Sasa's Secret Society

zum zum i am cleaning my room 🎀 18 🎀 Pretty yes pretty silly pretty much in heat

[eerieenthusiast]

summer fruit

pairing ! john logan x fem!reader

summary ! one august day you notice a man in a mechanic's workshop. from then on, an insatiable desire takes over.

warnings ! mdni/18+ - minors DO NOT interact, highly suggestive/bordering explicit content, no use of y/n, reader is a totally deranged freak, both are possessive, smoking and alcohol consumption, potentially self-indulgent, read at your own risk

authors note ! inspired by my friend's desire to lick the sweat off of him. not sure if this is anyone's cup of tea, but i guess it's mine *wink*

wc ! 6.9k (not a joke)

Late august spreads through you like an infection. The hot rays of the sun beating down on your head, fuzzing the lines of your vision, seeping into every pore until dampness formed in the creases of your clothes. It was a sticky, sweaty, messy kind of heat – a constant distraction as you tried to keep cool and clean. 

‘They’re washed,’ Allie said as she handed you a ripe plum. The fruit was heavy in your hand, silky and delicate against your clammy palm. You held onto the fruit, arm swinging as you followed Allie down the sidewalk. 

‘What did you do exactly?’ you asked her as she bit into her plum. 

‘Well, I didn’t do anything,’ she insisted, mouth full of yellow flesh, ‘but the tail light’s totally shattered, and my tire needed replacing. Some other mechanical work, I don’t know,’ she swallowed, and went in for another sticky bite. 

‘And it’s ready to go again, just like that?’ 

‘I got the special friends-and-family treatment. Dean begged for it to be done on my behalf. I guess it helps to have friends in high places’ 

‘I thought you were dating him,’ you waited at the crosslight, looking across at the mechanic garage, its red door gaping open like the jaws of a shark. 

‘No silly – right, you haven’t met everyone yet. Dean’s housemate, he’s the friend,’ she scurried into the open garage, spotting her red convertible with a pair of legs stuck out from the underside. ‘Logan! Is she fixed yet? I need to pick up Hannah from across town in, like, 10 minutes!’ 

Your hand tensed around the red fruit still in your hand, unpierced by your dry, chapped lips. From under the car, Logan slid out with a wrench in hand. 

John Logan. 

You knew three things about him for sure. He was on the hockey team for the university. He was friends with Garret Graham, and evidently, Allie’s boyfriend, Dean. And, he had patches of black grease all over him. 

Allie was chattering about her car, munching on the last of her plum, while Logan tried to get a word in edgewise. You leaned against the pedestrian traffic light, as it flipped from red to green. Logan was up from the floor, pointing Allie to the back of her car. He was wearing a white tank top, the hems of which were covered in inky black stains. He tucked the wrench into his toolbelt, lopsided on his waist, and as he combed a hand through his hair, you saw the damp parts of the shirt sticking to his skin. The plum hung heavy in your hand as your raised it to your lips, breathing in the scent of the reddish-purple skin. 

You could smell the faint floral notes, the cold of the supermarket air conditioning, the pesticide spray mostly washed away with tap water. Logan was stretching his arms over his shoulders, the tank lifted up from its place under the toolbelt. He opened the trunk, he tightened the bolts of the tire. He swiped his hand through his hair again. Grease was smudged on his forehead. You bit into the plum. 

It was a hard, large bite – you almost choked as you closed your lips around it. You started to chew, slowly, pulling the broken fruit away from your face. Horror struck for a moment, the flesh in this one was red. 

Blood plum. It was a fitting name, it really did look like a bloody, gory mess in there. The bite marks give the fruit a violent edge, the flesh inside like a fresh cut from a butcher’s shop. The juice was dripping down your arm, veins of red tickling your skin, staining your chin and shirt. The hot, midday sun dried the trails of juice, gluing them onto you in a sticky spill. You indulged the plum again, digging your nose into it this time. 

Logan sauntered over to the front door of the car and opened it and Allie slid into the driver’s seat. She adjusted her rearview mirror, and Logan smiled while he patted the hood firmly, waving her goodbye. She carefully pulled out of the garage, and U-turned to my side of the street.

‘What the fuck happened to your face?’ she asked, pulling her sunglasses lower down her nose to look at your red-painted face. 

‘Blood plum,’ you grinned, red bits probably stuck between your teeth. 

‘I’ve got wet wipes in the glove compartment,’ she sighed pushing open the passenger door. You polished off the last of the fruit that was clinging to the pit, and then tossed it onto the curb and plopped down into the seat. You checked yourself out in the rearview; you looked like your had been punched in the face by a Mac lipstick. You wiped your face on the inside collar of your shirt. 

‘I’ll just change at home. This shirt is soaked through anyway.’ 

Malone’s was as busy as usual. University crowd, sticky tables, the cold, blue lights burning into your eyes when you looked at them too long. It was the place to be on a Friday night a few weeks before the semester rolled in; Hannah and Allie had taken off their shifts for the evening to celebrate the start of a new year. Celebrate, that is, with a large portion of hockey players getting shitfaced on 80% sugar syrup cocktails. 

You had met the girls right at the end of the last year, and had spent the summer getting to know them, and consequentially, their hockey-jock boyfriends. Though you were intimidated by their eager online fanbase, and their seemingly perpetual hungover state, the guys were really sweet on Hannah and Allie. You were suddenly getting waves in the gym, and dropping in to the rink to pick up the girls for an evening. You were also spending every other night in Malone’s, drinking a wiper-fluid coloured cocktail. 

It was already late when the others arrived. When Beau, Tucker, and Logan walked through the door, the whole room felt like a symphony of bro-ey cheers. This was the first time everyone was back, and free, from their summer trips and jobs. This was the first time that you were actually meeting the other players. 

‘Come meet everyone,’ Hannah pulled you over, and introduced you to the others. 

Beau was friendly, and spent rest of the evening trying to plan a proper start-of-school house party with Dean. Tucker was gentle, charming, and showed you a lot of pictures of his trips to Italy over the summer. 

And then there was Logan. Polite, attentive, grease-free Logan. 

‘I’m sorry that you’ve been dealing with them all summer,’ he said, eyeing Dean and Garrett as they poured shots for the table. 

‘I was thinking about a restraining order, but I’m pawning off of Dean’s gym membership, so,’ you chuckled, downing the shot in one, slick gulp. It flamed inside your throat, you bit your lip. 

‘Oh, I see, so you’re a parasite,’ he joked, taking his own shot with no recoil. 

‘It’s his payment for making me drink that blue drink,’

‘That’s actually a Hannah special. You should start getting her to pay for your music streaming.’ You gave a sarcastic ‘ahhhhhh, right’ back at him, and he winked when you thanked him for the advice. 

Allie stumbled over, tipsy-bordering-on-drunk, and slammed her arms down on the table. As you leaned forward to grab her hands, your skin dragged on the sticky surface. 

‘Don’t let him charm you too much,’ she sloshed a drink into her mouth, swallowing loudly. ‘He’s a menace under that smirk.’ 

Logan smiled, and made some offside remark about drunk-driving to Allie. But that was all in the background, as he leaned forward to talk, soft-spoken as he was, his chest leaning closer to your shoulder. You froze, arms glued to the tabled between the emptied glasses. You could smell his cologne, some woody thing, and a smoky note on his jacket; and the faintest, lightest touch of gasoline. The scent was forcing its way into you, curling its tendrils into you nose, past your lips, you could feel it tickling the hairs on your forehead. You felt sick, you felt your thighs sticking to the cheap pleather on the stool, you felt heat rising up your neck and pulled your hair to the side. You felt the trickle of the red plum juice down your chin, down your arms, your stomach and your legs. Your felt feverish and sweaty, you felt a pooling sensation between your legs—

‘I’ll be right back,’ you shot up, ripping your legs off of the seat, and heading to the bathroom. 

In the stalls, the porcelain toilet seat iced you off, like a cold shower after tanning on the beach. You pulled down your underwear, pleading to the empty stalls, alcohol firing again in your throat. A patch of blood stained the middle of your underwear. Fucking fantastic. You sent Hannah a text, asking to borrow a tampon, and sat waiting while drops of blood fell out of you. You started at the stain, you could smell the plum. You tasted the sweetness of it, and then it was all bitter in your mouth. It was all salty and then burning inside like a shot of tequila. You felt a fever rising to your head, and the phantom smell of gasoline and WD-40. You palms were sweaty, arms sticky, your hair was tangling in your fingers. Hannah burst into the bathroom and passed you the tampon over the stall door. 

‘Everything ok?’ she slurred.

You popped the cotton in, and shook out your hair. ‘Yeah, it’s just so hot in there.’ 

You came out of the bathroom and were pulled by two flailing arms (Allie’s) onto the dancefloor. The music blared, the lights glittered above your head, and you tried to ease into the groove of Hannah and Allie’s drunken sways. You were too sober for this…

‘I need another drink,’ you stumbled out of their grip and towards to bar. You could see your small, distorted figure reflected in the bottles behind it. ‘One wiper fluid please.’ 

The bartender laughed, knowing all too well Hannah’s recipe for poison. You took the drink, it looked like melted blue-raspberry, onto the dancefloor. As the girls cheered you back on, you began to loosely swing your hips, turning your head back and forth as you lip synced to the Top 40 hits. 

And as you politely held the glass up to take a sip, you saw Logan watching out of the corner of your eye. You looked right back, over the rim of the lipstick-printed glass. Am I bleeding out? But, as you tentatively opened your lip to the bright blue liquid, he raised one of his his dark brows. 

You gulped down the whole drink in one go, let out a long exhale, and he nodded before getting distracted by Beau and Dean’s stupor. 

‘What the hell is in that stuff, Hannah?’ you wiped your lip on your sleeve, feeling the sugary, synthetic liquid spill down into your stomach. 

‘Just a whole lotta fuuunnnnnnn~’ she giggled, pulling you into the center of the floor. 

You danced for what felt like hours, every minute the lights got fuzzier and suddenly you knew all the lyrics to every song that played. You twisted yourself and shoved up between bodies as you jumped, feeling the sloshing of the alcohol in your gut, and the stickiness of the floor clinging to your shoes like gum. And when the sweat on your skin was mixed with every soul pressed up against you, it was like bloody plum juice had rained down from the industrial ceiling. 

Dean and Garrett had their hands all over Allie and Hannah, and it was entertaining for a moment. A live show, but these were your friends and as the wiper fluid settled into your bloodstream, you tripped off of the dance floor. ‘Imgonnagetsoemfreshair…’ you called back to the stamping floor. 

The door swung open as you plunged into it, and the fresh, summer night air made your skin prickle with goosebumps. You breathed it in, hauling yourself upright, focusing on the streetlamp. It was so refreshing, the whispering of the trees, the quiet buzz of the lamp…

The smell of tobacco poking into your nostrils. You snapped out of it and looked to the corner of the building, where Logan was standing. Smoking a cigarette. 

‘You know that shit is so bad for you,’ you called, hugging your exposed arms around your chest. 

‘Yeah they suck,’ he smiled, blowing out a puff of silvery fumes, ‘you want one?’ 

You traipsed over to his extended arm, pulling one of the white sticks out of the box. You leaned into his hand as he lit it, dangling from your lips. 

The tobacco wast like dust blowing into your lungs. Its bitter taste sharp against the sour, blue leftovers on your tongue. You held it for a moment, and watched Logan take another drag. Hissing his teeth as the smoke blew out, you wondered how they were still so white. The bitter taste melted into your mouth like a soft candy, you almost forgot to exhale. It just tasted…so good. Like a plum. 

‘Didn’t know you smoked,’ he lilted, as you slowly released the fumes from your nose. You wanted to keep it all in your mouth, you didn’t want anything to escape by talking. But you did, you were being normal.

‘Only socially, or when I can blackmail an athlete into giving me freebies,’ you leaned against the wall, the lamplight beating down like an August sun. 

‘Good luck finding one of them. I hear all these hockey guys are real well-behaved.’ 

You chuckled, digging your fingernails into your bicep at the obnoxious innuendo. Was it the alcohol, or did he do it on purpose? You felt the bricks on your back scratch and you hoped it would make you bleed. 

‘Why haven’t we met before?’ he asked, crushing the cigarette bud under his boot. 

‘I only met the girls in May,’ you said, dragging another long breath, ‘and I was working most days at the fancy breakfast place downtown.’

‘The one southside?’ 

‘The one and only.’ 

‘Damn, that place is fancy. It’s right next to–’

‘Yeah, your mechanic shop,’ you cut off, trying to lick the smoke from your lips. 

Wait. FUCK. 

A moment of silence passed as you choked on the smoke infecting your lungs. Tears pricked in your eyes. Was the wiper fluid coming back up? 

‘Actually, it’s my Dad’s place,’ he answered. 

You cleared your throat, dropping the bud to the ground. Logan pressed it down with his boot before you could. You stood straighter on the brick wall, scratching your back with the roughness. 

‘Must be tough, working there and practicing,’ you said, feeling the air get colder as he stepped in front of you. 

‘It is, but I’m a great multitasker,’ he pulled his hands out of the pockets of his Carhartt jacket. 

You felt your stomach lurch. You held down the cocktail, slamming it into place with a grip on your stomach. You felt dampness between your legs. You had to change the tampon again. The air was freezing suddenly and your arms could not cover enough of your skin. 

He leaned over you, blocking the lamplight partially, looking down at your white knuckles. ‘How did you know I work at the mechanic?’ he whispered. 

‘I was with Allie today,’ your shoulders tensed, and relaxed as you backed into the wall. 

‘You should have come in with her.’ You realised, suddenly, a warmth spreading over your body. And the smell, was it from him, or somewhere else, of gasoline burning, and cigarette smoke, and oil, and wood like cedar, and sweat and—

He had put the jacket over you, pulling the front to cover your goosebumped chest. 

‘Why were you watching me in there?’ You nodded to the neon Malone’s sign, swinging in the breeze. 

He was silent, now clearing his throat, and biting his lower lip. ‘You were getting drunk. Everyone was drunk. And I’m going to practice tomorrow morning, but there are a lot of people in that bar. And the guys are great, but not all the guys in there–’ he tilted his head to the sign ‘–are so great.’ 

‘I don’t need you to watch out for me,’ you bit back. The gang stumbled out of Malone’s, laughing and galavanting as Logan stood back from you. They were coming over. 

‘I know. But I think you like it.’ 

Alcohol always woke you up absurdly early. The sun was supposed to be rising by now, 5am, but it seemed dark outside. Then you heard the thunder, and saw the rain trickle, drizzle, drop, then pour. 

Your bedsheets were strewn to the side, a strand of hair stuck to your lips. Your hand rested beside your head, your ring and middle finger crusted in dried blood. It was dark under your nails, like a massacred french manicure. You watched the rain, turning your head to the side. Your room had no A/C, only a fan in the corner that was working overtime. Your sheets were cool and damp beneath you, and your nose was close enough to your hand to smell the sour stench. You brought them closer, right up under your nose, to the cupid’s bow of your upper lip. 

I think you like it. 

The stormed raged on. The fan whirred. Your stomach grumbled and your eyes were wide awake. You stared in the dark at the posters of popstars and football players, of fashion magazines and postcards. You could see his face everywhere, distorted. That’s not him, but you wished it was, staring back. You could still taste the tobacco behind your teeth. It was so hot in your room. Fuck this. 

You jumped out of bed, and felt like you left a trail of bloody footsteps no matter have sneakily you tiptoed. And opening the back door, you threw yourself out into the rain. 

It shattered down like broken glass, piercing your feverish skin with its antidotal cold. The contrast woke you up in a flash, lighting flickered above. Your pajamas – underwear, really – soaked onto your body, a sopping second skin as you dragged your dirtied hands through your hand. You hadn’t even put on shoes, just stood there with your toes gripping into the lawn, mud pulling you into the earth. 

You knelt there, knees sinking below the grass, and craned your neck back to storm. Were you asking for forgiveness, or just wanted to feel the water run down your face? Your hands dug into the lawn, ripping up the grasses, blood replaced with soil under your nails. You spread the mud on your thighs, eyes closed, trying to think of anything, anything, but Logan’s stupid fucking grin.

I think you like it, the rain spat back at you. You opened your mouth and the water tasted like red fruits. I hate that I do.  

It was still so impossibly hot, humid, and swampy in the morning rain – today was going to be boiling. These summer storms were intense, but short lived. They came back and forth in waves all evening, polishing off the sidewalk from the sweat of the people. You crawled back into the house, not waking your housemates, and stepped into the shower. The window was open, the humidity had gotten inside. You put it on hot anyway. 

‘They said they’ve already got meats from the deli, so just bring dessert,’ Allie instructed over the phone. You were going to the hockey house for a barbecue later. In this heat. 

‘Should we make a pie then?’ Hannah spoke into my hand, holding up the speaker. 

‘It’s like a billion degrees, you wanna bake in this weather?’ Allie called over. 

‘Fine. Ice cream it is then. See ya,’ Hannah picked up a shopping basket and linked her arm with yours. 

‘Bye Allie,’ you clicked the phone off, pointing towards the frozen section. You passed by the produce, choosing a few punnets of fruit. Plums were half off. So were cherries. 

‘Do you know who’s gonna be there?’ you piped up, watching as Hannah scanned the freezer. 

‘Same people as last week, plus a few of the puck bunnies, Jules, Kendall…’ she picked out a large tub of vanilla and a box popsicles. ‘Why? Anyone you don’t like?’ 

‘No, no, everyone’s great,’ Better than great, actually. ‘Just curious.’ You still had his jacket in your room, draped over your pillow. It had been a week, and you still had it. You walked with Hannah to the checkout, spotting the packs behind the cashier. ‘One of these, please,’ you pointed to a red and white box. 

‘Woah, what, you smoke?’ Hannah said, packing the groceries into a paper bag. 

‘Ohhhh, no, they’re for my, uh, housemate. She’s got terrible habits. I owe her though.’ 

