatively learning how to navigate each other, still in the shy, testing stages of that first year.
Except now, he doesn't look away as soon as you glance at him.
Now, he holds your gaze.
Now, his thumb traces your jawline.
Now, he gives you a moment to consider, before he leans in closer and presses his lips against yours.
It's not a kiss, really. Not quite. Just the suggestion of a kiss, a faint brush of his mouth against yours, a fleeting warmth that lingers for the space of a breath or two, there and then gone again.
You blink up at him, startled by the rush of heat that sweeps through you as his fingers linger on your skin. "Eddie—"
The next kiss is softer, slower, firmer. The gentle, searching pressure of Eddie's mouth on yours, unhurried and deliberate and sure, tugs at a piece of your heart that you thought was already mended, but he coaxes it into breaking open all over again.
"We...we..." You gasp, trying to remember why this is a bad idea. But the rational part of your brain is gone, shut off entirely by the little hum of contentment Eddie makes as he shifts his lips against yours.
"We what?" His words are murmured against your lips.
Your mouth still feels like it's tingling from his kiss. You lean forward, swaying into him without realizing it. "We shouldn't—"
Another kiss. You let your eyes flutter closed, and Eddie nudges you backward until your shoulders hit the wall.
His hands slide into your hair, fingers brushing through the strands, tilting your head back. You know you should stop him, but instead, you pull him closer, chasing the kiss when he breaks away, and, oh... his mouth is back on yours again, still slow, still soft, still measured. Not enough.
He is chuckling when he pulls back, the sound so quiet that you feel it more than hear it.
You think, This isn't fair. You shouldn't be able to do this to me. Not anymore.
The whole point of breaking up was so you could get over each other. This, right here? It is not helpful.
"Why, uh..." He clears his throat and trails off. When you open your eyes, you see him smiling down at you, flushed and disheveled, with a smudge of your lipstick on his mouth. "You've gotten really good at that."
Your hand goes up to his lips, finger swiping over the mark left behind by your lipstick. "So...you're saying I wasn't any good at this before, huh?"
Eddie bites his lower lip, his gaze darting to your mouth before sliding back up to meet your eyes again. "I'm saying we could've been doing this the whole time."
"We should stop, before...before...you know."
His nose nudges yours, a touch so fleeting it makes you want to tilt your face up to chase after it, but you stop yourself, because if you keep kissing him, you won't be able to bring yourself to stop. And that would be...bad. Definitely bad. You just can't remember exactly why right now.
"Before what?" Eddie asks in a low voice.
Your mouth, lips still warm from his, curves into a reluctant smile. "Eddie."
He's a breath away. "What, sweetheart?"
Oh, oh. You're in trouble.
"You gotta stop kissing me," you say, as your fingers trail down his chest. He's so solid, warm under your touch. Your hands settle on his waist, and you grip the worn denim of his jeans to tug him closer even as you keep talking, trying to remember why you even wanted this breakup in the first place. "I'm, uh, working on getting over you."
"How's that going, by the way?"
"Terrible."
Eddie just laughs. "It is, huh?"
"Yeah, it is," you say. "But, see, I have a plan, and your kissing is messing up my plan. And my plan is a good one. So, don't mess it up. Please."
Eddie watches you, that fond, slightly smug smile on his lips again. He takes one of your hands in his and presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist, mouth lingering, his breath warm, eyes still on yours. "Tell me about this plan, then."
You make an indignant sound and try to tug your hand away. "It involves trying to spend less time with you, Eds. Like, you know, avoiding parties at friend's houses and all that. Gotta avoid those kinds of situations."
He presses his forehead against yours, and you sigh, leaning into the touch. "Why, exactly?"
"Because it's too... it's just too hard. It's really hard."
"I'll give you something hard, if you want," he says, a wicked gleam in his eyes.
You can't help but laugh. "You are the worst."
But maybe that's exactly what you need.
Well...that plan was doomed from the start anyway.
