welcome to luke’s room!
feel free to look around, get comfy, and stay as long as you’d like. this is where i share my writing, talk about the things i love, and sometimes just ramble a bit. it’s a pretty chill space, so if you’re into stories, music, or just hanging out — you’re in the right place :)
sim jaeyun, park sunghoon, park jongseong x male reader.
The concept arrives with moodboards of motels, guns, and neon, turning their debut into a visual fever dream. Jay sees confusion. Jake fights the feelings. Sunghoon waits in the dark. When Y/n slips out of his room past midnight, he finds Sunghoon in a compromised moment and does the only thing he knows how: he helps. Y/n doesn’t pull away.
warnings: idol!reader, objectification, noncon(?), voyeurism, possessiveness, psychological tension, industry power dynamics, masturbation, emotional manipulation, subtle gaslighting, obsessive behavior, celebrity exploitation, toxic dorm dynamics, dark themes of identity loss, performance vs. reality, aestheticization of grief and desire, morally gray characters, elitism within the industry, unresolved jealousy, subtle yandere behavior, inspired by The Idol and Anora.
By the time the creative team settled, the dorm already had that strained, in-between feeling it always got before something changed. Not quiet exactly — the refrigerator still hummed, someone’s charger still blinked beside the couch, a half-finished drink sat sweating onto the coffee table — but suspended. The kind of stillness that didn’t feel peaceful so much as expectant. The reality crew hadn’t set up anything dramatic for it. No heavy lighting, no slate, no loud countdown. Just one handheld camera drifting between faces and one fixed lens angled loosely from the corner of the living room to catch whatever happened naturally. A “reaction moment,” the producer had called it earlier. Something candid for the episode. The boys finding out the final debut concept in real time. The audience seeing their first impressions. Soft behind-the-scenes content, on paper. But nothing in the room felt soft.
The creative director came in first with her laptop tucked under one arm and a thick stack of reference printouts pressed to her chest. Behind her were the two people the managers had been whispering about all afternoon — the film director and his producer, both dressed too simply and too expensively, both carrying themselves with the kind of confidence that came from already being obeyed. They weren’t idol people. That was obvious immediately. They didn’t walk into the dorm looking around with polite curiosity or performative excitement. They looked at the space the way people look at a location they’re already trying to strip down in their heads. The reality cameraman shifted slightly, adjusting his grip so he could catch the boys’ faces as well as the newcomers, and the atmosphere tightened by another degree.
The creative director didn’t bother with any long preamble. She dropped the printouts across the coffee table and let some of them slide onto the floor, image over image, all of it building into one dense visual field before she even opened the laptop. The board wasn’t built from anything personal. No test shots. No old trainee photos. No mockups with their faces pasted in. It was all strangers. Anonymous bodies, anonymous nights, anonymous moments pulled from editorials, old camcorder stills, documentary fragments, low-resolution nightlife photography, fashion tears, surveillance-style screenshots, film references stripped down to color and texture and posture. And even before she started talking, the mood of it was immediate — hot, reckless, gaudy, humid in a way that made your skin feel sticky just looking at it. Motel balconies lit electric pink against a violet sky. Girls in bikinis and ski masks holding drinks and handguns like both were accessories. Boys with bleached hair and smeared glitter kneeling in a church pew under blue stained-glass light. Three teenagers in candy-colored balaclavas laughing in the backseat of a convertible with fistfuls of damp bills. A drained pool covered in graffiti, bodies sprawled at the bottom of it like they’d decided not to leave. Fluorescent convenience store aisles at 3 a.m., all the colors too bright and too dead at once. Wet pavement glowing under palm-tree shadows. Glitter mixed into sunburn. Cross necklaces resting against chlorine-slick skin. Gold grills. motel ice buckets. cheap champagne. fake innocence. real danger. Every image carried the same feeling — youth with too much freedom and no instinct for consequence, beauty made louder by bad decisions, criminality made seductive by heat and light.
The creative director opened the laptop and let a loop of silent reference clips play while she spoke — not polished footage, just fragments. Grainy phone video of girls dancing barefoot on a motel bed while someone off-screen counted cash. A strip mall parking lot filmed from inside a car, all sodium-orange light and liquor store neon. Four bodies waist-deep in a pool at night, faces blurred by bad focus, the water lit an impossible chemical blue. Someone in angel wings and a thong walking through a convenience store with a pink lighter and no expression. A prayer circle in a bathroom with glitter, smoke, and a pistol left on the sink beside a tube of lip gloss. It was tacky and gorgeous and vaguely criminal in the exact way it meant to be. The reality camera stayed on the boys as much as it stayed on the screen — catching whoever looked longest, whoever looked away first, whoever tried not to react and failed.
Then the creative director finally spoke, standing over the table with one hand braced on the edge of it, her voice calm in that unnerving way people get when they’re saying something they know has already been approved. “Okay,” she said. “So. What you’re reacting to right now is the final shape of the debut era. And before I get into what the visual language actually is, you need to understand where it came from.” She gestured slightly toward the man and woman behind her. “They came to the company. Not the other way around. They’d seen early material, heard the direction we were moving in, and what they wanted was very specific. They didn’t want a normal debut film. They didn’t want polished mythology, or a performance cut with pretty inserts, or a safe little cinematic intro that still behaves like idol content. They wanted to reproduce a feeling.”
She let that word sit there for a second before continuing, and when she did, she clicked to another board — this one even more saturated, more vulgar, more feverish. “Not reference it. Reproduce it. The sensation of one very particular kind of American excess. Youth in a place that feels fake and holy and rotten all at once. Tourist paradise turned criminal playground. Sunburnt skin, motel sheets, liquor-store neon, stolen money, pool water, strip-mall Christianity, petty violence, fake luxury, no sleep, too much heat. The feeling that everyone is too young for what they’re doing and too gone to care.” Another image flashed across the screen: a group of girls in white bikinis and pink ski masks pointing finger-guns at the camera while fireworks went off behind them. “The key isn’t nostalgia,” she said. “It’s intoxication. It’s delusion. It’s the seduction of bad choices when the whole world looks bright enough to forgive them.”
No one interrupted her. The fixed camera in the corner kept blinking red. The handheld one caught little things — someone’s jaw tightening, someone shifting in their seat, someone staring too hard at the board like maybe if they kept looking long enough it would become less real. The creative director continued anyway, talking over the quiet hum of the dorm the way people do when they’re used to being listened to. “The story structure is loose, but the emotional structure is not. It follows the logic of a spring-break fantasy mutating into something darker. Escape first. Then indulgence. Then reinvention. Then crime. Then devotion. Then collapse. It’s not linear in a clean way, but that arc is there under everything. The world starts out glittery and stupid and playful — all cheap paradise. Then it gets more feverish. More intimate. More dangerous. The party and the threat become the same thing. Freedom starts looking a lot like possession. The group stops reading like a team and starts reading like a closed system. A little cultish. A little doomed. Very watched.”
She crouched then, picking up one of the larger printouts from the floor and holding it up. It was a motel room washed in blue and pink neon, the kind of room that looked both filthy and cinematic, with cash scattered over the bedspread and someone’s tan legs hanging off the edge of the mattress. “This,” she said, “is the emotional baseline. Not literally this room. Not literally this styling. But this temperature. We want everything to feel humid, overlit, slightly unreal. Like you can smell chlorine and sugar and stale air-conditioning through the screen.” She reached for another — a church interior with girls in tiny pastel dresses and rhinestone cross necklaces standing under stained glass like they were about to either confess or commit a felony. “And this is the tension. Sacred and trashy at the same time. Seduction and innocence in the same frame. Sweetness with rot underneath it.” Then another — masked figures on scooters under boardwalk lights, carrying water guns and one real gun, the whole image so unserious it became threatening. “And this is the rhythm. Play acting sliding into something real.”
When she straightened, her tone sharpened just slightly, less descriptive now, more practical. “The director’s pitch to the company was that this group already contains the emotional material for this kind of world. Tension. Silence. Possessiveness. Performance. The feeling that everybody in the room wants something and no one is saying it directly. So instead of forcing a conventional concept onto you, we’re building a world that amplifies what’s already there.” She glanced at the filmmaker, then back at the group. “That’s why this isn’t being treated like a standard music video. It’s a visual album. A full visual narrative. The songs are chapters inside one long fever dream. We’re not centering clean choreography and then decorating around it. We’re centering atmosphere, fixation, and escalation.”
She clicked once more, and the board shifted into what looked more like structure than inspiration: annotated reference stills, color maps, fragments of wardrobe notes, texture studies, scribbled words in the margins — lacquered skin, fake tan, wet heat, boardwalk glitter, motel baptism, pink violence, devotional trash, Florida noir. “The opening section is all false freedom,” she said. “Sun, skin, money, reckless fun, this idea of youth as something endless and untouchable. The middle gets stranger — more saturated, more obsessive, more enclosed. Nights get longer. Rooms get smaller. The images get closer to the body. By the end, the world should feel almost hallucinatory. Like the fantasy got so intense it started eating itself.”
The producer behind her finally spoke then, but only briefly, her voice smoother, more pragmatic. “The company said yes because nobody else in your lane is doing this at debut. They don’t want safe. They don’t want expected. They want something that feels imported from another genre entirely and still commercially lethal.” She folded her arms. “So locations are being locked. Styling is being rebuilt. The shoot structure is being changed. And from this point on, every piece of behind-the-scenes content, every dorm beat, every practice clip, every reaction — all of it feeds this world.”
The creative director nodded and closed the laptop halfway, but didn’t shut it fully, as if the concept was still breathing on the screen between them. “That’s why the reality camera is here,” she said, glancing briefly toward the handheld operator, acknowledging the obvious without making it awkward. “This isn’t the official reveal film. This is your reaction material. The audience will eventually see pieces of this through you — how you take it in, how you respond to it, how the temperature in the room changes. That matters. Because the whole point is that this era doesn’t start on set. It starts here. In the dorm. Before the styling, before the locations, before the final choreography. It starts the second you understand what world you’re being asked to live in.”
She looked down at the spread of images one last time, then back up at them, and her next line came out quieter than the rest. “You’re not debuting into a fantasy of success,” she said. “You’re debuting into a fantasy of excess. There’s a difference. Success is clean. Excess is memorable.”
The dorm went still after that. Not silent exactly — the fixed camera still hummed softly, someone in the hallway shifted their weight, the air conditioner kicked on with a low mechanical breath — but still in the way a room gets when something irreversible has just been placed inside it. The moodboard remained scattered across the coffee table and floor like evidence from a future crime scene: hot pinks and chlorine blues and money and bodies and heat and religion and danger, all the colors of a paradise already starting to rot. And the reality camera kept recording, patient and unblinking, catching whatever happened next — not the concept itself, but the moment it settled into them.
The room held its breath for a beat too long after the creative director stopped speaking. The moodboard still glowed from the laptop screen, all that neon and chlorine and skin and sin bleeding color into the dim afternoon light of the dorm, and the printed references scattered across the coffee table and floor looked less like inspiration now and more like evidence — like someone had reached into a fever dream and pulled out handfuls of it and dropped them here, in the middle of their living room, between the half-finished drinks and the charger cables and the socks someone had kicked off near the couch. The silence wasn't empty. It was thick. Loaded. The kind of quiet that happens when people are processing something too large to respond to immediately and also very aware that they are being filmed while they do it.
Jay was the first to move, though move was generous — it was more of a shift, a slight straightening of his spine against the back of the couch, his jaw doing that thing it did when he was thinking hard and didn't want anyone to know what direction the thought was going. His eyes stayed on the screen for another second, tracking over the images still rotating in the slow loop the creative director had left playing: a girl in a white bikini and a pink ski mask laughing with her head thrown back in a convertible, cash fanned out in her lap like a bouquet; a boy with smeared eyeliner kneeling in a fluorescent-lit bathroom with a rosary wrapped around his knuckles and a cigarette burning between his fingers; a motel pool at night so saturated with chemical blue light that the water looked radioactive, bodies floating in it face-up like saints or corpses. Jay blinked once, slowly, and then he smiled — not a real smile, not the kind that touched anything behind his eyes, but the kind he wore when he was being watched and needed to look like he was handling something well. The camera caught it. The camera caught everything.
"Okay," Jay said, his voice measured, almost too even, the tone of someone choosing every word like it was a chess move. "So this is… bigger than I expected." He let out a breath that was almost a laugh, controlled, performative, the kind of exhale that said I'm impressed but also I'm not going to let you see how much this is affecting me. "I mean — when they said visual album, I thought, okay, maybe something more cinematic than usual, maybe some narrative elements, maybe a longer runtime. But this is — " He gestured loosely toward the coffee table, toward the spread of images still lying there in overlapping chaos: the angel wings dragging on wet concrete, the convenience store aisle lit like a crime scene, the church pews full of girls in rhinestone crosses and tiny dresses. "This is a whole world. This is a whole… thing." He nodded slowly, like he was convincing himself as much as the camera. "I respect it. I respect the ambition. It's not safe. It's not what anyone's going to expect from a debut. And that's — yeah. That's the point, I guess."
He didn't say more than that. He leaned back slightly, one arm draped over the back of the couch, his posture deliberately relaxed in a way that didn't quite match the tension still visible in the line of his shoulders. The creative director watched him with the neutral expression of someone cataloging a response rather than reacting to it. The handheld camera drifted slightly, adjusting its angle, and landed next on Jake.
Jake hadn't moved much since the presentation started. He was sitting on the floor near the edge of the coffee table, one knee drawn up, his back against the base of the couch, and his face had gone through something during the moodboard reveal — a series of micro-expressions too fast and too layered to fully read, cycling through surprise and confusion and something darker, something that looked almost like recognition. Like he had seen pieces of this world before, maybe in his own head, maybe in the parts of himself he didn't show on camera, and now it was being projected in front of him in glossy high-resolution fragments and he didn't know whether to feel validated or exposed. His eyes kept returning to one image in particular — a motel room shot from above, the bedspread a mess of tangled limbs and crumpled cash and cheap gold jewelry, the light coming from a neon sign outside the window and staining everything the color of a bruise. He stared at it like he was trying to memorize it. Or maybe like he was trying to figure out why it made him feel something he didn't want to name.