The drinks table was already trashed with liquor bottles, but you poured yourself plain cola. you had painted you nails red that afternoon, and they camouflaged the Red Solo you were holding. You tapped them against the plastic to the rhythm on the music blasting out of the house.

It was already 7pm, but the sun was still high, and the backyard felt like a sauna when you stood near the grill. Tucker was meticulously turning the red meats, and shouted at Dean when he tossed on a dozen more behind his back. You dropped down onto a picnic blanket, with a blonde, new face. 

‘Don’t think we’ve met yet,’ they held out their pale hand, ‘I’m Jules. Logan’s sibling.’ 

You nearly sprayed the soda out of your nose. You felt the bubbles rise up, and snorted them back down to your gullet. ‘Oh right, yeah, Hannah told me about you!’ Overly cheerful. Get a grip. You held the cup tighter, denting the side with your thumb. 

‘Yeah, she mentioned. You’re the one working at the fancy new place, right?’ 

‘That’s me,’ 

‘Logan said you’ve been to our Dad’s place,’ Jules offered you come cherries from one of the punnets you bought.  

‘I mean, I’ve seen it. I didn’t know you guys worked there,’ you popped a cherry into your mouth, tugging the steam and tossing it into the grass. 

‘Oh, I don’t work there. I hate getting all that grease in my hair,’ they laughed, spitting out a cherry pit. ‘Logan doesn’t seem to mind, though.’ 

Don’t remind me. You followed Jules’ gaze to the other side of the yard, where Logan was fumbling with the charcoal under the grill. The waves of heat rolled over his face, shimmering as he focused on the black exhaust. Tucker kept berating him for being in the way, and all he answered with was a steady ‘mhm.’ 

You sucked the pit between your teeth, unable to pull off all of the red flesh. You spit it into your fingers, and tossed it behind you into the bushes. Your fingers were red, soaked in cherry juice. You went for another one, and bit it in half, watching the redness spread on your fingertips. 

‘Has he always done that? Worked and played for Briar?’ you asked, stuffing the rest of the fruit in you mouth. 

‘Yeah, well, Dad doesn’t let him off the hook. I try to get him to quit so he can actually have time to relax,’ Jules sat back, and you both stared at Logan fiddle with the grill some more. ‘He barely gets in enough time to take care of himself, like, the guy constantly has this gasoline scent going on, and he took up smoking which I hate.’ 

‘Yeah,’ you gluttoned another few cherries, your hands reddening. You could still taste the metallic blood under your nails, the chips of nail polish between sweetness. ‘He should probably quit.’ You sucked on the tips of your fingers, lapping at the juice drenching them. Logan stood up, nudging Tucker to the side, letting him take a rest to eat with the others. 

‘Well, you try telling him that. He won’t listen to anybody. He’s the worst,’ Jules laughed, and then said they were going to look for some more napkins inside. 

You got up and walked over to the grill, cherry juice still stained all over you hand and lips. Logan was standing away from the heat, forehead glistening under the cutoff of his red bandana. You felt faint when the smoky air replaced your oxygen, and took of last swig of the cola before dropping the cup on the table. Liquid courage. 

‘Hey,’ he said, standing upright and sparkling those pearly whites at you ‘Am I getting my jacket back anytime soon or should I go with Allie on her next mall trip?’ 

‘You want a jacket? In this weather? You must be out of your mind.’ 

‘Says the one shivering outside in 75º weather,’ he turned some of the meats over. His fingers were marked with black soot, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows were darkened at the fold. You stood right next to him, watching the fats bubble up and leak out of the raw sides of the burgers. 

‘It wasn’t because of the weather,’ you muttered, loud enough for only him to hear, and shyly smirk at. He kept working, and eyed the bloody red stains on your fingers. 

‘What happened there?’ he asked, holding your hand up to inspect the mess. You forgot to breathe, watching as his blackened fingers grip around your wrist, leaving a smudge below the red. 

‘Cherries. Nasty things,’ 

‘A lot like plums, huh?’ he nodded, placing your hand back down. 

Wait. 

‘Allie brought us some the other day. She said you really seemed to like the ones they’re selling right now at the store.’ And there was the bittersweet relief. ‘I tried one this morning, and it stained my clothes pretty bad. I looked like a damn vampire or something when I was done.’ 

You literally had to suck in your breath. It’s the smoke. Trying not to think too long about Logan eating one of those bloody plums proved to be more suffocating than the barbecue fumes that plagued your lungs. Your mind was betraying you, and you could see it in real time. The faintest line of pinkish red running down his neck, beneath his shirt. You recognised it, beneath the sweaty sheen, the perfumey skin of the plum. Your shot your eyes down, focusing on his hands – fuck, no – on the meats which were melting in their own fatty releases. 

‘Any requests?’ he interrupted your perversions, gesturing to the charred selection. 

‘Cheeseburger, please,’ you pointed to one of the patties, as he flipped it over, concealing dripping oils. They dropped into the ashy coals below, evaporating into savoury, smoky air. You inhaled deeply, wondering how much of his sweat had fallen onto the grill. 

Finally – finally – the sun had set and the yard was cooling into a mellow, blue night. You had posted up on the back porch, avoiding Logan by keeping exactly across the yard from him at all times. It was a perfect vantage point, you could circle him like a hawk. At some point, he had left to change his shirt, and you nearly would have made it inside and up to his room if Hannah hadn’t called you to help bring out the ice cream. It was probably for the better. Maybe. 

So at the end of the night, the sweat cooled under your arms and below your knees, as you unwrapped one of the popsicles and leaned against the painted white beam of the porch’s awning. You could smell the old wood of it, splintering your nose, when Logan walked back out, wearing a shirt with a small white paint stain on the lower hem. You put the end of the rocket pop in your mouth, it was so cold you thought your spit would freeze around it. You picked at the paint job behind you, and shoved the chips into your pocket. 

Hannah and Allie had glided over, chatting shit about some of the guys on the other teams. Dean and Garrett were there, maybe, you didn't really know, you were so focused watching every step Logan took as he closed up the grill, took shots with Tucker and Beau, and sunk his teeth into the last of the meats on the table. The popsicle sat heavy on your tongue, your saliva mixing with the melting juice and sliding down onto the stick. Is this how guys feel watching porn? 

It was all a decompressing dream as the air cooled down, breathable again, fresh again, except for the wafts of tobacco smoke that drifted over from Logan’s cigarette. And then there was a girl. 

You were so busy sucking off that damn rocket pop you barely even noticed her walk over. She was cute. She was…plain. She seemed nice, as she smiled and began chatting with Logan, tilting her head. Her sweater was red, vintage, she had really cool silver nail polish – okay, NOT so cool as they started tracing up his forearm as she chatted. And the smug bastard was politely smiling, sticking that stupid cigarette in his mouth. She seemed real nice, she seemed real friendly. For a moment his eyes landed on you, gripping the beam of the awning and tearing up his fresh paint job. 

You bit into the popsicle, and crunched, hard, on the icy rock in your mouth. You didn't care about the pain it caused in your teeth, the frosty shock shooting into your nerves. You swallowed, took another bite. The girl giggled and squeezed his bicep. You bit down to the popsicle stick, and spat it out when the wood had snapped. 

For a while, you sat there, seething. Talking to your friends, compensating by cackling at all the jokes, even the bad ones. Picking the nail polish off your fingers, sucking on the remaining fruit taste on the inside of your cheek. The party was quieting down, and you hadn't realised your little circle of friends on the balcony were all that was left, until that girl waved goodbye and passed through screen door. And then, Logan followed after. 

‘I’m gonna call it a night. Gotta practice early tomorrow,’ he looked at you, and you sneered back. His expression darkened, and he hesitated. Garrett and Hannah were sitting on the porch swing, Dean and Allie were fighting over the AUX. Logan just went inside, and you left before midnight. 

The next morning, you woke up in cold sweat. You punched the pillows, kicking your feet at the blankets crumpled at the edge of the bedframe, and then your alarm went off. As the adrenaline piped down, you eyed the jacket tossed onto your floor; you picked it up with a dainty finger, still faintly red from the cherries, and just stuffed your face into the collar. Fuck it. 

It smelled so good. It smelled like…everything. Like dirty laundry and crumpled cigarette buds and motor oil and bloodied knuckles and sweat running down his back, and it was so disgusting that you wanted to shove the whole thing into your mouth and rip it apart with your molars. 

So you got dressed, and you went to the rink. 

The walk there was pleasantly cool. The fluorescents inside the rink reflected the blue bleachers, giving everything an icy glow. It was a bit like Malone’s, with no music, just the click-clack sound of the puck on the ice. You zipped the jacket up to shield yourself from the cold, and rested your fists in the pockets. The unopened pack of supermarket cigarettes were in the left side. 

You watched him from the entrance, the backlight of the hallway hiding your silhouette from him. He was fast, round and round the edge of the rink, crossing onto the center blue lines to make a shot. He had his helmet on, even though he was alone, like he was expecting the lights to crash down on him. He slowed down when he heard your footsteps on the stairs, the metal giving you away as your shoes stomped.  

He skated towards the opening in the boards, stopping to take his helmet off. He tossed his head back as he pulled the bulky armour off, throwing his hair back and out of his face. And you had to hold yourself up through the pockets of his jacket because he was so…sweaty. 

His hair, normally brushed out and messily framing his face was completely soaked. Like, just-got-out-of-a-pool soaked. And it curled on the ends in response to the glittery white sheen coating his neck and face. The longest strads were sticking to the sides of his face, and as you got closer, your eyes followed a drop run down from his forehead to his chin. And again from the tip of his nose. And down his neck, crawling below his jersey, and you couldn’t tell if it was phantom sensation between your thighs or real. It could’ve been blood, and you wouldn’t have cared. 

He leaned on the boards for support and tossed him helmet onto the player’s bench. ‘Hey–’ 

‘I came to return your jacket,’ you cut him off, and pulled out the packet of cigarettes, ‘and to give you these.’

‘I’m actually going to quit,’ he chuckled, watching closely as you inched to the place in front of him. You kept the board firmly in front of you, holding you back from the waist down. 

‘Then this can be your celebratory last hurrah,’ you shook the box stuffing it back into the pocket. 

‘Well, thank you very much,’ he said.

‘So what did it for you in the end? Jules finally slapped some sense into you?’ 

He grinned, settling into place on the board edge, craning his face over it. ‘Actually, a pretty girl told me they are apparently bad for you. And I wanted to ask her out so I thought she might give me a chance if I stopped.’ The sweat kept raining down from his face, like red juice, staining the ice. 

Oh, fuck this guy. Fuck him. Fucks sake. 

You scoffed, suddenly constrained by the zipper you did up moments ago. ‘Yeah, she was real cute in that bright-red sweater. Saw her from a mile away. LOVED the white mini shorts, she could even consider bikini bottoms next time. And those nails–’ 

‘I think you’ve got the wrong person in mind. My girl is wearing an old, worn down Carhartt jacket. And her nails are chipped and red,’ he pulled off his gloves. His knuckles were bruised and swollen. They looked like cherries. Your mouth flooded with the sweet taste of them. 

‘So possessive already, and you haven’t even asked her out? I think she’ll run for the hills before you can lay your mitts on her.’ 

You felt something slide into your pockets, before you could look you were tugged right up to the board, knocking the wind straight out of your lungs. You tasted the tobacco smoke exiting your system. His hands rested on your waist, and your face was dangerously close to his. High-definition, his face was glowing under the fluorescent lights, exposing too much of him to your preying eyes. You clenched your teeth, you could smell the grease and the gasoline. 

‘She’s just as bad as me. She stalks me outside of my workshop, and taunts me by eating plums,’ he said, his voice huskier in a whisper. 

‘She sounds like a real piece of work,’ you were literally breathing each other’s air, all the stale tobacco and heat of it, ‘you should be careful. She might bite.’

‘I think I want her to,’ he leaned in fingers wrapping around the small of your back, his sweat starting to drip onto you. 

‘I don’t want you looking at anyone else. Especially not girls in short-shorts,’ you demanded, a half inch away from his lips. 

‘Then too bad you aren’t looking when I’m staring at you over her shoulder.’ 

You kissed him like you were starving. You were, actually. For his lips that tasted like cherry pie and barbecue smoke, for the string of spit that tied you both together when you pulled away to breath unnecessary clean air. For salt, for sweet, for something cold and hot at the same time, that would burn the roof of your mouth because you were too impatient. 

You nipped at his jaw, and ran your tongue up the side of his face. 

He sighed, and you pulled back to look into his eyes. 

‘Do it again.’ 

You went up his neck, like a dog lapping at its water bowl. You tasted the plum juice that had leaked from his mouth, and it was sweeter than any sugar could be. The sounds he made were ridiculous, he was huffing in air like it was his last cigarette. His skin was hot, but his hair was cool as your fingers tangled into the wet strands at the back of his drenched neck. You kissed and kissed, and bit, and apologized, and bit him again. You breathed in the same smell as the jacket, more pungent by a tenfold. You could smell the arousal dripping off of him, and you thanked him for letting you in so close with another long drag o from the tip of your tongue. 

His hand moved up from your waist and knotted into your hair. He pulled gently, then harder to unstick your from his neck, so your head was tilted up at him. The cool air ruminating off the ice slapped you in the face and neck, exposed as he held tightly to your hair in his fist. 

‘Take my keys and get in the car. We are doing this at home,’ he pressed another kiss to your lips, then nudged you towards his stuff on the bench. He started unlacing his skates before he even stepped off of the ice. 

The ride home was agonising, he hadn’t even bothered to use the locker room showers or change out of his uniform. Your nails dug into your legs, you unzipped the jacket because everywhere was so damn hot again, inside and out. You felt sticky between your fingers and toes. 

Every door, from the car to his bedroom, was swung open and slammed shut like he didn’t care if he broke them. He could fix it all later. You were right back to it as you dug your nails into the back of his head, fighting to pull your top over your head as he slowly unlaced his trousers. 

His room smelled like paint, and damp wood. You spotted darker stains in the corners of the ceiling, saw an uneaten plum sitting on his desk, and felt the softness of his sheets as your knees settled on either side of his lap. You felt one of his bruised, calloused hand pull your chin to focus into a kiss. ‘Eyes here,’ he looked at, perhaps right through you, as he tucked an unruly strand of hair behind your ear. 

You didn’t know whose sweat was whose anymore, everything was collapsing and colliding together your head felt dizzy. You watched him closely, the purple-blue bruises from getting hit during games littered over his torso. Your small, cherry-sized love bites looked like nothing in comparison. You dug your nails into his back when he started to kiss your neck, moving up along your jaw. Every inch of your body, and his, tensed and untensed over and over. 

When you were kissing his lips again, eyes scrunched shut from the severity of pleasure below, you thought you might have to just collapse over his shoulder and let him do the rest of the work. But the spinning in your head stopped when you tasted the bloody red plum juice spilling into your mouth. 

No, wait. Actual blood. 

You pulled back, still easily grinding on top of him, when you saw the red hot mess gushing down from his nose. It was like a storm, colliding with sweat and spit as it slipped down his chin, his chest, and lower. His white teeth were painted with it, in sticky patches it clung onto the rough stubble of his jaw.

You dove back in, lapping at the blood and sweat, tasting only the sweetness of the summer fruits that had ruined your hands. You peeked at the blood sticking to your fingers as you held his face, and gluttoned on his cupid’s bow while he kept pace. You stayed at it till the end, biting and drooling on the gory disaster, his blood your new lipstick as you groaned his name into his mouth when you were at the peak of the cliff. 

Both your faces were fucked up in the comedown, sucker punched with desire. The daylight was spilling onto your bodies when the air came  back into your lungs, the taste of metal and bittersweet satisfaction coating your tongue. You felt water trickling down your body, like the rain, soiling your bare skin. He sat up, eventually, dried blood crusting under his nose, which he wiped on his rough hands. You both needed a shower. 

He poured you a glass of water, waited for you to finish it, and then drank some himself. You talked lazily for a while, your head resting on his arm, not bothering with the clothes on the floor because his room didn’t have any A/C, either. He reached over to the desk, pulling the plum off and holding it to his still-injured nose. 

‘Still hungry?’ He joked, offering the ripe, purple-skinned fruit to you. 

You didn’t need to answer, you just bit into the soft flesh. Straight out of his hand. 

[undercoversasa]

holy fuckkkkk!!! it’s art

[flopiguro-deactivated20251009]

me the moment y/n forgives him in an angsty cheating fic

bonus crash out if the author described the cheating in detail and he enjoyed it

[sumluckr-deactivated20250615]

Wolf at the door

Pairing: Geum Seong-je x female reader

Summary: One impulsive night leads to a secret you can’t escape. When your sister brings home her new boyfriend, everything you tried to forget comes back to haunt you.

Warnings: explicit sexual content, blackmail, toxic dynamics, non-consensual power dynamics and psychological manipulation.

The bass-heavy music thrums through your body as neon lights flash across the packed club. You stand at the edge of the dance floor, heart rattling in your chest. This isn’t you – or at least, it’s not the you everyone knows. Good girls from respectable families don’t sneak into clubs on a weeknight, don’t let strangers buy them drinks, and definitely don’t fantasize about reckless, illicit thrills. But tonight, you’ve shed your perfect-student skin. Tonight, you’re rebellion in a short black dress, determined to forget the suffocating expectations that cling to you like a second skin.

You down the last of your cocktail, sweetness and alcohol burning down your throat, and sway your hips to the music. It’s dizzying and a little liberating to be here alone – no parents hovering, no teachers, no judgment. Just for a few hours, you want to be someone else, someone free and bold and bad. Your eyes drift over the sea of strangers under pulsing strobe lights. Bodies move in dark silhouette. Laughter and shouts cut through the throbbing bass.

