Summary: Fed up with the long list of "lovers" constantly vying for your attention, you decide to propose a little challenge. The first person to present you with the ribbon that was tied around your cat’s neck would win your company at Hogsmeade.
The sound of another low whistle echoing out from across the library catches your attention as you drag your eyes upward just in time to watch the exaggerated wink and grin of yet another wizard trying desperately to win your affection. You feel yourself cringe at the display, making a face as you turn away.
“You know if you just went out with one of them, even just once, they’d all probably leave you alone?” Cho says offhandedly, not even bothering to look up from the essay she was scratching away at.
You lean back with a groan.
“No. No, I’m not giving in to them. It’s about the principle of it all now. These boar headed pricks are not going to bully me into going out with one of them, just to get the whole lot of ‘em to leave me alone. It’s ridiculous! I should report them all for harassment!” You huff, arms crossed as you glare at your companion with agitation.
But Cho just hums in response, still scribbling words on her parchment.
“Mmm. You definitely could do that,” she replies. “Or you could handle it yourself gracefully.”
You feel your eyes roll at the jab. As if you hadn’t thought of that already. You’d tried everything. Letting them down gently. Letting them down not so gently. Threatening to send one boy to St. Mungos. Actually sending a boy to St. Mungos. (On accident of course. No one could prove anything.) Nothing worked.
It was clear that the boys chasing after you only wanted what they couldn’t have. But the more of them that were rejected, the more of them that joined in. Each wanting to be the one that finally broke you down. Pathetic.
It was disgusting. Like you were nothing more than a game to them.
“Look, are you a Ravenclaw or not? All you have to do is out think them. And really how hard could that be? Just set an impossible standard. It’ll divert their attention away from you, you’ll be able to say you’re technically willing to give them a stipulated chance, and they’ll all get bored eventually.”
You feel your head tilt as you consider Cho’s words carefully, letting an idea begin to form as you lean forward, elbows resting on the table. It wasn't a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all. If they wanted to play games, you’d give them a game.
Theodore was in paradise. Or as close as he could get to paradise while at this wretched school with its crowded corridors and boisterous common rooms. It wasn’t like Theodore disliked people, quite the opposite really, he just had a deep appreciation for a little bit of peace and quiet every once in a while.
He liked to think he deserved it, what with being friends with the likes of Mattheo Riddle and Lorenzo Berkshire. Theodore thought he was probably single handedly preventing the entire school from being burned down most days. How either of them had made it all the way to sixth year without earning themselves a one way ticket to Azkaban was beyond him. Sometimes amidst all the chaos those two brought with them, Theodore just needed to breathe.
They’d never find him out here. In fact, Theodore had never seen another student out in the field beyond the green house. It was a bit of a jaunt, but the first time Theo had wandered out past the herbology classroom he knew he had struck gold. See what most students didn’t know was that patches of wild catnip were allowed to grow freely here, making it a little slice of heaven for the Hogwarts cat population.
And Theo reveled in it, admiring the furry creatures from a far, letting them approach on their own terms. Mutual respect Theo found, could get you a long way with cats. Theo had most of the four legged beasts wrapped around his finger at this point. Especially since he’d begun sneaking bits of tuna and salmon out from the Great Hall.
Theo couldn’t help but smile as one of the regulars, a sweet orange and black tabby wound its way through his propped up legs, tail flicking happily as it let out a soft purr.
“Hey there little one,” he murmured as the cat pushed its head up against the palm of his hand.
He’d always wanted a cat. His mother had had one when she was in school, but his father had insisted on an owl. More manly he’d said. Whatever that meant.
As Theo continued to play with the little tabby, teasing it with a bit of catnip, the hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle. It was the familiar feeling he got when he was being watched. A gut feeling he’d found more often than not to be quite reliable.
His eyes shoot up, glancing around at his current company of around ten or so felines meandering about. Except for one. As Theo takes note of each of his furry companions, his eyes fall on one in particular. The culprit. A small black thing with bright, glowing eyes that looked like they knew something he didn’t. It sat perfectly rigid, just staring at him a good distance away. A black silky ribbon was tied neatly around its neck in place of a collar.
Theo stared at the cat for a moment, the cat staring right back ready to bolt at any moment. Theo had seen this before. Some cats just needed time. Giving the cat what he thought was a rather respectable nod, Theo went back to pampering the little tabby in his lap, content with allowing the newcomer to approach when it was ready.
You were stumped. A feeling that greatly agitated your inner Ravenclaw, but that you just couldn’t shake. You didn’t get it. It had been almost two months since you’d taken Cho’s advice. Set an impossible task.
She’d thought you were crazy at first. It seemed much too simple, but she didn’t have the faith you did. Get the ribbon. That’s all the boys had to do. Get the ribbon that was tied around your cat’s neck and you would accompany them to Hogsmeade.
Cho thought you were positively done for. The idea wasn’t exactly what the witch had had in mind, but then she had watched as the little black cat outran each wizard, avoided every one of their carefully plotted traps, and turned its head up at generous bribes. It was a sight to see and you should’ve been proud. Except he hadn’t taken it. And that was what was driving you up a wall. Why hadn’t he? He’d had every opportunity.
There had been so many moments when you’d been sure he’d do it. So many times when his hand would glide over smooth, soft fur right over the silk ribbon. And yet you’d watched every time as, instead of untying the ribbon from your cat’s neck, Theo would give the cat a soft pat on the head and send it on its way like any of the others that seemed to magnetize to him. It was strange.
“What do either of you know about Theodore Nott?” You ask, collapsing with an air of annoyance onto one of the many sofas that were tucked about Ravenclaw Tower.
Cho and her boyfriend Michael Corner glance up, surprised by your sudden appearance, eyebrows furrowing at your strange inquiry.
“Why do you want to know about him?” Michael asks, leaning back with curiosity.
You shrug your shoulders, trying your best to seem nonchalant.
“Just wondering is all.”
Cho raises an unimpressed brow at this, the two of your friends sharing a knowing look.
“He’s a Slytherin. Our year. Pretty quiet for the most part, but he’s best mates with Riddle and Berkshire. Plays chaser for the Slytherin quidditch team. Has some of the best marks in our year,” Michael trails off. “Pretty much sums him up.”
“Except that you forgot to mention he’s a total heart throb. All dark and mysterious. Lots of witches are after him. Probably helps that his Gringotts account holds a sizable fortune,” Cho adds.
“Sorry I didn’t think to mention all that. I just assumed y/n was into actual substance,” Michael mutters.
Cho chooses to ignore the not-so-subtle jab sent her way, instead turning her attention back to you.
“So why do you really want to know about him? He catch your eye?” Cho gasps. “Did he beat your little game?”
You let out a groan.
“No. But he could have. He’s had multiple chances.”
“You sound— disappointed,” Cho observes, watching carefully for your reaction.
You groan again, this time more frustrated.
“I’m not disappointed. I just want to know why!” You sigh, defeated.
“Well I don’t see why it matters. I thought the whole point was that you didn’t want anyone to win,” Michael states.
Cho rolls her eyes at the boy.
“Of course it matters. Don’t be daft.”
“I’m not being daft, I’m making a valid point.”
You watch half amused as your two friends continue to bicker back and forth before realizing that they’d veered so far off track that there was no hope in righting the train wreck. They don’t even notice when you rise from your spot on the sofa, slipping quietly back down the stairs of the tower.
You’d simply have to find the answers to your questions yourself.
Theodore is surprised when he looks up to see a pretty Ravenclaw standing over him in the library, a stack of books in hand and a nervous expression plastered across their face. He’d been expecting Blaise, but his fellow Slytherin was nowhere to be seen.
“You don’t mind do you?” They ask, hand hovering over the chair across from him. “I’d sit alone, but they’ve been following me through the shelves for the last twenty minutes and I don’t feel like being accosted at the moment.”
The Ravenclaw tilts their head, subtly gesturing to a pair of Gryffindors who were whispering loudly at the other end of the aisle.
Theo blinks. He wasn't naive. He'd had a classmate or ten throw themselves at him. Heck he'd been in this Ravenclaw's exact shoes a week ago being followed through the stacks of books in the library. But he'd never seen it happen to someone else. Huh.
“What makes you think I won’t accost you?” Theo asks, eyebrow raised as he leans back to get a better look at his classmate.
It took a moment, but he recognized them as being one of the more— sought after— students in his year, though notorious for repeatedly turning others away. He could see what all the fuss was about. They certainly were a looker.
“Call it a gut feeling,” the Ravenclaw replies, taking a seat. “I’m y/n.”
The first hour is silent bar the occasional rustle of pages being turned as Theo tries and fails to ignore the presence of the attractive student sat across from him. This sort of thing usually didn’t have any sort of effect on him as he was generally rather aloof, but something about them just felt so familiar.
“Is that the charms assignment for next week?” He asks, finally breaking the silence as he recognizes the open textbook strewn haphazardly on the table.
"Hmm? Yeah it is. I keep getting sidetracked so I actually have to get it done today," y/n responds without looking up.
Theo clears his throat nervously. He had no idea why he was doing what he was about to do.
"Would you like me to look it over when you're done? I finished that one up a few days ago," he offers, heart stopping in his chest as the Ravenclaw's eyes shoot up to meet his.
He can see them considering for a moment before giving a small nod.
"That'd be great. Thanks."
A mere ten minutes later the Ravenclaw wordlessly slides a roll of parchment over to Theo, watching intently, nervously as he takes it. His eyes scan over the parchment once, then again as he carefully combs over its contents.
"It looks perfect," he says finally, handing the parchment back over.
The Ravenclaw lets out a shaky breath.
"Thank Rowena. I swear Flitwick puts more pressure on us to have flawless assignments than any other house."
Theo makes a face.
"Didn't know I should be grateful that Snape doesn't have the same expectation for us. Though I suppose any hope for us he might’ve had was probably crushed as soon as Riddle and Berkshire walked through the door."
There's a brief pause before the Ravenclaw lets out a shocked laugh. It's clear and bright and after hearing it once, Theo decides he never wants the sound to stop.
It’s easier after that, like the icy wall between them had melted, letting them talk freely. You’d never know just walking past that the two of them had just met. In fact, Theo was so caught up in it all that he didn’t realize the time until the large clock on the library wall rang out, signaling just how late it was.
“Oh shit, sorry, I’m actually running late,” he curses, trailing off a bit.
How does one explain to someone they just met that about twenty or so very hungry cats were probably waiting in the kitchens right now for him to give them a bowl of cream?
Much to Theo’s relief however, the Ravenclaw gives him a knowing smile and a nod before packing up themselves and disappearing behind a row of books.
As soon as they’re out of sight, Theo is up and rushing to the familiar portrait of a fruit bowl where he quickly tickles the pears causing the entrance to the kitchens to swing open. As soon as he enters, glowing eyes turn to stare up at him, a whole gaggle of tails flickering impatiently.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Theo mutters, softness creeping into his voice as he accios several large dining bowls onto the ground beside him.
The bowls slowly fill with cream as Theo watches the felines flock their late night treat with care. A quiet meow breaks Theo’s gaze as a soft head butts up against his leg, glowing eyes staring up at him with curiosity. The small black cat had become Theo’s favorite over the past month or so. It had been abundantly cautious at first. Skittish even. But it had warmed up to him ever so slowly as he worked to gain its trust.
The real turning point had been one afternoon in the library when he’d seen a group of his classmates chasing the poor thing through the stacks. With one fell swoop he’d snatched the small cat up, hiding it from its tormentors. Ever since that day the cat had seemingly decided that Theo was alright, often joining him on the library sofa or for a stroll around the Black Lake. It had even sought him out one late night when he’d been out past curfew holed up in the astronomy tower. How the cat had any idea where to find him Theo had no idea, but he wasn’t complaining.
Theo could feel its whole body purring as he scratched behind its ears, tail winding around his leg in pure bliss. The silk bow that always sat prettily around its neck was skewed and as Theo bent down to straighten it, he could visibly see the cat stiffen. It stared at him, eyes unwavering as he adjusted the ribbon carefully before giving the small creature another pat on the head.
“That’s much better,” he tells the cat.
It’s strange the way the cat looks at Theo, almost confused.
“Well I better get going or Snape’ll have my head for being out past curfew again. See you later,” he says finally, giving the cat one last pet before disappearing back through the portrait entrance and leaving the little black cat to blink in wonder at the space he’d previously filled.
"You're late," you quip, feeling a presence behind you but still not bothering to look up from the book that had your attention captivated.
"Mattheo decided to let a bludger loose in the Slytherin common room. Broke a window. There was a flood," Theo's reply was short and succinct as he took a seat beside you, back leaning against the giant oak you'd found shade under.
“Mmm. And did this flood conveniently wipe out your entire novel collection? Or do you intend to read over my shoulder all afternoon?” You ask, feeling his presence still hovering over you.
When you look over your shoulder this time you see Theo’s sheepish grin as he pulls his own book out of his bag. You wouldn’t say you had befriended Theodore by accident per se. You had sought him out intentionally after all. You just hadn’t anticipated the two of you getting on so well. Hadn’t anticipated the way he’d make your cheeks heat up under his gaze, or the way he’d make you laugh with dry comments made under his breath.
You hadn’t been prepared when the two of you began wordlessly seeking each other out, spending afternoons in comfortable silence buried deep in your books. Hadn’t been prepared for the way your heart would beat out of your chest whenever his finger tips would brush up against yours.
You’d only ever intended to learn a bit more about the mysterious Slytherin who was seemingly unaffected by the boarish, competitive nature of your other classmates. You hated to admit it, but you had to give him a begrudging amount of respect for it. And now he’d somehow managed to become a constant in your everyday life.
“Oi! Y/l/n! Forget to tell us the game was won? Or were you just going to make us figure it out on our own?” The voice of Cormac McLaggen, a rather rowdy Gryffindor you never really cared much for, rang out from across the lawn, demanding your attention.
Looking up from your book with an air of annoyance, your brows furrow in confusion.
"What are you on about?" you ask with a scoff, barely able to stop your eyes from rolling at the disturbance.
You knew for a fact that no one had claimed the ribbon around your cat's neck. And lucky for you, the excitement of it all had died down significantly in the last month. You'd even allowed yourself to hope that most had forgotten about your challenge.
"Your silly little cat of course! If I'd known a damn snake was after the prize I'd've put in some real effort. Save you from a fate worse than death!"
You can't help the look of pure disgust and disdain that washes over your face as Cormac and his cronies laugh as if he'd actually said something clever. Even Theodore was looking at the group with some mix of annoyance and utter bewilderment. You couldn't even begin to pick apart every obnoxious piece of his sanctimonious remark, but something in you drew the line at badmouthing Theodore.
"Not that it's any of your business, but I'll have you know that I spend my time with Theodore because he's actually tolerable to be around. Not just because of some silly game," you huff.
Cormac ignores your slight against him. Or perhaps he's just too daft to understand it.
"Ah, so what I'm hearing is the competition is still open. Don't you worry y/n, you'll get the pleasure of my company at Hogsmeade yet!"
"That sounds like a threat," you grumble as the group turns away, yelling and whooping their way back to the castle, clearly ignoring your contempt.
Theo clears his throat.
"Actually tolerable? I'm flattered. A stunning review. Can I add that to my resume?" he teases, clearly trying to lighten your mood as you continue to glare at the other group of boys until they finally disappear into the castle.
"I suppose. Don't know what you'd need a resume for though, what with daddy's money and all that," you tease back, able to relax once more.
Theo just scoffs, gently shoving your shoulder with his.
"So. What exactly is this game that McLaggen is so determined to win? And what does it got to do with your cat?" Theo asks, book now long forgotten on the grass.
You feel your whole body stiffen as you turn to look at Theo, head tilted inquisitively.
"Have you not heard?"
Theo just shakes his head, matching your curious gaze.
"I- I set up a challenge. A game of sorts a couple months back. Tied a ribbon around my cat's neck, said whoever could bring it to me could accompany me to Hogsmeade," you reply, trying to sound nonchalant.
This certainly explained why Theodore had never tried to take the ribbon from your cat. But now that he knew— would he?
Theo raises a brow at you, still leaning against the tree.
"Do you think you're important enough to warrant such a competition?"
Your mouth drops open as heat rises to your cheeks.
"Don't be thick you tosser!" you exclaim, indignation clear in your voice. "I wouldn't have to stage such a ridiculous competition if people would just simply leave me alone. Besides, the task is impossible anyway, they'll never catch them, and soon enough they'll grow bored of the whole idea. I'll be able to say I gave everyone a fair chance and I'll finally have some damn peace."
You're so worked up over the whole situation that you don't even notice that Theo had cracked a smile somewhere amidst your rant.
"That's actually brilliant," he admits with a chuckle, his head shaking making his soft brown curls bounce in a way that had you mesmerized. "But how exactly is the plan impossible? It is relying on a cat after all. Surely it isn't completely foolproof?"
You open your mouth to respond, stumbling a bit over your words before you recover.
"I- It just is alright? Why? You trying to get insider tips and tricks?" you ask, teasing once more as you smoothly change the subject.
But Theo just hums in response, book already back in hand.
Theodore was torn. Or maybe that wasn't exactly the best way to put it. He knew what he wanted and what he had to do to make it happen, he just didn't know how to do it right. It was driving him mad.
All he could think about was their hair, their eyes, the way the edges of their lips would quirk upwards right before they were about to laugh, or how their fingers would drum on the back of a book when they were anticipating the turn of a page. He couldn't stop thinking about what it would be like to be able to pull them into his arms, to feel their soft lips on his, to wake up next to them every morning. He was in deep. They were consuming his every thought, waking or otherwise, and their damn cat was just sitting in front of him, ignorant to it all.
Theo extends his hand, allowing the cat to press its head to his palm before slowly stroking its soft fur. It would be so easy to do it right now. To gently pull the ribbon from this cat's neck and present it to you, but he knew he couldn't. Then he'd be no better than the others who treated you like a game.
From the moment he'd met you, that day in the library, he'd thought he understood you. At least to an extent. He knew what it felt like to have people want to form superficial relationships, and what it felt like to just want to be left alone. Hell, that's how he'd managed to gain the trust of your cat in the first place, by hiding out trying to get a moment of peace and quiet.
He didn't realize that while he'd been so caught up in his own mind rambles his fingers had slowly found their way down to the black silk ribbon tied in a neat bow. And yet the cat didn't so much as flinch as he stroked the soft fabric wistfully.
That was another thing that weighed on Theo's mind. The way you had so confidently stated that the game was impossible to win. That no one would be able to touch a hair on your beloved companion's head, and yet here he was. He couldn't deny that you were brilliant, you probably could have easily cursed the ribbon or something, but that didn't really seem like your style. So what was it that seemed off?
"What do you think mio amore? Would they be upset if I took it? What do you know? Tell me all your secrets eh?" Theo asks the cat who just blinks lazily back up at him.
Who knew if you would even want him to take the ribbon? The two of you had spent so much time together these past weeks, Theo knew there was something there. But what if there wasn't? And he just threw your friendship, and worse- your trust, out the window.
A soft meow breaks Theo from his thoughts once more as he looks down at the small cat before him who was clearly trying to tell him something as it sat in front of him now, paw batting in the air at him. With Theo's attention now focused on it, the furry creature began intently rubbing its neck against Theo's hand, almost coaxing him towards the ribbon.
Theo couldn't believe what he was seeing. It was as if the cat could read his mind. He considers it for a moment, then, before he can talk himself out of it, he gives the end of the ribbon a soft pull. It comes undone with one swift motion and Theo just stares at it for a moment before glancing back at the cat. What had he just done? He could put it back surely? And no one would have to know about his brief moment of weakness.
Before he can however, the cat begins to shift before his eyes until suddenly you're sitting there next to him, pretty as ever under the soft moonlight that was streaming into the astronomy tower.
He had to be hallucinating. Surely. Or dreaming maybe. But your voice sounds real as ever as it rings out into the night.
“Took you long enough. I was beginning to think you'd never take the blasted ribbon. You know you talk out loud when you get lost in your thoughts?" you say, a sheepish grin forming on your face as you watch Theo go through a range of emotions spanning from disbelief and confusion to the horrific realization that you’d apparently heard his entire inner monologue from the past hour.
“You’ve been a cat this entire time?” He finally sputters out, the pieces visibly clicking together in his head.
Theo suddenly feels the need to replay every interaction he’d ever had with what he’d thought was your feline companion.
You shrug.
“I told you the game was impossible. No one was going to catch me unless I wanted to be caught.” You pause for a moment as Theo continues to process for what feels like an eternity. “Are you mad?”
It takes a moment before Theo shakes his head and a wave of relief washes over you as a smug grin forms on Theo’s face and he leans in, nose almost brushing up against yours.
“Are you saying you like me too then, amore?” He asks, his breath warm against your reddening cheeks.
“I’m saying that your companionship at Hogsmeade this weekend wouldn’t be completely excruciating,” you reply, matching his widening grin.
“Provides not completely excruciating companionship. Nice. I’ll add it to my resume,” he teases gently before his lips connect with yours.
0:00 PROLOGUE | rockstar!jeon jungkook x fem!reader
❪ synopsis ❫ there are three universal rules in a woman’s life; rule #1: don’t marry a stranger in las vegas. rule #2: definitely don’t marry a famous rockstar. rule #3: if you somehow break both rules, try not to fall in love with him.
too bad you failed all three. now you’re stuck with a skull-shaped wedding ring, your name in every frontline and way too much time with the infuriatingly handsome singer of a rock band you accidentally married.
❪ chapter warnings ❫ 18+ THEMES! such as; mention of alcohol consumption ( i mean… it’s a drunken vegas marriage trope ) ,, use of vulgar language ,, mention of vomiting ,, loooots of banter and sexual tension ,, tiny bit of angst ,, jungkook being jungkook
❪ series warnings ❫ strangers to lovers ,, mature themes, such as: SMUT ( more detailed in each chapter ) ,, alcohol consumption ,, mention of drugs ,, angst ,, sexual tension ,, language ,, media scrutiny and online hate :( ,, & more to be added ,, – there will be tons of comedy tho, i promise!
❪ authors note ❫ long time no see :) new jk series eheh !! i got this idea after watching the hangover a few nights ago, hopefully you’ll enjoy ;) let me know if you want to be tagged in the next chapters !
! click on read more !
The first thing you notice is the light.
It’s cruel in a way only Las Vegas sunlight can manage, slicing through the curtains of a hotel room that definitely costs more per night than your entire month of sanity. You groan before you even fully wake up, turning your face into the pillow in protest, only to realize two things at once: your head is pounding like a drumline, and the pillow you’re holding smells faintly like expensive cologne… a man’s cologne.
Your brain takes a moment to catch up with that information.
A man’s cologne?
You emit a slight groan at the thought, very slowly opening one eye, as if that might somehow make the situation less alarming. However, as you bring one hand to move your hair away from your sweaty forehead, a small, pointy object bumps against your half-open eye.
You freeze before a sound comes out from your lips, your eyes opening more as you take the sight in front of you — and that’s when you see it.
The fourth finger of your left hand is decorated with the strangest ring you’ve ever seen; dark metal, heavy and – as if the universe is trying to mock you – a small skull carved into the front.
You wouldn’t trust whoever decided to buy this ring, let alone wear it proudly. And yet, it’s on your finger.
A laugh almost escapes you, as you stare at the odd ring, but suddenly your stomach drops in a slow, horrifying realization that feels like it takes years rather than seconds to fully land.
“Oh, shit…” you whisper, your voice unsurprisingly weak.
And that’s when faint, blurry memories hit you stronger than an ocean wave…
Las Vegas.
Too much alcohol. A chapel.
Loud music. Even louder laughter. A man’s hand in yours. Alcohol everywhere. A ring sliding onto your finger while you laughed like none of this had consequences.
And now…
Now you’re lying in a hotel bed, wearing a skull-shaped wedding ring, in a room that never in your wildest dreams you thought you could sleep in.
“No,” you say, more firmly this time, staring at the infamous ring. “No, no, no—”
“Actually…” a voice drawls from somewhere to your left, rough with sleep and entirely too entertained for this early in the morning. “You already said yes. Last night, more than once actually.”
You freeze, breath hitching. Very slowly, you turn your head.
The man lying beside you doesn’t look remotely concerned about the fact that your life has just imploded. If anything, he looks comfortable. Annoyingly comfortable.
One tattooed arm tucked behind his head while his short, dark hair stick up in every direction. The sunlight catches the metal rings in his ears and the small eyebrow piercing above one eye, and for one horrifying second, your brain decides now is the perfect time to acknowledge that he’s attractive.
Extremely, criminally attractive.
Then, as your eyes roam down to his sheet-covered torso, your brain catches up with the rest of the situation.
“Who the fuck are you?”
You didn’t intend to sound so harsh, but how could you not when your life has taken such a sudden turn?
The man’s eyebrows shoot up, giving you a confused look as if your question actually seems to offend him.
“Ouch.”
You exhale, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. “I’m serious!”
He mimics your movements, exhaling loudly as his hand emerges from beneath the sheets, and before you can stop him, he holds it up between you.
A matching ring glints on his finger.
Looking exactly like the one you’re wearing…
Your mouth opens in disbelief, your mind scrambling for something – anything – to say. But all you can do is stare at the ring on his finger, then back at his smug expression, which is doing nothing to help you process everything.
“You're joking,” you finally manage, sitting up slightly, the sheets slipping down just enough to reveal the top of my chest. “This isn’t real. This is some kind of dream. Some weird, messed-up dream where I married a guy I don’t even know.”
He blinks slowly, like you’ve just told him the sky is green. Then he leans back, folding his arms behind his head again, looking far too pleased with himself.
“I have better things to do than prank some woman I met last night,” he says, voice still low and sleepy, but there’s a hint of amusement in it. “As a matter of fact, I have no time to.”
He sits up then, mirroring your position, and suddenly you're hyper aware of how close you both are in this king-sized bed. His proximity allows you to take some of his details that feel like a distant, blurry memory — the strong line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips (the bottom one adorned with a small piercing), the perfect bridge of his nose.
You meet his eyes before he could notice your wandering gaze, finding him already staring back at you.
The silence that follows is almost unbearable, stretching on for several long seconds as your brain desperately tries to process everything he's said so far.
Unfortunately, the more you think about it, the worse it gets. Because if he's telling the truth, then somewhere between yesterday and this morning, you somehow ended up married to a man whose last name you don't even know.
A man currently lounging in bed like this entire situation is mildly entertaining instead of a catastrophic life event.
“Wait.” You break the silence, your eyes narrowing suspiciously. One dark eyebrow lifts immediately at the tone of your voice. “You met me last night.”
His expression doesn't change. “That tends to happen before marriage, yeah.”
“No, that's not what I mean.” You point at him accusingingly, nearly tangling yourself in the sheets in the process. “You said you met me last night. So… we were strangers.”
“Correct.” The answer comes so easily that for a second, you think you’ve misheard him.
You stare at him, waiting for any sign of a prank on his expression.
However, it never comes.
Instead, he just looks back at you with the same infuriatingly relaxed expression he’s been wearing ever since you woke up, as if waking up married to a complete stranger is a perfectly normal activity for him.
Then, a grin appears on his face. The kind of grin that immediately makes your stomach sink because it can only mean one thing: he’s about to say something that will ruin your morning even more than it already has.
The amusement dancing in his eyes doesn’t help, nor does the fact that he looks entirely too pleased with himself while you’re sitting here trying to piece together the aftermath of what is shaping up to be the worst decision of your life.
For a brief moment, you consider throwing another pillow at him.
Then, he opens his mouth.
“You proposed.”
A gasp cracks through the room at a volume that makes your already-pounding headache throb harder, but you barely notice.
“I- WHAT?!”
Your brain hears the words, taking long before processing them. Then immediately rejects them as false information because there is absolutely no version of reality in which you would propose to a complete stranger in Las Vegas. You don't care how much alcohol was involved, you don’t even care if someone spiked your drink with liquid insanity. It’s simply impossible!
“First of all,” you say, pointing at him so aggressively your finger actually shakes, “that’s fucking insane.”
The grin only grows.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yes,” you reply immediately, sitting up straighter despite the way your headache punishes you for the movement. “Second, I would never propose to a man. Never! And a stranger, too!”
“You did it twice, actually,” he replies, leaning forward with a devilish smirk. “Once at the bar, and once in front of the chapel.”
Your mouth opens to let a strangled noise that sounds suspiciously like a squeak, eyes widening in disbelief.
“You're lying,” you finally get out, shaking your head violently. “You're lying, you're lying, you're lying—”
But the way he's watching you, the way his lips twitch like he's trying not to laugh — it's all adding up to one terrifying conclusion.
“Shit, you're not lying,” you whisper, horror creeping into your voice. “You're not lying. Oh god, I proposed to you…”
He nods slowly, like he's confirming something obvious. “Yeah. You did.”
You feel like you're going to be sick. Or pass out. Or both. Maybe you're already dreaming and any second now you'll wake up in your own bed, safe and unmarried.
But the hard planes of his chest, the warmth radiating off his body, the way the sunlight glints off those stupid skull rings — they're all painfully, undeniably real.
This can't be happening, you mutter, running a trembling hand through your hair. It comes back tangled and smelling vaguely of cigarette smoke and expensive champagne. Wonderful.
“Okay, okay, okay”, you get up from the bed, and thank goodness you’re still fully dressed in your party dress. “Let's just... let's just think about this logically.”
“Hey, hey, where are you going?” He asks, sounding amused and slightly exasperated as he watches you scramble out of bed.
You whirl around to face him, hands on your hips. “I'm thinking, okay?! Trying to figure out how the hell this happened and what we're supposed to do now.”
He leans back against the headboard, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement causes the sheets to cascade on his upper body, exposing more of his tanned torso and the waistband of his Calvin Klein’s boxers.
“Well, sit down and think faster,” he says, gesturing to the empty space beside him. “Because trust me, you don't want my management team or the press getting involved in our little adventure.”
Your eyes widen at his words, and you stop your frantic movements as you process his words.
“Who the fuck are you?”
You ask that for the second time in a span of five minutes, but this time you feel your panic flooding your body almost entirely.
“Mhm, just the singer of one of the most famous bands in the world. Like I told you last night,” he says with a smirk, his tone sarcastic as he clearly enjoys your flustered state.
“And now apparently also your husband.” His grin widens, showing off perfect white teeth. “Quite the upgrade from whatever you were doing before, huh?”
Suddenly, everything starts to make sense; the comfortable mattress only rich people could afford, the master’s bedroom of a luxurious hotel that you didn’t even know could be so grand, the questionable-looking ring who was more worth than your small apartment…
You swallow your thoughts in one big gulp, trying to remember anything from the previous night that could explain your current state.
Your eyes fixate on the man on the bed, his expression cocky as he stares at your disheveled figure, sulking at your last remaining ounce of composure.
And suddenly, as you dig deeper into your scrambled thoughts, one memory pops up at his sight.
“…Jungkook?”
“There you go, Y/N,” he says, your name rolling on his tongue like sin, while he nods approvingly as recognition flashes across your face. “Took you long enough. I was starting to think I'd have to introduce myself again to my own wife.”
You feel a wave of heat wash over you at his words, your cheeks flushing brightly. The reality of the situation is hitting you harder than ever now. You're really married to him. To the world-famous Jungkook from the infamous rock band that’s on everybody’s mouth. It's surreal, like something out of a trashy romance novel.
“How... How did this happen?” You ask, your voice sounding thin and strained to your own ears. “What the hell were we thinking?”
He shrugs at your question, eyes fixated on your confused expression; somehow, he enjoys the little pout on your face along your wide eyes.
“Well, it would have been rude to refuse a proposal.” He simply states as it’s obvious. “Actually, two proposals.”
Your eyes widen even more, fighting the urge to throw a pillow (or a knife) at him — you never thought you had this much self control before meeting (and marrying) Jeon Jungkook.
“Besides, I could never resist a pretty face begging me to marry her. Twice.” The smirk playing on his lips is infuriatingly sexy, even as your brain short-circuits trying to process his words.
“Okay, I get it!” You roll your eyes, pretending not to care about the warmth pervading your cheeks and neck. “Can we now focus on fixing this mess? Thank you!”
“How?” He raises his pierced eyebrow, clearly amused by your suggestion. “You wanna divorce? Already?” There's a teasing lilt to his voice as he sits up straighter, the sheets pooling around his waist.
You groan in response at his tone. “What other options do we have?”
Jungkook opened his mouth immediately, clearly ready with another smart remark.
“Well,” he said, dragging the word out as he leaned back against the headboard, looking far too comfortable, “we could stay married.”
You stared at him in disbelief, making the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement.
“Is this a joke to you? Do you realise what is actually happening? Because I do, and I shouldn’t be here fixing this mess! Fuck, my friends are probably looking for me everywhere…”
You closed your eyes at the throbbing pain in your head, exhaling loudly.
“Oh, come on.” He laughed when your expression turned murderous as soon as he spoke. “I’m just saying. It would save us paperwork.”
“Paperwork? Are you for real?”
“Mhm.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Very serious concern. Bureaucracy is terrifying.”
You narrow your eyes at his nonchalant attitude, frustration boiling inside you. You can feel your patience wearing thinner by the second.
“But what about me?" You snap, your voice rising an octave. "Have you considered how this affects my life?”
You start pacing the room, gesticulating wildly as you continue. “I have a career, you know. Friends and family who will lose their minds when they find out about this. And you...” You jab a finger in his direction. “You're some international superstar who probably does crazy shit like this all the time!”
You pause, realizing how loud you've gotten. Taking a deep breath, you try to compose yourself, but the tremor in your voice betrays your anxiety.
He blinks at your outburst, taken aback by the raw emotion in your voice. For a moment, his cocky facade cracks, revealing a flicker of genuine concern in his eyes.
Shit. He hadn't really considered the full weight of the situation on you. In his arrogance, he'd assumed this would be just another wild story to tell, not a life-altering predicament for an innocent bystander caught in his whirlwind.
“Y/N…” He starts, then stops, seemingly at a loss for words. Which is saying something, considering the man is known for his silver tongue. He sits up straighter, the sheets falling away completely as he swings his legs over the side of the bed to face you directly.
He runs a hand through his hair, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. “Look, I know I come across as... well...” He stops himself, before sighing loudly. “But I promise you, even I have limits. Marrying random fans isn't usually on my agenda.” Despite the lightness of his words, there's a flicker of genuine remorse in his eyes.
“But you're right. We need to figure this out, and fast. Before it blows up in both our faces.” He sighs heavily, the weight of the situation seeming to settle on his shoulders.
You blink in surprise at his sudden show of concern, not expecting such a sincere response from the cocky Jungkook. As the initial shock fades, a playful smirk tugs at your lips.
“I'm not your fan,” you quip, unable to resist the opportunity to tease him back.
His eyebrows shoot up at your declaration, a flash of intrigue sparking in his eyes. “Could've fooled me, the way you kept proposing last night.”
You feel your cheeks flush at his words, a mix of embarrassment and indignation coloring your features.
“Helloooo? I was drunk off my ass, in case you forgot.”You retort, crossing your arms defensively. “That hardly counts as being your fan.”
Despite your best efforts to maintain a stern facade, you can't quite suppress the small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. His playful banter is surprisingly effective at diffusing your tension, even as your mind reels from the absurdity of the situation.
Only now do you register that Jungkook is standing mere feet away from you, dressed in nothing but a pair of tight Calvin Klein black boxers that leave little to the imagination. Your eyes can't help but wander over his lean, muscular frame, taking in the intricate tattoos adorning his arm and part of his chest and the way his abs contract with each subtle movement.
He catches you staring and smirks, clearly enjoying the effect he's having on you. “See something you like, Mrs. Jeon?” he teases, striking a playful pose. The nickname rolls off his tongue smoothly, sending an unexpected shiver down your spine.
Realizing the inappropriateness of ogling your new husband while discussing annulling your marriage, you quickly avert your gaze, a fierce blush staining your cheeks. “Don't call me that,”
His grin widens, making you groan and turn away from him.
You press your palms against your eyes for a brief moment; maybe if you count to ten, this entire situation will disappear. Maybe you’ll wake up in your own bed and discover none of this happened. Maybe—
Your train of thought comes to an abrupt halt.
Slowly, your eyes open. Then slowly, very slowly, they drift back toward Jungkook.
“Why are you in your underwear?”
He smirks, somehow your question amusing you. “What, you didn't enjoy our wild wedding night enough to appreciate the view?” he teases.
You gape at him, your face turning an even brighter shade of red. "Excuse me?! Nothing happened last night beyond the unfortunate event of us getting married! I don't remember seeing anything beyond my own puke, let alone your...”
You gesture vaguely at his half-naked form, unable to bring yourself to finish the sentence.
He laughs, the sound rich and warm despite the ridiculousness of the situation.
“Relax, I'm just messing with you,” he says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Nothing happened, I swear. You were busy projectile vomiting in the bathroom after we reached my room… poor thing.”
He glances at you, tilting slightly as he studies you. “You were more fun, last night. It’s true when they say people show their true colours when they’re married…” he jokes, trying to ease the tension despite his own slight sense of panic.
You glare at him, your embarrassment morphing into irritation. “Oh, haha, very funny,” you mutter sarcastically. “I'm glad my misery amuses you so much.”
Shaking your head, you start to pace the room again, your mind racing. “We need to figure this out, Jungkook. Like, immediately. Before someone leaks this to the press and my life become a circus.”
You pause mid-step, a horrifying thought occurring to you. “Wait... you don't think anyone saw us getting married, do you? Because if pictures of this end up online...” You shudder at the idea, feeling lightheaded.
“Naaaaah,” he reassures you with a casual wave of his hand. “Only two of my members were there, Yoongi and Jimin. Trust me, the chances of them taking pics are slim to none.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yoongi barely knows how to work his phone, let alone a proper camera. And Jimin? Nah, he wouldn't risk pissing me off by sneaking photos.”
A mischievous glint enters his eye as he continues, “The only one who might have gotten some decent shots is Namjoon, but unfortunately for us, he wasn't part of our little adventure. Otherwise, he definitely would've put a stop to things before they got this far.”
You groan at his words. “And he just had to be missing last night, huh?” You ask him, shaking your head in disappointment.
However, you soon feel a wave of relief wash over you at what he said, your tense shoulders sagging slightly. At least there's something good in this mess.
“The chapel could still have cameras,” you mutter, running a hand through your tousled hair. “And even if it doesn’t, we can't exactly keep this a secret forever. Someone's bound to notice eventually.”
An idea strikes you, and you turn to face Jungkook fully, a determined set to your jaw. “Okay, here's what we're going to do. First, we need to contact your PR team – or whatever you call it – and tell me them it was just a drunken mistake. Or a prank, I don’t know.”
You hold up a hand, forestalling any potential objections. “And second, we need to get this annulled as soon as possible. I’m sure you can do it here in Vegas in no time, right?”
Jungkook considers your words carefully, his brow furrowed in concentration. After a moment, he snorts loudly.
Actually snorts.
You immediately narrow your eyes at his antics, sighing loudly. “Sorry, it’s just...” He presses his lips together, clearly trying – and failing – not to laugh. “You sound like you're organizing a business meeting.”
“Because somebody has to be responsible.”
“Responsible?” His pierced eyebrow shoots up. “You proposed to a stranger in Las Vegas.”
“I was drunk!”
“Twice.” He repeats, enhancing the sound of each letter.
“Stop bringing up the twice thing, how many times are you gonna do it?!”
You groan loudly, dragging both hands down your face. Every time he mentions it, a new layer of humiliation unlocks inside your soul.
Jungkook watches your suffering for a second before his grin softens slightly.
“Okay,” he says. "Fine. PR team first. Then the annulment, but—”
You stop him before he can continue. “No buts, Jungkook.”
“That’s not how conversation works!” he complains, mirroring the same pout you had just minutes before.
“Do I look like I care?” You ask, fighting the urge to groan.
A laugh escapes him despite himself, and finally, finally, he starts roaming around the room, searching for a piece of clothing.
“But,” he continues, ignoring your protests, “What if it’s not that simple?”
You drop your hands and stare at him, already pissed at whatever his next words are.
“What do you mean, not that simple?”
“I mean exactly that.” He shrugs. “It’s my first time being married, in case you forgot. I don’t know the cancellation policy.”
“Cancellation policy?” you repeat in disbelief. “Jungkook, it’s a marriage, not a Netflix subscription.”
“Well,” he says, finally finding a black tee clean enough to wear, “feels like there should be one.”
You hate that a tiny part of you almost laughs.
Almost.
“It doesn’t matter,” you simply respond, “because your team will take care of everything.”
He pulls the shirt over his head, the fabric stretching across his chest. As he emerges from under the hem, he fixes you with an intense stare.
“You seem awfully eager to make this go away,” he comments, his tone unreadable. "I mean, it’s not everyday that you get to marry a rockstar, you know?”
You almost cringe at his use of words, but he laughs it off, showing once again that he’s simply joking.
However, he immediately pauses, seeming to choose his next words carefully. “Are you certain this is what you want? To just erase it like it never happened?”
There's a vulnerability in his eyes that catches you off guard, a glimpse beneath the confident exterior. “Y/N,” he calls your name softly, walking closer to where you’re standing. “Do you… are you sure you don’t remember anything from last night? Absolutely nothing?”
You blink rapidly, taken aback by the sudden shift in his demeanor. The intensity of his gaze makes your heart skip a beat, and you find yourself momentarily at a loss for words.
“I... What?” you stammer, your brows furrowing in confusion. “What difference does it make whether I remember or not? It was a mistake, Jungkook. A huge, drunken error in judgment, I don’t know you and you don’t know me.”
Despite your words, uncertainty creeps into your voice. The sincerity in his eyes gives you pause, stirring up feelings you'd rather not examine too closely.
“Are you sure about that?”
His question takes you aback, not only his words but the way he drags them weakly yet decisively, whispering yet loud enough for you to hear clearly. It’s like he’s not trying to convince you of something, but reminding you of something you've forgotten.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
You ask, and he steps closer in response. The space between you shrinks so naturally that you don’t realize what’s happening until he’s standing close enough that you can make out every detail of his face — the small scar on his cheek, the dark eyes fixed entirely on yours and the faint scent of his cologne lingering on his skin.
“You can't get to know a person in one night,” you argue, lifting your chin despite the fact that your voice comes out weaker than intended.
His gaze doesn’t leave yours.
“Can’t you?”
Before you can say another one of your remarks, a loud ringtone suddenly cuts through the silence.
The sound makes you both flinch, as if you’ve gotten caught doing God knows what.
Jungkook’s eyes close briefly as he exhales through his nose, before his body moves towards his phone as it continues vibrating insistently on the nightstand.
You don’t get to glance at the screen but you’re certain the name flashing across it clearly means something because Jungkook’s expression changes immediately.
“Shit, okay,” Jungkook mumbles, grabbing the phone with a tight grip. “It’s my manager.” He informs you.
You watch as he glances at the screen, his expression hardening almost instantly. The playful attitude that had been driving you insane all morning vanishes so quickly it's almost theatrical.
One second he's the cocky stranger teasing you about drunken proposals, the next he looks like someone ready to take care of something much bigger than himself.
He answers before the phone can ring again.
“Yeah?”
The response is immediate, sharp as a knife. The person on the other end launches into what sounds like a full-blown panic attack. Even from across the room, you can hear the faint sound of a voice talking so fast it barely seems to pause for oxygen. Jungkook closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“No– no, relax.”
A pause follows, making you tremble in agitation.
“No, nobody knows expect who already told you.” Maybe one of his band members?
His gaze flicks toward you, before another endless stream of words come out of other person’s mouth, echoing in the room.
“No,” he repeats, more firmly this time. “The media isn’t going to find out.”
His tone doesn’t give you the comfort you need, making your gaze fall to the ground. However, you end up lowering your eyes to the ring on your finger, immediately regretting it.
The sight of it sends your thoughts spiraling all over again. It was supposed to be a trip to Vegas with your girl friends, to celebrate the impeding wedding of one of them. Never in your wildest dreams you thought you could be the one getting married. To a rockstar. (How can you forget?)
Suddenly the hotel room feels far too small, the air too heavy, your headache returning with renewed determination.
Across the room, Jungkook is still listening to whatever his manager is saying, but his attention keeps drifting back to you. Eventually he lowers the phone from his ear and sighs.
“Y/N.” You glance up at the sound of your name. “I’ll take care of everything, I promise.”
You nod uncertainly, and he continues. “The media won’t find out,” he says firmly. “You’re not going to end up on some news site. You’re not in trouble, okay?”
The words should make you feel better… part of you thinks they do. However, another part is too overwhelmed to even know what feeling ‘better’ is supposed to look like right now.
All you know is that you’ve spent the last hour trapped inside a room with a stranger who isn’t really a stranger anymore, discussing a marriage that shouldn’t exist, and if you stay here much longer your brain might actually fry.
So while Jungkook goes back to his conversation, you quietly reach for your bag that you eyed previously – thankfully it was thrown away in the armchair next to the bed.
His eyes lift from the floor and find you as you’re sliding the strap onto your shoulder. For a second neither of you says anything while the person on the phone is still talking.
Not murmuring a word, you point toward the door in a silent question. His gaze lingers on you for a moment before understanding settles across his features.
Then, slowly, he nods.
Not because he wants you to leave, but because he understands that right now, after everything that’s happened, you probably need space more than anything else.
You return the nod, push open the door, and step out into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind you a second later, leaving only silence in its wake, and for the first time since waking up this morning, you’re finally alone with your thoughts.
Jungkook’s voice still echoes faintly in your head. Not the teasing version of him, not the infuriating smirk or his continuous jokes or the casual arrogance that made you want to throw things at him.
The other version. The one that looked at you like this wasn’t just some ridiculous accident he could laugh off, but something he was already planning how to fix.
You push off the wall and start walking, slower now, your thoughts finally beginning to settle into something less frantic.
Maybe Jungkook is right. Maybe this really does get handled quietly. He’s a celebrity, after all… this is exactly what people like him do when something spirals out of control: clean it up before it ever reaches the outside world.
It almost makes sense, if you don’t think too hard about it. And you’re tired enough not to think too hard about anything right now.
By the time you reach the end of the hallway, your grip on the panic has loosened just enough for you to breathe normally again.
The media won’t find out.
That’s the only thought flowing in your mind — the only words you want to believe from Jungkook’s lips. Because right now, you need them to be true.
And for a brief, fragile moment in the quiet hallway outside a Las Vegas hotel room, you actually believe they might be.
That’s because you don’t see it yet — the way things are already moving beyond that room, beyond his control, beyond yours.
JAY knew exactly what he was— big, overwhelming, too much. And you, made of glass, too perfect to damage, too soft to push past its limit without leaving cracks behind. But some things aren't meant to stay perfect, aren't they? — In which Jay is far too huge for someone as delicate and small as you
content tags and warnings: jay x reader, jay is taller than reader and can be carried by him. explicit content (smut): SIZE KINK AGENDA HUHU, unprotected sex, standing sex erm but later on it's not, dubconish content, squirting, overstimulation, hung! jay. MDNI. WC: 2K
note: do not repost, share, or bring my stories to other platforms such as x or tiktok. please keep my stories within this space.
At first, Jay found himself deeply conflicted about taking things further with you.
Look at you—you were his baby girl.
He cared about you in a way that made him unusually cautious, almost overly aware of everything he did around you. There was a constant awareness in him whenever you were near, a sense that you weren’t someone he could treat carelessly or push too far without thinking about the consequences.
He was aware of the physical difference between you two, and more importantly, of how fragile you seemed in his presence when he stood too close or moved too quickly. You were small, delicate in a way that made him naturally slow down, it was like his presence alone carried too much weight for you to handle.
He knew exactly what he was.
Big, overwhelming, too much.
Oh, poor you, couldn’t even take his fingers without falling apart on him, your tight cunt clenching and resisting, your voice breaking into helpless cries, begging him to pull it out for just a second.
It really did feel like you were made of glass, something too perfect to damage, too soft to push past its limits without leaving cracks behind. Jay thought about holding back, about keeping things exactly where they were, untouched, safe.
But some things aren’t meant to stay perfect.
Some things are meant to be used, stretched, tested until they give.
“S-Slow down… p-please…” you whimper, your hands press flat against the wall, fingers splayed.
Oh, a perfect glass to ruin. Your back arches so perfectly in front of him, the curve of your body practically inviting him closer, the way your ass presses back without you even realizing it.
It took time to get you here.
A long fucking time.
“Love you,” he whispers against your ear, his lips brush over the sensitive curve of it, lingering there for a second before pressing a slow kiss just beneath. One of his hands settles around your waist, while the other guides himself down, his grip tight as he drags the thick length of his cock forward, letting the wide tip press and slide slowly against your slick labia.
A soft, breathy moan slips out of you before you can stop it, you glance back over your shoulder, your eyes meeting his for a brief second before you lean in just enough to catch his lips in a kiss that’s clumsy but needy.
Your neck strains with the angle, your smaller frame struggling to keep up with his height, but you don’t pull away.
His hips start to move in slow motions, dragging himself along your folds, teasing your clit with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. The friction sends heat rushing through your body, building steadily, making your thighs tense as you try to hold yourself together.
You shift closer without thinking, your back pressing fully against his chest now, and the difference between you becomes even more obvious as both of his arms wrap around you, caging you in, holding you exactly where he wants you.
Your mind feels scattered, spinning in uneven circles, thoughts tripping over each other as anticipation and nerves twist together in your stomach.
You can take it.
You have to.
“Ya ready?”
“Hm…” you nod faintly as you break the kiss, your head dropping against his chest.
The position is awkward for him, his knees bending slightly to line himself up with you, his grip tightening just a bit around your waist as the thick tip of his cock presses against your entrance, nudging, testing, before slowly starting to push inside.
Fuck!
Both of you react at the same time, your mouths parting as an overwhelming sensation pulls a broken whimper from your throat, your body tensing around him as if trying to resist what it doesn’t know how to take.
“Shhh,” he murmurs quickly, his lips move over your ear again, then down to your neck, pressing slow comforting kisses there.
“Hurts…” you whine softly, your fingers tightening against his arms where they’re wrapped around you.
“I know, baby… just—just a little bit more, hmm?” Jay’s voice comes out strained and clearly slipping his control as he tries to keep his pace slow, his forehead and neck tense with effort while he eases forward in small, careful increments, stopping each time he feels you tighten around him.
But the restraint he’s holding onto is wearing thin, his focus breaking in waves as your warmth and closeness start to undo him piece by piece.
You nod weakly against him, lips parting as you try to steady yourself, “M’kay…” the words slurring a little, not quite clear but obedient in a ways that is trying to be good for him even as your body struggles to adjust.
Your hand stays on his arm bracing yourself as he adjusts your position, his feet nudging yours, guiding your legs wider so he can ease in further.
His mouth is trailing messy, lingering kisses along your shoulder and up your neck, so gentle at first then nibbling the skin, until it turn rougher, biting your neck that made your whole body shiver every time he would push his hips deeper.
Why won’t you let him in?
Each attempt is the same unsteady pattern, a careful push forward followed by a pause, then a slight retreat before he tries again, repeating it over and over as he tries to guide you through the sensation without overwhelming you, though the restraint in him is visibly thinning with every breath he takes.
“J-Jay… slow down… please…”
Your fingers tap weakly against his arm, trying to get his attention, but his focus is fractured. He hears you, but it doesn’t fully register the way it should, because half of his attention is gone, consumed by the overwhelming warm of your pussy, by the way everything feels too much and not enough at the same time.
He exhales sharply through his nose, a low grunt catching in his throat as he tries not to lose control completely, his movements stuttering for a brief second before he steadies again, though it’s clear he’s struggling now.
Let him in. Let him in. Let him in!
“Jay, love... please… wait…” you whimper again, almost embarrassed.
You can take this even if it feels like too much too fast. It isn’t that you can’t—it’s that he isn’t slowing the way you need him to, that everything is happening in rushed, uneven waves that leave you barely catching up before the next one hits. It was overwhelming!
“Jay!” A small, panicked squeal as you try again to pull him back into focus, your body tensing as you realize he’s not fully listening anymore.
Something is coming. Your stomach is tightening in a ways you don't fully understand. Something is fucking coming!
But Jay is gone in it now, lost in the moment, the next moment when he finally moves again, it’s with a sudden, decisive push that leaves no space for hesitation, pushing his cock all the way inside you. Drawing a sharp, breathless reaction from you as your body reacts all at once, your head tipping back, neck straining, vision flashing white at the edges as the intensity overtakes you and the world narrows down to nothing but him holding you in place while your hands scramble against the wall just to keep yourself steady.
“Ahh, fuck, finally.” Jay groans, his breath spills hot against your neck, while your own response breaks apart into soft, helpless whimpers.
Your legs tremble beneath him, muscles refusing to steady, and he feels every tight, fluttering clench that grips him like your body doesn’t know whether to pull him deeper or force him out. His jaw tightens, eyes flicking with a brief, impatient roll at the sensation, because it borders on too much, too tight, too warm, and yet he doesn’t move away, doesn’t give in to the pressure trying to push him out; he stays buried, stubbornly pressing forward, addicted to the heat wrapped around him.
Then he notices the way your thighs shake harder, the slick, sudden liquid spill that follows, spurting, as some of it trails down between your legs.
Oh…
You sniffle, lips quivering as embarrassment floods your face just as quickly as the tears do, streaking down your cheeks.
“Baby…” Hazy, almost dazed, Jay leans down to press a kiss against your head.
A flicker of satisfaction underneath it all, he feels what he’s done to you. God, he really did break you, didn’t he? His baby girl, falling apart right where he wants you.
And fuck, it feels good.
He drags himself out slowly, until there’s nothing left connecting you, the sudden emptiness making you gasp, but he doesn’t give you time to recover. He thrusts back in, forcing a sharp yelp from your throat that cracks into another sob as your hands curl uselessly.
Again—he pulls out, then pushes back in with the same steady force, drawing out that same broken sound from you.
“My baby… my love,” Jay murmurs, his head tilting back for a moment as his eyes roll, lost in the way you feel around him. One of his hands slides up, settling around your neck. “My good girl… it’s okay, shhh…” His tone softens just enough to soothe, even as his hips push deeper, contradicting every bit of comfort with the relentless way he keeps going, dragging you right back into it.
All you can do is moan. Your body feels like it’s burning from the inside out, heat spreading through your chest and stomach, pooling low in a way that leaves you breathless and unfocused. Your legs refuse to cooperate, trembling uncontrollably beneath you, barely holding your weight as Jay keeps setting that relentless pace behind you, driving his huge cock into you over and over again, hitting deep, right where it makes your thoughts scatter.
It’s too much, overwhelming in a way that makes your head spin, pleasure stacking until it feels unbearable. Good—too fucking good. It builds and builds, pressing against your nerves until it almost hurts, until it feels like your mind can’t hold onto it anymore. It feels—
“—Feels like I’m g-going to break, Jayyy—” your voice cracks as you cry out, your knees buckling under you, your body finally giving in to the strain.
You don’t hit the ground because Jay catches you instantly.
A sharp squeal leaves you as he lifts you with ease, one arm locking securely around your waist while the other still settling around your neck in a firm hold. The shift in position makes your head fall back slightly, your eyes rolling as your body reacts all over again, the angle changing just enough to make everything hit deeper, sharper, more intense than before.
“You can take it,” Jay groans right into your ear. “Haaa, I love your pussy, baby.”
Your feet dangle uselessly off the ground, swinging slightly with every movement of his body, your toes curling tight as the sensation keeps crashing over you. You are completely held up and kept in place while he keeps going, each thrust forcing another broken sound out of you.
Your back arching helplessly as the sensation overwhelms you again. It feels like you’re slipping somewhere distant, like your body is still here with him but your thoughts are drifting, dissolving into nothing but feeling.
Jay loves you, his baby girl. He fucking loves you.
A deep, guttural groan leaves him as he spills his cum into you, warmth flooding through your already trembling body, but he doesn’t let go, doesn’t ease up, doesn’t give you the mercy of rest. He keeps you held there, suspended in the air and keeps driving his hips, forcing the both of you in overstimulation.
You’re breaking.
That’s the most beautiful part.
If you crack, if you splinter under his hands, if you come apart piece by piece until there’s nothing left of you—he’ll just gather every shattered part and put you back together the way he wants.
And when you’re whole again— he’ll break you all over again.
i have never been summoned so fast by a set of soobin photos
soobin has a minor major… problem. a little urge to cockwarm that shoves aside all of his other thoughts, always there, teasing, tantalizing, demanding attention to the point he’s not sure how else to fix it. except to give in. or try.
soobin, ‘m a little busy, you giggle a little, turning around to your tall, pouting boyfriend, who looks like he’s going to die of desperation any second now, peering at you through long, messy bangs, his tie undone and hanging around his neck, barely home for 2 seconds and he’s already trailing you like a lost puppy. and it’s not just a welcome home kiss he wants… not with the bulge in his pants. but it’s not his fault, not when he comes home after a long day and you’re cleaning your shared apartment, looking so perfectly pretty and domestic, oh fuck, soobin’s weak.
soobin couldn’t hide a boner if his life depended on it as you turn around, leaning the broom against a wall before leaning towards him on your tip toes, one quick kiss and soobin’s hands already find your waist, tugging you into him,, not even trying to hide how he’s already half hard in his pressed slacks, cute, awkward smile when you pull back, a little whine from him ‘cause one kiss isn’t enough! angel, please, his big hands not so subtly slipping under the waistband of your pajama pants, lazily trying to tug them down. ‘m not done cleaning yet, trying to be stern, but soobin’s disarming your weak defenses quickly, your hands pulling his out of your pants, making him whine in complaint.
i missed you so much, he mumbles, you’re killing me, baby. bringing your hand up to his heart shaped lips, sucking on the tip of your finger, lazy, half lidded eyes gazing down, just for a little bit? one hand on your waist, pressing you up against his bulge, god, he’s irresistible and he knows it.. so easy to always have his way, the corner of his lip tilting up. just cockwarming, okay?
mmph— n-needed this s’ much, doll, soobin’s breathy moan muffled by your hair, face buried in the crook of your neck, his breathing uneven and panting, warm, wet folds sinking slowly ‘round his heavy cock, soobin’s so big, leaking tip drooling all over your insides, clenched around him tight. manspread on the couch as you straddle his lap, legs trembling at the stretch, he’s too impatient for foreplay when all he wants is to cockwarm!
and it feels like his personal heaven, slacks not even off and just unzipped, boxers shoved down clumsily enough to free his heavy cock, neat dress shirt crumpled beneath your fingers, tie dropped somewhere on the floor, poor big dick boyfriend couldn’t wait at all, could he? your arousal dripping all over his crotch, feeling him so deep inside of you, filled so full to the brim it makes you lose your senses, dizzy with the sweet, pleasuring sensation only soobin can give, arms wrapped around his neck. and it’s pure intimacy, his need to be buried in your sweet pussy, warm and it feels like love, stress evaporating as he settles, bottomed out and pressing sleepy kisses to your neck, breathing in your scent
—
oh, he’s so fucked. soobin’s not sure how long has passed, except that you’ve fallen asleep, somewhat drowsy from the comfort… and his dick is aching, heavy and leaking. his hands slipping beneath your thighs, breathily moaning as he thrusts in a little, wet, slick squelch of your juices soaking his crotch, pussy sucking him in deeper as he sloppily fucks your hole, so desperate for release, pure need for sweet relief… and its a little embarrassing how fast he cums, hot, milky seed filling you up inside as you whine at the sudden fullness, tummy bulging a little with his cum and cock, barely awake and milking him of every drop as he moans, hands clumsily pushing your hips down, sticky cum seeping out from your cunt all over his boxers… surely you don’t mind..?
girl i need to sleep fml this is so messy sorry lol will write smth better when i have brain cells
synopsis : crushing? heartbroken? just confused? cupid can help!
or alternatively,
there was no way in a million years you would admit your feelings for your best friend. you’re way too busy with running your school’s “cupid column” to worry about confessing, anyway. things, however, do become interesting when a certain anonymous sender with very familiar handwriting asks you for advice about something that you swore has happened between you and riki. unfortunately, cupid’s not one for wishful thinking.
word count : 23.2k (tumblr won't let me post all of it </3)
genre : nishimura riki x fem!reader, fools in love, childhood friends to lovers, unrequited love, slowwww burn, minor tokuno yushi (nct) x fem!reader
warnings : teenagers doing teenage things EXCEPT admitting their feelings for e/o, cursing, crude humor, riki can be a dick at times
featuring : jungwon (enhypen), eunchae (le sserafim), wonyoung (ive), yushi (nct wish), mentions of other idols, additional fictional characters
playlist : fog - the regrettes | stupid cupid - red velvet | out of my league - fitz and the tantrums | ah-choo - lovelyz | lucky girl - red velvet
i. DEAR CUPID
“Dear Cupid”: the words you typically loved to hear, yet at times dreaded the most, especially leading up to February.
Gone were the days when you received your typical “Hey, Cupid!” messages, which almost always contained questions about situation-ships, how to confess, or one-sided love. You were okay with answering those types of questions; they’re the whole reason you opened Cupid Column after all.
But whenever it neared February, when the only letters you received were about Valentine’s Day, you started questioning why you even opened the column in the first place. Sure, it was great to be a safe space for all sorts of students, but unfortunately for you, you couldn’t always give solid answers to people’s questions. The reason? You were stupidly in love with your best friend, Nishimura Riki.
Neighbors since birth, forced friendship due to your parents being best friends, classmates since as long as you both could remember, and even down to the awkward age of middle school when you two pretended to hate each other because you were sweaty and were convinced the opposite gender had some disease, for whatever reason. It was all like some sort of big cliché for you; of course, you had the biggest, fattest, most embarrassing crush on your best friend. Of course, he’s known you since childhood and can read you like the back of his own hand, yet is absolutely oblivious to your feelings about him. And, of course, he has no idea you run the Cupid Column. You intended to keep it that way.
Which is why you were here, alone in the school library, hidden in the back corner, answering your Cupid Column letters one by one.
The first one was simple:
“Dear Cupid,
There’s this girl in my class who I have had a crush on for the longest time. I want to ask her to be my Valentine, but we haven’t really talked since December. Any advice?
— anonymous sender 143”
Yep. Sender 143. Your 143rd letter so far, and the column had only been opened since August.
Only three of your replies would end up in the school’s weekly newspaper; the rest would wind up on your blog: 1-800-CALLCUPID.
You began typing an answer:
“Dear Anonymous Sender 143,
Thank you for your letter!”
You stopped. What would you even say? What type of person asks someone to be their Valentine if they haven’t talked in months? Sighing, you returned to your computer. It was none of your business, anyway.
“I would like to start off saying it must be so frustrating admiring someone from afar like that. My advice is to first take a step back from the situation and consider why you two haven’t talked since December. Sometimes, we get so caught up in someone else that we realize, ‘Hey, I’ve been putting in 100% effort and they’ve been putting in 0% effort.’ This is tough to come to terms with, but if that’s your case, maybe try to keep your heart in your chest and find another fish in the sea!
If you instead realize you’ve both been putting in effort and just lost touch, I would try reaching out to her again. It may seem frustrating or annoying, but you’ll thank yourself for reaching out again, whether it ends in closure as to why you don’t talk anymore, or if it ends up in you two reconnecting again.
If it ends up in a reconnect, I say go for it! If she says no, it can be your sign to move on. If she says yes, then good luck from me! Sending you lots of luck for you to end up with the girl.
— Cupid”
Reading back your letter, you yawned and dragged your hand across your face, tired. You still had ten more letters to read through and respond to before you could leave your spot. You started on the next one:
“Dear Cupid,
Valentine’s Day is less than two weeks away and my boyfriend hasn’t asked me to be his Valentine yet. I’m not insecure in our relationship, but I want him to ask me anyways. I think it’s romantic. Any advice on how to give him a push to ask me?
— anonymous sender 144”
You let out a laugh at this one, yet quickly caught yourself from being too loud. You were lucky the library was mostly empty during this period; you were unaccustomed to the quiet. You usually waited until you arrived home to respond to your column letters, not skipping a class period to do so, but Valentine’s week was essentially Hell for you. The average number of letters that were sent to you went from three per day to almost eleven per day. You thought over your words before typing a response:
“Dear Anonymous Sender 144,
I’m glad to hear how secure you are in your relationship with your boyfriend, and thank you for sending me a letter with your concerns.
In all honesty, men can be kind of oblivious at times, making it hard for them to take a hint. If I were you, I think mentioning the idea offhandedly would be a good idea. If you drill it in his head, he will (hopefully) catch on, haha. You could also try making a private story with only him on it and posting about it.
This letter is definitely one of the more funny ones I’ve read of the day, thank you for making me laugh.
— Cupid”
After signing off on the second one, you received a call. “Eunchae,” read the caller ID, making you quickly pick up but speak quietly when you answered, “Hello?”
