#half of them will flunk out

[eddis-not-eeddis]

The truly annoying thing about college is that I'm kind of expected to be a top performer because I actually buckle down and do the work. I don't even do it that well, I just do it, and so I get decent grades (not phenomenal, but good) and I'm considered a good student. There are other kids who are waaaaaaaay smarter than I am. When it comes to raw intelligence they have me beat all hollow--they instantly pick up on topics I have to grapple with for days or weeks of careful study. They will easily answer a question that takes me four or five minutes of puzzling over to solve. But they're flunking out because they refuse to study. They're failing classes because they won't submit work. I'm only considered a good student because I muddle through it and actually submit assignments. Imagine how much better they could be if they actually studied for their exams or didn't wait to work on their projects until the day they were supposed to be submitted.

[proto-language]

finally got my feedback from all last year's exams to go with the marks. absolute fucking gut-punch stuff. don't really know how i am meant to keep going except through sheer inertia.

[heesmiles]

OPERATION: HOW NOT TO GET THE GIRL L.HS

SYNOPSIS ⦂ You've never fit in. That much was true. Always feeling like the odd one out in your friend group. But when you're told to your face, well everything becomes more clear. Suddenly, every sidelong glance, every pity laugh, every party invitation that felt like a mistake, makes a little more sense. But it still stings. Especially when it comes to Soobin; sweet, soft-spoken, out-of-your-league Soobin, who doesn’t even know you exist beyond the orbit of your prettier friends. Enter Heeseung: campus golden boy, effortlessly charming, dangerously smug. He’s the type of guy who knows exactly how attractive he is — and how to use it. When he overhears your predicament (okay, maybe you yell about it a little too loudly in the hallway), he makes you an offer: he’ll help you reinvent yourself, rewrite your story, and finally get Soobin’s attention. In exchange? You’ll tutor him through senior lit, a class he's on the verge of flunking. You agree, of course. What could possibly go wrong?

PAIRINGS: heeseung x fem!reader

WARNINGS: smut mdni, virginity loss, jealousy, alcohol use, mean girls, talk of toxic beauty standards, college setting, ft Dani (katseye), Sakura (le sserafim), Soobin (txt), jay, sunghoon, jake, beomgyu (txt), wonyoung (ive), angst, slight miscommunication + more i’m probably forgetting.

WORD COUNT: 28K

RAIN'S MIC IS ON ࿐ haiii this is based on the movie "the duff" i wanted to give this a fun and very like early 2000s rom-comy vibes!! I do want to note especially that i do not support the toxic mindset that makeup and no glasses and dressing slutty automatically makes you more visually appealing, i think that's a mindset we should be letting go of but for the sake of fiction, it will be playing a part in this. Just a reminder that everyone is beautiful no matter what you wear or what you look like. Wear makeup if you want, or don't. Glasses do not equal ugly and nerdy. Also in this, i shortened “DUFF” to “DUF” because even in fiction i don’t feel comfortable saying “fat” so in my version it just means “designated ugly friend” which is still eh, but again for the sake of fiction it will have to do, Please remember those standards are out dated. Love you all hope you have fun with this like i did (: thank you so much to my love @yeonmuse for helping make the banner, she’s so talented check her out guys.

You’re not sure why you came. 

The music pulses like a second heartbeat as you linger in the doorway of the house, the bass reverberating through your ribcage. Inside, it’s packed wall-to-wall with bodies moving in a chaotic kind of harmony, shoulders brushing, drinks sloshing, laughter climbing over music like ivy. You follow the familiar trail of your best friends, Dani and Sakura, as they dive headfirst into the party’s epicenter. They're already laughing with someone, effortlessly folding themselves into a circle of golden-lit conversation. You’re left in the doorway like static caught on the edge of a signal, half-there, mostly invisible. You try to speak, to jump into the flow, but your voice is swallowed by the noise.

Dani’s turning her head too fast, Sakura’s already moving on to a new story. It’s not their fault. They love you. They try; they always do. But in places like this, where charisma is currency and the loudest person wins, you always come up short. You’re the comma in their sentence. The pause between moments.

Eventually, Dani hooks her arm through yours and grins. “Come on. Let’s get some air.” You let them lead you outside, where the music softens behind glass doors and the cool night air brushes against your skin. The wooden deck is lit by string lights and scented faintly of smoke and expensive cologne. And that’s when you see them; The it boys on campus, Leaning against the railing like some untouchable constellation: Heeseung, Beomgyu, Sunghoon, Jay, and Jake. Each one a caricature of cool in different flavors. Beomgyu’s laughing with his head thrown back. Jake is draped over the deck chair like he owns it. Sunghoon and Jay are mid-story. And then there’s Heeseung, casual arrogance wrapped in black denim and a hoodie pushed halfway up his forearms. 

The moment the girls approach, everyone shifts to accommodate them, the circle expanding like ripples on water. You find yourself next to Heeseung, who throws you a brief glance that feels like an assessment. His gaze dips for a second to your glasses and lingers. You know that look. You’ve seen it before in classrooms and locker-lined hallways. The look that decides exactly who you are in the span of two seconds and four syllables: nerd. Unworthy of any and all social interaction beside incandescent teasing. How comical that was. “You guys,” Heeseung says, in that smooth, drawling voice that makes everything he says sound vaguely amused, “Mr. Yoon was on my ass today. Said if I bomb this next lit paper, he’s yanking my scholarship. Like, sorry I don’t care about symbolism in 18th-century poetry, man.” 

Sakura perks up, turning to look at you. “Wait She’s amazing at lit! Like, scary good.” 

“She tutors people all the time,” Dani adds, nudging you playfully. You blink, caught mid-sip of something lukewarm in a red cup, and find five pairs of curious eyes settling on you. Including his.

Heeseung’s lip quirks. “Oh, I’m sure she is.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He gestures loosely toward your face, vaguely circling your glasses. “Nothing. Just, you’ve got that whole bookish prodigy vibe. You know. Brainiac chic.” 

“Brainiac chic?” You raise an eyebrow. “That’s your insult? Do you even have a GPA?” His friends snicker. Jake lets out a low “oooh,” and Beomgyu slaps Heeseung on the back like he’s just taken a hit.

Heeseung, unfazed, smiles lazily. “Touché. Though, I’m not the one who just quoted my GPA like it’s a flex.” You can’t help the way your lip twitches. You shouldn’t enjoy this. You do. Heeseung is irritating. Arrogant. Infuriatingly pretty. But he’s listening. He’s bantering back. In this weird, warped little moment, you almost feel like you matter. 

And then he walks up. Soobin. You spot him from the corner of your eye, tall and soft around the edges, dressed in an oversized hoodie that somehow still makes him look like a dream. His hair’s a little messy like he ran his hands through it too many times, and his smile; God, his smile, curls up slow when he sees your group. He says something to Jake, who waves him over, and then he’s standing in your circle, next to you, and your brain short-circuits. You try to say hi, but it comes out as a hiccuped squeak. Your voice cracks in three different places, and as if fate hadn’t humiliated you enough, you flinch backward and knock your elbow straight into the flimsy drink table behind you. The cup in your hand slips, spins midair, and splashes all over your shirt in one mortifying arc. 

Soobin blinks. Heeseung stares. You feel the heat crawl up your neck like a flame eating paper. Someone offers you a napkin, Dani, maybe — but it doesn’t matter. You’re already backing away. “I—I’m gonna go,” you mumble. “I’ll see you guys later.” You turn before anyone can say anything else, your heartbeat thudding in your ears, the deck already blurry with shame. Behind you, the laughter starts again, soft, harmless, not mean, not really; but it doesn't matter. You’re already gone. And you have no idea how this mess is only just beginning. 

The next morning arrives not like a promise, but like a punishment. The sun is too bright, the sky too smugly blue, like even the weather knows what happened last night. You drag yourself across campus wrapped in oversized layers, hoodie strings pulled tight around your face like armor. You haven't checked your phone since the party. Not because it hasn’t lit up — it has, but because you can’t bear to face the missed calls and texts blinking like tiny sirens across the screen. Dani: “hey, are you okay?” Sakura: “babe, call us pls.” A voicemail you didn’t dare open. It’s all waiting for you like unopened letters from a version of yourself that doesn’t exist anymore. 

Because last night, you crumbled in front of Soobin. You keep replaying it like a cursed tape in your head: the way your voice cracked, the look of gentle confusion on his face, the splash of cheap punch soaking through your shirt like a scarlet stamp of shame. You can still feel the sting of it; hot, sticky, humiliating. You picture the exact moment his eyes met yours and how quickly you broke, like a window catching a stone at the wrong angle. You didn’t even say goodbye to Dani or Sakura. Just ran. Just let the night swallow you whole. And now, in the cruel light of day, everything feels worse. 

Your footsteps echo a little too loudly on the concrete path through campus. You keep your head down, gaze locked on your shoes as the crowds blur around you in streaks of motion and color. But you feel them; eyes. Not direct. Not obvious. Just there. Flicking toward you. Lingering. Someone lets out a muffled laugh as you pass. You tell yourself it has nothing to do with you, but the way your stomach clenches betrays you. It’s a peculiar kind of spotlight, being noticed for all the wrong reasons. You’re used to being invisible, not mocked. You never asked for attention, never needed a stage. But now you’re walking through campus like a meme brought to life, like the punchline of a joke you didn’t know you were telling. You pass a group of students lounging on the lawn. One nudges the other. Another whispers something behind a hand. Laughter. It could be about anything. It could be nothing. But you flinch like it’s a slap to the face. So you keep walking, keep shrinking.

Your classroom isn’t far, but the distance feels endless. Like the stretch of hallway in a nightmare where your legs move but you never get anywhere. When you finally reach the door, your hands tremble as you pull it open, slipping inside with all the urgency of someone trying to outrun their own shadow. The air inside is still and cold, the hum of fluorescents a dull buzz in your ears. You’re too wrapped in your own spiral to notice where your feet take you. The room is already half full, students murmuring over open laptops, pens clicking like insects in early spring. You move on autopilot, slipping into the first empty seat you see near the back, hoping the distance from the front will buy you some much-needed invisibility.

But the moment you set your bag down and glance to your left, the universe decides to play its favorite game, humiliation, round two. Because there he is. Lee Heeseung. Slouched in his chair with all the grace of someone who’s never had to try too hard, hoodie sleeves pushed up again like it’s a personal brand, one knee bouncing lazily. His arm’s draped over the back of the chair, dangerously close to yours, and he’s already looking at you when you meet his eyes, eyebrow raised, lips curled in that signature smirk that could make a mirror blush. “Well, well,” he says, low and smug. “Couldn’t get enough of me, could you?” You blink, brain short-circuiting for half a second before the sarcasm kicks in like muscle memory.

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, your voice dry as dust. “I just had to sit next to the guy who thinks MLA formatting is a type of sandwich.” Heeseung whistles through his teeth, hand pressed to his heart like you wounded him. “Wow. Vicious. No wonder you’re single.”

Without missing a beat, you smile sweetly, and flip him off. And that’s what does it. Heeseung bursts out laughing. Not a scoff. Not a half-chuckle. A full-bodied, belly-deep laugh that shakes his shoulders and lights up his whole stupidly handsome face. It’s loud, too; sharp enough to draw a few curious glances from the rows in front of you. Someone turns around. Another student raises an eyebrow. But Heeseung just throws his head back and laughs, like you’re the funniest thing to ever happen to 9 a.m. lit. And somehow, against your will, a laugh bubbles out of you, too. 

Just a snort at first, barely more than breath. But it grows, because you can’t help it, because it was kind of funny, because maybe you’re so bone-tired from crying that anything even slightly absurd feels like a lifeline. You laugh into your palm, trying to hide it, but that only makes Heeseung grin wider. “See?” he says, nudging your arm with his elbow. “I knew you liked me.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re delusional.”

“And yet,” he hums, “here you are.”You shake your head, biting back another smile—and for a second, just a second, you don’t care that people are still glancing at the two of you. You don’t care that your shirt from last night is crumpled in your laundry basket or that the video of you spilling punch may or may not be circling the group chat. You don’t care that your friends probably think you’re ghosting them. Because for this one moment, there’s no spotlight. No pressure.

The rest of the class unfolds in a quiet, uninterrupted hum. The professor drones on about motifs and metaphor, and your pen finally scratches to life again. Heeseung doesn’t speak after that, not really, but you can feel the lingering heat of his presence beside you, like a low flame that won’t go out. You catch yourself glancing his way more than once. He catches you every time. 

Class ends in a quiet unraveling. You gather your things slowly, letting the rows of students trickle out ahead of you like a stream smoothing stone. Heeseung’s already up, stretching his arms over his head in that effortless way that shouldn't be allowed this early in the day. He tosses you a wink as he moves toward the door, and you pretend to roll your eyes, even as something traitorous inside you flutters like a curtain caught in wind. You follow the flow of students into the hallway, hoping to blend in. Hoping, maybe foolishly, that today might end on a quieter note.

But fate has sharp teeth. 

A manicured hand taps your shoulder just as you pass beneath the atrium light, and when you turn, you’re met with a smile so sugar-slick and venom-laced it makes your spine stiffen on instinct. Jang Wonyoung. She’s standing in front of you like a statue carved from polished ambition, long legs, glossy hair, not a flaw in sight. Her clothes are designer without needing to scream it, her lip gloss a shade too pink to be innocent. She oozes confidence, curated and sharpened to a point. And you know who she is — everyone does. She’s not just the most popular girl on campus, she’s the one people orbit around. She’s the center of gravity in every room she enters. You’ve never spoken to her before. 

“You’re friends with Dani and Sakura, right?” she says sweetly, voice as light as powdered sugar.

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah,” you answer, nodding a little too quickly, nerves flaring. “I am.” Her smile doesn’t change, but something behind her eyes hardens. Shifts. It’s like watching a rose bloom only to realize the thorns are still sharper than the petals. She tilts her head slightly, and for a moment, you almost wonder if this is some kind of polite small talk. But then she leans in just enough for her perfume to ghost past your cheek; something expensive and calculated, and her voice drops to a murmur, low and cruel. 

“Don’t think for one second you have a chance with Heeseung.” She blinks, lashes fluttering like knives. “DUF.” You freeze. The letters don’t click at first. They hang there in the air between you, meaningless and jagged. You open your mouth, confusion spilling out in a quiet stammer. “Wait — what’s a DUF?” 

Wonyoung’s smile stretches wider, and it’s not a smile at all now. It’s the curve of something about to cut. “DUF isn’t a name. It’s what you are,” she purrs. “Designated Ugly Friend.” You stare, the words crashing into you like sleet against glass. You don’t even flinch; not yet. You’re too stunned, too caught between disbelief and dawning horror to react. Your throat tightens. Her words burrow under your skin, cold and gleaming. “You’re always with Dani and Sakura,” she continues, still smiling like this is all just a casual observation, like she’s not peeling your dignity apart with her manicured fingers. “They’re hot. Like, objectively. You’re just… there. To make them look better. That’s your role. Know your place.” 

You open your mouth again, breath hitching in protest. “My name is—” But she cuts you off, voice turning sharper, all pretense abandoned.

“DUF,” she repeats, slow and deliberate. “And Heeseung? He’s out of your league. So do everyone a favor, babe, and stay away from him.” She gives you one last look; final, dismissive, like you were never really worth seeing at all, and then she’s turning on her heel, walking away like she just dropped a bomb and is already bored of the smoke. And you — you just stand there. Your heartbeat thuds in your ears like a drum played out of rhythm. Your feet feel rooted to the tile, your hands limp at your sides, notebook barely clutched in your grip. It’s as if the world has narrowed to a single hallway, a single moment, and Wonyoung’s words are etched on the walls around you. DUF. 

You’ve never heard it before. Not like that. Not named. But now that it’s been said, now that it’s out in the open, it echoes. It colors everything. It twists last night into a sick joke, replays every photo you’ve stood in between Dani and Sakura, every party where you stood off to the side. You see yourself through Wonyoung’s eyes, and the reflection stings. You don’t cry. Not yet. The tears are waiting, crouched behind your ribs, but you won’t let them win. Not in this hallway. Not here. You just swallow hard, lower your head, and walk, each step heavier than the last, as if you’re trying to carry the weight of someone else’s cruelty on your shoulders. And all the while, her words stay with you like a brand: Know your place.

You don’t remember how you got there. One moment you were frozen in that hallway, still tasting Wonyoung’s words on the back of your tongue like something spoiled and sour. The next, you’re seated at the farthest computer in the campus lab, shoulders hunched, the too-bright monitor casting a cold glow across your face. Around you, students move in hushed clicks and muted coughs, the clatter of keyboards filling the silence like light rain. No one looks your way. No one ever does. It’s what you wanted, right? To disappear? To be invisible? But not like this. Your fingers tremble as they hover over the keyboard, uncertain, like they already know what you’re about to unearth. You type DUF first, because that’s what she said. That’s what she called you. The letters feel clunky and unfamiliar, like a language you were never meant to understand. When nothing pops up, you frown, your pulse quickening. 

And then, like the knife finally finding skin, it hits you. And the world splits open. The page fills with links, slang dictionaries, gossip forums, teen advice articles, old Reddit threads dissecting high school hierarchies like scientific taxonomy. You click the first video out of instinct, and a girl on the screen, barely older than you, leans into the camera with a sad smile and says, “The DUF is the Designated Ugly Friend. You’re the least attractive in your friend group, the approachable one, the funny one, the one guys talk to only to get to your prettier friends.” You freeze. Her voice continues, but it becomes background noise to the storm inside your chest. Your heartbeat hammers against your ribs like it wants to escape, and suddenly your body feels far too small for what you’re carrying.

Your fingers move on their own, clicking through link after link like each one might offer a different definition, something softer, something kind. But they don’t. They all echo the same gutting truth. The DUF is the one who fills the empty space. The background character in her own life. The girl who exists not for herself, but as contrast, to make her friends shine brighter by comparison. You feel it like a bruise blooming across your entire being. Memories rise unbidden, like film reels unspooling behind your eyes. The nights out where you stood at the edge of a circle, holding jackets and drinks while Dani and Sakura danced with boys who barely spared you a glance. The time a guy asked you for Sakura’s number while you were still in the middle of a sentence. The photos you’d be cropped out of, the stories you weren’t included in, the parties where you stood on the periphery like a shadow no one noticed. 

You thought it was just how things were. You thought maybe you were just quieter. Shyer. Less hungry for attention. But now the pieces fit. Too well. And what guts you, what truly guts you, is the realization that maybe — just maybe — they knew. Dani and Sakura. Your best friends. Did they know what DUF meant? Had they heard it tossed around and just… never told you? Had they laughed about it with others, let it live in whispers while you smiled beside them, oblivious? Were you some inside joke dressed in loyalty? Did they ever look at you and feel sorry? Or worse, did they agree? 

The nausea coils in your stomach like a slow-moving wave, threatening to rise. You press your palm to your chest, as if you can keep yourself from unraveling entirely. Your vision swims. The sterile blue of the lab feels too bright, too loud, too full of all the wrong kinds of silence. You’re still staring at the glowing screen, that same sentence blinking back at you like a taunt: “The DUFF is the one nobody notices until they need something.” Your throat tightens. You don’t want to be in this body. In this moment. In this story.

You slam the laptop shut without ceremony. The sharp clap of it draws a glance from a boy a few chairs down, but you don’t care. You’re already yanking your bag from the floor, stuffing your notebook inside with shaking hands. Your fingers are clumsy, rushed, like you’re trying to outrun a tidal wave that’s already crashing through you. You need air. You need to move. You need to not be here, not be seen. The walk out of the lab is a blur of cold tiles and humming machines. Your steps echo like betrayal. Like every footfall might draw more eyes, more whispers, more invisible hands pointing in your direction. You don’t even realize you’re crying until you taste salt.

Not the loud, sobbing kind of cry. No, this is something quieter. A leak in the dam. A silent surrender. The kind of crying that happens when the weight of the world doesn’t come crashing down in one dramatic moment; but seeps in, slow and steady, drop by drop, until you’re drowning. You step outside, wind slicing at your face, the sky too wide, too open. You feel small in a way you can’t describe. Not just physically, existentially. Like someone cracked your reflection and you’re left staring at the pieces wondering if any of it was ever real. And in the back of your mind, like a cruel echo still clinging to the walls of your skull, her voice repeats: Know your place, DUF. 

The first thing you do after leaving the computer lab is search. You needed to see Dani and Sakura. You find them exactly where you knew they’d be. The C building’s hallway is packed, echoing with the end-of-period rush. Footsteps slap against the floors in every direction. Lockers clang open and shut, laughter weaves in and out of the noise like a skipping stone. The scent of dry erase markers, mint gum, and cheap coffee lingers in the air. But it all feels distant to you, muted, irrelevant. Like you’re underwater, moving through the crowd on instinct, not thought. And then, through the blur of motion and sound, you see them. Dani and Sakura.

The two girls you’ve called your best friends since freshman year. The ones who’ve seen you through breakups, panic attacks, late-night cramming sessions and slow, sleepy Sunday brunches. The ones who claimed to love you. They’re standing outside their chemistry lecture, laughing at something; Sakura’s head thrown back, Dani’s hip nudging hers. It’s such a familiar picture that for a split second, you hesitate. For a split second, your brain lies to you.  Maybe they don’t know. Maybe Wonyoung was wrong. Maybe everything was just some cruel misunderstanding. But your heart knows better.  You push through the crowd with the desperation of someone chasing the truth, and the second your voice cuts through the air, they turn to you, your hair wild from the wind, breath ragged from running, eyes rimmed with something between fury and heartbreak. “Did you guys know?”

The words tumble out too fast, ragged at the edges, raw like a wound. They both blink at you, confusion washing over their faces like clouds across sunlight. “Know what?” Sakura asks slowly, brow furrowing. Dani’s already stepping forward, hand brushing your arm gently, like she’s afraid you might shatter on contact. “What are you talking about?”

And then you say it; louder than you meant to, louder than you ever thought you’d say anything in public. “Did you know I’m your fucking DUF?” The hallway doesn’t go silent, but it feels like it does. Their faces freeze, and you see it instantly, the flicker of recognition in Sakura’s eyes, the tightness in Dani’s jaw. It’s not confusion now. It’s not disbelief. It’s guilt. Guilt. They look at each other. It’s barely a glance, half a heartbeat, but it’s all the confirmation you need. Something in your chest gives, a sickening drop that feels like the floor vanishing beneath your feet. 

Your voice splinters when you speak again. “What? Are you just friends with me because you feel bad for me?” Your words hang in the air like smoke, heavy and choking. Dani’s eyes widen, her mouth opening like she’s about to say something, anything but you see the panic settle across her face. She wasn’t ready for this. They never expected you to find out. They never thought you’d ask.

“That’s not—” Sakura starts, then stops.

Dani shakes her head fast, her voice stumbling over itself. “That’s not true. Don’t say that.”

“Then why?” you ask, louder now, pain bubbling up from somewhere deep and long-buried. “Why did you always brush me off when I said I liked Soobin? Why did you laugh when I said I thought he might like me back? Why did you look at me like I was crazy?” They don't answer. Not really. They just look at you with wide eyes and silence thick between them.

“You didn’t think I was pretty enough,” you say, and your voice cracks right down the middle. Dani swallows. Her hands are wringing the strap of her backpack like she doesn’t know what to do with them. She steps closer again, gentler this time, quieter. “We don’t think you’re ugly,” she says, the words coming slowly, like they hurt her to say. “It’s just… you could try a little harder, you know? Like, you don’t really… put effort in.” The air leaves your lungs in a rush.

You feel it physically, like someone just knocked the wind out of you, punched a hole in your chest and left it gaping open for everyone to see. The people around you are still moving, still living their lives, but all you can hear is the echo of those words: try harder. As if your entire existence hasn’t been one long effort to be enough. And before you can respond, Sakura adds, “You’re just… not Soobin’s type, that’s all.” You blink. Your mind blanks. Your heart is already in pieces, but that line cracks the rest of you open. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you ask, your voice trembling, not with fear, but with something deeper, more dangerous. Rage wrapped in heartbreak. Sakura falters. She opens her mouth, but no answer comes out. Dani shifts uncomfortably beside her. Their faces are pale now, eyes darting around, noticing for the first time how many people are starting to look. How many are pretending not to listen. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to undo every moment of vulnerability you ever gave them. But more than anything, you want to run. Because staying here, standing in this hallway, heart bared like a wound while the people you loved carve you apart, hurts more than anything you’ve ever felt. You shake your head slowly, backing away from them as the tears begin to fall in earnest. “I thought you were my friends,” you whisper, and then louder, “I trusted you.” Dani reaches out again, but this time you pull back. You don’t want her comfort. You don’t want her pity. You don’t want to hear another word. So you turn. And you walk.

You don’t care that people are watching. You don’t care that your shoulders are shaking, that your tears are spilling freely now, or that your bag keeps slipping down your arm. You walk faster, pushing through the crowd until the voices blur behind you, until the memory of their faces fades into the roar of everything breaking apart. And as you go, the thought haunts you, echoing over and over in your skull: They knew. They knew. They knew. And they never told you. 

The doors to the C building groan shut behind you, sealing away the voices, the stares, the wreckage. But the damage doesn’t stay inside. It clings to you, stitched into your skin like frostbite; cold, deep, and invisible to everyone else. The sting of betrayal coils inside your chest, twisting tighter with every step you take. Your breathing’s uneven. Not quite sobbing, but close. That awful in-between sound, caught in your throat like a scream that refuses to come out. The air outside is biting, too cold for early fall, but you hardly notice. It brushes your cheeks like ghost hands, cuts through your sweater, lifts the ends of your hair, nothing reaches you. Not really. You're numb in a way that feels permanent, like someone turned the volume of the world all the way down and you forgot how to turn it back up.

People pass by, some look, some don’t. A few recognize you, eyes flickering with half-curiosity, half-concern, but no one says anything. And thank god for that, because if anyone did, if even one person tried to ask if you were okay, you think you'd crumble. Right there on the sidewalk. Crumple like paper and never get back up again. The walk from the C building to your dorm stretches impossibly long. Every step is heavier than the last, as if the weight of Dani and Sakura’s words is dragging behind you, chained to your ankles. You replay it all, the glances, the hesitations, the way Dani looked away when you asked if they knew, the way Sakura's voice sounded too rehearsed, like she’d already decided what version of the truth you were allowed to hear.

“You could try harder.”

“You’re just not his type.”

Those words circle you like vultures. You can’t outrun them. You can’t out-walk what’s inside your chest. By the time you reach the dorm building, you’re shaking. Not from the cold, but from everything else. Rage. Shame. Heartbreak. All of it, bottled and clinking against your ribs like glass ready to shatter. Your key slips once in the door before you finally shove it in and turn, stumbling down the hall to your room like you’ve just escaped a storm only to find another waiting inside. You push the door open and don’t bother turning on the lights. You don’t take your shoes off. You don’t put your bag down. You don’t think. You just collapse.

Straight onto your bed, face-first, like gravity’s been waiting all day for you to break. The mattress groans under the weight of your body, the quiet rustle of blankets the only sound in the room. But even that silence feels loud. And then — finally — you scream. It’s muffled into your pillow, soaked into the cotton and foam, but it rips through you like it’s been building for years. A scream made of all the things you couldn’t say in that hallway. All the pain you swallowed down so no one would see you break. All the confusion, all the loneliness, all the self-doubt bubbling up into one long, raw, aching sound.

You scream because you thought they were your people. You scream because you believed, deeply, that you were loved. You scream because you didn’t know you were being pitied.

And when your voice finally gives out, when your throat goes raw and your breathing hitches in the dark, you don’t move. You just lie there, curled into yourself like something wounded, like you could shrink so small the world might forget you were ever here. Your pillow is damp now, tears soaking through it, hot and angry. You clutch it tighter like it might hold you together. For the first time in a long time, you feel completely and utterly alone. And the scariest part? You're not even sure who you can talk to anymore. Who’s left. Who actually sees you. Because the people you trusted the most already proved they never did.

The morning light is a pale, washed-out gray, soft and dull like an old photograph, like something that’s been wrung out of color and left to dry. You move through campus like a ghost, every step stiff and heavy, your limbs still echoing with the ache of yesterday’s unraveling. Sleep had barely kissed you the night before. It lingered at the edges of your consciousness but never quite arrived, chased away by looping memories, sharp-edged phrases, and the hollow ache in your chest where trust used to live. You’ve walked this path to Literature 204 a hundred times, maybe more. But today it feels different. The air around you feels thicker somehow, like it knows what happened, like the whole campus has been whispering about you while your back was turned. You keep your head low, hands shoved deep into the sleeves of your hoodie, as if retreating into yourself will make you smaller, less visible, less whatever-the-hell-you-are-now. The DUF. The outcast. The joke.

When you finally step into the lecture hall, it’s mostly empty, the way it always is ten minutes before class starts. The lights are half-dimmed, flickering in patches as if still waking up themselves. A few early birds have already staked their seats, nose-deep in books, airpods in, sipping lukewarm coffee out of dented thermoses. And then, of course, there’s him. Heeseung. You spot him near the front, standing beside Mr. Yoon’s desk. They’re speaking in hushed tones, but the words carry in this room where the ceilings are too high and silence feels sacred. You hadn’t meant to listen, you weren’t trying to eavesdrop, but your ears catch on the tension in their voices, the frustration curling at the edges of Heeseung’s sentences. You hear fragments. Tutor. Flunk. Drop out. Phrases that sound too final, too heavy for someone who always seemed so effortless. 

You tell yourself not to care. You’ve got your own storm to navigate. You slide into your usual seat halfway up the rows, far enough to disappear, close enough to hear, and drop your bag beside you with a sigh. Your heart still feels raw, your stomach still tied in knots. You’re exhausted in a way that no amount of sleep can fix. And then you hear his footsteps. Heeseung doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t scan the room for alternatives. He just makes a beeline straight for you and drops into the seat beside yours like it’s his god-given right. His presence is large, like it always is, broad shoulders draped in a hoodie two sizes too big, the scent of citrus cologne and coffee trailing behind him like something you could trip on. Usually, there’s a quip on his lips, something smug and irritating and just a little too charming. But today he’s quiet. And so are you.

For a long moment, nothing passes between you but breath. The quiet around you folds in like a cocoon, the only sounds the low murmur of Mr. Yoon gathering his notes and the soft click of someone’s mechanical pencil two rows back. And then, Heeseung leans back with a sigh and says, “Quite the spectacle you had going for you yesterday.”

You groan before you can stop yourself, dragging a hand over your face like you could scrub the memory out of existence. Your eyes narrow as you turn to him, voice sharp with lingering humiliation. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He’s already grinning, his mouth tilted up in that signature way that makes you want to slap him and kiss him at the same time, not that you’d ever admit that out loud. “Relax,” he says, stretching his arms lazily over his head. “I just mean, you, Sakura, and Dani? Everyone’s talking about it. It was, like, the hallway soap opera of the year.”

Your cheeks burn. You can feel the blood rising in your face like fire licking at your skin. Of course people were talking. Of course the entire goddamn campus probably had a front-row seat to your implosion. “Great,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest, “exactly what I needed, public humiliation on top of personal betrayal.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like it isn’t your entire world unraveling. But then, out of nowhere, he asks, “How long have you had a thing for Soobin?”

Your heart skips. Not in a cute, rom-com way. In a fuck, how does he know that kind of way. You blink, caught off guard, mouth fumbling for a denial that won’t sound like a lie. “I don’t, what are you even talking about?” He just smirks, eyes glinting with quiet mischief. “Come on. I’m not an idiot. The way you looked at him at that party? Like he was your last meal. It was kinda cute.” 

Your stomach turns, part mortification, part defensiveness. “Why do you even care?” Heeseung shrugs again, but this time there’s something more calculated behind his gaze. “Because I think I can help you.”

You raise a brow. “Help me?” 

“You like Soobin. Soobin doesn’t even know your name. I know what guys like him want, hell, I am guys like him,” he says, voice dipped in arrogance that somehow still doesn’t feel entirely cruel. “I could get you there. Make him see you. Want you.” You let out a sharp laugh, humorless and jagged. “Yeah, no thanks. I’m not really in the mood to turn myself into a Barbie doll just to impress a guy.”

“Suit yourself,” Heeseung says easily, turning back toward the front of the room like he couldn’t care less. “But when Soobin’s off making out with someone like Yunjin behind the gym, don’t come crying to me.” That line strikes like lightning, quick, bright, and unmistakably true. Because you have seen Soobin talking to Yunjin lately. Smiling. Laughing. He held the door open for her last week and you felt like your heart was trying to crawl out of your throat. And now the thought of him kissing her, or anyone, while you’re still sitting on the sidelines hoping for a miracle? It makes something sharp twist in your chest. 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, arms crossed tighter now, and Heeseung must sense your hesitation because he glances sideways again. “I’m just saying,” he murmurs, this time softer. “You help me pass lit, I help you not be invisible. Easy.” It’s insane. It’s humiliating. It’s kind of insulting, if you think about it long enough. But it’s also… tempting. Because what other option do you have? Soobin doesn’t know you exist. Your friends, the ones who were supposed to build you up, have already torn you down. And Heeseung, for all his cockiness, sees you. Maybe not the way you want to be seen. But still. 

Slowly, you turn your palm upward between you. He grins, all teeth and trouble, and slides his hand into yours. You shake. And just like that, the deal is struck. 

The evening sun sinks past the dorm window like a sigh, casting the whole room in the soft gold of a day exhaling. You’re curled up on your bed in an oversized hoodie, legs crossed, a nearly-empty takeout container of bulgogi balanced dangerously on your thigh. The smell of garlic and soy sauce clings to the air like a second blanket, and you don’t care. You’ve earned this. You’ve survived this week, barely, and now you’re self-soothing with salty meat and zero regrets. Your phone buzzes once against the sheets beside you. You ignore it at first. Probably Dani or Sakura again. Their texts have been coming in slow waves all day; apologies, explanations, questions that aren’t really questions. You’ve left them on read, unread, ignored altogether. You’re not ready. You don’t know when you will be. But the phone buzzes again. And then again. Finally, with a huff, you set your chopsticks down and snatch the device up. It’s not a contact you recognize, just a random number. But the message?

[Unknown Number]

what are you doing tomorrow?

You blink. Narrow your eyes. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, halfway to typing who is this when another text lands: 

[ heeseung ]

it’s heeseung

Duh. 

And wow. Of course he wouldn’t lead with an introduction. Or an ounce of normal human decorum. You don’t even remember giving him your number; maybe it was one of those group projects last semester or maybe he’s just unsettlingly resourceful. Either way, you're already rolling your eyes. You type back, begrudgingly.

[ you ] 

nothing. why? 

There’s barely a pause before the dots start dancing again. 

[ heeseung ] 

i’m taking you shopping and then we’re going to a party, you’ll wear what we buy and pretend to be hot for once. You nearly drop your phone into your bulgogi. You stare at the screen for a second too long, as if the sheer arrogance of his words might combust it in your hands. Shopping? Party? Pretend to be hot?

[ you ] 

what the hell does “pretend to be hot” mean???

[ heeseung ] 

it means we’re working with what we got. you’ll be fine. trust the process. 

You audibly groan and collapse backwards onto your pillow, phone pressed against your forehead as if it might somehow absorb the stress and return with divine wisdom. This was the deal, you remind yourself. You help him pass lit, he helps you with... what? Popularity? Style? Winning Soobin's attention through sorcery and strategic eyeliner? 

[ you ] 

i’m not “pretending” to be hot just to impress soobin. i have standards , and pride and a favorite hoodie that smells like detergent and self pity

[ heeseung ] 

noted. wear something that’s easy to take off tomorrow.

[ you ] 

HEY. phrasing.

[ heeseung ] 

relax. for the fitting room, nerd. I’ll be at your dorm at 1. and yes, soobin’s going to be at the party ;)

You stare at that last line for a beat too long. Something flutters, just faintly, in your stomach, uninvited.

[ you ] 

Fine. but if this party ends with me throwing up in a bush i’m holding you personally responsible.

[ heeseung ] 

deal. i’ll even hold your hair back. I'm generous like that.

You throw your phone onto the bed, face-down, like it’s suddenly on fire. You don’t know why you agreed. Maybe it’s the part of you that still wants Soobin to notice. Maybe it’s pride, or maybe it’s just the sheer inevitability of Heeseung’s energy, like trying to argue with a hurricane wearing a smug smirk. Whatever the reason, you’re already mentally preparing for tomorrow. Shopping. With Heeseung.  A party. With Soobin.  A new outfit. A new you. A new mistake waiting to happen. You look down at your empty bulgogi container, sigh, and mutter to no one: “…this is gonna be a disaster.”

The knock on your door comes precisely at 1PM. Not a second early, not a second late. You open it with one shoe half-on, your hoodie sleeve caught in the zipper of your jacket, and your face still half-moisturized. Heeseung is standing there, leaned casually against the doorframe like a page out of a campus fashion catalogue, black jeans, leather jacket, sunglasses perched on his head like he’s just so effortlessly cool it hurts. His hair is slightly tousled, like he either woke up like this or spent an hour pretending he did. “Took you long enough,” he says, not bothering to hide his smirk. 

You scowl and step out, slamming the door behind you. “I said ‘one second’ in the text.”

“Yeah, and I translated that from Girl to Human Time. So twenty minutes.” You roll your eyes, but you follow him anyway, because the deal has officially begun. Operation: Get Soobin to Notice You is in motion. Your dignity is already halfway out the window. Heeseung’s car is just what you expect, black, sleek, a little too clean, and filled with the faint scent of cologne, mint gum, and chaos. You barely get your seatbelt clicked in before he revs the engine and peels out of the dorm parking lot like he's in a race you didn’t know you entered. 

“Oh my god, slow down!” you yelp, clutching the side handle like it might keep your soul tethered to your body.

“Relax,” he says, one hand lazily gripping the wheel, the other already reaching for the radio. “You’re acting like I don’t drive this road every day.” 

“You drive it like you’re being chased, Heeseung.” He only grins in response, eyes still on the road, the picture of reckless confidence. “Maybe I like living on the edge.”

You’re about to fire back another sarcastic quip when the car fills, suddenly, gloriously, with the unmistakable sound of Taylor Swift. Specifically: Cruel Summer. And not the background kind of playing. The volume is up. Way up. Your eyes immediately dart to Heeseung, whose mouth is already moving, quietly at first, almost unconsciously, as he taps the steering wheel to the beat. “I’m drunk in the back of the car… and I cried like a baby coming home from the bar…” Your jaw drops slightly. Because he’s not just mouthing the words. He’s singing. And not in a “ha-ha this song is funny” way. In a felt that in his soul, this is on his heartbreak playlist, probably posted a breakup selfie to this in 2021 kind of way. You try. You really try to stifle the laugh bubbling in your throat. You press your lips together, you bite the inside of your cheek, you turn to the window in dramatic fashion. But it slips out anyway, a full, helpless giggle, light and sudden. 