That’s when you feel his eyes on you – a prickle of heat at the back of your neck. You glance over your shoulder and catch sight of a figure lounging against the wall near the bathroom hallway. Even in the erratic neon glow, he stands out. Tall and lean, he’s dressed in a fitted black jacket and ripped jeans, exuding a casual menace. His hair is dark, a few unruly strands falling over one eye. And those eyes… fixed on you with an intensity that sends a thrill up your spine. In the shifting light, you can’t discern their color – only that his gaze is bold, unabashed, and dangerous.

Your pulse skips. A sensible voice in your head whispers that nothing good can come from locking eyes with a stranger like him. He’s exactly the kind of boy you’ve always been warned about – the kind your parents would never approve of, the kind who radiates trouble. Perhaps that’s precisely why you hold his gaze a second longer than you should. Why a spark of defiance flares to life inside you, challenging your own good sense.

He smirks when he sees you looking. It’s a lazy, confident curve of his lips, as if he finds your attention amusing. Under the flashing club lights, he pushes off the wall and begins to cross the room toward you. Instinctively, your breath catches. He moves with a predatory grace, weaving through the crowd without taking his eyes off you, as though he’s already decided you will be his next conquest.

Your heart thunders. Part of you wants to turn away, break the spell, retreat to safety. But your feet remain planted, curiosity and rebellion rooting you in place. The air seems to thicken as he approaches. You catch a better glimpse now: sharp features, a strong jaw marked by a fading bruise near his cheekbone, and a split in his lower lip as if he’s been in a recent fight. A white bandage peeks out from beneath the collar of his jacket, taped at his shoulder or neck. He should look beaten up, rough, scary… and he does. Yet none of it diminishes his appeal – if anything, the bruises and bandages only intensify the dangerous aura around him. He’s like a storm contained in a human frame.

When he reaches you, the scent of smoke and something musky washes over you. He’s a head taller, forcing you to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes. In the flicker of neon, you see now they’re a deep charcoal-grey, penetrating and cold. A shiver races over your skin. Too late to run now.

He doesn’t ask to dance. He doesn’t ask anything. Instead, the stranger’s hand lifts, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair off your face. The gesture is oddly tender for someone who looks like him, but the glint in his eyes is anything but gentle.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing here all alone?” he drawls, voice low to be heard over the music. There’s a hint of amusement in his tone, laced with something dark that you can’t quite name. Up close, his charm is edged with danger, like a knife cloaked in silk.

Your stomach flips. A dozen possible answers flit through your mind – a lie, an excuse, anything to preserve your dignity – but what slips out is the raw truth: “Trying to have some fun.” You’re surprised by the boldness of your own words. Normally you’d never admit that to a stranger, but the alcohol and adrenaline are dissolving your filter. If my parents heard me now… The thought almost makes you laugh.

He chuckles, a low rumble that you feel in your chest more than hear. His thumb trails lightly down your cheek in a mockingly affectionate stroke. “Oh, I can give you fun,” he says, leaning in. His lips hover by your ear, the heat of his breath making you tremble. “Question is, can you handle it?”

A bolt of heat spears through you, half excitement, half fear. The challenge in his voice and the flirtation ignite something reckless inside you. This is precisely what you came here for, isn’t it? To prove you’re not just the obedient daughter, the straight-A student, the well-behaved sister. To feel something real and wild, even if it’s just for one night.

You don’t trust your voice, so you answer by arching a brow, hoping to appear braver than you feel. “Try me,” you manage, the two words coming out steadier than the hammering of your heart.

His eyes darken, that predatory smirk widening. Without another word, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you onto the dance floor. The abrupt closeness knocks the breath from your lungs. He’s solid muscle under that jacket; you can feel the tension coiled in him, like he might spring into violence or passion at any second.

The music shifts to a sultry, grinding beat. He moves with confidence, hands sliding low on your hips. You follow his lead, letting him press you back until your body meets the hard plane of his chest. It’s intoxicating – his heat, the way he guides you as if he owns your body. You can smell a faint trace of blood mixed with his cologne, or maybe it’s your imagination. Either way, it sends a thrill through you. This is dangerous. He is dangerous.

And you’ve never felt more alive.

You dance, though it’s less dancing and more an excuse to touch. His hands roam over your curves in time with the heavy bass. When your arms loop around his neck, your fingers graze a row of bandages along the side of it. You realize they’re covering what look like half-healed cuts. Your eyes flick to his in question, but he only gives a lazy shrug and pulls you closer, grinding against you in answer. The message is clear: Don’t ask. So you don’t. You shut off the cautious part of your brain that wants to know what happened to him. All that matters is right now.

His thigh pushes between your legs as you sway together, and a small gasp escapes you at the pressure against your already thrumming core. You swear you feel him smile against your temple at the sound. Embarrassed by how quickly your body is responding, you turn your face up, intending to reclaim some control by kissing him first – but he beats you to it.

He swoops down and captures your lips in a bruising kiss that steals all thought. It’s not gentle or slow. It’s teeth and tongue and heat, a clash that sends sparks through your veins. You whimper into his mouth, and he takes the sound as invitation to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your toes curl. You taste a hint of copper – maybe from the cut on his lip – mixed with the alcohol on both your tongues. The metallic tang shouldn’t be arousing, but it only reminds you that this man is raw and real, not some polished prince charming.

His hand moves up your back, tangling in your hair, tilting your head to his liking so he can kiss you even harder. It’s like he wants to consume you, and you find yourself yielding, letting him set the pace. When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing hard. Your lips tingle, likely swollen from the ferocity of the kiss. A satisfied gleam lights his eyes as he looks at your dazed expression.

“Fun enough for you?” he purrs, voice dripping cockiness. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, which you realize is stinging slightly from a bite – his or yours, you’re not even sure.

A flush heats your cheeks. You bite back an instinctive polite reply. Good girls say thank you or demur. You force those impulses down and, mustering your bravado, give a soft, breathless laugh. “Not bad…,” you tease, trying to match his nonchalance, though your voice betrays you with a slight tremor. “But I thought you promised me fun. Is that all you’ve got?”

His eyebrows lift at your challenge, surprise flickering over his features. Then that wolfish grin returns, more wicked than before. He leans in so that his nose almost brushes yours. “Careful,” he murmurs, and you feel his hand tighten at your hip, fingers digging in possessively. “I might just have to prove I can blow your sweet little mind.”

Your heart skips at the promise laced in those words. Before you can form a reply, he captures your hand in his. “Come.” It’s an order, not a request. You barely have time to snatch your purse from a nearby ledge before he’s tugging you through the crowd.

There’s a surreal thrill in letting yourself be led. Normally, you’d balk at anyone manhandling you – but something about his confidence, the deliberate way he navigates through throngs of people with you in tow, is intoxicating. Part of you can’t believe what you’re doing. You met this boy mere minutes ago. You don’t even know his name. This could be incredibly stupid… No, it is incredibly stupid. And yet, you don’t resist. Whether it’s curiosity, desire, or the rebellious anger at your own sheltered life driving you, you follow him.

He pushes open a heavy door in the back, leading you into a dark hallway that smells of spilled beer and cleaning bleach. The sign on the door that slams shut behind you reads Restrooms. The bass from the main room fades to a muffled thump through the wall, and the sudden relative quiet makes your ears ring. The hall is lit only by a flickering fluorescent light. To your left, the door to the ladies’ room stands closed; to your right, the men’s. He ignores both, instead zeroing in on a third door at the very end – a single unisex bathroom or maybe a staff washroom. A small paper sign taped to it reads “Out of Order,” but he twists the knob and shoves the door open without hesitation.

Your pulse jackhammers as he pulls you inside the tiny bathroom and locks the door behind you with a sharp click. It’s a cramped space – just a sink, a cloudy mirror, and a toilet stall with a busted-looking door half off its hinges (so that’s why it’s out of order, you think absently). The only light comes from a single dim bulb overhead. The walls tremble faintly with the bass from outside, and through the vent you can hear the muffled chorus of the current dance track.

Suddenly, in the confined quiet, reality presses on you. This is really happening. You’re in a dingy club bathroom with a dangerous stranger, about to cross lines you’ve never come near before. A flicker of nerves finally cuts through the haze of lust and liquid courage. Your instincts rear up with a warning – this is too fast, too reckless. What if he hurts you? What if you regret this?

Sensing your hesitation, he steps forward, backing you against the sink. The porcelain edge presses into your lower back. He places his hands on either side of you, caging you in. There’s a thrill in knowing the exit is right behind him and you’d have to get through his strong body to reach it. Thrill… or terror. Possibly both. Your breathing quickens, but you lift your chin, refusing to show fear.

He notices – he notices everything, it seems – and one corner of his mouth twitches in approval. “Nervous?” he asks softly. He brings a hand up to your face and trails a finger slowly from the hollow of your temple down to your jaw. His touch is surprisingly light, almost a caress, at odds with the dangerous gleam in his eyes.

You swallow hard. “No,” you lie. Your voice is barely above a whisper in the quiet bathroom. The word comes out too fast, betraying you.

He actually laughs – a dark, husky chuckle that curls low in your belly. “Liar,” he murmurs. His finger tilts your chin up. “I can feel your heartbeat.” He presses his body against yours, and you realize he can likely feel it, given how hard your heart is thudding against your ribs. It’s practically vibrating through you.

Instinctively, your hands come up to press against his chest, whether to push him away or just to touch him, you’re not sure. They end up fisting in the material of his shirt. Beneath the thin fabric, his muscles are taut, and you become acutely aware of the warmth and power coiled there. He feels like a loaded gun in the shape of a man – all potential energy, ready to go off.

He dips his head, lips ghosting over the side of your neck. You gasp when you feel the scrape of his teeth against your sensitive skin, not quite biting, but threatening to. “If you want me to stop, you better say so now,” he breathes against your neck. It’s not really a question, more like a sly dare. The hint of sarcasm in his tone tells you he’s not used to anyone telling him to stop. He’s mocking the very idea that you might not go through with this.

Your pride flares, overcoming your nerves. You did not come this far to chicken out. If you back out now, you’ll return home to your perfectly curated life and lie awake every night wondering what would have happened if you’d been braver. And beyond that—your body is on fire for him, desire already coiling low in your belly. Fear is there, yes, but it only seems to heighten your arousal, sharpening every sensation. The danger is part of the thrill.

So you answer by grabbing the lapels of his jacket and crashing your mouth to his. It’s messy and ungraceful, but it sends your message loud and clear: Don’t stop. A low growl of approval emanates from him, and then everything becomes a blur of heat and motion.

He kisses you fiercely, drinking in your surrender. Your world narrows to the wet slide of his tongue against yours and the way his hands roam your body, claiming it as his. One hand cups your breast through your dress, fingers deftly finding your nipple and pinching just hard enough to make you yelp into his mouth. The sharp sting sends a lightning bolt of pleasure down your spine. Any lingering inhibitions crumble; you arch into his touch, craving more.

“Hmm, sensitive,” he notes with a dark chuckle, breaking the kiss just to watch your reaction as he gives that hardened nub another squeeze. You bite your lip to stifle a moan. He tuts disapprovingly. “No, let me hear you.” He pinches harder suddenly, catching you off guard. A cry escapes your lips before you can stop it, echoing in the tiny bathroom. You slap a hand over your mouth in shock at your own volume, eyes darting to the door. The music outside is loud—hopefully loud enough that no one heard.

He grabs your wrist and pulls your hand away from your mouth, eyes gleaming almost fever-bright in the dim light. “Don’t.” It’s a command. “We’re far from the only ones screwing in this club, don’t worry about them.” The crude confidence of his statement sends a flush through your cheeks. Before you can respond, he’s tugging the straps of your dress down your shoulders, not bothering to be gentle. The fabric slinks down, exposing the lacy pastel bra you’d worn – ironically one of your prettiest, daintiest pieces, chosen this evening on a hopeful whim.

He lets out a low whistle of appreciation at the sight of you, running his tongue over his bottom lip. “Better than I imagined,” he purrs, and you flush hotter knowing he’s been imagining you. The thought that this dangerous man picked you out of everyone in that crowd, and was picturing what’s under your dress… it sends a heady mix of power and vulnerability through you.

His hands slide around your back, and with an expert flick, he unhooks your bra. It falls loose, and you hesitate only a split second before allowing it to slip off your arms, baring your breasts completely to his gaze. The hungry way he stares could devour you whole. Self-conscious, you start to cross your arms over your chest, but he catches your wrists and pins them back against the mirror behind you. The cold glass presses into your skin.

“None of that,” he chides softly. “Don’t hide from me.” Again, that note of command. He’s not asking – he’s telling you to let him look. The dominance in it makes your breath catch, a mixture of indignation and unwilling arousal. You’re used to being in control of yourself; giving it up – even in this small way – feels foreign. But when you meet his gaze, the open heat and lust you see there sends a pulse of warmth straight between your legs. He wants you. Wildly, ravenously. Perhaps as much as you want to be wanted.

Slowly, you lower your arms, leaving yourself exposed to him. A slow grin spreads across his face. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and strangely, the praise – however mocking it might be – sends a thrill through you. Good girl. It’s what you always strive to be, what everyone calls you. But on his lips, in this context, it feels deliciously twisted, almost dirty.

Before you can dwell on it, he dips his head and takes one of your nipples into his mouth without warning. You cry out, the sensation of wet heat and suction pulling taut at that sensitive peak. His tongue flicks and circles expertly, while his hand finds your other breast, rolling and teasing the nipple between calloused fingers. Pleasure jolts through you, and you feel yourself growing wetter by the second, your panties dampening with arousal.

You clutch at his shoulders to steady yourself, head falling back against the mirror. Each lick and gentle bite he gives your breasts sends sparks skittering through your nerves. He alternates between them, clearly enjoying the way he can make you squirm and moan with just this. When he finally lifts his head, both your nipples are pebbled tight and aching, glistening with his saliva. The cool air of the bathroom hits the wet skin and you shiver.

The stranger’s breathing is heavier now, his eyes dark with lust as they rake down your body. “I knew you’d be responsive,” he mutters appreciatively, almost to himself. “Act so pure, but your body’s just begging for it, isn’t it?”

You should be embarrassed, maybe even offended by his cocky assumption – but the truth is there’s no denying how turned on you are. Your legs feel weak and an insistent ache is building between them. You bite your lip, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of admitting it aloud. Instead you reach forward boldly and brush your hand over the front of his jeans, feeling for the hardness you know must be there. You’re rewarded with the discovery of a sizable bulge straining against the denim.

His breath hisses through his teeth at your touch, eyes flashing. It’s the first time you’ve seen him react with something like surprise. “Careful,” he warns, but there’s a slight catch in his voice. You realize with a heady rush that you have an effect on him too. The great thing about egotistical boys is they’re often unprepared when you call their bluff.

You palm him more firmly through the fabric, emboldened. “Who’s nervous now?” you whisper, throwing his words from earlier back at him.

A dangerous grin spreads across his face, equal parts amused and aroused. “Alright,” he growls, “you asked for it.” In one swift motion, he grips your thighs and lifts you up onto the sink counter. A surprised laugh bursts from you, cut short as he steps between your legs, spreading them wide around his hips. The skirt of your dress hikes up to your waist in the process, and you flush as you realize how exposed you are – only a thin scrap of silk panty preserves your modesty, and even that is soaked through with evidence of your desire.

He notices, of course. Nothing escapes those sharp eyes. He runs a finger over the front of your panties and it comes away glistening. He holds it up, and even in the dim light you can see the slickness coating his fingertip. “All this from a little kissing and groping?” He tsks softly, though the pride in his voice is evident. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment. “And you claimed you weren’t nervous. Maybe it’s not nerves at all… maybe you’re just aching for a bad little adventure.”

You’re spared having to answer – or lie – because he doesn’t wait for a response. He hooks his fingers into your panties and, with one rough yank, tears them aside. The delicate fabric doesn’t stand a chance; it rips with a startling sound, the ruined pieces sliding down your thighs. A shock of cool air kisses your now bare sex, and you instinctively try to close your legs, a surge of shyness hitting you at being so exposed. But his body stands firmly between your knees, preventing any escape.

“Don’t hide,” he reminds you darkly, grabbing your knees and pushing them further apart instead. “Let me see.” The audacity of him just taking this without asking should anger you, should scare you – and yet the command in his tone only fuels the heat in your belly. You’re quivering with a potent mix of humiliation and arousal as he gazes down at your most intimate place.

“Perfect,” he murmurs under his breath, almost reverently, as one of his hands slides up the inside of your thigh. You feel a fingertip brush your folds, testing, exploring the wetness there. You choke back a moan when that finger lightly flicks over your swollen clit. He notices that too – the slight jolt of your hips – and rewards you by circling the sensitive nub slowly, sending waves of pleasure radiating outward.

“You’re so wet for me already… such a naughty girl,” he says softly, and for the first time there’s a hint of something almost gentle in his voice, though the words are degrading. It confuses your pleasure-fogged brain; you don’t know whether to be ashamed or pleased. The one thing you do know is that you need more. Each teasing swirl of his finger is driving you mad, winding you tighter.

“Please…” The word slips out before you can stop it, and you hate how desperate you sound.

He arches a brow. “Please what?” he prompts, mercilessly slowing his finger to an agonizing crawl. He’s making you say it. The smug bastard wants to hear you beg.

Your pride and need war inside you. A strangled whimper escapes your throat as he barely grazes your clit, denying you the pressure you crave. The ache is too much; pride crumbles. “Please,” you pant, swallowing your dignity, “more… touch me.”

His grin is triumphant. “Good girl,” he practically purrs, clearly satisfied at hearing your plea. In reward, he plunges that finger suddenly into your entrance, all the way to the knuckle. You cry out, back bowing at the sudden intrusion. He’s thick and his finger curls expertly inside you, dragging along your inner walls in a way that lights up every nerve. You clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle your moan.