When he realized the camera had shifted to him, he blinked and looked up, and the expression that crossed his face was a quick, almost involuntary rearrangement — the mask sliding back into place, the performance rebooting. He smiled, but it was a strange smile, caught somewhere between genuine excitement and something more complicated. "This is insane," he said, and his voice came out a little breathier than usual, a little less controlled. "Like — in a good way. I think. I mean — " He laughed, short and sharp, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that looked almost nervous. "I've never seen a debut concept that looks like this. It's not pop. It's not — I don't know what it is. It's like a movie. It's like something you'd see at a film festival and then talk about for weeks because you couldn't figure out if it was genius or unhinged." He glanced toward the creative director, then back at the camera, his smile widening into something that was trying very hard to look confident. "I'm into it. I think. I mean — I'm definitely not going to forget it. That's for sure."
But there was something underneath the enthusiasm, something the camera might catch if the editor knew where to look. A flicker in his eyes when they passed over certain images — the bodies in the pool, the masks, the weapons styled like accessories. A tension in his jaw that didn't quite match the easy grin. Jake was good at performing comfort, but this had unsettled something in him, and it showed in the small places: the way his fingers kept tapping against his knee, the way his gaze kept drifting back to the moodboard like he couldn't help himself, the way his laugh came a half-second too late to be fully spontaneous. He was excited. But he was also something else. Something he wasn't going to say on camera.
Sunghoon hadn't spoken yet. He was sitting at the far end of the couch, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, his posture so controlled it looked almost architectural. His face was the hardest to read — not because he was hiding something, but because he had long ago perfected the art of showing exactly as much as he wanted to show and nothing more. The moodboard played across his features like light on water: present, visible, but impossible to hold onto. He watched the images cycle through the loop without reacting visibly, his eyes tracking from frame to frame with the detached precision of someone studying technique rather than absorbing content. The handheld camera moved to him eventually, and he let it sit there for a moment before he acknowledged it, his gaze shifting from the screen to the lens with a slowness that felt deliberate.
"It's cohesive," he said finally, his voice flat and measured, giving nothing away. "That's the first thing I noticed. It's not just random references thrown together — there's a language to it. A grammar. The colors talk to each other. The textures repeat. The mood stays consistent even when the content shifts." He tilted his head slightly, a gesture so subtle it almost didn't register, but it carried something — a flicker of genuine interest beneath the careful neutrality. "It's rare to see a concept this… committed. Most debuts hedge their bets. They try to appeal to everyone, so they end up feeling like nothing. This feels like something. Whether it works or not — " He paused, and for a fraction of a second, something almost like a smile ghosted across his mouth before disappearing. "That's a different question. But it's not boring. It's not safe. And I respect that."
He didn't elaborate. He didn't offer personal feelings or performative enthusiasm. He just stated his observations like facts and let them sit there, clinical and precise. But the creative director was watching him with something like satisfaction, and the producer beside her made a small note on her phone. Sunghoon's response was exactly what they wanted from him — controlled, intelligent, subtly appreciative without being sycophantic. He was playing his role perfectly. And he knew it.
The room shifted then, the attention redirecting itself naturally, inevitably, toward the one person who hadn't spoken yet. The handheld camera panned slowly, almost reluctantly, toward the other end of the couch, where Y/n had been sitting quietly through the entire presentation. He was folded into himself in that way he had — knees drawn up slightly, shoulders curved inward, hands tucked between his thighs like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. His oversized hoodie swallowed most of his frame, the sleeves pulled down over his fingers, the neckline slipping off one shoulder in a way that looked accidental but somehow still drew the eye. His face was half-turned toward the laptop screen, and the glow from the moodboard painted his features in shifting colors — pink, blue, gold, pink again — making him look less like a person and more like a projection of one. He hadn't reacted visibly during any of it. Not the motel rooms or the pool water or the masks or the weapons or the religious imagery or the bodies tangled in cash and cheap silk. He just watched, quiet and still, his expression so neutral it was almost impossible to tell if he was processing or dissociating.
When the camera settled on him, he didn't immediately notice. His eyes were still on the screen, tracking the slow loop of images with something that might have been focus or might have been distance — it was hard to tell with him. The creative director said his name, gently, the way you might say someone's name to pull them back from somewhere far away, and Y/n blinked once before turning his head toward her. The movement was slow, almost liquid, and when his eyes finally met the camera lens, there was a beat of stillness so complete it felt like the room had stopped breathing. Then he smiled.
It wasn't a big smile. It wasn't performative or exaggerated or trying to sell anything. It was small and soft and a little uncertain, the kind of smile someone gives when they're not sure what's expected of them but they want to cooperate anyway. "It's beautiful," he said, and his voice came out quieter than the others, almost gentle, like he was talking about something fragile instead of a concept built on neon violence and chlorinated sin. "The colors especially. And the — the way it moves. Like it's all connected, even when the images are different. Like it's telling one story underneath all the separate pieces."
He paused, and his gaze drifted back toward the moodboard, toward a still of a girl in angel wings walking barefoot through a convenience store at 4 a.m., her face lit by the refrigerator case glow, her expression so blank it could have meant anything. "I don't know if I understand all of it yet," Y/n continued, his voice still soft, still careful. "But it feels… honest. In a strange way. Like it's not pretending to be something clean when it's not. Like it knows what it is and it's okay with that." He looked back at the camera, and there was something in his eyes then — not sadness exactly, but something adjacent to it. Something that had been there before the moodboard and would be there after. "I think that's rare. To be honest about what you are. Even if what you are is a little… yeah."
The room went quiet again after that. The creative director didn't push for more. She just let the moment sit, let the camera linger on Y/n's face for a beat longer than necessary, catching the way the neon light from the screen painted shadows under his eyes and made his skin look almost translucent. There was something about the way he had responded — the softness of it, the vulnerability of it — that felt different from the others. Jay had been strategic. Jake had been enthusiastic but guarded. Sunghoon had been analytical. But Y/n had been something else entirely. He had looked at a world built on excess and decay and recklessness and called it honest. He had seen the rot and found something like beauty in it. And the camera had caught all of it — the quiet voice, the uncertain smile, the eyes that seemed to hold more than they let out. The editor would use that footage. The company would use it. The audience would see a boy who looked at darkness and didn't flinch. And they would want to know why. They would want to know what he had seen before. What he had survived. What he was hiding behind that gentle, damaged stillness. They would want to save him. Or ruin him. Or both.
The creative director finally closed the laptop fully, the click of it cutting through the quiet like a period at the end of a sentence. The moodboard vanished, leaving only the printed references scattered across the table and floor — all that heat and neon and skin now static, frozen, no longer moving but still radiating something. "Okay," she said, her voice shifting back into practical mode. "That's the direction. That's the world. From here, we start building."
The moment the cameras powered down, the room exhaled.
It was a subtle shift at first — the handheld operator lowering his equipment with a soft grunt, the fixed lens in the corner finally going dark, the red blinking light that had been a constant presence for weeks now suddenly absent. The creative director exchanged a few murmured words with the film director and producer, their conversation too low to catch, and then the three of them gathered their materials with the efficient movements of people who had already gotten what they came for. The PA who had spread the printed references across the floor began collecting them in reverse, stacking the images of motel pools and neon churches and masked people back into a neat pile that somehow looked less dangerous when it wasn't sprawling across their living space. Within twenty minutes, the crew had filtered out through the front door in ones and twos — a camera case here, a lighting rig there, polite nods and vague promises to send tomorrow's schedule by midnight. The managers lingered longest, exchanging glances with each other that carried the weight of conversations they weren't having in front of the group, and then they too disappeared into the hallway, leaving behind only the faint smell of equipment and the heavier smell of something having changed.
The dorm felt strange with everyone gone. Not empty exactly — they were still there, the four of them, arranged in roughly the same positions they'd held during the presentation — but hollow in a way that made the silence feel louder than it should have been. The coffee table still held the ghost of the moodboard: a few stray printouts the PA had missed, a ring of condensation from someone's glass sitting right on top of a photograph of a girl in a white bikini pressing a pastel-pink gun to her own temple like she was checking her reflection in it. The laptop was gone. The camera was gone. The performance was over. And now they were just four people sitting in a room that didn't feel like theirs anymore, trying to figure out what to say to each other without an audience.
Jay was the first to move. He let out a breath — not a sigh exactly, but something heavier, something that had been held in for too long — and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands over his face like he was trying to wipe away the last hour. When his hands dropped, his expression was different than it had been on camera. Harder. More honest. The carefully measured enthusiasm was gone, replaced by something rawer, something that looked a lot like exhaustion mixed with irritation mixed with something else he probably couldn't name himself.
"So," he said, and his voice came out flat, stripped of the performance polish. "That was a lot."
No one responded immediately. The words just hung there, obvious and insufficient, filling the space without really addressing it. Jake shifted on the floor, drawing his other knee up so he was sitting cross-legged now, his back still against the base of the couch. Sunghoon remained perfectly still on his end of the sofa, one arm stretched along the back of it, his fingers drumming a slow, almost imperceptible rhythm against the fabric. Y/n hadn't moved at all since the cameras cut — still curled into himself, still half-swallowed by his hoodie, still looking at the space where the laptop had been like he could still see the images playing there.
Jake broke the silence next, and when he spoke, his voice sounded different too — less breathless, less enthusiastic, more like someone thinking out loud than someone trying to be quotable. "I don't know what I expected," he said slowly, his eyes fixed on the stray printout still sitting on the coffee table, the one with the girl and the pink gun. "But it wasn't that. It wasn't — " He gestured vaguely, a frustrated motion that didn't land on anything specific. "I thought visual album meant like, aesthetic. Pretty shots. Maybe some narrative stuff to connect the tracks. But that was — " He stopped, searching for the word, not finding it. "That was a whole ideology. That was a whole worldview. That was — I don't know. It felt like they were showing us a religion and asking if we wanted to convert."
Jay snorted, a humorless sound. "They're not asking," he said. "That's the thing. Did you hear how she talked? 'The company said yes.' Past tense. 'Locations are being locked.' Present tense. 'Everything from now on feeds this world.' This isn't a pitch. This isn't a discussion. This is already happening. They came here to show us what we're going to be, not to ask if we wanted it."
The words landed with a weight that pressed the silence even flatter. Sunghoon's fingers stopped their drumming. Jake's jaw tightened. Y/n's gaze flickered, just slightly, like something had shifted behind his eyes.
"Did you notice," Sunghoon said quietly, and his voice was strange — not angry, not upset, just very, very controlled in a way that meant he was working hard to keep it that way, "how much of it was about bodies? Not faces. Bodies. Skin. Sweat. Tan lines. That's what the whole board was. Flesh in different contexts. Flesh in pools. Flesh in motel rooms. Flesh in churches. It wasn't about music. It wasn't even really about performance. It was about — " He paused, and the pause was long enough to feel intentional. "Consumption. It was about making something people want to consume. And the something is us."
Jake looked at him sharply. "You think it's exploitative."
"I think it's honest about being exploitative," Sunghoon corrected, his tone still flat. "Which is different. And maybe worse, because it means they know exactly what they're doing and they've decided it's worth it."
Jay laughed, but it wasn't a real laugh. It was the sound of something uncomfortable being forced out through teeth. "Of course they think it's worth it. We're the ones they're selling, not the ones they're buying. Our comfort isn't a factor. Our opinions aren't a factor. The only factor is whether the product moves, and they've clearly decided this is the packaging that makes it move."
"But do you like it?" Jake asked suddenly, turning to look at Jay directly. "Forget whether it's happening or not. Forget the business side. Just — as a thing. As an idea. As a world. Do you like it?"
Jay held his gaze for a long moment, and something complicated moved across his face — something that wasn't quite anger and wasn't quite excitement and wasn't quite disgust. "I don't know," he admitted finally, and the honesty of it seemed to cost him something. "Parts of it, maybe. The ambition. The fact that it doesn't look like anything else. The fact that it's going to make people uncomfortable, which means it's going to make people pay attention." He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture that looked almost vulnerable on him. "But I also feel like — like we're being fitted for costumes we didn't choose. Like someone else already decided what story we're telling and now we just have to figure out how to live inside it."
"Maybe that's always what this industry is," Jake said quietly. "Maybe we were always going to be wearing costumes we didn't choose. This is just a more honest costume. A more — obvious one."
"That doesn't make it better," Jay said.
"No," Jake agreed. "But it might make it easier. In a weird way. If you know what the game is, you can figure out how to play it."
Sunghoon made a soft sound, something between acknowledgment and disagreement. "Or you can figure out how to get played by it. Because the thing about a game this visible is that everyone can see you losing."
The conversation lapsed into another silence, this one heavier than the last. Outside, the light was starting to deepen toward evening, the gold going amber, the shadows in the dorm stretching longer. Someone should probably turn on a lamp. Someone should probably start thinking about dinner. Someone should probably say something normal to break the tension. But no one moved. They just sat there, four people in a room that didn't feel like home anymore, processing something too big to fit into small talk.
And then, very quietly, Y/n spoke.
He hadn't said anything since the cameras cut. He'd been so still and so silent that it would have been easy to forget he was there at all, folded into the corner of the couch like a piece of furniture that had always been there. But now his voice cut through the quiet, soft and certain in that strange way of his — not loud, not assertive, but somehow impossible to ignore.
"I like it."
The others turned to look at him. His eyes were still fixed on the coffee table, on the stray printout with the girl and the gun, but his expression wasn't blank anymore. There was something moving in it — something complicated and hard to read, like watching weather change through a window.