Heeseung cuts his eyes toward you, still softly singing, and raises a brow. “What’s so funny?”

You blink at him innocently. “You like Taylor Swift?” There’s a moment, a beautiful, brief, perfectly humiliating pause, where Heeseung seems to glitch. His mouth opens, then closes, then he looks back at the road like he’s searching for an exit from this conversation. 

“I — well, I mean —” he clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “She’s… I mean, it’s just a good song, alright?”

Your laugh doubles, slipping out like sunlight through cracked blinds. “Cruel Summer, though?”

“She’s a lyrical genius,” he mutters, half-defensive, half-sincere. “That bridge? That’s literature.” 

You raise your brows, lips twitching. “Quoting T-Swift now? Is this what my tutoring is doing to you?” Heeseung flips you off with absolutely no hesitation, but there’s no heat behind it. He’s laughing now too, eyes squinting as he turns into the mall parking lot with a slightly-too-aggressive swerve.

“Fuck off,” he grins. “You wish you had taste this good.” You hold up your hands in surrender, still giggling. “Okay, okay. I’m not judging.”

“You are judging,” he says, putting the car in park. “But I’ll allow it. Because you’re clearly not emotionally evolved enough to appreciate her catalog yet.”

“Oh my god. Shut up.”

“Nope. We’re listening to Lover next. You’ve brought this upon yourself.” 

The mall greets you with its usual blend of too-loud pop music, screaming children, and the sweet, seductive scent of cinnamon pretzels. It’s packed with people, mothers pushing strollers, bored teenagers clinging to oversized shopping bags, couples holding hands like it’s an Olympic sport. You trail behind Heeseung, your feet already regretting your choice of shoes and your soul regretting this entire arrangement. “So what’s first?” you ask, trying not to bump into a mannequin dressed in denim overalls and heartbreak.

Heeseung doesn’t answer right away. He just keeps walking, purposeful, smug, like he’s on a mission from god. Then he abruptly turns left into a store that is suspiciously sleek and minimal. You blink. “Wait—this is…”

“An eyeglass store,” Heeseung finishes for you, already heading toward the back. “But more importantly, contact central.” You halt, crossing your arms. “Excuse me?”

“You’re getting contacts,” he says, matter-of-fact. “The glasses gotta go.”

You look genuinely scandalized. “Hey! I’ll have you know — I love my glasses.” He stops mid-step and slowly turns to face you, one brow arched so high it’s practically touching heaven. “Yes,” he says, voice dry. “Very librarian core. Sexy in a please return your books on time or I’ll gently scold you in a whisper kind of way.” 

You roll your eyes so hard you practically see your ancestors. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are. Following me into Lens & Style like it’s the promised land.” You’re about to argue more, but the woman behind the counter greets you both with a professional smile, and suddenly you’re being ushered into a little fitting room with sterile lighting and a mirror that shows way too much. A few minutes later, you’re handed a trial pair of contacts and instructed, gently, but firmly, to put them in. It’s harder than it looks. “What do you mean I can’t blink? My entire personality is blinking under pressure!” 

Outside the door, Heeseung snorts. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re being annoying,” you grumble, poking yourself in the eye again.

After a full five minutes of internal screaming, finger fumbling, and probably some divine intervention, you finally get them in. You blink a few times, adjusting. The world sharpens around the edges. For the first time in forever, you can actually see without the weight of frames perched on your nose. You step out slowly, unsure, blinking into the bright lights of the shop. Heeseung looks up from his phone, his gaze flicking to yours. And then — He freezes. His smirk falters for the briefest of seconds. You see it. You feel it. 

“Huh,” he says, slower now. “They�� actually look good.”

You raise a brow, tentative. “Yeah?” He shrugs, but there’s something unreadable in his expression now, something softer, quieter. “They make your eyes stand out more.” He pauses, then adds with zero fanfare: “You’ve got nice eyes.” It lands like a piano dropped from ten stories. Simple, direct, and impossible to ignore. You blink, stunned; not just by the words, but by the way he said them. Like it wasn’t a joke. Like he meant it. Before you can formulate an actual response, Heeseung clears his throat and looks away. “Alright, let’s go,” he says, already walking toward the exit. “You can thank me later when Soobin gets whiplash tonight.” 

It takes you a beat to follow. Just one. But it’s enough to register that your cheeks are suddenly warm. That your stomach did a weird, traitorous flip. That you hate how a single compliment from Lee freaking Heeseung just turned your brain into a puddle. You push the thought aside and jog to catch up, voice light. “You know, for someone who thinks I look like a librarian, you sure stare a lot.”

He doesn’t look at you, but his mouth twitches into a grin. “You wish.” You do not dignify that with an answer. Mostly because your brain is still back at You’ve got nice eyes. And just like that, with one step out of the eyeglass store and into the fluorescent madness of the mall, the first layer of the old you is left behind.

You’ve barely had time to blink, or process the fact that you’re now navigating the mall with 20/20 vision and a slightly compromised emotional state, when Heeseung is dragging you again. His grip on your wrist is light, but determined, like he’s got an agenda and you’re just a reluctant passenger in the Heeseung Express. You stumble to keep up. “Where are we going now? I need emotional closure before the next attack on my personality.”

He doesn’t even turn around. “Hair.”

“Hair what?”

“Hair cut. Hair styling. Hair lesson. Hair magic. Come on, keep up.” You dig your heels into the tile floor and jerk your arm back. “Heeseung, wait — I did not agree to this. My hair is fine!” 

He finally turns, a single amused brow arched in classic Heeseung fashion. “Fine,” he echoes flatly. “That’s the bar now? Fine?”

You cross your arms. “It’s my head.” He takes a step closer, voice dipping into that maddening blend of mockery and charm. He laughs — laughs, the audacity of him, and says, “Relax. It’s just a trim. Maybe some layers. She’s gonna show you how to actually style it too. You know, so it doesn’t look like you were electrocuted every morning before class.”

You gasp in betrayal. “I’m sorry?!”

“Respectfully,” he adds, as if that softens the blow, then gestures for you to follow. “Come on. She doesn’t bite.” You eye the interior of the salon like you’re being led to an altar, but against your better judgment, and possibly because you’re too tired to argue anymore, you follow him. 

The girl waiting for you is already at her station, brushing her long, glossy black hair behind one ear. She’s tall, unfairly pretty, and wearing jeans that should be illegal. Her name tag reads “Yuri” in bubble-letter cursive. She sees Heeseung and her entire face lights up like a rom-com montage in reverse. “Heeseung!” she squeals, standing to give him a hug. It’s the kind of hug that lasts exactly one second too long to be casual. “You didn’t say you were coming in today!”

“I didn’t,” he says coolly, his hand barely grazing her back. “Brought a friend.”

You watch the interaction with narrowed eyes. It doesn’t take a genius, or even a whole brain cell, to figure out that these two have history. Whether it was a one-night stand, a few steamy study sessions, or something more dangerous like feelings, you’re not sure. But based on the way Yuri’s eyes immediately slide past you and lock on Heeseung like you’re the invisible girl in the background of her fantasy novel? Yeah. They’ve definitely seen each other naked. 

“She’s gonna need a trim and a crash course in how not to commit hair crimes.” Heeseung says, throwing a smirk her way. You open your mouth to protest, again but suddenly Yuri’s hands are in your hair and you’re being guided toward a chair like it’s your fate and destiny. “Don’t worry,” she hums. “I’ll take care of her.” 

“She’s fragile,” Heeseung calls after her with a smirk as he saunters toward the waiting bench. “Mentally and emotionally.”

“I will throw a brush at you!” you yell back as he flops onto the bench with his phone. Yuri laughs under her breath and begins to run her fingers through your hair. Her nails are long, her movements graceful, and despite your stubbornness, something about the way she works is oddly calming. For the next half hour, you sit there as she snips and styles and explains how to curl and blow out and not look like you just woke up five minutes ago. 

“You’ve got good hair,” she says at one point, combing through a section with reverence. “You just don’t do anything with it.” You shrug in the mirror. “That’s kind of my thing.”

Yuri gets to work with practiced ease, fingers threading through your hair, sectioning, snipping. She hums to herself as she teaches you how to twist certain pieces, how to round-brush volume into your roots, how to flick the straightener just so to create an effortless bend. It’s overwhelming, but oddly empowering. Like you’re being handed the controls to your own spaceship. And somewhere beneath all the bitchy undertones, Yuri’s… actually pretty good at this. You glance toward the waiting bench. Heeseung is slouched with his legs sprawled out, scrolling on his phone like he’s not the reason this spiral of makeovers and feelings is happening at all. Every few minutes he glances up; quick, unassuming, but you catch him watching.

Finally, Yuri steps back. “Alright,” she says, tugging off the cape with a flourish. “Moment of truth.” You turn slowly toward the mirror. And okay, fine. You look… kind of amazing. Your hair isn’t drastically different, just sleeker. Softer around the edges. Effortlessly polished in that “I woke up like this but with money and a personal stylist” kind of way. It frames your face, brings out your eyes, makes you look like someone who chose to be seen instead of hiding behind glass and sarcasm. You stand, still a little dazed, and make your way over to Heeseung. He looks up just as you reach him, and something flickers in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything right away. 

But then — He grins. That slow, crooked, effortlessly smug grin. “She’s a miracle worker,” he says to Yuri, standing and pulling out his wallet. “Put it on my card.”

Yuri takes it with a wink. “You’re welcome.”

“Thanks, Yuri. I’ll call you.” He says, with the offer a wink in her direction. 

She swoons. “You better.”

Once you’re outside, you finally say it, because someone has to. “You’re not going to call her.”

“Nope,” he replies, the ‘p’ popping off his lips like punctuation. 

You shake your head in disbelief. “You are such a menace.”

“I prefer charming rascal,” he says, holding the door open for you like a true gentleman-shaped disaster. “Besides, she’s into guys who ghost her. Keeps the fantasy alive.”

You groan. “You’re actually insane.” He only shrugs, hands in his pockets, strolling beside you with the ease of someone who has never questioned his place in the world. 

The moment your feet hit the tile floor of the clothing store, you know this is going to be a disaster. The air is thick with overpriced perfume and the walls are lined with mannequins posed like they’re judging you. Bright lights buzz overhead, harsh and clinical, and the racks seem to stretch into infinity, each one more chaotic than the last. There are sequin jackets tangled with pastel blouses, jeans with more holes than fabric, and crop tops that look like they were designed for dolls, not human beings. You glance around, disoriented. “There is… absolutely nothing here I’d wear.” 

Heeseung, of course, looks completely in his element. He’s already moving through the racks like a man on a mission, pulling shirts and skirts and things that glitter ominously. “That’s the point,” he says over his shoulder, tossing a fringed jacket onto the growing pile in his arms. “You’re not supposed to wear what you’d wear. We’re evolving.”

“Into what? A disco ball?” 

“No,” he replies seriously, “into the kind of girl Soobin stares at across the room and forgets how to blink.” You roll your eyes and reach for a flannel shirt, your comfort zone. Heeseung is there in half a second, gently slapping your hand away. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

“But—”

He points toward the dressing room. “Try these first. And don’t come out until you’ve mentally committed to the bit.” You sigh, arms loaded with fabrics you didn’t even know existed. The dressing room is small and slightly claustrophobic, and the first outfit you try on feels like something a pop star would wear to confuse the paparazzi. You step out hesitantly, tugging at the edges of the bright green top that’s two sizes too tight. Heeseung blinks.

Then he bursts out laughing. “You look like a glow stick in crisis.”

You snort, your face burning. “Okay, rude.” The next outfit is worse: a ruffled floral monstrosity that looks like it belongs in an 1800s romance novel, if that novel had a comedic twist.

Heeseung cackles. “You’re one bonnet away from becoming Pride and Prejudice’s chaotic cousin.” You both descend into full-blown laughter, the kind that makes your stomach hurt and your eyes water. It's ridiculous, how quickly the walls fall between you when you're in this bubble of absurdity, trying on outfits and exchanging insults like secrets. He calls you a fashion war crime. You call him a menace with too much confidence. He claims he’s got the eye of a stylist. You tell him that eye is clearly blind. But somewhere along the way, the laughter shifts. It softens. Somewhere in the middle of the chaos, he starts watching you differently.

You don’t notice it at first, not until you slip into the last dress. It’s simple. No sequins, no plunging neckline, no look-at-me theatrics. Just soft black silk that clings gently to your frame, the neckline a graceful square that highlights your collarbones, the hem brushing just above your knees. You stare at yourself in the mirror for a moment, surprised. It’s not flashy. It’s not dramatic. But it feels like you, the version of you that’s always been hiding underneath. You take a breath, then step out of the dressing room.

Heeseung is on the bench, scrolling through his phone, completely unprepared. He glances up, probably ready with another quip, but the second he sees you, he stops. His phone lowers slowly in his hand. His mouth parts. And he just… stares. For the first time since this entire makeover madness began, Lee Heeseung is speechless. You shift awkwardly under his gaze, tugging at the hem of the dress. “Is it—do I look weird? Be honest.” He doesn’t answer.

You take a hesitant step forward, heart thudding. “Heeseung?”

He blinks, like you pulled him from a dream, and then, because he’s Heeseung, he smirks and shrugs. “That’ll do for tonight, I suppose.” 

You scoff and roll your eyes, but the flush on your cheeks betrays you. ���Wow. High praise. I’m overwhelmed.” He grins, leaning back and resting one arm behind his head. “Don’t let it get to your head. We’re going for hot, not heart attack-inducing.”

You disappear back into the dressing room before he can see the stupid smile tugging at your lips. Your heart feels like it’s doing somersaults, and not because of Soobin. You shake the thought from your head, firmly, stubbornly, and change back into your jeans and hoodie. A few minutes later, you’re at the register, watching the cashier ring up the pile of clothes that feel like pieces of someone new. Someone a little braver. A little shinier. A little less invisible. Heeseung stands beside you, smug and satisfied, like he just built you in a lab. 

The cashier announces the total, and before you can even reach for your wallet, Heeseung slides his card across the counter. “On me.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Heeseung, what?”

He just winks. “Don’t worry. I’ll bill you in character development. The cashier bags the clothes, and you step back into the mall with your arms full of potential and your brain full of questions. 

After the last store spits you out, bags in hand, Heeseung’s wallet lighter, your soul slightly transformed, Heeseung glances at the clock on his phone and says, “Okay. Next stop: food court. I need carbs before I collapse.” 

You blink at him, momentarily stunned. “You eat pizza like the rest of us?”

He shoots you a look. “ I don’t just eat pizza. I inhale it. Come on.” Your stomach growls before your feet can move, and suddenly you realize that in all the chaos, makeup, mirrors, the emotionally unsettling event of someone finding you attractive, you forgot to eat. Now that he’s mentioned it, you’re starving. Practically feral. You follow him past vendors and kiosks, the scent of fried food and cinnamon sugar swirling through the air. The food court is loud and crowded, but there’s something strangely comforting about it, the normalcy of it, the fluorescent lights and orange booths, the chatter of families and teenagers and friends grabbing greasy comfort.

Heeseung gets in line beside you at the pizza place, his arms still casually swinging at his sides like this is just another day. “What’s your poison?”

You glance at the menu. “Uh… pepperoni. And a soda.” He nods and orders for you both, without asking, like he’s already memorized the way you talk, the things you like. You’re about to protest, but then he’s paying with that same black card he flashed earlier and nudging you toward a table like it’s no big deal. You settle into a booth across from him, the tray between you bearing two steaming slices and a pair of plastic cups filled to the brim with soda. The first bite is practically a religious experience, greasy, cheesy, absolutely glorious.

Heeseung watches you with mild amusement. “You eat like you’ve just returned from war.”

“I have,” you say, voice muffled around a bite. “Battlefield: retail.”

He snorts and takes a sip of his drink. Then, after a pause, his expression shifts. “So… have you ever actually spoken to Soobin?”

You freeze mid-bite, the cheese stretching between your lips and the slice. You blink. “Define spoken.”

He raises a brow. “Words. Sentences. Preferably involving two-way communication.”

You swallow and clear your throat. “I, uh, once held the computer lab door open for him.” He’s already laughing. You roll your eyes, cheeks flaming. “He said thank you!” 

Heeseung grins, eyes crinkling. “Wow. A whole conversation. Do you guys have an anniversary for that?”

You smack his arm lightly across the table. “Shut up.”

He rubs the spot like you wounded him. “Abuse. I’m calling my lawyer.” You giggle despite yourself, hiding it behind your soda. There’s something so stupidly easy about sitting here with him. You forget you’re supposed to be awkward and invisible. You forget that you’re the DUF. You’re just… you. Which is why the next thing he says nearly gives you whiplash. “Alright,” he declares, brushing crumbs off his hands. “I dare you to flirt with that guy and get his number.”

You nearly choke on your drink. “Excuse me?” He gestures with a nod to a guy sitting alone across the food court, mid-twenties, dark hair, nose in his phone, clearly minding his own business.

“No way,” you say immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on. This is training. You want Soobin, don’t you?” 

“Yes, but—”

“Then get off the bench and into the game.”

You narrow your eyes. “Easy for you to say. You flirt like it’s breathing.”

He smirks. “Because it is.”

And then — he stands up. Before you can even form a sentence, Heeseung is already strolling toward a girl seated at a table nearby, casual and charming, like this is something he does between errands. You watch, jaw slack, as he leans in and says something that makes her smile, tilt her head, laugh. He gestures to his phone, and she takes it without hesitation, tapping her number in and handing it back with a wink. Heeseung returns, smug as a cat, holding his phone out to you like a trophy. “See?” he says, displaying the fresh new contact with flourish. “Easy peasy.”

You stare at him like he’s grown a second head. “I hate you.”

He just shrugs. “Hate me from over there,” he says, pointing again at the guy with the phone. “Go on. Play dumb, but not that dumb. Guys love that shit.”

“I am dumb,” you hiss. “There is no playing.” 

“Perfect. Just be your beautiful, awkward self.” Muttering every curse you know, you stand up and start toward the guy. It’s awful. You clear your throat. He doesn’t look up.

You fidget, then say, “Hi!”

He blinks, surprised. “Um. Hi.”

You force a smile. “I like your… phone.” He blinks again. You want to die. “I mean — I like your case! It’s… very rectangular. Classic. Minimalist.”

He looks mildly alarmed. “Thanks?” You attempt a laugh that comes out sounding like a cough. “Sooo, um, are you… single?”

His eyes dart nervously around. “I… I have a boyfriend.”

“OH!” you blurt. “Oh, my bad. I totally support that. I’m not… you know. Homophobic. Or anything.” You want to crawl into a vent and disappear. He offers a small, polite smile. “Have a good day.” And he’s gone, up and out, food tray abandoned. You turn slowly, walking back to the table where Heeseung is laughing so hard he’s red in the face, wheezing into his pizza slice like it’s keeping him alive.

You slump into the seat. “That was a hate crime.”

“That,” he says between snorts, “was the best thing I’ve ever seen. Ever.”

You glare at him. “I hope your soda spills on your lap.” Still grinning, he slides your tray toward you and raises his cup. “To improvement.” You clink your soda against his without smiling. But your heart’s laughing anyway. 

When Heeseung pulls up to your dorm, it’s with a dramatic screech of tires and the kind of recklessly confident parking job that screams I’ve never paid a meter in my life. He leans over the center console, smirking at you as you gather your bags of shopping and your still-wobbly self-esteem from the floor of his car. “Alright,” he says, eyes scanning the bags. “You have everything you need to socially destroy the night.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, fairy godmother.”

He winks. “I’m hotter than a fairy godmother. And taller.” You snort, slamming the car door behind you and flipping him off over your shoulder. He cackles, the sound following you up the stairs of your dorm and into the echoing silence of your room. Once you’re inside, the weight of the next few hours settles in your stomach like a boulder. You place the shopping bags carefully on your bed, smoothing the edges of the tissue paper like they might calm your nerves. Heeseung said he’d be back at 9 p.m. sharp to pick you up, which gives you a little over three hours to get ready. Three hours to transform. Three hours to convince yourself that you’re not the DUF anymore.

You spend the first half-hour just staring at yourself in the mirror. No makeup, hair messy, hoodie baggy and beloved. You look… like you. Regular. Quiet. Familiar.

You text Heeseung: “Okay so do I have to wear the mini skirt???”

His reply is instant. “Yes. And send pics. I’m the boss, remember?” You grumble, but slip into the skirt anyway and pair it with a halter top he claimed made your arms look “objectively illegal.” You take a mirror selfie, looking reluctant, and send it off. Within seconds, he replies: “Too ‘I work at a bar and hate my life.’”

You snort, throw the top across the room, and try again. Next outfit: jeans and a crop top. You pose. Click. Send “Cute. But it’s giving ‘we’re just friends.’” You flip him off through text “Try the dress. You know the one.”

You hesitate. That dress. The black silk one, the one that made his words stutter and his eyes flicker. The one that didn’t feel like you were trying to be anyone else, just a bolder version of yourself. You pull it out carefully, fingers gliding across the fabric like it might whisper back. Slowly, you slip it on. It fits like it did in the store. Soft, secure, like a secret. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and for a second… you see it. You see her. The girl who could walk into a party and turn heads. The girl who could maybe, just maybe, make Soobin notice. You send the picture. 

Heeseung replies: “Jesus.” Then, seconds later: “That’s the one.”

No teasing. No jokes. Just those three words that knock your heart off-balance. You set your phone down, exhale slowly. Then, the routine begins. You do your makeup with trembling hands, lashes curled, liner precise, lips tinted a soft rose. Your hair falls the way Yuri taught you, soft waves that frame your face and catch the light. You spray perfume on your wrists, your collarbones, the backs of your knees. A whisper of vanilla and hope. You put on your jewelry, simple earrings, the necklace that sits perfectly in the hollow of your throat. You take one last look in the mirror. You don’t recognize her, but you like her.

Then, your phone rings. The name “Heeseung 💀” flashes on the screen. You answer, voice caught somewhere between a smile and a scream. “Hello?”

“Hey,” he says, casual and breezy like this isn’t the first time he’s hearing your voice dressed like this. “I’m outside.” Your stomach flips.

You grab your bag, give yourself one more desperate glance in the mirror, and whisper to your reflection, “Don’t trip. Don’t choke. Don’t die.” Then you’re out the door, the echo of your footsteps ringing down the hall, your heart doing somersaults in your chest.

The car is sleek and stupidly shiny, purring low like it knows it’s hot. You spot it the moment you step outside your dorm building, standing at the edge of the sidewalk like you’re on the brink of a red carpet. And standing against it, leaning like he was born to be the poster child for a Calvin Klein fragrance, is Heeseung. He looks up as you approach, and even in the dim lighting of campus streetlamps, his smile flickers into something that nearly knocks you over. He’s wearing all black, ripped jeans, a bomber jacket, his signature messy hair that probably took way too long to make look that effortless. You don’t want to say he looks good, because that feels too generous. He looks... unfair. Rude. And worse? He knows it. He gives you a once-over, slow and obvious. “Damn,” he says, like he’s complimenting you and mocking you in the same breath. “You clean up alright.” 

You roll your eyes, clutching your purse a little tighter. “You’re not so bad yourself. For a menace.”

He smirks and pops open the passenger door for you with an exaggerated flourish. “M’lady.” You roll your eyes again, but your heart skips a beat anyway as you slide into the seat, the cool leather against your thighs making you realize just how very real this is. You’re on your way to the party. With Lee Heeseung. In a black silk dress and mascara that took you 45 minutes to get right. Breathe. The drive is short, just a few blocks away in one of those off-campus houses you’ve only ever seen through the haze of Instagram stories and hearsay. But your nerves are anything but short. They’ve curled into your stomach, wound tight around your ribs, pressed against the back of your throat. You grip the strap of your bag like it’s a lifeline.

You’ve been to parties before, sure. But never without Dani and Sakura. Without their protective, familiar presence to anchor you in the sea of bodies and music and beer breath. Without their shared eye-rolls and whispered commentary and midnight giggles on the walk home. And now… now you don’t even know if they’ll be there. Scratch that. You know they will. You just don’t want to see them. Not tonight. Not when you're dressed like this. Not when you're trying so hard to become someone new.

You barely realize the car’s stopped until Heeseung throws it into park. You’re frozen, staring out the window at the glittering string lights draped across the porch, the thump of bass already vibrating through the concrete. There are people everywhere, laughing, shouting, spilling out onto the lawn like they’ve never had a quiet thought in their lives. You’re going to puke. Heeseung glances over, and; because he’s Heeseung, he notices immediately. “You good?” he asks, casual but careful. “You look like you’re about to get drafted into war.”

You force a laugh, but it’s brittle. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.” You glance at him, cheeks hot. “Okay, I’m just… nervous.”

He nods like he gets it, and maybe he does. Maybe he doesn’t. But his voice is soft when he says, “Hey. Look at me.” You do. “Everything’s gonna be cool,” he says, with a cocky grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You look insane, by the way. Like, criminal levels of hot. If Soobin doesn’t fold tonight, he’s legally blind.”

That earns a weak laugh from you, and he nudges your shoulder gently. “Just remember who got you here when you’re famous on campus by Monday.”

You snort. “You mean when they put me in GroupMe memes for tripping over my heels and knocking over a keg?”

Heeseung grins. “Even better. Instant legend status.” You breathe out, shaky but a little more stable now. “Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s do this.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

He laughs, throwing open the door. “That’s the spirit.”

You step out onto the curb, your heels clicking against the pavement like you’re a contestant on America’s Next Nervous Breakdown. But still, you stand up straighter. Shoulders back. Head high. You smooth the hem of your dress and tell yourself this is what you came here for. To show them. To show yourself. Heeseung falls into step beside you, his hand brushing against yours, not quite touching, but close enough to anchor you. Together, you walk toward the house, the music growing louder with every step. Somewhere behind the front door, the party waits. Soobin waits. They might be waiting too. But for now; it’s just you. And Heeseung. And the version of you that’s ready to finally be seen.

The moment the front door swings open, you’re hit with a wall of noise and heat, thick and heady like you’ve just stepped into the center of a beating heart. The bass is thudding through the floorboards, lights pulsing with every drop of the music, and bodies are everywhere, moving, swaying, tangled up in each other, laughter and shouting and the occasional high-pitched squeal blending together like some chaotic symphony of college nightlife. It’s not your first party, not technically, but it’s your first this kind of party, this kind of entrance. Not as a background extra or the girl carrying everyone’s phones. No hoodie, no glasses, no fading into the wallpaper. 

Tonight, you’re a main character. And Heeseung is your entrance music. He walks in first, easy and smooth, like the world shifts to make room for him. His presence is magnetic, and it pulls eyes toward the doorway like gravity. The second you step through behind him, heels tapping softly, dress swishing around your thighs like smoke, there’s a ripple. You feel it. Heads turning. Conversations pausing. The hush of recognition so subtle you might miss it, if your nerves weren’t already on fire. 

You try not to look around too much. You try to look confident. Poised. Detached, even. You tilt your chin up like you belong, even though your hands are clammy and your stomach is doing Olympic-level gymnastics. You’re hyper-aware of everything: the way the strap of your dress slides against your shoulder, the way your perfume clings to the heat of your skin, the soft creak of your heels on the hardwood floor. You catch flashes of recognition from familiar faces, faces that used to glance right through you, now blinking, staring, mouths parted, whispering behind their solo cups. And you? You just keep walking. Heeseung’s friends spot him in the far corner of the room, near a low couch littered with bags of chips and someone’s half-eaten box of pizza. The greetings are instant, shoulder claps, finger guns, head nods and booming “Yo!”s that feel like something out of a movie. Sunghoon practically lunges forward, clapping Heeseung on the back like he’s just returned from war. Beomgyu pulls him into one of those half-hugs that somehow involve three back slaps and an awkward shoulder bump. Jay and Jake both pipe up at once about someone from class asking for him earlier, their voices fighting over the music. And for a second, you’re forgotten. 

You stand a little off to the side, hands awkwardly clasped in front of you, smile hovering uncertainly on your lips. You’re not mad, they haven’t seen each other in a bit, and the reunion energy is real, but the awkward ache settles in your chest anyway, that old too-familiar feeling of being adjacent to the fun but not quite in it. Until Sunghoon finally turns toward you, and freezes. His eyebrows shoot up so far they practically disappear into his hairline. His eyes flick over you, slow and not particularly subtle, dragging from the hem of your dress to the curve of your collarbone to your lips like he’s trying to solve a riddle with his eyeballs. “Uh… who’s this?” 

Beomgyu leans in, squinting in your direction like he’s staring directly into the sun. “Wait. Are you new? Like, transfer student new? Heeseung, bro, you didn’t say you were bringing someone.” Heeseung, who is somehow already sipping a drink he didn’t have two seconds ago, sighs and smacks Beomgyu lightly on the back of the head.

“She’s not new,” Heeseung says casually. “You guys know her.”

Jay looks genuinely confused. “We do?”

ake leans sideways to get a better look at you. “Hold on…” Heeseung glances at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then, with perfect comedic timing and just enough pride to make your knees wobble, he says your name like it was obvious. To them, it was not and for some reason that twisted you up inside. 

There is a silence. Then, chaos. “NO FREAKING WAY.” Sunghoon’s voice actually cracks. “Shut up. Shut UP.” Beomgyu’s mouth falls open. “You’re lying. This is not hoodie-and-sweatpants Y/N. This is, like — TikTok viral-level hot girl Y/N. You’re telling me it’s the same person?” You’re half-laughing, half-dying inside. You glance away, cheeks burning, unsure what to do with your hands or your face or your entire existence. This wasn’t supposed to feel like a scene from a teen makeover movie, but, well. Here you are.

“She’s always looked like this,” Heeseung says coolly, giving them a look that says don’t push it. “You just never paid attention.” The group stumbles over themselves with backpedaling compliments, Sunghoon muttering something about your eyes, Jake saying you look “like a star,” and Beomgyu still acting like he just saw a unicorn. You’re saved from having to respond by Heeseung, who, clearly reading your overwhelmed expression, tosses out casually, “You guys seen Soobin?” 

Jay shakes his head. “Not yet. Might be outside?” Heeseung nods, and without another word, he reaches down and grabs your hand like it’s the most normal thing in the world. And maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Either way, the contact is sudden and warm and firm, and you don’t even think, you just let him pull you through the crowd, dodging plastic cups and tangled limbs as he weaves toward the kitchen. Your hand stays in his the whole way. You don’t ask why. You don’t let yourself hope. When you reach the drink table, he finally lets go, only to pour you something in a red cup and hand it to you like a bartender with a mission. 

“You alive?” he teases, raising an eyebrow.

You take the cup, roll your eyes, and murmur, “Barely.”

Heeseung clinks his cup against yours, grin widening. “You’re killing it.”

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice just loud enough to cut through the bass thumping behind you. It’s gentler than you expect, free of teasing or sarcasm.

You nod automatically. “Yeah, I’m—”

“Y/N?!” The sound of your name rips through the music like a siren. You freeze. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. You’d know those voices anywhere. They’re carved into your memory, every syllable, every cadence, familiar and aching in the way only ex-best friends can be. Still, you turn.

Dani and Sakura are standing there, half in disbelief, half in judgment. Their eyes rake down your body, from the sleek dress hugging your frame to the careful curls in your hair. Their mouths are parted like they can’t decide whether to gasp or laugh. Sakura tilts her head. “What… are you doing here?”

Dani crosses her arms. “And with him?” 

You glance back at Heeseung for half a second, who hasn’t said a word yet, just watching them with a slight furrow between his brows. Your stomach flips. You force a breath out of your nose and turn back to the girls, your grip tightening around your drink. You let out a laugh. It’s sharp and hollow and lined with every quiet insult they’ve ever made sound like a joke. “What?” you say, voice laced in dry amusement. “Surprised someone like Heeseung would want to hang out with me?” They flinch, barely, but you catch it. Dani opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You don’t wait.

You take a step closer, letting your voice drop, cold and brittle like breaking glass. “Why do you guys even care? Huh? You didn’t seem to care when you were calling me the DUF behind my back.”

Sakura’s expression twists. “We never—”

“This isn’t you, Y/N,” Dani cuts in, voice brittle. “The dress. The makeup. Hanging out with Heeseung? This isn’t who you are.” Your jaw clenches. The words burn, not because they’re true, but because they’re not. Because they’re laced with that same tired condescension, the same kind of backhanded care that always kept you two steps behind, like they wanted you close but never quite caught up. But before you can speak, a sudden warmth settles across your shoulders. Heeseung. His arm slips over you with ease, casual but claiming, protective but not possessive. His fingers brush the edge of your shoulder, and his voice is laced with syrupy sarcasm. 

“We’d love to stay and chit-chat,” he drawls, flashing the girls a lazy grin, “but we’ve got somewhere to be.” And just like that, he doesn’t give them another second. He tugs you away gently, steering you through the party with surprising precision, hand resting firmly on your upper back as he guides you toward the back of the house. You don’t look back. You don’t want to see their faces. You’re too stunned, too angry, too relieved. Your heart is racing and your pulse is pounding and your vision is a little too bright. He opens the back door, and the cooler night air hits you like a blessing. You step out onto the porch, the noise of the party muffled behind the closed door. Fairy lights are strung across the railing, casting a soft gold glow over the wooden planks and the few potted plants half-dead in their corners. It’s quieter here. Private. 

You suck in a breath and finally speak. “Thank you.”

Heeseung leans against the porch railing, glancing sideways at you. “For what?”

You give him a look. “For that. For getting me out of there.”

He shrugs, eyes flicking away. “It’s no big deal.”

You watch him for a moment, heart still unsteady. “It is, though.” He finally meets your gaze again, and for a moment, the cocky smile slips away. His eyes are dark and unreadable, but his voice is soft when he says, “They don’t get to make you feel like that. No one does.” You feel something twist in your chest. Something warm. Something dangerous. For a second, the two of you just… stand there. The silence stretches out, thick and humming with unspoken things. Heeseung’s hand is still in his pocket, but his shoulder is just barely touching yours now. Not quite close enough to be a statement, but close enough to feel like a promise.

The quiet of the back porch doesn’t last long. It breaks like glass, sharp and immediate, at the sound of stilettos clacking against the wood. You feel the shift before you see it. A cool draft. A wrongness. And then, the syrupy sweet voice that makes your spine stiffen and your heart drop. “Well, isn’t this cozy?” 

Wonyoung stood there, draped in a skin-tight red dress that clings like a threat, hair curled into perfect waves, and lips painted a venomous shade of cherry. She walks like the world’s her stage, and you’re just an extra lucky to be in the background. Her smile is the kind that cuts, sharp and gleaming, like she knows something you don’t. Your heart sinks because you remember. You remember her words last time: “Stay away from Heeseung.” You didn’t listen. Maybe you thought she wouldn’t notice. Maybe a part of you hoped she didn’t mean it. But she’s here now, and she’s looking at you like a hunter cornering something helpless. Heeseung straightens beside you, his entire body going taut like a wire pulled too tight. “What do you want, Wonyoung?” he says, voice clipped. 

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she saunters closer and, without warning, nudges you aside with the ease of someone who’s always taken up too much space. Her hand slides onto Heeseung’s shoulder like she owns it, like she’s done it a thousand times before. But Heeseung jerks away instantly, his jaw clenching as he shrugs her off like her touch burned. Still, Wonyoung smiles. “Hee… I miss you.” He doesn’t answer. Not at first. He just glances at you. And the look in his eyes, God, it’s something between apology and warning and please just trust me. But you don’t know how to read it, not really. Not when your stomach is twisting in knots and your voice is caught in your throat. 

“Hey, Wonyoung…” you manage, your tone so high and squeaky you want to slap yourself. Wonyoung turns, slow as a villain in a teen drama, and actually groans, like your existence is somehow the inconvenience of the century. She eyes you up and down with obvious disdain before deadpanning, “What do you want?” 

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh—I was just—” But she’s already looking away, like you don’t matter. Like you’re nothing more than a gnat buzzing in her ear. It’s humiliating. It’s infuriating. But you don’t say anything. You just shrink a little smaller.

She turns back to Heeseung, pressing forward again like she hasn’t just made you feel two inches tall. “We’re playing spin the bottle,” she says brightly, batting her lashes. “Wanna join?”

Heeseung lets out a dry laugh. “What are we, high schoolers?” His voice is full of disbelief. “Isn’t that a kids game?”

Wonyoung just shrugs, undeterred. “Still works.”

Before he can argue again, she latches her fingers around his wrist and tugs. You don’t know if it’s the surprise or the fact that he’s clearly outnumbered, but he lets her drag him halfway across the porch. You don’t even realize you’re following until you’re inside again, the noise swallowing you whole. The crowd’s shifted, coalescing into a rough circle on the living room floor. The center of attention now: an empty bottle spinning slowly on the wood, the air buzzing with half-drunken laughter and anticipation. You spot Dani and Sakura immediately. They’re sitting between Jake and Sunghoon, giggling, whispering, stealing glances at you. But there’s something different now. Not amusement. Not judgment. Pity. It glimmers on their faces like a sheen of sweat, and it makes something cold spark in your chest. You hate it. You’d rather be ignored than pitied. You tear your gaze away. 

“Finally you’re here! Join us!” Wonyoung’s voice rings out, shrill and triumphant. Soobin. He was here, oh god. Your heart lurches at the sight of him. He’s dressed in a white tee and a leather jacket, hair falling perfectly across his forehead, the picture of cool detachment. He smiles slightly as he joins the circle, settling next to Beomgyu without much fanfare. He hasn’t even seen you yet. But suddenly the air in the room is thinner. The lights are harsher. Every breath feels like an effort. This is what you came for, isn’t it? The moment you’ve been chasing. The whole reason you let Heeseung drag you to the mall, to the salon, through an identity transformation that’s still barely settled on your shoulders. You should be thrilled. But instead, all you can feel is this strange, gnawing pressure. You glance at Heeseung, who’s already watching Soobin, something unreadable flickering across his features. Then his gaze shifts to you. There’s tension there. Tight. Heavy. Loaded. And it hits you: the game has started. And you’re no longer sure whose rules you’re playing by.

You watch as people had their turns with the bottle, watching as the glass spun round and round giving someone their fate for the night and finally after countless spins — it was your turn. The bottle spun with a nervous flick of your fingers, clinking softly against the scratched wood floor as it twirled, and you felt your stomach turn with it. Around you, drunken laughter swirled like smoke, the heat of the crowded living room pressing in from all sides. Someone let out a whistle, another person shouted encouragement, and Wonyoung was watching you with narrowed eyes, her arms crossed like she was waiting for you to fall flat on your face. But none of that mattered right now. None of it mattered because that damned bottle had chosen a direction, and it was pointing straight at Soobin. You could barely breathe.