He doesn’t chide you this time for quieting yourself – frankly, you couldn’t stop the moan from spilling through your fingers even if you tried. Instead, he inserts a second finger, stretching you. It’s a tight, hot pressure that borders on too much, but you’re so slick that he works them in easily. Soon he’s pumping them in and out, setting a relentless pace while his thumb resumes tormenting your clit. The combined sensations make you see stars.

“Shit—” you gasp against your palm, your free hand clinging to the edge of the sink as pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your core. He’s watching your face with rapt attention, as if cataloging each expression that crosses it. And he looks… hungry, like your pleasure is feeding something primal in him.

“You like that?” he hisses through his teeth. “Knew you’d feel good…” He scissors his fingers inside you, stretching you further, and you bite your lip hard to keep from screaming. It’s so much sensation, bordering the line of pain and pleasure in the most exquisite way. Every pump hits a spot deep inside that has you quivering. Your thighs begin to shake around his waist, and you realize with a shock that you’re already hurtling toward orgasm. It’s humiliating how fast he’s pushing you to the edge, but you can’t hold it back – he’s too skilled and you were too pent-up, too eager for this.

“Come on,” he growls, noticing the way your body tightens. He leans in, his breath hot on your ear as he works you ruthlessly. “Let go. Come for me, and maybe I’ll give you what you really want next.”

His raspy command is the final straw. With a muffled cry, you shatter. Pleasure crashes over you in a blinding wave. Your inner walls spasm around his thrusting fingers, and you clutch at his shoulders for dear life as your climax ripples through you. He continues to pump you through it, drawing out every last second of ecstasy until you’re trembling and limp against the mirror.

As you sag, catching your breath, a warm flush of embarrassment and relief floods you. You’ve never come that hard with anyone – not that your experience is extensive – and certainly not so quickly. The stranger withdraws his fingers from you slowly, and you whimper softly at the sensitivity. Through hazy vision you see him hold up his hand, coated in your arousal, and without breaking eye contact, he brings those fingers to his own lips and licks them clean.

The lewdness of the act makes your cheeks burn. “Tastes sweet,” he murmurs, smirking when you look away, flustered. “Don’t go shy on me now.” With his other hand, he grips your chin and guides your gaze back to him. You’re still dazed, the aftershocks of orgasm tingling through you. He presses forward, and you feel the unmistakable hard ridge of his erection nudging against your still-throbbing core.

A spike of nervous anticipation cuts through your post-climax haze. He’s clearly not done – not by a long shot. Your eyes dart down between your bodies as he uses one hand to unzip his jeans and free himself. You suck in a breath at the sight. Even in the low light, what he’s packing is… intimidating. Fully hard, he juts out thick and long, the tip flushed deep red and already glistening with a drop of precum. For a moment, a sliver of doubt flickers in your mind – will that even fit?

He notices your eyes widening and lets out a dark chuckle. “Don’t worry,” he says smugly, positioning himself, the head of his cock rubbing slickly against your entrance. “I got you nice and ready.” He’s not wrong – you’re still dripping from both your own release and his ministrations – but you still tense up instinctively at the pressure.

“Relax,” he orders, softer this time, almost as if he’s coaxing you. One hand strokes down your thigh in a parody of soothing. “Not getting cold feet, are you?”

“N-no,” you stammer, and to prove it, you force yourself to unclench, will your muscles to loosen. You hook your legs around his hips, drawing him closer in encouragement. The movement causes his tip to breach you, just an inch, and both of you gasp in unison – you at the sudden stretch, him at the tight heat enveloping him.

“Fuck… so tight,” he hisses, fingers digging into your hips. His control wavers; you see a flicker of strain in his jaw as he fights not to slam into you all at once. The idea that he’s holding back, even a little, for your sake in this moment is strangely… flattering. And reassuring. Maybe he’s not completely cruel.

You take a shuddering breath and nod. “Do it,” you whisper. I can handle it, you tell yourself, echoing your bold words from earlier. I want this.

His eyes lock onto yours, and for a split second, something like respect glints there. Then his composure snaps. With a guttural groan, he thrusts forward, burying himself inside you to the hilt. The stretch is incredible – bordering on painful for a heartbeat – but the slide is eased by how wet you are, and the slight burn quickly melts into a shockwave of pleasure at how deep he is. You cry out, nails raking across his back under his jacket, clinging to him as he fills you completely. He’s big enough that you swear you can feel him in your stomach, stealing the air from your lungs.

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” he growls against your shoulder, where he’s dropped his forehead as if to gather himself. His breathing is ragged, each exhale warm on your skin. You’re panting too, adjusting to the fullness. There’s a dull ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the raw sensation of him throbbing inside you. You hadn’t realized how empty you felt until now.

He doesn’t give much time for you to adjust. Lust and perhaps impatience drive him to move almost immediately. Pulling out an inch, he slams back in, jolting a gasp from you. Then again, faster – setting a pounding rhythm that quickly has the sink creaking beneath your bottom and the mirror at your back shuddering. He holds your hips in an iron grip, using it as leverage to fuck up into you hard and deep.

It’s feral and unrestrained; he takes you like he has a point to prove. Perhaps he wants to mark himself on you from the inside out, to ensure you never forget this night. Each stroke rubs against that sweet spot he found with his fingers earlier, and soon you’re keening with each thrust, any pain transforming wholly to pleasure. The filthy sounds of sex echo in the small bathroom – skin slapping on skin, your ragged breaths, his low grunts of effort, and the wet squelch each time he drives into your drenched heat.

Your head falls back, thumping lightly against the mirror. The coil in your belly, unbelievably, is tightening again so soon. He angles his hips and grinds against your clit on the next thrust, making you mewl and see stars. It’s overwhelming – he overwhelms you, consumes you. The room feels like it’s spinning, and you cling to his shoulders, lost in sensation.

He notices you tipping toward another climax and lets out a dark laugh, clearly proud of how quickly he’s wrecking you. “Gonna come again for me, huh?” he pants, punctuating his words with particularly sharp thrusts that make you cry out. “Such a greedy little thing… I bet no one’s ever fucked you like this, have they?”

You shake your head frantically, beyond shame, beyond words. It’s true – nothing in your sheltered life has ever felt like this. No boy you dated (under your parents’ watchful eye) ever came close to unraveling you so completely. You feel tears prick your eyes from the sheer intensity of it all.

He groans in satisfaction at your wordless admission. “That’s right,” he snarls, voice thick with possessive glee. One hand leaves your hip to grasp the back of your neck, pulling you forward off the mirror so he can latch his mouth onto yours in a bruising kiss as he fucks you. It’s all tongue and teeth, more claiming than affection, but it sends a thrill through you nonetheless. You can taste yourself faintly on his tongue, mixed with the copper of that cut on his lip that’s reopened from exertion.

“Mine tonight,” he growls against your lips, giving a particularly rough thrust that sends you both sliding a few inches along the counter. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

In the haze of pleasure, you don’t even question it. “I’m yours,” you gasp obediently, anything if he’ll just keep going, keep giving you this mind-numbing bliss. The words echo strangely in your head – you’ve never said such a thing to anyone. You barely recognize your own voice, breathy and wanton.

He rewards you with a hand slipping between your bodies, finding your overstimulated clit and rubbing it in tight, slick circles as he pounds you. The sudden extra stimulation rips a wail from your throat. Your nails dig into the back of his neck, surely scratching him, but he seems to only relish the slight pain, growling and thrusting even harder in response.

“That’s it… come for me again,” he grits out, sounding as unhinged with lust as you feel. “Come all over my cock, baby.” The crude command combined with the relentless attention on your most sensitive spot sends you careening over the edge for a second time. Your orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and all-consuming. You convulse around him, inner walls squeezing like a vice. He curses loudly as your climax milks his length.

With a few more erratic thrusts, he suddenly stills, buried as deep as possible. His grip on you is almost bruising as he groans into the crook of your neck, and you feel a burst of warmth flooding your core as he finds his own release. The sensation of him spilling inside you, the filthy reality of it, prolongs your pleasure in a sinful aftershock. He rides it out with a few shallow grinds, as if trying to push his seed even further.

For a long moment, the only sound is both of you gasping for air in the aftermath. Your heart is pounding so loudly in your ears, you barely notice the muffled thump of the club music or the faint ringing silence that follows your screams. Your body feels boneless, thoroughly used in the best way, and for a fleeting moment you understand why people get addicted to this kind of reckless passion.

He finally draws back enough to look at you. His hair is disheveled, damp with sweat at the temples; his lips are swollen and red; his pupils blown wide. He looks thoroughly debauched and extremely pleased with himself. You flush and glance away, suddenly shy now that the haze of lust is lifting and reality starts to seep back in.

He isn’t having that. Gently – almost surprisingly gently – he turns your face back to him with a finger under your chin. “Don’t go all shy now,” he murmurs. For a moment, his thumb strokes your cheek and you catch a glimpse of something like softness in his expression, a crack in the cocky facade. “That was…” He trails off, searching for the word. Instead of finishing the sentence, he just smirks and lets out a satisfied exhale. “Damn.”

A shaky laugh bubbles from your lips, relief and agreement in one. “Yeah. Damn.” You can’t help smiling a little, and his grin widens in response. For a strange second, you feel a connection – like you shared something beyond the purely physical. But before you can name it, he pulls out of you and reality rushes back in.

You wince slightly at the emptiness and the trickle of combined fluids already leaking out of you. With a mix of embarrassment and practicality, you hop off the sink on unsteady legs and reach for some tissue from a dispenser on the wall, quickly cleaning yourself as best you can and dropping the soiled paper into the waste bin. He watches you, tucking himself back into his jeans and zipping up. There’s a predatory satisfaction in his gaze, like a wolf that’s just feasted.

Your dress is still bunched around your waist. You tug it back up over your breasts, realizing belatedly that your bra is hanging around your elbows, completely undone. You flush and turn slightly away, trying to fasten it. Your hands are shaking, making the simple task frustrating.

Wordlessly, he steps close again and bats your hands away. Before you protest, he fixes your bra for you with quick efficiency, then slides your dress straps back over your shoulders. It’s an oddly intimate gesture – helping you dress after ripping you apart – and it leaves you momentarily breathless in a whole different way.

“Th-thanks,” you stammer, not sure what else to say. Your mind is a jumble. What do you even say after doing something like this? There’s an awkwardness creeping in that you don’t know how to navigate. The initial thrill of rebellion is wearing off, and a faint whisper of guilt tickles the back of your mind, uninvited: What have I done?

He tilts his head, studying you. In the quiet, you notice a faint purple bruise forming on the side of his neck – your doing, likely, from your desperate kisses or bites. Your cheeks heat at the evidence of your own loss of control.

“You okay?” he asks unexpectedly. The question surprises you; you hadn’t pegged him as the type to care after getting what he wanted. His tone is gruff, though, like he’s a bit uncomfortable asking.

“I’m fine,” you reply quickly – reflexively. It’s the good girl response, automatic, and it tastes bitter on your tongue given the circumstances. Were you fine? Physically, aside from the pleasant aches, yes. Emotionally… that’s harder to parse. You feel exhilarated, sated, and yet also strangely hollow now that it’s over. But you’re not about to divulge that to a stranger.

“Good.” He nods, seemingly satisfied. A beat passes where neither of you speak. The reality of your situation settles in heavily – you just had a raw, unprotected hookup with a violent stranger in a club bathroom. And now what? Does one exchange numbers after something like that? Part of you doesn’t even want to know his name; it’s easier to compartmentalize this as a one-time reckless fling if he remains a nameless fantasy.

Sensing the shift in atmosphere, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He taps one out and sticks it between his lips. He doesn’t light it – likely because we’re indoors – just lets it dangle there as he watches you with an unreadable expression. The earlier softness is gone; he’s cloaked himself back in cool detachment.

“So,” he says casually, voice echoing slightly in the tiled bathroom. “That tick the fun box for you?” He’s back to that cocky, almost mocking tone, and it puts you oddly at ease. It’s easier to handle than any attempt at tenderness.

You manage a wry smile. “It was… definitely not boring,” you reply, trying to sound nonchalant, though your pounding heart hasn’t quite settled.

His lips curl around the cigarette. “Glad to be of service.” There’s a beat, and then he adds, “You got a name, good girl?” The nickname drips with ironic emphasis.

For a second you hesitate. A part of you likes the anonymity. But it feels awkward not to introduce yourself, given he’s been inside you. “Y/N,” you answer quietly, using your first name only.

He repeats it, as if testing how it feels in his mouth. Something about the way he says your name sends a shiver through you – perhaps because in your mind it’s still shocking that this dangerous boy even knows your name now. This is real, you remind yourself. It happened.

“I’m Seong-je,” he offers after a moment, surprising you. You hadn’t expected him to volunteer anything personal. The name rings faintly in your mind – Korean, obviously, and unusual. You wonder if it’s a nickname or family name, but don’t pry.

“Seong-je,” you echo softly. He smirks at your pronunciation – maybe you said it a bit awkwardly – and for a brief instant, the corner of his eyes crinkle like he’s holding back a genuine laugh. The sight makes something flutter in your chest.

He steps back, running a hand through his mussed hair. Now that you’re not drowning in lust, you can’t help but take in more details about him. The smear of your lipstick is on the edge of his jaw. His shirt is rucked up a bit, revealing a slice of defined abs – and another bruise blooming near his ribs. Just what kind of life does he lead to be this banged up? The rational part of you whispers that this man is trouble, possibly more than just casual bar-brawl trouble.

As if sensing your thoughts, he reaches out and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear – a gesture almost sweet if not for the cruel curve of his smile. “Don’t overthink it, Y/N,” he chides lightly. “We had a good time. End of story.”

End of story. Right. This was always meant to be a one-night thing, no strings, no messy complications. That’s what you told yourself coming here. You should be relieved he’s on the same page.

“Right,” you say, forcing a bright tone that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Just… two people blowing off steam. I won’t read into it if you won’t.”

He nods once, seemingly satisfied. Then, without warning, he leans in and steals one last kiss – a swift, biting press of lips that leaves you breathless all over again. When he pulls back, he’s grinning. “For the road,” he says, winking.

And with that, he unlocks the bathroom door. Cool air from the hallway trickles in, and you suddenly realize how stifling the small room had become with heat and the scent of sex. Seong-je glances out, checking the coast. You’re keenly aware of the state you’re in: dress wrinkled, hair a mess, thoroughly fucked. If anyone sees you leaving together, it’ll be obvious what happened. A flush of embarrassment and strangely, pride, warms your cheeks.

He steps aside and gestures. “Ladies first.”

You slip past him, and he follows. The hallway is empty save for a drunk couple stumbling into the main restroom giggling. The club music is still pumping, oblivious to the small drama that unfolded in the back.

You and Seong-je stand there for a moment, facing each other under the harsh fluorescent light. There’s an odd look in his eyes – something like smugness, but also a flicker of… regret? No, probably just your imagination.

“So, uh… have a good night,” you offer lamely. You cringe internally at how stupid that sounds, but what else is there to say? Thanks for the mind-blowing illicit sex? You want to slap yourself.

Seong-je doesn’t seem to mind. He just exhales a stream of smoke from the cigarette now lit between his lips, even though he’s not supposed to smoke here. He flashes you one more of those insufferably attractive smirks. “Night, good girl.” The pet name lands differently now, making your heart give a confusing little twist.

With that, he turns and strolls away down the hall, as casual as if he’d just finished taking a piss rather than you. You watch his retreating back for a second – the confident saunter, the broad set of his shoulders – and then he’s gone, disappearing into the strobe-lit chaos of the club.

You press back against the wall of the hallway, legs still trembling, and exhale a shaky breath. What the hell did I just do? The gravity of it threatens to crush you now that you’re alone. But beneath the swirl of guilt and shock, an echo of pleasure thrums, and a tiny rebellious smile tugs at your lips. I did that. Me. The good girl broke bad for a night, and no one will ever know.

After gathering yourself, you slip out of the club and into the night, hailing a taxi home. As the city lights streak past the window, you replay the last hour in your mind on a loop. With every replay, you’re not sure if it feels more like an empowering victory or a dangerous mistake. Perhaps both. You tell yourself it’s over – a secret memory to treasure on lonely nights and nothing more. In a day or two, you’ll bury it and return to your regularly scheduled life of perfection.

As you quietly sneak into your house, still smelling of sweat and cigarette smoke, you have no idea that this night – far from staying a secret – is about to shadow your life in ways you can’t imagine.

⸻

Two weeks later, the memory of that reckless night still visits you in heated flashes. You’ll be in class or eating dinner, and suddenly your mind will drift – the music, the neon lights, his hands on your body, his voice growling in your ear. Every time, it makes your cheeks burn and your stomach flutter, equal parts shame and longing. You try to push it away. After all, what good is dwelling on it? You never even exchanged numbers. Seong-je was a stranger – a dark, thrilling stranger – and that’s all he was ever meant to be.

You haven’t told a soul about that night. Not your best friend, certainly not your sister or parents. It remains your illicit secret, something you hold close with a mix of pride and mortification. By day you throw yourself into your studies and chores with renewed vigor, as if being extra good now can erase how dirty you’d been that night. By night you lie in bed restless, sometimes waking in a sweat from dreams where rough hands and bruising kisses find you in the dark.

It doesn’t help that your sister has been chattering about some guy she met recently. Apparently she literally bumped into him at a café on her campus and spilled coffee on him, which led to exchanging apologies and phone numbers. The sheer rom-com sweetness of it made you smile politely while internally rolling your eyes. She’s been on a few dates with him, and from what she’s said, he’s “sweet, a bit quiet but really charming when he opens up.” You’ve been happy for her, albeit a bit envious of how wholesome her budding romance sounds compared to your own recent debauchery.

When your mother announces over breakfast that your sister is bringing her new boyfriend to meet the family tonight, you hardly react beyond mild curiosity. Good for her, you think. It’s been a while since she dated anyone seriously enough to introduce him. You only vaguely wonder what he’s like – picturing some clean-cut college boy from a good family. Whoever he is, he’ll have to withstand the polite grilling your parents are sure to give.