"I know that's not — I know it sounds strange," he continued, his voice still quiet, still careful, like he was picking his way through something fragile. "And I know it's about consumption. I know it's about making people want things. I know it's designed to be seductive in a way that's probably manipulative. But — " He paused, and his fingers curled tighter around the hem of his hoodie sleeve. "I don't think that makes it not beautiful. I think maybe that's what makes it beautiful. The honesty of it. The fact that it's not pretending to be innocent when it's not."
He looked up then, finally, and his eyes moved across the room — landing on Sunghoon first, then Jake, then Jay. His gaze was steady, but there was something underneath it that trembled very slightly, like a surface tension about to break.
"Everything in this industry is about consumption," he said. "Everything is about making people want things they can't have. About making them feel like they need something, and then selling it to them in pieces. This concept is just — more visible about it. More upfront. It's saying: this is what we are. This is what you're buying. And I think — " His voice wavered, just a little, before steadying again. "I think there's something almost kind about that. About not lying. About showing the machinery instead of hiding it."
Jake stared at him. "You think it's kind that they're going to dress us up like motel fantasies and film us like we're for sale?"
Y/n's mouth curved, just slightly — not quite a smile, but something in the family of one. "I think everything was always for sale," he said. "I think we were always the product. This is just — a more interesting packaging. A more honest one." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had dropped even quieter, almost like he was talking to himself. "And I think — I think I'd rather be consumed by something beautiful than something boring. If I have to be consumed at all."
The room went still again. But it was a different kind of stillness now — charged with something, heated by something. Jake was staring at Y/n with an expression that couldn't decide if it was fascination or concern. Sunghoon's carefully neutral mask had cracked slightly, something sharper showing through. And Jay — Jay was looking at Y/n like he was seeing him for the first time. Like all the irritation and resentment and complicated want that had been building for weeks had suddenly found a new shape, a new target, a new reason to exist.
Because Y/n wasn't just accepting the concept. He was welcoming it. He was opening the door to the fantasy and stepping inside willingly, and he was doing it with those soft, damaged eyes that made everything he said sound like a confession instead of a statement.
And for the first time since the creative director had opened her laptop, Jay understood exactly why the company had built this whole world around him.
Not because Y/n was the most talented.
Not because he was the most beautiful — though he was, in that strange, unsettling way of his.
But because Y/n already knew what it felt like to be consumed. He'd been living inside that knowledge since before any of them met him. And instead of fighting it, he'd learned to find it beautiful.
That was the product.
That was what they were selling.
Not the costumes or the concept or the chlorine-blue motel pools.
And the worst part — the part Jay couldn't stop thinking about even as the conversation drifted toward safer topics and someone finally got up to turn on a light and order food — was that Jay wanted to buy it too.
The Los Angeles night didn’t so much fall as it did settle like a heavy, smoggy blanket over the dorm. Outside the windows, the sky was that bruised, cinematic purple unique to the city—a hazy cocktail of exhaust, ocean salt, and the neon glare of Sunset Boulevard bleeding into the clouds. Somewhere distant, the rhythmic thumping of a helicopter blade cut through the air, and the low, constant hum of the 405 freeway sounded like a long, drawn-out sigh.
Inside, the room was thick with the residue of the day. The creative director had left, the film crew had packed up their rigs, and the managers had retreated to their own phones in the hallway, leaving the four of them alone in the half-light.
Jay had disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of the shower hissing against the tiles like a demand for silence. Sunghoon had stood up minutes ago, his movements cold and architectural, not saying a word before he slipped into his room, his footsteps heavy with a frustration he wouldn't name. That left the two of them.
Y/n was still on the sofa, looking small against the cushions. He had his knees pulled up to his chest, the oversized hoodie he’d been wearing all day finally slipping down, revealing a shoulder that looked too pale, too smooth for the world he was about to enter. He wasn’t looking at the door or the cameras; he was just staring at a stray photo on the floor—a shot of a boy’s hands tied loosely with a silk ribbon.
He didn’t look upset by the concept. He didn't look like he wanted to fight the executives who had decided his "marketable sadness" was the perfect anchor for a visual album built on the aesthetics of a beautiful disaster. There was a terrifying, quiet compliance in the way he sat. He looked like something waiting to be picked up. Something waiting to be used.
"Y/n," Jake said, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel. "You should probably go to bed. Early call tomorrow."
Y/n blinked, his long, heavy lashes fluttering slowly. He turned his head toward Jake, and for a second, Jake felt that familiar, sickening lurch in his chest. It was the look—that wide-eyed, dazed innocence that wasn't a choice, but a condition. It wasn't that Y/n was trying to be provocative; it was that he was so fundamentally soft that it made the air around him feel violent. He looked like he’d been born to be broken, a blank, pretty canvas that practically begged for someone to leave a mark.
"Okay," Y/n whispered. He stood up, his movements languid and dazed, as if he were perpetually waking up from a dream. The hem of his hoodie brushed the middle of his thighs, and as he walked past Jake toward their shared room, he didn't look away. He didn't offer anything. He just… was. A soft, breathing target.
Jake followed a minute later, his heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against his ribs.
The bedroom was dark, save for the neon glow of the L.A. streetlights filtering through the cheap plastic blinds. The light cut across the room in sharp, horizontal slats, painting the bed in stripes of blue and shadow. Y/n was already there, sitting on the edge of the mattress, pulling the hoodie over his head.
He didn't rush. He didn't turn his back. He just lifted his arms, and the thin, white tank top underneath rode up, exposing the delicate, pale curve of his waist. When the hoodie dropped, he was just there—a vision of fragile bones and soft skin in the amber light. He looked like a secret. He looked like something you’d find in a motel room at 3:00 AM and never tell a soul about.
He crawled into the bed, his movements shy, tucking himself under the sheets with his back to Jake’s side. He didn't take up space. He didn't demand attention. He just settled into the mattress like he was waiting for the world to happen to him.
Jake stripped off his shirt, the air in the room feeling far too hot, far too small. He climbed into the other side, the springs creaking under his weight. The space between them was barely a foot, but it felt like a canyon filled with static. Jake could smell him—the laundry detergent provided by the company, a hint of something like vanilla, and the warmth of clean skin.
"Do you understand what they're going to do?" Jake asked, his voice low, vibrating in the narrow space between their pillows. He was staring at the back of Y/n’s head, at the dark, messy hair resting against the white linen. "The concept. The visual album. They're going to make you look.... They're going to make everyone want to touch you, Y/n."
Y/n shifted, turning slowly onto his side to face Jake. The amber light caught in the corner of his eye, making the perpetual glaze there look like unshed tears. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't smirking. He just looked up at Jake with that devastating, quiet honesty.
"I know," Y/n said. His voice was a soft, airy thing. "The creative director said I have a 'ruined' quality. She said people will want to save me."
Jake’s jaw tightened. "It’s not about saving you, Y/n. It’s about the look of it. It’s about making you a product. They want to sexualize that... that quiet thing you have. They want to turn your silence into an invitation."
Y/n didn't flinch. He didn't look offended or scared. He just lay there, his hands tucked under his cheek, looking at Jake with an innocence that was so profound it felt like a provocation. He didn't seem to understand that he should be angry. He didn't seem to have the instinct to protect himself.
"I don't mind," Y/n whispered, and the words felt like a physical blow to Jake’s chest. "If it helps the group. If it’s what I’m for... then it’s okay.
Jake’s breath hitched. The heat in his stomach flared into something sharp and agonizing. It was the way Y/n said it—so calmly, so shyly, as if his own body were just a piece of equipment he was lending to the company. He wasn't "dirty." He wasn't offering himself like a pro. He was just a boy who had been told his value was in his fragility, and he had accepted it with a soft, heartbreaking "yes."
He was the ultimate prey. The kind of boy who would let you ruin him and then look at you with those same glassy eyes, wondering if he’d done a good job.
"You're too quiet," Jake breathed, his hand twitching under the covers. He wanted to reach out. He wanted to wrap his fingers around Y/n’s wrist and feel how small it was. He wanted to tell him to run, to fight, to scream—but he also wanted to be the one the camera was filming when Y/n finally broke.
"I'm just tired," Y/n murmured, his eyes beginning to flutter shut. He didn't pull the covers up to hide his collarbones. He didn't turn away. He just lay there in the low llight, a soft, beautiful sacrifice waiting for the morning to come and the cameras to start rolling.
Jake realized then that the company wasn't just building a concept. They were building a cage. And Y/n was already inside it, sitting quietly in the center, waiting for someone to turn the key.
Jake looked at Y/n’s parted lips, at the soft pulse in his neck, and felt a wave of possessive, dark hunger that made him sick. If the world was going to watch Y/n be ruined, Jake was going to make sure he was the one standing closest.
Outside, the L.A. night hummed on, indifferent to the slow, quiet breaking of the boys in the room. Jake stared at the ceiling until the amber light turned to grey, his hand resting inches away from Y/n’s skin, never quite touching, but never letting go.
The neon digits on the microwave flickered 3:12 AM, casting a sharp, radioactive green glow across the kitchen tiles.
Y/n couldn't stay in the bedroom. The air there was too thick, saturated with the heavy, rhythmic sound of Jake’s breathing and the lingering scent of heat and unsaid things. He’d slipped out from under the duvet like a ghost, his bare feet making no sound as he padded down the hallway. He was dressed only in a thin, ribbed white tank top and those soft jersey shorts that sat dangerously low on his hip bones, the fabric clinging to his skin in the humid Los Angeles night. He didn't turn on a single light. He didn't need to. The city outside provided enough of a sickly, cinematic glow—a mixture of orange streetlights and the blue-white hum of the billboard across the street—to turn the living room into a landscape of silver and deep, bruised shadows.
He rounded the corner, intending to just sit by the window and watch the helicopters circle the Hollywood Hills, but he froze.
The living room wasn't empty. Sunghoon was there, sprawled back on the leather sofa, but he wasn't sleeping. His head was thrown back against the cushions, his throat arched so sharply the tendons were straining like wire. His eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clamped in a jagged line of pure, agonizing concentration. One hand was white-knuckled, gripping the armrest so hard the leather groaned, and the other was buried deep inside his unzipped sweatpants. He was moving with a frantic, rhythmic violence, his hips jerking up off the cushions in a desperate search for friction. The sound was the worst part—the wet, sliding friction of skin on skin and the hitching, broken gasps of a boy who had been pushed past his limit in the dark.
Y/n’s breath caught, a tiny, soft hitch that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.
Sunghoon’s eyes snapped open. They were dark, the pupils so blown they were almost entirely black, shimmering with a glazed, predatory intensity. He didn't stop. He didn't pull his hand away or scramble to cover himself. He just froze mid-stroke, his chest heaving, his cock thick and straining in his own grip, glistening with pre-cum in the dim city light. He stared at Y/n standing there—pale, soft-shouldered, and blinking with that dazed, ruined innocence that made Sunghoon’s stomach do a slow, sick flip. The amber light from the window caught the slope of Y/n’s waist where the tank top had ridden up, and the sight of that soft, vulnerable skin seemed to snap something inside Sunghoon’s head.
"Come here," Sunghoon rasped, his voice a jagged whisper that vibrated through the floorboards.
Y/n didn't move at first. He just stared at Sunghoon’s hand, at the way his fingers were curled around his own length, at the raw hunger in Sunghoon’s face. He felt that familiar, heavy compliance wash over him—that feeling that he was a thing meant to be used, a vessel meant to be filled. He padded across the floor, his knees feeling like water, until he was standing right at the edge of the couch, his bare thighs inches from Sunghoon’s spread legs.
"You've been walking around like this all night, haven't you?" Sunghoon whispered, his hand finally slowing, but not stopping. He reached out with his free hand and hooked a finger into the waistband of Y/n’s shorts, tugging him closer until Y/n’s stomach was brushing against Sunghoon’s hot, damp forehead. "Looking like this. Smelling like this. Driving us all fucking insane while you act like you don't even know what you're doing."
"I... I just couldn't sleep," Y/n whispered, his voice trembling as he looked down at Sunghoon.
Sunghoon let out a low, bitter sound that was half-laugh, half-groan. He let go of his own cock, his hand coming up to wrap around Y/n’s wrist, pulling his hand down. His skin was burning, slick with his own sweat. He guided Y/n’s hand into the opening of his sweatpants, forcing Y/n’s fingers to curl around the hot, pulsing weight of him. Y/n flinched at the contact—at the sheer size of him, the way the skin felt like velvet over iron—but he didn't pull away. He never pulled away.
"Help me," Sunghoon breathed, his eyes locking onto Y/n’s with a terrifying, possessive focus. "Finish it. You're the one who put me here. You're the one I've been picturing in the dark. Now do it."
Y/n’s fingers trembled as they closed around Sunghoon’s cock. He was so shy, his movements tentative and dazed, which only seemed to drive Sunghoon deeper into a frenzy. Sunghoon’s hand stayed over Y/n’s, guiding the rhythm, forcing him to squeeze tighter, to move faster. Sunghoon’s head fell back again, a long, broken moan escaping his lips as he felt Y/n’s soft, cool palm sliding over his heat.
"God, Y/n," Sunghoon choked out, his hips beginning to roll, thrusting up into Y/n’s hand. "You're so soft. You're so fucking soft. I want to ruin you. I want to mark every inch of you so the cameras can't see anything but me."
He reached up with his other hand, grabbing the back of Y/n’s neck and pulling him down until their faces were inches apart. He didn't kiss him; he just breathed Y/n’s air, his eyes searching Y/n’s dazed, glassy ones. He wanted to see the exact moment Y/n realized what he was doing. He wanted to see the corruption of that innocence in real-time.
"Faster," Sunghoon commanded, his voice a low growl of command.