Soobin tilted his head, the corners of his mouth tugging up into a soft, almost apologetic smile, the kind that made your lungs feel like they were filled with helium. His gaze was kind, nonjudgmental. Gentle, even. As if to say “It’s okay if you say no. I won’t be mad.” And God, did that make it worse. Because now the ball was in your court. Your palms were sweating. Your heart pounded so loudly you couldn’t hear the party anymore. Just the roar of blood in your ears. You’d dreamed of this. Fantasized about this exact moment for years. The idea of kissing Soobin had always seemed like something that belonged to a different version of you, a cooler, prettier, worthier version. And yet here you were. Inches from it. One lean forward and you'd touch lips. And still, panic dug into you like claws. 

Your mind spiraled in frantic loops. What if I mess it up? What if I bump noses with him? What if my breath smells like the pizza from earlier? What if my lipstick smudges? What if I suck at it and he tells everyone? And more than anything; do I even want my first kiss to be like this? In front of Wonyoung, Dani, Sakura, and twenty semi-drunk strangers? But before you could finish the spiral, Heeseung’s hand gently curled around your wrist. His fingers were warm, grounding. You turned your head slightly, and he leaned in, his voice brushing against the shell of your ear, low and sincere. “You don’t have to do this,” he murmured. “We can leave. Right now.” 

You paused. That offer, so casual, so safe, it nearly undid you. You looked at him, and for a brief second the noise of the party dropped away. Just Heeseung and his eyes, steady and unreadable. Ready to walk you out of this chaos with zero judgment. But then your gaze flicked across the circle and found Wonyoung, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable but unmistakably sharp. You couldn’t back down. Not now. Not in front of her. “I’m fine,” you whispered, offering Heeseung the tiniest smile, even if it felt wobbly and weak. “I got this.” Reluctantly, he let your wrist go. And so, heart pounding like a drumline, you leaned in. Soobin did too.

Your faces were so close now you could feel the warmth of his breath, smell the faint citrus of his cologne. You were trying not to close your eyes too soon, but you didn’t know the rules. Were there rules? Were you supposed to count to three? Tilt your head? Your brain screamed at you to stop, to run, to — “COPS!” The word cracked through the house like a gunshot.

In an instant, the entire room exploded. Screams. Shouting. Feet slamming against hardwood. Red solo cups hitting the floor and rolling away. Someone knocked over a lamp, plunging half the room into shadow. The panic was immediate and real, like someone had hit a switch that turned this party into a stampede. You didn’t even get a second to blink before Heeseung was yanking you to your feet. “Come on!” he yelled, wrapping his fingers around yours and hauling you after him through the chaos.

You barely had time to register what was happening before you were stumbling through the living room, dodging people vaulting over furniture and crawling through open windows. The entire party had turned feral. Shouting echoed off the walls, red and blue lights flickered from the front yard, and someone shouted something about hiding in the attic. Heeseung didn’t slow. His hand tightened on yours as he dragged you through the kitchen, shouldering past people, and out the back door. The backyard was even more chaotic. Students were climbing fences, squeezing through hedges, and ducking behind trash cans. You stared at the wooden fence in front of you, at least six feet high, and made a sound somewhere between a groan and a gasp. 

“You want me to jump that?” you cried.

“Unless you want your mugshot posted in tomorrow’s student newsletter — yes!” With an ungraceful huff, you hiked up your dress and clambered over the fence, scraping your knee on the way down and landing hard in someone’s overgrown backyard. Heeseung followed right after, barely phased, landing beside you with an effortless thud.

“This way!” so you ran. Breath tearing out of your lungs, dress flapping around your legs, adrenaline pounding through your veins, you ran like your life depended on it. You didn’t stop until Heeseung’s car was in view, parked two blocks down. You practically dove into the passenger seat as he slid behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. He turned the key, the engine roared to life, and the tires screamed against the pavement as he peeled off into the street like a getaway driver in a movie.

You didn’t even speak for the first few seconds, just sat there panting, adrenaline still racing through your bloodstream, chest heaving as the lights and shouting faded behind you. Then, you looked at each other. And burst out laughing. Full, uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. The kind that curled your stomach and left tears in your eyes. You laughed until your lungs hurt. Heeseung clutched the steering wheel with one hand, his other wiping tears from his face. “I almost kissed Soobin,” you gasped out between wheezes.

“And then almost got arrested,” he choked out. “Honestly? 10/10 night.”

You threw your head back, still laughing. “That was insane.”

He grinned at you, cheeks flushed, hair a mess from the mad dash. “You’re kinda fun when you’re not busy hating me, you know that?”

You smiled, your heart slowing in your chest. Outside, the streets blurred past your window. Inside, something was starting to settle. Shift. Change. “I don’t hate you.” You whisper.  You were supposed to kiss Soobin tonight. Instead… you ran away with Heeseung. The laughter between you and Heeseung had started to quiet, settling into the thick silence that sometimes follows a shared moment, like the tide pulling back after a crash of waves. It lingered in the air, warm and easy, the kind of laughter that left your chest aching in the best way. You wiped at the corners of your eyes, breath still uneven from giggling so hard, and turned to look at Heeseung.

He was already watching you. His eyes sparkled under the dim glow of the car’s interior lights, lips curled into a half-smile, like he was still amused by the chaos you both narrowly escaped. Then, he tilted his head, that boyish grin deepening. “You were really going to kiss Soobin just now,” he said, like he still couldn’t believe it. You tried to smile back, to laugh it off, but something in your chest twisted unexpectedly. The corners of your mouth dipped, your gaze fell to your lap, and your fingers began nervously toying with your fingers.

Heeseung noticed immediately. The smile on his face slipped, eyes narrowing just slightly—not in annoyance, but concern. “Hey,” he said softly, leaning just a bit closer. “What’s wrong? I thought this is what you wanted?” You swallowed. The words caught in your throat, all scrambled and fragile. You didn’t want to say it. You hadn’t said it out loud to anyone. It was too revealing, too… vulnerable. But something about Heeseung, the steadiness in his gaze, the quiet way he was looking at you now like you mattered, made you trust him in a way that startled you. So you said it. 

“I’ve never kissed anyone before.” It came out softer than you intended. Barely above a whisper. But it landed between you with the weight of something unspoken for too long. Heeseung didn’t react right away. He didn’t laugh or make a teasing comment. Instead, he just looked at you. His eyes searched yours for something, you weren’t sure what, maybe the why of it, or maybe just the simple truth. But whatever it was, he found it, because after a moment, he nodded, his voice quiet and sincere. “I can teach you.”

You blinked. “What?” 

He nodded again, slower this time. No smirk. No hint of mischief. Just quiet seriousness. “I can teach you,” he repeated, “so you’re not inexperienced when you finally get Soobin.” The words felt… strange. Like something cold and sharp and warm all at once. You weren’t sure what to say, your heart skipping beats like it couldn’t keep up. “You’d really do that?” you asked, voice barely audible.

Heeseung leaned back just enough to look at you fully. “Yeah,” he said. “If you want.” And you did. You didn’t know why. You didn’t know what it meant. But you wanted to. So you nodded. “Okay.” He leaned over the center console, his arm brushing against yours, and suddenly the space between you shrank to something small and intimate. You felt the electricity buzz in the air like static clinging to skin, your pulse racing louder than your thoughts.

You swallowed. “What if I’m bad at it?”

He smiled softly, not in a mocking way but like someone offering reassurance. “That’s why I’m teaching you,” he said. Then, his hand lifted, slow and steady, brushing your hair away from your face and tucking it behind your ear. His touch was featherlight, the pad of his thumb just grazing your cheek. “You want to set the tone,” he murmured. “Don’t just dive right in.” You nodded, breath caught somewhere between your chest and lips, and then — He kissed you. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t rough or overwhelming. It was soft. Intentional. Like he was holding the moment between his hands and molding it into something gentle. His lips were warm, firm but cautious, and he kissed you like he was afraid to scare you off. Like you were something rare. Precious. Fragile.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your hand lifting without thinking to rest gently against his arm. You melted, leaned into him. The world slowed down. The roar in your head dulled to a soft hum. The nervous energy in your chest unwound, slowly replaced by a kind of comfort that made your skin hum. When he pulled away, it was only by inches. His forehead almost rested against yours. His breathing matched yours, shaky and a little uneven. His voice was barely a whisper. “Did you learn anything?”

You blinked at him, dazed, lips still tingling. “I  —I think I need another lesson.” He grinned, something sparking behind his eyes, and then nodded. “I think so too.” The second kiss was different. Gone was the careful, tentative pace. This time, his mouth found yours with a hunger that startled you, like he’d been waiting for permission and now that he had it, he wasn’t going to waste a second. His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. Your hands, unsure at first, found their way to his shoulders, gripping lightly as your lips moved against his. It was fire and silk and all-consuming. His mouth moved with confidence, coaxing you, guiding you, his kiss deeper now, filled with something unspoken. You kissed him back with everything you had, wanting, needing, trying to remember everything, to feel everything.

When he finally pulled away, both of you were breathless. The windows were fogged, your hearts thundering. He looked at you with wide eyes and a half-laugh in his voice. “Let’s get you back to the dorms before I forget this is supposed to be educational.” You blinked at him, flustered and floating somewhere between disbelief and bliss. You nodded, cheeks burning, and didn’t say a word.

The morning sun crept in through the slats of your blinds like a quiet promise, painting golden stripes across your sheets and the cluttered floor of your dorm. You stirred slowly, a little dazed, blinking against the light and the memory of last night that came flooding back all at once. Lee Heeseung kissed you. Correction: you kissed Lee Heeseung. Twice, you never thought you would see the day. Your cheeks burned as you sat up, the remnants of sleep falling off your body like petals, replaced with a rush of electricity that made you want to scream into your pillow. It wasn’t just that it was your first kiss, it was the way it happened. Soft. Gentle. Focused. Like he’d been waiting to kiss you and didn’t know it until the moment your lips touched. You padded across the dorm floor, slipping into your morning routine with a weird sort of buzz in your chest. Toothbrush. Face wash. Outfit. Breakfast bar you didn’t feel like eating. But everything felt brighter. Softer around the edges. You were still you, but something inside of you had shifted just a little to the left. Your phone buzzed.

[ heeseung ] 

Studying tonight? Meet me at the campus cafe. 6pm sharp.

Your breath caught, and for the briefest second you just stared at the screen, heart kicking up a beat like it remembered the feeling of his mouth on yours.

[ You: ] 

Is this a date or is Mr. Yoon threatening your scholarship again?

Three dots danced on your screen before his reply popped up: 

[ heeseung ] 

Can’t it be both? 😏

You let out a snort and shook your head, fingers tapping against the glass.

[ You ] 

Fine. But I’m only coming for the lattes. And the pity.

 [ Heeseung ]  

You love me for my academic desperation.

The audacity of how quickly your fingers typed out “maybe I do” and how fast you deleted it made your heart skip. You settled on a safer: 

[ You ] 

6pm sharp. Don’t be late, loser.

He didn’t respond right away, and that was probably for the best. Your head was still spinning with thoughts you didn’t know what to do with. Because despite the fact that this whole arrangement started as a carefully crafted plan to get Soobin to notice you, Heeseung had crept under your skin in a way you hadn’t expected. You were supposed to tutor him, he was supposed to help you get a makeover and gain confidence. You were not supposed to like the way he looked at you. Or the way he laughed at your jokes, like they were the funniest thing he’d heard all day. Or the way he kissed you like kissing you was something he’d been waiting to do forever. And yet…You shook your head and tried to push the thoughts down as you threw your backpack over your shoulder. There wasn’t time to obsess. You had a class to get to and a very smug, stupidly attractive boy to study with tonight. Still, as you stepped out into the cool morning breeze, you caught yourself smiling. That soft, barely-there kind of smile that made your cheeks warm and your chest float.

The clock on the café wall ticked toward six with the dramatics of a heartbeat, each second heavier than the last. You stood outside the door for a moment longer than necessary, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. It was just a study session. Nothing more. Just like it had been every time you’d met with him to talk about literature, syntax, metaphor, only now, every word he spoke felt double-edged. Heeseung had kissed you. Twice. You had kissed him back. And now here you were, stepping into the soft glow of the campus café, with your heart tucked somewhere beneath your collarbone and trying desperately not to show itself. Heeseung was already there, lounging in the corner booth like it was made for him. One long leg stretched out in front of him, a cup of iced coffee sweating on the table beside a half-opened notebook. His face lit up when he saw you, that easy grin sliding onto his lips as if it belonged there. You hated how your stomach flipped.

“You’re late,” he teased, gesturing at the seat across from him.

You scoffed, sliding into the booth and unzipping your bag. “It’s 5:59. Maybe your watch is just as bad as your syntax.”

He let out a sharp laugh, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Touché.” You started with the basics, flipping through your annotated copy of Frankenstein, pointing out literary devices with the kind of precision you were proud of. Heeseung listened. Really listened. His brow furrowed when he was concentrating, and his eyes flicked back and forth between you and the book like he was trying to stitch your words to the page in real time. He asked questions, good ones, and when he got something right, his grin was so smug you almost threw your pencil at him. But then, somewhere between explaining tragic irony and discussing the gothic atmosphere, his focus started to slip. You were mid-sentence when you felt it, his fingers poking at your side, soft and quick like a spark.

You jumped, letting out a startled laugh. “What the hell?”

Heeseung smirked, clearly proud of himself. “You were monologuing. I had to bring you back to earth.”

“You’re such a child.” You quip. 

“A cute child,” he said, wiggling his brows. You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly with your foot under the table, but there was no bite behind it. There never was anymore. Then, he leaned back in the booth, his voice lowering just enough to signal a shift. “I have an idea, by the way. About how you can actually talk to Soobin.”

You blinked, momentarily derailed. “You mean… like a conversation that doesn’t involve holding a door open and whispering thanks?”

He smirked. “Exactly like that.”

 “Well? I’m listening.” Heeseung’s gaze flicked over your face before he continued. “Sunghoon’s hosting a get-together tomorrow night. It’s not a huge thing, more like a casual hangout. Pizza, soda, football on the TV, the works. Soobin’s gonna be there.”

You hesitated, twirling your pen between your fingers. “I mean, yeah, that sounds okay but…” You tilted your head. “Is it going to be weird if I’m the only girl there?” Heeseung paused. That pause said more than he probably meant it to. He scratched the back of his neck, like he was bracing himself. 

You narrowed your eyes. “What? What is it?”

He sighed. “Sakura, Dani, and… Wonyoung are going to be there too.” Your heart dropped straight to your feet. You leaned back against the booth, head tilted toward the ceiling in a dramatic groan. “Of course they are.”

“I get it if you don’t want to come,” he said quickly. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

But you shook your head, jaw tightening with something that tasted like defiance. “No. I’m going.”

Heeseung blinked. “Really?” his shock, palpable. 

“Yeah,” you said, voice sharper than you meant it to be. “I’m not going to let them ruin this. I’m not going to let her ruin this.” You didn’t have to say her name. He knew. Still, you couldn’t help yourself from asking, quieter now. “Why is Wonyoung even going to something like that? I thought you two were… done.”

“We are,” he said. “But she’s still friends with the guys. She shows up to stuff. It’s… whatever.” It wasn’t whatever to you, but you nodded anyway. Because you knew if you let your thoughts go too far, you’d unravel right there over your half-drunk latte. Heeseung shifted again, this time leaning in closer. “Hey. If anything happens, if anyone says something, or makes you uncomfortable, I’ve got you. Okay?”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and for a moment the din of the café faded behind the weight of that promise. “Okay,” you said. And just like that, it was settled. Tomorrow night, you’d walk into a room where your ex-best friends and your accidental nemesis would be seated on one side, your crush would be on the other, and Heeseung would be somewhere in between. You had no idea what would happen. But you weren’t going to back down.

It was barely past six when you heard the knock on your dorm doo, three quick raps followed by a familiar “Let’s go, loser” muffled through the wood. You smoothed down your shirt, did a quick breath check (because you were just being cautious, not because you were thinking about kissing him again), and opened the door. Heeseung stood there, smug as ever, but there was something different in his eyes, an excitement that made him bounce a little on the balls of his feet. “You’re early,” you said, raising a brow.

“I’m prompt,” he corrected with a wink. “Besides, I couldn’t wait to show you this.”

He brought his hands out from behind his back, and there, held like a treasure map or some kind of sacred scroll, was a single sheet of paper. You blinked, confused, until your eyes scanned the header and the bold black print across the middle. Literature 206 – Midterm Grade: 85% Your gasp was dramatic, theatrical, the kind of sound that would’ve made someone down the hall poke their head out in concern if it hadn’t immediately been followed by your delighted squeal.

“Shut. Up!” you shouted, grabbing the paper from his hands and spinning to look at it closer. “Heeseung, you passed! You didn’t just pass; you did amazing!” He grinned like a fool, the kind of smile that made your chest feel too tight, and before you could even think about it, you launched yourself forward and hugged him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, and his arms instinctively caught you around the waist, the paper crushed between your bodies. He laughed, that soft, deep sound you were starting to crave more than you should. And when you pulled back, just barely, your faces were close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

“Told you I was a genius,” he murmured. You rolled your eyes, still beaming. “No. I’m the genius. You’re just the pretty face riding my coattails.”

He shrugged, smug. “Well, now that I’m officially a scholar,” he plucked the paper from your hand, “it’s time to cash in on your prize.”

You tilted your head. “Prize?” He held the door open for you, gesturing dramatically. “Tonight, you talk to Soobin. It’s finally your moment, superstar.” Your smile faltered, just a hair. Because somewhere, buried beneath all your excited nerves and fresh lip gloss, there it was. That voice. Small. Soft. Inconvenient. What if I don’t want Soobin anymore? You blinked, shoved it down. Laughed, even, like it wasn’t true. But it was. Or at least…it was becoming true. Every second you spent with Heeseung, that voice got louder. The boy who was once just a cocky annoyance was now a constant in your thoughts. He made you laugh. Made you feel seen. Kissed you like you were the only girl in the universe.

But you didn’t say any of that. Instead, you slipped past him into the hallway and said, “Well, let’s not keep my prize waiting.” The drive to Sunghoon’s house was familiar now, the same twisty roads and flashing streetlights. Heeseung’s music was loud, upbeat, something with too much bass and a beat that rattled your bones, but you didn’t mind. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, occasionally tapping along to lyrics, and every so often he’d glance at you out of the corner of his eye and smirk like he knew something you didn’t.

Maybe he did. You watched the world blur outside the window, trying not to think too hard about anything. Not the party. Not Soobin. Not the fact that Heeseung’s cologne was now recognizable by scent alone, or the way your hands had fit so naturally around the nape of his neck just moments ago. When he pulled into Sunghoon’s driveway, the house was already glowing, warm lights, windows open, the soft buzz of voices filtering out to the street. You took a breath.

“Ready?” he asked, not moving to get out just yet. You turned to look at him, heart thudding somewhere between nervous and expectant. “Let’s do it,” you said.

You weren’t sure when your heart had started beating so hard, only that you could feel it in the soles of your feet and the tips of your ears. From the moment you stepped out of Heeseung’s car and followed him to Sunghoon’s front door, your nerves had been steadily building, like pressure in a shaken soda can. The lights inside were warm, the sounds of chatter and clinking glasses casual, but nothing about this night felt easy. You stepped through the threshold like you owned the place, chin high, spine straight, masking your spiraling thoughts with the practiced poise of someone who’d watched one too many confidence tutorials on YouTube. Heeseung’s hand hovered protectively at the small of your back, just barely touching, but grounding you all the same. That slight pressure said, I’m here, and for a moment, you could almost breathe.

The living room was full already. Jake sat cross-legged on the floor, waving a slice of pizza around mid-story, while Jay and Beomgyu were in the middle of a mock argument about what toppings were superior. Sunghoon looked up from where he was grabbing drinks and offered a casual grin. And then, your eyes caught them. Dani and Sakura, tucked on one side of the couch, their laughter too forced, their eyes on you too long. But, Wonyoung. She didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. Her gaze zeroed in on Heeseung’s hand still lingering on your back like it was a personal offense, her perfectly glossed lips curling into something sour. “What is she doing here?” she said finally, her voice louder than it needed to be, slicing through the room like a knife dressed in perfume. You froze, but Heeseung didn’t. 

“She’s here because I want her here,” he said smoothly, not even looking at her. His tone was so offhand it made Wonyoung’s eye twitch. She scoffed, turning back to Jay with an exaggerated sigh, tossing her hair like she hadn’t just tried to publicly shame you. You swallowed hard. The room shifted again, the center of gravity pulling you straight toward the boy you hadn’t seen since the party. Soobin. He was seated on the couch, drink in hand, wearing a simple hoodie and jeans, his soft smile as warm as you remembered. He looked up when you approached, a flash of recognition lighting his expression. 

“Hey — Y/N, right?” he asked, voice gentle.

You nodded, tucking hair behind your ear. “Yeah, that’s me.” He patted the cushion next to him, and you sat, acutely aware of the way Dani and Sakura were watching, and more intensely, the weight of Heeseung’s eyes on the side of your face. But for a moment, none of that mattered. You and Soobin fell into conversation like it was the most natural thing in the world. He asked about your classes, your major, if you were enjoying campus life. His smile never left his face, and yours slowly returned to yours. You laughed at something he said, something dorky and sweet about how he got locked out of his dorm last week, and your hand brushed his arm without thinking. And then your eyes darted up, Heeseung, across the room, sprawled in a chair like he wasn’t watching. But you could feel his attention. Like it was tethered to your pulse.

Before you could dwell too long, a sharp clink of a glass brought everyone’s attention back to the group. Wonyoung, placing her drink with a flourish, said, “We should definitely play Never Have I Ever.” Heeseung groaned immediately. “Are we really doing every high school game in the book this week?”

She shrugged, all innocent smile and lethal intentions. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” A chorus of agreement echoed around the room, and you knew, there was no getting out of this one. Someone dimmed the lights slightly as everyone started moving toward the center of the room, sitting in a loose circle with half-finished pizza slices and soda cans in hand. You sat between Soobin and Heeseung, though the space between you and the latter felt a little too electric, like if you moved even an inch, you might get burned. The game began light, as they always do.

The circle had started off innocent enough, plastic soda bottles sweating on the table, crusted pizza boxes pushed aside, the living room heavy with the low hum of music and the occasional pop of laughter. Someone asked something dumb about stealing candy from a gas station. Another person confessed to cheating on a test in tenth grade. It was stupid, harmless, the kind of thing you could brush off with a smirk and a sip of your drink. But there was something in Wonyoung’s gaze that made the back of your neck prickle before she even opened her mouth. She was perched on the edge of the couch like a queen on her throne, manicured fingers curled delicately around her cup, eyes glittering with something sharp and venomous. She turned her head slowly, deliberately, and locked her eyes on you with a smile that didn’t touch her lips.

“Never have I ever…” she began, the silence prickling around her, “been a loser virgin that no man wants to touch.” The room froze. The words landed like shrapnel, hot and slicing through whatever warmth had existed just moments before. Your chest constricted instantly, the oxygen leaving your lungs in one swift rush. You could feel every pair of eyes in the room shift to you, some wide with shock, others downcast, uncomfortable. You sat rigid, your cup trembling in your fingers, your pulse thudding like thunder in your ears. And then Wonyoung, as if to twist the knife, tilted her head and said, sweetly venomous, “Y/N, that means you have to put your hand up.” Your throat tightened so fast it hurt. You blinked quickly, trying to swallow it down, trying to pretend you hadn’t heard her right. But Heeseung stood up then, voice sharp and cold in a way you’d never heard from him before. “Knock it off, Wonyoung.”

She gave a lighthearted shrug, still smiling like this was all some twisted joke. “I mean…it’s just a game, Heeseung. No need to get snappy.”

Dani scoffed, disgust heavy in her voice. “You know exactly what you’re doing. Cut it out.”

But the damage had already been done. Your vision blurred as a tear slipped down your cheek without permission, hot with embarrassment, with shame, with the kind of humiliation that clings to your skin like ash. The silence was worse than the laughter could’ve been, everyone staring, no one speaking. Just the sound of your shaky breath and the trembling rattle of your heart in your chest. You couldn’t stay. You wouldn’t. Without a word, you stood up on wobbly legs, grabbing your bag with clumsy fingers and bolting for the front door. You didn’t hear who called your name, didn’t wait to see who stood or who stayed behind. You just ran, your face burning and your lungs struggling to catch up to your heartbreak. Outside, the air was cold and biting, but not cold enough to numb the pain in your chest. You didn’t get far before you felt a hand gently catch your wrist, not rough, not demanding. Just there. Just him.

“Hey; hey, look at me,” Heeseung said softly, turning you to face him. The night was quiet except for your breaths, short and uneven. He reached up, brushing your tear-streaked cheek with his thumb, the gesture so tender you nearly fell apart all over again. “Don’t listen to her,” he whispered. “She’s miserable and she wanted to take it out on someone. That’s all this is.”

“I’m fine,” you choked out, even though you weren’t.

“No, you’re not.” His voice cracked slightly, and he gave a soft shake of his head. “And I should’ve never brought you here. I knew she was going to be here. That’s on me.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” you whispered, your voice raw. “You’re not the one who humiliated me.” Still, his face was drawn with guilt, his brow furrowed. He opened the car door for you and you slid in, heart still pounding, nerves buzzing beneath your skin. He got in after you, but didn’t start the engine right away. The silence filled the cabin again, but this time it wasn’t awkward, it was heavy. Dense with something unspoken.

You stared at your lap, thinking of Wonyoung’s words again. Loser virgin. No man wants to touch you. It echoed in your head, bouncing around until it started to stick. Was she right? Was that why Soobin had never looked at you twice? Why you were always the girl just outside the circle? Before you could overthink it, before the voice of doubt could talk you down, you turned to Heeseung.  “I want you to take my virginity.”

He blinked like he hadn’t heard you. “What?” You met his eyes this time, steady despite the tremble in your chest. “I want you to take my virginity.” The silence was immediate. Then sharp. His eyes widened, lips parting, trying to find something to say, some script, some defense. But nothing came. Just silence and the sound of your breath coming quicker than before. “I just…” you began, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. “What Wonyoung said. Maybe she’s right. Maybe Soobin wouldn’t want someone like me. Someone who’s never—” 

“That’s not true—”

“Please.” Your voice cracked then, raw and soft, but full of something else too. Desperation, maybe. Maybe hope. Heeseung looked at you then, really looked. And something shifted in his gaze, his expression folding into something more serious, more solemn. There wasn’t any cocky grin, no teasing smirk. Just… sincerity.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “Yeah?”

He nodded once. “Yeah.” Relief washed over you slowly, curling around the fear that had taken root in your belly. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, something like gratitude spilling from your chest.

“Tonight?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t hesitate. “Tonight.”

And then he turned the key in the ignition, the engine humming to life as the two of you slipped into the dark, quiet night, no longer running away, but heading toward something that neither of you could quite name yet. But you could feel it, in the beat of your heart, the warmth in your chest, and the hand that rested gently over yours on the console.

The streets outside were washed in amber, the streetlights spilling honey-colored light onto the hood of Heeseung’s car as he pulled up to the quiet curb outside a low-rise campus apartment building. You recognized it, vaguely,  though you’d never had a reason to be this far from your dorm before. He eased the car into park, the soft click of the gear shift cutting through the otherwise silent cabin. For a moment, neither of you moved. You were both suspended in this fragile, private space, like the world outside had hit pause just to give you this breath of stillness. He turned to you, one hand still on the steering wheel, the other reaching across the console like he might take your hand but thinking better of it. His gaze flickered to your face, warm and searching, not demanding. Not expectant. Just careful. Just him.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice low but steady. And you nodded. Without hesitation. Without the voice of Wonyoung echoing in your ears. Without thinking about Soobin or the plan or the stupid game that led you here. You nodded because it was Heeseung and somehow, in the softest, strangest way, you’d never been more certain about anything in your life.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sure.” That was all it took. Heeseung stepped out of the car, jogged around to your side, and opened the door for you, offering a hand as you slid out. The air between you pulsed with unspoken tension, not the bad kind, not the kind that makes you want to flee, but the kind that hums beneath your skin like a quiet, rising tide. Neither of you spoke on the short walk to the building. You could feel the beat of your own pulse in your throat, your palms, your knees. Every footstep up the stairwell echoed like a question you were still answering with every breath. When he unlocked the door to the apartment, you stepped into a place that somehow felt like him , even if it wasn’t entirely his. The living room was tidy but lived-in: a half-empty water bottle on the counter, a sweatshirt slung over the back of the couch, a flickering neon sign in the shape of a guitar hanging above the TV. There was a faint scent of cologne and fabric softener in the air , something warm and clean and utterly disarming.

You glanced around, instinctively nervous. “Are you sure no one’s—?”

“I live with Jake,” Heeseung said, gently tugging you further inside. “But he’s out for the weekend. Swear.” Jake was obviously still at Sunghoon’s house. So, you nodded, cheeks warm as he guided you toward the hallway. Every step felt louder now, your heartbeat echoing in your ears. You could feel the shift happening between you,  something solemn, something sacred as he led you into his bedroom. The door clicked shut behind you. His room was dimly lit, the overhead light off, only the glow from a desk lamp in the corner casting soft shadows along the walls. Posters of concerts and bands you half-recognized were pinned above his bed. His guitar leaned against the corner, pick still nestled in the strings. The bed was made, barely and a hoodie lay crumpled on the chair by his desk. You turned to him again, breath caught somewhere in your chest. Heeseung was standing just a few feet away now, hands at his sides, gaze never leaving yours.

“Are you still sure?” he asked again, quiet and reverent. And again, you said yes. The word had barely left your mouth before he was stepping toward you, not fast, never fast , just sure, just gentle. His hand reached up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, fingertips brushing your cheek like he couldn’t believe you were real. Then he was kissing you, slow and careful, lips warm and familiar now. The kiss wasn’t like the one in the car, not teasing, not frantic. This one was patient, intentional. Like he was asking permission with every soft press of his mouth, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your yes. 

The rest happened slowly. Clothes were shed like old skins, your nerves still there, still fluttering like moths in your stomach, but softened by the way he touched you. Every brush of his fingers was careful, every motion deliberate. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t teasing. He just was warm and present, grounding you with the weight of his hands and the way he whispered your name like it was something sacred. He kissed your shoulder. Your collarbone. The hollow behind your ear. He held you like you were something breakable and beautiful. When it finally happened, he was looking into your eyes, his hand laced with yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles to calm you. It hurt at first, of course it did, but it wasn’t scary. Not with him. And eventually the pain faded into something else entirely, something you couldn’t name, only feel.

His hands caressed your body like you were made of porcelain. His breathing hard groans falling from his lips with the severance of a melody you’d never want to forget. “Fuck” He grunted, his hips meetings yours. His forehead sheen with sweat fell against your naked shoulder, lining the skin with searing hot kisses. 

“You feel so good.” His grip on your hips tightened as he allowed himself to go faster, rougher. The sound of skin, mixing with your breathy moans and Heeseung groans were the only sound in the room. 

“Harder.” You choked, letting your head fall against the pillow, your hair creating a halo on the satin pillow case. “Please, Heeseung, harder.” You were begging, pleading for me. It felt too good, better than anything you’ve ever experienced and you just couldn’t get enough. 

Heeseung groaned, a low groan that rumbled deep within his belly all the way up his throat. “You want it harder?” He asks, His eyes locked onto yours as you send him a frantic nod. 

“Yes!” Your voice was almost shrill. “Please.” Your hands found his back, racking your nails up and down the skin — certainly leaving red marks in their wake. Heeseung’s hips pushed harder, the force of his thirst sending your body jerking upwards. 

“Oh my god.” You hissed. “Oh my fucking–” Your voice was cut off with his lips falling to yours, his mouth swallowing the sound of your pleasure. He broke away from the kiss with a low moan and a shaky breath. Your breath caught as you tilted your head back, overwhelmed and undone in the best way. Heeseung murmured quiet things into your skin, not jokes, not one-liners, just your name. Just reassurance. Just closeness. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t fireworks. It was better than that. It was real. 

When it was over, he didn’t roll away or laugh or ask how it was. He just stayed there beside you, your bodies tangled beneath his sheets, his thumb brushing lazy circles against your hipbone. You rested your cheek on his shoulder, skin still tingling, your heart finally slowing. And for a long time, neither of you said a word. You didn’t need to. Soon, you got up — put your clothing back on and thank Heeseung for all he did that night. You went to your dorm with an even bigger smile on your face. 

Morning sunlight seeps through the cracks in your dorm blinds, painting golden stripes across your duvet and the delicate curve of your shoulder. You stir slowly, not with the usual groggy resistance of a school day, but with something like ease, something light. Your limbs feel loose beneath your sheets, your chest warm, your lips tingling with memories. Last night plays on a soft reel behind your eyelids: Heeseung’s hands, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing worth seeing, the way his voice trembled when he asked if you were sure. You smile before your eyes are even open. It wasn’t just physical , it was something else entirely. Something safe. Something soft. You don’t know what it means yet, or what it should mean,  but right now, that doesn’t matter. What matters is the way you feel in this moment. Like maybe, for once, you’re not the DUF. Maybe, for once, you’re the girl someone actually wanted.

You get dressed slowly, pulling on your favorite jeans and a simple top that fits you right, a new confidence buzzing just beneath your skin. Your fingers hover over your phone more than once, tempted to text him, something casual, something teasing, but you stop yourself. You’ll see him in Lit anyway. And God, you can’t even begin to guess what that’s going to be like now. The walk to class is a blur of humming thoughts and overplayed memories, your heart skipping each time you think about him. You wonder if he’ll say something. You wonder if you should. You wonder if this is the start of something... more.

When you arrive at the building, the usual crowd of students loiters by the lecture hall, but your eyes find him immediately. Heeseung is leaning against the wall near the door, black hoodie pulled over his head despite the early morning sun, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. He’s looking down at his shoes, but as if sensing you, his head lifts, and there it is. That smile. Soft and crooked and just for you. “Look who finally made it,” you call as you approach, your tone light and teasing, the banter slipping into place like a well-worn jacket. “Didn’t think I’d see your face again after last night.”

Heeseung chuckles, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside you. “Please. You think you’d get rid of me that easy?” 

You roll your eyes, a grin curling at your mouth. “You’re relentless.”

“Persistent,” he corrects with a grin of his own. “There’s a difference.” The air between you hums with something more than your usual back-and-forth, a soft awareness, a shared secret, the ghost of his hands still lingering on your waist. Heeseung’s eyes flick over your face for a moment longer than they usually would, like he’s trying to memorize something. Then, as you’re about to reach for the classroom door, he says your name, softly, tentatively. You pause, looking up at him. His expression has shifted, and it’s not teasing now. It’s serious. Vulnerable, almost. Like there’s a weight on his chest and he’s finally ready to let it tumble out.

“Hey, I—” Heeseung starts, but he doesn’t get far.

“HEESEUNG!” Beomgyu’s voice barrels down the hallway like a wrecking ball, all volume and chaos, and before either of you can react, an arm is slung around Heeseung’s shoulder. “Dude! Party tonight. Sunghoon’s place again. It’s gonna be chill this time, no cops, I swear. You’re coming, right? And you,” Beomgyu points to you with a grin, “you better come too. You’re the new fan favorite.” You let out a laugh, caught off guard, but Heeseung just gives Beomgyu a playful shove. “Yeah, alright. We’ll be there.”

“We?” Beomgyu raises an eyebrow, smirking as he wiggles his brows. “Noted.”

And just like that, Beomgyu is disappearing down the hallway, already off to deliver his invite to the next unsuspecting soul. You glance back at Heeseung, your brows furrowed just slightly. “What were you gonna say? Before Beomgyu... you know.”

Heeseung looks at you for a beat, quiet. And in that silence, something shifts again, but this time it doesn’t rise to the surface. Instead, he just shrugs, sliding his hands back into his pockets. “Nothing,” he says casually, a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Forgot what I was gonna say.”

You want to press,  there’s something in the way he says it, the way his eyes flick away from yours for half a second too long, but you don’t. Not here, not now. So instead, you just nod, falling into step beside him as you both walk into the lecture hall. You’re still smiling. But this time, your heart is wrapped a little tighter in wonder. 

The air tonight feels heavier, not unpleasant, just weightier, charged in a way that isn’t quite like the other parties. The crowd buzzes with the usual electricity, the low thump of bass vibrating through the floorboards, bodies weaving and pressing in rhythm to a beat no one truly hears. But you do. You feel it in your bones, in your blood, in the skin of your arms where goosebumps rise as you and Heeseung step through the doorway into Sunghoon’s house. He walks beside you, shoulder brushing yours, laughter spilling from his lips as he says something teasing about your outfit. It’s familiar, the way he leans in a little closer than necessary, the way he always seems to find something to comment on, from the way you wear your hair to how your drink tastes like battery acid. He’s still the same. But you’re not. Not exactly. 

Because now you know what his breath sounds like when it trembles. You know how he looks when he’s above you, eyes full of questions and reverence like you were a poem he wasn’t sure he was allowed to read. You know what it’s like to be wanted,  not by anyone, but by him. And that knowledge sits in your chest like a small fire, curling smoke and heat into your thoughts as you walk beside him. You make your way to the drink table where Beomgyu and Jay are pouring vodka into plastic cups with reckless enthusiasm, laughing at something Jake said. It’s all easy, the familiar chaos of a college party,  but something inside you feels less swayed by the glitter of it now. Like you’ve seen what matters more, in the quiet hush of a dorm room when all the noise falls away and someone holds you like you're worth the wait. 

You glance toward Heeseung, catching sight of him joining in a game of beer pong with Sunghoon. His laugh is loud, tilted back in his throat, his hair flopping into his eyes as he lines up a shot. He’s magnetic like this, full of life, a little too much, and always just enough. You don’t even notice the tap on your shoulder until you feel it. You turn around to see Soobin. Your stomach doesn’t flutter. Your pulse doesn’t spike. You don’t feel weak in the knees or dizzy in the way you once imagined you would. All you feel is... calm.

His smile is soft, almost sheepish, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “Hey,” he says, voice raised slightly over the music. “I wanted to say… I’m sorry. For what happened the other night. Wonyoung was out of line, and honestly? Everyone knew it.” You blink at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. He rubs the back of his neck, eyes dipping away as if afraid to meet yours fully.

“That… that does make me feel better,” you say after a pause, offering him a genuine smile. It’s small but sincere, the kind of smile you give someone when you’ve outgrown the pedestal they used to stand on. He brightens at that. “Good. You didn’t deserve that.” The conversation unfolds easily, light, harmless. He asks about class, about your professor’s weird rant last week, and you laugh with him, grateful that it’s not awkward or strange. For a few minutes, it’s like nothing ever changed. But every now and then, your gaze slides across the room, to where Heeseung is, to the way his hand gestures wildly in the air after making a perfect shot, the way his eyes scan the crowd and catch on you. You feel it each time, that invisible thread tugging between you both, fragile but undeniable.