All day you go about preparing for the evening. It’s a casual family dinner, but your mom insists on breaking out the nice dishes and even nags you to wear a “pretty dress, but nothing too revealing.” You oblige, choosing a demure knee-length skirt and a soft blue sweater that your mother approves with a smile. It’s almost amusing how starkly different you look from the girl who stumbled into a taxi two weeks ago in a rumpled club dress and no panties. Good girl, back in uniform, you think wryly at your reflection.

By the time the doorbell rings, the table is set, the house smells of your mom’s famous japchae, and your dad is finishing a lecture to you about proper behavior. “Be polite, ask him about his studies, no phone at the table, and for heaven’s sake, don’t mention anything embarrassing about your sister,” he rattles off. You nod along, only half-listening, your thoughts wandering to whether this boy will get the Dad Speech about treating her right. Probably.

“I’ll get the door!” you chirp, glad for an excuse to escape Dad’s fussing. Padding to the foyer, you pull the door open, prepared to greet some awkward but earnest college guy.

Instead, the world flips upside down.

There, standing on your front step next to your beaming sister, is him.

Your dangerous stranger from the club is on your doorstep, one hand casually slung in his pocket, the other arm wrapped around your sister’s waist. He’s out of the club gear and bandages tonight – wearing a crisp white dress shirt under a beige blazer, looking for all the world like a picture-perfect boyfriend. His wavy dark hair is neatly combed, and perched on his nose are a pair of familiar half-rim glasses that give him an air of studiousness. He looks clean-cut. Polite. Deceiving.

But nothing can disguise those eyes – sharp and piercing, the eyes that haunted your dreams. In the split second of seeing him, your heart plunges into your stomach. A rush of heat and then cold washes over you. This can’t be real. Perhaps you’ve finally lost it, guilt conjuring hallucinations. But no – he’s real, solid, standing right there.

He meets your gaze, and for an agonizing moment, his eyes widen almost imperceptibly in recognition. You see it – the spark of surprise that flares and is quickly controlled. Yet on the surface, he remains the picture of composure. His lips curve into a polite smile, the kind you’d give a stranger.

And that’s exactly what he does. With a slight bow of his head, he says in a warm, respectful tone, “Hello. You must be Y/N.” As if we’ve never met. As if he wasn’t buried inside you, coaxing screams from your throat.

You realize you’re staring, frozen, mouth slightly agape. Words. You need words. But your brain is short-circuiting, flashes of that night ping-ponging wildly – his face over yours in pleasure, the feel of his hands pinning you down, the way he snarled your name. It collides with the sheer absurdity of him standing here, looking like the ideal suitor.

“Y/N?” your sister’s voice breaks through, a note of concern. She’s looking at you quizzically, no doubt wondering why you’re gawking.

You snap out of it, plastering on a shaky smile. “S-sorry! I…” Think, think. You pretend to fumble with the door. “It caught on the rug,” you lie weakly, stepping back. “Come in.”

They step inside and you shut the door behind them, hand trembling on the knob. This isn’t happening. But the scene continues to unfold, whether you’re ready or not.

Your sister is nearly vibrating with excitement. “Everyone, this is Geum Seong-je,” she announces proudly as she leads him into the living room where your parents stand waiting. “Seong-je, these are my parents, and you already met Y/N at the door.”

He offers a respectful bow to your parents. “Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. L/N. Thank you for having me.” His voice is polite, deferential – a complete 180 from the husky, taunting tone you heard in that bathroom. It sends a chill through you how convincing he is.

Your parents, of course, are immediately charmed. Your mother clasps her hands, clearly pleased by his manners. Your father shakes his hand and asks what he studies.

“Ganghak High, sir. I’m in my final year,” Seong-je answers smoothly. “I plan to attend university next year. I’m considering business or economics.” The ease with which the lie rolls off his tongue is chilling; you know for a fact he’s no ordinary high schooler – he’s a gangster, a delinquent, something dangerous. But here he is selling himself as a model student. And why wouldn’t he? He looks the part right now, all tidy and earnest.

“Ah, same year as Y/S/N, good, good,” your father nods approvingly.

You linger near the periphery, hands clutched together tightly to stop their shaking. Your heart hasn’t slowed since opening that door. You feel like you’re in a dream – or a nightmare. How is he here, in your home, holding your sister’s hand and charming your parents? Does she have any clue who he truly is? Who he is to you? You swallow hard. Of course she doesn’t. No one knows. And for the sake of everything, they can’t know.

Your eyes flick to your sister. She looks radiant, happier than you’ve seen her in a while, as she gazes at Seong-je with obvious affection. Jealousy twists in your gut unexpectedly – not the romantic kind, but a bitter envy that she can look at him like that, all hopeful and smitten, blissfully unaware of the monster behind the mask. You, on the other hand, know exactly what lurks beneath that sweet boyfriend veneer. You’ve felt it, bruising your skin and setting you on fire.

Suddenly the room is too warm, the air too thick. You force yourself into motion to avoid suspicion. “I-I’ll go help Mom with dinner,” you mumble and scurry off towards the kitchen.

As you flee, you dare one quick glance back. You catch Seong-je watching you retreat, an indecipherable expression in his eyes. Something like amusement flickers across his face as he notices your obvious panic. He gives the slightest wink – so quick you’d miss it if you blinked. Your stomach drops. That single gesture says it all: He’s not going to pretend nothing happened between us. Not entirely. He’s enjoying this.

In the kitchen, you grip the counter and inhale deeply, trying to steady your racing pulse. Your mother is humming as she stirs a pot of soup, oblivious to your turmoil. You desperately wish you could confide in her, or anyone, but there’s no world in which that wouldn’t implode everything. What would you even say? Mom, that boy out there had me against a bathroom sink two weeks ago and— No. You’d rather die than let your parents know you were involved in something like that. Besides, it would break your sister’s heart and likely your family’s trust in you.

No, you have to handle this on your own. Somehow.

You plaster on a facade of normalcy through dinner. It’s one of the hardest things you’ve ever done, sitting across the table from Seong-je while your sister and parents engage him in pleasant conversation. You mostly push food around your plate and nod or give one-word answers if addressed. Hopefully they’ll chalk it up to you feeling shy or just letting your sister’s guest have the spotlight.

Meanwhile, he is infuriatingly perfect. He compliments Mom’s cooking, discusses a few books Dad brings up, and even laughs modestly when your sister teases him about how he tripped when they first met. A story which he recounts with self-deprecating charm, saying he was so distracted by her pretty face that his feet forgot how to work. Cue your mother’s cooing approval.

It’s sickening. It’s terrifying. You can hardly reconcile this respectful young man with the sadistic, impulsive delinquent you know him to be. But you catch glimpses – subtle things only you would notice – that hint at the truth. The way his smile sometimes doesn’t reach his eyes. The slight impatience that flickers on his face when Dad talks too long about some political issue. The way his hand occasionally tightens on the utensils with a white-knuckle grip, as if restraining irritation. He’s acting. All of this is an act. And everyone is buying it.

Except you.

You can’t even swallow a bite of food. Nausea roils in your gut every time his gaze ghosts over you. He doesn’t overtly stare – that would be too obvious – but there are moments you feel the weight of his attention. It’s like a silent game to him: make you squirm without anyone else noticing. Under the table, you clench your fists in your lap, nails biting into your palms to ground yourself.

At one point, your sister gushes, “Seong-je’s been so helpful with my volunteer project too. He jumped right in to help organize the school supplies drive for underprivileged kids. Isn’t he just the best?” She leans her head on his shoulder, and he flashes a humble smile.

Your father nods approvingly. “Very commendable. Good to see young men caring about community service these days.”

You nearly choke on your water. Community service? Underprivileged kids? The cognitive dissonance is astounding. This is a man who in reality likely spends his free time beating people to a pulp for kicks, now cast in the role of altruistic boyfriend.

In that moment, bitterness momentarily outweighs fear. You find yourself speaking before you can stop. “That’s surprising,” you say, trying to keep your tone light, as if genuinely curious. “Someone your age juggling school and still finds time for volunteer work? You must have a lot of energy.”

It’s not much, but you hope he catches the barbed undercurrent: I know what you really do with your time. It’s petty, maybe even reckless, but a part of you wants to see a crack in his façade.

A brief silence falls. Your parents glance at you, slightly perplexed by your sudden interjection. Seong-je’s eyes meet yours. For a split second, something dangerous flares in them – a warning. Did the others catch it? Likely not; it was gone in an instant, replaced by a genial chuckle.

“What can I say, I like to keep busy,” he responds smoothly, lifting his glass of iced tea in a casual gesture. “Idle hands, devil’s playthings and all that.” His lips curve into a smile that to anyone else seems playful, but you feel the needle of that phrase aimed at you. Yes, he certainly had firsthand knowledge of devil’s playthings – your hands hadn’t been idle that night, nor had his.

You swallow, looking down quickly. Point to him. All you managed to do was earn yourself a subtle rebuke. Your cheeks burn and you resolve not to poke him again.

After dinner, everyone moves to the living room for dessert and continued conversation. You linger in the kitchen under the guise of clearing dishes, needing a moment alone to steady yourself. You grip the edge of the sink, staring at the running water as you rinse plates, mind racing. How are you going to survive this evening without slipping up? You thank your lucky stars that he’s pretending not to know you – it’s the only thing keeping you sane. But it unnerves you that you have no idea what he’s thinking or planning.

He must be loving this – fate practically handing him a loaded gun to mess with you. The knowledge that he could destroy you with one word, reveal to your entire family what you did… it hangs over you like a guillotine. You have to ensure he has no reason to actually drop that blade. As much as you loathe it, cooperating with his charade is your only option. For your sister’s sake, for your own, you have to play along and pray he eventually loses interest and goes away.

“Y/N, bring out the tea, please!” your mother calls from the other room.

You take a deep breath and carry the tray of tea and sliced fruit into the living room, your face composed in a mask of pleasant neutrality. You will not break. You’ve survived endless high-pressure exams and family expectations – you can survive one evening of this.

But the universe isn’t done testing you. As you set the tray down on the coffee table, your sister suddenly exclaims, “Oh! I almost forgot, I have something to show you.”

Your sister jumps up. “It’s in my car, I’ll be right back!” She pecks Seong-je’s cheek quickly making your stomach clench and dashes out the front door to retrieve whatever this thing is.

Your parents chuckle, engrossed in their own banter about something, and your mom heads to the kitchen to fetch some more honey for the tea, leaving you, your father, and him briefly in the living room. Your father stands by the window, preoccupied with adjusting the blinds. And then, just like that, you find yourself momentarily alone on the couch with Geum Seong-je.

Every muscle in your body tenses. You place a tea cup in front of him on the table with what you hope is a steady hand. He takes it, and for a moment, his fingers purposely brush yours. It’s subtle, to anyone else an innocent contact. But the touch is electric, and you snatch your hand back as if burned. Your father’s back is turned; he notices nothing.

Seong-je leans back casually, crossing one ankle over a knee. The posture of a young man relaxed and at ease – yet when he speaks under his breath, barely above a whisper, his words are a knife’s edge. “Careful, little lamb. Your family might think you’re afraid of me.” He sips the tea, hiding the smirk that tugs at his lips.

Little lamb. The phrase isn’t particularly special, yet hearing it from him sends a jolt of recognition and dread through you. It’s the tone – low, taunting – the very same he used in that bathroom when he teased and degraded you. And afraid? Damn right you are. But you can’t let it show.

You force yourself to sit down at the opposite end of the couch, smoothing your skirt. Taking a deep breath, you murmur back, voice tense, “What do you want?” It comes out more pleading than firm. You hate that – but you’re desperate for some hint of his intentions.

He doesn’t look at you. Instead, he swirls his tea lazily, feigning interest in the delicate cup. “What do I want…” he echoes, as if pondering a simple philosophical question. “That’s a long list. But at this very moment?” He turns his head slightly toward you. Behind the sheen of civility in his eyes, you see the spark of cruel amusement dancing. “I want to enjoy a nice evening with my girlfriend’s lovely family. That’s all.”

You grit your teeth. Girlfriend. Your stomach churns. He’s loving this power play, knowing you can’t call him out. “Why her?” you whisper, barely audible over the clink of plates as your mom returns from the kitchen. “Why my sister, of all people?” It slips out, the real question burning inside you. Is this some sick joke of fate or did he plan this?

His smile is slow and predatory as he regards you. He sets the teacup down with a soft clink. “Why not her?” he murmurs back. “She’s pretty, sweet, comes from a respectable family.” The emphasis isn’t lost on you. “And she practically threw herself at me that day in the café. Who was I to refuse such a polite invitation?”

Anger flares within you. His casual cruelty toward your sister – reducing her to some convenient naïve girl – ignites a protective spark that momentarily douses your fear. “She’s a good person,” you snap under your breath, eyes flashing. “She doesn’t deserve to get tangled up in… whatever you are.” You stop short of saying “monster” or “psycho,” but your tone says it for you.

He chuckles, a dark quiet sound. “Relax,” he says softly, danger lacing each syllable. “I’m not here to hurt her. I quite like her, actually.” He glances toward the doorway where your mom is chatting with your dad now. No one is paying you two any mind. Emboldened, Seong-je shifts closer by just an inch, his knee nearly touching yours. “In fact,” he continues, voice like velvet menace, “I think I might keep her around for a while.”

The implication makes your blood run cold. Keep her around. As if she’s a plaything. Does he genuinely like her? Or is she just a pawn in whatever twisted game he’s set his sights on now – a game that now clearly involves you.

You open your mouth to whisper a retort, but at that moment your sister bustles back in, a scrapbook and some papers in hand, Mom trailing behind her. You snap your mouth shut and spring up. The sudden movement draws your father’s curious glance. “Everything alright, honey?” he asks.

“Fine!” you answer, voice a bit too high. “Just thought I left the stove on, but I didn’t.” Another stupid lie, but no one questions it.

As everyone gathers to see what your sister is showing (some certificates and photos from her volunteer project, which she wants to share), you find yourself drifting to the corner of the room, letting the others cluster around the coffee table. You cannot stand to be near him right now – not with the way your insides are roiling with fear and helpless rage.

From your corner, you watch the scene: your sister excitedly talking about her project, your parents listening proudly, and Seong-je – Wolf in sheep’s clothing that he is – with one arm comfortably around your sister’s shoulders as he listens attentively. He occasionally chimes in with a supportive comment or a gentle squeeze of her arm that makes her beam at him.

It’s nauseating how convincing he is. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was genuinely the caring boyfriend he appears. You wonder if, in some twisted way, he does like aspects of this normal life. Or is every smile, every touch, purely calculated for your torment?

At one point, your sister pulls out her phone to show a short video. Everyone’s heads lean in, including his. He glances up briefly, and his eyes snag on you, hovering apart from the group. A subtle frown creases his brow, as if he doesn’t approve of you distancing yourself. You realize your aloofness might be noticeable. Blend in, you remind yourself sternly. Act normal.

So you step closer and feign interest in the video, peering at the phone from over Mom’s shoulder. It’s a harmless clip of school kids thanking donors. But you hardly see it, hyper-aware that now you’re standing only a foot from Seong-je. You swear you can feel the heat radiating off his body, and it makes your skin crawl and tingle all at once.

Suddenly, you feel a light touch at the small of your back – feather-light, quick. You jolt, startled. It was his hand, you know it. The others remain oblivious, eyes on the phone. You don’t dare react overtly, but you shuffle a half-step forward out of his reach. The nerve of him, touching you right behind your unsuspecting family.

Your heart is thudding again. Thankfully, the evening begins winding down soon after. Your parents, clearly satisfied with this meeting, exchange approving smiles. It appears Seong-je has successfully won them over. Your mother even sends you a pointed look as if to say why can’t you date a nice boy like that? You swallow back a hysterical laugh at the irony.

As your sister and Seong-je prepare to leave, you stand stiffly by the door. Your mind races for a way to handle future encounters. Surely this won’t be the last time – if he’s her boyfriend now, he’ll be around. The thought makes you dizzy with dread.

Your family bids their warm goodnights and “come again soon”s. Your sister hugs you and you hug her back tightly, whispers of “Congrats, he’s great” somehow leaving your lips because that’s what a supportive sister would say. You hate yourself for lying, but the alternative is impossible.

Then it’s your turn to face him. He extends his hand to you, the perfect polite gesture. Your parents watch expectantly, so you have no choice but to take it. As you shake, his grip firms just a hint more than necessary – a silent assertion of dominance. His eyes lock on yours, dark and knowing behind those glasses.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Y/N,” he says, voice smooth and cordial. Only you notice the faint trace of mockery hidden in the word “pleasure.” Your cheeks flame, recalling just what that word entailed between you two.

“Likewise,” you somehow manage to reply without your voice cracking. You retrieve your hand from his as quickly as possible, palms clammy.

He smiles – that lovely deceptive smile – and then he’s out the door with your sister, waving goodbye as they walk to his car.

The moment the door closes, you feel your knees wobble. Excusing yourself hastily, you retreat to your room and collapse onto your bed, heart pounding. You bury your face in your pillow and let out a silent scream of frustration and fear.

What am I going to do?

⸻

You spend the weekend in a state of high-strung anxiety. Every time your phone buzzes, you jump, half-expecting an unknown number to be him. But no text comes. No calls, no messages passed through your sister. It’s eerie, this silence. It gives you too much time to think of worst-case scenarios.

By Monday, you’re a nervous wreck but try to soldier on at school. At least there you can distract yourself with exams and friends’ gossip. But right after your last class, as you approach the school gates to head home, you freeze.

Leaned against the wall by the gate is Seong-je.

He looks out of place on your campus, not wearing the standard uniform that the other senior boys are in. Instead, he’s in that Ganghak High red blazer you’ve heard rumors about – a symbol of fear, some say, for other schools. And indeed, a few students hanging around whisper as they notice him, giving him a wide berth.