Y/n obeyed, his hand moving in a frantic, sliding rhythm that made Sunghoon’s body go taut as a bowstring. The leather of the couch creaked under them, the only sound in the room besides their ragged breathing. Sunghoon’s grip on Y/n’s neck tightened, his thumb pressing into the soft skin of his throat as he felt the climax beginning to roar up through his spine.
"Don't look away," Sunghoon hissed, his eyes wide and dark. "Look at me, whore. Watch what you do to me."
With a final, violent thrust of his hips, Sunghoon’s body jerked, his entire frame shuddering as he came, thick and hot, over his own stomach and Y/n’s trembling hand. He let out a long, wrecked sound that was almost a sob, his forehead dropping onto Y/n’s shoulder as the aftershocks racked him. He stayed like that for a long time, his breath hot against Y/n’s skin, his hand still clamped firmly on the back of Y/n’s neck, refusing to let him move.
The city glowed outside, indifferent and bright, but inside the dark living room, the air was heavy with the scent of sex. Sunghoon didn't let go. He just pulled Y/n closer into the mess, his heart hammering against Y/n’s chest, silently claiming the softness he had just used to break himself.
The silence in the room was heavy, thick with the smell of sweat and the sharp, cloying scent of Sunghoon’s cum. Outside, a helicopter’s spotlight swept briefly across the ceiling, a pale blade of light that illuminated the mess on Sunghoon’s stomach and the way Y/n’s hand was still trembling, slick and glistening in the dark.
Sunghoon didn't move to clean himself. He stayed slumped back against the leather, his chest heaving as he fought to bring his breathing under control. His hand was still clamped firmly on the back of Y/n’s neck, his fingers buried in the dark, messy curls, keeping him close. The predatory glaze hadn't left Sunghoon’s eyes; if anything, the climax had only made him look more territorial, more consumed by the soft, dazed boy standing between his knees. He looked at Y/n—at the way he stood there, chest heaving, his mouth slightly parted in a silent, confused exhale—and felt a fresh wave of possessive heat.
“Look at it,” Sunghoon rasped, his voice low and jagged, barely a whisper meant for the space between them. He nudged Y/n’s hand, the one coated in the hot, sticky evidence of his climax. “Look at what you made me do.”
Y/n’s gaze dropped. He looked down at the mess on Sunghoon’s skin, then back up at Sunghoon’s face. He didn't look disgusted. He didn't look like he wanted to run. He just looked dazed, his eyes glassy and wide, that terrifying innocence making him look like he was waiting for the next instruction. He was so pliable, so ready to be whatever Sunghoon needed him to be in the dark.
Sunghoon’s grip on Y/n’s neck tightened, pulling him down an inch closer. “You’re so good at taking care of me, aren't you? So quiet. So shy.” Sunghoon’s thumb traced the line of Y/n’s jaw, his eyes dropping to Y/n’s mouth. A dark, cruel thought flickered behind his eyes—a need to see just how far this compliance went, to see if he could truly stain the purity that everyone else in the agency was so obsessed with.
“Don’t let it go to waste,” Sunghoon whispered, his voice vibrating with a dark, commanding edge. He leaned forward, his forehead nearly touching Y/n’s. “Be a good bitch… Lick it. Lick it all clean, Y/n. Every drop.”
Y/n’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He looked at the wetness on Sunghoon’s stomach, then back at those dark, demanding eyes. He felt the weight of Sunghoon’s hand on his neck, the silent pressure of the Los Angeles night pressing in on them. He was a boy born to be ruined, and Sunghoon was offering him the chance to start.
Slowly, Y/n sank to his knees between Sunghoon’s spread legs. His movements were hesitant, shy, his bare knees meeting the cool floor with a soft thud. He didn't look away from Sunghoon’s face as he leaned in. Sunghoon let out a low, shuddering breath, his fingers clenching in Y/n’s hair as he watched the boy’s head dip.
When Y/n’s tongue finally met Sunghoon’s skin, it was soft and tentative, but the effect was electric. Sunghoon’s eyes squeezed shut, a broken, guttural groan escaping his throat as he felt the warm, wet heat of Y/n’s mouth against his stomach. He tasted like salt and sweat and the raw, heavy reality of what they were doing in the dark while the others slept.
“That’s it,” Sunghoon choked out, his hand in Y/n’s hair guiding him, pushing him to be thorough. “Get all of it. Don't leave a trace.”
He watched with a sick, possessive fascination as Y/n obeyed, his head moving in the silver city light, his dazed innocence being consumed by the very act of cleaning Sunghoon’s filth. It was the most beautiful thing Sunghoon had ever seen—the corruption of a boy who didn't even know how to fight back.
By the time Y/n sat back on his heels, his lips were damp and his eyes were wider than ever, looking up at Sunghoon with a terrifyingly pure devotion. Sunghoon reached out, cupping Y/n’s face with both hands, his thumbs dragging over Y/n’s wet lips.
“Good boy,” Sunghoon whispered, his voice thick with a new kind of hunger. “You’re mine now. Do you hear me? Before the cameras, before the fans... you’re mine.”
Y/n just nodded, a soft, dazed movement, letting Sunghoon claim him in the dark living room, the sirens of Sunset Boulevard wailing in the distance like a choir for the ruined.
The air in the living room was stagnant, smelling of salt and the heavy, humid residue of what had just happened. Y/n stayed on his knees for a long moment, his chest rising and falling in shallow, jagged hitches. The city light caught the dampness on his lower lip, making him look like something fragile that had been caught in a storm. He didn't move to wipe his mouth. He didn't pull away from the heat radiating off Sunghoon’s thighs. He just looked up, his eyes glassy and wide, searching Sunghoon’s face with a devastating, quiet sincerity.
"Are you satisfied?" Y/n whispered.
The question was so soft, so devoid of any edge or irony, that it made Sunghoon’s pulse jump. It wasn't the question of a lover; it was the question of a thing that had been used and wanted to know if it had performed its function. It was the purest form of the ruin Sunghoon was so obsessed with—the idea that Y/n could be completely debased and still look at him with that same dazed, angelic devotion.
Sunghoon’s hand, still tangled in the dark curls at the nape of Y/n’s neck, softened. He looked down at the boy at his feet—this soft, pale creature who had just licked him clean in the dark—and felt a wave of protectiveness so sharp it bordered on violent. He wanted to keep him here. He wanted to hide him from the cameras, from Jake, from the world that was about to try and take pieces of him.
He leaned forward, his shadow swallowing Y/n’s face. Instead of the rough command of before, Sunghoon reached out with his other hand and gently tilted Y/n’s chin up. He pressed a kiss to Y/n’s forehead, then shifted, his lips ghosting over Y/n’s closed eyelids before finally landing on his mouth.
It wasn't a deep kiss. It was short, soft, and tasted of salt, but it carried the weight of a brand. It was the kind of kiss you gave something you’d finally admitted you owned.
"Yes," Sunghoon murmured against Y/n’s lips, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "I'm satisfied."
He pulled back just enough to look into Y/n’s dazed eyes, his thumb tracing the soft line of his jaw. Sunghoon’s expression was no longer predatory, but it remained intensely possessive. He saw the way Y/n’s body was trembling, the way his bare shoulders looked cold in the artificial light of the L.A. skyline.
"Go back to bed," Sunghoon said, his voice dropping into a gentle but firm command. "Or stay here on the couch with me. Whatever you want. But you need to sleep."
Y/n blinked, his mind clearly still foggy, still caught in the orbit of Sunghoon’s gravity. He looked at the couch, then back toward the dark hallway leading to the room he shared with Jake. The thought of going back there—back to the heavy, silent heat of Jake’s presence—felt impossible.
"I'll stay," Y/n whispered.
Sunghoon didn't say a word. He simply shifted, making space on the leather cushions, and pulled Y/n up. He guided him until Y/n was tucked against his side, his head resting on Sunghoon’s chest, his small frame almost entirely hidden by the curve of Sunghoon’s arm. Sunghoon pulled a discarded throw blanket over them both, his hand resting on Y/n’s hip, his fingers idly tracing patterns on the thin fabric of Y/n’s shorts.
The city hummed outside, the helicopters circled the dark hills, and the neon signs of Sunset Boulevard flickered on. Inside the dorm, the silence returned, but it was different now. It was shared.
Y/n closed his eyes, his breathing finally evening out as he listened to the steady, powerful thud of Sunghoon’s heart beneath his ear. He felt safe, and he felt ruined, and in his dazed mind, those two things were starting to feel exactly the same. Sunghoon stayed awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling, his grip on Y/n never loosening, watching over the boy he had claimed in the dark.
The visual album would start tomorrow. The world would get its chance to look. But Sunghoon knew, as he felt Y/n drift off to sleep against him, that he had already won a piece of the only part of the fantasy that mattered.
author’s note: hey guys! did y'all miss me? i’m so, so sorry for being away for so long. i know i kind of disappeared, and i hate that i left you hanging. the truth is, i was going through some pretty heavy things in my personal life... it was a lot to handle, and i needed to step back to breathe for a bit. but even when i wasn't posting, i was always here in the background, watching how you guys kept appreciating my work, keeping the story alive. seriously... i can’t even explain how grateful i am. seeing your comments and reblogs pop up on my notifications while i was dealing with everything? it genuinely meant the world to me. thank you so much! i love each and every one of you.
i’m not making any crazy promises because life is unpredictable, but i promise to give my best to be active from now on. i’ve missed this so much. and also... please forgive me if this chapter of world class sin feels a little off or rusty. i haven't written in a long time, and i feel like i might’ve lost my touch a little bit while i was away. i was actually really nervous to post this, so please be gentle with me >.< but i really hope you guys enjoy it regardless!
it feels so good to be back writing for you all. thank you for sticking by me even when i was quiet. please take care of yourselves, okay? i love you!
— luke
this work was originally written in portuguese and manually translated into english.
hey… it’s luke. feels weird popping up again after going ghost for a bit, but i didn’t want to just slip back in without saying anything. i kinda disappeared because a lot happened in my personal life all at once, and it messed with my head more than i expected. i’ve been trying to put myself back together quietly, just taking things slow and figuring out where my brain even is these days.
the funny part is that every time i thought about writing again, my mind immediately went to angst. it’s always been the genre i feel safest in whenever i’m a bit tangled up emotionally. like… when everything is messy on the inside, putting that mess into a story feels grounding somehow. but i also know angst isn’t the most popular thing around here, so i wasn’t sure if dropping something heavy would be a good idea or not.
and then another part of me was like, well, maybe a smut? or… should i even say it? world class sin chapter two. i know a lot of you ask about it, and trust me, it’s been sitting in the back of my mind this whole time. there’s just so many directions i could go that i kinda froze trying to choose one.
so i guess i wanted to hear from you. what do you feel like reading next? what’s calling you the most? because i finally feel that little spark again –not a flame yet, but like a warm light starting to grow — and i want to follow it with you guys.
and honestly? i really missed you. like… genuinely. every little comment, every silly message, every “luke where are you,” it all meant more than you think. i’m still a little quiet, still trying to get into a healthier headspace, but i promise i’m here, and i’m trying, and i’m really glad to be back in your orbit again.
tell me what you think. i’m listening.
and just to be honest with you… i’m not exactly promising i’ll write whatever wins the poll. i wish i were that steady, but my brain only lets me write when i’m genuinely excited about something in the moment. still, seeing what you’re leaning toward helps a lot, and it really pushes me out of this little frozen place i’ve been stuck in.
what should i write next?
angst!
luke, do whatever you want!!
smut
world class sin : 2
Voting ended onNov 16, 2025
thank you for being patient with me, for voting, for checking in, for just… staying here. i’m trying to ease myself back into everything, slowly and gently, and you make that feel a lot less scary.
hey everyone, it’s been a little while, hasn’t it? i’m sorry for disappearing like that… i didn’t mean to. i’ve just been a little overwhelmed with some things lately, and i guess that slowly turned into me feeling kind of down and unmotivated.
i miss writing, though. and i miss you all so much. sometimes i open the app just to read your messages and it honestly makes me feel a bit better every time. i think i just need some hugs and a reminder that i’m not too far gone, you know? i don’t want to sound dramatic, but it’s been one of those seasons where you just need people to hold on to you a little tighter.
so yeah, please don’t let go of my hand just yet. i’m still here, still trying, and i promise i’ll be back soon.
sooo the last voting we did ended up becoming “no homo” and i’m still smiling about it. it was such a fun ride and honestly made me feel super close to you guys. so i thought… why not do it again? but this time with a twist. i’m stepping out of my comfort zone a bit and bringing in some idols i haven’t written before, just to keep things fresh and exciting. the options are waiting for you right below, and i can’t wait to see what you’ll pick!! whatever wins, i promise i’ll put my whole heart into it. thanks for always joining me in this little adventure, you make it ten times more fun.
1. sungchan (riize) x y/n
y/n and sungchan have been rivals since the first time they stepped on opposite sides of the field. every goal, every tackle, every glare has only fueled the fire between them. the championship final is supposed to settle it once and for all, but when the game ends, the tension doesn’t. in the heat of the locker room, with adrenaline still burning through their veins, the rivalry takes a sharp turn into something far more dangerous, and far more irresistible.
2. heeseung (enhypen) x y/n
heeseung and y/n have been dating for a while. lately, heeseung’s been overcome with the urge to start a family, even if it’s not exactly possible. his determination turns desperate, and soon it feels like he won’t stop until y/n is overflowing with his “love.”
3. mark (nct) x y/n
mark’s always been the quiet nerd in y/n’s class, brilliant but awkward. at night, though, y/n religiously watches a certain masked streamer who does explicit things in a spiderman suit. it’s his dirty little secret. until one day, the dots start connecting… and it turns out his favorite streamer might be a lot closer than he ever imagined.