Soobin leans closer, tipping his head toward you. “Hey, the music’s kind of loud down here. Do you wanna go upstairs to talk?” You hesitate, only for a moment. This is what you’d wanted, wasn’t it? Alone time with Soobin. This moment; the intimacy, the possibility of something real with him, it used to be the end goal. It was the prize at the finish line. You look back toward the beer pong table. Heeseung isn’t there anymore. You swallow, forcing a smile as you nod. “Sure. Upstairs sounds good.” Soobin leads the way, and you follow,  but there’s a hollow tug in your chest, a low ache that whispers: something’s different now. Something’s shifted. And you can’t quite tell if you’re walking toward what you want… or away from it.

The upstairs hall is quieter, hushed like a cathedral built out of creaking floorboards and dim lighting. Soobin’s footsteps are steady ahead of you, confident, calm. You follow him down the hallway, the thump of bass from the party below now muffled by layers of drywall and closed doors. He opens one at the end, someone’s bedroom, likely Sunghoon’s spare guest room and steps inside without hesitation. You enter, arms crossing over your chest instinctively. The room is sparsely decorated: a bed, a desk, a dresser with a dusty mirror. A single lamp glows faintly in the corner, casting everything in warm amber light. The kind of soft hue that makes everything feel a little too intimate. 

You sit down on the edge of the bed, hands fidgeting in your lap. Soobin stands near the dresser, one hand running through his hair like he’s searching for the right words, the right entry point into something he’s been building toward. You try not to think about how your heartbeat doesn’t pick up like it used to. How your stomach doesn’t flutter. How the moment you used to dream about, you and Soobin alone in a room, about to have that talk, feels just a little off-center now. He turns to you, expression unreadable. “Can I ask you something?” You nod.

He gives a breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Do you… have a crush on me?”

The question hits you like cold water to the face. You blink. “What?”

“I mean,” he shrugs, “you’re here with me. Alone. Talking like this. And I’ve noticed you kind of… watching me sometimes. Not in a bad way, I just — I figured maybe you liked me.”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out right away. You weren’t expecting this — not so directly, not right now. But wasn’t this the whole plan? The makeover, the party, the studying with Heeseung, the kiss that didn’t happen, wasn’t this what you’d wanted from the beginning? So you say it. Quietly, like you’re repeating a line in a play. “Yes. I think I do.” Soobin smiles softly, like that was the answer he expected. He walks over, taking the spot next to you on the bed. There’s a small silence, not quite awkward but definitely unsure. Then, without another word, he leans in. And kisses you. It’s gentle. Thoughtful. His lips press to yours with an easy kind of care. But instead of feeling sparks or butterflies or that dizzy, swept-away sensation you thought would come,  all you feel is stillness. Like kissing someone underwater. The moment suspended. Weightless. Hollow.

You don’t know how long it lasts, but eventually, your hand moves to his chest and you pull away, slow and apologetic. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, eyes avoiding his. Your heart pounds for all the wrong reasons. “I… I don’t think I feel what I thought I felt.”

Soobin tilts his head slightly, studying your face. “What do you mean?” You look down at your hands, twisting your fingers in your lap. “I thought I liked you. I really did. But it doesn’t feel… right. Not like I thought it would. Not like…” You trail off, not daring to finish the sentence. Soobin hums thoughtfully, like he’s already solved the puzzle. 

“Ah,” he says, nodding once. “I get it.”

Your eyes lift, hopeful. “You do?”

A soft chuckle escapes him. “You like Heeseung.” It’s not a question. It’s a truth laid bare between you. You pause, breath catching in your throat. Then you nod. Slowly. “I think I’m in love with him.” There’s a moment of quiet. Not heavy. Not tense. Just the shared acknowledgment of something that’s been true for a while now,  you just hadn’t let yourself name it. 

To your surprise, Soobin smiles. Not bitter or wounded, just warm. Maybe even relieved. “I think you should tell him,” he says.

You swallow. “You think I should?” He nods, leaning back on his hands. “I think you’d regret it if you didn’t.”

Your heart flutters with something different this time,  not nerves, not fear. Hope. You stand up, legs shaky beneath you, but your decision anchors you. As you move toward the door, Soobin calls out softly, just before your hand touches the knob. “He loves you back, you know.”

You turn your head, eyes wide. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he says, simple and sure. You nod once, lips parting just slightly. “I hope you’re right.” And then you step into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind you. The music is still thudding below. The party still rages. But you’ve never felt more clear. Never more certain of who, or what, you want. It’s not about proving anything anymore. Not about being experienced or wanted by anyone. It’s about him. And tonight, you’re going to tell him.

You step down the creaky stairs, the bass from the party still thumping like a distant pulse beneath your skin. Your breath catches, a subtle panic fluttering in your chest as you scan the crowded living room for Heeseung’s familiar face. Your eyes dart past groups of laughing friends, clusters of conversations, and neon lights that blur faces into hazy outlines. But he’s nowhere to be found. Heart pounding in your throat, you veer toward the kitchen, hoping for some sign, a whisper, a clue. There, leaning casually against the counter, is Jake. His usual smirk falters when he notices your searching gaze. “Hey,” you say, voice barely steady. “Have you seen Heeseung?”

Jake shrugs, tossing a grape into his mouth. “Last I saw, he was in the living room with a bunch of people. Why? You looking for him?” You nod and push past him, a fragile thread of hope knitting itself between your ribs. The living room comes into view, and your steps slow, the air thickening in your lungs like smoke. And then you see him. There, framed by a cluster of familiar faces, is Heeseung. But he isn’t alone. Wonyoung stands close beside him, her body pressed against his in a way that twists something cold and sharp through your heart. His arm snakes possessively around her waist, fingers resting lightly but surely on the curve of her hip. She leans in, lips ghosting across his neck and jaw, a soft, intoxicating murmur escaping her mouth as he whispers back.

The scene unfolds like a cruel play, one you wish you could close your eyes to, but you can’t look away. Your chest caves inward, a hollow ache blossoming beneath your ribs. Your stomach churns, bile rising bitterly as you struggle to breathe through the sudden swell of nausea and heartbreak. You try to wrench your gaze away, but the sight sears into your vision, branding itself onto your soul. You can’t watch. Turning on your heel, you stumble toward the door, desperate to escape the cruel tableau. The room blurs around you, faces, laughter, music,  all fading behind the tight clamour of your ragged breaths and pounding heartbeat. Tears spill unbidden from your eyes, tracing warm, salty rivers down your cheeks. Each step away from the party feels heavier than the last, like you’re sinking deeper into a pool of your own shattered dreams.

You reach the night air, the cold biting at your skin but failing to soothe the ache inside. Pulling your phone from your pocket with trembling fingers, you summon an Uber. The glow of the screen feels alien in your hands, like a lifeline thrown across an endless chasm. Inside the car, the world outside dissolves into a blur of streetlights and shadows, but your tears keep falling, a steady cascade that no driver’s small talk or cityscape can interrupt. Your hands grip the seat, knuckles white, as the distance between you and the party grows with every passing mile. You are utterly broken. Stupid, you think bitterly. Stupid for believing, even for a moment, that someone like Lee Heeseung, with his easy charm and dazzling smile, could fall for someone like you. The DUF. The girl who blends into the background. The girl no one notices, the girl no one wants. You were chasing a dream painted in stardust and whispered promises, but it was always just that, a dream. And now, all that’s left is the ache of reality settling cold and hard in your chest.

The days bleed into each other like a slow, endless ache. You find yourself cocooned in your dorm, wrapped in the faded threads of your favorite hoodie, the one that swallows you whole and carries the scent of safety and solitude. The glasses sit perched on your nose, a barrier between the world and the girl who once believed she could be someone else. The weight of silence presses down, heavier than the thick blankets you pull up to your chin. Your phone lies discarded across the bed, buzzing and blinking with countless unanswered texts and missed calls from Heeseung, each one a fresh pang of regret and confusion you’re too scared to confront. You don’t know how to face him. How to face the truth that your heart still aches for the boy who chose someone else, who wrapped his arms around Wonyoung like you were a ghost in the room. You feel like you’ve been stripped bare, every hope unraveling thread by fragile thread. The girl who dreamed of being seen, of being wanted, it’s hard to find her beneath the rubble of broken promises and whispered lies.

Night falls again, the shadows gathering in the corners of your room as if to hold you close in your loneliness. The quiet hum of the city outside is distant and indifferent. You lie there, heart heavy, tears tracing silent rivers down your cheeks, when suddenly there’s a knock at your door. Sharp. Insistent. You don’t want to move, but something in the rhythm of that knock stirs you, a fragile hope tangled with dread. With aching limbs, you pull yourself from the bed, the cold floor a harsh reminder of the world beyond your blankets. You open the door slowly, and there he is, Heeseung. His presence fills the doorway, that familiar, impossible beauty that twists your heart in the best and worst ways. It makes your head spin, your breath catch in your throat.

His eyes search yours, deep pools filled with worry and something you can’t quite name. “Why haven’t you been answering?” he asks softly, voice low, as if afraid to break the fragile silence. “I saw you go upstairs with Soobin the night of the party…” Your throat tightens, the words choking you before you can even think. You take a shaky breath, then whisper, “The deal’s off. You don’t need to worry about making me ‘hot and popular’ anymore.”

His brow furrows, concern deepening. “What happened? Did Soobin hurt you?”

You shake your head, voice trembling but firm. “No. Just… go, Heeseung. Please.”

You reach out, beginning to close the door, but before it shuts, his foot slides gently into the frame, stopping it with quiet insistence. The space between you is charged, a fragile tension stretched thin. His voice is almost a plea. “What’s going on?” The walls you’ve built so carefully around your heart begin to crumble. You swallow hard, biting back the tears that burn your eyes, and say the words you’ve been holding in for too long. “I’m tired. Tired of pretending to be someone I’m not. Tired of playing a role, like I can be that girl, the one everyone notices, the one guys actually want.”

Your voice falters, breaking with raw, aching honesty. “Guys don’t want me. Not really. Not like I am. This was an experiment... and it worked for you, but it didn’t work for me. So… can you just go?” The silence hangs between you like a thick fog. You hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, loud and ragged. This time, your hand moves with quiet finality, closing the door with a definitive click. The sound echoes in the sudden, crushing emptiness of your room. And then, the floodgates break.

You lean back against the door, knees buckling as the tears you held back spill free. The sobs come unbidden, shaking your body, hot and wrenching and real. Each tear a silent confession of heartbreak, loneliness, and the aching desire to be seen, not as a mask, but as the fragile, imperfect soul beneath. In this moment, the girl you tried so hard to hide is raw and vulnerable and fiercely alive. And though it hurts more than words can say, it’s the first step toward something real, toward healing, toward finding the strength to be exactly who you are.

The morning light feels colder somehow, less forgiving as you step out of your dorm room and into the brisk hum of campus life. Today, you wear your armor: a soft, oversized hoodie pulled low over your frame, the familiar weight of your glasses perched on your nose, and leggings that carry no pretense, no flash, no glamour, just you. The girl who sought to dazzle and command attention has quietly slipped away, replaced by someone quieter, more raw, but undeniably real. As you make your way across campus, the chatter and footsteps of other students blur into a dull roar, a soundtrack to your internal storm. The air is thick with the ghosts of last night’s heartache, the sting of broken trust still simmering just beneath your skin. You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you’re okay. You’ve got this.

The lecture hall door creaks open, and you slip inside, hoping to be invisible, hoping to blend into the shadowy back rows where no one will notice your retreat from the world. But no one really goes unnoticed, especially not in a room charged with unspoken tensions. And then, just as your foot finds the seat furthest from the usual spot beside Heeseung, you hear it, a snide, low comment slicing through the hum of settling students Wonyoung’s voice, sharp and dripping with that familiar edge, echoes just enough for you to catch it. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s aimed right at you. But this time, something’s different. The bite of her words doesn’t sting. The heat of embarrassment doesn’t flush your cheeks. You simply keep walking, your stride steady and unyielding, heart quietly defiant beneath the soft fabric of your hoodie. 

You settle into your seat at the very back, far away from the usual orbit of Heeseung’s presence. And yet, even from there, you feel the weight of his gaze, like a hawk circling above, watching, waiting. His eyes flicker toward you in stolen moments, cautious and curious, as if trying to read the new lines etched into your silence. But you refuse to meet his gaze. You bury yourself deeper into your solitude, the words of the lecture washing over you like distant thunder, barely registered by a mind that’s a million miles away. Minutes stretch on, the clock ticking with relentless indifference. You notice the way Heeseung’s fingers tap lightly against the notebook in his lap, his eyes darting toward you in quick, nervous glances. It’s as if he’s searching for a way back in, a crack in the armor you’ve so carefully constructed. But today, you are a fortress, quiet and impenetrable.

When the final bell rings, a sharp and liberating sound, you rise without hesitation, stuffing your books into your bag with brisk efficiency. Heeseung’s voice trails behind you, soft, hopeful, “Hey, wait—Y/n!” but you don’t stop. You don’t turn. The hall swallows your footsteps as you push through the doors, leaving the echoes of his call behind you.

The evening wrapped itself around your dorm room like a velvet shroud, the dim light casting soft shadows over your tangled sheets and the quiet ache that clung to your chest. You lay there, cocooned in your own solitude, the weight of recent nights pressing down like a relentless tide. The world felt heavy and distant, and the thought of moving, speaking, or facing anything at all felt like a mountain too steep to climb. Then, a sharp knock echoed through the silence, jolting you from your quiet reverie. “Please go away, Heeseung,” you mutter, voice thick with exhaustion and guarded pain, already bracing yourself for the storm you didn’t want to weather again.

But the voice that answered wasn’t his. Soft, hesitant, and tinged with something almost vulnerable, Dani’s words floated through the door: “It’s not Heeseung… please, just open up.” Your heart stutters, surprise and a flicker of warmth breaking through the cold shell you’d built. With a weary sigh, you push yourself up, the weight of days pressing down on your limbs, and unlock the door. There, standing in the dim hallway, were Dani and Sakura, faces soft, eyes sincere, their usual confident air replaced with something tender and remorseful. They step inside without hesitation, their presence gentle like a balm, the space between you shrinking as they settle beside your bed.

“We’re so sorry,” Dani begins, voice low and earnest. “For everything. For not being better friends, for not being there when you needed us.” Sakura nods, her eyes shimmering with an unspoken apology. “We love you, Y/n. We do. And we’re sorry for making you feel anything less than amazing.”

Their words settle over you like a gentle rain, the unexpected kindness dissolving some of the walls you didn’t even realize you’d built so high. They smile, shy but genuine, and Dani confesses, “Sometimes, we’re even jealous of you. You make everything seem so effortless, being smart, funny, just... you. We try so hard, but you just shine naturally.” A quiet laugh escapes you, the sound rusty but honest. You joke back, teasing them for their dramatic flattery, and in the warmth of shared laughter, the tension unravels. The three of you fold into a comforting embrace, a hug woven with forgiveness and the promise of mended bonds.

After the moment lingers, Sakura’s voice breaks through, gentle but curious. “So, what about Heeseung? What’s really going on?” Your chest tightens as you recount the complicated arrangement, the late-night talks, and then, the confession that trembles on your lips. “I lost my virginity to him,” you say quietly, the words both heavy and liberating. “And in all of that... I fell in love with him.”

Their faces flicker between surprise and understanding. Sakura’s eyes soften as she speaks, “The way he looks at you... he loves you too, Y/n.” You shake your head, doubt gnawing at you like a silent ache. “But Wonyoung—”

Dani cuts in gently, firm and unwavering. “He doesn’t care about her anymore. And he never looked at Wonyoung the way he looks at you.” For the first time in what feels like forever, you want to believe them. You nod slowly, the weight of hope settling lightly in your chest. They urge you to hear Heeseung out, to let him speak and show you what’s truly there. But before the conversation can spiral further, they shift the mood, inviting you to a get-together at Sunghoon’s happening just minutes away.

At first, you hesitate, the memory of Heeseung and Wonyoung still stinging fresh. “Heeseung and Wonyoung—” you begin. Sakura cuts you off with a firm shake of her head. “They won’t be there. We promise.” That promise, fragile and shimmering with possibility, nudges you forward. You breathe in, steadying your heart, and then you say yes. Together, the three of you leave your room, stepping out into the night with tentative smiles and the fragile threads of renewed friendship and maybe, just maybe, a second chance at love waiting to bloom.

When you pull up to Sunghoon’s house that night, you’re half-expecting the pit in your stomach to grow teeth and chew you alive. But instead, you’re met with the warm, familiar glow of porch lights, the echo of laughter spilling from inside, and the voices of boys you’ve somehow come to know like brothers. Sunghoon, Jake, Jay, and Beomgyu greet you at the door like you’re royalty, like nothing in the world is out of place. They offer you sodas and cheesy jokes, Beomgyu pulling you into a dramatic bow while Jake salutes like you're being welcomed home from war. And for a flicker of a second, you forget it all, the ache, the shame, the heartbreak. You laugh. You actually laugh. You let your shoulders drop. You exist again.

Sakura appears at your side like she’s always belonged there and gives you a little nudge. “Hey,” she says, smiling with all her teeth, “Can you go grab the extra cooler outside? It’s on the deck.”

You squint at her. “You have legs.”

“Yes,” she says sweetly, “but you have main character energy tonight. So scoot.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, pushing through the backdoor into the backyard. And that’s when it happens.

Twinkling fairy lights string above you like constellations pulled down from the sky, wrapped through the branches of Sunghoon’s backyard trees. They blink softly around the bonfire, flames low and lazy, casting shadows across the grass. And there, seated on a log bench near the fire, is Heeseung. His head is bowed, fingers locked together like he’s praying or maybe bracing himself from falling apart. The moment he hears your footsteps, his head jerks up. His eyes meet yours, wide and uncertain. Time hiccups. You stare. He stares. And then, slowly, shakily, he stands.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what I was going to say to you when I saw you again,” he says, voice low but trembling with everything he’s been holding in. “And now… now that you’re actually here, looking like that…”

You blink. “Looking like what? Like a girl who’s no longer hot?” He shakes his head so fast and so fiercely that a laugh escapes your throat without permission. 

“No,” he says, stepping toward you. “Looking like you. Just — you. Glasses, hoodie, stubborn scowl and all. You're beautiful.” Your breath stutters. The world sways. You try to speak, to make a joke, to do anything, but your lips don’t work. He fills the silence. “You’re so beautiful,” he says again, his voice stronger now. “And I love you.” You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You’re too stunned. Too overwhelmed. So he continues, and thank God he does.

“When I saw you go upstairs with Soobin that night… I thought I was gonna be sick. I’ve never felt anything like that. Not anger. Not sadness. Jealousy. Like I was losing something that wasn’t even mine to lose.” Your chest aches. You take a step closer, barely breathing. “Wonyoung came up to me after that,” he says, voice rougher now. “Told me she heard you and Soobin hooking up. She tried to kiss me. Said I should get over it. But I didn’t care what she said. Even if you were with Soobin, I didn’t want her. I wanted you. I’ve always wanted you.” 

You want to cry. You want to melt. But mostly, you want to run to him.

“I was never going to get in the way of you and him if that’s what you really wanted,” Heeseung continues. “But then, when you told me outside your dorm that it wasn’t going to work out… I knew. I had to tell you how I felt.” His eyes lock on yours with full, unwavering honesty.

“I love you. Just the way you are. And I think I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you at Sunghoon’s party. When you insulted my G.P.A and spilled that drink all over yourself.”  He laughs, almost breathless. “That’s when I knew I was doomed.”

A laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it, wet and cracked but real. You take one step closer, then another, until the distance is gone. “I kissed Soobin,” you whisper, eyes locked on his. “Upstairs, that night. And it was... fine. But while it was happening, all I could think about was you. That stupid smile of yours, your dumb little jokes, the way you hold the steering wheel with one hand like you're in an action movie... I realized something.” 

Heeseung holds his breath.

“I realized that I love you. Your charm, your goofiness, the way you never let me walk on the outside of the sidewalk. I love you, even the parts I think I hate, because it’s you. And I want you.” His mouth opens like he might say something witty, but he doesn't. He just crashes forward and kisses you, fierce, certain, heart-shaking. His hands come to your face, cradling you like you’re something sacred. It’s not gentle, not this time. It’s messy and passionate and breathless, like a whole novel written in one kiss. Like everything unspoken finally found its voice.

When you finally part, foreheads touching, breath mingling, he murmurs, “You’re it for me, Y/n.” You smile, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“And you’re the dumbest genius I’ve ever met,” you say softly, kissing him again.

Somewhere behind you, from the house, you hear Beomgyu shout, “ARE THEY FINALLY MAKING OUT?!” And then Jake yells, “SUNGHOON OWES ME FIFTY BUCKS!”

You both break apart laughing, and Heeseung groans. “God, they’re never gonna let us live this down.” 

You grin, cheeks flushed. “Worth it.” Because it is. It always was.

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox @firstclassjaylee @teddybeartaetae @hoonjayke @princesstiti14 @seokjinthescientist @lillotus17 @yeonmuse @hoonieyun @s1rawb3rry

[sixeyesonathiel]

nerd!satoru who yaps nonstop about the multiverse while you’re just trying to eat your lunch, waving his hands around dramatically as he explains the concept of alternate dimensions with half a rice ball in his mouth and crumbs stuck to the corner of his lips. who pokes at his food with a mechanical pencil because he forgot his chopsticks again, and then insists with wide eyes and a mouth half full, “technically, pencils are just wooden utensils for intellectuals.” he gets giddy over a new graphing calculator update like it’s a new iphone drop, tapping the screen like it’s a baby animal, and once dragged you into a 40-minute rant about ant communication hierarchies while you were just brushing your teeth, half-asleep and mouth foaming with toothpaste.

he has no less than ten tabs open at all times—reddit conspiracy theories, physics forums, a paused youtube video on quantum tunneling, a spreadsheet titled “do cats defy newton’s laws?”, a google doc labeled “reasons why kissing might be a form of molecular alignment,” and none of it has anything to do with the assignment he’s supposed to be doing. he zones out during lectures, doodling black hole spirals, equations shaped like hearts, and cats in lab coats in the margins of his notes. once, he drew you holding hands with a worm in a bowtie and captioned it “me and my universe.” somehow still manages to get top marks every single time, even though he once turned in an assignment with a greasy fry stain in the corner because he used it as a napkin in the library mid-cram session.

he mutters the weirdest things under his breath like “i feel like a misaligned proton today” or “the moon’s energy was too sarcastic last night” and you just blink at him like🧍‍♀️while sipping your drink. he wears mismatched socks on purpose and says, “it’s a metaphor for duality.” has five alarms labeled “wake up genius,” “ur gonna flunk,” “your girlfriend will leave you,” “pls satoru,” and “EMERGENCY: CUTE, PRETTY AND SCORCHINGLY HOT GIRL WAITING” and still manages to sleep through all of them unless you call him. his glasses? perpetually smudged, held together with washi tape. his notebooks? an unholy fusion of complicated theorems, grocery lists, pressed flowers, cat doodles, love notes to you, and a page just titled “top 10 reasons why my girlfriend is cuter than entropy.”

his laptop is a biohazard—dusty, overworked, full of files like “time_is_an_illusion_final_FINAL_reallyfinal_actuallyfinal.pptx” and “uRwrong_iMright.docx.” the case is covered in anime stickers, tiny equations, stars drawn with glitter pen, and a wrinkled polaroid of you sticking your tongue out that he keeps taped on like it’s a sacred relic. he listens to lo-fi while studying and pauses every few minutes just to sigh dreamily and whisper, “this part sounds like you looking at me for the first time.”

and yet… he’s so fine it’s borderline illegal. tall, messy white hair that sticks up in all directions and defies every known force of nature, ice-blue eyes that melt when they look at you, and a cocky little smile that makes your chest hurt even when he says things like, “do you think our cells are spiritually linked?” he doesn’t even try to be charming—he just is, like he spawned with a flirt trait.

you fw it. you fw him. every unfiltered ramble, every hyperactive explanation about wormholes or why he thinks bees are secretly time travelers. the way his voice speeds up when he’s excited, and how his hands start waving like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra of nerdiness. you don’t even bother trying to follow every word—you’re just watching him, heart doing somersaults, because he’s so beautiful when he’s passionate. and the fact that you never laugh at him? only ever smile and let him go on? yeah. that cracked his emotional firewall a long time ago.

so now he’s all sunshine and sparkles around you. a literal bundle of joy. grinning at his phone like a middle schooler when you text him “lol ok.” kicking his feet while giggling, voice memos full of stuff like “what if we held hands inside a particle accelerator 😳👉👈” sent at 2:13 a.m., followed by three minutes of him wheezing into a pillow. he calls you his “favorite constant,” even if you don’t get the joke. and if you do? he twirls his hair, blushes, and stares at you like you just split the atom and made it cute.

he makes playlists named “gravity got nothing on how hard i fell for you,” draws you in lab coats saying “ur the thesis to my hypothesis,” keeps your photo in his pencil case and shows it to random people like “this is my girlfriend. she understands my quantum jokes.” if they blink weirdly, he’ll just smile and say, “it’s okay, not everyone gets theoretical perfection.”

being loved by you makes him goo. makes his neurons do the macarena. you make all his bizarre little pieces light up like neon signs. you walked into his strange little world and said “yeah, i’ll stay,” and now he’s rearranging every cosmic thread to make sure it’s perfect for you. adds fairy lights. labels his notebooks “our theories.” buys matching pens. you made his chaos feel like a cozy little planet. he buys you plushies shaped like atoms and puts your name in the acknowledgements of his lab reports. tells people “she’s the reason the data graphs came out prettier.”

nerd!satoru who’s helplessly, hopelessly, tooth-rottingly in love with you. who grabs your hand mid-ramble just to feel you close. who brings you hot cocoa and explains entropy like it’s a bedtime story. who kisses your forehead and tells you “you’re my favorite anomaly in this whole universe.”

and he thanks you—not in grand declarations, but in the quiet moments: when he scoots closer to you without saying a word, when he tugs on your sleeve with glassy eyes after a long day, when he looks at you after an hour of nerding out like you built the whole galaxy just to hear him talk.

his world was spinning way too fast. then you walked in and gave it gravity. and now he orbits you—and he’s never been happier to revolve around anything in his life.

[pink7princess]

a stupid study sesh?

losery nerd!abby learns from a spoiled femcheerleader!reader a different lesson.

┊͙ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ content: reader is blinded by angry disgust (confused horniness) :3 to realize she has a fat crush on this losery nerd, abigail anderson. after a few flirty exchanges/teasing by reader during a study sesh, it leads to sneaky sex..fingering (r!receiving,) top-ish!abby + almost getting caught!!? cute bittersweet ending :3

┊͙ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ author's note: the characters are over 18 dw :P,,,smart girls are so underrated...intelligence is so sexy??! i love nerdy abby sm, anyways i made dis shit super long…sorry man…but enjoy!!

abby arrived at your house. it was an April evening, meaning—it was finally warming up. you chill on your bed, window open with the cool breeze as the sun sets, every pink object in your cute room glimmering. you scroll on pinterest, petting your pet cat. she purrs, loving your familiar aroma. life is good, you’re freshly showered, cute pj set on and hair blow dried all cute. you sigh, throwing your phone beside you, deciding you want a snack. you hop off your silky bed and make your way down the hall to the stairs. as you reach the bottom, the doorbell rings. damn it. she actually came. your mom signed you up in the tutoring club at school because of your flunking grades caused by cheerleading. backpack full with textbooks slung over her broad shoulder—braid all tidy and flannel snug and well buttoned up. your mom sets down whatever she's cooking and scurries from the kitchen to the door. she creaks open the door, "hello—?" abby inhales sharply, adjusting her posture, standing tall with a friendly smile. her glasses awkwardly sit half way down her nose and with a little push of her thick fingers, she adjusts them, "I'm here to help—uhm.." abby looks in, catching your frozen frame suddenly turning, hair bouncing and socks sliding, attempting to sneak back up the stairs.

"Oh! You must be Abigail! Come inside!" your mom grins widely, waving a hand sweetly forward. abby steps inside, her huge stature and boots creaking the wooden floor, "Missy! Get back here!" your mom laughs, glancing over at you with a playful glare. defeated, you walk down dejectedly with a groan.

a scowl forms on your face as you walk up to abby. her physique is insane. an absolute tank. you avoid her eyes because for some reason…she pisses you off. your mom speaks, "Snacks are in that pantry, water is near—“ she continues talking expressively, the classic overexaggerated hand movements a mother would use as she's simply giving abby the run of the house. abby seems only to be half-listening as you catch her gaze flicker to your pajamas. fuck, your cheeks flush. your lacey tank top with the cursive writing of "bossy" hugs your figure in an alluring way. it's accompanied with your cute cleavage showing... you nod, turning to your mom, attempting to agree with whatever the hell she was saying. your own eyes gawk at abby's arms and thighs. shit—you realize abby's eyes linger to your bottom half, your pretty short shorts and plump thighs. you nervously push your hair behind your ear, glancing at your mom.

you could tell abby's taking in your body from how she inhales roughly, trying to snap out of it. abby accidentally catches a whiff of your intoxicating perfume and hair heat protector... shit, this was a bad idea.

"I'll leave you girls to it!" your mom rests a hand on abby's shoulder, making her jerk to reality, "and—Welcome Abigail. Hope you can help this silly dork study well for her math test tomorrow!" your mother chuckles adorably as she walks back to the kitchen, pace quick to check what was in the oven. both you and abby watch as she leaves, the air is so thick, making it hard to think.

you turn to abby, eyebrows furrowing. you grow angry for how she makes you feel. your cheeks burn. her—this fucking quiet loser who reads during class 24/7, hangs out with other gym rats & lame nerds, eats alone at lunch with her nose buried in her sketchbook and watches your cheer practices with her stem homework on her lap, is standing in your house right now.

wait—you wince at your own words realizing how...bad you feel for her. ugh-what? you hardly speak to her. abby has only ever exchanged more than a billion glances with you for like ever. but, the way she looks at you can tell a whole story. her gorgeous blue eyes, fierce eyebrows and soft lips. she seems so mysterious. honestly, someone that pretty shouldn't seem so alone all the time. what? yuck-! she's just a pathetic nerd! you’re a popular cheerleader. you blink with an irate swallow. abby stares down at you, her voice gently rude, "studying for a math test isn't that fucking bad," she sighs disappointedly, shaking her head, "wipe that dumb frown off your face, come on." abby rolls her eyes, pushing past you, her strong arm brushing against your chest as leads herself up the stairs.

your mouth gapes in confusion with how she somehow brushes you off. you. a super hot cheerleader in the flesh! you, baffled, follow pursuit, your socked feet padding on the stairs. abby is already walking down the hall, entering you room. "hey-!" you whine, catching up, suddenly embarrassed about her seeing everything in your room.

she steps inside.

the pink walls covered with white & pink posters of your interests, stuffed animals cover your bed, makeup scattered all over your vanity—beside it, a huge mirror decorated with pictures of yourself and friends.

your cat yawns, suddenly noticing abby, meowing at her tiredly. she squeaks over, hopping off the bed, greeting abby with face rub on her calf. abby looks so out of place. but—somehow...she looks really good in here. the contrast makes your heartbeat flutter. you kinda… like it. what—ew!? her? out of everyone…? well… abby looks over her shoulder at you, her voice making your cheeks heat up, "she's so cute. what a pretty cat."

you fluster, your mind racing at the stupid innuendo and the way she simply looks. abby’s strong nose is so attractive. fuck, you never really noticed, or—never took the time to look at her since the fact she won half the academic awards in the school always made you fume. you hated how smart she was. you didn’t even really understand why that was. but—that random dirty thought confused you, making your thighs rub together. why the fuck did i distort a simple sentence? you shake your head with a giggle, "t-thanks."

abby steps towards your vanity, setting her bag down on the frilly seat, her strong hand gripping the bag handle tightly, "you mind if I put this here?" your breath catches in your throat as you nod anxiously, "yeah-sure, that's okay." you sigh, feeling overwhelmed with the ache in your stomach. you close your eyes, walking over to your bed.

"grab your textbook and notebook, okay?" she softly asks, her demeanor seemingly calm. turning her back to you, she rummages through her bag, discreetly glancing at you one last time—eyes taking you in, shyly. you roll your eyes at her words. you're alone and she wants to do math? fuck no. wait, what?

you hop on the edge, laying back, rubbing your eyes as you try to assess your noisy brain.

this nerdy hunk is in your room right now.

you sit up abruptly, eyes wide at your own words. this nerdy...WHAT? you blink at your thoughts, staring down at your short painted nails now on your lap. abby's rummaging through her backpack for a pencil and eraser. hmm. i mean...she doesn't actually seem that losery. she seems to take care of herself. you glance up at her, her physique clearly being taken care of. abby’s back is turned to you. shoulders beefy and neck strong. god, you rest your eyes shut, thinking. shit...her back is kinda...hot. fuck.

she works out, you know that—you've seen her exercise. sometimes, in the early mornings when you go to the gym, you catch her there all the time and maybe you go extra early on certain days just to see her, her sweaty face and neck, body always in a compress shirt, a drastic comparison to her flannels and casual t-shirts.

damn. you bite your lip, reminiscing. man, has she always been this hot? hmm.

"hey." abby's standing in front of you, her voice making you jump and eyes shoot open. she looks down at you with an agitated glare, "come on." her head nods to your desk, your notebooks and textbooks sitting all messily. your breathing relaxes as you smell her pine cologne. god, she's actually so...handsome.

you raise an eyebrow at her. “abby.”

your voice hitches, realizing you’ve never really ever spoken to her. or even said her nickname everyone calls her. it feels weird.

“what?” she sighs, handing you a pencil. “can we work?” her head cocks to the side, annoyed, resting her weight on one hip.

you got all her attention. talking to her for the first time. well damn. you decide to...play around a bit. because fucking hell, this hunk is in your room.

and she's hot.

you don’t like her because she is hot for a nerd.

shit, you wanna know what she tastes like.

you shake your head no.

abby's eyes squint with confusion, a look of disgust crosses her face, "what do you mean, no?" abby's voice is stern.

you smile mischievously, tilting your head, changing the subject, “what do you do for fun?" you lay back on your elbows, sighing, feeling more confident because you know how timid she is. you know your tits rest teasingly because from her angle—they must look so good.

"what-?" she chokes with a chuckle. you bite your lip with a sing-song voice, "answer me."

"i'm not here to discuss silly hobbies." abby groans, looking away, rubbing her neck, nervously, “i volunteered to help you study.”

your grin grows, need growing. slowly, you lift your foot, resting it on her thigh teasingly.

"how much can you bench?" you laugh sensually, staring up at her through batted eyelashes. abby's face softens as she raises an eyebrow at the caress, glancing between you and your leg.

“a lot, right?" you ask under your breath, huskily with cheeky grin. abby's gentle eyes glow glassy with curiosity.

"y-yeah," abby stutters as her eyes bore across your body, her frame uneasy. she rubs her shoulder, embarrassed. a girl has never talked to her this long.

abby doesn’t talk to girls that much.

because...there’s only one girl on her fucking mind.

your scent. your face. your smile. ugh. she can get a fucking toothache thinking about how sweet your laughter is.

abby's watches your silly cheer practices for a reason.

she’s alone in a room with you, trying to be this chill calm person…but—she’s freaking out in her head wildly at your outfit.

fuck, she volunteered for a reason.

unbeknownst to you, abby’s been in love with you for years.

her hearts aches every time she sees you with that gang of popular kids, wishing, she was amongst them.

when she reads, she’s always stealing glances at you, daydreaming about you and her being the main love interests in her romance books.

when she hangs out with her stupid gymrat friends, all she talks about is you. her friends always give advice on how to talk to you! although, abby ignores half of it because she's scared of even looking at you...

when she sketches during lunch, she’s illustrating nature that reminds her of you. writing poems about you. drawing your features.

when she sits at the stands during your practice, she loves hearing your giggle as she completes her insane calculus equations, admiring your charming playfulness as you play around with your friends.

there are days where she wishes she could talk to you.

abby hates how different you are. how you hang out with those shitty jocks and those snakey motherfuckers in cheer.

she sits alone at lunch and fucking daydreams about you walking over.

abby loves working out for a reason. it calms her nerves because, shit—it’s better than crying for hours about how she’s incapable of simply approaching you.

abby knows how sweet your soul is. she knows beneath that mean exterior, when you're with the right people, you shine. she watches you from afar, constantly feeling like a creep. she’s a little ashamed.

worst of all—she hates every stupid boy that speaks to you.

like during valentine’s day, abby was so tempted to buy you flowers, leaving them on your desk with a handwritten letter confessing her love.

but…when rumor spread you already had a valentine, she felt empty.

abby wants you. wants to hold you by the waist. wants to hold hands as you walk to class.

…so naturally, when she heard this opportunity of helping you for the end of the year, she took it!

abby’s got a chance of getting to introduce herself before the year finishes and before college starts...she only reasoned you could bond over the summer.

fuck, her heart swooned imagining being in a room with you.

alone.

abby’s face contorts into anxious interest because—you're enchanting. god, laying beneath her like this...in this piece of clothing? her mouth goes fucking dry. she licks her lips swiftly, eyes scanning your angelic features. she attempts to play it cool as if her fucking underwear, boy shorts, aren’t getting moist. shit, this is her wet dream.

of course abby fantasizes about fucking you.

she becomes so bright red imagining it—eating you out in the locker room…fingering you in the bathroom...and her favorite—strapping you in her bedroom late at night.

even if she gets a glance from you during class when she’s ovulating…

her shy nature is quite drastic from her thoughts.

she’s pretty fucking kinky.

loving the idea of public sex to bondage.

she always brushes it off because they’re all fucking fantasies anyway...

abby’s head spins realizing how you know nothing about her but she knows everything about you.

she feels pervy. almost gross how you don’t know what’s going on in her head.

abby gulps heavily, shoulders visibly tensing, thinking about how good you’d taste. her freckled cheeks turn a bright red, attempting to shake off the sudden thoughts.

"you're strong, right?" you mock, your tone sultry. still propped on your elbows, you throw your hair over your shoulder, allowing your cleavage to now be completely visible.

abby nods obediently. you beam widely, eyes fluttering close, devilish smile spreading across your face, "are you a virgin, abigail?" her eyes widen, gaze peering intensely into yours.

"why do you wanna know?" she quietly questions, eyes almost desperate.