Your heart thuds painfully. How long has he been there? Did he come for you? How does he even know what school you go to? Perhaps from your sister or from some stalking.

Before you can retreat, his head turns and those wolfish eyes lock onto you. Caught. He smirks and pushes off the wall, strolling toward you with lazy confidence.

You glance around; some of your schoolmates are watching curiously, including a couple of your friends. Crap. The last thing you need is rumors flying that you’re talking to some notorious Ganghak guy. Taking a steadying breath, you force your feet to move and meet him halfway, hoping to get him away from prying eyes quickly.

“What are you doing here?” you hiss under your breath when he’s close enough, trying to appear like you’re just casually chatting.

He looks you up and down, making your skin prickle. “Is that how you greet your dear friend?” he chides with a soft laugh. Deliberately, he raises his voice a notch, loud enough for others to catch. “It’s been a while! I was just in the neighborhood and figured I’d surprise you after school, Y/N.”

Your eyes widen slightly. Friend? Surprise you? He’s giving anyone eavesdropping a false narrative. Why? To cover his tracks or to trap you further? You have no idea, but you play along, weakly replying, “Uh, yeah, long time no see.”

He grins as if pleased. “Walk with me a bit?” Without waiting, he throws an arm over your shoulders in a chummy way and steers you out the gate. The gesture looks friendly to an outsider, but to you it feels possessive, oppressive – his fingers dig just a touch into your shoulder in warning.

Once you’re a block from school, away from the curious eyes, you shrug off his arm and step out of his reach. “Seriously, what do you want?” you ask, keeping your tone low and urgent.

He tilts his head, feigning hurt. “Can’t I just want to see you?” He steps closer and you back up instinctively until you’re pressed against the brick wall of a closed bookstore. The afternoon rush hour masks your little confrontation; people pass by on the street without giving you two a second glance.

“I’ve been dying to talk to you,” he continues, voice dropping to a silken threat. With one hand, he braces against the wall next to your head, leaning in. The proximity floods you with a cocktail of feelings: fear, anger, and disturbingly, that unwanted spark of excitement your body still remembers around him. You curse yourself for it.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you whisper, chin lifting in defiance that you don’t quite feel. “I’ll stay out of your way, you stay out of mine. Just… leave me and my family alone, okay? You made your point.”

He chuckles, clearly amused by your attempt at bravado. “What point do you think I made, hm?” He brings his face dangerously close, and you shrink back against the wall. “I haven’t even started making points.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Please,” you try, softening your tone to a plea. “Don’t hurt them. They haven’t done anything.”

He blinks, then laughs outright. “Hurt them? Why would I hurt them? They’re lovely.” His hand moves from the wall to brush a stray strand of hair off your cheek in a mockery of tenderness. You flinch. “It’s you, little lamb, who I think could use a reminder to behave.”

You swallow hard, eyes stinging with frustrated tears you refuse to shed. “I haven’t done anything to you,” you manage, voice trembling despite your effort. “Why are you doing this?”

His expression hardens slightly. “Not yet. You haven’t done anything yet. But see, I know your type. Act all quiet now, but guilt can be a powerful thing. One day you might just crack and feel the need to spill your guts to sis or mommy or daddy about your naughty escapade. Maybe out of some misguided attempt to save your sister from the big bad wolf.” He sneers the nickname. “And we can’t have that, can we?”

Your blood runs cold. He’s essentially admitting he’s keeping you in line to secure his secret relationship with your sister. And likely for the sick thrill of having you at his mercy, toying with you.

“I wouldn’t… I would never tell them,” you insist urgently, grabbing his jacket lapel in desperation. “I swear. I know it would only hurt them. I won’t ever say a word.”

His eyes flick to your hands fisted in his blazer. One brow lifts. You realize you’ve touched him of your own accord – a bold move. You release him quickly, but the ghost of a grin on his face tells you he found that interesting.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he replies coolly. “But I’m not just going to take your word for it.” He leans in, his nose almost brushing yours. From afar it might look like an intimate moment between friends or lovers, but his words are pure threat: “You’re going to prove to me that you can keep your pretty mouth shut.”

“H-how?” you stammer, heart pounding.

He tilts his head, pretending to consider. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. To your confusion, he hands it to you. The screen is open to the new contact screen.

“Put in your number,” he says simply.

Your fingers tremble as you take the phone. You hesitate – but it’s not like you can refuse. With a few taps, you enter your cell number and name. He takes the phone back and presses dial. A second later, your own phone buzzes in your bag. Now he has your number, and you have his, presumably.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, that moniker making you cringe now. He pockets his phone. “Now, you and I are going to keep in touch. See, I want to make sure everything stays nice and quiet. And you’re going to help me do that by being very cooperative.”

You lick your dry lips. “What does that mean?”

He smiles slowly, and there’s genuine delight in his eyes – the kind a predator has when the prey is cornered. “It means, Y/N, that from now on, you and I have a little secret of our own. And you’re going to do whatever I ask, whenever I ask, to keep it.” His hand slides down the wall, and a knuckle deliberately grazes your thigh just below the hem of your skirt. The touch is barely there, but it jolts you. “In private, of course,” he adds, voice dropping. “We wouldn’t want to upset dear sister.”

Your breath shudders out. So this is it – his endgame. He wants to use you, the sister of his girlfriend, for his own twisted pleasure, right under her nose. It’s so perverse, you feel like you might be sick.

The sensible part of you screams to refuse, to run, even if it means telling someone the truth. But then images of your sister’s devastated face, your parents’ disappointment, and the havoc that could ensue – not to mention what he himself might do – flash through your mind. He could destroy your family as easily as snapping a twig, whether through violence or simply revealing your indiscretion and making it look like you seduced him. Who would your parents side with? Their dutiful elder daughter and her “nice” boyfriend, or you – the younger daughter caught lying about sneaking to clubs and sleeping around? The thought is sobering. Your credibility would be in shreds.

He reads the turmoil on your face and his smile widens. “Shh,” he coos mockingly, “no need to panic. If you’re a very good girl, this can even be… fun.” His finger trails up your arm lightly, as if in a caress, but it only makes your skin crawl (and, traitorously, tingle). “I won’t do anything you don’t secretly want, hmm?”

You glare at him, bristling. How dare he insinuate— But the words die in your throat, because some treacherous part of you had wanted him, that night. And the confusing part is, despite everything, your body still reacts to him; you can’t deny that your pulse quickened under his touch just now in more than fear. It’s disgusting and shameful, but he’s keenly aware of it. He’s weaponizing your own desire against you.

Seeing you speechless, he chuckles and steps back, giving you space. “Go home now, Y/N,” he says lightly, as if this were a normal goodbye. “I’ll be in touch very soon. Don’t ignore me.” The pleasant tone doesn’t mask the threat beneath.

You wrap your arms around yourself. “And if I… if I don’t show up when you…?” you ask haltingly.

His eyes harden to steel. “That would be unwise. I wouldn’t want to have to explain to your sister how I recognized her adorable younger sibling from a certain club bathroom video.” He pauses to let the horror sink in. “Yes, I know the club has cameras in the hallway. It’d be a shame if some footage fell into the wrong hands.”

You blanch. Did he actually get footage? He might be bluffing, but can you risk it? The mere idea that a video could exist of you in that state – or even just entering that bathroom with him – could ruin you if he shared it around.

“I understand,” you whisper, defeated.

“Good. Now run along.” He adjusts his blazer, then leans down, shocking you by planting a chaste peck on your forehead. To an onlooker it’d appear affectionate, but you feel the mockery in it. You flinch but stay still, heart hammering.

He walks away then, hands in pockets, whistling a tune. After a few steps, he calls back casually without turning, “Oh, and one more thing: don’t even think about trying to get a new number or block me. I have… other means to reach you and I’d be very unhappy. You wouldn’t like me unhappy.” He tosses a two-fingered wave and merges into the crowd, leaving you trembling against the wall.

You press a hand to your mouth, stifling a sob. The gravity of your situation settles in fully now. You’re trapped in a nightmare of your own making, blackmailed by a sadistic wolf wearing a prince’s clothing.

After composing yourself as best you can, you make your way home. You feel like a ghost moving through your own life. That evening, you can barely meet your sister’s eyes at dinner. She chatters on about how Seong-je surprised her at her campus today with lunch and how sweet he is. Each word is like a knife twisting deeper into your gut.

You force smiles and nods, throat tight. Inside, you’re screaming.

⸻

True to his word, Seong-je doesn’t wait long to make use of his new leverage. The following Friday evening, you get the text you’ve been dreading:

From Seong-je: Miss me? 😉 – Meet me tonight. 10pm. I’ll pick you up at the corner of your street. Don’t keep me waiting, lamb.

Your stomach plunges reading it. It’s 8pm when that arrives. You’re in your room supposedly studying, but in reality you’ve been on edge all day knowing he’d call on you soon.

Hands shaking, you respond simply: Ok. You consider begging him off, claiming you can’t sneak out, but you suspect he’d see right through excuses. And after four days of mounting threats – subtle touches or glances at school, another dinner at your house where he brushed his foot up your calf under the table – you know he’s done being patient.

Making an excuse to your parents that you feel restless and might go for a walk (which earns a puzzled look but no argument), you slip out at 9:50, heart in your throat. It’s drizzling lightly, the pavement shiny with rain under the street lamps. You wait under an awning, pulling your light jacket tighter.

Right on time, a black car turns the corner and rolls up beside you. The passenger window slides down, and there he is behind the wheel, looking effortlessly devilish in a leather jacket, his glasses notably absent – which sends a spike of nervous adrenaline through you. He only takes them off when he expects a “fight,” or some physical action. The significance is not lost on you.

“Get in,” he says mildly. You hesitate only a moment before obeying. The seat is cool against your thighs, which are bare beneath your skirt. At his earlier command, you’re wearing the outfit he told you he liked on you at the club: a short skirt and low-cut top, effectively your rebellion attire that he now uses as your humiliation attire.

As soon as you buckle in, he reaches over and, to your surprise, gently brushes a damp strand of hair off your face. The gesture is almost tender, but you know better now. “Glad you made it, baby,” he purrs, and his free hand gives your thigh a squeeze. You jump, biting your lip.

He chuckles and pulls the car away from the curb. “Relax,” he says, as if that’s remotely possible. “We’re just going for a little ride.”

“Where…where are we going?” you ask, voice unsteady, watching the neighborhood streets give way to a more industrial area.

He hums thoughtfully. “Somewhere private. I wouldn’t want any interruptions while we… chat.” The way he says “chat” sends chills down your spine.

Within minutes, he’s pulled into a deserted parking lot behind what looks like an old closed workshop. The area is dark and shielded from the main road. He cuts the engine. When he turns to you, the playful mask drops from his face, leaving something hungry and unhinged in his eyes.

Instinctively you shrink back against the car door. Your heart is pounding so hard it hurts.

He unbuckles his seatbelt and then yours, the metallic click loud in the silence. “Come here,” he says softly.

You hesitate a second too long. In a flash, he grabs your wrist and pulls. With surprising ease, he manhandles you from the passenger seat over the center console onto his lap. You gasp as your legs straddle him automatically to keep balance, your skirt riding up to your hips in the process. Suddenly you’re face to face, your hands braced on his broad shoulders, noses nearly touching.

He smirks up at you, hands settling on your waist firmly. “That’s better,” he murmurs.

Your breath comes in shaky pants. This position – it’s too familiar, too reminiscent of that night except now you’re painfully aware of the depravity of doing this while he’s dating your sister. “Seong-je, we shouldn’t—”

He tuts, silencing you. “We’re not in the mood to argue, are we?” His grip on your waist tightens, fingers digging in warningly. “You’re here to do whatever I want, remember that.”

You nod quickly, fear spiking. “I-I remember.”

“Good.” He drags one hand slowly up your body, from your waist to your ribcage, then higher to cup your breast through your flimsy top. You suck in a breath. His thumb rolls over your nipple, and despite yourself, it responds, hardening. He feels it and grins. “No bra? You actually listened. Good girl.”

Humiliation burns through you. Wearing no bra (and even no panties) were part of the instructions he texted earlier. You’d complied, cheeks flaming as you dressed. The proof of that compliance is now evident as his thumb circles lazily over the taut peak.

You bite your lip, stifling a whimper. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing your body still reacts, but it betrays you eagerly.

He watches your face avidly. “You’re blushing,” he teases, pinching your nipple suddenly. You yelp, reflexively grinding down into his lap at the shock of pleasure-pain. The friction rubs right against your bare slit on the crotch of his jeans, sending a jolt through you. He inhales sharply, feeling it. “Fuck, you really came out here with no panties. How obscene,” he growls appreciatively.

You squirm, trying to lift off the bulge that’s growing beneath you, but he clamps an arm around your lower back, forcing you down onto it again. Both of you moan softly at the contact.

“Please…” you whimper, not even sure what you’re begging for – mercy, or more.

He tilts his head. “Please what? Use your words.” His other hand comes up to grab your chin, thumb pulling your bottom lip down. “Be honest with yourself.”

Tears of frustration gather in your eyes. “I… I don’t—”

A sudden CRACK! jolts you as his palm smacks down on your rear, hard, beneath your skirt. You cry out in shock more than pain, the sound echoing in the car. The sting spreads over your buttock, and you realize with horror and unwanted excitement that he just spanked you.

“Don’t lie to me,” he hisses, eyes flashing. “You came here dripping for it. You knew exactly what would happen.” He shifts his hips up, grinding his erection against your exposed folds. The thick ridge parts your slick lips, nudging your clit, and you can’t help the moan that spills out.

He smirks. “See? Your body doesn’t lie.” His hand that smacked you now soothingly rubs the sore spot, then sneaks lower, under your skirt and between your legs from behind, one finger sliding into your wetness with ease from that angle. You jolt, nails digging into his jacket.

“Already soaked… You act so terrified, but you’re enjoying this, aren’t you, you little slut,” he breathes against your ear, slowly pumping that finger in and out, each movement pressing you down more firmly on his cock from the front and invading you from behind at once. It’s overwhelming and filthy, being taken from both angles even in this small way.

“N-no, I—” you protest weakly, but even as you say it, your hips have begun to rock, chasing the sensation. The dual stimulation sends sparks through you.

He clicks his tongue and withdraws his finger abruptly, making you whine involuntarily at the loss. He brings the finger around between your bodies and holds it up – coated in your arousal, strands of it glistening in the dim light. “Liar,” he whispers, before pushing that same finger past your lips.

Your eyes widen as you taste yourself on his skin. Instinct says pull away, but his arm on your back holds you firm. “Suck,” he orders quietly. Trembling, you obey, tongue swirling around his digit, because what else can you do? He watches, pupils blown, undoubtedly recalling your mouth on a different part of him that night.

“Better,” he groans, sliding his finger out with a wet pop. You’re panting now, humiliation and desire in equal measure flooding you.

Seong-je then moves fast. He yanks your top down, stretching the neckline until your breasts spill free. The sudden exposure to the cool air makes your nipples pebble up painfully. You flush and instinctively try to cover yourself, but he grabs your wrists and pins them behind your back. The action arches your chest forward, presenting your breasts to him.

He licks his lips, gaze raking over you. “God, you’re perfect,” he mutters and lunges. His mouth latches onto one nipple, sucking hard, while his free hand mauls the other, squeezing and rolling. You cry out, back arching more as a wave of pleasure crashes into you. The position has you grinding directly on his length; you can feel every inch of him through his jeans rubbing against your slick folds.

It’s all happening so fast. The car windows fog with your combined heat. The smell of rain and sex permeates the enclosed space. You’re losing yourself – it’s as if your body is remembering the ecstasy he gave it and is powerless to resist sliding right back into that state.

He alternates his mouth between your breasts hungrily, nipping one while pinching the other, then soothing with his tongue. You squirm and mewl, the pain and pleasure mixing intoxicatingly. It dawns on you dimly that he’s not even asking you to do anything; he’s simply taking what he wants, using you like a toy for his pleasure. And worse… you’re letting him, body yielding traitorously because it feels so damned good.

He releases your wrists, only to grab your hips. “Enough,” he grits out, voice rough. He’s reached the end of his patience. “I need to fuck you. Now.”

Your heart stutters. Despite everything, the word fuck said so rawly sends another pulse of heat through you, but also fear. Here, now? In his car? While he’s technically your sister’s boyfriend? Your conscience screams that this is so very wrong.

Sensing your hesitation, he narrows his eyes. “Don’t even think of denying me now,” he growls. One hand tangles in your hair at the back of your head and tugs, forcing you to look up at him. “You owe me this, and you know it.”

Tears spill over your cheeks, both from the pain of your scalp and the emotional agony. “I… I know,” you choke out. “Just… please, be quick.”

He regards you for a moment, then wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb. Surprisingly, he chuckles, a dark, almost sad sound. “So eager to get it over with? We’ll see.”

Then he’s maneuvering you off his lap. Confused, you start to move back to the passenger seat, but he grabs your thighs and turns you around so that you’re facing the windshield, your back to him, still straddling his legs. Before you can process, he pushes your upper body forward. “Hands on the dashboard,” he commands.

You obey shakily, pressing your palms to the cool dash and leaning over it. This angle presents your ass perfectly to him, and you hear him groan appreciatively behind you. The remaining scraps of your skirt are hiked up over your hips, leaving your butt and dripping sex completely exposed. You feel utterly debased… and frighteningly, that only heightens the illicit excitement coiling in your belly.

There’s the sound of his zipper unfastening, the rustle of clothing, a condom packet tearing – thank god he at least thought of that, or maybe he always carries them. Then his warm hands grip your hips, and you feel the thick head of his cock glide through your folds from behind, coating himself in your arousal.

You tense up, anticipating the thrust. He slides back and forth a few times, not entering, just teasing both of you. It has you quivering, a strangled whine escaping your lips as the fat tip nudges your clit on each pass.