4. sunwoo (the boyz) x y/n
as the new kid, y/n struggles to fit in. joining a club is mandatory, but after getting rejected from all the “normal” ones, he settles for the first group willing to accept him. it seems harmless—until he finds out the club is basically run by a shameless gooner, and now he’s stuck right in the middle of it.
oh well….. wcs was something i had to step back from for a bit, just cause i had some negative feelings tied to certain things at the time and it kinda weighed me down. but honestly hearing you guys ask for more makes me smile, it means you really cared about it. i can’t say for sure if i’ll bring it back, but if the interest is really there i’d love to at least try and see what could happen!!
Can u plz make a part 2 to ur new jay fic? I definitely wanna see reader be bold, return the favor lol, just suck jay off and swallow him lmao
oh man you’re really trying to get me in trouble huh? hehe!! i don’t know if i’ll do a part 2 yet but i like the way you’re thinking. bold yn definitely sounds kinda hot ngl. i’ll keep it in mind
Jay is your “straight” frat roommate, and a walking headache. one night, Y/n’s just trying to sleep, but Jay stumbles in drunk from another party. things get loud. and messy.
warnings: dubcon, power dynamics, degrading, rough sex, unprotected sex, drugs use, masturbation, drunk sex, mention of public sex, use of f slur.
In Isla Vista, you didn’t have to look for a party — the party found you. On any given night, half the houses on Del Playa had music spilling out their doors, beer bottles stacked on porch railings, and people drifting in and out like the tide. The air always smelled faintly of salt, weed, and something sizzling on a grill. Even if it was a Tuesday, someone was celebrating something — a midterm being over, a midterm being postponed, or just the fact that the ocean was five minutes away and the beer run was successful. Days bled into nights, nights into mornings, and the cycle never really stopped.
Y/n hadn’t come here chasing that. At first, Isla Vista was just the cheapest option close enough to campus that he could bike to class without killing his legs. He’d been looking for a sublet when a friend of a friend mentioned an open room in one of the bigger houses on Sabado Tarde — “a frat house, kind of, but not official” — which basically meant no dues, no formal pledging, and no one cared if you weren’t in the actual Greek system. Rent was cheap, the beach was two blocks away, and he didn’t have to share a room with three other guys. That was enough for him.
He fit in without much effort. He wasn’t the loudest at the parties, but he was there often enough to be familiar — leaning against the kitchen counter with a drink, posted up on the porch with a beer in one hand, chatting with whoever drifted by. He wasn’t shy, but he wasn’t trying to be the center of attention either. And as for who he went home with, that was nobody’s business but his. He didn’t hide the fact that he was into both guys and girls; he just didn’t go around explaining it. If someone was hot and the vibe was right, that was reason enough.
Most of the house was a rotating cast of half-strangers and close friends, but his roommate was Jay — the kind of guy who could make friends in line at the liquor store and have them show up to the house party that same night. Jay was loud, perpetually wearing a backwards cap. He treated everything like a joke, especially when it came to Y/n, and somehow always managed to get under his skin without crossing the line.
Jay was a different breed of Isla Vista frat boy. Not the type to wake up early for surf, not even the type to pretend he had a morning routine. He was more about late nights with a blunt in one hand and a beer in the other, disappearing into a crowd of people you swore you’d never seen before, only to reappear in the kitchen with a whole pizza he didn’t pay for. His parents had money — the kind of money that meant rent was a formality and “broke” meant his Venmo transfer was taking longer than usual. It showed in small ways: the watch he “forgot” to take off before beer pong, the sneakers that cost more than Y/n’s monthly groceries, the fact that his mini fridge was always stocked with brand-name drinks.
Living with Jay meant you were never really off the clock socially. Even on the rare nights the house wasn’t packed, he’d wander into Y/n’s space just to start a conversation, throw a Nerf dart at him, or flop down on his bed like it was his own. He called Y/n “bro” like it was a comma and talked like he was narrating a reality show, always halfway between a joke and a dare.
Y/n didn’t exactly encourage him, but he didn’t shut him down either. There was an ease to their back-and-forth — Y/n with his quieter, steadier presence, and Jay with his constant need to push, tease, get a reaction. They shared the kind of unspoken rule that if one of them brought someone home, the other would make himself scarce without asking questions. And if they ended up at the same party, there was always that half-smirk of acknowledgment across the room, like they were in on something the rest of the house wasn’t.
It wasn’t that they were close, not in the way people usually meant. But in a house full of rotating noise — new faces every month, music rattling the walls — Jay was the one constant Y/n could always count on to be there. Usually shirtless. Usually talking shit.
Everything started as a one-off joke — something Jay tossed out one night after a few too many beers, leaning against Y/n’s doorway with that shit-eating grin he wore when he thought he was being clever. But it didn’t stay a one-time thing. Somewhere along the way, it became part of the rhythm between them, another inside joke in a long list of ones that would make no sense to anyone else. Jay had this habit of pushing the line and then yanking it back with a lazy “no homo,” like a magician’s flourish after a trick. Y/n, for his part, didn’t give him the satisfaction of acting flustered. He just threw it back at him, keeping his voice as steady as if they were talking about the weather — which somehow made Jay double down every time.
It happened in all kinds of ways. Sometimes Jay would wander into their room after a party, half-drunk and smelling faintly of weed, and flop down on Y/n’s bed without warning. “Bro, gimme a kiss for good luck,” he’d mumble, like it was the most normal request in the world. Y/n would snort, shove a pillow in his face, and say something like, “Sure, dude! right after I brush my teeth with bleach.” Other times, they’d be sitting on the couch during a quiet afternoon, some game on the TV neither of them was really watching, and Jay would lean over, way too close, just to whisper, “Bet you’d fold if I actually went for it.” Y/n wouldn’t even look at him — just sip his drink and reply, “Bet you’d miss.”
Even in the middle of bigger gatherings, Jay found ways to slip it in. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen counter during a house party, voices and music blurring around them, he’d nudge Y/n with his elbow and say, “If we made out right now, people would lose their minds.” Y/n would keep his eyes on the beer pong table across the room and answer, “Yeah, from second-hand embarrassment.”
It was a game neither of them had named, but both played like pros. Jay’s goal seemed to be getting Y/n to break, to blush, to stammer — something. But Y/n never did, and maybe that was what kept Jay coming back for more. And underneath all the fake-offended snorts, the lazy comebacks, and the “no homo” disclaimers, there was a weight to it that neither of them acknowledged. Not out loud, anyway.
By the time the sun dipped low over the ocean, the house was already buzzing in that pre-party way — music low but steady, doors opening and closing, the faint hiss of beer cans cracking somewhere down the hall. Y/n sat at his desk with his laptop open, a stack of notes fanned out beside him, highlighter in hand. His midterm was the next morning, the kind of exam you couldn’t bluff your way through, and he’d promised himself he wouldn’t get pulled into whatever chaos the night was about to become. From his window, he could see the street slowly filling with people — girls in oversized sweatshirts and tiny skirts, guys in backwards caps and patterned button-ups, all moving in loose groups toward the sound of bass drifting from somewhere farther down the block. Isla Vista had a way of making every night feel like a Friday.
Jay’s side of the room looked like a hurricane had passed through. Drawers half-open, sneakers scattered in pairs that didn’t match, a hoodie tossed over his desk chair. He was standing in front of the mirror, spritzing cologne like he was trying to fumigate the place, already dressed in his real uniform: athletic shorts, a loose button-up shirt thrown on without bothering to fasten the top half, his gold chain flashing every time he moved. The cap on his head was turned backwards, his hair sticking out just enough to look intentional, and he had that grin — the one that meant he was about to make bad decisions and somehow get away with all of them. “You’re seriously not coming?” he asked, glancing at Y/n’s reflection in the mirror instead of turning around.
Y/n didn’t look up from his notes. “I have a test, man. Like, an actual important one. Can’t exactly show up hungover and smelling like tequila.”
“That’s quitter talk,” Jay said, smirking as he adjusted the brim of his cap. “Come on, just for an hour. Get some air, talk to some girls… or guys, whatever you’re feeling.” The last part came with a pointed look, a deliberate spark in his voice, like he was prodding at one of their ongoing bits.
Y/n only shook his head, flipping to the next page of his textbook. “That’s how you end up failing stats and moving back in with your parents.”
Jay laughed, low and amused, and crossed the room until he was standing right behind Y/n’s chair. He leaned down just enough for Y/n to catch the scent of his cologne over the faint smell of weed that seemed permanently etched into him. “If I bring someone back, you’re cool to disappear for the night, right?”
Y/n’s pen stilled over the page. “We’ll see,” he said after a beat, not quite committing either way.
Jay lingered for a moment, searching his face like he was trying to read something in it, then tapped the brim of his cap in mock salute. “Don’t study too hard, bro. You might start dreaming about me.”
“Nightmare fuel,” Y/n muttered, but there was the faintest trace of a smile under it.
And then Jay was gone, swallowed by the growing noise downstairs, leaving the room quiet except for the hum of Y/n’s laptop and the muffled thump of bass from the street — a reminder that, outside, Isla Vista was just getting started.
The party on Del Playa was already in full swing by the time Jay got there. The living room had been stripped of anything breakable, replaced with two beer pong tables and a speaker big enough to rattle the windows. The air was hot and crowded, smelling like a mix of sweat, perfume, and whatever was burning on the grill out back. He moved through the space like he owned it, nodding to people he half-knew, dapping up guys he’d met once at another party, accepting a red cup from someone without asking what was in it. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular — the night was just another night, the party just another backdrop. But every so often, in the middle of a conversation or a game, his mind drifted back to the room he’d left behind.
It wasn’t that he was worried about Y/n — Y/n could handle himself just fine — but the image of him sitting there with his head bent over a textbook, highlighter in hand, hadn’t left. Something about the stubborn way he’d said “we’ll see” when Jay had asked about disappearing for the night stuck in his head, like a splinter he couldn’t quite shake loose. Maybe it was the challenge in it, or maybe it was just knowing that Y/n wasn’t out here, wasn’t leaning against the kitchen counter trading jokes, wasn’t part of the noise. He caught himself picturing walking back into the room later, Y/n still there, still studying, and it made the beer in his hand taste different — sharper, somehow. He laughed at himself, shook it off, and went back to the game. Still, the thought kept circling.
Across town — though in Isla Vista “across town” meant a five-minute walk — Y/n was hunched over his desk, pen in hand, eyes scanning the same line of notes for the third time. The muffled bass from the street below throbbed through the walls, a reminder that the world outside was still moving, still loud. His phone lit up every now and then — group chat messages, Instagram notifications, someone asking if he was coming out tonight — but he ignored them all. His focus was razor sharp, not because the material was thrilling, but because he knew exactly what was on the line. He had no time to entertain distractions, no room in his head for thoughts about what Jay might be doing right now.
Every so often, a burst of laughter or the faint echo of a cheer from outside would pull him out of the words on the page, but only for a second. He’d take a sip of water, adjust in his chair, and dive back in. There was no imagining himself at the party, no wondering who was there or what was happening. The test was the only thing in his orbit. Whatever Jay was doing out there didn’t factor in — not tonight.
And while Y/n was busy drilling formulas into his brain, Jay was standing in a kitchen full of strangers, beer pong balls bouncing off the floor, wondering why the hell he was thinking about his roommate instead of the girl across from him who’d just asked for his name.
By one in the morning, Y/n’s desk was a disaster zone of open notebooks, loose papers, and half-dead pens. He’d been at it for hours, the numbers and terms on the page starting to blur together until they felt like they were slipping right out of his head. Every so often, he’d pause and stare blankly at a formula, his brain trying to cling to it while a creeping dread whispered that by the time he woke up, it would all be gone. That was the part that really made his stomach knot — the realization that no matter how much you stuffed into your head now, there was no guarantee it would still be there in the morning. He rubbed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and listened to the muffled bass from somewhere down the street, each thump a reminder that the rest of Isla Vista was alive and loud while he was buried in notes.
Meanwhile, over on Del Playa, the party was at its peak. The living room had become a humid crush of bodies, the walls practically sweating under the heat. Jay had lost count of how many drinks he’d had, his head pleasantly light, his grin loose and lazy. Someone had passed him a blunt, and now the weed and alcohol blurred together into that warm, slow buzz that made it feel like the night could stretch on forever. He moved from the kitchen to the backyard to the living room without really thinking about it, nodding at people he didn’t know, letting conversations wash over him. And every so often, for no good reason, his thoughts drifted back to Y/n — sitting under that desk lamp, bent over his notes like the fate of the world depended on his midterm.
Y/n’s pen tapped a restless rhythm against the desk, matching the faint bass outside. His highlighter had died half a chapter ago, and now he was chewing on the inside of his cheek, weighing whether to power through or risk a break. But every pause felt dangerous — one glance at his phone, one stretch too long, and he might lose the fragile thread of focus holding him together. He told himself he just needed to finish this chapter. Just one more. But his leg was bouncing under the desk now, his handwriting getting sloppier as fatigue crept in.
Jay was back in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a beer in one hand, the blunt making its way to him again. The music thumped hard enough to rattle the bottles on the counter, but his mind kept flicking back to the room he’d left hours ago. He wondered if Y/n had opened the window to let in some air, if the faint vanilla scent from his side of the room was still there. Stupid, random thoughts that didn’t belong here, but they came anyway. He took another drag, another sip, and tried to shake it.
By almost two, Y/n felt the first real wave of panic. His eyes were sore from staring at the page, his brain sluggish, and every line he read felt like trying to catch smoke with his hands. Outside, Isla Vista was still going strong — shouts, laughter, bass lines bleeding into each other from house to house — but up here, the only thing moving was the tip of his pen scratching paper.
And somewhere in that humid, crowded party, Jay was tipping his head back with a laugh, feeling the room tilt just slightly, and thinking — without meaning to — that maybe he’d head back soon.