"oh...well." you start, rolling your eyes, "from the amount of times you’ve come to watch my cheer practice, I wonder if you've fucked anyone on the team." you chuckle, nonchalantly lean up to sit, pulling up your tank top, bouncing your tits for a second—clearly on purpose.

her gaze bashfully avoids yours, self-conscious, realizing how bad that sounds. she fidgets with a notebook in her hand, mindlessly bending pages, “none of those girls are interested in me.” abby claims pathetically, eyes wandering your walls, “and, i’ve-i’ve never…had sex.” she shamefully admits, ogling at her shoes, then—back at you.

fuck, the way she said she’s never had sex—almost sounds like she’s telling you she wants you as an option.

damn it. you feel your panties dampen from the tension.

“why haven’t you?” you scrunch your nose, kindly taking abby’s hand and guiding her to sit beside you on the bed almost like a lost puppy—she obeys, her huge frame jostling the bed.

shit, abby’s brain is short-circuiting because well—you’ve never been this fucking close. abby is mesmerized by your silky skin and the way your pretty lips move. she’s so pathetically drawn to you.

“i-…” abby begins with a deep breath—however, you suddenly cut her off, leaning in, admiring her gorgeous features, simply inches away,

“you’re so hot, abby. no girl ever wanted to fuck a cute nerd like you?”

abby’s dead silent, mouth gaped, eyes big, miserably tainted by arousal. this entire time she’s been trying to fight it.

…but the way she can smell your breath unlocks a need so vicious inside in her.

your eyes linger to her lips, gaze dropping to take in all of her body. finally—you realize why you hate her.

“ever wanted to get fucked by a cheerleader?” you whisper, a cocky grin on your face, “because i sure as hell wanna get fucked by a nerd like you.” you move forward, hand on her thigh, lips ghosting over hers.

abby holds back a whimper, nodding desperately.

your eyes glaze with lust as you move in, lips gripping hers.

abby practically melts into the kiss, pretty lashes batting shut. fucking hell, she wants to scream and jump around—but all she does is moan gently with a growing grin, savoring your candy-flavored lipgloss.

her hand wraps in your hair, tangling with the softness she’s always wanted to become familiar with. you groan against her plump lips as you feel how roughly her mouth moves against yours.

abby seems so passionate, it's so insanely hot, like—you know you’re getting wetter. abby’s tongue pushes past your lips, exploring your warmth. you moan softly into the kiss, fueling her motives further. her hand holds your waist, gripping your sweet flesh, allowing herself to move on top of you. you fall back gently, lips still grasped like your lives depend on it. you hear abby kick her shoes off, moving further on the bed. she’s above you, caging your body in, you did not know you’d love this as much as you currently are.

you whimper pathetically into her mouth, realizing—maybe hating her all this time was fucking idiotic.

abby, herself, groans into your mouth as she begins frantically unbuttoning her flannel—but first…she takes off her glasses. fuckkkk, nothing has ever turned you on as that just did. she places them on your nightstand as she continues kissing you so harshly, making you feel like you’re suffocating. but fuck—you love how eager she seems. maybe this is perfect. maybe she's perfect. you pant, gently helping abby pull her flannel down her shoulders. your hands move up the white shirt that was beneath her flannel, probing her warm waist.

you were so ridiculous, shit, you could’ve had all this a while ago.

abby grips your head roughly, pulling your hair tightly, cocking your face harshly against hers. the pain makes you wince with a loud moan, smiling against her lips. your soft hands push up abby’s shirt.

she takes the hint and completely pulls it over her head, lips unhooking for a second. as she throws her shirt on the ground, within that second—you miss her. you've never felt like this with anyone. is this what real lust feels like? you lean up towards her, bravely wanting to take the lead and fuck—her warm arms engulf you, pulling you on top of her, making your cheeks glow with excitement. abby’s wearing a pretty white sports bra, the brilliance against her skin makes you desperately want to see what she looks like without it.

however—abby’s hands probe up your shirt. you nervously pull back, “i’m-i’m not wearing a bra.” you flush bright pink, confused why you said that, so what!?!?

you understand suddenly. you're nervous. oh. no one's ever made you this nervous. catching her gaze in the hallway always did.

abby smiles wickedly, “here.” she pulls over her sports bra and it feels like time stops.

shit.

you bite your bottom lip hard, almost drawing blood as you see abby’s small tits fall. you moan softly, eyebrows furrowing at the sudden meal laid in front of you.

you pull your own shirt over your head, blush faltering—becoming more confident from how kind she is. fuck, your tits bounce so perfectly. abby’s eyes become almost become predatory and you swear you saw her pupils dilate. you move up to kiss her again, tits grazing each others, making you quietly bite back a whine,

“good-…” fuck. abby stops herself before she finishes that fucking phrase.

she’s imagined this so many times, it almost slipped out. her heartbeat races harder as she turns shamefully scarlet, anxious eyes searching yours.

you raise an eyebrow, tilting your head with surprise, allured by what she was about to say. your gaze grows teasing—realizing what was to leave her lips.

fuck, you wanna hear her say it. this quiet nerd. shy hunk of a woman. your eyes glow with desire as you whisper sensually, “say it.” you softly bite her bottom lip teasingly, nodding with approval as you begin to kiss down her neck.

“good girl.” she groans roughly, eyes fluttering shut as you suck harshly on her neck.

you begin giving her a hickey she’s always deserved. you suck the skin meanly, making abby whimper. fuck—her hands grip your ass, pulling you closer. the movement of her hands on your thin shorts makes you baffled from how wet you became. she’s exactly your type. you dated jocks. no connection, though. but shit—her, she’s perfect. you smile eagerly against abby’s neck, pulling back.

your eyes, full of need once you see how fucking sexy she looks with a hickey, not a hickey—your hickey.

“fuck, abby, you look so good.” you whimper against her mouth, kissing her once more, craving her sweet spit. suddenly, abby’s strong hands slip down your shorts and panties sharply, the cool air hitting your ass, making you moan into her mouth. her bold move only got you wetter.

one of abby’s big hands moves down your waist, going past your bare ass—her fingers, middle and ring, slip against your sloppy hole.

“mmmmm, can i?” she whispers huskily in your ear, kissing your neck. you nod with a huge smile, pretty eyes closed, ready to savor the feeling. abby’s fingers plunge in so fucking easily from how damn soaked you were. “shit.” she hisses out, feeling how you tight you were.

you bury your face into her bare shoulder, panting with soft groans. your mom is still downstairs. abby's pace is slow but rough. her fingertips graze your g-spot, continuously slamming too well into you. “you feel so good,” she whispers, kissing your bare shoulder.

you lean up, placing your hands on her shoulders. your tits bounce gently as you ride her fingers. she increases the speed at your sexy sounds. you reach forward, gripping your headboard. her fingers stretch you out so fucking good. abby’s pink lips grip one of your puffy hard tits, making you breathily groan harshly, "shit—abby..."

abby grins with a confused expression, she mumbles, “can't believe i'm doing this,” as she sloppily sucks your other tit with a concentration you adore. fuck. your eyes roll back with a whimper, the two sensations driving you crazy.

her fingers pick up speed, suddenly pounding into you, making you gasp sharply.

"f-fuck..." you whine, grinding down on her fingers. one of your hands cheekily make way to her cargo jeans. abby chuckles darkly,

"you wanna?"

you nod desperately, leaning down to swap spit passionately, hands gripping the buttons of abby’s pants, making her kiss you rougher. however, shit—unbeknownst to the two of you, your mom’s coming up the stairs.

a sharp knock silences the room, a cheerful voice outside, “Girls!—“ you both freeze. eyes dead wide. your gaze flickers around, fuck—your panties and shorts are hung to your ankle, you and abby’s shirts on the floor. shit. "It's getting late!—Abigail, you should give me your mom's number so we can arrange playdates!" your mom stupidly chuckles, loving how she still treats you like you're eight.

you shake your head with a nervous gulp. fuck, this is terrible. abby's face is in horror, flickering from your chest, to the door and back up at you, fingers still gently pumping inside you. shit—you bite back a moan, “a-alright! be there in a second!" she stutters, "l-lemme gather my things!" her eyes move back to you, soft and full with displeasure. her eyebrows furrow with regret. your moms footsteps fade away down the stairs.

things were cut short. man.

but hey, you have a new reason to be pissed at her!

"you couldn't have come earlier, abs?” you ask with a pout, giving her a new nickname—something very fitting rolling off your tongue. you kiss her lips, sweetly savoring her taste. your hands grope her nipples teasingly, playing with them with a grumble.

"s-sorry…” she sighs against your lips, genuinely feeling bad. her fingers slip out slowly.

she looks just as disappointed as you.

you whine pathetically, missing her fingers already. fuck. you mumble against her cheekbone, hugging her. “damn it, abbyyyy.” abby kisses your cheek, her voice soothing, “i know, i know…” she comforts, cuddling you back, your bare chests touching each other as they’re meant to be.

she pecks your nose, gripping your hips, moving you off her. you’re practically tossed to the side! you really weren’t, you’re just fucking dramatic..

you roll over with a bratty sigh and slump on the edge of the bed. abby leans down to grab her shirt off the floor, handing yours sweetly in the progress. your pretty eyes bore up at abby’s bare upper torso as she swiftly pulls her white undershirt over her head, her tits disappearing. you pout dumbly once more, tugging your tanktop back on and pulling your shorts up. abby grabs her glasses from your nightstand, pushing them back up her pretty nose.

you scan the room, eyes falling on her sports bra on the bed.

“abs, you forgot to put this on.” you grab it, chuckling preciously. abby tilts her head with query as she walks over to pack her bag, smile growing as she watches you hold her bra, never imagining this situation happening ever.

you bite your lip with a mischievous smile as you think of something silly, “can i keep it till next time?” a pink blush sprinkles your adorable eager smile.

abby can’t say no.

“yeah. t-that’d be..” she nods, buttoning her flannel with an embarrassed grin. you shake your head with a giggle, “but that means i should give you one of mine!”

you scurry to your drawer, the top littered with today’s clothing. you select it, prancing back up to her, handing abby your flowery lacey push-up bra.

her eyes glimmer with lust, holding your bra in her hand. abby’s head spins—still wondering if this is a dream. she tucks it in her bag with a bright red blush, looking almost grateful.

abby leans down, slipping her combat boots on. you admire her, yourself, feeling grateful for taking this chance with her. you never should’ve disliked her.

you grab her hand, speaking gently, really showing you’re not as intimating as abby truly thought,

“i can walk you to the door, abby.”

abby’s arm jokingly nudges your shoulder, “alright, pretty.”

~~~ ⚢ ~~~

you lead abby down the hall with your hands interlocked.

once your mom comes into view, you let go, not because your mom’s homophobic—more like, you wouldn’t want her to know her daughter’s not studying and you know...then have her request a tutor who’d actually teach her…yuck!

“abs will be going now.” you giggle with a suspicious glint, reaching the bottom of the stairs. you reminisce what you both did earlier, fixing your hair nicely as if nothing ever happened. your hand brushes up against abby’s as she nods to your mom, walking to the door, “thanks for having me.”

abby glances at you, almost longingly—which makes your chest ache.

you inhale, attempting to feel okay. you’ll see her tomorrow. your mom scrambles to the door, unlocking it hastily with a kind smile, “Alright, goodnight, Abigail. Hope you have a safe drive home!” your mom’s demeanor is friendly as always. she waves you over to say goodbye to your guest, you know, the one you didn’t want to come over?

you stumble up to abby who’s now standing in the doorway, her stature—incredibly hot and her face, so cute!

“thanks.” you glow pink, biting back a huge grin, cherishing this view till you see it tomorrow at school.

“you’re welcome.” abby teases right back, scanning your figure—making your heart swoon.

your eyes watch each other for a second longer than expected, somehow painting how you miss each other already.

abby turns, her pretty braid swaying as she walks down the pathway. the cool night air seemingly bids her farewell as well. your soft gaze locks onto her as she makes her way to her truck. you know your attraction is showing on your face and—gladly, your mom isn’t noticing or she’d most definitely make fun of you.

abby waves to you, her big hand in the air as she opens her car door accompanied with her huge smile—making your heart feel full.

you wave back playfully, your own pretty smile, wide.

you and your mom walk back inside, shutting the door.

the warm house makes you realize you might have a big ol’ crush. well, you’ve had a big ol’ crush, your silly ass just didn’t notice.

“So, what was it like having a little tutor?” your mom chuckles, walking back to the kitchen to grab a handful of peanuts she was snacking on.

“oh, it was…it was cool.” you sigh longingly, missing her. you adjust your shirt, trying to think of positive thoughts. your spirits are higher than before…since…realizing that stupid angry hole in your heart is gone. it just needed to be filled with lesbianism from a sexy nerd.

“It had to be more than just cool, sweetie.”

“alright, alright, mom. it was fun-!”

you roll your eyes jokingly, going back up the stairs,

“it was just a stupid study sesh.”

~~~ ⚢ ~~~

wait damn i lowkey loved writing this……shall i make a part two??!!!! probs right? cuz like nerdy abby has my heart !!?!?

edit: ANDDD here’s the second part of this story! = part two!!

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | oneshot angst [18+]

title. let me be free of you

He would live in this lifetime of hell over and over again if it meant that in some other one, there exists a world where he never hurts you.

ᰔ pairing. friends to strangers au - best friend!gojo x reader (f)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru, your love of a lifetime, tells you he’s engaged to another woman. inspired by the novel & netflix series “one day” created by david nicholls

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem!reader, angst, mentions of sex/explicit content, coming of age themes, reader & gojo are in their 30s, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of alcohol, cheating, lots of mutual pining & longing, bittersweet ending

ᰔ word count. 4.8k

a/n. hellooo! i've had this finished in my wips folder for a long time but never got around to posting it sooo just wanted to let it see the light of day haha. hope you enjoyyy <33

➸ masterlist

“I’m engaged.”

The words leave Gojo’s lips as much less of a confession and more like a blabber, like a toddler desperate to keep conversation going in the face of a disinterested adult. Wasn’t how he expected to share the news of a lifetime to the love of his lifetime, but he hopes it breaks your heart to hear it. 

He watches your eyebrows flatten from the crease that was bothering them before, and then slowly raise into soft arches above your eyes–those damn beautiful eyes that, even when they twinkle with hurt, still make his heart skip a beat in his chest.

He recalls for a moment the night the two of you met, drunk and dizzy from drinking out of a shared bottle of Prosecco, which only had half of the liquor left in it to start when he had first found it bleeding out to dry on the grassy lawn at the front of your university. It was graduation night, the last day to celebrate finishing four years of hell, and he had nothing to his name other than a rolled up diploma shoved in the pocket of his suit pants and the charm left in the youth of his smile. He wanted to spend the night with Aiko Rei, which was not a unique desire as most men on campus did, and he had a fair shot of getting into bed with her just like all those times before. But instead he was sitting at the top of a staircase inside the campus’s English literature building, making history in the crisp year of 1986 by being the first man of the robust age of twenty-three to pass up sex with the school’s lady heartthrob for–well, conversation with a sort of ditsy girl that he just met a half hour ago.

“What do you plan to do with your life?” he heard you ask him, a hard enough question to stomach when one is sober, and an impossible question to stomach when one is already trying not to puke flat Prosecco.

“Pardon?” he asked, in hopes to dissuade you from the question. In hopes that you’d get the hint. But you don’t. And he’d soon learn throughout the years of your friendship to come that you never did.

“Your life!” you exclaim, “we’re graduates now! What do you want to do with it?” You pat harshly at his thigh, closer to his groin than to his pocket, most likely because you’re tipsy too, but he realizes you’re referring to the rolled up paper protruding at the pocket. 

Truthfully, Gojo had never thought much about what he wanted to do after graduation. Hell, he didn’t even think he’d make it this far. Not once since he got here, not once since he flunked out of first-year history, not once since his father passed away during his third-year final examinations, and most certainly not after he got caught having “unethical affairs” with his communications professor just two months ago. And yet the esteemed board of scholars decided he was fit for a diploma anyway, and now he’s answering to, effectively, a stranger what he plans to do with said piece of paper.

“I don’t know,” he says to you, “I’ll do whatever.” 

Gojo Satoru could get by with doing whatever. He was good at everything he did. But his teachers and mentors and his own father would always warn him– son, it’s better to be an expert at one than a half-assed show-off in all. Well, they wouldn’t use the expletives, but that’s what it had sounded like in his head.

His dad would’ve liked you. He was always telling him to find a girl that challenges him, asks him the right questions, and pushes him to become a better man, the kind of woman his mother was to his father. Much opposed to the airheaded girls of Gojo’s college campus he would sneak into the house and forget to shoo off before sunrise, an occurrence that happened enough times for the respect in his father’s eyes to dwindle with each woman he’d watch his son dispel from their residence. Until eventually, Gojo started paying rent as punishment.

So, twenty-three year old Gojo, what do you plan to do with your life? Or do you have no idea of anything that extends beyond where you are right now, sitting across this strange girl you’ve just met on the death of your educational youth, at the top of a stairwell lined with passed out, drunk newly grads at nearly 4 in the morning? Right now, he’s eyeing the hem of your dress, the way it’s ridden up slightly but the mesh overskirt still tickles the skin of your thigh. He’s certainly able to picture what’s beyond that fabric, and maybe imagine the color of your panties, but what’s to come for his life? No. As previously mentioned, he never thought he’d get this far.

Gojo is thirty-four now, eleven years since that night the two of you met. And he sits next to you on a garden bench under a pitch black sky with stars speckled across, but only dimly visible. 

It’s been years since he’s seen you. You two had a “falling out” at the cusp of thirty, almost a decade of friendship fizzled away, because of his selfish actions. He couldn’t let you go, but he couldn’t want you the way you wanted him either. He didn’t feel like he deserved to have you. You were too good for him, and he knew it. So he wasted a decade chasing after other women, and in return, he lost the one he knew he was supposed to spend the rest of his life with.

It’s the night of your college roommate‘s wedding, all gathered here today to celebrate their love, and he knew he’d run into you here. You were the bride’s maiden of honor, and you looked beautiful. With your hair half tied up, a pretty clip twinkling with every movement of your head, and with strands falling down over the smooth curve of your neck, bare skin of your chest tightly covered by the nude fabric of your dress. He was fully lusting after you, and he has been all night, the picture of beauty and grace, and it was wrong. Because, again, he’s–

“You’re engaged?” you finally break through his thoughts, break through the trance that he was lost in by the sea of your eyes. Forever pulling him in like you were a wicked siren for his soul, when all you’ve ever wanted from him was his love.

He shifts a little, the thick fabric of his navy blue suit stretching with the movement as he fidgets with his hands in his lap. He’s sitting close to you, his shoulder brushing against yours, the contrast of his broad masculinity so evident against the feminine curve of your bare arm, the thin strap holding up your dress threatening to fall down the hill. His thumb twitches, because he wants to pull it back up into place for you like a gentleman, but he’s not sure if that’s what his hand would actually do. Because all he really wants to do is peel the dress off of you. 

“Yes,” he says, still tantalized by the glow of your skin under pale moonlight, “engaged.”

“To be married?”

“Well, what other kind of engaged is there?”

“You’re not allowed to get married.”

He snorts. “Says who?”

“Says me!” you exclaim, sitting up straighter, "I turn my back for one moment, and you've gone an got engaged? You're awful!" The strap of your dress falls down over your shoulder, his eyes immediately darting to it. He sees you pull the strap up back into place, and a flit of his eyes to your face reveals to him the slight dusting of an embarrassed pink to your cheeks. 

There’s a silence that settles between the two of you. Distant commotion is heard, likely from the wedding venue as people engage in reception activities and dances and cheers, while the two of you remain in this garden escape, the wall of primly trimmed bushes sheltering you two from having to pretend to be people you’re not amongst a crowd.

“Aiko…” he hears you say beside him, and although the name of the woman that has rolled off your tongue is the name of the woman he’s supposed to love, it only makes him feel sick to his stomach to hear you say her name. “She seems lovely.”

“She is,” is all he can manage to say. And he also knows this seemingly lovely woman is probably drunk off her face back at the reception hall, giggling at all the men that approach her from the sight of her flushed face, and he should feel some sort of jealousy or possessiveness over that, but he can’t seem to muster any. Unlike the grit he had to his jaw an hour ago when he saw you dancing with a man he heard you introduce to your friends as just an “old friend” of yours from college. He felt more anger in that moment than he’d ever felt watching his soon-to-be-wife getting talked up to by the sleazy men twice her age. 

“She must be very rich,” you say. “She looks it.”

“Oh. Yeah. Her family’s very well off,” Gojo says.

“So will you become rich too?” you ask him, “when you marry her.”

His eyes flit to the sky briefly. “Doubt it.”

“How come?”

“The old man doesn’t like me very much. I imagine he’ll cut ties after the wedding.”

“Her father?”

“Yes.”

“And why is that?”

“Well. I guess it’s not every father’s dream to find out his prim and proper daughter’s been knocked up by the good-for-nothing boyfriend he’s been threatening her to say good riddance to for months now.”

The silence finds the two of you again, but this time haunting and gutting. That was a blabber, if anything. So nonchalantly said, with no emotion or spirit, to the one person in this world who he’s always felt like he can be himself around.

“She’s pregnant?” you say beside him, voice breaking slightly at the end, and he can’t bear to look at you for some reason. Some sort of admission of guilt, but what for? What exactly was he repenting for?

He lets out a small laugh, like the absurdity of the situation finds him all the same. “Yeah.” 

“That–” you start, stiff next to him, before he feels the tension relax but only rigidly, “that’s wonderful, Satoru. I’m–...I’m really happy for you.” You turn your torso to wrap your arms around him, and his lips brush the sweet skin on your forehead as you bury your face in the crook of his neck. He wraps one arm around you, a sort of friendly hug as he rubs the skin of your arm soothingly, and his heart aches from the emptiness when you release him. 

“Wow…” you say, looking up at him with pretty eyes, eyelashes fluttering as you blink rapidly to process the information, and he wonders if you really are happy for him. He doesn’t want you to be. He wants you to be furious, to tell him off for getting another woman pregnant after leading you on for so many years, maybe he wants you to slap him, or grab him by the collar of his shirt and shake him until all he sees is a million of you through dizzy vision like some paradise. He wants you to be mad, because it’d mean that you still care. It’d mean that you still think there’s something here to salvage between the two of you. 

But he’s engaged. And he’s having a baby. What was more final than that?

“So…are you marrying her because of–”

“The wedding is in four weeks,” he cuts you off, but he knows the statement answers your question regardless.

“Satoru…”

He leans off to the side a little to reach into the pocket of his suit pants, and he pulls out what is now a slightly bent envelope and he hands it to you. You take it from him gently, holding it weakly like it was something beyond you. Like something distant and foreign and strange. When all it was, is a wedding invitation. 

“Listen…” he starts.

He sees your eyes dazed as you stare at the lettering on the outside of the envelope.

“We’ve been friends for a long time, y/n. And I know the last time we saw each other was–” Hostile. Angry. Disappointing. Ended with you cussing him out on the street and then saying you never want to see him again. “...not ideal, but I still care a lot about you, and, uh, so, it would mean a lot to me if you came to the wedding.” For fucks sake, even on the brink of losing you forever, he still can’t find the right words to say. “Aiko, she–” He tastes bitter in his mouth, “well, I’ve told her a lot about you, and she’d really love it if you came as well.”

You’re silent as you gently peel back the opening of the letter and then pull out the small card stock invitation. The gold printed letters shine as you inspect it, fingers tracing the patterns of words that profess the Rei family’s intent to wed their daughter to Gojo Satoru. Your Gojo Satoru. Your best friend in this whole wide world. He watches your eyes carefully, but he can’t discern what he finds in them.

“Gojo Satoru…” you drone off, “to be wed. And to be a father.” Years of late night talks of the future, of kids and Christmas and love, with reality seemingly sly on the horizon only to have crept up so abruptly. It was pinched between your fingers right now. That reality.

His shoulders sulk slightly. And when you look up at him again, there’s a sheen of tears in your eyes.

“I can’t come to this,” you whisper, “and you know that, Satoru.”

His heart breaks. A physical pain that twists in his chest so tight at just the sight of seeing you sad. Sad again over the actions of his own. They say you always hurt the one you love, and he had always wondered what sort of evil person would do such a thing, only to find out he’s only ever hurt you this entire time. 

He should’ve kissed you that night the two of you met at graduation. Should’ve shut you up and all your existential questions by pinning you to a wall and pressing his lips against yours. He should’ve taken you to bed and fucked you, and then held you in his arms until you woke up in the morning. Should’ve listened to you talk his ear off about how he’s just like all the other guys, who pretend to care, but only want to have sex and then never to speak to the girl ever again. And he should’ve laid there in bed, nose nuzzled in your hair, taking all the scolding despite having no intent to ever leave you.

Instead, he wasted so much time. Sure, he had your friendship. His best friend for years, but the two of you could’ve been something more. Could’ve spent the years together, instead of writing stained letters or leaving messages on answering machines while the two of you were miles away. He could’ve been waking up with you every morning with the scent of your shampoo on his sheets, instead of clinging to pillows in foreign motel rooms. He could’ve been engaged to you, and he could be whispering sweet nothings in your ear of how much he wishes the baby will have your eyes. 

But his thoughts are lost in fantasy. He is what he’s done, nothing more and nothing less. His eyes fall to your lap, the invitation still held loosely in your hand, and then a droplet of water falls onto it.

“I–” you stutter, wiping at the tears spilling down your cheeks with a hesitant swipe of your hand, “I need to go.”

You stand up off the bench and he quickly stands up with you, grabbing your wrist to keep you here with him, and you halt but only with you facing away from him. He yanks at your wrist harshly, pulling you into him so his chest is flush to your back, his arms wrapping strongly around you and his nose nuzzling into your hair, breathing you in greedily like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance.

“Satoru–” you gasp, your hands immediately grabbing at his forearms that are tightly crossed across your collarbone. “What are you doing–” 

“Say it,” he whispers, gruff and impatient, “tell me to do it, and I will.”

“T-Tell you to do what?” you stutter, struggling a little in his hold but he only holds you tighter.

“Tell me to leave her, and I will,” he says, his lips brushing at your ear now, the scent of your perfume maddening to his senses, and one of his hands slowly trails down and the knuckle of his thumb presses into the softness of your breast.

You squirm, a small and soft moan leaving your lips.

“T–” you breathe in harshly, “this is wrong.” 

“I don’t care,” he growls, arms sliding lower to hold you under your breasts, so tightly that your heels lift off the ground. “Just say the word, and I’ll leave everything behind for you. I promise,” he breathes in deep, the desperation making his head hazy, “that I’ll do things right this time. Just you and me–” 

“You’re going to be a father,” you remind him, and he shuts his eyes closed tightly, the responsibility of the word bearing on his shoulders but his desire for you overshadows every shred of sense or dignity or integrity he has left in him, because he felt like he was losing his mind after wanting you for years just to never have you. 

He turns you around in his hold so that you face him, and he crashes his lips to yours, muffling the surprised mmf! that dies in your throat in surprise as his hands hold your waist, relishing in the feeling of satin fabric pulled taut over your curves.

Forbidden, yet a taste that he’ll risk because there was no curse that was worse than the fate of having to pine after you for years.

Ah.

But.

But it was all fantasy, this moment in his head, where he takes you on the freshly cut grass of this garden. 

Something that only briefly flashes through his mind as his warm hand wraps around your wrist, from where he was still seated on the stone bench, and not on his feet holding you like he dreamed for. Like he longed for.

He feels the weight of his arm so heavily, as if it weren’t his own, and he slowly lets go of your wrist.

When he looks up at you, there’s longing in your eyes. A hurt that he didn’t even know he was capable of causing, just for him to realize that you’ve always looked at him that way, and he’s never been keen enough to know it until now. He grew up too late. He took too long.

His phone starts buzzing in his pocket, and he reaches in for it, then flips it open and sees his soon-to-be-wife’s name on it. He feels nothing at the sight.

“Hello?” he speaks into the device when he holds it to his ear, and he sees you take a couple steps away, rubbing anxiously at your elbow as you pretend to busy yourself with the study of the lamp. “Yes, I’ll be there soon. I, uh, I’m just with a friend. A couple of friends, actually. We’re having drinks by the pond. Mhm. Yes. I will. Okay, see you soon. I—…I love you too. Bye.” And then he snaps the phone shut. 

“Heading back?” he hears you ask.

He stands. “I’ve got to.”

“Okay.” 

You two walk down the shrubbery of the garden that was arranged like a maze, him a few paces behind you, and he watches the delicate line of your posture as your hand brushes against the green walls of foliage that encase the two of you, the feeling of wanting to touch you and hold you almost suffocating. 

“Hey,” he calls out to you, and he shoves his hands in his suit pockets. You turn around immediately to face him, like his voice was permission to do so.

“Yes?” you ask.

He blinks up at the starry sky, and then looks at you again. The soft cast of distant warm lighting falls over your face, making you appear like a renaissance painting, similar to those that you would point out to him at museums when you two would see each other on holiday back in your early twenties. He could never understand the charm of those paintings, no matter how many times you tried to explain it to him, but seeing you in this light right now, he finally understands the beauty that you saw. 

“I’m, uh,” he rubs at the back of his neck, and then scoffs out a small laugh, “I’m a little drunk right now, but–” He stops himself. What was he trying to say? And was it of conscious mind? “I just need to tell you that…I really regret…not speaking to you. I mean, for letting the silence drag on for years. You’re my–...my best friend. We’re a pair, you know? The two of us. For years, people would ask me where you were. And why they haven’t seen us together at all recently. And it was hard to admit that we hadn’t spoken in years.”

You take the smallest of steps towards him, and look up at him with empty eyes. 

“What I’m trying to say is, is that, well,” he finds himself tripping over his words, “I miss you. And I miss our friendship. And–...I miss having you around.” He glances down at his shoes, polished and reflecting off the moonlight directly above him. He rocks back and forth on his heels ever so slightly. “I know you said that I piss you off to lengths unimaginable to my tiny pea-sized brain, but I can’t help myself, y/n,” he admits, “I think you and I, we’re just meant to always be. In some how, or some way…”

You purse your lips together, gaze shifting lower to eye at the silk of his tie. 

“Can we be friends again?” he asks, the words feeling juvenile on his tongue. Like whispered apologies between children on a playground after shoving one another onto wooden chips, except the wounds he’s left on you run much deeper than a superficial scrape. 

You blink slowly, tilting your head up at him. “Friends?”

“Friends.”

You wipe your palm off on the satin of your dress. “I missed you too, you know.”

His eyes widened slightly.

Your hand finds its way up your arm, until you weakly cup your elbow with your palm and look off to the side, avoiding eye contact with him. “There were so many years where I thought that there was something between us. And maybe I was foolish for thinking that way, that you would ever see me that way–”

“y/n,” he tries to interrupt you. 

“But…the pain of not having you the way I wanted to was much less worse than the pain of not having you at all,” you say, your gaze finally shifting towards him. “But, the thing is, I needed to feel that pain to get over you. I had to.”

His heart stills at those words.

You glance down at the ground now. “I missed being able to tell you things. To laugh, and cry, and argue. I miss humbling your stupid ego. I miss being able to call you at any time, knowing you’d pick up when I needed you.”

His heart aches so much he wants to reach into his chest and hold it.

“The thing is,” you continue, “you would’ve been the first person I would’ve run to to tell them that I lost my best friend.” There were tears shining in your eyes. “But what could I do when you were the one that I had lost? Who could I have turned to then?”

He lets out a shaky breath, and in a swift motion, his arm wraps around your waist and he pulls you to him in an embrace.

You’re stiff in his hold, mechanical and rigid, so contrary to the soft tears you leave behind on the fabric of his sleeve, but slowly and surely, you warm and thaw. Your hands slide up past his shoulders, linking behind his neck. And his head drops to the curve of your neck, swaying you with him slowly as if it were a first dance.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “for hurting you.”

You breathe out slowly. “Just let me go, Satoru. Let me be free. Let me be free of you.”

He feels the air knock out of his lungs, and the two of you slowly pull your heads away from the embrace to look at one another, although your hands still find a place on his shoulders, and he still holds you close to him by a delicate hold of your waist. 

He wonders if in another life, you two were happy. He wonders if he could ever take back all the decisions he made, and start all over again. On that day the two of you met on that staircase in the west wing of the literature building, he would make a different choice. If he could, he would live in this lifetime of hell over and over again if it meant that in some other one, there exists a world where he never hurts you. 

“It’s time for me to go,” you whisper, eyes darting across the features of his face, studying them but with a familiarity that only you know, because you held his entire life in your palm. Your gaze meets his again, faces just inches apart, and the sweet curl of your eyelashes makes him weak in the knees. “It’s time.”

He nods slowly, his own eyes studying your face as well, except it looks foreign to him now. 

It’s all been said and done. There was nothing he could do to right the wrongs, or undo all the pain. He was to be a father now, and his duties were now towards his wife and unborn child. And no longer to the woman he holds in his arms, one he’s sure he will never stop loving for as long as he lives. 

It’s a sweet moment, the two of you gazing at one another. You look so pretty from this angle, looking up at him with the smallest tilt to your head and round searching eyes. His head subconsciously dips down towards yours in the second that he glances at your lips, but he stops himself. And when you make no move to create distance, he finds himself closing it again, until his lips brush against yours ever so softly. And then he captures them in a kiss, firm and unmistaken, finding solace in the way your lips move against his too, unsure yet passionately at the same time. Your fingers ever so slightly dig into his shoulders while his thumbs soothe at the skin of your waist, the two of you savoring the last moments of a kiss that’ll be the sweetest one you’ll ever know.

You pull away first, a small puff of air leaving your lips as you glance downwards. He rests his forehead against yours, never once looking away from your face. And you both breathe slowly, the soul of the chaste kiss entirely vanishing into the air along with all the hope that the two of you had left to make anything of the way you feel about one another. It was a kiss that almost disqualified any level of sin or guilt or wrong, because it was like one you two owed each other, after years of familiarity and longing. It was the goodbye that the two of you deserved.

His hands slowly let go of your waist, and he takes a step back away from you, softly clearing his throat. The distance feels like a galaxy away, and he briefly runs his thumb along his bottom lip, because the ghostly feeling of your lips on his still remains. 

“Shall we head back?” you ask him, prim and proper in posture and eyes widened in a formal gaze.

His lips are parted, and he finds that he’s panting slightly. And then he slowly nods his head. “Yes.”

.

.

.

[the end] 

a/n. i am sooooo freaking obsessed w "one day" by david nicholls and really wanted to write something inspired by it!! the book literally ripped my heart out and stomped on it like there were so many scenes where i just longingly stared out the window because of how shattering it was but dear god i really enjoyed it, and the show was also so dfkjhsfkhs i had sm feels watching it. so yea this was fun to write!! i hope you enjoyedd n thanks so much for reading :)

➸ masterlist

[cherrysweetink]

womanizer!geto x nerd!fem!reader

suggestive, mdni <3

You meet him because he's failing. Hard. Like almost-suspended failing. Suguru Geto is every professor’s worst nightmare; tattoos half-visible under his uniform, earrings flashing when he stretches, cigarette tucked behind his ear. And you? Top of the class. Quiet. Responsible. Glasses slipping down your nose while you push your highlighters into neat color-coded rows. You weren’t expecting to be assigned to him. And he definitely wasn’t expecting you. Top student meets top disciplinary case.

First session, he shows up 20 minutes late. Sits backward in the chair. Looks you up and down like you’re the one wasting his time. You’re nervous. He’s amused. You’re wearing a cardigan and glasses. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that clings to his abs, hair pulled into a loose bun, silver ring glinting on his thumb. “You’re cuter than I expected,” he says, and God, his voice. Deep and smooth, with just a little rasp like smokes too often. "If I’d known that, I might’ve flunked sooner.” You want to tell him off. You really do! But then he stretches. Long arms over his head. Shirt riding up just enough to show the ink curling at his hips. And now you’re staring. He notices. “Like what you see, pretty?” 

He doesn’t take tutoring seriously. Not at first. He spends the whole session watching you. He keeps flirting, keeps teasing, keeps getting closer. His excuse? “I'd focus better if you were sitting on my lap.” You shut that down real fast. But he starts testing your limits: Touching your knee under the table, sitting too close, whispering answers against your ear. “C’mon, baby,” he drawls one night, low and warm. “I’ll behave if you let me kiss you.” You drop your pen. He catches it before it hits the floor, eyes still on you. 

Geto’s reputation is no secret. He’s the guy who hooks up with girls and never calls them after. The guy who makes it look easy. Geto’s never had a real reason to behave. Never had to try for anything. Until you. You make him earn it. Every second of your time, every shy smile you give. You’re the first one who tells him no. No, he can’t copy your answers. No, he can’t sweet-talk his way out of learning the material. And no, you’re not going to sit in his lap while explaining conditional statements. The last one? “Worth a shot,” he says, biting down on his grin.

You start to notice little things. Like how he gets real quiet when you laugh. Or how he is even less focused when you wear a skirt to tutoring. Or how his jaw clenches when another guy stops by your study table just to say hi. “You think he’s smarter than me?” he asks later, tongue in his cheek. “Because I’ll start studying twice as hard if it means I get to fuck you first.”

One week, you get sick. He shows up outside your apartment with soup, a bottle of Motrin , and zero explanation. “Don’t read into it,” he says. “I just need you alive to pass psych.” You’re in pajamas. No makeup. Unbrushed hair. And he’s looking at you with an expression that you can't quite understand. He stays. Doesn’t touch you. Just leans against your desk chair while you nap, scrolling his phone like it’s the most natural thing in the world. When you wake up, there’s a hoodie draped over your blanket. It smells like him. 

One night, it all finally snaps. You’re both tired, overworked, frustrated. He’s been actually trying lately, which shocks you, and clearly shocks him too. You’re leaning over the table, pointing out an error he made, when he grabs your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to make you pause. “You know I want you, right?” he asks, eyes dark and steady. “I’ve been good. I’ve been trying. So if I kiss you right now-” You don’t stop him. He kisses you like he’s starving. One hand in your hair, the other gripping your waist like he's been dying for it. Your glasses are fogged. Your head is spinning. And when he finally pulls back, breathing heavy, lips swollen. “You taste better than I dreamed,” he says. “And I’ve dreamed about it. Like a lot.”

After that, he’s worse. He’s texting you at 2 a.m. with stupid math memes just to make you laugh. Leaning too close when you’re helping him with formulas, eyes on your mouth instead of the notebook. “If I ace this quiz,” he whispers, “do I get a reward?” You laugh flustered and breathless, but don’t say no. He gets an 87. You barely make it past the couch.

He’s filthy when he finally has you. Pinned under him in his apartment, your cardigan long discarded, his hands dragging your skirt up so slowly you swear he’s doing it just to watch you squirm. He groans, kissing down your stomach.,“Bet you’ve been aching for this since day one.” You moan when he bites your inner thigh. He grins. That night, he ruins you. And the next morning, he shows up early to your tutoring, coffee in hand, kiss bitten lips, and an essay fully completed. “See?” he says, flashing that devilish smile. “You are a good influence.”

dividers by @thecutestgrotto @cafekitsune

[vingtetunmars]

Stevie Doesn't Know...