“Y/N!” she yelled into the phone, making you pull it away from your ear so that you wouldn’t suddenly go deaf by the end of the call. “Where are you? Jungwon, Wonyoung, Riki, and I all went to look for you in the courtyard, but you weren’t there! You’ve been MIA since third period!”
“I’m in the library,” you conveyed, not even having the energy to lie about your whereabouts. “I’ve been here since third period. I’m…”
You trailed off, looking for something to say you were doing. None of your friends knew about you running the Cupid Column, so you couldn’t just outright tell her that, even if she was your best friend. You spotted your math notebook in your backpack, quickly formulating a lie, “I’m— uh, studying! Big math test coming up, you know?” You nervously laughed. Why were you so bad at lying?
“I’d never believe that in a million years,” She deadpanned, “because even if you were studying, it wouldn’t be for math. You’re good at math.”
She knew you too well. Why did you lie about math of all things?
“Anyways, we’re on our way to the library to come get you for lunch. We’re going off school grounds for today.” Eunchae informed, the sound of your other friends picking up in the background of the call. She must’ve put herself on speaker, because Wonyoung soon interjected, “If you aren’t in the library like you say you are, Jungwon is going to call the police and report you missing.”
You laughed, “Okay, I’ll see you guys in a second.”
Eunchae hung up the call, leaving you roughly two minutes to clean up your mess of Cupid Column submissions, homework, and your computer. You shoved your homework and computer into your bag, while you folded the Cupid Column submissions and placed them in a secondary bag that was then placed into your bigger bag.
As if on cue, Riki entered the library looking for you. He was the only one who knew about the hidden corner in the back of the library besides you — he’d actually been the one to show it to you in the first place. You were hidden between two bookshelves, positioned at an angle that the space between was large enough to fit two people. Of course, it came with the fact that you had to sit on the floor to be hidden, but you didn’t mind, as it gave you a place you knew you couldn’t be interrupted in.
“They sent me in to come find you,” Riki commented once he entered your hiding place, finding you zipping up your bag, “but I think that’s just because they knew I was the only one who could find you.” He offered a hand to help you stand up.
You laughed, “I don’t think those three have ever willingly entered a library in their lives.”
He chuckled at your remark, you both exiting the crevice of the library and walking to return to your friends.
Eunchae and Wonyoung greeted you when you left the library with Riki by your side, Jungwon greeting him.
Once you all fell into a rhythm, the bell quickly sounded, signifying that it was now sixth period, and you five had forty-five minutes for your lunch before you had to return to your classes. You checked your phone, and the time read 12:35. Your home screen displayed not only the time but also numerous texts from your classmates about the Cupid Column. As a part of your school’s newspaper committee, many people assumed you knew who ran the Cupid Column. Little did they know, it was you.
The school newspaper published a new issue every Friday, meaning that there were three new Cupid Column submissions in the paper today, and that was why the lot of submissions from Thursday were now suddenly in your lap. You had until before next Friday (namely Wednesday) to respond to all of them – plus more that would be flowing in this coming week – but since you wanted to get a head-start, you didn’t wait until later to begin answering them.
Eunchae, also known as the biggest Cupid Column fangirl, was already freaking out about the anonymity of whoever ran the column and the three submission answers that were released in the newspaper this week.
“Did you guys see the second one?” She was already talking about it before you even left the school to go get lunch, “Cupid is so smart.”
You decided to partake in her excitement, though you typically pretended like you didn’t have much interest in the Cupid Column, feigning that “people shouldn’t be worshipping an anonymous column runner” or asking “who even cares about that stuff?”
“What was the second one about?” You asked, opening the door to exit school. Riki and Wonyoung quickly walked through the door you were holding open, Jungwon and Eunchae following suit.
“There’s this apparent love triangle,” she started, hanging back to walk next to you. Ahead of you two, Riki, Wonyoung, and Jungwon were all laughing loudly. There were other students ahead of you, all seeming to have the same idea to get lunch off school grounds today. “Where this girl, this guy, and this other girl are all involved. The first girl likes both the other girl and the guy, but the guy likes the first girl, and the other girl also likes the first girl.”
You interrupted her, “You’re losing me.” She wasn’t. You knew all about this story already, having answered about it in the column. A likes B and C, and B likes A and C likes A, and A doesn’t know who to choose. It wasn’t an easy problem to deal with, but as Cupid, you did your best to help whoever “A” was with their problem.
“Anyways, that’s not the best part, even.” Eunchae gestured to the air with her hands, trying to grab your attention again. “Cupid’s response was.”
“And what was that?” You asked, picking up the pace to catch up with the three ahead of you.
“They suggested—”
Eunchae was cut off by Riki, “Eunchae, no one cares about that Cupid Column except for you.” Eunchae shoved Riki as a response, glaring at him and becoming sulky.
“Stop being such an ass!” You teased Riki, also giving him a slight push. Riki was right, though. No one in your friend group, except Eunchae, and the occasional Jungwon or Wonyoung, cared about the Cupid Column. You and Riki in particular found it pointless, saying that if someone is having “trouble in paradise”, they should ask their friends for help, not a random stranger. Deep down, you disagreed, and a part of you hoped that Riki didn’t actually mean what he said about the Cupid Column. You had actually opened the column because of him, wanting to be of aid to people who were like you; in love with someone, but couldn’t go to their friends for advice about it.
“I care, Eunchae.” You reassured her, sending another look at Riki, who was still laughing. “Ignore him.”
You all were officially off school grounds when you reached a crosswalk that led to your favorite restaurant to hang out at: Boston’s. It had become a core place for your friend group, usually opting to go there after exams or after Riki’s soccer games that you all went to support at.
Waiting for the walk light, you turned to Wonyoung. She looked at you before starting, “You know, this issue of the Cupid Column was actually kind of interesting.”
Eunchae nodded, and so did Jungwon, making Riki roll his eyes, “What about it?” You questioned.
“Turns out, the person behind the Cupid Column is in a love dilemma of their own.” Wonyoung raised her eyebrows at you, giggling.
Of course. In one of the submissions for last week, someone had confided in Cupid for help in unrequited love. Knowing firsthand what it’s like to be in love with someone and them being completely oblivious, you thought you could share some of your story with the anonymous submitter. And somehow, against all good odds, the person who actually went through and picked which submissions to put in the paper (which, unfortunately, was not you) chose that specific one to be published.
You had confessed to being in love with your best friend, though not giving any names, and how difficult it was to suppress your feelings towards them for fear of rejection. You offered them the best advice you could conjure up, confessing to their crush before it was too late. You were such a hypocrite. How could you suggest someone to follow your advice that you couldn’t even take?
“That’s interesting.” You responded, now making your way across the crosswalk because the walk light flashed its signal for you to go.
“Not really,” Riki commented, matching your pace to walk across the crosswalk with you. You nudged his arm, signaling for him to knock it off. Jungwon jogged to catch you and Riki, who were now in the front, and grabbed your shoulders. He started, “Riki, you hate on Eunchae’s little Cupid Column too much. I wouldn’t be surprised if you secretly waited for the weekly release of the newspaper so you could read the column.”
Riki scoffed, “No way.”
Once you all reached the other side of the street, Wonyoung and Eunchae caught up to the rest of you, and you all headed for Boston’s.
The inside of Boston’s was relatively small; it was one of the less popular restaurants in your city, but since it held so many memories of your friend group, all of you enjoyed the fact that not many faces entered the restaurant whenever you all were there. Even now, there were only a couple of people inside, but that just meant that you all could eat sooner.
Riki took charge of leading the group and held open the door for you, Jungwon, Wonyoung, and Eunchae, then walked in himself.
The five of you were immediately greeted by the owner, a small, heavy man named Rico James, who was called RJ by his employees and regulars.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite group of students! Glad to see you all comin’ in, guys!” RJ sent a welcoming smile toward you all, “Sit whereva’ ya’d like. I’ll have someone with ya shortly.”
As soon as you all entered and were given the green light to seat yourselves, you headed straight for the circular booth that you always find yourselves in. The booth itself wasn’t anything special; in fact, the seats were a bit beat up, and the table was wobbly, but it mattered not that the booth was in poor shape, but instead all the memories that surrounded the booth.
Quickly after, a waitress by the name of Lily came by and started, “Hey guys, welcome back! Can I get you guys started with some drinks, or do you need a second?”
Wonyoung, who was at one of the ends of the booth, ordered first, “Can I just get a water?”
“Boring,” Jungwon taunted from across the table.
Eunchae spoke up next, “I’ll get a lemonade, please.”
“Can I please get a Shirley Temple?” You inquired. “Gotcha,” Lily smiled, “and for you?”
She beckoned to Riki, who then ordered a Shirley Temple too.
“Copier,” you coughed under your breath, to which you were then met with Riki backhanding you on the leg.
“Ow.”
Jungwon ordered a chocolate milk, which was then responded to negatively.
“Seriously, Jungwon? What are you, five years old?” Wonyoung nagged at the boy across from her.
The waitress smiled at you all, then asked if you were ready. Since you all were regular customers, this was assumed, but it was always nice to check anyway.
“I’ll just get the sesame salad,” Wonyoung said, handing her menu to the waitress, “and the soy sauce mix for the dressing, please.”
Lily scribbled down the order and then faced Eunchae.
While watching Eunchae, you noticed Riki shift over to Jungwon in the booth and start whispering something to him. It was odd for Riki to be this quiet all of a sudden, especially given that he was just trying to bother you. His suddenly giving up was strange.
Soon after, everyone had ordered, and Lily left your table. Eunchae turned to her left to engage in conversation with Wonyoung, and Jungwon pulled out his phone, sending a text to someone.
You turned to look at Riki, “Secrets, secrets, are no fun…”
“…unless you share with everyone,” he rolled his eyes, now facing you. “What secrets are you talking about?”
You narrowed your eyes at him, “I just saw you whispering to Jungwon. You tell me everything, so I have to know too.”
“I do not tell you everything,” he complained, shaking his head at you with widened eyes, “there’s stuff that you don’t know.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
You looked at him, not saying anything.
“How would you even know if what I told Jungwon was something that you didn’t already know? Maybe I’ve already told you.”
Right on schedule, the food arrived at the table.
“Because,” you looked away from Riki. You moved your drink and guided Lily’s hands as she attempted to hand your food to you. Once set down, you faced the boy again, saying:
“I’ve known you my whole life, Riki. Pretty sure I’d be able to tell if you’re lying or not. Which, you are. You should know by now that I can tell how terrible a liar you are.”
With that, you turned back to your food.
ii. MARKETING SCAM
“It’s only January, why am I being drowned in Valentine’s Day imagery everywhere I go?”
“Grow up, Riki,” Wonyoung glared at him. “It’s just marketing.”
“I’m just saying.”
You shook your head at your friends, picking up one of the chocolate boxes and examining it for the contents. “It’s January 31st,” you reasoned, “Valentine’s Day is two weeks away. It makes sense why they’re doing this.”
Riki scoffed. “It’s scamming. After Valentine’s Day, the prices will drop immensely. You’re basically wasting your money.”
Jungwon laughed from next to you, also examining some candy. “I can’t tell if this Debbie Downer act is because you’re mad you don’t have a valentine or if you’re just like this.”
“Look!” Eunchae gasped from down the aisle in Target, “These flowers are so beautiful.”
“That’s a waste of money,” you said, putting down the pink heart-shaped box and walking to her. “They’d just wilt by the time Valentine’s Day came if you bought them now. They are pretty, though.”
Riki followed closely behind, picking up a bouquet and sniffing it. “They’re fake.”
“Well,” you looked at him, “makes sense. I figured a real bouquet of white roses wouldn’t cost ten dollars, anyway.”
Wonyoung walked over to your spots with Jungwon close by. “We should head over to the food aisles. I thought we were just coming here for the cookie dough and stuff.”
“Fuck,” Eunchae put the bouquet down, “right.” She checked her phone. The time read 6:37 p.m.
She started walking towards the dessert aisle. “They said they’d be over at 7:10. Riki, Wonyoung, and Y/N, go find some chips and soda. Jungwon and I will get the cookie dough and candy.”
Jungwon shrugged at you three before trailing behind Eunchae down the long stretch of the store.
You, Wonyoung, and Riki exchanged a look between each other before making your way to the chip aisle.
Halfway there, you broke the silence. “So who’s all coming?”
“Us five,” Riki bit the inside of his cheeks, thinking. “And then I think maybe Lee Gawon from Calc, Tokuno Yushi from our physics,” he motioned between him and Wonyoung, “and then some other guy named Woonhak.”
As you entered the aisle, you laughed. “Is it the same mythic Woonhak that Eunchae has a crush on?”
“She likes him?” Wonyoung gaped, browsing for chips. “How do you know that?”
You smiled with a shrug, “She mentioned that she wanted to write to her beloved Cupid Column. I said it was a bad idea, and she can just talk to me.”
“Ah,” Wonyoung nodded, “right. The Cupid Column.”
“Her favorite,” Riki responded, pulling out a bag of Doritos. “What chips should we get?”
You looked at him from down the aisle, eyeing his bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. You nodded a bit at him, squinting slightly. “Those should be good.”
Before you could exit the aisle, you caught yourself. “You know what? Let’s grab some potato chips too to be safe.”
Riki trailed back down the aisle to grab some Lay’s potato chips while Wonyoung made her way to the soda shelves.
“Let’s get Coke,” Riki insisted.
“Can we get Coke Zero?” You asked. “I’m trying not to drink sugary sodas.”
Wonyoung nodded, grabbing a liter of Coke Zero off the shelf.
“You’re lame,” Riki complained.
“Grab some Sprite, too, then.”
Riki nearly jumped for joy, grabbing his liter of full-sugar soda.
On your way to the candy aisle, Riki brought up the Cupid Column again:
“I just don’t understand Eunchae’s obsession with the Cupid Column. It feels pointless to obsess over the love advice of a stranger.”
“Maybe they’re not a stranger,” Wonyoung replied.
“What?” Riki laughed, “Do you run it?”
“No,” she continued, “I’m just saying. It could literally be anyone running it. It could be you.”
Riki rolled his eyes. “I have better things to do than give relationship advice to people who go to strangers with their problems.”
“That’s kind of a mean way to look at it,” you spoke up, “what if they’re only friends with two people and one of the people they’re friends with is who they’re in love with?”
“That is just depressing for them.”
Wonyoung shrugged. “It’s not uncommon. I’d rather be in love with a best friend than some rando.”
“Fair point,” Riki sighed, “but still. What if the person who’s running it is your worst enemy? Then you’ve just told them your deepest secret!”
“Good thing it’s anonymous, then.” You commented, nearing the aisle with Eunchae and Jungwon.
“Right,” Riki said, “I forgot you work on the newspaper. Don’t you know who runs it, then?”
You pursed your lips and shook your head. “Nope. Only the principal and a few teachers know. I’m not allowed to know anything.”
“What are you guys talking about?” Jungwon looked over at you two.
“Riki’s dogging on the Cupid Column again,” Wonyoung filled in, “he’s basically a fan at this point.”
“Am not!”
Eunchae laughed, “I just love the Cupid Column. Riki, maybe you should try it out sometime.”
Riki looked unamused. “I don’t have a crush. Even if I did, I would never talk to some stranger about it.”
“Such a party pooper,” Jungwon replied, picking up a bag of party-sized Sour Patch Kids.
Eunchae walked to you. “Look at these Valentine's-themed sugar cookies!”
“They’re cute,” you admired, “I like them. Are we also getting chocolate chip cookie dough?”
“Of course,” Jungwon held up the Toll House wrapping.
As you all started walking towards the checkout and discussing divisions of payment, Eunchae slowed down to your speed in the back of the group.
“I’m so excited we managed to get Woonhak to come,” Eunchae grinned. “Thank you for convincing me to just ask him.”
You played it off, shaking your head with a reluctant smile. “It’s nothing.”
“We need to get you a boyfriend,” she continued.
“Well…” you trailed off. “I don’t know about all that.”
“Aren’t you gonna go to the Sweethearts’ Dance?” You hesitated for a moment, then breathed out. You took a look at Wonyoung, Jungwon, and Riki, all of whom were about fifteen feet ahead of you and Eunchae, speed walking to the self-checkout. Your eyes lingered on Riki’s figure for a few moments too long before you turned back to Eunchae. “I dunno…”
“Come on,” she nagged, jerking your shoulder closest to her and almost smacking you with the bag of mixed candy in her hand. “I need you to go.”
“The Sweethearts’ Dance is a scam.” You retorted. “It’s just another way for the school to extort money out of us.”
“Okay, yeah,” Eunchae continued, “but if you’re already gonna be decorating for it, why not go? It’s the perfect excuse to get a boyfriend.”
“Me being in the student council and me getting a boyfriend have little to no correlation.”
Eunchae huffed. “I mean… there’s time. We have like a month. I could hook you up with one of the guys. What about Yushi? He’s coming tonight.”
Right. Like hooking you up with Yushi for a dance would help you get over your lifelong crush on Riki.
“I just don’t see the point. We’re graduating soon.” You looked at her and shrugged.
“That’s such a lame way to look at things,” Eunchae complained, slowing her speed once she reached the self-checkout.
“What’s lame?” Jungwon asked, scanning a bag of M&Ms.
“Nothing,” you murmured, dragging the bag of Lay’s across the self-scanner.
BEEP.
iii. OFFENSIVE COOKIE
The air in Eunchae’s house was surprisingly hushed mid-movie.
In her living room sat three couches, a recliner, a massive coffee table, and an even bigger 75-inch television playing When Harry Met Sally.
On the recliner was Wonyoung, snuggled under a blanket with a bowl of popcorn nestled into her side and a cup of Coke Zero on the end table.
On the other side of the end table was the first couch, housing Eunchae, Jungwon, and Woonhak. Jungwon was scrolling on his phone, occasionally grabbing a handful of candy from the bowl on the table. Eunchae and Woonhak sat close, almost too close, but not enough to touch. The giddiness was practically radiating off of her.
On the opposite couch sat Lee Gawon, sprawled all the way and eating some snack you couldn’t recognize from across the dark room. She was scrolling through something on her phone, too, paying no attention to the movie.
Sitting on either side of you was Tokuno Yushi, the same boy that Eunchae had tried to set you up with, and Riki, who had his hand deep in the bag of Sour Patch Kids and was occasionally offering one up to you.
Midway through the movie, the oven in the room over beeped twice, signifying that the heart-shaped chocolate chip cookies were done. The sugar cookies were long gone by now, having half been devoured by Jungwon and Woonhak.
Wonyoung quickly stood up, heading to the kitchen. You squeezed out of your spot, muttering a quick “excuse me” as you stepped over Yushi and met Wonyoung in the kitchen.
You pulled open a drawer near the oven, searching for the oven mitts that had to have been in that area. You did help Eunchae unload the last batch of cookies, but you got so sucked into the movie that you forgot where the actual mitts were located.
Pulling one out, you walked over to the oven, which had already been opened by Wonyoung. The heat radiated off the oven, freshly turned off yet still able to be felt about a foot away.
“Wow,” you laughed, “these hardly look heart-shaped anymore.”
She peered into the oven, laughing loud enough that her voice carried into the living room. “Oh, my God.”
The cookies were far from heart-shaped, actually, and were more adjacent to male genitalia than anything romantic.
From the doorway, you noticed Jungwon’s head shoot up at Wonyoung’s laugh. “What’s funny?”
Jungwon jumped up from the couch, speeding into the kitchen and towards the oven.
“Did the cookies burn?” He asked, swatting away the heat.
“Worse,” you laughed, pointing to the most obscene-looking cookie, “look.”
Jungwon’s laugh echoed through both rooms, causing Eunchae to pause the movie. She called from the room over, “Whatever’s going on in there is definitely not funny enough for you all to laugh louder than the movie.”
From the doorway, you beckoned her in. “Look.”
Eunchae walked into the kitchen, and soon behind her followed Woonhak. “Oh, my God.”
“That’s what I said!” Wonyoung laughed.
You grabbed the tray out of the oven, finally setting it down on the stove and shoveling the cookies off the pan with a spatula onto the cooling rack. You peeked your head in the doorway, practically singing, “Cookies are ready!”
Gawon was first to enter, followed by Yushi, and finally Riki.
You held up the offensively shaped dessert and smiled. “Who wants the penis cookie?!”
“This is what you guys were laughing at?” Riki asked, half-smirking as Yushi and Gawon came to look at it.
“That is killer,” Gawon said, walking to the cooling rack and grabbing a somewhat normally shaped cookie.
Yushi made his way to stand by you, really making a spectacle of your prized possession. “I feel like you guys might get the wrong idea if I eat it alone… but I’ll split it with someone.”
You turned to him with a shrug, “I’ll split it.”
Yushi grabbed two paper plates and placed them down on the kitchen island in front of you, waiting for you to split the cookie.
The cookie cracked in an unfortunate split, much more like a 70-30 than a 50-50 like you were anticipating.
“Damn,” you laughed, locking eyes with him. Yushi giggled at your words before taking a bite of the cookie. You followed and did the same.
Riki came from the opposite side of the island, holding a cookie and wiggling his way to stand between Yushi and you. He spoke with a bite of food in his mouth, “How was your dick cookie?”
“Not bad.” You shrugged, taking another bite. “How’s your heart-shaped one, Mr. Anti-Romantic?”
“I’m not ‘anti-romantic’, first of all,” Riki insisted, elbowing you. “Second of all, it’s good.”
Yushi laughed, looking between you two. “I can’t imagine being an anti-romantic. It’s almost Valentine’s Day, I feel like it’s unavoidable.”
Eunchae piped up, pouring herself a glass of chocolate milk, “That’s how I feel. Riki just hates all things ‘love’.”
“I do not!”
Jungwon grabbed another cookie. “You’ve been hating on the Cupid Column since it started its run in the school’s newspaper. You seem to have a stick up your ass when it comes to all things romantic, no offense.”
“The Cupid Column?” Gawon said from beside Wonyoung.
“Yeah, have you read the school newspaper?” Eunchae asked after taking a drink of milk.
“I can’t say I have.”
Without realizing it, you frowned a bit to yourself. You worked hard on that paper every week; the fact that it doesn’t revolve around every other person’s life seemed to slip your mind. Eunchae, however, perked up at the revelation.
“It’s a love advice column,” she started, “and it’s also my lifeline.”
“Eunchae’s obsessed.” Wonyoung filled in from across the room.
“Like, what is it, though?” Gawon asked, grabbing another cookie.
“Y/N?” Eunchae offered the question to you, given your position in the newspaper.
You were caught off guard, so you cleared your throat with all eyes in the room on you. “Well, um, it’s basically this anonymous advice column. Some student runs it, but it’s completely anonymous from both ends, so I’m not allowed to know. I think only Principal Murphy, Ms. Kerstappen, and Mr. Johnson know, since the boxes for submission are outside their classrooms.”
“That’s no fun,” Woonhak said from beside Eunchae.
“I wish I could tell you guys something,” you laughed, “but even if I knew, I’m sure that I’d have already been sworn to secrecy. They don’t even let me choose which submissions get posted to the newspaper, and I run that thing.”
“Who chooses?” Yushi questioned, cup of milk in hand.
“I’m pretty sure it’s the Principal.”
“Figures.” Riki laughed. “I dunno why more people would wanna get involved with that. Seems a bit personal.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Yushi raise a furrowed brow. “Nothing too personal about both sides being anonymous.”
A beat of silence awkwardly befell the room for a second, like the silence in a school cafeteria when everyone stops talking at the same time without meaning to.
You couldn’t tell if Yushi had actually said anything offensive (you didn’t find anything wrong with it, at least) or if Riki was just being standoffish about love for no reason again.
The conversation picked up somewhere else in the room when Riki let out a small Tch. “I just don’t see the point.”
Riki was the first person to leave the kitchen and head back into the living room. He didn’t say a word as he left, just letting the darkness of the doorway swallow him whole as he stepped through.
Without realizing it, you exchanged a small look with Yushi, wondering if he’d also noticed how odd it was that the conversation took a turn so suddenly.
Soon after, everyone else trickled slightly into the living room from the kitchen, hammering on about the movie. However, you slowed a bit behind the group, feigning some need for milk.
Usually, Riki’s comments about the column didn’t bug you too much. Even if he didn’t like it, tons of people did.
So why did you give a fuck?
Did you care because someone had finally been there, who wasn’t Eunchae, to defend your column? Or was it because that someone was Tokuno Yushi, the same boy Eunchae wanted to set you up with?
Maybe you didn’t care at all, and Riki was just pissing you off for no particular reason this time.
That “no reason” was plenty of reason, this time, to sit somewhere else in the living room, though. Nishimura Riki could shove those Sour Patch Kids right back up his own ass.
iv. LOVESICK BUSINESS
For the first time all week, you forced yourself to sit in front of your open laptop and answer submissions.
You’d been avoiding it for some time already, slightly butthurt by Riki’s words about the column, but also just simply feeling lazy. With the setting up of the dance, homework, additional newspaper duties, and, of course, the elephant in the room—the submissions to Cupid’s Column that were just piling up—you couldn’t bring yourself to start anything.
So as a solution, you forced yourself to get the dirty work out of the way. At the very least, you’d try to finish some of it. Five submissions. That’s what you’d told yourself you’d do, then you could do something else. No peeing, sleeping, eating, or using your phone until then. So how many had you done so far?
None.
With those rules in place, you thought it would help, but you just felt paralyzed. The screen of your laptop nearly blinded you, yet you couldn’t turn it off. The oldest submission was staring right at you, from three days ago, waiting to be answered. It read:
“Dear Cupid,
I think there’s this guy in my class who likes me. He’s super nice, but I don’t think I’m ready for a relationship right now. What should I do?
— anonymous sender 151”
A common problem you’d heard, really, but a frustrating one nonetheless. You’d probably answered about ten submissions that were along the same lines as this one, so after a brief moment of thought, you regurgitated what you’d answered to someone about three weeks ago.
“Dear Anonymous Sender 151,
Oh, that sounds like a tough situation! Even if you’re not 100% sure he likes you, preparing for the situation in which he might confess is smart.
Whether you like him back or not, I think you should go the honest route. No beating around the bush, or giving potential false hope. Let him know that you’re not in a position to be in a relationship right now, but I wouldn’t even mention being open to it in the future. False hope like that can crush someone’s soul if it isn’t fulfilled.
I wish you the best of luck with this.
— Cupid”
You could completely understand where the person was coming from. You finished typing your response and clicked the “Queue Submission” button on the blog page. Once the submission disappeared from your view, you glanced at the toolbar on the left side of your webpage. Just as you’d suspected, the “Submission” tab went from 24 to 23, and the “Pending Approval” tab went from 8 to 9. Twenty-three submissions to go, and that wasn’t even counting written or text submissions.
Your eyes danced around the infamous blog page, noting the flooded notifications from the “Reactions” tab, which you knew would be filled with likes and comments from last week’s publication.
You begrudgingly moved your cursor to the “Submission” tab, clicking it and bracing yourself for whatever lovesick business someone was throwing on you next.
“Dear Cupid,
I asked my crush to the Sweethearts’ Dance. She said no, so I asked my friend instead. Even though my friend said yes, she doesn’t seem to be happy to go. I don’t wanna go with her if it feels like she’s going with me out of pity that I was rejected. What do I do?
— anonymous sender 152”
The age-old pity date. You racked your brain for some response, trying to call back on any similar memory you could relate it to, but there were none. You let out a sigh:
“Dear Anonymous Sender 152,
I hear you. While this may seem like the end of the world now, just remember that high school is only four years of your life. The likelihood of this haunting you into your adult life is slim to none.
I’d like to say, though, if your friend said she’d go with you, you might just have to trust that it’s not out of pity. Any good friend would be there for another in a tough time.
If you’re feeling like the vibes with her are off, just talk to her. Letting yourself implode with inner thoughts about your uneasiness is only going to make things much worse. I wouldn’t assume she’s automatically unhappy about things, especially if she’s your friend. She may also feel like you asked her only because she was a second choice to you.
Honest communication may be the best route for going about this. See if she’s free any time soon and just talk to her like a person. She is human, after all (at least I hope).
I would just go into the dance after your talk with a shared understanding that you’re going to have fun as friends, even if there is that “date” title there.
— Cupid”
You blinked hard, trying to push the tiredness away. Would that answer be good enough for the anonymous person? It seemed like a well-rounded answer, but then again, you were the one writing it. Your mouse hovered over the “Queue Submission” button, and you debated whether you could just go with that as your answer.
“Fuck it,” you murmured to yourself, “I have homework to do.”
The page refreshed once you hit the button. To the left of your view, the numbers changed:
Submission - 54
Pending Approval - 10
You shut your computer. That would be a problem for later.
v. SO CYNICAL
After what seemed like the tenth person ignoring you in a row, you sighed heavily to Eunchae, “I don’t know how we’re expected to sell these tickets when everyone keeps walking past our booth.”
“Maybe we should get a credit card reader.” She shrugged. “No one really carries cash around anymore.”
“You take your card to school with you?”
Eunchae shrugged again. “Sometimes.”
You adjusted the flyers that were on your volunteer booth: bright pink paper with black, bolded lettering reading “Northpointe High School’s 5th Annual Sweethearts’ Dance,” and below it a date: February 9th, 7:30 p.m. Location was the school’s very own gymnasium.
There were a few types of flyers, some were yellow with text that read “Don’t Be Sour This Feb. 9! Come to Northpointe’s 5th Annual Sweethearts’ Dance!” and a couple that were teal blue and read “Plans For Feb. 9? No? Well, Now You Do! See you @ 7:30 for Northpointe High’s 5th Annual Sweethearts’ Dance!”
You thought they were cheesy, Eunchae thought they were cute.
They were already plastered everywhere around the school, but when the tickets weren’t selling as quickly as Principal Murphy thought they would, she tasked you to help out with selling them.
The poster board above your booth said “Dance Tix & Raffle”, which was one of many booths promoting during lunch by the student council. How you managed to get Eunchae to agree to run it with you still left you confused.
People were passing by the booth, with most not even glancing at you, and you couldn’t even blame them. Principal Murphy hadn’t even brought you the raffle box yet, and you figured that was causing a lot of the slow business.
As if the Principal herself could hear your inner thoughts, she came from the left side of your vision and dropped off the makeshift raffle box in a hurry. She didn’t bid either of you goodbye as she sped off in the opposite direction, heels clacking loudly away.
“Well, here’s our raffle box,” you commented. “Maybe business will pick up now.”
To the next person that walked by, you stopped and called out, “Sweethearts’ Dance tickets half off! Buy them here to enter our raffle for a pair of AirPods Pro!”
The girl, who had to have been no older than a freshman, turned her head back. “You guys are selling AirPods?”
“Ten bucks,” you offered, “gets you a ticket into the Sweethearts’ Dance next week and enters you in our raffle to win a pair of AirPods Pro. Plus, you’re the first in our raffle box.”
The freshman looked around, then nodded slowly. “Sure.”
She came back to the table and took a white square of paper to fill out her name and phone number. After, she dug around her bag for her wallet and handed you a ten-dollar bill. You opened the cold metal safe and slipped it in. As the girl walked away, you glanced at her name on the paper: Yu Haram.
“That’s fifty,” you said, counting the bills inside. “Murphy said we should be trying to make at least two hundred at this booth.”
“Is there, like, a certain number of people they have to have there for a quota?” Eunchae asked as another person walked up asking something about the AirPods raffle.
“Not a person quota,” you explained, taking a flyer and handing it out to some passerby who stood at the booth a second too long, “but they wanna make at least an additional three thousand dollars.”
“Jeez,” Eunchae said, “three thousand in a week is a lot.”
“Do you really think three hundred kids won’t enter a raffle over this week for some free AirPods?”
Eunchae nodded. “Fair point.”
Just as you’d predicted, another set of students came up to the booth. You knew one of them, James, from your music class, and you recognized his friend from his Instagram. You were pretty sure his name was Woochan.
“Hey, Y/N,” James said, “I heard you guys were raffling AirPods?”
“Only if you buy a ticket to the Sweethearts’ Dance first.” You raised a brow at him.
“Sweet!” James replied, digging in his pocket for some money, you assumed.
“What?” Woochan asked, exasperated. “I already paid for mine.”
You watched Eunchae take James’s money and give him a piece of paper for the raffle. You turned to Woochan. “If you can show me your receipt, I’ll let you enter anyway.”
Once Woochan pulled up his emailed receipt, you let him write his information on the square.
Once the boys left the booth, you watched a very familiar figure slink his way up to your side of the booth, take a flyer, and examine it.
“Don’t be sour…” he mocked, putting the flyer back.
“Hi, Riki.”
Eunchae smiled at him amidst her conversation, “Hey, Riki.”
“What are you guys doing?” he asked, leaning on the side of the booth.
You let your eyes wander around the booth. “Running a booth. Wanna buy a dance ticket and enter the raffle? Free AirPods. I know your cheapskate ass would want them.”
“No,” Riki replied, letting out a bit of a scoff, “I don’t think I’m going to that silly thing.”
Once the next person walked away, Eunchae joined the conversation. “No? Why not?”
“Waste of money.”
“You’re so cynical about love,” you replied, straightening flyers.
“Not cynical. Just… financially smart.”
You furrowed your brow at him. “Nishimura Riki and financially smart in the same sentence. Last I knew, you were asking me to spot you five bucks for a drink.”
“Financial investment.”
“…Right.” You trailed off, shaking your head.
Riki lingered, taking a peek at Eunchae, then back at you. He decided to stay and bother you during the void of people. “Whaddya doing later?”
“Probably fuckin’ homework,” you laughed, “I’m, like, barely not falling behind.”
He smiled at you.
“Why?” You broke into a smile back, “You wanna bother me?”
“Maybe,” he shrugged, “I’m pretty caught up on everything.”
You shook your head at him, lifting the lid of the raffle bin to count papers. Seven. You then turned to Eunchae, “I genuinely might buy a ticket to the dance just for this raffle.”
She gasped. “You should!”
Riki pushed himself off the spot on the wall where he was leaning and looked down at you in your chair. Just as he got up, a few other students headed to your booth with murmurs about the raffle.
Riki faced you. “I’ll come bother you later.”
You waved “bye” as you handed one of the inquisitive students a flyer from your stack.
About an hour and 10 minutes and countless flyers later, you and Eunchae were met with an empty booth. Well, almost. You two had about ten total flyers left, and with your raffle bin nearly full, you were both swamped from all the talking you’d been doing. With only five minutes left until your booth-running time was up, Eunchae decided to start counting cash. You grabbed a yellow flyer and started folding a paper airplane.
Halfway through your origami session, two figures stopped at the booth. You took a breath, preparing yourself to do all the talking as Eunchae needed to finish her counting. Once you lifted your head, though, you were a bit surprised.
The two figures were none other than Jungwon and the elusive Tokuno Yushi himself. You finished laying down another fold on the paper and smiled at them. “You guys wanna buy dance tickets from us?”
“Does it come with the paper airplane?” Jungwon asked, beckoning to your craft.
“No,” you flipped him off, “that’s mine.”
“Then Hell no!” Jungwon laughed.
You turned to Yushi. “Do you wanna buy a dance ticket?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Yushi replied, “I’m trying to see who’s going and whatnot. Have you bought one?”
You shrugged. “I’m thinking about it. Just for the AirPods.”
“And because you’re decorating,” Eunchae chimed in, “and you need to celebrate your hard work.”
“That too, apparently.”
“Hm,” Yushi thought on it as Jungwon grabbed a flyer to start folding, “are you going, Eunchae?”
“Most definitely. Not sure who I’m going with, yet.” She smiled, shifting cash through her hands, then writing down another tally that you assumed signified an amount of one hundred dollars.
“How long have you guys been here?” Jungwon asked, barely peeking up from his origami work.
“About an hour,” you answered for Eunchae, “I had to skip lunch. I’m fucking starving. I would kill for some food or even a drink right now.”
“Oh!” Yushi pulled something from his bag. “Don’t you like Coke Zero? I grabbed one from the vending machine earlier… but I never ended up drinking it. You can have it.”
“Are you sure?” You asked as he handed you the drink. “Thank you. And how’d you remember I liked Coke Zero?”
“You floored about three glasses the last time I saw you,” he scratched his neck with a laugh, “so, it was an easy guess.”
Jungwon finished folding his paper airplane and immediately threw it across the hallway. When he came back from picking it up, he nudged the raffle box. “Can I enter this?”
“Ten bucks,” Eunchae looked up from counting. “Ten bucks to enter.”
“You guys are scammers,” Jungwon grumbled, plane in hand. He lifted his wrist to check the time. “Oh, shit. I gotta go to class. See ya.”
Yushi waved goodbye as he followed Jungwon down whatever hall his class was in.
When you turned back to the booth, you were met with an all-too-smiley Hong Eunchae.
“What’s with that face?” You asked, making one big pile of flyers to start packing up.
“Nothing,” she grinned, “just that someone remembered your favorite drink. And that he asked if you were going to the dance.”
You raised a brow. “Are you insinuating something?”
“No,” she looked away from you, still smiling, “just noticing things. Maybe my idea to hook you two up wasn’t so bad.”
“Right…” you smirked, “how much money did we make, by the way?”
“Oh,” she looked at her paper, “a nine hundred and twenty bucks.”
“Shit,” you stood up, “there were that many people?”
Eunchae nodded. “Guess you were right about high school students and AirPods.”
vi. FIRST SWEET-ING
The library smelled awfully crisp as you pushed the door open. Maybe the smell wasn’t crisp – perhaps it was just the library being oddly cold for that morning. Whatever it was, you shivered when you walked in.
The librarian, an older woman named Mrs. Blanche, greeted you as you came in: “Good morning, Ms. Y/N.”
You sent her a smile, “Good morning.” You walked past her, heading to your little hidden corner spot so you could answer some submissions from the Cupid Column. It was once again Friday, which meant the submission lock had lifted. You wanted to get a jump on the messages that finally went through to the website on Wednesday and Thursday for next week's issue. This was the third time this week you’d come to school early to go to the library. Mrs. Blanche always came to school around 7:15 a.m., which was about the same time you’d started coming. The library was much more practical than anywhere else in the school to do your work, so it made the most sense for you to be here now.
Once you sat in your corner, you immediately opened your bag and pulled out your laptop, which was already open to the blog.
The submissions tab, already back up to thirty-one, stared back at you. You let out a breath of frustration.
“Dear Cupid…–”
Just as you started reading, your phone buzzed. You flipped it over. The name “Riki :-P” flashed across your screen, and you answered.
“Hello?” you picked up, trying to keep your voice down.
“Hey,” he said, speaking so loudly into the phone that you had to pull it away from your ear, “I’m up early for once. You wanna get coffee with me before school?”
You laughed, keeping your voice still low. “I’m at school already.”
“What?” he nearly yelled into the phone.
“I’m at school already!” You spoke up.
“Ugh,” he complained. “Scholar. Where are you?”
“In that spot in the library. Doing some work.”
Riki offered no response and hung up the phone.
“Rude,” you muttered to yourself, putting your phone to the side and focusing back onto the blog.
“Dear Cupid,
The Sweethearts’ Dance is less than a week away and I don’t have a date. My friends seem to have no interest in going. Send help!!!
— anonymous sender 164”
You nearly vomited at the sight of the words “Sweethearts’ Dance”. This had to have been the twentieth submission you’d read this week that had some panic that was adjacent to the dance. Not to even mention that this letter left you barely anything to work with, like what were you supposed to do with “send help” as a closing statement?
You let out a deep sigh and started typing:
“Dear Anonymous Sender 164,
That’s tough. Not to prod, but let’s take a step back – did you actually ask your friends if they were uninterested, or did you just assume because they hadn’t brought it up? Jumping to conclusions like that can break knees, friend.
If they actually expressed a disinterest, who says you have to go with them? Instead of asking them if they want to go, just speak it out to them that you’re going. They may get inspired and feel like they can go now because their friend is going. Often, people just need one person to be the ‘brave one’ first. Be that person.
Worst case scenario? You come and get some free food. Best of luck!
— Cupid”
You hovered over the “Queue Submission” button, waiting a few seconds to proofread before you clicked it.
Once your eyes were done dancing over the submission, you clicked the button. Just before you could go back to the “Submissions” tab, another call made its way through your phone. You looked at the contact:
Riki :-P
Of course. You picked up the phone again. “What now? You called me like five minutes ago.”
You could almost hear Riki roll his eyes. “That was fifteen minutes ago.”
Fifteen minutes? Had you really taken that long to draft one response?
You checked the clock that resided in the corner of your computer screen. Lo and behold, it was just past 7:30.
“Was it?”
“Yeah,” he responded, “I’m headed to the library now. I just parked.”
Before Riki could get another word in, you hung up and started packing your stuff back up again. Fifteen minutes. That’s all you’d gotten to work on the column.
As if on cue, you heard his voice grumble through the silence as he greeted Mrs. Blanche. Seconds later, he was standing right in front of you, two coffees in his hands. Damn Riki for interrupting your peace, but at least you were getting a free coffee.
“You walk fast,” you said to him, standing up and exiting the corner of the library.
“I’ve got long legs,” he replied, pushing open the library door to the hallway and handing you your coffee. “Got you a hot coffee with white mocha and hazelnut. One shot of espresso, and, of course, oat milk, so you don’t shit yourself.”
You felt heat rise to your cheeks despite his vulgar comment, hoping he wouldn’t notice. Not only did he bring you a coffee for free, but it was your current favorite order, too. “Thanks.”
As you both turned a corner to head down a hallway on the left, you got your eye caught by someone standing down a hallway with what appeared to be Northpointe’s version of a prom-posal, which was called a “sweet-ing.” Kind of late for someone to be doing that, but you paid mostly no mind.
That was until you caught sight of who the boy giving the Sweet-ing was.
“Wait,” you grabbed Riki’s arm and stopped him, “is that Woonhak?”
He stopped in his tracks, squinting to get a better view. “Yeah, I think so.”
You walked further down the hall with Riki just a few paces behind. The hallways were still relatively empty, but even with fewer people, it was hard to tell if it was actually Woonhak.
A loud, feminine gasp from right in front of him made you realize that your suspicions were exactly correct: Kim Woonhak was “sweet-ing” Hong Eunchae.
You glanced at Riki, who had finally caught up to you. “First Sweet-ing of the day.”
He laughed after he took a drink of his coffee. “I hope you save up ten bucks to buy that dance ticket now. She’s definitely forcing you to go now that she has a date.”
You groaned.
vii. # COOKIE JAR
“It was amazing,” Eunchae gushed later that same day, “I really didn’t see it coming. Honestly.”
For the fifth time today, Eunchae brought up the sweet-ing. You were tired of hearing about it by the third time, so at this point, you wanted to claw your eyes out and rip your ears off.
“Wow,” you replied, half-interested and eating your sandwich. It was lunch. The pressing matter of finishing all your food in thirty minutes was more important than Eunchae telling her story again. “I’m happy for you.”
Wonyoung laughed. “Are you okay, Y/N?”
Inside Boston’s, it was the same group as the last time you went, but this time, Woonhak decided to tag along. You glanced at her from across the booth with your Shirley Temple in hand. You gave her a tight-lipped smile and nodded. “Peachy.”
While Eunchae seemed to pay no mind, seemingly off in her own dream world as she talked to Jungwon, Riki poked your side from next to you. He tilted his head, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” You shook your head, then spoke the next bit lower, “Just not sure how many more times I can hear this story.”
Riki laughed a bit to himself, “Are you jealous you haven’t been asked?”
You sputtered out a laugh in return, slightly breaking out of your phased state, “Please. You know I couldn’t give less of a fuck about that dance.”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
Both of your attentions were caught suddenly by Wonyoung, who slammed her phone down on the table, slightly making it shake. “Shit,” she started, looking panicked, “shit, shit, shit.”
She began to slowly scramble up from her spot and dug in her bag for something. She handed a crumpled twenty-dollar bill to Jungwon and muttered something before she spoke. “Here.” She placed the bill firmly in the palm of his hand. “Use this to pay my bill and tip. I forgot I had to help someone with something.”
The five of you exchanged looks with each other, confused, as Wonyoung left the building.
Riki checked his phone. “There’s still like twenty minutes until we have to be back on campus.”
“Is she okay?” Woonhak asked.
“Probably,” you replied, taking another bite of your food, “she can be scatter-brained at times.”
Just then, Jungwon’s phone buzzed. He held it up to his ear, and seconds later, he had also left. Not before handing you Wonyoung’s twenty-dollar bill and rambling something about Venmo-ing you.
“Is that our cue to leave?” You asked incredulously, sandwich still half-eaten.
“What the Hell’s going on with them?” Eunchae responded, holding her hand up to flag down the waitress.
Within seconds, the waitress came. Eunchae explained the check situation, and just as soon as the waitress came, she left.
Woonhak cleared his throat. “Did they leave because I came?”
“Oh,” you nearly laughed, “I can almost guarantee that that’s not it. I don’t know why they’re being skittish today.”
The waitress came back with four checks — one for Eunchae and Woonhak, one for Wonyoung, one for you and Jungwon (since he’d be paying you back), and one for Riki — and a box for the second half of your sandwich. You offered her a quick “thank you” as you got your card out for your check and placed the twenty-dollar bill with Wonyoung’s check.
“Are you gonna have to sign for her?” Riki asked, getting his own debit card out.
You gave him a look of incredulity and shook your head, “I’m not forging her signature, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Riki mocked your face and went back to his wallet.
As you were packing up your sandwich, the waitress must have come by and picked up the checks while you weren’t paying attention. By the time you snapped back to reality, the checks were back on the table. You grabbed yours and started doing mental math for a tip, and left the change with Wonyoung’s.
Once you signed your name on both lines, Riki placed his pen down and slid out of the booth. To your surprise, Woonhak and Eunchae were already heading out the door.
You and Riki walked out into the daylight of 12:13 p.m. in early February. It was still slightly cold this time of year, so you held your jacket just a bit closer to your chest when you started the trek back to Northpointe.
The walk itself only took about seven minutes. When you walked into the building and greeted a teacher, you still had about ten minutes before you had to check into class, and about fifteen minutes until the next class actually started.
As you bounded around a corner to walk to the senior locker hall with Riki, Eunchae, and Woonhak, you spotted another “sweet-ing” in the hall. From the looks of it, it seemed to be some underclassmen.
“Look,” Riki teased as you walked past, “everyone has a date but you.”
You rolled your eyes. “There’s like a 25% chance I even go.”
Eunchae piped up from the far right of you. “You’re going, Y/N L/N.”
You said nothing to her.
The four of you turned down another hall, one step closer to your lockers, when something — or someone — caught your eye. Namely, Tokuno Yushi, who was standing right in front of your locker.
You stopped before anyone else, but once Riki also caught sight of Yushi, he stood still, too. “What is Tokuno Yushi doing at your locker? Is he waiting for you?”
You swallowed. You didn’t know.
“I-… I don’t know, actually.”
Eunchae, from a few paces ahead, suddenly noticed your absence. When she looked back at you, she immediately followed your gaze and spotted exactly what you’d seen. Tokuno Yushi at your locker. However, contrary to you, she seemed ecstatic.
You walked slowly to your locker with Riki (and presumably Eunchae and Woonhak) in tow. Once Yushi saw you, his face lit up. “Y/N!”
You met him in the middle, trying to continue your way to your locker. As you reached it, Yushi cleared his throat.
“Hi,” you acknowledged him.
He pulled something from behind his back. A small, pink box decorated with a thin, golden colored ribbon. The logo “#CJ” was printed on the top — # Cookie Jar, a popular, new bakery that had just popped up the past month. You’d been dying to try it, but it was always too busy for you to get in there. Yushi extended the box toward you.
Your eyes widened. “Is this for me?”
Yushi nodded as you opened the box. Four pastel colored macarons looked back at you from the inside, and at the bottom, there was an unfortunately badly written message in frosting. You could barely make out the phrase “dance with me?” in the shaky writing.
“The place doesn’t do writing on their pastries,” Yushi explained, a hand coming up to scratch his neck, “so sorry if that’s hard to read.”
He continued over your awed silence, “I know you mentioned wanting to go to this place. I managed to stop by just early enough before first period this morning.”
“I- I don’t know what to say.” It was your turn to be shy. You weren’t sure if Yushi meant it as a romantic gesture, but it did mean a lot. “Thank you.” You offered him a soft smile and took note of his flushed face. Perhaps it was romantic.
You heard a squeak from behind you and were reminded of Eunchae’s presence about four feet away.
“So?” Yushi asked, “I know you were on the fence about going, but I figured that maybe if we went together, it would be less pressure about the whole romantic aspect. If anything, maybe you’ll win those AirPods.”
You gave him a real smile. It was a nice gesture, and it was a fair excuse to go to the dance. If Yushi were this willing to give you a nice sweet-ing, maybe one night at a dance with him wouldn’t be that bad. It would be nice to have Eunchae focus on her own love life instead of yours for a day, too.
But then again, there was Riki. Nishimura Riki, whom you’d been in love with for as long as you could remember. Would saying yes to Yushi give you a chance to try and get over him? Was that even what you wanted?
You took one last glance at the macarons. The “d” of “dance” was lopsided. They looked amazing.
You nodded slowly. “Sure.”
From the side of your view, Wonyoung and Jungwon came, cameras out and taking pictures. You side-hugged Yushi, taking a macaron out of the box and posing for the incoming cameras.
Once Yushi finally walked away, Eunchae — just Eunchae, no Woonhak — and Riki approached your locker.
Eunchae gave your shoulders a quick shake and walked away with a big smile and two thumbs up.
Riki towered over you as you pulled out your backpack, a mix of a smirk and an indifferent look on his face, “So, now you’re into the sweet-ing stuff?”
“Not too bad if I get free macarons from # Cookie Jar,” you responded, a grin plastered on your face. “Want one?” You held a purple macaron out to him.
“Nah.” He shook his head, looking away. “Don’t want your cooties.”
viii. ZERO INTEREST
You breathed out, examining the dress you had on in the mirror.
It was a nice blue color, coming down to the middle of your thigh with a holographic finish. Not bad for being found a day before the dance.
You turned to the side, letting the dress follow behind you as you debated whether you even liked it.
Wonyoung and Eunchae, who had already bought their dresses, watched you from the reflection of the modeling mirror.
“So?” Eunchae asked expectantly. “What do you think?”
You pursed your lips. You didn’t think anything. It was just a dress.
You turned around with an uneasy look on your face. “I dunno…”
“You look great!”
You gave Eunchae a look.
“Y/N,” Wonyoung said, sitting on a bench, “why don’t you go try on the green dress?”
You stepped back into the fitting room, pondering your life choices, and getting the dress off. The green dress, which was the one Wonyoung picked out, was long, dark, form-fitting, and had an elastic satin finish. There was a square neckline with lace details, spaghetti straps, and to put it simply, it was gorgeous. But even when you put it on, you still didn’t feel like yourself.
“Come model for us!” Wonyoung called, just a few minutes after you’d stepped into the dress. You begrudgingly took yourself out of the room and walked out to see them.
You gave them an awkward look. You looked silly in a glamorous dress with a bare face.
“Wow,” Eunchae gaped, “you look gorgeous.”
You puffed air through your cheeks.
Wonyoung furrowed her brow. “You look great, Y/N. Why are you acting so weird?”
“I feel weird,” you explained.
“Why?” Eunchae asked, baffled. “Are you nervous about tomorrow?”
“It’s not that…” you replied, “…I- I dunno. I just feel tacky. I’m getting a dress to the dance that’s tomorrow, and to make matters worse, I didn’t even want to go to the dance in the first place.”
“You could’ve said ‘no’ to Yushi,” Wonyoung offered.
“It’s not about Yushi.” You rolled your eyes, turning in the mirror to look at the dress before turning to Wonyoung and Eunchae, “It’s about…” you trailed off, “…I dunno.” You knew what it was.
You sighed. “I just feel like a poser… or something like that.”
“You feel like a poser?”
“I don’t know!” You whined, frustrated.
Suddenly, Wonyoung’s phone buzzed again, which it tended to do as of late, apparently. “I’m gonna take this real quick,” she swiped to answer the call. “Hello?”
Eunchae gave you a soft smile. “You look amazing. Seriously, drop-dead gorgeous. And you don’t even have makeup or hair done. Yushi would be stupid not to think the same.”
It wasn’t Yushi who you wanted to think about you, even if you were going to the dance together. It was Riki. Despite everything, it would always be Riki for you.
“Thanks,” you said, doing another one-over of the dress. “You really think I look nice?”
“I would fall in love with you if I were gay.”
“Okay,” you laughed, “that’s too much.”
Wonyoung finally hung up the phone and turned to you. “I think you should get it.”
You offered a half-smile. “Okay, maybe I will.”
“Who was that?” Eunchae asked as you walked back towards the fitting room.
You could hear them conversing while you changed out of the dress:
“Just Jungwon.”
“What’d he want?”
“Talking about dinner plans for tomorrow,” you could practically hear Wonyoung checking her nails, “and whatever. We finally figured out where we’re going.”
“Ooh,” Eunchae replied, “where’d you end up on?”
You stepped out of the fitting room with the dress on your arm and joined the conversation.
“Olive Garden.”
“Classy,” you laughed.
“Not my first choice,” Wonyoung sighed, standing up, Eunchae a few paces behind. “But Jungwon wanted somewhere to go where we could be decently loud.”
Eunchae emerged from the other side of Wonyoung. “Sounds like him.”
“Is it just you two?” you asked, walking to the check-out counter.
“No,” Wonyoung widened her eyes, “I wouldn’t go with just Jungwon. It’s me, Jungwon, Riki, James Chao, Lee Gawon, Jo Woochan, and Lee Youngseo.”
“Riki is going?” Your eyes almost popped out of their sockets.
You laid the dress on the counter. Wonyoung gave you a concerned look, “Yeah? Is that okay with you, mother?”
You rolled your eyes at her and greeted the cashier. “Just this today.” You turned to him. You turned back to Wonyoung, “It’s not like I care if he’s going. It’s just weird – literally not even two days ago, he told me he had zero interest in the dance.”
“Change of heart, I guess.” Wonyoung shrugged.
While you paid for the dress, your two best friends delved into something different, but related. Though while they were talking, you couldn’t help but let your mind run. Why would Riki suddenly decide to go to the dance? Why didn’t he at least tell you?
You shoved the receipt from the cashier into the bag.
“Have a good day!”
You couldn’t muster enough energy to say anything back to him.
ix. DENOUNCED THAT SHIT
The pictures were fine. The dinner? Bearable. Yushi was nice. The fact that he paid for dinner? Great for your wallet. Woonhak and Eunchae weren’t even doing much PDA – so what was your issue? You couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason you weren’t enjoying your Sweethearts Dance experience. You hadn’t even made it to the dance itself yet, but you were already wishing for the night to be over.
When you headed to the dance’s venue (your school’s gym) in Woonhak’s car after dinner, Yushi tried making conversation with you. On many occasions. Yet each time he tried, he was met with halfhearted “hm”s and nods from your end.
“Alright,” Woonhak said, snapping you out of your daze, “we’re here.”
You peeked out of the car window, noting how he’d parked in the “B” lot of your school campus, which was a soothingly close walk to the actual entrance to the gym. The parking lot wasn’t too full yet, either, but that was of no surprise. The four of you were only about ten minutes late for the start.
You unloaded from the Toyota Corolla. You patted yourself down to make sure you had everything you needed: phone, wallet, house keys, chapstick. Had you been better prepared, you would’ve taken a bag. Lord knows you didn’t plan on going to the dance, though.
“I wonder if everyone’s here yet,” Eunchae started, speed-walking to the gym doors. At the doors (which were made of glass, so you could actually see everything that was inside through them), there was a prop that resembled two conversation hearts, one yellow and one blue. The yellow heart read, “Northpointe High Sweethearts’ Dance…” and the blue one finished the phrase with “…Enter Here!” You’d actually helped plan those signs. They were pulled off a lot better than your initial vision.
The glass doors led to what was called Van Buren West Lobby, which was referred to by most students as “Buren West” or just “Buren”. On the left was the entrance to the gym, and on the right was the entrance to the auditorium, famously also named after the former Principal of the school, Dick Van Buren, “Buren Auditorium”.
Before the stairs led into Buren West, there was a table of what seemed to be adult — both parent and teacher — volunteers taking and checking tickets. Yours were already uploaded to your email, so you pulled out your phone and held up the barcode for a random parent to scan. Once everyone’s tickets were scanned, you headed up the steps into the gym.
Yushi pushed open the door, and in walked you, Eunchae, Woonhak, then him, in that order. There had to have only been around fifty students in the spacious gym, a handful of teachers, and one DJ who was playing “Party In the USA” by Miley Cyrus.
“Wow,” you almost laughed, “some dance.”
Yushi, who stood next to you, nodded. “Pretty sad. Wanna check out the food table?”
You shrugged. You were pretty full from dinner, but preoccupying your mind temporarily would be better than watching some freshmen embarrass themselves on the dance floor. Not like you wouldn’t be doing the same if you were dancing alone; they actually had the balls to put themselves out there.
At the snack table, which had barely been picked over, there were many different kinds of Valentine’s Day-themed candies, with conversation hearts scattered across the table as a decoration. The treat that actually caught your attention, however, sent you back a few weeks earlier. It was a heart-shaped cookie. But this time, it actually appeared to be a heart, and not some allusion to male genitalia.
“Lookit,” you called to Yushi, who was standing opposite you, “it’s calling to me.”
He furrowed his brow for a second before letting out a giggle. “Throwback.”
You laughed at his joke, not really engaged in the conversation, even though you’d been the one to start it. You wandered further down the table, looking at pretzels that had chocolate candies pressed in the center. There were paper plates spaced out evenly, tempting you to grab one, fill your plate, and make like a recluse and eat on the bleachers alone.
Yushi followed a few paces behind you, “Find anything good?”
“No,” you looked up, “seems like they didn’t invest much in the snack table.”
Yushi gave you a half-smile. “The photo booth line looks short. Wanna find Eunchae and Woonhak?”
Your eyes traced over to where the makeshift photobooth was. Yushi was right, the line had like two groups in it. Knowing the state of how students acted at Northpointe, this was probably the shortest the line would be all night. You looked back at Yushi and nodded.
Woonhak and Eunchae were not hard to find. In fact, as soon as you two turned around from the snack table, you spotted them. Eunchae was talking to Park Minju and Noh Yunah, and Woonhak was standing beside her on his phone.
You made your way over to them, grabbing Eunchae lightly on the arm. You waited until there was a pause in their conversation to say, “Hey.”
“Hey,” she said, “what’s up?”
“Do you wanna get photo booth pictures? The line is short right now. Yushi suggested we do it.”
Eunchae turned to the girls with a mischievous smile. “You guys are welcome to come with.”
Once you all made it to the photo booth line, there were just a few groups in front of you, most with people you didn’t recognize. Each flash from the photo booth left you feeling a bit anxious without an actual answer to why.
As soon as it was your group’s turn, you stood as less awkward as possible between Eunchae and Yushi. The person running the booth separated the six of you into two rows. The top row was Yushi, you, and Park Minju. The bottom row was Yunah, Eunchae, and Woonhak.
For the first picture, you all just smiled. For the second picture, Eunchae decided to whisper-scream at the camera, so you all followed suit and made it look like you were all yelling. The final picture was a bit weirder, with Minju and Yunah pretending to kiss each one of Eunchae’s cheeks. You stood in the gap between Woonhak and Minju, also blowing a kiss.
By the time your pictures came out, you six were all laughing at the absurdity of them. Eunchae typed in her email to have them sent to her, promising she’d send the pictures to all of you. You took another look at the pictures, taking note of how Yushi was looking at you, not Eunchae, for the last snapshot. Your heart dropped.
The rest of the group laughed as they walked further away, the dance getting more crowded by the minute. The DJ finally started playing something of sustenance, “I Like It” by Enrique Iglesias blasting through the speaker.
As you started to head towards the gym floor, encased in the music, a hand grabbed your arm from your right. You jumped a bit and turned to see Wonyoung, standing in the line, giving you a smile, and still gripping your arm. “Y/N!”
You relaxed, hugging her. “Hi.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you watched the rest of your group continue to head towards the gym floor. Everyone except Yushi, who lingered by your left side.
“Hey guys,” you acknowledged their group, mainly speaking to Jungwon, Wonyoung, and Riki. The rest of the group was too engulfed in their own conversation to pay you much mind. James Chao sent you a nod.
Your eyes quickly found Riki’s, not even meaning to. You scanned him: his hair was pushed back, ever so slightly messy, and the sleeves of his dress shirt were pulled up. His tie was green, a dark green, almost the same color as your dress. The irony. He looked good.
You avoided his gaze, looking back at Wonyoung. “How was your Olive Garden dinner?”
“Great,” she laughed, “until Jungwon almost got us kicked out.”
“I did not!” Jungwon protested, perking up.
The whole time you were conversing with them, you swore Riki’s eyes were boring a hole through your head. You tried taking a fraction of a step away from Yushi, afraid Riki was getting the wrong idea, but his eyes never left you — or Yushi.
Moments later, the person running the photo booth called, “Next!” An indication that your time conversing was over, you sent your friends a half-assed smile.
“I’ll see you guys,” you said, turning away from them.
You started your way towards the floor, trying to shake off whatever interaction (or rather, the lack of) you’d had with Riki. You let your mind get the better of you, and you looked back to watch your friends enter the photo booth area. You were half surprised to see Nishimura Riki staring directly back at you.
Your attention was once again taken away by Yushi grabbing your hand and pulling you somewhere towards the floor. You met his gaze and gave him a half-smile as you scanned the area for your friends. The DJ started playing another song: one you could roughly recognize, but couldn’t name off of the top of your head.
The lights were beginning to change color and flicker, again disorienting you from the moment you were having. When you ended up near the group you came with, you let the music nearly swallow you whole. Every so often, someone would bump into you — the floor was getting more and more crowded. The song ended. Another song started. More people piled into the area.
By the time the fifth or sixth song had come and gone, you needed a break. Freshmen boys were stepping on your toes, the room was getting more and more crowded, and you, at some point, lost everyone. The exit to the gym was in your sight, and if you stepped out now, you probably wouldn’t miss the crowning of Mr. and Mrs. Sweetheart. You excused yourself from no one and pushed your way through the crowded area, trying not to step on any toes but also wanting to get out of there. The “exit” door was just out of your reach.
When you pushed open the bulky door, it slammed shut with a loud BANG, but you were sure that from the level of the music in the gym, no one could hear it. Cool air hit your face, and the loud music was quickly muffled as you stepped away to a nearby water fountain. A few other students were taking a break outside, and you took notice, most with what looked like either sweaty faces or antisocial auras.
Behind you, the door pushed open and slammed shut once more, signifying someone either left the lobby or left the gym to enter the lobby. You lifted your head, letting your curiosity get the better of you, and looked to see if you knew who left.
It was some random underclassman. You shook your head and turned back to the water fountain, needing another drink of water. You damned the school for not allowing water bottles at the dance.
The door slammed once more, but this time you didn’t look up. Once you turned around, however, you were met with a very familiar figure donned in a green tie.
“Hi there.” You let yourself break out into an amused simper, trying to mask your happiness at seeing him.
“Hi,” he replied, a mutual amused smile breaking out on his face, “could you scoot so I could drink some water?”
You moved yourself out of the way and waited for Riki, leaning against the wall to watch him — in the least creepy way possible — drink some water. After a few seconds, you broke the silence. “What are you doing here?”
He stood up and wiped his mouth. “Drinking some water? What does it look like?”
“I mean the dance, stupid.” You responded. “You denounced this shit like up to two days ago.”
“Oh,” Riki shrugged, facing you, “I dunno. Just… decided to go, I guess. Wonyoung and Jungwon convinced me.”
You raised your eyebrows in disbelief but didn’t prod. “Okay then.”
“What about you?”
You furrowed your brow. “Huh?”
“I mean,” he said, “you’re here with Yushi. I thought you didn’t wanna go — you could’ve said no to him.”
“Yeah,” you responded, “ but I didn’t, so now I’m here.”
Riki nodded slowly, biting the inside of his cheek. “Right.” He breathed out of his nose and glanced just behind you. “Having fun?”
“Do you think I’d be stalling my time out here if I was having fun?”
He pressed his lips in a straight line. “Fair point. Is Yushi boring you?”
“No, it’s not him,” you admitted, pushing off the wall and walking towards the steps that led into Buren Auditorium, where some wallflower students were already sitting. “I just didn’t really want to go. Eunchae wanted me to go, but she insisted that I get a date. I feel like a poser in this dress — it’s just a lot of things.”
“A poser?”
“Yeah, I-” you cut yourself off. “I-I dunno, I just feel like I look weird in this dress, I guess. I feel weird, too.”
“You think you look weird?” he asked from a step below you. You two were almost the same height.