By the time the clock on Y/n’s laptop clicked past two-thirty, his vision had gone soft around the edges. He’d been reading the same paragraph for at least five minutes, his brain catching on every other word and then letting go before it could stick. The desk lamp cast a small, concentrated pool of light over his notes, the rest of the room sitting in shadow. His head was heavy, neck stiff, the weight of the all-nighter dragging him down. He’d fought off sleep for hours, pushing through the ache in his eyes, telling himself that just one more page, one more problem set, would make the difference between knowing the answer tomorrow or staring blankly at the paper. The thought of all that effort evaporating in the morning — of waking up and feeling like he’d learned nothing — was enough to keep him upright. Barely.
He was mid-sentence, pen in hand, when the sound of the front door downstairs slammed over the muffled bass outside. Voices followed — loud, unfiltered, laughing in that slurred way that only happened after too many drinks. The thump of footsteps on the stairs came next, heavy and uncoordinated, and then the door to his room creaked open. Jay stumbled in, cap still on, chain catching the light, his grin a little too wide. Beside him was a girl Y/n had never seen before — tall, in a tiny black dress, leaning on Jay like her balance depended on him. She was laughing at something he’d just said, her arm slung lazily around his neck.
Jay’s eyes found Y/n instantly, that lazy smirk spreading. “Bro,” he started, his voice thick with alcohol, “do me a solid, yeah?” He gestured vaguely toward the door with the hand not holding the girl’s waist. “Give us, like… an hour. Two, tops.”
Y/n blinked at him, slow and flat. “You’re kidding.”
Jay shook his head, still grinning like this was the most reasonable request in the world. “C’mon, man. I’ll owe you. Big time.”
Y/n leaned back in his chair, the exhaustion sharpening into something else entirely. “Jay, I have a midterm in—” he glanced at the clock, “—five hours. I’m not leaving so you can… whatever.”
The girl stifled a laugh against Jay’s shoulder, clearly catching the edge in Y/n’s tone. Jay just grinned wider, like he thought he could charm his way through it. “You could crash on the couch. It’s, like, prime nap weather out there.”
“I’m not moving,” Y/n said, and there was no hesitation in it. His pen was still in his hand, but his focus on the page was gone — replaced by the frustration of being pulled out of his fragile concentration right when he was about to give in to sleep.
Jay lingered in the doorway, shifting his weight like he was considering pushing it further. “Bro…” he started, but Y/n cut him off.
“Not tonight,” he said, voice steady but tired in a way that didn’t leave room for argument.
For a beat, the only sound was the faint throb of music from somewhere down the street and the girl’s soft, amused exhale. Jay finally raised his hands in surrender, his grin still stubbornly in place. “Alright, alright. No big deal.” He turned to the girl, muttering something under his breath that made her laugh again, and the two of them disappeared back into the hallway, their footsteps retreating down the stairs.
The room was quiet again, but the damage was done. Y/n sat there, staring at his notes without reading them, his exhaustion now buzzing with irritation. Outside, Isla Vista kept on raging, and inside, the clock kept ticking toward morning.
Y/n eventually closed his laptop, shoved his notes into a pile, and switched off the desk lamp. The darkness felt immediate, swallowing the room in that way that made it seem quieter than it really was. He slid under the blanket, eyes already closing, body sinking into the mattress like it had been waiting all night for permission to shut down. He told himself he needed at least three hours of sleep before the midterm — three hours where his brain could rest, maybe hold onto the fragile grip it had on everything he’d been cramming.
It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes later when the door eased open again. The hallway light spilled across the floor, cutting into the darkness, and Jay’s laugh — low, slurred — crept in with it. The girl from earlier was with him, her heels clicking softly against the floor as they slipped inside.
“Shhh,” Jay half-whispered, half-laughed, like the word itself was a joke.
Y/n’s eyes snapped open. He stayed still, hoping — against all logic — that they’d just grab something and leave. Instead, the door shut, the click of the lock following, and muffled voices started up on the other side of the room. He could hear the rustle of fabric, the creak of Jay’s bed frame. Then the first quiet laugh from the girl, followed by something lower — indistinct, but enough to make Y/n’s jaw tighten under the blanket.
He rolled onto his side, facing the wall, trying to will himself to ignore it. But the noises only got more distinct — a mix of breathy giggles, the soft thud of movement, Jay’s voice dropping into something Y/n couldn’t quite make out. The bed across the room creaked again, a steady rhythm beginning to form, and Y/n’s hands curled into the fabric of his pillow.
Every sound felt amplified in the dark: the shift of weight, the quick inhale of air, the little hitch of laughter between kisses. He shut his eyes, jaw tense, heat rising in his chest that had nothing to do with the blanket. His brain had been fried enough from hours of studying — now it was being pelted with this, and the thought of getting any real sleep started to feel like a joke.
Jay muttered something, the girl answered with a soft hum, and the bedframe let out another groan. Y/n exhaled sharply into his pillow, not trusting himself to speak, because he wasn’t sure if it would come out as irritation or something sharper. All he could do was stare into the darkness, every tick of the clock pushing him closer to morning, while Jay’s side of the room stayed very much awake.
By the time it was over, the room felt like it had been split in two. Jay’s side was thick with the heat of it, the sheets twisted, the faint smell of weed and sweat clinging to the air. Y/n’s side was rigid and silent, the only movement the slow rise and fall of his chest as he stared at the wall, eyes wide open in the dark. He hadn’t slept a minute. Every creak of the bed, every muffled sound, had dragged him further from the thin thread of calm he’d been trying to hold onto.
The girl giggled softly, gathering her things in the dim glow of Jay’s phone light. Her heels clicked on the floor as she leaned down, kissed him quick, and whispered something that made Jay laugh, low and lazy. Then the door opened, spilling another thin slice of hallway light across the room, and she slipped out without looking back. The door clicked shut, and silence folded in again.
Jay flopped back against his mattress with a satisfied groan, his laugh echoing in the dark like he’d just won a game no one else was playing. “Bro,” he muttered, voice still thick with alcohol, “you awake?”
Y/n didn’t answer. He stayed facing the wall, eyes open, every muscle tight.
Jay chuckled, the sound half amusement, half disbelief. “C’mon, don’t be mad. You survived.” His bed creaked as he shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, peering through the dark at Y/n’s still figure. “I told you — like, what, an hour? Not even.”
Y/n finally let out a sharp exhale, not turning around. “You’re unbelievable.” His voice was low, edged with exhaustion that sounded more dangerous than anger.
Jay smirked, not deterred in the slightest. “Unbelievably charming, yeah.”
Y/n rolled onto his back, finally meeting the shadow of Jay’s grin across the room. “I have a midterm in—” he squinted at the red digits of the clock, “—three hours. And you thought it was a good idea to turn this place into your personal motel?”
Jay laughed again, dragging a hand over his face like he could wipe the drunk off. “You’re acting like you didn’t hear worse in this house before. People hook up all the time.”
“Not in our room,” Y/n snapped, sharper this time.
That finally made Jay pause. He watched Y/n through the dark, the smirk faltering into something quieter. He let the silence hang for a second, then shrugged. “Fair. But you gotta admit, I was considerate. Didn’t even turn the lights on.”
Y/n groaned, dragging the blanket over his head like it could block him out completely. He didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to trade barbs, didn’t want to think about the fact that sleep was now even further out of reach. All he wanted was to shut down his brain for a couple of hours before walking into that classroom.
From his bed, Jay chuckled again, softer this time. “Don’t hate me, bro. You know you love me.”
Y/n didn’t answer. The silence that followed was heavy, but Jay only sighed, sinking back into his pillow with the loose contentment of someone who didn’t have to be anywhere in the morning.The room had gone quiet again after Jay’s little laugh, but it didn’t stay that way. Y/n had just started to convince himself he could maybe doze off for at least an hour when Jay shifted on his mattress, the springs squeaking loud in the dark.
“You’re really sulking, huh?” Jay’s voice was low, amused, and dripping with the kind of cocky confidence that only came from being half-drunk. “C’mon, dude, don’t act like you didn’t get a free show. She was hot.”
Y/n pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “You’re disgusting.”
That only made Jay chuckle, the sound bouncing lazily across the small space between their beds. “Nah, you love it. Admit it — you were laying there, thinking about what you’d do if it was you instead.” He dragged the words out, savoring them, like he wanted to see if they’d stick.
Y/n groaned and rolled onto his side again, facing the wall, jaw tight. “I have an exam in three hours. Go to sleep.”
But Jay wasn’t letting it go. He shifted again, and suddenly his voice was closer — he’d sat up, leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees like he was closing the distance even in the dark. “Don’t front, man. You’re always so serious. Bet you’re wound up as hell.” His laugh was soft, low, the kind that curled under Y/n’s skin whether he wanted it to or not. “You’d probably crack if someone kissed you right now. Just fold. Easy.”
Y/n squeezed his eyes shut, pulse ticking in his temples. “Jay.” His voice was sharp, but underneath was the exhaustion, the near edge of breaking.
Jay grinned in the dark, drunk enough not to care about the line he was toeing. “Relax, bro. No homo.” He said it like it was a magic spell, like those two words erased the weight of everything else. Then, quieter, more taunting: “Unless you wanted it to be.”
The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that pressed against both of them. Y/n’s hand curled tighter around the edge of his blanket, fighting the urge to answer, to give him even one more reaction. Across the room, Jay smirked to himself, stretching back against his pillow, smug in the knowledge that his words were still hanging in the air like smoke.
For Y/n, there was no sleep after that. Every time he shut his eyes, it wasn’t formulas or definitions that filled his head — it was Jay’s voice, smug and taunting, echoing in the dark.
Jay didn’t stay still for long. He sprawled out on his bed like he owned the whole room, one arm behind his head, the other draped lazily across his stomach. The mattress springs squeaked when he shifted, his lazy grin aimed right at Y/n. “Man,” he said after a beat, voice still low and rough from the night, “you should’ve seen her. Tightest little dress, fuckin’ legs for days. Whole time, I’m thinking—” he let the sentence hang just long enough to make it deliberate, “—bet you’d kill to be in her spot.”
Y/n’s head turned toward him, just barely, his brow creasing. “Jesus, Jay.”
“What?” Jay’s tone was pure innocence, but his smirk gave him away. “I’m just saying, she was… enthusiastic. You know?” He made a vague gesture with his hand, like he was replaying it in his head. “Claw marks down my back and everything. Bet you’d leave worse.”
“Shut up,” Y/n muttered, rolling onto his side so his back was to him.
But that was the thing about Jay — telling him to shut up was just blood in the water. He chuckled, low and warm, shifting so the bedsprings groaned again. “Don’t be like that, bro. We both know you were awake for some of it. You heard me, huh?”
Y/n didn’t answer, which was exactly the wrong move.
Jay kept going, his voice dropping a little. “Bet you were laying there, all tense, tryin’ not to picture it. Tryin’ not to picture me.” There was an edge of laughter under the words, but something slower too — not quite serious, but not entirely a joke.
Y/n sighed sharply. “You’re drunk.”
“Drunk,” Jay agreed, “and high. Which means no filter, baby.” The last word was drawn out, playful but sitting heavy in the space between them. “You gonna tell me you’ve never thought about it? Even once? I mean…” He laughed under his breath. “You’ve seen me in a towel, man. Hell, you’ve seen me naked by accident. That’s enough to get anybody curious.”
Y/n turned his head toward the wall, his jaw tight. “You’re ridiculous.”
Jay’s grin deepened, like that was the exact response he’d been fishing for. “Ridiculous and right.” He shifted again, the bedframe creaking, and when he spoke next, his voice had that lazy, post-party drawl that slid under your skin. “C’mon, you’ve never wondered what it’d be like if I just… climbed into your bed right now? No ‘no homo,’ no jokes. Just me and you.”
Y/n swallowed, the room suddenly feeling warmer than it had a minute ago. “You need to sleep, Jay.”
Jay laughed again, low and quiet, and finally rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah,” he said, still grinning, “but you’d be more fun.”
The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t exactly hostile either — the air between them thick with something unspoken, something that felt too big for either of them to name. And in that late, heavy hour, it lingered.
And again, the silence didn’t last long. Jay shifted one more time, the sound of the bedsprings giving him away, and then his bare feet hit the floor with a soft thud. Y/n could hear him moving even before he saw the shadow fall across his side of the room.
“Man…” Jay’s voice was quieter now, but no less smug, “you’re seriously over there acting like I didn’t just put on the performance of the century.”
Y/n didn’t roll over. “You woke me up. Again.”
Jay snorted. “Pfft. You weren’t even asleep. I know you, bro. You were laying there, pretending not to listen. That’s why you’re all tense now. You’ve got…” He paused, letting the word come out slower. “…energy.”
Y/n finally rolled onto his back, eyes half-open, irritation and exhaustion bleeding together. “Jay, I have a midterm in some hours. I’m not in the mood.”
Jay crouched down beside the bed, resting an elbow on the edge like they were just having some casual midnight chat. His grin was still there, lazy and taunting. “C’mon, dude. You know it’s bros before hoes, right? That’s like… code. Guy code. Top-tier roommates type shit.” He made a vague hand gesture between them, like that was supposed to explain everything. “If your bro needs something, you hook him up. And right now…” His grin widened, “—I think you need somethin’.”
Y/n huffed out a laugh that wasn’t amused. “What I need is for you to get the fuck back in your bed, bro.”
Jay shook his head slowly, like Y/n was the one being ridiculous. “Nah, nah, nah. That’s quitter talk. Look at us, man — two dudes, late at night, doors locked, no one else around…” He leaned in just a fraction, voice dipping lower. “If I was into dudes — which I’m not, obviously — I’d say this is the perfect setup.”
“You’re drunk,” Y/n said again, but his voice didn’t sound as steady this time.
“AAAAAANDD… having a great night.” Jay’s smirk didn’t falter. “You could be having a great night too, bro. You just gotta stop overthinking it. It’s not even gay if it’s with your roommate. That’s, like… a law or something.”
Y/n let his head fall back against the pillow, eyes narrowing. “That’s not a law.”