Pairing: Eddie Munson x F!Reader

Summary: Being Steve Harrington’s twin sister means always living in someone else’s shadow, under the surface, you're just trying to feel seen. That is, until a chance encounter with Eddie Munson sparks an unexpected connection.

part 2

Tags: Reader is Steve’s twin sister, roughly takes place between season 2 and season 3, SFW, overall fluff, meet-cute(?), secret relationship (in part 2), mutual pining, developing relationship, they're just soft for each other your honor. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: This is my first ever fic, so please bear with me. If you have any suggestions or thoughts feel free to reach out to me (please be nice 🥺). Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 3k

masterlist

You never really hated high school. It just never quite felt like it belonged to you.

People smiled at you in the hallways—tight-lipped, polite, surface-level smiles that came with your last name. Harrington. Like it was a crown you wore, passed down from Steve.

To most people at Hawkins High, you were just the quieter, smarter, slightly more tolerable version of your brother. “Steve’s sister.” Never mind the fact that your GPA could bench-press theirs or that you ran student council meetings with enough bite to scare actual adults. They didn’t care. You weren’t a real person to them—you were Steve’s sister who didn’t make a mess and remembered to smile.

So you smiled. Every morning. Even now, as you moved through the hallway past rows of metal lockers and neon-colored posters for the winter formal, the same fake grin tugged at your lips.

A locker slammed shut next to you.

“Council meeting’s still on today, right?” asked Mindy, the senior secretary who wore her cheer uniform like it came with a superiority complex.

You nodded. “After seventh period.”

“Cool, cool,” she chirped. “Oh! And hey, there’s a party at Kyle’s tonight—his parents are out of town again.” She grinned, clearly not inviting you just yet. “You should totally come.”

You opened your locker, swapped out your English textbook for Chemistry, and waited.

“And like—” Mindy added quickly, her voice pitching upward, “If Steve’s around, bring him?”

There it was. Right on schedule.

You gave her a practiced smile—half-assed, barely curled at the edges—and shut your locker. “I’ll let him know.”

You didn’t say yes. You never said yes. You just walked away, the sound of your Converse on linoleum echoing down the hallway like punctuation.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

Seventh period passed in a blur of equations and doodles in the margins of your notes. After the council meeting, you finally stepped outside, the air already cooling into that signature late-fall crispness. The parking lot was nearly empty.

You considered heading home. You could’ve taken the long way, past the neighborhood where the autumn leaves were still clinging to the trees. You could’ve gone to the arcade. Or the library. Or just—anywhere that didn’t involve someone asking about your brother.

But you didn’t expect to find him sitting on the curb, chain smoking like he wasn’t technically banned from school property after last week’s fireworks stunt in the boys’ bathroom.

Eddie Munson.

The freak. The guy who played guitar like his soul depended on it and made people uncomfortable just by existing too loudly. You’d seen him in the halls before. You’d sat two rows behind him in Honors English last year until he flunked out. You weren’t friends, not really. Just two people whose orbits occasionally overlapped.

He didn’t see you at first.

You almost kept walking. You almost didn’t say anything at all.

But then—

“You know you’re gonna die with those lungs, right?”

His head snapped toward you, brows raised like he expected a punchline. He looked you up and down, eyes lingering on the school ID clipped to your lanyard.

“Oh,” he said. “Royalty speaks.”

You snorted. “Hardly.”

There was a beat of silence. He blinked, like you’d just said something in another language.

You tilted your head. “What? You think I’m gonna write you up or something?”

He shrugged, flicked ash from his cigarette. “Dunno. Just surprised you acknowledged me. Usually your kind has blinders for the unwashed masses.”

You raised a brow. “You mean people who sit alone after school chain-smoking Marlboros in the parking lot?”

He looked at you again, this time with more curiosity than sarcasm. “You’re not as much of a Harrington as I thought.”

You shrugged, offering the tiniest smile—this one not fake, but not fully real either. “Guess you don’t know me.”

He took another drag, then said, “Not yet.”

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The thing about Hawkins High was that everyone fit neatly into their little boxes. Jocks. Cheerleaders. Band geeks. Burnouts. Even the ones who tried not to belong ended up in their own category—like Eddie Munson, who made being an outcast feel like a damn art form.

You weren’t supposed to talk to him. Not because anyone said it out loud, but because it just wasn’t done. You were student council. Straight-A’s. Some teacher’s favorite. You were a Harrington.

So when you found yourself walking into the library during study hall, the last thing you expected was to spot Eddie Munson camped out in the farthest corner—feet kicked up, a tattered fantasy novel in hand, and a sketchbook open in his lap like a secret he wasn’t ready to share.

You would’ve left him alone.

But then he glanced up and said, “Look who it is. Council Queen.”

You sighed. “Do you ever not give people nicknames?”

Eddie leaned back in his chair like the whole world was a stage. “Only the ones who are boring.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So I’m not boring?”

He seemed to consider that for a second. “Not yet. You’ve got potential.”

You rolled your eyes and sat a few chairs away—not close enough to seem like you were seeking him out, but not far enough to ignore him either. You pulled out your notes and started reviewing for an upcoming history quiz.

“Lemme guess,” Eddie said after a beat. “American Revolution?”

“World Wars,” you replied without looking up.

He let out a dramatic groan. “Man, I barely passed that class. Too many dates. Not enough dragons.”

You stifled a laugh. “Well, there were enough battles, if that helps.”

“I dunno,” he mused, tapping his pencil on the edge of his desk. “Would’ve paid more attention if it had orcs or something.”

You shook your head but didn’t tell him to shut up.

After a few minutes, you noticed him glancing at your notes. Not in a copying kind of way—more like he was genuinely trying to make sense of what you’d written.

“You know,” you said, “you could probably pass this year. If you actually tried.”

Eddie gave you a skeptical look. “What makes you think I want to?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” you replied, gesturing to the stack of books on the table. “In the library. During study hall. You could be skipping.”

He blinked like he hadn’t considered that you might notice details about him.

A pause settled between you. Not awkward. Just… curious.

“Alright,” he said eventually. “You got me. I’m trying. Might as well graduate before the world ends.”

You smiled at that. Not the fake smile you gave to party girls who only wanted Steve’s number. A real one. Small, crooked, surprised.

“I won’t tell anyone,” you said, turning back to your notes.

Eddie watched you for a moment longer, then smirked and opened his book again.

And for the rest of study hall, you sat there—quietly, separately, but somehow in the same kind of peace. Like two kids who had accidentally wandered off the map and didn’t hate the company they found.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

Suddenly, he's everywhere.

One day, you passed him in the hallway and gave him a nod. The next, he was already sitting in your usual study hall corner when you walked in, a second chair dragged out for no one in particular. After that, it was lunch outside behind the bleachers—he said the cafeteria made his skin crawl—and you just… started showing up there too.

You never planned it. It was like some weird, unspoken schedule only the two of you understood.

Eddie would make fun of your neatly labeled folders. You’d mock his absolute refusal to use lined paper. He’d tell you about his latest campaign, sketching monsters in the margins of his algebra homework. You’d quiz him on history while he threw pencils at squirrels and pretended not to care. But he always remembered the answers.

There was something safe about being around him. No pretense. No performance. No Steve’s sister nonsense.

Just you.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

It was one of those strange after-school afternoons where neither of you had anywhere to be.

You were sitting across from Eddie in the back corner of the library, pretending to work on student council flyers while he doodled little bats and swords in the margins of a notebook he wasn’t even pretending to study from.

Somehow, the conversation wandered—casually at first—from school stuff to the past, to old reputations that still lingered like cigarette smoke.

And then Eddie said, without looking at you, “You know, your brother used to be a real dick to guys like me.”

You paused, pen hovering mid-air.

“I know,” you said quietly.

He didn’t say it cruelly. Just plainly. Like it was a fact he’d carried around long enough that it didn’t burn anymore.

You shifted in your seat. “He’s not like that anymore.”

“I’ve noticed.”

There was a beat of silence, then you added, “Still, I’m sorry. For how he used to be. He’s my twin, yeah, but he doesn’t speak for me.”

Eddie looked at you for a moment—really looked at you.

Then he shrugged, smirking a little. “Honestly, I stopped holding that against you the moment you made fun of my Dio shirt and didn’t follow it up with a hair flip and an insult.”

You huffed a laugh, a little relieved.

“I don’t do hair flips,” you said.

“Exactly my point,” he replied, tapping his pencil like he’d solved a riddle. “You’re not him. Never were.”

You blinked.

That shouldn’t have meant as much as it did.

But it did.

Because most people only ever saw you as a footnote to Steve’s reputation—his smarter, quieter, more polite twin. A fun twist on a familiar character. Even the compliments felt borrowed.

But Eddie? He said it so simply.

You’re not him.

You felt seen in a way you hadn’t expected. And honestly? It left you a little speechless.

Eddie went back to doodling like he hadn’t just rearranged something in your chest.

You stared at him for a while longer, wondering when exactly things had started to shift.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

You were just trying to kill time. Saturday afternoon, no student council meetings, no tutoring sessions, no expectations. You walked into the music store on Main for the quiet, for the rows of records and the occasional hum of something being tested over the speakers. You liked it there. It felt like a place that didn’t need you to be anyone.

The bell above the door jingled behind you just as you were flipping through a bin labeled Classic Rock / Staff Picks.

“I’m not stalking you, I swear,” said a familiar voice.

You looked up, and there he was. Eddie Munson. Denim vest, unruly curls, a tiny tear in his shirt sleeve like always. He looked like he belonged in a record store. You didn’t.

You raised an eyebrow. “Sure you’re not.”

“I mean, I could be,” he added with a smirk. “But I feel like that’d ruin the whole ‘slow burn indie drama’ vibe we’ve got going.”

You snorted. “You think we’re an indie movie?”

He nodded toward the back of the store. “Only if there’s a scene where we judge each other’s music taste in complete silence.”

You followed him.

It wasn’t planned. It never was.

You browsed together for a while after that, shoulders bumping now and then, fingers almost brushing in the cramped aisles. You argued about The Clash vs. Talking Heads. He talked smack about synth-pop when you admitted you kinda liked it.

“I feel like you’re the kind of person who secretly likes Fleetwood Mac,” you said.

He scoffed. “Secretly? Nah. I’m man enough to admit ‘The Chain’ kicks ass.”

You laughed. A real one.

He stared for a beat too long.

You pretended not to notice.

Eventually, you ended up near the little listening station in the corner, headphones too big for your ears, vinyl spinning on a dusty turntable.

He watched you tuck your hair behind your ear as you adjusted the headphones and dropped the needle.

Your eyes closed. You swayed slightly. He didn’t know what you were listening to, but he knew he’d never seen you look more yourself.

Like the version of you no one at school got to see.

You opened your eyes, caught him staring.

He didn’t look away this time.

“What?” you asked, half a laugh in your voice.

He shrugged. “You’re just…”

He trailed off. Words fumbled somewhere between his mouth and brain. He looked down, suddenly very interested in the scuff on his boot.

“…Different than I thought,” he finished lamely.

You watched him.

He looked like he was waiting for you to laugh at him. Or roll your eyes. Or say something biting.

But you just said, “You too.”

There was a pause.

Then he asked, “You wanna go get fries or something?”

You blinked. Not in disbelief. Just in surprise that he asked.

Like this wasn’t just some weird afterschool friendship you both stumbled into. Like it could be more. Like maybe it already was.

You smiled. “Yeah. I do.”

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

By the next week, you were swapping cassette tapes like they were secret codes. Eddie gave you one labeled For Better Days in black Sharpie. You gave him a mixtape called Study Fuel that was half Bowie, half The Smiths. He said it was pretentious. He listened to it anyway.

He started walking you to your car when no one else was around.

You started waiting for him by his locker after seventh period.

It wasn’t a thing. Not officially. Not yet.

But when his pinky brushed yours one afternoon as you passed him a note—stupid, doodled lyrics and inside jokes—you didn’t pull away.

And when he looked at you after, not smirking but watching, really watching you like he saw something no one else did…

You looked back.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The Harrington house was quiet that night — just the low hum of the fridge and the soft hiss of the shower running upstairs. You were sprawled on the living room floor, textbook open in front of you, pretending to study while the same sentence blurred in your vision for the third time.

You were smiling, just a little. That kind of soft, absent smile you didn’t realize you were wearing.

“You’re either having a mental breakdown,” Steve said from the doorway, “or you’re into someone.”

You glanced up, startled. He was leaning against the doorframe with a glass of water in one hand, looking entirely too smug for someone who couldn’t pass pre-calc without divine intervention.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re so nosy.”

“And you’re being weird.”

He walked over, flopping dramatically onto the couch, water nearly sloshing out of the glass.

“I’m not being weird,” you muttered.

“You’re smiling at your homework. Geography homework. That’s suspicious.”

You tried to glare, but he saw right through it. Always had.

He let the silence stretch for a second before speaking again—quieter this time.

“Seriously, though. You seem… I dunno. Lighter.”

You blinked. That caught you off guard.

“I do?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Like… you’re not carrying the whole damn school on your back for once.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared down at your textbook and let that settle in your chest.

He waited.

That’s the thing about Steve—he could be a pain, but he was patient with you. Always had been. You could tell him anything, and he’d listen. No judgment. Just a quiet, solid kind of love.

But still, this one was yours.

For now.

So you just said, “Maybe I’m just in a good mood.”

Steve gave a slow, knowing nod.

“Well,” he said, “whoever or whatever it is… keep it. You deserve to feel good.”

That time, you didn’t hide your smile.

“Thanks, Steve.”

He leaned back with a grin. “Now come make popcorn. I’m starting a movie and I need emotional support.”

“You mean you need someone to explain the plot to you.”

He pointed at you dramatically. “Exactly.”

You laughed, closing your textbook and pushing up from the floor.

Whatever was blooming between you and Eddie… it could stay secret a little longer.

For now, it was enough that you knew.

And Steve knew you were okay.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

It started awkward.

Not just regular-Eddie awkward, but nervous Eddie. A rare breed. You spotted it immediately: the way he kept bouncing his leg under the cafeteria table, the way he scratched at the back of his neck like his skin didn’t quite fit.

You were sitting outside again, a half-eaten apple in your hand, a history notebook open but ignored between you.

He cleared his throat once. Then again.

“Hey, uh,” he started, staring hard at the pavement. “So—okay—this is probably stupid.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Great opener.”

He gave you a look. “Let me finish.”

You waited, biting back a smile.

“There’s this… thing. Thursday night. At the Hideout.” He was fiddling with a piece of string from his jacket sleeve now, twisting it around his finger like it owed him money. “Corroded Coffin’s playing. Just a couple of songs. It’s not, like, a real gig. Mostly drunks and a few dudes who mistake us for Sabbath.”

You tilted your head. “Are you… inviting me?”

He winced. “I don’t know. Am I?”

You blinked, then grinned—slow and amused and maybe a little fond.

“Well,” you said, “I guess that depends.”

“On what?”

“Will I get to say I knew you before you were famous?”

Eddie’s eyes lit up, caught somewhere between disbelief and delight. “If you come, you’ll be part of the origin story.”

You tossed your apple core into the trash and stood up, slinging your bag over one shoulder. “Thursday,” you said. “I’ll be there.”

He nodded, visibly trying to play it cool. “Cool. Yeah. Totally cool.”

You laughed on your way back inside.

He watched you go, wide-eyed like he couldn’t believe he’d just pulled that off.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The Hideout smelled like beer and cigarettes and old amps. The stage was barely six inches off the ground, the crowd maybe a dozen people deep, most of them nursing cheap drinks and ignoring the music.

You stood near the back, your hands tucked in your coat pockets, heart doing stupid things in your chest the second Eddie stepped onstage.

He was different up there.

Still himself—loud, cocky, electric—but amplified. His voice rough and raw, his guitar loud enough to shake your ribs. He didn’t look like a high school burnout up there.

He looked right.

You didn’t cheer like the drunk guy near the front or yell like the girls in the corner.

You just watched.

And he saw you.

Halfway through the second song, between lyrics, he looked right at you. Not at the crowd. Not at the door. You.

And he smiled.

Not that showy grin he wore like armor. A real one. Soft. Open.

It ruined you a little.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

After the set, you found him outside behind the bar, sitting on an upside-down crate and smoking a cigarette like it was the only thing keeping his hands steady.

He looked up when he heard you approach, eyes a little wide, hair wild with sweat and adrenaline.

“You came,” he said.

“You weren’t half bad,” you teased.

He scoffed. “We were loud. That’s about it.”

You sat beside him, knees bumping. “You looked happy.”

He went quiet. The good kind.

“I was,” he said eventually.

You turned to look at him. “That’s rare?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Kinda.”

The air buzzed between you, quiet and heavy, like the end of a song that hadn’t quite faded.

And then he said, almost too softly, “I kept looking for you.”

You blinked. “During the set?”

“Yeah.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

He shrugged, eyes flicking to yours. “Made it easier.”

You didn’t think.

You just leaned in.

And for once, Eddie Munson didn’t run his mouth. He didn’t joke. He didn’t fumble or flinch.

He just met you halfway.

The kiss was slow and tentative at first, both of you careful, like you weren’t sure this was allowed. Then it deepened—warmer, steadier—like you were both finally breathing after holding it in too long.

When you pulled back, he stared at you like you’d just rewritten the laws of gravity.

“Okay,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “That was…”

You smiled. “Yeah.”

Neither of you said it out loud, but it was already understood.

This was real. This was yours.

And it was a secret worth keeping.

Part 2

[th4tprettylittleliar]

pairing: Uni Professor Leon Kennedy x Fem!student reader

CW! : Leon’s cheating ;( , age gap (18 and mid 30s) , degrading themes, reader is a dummy, semi-public sex, (not really) fingering, piv sex, unprotected sex use protection! Reader looses virginity, readers lowkey obsessed , leon fingers her w/ wedding ring (sorry) , Leon’s rude as hell, some religious themes??

A/N : please lmk if there’s any spelling errors! I was really excited to publish this so I proofread fast. Please share this! It’s my first one shot on this blog . EDIT: I proofread now so lmk if there’s still spelling errors or grammatical errors

Okay, fine. Maybe your mother was right. Beauty doesn’t get you that far in life. How were you supposed to know?! For half your life, all you had to do was smile big and everything was handed to you.

Your friends— your popularity.. your boyfriends! You kind of figured everyone just liked your dumb-blonde personality. Not only that but you were just as sweet as a sugar cookie; something someone could crave and desire.. and cherish when it was in their grasp. Sweet and a little dumb? You had everyone at you feet.

Many wished they were you. You were the full package. Except, you were missing just one thing..

Your fucking brain.

It’s not like you were a clutz.. dear god no you weren’t helpless! You just needed extra help. Your daddy always told you that you were a special girl. Your frontal lobe just hasn’t developed yet! That’s why you almost flunked freshman year, that’s why you still use the “L” method to distinguish your left and right, and that’s why it took you nearly 6 retakes of the drivers ed test to finally get your license.

Yet, nobody trusts you enough to give you the keys to their car.

You hated it but you knew it was the price for your beauty. You can’t be that perfect in a world of monstrosity. But yet, even with just your face alone (and maybe a rather rich father) you still got into a good university.

You were so excited when you stepped foot on that campus, you would finally be living out your Rory Gilmore dreams! You were majoring in psychology, and biochemistry. You knew you had to try hard, harder than ever.

Your future depended on whether or not you completed college, and you weren’t going to mess this one up! You were determined. You wanted to live your rich-dentist fantasy with 2 boys. You needed to try your hardest.

Even if your hardest wasn’t enough.

It had almost been a month at university and you already had your eyes locked on someone in particular.

He was so soo dreamy, almost too dreamy. He made you forget that you were here to study, to be a rich mother of two!

You sometimes had to slap yourself to bring yourself back to reality. (Yes, you unconsciously did it in public) you’d get a weird stare or two but you didn’t really mind anymore.

His deep voice echoed against the lecture halls, he sounded stern— mean almost. You absolutely loved it. You loved every minute of that 3 hour lecture period. You thought you’d be bored out of your mind but your brain moved the little thoughts you had left and replaced them with the images of him.

You knew you weren’t the only one who had a infatuation strong liking towards the man.

You heard his name echo all through out that school, the gossip traveled. Every single girl who had a lecture with him either loved him or will eventually love him, it made you jealous.

You’ve never felt like you had to compete for something like this before,

It was always given to you on a golden platter.

It’s not like you could have him anyways. He was your professor. Shocker! You always went for the harder to get ones, figured your looks would do the rest.

Months of just looking down at him from the theatre seats were excruciating. You needed to be right beside him. For the past 4 months that’s all you wanted. You didn’t need to purposely flunk any test because that was already going to happen.

You just wished there was a moment where you could have him all to yourself. That’s all you wanted, a little one on one.

You could’ve easily emailed him and asked for tutoring sessions but why should you? It just doesn’t make sense why he hasn’t offered you any help. Your grades were a mess.

You started to get unmotivated, all you did was analyze him, and hyperfocus on every single one of his attributes. Its the hardest you’ve ever focused on something in your life. Just to go home and fantasize about everything he could do to you. That’s was probably why your grades were a mess.

You decided to pull yourself together and stop. Your dad was threatening to pull you from university calling it, “a waste of money.” So you knew you had to get your act straight.

It was hard, very hard but you stopped obsessing over him. You didn’t want to give up on your own dreams so you went to tutoring groups with your classmates to help get your grade up. That’s where. you met a guy named Miguel that helped you a lot.

You guys usually studied after class, or on the weekends with a cup of complementary coffee always purchased by him. It was a nice distraction from everything. You even managed to start passing the class before the progress report! Your daddy would be proud.

It was like this for weeks. Just the two of you studying for any upcoming tests, or even finishing an assignment together. It was really nice. You were even starting to get really comfortable with him aswell.

Today was another day of that long psychology class. Your usually giggle session with Miguel was some what masked by Professor Kennedy’s talking. You guys were barely taking note of what he’s was teaching.

His same, deep voice echoing through out the lecture hall. Except, every time Miguel and you started to talk amongst yourself, Professor Kennedy went quiet until you guys stopped, embarrassing you both.

You looked up every once and awhile from your computer, pretending to focus on his lesson, just to turn and talk to Miguel again. Professor Kennedy grew annoyed, and paused his lesson.

“Is their something more important up there then what I’m teaching?”

His voice was laced with his grim expression, making your heart drop. Hes never even addressed you like this.

“Excuse me?” Your soft voice ecoed against the loud silence. By the looks of it, your response pissed Mr. Kennedy off.

“Is that the issue? You cant here me? Why don’t you sit down here, sweetheart.” Professor Kennedy looked up at you, meaning buisness. A pout forming on your lips as you picked up your bag. Miguel looked just as shocked as you did while you walked awkwardly down the theatre steps. Plopping yourself in the center of the front row, like he asked.

His arms met the table before you, giving him leverage to lean down. His annoyed voice loud enough for only you to hear,

“How dumb are you? If you wanted to help yourself, you’d pay attention to my lecture. Instead, your giggling up there hoping to clutz your way into his pants, huh? For God’s sake, don’t be stupid and a slut.”

Shock was the only emotion desplayed on your face. Mouth dropped, eyes widening. He smiled before apologizing to the class before continuing his lecture.

Now, it’s a known fact you aren’t the brightest star in the universe, but this was a new low. You didn’t care what he said at all, it just made your stomach fluttery. You knew it’s probably wasn’t okay or even allowed for him to say that.

Not saying being called a slut didn’t hurt your pride, but it just made you fantasize him in a newer light. If slutty was being a little slower and wearing sundresses so be it. You thought you got over this obsession, you thought it was over.

The rest of the class you spent with your mind in a daze and your thighs clenched together. Nobody has made you feel this way. You felt hot, really hot. Tingly too.

If it was any other person, you would’ve let your father handle it. But no, it was Professer Kennedy. Quite frankly, you’d bend over backwards for that man

Class ended, you slowly packed up your things before putting on your school bag. You grabbed your watered down latte in sync as you took a step down the lecture theatre stairs, before hearing your name echo in the now quiet classroom.

“Yes, Professor Kennedy?” Your voice softer than usual as you slowly walked to his desk, your caked face tilting in the process.

“Look, I have my daughters dance recital in a hour and if I’m late my wife is going to beat my ass. So, I’m going to make this quick.” No.. did you here that wrong? he didn’t say wife.. Hopefully he didn’t notice the frown that formed on your face.

“I’ve noticed you’ve got your grades to passing and that’s fine but your barely passing. Your grades aren’t fantastic. I need you to focus on me in my class, not the man sitting next to you. I want you sitting front and center in my lectures going forward.” His tone harsh, how you liked it. This was a blessing from God, putting you right in the path of Leon’s view.

“I thinks it’s best if I sit next to Miguel, he actually helps me out a whole bunch. You should’ve came to me when I was actually failing, Professor Kennedy.” Dumb or not you knew what you were doing. Your sweet smile dawning on your glossed lips, your hands clasped together. He didn’t like that, at all.

“If you wanted to get your grades up, you would’ve came to me. Its university, doll. Do you need your professor following behind you asking if you submitted you assignment?” This is what you loved, the way you were talked to by him made your heart flutter. It was weird, you’ve never felt this way.

“Well, it would’ve helped.” You shrugged, a little giggle escaping your lips but you were met with dead silence and a cold stare. So you stopped.

“Wednesdays, Fridays, and occasionally Saturdays you’ll meet me in here at 6:00 to 8:00 for personal lectures. Dont tell anyone, you’re lucky I’m wasting my time on you. Your grades reflect my teaching so this is mandatory.” His tone monotone and uninterested, you had a bright smile on your face, though. Much more time with Professor Kennedy? This was a dream come true. Sadly, you’d have to end your study sessions with Miguel..

“Thank you so so sooo much Professor! I’ll be sure to come in tomorrow.” Genuine happiness was displayed on your pretty face. Professor Kennedy rolls his eyes before grabbing his briefcase and exiting the lecture haul

“Don’t be late.”

And you did just that.

It wasn’t really your fault… you needed to look good for you tutoring lesson! You wanted to wear this yellow sundress with white ruffles but you couldn’t find it. You looked for almost half an hour just for it to be on your bed.. too bad! Your makeup wasn’t working out either so you needed to restart. Then the car wouldn’t start and… well you get the point.

You also needed your latte so you were about an hour late. You showed up to the empty lecture room, no denying that you looked really good. You just couldn’t find Professor Kennedy.

Suddenly, his office door opens up and your met with an angered man, peering into your soul like he’s about to take it.

“I am so sorry look-“

“Save the bullshit. Your late but you have a fucking Starbucks coffee in your hand?” Proffesor’s voice is echoing off the walls, you gulp before responding

“Coffee helps me focus! I can get you one next time.” Your sweet smile stretched across your face again, trying to lighten the eerie mood.

“No, I don’t want your gratitude. You look like you stepped out of a paegent. Get in here.” He degrades before stepping into his enclosed office. This was the first time his words actually upset you, did you do to much? You thought you looked pretty..

You slowly crept into his office, looking around. It was bare, but it looked comfy ish. He had a nice fuzzy blanket in the corner chair. His desk was front and center with a wooden chair in front of it. Maybe you were looking for a little too long..

“Are you just going to stare at the chair or are you going to sit in it?” His usually demeaning words, he made you feel more stupid than you already did.

“Sorry.” You mumble, siting in the chair before you, your eyes look directly at his, eyelashes batting in his face. Almost felt like a brag.

“Your staying until 9 know since you decided it was okay to be late.” he bowed his head in disappointment as he typed on his computer for what felt like hours.

“Get your text book out and turn to page 132” he demanded, and you did exactly that. The first time in forever you’re accurately following instructions

You stay quiet and still while he types away, your textbook wide open and your phone next to it. Sometimes you found yourself basking in his features. His dyed blonde hair, his piercing blue eyes, his lips, his muscles… god his muscles.

“You’re staring.” Professor Kennedy breaks the silence as you flinch, turning to look at other rather boring things in his room. You could’ve sworn you saw him smile a little.

He actually wasn’t a bad teacher. He guided you through the text book chapters, and adjusted to your learning pace. He knew it would take a while for you to grasp onto the concept of psychology, but for the first time in a while he was willing to wait.

These study sessions helped a whole bunch, somehow with a brain capacity like yours you were actually learning some new concepts. You were finally able to say that you’ve learned something here. Your grades went up to high B’s and periodically low A’s which was a stretch from the beginning of the year. Just a little more studying and.. what?

You failed the chapter 7 test. Now, from the normal point of view you’d be confused, baffled even. How did you bomb a test when you were doing amazing in the class course? But in your point of view, you needed this, this had to be done.

You purposely flunked that test without a care in the world.

Why? Because you’ve noticed he became more distant the more you began to grasp onto psycology, the more you understood it. The tutoring sessions went from four days a week to only once or twice a week for an hour. That wasn’t enough time at all. He even gave you the opportunity to sit next to Miguel again but you didn’t. Why? Because you needed to be front and center. The first thing he sees when he looks around. You wanted to be the only thing on his mind and it’s not fair that he’s not getting the hint.

Why is this happening to you? You were always front and center, the first thought on everyone’s mind. You were practically a god at getting the male gaze and he didn’t bat and eye at you. Is it his wife? He already expressed the discontent in the relationship to his colleagues on the phone. He must’ve thought you weren’t listening.

This isn’t fair at all.

But at least he emailed you last night, you smiled so wide when his notiftication popped up on your phone, and even wider at what he wrote.

Sunday 6:30pm lecture room. Don’t be late. Professor Leon Scott Kennedy

You honestly didn’t think he’d care, and he probably noticed something was fishy because of the ratio from your test to your average grade. It was nearly impossible but you didn’t care, at all. You needed an excuse to see him and that plan fell right into your lap.

you eagerly waited for Sunday to come, it was only two days away but you didn’t have his class for the rest of the week. It felt like it’s been weeks since you’ve last seen him.

Sunday finally rolled around, and of course you had to doll yourself up. That signature sweet smile plasted on your full face, the dress that barely covered your ass. You’ve also grasped the concept of turning others on. Something that came natural to you but you wanted to crank the knob a little.

Your sandals clapped against the wood flooring as you approached his office door, before knocking on the door (knock, knock knock, knock). You were so excited that you instead brought ice cream today.

Leon reluctantly opens the door, to be met with you all dolled up, batting your stupidity long eyelashes in his face, and a ice cream cone in hand.

“Sit down, now.” This was different, or it felt different. Your heart actually dropped. Usually his tone made butterflies appear in your stomach, but he sounded genuinely pissed off.

“Yes sir.” Your words barely audible as you sat in the familiar wooden chair. You dress impossibly bunching up more, you take a light lick of your ice cream cone, as you watch him walk around to his side of the desk.

Leon would’ve usually sat in front of you, but no. He stood instead. His muscular arms on full display to you. He bunched up his sleeves but you were a mess already for this man. Your eyes couldn’t peer away from the veins that were prominently on display in his biceps. Only his voice could’ve broken you out of that trance like state.

“What the fuck is your problem.”

“Huh?” You look up in utter confusion, taking another lick of your icecream, a little dripping on to the side of your lip. His tongue pokes his cheek as he looks up at his office ceiling. Oh, he’s mad. Really mad.

“I tried so hard to be patient with you. So hard to give your dumb ass a chance. You were genuinely impressing me, growing on me even. Just for you to throw it all away.” His face inched closer to yours, you swallowed nothing out of pure fear. Professor Kennedy could practically hear your heart beating

“Professor Kennedy-“

“Oh, don’t you fucking call me that!” His voice impossibly louder than ever causing your eyes to widen and you to jult up in your seat. He decides to sit now and leans back, just for his eyes to narrow at you. He’s never looked better.

“Don’t act like I don’t know this game your playing. Prancing up in here with those stupid ass dresses, always something on your face, and seriously? Practically deep throating that ice cream cone in front of me? You’re not niave as you think you are.” His words shock you, you just liked looking pretty for him was that such a big deal?

“I don’t know what your saying.” You whisper, your doe eyes only growing bigger as you stick your tongue out, taking another drag of the ice cream.

“If you wanted to fuck your professor, you should’ve just asked. You look pathetic” Ouch. Now that one hurt, pathetic? You don’t even recall ever being called that.

“I don’t want to fuck you—“

“Oh, sure you do sweetheart. You’re telling me if I offered, you wouldn’t agree?” He caught you, he did. This was embarrassing being put on spot like this. Pouting as you look away from him. He’s mocking you, and your not going to fall for it.

“Sir, I’m not a slut. Plus, you have a wife.” You reminded him like he somehow forgot. He scoffed as he sat in his chair, looking at you face to face you.

“Come here” he demanded, his demeanor not faltering as your eyes widen, and your body stiffens up.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you have a hearing problem? I said come here.” You did just that, slowly standing up in confusion as you walk to the side of him

His computer was ahead of him, he pulled up a different tab before spreading his legs before him,

“Sit.”

You heard that wrong, you must’ve. He didn’t— He pat his thigh, his glare looking meaner every second as you finally speak up.

“I- I can’t.. Your my teacher and—“

“Am I asking you to take off my pants and suck? No, I said sit.” You reluctantly sit on his lap, awkwardly as you looked at the laptop before you.

“Yeah, you see that? That’s your score. A fucking fifty-four. Do you know how badly that’s going to affect your average for my class?” This felt too degrading, you were somewhat disappointed in yourself.

“Why did you fail my test on purpose?” Its over, he hates you. He fucking hates you more than he already did.

“I- I didn’t.” You stutter through your lie as he spanks you thigh, causing you to jult forward as his hands come in contact with your hips.

“Fine! You started seeing me less.. I just wanted to see you more, and I knew If I passed the test that the tutoring would stop.” You’ve never felt so ashamed before, he shakes his head in disbelief as you fiddle with your fingers nervously

“How sad, you flunked your test for extra time with your professor..” He mocked, grabbing a hold of the back of you neck, causing you to yelp as his lips met the shell of your ear

“You’re going to get what you wanted, baby. But, your retaking this test as well.” And with that he grabbed a hold of your hips, forcing you to face him on his lap as your hands met his shoulders, startled.

“Wait— I can’t this is morally wrong. You have a wife..”

“You didn’t care when you bent over with those short ass skirts, you didn’t care when you ‘accidently’ brushed my leg with your foot.. don’t try to sell me that bullshit now.”

It was all too much, never in a million years would you have thought this would happen. You’re sitting on top of your wish, and it’s getting harder beneath you.

“What if we get caught?” You mumbled, eyes faltering away from his in shame.

“Don’t be loud and we won’t” Without warning, his soft pink lips met yours. You were in shock but you finally kissed back. Your eyes closing in the process as your arms wrapped around his neck.

The kiss only got deeper as his hands went from your hips, onto your bare ass. Rubbing it soothingly before spanking it causing you to interrupt the kiss with a whimper against his lips. He forced his lips back onto yours as his tongue begged for an entrance, which you granted.

Your tongues faught for dominance before his would win the battle, taking over you as his hands crept below your dress and only your lower back. You shivered above him as you broke the kiss.

“We can’t do anything else.” You confessed in a daze, the thought of him cheating on someone for you had you feeling too responsible for the outcome. His forehead met yours as he whispered,

“Just a few kisses, I promise.”

Your niave self believed him as your lips met again, before they would finally travel to your neck, subtly biting and kissing causing you to whimper out,

“Just kisses.” You reminded him as he nodded, before sucking on the spot just below your jawline, your hands met his chest as you clawed at his suits vest. He finally decided to grab a hold of your hips before placing your back against his chest, your sandals propped on his knees as the laptop faced you now, and the image of your spread legs.

Your dress now settled on your hips, showing your frilly white panties that are drenched in your arousal, causing you to grow embarrassed and try to remove yourself off of him. This annoyed him as his much bigger hands forced you back down on his lap.

“You promised just kisses!” You whined out as he snickered below you, before whispering,

“Yeah, my fingers wanna give your cute little pussy some kisses too.” This startled you as his hands crept below your panties, forcing them to the side of your lip as he rubbed your clit, causing your legs to grow weak as he picked up the pace.

“These are not kisses!” You whine out, a moan following shortly behind you. The office door was still wide open, if anyone walked into the lecture theater they’d smell the aroma of sex, and they most definely hear your sweet little noises.

He finally scooted his chair closer to the laptop, before speaking up “Begin, sweetheart. Go ahead and take your test.” You shook your head defiantly, you couldn’t even think straight and he wants you to take a fucking thirty question test right now?

“I can’t—hmph!!” You stumble out, before letting out the most pornstar like moan. He forced his fingers inside of you, the same fingers his wedding band sat on. It hurt, a lot. He smiled as he saw little streaks of blood on his fingers

“A slutty virgin, I never thought I’d see this sight.” He chuckled as your head flung bag, earning a tsk from him.

“Nu -uh, doll. You have a test to take. We can do this all night.” His fingers slipped inside you like a symphony, your gummy walls trying to squeeze him out as he forced his way through

His hand crawled from your hip to his laptop as he prest ‘begin test’ the test was on a time limit, 45 minutes. There was no way you were finishing at all. Your eyes met the screen as your fingers clawed into his biceps, trying to slow down his relentless pace.

The pain was far long gone and your brain was mush. You weren’t going to be able to even think properly so why was he making you take the test now?

“Section one, vocabulary. Sleep and mediation are examples of what?” His tone far more happier than ever, he’s never acted like this in your near 5 months of knowing eachother.

He’s starting off easy and you couldn’t even open your mouth, your ears were ringing, fuck you were so close. “Professor Kenn- hmphh!!” That’s it, he found the spot you never knew existed. The spot that made your legs spasm uncontrollably and you pussy pulsate. You were so close you could feel it

“Right there! Oh.. Professor Kennedy!”

“Shhh, baby, you don’t want an audience, or do you? Answer the question.” He demanded, looking at the beautiful sight before him, 18 year old hottie pratically loosing the few brain cells she had stored up in her head, going dumb on his fingers. He wondered how you’d react on his dick next.

“I can’t- I.. I feel weird..” You confessed, it’s never felt this way before. Sure, you’ve touched yourself a handful of times, even to him. But you’ve never came from penetration, the feeling is so much more different and harsh. Your stomach had this forever feeling of it sinking, and your extremities just felt hot, and stuffed up.

“I’m- I’m gonna cum!” Your eyes began to roll back and within a second of hearing that, he pulled his fingers out and that beautiful feeling left your body, and your soul. “No.. no no! Professor Kennedy why-“ he stuffed your talkative mouth full of his fingers, you felt his wedding band on your tongue, making you mouth taste metallic like.