“Like,” you reasoned, “kinda? I dunno.”
“You look great.” Riki smiled at you, and your heart skipped a beat. He pushed a piece of hair back, and you had to stop yourself from looking too intensely into his eyes. Fortunately for you, though, he also averted his gaze. “Like seriously. You look pretty. Don’t worry.”
Your face fell into a sheepish smile. “Thank you. That means a lot. You look great, too. I didn’t expect you to dress up, let alone come.”
“Well,” he shrugged, finally looking back at you, a small blush dusting his cheeks, “I didn’t really expect to come either. You can thank Ms. Jang Wonyoung for that.”
A booming voice suddenly came from the gym, although muffled. Through the cupped sound, you could barely make out the words “Announcement” and “Mr. and Mrs. Sweetheart”.
You locked eyes with Riki and glanced back at the door, “Should we get going back inside?”
He ran his fingers through his hair once more and thought for a second before nodding. The two of you headed towards the gym, Riki opening the door for you to step in. He spoke a bit lowly when he leaned towards you, “My bet is on Wonyoung winning.”
You looked at the lineup of girls who were all in the running to be Mrs. Sweetheart and spotted Wonyoung amongst them all, her beautiful red dress highlighted by one of the gym spotlights. You nodded, “I’d be more surprised if she didn’t win.”
Riki led you to the back of the already forming crowd. Over the chatter, you heard the announcer speak about the lineup for the potential Mr. Sweetheart. As you stood next to him, another presence made itself known.
Tokuno Yushi had found you again.
You almost felt bad for him. You were supposed to be his date, even as friends, but you were just outside ogling over the boy you really loved.
“Y/N! Riki!” Yushi spoke slightly over the noise and stood closer.
“Hi, Yushi,” you smiled at him, trying not to take a peek at Riki. From your peripheral, Riki nodded at him.
Something shifted in Riki when Yushi made his appearance. He stepped slightly back from you, so you inched away from Yushi just a bit. Slowly, but enough to hope that Riki didn’t get the wrong idea.
Suddenly, the announcer grabbed your attention again. “And the winner of this year’s Mr. and Mrs. Sweetheart is… Anton Lee and Jang Wonyoung!”
The crowd of students and teachers erupted into cheers and applause. You heard Riki whoop from next to you, clapping loudly, so you joined in. When the crowd finally settled after a minute or two, you caught sight of Wonyoung being crowned. You sent her a smile, even though you were sure she couldn’t spot you from the crowd.
The DJ started playing a slower song, couples pairing up to slow dance.
Yushi turned to you with a small and shy smile. “Do you maybe wanna dance?”
You turned to him. You wanted to say no, to tell him you weren’t interested, and to go back outside and talk with Riki about anything and everything until your voice physically wouldn’t let you. You turned your neck to peek back where Riki was to see if he caught what Yushi asked you. If Riki were there, you had a reason to say no.
But he wasn’t. When you turned your head, no one was standing there. He must’ve disappeared into the crowd without saying anything. Your heart squeezed; you wondered if he had left because Yushi had asked.
You hesitated for one second before just nodding. Yushi grabbed your left hand and let his other hand rest on your hip, and you rested your right hand on his shoulder.
The entire dance, you couldn’t get out of your own head. You tried to focus on the curve of his shoulder, the softness of his skin, and the warmth of his body. But your eyes were drifting over his shoulder, scanning the crowd for a face that wasn’t his.
At a point, you spaced out. It wasn’t until Yushi took his hands off of you that you realized the song was over.
For the remaining two and a half hours of the dance, you looked for Riki.
But not once did he make himself found again.
x. THE SAME MOON
“You guys were too cute,” Eunchae said to you that same night, hours later at her house, with just you, her, and Wonyoung. The boys were on their way and would be at the after-party in a few minutes — everyone but Yushi. He mentioned something to you in the car about his family traveling upstate and visiting a grandmother. It wasn’t like you were paying attention, but that was likely what it was.
You rolled your eyes at her, “Okay.”
Wonyoung looked up from her phone. “What, Y/N? You weren’t feeling it? I thought you two looked cute.”
You shrugged. “He’s cute, sure, but I don’t know. He’s, like, fine. I dunno.” You shook your head at them for the umpteenth time and grabbed a handful of popcorn. “Listen, it’s a mix of things.”
“Like what?” Eunchae bugged, “He’s a high-scoring student, is a part of the student council, nice, what else do you need?”
Before you could even answer, three consecutive raps on the front door echoed through the house.
Eunchae popped up immediately. “Boys are here!”
When Eunchae left the room, you turned to Wonyoung, who was back on her phone. “My thing is, maybe I just want someone who has a bit of a different personality. Yushi just seems… I dunno. Too good.”
“Too good?” She questioned. “Y/N, you’re not really making any sense.”
“Good,” you replied, leaning further back, “it doesn’t make sense to me either.”
As if on cue, the boys (Woonhak, Jungwon, and Riki) walked through the entrance to the living room with Eunchae in tow, Jungwon carrying two pizza boxes.
“You guys got food?” You sat up.
Riki sat next to you and grabbed a handful of popcorn. Just like nothing happened, he’d reappeared from his disappearing act at the dance. You furrowed your brow at him, but he didn’t pay any mind to you.
“Yep,” Jungwon said, placing them on the coffee table nearby, “two. One cheese and one deluxe.”
“Thank God,” you replied, immediately opening one of them. “I think they were trying to starve us at that dance.”
Jungwon sat down across from you, and Woonhak sat next to Eunchae. Once he’d also grabbed a slice, Jungwon looked at you and asked, “Speaking of the dance, how was your date, Y/N?”
You groaned with a small glance at Riki to gauge his expression. He remained unmoved as Eunchae and Wonyoung laughed. “We’ve been trying to get that answer out of her since we got here.”
“Why does anybody care?” You bit into your slice. “It was just some dance.”
“Yeah,” Eunchae looked at you pointedly, “but it’s not just some dance. You’ve never gone to a dance with a boy before.”
“Okay, that’s just not true, though.” You frowned at her. “Riki and I went to the Winter Formal together as freshmen.”
“First of all,” Wonyoung interjected, “that formal was anything but formal. Secondly, it’s Riki. That doesn’t count.”
You fought the urge to roll your eyes. Of course, it counted. It’s Riki. “Whatever,” you replied, taking another bite. “My point is, I don’t know why everyone keeps talking about the dance. Yushi was nice, and it was no big deal.”
“Your first dance with a boy,” Eunchae responded, “and it was ‘no big deal.’ Okay.” She turned to the open box of cheese pizza and grabbed herself a slice. “All I’m gonna say is–”
Before she could continue, Wonyoung, sensing your annoyance, cut her off. “Does anyone want to play Mario Kart?”
A general sound of agreement arose from the room. Everyone except Riki, who had yet to utter anything to you, spoke up. He still picked up a controller. Amongst the concurrence, everyone shifted to the couch area, and suddenly the pizza in front of you disappeared.
You ended up playing the first round, sitting next to Jungwon, who took up about 70% of the couch. His feet, though covered in socks, brushed against your thighs despite your disgust. The people playing in the first round were you, Jungwon, Riki, and Woonhak. Between the second and third races of the first match, you finally turned to Jungwon while Woonhak was choosing which track he wanted to play next.
“Jungwon,” you warned, “if I feel your toes dig into my thigh one more time, I am going to let all Hell break loose.”
He retracted his feet just a few inches as your friends laughed at your rage.
The first round resulted in Jungwon winning, you taking second to him, though your real rank on the leaderboard was 3rd, and Woonhak and Riki were closely behind. With the swapping of controllers, you gave yours to Eunchae, and Woonhak gave his to Wonyoung. Before they started, you gave your two cents:
“I could’ve won if I didn’t have someone forcefully imprinting their dirty toes on me.”
While the room devolved into laughs and competition, you decided to log quickly onto 1-800-CALLCUPID and check for any submissions. You did your best to shield your phone, grateful that Woonhak (the only other person in the room who wasn’t playing Mario Kart) was not paying you any mind. Once you logged on, you sighed:
Submission - 22
Pending Approval - 19
Six more submissions since the dance had ended. Did you check the blog in the car on your way there? Possibly. But the better question was: why would people write to the column after the dance? Sure, there were still a few days until the actual holiday of Valentine’s Day, but most people in high school didn’t care about that. Their biggest concern was typically the Sweethearts’ Dance. And only within a few hours, too. The dance had ended at 11 p.m., and though you’d left around 10 p.m., it was soon going to be midnight. That meant it was only about four hours since the start of the dance.
Your moment of solitude within your phone was soon interrupted by Jungwon launching his feet into your leg again.
“Oh, my God.” You turned to him, roughly grabbing his foot – to which he let out a clear, high-pitched yelp.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he exclaimed. “I’m sorry!”
You finally let go of his foot and looked at the screen. Their round had ended, Jungwon winning first place again. Riki had jumped to third place, Wonyoung had finished in sixth, and Eunchae brought up the rear at eleventh.
“I’m done playing for a bit,” Riki revealed, offering his controller up to whoever would take it. “I have to pee.”
You stayed sitting on the couch, taking Jungwon’s controller after he’d won two rounds in a row. You saw him grab a slice of pizza from the corner of your eye as you tried to subtly watch Riki leave the living room. Once Riki left the room and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway, you turned your attention back to the television. Wonyoung was picking the track she wanted to play for the first race. She ended up choosing Toad Harbor.
For the first race, you finished in second overall. For the second one, you finished in first. By the third, you became uninterested in the game. Riki went to the bathroom at least ten minutes ago. Unless he was blowing up the toilet, he should’ve been back by this point. He mentioned peeing, though. You finished the rest of the races and ended up in overall third, beating out Woonhak, Wonyoung, and Eunchae. You handed over your controller to Jungwon, sitting for a second.
“Ugh,” Jungwon laughed, receiving the controller, “why is it sweaty?”
“I have to grind this game to win,” you responded.
Following the first race of the next round, you got back on your phone. Even as you were scrolling through Instagram, looking at people’s Sweethearts’ Dance pictures, you wondered why Riki had yet to return to the living space. It had to have been about fifteen minutes now, but none of your friends even said anything.
You excused yourself, deciding to look for him. You murmured something to them about grabbing a can of Coke Zero as you stepped over Jungwon, who had shifted his legs to be draped across the coffee table. No one paid any mind to you, which is what you expected. They had Mario Kart to focus on.
As soon as you stepped out of the living room, you turned on your phone’s flashlight to navigate the dark kitchen. Even with the light coming in from the moon, you couldn’t see if Riki was in the kitchen, even flashing your flashlight around for him. Nothing.
You decided to go to the pantry to grab a Coke anyway, cracking the room-temperature drink open as soon as you could. When you turned back around, you spotted a very familiar six-foot figure standing on the back porch. His completely black outfit must’ve made you miss him the first time. When did he get the chance to go outside? The room couldn’t have been too loud that no one would’ve heard him open the back door.
You crept your way to the door, flashlight now off, phone in your left hand, and Coke Zero in your right. You tucked your phone beneath your right armpit and opened the door with your now open left hand. Riki jumped slightly at the sound of the doorknob turning.
“You scared me,” he said, turning his head to look at you as you shut the door behind you.
“Sorry,” you replied, also turning to him. “I was wondering where you disappeared off to. For the second time tonight, mind you.”
Riki turned back to stare out into the distance. You noticed how he fixed on the moon, high in the sky. Not many stars could be seen from Eunchae’s back porch, mostly not visible due to light pollution. The remaining stars were generally covered by the trees in her backyard.
For a minute, neither of you said anything. It wasn’t bitterly cold, fortunately, which was expected for a February night in California.
At a point, you gave in and broke the silence. “Why are you hiding out here?”
“Hiding?” Riki asked. “I’m just taking a break from the noise.”
“You said you had to pee.”
“I did. I peed.”
“Okay,” you replied with a sigh. “So how did you end up out here after you peed?”
“Just needed a moment away from the noise.”
You laughed slightly to yourself. “Yeah? Just like during the dance?”
“No,” Riki reasoned, “that break was for water. But you’re right, it was too loud there, too.”
“Is that why you vanished after the announcement of Mr. and Mrs. Sweetheart?”
You didn’t see it, but Riki rolled his eyes.
“No.” He huffed, masking it behind a forced laugh. “I left then because I didn’t want to interrupt your slow dance with Tokuno Yushi.”
“Interrupt my dance…” You muttered, half to yourself. “I wish you would’ve stayed around. You were supposed to be my scapegoat from that.”
Riki turned to you, a puzzled look drawn on his face. “Did you not have fun with him? I know you went out to the lobby… but I thought that was for some water.”
“I should’ve had fun,” you admitted, sorrow laced in your voice. “I feel bad.”
“I thought you liked him.”
You turned to him finally, lips pressed in a fine line. “It’s just like what I told everyone earlier. He’s… he’s fine. I just don’t… I don’t know what it is. But I feel like I should like him, at least a little bit, and I don’t.”
“Why’d you say yes to him, then?”
You let your head fall back. “I don’t know. I’m pretty sure he asked Wonyoung and Jungwon to help with the Sweet-ing, plus he got me those macarons, and I don’t know… he’s a nice guy. He deserves someone.”
“So you don’t like him.” He turned back to the moon.
“No…”
“You shouldn’t lead him on,” Riki said.
“I’m not!” you defended yourself. “I just think maybe I should try it out. Eunchae really wants me to.”
Riki shook his head. “But that’s what Eunchae wants. What does Y/N L/N want?”
You paused for a second, considering. What did you want? It was pretty obvious what you wanted: Nishimura Riki. But you couldn’t outright tell him that. So, instead, for a minute, you let the sounds of the night swallow the conversation whole.
“Y/N L/N doesn’t know what she wants.”
Riki laughed a bit, letting his shoulders shake slightly as he crossed his arms. “You’re unbelievable.”
You let yourself relax into a giggle, following Riki’s gaze to look at the moon.
Though the weather wasn’t particularly cold, you still hugged yourself as close as possible without spilling the Coke. There was a slight chilly breeze, and you regretted not even wearing your shoes outside.
To your surprise, Riki broke the silence first:
“Don’t you think it’s funny that the moon is going to be the one thing that connects us all once we graduate?”
“Huh?” You looked away from the moon to him.
“Just… thinking,” he offered. “About graduation and stuff. Everyone’s gonna be so scattered next year, but at least we’ll all still be looking at the same moon.”
You smiled at his words. “That’s… oddly poetic.”
He shrugged. “I can be.”
A beat of silence followed before you both decided to speak at the same time:
“Are you—”
“Is now a good time—”
You looked at each other and laughed sheepishly.
“You go first.” He nodded at you.
“Okay.” You smiled. “Kinda weird, but would now be a good time to tell you I got into NYU?”
Riki’s face faltered for a second, so quickly that you almost missed it. “New York?”
You nodded with a shy smile.
“Y/N, that’s…” he trailed off, “...wow. That’s amazing. It’s—it’s really far from here.”
“Just because I got in doesn’t mean I committed,” you replied, giving him a little shove. “I don’t know if I can be that far. I looked it up… It’s almost a two-day drive. Even the flights are decently long. Six hours.”
“Palo Alto to NYU is two days?”
“Well,” you laughed, “it is all the way across the country.”
“Okay, smartypants. Go to your far-away, exclusive, smart college. See if I care.”
You rolled your eyes, laughing again. “You say that as if I’ll go there and never speak to any of you again. You’ve known me how long, Riki? Eighteen years? I’m not going anywhere.”
He shoved you back. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“I haven’t committed anywhere,” you reassured, “and I also got into UC Berkeley.”
“Whatever, smartass. We get it. You’re smart. Y/N L/N gets into whatever school she wants.”
“Didn’t you also get into UC Berkeley—”
“Besides my point,” Riki interrupted.
“Right.” You looked back at the moon. “But sure, that moon,” you pointed to it, “is going to keep us connected from two minutes away if we both commit to UC Berkeley.”
“Eunchae’s going to SJSU.”
“Wow,” you responded, “a whole hour away.”
“Jungwon’s basically already committed to Brown.”
“There’s no confirmation there, but I’ll let you have that one. It’s pretty far.”
“Wonyoung—”
You stopped him. “Are you doing some fear-mongering tactic right now? What’s your goal here?”
“I—I don’t know. I’m just getting antsy about the future.”
“That’s fair.” You gave him a pat on his arm. “I am too. But we still have until August to spend time together.”
“I’m not sure August will be enough time,” he muttered out, just beneath his breath.
You weren’t sure if you were meant to hear that, so you just kept quiet. For the next few minutes, neither you nor Riki uttered a word. You both just looked at the moon.
From inside the house, you heard a rumble of voices coming out of the kitchen. You turned to look into the room through the glass porch door to be met with Eunchae and Jungwon. Woonhak and Wonyoung were likely somewhere else in the kitchen.
“What are you two doing outside?” Eunchae’s muffled voice pressed through the door.
You looked at Riki, then back at Eunchae through the door. “Chatting.”
She opened the door, which let a wave of heat from inside the house hit you. “Come chat inside. Don’t be antisocial weirdos.”
Riki stepped through the door first. You watched him make his way to stand beside Wonyoung, observing whatever was on her phone.
Before you stepped completely back into Eunchae’s house from the back porch, you craned your neck to look at the moon one last time. At least we’ll be looking at the same moon.
xi. CATCH PHRASE
“I can’t take this anymore,” you murmured to yourself a few days later, on Wednesday, February 12th. You lifted your cramping fingers away from the keyboard of your laptop and dragged your hands down your face.
The elephant in the room—Valentine’s Day—was two days away, so of course, dozens of last-minute submissions about the holiday had flooded into the column, all of which were due by tonight. You had sent out an announcement on the blog, letting all viewers and writers know that any Valentine's queries would have to be submitted by Tuesday. If procrastinators submitted on the 12th or 13th (Wednesday or Thursday), the system wouldn't even filter them through to your dashboard until the 14th. At that point, it would be too late to put them in the February 14th issue; those submissions from Wednesday and Thursday wouldn’t even be posted until the following Friday, which was February 21st.
In addition to the six new arrivals into the “Submission” tab that you’d spotted on the night following the Sweethearts’ Dance, there had been a total of twenty-four new submissions since that moment. You cursed yourself for ever complaining that seven per day was bad at the beginning of the month—the twelve that had popped up overnight in your inbox were just criminal.
To your surprise, you had actually gotten through a large portion of them. Since the 8th (the day you’d had twenty-two submissions waiting), you answered about twenty-nine. Two more had come in on the 9th that you’d answered that day, and three on the 10th with two you’d answered and one you’d saved, but once you posted the warning for the due date, everyone began piling theirs in. The 11th had brought you thirteen letters, four of which you’d answered. This morning, twelve more had filtered through your system.
The stress was getting almost too much to bear. It certainly didn’t help that once again, you were skipping class to answer submissions. This time, however, you were skipping your final bell, which was your Journalism class. You were lucky that your teacher was Ms. Kerstappen and that you had an A; you were sure any other teacher would’ve served you an F and your head on a pretty platter otherwise.
You glanced at the clock on your phone. It read 2:32 p.m. You had about twenty-eight minutes until Nishimura Riki would call your phone, letting you know he would “leave school premises” if you weren’t in his car by 3:05. You hated that he drove you on Wednesdays. Curse your mother for needing the car more than you.
Just as your eyes were about to leave your phone screen, a text flashed across it. Tokuno Yushi.
He’d pulled you aside sometime in third bell (a class you didn’t even know the two of you shared), and asked if you wanted to try playing him in iMessage games. You figured, why not have games to play in between answering column submissions? But after the first round of Anagrams, he’d just been texting you about your day.
You felt bad because you really did want to like him. You tried so hard.
The phone screen went black.
You glanced back at the blog screen. Today alone, you’d only been able to get through four. In roughly twenty minutes, that’s horrible timing. Every time you tried to answer one, you would draw a blank. How could you answer questions about a holiday that you’d never even experienced outside of movies?
Your fingers were cramping, your head was hurting, and you were pretty sure Mrs. Blanche had turned on the A/C, because it was getting chillier by the second. As much as you wanted a reason to bail, you couldn’t. If you weren’t going to answer these columns, who was? It wasn’t like you would turn to using ChatGPT. The idea sent a shiver down your spine.
“Ugh,” you whispered out, followed by a yawn. “Opening this column was a horrible idea.”
You looked at the clock again. 2:35. You were sitting here wasting your time. You rolled your eyes, fingers still cramping, but figuring you could at least respond to Yushi.
He had sent you a few texts that read:
I totally get it!!!! She is the worst
Btw, did you ever finish that paper u were telling me about? For your english class?
I can still proof read it if need be
Your fingers danced across the screen, formulating a reply while you let out a sigh:
sure
i’m already finished with it. doing some hw so i will send it soon 👍
You turned your phone back off and flipped it on its face so you wouldn’t be tempted to turn it back on.
Two minutes later, however, when your phone buzzed once more, you gave in to temptation and checked who the text was from. This time, a message slid in from Riki:
Our sub gave us the rest of the class as free time
Do u wanna come to Mr Szekelys roommmmm
We can play catchphrase w Jungwon and yoona
You glanced at your computer screen. The “Submissions” tab looked right back at you. You really couldn’t bail. You told yourself you wouldn’t. The message “Dear Anonymous Sender 203” was barely typed from at least seven minutes ago.
But you did really like playing Catch Phrase.
Did you have anything going on tonight? Would it be safe to let yourself relax now and bear the consequences later? You’d already gotten through four. Maybe a twenty-minute break wouldn’t be that bad. That would at least prevent Riki from threatening to leave you at school.
You shut your computer. The column would have to wait. You tried to push away your guilt as you put your other things away.
xii. SHUT UP AND SPIN THE BOARD
The rest of February passed in a blur. You wanted to say you remembered it well, but as soon as you’d pushed through the rush of submissions, Valentine’s Day, and the mounds upon mounds of school work, the month had come and gone before you realized it.
The submission amount had slowed again, coming back down to around one to three daily. You were now able to stay on top of every issue, not drowning in responses.
Now that it was almost mid-March, you had greater things to focus on: homework and graduation.
Oh, and, of course, Nishimura Riki.
And Tokuno Yushi, whom you hadn’t been able to reject yet.
Which is why you felt so horrible in the moment. He’d continued going to group hangouts, mostly sticking by your side. Yushi texted you daily. He sat with you in first period and sat with your friend group at lunch. Getting rid of him was impossible.
He was cute, smart, good at soccer, and had a lot going for him. But he wasn’t Riki.
You noticed this especially today. You were sitting between both of them, again, on the couch in Eunchae’s living room. This time, everyone was playing Mario Party Superstars. Well, everyone except you, Riki, and Yushi.
Riki was on his phone, scrolling through Instagram, TikTok, or some social media platform with short-form videos, arm draped over the back of the couch, and feet propped on the coffee table despite Eunchae’s complaints. You were watching the videos over his shoulder, taking advantage of the fact that his phone was slightly turned towards you. You both chuckled at the video on his phone of someone falling over.
Yushi, however, was on your right side, further from the television, watching everyone play Mario Party. His body was leaning slightly towards yours, feet on the ground but nearly touching yours.
The sunlight from the outside of the house was spilling into the room, the 6:15 p.m. golden hour making the room radiate in light and warmth. The back of your neck, which was facing the window, began to heat up.
“Can we close the curtains?” you asked, bringing a hand to cover the hot spot.
“I was actually going to ask if you could do that,” Eunchae replied, looking away from the game while it wasn’t her turn. “It’s getting hard to see the screen. It’s dusty.”
“It’s your house, Eunchae,” Jungwon piped up from the floor, “just clean it yourself.”
“Our cleaners are coming in a couple of days.” Eunchae relaxed back into the couch. “I can be a lazy bum if I want.”
You reached behind Yushi with your right arm, stretching as far as you could to grab the curtain. You pulled it shut, bumping Yushi’s leg with yours in the process.
“Sorry,” you apologized, giving him a small smile and stretching to the left to grab the curtain behind Riki, careful not to bump him, too.
Yushi smiled at you, careful yet kind. “Are you guys almost done with this game?” he asked the rest of the group.
You looked toward the television to see that they were on their last round of the game. It appeared that Eunchae, for once, was in first place. You almost applauded her.
“My mom said she’d be bringing us food,” Eunchae piped up. “Buffalo Wild Wings. She just got a bonus from work for this sales project.”
You nodded with an impressed smile. “B-Dubs isn’t too bad.”
“She got it for my brother’s basketball team,” she replied, putting her controller down. “They just won their game.”
“Buying food for a whole college basketball team sounds like my worst nightmare,” Yushi said from beside you.
You laughed slightly at his joke with everyone else in the room. The only person who didn’t budge was Riki, who seemed to be immersed in the world of his iPhone.
Eunchae stood from the couch as the game finished. “Welp, I won. Anyone wanna play Twister?”
“Twister?” Jungwon questioned, craning his neck to look at her.
You stood up too. “I’ll play.”
Riki turned off his phone and also stood up. “Should we move the table?”
Eunchae nodded while others stood. “Jungwon, get up.”
Jungwon, who was leaning on the coffee table, groaned loudly and then stood. “Fine.”
Within minutes, the table was moved to the corner of the room due to the strength of the whole group—mainly Riki and Jungwon—lifting it.
“I’ll go grab the game,” Eunchae said, skipping to a closet in the hallway.
“Twister.” You leaned over to Riki, teasing him into getting excited. “I know you’re excited.”
“I lowkey am,” he replied, “I don’t think I’ve played since elementary school.”
“That’s not true,” you countered, “remember when we played at my eighth-grade birthday party? Actually, you know what, you hit your head so hard when we played that I wouldn’t be surprised if that caused you to forget it.”
“Shut up.”
Eunchae waltzed back into the room with the game. “Found it! Who wants to spin first?”
“I will,” Jungwon offered, “I need to lock in before I can play.”
“He just needs to ‘lock in,’” Wonyoung mocked with a laugh.
Eunchae handed Jungwon the spinner and then laid out the mat. She then checked her phone, reading the time out loud. “It’s almost 6:30, and my parents will be back in about thirty minutes. That should give us plenty of time.”
“Thirty minutes?” Jungwon questioned. “What, are they dropping off every player at their house, too?”
“Shut up and spin the board. I’ll go first,” Eunchae shot back.
“Okay,” Jungwon started, sitting back and spinning the spinner. “Eunchae, left foot: blue.”
She placed her left foot on the blue circle closest to her.
He next called at Riki, who was standing on Eunchae’s left.
“Riki… left hand: red.”
Riki, who was standing next to you, put his hand closest to you on a red circle.
“Y/N.” The Twister toy spun. “Left foot: blue.”
You put your foot right next to Riki’s hand. “Hello.”
“Gross.” He laughed while Jungwon spun the toy again.
“Yushi, right foot: red.”
The game continued for a bit, with each of you taking a turn to step or place a hand on the mat. Around seven minutes in, with Wonyoung and Woonhak out, the game was between you, Yushi, Riki, and Eunchae. At this point, your body was starting to cramp from having both your right hand and left foot on blue and your left hand and right foot on yellow.
Riki was behind you, who had lucked out for the first few rounds and only stayed in the red circles. Yushi, who stood in front, was mainly on yellows and greens. Eunchae had gotten lucky, too, and stayed on only her feet.
“I feel like I’m the only one actually twisting my body here,” you complained.
“Maybe,” Wonyoung replied, laughing, now taking over the spinner. “Good thing for you, you might be relieved of your pain. Y/N…” she paused as she spun the toy, “...ope, never mind. Y/N, left hand: red.”
Red. Of course, it had to be red. Red, the same red that was behind you. You groaned out loud, which made the whole group laugh. As you lifted your left hand behind you, you were careful not to hit Riki accidentally. You shifted your balance towards the balls of your feet, and before you knew it, you lost your balance.
You expected to hit the plastic mat with a hard THUD, but instead you were met with a hand gripping your upper arm, so hard yet delicately that you didn’t fall.
“Ah,” Wonyoung called, “that’s cheating, Riki! You can’t save her!”
Your cheeks flushed as you looked up at him. He was already looking at you, a look of worry painted on his face. He slowly let go of your arm, not to drop you, but to set you on the ground.
Your attention was quickly taken away by Yushi, who also looked at you with concern. “Are you okay, Y/N?”
You shook your head quickly. “I’m… I’m fine. Thanks, Riki.”
You stood up from your spot and sat next to Wonyoung on the couch. Before the game resumed, Wonyoung spoke again. “Riki, you’re also out. You can’t save someone else.”
“Since when is that a rule?” he complained.
“It’s not,” she replied, “but you lifted your hand from the circle. That made you lose.”
He rolled his eyes and stood up from the mat. He walked to the couch opposite you and stared holes into you. You simply avoided his gaze.
As if Eunchae’s parents could sense the rising awkwardness in the room, they walked through the front door and into the hallway, then peeked their heads through the doorway that went to the kitchen. “Food’s here!” Eunchae’s mom cheered.
Yushi walked off the mat towards the doorway, following Woonhak, who had taken the lead towards the food.
“I win again,” Eunchae said, smiling, and mostly to herself.
Once all of you were gathered around the kitchen island, everyone began opening the takeout boxes and grabbing plates. Yushi, who was initially standing relatively far from you, walked to the counter with plates, and when he returned to the island, he stood next to you.
“Here,” he offered, handing you a paper plate.
“Oh,” you said, shocked, “thank you.”
The rest of the meal devolved into laughs and stories very quickly, and as much as you tried to pay attention to Jungwon’s stories, Eunchae’s jokes, or Wonyoung’s comments, the only thing that planted a pit in your stomach was Yushi. He was being so, so nice, caring, gentlemanly, and everything you could ever want, but that was the problem: you didn’t want it. You wanted Nishimura Riki more than anything. And the more you had Yushi by your side, the more you realized it.
Around an hour and a half later, you received a call from your mother. You stepped out of the room to pick it up:
“Hello?”
“Hey, hon. I need you to come home in the next half hour. We’ve got to drive up to see your dad’s family tomorrow morning.”
You had forgotten about that. You mumbled some response to your mother and then hung up. As you walked back into the kitchen, you made a beeline for Riki, who had driven you there.
“Hey, we need to leave soon.”
Instead of a response, he gave you a puzzled look.
“My family is going up to Sacramento tomorrow. I completely forgot.”
He breathed in and nodded as he understood.
And a little less than half an hour later, you did exactly that: leave Eunchae’s house. They had all talked about starting another round of either Twister or Mario Party when you broke the news.
The drive home was nearly completely silent. Your mind was flurried with Yushi, but not in the way it should be. You needed to reject him finally, and you knew it.
About two minutes before Riki pulled into your shared neighborhood, he finally spoke up, above the soft radio music. “Are you good?”
“Huh?”
He chuckled at you. “‘Huh?’ You’ve been silent this entire ride. I know you don’t like your dad’s family that much, but—”
“I’m fine,” you lied, cutting him off. “Just tired.”
He let a silence follow for ten seconds.
“Yushi seems nice.”
You almost flinched at his name.
“Yep.”
Riki let another bit of quiet settle in the car before he spoke up again, acknowledging the elephant in the room that you’d been desperately trying to ignore for over a month. “He likes you.”
You let a long, heavy sigh leave your nose. “I know.”
The rest of the ride, neither of you spoke. When Riki pulled into his driveway, which belonged to the house across the street from yours, he let the radio play for a little bit before finally speaking:
“You still thinking about NYU?”
You paused for a second. You then shook your head, slowly, then shrugged. “I don’t know anymore.”
He nodded and spoke softly. “Okay.”
You bid him a small goodbye, hopping out of his car as he turned off the engine, then walking across the street to your house. When you walked into it, you shut the door softly behind you.
Just then, a text buzzed in from your phone: Tokuno Yushi. You didn’t open your phone to read the text or respond. Instead, your mind screamed only one thing:
You needed to put an end to this.
xiii. THE CUPID SOMETHING
The ending in question came a lot sooner than you’d initially anticipated. It was the next Tuesday when Tokuno Yushi met you at your locker at the end of the school day.
You wanted to talk to him on Monday to get the whole air cleared so that you could (hopefully) have a peaceful rest of your senior year, but he didn’t show up to school on Monday. You’d learned from a text that he’d sent you around 10 a.m. that he was “under the weather” that day. He also reminded you of the fact in your shared third bell.
“Yushi.” You were shocked to see him.
“Hey, Y/N,” he said, stepping to the side so you could open the locker.
You twisted the combination to your lock—12-09-05—and stuffed some unnecessary textbooks inside. “Hey.” You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t.
He leaned against the lockers nearby. “How was your class? Did your Journalism teacher grade that article you made about the fundraiser?”
“She did,” you replied, moving books around and still not meeting his gaze. At this point, you were wasting your time. You wanted to chicken out of the whole thing.
“Nice!” he cheered. “What’d you get?”
You finally shut your locker and looked at him. “A ninety-four.” You gave him a cordial smile as you fished your car keys out of your bag.
When you turned to walk towards the school exit, he was a few paces behind you. Before you could reach the door, he called out your name, which made you turn to look at him:
“Y/N.”
There was a certain urgency behind it, so you stopped in your tracks and completely turned your body around.
“Listen,” he started, “this may not be the best time because I have to head to practice in a few minutes, but…”
He trailed off. Your blood ran cold.
“...I may be crazy for asking you this, but… I’ve been having a lot of fun hanging out with you, and was wondering if you’d like to go on a date. With me. Sometime.”
You almost frowned at him. Out of courtesy, you stepped closer to him. There weren’t many students in the hallways, but you didn’t want to put him on blast and have his rejection be the talk of the school.
You gave him a small smile. “Yushi, listen… you’re a great guy, and I really like hanging out with you, too. But, I—”
“You like Riki,” he cut in, looking at the floor with a slight sadness laced in his tone.
“I— what? I-I… No, no, no. I… Riki? Nooooo…”
“I figured.” He sent you a sheepish smile. “I kind of prepared for you to reject me. I’ve liked you for a while now, but I thought you guys were dating. When you went to the dance with me, I thought my opportunity had arisen or something. I almost asked you out last week… but then you left with Riki, and I missed my chance.”
“Yushi… I- I don’t like Riki,” you lied through your teeth.
“You don’t need to lie to me, Y/N.” Yushi laughed. “He’s your best friend. I get it.”
“I… I don’t know what to say.” You were at a loss for words. “I’m sorry, I guess. I really tried to see you as more than a friend.”
He smiled at you genuinely. “Seriously, don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong. Thank you for at least trying to like me back. It was a really fun month.”
“This feels like a breakup.”
“It’s not,” Yushi assured, sunlight dancing on his skin. “I’d love to still be your friend.”
You laughed. “Of course.”
A blanket of silence swallowed you two for a bit before you spoke again:
“Should I pay you back for those macarons?”
Yushi smiled fondly. “No. They weren’t that expensive.”
“I just… I dunno, I feel bad.” You frowned at him.
“Don’t,” he replied, “don’t feel bad. I feel like if you should feel bad for anyone, it should be yourself.”
“Wow…” You laughed at his audacity.
He scrambled his next words out. “Not like that! I meant it like… you’re in love with your best friend. Not the ideal situation.”
You let yourself chuckle. “Unfortunately.”
“Oh!” Yushi looked like an idea had directly struck him. “You know what you should do?”
You furrowed your brow, slightly concerned. “What?”
He snapped his fingers. “You should write to that newspaper column! What’s the name? Cupid… Cupid something!”
“The Cupid Column?” You asked.
“Yes!” He pointed at you. He then checked his watch. “Oh, shit, I gotta go. Good luck, Y/N!”
Yushi sped off in the other direction.
Write to the Cupid Column, you thought, if only life could be that easy.
xiv. WEIRDO BEHAVIOR
“Dude,” you complained to Riki the next day as he was driving you home from school. “People in Journalism wouldn’t stop asking me if I knew who Cupid was. Like, I genuinely couldn’t give less of a fuck right now.”
Riki looked over at you as you were at a red light. “I don’t get why people care.”
“Me neither!” you concurred. “Like, they’re probably a senior like us, but who cares who they are. It’s just a column.”
Riki turned the radio down a bit. “Right.”
“I’m just tired of them asking me who runs it. I obviously don’t know.”
The light turned green, and Riki pressed the gas pedal in his Jeep.
“Just tell them to leave you alone,” he suggested as you rolled your window down. The further you got from Northpointe, the fresher the air seemed to smell.
“You think I haven’t tried that yet?”
Riki rolled his eyes sarcastically. As he turned right at a light, he asked you, “Do you wanna get milkshakes?”
“Right now?” you asked. It was barely past 3:00 p.m., and Riki wanted a milkshake.
“Why not? We can pop through In’n’Out.”
“You paying?” You looked at him with a raised brow.
He rolled his eyes again. “I suppose.”
Riki took another right, and before you knew it, he arrived at the In’n’Out drive-thru. There was a bit of a line, so he parked the Jeep to avoid wasting gas.
“What do you want?”
You considered your options for a second before choosing. “Straw— wait, no, vanilla.”
He shook his head and pulled forward. The two of you sat in the parking lot for about fifteen minutes after receiving your shakes, until Riki finished his and started driving again. The parking lot talks were mainly mindless, mostly just about school or work. You almost told Riki that you rejected Yushi, but you held back for no reason. As Riki began driving home, he asked you a question:
“Any update on NYU?”
“Why do you keep pestering me about that?” You looked at him from your spot in his car.
He lifted a hand from the steering wheel in defense. “I’m just curious! Can’t a man wonder?”
You shrugged. “I guess you can. I haven’t made any choices since we talked last. It’s good money, but it’s super far. I think I’ll choose a school to commit to in April.”
“April is next month.”
“I’m aware, Mr. Anxiety-Inducer. Leave me be.”
He went quiet for a second. “I committed.”
You perked up. “What? That’s great, Riki! Where? And why didn’t you tell me?”
“Berkeley. I was gonna tell you yesterday, but you told me you were doing homework when I called you.”
Right. “Homework.” Also known as answering as many submissions as possible, so you wouldn’t have to do shit today.
“Aw,” you replied, suddenly sappy. “I’m sorry. You should’ve told me the context. I would’ve paused for you.”
“It’s whatever,” he said, “you’re the first person I told, so it’s basically still the same thing.”
You sipped on your milkshake. “I guess.”
“What homework were you doing?” he asked as he turned on a new street, headed towards your neighborhood.
“Journalism shit,” you lied. “Kerstappen is breathing down my neck about this ‘special edition of the newspaper’ for the last few weeks of school. Special editions of every column, and her main focus is the Cupid Column because the author is graduating.” The part about Ms. Kerstappen was actually the truth, and it was only the timeline that you were fibbing about. The “special edition” of the newspaper was set to come out on the final Friday of school. You didn’t know exactly what the teacher had planned for the Cupid Column, but you were worried nonetheless. Her ideas were always otherworldly.
“She is a bit freakish about you,” Riki admitted. “Her star student, Y/N L/N, who got admitted into UC Berkeley and NYU.”
“She was so upset I didn’t go in as a Journalism major.” You laughed. “I had a few days where I had to convince her they only had a minor.”
Riki laughed too. “I’m sure she was unimpressed. Nothing wrong with it as a minor, though.”
You shrugged. “Maybe she’s living vicariously through me.”
Riki grimaced with a chuckle. “That’s despicable.”
You nodded, enjoying the song on the radio for a bit. You bobbed your head a little, jamming to the throwback that was California Gurls by Katy Perry.
“Ca-li-fornia girls…” You sang. “You think they wrote this song about me?”
“Seeing as we were like four to five years old when this song came out, probably not.”
“Oh,” you spoke up, “you know what I just realized the good thing about graduation is?”
“Never seeing any of these people again?”
“What— no? That’s so depressing.” You gave Riki a weird look. “I realized that you’re free from the Cupid Column after we graduate. Its reign over you will soon be over!”
Riki nodded, turning onto your shared street. As he pulled into his driveway, he spoke up, “You know what I realized? Why I hate the Column so much.”
You feigned disinterest, but really, you’d never been more interested in your life. “Why?”
“I think I hate the façade of ‘anonymity’ when it feels like all it is hiding. The writer isn’t this hero; they’re this faceless person who doesn’t even feel comfortable enough to talk to people without an alias. If someone really wants to help others, they shouldn’t hide behind a screen. People should just speak face-to-face instead of hiding. It’s just… weirdo behavior, I guess.”
You wanted to see where he was coming from. You almost did. But you were oddly hurt. You wanted badly to defend Cupid, but defending Cupid would mean potentially giving up your identity.
As he killed the engine, you couldn’t find the words to respond to him. So, instead, you just echoed him:
“Yeah… weirdo behavior.”
Silence fell for a second before you decided you needed to be alone. You looked at him. “Thanks. For the shake, I mean.” You opened the door of his car and hopped out with your bag and the empty milkshake.
“And… congrats about Berkeley. Really.” You walked away from his car before he could reply. For some reason, tears started to brim in your eyes. He hadn’t even said anything that hurtful to you. You pursed your lips and shoved your key into the lock.
The house was quiet.
You walked up the steps and down the hallway to your room. You placed the empty cup on your bedside table instead of throwing it away. It served as a reminder. A reminder of what, yet, you weren’t sure.
You threw yourself onto the bed. Everything you’d worked for since August, and Riki could finally put into words why he hated it. It was weirdo behavior.
xv. YOU WIN
A week later, you were working on the column when you got to your last handwritten one.
You recognized the handwriting before you got past the second word. The scratchy, wobbly letters of the boy that you’d known for eighteen years:
Dear Cupid,
I told myself that i’d never write to you but here I am, doing exactly that, so I guess you win. I decided to handwrite this because i dont want you tracking my IP address or my phone number or anything like that. Idk sorry i’m paranoid. Sorry anyways I think i messed up. Like bad.
This is insane for me to admit but i think i’m in love with my best friend and I’m pretty sure i have been for longer than I’d like to admit. Basically I was talking to her relatively recently and every time we talk college ends up coming up and it scares me so bad. I realize that while talking to her, just as two people that exist, that i cannot do life without her or else i’ll be a stupid idior Idiot for the rest of my life who lost not only my best friend but I think my first love
This has been going on for a bit but I think it really started when she went to the sweethearts dance with another guy. I initially wasn’t gonna go but as soon as i saw him ask her i decided that I needed to go. She even called me out for changing my mind and i just lied and said our friend convinced me but i didn’t like the idea of her going with some guy. And not just some guy he had a lot going for him! A lot more than me!
They were kinda dating? For a month or something like that and it actually made me sick to my stomach when i’d see him. I knew he liked her so he always rubbed me the wrong way i guess? But it just worsened everything
She ended up telling me she didn’t see him that way despite trying to which lifted a heavy weight off my chest which i didn’t even realize was there. But i think he’s still pursuing her because she hasn’t mentioned anything being off about him. Cupid you have to listen to me I SAW THE WAY HE LOOKED AT HER. I cannot lose her
I don’t know what to do and i obviously can’t talk to her about it which sucks because i tell her quite literally almost everything. I need to tell her before graduation and I don’t know what to do please help me
— Anonymous Sender
You read the first sentence again, hands shaking as you held the paper. A lump settled in your chest. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. But that handwriting was all too familiar.
general and series taglists : @asteriscoverde @feymine @ch4c0nnenh4 @rikiimuraaa @ori2ari @nikittiesluv @ikeupop @ainlvshs @jaeyunlovebot @cherrjaqke | @blooqz @ikijens @zoe1love @sunoominty @gg2029 @lotsafim @ddeonulen @rikislove @melancholatte @voucearse @fushigum1 @whoisthis-xxo @feiua @iiunique
Synopsis: Jake was the camp’s golden boy, everybody loved his sunshine energy. But around you? He was wrecked. Hopelessly, stupidly whipped. Always carrying your things, hovering, stealing hungry little glances. He wanted to tell you— “I’m in love with you. I want you so badly it hurts.” —but the second you brushed against him or laughed at something he said, his brain shorted out. One touch and he was done for, stuck wondering how much longer he could keep his feelings—and his desire—from exploding.
A/N: heyy guysssssss! I kinda vanished (sorry,) i had a very interesting and wild weekend with friends in a cottage in the mountains :) short story, we got drunk and i got fucking bitten and marked up by one of the guys (my arms still got hickeys two days later...) anways heres a short teaser for my next fic.
Jake was supposed to be supervising the canoe station.
Supposed to be.
Instead, he stood rooted to the dock, gripping his paddle so tightly his knuckles whitened, because across the shoreline—just a few feet away—you were kneeling in the grass helping three little campers tie their life vests.
And the heat was brutal today.
Which meant the camp uniform—already a questionable sin—looked even worse on you. Your shirt clung to every curve. Your shorts were barely shorts at all. Your legs caught the sunlight like it had a personal vendetta against him.
Jake swallowed hard. No—he choked on air.
God, he was so screwed.
You leaned closer to one of the kids, brushing hair from their face. Your shirt dipped. Jake saw far more than he should’ve. His brain immediately short-circuited, crashing like a cheap computer overloaded with images he had no business imagining.
And then his body responded.
Fast. Painfully. Predictably.
Jake inhaled sharply and discreetly tugged his paddle lower, shielding the very visible problem forming in his shorts.
“Dude.”
Heeseung’s voice came from behind him like a death sentence.
Jake jumped. “Wh–what?”
Heeseung leaned his elbow on Jake’s shoulder, smirking like the menace he was.
“You’re staring so hard I’m shocked her clothes haven’t caught fire.”
“I—I wasn’t staring,” Jake stammered, sweating harder than the sun could account for.
“You’re literally drooling.”
“I’M NOT—”
Heeseung just laughed, clapping him on the back. “Bro, you’re gone. Like, beyond gone. NASA couldn’t retrieve your dignity at this point.”
Jake groaned into his hands. “Shut up.”
But it was too late. Heeseung had seen everything—Jake’s flushed face, blown pupils, and the way he kept subtly angling his paddle to hide the mess in his shorts.
Heeseung whistled low. “Wow. She bends over one time and you’re ready to propose marriage?”
“I’m NOT— it’s not— dude, stop talking.”
Heeseung leaned closer, voice dropping. “Then stop looking at her like you want to get on your knees in the middle of the camp.”
Jake choked on his own saliva.
“HEESEUNG!”
“What? I’m just narrating what I’m seeing.”
Jake was going to kill him. Slowly. Painfully. Preferably with a life vest.
nishimura riki (ni-ki) x fem!reader | slow burn → smut | uni romcom | enemies to project partners to “oh” | YEARNING
wc: 11k
summary: You have always been “too much” for everyone else, but never for him; between shared hoodies, late projects and soft quiet rooms, he learns his silence only ever made sense beside your noise.
warnings: explicit fingering, clit rubbing, heavy making out, swearing, dirty talk (praise + light degradation), begging, desperation, thigh gripping, neck/ear kissing, possessive behavior, slight overstimulation, soft aftercare vibes, uni setting, mutual feelings before smut, aftercare
want your own custom story? click this!!
masterlist | wattpad
♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡
If there was a world record for “most dramatic reaction to a cup of coffee,” you’re pretty sure you’d have just broken it.
“NO WAY—” you gasp, loud enough for at least three tables to jump.
Half the campus library turns to stare. Pages freeze mid-turn, laptops pause mid-click. Someone’s earbuds fall out. At the far corner, a guy with bleached hair and a hoodie doesn’t even look up from his laptop.
Of course he doesn’t. Nishimura Riki never reacts to anything.
You slap your phone on the table in front of your friends, eyes wide. “GUYS. LISTEN. THE PROFESSOR JUST CANCELLED TOMORROW’S QUIZ.”
Yunjin clutches her chest like she’s been shot. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not, look!” You shove your phone at her.
Across from you, Sunoo pulls his AirPods out, blinking owlishly. “Did you just scream ‘no way’ in a library to tell us we don’t have a quiz?”
“Yes?” you say. “It’s an academic emergency.”
“That is not what ‘emergency’ means,” Jungwon mutters, not looking up from his notes, but the corner of his mouth twitches.
You’re still buzzing, bouncing slightly in your chair, when a flat voice floats over from the other side of your shared table.
“Some people are trying to study,” it says. “Shocking concept in a library, I know.”
You freeze.
Your friends all look up at the same time, like a synchronized swim team of nosy bitches.
There he is.
Nishimura Riki. Engineering student. Perpetual hoodie. Headphones always around his neck, not on his ears, like he wants the idea of music but not the joy. He’s staring at his laptop, not at you, fingers tapping calmly on the keyboard as if he hasn’t just insulted your entire personality.
Your eye twitches. “Wow,” you say sweetly. “I didn’t realize the Library Police were on duty today.”
Sunoo inhales, delighted. “Oh no,” he whispers. “It’s starting.”
Ni-ki finally glances up, eyes dark and bored, like you’re the seventh notification on an app he doesn’t care about.
“You yelled,” he says, tone flat, “because you don’t have a quiz.”
You nod. “Correct.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Congratulations. Some of us still do.”
“Well, some of us still have a will to live,” you shoot back. “Maybe if you didn’t look like a sleep-deprived NPC, you’d be happy too.”
Yunjin kicks your ankle under the table, badly hiding her smile behind her water bottle. Jungwon’s shoulders shake as he pretends to write.
Ni-ki blinks once. Twice. The tiniest bit of irritation flickers over his face.
“I’m not sleep-deprived,” he says calmly. “I just don’t feel the need to announce every thought I have out loud.”
You gape at him. “Yeah? Well, maybe you should try it sometime. Your personality might stop being… in beta testing.”
For a second, the corner of his mouth actually twitches up.
Then he shuts his laptop, slow and deliberate, like this conversation is a tab he’s done with.
“I’m moving tables,” he announces, sliding his charger into his bag. “Good luck with… whatever this is.” He gestures vaguely at you, your friends, your entire vibe.
“Thanks,” you chirp, way too brightly. “Good luck with your ongoing battle against joy.”
He walks away without answering. Not even a head shake. Just… nothing.
You glare at his retreating back. “I hate him,” you hiss.
Sunoo leans forward, eyes sparkling. “You say that a lot for someone who remembers exactly how he takes his coffee.”
You blink. “He takes it black, no sugar, that’s not—”
Yunjin gasps. “Oh my god, you DO pay attention to him.”
“Because he orders at the same café!” you protest. “He always orders right before me and takes forever to decide, like it’s an existential choice, and then he just says ‘black.’ Every. Time. It’s infuriating.”
Jungwon finally looks up, pen between his fingers. “I mean… that is weirdly specific.”
You throw your hands up. “I hate all of you. I’m going to refill my coffee.”
The campus café is just across the hallway, glass front reflecting the grey afternoon light. You dump your empty paper cup in the bin and get in line, humming under your breath.
“Next.”
You step up to the counter, already smiling. “Hi, can I get an iced vanilla latte, extra shot, extra sweet, no ice if possible, and—”
A familiar flat voice cuts in from beside you.
“She’ll take it with ice. Last time she said ‘no ice’ it was basically milk.”
You whip your head around.
Ni-ki is standing next to you, hands in his hoodie pocket, gaze trained on the menu above like you’re not even there.
The barista blinks between you. “Uh… so… iced vanilla latte, extra shot, normal ice?”
“Yes,” Ni-ki says.
“No,” you say at the same time, glaring at him.
You slap your student card on the counter. “Ignore him, he doesn’t believe in happiness.”
The barista snorts, taking your card. “Normal ice?”
You wilt. “Fine. Normal ice.”
As she punches it in, you turn on him. “Were you eavesdropping on my order history or something? That’s creepy.”
He looks down at you, expression annoyingly blank. “You’re… loud,” he says, as if that explains everything. “You complain. A lot. About the ice. And the milk. And the universe.”
“I do not complain about the universe,” you argue. “I just… narrate it.”
“Loudly,” he says.
You narrow your eyes. “You’re too quiet. It’s suspicious.”
He exhales, a sound that’s not quite a sigh. “It’s called being normal.”
“Normal people laugh,” you shoot back. “Or smile. Or show some sign that they’ve experienced joy since 2012.”
The barista slides your drink across. “The enemies-to-lovers energy is crazy right now,” she mumbles, not quietly enough.
You nearly choke. “WE ARE NOT ENEMIES TO LOVERS.”
Ni-ki doesn’t react. Of course he doesn’t.
“Black coffee,” he says to the barista. “No sugar.”
You make a face. “See? Serial killer order.”
He ignores that, tapping his phone to pay. “At least I don’t drink melted ice cream.”
You grab your drink, offended. “This is not melted ice cream. This is art.”
He gives you a long look, eyes flickering briefly over your cup, then your face. “It’s sugar with a degree.”
You blink. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
He’s already walking away.
You stand there, speechless for all of three seconds. Then you scamper after him because you just remembered something way worse.
“WAIT,” you call, catching up. “Why are you even here? Weren’t you just in the library?”
“The café is downstairs from the library,” he says. “People need caffeine to function. Crazy concept.”
You frown. “No, I mean—why are you here as in… you don’t have lectures today. Friday’s your off day.”
He finally stops, turning to stare at you fully now. His eyes are sharp even when his face isn’t.
“How do you know my timetable,” he says slowly.
You open your mouth, then close it.
Shit.
Behind you, the barista is watching this like a free drama.
“…Because you whine about your Thursday lab every week?” you try. “And you said Friday’s your ‘only day of freedom.’ And also you wear that stupid grey hoodie on Thursdays when you come in half-dead, but today you’re in the black one which is your ‘chill hoodie,’ so—”
You stop talking.
His eyebrows are slightly raised now.
“You remember my hoodies,” he says.
Heat crawls up your neck. “Well, they’re… always there. Like… background decoration.”
He just keeps staring.
“It’s not my fault you dress like a depression playlist,” you mumble, then flee back toward the library before he can say anything.
By evening, you’ve almost forgotten about it.
Almost.
Class is chaos, as usual. The lecture hall for “Contemporary Media Studies” is packed, projector humming, people sprawled across rows like they’ve been shipwrecked on Level 3.
You flop into your usual seat in the middle row, dropping your bag with a dramatic sigh.
“Why do we even have 8 PM lectures?” you groan. “This is human rights violation.”
Sunoo plops down next to you, hair fluffy, setting his iced americano on the tiny desk. “Because the university hates us and wants us to suffer,” he replies. “Also hi.”
Behind you, Yunjin slides into the seat, leaning forward between your chairs. “Did you hear we’re getting group projects for the final grade?”
You turn around so fast your neck cracks. “No. Take it back. Don’t manifest that.”
Jungwon, on your other side, flips through the slides on his tablet. “It’s on the syllabus. Week 7 onwards. You’d know if you checked the syllabus instead of using it as a coaster.”
You point at him. “I am a free spirit, okay? Syllabi cannot contain me.”
The door at the front shuts with a quiet click.
Professor Lee, your Media Studies professor, walks in, adjusting his glasses, laptop already under his arm.
“Good evening,” he says. “I hope you’re all surviving midterms.”
A wave of noncommittal noises answers.
You half-pay attention as he talks through attendance, grades, the usual.
Then he opens a slide titled: FINAL PROJECT — GROUP PRESENTATION (PAIRS).
You let out a strangled sound.
Sunoo pats your knee sympathetically. “Rest in peace.”
Professor Lee continues, oblivious to your suffering. “You’ll be working in pairs to analyze a media phenomenon of your choice. K-dramas, social media trends, idol culture, anything relevant. I’ll assign partners randomly to encourage you to work with people you don’t usually choose.”
You sink lower in your seat. “This is a social experiment,” you whisper. “They’re experimenting on us.”
Names flash up on the screen in pairs. You scan the list quickly.
Sunoo x Yunjin.
Jungwon x Karina.
You x—
You blink.
You x Nishimura Riki.
Your soul leaves your body.
“NO,” you blurt before you can stop yourself.
Everyone nearby turns.
Professor Lee looks up from his laptop, eyebrow raised. “Problem, Miss… Y/L/N?”
You freeze. “No, I… uh… I just—” You flail. “I was… reacting to systemic injustice.”
A few people snicker. Professor Lee looks thoroughly done. “You and Mr. Nishimura will be working together. I expect professional conduct.”
You drop your face into your hands.
Sunoo leans in, whispering, “Enemies-to-lovers speedrun?”
“Enemies-to-enemies,” you hiss back. “There is no lovers.”
A shadow falls over your desk.
You look up.
Ni-ki is standing there, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone. His expression is the same neutral boredom as always, but his eyes are slightly narrowed.
“So,” he says, voice low enough that only you and your friends hear. “Looks like we’re partners.”
You stare at him, horrified. “Can we return each other?”
He doesn’t even blink. “Unfortunately, no refund policy.”
Sunoo bites his knuckle to keep from laughing.
You cross your arms. “Just so we’re clear, I didn’t choose this. The universe is punishing me.”
Ni-ki shifts his weight, looking entirely unbothered. “Relax. We just have to not fail.”
“You say that like it’s easy,” you mutter. “We are literal opposites. You’re… quiet and scary. I’m… not.”
“That’s the problem,” he says.
You gasp. “Excuse me?”
Professor Lee clears his throat loudly. “If you’re done discussing your tragic fate, please exchange contact information and sit down so I can explain the rubric.”
You make aggressive eye contact with Ni-ki, then thrust your phone at him. “Fine. Give me your number.”
He takes your phone without reacting, typing quietly. You pointedly look away, staring at the projection screen like it’s the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen.
His phone buzzes in his hand. He glances down, then at you.
“Did you just name our chat ‘Group Project With My Arch Nemesis’?” he asks.
You grin, unapologetic. “Accuracy is important.”
His mouth twitches again. You can’t tell if he’s suppressing a smile or a stroke.
He hands your phone back, then walks to the row behind you and drops into an empty seat, long legs stretched out.
Your own phone buzzes.
“Unknown Number: Don’t be late when we meet to work on this.”
You type without thinking.
“you sound like a disappointed father.”
Three dots appear, then vanish. You smirk.
Class drags on. You doodle in the margins of your notes—little stick figures of yourself shaking a stick at a giant, dead-eyed blob labelled “nishimura riki.” You accidentally draw the blob wearing a hoodie.
By the time class ends, your brain is fried and you’re ready to go home and pretend group projects don’t exist.
You’re stuffing your notebook into your bag when a voice speaks up from behind you.
“Tomorrow,” Ni-ki says. “Library. 4 PM.”
You turn, backpack half-zipped. “I have a life, you know.”
He looks entirely unconvinced. “You have a three-hour break at that time. You spend it in the café. Complaining about capitalism and editing Reels.”
You blink. “…Have you been spying on me?”
He shrugs. “You’re not exactly subtle.”
“Wow,” you mutter. “You’re like, the anti-fan. You know my schedule just to hate on it.”
His gaze meets yours, dark and unreadable. “I don’t hate you,” he says.
You blink again, thrown.
He pauses, then adds, “You’re just… too loud.”
Heat pricks your cheeks. You force an eye roll. “And you’re too quiet. Balance.”
Something flickers in his expression. Before you can pin it down, he looks away.
“Tomorrow,” he repeats. “Don’t be late.”
“Or what?” you challenge.
He looks back at you, eyes steady. “Or we fail.”
You dramatically clutch your chest. “Threatening my grades… low blow.”
He just turns and walks out, hands stuffed in his pockets.
Yunjin appears beside you, looping her arm through yours as you watch him leave. “Soooo,” she singsongs, “how does it feel to be academically handcuffed to your worst enemy?”
You groan. “Pray for me.”
Sunoo skips ahead of you on the steps outside the building, walking backwards so he can face you. “I’m just saying,” he announces, pointing. “If you two end up together, I called it first.”
“There is no together,” you insist, shivering slightly in the night air. “He is a walking mute button. I am a playlist. We are not compatible.”
Behind you, Jungwon hums. “Playlists need devices to play on.”
You and Yunjin both stare at him.
He blinks. “What? That was philosophical.”
You bump your shoulder against his. “You’ve been hanging out with me too long.”
As you all walk toward the bus stop, city lights flickering in the distance, your phone buzzes again.
Ni-ki: Don’t forget the rubric.
You type back, tongue between your teeth.
“yes dad 🫡”
Three dots. They linger. Disappear.
You grin at your screen, then stuff it in your pocket, ignoring the weird little flutter in your chest.
You do not like Nishimura Riki.
You don’t.
…Right?
__________
You are not nervous.
You are annoyed.
That’s what you tell yourself as you jog up the library stairs at 4:07 PM, heart racing, tote bag slamming against your hip, hair slightly frizzing from the speed-walk sprint.
You’re annoyed he texted you three times.
Ni-ki: 4 PM. Don’t be late.
Ni-ki: It’s 4.
Ni-ki: 4:05.
You: relax time is a social construct
You: i’m literally on campus
You: do not start the project without me i need control issues over the font
You push open the glass door of the quiet study floor.
He’s already there.
Of course he is.
At a corner table by the window, laptop open, charger coiled neatly, headphones around his neck. Hoodie (black), sleeves pushed to his forearms. One leg stretched out under the table, long and unfair.
You pause for half a second.
He looks… different in daylight like this. Softer. Less NPC, more… boy.
Then he glances up, eyes flickering to the clock on the wall and then to you.
“You’re late,” he says.
Okay, never mind. Still annoying.
You march over and drop your tote on the chair opposite his. “It’s seven minutes,” you say. “That’s not late, that’s… fashionably punctual.”
“There’s no ‘fashionable’ in library booking slots,” he says, deadpan. “We have this table until six. You just shrank our work time.”
You glare at him. “Wow, hello to you too, Mr. Time Management.”
His gaze flickers to the plastic bag in your hand. “Is that… food?”
You pull out two little packs: one of chocolate-covered biscuits, one of honey-butter chips. You also pull out a can of iced coffee and set it next to his laptop without looking at him.
“That’s yours,” you say casually, like your heart isn’t doing a small drum solo. “Black, no sugar. Since you’re so emotionally attached to suffering.”
There’s a beat of silence.
You finally glance up.
He’s staring at the can. Then at you. His brows nudge together, just a little.
“You remembered,” he says.
You roll your eyes, pretending your face isn’t suddenly hotter. “You act like you’re a mystery when you’ve literally ordered the same thing for a year,” you mutter. “It’s not exactly CSI work.”
Something loosens in his shoulders.
“Thanks,” he mumbles, almost too quiet to hear.
You blink.
Was that… gratitude?
You clear your throat aggressively and flop into your chair. “Okay. Project. Let’s go before I start spiralling about the rubric.”
He turns the laptop a bit so it faces the middle of the table. The screen is already on a doc titled: FINAL PROJECT — Media Phenomena Ideas.
There are bullet points.
You stare. “You… made a list.”
“Yes?” he says, like that’s normal.
You shoot him a look. “Wait, so you care about this?”
He gives you a flat stare in return. “I like my scholarship.”
“Touché.”
You lean in, propping your chin on your hand as you read.
K-drama tropes and their impact on viewers’ expectations
Parasocial relationships in idol fandom
Cancel culture and ‘apology videos’
Noise vs silence in online spaces: who gets heard and why
Your eyes linger on the last one.
“You wrote this,” you say.
He shrugs. “It’s relevant.”
You smile, slow. “Noise versus silence, huh? That’s very poetic of you, Mr. I-Don’t-Feel-Anything.”
His lips twitch. “It’s just a title.”
You tap the screen. “It’s us.”
He frowns. “What?”
“You’re the silence, duh. And I’m the noise.” You spread your arms like you’re introducing a circus. “We are literally a case study.”
He looks at you for a long moment, like he’s genuinely considering that.
“I don’t… hate that idea,” he admits.
You blink. “You… what?”
“I said I don’t hate it,” he repeats. “We could frame it around who gets labeled ‘too much’ versus ‘too little’ in media. Whose voices are called annoying. Who gets dismissed.”
You’re quiet for a second, caught off guard by how… thoughtful that is.
“Wow,” you say softly. “You have brain cells.”
He stares at you, unimpressed.
Then, unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth curves.
You see it properly this time: an actual, real smile. Small. Barely there. But real.
It makes something fizzy bubble up in your chest.
You look away first.
“Okay,” you say quickly, pushing your hair behind your ear. “So our phenomenon is… volume. Social volume. People like me versus people like you.”
“There are no people like you,” he mutters.
You blink. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly. “I mean, you’re… specific.”
Your heart stutters in a very unhelpful way.
You latch onto business. “We can split it into sections,” you say, grabbing a pen. “You can do research on, like, algorithms and visibility and stuff—since you’re the Data Goblin—and I can handle case studies and examples and make the slides pretty.”
He doesn’t object to Data Goblin. That’s how you know he’s focused.
“Fine,” he says. “But the script has to be balanced. No shouting during the presentation.”
You gasp. “That was one time and I thought the mic was off.”
“You started with ‘HEY GUYS,’” he reminds you. “In a classroom of 25 people.”
You bury your face in your hands. “We do not speak of that day.”
When you peek through your fingers, he’s looking at you with this weird, soft amusement that you’ve never seen on him before.