“Do you want it?” he asks, voice strained – he’s clearly holding himself on a taut leash right now.

You screw your eyes shut, pride warring with need. He slows the movement deliberately, almost pulling away entirely, leaving you frustratingly empty. Your body betrays you as your hips subtly push back, seeking him. “Y-yes,” you whisper, barely audible.

He yanks your hair. “I didn’t catch that.”

“Yes,” you say louder, voice cracking. “I want it… please.”

The satisfaction in his grunt is the only warning you get. In one powerful thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside you. You both cry out – you at the sudden fullness stretching you, him at the tight heat enveloping him.

“Fuck,” he curses, stilling for a moment as your body adjusts, fluttering around his intrusion. He’s every bit as thick and long as you remember, maybe even more so in this position that lets him hit deeper.

There’s a brief flare of pain from the abrupt entry, but it quickly gives way to an incredible pressure that has you clenching around him. A guttural groan rumbles from his chest. “So tight… You missed my cock, didn’t you?” he pants, pulling out halfway and slamming back in, drawing a yelp from you.

He sets a bruising pace at once, clearly too far gone for gentleness. The car rocks with the force of his thrusts. His fingers dig into your hips hard – you know they’ll leave marks tomorrow – using them as leverage to pound you from behind.

Your moans mix with the lewd slap of skin on skin. It’s raw and animalistic, nothing like any romantic coupling. It’s use. He’s using you like a personal fucktoy, and the most shameful part is how your body responds eagerly. Each drive forward rubs that devastating spot inside you that makes you see stars. The angle, bent over the dash, allows him to hit even deeper than at the club. Sparks of ecstasy light up your nerves despite the sting of his roughness.

“You feel that?” he growls, one hand leaving your hip to snake around and press down on your lower belly while he impales you. The added pressure internally is intense. “Feel me splitting you open? Hnh, say who’s fucking you.”

“You… you are,” you gasp out, tears of pleasure at the corners of your eyes.

He lands another sharp smack to your ass. “Name.”

“Se-Seong-je…!”

Another smack, harder. The sound echoes. “Not what I meant.”

It clicks. He wants the perverse title. The humiliation of it sends a shameful thrill through you. “Wolf,” you sob, skin burning with embarrassment and arousal. “Wolf is fucking me!”

He growls in approval and as a twisted reward, his hand between your legs shifts, two fingers strumming over your swollen clit in rhythm with his thrusts. You keen, the added stimulation hurtling you toward the edge with frightening speed.

Your legs shake, and you scrabble for purchase on the smooth dash as your mind goes blank with rising ecstasy. Sensing your impending climax, he pistons into you faster, chasing his own end now too. “That’s it, come for me,” he bites out, breathing ragged. “Come on my cock like the needy little slut you are.”

The degradation pushes you over the precipice. With a wail, you shatter around him, inner walls clamping down hard in pulsating waves. Your vision whites out; you’d collapse entirely if he wasn’t holding you up by a firm arm across your waist now.

“F-fuck!” he chokes as your orgasm milks him. With a final deep thrust grinding as far as he can go, he stills and you feel his cock twitching, releasing into the condom, his own rough cry filling the car. He clutches you tightly to him as he spends himself, teeth scraping your shoulder in the throes of it.

For a few moments, the only sound is both of you gulping in air, hearts pounding in tandem. Your body continues to spasm weakly around him, drawing out every drop. You’re distantly aware of how utterly sinful this is – in a car, behind your sister’s back, with a man who’s effectively your blackmailer. Yet in this haze of climax, none of that matters; all that exists is the afterglow and the man throbbing inside you.

Eventually, as clarity slowly returns, so does the crushing guilt. You stiffen, a sob catching in your throat. What have I done?

Seong-je, still draped over your back, must sense the shift. He gently – almost tenderly – kisses the nape of your neck, an unexpected gesture that makes your heart lurch in confusion. Carefully, he withdraws from your sensitive body. You wince at the loss and collapse onto the dash, boneless.

He ties off the condom and tosses it aside, then pulls your skirt back down to cover you, and your top up over your breasts. You feel strangely numb as he helps you back into the passenger seat. Neither of you speak immediately. The silence is heavy with things unsaid.

You keep your gaze fixed on your trembling hands in your lap. You flinch when you feel his hand brush your cheek, turning your face towards him. His expression is unreadable in the dim light, but his eyes roam over your features, lingering on your tear-streaked cheeks, your swollen lips, the fresh marks blooming on your neck and shoulders from his mouth.

For a moment, you think he might apologize – there’s a flicker of something like confliction in his gaze. But then it’s gone. He smirks lightly, thumb grazing your lower lip. “You look thoroughly fucked,” he says, almost in admiration. “Wear those marks with pride, baby. Only you and I know what they mean.”

Shame floods your face, and you turn away, hugging yourself. It’s too much – the way he shifts back to callousness so easily.

He starts the car, and you’re surprised when he drives you not back to the corner where he picked you up (which might arouse suspicion if someone saw you returning from nowhere) but around the block, pulling up discreetly by your house’s side gate. He knows the layout from previous visits.

“How—”

“I pay attention,” he answers your unfinished question, shutting off the engine. “Now, before you go…” He grabs your chin again, but gently this time. “Remember our arrangement. You answer when I call. You do what I say. And in exchange, I keep our dirty little secret safe and maybe treat your sister like the princess she believes she is. Understood?”

Your throat tightens. You nod faintly, drained.

He leans in and kisses you – not rough, but slowly, deeply, leaving you breathless all over again. When he pulls back, he murmurs against your lips, “You were perfect tonight. Don’t disappoint me, and maybe I’ll even let you enjoy it again.” The arrogance in that statement would normally earn an eye-roll, but horrifyingly, you did enjoy it in some twisted way, despite the anguish of what it means.

Tears prick your eyes anew. He pulls back, his thumb wiping one away. “Shh. Now go, before you’re missed.”

On shaky legs, you exit the car. He watches as you slip through your side gate and creep into your house. Thankfully, your parents are asleep. You collapse into your bed, the scent of him all over you.

In the silent darkness, hot tears finally overflow freely. How did it come to this? You’ve betrayed your sister, your own morals, everything. And worst is, you’re not even sure you can fully blame him – because your own body and some secret part of your soul responded to the thrill. That knowledge shackles you in guilt.

A single text pings on your phone, lighting up the gloom:

From Seong-je: Sleep well, little lamb. 🖤 See you soon.

Clutching your pillow, you sob quietly until exhausted sleep claims you, his words and the ache between your legs a constant reminder that this nightmare is far from over.

⸻

The following weeks pass in a tense, clandestine haze. By day, you put on your best performance of normalcy – attending classes, eating dinner with your family, exchanging hollow small talk with your sister about her “wonderful” boyfriend. You even smile when she gushes over the bouquet of roses he sent her “just because” one afternoon. Inside, each lie and each praise for him is like swallowing broken glass.

By night or stolen moments, you live under his shadow. He calls, and you have to invent an excuse to slip away to answer, heart in your throat. Sometimes he simply talks as if you’re old friends, his tone disarmingly light – asking about your day, teasing you until you begrudgingly respond with more than one-word answers. Other times, his voice drops to that low timber that makes your stomach flip, and he describes in lurid detail the things he wants to do to you next time, asking if you’re touching yourself as you listen (you always say no; he always sees through it).

And there are the meetings – the secret rendezvous that you wish you could say you dreaded, but in truth, you now ache for with a twisted mix of craving and shame. In abandoned classrooms after school, in the backseat of his car in dark parking lots, even once in a restroom at a department store while your sister waited outside unaware – he takes you, again and again. Fast or slow, cruel or almost tender, but always intense, always leaving you boneless and soaked with guilt.

Each time, you tell yourself it’s the last, that you’ll find a way to break free. But each time, he lures you back in – with threats, with dark promises, with the simple undeniable pull he has over your body. He is a drug and you’re deeply addicted, even as you hate yourself for it.

And through it all, your sister remains blissfully oblivious. She notices maybe that you’ve grown quieter, paler. You claim stress about exams; she buys it, too wrapped up in her own happiness. The guilt of it gnaws at you till you feel hollow.

One evening, a particularly charged family dinner finds you nearly at breaking point. Your sister excitedly announces that she and Seong-je plan to attend a charity ball together, and she’s already dress-shopping. Your parents toast to the lovely couple. Seong-je – who’s dining with you all – reaches over to squeeze your sister’s hand affectionately. “I’m a lucky man,” he says with a charming smile.

His foot brushes yours under the table at that exact moment – a secret touch that makes you jump. He smirks subtly without missing a beat in conversation. You can barely eat; nausea and twisted arousal churn in your gut.

Later, as you clear the table, he corners you in the kitchen while the others talk in the living room. He presses up behind you as you stand at the sink, his hand sneaking under your skirt.

“You’re so quiet tonight,” he murmurs, nuzzling your neck. “Jealous of the ball? Don’t worry, I’ll make time for my favorite girl after.” His finger finds your slit, discovering you shamefully wet. “Already soaked? Naughty… We just did it this afternoon.”

“Stop,” you whisper, mortified and aching. Your parents and sister are mere feet away beyond the door. The risk is insane.

He only chuckles and slips a finger inside you, making you bite down on a moan. “Meet me later,” he whispers, pumping slowly. “Midnight, my place. I want you in my bed for once.”

Your eyes widen. His place? You’ve never been. Too dangerous. You shake your head frantically. He hooks another finger inside you and rubs your clit with his thumb, a ruthless combination that has your knees buckling. “Midnight,” he repeats softly, “or maybe I’ll have to entertain a different guest. Perhaps your sister—”

“I’ll come,” you gasp quietly, grabbing his wrist to halt the devastating movements before you cum right there.

He withdraws his fingers and licks them clean, winking. Then he’s gone, back to the others, leaving you trembling over the sink.

Midnight finds you standing outside a sleek apartment complex, hood up and heart rattling. He buzzes you in. The elevator ride up to the 10th floor feels like ascending into some surreal fantasy.

He opens the door shirtless, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. The domesticity of it – seeing him in a home setting – does strange things to your heart. “Right on time,” he purrs, ushering you in and locking the door.

The next hours blur in a fever dream. True to his word, he takes you to his bed – a large, plush bed in a surprisingly tasteful room. There, he peels off every layer of your clothing with agonizing slowness, worshipping every inch of exposed skin with lips and tongue until you’re writhing. This isn’t the hurried coupling in cars or bathrooms; this is drawn-out seduction.

You try not to think about how many girls he’s brought here or if your sister has been in this very bed. But he seems to sense your distraction. “Tonight, you’re the only thing on my mind,” he whispers at one point, as if reading your insecurity. And disturbingly, you want to believe it.

He ravishes you thoroughly: going down on you until you sob his name, then taking you in languid strokes that feel almost like an erotic caress rather than punishment. He even kisses you – really kisses you – throughout, as if you’re lovers. By the end, you’re nestled against his chest in a tangle of sheets, your sweat and his mingling, both of you spent and breathing softly in the dark.

For a fleeting moment, it feels like something normal. Like after all the depravity, you’ve circled around to a tender peace. In that vulnerable haze post-orgasm, you dare to ask the question that’s been buried in your heart.

“Why are you doing this… really?” you whisper, tracing an old scar on his shoulder absentmindedly. “You have her. You could just let me go and… be happy with her. Why keep tormenting me? Is it just the blackmail and sex, or…?” You trail off, afraid to voice the hopeful alternative your silly heart stupidly wonders about in the darkest recesses – that maybe, somehow, he feels something for you beyond just control.

He’s silent for a long time. You can’t see his face in the dim light, only feel the rise and fall of his chest under your cheek. Just when you think he won’t answer, he sighs. His hand idly strokes your hair.

“I’m not a good man, Y/N,” he says quietly, almost gentle. “I hurt people – because I like it, and because it’s the only way I survive in my world. Your sister… she’s a pretty doll. An escape maybe. But you…” He tilts your chin up, and even in the dark, you feel the weight of his intense gaze. “You stumbled into my life and saw the real me from the start – and you didn’t run. Hell, you fucked the real me.” A bitter chuckle. “You have no idea how… addictive that is. You make me feel—”

He stops himself. Your heart hammers. Did he almost admit to feeling something?

Abruptly, he pulls away and sits up on the edge of the bed, back to you. “This was a mistake,” he mutters, voice hardening. “Getting cozy.”

Panic flares in you. “No, I– I didn’t mean to upset—”

“Get dressed,” he snaps, standing. The sudden coldness in his tone is like a slap. You jolt up, clutching the sheet to your naked chest. His walls are back up, brick-solid. “I’ll drive you home.”

Tears prick your eyes. You scramble for your clothes, dressing in heavy silence. He’s already fully clothed, mask of detached calm in place. The vulnerable man who held you minutes ago is gone.

The car ride is silent and tense. When he pulls up near your house, you turn to him, desperate. “Seong-je—”

“Stop,” he cuts off, not meeting your gaze. His grip on the wheel is white-knuckled. “Don’t read into this. Our arrangement stands. Go.” His voice cracks slightly on that last word, betraying a hint of emotion that twists your heart.

You want to reach for him, to say something that might break through. But fear and pride hold you back. With a trembling exhale, you exit the car. This time, he doesn’t watch to ensure you’re safely in – he’s already driven off, tires screeching softly on the pavement.

You stare after the car’s tail lights until they disappear. A fresh wave of pain settles in your chest. Somewhere along the line, you realize with despair, your dark tormentor became more than just that to you. Inextricably, you’ve fallen for the one person you absolutely should not – the cruel, broken boy behind the monster.

And that, you think as you wipe away tears and steel yourself to creep back into your house, is perhaps the darkest tragedy of all.

Inside, the house is quiet. You slip into your bed, the scent of him still clinging to your skin. You know this twisted game can’t last. It’s a matter of time before it all combusts disastrously – secrets like this always do. But for now, you’re caught in his web, bound by desire and fear and something achingly like love.

As you drift into a fitful sleep, one thought echoes in your mind: There is no way out of this unscathed. And the little good girl inside you curls up and cries, even as another part of you – the part irrevocably claimed by Geum Seong-je – whispers that, given the chance, you’d do it all over again.

[undercoversasa]

hot diggitty dawg the way this is written is out of this world.

[undercoversasa]

Guilty

I’m in a dilemma and I’ve found myself in love with a taken man and I know it’s wrong. I know I shouldn’t feel this way but I can’t help but want him. He’s got the most gorgeous brown hair and eyes. His smile is so bright and it makes my day better just hearing him say my name. He waits for me after class because I’m usually the last one packing up. Does that mean I’ll make a move on him? No I would hate to be the source of another woman’s tears so instead I’ll just resort to staring from afar and hoping that one day I’ll move on.

[undercoversasa]

Ryu Si O Rant

LISTEN I COULD CARE LESS WHAT OTHER PEOPLE THINK. RYU SI O DID NOT DESERVE THAT HE IS MY BABYGIRL LIKE… HE GREW UP IN A FUCKED UP PLACE AND HARDENED HIMSELF TO SURVIVE :( DID HE RUN A MAJOR DRUG BUSINESS AND HURT PEOPLE??? YES!!! BUT DID HE ALSO TREATED THE PERSON HE LOVED BETTER THAN ANYBODY ELSE??? ALSO YES!!! LIKE IT WAS PLAIN IN FRONT OF HIS EYES THAT SHE WAS TRYING TO EXPOSE HIM OR ON THE OTHER TEAM BUT HE IGNORED IT BECAUSE HE LIKED HER THAT MUCH LIKE AHHHH!!! HE WAS HAUNTED BY HIS CHILDHOOD ITS NOT ACTUALLY HIM BABES!!!! I WOULD KILL TO HAVE A MAN LIKE HIM WHO TREATS ME WELL!!! LIKE GIVE ME A TOTAL OF LIKE A DAY OR TWO WITH HIM AND WE’LL COME OUT HOLDING HANDS AND GIGGLING 💁🏻‍♀️

[undercoversasa]

would anybody be interested in a Steven Conklin x reader Story?? Im currently working on one right now

Steven Conklin x Reader

yes

no

Voting ended onSep 17, 2023

[princesachicana]

𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 (steven conklin x reader)

description: words spoken behind your back leave you heartbroken.

want to be added to by tsitp taglist just message me or comment on this post!

You probably looked like a three year old that consumed way to much pixie sticks, as you hurriedly walked to the beach house that your best friend had just arrived to. You were ecstatic belly was your closest friend of many years. The time spent away from each other was almost depressing, you’ve missed her a lot. But saying that was the only reason you were practically skipping towards the beach house would be a lie. Her brother, Steven Conklin was also apart of the reason.

You were only a year younger than the boy, though at times it felt like you were five years younger with the way he treated you. Every year he would playfully tease you and poke fun at you just like he did his sister. Of course, you saw it in a completely different light. boys teased girls they had a crush on right? Well that’s what you told yourself every time he tickled your sides as he would pass by, he’d throw you a charming smile right after leaving you in a lovesick daze.

And now one summer later, you still had it bad for Steven Conklin. This was your summer where you’d finally explore a relationship with him. You were more confident all thanks to your new style. It would be a lie saying “looks don’t matter.” Of course they did, no matter how confident someone is they always have some insecurities. Your new hairstyle that you got done last week was still fresh, the shopping trip you took also was doing wonders, but skin care really was your best friend now.

You didn’t get the chance to even knock before the door was swinging open. Your breath was nearly knocked out of you as you were crushed into your best friend’s arms. You laughed when you finally pulled apart. “You look so good oh my god!” Belly shirked stepping to the side examining your outfit. “My brother is definitely gonna like this!” She took your hand and spun you in a circle. Your halter top and shorts were something you picked up last minute. “You really think so?” you smiled nervously “it’s not to much?”