“Okay, maybe not, but it should be.” Jay’s voice softened just slightly, enough to slide under Y/n’s skin. “Don't tell me it never crossed your mind.”
Y/n didn’t answer right away, and that was all the opening Jay needed. He reached out, fingers brushing the blanket near Y/n’s hip — not grabbing, not even pressing, just enough to let the weight of the touch hang there.
“See?” Jay’s grin deepened. “You didn’t say no.”
The air between them felt heavy now, the late-night quiet amplifying every small sound — Y/n’s slow inhale, Jay’s faint laugh, the creak of the floor under his crouch. It was the kind of moment that could tip either way, and Jay seemed determined to keep pushing until it did.
Jay stayed crouched there for a long moment, his smirk daring Y/n to say something that would end it. When it didn’t come, he leaned his weight forward, elbows on the mattress now. The dip in the bed made Y/n shift slightly, and Jay noticed — his grin pulling wider like he’d just scored a point in a game only he was playing.
“Bro, you’re so fucked up right now,” he murmured, voice somewhere between taunt and observation. “Like, I can feel it from here. You need to… relax. Let your bro take care of you.”
Y/n’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not ‘taking care’ of me.”
Jay chuckled under his breath, shaking his head like Y/n was being dramatic. “Not like that, man. Chill. I mean—” he shrugged one shoulder, still leaning in, “—unless you’re into it. Which… you don’t seem to be saying no to.”
Before Y/n could reply, Jay shifted again, climbing up onto the edge of the bed without asking. He moved slow, exaggerated, like he was giving Y/n plenty of time to push him away if he wanted — but there was a confidence in the way he did it, a certainty that he wouldn’t be stopped. His knee sank into the mattress beside Y/n’s hip, the faint scent of beer and weed trailing off him as he leaned closer.
“You know what I think?” Jay said, low enough that it was almost a whisper. “I think you lowkey need that. Not all the time — you’re not obsessed or whatever — but I think there’s been a night or two where you were like, ‘yeah, I’d let Jay fuck around.’”
“Jay…” Y/n’s voice was warning, but his tone lacked the sharp edge it usually carried when he was serious.
Jay caught it immediately. “What? It’s not like I’m saying I’d actually do it.” His grin turned sly. “Unless you asked.”
Y/n’s blanket was still pulled halfway up his torso, but Jay’s hand landed casually on top of it, fingers drumming idly near his ribs. Not quite touching, but close enough to be felt through the fabric. “See, this is where the whole ‘bros before hoes’ thing comes in, dude. Sometimes your bro just… steps up. Helps you out. No labels, no drama. Just… bro shit.”
“‘Bro shit’ doesn’t usually involve…” Y/n trailed off, the words catching before he could finish them.
Jay tilted his head, eyes locked on his. “Involve what?”
The air between them felt thick now, the faint streetlight slipping through the blinds cutting narrow stripes across Jay’s jaw, his neck. He was close enough that Y/n could see the glaze of alcohol in his eyes, the lazy pull at the corner of his mouth, and the way his chest rose and fell slow from the weed.
Jay smirked again, leaning just a little closer, voice dropping into something heavier. “You say the word, and I’ll make this the best all-nighter you’ve ever had.”
For a moment, Y/n didn’t move, didn’t even blink — the weight of Jay’s words hanging in the late-night quiet, thick with all the things they weren’t saying.
Jay didn’t wait for a yes. He moved in that lazy, unhurried way that came with being sure of himself, one knee sinking deeper into the mattress until he was braced half over Y/n. His hand slid up from the blanket to Y/n’s jaw, his thumb pressing lightly along the edge of it. Not rough, not soft — just enough pressure to make it clear he was steering the moment.
Y/n’s breath caught, and Jay’s smirk sharpened. “Relax, dude,” he murmured, voice low enough to feel rather than hear. “Just bros. Just… testing boundaries, right?”
Y/n didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull away either. Jay’s thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, his eyes locked there like he was studying the way it moved. Then, with that same half-grin, he leaned down until their faces were close enough that Y/n could smell the mix of weed, beer, and faint cologne clinging to him.
“You ever notice,” Jay said slowly, “how easy it is to just… not think about it? You do what feels good, and that’s it. No labels, no deep shit. Just…” His hand slid down Y/n’s neck, fingers curling against the warm skin there. “…two guys helping each other out.”
Y/n’s pulse was hammering now, the heat under his skin clashing with the exhaustion still weighing on him. Jay must’ve felt it, because his grin deepened, his thumb dragging lightly against the hollow of Y/n’s throat before dipping lower.
“Bet you’ve been tense all night,” Jay added, his voice almost a taunt. “All that studying, no break, no fun. You’re too worried, man.”
He shifted his weight, bringing his face even closer until his lips brushed — not kissed, just brushed — against Y/n’s ear. “I could fix that.”
The words landed hard, and before Y/n could stop himself, a quiet, involuntary sound slipped past his lips — barely more than a breath, but unmistakably a moan. Jay froze for half a second, then laughed under his breath, smug and low.
“There it is,” he murmured. “Knew you had it in you.”
His hand slid lower, over the blanket but firm enough that Y/n could feel the weight and heat of it through the fabric. The mattress dipped more as Jay leaned in, his mouth close enough to ghost over Y/n’s jaw now. “C’mon, man. Just say it. Just say you want me to keep going, and I will. We can call it… what’s the word…” He smirked. “Team-building.”
Y/n’s fingers had curled into the sheets without him realizing it, the tension in his body now something entirely different from the stress of studying. Jay’s eyes tracked that, the grin never leaving his face, his touch lingering in a way that made it very clear he had no intention of pulling back unless he was told outright.
Y/n’s grip on the sheets tightened, the last scraps of his stubborn pride slipping through his fingers like sand. The logical part of his brain — the one that had been clinging to his midterm as an excuse — was drowned out by the heat pooling low in his body. His cock was hard now, straining against the thin fabric of his shorts, the pulse of it impossible to ignore. He hated how quickly it had happened, hated how easy Jay made it without even trying.
Jay noticed. Of course he did. His grin shifted into something sharper, hungrier. “Yeah… there it is,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, satisfied tone. “Knew you’d crack eventually, bro.” His hand slid down the blanket again, slower this time, deliberately brushing over the shape between Y/n’s legs. Even through the fabric, the contact made Y/n’s breath hitch, his back arch just slightly.
“Fuck…” Y/n muttered, half to himself.
Jay’s smirk deepened. “Nah, not yet. But we’re gettin’ there.”
With a casual ease that made it worse, Jay grabbed the edge of the blanket and yanked it down, exposing Y/n’s bare legs and the obvious tent in his shorts. “Dude…” Jay laughed under his breath, eyes flicking down and back up, “you’re fuckin’ hard as fuck. For me?” He tilted his head like it was just a joke, but his hand was already pressing down on the bulge, testing the weight of it through the fabric.
Y/n’s eyes shut, another soft sound slipping out before he could bite it back.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Jay murmured, leaning in until their noses almost touched. “You’re not in charge here, bro. You’re mine for the night.”
The words sent a shiver through Y/n, heat crawling up his neck. Jay’s free hand braced beside his head, boxing him in, while the other started stroking him slowly over the shorts. The friction was maddening — not enough to get him off, just enough to keep him on edge.
“You’re a fag, huh?” Jay said it like he was confirming a theory he’d had all along. “You just lay there and take it, let your bro do all the work. Bet you’d be good at it too.”
Y/n’s chest rose and fell faster now, his hips shifting involuntarily into Jay’s hand. “Jay…”
“Say it,” Jay ordered, his tone still laced with that lazy smirk but harder underneath. “Say you want me to take care of you.”
Y/n hesitated for half a breath, then gave in completely, his voice low but steady. “I want you to.”
Jay’s grin turned wicked. “Good boy.”
He didn’t waste another second — his hand slipped under the waistband of Y/n’s shorts, warm fingers wrapping around his cock directly. Y/n gasped, head tipping back against the pillow, and Jay watched him like he was committing every reaction to memory. “Yeah… that’s more like it,” Jay said, jerking him off slow and firm. “Knew you’d feel good in my hand. Knew you’d let me do whatever I want once you stopped pretending you didn’t want it.”
Y/n couldn’t even argue — every thought was lost to the sharp, steady pleasure building between his legs, Jay’s weight over him, and the low, smug voice in his ear that kept reminding him exactly who was in control.
Jay’s grin didn’t let up, his eyes locked on Y/n like he was studying the way every tiny shift gave him away. “Look at you, man. Didn’t even take a full minute for you to fold. Now you’re all soft in the head, starin’ at me like you forgot what you were so uptight about.”
He leaned in closer, his voice dripping with that lazy, taunting drawl. “You’re such a fuckin’ fag, bro. The kinda guy who plays all cool in the daylight, then melts the second someone grabs you like this. Bet you’ve been waiting for me to do this since day one.” He gave a slow, knowing laugh. “You don’t gotta say it — your face is saying it for you.”
Y/n’s breath came heavier, his grip on the sheets tightening like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment.
Jay tilted his head, grin widening. “Yeah… you’re gone already. Fuckin’ gone. Eyes half-shut, lips parted, lettin’ me do whatever I want. You like me runnin’ my mouth while I’ve got you like this, huh? Gets in your head. Makes you feel it more.” He paused, his gaze dragging down and back up in one long sweep. “You’re not even thinking about your little midterm anymore. You’re thinkin’ about me. About how deep I could get if I wanted to.”
Y/n’s eyes flicked up to his, the heat there impossible to hide.
Jay smirked deeper, leaning until their foreheads almost touched. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, bro. You’re gonna let me call the shots. You’re gonna let me take my time with you. And you’re gonna remember exactly how this felt every time you try to act like you’re not into me.”
He stayed close, his words low and deliberate. “By the time I’m done, you’re gonna be limp, sweaty, and thinkin’ about me every time you close your eyes. I’m gonna make sure of it. ‘Cause you’re my boy, and I take care of my boys.”
The way Jay said it — that mix of claim and challenge — made the air between them hum. And under the heavy weight of his voice, Y/n stopped trying to hold onto the last pieces of his composure and just let himself sink into whatever Jay had planned.
Jay shifted even closer, so close Y/n could feel the warm brush of his breath on his lips. His grin turned cockier, like he knew exactly how far he was pushing it.
“You know what I’ve been thinkin’ all night, bro?” he said, eyes locked on Y/n’s. “Kissing your bro isn’t even gay. It’s just… closin’ ranks. Sealing the deal. Like a handshake, but better.”
Y/n almost laughed, but the sound got caught in his throat when Jay’s gaze dipped to his mouth.
“I mean, c’mon,” Jay went on, voice low and almost conspiratorial. “You and me, in here, no one else watching. Who the fuck cares? We’re just messin’ around. Bros fucking messin’ around.” His smirk tilted higher. “But I promise you — I’m a good kisser. Better than anyone you’ve pulled in this house.”
Before Y/n could throw back a comment, Jay closed the gap, his mouth pressing against Y/n’s in a kiss that was anything but polite. It was sloppy, hot, all tongue and teeth — the kind of kiss that felt more like claiming territory than anything romantic. Y/n felt his head tilt back, the way Jay’s hand came up to hold him there, keeping him still while he deepened it.
Jay pulled back just enough to speak against his mouth, his tone smug and rough. “Yeah… that’s it. You taste like you’ve been waiting for this.” He went in again, messier this time, the kiss wet and breathless, their lips sliding together in a rhythm that left Y/n’s mind buzzing.
Y/n could feel every inch of Jay pressed up against him now — the heat, the weight, and the undeniable fact that Jay was hard too. Jay didn’t bother hiding it; in fact, he leaned into it, grinding just enough to make his point without breaking the kiss.
He broke away for a second, grinning against Y/n’s jaw. “See, bro? Told you it’s not gay. Just two dudes takin’ care of each other. Nothin’ wrong with that.” His voice dipped lower, dirtier. “You’re lucky I’m a good friend.”
Whatever Jay’s hand was doing under the blanket, it made Y/n’s hips shift involuntarily, his breath catching again. Jay noticed instantly, his grin sharpening as he pressed another quick, filthy kiss to Y/n’s lips. “Yeah… there you go. That’s my boy.”
Jay stayed close enough, his breath coming in short bursts against Y/n’s lips. His hand kept moving under the blanket — steady, deliberate — and the faint shift of fabric and skin created a rhythm that was impossible to ignore. The air between them was filled with it, a faint, wet-slick sound every time his grip worked over Y/n in a slow pull.
“Yeah… just like that,” Jay murmured, his voice a low rumble. “Don’t fight it, bro. Let me run the pace. I’ve got you.” He dipped in to kiss Y/n again — hot, sloppy, lingering — their mouths breaking with a faint wet noise that almost matched the quiet rhythm under the blanket.
The movement was unhurried at first, almost lazy, Jay’s hand working with a steady consistency that made Y/n’s breathing hitch every few seconds. Then, as if deciding he’d played around enough, Jay let the pace build — the slick sound quickening, his hand working in firmer, more precise pulls.
“Listen to that shit,” Jay said, his grin audible in his voice. “That’s you, man. That’s how bad you needed me tonight.” His tone was taunting but there was heat in it, too, the kind that made every word dig in deeper. “You’re fuckin’ leaking for me. Bet you didn’t think this would be how you ended your night, huh?”
Y/n couldn’t even answer — his focus was locked on the rhythm, the heat pooling in his stomach, the way Jay’s movements stayed just this side of perfect. Jay noticed the tension creeping into his body, the way his hips wanted to move with the pace, and adjusted instantly, the slick noise growing sharper with each stroke.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Jay muttered, keeping his eyes locked on Y/n’s face like he was reading every microexpression. “I can feel you getting close. Don’t hold back on me, bro. You let me have it.”
The sound under the blanket had gone from subtle to undeniable, each wet move syncing with the thud of Y/n’s heartbeat in his ears. Jay’s grin didn’t falter once — if anything, it got wider, hungrier, knowing exactly what he was doing to him.