You drop your hands, trying not to fidget. “Okay, hand me the laptop,” you say. “I want to make a moodboard. All good projects start with a moodboard.”
He slides it over, your fingers brushing for a second.
It’s nothing. Just skin. Just a casual, split-second touch.
But your pulse jumps in your throat, stupidly.
You pretend it didn’t affect you.
He pretends even harder.
You both fail.
Two hours in, your brain is fried and there’s a half-empty packet of biscuits between you.
You’re scrolling through articles, occasionally reading bits out loud—because you can’t not read out loud when you get excited.
“Listen to this,” you say, tapping a highlighted paragraph. “It literally says that outspoken women online are more likely to get called annoying or hysterical, while quiet guys get labeled as ‘mysterious’ or ‘cool.’”
You look up.
Ni-ki is staring at his notebook, but you can tell he’s listening. His pen pauses.
“You’d be the hysterical one,” he says calmly.
You throw a biscuit at him.
He dodges without even looking up. “Proving my point.”
You huff. “Okay, but, like, you are considered cool for being quiet,” you argue. “People in class think you’re some cold genius or something.”
He snorts, actually snorts. “That’s stupid.”
“Yeah, but it’s true,” you insist. “You just sit there like a statue and get all this mysterious aura for free. Meanwhile, I say three sentences and suddenly I’m ‘loud’ and ‘too much’ and ‘extra.’”
His pen starts moving again. “You’re not too much.”
You roll your eyes, swallowing the unexpected warmth that rises at that. “Tell that to half my ex-tutors growing up.”
He glances up at you, expression unreadable, eyes a little darker.
“You had crappy teachers,” he says simply. “That’s not a you problem.”
You blink.
The words hit harder than they should. You’re so used to laughing it off, to making jokes about being “too much,” that someone dismissing the entire idea so casually feels… disarming.
You look away, pretending to be fascinated by the biscuit crumbs.
“…Thanks,” you mumble.
He doesn’t say anything, but out of the corner of your eye, you see his shoulders relax, like he’s glad he said it.
You clear your throat. “Anyway, did you find that study on platform muting features?”
“I bookmarked it.” He taps his trackpad, opens a tab. “Here.”
You scoot your chair closer to see the screen.
Too close, as it turns out.
The legs of your chairs bump; your shoulder knocks against his arm.
You freeze.
He does too.
You’re suddenly very aware of how solid he is under that hoodie. Lean, not bulky, but there. His sleeve is soft against your bare forearm. You can feel the heat from his skin, the faint press of muscle when he shifts.
The air between you shrinks to a pinpoint.
Your throat goes dry. You should move back. You definitely should move back.
Neither of you moves.
He clears his throat first, voice a little quieter. “This part,” he says, pointing to a paragraph, “talks about who gets silenced. That fits your section.”
Your brain has to fight to focus on the words, not the way his hand looks so close to yours—long fingers, knuckles faintly pink from how hard he grips his pen when he’s annoyed.
You swallow. “Yeah,” you manage. “Yeah, that’s… that’s good. We can connect it to personal experiences too. Like… how people react to us.”
He hums, low in his chest. It vibrates through the small space between you. You feel it more than hear it.
For a moment, you’re both just… there. Sharing a laptop. Sharing a silence that doesn’t feel harsh or heavy—just full.
You exhale slowly, forcing a joke back into your voice.
“Wow,” you say. “Look at us. Coexisting without homicide.”
His mouth curves again, that tiny, dangerous almost-smile.
“Don’t jinx it,” he says.
By the time you pack up, the sky outside the window has shifted from grey to deep blue. The library lights feel harsher after the soft dusk.
You stretch your arms over your head with a groan. “My spine is dead. You killed it.”
“You slouch like a shrimp,” he says. “That’s not on me.”
You glare half-heartedly, slinging your tote over your shoulder. “Are you walking back to the dorms?”
“It’s late,” he says instead.
You blink. “Wow, thanks, clock.”
He ignores that. “You’re taking the bus?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Why?”
He hesitates for a fraction of a second.
Then: “I’ll walk you to the stop.”
You stare at him. “Why?”
He looks at you like you’ve asked why water is wet.
“Because it’s dark,” he says. “And there’s that creepy underpass between here and the stop.”
You huff. “I walk there all the time.”
“Well, today you’re not walking alone,” he says, already moving toward the stairs.
You stand there, blinking at his back.
Your heart does a double flip.
You hurry to catch up. “Are you… being nice to me?”
“No,” he says, deadpan. “I just don’t want to end up presenting alone.”
You roll your eyes so hard you almost see your brain, but you can’t quite wipe the small smile that sneaks onto your face.
Outside, the air has that chill that sneaks into your sleeves. You wrap your arms around yourself automatically.
Beside you, Ni-ki adjusts his hoodie string, then glances down.
“You didn’t bring a jacket,” he says.
You make a face. “I didn’t think it would get this cold. It was sunny like, this morning… or whenever time existed.”
He exhales, a sound that’s almost a sigh.
Then, to your surprise, he reaches up, unzips his hoodie halfway, pulls his arms out—without taking it off completely—and holds it out to you like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Take it,” he says.
You blink. “What about you?”
“I’m wearing a t-shirt,” he says. “You’re wearing… whatever that is.”
You look down at your cute cropped top, then back at him. “It’s called fashion, you absolute man.”
“It’s called pneumonia,” he says. “Just wear it.”
The hoodie hangs between you.
You hesitate. It’s stupid to feel weird about borrowing a hoodie. People do that all the time. This isn’t a drama. This isn’t a confession.
But something about him offering—quietly, without teasing, without turning it into a joke—makes it feel heavier than cotton.
You take it.
His fingers brush yours again.
There’s that jump in your chest again, quick and sharp.
You shove your arms into the sleeves. It’s big on you, swallowing your hands, the hem falling lower than your hips. It smells like fabric softener and coffee and something faintly, unmistakably him.
You can’t name it. You just feel it.
“How do I look?” you ask, trying to sound like you’re kidding.
He looks at you.
Really looks.
His gaze travels over the hoodie engulfing you, your hands tugging the sleeves over your fingers, your face peeking out from the huge hood.
For a second, something unguarded flashes across his features. Something like softness. Like… fondness? No. You’re imagining things.
“You look…” he starts, then stops, clears his throat.
You lean in, eyes bright. “What? Say it.”
He looks away, ears going a little pink. “Warm,” he mutters.
You burst out laughing.
“That was the most emotionally constipated compliment of all time,” you say, but your grin is so wide your cheeks hurt.
You walk the rest of the way like that—him with his hands in his pockets, you half-swallowed by his hoodie, wind tugging at your hair.
At the underpass, you instinctively fall a step closer to him. You’ve walked here alone countless times before, but suddenly you’re hyperaware of shadows, of sounds, of the echo of your footsteps.
His arm brushes yours.
You don’t move away.
Neither does he.
When you reach the bus stop, you turn to face him, hugging yourself inside the hoodie.
“Okay,” you say lightly. “You’ve fulfilled your noble duty as my grumpy bodyguard.”
He snorts. “Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late,” you chirp. “I’m tweeting it. ‘Local introvert escorts loud menace through dark underpass, claims it’s about grades.’”
His eyes flicker. “Don’t put my name.”
You grin. “Oh my god, are you shy?”
He gives you a flat look. “You’re insufferable.”
A bus approaches in the distance, headlights bright.
You suddenly don’t want this moment to end.
“Hey,” you say, a bit softer. “Today was… not as terrible as I expected.”
He blinks, as if you’ve spoken in another language. “That’s your way of saying you had a good time?”
“Don’t get greedy,” you say quickly. “I said ‘not terrible.’”
His mouth does that almost-smile again. “It was… not terrible for me, too.”
Your chest does that stupid flutter again.
You rock back on your heels. “Text me the article links, okay?”
“I will,” he says. “Don’t name the group chat something worse.”
You smirk. “No promises, ‘Group Project With My Arch Nemesis’ is iconic.”
He shakes his head, but you swear you see the tiniest hint of a real smile.
The bus hisses to a stop.
You step up onto the first stair, then turn back because you suddenly want to say something more, something that matches the warm weight in your chest and the black hoodie around your shoulders.
“Hey, Ni-ki?”
He looks up.
For a moment, your eyes lock—his dark and steady, yours too bright.
“Thanks,” you say simply. “For the… hoodie. And the walking. And the ‘you’re not too much’ thing.”
His expression softens, just barely.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
You hold his gaze for one more second than is strictly necessary.
Then you turn and step onto the bus, heart hammering against your ribs as you swipe your card and find a seat by the window.
As the bus pulls away, you look back.
He’s still there.
Standing under the streetlight, hands in his pockets, watching the bus disappear. His hoodie no longer on him, but on you.
You don’t know why your throat feels tight.
You don’t know why you suddenly care whether he’s cold.
You do know that when your phone buzzes a minute later and you see his name, your smile is immediate.
Ni-ki: Send me a pic of the notes so I can organize them later.
Ni-ki: Also, don’t spill anything on the hoodie.
You take a selfie instead—half your face, drowned in his hoodie, eyes scrunched up in a teasing grin.
You: no promises, i live dangerously
You: (also thanks again, grumpy hero)
The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Ni-ki: Don’t call me that.
Ni-ki: Goodnight.
You stare at the word for a second longer than you should.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard, then type back before you can overthink it.
You: goodnight, data goblin
You shove your phone away and press your cheek to the cold glass, watching the city blur by. You’re smiling so hard your face hurts.
You are definitely not supposed to like him.
You’re enemies. Opposites. A noise complaint waiting to happen.
But the problem with volume, you’re starting to realize, is that once you notice the quiet underneath, you can’t un-hear it.
And somewhere between the shared laptop, the underpass, and the hoodie still warm around you, your loud, chaotic heart has started tuning itself to his quiet frequency without asking for permission.
_________
Presentation day feels like someone turned the saturation up on your anxiety.
Your outfit took thirty minutes longer than it should have. Your hair has been redone twice. You practiced the intro in front of your mirror until your reflection started judging you.
And through all of that, there’s been one constant:
Ni-ki’s texts.
Ni-ki: Drink water.
Ni-ki: Breathe.
Ni-ki: If you faint on stage I’m leaving the country.
You: ur so supportive wow
You: u better catch me if i fall
Ni-ki: You’re not going to fall.
Ni-ki: You’re going to talk too fast, wave your hands too much and still somehow pull it off.
You stare at that last text a bit longer than necessary.
Outside the lecture hall, you’re doing your best impression of a malfunctioning Roomba—pacing, turning, bumping into things.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” Ni-ki says quietly.
You whirl around.
He’s leaning against the wall, hands in the pockets of a simple black sweater, hair falling into his eyes. He looks annoyingly calm.
You, unfortunately, notice all of it.
“This is your fault,” you accuse. “You’re the one who wrote ‘social volume’ in the doc like it was a normal phrase. Now we have to go sound smart about it.”
He shrugs. “We are smart about it.”
“That’s debatable.”
His gaze flicks over you, from your shoes to your layered necklaces to the way you’re wringing your hands. His eyes soften.
“You look nice,” he says.
You blink. “That was… direct.”
He shrugs again, like it’s nothing, but there’s a faint flush at the tips of his ears. “It’s true,” he mutters. “You…clean up well.”
You snort. “Wow. Be still my heart.”
But your cheeks are warm.
He steps closer, lowering his voice. “Hey.”
You meet his eyes.
“You’re good at this,” he says, steady. “People listen when you talk. That’s our entire thesis, remember?”
“That people are allergic to my volume?” you say weakly.
“That your volume makes people look up,” he corrects. “Which is the point. Use it.”
Your stomach flips.
“You have so much faith,” you mumble.
“I’m not wasting my scholarship on a bad partner,” he says, but the smile that ghosts over his mouth gives him away.
“Wow,” you say. “Romantic and practical.”
“Don’t be late to the stage,” he replies. “I can’t stall for you. My whole personality is three sentences long.”
You huff out a laugh, nerves loosening just enough.
When your names get called, you look at him one last time.
He nods once. “Go be loud,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”
You do go be loud.
You talk about social volume, and how some voices get branded “too much” while others get labelled “coolly reserved.” You gesture too big, your eyes light up, your words spill fast… and when you catch yourself starting to ramble, you feel his presence beside you, solid and steady, and it grounds you.
He takes over seamlessly when it’s his turn, voice calm, explaining the algorithm parts like he’s explaining a game mechanic to you. He doesn’t look at anyone else while he speaks; every so often his eyes flick to you, like he’s checking you’re still there.
When it’s done, there’s a beat of silence, then real applause.
You actually hear Professor Lee say, “Good work,” which you’ll probably remember on your deathbed.
You stumble back to your seat, adrenaline buzzing through your veins.
“I blacked out,” you whisper. “Did I say anything stupid?”
“You were fine,” Ni-ki says. “You made three people in the front row cry.”
“WHAT.”
“In a good way,” he adds. “I think.”
You groan, dropping your head onto your folded arms. “Please bury me under the media lab.”
His hand appears in your field of vision, holding out your water bottle.
“Drink,” he says.
You squint up at him. “Stop being nice, it’s confusing.”
He rolls his eyes, but his voice is soft. “Shut up and hydrate.”
You grin into your sleeve as you take it.
It only really hits you later.
Professor’s offhand comment. The way he said “careful not to overdo it” with a polite smile.
You thought you brushed it off.
You didn’t.
It follows you down the corridor, into the elevator, all the way to the small media room you booked under the excuse of “reviewing the recording.”
You tell Ni-ki to meet you there.
He doesn’t even question it.
Now the two of you are alone in a dim little room with a projector humming, your own faces frozen on the screen in a paused recording.
You drop into a chair and spin lazily, trying to pretend your chest isn’t tight.
Ni-ki plugs in the USB, queues up the file. “You really want to watch ourselves present again?” he asks.
“Absolutely not,” you say. “But my brain is in ongoing analysis mode, and the only way to shut it up is to feed it content.”
He gives you a look. “English, please.”
“I’m spiralling,” you translate.
“Ah.”
He hits play.
There you are, filling the screen—gesturing, smiling, eyebrows doing the most. Next to you, he’s a calm contrast, hands folded, expression focused.
You groan. “Why do I move so much? I look like I’m trying to conduct an orchestra and deliver a TED Talk at the same time.”
“It’s you,” he says simply.
“Bad branding,” you mutter.
He glances sideways at you, then back at the screen. “I like it.”
You go quiet.
You watch video-you laugh at your own joke, and some people in the front row laugh too. You also watch the exact moment Professor Lee leans forward, making that note about not overdoing it.
Something twists in your chest.
“You heard that, right?” you say, eyes still on the screen. “The whole ‘careful not to overdo it if you want to be taken seriously’ thing.”
“I heard it,” Ni-ki says.
“You agree?” you ask lightly.
He pauses the video.
Silence floods the room.
You finally look at him.
His gaze is steady, darker than a minute ago.
“No,” he says.
You swallow. “Then why do I feel like maybe he’s right?”
He leans his hip against the table, turning to face you fully.
“Because people have been telling you to be smaller your whole life,” he says quietly. “That doesn’t make them right.”
It hits a little too close.
You let out a choked laugh. “I mean… it’s kind of true. I’m… a lot. Loud, dramatic, too excited. You’re the stable one, the normal one. I’m the one who needs volume control.”
He frowns. “You’re not a TV.”
“You’d like a mute button though,” you say, forcing humour. “Admit it.”
He just looks at you.
“I wouldn’t,” he says.
You scoff, because apparently you have a death wish. “You complain about my volume all the time, Ni-ki. Library, bus, hallway. ‘You’re so loud.’ ‘Why are you yelling.’ Come on, it’s not that deep.”
“I know you hear those in a different way,” he says, voice low. “That’s on me.”
You blink.
“You think I’m annoyed by you,” he goes on, the words careful but sure. “I’m not. I’m… aware of you. All the time. There’s a difference.”
Your heart does a sudden, painful lurch.
You grip the back of your chair. “That sounds like poetic stalking.”
He exhales, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. “It’s just facts.”
He pushes off the table, closing the space between you a little.
“You walk into a room and my brain goes, ‘Okay, she’s here,’” he says. “It’s like the volume in my head resets. When you’re talking, I know where I am.”
You stare at him. “That’s… intense.”
He shrugs one shoulder, like he’s revealed what he had for lunch. “You wanted honest.”
“Yeah, but not—” you gesture helplessly at him “—romcom monologue honest.”
He takes another step closer.
You look up at him now, really up, suddenly very aware of how small the room is. Of how tall he is. Of the way his sweater looks soft, and how his cologne is faint but warm, and how your pulse has migrated somewhere behind your eyes.
“That’s what bothers me about what the professor said,” he murmurs. “Not that he critiqued your delivery. That he did it like your enthusiasm is a flaw. Like your voice is something to manage.”
“It is something to manage,” you say weakly. “People get tired of it. Of me.”
“Not me,” he says immediately.
The words land like a stone in a still lake.
You bite your lip. “But you’re always telling me—”
“I tease you,” he says. “And I should be more careful with that. But I’m not annoyed when you’re loud, Y/N. I’m… relieved.”
You blink fast.
“That’s the least Ni-ki sentence I’ve ever heard,” you say, voice unsteady. “You hear yourself?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”
He looks nervous now, in the tiniest ways—fingers flexing at his sides, throat working, eyes never quite leaving your face.
Something fizzy and terrifying bubbles under your ribs.
“If you didn’t want me to be like this,” you say softly, “you wouldn’t have chosen this topic.”
“I didn’t pick ‘social volume’ because I wanted to write an essay,” he admits. “I picked it because it’s… you and me. On paper.”
Your breath catches.
You’re not good at shutting up when your feelings are too big. So instead, they tumble out in a small, cracked laugh.
“You’re going to make me cry,” you warn.
He steps in that last bit, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him.
“That’s not my goal,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “But if you do, I’ll be here. Loud or not.”
Your heart has fully abandoned structural integrity at this point.
You tilt your head back to meet his eyes. “Why?”
He blinks. “Why what?”
“Why do you care so much?” you ask. The question comes out small, raw. “You’re not like this with anyone else. Why with me?”
He looks at you like he can’t believe you don’t already know.
“Because I like you,” he says. “Way more than I know what to do with.”
Time stutters.
The projector hums. Something buzzes in the hallway. Your ears are full of static.
“…Say that again,” you whisper.
He swallows, jaw tense, eyes locked on yours like he’s bracing for impact.
“I like you,” he repeats, slower this time. “You get that, right?”
Your knees actually wobble.
“Well,” you breathe. “That’s… different from ‘you’re too loud.’”
He huffs out a quiet almost-laugh. “I never meant it like that,” he says. “I meant ‘you’re loud and it makes my heart do weird things and I don’t know how to handle it, please slow down so I can catch up.’ But that’s… long.”
“That is long,” you say faintly.
His gaze drops, just briefly, to your mouth, then back up. The air between you tightens.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
“That I might be hallucinating,” you say. “Because there’s no way Nishimura Riki just confessed to me in a media room with our own project paused behind us.”
“Fate has bad timing,” he says dryly.
You laugh, breathless.
“And you?” you ask, because you have to make him admit it again, for yourself. “What are you thinking?”
His eyes flick over your face, lingering at your lips again. “That you’re standing very close,” he says quietly. “And I really, really want to do something about it.”
Your insides light up like a switchboard.
“What kind of ‘something’?” you manage, even though your voice has definitely jumped an octave.
He gives you a look that’s somehow both shy and devastating.
“Don’t make me spell it out,” he says. “I’m already at my limit.”
You catch your bottom lip between your teeth.
He notices. You know he does, because his breath hitches, just a little.
You take a step forward without even deciding to, and now the table is pressing into the back of your thighs and he’s right there—hands braced lightly on either side of you on the edge of the table, effectively caging you in without actually touching.
You can smell his laundry detergent and the faint coffee on his breath. His eyes are so, so dark.
“Ni-ki,” you say, and it comes out half-warning, half-invitation.
“Yeah,” he whispers.
“I like you too,” you blurt.
His shoulders rise with his inhale.
“Good,” he says, and there’s something rough in his voice now that wasn’t there before. “Because I’ve been going insane.”
You blink rapidly. “Insane how?”
He leans in a fraction, enough that his forehead almost brushes yours.
“Insane like,” he murmurs, “every time you talk to someone, I’m counting how long they keep your attention. Insane like I know your coffee order, your Tuesday timetable, the way you fidget with your rings when you’re lying. Insane like I look for you in every room without realizing I’m doing it.”
Your fingers curl around the edge of the table, knuckles white.
“That’s…” You swallow. “A lot of data, Data Goblin.”
“I told you,” he says quietly. “You’re hard not to notice.”
Your heart is slamming so hard you’re almost dizzy.
“You’re very close,” you whisper.
He nods once, eyes never leaving yours. “Do you want me to move?”
You could say yes. You could make a joke, break the tension, laugh it off.
But you’re tired of running laps around your own feelings.
You shake your head, tiny, barely-there.
“No,” you say. “Stay.”
Something in his face crumples, then rebuilds itself into something more intense.
“Okay,” he breathes.
One of his hands lifts, slow enough that you could slap it away if you wanted to. You don’t. He touches your jaw with the lightest pressure, fingers warm against your skin, like he’s checking if you’re real.
Your eyes flutter shut for a second.
When you open them, he’s closer.
You can feel his breath fan over your lips now, uneven.
“This is… dangerous,” you whisper.
“With you?” he says softly. “Probably. I don’t exactly think straight around you.”
You let out a shaky laugh that dies halfway.
“Then why are you still here?” you ask.
“Because you asked me to be,” he says simply.
That does something irreversible to your heart.
Your free hand finds the front of his sweater almost on autopilot, fingers curling in the fabric. You give a tiny tug.
He stumbles that last inch.
Your noses brush.
His eyes search yours for any sign of doubt. Any flicker of “stop”. He doesn’t find it.
“Tell me to back off,” he says, voice barely there.
You don’t.
Instead, you tilt your chin up.
He makes a quiet sound, almost like a sigh and a curse tangled together.
His mouth finds yours in the next heartbeat.
It’s not dramatic, not at first. It’s careful. Testing. The kind of first kiss that’s been building for weeks, months, a whole semester—soft and hesitant and so full of held-back feeling it almost hurts.
You fist your hand tighter in his sweater.
He kisses you like he’s been thinking about it too long—like he’s replayed this exact angle, this exact tilt of your head, a thousand times in his brain and is finally getting to try it for real.
You make a soft noise in the back of your throat, surprised by how easy it feels to melt into him.
That tiny sound wrecks him.
His other hand finds your waist, fingers splaying just enough to anchor you. He pulls you in, just a little, closing whatever space was left.
The room falls away.
There’s just the heat of his mouth, the press of his chest, the way he breathes like he’s been underwater and finally found air.
You’d been joking about steamy drama scenes, but nothing prepared you for the real thing—his hesitance giving way to something deeper, hungrier, the way he tilts his head and the kiss turns from sweet to something else.
Something that makes your toes curl in your shoes.
You gasp when his hand at your waist tightens unconsciously, pulling you flush against him.
He breaks away instantly, breath harsh.
“Sorry,” he mutters, voice rough. “Too much?”
You’re flushed, breathing hard, lips tingling.
“No,” you say, maybe too quickly. “Not… not too much.”
His eyes darken.
You lick your lips, and his gaze drops there again, like it has a mind of its own.
“Okay, look,” you say, a little breathless, “if you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to spontaneously combust.”
He huffs a laugh, but it comes out strained. “Join the club.”
You’re both quiet for a few seconds, just… looking.
You don’t know who moves first this time—you or him—but suddenly you’re kissing again, and it’s less careful now. Still not anything explicit, nothing too far, but deeper, slower, the kind of kiss that says I like you and I want you and I cannot believe this is actually happening.
His thumb strokes absentmindedly along your jaw. His hand at your waist drags you even closer.
Your fingers slide up from his sweater to the back of his neck, just under his hair. He shivers.
He pulls back a fraction, pressing his forehead to yours, both of you breathing hard.
“This is very not group-project-coded,” you whisper.
“Good,” he says. “I’m tired of pretending it is.”
You laugh, giddy.
Then you glance at the clock on the wall and groan. “We should probably… not make out in a university media room for more than, like, fifteen minutes.”
“Why not?” he murmurs.
“Because I have roommates,” you remind him. “And you have friends who will absolutely start rumours if we come back looking like this.”
He studies you, eyes flicking over your swollen lips and flushed cheeks.
“They’re going to start rumours anyway,” he says.
“You’re not helping,” you complain, even as your thumb rubs the back of his neck, unable to stop touching him.
He closes his eyes for a second, like he’s savoring that.
“Come over tomorrow,” he says suddenly.
You blink. “To… your room?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Movie, project debrief, whatever excuse you need. Just… come.”
Your heart does another reckless somersault. “That sounds dangerously like a date.”
He exhales, a small smile appearing. “It is.”
You stare at him. “You just… admit that?”
He looks almost shy now, but he doesn’t back down. “I told you, I’m bad at this subtle thing,” he says. “I like you. I want you there. With me. No projector. No professor waiting outside.”
Heat flares low in your stomach at the way he says “with me”.
“And what exactly,” you say slowly, “is supposed to happen on this… non–group project date?”
He meets your gaze head-on, no dodge, no joke.
“That depends on you,” he says. “How far you want to go. I’m not going to push you into anything.”
Your chest clenches.
“But,” he adds, voice dropping just a little, “I can promise one thing.”
“What?” you ask, already half-regretting the question.
He leans in, lips grazing the corner of your mouth, not quite a kiss, just a promise.
“I’m done pretending I don’t want you,” he whispers. “Tomorrow, I’m not going to be able to hide it as well.”
Your breath stutters.
“That’s… a lot of warning,” you manage.
“You can still back out,” he says. “Tell me you just want to be friends, or group partners, or whatever. I’ll deal with it. I won’t force you into anything more.”
You look at him, really look—at the softness in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s trying so hard to give you an out even though every line of his body is angled toward you.
You lift your hand and cup his cheek, thumb brushing lightly along his skin.
“I don’t want out,” you say quietly. “I want… this. You. Whatever this is.”
His eyes flutter shut for a moment, like your words physically hit him.
When he opens them again, they’re shining.
“Then text me when you’re home,” he whispers. “And text me tomorrow when you’re on your way. I’ll… be ready.”
“Ready for what?” you ask, but your voice has gone soft around the edges.
He smiles, just a little, and presses a quick, firm kiss to your forehead that somehow makes your heart clench more than the others.
“For you,” he says.
You leave the media room with your lips warm and your heart painstakingly rearranged.
Outside, the corridor looks the same—fluorescent lights, scuffed floors, students walking past chatting about assignments like the universe hasn’t just shifted.
Ni-ki walks you to the stairs, his hand brushing yours every few steps like he can’t help it.
At the landing, you stop.
“Hey,” you say.
He turns, eyes soft. “Yeah?”
“Just so you know,” you tell him, “if I get roasted for being ‘too loud’ again, I’m going to be even louder about it.”
His mouth curves. “Good.”
You arch a brow. “Good?”
He nods. “If they’re going to hear you anyway,” he says, “might as well make sure it’s worth listening to.”
You look at him too long, because he shifts, suddenly embarrassed.
“Okay, go,” he mutters, nudging your shoulder. “Before I say something even more disgusting.”
You grin, backing down a step. “Too late. You’re already sweet.”
“Don’t spread that rumour,” he calls after you.
You throw him a salute. “See you tomorrow, grumpy hero.”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling as he watches you go.
Your phone buzzes before you even hit the bottom of the staircase.
Ni-ki: Text me when you’re in your room.
Ni-ki: And don’t lend my hoodie to anyone else.
You: possessive much?
You: i like it
You can practically feel his fluster through the screen.
Ni-ki: …Just text me, loudmouth.
You tuck your phone away, heart already jumping ahead to tomorrow.
——-
You don’t even knock when you get to his dorm.
You just text: outside
And twenty seconds later, the door opens.
Ni-ki’s in a hoodie you haven’t seen before—forest green, sleeves bunched at his elbows, hair still damp from a shower. The room behind him is warm and dim, desk lamp casting a soft circle of gold on the bed where two pillows are pushed against the wall like he tried to make it look casual. Not too much effort. But effort.
He looks at you like he’s trying not to let it show.
“Hi,” you say quietly.
He doesn’t answer at first. Just looks at you.
Then: “Come in.”
You step past him. The door shuts behind you with a quiet click, and you feel it in your chest more than your ears.
The room smells like laundry, faint citrus shampoo, and whatever warmth lives in his skin.
You kick off your shoes and sit on the edge of his bed. The hoodie you’re wearing rides up a little on your thighs—his hoodie, the black one you never gave back. You see the way his eyes flicker down and then immediately away.
He sits next to you, not too close. Not touching. But it’s a short bed. The kind where knees will touch eventually, and he knows it.
“Orange juice?” he asks.
You blink. “What?”
“You said coffee makes your brain loud at night,” he murmurs. “So… juice.”
He holds up a cold carton from the mini-fridge. A glass already half full.
You smile.
It’s stupid, how soft that makes you feel.
You take the glass, fingers brushing his. “Thank you.”
He nods once.
The laptop’s already open on his desk, queued up to a random Netflix drama neither of you care about. He picks it up and sets it between you, then leans back against the wall with a quiet sigh.
You follow.
The movie starts.
Neither of you are watching it.
At first it’s simple.
You drink. He drinks. Your knees touch once, twice. You pull the sleeves of your hoodie over your hands. He rests his palm on the blanket between you, casual but not casual.
You’re aware of every shift in his breathing.
He’s aware of every time you cross and uncross your legs.
And still—neither of you says a thing.
Halfway through the episode, your head tips against his shoulder.
He goes so still you feel it.
“Sorry,” you murmur. “Too much?”
He shakes his head.
“You’re not too much,” he says softly. “You’re the reason this room feels like it’s not suffocating right now.”
Your chest squeezes.
You glance up at him.
His eyes are already on you.
You both stare, saying nothing, but so many things happening in that silence.
“Ni-ki,” you whisper.
He breathes out slowly. “Yeah.”
“I don’t want to pretend we’re watching this.”
“I stopped pretending the second you walked in.”
You shift your legs toward him, turning your body slightly.
“Then say it,” you whisper. “Say what you’re thinking.”
He hesitates.
Then:
“I’ve been thinking about touching you for so long I forgot what it feels like not to.”
You swallow.
You feel your pulse in your teeth.
He reaches for your hand—not grabbing it, just brushing his fingers against yours. Testing.
You lace them together.
“Is this okay?” he asks, voice barely audible.
You nod.
But he doesn’t move yet.
You look up at him. “Why are you hesitating?”
He blinks once. “Because you’re real,” he says. “And this doesn’t feel like something I should rush.”
Your heart breaks in the best way.
“You’re not,” you say, threading your fingers tighter through his. “I’m here, Ni-ki. You already have me.”
That breaks something open in him.
He moves his hand, palm trailing up your thigh slowly—just enough to set your nerves on fire. His fingers rest just below the hem of your shorts.
Not pushing.
Not grabbing.
Just there.
Waiting.
Your breath hitches.
He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “If I touch you right now,” he murmurs, “I’m not going to be able to stop.”
“Then don’t stop,” you whisper. “Just don’t be careful.”
That’s when he pulls back to look at you.
His eyes are darker now, hungry, but still so full of something you can’t name. Not yet.
He reaches up, thumb brushing your cheek, then sliding down your jaw.
“You’re sure?” he says.
You nod.
“I want you to,” you whisper. “I’ve been wanting you to.”
He doesn’t answer. Just kisses you.
Slow at first—like he’s still holding back—but then you whimper softly into his mouth, and his hand tightens on your thigh.
You’re straddling that line now. The moment between sweet and wrecked. You can feel it.
His mouth moves to your jaw, your neck, kissing a little rougher now.
Then lower.
His breath warm against your skin.
You gasp when he nips the base of your neck, and that sound unlocks something in him.
His voice is rough when he speaks next.
“You’re gonna be the reason I lose control.”
And then—
His hand slips under the hem of your shorts. Fingers trailing lightly over the waistband of your underwear. Waiting. Teasing. Barely there.
You make a broken sound.
His nose brushes your jaw as he exhales.
“Fuck,” he whispers, “you’re already warm.”
________
His fingers hover against the thin fabric of your panties, barely touching, barely anything—just enough to feel the heat radiating through.
His breath stutters out against your neck. “You’re soaked,” he murmurs, like he can’t believe it. “All this from a few kisses?”
You shiver. “No,” you whisper, dragging your eyes up to meet his. “It’s you.”
That wrecks him.
His fingers press in a little deeper, cupping you fully over your panties now. He watches your face as he does it, watches the way your lips part, the tiny twitch of your thigh. You arch into the touch, subtly, but he feels it.
“Fuck,” he breathes again, voice cracking. “You really need me to touch you, huh?”
You nod, shaky. “Please, Ni-ki.”
He dips his head and kisses you, rougher this time, like he’s been holding back all day and your voice just snapped the string.
His hand slides into your shorts, under your panties, and you both gasp when his fingers meet your bare pussy.
He freezes.
“Oh my god,” he mutters, forehead pressing to yours. “You’re so wet. You’re so fucking wet.”
You moan, body jolting.
His fingers are just resting there. Not moving yet. Just feeling you, breathing with you, completely undone by how soaked you are.
“Is this all for me?” he asks softly, eyes searching yours. “Did you get this wet thinking about me?”
You nod. “Yes,” you whisper. “Ni-ki, please—”
That’s all it takes.
His fingers slide down, slow and filthy, collecting slick and dragging it back up to your clit in one long, aching stroke. You whimper, hips twitching into his hand.
“Shit, baby,” he mutters. “You’re dripping. You’re gonna make a mess on my hand.”
He rubs slow circles over your clit, two fingers pressed firm and deliberate. It’s not teasing anymore. It’s focused. Like he’s trying to learn you by touch alone.
“Fuck—” you gasp, “—right there—Ni-ki, right—”
“I’ve got you,” he says, voice low and hot. “I’ve got you, baby. Just let me take care of it.”
He tilts your face toward him again, kissing you hard, tongue deep and possessive as he keeps rubbing you, building you up fast. You’re already panting, already squirming in his lap.
His free hand moves to your waist, gripping you steady.
“I love how you move for me,” he growls. “So greedy. So fucking pretty like this.”
You’re not even trying to be quiet anymore. Your moans slip out freely, broken and open-mouthed, your body rocking into his hand like you can’t get enough.
He breaks the kiss, watching your face now.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “You can’t even stay still. You want it that bad?”
You nod, eyes glassy. “I want you so bad, Ni-ki, I—fuck—”
“You’ve got me,” he says, sliding two fingers down and pressing them into your pussy, slow and deep, until you cry out.
Your hands fly to his shoulders, fingers digging in.
“God—” you sob, hips lifting. “You—fuck, you feel so—”
“So what?” he pants. “Say it.”
“So good,” you gasp. “Your fingers feel so fucking good inside me—”
That destroys him.
His mouth drops open slightly, eyes fixed on the way your body clenches around his hand. He curls his fingers inside you and your whole spine arches.
“Yeah?” he breathes. “You gonna cum for me just from this? Just from my fingers?”
You moan, high-pitched and desperate. “I’m close—I’m—fuck—Ni-ki—”
“Yeah, you are,” he growls, hand moving faster now, fucking his fingers into you deep and slow while his thumb rubs your clit. “You’re gonna cum for me like this. I want it all over my hand, baby. I want it dripping.”
Your thighs start to shake. You can’t think. You can’t even breathe—
“Say it,” he demands. “Say you’re mine. Say it while you cum on my fucking fingers.”
“I’m—fuck—I’m yours—Ni-ki, I’m—!”
Your whole body locks.
And then breaks.
You cum hard, clenching around him with a sob, thighs shaking, hand flying to cover your mouth as you cry against his shoulder. He keeps fucking you through it, soft and dirty, whispering filth into your ear—
“Look at you… fuck… so perfect when you cum.”
“You’re dripping, baby, soaking my fucking fingers.”
“I could keep you like this forever—just open for me, shaking for me…”
Your body starts to tremble from the overstimulation and he finally pulls his fingers out, slick and shining.
He holds them up. Watches your cum drip down them in slow, messy trails.
Then he sucks them into his mouth.
You moan again, helpless.
“Sweet,” he says, voice rough, eyes on yours. “Could live off this shit.”
You grab his shirt, dragging him in for another kiss. It’s messy, open-mouthed, full of tongue and panting.
“You ruined me,” you whisper, voice shaking.
“You ruined me,” you whisper, voice still shaking.
He laughs softly, the sound low and a little disbelieving, eyes bright but gentler now. The sharp edge of hunger in them softens into something warm and stupidly fond.
“Yeah?” he murmurs. “That bad?”
You nod against his chest, fingers still fisted in the front of his hoodie like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go.
“That good,” you correct, half-buried in him. “My legs don’t work. Congratulations.”
He exhales a breathy little laugh against your hair, but you feel the way his body loosens, tension melting out of his shoulders. Like he needed to hear that more than he was going to admit.
For a moment, neither of you move.
Your breathing slowly evens out. His thumb rubs absent circles into your hip, not pushing, not asking for more—just… there. Comfort, not escalation.
Then he stills.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “You okay?”
You hum, eyes closed. “Mhm.”
“That’s not an answer,” he says, softer. “Too much? Too fast?”
You pull back enough to see his face. His expression isn’t cocky or smug; it’s nervous. Really nervous. You can see it in the set of his mouth, the way his gaze keeps flicking over your face like he’s checking for cracks.
“I keep replaying everything in my head,” he admits, a little breathless. “Making sure I didn’t… I don’t know. Steamroll you.”
You blink up at him. “Ni-ki.”
“What?” he asks, and there’s a tiny crease between his brows that makes your chest ache.
You reach up and cup his cheek, thumb brushing along the soft skin there. He leans into it automatically, like he can’t help it.
“If I didn’t like it, you’d be on the floor right now,” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Not here. With me.”
He huffs out a tiny, relieved laugh. “You’d actually kick me off the bed.”
“I’d suplex you,” you correct. “Full WWE.”
He smiles properly at that, nose scrunching, eyes closing for half a second. When he opens them again, they’re clearer. Less dazed, more present.
“But seriously,” you add, quieter now. “I’m okay. I feel… safe. With you.”
Something in him just… cracks at that.
His hand slides up from your hip to your waist, then to your back, pulling you in until there’s no space left between you. He tucks your head under his chin like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like he’s done it a hundred times in his head.
“Good,” he murmurs into your hair. “That’s… all I care about.”
You listen to his heartbeat for a moment, steady and solid under your ear. The room feels small and quiet and unreal, like you’ve stepped outside normal time.
“Still ruined, though,” you mumble into his hoodie. “My brain’s just… static.”
He smiles against your temple. You feel it. “In a bad way?”
“In a very good way,” you say. “Like, you just rewired… everything.”
His arm tightens around you, just for a second. “You can rewire me back, you know.”
You snort. “I literally just melted on your bed. I think I’m out of brain cells.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he says, then hesitates. “If you… want to stop at this, we stop. If you want more, we go slow. Your pace. Always.”
You tilt your head back, searching his face. He looks so serious saying it, ears a little pink, brows drawn just slightly like he’s bracing for you to change your mind.
“You really like me, huh?” you tease softly, just to see him react.
He doesn’t flinch this time.
“Yeah,” he says simply. “I really do.”
Your chest does that painful, stupid swell again.
You reach for the blanket at the foot of his bed and tug it up over both of you. He helps without being asked, one hand smoothing it over your legs, like he’s wrapping you up on purpose.
The movie is still playing on the laptop, some washed-out scene of people walking by a river. Neither of you even pretend to care.
After a while, you break the silence.
“You know what’s funny?” you murmur. “I spent so long hearing I was too much. Too loud. Too dramatic. Even in my own head I started believing it.”
He’s quiet, thumb tracing idle patterns on your spine.
“And now?” he asks gently.
You breathe him in: detergent, warmth, the faintest trace of your own perfume clinging to his hoodie from how often you’ve worn it.
“Now I’m in your bed,” you say softly, “and you’re holding me like I’m… not too much at all.”
He exhales slowly, like that hits him somewhere deep.
His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading carefully through your hair. When he speaks, his voice is low and certain.
“You’re not ‘too much’,” he says. “You’re just more than boring people know what to do with.”
You huff out a little laugh, eyes stinging unexpectedly.
“That’s a lot of wordplay for someone who claims he has no personality,” you whisper.
He rests his forehead against yours, noses brushing. You can feel his breath, warm and steady.
“I have a personality,” he says. “It just wakes up when you’re around.”
Your laugh breaks on a breath.
He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes.
“Look at me,” he says quietly.
You do.
“For me,” he goes on, “you’re not ‘too much’. You’re just… you. Exactly the right amount. The rest of the world can adjust their volume.”
Your throat tightens.
“That sounds like a title,” you murmur, half-dazed. “‘Too Much’.”
He hums. “Not for you,” he says. “That’s everyone else’s problem. My problem is… you’re not enough.”
You blink. “Not enough?”
He smiles, soft and a little shy. “Yeah. Because I keep wanting more time. More of you. More nights like this.”
Heat blooms in your chest, slow and spreading.
“You’re dangerous,” you whisper.
“I warned you,” he says. “You still showed up.”
You nudge his shoulder with your nose. “Worth it.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead—just a light, lingering touch that feels almost more intimate than anything before. Your eyes flutter closed on instinct.
“Sleep here,” he says quietly, like it’s nothing. “If you want.”
You peek up at him. “Won’t I be… too loud?”
He smiles, thumb brushing under your eye.
“Be as loud as you want,” he says. “I’ll be here either way.”
You tuck yourself closer, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie, listening to his heartbeat as the movie drones on forgotten.
For the first time in a long time, the word that’s chased you your whole life—too much—feels less like an accusation and more like a promise.
Not something you have to shrink away from.
Something someone is choosing.
Someone who looks at you in a tiny, quiet dorm room, hands gentle where they’d been hungry, and thinks, over and over:
AKA━━━━⊱ you ask jay to fuck you hard and he does; while he records for his friends, of course
pairing | jay × reader
genre: smut | wc: 3.7k | content: smut, unprotected sex (p in v; wrap it before you tap it), fingering, brief oral (f receiving), spanking, pussy slapping, rough sex, consensual recording of sex, doggy style, hair pulling, cervix kissing, lowkey cock shaming? (i just be writing anything), squirting, jay cum's on the readers ass, brief use of daddy, mentions of other partners, aftercare mentioned
mcwilla.log: merry christmas..? i've been on a writing kick so this may or may not be my last post until the holidays - we'll see. thank you so much for the love on my last fic, it genuinely warms my heart more than you all know. next fic will either be the ni-ki req or the start of a heeseung miniseries (teehee). likes, reblogs, and comments appreciated; as always, thank you for supporting my work!
The sweat pooled between your back and Jay’s chest would’ve been disgusting in any instance other than this one. With both of your clothes discarded somewhere on the floor and his chest pressed flush against your back, you, quite frankly, didn’t give a flying fuck about anything else.
Jay hovered over you; his arms parallel to your face as he fiddled with his phone on the windowsill. You just sat there, patient as ever and admiring your boyfriend on the camera. You tried to sit still, but, fuck it, you were horny. Goddamn that gorgeous man.
This was almost routine at this point - Jay recording you. He was protective and easily provoked with fits of jealousy, so it was contradictory. Wouldn’t someone so hellbent on making sure everyone knew you were his want to keep your sex life a secret? Well, sure, in a sense. It wasn’t like he was posting these videos for the world - not at all. He was just sending them to his groupchat, obviously.
You couldn’t remember the first time this happened, but for some reason, it didn’t bother you. You weren’t stupid. You noticed Heeseung’s wandering eyes that always landed on your chest, you weren’t oblivious when it came to Sunghoon trying to show off his gym progress, and there was no way Jake wasn’t even a little bit conscious when he’d drape his body over your own at the bar. But the weirdest part? Jay never cared.
Your boyfriend would’ve pulled you possessively close and thrown a mean look over his shoulder had it been anyone other than his friends acting like this. You’d thought about it a lot - what the difference was in response, and you finally came up with your conclusion.
Jay got off on it.
Jay simply loved knowing his friends were so enamored with you that they probably jerked off to your Instagram account. He loved knowing he was the one that got to fuck you - not them; loved knowing that he was the one splitting you open on his cock, he was the one tasting your delicious pussy, he was the one making you cum and cry and beg for more.
And yeah, his friends talked about it. His friends mentioned how hot you were, cornered Jay into giving them details about the sex, everything. Quick comments of, “How tight is she,” and even, “How does she look when she cums - fuck, I bet she sounds so hot.” And you knew, though you pretended you didn’t.
So, when one night of disgustingly passionate sex after a night out with Jake and Heeseung eyefucking you was coming to an end, Jay asked if he could record. You said yes, he pressed the button, and after five minutes of slow, sensual strokes, you came around Jay with a loud cry and soft whimpers to accompany your clenches.
“I’m sending this to the guys,” he said as you two started drifting off.
You just laughed in response and said “Do it, I wanna see what they say.”
And after that night, it became routine. Jay didn’t always record the two of you, maybe once every few months. But the knowledge that the camera was on and his friends would be watching turned him on more than he’d like to admit. Jay liked to rub it in their faces. He liked to say I’m the one who gets to fuck her pussy, not you without actually saying it.
Tonight was different; tonight had a purpose.
“Fuck,” you felt his muscles flex beneath you. You reached up and grabbed Jay’s bicep, a soft moan slipping past your lips; you were getting impatient. “I don’t like the angle, it’s pissing me off.”
Jay grabbed the phone from the windowsill and put it in your hands. He adjusted your arms, making sure your face and chest were visible. The only part of himself on camera was his chest and shoulders, but he got cut off at the neck. Jay pressed a few kisses on your neck, wet and open mouthed, as his hands found themselves on your waist. He stroked your skin, soft and lovingly before giving it a quick squeeze.
“Wanna press record for me, baby?” He murmured into your neck. You nodded, hands shaking as your fingers found the red button on his phone. Jay’s hands splayed themselves over your stomach, the tips of his fingers dangerously close to your pussy. You were wet - so wet - with anticipation that the mere suggestion of Jay touching you made you impossibly wetter.
“They can’t see you,” you breathed out.
Jay chuckled. His fingers found your clit as they rubbed soft circles onto the bud. Your back arched up off his chest and a moan fell from your kiss-swollen lips. “It’s okay - they know who’s fucking you.”
Jay continued touching you, and you just stared into the camera. You made pouty faces and gave it soft winks and smiles as though you were testing out angles for a selfie or admiring your fresh makeup. Every now and again, when Jay would rub your clit just right, your mouth would fall open or your face would twist with pleasure. You’d catch it on the screen, and a soft blush would rest across your cheeks with a shy smile across your lips.
“Tell them what’s happening,” Jay whispered. His fingers picked up the pace; you internally cursed him because you knew he did it on purpose - knew he wanted to hear your voice quiver and shake while you addressed his friends.
“Uhm,” you began, a shy giggle slipping past you as you moaned. “Wha,” you squeezed your eyes shut, “Whad’you want me to tell them?”
“What you told me,” Jay’s voice was low and sensual. You could hear him fine, but the video only picked it up in the distance, although the viewer could hear him clearly. “What you want me to do.”
Heat rises to your cheeks at his words. Right. That. “Oh,” you bite your lip as Jay picks up his pace again before quickly slowing down. His fingers move along your swollen bud slowly now, large circles that make you shake with want. “I told Jay that,” you hesitate a bit, staring at yourself on the screen with big eyes.
Jay comes into view now, hooking his chin over your shoulder. He admires the two of you on screen and a sly smirk paints his sharp features. Jay licks his lips and chuckles before he latches onto your neck. He nips and sucks your skin, making you jump each time he makes contact with a new area. “C’mon, use your words,” he says, “Tell ‘em what you told me - don’t get shy now.”
You swallow thickly before nodding. “I kinda want him to be,” you hesitate again, your voice growing smaller. “Like, rough with me.”
“Like what?”
A whine slips past you as you purse your lips into a pout. Of course, he’s doing this. Jay likes to act all macho when the camera’s on, likes to humiliate you because he knows it’s what his friends get off to.
“Like, slap me a bit, be a lil’ rough - not too much, though! I don’t wanna hurt.”
“Y’know I won’t hurt you, baby.”
You nod again. Your lip is between your teeth once more and you will yourself to keep talking. “Fuck me harder than usual - y’know? I jus’ kinda wonder what it feels like.”
“Yeah,” he’s talking to the camera now, “Figured I’d show you boys what it’s like to throw her around.” A wicked smirk takes over him once more as he removes himself from your neck and focuses on the camera. Jay grabs the phone from you and puts it on the windowsill. He fiddles with it again, obviously unhappy with the angle. Jay clicks his tongue, ultimately deciding it’ll do.
The camera shows more now. It shows your completely naked body and how you’re sitting on the bed, back against Jay’s chest and legs open for them to see you dripping. The angle also shows Jay’s fingers back on your pussy. They rub slow circles on your clit once more, and with your hands free you take the opportunity to grab onto Jay’s biceps. Your eyes are screwed shut, mouth hung open as soft pants slip out. Jay kisses your shoulder once, twice, before he removes his hands and brings them to your waist.
Jay scooches back from you and hooks his arms under your armpits. He hoists you up until you’re sitting on your knees before he places his hand on the small of your back. “Bend over for me,” he commands, and of course, you comply.
You let Jay’s hand guide you down - face first into the sheets. Your cheek is pressed into the cloth when you feel Jay grab your hands. He binds the two with the fingers of just one of his hands while the other lands a sharp smack across your ass. Immediately, you feel the sting from his hand, yet you still moan. The sound surprises you, but not Jay. No, Jay expected you to like it - he knows you too well.
He holds your wrists behind your back and soothes the red print with his hand. Your thighs clench together, and he notices.
“C’mon, don’t hide from me,” he coos. Your pussy oozes arousal and you feel Jay drag his finger up your slit. Your hips move on their own, pushing back towards him for some kind of relief. Jay clicks his tongue, gathering the wetness onto his fingers before pulling away.
He leans towards the camera and spreads his fingers apart. The scene is grotesque; your slick strings together as his fingers spread, wetness visibly dripping down their slender form all for the phone to see. Jay makes eye contact with the camera, smirking while he brings his fingers into his mouth. The man laps at them - starved. He moans and sighs in pleasure, eyes screwed shut as he relishes in your taste.
He pulls away, examining your position. Jay leans forward, licks a thick stripe up your pussy, and lands another sharp slap, this time on your pussy. You twitch and cry out, tears prickling into your eyes.
Jay chuckles before shoving two of his fingers inside of you - rough and unapologetic with no warning. He pumps his digits in and out, in and out, at a brutal pace. There’s no intention of slowing down or showing you any signs of mercy. The squelchy sounds of your pussy are obscene - the sound bouncing off the walls all around the two of you.
“Yeah, look at that - fuck. You’re sucking them in, baby,” Jay leans forward and kisses your pussy, lips attaching to your clit as he suckles the swollen bud. Your whines join the rest of the absurd sounds, putting on a show for the camera.
Jay curls his fingers perfectly, right at the spot he knows drives you mad. You let out a particularly loud moan, and that seemed to be Jay’s cue. He picks up the pace, slamming his fingers in and out of you, abusing the spongy spot inside of your pussy. The palm of his hand smacks against your ass with every thrust, the sound of skin on skin now loud and obscene.
You clench around him, the whines of his name now accompanied with soft pants. Jay knows you’re getting close, and so without a second thought, he pulls his fingers away. Whimpers fall from your lips, tears coming to your eyes once more at the loss of contact.
“Jay,” you cry.
Jay coos at you, sucking his fingers into his mouth and licking them clean. He chuckles at you, almost mocking your state. “It’s okay, baby. Ion’ want you to cum too fast.”
You whine again, pushing your ass back in hopes he’ll give you something. Jay responds to your action with a smack, his hand rubbing the red skin as he presses a kiss to it. Jay cups himself through his boxers, palming his erection as he lets out a groan of relief. His cock is already hard and leaking precum, a wet patch on the front of his underwear signaling he can’t wait much longer.
He pulls his cock out, pumping himself as he stares at your position. Your hole clenches around nothing, oozing arousal. Jay screws his eyes shut, mouth hung open as he fucks himself with his hand.
“Oh, fuck,” he hisses when he ceases his motions. Jay scoots closer to you, lining his tip with your hole. You whine at the sudden contact, pushing back against him in hopes of getting him inside you faster. Jay doesn’t think twice before spanking you again, this time not offering any comfort.
“Fuck, you guys are missing out,” he speaks to the camera, his smirk coming back. “Tip’s barely in and she’s already tight as fuck.” Jay pushes into you about two inches before settling. You’re tighter than ever. His chest rises and falls as he tries to steady his breathing, but fuck, you feel so good. It’s all overwhelming, even to him.
Jay settles his hands on your hips, snapping his hips forward as he buries another couple inches into you. You feel so full, and he’s still not even done. That’s what you love about your boyfriend’s dick - he’s so big that even half feels like you’re going to fucking die. He hardly ever uses his whole length, but when he does - it’s heaven.
You begin to rock back onto him, a silent signal that you’re ready for him to start. Jay clicks his tongue before letting out a sigh, “Patience, baby.”
You whine at his words, pouting against the sheets. Jay doesn’t wait long before giving you what you want, however. Quickly, he starts his thrusts. Rough and fast, not letting up. He brings your hips back to meet his thrusts, your whole body limp and pliable under his magnificent hands.
You’re being fucked like a stupid doll. Back and forth, back and forth, it doesn’t stop. The smacks that ring out through the room as your ass bounces off his pelvis are loud, but it only eggs him on. Jay hit the spot that makes you see stars, and you cry out louder than you have tonight.
Your hands find purchase in the sheets around you, desperately trying to anchor your body from the damn near abusing pace Jay has set. Soft breaths are punched out of you with every thrust; Jay’s own grunts and groans are raw and full of need.
Jay slows his movements down when he fists a handful of your hair. He pulls on it and drags your body up; back flush against his chest as you’re pulled onto your knees. You stare at yourself on camera; nose red and raw, eye makeup smudged with tears, drool collecting around the corners of your mouth. Jay keeps his hold on your hair with one hand and grabs your breast with his other, manhandling the mound of flesh.
“Look at them,” he says to you. You nod at him, eyes remaining focused on his phone. “Tell ‘em how you feel.”
Your lips quiver as you try to find your words, but you simply can’t. Your eyes drift down to your pussy visible on the screen - split open on Jay’s cock and dripping in an insane manner. Jay notices, removing his hand from your chest and bringing it to your pussy. He spreads your lips open, showcasing your pretty pussy to his friends.
A possessive smile spreads across his face, “Her pussy looks so good split open like this, huh?” You moan at his touch and words, which just gives him the confidence to keep going. “She wouldn’t look nearly as good on any of you guys, though.”
His fingers find your clit, giving it slow, languid rubs while Jay leans towards your neck. His lips find your sweaty skin, latching on and leaving open mouthed kisses all over. His tongue darts out, licking up a bead of sweat as he enjoys the salty taste.
“She only likes to fuck guys with big dicks, right, babe?”
You let out a laugh of disbelief that quickly morphs into a moan.
“Answer me,” he whispers into your neck.
You nod, “Mhm.”
“Mhm? C’mon, be a big girl and use your words. I know they’re in there, somewhere.”
“Ye,” you’re interrupted by a moan, “yeah - yes.”
Jay smirks. He releases his grip on your hair, letting you crash down onto the mattress beneath him. Jay resumes his pace. His cock is splitting you open - you barely had time to adjust before he set the speed.
His tip hits the right spot; the place that has your eyes rolling back and toes curling, the place that makes you see stars and has you reaching back to your boyfriend for comfort. Jay notices. Jay keeps fucking you like a stupid doll.
Harder.
Faster.
Messier.
Your ass meets his pelvis time and time again. Loud smacks bounce off the walls, the raw sound of skin on skin colliding is obvious to anyone who dares to hear what the two of you are doing. Jay loves it. Jay gets off on it.
You feel his ego growing by the second; every clench of your pussy and twitch of his cock a signal that he’s coming close to letting go. You are too.
You feel the familiar feeling deep inside your gut. The heat is rising; your stomach is suddenly heavy and you’re way too aware of everything happening. You’re aware of every drag of Jay’s cock - aware of every vein caressing your gummy walls.
Your moans increase in volume, Jay’s name spilling out of your lips. The entire scene looks and sounds like some kind of cheap porno performance, and you’d think so too if you weren’t actively living it.
“Fuck, baby,” Jay moans above you. His jaw is slack, eyes screwed shut.
“J,” you can barely finish his name at the pace he’s fucking you. “Jay - I’m gonna,”
“Fuck, me too baby.”
Something inside you snaps at that moment. Immediately, your body goes slack, brain goes numb, vision gets foggy. You cum more intensely than you ever have. Your juices squirt out of you, arousal coating Jay’s cock and thighs and pelvis. He’s simply dripping with you - all for his friends to see on the other end.
Jay doesn’t stop when you cum - he keeps fucking you with that raw, brutal pace he’s had set for the night. A low groan comes from deep within Jay’s chest. He feels your walls clench around him from the overstimulation.
“Shit - you’re so hot. I’m gonna - fuck,”
Jay pulls out of you in one swift motion. He angles himself above your ass, shooting ropes of his milky cum all over your red ass cheeks. Jay continues to pump his cock, milking himself until he’s emptied his entire load onto you.
You sit there, cheek still pressed into the mattress with tears running down your face, panting and desperately trying to catch your breath. You feel Jay press himself against you as he grabs the camera from the windowsill. He flips it, showing your cum-covered ass off to his friends.
“Look at her,” he says, fingers collecting his cum. He briefly shows the wetness of his thighs, laughing as he coos at your fucked out state. Jay presses his palm to your back, pressuring you to lay flat down onto your stomach. You comply, simply because you don’t have enough strength in your entire body to resist your boyfriend.
Jay hovers over you, camera shoved in your face as he shows you off to the audience. He brings his fingers to your lips, beckoning you to open them before he shoves his fingers into your mouth. You lap at them wildly, sucking the cum off his fingers until they’re clean.
Jay just laughs at you, “Yeah, show ‘em how needy you are for daddy’s cum.”
You moan around his fingers, eyes rolling back at his words. You pull off his fingers with a loud pop. Jay grabs your jaw, forcing you to face the camera. A cheeky smile spreads across your face; your tongue poking out with remnants of his cum before you pull it back into your mouth and swallow the rest of it.
You’re a mess - a beautiful fucking mess. Your hair’s all tousled and in your face, sticking to the damp skin adorned with tears and smudged mascara.
“Mm,” you moan, "tastes good, daddy. I wan’ more.”
Jay kisses the top of your head. “How was that, babygirl?”
You nod, nuzzling into Jay’s harsh grip on your jaw. “Good.”
“Don’t tell me - tell them.”
You open your hooded eyes wider, watching yourself on screen. “Sunghoon - it was really good,” you swallow your breaths for a moment, “you wanna join us next time?”
Jay lets out a low whistle, speaking up off camera, “You’re gonna leave Jake and Heeseung out?”
You laugh and bite your lip, “I didn’t say that. Jakey and Heeseung can join, jus’ thought Sunghoon would want to the most.”
Jay clicks the red button, ending the recording before he tosses his phone onto the comforter. He smoothes his hands over your body, a sudden sense of gentleness following his movements. You feel his weight leave the bed and you lay there, waiting for Jay to return.
When he does, he has a bottle of water and a wet washcloth. Jay doesn’t even let you attempt to move, just shushes you as he carefully wipes you down and finds your long-forgotten clothes on the floor.
“Are you okay - for real?”
You nod and giggle at his sudden soft disposition, “Yes, Jay. I’m fine,” you reach out for your boyfriend, “c’mere.”
He accepts your spent invitation, settling directly on top of you as you huff out a dramatic breath and mumble something about him being heavy. Jay just mocks you, reaching for his phone. He spends some time on it, splitting the video into chunks small enough to send to his friends. Jay kisses your head and your cheek and anywhere else accessible to him; he simply refuses to leave you without affection.
Jay sends the clips to his groupchat, one by one until almost the whole encounter is in the hands of Jake, Sunghoon, and Heeseung. He tosses his phone onto the bed, settling on top of you while he continues peppering you with kisses.
Barely two minutes later, Jay’s phone buzzes - five, six, seven times. It keeps buzzing, but Jay just laughs into your hair.
“Sounds like they like it,” he mumbles into you, “I hope you weren’t lying about letting them join.”
+*pairing: childhood best friends-> older!jake x younger!reader, old money family!jake x new money family! reader..
+*wc: ~8k
+*contains: explicit sexual content (18+), ...jake is 2 years older. (He isnt a sugar daddy sorry girlies....) childhood best friends → lovers, reader is a virgin, possessive behavior, jealousy, emotional manipulation (intentional and unintentional), power shifts within a previously “safe” dynamic, oral (fem rec), light degradation, dirty talk, first-time intimacy, almost-caught intimacy, and some emotional angst (because apparently i refuse to let anyone be normal or emotionally stable). reader discretion is advised. this is a fictional work written purely for entertainment and does not reflect the real personalities or actions of jake sim. by continuing, you acknowledge that you are of legal age and comfortable engaging with these themes.
synopsis: you’ve loved jake for as long as you can remember. he’s always been gentle, protective, constant. the boy who carried you home, split everything evenly, and stood between you and the world. its new year’s eve. surrounded by old money, polished smiles, and a girl who fits effortlessly into his world, you finally decide to step aside. you slip out to the balcony just before midnight, ready to disappear for good... only for jake to follow. when the countdown hits one, everything shatters. a kiss. then something more.
m i k a 🌷: this is my prompt for the #naughtyandnice2025 enhypen winter event ❄️ hosted by lovely @brokenengene 💕 i loved doing this prompt! everyone that's already posted their fics are sooo talented!GO READ THE OTHER FICS! ! hehehe, i also may have gotten a little carried away... was supposed to be like 4k... WELP. Enjoy! not proof read :3
🎀taglist: No pressure to my beautiful flowers to read at all! I love youuuu🌷💝 @heegyukeluv @1osingdog @str8ykids @nctrenjunie @enigmaticsal @allygator-98 @jay-scenarios @wsrod-deszczu @serendipityunho @hxonieverse @ninistranaut @rockstarkkami @brokenengene @nishimurmur @heeprints @heefairies @ohsowoozi @theyluvjake @iclimbjungwon
masterlist .
new years eve. s.jy
for as long as you could remember, jake had always been sweet to you.
a gentle, loving boy that would always hand you the bigger piece of whatever you would split.
your mother loved that he always treated you as if you were his younger sister.
his mother would often say that one day, you two would end up together. the idea was more than a lofty joke between two mothers that had children around the same time.
you fantasized about it a little more often than you would dare admit to your best friend. you thought about it absentmindedly and even dreamt about him in ways that you really shouldn't. He was your closest friend. someone you could confide in. someone you grew up with.
jake was your best friend. not someone you should fantasize touching you in the dead of night.
since your very first memory, you and jake were inseparable. attached at the hip.
even until college, you both had very different interests and signed for various university life activities. Your peers knew that you and jake were best friends. dare say you would hear a few rumors that people even believed that the both of you were actually dating.
jake was oblivious, or at least didn’t seem to care what your friendship looked like to others.
this stupid line of friendship and one sided love was blurred whenever jake’s head would tip over to yours on the subway in sleep exhaustion. whenever men at the bars would huff their intoxicated breath in your face, instantly a firm arm would capture your waist, pulling you deeper into the safety of the dance floor. whenever you would pass out in the study lounge and wake up to a warm chest carrying you back to your dorm, your backpack even slung lazily over his shoulder.
yet, whenever your mothers would tease the both of you, your little fantasy world would shatter into millions of pieces.
“mom, auntie… stop, you know y/n would never settle for a guy who was bathed with her in pre-school. it’s gross.”
gross.
so casually, so carelessly.
straight from his mouth.
he might as well have told them that you were a disgusting beast and that he never wishes to touch you with a 9 inch pole.
you were starting to think that you were in the way of his opportunity to get a girlfriend. that maybe he felt obligated to take care of you.
often when you were coming up as children, since he was slightly older, he was responsible for taking care of you and held to a standard of keeping you safe.
once, you had scraped your elbow after falling on his skateboard when your mom multiple times had told you not to.
you begged and begged for jake to let you ride, just for a quick second.
your body gave, your weight flung forward as you realized the curb stopped your wheels from going round. you met the ground under the mercy of physics and gravity.
you remember your mom taking care of your abraded skin while jake’s mom grilled him for almost an hour for not being responsible.
the annoying little sister that he needs to take care of or else he gets in trouble.
hell, you’ve never even seen him flirt with another woman in front of you before.
helplessly, you drown out these outrageously, reasonable reasons for jake to act the way he does to you.