“I don’t want my baby cumming until she answers the questions, does she get that?” He’s speaking to you like he has to break down the simplest of words. Technically, in your state of mind he did.

All you did was nod as your tongue swirled on his fingers, before your teeth came in contact with his wedding band as you open your mouth, your teeth removing the wedding band as you place it on the table. He practically moans beneath you as he grabs a hold of you thighs

“You so dirty, baby.” He places you on your back, right beside his computer before bunching up your dress. You whined beneath him as your hands struggle to reach his chest, just wanting to feel on him. So much for just a few kisses. He had you right where he wanted you.

“You gonna take you first dick like a good girl, huh? I bet you are.” His words felt like drugs coursing through your body, making you clench around nothing as he practically ripped your panties off.

“Mhm, I promise.” You’re saying that now, until he unbuckles his trousers and pulls down his boxers that make you rethink your very decision. God, it was big, too big. His tip was irritated, looked bruised almost. With vigorous precum spilling from it as he pumped his dick, warming it up.

“I’ll take it slow since it’s your first time, sweetheart.” Is this a joke? You were struggling taking his fingers. There’s no way he thinks that’s going to fit.

He shifts his laptop to face your face, you turn your head sideways to look at the laptop as you whine. You shouldn’t be doing school work while getting fucked for the first time.

He slapped his tip into your exposed clit, earning a flinch from you.

“Please- sir..” you just loved that name didn’t you. “I have to teach you some patience as well, don’t I?” He snickered as he slowly attempted to slide himself it, you were squeezing from the pain causing him to grunt in response.

“Relax baby, you’re going to love it. Fuck… just relax.” His eyes were slowing shutting as his dick slid into you, with a struggle before he finally bottomed you out.

“No- no. Its to big I can’t take it.” You whined out as you struggled against him, his hands met the back of your knees as he pushed them against your chest, creating a easier and way deeper angle

“Oh- oh god!” You cried out as he began to thrust into your warm cunt, his chest heaved against yours as he fucked himself relentlessly into you, only picking up the pace.

It definitely hurt, but that pain would soon shift into probably the best pleasure you’ve ever got to experience. Not even your pink bullet vibrator could bring you to this euphoria.

“God! God! D— sir I can’t .. I nmphhh!!!” You practically screamed as the desk creaked below you, your test long forgotten about as he kissed your neck, trailing up to your ear as you whisper

“How many time did you dream about this—shit.. how many times— Jesus Christ.. did you touch yourself to me, baby? We both know you did, ohh… fuck..” He would periodically break out into a groan and his pace only quickened, your mind was in another dimension, all you could feel was your pussy being filled and pulsating, and your stomach filled with butterflies.

You were long gone, you ears doing much more than ringing, “going stupid on my cock, huh? Pretty girl probably can’t tell what I’m saying can’t she.” And all you could do was shake your head and moan like a bitch in heat.

“God you look so beautiful, getting fucked dumb next to my wedding ring. How slutty can you get?” His pace was quickening almost sending you over the edge, his tip hitting your crevix as you cried out hoping something could answer your prayer of pleasure and allow you to cum.

Leon grabbed his ring, putting it on his finger as he rubbed your starved clit with it, using it as a stimuli. Before shifting his hips to hit that perfect spot within you, that spot that makes your vision splotchy and you legs shake.

“God- Daddy I’m gonna cum! Please don’t stop! Please please please!” His pace only quickened as the rope in your stomach snapped, causing you to practically scream, which was hushed by his hand as you came on his cock.

“That’s a new name. What happened to professor, baby?” You can’t talk anymore, there’s tears building up in your eyes from the overstimulation and he seems to be getting impossibly faster. The room was filled with his balls slapping against your ass, and the squelch your wet pussy makes every time his tip hits your gummy spot.

“I didn’t tell you that you could cum, but it’s your first time so I know you can’t handle it.” He mocked as he picked you up, sitting you on his lap. You fell like a ragdoll onto him, your head on his shoulder, your arms wrapping around back as he grabbed your ass and used his legs as leverage to bonce you on his cock.

Just this action alone made you spasm uncontrollably and cry out, your cunt vibrating against him had even him seeing stars as he quicken his pace. His office chair squeaking below him, his phone buzzing couldn’t be heard over his heavy breathing and your cries

“Fuck- baby where do you want my cum.” He asked, fucking into you like a sex machine, cranking up his speed by ten as he abused your pussy.

“Inside! Nghhh I’m gonna cum again!”

“You wanna get stuffed full of my cum? Have it leak out of you pretty girl? Say it” his words alone could send you over the edge, and they did

“I need it so bad- fuck daddy I’m cumming!!” The overstimulation was too much, everything was too much. You practically saw the gates to heaven as you squirted on him, this action alone made his dick twitch as he came inside you, his hips spasming causing him to thrust inside you as him came, he gripped onto you for dear life before the orgasm washed over the both of you.

“‘M sorry, ‘m so sorry.. I didn’t mean to.” You practically slurred out of exhaustion. All he could do was breathlessly laugh.

“Don’t apologize sweetheart, it was adorable.”

You sat there, in utter silence just in the embrace of one another. His hand met your hair, combing through it as he kissed your forehead. Your head lied on his shoulder, feeling his cum drip from you onto his cock. This was the softest he ever acted towards you.

“You said just a few kisses.” You mumbled tiredly, looking up at him as he laughed to himself.

“That was just a few kisses, sweetheart.” He said as he pulled out, causing you to whine from the sudden loss and a whine to escape your lips.

“You still never answered the question, baby.” He mumbled against your forehead, as you both sat still, recovering from the bliss you two shared.

“Oh, shush.”

[ladykailitha]

Three Cheers for Toby the Tiger! Part 1

Welcome to yet another new story for yours truly! This was another one of those stories that had been percolating for awhile and only recently started writing.

This is just me projecting a friend of mine from middle school who was a theater kid, played several instruments, and had done gymnastics and tumbling on to Eddie Munson. He was the school mascot and was constantly doing jumps and flips off tables and shit. And to me that just screams Eddie to me.

Summary: Eddie's already failed his senior once. And the second go round isn't off to a great start either. So the basketball coach and PE teacher Coach Rowland gives Eddie an ultimatum: either join a sports team or fail PE and high school again. Everyone expects the swim or track teams. But Eddie has a surprise up his sleeve.

~

“Mr. Munson!” Coach Rowland called out as Eddie tried to sneak out of PE yet again. “You get your ass in my office in five minutes or I’ll flunk you out right!”

Eddie winced. He knew he needed the credit to graduate from high school but they were doing rope climbing today and he wasn’t about to have a bunch of jocks mock his form or whatever. He let out a heavy sigh and trudged back into the gym.

He sat in one of the smelly chairs in front of the coach’s desk, resigned. He slouched as far down as he could and glared at the stupid little hockey player bobble-head as if it was the cause of all his problems.

“I know that PE isn’t for everyone,” Coach Rowland huffed as he sat down across from Eddie, “and I know that it’s specifically not for you. But I cannot just hand you a grade and let you pass.”

“I mean you could,” Eddie said with a half smile, “but I think Principal Higgins would fire you.” He shrugged with a grimace.

Coach Rowland laughed. “You’ve got that right. But I’ve talked to him and he said that if you can get on a sports team. Any team, he’ll let you use that as your PE credit. But it will have to be for the whole year.”

Eddie blinked at him for a moment. “Wait, what?” He wiggled his finger in his ear for a moment. “I’m not sure I heard that right.”

“Oh you did,” Coach Rowland said. “Any team that you try out for and make, and you stick with it until the end of the year, then it will count as your PE credit.”

“What if I don’t make any of the teams?” Eddie asked, straightening up in his seat. “I’m not the most athletic of sorts.”

“You want me to name the teams that would absolutely kill to have you on them,” Coach Rowland said with a raised eyebrow, “alphabetically or by best fit for you specifically?”

Eddie grimaced. When he did show up for shit his competitive edge prevented him from faffing it, so his mile run time was decent, his sprint speed was on par if not better than the track team’s star runner, Louis Murphy, and his backstroke was the best in the state for the swim team.

He opted not to do that one when he learned that the team had been okay’ed for wearing brief style Speedo’s. He was little gay boy in a small town, getting beat up on the regular would have been a bad look. Especially when long time crush and king extraordinaire, Steve Harrington was made co-captain this year.

“But it’s whatever team I want and succeed at making the team, right?” Eddie asked, licking his top lip slowly, a twinkle of mischief in his eye.

“That what the principal said,” Coach Rowland agreed. “Why, what have you got in mind?”

“I need to check something first,” Eddie hedged. “You wouldn’t happen to have the rules for all the teams would you?”

Coach Rowlings got up and rifled through his filing cabinet. He handed it to Eddie. “Whatever you’re planning, don’t go looking for trouble, Munson. I don’t think you want to test the principal’s patience with you.”

Eddie stood up and patted him on the shoulder, waving the rule book. “I’ll tell you what, if my first choice falls through, I’ll try out for the swim team.”

Coach Rowland frowned. He had been trying to get Eddie to try out for the swim team for the last three years and the answer had always been no. Dread pooled at the base of his spine. Whatever this kid had planned he knew it wasn’t going to be good.

He watched as Eddie walked out of his office with a spring in his step and whistling ‘Holy Diver’ by Dio.

~

Eddie read the rule book front and back and looked for every possible angle, but it absolutely didn’t prohibit what he was about to do in any way.

Once he was sure he had all his ducks in a row, he started gathering up the things he would need for his chosen tryout.

He called Jeff first.

“Jeffrey my good fellow!” he greeted warmly. “I have a dire need of your boombox for the morrow!”

Jeff let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t why you’re even doing this, man. You could just tryout for the swim team and suck up your little crush so you can fucking graduate.”

“Because beloved companion,” Eddie said brightly, “that would be conforming and I want to prove that you don’t have to take the easy path if you really want to be yourself.”

“God, dude,” Jeff huffed. “Fine. I’ll bring it tomorrow. But you owe so much if this goes to fucking hell like you know it will.”

“Oh ye of little faith...” Eddie said and said goodbye.

To be honest he really didn’t have much faith in the school administrators to let him join the team of his choice, sexist pigs that they were, but he wasn’t just out to prove a point. He could do it.

Next port of call: Brian.

“Bri-guy, my man!” Eddie greeted.

“No.”

Eddie blinked for a moment and then cocked his head to the side. “I haven’t even asked for anything...

“No,” Brian said dryly, “not yet you haven’t. But you’ve go a bee in your bonnet about being asked to join a sport so that you can actually fucking graduate and instead of going out for track which would be the best option for everyone involved, but especially you, you’ve come up with this cockamamie plan that will most like get you suspended if not out and out expelled.”

Eddie’s head rocked back from the sure force of Brian’s rant. “Deep breath, man. How long have you been holding that in?”

“Since you told us at lunch.”

“Oh okay, then,” Eddie said in a clipped tone. “I can do this. I actually would have joined the gymnastics team or tumbling team if they fucking had one. But they don’t so this is my alternative. Yeah, I’m a good runner and a better swimmer, but this, Bri? This is something I’m actually impassioned about like D&D or playing guitar.”

Brian let out a long heavy sigh. “Fine. What is it you want?”

Eddie told him and after some fierce negotiations with Brian’s sister, Maddy, he secured the second piece of his tryout materials.

The final part took two thrift stores and a minor theft get but then he was all ready. He packed all of it in his van and grinned.

~

The next day he walked up to Coach Miller. “Hey, Coach,” he said brightly. “Have you been informed of the deal the principal gave me, right?”

The short blonde haired woman, crossed her arms in front of chest. “I also know that you have to tryout and make it, for me to even consider it.”

“After school at 3:30pm?” Eddie asked with broad dimpled smile. “I bring the tunes and the noise, have no fear.”

She looked him up and down. “Deal.” She stuck out her and he took it, shaking it once.

He skidded to a stop when he saw the crowd that had been gathered on the football field. He had been expecting only handful of people to witness this, but appeared that word had spread of his tryout.

The football team was there, the basketball team, all the coaches. And he meant all the coaches. From the girl’s softball team to the swim team, their coach was there. And of course Principal Higgins.

He stepped out of the dressing room and out onto the field. His hair was in pigtails and his ass was barely covered by the super short skirt. He picked up the pompoms and turned on the tape.

Then Eddie got into position. “Oh, Mikey, you’re so fine, you’re so fine you blow my mind! Hey Mickey!”

And immediately Eddie did a backflip and land into the splits. Then without using his hands at all, he got back into standing. He did twists and turns and a whole routine to the song “Hey Mickey” by Toni Basil.

By the time the song ended the crowd had gone wild and Eddie’s pigtails was drenched in sweat. He was grateful for the cool autumn breeze cooling his overheated skin.

He looked up into the crowd and several of them were rolling around with laughter and astonishment. He grinned.

Coach Miller, Coach Rowland, and Principal Higgins came over to him after what looked to be a furious huddle.

Principal Higgins face was dour and cross while the two coaches looked like cats in the cream.

“It seems I am being overruled,” Higgins growled. “But it appears that according to Hank and Joan that there are no rules against boys joining the cheerleading squad.”

Eddie jumped up and down. “Yes, yes, yes!!” he cried pumping his fist in excitement. He really didn’t think that they would let him.

“However I must think of the parents of these young girls and the certainty that they would not want a boy with their daughters,” Higgins continued.

Eddie felt a cold dread settle in the pit of his stomach. He stopped his celebration. “But that’s not fair. I deserve a spot on the team. I tried out, I have the skills. I could be a spotter if they don’t want me on the team-team. Just...come on.”

Higgins expression softened. “Oh I have intention of bowing to their demands, Munson. But I think I have a way that would mitigate the worst of the protest before they even occur.”

Then two kids walked up with what looked to be a mess of material and a giant foam head. It took Eddie a few seconds to realize what it was. He looked back up at Principal Higgins in wide eyed shock. “No way.”

“I’m afraid it’s this or another team,” Higgins huffed, putting his hands on his hips.

“He means it ironically,” Coach Rowland said, putting his hand on the principal’s shoulder, “he’s in disbelief.”

Eddie reached for the costume with grabby hands. “Gimme!”

The kid holding the costume handed it over while the other kid held on to the head. Eddie unfurled the costume with unbridled glee. It was Toby the Tiger. The school’s mascot. He remembered when he was freshman and even his sophomore year that they had someone perform in it, though these days it was usually a cheerleader who was injured and would just clap and cheer.

Principal Higgins blinked at him in confused shock. “You want to be the school mascot?” He couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to be in the smelly costume making a fool of themselves in front of others on a daily. It was a literal nightmare of his.

“I would prefer to be on the cheerleaders’ squad,” Eddie admitted, looking at the costume with unholy glee, “but this is a very cool consolation prize.”

“Ah.” Principal Higgins still didn’t understand but he recognized enthusiasm when he saw it and he wasn’t about to dissuade him if he truly wanted to do it.

Coach Miller stuck out her hand. “Welcome to the squad, I can’t wait to see what you can do!”

Eddie shook her hand.

Coach Rowland turned to the assembled crowd. “Shows over, guys! I’m sure you have better things to do with your time than stare at a dude in a mini-skirt.”

Eddie twirled the skirt and popped his ankle. “I thought I looked cute! Green sooo looks good on me.”

Coach Miller shook her head. “Go hit the showers and then we’ll start with weights to train you how to do those moves in the costume.”

Eddie leapt into the air and cheered. “Go Tigers!”

~

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Tag List: TEN SLOTS OPEN

1- @itsall-taken @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @irregular-child @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @genderless-spoon @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

[musingsofmajesty]

𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧 | 𝐬𝐡𝐲 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐯𝐨𝐥. 𝐕

pairing shy eddie x flirty reader | summary Eddie was expecting a chill Sunday, but between answering the door shirtless, an unexpected "I love you," and overthinking it while making mac and cheese, it’s fair to say his day takes a turn | fluff | wc 900

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[best enjoyed in order, but not required! ♡]

.・゜゜・ ・゜゜・．

When three knocks sound on Eddie’s front door, he’s almost certain he's imagining them. But there’s no doubt someone’s outside when more arise. Maybe if he turned down his stereo, he’d be able to hear for once.

His fingers fumble to tie the drawstring of his sweatpants as he heads for the door. 

He doesn’t bother looking out the window or peephole to see who it is first. It’s a Saturday afternoon, and Ms. Daphne was probably swinging by to let him know she fed Mila, the stray calico who made the Munson residence her home base after strolling around the trailer park. 

But no—it’s you standing there with a smile on your lips and that same ever-present sparkle in your eyes. 

You have every intention to utter a dignified greeting, but he’s shirtless. Yes, shirtless. His milky torso displays dark, fantastical tattoos. A thin line of hair runs downwards from his belly button. A handful of freckles dot his skin as well.

“Well, hello.” A pinch of playfulness dances around the edges of your words.

Only then does Eddie consider he might be giving the wrong impression by answering the door half-dressed. 

“Hey. Sorry.” He smiles sheepishly and attempts to cross a modest arm across himself. “Just took a shower.” His damp hair attests to the fact. 

You trail him inside, but after he closes the door behind you, he makes a beeline to his bedroom to turn down his music and wrestle on a shirt.

“Wait up, Teddy,” you chuckle lightly. 

An Iron Maiden t-shirt is already in his grasp by the time you stop in his bedroom doorway.

“You didn’t even let me get a good look at you.” The lilt of your tone makes warmth rush to his face, ears, and neck. One of these days, he would get used to your unabashed flirting.

“Sweetheart…” With a shake of his head, he briefly casts his flustered gaze elsewhere. 

“You look good.” Your tone is lovely and sincere. “I like your tattoos.” 

He meets your gaze again and decides to throw you a bone. “Yeah?” 

You hum in confirmation, crossing the distance to stand before him. The fresh scent of pine soap lingers on his skin. He watches you run a gentle finger over the spider beneath his collarbone. Then, the floating demon head just beneath it. 

“Even though they’re kinda scary.” 

“Thanks,” he says through a smile. 

After putting on his shirt, he studies you with quiet fondness. All he can think to do is steal a brief kiss from your lips. 

A light, airy feeling flutters through your chest when he gently taps the tip of your nose. “Gonna find your off button one of these days,” he murmurs. 

“Good luck trying.” 

Later, you find yourselves cruising around Hawkins. Your aimless drives have become some of your favorite things. Eddie looks good behind the wheel but thinks you look prettier sitting shotgun, playing with his rings as his hand rests in your lap.

“Shit,” he mutters as you come to a stoplight. 

You snort, but not unkindly. “What happened?” 

“We’ve got that quiz in Mrs. O’Donnell’s tomorrow,” he says. “I haven’t even done the reading.” 

“It’s a short chapter,” you tell him. “You should have enough time tonight.” 

“Thank God,” he sighs as the light turns green. “Thought I was gonna have to ditch.”  

You can’t help but tip your head back and laugh sweetly. “Please don’t. I’ll miss you.” 

“You’ll miss me even more if I flunk out and you graduate without me.” 

Another laugh bubbles up your throat, and you gently swat his arm. All things considered, Eddie’s been doing really well this quarter. He has a B+ in Mrs. O’Donnell’s, so failing the quiz wouldn’t completely destroy his grade. 

You’re proud of him. Maybe even a little more than you let on. You’ve seen how hard he’s been working to ensure he graduates, so he’s earned the right to make a failure joke or two, especially now that those days are behind him. 

“Gosh, I love you,” you sigh as your amusement settles. 

I love you. I love you. I love you. Even though there’s no weight behind your delivery, Eddie still can’t help how his grip on the wheel tightens. The way his gaze flicks to you. In return, you smile, unaware you’ve just shaken his world. A part of him waits for you to circle back and double down, but you don’t. 

For now, your smile is enough. 

Your “I love you” remains beneath his skin after you’re back in his trailer. You can’t help but notice he’s gone particularly quiet and pensive as he stands at the stovetop, stirring macaroni for the two of you. It isn’t long before you pad over and snake your arms around his slender waist. 

“You okay?” you murmur into his shirt. 

He hums, almost distantly. 

“You’re quiet,” you press. 

“I’m just thinking.” 

“About what?” 

Eddie sets the fork down and turns around in your arms. “You.” 

A frown forms on your face. “Did I say something? I’m sorry if I did. I know I’m a lot.” 

“Don’t say that,” he chides lightly. “You’re not.” 

His sincerity makes you tilt your head. “What am I then?” 

“One of the best things about this town,” he says without hesitation. It feels as though he’s just laid his heart bare. 

“I…” he lets his sentence trail off even though it longs to continue.

Behind him, the macaroni continues to bubble on the stove. 

You smile in encouragement. “You what?” 

I love you.

Thank you so much for reading. All likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. I promise I see them all! ♡

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DAY BY DAY MASTERLIST

[kpop---scenarios]

Reckless (1)

Pairing: Lee Know x Reader

Genre: Brothers best friend

Warning: Language, a little violence etc, smut later on

Word Count: 3k

“Jisung!” You yell from your room, covering your ears with your pillow. If he didn't shut the fuck up, you were going to lose it. “Jisung!” You scream again. Angrily, you crawl out of your bed, stomping your way across the hallway to his room. You try to open the door but the door is locked. You pound on the door, anger flowing through you.

“Open the door!” You yell, pounding even harder. Finally the door swings open, your brother looking annoyed.

“The fuck do you want?” He asks, rubbing his face.

“I have an exam tomorrow. I can't sleep with the fucking music coming from your room.” You yell. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Wear some headphones then.” Jisung scoffs.

“I swear to fucking..” you pause, as Jisungs best friends comes to the door.

“Feeling feisty tonight, are we?” Minho chuckles, moving past your brother and out of his room.

“Yeah I am, watch out.” You snap, stomping back to your room, slamming the door behind you.

Your parents had been gone for months for work, and unfortunately for you Jisung had decided to slack off at school despite school only being in for 3 months. He was partying constantly and having his degenerate friends over at the house all the time. Lee Know, or Minho was the worst of them all and he never fucking left.

He was an arrogant, annoying, selfish, violent, short tempered man who you disliked the most out of all Jisung’s friends. The two of them were a few years older than you, both supposed to be in University but the way things were currently going, you didn't know how much longer either of them were going to be enrolled. You however were in your first year at the same University and you were not going to take your opportunity for granted. You wanted to get out of this town and move away onto bigger and better things.

As the volume of the music is finally lowered, you get comfortable in your bed, easily falling asleep, finally.

The next morning you're up early, deciding payback was much needed for keeping you up half the night. As you're hopping around your room, singing along to your loud music, getting ready for class, you faintly hear a pounding on your door. You laugh to yourself as you make your way, ripping the door open, seeing an annoyed Minho standing there, shirtless with a pair of sweats on.

“It's 7am.” He deadpans.

“And?” You ask.

“I've been sleeping for 2 hours.” He groans. “Turn it down.”

“That sounds like a you problem.” you begin. “Also, last I checked, this isn't your house.” You smile, closing the door in his face before he can say anything. You head to your stereo, turning the music down, for a few minutes until you felt like he was comfortable in bed again, starting to doze off and you turned it up again. Not long after you turned it off completely, heading to the kitchen to grab a banana before you headed to the bus stop. You wanted to get to school a little earlier than usual, taking time to go over your psychology notes for your exam, one last time.

“Y/N.” You hear from behind you in the library. You turn around, seeing your best friend, Hyunjin, standing there with bags under his eyes, holding a mass amount of papers, and looking extremely uneasy.

“Hyunjin.. what happened?” You ask, trying not to laugh at the poor man looking so defeated.

“it's literally the 3rd month of school, and I'm going to fucking flunk out.” He gasps, sitting next to you.

“No you're not.” You chuckle, flipping over your notes to look at the backside.

“I tried to study all night but I kept falling asleep. Why did I come here? I hate it.” He pouts. You shake your head at the man, focusing on your notes.

“Well.” You sigh. “At this rate, I'll be failing with you. Minho was at my house again last night. He and Jisung were blasting music until all hours.” You say, rolling your eyes.

“Minho was at your house?” Your other friend, Jisoo gasps, pulling up a chair beside you. “You're so lucky.”

“He's so fucking annoying.” You retort.

“But he's so hot.” Jisoo grins.

You ignored her last comment, you didn't want to vocally agree with her, because the last thing you needed was for your words to get back to him and inflate his head more than it already was.

“And to be honest, so is your brother. Is he single?” She asks.

“He's single. But I'm going to tell you not to go there because I don't want you to stop being my friend.” You laugh. “He's a terrible human being.”

“But he's hot.” Jisoo swoons, batting her eyes at you.

“Gross.” You sigh, looking at your phone. You gather your things off the table, dragging Hyunjin behind you to your psychology classroom.

“Please, Y/N.” He begs from behind you. You turn your head to look at him, giggling at the pitiful man who is usually so confident. This exam really has him fucked up. You turn your head again to look where you're going, and bump into someone, knocking your papers and bag to the floor.

“Ugh, I'm so sorry.” You sigh, bending down to pick up your things. You look up, seeing Minho glare down at you. You roll your eyes instantly, scoffing. “Actually I'm not sorry.” You say, finishing picking everything up. You stand up, Minho still staring at you but now smiling. Hyunjin comes up beside you, swinging his arm around your shoulders.

“Come on.” He says, pulling you away from Minho, who still hadn't said a word to you, but the smile never left his face.

“You got this.” You say to Hyunjin, your hands on his shoulders as you both take deep breaths outside your classroom door.

“So do you.” He breathes. “Drinks after?” He asks. You glance at your watch, 12:58pm. You should be done by 4pm..

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” You grin as the two of you make your way into the class.

3 hours later, you both emerge from the room, disheveled hair, sweat and tear stains present on both of you.

“How did..” Hyunjin starts. You put your hand up to stop him.

“Not yet. Shots..lots of shots.” You whimper. The two of you link arms, heading for the pub down the street from campus.

Hours later, you stumble home. As you stand in your yard you see lights flashing inside, and you can hear the bass thumping from the street. Jisung would throw a party on a random Thursday. That's just what he does. You quickly text Hyunjin and Jisoo to come over and party with you, both of them replying that they'll be there soon. You head inside, your brother spots you immediately.

“Y/N.. it's only just started. Don't shut me down.” He fake cries. You glare at him, seeing Minho walk up behind him. A few of his other friends were standing around, a lot of other people you didn't know also staring at you.

“Let's do some fucking shots!” You yell, making your way to the kitchen, hearing the cheers from the party goers. You walk past a chuckling Minho on your way to the kitchen. You glare at him before grabbing his sleeve, pulling him in there with you and a few others to take some shots. As you're about to do your second one, Hyunjin and Jisoo walk in. You were already drunk from your after exam drunks with Hyunjin, and now you were feeling it even more.

“Jinnie.” You squeal, putting your arms out for a hug. He grins as he wraps his arms around you, holding you tightly. Instantly you hear Jisoo’s flirty voice come to play, you break the hug to turn around and see Jisoo and Jisung tucked in a corner talking.

That made you want to vomit. You turn back towards the group taking shots, quickly pouring one for Hyunjin before you all take it. “Let's dance!” You yell, walking past Minho with Hyunjin in tow. You're dancing, laughing and just all around having a good time but you can't help but notice Minho standing against the wall with his arms crossed, eyes trained on you. They roamed up and down your body as he watched you dance, and you hated that the way he was looking at you, that the way he was biting his lip was turning you on so much.

“I'm gonna get a drink.” You tell Hyunjin, making your way to the kitchen. You feel a hand on your wrist, pulling you down the hallway instead.

“You looked really hot out there.” a guy tells you. You have no clue who this dude was, and frankly you were not interested.

“Thanks.” You respond, turning back towards the kitchen.

He grabs you again. “I wasn't done talking to you.” He half laughs.

You can feel the annoyance building up inside of you. “But I'm done.” You say, trying to walk away again. His grip tightens, pushing you against the wall.

“I'm trying to get to know you better.” He scoffs. “Don't be so rude.”

“I'm not interested.” You tell him, as if your current lack of interest wasn't enough.

He stares at you, refusing to move, not saying a word. You can see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to figure out what to say to you next. Before he can get his words out, he's shoved away from you, sliding down the floor of the hallway. Your mouth hangs open as you turn to look and see who your savior was.

Minho stands there, his eyes practically shooting daggers into the man.

“Are you fucking dumb, Changbin?” Minho asks.

“What the fuck, dude?” Changbin scoffs, scrambling up off the floor.

“That's Jisung's little sister you fucking moron.” Minho snaps, pointing at you.

“Oh shit.. I'm sorry! I didn't know!” He panics. Your eyes bounce between the two men, not sure why Changbin sounded so scared of your idiot brother.

“I'll let you off this time.” Minho starts. “If I catch you near her again, I will beat the fucking shit out of you.” He finishes. Changbin nods his head before running off into the crowd.

“You okay?” Minho asks as you rub your wrist. You nod your head.

“Yeah.. thanks.” You smile, returning to the party. The rest of the night, wherever you went, Minho was there, off in the distance watching you. You weren't uncomfortable from it but you did wish that he would go and enjoy himself. He didn't need to keep an eye on you, and as you got drunker, you decided to let him know.

“You.. keep staring.” You hiccup, placing your hand on the wall by his head. He smirks as he looks at you, barely able to stand up straight, eyes fluttering open and closed. You were a goddamn mess.

“Let's get you to bed, mhm?” He says, wrapping his arm around your waist to help you up the stairs. As you're walking up, you unfortunately see Jisung and Jisoo locking lips, making all the drinks you had all night threaten to come up.

“Get a room you sick fucks.” You slur, walking past them. Jisoo comes up for air looking embarrassed but only for a second before Jisung steals her attention back. Minho helps you to your room, you stand in the middle, your arms up high. He looks at you with a raised eyebrow, wondering what the fuck you were waiting for.

“I can't sleep in my clothes.” You whine. “but I'll fall if I undress myself.” You pout.

Minho reluctantly walks towards you, grabbing the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head, leaving you in a bra and your pants. He moves his hands down towards the button of your jeans. You hop back a little, almost losing your balance as you laugh, hysterically.

“Funny.” He fake chuckles, moving towards you again. You grab onto his arm, spinning yourself around to his back, sliding your hands up and down his body. You reach around to his stomach, moving your hands under his shirt, running them over his abs.

“Ugh.” You groan at the feeling.

He quickly turns around facing you once again, a smile spread across his face. You knew he wanted to be mad at you but he couldn't.

“Take your pants off or I'm gonna throw you down onto the bed and take them off for you.” He threatens. You blush, hard.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” You ask, cocking your head to the side. Minho reaches out for you, grabbing you by the waist of your jeans, pulling you towards him. “It's a little of both.” He tells you as he tries to undo your button. You were having too much fun in the moment, you didn't want it to end just yet. You grab his hands, pushing him away from you, laughing as he runs his hands through his hair. He has never seen this giggling playful side of you before, and he was enjoying the fuck out of it.

“Y/N.” He says sternly, his hands on his hips.

“Minho.” You say, putting your hands on your hips, pushing your hip out, pursing your lips. He's trying to remain serious but he can't. He starts laughing as he rubs his face, groaning in frustration.

“Take off your pants!” He yells.

“Yes sir!” You giggle as you take off your pants, leaving you in your bra and panties. Minho hands you a pair of pj shorts that he grabbed from your dresser. You semi quickly put them on before turning around, facing away from him to unhook your bra. It slides down your body, onto the floor. You smile to yourself.

“I bet you're upset, huh?” You giggle, turning your head to look at him.

“Why would I be upset?” He asks.

“Cause you can't see my boobies.” You laugh, turning slightly to show him a little side boob. “I think you'd like them.” You say, looking at him. His eyes are focused down, looking at what you're showing him. “Tsk tsk, naughty boy.” You scold, slipping your shirt on, turning around to face him.

He stares at you, and you stare back. You examine his face, his large veiny arms and hands, his roughly tousled hair.

“Jisoo was right.” You whisper.

“About?” He asks.

“You.” You hiccup. “She said you were hot.”

“And what did you say?” He asks.

“I didn't say. Cause I don't need my words going to your thick ass head.” You giggle.

“If they wouldn't go to my head, what would you say?” He asks.

“That you're really fucking hot. But you're a little violent and hot headed.” You sigh. “Buuut you're not allowed to know that so shhh.. cause Jisung said you're off limits.”

“Since when do you do what your brother tells you?” He laughs.

“I listen to him!” you say. No you didn't. “Actually, never.” You hiccup.

He doesn't reply. He stands there, staring at you. You can feel your breath hitch as he moves closer towards you, the palm of his hand gently laying on your cheek as his face moves closer to yours. You close your eyes, the world is spinning as you feel his lips press against yours. You feel like you're melting into the kiss as your lips move against his, his tongue slowly sliding into your mouth, deepening the kiss.

You could have sworn this was a dream, like his lips were perfectly made for your own. He slowly pulls away, turning to look at the door, and that's when you hear it.

“Minho!”

It's your brother's voice. “Lee fucking Know!” He yells.

“Go to sleep.” He says to you, turning and walking out of your room. You lay down in your bed, closing your eyes. The world only spins for a moment before you pass out.

**

“I'm never drinking again.” You gasp as you crawl out of your bed, desperately trying to make your way to the bathroom to get some water. Your throat was the driest it had ever been and you felt like you might actually die. Once you reach the sink, you shove your head underneath, drinking all the cold water you could get into your mouth. Fuck it tastes good. When you're finally satisfied, you drag your feet to change into some comfier clothes before heading downstairs. Luckily you didn't have class until the afternoon today, so you could try to recover this morning. You grab some food from the fridge, eating it cold, ignoring the passed out people scattered around your house.

“Morning.” You hear. You turn to look, seeing Minho walk into the kitchen, heading for the fridge.

“Morning.” You sigh.

“Hungover?” He asks you, grabbing some juice. You whimper as you nod your head. He laughs. You turn to glare at him, when suddenly you remembered. You think you remembered at least.

“Did..” you pause. “We.. um.. actually nevermind.” You say, turning away from him.

“Did we, what?” He asks, grinning.

“Kiss?” You whisper, looking around, making sure Jisung wasn't around.

“Me and you?” He asks, shocked. “Did you have a sex dream about me?” He gasps, placing his hand over his chest.

“What!? No! I just had a flash.. of something.. and we were kissing.” You try to explain.

“I feel so violated.” He fake cries. “I wasn't aware you thought of me like that.”

“Who's thinking of you like what?” You hear. Jisung walks into the kitchen, grabbing your food off the counter.

“Y/N.” Minho says. “I think she's into me.” He laughs.

“Yeah right.” Jisung chuckles. “Neither of you are dumb enough to do that.”

You look at Minho as he looks at you. Neither of you were dumb enough.. right?

[gingerteafairy]

𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐋𝐄

frank iero x fem!reader

summary: Somehow, it was always Frank. Just like the religion that strung you together, there was this holy thread — invisible but unbreakable — binding the two of you. tags n warnings: SMUT/MDNI, religious guilt, pet names, family issues, stoner frank iero, corruption kink + praises, oral sex, piv. word count: 6.3k AO3 link

Somehow, it was always Frank.

Just like the religion that strung you together, there was this holy thread — invisible but unbreakable — binding the two of you like a Christmas present meant to be unwrapped secretly at midnight, long before your parents could catch you out of bed.

You two were never quite best friends, but close enough to pass scribbled notes across your desks. Little things — how the professor’s perfume was too strong, how it reminded you of that movie you’d half-watched on his living room couch when you were both too young to know better. You’d slip the note to him just to hear that quiet, melodic laugh spill from his lips, a sound soft enough to make your heart squeeze.

And when you dared to turn and look at him — those hazel eyes caught you every time, wide open, too honest for your own good. Sometimes you wondered if they were proof enough that God had to exist; no way eyes like his just happened by accident.

Your parents had once lived and breathed church walls and rules. They drew moral lines so strict that every small mistake of yours felt like a mortal sin. Even though they’d softened over the years — now reserving Sundays only for the major holidays — those lines still followed you like a ghost. Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the land. It was carved so deep in you that it shaped every choice, until you could no longer tell where their wishes ended and yours began.

You didn’t really remember what you wanted, not clearly. Maybe just to be good. To be perfect. To grow up and do something big enough for the world to clap for you — or at least for them to clap for you.

But Frank was never like that.

You remembered every church camp where Frank Iero was the wildfire everyone pretended not to see. His parents only asked if he showed up for Sunday service — nothing else mattered. He flunked half his classes, came home with piercings tucked under stiff collared shirts, tattoos creeping out from under his sleeves, nails sometimes chipped and stained from a half-burnt cigarette. Yet everyone knew his name. Everyone whispered it, or yelled it from cheap wooden benches when he slung a guitar over his shoulder and grinned like the rules didn’t apply to him.

And you hated how that burned in you. How it ached in your chest to watch him up there — another camp, another cheap stage, him laughing into the mic as if life had never told him no — while you killed yourself studying for a degree you never asked for, in a college chosen for you long before you were old enough to say you wanted something else. Music? Art? Just silly distractions, they’d said. Be realistic, be grateful, be quiet.

And then the worst torture: the bus ride home. Same bench seat, same cheap plastic smell, same too-long silence alone, supposed to be between you and the boy next door you’d known your entire life — the boy who would always be a little too much, and somehow never enough.

You could see, just a few meters from your window, how he always brought a different girl over to “study.” His window left wide open to let the cigarette smoke drift out into the night. The way he’d clean up cuts and bruises after some fight — it all felt like a taunt, day after day, for the six years you’d known him.

Your eyes drifted back to your notes. You were so lost in thought that you jumped a little when a tiny pebble tapped against your window. Frank was there, holding up the walkie-talkie, motioning for you to grab yours too. You picked up the old thing, still smelling faintly of childhood, back when he used to wear blue and didn’t carry the scent of fancy sandalwood and cheap cigarettes.

“Whatcha doing?” His voice, even through the static crackle, still had that soft, rough melody that lived in your head.

“Studying,” you answered, trying to hide the stupid smile tugging at your lips just because he was talking to you. “And I suppose you’re doing everything but that.”

“Of course,” he chuckled, shifting on his bed, legs crossed, head leaning against the damp window frame from the morning rain. “I never do anything academic, babe. You should try it sometime. Feels great.”

“You know I can’t chase my music dreams like you do. I have to study, get a boring job, buy a house—do all the normal people stuff...” You sighed, your disappointment too obvious to hide. “Anyway, what are you doing besides bothering me?”

“Nothing. Just sitting here. Not much to see...” he shrugged, setting the walkie-talkie down long enough to light a cigarette, pulling in the smoke like it was second nature.

You drank in every detail of him like cold water on a summer day. Frank was effortlessly beautiful: messy black hair, pale skin, lips that always looked freshly bitten, those hazel eyes that held a calm, wicked secret. Divine. There was no way you were getting back to studying now.

“So, are you gonna keep distracting me, or admit you just couldn’t wait ‘til tomorrow to see me?” you teased, taking a sip of water so fast that some dribbled down your chin, soaking into your white shirt.