Jay’s grip stayed relentless, the pace sharp now — just on the edge of overwhelming. The wet, rhythmic sound under the blanket filled the space between them, syncing with the way Y/n’s breath kept stuttering out in uneven bursts. Jay’s eyes were locked on him the whole time, reading every twitch, every flinch, every moment Y/n’s control slipped.
“Yeah… you’re right there,” Jay muttered, voice thick with satisfaction. “Eyes all glassy, lips all wet from kissin’ me… fuck, bro, you’re a sight.” His grin turned sharper, more possessive. “Don’t even try to hold back — I want it. I wanna feel you lose it in my hand.”
Y/n’s hips shifted helplessly into the rhythm, his knuckles white in the sheets.
“That’s it,” Jay urged, his tone going darker. “Let go for me. Let me see what it looks like when my boy falls apart. This is all me, dude. Every sound you’re makin’, every fuckin’ twitch — I did that.”
The moment Y/n’s body tensed in that unmistakable way, Jay’s smirk widened, his voice dropping to a rough murmur against his ear. “Yeah… give it to me. Give it all to me, just like that. Good fuckin’ boy.”
Even as Y/n slumped back, breathless, Jay didn’t stop — the pace easing but still there, his hand keeping that slick, possessive rhythm like he wasn’t ready to let him go.
“Nah, we’re not done,” he said, grinning like a wolf. “You think I’m stoppin’ here? I’ve been hard this whole time, man. I’m not lettin’ you off that easy.” He leaned in, pressing a messy kiss to the corner of Y/n’s mouth. “Gonna fuck you, bro. Gonna make sure you remember exactly who made you feel like this.”
He pulled back just enough to meet Y/n’s eyes, the weight of his stare heavy and certain. “You’re mine tonight. And I’m not done with you ‘til I say so.”
Jay didn’t give Y/n more than a few seconds to breathe before he was shifting his weight, one knee digging into the mattress as he loomed over him. The grin was still there — cocky, wolfish, the look of a guy who knew he had the upper hand and was in no rush to give it up.
“Flip over,” he said, the words casual but laced with that tone that wasn’t really asking. “Yeah, you heard me. On your stomach.” When Y/n didn’t move right away, Jay laughed low. “Don’t make me manhandle you, bro. I will. And you’ll like it.”
Y/n hesitated, still catching his breath, but Jay’s hands were already on him — firm, insistent, guiding him where he wanted. It wasn’t rough, not exactly, but there was zero doubt who was steering. “That’s better,” Jay murmured, his voice thick with approval. “Knew you’d listen to me. Good boys always do.”
He stayed close, his chest brushing Y/n’s back, his mouth hovering by his ear. “You feel that?” Jay pushed forward just enough for Y/n to notice the heat, the pressure. “Been like this the whole time. You did this to me.”
Y/n could hear the faint shift of fabric, the sound of Jay getting himself in hand, the low groan he let out when he did. “Holy shit… I’ve been thinking about this all night. You’re lying here all tense, all pretty, actin’ like you didn’t want me — meanwhile, I’m picturing bending you over this bed and goin’ until you can’t think about anything but me.”
His hands roamed with that same casual claim as before, gripping Y/n like he owned every inch. “You ever been fucked by your bro before? Huh? Bet not. Bet no one’s had you like I’m about to.” He chuckled under his breath, filthy and amused. “It’s not gay, man. It’s just… efficient. Two dudes, one room, no problem.”
Jay’s pace behind him was slow, deliberate — just enough movement to make his point, the faint, wet rhythm from earlier starting up again. “I could go all night,” he said, his tone going lower, hungrier. “You think you’re done? Nah. You’re not done ‘til I say you’re done. And I’ve got a lot I wanna do to you.”
Y/n felt him lean in, pressing a messy, open-mouthed kiss to the back of his neck, the words coming hot against his skin. “You’re mine tonight. Start getting used to it.”
Jay’s breathing was heavier now, uneven, like whatever control he’d been holding onto was starting to slip. His hands tightened on Y/n’s hips, thumbs pressing into the bone like he was staking a claim. “Fuck… bro… you have no idea. No idea what you’re doing to me right now.”
His voice had gone rougher, almost drunk on the feeling, that lazy confidence turning into something messier. “Been thinkin’ about this all night. Hell, probably since the day you moved in. That—” he broke off with a low groan, pressing forward again, “— That ass is fuckin’ perfect for this. You just take it. You don’t even fight me on it.”
The rhythm behind Y/n picked up — steady, insistent — and Jay’s words started tumbling out between his heavier breaths. “Yeah… yeah, that’s it. That’s my boy. Let me in… fuck… I’m not stoppin’. Not ‘til I wring you out completely.” He laughed under his breath, filthy and gone. “I’m gonna wreck you, man. You’re gonna be thinkin’ about this in class tomorrow. Tryna take your little test with your legs sore as hell, and all you’ll hear in your head is my fuckin’ voice.”
Y/n shivered under him, and Jay caught it instantly. “You like that? You like me talkin’ to you while I’m—” another groan, low and strained “—while I’m inside your head like this?” His tone went almost giddy, the way guys did when they were too far gone to care. “God, you’re makin’ me so fuckin’ dumb right now. Just— shit— just a hole for me, bro. Just my boy, takin’ what I give you.”
He leaned over him more, chest against Y/n’s back, mouth at his ear. “You’re not leavin’ this bed ‘til I’m satisfied. And I’m a greedy motherfucker.” His laugh was breathless, high on his own control. “By the time I’m done, you’re gonna be ruined for everyone else. You’ll try to hook up with someone else and all you’ll be thinkin’ is ‘yeah, but they’re not Jay.’”
Whatever rhythm he had was deeper now, heavier, each push making him curse under his breath like he couldn’t hold it back. “Yeah… fuck yeah… that’s it, man. Take it. Take all of it.”
The room had gone thick with heat and noise. Every shift of Jay’s body against Y/n’s sent the mattress creaking under them, the steady, insistent rhythm echoing in the small space. There was a wet, slick sound in the air — quiet at first, then louder as the pace built — the kind of sound that made Y/n’s breath hitch without him meaning to.
Jay heard it too. “You hear that, bro?” he said between breaths, his voice low and almost laughing. “That’s us. That’s how soaked you are for me.” His tone turned more ragged with each word. “You’re gettin’ messy, man… fuck… you’re making me messy.”
The pace picked up, and with it the sound — that sticky, fast rhythm underscored by the muted thud of their bodies meeting again and again. Y/n could feel his own sensitivity spiking, every push and pull lighting up nerve endings that were already raw. His hands twisted tighter in the sheets, trying to ground himself against the overwhelming pace.
Jay leaned over him, mouth at his ear, breath hot and uneven. “You feel that? You’re clenching up on me. Gettin’ all twitchy. You’re sensitive as hell right now, aren’t you?” He laughed breathlessly, the sound cracking into something deeper. “Good. I want you like that. I want you on edge, whining for more while I keep giving it to you.”
The rhythm didn’t falter — the wet slap of contact and Jay’s breathy curses filling every second, his voice going hazy and repetitive like he was too far gone to filter it. “Yeah… yeah… that’s it… take it, bro… fuck… that’s my boy.”
Jay shifted, adjusting his position until the mattress dipped sharply under his weight. He swung a leg over and settled himself squarely on top of Y/n, his knees bracketing Y/n’s sides, his full weight pressing down in a way that made it impossible to move. The air left Y/n’s lungs in a quick rush — not painful, but enough to remind him just how much bigger and heavier Jay felt above him.
“Yeah… that’s better,” Jay said, voice low but dripping with satisfaction. “Now I’ve got you pinned. Now you’re not going anywhere.” His hands found Y/n’s shoulders, pushing him down into the bed, his smirk widening like he was enjoying every second of it.
Then, with the kind of casual arrogance only Jay could pull off, he shifted one knee higher and let one foot slide up until it was brushing Y/n’s cheek. The move wasn’t fast — it was deliberate, teasing — like he wanted to see exactly how Y/n would react.
Jay chuckled, leaning forward just enough for his shadow to fall over Y/n’s face. “What’s the matter, bro? Can’t handle a little extra?” His tone was pure frat-boy mockery, that mix of playful and mean. “You look good like that. All under me, takin’ whatever I give you. Even this.”
He pressed down just slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to make the point that Y/n was exactly where he wanted him. “You’re not fighting it either,” Jay added, grin turning smug. “You’re lettin’ me do it. Kinda hot, bro.”
With Jay’s weight bearing down and the press of his foot against his cheek, Y/n felt completely claimed, the rhythm of Jay’s movements above him making the whole bed shift. The combination of dominance, heat, and the cocky way Jay kept talking was enough to make every nerve fire at once.
Jay’s weight stayed heavy, pinning Y/n down like he was welded into place. The rhythm of their bodies was quick now, messy, the sound of it filling every corner of the room — wet, urgent, relentless. Y/n’s breathing had gone ragged, every inhale sharp, every exhale a low, involuntary sound.
Jay’s own voice was fraying at the edges, his words spilling out in short bursts between breaths. “Yeah… yeah… that’s it… you’re right there… you’re gonna give it to me, bro, I can feel it.” His tone was half command, half plea, the kind of unfiltered need that came when he was too far gone to pretend he wasn’t obsessed with the moment.
Y/n’s fingers twisted tight in the sheets, his whole body tense under the weight holding him down. Every movement pushed him closer to that point where everything blurred — Jay’s voice in his ear, the heat pressing into him, the slick, fast rhythm that had him spiraling.
Jay leaned forward until his mouth was right at Y/n’s ear, his words hot and unsteady. “Don’t hold it… don’t hold back… give it to me, all of it… fuck— you’re mine, man, you’re all mine.”
The pace hit its peak — sharp, fast, almost sloppy now — the sound of it louder, wetter, punctuated by Jay’s low groans and Y/n’s quiet, breaking noises. There was no room left to think, no space for anything but the way their bodies moved together and the heavy air between them.
Y/n was the first to go, the tension snapping all at once, his breath catching in one long, shaky exhale as his body gave in completely. Jay wasn’t far behind, his voice dropping into a rough, unsteady string of curses, his weight pressing even harder for a second before he finally slowed.
For a moment, neither of them moved — just breathing hard, the room thick with heat and the lingering sound of what had just happened.
Then Jay chuckled low, lazy, and smug. “Told you I’d take care of you, bro.”
note: hi. this one’s different from what i usually write. it’s purely nsfw, full of dirty words, and i’m still figuring out how to do this in english. the prompt for this story won the voting, so here we are, and i wanted to push myself with it.
writing it was weird and exciting at the same time. there were moments where i stumbled over words, where it didn’t feel quite right, but i let the story take over. the tension, the heat, the messiness!! it all guided me. it’s raw, it’s bold, and it’s me trying something new. hehe!
i hope it lands the way it should; intense and unfiltered. exploring this side of writing it’s kind of fun! especially letting it go all the way. thank you guys for all the love! always.
♡ luke
this work was originally written in portuguese and manually translated into english.
honestly……… i’ve just been trying to come up with new ideas and see what sticks, playing around with stuff in my head and not really rushing anything. it’s been nice taking it slow for once, letting things breathe instead of forcing them. i feel like that’s when the better ideas show up anyway, when you’re not stressing about it too much. so yeah, nothing too wild lately, just vibing and letting my brain do its thing. hehe
i’ve been writing a few different things lately, and i thought maybe you’d want to help decide what comes next. there’s a little voting right below this post. just pick the one that pulls you in the most. no pressure, no overthinking. i’m really excited to share whatever comes out of it, and as always, thanks for being here.
1. jay x y/n
jay is your “straight” frat roommate, and a walking headache. one night, y/n’s just trying to sleep, but jay stumbles in drunk from another party. things get loud. and messy.
2. sunghoon x y/n
sunghoon is a powerful, ancient vampire and y/n’s blood is the subject of a prophecy that could trigger a war. to keep y/n safe (and close), sunghoon buys their protection. but it feels like being caged in velvet.
3. jake x y/n
jake and y/n are teammates on the same f1 team, battling for the podium every race weekend. the rivalry burns hot, but under all the tension, something else is waiting to explode.
4. heeseung x y/n
y/n’s been pushing himself to the limit, studying nonstop for finals. when he finally crash, heeseung is there — soft-spoken and steady — with tasty food, blankets, and a quiet place to fall apart.
same anon that had to go for a walk and as long as u do something with a soft ending next time you're forgiven fs!!!! please do that!!!! you'll def make my day better
deal. soft ending locked in just for you. no heartbreak, no walk required next time!!!!!! just something warm to keep close. i really wanna make your day better, so i’ll do my best to write it like that. hehe
didn't read the angst part before reading the summer forever fic and now I gotta go for a walk cuz I feel genuinely torn lmao great job man but also damn
oh nooo i’m so sorry :(( … i wish i could give you a juice box and a hug right now. i really didn’t mean to ruin your whole day like that but also… maybe just a little bit? thank you so much for reading though. seriously. it means the world that it hit you like that. walk it off gently ok? i owe you something softer next time… or hotter. depending on how we’re feeling
kinda fun being in my flop era honestly. no pressure to be impressive no expectations to meet just me posting whatever i want whenever i feel like it. weirdly peaceful
JMMENSHYRE OMG THE IT BOY IS BACKKKK
LUKE I MISSED UU SMMM :(( i reread wcs 10 times im not making this up
jsjaksjwalsjmmenshyre that actually means a lot… i missed being here too!!!! hehe… posting again felt kinda strange but also kinda nice. and the fact that you reread wcs that many times?? seriously thank you for that
and yeah… wcs? probably the first and last chapter. not cause it felt right or planned or anything like that, but cause i ended up having a lot of negative feelings around it. so i just phew… maybe one day i’ll feel different, but for now, it is what it is