“son, you need to be nicer to y/n. you’ll hurt her feelings talking to her like she’s just one of your guy friends.”
here we go again.
you were not going to let jake’s mom guilt him into extending care over you when he’s been trauma bonded to the role of older brother.
“auntie, don’t force him. he’s already having a hard time getting a girlfriend on campus. he could use the break from babysitting me all the time.”
“thank you, y/n. i wasn’t even being paid minimum wage for all the years of dragging you from all the trouble you would get into.”
you glare at him. trying to hide your true hurt with a humorless smile. “trouble you would PUT me into, jakey. lets not forget the time in your senior year when you wanted to sneak me to lalapa—“
jake’s so fast you barely register it. one second he’s working the dough into the counter, the next his palm is slapped over your mouth, flour puffing over the air around you like snowfall.
your squeal is muffled in his palm.
“you took her to lalapalooza?!?” both moms gawk over the stove as they stir the simmering pots.
god, his face was so close it was unfair.
unfair how grown up he is. unfair how warm his breath feels against your cheek.
“always have to run your fucking mouth.” jake mutters as he brings his face close, holding his hand over your flour-caked face until you grossly lick his palm.
his face cringes before he leans in closer. “oh… i like that kinda shit, y/n.”
you manage to pull your face away and shove him off of you.
but, not before your heart skips a beat and you’ve momentarily swam in the pool of espresso tinted irises. you know those eyes so well. you’ve stared at them too many times to count before ripping your attention away. a reaction to maybe hide from the shame or possibly to shield yourself from the pull that draws you closer to his orbit.
another interaction added to the list of interactions that would probably leave you reeling and staring at the ceiling moments before you fall asleep.
so many nights. so many restless nights thinking about him.
you keep yourself distracted with small tasks while your moms chat, slipping back into the familiar new year’s routine.
the sim residence is dripping in streams of silver and gold tonight. glitter, confetti balloons, streamers all cascaded around the floors and banisters to a level of extravagance your own home could only try but never replicate.
your parents had hosted the party at your own manor a few times before, but it was never as polished as the sims’ events. by the end of the night, it was always trashed anyway — careless rich guests treating your home like disposable décor.
guests began trickling into the sim’s mansion in small gradual waves. some bringing champagne, some coming with various influential people. some you recognize from social media and others even from national tv.
jake’s former private school sports team friends crowd him like they always do— loud, out of touch, and smelling heavily of designer cologne and daddy’s money. you barely catch their obnoxious voices over the music, only the muffled laughter over the speakers and the view of Jake's eyes crinkling at their jokes.
it’s the kind of laughter and jokes that he only shares with people like him. people who belonged in private school and inherited generational wealth. people who thought about tuition as a given right rather than a privilege that most of society work years for just to attain the possibility of it.
despite how sweet and caring jake was.
you hate to admit it, he fits in effortlessly.
not only by looks; jake was beyond them when it came to appearances.
probably the best looking one— a bit biased— considering most of them according to the normal population were untouchable. in their own class of people. lofty and shallow, yes. fragile and temporary. absolutely no.
jakes mom had married into old money. your family; new money.
you’d think that rich was rich. money was money regardless of how one obtains it.
no—
new money has a shine that chips fast. it’s respectable, sure, but flimsy at the edges. still finding its footing, still proving itself. a wealth that’s somehow seen as temporary.
old money doesn’t have to prove anything. it simply exists, heavy, generational and inherited. houses built on ages of reinforcement.
you admired that jake’s mom never let those lines get in the way of her friendship with your mother. she adored your mother. she adored the two of you together. she still nudged jake to look after you.
you hover near the doorway for a moment, pretending to adjust the bracelet on your wrist just so you don’t look like you’re blatantly staring at him.
but it’s impossible not to notice how easily he laughs with them. how his posture changes. how the jake you grew up with — your jake — shifts into someone smoother, sharper, more self-assured.
someone you’re not so sure you belong beside anymore.
a familiar voice slices the room like a polished blade:
“jake?”
you don’t even need to look to know who it is.
but you do anyway.
minji park.
former captain of the high-school tennis club.
the girl whose family name is quietly whispered at charity galas.
the girl you always thought looked too perfect to be real — glossy ponytail, straight white smile, and the kind of confidence only old money can give someone.
she’s wearing a soft champagne dress that probably cost more than your entire college semester.
she greets jake with a hug. a lingering one. one that you subconsciously put too much meaning into.
she pulls away with that effortless grace, manicured hand resting on his arm.
“i didn’t know you’d be in town this year,” she beams.
jake smiles back, warm and easy.
“yeah… wouldn’t miss my mom’s annual circus.”
everyone laughs.
even minji. even jake.
you try to, too — except nothing comes out.
because suddenly, you feel every part of your childhood friend's role squeezing tight around your ribs.
every scraped knee he carried you through.
every study session he stayed awake for.
every time he guided you across busy streets like you were smaller, softer, someone he was obligated to lead.
someone who was always being protected.
and then there’s minji. standing there beside him like an equal. like someone who matches him in status, confidence, class.
someone who doesn’t need taking care of.
you swallow hard.
minji leans closer, voice dipping into something sweeter.
“you never texted me back after that alumni event. i thought i scared you off.”
you didn’t know about that.
why would you? why should you?
your stomach twists.
jake huffs a laugh. “you didn’t. i just— life got busy.”
busy.
funny. you’ve never heard him talk like that with you.
he’s soft with you. teasing. familiar.
but this?
this is the version of him that belongs in rooms like this — polished, magnetic, charming without trying.
you step back quietly, letting yourself blend into the moving crowd. you shouldn’t be listening. you shouldn’t be watching.
you shouldn’t care.
but god, you do.
because all you can think is:
that’s the type of girl he’s supposed to end up with.
not the girl whose mom only recently stepped foot into this world of money and prestige.
not the girl who still feels out of place in homes with cascading, pillared ceilings and marble floors.
not the girl who learned how to be careful. too careful — around rich people because you didn’t grow up with safety nets built into your last name.
and definitely not the girl jake called “gross” to date.
you’re a relic of his childhood.
an old obligation packaged into nostalgia that follows him well into his college days.
his mother’s favorite story to tell at dinner parties.
the reality of what he sees you as hits you like a freight train.
the younger girl he grew up protecting.
the younger girl he still instinctively shields from drunk men and reckless decisions.
the one he carries home when she’s tired.
a responsibility.
not a choice.
you exhale softly, setting your half-empty drink on a passing tray.
you should move. disappear for a bit.
give him some space. give him… room to explore more than what his mother asked him to do for you.
because minji — with her confidence and pedigree and perfectly aligned stars — fits the world jake lives in. she knows the ins and outs. understands this world just as much as he does.
she fits the man he’s become.
and you?
you’re still the girl he slaps flour on and calls a troublemaker in a kitchen full of childhood memories.
you slip away from the crowd, unnoticed, weaving through clusters of guests as your chest tightens.
not jealousy. no. something a bit worse.
it’s a thrumming, sad realization that maybe it’s time to stop standing in jake’s way.
stop clinging to a fantasy that only exists in your head.
stop being the girl he has to protect.
you don’t want him to feel responsible for you anymore. the sister-like shadow you once were to him needed to dissolve into nothingness. if you didn’t stop now, you would always be a barrier for the promising future he could have with a polished, put together girl like minji.
so you act immediately.
you slip out of the booming room quietly, telling yourself you’re doing the right thing.
that it’s better this way.
that stepping aside now hurts less than being pushed aside later.
the cold hits you as soon as the balcony door shuts behind you.
the breeze outside is nice. threading its cold fingers through your hair. almost comforting. your lungs take it in like medicine. hoping it’ll clear out whatever’s sinking against your chest. your attempts to silence your thoughts with the brisk winter air works for now.
the night sky hangs above you— not at all bothered by the pounding speakers, clinking glasses, and buzzed laughter bleeding through the stone walls. stars twinkle lazily, indifferent to the impending chaos of the countdown you so desperately want to avoid. as if taunting the upcoming fireworks to disturb the peace.
It doesn't care about your inner turmoil as you hide outside of your best friends family new years eve party. so you find purchase to the sweet, yet warm taste of the champagne in a flute you plucked earlier from one of the servers.
the balcony door clicks open behind you — a quiet sound, nearly swallowed by the music. but you recognize the footsteps instantly.
you don’t have to turn to know who it is.
jake always walks with purpose. even when he’s pretending he isn’t searching for you.
“wow,” he says, voice warm with humor, “you ditched the party? and here i thought you loved watching me get harassed by our old classmates.”
you stiffen, palms flat against the cold railing. your flute of champagne resting on the ledge, now chilled againt the cold air.
“i didn’t ditch,” you mumble.
“mmhm.” his tone is playful. “you just… wandered out here alone? into the freezing cold? right before midnight?”
you roll your eyes at the teasing lilt in his voice, but you don’t turn around. you can’t.
“jake. go back inside. you’ve got… someone waiting for you.” the words taste sour, but you force them out. “you should get ready to give minji her new year’s kiss. you know… start your year right.”
the teasing slips out of him instantly. “what?”
the air changes. the warmth in his tone hardens — not angry, but alert. “kiss minji?”
you swallow. “she’s perfect for you, jake. she fits right in. so just… go.”
there’s a beat of silence.
then soft footsteps.
one, two, three.
he stops just behind you, close enough that the heat of him pushes into the cold around your shoulders.
“y/n,” he says quietly, voice no longer teasing. “look at me.”
you don’t.
your fingers cling to the railing like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.
he exhales. a sound that’s equal parts disbelief and frustration, like he can’t believe he’s only noticing this now.
“you’re out here because of minji?” he asks gently. “seriously?”
you wince. “i’m not— it’s just—”
“god.” he drags a hand through his hair. “you think i came out here to… what? check on my little sister or something?”
you flinch.
he sees it.
his voice softens instantly. “hey. hey, don’t do that.”
noise from inside erupts — shouts, laughter, someone yelling:
“ONE MINUTE!!”
you turn your head half an inch. that’s all he needs.
jake steps forward and grips your wrist, pulling you fully to face him.
his eyes search yours fast, piecing everything together.
the hiding. the slipping away. the comment about minji. the trembling lip you’re trying so hard to hide.
“you’re intimidated,” he murmurs, like it physically pains him to say it. “by her. by them. by… everything.”
your throat tightens.
“jake—”
he shakes his head once, sharply. “no. i’m not letting you run away minutes before midnight over something that isn’t even—” he bites down the word. “—true.”
another cheer rises inside.
“THIRTY SECONDS!!”
he looks over his shoulder like time is attacking him. then right back at you.
something in him snaps into decision.
“come here.”
before you can protest, jake tugs you forward by the waist. not roughly, not gently, but with certainty — pulling you into the warm solidness of his chest.
your breath stutters.
his mouth is close enough that the cold air fogs between both of you.
“you’re not spending the new year alone out here because you think i want someone else,” he says, voice low, urgent. “i’m not letting that happen.”
your heart pounds so hard you feel it in your fingertips.
“TEN! NINE! EIGHT—”
jake’s hands tighten at your waist.
“you’re with me,” he breathes. “right here.”
the countdown booms.
“—SEVEN! SIX! FIVE—”
he leans in, forehead brushing yours, grounding you. “i’m not going back inside without you.”
your breath catches.
his thumb brushes your hip — a single, devastating touch.
“—FOUR! THREE—”
he whispers your name.
like it means more than the countdown.
more than the party.
more than minji.
“—TWO!”
your lips are a heartbeat apart.
“ONE!”
fireworks crack. cheers erupt. glasses clink and the music blares loudly once more.
it happens before your brain can register anything but heat.
warmth.
jake’s warmth.
his mouth presses into yours right as the fireworks explode above the rooftop. he’s warm, deliberate, and steady.
a kiss with no prelude. no warning. a years-long dam finally bursting, crashing into you with so much force that it makes you dizzy in an instant.
there isn’t any hesitation. only the sure, devastatingly delicious taste of his plump lips fit against yours like he’s done it forever. a dangerous fever dream that you could’ve never imagined to actually experience.
your breath catches, fingers instinctively curling over his sweater. for a sheer millisecond, you melt into him. tilting your head to taste more.
you moan. pathetic how the sound spills into him before you can stop yourself. before you can even comprehend the way his hands frame your waist. the way he tastes you back with fervor. as if he’s waited just as long as you.
and then reality slams into you like freezing water.
you jolt back so fast that your heel nearly slips from a patch of slickness from the melted frost.
your hands fly to his chest, not to support yourself but to shove.
you push his chest hard.
jake stumbles back half a step.
he doesnt look nearly as shaken as you are. doesn’t look confused— hell, he doesn’t even look sorry.
he just stands there. breathing hard, lips red, eyes lazily fixed on your trembling mouth as if he can still taste you.
“what the fuck was that?!” you hiss, voice cracking.
jake blinks at you slowly, lips still parted from the kiss. he looks… unfairly calm. unbothered. amused.
like he’s been expecting this exact meltdown from you.
“uh,” he says, taking a step toward you, “pretty sure that was a kiss?”
“no.” you shake your head hard. then harder. your pulse is sprinting. “no, jake. stop. don’t, you can’t just—”
you point at him, words tangling. “that better not be some dumb joke. or some dumb new years dare your stupid rich friends put you up to.”
“what—“ his brow tweaks up.
“you can’t just-just kiss me like that…” your heart beat is everywhere. “not after all this time! not after treating me like your little sister or some obligation you had to drag around!”
he watches you unravel with a slow, maddening calmness. still focused entirely, devastatingly, on you.
“y/n,” he says softly, “if you were my sister, i wouldn’t have kissed you like that.”
you shake your head violently.
jake just stands there, breath warm in the cold air, lips still kissed-red.
then, slowly, infuriatingly—he lets a small, amused smile pull at the corner of his mouth.
“happy new year to you too, by the way.”
“no. no, jake. don’t joke. im serious, don’t—“ your voice breaks. “you better not be playing some prank, or doing some stupid new years dare for your rich friends—”
“a dare?” he almost laughs. “who the hell would dare me to kiss you?”
your stomach twists.
gross.
the word echoes in your ears—sharp, humiliating, impossible to forget. and suddenly you’re not sure which version of jake is standing in front of you: the boy who once swore you were like a sister… or the man who just kissed you like he meant every second of it.
“i’m serious!” you shout, even though your voice wavers. “you can’t just— mess with me like that and act like— like it’s nothing.”
he blinks at you incredulously.
“don’t you dare try to touch me again.”
but he’s already reaching for your hand.
not to grab.
not to pin.
just… to hold.
his fingers brush yours gently, tentative in a way that makes your breath stall.
“y/n,” he murmurs, lifting your hand to his lips, “if i wanted to mess with you, i wouldn’t start by kissing you breathless.”
you freeze.
his mouth brushes your knuckles softly. once, twice—each kiss unraveling you more than the last.
“you can hit me if you want,” jake says quietly. “yell at me. shove me again.”
another kiss. your pulse stutters.
“just don’t lie to me.”
“jake,”
he turns your wrist, lips finding the inside of it. warm, slow, devastating.
“don’t act like you didn’t want that.”
your knees nearly give.
“don’t act like you don’t still want it.”
“you. you don’t get to say that,” you breathe, trying to retreat but pinned by the railing. “you think i’m just going to let you—”
he kisses your shoulder through your sweater. you shiver violently.
“let you?” he echoes, gaze lifting to yours. “you kissed me back.”
your hands push at his chest again—but this time he catches your wrists.
gently.
easily.
like he’s done it a hundred times in his head.
he pins your hands to the cold railing behind you—not forceful but enough to steal your breath.
his forehead lowers until it rests against yours.
“say you didn’t want it,” he murmurs, his warm breath spilling over your lips. “say it, and i’ll stop.”
your throat closes.
“go on,” he breathes. “just once. i’ll back off.”
he loosens his hold on your wrists.
he releases you completely.
but you don’t move.
you don’t even blink.
you can’t. not with him this close, not with your heartbeat tangled in his breath, not with the taste of him still on your lips.
his eyes lower to your mouth.
“y/n,” he whispers, “please. just say it.”
you open your mouth.
nothing comes out.
he studies your face, really studies it. and something in his expression softens, not with pity, but with a kind of warm, unbearable fondness that hits you straight in the chest.
then he steps closer.
you step back.
he steps forward again.
you hit the railing.
“stop doing that,” you breathe.
“doing what?” his voice dips lower—gentler, taunting in the softest way.
“looking at me like that.”
“like what?” his eyes glisten under the dim balcony light.
“like….” you swallow hard. “like you meant that.”
he doesn’t blink.
doesn’t move.
doesn’t even take a breath.
then he says, perfectly calm, perfectly certain.
“i did.”
your knees wobble.
“jake…”
“it wasn’t a joke,” he goes on, voice losing every trace of playfulness. “nobody told me to do it. nobody dared me. i kissed you because i wanted to.”
your heart drops straight into your stomach.
“you’re lying,” you whisper.
he huffs a quiet laugh, disbelieving, almost offended. “you really think i’d do something like that to you? a prank? after all these years?”
you look away, unable to hold the weight of his gaze.
“you’ve been avoiding me all night,” he says softly. “you disappeared, ran from the room, hid out here… all because you thought i wanted someone else.”
your breath trembles.
“and then you told me to go inside and kiss minji.” his jaw sets. “so yeah. when the countdown hit one, i kissed the person i actually wanted to kiss.”
your stomach flips violently.
“don’t…” you whisper. “don’t say things you don’t mean… you called being in a relationship with me gross.”
jake steps in—finally, fully. closing the remaining distance so deliberately you feel his warmth before he even touches you.
one hand rises, fingers brushing the back of your arm—barely there, but grounding in a way that nearly undoes you.
“i’m not playing with you,” he murmurs. “i’m not messing with you. i’m not confusing you on purpose.”
your eyes burn. “then why, why now?”
his thumb grazes your wrist, tender and sure.
“because you tried to get out of the way.”
you inhale sharply.
“and i realized,” he says quietly, “that i’ve been letting you believe things that were never true. i don’t think a relationship with you is gross. or that you’re like a little sister to me…”
he tilts his head, bringing his mouth dangerously close to yours again.
“y/n,” he whispers, “i meant every second of that kiss.”
Your knees were weak, your jaw slack, your pulse hammering through your fingertips. he could probably feel it from where he’s standing.
“and,” his lips brush the side of your face, inching closer to your ear. “i think you did too…”
“no,” you whisper, weakly. barely a sound. barely you denying much.
“hmm?” his voice dips lower. dangerous. seductive even, a tease laced with certainty. “that’s strange. because i could’ve sworn i heard you moan against me when i kissed you, y/n.”
you don’t answer.
you just tilt your head away. biting your bottom lip. pouting because, he had you there.
you glance back at him. lips parted and plush. eyes nearly pleading.
it’s enough for him.
he surges forward, mouth dragging down the slope of your neck. not kissing; devouring. open-mouthed heat, slow hunger, breathing you in like he’s been starving for years.
“you drive me fucking insane,” he groans against your skin. “you think i didn’t notice the way you looked at me? you think i didn’t go home half the time already hard just from being near you?”
your breath stutters.
“you think i never noticed those shorts you wear around me in the summer? or that dress at my birthday?”
“jake, stop,”
“why?” he murmurs against your jaw. “tell me to actually stop. and i will”
you try. you really do.
but your head falls back with a soft, helpless sound when his hands slip beneath your sweater—warm palms skimming your bare waist like he’s relearning your body.
“we’re on the balcony,” you pant. “anyone could see—”
“let them.”
“our moms are inside—”
“then maybe be quiet for once in your life,” he growls—right before he drops to his knees in front of you.
your legs nearly buckle. your hands fly into his hair, gripping without meaning to.
“jake—jake—what are you—”
he yanks your panties down to your knees, a low groan breaking from his chest as black fabric accessorizes your thighs.
“you’re shaking,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles up the inside of your leg. “you cold?”
“i—yes—but that’s not—” the sound of you whimpering is foreign but it’s coming out so naturally.
“not what?”
“not why i’m shaking, asshole—”
“it’s because your body can’t handle how badly she needs me… right here.” he doesn’t wait. his mouth follows the inside of your thigh, slow kisses up your skin, until your knees threaten to give out.
“you’re soaked,” he breathes—almost a moan. “fuck.”
“oh my god—”
“you’ve been wet for me since the second i kissed you… haven’t you?”
you try to push him away. your hands tangled in his hair, tugging instead of resisting.
“i’ve wanted to taste you for years,” he whispers—no tease now, just devotion. “let me, y/n.”
you don’t speak. you just nod.
he lifts one of your legs onto his shoulder and dives in.
the first stroke of his tongue knocks the air straight out of your lungs. you cry out before you can stop yourself—hands clutching his hair, hips grinding down for more, chasing him without thinking. your skirt flipped up around your thighs.
“fuck—jake—” you gasp. “i can’t—we can’t—”
he hums against you, gripping your hips like he’s holding himself together.
“you taste even better than i fucking dreamed,” he growls into you.
you’re gone.
everything blurs—fireworks still bursting overhead, cheers from inside, the cold biting your thighs. all of it disappears under the white-hot pulse of jake’s mouth on you, slow and greedy, like he’s worshiping.
when you cum, you nearly sob.
your legs tremble violently. jake stands, catching you effortlessly, and kisses you hard—lips slick, tasting like you.
“think you taste good?” he whispers against the corner of your mouth.
“shut up,” you moan.
“you taste so fucking good.”
your breath is still uneven, thighs trembling, your weight leaning into jake’s chest like your bones have decided to give out—right before reality slams back into place.
you hear a faint, familiar voice slowly approaching the balcony door.
“shit—my underwear—”
you push off of him, not rough but frantic, fingers scrambling to pull the fabric back up your legs. your hands shake badly enough that you fumble the waistband twice.
jake watches, not bothering to disguise the heavy-lidded hunger in his eyes, mouth still wet from you.
you’re just finished tugging them over your hips and under your skirt when-
the balcony door slides open.
“you two out here?” jake’s mom calls, her voice warm and a little tipsy. “oh hey! we’ve been looking—”
she stops.
you snap upright so fast your vision blurs, sweater collar yanked down a bit in a panic, hair a mess, face burning hotter than the fireworks still going off above the roofline.
jake doesn’t move.
doesn’t straighten. doesn’t pretend.
just turns his head… and lets a slow, sinful smirk pull at his mouth. head tilted towards you.
and when he drags his tongue across his lower lip, slow enough to savor, your stomach drops straight through the floor.
his mother blinks, the wine in her glass sloshing faintly. “you two… alright out here?”
“yep,” jake answers, popping the p just to be an ass. “perfect. the fireworks look great mom.”
you glare at him, mortified.
“hmm.” his mom tries him again, squinting like she’s trying to focus. “jake, you weren’t being an asshole again, were you?”
you nearly choke on nothing.
“mom—” he sighs, an amused exhale, biting back something wicked.
“i mean it,” she insists, wagging a finger. “if you’re rude to y/n again, i’m going to lecture you until the day i die. she’s a good woman. way too good for you, frankly.”
your stomach twists hard.
jake’s smile sharpens, slow and deliberate. “oh, trust me,” he darts his tongue over his lip again. “she’s way too good.”
your knees weaken.
his mom doesn’t notice; she’s too busy adjusting her blazer and trying to reorient herself while glancing over at something out of view from inside.
“come,” she says, brightening. “we’re going to cut the cake once everyone comes back from the garden.”
jake’s hand slides across the small of your back—light, confident, unmistakably intentional.
you tense, breath catching at the heat of his palm.
“coming,” he tells her, eyes locked on you in a way that curls heat low in your stomach.
then—bold, deliberate—he bites his bottom lip clearly thinking about what the two were almost caught doing.
your mother’s voice floats through the doorway before you can react. her head peeping into view. “are you two out there kissing or fighting?”
jake doesn’t miss a beat.
“kissing,” he says softly, smirk fully turning into a smug smile once both moms, in their tipsy joy, hug each other and squeal.
a bit too excited with alcohol fueled energy.
”i knew this day would come!” you mother chimes happily as she uses jakes mom to hold herself steady.
you elbow him—not childish, but sharp enough to warn him to stop talking.
he laughs under his breath, leaning in so close his lips brush the shell of your ear.
“you can shove me all you want,” he murmurs. “i’m not done with you tonight.”
your breath stutters.
“come on,” his mom urges from the doorway, swaying slightly, completely oblivious to her son’s dark intentions. “you two are so adorable.”
jake gives you a look as you walk past her. slow, heated, as if he’s stripping the hours ahead of you bare with nothing but his eyes.
nothing adorable about it. at all.
. . . . .
you didn’t even know how you reach the hallway bathroom. one second Jake’s mouth was still on you, his mother laughing drunkenly in the background, the next, you were slamming the bathroom door behind you, chest heaving, hands gripping the sink like it could keep you upright.
you stare at yourself in the mirror.
swollen lips. flushed skin. neck marked where he’d mouthed over you like he was starved.
your reflection looks wrecked.
you hated it. you loved it.
a soft knock.
just him.
“y/n... open the door.”
your throat tightens. “go away.”
He didn’t.
instead, he turns the knob — slow enough to warn you — and steps in. carefully letting his body block the view of you hunching over the sink. he shuts the door with a click, trapping you between the counter and his body.
you look away from him.
he doesnt let you avoid him.
two fingers slide under your chin, forcing your eyes to his.
“trying to hide? ” he murmured. "what's wrong?"
“you,” your voice cracked. “what we did... you cant just do that to me. not after everything. not tonight. Not with our moms right inside. I don’t even know what this is.”
“why not? ” he said simply. “you're finally getting what you want... and so am i.”
Your breath hitched.
“and you,” he continued, brushing his thumb over your still‑kiss‑swollen mouth, “you're finally admitting you want me.”
“I never said—”
“ah. well, you didn’t have to.”
you pushed at his chest. a weak, useless shove which Jake stepped in closer instead of away. his body pressed yours into the counter, his breath warm on your cheek.
“come upstairs.”
your stomach dropped. “what,"
“not asking,” he whispered, voice deep and sure. “come. upstairs.”
he grabs your wrist. not hard, not rough, but with a kind of certainty that makes your knees jello and guides you out of the bathroom, down the hall, and up the staircase to the second floor.
your heartbeat thunders in your ears as he pauses outside a familiar door.
his old bedroom.
the place where your parents used to leave you both with popcorn and movies.
the place where you’d built pillow forts, shared secrets, fell asleep side‑by‑side in childish innocence.
he opened the door.
everything smelled the same. that faint woody, warm scent that had always clung to Jake’s sweaters, even now.
but the moment he pulled you inside and shut the door, nothing about this was childhood.
he kisses you. hard, hungrier than before, walking you backward until your knees hit the edge of his old bed. you fall onto the mattress with a gasp, and Jake’s mouth follows, trailing heat and hunger over your jaw, your throat, down your chest.
your sweater went first. Then your bra.
you didn’t even remember lifting your arms.
jake’s breath stuttered.
“fuck,” he whispered, staring at your bare chest like he was in pain. “you don’t even know what you do to me.”
your nipples tightened under his gaze, and before you could cover yourself, he cupped your breast, thumb brushing over the peak.
you choked on a gasp.
he smirked. slow, dangerous.
“not the same girl who used to sleep on this bed clutching a stuffed rabbit, huh?”
“jake….”
he bent down, lips wrapping around your nipple, sucking hard enough your back arched off the mattress.
“you grew up so fucking pretty,” he murmured against your skin. “so fucking gorgeous. i used to—” he cut himself off with a groan as he pulled your panties down again, tossing them aside like they offended him. “i used to look at you back then and force myself to ignore it.”
your breath stalled.
“i didn’t want to ruin you, you know?" he said, dragging his hands up your thighs. “didn’t want to take something that wasn’t mine.”
his fingers sank into your hips.
“but look at you now.”
he pushes your knees apart.
“look at how wet you are for me.”
Your vision blurred.
jake didn’t ease into you. he tore into your kiss, tore into your breath, tore into your sanity. His mouth crashed onto yours as he dragged you further up the mattress, caging you under him.
his jeans hit the floor.
his underwear follows.
you barely had time to inhale before he lined himself up, gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise.
“Jake…” Your voice shook. “Wait, I’ve never….”
His expression shifted instantly. not softer, but focused.
“you want me to stop?”
“no,” you breath. “oh god— no.”
his voice drops into something sinful.
“then tell me you want me,” he whispered, pressing the head of his cock against your entrance, pushing just enough to make you gasp. “tell me you need me to fuck you in the room where we used to play.”
Your nails dug into his shoulders.
“i need you, jake, please.” you whisper, heart pounding out of your chest.
he snaps.
jake thrusts into you. all the way, deep, stretching you until your breath hitched into a sob. he swallowed your cry with his mouth, groaning against your lips as he bottomed out.
you clung to him, nails scraping down his back, legs trembling around him.
adjusting to his length, walls spasming and twitching around his dick. you can hear and feel how wet you are.
and then—
he moved.
slow but hard.
claiming.
the bedframe slammed into the wall as Jake fucked you like every year of holding back had just detonated inside him. you breasts bounce with every thrust, and jake stares down at them like he was going insane.
“of fuck—look at you.” he groans, hand gripping your waist to pull you onto his cock even harder. “nothing innocent left now, huh?”
You gasped, head falling back.
“remember, you used to sleep right here,” he grunted, thrusting deeper, “curled up beside me….and now look at you—”
your eyes rolled. throat letting out god know what kind of noises.
“now you’re moaning on my cock, in the same fucking spot—”
a splash of your arousal hits his abdomen.
“—where we used to fight at night because i would steal your little plushie.”
your entire body shuddered.
he leans down, biting your shoulder just enough to make you cry out, one hand sliding to your throat, not squeezing. just holding.“you need your plushie now, y/n?”
“you’re mine now,” he whispers raggedly into your ear. “you understand me?”
you nod, desperately.
“say it.”
“i'm yours! jake, oh my god, I’m yours!”
he lets out a low groan, thrusting so deep you see stars.
the bed creaked. the old headboard slammed. the room you’d once thought of as safe now echoed with filthy sounds of skin, gasping breaths, and the wet slap of your body meeting his.
your climax hit you violently.
jake wasn’t far behind. his voice breaking into your neck as he thrust through your orgasm, chasing his own until he pulled out just in time, finishing hot and fast over your stomach, chest heaving above you.
your bodies stayed tangled in the dark as fireworks cracked through the sky outside.
new year’s eve into new years day. More than what you could ever imagine.
a new beginning.
not as Jake's obligation. but as his choice.
his. All his.
m i k a 🌷: let me know if you want to be added to my general taglist! 💕
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"A Private Collection" - Shigeta Harua (重田美琉愛) x f!reader
“Wow,” he murmured, voice low. “It’s so easy to get inside your apartment.”; You stopped breathing. When he finally lifted his gaze to yours, his smile was wrong. “So easy,” he repeated. And you realized, you should never have handed him your phone.
content warnings - stalking, phone hacking, privacy invasion, breaking and entering, police negligence, physical intimidation, restraint, threats with a weapon, psychological terror, torture violence, and non-consensual sexual act/themes.
word count : 9.4k
This is the fourth installment of The Silver Screen Haunting Series.
"Come closer. The show is ready to start whether you’re ready or not."
You were halfway through tearing apart your apartment, couch cushions overturned like crime-scene evidence when your landline finally rang. An unknown number. Your heart tripped. “Hey,” a man said, a little breathless, as if he’d jogged to make the call. “I, uh… found this phone on the bus yesterday and clicked on the first number I saw in the contact” You exhaled so hard your shoulders sagged. “Oh thank goodness. I thought I lost it forever.” You paced the living room, hand pressed to your forehead. “Is it okay? Please tell me it’s okay.”
There was a pause, then a wince you could practically hear. “About that… the screen’s cracked. I think someone stepped on it.” “Oh no.” You sank onto the arm of a chair. “Of course they did.” “I can drop it at a repair shop,” he offered quickly. “Incheon Repair. I know the owner. I’ll cover the cost, so just… pick it up whenever.” “That’s really not necessary—” “Already done,” he said, almost shy but determined. “And, um… you’re welcome.” You started to thank him, but he hung up before you could finish the sentence. Just a soft click, leaving you staring at your wallpaper and wondering who exactly had just played good Samaritan with your entire life. By the time you made it to Incheon Repair, your nerves were still buzzing. The bell over the door gave a bright ding, slicing through the quiet shop. The guy behind the counter looked up.
He was not what you expected. Light flashed off his glasses as he straightened, eyes meeting yours with a quick, almost startled focus like he’d been waiting without admitting he was waiting. “You must be…” He checked the ticket in his hand. “The one who lost her phone?” You laughed, heat brushing your cheeks. “Guilty.” His mouth curved, slow and a little crooked. He lifted the phone gently, like it was something fragile and worth protecting. “Your Good Samaritan asked me to make it perfect.” The repairman scratched the back of his neck, suddenly less cool as he handed the phone over. You took it carefully, offering a grateful smile. “Thank you!” you called over your shoulder, giving a quick wave as you pushed through the door.
You stepped out of the shop with a faint, lingering smile still warmed by the unexpected kindness of a stranger, still buoyed by the relief of getting your phone back. The late-afternoon air felt gentler, almost hopeful. What you didn’t know was that this small, ordinary victory marked the last trace of normal you’d feel for a very long time. Your life was already shifting, the ground already tipping beneath your feet. And the worst was coming. You just hadn’t seen it yet.
“You got your phone back?” your coworker asked the moment you dropped into your desk chair. You set the device down beside your keyboard, the weight of it suddenly too noticeable. “Yeah,” you said, exhaling a small laugh. “I was terrified I’d never see it again.” “I remember,” she said, leaning back in her chair with a relieved grin. “You were a mess.” “Well,” you continued, smoothing a thumb over the screen, “someone found it on the bus. The screen was smashed, but they had it repaired for me.” You smiled, half at the memory, half at the absurd luck of it. “Wow.” She shook her head. “There really are good people in the world left.”
You nodded, letting the warmth of the moment settle you. Then you turned to your computer, pressing the power button to start the day. Nothing happened. You frowned, pressing it again. Harder. The monitor stayed black, stubbornly blank. “What the hell…” you muttered, pushing back your chair. Your fingers searching for the cable, the outlet, any explanation for the sudden silence of your workstation. The cord was plugged in. You pulled your hand back from the outlet, frowning. “It’s plugged in,” you muttered. You were already reaching for your phone to call tech support when the monitor suddenly flickered and then flashed on in a burst of cold white light. “Oh.” The word slipped out, you didn’t know why you were this jumpy. Just a glitch, you told yourself. Computers acted up. Nothing unusual. You eased back into your chair, sliding it toward the desk until it clicked into place. You exhaled, steadied yourself, and turned back to the screen ready to salvage what was left of the morning.
But your desktop was empty. Every folder. Every file. Gone. “No…” you whispered, moving the mouse faster now, clicking through search bars, directories, anywhere they might be. But it was useless. The computer wasn’t missing your files, they were gone. You didn’t hear your coworker walk up until she spoke. “Everything okay?” You straightened sharply. “Everything’s okay. Yeah. Everything’s fine.” You lied, the words barely forming around the tightness in your throat. Somehow, despite the setback, you managed to rebuild enough of your work to get through the day. The hours blurred, the familiar rhythm of tasks barely keeping your thoughts from circling back to the empty screen. By late afternoon, you shut down the computer, listening to the soft whine as it powered off. You gathered your things, slung your bag over your shoulder, and headed for the door.
Dinner was supposed to be quiet. A small mercy after a day that hadn’t offered any. You set the plate on the table, steam rising, the smell finally coaxing your shoulders to loosen. Fork in hand, you were halfway to the first bite when a sound rattled from inside your bag. Another buzz. You pushed back from the table and crossed the room. Your phone screen was lit inside the half-unzipped bag, the glow cold, intrusive. When you pulled it out, the Instagram icon blinked at you. Your notifications stacked like bricks. Your account. A new post. Your heart hiccuped, then slammed into a sprint. What the hell? You opened the app. The world dropped out from under you. It was you more like your body, unmistakably yours, unmistakably naked. Your breath went razor-thin. You didn’t remember taking this photo. You didn’t remember posting anything. Your fingers shook hard enough to blur the screen as you stabbed at the delete option, deleting, deleting, God, delete. But the damage was already done. Messages detonated in your inbox. Friends. Coworkers. Numbers you didn’t recognize. And then Mom. The screen kept flashing, vibrating in your hand as if possessed. The room felt too small, the air scraping your lungs. Someone had been in your account. Someone had been in your life. Someone had seen you more than you’d ever meant for anyone to see. And they wanted you to know.
“What do you mean you can’t help me?” Your voice cracked through the cramped station lobby, sharp enough to draw a glance from a passing deputy. The officer in front of you didn’t flinch. He just stood there broad-shouldered. A brick wall wearing a badge. “Someone hacked into my account,” you pushed on, words tumbling, breath thinning. “They posted a naked photo of me. Me! There has to be something you can do.” The officer exhaled, the kind of breath that said he’d rehearsed this line far too many times. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But there’s nothing I can do at this time.” Nothing. The word detonated in your skull. “You’re all fucking useless,” you spat, heat and humiliation burning up your throat. He didn’t react. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even shift his weight. Just stood there like the human version of a locked door. You snatched your phone off the table so fast. The screen lit up again more notifications, more messages. You turned, storming toward the exit, the officer’s non-answer echoing behind you as the door slammed shut.
It took you nearly an hour to work up the nerve. Your phone lay faceup on the couch cushion beside you, screen lit with 20+ messages from Mom, each one a tiny landmine waiting to detonate. The sheer number of them made your anxiety spike, breath thinning, palms damp. Texting back felt impossible. Calling felt worse. But you hit Call anyway. She answered on the first ring. “Honey! Why would you post such a ridiculous picture of yourself?” Her voice blasted through the speaker judgment braided into every syllable. “Mom, do you really think I would post that myself?” The words tore out louder than you intended, raw and defensive. “Then how the hell was it posted?” she fired back. “I was hacked,” you said, the truth scraping your throat. Silence crackled on the line she replied, “Oh.” Just oh. As if that explained everything. As if that made any of this better. “Of course you’d think the worst of me, Mom,” you said, your voice breaking at the edges. “I’m sorry, but that picture has been the talk of the family for hours,” she rushed out, voice tight, embarrassed. “Did you go to the police? Please tell me you did.”
“Of course I did.” You let out a breath that felt like it might take your lungs with it. “And they were plenty of help.” “Really?” Her voice softened, suddenly hopeful. “No.” You sank to your knees on the living room floor, the phone slick against your cheek. “They were useless, Mom. Completely useless.” A shudder ran through you, and the words spilled out before you could stop them. “I don’t know what to do.” The admission cracked something open. You felt yourself fold, breath hitching, the weight of everything finally dragging you down as you broke apart on the other end of the line.
You walked into work with your head lowered, shoulders tight, every step heavier than the last. The office hummed with the usual morning noise but underneath it, you heard it. The whispers. Not loud, not obvious. Just enough for your skin to prickle. Enough for you to feel the weight of every pair of eyes tracking you from behind computer screens and half-closed cubicle walls. Even your coworker, who was normally an unstoppable ray of sunshine, didn’t look up. No cheerful “Good morning,” no wave, no smile. She just kept typing, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on her monitor as if you weren’t standing right there. You slid into your chair, hands slightly trembling as you began setting up your workstation power button, login screen, email loading. A routine you could normally perform blindfolded, now suddenly difficult, every movement stiff and self-conscious. You were reaching for your headset when you heard it: Your name.
Not whispered this time. Spoken clearly. You looked up. Your boss stood at the door to her office, one hand braced on the frame, the other motioning you forward with a small, grim nod that told you everything you needed to know. You exhaled, slow and resigned, dread crawling up your spine like something alive. You knew exactly what was coming. And there was no avoiding it. You walked into her office with your head still down, the door clicking shut behind you. “Take a seat,” she said. You did. The chair felt colder than it should have. She folded her hands on the desk, eyes pinning you with a mixture of discomfort and corporate detachment. “There’s no easy way to say this,” she began, voice tight. “But we’re going to have to let you go.” The words landed with the weight of a physical blow.
She continued, each syllable another crack in the floor beneath you. “Some of our clients saw the photo circulating. They threatened to close their accounts if we didn’t take action. We can’t afford that kind of loss.” A breath. “I’m sorry. Please clear out your desk before the end of the day.” Sorry. As if the word meant anything now. You didn’t argue. Didn’t defend yourself. Didn’t even trust your voice enough to try. You simply stood, numbness settling in like frost, and walked out without looking back. Your desk felt foreign as you emptied it, drawer by drawer, item by item, your life reduced to a cardboard box. Around you, the office buzzed on as if nothing had changed, as if you hadn’t just lost the last piece of normal you’d been hanging on to. And no one said a word.
Carrying the cardboard box through the city made you feel smaller than you’d ever felt in your life. On the subway, it sat heavy in your lap, your name still scrawled across the side in black marker one more reminder of everything you’d just lost. Every lingering stare felt like a spotlight. Did they see the photo? Did they recognize you? Your chest tightened each time a man’s gaze drifted across your body. You kept your eyes down, fingers clenched around the box, silently praying Please don’t let them know. Please. Paranoia chased you all the way to your stop and up the stairwell to your apartment building. You climbed fast, head low, breath unsteady. But when you reached your floor, you froze. Your apartment door sat slightly open. A thin, dark gap. Just wide enough to say: someone’s inside. Your pulse thudded in your ears. You nudged the door with your foot, listening for movement. Nothing.
You stepped in, placing the box on the floor as quietly as you could, the soft thud sounding unbearably loud in the silence. You moved deeper, heart banging against your ribs. When you reached the living room, the scream tore out of you before you even felt it rising. Your photo, those photos hundreds of them, were plastered across your wall. Row after row, like a grotesque collage. Your body duplicated, exposed, weaponized. Every inch of the wall covered. You stumbled back, panic choking you, and bolted. Down the hallway. Down the stairs. Out the building. You didn’t stop until your lungs burned and your legs turned to water. Only then did you call the police, your voice shredded, hands trembling so violently you almost dropped the phone. They took their time. Of course they did. By the time they arrived, you could barely speak. You led them upstairs, your body shaking, every step slower than the last. You pushed open your door, pointing to the living room and stopped cold
The walls were clean. Every photo was gone. Not a scrap. Not a corner. Not a trace. The officers exchanged looks, each wearing some variation of annoyance and disbelief. But you just stood there, staring at the blank wall where your nightmare had been only 30 minutes before, knowing with perfect, ice-cold clarity: Someone had been here. Someone had waited for you to see. And they wanted you to know they could come back. The lecture felt longer than a walk back from hell. One officer paced. The other crossed his arms. Both made it clear you’d wasted their time. But you didn’t back down. “I want a report filed,” you repeated, voice frayed but steady. They exchanged a look like you were the unreasonable one, not the person who’d broken into your home and wallpapered your trauma across your living room.
Begrudgingly they took the statement. Every pen stroke sounded irritated, rushed. By the time they left, their irritation lingered in the air like smoke. The apartment felt wrong the second the door clicked shut behind them. But you had nowhere else to go. You’d lost your job. You couldn’t afford a hotel. And your parents lived hundreds of miles away, far enough that running to them wasn’t an option, not tonight. So you sat on the couch in the dark, arms wrapped around yourself, staring at the blank wall where the photos had been. You didn’t trust the shadows. You didn’t trust anything. Your phone buzzed. A single vibration that sliced through the silence. You glanced at the screen, heart stumbling…
Unknown Number: did you like my gift?
The room shrank around you. Your fingers went cold. And for the first time since this started, true fear settled in your chest. Your hands shook so badly you almost dropped the phone. You swallowed hard, forced your thumbs to move, and typed the only words your brain could scrape together:
You: what the fuck do you want?
The message sent, the screen went white with waiting. The typing bubble appeared. A tiny pulsating dots. But in the dark of your apartment, it felt like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to you. You stared at it, praying God, please let this be a mistake, a prank, something stupid and explainable anything but real. The bubble blinked on. Off. On again. And then the response appeared.
Unknown Number: you.
For a moment, everything stopped your breath, your pulse, the air in the room. Your skin crawled. Your stomach lurched. Those three letters pinned you in place like a hand around your throat. A claim. And the worst part was the certainty that whoever sent it… meant it.
You didn’t remember walking to the repair shop only the cold air, the pounding in your skull, the feeling that you were being pushed forward by nothing but fear. But somehow you ended up standing at the counter again, staring at the familiar clutter of tools and phone parts scattered beneath the fluorescent lights. Harua looked up from the device he was working on, his expression softening when he saw your face. “Rough night?” You let out a humorless laugh. “My life has gone to shit,” you said, launching into the story, the hack, the photos, the messages. By the time you finished, your voice felt scraped raw. “I’m so sorry this is happening to you,” Harua said quietly as he slid a new SIM card into your phone with careful, steady hands. His kindness was disarming, painfully so. “Nobody deserves that.”
“Yeah.” You exhaled slowly. “I just… I need something to make it stop.” He snapped the back of your phone into place and handed it to you. Then he reached for a sticky note, scribbling down the new number in neat, quick handwriting and pressing it into your palm. “Here. And seriously let me know if I can be of any more help.” “Thank you,” you said, managing a small smile. It felt brittle, but it was the best you had. You turned, walked halfway through the doorway, the cool air brushing your face And then an idea hit you. You stopped. Turned back. “Harua…?” He glanced up, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?” You walked back to the counter, fingers tightening around the sticky note. “Can you trace an unknown number?” His expression changed subtle, but unmistakable. “Why?” he asked quietly. But you already knew he was going to say yes.
You and Harua agreed on a day your apartment, his equipment, one last shot at tracing the number the police couldn’t be bothered to take seriously. It felt risky, maybe even stupid, but desperation drowned out caution. When he arrived, you opened the door before he could knock twice. “Thank you for this,” you said, stepping back to let him in. Your voice sounded thin, worn down from too many sleepless hours. “It’s no problem,” he replied, offering a small, steady smile as he stepped past you. The calmness in his tone scraped against your nerves, but you forced yourself to breathe through it. “You can set up in the living room,” you told him. “I’ll get you something to drink. Water or coffee?” “Water is fine,” he said, already dropping his backpack onto the couch and unzipping it, taking out his laptop.
He worked with quiet efficiency, as if this was something he’d done a thousand times before. You turned toward the kitchen, the weight of his presence settling into your apartment. Some part of you dared to hope this might finally give you answers. Another part of you wasn’t sure you actually wanted them. “Here you go,” you said, handing him the bottle of water. “Thank you.” He took it with a polite nod, lifting it for a slow sip watching you over the rim longer than necessary. “Give me your phone,” he said next. You hesitated only a second before placing it in his hand. He plugged it into his computer, fingers gliding across the keyboard with a confidence that didn’t match his laid-back smile. Lines of code or whatever he was doing reflected off his glasses, the light turning his eyes into unreadable mirrors. A faint click echoed from the machine. Then another.
He leaned back into your couch, studying the screen with a soft, almost amused huff.
“Wow,” he murmured, voice low. “It’s so easy to get inside your apartment.” You stopped breathing. The room felt smaller. The air heavier. Something in your gut twisted hard, sharp, a warning you wished you could ignore but couldn’t. He didn’t look up right away. He let the silence stretch, thick and suffocating, a quiet reminder of exactly how much he wasn’t saying. When he finally lifted his gaze to yours, his smile was wrong. “So easy,” he repeated. Your pulse thudded in your ears. And you realized, too late, you should never have handed him your phone.
His smile wasn’t the innocent one you’d seen in the shop. It sharpened now, edged with something you should’ve recognized earlier. And then it hit you, sudden and electric, like a flash of memory snapping into place. This all started the day you got your phone back from the repair shop. Your body acted in second as you lurched to your feet, instinct taking over. You didn’t think. You just moved toward the door, toward anything that meant escape. But he moved faster. Fingers tangled in your hair, yanking you backwards with a force that stole your breath and sent your balance collapsing. The floor came up hard, the shock of it rattling through you, scattering your thoughts like broken glass.
The room spun. Your vision doubled, then steadied in small, trembling pieces. He crouched beside you, too close, his shadow folding over your body like a second skin. “This,” he murmured, voice soft enough to make your stomach twist, “is going to be so much fun.” The smile he wore wasn’t just of excitement but also with possession. Certainty. Like he was already writing the ending and you were the only one who hadn’t read it yet. You tried to push up, to get space, but his grip crushed into your head, slamming you down with bone-rattling force, your vision detonating into black while his laughter drilled into the fading edges of your awareness. “Come back to me, baby.” The words floated to you through a fog soft, coaxing, almost affectionate. A light tapping brushed your cheek, just enough to pull you toward consciousness. You blinked. Once. Twice. The world smeared at the edges, colors bleeding into one another. Your head rang or maybe it was your ears an unsteady hum that made it impossible to tell which way was up. You tried to focus.
Shapes shifted. Shadows moved. Someone was standing in front of you. For a second, you told yourself it was a trick of the blurred vision, your mind filling in the blanks of what you feared most. But then the haze cleared just enough. And the glint you saw wasn’t imagined. A knife. Sharp and very fucking real. Your stomach dropped, fuck. He tilted his head, that same too-soft smile touching his voice before it reached his lips. “There you are,” he murmured. “Let’s have some fun.” You tried to scream your breath already gathering in your chest when something pulled tight against your lips. Pressure. Fabric. The bitter taste of whatever he’d used to silence you. A gag. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” Harua said lightly, as if apologizing for tracking dirt on your rug instead of tying you up. “Couldn’t let you make any noise. Might attract… uninvited guests. You get what I mean?”
His laugh was soft, too soft, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. A strand of blond hair fell across the lenses of his glasses, and he pushed it back with a casual flick of his hand. That’s when you noticed the gloves. Black. Fitted tight to his fingers. Not for warmth. Not for style. To avoid leaving fingerprints. A coldness crept through you, settling deep. Your mind scrambled for answers, for logic, for something in your past that could explain any of this but nothing made sense. Nothing added up. What had you done? Why had he chosen you? Harua smiled again, the kind of smile that told you he already knew the answer and that you weren’t going to like it. “So,” he said, rocking lightly on the balls of his feet, as if this were a casual story told over coffee instead of… this, “you might be wondering how you got yourself into this situation.” The sing–song cadence of his voice scraped down your spine. You stared up at him, breath caught in your throat, as he continued. “It all started on that one fateful day on the bus.” His tone turned almost whimsical, as if savoring the memory. Your eyes widened.
“Oh yes,” he said, catching the reaction instantly. “I was the one who ‘found’ your phone.” He paused, head tilting. “And honestly? ‘Found’ might be a bit of a stretch.” A laugh slipped from him. “You were napping,” he said. “Head against the window, breathing all soft and quiet. That’s when your phone slipped out of your pocket and hit the floor.” He mimed the motion, fingers fluttering. “And when you got up to leave, I picked it up. I was going to run after you, actually. Hand it back. Do the decent thing.” He leaned in slightly, the air between you thick enough to choke on. “But I knew you weren’t going to spare me a single glance.” His voice dropped, “So I had to do something to get your attention.” The way he said it made your stomach lurch. “Lucky for me,” he went on, “I was the only one on that bus.” His eyes flicked to your face, watching every reaction. “So I smashed the phone. Right there on the floor. Then I came up with this whole little story. Something gentle. A good Samaritan routine to get you to come meet me.” He lifted his gloved hands, flexing the fingers slowly. “And I knew,” he said, smiling, “I’d have to give you a reason to need me. To trust me. To let me in.”
He spread his arms suddenly, jazz–hands and all. “And here we are! ta-da!” Your pulse hammered against the gag. What the actual hell? His smile widened, pleased with your shock maybe even feeding on it. “This,” he whispered, “was always going to be our story.” You couldn’t stop the tears. They came hot and fast, blurring your vision, slipping down your cheeks no matter how hard you tried to hold them back. The shift in his expression was instant. The smile vanished wiped clean, as if someone had pulled a curtain across his face. “Hey… no. None of that.” His hand came up, cupping your cheek with a gentleness that felt more terrifying than any blow. His breath brushed your skin, soft as his voice. “Shhh. Shhh.” You flinched. The cold edge of metal touched your skin. A reminder of how little space existed between you and whatever he decided came next. “Shhh,” he murmured again, almost tender, as if soothing a frightened child instead of trapping you in the dark. “No crying. I don’t want you scared.” But the tears kept falling, unstoppable. And his eyes never left your face.
When he saw the tears still streaming, something snapped in him. “Stop it,” he hissed. “Stop it.” He backed up a single step just enough space to make his next move unpredictable then lunged forward again, fingers clamping around your jaw, forcing your face toward his. “You better stop it,” he warned, the words low, trembling with a control he was barely holding onto. “I said stop.” He shoved you back into the couch cushions, the impact knocking the breath from your chest. The room tilted for a second, but then something clicked into place, an opening he hadn’t noticed, a mistake he’d made. He hadn’t tied your legs. Instinct took over before fear could shut it down. You swung your leg out hard, aiming for anything you could reach. Your heel connected with the side of his knee. He gasped more shock than pain stumbling backward. His balance broke cleanly, and he dropped to the floor with a heavy thump, air punching out of him.
“I’m trying to be nice,” he said as he pushed himself back to his feet, breath coming sharp, temper flaring just beneath the surface. “I was going to be gentle with you. I was going to lead you into the next act.” He took a step closer, the shift in his expression turning the air colder. “But of course,” he spat, voice twisting, “someone like you can’t see the good that’s right in front of you.” The anger rolled off him in waves. His hands flexed at his sides, the black gloves creaking faintly as he stared down at you as if you’d broken a rule he’d never bothered to explain and whatever he considered “the next act”… you didn’t want to find out. He stepped toward you with a slow step. His gaze dipped down your body, not with desire, but with a chilling sort of curiosity, as if mapping out the places he could break you. Instinct roared through you. You kicked out again and again, wild, desperate. Anything to keep him away. He caught your ankle mid-strike. His smile got bigger. “Oh shit.” One swift pull, and the floor slammed into you, the impact rattling through your skull. The room spun, the breath punched from your lungs. Before you could recover, he was on you settling his weight across your thighs, pinning you like you were nothing more than a thrashing inconvenience. “Shh,” he crooned, patting the top of your head with a gloved hand. Mocking. Affection twisted into cruelty. “You make everything so dramatic.”He leaned in closer, his face inches from yours, eyes widening with a feverish, almost childlike fascination. His gaze flicked to your lips.
A knock shattered the moment. His entire body went still. His head snapped toward the door, the shift in his expression instantaneous a flash of cold calculation slicing through whatever twisted game he’d been playing. Then he looked back down at you, and the difference in his eyes made your blood ice over. Gone was the teasing cruelty what stared back at you now was the real version of him. A psychopath deciding whether the person on the other side of the door would become part of his story…or a loose end. His smile didn’t return. Instead, he bent down until you felt the heat of his breath against your cheek. “Listen carefully,” he whispered, voice so soft it scraped like a blade against your ear. “If you make a sound..any sound..I’ll open that door and let them watch what happens next. And I promise you… they won’t be able to stop it.” Your entire body went rigid. Another knock. Firmer this time. He moved fast.
A gloved hand clamped over your mouth, the other curling around your arm as he hauled you across the floor. Your legs scraped uselessly against the hardwood, your breath choking behind his palm as he yanked you toward the shadowed space between the sofa and the wall. “Stay,” he murmured, forcing you down, his grip crushing your shoulder for a beat too long. “Don’t test me.” You barely had time to brace yourself before he straightened, the monster inside him folding away with terrifying ease. You watched from your wedge of darkness as his posture softened, shoulders loosening, expression smoothing into something friendly. Harmless. The kind of man who’d offer to help you with your groceries. The knock came again. “Coming!” he called out, cheerful, your blood turning to ice as the transformation completed. He took two steps toward the door, then paused deliberately, tilting his head just enough so you could see the small, private smirk aimed directly at you. He undid the deadbolt with an easy, pleasant laugh…and opened the door in the voice of a man who had never hurt a soul.
The door swung open, and Harua’s entire demeanor shifted into something warm. You couldn’t see the visitor from your angle, only the polite murmur of a woman’s voice drifting in. A neighbor. Your stomach dropped. “Oh—hey! Sorry I took a second,” Harua said, rubbing the back of his neck like a man embarrassed to have been caught off guard. “Didn’t expect anyone.” He was good. Too good. The neighbor’s voice floated in, apologetic. “I heard a thump. Sounded like someone fell.” Harua laughed, the perfect neighborly chuckle. “Yeah, that was me. Tripped over my own bag. I swear, if clumsiness were a sport, I’d be a gold medalist.” The woman gave a sympathetic noise. He reeled her right in. “But thank you for checking,” he added, leaning casually against the door frame. “This building needs more people like you.” The charm was effortless but beneath the sugary tone, you could hear it. He was gauging her, measuring how easily she believed him, whether she’d stay, whether she’d leave, whether she’d ever think to look behind him.
Your pulse hammered against your ribs. This was your only window. Your only chance of being heard or seen before he sealed you back in that suffocating silence. You twisted your hands slowly, working your fingers beneath the rough knot. Each movement had to be tiny, almost imperceptible. If the rope scraped too loudly, if the couch creaked, if he sensed even a ripple of movement. He’d be on you before you could blink. The neighbor’s voice floated through the room, oblivious. “Are you sure you’re okay? That fall sounded awful.” “Oh, trust me, I’ve survived worse,” Harua said lightly. “I’m just glad you came by.” You tugged harder, the knot giving the smallest shiver beneath your fingertips. Not much, but enough.
In the next moment A shift in Harua’s tone. A slight one. But you recognized it instantly. His charm thinned. His attention sharpened. “Actually,” he said, voice sweet but carrying an edge meant only for you. “Would you mind holding on a second? I think I left something by the couch.” Ice shot through your spine. He was coming back. You worked faster three frantic tugs, the knot loosening another fraction your pulse roaring in your ears. You didn’t dare look up. Didn’t dare breathe. You kept your hands moving, praying he hadn’t heard the fibers stretching. His footsteps began crossing the floor. You forced your hands to still, wrists burning, breath lodged in your throat as his shadow spilled across the living room floor…growing closer…closer…
The neighbor’s voice tried to follow him in. “Oh—do you need help with someth—?” “No,” he interrupted, that practiced warmth returning like a mask being snapped back into place. “I’ve got it.” But the look he sent into the room wasn’t warm at all. And it landed directly on you. Harua’s shadow reached you before he did. Then his sneakers appeared. A predator savoring the inches between him and his prey. He crouched down without a word. You tried to pull your hands subtly back into place, too late. His gaze flicked to your wrists, and the smile that bloomed across his face wasn’t human. “Well,” he murmured, voice a thread of delighted cruelty, “someone’s been busy.” He touched the rope with two fingers, almost lovingly, then tightened the knot in one practiced jerk. Pain flared, hot and immediate. You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from making a sound. “Clever,” he whispered so quietly the neighbor couldn’t possibly hear. “But not clever enough.”
The front door opened by an inch light, uncertain. “Is everything alright in there?” the neighbor yelled out by the door. “Do you need—?” Harua didn’t turn fully. Just angled his head enough for her to hear that the warm, friendly voice. “All good!” he said cheerfully. “Just…dropped something. Clumsy me.” He leaned down again until his mouth hovered by your ear. His next words were a cold whisper meant only for you. “If you make this woman suspicious…if you so much as twitch the wrong way…I will bring her into this.” A pause. “And trust me—she won’t fare better than you.” Your breath stopped in your throat. Harua rose smoothly, dusting off his hands as if all he’d done was pick up a fallen pen. The neighbor hovered at the doorway, brows drawn, instinct tugging her toward concern. He gave her that warm, earnest smile the one you now knew was nothing but lacquer over rot. “Really, thank you,” he said, stepping closer, gently herding her backward without ever touching her. “It’s been a long week. I’m exhausted. Last thing you need is my clumsiness bothering you.” “Oh—I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said, still uncertain.
“You didn’t,” he reassured, lowering his voice with the perfect blend of sincerity and harmless charm. “But I’m fine. Promise. Get some rest, okay?” The woman wavered, then nodded. Harua closed the door with a soft, grateful laugh then locked it. Slowly. The metallic click rang through the apartment like a verdict. When he turned back toward you, the smile vanished, wiped away so cleanly it was as if it had never existed. He crouched again, forearms resting casually on his knees, studying you with a calm that chilled your bones. “You almost ruined everything,” he said quietly. “You almost dragged that woman into something she didn’t deserve. You almost got her hurt.” His voice softened, almost gentle. “Do you ever think before you act?” Shame burned hot beneath your skin. You knew it wasn’t fair, you knew it wasn’t true but the words landed anyway. “You’re smart,” he continued a slow shake of his head. “You couldn’t even wait five minutes. Couldn’t stay quiet. Couldn’t keep yourself safe.”
He touched the tightened rope around your wrists. “You nearly killed that woman,” he whispered. The manipulation settled like poison in your chest, and for a horrifying moment, you felt it the creeping belief that maybe you had been stupid. That maybe this was, somehow, your fault. His smile returned, small and patronizing. “That’s why you need me to handle you,” he murmured. “You can’t even protect yourself.” The moment you tried to shift, he noticed. The last trace of gentleness vanished from his face, he seized your bound wrists, the rope cutting deeper as his grip clamped down. “No more hiding,” he murmured, a terrifying lilt in his voice, as if dragging you out of the shadows was a game he’d been waiting to finish. He yanked you forward. Your body scraped across the floor, helpless, the living room spinning around you as he hauled you into the open like you were nothing more than a piece of furniture he’d grown tired of misplacing.
In one brutal motion he grabbed you and hurled you. The world snapped sideways. Your jaw cracked against the edge of the coffee table, a burst of white pain searing through your skull. You tasted blood instantly, your lip splitting under the impact. You winced, choking back a cry. The makeshift gag loosened in a sudden droop and slid out of your mouth. “Oh,” he said lightly, as if he’d dropped a dish instead of a person. “Sorry about that.” The mock apology was worse than the pain. He flipped you over with one hand, rolling you onto your back, studying you with cold curiosity like he was studying the injuries he’d made. You gathered the blood in your mouth and spat splattering his cheek, his glasses, the corner of his lip. The room settled into a deeper silence. His face twisted into something far more dangerous. Slowly, deliberately, he dragged his thumb across the smear at the corner of his mouth, examining the dark red streak as though it fascinated him and he tasted it. Just a small, deliberate flick of his tongue across his thumb. His eyes never left yours. “Well,” he whispered, voice soft as a lullaby and twice as chilling. “You really shouldn’t have done that.”
He moved fast. Before you could suck in a breath, the gag was shoved between your teeth strangling whatever protest you tried to make. The world blurred as his hand knotted into your hair again, twisting deep, controlling every inch of your movement and started dragging you. Your heels scraped violently across the floor, kicking instinctively. Each kick thudded against furniture, against door frames, against nothing at all. He didn’t even flinch. Your struggles were an annoyance, nothing more. “Easy,” he murmured, breathless with a kind of delighted cruelty. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.” He hauled you down the hallway, your shoulder catching on the wall, pain blooming across your ribs. You tried twisting away, tried bracing your feet, but he yanked harder, your scalp screaming as he dragged you into the bathroom. He dropped you beside the toilet with a thud. The cold tile bit through your clothes. The room spun. Without looking at you, he turned the faucet, the tub filling with a rush of water that echoed against the porcelain. You started shaking.
Your eyes locked on him, wide, pleading. Every inhale was a whimper trapped behind cloth. You tried to speak, to beg but the gag turned your voice into muffled, panicked noises. He heard them anyway. He glanced down at you, breathing steady, as if he were taking in a painting instead of a terrified person on the bathroom floor. His hand drifted absently to the blood you had left on his lip, thumb brushing it with almost scientific fascination. Then his gaze slid back to your face. “God,” he whispered, adjusting his glasses with one slow, deliberate finger, “you’re so fucking beautiful like this.” The water kept rising behind him. And he kept staring at you with the calm, admiring gaze of a man appreciating his favorite piece of art, not bothered by the terror shaking through your body.
His gaze drifted back to the tub. One controlled twist of his wrist, and the faucet stilled. Silence dropped hard, thickening the air until it felt dense enough to choke on. No running water now only your breath, broken and uneven, catching on every inhale. A thin whimper slipped out. He rose to his full height, every step, every shift of muscle, carried the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly how this would end. He looked down at you with the calm interest. “Good,” he said, voice low, steady, eerily patient. “Let’s teach you some manners.” No. No, no, no. The word was a scream inside the vault of your skull. Your body scrambled backward, feet slipping on the wet tile, pressing into the unyielding wall as if you could phase through it. A trapped animal with nowhere to run.