“No! definitely not” Belly’s knowledge of your crush on her brother was never a problem. She’d always joke about how you would be able to spend more time together if you actually were in a relationship with Steven. “These are for you!” You held out a plastic container that held strawberry cupcakes with vanilla frosting. “Mhmm they look so good! remind me why I’ve never tried to bake with you?” Belly grabbed the container inspecting the perfectly baked pastries.

“Hey ! don’t forget when we made those cake pops, even though they were sort of a disaster.” You laughed as you both finally walked into the house, where you heard mingling voices. “Hey look who it is!” Jeremiah ran towards you almost on a mission. He attacked you in a hug spinning you in a circle. Your laugh was contagious letting everyone in the room follow after, well almost everyone. Steven’s eyes met yours from his seat on the couch, you gave a small smile along with a wave of your hand.

In reply all he did was nod his head and turn back towards the video game he was immersed in. The disappointment was clear as day on your face. We’re you expecting some balloons and flowers? Of Course not, all you wanted was maybe a hug? At the very least a verbal acknowledgment. Steven didn’t care that he hadn’t seen you all year, he wasn’t even excited. You shook your head in attempt to get out of those thoughts you wouldn’t let yourself think about to much.

~

The day was magnificent. Nothing beats a day at the beach with friends! The shower you just took to wash the beach sand off was relaxing, even though your mind kept trying to focus on Steven. The whole day he’s probably spoken three words to you? So as you nervously tip toe to the living room, where you know he’s at you contemplate on what to say to him. It shouldn’t feel this way you and him have always spoken to each other.

“Hi..” Your voice is almost a whisper in the quiet living room. Steven’s eyes look up from his phone mumbling a “Hey.” before returning his attention back to the device. Grabbing the plastic container with his name on it from the kitchen, you hesitantly join him on the couch. “I made these for you! i haven’t gotten the chance to give them to you so” You smiled holding out the container of chocolate covered strawberries. Each one had either sprinkles or an intricate design. Steven’s mouth up turned into a smile only for half a second before returning to the same blank one he’s had all day only towards you.

He took the container from you slowly placing it on the coffee table. Just like you expected he returned to his phone once again. Was this some sort of joke? There was no explanation on why he was acting like this towards you. “Hey, you wanna watch that show on Netflix where they all try to find their ‘perfect match’ “ you laugh using air quotes on the last part. Steven sighs before laying his head against the couch. “I’m actually really tired so i think i’ll pass.” You’d always been able to sense when he’s annoyed. So you could feel the annoyance times ten, and it hurts that your the cause of it.

“We could always sleep on the couch for old times sake?” You attempt a smile. Your hands are shaking. God Steven makes you so nervous. “I’d rather sleep in my bed” Steven speaks quickly, standing up almost in a hurry. “Oh okay” you mumble voice breaking. And just as fast as you joined him in the living room your left alone, the only sound is the creaks of the house. Steven Conklin was acting different this summer and you had no idea why.

~

The next morning you woke up in a funk. You tried not to let it show but everyone kept asking “what’s up with you?” Even the cause of your saddened mood had noticed or at least you think he did. You caught Steven staring at you through a hallway mirror as you examined your two piece bikini. You both probably held eye contact for about 15 seconds, you were the one to look away though once you felt that warm feeling in the pit of your lower belly.

You haven’t given up though, today was the day you were gonna put an end to what ever was going on with you and Steven. This wasn’t how this summer was supposed to be. You’ve imagined the perfect summer in your head multiple times. All of them of course ending with you and Steven’s “summer romance”. That couldn’t exactly happen if you both were acting distant with each other. So with new found confidence after last night in the living room you decided to approach him.

His summer job at the snack shack was the perfect opportunity. You would invite him to hangout! And hopefully it would turn into a date? You sure hope you don’t embarrass yourself in front of him. You even practiced what you were gonna say the whole walk over. So as you confidently approach the snack shack with a smile you looked around for him. Was he on his lunch break or something? “Can I get you anything?” The question came from behind causing you to get startled. “Sorry” Steven smiled at you before coming behind the counter again. “Just a soda.” You nervously responded thinking about backing out of the plan.

“It’s on the house.” He placed a ice cold can of strawberry soda onto the counter. “You remembered?” You whispered grabbing the can, the cold beverage did nothing to calm your nerves. “Course i did the only thing you drank last summer.” You swore Steven’s eyes trailed down your body. Only causing you to be more nervous. “So i came here to ask you something.” You finally spoke after a moment of silence.

Steven nodded his head signaling for you to continue. “I was going to see if you-“

It’s as if the words were stuck in the back of your throat not wanting to be let out. “If you wanted to maybe hang out tomorrow a little picnic on the beach?” You were looking everywhere but at the boy you’ve just asked out. “Sure” the words almost felt like a slap to the face. You secretly pinched the sides of your thighs, just checking if this was actually real. Steven just accepted your invitation and you couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your lips.

“Okay tomorrow?” You opened the soda can before taking a quick sip. And of course your clumsy self spilt a little. The sticky drink falling onto your chest. Steven cursed under his breath. Immediately his eyes fell onto your breasts he was definitely gonna think about this in the shower later. You didn’t notice his dilemma, you were to busy wiping off your chest with a damp cloth that you plucked from the counter. “Yeah,yeah tomorrow!” he stuttered when you looked back up. “Sounds good! I’ll text you.” You lean over the counter leaving a chaste kiss onto his cheek.

And you rush off without another word. Why did you just do that? Was it awkward? Did he like it? Would he regret saying yes to the picnic?

~

“You look so pretty” Belly says looking at you through the mirror. You’ve just finished your makeup and thankfully belly agreed to do your hair. “I’m really nervous” You whisper, putting on earrings along with a necklace. “I mean I didn’t really mention that I wanted this to be like a ‘date’ or whatever” You continue to ramble on as belly laughs shaking you. “Shut up! you’re fine Steven wants you and I know I’m not wrong I promise.” She smirks pulling you up from your sitting position.

“I want all the details when you get back!”Belly whispers pushing you ahead. As you both reach the kitchen she stops you again. “Actually not all, please don’t tell me if anything rated r goes on.” You can’t help the giggle that leaves your mouth, doubting that anything like that would go on you reassure to keep stuff like that to yourself.

Grabbing the beige picnic basket that’s packed full thanks to Laurel and Susannah. You head out to find the boy thats been on your mind all day. Hearing voices coming from the pool, you smile to yourself noticing that all to familiar laugh of Steven’s followed after. “When are you going on your little date with y/n?” Jeremiah’s lively voice stops you in your tracks. “In a little, why?” Steven answers voice raising a little. “Why’d you agree weren’t you just saying how annoying she is?” Conrad speaks from out of nowhere. You didn’t even know he was outside.

Conrad had to be joking right? Steven would never say that about you.

“Yeah, she is but here’s my plan.” He pauses for a moment. Maybe to check if anyone is listening. Little does he know your right around the corner. “I only agreed to this date or whatever so i could get her off my back a little, even you guys noticed how pushy she’s been with me, it’s totally a turn off.” Steven’s declaration has you wiping your face angrily. You hadn’t even noticed you were crying. That’s how he felt? God you were so embarrassed. How could he speak about you like this In front of other teenage boys?

You only wanted to mend the relationship you had with him since he’s been so distant these past days. But now here you were crying, in the dress you thought he’d like as he laughed at you along with his friends who were ultimately your friends too.

It hurt.

The last words you stuck around to hear were “She’s so desperately desperate.” Before you walked back to your own beach house sadly. You probably looked like a crazy person, tears streaming down your face as you carried a full picnic basket in one hand. Once you were alone in your room you changed into pajamas not planning on leaving anytime for the remainder of the night. Your phone went off with a text just as you attempted to drift off to sleep in hopes of forgetting this ever happened.

Steven: Hey, you still coming?

Steven: Can’t wait, Pretty :)

Your finger hovered over the block button. You almost pressed it but it was no use. You’d have to see him tomorrow. That’s just how close you were to each other. You’d have to act as if you forgot about the whole “date” and most importantly as if you never heard those things he said about you.

TAGS: @gillybear17 @snowsharkk @tessastle @conradsupporterr @alyssa-cabrera @eranthisphiny @xoxoloverb @lostaurorax @lanisdreams @alexzluvz @lalaland-notfound @liltimmyst @unsaidjaelineose @buckys2thicc @lilygreennn @t8lzw @medusaslilsister @1-800-stilinski @yazmi710 @j-brielmalfoy @ashcannotwrite @colbysbrocks @exonct07 @multilover19 @mimisparkle12

@littlefreaksatellite @vintagebitc @lexi-2004 @melllinaa @xcallmetaniax @brizzlessizzler @haroldpotterson @livinginaglasspalace @delicatekidpeanut

[undercoversasa]

THIS JUST SHATTERED MY SOUL AND I LOVE IT 😨

[iamthemain-character]

Heyyy 💕 I really liked your Mordred x Merlin’s sibling fic. Do you think you could do one where the reader is Arthur’s younger sibling if requests are still open??

hi! i’m so glad you liked that fic and requested, i hope you like this one! :)

Fit For a Princess

sir mordred x princess reader, arthur x younger sibling! reader

she/her pronouns

TW: none

requested by @lana-isabelle

Sir Mordred of Camelot had a problem; and no, it wasn’t the fact that he was a brand new knight, or the fact that Merlin was convinced he was untrustworthy, or the fact that magic was banned here. No, Mordred’s problem was much bigger than that.

He was in love with King Arthur’s sister.

Princess Y/n had totally and completely stolen the young knights heart; it was like love at first sight for him. Mordred had had other girls capture his fancy before, but something felt different about this princess. He felt drawn to her, as if he was meant to love her. And then it didn’t help that Y/n was beautiful and witty and kind, and every single encounter with her made Mordred fall more madly in love with her.

But Princess Y/n was off limits; a simple rule Arthur set up for the knights, no one was allowed to flirt or court his younger sister. The knights could be respectful and were required to protect the princess, but they were all ordered to keep their distance. Mordred knew Arthur would probably have his head if he knew how the former felt about Princess Y/n, so he tried to keep his feelings on the down low.

It didn’t take long, however, before the rest of the knights figured it out. Mordred managed to turn into a blushing, stammering mess whenever Y/n was around, and soon enough all of his peers caught on. And just as brothers would, Mordred was teased mercilessly about it. The knights even went so far as to tease Y/n about it too, which made her blush madly and pretend to be upset. Luckily for all involved, Arthur appeared to be unaware of the jokes around him. Nothing really ever came of it, and so Mordred continued to pine in silence. He did his best to be respectful and nonchalant around Y/n, hoping she wouldn’t see through him.

———————————————————————

One bright, sunny morning, Mordred was on his way to speak to Arthur when he stopped in the middle of his tracks. Before him was the man he was seeking, but also Y/n. The siblings appeared to be arguing with one another, and it wasn’t long before the heightened tones reached Mordred’s ears.

“Arthur, for heaven’s sake, stop smothering me.”

“Oh I’m sorry that I’m trying to protect your life.”

“My life is not in danger! It’s just a picnic in the woods.”

“Ah yes, because a young princess alone in the woods is perfectly safe.”

“I won’t be alone, I-“ Suddenly Y/n’s eyes landed on Mordred, and he felt butterflies in his stomach. “I’ll have Mordred with me.”

When Arthur’s gaze landed on Mordred, the latter’s cheeks were filled with heat. It seemed like the king was intensely scrutinizing Mordred, seeing if he was good enough. Finally he nodded slowly to Y/n, making her squeal in delight and hug him before running off. Mordred was about to follow her when he felt Arthur’s hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

“Don’t let anything happen to her, please. I’m trusting you.”

“I’ll protect her with my life.”

———————————————————————

The ride itself was fairly awkward at first, but slowly Y/n got Mordred to relax and be himself. The pair laughed and talked together, just enjoying each other’s company. When they finally reached the stream where Y/n wanted to have her picnic, Mordred was quick to help the princess set everything up.

After they both ate, both Mordred and Y/n just sat and talked for a while, enjoying the nature around them. Mordred was delighted to spend this much time with Y/n, not to mention the fact that she even noticed him.

“Mordred, I have a confession to make.”

The man in question quickly snapped his gaze to the woman sitting beside him, ready to listen to anything Y/n had to say.

“I……I didn’t just bring you along to get Arthur off my back.”

“You didn’t? Then why did you bring me?”

Y/n ducked her head, a light blush spreading across her cheeks. “Honestly, I’ve sort of secretly have feelings for you, I have for a long time. I was hoping that if you came on this picnic with me, you might, possibly, want to court me?”

For a moment Mordred sat dumbfounded, shocked that the woman he adored actually reciprocated his feelings. It felt like everything was in slow motion, his brain trying to process that this was real and not a dream.

“You know what, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything, forget about it-“ Y/n stammered out her apology, clearly taking Mordred’s silence to mean disapproval. She got up and brushed herself off, ready to just get on her horse and run away.

Worried that he had ruined the moment, Mordred grabbed Y/n’s hand to stop her. When she turned around, she looked up at him expectantly, a tentative hope glimmering. Everything Mordred wanted to say was stuck in his throat, so instead he just pulled Y/n in and kissed her.

It was sweet, and Mordred’s insides felt like the warm sunshine on his skin. Y/n’s lips were soft, the lingering taste of berries on them. She melted into Mordred’s touch, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him close.

The moment was our magic, and when the couple broke apart they both had big smiles on their face. Y/n became bashful, burying her face in Mordred’s chest. He laughed and held her close, resting his chin on top of Y/n’s head. Everything was perfect, until one dreadful thought hit him.

“Arthur’s going to kill me.”

[undercoversasa]

Hiiiii! Could you write a Marcus x fem reader? Idk if you write smut, it’s okay if you don’t and you can just leave that out but I’d like fluffy and angsty smut please. :) or just fluffy with some angst in there somewhere. Maybe something with him climbing into readers room or her climbing into his at some point? But please don’t write anything where reader or Marcus cheats/cheated. Thank you!!!!

Hi yes of course I can write that

his actions are kind of ooc

Wounded Dove

It was Friday night. Ginny and I had gotten into an argument over mom’s suspected murder. I knew mom would never hurt anyone unless it was for our family. Unless there was a reason.

I was the eldest daughter of Georgia Miller, y/n. Ginny and I are the same age but not twins. I came along when mom married my dad, Anthony. To be blunt, I’m her stepdaughter. He was a shit dad to be honest. After his death she took me in. Growing up we had moved between so many different locations that me and my siblings barely had any time to make friends or find where we belonged. Our newest location being Wellsbury. We’ve actually been here long enough to find friend groups and love interests. Mom seemed to be settling in quite well with multiple guys as per usual. I ship her the most with Joe, a total sweet eye candy. Although it seems she much rather prefers the mayor. Ginny has hit it off with this boy named Hunter. He’s good for her, he makes her happy. I happened to hit it off with our neighbor, Marcus Baker. He’s a total eye candy and he rides a motorcycle somewhat like Zion. Me and him had a connection ever since the first day we ran into each other and ever since we made things official between us he started to call me his dove. Lately he’s been sneaking into my room to have make out sessions but it hasn’t gotten to second or third base quite yet. I was hoping today would be the day until the fight with Ginny happened. Now I just sat pathetically crying in my room, having completely forgotten the fact that Marcus would come over. I didn't realize his presence in the room until I heard a slight coughing. “You good, dove?” he approached my side.

“Yea, I’m fine” fidgeting with my hands. “you know you can talk to me about anything, I’m always gonna be here for you” I sighed “thanks it’s just Ginny” I didn't really want to burden him about my family issues but I knew that I could trust him. “What happened? Did she do something to you?” he inquired whilst holding my hands. “it’s just we got into an argument over Georgia. She’s always being so rude to her and for whatever reason she believes she’s always out to get her. She’s our mom for Christ sake.” Speaking of this made me recall how Ginny called our mom a “dangerous woman” who could “hurt us” and it made me feel sick. “ dove, you know her relationship with your mom is complicated. Don’t stress yourself over it because I assure you, it probably won’t end any time soon.”

I realized I probably ruined the mood for the plans we had tonight but I really had looked forward to it so here goes nothing. “can we kiss?” when I said that his face turned slightly red and we began to make out. He certainly knew his way around these kinds of things. Things started to get heated and before I knew it, his hands were up my shirt fumbling with the straps of my bra while I tried my best to aid him. Finally with a bit of struggling we got my top off and we’re just about to take of the rest of our clothes when all of a sudden someone pounds on the door “Y/N YOU BETTER NOT BE GETTING FRISKY WITH WHITE BOI IN YOUR ROOM” ah shit… it’s mom. that’s kind of the end please let me know what you think

[undercoversasa]

Send me fanfic requests

hey my name is Sasa and I’m pretty new to the the tumblr fanfic scene. If anybody has any requests I’m willing to try and write them. Here are some of the fandoms I can write for:

Alchemy of Souls

The Umbrella Academy

Ginny and Georgia

The Glory

Avatar

Harry Potter

The Maze Runner

Twilight

Alice in Borderland

Meteor Garden

Criminal Minds

American Horror Story

Bella and the Bulldogs

Bridgerton

Teen Wolf

I know there aren’t many people that write fanfics for kdramas but I do for most (just ask)

and so much more if you’re curious just ask :)

I can write just about any type of setting but here r some things to keep in mind :)

Requests are always open.

I will write Poly relationship

If you are homophobic, racist etc. please don’t read my fics

I will write non-binary reader & fem!reader

I won't write male reader bc I'm a female

thank you so much for taking your time to read this

[undercoversasa]

PLEASE IM BEGGING

On Netflix the kdrama The Glory just came out and y’all when I say I am into toxic men. I mean it. Please to all the fanfic x reader writers PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF WHATEVER IS THE HIGHER POWER WRITE A JOEN JAE JOON X READER FANFIC. I’m melting. dying. crying. I get that his character is an asshole but like it’s a hot one. He’s like such a daddy material (literally) thank you mwah

[undercoversasa]

I read all the Ajax x reader fanfics T-T

please give this very desperate reader more