Frank noticed. Smirked. Liked it.

“Can’t it be both?” he shot back, peeking up through his lashes while you wiped the drop away—right where his thumb wished it could be. “I missed you. You didn’t even come watch me play at camp.”

“I didn’t wanna see your little show,” you lied, voice dripping with mischief. He raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. 

“You also ditched when I disappeared with that girl, huh? Didn’t even wait for me... or call me after. Had to take that crappy bus for late guys alone.” He said it like he wanted to scold himself a bit too.

“Yeah, well.” You crossed your arms but failed to stop the smile tugging at your mouth. “You vanished and left me there. I was—” you dropped your gaze, quieter, “jealous, okay? Not gonna lie. I'm not bold enough to make out in a church camp.”

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head as if that confession made him feel something deep in his chest.

“Sorry, sorry. Her parents offered me a ride and I had to bail before they picked out wedding rings or something. You know how it is,” he grinned, all lazy sarcasm, but you knew he meant it. Frank was freedom itself; you could never imagine him stuck in something so ordinary as marriage to preserve a good name. “But... if it makes it any better—I missed you. A lot.”

I missed you. He said it again, as if it didn’t stab you sweetly right through the ribs every time. With Frank, words were always weapons, and you always let him cut you open.

You breathed out, voice a hush between confession and surrender: “Actually... I’m kinda sad today.”

Across the street, Frank paused, cigarette burning between his fingers, hating that smoke couldn’t cross the road and hold you instead.

“Wanna talk about it?” His question came gentle, so soft it made you ache. And just like that, you knew—again—no one would ever listen to you the way Frank did.

“It’s nothing, it’s just… I’ll never play music or be remembered by people the way you are, no matter how hard I try.” You confessed, not caring if it sounded too dramatic or pathetic. “I feel like I do so much, but no one really sees it. I feel like an idiot.”

Frank listened to every word as if each one cut right through him, breaking his heart piece by piece. Without even thinking it through, he turned off the walkie-talkie mid-sentence, shut his window, and disappeared from his room.

You sat there frozen, staring at the empty window frame, until you saw him appear in your backyard, climbing over the fence, his hoodie catching on the wood. Your heart skipped a beat when he started climbing up toward your window, rain drizzling lightly over his hair.

“Oh my God, Frank!” you gasped, fumbling to open the window wide enough for him to grab the ledge. He hoisted himself up, and you grabbed his wrist to pull him in, stumbling back a little when he wrapped his arms around you so tight it nearly knocked the air out of your lungs.

“You could’ve used the door, you idiot!” you scolded him between a breathless laugh and a nervous heartbeat.

“I needed to get here before you kept saying stupid shit about yourself,” he said firmly, his voice muffled against your hair. He pulled back just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tear that threatened to escape. “Out of everyone in this world, you’re the last person I ever wanna hear talk like that. Ever.”

The lump in your throat burned so much it hurt to breathe. He was being so heartbreakingly gentle that it made everything ache worse, because deep down you knew friendship shouldn’t feel this intense. And yet, it did — every word, every touch. It was too much, and not enough all at once.

Your strength cracked like glass under pressure. You buried your face in his chest and let it all out, your fists clenching the back of his hoodie while tears soaked through to his skin.

Frank didn’t know what the hell to do — he never did — but he held you like it was the only thing keeping him alive too. He pressed his lips to your hairline, breathing in the scent of your shampoo and your sadness. He’d never seen you break like this; you were always so focused, so untouchable, so perfect. Everything he wasn’t.

“I’m right here,” he whispered, voice low and steady, one hand stroking your hair, the other rubbing your back. “You don’t have to do it all alone anymore, okay?”

“I know, but…” your voice faltered as you pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, so close, so warm. The words got lost somewhere between your heartbeat and his. “Thank you.”

“Come on, let’s sit down. You look exhausted. I’ve got you.”

“Yeah… it’s probably just exhaustion. I’m sorry, I’ve been studying all day for this class that makes zero sense and I have to get a perfect grade or—” You cut yourself off with a heavy sigh as he guided you gently to sit on the edge of your bed.

“I figured. You never take a break.” He nudged your shoulder playfully, his knee brushing against yours, grounding you more than any prayer could.

“It’s my worst habit… wanting too much,” you said with a tired laugh, scratching your head as you blinked away the last of your tears.

“It’s not a good habit, trust me.” He shook his head, grinning softly as he ruffled your hair. “But seriously, baby… you gotta slow down. You don’t deserve to burn yourself out like this.”

“You could help me out. You’re so good at it,” you laughed, and for a moment, he felt strangely content with your carefree, reckless vibe — it lit a quiet spark behind his eyes.

“You’re talking to the right guy, sweetheart. I’m the best when it comes to taking it easy,” he beamed, slipping an arm around your shoulders and resting his head against yours, his grin growing wider. “And I have just the thing to melt all that stress away.”

“What is it?” Your eyes sparkled more than you wished they would, betraying how much you craved a bit of Frank’s attention, even though that nagging thread of religious guilt tugged at your chest.

“Weed,” he said so casually, savoring every flicker of disbelief and horror that crossed your face.

“What?” you half-shouted, thanking God you were home alone so your parents wouldn’t hear your voice crack. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Don’t overthink it, princess. It’s just weed. You’ve never tried it?” He rocked back with a laugh, trying to steady the restless flutter in his chest.

“Of course not! My parents would kill me if they ever found out!” you hissed, your shoulders tensing as he pulled his arm away and leaned back on your bed.

“Only if they find out. A little rebellion never hurt anyone,” he smirked, lying to himself that he wasn’t totally turned on by how you bit your lip, so worried about being caught, corrupted — ruined by a secret in the same room where no boy had ever been before.

God, you looked sinfully adorable like that.

“Okay, okay. I’ll try it. I’ve always wondered what the big deal was anyway,” you mumbled, trying to sound indifferent, but your fingers twisting the hem of your dress betrayed you completely.

He had to hold his breath for a second.

“That’s my girl,” he chuckled, straightening up and bumping his shoulder against yours again. “You’ve always been such a good girl, huh?”

Now it was your turn to forget how to breathe.

Frank shifted to pull a hand-rolled joint and a lighter from his pocket. He sparked it up, took a quick drag himself, then held it between his fingers, moving it slowly toward your lips — half-expecting you to back out at the last second.

“So I just inhale?” you asked, your voice shaking a bit, surprising him.

“Yeah… inhale, hold it for a few seconds, then let it out,” he explained, licking his lips, realizing he’d never felt this nervous in his life.

“Okay.”

You closed your lips around the filter. Frank’s hand clenched into his bedsheet, knuckles nearly white as he watched you draw in the smoke, eyes fluttering shut as you held it, then slowly exhaling a thin stream through lips he’d never seen tainted by anything before.

“ That’s it …” he murmured, lower than he meant to, gazing up at you through his lashes. “How do you feel?”

“Weird,” you confessed, coughing a little, but not as much as you’d feared. “It’s… nice, I guess. I get why you do it all the time.”

He laughed, loving how earnest you looked, and reached up — a bit too slowly — to ruffle your hair. “Told you. Sometimes it feels good to do something wrong. Helps you unwind.”

“Won’t the smell stay in my room?” you asked, worried, but leaned in again when he brought the joint back to your lips.

“Nah, the window’s open,” he shrugged, brushing it off. “And anyway… no one’s ever complained about the smell before.”

You shook your head, feeling a strange dizziness washing over you, like a sleepy haze settling behind your eyes. Laughing felt too easy — your lips couldn’t seem to stop curling into a smile. And to Frank, that was magnetic. He brought the cigarette to his lips again, his mind playing tricks, pretending it was almost like a kiss — indirect, but still a kiss. You swallowed hard.

He held it out to you once more. The air felt thicker now, but deep down you knew it wasn’t just because of the smoke you exhaled and Frank breathed in before bringing it back to his own mouth. Your gaze dropped to Frank’s lips again — they seemed different now, more tempting somehow — and the way he looked at yours made it suddenly feel nothing like winter. He locked eyes with you, then flicked his eyes down again.

Licking his lips, he leaned in, slow enough to give you every chance to push him away, back to whatever hell he’d crawled out of. But you felt so light, so soft, letting him come closer until his warm breath ghosted over your face — that woody, nicotine scent you’d grown used to now clinging to your lungs like carbon monoxide.

Like smoke in the wind, his lips hovered above yours before brushing them, light as a feather. God, it felt so good . Frank tasted so sweet, parting his mouth just enough to let you ease into him. A shiver ran down your spine as he slid a hand down to your waist, pulling you in with a careful tug that made your knees weak.

A soft sound slipped from your throat when he tilted his head slightly, teasing your lower lip before slipping his tongue past it. Your lack of experience was obvious, but Frank didn’t seem to mind — if anything, it made the way you shyly cupped his cheek even more intoxicating for him, his free hand tracing your jaw as if memorizing it.

You pulled back when your lungs screamed for air, mortified by the thin string of saliva that connected you two for a heartbeat before breaking — proof that you’d completely lost control the second your mouth had something to do other than academic speeches.

And that’s when the alarm bells went off in your mind. You were kissing a boy in your bedroom after smoking weed on a Saturday — the day before church. You pulled back, shame flickering in your eyes. Frank’s brows drew together as he slowly let go of your waist. You hated how much you instantly missed his hands on you.

“I… I need to study,” you stammered, running a hand through your hair like that could smooth out the suffocating tension that still crackled in the room.

“I’m sor—” The apology died in his throat when he saw your glassy eyes, heavy with guilt and confusion. “See you tomorrow.”

“Mm-hmm.” You hummed, turning your face away so he wouldn’t see the tears spilling down your cheeks, thick and hot, as you listened to him slipping out your window after everything. After those few minutes where you’d felt more than you ever had in your entire life.

You’d felt too much.

And the room still smelled like weed.

…

Sunday morning felt torturous. You sat in the second row of the wooden church pew, close enough to watch Frank playing guitar with his eyes closed — like he hadn’t just been in your room last night, smoking and kissing you like you were the only thing that mattered in his whole damn world. Your heart ached even more knowing it hadn’t been just him. You’d wanted it too. So much more than you were ever allowed to admit.

It was impossible to focus while he played. The way his fingers moved through chords and simple strums was magnetic. And to make it worse, his eyes never landed on you. Always shifting away, pretending to glance at anyone but you. Some prettier, freer girl — someone so completely unlike what you were supposed to be.

As if that wasn’t cruel enough, your family wouldn’t stop whispering about how beautifully Frank played. How each note seemed to float straight up to heaven, how his angelic voice could make you see God. Some even went up to him, praising his God-given talent — and he smiled, nodded politely, and didn’t look at you once. It was like you didn’t exist in his world anymore.

“You should take music lessons from him, sweetheart,” your mother’s voice snapped you out of your haze — just in time to see Frank looking back at you, guilt written all over his face.

“I… I’m kind of busy with finals right now…” you stammered, scratching at your scalp, feeling like your Sunday dress didn’t cover a thing anymore.

“You’ll make time. You’re smart enough to balance it all,” your father added, cornering you with no way out. “She will, Frank. She’s grateful — she just doesn’t know how to say it.”

“We still have that old guitar at home. It’d be good to dust it off,” your mother chimed in, laughing with your father. “She does so much. She’s such a good girl.”

Frank swallowed the shout that was stuck in your throat, feeling something break inside him when you forced a polite smile and thanked them for arranging a lesson that very afternoon — even though you had an exam the next day. You deserved so much better than this.

Like a lamb being led to slaughter, you were dropped off at Frank’s house by your parents. They said something about spending the day with other church members and that you wouldn’t need to come to evening service — leaving you and Frank alone for your “lesson.” Your fingers trembled when you rang the doorbell, and Frank waved politely to your parents as they drove away — as if they needed to make sure you wouldn’t run.

Stepping inside, the silence between you thickened, like an invisible wall pressing both of you back even though you were only a few steps apart. He asked if he could take your coat, and you hesitated before nodding, laying it neatly on a dresser among others you’d seen here before. Your nerves only tightened when you remembered his instruments were all in his bedroom.

“I can grab one and we can just stay out here in the living room,” he offered, as if reading your mind.

“No, um… I don’t mind,” you lied, and he didn’t push it, afraid any more words would only make this worse.

Frank held the bedroom door open for you, watching each careful step you took until you sat on the edge of his bed. The curtain was drawn, the late afternoon sun traded for a softer, warmer light than any harsh fluorescents. He scratched the back of his head and sat down beside you on the mattress.

“I’m sorry,” he broke the silence, eyes fixed anywhere but yours.

“You don’t have to apologize for yesterday.”

“It’s not about last night. It’s your parents I’m sorry for,” he said, finally meeting your gaze — those hazel eyes you could drown in, eyes you loved too much. “I’m not giving you a lesson today… I don’t want to…”

“What do you mean?” you asked, your brow furrowing. “Then why—”

“Because you’re not a toy,” he cut in, louder than he meant, his jaw tightening when he saw how it startled you. “You’re not some damn doll people wind up and push around until you break — until you drown in trying to be perfect so maybe someone will notice how hard you’re trying.”

Your mouth fell open, but nothing came out. Your mind went blank. He’d seen right through you. A knot rose in your throat, your eyes darting around the room until they landed back on his. Your lips trembled.

“I never want to see that look in your eyes again,” he breathed, voice raw, like the words scraped his throat on the way out. “And hate me if you have to for what I did last night, I—”

“I didn’t want you to say sorry for last night,” you cut him off, your voice so small and thin it nearly broke him. “Because I don’t want to feel guilty about it. I don’t want to feel guilty for wanting something.”

A tremor ran through his fingertips where they touched yours. “You shouldn’t,” he whispered, almost like he was begging, leaning in just enough for his forehead to brush yours. “Wanting something doesn’t make you bad, baby.”

“I don’t even know what I want…” you confessed, your breath shaky against his lips.

“You want this,” he rasped, chest rising and falling too fast as he forced himself not to close the tiny space between you. His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back to your eyes, burning with a warmth that made your stomach flip. “I won’t touch you unless you want it. No one ever should force you to want something. But if you do… only if you really do…” He paused, his thumb brushing the back of your hand as if to anchor himself. “I’ll love you in a way that makes you forget you ever thought you had to earn it. Because you don’t. You deserve it just for existing.”

Your lips parted but no words came out. Your eyes searched his face — the crease between his brows, the flush on his cheeks, the way he looked like he might break apart if you said no. And instead of guilt, all you felt was this gentle, reckless pull inside your chest. So you tilted your chin up and closed the gap first, pressing your mouth to his in a kiss that trembled more from relief than fear.

He let out a quiet sound, like a laugh choked by a sigh, and cupped your face with both hands, his thumbs tracing the soft skin under your eyes. When you drew back just an inch, he chased you — brushing his nose against yours before kissing you deeper, slower, letting his lips memorize yours all over again.

One of your hands slid up his arm, over the inked lines of his forearm, until your fingers threaded into his messy black hair. He shivered at your touch, leaning into it so fully you almost toppled back. His hands slid down, warm and careful at your waist, pulling you closer until your knees brushed his thigh, just the way you missed them.

You gasped softly against his mouth when his tongue brushed yours — tasting faintly of mint and smoke and something that was just Frank, something you’d crave even if it burned you alive. He pulled back just enough to breathe your name against your lips, voice hoarse, forehead pressed to yours like a silent vow he’d never break you.

“I want you,” you breathed against his mouth, the words trembling out between hungry kisses, your lips brushing his as you tried to pull him closer again — but he drew back, just enough to search your face.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice rough and low, his breath fanning over your cheek as his eyes darted desperately over yours, looking for the slightest flicker of hesitation.

“Yes… God, yes…” you whispered, the certainty blooming in your chest stronger than any doubt you’d ever known. You pressed your forehead to his, feeling him exhale a shaky laugh against your skin. “I want you, Frank. Please …”

Please . It cracked him open in a way nothing else ever could. He crushed his mouth to yours, kissing you so deeply it felt like he was trying to pour every piece of his soul into you. His hands tightened at your waist, fingers digging into the fabric of your dress as though terrified you might vanish if he let go.

But you didn’t vanish.

You clung to him instead, wrapping your arms around his neck in a motion that felt instinctive, natural — like you’d done it a thousand times in dreams you’d never dared confess. A soft, helpless sound rose from both of you as you tugged him closer still, your bodies pressing together so tightly it left no space for the past or the future — only this. Only now. He tasted like every reckless wish you’d ever bitten back and every whispered prayer you’d sworn you’d never say out loud. And you tasted like salvation to him — warm, alive, and all his.

“Can you lay down for me, baby?” he breathed between your lips, receiving a small nod from you. “Good, make yourself comfortable, ‘kay?”

You crawled on the bed, laying on your back with his downy pillows comforting your head. You felt a fiery rush in your veins when you watched him slink and hover over you, dress rolling up as you opened your legs for him to fit between them. 

“You okay?” He purred, gliding his hand on your bare thigh, shivering slightly at his warmth on your skin. 

“Uhm-hmm” you breathed, closing your eyes when he leaned again to kiss you. His hand cradled your jaw, lips moving in a calm, unhurried rhythm, savoring the moment. “What can I do now?” 

“You don’t have to do anything.” he whispered, peppering kisses all over your face, down to your neck.

“But I don’t want to be lazy and just sit around doing nothing…” you murmured, your voice giving away that old habit of yours again. Frank lifted his head to look at you properly, his eyes soft before he pressed a calm, reassuring kiss to your lips.

“You don’t have to do anything. I told you that already…” he said patiently, his voice gentle as his thumb traced lazy circles on your side. “Just relax for me and let me take care of you, okay?” 

You nodded, a quiet breath leaving your chest as you let yourself sink a little deeper into him, finally relaxing. Frank gave you a last peck before planting kisses on your neck again, running his tongue on your heating skin— humming as you ran your hand through his hair, squirming everytime he sucked and nipped your soft flesh.

“Can I…” he inquired, handing the hem of your dress.

“Yes, please,” you responded, biting your lip anxiously as he pulled back for you to sit. He calmly tugged your dress and passed over your head— fabric brushing against your face and being tossed on a forgotten spot of the duvet.

Frank licked his lips watching your figure covered only by your bra and thin cotton panties where he could see your arousal when lying down, waiting for him to come over again. He obeyed, lifting his shirt up and over his head. Your eyes shined when you saw all the tattoos hidden under long sleeves shirts and coats. 

“When did you get all of these?” you asked in a soft, almost teasing voice, your fingers roaming slowly over the tattoos inked into his pale skin. You took your time, tracing each line and shading like you were memorizing the story behind it.

He let out a quiet laugh, his eyes half-lidded as he watched you so focused on him. “Started when I was eighteen… and couldn’t stop. Guess I got addicted to the feeling,” he murmured, the corners of his mouth twitching up as he watched your fingertips explore him so gently. God, your hands felt too good . “Is that bad?”

“Not at all…” you whispered back, letting your palm flatten over the tattoo on his shoulder before giving it a gentle squeeze, pulling him just a little closer. “They’re gorgeous. You’re gorgeous.” 

He leaned back to claim your lips, passing his arms through the small of your back, pulling you closer, his thigh brushing on your core, swallowing the prettiest sounds from your lips. He reached your back to unclip your bra and trail open mouthed kisses on your collarbone, sternum and finally sliding the fabric from your arms for him to explore your untouched curves. Cupping one of your breasts and rolling your nipple with his thumb, he licked the other, wrapping his mouth around it, his free hand slithering your side until your clothed core, pressing his fingers. You grew impatient, lifting your hips for more friction. Frank noticed it, not holding back a smile when you looked at him with pleading eyes, meeting your lips again. 

“you need something?” he teased, rounding his middle finger on your clit.

“I want you now, Frank…” you whined, holding his hand in your center. 

“ You’re so needy ,” he chuckled, sending a shiver down your spine on how easy he talked that. “I like this side of you. Demanding . It’s so hot.” 

Hot . You furrowed your eyebrows dizzy, not knowing how possibly you could get more aroused than this, learning that patience wasn’t exactly the trait you thought you had. This was completely different from nodding to your parents' demands—it was tantalizing.  

“Then give me what I want…” you tried to convince him, palming his tent shamelessly, barely knowing yourself anymore. “I can take you, just… Please …”

“I’m making you come on my tongue til I feel you’re ready for my cock,” He purred, nipping your bottom lip before grabbing the waistband of your panties and rolling down your legs. 

Frank reunited all his goodwill to not just fuck you rough on his bed seeing you fully naked. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful.”Frank glided his fingers on your pussy, drinking every detail of it, sticking his tongue on a flat long lick. “You taste so sweet. I should’ve done this way earlier.”

With this, he buried his head between your thighs. You choked as he started licking your clit similar to the sweet kisses he gave you, making you ask yourself how you could deny this pleasure for so long, so worried with how your image could be blurred or how sinful you would smell, creeping through the church hallway like a whore, buring the moment you stepped there. 

But holy fuck, he was just so good with his tongue. 

You could tell by the way he sucked it, skilled with his finger sliding and curling easily inside your pussy while he hummed and whispered the most sinful things facing it like a second nature, like you were made for it— for him to use, care, claim and take all your guilt on his body and incinerate it with over consuming, violent, passionate lust.

“ F-fuck, Frank …” you moaned, his name and curse scaping lusciously from your lips, so contorced and blissed out with electrifying pleasure, coming undone on his tongue like he promised you and it felt so different from what you tried before on your room humping on your pillow, feeling so impure that you cried out for forgiveness. You felt divine.  

Frank licked himself clean, crawling back to you eagerly this time to kiss you fervently, allowing you to unbutton his jeans and taste yourself in his mouth. He helped you take off his jeans, kicking it to the floor with his boxers. Ecstasy to the bones as he felt you pumping him slow and clumsy, helping you with his hand over yours. 

Withdrawing your hand from his cock, he reached for a condom on his drawer, dressing the rubber on his length. He just couldn't worry you with a child when you were so worried with your own life—little did he know that he could fuck you raw and you would thank him for that, being totally his. He guided into your soaked slit, carefully pushing in looking for any sign of pain. Your hands flew to his back and neck, hugging closer as you felt every inch stretching you.

Noticing you were more relaxed, he started to move, kissing your pain away and burying his head on your neck. The discomfort disappearing, being replaced by a soothing yet burning pleasure, having you clenching around his cock and digging your nails on his back. It was when you noticed the breath-taking mess he was. Lips parted, eyes rolling back for a second, furrowed eyebrows, so concentrated to not fuck you dumb—just being there and waiting for you to get used to him. 

“you’re so fucking pretty, taking me so well and nice,” he grunted, hopelessly searching for your lips, moans mingling to yours. 

“Frank, fuck, fuck— God, i’m so , i’m” you whimpered, starting to feel the knot forming on your stomach, wrapping your legs around his waist for his cock going deeper inside you, so lost that you didnt even notice the blasphemy you just said. He could sense it, feel your orgasm, speeding his pace, abdomen brushing on your clit. 

“That’s it, baby. Keep going—keep fucking going and come on my fucking cock, you’re such a good girl for me,” he babbled, his thrust become sloppier as you trembled and became more sensitive. 

“Frank—” his name slipped gawked as you felt the orgasm hitting you like a wave, mind going blank and the feeling of touching the sky and earth with him.

“Yeah, you—fuck, baby. I’m coming too, fuck” he cried out, spurting white ropes on the condom, fucking you until the overstimulation stopped him, glueing your chest to his. 

He kissed you like he’d been dying to do it for years — slow but deep, tasting every shaky breath you gave him back. When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead on yours, both of them still catching their breath, rolling to the side and discarding the condom. 

His voice came out rough, trembling on the edge of a confession he hadn’t meant to say aloud. “I love you…” he whispered, almost to himself, meaning this time, eyes wide right after like he wanted to take the words back — but it was too late. “Fuck.” 

His chest rose and fell as he searched your face for fear, for regret, for anything that would mean he’d messed this up forever, trying to steady his own heartbeat while he waited for you to push him away, to laugh, to run.

But you didn’t. Instead, you laughed — that soft, breathless laugh he adored and didn’t see quite often — and cupped his jaw with both hands, pulling him closer until their noses almost touched again.

“Are you okay with this?”

“I’m more than okay,” you whispered, voice thick with something bigger than relief. “I’ve never felt better in my entire life.”

He could’ve sworn he felt his heart break and heal all at once at your words. With a low, helpless groan, he kissed you again — deeper, messier, as if he needed to prove every bit of that accidental ‘ I love you ’ a thousand times over right there.

“I guess it’s time to teach you some chords before you leave.”

“I don’t think so,” you surprised him, giggling at his widened eyes. “I just fucked my best friend and smoke weed so I’ll complete my rebel phase.”

“Holy shit, i’m going to hell for it” he chuckled, pulling you closer by your waist with a crooked grin. “Will you say that you love back or should I bury myself in shame?”

“You kinda deserve the second option for making me mad this whole time,” you rolled your eyes playfully, poking his cheek. “But no, you helped me so much. Least i can do it’s be honest and say I love you too. I’m not sure if it’s good or bad…”

“Good,” he grinned, gripping your hips. “I'll relax you anytime you want, but as my girlfriend.”

“Frank Iero with a girlfriend?” you teased. 

“You just witnessed a miracle, sugar.”

[beneathashadytree]

MESSING AROUND - JOSUKE HIGASHIKATA X READER

Warnings : just two teens being in love and all over each other, reader is gender-neutral!

Genre : puppy love n fluff <3

Word count : 1.1K words

Additional notes : This came to me in a dream. Love the idea of teenagers being sneaky and lazy teehee

Tip jar if you’d like to buy me a Ko-Fi!

Masterlist

They tiredly rubbed at their eyes. What was this, the tenth, or the hundredth time at this? In all cases, it felt like it was a never-ending cycle that they were doomed to stay in.

“Josuke, would it really kill you to study for an hour straight?” Nudging the textbook on the coffee table, they tried to bring his attention back to the long-forgotten syllabus. “We’ve got a quiz in 3 days.”

“Still plenty of time, if you ask me,” he shrugged, not looking away from the television screen where he was trying to beat his high score (again) in one of his video games. “That’s a whole, uh, 72 hours.”

“If you hesitated while doing simple math, then I fear how you’ll face a few calculus problems.” Rolling their eyes, they sidled up to his back. “Come on. Didn’t Miss Tomoko threaten to smash the console if you don’t get at least a B+? With the looks of things, we’ll be lucky if you pass at all.”

Still without looking at them, he scowled. “First off, thanks for your obvious belief in me.” He could be petty when he wanted to, and this seemed like one of the times he wanted to pout and get snarky. “Second of all, she wouldn’t.”

At that, they arched an eyebrow at him. “Oh really? Did you forget that time she threw the television out of the window to keep her word when you flunked that history test?”

A few moments of silence, save for the sound effects coming from his game, and the furious tapping of buttons. “Alright, maybe she will. But still, we have a lot of time to go through the material.”

“Three days. Half of one you’ve already wasted, mind you.” They sighed, carefully wrapping their arms around his midsection and snuggling up to his broad back. A cheap trick, yes, but how else would they grab his attention without outright snatching the controller from his hands? “C’mon, Josuke. Miss Tomoko asked me to come over while she was out for this reason. I don’t wanna let her down, y’know?”

Josuke audibly swallowed, and they had to hold back a smug laugh. They had him right where they wanted him. “H-hey, who are you dating, me or my mom?”

They snorted, teasingly squeezing his waist. “My supposed-boyfriend’s got me right with him, and he’s been practically ignoring me for two hours. I’d say the answer’s currently neither of you.”

Instantly, the controller flew all across the room, landing somewhere unknown as his character on the screen crashed into explosives and died. Bingo, they wickedly thought to themself as Josuke finally turned around in their arms, his handsome face blocking out the ‘GAME OVER!’ flashing behind him.

Heavy eyebrows furrowed and lower lip jutted in a subconscious pout, he leaned in, caging them against the back of the sofa with his arms. “Dirty move.”

“You fell for it, though.” Grinning, they hooked their arms around his neck, tugging him a little closer. “Can’t believe I had to fight for your attention this long.”

“It slipped my mind that we’re finally alone,” he moaned pitifully, nudging their nose with his. “Next time I get distracted from you, punch me in the balls.” At the sinister look he saw in their eyes, he pulled back for a second, alarm on his face. “On second thought, I take that back. Don’t.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll keep my hands to myself.” Cocking their head to the side, they toyed with a few loose strands of hair at the nape of his neck. It was so rare to see his hair anything other than immaculately styled, so the rare chances that they got to touch the soft strands were deeply cherished—by the both of them, it seemed, if the current redness of Josuke’s cheeks was anything to go by. “Or would you rather I keep my hands on you?”

Their boyfriend buried his face in their neck, partially out of embarrassment, and partially out of a desire to press achingly gentle kisses against their exposed skin. “Mm, I don’t know,” he mumbled, “So long as you’re not too rough with me, I’d prefer that, yeah.”

“Oh? So you like to be treated gently, big guy?” Their voice came out a little breathy as he lightly nipped at that one spot on their neck, and they hoped that it wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he had them weak in his arms. Just a little more…

More kisses rained down on them, trailing up to their jaw and sucking at the skin there, just lightly enough to tease them without leaving a mark. A sigh escaped their lips, and their hands trailed down his back, gripping at his yellow tank top in hopes of regaining their sanity. Strong arms embraced them tightly, and arched their back into him.

“Yeah, so what?” he mumbled against the corner of their lips. “Got a problem with that?”

At the very last second before their lips met, they turned their face to the other side and pulled away. “Actually, I do. Because we’re not doing anything at all until you finish studying chapters one through four.”

Groaning, Josuke made to reach out for them as they slipped from his embrace and began to walk off. “Babe, you can’t be serious—“

“I am,” they coolly said, as if they hadn’t been seconds away from pulling him ontop of them. “Would you like me to call your mom and tell her you’re fooling around instead of getting your shit done?”

He shuddered, visibly recoiling at the thought and slumping back in place. “Don’t. She’ll probably put a ban on you ever visiting me when she’s out.”

Still a little shaken up and their nerves slightly tattered by the onslaught of intimacy, they hurried to his room, calling out behind them in a sing-song voice. “Well, these calculus problems aren’t gonna solve themselves!”

Collapsing onto his bed, they muffled a laugh as they heard him swearing and slamming his heavy notebook open, grumbling under his breath the entire time. In the meantime, they curled up into his freshly-made sheets and snuggled their head into his fluffy pillow.

“It smells like him,” they whispered to themself, their face flushed as they squeezed the pillow a little. Somehow, having their boyfriend’s familiar scent surrounding them from everywhere warmed them up to their fingertips, and sent their heart racing in their ribcage. “Wish he’d hurry up and join me before Miss Tomoko gets home…”

Taglist: @blondeboyfriend @mrsgiovanna @boorishbrambling

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[bradleysass]

party - @rosekillermicrofic - wc: 560

The Slytherin dorms were quiet this late at night—eerily so, nestled deep in the dungeons like a secret the castle kept close to its heart. The fire in the common room had burned down to glowing embers, casting a faint orange sheen across the stone walls. The only sound was the distant drip of water echoing somewhere in the depths of the castle.

Evan stirred slightly in his bed, still caught in the tail-end of sleep. Something—or rather, someone—was crawling into the narrow space beside him, shifting the sheets with careful, practiced hands.

He cracked open one eye and sighed.

“I know that’s you,” he murmured into the dark, voice rough with sleep.

“Shh,” came the whispered reply, lips brushing against his shoulder. “You’ll wake Mulciber and he’s insufferable when sleep-deprived.”

Evan snorted, rolling slightly onto his back, just enough to peer at the boy who was now fitting himself against him like a piece that had always belonged.

“Barty Crouch Jr.,” Evan said under his breath, “do Ravenclaws not have rules about sneaking into other Houses’ dormitories?”

“Ravenclaws have rules for everything,” Barty said as he propped himself up on an elbow and slowly lay himself over Evan’s chest. “We just choose to follow the ones we like. Besides”—his voice dipped into something soft and petulant—“I missed you at the party.”

Evan blinked up at him. “What party?”

“The one we threw for passing our O.W.L.s. You know, that thing we studied for all year and nearly sold our souls over?” Barty flicked a finger against Evan’s collarbone. “I looked for you. I even brought you one of those honey-caramel cakes you like, but it melted in my pocket. Because I waited. For hours, Evan.”

“You could’ve sent a message,” Evan mumbled, though his hand had already settled on Barty’s waist, pulling him in as if this whole intrusion was not only expected, but necessary.

“You don’t respond to messages when you’re sulking.”

“I wasn’t sulking.”

“Oh, you were,” Barty said smugly, tucking his head beneath Evan’s chin and sighing like he hadn’t just tiptoed through dungeons to get here. “Because I said I was studying with Yaxley and not you. Even though I asked you first and you were busy.”

Evan didn’t argue. He just tightened his arm around the other boy and let the silence stretch for a moment.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, voice softer than before.

“You always say that, and yet…” Barty tilted his head up, the faintest glint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “You never kick me out.”

Evan looked down at him—at his flushed cheeks from sneaking through the chilly castle, at the wild mess of hair that always seemed half wind-blown. And no, he didn’t kick him out.

Instead, he brushed a thumb against the edge of Barty’s jaw and said, “Next time, don’t wait hours. Just come.”

Barty grinned, eyes closing as he nestled closer. “You’re the reason I’m going to flunk my N.E.W.T.s, you know.”

“Ravenclaws don’t flunk.”

“Well, this one might.”

Evan pressed a kiss to Barty’s hair, letting the warmth settle between them like a shield against the cold dungeon air.

“If you do, I’ll still keep sneaking you in.”

“Even if I’m in Azkaban?”

Evan chuckled softly. “Especially then.”

[thepeaklegendoffirstgen]

Hello, excuse me, look, I don't know if you've already done one of these, but if you haven't, could you do one where the reader is an artist, where she has a very simple art style, but her art teacher He ends up insulting her by saying that her drawings are ugly and that she doesn't know how to draw, then he ends up tearing up one of her drawings. After returning home could do what the men of Lookism Could you do something to cheer her up since she's very sad? Gun and the Goo And James Lee e Jaegyeon But if you can't, that's okay.(⁠✿⁠^⁠‿⁠^⁠)

Omg this made me cry because I have dealt with such asshole art teachers 🤢

GUN PARK

When you told Gun what happened, he listened patiently, never interrupting once. He even rubbed your back a few times as you paused mid-sentence, drowning in the embarrassment of it all especially since it had happened in front of your entire class.

When you finally finished, he handed you a glass of water and said bluntly, “The truth is, the world only cares about results.”

Your face immediately fell. Of course comfort wasn’t his thing.

“But,” he continued, “not everyone has an eye for talent. If you believe in your heart it was good enough, then it was good enough. These teachers... they’re just oldtimers who want students to be obedient pawns. They don’t want anyone stepping out of line. Don’t dwell on it too much.”

And that day, he tried cooking for a change. Your favorite dish, no less. The same one he always scoffed at for being “unhealthy.” But for once, he said, “Sometimes it’s okay.”

“You think the education system is a sham?” you asked.

“Of course.”

“That’s why you flunked your GED as an act of rebellion.”

You burst out laughing at his reaction—because a baffled Gun was rare. So you laughed even harder. He didn’t mind though. Your mood had lifted, and that was enough for him.

Quietly, he slipped a few vegetables onto your plate when you weren’t looking.

GOO KIM

“Sweetheart, I told you not to listen to them. And I told you I have every right to kill them, didn’t I?”

Goo, in all his clownery and chaos, was a man of few words when something was seriously wrong. When he came home and found you looking melancholic, he knew instantly. You tried dodging his questions, but when he cupped your face with quiet concern and softly asked what was wrong, you broke down.

Because dammit, art is art. Whether simple or advanced, who decides what's worthy? That teacher had no right to humiliate you, and honestly, you wanted to punch him but also didn’t want to get expelled.

“You know me,” Goo murmured, holding you close, running his hand gently along your back. “We could hide the body. No one would even find out. Don’t trust your man this much.”

“No, don’t go for the kill.”

He paused, but his grip on you never loosened.

“Maybe we should slowly torture him instead.”

“Yes, that’s more like it, honeybun,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead already planning. Maybe he should get Kouji on board too.

JAMES LEE/DIEGO KANG

You were picking at your food, barely eating even half of what you usually do. It didn’t go unnoticed.

“Do you not feel like eating?” he asked, watching you carefully.

“No, it’s more like I don’t have the appetite… Oh, come to think of it, I think I’m done for now,” you replied, forcing a smile. But of course, it didn’t fool him.

“What happened?” he asked, more firmly this time.

You shrugged. “It’s just college stuff. Something trivial.”

He cut you off mid-sentence. “If it’s bothering you enough to kill your appetite, then it’s not trivial.”

That frustrated you. Even if you explained it, what would be the point? He was always brilliant at drawing, even in high school. Still, you told him anyway.

“James, I know you’ll probably agree with the teacher. I get it. Anyway… that’s what happened.” You tried to sound calm, even though it still stung. Those people who preach ‘simplicity is sophistication’ ripped your work apart like you had committed some kind of crime.

You got up to leave, but he suddenly pulled you into him. You struggled against his hold.

“I don’t want pity. Let me go,” you muttered.

“Who says I’m pitying you?” he replied calmly. “It’s true...whatever I say might not fix anything. But what your teacher did was wrong. Don’t let those small fries make you question yourself.”

You went still. You didn’t return the hug, but you didn’t move away either. His arms stayed around you as the tears finally fell. He held you close and gently massaged your scalp, saying nothing more, just staying there, as long as you needed.

JAEGYEON NA

Jaegyeon looked like he was ready to storm into your college and personally confront your art teacher.

“What the hell? How dare they tear apart your work like that?” he fumed.

You tried to calm him down. “Jaegyeon, in this city, finding an art teacher is hard enough. Maybe… maybe just let it go.”

But he shook his head, still livid. “I don’t care. Nobody gets to mess with you like that.”

Then his expression shifted. He noticed how sad you were really, deeply sad. And in that moment, he reminded himself that your peace came before any revenge. You were the priority. Always.

He saw you trying to hide a small laugh at how seriously he looked like a knight ready for battle. He sat down beside you and placed a hand on your shoulder, his gaze sincere and steady.

“Listen… whatever anyone says, what you do takes real effort. Even if it looks simple, it’s not. Screw that teacher. Anyone who can’t respect a student’s hard work is nothing but a tyrant. What he did? That was practically criminal.”

You just listened as he continued ranting about artistic justice, the crimes of your teacher, and how amazing you are. Mid sentence, you reached over and pinched his cheek.

“Thanks,” you said, smiling softly. “You really are my hero.”

He blinked, then turned bright red.

But the next second, he pulled you into a tight bear hug. “You’re the best,” he whispered. “Don’t forget it.”