His hand closed on the nape of your neck. Fingers like steel bands. You were dragged forward, your body a dead weight he handled with ease. The cold of the ceramic tiles bit into your knees, a sharp, grounding pain. Then his lips were at your ear, his breath a warm, intimate violation against the shell. “Just remember,” he whispered, the words dripping with a twisted sincerity. “This is for your own good.” His other hand drifted up, brushing your cheek with a softness that didn’t belong there, then locked onto the knot behind your head. A single pull. Fabric slid free. Air hit your lips. You screamed and the world tore sideways. Your head was driven down, into the shocking, breath-stealing cold of the water. Instinct screamed, a white-hot fire in your nerves. Your body bucked, arms flailing, connecting with nothing. Your mouth opened on a silent scream, and the water rushed in, cold and dark and final.
He kept you under just long enough for the panic to burn white in your lungs. Then his grip eased, and the world lurched upward. You broke the surface with a choking gasp, water streaming down your face, vision smeared and shaking. You tried to brace yourself, to grab something..anything but your bound hands slid uselessly across the slick porcelain. Fingernails scraped tile, caught nothing. Air tore into your chest in ragged, desperate gulps. He leaned in. Warm breath brushed your cheek as his lips hovered just beside your skin, not touching yet somehow more invasive than if they had. “Are you gonna behave now?” he murmured. The softness in his tone didn’t match the fingers still clamped at your neck, digging in just enough to remind you how little control you had. His breath ghosted over your cheek, hot, wrong, intimate. Your entire body trembled. Terror clawed beneath your ribs. But rage found a crack to climb through. “Fuck you,” you rasped, voice fractured, raw from screaming.
The shift in him was instant. No warning. No hesitation. His fingers tightened and the world snapped downward again. Water swallowed your scream before it could form. Cold pressure crushed against your skull, driving you into the silence. Tile bit at your knees. Your pulse hammered in your ears. His grip at the back of your neck held steady, unrelenting, pushing harder, deeper, as if proving a point he felt no need to say aloud. He hauled you up by your hair, breaking the surface with a brutal jerk. Your lungs seized, expelling a torrent of bathwater in a racking cough that tore at your raw throat. The world was a blur of steam and terror. “Wanna listen now?” he snarled, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your wet skin. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t form a word past the burning in your windpipe. All you could manage was a frantic, jerking nod. Survival. It was the only signal your brain could fire.
A cruel smile slithered across his lips. “Good choice. See? You can be taught.” He released his grip, letting you slump to the floor. “Get up.” Your legs were jello, your muscles screaming in protest. You pushed yourself up, swaying, the world tilting on its axis. Every instinct told you to collapse, to play dead, but the fire in his eyes promised a worse hell if you did. “Let’s take this to the bedroom,” he commanded, his voice a low. You wobbled out of the bathroom, the damp hallway carpet rough under your bare feet. He was right behind you, so close you could feel the heat of his body. The bedroom door at the end of the hallway, a gateway to deeper horrors. But the front door was to the left. An inch past the bathroom threshold, a primal surge of defiance overrode the paralyzing fear. You spun, putting all your weight, all your shattered hope, into the motion. You shoved him, hard, directly in the chest.
He was heavier, stronger, but he was off-balance, his sneakers sliding on the wet tile you’d just tracked out. A grunt of surprise. A sickening, wet crack as the back of his head connected with the sharp porcelain edge of the tub. “YOU FUCKING BITCH!” The roar was guttural, filled with more pain than rage. It was the fuel you needed. You didn't look back. You ran. Your body, moments ago a leaden weight, was now pure adrenaline. The hallway seemed to stretch for miles. The front door. Your focus narrowed to that single brass deadbolt. You could hear him scrambling behind you, a cacophony of curses and slipping feet, his sneakers losing purchase on the slick floor. Your fingers work through the binds, numb and trembling, fumbling with the lock. Click. You ripped the door open, the cool night air hitting your face like a sudden blessing. You had no idea how long this had lasted but freedom was a mere step away.
You were halfway across the threshold when his hand fisted in your soaked hair. A scream ripped from your torn throat as he yanked you back with unimaginable force. Your feet left the ground for a terrifying second before he slammed you, face-first, into the wall beside the door. The impact exploded stars behind your eyes. The door slammed shut. The lock turned with a final, deafening noise. Silence, broken only by the ragged, animalistic sound of his breathing. He didn't move, his body a barricade against your only escape. You could feel the heat radiating off him, a furnace of fury. He slowly turned, his shadow engulfing you. His voice was a whisper of pure venom when he finally spoke. "Now," he breathed. "Why did you have to do that?" The glasses didn’t hide it. Nothing could. The evil was right there, a flat, cold light in his eyes that had nothing to do with the room’s dimness. It was a predator’s gaze, and it was fixed on you. He took a slow step forward. Then another. His hands were busy, methodical, peeling off the leather gloves. Finger by finger. “I’m getting fed up with this cat and mouse shit,” he stated, his voice a low thrum of contained fury. In one brutal motion, he yanked you to your feet. Your shoulder screamed in protest as he dragged you, stumbling, into the living room. The air changed, from the damp confinement of the bathroom to the staged normalcy of a space you once thought was safe.
“I was gonna be a gentleman when I fucked you,” he snarled, his face close to yours. His blonde hair was plastered to his forehead, dark and wet from the struggle at the tub, giving him the look of something dredged from the deep. “But you’re too fucking stupid to understand nice.” He shoved you forward, bending you over the hard edge of the coffee table. Your cheek pressed against the cold, polished wood. The same table. The same table where he’d so kindly set up his laptop to help you. The memory was a sickening lurch. Now, as your vision blurred and refocused, you saw it. The laptop was open, the screen a stark, bright rectangle in the dim room. And you were staring at yourself. A girl with wide, terror-stricken eyes, her face pale and smeared with tears and grime. A stranger. You couldn't place her. The person you used to be was already gone, erased by the man whose weight now pinned you to the table. All that was left was this animal fear, staring back from the screen.
You ducked your head, a futile attempt to escape the person on the screen. That hollow-eyed stranger wasn't you. Couldn't be you. Harua denied you even that small dignity. He moved behind you, a cage of muscle and intent. His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back. A sharp, bright pain shot through your scalp, forcing your gaze upward, forcing you to meet the terrified animal on the screen. Your own wide, pleading eyes stared back, a silent scream frozen in digital amber. You could feel him then, the hard, insistent pressure of him grinding against you. His mouth was against your hair, his breath hot and damp through the strands. "Look," he commanded, his voice a low rasp. "Look at what you made me do." You trembled, a violent, uncontrollable shiver that started deep in your bones. His free hand began a slow, possessive journey down the arch of your back, over the curve of your hip. A mockery of a caress.
"Don't worry," he murmured, the words a vile secret whispered into your skin. "This is just for me to look at later. A private collection." He leaned back, just enough to give his hands room to work. His fingers, cold and deliberate, traced the waistband of your shorts. Then his thumbs hooked into the fabric—shorts and underwear together. With one slow, inexorable pull, he began to drag them down, baring you to the cold air and his colder gaze. The air left your lungs in a sharp. The shorts, the underwear a puddle of discarded cotton at your knees, trapping your legs, making you helpless. His one hand stayed fisted in your hair, a brutal anchor point, tilting your head back at a painful angle. You could feel the other hand behind you, the frantic rustle of denim, the sharp clink of a belt buckle giving way. There was no time. No breath to prepare. When he pushed into you, it was a brutal invasion. A scream tore from your throat, raw and involuntary. Instantly, the hand in your hair disappeared, only to slam over your mouth, smothering the sound before it could form. The pressure ground your lips against your teeth, sharp and punishing, while your bound hands were crushed mercilessly into your stomach. The world narrowed to the searing stretch, the feeling of being filled beyond capacity.
“Damn, baby,” he groaned, his voice a ragged, hot whisper against the sweat-damp skin of your neck. “You’re so fucking tight. You’re making it hurt.” He didn’t wait for you to adjust. He started to move, a punishing, relentless rhythm that drove you forward with every thrust. The coffee table rattled violently, a percussive counter beat to the slap of skin on skin. “Look at you,” he snarled, his breath hitching. His other hand, the one not silencing you, gripped your hip like a vise, fingers digging into the bone, holding you in place for his use. “Taking it just like this. My good little cock sleeve.”
You could feel a strand of his perfectly styled hair, fallen loose, brushing against your temple. You caught a glimpse of his glasses on the laptop, slightly askew, fogged with the heat of his exertion. The contrast of his disheveled intellect and this raw, feral act sent a shocking jolt of heat straight to your core. “That’s it,” he panted, feeling the betraying clench of your body around his. “Fight me all you want. Your body knows who it belongs to.” The world had narrowed to the brutal rhythm of his body. You could feel he was close, a tightening in his hips, a guttural hitch in his breath. He pulled out, a cruel, teasing inch, only to slam back into you with a force that stole the air from your lungs. Your vision blurred at the edges, the room tilting and swimming. The hard, unyielding press of his chest kept you pinned to the table, the wood groaning a protest you could no longer voice.
A low, primal sound ripped from his throat. “And… God… I’m coming.” You felt the hot, pulsing release deep inside you. He stayed there, buried in you, for a few endless seconds, as if marking his territory, ensuring the claim took root. Then, he pulled out. A shudder wracked your body at the sudden emptiness, followed immediately by a hot, shameful trickle as he dripped out of you. The sensation was obscene, a leaking reminder of the violation. Before you could even process it, his hand was on you again. He grabbed your jaw, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and wrenched your head to the side. Your own soulless eyes stared back at you from the screen of the open laptop on the table. He had angled it perfectly. In the reflection, you saw a stranger hair matted, face pale and slack, eyes hollowed out. A used thing. His face moved into the frame, his blonde hair falling across his brow, partially obscuring the cool, intellectual gleam of his glasses. The contrast was chilling the disheveled and broken creature beneath him.
His voice was a whisper, intimate and horrifying. “See?” he breathed, his grip tightening, forcing you to look, to truly see. “See how beautiful you look when you’re completely fucked out?” Hope wasn't just dying in that moment. It was being methodically erased, replaced with the dreadful, absolute certainty that he was right. There was only this table, this dripping warmth between your thighs, and the hollow-eyed reflection of a girl who was already gone.
SUMMARY: people like you didn't associate with people like him. but really, he was all you had. so when he proposed the sexual relationship, it came almost naturally. jake wasn't supposed to fall for you; you weren't supposed to let yourself do the same. but the world kept turning.
PAIRING: computer science nerd!jake x cheerleader!reader (college au)
WORD COUNT: 15.5k
ꨄ︎: writing this took decades off my life span, but she's finally ready to see the world 🥹 i got this request back in september, and with all of the stress of kinktober & college, i finally had the time to put my all into her. i hope you guys like it as much as i do—it's my longest piece to date, and i really love how it turned out. jake absolutely melts my heart in this. he's way too sweet oml. i won't keep you for longer—enjoy, and happy reading! xo
CONTENT: smut mdni, shower sex, protected sex, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, oral (f receiving), he spews cs facts while they're fucking, fwb relationship, arguing, tooth-rotting fluff, heavy mentions of cheating, beomgyu from txt is her ex (and he is not a good person), he grabs her wrist and bruises it, non-consensual kissing, mentions of alcohol, brief implications of smoking, sunoo is her new best friend, heeseung featured briefly, sunghoon and jay mentioned, layla featured!!!!!, jake and reader fall deep in love by the end
Jake Sim was pathetic.
Now, contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t inherently because he was a computer science major and thought he was the shit (although he did). Usually, people of his stature didn’t get much attention, if any at all. Someone like him was considered a loser, a nerd, a stuck-up freak who spent 80% of their time with their eyes on a computer screen and completely up to their neck in code. In a literal sense, it was Jake. But Jake had attention; in fact, he had all eyes on him. Because, despite being the same copy-and-paste asshole in computer science, Jake was hot.
But Jake was taken—sort of.
He was single. You weren’t his girlfriend—not even close, actually. But you did have his heart, even if you didn’t know it. It was almost sad.
It started around eight months ago when your asshole of a boyfriend, Beomgyu, broke up with you. You’d been dating since your senior year of high school, and now, you were a 3rd-year in college. It was nice when the relationship first started—he’d bring you flowers, buy you chocolates, wink at you from the field as you stood on the sidelines with your pom-poms and your little cheerleading outfit. It was all so cliché—captain and captain, hooking up and holding hands in the hallways like some cheesy 80s film.
And seemingly just like those movies, it was nothing more than for show, because Beomgyu had been cheating for months, and when you found out, he broke things off faster than you could just to get the last laugh like the piece of shit he was. But his excuse was the icing on the cake. He blamed Jake—thought you’d been fooling around with him the entire time like some kind of slut.
“Come on, you mean to tell me that you never hooked up with the guy?” he’d laughed. “Jesus Christ, I mean, you guys are seriously just friends? Give me a break.”
“Just because you fuck your friends, doesn’t mean everyone does, Beomgyu.”
You were hurt. His infidelity felt like a bullet to the chest, right where your heart sat, because, for nearly four years, you were completely committed to Beomgyu, a life with him, something you never thought would end so abruptly, so harshly. But it did, and it was out of your control, and maybe that was what hurt the most—that you just weren’t enough for him. So you went to the only person you could trust.
Jake was the closest thing you had to a support system. Your mom left when you were a kid. Your dad drowned himself in alcohol and was barely home most nights, and even when he was, it felt like he wasn’t. The only solace you had, after that lying son-of-a-bitch left, too, was Jake. So, in what was probably the most predictable fashion imaginable, you ran to him. Right into his arms, and broke down.
You hadn’t been vulnerable with him like this since your dad started his escapade with alcohol. He was shocked; sure, he never liked Beomgyu, and maybe he had been playing up your close friendship with him just to piss him off, but he never intended to provoke him to hurt you. Jake was a good friend. Was he typically referred to as a good guy? Not always. He was like the other conceited boys in his class—cocky, overconfident, detached—but the anomalies laid in his looks and his unexpected friendship with you, someone who was so well-known, so liked amongst the sea of students that it seemed entirely unlikely that you would’ve ever crossed paths with him, let alone run to him after such a powerful heartbreak and beg him to extract the pain with sex.
“Jake,” you’d whispered his name so softly that he almost couldn’t hear it, and perhaps, he should’ve pretended that he hadn’t. “Just make me forget.”
He never intended to end up in bed with someone of your status—and surely, not you—but, in the heat of it all, with your pleading eyes and trembling frame, your small voice begging him to fuck you without putting it so boldly, he couldn’t find it in himself to say no, even if it meant sacrificing the boundary that society set for him.
And Jake hated Beomgyu; why not rub a little salt in the wound, even if nobody knew?
So Jake did just that—took you into his bedroom, locked the door, and had his way with you. For someone you thought of as kind of a loser who never got the play that someone like your ex had on the regular before and after you, Jake was surprisingly experienced. No, not just that—he was good, so good that you wondered why you’d never considered him before, despite his rocky reputation and your not-so-public friendship.
It wasn’t supposed to turn into a month-long habit. Hell, it wasn’t even meant to happen more than once. It was likely the vulnerability and frustration forcing you to believe that he would be at all suitable as anything more than a close friend, but, instead of pushing the idea of a sexual relationship with him away, you welcomed it.
The first text came a week after. You hadn’t spoken to him since, hadn’t given him as much as a passing glance on campus.
JAKE: You’re avoiding me.
You didn’t know how to respond, what to think, how to interpret it. The extent of which you knew him was a stark contrast to what he knew of you—he knew everything, and he was everything of an enigma. You bit your lip in contemplation, forcing yourself to type something, anything to him.
YOU: i’m embarrassed.
You settled on something of a truth—a fragment of the hurricane in your head that one day told you to chase him and the next, to stay in the dark. He was instability and unfamiliarity wrapped into one, and you knew it, but he was still the only constant in your life, and because of that, you were torn.
Your phone buzzed again.
JAKE: So you didn’t like it.
YOU: no, i did. more than i should’ve.
JAKE: You regret it?
Well.
YOU: …
YOU: no.
You should’ve regretted it. Beomgyu had broken up with you that morning. In one harsh blow, he delivered not just the breakup, but the fact that he’d been cheating on you, and you hadn’t even noticed. The fact was, you shouldn’t have run to anyone, and especially not Jake.
But there you were, a week later—with 7 days of clarity under your belt—humoring him. Because there was a part of you, somewhere buried deep, that didn’t oppose the idea of letting it happen again.
JAKE: You want more.
YOU: jake, we can’t. you know that
JAKE: Can’t we?
You stared at the screen.
JAKE: You need a release. I can give that to you.
No, you mentally scolded yourself and let the phone fall on the mattress beside your head. Your eyes focused on a small clump of dust that formed in the crease between the wall and the ceiling, the spot lit up by your phone screen, still open to his messages. Hoping your mind wouldn’t wander too far, into a realm you didn’t want to explore. Not with anyone; not with Jake.
You picked up your phone again.
YOU: you might be that person, but i’m not.
JAKE: No strings. No rebound.
YOU: what reason would i have to pursue that?
The bubble with three dots appeared. Stayed for a few seconds as he typed on the other end. You watched it disappear.
Then,
JAKE: come over and i’ll show you
You looked at the clock.
12:10.
You were better than that. Jake knew that, and he went through with it anyway, pushed and pushed until he knew you’d break.
You found yourself unwillingly rising to your feet from the bed, throwing on a pair of old shoes, and storming for the front door without any forethought. The drive to his apartment almost felt rehearsed, mind blacked out apart from remnants of seven nights ago and the messages he sent, bouncing around your head like an echo chamber you couldn’t escape.
You didn’t remember parking the car, frantically running to the elevator, knocking on the door marked 1009 with a trembling hand that you weren’t sure was from nerves or excitement. You shouldn’t have been there, not so late at night, so recklessly. You thanked God that you didn’t live with your father anymore, for if he’d caught you sneaking out so late, or even coming back at whatever early hour you’d decided on, you would’ve been trapped in the house for weeks. Forced to carry the weight of your “family” on your back, to take on the burden of his responsibilities as your own.
But instead, there you were, standing awkwardly in front of Jake’s door, shifting your weight between feet, nails clacking against one another as you toyed with your fingers. With a high-pitched creak, the door opened, and behind it stood a tired Jake, ruffled hair from the late hour, gray sweatpants loose on his hips, white t-shirt wrinkled from what seemed like him haphazardly tossing it on to answer the door.
Another thing you didn’t remember? How you so quickly found your limbs tangled with his on his bed, his shirt once again forgotten on the floor, kissing him breathlessly and gripping him as if he were something you’d desired your whole life. The night—much like the first—passed in a blur, a clouded moment of skin, heat, muffled moans and whimpers that you forced yourself to silence in fear of waking those next door. Hours of sex that felt far too passionate, too intimate, too treasured to be only the second time, something that would fizzle out and disappear when it was over.
“So,” Jake whispered into the slick nape of your neck as he brushed your hair out of the way, body limp atop yours, “you don’t want this?” His lips pressed a gentle kiss onto the skin, so light that it sent a shiver through your body and drew a moan from your throat. “Because—correct me if I’m wrong,” he lifted his head to force your gaze upon him, “this can’t be any worse than what you had.”
“It’s—”
“—complicated, not you, I know,” he interrupted, fingers ghosting over your inner thigh as it trembled with the lingering sting of release. “But you and I both know that you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t already make your decision.”
What bothered you so much about it was that he wasn’t wrong. There you were, clock ticking at nearly 2:30 in the morning, laid bare under Jake’s touch, claiming that this—whatever it was—wasn’t something you were interested in. But Jake posed a question that, truthfully, only had one answer: Why were you there?
“Jake, it’s—it’s more than that. You’re you, and we’re—we’re friends, not…this.” You swallowed, crafting some useless excuse, a sad explanation for why you couldn’t enter that realm with him, despite your body desperately craving more of what he offered, even if it went against everything you stood for—the name you built for yourself.
“Then go ahead,” he rolled off to the side, removing his hands from your spent body, lying still on his back as he ran a hand through his dark brown hair. “Leave, if that’s what you want.”
As a shiver ran across your skin from the loss of his body’s heat, you turned to him slowly, noting that he didn’t meet your gaze. Instead, he looked forward with an expression too bare to be readable, his mouth closed, jaw clenched just enough to catch your eye. Whether you stayed or left now wasn’t his concern anymore; this was your decision. And knowing that, you turned on your side, facing your back to him as your body finally sighed, relaxing into the mattress beneath you.
Closing your eyes, you made yourself comfortable in Jake’s bed, adorned with white sheets that had become wrinkled and damp beneath your legs. Let sleep run its course for the night instead of leaving, driving back to your apartment, which would’ve been the decision that your head deemed right, while your body said otherwise.
You heard remnants of Jake’s voice as you drifted off, mumbling almost incoherently with grogginess lacing his tone. You didn’t register what you heard, he barely remembered what he’d said, and you’d both fallen asleep within minutes. Together, yet separated by the invisible line you’d drawn, regardless of your choice to stay.
When Jake woke up the next morning—eyes only registering blurred reflections of light from the window, voice weak as he groaned and shifted towards the side he remembered you falling asleep on—there was an absence. The bed didn’t dip, he didn’t feel the warmth of another body beside his, and when he finally opened his eyes for good as they focused on their surroundings, it finally clicked that you weren’t there.
In fact, you’d left almost no trace at all; sheets tucked back in and smoothed over (and dry from sitting overnight), your discarded clothes missing from the floor, his own draped neatly over the bedside chair, and your scent erased from the bedding that he almost swore he could smell before he realized. All that remained, as he moved a hand and grazed it with his fingertips, was a small piece of colored paper, torn out of some notebook you must have found with something scribbled on it in black ink. He brought it to his face, squinting his eyes to make out the letters that blended together on the paper.
Okay, the words read, you have yourself a deal.
Minutes later, your phone buzzed on the bathroom counter back at your place. With wet hands from the shower you’d only just stepped out of, after carefully scrubbing every last inch of whatever sweat and other liquid had dried on your body, you picked up the phone and saw Jake’s name perched at the top of your notifications. The corner of your lip upturned subconsciously as you read the message.
JAKE: Guess we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.
-
Having a friends-with-benefits relationship wasn’t something you easily adjusted to. It felt everything short of natural to you, considering you’d only ever had one boyfriend in your life, and before Jake, he was the only one you’d ever slept with. Even then, you’d saved yourself until your freshman year of college. Of course, he’d tried to convince you to put out sooner, but you didn’t. Things started to piece together when you realized that he dumped you just short of a year later.
Jackass.
So it was easier said than done to jump into a relationship that didn’t surpass physical boundaries. On paper, it sounded great—Jake was smart, attractive, and definitely overqualified in the sex realm, and you knew you couldn’t jump into any sort of real relationship with a guy so soon after being broken up with. It was perfect, the ideal method of recovery, so what wasn’t to like? Jake was someone you trusted, after all, despite his rocky reputation around campus and amongst some of the other cheerleaders on the team who all wanted to get in his pants, but wouldn’t dare be caught with a dick (or a nerd) like him. Nobody even knew that you were friends, let alone fucking on the DL and refusing to speak it aloud as if it shall-not-be-named.
It felt awkward, trying to balance your social life and personal life while fitting Jake somewhere in the mix. Unlike Beomgyu, he wasn’t someone you could lean on or ask for help from; he wasn’t a boyfriend, barely even a partner. And even weeks into sneaking around, visiting him during the latest hours of the night just for the release from the day’s tension, it never felt like a break at all, because the unfamiliarity of the situation made it nearly impossible.
Of course, Jake helped you find a rhythm, a silver lining, until finally, you grew comfortable in the deal you’d made with him, and it finally began to serve its purpose in alleviating the pain and stress from life and the breakup.
Even then, you still weren’t quite sure how to navigate it.
YOU: thanks for last night.
You’d been overworked from the moment you woke up the day before, rushing to your 8 a.m. and spending every spare second in the morning classes. Shipped off to work after being suddenly called in, where your least favorite coworker—who just so happened to have been friends with the chick that your ex was banging behind your back—breathed down your neck the whole time. It was safe to say that you needed something to relieve the tension.
JAKE: You know you don’t have to do that, right?
YOU: i feel like i should
Jake, from the other end of the phone, laughed.
JAKE: Cute.
Jake’s behavior towards you never changed, not even in the slightest. Maybe it was a good thing, maybe it was a bad thing—on one hand, he still treated you as a friend, spoke to you casually, didn’t completely alienate you or act like the friendship you’d built this on never existed. But on the other hand, it skewed your perception of him. Did you matter, even if he never said it? Of course, he worked with computers alongside a bunch of scraggly incels all day, and really acted no different from them, but the leisure with which he was able to upkeep a friendly demeanor was…shocking, almost rehearsed.
Your behavior? It didn’t change much, either. But once you fell into the rhythm of sneaking off most nights to sleep with him in secret, something in your body shifted. Something unlocked, something buried deep that, perhaps, you subconsciously tried to keep hidden.
“You seem…different,” Kim Sunoo, your favorite counterpart on the cheer team, said one afternoon as he helped you stretch out your back. “Like, you’ve been glowing. Oh my God, are you pregnant?”
“Sunoo!”
“What?” He lifted his hands from your back and surrendered. “Are you?”
“No, Sunoo, I’m not fucking pregnant!” You huffed out a laugh and playfully swatted his arm, forcing him to fall back onto the field below him. “You freak!”
“Hey, it was just a question,” he said, sitting back up and smoothing a palm over the grass stain that had accumulated on his white uniform where his kneecap was. “But seriously, you do look different. And you, like, act differently. I know I’m not a rocket scientist, but something’s gotta be up. Are you sleeping with someone?”
“No,” you lied. “C’mon, Sunnie, you know me better than that. I do not sleep around, and especially not with anyone less than.” You reached back and tightened your ponytail, spreading your legs apart to resume your position and keep stretching out your back, which had been…tense, for some reason that you definitely couldn’t place. “Honestly, I think I’m just recovering from that assfuck that I called a boyfriend.”
Sunoo placed his palms back on your hips and carefully pushed you forward again, “Oh, yeah. You’re right. Losing people like him definitely boosts your mind and body.”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” you rolled your eyes, although he couldn’t see them. “What a stupid, and might I add bold, assumption to make.”
He scoffed. “Well, God forbid a guy tries to encourage his favorite girlfriend to explore her options!”
Your eyes sensed movement above you, and they trailed up to the main campus building a few hundred feet ahead, where a familiar-looking boy walked alone, backpack slung loosely over one shoulder. He looked over, and you quickly recognized him to be Jake, odds be damning, who winked and kept moving forward until he escaped your line of vision.
“Ugh,” Sunoo grimaced from above, lifting his hands to let you sit back up and readjust, “that’s Jaeyun, right? Total asshole. I heard he’s friends with Heeseung, too. Y’know, the—”
“—basketball guy, yeah,” you crossed an arm over your body and twisted, “I know.”
“Do you know him?”
“Who, Jake?”
“Mm,” he nodded, rifling a hand through his platinum blonde hair.
“Uh…” You swallowed as flashes of the past few weeks played in your mind—his hands in your hair, on your waist, pushing your thighs apart as his face disappeared between them, his mouth whispering and mumbling barely legible praises into your neck, his moans buzzing in your ears.
“No,” you settled on. “I used to be friends with him, back in high school, but…didn’t work out.”
“Well, good,” Sunoo nodded. “I’ve heard he’s a real piece of work.”
“Yeah,” you breathed, “I suppose he is.”
-
Late November was never fun; exams drew closer, finals put stress on every professor and student alike, and work at the cafe began to pick up with the holiday nearing and temperatures dropping. Your old roommate forced you to tag along with her and some of the other girls on her floor on their night out, and as much as you wanted to opt out, she wasn’t one to give you an option.
So reluctantly, you accompanied her and about five other girls whom you’d never met to a local bar, where you sat leisurely at the bar and sipped on your drink, which—even an hour in—was still your first and would most likely be your only.
When she finally noticed you sitting alone, she stalked up to the stool you sat on and tugged you onto the floor, where she and the rest of the girls were dancing. On the contrary, you weren’t always this boring, but everything during the past week had been weighing down on you a lot harder than normal, and on top of that, you hadn’t seen or spoken to Jake because he just had to be a fucking nerd when you needed him.
As you tried to satisfy the girls by joining them in the crowd of people, your eyes wandered until they caught sight of the back of a head that, by now, had become unmistakable: Beomgyu. Dancing with the girl he’d cheated with, hands on her ass like she was something to show off. When she finally turned her back to you, he caught your gaze and offered a shit-eating grin that made your stomach churn, leaning down and making a show of kissing her.
With anger, hurt, and perhaps even a small pang of jealousy that still lingered somewhere in your bones, you stormed off, ignoring your ex-roommate’s calls and stepping into the cold air that slapped your face with a force that almost stopped you in your tracks. Flagging a cab, you pulled out your phone and slipped into the back. Clicking on his name felt instinctual.
YOU: jake.
Jake was still awake regardless of the late hour, sitting at his computer as he cranked on last-minute assignments and studied extra material. His phone buzzed on the desk beside his keyboard, and he turned to read the name.
JAKE: Hey. Can’t talk, busy catching up on work.
YOU: i need u
He stared at the message until the words didn’t seem real anymore. Sure, you’d typically be the one to contact him first, but this? This was desperate—something you’d never displayed before, because you were too awkward, too apprehensive to even let yourself feel that way. But even then, amidst the disbelief and the sudden want that shot through his body, he put the phone back down and resumed his work; he wouldn’t let you get in the way of that, no matter how badly you needed it. Maybe his ego was too high from being the sole CS major who actually got pussy.
The sound of rapping on his door thwarted him from his wandering thoughts and reading the same sentence five times over without properly comprehending it.
He opened the door to find you standing on the other side as the flood of emotions still whirled through your head. Your eyes honed in on the appearance you’d never seen before—thick-rimmed glasses sitting at the bridge of his nose, hair falling loose in his face, wearing the same t-shirt and sweats he always did with a zip-up over the top, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“I said I needed you,” you stated plainly. “It wasn’t a request.”
“And I said I was busy,” he grabbed your hand and tugged you inside, “but you came here anyway.”
Rather than forcing a bullshit response, you grabbed him by the collar and kissed him desperately. Leaving him no choice but to return it just as hungrily, stepping back until the backs of his knees hit his chair, and he sat down, pulling you firmly into his lap.
“You’ve been busy all week,” you groaned against his lips, sliding your hand beneath his shirt and resting your palm over his stomach. “I haven’t seen you once.”
“Thought you didn’t want any of this?”
“Yeah, well so did I,” moaning as he pressed his thigh between your legs, “but here I am.” Perhaps you’d grown more accustomed to all of this than you thought. Maybe you did want him more than you initially let on, maybe he had unleashed the need for sex without strings, just for pleasure and nothing more. Maybe seeing your ex slobbering over some random slut was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and Jake really had been a threat to him all along.
Beomgyu took three years to get you to fuck him. Jake did it in one week.
“Y’know that you interrupted my studying, right?” he asked, pushing your skirt up until it bunched at your hips. “Been slammed with work this week, and then you show up at my door like this.” He curled a finger into your panties and pulled them aside, thumbing over your clit and drawing a gasp from your parted lips, straight into his ear. “And I still have material to memorize,” he slowly pushed the tip of a finger in, “so you can learn with me.”
As long as he didn’t stop, you didn’t care. So you nodded along and pushed your weight down, trying to force his finger in further.
“Algorithms,” he started and brushed the hair away from your neck, warm breath fanning the skin. “The three most common forms of algorithmic notation,” he kissed the underside of your jaw, finger slid in deeper, “English, pseudocode, and programming language.”
He curled the tip of his finger just enough to press against your sweet spot, coaxing a whine. You felt him smile against your neck. “Pseudocode is the most unclear of the three. Most people just define it as a programming language that disregards syntax errors.” A second finger joined the first, stretching you out further, and he looked up at you, glasses slightly fogged from the heat. “Computers are just like people—they speak different languages. It’s like us with Korean or English,” he smiled. “You like Korean, right, Y/N?”
You nodded.
“Good girl.”
Finally, with some force, he pumped his fingers into your heat, watching as your eyes screwed shut, and your hands gripped his shoulders. “English is the most natural language, but it’s the least precise,” he continued. “Java is more precise, but it’s more difficult to understand,” he held your waist as your hips rolled to meet his thrusts, “so pseudocode is usually the happy medium. Generally more useful. But really, it’s all preference.”
He scissored his fingers, and discomfort shot through your veins as it spread you open. “Got all that?”
“Y-yeah,” you sputtered, “English bad, pseudo—whatever, easy.”
Though you wouldn’t admit it, Jake spewing useless knowledge about computer languages sort of helped. You didn’t want to think about your week, the bottomless pile of work waiting for you, or what you saw at the bar that felt like the icing on the cake. Jake was distracting; it all sounded like a bunch of jumbled-up nonsense, and there was no possible way you’d be able to comprehend any of it, but he was persistent. His voice, soft and smooth like velvet, put your mind at ease as it tried to make sense of what you knew you wouldn’t come close to understanding.
So, when he moved on to counterexamples and finally extracted the orgasm that had risen to the surface the moment his fingers slipped between your thighs, you didn’t exactly complain.
“Gonna have to clean my chair now,” he laughed as he leaned back against the headrest. “But from the looks of it,” he said as he watched your body twist in discomfort, “I’ll have to do it later.”
He circled his arms around your waist and stood from the chair, walking towards the bedroom as you clung to him. Your body still huffed out heavy breaths when he placed you on his bed, the feeling starting to become all too familiar.
Impatiently, you grabbed his zip-up and yanked it from his body, leaving him with just the old t-shirt and sweatpants still on. He pulled the hem of his shirt up until it reached his chest, and he tugged it over his head, tossing it to the side. His hands moved below the thin black top on your torso, pushing it up until it caught on your bra, where he had to curl his fingers into the fabric and pull it off.
Within seconds, he was perched between your legs, lips ghosting over your neck again as he fumbled around with the tie on his sweatpants, itching to let himself free.
“Keep talking,” you whispered, and he furrowed his brows. “About your—your computers.”
“Okay,” he answered without hesitation as he managed to kick his pants to the floor. “Um…grammars.” He sat back on his knees, reaching between them to find his cock, hard and aching to be used. “A context-free grammar is formal. It means that it has atomic pieces, like an alphabet, and has ‘strings’ within…that.”
He opened the drawer in the bedside table and rummaged through it until he found and pulled out a silver wrapper between his fingers. “First step in anything is scanning,” he took the wrapper between his teeth and pulled slowly, “it takes raw source codes and,” he spat, “groups them into tokens.” Sliding the latex on, he suppressed a groan, “It’s like the words and punctuation in speaking grammar.”
The first push drew a gasp into the air from your throat, and Jake shushed, reminding you that the walls in his apartment were paper-thin, and his stuck-up neighbors were asleep just next door. Your hand slid into the hair sitting at the nape of his neck, a practice your body naturally reverted to every time his tip brushed your walls, but never this desperately, your fingers never threatening to bruise the skin beneath like they were now.
“Jake,” you demanded, “talk. Go back to algorithms, or whatever it—it was.”
“Why?” he finally pushed as his hips pressed against yours, burying himself in as far as he could reach, forcing the searing stretch to shoot through your legs as if you weren’t weak and desperate enough for one night. “What happened to you tonight?” he sputtered, voice fraying at the edges. “You don’t show up this late. You don’t—want it like this.”
“I saw him,” you stated plainly, whimpering at the loss when he pulled back. “At the bar. With her, whoever she is.”
Jake didn’t ask; his face didn’t change, like your words didn’t have meaning, like he didn’t know Beomgyu and his antics, like none of this was significant at all.
“Algorithms are the most important part of computer science,” he continued without acknowledging anything, as if you’d never mentioned your ex at all. His hips found a rhythm you could withstand, match with your own once your body regained its strength and adjusted like normal, like it always did for him. “They can be studied in a language—fuck,” as your pussy clenched around him, “so you need to compare their efficiency without using them.”
His face disappeared into the crevice where your neck meets your shoulder, and his lips kissed up to the back of your ear. You shivered, his hands on your hips, length dragging against every ridge there was to be touched, bringing stars to your soft eyes.
“Keep talking,” you moaned in a breath that felt much too difficult to let out, the need to cum hindering your lungs like a hand tightening around your throat, squeezing with every passing second that you don’t. “‘m close,” your hips rolled into his, “need to hear your voice.”
The same smooth, calm, sexy voice that has both lulled you to sleep and whispered filthy praises in your ears, and all you wanted was to hear it, never mind that he was speaking in tongues you could only pretend to comprehend.
“There are two tools that you can use to compare them: RAM model of computation, or asymptomatic analysis of computational complexity.” He angled his thrusts to properly reach your sweet spot, and you moaned sweetly in his ear as his tip kissed it with each piston of his hips. “Machine-independent design depends on RAM,” his hand palmed your breast over the bra adorning your chest, decorated with a small, red rose in the valley that he could barely see now with the fog on his glasses. He felt the hard nipple beneath as it practically pierced through the fabric. “Every simple operation takes one time step, and loops and subroutines aren’t considered as.”
Jake lifted his head when your walls constricted around his cock again, stretched wide from the thickness, how hard he was, how unreal you felt when you really writhed beneath him as if you needed this. He wanted to watch; see your face finally relax when you tipped over the edge. His finger impatiently pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose, but the glasses—slowly ridding themselves of the fog—were smudged.
You grabbed the nearest fabric—whether it was a discarded shirt or a pillowcase, you weren’t certain—and offered it to him, but in the heat of his own impatience, he ripped the lenses from his face and tossed them onto the bedside table.
“Fuck,” he mumbled as his lips bruised yours with another stolen kiss, fisting your skirt and tugging it further up your waist to give room for his hand to rest on your lower stomach as his thumb found your clit and lazily stroked it until you broke.
“Jake,” you pleaded to no one.
“No more lessons,” he reprimanded, “just cum for me.”
It was the combination of that and the overstimulating sensation of the sensitivity from your first orgasm and the way his tip pressed perfectly against the spot you needed it to that did you in. He knew you and your body to a T by now, just how much pressure he needed to apply, where to angle his hips, what to say to drive you crazy, and it worked.
As the final clench of your release pulled him into his, you didn’t notice the shift in the air, what switch you must have flicked on when you showed up at the door, despite Jake’s firm ‘no’.
For the first time since the breakup, you’d channeled everything—your anger, your pain, your stress—into a single current of want that surged through your body, planted its seed in your mind so that it only thought of him. This was what Jake meant when he told you that he could take the sting away, give you the release you didn’t know you needed, and refused to acknowledge in fear of becoming someone entirely wrapped up in a web of sex and friendship and nothing more.
Late nights with Jake didn’t make you feel so guilty anymore.
Sure, he was still the loser in computers who was somehow blessed with good looks, still talked about with sour expressions and bad faith in the hallways and on campus grounds. And of course, you were still Miss Perfect—grades kept pearly white, perfect posture and form, soft, innocent features that Beomgyu surely had to miss by now, according to the other students’ public opinion.
Maybe they’ll get back together one day, some would whisper as you passed by in the halls, completely oblivious to the man he really was. They’re the perfect match.
But the only person who knew the real story—the one where the popular, flawless cheerleader fucked that same loser in the dark of night, where no one saw, no one heard, and no one could catch them—was Jake.
And now that you were hooked on him, things would become much more complicated than you’d ever have imagined.
-
Months.
Months of sometimes filthy, sometimes soft, sometimes quick, mindless sex with Jake. Most times in his apartment, where you could swear this habit to secrecy and store it between those walls. Contain the secret that could ruin your social life if it were to ever break loose.
How could this feel so good when just months ago, you felt nothing but shame?
Now, it was different—pure, unadulterated desire for the man you once called nothing more than a friend, a silent shoulder to lean on in the midst of your father’s rampages with alcohol and the stress of picking a college, or even an outfit to wear.
You’d become dependent.
Worked an extra hour? You’re dialing Jake’s number from your car with a growing ache between your thighs. Cranked on a late-night assignment? A you up? text typed and delivered before your mind can catch up with your body. Saw Beomgyu chumming it up with that same bitch he told you not to worry about?
Jake’s cock is stuffed so far into you within the hour that you don’t even remember why you were upset in the first place.
He felt like a drug, pulling you further into the darkness that you might never escape, forcing you to become the person you feared most; the reason you almost called everything off within the first week, why you never wanted to agree to it in the first place. You couldn’t become him; it would ruin you.
And the carefully-constructed walls around that little secret of yours were bound to crack eventually.
“I told you, cheerleading is a sport, and I have proof of it right here!” You pointed to your shins, bruised and scratched from the week’s events—Sunoo was supposed to catch you from a stunt, but he missed his mark by about 4 inches, a whole thing that resulted in you cussing him out like you were on some sort of trashy reality TV show that worked itself out when he offered to buy you lunch after.
“I don’t know,” Jake shook his head contemplatively as he walked beside you on the concrete, looking down as he calculated each step to not touch a crack in the sidewalk. “The guys and I have talked about this before. I mean, you, like, throw each other and jump sometimes, but is that really considered a sport?”
“This is literally coming from the man who studies computers for a living,” you rolled your eyes. “You’re hardly versed in anything sports-related. Not to mention the other guy—total losers, by the way.”
“I’ll have you know—”
“Yeah, yeah, soccer this, soccer that, I know.” When he opened his mouth to protest, you raised a finger, “And don’t even bring up Heeseung, because you A, suck at basketball, and B, aren’t him and have never cheered a day in your life.”
Without lowering his voice, “I might not have cheered, but I think you’ve seen what a little stamina can do for—”
“—Y/N?”
Your head whipped to see Sunoo behind you, having just stepped out of the café you worked at. “Oh, Sunnie. Hey,” you smiled, face trying to mask the nerves that rose in your body, knowing that the man standing beside you was someone you’d never be caught with these days.
“Isn’t that…?”
Jake turned around after realizing that running away wouldn’t exactly be a valid option. “Jake, yeah,” he feigned a friendly smile and awkwardly held out a hand for Sunoo to shake. For all of the talk Sunoo spat about him, he’d never formally met the guy. “We were put together for a paper in one of our classes,” knowing well enough that you didn’t have a single one with him, despite the merged majors in most of them, “so when I saw her, I caught up to her to ask about my part.”
Sunoo’s expression shifted from shock to calm. “Oh. Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”
“Well,” you swallowed, “thanks for making sure, Jake. I’ll email you later with the notes I took. They’re not in my bag.” It wasn’t a good lie, but it surely was the better alternative to the latter. “See you around.”
“Yeah.”
As he walked past, he gave a curt wink and sent himself on his way, leaving no trace of himself behind and taking all suspicion along with him.
“So, are you guys, like…friends again?” Sunoo asked as you now walked alongside him on the sidewalk.
“No!” you defended, maybe a little too quickly. “No, ew. He’s still a dick—I’m just not trying to fail this class. It’s not exactly easy, and…I mean, he’s a smart guy, besides all of the other shit he’s got going on.”
“Fair enough,” he nodded. “You wouldn’t be friends with a guy like him, anyway.”
You laughed, but it lacked amusement.
“Oh! That reminds me—so this morning, I was walking by Yunjin…”
Your phone buzzed in your hand, and you quickly evaded his gaze to look at the screen, unsurprised by the contact name that flashed upon it.
JAKE: You're welcome, by the way.
JAKE: See you later?
Ass.
-
That night, you finally sat down at 7:00 to finish up the studying, old assignments, and just about every last thing you needed to cram before finals.
The weather had gone frigid—scarves out in full force, winter coats came out of hibernation, and the brisk air threatened snow some days (which thankfully didn’t show its face). You finished eventually around midnight, letting your body sigh with relief as you sat back in the chair, relishing the freedom you finally had.
Your phone buzzed—not the short kind that signaled a text—and your head instinctively turned to the noise, silently hoping to see the name that had been haunting it since the beginning of the semester. Your prayers were answered.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Smartie,” Jake’s familiar voice bled through the phone and relaxed your already-tired and tense body, “how’s the work going?”
“It’s…going,” you settled on. “I just finished.”
A few moments of silence. “You wanna come over?”
Your heart lurched, jumped at the opportunity, like a reflex you just discovered existed. “Yeah. I’ll…” you looked at the clock, “I’ll be there in 15.”
So you did exactly that—threw on a pair of old slip-ons and tossed a light jacket on that you’d probably regret with the cold, and set off to his building. It was like muscle memory, turning the same corners and waiting idle at the same sets of lights. You weren’t sure when you’d learned the route so well.
When he opened the door, you didn’t surge forward—not like you usually did on nights like this. You were too tired—mentally and physically—so you settled on something of a soft kiss, perhaps more intimate, but still deep, still wanting, still coaxing the soft groans from Jake’s mouth that set your core ablaze.
He sat down on the bed, back leaning against the headboard as his palms skated along your sides while your hands rested atop his shoulders, covered by the white t-shirt you’d grown accustomed to by now, sometimes even going as far as to fall asleep in it when you were too exhausted to go home. Retired for the night in his bed, where he slept on the other side, not to disturb you.
Jake had started to pick up on your body’s tells—how you’d slump ever so slightly from above when you were tired, your hands wouldn’t explore his hair or slip beneath his shirt to study the curves and dips on his stomach and chest, when you’d walk in and kiss him deeply instead of firmly. On those nights, he’d only serve to release the tension in your body, setting himself aside until he was sure that you’d been taken care of.
Tonight was no different; his fingers tactfully removed the fabric covering your legs, then your waist, leaving your lower half bare as he slipped the digits between your parted thighs and coaxed a gentle moan from your lips, touch almost reverent, if you had to describe it. He’d go on to kiss your temple as his fingers kissed the spots that your own wouldn’t dare reach, curling into the spaces that made your body shiver and your mind space out.
Jake was good to you, even if you were the last to admit it; if he was the last to admit it.
None of this was expected of him—this was all supposed to be casual. The sex was transactional, something that a short ‘thank you’ message or a passing smile would suffice for. But, in truth, Jake was starting to believe that maybe—for him—it wasn’t casual anymore.
When your body gave in, and the warm evidence of your release coated his fingers, he slowly removed them so as not to hurt you. He placed your weak body beside him beneath the covers, mumbling softly before standing to grab one of his shirts from the dresser for you to slip on—a practice he’d started recently when you’d stay over in your regular clothes.
But when he turned back around to toss the soft fabric in your direction, it seemed to be of no use, for somehow, you’d already succumbed to sleep. He tucked the shirt back into the drawer neatly and walked quietly over to the bed, slipping into the sheets and propping his head up on his hand.
This wasn’t how things usually went—you’d change, sometimes never even bother to throw on any clothes, and turn around, falling asleep quietly with your back to his and vice versa. But tonight, your body didn’t offer that chance. Instead, your sleeping body faced his, finally allowing Jake to admire your sleeping figure.
Your eyelashes fell gently over your eyes, fluttering softly in the midst of a dream he didn’t know the material of. Your cheeks were still flushed from the cold air that breezed through his cracked window (it was often still hot on his floor this time of year). And your hair, freshly-washed and smelling of warm vanilla, fell in front of your face.
Jake reached out with a steady hand and brushed the loose strands of hair from your face, tucking them behind your ear so they wouldn’t come loose again. A smile perked the outer corners of his lips, the gesture and warm feeling in his chest too personal for him to acknowledge. With a careful gentleness, he leaned forward and kissed the side of your head that he had earlier when you were still perched in his lap, then nestled comfortably into his spot in bed, letting himself drift off to the sound of the soft breaths leaving your nose and filling the air between you.
That night, you dreamt of freedom, happiness, and a life full of the ease that you felt in this very moment and the months leading up to it. Jake dreamt of you.
Neither would remember when you woke the next morning.
-
“Jake!”
He didn’t register his own name very much until he felt the slam of a brand-new basketball right into his noggin.
“Heeseung, what the fuck?!”
“Dude, you were completely fucking zoned out!” Heeseung yelled back from half-court, looking at Jake, who stood a few feet away from the hoop, shaking the spots in his vision away.
“Sorry, I just kinda got lost up there,” he shrugged it off and leaned down to pick up the ball, tossing it back over to Heeseung.
“You’re supposed to retrieve my shots at the hoop, not with your face. You know that, right?” Heeseung prodded with a laugh, and Jake offered a glare. “I know you’re into software and all that junk, but you’ve at least been able to catch a ball before.” The ashy blonde walked up to Jake, holding the basketball under his arm and against his ribs. “What’s up, man? Something’s got your panties in a twist, and I know it’s not finals, because you’ve aced all of them like a damn freak.”
“I dunno,” he shrugged, but he knew it was a lie. Bold-faced, in fact.
Because Jake knew exactly what was up: you.
Since that night last week when the chilling threat of feelings came over him, he hadn’t been able to shake the thought of you, sleeping so peacefully beside him, looking as gorgeous as he’d ever seen you. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this—Hell, he never had; not for a fuck-buddy, anyway.
He knew you were different. Of course, you were—he’d known you for years, even if both of you chose to pretend that it wasn’t so. He was the shoulder you cried on as a teenager, even after you’d started dating Beomgyu, because he “wasn’t good at advice”, when all he needed to do was listen. So, of course, you’d be different in the grand scheme of things, in pursuing a relationship where sex was merely transactional; a means of business or fun, rather than meaning.
But this wasn’t something he ever accounted for. He’d been somewhat attracted to you, sure, and he did fuck with Beomgyu’s head because he was part-jealous, part-protective of you (he knew your ex’s tendencies and refused to ignore them as you had), but offering this situationship—for lack of a better term—never entailed real, tangible feelings.
Jake wanted to fuck you, not feel for you, for God’s sake.
“I think it is finals. I haven’t been that confident in the material this time around,” he said for someone who quite literally recited said material into a girl’s ear while he actively pumped his cock into her. “Stuff like that bothers me because I’m usually on top of it, you know?”
Unlike Sunoo, Heeseung wasn’t so easily fooled—he’d known Jake for years, and it would take a lot more than that to convince him.
“Alright, well,” he stumbled over his words. “Oh—you’re not getting any pussy, that’s it, right?” Jake’s eyes narrowed, but Heeseung continued. “I mean, you’re like me when it comes to that. You get the play for being the only good-looking loser, no offense, and you haven’t lately. The stock has run out, right?”
Like Sunoo, he had his own faults.
“Look, since we’re out after testing tomorrow, there’s this party I was planning on going to. Why don’t you come with, and maybe I can hook you up with someone?”
Jake sighed. Heeseung was great, but God, he was dense sometimes.
“No, I’m alright…I’ve been getting it, don’t worry.” He stepped back into position and motioned for Heeseung to do the same, “Let’s just pick up from where we left off. Promise I won’t zone out again.”
-
The holiday was everything short of fun; your father’s tendencies only became worse with each year that passed. You hadn’t seen Jake, as he’d been gone, too. You wanted to be home, back at your apartment, near campus, near Sunoo, near him. The little family you had left didn’t feel much like it anymore.
Sometimes, you just wanted something to grasp onto; he was that steady presence for you.
When you finally had the privilege to return to the place you now called home, it felt a little less lonely, even if everyone was still traveling, still off-campus, still enjoying themselves. Jake hadn’t returned yet; he was still with his family, far from where he lived, and you missed him, whether you wanted to admit it or not.
“Hello?”
Your body sighed and relaxed into the mattress below you at the sound of Jake’s voice, soft and sleepy, as if he were almost entirely asleep when you called. “Hey,” you mumbled into the phone, fingers toying with the buttons on the side. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No,” he whispered, “I’m awake.” A slow exhale of breath breezed into the microphone and wisped from the speaker into your ear. “What’s up? You don’t call this late.”
“Can’t sleep,” you frowned. “I just got back today. It’s been kinda lonely.” You turned onto your side, pulling the sheets over your shoulder, and he heard the shuffling from the other end. “Just wanted to hear your voice,” you admitted, perhaps too tired to process it.
Jake’s heart skipped a beat.
You heard the sound of metal clanging in the background, like one piece of jewelry clashing with another. You almost couldn’t make out what it was until you heard Jake laugh—the noise sending a wave of warmth through your tired body—and something that sounded like…licking?
“Layla!” he finally giggled, pushing the dog’s face away from his own. “I’m on the phone!”
You gasped softly into the microphone, eyes lighting up for no one to see. “Switch this to FaceTime,” you quickly demanded, and Jake obeyed, sending the signal to your phone for you to happily accept.
Then, as you held the screen in front of your face, a glob of blonde fur suddenly appeared on the screen as the canine continued to try to lick Jake’s face, drawing another chuckle from your lips. “Hi, Layla,” you chirped with your best baby voice, still beaming as she tried to cuddle up with him.
When she finally calmed down, lying peacefully beside him and nuzzling into his shoulder, he turned the phone to face him. It was nothing you hadn’t seen before—tired eyes, rustled hair from his dog, plush lips that you only wished you could touch—but it felt different, now. The corners of his lips sat slightly upturned as he caught a glimpse of you, and you didn’t speak, opting only to admire him from the other end of the line as his pride and joy, whom he’d forced pictures of daily down your throat, sat peacefully beside him. He looked perfect, in every sense of the word.
When you finally gathered the strength to speak, you didn’t feel like doing much talking at all. In fact, you only wanted to listen; relax to the sound of his smooth, gentle voice.
“Can you just…talk?”
“Yeah,” he replied as if it were the most important task in the world, “yeah, of course.” He swallowed, scanning his mind for stories, information, passing thoughts he could tell you about. You’d listen to anything—you always had.
“Heeseung wanted to grab some food earlier,” he finally decided on, carding a hand through Layla’s soft fur. “It was him and Jay. I don’t know if you know him,” he added, at which you hummed to say no. “I would’ve gone, but I had to catch up on a bunch of videos. I usually do those at night, but I’ve been more…occupied, lately.”
“In front of the child?” you teased softly.
“Hey, she’s a grown lady,” he countered, leaning down to kiss the top of Layla’s head. “I think it’s almost time to give her the birds and bees talk.”
You giggled from the other end of the line; he smiled.
“He called me a nerd, anyway,” he laughed, shaking his head. Layla closed her eyes upon Jake’s shoulder, and you thought briefly of how comfortable it was to lie on, a bit jealous that she got the opportunity when you were trapped in your bedroom alone. Then again, you only had to be close to him to fall asleep so quickly, so this would have to do. “And it’s not like he knew why I’ve been so behind. He really does think I’m exactly who people say I am.”
You’re not, you wanted to say. You’re so much better, but the words died on your tongue; too heavy to speak into existence.
“Matter of fact, he even implied a few weeks ago that I wasn’t getting any. Guess he just assumed because I stopped talking about it, but…I think I’d argue the opposite,” he chuckled. “If only he knew.”
He noticed the half-asleep dog perched on his shoulder and bit his lip in thought. “Y’know, they say that some people look like their dogs.”
Your eyes fluttered shut as Jake’s voice lulled your body into relaxation. You kept listening, letting it soothe your mind as he rambled on about his favorite border collie.
“D’you think I look like her?” he asked, moving the camera between himself and his dog, fronting a smile. You opened your eyes, just barely halfway, and he looked a little blurry, but you closed them again and nodded softly.
“Hear that, Layla? Maybe we are twins,” he giggled. “My friend here seems to think so. Have you ever met her?” He kissed her head again, “Nooo, you haven’t.”
“She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
He leaned back onto the pillow and slid the glasses off his face, reaching to place them somewhere on the bedside table. “I miss you,” he finally admitted, whispering, maybe more to himself than you.
But the admission fell on deaf ears. Then, the soft noise of breathing that he recognized as quickly as the sound came. He looked closer to make out the shape of your sleeping face, and suddenly, your phone slipped onto the bed.
“Night, Y/N,” he whispered, “sleep well.”
And with that, the line went dead.
-
YOU: miss you.
You still hadn’t seen Jake in weeks. He’d come back from his trip, but life had become busy again—preparations for competitions came closer, the stress of the spring semester kicked in, and work turned busy with the influx of students returning to campus. Busy schedules, shifts that your boss just kept assigning without running it by you first, Jake’s professors slapping workloads on him that even you had never seen him receive before—all blending together and leaving no room to rest. Life just kept getting in the way.
JAKE: Come over.
YOU: i can’t. i have that stupid banquet that sunoo and coach want me to go to, the one i told you about a few nights ago. remember?
Jake sighed. Of course, he remembered—how could he forget? You spent that whole night complaining about it while you were fucking; looking back on it, it was sort of funny, but yeah, he remembered.
JAKE: Yeah.
JAKE: Well, if things get boring, let me know. I’ll fix it
You laughed and shoved the phone into your pocket, looking up and waving at Sunoo, who stood across the street. “Over here!”
He ran over and let out a deep breath, winded from running so fast, clutching his chest in fear. “I almost just died.”
“Sunnie, there’s not a car in sight.”
He looked up and scanned the road; clear as day—or, rather, night. With a roll of his eyes, he waved you off. “Well, it was a risk, anyway. I could have broken an ankle!”
“Alright, Grandpa, let’s just get you inside.”
The two of you walked in, admiring the gorgeous scenery—chandeliers decorating the ceiling, paintings with beautiful colors and strokes, large pillars bedazzling each corner. It was beautiful. Expensive.
You found the table for your team and sat comfortably in your seat, marked by an eggshell card that read your name in handwritten calligraphy. It felt like too much, almost, but still, you took a small look around at the various other teams and their partners, parents, siblings—whoever showed up for support.
You could’ve asked Jake, but it would’ve flashed too many eyes. Brought up too many questions. Raised too many eyebrows.
The woman hosting the event donned a beautiful, black gown with gold jewelry decorating her neck and wrists. You felt almost mesmerized listening to her speak, watching as the crowd laughed, applauded, and smiled while she addressed them. Some halfway through, around when you were eating, you excused yourself to the restroom.
“I’ll be right back, ‘Noo,” you whispered, “keep my seat warm.”
He giggled, and you took your purse into the long hallway, lit only by a few wall lamps, heel clicks softened by the thin, red carpet on the floor. After attending to your business and touching up your makeup in the mirror, you stepped out, turning the corner too fast and accidentally bumping into someone.
“Oh! I’m sorry—”
Your stomach dropped. Face fell and contorted into something ugly.
Beomgyu.
“What are you doing here? This isn’t for you,” you shook your head, taking a cautious step back to leave distance between you.
“What, I can’t come to support my girlfriend now?” he smirked, and you felt the gears suddenly turn in your head. You had seen her before—the girl he cheated with. She was a cheerleader, a dancer, just like you. A little skinnier, a little prettier, and she did it all for a school not far from you. That’s when he met her—at one of your stupid competitions. Fuck. “Jesus, I mean, I knew you weren’t over me, but God—”
“I’m light years over you, you dick,” you spat back, voice low, not to disturb those in the main hall, the low rumblings of chatter and soft piano echoing softly in the hallway. “It’s been months, and honestly? I was over you before it even ended.”
“Aw, is that what you tell yourself? Cute,” he pouted. “You fuck that Jake kid yet? Or are you still too scared to admit you already did?”
“I told you that I wasn’t interested in him like that. I told you that I would never cheat on you, Beomgyu. I cared more than that,” you bit back, voice growing shaky from the anger surging through your blood. “And you’re one to talk about not being over someone—she’s the less upgraded version of me.”
He scoffed, “She has everything on you. Fucks real nice too, likes to get rough, just how I like it. Or by your standard, she actually fucks me.”
“You’ve always been an asshole, but I never expected you to take my virginity and toss it to the ground like trash.” You stepped closer, pointing a finger, mascara smudging under your eye, and creases forming from scrunching your face. “And for the record, Gyu?” the nickname that once felt like sugar on your tongue, “You were the worst first I could’ve had. Couldn’t even make me cum because you were so goddamn engrossed in yourself.”
For once—a fleeting moment—something flashed across his face. Maybe not regret, not remorse, not guilt; embarrassment, perhaps. And you saw it: the flicker in his eyes that was too difficult to ignore. But Beomgyu never backed down, even if he thought he was wrong.
“You are so bold,” he laughed bitterly as he closed the distance further, hands in his pockets, not a care in the world, as if he owned it. “Always liked that about you. It’s such a shame that things didn’t work out,” he pouted and lifted a hand to your hair, trying to brush it back, but you quickly yanked it away.
“Don’t you dare touch me.”
“We could’ve been great, you know. If you hadn’t been so uptight about your precious virginity,” he shrugged. “You can have your fun with him, but you and I both know that he’s a damn loser. He’ll get sick of you all the same and dump you, too.” He lowered his voice, “And you’re still keeping him a secret. Why, if you like him so much? Isn’t that funny?”
Your façade wavered. “You don’t know anything.”
He laughed. “Don’t I?”
You swallowed, determined not to let your emotions show, not to admit to the very act that you swore you’d never take part in. He’s nothing like you think, you wanted to say, your body aching to defend him. He’s better than you in every way. But you couldn’t, because that would be admitting to who you’d become, and maybe you didn’t like that. Maybe you still couldn’t come to terms with it.
“When he does dump you, let me know,” he leaned closer, and you felt his breath fan your frozen face, “and maybe we can finally pick up where we left off.”
His fingers gripped your waist, and your body quickly rejected the feeling. He didn’t touch you as Jake had, he didn’t feel like Jake, didn’t press his fingers into your skin like he was worshipping it. He touched you like property, not like something important, something worth being cared for.
You finally came to your senses and shoved him away, watching as he stumbled back, almost failing to catch himself. When he regained stability, you shoved past him, but his hand caught your wrist with a vice grip that reminded you of every time he disrespected you, toyed with your emotions, and left you to pick up the pieces he shattered alone.
“Let go of me, you asshole!” You tugged your hand, but he only tightened his hold. “I don’t want you anymore!”
“Quit yelling. You’ll disrupt your little dinner.”
“I swear to God, if you don’t let go of me, I’ll scr—”
Lips. On yours. The taste foreign and familiar at once, that of cigarettes masked with champagne. Bruising, like it always was, meant to hurt, to possess, to control rather than soothe.
Not Jake’s.
“Get—off of me!” you shouted and dug your thigh into his crotch, doubling him over and sending him towards the nearest wall. You quickly retrieved your purse from the ground and walked slowly backwards. “Don’t ever fucking come near me again!”
And you ran.
Out of the banquet. Past Sunoo, past your coach, past everyone else that was counting on you to return. You couldn’t face them—couldn’t face anyone—not after being humiliated so deeply, insulted so harshly, harassed and bruised around your wrist.
You needed him.
So badly, you needed him. Like the first night, when you’d cried every tear out of your body, felt like your heart had been ripped straight from your chest, and begged him to erase it; the pain, the searing ache in your chest, your racing mind that wouldn’t stop. All over again. All because of the same person.
YOU: unlock your door.
YOU: please
He didn’t respond, but he knew. Enough to listen.
After you’d managed to find your car, turn the ignition with such force that you sliced your finger on one of the keys, you drove. Tears staining your cheeks, blood creating a small stain on the wheel, pain hollowing out your chest, fear trembling in your bones that you couldn’t quite process. The headlights around you blurred with one another from the wetness in your eyes, and you blinked it away, needing to see him; needing to feel good again.
As you burst through the doors in the lobby, ignoring the soft hello’s from the doorman and the receptionist who knew you by now, your feet stuttered, heels clacked on the tile floor leading to the elevator. Your thoughts bounced and rang in your ears like tinnitus that just wouldn’t stop.
Finally, his floor. His hallway. Then, his apartment.
The door clicked open, unlocked with intention, and you let it slam behind you, not caring if his shitty neighbors woke up. God, they could’ve used a night out for a damn change.
He stood up from the edge of the bed when he heard the door open and close, watching as you finally appeared, dress wrinkled and bunched in unnatural places, hair astray from the wind, running, the foreign hand trying to touch it. Makeup smudged around your eyes and down your cheeks like something out of a movie. Broken, completely and utterly shattered.
You kissed him, firm, not giving him a moment to process the state you were in, just needing to feel the plush of his lips on yours again, tasting like the familiar mint toothpaste he bought every few weeks because you hated the old one. He kissed back—softly, too worried to touch any firmer than the brush of his fingers along your sides, deciding you were too delicate to hold just yet. Too fragile, too obviously shaken up.
“Jake,” you whispered against his lips like a prayer, letting his name roll off your tongue with a sweetness that his never could’ve compared to.
You looked up at him with pleading eyes—those same ones from all those months ago, more trusting now, more pain behind them than before, and yielding a depth they’d never quite reached.
“What happened?” he asked softly, voice sweet as honey, as his palm gently cradled your face, thumb brushing away the stained makeup on your cheek. Something you rarely saw from him, a side that only surfaced recently, and with that, more frequent than ever.
“He was there,” was all you could manage, and Jake’s face fell. He tried not to show it, but you noticed. “I ran into him, and he said he was there for his girlfriend. She was one of the girls from another school, Jake. He cheated on me at my own competitions.” A tear fell from your eye, and his thumb caught it before it could reach your cheek. “I tried to tell him off, and then he insulted me—and you, and he grabbed me by the wrist.”
Jake lifted your hand to see the faint bruises forming around the expanse of your wrist; his jaw clenched.
“He kissed me,” you admitted shamefully, as if you’d been the one to do it. As if kissing him meant you breaking fidelity that you never had in the first place, as if this were somehow on you. “And all I could think of was you.”
Jake’s heart thumped in his chest, and he swallowed down the lump in his throat. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, as if it could help.
Your breaths came out in strings of shudders, unsteady and varying in length, heart pounding in your head from the pressure of everything weighing down on your poor, weak body.
“I’ve wanted to see you for weeks, and I couldn’t,” you choked out. “I need you again. Please.”
Despite everything, the feelings he’d been suppressing, the mental war he couldn’t tell anyone about, and the vulnerable state that paralyzed your knees, your voice, your ability to think of anything but him…he still couldn’t deny you.
Jake pressed his lips to yours with a softness that meant everything. He took your waist in his hands and pressed your back onto the mattress, lips finding the spot on your neck that he knew you loved, kissing and sucking just light enough not to leave a mark.
He treated you like something fragile, just as he had all those months ago, except now, he knew your body. He’d studied every dip, every curve, every inch, and what it reacted to, what it liked, what it hated—what it wanted some nights, and what it needed for the other nights, ones like these, on those rare occasions where your vulnerability spiked.
When he slid inside, your gasp morphed into a moan of pure, dripping pleasure; the slide was easy, credited mostly to the desire that had built up over the course of the week and the night’s events. As he tried to be cautious, respectful, and considerate of your body, your every nerve protested it.
“Harder,” you pleaded into the air, just loud enough for him to hear, and he obeyed, pushing his hips against yours with fervor, rather than hesitance, sacrificing an easy rhythm for pleasure.
“Oh—” as the new angle kissed just the right spot, “right—right there, please.”
When you came down, and he followed suit, your body shuddered—every ounce of pain, hurt, stress, leaving in one stream, leaving you in panting breaths with the man you trusted most still positioned above you. His fingers brushed your hair back before he stood from the bed and found the clean stack of towels reserved just for you. Used one to clean you up before slipping one of his t-shirts over your torso, letting your body disappear beneath the fabric, freshly-washed and smelling faintly of his detergent and remnants of cologne.
For the first time, you chose to face him as you drifted off, and you didn’t protest when his hand rested over yours.
-
Your eyes fluttered open, and the first sight upon them was Jake, still asleep, positioned as if he’d stayed awake until you’d fallen under. The sun gently streamed in, illuminating his golden skin, dark brown bangs sitting perfectly on his head, as if he’d been a statue frozen to perfection in his sleep.
You lifted a trembling hand and reached for his cheek, pulling back when his body stirred, and his eyes opened as if you’d never gotten close in the first place.
“I’m sorry about last night,” was the first thing you whispered, finally back to your usual, steady frame of mind. “I shouldn’t have shown up like this. It wasn’t your problem to fix.”
“Those problems are exactly what I’m here for,” he mumbled in his sleepy voice, eyes not fully open, though he looked flawless nonetheless.
“Can I make it up to you?”
Jake breathed. “How?”
You lifted your hand again and traced the crown of his head, eyes drifting down to his. “I need to shower,” you whispered, “and I think some company might be nice.”
His lips curved into a smile, and his hands found your waist, touch still delicate, reserved as he didn’t know what places hurt and which didn’t.
“Okay,” he whispered into your shoulder and sat up slowly, allowing your legs to wrap around his waist before he walked you into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.
The hot water cascaded down your sore bodies and soothed the lingering nerves, while Jake took care of the rest, hands exploring your curves like a map he’d studied a thousand times over.
This was the moment that the line between transaction and recreation began to blur, where Jake’s feelings blossomed into something he couldn’t restrain, and no amount of willing them away would fix them. You, on the other hand, trapped yourself in limbo—forced to decide if this was what could be or what shouldn’t be.
Neither of you would acknowledge it. Instead, as your back pressed firmly against the cold shower tile, you basked in the feeling, every sensation he gave you, and how perfect it felt to be under his touch again.
But as the next days passed, and days turned to weeks, there was a truth that you had to accept—you’d become addicted. Not just to the sex, the thrill of secrecy, or even the release. You were addicted to him.
Some nights, you’d lie on his bare chest between rounds and listen to him speak softly about the material he was learning or weird stories about Heeseung and his buddies. You’d laugh, hair brushing against his skin, and he’d run his fingers through it gently, silently wishing for more.
“You really are a nerd, aren’t you?” you’d said one night, reaching up to fix his glasses.
He laughed. “You’re just figuring that part out?”
It was almost domestic. Almost.
Other nights, you’d tangle up in one another for hours, into the late hours of the night, disconnected from any emotion or feeling, any tangible evidence that whatever this was becoming had even a semblance of something real buried within it.
And Jake would spend them all in agony, yearning for something more. Wanting you to feel the same, to be in the same endless cycle of hope—pathetic, tantalizing desperacy—despite already knowing the unbearable truth. Perhaps, you would never feel that way at all, and he had tainted you for good.
On the nights you weren’t in his bed, making the familiar dip on the other side that comforted him, when you left behind only the faint smell of your shampoo (which he’d bought a few weeks back to keep in his bathroom), he lay alone with his thoughts. This wasn’t supposed to happen; this friends-with-benefits situation that he proposed was never meant to turn into something he couldn’t reverse.
He wasn’t supposed to miss you when you were gone. He wasn’t supposed to look at you with only affection in his eyes when you weren’t looking back. He wasn’t supposed to miss you when you were there because it felt like you weren’t at all. He wasn’t supposed to fall for you.
But sometimes, the cards just fell that way.
-
It happened on a typical night. Nothing was out of the ordinary, and in fact, it started the same as any other. You’d texted him late at night, when the school fell into its slumber, and the dust of the day finally settled.
YOU: can i come over?
The answer—much like always—was yes, with flying colors. You’d shown up to his place, wearing an old winter coat with little coverage beneath (thin shorts and a black long-sleeve), and you were under his touch in a matter of seconds.
His hands roamed your body as he sat down, pulling your weight into his lap, humming against your lips with satisfaction. Your fingertips grazed the back of his neck, and you sighed contentedly into his mouth.
“I met a guy.”
Jake thought he physically felt his heart disconnect and drop to his stomach.
“Yeah?” he managed, eyes not daring to look into yours, instead focusing on your forehead.
“Yeah,” you confirmed, pressing stray kisses to his jaw. “His name is Sunghoon. He’s a little younger than you, but he seems nice,” you pulled back a little. “But we’d probably have to slow down on all…this. If things start to work out with him. Maybe, I don’t know.”
He couldn’t front a smile, something proud, any grasp of an expression that implied that this didn’t rip the happiness straight from his body. He couldn’t stop his eyes—large like boba—from falling on yours, all hopeful, while the world crumbled around him.
“Jake…Why are you looking at me like that?”
He swallowed, “Like what?”
“Like something’s wrong.”
“Because it is,” he whispered shamefully. He couldn’t keep running from how he felt, not anymore. Not when this was the only chance he had to make it right.
“Jake,” you shook your head, pulling farther back until your feet met the ground, cold from the late winter air and threatening to numb your toes. “Don’t say that. Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you know we can’t,” you stated plainly, just like you had all those months ago, forcing the choice on him with no chance for him to defend it.
“Why?” Jake stood to meet your gaze, but he wasn’t angry—he only looked hurt, and somehow, it made everything worse. Of course, he still cared; of course, he was still being gentle with you.
“Why him?” he whispered. “Why not me?”
Seeing the hurt in his eyes broke your heart. Jake wasn’t someone who ever let his guard down. He didn’t talk about his feelings. For everything he knew about you, for every vulnerable, shattered state he’d already seen you in a handful of times, he’d never looked anything like this before.
“You know it’s not that simple,” you tried to defend, blinking back the liquid brimming in your eyes. Your voice trembled involuntarily, “I’m—I’m still me, and you’re still…”
“I’m not good enough.”
He said it like a statement, like a revelation rather than a question. His stomach churned as he realized what had become of this, of you, someone who loved and cared and gave every piece of yourself to people, but wouldn’t let him do the same for you.
“You wanted this, Jake,” you reminded him, words sharper than they should’ve been as tears laced your eyes. “This wasn’t supposed to happen, right? I thought—I thought that you didn’t do feelings.”
“You really couldn’t tell?”
You thought back to the little things—him switching out the toothpaste, choosing the same side of the bed each night to fall asleep on, talking you to sleep while he rested his hand on yours. He’d been caring for you for months, and you chose not to acknowledge it because it would screw everything up, or so you thought.
“I don’t know,” you shook your head. “But this…we can’t. It’s been fake since the beginning.” Your hands fell loose at your sides, fingernails digging deep into the flesh of your palm as you looked back at Jake, who just couldn’t understand. What did Sunghoon have to offer that he didn’t?
“And something with him wouldn’t be?”
You didn’t answer.
“So none of this was real? None of it felt real to you at all?” he finally spoke up, letting his eyes gloss over, forcing you to see the hurt behind them. “When you called me in the middle of the night just to listen to me talk? When you slept in my clothes, in my bed, with me?”
You didn’t want to accept the truth of his accusations, the pain in his tone something completely foreign to you, to him. Still, he wasn’t angry. He barely raised his voice, didn’t step forward to invade your space, and didn’t hold himself superior when he knew that it wasn’t easy for you, either. Perhaps, witnessing that hurt even more.
“You never felt, even for a second, that any of this could’ve been real?”
You couldn’t take the denial anymore—your body had been rejecting the possibility of him for too long. Tears dropped from your eyes and slid down your cheeks, and your lip quivered as you tried to calm your nerves, wanting nothing more than his comfort, because that’s what you’d been training yourself to crave for months on end.
“Of course, it was real,” you finally admitted in a whisper. “It was all real. Every phone call, every text, every I miss you.” Your voice trembled from the flood of emotions rising to your throat. “Every time I spent the night here, and tried to convince myself that it meant nothing. Fuck, I fell asleep while you talked about your dog, Jake. Every second of it was real to me.”
You breathed, “And it scared me to death.”
Jake couldn’t respond; he didn’t know how. For every time you’d been vulnerable, opening up to him, letting him see the ugliest parts of yourself when you trusted no one else, this? This was different.
You’d finally come to terms with reality—the feelings you’d developed for him. How they’d started so slowly at first, resting only in the crevices of your heart until gradually, they bloomed into something you couldn’t escape. You didn’t need to hear his voice to sleep for no reason; you didn’t need to see him when life got hard for no reason; you didn’t crave his touch and how gentle he was toward you, the comfort he offered without even trying, for no reason.
Life had its curveballs; Jake was one you never expected.
“I’m so scared of what people will think,” you finally added, voice breaking with silent sobs between words. “I’ve always been. I’ve kept you hidden like a—like a monster instead of showing you off like I should’ve.”
“What about Sunghoon?” he countered softly.
“Sunghoon isn’t the one I want, Jake.”
Your limbs trembled, “He’s just a distraction.”
Jake took a step closer—tentative, careful, waiting for your nonverbal permission before grounding his feet just in front of yours. He lifted a hand, letting his palm ghost over your cheek before placing it gently onto your skin. His thumb brushed over your skin and collected a stray tear on it, letting it slowly melt away.
“Then give me a chance,” he whispered. “Give this a chance.”
“Jake…”
“Please.”
Your head told you that you shouldn’t; that this would be wrong, unacceptable, that pursuing something with him would mess everything up that you’d built. But your heart said the opposite—Jake was someone you trusted and had for years before any of this. Jake was there for you when no one else was. He was the first person you thought of when you needed a shoulder to cry on, someone to listen, someone to make you forget. You’d trust him so easily with your heart if you gave it to him, and part of you thought that you might have already.
He was attentive to the small things, the ones that nobody—not even Beomgyu, back when he cared—noticed. He didn’t take his own wants into account when you were the one that needed him.
Jake had been silently loving you for months already. Maybe he was pathetic, but he was yours, if you’d have him.
He leaned in—slowly, at first—letting his breath fan across your lips as his eyes darted between them and your eyes, looking for an answer; a simple yes or no in the expression you wore, because he could always read you without trying. You stayed in your place, letting him come to you, feeling his fingertips press firmer into your cheek until his lips gently brushed yours. It felt different than before—the same soft, kind manner in which he kissed you, only now, there was more behind it. It was love—unspoken, unbridled, all wrapped into the plush of his lips enveloping yours, an admission and a declaration all at once.
When you kissed him back, taking his hand in yours and accepting his love, his lips stretched into a smile that you felt against yours, warm and filled with adoration. It was silent in his room—save for the soft noise of fabrics brushing against one another—a comfortable silence that blanketed you into this moment, meant only for you and him to share.
He padded backwards on the floor, and you followed, not so worried about the cold beneath your feet anymore. With a tenderness he’d never quite allowed himself to display before, he turned to place you on the bed, careful of your head’s closeness to the headboard, making sure you were comfortable before he hovered above you. His dark, fluffy hair fell loosely in front of his face, smelling of your vanilla shampoo that he realized too late wasn’t his own earlier that morning, but he didn’t seem to care too much because it reminded him of you.
His hands roamed your sides, now memorized from all of the intimate moments you’d shared, fingers familiarized with every dip and curve that shaped your body, and he loved every inch of it—overjoyed that he finally got to call all of you his.
“I’m sorry I didn’t speak up sooner,” he whispered into your stomach as he pushed your top up and over your head. “I thought if I did, I’d fuck it all up.”
“It’s okay,” you whispered back. “I think I needed the time, anyway,” you swallowed as his hands worked at your shorts, “to see how far I’d fallen without even realizing.”
He kissed a path up your legs, pressing his lips so lightly to your inner thigh that you shivered, “I’m gonna make up for all of it.”
When you took your first gasp of air, it wasn’t from pain, rushed movements, not even the overwhelming sensation that it all usually gave you. It was everything he hadn’t said—couldn’t say, because he’d never felt anything like this before. He’d never treated a woman’s body like something so precious, worshipped her very skin and touched her with such a reverence that could never properly be described unless someone had felt it themself; Jake only did that with you.
His tongue worked at your wet, sensitive skin, pulling out soft whimpers that you made no effort to silence. His mouth was warm, contrasting with the cold air that whirled around you, and your hand slipped into the long hair that you loved so dearly.
I’m hiding the scissors from you, you’d even told him once, and of course, he listened without hesitation—he hadn’t even considered bringing a pair to his head since.
He moaned into your skin when you tugged involuntarily at his hair, and the sound fluttered in your stomach. When his fingers slipped in below his mouth, finding their spot just a few inches inside where he knew you reacted best, your hips chased the feeling. He carefully worked your body toward the release it craved, and your breath escaped in heavy pants, almost visible with their heat in the crisp air of Jake’s bedroom that had already become partly yours, even if you hadn’t acknowledged it yet.
When your body reached its peak, it was blissful—a sigh that became lost within a moan, your frame melting into the mattress below as his mouth stayed in its place until you stilled beneath him.
He parted with a soft kiss to the sensitive mound of flesh, lifting himself until his face—chin glossy in the dim moonlight—came back into view, and you smiled up at him. He was so beautiful; you wondered why no girl had ever tried for his love before, even if his reputation served against his favor.
Falling for someone like him—your complete opposite, with soft features, puppy dog eyes that he only flashed in your presence, and a total nerd in the most endearing way—was never something you’d expected to happen.
His mouth found yours again, corners of his lips pulled perpetually into a smile as his palm found purchase on your cheek, holding your face as close as physics would allow. Your fingers skated along the hem of his shirt, tugging it up until they could rest on his stomach—somewhere they often resided in this position—where you felt his abs beneath them. He pulled back, only for a moment, to remove it from his torso and toss it to the opposite end of the bed, where his sweats soon followed, leaving him perched between your legs, looking into your eyes, asking permission with his own.
You nodded, whispering to have him bare, to feel all of him, and he wouldn’t deny you, not now.
Jake aligned his hips with yours and slid in, slowly, letting you adjust to the new stretch with each inch, raw and foreign in the most gratifying way. His hand cradled the back of your head, pressing kisses to your temple every time his hips met yours, kissing the deepest spot inside you as subtly as he could.
His movements were softer, slower, more intentional than they’d ever been, conveying more than just the desire that they were once meant to. He took his time with you, letting you feel every part of him as he did the same, senses heightened from the high emotions and meaningful touches.
It wasn’t long before you were falling in his grasp again, whispering prayers of his name and holding him until the skin under your fingers turned white. Warmth spread into your stomach with his quiet moan that buzzed against your lips, and you smiled again, basking in the moment—far more intimate than anything you’d ever experienced—with him, just as you’d always secretly wanted, even if it took months to come to fruition.
Jake’s fingers brushed a few strands of hair behind your ear, and they lingered for a fleeting moment before he caressed your face again, admiring its delicacy. “I love you,” he whispered as if it were the simplest confession in the world, eyes scanning the expanse of your face.
And you smiled; for now, you weren’t so scared anymore.
“I love you, too.”
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, smiling still against the warm skin until you turned carefully onto your side, facing the closet you always had on nights like this. But rather than how it was before, Jake’s arm slid around your waist and pulled your back firmly into his chest, where his body’s warmth mingled with yours. His palm rested comfortably on the back of your hand, and you quickly turned it over, lacing your fingers with his.
“Goodnight, Y/N,” he mumbled quietly into your hair.
“Night, Jake.”
That night, you didn’t have to dream of freedom, of happiness, of a wish that may never become real.
Because this time, you already had him. And now, Jake had you, too.
"A Private Collection" - Shigeta Harua (重田美琉愛) x f!reader
“Wow,” he murmured, voice low. “It’s so easy to get inside your apartment.”; You stopped breathing. When he finally lifted his gaze to yours, his smile was wrong. “So easy,” he repeated. And you realized, you should never have handed him your phone.
content warnings - stalking, phone hacking, privacy invasion, breaking and entering, police negligence, physical intimidation, restraint, threats with a weapon, psychological terror, torture violence, and non-consensual sexual act/themes.
word count : 9.4k
This is the fourth installment of The Silver Screen Haunting Series.
"Come closer. The show is ready to start whether you’re ready or not."
You were halfway through tearing apart your apartment, couch cushions overturned like crime-scene evidence when your landline finally rang. An unknown number. Your heart tripped. “Hey,” a man said, a little breathless, as if he’d jogged to make the call. “I, uh… found this phone on the bus yesterday and clicked on the first number I saw in the contact” You exhaled so hard your shoulders sagged. “Oh thank goodness. I thought I lost it forever.” You paced the living room, hand pressed to your forehead. “Is it okay? Please tell me it’s okay.”
There was a pause, then a wince you could practically hear. “About that… the screen’s cracked. I think someone stepped on it.” “Oh no.” You sank onto the arm of a chair. “Of course they did.” “I can drop it at a repair shop,” he offered quickly. “Incheon Repair. I know the owner. I’ll cover the cost, so just… pick it up whenever.” “That’s really not necessary—” “Already done,” he said, almost shy but determined. “And, um… you’re welcome.” You started to thank him, but he hung up before you could finish the sentence. Just a soft click, leaving you staring at your wallpaper and wondering who exactly had just played good Samaritan with your entire life. By the time you made it to Incheon Repair, your nerves were still buzzing. The bell over the door gave a bright ding, slicing through the quiet shop. The guy behind the counter looked up.
He was not what you expected. Light flashed off his glasses as he straightened, eyes meeting yours with a quick, almost startled focus like he’d been waiting without admitting he was waiting. “You must be…” He checked the ticket in his hand. “The one who lost her phone?” You laughed, heat brushing your cheeks. “Guilty.” His mouth curved, slow and a little crooked. He lifted the phone gently, like it was something fragile and worth protecting. “Your Good Samaritan asked me to make it perfect.” The repairman scratched the back of his neck, suddenly less cool as he handed the phone over. You took it carefully, offering a grateful smile. “Thank you!” you called over your shoulder, giving a quick wave as you pushed through the door.
You stepped out of the shop with a faint, lingering smile still warmed by the unexpected kindness of a stranger, still buoyed by the relief of getting your phone back. The late-afternoon air felt gentler, almost hopeful. What you didn’t know was that this small, ordinary victory marked the last trace of normal you’d feel for a very long time. Your life was already shifting, the ground already tipping beneath your feet. And the worst was coming. You just hadn’t seen it yet.
“You got your phone back?” your coworker asked the moment you dropped into your desk chair. You set the device down beside your keyboard, the weight of it suddenly too noticeable. “Yeah,” you said, exhaling a small laugh. “I was terrified I’d never see it again.” “I remember,” she said, leaning back in her chair with a relieved grin. “You were a mess.” “Well,” you continued, smoothing a thumb over the screen, “someone found it on the bus. The screen was smashed, but they had it repaired for me.” You smiled, half at the memory, half at the absurd luck of it. “Wow.” She shook her head. “There really are good people in the world left.”
You nodded, letting the warmth of the moment settle you. Then you turned to your computer, pressing the power button to start the day. Nothing happened. You frowned, pressing it again. Harder. The monitor stayed black, stubbornly blank. “What the hell…” you muttered, pushing back your chair. Your fingers searching for the cable, the outlet, any explanation for the sudden silence of your workstation. The cord was plugged in. You pulled your hand back from the outlet, frowning. “It’s plugged in,” you muttered. You were already reaching for your phone to call tech support when the monitor suddenly flickered and then flashed on in a burst of cold white light. “Oh.” The word slipped out, you didn’t know why you were this jumpy. Just a glitch, you told yourself. Computers acted up. Nothing unusual. You eased back into your chair, sliding it toward the desk until it clicked into place. You exhaled, steadied yourself, and turned back to the screen ready to salvage what was left of the morning.
But your desktop was empty. Every folder. Every file. Gone. “No…” you whispered, moving the mouse faster now, clicking through search bars, directories, anywhere they might be. But it was useless. The computer wasn’t missing your files, they were gone. You didn’t hear your coworker walk up until she spoke. “Everything okay?” You straightened sharply. “Everything’s okay. Yeah. Everything’s fine.” You lied, the words barely forming around the tightness in your throat. Somehow, despite the setback, you managed to rebuild enough of your work to get through the day. The hours blurred, the familiar rhythm of tasks barely keeping your thoughts from circling back to the empty screen. By late afternoon, you shut down the computer, listening to the soft whine as it powered off. You gathered your things, slung your bag over your shoulder, and headed for the door.
Dinner was supposed to be quiet. A small mercy after a day that hadn’t offered any. You set the plate on the table, steam rising, the smell finally coaxing your shoulders to loosen. Fork in hand, you were halfway to the first bite when a sound rattled from inside your bag. Another buzz. You pushed back from the table and crossed the room. Your phone screen was lit inside the half-unzipped bag, the glow cold, intrusive. When you pulled it out, the Instagram icon blinked at you. Your notifications stacked like bricks. Your account. A new post. Your heart hiccuped, then slammed into a sprint. What the hell? You opened the app. The world dropped out from under you. It was you more like your body, unmistakably yours, unmistakably naked. Your breath went razor-thin. You didn’t remember taking this photo. You didn’t remember posting anything. Your fingers shook hard enough to blur the screen as you stabbed at the delete option, deleting, deleting, God, delete. But the damage was already done. Messages detonated in your inbox. Friends. Coworkers. Numbers you didn’t recognize. And then Mom. The screen kept flashing, vibrating in your hand as if possessed. The room felt too small, the air scraping your lungs. Someone had been in your account. Someone had been in your life. Someone had seen you more than you’d ever meant for anyone to see. And they wanted you to know.
“What do you mean you can’t help me?” Your voice cracked through the cramped station lobby, sharp enough to draw a glance from a passing deputy. The officer in front of you didn’t flinch. He just stood there broad-shouldered. A brick wall wearing a badge. “Someone hacked into my account,” you pushed on, words tumbling, breath thinning. “They posted a naked photo of me. Me! There has to be something you can do.” The officer exhaled, the kind of breath that said he’d rehearsed this line far too many times. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But there’s nothing I can do at this time.” Nothing. The word detonated in your skull. “You’re all fucking useless,” you spat, heat and humiliation burning up your throat. He didn’t react. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even shift his weight. Just stood there like the human version of a locked door. You snatched your phone off the table so fast. The screen lit up again more notifications, more messages. You turned, storming toward the exit, the officer’s non-answer echoing behind you as the door slammed shut.
It took you nearly an hour to work up the nerve. Your phone lay faceup on the couch cushion beside you, screen lit with 20+ messages from Mom, each one a tiny landmine waiting to detonate. The sheer number of them made your anxiety spike, breath thinning, palms damp. Texting back felt impossible. Calling felt worse. But you hit Call anyway. She answered on the first ring. “Honey! Why would you post such a ridiculous picture of yourself?” Her voice blasted through the speaker judgment braided into every syllable. “Mom, do you really think I would post that myself?” The words tore out louder than you intended, raw and defensive. “Then how the hell was it posted?” she fired back. “I was hacked,” you said, the truth scraping your throat. Silence crackled on the line she replied, “Oh.” Just oh. As if that explained everything. As if that made any of this better. “Of course you’d think the worst of me, Mom,” you said, your voice breaking at the edges. “I’m sorry, but that picture has been the talk of the family for hours,” she rushed out, voice tight, embarrassed. “Did you go to the police? Please tell me you did.”
“Of course I did.” You let out a breath that felt like it might take your lungs with it. “And they were plenty of help.” “Really?” Her voice softened, suddenly hopeful. “No.” You sank to your knees on the living room floor, the phone slick against your cheek. “They were useless, Mom. Completely useless.” A shudder ran through you, and the words spilled out before you could stop them. “I don’t know what to do.” The admission cracked something open. You felt yourself fold, breath hitching, the weight of everything finally dragging you down as you broke apart on the other end of the line.
You walked into work with your head lowered, shoulders tight, every step heavier than the last. The office hummed with the usual morning noise but underneath it, you heard it. The whispers. Not loud, not obvious. Just enough for your skin to prickle. Enough for you to feel the weight of every pair of eyes tracking you from behind computer screens and half-closed cubicle walls. Even your coworker, who was normally an unstoppable ray of sunshine, didn’t look up. No cheerful “Good morning,” no wave, no smile. She just kept typing, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on her monitor as if you weren’t standing right there. You slid into your chair, hands slightly trembling as you began setting up your workstation power button, login screen, email loading. A routine you could normally perform blindfolded, now suddenly difficult, every movement stiff and self-conscious. You were reaching for your headset when you heard it: Your name.
Not whispered this time. Spoken clearly. You looked up. Your boss stood at the door to her office, one hand braced on the frame, the other motioning you forward with a small, grim nod that told you everything you needed to know. You exhaled, slow and resigned, dread crawling up your spine like something alive. You knew exactly what was coming. And there was no avoiding it. You walked into her office with your head still down, the door clicking shut behind you. “Take a seat,” she said. You did. The chair felt colder than it should have. She folded her hands on the desk, eyes pinning you with a mixture of discomfort and corporate detachment. “There’s no easy way to say this,” she began, voice tight. “But we’re going to have to let you go.” The words landed with the weight of a physical blow.
She continued, each syllable another crack in the floor beneath you. “Some of our clients saw the photo circulating. They threatened to close their accounts if we didn’t take action. We can’t afford that kind of loss.” A breath. “I’m sorry. Please clear out your desk before the end of the day.” Sorry. As if the word meant anything now. You didn’t argue. Didn’t defend yourself. Didn’t even trust your voice enough to try. You simply stood, numbness settling in like frost, and walked out without looking back. Your desk felt foreign as you emptied it, drawer by drawer, item by item, your life reduced to a cardboard box. Around you, the office buzzed on as if nothing had changed, as if you hadn’t just lost the last piece of normal you’d been hanging on to. And no one said a word.
Carrying the cardboard box through the city made you feel smaller than you’d ever felt in your life. On the subway, it sat heavy in your lap, your name still scrawled across the side in black marker one more reminder of everything you’d just lost. Every lingering stare felt like a spotlight. Did they see the photo? Did they recognize you? Your chest tightened each time a man’s gaze drifted across your body. You kept your eyes down, fingers clenched around the box, silently praying Please don’t let them know. Please. Paranoia chased you all the way to your stop and up the stairwell to your apartment building. You climbed fast, head low, breath unsteady. But when you reached your floor, you froze. Your apartment door sat slightly open. A thin, dark gap. Just wide enough to say: someone’s inside. Your pulse thudded in your ears. You nudged the door with your foot, listening for movement. Nothing.
You stepped in, placing the box on the floor as quietly as you could, the soft thud sounding unbearably loud in the silence. You moved deeper, heart banging against your ribs. When you reached the living room, the scream tore out of you before you even felt it rising. Your photo, those photos hundreds of them, were plastered across your wall. Row after row, like a grotesque collage. Your body duplicated, exposed, weaponized. Every inch of the wall covered. You stumbled back, panic choking you, and bolted. Down the hallway. Down the stairs. Out the building. You didn’t stop until your lungs burned and your legs turned to water. Only then did you call the police, your voice shredded, hands trembling so violently you almost dropped the phone. They took their time. Of course they did. By the time they arrived, you could barely speak. You led them upstairs, your body shaking, every step slower than the last. You pushed open your door, pointing to the living room and stopped cold
The walls were clean. Every photo was gone. Not a scrap. Not a corner. Not a trace. The officers exchanged looks, each wearing some variation of annoyance and disbelief. But you just stood there, staring at the blank wall where your nightmare had been only 30 minutes before, knowing with perfect, ice-cold clarity: Someone had been here. Someone had waited for you to see. And they wanted you to know they could come back. The lecture felt longer than a walk back from hell. One officer paced. The other crossed his arms. Both made it clear you’d wasted their time. But you didn’t back down. “I want a report filed,” you repeated, voice frayed but steady. They exchanged a look like you were the unreasonable one, not the person who’d broken into your home and wallpapered your trauma across your living room.
Begrudgingly they took the statement. Every pen stroke sounded irritated, rushed. By the time they left, their irritation lingered in the air like smoke. The apartment felt wrong the second the door clicked shut behind them. But you had nowhere else to go. You’d lost your job. You couldn’t afford a hotel. And your parents lived hundreds of miles away, far enough that running to them wasn’t an option, not tonight. So you sat on the couch in the dark, arms wrapped around yourself, staring at the blank wall where the photos had been. You didn’t trust the shadows. You didn’t trust anything. Your phone buzzed. A single vibration that sliced through the silence. You glanced at the screen, heart stumbling…
Unknown Number: did you like my gift?
The room shrank around you. Your fingers went cold. And for the first time since this started, true fear settled in your chest. Your hands shook so badly you almost dropped the phone. You swallowed hard, forced your thumbs to move, and typed the only words your brain could scrape together:
You: what the fuck do you want?
The message sent, the screen went white with waiting. The typing bubble appeared. A tiny pulsating dots. But in the dark of your apartment, it felt like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to you. You stared at it, praying God, please let this be a mistake, a prank, something stupid and explainable anything but real. The bubble blinked on. Off. On again. And then the response appeared.
Unknown Number: you.
For a moment, everything stopped your breath, your pulse, the air in the room. Your skin crawled. Your stomach lurched. Those three letters pinned you in place like a hand around your throat. A claim. And the worst part was the certainty that whoever sent it… meant it.
You didn’t remember walking to the repair shop only the cold air, the pounding in your skull, the feeling that you were being pushed forward by nothing but fear. But somehow you ended up standing at the counter again, staring at the familiar clutter of tools and phone parts scattered beneath the fluorescent lights. Harua looked up from the device he was working on, his expression softening when he saw your face. “Rough night?” You let out a humorless laugh. “My life has gone to shit,” you said, launching into the story, the hack, the photos, the messages. By the time you finished, your voice felt scraped raw. “I’m so sorry this is happening to you,” Harua said quietly as he slid a new SIM card into your phone with careful, steady hands. His kindness was disarming, painfully so. “Nobody deserves that.”
“Yeah.” You exhaled slowly. “I just… I need something to make it stop.” He snapped the back of your phone into place and handed it to you. Then he reached for a sticky note, scribbling down the new number in neat, quick handwriting and pressing it into your palm. “Here. And seriously let me know if I can be of any more help.” “Thank you,” you said, managing a small smile. It felt brittle, but it was the best you had. You turned, walked halfway through the doorway, the cool air brushing your face And then an idea hit you. You stopped. Turned back. “Harua…?” He glanced up, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?” You walked back to the counter, fingers tightening around the sticky note. “Can you trace an unknown number?” His expression changed subtle, but unmistakable. “Why?” he asked quietly. But you already knew he was going to say yes.
You and Harua agreed on a day your apartment, his equipment, one last shot at tracing the number the police couldn’t be bothered to take seriously. It felt risky, maybe even stupid, but desperation drowned out caution. When he arrived, you opened the door before he could knock twice. “Thank you for this,” you said, stepping back to let him in. Your voice sounded thin, worn down from too many sleepless hours. “It’s no problem,” he replied, offering a small, steady smile as he stepped past you. The calmness in his tone scraped against your nerves, but you forced yourself to breathe through it. “You can set up in the living room,” you told him. “I’ll get you something to drink. Water or coffee?” “Water is fine,” he said, already dropping his backpack onto the couch and unzipping it, taking out his laptop.
He worked with quiet efficiency, as if this was something he’d done a thousand times before. You turned toward the kitchen, the weight of his presence settling into your apartment. Some part of you dared to hope this might finally give you answers. Another part of you wasn’t sure you actually wanted them. “Here you go,” you said, handing him the bottle of water. “Thank you.” He took it with a polite nod, lifting it for a slow sip watching you over the rim longer than necessary. “Give me your phone,” he said next. You hesitated only a second before placing it in his hand. He plugged it into his computer, fingers gliding across the keyboard with a confidence that didn’t match his laid-back smile. Lines of code or whatever he was doing reflected off his glasses, the light turning his eyes into unreadable mirrors. A faint click echoed from the machine. Then another.
He leaned back into your couch, studying the screen with a soft, almost amused huff.
“Wow,” he murmured, voice low. “It’s so easy to get inside your apartment.” You stopped breathing. The room felt smaller. The air heavier. Something in your gut twisted hard, sharp, a warning you wished you could ignore but couldn’t. He didn’t look up right away. He let the silence stretch, thick and suffocating, a quiet reminder of exactly how much he wasn’t saying. When he finally lifted his gaze to yours, his smile was wrong. “So easy,” he repeated. Your pulse thudded in your ears. And you realized, too late, you should never have handed him your phone.
His smile wasn’t the innocent one you’d seen in the shop. It sharpened now, edged with something you should’ve recognized earlier. And then it hit you, sudden and electric, like a flash of memory snapping into place. This all started the day you got your phone back from the repair shop. Your body acted in second as you lurched to your feet, instinct taking over. You didn’t think. You just moved toward the door, toward anything that meant escape. But he moved faster. Fingers tangled in your hair, yanking you backwards with a force that stole your breath and sent your balance collapsing. The floor came up hard, the shock of it rattling through you, scattering your thoughts like broken glass.
The room spun. Your vision doubled, then steadied in small, trembling pieces. He crouched beside you, too close, his shadow folding over your body like a second skin. “This,” he murmured, voice soft enough to make your stomach twist, “is going to be so much fun.” The smile he wore wasn’t just of excitement but also with possession. Certainty. Like he was already writing the ending and you were the only one who hadn’t read it yet. You tried to push up, to get space, but his grip crushed into your head, slamming you down with bone-rattling force, your vision detonating into black while his laughter drilled into the fading edges of your awareness. “Come back to me, baby.” The words floated to you through a fog soft, coaxing, almost affectionate. A light tapping brushed your cheek, just enough to pull you toward consciousness. You blinked. Once. Twice. The world smeared at the edges, colors bleeding into one another. Your head rang or maybe it was your ears an unsteady hum that made it impossible to tell which way was up. You tried to focus.
Shapes shifted. Shadows moved. Someone was standing in front of you. For a second, you told yourself it was a trick of the blurred vision, your mind filling in the blanks of what you feared most. But then the haze cleared just enough. And the glint you saw wasn’t imagined. A knife. Sharp and very fucking real. Your stomach dropped, fuck. He tilted his head, that same too-soft smile touching his voice before it reached his lips. “There you are,” he murmured. “Let’s have some fun.” You tried to scream your breath already gathering in your chest when something pulled tight against your lips. Pressure. Fabric. The bitter taste of whatever he’d used to silence you. A gag. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” Harua said lightly, as if apologizing for tracking dirt on your rug instead of tying you up. “Couldn’t let you make any noise. Might attract… uninvited guests. You get what I mean?”
His laugh was soft, too soft, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. A strand of blond hair fell across the lenses of his glasses, and he pushed it back with a casual flick of his hand. That’s when you noticed the gloves. Black. Fitted tight to his fingers. Not for warmth. Not for style. To avoid leaving fingerprints. A coldness crept through you, settling deep. Your mind scrambled for answers, for logic, for something in your past that could explain any of this but nothing made sense. Nothing added up. What had you done? Why had he chosen you? Harua smiled again, the kind of smile that told you he already knew the answer and that you weren’t going to like it. “So,” he said, rocking lightly on the balls of his feet, as if this were a casual story told over coffee instead of… this, “you might be wondering how you got yourself into this situation.” The sing–song cadence of his voice scraped down your spine. You stared up at him, breath caught in your throat, as he continued. “It all started on that one fateful day on the bus.” His tone turned almost whimsical, as if savoring the memory. Your eyes widened.
“Oh yes,” he said, catching the reaction instantly. “I was the one who ‘found’ your phone.” He paused, head tilting. “And honestly? ‘Found’ might be a bit of a stretch.” A laugh slipped from him. “You were napping,” he said. “Head against the window, breathing all soft and quiet. That’s when your phone slipped out of your pocket and hit the floor.” He mimed the motion, fingers fluttering. “And when you got up to leave, I picked it up. I was going to run after you, actually. Hand it back. Do the decent thing.” He leaned in slightly, the air between you thick enough to choke on. “But I knew you weren’t going to spare me a single glance.” His voice dropped, “So I had to do something to get your attention.” The way he said it made your stomach lurch. “Lucky for me,” he went on, “I was the only one on that bus.” His eyes flicked to your face, watching every reaction. “So I smashed the phone. Right there on the floor. Then I came up with this whole little story. Something gentle. A good Samaritan routine to get you to come meet me.” He lifted his gloved hands, flexing the fingers slowly. “And I knew,” he said, smiling, “I’d have to give you a reason to need me. To trust me. To let me in.”
He spread his arms suddenly, jazz–hands and all. “And here we are! ta-da!” Your pulse hammered against the gag. What the actual hell? His smile widened, pleased with your shock maybe even feeding on it. “This,” he whispered, “was always going to be our story.” You couldn’t stop the tears. They came hot and fast, blurring your vision, slipping down your cheeks no matter how hard you tried to hold them back. The shift in his expression was instant. The smile vanished wiped clean, as if someone had pulled a curtain across his face. “Hey… no. None of that.” His hand came up, cupping your cheek with a gentleness that felt more terrifying than any blow. His breath brushed your skin, soft as his voice. “Shhh. Shhh.” You flinched. The cold edge of metal touched your skin. A reminder of how little space existed between you and whatever he decided came next. “Shhh,” he murmured again, almost tender, as if soothing a frightened child instead of trapping you in the dark. “No crying. I don’t want you scared.” But the tears kept falling, unstoppable. And his eyes never left your face.
When he saw the tears still streaming, something snapped in him. “Stop it,” he hissed. “Stop it.” He backed up a single step just enough space to make his next move unpredictable then lunged forward again, fingers clamping around your jaw, forcing your face toward his. “You better stop it,” he warned, the words low, trembling with a control he was barely holding onto. “I said stop.” He shoved you back into the couch cushions, the impact knocking the breath from your chest. The room tilted for a second, but then something clicked into place, an opening he hadn’t noticed, a mistake he’d made. He hadn’t tied your legs. Instinct took over before fear could shut it down. You swung your leg out hard, aiming for anything you could reach. Your heel connected with the side of his knee. He gasped more shock than pain stumbling backward. His balance broke cleanly, and he dropped to the floor with a heavy thump, air punching out of him.
“I’m trying to be nice,” he said as he pushed himself back to his feet, breath coming sharp, temper flaring just beneath the surface. “I was going to be gentle with you. I was going to lead you into the next act.” He took a step closer, the shift in his expression turning the air colder. “But of course,” he spat, voice twisting, “someone like you can’t see the good that’s right in front of you.” The anger rolled off him in waves. His hands flexed at his sides, the black gloves creaking faintly as he stared down at you as if you’d broken a rule he’d never bothered to explain and whatever he considered “the next act”… you didn’t want to find out. He stepped toward you with a slow step. His gaze dipped down your body, not with desire, but with a chilling sort of curiosity, as if mapping out the places he could break you. Instinct roared through you. You kicked out again and again, wild, desperate. Anything to keep him away. He caught your ankle mid-strike. His smile got bigger. “Oh shit.” One swift pull, and the floor slammed into you, the impact rattling through your skull. The room spun, the breath punched from your lungs. Before you could recover, he was on you settling his weight across your thighs, pinning you like you were nothing more than a thrashing inconvenience. “Shh,” he crooned, patting the top of your head with a gloved hand. Mocking. Affection twisted into cruelty. “You make everything so dramatic.”He leaned in closer, his face inches from yours, eyes widening with a feverish, almost childlike fascination. His gaze flicked to your lips.
A knock shattered the moment. His entire body went still. His head snapped toward the door, the shift in his expression instantaneous a flash of cold calculation slicing through whatever twisted game he’d been playing. Then he looked back down at you, and the difference in his eyes made your blood ice over. Gone was the teasing cruelty what stared back at you now was the real version of him. A psychopath deciding whether the person on the other side of the door would become part of his story…or a loose end. His smile didn’t return. Instead, he bent down until you felt the heat of his breath against your cheek. “Listen carefully,” he whispered, voice so soft it scraped like a blade against your ear. “If you make a sound..any sound..I’ll open that door and let them watch what happens next. And I promise you… they won’t be able to stop it.” Your entire body went rigid. Another knock. Firmer this time. He moved fast.
A gloved hand clamped over your mouth, the other curling around your arm as he hauled you across the floor. Your legs scraped uselessly against the hardwood, your breath choking behind his palm as he yanked you toward the shadowed space between the sofa and the wall. “Stay,” he murmured, forcing you down, his grip crushing your shoulder for a beat too long. “Don’t test me.” You barely had time to brace yourself before he straightened, the monster inside him folding away with terrifying ease. You watched from your wedge of darkness as his posture softened, shoulders loosening, expression smoothing into something friendly. Harmless. The kind of man who’d offer to help you with your groceries. The knock came again. “Coming!” he called out, cheerful, your blood turning to ice as the transformation completed. He took two steps toward the door, then paused deliberately, tilting his head just enough so you could see the small, private smirk aimed directly at you. He undid the deadbolt with an easy, pleasant laugh…and opened the door in the voice of a man who had never hurt a soul.
The door swung open, and Harua’s entire demeanor shifted into something warm. You couldn’t see the visitor from your angle, only the polite murmur of a woman’s voice drifting in. A neighbor. Your stomach dropped. “Oh—hey! Sorry I took a second,” Harua said, rubbing the back of his neck like a man embarrassed to have been caught off guard. “Didn’t expect anyone.” He was good. Too good. The neighbor’s voice floated in, apologetic. “I heard a thump. Sounded like someone fell.” Harua laughed, the perfect neighborly chuckle. “Yeah, that was me. Tripped over my own bag. I swear, if clumsiness were a sport, I’d be a gold medalist.” The woman gave a sympathetic noise. He reeled her right in. “But thank you for checking,” he added, leaning casually against the door frame. “This building needs more people like you.” The charm was effortless but beneath the sugary tone, you could hear it. He was gauging her, measuring how easily she believed him, whether she’d stay, whether she’d leave, whether she’d ever think to look behind him.
Your pulse hammered against your ribs. This was your only window. Your only chance of being heard or seen before he sealed you back in that suffocating silence. You twisted your hands slowly, working your fingers beneath the rough knot. Each movement had to be tiny, almost imperceptible. If the rope scraped too loudly, if the couch creaked, if he sensed even a ripple of movement. He’d be on you before you could blink. The neighbor’s voice floated through the room, oblivious. “Are you sure you’re okay? That fall sounded awful.” “Oh, trust me, I’ve survived worse,” Harua said lightly. “I’m just glad you came by.” You tugged harder, the knot giving the smallest shiver beneath your fingertips. Not much, but enough.
In the next moment A shift in Harua’s tone. A slight one. But you recognized it instantly. His charm thinned. His attention sharpened. “Actually,” he said, voice sweet but carrying an edge meant only for you. “Would you mind holding on a second? I think I left something by the couch.” Ice shot through your spine. He was coming back. You worked faster three frantic tugs, the knot loosening another fraction your pulse roaring in your ears. You didn’t dare look up. Didn’t dare breathe. You kept your hands moving, praying he hadn’t heard the fibers stretching. His footsteps began crossing the floor. You forced your hands to still, wrists burning, breath lodged in your throat as his shadow spilled across the living room floor…growing closer…closer…
The neighbor’s voice tried to follow him in. “Oh—do you need help with someth—?” “No,” he interrupted, that practiced warmth returning like a mask being snapped back into place. “I’ve got it.” But the look he sent into the room wasn’t warm at all. And it landed directly on you. Harua’s shadow reached you before he did. Then his sneakers appeared. A predator savoring the inches between him and his prey. He crouched down without a word. You tried to pull your hands subtly back into place, too late. His gaze flicked to your wrists, and the smile that bloomed across his face wasn’t human. “Well,” he murmured, voice a thread of delighted cruelty, “someone’s been busy.” He touched the rope with two fingers, almost lovingly, then tightened the knot in one practiced jerk. Pain flared, hot and immediate. You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from making a sound. “Clever,” he whispered so quietly the neighbor couldn’t possibly hear. “But not clever enough.”
The front door opened by an inch light, uncertain. “Is everything alright in there?” the neighbor yelled out by the door. “Do you need—?” Harua didn’t turn fully. Just angled his head enough for her to hear that the warm, friendly voice. “All good!” he said cheerfully. “Just…dropped something. Clumsy me.” He leaned down again until his mouth hovered by your ear. His next words were a cold whisper meant only for you. “If you make this woman suspicious…if you so much as twitch the wrong way…I will bring her into this.” A pause. “And trust me—she won’t fare better than you.” Your breath stopped in your throat. Harua rose smoothly, dusting off his hands as if all he’d done was pick up a fallen pen. The neighbor hovered at the doorway, brows drawn, instinct tugging her toward concern. He gave her that warm, earnest smile the one you now knew was nothing but lacquer over rot. “Really, thank you,” he said, stepping closer, gently herding her backward without ever touching her. “It’s been a long week. I’m exhausted. Last thing you need is my clumsiness bothering you.” “Oh—I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said, still uncertain.
“You didn’t,” he reassured, lowering his voice with the perfect blend of sincerity and harmless charm. “But I’m fine. Promise. Get some rest, okay?” The woman wavered, then nodded. Harua closed the door with a soft, grateful laugh then locked it. Slowly. The metallic click rang through the apartment like a verdict. When he turned back toward you, the smile vanished, wiped away so cleanly it was as if it had never existed. He crouched again, forearms resting casually on his knees, studying you with a calm that chilled your bones. “You almost ruined everything,” he said quietly. “You almost dragged that woman into something she didn’t deserve. You almost got her hurt.” His voice softened, almost gentle. “Do you ever think before you act?” Shame burned hot beneath your skin. You knew it wasn’t fair, you knew it wasn’t true but the words landed anyway. “You’re smart,” he continued a slow shake of his head. “You couldn’t even wait five minutes. Couldn’t stay quiet. Couldn’t keep yourself safe.”
He touched the tightened rope around your wrists. “You nearly killed that woman,” he whispered. The manipulation settled like poison in your chest, and for a horrifying moment, you felt it the creeping belief that maybe you had been stupid. That maybe this was, somehow, your fault. His smile returned, small and patronizing. “That’s why you need me to handle you,” he murmured. “You can’t even protect yourself.” The moment you tried to shift, he noticed. The last trace of gentleness vanished from his face, he seized your bound wrists, the rope cutting deeper as his grip clamped down. “No more hiding,” he murmured, a terrifying lilt in his voice, as if dragging you out of the shadows was a game he’d been waiting to finish. He yanked you forward. Your body scraped across the floor, helpless, the living room spinning around you as he hauled you into the open like you were nothing more than a piece of furniture he’d grown tired of misplacing.
In one brutal motion he grabbed you and hurled you. The world snapped sideways. Your jaw cracked against the edge of the coffee table, a burst of white pain searing through your skull. You tasted blood instantly, your lip splitting under the impact. You winced, choking back a cry. The makeshift gag loosened in a sudden droop and slid out of your mouth. “Oh,” he said lightly, as if he’d dropped a dish instead of a person. “Sorry about that.” The mock apology was worse than the pain. He flipped you over with one hand, rolling you onto your back, studying you with cold curiosity like he was studying the injuries he’d made. You gathered the blood in your mouth and spat splattering his cheek, his glasses, the corner of his lip. The room settled into a deeper silence. His face twisted into something far more dangerous. Slowly, deliberately, he dragged his thumb across the smear at the corner of his mouth, examining the dark red streak as though it fascinated him and he tasted it. Just a small, deliberate flick of his tongue across his thumb. His eyes never left yours. “Well,” he whispered, voice soft as a lullaby and twice as chilling. “You really shouldn’t have done that.”
He moved fast. Before you could suck in a breath, the gag was shoved between your teeth strangling whatever protest you tried to make. The world blurred as his hand knotted into your hair again, twisting deep, controlling every inch of your movement and started dragging you. Your heels scraped violently across the floor, kicking instinctively. Each kick thudded against furniture, against door frames, against nothing at all. He didn’t even flinch. Your struggles were an annoyance, nothing more. “Easy,” he murmured, breathless with a kind of delighted cruelty. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.” He hauled you down the hallway, your shoulder catching on the wall, pain blooming across your ribs. You tried twisting away, tried bracing your feet, but he yanked harder, your scalp screaming as he dragged you into the bathroom. He dropped you beside the toilet with a thud. The cold tile bit through your clothes. The room spun. Without looking at you, he turned the faucet, the tub filling with a rush of water that echoed against the porcelain. You started shaking.
Your eyes locked on him, wide, pleading. Every inhale was a whimper trapped behind cloth. You tried to speak, to beg but the gag turned your voice into muffled, panicked noises. He heard them anyway. He glanced down at you, breathing steady, as if he were taking in a painting instead of a terrified person on the bathroom floor. His hand drifted absently to the blood you had left on his lip, thumb brushing it with almost scientific fascination. Then his gaze slid back to your face. “God,” he whispered, adjusting his glasses with one slow, deliberate finger, “you’re so fucking beautiful like this.” The water kept rising behind him. And he kept staring at you with the calm, admiring gaze of a man appreciating his favorite piece of art, not bothered by the terror shaking through your body.
His gaze drifted back to the tub. One controlled twist of his wrist, and the faucet stilled. Silence dropped hard, thickening the air until it felt dense enough to choke on. No running water now only your breath, broken and uneven, catching on every inhale. A thin whimper slipped out. He rose to his full height, every step, every shift of muscle, carried the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly how this would end. He looked down at you with the calm interest. “Good,” he said, voice low, steady, eerily patient. “Let’s teach you some manners.” No. No, no, no. The word was a scream inside the vault of your skull. Your body scrambled backward, feet slipping on the wet tile, pressing into the unyielding wall as if you could phase through it. A trapped animal with nowhere to run.
His hand closed on the nape of your neck. Fingers like steel bands. You were dragged forward, your body a dead weight he handled with ease. The cold of the ceramic tiles bit into your knees, a sharp, grounding pain. Then his lips were at your ear, his breath a warm, intimate violation against the shell. “Just remember,” he whispered, the words dripping with a twisted sincerity. “This is for your own good.” His other hand drifted up, brushing your cheek with a softness that didn’t belong there, then locked onto the knot behind your head. A single pull. Fabric slid free. Air hit your lips. You screamed and the world tore sideways. Your head was driven down, into the shocking, breath-stealing cold of the water. Instinct screamed, a white-hot fire in your nerves. Your body bucked, arms flailing, connecting with nothing. Your mouth opened on a silent scream, and the water rushed in, cold and dark and final.
He kept you under just long enough for the panic to burn white in your lungs. Then his grip eased, and the world lurched upward. You broke the surface with a choking gasp, water streaming down your face, vision smeared and shaking. You tried to brace yourself, to grab something..anything but your bound hands slid uselessly across the slick porcelain. Fingernails scraped tile, caught nothing. Air tore into your chest in ragged, desperate gulps. He leaned in. Warm breath brushed your cheek as his lips hovered just beside your skin, not touching yet somehow more invasive than if they had. “Are you gonna behave now?” he murmured. The softness in his tone didn’t match the fingers still clamped at your neck, digging in just enough to remind you how little control you had. His breath ghosted over your cheek, hot, wrong, intimate. Your entire body trembled. Terror clawed beneath your ribs. But rage found a crack to climb through. “Fuck you,” you rasped, voice fractured, raw from screaming.
The shift in him was instant. No warning. No hesitation. His fingers tightened and the world snapped downward again. Water swallowed your scream before it could form. Cold pressure crushed against your skull, driving you into the silence. Tile bit at your knees. Your pulse hammered in your ears. His grip at the back of your neck held steady, unrelenting, pushing harder, deeper, as if proving a point he felt no need to say aloud. He hauled you up by your hair, breaking the surface with a brutal jerk. Your lungs seized, expelling a torrent of bathwater in a racking cough that tore at your raw throat. The world was a blur of steam and terror. “Wanna listen now?” he snarled, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your wet skin. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t form a word past the burning in your windpipe. All you could manage was a frantic, jerking nod. Survival. It was the only signal your brain could fire.
A cruel smile slithered across his lips. “Good choice. See? You can be taught.” He released his grip, letting you slump to the floor. “Get up.” Your legs were jello, your muscles screaming in protest. You pushed yourself up, swaying, the world tilting on its axis. Every instinct told you to collapse, to play dead, but the fire in his eyes promised a worse hell if you did. “Let’s take this to the bedroom,” he commanded, his voice a low. You wobbled out of the bathroom, the damp hallway carpet rough under your bare feet. He was right behind you, so close you could feel the heat of his body. The bedroom door at the end of the hallway, a gateway to deeper horrors. But the front door was to the left. An inch past the bathroom threshold, a primal surge of defiance overrode the paralyzing fear. You spun, putting all your weight, all your shattered hope, into the motion. You shoved him, hard, directly in the chest.
He was heavier, stronger, but he was off-balance, his sneakers sliding on the wet tile you’d just tracked out. A grunt of surprise. A sickening, wet crack as the back of his head connected with the sharp porcelain edge of the tub. “YOU FUCKING BITCH!” The roar was guttural, filled with more pain than rage. It was the fuel you needed. You didn't look back. You ran. Your body, moments ago a leaden weight, was now pure adrenaline. The hallway seemed to stretch for miles. The front door. Your focus narrowed to that single brass deadbolt. You could hear him scrambling behind you, a cacophony of curses and slipping feet, his sneakers losing purchase on the slick floor. Your fingers work through the binds, numb and trembling, fumbling with the lock. Click. You ripped the door open, the cool night air hitting your face like a sudden blessing. You had no idea how long this had lasted but freedom was a mere step away.
You were halfway across the threshold when his hand fisted in your soaked hair. A scream ripped from your torn throat as he yanked you back with unimaginable force. Your feet left the ground for a terrifying second before he slammed you, face-first, into the wall beside the door. The impact exploded stars behind your eyes. The door slammed shut. The lock turned with a final, deafening noise. Silence, broken only by the ragged, animalistic sound of his breathing. He didn't move, his body a barricade against your only escape. You could feel the heat radiating off him, a furnace of fury. He slowly turned, his shadow engulfing you. His voice was a whisper of pure venom when he finally spoke. "Now," he breathed. "Why did you have to do that?" The glasses didn’t hide it. Nothing could. The evil was right there, a flat, cold light in his eyes that had nothing to do with the room’s dimness. It was a predator’s gaze, and it was fixed on you. He took a slow step forward. Then another. His hands were busy, methodical, peeling off the leather gloves. Finger by finger. “I’m getting fed up with this cat and mouse shit,” he stated, his voice a low thrum of contained fury. In one brutal motion, he yanked you to your feet. Your shoulder screamed in protest as he dragged you, stumbling, into the living room. The air changed, from the damp confinement of the bathroom to the staged normalcy of a space you once thought was safe.
“I was gonna be a gentleman when I fucked you,” he snarled, his face close to yours. His blonde hair was plastered to his forehead, dark and wet from the struggle at the tub, giving him the look of something dredged from the deep. “But you’re too fucking stupid to understand nice.” He shoved you forward, bending you over the hard edge of the coffee table. Your cheek pressed against the cold, polished wood. The same table. The same table where he’d so kindly set up his laptop to help you. The memory was a sickening lurch. Now, as your vision blurred and refocused, you saw it. The laptop was open, the screen a stark, bright rectangle in the dim room. And you were staring at yourself. A girl with wide, terror-stricken eyes, her face pale and smeared with tears and grime. A stranger. You couldn't place her. The person you used to be was already gone, erased by the man whose weight now pinned you to the table. All that was left was this animal fear, staring back from the screen.
You ducked your head, a futile attempt to escape the person on the screen. That hollow-eyed stranger wasn't you. Couldn't be you. Harua denied you even that small dignity. He moved behind you, a cage of muscle and intent. His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back. A sharp, bright pain shot through your scalp, forcing your gaze upward, forcing you to meet the terrified animal on the screen. Your own wide, pleading eyes stared back, a silent scream frozen in digital amber. You could feel him then, the hard, insistent pressure of him grinding against you. His mouth was against your hair, his breath hot and damp through the strands. "Look," he commanded, his voice a low rasp. "Look at what you made me do." You trembled, a violent, uncontrollable shiver that started deep in your bones. His free hand began a slow, possessive journey down the arch of your back, over the curve of your hip. A mockery of a caress.
"Don't worry," he murmured, the words a vile secret whispered into your skin. "This is just for me to look at later. A private collection." He leaned back, just enough to give his hands room to work. His fingers, cold and deliberate, traced the waistband of your shorts. Then his thumbs hooked into the fabric—shorts and underwear together. With one slow, inexorable pull, he began to drag them down, baring you to the cold air and his colder gaze. The air left your lungs in a sharp. The shorts, the underwear a puddle of discarded cotton at your knees, trapping your legs, making you helpless. His one hand stayed fisted in your hair, a brutal anchor point, tilting your head back at a painful angle. You could feel the other hand behind you, the frantic rustle of denim, the sharp clink of a belt buckle giving way. There was no time. No breath to prepare. When he pushed into you, it was a brutal invasion. A scream tore from your throat, raw and involuntary. Instantly, the hand in your hair disappeared, only to slam over your mouth, smothering the sound before it could form. The pressure ground your lips against your teeth, sharp and punishing, while your bound hands were crushed mercilessly into your stomach. The world narrowed to the searing stretch, the feeling of being filled beyond capacity.
“Damn, baby,” he groaned, his voice a ragged, hot whisper against the sweat-damp skin of your neck. “You’re so fucking tight. You’re making it hurt.” He didn’t wait for you to adjust. He started to move, a punishing, relentless rhythm that drove you forward with every thrust. The coffee table rattled violently, a percussive counter beat to the slap of skin on skin. “Look at you,” he snarled, his breath hitching. His other hand, the one not silencing you, gripped your hip like a vise, fingers digging into the bone, holding you in place for his use. “Taking it just like this. My good little cock sleeve.”
You could feel a strand of his perfectly styled hair, fallen loose, brushing against your temple. You caught a glimpse of his glasses on the laptop, slightly askew, fogged with the heat of his exertion. The contrast of his disheveled intellect and this raw, feral act sent a shocking jolt of heat straight to your core. “That’s it,” he panted, feeling the betraying clench of your body around his. “Fight me all you want. Your body knows who it belongs to.” The world had narrowed to the brutal rhythm of his body. You could feel he was close, a tightening in his hips, a guttural hitch in his breath. He pulled out, a cruel, teasing inch, only to slam back into you with a force that stole the air from your lungs. Your vision blurred at the edges, the room tilting and swimming. The hard, unyielding press of his chest kept you pinned to the table, the wood groaning a protest you could no longer voice.
A low, primal sound ripped from his throat. “And… God… I’m coming.” You felt the hot, pulsing release deep inside you. He stayed there, buried in you, for a few endless seconds, as if marking his territory, ensuring the claim took root. Then, he pulled out. A shudder wracked your body at the sudden emptiness, followed immediately by a hot, shameful trickle as he dripped out of you. The sensation was obscene, a leaking reminder of the violation. Before you could even process it, his hand was on you again. He grabbed your jaw, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and wrenched your head to the side. Your own soulless eyes stared back at you from the screen of the open laptop on the table. He had angled it perfectly. In the reflection, you saw a stranger hair matted, face pale and slack, eyes hollowed out. A used thing. His face moved into the frame, his blonde hair falling across his brow, partially obscuring the cool, intellectual gleam of his glasses. The contrast was chilling the disheveled and broken creature beneath him.
His voice was a whisper, intimate and horrifying. “See?” he breathed, his grip tightening, forcing you to look, to truly see. “See how beautiful you look when you’re completely fucked out?” Hope wasn't just dying in that moment. It was being methodically erased, replaced with the dreadful, absolute certainty that he was right. There was only this table, this dripping warmth between your thighs, and the hollow-eyed reflection of a girl who was already gone.
【 𝕊 】 In order to erase the differences between bloodlines, the Ministry of Magic came up with a solution: the Pureblood Integration and Unification Act, a law that forces high-ranking pureblood families to form 'alliances' with Muggle-borns. Park Sunghoon, the Head of Department of Magical Law Enforcement and heir to a long line of pureblood tradition, finds himself caught in the crossfire. His family's reptuation depends on his cooperation and silence.
Out of everyone, he requested to be paired with you. A Muggle-born Auror known for your courage, integrity and unyielding sense of justice. The same girl who used to chase him through Diagon Alley with chocolate frogs and laughter. The same friend who once promised, under the starlit sky, that if either of you ever had to marry someone, it would be each other.
What begins as a political arrangement soon unearthed old wounds and buried feelings. Between the weight of duty and the whispers of a corrupted Ministry, Sunghoon must decide whether to follow the law he swore to uphold—or the love he's never stopped believing in.
【 ℂ 】 hogwarts au, sunghoon x fem! reader, arranged marriage, corruption, cameos of other idols, childhood friends to lovers, eventual smut, hurt with comfort and more to be added. . .
⦗ 𝒌𝒊𝒌𝒊𝒅𝒐𝒖𝒍 ⦘ banner credit goes ot my lovely, amazing and truly talented moot aka @yeonmuse. please check out her works as well and show her your support! as this will have smut, please have your age visible on your blog. no age = not added.
In the long hallways of the Ministry of Magic's building, a tall man with pale skin walked down with long, purposeful strides. The dark navy blue robes of the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcements flowed behind him, like a shadow in motion. The silver embroidery at his cuffs shimmered faintly under the enchanted lanterns lining the wall, each step shows a picture of restrained power and precision. His wand hung by his hips, secured in a custom leather holder.
Both wizards and witches paused mid-conversation, their eyes following him with both respect and awe. He returned only curt nods, his expression unreadable as his gazed remained ahead. The corridor stretched endlessly, portraits of former Heads watching him with quiet fascination or curiosity.
The faint rustle of parchment and distant hum of magical typewriters filled the silence, setting the rhythm of official order. When he finally reached the grand oak doors leading to the management chamber, he paused to take a deep breath and slowly exhaled, shoulders slumping slightly.
"Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Park Sunghoon—reporting as summoned."
He waited for exactly five seconds, counting them down before the doors opened on its own. The management chamber was as imposing as ever—a vast, circular room lined with towering shelves of enchanted documents and portraits of former Ministers whose eyes followed his every movement. The air was thick with authority along with the faint scent of aged parchment and potion ink.
At the center stood a onyx table that was polished to a mirror sheen, surrounded by robed officials whose faces were lit by floating orbs of soft, golden lights. The Minister of Magic sat at the far end, hands clasped over a stack of parchment, his expression unreadable but grave. Beside him were senior members from various departments.
Among them, Sunghoon was able to spot a familiar face—Lee Heeseung, who is his classmate at Hogwarts and one of his closest friends. Heeseung is the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, the two often working together for most of the time.
Heeseung met Sunghoon's gaze for a fleeting moment, a hint of reassurance flickering in his eyes.
The Minister set her quill down, clearing her throat before speaking.
"Mr. Park," she began, her voice clipped yet cordial. "We appreciate your prompt arrival. There is an urgent matter that requires your attention and fullest cooperation."
Sunghoon inclined his head slightly. "Of course, Minister. May I ask what this is regarding?"
This time, Heeseung was the one to speak up as he slid a thick folder towards him. "The Pureblood and Unification Act. It's been passed through the preliminary council and will soon move to enforcement. The Ministry has decided to begin implementation—starting with our own ranks."
Sunghoon's hand paused, hovering mid-motion as he opened the folder. His eyes scanned the first document, the words reading 'Mandatory Alliance between Pureblood and Muggle-born Lineages' stared back at him, unblinking.
He looked up slowly. "You mean to tell me," he said evenly, "that high-ranking pureblood families are to form alliances through marriages, with Muggle-borns?"
The Minister nodded. "Yes, the intent is to both unify both social classes and dispel centuries of division. As the Head of the Magical Law Enforcement, your participation will set an example for the public."
Sunghoon said nothing. The way his jaw tightened didn't went unnoticed by everyone. It was with great hesitance that he had no choice but to obey, closing the folder with deliberate calmness.
"Understood, if that's the Ministry's decision, then I will act accordingly."
And just like that, the meeting ended with a curt nod from the Minister. Chairs scraped softly against the marbled floor as members begin gathering their documents. The Pureblood Integration and Unification Act had already stirred a quiet storm in his mind, but his expression remained perfectly composed. He headed towards the door, hand grabbing the handles and then, he stopped.
"Before I proceed with this directive, I have a condition," he said, his tone measured and low. He didn't have to turned to know the Ministry was not expecting this nor looking forward to it.
"A condition?"
"If the Ministry insists that I partake in this law, then I choose who I want to be paired with," he continued, already foreseeing the Ministry's reaction.
A few murmurs rose through the crowd—soft, incredulous whispers that rippled around the table. The Minister adjusted her glasses, furrowing her eyebrows and made no effort to hide her dissatisfaction and displeasure. "Mr. Park, this isn't how the selection process works. The pairings are to be assigned by—"
"—then I refuse to participate."
The interruption was calm but firm. The chamber went utterly silent and even the enchanted portraits seemed to pause. Everyone's eyes were on him now and then, did Sunghoon finally fully turned to face them, his expression still as unreadable as always.
The Minister's lips were pressed in a thin line. "You do realize that refusing a Ministry order could jeopardize your position, right?"
Sunghoon's eyes met hers. "Yes, I am aware. If this law is meant to symbolize equality, then my request should not be treated as defiance. In fact, what I'm asking for is a small matter, is it not?" He paused, taking a step towards the table and continued, "I will only accept this under one condition: my partner will be with (Name), the Muggle-born Auror currently stationed under Heeseung's department."
The said man blinked, a flicker of both amusement and surprise glimmered in his doe-like eyes before it was gone when he blinked. Several officials exchanged a bewildered glance, unable to believe what they were hearing. Some wondered if he had gone mad. One of them—a graying wizard from a department Sunghoon couldn't be bothered to remember, rose from his seat to protest.
"Ridiculous! You are a member of the Park family, one of the oldest pureblood linages! Associating you with a Muggle-born like her would be—"
"—exactly the point of your law, isn't it?" Sunghoon cut him off, voice as sharp as a well-polished blade. "You cannot preach about unification and then recoil when it becomes inconvenient. If the Ministry wish to prove this Act serves equality, you should listen to me and accept my condition."
The other hesitated, clearly on the fence. Before she could reply, Sunghoon continued, giving her one last, final push.
"And if the council intends to deny my condition, then consider my resignation effective immediately. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement will not stand behind hypocrisy.”
Everyone were rendered speechless by the sudden, bold claim made from him. His words hung in the air and no one dared to meet his gaze. After what felt like centuries, the Minister finally exhaled, conceding.
"Very well, your condition will be accepted. The alliance will be formed with Auror (Name)."
~
"Do you know what you've done? You let them die! Treating their lives like it's nothing!" You shouted, eyes tearing up and your voice trembled at the end.
It was pouring cats and dogs that night. Everyone had already gone home after work, leaving only the two of you left in the building. Back then, you were a new and low-ranked Auror and Sunghoon was assigned as your superior. At first, you were thrilled at the thought of working together with your childhood friend. However, after witnessing him choosing to let his fellow Aurors die while he chased after the target, made you have second thoughts.
Sunghoon stood a few feet away, the faint light from his wand illuminating the sharp lines of his face. His uniform was pristine, expression unreadable as always. Gone was the boy who used to sneak you chocolate frogs between lessons, who used to laugh when you tripped over spells. Standing before you was the man who had chosen his career over lives of the people he cared about. He remained silent, letting you screamed until your entire body was trembling with rage.
He didn't moved or blinked, merely standing as still as a statue with the only indications of him being alive is his shoulders rising up and down along with his eyes blinking.
"I did what had to be done. You wouldn't understand," he finally said, voice quiet but firm.
You barked out a bitter, humorless chuckle. "Of course I wouldn't understand. It's because you wouldn't fucking tell me anything!"
You closed the distance with five large strides until you were invading his personal space. You grabbed the front of his uniform, fisting the already perfect fabric in your trembling hands.
"You stood there like you're doing the right thing. News flash: you're not! You're hiding behind orders and paperwork because you're a coward! You let other people take the blame instead of standing up for them!"
He didn't flinched. Not even when your voice cracked. Not when your grip tightened until your knuckles turned white. His silence was infuriating—heavy and suffocating.
"Say something!" You screamed. "Say anything! Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you care. Tell me you're not some heartless bastard who'll do anything the Ministry tells him to do!" You paused, heaving to catch your breath before you continued in a slightly softer tone.
"Tell me that the boy I used to know is still there."
Your words bounced off him like spells against a shield charm. Sunghoon stood there, cold and unmoving, until the tension in the air became unbearable. Then he exhaled—sharp and ragged and his composure cracked.
"You think you know everything, don't you?" His voice rose suddenly, sharp enough to slice through the air. "You think just because we knew each other since young that you know everything about me, don't you? What? Do you want me to hand you a trophy or something?"
You froze, startled by the evident disdain dripping in his words and how he was mocking you.
"Unlike you, (Name), who always acted without thinking, someone had to make that call! Someone who's able to think with their heads and not with their hearts!"
Your hands loosened slightly. But what he said next struck you harder than any blow you had received in your entire life.
"Do you want to know the truth? The boy who you used to know? He's gone, forever. So stop thinking and living in the past. You're not at Hogwarts or a student anymore," he paused, eyes burning with something you couldn't name—anger, frustration and maybe pain.
"But my biggest regret is befriending someone you."
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who couldn’t believe you agreed to go on a date with him so he makes an extra amount of effort to make the date perfect. he’s stalking all of your social media accounts to find what kind of food you like, he’s overthinking his outfit, getting ready 2 hours in advance, etc.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who picks you up with a shy smile and roses in his passenger’s seat. he settles for a simple arcade date with dinner after because he kept overthinking it.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who makes you ugly laugh after he gets over his shyness. you discover that once he’s comfortable, jungwon can be a little too charming. if you struggle at a certain game machine, he’s coming up right behind you and putting his hands over yours to help you win.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who gets extremely flirty once he realizes your biting your lip and tightening your grip on your purse every time he stands too close. and now all of a sudden he’s standing to your side with no space between you, his hand on the small of your back.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who leans down and pulls you into his chest whenever you need to tell him something. is it completely unnecessary? yes. is it hot as fuck? yes.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who you never even got to have a dinner date with because you couldn’t help but straddle him as soon as you two got into his car.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who thought he’d be too shy to even kiss you tonight, has you spread open in his passenger’s seat with his head between your thighs.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who was acting like such a gentleman at the arcade, is now giving light smacks to your pussy and whispering about how badly he’s wanted to fuck you since the both of you first met.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who takes you back to his apartment to fuck you properly because according to him, you’re “too special” to have your first time together be in his car.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who despite saying that, can’t keep his hands off of you until you two finally end up in his room. you end up not even being able to kiss him because of how hard he’s smiling at the vision of you in his bed.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who gives the best aftercare😫 he’s cleaning you up, telling you how well you did, rubbing your sore muscles, etc. jungwon also begs you to stay for dinner, which also meant stay for a shower, which turned into staying the night.
GENTLEMAN!jungwon who becomes the sweetest boyfriend you could possibly ask for. however, he’s also the filthiest, horniest, and straight up disgusting man you’ve ever been in bed with.
𓊆 𝓢 𓊇 At Hogwarts, Nishimura Riki is everything a Slytherin could be—quiet, composed and effortlessly captivating. Nearly every girl in the castle seemed enchanted by him, whispering his name in corridors and giggling whenever he passes. You tell yourself you're not one of them. After all, you're a Ravenclaw—far too sensible, too shy and far tooa ware of how impossible someone like him feels towards someone like you.
But fate had a strange sense of humor. And when you were paired together for a project, there's no more running from him. Between long study sessions and quiet exchanges beneath candlelights, you begin to see the truth concealed behind his silence. You were never brave enough to chase after what your heart desired. But maybe, just maybe, he had been reaching for you all along.
【 ℂ 】 hogwarts au, ravenclaw fem! reader x slytherin! riki, classmates to lovers, popular! riki x shy! fem! reader, self-esteem issues, tooth-rotting fluff, angst with comfort, slight mature content, happy ending wc: 10.5k . . .
⦗ 𝒌𝒊𝒌𝒊𝒅𝒐𝒖𝒍 ⦘ this trope is one of my guilty pleasures so this fic is very, very, self-indulgent for me i fear. hope you enjoy reading this cute hogwarts riki fic.
It was another regular day at Hogwarts. The corridors are filled with students dressed in their respective robes. Some mingled among their friend groups, chattering and laughing at an inside jokes. Some were rushing to their next class, having to shove their way through the crowd. But if there was one thing in common, it's about how a certain Slytherin student who managed to gather everyone's attention. He's tall and the way the green robes clung onto his frame only further accentuate his features—something that the guys are secretly jealous of.
"There he is!"
"Merlin, he's even taller up close."
"Did you see his eyes? I swear he looked at me—"
"In your dreams, maybe. He doesn't even look at anyone."
Nishimura Riki, a Slytherin student and one of the famous students too—for both his impressive academics and dashing good looks. His expression remained unreadable, calm in that infuriatingly cool Slytherin way that only made him more alluring than he already is. The faint echo of his footsteps lingered even after he made a turn on his right, leaving nothing but lovesick sighs and fluttering hearts behind.
Among the large group of students whose hearts he had captured, you too, were one of them. But unlike those girls who had the courage to confess to him, you chose to remain in the shadows. To you, the lesser attention, the better. You don't do well in being the center of attention. Besides, you have seen your fair share of girls getting rejected from Riki, who refused to accept their handwritten letters or the gifts they carelessly splurge their money on.
As a Ravenclaw student, you chose to throw yourself into your studies, wanting to make your parents proud. Being a Muggle-born comes with many disadvantages. One of those disadvantages includes you being constantly looked down on by your pureblood classmates. You weren't sure why they kept focusing on you, not when you had done nothing to them and pointedly stayed out of their way too. Thankfully, you weren't alone as you had managed to make some friends—Iroha and Minju.
Despite the two girls coming from pureblood families, their personalities were pure, kind-hearted and friendly. You met them via your shared classes and in a blink of an eye, the three of you are practically glued to the hips. Up to today, you had doubts on why they would choose to befriend you, out of everyone else.
Right now, you had arrived at your Transfiguration class—a class where you are taking alone. You always sat at the second last row located near the backdoor so you can leave once class was dismissed. Things were supposed to be normal. Normal for a normal girl like you, who has a normal dream and wants to live a normal life. However, your normal, peaceful life was interrupted in the form of someone sitting beside you. You looked up, pausing mid-reading and your entire body went as still as a statue to see it was none other than your crush—Nishimura Riki.
He didn't spared you a single glance—something you weren't sure to feel offended or grateful. You stared at him in disbelief, eyes widening with your lips slightly parted. Now that he's beside you, you were granted the privilege of admiring him.
Up close, he was even more breathtaking than you had imagined. The late afternoon sunlight filtering through the windows was caught in his pitch-black hair, turning the dark strands into threads of soft gold. The small, silver ring earrings hanging on his earlobes swayed with every head movement. His expression was calm, focused—carrying the same quiet confidence he always wore on the Quidditch pitch. Only difference is that it felt more gentle and more human here.
You watched as he ran a hand through his hair before pulling out the textbook from his bag, his movements smooth and deliberate. The faint scent of parchment and mint drifted in the air. It must have been his cologne, subtle but impossible to ignore. Your heart thudded in your chest, the sound loud enough you were sure he will be able to hear it. You quickly dropped your gaze back to your book, pretending to read despite how the words had already turned blurred.
Why is he sitting here? There's other empty seats to choose from…
You stole one more glance, only to find him already resting his left cheek on the palm of his left hand. Your eyes trailed down, noting how he was absentmindedly spinning his Quill pen with his long, slender right fingers. Your eyes moved upwards and to your utter horror, you made direct eye contact with Riki.
Riki, who had been silently observing you. The way you examined him, like he was some kind of display framed up. He remained silent, lips pressed in a line as he continued to spin his pen about. The two of you maintained eye contact—your face gradually turning as red as a tomato while he, on the other hand, finally moved by arching an eyebrow.
And that was enough for you to face the front again, just in time for Professor McGonagall to enter the classroom.
"Good morning, everyone. Before we begin today's class, I have something important to discuss with you," she started off, stepping forward with her hands resting in front of her. The class went silent as the students gave her their fullest attention, not wanting to miss a single word.
"As you all know, your finals are approaching. And I trust you've all been keeping up with your studies or attempting to," she continued, her sharp gaze sweeping across the room. Her words elicited a round of nervous chuckles as the students looked everywhere else but at her.
"For your next assignment, you will be working in pairs on a practical Transfiguration project. Each pair will select an object and demonstrate its full transformation—not just the physical change, but the precision, control and stability of the spell."
Quills scratched against parchment as students begin jotting down notes, you included.
"You will also be required to submit a written report explaining your process, challenges you've faced and the reason behind your choice," she paused, letting her words sink in before continuing, "I expect quality work. This will account for thirty percent of your term grade."
A collection groan rippled through the classroom.
"And before any of you ask," she added crisply, "I will be assigning the pairs myself. I find it… enlightening to see how well students adapt when placed outside their comfort zones."
The murmurs started again. This time, it's a mixture of both curiosity and dread. Professor McGonagall raised a hand, instantly silencing them.
"I will announce the pairings at the end of class. Until then, I suggest you pay close attention to today's lesson. I'm sure you may need it."
Her wand flicked toward the blackboard behind her, and elegant golden letters appeared across it: Lesson: Advanced Inanimate-To-Animate Transfiguration. Your stomach curled into itself as you dipped your quill into ink. A paired project meant partnership. Partnership meant having to work with someone. And knowing your luck, it probably wouldn't be with anyone who you were comfortable with. But then again, you weren't comfortable with almost everyone here in this class, except for your friends.
~
The final notes of Professor McGonagall's lecture faded as she set her wand down and clasped her hands together. "Now, let's proceed with the partner assignments."
The room shifted with anticipation—chairs creaked, students exchanged anxious whispers and one even muttered a prayer under their breath. The professor began reading from her parchment, her voice clear and steady. The names she read out flew in and out of your ears. Despite how you had shared other classes with them, you were never able to match their names to their respective faces. You fiddled with your fingers or the hem of your robes until you heard your name mentioned, causing you to straighten yourself.
"…and lastly, (Name) and Nishimura."
Your head snapped up, eyes widening as a wave of murmurs ripped through the classroom. Your eyes did a quick scan to see most of the girls were glaring at you, seething with rage and jealousy. You swore you saw some sending you sympathetic looks as well. Beside you, your seatmate who is also your assigned partner for the project, was minding his own business.
"Pairings are final," Professor McGonagall declared firmly, cutting through the whispers, "You may begin planning your projects outside of class. I expect to see the drafted proposal by next week. Class dismissed."
As students began packing their things, you sank back in your seat, blankly staring at your notes. Out of everyone in the class, it had to be him.
You were now at the dining hall as it was lunchtime and to your relief, your friends will be joining you for the next few classes. You weren't paying attention to what Iroha and Minju were saying, choosing to play with your food. At first, your friends assumed you were being your quiet, introvert self but when they heard you sighed again, they knew that wasn't the case. Iroha pointedly cleared her throat, gaining your attention as you looked up.
"Alright, you have been sighing for the past ten minutes, playing with your food and acting like you've gone through a break-up. What's wrong?" Iroha asked, furrowing her eyebrows in concern.
Your hand paused mid-motion. "During my Transfiguration class, Professor McGonagall had given us a project to do, which makes up most of our term grade."
The two shared a quick glance, already knowing where this was going. This time, Minju was the one who spoke up. "And who's your partner?"
"…Nishimura Riki."
Hearing his name, Iroha choked on her food, repeatedly whacking her own chest as she wheezed her lungs out. Minju, on the other hand, slapped a hand over her mouth and stared at you, like you had spoken in a different language.
"Really!? Well, isn't that great for you? You can finally spend some quality time with your crush!" Minju exclaimed.
Your face flushed red as you hurried to shush her, not wanting her to let the nearby students hear. "Minju, please! You know that I have no chance."
Iroha sighed, having calmed down after her mini choking episode. "(Name), you need to be more positive. There's nothing wrong about you. You're a great person. Anyone with eyes can see that and if they can't, then they must be stupid. So cheer up, (Name)! Who knows, maybe this project will make him fall for you instead," she paused to let out a dreamy sigh, "wouldn't that be romantic? The thought of Riki treating you like his girlfriend sounds like a dream come true."
Minju delivered a light, fleeting whack to her shoulders, drawing a pained yelp from Iroha. "Stop, you're gonna make her uncomfortable."
You let out a chuckle, amused with your friends' antics and finally dug into your food, now having the appetite and feeling the weight of your shoulders loosening. You were almost done with your food when a pair of calm, firm footsteps was approaching you. Some of the nearby students were turning to your direction, watching as a certain figure stood by your table. The way your friends went silent, smiles dropping made you raised your head, only to see Riki staring down at you with him hovering over you.
You opened and closed your mouth, unable to utter a single word. You were acting like a complete idiot, with how you were already flustered despite how he hadn't said anything. And the fact that nearly everyone in the dining hall had their eyes set on you weren't helping either.
"Do you want to meet in the library after class?" He asked, jumping straight to the point, not bothering to greet or address you by your name.
A series of whispers echoed among the hall.
"What? Why are they meeting there? Do you think…?"
"Get your head out of the gutter, you freak."
"F-For what?" You stuttered, ears turning red at how your voice sounded like a squeak. The way Riki's lips threatened to tug upward went unnoticed by you, as you were too busy staring at him.
"For our project, remember? Professor McGonagall mentioned she's expecting us to submit our proposal by next week. I'll be busy with Quidditch practice for the next few days so I thought it'll be great for us to get started on it today," he replied, cocking his head to the side.
"Oh.. yea sure, I'll meet you at the library," you mumbled, voice soft but somehow, Riki was able to hear it. He hummed, turned and walked away, returning to where his group of friends were, who had been watching the entire thing from the sidelines. Minju and Iroha turned to you, giggling at how your face was already red and how you were on the verge of exploding.
"Well done, (Name). You've survived your first conversation with your crush. How do you feel?" Minju asked, holding an invisible mic as she pointed it towards you.
You groaned, knocking your head against the table. "I think I'll rather get annoyed by Peeves than to do this project…"
While you were busy drowning in your misery as your friends attempted to cheer you up, you were oblivious to the secretive, quick glances Riki threw your way. Half of him was listening to what Jungwon was ranting—something along the lines of how he had to sit for detention later. The other half, however, was looking at you. From where he sat, cheek resting against the palm of his left hand, he was able to see you giggling at a joke your friends had said. He's not the type to care about people outside of his friend group. To him, the lesser people he cared about, the more peaceful and drama-free his life would be.
"..llo? Riki, you still there?"
The Slytherin snapped out of his trance when Jungwon waved his hand in front of his face. Riki scowled, slapping Sunoo's hand away when he tried to steal some of his food.
"What?" Riki sighed, "I swear, if you're still ranting about how you're getting detention, I'm leaving."
"Hey, that's not nice of you! You're supposed to be on my side," the older Hufflepuff protested, flashing Riki his signature cute, boba-like eyes with his dimples peeking out from his cheeks.
Riki rolled his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder who's the real Slytherin here."
"Never mind that, more importantly, what was that move you pulled earlier? This is the first time I've seen you talked to people other than us," Jungwon paused, letting out a dramatic gasp as he leaned forward, resting one hand on the younger's shoulder, "don't tell me you li—ow!"
The poor boy didn't get to finish his sentence as Riki had elbowed him right in his stomach, causing him to let out a choked wheeze, releasing his grip on Riki while clutching his stomach for dear life.
"You brat, show some respect to your elders!" Jungwon scolded while Sunoo was having the time of his life laughing until he started tearing up.
"Please, you don't even act like my senior with the way you're behaving," the Slytherin retorted and the way Jungwon's mouth fell opened made Sunoo wheezed until he was already crying.
"Nishimura Riki, you're so fucking dead!"
"You can't even reach me with your tiny hands."
~
The rest of the day passed with you half-focused in your classes and half-dreaming about meeting Riki later. A part of you was excited and if you were in your room, you would be rolling about on the bed and kicking youe feet. Another part of you however, was dreading it. One would have thought you were about to get sent off to fight some goblins or even worse, war. When your final class of the day finally ended, you were practically vibrating with nothing but sheer nervousness. You clutched onto your textbooks for dear life, like they are your second lifeline.
You felt your lifespan shortening with every step you took towards the library. When you arrived, there were students scattered about. Some were reading while basking in the silence of the surroundings. Some were slaving away at the tables, quills moving at breakneck speed as they jot down notes for their upcoming exams. Your eyes did a quick sweep, easily locating Riki who was seated at the back—somewhere secluded and far from any curious, prying eyes.
The boy was reading what seemed to be a guidebook, his eyes moving from left to right as he takes in the multiple lines of sentences imprinted on the two pages before him. You didn't dared to call out to him, not wanting to get shushed by the librarian and to disrupt his focus, which was why you chose to approach him instead, fingers digging into your textbooks to ground yourself.
As you drew closer, it became clear that he was deeply immersed in the guidebook. His posture was relaxed yet focused, his chin propped up by one hand while the other turned to the next page. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed in concentration, and the faint crease between only made him looked even more effortlessly handsome—the kind of unintentional perfection that made your chest tightened a little.
And then, he looked up.
Your breath hitched, grip loosening slightly on your textbooks.
Resting on the bridge of his nose was a pair of black-framed glasses. It was simple, understated and yet, it was absolutely devastating. You were sure if your friends were here, they will be having the time of their lives laughing to their heart's content at how you malfunctioned right there and then. Riki blinked once, eyes meeting yours and you swore even time itself came to a stop.
You must have looked ridiculous, standing there frozen with your textbooks clutched to your chest, like a pathetic excuse of a shield.
"…You're early," he said quietly, voice low and even, like your sudden appearance doesn't faze him at all.
"Y-Yeah, um—hi," you stammered, your voice a little too high-pitched for your liking. You forced what you hoped was a normal smile as you made your way to the empty seat opposite him.
Your textbooks nearly slipped from your grasp as you set them down, the sound echoing louder than it should have in the quiet library. Great. Exactly the kind of entrance you didn't want to make. Riki didn't seemed to mind, though. He simply pushed his glasses up with one finger—a simple action that shouldn't be attractive. But it is, when it comes from Riki. He turned the guidebook towards you once you have sat down.
"I found something," he started, as if your flustered and awkward mess of an introduction didn't happened, "an intermediate-level spell that might work for our project."
You blinked, leaning forward a little, unable to help yourself. "Oh, really? What kind of spell?"
"A Conjuration-to-Transformation hybrid," he explained, eyes flicking to yours briefly before returning to the page. "It allows us to transfigure an inanimate object into a living creature and the back again, but with its characteristics temporarily transferred into the original object. It's complicated, but if we can pull it off, Professor McGonagall will be impressed."
You tried to focus on his words but your brain refused to cooperate. The way his voice softened whenever he explained something, the faint crease between his eyebrows as he read and the subtle movement of his fingers as they traced a line of text—all of it was unfairly distracting. For a brief moment, you wondered whether he knew what he was doing or was he simply oblivious.
"That… sounds really advanced," you managed to say when his eyes landed on you expectantly, waiting for your input.
"You're a Ravenclaw. You'll manage," he said simply, like it was a statement of fact or a quiet voice of confidence.
You weren't sure what it was but those few, simple words and the tone he used was enough to ease both your mind and soul, leaving you to wonder if he had casted a spell on you without you knowing. But, it's not like you needed a spell to listen to him.
The two of you begin discussing about the details of your project—you diligently taking down notes while Riki flipped through the guidebook. his focus unwavering. He explained each step of the spell's process with quiet precision, his voice smooth and steady as his fingers trailed along the lines of text.
"So," he began, briefly glancing at your notes, "we'll need to start by choosing an object with a simple form—something stable enough to hold a transformation. I was thinking we can start with either a quill or a teacup."
You nodded quickly, scribbling down his words in point-form. "Right, something easy to reverse too. In case we, uh, accidentally blow it up or something."
Your response earned the faintest curve of his lips. It wasn't exactly a smile but it was close enough to make your stomach flutter. "Let's try to avoid that," he murmured, "after that, we need to prepare the incantation sequence. It's layered—three parts in total. The first to conjure the living essence, the second to merge it and the third to revert it."
You wrote down every word, trying to keep up though your dominant hand trembled slightly. You weren't nervous about the assignment. No, it was being this close to him, hearing that low voice breaking the usual silence between you. To your utter surprise and horror, you saw him pulling his chair closer to you. Not close enough for your elbows to touch but close enough for your heart to skip a beat. After what felt like forever when only two hours had passed, Riki closed the guidebook with a soft 'thud' that echoed throughout the library.
"We'll stop here for today. I'll let you know when our next session will be," he said, already rising to his feet while shoving his things into his bag.
You remained seated, quill still held in your hand while watching him. "Alright, I'll start practicing the spell to get a feel of it."
Hearing this, Riki paused and looked at you. You had to force yourself to not flinch at how intense his gaze was. It was times like these where you get reminded of how he strikingly looks similar to a puma, especially with how he narrowed his eyes.
"It'll be best if you practice it when I'm around, as a safety precaution," he pointed out.
It wasn't for you to take his words into heart but with the way he phrased himself, your left eyebrow twitched and the words rolled off your tongue before you could stopped yourself. "Are you looking down at me?"
Merlin's beard, did I really just said that out loud?
You froze, quill hovering in midair as you replayed the tone of your own voice—sharper than you meant, laced with something that sounded almost like attitude. You could feel your soul leaving your body with how Riki's eyes remained on your face. He didn't moved an inch and you were starting to panic.
"I—I didn't mean it like that," you stammered, "I just—I meant—"
Instead of looking offended or calling you out, he merely smirked, eyes twinkling with quiet amusement and something else that was impressed.
"Looking down on you?" He repeated your words, "not exactly. But I have to admit, this is the first time I've heard you talk back."
You blinked, caught off-guard. "W-What?"
His smirk deepened a little. "You're usually so quiet. It's… unexpected. Impressive, even. I didn't know you have it in you."
Your whole body felt warm at his words—his praise. Your earlier embarrassment was now replaced with confusion and a flutter of pride you didn't want to acknowledge. You dug your nails into the flesh of your palms to ground yourself.
"No, you got the wrong idea. I wasn't—" You started weakly but Riki had already finished packing, slinging his bag over his left shoulder. His shoulders shook slightly—the smallest sign of a laugh he was tyring to hold back.
"Relax, I don't mind. I like this side of you, see you around, partner," he bid you farewell and left without waiting for your response, leaving you seated by the table.
Your quill slipped from your fingers, landing with a soft 'clink' on the table. And just like that, Nishimura Riki had stolen your heart for the unknown time. You weren't sure how you're supposed to face him if this was how the rest of your sessions together will be.
~
The next time you interacted with him was in the corridors, when you were returning to your room after a long day of class. You had spent too much time studying in the library, only to get chased out when it was time for the librarian to close. It was getting late and there were only ten minutes left before curfew and if you're not back in room before curfew, the chances of you getting caught by prefects doing patrolling duty increases. Just the thought of someone catching you was enough to make you nervous. Hence, you quicken your pace as you brisk-walked down the empty, quiet corridors. However, the more you walked, the longer the corridors seemed to get.
Didn't I already passed that suit of armor?
Your grip on your books tightened, left hand moving to the pocket of your robe—ready to pull out your wand if there was any intruder lurking in the shadows. The corridor stretched endlessly before you, twisting in ways that it had never done before. You were able to visualize Professor McGongall's voice, scolding you for wandering the halls after hours.
"Great, the castle's playing tricks again," you muttered under your breath, annoyance mixing with fear.
And then you heard it—the faint echo of two voices coming from the next corner.
Prefects and out of all times…
You cursed, eyes widening as you scanned left and right, up and down to search for a place to hide. But there was nowhere—just a long corridor with no doorways and no chance to escape. The light of a Lumos charm flickered just around the bend. You were about to lose all hope when a firm hand grabbed your wrist and yanked you sideways. You barely had time to gasp before something soft and weightless fell over the both of you, the world around you blurring and disappearing.
You blinked, frozen in place, breath caught in your throat. You could still see the corridor but your body, your presence, had vanished. All of your senses were directed to the feeling of a pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist along with a firm chest pressed against your back. You didn't dared to turn around, not having the courage to look at him.
"Shhh," he whispered beside you, low enough to send shivers down your spine and close enough for you to feel his hot breath grazing against your skin, "don't move or make a sound."
You turned your head slightly until you could see him. It takes all of you to not jerk your head back at how close he was. So close that you could see his eyelashes and his signature, firm and unwavering gaze. His grip on your waist tightened when you squirmed about and he narrowed his eyes in a silent warning, pressing a finger to his lips. You turned, flinching at the sight of the prefects who had just turned the corner. You swore you forgot how to breathe as they walked past, oblivious to the very fact that there are two students still wandering around after hours.
Only when their footsteps had completely disappeared did Riki pulled back, releasing his grip on your waist. You chose to ignore how your heart was yearning for him to come back. This time, you fully turned to face him, eyebrows furrowed and lips pressed in a thin line. "What are you doing here?"
Riki shrugged his shoulders as he removed the invisible cloak. "I was heading back to my room after practice and heard your footsteps. Thought I could do you a favor by saving you."
You stared at him, your words tangled somewhere between embarrassment and gratitude, like you didn't know if you should thank him or not. "…Thank you," you ended up saying after staring at him, like the complete whipped idiot you are.
The boy met your gaze, and for a split second, his usual cold demeanor softened. "Don't mention it. Next time, try not to get lost. I'm not always around to save you."
Your heart did a somersault at that, though you couldn't tell whether was it from his words or the way he was standing quite close to you, to the point you could feel the warmth emitted from his body. Whatever it was, you didn't sleep well that night, mind plagued with Riki.
~
"…all for today. Class is dismissed and I expect all of you to be preparing for your finals," Professor Snape announced, dismissing the class. Students begin leaving as they whispered and chatted among themselves.
You had finished packing, ready to return to your room as you didn't have anymore classes for the rest of the day when a familiar, heart-fluttering voice called out to you. You stopped in the rather crowded corridor, turning around to see Riki approaching you. As always, his figure drew attention from the students around him and yet, he ignored them as his eyes was fixated on you and only you. Knowing that you have his attention does something to your heart and mind but you steeled yourself, watching as he stopped before you.
"Hey, done with your classes already?" He asked, greeting you like you were longtime friends when in actual fact, you're nothing more than two students who got paired together for a project.
You meekly nodded, unable to find it in yourself to use your voice. Riki chuckled, hands shoved into the pockets of his robes as he rocked back and forth on his heels. "Great, I was wondering if you'd like to watch me practice for Quidditch today."
Your eyes widened momentarily as you stared at him, like he had grew another head. "W-What?" You stuttered but he didn't point it out.
He arched an eyebrow, tilting his head to the side. "You're interesting and I want to get to know you, which is why I'm inviting you to practice."
You tightened your grip on the strap of your bag, fully aware of how everyone's eyes were on the two of you now. This was your biggest nightmare. The feeling of them watching you, observing from the sidelines while waiting for your next move. Your eyes darted left and right and you see it—the way some students turned to whisper to their friends, hands shielding their mouths as they whispered something about you. You didn't know what it was but you knew it will be something bad.
Something about your quiet, introvert personality. Something about your looks. Something about you spending most of your time in studies and nothing else. Whatever it was, the seeds of insecurity you had locked up and discarded aside was starting to creep back in. Your prolonged silence made the Slytherin student frowned. He took a small step forward, concerned with your behavior but with the way you stepped back, it made him halt in his tracks.
Riki knew you weren't feeling your best but he wasn't sure why. Which was why he could only stood there, watching with a bemused and worried expression as you turned and fled down the corridor like your life depended on it.
Thankfully, Iroha and Minju weren't around, giving you the much-needed privacy to sob to your hearts' content. Your books were carelessly tossed aside as you sat on the edge of the bed, knees brought up to your chest and rested your head on your arms. You hated how those insecurities came haunting back, clawing at the corners of your mind no matter how hard you tried to ignore them. It was exhausting—constantly pretending to be fine, constantly convincing yourself that you were good enough.
Tears rolled down your cheeks before you even realized it, falling onto the sleeves of your robe. You pressed your face deeper into your arms, hoping the room's silence could swallow the muffled sound of your sobs. But the more you tried to suppress them, the harder it was to breathe.
You hated it—the way your thoughts always spiraled back to the same place. How you compared yourself to everyone else in your class, to the people who seemed effortlessly confident, effortlessly seen. How they looked better than you. How they were able to excel in their studies without sweating buckets or pulling countless all-nighters. But most importantly, how you told yourself not to care and yet, you still cared too much.
And maybe, just maybe, it became worse because of him.
Because no matter how hard you tried to focus on your studies, your mind would always drift back to Nishimura Riki—perfect, composed Riki, who never seemed to falter or doubt himself. He was everything you weren't and that simple truth stung more than you wanted to admit. You didn't understood why he was looking for you earlier. Why he wanted you, out of all people, to be there watching his practice.
For a moment, there was a small twinge of hope. That maybe he was telling the truth. That his words were a continuation of how you had retorted back in the library. But the voices lingering in the back of your mind said otherwise.
"Did you really think he'll pay attention to someone like you? You can't be this dumb."
"Get a grip, he doesn't want you. And he never will."
"You're not worth his time or attention. The only reason why he even put up with you in the first place is because of the project. Once it's over, he won't find you anymore."
"Get a grip," you muttered weakly to yourself, wiping your tears with the back of your sleeve. But even as you said it, your voice cracked—and another sob escaped before you could stopped it.
You wished you could silence the doubts, wished you could be stronger, braver. But for now, all you could do was to sit there—small, tear-stained and painfully human—as the weight of your own insecurities pressed down on you, like a curse you couldn't break.
~
During your next project discussion with Riki, you grew more quieter—something that most people will think you were just being your usual self. But, Riki wasn't like most people. He knew something was wrong when you didn't say much, other than greeting him upon your arrival at the open-aired courtyard, answering his questions but limiting your responses to as short as possible while you practice the spell. An hour had passed since you begin practicing and for the past said hour, you didn't glanced or speak to him, unless it was absolutely necessary.
Your sudden change of behavior made him both curious and worried but there was a problem. Riki doesn't know if he had the right to confront you about it, face-to-face. He knew you have a crush on him, judging from the way you act around him and sometimes, he managed to catch you sneaking shy, fleeting glances at him when you think he wasn't watching. But right now, as he sat on the bench with his legs stretched out, one arm draped lazily over the backrest while the other rested on his knee.
From where he sat, he had the perfect view of you standing a few meters away, completely absorbed in your practice. The late afternoon sun filtered through the leaves above, scattering golden patches of light across the courtyard and you.
You were focused, lips moving silently as you muttered the incantation under your breath. Your eyebrows furrowed each time the spell flickered out too soon but you never gave up. There was a quiet determination in the way you moved, in the way your fingers traced through the air, confident but subtle.
Riki's gaze lingered longer than he meant to. There was something oddly captivating about you. You didn't have the kind of beauty that demanded attention. But the kind that crept up on him when he least expected it. It wasn't the sharp, dazzling kind that blinded people. This was softer, quieter and the kind that drew you in before you realized you were already looking.
Your hair swayed slightly as the breeze passed. And for a moment, you smiled—small, fleeting but real, when the spell finally worked. The faint shimmer of magic reflected in your eyes made his chest tighten in a way he couldn't quite explained or understand. He exhaled slowly, dragging his gaze away before he was caught red-handed. Maybe he shouldn't have been staring at you like that. Maybe he didn't have the right to. But even when he looked away, the image of you—the sunlight kissing your skin and the quiet pride in your eyes had already been imprinted in his mind.
"Ow!"
Your sudden pained outburst snapped the Slytherin student out of his trance. The moment he saw you cradling your wrist, your wand dropped to the floor with a pained expression on your face, Riki was immediately by your side.
"(Name)!" He looked down at your wrist and was greeted with the sight of a thin, red and ferocious burn already forming across your skin.
"You idiot, were you even paying attention to what you were doing?" He muttered, his voice trembling slightly despite the faint bite in his words.
You were stunned by his immediate reaction, not expecting him to be right beside you in a blink of an eye. Your eyes flicked down to the way he held your wrist, treating you with such gentleness and care that it made your heart ached.
"I—I'm fine, it's just a small scratch—" You protested, attempting to free yourself but his grip on you merely tightened.
Riki flashed you a mild incredulous look, as if you had said something ridiculous. "It's not just a small scratch! The wound could get infected and something serious might happen to you," he clicked his tongue and the next thing you knew, you were being dragged by him.
You tripped over your own feet, not expecting him to do that out of nowhere. Once again, you attempted to free yourself but it was futile. His strength easily overwhelmed yours but that doesn't mean you will give up and obediently follow him. Your current predicament gained double-takes and whispers as the two of you walked past students who were minding their own business. That was enough for your ears to turn red, ducking your head while shielding your flushed face with your free hand.
As always, Riki ignored them as he marched his way to the Hospital Wing. However, Madam Pomfrey was not around and there were only the two of you. The boy muttered something that suspiciously sounded like a string of curses under his breath as he dragged you to one of the nearest beds, forcing you to sit on the edge.
"Wait here," he instructed and you could only nod your head, cradling your wrist near to your chest like you were holding a newborn baby.
He disappeared into the small storage corner, rummaging through the shelves until he returned with a small jar of salve and a roll of bandages. Setting them on the bedside table, he sat on your left, your knees knocking into one another.
"Give me your hand," he said softly.
The burn throbbed with each heartbeat and you didn't want him to see how bad it looked—but the look in his eyes told you that you shouldn't disobey him. You surrendered and extended your hand toward him. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he examined your wrist, fingers brushing lightly over the reddened skin. You flinched at the contact, a sharp hiss slipping past your lips.
"Sorry," he apologized, tone quiet and careful. He unscrewed the jar and dipped his fingers into the cooling salve before applying it onto the burn with smooth, precise movements. The faint chill of the ointment soothed the sting and you could finally breathe again.
You risked a glance at him—his usual composed face softened by concentration, his eyebrows knitted slightly as if your pain somehow annoyed him. Not in a cold way but it felt like he hated the fact that you had gotten hurt in the first place. You hated how your first instinct was to pray that he felt that way.
"Honestly," he muttered, breaking the silence, "you need to be more focus when you're casting your spells. I noticed that you weren't in your right mind. A knut for your thoughts?"
You chewed on your bottom lip, looking everywhere else but him. "..I'm fine, you don't have to worry about someone like me."
Whoops. You didn't meant to phrase it in such a pitiful way. The words had slipped from your lips naturally, like you had said it before. Riki's movements went still, frozen mid-air. You dared to look at him and was taken aback with the mixture of emotions in his eyes—concern, disbelief and something else. Something that was far more deeper and you couldn't quite explained what it was.
"What do you mean by 'someone like you'?" He asked as he screwed the lid back onto the jar and begin unrolling the roll of bandages he had grabbed earlier.
Your body went as still as a statue, the words dying in your throat. You didn't know how to reply to him, not when he was looking at you with burning pain in his eyes. To you, the now faint but lingering pain from your wound was nothing as compared to what you were looking at. Invisible bells rang off in your mind, your shoulders and muscles now tensed. The moment Riki was done, you shot up from your seat.
"(Name)—" He called out but you were quick to flee, unable to tolerate being in the same space as him for another second. You didn't want him to see you cry or pity you. You didn't want to burden him with your never-ending insecurities that had been gnawing at you for a long, long time.
~
The very next day at one of the empty classrooms, you had finally mastered casting the spell and moved on to the next step—using it on an inanimate object. The object you had selected was none other than your own quill. You weren't sure how much time had passed. It could be minutes or hours. What you were sure however, was that you didn't want to see Riki. At least, not after what happened yesterday. The bandages on your wrist covering the wound acts as a reminder of your moment of weakness, how you had accidentally blurted out the long-hidden truth.
You could still see the pained expression in your mind, even when your eyes were closed. You made a soft cheering noise when you were successful, watching as the quill transformed into a bird. Even though the effects doesn't last long, it was still progress.
Cough, cough.
You turned to see a group of girls standing by the doorway of the classroom, blocking off your only exit. You immediately knew what this was about as you had seen them before. You didn't know their names but you knew they were always hanging out with Riki, standing too close to him, laughing at his jokes and the list goes on. The girl at the front—you assumed it must be the so-called leader stepped forward, a nasty smirk on her lips, her arms folded as she gave you a once-over that caused goosebumps to form.
"Well, if it isn't her," she drawled, voice dripping with sweet, faux venom. "We were wondering when we'd finally be able to meet you properly."
You stiffened, clutching onto your wand. "What… What do you want?"
The girl's smirk widened, her friends giggling behind her like a well-rehearsed chorus. She took a step closer, her eyes sharp and cruel. "It's simple, really. We just wanted to give you a little reminder of your place. You should stay away from Riki."
Before you could even open your mouth, she continued, her tone turning sharper than a blade. "You do realize how ridiculous it looks, right? A Muggle-born Ravenclaw trying to get close to him? You don't belong anywhere near Nishimura Riki."
Her friends snickered at that, one of them whispering something you couldn't hear—probably another jab at your background.
You swallowed hard, your throat tightening as the leader stepped even closer, her voice lowering to a venomous whisper. "You're lucky Professor McGongall paired the two of you for the project. That's the only reason he talks to you. Once it's over, he won't even remember your name."
You wanted to say something—anything to defend yourself, to tell her she was wrong. But the words wouldn't come. Every sharp syllable she spat at you sank deeper, twisting around thoughts you already had late at night, when the insecurities wouldn't just leave you alone. Maybe she was right. Maybe Riki only cared because he had to. Maybe all those little moments—his kindness, his small smiles and the way he said your name—were nothing more than polite gestures.
You looked down, your wand trembling in your grip. "…I know," you whispered weakly, your voice breaking just enough to make the group of girls smirked in satisfaction.
The leader gave a soft, triumphant laugh. "Good. Then do yourself and everyone a favor and keep your distance. It's embarrassing, really—watching someone like you think they ahve a chance."
Her words hung in the air like poison as she turned on her heel, her friends following behind with their laughter echoing until they were gone. And just like that, the silence that followed after felt deafening—heavy and suffocating. You stood there, staring at the floor. Your chest felt heavy and tight, as those cruel words replayed in your head, on an endless loop, each one sharper than the last.
Maybe they weren't wrong. Maybe Riki really was too far out of reach. Maybe you don't even deserve someone like him, someone who shines effortlessly.
~
Four days had passed since Riki last saw you and to say he was worried would be an understatement. He searched everywhere of the large Hogwarts campus for signs of you. He even asked your friends—the two girls he always see sticking with you but they too, were just as clueless as he was. Both Jungwon and Sunoo noticed the gradual changes of his behavior—how he was growing more restless, more impatient and cranky, always snapping at someone for unknown reasons. Until one day, Sunoo has had enough and decided to step in, steering the youngest away before he could do further verbal damage to the poor girl.
Sunoo ended up dragging Riki somewhere secluded where they could avoid both prying ears and eyes.
"Alright, speak. What's gotten into you? You're acting like a different person now," the eldest among the trio demanded, arms crossed and lips pressed in a thin line. Jungwon stood beside Sunoo, waiting for Riki's response.
The Slytherin lets out an exasperated sigh, "I told you I'm—"
This time, Jungwon jumped in. "You're what? You're fine? No, you're not. You've been acting all moody and glum. Can you please tell us what happened? We're worried about you, Riki-ah."
The youngest sighed, running a hand through his hair as he fidgeted with the hem of his sleeves. "I haven't seen (Name) for the past four days. I searched everywhere for her and asked her friends, but no one knows where she went. It's like she had vanished into thin air."
The two shared a glance and Sunoo spoke up. "Wait, (Name)? As in your partner for the project you told us previously? The Ravenclaw shy girl?"
Riki nodded. "Yeah, her. I'm really worried and I don't know if something had happened to her. Like what if she got kidnapped or something? Or she went out or—"
"Woah, calm down, lover boy. Just take some deep breathes now," Jungwon stopped him, hands firmly grabbing onto his shoulders, "I need you to think carefully about the places you and her had been to. Maybe she's there."
Riki frowned, biting on his lip as he ran through a list in his mind. And then—
"..Wait, I didn't check the library."
Jungwon released his grip, stepping back and flashed him a teasing grin. "Then, what are you waiting for? Go and find her."
Riki nodded and wasted no time in dashing to the library, leaving his two friends behind.
"Ah, young love."
"Hyung, you're not even that old."
"Shut up."
Riki achieved a new record of sprinting from one end to the other end in the span of fifteen minutes. By the time he arrived at the library, he was panting and sweating like a mad dog, with his robes sticking to his skin. He ignored the mild disgusted look the librarian sent him at his current state as he ventured to a certain table. The table where he had spend time with you. The table where to him, it had started to hold a special place in his heart. He could only prayed that you were there.
True enough, there you were. Your back was facing him as you were nose-deep in your current task, your qill moving as you diligently went through your notes. Never in his entire life did he felt this relieved to see you. Riki quickened his pace, sliding into the seat opposite of yours and the way you froze up didn't went unnoticed by him. Still, you didn't dared to look at him as you kept your head down—making him frowned.
"Hey, I haven't seen you a while. Did something happen?" He asked softly, hands resting on the table while his eyes traced your features.
You shook your head. "It's nothing, I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me."
He blinked, leaning forward slightly. "You're lying. Something did happen but you're not telling me. Why? Did I do something wrong? Did I made you feel uncomfortable."
Yes, why would you want to talk to me outside of the project? Why do you keep finding me and acting like we're friends?
You swallowed the words, biting on your lips as you stared at a random spot of your notes. You were already halfway through with the report for the project but now that Riki was here, you couldn't find it in yourself to concentrate. But if there was anything about him, it was that he's a persistent guy.
"Look, I was worried when you were missing for four days. You didn't say a word to anyone, not even your friends and you came back like nothing happened. So please, tell me what's going on with you? Why are you avoiding everyone? Avoiding me too? He pleaded, desperation seeping into his voice.
And that was the final straw. The words broke free before you could stopped them, tumbling out of your mouth faster than your mind could processed.
"I'm not avoiding you!" You blurted out, your voice cracking in the still air of the library. A few students sitting nearby looked up, startled but you didn't cared anymore. "I just—I don't know what to say to you anymore, Riki!"
He blinked, taken aback by your sudden outburst but you were already spiraling. Years of self-doubt and the four days of isolating yourself, hiding your presence from the entire world spilled out like an overflowing cauldron.
"I can't keep pretending everything's fine when it's not," you said, your words and lips trembling, "you keep showing up, helping me, talking to me like I actually matter and I don't understand why! You could have anyone else by your side—those girls who like you or those girls who you hang out with once in a while. And yet, you kept choosing me."
Riki opened his mouth, ready to speak but you were faster, cutting him off. "You don't get it. Do you know what it's like to walk through the halls and hear people whispering that I don't deserve to even look at you! That a Muggle-born like me shouldn't even be here? That a nobody like me shouldn't even be assigned as your partner for this stupid project."
Your throat tightened as you forced yourself to look at him, eyes watering with tears already trickling down your cheeks.
"You're you, Nishimura Riki. A Slytherin Seeker who's practically Hogwarts golden boy. Everyone likes you. Everyone notices you, always complimenting and praising you. You're good at everything you do. You're confident and you're—" Your voice cracked as you sniffled, "—you're the kind of person people looked up to."
You let out a choked, humorless and bitter laugh. "And there's me. I'm just… ordinary. I'm not special. I didn't even think I'd fit in here. And now you're here, acting like you actually see me. But I know better than to believe that."
"..What are you talking about?" Riki asked, his eyes narrowing with something unreadable in his eyes. If you were to look closer, you would see the way his fists are clenched, shaking until his knuckles were turning white and how his jaw tightened and most importantly, the flames of anger burning in his eyes.
"Isn't it obvious? You're only talking to me because of the project. You probably think I'll mess up if you don't watch over me. Don't want me to ruin your reputation. Once it's over, you won't have to deal with me anymore. That's all that is, isn't it?"
"Wha—"
"I can't do this anymore. I can't keep pretending that I'm okay with just being your partner project when it hurts this much. I hate this. I hate that I care. I hate that I—" you paused, heart hammering in your chest as you clutched onto the front of your robes, right over where your heart was, "—that I like you, Riki. I like you and I wish I didn't."
The silence that followed afterwards was beyond deafening. You were panting, wheezing to catch your breath and Riki was silent the entire time, except for that one moment where he tried to speak, only to get interrupted by you. He rose from his seat, approaching you with frighteningly calmness, grabbed your wrist and with a flick of his wand, the two of you were no longer in the library. Instead, you were in a room. His room, to be exact.
"Did you just teleport us to your room?" You gasped out, eyes taking in the sudden change of surroundings with wide eyes.
He didn't answered, tucking his wand away as he fully turned to face you. "I had to do it. You weren't going to listen if we stayed there. And I couldn't let you walked away after saying all that, not without letting me speak."
You opened your mouth to protest but the intensity in his gaze silenced you. He took a slow step forward, then another until he was directly in front of you, the tips of your shoes touching. Your body tensed up, jerking backwards but Riki didn't moved, eyes focused on your red, swollen and puffy eyes.
"Do you really think so little of me" He asked, "that I'd only talk to you just because of the project? That I'd stop once it's over?"
"I—" You faltered, throat drying up, "I just thought—"
"That you're not worth my time?" His tone sharpened, not with anger but with frustration and annoyance. "You think I care about blood status? About what people say?"
He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "You really don't get it, do you?"
You blinked, furrowing your eyebrows. "What?"
Riki exhaled, running a hand through his hair as it flopped back down on his head. "That I like you."
The words hit harder than any spell could. You froze, staring at him as if your brain refused to process what he said. "..What? No, you're lying. Did you even heard what I said just now? I'm a nobody. People like me are supposed to blend in the shadows and remain unnoticed—?"
You didn't get to finish your sentence. Riki's hands shot out, grabbing you by your wrists and harshly tugged you towards him. You weren't given the chance to utter another word. One of his hands grabbed your chin while the other held your waist. Your chin was tilted up and then, he kissed you. Your eyes widened, body turning still at the feeling of his soft, pillowy lips pressed against yours. The kiss was simple, slow and loving. Like he was pouring his feelings through the kiss, like he was confessing without speaking a word.
When he pulled away, he rested his head against yours and reopened his eyes. "..Do you get it now? You said you hated that you care, but I don't. I want to care. About you. Even if you don't believe you deserve it. So let me. Let me show you that you deserve all the good things—love, happiness and every other things out there. Let me prove it to you that you're not what you think you are."
Your heart raced, mind spinning but when he looked at you like that—sincere, adoration and utterly real, the doubt that had been consuming you was gradually fading away.
~
It had been two weeks since the confession happened and of course, your sudden disappearance in front of the students caused rumors to spread. Riki was also reprimanded by the discipline master for the inappropriate usage of magic. His punishment was the deduction of Slytherin points and he had to do some community work for three weeks. But Riki wasn't really bothered by it, merely obediently nodding his head and even had the audacity to smile once he was dismissed.
Your friends: Iroha and Minju had the shock of their lives when they saw you and Riki entering the dining hall, hand-in-hand. They were quick to jump on you, shaking you back and forth while bombarding you with question after question, not giving you time to breathe or reply. Riki had to break the three of you apart before you fainted with how dizzy you felt.
"So, how good is his bedroom skills?" Iroha whispered one day, out of nowhere without warning you.
The three of you were heading to your next class for the day and as always, the halls were packed with students. Among the crowd, you were able to easily spot Riki. Your boyfriend. Calling him your boyfriend felt like a surreal dream and sometimes, you had to pinch yourself to realize that this is the reality. The reality of dating Nishimura Riki.
Dating someone as popular as Riki means there will be…certain rumors being spread about in Hogwarts. The types of rumors ranged from him having pulled some strings in the shadows for him to get top scores to his skills in the bedroom. You didn't have it in you to answer the questions. Whenever you looked at him in the corridors—watching him talking to his friends or listening to what they were saying, your eyes unconsciously traced down his face until they landed on his mouth. Brief images of what happened the previous night played in your mind and within the span of five seconds, your face had turned as red as a tomato.
As if he knows you're looking at him, Riki glanced in your direction and smirked. You snapped your head away, ignoring the familiar, throbbing ache between your legs.
~
"W-Wait, no more-ngh!" You cried out as his tongue dragged through your folds.
Your back arched off his bed, your robes pathetically hanging off of one shoulder with the rest being pushed up. Riki didn't bothered tugging your panties off your legs, choosing to left it hanging around your left ankle that had slid off the bed. He groaned—the vibration sending ripples through your body, leaving your mind spinning as you trembled underneath him.
If there's anything about him, it's the fact that he can be relentless when the times called for it. Right now, Riki wanted nothing more than to bury himself deep in your dripping pussy, tongue lapping up every slick, not wanting it to go to waste. He tightened his grip on your thighs when he felt you attempting to close it and forced you to spread them further, until your thighs muscles were screaming at the faint, burning pain.
You let out a high-pitched, pornographic moan when Riki latched his lips onto the hood of your clit, causing your body to twitch. A mixture of breathless moans, whimpers and chanting of his name spilling from your lips like flowing water.
"Gonna cum for me, princess?" He murmured, voice muffled as he slid two long, thick and warm fingers into your gaping pussy, moving them in scissors-like motion.
You nodded, eyes squeezed shut—not having the courage to look at him. No matter how many times you've done this, you couldn't help but still feel painfully shy. "P-Please, Riki."
"Please what? Use your words," he drawled, teasing you as he slowed down, drawing a disappointed whine from you.
"Wanna cum, please," you sobbed, tears prickling your eyes, unaware of how your boyfriend's eyes darkened, cock twitching against the restraints of his pants.
"Fuck, you're driving me insane," he swore, diving back in with new found vigor. Your mouth dropped open in a silent 'O' shape at the sensation of him swirling his tongue along your folds, drawing his name on your pussy.
Your breathing grows ragged, head spinning. Riki knew you're rapidly reaching your climax with how you tightened around both his tongue and fingers.
"Cum for me," he demanded and your body obeyed faster than your mind could processed his words. Your legs trembled as he held you down, tongue sliding in as he guided you through your climax.
You felt light-headed and gooey, limbs turning heavy but he wasn't done with you yet. You looked at Riki with half-lidded eyes, lips parted as you struggle to catch your breath as he moved away, pushing himself up onto his elbows. You clenched down on nothing but thin air at the sight of the bottom half of his face covered in your slick, making his chin and thick, puffy lips glisten underneath the lights.
Well, if someone were to ask you about his bedroom skills, that's only for you to know. Besides, no one else will have the privilege of dating someone as cool as Riki.
*pairing: down bad frat boy alpha Jay x omega student girl
*trope: rivals to lovers
*synopsis: At the Law Academy, Y/n and Jay have always been rivals: she’s a brilliant scholarship student, and he’s the heir to one of the most powerful families in Korea. Y/n can’t stand him...to her, Jay represents everything she despises: privilege, arrogance, and a life without struggle, while she had to fight for every opportunity in an academy where most omegas dream of building a better future. But deep down, Jay loves to tease her: to push her buttons, to make her lose control in class and during debates. Between academic rivalry and fiery arguments, neither of them expected fate to bind them together. During the Instincts Ceremony, Jay discovers through pheromone and knot compatibility tests that the only person capable of becoming his future mate and continuing the Park bloodline, is none other than Y/n. At first, Jay approaches her out of duty… but soon finds himself caught in his own web of feelings. Yet what will happen when Y/n finds out it all started as a lie? Through unintentional love bombing, Jay made her believe his feelings were real from the beginning but they weren’t. At least, not at first. Now, their pheromones and instincts belong to each other, and there’s no turning back.
*tags: Y/n at the beginning you find Jay, rich vibes, different economic classes irritating, Jay at the beginning is a frat boy but little by little he becomes a green flag, sunshine boy x black cat girl, Y/n is slightly unsure of her physique, they love teasing each other, lots of kisses, Jay is quite clingy and possessive, masturbation (fingering in front of the mirror) protected sex, unprotected sex with knot, jealousy, +18, pet names (angel darling)
The Academy was steeped in a heavy, tense silence. The leaves were slowly losing their bright green, giving way to browns, reds, and autumnal oranges.
This was the day of the pre-Instinct Ceremony exams, and every alpha and omega was required to undergo physical, psychological, and biological tests to determine their compatibility percentages.
The air inside the Academy’s medical center smelled of disinfectant and the nervous pheromones of the elite students who filled its halls, most of whom avoided the place like the plague. The murmurs of the students echoed through the building, thick with anxiety.
Jay Park, one of the most powerful and wealthy alphas in the Academy, was perched on a metal chair, legs crossed, fingers drumming restlessly on the armrest. He wore a pristine Ralph Lauren white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing defined muscles and golden skin. His jeans clung to his legs, and his shoes were subtly elegant.
The gold family heirloom watch on his wrist read 3:10 PM; they were ten minutes late.
He sighed, bored, especially since his friend Jake had already finished and rushed off to soccer practice. Jay barely knew any of the other students waiting with him. Despite his nonchalant demeanor, there was a faint tension in his dark eyes. He knew these exams would, in some way, shape his future.
The door to Room 7 stood before him. The Doctor: a woman in her fifties with gold-rimmed glasses, her hair pulled into a tight chignon, and a white coat that smelled of lavender and black coffee, motioned for him to enter. Jay stepped inside and took a seat.
Over the past few weeks, he had undergone countless tests: genetic blood exams to determine the purity of his alpha lineage and the presence of rare mutations (like his own knot anomaly); testosterone and pheromone level assessments, measuring the potency of his pheromones and their reaction to external stimuli (excitement, anger, stress).
The results were clear: Jay’s pheromones were of "royal" caliber, rare, powerful, with notes of black amber, leather, and burnt pepper. When aroused, they released a sweet-bitter aroma of scorched amber and tobacco that could disorient weaker omegas.
At the Academy, all students were required to complete physical and athletic exams testing strength, endurance, weightlifting, running, and pain resistance. Jay had aced them all: lifting 150 kg effortlessly, running 10 km in 30 minutes. Though he wasn’t part of any team, unlike Jake with soccer or Heeseung with basketball, he was exceptionally skilled in sports.
Like every alpha, Jay underwent an invasive but necessary knot examination. A device measured its size, shape, and reactivity.
The results were staggering: Jay’s knot was too perfect. It was classified as "Omega-Killer", large, with a spiral shape that locked irreversibly during knotting.
Only an omega with a uniquely strong and compatible internal structure could endure it without physical damage.
Every student also had to complete psychological evaluations, including a mental stability test to ensure the alpha wasn’t overly dominant or unstable, risking abuse of their partner. Jay passed with high marks, though the doctor noted a slight obsessive tendency, a sign that, once bonded, he would never let his mate go. His emotional compatibility test revealed a surface-level coldness, but deep loyalty once bonded, with clingy and communicative vibes toward his partner.
Jay was the kind of alpha 99% of the girls would pay or dream to have as a life partner but there was a catch...one Jay didn’t know about.
As he entered the room with a playful swagger, he leaned toward the doctor. When he sat down, he felt his hands sweating slightly, though he didn’t let it show.
The doctor began typing on her computer without looking up. After a moment, she spoke: "Jay Park. Born in Seattle, April 20, 2002. Law student with excellent grades, a clean criminal record, and a member of one of the most influential families in Korea. Correct?"
Jay nodded. "Perfectly correct."
The doctor nodded back, printed a page from his database, and began reading aloud, her voice devoid of emotion:
"Here we have an alpha specimen in excellent health. Your blood tests are perfect. Your pheromones are potent and pure, with distinctive notes of black pepper, gray amber, and leather when agitated or aroused. Your knotting compatibility percentage is 99%.
This means that when you meet your mate, the chances of conception will be extremely high. Of course, this must be balanced with her own percentages, so until you’re ready for knotting and conception, use condoms, pills, or an IUD. We provide these to both students and girls at the end of each visit."
Jay smirked, snapping his fingers, and leaned back in his chair, feeling slightly less anxious.
"Good. So I can knot any omega without issues. Excellent."
The doctor lowered her glasses and fixed him with a stern gaze. Jay sat up straighter, thinking, Maybe that came out wrong but the doctor spoke again, and his smile vanished instantly.
"No, Jay. It’s not excellent. Your percentage is too high. Compared to the other alphas in the Academy, you’re off the charts." She continued,
"Your friend Jake, for example, has an 84% compatibility rate, one of the highest after yours. But you? You’re at 99%, and that’s a problem."
Jay stiffened. He ran a hand through his hair.
"What do you mean it’s too high? You just said everything was perfect... I don’t understand."
For the first time, the doctor looked at him with something almost maternal.
"It means your knot is too powerful for most omegas. If you were to knot with an incompatible partner, she could suffer... excruciating pain, internal bleeding, or even pheromone shock. Some might not survive knotting with you."
Jay blinked, stunned. He felt himself freeze.
"So... I can’t knot anyone?"
The doctor chuckled softly. Jay shot her a dirty look.
"No. You can....but only with one specific omega. One with an internal structure compatible with your knot, one who can endure your potency without harm. And, looking at the database..." She typed something. "...you’re in luck....there’s one at the Academy."
Jay shot to his feet, the chair clattering to the floor. The doctor looked at him with something like pity. Some alphas could pair with any omega, but he was limited to one girl? This had to be a cruel joke.
"Only one?! What the hell....!" Jay covered his mouth, apologizing for the curse, but the doctor calmly replied with a small smile, "Exactly and, as it turns out, she’s not even of high rank like you."
Jay shook his head. He didn’t care about rank, but his family, especially his grandmother, certainly did. He ran a hand over his face and muttered, "I admit, I’ve always had everything in life...maybe too much. This must be karma biting back."
The doctor chuckled. Jay was seriously a handful, and his future mate would definitely have her work cut out for her. She printed another page and handed it to him. When Jay saw the file and the photo of the only girl who could be his mate, he stood frozen for a full minute, staring at the picture, and especially at the data he already knew by heart. Y/n, his rival since the first day of class. She couldn’t stand him, and he... well, he loved provoking her. But he never imagined she would be the one chosen for him.
"Surprised, Mr. Park?"
Jay clenched the paper, his muscles tense, jaw tight. He growled, "This is a joke. Where are the cameras? She can never be my life partner."
The doctor crossed her arms.
"The tests never lie, Jay. She is the only one. The only one who can accommodate your knot, the only one you can procreate with safely, the only one who can endure your alpha nature without breaking. In other words... she is your perfect match."
Jay fell silent, staring at the photo, fists clenched. He closed his eyes and thought, Damn. Damn it! Of all the girls in the Academy... her? The one who hates me? The one who challenges me every day? The one who never backs down? But a small smile tugged at his lips. "...Maybe that’s why my body chose her."
The doctor stood and offered her hand. "I suggest you reflect, Mr. Park. The Instinct Ceremony is in a week, and there’s no escape. If she isn’t your mate, your lineage will be at risk."
Jay left the room, stunned, clutching her photo. And so, the most powerful alpha in the Academy found himself having to win over the one girl he never wanted.
The taglist is open!!
This story is slightly intertwined with the story of Sunghoon: I hate you, I love you.
You can also read it separately:)
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